I had been invited recently to a Nader speech here in Washington, DC to be held at the hip, smart, hard left cafe called Busboys & Poets, located uptown at the corner of 14th and V Sts, NW. Charming, inexpensive food on the menul, there is always an emphemery of elbows to rub up against. The place is ALWAYS packed to the gills. I declined this invitation from a newly minted friend for two reasons. I am trying my best to keep my nose to the grindstone, staying busy in my painting studio once I arrive there after a morning of reading and blogging, until I am ready to drop. However, this recent incursion of new friendships, dears all, has been threatening both my slipping energies and the fragile stability of routine I nevertheless depend upon in keeping with this program.
And secondly, I am loathe to encourage unrelenting peer encroachment of foggy ideals, reminiscent of my unstructured youth, ideals I've since traded for cold reckoning in these rather dangerous times. The $35 dollar hit to the wallet for this Nader fundraiser was probably a third mitigating factor.
Tough to prove, but footsteps in the sand are more real than a dead theory on pavement, and I feel confident that my wife and I tend to practice a ruse of Marxism far closer to the strategem I've ever known a MINO (Marxist In Name Only) to practice in the day to day. And that's probably why I have little empathy for the screed and rhetoric of this supposedly well-meaning crowd. Nothing is what it seems anymore.
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