And an admirable role model for the Simian's memory: An avenging rebel terrorist shot Abe, not Grant, who suicided himself with whiskey and self-pity, after lollygagging in the animal-beshat White House, lost that, took up liquor, became a helpless drunk, friends caretook his inept pickled carcass for a few years then he wrote a vain, distorted book about his carnaging of the rebels, and worst comedownance, got entombed on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, so it is said, but who knows what military-industrial effigy lies in that grafitti-and-dogshit-smeared pile overlooking beshitten liberal-elitist, nest of rebellious vermin Columbia University, Riverside Church, the National Council of Churches, and best, squalid, infested, periodically ractist white-massacreing Harlem. Still, when you visit Grant's Tomb you see mostly well-dressed African Americans studying the memoria displayed welling tears at the piles of war dead, the freed slaves, the army grunts and officers gauntly posed in muddy filth. A tourist bus roars in, pinky blobs waddle into the high-domed gloom, see no cafe, no gift shop, come out to circle the monument looking for something to buy or eat or video. Nothing there like the rest of the homeland shopfested US. What the fuck they mouth, fart, scratch, heave their globs fore and aft, struggle to re-mount the bus, stare out the dark glass at me in my Swift Boat get-up, jesus-bearded, gut abusting, carrying a Viet Vet begging sign that says Apocalypse Now or Else.