At work the other day I had to call Circuit City to track down a shipment to one of the schools I buy products for. I heard a click followed by an echo and then a female voice with a thick Indian accent came on the line. She was exceedingly polite and slowly repeated everything I said back to me.
Welcome, I thought, to the wonderful world of global outsourcing. Circuit City, like a growing number of American companies, uses call centers in India to field customer inquiries. The first thing I wondered was what the Indian woman was being paid for her labors. I heard a jumble of voices in the background and imagined this huge room crammed with desks and telephones, all of them occupied by Indian workers happy to answer calls from American consumers.
Then anger set in. Why wasn’t an American worker answering my call?
Because American workers are too expensive, so the jobs go overseas, to places like India. For Indian workers, the jobs provided by Circuit City, Hewlett-Packard and GE Capital represent a step up the economic ladder.
I had a vision of American workers on an escalator going down while Indian workers rode one up.
This is the age of Wal-Mart jobs: low wage, without benefits or pension, and of course, non-union. In this age, it’s every worker for himself or herself.
Long after I hung up, I thought about this call, about American working people, about how far the pendulum has swung in favor of Capital. We don’t hear it put that way very often, Capital vs. Labor, but isn’t that what has really happened over the past thirty-five years? Capital is in the ascendancy and Labor is reeling and any balance that once existed between the two is long dead.
During the Presidential election I heard pundits on all the major networks refer to “Big Labor” and I wondered what they were talking about. How can it be called Big Labor when only a tiny fraction of American workers are unionized? When twenty-two states have right-to-work laws? And when the last bastion of unionized workers – the public sector – is under assault?
I should disclose my bias – I am a unionized public employee. In California, we are known as a “special interest.” According to the rhetoric coming out of our Governor’s office, we are a drain on the state coffers and one cause of the massive state budget deficit. We’re not as productive, or so myth has it, as our private sector peers; our pensions are too generous, our health benefits too expensive, our paid holidays too many. We gum up the works and stand in the way of needed reforms. Eliminate us by outsourcing our jobs to the private sector and all will be well. Our children will excel in school and government offices will hum like, well, your local Home Depot.
Right.
It’s as if having a job with a decent wage, a traditional pension plan and employer-paid health insurance is a crime against the emerging “Ownership Society.”
I suppose I’m out of step with the zeitgeist because I take pride in being a public servant, pride in working in public education, pride in doing my part to provide the infrastructure so that teachers can teach and students learn. Every day I try to give the taxpayers value; I know who pays my salary. I believe the overwhelming majority of my peers and colleagues feel the same way.
There’s a hoary myth that unionized workers do just enough to get by, and use their contracts and grievance procedures to avoid work. I believe the opposite is true. I believe that because union membership gives me a greater stake in my workplace, I have an explicit responsibility to do more, not less; to bring credit to myself and my union.
The balance of power in this country is dangerously out of whack. Ignoring the imbalance is a grave mistake.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Monday, January 24, 2005
Bickering
Here’s an incomplete list of the things we bicker about: the fact that I rarely have any cash in my wallet; my habit of watching TV standing up; my repeated failure to re-supply paper towels, toilet paper, and paper napkins.
I’m guilty of the first two, no argument, but I reject the third accusation outright.
The money thing is a serious peeve of my wife’s, and I honestly can’t explain why I walk around most days with only a buck or two in my wallet. Day-to-day I don’t spend that much cash. I’m home to work, work back to home, and since I usually go home for lunch, I just don’t need cash.
Of course, when we find ourselves in line at a restaurant or the movies and my wife turns to me to ask if I have any cash, and I open my wallet and extract the single worn dollar that I’ve carried around for two weeks, she inevitably accuses me of being a loser, less than a man, and worse.
My father carried a money clip, paid cash for everything. Had my father left his house with less than a hundred dollars in his pocket he would have felt naked. He once advised me to never carry money in my wallet. Because he stored his wallet beneath the front seat of his car instead of carrying it in his hip pocket, he owned the same wallet for a couple of decades. When he died and my brother and I were sorting through his things, we found that his wallet contained his Army discharge card, a photograph of our mother, some scraps of paper on which phone numbers were scribbled, not much else. By that time, my father was living a hand-to-mouth existence; his money clip held more ones than tens and twenties.
That was a different age, the age of smoky cocktail parties and late night pinochle games, the age before ATM machines and debit cards and the Internet. Whether it was a better age than ours I couldn’t say. From this distance it seems less complicated, but that doesn’t imply that it was better.
My wife is probably right when she claims that a man my age needs to carry cash in his wallet. I’m sure my father would agree with the cash part, not the wallet.
I’m guilty of the first two, no argument, but I reject the third accusation outright.
The money thing is a serious peeve of my wife’s, and I honestly can’t explain why I walk around most days with only a buck or two in my wallet. Day-to-day I don’t spend that much cash. I’m home to work, work back to home, and since I usually go home for lunch, I just don’t need cash.
Of course, when we find ourselves in line at a restaurant or the movies and my wife turns to me to ask if I have any cash, and I open my wallet and extract the single worn dollar that I’ve carried around for two weeks, she inevitably accuses me of being a loser, less than a man, and worse.
My father carried a money clip, paid cash for everything. Had my father left his house with less than a hundred dollars in his pocket he would have felt naked. He once advised me to never carry money in my wallet. Because he stored his wallet beneath the front seat of his car instead of carrying it in his hip pocket, he owned the same wallet for a couple of decades. When he died and my brother and I were sorting through his things, we found that his wallet contained his Army discharge card, a photograph of our mother, some scraps of paper on which phone numbers were scribbled, not much else. By that time, my father was living a hand-to-mouth existence; his money clip held more ones than tens and twenties.
That was a different age, the age of smoky cocktail parties and late night pinochle games, the age before ATM machines and debit cards and the Internet. Whether it was a better age than ours I couldn’t say. From this distance it seems less complicated, but that doesn’t imply that it was better.
My wife is probably right when she claims that a man my age needs to carry cash in his wallet. I’m sure my father would agree with the cash part, not the wallet.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
The Frayed Net
When George W. Bush failed in business he had a safety net to catch him and cushion the blow. It was called his family's wealth and connections.
The social safety net familiar to most Americans has been torn so often that it is barely recognizable. The conservative ideology that prevails across the land is Darwinian, dog eat dog, dog against dog. Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps and don't complain if you fail. Make your own opportunities. Poverty is a sign of personal and moral shortcoming.
From what I read this ethos was also dominant at the beginning of the 20th century, when there was a yawning gap between rich and poor and corporate power went unchecked.
George W. Bush, the sneering fool who is our elected president (despite rampant voting irregularities in Ohio), will be inauguarated today. George won by a slim margin but in typical Bush fashion, claims to have a mandate from the people for his agenda, which includes partial privatization of Social Security.
Social Security, a product of the New Deal, is one of the most successful government programs in history, a compact between citizens and their government, a promise that no one will be forced to live in extreme poverty in their old age. My grandmother retired at 65 and lived to be 93, and for those twenty-eight years Social Security was her primary source of income. It paid for the basics -- a subsidized apartment, food, clothing, medical care, very few frills. Social Security allowed my grandmother to maintain her independence.
The Bush gang claims that Social Security is in crisis and will collapse unless the program is turned over to the magic of the market. What the Bushies don't mention is that the crisis point is thirty-five or forty years in the future. Until then, Social Security is relatively healthy, able to pay the benefits it has promised working Americans.
The prevailing ideology paints anything Public as flawed and inefficient. Whatever the public sector can do, the private sector can do better. All we must do is have faith in the power and magic of the market, of unbridled competition.It sounds great, in theory. The reality of unchecked corporate power is less rosy. Remember the S&L scandal under the Reagan administration? Remember who ultimately paid for that fiasco? Remember Enron, Halliburton, Northrop?
When George W. Bush failed his private safety net caught him and set him back on his feet. If George has his way, the majority of us might not be so fortunate.
The social safety net familiar to most Americans has been torn so often that it is barely recognizable. The conservative ideology that prevails across the land is Darwinian, dog eat dog, dog against dog. Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps and don't complain if you fail. Make your own opportunities. Poverty is a sign of personal and moral shortcoming.
From what I read this ethos was also dominant at the beginning of the 20th century, when there was a yawning gap between rich and poor and corporate power went unchecked.
George W. Bush, the sneering fool who is our elected president (despite rampant voting irregularities in Ohio), will be inauguarated today. George won by a slim margin but in typical Bush fashion, claims to have a mandate from the people for his agenda, which includes partial privatization of Social Security.
Social Security, a product of the New Deal, is one of the most successful government programs in history, a compact between citizens and their government, a promise that no one will be forced to live in extreme poverty in their old age. My grandmother retired at 65 and lived to be 93, and for those twenty-eight years Social Security was her primary source of income. It paid for the basics -- a subsidized apartment, food, clothing, medical care, very few frills. Social Security allowed my grandmother to maintain her independence.
The Bush gang claims that Social Security is in crisis and will collapse unless the program is turned over to the magic of the market. What the Bushies don't mention is that the crisis point is thirty-five or forty years in the future. Until then, Social Security is relatively healthy, able to pay the benefits it has promised working Americans.
The prevailing ideology paints anything Public as flawed and inefficient. Whatever the public sector can do, the private sector can do better. All we must do is have faith in the power and magic of the market, of unbridled competition.It sounds great, in theory. The reality of unchecked corporate power is less rosy. Remember the S&L scandal under the Reagan administration? Remember who ultimately paid for that fiasco? Remember Enron, Halliburton, Northrop?
When George W. Bush failed his private safety net caught him and set him back on his feet. If George has his way, the majority of us might not be so fortunate.
///
How gratifying was it to see Condi Rice solemnly telling senators that the time for American diplomacy is now. After torpedoing foreign relations for the past three years, Condi now thinks it would be a grand idea to get back in the good graces of our traditional allies.
What will the Bush braintrust think of next?
Monday, January 17, 2005
The End of Silence?
My e-mail is down and I have no idea why or how to get it working again. I suspect, but can’t be sure, that there is something wrong with my password, although up until this morning everything worked just fine. No choice now but to call the good people of Cox Communications, sit on hold for half an hour before being connected to some twenty-year-old whiz who will walk me through the problem, and point out what I did wrong.
