In early September Kelsey dragged me to a wine and cheese back-to-school reception at her daughter’s school. I owed her for accompanying me the month before to an incredibly dull company BBQ where we found ourselves seated at a table with two guys from the Accounting department. Talk about heavy, uncomfortable silences.
Making chit-chat with strangers gives me the willies and I felt my anxiety level rise as soon as we entered the school courtyard, crowded with parents milling around tables loaded with cheeses, olives, bread, vegetables, pasta and dips donated by the owner of a well-known local restaurant; an adjacent table was loaded with wine bottles, all local varieties, served in clear plastic cups by a late 40’s woman who radiated an aura of established money. I pegged her for the wife of a surgeon -- one of those energetic types with unlimited time to devote to worthy causes while her spouse repairs arteries or snips out brain tumors.
“Red or white?” she asked, holding a bottle of each.
“Both, though not at the same time. Start me off with white.”
The woman gave me a disdainful look when she handed me the cup. I often have that effect on people though I don’t know why.
“Don’t go away. I’ll be back in a minute for the red,” I said sweetly.
Kelsey punched me on the arm. “Behave, OK? Let’s mingle.”
“How about you mingle and I drink my wine. This definitely isn’t my scene. Can’t you feel the neurosis in the air? It’s so thick it’s choking me. Every one of these people thinks their child is destined for Harvard, Yale or MIT.”
Kelsey warned me not to get started. “I’m going over to say hello to Amy,” she said. “If I leave you alone for five minutes can you stay out of trouble?”
After assuring Kelsey that I would remain on my best behavior, I sat on a low wall and watched a fluffy cloud slip across the sky. There was just enough of a breeze to stir the flag flying over the courtyard. Lincoln Elementary is a landmark on the prosperous side of our seaside town, built in the early 1920’s, and now surrounded by multi-million dollar homes with red tile roofs, manicured lawns, wrought-iron gates, balconies and curving driveways. Kelsey had explained that the school district bussed kids in from lesser parts of town to achieve a modicum of socio-economic balance. Brown Juan and Juanita meet lily-white Ethan and Emily.
I could see Kelsey and Amy talking on the other side of the courtyard, Amy gesturing with her cup, Kelsey listening intently, her head cocked to one side. It hadn’t been easy to get Kelsey’s kid into Lincoln, and without Amy’s knowledge of the school district’s policies it might not have happened – as Amy frequently reminded us.
I meandered back to the wine table for a refill. A striking brunette in curve-hugging jeans and an off the shoulder t-shirt had replaced the surgeon’s wife; her eyes were green and luminous and on her finger rested the largest authentic diamond I’d ever seen. Her make-up was flawless, her teeth dazzling. I figured her for the wife of a finance or real estate wheeler-dealer, and I’d of bet my last twenty bucks that she drove a Mercedes SUV and did Pilates or yoga three times a week.
The brunette asked what grade my child was in and if he or she liked her teacher, and before I could reply launched into a spiel about the PTA and the Lincoln Foundation. “Fundraising is so important,” she said. “We want the best for our kids, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Nothing but the best. I promise to make an appropriate donation. Thanks for the wine.”
Three guys had taken my spot on the wall so I sat a few feet away, sipped at my wine and eavesdropped. One of the guys was talking about a remodel on his 7,500 square foot home, the problems he was having with a local contractor who had come highly recommended but was proving to be a disappointment. His companions listened, nodding from time to time as if they too had experienced similar frustrations with hired help. I noted their expensive jeans, loafers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up, casual elegance courtesy of Banana Republic and Nordstrom. I smelled money and entitlement. When their talk turned to parasailing in Costa Rica I got up for another refill.
“Back so soon?” the brunette asked. “Are you one of those people who just show up for the free wine and appetizers?”
I leaned across the table. “Can you keep a secret?” She said she could. I glanced over my shoulder and lowered my voice. “I’m an undercover vice cop, here on a case. I don’t mean to alarm you, but everything is not what it seems at Lincoln Elementary.”
“Are you serious?”
“Afraid so. Don’t blow my cover, OK?”
“OhmyGod. Of course. OhmyGod. I won’t say a word.”
Feeling pleased with myself, I resumed wandering around like a cultural anthropologist on a field expedition. Moving on the periphery of conversations about all sorts of subjects, the mundane small talk and polite courtesies that fill adult days and nights, I made mental notes to share with Kelsey later. While I may not enjoy making small talk, I do enjoy listening to it.
On my second lap around the courtyard Kelsey joined me.
“Sorry for deserting you. Amy’s going through some hassles at work and needed to talk. Are you behaving yourself?”
“I’m a shining example of restraint and rectitude. I have stories to tell. Tidbits of juicy gossip.”
She kissed me on the cheek and told me I was full of crap. She was happy, having a fine time, thrilled that her child was at Lincoln.
“What’s the protocol for these shindigs?” I asked. “How much time do we need to put in before we can bail? I refuse to share you with these people for more than an hour.”
“Fifteen more minutes? Let me finish with Amy, say hello to the principal and the PTA president, and we’ll go.”
I continued my walk, thinking of Amy, a tolerable woman -- in small doses -- but an incorrigible drama queen whose life careened from one crisis to the next: if the problem wasn’t her ex-husband, it was her hair stylist or her auto mechanic or her mother and on and on. I hated to see Amy take advantage of Kelsey’s natural empathy.
The wall was free again so I sat down and closed my eyes and listened to the echo of voices and laughter.
“Excuse me, is this wall taken?”
The voice belonged to a man with a Clintonesque head of silver hair, pale blue eyes that looked right into mine, and skin tanned as if the man it covered had just returned from two weeks in the Yucatan. He wore a beautifully tailored navy blue suit, a white shirt and gold cufflinks.
He extended his hand. “James Casso. New parent?”
“Yeah, my lady friend’s daughter just started second grade.”
“Welcome to Lincoln. It’s a great school. What kind of work do you do?”
This is my least favorite icebreaker question. I detest being defined and categorized by my job, and if I didn’t need the money I wouldn’t do what I do; I’d much rather be a professional magician or a blues guitar player or a rodeo clown. Hating the occupation question as I do, I make a point of lying when it’s directed at me. At a wedding once I concocted three different occupations while moving down the buffet line.
“I’m a casualty of the great American casino economy,” I said.
Casso laughed. “I take it you’re unemployed?”
“Hard core unemployed, a grim statistic.”
“How long has it been?”
“Thirteen months, four hundred and seventy-six resumes, two interviews, no job offers. What’s your line, doctor, lawyer, CPA?”
“I’m a private wealth manager.”
“Sounds impressive.”
Casso shrugged. “It simply means people entrust me to take calculated risks with their money. All in all I do pretty well for my clients and myself, even in a sluggish economy like this one. It’s not rocket science: good fundamentals and a long term outlook are the keys.”
He sounded like a TV commercial you see during golf tournaments. Trust Charles Schwab. Grab a piece of the rock, etc. I admired the suit, the tan, the manicured fingernails, the gold cufflinks, but James Casso and I had as much in common as an armadillo has with an egret. I was about to get up and move on when Casso turned the conversation in a completely different direction.
“One of the marvelous things about this school,” he said, “which I’m sure you’ve already taken notice of, is the crop of trophy wives, many of whom are not above a bit of extramarital activity. Take the woman who served your wine. Brittany Lancaster Taylor, former swimsuit model and sometime jewelry designer, twenty-six years younger than her husband, restaurant impresario Randall Taylor. Randy boasts a net worth, conservatively speaking, of thirty million dollars. He’s also without doubt one of the most perfect bastards I have ever met. Cutthroat. Pitiless. No qualms about cutting a legal corner or two. You either love him or despise him – middle ground is out of the question. I never understood the attraction. Like most people, I assume Brittany married Randy for the lifestyle he can provide her, but perhaps I’m being narrow and cynical. I suppose it’s possible that Randy is the love of her life and treats her like a princess.”
Casso paused and smiled. “I’ve been trying to get into her panties for some time now. No breakthrough yet, but I’m a persistent man and sooner or later I get what I want.”
“Does your wife know about this quest of yours?” I asked, lightly.
“What wives don’t know never hurts them,” Casso said. “I’m on my third, so I feel myself something of an authority on the subject.”
I sipped my wine and held my tongue.
“You disapprove?” Casso asked.
“Not at all. Whatever puts air in your tires.”
“Are you telling me the idea of straying never crosses your mind? I find that difficult to believe. Do you share everything with your girlfriend? No secret, inner life for you?”
“Being raised Catholic left me susceptible to guilt.” A lie. I was raised a Methodist.
Where the hell was Kelsey? This is the reason I have an aversion to social functions. Of all the people to be stuck in conversation with I had the misfortune to get this serial philanderer in a thousand dollar suit.
“Your ethics come from being raised Catholic?”
I told him that I hadn’t set foot inside a church in thirty years, which was true; in fact, I said, it was my firm and abiding belief that God was the single most destructive myth ever created by the human race. This amused him.
“Under what circumstances do you lie?” he asked.
“When it’s convenient, of course.”
Casso smoothed his tie. “Lies are indispensible. Many years ago I discovered two sources of endless pleasure: making large sums of money and having a variety of sexual experiences. Boredom is man’s natural enemy. For me, money and sex keep boredom at bay. I’ve never lied to my clients -- that’s the truth -- but sex is another matter. If I have to tell a lie or two in order to have sex, I do so without hesitation and no guilt whatsoever. Some men collect antique firearms or vintage cars; I collect women. I remember them, too, every one of them – the feel of their skin, the smell of their hair, the sound of their voices.”
Golf or tennis at the country club doesn’t do it for you, huh? I thought to myself.
But Casso wasn’t finished. “Not to brag, but I have something of a gift when it comes to women. I can look at a woman and instantly know if she’s the type who takes it through the back gate. For example, see that woman over there, the one on the left? She doesn’t.”
I was on my feet and felt the blood rushing to my face. My empty cup fell to the cement. “That’s my girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. How boorish of me. Do you want to punch me?”
“I’d hate to ruin your shirt.”
“I appreciate that – it’s Armani.”
“Mine’s Ross Dress for Less.”
My last fight was in the sixth grade against a bully named Chris King and consisted of a couple of shoves, a wild open handed slap and a headlock; it ended in a draw and three afternoons of detention in the principal’s office. I desperately wanted to feel my knuckles crash against Casso’s jaw, watch him fall, and then finish him off with a kick to the ribs. What I felt was so primal it scared me. Blood lust. The overwhelming need to inflict pain, see my victim suffer, hear him beg for mercy.
“Awfully stupid of me,” Casso said.
I said nothing. My heart was still racing when Kelsey mercifully appeared at my side. I didn’t bother introducing her.
“Good luck with your job search!” Casso called as we walked away.
Kelsey linked her arm through mine. The sky had turned deep blue and a few stars were visible. “What job search?”
“Never mind. We were just shooting the breeze. Money, politics, baseball, the usual stuff men talk about.”
“You hate baseball. I bet you were talking about sex. Some of those mothers are hot.”
I pulled her close. “Would I talk about sex with a refined gentleman like that?”
Friday, February 04, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Under the Cobalt Sky
Most of the country is snowed under or enduring freezing rain, but here in Santa Barbara it’s a balmy January evening with a full moon rising over the Lobero Theatre. My wife and I are walking down State Street toward the beach with no particular destination in mind, out mainly because we don’t have our kids and the evening is too lovely to spend indoors. Tourists and pods of young people pass us by, a panhandler plies his craft without much success, and a street musician strums a beat-up guitar.
We stop before a vacant storefront and struggle to recall what had occupied the space. I think it was a jewelry store but my wife remembers it as a place that sold imported bric-a-brac. Not often being in need of bric-a-brac, imported or domestic, I can’t say if she’s wrong or right. We move on, enjoying the air and the cobalt sky. The recently shuttered Borders book store looms before us, hollowed out and empty, outlines on the carpet and walls where display shelves once stood. Across the street Barnes & Noble has also closed, so except for the venerable, cozy Book Den on Anapamu Street, downtown Santa Barbara is without a bookstore. I know my wife is also contemplating the demise of downtown bookstores; over the years we spent many, many pleasurable hours browsing the stacks in Borders and Barnes & Noble and it’s hard to imagine our downtown without a major book retailer.
“Our downtown” is perhaps overstating things because, in my opinion, downtown SB hasn’t belonged to locals like us in a long time. SB was a town but has been transformed into a travel destination, hawked in glossy magazines and on the Internet in the same way advertisers sell soap or beer. Brand recognition. The American Riviera they call it. Santa Barbara Magazine makes it all look beautiful and refined, clean, safe, a charming paradise where life is fulfilling and rich, and unpleasantness has been forever banned.
I’m old enough and have lived here long enough to remember JC Penny, the White House, Lerner’s, Lou Rose, OTT’s, the lunch counter at Woolworth’s, the Earthling Bookstore and the Copper Coffee Pot – all relics of memory now. My wife reminds me of the many banks that lined State Street in our childhoods, which brings to mind Crocker Bank, where my mother once worked as a teller. How long ago did Crocker Bank close its doors? Twenty-five years at least, perhaps longer.
A hazard of living in the same place for many years is watching it change. Whether the changes are good or bad depends on one’s sensibilities. Businesses and people come and go, landmark stores and eateries close their doors, slip into memory and become fodder for conversations that start with “Do you remember…?”
We continue strolling as the moon climbs to mingle with the stars, lost in reverie and nostalgic feelings for childhood and a bygone era, and the trance holds until our senses are assaulted outside Abercrombie & Fitch by pulsing music and the overpowering smell of men’s cologne. Abercrombie, Juicy Couture, Old Navy, Macy’s, Nordstrom, GAP, Betsy Johnson, Restoration Hardware and Banana Republic, big name retailers that have displaced locally owned mom & pop stores. Some might call this progress, and they would be right, of course – cities either change or perish—but it leaves me feeling alienated from the main street of my hometown.
At Cota Street we cross to the other side of State and head back uptown, past the fountain near the Metro Theatre where a kid with matted hair and a dragon tat on his chest asks for change. He smiles politely when we decline to aid his cause; I’m sure he has no idea that Crocker Bank ever existed or that SB boasted a Woolworth’s with a lunch counter. He may not even realize how quickly the present becomes the past.
But his moment will come.
We stop before a vacant storefront and struggle to recall what had occupied the space. I think it was a jewelry store but my wife remembers it as a place that sold imported bric-a-brac. Not often being in need of bric-a-brac, imported or domestic, I can’t say if she’s wrong or right. We move on, enjoying the air and the cobalt sky. The recently shuttered Borders book store looms before us, hollowed out and empty, outlines on the carpet and walls where display shelves once stood. Across the street Barnes & Noble has also closed, so except for the venerable, cozy Book Den on Anapamu Street, downtown Santa Barbara is without a bookstore. I know my wife is also contemplating the demise of downtown bookstores; over the years we spent many, many pleasurable hours browsing the stacks in Borders and Barnes & Noble and it’s hard to imagine our downtown without a major book retailer.
“Our downtown” is perhaps overstating things because, in my opinion, downtown SB hasn’t belonged to locals like us in a long time. SB was a town but has been transformed into a travel destination, hawked in glossy magazines and on the Internet in the same way advertisers sell soap or beer. Brand recognition. The American Riviera they call it. Santa Barbara Magazine makes it all look beautiful and refined, clean, safe, a charming paradise where life is fulfilling and rich, and unpleasantness has been forever banned.
I’m old enough and have lived here long enough to remember JC Penny, the White House, Lerner’s, Lou Rose, OTT’s, the lunch counter at Woolworth’s, the Earthling Bookstore and the Copper Coffee Pot – all relics of memory now. My wife reminds me of the many banks that lined State Street in our childhoods, which brings to mind Crocker Bank, where my mother once worked as a teller. How long ago did Crocker Bank close its doors? Twenty-five years at least, perhaps longer.
A hazard of living in the same place for many years is watching it change. Whether the changes are good or bad depends on one’s sensibilities. Businesses and people come and go, landmark stores and eateries close their doors, slip into memory and become fodder for conversations that start with “Do you remember…?”
We continue strolling as the moon climbs to mingle with the stars, lost in reverie and nostalgic feelings for childhood and a bygone era, and the trance holds until our senses are assaulted outside Abercrombie & Fitch by pulsing music and the overpowering smell of men’s cologne. Abercrombie, Juicy Couture, Old Navy, Macy’s, Nordstrom, GAP, Betsy Johnson, Restoration Hardware and Banana Republic, big name retailers that have displaced locally owned mom & pop stores. Some might call this progress, and they would be right, of course – cities either change or perish—but it leaves me feeling alienated from the main street of my hometown.
At Cota Street we cross to the other side of State and head back uptown, past the fountain near the Metro Theatre where a kid with matted hair and a dragon tat on his chest asks for change. He smiles politely when we decline to aid his cause; I’m sure he has no idea that Crocker Bank ever existed or that SB boasted a Woolworth’s with a lunch counter. He may not even realize how quickly the present becomes the past.
But his moment will come.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
C-Minus
I’m looking for the joys of parenthood in all the usual places but would settle for far less, an IOU of gratitude from my teenage son or one day without a screaming meltdown from my daughter. I would settle for an hour without bickering. I might do a back flip if my kids’ soiled laundry was placed in the hamper rather than back in the dresser to mingle with the clean clothes, dirty socks jive talking with clean boxer shorts.
I’m not their butler. I’m not their valet. I’m not their maid. If I repeat this mantra one hundred times a day it might manifest in the real world.
