“I want to stab him in the testicles a million times”

By Mary Roberts 

“What do you think we are? Cattle?”

I’m caught in a tight scree of human flesh, all pretending we aren’t pressed up against each other’s bodies — fleshy, rib thin, and somewhere in-between. Boston’s old subway cars weren’t meant to hold this many people. The cattle remark is in my head. I can’t say it. I’m afraid I’ll stutter or people would laugh at me.

That’s when it happens.

Before the 2016 presidential election, Mary Roberts wrote about real estate, her Irish Catholic childhood in Boston and the 13 dogs that have defined the chapters of her life. Now, she writes to say, “Wake up, people!” Learn more about Mary.

Someone reaches from behind me and slides his hand down the front on my pants. Both of my hands are gripping the overhead strap and my legs are parted to steady myself from the stops and starts of the jolting train.

“Hey!” I let go of the strap with my left arm and squeeze it between two of my neighbors but the hand is gone before I can grab it. It is 1970. I am 19. I burn in shame.

I had returned home after one year of college in New York. Home was Needham, a small town 10 miles west of Boston. Long island, N.Y., was not where I wanted to be. I didn’t know where I wanted to be. I had no plan or ambition, except to star in Broadway musicals but I was afraid to speak and couldn’t sing. I had also broken my kneecap twice in high school. My one year as a drama major ended in disaster when I couldn’t manage the role as Marat Sade’s mother. And she was a stutterer.

Mom’s friend got me a job in Medical Records at Children’s Hospital and I went to night school at Boston College. From the hospital, I took the Green Line to the BC stop. Three hours later, I’d head home to the Newton Highlands stop where I would take a bus to Needham Square. I didn’t drive and we didn’t have a car anyway, so the MBTA was my constant companion, riding its street cars and buses four times a day.

“I won’t do this anymore.”

I hated the way men looked at me when I’d make my way through the construction sites that littered the streets and sidewalks along the way. I’d veer out to the road followed by the whistles and calls for blow jobs from the guys with hard hats. I wore glasses, no makeup and baggy turtlenecks with the mandatory skirts but it didn’t matter. I was young.

After the subway incident, I went in to the manager’s office and told her I was done. “I can’t do this anymore,” I told her, “I won’t do this anymore.”

Two weeks later, on New Year’s Eve, 1970, I was on an airplane with my sister who was headed back to Colorado State University after Christmas break. She and I were never the best friends we should have been, only 18 months apart, but it was better than spending the rest of my life terrified of crowds and the subway. I was already unable to drive after a traumatizing car accident. A good sturdy bike would get me where I needed to go in Colorado.

“A bloated, orange-tinted mass of pulpy flesh”

Forty plus years later and Donald Trump is caught saying ‘grab them by the pussy’ and I am outraged. More than outraged.

I am indignant, incensed, I am horrified. In my dreams, I want to stab him in the heart and testicles a million times then write my name — and the names of all women who have been assaulted, grabbed, diminished, denigrated — in his blood as it slowly leaves his body, leaving a bloated, orange-tinted mass off pulpy flesh and pockmarked bone. Again, fantasies in my dream land, not for advocating violence against a president or anyone.

Does such a dream make me a terrorist? Did I break the law by entertaining fantasies of hurting the president?

I don’t harbor those fantasies because I disagree with his policies (which I do) or think that he is a disgrace as a president and a human being (which I do). I harbor those fantasies because he is a predator and a sexual bully. Every woman knows what that is and the women who voted for him have neatly compartmentalized that fact somewhere in their emotional body where it will fester and eventually destroy them.

“Was I that fragile?”

At 65 years of age, I now understand that I left Boston because someone grabbed me by the pussy. I left behind the love of my life, the ocean, my mother, the home I was raised in and the New England I still yearn for—just because an asshole grabbed me and I felt powerless and ashamed and scared that it would happen again.

Was I that fragile? Was I that sorry-ass wimp of a girl? Without the backbone to give the construction guys the finger and yell ‘fuck you’ back at them? Without the courage to call out ‘help’ in the subway car? Yes, I was.

Years later, I hug my dogs tight when I hear the President’s voice over the radio. I’m already considering a replacement for the third dog I just lost to a painful disease. Two is good but three — three is impenetrable.

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“I want to stab him in the testicles a million times”

By Mary Roberts 

“What do you think we are? Cattle?”

