A pair of reading glasses
Gold-plated cigarette lighter
St. Christopher medal
Shot glass from Niagara Falls
Nail clippers
A key to an unknown door
Twelve one dollar bills
Two yellow golf tees
One miniature screwdriver
Expired drivers license
and a W-2 from the Golden Peacock Bar
What he left fit in a shoebox
The stuff rattled around;
His life was an open book,
In death he became a mystery
I split the money with my brother;
We ordered a round and raised our glasses
And did something we’d never done before –
Toasted our old man
Monday, February 19, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
A Classic 70/30 Split
The phone rang at 3:30 A.M., an hour of the morning ripe for bad news. As I stumbled for the phone in the dark my first thought was that someone in the family had died.
“Hello?”
“I saw your speech. You have a future as a Baptist preacher.”
“Dr. Duke?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else calls you at this hour?”
Duke had been out of touch for four months, off, I assumed, on one of his periodic excursions to Thailand or Outer Mongolia or gallivanting through Prague with an underage heiress.
In fact, as he was now telling me, he’d been in Kona, Hawaii, attending to business interests. Cannabis cultivation, I assumed, though, given the proclivity of the Bush Administration to eavesdrop on ordinary Americans, I had no intention of asking on an open telephone line. The trip had obviously gone well because he was sober and in high spirits, eager to incite revolution and mayhem.
“Not running for school board was a big mistake,” Duke said. “Those people desperately need someone with my peculiar talents. The foundation is crumbling and they stand around like shell-shocked sheep waiting for a miracle to save them. And whoever’s doing their PR needs a public flogging. Sweet Jesus, what kind of morons extend the big boss’s contract before taking care of their labor force? The first principle of leadership is to take care of your people. How the hell can a PhD not know that? Is the Superintendent that arrogant or that dense?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Maybe a little of both.”
“Looks like a classic 70/30 split to me,” Duke said. “If the man had a shred of moral decency he would have told the Board to delay extending his contract until after this mess with the teachers was settled. And then, for good measure, he would have refused any salary increase until his people got what they deserved. What kind of car does he drive?”
“A Lexus SUV, I think.”
“Yeah, that figures. Lexus, the official vehicle of elitist greedheads. Be that as it may, the Board put its collective foot in a steaming pile of walrus shit and the teachers will never forgive them or forget. Whether they meant to or not they made it abundantly clear that they value the Superintendent more than the people who do the heavy lifting. You don’t extend the contract of a man leading you to state receivership.”
“That’s the general consensus,” I said.
“Well, the Superintendent may have a contract through 2010, but he’s effectively washed up. His reputation is shot and his legacy will be one of failure and ineptitude. Amen.”
“Hello?”
“I saw your speech. You have a future as a Baptist preacher.”
“Dr. Duke?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else calls you at this hour?”
Duke had been out of touch for four months, off, I assumed, on one of his periodic excursions to Thailand or Outer Mongolia or gallivanting through Prague with an underage heiress.
In fact, as he was now telling me, he’d been in Kona, Hawaii, attending to business interests. Cannabis cultivation, I assumed, though, given the proclivity of the Bush Administration to eavesdrop on ordinary Americans, I had no intention of asking on an open telephone line. The trip had obviously gone well because he was sober and in high spirits, eager to incite revolution and mayhem.
“Not running for school board was a big mistake,” Duke said. “Those people desperately need someone with my peculiar talents. The foundation is crumbling and they stand around like shell-shocked sheep waiting for a miracle to save them. And whoever’s doing their PR needs a public flogging. Sweet Jesus, what kind of morons extend the big boss’s contract before taking care of their labor force? The first principle of leadership is to take care of your people. How the hell can a PhD not know that? Is the Superintendent that arrogant or that dense?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Maybe a little of both.”
“Looks like a classic 70/30 split to me,” Duke said. “If the man had a shred of moral decency he would have told the Board to delay extending his contract until after this mess with the teachers was settled. And then, for good measure, he would have refused any salary increase until his people got what they deserved. What kind of car does he drive?”
“A Lexus SUV, I think.”
“Yeah, that figures. Lexus, the official vehicle of elitist greedheads. Be that as it may, the Board put its collective foot in a steaming pile of walrus shit and the teachers will never forgive them or forget. Whether they meant to or not they made it abundantly clear that they value the Superintendent more than the people who do the heavy lifting. You don’t extend the contract of a man leading you to state receivership.”
“That’s the general consensus,” I said.
“Well, the Superintendent may have a contract through 2010, but he’s effectively washed up. His reputation is shot and his legacy will be one of failure and ineptitude. Amen.”
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Mud-Brain
I need to write something witty for my blog, but I’m too damned tired. Brain feels like it’s drowning in river muck…slow and sticky and hard to get rid of. The more you rub it the worse it gets. Has President Bush or H. Clinton or B. Obama done anything stupid today? Sold out some group or another, sucked the ass-end of the defense industry in search of campaign cash? I’d like to see a good, old fashioned fist fight in the United States Senate chamber, the kind of fight you often see in Korea or Taiwan, where elected officials go ape-shit and beat each other senseless. I’d like to see John McCain and Hilary Clinton in a fist fight. That’s a fair fight, don’t you think? Hil’s had Bill by the scrotum for years. You think she’s a pushover? Or Teddy Kennedy duking it out with Trent Lott. Everybody enjoys watching old, wealthy, white, overweight, tight-assed lawyers fight like street dogs. It helps the rest of us remember that the fuckers are no better than we are. We’re all losers, if you think about it deeply enough. We’re born, and we croak, only we don’t know when it will happen, and some of us think we can prevent it and live forever…we take vitamins and guzzle green tea…we visit ancient temples and run our fingers across sacred objects…we pray to icons, to virgins, to volcanoes, to Billy-goats…
That’s what I mean by a tired, empty, mud-sloshed brain. It’s not sharp or quick; it’s cranky and petulant. Somewhere Tom Waits is laughing and beating on a garbage can with a table leg. This life is funny and twisted, especially when you get caught in this web or that rat hole. And none of it makes a bit of sense. It’s like fitting a grain of sand through the eye of a needle at the bottom of a toilet in Madagascar…Yes, that’s right and I dare you to deny it.
But what’s the cliché, “this too shall pass?” OK, when might that happen?
That’s what I mean by a tired, empty, mud-sloshed brain. It’s not sharp or quick; it’s cranky and petulant. Somewhere Tom Waits is laughing and beating on a garbage can with a table leg. This life is funny and twisted, especially when you get caught in this web or that rat hole. And none of it makes a bit of sense. It’s like fitting a grain of sand through the eye of a needle at the bottom of a toilet in Madagascar…Yes, that’s right and I dare you to deny it.
But what’s the cliché, “this too shall pass?” OK, when might that happen?
Friday, January 26, 2007
View from the Bubble
The view from President Bush’s bubble is always rosy. Wonderful things are happening all across our great land. The economy is growing and robust, unemployment is low and incomes are rising; our millionaires are happy, and our billionaires think everything is just ducky; ok, we’ve hit a speed bump in Iraq, but if we remain resolved and inject 20,000 more soldiers, we can right the situation and turn Iraq into a flower of Democracy, a beacon of hope in the Middle East; we’ve got a minor addiction to fossil fuel, but hey, with “clean” coal and a few new nuclear power plants, everything will be hunky-dory; health care is a teeny problem that can be easily solved by taking away people’s health insurance rather than making health care more accessible; the damage wrought by Hurricane Katrina fixed itself with the help of a few charity concerts and a heckuva job by FEMA; our budget deficit can be erased with another round of tax “relief” for the wealthy.
Is this a great country or what? Because we love our freedom we don’t feel any need to invade weaker countries and threaten those that disagree with us. We’re way cool, and people around the globe know it. The bright side with W is far better than Daddy Bush’s thousand-points-of-light. Americans got it going on, dude. We’re kings of the scrap heap and sitting atop the dung hill. The rest of the world wishes it were in our sneakers, camped in our Lay-Z-Boy with a six-pack of Bud and a giant bag of Doritos, watching American Idol.
I couldn’t bring myself to watch the State of the Union speech, though from reading press reports and pundit comments, I gather Bush tried to dampen his mad-dog instincts and project a reasonable image. The White House staff seems to have made Bush aware that the Democrats won the mid-term elections and control both houses of Congress. Further, Bush finally accepts that Nancy Pelosi is a woman and a Democrat. Yes, I think we can confidently say that Bush is beginning to hit his stride as our chief executive. In two years he’ll be trained and ready to take on the job of Mayor of Crawford, Texas. The folks in Crawford are already preparing for the return of their favorite transplant, planning an inaugural parade down Main Street. Bush will ride a white stallion and fire his six-shooter into the air when he arrives at the courthouse for the swearing in. It’s going to be a big deal, that’s for certain. The Saudi royal family has already promised to foot the bill for the whole shebang. Ambassadors from Togo and Poland – staunch US allies in the Iraq conflict – have rsvp’d. The Comfort Inn down the street from the courthouse is sold out. The Rocking Horse Saloon out on the Lone Star Parkway is swapping its old Sony for a 50” plasma screen.
Only seven hundred and twenty-five days to wait.
Is this a great country or what? Because we love our freedom we don’t feel any need to invade weaker countries and threaten those that disagree with us. We’re way cool, and people around the globe know it. The bright side with W is far better than Daddy Bush’s thousand-points-of-light. Americans got it going on, dude. We’re kings of the scrap heap and sitting atop the dung hill. The rest of the world wishes it were in our sneakers, camped in our Lay-Z-Boy with a six-pack of Bud and a giant bag of Doritos, watching American Idol.
