When I get up in the morning this late in August, the sun has not risen yet. And now, when I finish cleaning up after dinner, the sun is already down and it's twilight. Is the summer of 2020 winding down already? Despite the pandemic, despite only going into the city three days per week, despite having theoutside of my home power washed, sanded, repaired and repainted, despite not getting away, it still seemed to fly by. Soon it will be time to hum Kurt Weill's lovely, bittersweet tune, "September Song."
Trump, the Doofus Donald, is using the office of the Presidency to self-promote. Meanwhile, his son will face a choice of being deposed or jailed for contempt when he is served a subpoena to testify in the civil investigation into the Trump Organization's financial shenanigans over the past number of years. It's one of the investigations grinding its way through the NY state legal system, one which the President cannot pardon anyone out of. They can call it a witch hunt, but if they did nothing wrong, they'd be in there singing a song. So the refusal doesn't look too good.
As for the convention, the usual litany of misrepresentations, buck passing, exaggerations, misdirection and just enough fact to lend it all an aroma of a spritz air freshener over the garbage dump. You can perfume the prostitute but you don't sell her as chaste.
Photos of poets, novelists and artists. From the top: Yuko Otono, Carl Watson, Istvan Kantor aka Monty Cantsin, Bonny Finberg
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