Why ? It's the end times - the apocalypse. Events tumble forth. An impeachment happened. An election might. Covid-19 comes on little cat feet. A sign in the middle of a Kansas corn field reads: "Atlas Missile Silo Converted into Survival Condos." There might be a war. Trump's hardcore base is looking for the elite who snubbed Granny. (But it isn't all bad. An old friend says let's drive to Buffalo this summer. And a girl from 60 years ago is doing a little gardening and painting.) What's an old man from the left end of the redneck spectrum to do? Hell! I'll write. My position might be unique. I can translate. It takes one to know one and I certainly am one. I'll write about incorrect people who can trace their lineage 2,000 years from Germania to Appalachia -to the rust belt cities of Northern America - to the Southern heartland. I'll write about Rednecks. I'll write about guns. I'll write about Dude the Wolfdoodle and the invasion of Ballantyne. I'll quote from the left end of the Redneck spectra - from people like Wilbur Cash, William Faulkner, Flannery O'Connor and some more. I'll write about me.