This meal just cost me $78 at
the Newark Airport. This is why Amer-
icans think the damn economy is terr-
ible: drowned in unused miles, getting fat
on beers and queers and Russian Kompromat—
what wonder that a simple working square
who wants—what?—wife and simple fare:
PB&J, not “beurre jambon,” and that
is why, from hell’s heart and the Centurion Lounge,
I stab; this almost-erev Yom Kippur I break
my social-media fast, forlornly make
the plea: even in New Jersey, one must scrounge
and scrape a scotch while waiting for a status bump
to first-select. This is what got us Trump.