I like America. It brought me Star Wars and Forest Gump. I want to hire a 1958 red and white Plymouth Fury, call it Christine, and drive Route 66 staying at dilapidated motels with flickering neon lights owned by cross-dressing men called Norman – as long as Norman behaves. I like Tom Cruise. He got fired from his ad agency taking nought but a goldfish. Raymond E Feist, George R.R. Martin, David Eddings and Janny Wurts. To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, and Huckleberry Finn.  I want to get lost – on purpose – in the Louisiana swamps and stumble across a little town called Bon Temps full of pale-faced nocturnals.

 

Muhammad Ali – you are the king. Don King – I am not sure what you are. Babe Ruth – I knew your name before I knew the game you played. I was five years old, and I was born 50 years after you retired, and if I dropped your name into a sporting conversation, everybody nodded sagely. That is greatness. Carl Lewis and Pete Sampras. Jesse Owens and Michael Phelps.

 

Bill Gates, who adds value to this world with his technology, and then uses the proceeds of his success to save lives. Wilbur and Orville Wright – flight. Thomas Edison – light. World War 2 – you sent your sons to defend the world against tyranny. Bubble gum – thanking you.

 

I’m tired of seeing negative articles about the U.S.