A THIN REED

I went to see the new Michael Moore flic, Fahrenheit 11/9,with my thoughtful, educated, erudite, historian pal S...
My mood of gloom, depression and futility was NOT lifted by the Moore's plangent recitation of the mistakes and missteps that culminated in the horror of 11/9/16 and subsequently. I remarked, as I am wont to do in such circumstances, that "We Are SO fucked."
S.. remonstrated with me, however, making the (relatively obvious) point that we cannot predict the future: Something MIGHT change. He found hopeful the ambitions of the Parkland survivor kids, for example.
Recalling the hopes of 1971, when 18-yr-olds were given the vote, and McGovern's catastrophic defeat, even though there was still a horrific war going on, I said: "That's a pretty thin reed..."
But I was reminded by his remark of a parable/allegory I used to repeat to my students about the fragility of hope:
In a far-off land, many centuries ago, there was a powerful Emir who employed a Mage to do such things that Mage's do. His skill was such that he soon won the love and trust of his master. But, in the ways of such things, one night the Mage was apprehended sneaking OUT of the seraglio, and was hauled before the Emir, who pronounced the sentence: The Mage might choose his own means of demise.
But the Mage, a clever fellow almost by definition, offered the Emir a bargain: "Sire, I know you esteem your war-horse above all others. What if I were to teach your magnificent charger to talk? Give me a year, and then, if I should fail, you may do with me as you will. But if I succeed, you grant my freedom."
The Emir was amused by the proposition, and AGREED.
When he had left the Presence, the Mage's acolytes all clustered about him in confusion. "You CANNOT teach the horse to talk. You're insane!"
But the Mage said: "I have a year. In a year, the Emir may die. Or I may die. Or the horse may die.
"Or the horse may talk."

Why I Wasn't a "Lifer," Page 1...

Downtown Burque, early 1960's. 2nd and Central.
I'm pretty sher that I spent the night before I shipped out to Lackland for Basic, in September, 1964, at the expense of the USAF, at the Kings Hotel, on Central. It's (was) on the north side of the street, under the green sign, bracketed by bars. I was 18, and so the bars might as well have been on the moon. 
I don't think I slept much. There was an AF van at the curb in the morning which took me and a handful of others to the airport--the airfield, to be more precise, because they took us to Kirtland, and a military flight. A C-54, mebbe?
My first really vivid recollection of military life is of the short, squat (as it turned out, remarkably fit for his girth) Tech Sergeant assigned to my Basic "flight" (training company) yanking the sun glasses off my face and smashing them beneath the heel of his immaculately, gleamingly spit-shined combat boot and smilingly telling me I wouldn't be need in them for a while. 
Day One, Strike One.