This is the age of passwords and log-ons, e-mail and voice mail, digital life. I heard a radio spot for a car audio store the other day that promised to turn my vehicle into a rolling cinemaplex, with DVD players for my kids and an iPod hook-up for me. Presumably, we could then travel in peace, each of us lost in our own digitalized universe. As a parent of two young children who live to taunt one another, the thought of turning the family car into a rolling entertainment complex is appealing. It’s damn hard to referee a pitched battle from the front seat.
Portable distractions. Cell phones loaded with games. Handheld computers loaded with information. With an iPod we can take our favorite music everywhere and arrange hundreds of songs in a way that suits us. We are never without external stimuli. I wonder about this. Sages have always preached that wisdom is discovered in silence. While all these devices have a place and function, I wonder if we are losing the ability to tune in to our inner soundtrack, our quiet voice.
This is the age of passwords and log-ons, e-mail and voice mail, digital life. I heard a radio spot for a car audio store the other day that promised to turn my vehicle into a rolling cinemaplex, with DVD players for my kids and an iPod hook-up for me. Presumably, we could then travel in peace, each of us lost in our own digitalized universe. As a parent of two young children who live to taunt one another, the thought of turning the family car into a rolling entertainment complex is appealing. It’s damn hard to referee a pitched battle from the front seat.
Portable distractions. Cell phones loaded with games. Handheld computers loaded with information. With an iPod we can take our favorite music everywhere and arrange hundreds of songs in a way that suits us. We are never without external stimuli. I wonder about this. Sages have always preached that wisdom is discovered in silence. While all these devices have a place and function, I wonder if we are losing the ability to tune in to our inner soundtrack, our quiet voice.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
BRAIN BUST
George W. Bush popped up on the news the other day before I had a chance to change the channel to something more relevant like ElimiDate or the latest expose on Britney Spears over on E! Fortunately, the sound was down so low I couldn’t hear a word Dubya was saying, though from his trademark sneer I guessed he was talking about his political capital or his “mandate” from the American people.
I detest that phrase, “the American people,” habitually used by politicians when they speak in our name. Not a one of them has ever asked my opinion and I routinely hang up on pollsters, so in fact, there isn’t a politician anywhere in this land who knows what I’m thinking.
Anyway, seeing Bush sneer reminded me of the election just passed, that dark night when it became clear that my side was getting trounced. I have awful memories of that red tide sweeping across the center of the nation and the electoral votes piling up for Dubya and Dick. No sane person wants to relive that horror.
As much as I didn’t want to, I began thinking about the Democrats and how badly we fared. Our message fell flat and our ideas seemed stale. The majority of our candidates were bland and boring. We failed to dislodge a sitting president who misled the country into a needless foreign entanglement, who squandered a budget surplus by lavishing millions on the rich, and who dismantled an array of environmental protections. How could this happen and who the hell was responsible?
Back in 2000, I blamed Al Gore for running a cautious, wimpy and lifeless campaign. In 2004, the ire I felt wasn’t directed at candidates as much as it was at their advisors, the Democratic brain trust, the message makers and spin doctors. Bob Shrum. James Carville. Terry McAuliffe. These men and others like them were the architects of our defeat, the reason our message paled beside Dubya’s simplistic gibberish.
Clearly, the Dems are desperate for fresh ideas, not to mention a major internal housecleaning. From here out when Democratic candidates hire consultants they should ask for a detailed track record, and if that record shows nothing but defeat and failure, they should keep searching.
I detest that phrase, “the American people,” habitually used by politicians when they speak in our name. Not a one of them has ever asked my opinion and I routinely hang up on pollsters, so in fact, there isn’t a politician anywhere in this land who knows what I’m thinking.
Anyway, seeing Bush sneer reminded me of the election just passed, that dark night when it became clear that my side was getting trounced. I have awful memories of that red tide sweeping across the center of the nation and the electoral votes piling up for Dubya and Dick. No sane person wants to relive that horror.
As much as I didn’t want to, I began thinking about the Democrats and how badly we fared. Our message fell flat and our ideas seemed stale. The majority of our candidates were bland and boring. We failed to dislodge a sitting president who misled the country into a needless foreign entanglement, who squandered a budget surplus by lavishing millions on the rich, and who dismantled an array of environmental protections. How could this happen and who the hell was responsible?
Back in 2000, I blamed Al Gore for running a cautious, wimpy and lifeless campaign. In 2004, the ire I felt wasn’t directed at candidates as much as it was at their advisors, the Democratic brain trust, the message makers and spin doctors. Bob Shrum. James Carville. Terry McAuliffe. These men and others like them were the architects of our defeat, the reason our message paled beside Dubya’s simplistic gibberish.
Clearly, the Dems are desperate for fresh ideas, not to mention a major internal housecleaning. From here out when Democratic candidates hire consultants they should ask for a detailed track record, and if that record shows nothing but defeat and failure, they should keep searching.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Trojans & Terminators
I’m not a football fan though I did watch USC destroy Oklahoma last night. I have watched enough football games in my lifetime to know that USC put together a complete team effort – offense, defense, special teams, kicking. The Trojans gang-tackled on defense, stifling Oklahoma’s high-powered offense, and when they had the ball, SC executed its plays with precision, befuddling the Sooners at every turn. Give due credit to USC’s coaching staff – they did an excellent job preparing their kids. Most college football “experts” picked Oklahoma. It’s a good thing these games are played on the field instead of on paper.
I even watched the overblown halftime show, wondering as I always do when I see these events, why the sound system so often fails. Kelly Clarkson appeared to be singing her heart out but I couldn’t hear a word. The country guy who came on after Clarkson seemed pissed, as if he too couldn’t believe the foul-up. And then the truly horrible Ashlee Simpson took the stage. Watching Ashlee try to be edgy was painful. Word to AS: find a day job.
Ah, but we live in a goofy age, where marginally talented people become rich and famous, smile at us mere mortals from the glossy covers of People and Us, and get lots of press for wearing Dolce and Gabana or Vera Wang.
I’ve got a few beers in the fridge at home and I’m going to need every one to watch the Terminator make his State of the State speech tonight. I didn’t support the recall of Gray Davis, considering the entire effort a blatant abuse of the process. Davis was wimpy and ineffective, though he was a staunch supporter of public employees; the union I belong to loved him. We fought the recall effort but Arnie’s star power and the general dissatisfaction with Davis proved too big a hurdle to overcome. Arnie swept in with his gleaming smile and orangey tan, his famous wife, promising action, action, action, but beyond that, nothing specific.
Arnie declared that as an outsider beholden to no special interest he would change the way business is done in Sacramento. This made for a nice sound bite but in reality it’s business-as-usual for the folks in Sacramento.
What Arnie has done very well is defer tough tax and spend decisions to the future, when he will be gone from the scene. Like other politicians, professional or dilettante, Arnie refuses to confront the systemic problems that can be traced back to Proposition 13. There are homeowners in this state who bought years ago, before prices skyrocketed, and pay property taxes based on the value then, not the inflated value of today. No wonder the state depends on sales taxes, fees, and other gimmicks to bring money in, and no wonder the projected deficit is somewhere in the hood of $8 billion.
But tonight Arnie will flash his brilliant smile, wow the politicos with his star power, take credit for all the good things happening in the state, blame the legacy of Gray Davis for the bad, and layout his roadmap for the near future. Such speeches always make for interesting theatre. Beer helps make them amusing.
I even watched the overblown halftime show, wondering as I always do when I see these events, why the sound system so often fails. Kelly Clarkson appeared to be singing her heart out but I couldn’t hear a word. The country guy who came on after Clarkson seemed pissed, as if he too couldn’t believe the foul-up. And then the truly horrible Ashlee Simpson took the stage. Watching Ashlee try to be edgy was painful. Word to AS: find a day job.
Ah, but we live in a goofy age, where marginally talented people become rich and famous, smile at us mere mortals from the glossy covers of People and Us, and get lots of press for wearing Dolce and Gabana or Vera Wang.
I’ve got a few beers in the fridge at home and I’m going to need every one to watch the Terminator make his State of the State speech tonight. I didn’t support the recall of Gray Davis, considering the entire effort a blatant abuse of the process. Davis was wimpy and ineffective, though he was a staunch supporter of public employees; the union I belong to loved him. We fought the recall effort but Arnie’s star power and the general dissatisfaction with Davis proved too big a hurdle to overcome. Arnie swept in with his gleaming smile and orangey tan, his famous wife, promising action, action, action, but beyond that, nothing specific.
Arnie declared that as an outsider beholden to no special interest he would change the way business is done in Sacramento. This made for a nice sound bite but in reality it’s business-as-usual for the folks in Sacramento.
What Arnie has done very well is defer tough tax and spend decisions to the future, when he will be gone from the scene. Like other politicians, professional or dilettante, Arnie refuses to confront the systemic problems that can be traced back to Proposition 13. There are homeowners in this state who bought years ago, before prices skyrocketed, and pay property taxes based on the value then, not the inflated value of today. No wonder the state depends on sales taxes, fees, and other gimmicks to bring money in, and no wonder the projected deficit is somewhere in the hood of $8 billion.
But tonight Arnie will flash his brilliant smile, wow the politicos with his star power, take credit for all the good things happening in the state, blame the legacy of Gray Davis for the bad, and layout his roadmap for the near future. Such speeches always make for interesting theatre. Beer helps make them amusing.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Acts of God, Acts of Man
The devastation in Southern Asia has put a damper on normal activities. It's difficult to get worked up about after Christmas sales, the latest movie releases, Year in Review TV shows, football bowl games, parades, or any of the other staples of American life. The gut-wrenching images on every news channel, faces of mothers who have lost husbands and children, villages leveled and washed away, bodies lined up along the roadside, stick in the mind. It's hard to fathom a single event that wipes out over 100,000 human beings.
I've heard the earthquake and tsunami described as an act of God, but what sort of God would unleash such a disaster on some of the poorest people in the world? What sort of God would wipe out entire families, entire villages?
Acts of man, like 9/11 for example, are easier to understand and explain. Though twisted and diabolical, Osama bin Laden and his followers made very clear why they attacked the United States.
What can one say about the earthquake and tsunami except that this is what the earth has done for millions of years -- before humankind appeared -- arranging and re-arranging itself, throwing up mountains from the sea, sinking land masses, tearing continents apart, freezing parts of the land and turning others to dry desert.
