Parenthood is said to bring many joys and immeasurable satisfaction.
I know a few people who hold this opinion, though I am not one of them.
Heartache and worry, maybe, but not so much on the satisfaction scale.
Every day when I take my daughter to school, I see parents doting on their offspring and it reminds me of David Sedaris, who I saw at the Arlington Theatre recently. In a riff on his childhood Sedaris pointed out that he was born before the creation of self-esteem, so his parents put him and his sisters to bed the old fashioned way: “Lights out, shut up. If your father hears any chatter he’ll be back with his belt.”
Contemporary parents, on the other hand, feel derelict if they fail to read a bedtime story for half an hour, then spend another twenty minutes assuring their child that he or she is special, exceptional, gifted, a living miracle and without doubt the center of the universe.
I love my kids, don’t get me wrong, but I tend to think we – my generation, I mean – act insane when it comes to our children. Take play dates, for instance, a concept that absolutely staggers me. When I was a kid – in a society that was as full of dangers and predators as our current one – we’d give our parents a general idea of where we were going and what we intended to do and with whom, and dash off, into the neighborhood, out of touch for hours. We didn’t have cell phones or GPS tracking or picture ID cards with a DNA sample embedded in them. Today our kids’ schedules are so jam-packed with wholesome, supervised activities that we must schedule time for them to play with their friends. “Can Sophia do 3:30 on Tuesday or is 4:00 on Wednesday better? Oh, she has ballet on Tuesday and gymnastics on Wednesday and chess on Friday and Advanced Mandarin on Saturday morning. Wow, when does Sophia sleep? Does she sleep?”
Once in a while, as my daughter and I are waiting for the custodian to unlock the school gate, I’ll overhear other parents, almost always mothers, talking. “Tyler’s doing exceptionally well in his GATE (Gifted and Talented) classes, and I definitely think he has a predilection for medicine. He loves science, and he’s always watching medical shows on The Learning Channel.” “You let him watch TV? We only allow Brianna to watch the Disney Channel for one hour each week – provided she executes all her homework perfectly, of course.” “Tyler will probably attend Stanford or Harvard – he’s such a bright child.” “I see Brianna at USC Film School. She’s very creative.”
I glance at Tyler, expecting to see him reading the Physician’s Desk Reference on his iPad, and instead see that he is picking his nose with reckless abandon, twisting his index finger up and in until he extracts a juicy green mass, which, after long inspection, he proceeds to wipe on his jeans. Definitely Harvard material.
Is it just me or do we put too much pressure to perform, succeed, strive and accomplish on our children? Is it acceptable for them to daydream and goof off, to occasionally stare slack-jawed at the TV or the computer, or climb a tree without parental supervision and a safety net below? Is it OK if our children don’t acquire a foreign language and proficiency on at least one musical instrument by age seven?
The other morning my daughter marched into the living room and announced that she wanted to ask a question about sex. OK, we said, let’s have it. “Can you get pregnant from kissing a mirror?” No, we explained, kissing a mirror won’t do the trick, there’s a mechanical component to it, the joining of a female’s egg with a male’s sperm... We can go into more detail if you want. “No, that’s OK, I just wanted to know about the mirrors.”
We learn later that our daughter’s classmate Elena is fond of kissing the mirror in the girl’s bathroom at school. Each to her own.
Play dates, questions about sex, neurotic parents on the school steps planning their child’s college experience ten years in advance – this is what kills the rapture for me. Childhood comes once and is all too quickly gone. My kids are gloriously ordinary, which is just fine with me.
Friday, May 06, 2011
Monday, May 02, 2011
Our Booyah Moment
We got bin Laden.
High five in the streets. Fist pumps in the bar. Crank up the ticker tape parade. Dispatch six F-14’s to do a flyover above New York City.
We got the big bogeyman.
Finally.
Killed him dead they say. Tested his DNA to prove it.
It only took ten years and thousands of deaths and casualties for the US to kill the world’s most wanted man.
This is a triumph for our crack intelligence community and intrepid troops.
Even if it took ten brutal years.
Now what? Does Al Qaeda fold its tent and slink off into the dusk?
Doubtful. It’s likely there will be reprisals, somewhere, for the killing of bin Laden, just as there will be Pakistanis and Afghans and Iraqi’s willing to die as long as their friends and relatives are being killed by US drone strikes or occupation forces. When it comes to death, people have long memories. Bin Laden may be gone, but Al Qaeda will be with us for a time yet.
Killing begets more killing, but we are blasé about it now, as blasé as bin Laden acted after 9/11. Bin Laden indirectly plotted to kill in spectacular fashion; we kill systematically with our powerful weapons, our eyes that see in the dark and through thick walls.
This really is an amazing development on one level. No, I’m not talking about the breathless reporting from Diane Sawyer and Brian Williams, or the sound bites from Uncle Dick Cheney and Hillary Clinton; I’m talking about the fact that the US cedes to itself the authority to assassinate a man on foreign soil. If any nation in the world except Israel – which plays by a different set of rules -- granted itself the same authority, the US would be screaming about the rule of law and sovereign rights.
Hypocrisy is unpleasant. Do as I say, not as I do.
But it goes without saying that the US only kills with the purest motivation and in the name of the highest ideals. Right? Our cause is always righteous, though I wonder what the back-channel traffic on this operation looks like, the secret cables between spies and soldiers, diplomats and politicians. And I wonder what the US had to promise Pakistan in order for the latter to cough up bin Laden? Why now? Why not five, six or ten years ago?
But hey, why be skeptical of the US government and its motives? After all, this is the finest government money can buy and it can be depended on to do the will of its benefactors. This is a “feel good” story, frontier justice meted out to the mastermind of 9/11.
The only surprising thing thus far is that Donald Trump hasn’t claimed responsibility for killing bin Laden.
High five in the streets. Fist pumps in the bar. Crank up the ticker tape parade. Dispatch six F-14’s to do a flyover above New York City.
We got the big bogeyman.
Finally.
Killed him dead they say. Tested his DNA to prove it.
It only took ten years and thousands of deaths and casualties for the US to kill the world’s most wanted man.
This is a triumph for our crack intelligence community and intrepid troops.
Even if it took ten brutal years.
Now what? Does Al Qaeda fold its tent and slink off into the dusk?
Doubtful. It’s likely there will be reprisals, somewhere, for the killing of bin Laden, just as there will be Pakistanis and Afghans and Iraqi’s willing to die as long as their friends and relatives are being killed by US drone strikes or occupation forces. When it comes to death, people have long memories. Bin Laden may be gone, but Al Qaeda will be with us for a time yet.
Killing begets more killing, but we are blasé about it now, as blasé as bin Laden acted after 9/11. Bin Laden indirectly plotted to kill in spectacular fashion; we kill systematically with our powerful weapons, our eyes that see in the dark and through thick walls.
This really is an amazing development on one level. No, I’m not talking about the breathless reporting from Diane Sawyer and Brian Williams, or the sound bites from Uncle Dick Cheney and Hillary Clinton; I’m talking about the fact that the US cedes to itself the authority to assassinate a man on foreign soil. If any nation in the world except Israel – which plays by a different set of rules -- granted itself the same authority, the US would be screaming about the rule of law and sovereign rights.
Hypocrisy is unpleasant. Do as I say, not as I do.