I’m caught in a tight scree of human flesh, all pretending we aren’t pressed up against each other’s bodies — fleshy, rib thin, and somewhere in-between. Boston’s old subway cars weren’t meant to hold this many people. The cattle remark is in my head. I can’t say it. I’m afraid I’ll stutter or people would laugh at me.

That’s when it happens.

Before the 2016 presidential election, Mary Roberts wrote about real estate, her Irish Catholic childhood in Boston and the 13 dogs that have defined the chapters of her life. Now, she writes to say, “Wake up, people!” Learn more about Mary.

Someone reaches from behind me and slides his hand down the front on my pants. Both of my hands are gripping the overhead strap and my legs are parted to steady myself from the stops and starts of the jolting train.

“Hey!” I let go of the strap with my left arm and squeeze it between two of my neighbors but the hand is gone before I can grab it. It is 1970. I am 19. I burn in shame.

I had returned home after one year of college in New York. Home was Needham, a small town 10 miles west of Boston. Long island, N.Y., was not where I wanted to be. I didn’t know where I wanted to be. I had no plan or ambition, except to star in Broadway musicals but I was afraid to speak and couldn’t sing. I had also broken my kneecap twice in high school. My one year as a drama major ended in disaster when I couldn’t manage the role as Marat Sade’s mother. And she was a stutterer.

Mom’s friend got me a job in Medical Records at Children’s Hospital and I went to night school at Boston College. From the hospital, I took the Green Line to the BC stop. Three hours later, I’d head home to the Newton Highlands stop where I would take a bus to Needham Square. I didn’t drive and we didn’t have a car anyway, so the MBTA was my constant companion, riding its street cars and buses four times a day.

“I won’t do this anymore.”

I hated the way men looked at me when I’d make my way through the construction sites that littered the streets and sidewalks along the way. I’d veer out to the road followed by the whistles and calls for blow jobs from the guys with hard hats. I wore glasses, no makeup and baggy turtlenecks with the mandatory skirts but it didn’t matter. I was young.

After the subway incident, I went in to the manager’s office and told her I was done. “I can’t do this anymore,” I told her, “I won’t do this anymore.”

Two weeks later, on New Year’s Eve, 1970, I was on an airplane with my sister who was headed back to Colorado State University after Christmas break. She and I were never the best friends we should have been, only 18 months apart, but it was better than spending the rest of my life terrified of crowds and the subway. I was already unable to drive after a traumatizing car accident. A good sturdy bike would get me where I needed to go in Colorado.

“A bloated, orange-tinted mass of pulpy flesh”

Forty plus years later and Donald Trump is caught saying ‘grab them by the pussy’ and I am outraged. More than outraged.

I am indignant, incensed, I am horrified. In my dreams, I want to stab him in the heart and testicles a million times then write my name — and the names of all women who have been assaulted, grabbed, diminished, denigrated — in his blood as it slowly leaves his body, leaving a bloated, orange-tinted mass off pulpy flesh and pockmarked bone. Again, fantasies in my dream land, not for advocating violence against a president or anyone.

Does such a dream make me a terrorist? Did I break the law by entertaining fantasies of hurting the president?

I don’t harbor those fantasies because I disagree with his policies (which I do) or think that he is a disgrace as a president and a human being (which I do). I harbor those fantasies because he is a predator and a sexual bully. Every woman knows what that is and the women who voted for him have neatly compartmentalized that fact somewhere in their emotional body where it will fester and eventually destroy them.

“Was I that fragile?”

At 65 years of age, I now understand that I left Boston because someone grabbed me by the pussy. I left behind the love of my life, the ocean, my mother, the home I was raised in and the New England I still yearn for—just because an asshole grabbed me and I felt powerless and ashamed and scared that it would happen again.

Was I that fragile? Was I that sorry-ass wimp of a girl? Without the backbone to give the construction guys the finger and yell ‘fuck you’ back at them? Without the courage to call out ‘help’ in the subway car? Yes, I was.

Years later, I hug my dogs tight when I hear the President’s voice over the radio. I’m already considering a replacement for the third dog I just lost to a painful disease. Two is good but three — three is impenetrable.

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Recklessly gambling with our children’s future

By Alan Apt

The Webster dictionary definition of Conservative and Conservator is someone who will be a protector or guardian and will tend to preserve established traditions.

