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.”