My viewpoint includes hitchhiking through Central America in 1967, before Americans knew of bloody civil wars already brewing up, and then living Ecuador’s recent stumble through populist dictatorship. A Californian from the heady times of the 60s, a draft dodger expatriate, a pioneer in the Galápagos Islands, and Jack-of-All-Trades from ocean sailor to US Consular Agent, my footloose timeline made me a sort of Rip Van Winkle returning to 21st century America. I bought a ‘62 Chevy hot rod and parked it in SoCal, thinking Never Too Late for a Happy Childhood. Almost by default, I came to own guns, learned to manage them, and got licensing and registration, slipping into yet another role, the Second Amendment Democrat. With guns and hot rod in the autumn of 2016, a 5000-mile road-trip on scenic two-lane highways among the delightful rural Americans affirmed my fears that much like in my third-world life, villains supercharged by new propaganda media were rising to power.