I'm beginning to rely on the recurrence of Friday in my life, and I find I have never shaken the i- dea that it holds amuse- ment, not very far below the surface. I'm expect- ing always to read some- thing I won't be able to put down.
Beyond any comparison in American life, it simply isn't possible to identi- fy an instance of fusing the erotic with the dom- estic with the exuberant consciousness of the ad- ventures framed by those shelters, that we remark in gay couples, a cliché representing, by the way, all the customary victor- ies at double or nothing. It is what is wrong with this picture. It made me uneasy, too. But that is an indulgent reaction. A house of this kind isn't murdered, but blasphemed beyond recourse to pity, beyond idylls of lament. It conscripts our pride.
As long as the wild boar loves the mountain ridges,
That said, the parents of the most prolific gunshot murderer in 21st Century American life have just explained, their child annihilated as many people as he possibly could, on the strength of observing a kiss between two men. Nothing distinguishes this response from the cold crucifixion of Matthew Shepard, really, except the numbers. In haste to claim credit for anticipating all this, Donald Trump has only too modestly ignored his Party's fetish for stuffing American closets with automatic weapons, and has hit upon his genius for fomenting nativist hysteria instead. This does legitimise a little pride, in exposing the desperate hooliganism now embraced by that sorry Party. This carnage marks the convergence of a fulfilled statistical probability, which gun-freak Republicans have labored tirelessly to generate, with an intolerably recurring crime against a demographic group they have oppressed, just as assiduously, since Joe McCarthy showed what fun it is. As partisan denunciations proliferate, against the President for rational forbearance, their toxic jingle of bigotry and violence steeps this coincidence in all too familiar shame. "Radical Islam," eat your heart out.