This is a sort of love letter to you, the people who read The Pour Fool. There are far fewer of you now, than there were a few years ago. That’s on purpose. But you who are left…This is my wish for you.
We should all rage. Every day…And along that way, we’ll all fall down, from time to time. But there is one thing you should embrace…Get Back Up.
You are 38, now. None of us wanted to say it but this changes the dynamic: you’re not what you once were…And legacies are a function of Time. They are not established in one or two years and how many do you have left?
I borrowed from Hunter Thompson, strategically. I STOLE from Dan Jenkins, wholesale, gleefully, and without compunction.
I had to write this. I had to write it back in late 2012. I will try not to do it to excess, here, but rather than let some warped perv diminish the memory of a friend, I may do it again in a few years…or a few months…or tomorrow.
“Where there is smoke, there’s fire”; oldest truism in the book and the smoke wafting off the Trump “presidency” is as vast as the forest fire plume that blankets the West Coast every summer.
The Trumps have collectively, led by their yahoo father, become a perfect caricature of American Excess. Gold toilets, skyscrapers, swimmin’ pools, movie stars. Youse guys come back, now, y’heah me?
David Sirota performs that same function in his investigative journalism that reviewers on social media perform with doctors: a necessary dose of reality.
The Pour Fool 