Baste the Hog

I feel like a slacker for not keeping the Balcony updated with new material, but life intervenes, union business intervenes, and my beautiful children intervene. The sun is peeking in the window, though I also hear rain pattering on the roof. Weird weather on the South Coast of late, with snow on the mountains last Saturday, rain and wind, colder temperatures, a full moon at night. No matter, the price of real estate continues to rise and the gilded residents of Fat City are as happy as the proverbial hog in the mud.

Amen. Baste that hog and pickle his ears, eat his feet and spread his liver on saltines.

Listen carefully. Hear those war drums? That’s the Bush Junta, drumming up war fever against those wicked Iranians, who may or may not (probably not) have a nuclear device with which they can level Israel or strike southern Florida. Sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it? It seems we had an opportunity to support moderate elements in Iran, but let that pass because we had our head buried in Iraq’s sand.

And will someone explain the logic of W’s decision to give nuclear know-how to India – a nation that refuses to sign the nuclear Non-Proliferation treaty? W agreed to help India advance its nuclear program, and a day or two later denied Pakistan’s request for similar help, even though Pakistan is our staunch ally in the great, open-ended, War on Terror. Huh?

Can anyone remember an American administration as hostile to science and the scientific community as the Bush Junta? Bush and Co. can’t give enough research dough to the military establishment, while at the same time swinging the budget axe and cutting medical and environmental research. Aspects of science that they disagree with, or that get in the way of commerce, are simply ignored. When a country loses its soul it often becomes militaristic, and sees every problem through a military power prism. If America isn’t to that point, we are close, very close. We rampage around the globe, bullying allies, threatening friends, issuing ultimatums; the values that made us a decent nation lay strewn in the dust behind us.

Here in Fat City, at Noon on a Wednesday, the homeless, the disaffected, the mentally disturbed, the lost, the left behind, and yes, the lazy, cluster on State Street near Blenders in the Grass, talking, smoking, panhandling passersby, and generally sending shivers through the spines of the merchant class. The juxtaposition of this group and the well-to-do shoppers who stream along State Street, is a stark reminder that all is not well, even here on the Gilded Coast.

Amen, and now let’s get back to that hog.