But it goes without saying that the US only kills with the purest motivation and in the name of the highest ideals. Right? Our cause is always righteous, though I wonder what the back-channel traffic on this operation looks like, the secret cables between spies and soldiers, diplomats and politicians. And I wonder what the US had to promise Pakistan in order for the latter to cough up bin Laden? Why now? Why not five, six or ten years ago?
But hey, why be skeptical of the US government and its motives? After all, this is the finest government money can buy and it can be depended on to do the will of its benefactors. This is a “feel good” story, frontier justice meted out to the mastermind of 9/11.
The only surprising thing thus far is that Donald Trump hasn’t claimed responsibility for killing bin Laden.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Footnotes
Almost a year since the Deepwater Horizon blew up, killing 11 men and spilling an estimated 5 million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico. The explosion and spill were riveting news for nearly 2 months. The major American networks broadcast live video of oil gushing from the wellhead along with non-stop TV commercials from BP, a PR assault designed to show how concerned the oil giant was for the welfare of the Gulf ecosystem and the people who depend on it for their living.
BP pledged to make it right. Of course, pledging to do something and actually doing it are quite different things. Like any self-serving corporation, BP ducked and dodged as much responsibility as it could, blaming Transocean, the rig owner, and Halliburton, the oil services giant for being the root cause of the disaster. Not to be outdone, Transocean blamed BP and Halliburton blamed Transocean, and Republicans blamed Obama, and the Democrats blamed Republicans, and the dish ran away with the spoon, and the cow broke a leg trying to jump over the moon.
Meanwhile, oil continued to gush into the sea.
On the ground, the United States Coast Guard and BP kept journalists away from beaches and out of the airspace above the spill area. It was odd to see a government agency conspiring with a multinational corporation to limit access to a disaster zone. It was equally odd to see President Obama cheerleading for Gulf seafood and tourism – as if the spill was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a blip that should not deter business as usual. Obama talked tough, as he always does, about accountability and oversight and stricter regulation of the oil industry, but then left the clean up to BP.
Once BP finally figured out how to cap the well, the story slowly vanished from the airwaves, which is no doubt what BP and other oil industry giants had hoped for. To be sure, BP took its lumps in the media, smarmy CEO Tony Hayward proved to be a train wreck, and the claims process BP created worked as designed, paying out as few claims as possible in the longest amount of time possible, frustrating Gulf residents.
Claims are still being paid slowly and research efforts on the effects of the spill are tied up in red tape.
In other words, standard procedure on this fruited plain. Kid gloves for the powerful, tough love for the powerless, along with years of court cases, motions, denials and appeals – a lawyer’s dream, a plaintiff’s nightmare.
Yes, it’s perverse.
12 months later. What became of those 5 million barrels of oil and the thousands of gallons of chemical dispersants deployed by BP? Are we to believe that the Gulf is undamaged, as good as new, back to normal, healthy? According to Sam Champion of Good Morning America and research done for ABC by Texas Tech, yes, the Gulf is once again fine.
Would you eat Gulf seafood or feed it to your children?
And what of the 11 men who died? Why are they little more than a footnote to this tale? Is it because working men and women in America are disposable?
BP pledged to make it right. Of course, pledging to do something and actually doing it are quite different things. Like any self-serving corporation, BP ducked and dodged as much responsibility as it could, blaming Transocean, the rig owner, and Halliburton, the oil services giant for being the root cause of the disaster. Not to be outdone, Transocean blamed BP and Halliburton blamed Transocean, and Republicans blamed Obama, and the Democrats blamed Republicans, and the dish ran away with the spoon, and the cow broke a leg trying to jump over the moon.
Meanwhile, oil continued to gush into the sea.
On the ground, the United States Coast Guard and BP kept journalists away from beaches and out of the airspace above the spill area. It was odd to see a government agency conspiring with a multinational corporation to limit access to a disaster zone. It was equally odd to see President Obama cheerleading for Gulf seafood and tourism – as if the spill was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a blip that should not deter business as usual. Obama talked tough, as he always does, about accountability and oversight and stricter regulation of the oil industry, but then left the clean up to BP.
Once BP finally figured out how to cap the well, the story slowly vanished from the airwaves, which is no doubt what BP and other oil industry giants had hoped for. To be sure, BP took its lumps in the media, smarmy CEO Tony Hayward proved to be a train wreck, and the claims process BP created worked as designed, paying out as few claims as possible in the longest amount of time possible, frustrating Gulf residents.
Claims are still being paid slowly and research efforts on the effects of the spill are tied up in red tape.
In other words, standard procedure on this fruited plain. Kid gloves for the powerful, tough love for the powerless, along with years of court cases, motions, denials and appeals – a lawyer’s dream, a plaintiff’s nightmare.
Yes, it’s perverse.
12 months later. What became of those 5 million barrels of oil and the thousands of gallons of chemical dispersants deployed by BP? Are we to believe that the Gulf is undamaged, as good as new, back to normal, healthy? According to Sam Champion of Good Morning America and research done for ABC by Texas Tech, yes, the Gulf is once again fine.
Would you eat Gulf seafood or feed it to your children?
And what of the 11 men who died? Why are they little more than a footnote to this tale? Is it because working men and women in America are disposable?
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Happy Meals
Is McDonald’s an exemplary American corporation or what?
In this time of economic hardship for millions of American workers and their kith and kin, McDonald’s has done what Bank of America, Citibank and Goldman Sachs could never do: hire 50,000 workers on a single day.
Amazing. What a powerful gesture! Why should Americans build cars, trucks, airplanes, refrigerators, gas ranges, microwave ovens, flat screen TV’s, computers, skip loaders, cell phones, furniture and toilets when we can put people to work building Big Macs!
Let the Chinese build cars and computers and leave the re-heating of apple turnovers to Americans. While the Chinese are erecting bridges and constructing highways and high-speed rail systems, Americans will be building millions of fillet-o-fish sandwiches! I’d like to see the Chinese do the same! Nobody on this planet can handle a busy drive-through window the way Americans can. “Would you like fries with that? Can I interest you in a delicious vanilla milkshake? How about a super-sized ice cold Coke? Do you need ketchup for your fries?”
Think of what this generous deed will do for our fellow Americans. All the prestige of wearing the famous McDonald’s uniform and working in the shadow of the Golden Arches, along with a minimum wage guaranteed by the federal government. And – don’t worry – even after a 40-hour week you will still qualify for whatever poverty programs remain after Congressman Paul Ryan finishes building his Path to Prosperity. Health insurance is way overrated, and who really needs a retirement plan? McDonald’s hires elderly folk, too. Start young, work hard and who knows, in ten years you might move up to night shift supervisor.
Yep, it’s about time a major American corporation stepped to the plate and delivered for the average American working person. While the financial giants are hoarding their cash and paying out titanic bonuses, McDonald’s is walking the talk, investing in the little people.
In this time of economic hardship for millions of American workers and their kith and kin, McDonald’s has done what Bank of America, Citibank and Goldman Sachs could never do: hire 50,000 workers on a single day.
Amazing. What a powerful gesture! Why should Americans build cars, trucks, airplanes, refrigerators, gas ranges, microwave ovens, flat screen TV’s, computers, skip loaders, cell phones, furniture and toilets when we can put people to work building Big Macs!
Let the Chinese build cars and computers and leave the re-heating of apple turnovers to Americans. While the Chinese are erecting bridges and constructing highways and high-speed rail systems, Americans will be building millions of fillet-o-fish sandwiches! I’d like to see the Chinese do the same! Nobody on this planet can handle a busy drive-through window the way Americans can. “Would you like fries with that? Can I interest you in a delicious vanilla milkshake? How about a super-sized ice cold Coke? Do you need ketchup for your fries?”
