Happy New Year

In the nearly eight years of the Balcony’s existence, I don’t think I’ve ever posted a holiday message. I’m too cynical for that sort of thing, generally speaking, and besides, this isn’t that kind of blog. I’m amazed that anyone actually reads my self-indulgent and turgid rantings, and particularly amazed that so many people outside the United States do.

Here’s to you, folks, wherever you are in this insane and perplexing world, short and sweet – Happy New Year.

Peace!

Goodbye, Santa

The silliest day of the season comes to a merciful end, though the lights on our tree flicker, and the inflatable Santa in the front yard stands at attention, as proud as he was on Christmas Eve. The recycle bin is full of flattened cartons and crumpled wrapping paper; the care that goes into selecting gifts, hiding them from the kids, and then wrapping them far exceeds the minute or so it takes to open them.

Hours of preparation for a minute of glory.

I haven’t kept up with the news of late, opting instead for a collection of essays by Gore Vidal, so I can only assume the nation remains poised to tumble over the fiscal cliff, and that president Obama will find a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. When it comes to dealing with a dysfunctional and dim-witted congress, our president lacks killer instinct; the minute he puts his opponent on the canvas, cut, bleeding and dazed, he loses his nerve and stops attacking. Obama’s mercy is misplaced; if the tables were turned, John Boehner and his GOP cronies would pulverize Obama’s skull with a claw hammer. 

I wonder if the United States, France and England will become entangled in Syria in 2013. That report a few weeks back about Syria’s biological weapons seemed a harbinger of major power involvement, a convenient pretext to gin up the NATO war machine. Global powers need enemies, and though that report hit the news media and vanished, like the trial balloon I suspect that it was, I wonder if Syria will be transformed into a significant threat to its neighbors. Although the ruling regime has its hands full on its home turf, I’m sure Turkey can be convinced to quake in its sandals in exchange for US, French and British military hardware.

But what do I know of geopolitical scheming and intrigue, the calculations taking place in foreign capitols? I’m just an average guy, father of two, husband of one, trying to make ends meet, do as little harm to myself and others as possible, watch my favorite soccer clubs (Chelsea and Liverpool) when I can, and spend more time reading than staring at the drivel that spills from the TV. Admittedly, I’m mired in the mundane, pedestrian, unexciting grind of a middle-aged existence.

Youth is fleeting, my friends.

Some nitwits here on the fruited plain believe that placing loaded firearms in the hands of schoolteachers is a brilliant idea and defense against future mass shootings. Outside this violent nation I’m sure this notion is greeted with derision. I admire public school teachers – the ones I know personally are dedicated, concerned for and committed to the wellbeing of children -- but I do not want them anywhere near loaded firearms. The public stance of the NRA is shameful, yet typical; when criticized, launch an all-out PR campaign attacking one’s attackers. Call into question their love of freedom and devotion to the spirit of the constitution; assert from the rooftops that the solution to America’s gun problem is not fewer guns in fewer hands, but more guns in more hands. Arm everyone! Doctors, lawyers, nurses, bus drivers, plumbers, cooks, maids, babysitters and Wal-Mart greeters! 

What the NRA is doing is like the GOP calling for deeper tax cuts and harsher austerity as a way of jump-starting the economy, even though this formula has failed miserably for all but the super wealthy.

What’s the old saying? – the thinking that landed us in the grip of these problems cannot get us out of them, or something to that effect. 

The wind has picked up, agitating the chimes on our deck. Out the front window I see the inflatable Santa, listing to one side like an inebriated sailor on his final night in port.

Insatiable

Two days after the mass shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, my daughter, wife and I are in the Game Stop, shopping for a Wii game for our son, Epic Mickey or some such. I rarely venture into Game Stop, not being a gamer myself – except for a mild addiction to FIFA Soccer that I play on my iPad – and I was shocked by how many games are devoted to violence: Call of Duty, Gears of War, Halo 4, Dead Space, and more too numerous to mention.

It seems our appetite for make believe violence is only marginally greater than it is for the real thing. I should mention here that, although I have no desire to own, display or shoot a firearm, I’m not opposed to responsible, well-trained people owning them because these are not the people who launch rampages in movie theatres, on college campuses, and in elementary school classrooms. Outside of a firing range, these people rarely brandish or fire their weapons.

As expected, pundits, secular and otherwise, are churning out volumes about the latest American mass killing. Mainstream media outlets speak less about the politics of guns and more about personal tragedies – the daughter who was the light in her father’s eye, the son who delighted his mother with his sense of humor.  Political considerations don’t produce the kind of engaging morning drama that rivets people to the tube – stories of overpowering loss and heartbreak do that, coping with unthinkable devastation does that, as does engaging in psychological speculation about the mind of a misfit killer.

Sandy Hook Elementary school will never be the same any more than Aurora, Colorado will be the same, or Oklahoma City or Oak Creek, Wisconsin.  No matter how many prayers believers direct God’s way, the stain cannot be removed from these places.

What to say about a country where firearms are easier to come by than college loans; and the political class devotes trillions of dollars to war or war-making potential; and the economic system promotes cut-throat, deadly competition that reduces most citizens to desperate serfdom;  and access to decent, affordable health care is a privilege of wealth rather than a right of citizenship; and members of our all-voluntary military are called “warriors” and “heroes,”; and our government launches drone strikes against unarmed and innocent civilians; and that same government props up dictators with cash and weapons for decades; and our local police are militarized as if the citizenry are poised to revolt. What to say?

I have no fucking idea.

Do you?

Shooting to Kill

Another mass shooting in America.

We adore our firearms.

Another disturbed man with semi-automatic weapons launches a rampage, killing his own mother, more than a dozen innocent children, and then himself. His motive is unknown. His weaponry was purchased legally.

Movie theatre. Shopping mall. Elementary school.

After the fact, our leaders and pundits wring their hands, call for action but when all the noise subsides, business will continue as usual. Politicians quake before the lobbying power of the NRA. Gun advocates frame the argument as “Gun Rights” instead of “Gun Control.” The venerable Second Amendment to the United States Constitution is trotted out as proof that Americans have an inalienable right to arm themselves to the teeth.

Nothing will change. We know that. We’ve seen this before, the grieving survivors, the TV psychologists, the politicians who claim that guns don’t kill people – people do. But if these people didn’t have such easy access to semi-automatic weapons or military-style weapons, they wouldn’t be able to kill ten or fifteen or twenty people in a fell swoop.