My son earned a C- in Geometry. Not the end of the world, of course, though I’m bothered (actually kind of pissed off) because the C- is due to laziness not lack of ability. In his other classes the kid is earning A’s and B’s. I don’t like math my son says, as if this explains everything and ends the discussion. OK, fine, the mysterious world of mathematic concepts doesn’t put flame to your wick, but with a little more effort on your part – and effort is all this comes down to – you could earn a B. There are all kinds of tutoring opportunities…
That’s as far as I get before I see him slip behind his impenetrable wall of teenage arrogance and angst. The drawbridge goes up and slams shut. He dares me to talk until my face turns blue-green. I don’t understand. High school is different now. This isn’t 1955. He turns his back on me, slips headphones on, cranks up Florence and the Machine and disappears into his interior world. I imagine ripping the headphones off his head, spinning him around in his chair and going Tony Soprano on his scrawny teenage butt. My superior adult knowledge can be forced into his brain, right?
The C- rankles me. Why this acceptance of mediocrity when a fraction more effort would have earned him a B? A couple of sessions with a peer tutor and he could have cruised to a decent mark. It makes perfect sense to me; none to him, and this is, I think, the essence of being a parent. I can’t live my son’s life for him, make decisions for him, do the right thing for him; he is destined to be the proud owner of his own mistakes and more times than not all I will be able to do is stand by and watch him stumble over his ego, his temper, his arrogance, and his fears.
Perhaps it’s not as bleak as all that. Perhaps as Bruce Springsteen wrote many years ago, one day we will look back on this and it will all seem funny.
I’m not their butler. I’m not their valet. I’m not their maid. If I repeat this mantra one hundred times a day it might manifest in the real world.
My son earned a C- in Geometry. Not the end of the world, of course, though I’m bothered (actually kind of pissed off) because the C- is due to laziness not lack of ability. In his other classes the kid is earning A’s and B’s. I don’t like math my son says, as if this explains everything and ends the discussion. OK, fine, the mysterious world of mathematic concepts doesn’t put flame to your wick, but with a little more effort on your part – and effort is all this comes down to – you could earn a B. There are all kinds of tutoring opportunities…
That’s as far as I get before I see him slip behind his impenetrable wall of teenage arrogance and angst. The drawbridge goes up and slams shut. He dares me to talk until my face turns blue-green. I don’t understand. High school is different now. This isn’t 1955. He turns his back on me, slips headphones on, cranks up Florence and the Machine and disappears into his interior world. I imagine ripping the headphones off his head, spinning him around in his chair and going Tony Soprano on his scrawny teenage butt. My superior adult knowledge can be forced into his brain, right?
The C- rankles me. Why this acceptance of mediocrity when a fraction more effort would have earned him a B? A couple of sessions with a peer tutor and he could have cruised to a decent mark. It makes perfect sense to me; none to him, and this is, I think, the essence of being a parent. I can’t live my son’s life for him, make decisions for him, do the right thing for him; he is destined to be the proud owner of his own mistakes and more times than not all I will be able to do is stand by and watch him stumble over his ego, his temper, his arrogance, and his fears.
Perhaps it’s not as bleak as all that. Perhaps as Bruce Springsteen wrote many years ago, one day we will look back on this and it will all seem funny.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Teenage Liar
Politicians lie to constituents. CEO’s lie to stockholders. Police officers lie to District Attorneys. Husbands lie to their wives. Con artists lie to their marks. Doctors lie to nurses. Salespeople lie to customers.
In no small part, lies make the world go round.
My son lies – to me, to his mother, to his grandmother. Fourteen and he’s already an accomplished spinner of lies. Small lies. Big lies. Stupendous lies. How much homework do you have tonight? None. None at all? No, I did it at school. Geometry? Finished. Biology? Done. English? Just reading. He answers quickly and with complete conviction.
Around bedtime the boy is in his room working on his Biology homework and stressed out over the Geometry problems that he did not, in fact, finish at school. The reading for English has over the last few hours morphed into a five page paper the first draft of which is due tomorrow, not a line of which is yet conceived or written. He can’t explain why he lied about his homework any more than he can explain how the vase in the living room – a wedding gift -- mysteriously developed a crack. If I press him on the vase he’ll say his sister did it. If I ask his sister she’ll say her brother did it. Maybe our beta fish is the culprit.
A tangle of lies. Did you, I ask my dear son, eat the last container of Greek yogurt and leave the empty container in the refrigerator? He regards me as if I have no right to ask such a question. He has no idea, no clue, can’t even make a guess as to who ate the yogurt; I should ask his sister.
Lies atop lies. Only a phase that will pass, I hope, otherwise the boy will one day wind up on the wrong side of a Federal indictment. Mendacity is an unattractive trait. I can’t remember when all this lying began or when an occasional white lie became a lifestyle. It’s astonishing that my son claims no responsibility for anything that happens around here. No matter what happens, he’s as innocent as a newborn ferret. Having a baby sister provides a built-in scapegoat. Plus he can always blame the beta fish if his sister happens to have an airtight alibi.
The homework crisis has passed and we are sitting in the living room, the four of us, enjoying a peaceful family moment of the kind that is rare within our walls, when a foul odor wafts across the room and settles above our heads like a toxic cloud. I look at my son, his serene face, bearing no sign that he is aware of the horrific stench that is threatening our nasal passages. You farted, I say. Not me, he says. I bet it was my sister. No, this is your work. Your fingerprint. It’s thirty-nine degrees outside but we fling open doors and windows, stand gasping in the rush of fresh air. You’re totally overreacting, my son claims. I don’t smell anything!
Ironically, this is probably true.
In no small part, lies make the world go round.
My son lies – to me, to his mother, to his grandmother. Fourteen and he’s already an accomplished spinner of lies. Small lies. Big lies. Stupendous lies. How much homework do you have tonight? None. None at all? No, I did it at school. Geometry? Finished. Biology? Done. English? Just reading. He answers quickly and with complete conviction.
Around bedtime the boy is in his room working on his Biology homework and stressed out over the Geometry problems that he did not, in fact, finish at school. The reading for English has over the last few hours morphed into a five page paper the first draft of which is due tomorrow, not a line of which is yet conceived or written. He can’t explain why he lied about his homework any more than he can explain how the vase in the living room – a wedding gift -- mysteriously developed a crack. If I press him on the vase he’ll say his sister did it. If I ask his sister she’ll say her brother did it. Maybe our beta fish is the culprit.
A tangle of lies. Did you, I ask my dear son, eat the last container of Greek yogurt and leave the empty container in the refrigerator? He regards me as if I have no right to ask such a question. He has no idea, no clue, can’t even make a guess as to who ate the yogurt; I should ask his sister.
Lies atop lies. Only a phase that will pass, I hope, otherwise the boy will one day wind up on the wrong side of a Federal indictment. Mendacity is an unattractive trait. I can’t remember when all this lying began or when an occasional white lie became a lifestyle. It’s astonishing that my son claims no responsibility for anything that happens around here. No matter what happens, he’s as innocent as a newborn ferret. Having a baby sister provides a built-in scapegoat. Plus he can always blame the beta fish if his sister happens to have an airtight alibi.
The homework crisis has passed and we are sitting in the living room, the four of us, enjoying a peaceful family moment of the kind that is rare within our walls, when a foul odor wafts across the room and settles above our heads like a toxic cloud. I look at my son, his serene face, bearing no sign that he is aware of the horrific stench that is threatening our nasal passages. You farted, I say. Not me, he says. I bet it was my sister. No, this is your work. Your fingerprint. It’s thirty-nine degrees outside but we fling open doors and windows, stand gasping in the rush of fresh air. You’re totally overreacting, my son claims. I don’t smell anything!
Ironically, this is probably true.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Short-Short Fiction
A Spoonful of Medicine
She won’t take her medicine.
Why not?
She hates the taste.
Does she enjoy having pneumonia?
Let me ask her. Hold on. No, she doesn’t. She wants to play handball.
No medicine, no school, no handball.
I’ll see what I can do.
You’re the adult. Keep that in mind.
I’m the adult. This is important.
Very important.
I could resort to force, hold her mouth open and pour the stuff down her throat.
Oh, that’s elegant.
She just locked herself in the bathroom. How’s the conference?
Scintillating. Threaten to take her Nintendo away. That might motivate her.
Didn’t work. By the way, I played Brain Age and discovered that, brain-wise, I’m 60 years old. You have no idea how disconcerted this makes me feel.
The next session’s about to start. Please get her to take her medicine. Love you.
I’m not sure I’m cut out for fatherhood.
Several years late for that revelation, sweetie.
Girl’s Best Friend
Would you rather a man be a retard in the kitchen or the bedroom?
Depends on what stage the relationship is in. Early on I want great sex, adventurous sex, impulsive sex, frequent sex, inspired sex.
When physical passion fades a well-cooked meal is almost as good as sex. Penne pesto with chicken. Green salad. Decent bottle of wine. Something homemade for dessert.
Custard or a chocolate mousse.
Regular sex is a bonus when you hit that stage.
Be thankful your sex life isn’t thwarted by erectile dysfunction.
The dreaded ED.
Cialis. Viagara. Levitra.
Call your health professional if you experience a 4-hour erection.
Sudden drop in blood pressure.
Blurred vision.
Irregular heartbeat.
A vibrator is more reliable.
Completely dependable.
And immune to pharmaceutical complications.
Re-chargeable batteries help.
They’re a necessity.
My husband has no idea.
Neither does mine.
Men are retarded.
Hopelessly.
She won’t take her medicine.
Why not?
She hates the taste.
Does she enjoy having pneumonia?
Let me ask her. Hold on. No, she doesn’t. She wants to play handball.
No medicine, no school, no handball.
I’ll see what I can do.
You’re the adult. Keep that in mind.
I’m the adult. This is important.
Very important.
I could resort to force, hold her mouth open and pour the stuff down her throat.
Oh, that’s elegant.
She just locked herself in the bathroom. How’s the conference?
Scintillating. Threaten to take her Nintendo away. That might motivate her.
Didn’t work. By the way, I played Brain Age and discovered that, brain-wise, I’m 60 years old. You have no idea how disconcerted this makes me feel.
The next session’s about to start. Please get her to take her medicine. Love you.
I’m not sure I’m cut out for fatherhood.
Several years late for that revelation, sweetie.
Girl’s Best Friend
Would you rather a man be a retard in the kitchen or the bedroom?
Depends on what stage the relationship is in. Early on I want great sex, adventurous sex, impulsive sex, frequent sex, inspired sex.
When physical passion fades a well-cooked meal is almost as good as sex. Penne pesto with chicken. Green salad. Decent bottle of wine. Something homemade for dessert.
Custard or a chocolate mousse.
Regular sex is a bonus when you hit that stage.
Be thankful your sex life isn’t thwarted by erectile dysfunction.
The dreaded ED.
Cialis. Viagara. Levitra.
Call your health professional if you experience a 4-hour erection.
Sudden drop in blood pressure.
Blurred vision.
Irregular heartbeat.
A vibrator is more reliable.
Completely dependable.
And immune to pharmaceutical complications.
Re-chargeable batteries help.
They’re a necessity.
My husband has no idea.
Neither does mine.
Men are retarded.
Hopelessly.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Daddy Duty
It is morning, a school day, and the house is in chaos. The kids fight for the bathroom. Fists pound on a closed and locked door. Dirty dishes linger in the kitchen sink, beds lie unmade, and in the hallway I see some pajamas and a damp towel that were not there ten minutes ago. Messes follow children the way flies follow dung. The pounding on the bathroom door continues until the door opens a crack and a red slipper flies out, missing its intended target and coming to rest under the dresser, where it will remain, gathering dust.
My daughter is standing in her bedroom, stock-still, stark naked; she’s supposed to be dressed and brushing her hair. Her socks are on the bed, next to her underwear, but where is the outfit we laid out for her last night to avoid confusion and consternation this morning? The logical place to look is in the hamper, and of course that’s where I find them. I toss them on her bed, command her to get dressed, add an exasperated “for God’s sakes!” for good measure, and move to the next room to check on my son.
He’s back in bed, burrowed under three heavy blankets, moaning about how tired he is, how boring school is, how stupid his teachers are, and how there is nothing to eat in the refrigerator. Will I make him Cream of Wheat? Sure, when world peace breaks out and Californians embrace mass transit. How about oatmeal? Pancakes? Bagel with cream cheese? Cinnamon toast? No. Hell no. Never. Get out of bed, now!
My wife is in the kitchen, packing our daughter’s insulated lunch box with sliced kiwi, tortilla chips, a carton of apple juice, a bag of green grapes, a box of raisins, a granola bar and a ham and cheese sandwich. She is meticulous, my wife, and her lunches are masterpieces, though it’s a rare day when our daughter eats much, if anything; most days the lunch box returns in the exact condition it left in the morning.
My daughter hasn’t moved one inch. It’s as if she has been cast in bronze. I gather up her socks, underwear, jeans, shirt and sweater, push her toward the bathroom. Her hair is knotted, her teeth are funky and I know from long, hard experience that the minute she’s dressed she’ll make the announcement: I have to poop. This entails that she completely undress.
The clock in the living room is ticking without mercy. I hear a thud from the bedroom and know my son has slid out of his loft. When he appears in the living room he seems taller than he was last night, more of a mystery. How can my flesh and blood, my DNA, be so totally alien? He rushes past me humming a tune, opens the refrigerator and stands before it, as if a complete meal will fly out, occupy a plate and land softly on the dining room table. When nothing happens he settles for frosted flakes. Filling the bowl he spills cereal across the kitchen counter; he ignores the mess, sits down to eat. Why does he chew so noisily?
Miracle of miracles my darling daughter emerges from the bathroom, hair combed and teeth brushed, fully dressed, with no need to move her bowels. I’m pleased, but suspicious. We’re in the home stretch, nearly out the door, only a few minutes late, and then it happens, the last minute crisis – she has forgotten something without which she insists she cannot get through the day. What? An eraser, but not any run-of-the-mill eraser, a yellow eraser shaped like a Siamese cat that her grandmother brought back from San Francisco: very rare apparently, imbued with magic powers and valuable for trading on the playground, though she would never trade it away in a million years. Please don’t open your backpack is what I’m thinking as I see the meltdown coming. If she opens her pack we’re doomed to be tardy. If she opens her pack everything will come out in a tsunami -- books, folders, papers, pencil box, tissue paper, notebook, ruler, calculator, paperclips. Daughter begins to wail as if the end of civilization has arrived. I make the mistake of saying that it’s only an eraser -- that she has plenty of erasers to use until we locate the cat eraser, but I may as well have suggested that she cut the head off her American Girl doll. Wail grows louder. The backpack is open now.
We will be tardy.
My daughter is standing in her bedroom, stock-still, stark naked; she’s supposed to be dressed and brushing her hair. Her socks are on the bed, next to her underwear, but where is the outfit we laid out for her last night to avoid confusion and consternation this morning? The logical place to look is in the hamper, and of course that’s where I find them. I toss them on her bed, command her to get dressed, add an exasperated “for God’s sakes!” for good measure, and move to the next room to check on my son.
He’s back in bed, burrowed under three heavy blankets, moaning about how tired he is, how boring school is, how stupid his teachers are, and how there is nothing to eat in the refrigerator. Will I make him Cream of Wheat? Sure, when world peace breaks out and Californians embrace mass transit. How about oatmeal? Pancakes? Bagel with cream cheese? Cinnamon toast? No. Hell no. Never. Get out of bed, now!
My wife is in the kitchen, packing our daughter’s insulated lunch box with sliced kiwi, tortilla chips, a carton of apple juice, a bag of green grapes, a box of raisins, a granola bar and a ham and cheese sandwich. She is meticulous, my wife, and her lunches are masterpieces, though it’s a rare day when our daughter eats much, if anything; most days the lunch box returns in the exact condition it left in the morning.
My daughter hasn’t moved one inch. It’s as if she has been cast in bronze. I gather up her socks, underwear, jeans, shirt and sweater, push her toward the bathroom. Her hair is knotted, her teeth are funky and I know from long, hard experience that the minute she’s dressed she’ll make the announcement: I have to poop. This entails that she completely undress.
The clock in the living room is ticking without mercy. I hear a thud from the bedroom and know my son has slid out of his loft. When he appears in the living room he seems taller than he was last night, more of a mystery. How can my flesh and blood, my DNA, be so totally alien? He rushes past me humming a tune, opens the refrigerator and stands before it, as if a complete meal will fly out, occupy a plate and land softly on the dining room table. When nothing happens he settles for frosted flakes. Filling the bowl he spills cereal across the kitchen counter; he ignores the mess, sits down to eat. Why does he chew so noisily?
Miracle of miracles my darling daughter emerges from the bathroom, hair combed and teeth brushed, fully dressed, with no need to move her bowels. I’m pleased, but suspicious. We’re in the home stretch, nearly out the door, only a few minutes late, and then it happens, the last minute crisis – she has forgotten something without which she insists she cannot get through the day. What? An eraser, but not any run-of-the-mill eraser, a yellow eraser shaped like a Siamese cat that her grandmother brought back from San Francisco: very rare apparently, imbued with magic powers and valuable for trading on the playground, though she would never trade it away in a million years. Please don’t open your backpack is what I’m thinking as I see the meltdown coming. If she opens her pack we’re doomed to be tardy. If she opens her pack everything will come out in a tsunami -- books, folders, papers, pencil box, tissue paper, notebook, ruler, calculator, paperclips. Daughter begins to wail as if the end of civilization has arrived. I make the mistake of saying that it’s only an eraser -- that she has plenty of erasers to use until we locate the cat eraser, but I may as well have suggested that she cut the head off her American Girl doll. Wail grows louder. The backpack is open now.
We will be tardy.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Fiction: Cold Turkey
My cell phone chimed at 3:00 a.m. on Christmas morning. I knew it was Duke.
“Where are you, doc?”
“Morocco. Long, complicated story.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Bah. I read your blog. I don’t believe you’re done with politics.”
