All I ever needed or wanted was in Texas. It sounded terrific. I slurred my approval through the left side of my face, just like Jean Chretien would. Bridges were built with our moment, and I was no longer the foolhardy hack I once was, but a believer. Clifford's message could reach all those Tammy Fucantos of the world who felt the need to escape their homes to grow, yet could not break the shackles of their Joycean-Dubliners paralysis.
Home is all that mattered.
Everyone and everywhere else are scary and different. These thoughts would sustain their lives and keep them warm at night knowing that missile defense systems orbited above their heads protecting their happy towns from the nuclear wrath of the rogue states full of weird people with weirder names. I took the streetcar home and left Clifford and the Argentinean dueling over the honour of a stripper from Chicoutimi. Filled with Clifford's message, I wrote a letter to my adopted foster child in the Canary Islands. Dear Chupo, Daddy has been drinking tonight because you have upset him.