The Guadalajara Reporter
Guadalajara's Largest English Newspaper
Our weirdly unsatisfactory and nationally debilitating political situation has suddenly been coughing up something more than anticipated childish and obvious lies.
Up on raw mountain flanks scrawny trees burst into bud and leaf as if these dry season days possessed unperceivable scorching magic.
”Donald J. Trump, Bucking Calls to Unite, Claims ‘Mandate’ to Be Provocative,” read this morning’s unsurprising, wearying, headline.
Chaos presently seems to infect even the smallest breath of air this early Thursday a.m. And to great extent, for a great many conservatives there seems a growing, harshly bitter reason for this hard condition.
April 23, the 400th commemoration of the death of William Shakespeare, was a moment decorated by choruses declaring, “No, it wasn’t Will who wrote all that amazing stuff!” It was one — or two — or many other, candidates, dreamers say. Not Will.
His parents were only barely, partially literate.
When I was still a kid I lived apart from my parents. My father was out of the picture. My mother worked as a hostess of the women’s hushed “dining room” in an upscale big-city department store.