“It’s true.”
“Temporarily, maybe; I give you four to six weeks. You need politics as much as I need illegal substances. It’s who you are.”
“Too depressing, doc. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You going cold turkey?”
“That’s the plan.”
“No more Alternet?”
“No.”
“Democracy Now?”
“No.”
“New York Times?”
“No.”
“TruthDig?”
“No.”
“Huffington Post?”
“Done. E-mail lists, too. Move On. Democracy for America. Color of Change. Courage Campaign. All of them.”
“Cold turkey?”
“Cold turkey.”
“I repeat: you’ll last four to six weeks. What else are you going to write about?”
“Dunno yet. My wife thinks I should write about raising kids, parenthood, that sort of thing.”
“Borrrring,” Duke sang.
“When are you coming back, doc?”
“My house is let for another month. Landscape painter. Lady on the run from a knucklehead husband. Paid in cash. I told her she could paint on the ceiling if she felt like it.”
“You’re full of surprises, doc.”
“Surprises. Shit. Sanctimony. Sentimentality. Spite.”
“What’s her name?”
“The painter?”
“No, the woman in Morocco.”
“Why do you assume it’s a woman?”
“When isn’t it a woman?”
Duke laughed. “You know me well. Allahu Akbar, boy. Give me a call when the jones for politics becomes overwhelming.”
I switched the Christmas tree lights on and went back to bed. Right before I drifted off to sleep I reminded myself to cancel my subscription to the Nation.
“Where are you, doc?”
“Morocco. Long, complicated story.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Bah. I read your blog. I don’t believe you’re done with politics.”
“It’s true.”
“Temporarily, maybe; I give you four to six weeks. You need politics as much as I need illegal substances. It’s who you are.”
“Too depressing, doc. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You going cold turkey?”
“That’s the plan.”
“No more Alternet?”
“No.”
“Democracy Now?”
“No.”
“New York Times?”
“No.”
“TruthDig?”
“No.”
“Huffington Post?”
“Done. E-mail lists, too. Move On. Democracy for America. Color of Change. Courage Campaign. All of them.”
“Cold turkey?”
“Cold turkey.”
“I repeat: you’ll last four to six weeks. What else are you going to write about?”
“Dunno yet. My wife thinks I should write about raising kids, parenthood, that sort of thing.”
“Borrrring,” Duke sang.
“When are you coming back, doc?”
“My house is let for another month. Landscape painter. Lady on the run from a knucklehead husband. Paid in cash. I told her she could paint on the ceiling if she felt like it.”
“You’re full of surprises, doc.”
“Surprises. Shit. Sanctimony. Sentimentality. Spite.”
“What’s her name?”
“The painter?”
“No, the woman in Morocco.”
“Why do you assume it’s a woman?”
“When isn’t it a woman?”
Duke laughed. “You know me well. Allahu Akbar, boy. Give me a call when the jones for politics becomes overwhelming.”
I switched the Christmas tree lights on and went back to bed. Right before I drifted off to sleep I reminded myself to cancel my subscription to the Nation.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Done with Change, Over Hope
I’m done with politics for a while.
I’m disgusted, dejected, and discouraged.
I’m done with change and over hope.
No more will I respond to e-mail alerts from well-meaning but underfunded progressive organizations, no more will I e-mail or phone the people who are supposed to represent my interests in Washington D.C., no more will I pull my hair and gnash my teeth over the latest Obama capitulation.
I can’t do it, at least not without driving myself crazy or into a prolonged depression. I thought the Bush years were aggravating – and they were – but to watch the candidate I voted for bend over and spread his ass cheeks to appease the GOP, well, that’s beyond what I can tolerate. The latest tax giveaway to the rich was the straw that snapped the camel’s spine. I called, I wrote, I signed petition after petition, yet the package went forward just the same, pushed by Obama, to the delight of the wealthy; they received the goodies their campaign contributions paid for.
If I keep writing about politics I’m going to become a crank, like the one Philip Roth describes in Exit Ghost: “Otherwise, I told myself, you’ll become the exemplary letter-to-the-editor madman, the village grouch, manifesting the syndrome in all its seething ridiculousness: ranting and raving while you read the paper.”
I’m not naïve. I expected a limited resemblance between candidate Obama and President Obama, but I didn’t expect that Obama would become the second coming of Bill Clinton, surround himself with Clinton-era apparatchiks, and take economic advice from the likes of Robert Rubin and Larry Summers and Timothy Geithner; I didn’t expect that he would bow and scrape and become Wall Street’s lackey.
I never thought that President Obama would endorse the Bush era economic plan: endless tax cuts that largely benefit the rich and endless foreign wars that benefit no one. But endorse them he has, putting his presidency and the Democratic Party in a box come 2012.
For a man blessed with such eloquence, why does Barack Obama find it so difficult to articulate a coherent vision of who he is and what he stands for?
Obama has taken to spinning the truth like a run-of-the-mill D.C. PR flack, calling the tax giveaway the product of compromise with the GOP and an economic stimulus package that will grow the economy. The truth is that the tax deal will exacerbate the federal deficit, add fuel to Republicans who want to dismantle Social Security and Medicare, and do little to promote job growth.
In Afghanistan, Obama claims things are on-track and that some American forces may depart next summer, though naturally this depends on conditions on the ground and how prepared the Afghan military is to take over. If the Afghan Army isn’t ready now, after nine years and billions of dollars, why should we believe things will be any different by mid-2011? Or by 2014 for that matter? Obama is selling us a fantasy at a time we cannot afford a costly and unwinnable foreign war. Strip away all the military-speak and the fact is that a few hundred al-Qaeda forces have effectively tied up 100,000 American troops – the sophisticated forces of an empire -- at a cost of $120 billion a year.
The war continues and the tax cuts continue and the calls for spending cuts continue and the tone deafness of the ruling class continues, and the people are impotent, far more interested in American Idol and the Kardashians than they are in how their children’s prospects are being diminished by a political and economic system owned and operated by plutocrats for the benefit of plutocrats.
Time to back off and think about something other than the death spiral of the American Dream.
I’m disgusted, dejected, and discouraged.
I’m done with change and over hope.
No more will I respond to e-mail alerts from well-meaning but underfunded progressive organizations, no more will I e-mail or phone the people who are supposed to represent my interests in Washington D.C., no more will I pull my hair and gnash my teeth over the latest Obama capitulation.
I can’t do it, at least not without driving myself crazy or into a prolonged depression. I thought the Bush years were aggravating – and they were – but to watch the candidate I voted for bend over and spread his ass cheeks to appease the GOP, well, that’s beyond what I can tolerate. The latest tax giveaway to the rich was the straw that snapped the camel’s spine. I called, I wrote, I signed petition after petition, yet the package went forward just the same, pushed by Obama, to the delight of the wealthy; they received the goodies their campaign contributions paid for.
If I keep writing about politics I’m going to become a crank, like the one Philip Roth describes in Exit Ghost: “Otherwise, I told myself, you’ll become the exemplary letter-to-the-editor madman, the village grouch, manifesting the syndrome in all its seething ridiculousness: ranting and raving while you read the paper.”
I’m not naïve. I expected a limited resemblance between candidate Obama and President Obama, but I didn’t expect that Obama would become the second coming of Bill Clinton, surround himself with Clinton-era apparatchiks, and take economic advice from the likes of Robert Rubin and Larry Summers and Timothy Geithner; I didn’t expect that he would bow and scrape and become Wall Street’s lackey.
I never thought that President Obama would endorse the Bush era economic plan: endless tax cuts that largely benefit the rich and endless foreign wars that benefit no one. But endorse them he has, putting his presidency and the Democratic Party in a box come 2012.
For a man blessed with such eloquence, why does Barack Obama find it so difficult to articulate a coherent vision of who he is and what he stands for?
Obama has taken to spinning the truth like a run-of-the-mill D.C. PR flack, calling the tax giveaway the product of compromise with the GOP and an economic stimulus package that will grow the economy. The truth is that the tax deal will exacerbate the federal deficit, add fuel to Republicans who want to dismantle Social Security and Medicare, and do little to promote job growth.
In Afghanistan, Obama claims things are on-track and that some American forces may depart next summer, though naturally this depends on conditions on the ground and how prepared the Afghan military is to take over. If the Afghan Army isn’t ready now, after nine years and billions of dollars, why should we believe things will be any different by mid-2011? Or by 2014 for that matter? Obama is selling us a fantasy at a time we cannot afford a costly and unwinnable foreign war. Strip away all the military-speak and the fact is that a few hundred al-Qaeda forces have effectively tied up 100,000 American troops – the sophisticated forces of an empire -- at a cost of $120 billion a year.
The war continues and the tax cuts continue and the calls for spending cuts continue and the tone deafness of the ruling class continues, and the people are impotent, far more interested in American Idol and the Kardashians than they are in how their children’s prospects are being diminished by a political and economic system owned and operated by plutocrats for the benefit of plutocrats.
Time to back off and think about something other than the death spiral of the American Dream.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Last Straw
It’s only a matter of time before House Democrats pass the President’s tax giveaway to the GOP. Nancy Pelosi must be feeling pressure from the White House, the right wing echo chamber, the corporate media and any number of spineless Democrats. When it’s all said and done, signed and delivered, the President will claim victory for bipartisanship, but this claim will be as empty as the one Obama made the other day when he said that most economists think this absurd gift to the GOP will stimulate the economy.
Here’s what’s more likely to happen.
First, the federal deficit is going to get worse – much worse.
The gulf between the wealthy and the rest of us will get wider – much wider.
The temporary payroll tax holiday will hurt Social Security in the long run, exacerbating fears that the trust fund will not be able to meet its commitments; this will fuel calls from the GOP to reduce benefits, raise the retirement age or, at long last, end Social Security as we know it by privatizing the program.
The “temporary” tax cuts will become permanent because no politician of either party is going to suggest letting them expire in 2012. No matter what’s happening with the economy, the cuts will remain, starving the government of the revenue it needs to function. This is precisely what right-wing Republicans want to happen.
What argument will Obama fall back on when this middling “stimulus” fails to jumpstart the economy? What will he say when the official unemployment rate remains stuck between nine and ten percent and the true rate is up around seventeen?
The Democrats allowed themselves to be boxed in by the GOP and now they are stuck with what will be. This is Obama’s recession now.
The GOP offered one economic policy during the Bush reign, one policy prescription for every situation, one policy rain or shine, fire or flood, earthquake or tsunami: tax cuts. And how did that singular policy work out? The rich reaped the vast majority of the benefits, economic growth was anemic, the federal deficit ballooned, real wages for working people stayed dead flat or declined, and household debt exploded.
That’s the legacy of the GOP’s obsession with cutting taxes. It didn’t work last decade and it won’t work in this one.
Here’s what’s more likely to happen.
First, the federal deficit is going to get worse – much worse.
The gulf between the wealthy and the rest of us will get wider – much wider.
The temporary payroll tax holiday will hurt Social Security in the long run, exacerbating fears that the trust fund will not be able to meet its commitments; this will fuel calls from the GOP to reduce benefits, raise the retirement age or, at long last, end Social Security as we know it by privatizing the program.
The “temporary” tax cuts will become permanent because no politician of either party is going to suggest letting them expire in 2012. No matter what’s happening with the economy, the cuts will remain, starving the government of the revenue it needs to function. This is precisely what right-wing Republicans want to happen.
What argument will Obama fall back on when this middling “stimulus” fails to jumpstart the economy? What will he say when the official unemployment rate remains stuck between nine and ten percent and the true rate is up around seventeen?
The Democrats allowed themselves to be boxed in by the GOP and now they are stuck with what will be. This is Obama’s recession now.
The GOP offered one economic policy during the Bush reign, one policy prescription for every situation, one policy rain or shine, fire or flood, earthquake or tsunami: tax cuts. And how did that singular policy work out? The rich reaped the vast majority of the benefits, economic growth was anemic, the federal deficit ballooned, real wages for working people stayed dead flat or declined, and household debt exploded.
That’s the legacy of the GOP’s obsession with cutting taxes. It didn’t work last decade and it won’t work in this one.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
If You See the President's Spine, Please Call
President Obama is wandering around the White House, looking under sofas and behind doors and in closets for his spine.
I’m sitting here in disbelief, having just watched the President’s press conference on the deal he “negotiated” with the GOP on taxes. Obama defended the deal and slammed liberals for being sanctimonious purists, and even said that he was willing to take John Boehner at his word.
Take John Boehner at his word? The Sultan of NO, the Lord of Obstruction, the King of Corruption?
It’s clear that Obama is feeling the pressure because he’s talking complete gibberish, like when he compared the tax debate to the debate over the public health care option. He can’t be serious…the public health insurance option was pushed off the table and buried before one word was said about it…right about the time the health industry lobbyists came in to write the damn bill.
The Republicans gave up nothing and got more than what they asked for from the President. There was no reason to couple extension of the Bush tax cuts with an extension of unemployment benefits. None at all. The issues should have been considered separately.
Obama can spin it any way he wants, send the Vice President out to do the same, dispatch David Axelrod to jaw on Good Morning America, rev up the Obama for America machine, but the fact is that he allowed the GOP to box him in, knock him on his butt and then rub his face in the dirt.
As a percentage of GDP, Americans are not heavily taxed, so all this talk about taxes, taxes, taxes is bizarre. In point of fact, tax rates have fallen for years, particularly for high income people, which is a key reason why the gulf between haves and have nots in America is so dramatic.
The tax cuts will have a minor stimulative effect on jobs and consumer spending and a major impact on the size of the Federal deficit. Two or three years from now, the GOP will claim from every rooftop that America will default, implode or collapse unless spending is slashed to reduce the deficit, and the first programs the GOP will go for will be the same ones they always zero in on: Social Security and Medicare. Not defense spending. Not corporate tax rates. Not farm subsidies. Social Security and Medicare. Got to gut or kill those entitlement programs or the sky will fall.
President Obama is an intelligent man but he’s behaving like a captive. He talks about fighting back, but if he was ever going to roll up his sleeves and get his knuckles bloody, this was the fight, this was the issue, and this was the time. Instead of fighting, the President walked to his corner and sat on his stool.
The presidential spine is on the lam. If you see it on a street in your city or town, please call the White House immediately.
I’m sitting here in disbelief, having just watched the President’s press conference on the deal he “negotiated” with the GOP on taxes. Obama defended the deal and slammed liberals for being sanctimonious purists, and even said that he was willing to take John Boehner at his word.
Take John Boehner at his word? The Sultan of NO, the Lord of Obstruction, the King of Corruption?
It’s clear that Obama is feeling the pressure because he’s talking complete gibberish, like when he compared the tax debate to the debate over the public health care option. He can’t be serious…the public health insurance option was pushed off the table and buried before one word was said about it…right about the time the health industry lobbyists came in to write the damn bill.
The Republicans gave up nothing and got more than what they asked for from the President. There was no reason to couple extension of the Bush tax cuts with an extension of unemployment benefits. None at all. The issues should have been considered separately.
Obama can spin it any way he wants, send the Vice President out to do the same, dispatch David Axelrod to jaw on Good Morning America, rev up the Obama for America machine, but the fact is that he allowed the GOP to box him in, knock him on his butt and then rub his face in the dirt.
As a percentage of GDP, Americans are not heavily taxed, so all this talk about taxes, taxes, taxes is bizarre. In point of fact, tax rates have fallen for years, particularly for high income people, which is a key reason why the gulf between haves and have nots in America is so dramatic.
The tax cuts will have a minor stimulative effect on jobs and consumer spending and a major impact on the size of the Federal deficit. Two or three years from now, the GOP will claim from every rooftop that America will default, implode or collapse unless spending is slashed to reduce the deficit, and the first programs the GOP will go for will be the same ones they always zero in on: Social Security and Medicare. Not defense spending. Not corporate tax rates. Not farm subsidies. Social Security and Medicare. Got to gut or kill those entitlement programs or the sky will fall.
President Obama is an intelligent man but he’s behaving like a captive. He talks about fighting back, but if he was ever going to roll up his sleeves and get his knuckles bloody, this was the fight, this was the issue, and this was the time. Instead of fighting, the President walked to his corner and sat on his stool.
The presidential spine is on the lam. If you see it on a street in your city or town, please call the White House immediately.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
POEM: Rogues Gallery
Palin
Paul
Murdoch
We’ve turned the country over to fools, liars and con artists
At a time when we need our best and brightest
Our bravest and boldest
To rescue the nation from disaster
Boehner
Bachmann
McConnell
Our economy is a shambles
The middle class is dying
The Chinese are kicking our ass
The polar ice caps are melting
Afghanistan is a needle in our arm
Iraq a noose around our neck
We can’t win, can’t withdraw
Might as well invade Yemen
Bomb the hell out of Teheran
Gingrich
Rubio
Armey
The fools call for tax cuts
Tax cuts
More tax cuts
Like an incantation for the damned
The defiled
And the doomed
Rove
Cantor
Roberts
Their America is not my America
Is it yours?
Paul
Murdoch
We’ve turned the country over to fools, liars and con artists
At a time when we need our best and brightest
Our bravest and boldest
To rescue the nation from disaster
Boehner
Bachmann
McConnell
Our economy is a shambles
The middle class is dying
The Chinese are kicking our ass
The polar ice caps are melting
Afghanistan is a needle in our arm
Iraq a noose around our neck
We can’t win, can’t withdraw
Might as well invade Yemen
Bomb the hell out of Teheran
Gingrich
Rubio
Armey
The fools call for tax cuts
Tax cuts
More tax cuts
Like an incantation for the damned
The defiled
And the doomed
Rove
Cantor
Roberts
Their America is not my America
Is it yours?