Think of what this generous deed will do for our fellow Americans. All the prestige of wearing the famous McDonald’s uniform and working in the shadow of the Golden Arches, along with a minimum wage guaranteed by the federal government. And – don’t worry – even after a 40-hour week you will still qualify for whatever poverty programs remain after Congressman Paul Ryan finishes building his Path to Prosperity. Health insurance is way overrated, and who really needs a retirement plan? McDonald’s hires elderly folk, too. Start young, work hard and who knows, in ten years you might move up to night shift supervisor.
Yep, it’s about time a major American corporation stepped to the plate and delivered for the average American working person. While the financial giants are hoarding their cash and paying out titanic bonuses, McDonald’s is walking the talk, investing in the little people.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Fly in the Ointment
I am a common house fly, Musca domestica for you scientific types, and I like to hang around garbage cans, but the other day I got blown off course by a gust of wind and through the front doors of the U.S. Capitol. Nice place, very dignified and inspiring, but far too clean for my liking – I prefer a nice backyard BBQ on a muggy DC day, with Cole slaw and potato salad and lots of chicken grease.
Anyway, down gleaming corridors I flew, this way and that, until I detected a promising odor coming from this huge, ornate office. Zipping in for a closer inspection, I saw four men sitting around a long conference table, eating Chinese take-out off paper plates. Nirvana!
Now, being a common housefly, I don’t pay much attention to the doings of humans, unless, as I said, they happen to be having a backyard BBQ on a hot summer day, but in my line it’s next to impossible not to pick up information from discarded newspapers and TV screens and computers.
The man sitting at the head of the long table had an orange tinge to his skin and I immediately knew he was John Boehner, Speaker of the House. Sitting to Boehner’s right, looking like an overeager altar boy, was the one and only Eric Cantor. The third man was harder to identify as he was stuffing his mouth with mushu pork, but then I recognized him: Paul Ryan, the GOP’s budget Wonder boy.
The fourth man was a mystery until Boehner said, “Hey Grover, try this beef broccoli. It’s delicious.” Well, even a housefly knows that Grover was none other than Grover Norquist, anti-tax champion and political strategist.
After flying a quick recon around the table I took up a position on the wall where I could both listen and keep an eye on the egg rolls.
John Boehner: We’ve got that skinny bastard back on his heels. You gotta’ love the way he concedes his position before negotiations even begin. If Obama was a used car salesman he’d give the damn things away.
Eric Cantor: Our message of austerity is resonating with the American people! We’re putting government back in its proper place! Low taxes, small government, minimal interference in the lives of people, these are the ingredients for a strong economy.
Grover Norquist: No tax increases, ever. Gentlemen join hands with me and swear that you will never vote for a tax increase of any kind, ever.
Paul Ryan: By killing entitlement programs we instantly shrink the size of government. A few seniors might be inconvenienced, but if the result is a sound economy and a thriving business climate for our corporate allies, it will be worth it.
John Boehner: I pulled myself up by my own bootstraps, and if I can do it, by God, anyone can. Did I ever tell you about my dad’s tavern? I put myself through college unloading kegs of beer for my old man... (Sniffles, begins to tear up.)
Fly: Boehner’s skin really is orange.
Eric Cantor: We know, John. It’s a great story, an American story, but let’s focus on keeping the pressure on the President. The debate over the debt ceiling will be his Waterloo. Politically, the only thing he can do is move toward our position.
Paul Ryan: Voters understand that the deficit is a ticking time bomb.
Fly: Boy, that fried rice looks delectable.
Grover Norquist: Big government is the cause of big deficits.
Fly: Funny, I thought a decade of irresponsible tax cuts for the wealthy and pointless foreign wars caused huge deficits, but apparently I am misinformed.
Paul Ryan: The deficit is a noose around the necks of our children and grandchildren!
Fly: At least two Nobel laureates in Economics believe otherwise, but apparently they too are misinformed.
John Boehner (Laughing): Damn, it was easy to get Obama to buy into deficit reduction. He swallowed that hook like a fat bass and ran clear to the middle of the bay.
Grover Norquist: Obama has no balls.
Eric Cantor: But he makes a lovely speech, I’ll give him that.
Grover Norquist: Empty eloquence is no eloquence. The man will not fight for what he believes in once he encounters the smallest amount of resistance. In practical terms, the President is a pansy.
Eric Cantor: What we must do is lower tax rates on the producers and entrepreneurs, on small business owners and venture capitalists so that they can invest and grow an economy that will lift everyone up.
Fly: I’m just a fly, but haven’t you people been drinking this trickle down Kool-Aid for like, I don’t know, 30 years? How’s it working for you? Is your boat rising or sinking?
Paul Ryan: We will end the welfare state because we must end the welfare state.
Fly: Does that include corporate welfare – or are you just going to pick on senior citizens and single mothers?
John Boehner: Shoo fly, get out of here.
Just for jollies, I buzzed Eric Cantor’s nose, considered a kamikaze run up his left nostril, then changed my mind and landed on Grover’s ear where I took a satisfying crap. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, year after year, and expecting a different outcome than you’ve been getting, then these guys are ready for the rubber room. No wonder your country is teetering on the abyss. You elect complete idiots to do your civic business!
Anyway, down gleaming corridors I flew, this way and that, until I detected a promising odor coming from this huge, ornate office. Zipping in for a closer inspection, I saw four men sitting around a long conference table, eating Chinese take-out off paper plates. Nirvana!
Now, being a common housefly, I don’t pay much attention to the doings of humans, unless, as I said, they happen to be having a backyard BBQ on a hot summer day, but in my line it’s next to impossible not to pick up information from discarded newspapers and TV screens and computers.
The man sitting at the head of the long table had an orange tinge to his skin and I immediately knew he was John Boehner, Speaker of the House. Sitting to Boehner’s right, looking like an overeager altar boy, was the one and only Eric Cantor. The third man was harder to identify as he was stuffing his mouth with mushu pork, but then I recognized him: Paul Ryan, the GOP’s budget Wonder boy.
The fourth man was a mystery until Boehner said, “Hey Grover, try this beef broccoli. It’s delicious.” Well, even a housefly knows that Grover was none other than Grover Norquist, anti-tax champion and political strategist.
After flying a quick recon around the table I took up a position on the wall where I could both listen and keep an eye on the egg rolls.
John Boehner: We’ve got that skinny bastard back on his heels. You gotta’ love the way he concedes his position before negotiations even begin. If Obama was a used car salesman he’d give the damn things away.
Eric Cantor: Our message of austerity is resonating with the American people! We’re putting government back in its proper place! Low taxes, small government, minimal interference in the lives of people, these are the ingredients for a strong economy.
Grover Norquist: No tax increases, ever. Gentlemen join hands with me and swear that you will never vote for a tax increase of any kind, ever.
Paul Ryan: By killing entitlement programs we instantly shrink the size of government. A few seniors might be inconvenienced, but if the result is a sound economy and a thriving business climate for our corporate allies, it will be worth it.
John Boehner: I pulled myself up by my own bootstraps, and if I can do it, by God, anyone can. Did I ever tell you about my dad’s tavern? I put myself through college unloading kegs of beer for my old man... (Sniffles, begins to tear up.)
Fly: Boehner’s skin really is orange.