I went to the grocery store yesterday, found it crowded with people buying food and libations for New Year's Eve parties, and felt guilty as I filled my own cart with necessities and luxuries. How easily I lifted two gallons of drinking water into the cart! That amount of clean water could spell the difference between life and death for a Sri Lankan. It felt strange to be going about my business, buying the things I usually buy, while people on the other side of the globe suffered brutal deprivation. I also felt utterly helpless.
It is gratifying to see the outpouring of aid and assistance flowing into the region. The disaster offers a tremendous opportunity for people to work together, cross ethnic, cultural, and religious canyons, put aside differences in language and skin color and see that life on this planet is one, all connected, all interdependent.
I've heard the earthquake and tsunami described as an act of God, but what sort of God would unleash such a disaster on some of the poorest people in the world? What sort of God would wipe out entire families, entire villages?
Acts of man, like 9/11 for example, are easier to understand and explain. Though twisted and diabolical, Osama bin Laden and his followers made very clear why they attacked the United States.
What can one say about the earthquake and tsunami except that this is what the earth has done for millions of years -- before humankind appeared -- arranging and re-arranging itself, throwing up mountains from the sea, sinking land masses, tearing continents apart, freezing parts of the land and turning others to dry desert.
I went to the grocery store yesterday, found it crowded with people buying food and libations for New Year's Eve parties, and felt guilty as I filled my own cart with necessities and luxuries. How easily I lifted two gallons of drinking water into the cart! That amount of clean water could spell the difference between life and death for a Sri Lankan. It felt strange to be going about my business, buying the things I usually buy, while people on the other side of the globe suffered brutal deprivation. I also felt utterly helpless.
It is gratifying to see the outpouring of aid and assistance flowing into the region. The disaster offers a tremendous opportunity for people to work together, cross ethnic, cultural, and religious canyons, put aside differences in language and skin color and see that life on this planet is one, all connected, all interdependent.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Of Offseason Trades & Bad TV
We’re getting down to the wire here. My daughter keeps asking when it will be Christmas Day, and she assures me that when that day comes it will snow. She’s also reasonably convinced that Santa is bringing her “lots of presents.” She’s probably wrong about the weather – we’ve had a string of lovely, clear days and mild nights – but dead on about the presents. Thank my wife for that. When it comes to gift giving and gift wrapping, Terry is second to no one. She does most of her shopping on the Internet, in advance, and therefore avoids the malls and all the last minute hassles that put people in a foul mood.
If Shawn Green agrees to waive the no-trade clause in his contract, he might be on his way to Arizona, paving the way for Randy Johnson to become a Yankee. After what happened to the Yanks this season – blowing a three games to none lead over Boston in one of the worst collapses in MLB history – Johnson is exactly what the doctored ordered, a dominant starter. Toss Johnson into a rotation that already features Mike Mussina and Carl Pavano, and the Yanks look reloaded for 2005. All they need now is for A-Rod to learn how to hit in the clutch.
On another sporting front, I tried to watch the Wizards-Lakers game a few nights ago and found it impossible. Kobe going one-on-five time and again isn’t my idea of basketball. Where’s the passing, the screens and cuts, the teamwork? Is Kobe as egotistical as he appears? He will probably lead the NBA in scoring but it is unlikely the Lakers will advance very far in the play offs. Phil Jackson must be laughing.
Here’s an admission of guilt: I watched the Swan last night, the beauty pageant edition, or should I say that the Swan was on while I was burning CD’s for my niece on the computer. The spectacle of the show left me speechless, but it sucked me in nonetheless. I had to check myself, ask if I was interested or repelled as I watched the surgically enhanced women come out for their turn under the bright lights. Faces reshaped, fat sucked or carved away, teeth whitened or replaced, noses molded, breasts beefed up with silicon – was it me or did all the swans essentially look like wannabe porn star? As if the surgeon had a single idea of female beauty in mind.
We are attracted to bad TV in the same way we are attracted to a three car pile-up on the freeway. Whether we want it to or not, the spectacle draws our attention, appeals to our insatiable curiosity rather than our intelligence. The Swan spectacle no doubt looks different from a participant’s vantage point, an ugly and dissatisfied person suddenly rendered attractive and in the spotlight, the glamour, the applause of a friendly studio audience. For most this is perhaps as brightly as their star will ever shine. Once the “competition” is over, it’s back to the humdrum world, and quite possibly the same condition they were in before.
If Shawn Green agrees to waive the no-trade clause in his contract, he might be on his way to Arizona, paving the way for Randy Johnson to become a Yankee. After what happened to the Yanks this season – blowing a three games to none lead over Boston in one of the worst collapses in MLB history – Johnson is exactly what the doctored ordered, a dominant starter. Toss Johnson into a rotation that already features Mike Mussina and Carl Pavano, and the Yanks look reloaded for 2005. All they need now is for A-Rod to learn how to hit in the clutch.
On another sporting front, I tried to watch the Wizards-Lakers game a few nights ago and found it impossible. Kobe going one-on-five time and again isn’t my idea of basketball. Where’s the passing, the screens and cuts, the teamwork? Is Kobe as egotistical as he appears? He will probably lead the NBA in scoring but it is unlikely the Lakers will advance very far in the play offs. Phil Jackson must be laughing.
Here’s an admission of guilt: I watched the Swan last night, the beauty pageant edition, or should I say that the Swan was on while I was burning CD’s for my niece on the computer. The spectacle of the show left me speechless, but it sucked me in nonetheless. I had to check myself, ask if I was interested or repelled as I watched the surgically enhanced women come out for their turn under the bright lights. Faces reshaped, fat sucked or carved away, teeth whitened or replaced, noses molded, breasts beefed up with silicon – was it me or did all the swans essentially look like wannabe porn star? As if the surgeon had a single idea of female beauty in mind.
We are attracted to bad TV in the same way we are attracted to a three car pile-up on the freeway. Whether we want it to or not, the spectacle draws our attention, appeals to our insatiable curiosity rather than our intelligence. The Swan spectacle no doubt looks different from a participant’s vantage point, an ugly and dissatisfied person suddenly rendered attractive and in the spotlight, the glamour, the applause of a friendly studio audience. For most this is perhaps as brightly as their star will ever shine. Once the “competition” is over, it’s back to the humdrum world, and quite possibly the same condition they were in before.
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Rituals of Fatherhood
DADDY DO
Yesterday, for the first time in the seven years we have lived in Unit C, I strung Christmas lights on the landing near the front door. Ours is the only apartment or house in the immediate area lit up for the season. Of course, the operation was not without a snafu or two.
By my own reckoning, I am the least mechanical man in America. When it comes to tools, engines, electrical wiring, carpentry, masonry or cabinetry, I am a moron, a complete idiot, beyond the help of the friendly experts at Home Depot. I lay the blame for this squarely on my father, and I’m sure my father would blame his father and so on down the line. My dad knew a thing or two about card games, horse racing, golf, cooking, and cutting meat, but when it came to the basic manly arts that were second nature to most American men of his generation, he was lost.
I deployed my tools to the landing: industrial stapler, step-stool, nails, hammer, bottle of Corona, and a tangled string of lights, which I at least had the sense to plug in and test before fastening them. It took about five minutes to untangle the string. Cars whizzed past on Milpas Street while I worked, a young Mexican woman pushing a baby stroller walked by, and the neighbor across the way stepped out on his landing for a smoke. This is the same bloke who throws his butts on the driveway, where they collect in small drifts like snow, and, when the wind blows, scoot across the driveway to form small drifts in our carport.
As I sipped my Corona and untangled the lights I was thinking: this is what fathers do. They hang Christmas lights on a Saturday afternoon. This is a time honored daddy ritual, a marker for passing years. Once a year we pull from the garage or carport or storage shed in the backyard the boxes and plastic containers and bags that hold lights, ornaments, wreaths, reindeer figures, stockings, and wrapping paper. We dust the stuff off, ruminate on how familiar it all looks, and think perhaps that maybe it’s time for some new things, like a life-sized Santa to anchor to the roof.
The industrial stapler that belonged to my wife’s grandfather didn’t work. I pulled out the pin that holds the staples in place, replaced the staples, shoved the pin back in, still no luck. The thing worked when I tried it down in the laundry room, but come show time, a dud. Switching to hammer and nails, I began hanging the lights; pound the nail, hang a section of the string, sip Corona, move the step-stool, repeat. It was unseasonably warm and it occurred to me that in other places, cold places, wet places, fathers not only battle the inevitable problems with the lights themselves, but also the elements. By contrast, my most significant challenge was pounding the nails in straight.
But I’m happy to report that I did it, the lights work, flashing merrily to announce the season to the cars and pedestrians who pass by.
Yesterday, for the first time in the seven years we have lived in Unit C, I strung Christmas lights on the landing near the front door. Ours is the only apartment or house in the immediate area lit up for the season. Of course, the operation was not without a snafu or two.
By my own reckoning, I am the least mechanical man in America. When it comes to tools, engines, electrical wiring, carpentry, masonry or cabinetry, I am a moron, a complete idiot, beyond the help of the friendly experts at Home Depot. I lay the blame for this squarely on my father, and I’m sure my father would blame his father and so on down the line. My dad knew a thing or two about card games, horse racing, golf, cooking, and cutting meat, but when it came to the basic manly arts that were second nature to most American men of his generation, he was lost.
I deployed my tools to the landing: industrial stapler, step-stool, nails, hammer, bottle of Corona, and a tangled string of lights, which I at least had the sense to plug in and test before fastening them. It took about five minutes to untangle the string. Cars whizzed past on Milpas Street while I worked, a young Mexican woman pushing a baby stroller walked by, and the neighbor across the way stepped out on his landing for a smoke. This is the same bloke who throws his butts on the driveway, where they collect in small drifts like snow, and, when the wind blows, scoot across the driveway to form small drifts in our carport.
As I sipped my Corona and untangled the lights I was thinking: this is what fathers do. They hang Christmas lights on a Saturday afternoon. This is a time honored daddy ritual, a marker for passing years. Once a year we pull from the garage or carport or storage shed in the backyard the boxes and plastic containers and bags that hold lights, ornaments, wreaths, reindeer figures, stockings, and wrapping paper. We dust the stuff off, ruminate on how familiar it all looks, and think perhaps that maybe it’s time for some new things, like a life-sized Santa to anchor to the roof.