Movie theatre. Shopping mall. Elementary school.

If a public conversation comes, it will quickly descend into the usual arguments pushed by the usual advocates; what the president means by “meaningful action” will be parsed until it means nothing, and when both sides are finished spinning, the public will be confused and dazed, divided into opposing camps, until the next mass killing when this impotent process repeats itself. 

Colon Blow

A colonoscopy is a ritual for those of us over fifty. Had mine this morning. I’m struck by how the preparation the day before is more odious than the actual procedure. Drinking what feels like a gallon of Moviprep solution is no joy – the stuff tastes awful, especially at 4:00 a.m., which is when I started drinking my second dose. Once I was on the gurney with some Demerol on board, not a care. Nurses Diana, Sabrina and Sally were brisk and professional, efficient but not impersonal; my heart rate never rose above 55 and my blood pressure stayed low. My doctor was the same man who did my first colonoscopy three and a half years ago, and when I jokingly asked if his skills had slipped in that time he said, “The day I feel that I’m not getting better is the day I call it a career.” He actually whistled while he manipulated the scope.

Hot damn! It’s groovy when things work as they should, unfold according to plan, and the actors follow the script. Into the Ambulatory Surgical Center at 7:30 in the morning, out at 9:15 or so, no complications, apparent tumors or other abnormalities, a mellow high from the Demerol, and my wife waiting for me in the recovery room.

Thinking of my rectum in particular and assholes in general leads to thoughts of the so-called Fiscal Cliff, the looming disaster that will strike unless congressional Republicans and President Obama reach an accord on taxes and spending cuts. The battle lines are familiar: John Boehner and his band of acolytes demand that tax cuts for the wealthy remain in place, forever and ever, while “entitlement” programs must be slashed for the sake of future generations; President Obama wants to let tax cuts for the wealthy expire and take a less blunt object to what remain of American social programs. Both parties are under the thrall of deficit hawks. Every morning on Good Morning America, after lively banter about William & Kate’s pregnancy, a breathless report from outside the hospital where Kate is being treated for acute nausea, and the same stock footage of William stepping out of a Land Rover and ducking into the building, comes an update on the Fiscal Cliff.

We are told the parties are miles apart and making no progress whatsoever, while the clock continues to tick, louder and louder, until --what? Automatic tax increases and horrific cuts to federal spending that will affect seniors, toddlers, defense contractors, airline passengers, students, horses, dogs, cats, etc. It’s an epic showdown, Boehner against Obama, vanquished against victor – and it’s all gloom and doom playing out against the backdrop of the happiest season of the year. The agony, the horror, the cliff! What happens if the country tumbles over?

Not much, most likely. The Cliff is really a Curb, and the “crisis” is wholly manufactured to appear more than it is, to make drama where there should be none at all. Social Security does not cause deficits any more than tax cuts for the wealthy create jobs for the middle class and the poor; raising taxes will not squelch our economic recovery, such as it is; these arguments are tired, and false.

I suspect that average folks, like myself, are more concerned about the security of our jobs, the high cost of college for our kids, and $500 medical co-pays like the one I paid this morning.  

My Fellow Cranks

The silly season is in full swing. November 24^th and Christmas tree lots have sprouted like toadstools -- across the street in the County Bowl parking lot, at Earl Warren Showgrounds, Lane Farms, and Orchard Supply and Hardware in Goleta; jolly Christmas music is already playing on at least one local radio station; and of course the TV is littered with sappy ads.

The older I become, the more this time of year annoys me. The holiday “season” now begins before we store the Halloween decorations, and approaches warp speed weeks before we attack our turkey with a sharp carving knife. Black Friday is treated like a national holiday. Commercial media whip the gullible into a frenzy with promises of cheap flat screen TV’s, blenders, toaster ovens, iPads, tablets, popcorn makers, cell phones, non-stick cookware, gourmet coffee makers, espresso machines, electric can openers, toys, electronic games, laptops; everything marked down and in stock, today only!

Fucking madness is what it is. No sane person pitches a tent outside Wal-Mart three days in advance of Black Friday, in the hopes of saving $100 on a new TV. The entire spectacle is ridiculous and disgusting, infantile and embarrassing. Whatever meaning these holidays are supposed to have is bled dry by crass commercialism that becomes more sophisticated, insidious and hysterical every year. By the time Christmas Day rolls around, many people are too exhausted to enjoy it.

OK, I admit, I’m a crank. Anoint me king for a day and I would decree a law prohibiting any Christmas, Hanukah or Kwanza advertising, sales, paraphernalia, music or hype prior to December 1. Fines would be severe, and repeat offenders would be stripped naked and forced to collect trash along Interstate highways. Nothing ticks me off like hearing Jingle Bells on the radio on November 23. Stop trying to manipulate the public, you greedy bastards; stop trying to stretch the season beyond all reason; stop trying to separate nitwits from money they don’t have.

Holly, jolly, o’ holy night!

The holiday season is one continuous assault on my senses and sensibility. Bad enough the religious hoopla – the virgin birth in a manger of Christ the king, the three wise men, the guiding star, the camels, donkeys, sheep and whatnot – but when the fable of Saint Nick and his magic reindeer, his industrious elves (who must all be Chinese by now), the North Pole, insipid holiday parties, false good cheer and phony good will are tossed on the heap, it’s all I can do not to lock myself in a room and switch off the lights, hibernate for a month.

My wife and I floated the idea of not bothering with a tree and all the trimmings this year, but our daughter freaked out at the prospect of foregoing the rituals she adores, so once again we’ll shuffle through the motions, haul the decorations up from the garage, overpay for a tree, break a few ornaments, wrestle with strings of lights that don’t work, search in vain for extension cords and ornament hooks, and that Bing Crosby CD…

It’s not that I’m opposed to celebrations of faith or gatherings of family and friends. Excess is what I’m opposed to -- the crass, meditated manipulation of a religious holiday for the sole purpose of commerce.

Here’s to my fellow cranks – I know you’re out there, in cities, towns and hamlets – giving the middle finger to all that is false and contrived about this season of holy nights.  

Bombs Away

Israel is at it again in Gaza, and the American news media plays right along, perpetrating the fiction that Hamas is a military power. The fact is that whatever offensive capability Hamas can muster, Israel has ten or twenty times more. If Hamas kills five Israelis, Israel will kill 500 Palestinians in retaliation.