Eric Cantor: We know, John. It’s a great story, an American story, but let’s focus on keeping the pressure on the President. The debate over the debt ceiling will be his Waterloo. Politically, the only thing he can do is move toward our position.
Paul Ryan: Voters understand that the deficit is a ticking time bomb.
Fly: Boy, that fried rice looks delectable.
Grover Norquist: Big government is the cause of big deficits.
Fly: Funny, I thought a decade of irresponsible tax cuts for the wealthy and pointless foreign wars caused huge deficits, but apparently I am misinformed.
Paul Ryan: The deficit is a noose around the necks of our children and grandchildren!
Fly: At least two Nobel laureates in Economics believe otherwise, but apparently they too are misinformed.
John Boehner (Laughing): Damn, it was easy to get Obama to buy into deficit reduction. He swallowed that hook like a fat bass and ran clear to the middle of the bay.
Grover Norquist: Obama has no balls.
Eric Cantor: But he makes a lovely speech, I’ll give him that.
Grover Norquist: Empty eloquence is no eloquence. The man will not fight for what he believes in once he encounters the smallest amount of resistance. In practical terms, the President is a pansy.
Eric Cantor: What we must do is lower tax rates on the producers and entrepreneurs, on small business owners and venture capitalists so that they can invest and grow an economy that will lift everyone up.
Fly: I’m just a fly, but haven’t you people been drinking this trickle down Kool-Aid for like, I don’t know, 30 years? How’s it working for you? Is your boat rising or sinking?
Paul Ryan: We will end the welfare state because we must end the welfare state.
Fly: Does that include corporate welfare – or are you just going to pick on senior citizens and single mothers?
John Boehner: Shoo fly, get out of here.
Just for jollies, I buzzed Eric Cantor’s nose, considered a kamikaze run up his left nostril, then changed my mind and landed on Grover’s ear where I took a satisfying crap. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, year after year, and expecting a different outcome than you’ve been getting, then these guys are ready for the rubber room. No wonder your country is teetering on the abyss. You elect complete idiots to do your civic business!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Satire: Looking for Mr. Lincoln
A few days ago my wife and I took our kids to Disneyland, happiest place on Earth, home of Mickey and Minnie and overpriced food and souvenirs. After twelve hours and eighteen attractions, we stopped to take in Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln.
Uncle Walt had a deep, if somewhat uncritical love for Abraham Lincoln, and the short show with the animatronic Lincoln is a paean to an America that likely never existed. As I watched the show I thought of Robert E. Lee, U.S. Grant, William T. Sherman and William Seward, and it struck me, as I sat there listening to the stirring theme music -- that there are more great men and women in our past than in our present – at least in the political realm.
Nowadays our politicians are moral and intellectual pipsqueaks who spend all their time jockeying for legislative power and the upper hand in the next election cycle, currying favor with corporate donors, and spouting total nonsense to journalists who take down their BS without question.
The nitwits in DC would rather play ideological chicken and shut the federal government down than act like grown-ups and do what’s in the best interests of the nation.
We’re far down the rabbit hole now and I don’t think our chances of crawling out are good. Business as usual won’t cut the mustard. It’s time for the United States to go whole hog nuts and to this end I make the following suggestions:
Suspend the 2012 presidential election season and have the Supreme Court declare Michelle Bachmann President and Glen Beck Vice President;
Mandate that the Democratic and Republican parties merge. Leadership positions in the new party will be decided by duels with Glock 9MM pistols at a range of no more than 10 paces for male members and 12 paces for female members; duels will be televised live on the Fox television network and be hosted by Ryan Seacrest, with celebrity judges Newt Gingrich, Tom DeLay and Sarah Palin;
Enact a special tax on fast food workers to reimburse the major networks for advertising revenue lost during the suspended Presidential election season;
Abolish all taxes on the 500 wealthiest Americans and all corporations with a minimum valuation of $50 million;
Institute military conscription for any able-bodied man or woman less than 55 years old and with a working IQ above 85 and with an income at or below the Federal poverty level;
Invade and occupy Libya and Yemen;
Assume direct control of all poppy cultivation and heroin manufacturing in Afghanistan and task Donald Rumsfeld with increasing the sale of American heroin in China and India; profits from this venture will be distributed equally to the 500 wealthiest Americans;
To avoid the cost of long-term health care for military veterans, all injured, disabled, maimed, wounded or psychologically unstable personnel will be sent to Cuba where they can receive free, comprehensive health care. If the Castro Regime refuses to provide such services, Cuba will be carpet-bombed until a capitulation is achieved; should Cuba prove unable to handle the caseload, the U.S. will invade Canada;
Privatize all U.S. military services under a single umbrella called the Fossil Fuels Protection Corporation and appoint David Petraeus head of the FFPC at a guaranteed annual salary of $150 million;
Enact a tax on domestic beer sales to raise funds for the FFPC and the intelligence community, but also exempt domestic brewers from federal income taxes and provide them tax credits so that no profits are lost;
Abolish the Federal minimum wage and institute slave labor at a daily wage less than the prevailing wage in China;
Ban all labor unions, including the Screen Actors Guild;
Re-train unemployed teachers, firefighters, and police officers as domestic servants for the wealthy, and pay them five cents per hour more than slave laborers;
Relocate, by force if necessary, all homeless people in the U.S. to the under-populated city of Detroit;
Destroy the Lincoln Memorial and erect a new memorial to former Vice President Dick Cheney.
Uncle Walt had a deep, if somewhat uncritical love for Abraham Lincoln, and the short show with the animatronic Lincoln is a paean to an America that likely never existed. As I watched the show I thought of Robert E. Lee, U.S. Grant, William T. Sherman and William Seward, and it struck me, as I sat there listening to the stirring theme music -- that there are more great men and women in our past than in our present – at least in the political realm.
Nowadays our politicians are moral and intellectual pipsqueaks who spend all their time jockeying for legislative power and the upper hand in the next election cycle, currying favor with corporate donors, and spouting total nonsense to journalists who take down their BS without question.
The nitwits in DC would rather play ideological chicken and shut the federal government down than act like grown-ups and do what’s in the best interests of the nation.