The industrial stapler that belonged to my wife’s grandfather didn’t work. I pulled out the pin that holds the staples in place, replaced the staples, shoved the pin back in, still no luck. The thing worked when I tried it down in the laundry room, but come show time, a dud. Switching to hammer and nails, I began hanging the lights; pound the nail, hang a section of the string, sip Corona, move the step-stool, repeat. It was unseasonably warm and it occurred to me that in other places, cold places, wet places, fathers not only battle the inevitable problems with the lights themselves, but also the elements. By contrast, my most significant challenge was pounding the nails in straight.
But I’m happy to report that I did it, the lights work, flashing merrily to announce the season to the cars and pedestrians who pass by.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Random Thoughts on Monday
Baseball on Steroids:
Do we give Barry Bonds the benefit of the doubt when he claims he had no idea the clear substance he was using for arthritis was in all probability an illegal steroid? I don’t know. Most people I talk to assume Bonds has been on the “juice” for several years, pointing to the fact that he came into the league at around 185 pounds and is now pushing 225 pounds of what appears to be solid muscle. Sure, Bonds works out with trainers and a nutritionist and has access to the best equipment, but that kind of muscular growth in a man in his late 30’s and now early 40’s isn’t natural. At that age, as many of us know from experience, metabolism slows, injuries take longer to heal, and the joints and muscles loose suppleness. Bonds appears to have reversed the clock, and that makes a lot of people suspicious.
I don’t know that bulking up gives Bonds or any other player an advantage when it comes to hitting a baseball moving anywhere from 80 to 100 mph. That’s a function of eye-hand coordination, knowledge of the strike zone, and split-second recognition when the ball leaves the opposing pitcher’s hand. If you watch Bonds at the plate, you realize very quickly that he knows the strike zone as well or better than any player in Major League Baseball. Unlike Sammy Sosa or Jason Giambi or Richie Sexson, to name three sluggers, Bonds rarely swings at pitches out of the strike zone. By virtue of his tremendous plate discipline, Bonds forces the pitcher to either throw a strike and risk having it deposited in the farthest regions of the outfield stands, or give in and deliberately issue a walk. The uncanny thing about Bonds, and what cannot be explained by allegations of steroid use, is how often he makes solid contact. Given a decent pitch to hit, he rarely misses.
In terms of putting the bat on the ball, making contact, steroids probably doesn’t help Bonds or Giambi or any other player caught up in the current controversy. What the drugs might do, however, is prevent a player from wearing down over the course of a long, grueling season – and that could be a decided advantage.
What I’m Reading:
Continental Drift by Russell Banks. My second reading of this fine novel, the story of Bob Dubois, an oil burner repairman from New Hampshire. Bob Dubois who flees the cold north because he senses that his life there is nothing more than a dull repetition of days and months and years, and himself a waking, walking corpse. Bob Dubois, who cheats on his wife and convinces himself that this is acceptable as long as he still loves his wife and she never finds out about his infidelities. This is also the story of Haitian immigrants, desperately poor and exploited and tossed about by forces beyond their control, and the very American notion of rebirth and renewal in a new locale.
I find it extremely satisfying to go back and several years later re-read a good novel. I catch important elements I missed on the first go round, feel the pathos differently today than back then. I come across passages I underlined five or seven years ago and wonder why they seemed significant.
Of Passing Interest:
Was a report in the Los Angeles Times about smut stores setting up shop in the heart of small-town America. Apparently, the decent, bible-toting residents of Kansas and Iowa and Missouri enjoy sex toys and XXX movies just as much as any resident of San Francisco or Manhattan. It’s somehow comforting to learn that good ol’ American porn sells in places so concerned with “moral” values.
Do we give Barry Bonds the benefit of the doubt when he claims he had no idea the clear substance he was using for arthritis was in all probability an illegal steroid? I don’t know. Most people I talk to assume Bonds has been on the “juice” for several years, pointing to the fact that he came into the league at around 185 pounds and is now pushing 225 pounds of what appears to be solid muscle. Sure, Bonds works out with trainers and a nutritionist and has access to the best equipment, but that kind of muscular growth in a man in his late 30’s and now early 40’s isn’t natural. At that age, as many of us know from experience, metabolism slows, injuries take longer to heal, and the joints and muscles loose suppleness. Bonds appears to have reversed the clock, and that makes a lot of people suspicious.
I don’t know that bulking up gives Bonds or any other player an advantage when it comes to hitting a baseball moving anywhere from 80 to 100 mph. That’s a function of eye-hand coordination, knowledge of the strike zone, and split-second recognition when the ball leaves the opposing pitcher’s hand. If you watch Bonds at the plate, you realize very quickly that he knows the strike zone as well or better than any player in Major League Baseball. Unlike Sammy Sosa or Jason Giambi or Richie Sexson, to name three sluggers, Bonds rarely swings at pitches out of the strike zone. By virtue of his tremendous plate discipline, Bonds forces the pitcher to either throw a strike and risk having it deposited in the farthest regions of the outfield stands, or give in and deliberately issue a walk. The uncanny thing about Bonds, and what cannot be explained by allegations of steroid use, is how often he makes solid contact. Given a decent pitch to hit, he rarely misses.
In terms of putting the bat on the ball, making contact, steroids probably doesn’t help Bonds or Giambi or any other player caught up in the current controversy. What the drugs might do, however, is prevent a player from wearing down over the course of a long, grueling season – and that could be a decided advantage.
What I’m Reading:
Continental Drift by Russell Banks. My second reading of this fine novel, the story of Bob Dubois, an oil burner repairman from New Hampshire. Bob Dubois who flees the cold north because he senses that his life there is nothing more than a dull repetition of days and months and years, and himself a waking, walking corpse. Bob Dubois, who cheats on his wife and convinces himself that this is acceptable as long as he still loves his wife and she never finds out about his infidelities. This is also the story of Haitian immigrants, desperately poor and exploited and tossed about by forces beyond their control, and the very American notion of rebirth and renewal in a new locale.
I find it extremely satisfying to go back and several years later re-read a good novel. I catch important elements I missed on the first go round, feel the pathos differently today than back then. I come across passages I underlined five or seven years ago and wonder why they seemed significant.
Of Passing Interest:
Was a report in the Los Angeles Times about smut stores setting up shop in the heart of small-town America. Apparently, the decent, bible-toting residents of Kansas and Iowa and Missouri enjoy sex toys and XXX movies just as much as any resident of San Francisco or Manhattan. It’s somehow comforting to learn that good ol’ American porn sells in places so concerned with “moral” values.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
A Short Story
FREELANCER©
August 2002
I brought Maxwell along for the interview, partly because I didn’t want to do it alone and partly because Maxwell had never seen an estate like Coldwell’s in his life and I thought it would be instructive for him to see how the super rich live. We stopped at the Westside Grill and had two beers apiece before heading out to Shangri-La, or Riven Rock as the wealthy suburban enclave is officially known.
Usually I’m prepped to the gills when I go out to interview someone, hyped up on facts and dates, but everything I knew about Malcolm Coldwell fit nicely in a thimble. The man was filthy rich and more reclusive than Howard Hughes. As far as I could determine, nobody had ever seen Coldwell, and there weren’t even any photographs of him on file anywhere.
Coldwell’s estate had a name: Casa de Dolor, the house of pain. “What’s that all about?” Maxwelll asked as the wrought-iron gates slowly swung open. “Beats me,” I said. In a fenced clearing off to our right a herd of deer was grazing. Further on I counted a dozen bison. Hearing my rattletrap Buick the animals raised their shaggy heads.
“What’s up with the buffalo?” Maxwell asked.
“Beats me,” I said.
“Big place,” Maxwell said.
“It’s a chunk of real estate, no doubt about it.”
The road wound around a small man-made lake. Swans and ducks floated on the water. Two Mexicans in a rowboat were dumping buckets of fish into the water. On the far side of the lake there were four bronze statues, each at least twenty feet tall. The first one was of Buddha; the second of Jesus; the third was a fierce looking devil with horns on its head and claws on its feet; the fourth statue was of Bugs Bunny.
“What’s it supposed to mean?” Maxwell asked.
“Got me,” I said. “Good, evil, funny.”
After passing through a thick stand of eucalyptus trees we came upon a go cart track and a rusted ferris wheel with tall weeds growing around its base. We still hadn’t caught sight of a house, which I figured had to be grand. Further on there was another bronze statue: Snow White being gang-banged by the seven dwarfs.
I lit a cigarette. “Go figure,” I said.
“As your personal physician I must advise you against smoking,” Maxwell said.
“Warning noted, doc.”
“I should disclose that I never actually graduated from medical school, though I did practice in the state of Maryland under an assumed name and without a license.”
“That’s good to know,” I said.
“I miss the white coat and the free drugs,” Maxwell said.
The road veered to the right, dipped down and over a wooden bridge, past pines and oaks; once we cleared the trees we saw a low wooden building that looked like a caretaker’s shack. There was a golf cart parked out front. As we neared the building I noticed that it was window-less and that the front door was made of solid steel, like the door of a bank vault. I also noted that the road dead-ended at the shack.
“Do you have any grass?” Maxwell asked. “I need to alter my perception. I feel a strange and bizarre experience coming on, a mind-blowing sort of thing.”
“Steady, doc, steady. I’m kind of wondering myself, though. Where’s the manor house. This can’t be it. ”
“Only chemical stimulants can counteract the ominous vibe I’m picking up. I hear Indian music in my head, a slightly out of tune sitar. It’s very strange.”
“You’re very strange, doc.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go,” I said. There was an intercom by the door. I pressed the button and waited for one of Coldwell’s servants to answer. A man as rich as Coldwell had to have servants – butler, maid, cook, masseuse, spiritual advisor and so on, a small army of people to take care of his every need, fetch him things, fluff his pillows.
After waiting a couple of minutes I pressed the button again.
“The vibe is intensifying,” Maxwell said. “My left testicle is throbbing.”
“If Coldwell’s not here I’m going to be really pissed. I fished a cigarette from my pocket and was about to light it when a voice came on the intercom: “There’s no smoking on the premises. It bothers the buffalo.”
“We’re here to see Mr. Coldwell. My name is Sullivan. I have an appointment.”
“You’re late,” the voice said.