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Better in the Morning
The odds are strong that Julian Assange will wind up confined to a cell for a long time, possibly the rest of his life.
With the release of hundreds of U.S. diplomatic cables, the founder of WikiLeaks has pissed off or embarrassed enough powerful people around the world to insure that those folks go to any lengths to punish him.
I imagine U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton screaming into her phone: “I want Assange hung by his balls. I don’t care how you nail him. I don’t care where you nail him. Just snuff him out!” Other world leaders painted in an unfavorable light in the cables would hardly object if Assange and WikiLeaks suddenly vanished.
Blame the leaker who exposes bad actors rather than the actors themselves.
Assange is wanted in Sweden on sexual assault charges, an accusation that came hard on the heels of a WikiLeaks release of thousands of documents about the Afghanistan war. It may be that I have become paranoid or that I have read too many John Le Carre spy novels, but when the news of the sexual assault charge first surfaced, my immediate thought was: Assange is being framed by the CIA.
Why would the CIA do that? Because even if the charge proves false, as Assange insists it is, the smear attached to his name won’t be easily removed or forgotten. And that’s the point. Discredit the source and you discredit his information; whether or not an accusation is true makes no difference at all.
Maybe. I am certain the clock is winding down for Julian Assange.
Meanwhile, here at home the GOP is standing strong for millionaires and billionaires, pledging to thwart every Democratic proposal unless the Bush Era tax cuts are extended for all income groups. The price tag for these cuts is something like $700 billion over a decade, at a time when millions of Americans are either out of work or stitching together part-time jobs to stay afloat; while money to extend unemployment benefits for the long term unemployed simply cannot be raised without exacerbating the deficit; while the Iraq and Afghan occupations continue without end; while the President’s bipartisan Deficit Commission proposes Draconian cuts to social programs along with – surprise, surprise -- corporate tax cuts; and while the President cannot seem to locate his spine.
It’s all disheartening and frustrating.
Perhaps it will look better in the morning.
With the release of hundreds of U.S. diplomatic cables, the founder of WikiLeaks has pissed off or embarrassed enough powerful people around the world to insure that those folks go to any lengths to punish him.
I imagine U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton screaming into her phone: “I want Assange hung by his balls. I don’t care how you nail him. I don’t care where you nail him. Just snuff him out!” Other world leaders painted in an unfavorable light in the cables would hardly object if Assange and WikiLeaks suddenly vanished.
Blame the leaker who exposes bad actors rather than the actors themselves.
Assange is wanted in Sweden on sexual assault charges, an accusation that came hard on the heels of a WikiLeaks release of thousands of documents about the Afghanistan war. It may be that I have become paranoid or that I have read too many John Le Carre spy novels, but when the news of the sexual assault charge first surfaced, my immediate thought was: Assange is being framed by the CIA.
Why would the CIA do that? Because even if the charge proves false, as Assange insists it is, the smear attached to his name won’t be easily removed or forgotten. And that’s the point. Discredit the source and you discredit his information; whether or not an accusation is true makes no difference at all.
Maybe. I am certain the clock is winding down for Julian Assange.
Meanwhile, here at home the GOP is standing strong for millionaires and billionaires, pledging to thwart every Democratic proposal unless the Bush Era tax cuts are extended for all income groups. The price tag for these cuts is something like $700 billion over a decade, at a time when millions of Americans are either out of work or stitching together part-time jobs to stay afloat; while money to extend unemployment benefits for the long term unemployed simply cannot be raised without exacerbating the deficit; while the Iraq and Afghan occupations continue without end; while the President’s bipartisan Deficit Commission proposes Draconian cuts to social programs along with – surprise, surprise -- corporate tax cuts; and while the President cannot seem to locate his spine.
It’s all disheartening and frustrating.
Perhaps it will look better in the morning.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Point of No Return
I don’t want to believe it, even though I suspect that Chris Hedges, who writes regularly for the website Truthdig, is probably right: we can’t win. By “we” I mean political progressives, liberal Democrats and independents of good will. We’re so far behind the power and influence curve that we have no hope of catching up. But if we have lost who has won? That’s easy. The oligarchs and plutocrats who own and operate the corporate state, their hired hands in Congress and the Supreme Court, and their propaganda mouthpieces in the mainstream commercial media.
If the recent mid-term elections proved anything, it’s that money is murdering our democracy and real debate no longer exists in this country. The commercial media sets the parameters, dictates subject and slant, and draws from a shallow pool of “experts” and “insiders” to explain, or more often, spin, what is going on with the burning issue of the day. Dissenting voices are seldom heard in the major broadcast media. Without real debate and dissent, democracy cannot exist except in name, which is exactly the way the plutocrats and oligarchs want it.
We are trapped in a zero sum game waged between left and right, blue and red, liberal and conservative. And with the rise of the Tea Party and its political purity tests, it’s certain the GOP will tilt further right, and the Democrats -- petrified by their losses on November 2 -- will follow, as President Obama appears resigned to do on the Bush tax giveaway to the super rich.
So, we can’t win, but on the other hand, the stakes are so serious that we can’t afford to capitulate. Instead, like all outgunned and outnumbered armies, we have no option but to fight asymmetrically, locally, on a smaller scale.
Speaking of asymmetrical warfare, it looks like our commitment to the Afghan sinkhole just got extended to 2014. No public debate required for this decision, and no discussion of how we will pay for it. Nine years ago our target was Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda – now it’s the Taliban.
Though scattered by American firepower in the early months of the invasion, the Taliban regrouped and launched a reinvigorated campaign to rid Afghanistan of foreign invaders. Nine years, billions of dollars and thousands of killed and injured later, President Obama makes upbeat pronouncements about progress, improved security and increased recruitment for the Afghan army; the American media repeats these fabrications almost verbatim – when the media bothers to cover the war at all. For any sense of perspective one has to turn to the foreign press and independent, un-imbedded media, and there one learns that the war that isn’t going well.
For those of us old enough to remember, Obama’s statements have a definite Vietnam-era ring to them. LBJ and Nixon repeatedly assured the American public that we were turning the corner toward victory, securing territory, killing or capturing more Vietcong, and winning the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese people.
The truth in Vietnam was dramatically different from official pronouncements, just as the truth in Afghanistan is different.
In Vietnam, the US attempted to prop up a corrupt, illegitimate regime; in Afghanistan, our purported partner, Hamid Karzai, is both corrupt and unreliable, and to make matters even worse, our supposed ally, Pakistan, plays both sides of the game for its own strategic advantage.
Governments routinely lie about the need for war and the reasons for keeping wars going. Polls show that most Americans are sick of the Afghan war and realize that it’s a dead end, but – and this is where we return to Chris Hedges and his thesis that we have lost – public sentiment has no impact on policymakers. Why? Because this war, unlike Vietnam, carries no obvious domestic political cost. The only people affected by Afghanistan are soldiers and their families, plus 100,000, give or take, employees of for-profit war contractors. No sacrifice is asked of the larger public – no higher taxes, no war bonds or resource rationing, and no draft.
I think this is the real lesson many American leaders learned from our Vietnam experience: the best way to marginalize domestic anti-war sentiment is to keep the costs of war hidden and citizen sacrifices at a bare minimum.
Of course, there is a huge domestic cost to our economy as the wars drive up the national debt, but this cost isn’t immediate or visceral enough to seize the attention of the public. For policymakers, our war on terror is sacred ground; instead of looking at the dollars we’re pouring into Iraq, Afghanistan and the bloated military-intelligence-security complex, key Republican leaders, and Obama’s bipartisan Deficit Commission, propose to slash Social Security and Medicare benefits, eliminate tax breaks for the remnants of the middle-class and, naturally, reduce taxes for the wealthy.
It’s a strange time in America, perhaps even a point of no return. The status quo works great for the very wealthy, for big business, and for the political class, and they will not relinquish their power and prerogatives easily. Average citizens seem to understand that something is fundamentally out of whack, but have no idea where or whom to turn to for a way out of this morass.
If the recent mid-term elections proved anything, it’s that money is murdering our democracy and real debate no longer exists in this country. The commercial media sets the parameters, dictates subject and slant, and draws from a shallow pool of “experts” and “insiders” to explain, or more often, spin, what is going on with the burning issue of the day. Dissenting voices are seldom heard in the major broadcast media. Without real debate and dissent, democracy cannot exist except in name, which is exactly the way the plutocrats and oligarchs want it.
We are trapped in a zero sum game waged between left and right, blue and red, liberal and conservative. And with the rise of the Tea Party and its political purity tests, it’s certain the GOP will tilt further right, and the Democrats -- petrified by their losses on November 2 -- will follow, as President Obama appears resigned to do on the Bush tax giveaway to the super rich.
So, we can’t win, but on the other hand, the stakes are so serious that we can’t afford to capitulate. Instead, like all outgunned and outnumbered armies, we have no option but to fight asymmetrically, locally, on a smaller scale.
Speaking of asymmetrical warfare, it looks like our commitment to the Afghan sinkhole just got extended to 2014. No public debate required for this decision, and no discussion of how we will pay for it. Nine years ago our target was Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda – now it’s the Taliban.
Though scattered by American firepower in the early months of the invasion, the Taliban regrouped and launched a reinvigorated campaign to rid Afghanistan of foreign invaders. Nine years, billions of dollars and thousands of killed and injured later, President Obama makes upbeat pronouncements about progress, improved security and increased recruitment for the Afghan army; the American media repeats these fabrications almost verbatim – when the media bothers to cover the war at all. For any sense of perspective one has to turn to the foreign press and independent, un-imbedded media, and there one learns that the war that isn’t going well.
For those of us old enough to remember, Obama’s statements have a definite Vietnam-era ring to them. LBJ and Nixon repeatedly assured the American public that we were turning the corner toward victory, securing territory, killing or capturing more Vietcong, and winning the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese people.
The truth in Vietnam was dramatically different from official pronouncements, just as the truth in Afghanistan is different.
In Vietnam, the US attempted to prop up a corrupt, illegitimate regime; in Afghanistan, our purported partner, Hamid Karzai, is both corrupt and unreliable, and to make matters even worse, our supposed ally, Pakistan, plays both sides of the game for its own strategic advantage.
Governments routinely lie about the need for war and the reasons for keeping wars going. Polls show that most Americans are sick of the Afghan war and realize that it’s a dead end, but – and this is where we return to Chris Hedges and his thesis that we have lost – public sentiment has no impact on policymakers. Why? Because this war, unlike Vietnam, carries no obvious domestic political cost. The only people affected by Afghanistan are soldiers and their families, plus 100,000, give or take, employees of for-profit war contractors. No sacrifice is asked of the larger public – no higher taxes, no war bonds or resource rationing, and no draft.
I think this is the real lesson many American leaders learned from our Vietnam experience: the best way to marginalize domestic anti-war sentiment is to keep the costs of war hidden and citizen sacrifices at a bare minimum.
Of course, there is a huge domestic cost to our economy as the wars drive up the national debt, but this cost isn’t immediate or visceral enough to seize the attention of the public. For policymakers, our war on terror is sacred ground; instead of looking at the dollars we’re pouring into Iraq, Afghanistan and the bloated military-intelligence-security complex, key Republican leaders, and Obama’s bipartisan Deficit Commission, propose to slash Social Security and Medicare benefits, eliminate tax breaks for the remnants of the middle-class and, naturally, reduce taxes for the wealthy.
It’s a strange time in America, perhaps even a point of no return. The status quo works great for the very wealthy, for big business, and for the political class, and they will not relinquish their power and prerogatives easily. Average citizens seem to understand that something is fundamentally out of whack, but have no idea where or whom to turn to for a way out of this morass.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
POEM: Pipe Dream
I want to live in a country that considers a state of permanent
War
Abnormal
I want to live in a country where the prison population declines
Rather than increases
I want to live in a country that cares more about meeting human needs
Than meeting the corporate bottom line
I want to live in a country that doesn’t torture people
Under any circumstances
I want to live in a country where young black men
Have the opportunity
To become old black men
I want to live in a country that respects international law
All the time
Absolutely
I want to live in a country where the distance between rich and poor
Is a narrow creek
Not a wide ocean
I want to live in a country that reveres the natural world
Instead of treating it like a 7-11
I want to live in a country that recognizes the difference
Between
Fact and opinion
I want to live in a country that prosecutes the crimes of the wealthy
As vigorously as it does the crimes of the poor
I want to live in a country that appreciates the contributions
Of women
Enough
To pay them the same as men
I want to live in a country that tells the truth
About itself
Instead of hiding behind false myths
Don’t wake me up
I don’t want this beautiful dream
To
End
War
Abnormal
I want to live in a country where the prison population declines
Rather than increases
I want to live in a country that cares more about meeting human needs
Than meeting the corporate bottom line
I want to live in a country that doesn’t torture people
Under any circumstances
I want to live in a country where young black men
Have the opportunity
To become old black men
I want to live in a country that respects international law
All the time
Absolutely
I want to live in a country where the distance between rich and poor
Is a narrow creek
Not a wide ocean
I want to live in a country that reveres the natural world
Instead of treating it like a 7-11
I want to live in a country that recognizes the difference
Between
Fact and opinion
I want to live in a country that prosecutes the crimes of the wealthy
As vigorously as it does the crimes of the poor
I want to live in a country that appreciates the contributions
Of women
Enough
To pay them the same as men
I want to live in a country that tells the truth
About itself
Instead of hiding behind false myths
Don’t wake me up
I don’t want this beautiful dream
To
End
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Poem: Sometimes
Sometimes you must wait for Spring to banish
Winter
Sometimes you must wait until the caged bird
Sings
Sometimes you must wait for the water in the kettle to
Boil
Sometimes you must wait for the planets to
Align
Sometimes you must wait for the divorce to be declared
Final
Sometimes you must wait until the last child leaves for
College
Sometimes you must wait for the game to come to
You
Sometimes you must wait for your enemies to hang
Themselves
Sometimes you must wait for the past to repeat
Itself
And sometimes it all falls into place
Like magic
The words crawl across the page
Effortlessly
And this has nothing
To do
With
You
Winter
Sometimes you must wait until the caged bird
Sings
Sometimes you must wait for the water in the kettle to
Boil
Sometimes you must wait for the planets to
Align
Sometimes you must wait for the divorce to be declared
Final
Sometimes you must wait until the last child leaves for
College
Sometimes you must wait for the game to come to
You
Sometimes you must wait for your enemies to hang
Themselves
Sometimes you must wait for the past to repeat
Itself
And sometimes it all falls into place
Like magic
The words crawl across the page
Effortlessly
And this has nothing
To do
With
You
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Prayer and Strong Drink
The lunacy is just beginning. Strap yourself in and be prepared for a very rough ride, with thunderstorms and heavy turbulence from takeoff till landing. Pray, if you’re so inclined; drink heavily if you’re not.
Sarah Palin is crazy, fucking-certifiable-rubber room-straitjacket crazy. A recent CBS News poll found that 48% of respondents view Palin negatively. Among people in the sample group who identify themselves as political Independents, 44% took a dim view of the former Alaska governor.
Palin’s boy, Joe Miller, lost to a write-in candidate in the Alaska senate race.
Let’s recap: Palin has huge negatives and her personal support failed to put Joe Miller over the top on her own turf, but this doesn’t stop her from appearing on Good Morning America and insisting, without a hint of self-doubt, that she can beat President Obama in 2012.
Granted, Barack Obama is not the transformational politician many people thought he might be and many of his core supporters are deeply disappointed. Many expected Obama to challenge the status quo, but the man turned out to be the status quo’s staunchest defender, a fact that cost him and his party on November 2. Timidity and caution – on jobs, financial regulation, health care reform, state sanction of torture, and the never-ending wars – far more than the Tea Party, is what doomed the president in the mid-term elections. Stand for nothing, give ground on everything, and you will go down.
Thus far, signs that Obama learned his lesson from the mid-terms are not very encouraging. The president’s ball sack is still shrunken and his spine is as flexible as Gumby’s.
All things considered, however, it’s unlikely that American voters – dense and juvenile as they may be -- will abandon all reason and elect Sarah Palin president. Unlikely, yes; impossible, no. Weird shit is happening in American politics – check Michele Bachmann out if you doubt this – because the bar is set so low that a self-proclaimed witch could easily slither under it, and because the national economy is liable to remain in the doldrums until 2012.
So weird and perverse is the political zeitgeist that the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan hardly merited mention in the mid-term elections. No mystery as to why: both parties are totally complicit in these cock-ups and there was no advantage to gain by reminding voters of how much money and blood, for so little gain, has been poured into Iraq and Afghanistan. At a time when Americans are hurting for jobs and America is in dire need of rejuvenating social investment across the board, we’re dumping millions of our tax dollars into two countries where the population despises our presence. What’s astonishing is how little Americans seem to care. Obama’s 2011 troop drawdown in Afghanistan is in the process of being pushed back to 2014, solely because the US cannot stabilize the country in the next seven months. Hamid Karzai knows it. Mullah Omar knows it. David Petraeus knows it.
By 2014, the US will have been in Afghanistan for thirteen years and we will be no closer to victory then than we are today.
But swing back to Sarah Palin, the crazy lady who would be queen. If she does capture the GOP nomination, she’ll campaign on tried and true conservative tropes like tax cuts, tax cuts, and more tax cuts, along with mushy ideas like “freedom” and “free markets.” God will play a front and center role in Palin’s game plan, as will “personal responsibility” and “small government.” Palin will talk incessantly about the common sense of ordinary folks and the moral turpitude of Democrats and liberals and queers and university eggheads. Faith will be a constant theme.
Thinking Americans will be appalled and mortified that someone so ill-suited for any national office might actually fool enough people to win.
Here’s a thought that chills me to the bone: Palin is so ignorant that she makes W look smart.