I couldn’t bring myself to watch the State of the Union speech, though from reading press reports and pundit comments, I gather Bush tried to dampen his mad-dog instincts and project a reasonable image. The White House staff seems to have made Bush aware that the Democrats won the mid-term elections and control both houses of Congress. Further, Bush finally accepts that Nancy Pelosi is a woman and a Democrat. Yes, I think we can confidently say that Bush is beginning to hit his stride as our chief executive. In two years he’ll be trained and ready to take on the job of Mayor of Crawford, Texas. The folks in Crawford are already preparing for the return of their favorite transplant, planning an inaugural parade down Main Street. Bush will ride a white stallion and fire his six-shooter into the air when he arrives at the courthouse for the swearing in. It’s going to be a big deal, that’s for certain. The Saudi royal family has already promised to foot the bill for the whole shebang. Ambassadors from Togo and Poland – staunch US allies in the Iraq conflict – have rsvp’d. The Comfort Inn down the street from the courthouse is sold out. The Rocking Horse Saloon out on the Lone Star Parkway is swapping its old Sony for a 50” plasma screen.
Only seven hundred and twenty-five days to wait.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Tale of the Smart Globe
My son has a “Smart Globe.” It’s an interactive globe filled with something like a million facts. Press “Angola,” and the smart Globe will reel off facts like a madman in church on Sunday. Fact after fact: “Uganda’s population declined 66% last year.” The thing is, you can plug the Globe in and download facts from the Internet, new, updated facts all the time. Touch Washington D.C. in the present day: “The majority of the American public finally woke up and realized that George W. Bush is an idiot who high-jacked the United States from its citizens. Almost all its citizens except those fortunate enough to have a trust fund, a big-ass inheritance, or a smart-fucking stockbroker. Most of us have sucked dry tit since Bush and his Junta overtook the country, way back when, in quieter times, before the Dogs of War went chasing innocent Iraqi’s. But that’s an oil story, baby, big business babble, share prices and Wall Street mega-deals, instant wealth, almost out of thin air, future predictions based on insider-information, a rigged game. But hey, why are you complainin’? it’s a level playing field, Bubba, the same for everyone regardless of race or creed or Heaven Forbid, sexual orientation. Dog-eat-dog-eat-chicken-eat snapper-eat-octopus-eat-lion-eat-polar bear-eat my obnoxious next door neighbor…The American food-chain. Big got bigger got biggest, until they had all the power in their hands and called all the shots. It was relatively easy. Citizens were stressed out, arguing about abortion, about gun-control, about “reverse discrimination,” and suddenly, before they really knew what had happened, they looked around and their entire town was changed; gone was anything organic -- good-bye street corner market and the little farm where they sold fresh peaches in the summer. Lemon orchards, avocados, walnuts. Quieter times and all that shit…
My son plays with his Smart Globe by the hour. At his age, all I cared about was sports. He’s way smarter than I was at that age. His access to information has increased, shit, math isn’t my gig, 500%? It’s a big number, that’s for sure. It’s just astonishing, mind-blowing, to sit back and think about all the technological gadgets that have appeared in your lifetime. The information, entertainment, news, advertisements, images, sounds, and speed with which it all comes, is mind-boggling.
But anyway, I drift off-point like a tired working stiff on Friday night. Nancy Pelosi, history-making Nancy Pelosi, she of the San Francisco values, whatever the fuck that means, talking with that blonde dingbat, Diane Sawyer, indescribably obnoxious, vacuous, someone you’d abandon all pretense of sensitive manliness and just smack upside the head. “Shut the fuck up, bitch. Your voice makes my head ache. One more word out of you and I’ll fling you off that balcony. That’s fifteen stories, in case you’ve lost count. One-Five. A long fast drop, first step on your journey to becoming a full-blown self-hating cockroach. Or something like that.”
Ye gads, my mind has gone off the rails…violence…eerie thoughts…why is that vicious dog creeping up behind me…who are these people and why are they x-raying my mail…It’s like being scrutinized and ignored in the same instant. Modern life. We all scurry like rats in the proverbial maze. Some run faster, some slower, and some croak by the roadside. Is it really hard and cut and dried like that? Fuck, where was I, and why? I started off with a point, a single point of light, and now it has gone up in crimson smoke.
Ah yes, Nancy Pelosi, talking with Diane…about the War in Iraq, which, if you start with that term, “war,” dooms the dialogue to spin down BS Avenue because, well, the US never declared “War” on Iraq, did it? An inconvenient fact, perhaps, but a fact nonetheless. We Invaded, Poland and Togo at our side, and then we Occupied. And all kind of terrible shit happened, so many young dead, so many more maimed, and for what? The Bush people said it was WMD and Al Qaeda and bringing the light of Democracy to the besieged and despot-ridden Middle East. When none of these justifications held water or made sense, this president -- who slavishly clings to his illusions, like a drowning man to a ball of twine offered from the deck of a cruise ship -- and his brain trust simply created another reason, another justification, another grand cause, when underlying every inch of every ruse is our thirst for that liquid gold buried beneath the sand. We need it, they’ve got it; our beautiful system of wealth concentration runs on that dark, sticky liquid, and we’ll lose millions in the intermediate run if we don’t figure a way to control it. This is heavy, top shelf raging Capitalism; immorality justified by the end game, the Grand Objective of the Powerful. And the young people and the Reservists go over and get blown apart, and there’s not much discord on the home front, no angry mob at the White House gates, no laws you need respect or obey, not even the Big One, the Great One, the majestic United States Constitution, that amazing, flawed document that guided us far and in relative peace, no, you don’t even need to lose sleep about trampling all over that.
When there’s no sheriff in town, there will be mischief.
And Nancy Pelosi sits there chatting with Diane and states in all sincerity that our soldiers haven’t died or been disfigured in vain. What have we gained, Nancy? Tell me, and be real, remove your political mask and speak from your heart. Has Iraq made us better morally, stronger militarily, and more secure economically? Is our standing with the other nations that we are doomed to live on this planet with higher? Is the bottom line that Conservatives always yammer about better now than it was in 2003? Better fundamentally? Better strategically? You stretch the parameters far enough and twist the truth long enough and our dead might seem not to have died in vain…
I go over to my son’s Smart Globe and touch Iraq. The Smart Globe says, “Lost cause…”
My son plays with his Smart Globe by the hour. At his age, all I cared about was sports. He’s way smarter than I was at that age. His access to information has increased, shit, math isn’t my gig, 500%? It’s a big number, that’s for sure. It’s just astonishing, mind-blowing, to sit back and think about all the technological gadgets that have appeared in your lifetime. The information, entertainment, news, advertisements, images, sounds, and speed with which it all comes, is mind-boggling.
But anyway, I drift off-point like a tired working stiff on Friday night. Nancy Pelosi, history-making Nancy Pelosi, she of the San Francisco values, whatever the fuck that means, talking with that blonde dingbat, Diane Sawyer, indescribably obnoxious, vacuous, someone you’d abandon all pretense of sensitive manliness and just smack upside the head. “Shut the fuck up, bitch. Your voice makes my head ache. One more word out of you and I’ll fling you off that balcony. That’s fifteen stories, in case you’ve lost count. One-Five. A long fast drop, first step on your journey to becoming a full-blown self-hating cockroach. Or something like that.”
Ye gads, my mind has gone off the rails…violence…eerie thoughts…why is that vicious dog creeping up behind me…who are these people and why are they x-raying my mail…It’s like being scrutinized and ignored in the same instant. Modern life. We all scurry like rats in the proverbial maze. Some run faster, some slower, and some croak by the roadside. Is it really hard and cut and dried like that? Fuck, where was I, and why? I started off with a point, a single point of light, and now it has gone up in crimson smoke.
Ah yes, Nancy Pelosi, talking with Diane…about the War in Iraq, which, if you start with that term, “war,” dooms the dialogue to spin down BS Avenue because, well, the US never declared “War” on Iraq, did it? An inconvenient fact, perhaps, but a fact nonetheless. We Invaded, Poland and Togo at our side, and then we Occupied. And all kind of terrible shit happened, so many young dead, so many more maimed, and for what? The Bush people said it was WMD and Al Qaeda and bringing the light of Democracy to the besieged and despot-ridden Middle East. When none of these justifications held water or made sense, this president -- who slavishly clings to his illusions, like a drowning man to a ball of twine offered from the deck of a cruise ship -- and his brain trust simply created another reason, another justification, another grand cause, when underlying every inch of every ruse is our thirst for that liquid gold buried beneath the sand. We need it, they’ve got it; our beautiful system of wealth concentration runs on that dark, sticky liquid, and we’ll lose millions in the intermediate run if we don’t figure a way to control it. This is heavy, top shelf raging Capitalism; immorality justified by the end game, the Grand Objective of the Powerful. And the young people and the Reservists go over and get blown apart, and there’s not much discord on the home front, no angry mob at the White House gates, no laws you need respect or obey, not even the Big One, the Great One, the majestic United States Constitution, that amazing, flawed document that guided us far and in relative peace, no, you don’t even need to lose sleep about trampling all over that.
When there’s no sheriff in town, there will be mischief.
And Nancy Pelosi sits there chatting with Diane and states in all sincerity that our soldiers haven’t died or been disfigured in vain. What have we gained, Nancy? Tell me, and be real, remove your political mask and speak from your heart. Has Iraq made us better morally, stronger militarily, and more secure economically? Is our standing with the other nations that we are doomed to live on this planet with higher? Is the bottom line that Conservatives always yammer about better now than it was in 2003? Better fundamentally? Better strategically? You stretch the parameters far enough and twist the truth long enough and our dead might seem not to have died in vain…
I go over to my son’s Smart Globe and touch Iraq. The Smart Globe says, “Lost cause…”
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Surge of the Idiot-in-Chief
I promised myself that I wouldn’t click on the Tube and watch Bush attempt to justify sending more American kids to Iraq. As an American citizen I feel a duty to watch, but I can’t bring myself to punch the remote and bring up the Spider-Monkey-in-Chief. Bush is a fool who long ago burned all his credibility as a leader. He didn’t have the chops in 2000 and he sure as hell doesn’t have the chops now. He’s probably not as dense as he comes across during his speeches and press conferences, but why should anyone give him the benefit of the doubt at this point in the game? After all the lies, the hubris, and the “Mission Accomplished” grandstanding; after all the carnage and rising body counts; after all the corruption and miscalculation.
