Strange memories on this nervous night on Wall Street. One year later? Two? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era - the kind of peak that never comes again. America in the late aughts was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or slogans or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . . History is hard to know, because of all the MSM bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a big clash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time - and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty mornings- or very early afternoons - when I left the Protest completely crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big GMC Canyon through Georgetown at thirty miles an hour wearing Wrangler jeans and a short-sleeve button-down shirt . . . booming down Canal Road at the sights of Arlington and Fairfax and Chesapeake, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too bewildered to find park while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as cranky and set in their ways as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . . There was safety in any direction, at any hour. If not across the river, then up to Bethesda or down US1 to Mt. Vernon or Cherry Hill. . . . You could find comfort anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . . And that, I think, was the handle - that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Youth and Progressivism. Not in any mean or military sense; we didnâ(TM)t need that. Our righteousness would simply prevail. There was no point in arguingâ" on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . . So now, less than two years later, you can go up on a steep hill in New Jersey and look South, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."