Say another Hail Mary or pour another shot of whisky. Hold on. Here we go.
Sarah Palin is crazy, fucking-certifiable-rubber room-straitjacket crazy. A recent CBS News poll found that 48% of respondents view Palin negatively. Among people in the sample group who identify themselves as political Independents, 44% took a dim view of the former Alaska governor.
Palin’s boy, Joe Miller, lost to a write-in candidate in the Alaska senate race.
Let’s recap: Palin has huge negatives and her personal support failed to put Joe Miller over the top on her own turf, but this doesn’t stop her from appearing on Good Morning America and insisting, without a hint of self-doubt, that she can beat President Obama in 2012.
Granted, Barack Obama is not the transformational politician many people thought he might be and many of his core supporters are deeply disappointed. Many expected Obama to challenge the status quo, but the man turned out to be the status quo’s staunchest defender, a fact that cost him and his party on November 2. Timidity and caution – on jobs, financial regulation, health care reform, state sanction of torture, and the never-ending wars – far more than the Tea Party, is what doomed the president in the mid-term elections. Stand for nothing, give ground on everything, and you will go down.
Thus far, signs that Obama learned his lesson from the mid-terms are not very encouraging. The president’s ball sack is still shrunken and his spine is as flexible as Gumby’s.
All things considered, however, it’s unlikely that American voters – dense and juvenile as they may be -- will abandon all reason and elect Sarah Palin president. Unlikely, yes; impossible, no. Weird shit is happening in American politics – check Michele Bachmann out if you doubt this – because the bar is set so low that a self-proclaimed witch could easily slither under it, and because the national economy is liable to remain in the doldrums until 2012.
So weird and perverse is the political zeitgeist that the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan hardly merited mention in the mid-term elections. No mystery as to why: both parties are totally complicit in these cock-ups and there was no advantage to gain by reminding voters of how much money and blood, for so little gain, has been poured into Iraq and Afghanistan. At a time when Americans are hurting for jobs and America is in dire need of rejuvenating social investment across the board, we’re dumping millions of our tax dollars into two countries where the population despises our presence. What’s astonishing is how little Americans seem to care. Obama’s 2011 troop drawdown in Afghanistan is in the process of being pushed back to 2014, solely because the US cannot stabilize the country in the next seven months. Hamid Karzai knows it. Mullah Omar knows it. David Petraeus knows it.
By 2014, the US will have been in Afghanistan for thirteen years and we will be no closer to victory then than we are today.
But swing back to Sarah Palin, the crazy lady who would be queen. If she does capture the GOP nomination, she’ll campaign on tried and true conservative tropes like tax cuts, tax cuts, and more tax cuts, along with mushy ideas like “freedom” and “free markets.” God will play a front and center role in Palin’s game plan, as will “personal responsibility” and “small government.” Palin will talk incessantly about the common sense of ordinary folks and the moral turpitude of Democrats and liberals and queers and university eggheads. Faith will be a constant theme.
Thinking Americans will be appalled and mortified that someone so ill-suited for any national office might actually fool enough people to win.
Here’s a thought that chills me to the bone: Palin is so ignorant that she makes W look smart.
Say another Hail Mary or pour another shot of whisky. Hold on. Here we go.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Poem: 5:00 to a Fool
Good Morning America gave all of :30
To a story about Jewish settlements in Jerusalem
Offering no context or perspective
Before pivoting smartly to a 5:00 segment about Sarah Palin
Showing video footage of the ex-governor
As she spoke to friendly audiences
In her down-home, folksy style
Hung with Todd in Alaska
Watched Bristol dance
:30 to one of the most contentious issues in the world
5:00 to a woman who mistakes ignorance
For a virtue
And reduces complex issues to nonsensical sound bites
Is it any wonder that most Americans
Can’t tell fact from fiction
Matters of consequence
From trivia?
That they fall for the same false promises
Time and time again?
Hold contradictory beliefs?
Follow fools off the edge of the
Cliff?
No wonder whatsoever.
To a story about Jewish settlements in Jerusalem
Offering no context or perspective
Before pivoting smartly to a 5:00 segment about Sarah Palin
Showing video footage of the ex-governor
As she spoke to friendly audiences
In her down-home, folksy style
Hung with Todd in Alaska
Watched Bristol dance
:30 to one of the most contentious issues in the world
5:00 to a woman who mistakes ignorance
For a virtue
And reduces complex issues to nonsensical sound bites
Is it any wonder that most Americans
Can’t tell fact from fiction
Matters of consequence
From trivia?
That they fall for the same false promises
Time and time again?
Hold contradictory beliefs?
Follow fools off the edge of the
Cliff?
No wonder whatsoever.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
POEM: The Wrong Interview
W is back
Hawking his memoir
With the same self-satisfied certainty
The same smugness
He had when he declared “Mission Accomplished”
Now he re-tells facile lies about the threat Iraq
Posed to the U.S.
Insists that invading was the only option
That it wasn’t a mistake
Because Saddam is gone and 25 million
Iraqi’s are free
The American media is interviewing the wrong
Man
Ask an average Iraqi citizen about shortages
Of water and electricity
Of neighborhoods destroyed
Of families and friends gone
Of lives forever upended
Ask an Iraqi widow if life is better for her now
Than it was before America unleashed its fury
Find out how she feels about her freedom
As she maneuvers around concrete blast walls
Security checkpoints
Shootings
Bombings
Carnage
Ask questions that matter of people
Who suffer the consequences of W’s monumental
hubris
Ask Iraqi’s who languish in prison
How they feel as days become years
With no charges filed or due process
Allowed
Instead of talking to W
Go deeper with people who cannot
Walk away from the war
Settle into a quiet retirement on the ranch
Down in Texas
Ask the American mother whose only son
Was killed in Fallujah
If W’s invasion was worth it
Ask the American father whose only son came home
From two tours of duty
A ghost of his former self
If W’s occupation was worth it
For W it’s all about talking points
Spinning a tale
Burnishing his image
Convincing us that we are safer now
Better off
Never about the death and suffering he unleashed
On thousands of human beings
Hawking his memoir
With the same self-satisfied certainty
The same smugness
He had when he declared “Mission Accomplished”
Now he re-tells facile lies about the threat Iraq
Posed to the U.S.
Insists that invading was the only option
That it wasn’t a mistake
Because Saddam is gone and 25 million
Iraqi’s are free
The American media is interviewing the wrong
Man
Ask an average Iraqi citizen about shortages
Of water and electricity
Of neighborhoods destroyed
Of families and friends gone
Of lives forever upended
Ask an Iraqi widow if life is better for her now
Than it was before America unleashed its fury
Find out how she feels about her freedom
As she maneuvers around concrete blast walls
Security checkpoints
Shootings
Bombings
Carnage
Ask questions that matter of people
Who suffer the consequences of W’s monumental
hubris
Ask Iraqi’s who languish in prison
How they feel as days become years
With no charges filed or due process
Allowed
Instead of talking to W
Go deeper with people who cannot
Walk away from the war
Settle into a quiet retirement on the ranch
Down in Texas
Ask the American mother whose only son
Was killed in Fallujah
If W’s invasion was worth it
Ask the American father whose only son came home
From two tours of duty
A ghost of his former self
If W’s occupation was worth it
For W it’s all about talking points
Spinning a tale
Burnishing his image
Convincing us that we are safer now
Better off
Never about the death and suffering he unleashed
On thousands of human beings
Thursday, November 04, 2010
End of the World? Hardly
It’s all about 2012 now.
Forget reaching across the aisle and working together in harmony for the good of the country – the sole aim of John Boehner and his pal Mitch McConnell from now until 2012 is to make the Obama Administration look inept, corrupt or any combination of the two.
Watching the midterm election returns was excruciating and not just because the Democrats took the beating every political expert – and American history itself – predicted they would. ABC News gushed that it was a Republican “tidal wave.” The New York Times called the results “historic.”
Not really. With few exceptions the party in power gets thumped in the midterms. In 1958 Ike Eisenhower’s Republicans lost 48 House seats and 9 Senate seats; in1992 Clinton’s Democrats lost 54 House seats and 9 Senate seats and watched control of both houses pass to the Republicans.
Obama’s Dems lost 60 House seats but retained narrow control of the Senate despite the worst economic conditions since the Great Depression. Given the terrible economy, which, please remember, was brought to us by almost continuous Republican misrule during the last decade, the Dems should have taken an even worse drubbing.
Watching the Republicans and the Tea Party nuts the other night was no less side splitting than a Saturday Night Live skit. From Christine O’Donnell calling utter defeat a victory to Crazy Carl Palladino wielding a baseball bat to John Boehner weeping as he described how he worked his way through college, it was hilarious theatre. (Side note: Is it just my twisted perspective or does Eric Cantor from Virginia look like he was sent from central casting to play a diabolical Waffen-SS colonel? That dude scares me – he’s got neo-fascist written all over him. Outfit him with jackboots and a riding crop and he’d happily stomp the shit out of gays, lesbians, illegal immigrants and union members.)
John Boehner, let’s not forget, is one of the most corrupt members of a corruption-ridden body, a man who boldly handed out checks from tobacco industry lobbyists on the floor of the House and was shocked when the propriety of his behavior was questioned, a man who has been in the breast pocket of Corporate America since he was elected to the House in 1991, and a man who wouldn’t know a small business owner if he tripped over him on his way to the tanning salon.
Euphoric with victory, one Republican after another mouthed the same old tropes: tax cuts, small government, free enterprise, capitalism, founding fathers, the American people have spoken, yada, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah – like 2000 and 2004 all over again. The GOP sings one tune and one tune only but give them credit for mastering that one song and convincing voters that people like Boehner, McConnell and Cantor care as much about average people as they do about their corporate benefactors.
Though Republican fingerprints are all over the current economic mess, voters took their frustrations and fears out on Barack Obama and the Democrats. This is the way the political game plays in America. Media barons and leading talking heads are making full-throated unanimous calls for Obama to move toward the political center, as if he has been living on and governing from the extreme left edge since 2009. This is pure hogwash, of course; is it possible that many Obama supporters from 2008 stayed home because their man has operated too far to the right?
Obama hasn’t helped his cause much over the past twenty-one months: he ceded control of the all important narrative to obdurate Republicans and Tea Party fruit loops, reacted too timidly and tardily on the economy and jobs, surrounded himself with Wall Street flunkies, failed to explain why health care reform was critical and how it would make the lives of real Americans better, and time and again tried to make nice with Republicans who had no intention of reciprocating. Obama clings to the hope that he can persuade the GOP to compromise the same way a cheetah clings to the throat of a gazelle.
It will get ugly now. Come January House Republicans will rule Congressional committees and have subpoena power – and you can bet they will not hesitate to use it. What will Obama’s Whitewater be? How much time, effort and taxpayer money will the Republicans piss away chasing every whiff of scandal?
Election night was long and dark and the forecast for the days and months to come calls for more of the same.
Forget reaching across the aisle and working together in harmony for the good of the country – the sole aim of John Boehner and his pal Mitch McConnell from now until 2012 is to make the Obama Administration look inept, corrupt or any combination of the two.
Watching the midterm election returns was excruciating and not just because the Democrats took the beating every political expert – and American history itself – predicted they would. ABC News gushed that it was a Republican “tidal wave.” The New York Times called the results “historic.”
Not really. With few exceptions the party in power gets thumped in the midterms. In 1958 Ike Eisenhower’s Republicans lost 48 House seats and 9 Senate seats; in1992 Clinton’s Democrats lost 54 House seats and 9 Senate seats and watched control of both houses pass to the Republicans.
Obama’s Dems lost 60 House seats but retained narrow control of the Senate despite the worst economic conditions since the Great Depression. Given the terrible economy, which, please remember, was brought to us by almost continuous Republican misrule during the last decade, the Dems should have taken an even worse drubbing.
Watching the Republicans and the Tea Party nuts the other night was no less side splitting than a Saturday Night Live skit. From Christine O’Donnell calling utter defeat a victory to Crazy Carl Palladino wielding a baseball bat to John Boehner weeping as he described how he worked his way through college, it was hilarious theatre. (Side note: Is it just my twisted perspective or does Eric Cantor from Virginia look like he was sent from central casting to play a diabolical Waffen-SS colonel? That dude scares me – he’s got neo-fascist written all over him. Outfit him with jackboots and a riding crop and he’d happily stomp the shit out of gays, lesbians, illegal immigrants and union members.)
John Boehner, let’s not forget, is one of the most corrupt members of a corruption-ridden body, a man who boldly handed out checks from tobacco industry lobbyists on the floor of the House and was shocked when the propriety of his behavior was questioned, a man who has been in the breast pocket of Corporate America since he was elected to the House in 1991, and a man who wouldn’t know a small business owner if he tripped over him on his way to the tanning salon.
Euphoric with victory, one Republican after another mouthed the same old tropes: tax cuts, small government, free enterprise, capitalism, founding fathers, the American people have spoken, yada, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah – like 2000 and 2004 all over again. The GOP sings one tune and one tune only but give them credit for mastering that one song and convincing voters that people like Boehner, McConnell and Cantor care as much about average people as they do about their corporate benefactors.
Though Republican fingerprints are all over the current economic mess, voters took their frustrations and fears out on Barack Obama and the Democrats. This is the way the political game plays in America. Media barons and leading talking heads are making full-throated unanimous calls for Obama to move toward the political center, as if he has been living on and governing from the extreme left edge since 2009. This is pure hogwash, of course; is it possible that many Obama supporters from 2008 stayed home because their man has operated too far to the right?
Obama hasn’t helped his cause much over the past twenty-one months: he ceded control of the all important narrative to obdurate Republicans and Tea Party fruit loops, reacted too timidly and tardily on the economy and jobs, surrounded himself with Wall Street flunkies, failed to explain why health care reform was critical and how it would make the lives of real Americans better, and time and again tried to make nice with Republicans who had no intention of reciprocating. Obama clings to the hope that he can persuade the GOP to compromise the same way a cheetah clings to the throat of a gazelle.
It will get ugly now. Come January House Republicans will rule Congressional committees and have subpoena power – and you can bet they will not hesitate to use it. What will Obama’s Whitewater be? How much time, effort and taxpayer money will the Republicans piss away chasing every whiff of scandal?
Election night was long and dark and the forecast for the days and months to come calls for more of the same.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Poem: Headlines & Breadlines
LA Times, October 29, 2010
Front page headline – “GDP grew at weak 2% rate in 3rd quarter.”
Another headline in the same edition proclaims:
“Stocks edge up to close strong October.”
I guess this explains why people are so confused
And angry
Fearful of the future
No matter how much people suffer and struggle
In this broken economy
Stock speculators in the Wall Street casino
Still make money
Hand over fist
In the time it took to write this poem
Some poor soul in these United States
Lost his job
Another lost her house
And someone else received a hospital bill
It will take a lifetime of toil to pay
And the richest 1% became even richer
Front page headline – “GDP grew at weak 2% rate in 3rd quarter.”
Another headline in the same edition proclaims:
“Stocks edge up to close strong October.”
I guess this explains why people are so confused
And angry
Fearful of the future
No matter how much people suffer and struggle
In this broken economy
Stock speculators in the Wall Street casino
Still make money
Hand over fist
In the time it took to write this poem
Some poor soul in these United States
Lost his job
Another lost her house
And someone else received a hospital bill
It will take a lifetime of toil to pay
And the richest 1% became even richer
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Fiction: Beggar's Kaleidoscope
In April I saw a man standing on the steps of city hall, dressed in grimy Army surplus fatigues, waving half a soiled American flag and chanting, “Dee-troit is the future of America. Dee-troit is coming to this city.” He kept on chanting until two police cruisers arrived and removed him.
In June four banks were held up in the space of three days. The perpetrators were white, Mexican and African-American. The white guy hit two different banks on the same day. The police determined that the holdups and perpetrators were in no way related. The Mexican crook made off with more loot than the African-American.
I felt like I was living inside a kaleidoscope of images and sound, information, voices and pulsing neon signs -- or that I was permanently high on powerful hallucinogens. Everything was chaotic and haphazard, unsure and uneasy – the streets were alive, and dangerous. I couldn’t get over the thought that my life and all the lives being lived around me had been reduced to its price in dollars, its perceived value on the great market, no different from rice, corn, oil, soybeans, prescription drugs, condoms -- everything had been turned into a commodity.
For the rich it was the best of times, a heyday, a non-stop XXL extravaganza, even while the number of poor swelled to a degree that was becoming difficult to ignore. I saw this with my own eyes and from inside the poor’s ranks. It became commonplace to see senior citizens carrying bags and boxes into the food bank. As more homeless people appeared downtown, local merchants bombarded City Hall with complaints. “They’re killing my business,” one storeowner told the local newspaper. “I wish they’d go someplace else.” But there was no place else any better, and most places were worse. To quell the complaints of the merchant class, the police chased the homeless from public benches and public parks, and made life untenable for people who had resorted to living in their cars or RV’s.
On the 4th of July, as I watched fireworks arc over the waterfront, I remembered the protests against the American invasion of Iraq in 2003, how along with 5,000 others I marched up the main street of town, while millions worldwide did the same, to the sound of chants, drums, horns and whistles. Overwhelming public sentiment against the invasion was brushed aside by Bush and Blair like lint brushed from the sleeve of a suit; the Coalition of the Willing, which, I now remember, included the nation of Togo, was unstoppable. Calling it a “war” even though Iraq had never attacked or threatened American soil, fear mongers and liars at the highest levels of the government had decided on a preemptive strike and no amount of public protest could dissuade them. During the days of Shock and Awe I learned that language is one of the first casualties of war, that civilian deaths become collateral damage and that the meaning of the word “enemy” changes as needed to fit circumstances. Iraq was destroyed, thousands were killed and no WMD were ever found.
