In Praise of the Tinfoil Saints (with Patron Saint Mel Gibson Ordained in a Church of Static, Screaming Sermons Through a Broken Police Scanner)

Count me among their fold.

Not the comfortable. Not the conformist. Not the reputationally compliant.

I run with the misfit chorus of those who looked behind the Wizard’s curtain and didn’t flinch. The ones who asked, “Where’s the fire escape?” while everyone else was still applauding the smoke machines.

I didn’t get here by accident. I got here the same …