Reagan: Farewell to Coverage. A future, remembered.

(title stolen from Steven Colbert, The Daily Show)

So, as a 10-year-old tabby cat, I wasn't even born when Reagan was in office. You'd think that would keep me safe and sound. But NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I spent my first, formative weeks in The Pound. So listen ... I know all about livin' la vida welfare. Reagan? His dirty, bloody hands were all over my cage. Yes, even then. (No, he never remembered it.)

One who does not take alzheimer's lightly (family troubles ... personal issues ... the ol' Feeder's greatest fear lies somewhere scripted in the movie IRIS) ... I do tend to think that people's evil karma takes many forms. Reagan's ... well, he had his. Reagan's family? Doesn't the family always suffer the sins of the father? It's all a bit too typical to even comment upon.

However ... I'll attach the appropriate links as my own protest to: THE WEEK OF SUCKING REAGAN'S DEAD WHITE DICK ... (insert echo chamber sound f/x).

From what I hear ... everyone from Nicaragua to Botha's South Africa has a little ditty to add to that song. Here's The Feeder's during-his-lifetime input from the visage of 1980's Detroit Rock (i.e., Motor) City (with nods to the following: Michael Moore for keeping it real from Flint, Darlene @ NBC for bringing the cool cat crispies):

A THURSDAY NIGHT HAUNTING OF RONALD REAGAN’S DREAMS

Listen:

all i’ve ever known how to do is build things. spent the last 20 years of my life making cars for a living. spent the last 20 years of my life buying bread the day after it wuz baked, buying water which ran free in the river not far from home, buying cars i built with my own two hands yet still could never afford. i sang that song, dreamt that lie, awoke to the whistle of the coffee brake bell.

my sweat becomes oil. my pistons take your families wherever you want to go—at least i remember when they did. i wuz born in this town now heavy with the ghosts of all our children who could not afford to stay. i wuz never bookish though, content to fix bikes and brake pads, to see my creations go. but my greatest creation also went.

my daughter was bookish enough for the both of us. yet, after 18 years of sweat, i still couldn’t afford to send her to school. it got so i had even to beg for bread—things weren’t supposed to be like this. whole cities built by people creating life washed away by the swath of a pen. so much mightier was the profit than our souls. spirits wasted, frozen cold on the old northern streets where once we bled for what you hastily bought and sold. we believed in our work, our livelihoods, never once thought what we were building could be so disposable.

and we will chase you. I will. chase you into sepulcher nightmares. we won’t let you awaken. and we will make you sit quietly, listen to our stories without interruption, watch exhaustive, poorly edited trailers depicting beautiful children destroyed, pictures of devastation all over the nation you sought to rule. there will be no toll free number, no address where you might send a check.

I’ll begin when the moon is high, work my way into high noon, capture you slowly. you will give us our nuremberg. quite soon you too will wish you could die. We are merciful. We love our children. We will make you sit quietly, listen to our stories without interrupting. We will allow you to keep your wife’s concerned smile close at hand. We will not allow you to reach it. Sit quietly.

Listen.