Diplomats from western countries turn their heads and avert their eyes. On ABC’s Good Morning America, the time spent on Gaza is dwarfed by reports about holiday travel and Black Friday shopping tips. Our priorities are crystal clear: get home to kith and kin, gorge on turkey and beer, and then rush to the mall to sink deeper into debt.

Right now, every day in Gaza is black. Artillery shells whistle across the sky and turn houses and buildings into rubble; children die; hospital wards overflow with the wounded and maimed; too many casualties, too few doctors and nurses, plasma, blood or bandages. There is no electricity or running water. Humanitarian aid can’t get in fast enough or in enough volume to alleviate suffering.

Except for North Korea and Iran, the United States would not let this happen to any other nation, nor we would allow any other nation to flaunt international law the way Israel has done for decades. A nation that occupies another by force, practices targeted assassination, kidnapping and sabotage, decade after decade, while UN resolutions turn yellow with age would be treated like a pariah. Israel appropriates Palestinian land and water, erects barrier walls, and builds settlements on territory taken by military force, and the United States applauds and bows. 

Hamas is not innocent in all of this, but the Israeli response never fails to be disproportionate. If your neighbor punches you on the arm, hit him over the head with a sledgehammer.

While bombs rain on Gaza, some Americans pitch tents outside their local Wal-Mart, Best Buy, or Target, waiting for Black Friday and the deal of the century. 

The Fat Bald Guy

We’re in the car, driving home from my in-laws house when my eleven-year-old daughter asks, “Do I have to believe in God?”

“Not unless you want to,” answers my wife.

“Why do you ask?” I say.

“Because at science camp Brandy prayed to God before we ate and before we went to sleep. She goes to church.”

“That’s nice,” my wife says, “but religion doesn’t make you a better person.”

“Brandy thinks it does; she said I’m going to hell because we don’t go to church.”

I ask my daughter if she thinks hell exists; she’s not sure, though Brandy claims it’s an awful place, full of murderers and child molesters, and people who lock children in closets. My daughter wants to know if I believe in God.

“Not really,” I say.

“Do you believe in hell?”

“No.”

“So,” she asks, “what do you think happens when we die?”

I tell her I have no idea and that nobody else does, either. As far as I know, heaven was created to give people hope and reduce the fear of death, while hell was created to frighten people into behaving themselves.

My daughter says, “I like that fat, bald guy, what’s his name?”

“Do you mean Buddha?” my wife asks.

“Yeah, that’s him, Buddha. He seems cool.”

I think of the smiling Buddha figurine on my desk at work, and then I think of all the territory in the world disputed because of religious differences; I think of the partition of India and all the people killed because they suddenly found themselves living on the wrong side of an arbitrary border; of Arabs and Jews fighting over Jerusalem; of Crusaders marching out of Europe to battle Muslims; I can’t help but recall the evil perpetrated by Catholic priests.

My parents were Catholic (though my father lapsed early on and never looked back), and my mother did her best to pass those traditions down to my brother and me, in the same way the faith had been passed to her. I remember squirming in the pew, uncomfortable in my Sunday attire, too young to understand the meaning of it all -- the solemn authority of the priest, the readings from the bible, and the strange ritual of kneeling to take the Eucharist. “Body of Christ. Body of Christ. Body of Christ.” I remember homilies about sin, original and otherwise, of punishment and guilt, and of course, the devil and the burning fires of hell. I tried one year of parochial school, wore the uniform, had my knuckles rapped on by a nun; I remember being sentenced to stand in a corner for some infraction or another, my nose pressed to the wall while Sister Catherine or Margaret or whatever her name was told my classmates what God had in mind for sinners like me.

When we get home I find my copy of God Is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens and flip through the pages in search of a passage about belief that I highlighted. Here it is: “And it seems possible, moving to the psychological arena, that people can be better off believing in something than in nothing, however untrue that something may be.”

There’s the rub for me: believing in something as wildly contradictory as the Bible, or the fanciful idea that a benevolent, loving God watches over and protects all his children. If that’s the case, God is doing a crappy job -- his children transgress with regularity, and some of the most powerful of them appear hell bent on destroying the planet on which their survival depends. His good book is chock full of admonitions to murder, plunder and subdue. You would think a concerned God would give the wayward children a nudge and ask them to stop misbehaving.

No thanks. I’ll take my chances on the secular side, and I’m happy to let my children find their own way to whatever faith works for them. I go into my daughter’s room after she is asleep, stand by her bed studying her face; no trace of sin to be found. 

Election Night

I wrote most of the post on election night. For a while it was close, and then it wasn't close at all.

Watching the election returns on MSNBC. As I write this, the human cipher, Mittens Romney, is leading President Obama in electoral votes; one talking head after another takes to the airwaves to prognosticate. Virginia, Ohio, Florida, which way will they lean? How many votes will not be counted? If you can’t win the vote, steal the vote or deny the vote. I still can’t believe the race for the White House is as close as it appears to be, but I don’t believe Romney will win.

Too close to call in Florida.

Senate candidate Todd Aiken is not only an idiot, his comb-over is terrible; it’s like what’s left of his hair is plastered on the side of the head with Elmer’s glue. A dear friend of ours just called to confess that he cast his ballot for Romney. I’m considering disowning him. The returns continue to trickle in. Elizabeth Warren wins a senate seat in Massachusetts – maybe there is some justice in the world. The Republican moneybags poured tons of dough into Scott Brown’s campaign, but their boy was such a lightweight that even with a gigantic advantage in money he couldn't win. Another smart woman is heading to the Senate.

Appears the Republicans will maintain their stranglehold on the House, meaning we can expect at least two more years of partisan posturing, gridlock, and John Boehner.

Romney is projected to win Arizona. No surprise. Arizona is doing everything it can to be as ass-backwards and retrograde as Texas. Fuck it, let Arizona cede from the union. Switch to the Daily Show for a dose of truth disguised as comedy. Jon Stewart knows what we all know: the entire race hinges on one state, Ohio. O-Hi-O. Why do we bother holding a nationwide election when only Ohio matters? Toledo, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Columbus. Great rivers in Ohio, rivers that run through the heart of the old Rust Belt, sliding past dead factories and crumbling foundries, tattered union banners flapping in the wind.

Jon Stewart reports that Obama has 243 electoral votes to Romney’s 203. 270 is the magic number. 270 to maintain the status quo, 270 to continue socialism for the wealthy, 270 to deny humans are altering the climate, 270 to launch a preemptive strike against Iran, 270 to back Israel, no matter what, 270 to continue killing Afghans.