“We had car trouble,” I lied.
“As they say, shit happens. I’ll buzz you in. Go straight ahead to the elevator.”
Maxwell’s eyes were as big as saucers and he seemed to be in the throes of an internal meltdown.
We pulled the steel door open and stepped into the shack, which was as dark as a mine shaft. The elevator took us down for what seemed an eternity. Maxwell recited the Lord’s Prayer in a shaky voice.
“Since when do you pray?”
“Two minutes ago. How does the Hail Mary go?”
The doors slid open and we found ourselves in an enormous room with yellow walls, lit by floodlights so bright we were forced to put our sunglasses on. “We’re in the bowels of hell itself,” Maxwell said. “We’ll never see the sun again. This is the end of the line. I blame you, Sully. You didn’t tell me we had an appointment with the devil.”
“Get a grip, doc. We need to keep our wits about us. “
Just then the lights went off and a synthesized female voice came over a hidden speaker: “In a moment you will see some floor lighting that will direct you to Mr. Coldwell’s private chamber. He will be waiting. Please follow the lights.”
“This is getting weirder by the minute,” I said. “No wonder nobody has ever seen this turkey.”
The floor lights were purple, the size of miniature Christmas lights; some flashed off and on while others remained lit. Maxwell was freaked out of his mind and stayed right on my heels. I thought of the funhouse at the county fair, how there was always a green “Exit” sign somewhere for the faint of heart. No such luck here. Even if we wanted to we couldn’t turn around and go back because as we passed them, the lights went out and stayed out. I couldn’t see a thing, not even my shoes. I was seriously pissed at Rosenthal for giving me this assignment and when I got back to the office I was going to call him a fat toad and make him take me to dinner. Coldwell was freakier than Michael Jackson.
A door slid open with a pneumatic whoosh and closed again behind us. Now we were in a comfortable looking room with leather couches and high-backed leather chairs, leafy palms in big clay pots, Persian rugs, bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes. I caught a whiff of jasmine incense. Hundred of candles burned in rose-colored holders. At the far end of the room was a dais that looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, and upon it, reclining on a red velvet chair was a boy who appeared to be about twelve or thirteen. He wore green and gold robes and red Converse high tops. His skin was as pale as milk. His blonde hair was mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed.
The boy inclined his head at cushions on the floor. Sit.
I said, “Where’s Coldwell? Are you his kid? Can you get him so we can get this over with? My Weird-O-Meter is bouncing off the chart. “
“I’m Coldwell.”
“Sure, and I’m David Letterman. C’mon, my friend here is dangerously unstable and my patience is running on fumes.”
“I’m Coldwell,” the boy repeated. “I enjoy your column, Mr. Sullivan. You have a gift for political satire that is as great as your mistrust of the wealthy. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. There are as many wealthy saints as there are wealthy miscreants.”
“OK,” I said. “This is very amusing but what do you say we cut to the chase? Either get Coldwell or let us out of here.”
The boy dug a hunk of wax from his ear, studied it for a moment before flicking it on the floor. “I’m 47-years-old. I made my first fortune before I turned twenty when I sold the rights to a board game to Milton-Bradley. I look young because I rarely go out in the sun. The air down here is triple carbon filtered to remove impurities. I eat nothing but organically grown food, mainly leafy green vegetables. I never touch alcohol or carbonated beverages. My only vice, if you can call it that, is mint chocolate chip ice cream. I love the stuff, even though it’s full of dangerous food additives. Nonetheless, I expect to live to be 110. I’m heavily invested in bio-technology stocks because the waves of the future are being created in laboratories as we speak. Cracking the DNA code is only the beginning. Last year I donated over ten million dollars to various charities. Making and giving away obscene amounts of money makes me happy.”
I said, “By nature I’m very skeptical. You look thirteen to me. Can you prove you are who you say you are? Do you have documentation?”
“I once had a hand in the production and distribution of adult films. I made a tremendous amount of money. It was easy. Few people know this about me.”
“Like a birth certificate,” I said. “Or a passport.”
Oh, I never travel,” Coldwell said. “Even for a man of my wealth controlling the variables is too difficult. No, I’m very content right here where I can manipulate my environment as I see fit. Shall we start the interview, Mr. Sullivan? For once I am eager to allow the general public a glimpse into my world. The last time I checked I was one of the top one hundred wealthiest people on this planet. That’s an impressive fact, an astonishing fact. Think about it: the top one hundred out of billions of human beings. It’s an extremely elite group, populated by the best and brightest, the most cunning, the most determined, the most ruthless, the most opportunistic.”
“What about a driver’s license? You must have one of those.”
“Don’t be silly. I have a driver. My favorite color is blue. I’m a devoted Woody Allen fan.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Maxwell asked.
“A mint-condition Nissan Sentra, one of the first ever produced. Langston drives me down to the mail box and back every day. Langston is a very competent driver, adept at avoiding potholes. I sit in the back.”
“There are no potholes in your road,” I said. “Not one.”
“That would explain why Langston misses them,” said Coldwell.
I looked over at Maxwell; he had crazy fear all over his face. He was rolling imaginary rosary beads in his hands.
Coldwell placed a tiny yellow pill on the tip of his tongue. “When I was a child I had a Barbi doll. I dressed her and undressed her and carried her everywhere. My father found my fascination with Barbie disturbing and sent me to a psychologist, Dr. Lindstrom, who showed me ink blots and asked what they meant to me. We did this over and over and over, one blot after another. I was convinced that Dr. Lindstrom wanted me to admit that I had homosexual longings or some sort of gender confusion. He was an unsympathetic man. He smelled like charred liver. He put his hand on my knee one day and I bit him so hard that his thumb was nearly severed. I still remember the taste of his blood. To this day I enjoy playing with Barbie dolls. I have an extensive collection.”
“Hallowed be thy name,” Maxwell muttered. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, full of grace, hallowed be thy name. . .”
“So,” I said. “You live down here, eating leafy vegetables and breathing purified air, while you control your financial empire. Do you call it an empire or something else?”
“As a descriptive term empire works for me. My money is in constant motion, searching for opportunities, weighing risks, occupying niches, bridging gaps, changing from dollars to yen to marks and back again. My money makes money, and then that money makes more money, in an endless pattern of accumulation. It’s a wonderful thing. Did you attempt to find photographs of me, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yeah, of course. “
“I’ve never been photographed, not once. Anonymity is a source of power and mystery. I prefer to live and move in shadow, the unseen hand behind the heavy velvet curtain. I’m also in my fourteenth year of celibacy. I believe celibacy promotes spiritual clarity. What do you think of that, Mr. Sullivan? Does that kind of discipline impress you?”
Maxwell was tugging at my sleeve: can we please get out of here? Maxwell looked sick, and in fact he suddenly doubled over and vomited on the rug.
“That’s it,” I said. “Maybe we can finish this fascinating discussion another time. What do you say I give you a call next week? How do we get out of here? No need to show us – just point me in the right direction.”
Coldwell pressed a button on the side of the recliner and a pygmy dressed in full livery appeared out of the shadows.
“As you wish, Mr. Sullivan. Dobobo will show you out. He’s a bit skittish around strangers so please don’t make any sudden moves. He bites, you know. Farewell. I want you to know that I’m not the least bit dangerous. Simply a freak, that’s all, a harmless freak with a tremendous personal fortune. “
We followed the pygmy back to the elevator. Before we got topside I had already decided to resign from the paper and go freelance. From now on I would chart my own course, interview who I wanted to interview. No more of this shit. When I got back to the office I was going to put my foot in Rosenthal’s flabby butt.
The pygmy let us out and the big steel door slammed shut. We stood blinking in the harsh daylight. Coldwell’s voice came over the intercom: “A harmless freak, nothing more. Until we meet again, gentlemen.” And then he laughed.
August 2002
I brought Maxwell along for the interview, partly because I didn’t want to do it alone and partly because Maxwell had never seen an estate like Coldwell’s in his life and I thought it would be instructive for him to see how the super rich live. We stopped at the Westside Grill and had two beers apiece before heading out to Shangri-La, or Riven Rock as the wealthy suburban enclave is officially known.
Usually I’m prepped to the gills when I go out to interview someone, hyped up on facts and dates, but everything I knew about Malcolm Coldwell fit nicely in a thimble. The man was filthy rich and more reclusive than Howard Hughes. As far as I could determine, nobody had ever seen Coldwell, and there weren’t even any photographs of him on file anywhere.
Coldwell’s estate had a name: Casa de Dolor, the house of pain. “What’s that all about?” Maxwelll asked as the wrought-iron gates slowly swung open. “Beats me,” I said. In a fenced clearing off to our right a herd of deer was grazing. Further on I counted a dozen bison. Hearing my rattletrap Buick the animals raised their shaggy heads.
“What’s up with the buffalo?” Maxwell asked.
“Beats me,” I said.
“Big place,” Maxwell said.
“It’s a chunk of real estate, no doubt about it.”
The road wound around a small man-made lake. Swans and ducks floated on the water. Two Mexicans in a rowboat were dumping buckets of fish into the water. On the far side of the lake there were four bronze statues, each at least twenty feet tall. The first one was of Buddha; the second of Jesus; the third was a fierce looking devil with horns on its head and claws on its feet; the fourth statue was of Bugs Bunny.
“What’s it supposed to mean?” Maxwell asked.
“Got me,” I said. “Good, evil, funny.”
After passing through a thick stand of eucalyptus trees we came upon a go cart track and a rusted ferris wheel with tall weeds growing around its base. We still hadn’t caught sight of a house, which I figured had to be grand. Further on there was another bronze statue: Snow White being gang-banged by the seven dwarfs.
I lit a cigarette. “Go figure,” I said.
“As your personal physician I must advise you against smoking,” Maxwell said.
“Warning noted, doc.”
“I should disclose that I never actually graduated from medical school, though I did practice in the state of Maryland under an assumed name and without a license.”
“That’s good to know,” I said.
“I miss the white coat and the free drugs,” Maxwell said.
The road veered to the right, dipped down and over a wooden bridge, past pines and oaks; once we cleared the trees we saw a low wooden building that looked like a caretaker’s shack. There was a golf cart parked out front. As we neared the building I noticed that it was window-less and that the front door was made of solid steel, like the door of a bank vault. I also noted that the road dead-ended at the shack.