We’re far down the rabbit hole now and I don’t think our chances of crawling out are good. Business as usual won’t cut the mustard. It’s time for the United States to go whole hog nuts and to this end I make the following suggestions:
Suspend the 2012 presidential election season and have the Supreme Court declare Michelle Bachmann President and Glen Beck Vice President;
Mandate that the Democratic and Republican parties merge. Leadership positions in the new party will be decided by duels with Glock 9MM pistols at a range of no more than 10 paces for male members and 12 paces for female members; duels will be televised live on the Fox television network and be hosted by Ryan Seacrest, with celebrity judges Newt Gingrich, Tom DeLay and Sarah Palin;
Enact a special tax on fast food workers to reimburse the major networks for advertising revenue lost during the suspended Presidential election season;
Abolish all taxes on the 500 wealthiest Americans and all corporations with a minimum valuation of $50 million;
Institute military conscription for any able-bodied man or woman less than 55 years old and with a working IQ above 85 and with an income at or below the Federal poverty level;
Invade and occupy Libya and Yemen;
Assume direct control of all poppy cultivation and heroin manufacturing in Afghanistan and task Donald Rumsfeld with increasing the sale of American heroin in China and India; profits from this venture will be distributed equally to the 500 wealthiest Americans;
To avoid the cost of long-term health care for military veterans, all injured, disabled, maimed, wounded or psychologically unstable personnel will be sent to Cuba where they can receive free, comprehensive health care. If the Castro Regime refuses to provide such services, Cuba will be carpet-bombed until a capitulation is achieved; should Cuba prove unable to handle the caseload, the U.S. will invade Canada;
Privatize all U.S. military services under a single umbrella called the Fossil Fuels Protection Corporation and appoint David Petraeus head of the FFPC at a guaranteed annual salary of $150 million;
Enact a tax on domestic beer sales to raise funds for the FFPC and the intelligence community, but also exempt domestic brewers from federal income taxes and provide them tax credits so that no profits are lost;
Abolish the Federal minimum wage and institute slave labor at a daily wage less than the prevailing wage in China;
Ban all labor unions, including the Screen Actors Guild;
Re-train unemployed teachers, firefighters, and police officers as domestic servants for the wealthy, and pay them five cents per hour more than slave laborers;
Relocate, by force if necessary, all homeless people in the U.S. to the under-populated city of Detroit;
Destroy the Lincoln Memorial and erect a new memorial to former Vice President Dick Cheney.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Rant: May the Sun Never Set
Occasionally, and to my detriment, I try and wrap my head around the news. This is always a humbling experience. My old brain can’t keep up when one of the talking heads on ABC or CBS darts from the problem of spent nuclear fuel rods to Charlie Sheen’s latest antics without stopping for breath.
Here’s what I know for sure on this fine March day: America is a wonderful country because we treat our largest corporations like superstars.
First of all, thanks to some scary characters in black robes who call themselves the Supreme Court, corporations have the same free speech rights as persons, meaning they can spend tons of cash to influence the political process in their favor. When it comes to buying legislators, the old adage is true: you get what you pay for. And since many American corporations are sitting on mountains of cash, they can buy a bunch of goodies. Think of the Capitol as a Costco or a Wal-Mart superstore. If it helps, you can also think of it as an upscale whorehouse.
Second, we’re really, really generous to our corporations when it comes to taxes, so much so that we allow the majority to pay no tax whatsoever; zero, zilch, nada, even when, as in the case of Bank of America, they have been recipients of billions of dollars in taxpayer bailout money. Full benefits, no give back; Midas himself would definitely approve.
General Electric is another happy passenger on the no-tax gravy train. GE makes super-sized profits from our endless foreign wars and from outsourcing its manufacturing to low-wage nations. When all is said and done, and an army of CPA’s and lawyers finish their chores, GE pays nary a nickel in US taxes. Even better for GE, its CEO, Jeffrey Immelt, serves on the President’s Economic Recovery Board. Wink. Wink. I’m sure the welfare of working Americans is one of Immelt’s chief concerns. Wink. Wink. Giggle.
Thanks, Mr. Obama, for your undying support of the ruling elite, the status quo and CEO’s. We love you, man.
What else is wonderful about the red, white and blue? Let’s see, Detroit, once the 4th largest city in the land, home of the Big Three US automakers and good paying jobs with benefits and union representation for thousands of middle-class workers, is dying. Grand office buildings and sprawling industrial plants sit empty, rotting from within and without, pillaged for scrap metal and copper wire. In the name of corporate efficiency and global competitiveness, we allowed our 4th largest city to become a landscape fit for ghosts and feral dogs.
We’re #1! Who can deny it?
Ah, this land of the free and home of the brave, this blessed fruited plain where all things are possible for our corporate masters in their glass towers and secure residential enclaves. The richest 400 people in our land control more wealth than the bottom 150 million people – combined. Let’s hear it for meritocracy!
We are edging ever closer to achieving Ronald Reagan’s wettest dream. Dutch’s political heirs – real and imagined – are well on their way to gutting our best institutions, cannibalizing our states, and getting an oppressive, overreaching government off the backs of the people. Woo-hoo!
Hell, yes, our cup overflowith with God’s bounty. What other nation can simultaneously wage two and a half wars against Muslim nations? Can the French pull off this impressive hat-trick? No way! The Brits? Impossible! The Russians? Laughable! Iraq. Afghanistan. Libya. Who’s next? What band of ragtag revolutionaries will dare challenge the military might of the US of A? As Mr. T was fond of saying: “I pity the fools.” Cross our line in the sand and we will rain death and destruction upon you. Shock and awe, hammer and tong, cruise missile and cluster bomb!
Hey, Gaddafi, this next cruise missile is brought to you by General Electric. We bring tin-horn dictators to their knees. Booyah!
Hot damn! May the sun never set on the American Empire.
Here’s what I know for sure on this fine March day: America is a wonderful country because we treat our largest corporations like superstars.
First of all, thanks to some scary characters in black robes who call themselves the Supreme Court, corporations have the same free speech rights as persons, meaning they can spend tons of cash to influence the political process in their favor. When it comes to buying legislators, the old adage is true: you get what you pay for. And since many American corporations are sitting on mountains of cash, they can buy a bunch of goodies. Think of the Capitol as a Costco or a Wal-Mart superstore. If it helps, you can also think of it as an upscale whorehouse.
Second, we’re really, really generous to our corporations when it comes to taxes, so much so that we allow the majority to pay no tax whatsoever; zero, zilch, nada, even when, as in the case of Bank of America, they have been recipients of billions of dollars in taxpayer bailout money. Full benefits, no give back; Midas himself would definitely approve.
General Electric is another happy passenger on the no-tax gravy train. GE makes super-sized profits from our endless foreign wars and from outsourcing its manufacturing to low-wage nations. When all is said and done, and an army of CPA’s and lawyers finish their chores, GE pays nary a nickel in US taxes. Even better for GE, its CEO, Jeffrey Immelt, serves on the President’s Economic Recovery Board. Wink. Wink. I’m sure the welfare of working Americans is one of Immelt’s chief concerns. Wink. Wink. Giggle.
Thanks, Mr. Obama, for your undying support of the ruling elite, the status quo and CEO’s. We love you, man.
What else is wonderful about the red, white and blue? Let’s see, Detroit, once the 4th largest city in the land, home of the Big Three US automakers and good paying jobs with benefits and union representation for thousands of middle-class workers, is dying. Grand office buildings and sprawling industrial plants sit empty, rotting from within and without, pillaged for scrap metal and copper wire. In the name of corporate efficiency and global competitiveness, we allowed our 4th largest city to become a landscape fit for ghosts and feral dogs.
We’re #1! Who can deny it?
Ah, this land of the free and home of the brave, this blessed fruited plain where all things are possible for our corporate masters in their glass towers and secure residential enclaves. The richest 400 people in our land control more wealth than the bottom 150 million people – combined. Let’s hear it for meritocracy!
We are edging ever closer to achieving Ronald Reagan’s wettest dream. Dutch’s political heirs – real and imagined – are well on their way to gutting our best institutions, cannibalizing our states, and getting an oppressive, overreaching government off the backs of the people. Woo-hoo!
Hell, yes, our cup overflowith with God’s bounty. What other nation can simultaneously wage two and a half wars against Muslim nations? Can the French pull off this impressive hat-trick? No way! The Brits? Impossible! The Russians? Laughable! Iraq. Afghanistan. Libya. Who’s next? What band of ragtag revolutionaries will dare challenge the military might of the US of A? As Mr. T was fond of saying: “I pity the fools.” Cross our line in the sand and we will rain death and destruction upon you. Shock and awe, hammer and tong, cruise missile and cluster bomb!