I voted.

I held my nose and filled in the bubbles on my ballot. The lady who handed me my ballot reminded me to return her pen after I finished voting.

The Republicans refuse to concede Ohio, even though the major networks have called the state for Obama. Maybe the GOP will claim massive voter fraud on the part of Democrats…

Chris Matthews is spewing some rot; Donald Trump is calling for a conservative revolt. What a dumb fuck. The pinheads over on Fox are foaming at the mouth and howling at the camera. They refuse to believe that their boy Romney is going down, taking a whipping from the black guy. That fat fuck, Karl Rove, claims Ohio should not have been called for Obama; Rove has charts and graphs that prove nothing more than that he’s a sore loser. Demographically, rich white guys are in trouble, and they know it on some level, even though they refuse to admit it. 

Obama must have cheated, somehow. The folks over in Romney’s camp look somber; cruel reality is settling in. In the days to come they will learn that Romney was such a lackluster candidate that a majority of his fellow Mormons voted for his opponent. Romney lost Michigan and Massachusetts, a clear repudiation of the man. I’ve written it before but it bears repeating: the more people saw of Romney, the less they liked him. Romney can exit the national stage now, take a final bow, he’s done.

Obama will win a second term, and I hope this time around he grows a spine and stands up to the freaks and fools of the GOP. By now Obama should understand that he can’t negotiate with these people; that attempts to compromise are fruitless; that Republicans only respond to one thing, power. Obama needs to put his foot on John Boehner’s neck and keep pressing until Boehner admits that Obama is his daddy.

More important is what the American left and progressives do to keep the pressure on Obama. They need to push him to restore some equality to the economy, to raise taxes on the super wealthy, to reign in corporate power, to take meaningful action on climate change, and to get the hell out of Afghanistan, Yemen, Iraq, Pakistan. 

Governing starts when the election ends.

Enjoy the celebration, Mr. Obama, but then be ready to make your bones.

The Good Book

We drive to Los Angeles to see the musical, Book of Mormon. My wife has been dying to see this production for nearly two years, and bought tickets as soon as she heard it was coming to Los Angeles. The anticipation is killing her; for her this is like having seats directly behind home plate for a World Series game.  Book of Mormon, hottest ticket in LA, sold out Pantages Theatre. We’ve left our children with their grandparents, after advising them not to bicker and fight – or else there will be hell to pay when we get back. (Our bark is many times worse than our bite, and our children ignore us most of the time.) 

Before we reach Ventura, my wife already has two text messages from the children, each accusing the other of cruelty and mistreatment.

I always enjoy venturing into the area around Hollywood and Vine because it’s a former haunt of the late Charles Bukowski, one of my favorite writers. Legend has it that Buk used to drink at the Frolic Room, a bar next door to the venerable Pantages.  The art deco theatre opened in 1930 and was owned by RKO. We’ve got ninety minutes before the show so we head for Dillon’s Irish Pub at the end of the block.

A hostess with ink designs on both shoulders ignores us for a moment; she has blonde hair but her face has an Asian cast. Finally acknowledging our existence, she dismissively says the wait is fifteen minutes; in order to place our name on the wait list we have to show ID. It’s LA, so, whatever; hand over the driver’s license.

There are flat screen TV’s everywhere, some tuned to college football, others to soccer. We find two empty stools at the bar; Real Madrid is playing Real Zaragoza on the screen above our heads. A striking brunette in a short kilt takes our order for iced tea.  Like every other waitress and female barkeep, she has the look of an aspiring actress, dancer or XXX film hopeful. None of the girls are older than twenty-five; I presume most are college students. Showing cleavage is obviously as much a job prerequisite as being able to balance a tray full of empty beer mugs, and some of the cleavage has been surgically augmented; dramatic eye makeup and false eyelashes don’t hurt, either.  Play the slutty Irish serving wench to the hilt and tips will follow. A man sitting to my wife’s left is pulling for Real Madrid, and he’s happy because the club is leading Zaragoza, 2-nil; the man on my right is eating what smells like corned beef and cabbage. We sip our iced tea and watch the waitresses hustle between tables, the bar, and the kitchen. The section on the second floor is full of guys wearing Real Madrid jerseys; Cristiano Ronaldo’s number 7 is very popular. I can’t count the number of beers on tap – it looks like every continent and nation is represented, amber and dark, pale, and of course the Guinness is flowing freely. A digital clock counts down the hours until St. Patrick’s Day.

The interior of the Pantages is breathtaking and takes one back in time to an era when motion pictures were gaining popularity, and Hollywood was just beginning to establish itself as the world’s dream factory. We’ve seen a few musicals here, and yet each time the place stops me in my tracks. The crowd is mixed, elderly and young, straight and gay, white, black and Asian, filing in and claiming their seats. I can feel the anticipation growing, but I wonder if some of the older patrons realize what they’re in for, a few minutes hence, when the lights go down and the music comes up; Book of Mormon is a scatological extravaganza, and for the next hour and a half or so the word “fuck” will cascade from the stage. Fuck you God, fuck you Jesus, fuck you and you and you, too.

I remember seeing Mormon missionaries in Tokyo when I lived there in the late 70’s and early 80’s, pairs of young white men in white shirts, black ties, and black slacks, carrying their sacred book and trying to convince Japanese people that Mormonism was the path to happiness and salvation; I saw them in train stations and shopping areas, on streets where few foreigners were ever seen.  

I start laughing ten seconds into the first number and hardly stop until intermission. Joseph Smith and the fable of his digging up gold tablets in his pasture is satirized, as is the idea that Jesus Christ walked the North American continent, way back when. I still have trouble believing that an entire religion is based on these improbable yarns, and even more trouble with the idea that American voters might elect a Mormon president. We aren’t that desperate or gullible, are we?

By the time the number Hasa Diga Eebowai is performed my sides are hurting from laughing so hard. Roughly translated, Hasa Diga Eebowai means – at least in the context of this musical – fuck you, God. This is not the upbeat Africa depicted in Disney’s Lion King, this is not “no worries for the rest of our lives,” this is AIDS and famine and want and death, and in this hopeless hell hole, a middle finger raised to the heavens makes sense.

