A few years ago, I got bit by the "political activism" bug. I discovered the radical Left, really, for the very first time and said to my man Paul, "I wanna learn Robert's Rules Of Order and shit, ya know? Make a stand, et al, etc." And the sun had set and it was Winter in Colorado and snowflakes were stacking themselves into blankets and embankments, incomprehensible to the impotent old human eye, set in front of the brain like a sparkling dumb diamond of recompense.
Paul did not smoke a cigarette, did not join me in that, but said, "Man, you chase that rabbit down if that's what you need to do." Meanwhile, his dog Ingrid, a sleek, fibrous animal of much wile and sideways cunning, scrabbled over the 10 foot privacy fence that separated one backyard from another, for the fourth time in two days. "Goddamnit, Ingrid," Paul said, then shuffled off into the neighbor's backyard, calling out Ingrid's name - "Ingrid! In-grid!" - while the snow fell on my Leftist ideals. By Spring, Ingrid was back, everything had melted and I was a pure American capitalist again.