Bleary-eyed, now listening to documentaries for audio stimulation, after Rosanne became too annoying, I lean back, dully realizing that only a few hours previous I’d been dancing to the Pixies in my living room. I stayed awake with Poetry; Poetry kept me awake while keeping…

“I can see why it’s gonna be their last one,” a nose-ringed young girl at the Estee Lauder counter is chattering. Mrs. Mary Anne MacLeod Trump shudders inwardly, her chin a vice-grip of disdain, and allows a pair of hands to drape her fur over…