My commentary on politics is over. There are a lot of things that will change in this country now. None of them are good. There’s no use to fight—it’s over. The dude won. He won big.
As the comic says (adapted from a line that Master Commandant Oliver Perry said during the War of 1812): “We have met the enemy, and he is us.” There’s no going back after tonight. We did it to ourselves.
I’m going to keep singing and playing. I’m going to keep writing and researching and preserving history and doing all the things that I love doing. I’m going to try and be a positive force for good for the time that I have left on this planet. I want to do what I can to make my daughter’s life a productive and happy one. I am grateful for all the moral support that Sally Jo has given me. I’m going to love my family and hug my friends and help my neighbors and not change who I am.
The hopeful and fragile part of me died tonight, and I don’t think it’ll ever heal. But you know, when huge disappointments happen, the world doesn’t end. Life carries on. I won’t talk about politics anymore. I’m not even going to pay attention to the news anymore. That’s all over. I’m going to take walks and look at the mountains and go camping up the coast and work on old recording equipment and try to manage my diabetes and live out my days and be happy with the things that truly matter. And as for politics, and the news, and the promise of what our Founding Fathers gave us—that’s all over. Dead and buried. We couldn’t keep it. Sorry, Benjamin Franklin.
I remember being a little boy in 1976, when all the patriotism was off the charts as the United States celebrated its bicentennial. It seemed like all things were possible in the greatest country on Earth. I dressed in colonial garb and marched holding an American flag high above my head. I was so proud to be a part of this country. I never thought I’d live to see this day, but here we are. We did it to ourselves, to save twenty cents on eggs.
Tomorrow I’ll start posting about records, old guitars, weird old junk, Cadillacs, and photos of Roscoe the dog. It’ll be a new dawn, of sorts. Don’t ever talk to me about politics, ever again.