Iraq is a moral, political, military, and financial debacle. Not only has the Bush Gang butt-fucked the Iraqi people for at least a generation, they have also fucked America by pissing away billions of dollars that could have been put to use here on our own soil to provide decent medical care for American taxpayers, educational and training opportunities for our young, retirement security for our elderly, and sorely needed investment in alternative energy sources.
Instead, Bush has squandered billions of taxpayer dollars in a failed fantasy. We’ll be paying the bill for years to come.
Clinton got a blow-job from an intern and Congress impeached him. The Republicans investigated that deal to the hilt. Remember the frenzy, the horseshit about a constitutional crisis, Kenneth Starr acting like the Grand Inquisitor? They wanted to know the length of Clinton’s erect cock and the volume of his ejaculation; they wanted to know if he smoked the cigar after jamming it inside Monica.
Bush mortgages our future, condemns our young to die for a lie, lays waste to Iraq, and strolls across the White House lawn like it’s just another day at the office.
Americans should be outraged, incensed, marching in the streets in protest against the stupid, criminal acts perpetrated in our collective name.
At some level, Bush knows that Iraq is lost. His aim now is to salvage his ass for the history books. This surge bullshit is Bush’s Hail Mary pass, his last ditch effort; he’s ninety feet from the basket with one second on the clock... As it goes tonight, Bush stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the worst Presidents in our history: Polk, Harrison, Hoover, Nixon. There’s a closet-sized space next to these clowns and it’s got W’s name stamped on the door.
We can surge troops until the geese fly south but it won’t change a thing. Iraq must fight its civil war, turn the sand crimson, and hope that what emerges is a government and society that can begin to rebuild what the United States so effectively destroyed.
Iraq is a moral, political, military, and financial debacle. Not only has the Bush Gang butt-fucked the Iraqi people for at least a generation, they have also fucked America by pissing away billions of dollars that could have been put to use here on our own soil to provide decent medical care for American taxpayers, educational and training opportunities for our young, retirement security for our elderly, and sorely needed investment in alternative energy sources.
Instead, Bush has squandered billions of taxpayer dollars in a failed fantasy. We’ll be paying the bill for years to come.
Clinton got a blow-job from an intern and Congress impeached him. The Republicans investigated that deal to the hilt. Remember the frenzy, the horseshit about a constitutional crisis, Kenneth Starr acting like the Grand Inquisitor? They wanted to know the length of Clinton’s erect cock and the volume of his ejaculation; they wanted to know if he smoked the cigar after jamming it inside Monica.
Bush mortgages our future, condemns our young to die for a lie, lays waste to Iraq, and strolls across the White House lawn like it’s just another day at the office.
Americans should be outraged, incensed, marching in the streets in protest against the stupid, criminal acts perpetrated in our collective name.
At some level, Bush knows that Iraq is lost. His aim now is to salvage his ass for the history books. This surge bullshit is Bush’s Hail Mary pass, his last ditch effort; he’s ninety feet from the basket with one second on the clock... As it goes tonight, Bush stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the worst Presidents in our history: Polk, Harrison, Hoover, Nixon. There’s a closet-sized space next to these clowns and it’s got W’s name stamped on the door.
We can surge troops until the geese fly south but it won’t change a thing. Iraq must fight its civil war, turn the sand crimson, and hope that what emerges is a government and society that can begin to rebuild what the United States so effectively destroyed.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
OPEN FOR BUSINESS
Unlock the door, remove the velvet ropes, the Balcony is open for business for 2007! Ho hum! You can wander over to YouTube and watch real people star in their own movies, so why the hell would you want to climb my creaky stairs, sit in these smelly old seats, and read the ravings of a rehabilitated madman? And hey, doesn’t the new season of American Idol begin soon? Can’t miss that. Or Gray’s Anatomy, Ugly Betty, 24, Dr. 90210, Rachel Ray, Oprah, or Dr. Phil. Lots of choices in this entertainment wonderland, this Kingdom of Distraction. The world hisses and burns as it always has, blood and tears run in the gutters, toilets clog with the excrement of kings. Saddam is hung, Jerry Ford’s in the ground, reunited with Tricky Dick Nixon, two-headed mermaids row leaky boats while ghost cloud ships sail past the moon and Captain Fantastic swings from the Big Dipper. The faces on Mount Rushmore come to life and belt out a rousing rendition of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.
No matter what, we’re all bit players.
But the clock ticks and our hearts beat, the phone rings, the dog yelps, the garbage men arrive on schedule, the Post Office brings the bills.
Take a couple of poems and call me in a week…the Doctor is in every day except Wednesday afternoon when he plays billiards with a Cantonese midget. Ciao!
FAST TRACK
More, more, bring me more
Put it on the fast track, strap it to the wheel
No second to lose
Hyper-evolution
Here at sunrise, gone by sunset
Out of date, obsolete, ancient at birth
BlackBerry tyranny
Wireless chains
Multi-task madness
Digital delirium
We’re running blind, with Starbucks
Sloshing in our guts,
Ephedrine tickling our brains
Slow down, world
The race is to the wise, not the fast
And the finish line still reads:
D
E
A
T
H
REMINDER
Midnight
Full moon
Stars
My 5-year-old daughter wants to know
Who hung the moon
why the Earth spins
And what happens if it stops?
The genius of small children
Is to remind grownups
Of forgotten mysteries
No matter what, we’re all bit players.
But the clock ticks and our hearts beat, the phone rings, the dog yelps, the garbage men arrive on schedule, the Post Office brings the bills.
Take a couple of poems and call me in a week…the Doctor is in every day except Wednesday afternoon when he plays billiards with a Cantonese midget. Ciao!
FAST TRACK
More, more, bring me more
Put it on the fast track, strap it to the wheel
No second to lose
Hyper-evolution
Here at sunrise, gone by sunset
Out of date, obsolete, ancient at birth
BlackBerry tyranny
Wireless chains
Multi-task madness
Digital delirium
We’re running blind, with Starbucks
Sloshing in our guts,
Ephedrine tickling our brains
Slow down, world
The race is to the wise, not the fast
And the finish line still reads:
D
E
A
T
H
REMINDER
Midnight
Full moon
Stars
My 5-year-old daughter wants to know
Who hung the moon
why the Earth spins
And what happens if it stops?
The genius of small children
Is to remind grownups
Of forgotten mysteries
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Poem - A December to Forget
Xmas lights are hung,
the moon is down
Santa’s on his way
Think he’ll skip Baghdad and Darfur
New Orleans, too
no safe place to land the sleigh
what’s the use anyway?
Broken vets slump in crooked doorways,
already forgotten, worse off than brothers in flag-draped coffins,
living dead;
Shock & Awe meets disgrace under pawn shop glass
Purple Heart medals alongside rusted .38’s
Swiss Army knives,
money clips, harmonicas, GI watches
Lives stolen by immoral cowards
who sleep at night in warm featherbeds
and celebrate their failure
The tunnel is dark, the shelves are bare,
the last train has departed, the fire’s out;
no cookies on the plate for Santa, no turkey
in the oven
Remember the reason for the season,
son of God, born in a manger
three kings on his trail, guided by a star
seeking something to believe in
Same need now as then -
to believe in angels
and a savior; in an unseen hand
and a well of mercy
Santa’s on his way
the moon is down
Santa’s on his way
Think he’ll skip Baghdad and Darfur
New Orleans, too
no safe place to land the sleigh
what’s the use anyway?
Broken vets slump in crooked doorways,
already forgotten, worse off than brothers in flag-draped coffins,
living dead;
Shock & Awe meets disgrace under pawn shop glass
Purple Heart medals alongside rusted .38’s
Swiss Army knives,
money clips, harmonicas, GI watches
Lives stolen by immoral cowards
who sleep at night in warm featherbeds
and celebrate their failure
The tunnel is dark, the shelves are bare,
the last train has departed, the fire’s out;
no cookies on the plate for Santa, no turkey
in the oven
Remember the reason for the season,
son of God, born in a manger
three kings on his trail, guided by a star
seeking something to believe in
Same need now as then -
to believe in angels
and a savior; in an unseen hand
and a well of mercy
Santa’s on his way
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Bush the Befuddled
That voice. That snide voice. That jeering, wasted-Yale-education voice, that lifetime of upward failure voice, shamelessly breathing new life into dead and discredited ideas, into failure and shame, into torture and death. It was too early in the day for that voice.
“Turn it off,” I yelled to my wife. “Please.”
Bush the Befuddled, holding another useless press conference, and insisting, despite graphic evidence to the contrary, that the “war” in Iraq is worthwhile, winnable, and key to protecting American citizens from those horrible people who ascribe to an “ideology of hate.”
If Bush believes his own bullshit he’s insane. Iraq was unnecessary, a waste of young lives, a waste of tax dollars, a waste of American moral credibility – and that’s just for starters from a provincial American perspective. It’s the Iraqis who have lost big time, Iraqis who fear for their lives in outdoor markets and office buildings, on street corners; Iraqis who are without basic human services, due in large part to American arrogance, ignorance and greed.
For Bush to stand there and state his belief that the majority of Americans don’t want US forces withdrawn, to stand and say that we don’t understand the consequences, is crazy gibberish. Bush is the one trying to beat his dead, maggot-infested horse to life. The people get it. Iraq is a lost cause no matter what we do, and has been since we toppled Saddam and unleashed bottled up sectarian strife.
US miscalculation placed Iraq on the path to civil war. The US is responsible for destroying a country that never posed a credible threat to our national security. Thanks to Bush and his cronies, the average Iraqi now has ample reason to distrust, despise, and discredit any move the US makes in Iraq.
Bush talks a lot of nonsense about liberty and freedom for Iraqis while he systematically dismantles Constitutional protections here at home. Enough already.
This unarmed, lower middle-class American citizen, an Air Force veteran, is sick of the bullshit, lies, posturing and criminal behavior of Bush the Befuddled and his cronies. I’m sick of Wolf Blitzer and Tim Russert and Brian Williams, just to name a few of the many blabbermouths in TV land who blithely lend Bush Administration fantasies credence.
The America that lives (only barely) in my imagination is a country with a moral reservoir deep enough to admit failure and make amends for its misdeeds.