Hey, Gaddafi, this next cruise missile is brought to you by General Electric. We bring tin-horn dictators to their knees. Booyah!
Hot damn! May the sun never set on the American Empire.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Fiction: Unstable
At the moment a surge of water lifts Hiroko Kobayashi’s house from its foundation in Sendai, Japan, Jack Mintz exits Del’s bar on Chapala Street in Santa Barbara, California.
After four hours of solitary drinking in a corner booth in Del’s, Jack’s mind is still riveted on Jeremy’s trial. What drinking couldn’t a long walk might, so Jack heads east on De La Guerra Street, past Starbuck’s, past an empty storefront with a For Lease sign in the window, past darkened City Hall where a lone homeless man sits on the lawn smoking a cigarette. A gentle on shore breeze rustles the palm trees. It’s a lovely SB evening in early spring; Jack barely notices.
Jeremy will be convicted, there’s no doubt about that: only his punishment is unknown.
I can’t control what he does, Jack tells himself for the fiftieth time, though he still feels as if – somewhere along the way – he failed his son.
Hiroko lives alone in a house about a mile from the river. She recently turned 82 and is recovering from hip surgery. The pain medication prescribed by her physician makes her sleepy. When the earthquake hits she’s taking a nap, and at first the shaking feels like part of her dream, but then she realizes that real plates and tea cups and dishes are falling off the shelves in the kitchen; a lamp tips over and a bookshelf topples, a painting falls off the wall, the windows rattle. The floor pitches and rolls like a dinghy in a rough sea. During her long life Hiroko has experienced hundreds of earthquakes, enough of them to know that most last thirty seconds, a minute tops, frightening to be sure, but in the end harmless. This one is different. She hears a dog barking and what sounds like planks of wood snapping.
Before settling in at Del’s to drink his worries away, Jack drove out to the County Jail to ask Jeremy one more time. The elemental question is driving Jack mad. Maybe this time Jeremy will give a different answer, one that makes sense; Jack needs it to make sense. On his way through the main corridor that leads to the Visitors Center Jack takes note of red warning signs and carefully placed surveillance cameras, the smell of disinfectant and the shine on the floors. Metal doors clang shut. The finality and hopelessness of this sound rattles Jack’s nerves more than anything else; he will hear its echo for hours afterwards.
Jeremy has nothing new to say. Father and son stare at one another from opposite sides of shatterproof glass, just like in the movies. Jeremy wears standard issue, bright orange County jail coveralls, white sneakers without laces, and a weary expression on his face. His shoulders slump with resignation. Unlike a movie, however, Jeremy isn’t an innocent man falsely incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit. Photographs form in Jack’s mind, line up in chronological order: little league, guitar lessons, junior high graduation, high school baseball games, graduation, the day Jeremy left for his freshman year at UCLA. Milestones and markers for the passage of time, all in a neat row, success following success. Now as he stares at his son and tries to keep his emotions from overwhelming him, Jack wonders where he went wrong. What was the tipping point for Jeremy and why didn’t he come to his mother and me for help? Why did I learn of his crimes on the 5:00 news?
Why? God-damn why?
The front end of an Isuzu truck crashes through Hiroko’s window, followed by a surge of brown water that smells of gasoline, sewage and salt. A dead cat floats in next, followed by a child’s doll, a broom, a magazine, a soccer ball, clumps of seaweed and a washing machine. This can’t be happening, she thinks, it has to be a hallucination, a side effect of the medication, but almost as soon as this thought crosses her mind water is swirling around her knees, cold and dirty, and her house – home for fifty years -- is being carried away. She doesn’t have time to think of her deceased husband or her children and grandchildren because the house is jerking this way and that. This is the Big One local authorities have warned about for years. Be prepared. Have a plan, supplies, water, flashlights and food. But how does one prepare for a truck to come through the window? I am going to drown, Hiroko thinks, a split second before she loses her footing and slips under the water.
Jack can’t stop the loop of thoughts running endlessly in his head. He walks as far as the armory before turning back. His mouth feels dry and he is developing a dull headache. By now Jeremy is back in his cell. The gates and doors have all slammed shut.
Hiroko fights to the surface. As a girl she loved to swim in the river with her sisters, float on her back and stare up at the blue sky; it was a way to forget the war, Japan’s defeat, the unspeakable damage caused by American incendiary bombs in Tokyo and Osaka and Yokohama, not to mention the A-bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She has never forgotten the privation in the years immediately following Japan’s surrender, the toll it took on her parents, and as she pulls herself onto a pile of floating debris and catches a glimpse of the devastation, it’s 1945 again. How is it possible for a boat to be perched atop a house; for two train cars to be nearly a mile from the nearest tracks; for the rooftops of her neighbors’ homes to nearly be submerged; for fires to burn on the surface of the water? Only this morning everything was normal in the world: she ate her breakfast, drank her tea, watched TV, made her bed, folded clothes and washed dishes. Only this morning the houses, trees, boats, cars, and trains were in their proper places; now all is surging water and chaos.
Jack walks on, ruminating on all he and his wife have done over the years to make a stable life for their only child. Hard work and non-stop planning for contingencies: life insurance, property insurance, health coverage, earthquake and flood insurance, retirement annuities, IRA’s, a modest stock portfolio, six months of living expenses tucked away in a bank account – even small college funds for the grandchildren they don’t have yet. He and his wife are steady, sober, cautious, careful, conservative and methodical -- in every way exemplary citizens of the American republic, the kind who play by the established rules.
And they earn their just reward for all this rectitude until Jeremy decides the best way to get the money he needs is to embezzle half a million dollars from the university. The speed at which everything changes boggles Jack’s mind; one minute the foundation of his life is solid, the next it’s collapsing. Friends call but after saying things they think are helpful, there’s nothing left except awkward silence. Jack wonders how many years Jeremy will serve in prison and what kind of man he will be when he gets out? Why does this cement sidewalk feel like it’s made of dough? Why am I sinking?
Hiroko floats on the debris pile for twenty-six hours. Two soldiers pull her to safety and drape a blue blanket over her thin shoulders; one of them offers her a bottle of water – she’s too weak to open it. Looking at the destruction all around her she’s not sure being alive is reason for celebration.
Jeremy is sentenced to twenty years in prison; with good behavior he could be released in seven.
On the second night after being rescued, Hiroko passes away in her sleep. The last thing she sees is the face of a little girl sleeping on a cot next to hers.
Three days after Jeremy is sentenced, Jack’s wife finds him hanging from a rafter in the garage. Methodical to the end, Jack’s coat and tie are draped over the back of a chair, and he even thought to remove his shoes and socks.
He didn’t need to leave a note.
After four hours of solitary drinking in a corner booth in Del’s, Jack’s mind is still riveted on Jeremy’s trial. What drinking couldn’t a long walk might, so Jack heads east on De La Guerra Street, past Starbuck’s, past an empty storefront with a For Lease sign in the window, past darkened City Hall where a lone homeless man sits on the lawn smoking a cigarette. A gentle on shore breeze rustles the palm trees. It’s a lovely SB evening in early spring; Jack barely notices.
Jeremy will be convicted, there’s no doubt about that: only his punishment is unknown.
I can’t control what he does, Jack tells himself for the fiftieth time, though he still feels as if – somewhere along the way – he failed his son.