Alan Apt is a modest person who downplays his many accomplishments as a writer, environmentalist, politician, and volunteer. Learn more about Alan.

The truly conservative Republican Parties of Teddy Roosevelt, Richard Nixon, and even Ronald Reagan supported the preservation of public lands and the protection of our air and water.

The current GOP attacks on public land, and on the protection of clean air and water redefines the party as radicals who are disregarding established values. Too many fossil fuel state Democrats are also following suit. They are ignoring 70 to 80 percent of all Americans, including Republicans, who support public lands and environmental rules.

Ninety-seven percent of climate scientists say the climate is changing rapidly because of enormous increases in atmospheric carbon in the 19th and 20th centuries. Even if you believe it is part of a natural cycle, it should not be difficult to agree with scientists who say that human pollution is accelerating the unprecedented rate of change.

Former Republican officials from the Reagan and Bush administrations, George Schultz and Howard Baker, have begged Congress and Trump to implement a carbon tax on industry to slow emissions—and then give the taxes back to taxpayers—while rolling back Obama’s regulations on carbon emissions.

The Republican Congress simply wants to roll back the Obama emission measures on coal, slowing the transition to cleaner fuels.

Would a true conservative gamble with the future of our climate, coastlines, water supply, and ability to grow enough food?

I think most true conservatives are not gamblers, but would at least hedge their bets by backing badly needed clean energy jobs and the training to make them accessible to out-of-work coal miners and oil drillers. One in five new jobs is created by wind and solar energy.

Wall Street is also betraying our future by continuing to disproportionately fund fossil fuels, instead of renewable energy and the millions of more jobs that could be created.

Most unbiased scientists say we are recklessly gambling with our children’s and grandchildren’s future. They remind us how a non-partisan effort saved the ozone layer by banning damaging chemicals. A healthy clean-energy, job-abundant economy could make true conservatives out of all of us.

###

What can we do? Here are important steps to take:

  • Become active in the Sierra ClubWilderness Society, Earthjustice, and other organizations concerned about the environment.
  • Learn more. Here are articles to start with:  TimeEsquire; and Scientific American.
  • Speak out. Visit, call and write your U.S. representatives and senators, and encourage your friends to do the same. Earthjustice and other organizations have websites where help is available for making phone calls and writing letters.

John Edgar and me – Who knew?

By John Gascoyne

November, 1962, aboard the guided missile cruiser USS Topeka, CLG8, anchored off of Hong Kong on a rest and rec stop. The XO comes on the squawk box to inform ship’s crew that JFK had just made a speech about what soon became known as the Cuban Missile Crisis. The XO adds that the ship’s journalist is preparing a short version of the speech for the ship paper.

John Gascoyne started his career in journalism, but then became a lawyer. He retired in 2000 after a long, successful career. Following the 2016 election, he re-activated his license to to defend clients in cases involving civil rights, civil liberties, immigration, and other areas now threatened in America. Learn more about him.

John Gascoyne started his career in journalism, but then became a lawyer. He retired in 2000 after a long, successful career. Following the 2016 election, he re-activated his license to to defend clients in cases involving civil rights, civil liberties, immigration, and other areas now threatened in America. Learn more about him.

At that moment, the ship’s journalist, me, was polishing his shoes for an evening of wanton liberty. I ran to the radio room and pulled the speech off the teletype, wrote and passed out the short version. (I still have the full version—about eight feet long on aging yellow paper.)

Next morning, after a night of intentional debauchery—a function of not knowing when we would next go ashore—we were herded into company formation. Our crusty officer in charge said that some of us were about to receive our first campaign medals. In the last row, I restrained myself from saying: “Hey, college drop-out over here; don’t need to get into anything heavy.”

Bottom line: in the Navy, I went along just to get along. If I had any political or social inclinations they were centrist at best, better described as undeveloped and unexplored.

Fast forward one year: I’m an English major at Colorado State University and, after the Navy, really enjoying the coed existence. A friend of the family, Brendan Walsh, career FBI agent, talked to me about coming to Washington D.C. and working for the Bureau. Fantasies almost bowled me over: going to work in a three-piece suit with a .38 caliber revolver under my arm sounded as good as it could get.

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A few months pass; I was now a trained FBI fingerprint technician and a part-time student at The George Washington University. Life was good then—lots of partying but, according to the rule, only with other FBI employees. I was still managing to not explore a more complex world, one where I might have to be positional.