Bush was a fraud from Day One and he remains a fraud now; he was unfit from Day One and he’s even more unfit now; he was an embarrassment to our country from Day One and so he remains.
“Turn it off,” I yelled to my wife. “Please.”
Bush the Befuddled, holding another useless press conference, and insisting, despite graphic evidence to the contrary, that the “war” in Iraq is worthwhile, winnable, and key to protecting American citizens from those horrible people who ascribe to an “ideology of hate.”
If Bush believes his own bullshit he’s insane. Iraq was unnecessary, a waste of young lives, a waste of tax dollars, a waste of American moral credibility – and that’s just for starters from a provincial American perspective. It’s the Iraqis who have lost big time, Iraqis who fear for their lives in outdoor markets and office buildings, on street corners; Iraqis who are without basic human services, due in large part to American arrogance, ignorance and greed.
For Bush to stand there and state his belief that the majority of Americans don’t want US forces withdrawn, to stand and say that we don’t understand the consequences, is crazy gibberish. Bush is the one trying to beat his dead, maggot-infested horse to life. The people get it. Iraq is a lost cause no matter what we do, and has been since we toppled Saddam and unleashed bottled up sectarian strife.
US miscalculation placed Iraq on the path to civil war. The US is responsible for destroying a country that never posed a credible threat to our national security. Thanks to Bush and his cronies, the average Iraqi now has ample reason to distrust, despise, and discredit any move the US makes in Iraq.
Bush talks a lot of nonsense about liberty and freedom for Iraqis while he systematically dismantles Constitutional protections here at home. Enough already.
This unarmed, lower middle-class American citizen, an Air Force veteran, is sick of the bullshit, lies, posturing and criminal behavior of Bush the Befuddled and his cronies. I’m sick of Wolf Blitzer and Tim Russert and Brian Williams, just to name a few of the many blabbermouths in TV land who blithely lend Bush Administration fantasies credence.
The America that lives (only barely) in my imagination is a country with a moral reservoir deep enough to admit failure and make amends for its misdeeds.
Bush was a fraud from Day One and he remains a fraud now; he was unfit from Day One and he’s even more unfit now; he was an embarrassment to our country from Day One and so he remains.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
APPLE PIE - FICTION
Fell face first into his apple pie, dead, still holding my hand when his heart stopped. Strangest thing I ever witnessed. What a time for his time to come! Would it have happened if he hadn’t been home when I brought the pie over, if I had just left it on his porch with a note, which was what I intended all along. Ed insisted I have a piece with him, wouldn’t hear otherwise. I sat in the little dining area. Ed only had two chairs, which I took as a sign that he got as many visitors as I did. I noticed there were no pictures in the living room, no frames with smiling faces in them. No wife. No kids. Not much furniture. Ed seemed shy and a little more nervous than he was the day he drove us to the hospital. He admitted that he wasn’t used to visitors. Other than Mensa, a chubby stray cat he’d taken in, he had only himself to worry about, and since his tastes were simple he didn’t need much. As I watched him brew coffee and pull plates from the cupboard I got a solid feeling about Ed, like if a flood or a hurricane hit Crystal Springs he’d be the last resident standing. He was everything Steve never could be, everything Steve never bothered trying to be; Ed was the kind of man who kept his trailer neat, who voted in every election, who took care of his pets, who changed the oil in his truck every 3,000 miles, who owned insurance. Solid, responsible, dependable. I imagined that he was sweet to his late wife, brought her flowers for no reason, fixed her tea with honey when she was sick, stuff that never in thirteen years crossed Steve’s mind to do for me. Only thing I could ever depend on Steve for was losing his temper and making a complete mess of things. Ed had kind brown eyes, like the eyes of those dogs you sometimes see outside the grocery store, waiting on their owner, as calm and patient as can be. The years had etched some lines on Ed’s forehead and around his eyes, proof that his days hadn’t been all sugar and daffodils, but the lines didn’t mask the kindness in the man. Ed sliced the pie and served me first. Still wore his wedding band I noticed. Took his coffee black, chewed his pie slowly, like he wanted to wring every drop of flavor from it, and again I thought of Steve, the caveman way he ate, all slurps and grunts and mess, as if eating was a competition. When Ed said my pie was the best he’d ever tasted, I felt fire on my cheeks. I didn’t know what to say, it had been such a long time since a man paid me a compliment, but I was happy to be sitting here. I was even more surprised when Ed put his hand over mine, and held my eyes with his, as if he was searching for something he’d lost, and I felt my heartbeat speed up; it felt weird, to be honest, I’m not your touchy-feely type of person, no time for that, but something passed between Ed and me in that moment, not love or even physical attraction, it was more like connection, clear understanding, human being to human being. When he smiled I smiled back, and then he squeezed my hand and his throat clutched like he was choking on a bone, and before I could say or do anything he had collapsed face first into his pie, dead. Left me stuck with his cat.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Word From On High
Judging by the froth in the mainstream media, you’d have thought that the Iraq Study Group report was coming directly from the pen of Jesus, a document that would deliver us from our own evil and set beleaguered Iraq on a path to peace and brotherhood.
Wrong. It’s always hard for an imperial power to apologize, even harder for it to admit defeat and flee the scene of the crime. Word to Bush/Cheney: the Invasion/Occupation was a mistake based on lies, your regime is responsible for a calamity, and you two, as principal architects and shills for the fiasco, should be sitting in Leavenworth Prison in orange jumpsuits.
Iraq is fucked, whether the US sticks around for a year or two or folds its tent and retreats as soon as possible. The screwball dreams the Bush/Cheney junta had of a “democratic” Iraq and free-flowing oil opened a Pandora’s Box filled with death and misery.
The US will be washing this blood from its hands for fifty years.
We reap the consequences of a mentally-challenged commander-in-chief, a wicked Vice-President, and a complacent, rubberstamp Congress. It’s a dangerous thing to try and remake the world in your own corrupt image. You’d think our Bible-toting leaders would know better, but all they had in mind was power, and the wisdom of the good book flew straight over their heads.
The anti-war protestors who filled city streets all over the world in 2002 and 2003 were right, though it didn’t take a crystal ball to predict the bloody outcome.
We’ve done enough damage. It’s time to go.
Wrong. It’s always hard for an imperial power to apologize, even harder for it to admit defeat and flee the scene of the crime. Word to Bush/Cheney: the Invasion/Occupation was a mistake based on lies, your regime is responsible for a calamity, and you two, as principal architects and shills for the fiasco, should be sitting in Leavenworth Prison in orange jumpsuits.
Iraq is fucked, whether the US sticks around for a year or two or folds its tent and retreats as soon as possible. The screwball dreams the Bush/Cheney junta had of a “democratic” Iraq and free-flowing oil opened a Pandora’s Box filled with death and misery.
The US will be washing this blood from its hands for fifty years.
We reap the consequences of a mentally-challenged commander-in-chief, a wicked Vice-President, and a complacent, rubberstamp Congress. It’s a dangerous thing to try and remake the world in your own corrupt image. You’d think our Bible-toting leaders would know better, but all they had in mind was power, and the wisdom of the good book flew straight over their heads.
The anti-war protestors who filled city streets all over the world in 2002 and 2003 were right, though it didn’t take a crystal ball to predict the bloody outcome.
We’ve done enough damage. It’s time to go.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
The Earle of Tatum
Gary Earle, President of the Coalition for Sensible Planning, an organization which sounds like, and probably is, run out of a Goleta PO Box, brings to mind an image of a slick, smarmy, slippery, slimy used-car huckster, willing to employ any means necessary to sell a twice-wrecked, cosmetically-restored Plymouth with an Earl Scheib paint job to an unsuspecting sucker for top dollar.
Ever since the Santa Barbara School Districts announced it was conducting a feasibility study of options for making sorely needed cash from two unused parcels (Hidden Valley & Tatum) of land it owns, a study that included the idea of building affordable housing for teachers and staff, Earle and others of his sort have come out of the woodwork, the shadows, out from behind adobe walls and from under goosedown comforters, to protest, bray, sputter, smear, and malign the study, the School Board, and the District Administration.
Before the ink on the contact with UniDev LLC – a firm with expertise in building “workforce” housing for non-profits – had time to soak in, before any projections on the number of homes was released, before a stitch of research had been accomplished, Earle’s posse of NIMBYs were standing outside Vons on Turnpike, passing out home-made fliers decrying the District’s intent to erect some four hundred homes, smack in the heart of their precious suburban “neighborhood.” Where Earle’s Coalition got that number is anybody’s guess, but it’s not even in the same area code with the number proposed in UniDev’s final report.
From the outset, Earle called UniDev’s motives into question, claiming the company was steering the study toward the workforce housing option so it could make major league money as the ultimate project developer, a claim not tethered to the reality of the UniDev contract, but what the hell, who’s paying close attention to meddlesome facts? Taking his cue from modern masters of mendacity like Limbaugh, O’Reilly and Hannity, Earle stretched and kneaded the truth to suit his own ends, which are, apparently, to keep anybody else from calling this Promised Land home, especially teachers and school workers, who, to be sure, carry meaningful water for the community, but must accept their impoverished servitude and move to Lompoc, Oxnard or the shitty end of Salinas Street.
After the final UniDev report was presented to the school board on November 28, Earle, decked out in a pin-striped suit, hair coiffed and tanning booth glow in place, got face time on KEYT, where he was quoted as saying that the District hasn’t cooperated with the Tatum community, and that, “the District just wants to make as much money as possible.”
The first statement is flat wrong and the second just plain stupid. The District held a number of public meetings about the feasibility study, accepted public comment for a month, gave community members ad naseum opportunity to speak at school board meetings, and so on. Claiming the District has been uncooperative with the local community is like claiming the U.S. Army never tortured prisoners at Abu Ghraib. We got digital photos, dude!
