Illusions, Myths and Fables

I’ve just finished reading a collection of essays by Gore Vidal covering a span of nearly six decades. I don’t think we will see a writer of Vidal’s erudition again; it seemed he had read everything from Aeschylus to Tennessee Williams, and that he was personally acquainted with every important thinker, writer and political figure of his time.

Vidal was at his best when lacerating our government for hypocrisy, or puncturing the windbags who dominate the public airwaves on Sunday morning.

My progress through the essays was slowed by frequent pauses for note taking and reflection. Vidal reminded me that issues that appear peculiar to our time are in reality not new at all. For instance, forty years ago Vidal wondered why “we allow our governors to take so much of our money and spend it in ways that not only fail to benefit us but do great damage to others?”

Great question. Why indeed.

In a number of essays Vidal pointed out that American politicians have, since the beginning of the republic, created illusions and called them facts. Illusions galore, like claiming from every rooftop that our national debt is the direct result of overly generous entitlement programs rather than a national security state run amok; and that the only path to enduring solvency is not to raise taxes on the wealthy or drastically scale back our national security apparatus, but to take a sledgehammer to “wasteful” social programs.

Another grand illusion, and a core tenet of the idiot wing of the Republican Party, is that tax cuts for the wealthy produce jobs for the middle class. The wealthy have enjoyed more than a decade of tax “relief” and the middle class is still waiting for jobs.

Or like our president at the Commander’s Ball thanking our brave warriors in Afghanistan for protecting our freedom. Really? Our freedom is imperiled from the frightful military capability of a relatively small, rag-tag, loosely knit group calling itself Al-Qaida or the Taliban? The president failed to mention that America is entering its twelfth year of waste and futility in Afghanistan; the greatest, most expensive military force in human history has failed in spectacular fashion, but, naturally, our political leaders claim that the occupation has been a brilliant success and has prevented evil terrorists from attacking our homeland.

And now, of course, the Al-Qaida threat has sprouted in Africa and the prevailing wisdom is that we fight the terrorists there or fight them in Florida, California or on the shores of Lake Michigan.

America has itched to get a foothold in Africa and now, courtesy of the endless War on Terror, we have a pretext.

Yes, we are awash in illusions and to those I would add fables and myths; the fable that we live in the land of the free and the home of the brave; the myth that we are inherently better than people of other nations and that our lives are more valuable; the fable that we are a force for good in the world.

Primarily what we have that others do not is louder and more persistent PR.

Vidal was also bemused by America’s relationship with the state of Israel and the way this small nation manipulates our foreign policy. Obama’s nominee for Secretary of Defense, Chuck Hagel, was grilled the other day on Capitol Hill about the sacred topic of Israel, and of course he promised undying fealty to Tel Aviv, no matter how many innocent Palestinians the Israeli army kills or how many settlements are built on confiscated and disputed territory.

In the 1980’s Vidal wrote, “I would stop all military aid to the Middle East. This would oblige the hardliners in Israel to make peace with the Palestinians. We have supported Israel for forty years. No other minority in the history of the United States has ever extorted so much treasury money for its holy land as the Israeli lobby.”

The extortion has now been going on for 65 years and we are as far from peace in the region as ever. Israel is more militant and recalcitrant, always making threats to bomb Iran or launch another assault on Gaza.

My favorite Vidal quote has to be this one: “Persuading the people to vote against their own best interests has been the awesome genius of the American political elite from the beginning.”

The electorate becomes apoplectic, rabid and sometimes violent over the rights of a fetus or the teaching of creationism and the Ten Commandments in public school, but when the financial syndicate mortgages our future and turns millions into paupers, the electorate falls silent.

Unfortunately that’s not an illusion.

Different Day, Same Obama

My wife is watching coverage of the Inauguration in the other room. She switches from NBC to ABC to CBS to CNN, trying to find one talking head that doesn’t piss her off. David Gergen, spinmeister to four presidents, seems to be on every channel, jabbering incessantly about presidential stature, and the challenges facing Obama in the next four years. 

