Impeach For America

Well I'm on Twitter now.  Tweet to @ImpeachForUSA  .  I feel like I've succumbed to swimming with the bottom-feeders, sewer rats. It's not a technology thing.  I've largely embraced technology, I love my devices and they rule my life pretty much as much as the next guy.  I simply don't think that very much of import can be conveyed in 140 characters.  I can't fight it, though.  Twitter's not going anywhere and 140 characters is THE extent of Trump's ability to communicate effectively.  I suspect his deepest, most critical inner thoughts might be summed up in 140 characters as well.  So alas, our most esteemed and dignified Commander in Chief has elevated Twitter to a viable for of communication and I find myself, through my actions saying, "If you can't beat em, join em." It's not a victory and it does not feel good.  I am resigned and I surrender - but as such, as something of a survival mechanism, I have literally joined them. 

I was a little kid when Watergate was going on, 9 or 10 years old.  Mom and Dad both worked so during the summer my brother and I got sent to a dude ranch sort of day camp that was out in the boonies.  Well it seemed out in the boonies to me at the time, anyway, but in actuality it was about a 30 minute drive out in the unincorporated part of the county.  Every day the camp van would pick us and a handful of other kids up in the morning and deliver us safely back home in the evening.  Our bus driver, Mr. Whitlow, was in his mid-20s, frumpy, had a mop of crazy blond curls, and loved to put peanut butter on everything .  The kids used to grill him: would you put peanut butter on a hamburger?  On tuna fish?  Even in chili?  Every time Mr. Whitlow would emphatically insist that yes he would.  And so it was Mr. Whitlow would attempt to entertain us on the interminable ride to and from camp every day; sometimes we'd sing along to songs on the radio and other time he'd let us grill