The strange legacy of the world’s richest man.
Of doodlebugs, boll weevils, rockhounds, and wildcatters.
I see Ross Perot as a throwback, a distinct cousin to two types of 19th century mythical American heroes. In his deeds, Perot is as gargantuan—as wonderful and awful and ridiculous—as Davy Crockett. In his idealisms, Perot would fashion himself, and the rest of us, after one of the proper
A good woman finally marries the wild frontier man and saves him from himself. Manifestly destiny.
Some last words, reverent and irreverent, like Lyndon himself.