The Right Lost the Culture War, and America
Thought on TPUSA's shitty halftime show.
Jim poured himself another shot of tequila, then raised the glass from the stone counter to meet mine. The sweet smell of barbecue drifted in on the breeze from the backyard, and the sun had just dipped beneath the waves. Jim likes the warmth of añejo and makes a margarita with teeth, but we’re drinking neat tonight in his home on a hill overlooking the Pacific.
My friend, whose name I’ve changed here, is a white man with an Anglo-Saxon last name. He’s worn many hats in different seasons. Special forces for one, DEA for another, to list a few. You’d never guess. Jim is part of that vanishing breed of operator who wouldn’t think to write a memoir. He’s content with a quiet life of surfing and grilling by the ocean. He loves Mexico and talks about it like an old flame.