“Do you have any grass?” Maxwell asked. “I need to alter my perception. I feel a strange and bizarre experience coming on, a mind-blowing sort of thing.”
“Steady, doc, steady. I’m kind of wondering myself, though. Where’s the manor house. This can’t be it. ”
“Only chemical stimulants can counteract the ominous vibe I’m picking up. I hear Indian music in my head, a slightly out of tune sitar. It’s very strange.”
“You’re very strange, doc.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go,” I said. There was an intercom by the door. I pressed the button and waited for one of Coldwell’s servants to answer. A man as rich as Coldwell had to have servants – butler, maid, cook, masseuse, spiritual advisor and so on, a small army of people to take care of his every need, fetch him things, fluff his pillows.
After waiting a couple of minutes I pressed the button again.
“The vibe is intensifying,” Maxwell said. “My left testicle is throbbing.”
“If Coldwell’s not here I’m going to be really pissed. I fished a cigarette from my pocket and was about to light it when a voice came on the intercom: “There’s no smoking on the premises. It bothers the buffalo.”
“We’re here to see Mr. Coldwell. My name is Sullivan. I have an appointment.”
“You’re late,” the voice said.
“We had car trouble,” I lied.
“As they say, shit happens. I’ll buzz you in. Go straight ahead to the elevator.”
Maxwell’s eyes were as big as saucers and he seemed to be in the throes of an internal meltdown.
We pulled the steel door open and stepped into the shack, which was as dark as a mine shaft. The elevator took us down for what seemed an eternity. Maxwell recited the Lord’s Prayer in a shaky voice.
“Since when do you pray?”
“Two minutes ago. How does the Hail Mary go?”
The doors slid open and we found ourselves in an enormous room with yellow walls, lit by floodlights so bright we were forced to put our sunglasses on. “We’re in the bowels of hell itself,” Maxwell said. “We’ll never see the sun again. This is the end of the line. I blame you, Sully. You didn’t tell me we had an appointment with the devil.”
“Get a grip, doc. We need to keep our wits about us. “
Just then the lights went off and a synthesized female voice came over a hidden speaker: “In a moment you will see some floor lighting that will direct you to Mr. Coldwell’s private chamber. He will be waiting. Please follow the lights.”
“This is getting weirder by the minute,” I said. “No wonder nobody has ever seen this turkey.”
The floor lights were purple, the size of miniature Christmas lights; some flashed off and on while others remained lit. Maxwell was freaked out of his mind and stayed right on my heels. I thought of the funhouse at the county fair, how there was always a green “Exit” sign somewhere for the faint of heart. No such luck here. Even if we wanted to we couldn’t turn around and go back because as we passed them, the lights went out and stayed out. I couldn’t see a thing, not even my shoes. I was seriously pissed at Rosenthal for giving me this assignment and when I got back to the office I was going to call him a fat toad and make him take me to dinner. Coldwell was freakier than Michael Jackson.
A door slid open with a pneumatic whoosh and closed again behind us. Now we were in a comfortable looking room with leather couches and high-backed leather chairs, leafy palms in big clay pots, Persian rugs, bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes. I caught a whiff of jasmine incense. Hundred of candles burned in rose-colored holders. At the far end of the room was a dais that looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, and upon it, reclining on a red velvet chair was a boy who appeared to be about twelve or thirteen. He wore green and gold robes and red Converse high tops. His skin was as pale as milk. His blonde hair was mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed.
The boy inclined his head at cushions on the floor. Sit.
I said, “Where’s Coldwell? Are you his kid? Can you get him so we can get this over with? My Weird-O-Meter is bouncing off the chart. “
“I’m Coldwell.”
“Sure, and I’m David Letterman. C’mon, my friend here is dangerously unstable and my patience is running on fumes.”
“I’m Coldwell,” the boy repeated. “I enjoy your column, Mr. Sullivan. You have a gift for political satire that is as great as your mistrust of the wealthy. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. There are as many wealthy saints as there are wealthy miscreants.”
“OK,” I said. “This is very amusing but what do you say we cut to the chase? Either get Coldwell or let us out of here.”
The boy dug a hunk of wax from his ear, studied it for a moment before flicking it on the floor. “I’m 47-years-old. I made my first fortune before I turned twenty when I sold the rights to a board game to Milton-Bradley. I look young because I rarely go out in the sun. The air down here is triple carbon filtered to remove impurities. I eat nothing but organically grown food, mainly leafy green vegetables. I never touch alcohol or carbonated beverages. My only vice, if you can call it that, is mint chocolate chip ice cream. I love the stuff, even though it’s full of dangerous food additives. Nonetheless, I expect to live to be 110. I’m heavily invested in bio-technology stocks because the waves of the future are being created in laboratories as we speak. Cracking the DNA code is only the beginning. Last year I donated over ten million dollars to various charities. Making and giving away obscene amounts of money makes me happy.”
I said, “By nature I’m very skeptical. You look thirteen to me. Can you prove you are who you say you are? Do you have documentation?”
“I once had a hand in the production and distribution of adult films. I made a tremendous amount of money. It was easy. Few people know this about me.”
“Like a birth certificate,” I said. “Or a passport.”
Oh, I never travel,” Coldwell said. “Even for a man of my wealth controlling the variables is too difficult. No, I’m very content right here where I can manipulate my environment as I see fit. Shall we start the interview, Mr. Sullivan? For once I am eager to allow the general public a glimpse into my world. The last time I checked I was one of the top one hundred wealthiest people on this planet. That’s an impressive fact, an astonishing fact. Think about it: the top one hundred out of billions of human beings. It’s an extremely elite group, populated by the best and brightest, the most cunning, the most determined, the most ruthless, the most opportunistic.”
“What about a driver’s license? You must have one of those.”
“Don’t be silly. I have a driver. My favorite color is blue. I’m a devoted Woody Allen fan.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Maxwell asked.
“A mint-condition Nissan Sentra, one of the first ever produced. Langston drives me down to the mail box and back every day. Langston is a very competent driver, adept at avoiding potholes. I sit in the back.”
“There are no potholes in your road,” I said. “Not one.”
“That would explain why Langston misses them,” said Coldwell.
I looked over at Maxwell; he had crazy fear all over his face. He was rolling imaginary rosary beads in his hands.
Coldwell placed a tiny yellow pill on the tip of his tongue. “When I was a child I had a Barbi doll. I dressed her and undressed her and carried her everywhere. My father found my fascination with Barbie disturbing and sent me to a psychologist, Dr. Lindstrom, who showed me ink blots and asked what they meant to me. We did this over and over and over, one blot after another. I was convinced that Dr. Lindstrom wanted me to admit that I had homosexual longings or some sort of gender confusion. He was an unsympathetic man. He smelled like charred liver. He put his hand on my knee one day and I bit him so hard that his thumb was nearly severed. I still remember the taste of his blood. To this day I enjoy playing with Barbie dolls. I have an extensive collection.”
“Hallowed be thy name,” Maxwell muttered. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, full of grace, hallowed be thy name. . .”
“So,” I said. “You live down here, eating leafy vegetables and breathing purified air, while you control your financial empire. Do you call it an empire or something else?”
“As a descriptive term empire works for me. My money is in constant motion, searching for opportunities, weighing risks, occupying niches, bridging gaps, changing from dollars to yen to marks and back again. My money makes money, and then that money makes more money, in an endless pattern of accumulation. It’s a wonderful thing. Did you attempt to find photographs of me, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yeah, of course. “
“I’ve never been photographed, not once. Anonymity is a source of power and mystery. I prefer to live and move in shadow, the unseen hand behind the heavy velvet curtain. I’m also in my fourteenth year of celibacy. I believe celibacy promotes spiritual clarity. What do you think of that, Mr. Sullivan? Does that kind of discipline impress you?”
Maxwell was tugging at my sleeve: can we please get out of here? Maxwell looked sick, and in fact he suddenly doubled over and vomited on the rug.
“That’s it,” I said. “Maybe we can finish this fascinating discussion another time. What do you say I give you a call next week? How do we get out of here? No need to show us – just point me in the right direction.”
Coldwell pressed a button on the side of the recliner and a pygmy dressed in full livery appeared out of the shadows.
“As you wish, Mr. Sullivan. Dobobo will show you out. He’s a bit skittish around strangers so please don’t make any sudden moves. He bites, you know. Farewell. I want you to know that I’m not the least bit dangerous. Simply a freak, that’s all, a harmless freak with a tremendous personal fortune. “
We followed the pygmy back to the elevator. Before we got topside I had already decided to resign from the paper and go freelance. From now on I would chart my own course, interview who I wanted to interview. No more of this shit. When I got back to the office I was going to put my foot in Rosenthal’s flabby butt.
The pygmy let us out and the big steel door slammed shut. We stood blinking in the harsh daylight. Coldwell’s voice came over the intercom: “A harmless freak, nothing more. Until we meet again, gentlemen.” And then he laughed.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Poem - Breakdown
Stuck on the shoulder
of the 405 in a disabled Pontiac
stupid piece of Detroit crap
Cars and big rigs zoom past
cell phone junkies heading
over the rise
into the guts of LA
Another rat race morning
another turn of the screw
another jam up on the grade
Where is the tow man?
They said he was
coming from Burbank
way the hell over there
Where’s the CHP or the
Good Samaritan? Where’s
Roadside Assistance?
Lumber is moving
pipe is moving
sod is moving
cement is moving
shiny new toilets, too
We’re not moving
by inch or foot
hazard lights blink
at indifferent faces
behind smoked glass
You can tell what the faces
are thinking:
“Poor bastards, glad that’s
not me.”
At least it’s not dark or pouring
rain, count that blessing
while we sit here
broken down
on your birthday
of the 405 in a disabled Pontiac
stupid piece of Detroit crap
Cars and big rigs zoom past
cell phone junkies heading
over the rise
into the guts of LA
Another rat race morning
another turn of the screw
another jam up on the grade
Where is the tow man?
They said he was
coming from Burbank
way the hell over there
Where’s the CHP or the
Good Samaritan? Where’s
Roadside Assistance?
Lumber is moving
pipe is moving
sod is moving
cement is moving
shiny new toilets, too
We’re not moving
by inch or foot
hazard lights blink
at indifferent faces
behind smoked glass
You can tell what the faces
are thinking:
“Poor bastards, glad that’s
not me.”