Over on ABC, Tim Gunn is analyzing Michelle Obama’s attire and what her stint as First Lady has meant for fashion; apparently, this is important and newsworthy. Tributes to our brave men and women in uniform, our warriors, are repeated on every network. Praise the American empire and our grand, stunning armaments. Brian Williams says Obama appears calmer this time around, more relaxed and comfortable in his role as chief executive and commander in chief; Williams and his colleagues have a lot of airtime to fill so these kind of empty, stupid statements predominate. 

Camera shots of generals and admirals, protectors of the ruling class’s property and wealth; long shots of the Capitol mall and the assembled crowd. I can’t help but think of the pomp and spectacle of ancient Rome, at least until the Disney-style music begins playing and I feel like I’m standing on Main Street with an ice cream cone in my hand and a bunch of children screaming all around me. Jimmy Carter is on hand, as is Bill Clinton, but where is W, and where is his sidekick, Dick Cheney? Surely, these two great Americans were invited to this celebration of Democracy and the orderly transfer of power. Portly Newt Gingrich strolls in, though why the Toad was invited is a mystery to me. Still no sign of W – where is that slimy motherfucker? John Boehner looks constipated, though his fake tan is perfect, as usual.

I know this is a solemn ceremony, far superior to a military coup or a fascist overthrow, but it’s just another brick in the wall of lies we tell ourselves about ourselves. It’s like asserting that the purpose of all this pomp is the welfare of people rather than the protection of property. Bob Schiefer tells the audience that Obama’s second term will be about bipartisanship, reaching across the aisle, and maybe playing more rounds of golf with Republican members of Congress. Yes, hit the links with Eric Cantor and Mitch McConnell, tee off with a smile on your face and a song in your heart, but never turn your back on those two.

“We will respond to the threat of climate change,” says Obama, knowing full well that we will do nothing of the sort because this would only upset the property owners and resource extractors – it’s another throwaway line that will soon be forgotten.

Obama’s laying out the laundry list now – help the poor, heal the sick, free the captive, punish the wicked, save the weak.

Sounds good, boss, why don’t you start right here on the fruited plain…

Keep in mind that this is the same president who determines whether or not this or that suspected terrorist is taken out by a drone strike, without benefit of legal charges and trial; this is the same president who pushed a health care reform scheme that kept insurance companies in charge of our medical care; this is the same president who refused to prosecute the criminal bankers and financiers who ruined the economic present and future for millions of people.

Different day, same guy, same rules for the ruling class. Let freedom ring, baby. Let freedom roll down from the mountaintop (and then blow the top off that mountain so we can get to the coal below), let freedom flow like the mighty Nile. Today we are one America, not divided by race (bullshit), sexual orientation (gays can’t legally marry in most places), wealth (ha, ha, ha), or the Second Amendment (another ha, ha – don’t try to take my guns, motherfucker).

And what would an American political event be without the big guy, yes, that guy, Almighty God, who pays special attention to these United States. We thank him, praise him, raise our eyes to him – or at least some of us do. God has always been useful to both wings of the Property Party.

Bring on Beyonce and the Marine Band…then cue Wolf Blitzer. 

Cycling Downhill with No Brakes

Lance Armstrong has submitted himself to America’s Mother Confessor, Oprah Winfrey. Millions of viewers tuned in to watch the disgraced cyclist try to rescue his reputation. Was he sorry, contrite, remorseful, and did he shed the requisite number of tears?

I don’t know and don’t care because the bottom line is that no mortal human can win seven consecutive Tour de France titles without pharmacological augmentation. It just ain’t possible, and all along most folks knew Armstrong was up to something, but he was a cancer survivor and his story made for good copy, and he dated Sheryl Crow, and hung around with movie stars, and headed a foundation that was supposedly doing good works, so we made him a hero, hoisted him on a pedestal and worshipped him.

