I don’t know who said that life’s a journey, not a destination—apparently no one else does either.
But before I continue, I should tell you that this “news”letter is also a journey and not a destination; because, like the guy who woke up in the trunk of a moving Buick said, I have no idea where this thing is going. If that’s not your cup of tea, I totally understand. Just bail out now, rather than sending me an angry email about how, like a basset hound asked to do the job of an English setter, I never got to the point.
See, I’ve had quite a week. And if I hadn’t missed the G-File last Friday, I wouldn’t be furiously banging on the keyboard trying to achieve what Fred Barnes famously described as one of the most desired qualities of any work of journalism: “Doneness.” And reaching doneness in my current ill-tempered, ill-informed, and just-plain-ill state, means letting her rip, like a single guy driving home alone after winning the Tres Frijoles Super Burrito eating contest.