As to the money angle, well, Duh! Mr. Earle, squeezing these vacant assets for every dime they will surrender is THE POINT! What’s wrong with the school district exploring every revenue-enhancing option at its disposal? People like Gary Earle don’t piss and wail when a private individual seeks to earn obscene amounts of coin, so why get your Grigioperla boxers in a wad when a school district seeks to exercise the very same capitalist imperative? Good old American money-grubbing, baby! The school district’s got something that’s as good as gold in these parts, and its anemic financial condition demands that the school board do whatever it takes to bring more coin into the coffers. It would be a colossal failure of the school board’s fiduciary responsibility not to seek the biggest score it can haul to the bank. The taxpayers from whom the prized booty came in the first place should expect no less.
Ever since the Santa Barbara School Districts announced it was conducting a feasibility study of options for making sorely needed cash from two unused parcels (Hidden Valley & Tatum) of land it owns, a study that included the idea of building affordable housing for teachers and staff, Earle and others of his sort have come out of the woodwork, the shadows, out from behind adobe walls and from under goosedown comforters, to protest, bray, sputter, smear, and malign the study, the School Board, and the District Administration.
Before the ink on the contact with UniDev LLC – a firm with expertise in building “workforce” housing for non-profits – had time to soak in, before any projections on the number of homes was released, before a stitch of research had been accomplished, Earle’s posse of NIMBYs were standing outside Vons on Turnpike, passing out home-made fliers decrying the District’s intent to erect some four hundred homes, smack in the heart of their precious suburban “neighborhood.” Where Earle’s Coalition got that number is anybody’s guess, but it’s not even in the same area code with the number proposed in UniDev’s final report.
From the outset, Earle called UniDev’s motives into question, claiming the company was steering the study toward the workforce housing option so it could make major league money as the ultimate project developer, a claim not tethered to the reality of the UniDev contract, but what the hell, who’s paying close attention to meddlesome facts? Taking his cue from modern masters of mendacity like Limbaugh, O’Reilly and Hannity, Earle stretched and kneaded the truth to suit his own ends, which are, apparently, to keep anybody else from calling this Promised Land home, especially teachers and school workers, who, to be sure, carry meaningful water for the community, but must accept their impoverished servitude and move to Lompoc, Oxnard or the shitty end of Salinas Street.
After the final UniDev report was presented to the school board on November 28, Earle, decked out in a pin-striped suit, hair coiffed and tanning booth glow in place, got face time on KEYT, where he was quoted as saying that the District hasn’t cooperated with the Tatum community, and that, “the District just wants to make as much money as possible.”
The first statement is flat wrong and the second just plain stupid. The District held a number of public meetings about the feasibility study, accepted public comment for a month, gave community members ad naseum opportunity to speak at school board meetings, and so on. Claiming the District has been uncooperative with the local community is like claiming the U.S. Army never tortured prisoners at Abu Ghraib. We got digital photos, dude!
As to the money angle, well, Duh! Mr. Earle, squeezing these vacant assets for every dime they will surrender is THE POINT! What’s wrong with the school district exploring every revenue-enhancing option at its disposal? People like Gary Earle don’t piss and wail when a private individual seeks to earn obscene amounts of coin, so why get your Grigioperla boxers in a wad when a school district seeks to exercise the very same capitalist imperative? Good old American money-grubbing, baby! The school district’s got something that’s as good as gold in these parts, and its anemic financial condition demands that the school board do whatever it takes to bring more coin into the coffers. It would be a colossal failure of the school board’s fiduciary responsibility not to seek the biggest score it can haul to the bank. The taxpayers from whom the prized booty came in the first place should expect no less.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
In Death give Thanks
The floor of the Balcony is littered with empty cups, swizzle sticks, sunflower seeds, ticket stubs, expired ID cards, a ball of yarn, a baby’s pacifier, a grocery list, a dime, half a business card, (left by one Jeff Norton, a financial services salesman from Utah), popcorn seeds, a twisted straw, a discount coupon for a health club, a red playing card (eight of Hearts), and a cocktail napkin with this note, printed in block letters with black lipstick: “I never loved you!” The janitor is on strike, picketing on the front sidewalk, angry and determined to stay out there as long as it takes. “Hey ho, the Balcony has got to go!” The owner is sitting in a dark room contemplating his own death, and how it is unwise to attach too much to any thing, place or person. He’s thinking of his place in the world, the long line of humanity stretching before him, miles and miles of the departed, most with a story to tell. It’s a sad thing when people go to their graves with stories yet untold. The stories die with them. We build the future on the past’s bones. There’s no business on Thanksgiving Day anyway, only the lonely and the young and the crazy walking State Street; the Metropolitan Theatre is open, Blue Bee Jeans is closed. The mannequin in the Blue Bee window is stunning, a Paris Hilton type with a lascivious smile. “Boys, I know you want to do me!” The Rescue Mission is doing brisk business for the down and out, the forgotten and the eternally lost, the unlucky; a wealthy family from Montecito works the serving line to absolve the guilt they feel for having so much while others have so little. The Faulding is full to capacity. Starbucks is open, ready and willing to serve the few foreign tourists out wandering. A Belgian couple peers in the window at Joe’s Café. The afternoon light fades. The steady chant of “Hey ho, the Balcony has got to go!” brings the owner back to his own reality, the contemplation of losing every thing, every person, and every place one has ever loved. The city of his youth is dead, replaced by a theme park, a “destination” reviewed and pimped in travel magazines and Auto Club brochures. Come and play on the American Riviera! He feels like crying but no tears will come. Strangely, contemplating his own death makes him thankful.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Saturday Night, Santa Barbara
What are the wealthy doing in those grand homes
on Alameda Padre Serra and Arbolado Road?
on Dover Lane and Mission Ridge Road?
With those multi-million dollar views of the city and the ocean?
sophisticated isolation and pearl-plated prestige
Diamonds on the ground, diamonds in the sky,
stone and red tile, Mediterranean arches, 30 foot high windows
Are the men smarter than those of us on the north end of Milpas? Better looking?
Are the women hotter? Better at the erotic arts?
Are the children impeccably behaved, less prone to the shits, tonsillitis, lice, asthma, bronchitis, RSV, warts?
Do they have the same trouble finding matching socks
or the remote control?
Is the sex better?
Is the conversation more interesting?
Is the beer colder?
Is the food tastier?
Is the air different?
Do the men lie and cheat?
Do the wives fuck around?
Do the men suffer from Benign Prostatic Hyperplasia?
Do the women have high blood pressure?
Is someone up there rolling a joint?
Is someone up there burning dinner?
Is someone up there telling a lie?
Is someone up there lending a helping hand?
Is someone up there plotting murder?
Are the people up there happier
because of all the splendor
or does the splendor make them happy?
Anyway, it’s Saturday night and the clock is ticking for us all.
on Alameda Padre Serra and Arbolado Road?
on Dover Lane and Mission Ridge Road?
With those multi-million dollar views of the city and the ocean?
sophisticated isolation and pearl-plated prestige
Diamonds on the ground, diamonds in the sky,
stone and red tile, Mediterranean arches, 30 foot high windows
Are the men smarter than those of us on the north end of Milpas? Better looking?
Are the women hotter? Better at the erotic arts?
Are the children impeccably behaved, less prone to the shits, tonsillitis, lice, asthma, bronchitis, RSV, warts?
Do they have the same trouble finding matching socks
or the remote control?
Is the sex better?
Is the conversation more interesting?
Is the beer colder?
Is the food tastier?
Is the air different?
Do the men lie and cheat?
Do the wives fuck around?
Do the men suffer from Benign Prostatic Hyperplasia?
Do the women have high blood pressure?
Is someone up there rolling a joint?
Is someone up there burning dinner?
Is someone up there telling a lie?
Is someone up there lending a helping hand?
Is someone up there plotting murder?
Are the people up there happier
because of all the splendor
or does the splendor make them happy?
Anyway, it’s Saturday night and the clock is ticking for us all.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
"The Republic is Dead," Cheney Claims
Life around the White House has been glum this past week. President Bush offered up Donald Rumsfeld to satisfy the Democrats need for bleeding red meat, but in fact Bush still believes that Rumsfeld is a military genius and he misses his old friend terribly.
Bush has no desire to work with Democrats, but his father explained the new reality on November 8th and demanded that Junior extend an olive branch to the inbound Democratic leadership, and do his utmost to make it seem that he’s eager to work in a bipartisan spirit, even though Junior can’t stand to be in the same room with Nancy Pelosi. “For six years I had no use for those people,” W said. “I didn’t give Democrats the time of day, didn’t invite them to the White House, didn’t pay attention to their concerns. I enjoyed calling them traitors and wimps, and I got a big kick when Cheney told various Democratic senators to go fuck themselves. Dad gummit, I miss those days already.”
Sensing that his son wasn’t getting the message, Bush Senior seized his wayward, half-wit spawn by the shoulders and shook him, hard. “You listen to me, boy, and you listen good. Your swaggering, ‘Mission-Accomplished’ days are over. You’re one of the most unpopular Presidents in the history of the Republic! Sixty percent of the American people think you’re a raving idiot! Look at me, dimwit! You’ve got two years to think about your legacy! Do you want to be remembered as the most incompetent President in American history? Ah, shit, boy, don’t start crying, for crissakes.”
Nobody in Washington has taken the Republican meltdown harder than Deadeye Dick Cheney. Always a terrifying figure, a cross between Ted Bundy and Heinrich Himmler, even when the tide was breaking his way, Cheney has been in a black mood since Election Night, snarling at his staff, his wife, his dog, and even his old and loyal friends from Halliburton. “It’s the end of the Republic,” Cheney keeps saying out of the side of his mouth. “We might as well open the gates and let the terrorists come right in, hand them the keys to the White House, the Pentagon and the FBI.”
Only target shooting at the Secret Service range brings Cheney solace. The Veep demanded that the Secret Service provide him with three hundred life-size targets of Nancy Pelosi, seventy-five of Barney Frank, forty of Teddy Kennedy, and one hundred and twenty-five of John Murtha, which Cheney blasts away at with his Glock 31, one after another. “Keep ‘em coming,” Cheney growls. “And bring me a hundred of that fat fuck, Michael Moore. I’ll show that leftist bastard what I think of him!”
