Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
The young man was quiet. He was a lowly fry-cook, salting endless baskets of French fries. Flipping acres of patties. Dropping pre-fried, shrink-wrapped, chemical-preservative-injected chicken breasts into nuclear silos of boiling synthetic lard.
I was scared to death. It was my first day of second grade, and I was terrified to the point of regurgitation. “Please don’t make me go to school,” I begged my mother.
While today’s kids twerk to songs featuring men calling women bitches and ho’s and stuffy to nasty to post here, we baby boomers smugly tune in the oldies stations to listen to the wholesome, romantic songs of our youth.
The following is a true story. The little girl was walking with her mother. They were taking a stroll through the hospital garden, bathed in the dappled sunlight of early afternoon, looking at all the flowers in bloom.
Dear Kid,
Don’t grow up. Don’t turn into an adult. That’s my advice. Resist adulthood. Be a kid forever.
Right now, a lot of adults are angry in America. To be fair, we have a lot to be angry about. But adults can behave badly when they are angry. So please forgive us.
We were newlyweds, living in a grungy apartment. Each morning, I would wake before her. I would pass my morning hours writing poetry on a yellow legal pad, sipping coffee.
I sort of raised myself. My dad died when I was a kid. He died by suicide, shortly after he’d been released from county lockup on bail. His death was dramatic. It made the papers. On his final night, he almost took my mother to the grave with him.
Nobody could explain how it happened. But one day, Willy sort of lost his mind. Namely, because Willy walked into the kitchen and declared that he was a chicken. Not a proverbial chicken, mind you. But literal poultry. The kind that go bawk-bawk, cock-a-doodle-doo, and all such manner of clucking.
The main reason I’m writing is because the world is going to go nuts someday. And I mean totally, flipping nuts. I can’t even describe the level of nuttiness you’re about to experience.
Charlotte is a student at West Virginia University. The 19-year-old emailed me asking for relationship advice concerning her ex-boyfriend, John, who once hurt her very badly. Tragically, I don’t give advice. But I can tell you a story, Charlotte.
Before the boy sat a massive meal. Bacon. Eggs. Huge glass of chocolate milk. Stack of pancakes bigger than a midsize SUV.
Nothing beautiful has ever landed on me before, unless you count the way local pigeons have sometimes used me for target practice.
Dive deep into your brain and locate your mental elementary-school yearbook. Flip through the pages. Find that cute black-and-white photo of yourself with that gap-toothed smile and enormous ears.
Mom was middle-aged. Maybe early fifties. Her daughter was maybe 18. You could tell it was her daughter because of the way she kept rolling her eyes whenever the middle-aged woman opened her mouth.