At least it’s not dark or pouring
rain, count that blessing
while we sit here
broken down
on your birthday
Sunday, November 21, 2004
An Essay for Vanity Fair
A few months ago Vanity Fair magazine solicited submissions for an essay contest, the aim of which was to explain America, in about 1500 words, to the rest of the world. I sent this in.
The black and white worldview trumpeted by Rush Limbaugh and the talking heads on Fox news is fodder for a small but vocal minority. Lost in the cacophony created by Limbaugh and his ilk are the values and aspirations of Thomas Jefferson, Franklin Delano Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. The superficial and trivial divert our collective attention from the important issues of the day; we become more exercised and energized by the latest reality TV craze than we do when our government weakens the Bill of Rights in the name of protecting us from terrorists. Instead of gathering in the streets in united protest, we sit in our darkened living rooms, isolated, transfixed and pacified by the images on our oversized television screens.
Are we nuts or merely asleep? Too often it’s hard to tell.
Four years into the millennium we present ourselves to the world more as a menace than a light shining through the darkness; we bluster and blunder like a schoolyard bully. The planet is still round, as far as anyone knows, and yet we demand that our neighbors choose a side, declare that they are either for us or against us.
When and why did we hit the wall, run out of ideas and idealism, lose sight of our promise? How do average Americans convince the world that we are not mirror images of our political and cultural leaders? Indeed, how do we convince you that we are not the arrogant buffoons we seem to be when we tramp the streets of your cities and towns?
Our essentially generous and fair national character is still alive, best expressed by Whitman and Thoreau, Frederick Douglass, Lincoln and FDR, Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin, Robert Johnson and Bruce Springsteen, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Margaret Mead, William O. Douglas and Robert Kennedy and Rosa Parks, in words and deeds that penetrate beyond the veil of myth.
And here’s a notion sure to arouse the ire of the Fox brigade: if the world cannot see the essential decency in the American character, the fault lies with America, not the world.
I like to think that we still have the character of Atticus Finch in us, in places large and small, cosmopolitan and provincial, where men and women instinctively protect the weak from the strong, the poor from the rich, and the disenfranchised from the privileged; where men and women stand on principle, no matter the cost to themselves.
THE UN-AMERICAN AMERICAN
First and foremost, do not judge us by the low standard set by the dingbat in the White House. Remember that the majority of voters did not elect him – he was selected and installed by a cabal beyond our control. Many of us were horrified on the day Mr. Bush raised his right hand and swore his oath. We knew trouble would come, though we could not predict what form it might take. But we knew.
First and foremost, do not judge us by the low standard set by the dingbat in the White House. Remember that the majority of voters did not elect him – he was selected and installed by a cabal beyond our control. Many of us were horrified on the day Mr. Bush raised his right hand and swore his oath. We knew trouble would come, though we could not predict what form it might take. But we knew.
The black and white worldview trumpeted by Rush Limbaugh and the talking heads on Fox news is fodder for a small but vocal minority. Lost in the cacophony created by Limbaugh and his ilk are the values and aspirations of Thomas Jefferson, Franklin Delano Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. The superficial and trivial divert our collective attention from the important issues of the day; we become more exercised and energized by the latest reality TV craze than we do when our government weakens the Bill of Rights in the name of protecting us from terrorists. Instead of gathering in the streets in united protest, we sit in our darkened living rooms, isolated, transfixed and pacified by the images on our oversized television screens.
Are we nuts or merely asleep? Too often it’s hard to tell.
Four years into the millennium we present ourselves to the world more as a menace than a light shining through the darkness; we bluster and blunder like a schoolyard bully. The planet is still round, as far as anyone knows, and yet we demand that our neighbors choose a side, declare that they are either for us or against us.
When and why did we hit the wall, run out of ideas and idealism, lose sight of our promise? How do average Americans convince the world that we are not mirror images of our political and cultural leaders? Indeed, how do we convince you that we are not the arrogant buffoons we seem to be when we tramp the streets of your cities and towns?
Just when I think we have sunk to the bedrock, I meet someone who restores my faith in America’s potential; someone who believes that a drastic change in direction is long overdue; someone who has traveled enough and read enough to preserve the ability to think for himself; someone who recognizes our hypocrisy and myopia and yet clings to the belief that we might yet become a nation among nations, an equal among equals on a planet desperate for cooperation and community; someone who understands that to think such thoughts is not un-American or anti-American or subversive, but is in fact quintessentially American.
Our essentially generous and fair national character is still alive, best expressed by Whitman and Thoreau, Frederick Douglass, Lincoln and FDR, Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin, Robert Johnson and Bruce Springsteen, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Margaret Mead, William O. Douglas and Robert Kennedy and Rosa Parks, in words and deeds that penetrate beyond the veil of myth.
And here’s a notion sure to arouse the ire of the Fox brigade: if the world cannot see the essential decency in the American character, the fault lies with America, not the world.
I like to think that we still have the character of Atticus Finch in us, in places large and small, cosmopolitan and provincial, where men and women instinctively protect the weak from the strong, the poor from the rich, and the disenfranchised from the privileged; where men and women stand on principle, no matter the cost to themselves.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Pointing Skyward
As a big baseball fan, I've never understood why players like Barry Bonds, Albert Pujols or David Ortiz point to heaven after hitting a home run or cracking a key hit, but do not point or gesture when they strike out with the bases loaded or ground into a rally killing double play. Why thank God only when something favorable happens? Presumably, God is always watching his devoted children -- when the crowd is cheering and also when the front row hecklers are in full froth. Isn't it hypocritical to thank God only when things are going well?
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Some Tongue-in-Cheek political commentary
I wrote this little satire several months ago; obviously, it makes no difference now because the other side won.
BUSH & CO. SPEAK PLAINLY
Donald Rumsfeld:
“What I knew and when I knew it? I’m not sure I can answer that, I mean, I have no specific recollection of what I knew or when I knew it, or even if I knew what I knew when I thought I knew it. This is a fluid process, but let me assure you that I’m very sure of what I know now as opposed to what I didn’t know then. I can’t say that I know now what I didn’t know then, but I’m fairly certain that my recollection of what I cannot recollect is accurate.”
George W. Bush:
“I’m the President and we’re at war, so that makes me a wartime President.”
Dick Cheney:
“I see no conflict of interest in my relationship with Halliburton and frankly, I’m not going to answer questions of this nature again.”
Laura Bush:
“Yes, from time to time I read the President a bedtime story. What’s wrong with that?”
Condi Rice:
“I believe the WMD will be found in time. Saddam knows where they are and we have Saddam, therefore, we also, de facto, have the WMD. The fact that we don’t have them physically – that we can’t touch or inspect them – doesn’t mean they do not exist, and anyone who claims otherwise is simply engaging in anti-American rhetoric.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“Abusing the abusers in a war zone is not the same as torturing the torturers during peace time. I mean, it’s the same thing as a golfer; is a golfer still a golfer when he’s not playing golf? I mean, at what point does a golfer cease to become a golfer and become something else? ”
George W. Bush:
“I have been to the mountaintop and I know there is no evil in the American heart. None. Take my word for it. We are righteous and our motives are as pure as the driven sand, er, snow. The transformational power of snow is very great. Anyone who says otherwise simply doesn’t understand how the world works.”
Dick Cheney:
“Exporting jobs overseas is good for America. Why? I don’t feel compelled to explain why and in fact I believe I have a constitutional right not to explain. The fact of the matter is that the more American jobs we export the more our economy grows. Anyone who says otherwise simply does not grasp the complexities of global economics. It’s perfectly clear that the more jobs we export to India, the richer Americans become.”
John Ashcroft
I believe the best way to preserve civil liberties is to take them away. Our civil liberties may be the basis for our freedom, but it is our freedom which renders us insecure and vulnerable to attack. Anyone who claims otherwise is simply unpatriotic. We can be free or safe but we can’t be both.
Laura Bush:
“Well, we’re still reading the first Harry Potter story. How long have we been reading it? I don’t see how that’s relative. It’s a very complicated story. Anyone who says otherwise hasn’t read the book.”
Condi Rice:
“It’s not fair to say that none of us read the pre-war intelligence reports, although I have no specific recollection at this time of what those reports might have contained, but my guess is that they contained intelligence.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“What’s the difference between abuse and torture? Well, if I go home after a lousy day and kick my dog, that’s abuse. If I hold him down and stick a needle in his paw, that’s torture. I can assure you that no animals were tortured or abused in the Abu Ghairb prison – at least that I’m aware of, and I’m certain that I’m not aware of any.“
Dick Cheney:
“I see nothing unethical or unlawful about taking a Supreme Court justice duck hunting. All we did was shoot ducks and drink whiskey and there’s nothing illegal about that. Democrats have made baseless accusations that I plied Justice Scalia with Jack Daniels and tried to influence his thinking. This is utterly false. We drank Johnny Walker Black and talked ducks, nothing more.”
George W. Bush:
“Love Harry Potter. There’s nothin’ better than a good fantasy.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“What I knew and when I knew it? I’m not sure I can answer that, I mean, I have no specific recollection of what I knew or when I knew it, or even if I knew what I knew when I thought I knew it. This is a fluid process, but let me assure you that I’m very sure of what I know now as opposed to what I didn’t know then. I can’t say that I know now what I didn’t know then, but I’m fairly certain that my recollection of what I cannot recollect is accurate.”
George W. Bush:
“I’m the President and we’re at war, so that makes me a wartime President.”
Dick Cheney:
“I see no conflict of interest in my relationship with Halliburton and frankly, I’m not going to answer questions of this nature again.”
Laura Bush:
“Yes, from time to time I read the President a bedtime story. What’s wrong with that?”
Condi Rice:
“I believe the WMD will be found in time. Saddam knows where they are and we have Saddam, therefore, we also, de facto, have the WMD. The fact that we don’t have them physically – that we can’t touch or inspect them – doesn’t mean they do not exist, and anyone who claims otherwise is simply engaging in anti-American rhetoric.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“Abusing the abusers in a war zone is not the same as torturing the torturers during peace time. I mean, it’s the same thing as a golfer; is a golfer still a golfer when he’s not playing golf? I mean, at what point does a golfer cease to become a golfer and become something else? ”
George W. Bush:
“I have been to the mountaintop and I know there is no evil in the American heart. None. Take my word for it. We are righteous and our motives are as pure as the driven sand, er, snow. The transformational power of snow is very great. Anyone who says otherwise simply doesn’t understand how the world works.”