At intermission the crowd surges for the lobby and the restrooms. Although venerable and historic, the Pantages is desperately short of toilets and by the time we reach the lobby long lines have already formed. Restroom queues are always worse for women, longer and slower moving. My wife turns west and I turn east, and the lobby is so jammed with bodies that I wonder if I can reach the bathroom, take a piss, and get back to my seat before intermission is over. I fear getting stuck in line behind some old guy with prostate issues.

When I finally get back to my seat my wife is nowhere to be seen. Most of the patrons in the immediate vicinity are checking their cell phones. What critical information have they missed in the last hour or so? My wife returns. A few rows in front of our seats, an elderly man and his wife are having an argument, though they are doing their best to appear not to be arguing. The woman appears to be telling her husband to calm down, take it easy, not be offended by the foul language or the gay overtones; this man may be the only unhappy person in the entire theatre, a curmudgeon who can’t, or won’t, allow himself to cut loose and laugh.

The second act is as satisfying as the first. The choreography is crisp, spot-on, and the actors are in fine voice; they look like they are enjoying themselves, giving their all to the show and the audience, and they deserve the standing ovation they receive. Bravo. I could easily see this production again. My wife is thrilled; the long wait was worth it.

Lost in the Narrows

Another gorgeous early fall day here on the Platinum Coast of California, with visibility all the way out to the Channel Islands. On a day like this, it’s easy to shove the concerns from one’s head and enjoy the here and now.  Sunshine kisses the red tile rooftops downtown, tourists stroll the grounds of the County courthouse, a pair of young lovers walk hand in hand by the art museum – all is as touted by the Chamber of Commerce here.

Somewhere else, far away, life is base and hard, and suffering and deprivation arrive with the rising sun.

Saturday’s mail is nothing but political advertisements; these go straight into the recycle bin.  I already know who and what I’m voting for when Election Day mercifully arrives. California is a solidly blue state, sure to land in Obama’s column, so except for begging for contributions from our wealthiest citizens, the national campaigns stay away, focus their attention and money on Ohio and Iowa, Missouri and Florida. Poor voters in those states are besieged and bombarded from all quarters; I can’t say I envy them.

Once again our quadrennial election circus has been a bust, at least for any informed voter who grasps that our two political parties are really one party dedicated to serving the narrow interests of corporations, financial institutions, defense contractors and resource extractors. Ordinary citizens are needed as props and extras; we have no lines to speak, and when our legitimate interests are at odds with the corporate agenda – and they always are -- those interests are ignored. Our participation is only needed to legitimize the perverse process of electing candidates who have no intention of representing our interests, our needs, our concerns. 

We stand alone, walk alone, suffer alone.

Major issues are left off the agenda completely: climate change, the cost of college tuition, the size of our prison population, state-sponsored surveillance of our e-mails and telephone calls, white collar crime (without punishment), rising costs for food, medical care and other basic necessities, chronic unemployment, flat or falling wages, or the question of our President’s authority, legal and moral, to select assassination targets anywhere in the world.

For all this and much more, a deafening, irresponsible silence; is this Democracy? The most critical issue of our time, totally ignored, as if it doesn’t exist, poses no threat.  

Truth is avoided as if it were a plague. We are subjected to a steady diet of propaganda. Markets are always fair; deficits are the root of our economic problems; Medicare and Social Security cause deficits; taxes are too high, particularly on the wealthy; continuous foreign wars and massive military expenditures are necessary to protect the homeland from Islamic terrorists; “clean” coal will help us achieve energy independence; Israel can do no wrong and deserves to dictate American foreign policy in the middle east.

   

Crass and conniving politicians wrap themselves in the flag and hide behind the cross, and year after year, election after election, we believe their nonsense, swallow their lies, and act surprised or outraged or disappointed  when they stick a dagger between our shoulder blades.

Ennui

I can’t wait for the American election season to be over, for the endless misleading TV commercials to go away, and for all the breathless analysis by mainstream media yakkers to stop. Enough already. The whole production is a sham and a travesty. When all is said and done, all the money spent on pollsters and strategists and PR flacks and spin doctors, the choice boils down, as it always does, to picking the lesser of two evils for the White House, the Congress, the State Assembly, and on and on.

Pick the least destructive option, the less deadly poison, but either way understand that the status quo is what you will get. Sure, there are differences between Obama and Romney, Democrats and Republicans, but, when it comes to economic or national security policy, the differences are inconsequential; both parties serve corporate interests at the expense of ordinary citizens and that cozy, mutually perpetuating arrangement is not in danger of changing.

The American media give Mitt Romney high marks for looking the part of a leader while lying through his teeth. Romney flips and flops like a landed catfish, this way and that, over here, then over there, left and right; he turns facts on their head, swears he didn’t mean what he said ten days or ten minutes ago, promises to repair the economy by following the same policies that brought the economy to its knees and put millions out of work. Though this is madness of the highest order, the talking heads nod solemnly, as if what Romney is spewing makes sense, and then they claim that Mitt now has momentum on his side.

Obama would have the electorate believe he is the opposite of his record; we should forget his deeds of the past four years and remember his words, the soaring rhetoric about hope and change, justice and equality, accountability and transparency. If we trust him with another term, he will deliver on all his promises and make America a better place.

I no longer believe in magic. Do you?

Here in California the ballot is loaded with initiatives to, among other things, maintain funding for public education, eliminate the death penalty, label food, and close corporate tax loopholes. Most of the initiatives are deliberately written to confuse voters. A Yes vote really means No or vice versa. Legislating through ballot initiative has robbed California of its mojo, boldness and creativity, crippled public education – our great engine of progress and upward mobility -- and made the state nearly impossible to govern. We elect state legislators to do our will, but, Sacramento, like Washington D.C., is an ideological battleground, where partisans glare at one another across a no-man’s land and refuse to budge from their fixed positions. Compromise is seen as weakness, not statesmanship.

The irony of American elections is that even if we troop to the polls as we are constantly told dutiful citizens must, we cannot be sure our votes will be tallied for the candidate or causes we choose. Unaccountable electronic voting machines are easily hacked, votes flipped from one candidate to another, as we saw in Ohio in 2004.

On the other hand, it’s 79 degrees outside and the sky is blue and cloudless. From a nearby hill, I can see clear to the Channel Islands; the wind is out of the west and gently rustles the eucalyptus trees. This view is timeless and impervious to the machinations of political hacks.

