Jim Jones, The Woodstock Cult and the Death of America with the Big Z

Every generation reaches a peak, and for the unlucky bunch of knuckle-draggers at the dawn of the twenty-first century, the “Rally to Restore Sanity” is probably as close to the summit as any of us will ever get. We will never walk hand in hand on the mountaintop with the snow leopards, and once this shindig is all said and done, there will be nothing left to do but sit back and drink the Kool-Aid. Or, more specifically, the grape-aid, but in times like these, we’ll have to make do with whatever artificial fruit drink best holds the muscle relaxers and cyanide. Beggars can’t be choosers, and once this dance is done, the pinnacle of our generation will have passed and the storm clouds will begin to gather over our country like the shifting darkness of a mid-Western storm that presages an F-5 tornado.

ATLAS SHRUGGED

 "Achieving life is not the equivalent of avoiding death..."

-- Ayn Rand

The day before I checked out Emily Dickinson, I headed to the perfect town to investigate cemeteries -- Valhalla -- to skulk around Mount Kisco Cemetery. I went for Sergi Rachmaninoff, but I decided to stick around for Ayn Rand. I will post the Rachmaninoff photos later, but I'm really happy with the Rand photos, so I'm throwing them up first. I think the first photo is one of the best I've ever taken. Enjoy...

LETTERS TO EMILY

A venture to the grave of Emily Dickinson with friends Jessica Ankeny and Melissa Faliveno. Poor planning on my part meant that we arrived at a house that was closed. Yet somehow it seemed oddly fitting, that we were denied entry into Emily's world, as if she were still alive and too withdrawn to greet some long-traveled guests.