In the process, we also made him very wealthy.

But what does it matter? For many years to come Lance Armstrong will be besieged by lawsuits from former friends and associates; if nothing else emerged from Oprah’s dog and pony show, Armstrong appears to understand that he is fucked, and royally so. All the people he abused and stepped on as he climbed the mountain of fame and fortune will return to haunt him.

We love to create a hero only as much as we love destroying one; this is what we do in America. The wall-to-wall Armstrong coverage will continue a few more days, and then the pathetic prick will drop off the radar, not to return until he writes a confessional book or claims to have found redemption in God. We will find someone to replace him on the pedestal; we always do because we’re suckers for an improbable story.   

I only wish Oprah would employ her vast media powers in something more useful, like interviewing all the crooked bankers and financiers and lobbyists and politicians who wrecked the economy in 2008, and left millions of Americans without houses or retirement funds. 

Dancing on the Cliff in the Dark

Well, here we are, off and galloping into the year 2013.

America peeked over the dreaded and mostly fictional Fiscal Cliff, and of course came back again with a stop-gap solution that assures the two corporate parties will battle again in a few weeks time over the national Debt Ceiling, a fairly new shibboleth since the debt ceiling has been routinely raised without a peep of protest in previous administrations. Republicans will use the debt ceiling ruse to frighten the gullible and gin up momentum for cutting “entitlement” programs like Social Security and Medicare – or any other program that doesn’t serve the wealthy.

America’s millionaire politicians insist that elderly people must work longer before receiving their benefits: make geezers toil until they’re 80 or until they keel over in the parking lot at Wal-Mart. Little thought is given to where oldsters are going to find jobs to work at for an additional five to ten years. As far as I know, employers are not clamoring for elderly workers as much as they’d like to rid themselves of them in exchange for younger, cheaper alternatives.

And while we’re snipping away at the tattered safety net, let’s put an end to hip or knee replacements for anyone on the public dime; canes and walkers are more cost effective.

The deal is pretty clear: austerity is the only way out of our fiscal wilderness. We must cut, slash, burn, and above all, make the poor pony up so the rich don’t have to. On the fruited and blessed plain of America, the wealthy are exalted, praised, and coddled like baby lambs. Under no circumstances must we burden the rich or upset them, because if we do, our best, brightest and most deserving will not invest their wealth, and if they don’t invest, our economy cannot grow, and if the economy doesn’t grow -- the horror, the horror, the horror.

Have you seen the recent feel-good PR blitz from AIG, the worldwide insurance giant that only four years ago was on the brink of ruin? An infusion of taxpayer bailout funds saved AIG and other financial institutions intimately connected with it from the bad bets and slippery business practices that had become standard operating procedure. American taxpayers had no say in the decision to bailout AIG; we were just told it was necessary to save capitalism from itself.

OK, the truth is, nobody in Washington D.C. had the stones to come out and criticize capitalism.

Anyway, if you believe the PR, AIG has clawed its way back to fiscal solvency and paid back, with interest, every dime dumped on its loading dock by US Government representatives. So you see, far from being an egregious display of corporate welfare, the bailout was a solid investment for the American taxpayer.

And, lo and behold, miracle of miracles, AIG is again doing what it does best – rebuilding hurricane ravaged communities – while wrapped in the American flag and with “Born in the USA” blaring in the background.

I think I’m going to heave all over my laptop. First BP restored the Gulf of Mexico and now AIG is saving Hurricane Sandy victims.

Holy shit! Three cheers for corporate America! Is there anything these marvelous people cannot do?

Our corporate masters only take a backseat to our military heroes, now on display in the film Zero Dark Thirty. I have no desire to see this film and here’s why: the so-called Greatest Manhunt in History required more than a decade, two invasions, thousands of dead, wounded or displaced, and billions of taxpayer dollars. Yes, our brave warriors with their ultra-effective weapons found and murdered Osama bin Laden, but the War on Terror continues as if bin Laden were still alive; the creeping and creepy American police state continues; bin Laden may be dead and rotting at the bottom of the sea, but his ghost is with us, and as a result, we remain less free, equally fearful and more in the dark.

