Visiting the planet of the faɡɡots in the Scheming East is always interesting.

It was time to return to the Land of Men in the Dreaming West.

At 11:00 P.M. Wednesday night A teddy bear of a bearded man in a purple fishnet dress, swish prancing tranny boots and a purple purse sashayed into Union Station, Pittsburgh, right behind this hobo. The seating was mostly facing away from the three Amtrak matrons behind the plexiglass, who had masks down below their nose. The Amish and other blasphemers faced away, masks down. The Faithful disciples of Media Disease, ebony goddesses and hipster acolytes, sat to the left, terrified of the rest, holy masks properly worn.

A mean little man, gut swinging, strode in proclaiming his mission to report for Railroad Age Magazine, addressed the matrons by name, complained about freight trains and declared that he would not trust the Chicago staff with his luggage. The man would dodge and push and bully staff and patrons to get the seat he wanted and complained at every delay, declaring, “Life is no longer fun for a non-motorist and Railroad Age will never let me write about that—everything has to be positive.”

The crackpot behind him mused that railroads were becoming more important to basic life, and that the life of boomer faɡɡot leisure less Important. Extreme thunder storms in Ohio delayed the overnight to Chicago, as did record freight train traffic.

We were told that the Capitol Limited from D.C. To Chicago was fully booked, but the rear car was entirely empty.

When the hobo historian boarded the California Zephyr behind the whining moral cipher he was disappointed when the twit dodged a baggage cart while cutting ahead of an old lady and her nurse.

We are told that the train is fully booked, but it is not full.

At Union Station in Denver the security goons and police go unmasked while we proles must mask up. A fine young fellow moving to the Rockies behind me to do landscaping for the coastal elite transplants, waxes optimistic on the phone to his former boss back in Maryland, that life will be better for him out west.

The tranny detrains here, swishing past the security goons who laugh in grouped silence.

Mask Police threats are delivered with gravity by the Assistant Conductor and by Brad the Star Conductor. The cafe car attendant, whose name is Rod Pascal, has quite a twang when he advertises his cold beer and mixed drinks, “You name it folks,” and apologizes in advance for not dealing in cash. He later complains that he is doing no business, obviously aware that his tip income is suffering, as most of us are dealing only in cash. The line at the coffee shop in Denver was packed by train patrons with cash, bringing our cash-bought coffee back to the cashless train.

Then we pretend we are human again as the first train of the summer to penetrate from Chicago directly to California rolls on through natural splendor—the greenest summer Colorado has seen for hundreds of years. The hobo muses that he has gone nearly coast to coast under continuous cloud cover.

Before descending to Glenwood Springs we are told by Brad about the greatest natural disaster in the history of the Zephyr, established in 1949, causing mudslides two weeks ago that washed out Interstate 70 [still buried under mud] and the train tracks, recently rescued. Again, we are told that that the train is sold out, but here I sit, the only full seat in the front 8 of the rear car...nearly alone. Track maintenance is much better than highway maintenance...is the Interstate Age on the wane?

A beautiful blonde family boards and their mother and father let the two girls, four and five, race up and down the aisle until the train rolls. The assistant conductor—owner of a nice rack—proclaims the un-paralelled greenery of the desert mountains and my Editor sends a text:

“Vax is giving teens and twenty-year-olds heart attacks. This is like the boomers final stroke against their heirs.”

This Boomer muses:

Our generation was born with an atomic detonation and will depart the world stage for a much deserved Hades in the wake of its selfish and false indoctrination disguised as an inoculation.

The Boomers of America are a hundred-million strong risen god, having consumed more of earth's bounty than all previous humans combined, extinguished more souls by lying word than all the great Khans did by fire and sword.

When a hulking, Promethean Race becomes deified and self-aware of its mortality, woe to those who coexist with the earth-chained god in its death throes.

The train races on against the sun, heedless that the race west cannot be won.

Its blaring horn soothes this misbegotten soul as its beastly, self-worshiping fold is deservedly shorn.