Well, there they go again. On and on about how "angry older white guys" are loudly out in force to elect scary creatures like Donald Trump or Ted Cruz.
It didn't quickly dawn on me that I am, short of the angry bit, an older white guy. A lot older white guy. Grumpy at times, yes. Snarky? Of course. Judgmental? You bet . Reactive against Republicans? Only a defense mechanism from the rebellious offspring of a Republican family.
It was my father, for example, who had no use for the Kennedy clan and even lectured me on how newspapers covered up Ted's Chappaquiddick nightmare as he cited all of the horrific details.
"How did you find out about all of this, Dad?" I asked during a visit to the family retirement home in Miami, where he wanted me to believe that nobody could possibly die amid the sunshine and palms.
"It was in the Miami Herald!" he said, triumphantly, even though he had never wanted me to be a newspaperman.
It seems to me that anybody who reaches a certain age and still wakes up in the morning to greet another day ought not to be too angry about anything. Not only angry older white guys but surely angry older white women who are never mentioned in these stereotypical groupings of bewhiskered old men in crumpled baseball caps who prefer Duck Dynasty to Downton Abbey, or even Seinfeld. But as one older white guy to another, may I suggest that there is no pot of gold awaiting you and me at the end of Trump's rainbow? Honest, honest, honest.
Herrummph!
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