Things change. On March 11, 1965, Unitarian Universalist and civil rights worker Rev. James Reeb died. Two days earlier, he had come to Selma, Alabama, to participate in a civil rights march. On March 9, Reeb and two other ministers were attacked with clubs and severely beaten by a group of white men.

Late that afternoon our carpool of FBI employees drove by the White House, as we always did, on our way to the late shift with the Bureau. I’m guessing there were close to 3,000 people marching in front of the White House and protesting the assassination. Things became heated in our car. One woman, daughter of the police chief in a small Ohio town, argued that Rev. Reeb shouldn’t have been in Selma in the first place.

Just past midnight, our shift was over and we were in front of the White House again, having picked up the argument as if there had been no interruption. I told the driver to let me out.

Enthusiasm contagious: I walked across the street where the crowd, now about 300 people, was picketing and yelling. A police officer, not unkindly, told me to either pick up a sign and march or go back across the street. Not having the courage of my emerging convictions, I crossed the street to Lafayette Square and began aimlessly walking.

A young black couple was just in front of me, excited about having protested at the White House. Their enthusiasm and certitude were contagious; I crossed the street again, picked up a sign and began yelling at the President. By about 3 a.m., our army was down to a few dozen marchers. Someone yelled out that we should move on to the Justice Department. I yelled back that I worked for the Department and couldn’t join them. A few dark looks and then I was considered okay again.

Another young student and I decided it was time to pack it in. As we walked away, three thugs stepped out of the bushes and wanted to know what we n—- lovers thought we were doing. My friend wanted to duke it out with them. I did the math and suggested we just move along.

That’s pretty much it. Less than three months later my contract with the Bureau expired and I moved back to Colorado. Since then, I’ve participated in numerous marches and civil and political campaigns. I’d like to say that I’ve become seasoned; no longer likely to feel weakness in the knees, roiling of the stomach when it’s time to engage.

That would be a lie. Part of my being is timorousness—I’ve come to accept that. I’ve also accepted that my feelings cannot outweigh the need to keep on doing what seems right. Especially now; especially now.

Canada: Much More Than Hockey

By Bill Mann

This writer has a border. A good one. I can see Canada, as Mme. Palin once said, from my house.

I lived in Canada for several years, and I miss it to this day. It changed our lives forever.

Bill Mann is a columnist who lives in Washington. He has a lifetime of writing experiences, including contributing humor articles to USA Today. Learn more about him.

My wife and I had the foresight to have our first child in Montreal, where I was doing a column for the English daily and a radio show on a French station.

Ergo, our son is a Canadian, and he now lives in Vancouver, arguably the world’s most beautiful city.

We visit often. We wish were were living there…even before Herr Twitler was elected.

Our son is in the same spot we were during Nixon’s reign. We didn’t have to think of him, and our son doesn’t have to concern himself with The Bright Orange Cowbell, but rather, will Les Canadiens de Montréal make the Stanley Cup playoffs? (J’espère que oui…I hope so).logo_fina_150pixels

Now, imagine a country that’s had National Health Care for 57 years. And one that has very few guns. (And the ones they do have must be registered.)

Imagine a country with a charismatic, liberal, youthful and popular leader. Canada has this, and much more.

We have photos of our two Canadian grandkids on the mantle. Both are posing with Prime Minister Trudeau. Where did they meet him? At the Pride Parade in Vancouver.

Why do Americans know so little about their great neighbor? And why do so few care?

The answer is blowing in the north wind.

To Canadians, we are the heavily armed rubes living downstairs. They have to be nice to us.

And they are the unarmed people upstairs with health insurance whom we don’t know. (We don’t even know that Canadians don’t say “eh” any more.)

We need a wall, all right…up here. To stop the increasing number of Americans who want to head north.

It’s Time to Reclaim Our Flag

By Janet Sheppard Duvall

Twenty-five years ago I ran for elected office as a Democrat in a primarily Republican county.  My yard signs proclaimed my candidacy in the proud colors of fuchsia and white. I couldn’t use the colors of the American flag, you see, because red, white and blue had long been claimed by the Republicans.

Janet Sheppard Duvall has worked in environmental and land use planning and work an organizer of a clean air coalition in Colorado. She is a former county commission for Larimer County, Colo. Learn more about her.

