I feel like a man perpetually stuck in the middle
Tonight, the wind is blowing hard where I live. I like that because it makes my office seem cozy. I don't like that because it scares the hell out of my cats, and because the lights keep flickering.
I'm like that about a lot of things, a man perpetually stuck in the middle, always feeling like a spy in someone else's country.
The vice presidential debate was raging on Wednesday, but I wasn't watching. I had to work. This, of course, makes me a hardworking man. The job comes first.
But I'm writing a newspaper column, and that makes me suspect as a worker. No doubt I'm an elite, a communist. Parked in front of my house is an armored car, and Chinese spies dressed in black are busily unloading the bribe money I get from the Illuminati.
If you saw me the other day, an older white man in jeans and a flannel shirt, standing in a convenience store playing my wife's lottery number for her, and buying a quart of American beer, you'd have known me for what I'm not.
White? Older? Flannel? Quart of beer? Lottery?
Redneck. High school diploma. Trump supporter. Back the Blue. All Lives Matter.
And if I told you I have a master's degree in English lit? That I spent nearly 40 years as a reporter?
Elitist. Communist. Hillary backer. Lives in an all-white suburb but won't stop puking out his sympathy for the ethnic minorities he never sees.
But I can't be a communist. I have money in the stock market, and I live in a city, and Black people live on my block, and my next-door neighbors are from Africa and don't speak English very well. I dislike Hillary Clinton nearly as much as I dislike Donald Trump.