Tie-Dyed Sunday

Another lovely fall day here on the Platinum Coast of California. Across the street in front of the County Bowl, followers of the band Furthur – an offshoot of the Grateful Dead – are gathering for tonight’s show, eight hours early, clad in tie-dye shirts, baggy jeans, sandals and straw hats or knit caps. Some have backpacks, a few, guitars, many have dogs. All these early comers appear as if they have recently come off the road.

Before long, rickety campers and pick-ups pulling pop-up trailers cruise past the Bowl, searching for a place to park. When I take my garbage can out I notice that several vehicles have out of state plates or license plate frames from distant parts of California. One older guy with a long gray beard pulls a small trailer with a yellow VW. Two small dogs sit patiently in the front seat.

Phil Lesh played the Bowl several years ago, and it was the rowdiest, messiest crowd I’d ever seen for a show; that time the faithful came a full two days early and squatted on Anapamu Street. They littered, defecated, urinated, cooked meals on hibachi grills, and annoyed the locals to no end; it was as if a wave of refugees had descended on our edge of town. I remember walking along the street the day after, amazed by all the abandoned pots and pans.

Being a late Baby Boomer I’m too young to remember the Dead when they were in their heyday, but I suppose some of the people sprawled on the lawn across the street are the offspring of hippies and Flower Children, the second generation. What is it about the Dead’s music that exerts such a pull from one generation to the next? I should do research, but it’s unlikely I will. Phil Lesh played bass for the Dead, that I know, and Bob Weir and Jerry Garcia were members of the group. Jerry Garcia is dead, and there is no way to know if he is grateful for being so. Tonight, when the show’s over and all these people have decamped, I will forget about them, move on to other concerns.

But for now, sitting on the porch watching the crowd across the street, the people mingling, playing guitar, smoking cigarettes, singing or laughing in the warm sunshine, greeting acquaintances from other shows, this is a nice diversion from my hectic job, the presidential election, the weak economy, rising costs for health insurance, gasoline and college tuition – all my adult worries and preoccupations. Shove them on the back burner and turn the flame down low.

The show will begin in a few hours, the crowd thickens, pockets of people up and down our street; SBPD units arrive on the scene. Someone calls out, “Jerry Garcia’s ghost will appear on stage tonight.”

Every Man an Island

This will go in the books as a very bad week for the Romney campaign.

Not that it was any surprise to hear Mitt describe nearly half of all Americans as tax scofflaws who feel entitled to government support; this is a standard GOP trope, red meat for the party faithful and fat wallet donors, and it goes hand in glove with the laughable notion that wealthy people are beleaguered by excessive government regulation and exorbitant tax rates.

You see, it’s the rich who have a gripe about the terrible state this country is in, not the working class or the poor.

Voters can’t know Romney for a couple of reasons, the first being that the more of himself Romney exposes, the less voters like him, and second because he spends an inordinate amount of time on the campaign trail trying to distance himself from past statements and positions: I was against (fill in the blank) until I was for it, but now I’m against it because Obama is for it, but if Obama should change his mind, I will change mine.”

Hardly a profile in courage or conviction.

We have a fair sense of what Romney is against, but less clear is what he stands for and depends on the audience he’s addressing at any given time. On the one hand he seems to believe that America desperately needs a larger military and an even more bellicose foreign policy, and that America is duty-bound to agree with anything Benjamin Netanyahu says. America, according to some Romney statements, needs to be tougher and less apologetic in its dealings with the rest of the world, excluding Israel, of course. Under Romney, tiny Israel will continue to dictate American policy in the Middle East.

On the domestic front, all Romney offers is the tried and true Republican formula: more tax cuts, less regulation, more charter schools, less science, more religious nonsense in the public realm, more self-reliance, and, above all, blind faith in the free market. In Romney’s world view, there are producers and parasites, winners and losers, strong and weak; the old adage that no man is an island is flipped on its head so that every man (woman and child, too) is an island, and if he can’t walk the path of the rugged individualist on his own two feet, he has no one to blame but himself.

This is the same atavistic fantasy the GOP has advocated since Newt Gingrich rose from the muck to become Speaker of the House.

I suppose credit should be given Mitt for trying to pass himself off as one of us, a regular Joe, even though he flops every time. Mitt simply has no common touch, no capacity to connect with people other than those of his own rarified class, and he obviously finds mingling with the commoners distasteful. 

Thus far, Campaign 2012 has been dreadful, a grotesque parody of what democracy should look like, and the scripted-in-advance “debates” with their pre-approved questions are yet to come. Both camps will lie, spin, exaggerate, obfuscate and make outrageous claims about the other. The American media will treat each debate like the Superbowl, analyzing the style and tone while ignoring the content. Who got the debate “bounce” is the only question that will matter.

Welcome to the island.

The Forbidden Forest

In North Carolina last week, Bill Clinton made the Democrats swoon and long for the good old days when the economy hummed and the federal budget boasted a surplus, and the most pressing national question was whether or not Clinton lied about an Oval Office dalliance with an intern.

The passage of years hasn’t diminished Clinton’s silver tongue and down home charm – he can still cast a spell on an audience, make them forget history, believe in fairy tales.  

My wife watched Clinton’s speech at the Democratic National Convention; I listened from another part of the house. While appreciative of Bubba’s oratorical flair, I couldn’t forget the inconvenient truth that it was “New Democrat” Bill Clinton who supported the North American Free Trade Agreement, ended “welfare as we know it,” signed the Commodity Futures Modernization Act and dismantled the Glass-Steagall act, effectively eliminating the firewall between investment and commercial banking and ushering in an era of reckless and unaccountable financial deregulation that would culminate less than a decade later in an economic nosedive nearly as severe as the Great Depression of the 1930’s.

Clinton planted the seeds and George W. Bush nurtured them, and now, twelve years on, ordinary people who work for their living find themselves standing outside a forbidden forest, surrounded by high fences topped with razor wire and No Trespassing, Keep Out signs posted every ten yards. Trespassers Beware. On the far side of the forest a better future awaits, but only a select few understand the ways of the forest and know a path through it.

Alchemy happens inside this forest: the wealthy get wealthier and while their influence and power grows, their accountability to their fellow citizens diminishes. Having paid handsomely for laws written in their favor, they have nothing to fear from government regulators or the legal system or the masses. They are untouchable, free to wheel, deal, scheme and steal, to force the sale of assets once owned in common at a profit, and to measure every social function or service by the price a rigged market deems it to be worth.

Life is grand on the far side of the forbidden forest.