Time spins forward to the fall of 2008. The world financial system is on its knees, reeling after years of unregulated high stakes gambles on derivatives, CDO’s and other exotic financial instruments nobody really can explain. Without so much as ten minutes of public debate, billions of taxpayer dollars are handed to the Secretary of the Treasury – a Wall Street alum and a man of stupendous personal wealth – who demands and receives a blank check to operate as he deems fit, meaning few rules and limited oversight. Scared witless, Congress accedes to this demand. Banks and investment houses that should – by every holy law of the great, infallible market – have lost their shirts and been allowed to die are made whole by the taxpayers. Once again language is a casualty, as the transfers are called a “bailout” rather than more pejorative terms like welfare, assistance, the public dole. Had someone proposed that a billion dollars be devoted to end poverty or homelessness or provide jobs for the unemployed, there would have been a revolt among the ruling class.
For more than a month the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico dominates the news, but once the well is capped, the story disappears. Worst oil disaster in US history, unknown long-term ecological damage, and it’s right back to business as usual as if nothing happened. Where did all that spilled oil go? Is Gulf seafood safe to eat?
Free market myths permeate every facet of life, from the corridors of government to the classrooms of public schools. Standardized test scores become the benchmark of learning and schools make no excuses for teaching to the tests. Educators stop talking about critical thinking skills, the curriculum narrows, focuses obsessively on math and language arts; schools that fail to meet mandated targets are singled out for sanctions. Teachers and their labor unions are excoriated. Aspirants for high political office are compelled to promise to run government like a business.
I sense that the center is collapsing, pulling apart. I sit in the small park across the street from the building where I once worked, on a low wall at noon, watching people I once bid “Good morning” to come and go, thinking about the job that kept me on the lower end of the middle class for seventeen years. Until the economy tanked I was a low-level public servant with a salary, health insurance and a pension. First came forced furloughs, then pay rollbacks, and then a dozen of us were released, separated, terminated on a Friday afternoon just before close of business, escorted to the front door by the personnel director. Fiscal austerity.
American-style capitalism has run amok, turned on itself as it does periodically, and now gnaws its own bone and marrow. Marx rolls over in his tomb and smiles. Sensing a potential tipping point, the wealthy class goes on the offensive, using all the machinery of power at its command. While average citizens lose homes and jobs in droves, every major American newscast includes a stock market report, as if the stock market and citizens hold a common stake, as if the stock market and the economy are one and the same. The Supreme Court reinforces whom it really works for when it rules against the Federal Election Commission in the Citizens United case. Predictably, anonymous millions pour into the campaign coffers of candidates pledged to defend and advance the Big Business agenda. The wealthy and well-connected manage the terms of public discourse, keep the focus tight on budget deficits and tax rates at a time when state and local governments are slashing services for the poor and unfortunate, slashing public education, slashing health programs for the young and elderly. I think the country has lost its soul, its heart, and its compassion. As I dumpster dive for bottles and aluminum cans I decide that I don’t give a fuck about budget deficits. Nobody I know does either. I want a roof over my head, heat, and a refrigerator, but what I want most of all, more than anything in fact, is my old bed, my blankets and pillows. I could sleep for twelve days straight.
Madness passes for sanity. The cost of the country’s foreign wars go largely unmentioned, and the budgets for the wars are sacrosanct. Iraq takes its place alongside Germany and Japan and Guam and Spain and Iceland and Italy and South Korea as hosts to permanent American bases. I hear a cost estimate related to the Afghan debacle: a million dollars per soldier per year. Only a hedge fund manager can wrap his head around such numbers.
All across the country people are furious, raging, but their temper is misplaced, directed at the government when it is corporations that are culpable. Why can’t people see this? Don’t rant about tax rates, I want to scream, rant about the horrible waste in Afghanistan and Iraq, the sprawling, costly, out-sourced Security-Intelligence apparatus that grew out of 9/11. Rant about tax subsidies to Big Oil, Big Pharma and Big Agriculture. Follow the money from your wallet, through the laundering operation that is the United States Congress to the clients of powerful lobbyists. That is the root cause of your economic pain, the death of your American Dream, the reason your children face a future of diminished expectations.
Ask why the income gap between rich and poor is so wide.
But nobody listens to street people. We are glanced at but not seen; some of us are assaulted, even murdered, our bodies left by the railroad tracks for days. No one mourns for us.
Capitalism and heroin junkies can never sate their need. The rules of the game demand more, more, more, no matter the cost to people, communities, or the environment. More, more, more -- drill deeper, grow bigger, cut corners, whatever it takes to get more, more, more. Satisfy the beast.
A bearded man in a black suit two sizes too small, wearing a crown of thorns fashioned from aluminum foil, stands on the corner by the museum, screaming at the top of his voice: “It’s the end of the world.” The man seems to be the only person within a hundred miles not in total denial; he has walked in the valley, studied the dust, read the signs and portents. “They own your soul,” he screams at passersby. He will not be the least surprised when the sky darkens and the sun goes out for good.
In June four banks were held up in the space of three days. The perpetrators were white, Mexican and African-American. The white guy hit two different banks on the same day. The police determined that the holdups and perpetrators were in no way related. The Mexican crook made off with more loot than the African-American.
I felt like I was living inside a kaleidoscope of images and sound, information, voices and pulsing neon signs -- or that I was permanently high on powerful hallucinogens. Everything was chaotic and haphazard, unsure and uneasy – the streets were alive, and dangerous. I couldn’t get over the thought that my life and all the lives being lived around me had been reduced to its price in dollars, its perceived value on the great market, no different from rice, corn, oil, soybeans, prescription drugs, condoms -- everything had been turned into a commodity.
For the rich it was the best of times, a heyday, a non-stop XXL extravaganza, even while the number of poor swelled to a degree that was becoming difficult to ignore. I saw this with my own eyes and from inside the poor’s ranks. It became commonplace to see senior citizens carrying bags and boxes into the food bank. As more homeless people appeared downtown, local merchants bombarded City Hall with complaints. “They’re killing my business,” one storeowner told the local newspaper. “I wish they’d go someplace else.” But there was no place else any better, and most places were worse. To quell the complaints of the merchant class, the police chased the homeless from public benches and public parks, and made life untenable for people who had resorted to living in their cars or RV’s.
On the 4th of July, as I watched fireworks arc over the waterfront, I remembered the protests against the American invasion of Iraq in 2003, how along with 5,000 others I marched up the main street of town, while millions worldwide did the same, to the sound of chants, drums, horns and whistles. Overwhelming public sentiment against the invasion was brushed aside by Bush and Blair like lint brushed from the sleeve of a suit; the Coalition of the Willing, which, I now remember, included the nation of Togo, was unstoppable. Calling it a “war” even though Iraq had never attacked or threatened American soil, fear mongers and liars at the highest levels of the government had decided on a preemptive strike and no amount of public protest could dissuade them. During the days of Shock and Awe I learned that language is one of the first casualties of war, that civilian deaths become collateral damage and that the meaning of the word “enemy” changes as needed to fit circumstances. Iraq was destroyed, thousands were killed and no WMD were ever found.
Time spins forward to the fall of 2008. The world financial system is on its knees, reeling after years of unregulated high stakes gambles on derivatives, CDO’s and other exotic financial instruments nobody really can explain. Without so much as ten minutes of public debate, billions of taxpayer dollars are handed to the Secretary of the Treasury – a Wall Street alum and a man of stupendous personal wealth – who demands and receives a blank check to operate as he deems fit, meaning few rules and limited oversight. Scared witless, Congress accedes to this demand. Banks and investment houses that should – by every holy law of the great, infallible market – have lost their shirts and been allowed to die are made whole by the taxpayers. Once again language is a casualty, as the transfers are called a “bailout” rather than more pejorative terms like welfare, assistance, the public dole. Had someone proposed that a billion dollars be devoted to end poverty or homelessness or provide jobs for the unemployed, there would have been a revolt among the ruling class.
For more than a month the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico dominates the news, but once the well is capped, the story disappears. Worst oil disaster in US history, unknown long-term ecological damage, and it’s right back to business as usual as if nothing happened. Where did all that spilled oil go? Is Gulf seafood safe to eat?
Free market myths permeate every facet of life, from the corridors of government to the classrooms of public schools. Standardized test scores become the benchmark of learning and schools make no excuses for teaching to the tests. Educators stop talking about critical thinking skills, the curriculum narrows, focuses obsessively on math and language arts; schools that fail to meet mandated targets are singled out for sanctions. Teachers and their labor unions are excoriated. Aspirants for high political office are compelled to promise to run government like a business.
I sense that the center is collapsing, pulling apart. I sit in the small park across the street from the building where I once worked, on a low wall at noon, watching people I once bid “Good morning” to come and go, thinking about the job that kept me on the lower end of the middle class for seventeen years. Until the economy tanked I was a low-level public servant with a salary, health insurance and a pension. First came forced furloughs, then pay rollbacks, and then a dozen of us were released, separated, terminated on a Friday afternoon just before close of business, escorted to the front door by the personnel director. Fiscal austerity.
American-style capitalism has run amok, turned on itself as it does periodically, and now gnaws its own bone and marrow. Marx rolls over in his tomb and smiles. Sensing a potential tipping point, the wealthy class goes on the offensive, using all the machinery of power at its command. While average citizens lose homes and jobs in droves, every major American newscast includes a stock market report, as if the stock market and citizens hold a common stake, as if the stock market and the economy are one and the same. The Supreme Court reinforces whom it really works for when it rules against the Federal Election Commission in the Citizens United case. Predictably, anonymous millions pour into the campaign coffers of candidates pledged to defend and advance the Big Business agenda. The wealthy and well-connected manage the terms of public discourse, keep the focus tight on budget deficits and tax rates at a time when state and local governments are slashing services for the poor and unfortunate, slashing public education, slashing health programs for the young and elderly. I think the country has lost its soul, its heart, and its compassion. As I dumpster dive for bottles and aluminum cans I decide that I don’t give a fuck about budget deficits. Nobody I know does either. I want a roof over my head, heat, and a refrigerator, but what I want most of all, more than anything in fact, is my old bed, my blankets and pillows. I could sleep for twelve days straight.
Madness passes for sanity. The cost of the country’s foreign wars go largely unmentioned, and the budgets for the wars are sacrosanct. Iraq takes its place alongside Germany and Japan and Guam and Spain and Iceland and Italy and South Korea as hosts to permanent American bases. I hear a cost estimate related to the Afghan debacle: a million dollars per soldier per year. Only a hedge fund manager can wrap his head around such numbers.
All across the country people are furious, raging, but their temper is misplaced, directed at the government when it is corporations that are culpable. Why can’t people see this? Don’t rant about tax rates, I want to scream, rant about the horrible waste in Afghanistan and Iraq, the sprawling, costly, out-sourced Security-Intelligence apparatus that grew out of 9/11. Rant about tax subsidies to Big Oil, Big Pharma and Big Agriculture. Follow the money from your wallet, through the laundering operation that is the United States Congress to the clients of powerful lobbyists. That is the root cause of your economic pain, the death of your American Dream, the reason your children face a future of diminished expectations.
Ask why the income gap between rich and poor is so wide.
But nobody listens to street people. We are glanced at but not seen; some of us are assaulted, even murdered, our bodies left by the railroad tracks for days. No one mourns for us.
Capitalism and heroin junkies can never sate their need. The rules of the game demand more, more, more, no matter the cost to people, communities, or the environment. More, more, more -- drill deeper, grow bigger, cut corners, whatever it takes to get more, more, more. Satisfy the beast.
A bearded man in a black suit two sizes too small, wearing a crown of thorns fashioned from aluminum foil, stands on the corner by the museum, screaming at the top of his voice: “It’s the end of the world.” The man seems to be the only person within a hundred miles not in total denial; he has walked in the valley, studied the dust, read the signs and portents. “They own your soul,” he screams at passersby. He will not be the least surprised when the sky darkens and the sun goes out for good.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Poem - The Winner and Still Champion
I’m not afraid to die
I’m not afraid to die
I’m not afraid to die
That’s not true
Nobody wants to die
But death is what every one of us has in common
Death is coming and unlike
Life
Death plays no favorites
The end is known at the beginning
But very few people posses the courage
To give the end much thought
We think we will live forever
Outwit
Dementia
Cancer
Shingles
Toe fungus
Kidney stones
Arthritis
Impotence
Depression
Osteoporosis
Outwit every calamity and spend eternity
In heaven
With our loved ones
Old friends
Pets
Happily ever after
Forever and ever
Amen
Death laughs at our conceit
And bides its time
We are stone and death is water
And we know who wins that fight
Don’t we?
I’m not afraid to die
I’m not afraid to die
That’s not true
Nobody wants to die
But death is what every one of us has in common
Death is coming and unlike
Life
Death plays no favorites
The end is known at the beginning
But very few people posses the courage
To give the end much thought
We think we will live forever
Outwit
Dementia
Cancer
Shingles
Toe fungus
Kidney stones
Arthritis
Impotence
Depression
Osteoporosis
Outwit every calamity and spend eternity
In heaven
With our loved ones
Old friends
Pets
Happily ever after
Forever and ever
Amen
Death laughs at our conceit
And bides its time
We are stone and death is water
And we know who wins that fight
Don’t we?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Broken Promises, Bitter Tea
Is it November 2nd yet? I can’t take much more of the lies and misinformation that clog the radio, the TV and the Internet, the silly assertions that candidate X will, like a superhero, single-handedly reform Sacramento or Washington D.C.
One small blessing this season is that there hasn’t been a deluge of direct mail pieces.
There are many things about American politics that I don’t understand. Sarah Palin’s popularity has baffled me since John McCain jettisoned reason and tapped her as his running mate. Palin struck me as a stone idiot in 2008 and my opinion hasn’t budged one centimeter since. Palin’s pronouncements are as absurd as her grasp of American history is weak, though I grant that she is clever and opportunistic and has imbibed the code words of the far right: “government” run health care, socialism, freedom, liberty, free markets and so on. Getting back to good old American values and Christian faith makes for pithy sound bites, but poor public policy.
In Palin’s world, as in Orwell’s 1984, ignorance is strength and lies are truth.
The Tea Party is another. Where was the Tea Party during the reign of George W. Bush and Uncle Dick Cheney? Bush and Cheney didn’t exactly shrink the role of the federal government, but as far as I can recall, angry white people didn’t flood the streets demanding the abolishment of Social Security, Medicare and the Department of Education during Bush’s eight years of misrule.
It was only when a moderate, inherently cautious black man moved into the White House that the Tea Party flared to life, powered by secret financial donors and far right front groups. The mainstream media can’t get enough of the Tea Party, covering its rallies and whacky, incoherent proclamations, all of which make the Tea Party seem stronger and more ubiquitous than it actually is. Tea Party candidates who should be muzzled and locked away in padded rooms are treated like prophets, fawned over by the talking heads on the major network news programs.
The government that the Tea Party and far right conservatives excoriate and blame for our ills is the only force capable of reining in runaway corporate power.
How did we get into this mess?
The attacks of September 11, 2001 shattered America’s psyche, and the reactive military response launched by Bush – first in Afghanistan and then in Iraq – contributed to the breaking of our national treasury, not to mention vividly demonstrating the limits of brute force. We can bomb the hell out of a country with our high-tech weapons, murder thousands of non-combatants, and -- when the smoke clears and the dust settles -- find ourselves in a quagmire from which there is no easy escape.
Add the financial meltdown of 2008 into the mix and it’s no wonder that the United States has become the Kingdom of Fear. Americans are fearful that our best days are past and that the economic, political and environmental problems facing us are insurmountable; Americans sense that the way our economy is organized is deeply flawed and that money has corrupted our politics and rendered the wants and needs of average citizens irrelevant.
Whenever fear takes hold, the need for scapegoats increases and reactionary forces rise up and attack anyone who seems different or dangerous: gays, immigrants, Muslims, atheists, liberals, dissidents. Fear breeds polarization between those who want to break from convention and those who want to hold onto it at any cost. Every moderate and sensible idea that surfaces is drowned out by the caterwauling of extremists and ideologues.
November 2nd will come and go but these dark and dangerous times will remain.
One small blessing this season is that there hasn’t been a deluge of direct mail pieces.
There are many things about American politics that I don’t understand. Sarah Palin’s popularity has baffled me since John McCain jettisoned reason and tapped her as his running mate. Palin struck me as a stone idiot in 2008 and my opinion hasn’t budged one centimeter since. Palin’s pronouncements are as absurd as her grasp of American history is weak, though I grant that she is clever and opportunistic and has imbibed the code words of the far right: “government” run health care, socialism, freedom, liberty, free markets and so on. Getting back to good old American values and Christian faith makes for pithy sound bites, but poor public policy.
In Palin’s world, as in Orwell’s 1984, ignorance is strength and lies are truth.
The Tea Party is another. Where was the Tea Party during the reign of George W. Bush and Uncle Dick Cheney? Bush and Cheney didn’t exactly shrink the role of the federal government, but as far as I can recall, angry white people didn’t flood the streets demanding the abolishment of Social Security, Medicare and the Department of Education during Bush’s eight years of misrule.
It was only when a moderate, inherently cautious black man moved into the White House that the Tea Party flared to life, powered by secret financial donors and far right front groups. The mainstream media can’t get enough of the Tea Party, covering its rallies and whacky, incoherent proclamations, all of which make the Tea Party seem stronger and more ubiquitous than it actually is. Tea Party candidates who should be muzzled and locked away in padded rooms are treated like prophets, fawned over by the talking heads on the major network news programs.
The government that the Tea Party and far right conservatives excoriate and blame for our ills is the only force capable of reining in runaway corporate power.
How did we get into this mess?