Now that the Democrats have subpoena power, Condi Rice has been busy in her office, shredding documents, notes, cocktail napkins, phone logs, and credit card statements, anything that might implicate her for her role in misleading the American public into backing the needless and senseless invasion of Iraq. The same scenario is playing out all over official Washington and those on-site document destruction outfits are making a killing. Low-level functionaries, lobbyists, congressional aides, pages, and the hookers and call girls (and call boys, of course) who have serviced the Republicans for the past twelve years, flock to the Northern Virginia woods where they douse massive piles of documents with jet fuel and set them to burning.
After moping around for two days in an Oxycontin daze, Rush Limbaugh bucked up his courage and played miniature golf with Newt Gingrich, only to be recognized and ridiculed by a pack of Catholic school kids on a field trip. “My God, Newt, this can’t be happening. We were going to rule for one thousand years!”
Yeah, it has been a rough week in DC, and the Democrats haven’t done a thing yet.
Bush has no desire to work with Democrats, but his father explained the new reality on November 8th and demanded that Junior extend an olive branch to the inbound Democratic leadership, and do his utmost to make it seem that he’s eager to work in a bipartisan spirit, even though Junior can’t stand to be in the same room with Nancy Pelosi. “For six years I had no use for those people,” W said. “I didn’t give Democrats the time of day, didn’t invite them to the White House, didn’t pay attention to their concerns. I enjoyed calling them traitors and wimps, and I got a big kick when Cheney told various Democratic senators to go fuck themselves. Dad gummit, I miss those days already.”
Sensing that his son wasn’t getting the message, Bush Senior seized his wayward, half-wit spawn by the shoulders and shook him, hard. “You listen to me, boy, and you listen good. Your swaggering, ‘Mission-Accomplished’ days are over. You’re one of the most unpopular Presidents in the history of the Republic! Sixty percent of the American people think you’re a raving idiot! Look at me, dimwit! You’ve got two years to think about your legacy! Do you want to be remembered as the most incompetent President in American history? Ah, shit, boy, don’t start crying, for crissakes.”
Nobody in Washington has taken the Republican meltdown harder than Deadeye Dick Cheney. Always a terrifying figure, a cross between Ted Bundy and Heinrich Himmler, even when the tide was breaking his way, Cheney has been in a black mood since Election Night, snarling at his staff, his wife, his dog, and even his old and loyal friends from Halliburton. “It’s the end of the Republic,” Cheney keeps saying out of the side of his mouth. “We might as well open the gates and let the terrorists come right in, hand them the keys to the White House, the Pentagon and the FBI.”
Only target shooting at the Secret Service range brings Cheney solace. The Veep demanded that the Secret Service provide him with three hundred life-size targets of Nancy Pelosi, seventy-five of Barney Frank, forty of Teddy Kennedy, and one hundred and twenty-five of John Murtha, which Cheney blasts away at with his Glock 31, one after another. “Keep ‘em coming,” Cheney growls. “And bring me a hundred of that fat fuck, Michael Moore. I’ll show that leftist bastard what I think of him!”
Now that the Democrats have subpoena power, Condi Rice has been busy in her office, shredding documents, notes, cocktail napkins, phone logs, and credit card statements, anything that might implicate her for her role in misleading the American public into backing the needless and senseless invasion of Iraq. The same scenario is playing out all over official Washington and those on-site document destruction outfits are making a killing. Low-level functionaries, lobbyists, congressional aides, pages, and the hookers and call girls (and call boys, of course) who have serviced the Republicans for the past twelve years, flock to the Northern Virginia woods where they douse massive piles of documents with jet fuel and set them to burning.
After moping around for two days in an Oxycontin daze, Rush Limbaugh bucked up his courage and played miniature golf with Newt Gingrich, only to be recognized and ridiculed by a pack of Catholic school kids on a field trip. “My God, Newt, this can’t be happening. We were going to rule for one thousand years!”
Yeah, it has been a rough week in DC, and the Democrats haven’t done a thing yet.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Election Night, November 7, 2006
Verbatim notes while watching the returns…unedited…impressions of impending doom…which spin will win?
My favorite leftist radio station, listener financed KPFK, reported earlier that there were widespread glitches with electronic voting machines in Ohio, leading to long lines for voters and the intervention of a Federal judge who ordered that polls remain open an additional two hours. It was much the same story in Virginia. KPFK noted that the mechanical problems in Ohio were occurring in predominantly African-American areas. Shades of 2004, when the national GOP stole the election for Bush.
C-SPAN, CNN, Fox, PBS, ABC – there’s so much information out there that it makes my head swim. What I fear is another stolen election; the Republicans will not relinquish power willingly, so all their voter suppression tactics make perfect sense -- Robo-calls to voters who lean Democrat, bullshit demands for ID, eligible voters purged from the rolls as if by magic -- these people will stop at nothing.
KPFK also reported that 10,000 lawyers are on duty across the country tonight, watching polling places, challenging edicts issued by Republican Secretaries of State, challenging or correcting decisions made by stressed-out poll workers, harassing voters, or just standing around in cheap suits and scuffed shoes, checking their Blackberries every two minutes, speaking from the sides of their mouths like their hero, Dick Cheney.
I suddenly have this sinking feeling that turn-out doesn’t matter, Iraq doesn’t matter, the piss-poor, rigged for the wealthy economy doesn’t matter, because at the end of this day, the GOP will have engineered massive vote theft and retained their death grip on the nation’s testicles. I can’t help thinking that we are fucked, no matter what, and that Karl Rove is sitting in the White House, enjoying a massage from a Korean prostitute. “That’s nice, baby, but can you move a little lower.” Rove is a pig masquerading as a man. He should be conscripted into the US Army and sent to Iraq where he can experience the wonders of our glorious Occupation, first-hand. Hell yes, issue Rove an M-16 and some defective body armor and send him out to meet and greet the Sunnis and the Shiites.
Rick Santorum, a scary Republican senator from Pennsylvania, appears to be headed for an ass-kicking. One less Bush soldier to worry about.
Results roll across the bottom of the TV screen. Bill Bennett is a guest commentator on CNN, though he doesn’t seem to know jack shit about particular races. I wonder what kind of action Bennett has riding on these outcomes. Old gamblers never lose the itch.
W and Laura voted this morning. I wonder how much trouble W had filling out his ballot. That Yale education isn’t worth much, but I’m sure Laura explained the more difficult nuances and made sure W checked the correct boxes.
Over on MSNBC Tom Brokaw is jabbering, trying his best to bring some gravitas to this sordid Tuesday night affair by offering his years of wisdom and experience. What a star-studded line-up: Brokaw, Williams, and Russert. It almost makes me wet my shorts with excitement. MSNBC projects that the Dems will control the House, but that the GOP will retain a slim margin in the Senate. We’ll see if that holds. The polls closed in California fifteen minutes ago. I’d bet my son’s piggybank that Schwarzenegger just fired up a fat cigar. Four more years of Arnold is like being forced to watch Kindergarten Cop over and over. Bad to worse and back again.
I’d like to see the phrase, “God Bless America,” banned. Every politician, no matter how immoral behind closed doors, no matter how criminal, no matter how psychotic, utters “God Bless America,” at every opportunity, as if this will absolve all sins and make people believe the politician is a good guy or decent gal, no different from any of us. What a crock. In my experience on this planet, the people who bring God into every conversation, or drop their church-going habits and activities the way others drop names, are generally the most sinful. Why don’t you stop talking about Jesus and start acting like Jesus? Novel concept.
If the Dems do take the House and either take the Senate outright or at least increase their number so that real debate is possible, will they act like Democrats or hew to the Bill Clinton tactics that screwed working people (NAFTA), destroyed local media (the Telecommunications Act of 1996), and tossed welfare recipients (Welfare to Work or whatever it’s euphemistically called) on the street? All you Hillary fans should remember that this Republican Reign of Terror began with a mid-term landslide in 1994, well before Monica and Bill began playing hide-the-cigar in the Oval Office.
I’m going to bed where I hope to dream of Dick Cheney on the witness stand, naked, with a black hood over his head, shackles on his wrists and ankles, and electrodes clipped to his old nipples. Give him more juice!
My favorite leftist radio station, listener financed KPFK, reported earlier that there were widespread glitches with electronic voting machines in Ohio, leading to long lines for voters and the intervention of a Federal judge who ordered that polls remain open an additional two hours. It was much the same story in Virginia. KPFK noted that the mechanical problems in Ohio were occurring in predominantly African-American areas. Shades of 2004, when the national GOP stole the election for Bush.
C-SPAN, CNN, Fox, PBS, ABC – there’s so much information out there that it makes my head swim. What I fear is another stolen election; the Republicans will not relinquish power willingly, so all their voter suppression tactics make perfect sense -- Robo-calls to voters who lean Democrat, bullshit demands for ID, eligible voters purged from the rolls as if by magic -- these people will stop at nothing.
KPFK also reported that 10,000 lawyers are on duty across the country tonight, watching polling places, challenging edicts issued by Republican Secretaries of State, challenging or correcting decisions made by stressed-out poll workers, harassing voters, or just standing around in cheap suits and scuffed shoes, checking their Blackberries every two minutes, speaking from the sides of their mouths like their hero, Dick Cheney.
I suddenly have this sinking feeling that turn-out doesn’t matter, Iraq doesn’t matter, the piss-poor, rigged for the wealthy economy doesn’t matter, because at the end of this day, the GOP will have engineered massive vote theft and retained their death grip on the nation’s testicles. I can’t help thinking that we are fucked, no matter what, and that Karl Rove is sitting in the White House, enjoying a massage from a Korean prostitute. “That’s nice, baby, but can you move a little lower.” Rove is a pig masquerading as a man. He should be conscripted into the US Army and sent to Iraq where he can experience the wonders of our glorious Occupation, first-hand. Hell yes, issue Rove an M-16 and some defective body armor and send him out to meet and greet the Sunnis and the Shiites.
Rick Santorum, a scary Republican senator from Pennsylvania, appears to be headed for an ass-kicking. One less Bush soldier to worry about.