The night after Bill Clinton energized the faithful, Barack Obama promised to lead us all to this nirvana if we only close ranks behind him and strive together. Though not as spell-binding an orator as Clinton, Obama is no slouch before the teleprompter, and his call for unity and patience and faith was momentarily appealing – like the Obama of 2008 – except when Truth reared its head and those with functioning memories remembered that this is the same Barack Obama who forsook the desires of the people who worked so hard to elect him, the people he now needs in order to defeat his rival and retain his crown.

This is the same Barack Obama who tosses his towel at the first sign of resistance from the GOP; the Obama who supported – and continues to support -- deficit reduction hysteria at a time when more government spending is needed to jump start the economy; the Obama who expanded the surveillance state; the Obama who unleashed Drone warfare; the Obama who has done precious little about climate change – the most serious issue facing the planet; the Obama who let criminal bankers off the hook; the Obama with nothing to say about the War on Drugs or the startling number of Americans incarcerated in federal or state prisons.

As it seems to every four years, the choice facing voters boils down to one between bad and worse, between the lesser of two evils, between two equally absurd and fantastic fables. The rhetorical question – are you better off now than you were four years ago -- is a false one, because on any number of fronts we are worse off, and not only because of Barack Obama. When one party in a two party system dedicates itself to negation on rigid ideological grounds, progress is impossible.

Life Support: Meditation on Organized Labor

Give the right wing credit for how skillfully it has used the long recession as a vehicle to generate envy between working people, and as a scapegoat for the financial woes ailing cities and state governments.

It takes a concerted campaign by think tanks, media outlets, political toadies and lobbyists to drive a wedge between private sector workers struggling with low wages and paltry benefits, and public sector workers with union representation, rights guaranteed in collective bargaining agreements, and humane benefit plans.

If only the American left were half as adept at planting the seed of discontent and watering it every day.

On this Labor Day I salute the right’s opportunistic genius. They artfully shifted the focus from the bankers, hedge fund managers and financial vultures who tanked our economy (with ample assistance from both political parties), and redirected it toward teachers, firefighters, police, city workers, and all the other public servants whose work keep our cities, towns and schools operating. In essence they said: ignore the CEO paid obscene bonuses to run his company into the turf, he’s a faultless hero of the American free market. Focus on the real culprits, the parasites, the overpaid, pampered public employees who live in luxury on your tax dime. Their greed is the cause of our misery, just as borrowers, not lenders, caused the housing bubble to burst. 

The forces of corporate greed, the US Chamber of Commerce, the Republican Party, and billionaires like the Koch brothers were never content to rest on their laurels. Having rendered private sector unions impotent through trade agreements and outsourcing, they turned their collective power against the only sector where unions still have a modicum of strength and political leverage. Governor Scott Walker of Wisconsin is their poster boy.

Unions, private sector or public, are far from perfect. But when it comes to protecting working people from caprice, inequity and exploitation, unions are the best hope we have for achieving a modicum of workplace democracy and growing the middle class. Except by banding together, how else can workers share in the fruits of their productivity? The right excoriates and dismisses any talk of “collective” action, but that is precisely what’s needed to restore balance between the masters of capital and the laborers who build or serve.

I’m not optimistic for a resurgence of organized labor. After playing a large role in getting Barack Obama elected in 2008, union members watched as the new president turned his back on them. When workers made a stand in Wisconsin, Obama was nowhere to be seen. As happens every four years, many working people will troop to the polling place this November and vote against their own interests. Do they really believe Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan have their back? Have they forgotten the Bush era, when tax cuts and less regulation were touted as the road to an “opportunity” society of plentiful jobs and higher wages? Net job growth was flat under Bush as were wages. The Ayn Rand Kool-Aid will not work for Romney any better than it did for Bush.

In this country it used to be that organized labor was at the center of the discussion of how to lift all boats on a tide of prosperity; we used to talk about expanding the economic pie, not shrinking it. The only vessels that rise today are of the luxury variety; they ride high on the water and their captains look down with disdain at the masses in their dinghies and rowboats and rubber rafts. 

The Fall of our Discontent

“The United States has entered a new historical era marked by a growing disinvestment in the social state, public goods, and civic morality.”  Henry Giroux

I can’t bear to watch the Republican National Convention, and when I heard Ralph Reed spinning a fable about thousands of nuclear centrifuges in Iran on Democracy Now on the radio this morning, I immediately switched the channel.

I’ve heard enough lies. The Republican Party is a monstrosity, full of zealots with zero respect for facts, science, history or rational inquiry. Their kit bag is loaded with tired and failed prescriptions, from tax cuts as a job generator to blind support of Israel, from deranged hostility to the public sector to opposition to abortion under any circumstances. Their belief in fairy tales is absolute and no amount of reason, data, or experience can sway them. If it would further their political power, they would happily run our ship of state aground.

The obstructionist GOP will nominate the human cipher, Mitt Romney, and his running mate, Paul Ryan. Romney seems to believe that his enormous personal wealth entitles him to the presidency, that his experience in the private sector makes him an expert in macroeconomics, and that the sprawling federal government can be run like IBM or Exxon-Mobil. Ryan is touted as a federal budget prodigy, but as Paul Krugman and others have pointed out, Ryan’s math is fuzzy. Given his way, Ryan would shred what little remains of the American social safety net and hand even larger tax breaks to people who least need them. Under Ryan’s prescriptions, the rich would become richer, the poor more so, and the gap between the two even wider than it is today.

Romney is the wind-up candidate, a politician who offers whatever audience he appears before whatever he thinks they want in the moment. Tonight he’s for marriage equality, tomorrow morning he’s against it. Looking in at Romney one sees no hint of soul or character, and he can hardly be regarded as a mirror of who the majority of us are.

I imagine the word “socialist” will be heard frequently this week in heavily guarded, Homeland Security-occupied Tampa. That the Right has affixed this label to Obama is a signature propaganda achievement since by no objective measure can any of Obama’s policy initiatives be called socialist. 

The Right will never admit the truth, but in Obama the status quo has had a devoted servant.

As Thomas Frank writes in the September issue of Harper’s:

“What Barack Obama has saved is a bankrupt elite that by all rights should have met its end in 2009. He came to the White House amid circumstances similar to 1933, but proceeded to rule like Herbert Hoover.”