The attacks of September 11, 2001 shattered America’s psyche, and the reactive military response launched by Bush – first in Afghanistan and then in Iraq – contributed to the breaking of our national treasury, not to mention vividly demonstrating the limits of brute force. We can bomb the hell out of a country with our high-tech weapons, murder thousands of non-combatants, and -- when the smoke clears and the dust settles -- find ourselves in a quagmire from which there is no easy escape.
Add the financial meltdown of 2008 into the mix and it’s no wonder that the United States has become the Kingdom of Fear. Americans are fearful that our best days are past and that the economic, political and environmental problems facing us are insurmountable; Americans sense that the way our economy is organized is deeply flawed and that money has corrupted our politics and rendered the wants and needs of average citizens irrelevant.
Whenever fear takes hold, the need for scapegoats increases and reactionary forces rise up and attack anyone who seems different or dangerous: gays, immigrants, Muslims, atheists, liberals, dissidents. Fear breeds polarization between those who want to break from convention and those who want to hold onto it at any cost. Every moderate and sensible idea that surfaces is drowned out by the caterwauling of extremists and ideologues.
November 2nd will come and go but these dark and dangerous times will remain.
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Poem: Age of Snooki
American life is riddled with
Contradictions;
We claim to want peace
While arming ourselves to the teeth;
We claim to be ruled by law
But break the law whenever it suits
Our purpose;
We obsess about education
How our kids score on standardized tests
Compare to the Germans and Japanese
In Math & Science
Wring our hands over the decline
Of basic literacy;
We demand better teachers
More accountability
Less bureaucracy;
But ask us to pay a dime more
In taxes
And we’ll spit in your eye
Night after night on TV
We celebrate people who strut their stupidity
Boast of having read one or two
Books in their entire lifetimes
Happy know-nothings
Like Sarah Palin
Who
In a normal country
Would be laughed all the way back
To
Alaska
Stupid can make you famous
And famous can make you rich
At least until someone more outrageously
Stupid
Comes along
Right Snooki?
Right Kim?
Right Heidi?
Contradictions;
We claim to want peace
While arming ourselves to the teeth;
We claim to be ruled by law
But break the law whenever it suits
Our purpose;
We obsess about education
How our kids score on standardized tests
Compare to the Germans and Japanese
In Math & Science
Wring our hands over the decline
Of basic literacy;
We demand better teachers
More accountability
Less bureaucracy;
But ask us to pay a dime more
In taxes
And we’ll spit in your eye
Night after night on TV
We celebrate people who strut their stupidity
Boast of having read one or two
Books in their entire lifetimes
Happy know-nothings
Like Sarah Palin
Who
In a normal country
Would be laughed all the way back
To
Alaska
Stupid can make you famous
And famous can make you rich
At least until someone more outrageously
Stupid
Comes along
Right Snooki?
Right Kim?
Right Heidi?
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Poem: AARP Has My Number
For $16 a year I can become
A card-carrying member
Of their club
(even though I’m not retired)
They promise discounts on rental cars and Rx drugs
A monthly magazine featuring folks like me
Sort of
They entice me with the possibility of joining a local chapter
Mingling over watery instant coffee and stale pastries
With other old farts
Sharing photographs of grandchildren (I have none)
Gripes about Social Security
Complaints about our ailments
You make me feel old, AARP
Like a fossil
Where did the years go?
How did you get my number?
And now that you have it
Will you ever leave me alone?
I’m not one of you
Not yet
Anyway
I don’t give a damn what the calendar
Says
A card-carrying member
Of their club
(even though I’m not retired)
They promise discounts on rental cars and Rx drugs
A monthly magazine featuring folks like me
Sort of
They entice me with the possibility of joining a local chapter
Mingling over watery instant coffee and stale pastries
With other old farts
Sharing photographs of grandchildren (I have none)
Gripes about Social Security
Complaints about our ailments
You make me feel old, AARP
Like a fossil
Where did the years go?
How did you get my number?
And now that you have it
Will you ever leave me alone?
I’m not one of you
Not yet
Anyway
I don’t give a damn what the calendar
Says
Friday, October 01, 2010
The Real Obama
I didn’t recognize the fiery guy speaking to college students in Wisconsin. He looked like President Obama but spoke like candidate Obama – the man I cast my vote for in 2008 -- and watched take the oath of office on a cold January day a few months later.
Hope was in the air. Bush and Cheney were no more. A fresh wind was blowing across the country. But then a strange thing happened – or perhaps it wasn’t strange at all. When Obama moved into the White House he lost his mojo and began behaving like a typical corporate Democrat.
Now Obama chastises the very people who worked their tails off to get him elected.
That’s what I call audacity. It takes large balls to hector your political base, particularly when your party stands an excellent chance of being shellacked in the mid-term elections.
It’s one thing to ignore the concerns of your base for a year and a half while surrounding yourself with Clinton-era apparatchiks, Goldman Sachs alumni, the likes of Larry Summers and Tim Geithner, and quite another to accuse your base of apathy.
Hey, Obama, who betrayed whom here?
But OK, let’s be fair. Barack Obama began his presidency in a hole filled with stagnant, foul-smelling water. Generally speaking, Americans have the collective memory of a goldfish and most people have forgotten the mess George W. Bush and Dick Cheney left the country in; those cretins handed Obama the keys to a ruined country and beat it out of Washington D.C.
On the other hand, Obama didn’t do himself any favors by stocking his team with the very people who planted and nurtured the seeds of our financial meltdown. Let’s not forget, amnesiac America, that it was Bill Clinton who passed NAFTA and the Commodity Futures Modernization Act, Bill Clinton who made happy with Robert Rubin and the moguls of Corporate America, and Bill Clinton who triangulated the Democratic Party so far toward the center that at times it’s indistinguishable from the GOP.
For a year and a half all we’ve seen is the passionless version of Obama, a cerebral, cool-headed, fair-minded fellow who allows himself to be maligned by right-wing radio hacks, Tea Party nut jobs, racists, and limp dicks like John Boehner and Mitch McConnell. Obama has spent more time defending himself against charges that he is a closet Muslim than he has pushing an agenda that might help working Americans.
Obama squandered his political advantage (deep public support and Democratic control of the House and Senate) on tepid financial system reforms, a gutless health care overhaul, a failed program to assist homeowners facing foreclosure, and a sucker bet on Afghanistan. He bought in to deficit hysteria and the trumped up Social Security crisis. He hasn’t done squat on the environmental front except spew misinformation about “clean” coal.
On a progressive report card, Obama gets a D-minus.
But more egregious still is the way Obama and his team completely misread the economic hardship that has hammered average Americans since 2009. The Wall Street-centric advisors surrounding Obama bailed out the banks and made sure the financial sector was protected, while leaving the working class to fend for itself at a time when only government can provide jobs in sufficient numbers to start a real recovery.
When bold proposals were needed, Obama offered half measures. When the situation demanded a coherent narrative of what Democrats stand for and whose interests they represent, Obama remained aloof, speaking in nuanced terms and reaching his hand across the aisle only to have the GOP spit in his palm.
When it was time to come out of his corner swinging, Obama came out holding a wilted olive branch.
Now, with his poll numbers sliding toward oblivion and John Boehner measuring Nancy Pelosi’s office for new drapes and carpet, Obama hits the campaign trail to fire up the base and the last of the believers. The man still makes a stirring speech, but hope and change are hard sells now, with the gap between rich and poor Americans wider than at any time since the Roaring 20’s, unemployment high and holding, and more Americans living in poverty than there have been in 50 years.
The audacity of hope has morphed into cowardice, the promise of change into protection of the status quo.
Will the real Obama stand up and remain standing before it’s too late?
Hope was in the air. Bush and Cheney were no more. A fresh wind was blowing across the country. But then a strange thing happened – or perhaps it wasn’t strange at all. When Obama moved into the White House he lost his mojo and began behaving like a typical corporate Democrat.
Now Obama chastises the very people who worked their tails off to get him elected.
That’s what I call audacity. It takes large balls to hector your political base, particularly when your party stands an excellent chance of being shellacked in the mid-term elections.
It’s one thing to ignore the concerns of your base for a year and a half while surrounding yourself with Clinton-era apparatchiks, Goldman Sachs alumni, the likes of Larry Summers and Tim Geithner, and quite another to accuse your base of apathy.
Hey, Obama, who betrayed whom here?
But OK, let’s be fair. Barack Obama began his presidency in a hole filled with stagnant, foul-smelling water. Generally speaking, Americans have the collective memory of a goldfish and most people have forgotten the mess George W. Bush and Dick Cheney left the country in; those cretins handed Obama the keys to a ruined country and beat it out of Washington D.C.
On the other hand, Obama didn’t do himself any favors by stocking his team with the very people who planted and nurtured the seeds of our financial meltdown. Let’s not forget, amnesiac America, that it was Bill Clinton who passed NAFTA and the Commodity Futures Modernization Act, Bill Clinton who made happy with Robert Rubin and the moguls of Corporate America, and Bill Clinton who triangulated the Democratic Party so far toward the center that at times it’s indistinguishable from the GOP.
For a year and a half all we’ve seen is the passionless version of Obama, a cerebral, cool-headed, fair-minded fellow who allows himself to be maligned by right-wing radio hacks, Tea Party nut jobs, racists, and limp dicks like John Boehner and Mitch McConnell. Obama has spent more time defending himself against charges that he is a closet Muslim than he has pushing an agenda that might help working Americans.
Obama squandered his political advantage (deep public support and Democratic control of the House and Senate) on tepid financial system reforms, a gutless health care overhaul, a failed program to assist homeowners facing foreclosure, and a sucker bet on Afghanistan. He bought in to deficit hysteria and the trumped up Social Security crisis. He hasn’t done squat on the environmental front except spew misinformation about “clean” coal.
On a progressive report card, Obama gets a D-minus.
But more egregious still is the way Obama and his team completely misread the economic hardship that has hammered average Americans since 2009. The Wall Street-centric advisors surrounding Obama bailed out the banks and made sure the financial sector was protected, while leaving the working class to fend for itself at a time when only government can provide jobs in sufficient numbers to start a real recovery.
When bold proposals were needed, Obama offered half measures. When the situation demanded a coherent narrative of what Democrats stand for and whose interests they represent, Obama remained aloof, speaking in nuanced terms and reaching his hand across the aisle only to have the GOP spit in his palm.
When it was time to come out of his corner swinging, Obama came out holding a wilted olive branch.
Now, with his poll numbers sliding toward oblivion and John Boehner measuring Nancy Pelosi’s office for new drapes and carpet, Obama hits the campaign trail to fire up the base and the last of the believers. The man still makes a stirring speech, but hope and change are hard sells now, with the gap between rich and poor Americans wider than at any time since the Roaring 20’s, unemployment high and holding, and more Americans living in poverty than there have been in 50 years.
The audacity of hope has morphed into cowardice, the promise of change into protection of the status quo.
Will the real Obama stand up and remain standing before it’s too late?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sweet & Sour Poets
The handbill plastered on the lamppost
Advertised a reading by a local poet
The poet had full lips
Sensitive eyes
Thick hair
Gentle features
A warm smile
His new book of poems was just out
And for $5 I could listen to him
Read
In a coffee house
All proceeds destined for the Food Bank
I’m sure the poet loves his mother
And gets along with his siblings
I’m sure he drives a hybrid car
Casts his ballot in every election
Takes in stray cats
I’m sure he pays his taxes
And recycles aluminum cans
I’m sure he’s never slapped a woman
Cursed a cab driver
Stiffed a waiter
Embezzled money
Or puked in the gutter after a long night
Of bar crawling
His poems are probably sweet and uplifting
Lyrical
Celebrations of beauty and truth
The glory of sunsets and the magic
Of a harvest moon
In other words he’s full of
Crap
A pretender
A liar
A charlatan
He’s blind to the grimness of human existence
The cruelty and suffering inflicted on the powerless
By the powerful
On the poor by the rich
On the weak by the strong
I slipped a buck to a panhandler
And walked on;
I despise poets
Except
Of course
Old
Chuck Bukowski
Advertised a reading by a local poet
The poet had full lips
Sensitive eyes
Thick hair
Gentle features
A warm smile
His new book of poems was just out
And for $5 I could listen to him
Read
In a coffee house
All proceeds destined for the Food Bank
I’m sure the poet loves his mother
And gets along with his siblings
I’m sure he drives a hybrid car
Casts his ballot in every election
Takes in stray cats
I’m sure he pays his taxes
And recycles aluminum cans
I’m sure he’s never slapped a woman
Cursed a cab driver
Stiffed a waiter
Embezzled money
Or puked in the gutter after a long night
Of bar crawling
His poems are probably sweet and uplifting
Lyrical
Celebrations of beauty and truth
The glory of sunsets and the magic
Of a harvest moon
In other words he’s full of
Crap
A pretender
A liar
A charlatan
He’s blind to the grimness of human existence
The cruelty and suffering inflicted on the powerless
By the powerful
On the poor by the rich
On the weak by the strong
I slipped a buck to a panhandler
And walked on;
I despise poets
Except
Of course
Old
Chuck Bukowski
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
So Long, Labor Dog
All victories for working people – no matter how small – are hard won.
Anonymous
My friend, colleague and mentor Bill Millard passed away a few days ago. If anyone knew how difficult it is to win gains for workers it was Bill because he was an old “labor dog” who had been in the thick of many tough fights on behalf of working people.
In Bill’s case those people were carpenters and accounting clerks and bus drivers and instructional assistants and plumbers and bakers and cooks and groundskeepers and purchasing agents and custodians – all of them employed by public school districts in California – unseen and unheard for the most part, those that work behind the scenes; Bill gave these people presence and voice.
Bill once drove a school bus for a living, and I’d wager that he was good at his trade and took pride in doing the job well because that’s the way he was wired. He got started in the labor movement as an active member in a local and became a professional labor relations representative. He negotiated and wrote contracts, filed and settled grievances, counseled employees, and agitated for legislation to protect workers.
Most of all, Bill taught working men and women to seize responsibility for their own fates by banding together and looking out for their common benefit – a concept that seems utterly foreign in this era of “me-first” greed.
The labor movement was more than a vocation for Bill – it was an intense passion more demanding than any woman, requiring the stamina and grit of a marathon runner, the patience of a Buddhist monk, and the mental toughness of a prizefighter. The battle for decent wages and safe working conditions, for respect and dignity, for basic fairness, has always been uphill against formidable odds.
Bill was a Liberal’s Liberal and proud of it and we immediately hit it off. Even though he was a decade and a half my senior, we shared an intense dislike for Ronald Reagan and William Jefferson Clinton as well as a belief that unchecked corporate power and influence was antithetical to democracy and detrimental for working people. Injustice ticked us off.
I shared The Nation magazine with Bill and he shared Mother Jones with me.
Love of language was another thing Bill and I had in common. When it came to writing Bill was a craftsman – careful, exacting and meticulous. He’d work a sentence the same way a sculptor works a slab of granite, chipping and shaping until it was flawless.
Whenever Bill and I went into a disciplinary meeting or contract negotiations the only thing I’d want to know is whether or not he had eaten beforehand. On an empty stomach Bill was ferocious. The hungrier Bill was the shorter his temper became – and I could tell with one glance when his cork would pop. I made it a practice to have a granola bar handy, just in case.
Like all people who work in close contact with one another over a long period of time and in tense situations, we developed a shorthand method of communicating. Bill knew the word or thought I was searching for just as I knew what question he wanted to ask next. This kind of connection is rare and wonderful.
One case we worked on together revealed Bill’s character more than any other. We were representing an employee who was clearly on the wrong side of the contract, of common sense, and of every policy on the school district’s books. The man had cooked his own turkey and deserved what was coming to him – or at least that was my take. Bill didn’t disagree with my assessment but the humanist in him saw deeper, saw that this man was a damaged soul, no danger to anyone but himself, seriously flawed, no doubt about it, but still deserving of empathy.
“He doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” Bill said. “But if we don’t help him walk away with at least some dignity we’ll both regret it.”
Quintessential Bill Millard. Die-hard, hard-boiled, realistic, pragmatic and idealistic, but most of all a man who never let his professional role rob him of his humanity.
You gave me courage, old dog, courage and hope, and I know how unlikely it is that I’ll ever have the good fortune to cross paths with your kind again. Long may your spirit run.
Anonymous
My friend, colleague and mentor Bill Millard passed away a few days ago. If anyone knew how difficult it is to win gains for workers it was Bill because he was an old “labor dog” who had been in the thick of many tough fights on behalf of working people.
In Bill’s case those people were carpenters and accounting clerks and bus drivers and instructional assistants and plumbers and bakers and cooks and groundskeepers and purchasing agents and custodians – all of them employed by public school districts in California – unseen and unheard for the most part, those that work behind the scenes; Bill gave these people presence and voice.
Bill once drove a school bus for a living, and I’d wager that he was good at his trade and took pride in doing the job well because that’s the way he was wired. He got started in the labor movement as an active member in a local and became a professional labor relations representative. He negotiated and wrote contracts, filed and settled grievances, counseled employees, and agitated for legislation to protect workers.
Most of all, Bill taught working men and women to seize responsibility for their own fates by banding together and looking out for their common benefit – a concept that seems utterly foreign in this era of “me-first” greed.
The labor movement was more than a vocation for Bill – it was an intense passion more demanding than any woman, requiring the stamina and grit of a marathon runner, the patience of a Buddhist monk, and the mental toughness of a prizefighter. The battle for decent wages and safe working conditions, for respect and dignity, for basic fairness, has always been uphill against formidable odds.
Bill was a Liberal’s Liberal and proud of it and we immediately hit it off. Even though he was a decade and a half my senior, we shared an intense dislike for Ronald Reagan and William Jefferson Clinton as well as a belief that unchecked corporate power and influence was antithetical to democracy and detrimental for working people. Injustice ticked us off.