Results roll across the bottom of the TV screen. Bill Bennett is a guest commentator on CNN, though he doesn’t seem to know jack shit about particular races. I wonder what kind of action Bennett has riding on these outcomes. Old gamblers never lose the itch.
W and Laura voted this morning. I wonder how much trouble W had filling out his ballot. That Yale education isn’t worth much, but I’m sure Laura explained the more difficult nuances and made sure W checked the correct boxes.
Over on MSNBC Tom Brokaw is jabbering, trying his best to bring some gravitas to this sordid Tuesday night affair by offering his years of wisdom and experience. What a star-studded line-up: Brokaw, Williams, and Russert. It almost makes me wet my shorts with excitement. MSNBC projects that the Dems will control the House, but that the GOP will retain a slim margin in the Senate. We’ll see if that holds. The polls closed in California fifteen minutes ago. I’d bet my son’s piggybank that Schwarzenegger just fired up a fat cigar. Four more years of Arnold is like being forced to watch Kindergarten Cop over and over. Bad to worse and back again.
I’d like to see the phrase, “God Bless America,” banned. Every politician, no matter how immoral behind closed doors, no matter how criminal, no matter how psychotic, utters “God Bless America,” at every opportunity, as if this will absolve all sins and make people believe the politician is a good guy or decent gal, no different from any of us. What a crock. In my experience on this planet, the people who bring God into every conversation, or drop their church-going habits and activities the way others drop names, are generally the most sinful. Why don’t you stop talking about Jesus and start acting like Jesus? Novel concept.
If the Dems do take the House and either take the Senate outright or at least increase their number so that real debate is possible, will they act like Democrats or hew to the Bill Clinton tactics that screwed working people (NAFTA), destroyed local media (the Telecommunications Act of 1996), and tossed welfare recipients (Welfare to Work or whatever it’s euphemistically called) on the street? All you Hillary fans should remember that this Republican Reign of Terror began with a mid-term landslide in 1994, well before Monica and Bill began playing hide-the-cigar in the Oval Office.
I’m going to bed where I hope to dream of Dick Cheney on the witness stand, naked, with a black hood over his head, shackles on his wrists and ankles, and electrodes clipped to his old nipples. Give him more juice!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Poem - November 6th
One more day
Maybe the beginning
Of the end
For Bush and his cronies
All their corruption and criminality
The blood-soaked lies
Gross cynicism
Criminal manipulation
Fear-mongering
Malevolent neglect
You can almost feel the country
Hold its breath
Deep down citizens know
How far off track we’ve wandered
Away from cherished values
Away from self-evident truths
Away from the dream sustained through generations
Into a barren land that resembles
Places we always deplored
The reign of Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld and Rove
Many times worse in the long run
Than that shocking September day
Bush milked for all its political worth
Casting a shadow across our
Collective soul
To beat the terrorists we became terrorists
Adopted his methods
His blind arrogance
His indifference to reason
Cloaked in Old Glory and Christian righteousness
We ignored the law
Unleashed the dogs of war
Now our rap sheet is longer and bloodier
And our misdeeds will not be forgotten
Will tomorrow spell the beginning of the end
Or the end of the beginning
Of hope?
Maybe the beginning
Of the end
For Bush and his cronies
All their corruption and criminality
The blood-soaked lies
Gross cynicism
Criminal manipulation
Fear-mongering
Malevolent neglect
You can almost feel the country
Hold its breath
Deep down citizens know
How far off track we’ve wandered
Away from cherished values
Away from self-evident truths
Away from the dream sustained through generations
Into a barren land that resembles
Places we always deplored
The reign of Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld and Rove
Many times worse in the long run
Than that shocking September day
Bush milked for all its political worth
Casting a shadow across our
Collective soul
To beat the terrorists we became terrorists
Adopted his methods
His blind arrogance
His indifference to reason
Cloaked in Old Glory and Christian righteousness
We ignored the law
Unleashed the dogs of war
Now our rap sheet is longer and bloodier
And our misdeeds will not be forgotten
Will tomorrow spell the beginning of the end
Or the end of the beginning
Of hope?
Friday, November 03, 2006
Stay the Course
President Bush tossed a pork rind into the air and caught it in his open mouth, took a sip of Coors Light, and winked across the Oval Office at Condi Rice. “Betcha’ I can do that again,” the President said. He lofted another rind, a tad off course and to his left, but he recovered by shifting in his chair, the rind bounced off his nose and into his mouth where it was crunched with tremendous satisfaction. “See what I mean, Condi? Learned that at Yale. Booyah!”
Karl Rove cleared his throat. “Stay the course,” is all he said.
“Bingo,” said the President. “Never said it. Never even intimated it. Hey, that’s a big word, ‘intimated.’ Where’s Bobby Woodward when I need him? I can use a ten dollar word when I feel like it.”
“Never said it,” Condi Rice said, “even though it has been documented 748 times.”
“A minor, insignificant detail,” Rove said. “If we say the President never said ‘Stay the course’ who’s going to argue with us, the national media?” Everyone in the room burst out laughing. “We own the national media,” Rove said, clearly enjoying himself. “The Democrats? I eat Democrats for breakfast!”
“And they taste pretty good,” the President chimed in, “though not as good as these pork rinds. Yummy!”
“I’m not 100% comfortable,” Condi Rice said. ”We’re saying that our policy in Iraq is not our policy. In my opinion, Mr. President, we’re skirting perilously close to the line here. Domestic and international opinion – “
“The truth is what we say it is,” Rove said dismissively. “If we say the President never said ‘stay the course’ in regards to Iraq, then he never did, despite what any objective and impartial evidence may indicate. Those that disagree are traitors or anti-American liberals. We play this the same way we’ve played global warming. Even though it’s absolutely clear scientifically that human activity has altered the global climate, we simply deny the science and question the scientific community’s competence and patriotism, and the entire issue goes away.”
“Listen to Karl, Condi,” the President said. “He’s the man. No problema here.”
Vice President Cheney entered the Oval Office through his private entrance. Cheney was dressed in Army fatigues, a camouflaged hunting vest, paratrooper boots polished to a brilliant shine, and slung over his shoulder was a double-barreled .12 gauge shotgun with a pearl butt. “I heard that last bit,” Cheney said out of the side of his mouth. “We’re in power and it’s our prerogative to define the truth. The average American is stupid and easy to lead around by the nose. If we can convince some shit-for-brains in Middle America that gay marriage is more important to him and his children than bread and butter economic issues, then we can convince him that the President never said ‘Stay the course.’ I’m going duck huntin’. Anyone want to join me?”
“Have fun,” Bush said. “Don’t kill anyone, OK? That might be hard to deny!”
Karl Rove cleared his throat. “Stay the course,” is all he said.
“Bingo,” said the President. “Never said it. Never even intimated it. Hey, that’s a big word, ‘intimated.’ Where’s Bobby Woodward when I need him? I can use a ten dollar word when I feel like it.”
“Never said it,” Condi Rice said, “even though it has been documented 748 times.”
“A minor, insignificant detail,” Rove said. “If we say the President never said ‘Stay the course’ who’s going to argue with us, the national media?” Everyone in the room burst out laughing. “We own the national media,” Rove said, clearly enjoying himself. “The Democrats? I eat Democrats for breakfast!”
“And they taste pretty good,” the President chimed in, “though not as good as these pork rinds. Yummy!”
“I’m not 100% comfortable,” Condi Rice said. ”We’re saying that our policy in Iraq is not our policy. In my opinion, Mr. President, we’re skirting perilously close to the line here. Domestic and international opinion – “
“The truth is what we say it is,” Rove said dismissively. “If we say the President never said ‘stay the course’ in regards to Iraq, then he never did, despite what any objective and impartial evidence may indicate. Those that disagree are traitors or anti-American liberals. We play this the same way we’ve played global warming. Even though it’s absolutely clear scientifically that human activity has altered the global climate, we simply deny the science and question the scientific community’s competence and patriotism, and the entire issue goes away.”
“Listen to Karl, Condi,” the President said. “He’s the man. No problema here.”
Vice President Cheney entered the Oval Office through his private entrance. Cheney was dressed in Army fatigues, a camouflaged hunting vest, paratrooper boots polished to a brilliant shine, and slung over his shoulder was a double-barreled .12 gauge shotgun with a pearl butt. “I heard that last bit,” Cheney said out of the side of his mouth. “We’re in power and it’s our prerogative to define the truth. The average American is stupid and easy to lead around by the nose. If we can convince some shit-for-brains in Middle America that gay marriage is more important to him and his children than bread and butter economic issues, then we can convince him that the President never said ‘Stay the course.’ I’m going duck huntin’. Anyone want to join me?”
“Have fun,” Bush said. “Don’t kill anyone, OK? That might be hard to deny!”
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Dr. Duke Emerges from Hiding
Dr. Duke found a seat in the back of the jam-packed board room, between a teacher from Monroe Elementary and an Asian man who appeared to be asleep; the man’s zipper was open and his shoes were untied. Duke was coming off a week-long peyote bender in Sedona and felt as if the room was tilted to one side, like a ship in a storm. He watched a District administrator trip and nearly fall over a laptop power cord. Nobody else in the room seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn’t care. The five Board members and the Superintendent trooped in from an adjoining room. The Board members looked glum, as if the fate of western civilization rested on their shoulders; on the other hand, the Superintendent was beaming as if he’d just won the lottery. The contrast made Duke’s forehead throb and he wondered, again, why he was here on a Tuesday night when he could be home watching the World Series. Duke had $500 riding on the underdog Cardinals. He’d bet a twenty-three-year-old Navajo virgin he met in Sedona and spent a week trying to bed down that the Cardinals would shock the Detroit Tigers in six games. Duke failed to get the girl into the sack, primarily because she thought it would be bad luck to lose her virginity during the Major League Baseball play-offs.
During the Pledge of Allegiance Duke silently cursed George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O’Reilly, Newt Gingrich, and for good measure threw in Bill and Hillary Clinton, Joseph Lieberman, Katie Couric, and Diane Sawyer. “May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your pubic region,” he whispered – or at least thought he whispered – though when several people turned to stare at him he realized that he’d been shouting like a street-corner preacher. “I had a bad week in Sedona,” he explained. “Too much sun and peyote, not enough sex. But you have nothing to fear. I’m just a run of the mill psychopath.”
