On this 24th day of October I write these grave words about the state of our beloved union. As we know, our destiny is in the hands of a two bit actor playing in a four star ballgame. We cannot continue in this suicidal direction without going to war with another strain of our own genetic make-up. In the constant fight to maintain a decadent lifestyle, it gives me great pleasure to unveil a new publication: Sign of the Times--A Chronicle of Decadence in the Atomic Age. Sign of the Times is to be a biannual publication with the first issue consisting of 8 pages with a press run of 1,000. The content will be a varied bill of fiction, political satire, photography and graphics. Just plain black on white, there is no color in these desperate times.
People say that nothing is free anymore. I heard it myself at the local convenience store. I don't believe it. I won't believe it...and will commit financial suicide to prove my point. What I want is free--they call it freedom. As Ronnie brings us closer to our own demise, I find a bit of narcissistic journalism is called for. Success out of defiance of proven economics...to prove that life does not exist solely by and for the flow of money...the belief in the fairy tales of truth, justice and the American way is why I choose to take the plunge.
Would you care to take the plunge with me? Sign of the Times--A Chronicle of Decadence in the Atomic Age will be emotionally and/or financially supported by its readership; it shall go on. Want to help? See The Deal on this page.
We change trains here.
It is my philosophy that life is for the living. One should live the singularly proven life we are given with the maximum amount of humor possible. For if we cannot snicker at the antics of oneself, how can we be expected to laugh at our government's suicidal direction? This brings us to fanatics, be they religious, political or economic. What these people lost when they acquired fanaticism is the ability to take two steps back and see the situation in the light of day.
My last comments deal with things heard on the street. Street gossip is the barometer
by which I judge the quality of life. When a woman was asked her opinion of hairy upper
torsos on males, she calmly replied, "I don't like trees on my playground." So
my question is: "Ronnie, why rain on my parade?"
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