Background Check

The toughest part of being a parent is not your own kids – it’s dealing with the parents of your kids’ friends.

The term “play-date” grates on my sensibility. The notion that play time must be scheduled like a dentist appointment drives me crazy and speaks to one of the ills of contemporary America.

When I was a kid, way back in the wild 1960’s, we gathered in the street or on someone’s front lawn, with our bikes and gear for whatever sport was in season at the time, and we played. None of us had an electronic nanny. No supervision or structure, and just as many pedophiles and perverts prowled then as now; we were taught to use common sense, like, don’t talk to strangers and avoid weird looking people who might offer you candy from a van with tinted windows.

Now it takes two phone calls, an e-mail, a text and a Skype conversation to confirm there will be adult supervision at the play-date. It goes like this:

Yes, yes, Mrs. So and So, your precious and precocious child will never be out of our sight. We will not feed her any wheat or dairy products, or fruit juice laced with high fructose corn syrup. We have been fingerprinted and TB tested. What’s that, our property and casualty insurance? Up to date – we can e-mail you a copy of the policy if you like.  Our family vehicle is less than ten years old and has new brakes and tires. If we leave the city limits you will receive a text message. We just checked and can assure you that our daughter does not have head lice. Clean as a whistle. We should inform you, however, that our daughter is not adept at math, though we don’t believe this deficiency is contagious; your gifted and talented child, light of the universe, diamond in your eye, future Ivy League scholar, will not be adversely affected by intimate commerce with our very ordinary child. Yes, of course we have parental controls on our cable box. Books? Yes, we have books, print and Kindle versions. What? A Bible? Well, yes we do, but mainly as a work of fiction rather than an artifact of faith. Is this a problem? If you don’t proselytize we won’t, either. Ha, ha, just kidding. What do you say? Have we got a play-date? What’s that? Pets? We have a very healthy beta fish named Zeus. No, no dogs, cats, hamsters, iguanas, guinea pigs, pythons, chinchillas or exotic birds. We’re really very boring and frightfully normal. You’re more than welcome to inspect our medicine cabinet and look beneath our beds. What other assurances can we give you, Mrs. So and So? We never try to weasel out of jury duty. We voted in the past five elections. Solid citizens – decent, honest, lower middle-class folks, that’s us. Your exceptional child will be safe and cherished, as if she were at home.

I miss the old days. The world was just as perilous, but it felt safer, more predictable, authentic, and less neurotic. Our parents pushed us out of the house, out of their hair, and told us not to come back until dinnertime. They trusted we would survive, and we did.  

Happy New Year

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

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

Peace!

Goodbye, Santa

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

Hours of preparation for a minute of glory.

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

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

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

Youth is fleeting, my friends.

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

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

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

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

Insatiable

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

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

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

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

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

I have no fucking idea.

Do you?

Shooting to Kill

Another mass shooting in America.

We adore our firearms.

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

Movie theatre. Shopping mall. Elementary school.

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

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

Movie theatre. Shopping mall. Elementary school.

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

Colon Blow

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Fellow Cranks

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

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

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

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

Holly, jolly, o’ holy night!

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

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

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

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

Bombs Away

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fat Bald Guy

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

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

“Why do you ask?” I say.

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

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

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

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

“Not really,” I say.

“Do you believe in hell?”

“No.”

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

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

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

“Do you mean Buddha?” my wife asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Election Night

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

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

Too close to call in Florida.

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

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

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

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

I voted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Governing starts when the election ends.

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

The Good Book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost in the Narrows

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

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

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

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

We stand alone, walk alone, suffer alone.

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

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

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

   

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

Ennui

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

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

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

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

I no longer believe in magic. Do you?

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

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

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

Tie-Dyed Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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