I admit to drinking several pints of Obama’s Kool-Aid in 2008. Exhausted after eight years of the Bush-Cheney junta, I fell for the rhetoric of hope and change and fully suspended my critical faculties. Only after Obama surrounded himself with a posse of Clinton-era operatives did I realize how completely I had been duped. In my mind, the trip has been all down hill from there. Obama frittered away the first half of his term when he had majorities in Congress, allowed the right to take control of the national narrative, and failed to use his bully pulpit to advance policies that might have benefitted the middle class and working poor. The country needed a fighter with a tough chin; what we got was a compulsive compromiser.

I won’t watch the Democratic National Convention either, since the contemporary Democratic Party doesn’t represent my interests. As a matter of conscience I might not vote at all come November.

I don’t think I’m alone in feeling that it really makes no difference. 

August Farrago

Readers of the Balcony are a small, exclusive, and devoted lot who deserve far better than the meager output I’ve managed of late. Not much to offer in my own defense, other than to say these are the canine days of August which bring heat and induce lassitude.

There is no shortage of subjects to write about, only insufficient motivation to do so.

Here on the Platinum Coast a trio of events marks summer: the Solstice parade, the 4^th of July fireworks celebration, and Fiesta week. All are behind us now, though tourists still meander along State Street or wander Cabrillo Boulevard in search of landmarks to film or photograph. For kids, mine included, the clock is winding down and the new school term is no longer a distant event. Fans of the English Premier League (go Chelsea!) are anxiously awaiting the start of a new campaign, only a few days off now; American professional football teams are playing pre-season games, and the marathon Major League Baseball campaign has entered the stretch run toward the playoffs, and Derek Jeter and the Yankees are still in the hunt, despite being beset by injuries to key players all year.

The marine layer that is so prevalent in June and July hasn’t dared show its dreary face for days; mornings dawn clear, and in the late afternoon, cumulonimbus cloud formations rise over the blue-green Santa Ynez mountains. Seeing the clouds billow over peaks I have looked at most of my life, I can’t help but think of wildfires; we’ve had our share the past few years. When the foothills and backcountry are tinder dry a single errant spark and some wind are enough to produce a conflagration. Never will I forget being five or six, looking toward the mountains after sunset from our house on Ardilla Drive, and seeing flames from what came to be called the Coyote Fire advancing along the ridgeline as if no power on earth could stop them. The image has stayed with me all these years.

As the heat of the day gives way to another lovely evening, I can tell you, loyal readers, that I’m a lucky SOB. My family is healthy and thriving, my spouse continues to love me after nearly twenty years of marriage, the roof over our heads, though modest and rented, is watertight and the refrigerator is well stocked with staples.

Only a fool would complain.

The Cult of More

“In the midnight hour she cried ‘more, more, more.’” Rebel Yell, Billy Idol

John Boehner, our lachrymose Speaker of the House, insists at every opportunity that small businesses will suffer and stop hiring new workers unless the Obama administration once again extends the Bush-era tax cuts, but like all Republicans who inhabit economic fantasy land, Boehner never cites any objective evidence to support his point, like the fact that a miniscule percentage of small business owners would feel any pain if the Bush era cuts are allowed to expire – as they should.

Not that Boehner need bother with facts – the commercial media is all too happy to repeat his tripe without challenge.

Tax cuts as be-all, end-all, one-size-fits-all economic policy are an article of faith in the ranks of the GOP and on right-wing talk radio. In Congress, Boehner, Eric Cantor and Mitch McConnell bemoan the plight of small business owners as if their existence is constantly endangered. Switch on talk radio – if your mind can bear it – and Limbaugh, Hannity and O’Reilly echo the message day after day.

Taxes are too high and that’s why our economy isn’t rebounding! Taxes are too high and it’s all Obama’s fault! That unholy socialist Obama is scheming to steal the hard-earned income of this nation’s producers!

Someone able to speak Boehner’s peculiar language should explain to him that George W. Bush’s gift to America’s wealthiest citizens has been in play for more than a decade now, and that tax rates are at historically low levels. The wealthy and the uber-wealthy haven’t had it this good in decades, and the chasm that lies between these fortunates and the rest of us prove the point beyond any reasonable doubt.

By Boehner’s “low taxes equal booming economy” logic, the nation should be swimming in employment opportunities and all those heroic, stalwart small business owners across our blessed nation should be happier than pigs in slop.

Those of us who reside in the real world of flat wages and insecure employment know the score: the tax code and the entire economic system is a creation of the wealthy, by the wealthy and for the wealthy.

Working people don’t need to be told the deck is stacked against us anymore than we need to be reminded that neither political party represents our hopes and concerns.

We know any claim Republicans or Democrats make about job creation is hollow unless it also reveals whether the jobs are permanent or contingent, with employer-sponsored benefits or without, at a poverty wage or a liveable wage.

We haven’t forgotten the millions of jobs vaporized when the misdeeds of our financial masters came home to roost in 2008, and we know the majority of those jobs will never return, nor will the lives of thousands of our fellow wage earners ever be the same again. For working people it was the shaft -- for Wall Street it was low interest loans and taxpayer guarantees to make the banks and hedge funds and financial speculators whole. And look how it played out: the financial sector recovered quickly from the crisis, resumed business as if the calamity never happened, and no banker or CEO need worry about being held accountable for the blood on their hands. 

As Bruce Springsteen sings in a song from his album Wrecking Ball, “up on Banker’s Hill the party’s going strong.”

What do working people get as the recession drags on and on? Fiscal austerity, hysterical attacks on Social Security and Medicare and unemployment insurance, rabid assaults on public employees, their pension plans and their unions, public education, teachers. Even the venerable Postal Service, reliable servant of the underclass, must be targeted for dismantling and sale to the highest bidder.

Millions of us reject the prevailing ethos of this hyper-competitive, dog-devour-dog, more-more-more age, not because we are brilliant or noble but for the simple reason that this insane system isn’t sustainable. Perhaps in their headlong dash to incentivize destruction the oligarchs have forgotten or willfully ignored the lessons of history, but not us. Wisdom, courage, justice and moderation are the values that make for a sane, civilized society; one built on folly, mendacity, injustice and excess must eventually collapse.  

More, more, more.

This is the rallying cry as the morning sun rises over the canyons of Wall Street. More luxury vehicles, more homes, more yachts, more Gulfstream jets, more penthouses; more money, more connections, more power. Enough is never enough. Grab one brass ring and another immediately takes its place. No matter how much one has, someone else has more.

The beast of capitalism must be put back on its chain and trained to obey if for no other reason than to save itself – and us -- from certain death.