Dick Cheney:
“Exporting jobs overseas is good for America. Why? I don’t feel compelled to explain why and in fact I believe I have a constitutional right not to explain. The fact of the matter is that the more American jobs we export the more our economy grows. Anyone who says otherwise simply does not grasp the complexities of global economics. It’s perfectly clear that the more jobs we export to India, the richer Americans become.”
John Ashcroft
I believe the best way to preserve civil liberties is to take them away. Our civil liberties may be the basis for our freedom, but it is our freedom which renders us insecure and vulnerable to attack. Anyone who claims otherwise is simply unpatriotic. We can be free or safe but we can’t be both.
Laura Bush:
“Well, we’re still reading the first Harry Potter story. How long have we been reading it? I don’t see how that’s relative. It’s a very complicated story. Anyone who says otherwise hasn’t read the book.”
Condi Rice:
“It’s not fair to say that none of us read the pre-war intelligence reports, although I have no specific recollection at this time of what those reports might have contained, but my guess is that they contained intelligence.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“What’s the difference between abuse and torture? Well, if I go home after a lousy day and kick my dog, that’s abuse. If I hold him down and stick a needle in his paw, that’s torture. I can assure you that no animals were tortured or abused in the Abu Ghairb prison – at least that I’m aware of, and I’m certain that I’m not aware of any.“
Dick Cheney:
“I see nothing unethical or unlawful about taking a Supreme Court justice duck hunting. All we did was shoot ducks and drink whiskey and there’s nothing illegal about that. Democrats have made baseless accusations that I plied Justice Scalia with Jack Daniels and tried to influence his thinking. This is utterly false. We drank Johnny Walker Black and talked ducks, nothing more.”
George W. Bush:
“Love Harry Potter. There’s nothin’ better than a good fantasy.”
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Poems from an Occasional Poet
EVEN DOZEN – For Terry
Count on the winds of November to blow
The sky clear
Make it easy to see what can’t be seen
In the space between summer and Fall
The mountains emerge in stark relief
Bluish purple in the changed light
Leaves cut loose and soar
Collect in the gutter, crackle underfoot
This is our time, our day, our hour.
An even dozen and counting
Remember when we climbed through the ruins
Of that castle in Portugal
High on the hill
Past the stations of the cross
The whole hillside to ourselves
Together in the steamy heat of the Yucatan
And a dark London afternoon
On the train to Paris
The subway in New York
And back again to where we began
Back to feeling every emotion life offers
The freedom and claustrophobia of union
And children
The pressures of every day grind
That make us forget the very reason
For it all©
FRIDAY
Friday and the fog rolling in
Tom said, “stay out of the barn”
Sabbath found no answers to the riddle of his life
The Dodgers are back to the wall
The Cards are flying high
Beer and baseball wait
A little of one, a lot of the other
Tomorrow we travel the highway through the sprawl
Wife and kids
Papa at the wheel
Now the two-faced hag in the corner wants to make friends
With those she envies
Bush & Kerry again tonight, meeting in the electronic Town Hall
Vegas bookies post the odds, Karl Rove works his spin
More of the same the same the same, my lies poll better than your lies
Democracy at its worst, its ugliest
I’m tired of the whining, how nothing is ever good enough
Don’t upset my leaky rowboat, my comfortable sinking
I’d rather die than change, wilt than grow, ebb than flow
There is more than all this, right?
This means little in the grand scheme of
Birth and death
War and famine
Wealth and poverty
Good and evil
What matters is rising about the pettiness, rising out of the gutter
The slime, the sewer, the shit
Walking tall when others crawl, speaking true while others lie
Soon enough we will all be dead©
MOCKING US ALL
Sun on concrete
white sheets on gray steel
Raise the final curtain
on a morning preordained
Sanctioned by law
Kill the killer
for his crime
Sitting stoic
and remorseless
over the last meal
Mocking the priest
the rabbi
and the minister
with a chilling look
Once a child
normal
as any other
clean
as any other
light
as any other©
BREAKING MORNING©
Seagull on a lamppost
A real bird’s eye view
Of the old gangsta off his porch for the first
Time in memory, tatted arms bare against the chill
tasting paroled freedom
Of a couple of kids locked in a mating dance
Near the high school
A ritual as old as the law of attraction
Of the comings and goings and secret couplings
The silent longings of lunch hour lovers
The desperate competition for attention
The first electric touch of skin on skin
The unrequited heartache
Of the unused Armory, the rusted canon
And the grounded helicopter, helpless as an insect
Without wings
Of the silent stadium draped in silvery dew
Solitary footprints marking the passage of man and dog
Of a weedy lot near the commandante’s street,
Fenced and chained against the day when bold money
Transforms it
Of abandoned shopping carts and broken cars
Cracked glass sparkling in the sun
Count on the winds of November to blow
The sky clear
Make it easy to see what can’t be seen
In the space between summer and Fall
The mountains emerge in stark relief
Bluish purple in the changed light
Leaves cut loose and soar
Collect in the gutter, crackle underfoot
This is our time, our day, our hour.
An even dozen and counting
Remember when we climbed through the ruins
Of that castle in Portugal
High on the hill
Past the stations of the cross
The whole hillside to ourselves
Together in the steamy heat of the Yucatan
And a dark London afternoon
On the train to Paris
The subway in New York
And back again to where we began
Back to feeling every emotion life offers
The freedom and claustrophobia of union
And children
The pressures of every day grind
That make us forget the very reason
For it all©
FRIDAY
Friday and the fog rolling in
Tom said, “stay out of the barn”
Sabbath found no answers to the riddle of his life
The Dodgers are back to the wall
The Cards are flying high
Beer and baseball wait
A little of one, a lot of the other
Tomorrow we travel the highway through the sprawl
Wife and kids
Papa at the wheel
Now the two-faced hag in the corner wants to make friends
With those she envies
Bush & Kerry again tonight, meeting in the electronic Town Hall
Vegas bookies post the odds, Karl Rove works his spin
More of the same the same the same, my lies poll better than your lies
Democracy at its worst, its ugliest
I’m tired of the whining, how nothing is ever good enough
Don’t upset my leaky rowboat, my comfortable sinking
I’d rather die than change, wilt than grow, ebb than flow
There is more than all this, right?
This means little in the grand scheme of
Birth and death
War and famine
Wealth and poverty
Good and evil
What matters is rising about the pettiness, rising out of the gutter
The slime, the sewer, the shit
Walking tall when others crawl, speaking true while others lie
Soon enough we will all be dead©
MOCKING US ALL
Sun on concrete
white sheets on gray steel
Raise the final curtain
on a morning preordained
Sanctioned by law
Kill the killer
for his crime
Sitting stoic
and remorseless
over the last meal
Mocking the priest
the rabbi
and the minister
with a chilling look
Once a child
normal
as any other
clean
as any other
light
as any other©
BREAKING MORNING©
Seagull on a lamppost
A real bird’s eye view
Of the old gangsta off his porch for the first
Time in memory, tatted arms bare against the chill
tasting paroled freedom
Of a couple of kids locked in a mating dance
Near the high school
A ritual as old as the law of attraction
Of the comings and goings and secret couplings
The silent longings of lunch hour lovers
The desperate competition for attention
The first electric touch of skin on skin
The unrequited heartache
Of the unused Armory, the rusted canon
And the grounded helicopter, helpless as an insect
Without wings
Of the silent stadium draped in silvery dew
Solitary footprints marking the passage of man and dog
Of a weedy lot near the commandante’s street,
Fenced and chained against the day when bold money
Transforms it
Of abandoned shopping carts and broken cars
Cracked glass sparkling in the sun
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Man Thrusts Big Toe in Water
I'm old enough to remember when there was no Internet, electronic mail or weblogs, and I confess posting anything for all the world to see makes me feel like a narcissist. Who gives a rip about what some middle-aged guy from Santa Barbara, California has to say -- about anything?
On the other hand, we are living in an Age of Dumbness, a fact proven by the results of our recent national elections, when the voting public made a half-wit President legitimate and also elected a bunch of right-wing crackpots to the House and Senate. I'm still grappling with the aftermath, the portents and implications of what occured eleven days ago. Hell, I'm still wrestling with the popularity of "Reality" TV.
Forgive me, I'm slow.
In the Age of Dumbness our cultural gatekeepers ask people like Paris Hilton and Carmen Electra for their opinion on politics, even though one can argue that neither is more qualified to offer an opinion than I am. I have, after all, been voting for nearly a quarter century. I remember Carter, Reagan, Bush I; I've watched Peter Jennings, Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw grow old. The hypocrisy of the Clinton impeachment is still fresh in my mind, the stark contrast of the famous presidential blow-job with the deadly perfidy of the current Administration. Go figure.
So, perhaps, after all, I have something to add to the world of electronic chatter that might make sense to someone other than myself: a thought on current events, an impression of a Saturday afternoon sky, a rant against the local school district, or a revelation inspired by a fine novel. The urge to communicate has been with our species for a very long time, so why shouldn't this caveman scratch some words on the wall?
On the other hand, we are living in an Age of Dumbness, a fact proven by the results of our recent national elections, when the voting public made a half-wit President legitimate and also elected a bunch of right-wing crackpots to the House and Senate. I'm still grappling with the aftermath, the portents and implications of what occured eleven days ago. Hell, I'm still wrestling with the popularity of "Reality" TV.
Forgive me, I'm slow.
In the Age of Dumbness our cultural gatekeepers ask people like Paris Hilton and Carmen Electra for their opinion on politics, even though one can argue that neither is more qualified to offer an opinion than I am. I have, after all, been voting for nearly a quarter century. I remember Carter, Reagan, Bush I; I've watched Peter Jennings, Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw grow old. The hypocrisy of the Clinton impeachment is still fresh in my mind, the stark contrast of the famous presidential blow-job with the deadly perfidy of the current Administration. Go figure.
So, perhaps, after all, I have something to add to the world of electronic chatter that might make sense to someone other than myself: a thought on current events, an impression of a Saturday afternoon sky, a rant against the local school district, or a revelation inspired by a fine novel. The urge to communicate has been with our species for a very long time, so why shouldn't this caveman scratch some words on the wall?
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