I shared The Nation magazine with Bill and he shared Mother Jones with me.
Love of language was another thing Bill and I had in common. When it came to writing Bill was a craftsman – careful, exacting and meticulous. He’d work a sentence the same way a sculptor works a slab of granite, chipping and shaping until it was flawless.
Whenever Bill and I went into a disciplinary meeting or contract negotiations the only thing I’d want to know is whether or not he had eaten beforehand. On an empty stomach Bill was ferocious. The hungrier Bill was the shorter his temper became – and I could tell with one glance when his cork would pop. I made it a practice to have a granola bar handy, just in case.
Like all people who work in close contact with one another over a long period of time and in tense situations, we developed a shorthand method of communicating. Bill knew the word or thought I was searching for just as I knew what question he wanted to ask next. This kind of connection is rare and wonderful.
One case we worked on together revealed Bill’s character more than any other. We were representing an employee who was clearly on the wrong side of the contract, of common sense, and of every policy on the school district’s books. The man had cooked his own turkey and deserved what was coming to him – or at least that was my take. Bill didn’t disagree with my assessment but the humanist in him saw deeper, saw that this man was a damaged soul, no danger to anyone but himself, seriously flawed, no doubt about it, but still deserving of empathy.
“He doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” Bill said. “But if we don’t help him walk away with at least some dignity we’ll both regret it.”
Quintessential Bill Millard. Die-hard, hard-boiled, realistic, pragmatic and idealistic, but most of all a man who never let his professional role rob him of his humanity.
You gave me courage, old dog, courage and hope, and I know how unlikely it is that I’ll ever have the good fortune to cross paths with your kind again. Long may your spirit run.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Can't Fix This
Another political season, another flood of misinformation on the TV and the radio.
Back in 2003, Californians were urged to “Join Arnold” and reform our dysfunctional state. The wealthy, charismatic and perpetually optimistic actor promised to “blow up” the boxes of state government and rub the tarnish from the California Dream.
Seven years later we know how that worked out. No need to run through Arnold’s many missteps and the mess the state is mired in.
Now voters are urged to “Join Meg” in refurbishing the dream. Meg being Meg Whitman, multi-millionaire former EBay CEO, who promises to bring corporate know-how to Sacramento and make California hum like a Fortune 500 business.
Sounds familiar, right? Republicans are fervent believers in corporate efficiency and the magic of “free” markets. Business can do no wrong, government can do no right; business is sleek and lean, government is bloated and clumsy.
I find this comparison amusing, given the recent record of Corporate America. Think of the renowned corporate names that would have destroyed the global economy or gone belly up without an infusion of taxpayer money or loan guarantees: General Motors, AIG, Citigroup, Goldman Sachs.
I don’t have any particular love for Jerry Brown but at least Brown understands that government is as different from business as an albatross is from a manatee. Governors are not autocrats and elected legislators cannot be bossed around like corporate underlings. Whitman may think she can snap her fingers and demand that assembly members bend to her will, but if she is successful in buying the governor’s office – and it appears that she has a real shot in November -- she will learn on Day One how limited her powers are.
Remember Schwarzenegger’s big tent on the grounds of the state capitol, the cigar fests he threw for legislators and key members of state government? The tent was a cornerstone of the new governor’s charm campaign but the bloom dropped off that rose in no time. Once Schwarzenegger had a taste for the way the lawmaking game really works, once the written and unwritten rules asserted themselves, the big tent came down, never to be raised again.
California doesn’t have a business problem, California has a political problem, which is why Meg Whitman -- should she fool enough voters on Election Day -- is destined for the same ignominious ride experienced by Gray Davis and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Like New York State, California is virtually ungovernable, paralyzed by gridlock and partisan posturing. The two-thirds super majority required to enact a budget or pass even modest tax increases, term limits that drain the assembly and senate of experienced legislators, gerrymandering that guarantees election of extremists on both ends of the political spectrum, and the perverted initiative process all contribute to making the state the subway wreck it has become.
Meg can’t fix that.
Back in 2003, Californians were urged to “Join Arnold” and reform our dysfunctional state. The wealthy, charismatic and perpetually optimistic actor promised to “blow up” the boxes of state government and rub the tarnish from the California Dream.
Seven years later we know how that worked out. No need to run through Arnold’s many missteps and the mess the state is mired in.
Now voters are urged to “Join Meg” in refurbishing the dream. Meg being Meg Whitman, multi-millionaire former EBay CEO, who promises to bring corporate know-how to Sacramento and make California hum like a Fortune 500 business.
Sounds familiar, right? Republicans are fervent believers in corporate efficiency and the magic of “free” markets. Business can do no wrong, government can do no right; business is sleek and lean, government is bloated and clumsy.
I find this comparison amusing, given the recent record of Corporate America. Think of the renowned corporate names that would have destroyed the global economy or gone belly up without an infusion of taxpayer money or loan guarantees: General Motors, AIG, Citigroup, Goldman Sachs.
I don’t have any particular love for Jerry Brown but at least Brown understands that government is as different from business as an albatross is from a manatee. Governors are not autocrats and elected legislators cannot be bossed around like corporate underlings. Whitman may think she can snap her fingers and demand that assembly members bend to her will, but if she is successful in buying the governor’s office – and it appears that she has a real shot in November -- she will learn on Day One how limited her powers are.
Remember Schwarzenegger’s big tent on the grounds of the state capitol, the cigar fests he threw for legislators and key members of state government? The tent was a cornerstone of the new governor’s charm campaign but the bloom dropped off that rose in no time. Once Schwarzenegger had a taste for the way the lawmaking game really works, once the written and unwritten rules asserted themselves, the big tent came down, never to be raised again.
California doesn’t have a business problem, California has a political problem, which is why Meg Whitman -- should she fool enough voters on Election Day -- is destined for the same ignominious ride experienced by Gray Davis and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Like New York State, California is virtually ungovernable, paralyzed by gridlock and partisan posturing. The two-thirds super majority required to enact a budget or pass even modest tax increases, term limits that drain the assembly and senate of experienced legislators, gerrymandering that guarantees election of extremists on both ends of the political spectrum, and the perverted initiative process all contribute to making the state the subway wreck it has become.
Meg can’t fix that.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Poem: Standing in Line
The unemployment line snakes around the corner
Curves
Back upon itself;
Hope is in short supply here,
Nerves fray
Tempers flare;
One guy lost his job
Then he lost his house
His boat
And his wife
His Harley goes next
Friends got tired of hearing him complain
About his troubles – they have their own.
People are running scared
Holding on
Waiting for the economy to turn
Housing to bounce back
Or the politicians to finally do something
Most know that the odds are long
Stacked against them
Bailouts are for big banks and political insiders -
Truck drivers
Carpenters
Plumbers
House painters
Teachers
Nurses
Stand alone.
Welcome to the new Dust Bowl
People here avoid each other’s eyes
Ashamed for crimes they did not commit
Believing in magic was their only mistake
Now they pay the cost and bear the burden
Suffer the indignity of foreclosure,
Bankruptcy
And this slow-moving unemployment
Line
That curves back upon itself.
Curves
Back upon itself;
Hope is in short supply here,
Nerves fray
Tempers flare;
One guy lost his job
Then he lost his house
His boat
And his wife
His Harley goes next
Friends got tired of hearing him complain
About his troubles – they have their own.
People are running scared
Holding on
Waiting for the economy to turn
Housing to bounce back
Or the politicians to finally do something
Most know that the odds are long
Stacked against them
Bailouts are for big banks and political insiders -
Truck drivers
Carpenters
Plumbers
House painters
Teachers
Nurses
Stand alone.
Welcome to the new Dust Bowl
People here avoid each other’s eyes
Ashamed for crimes they did not commit
Believing in magic was their only mistake
Now they pay the cost and bear the burden
Suffer the indignity of foreclosure,
Bankruptcy
And this slow-moving unemployment
Line
That curves back upon itself.
Monday, September 06, 2010
For the Laborers
Labor Day is one of my favorite holidays, neck and neck with the 4th of July and Martin Luther King’s birthday. On Labor Day we remember the men and women whose toil and sweat built this country, and we celebrate the very idea of work.
Names from the past roll across my mind like movie credits: Walter Reuther, George Meany, Joe Hill, John L. Lewis, Dolores Huerta, Cesar Chavez, Studs Terkel, A. Phillip Randolph -- people who dedicated their lives to improving the condition of workers, to building a strong middle class, and to insuring that labor was valued and had a place in the national conversation, a seat at the table.
Today the “Labor Movement” is like a terminal patient on life support. Union membership in the private sector is almost non-existent; meanwhile, as state and local governments continue to reel and stagger from the sluggish economy, union members in the public realm are forced to take pay cuts, furlough days, and watch as a backlash develops against pension plans that are always described in the media as “generous,” “lucrative,” or “Cadillac.”
Rough times for wage earners today, not much hope for improvement tomorrow. The mainstream media obsesses about stock prices and quarterly earnings forecasts, as if these are the only economic barometers that matter; CEO’s that boost earnings by dumping workers into the deep end of the pool of the unemployed are rewarded with bonuses.
There is a stark disconnect between the economy described by CNBC and the reality on the street that can no longer be glossed over or ignored. The nexus between worker productivity and reward is long gone – compared to their counterparts in other industrialized nations, Americans work longer hours per day and more days per year than anyone. We’re a nation of workaholics, driven by need and the fear that we are falling behind. Our productivity rises year after year but our reward – our wages – remain the same or fall.
The American economy is ass-backwards, upside down, off kilter and out of whack. We need John L. Lewis and Cesar Chavez and A. Phillip Randolph. We need their spirit, their sense of moral outrage and their determination for justice, equity and dignity. We need to pay more than lip service to people who wake up every single day and go to jobs and put in an honest day’s work building, maintaining, restoring or repairing; we need to honor those who serve, teach, or care for others; we need to honor those who clean, scrub and polish; we need to resuscitate the tacit agreement between capital and labor, bosses and workers, that once rewarded hard and honest work, reliability and fidelity, with pay scales that are not insulting or disgraceful.
On this Labor Day I think of John Steinbeck and the Grapes of Wrath because it seems to me that it is those grapes we are destined to harvest unless we wake up and face our delusions. Steinbeck wrote, “The great owners…know the great fact: when property (or wealth or political power) accumulates in too few hands it is taken away.”
Names from the past roll across my mind like movie credits: Walter Reuther, George Meany, Joe Hill, John L. Lewis, Dolores Huerta, Cesar Chavez, Studs Terkel, A. Phillip Randolph -- people who dedicated their lives to improving the condition of workers, to building a strong middle class, and to insuring that labor was valued and had a place in the national conversation, a seat at the table.
Today the “Labor Movement” is like a terminal patient on life support. Union membership in the private sector is almost non-existent; meanwhile, as state and local governments continue to reel and stagger from the sluggish economy, union members in the public realm are forced to take pay cuts, furlough days, and watch as a backlash develops against pension plans that are always described in the media as “generous,” “lucrative,” or “Cadillac.”
Rough times for wage earners today, not much hope for improvement tomorrow. The mainstream media obsesses about stock prices and quarterly earnings forecasts, as if these are the only economic barometers that matter; CEO’s that boost earnings by dumping workers into the deep end of the pool of the unemployed are rewarded with bonuses.
There is a stark disconnect between the economy described by CNBC and the reality on the street that can no longer be glossed over or ignored. The nexus between worker productivity and reward is long gone – compared to their counterparts in other industrialized nations, Americans work longer hours per day and more days per year than anyone. We’re a nation of workaholics, driven by need and the fear that we are falling behind. Our productivity rises year after year but our reward – our wages – remain the same or fall.
The American economy is ass-backwards, upside down, off kilter and out of whack. We need John L. Lewis and Cesar Chavez and A. Phillip Randolph. We need their spirit, their sense of moral outrage and their determination for justice, equity and dignity. We need to pay more than lip service to people who wake up every single day and go to jobs and put in an honest day’s work building, maintaining, restoring or repairing; we need to honor those who serve, teach, or care for others; we need to honor those who clean, scrub and polish; we need to resuscitate the tacit agreement between capital and labor, bosses and workers, that once rewarded hard and honest work, reliability and fidelity, with pay scales that are not insulting or disgraceful.
On this Labor Day I think of John Steinbeck and the Grapes of Wrath because it seems to me that it is those grapes we are destined to harvest unless we wake up and face our delusions. Steinbeck wrote, “The great owners…know the great fact: when property (or wealth or political power) accumulates in too few hands it is taken away.”
Thursday, September 02, 2010
The Somber Smorgasbord
ABC News described Obama’s Iraq speech as “somber,” and that’s certainly a fitting tone for a Commander in Chief calling an end to combat operations after seven years and more than 4,000 American soldiers killed and thousands wounded.
But it was also a carefully crafted speech that offered a little something for everyone. For military folks there were the standard platitudes about bravery, sacrifice and honor; for those who see the Iraq invasion and occupation as a colossal blunder based on fabricated evidence and false justifications, the President made the nexus between the cost of the war and the dearth of domestic investment in jobs, infrastructure and education that has millions of Americans facing a uncertain future. For the hawks and imperialists Obama promised to destroy al Qaeda in Afghanistan and transform that ravaged land into a bulwark against the terrorists. For the benefit of Republicans, Obama even mentioned George W. Bush, the man who enthusiastically pushed the button that unleashed the horror of war on Iraq.
Call it a somber smorgasbord.
Missing from the speech was any mention of Abu Ghraib or the thousands of Iraqis who were killed during the shock and awe invasion and the long, bloody occupation. The New York Times reported that number as 100,000 dead – independent observers have pegged the number as high as 600,000. Americans should not forget the thousands of Iraqis displaced from their homes – either by the invasion or the sectarian strife that followed. I wonder if we have any idea of the number of Iraqis maimed, deformed or crippled as the result of our effort to free them from the tyranny of Saddam Hussein, find Weapons of Mass Destruction or give Iraq the gift of democracy.
Obama referred to the Iraqis as our “partners” and noted our common interests though he didn’t elaborate on what those interests might be. Obviously, the United States has an abiding interest in Iraq’s oil reserves, though American multinationals didn’t fare well in the oil contract sweepstakes. The United States would love for Iraq to check Iran’s power and influence in the region, but that’s unlikely to happen given that Iraq cannot even form a government six months after holding elections.
50,000 American troops and thousands of private contractors remain in Iraq, housed in gargantuan bases that resemble small American cities. If the tables were turned, the world upended, if Iraq had occupied America, how would Americans feel if the end of combat operations meant that 50,000 Iraqi soldiers would remain on our soil?
Truth is a casualty of war, and in the years ahead America’s imperial adventure in Iraq will be spun and revised and retold as a heroic, altruistic campaign, undertaken with pure motives and the noblest of intentions. This won’t be a difficult undertaking since many Americans already believe – despite a mountain of evidence to the contrary – that Iraq was responsible for the 9/11 attacks. Myth will become history and history will become truth. In a few short years it will be as if none of the horrible things ever happened, as if the Iraqi people greeted our soldiers with flowers and cheering, just as Donald Rumsfeld promised they would.
Victory was one thing Obama could not claim the other night because there was never anything to win by invading Iraq.
But it was also a carefully crafted speech that offered a little something for everyone. For military folks there were the standard platitudes about bravery, sacrifice and honor; for those who see the Iraq invasion and occupation as a colossal blunder based on fabricated evidence and false justifications, the President made the nexus between the cost of the war and the dearth of domestic investment in jobs, infrastructure and education that has millions of Americans facing a uncertain future. For the hawks and imperialists Obama promised to destroy al Qaeda in Afghanistan and transform that ravaged land into a bulwark against the terrorists. For the benefit of Republicans, Obama even mentioned George W. Bush, the man who enthusiastically pushed the button that unleashed the horror of war on Iraq.
Call it a somber smorgasbord.
Missing from the speech was any mention of Abu Ghraib or the thousands of Iraqis who were killed during the shock and awe invasion and the long, bloody occupation. The New York Times reported that number as 100,000 dead – independent observers have pegged the number as high as 600,000. Americans should not forget the thousands of Iraqis displaced from their homes – either by the invasion or the sectarian strife that followed. I wonder if we have any idea of the number of Iraqis maimed, deformed or crippled as the result of our effort to free them from the tyranny of Saddam Hussein, find Weapons of Mass Destruction or give Iraq the gift of democracy.
Obama referred to the Iraqis as our “partners” and noted our common interests though he didn’t elaborate on what those interests might be. Obviously, the United States has an abiding interest in Iraq’s oil reserves, though American multinationals didn’t fare well in the oil contract sweepstakes. The United States would love for Iraq to check Iran’s power and influence in the region, but that’s unlikely to happen given that Iraq cannot even form a government six months after holding elections.
50,000 American troops and thousands of private contractors remain in Iraq, housed in gargantuan bases that resemble small American cities. If the tables were turned, the world upended, if Iraq had occupied America, how would Americans feel if the end of combat operations meant that 50,000 Iraqi soldiers would remain on our soil?
Truth is a casualty of war, and in the years ahead America’s imperial adventure in Iraq will be spun and revised and retold as a heroic, altruistic campaign, undertaken with pure motives and the noblest of intentions. This won’t be a difficult undertaking since many Americans already believe – despite a mountain of evidence to the contrary – that Iraq was responsible for the 9/11 attacks. Myth will become history and history will become truth. In a few short years it will be as if none of the horrible things ever happened, as if the Iraqi people greeted our soldiers with flowers and cheering, just as Donald Rumsfeld promised they would.
Victory was one thing Obama could not claim the other night because there was never anything to win by invading Iraq.
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