Hiroko lives alone in a house about a mile from the river. She recently turned 82 and is recovering from hip surgery. The pain medication prescribed by her physician makes her sleepy. When the earthquake hits she’s taking a nap, and at first the shaking feels like part of her dream, but then she realizes that real plates and tea cups and dishes are falling off the shelves in the kitchen; a lamp tips over and a bookshelf topples, a painting falls off the wall, the windows rattle. The floor pitches and rolls like a dinghy in a rough sea. During her long life Hiroko has experienced hundreds of earthquakes, enough of them to know that most last thirty seconds, a minute tops, frightening to be sure, but in the end harmless. This one is different. She hears a dog barking and what sounds like planks of wood snapping.
Before settling in at Del’s to drink his worries away, Jack drove out to the County Jail to ask Jeremy one more time. The elemental question is driving Jack mad. Maybe this time Jeremy will give a different answer, one that makes sense; Jack needs it to make sense. On his way through the main corridor that leads to the Visitors Center Jack takes note of red warning signs and carefully placed surveillance cameras, the smell of disinfectant and the shine on the floors. Metal doors clang shut. The finality and hopelessness of this sound rattles Jack’s nerves more than anything else; he will hear its echo for hours afterwards.
Jeremy has nothing new to say. Father and son stare at one another from opposite sides of shatterproof glass, just like in the movies. Jeremy wears standard issue, bright orange County jail coveralls, white sneakers without laces, and a weary expression on his face. His shoulders slump with resignation. Unlike a movie, however, Jeremy isn’t an innocent man falsely incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit. Photographs form in Jack’s mind, line up in chronological order: little league, guitar lessons, junior high graduation, high school baseball games, graduation, the day Jeremy left for his freshman year at UCLA. Milestones and markers for the passage of time, all in a neat row, success following success. Now as he stares at his son and tries to keep his emotions from overwhelming him, Jack wonders where he went wrong. What was the tipping point for Jeremy and why didn’t he come to his mother and me for help? Why did I learn of his crimes on the 5:00 news?
Why? God-damn why?
The front end of an Isuzu truck crashes through Hiroko’s window, followed by a surge of brown water that smells of gasoline, sewage and salt. A dead cat floats in next, followed by a child’s doll, a broom, a magazine, a soccer ball, clumps of seaweed and a washing machine. This can’t be happening, she thinks, it has to be a hallucination, a side effect of the medication, but almost as soon as this thought crosses her mind water is swirling around her knees, cold and dirty, and her house – home for fifty years -- is being carried away. She doesn’t have time to think of her deceased husband or her children and grandchildren because the house is jerking this way and that. This is the Big One local authorities have warned about for years. Be prepared. Have a plan, supplies, water, flashlights and food. But how does one prepare for a truck to come through the window? I am going to drown, Hiroko thinks, a split second before she loses her footing and slips under the water.
Jack can’t stop the loop of thoughts running endlessly in his head. He walks as far as the armory before turning back. His mouth feels dry and he is developing a dull headache. By now Jeremy is back in his cell. The gates and doors have all slammed shut.
Hiroko fights to the surface. As a girl she loved to swim in the river with her sisters, float on her back and stare up at the blue sky; it was a way to forget the war, Japan’s defeat, the unspeakable damage caused by American incendiary bombs in Tokyo and Osaka and Yokohama, not to mention the A-bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She has never forgotten the privation in the years immediately following Japan’s surrender, the toll it took on her parents, and as she pulls herself onto a pile of floating debris and catches a glimpse of the devastation, it’s 1945 again. How is it possible for a boat to be perched atop a house; for two train cars to be nearly a mile from the nearest tracks; for the rooftops of her neighbors’ homes to nearly be submerged; for fires to burn on the surface of the water? Only this morning everything was normal in the world: she ate her breakfast, drank her tea, watched TV, made her bed, folded clothes and washed dishes. Only this morning the houses, trees, boats, cars, and trains were in their proper places; now all is surging water and chaos.
Jack walks on, ruminating on all he and his wife have done over the years to make a stable life for their only child. Hard work and non-stop planning for contingencies: life insurance, property insurance, health coverage, earthquake and flood insurance, retirement annuities, IRA’s, a modest stock portfolio, six months of living expenses tucked away in a bank account – even small college funds for the grandchildren they don’t have yet. He and his wife are steady, sober, cautious, careful, conservative and methodical -- in every way exemplary citizens of the American republic, the kind who play by the established rules.
And they earn their just reward for all this rectitude until Jeremy decides the best way to get the money he needs is to embezzle half a million dollars from the university. The speed at which everything changes boggles Jack’s mind; one minute the foundation of his life is solid, the next it’s collapsing. Friends call but after saying things they think are helpful, there’s nothing left except awkward silence. Jack wonders how many years Jeremy will serve in prison and what kind of man he will be when he gets out? Why does this cement sidewalk feel like it’s made of dough? Why am I sinking?
Hiroko floats on the debris pile for twenty-six hours. Two soldiers pull her to safety and drape a blue blanket over her thin shoulders; one of them offers her a bottle of water – she’s too weak to open it. Looking at the destruction all around her she’s not sure being alive is reason for celebration.
Jeremy is sentenced to twenty years in prison; with good behavior he could be released in seven.
On the second night after being rescued, Hiroko passes away in her sleep. The last thing she sees is the face of a little girl sleeping on a cot next to hers.
Three days after Jeremy is sentenced, Jack’s wife finds him hanging from a rafter in the garage. Methodical to the end, Jack’s coat and tie are draped over the back of a chair, and he even thought to remove his shoes and socks.
He didn’t need to leave a note.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Advice from the Good Doctor
I was due a phone call from Dr. Duke and surprisingly it came at what for him is a reasonable hour, 12:30, on Wednesday night. I had only been asleep for two hours.
“Where you calling from, doc?”
“I prefer not to say. I’m on the run from a woman who is formidably crazy. She has powerful friends.”
I took the phone into the living room and sat on the couch.
“How you been, Doc?”
“Wrong question, man. It’s not how I am – it’s WTF is the matter with you? The Balcony is a disgrace. There’s no political writing, for one thing, and for another you haven’t posted anything new for weeks. What’s the deal? Don’t tell me that the school district is keeping you so busy that you have no time to scribble? You must scribble, do you hear me?”
I didn’t bother trying to explain the trials and tribulations of holding down an 8-to-5 job, raising kids, helping with homework, refereeing endless sibling squabbles, doing laundry, grocery shopping, and all the other domestic chores that need to be done.
“How about the Middle East? The US of A is behind the curve on this one, of course, but that’s to be expected from a dying empire that can’t see beyond its asshole. Unless the west intervenes militarily, that insane bastard Gaddafi will probably survive; nonetheless, a very loud message has been sent to the rulers. I bet the Saudis are wetting themselves. I know you’re not caught up in the Charlie Sheen circus, so what the hell have you been doing?”
“Reading. Working on some fiction. You really should get married and settle down, doc. Do you good.”
“Only way I could be married is if I could have a harem. You bummed about Japan? Astonishing devastation. When did you live over there?”
“1977 to 1983. It’s very sad, doc. The suffering, the loss, the potential for nuclear catastrophe; I wonder if the world is being told the truth about the extent of the damage – and the risks. I keep seeing these tiny old Japanese women staring blankly at what used to be their homes.”
“Governments lie, particularly to avoid scaring the bejesus out of their citizens. Assume the worst is my advice.”
