Assassinating Trump, while a popular idea among embittered Democrats, and while it may be, just now, the CIA's whole reason for existence,
is proving more difficult to realize (in the 15th century Italian sense) than anyone had ever thought it could be. Medici-like, Trump has his own fortified palazzo, that makes it nearly impossible to get at him, and he has got used (as professional plutocrats do get used) to dodging situations which might facilitate attempts on his life--the crazies (Pazzi) can't depend on his attending mass at Easter-tide.
I burn hot. I tend to exhaust people in conversation, like Margaret Fuller did Carlyle. Which leaves me (but apparently not Margaret) always wishing I'd shut up sooner. I have quite a few friends and not many enemies, but I'm very proud of the few I do have. There is consensus among my friends about me, which is how I know to write about myself. What my enemies think of me I have no idea. That, of course, could be dangerous.
The list of interests and favorites is absurdly partial and half-assed, particularly as to music and books. It's the stupid format of the blog itself, as given, that, of course, I color outside the lines and burst the seams of.
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