Janet Sheppard Duvall is a writer and editor. She has had a successful career in environmental and land use planning, as well as politics and public relations.  Learn more about her.

Today the flag itself has been preempted by the Republican Party and the alt right. They display our country’s flag front and center over all their gatherings, fly it from the topmost extensions of cranes and ladders, and let it flutter from their pickup trucks as they speed down the highway. Silently proclaiming: We are patriots, and you are not!

It’s an insidious psychological trick, but when less conservative folks see the flag waving, we often assume that the flag owner is a person of the alt-right persuasion. But wait! My husband and I fly the American flag from a flagpole attached to the front of our home. OMG! What if people assume we voted for Trump because we fly the flag of our country?

Something is definitely wrong with this picture, and it has been wrong for more than a quarter of a century. Why have Democrats, progressives, liberals and even moderates accepted the far-right Republican, Tea Party and alt-right claim of exclusivity over the patriotic symbols of our country?

My awareness for this deplorable situation was finally kicked into gear when I read an insightful article written by David Frum, What Effective Protest Could Look Like, Perspective from the right on Trump’s political challenge for the left,” published by The Atlantic on February 6, 2017. David Frum is a senior editor for The Atlantic and was a speech writer for President George W. Bush—thus, his conservative credentials.logo_fina_150pixels

Frum points out that left-liberal demonstrations “seldom are aimed at any achievable goal; they rarely leave behind any enduring program of action or any organization to execute that program. Again and again, their most lasting effect has been to polarize opinion against them—and to empower the targets of their outrage. And this time, that target is a president hungering for any excuse to repress his opponents.” In order to scare Trump and to be effective, Frum suggests protestors must be “orderly, polite and visibly patriotic.”

Frum so eloquently reminds us: “Trump wants to identify all opposition to him with the black-masked crowbar thugs who smashed windows and burned a limo on his inauguration day. Remember Trump’s tweet about stripping citizenship from flag burners? It’s beyond audacious that a candidate who publicly requested help from Russian espionage services against his opponent would claim the flag as his own. But Trump is trying. Don’t let him get away with it. Carry the flag. Open with the Pledge of Allegiance. Close by singing the Star Spangled Banner—like these protesters at LAX, in video posted by The Atlantic’s own Conor Friedersdorf. Trump’s presidency is itself one long flag-burning, an attack on the principles and institutions of the American republic. That republic’s symbols are your symbols. You should cherish them and brandish them.”

Those of us who wish to resist the presidency of Donald Trump and the dangerous advances of the alt-right must seriously consider and implement Frum’s critical revelations on how to manage effective protest:

  • Be conservative in order to effectively deliver a radical argument.
  • Be strategic, create goals and have a long-term action plan. Don’t protest just to release anger and emotions.
  • Focus the protest around a single, clear and concrete demand that can be put into political action:  e.g., “Release Tax Returns!” “Investigate Russian connections!”
  • Assure follow up action beyond the protest. Do the hard work of organizing, meeting, and continuing to call/write/email/Tweet elected representatives.
  • Create a movement that enables you to converse with and to recruit people who would not normally agree with you.

Finally, Democrats and progressives, left-wingers and liberals: fly our American flag, use the colors of red, white and blue, and know that you are patriots—“building a movement to protect American democracy from the authoritarianism of the Trump administration.” Thank you David Frum.

Yes, we will continue to fly our American flag in front of our home.

Pot and Copernicus: See You in Court!

By Bear Jack Gebhardt

I don’t smoke a lot of weed these days, though I have old time friends and young time family who make it a regular thing. Can’t blame ’em. Life’s short. Grab a grin where you can. (As the iconic Wavy Gravy once said, “only the jailers are against escape.”)

Bear Jack Gebhardt is the author of eight books and articles that have appeared in Reader’s Digest, The Columbia Journalism Review, Modern Maturity, and other national magazines.

Bear Jack Gebhardt is the author of eight books and articles that have appeared in Reader’s Digest, The Columbia Journalism Review, Modern Maturity, and other national magazines. Visit his website to learn more about him.

I also don’t carry a green card, though again, old friends and new relatives carry their green as a daily obligation. But just because I don’t personally smoke a lot of pot, or carry a green card, doesn’t mean that I’m not locking arms and standing strong with friends and family who do.