“I looked at some photographs of Chernobyl today,” I said. “The restricted area is about the size of Yellowstone National Park. Chilling stuff. Abandoned buildings, empty villages and schools, ghastly photos of deformed children. The only living thing thriving there is the forest; it’s taking over.”
I thought I heard Duke sigh, though for all I know he was taking a hit from a bong.
“Mankind is determined to destroy this planet,” Duke said. “And it will. What are you reading?”
“Absolute Friends, John LeCarre. You?”
“Plato, the Republic. I keep searching for answers. I thought I had something with this one, but she turned out to be a psycho. She knows we’re friends so if she calls you – and she might – tell her you have no idea where I am.”
“I don’t have any idea where you are, doc.”
“Let’s keep it that way – for your own good. “Write something, will you? Get something on the Balcony soon or you’ll lose all your readers.”
“Where you calling from, doc?”
“I prefer not to say. I’m on the run from a woman who is formidably crazy. She has powerful friends.”
I took the phone into the living room and sat on the couch.
“How you been, Doc?”
“Wrong question, man. It’s not how I am – it’s WTF is the matter with you? The Balcony is a disgrace. There’s no political writing, for one thing, and for another you haven’t posted anything new for weeks. What’s the deal? Don’t tell me that the school district is keeping you so busy that you have no time to scribble? You must scribble, do you hear me?”
I didn’t bother trying to explain the trials and tribulations of holding down an 8-to-5 job, raising kids, helping with homework, refereeing endless sibling squabbles, doing laundry, grocery shopping, and all the other domestic chores that need to be done.
“How about the Middle East? The US of A is behind the curve on this one, of course, but that’s to be expected from a dying empire that can’t see beyond its asshole. Unless the west intervenes militarily, that insane bastard Gaddafi will probably survive; nonetheless, a very loud message has been sent to the rulers. I bet the Saudis are wetting themselves. I know you’re not caught up in the Charlie Sheen circus, so what the hell have you been doing?”
“Reading. Working on some fiction. You really should get married and settle down, doc. Do you good.”
“Only way I could be married is if I could have a harem. You bummed about Japan? Astonishing devastation. When did you live over there?”
“1977 to 1983. It’s very sad, doc. The suffering, the loss, the potential for nuclear catastrophe; I wonder if the world is being told the truth about the extent of the damage – and the risks. I keep seeing these tiny old Japanese women staring blankly at what used to be their homes.”
“Governments lie, particularly to avoid scaring the bejesus out of their citizens. Assume the worst is my advice.”
“I looked at some photographs of Chernobyl today,” I said. “The restricted area is about the size of Yellowstone National Park. Chilling stuff. Abandoned buildings, empty villages and schools, ghastly photos of deformed children. The only living thing thriving there is the forest; it’s taking over.”
I thought I heard Duke sigh, though for all I know he was taking a hit from a bong.
“Mankind is determined to destroy this planet,” Duke said. “And it will. What are you reading?”
“Absolute Friends, John LeCarre. You?”
“Plato, the Republic. I keep searching for answers. I thought I had something with this one, but she turned out to be a psycho. She knows we’re friends so if she calls you – and she might – tell her you have no idea where I am.”
“I don’t have any idea where you are, doc.”
“Let’s keep it that way – for your own good. “Write something, will you? Get something on the Balcony soon or you’ll lose all your readers.”
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Road to Forgetting
“The struggle of memory against forgetting.” Milan Kundera
We’re Americans. Our specialty is forgetting. History is what happened five minutes ago. History is gaudy spectacle – the Super Bowl halftime show, Lady Gaga arriving at the Grammy Awards in an embryo – and we need it big, loud, and flashy, and the faster the better. 4G fast. Trivia is our lifeblood and we demand instant access to the latest from Hollywood, the doings of the Kardashian conglomerate, quick updates from the Jersey Shore, tweets from Sarah Palin. We create reality. Information that doesn’t fit is discarded. George Orwell is dead. The Ministry of Truth manufactures lies. Ignore the truth and you will be rendered powerless by lies. They say the economy is staging a recovery, yet millions of homes sit empty and millions of people cannot find decent jobs to afford those empty homes. “Imported from Detroit” is an ironic advertising slogan. Reality contradicts spin, but who cares? Verizon now has the iPhone. This is important. Demand for Botox is tremendous. This is newsworthy. The struggle to remember, the need to forget. How did we get from there to here, from peasant and serf and disposable industrial laborer to the golden age of the middle class and then to this era of never-ending anxiety? The cognitive dissonance is as loud as a screaming F-14. We can afford tax cuts for those who don’t need them; we can afford foreign wars that go on for decades; yet we can’t afford to help the less fortunate, young or old, the infirm, the indigent or the unlucky because austerity is what we do now. The poor must sacrifice so the wealthy don’t have to. This is the new fairness doctrine. Cut to the bone, slice to the marrow, a penny saved on the backs of the poor today can be handed to the plutocrats tomorrow. But who cares? We have spectacle. We have shopping malls. We have 3D television. What happened in Egypt already seems like ancient history, as dusty as the Great Pyramid. One less toothbrush in the stand, one less towel on the rack, one less plate on the table, one less voice on the phone -- one more stone in the cemetery. The powerful count on us to forget. Entire political campaigns are built on false myths and fairy tales of a time that never was. Sarah Palin is the new Reagan; once again it is morning in America, a happy time. The road to forgetting is paved with negotiable facts.
We’re Americans. Our specialty is forgetting. History is what happened five minutes ago. History is gaudy spectacle – the Super Bowl halftime show, Lady Gaga arriving at the Grammy Awards in an embryo – and we need it big, loud, and flashy, and the faster the better. 4G fast. Trivia is our lifeblood and we demand instant access to the latest from Hollywood, the doings of the Kardashian conglomerate, quick updates from the Jersey Shore, tweets from Sarah Palin. We create reality. Information that doesn’t fit is discarded. George Orwell is dead. The Ministry of Truth manufactures lies. Ignore the truth and you will be rendered powerless by lies. They say the economy is staging a recovery, yet millions of homes sit empty and millions of people cannot find decent jobs to afford those empty homes. “Imported from Detroit” is an ironic advertising slogan. Reality contradicts spin, but who cares? Verizon now has the iPhone. This is important. Demand for Botox is tremendous. This is newsworthy. The struggle to remember, the need to forget. How did we get from there to here, from peasant and serf and disposable industrial laborer to the golden age of the middle class and then to this era of never-ending anxiety? The cognitive dissonance is as loud as a screaming F-14. We can afford tax cuts for those who don’t need them; we can afford foreign wars that go on for decades; yet we can’t afford to help the less fortunate, young or old, the infirm, the indigent or the unlucky because austerity is what we do now. The poor must sacrifice so the wealthy don’t have to. This is the new fairness doctrine. Cut to the bone, slice to the marrow, a penny saved on the backs of the poor today can be handed to the plutocrats tomorrow. But who cares? We have spectacle. We have shopping malls. We have 3D television. What happened in Egypt already seems like ancient history, as dusty as the Great Pyramid. One less toothbrush in the stand, one less towel on the rack, one less plate on the table, one less voice on the phone -- one more stone in the cemetery. The powerful count on us to forget. Entire political campaigns are built on false myths and fairy tales of a time that never was. Sarah Palin is the new Reagan; once again it is morning in America, a happy time. The road to forgetting is paved with negotiable facts.
Friday, February 04, 2011
Fiction: A Refined Gentleman
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?”
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?”
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
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