Klaatu barada nikto

Yesterday, after the geographical routing I took from a pesky Flash game on the internet, I picked up our two-year old Almanac and started to read with the intention of, obviously, learning everything in the world. I read about Michael Dukakis and the tank thing, which I’d read about before, but had not previously mustered up enough gumption to go looking for the image. I did it this afternoon.

And now I’m sitting at my desk in a state of mild depression, a state most inappropriate to the small work I must do, crossing Ts and dotting Is. This moment is one of many moments when I step out of my comfortable little life of modest decadence and petty struggling, and I see the rest of the world and all the startling reality of lives other than mine. Every time this happens, I am sad. Terribly, gut-wrenchingly sad. Here is the culprit. Or perhaps, you could say the messenger. We are the culprits, really.

Then, I read this, which, though dwarfish in scope compared to the LIFE photos, carries itself with the same kingly deportment. Let this be a lesson to me, then, when my angry cynicism threatens to better me. Bravo, Mr. Len Cassamas, whoever you are.