White House press secretary Sean Spicer recently suggested that the new administration may be more aggressive in trying to enforce the scientifically baseless, ever-unenforceable, never-appropriate, violently disruptive and blatantly unjust federal regulations against recreational marijuana, though probably not medicinal marijuana. (Let’s don’t make silly distinctions: As all old timers know, “all use of marijuana is medicinal.”)

As with most of the other fear-based, backward-looking proposals coming out of this administration, I say, great, bring it on, let’s test it. As this prez once succinctly put it, “see you in court.”

Seeking the divine: Here’s how I think we should proceed: I’m active, here in Colorado, with the New Buddhist Methodist Church, Satsang and Art Studio. As Buddhist Methodists (but mostly artists) we recognize marijuana use as one of the legitimate “methods” for artistically seeking the divine, e.g., for exploring, integrating and expanding this miracle of consciousness that we all share. Like all methods, including prayer and meditation, pot smoking has its advantages and disadvantages for such explorations. (see “A warning about methods” where we recognize that “Methods make good servants, but terrible masters.” )

As an artistically religious community, we would not hesitate to go to court over any attempt by this administration to restrict our religious freedom. For many years now, (long before smoking pot was legal here in Colorado) members of our communion referred to the imbibing of weed as “taking sacrament.” Many of us, ex-Catholics and fallen Baptists and a few rogue Jews, have directly experienced the uplifting effects of this sacrament much more immediately, much more directly than our childhood experiences of the wine and wafers or unleavened bread.

With the sacramental bud we just felt holier, more open and reverential, more mystical than we generally did with the officially “approved” wafers and bread from our childhood. Is the state now going to tell us what is a “real” sacramental experience and what is not? Does the state have the right to tell us what feels holy and what doesn’t?  Hmm…  What would the courts say?

Hear ye, hear ye: On a purely secular level  (some of us doubt that such a level even exists, but that’s another story) . . . on a purely secular level, we’d love to have the evidence weighed in court by an impartial judge or jury. As a plethora of both physiological and sociological research has consistently proven over the last half century, the current Federal regulations classifying marijuana as a Schedule 1 substance are scientifically baseless. We welcome the opportunity to bring into an impartial forum the scientific evidence for and against. We’re grinning even before the bailiff says, “Hear ye, hear ye…”

To site only one ironic case: As far back as The Shafer Commission, formally known as the National Commission on Marihuana and Drug Abuse, appointed by U.S. President Richard Nixon in the early 1970s, the scientific evidence has been overwhelming in favor of decriminalization of marijuana possession.

Nixon appointed the Shafer Commission because he wanted scientific evidence against marijuana. They couldn’t find it. So Nixon ignored the evidence, and started the war on drugs,  and more particularly the war on marijuana. Inarguably, the laws against marijuana have proven much more damaging, more costly and socially disruptive than any perceived physical or moral dangers of its use.

I’m not naive about the downsides of regular pot use. I even wrote a book in which I detailed many of the problems as well as its advantages.  (See The Potless Pot High: How to Get High, Clear and Spunky without Weed.) I spent many years as a drug education and treatment counselor. But as I wrote at the start of my book, “the two biggest problems with pot are: 1.) you keep coming down; and 2.) it’s mostly illegal.” There are other problems with pot, but they are relatively minor compared to these two.

Back to the secular: For an administration trying to turn back advancements in environmental regulations, social programs and sexual equality under the guise of “states’ rights,”  the suggestion that states should be able to determine their own environmental pollution regulations but not their own pot laws is comically hypocritical and patently ludicrous. Again, see you in court.

As Victor Hugo famously observed, “All the forces in the world are not so powerful as an idea whose time has come.”  The basic idea “whose time has come” is not that marijuana should be legal—though that’s a powerful idea in itself. No, the more fundamental idea is that we have the right, and duty, and opportunity to explore new ideas, to develop new ways of seeing ourselves and the world. Pot sometimes helps us do that—to think in new ways (and yes, sometimes pot just makes things fuzzy.)  But whether we use it or not is not a decision that the guy from Oklahoma—the new Attorney General—has the power to make.

“Good people don’t smoke pot,” the Oklahoman said here recently. “And it’s obvious the sun goes around the earth,” he would have told Galileo and Copernicus.

If the Attorney General wants to make regulations about the inalienable rights and free uses of mother nature’s wonderful weed, okay, “See you in court.” Copernicus and Galileo are anxious to present their evidence, for our grinning side.