The Superintendent launched into a monologue about an obscure Albanian research study which indicated a strong correlation between eating organic strawberries and improved standardized test scores. The Board members scribbled notes and nodded their heads; one wondered if the strawberries had to come from Albania or would strawberries from Oxnard or Santa Maria work just as well? The Superintendent had no idea and his inability to answer the question didn’t bother him in the least; he was still smiling as if he had the King of Siam by the balls. Duke found the Superintendent’s sunny demeanor annoying and wondered what prescription medications the man was on. Lithium? Zoloft? Paxil? Luvox? Enzyte? Even when he described a gaping hole in the budget the Superintendent’s rosy expression never changed. “Sweet Jesus,” Duke thought, “this guy should have captained the Titanic. He would have glad-handed the passengers when the ship was going down. ‘Isn’t this weather wonderful? Great night for sailing!’ Ladies and gentlemen, don’t pay any attention to that iceberg! I assure you that we have everything under control.’”
A teacher from La Cumbre Junior High was making an impassioned public comment about saving her school from an invasion of elementary kids. The teacher painted a dire portrait of overcrowding, first graders forced to make peepee next to seventh graders, traffic congestion, building code violations, and so on for three minutes and ten seconds. The speech was long on passion and short on facts and logic, but what the hell, George W. Bush is a moron who never lets facts bother him and he’s sitting in the White House playing president. To Duke the argument sounded silly, not to mention premature. The La Cumbre crowd needed to chill, hold a soothing group hug, and then get it through their panicked minds that the District wasn’t proposing to build a fortified, cinderblock and concertina wire compound on the campus. The world would not grind to a halt if a few hundred elementary kids moved into classrooms on a half-empty campus. Get a grip people!
The side-effects of a week-long peyote binge coupled with the endless drone of public comment were taking a toll on Duke. He heard the sound of flapping wings and saw a flock of pigeons fly through the open door and land on the dais in front of the Superintendent. The pigeons bobbed and clucked and cooed and preened until suddenly they transformed themselves into teachers -- angry, underpaid teachers armed with ripe tomatoes – which they began throwing at the Superintendent and Board members, a hail of crimson bombs. The Board members ducked under the dais or scurried for cover while the Superintendent took the brunt of the assault, smiling as jovially as ever as tomato juice and pulp dripped down his face, all over his papers and his necktie. No problem, ladies and gentlemen. Isn’t it great to see such spirited teachers! How about a big hand for our wonderful staff!
In fact – and much to Duke’s chagrin – nothing of the sort happened. There were no pigeons, no tomatoes. About forty teachers merely stood in solidarity while their elected leader read a proclamation. Damn, Duke thought, this time I’ve gone too far, totally rewired my own circuitry. If the illusion is unreal and the unreal is an illusion…what! Sweet Jesus, I’m jabbering. I’ve got to get out of here. But where’s the door? And why are there bars over the windows? And is the Superintendent really holding a cattle prod?
What saved Duke from terrible public embarrassment was Kenneth Locke, self-proclaimed genius, master of the Arts, master of the forehand, the backhand, and the serve and volley; Kenneth Locke, who peddled around town on a mountain bike, with a tennis racket and a guitar strapped to the front forks, visiting every public agency where he could take advantage of his right to three minutes at the podium to spread his gospel of Art for Art’s Sake. “I have the knowledge and I am the messenger,” Locke began, “I am the heir to Leonardo DaVinci and the spokesperson for the emerging avant garde.” Locke attended Board meetings week after week, using his allotted time to advance a philosophy that never failed to amuse and befuddle his audience. “You can’t serve two masters,” Locke intoned, “and it’s even harder to serve three or four.” At this the Asian man next to Duke woke with a start and clapped his hands. Locke said, “If there is no master there can be no student, and if the student isn’t ready, the master will not appear. Think about that!” A driver, a three-wood and a three-iron from sanity, Locke concluded by telling the Board that he would be out of town and out of touch for a while, but would return and update them on his quest.
Duke leaned back in his chair. This was better, much better; being in the presence of genius made the whole meeting worthwhile.
During the Pledge of Allegiance Duke silently cursed George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O’Reilly, Newt Gingrich, and for good measure threw in Bill and Hillary Clinton, Joseph Lieberman, Katie Couric, and Diane Sawyer. “May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your pubic region,” he whispered – or at least thought he whispered – though when several people turned to stare at him he realized that he’d been shouting like a street-corner preacher. “I had a bad week in Sedona,” he explained. “Too much sun and peyote, not enough sex. But you have nothing to fear. I’m just a run of the mill psychopath.”
The Superintendent launched into a monologue about an obscure Albanian research study which indicated a strong correlation between eating organic strawberries and improved standardized test scores. The Board members scribbled notes and nodded their heads; one wondered if the strawberries had to come from Albania or would strawberries from Oxnard or Santa Maria work just as well? The Superintendent had no idea and his inability to answer the question didn’t bother him in the least; he was still smiling as if he had the King of Siam by the balls. Duke found the Superintendent’s sunny demeanor annoying and wondered what prescription medications the man was on. Lithium? Zoloft? Paxil? Luvox? Enzyte? Even when he described a gaping hole in the budget the Superintendent’s rosy expression never changed. “Sweet Jesus,” Duke thought, “this guy should have captained the Titanic. He would have glad-handed the passengers when the ship was going down. ‘Isn’t this weather wonderful? Great night for sailing!’ Ladies and gentlemen, don’t pay any attention to that iceberg! I assure you that we have everything under control.’”
A teacher from La Cumbre Junior High was making an impassioned public comment about saving her school from an invasion of elementary kids. The teacher painted a dire portrait of overcrowding, first graders forced to make peepee next to seventh graders, traffic congestion, building code violations, and so on for three minutes and ten seconds. The speech was long on passion and short on facts and logic, but what the hell, George W. Bush is a moron who never lets facts bother him and he’s sitting in the White House playing president. To Duke the argument sounded silly, not to mention premature. The La Cumbre crowd needed to chill, hold a soothing group hug, and then get it through their panicked minds that the District wasn’t proposing to build a fortified, cinderblock and concertina wire compound on the campus. The world would not grind to a halt if a few hundred elementary kids moved into classrooms on a half-empty campus. Get a grip people!
The side-effects of a week-long peyote binge coupled with the endless drone of public comment were taking a toll on Duke. He heard the sound of flapping wings and saw a flock of pigeons fly through the open door and land on the dais in front of the Superintendent. The pigeons bobbed and clucked and cooed and preened until suddenly they transformed themselves into teachers -- angry, underpaid teachers armed with ripe tomatoes – which they began throwing at the Superintendent and Board members, a hail of crimson bombs. The Board members ducked under the dais or scurried for cover while the Superintendent took the brunt of the assault, smiling as jovially as ever as tomato juice and pulp dripped down his face, all over his papers and his necktie. No problem, ladies and gentlemen. Isn’t it great to see such spirited teachers! How about a big hand for our wonderful staff!
In fact – and much to Duke’s chagrin – nothing of the sort happened. There were no pigeons, no tomatoes. About forty teachers merely stood in solidarity while their elected leader read a proclamation. Damn, Duke thought, this time I’ve gone too far, totally rewired my own circuitry. If the illusion is unreal and the unreal is an illusion…what! Sweet Jesus, I’m jabbering. I’ve got to get out of here. But where’s the door? And why are there bars over the windows? And is the Superintendent really holding a cattle prod?
What saved Duke from terrible public embarrassment was Kenneth Locke, self-proclaimed genius, master of the Arts, master of the forehand, the backhand, and the serve and volley; Kenneth Locke, who peddled around town on a mountain bike, with a tennis racket and a guitar strapped to the front forks, visiting every public agency where he could take advantage of his right to three minutes at the podium to spread his gospel of Art for Art’s Sake. “I have the knowledge and I am the messenger,” Locke began, “I am the heir to Leonardo DaVinci and the spokesperson for the emerging avant garde.” Locke attended Board meetings week after week, using his allotted time to advance a philosophy that never failed to amuse and befuddle his audience. “You can’t serve two masters,” Locke intoned, “and it’s even harder to serve three or four.” At this the Asian man next to Duke woke with a start and clapped his hands. Locke said, “If there is no master there can be no student, and if the student isn’t ready, the master will not appear. Think about that!” A driver, a three-wood and a three-iron from sanity, Locke concluded by telling the Board that he would be out of town and out of touch for a while, but would return and update them on his quest.
Duke leaned back in his chair. This was better, much better; being in the presence of genius made the whole meeting worthwhile.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
White-Beard Notes
White beard notes of a Semi-Clean Man. What’s that ringing in my ear? Who do you turn to when all your heroes are long dead, pushing up weeds in neglected graveyards? This isn’t a heroic age. This is an age of cowardice and spin, cover-my-ass hypocrisy, big lies shouted from big platforms, and the silence of the Great Majority, to borrow a phrase from old Dick Nixon. Even Nixon might feel ashamed today. Do you get the feeling that the whole deal is sliding toward the sheer face of a steep cliff? Crack another Coors Light, ignore this nagging disquiet, ignore the ringing in your ear and the man behind the velvet curtain. A crow perched on a wooden fence, hot salsa on a king-sized burrito, pigs feet under glass. Wealthy pale skins come down from their hilltop fortresses to taste the delights of a Westside taco stand. Militarism is the last refuge of a failed government. When moral reason fails, pull your pistol from its holster, wave it around so everyone can see how big and bad you are. Why is investing in people, not things, a radical notion? He was a wise and stupid man, for he could see things far away, yet was blind up close. Switch on the Tube, tune in to Fox’s coverage of the baseball playoffs, and be bombarded with commercials for Fox’s own slate of blood & guts dramas, hospital dramas, legal dramas, and game shows. Hey, Rube, you can win millions! Solve all your troubles in twenty-two minutes. VISA gets a nice slot, so does E-Trade, Verizon Wireless, and oversized liquid crystal HD televisions from Sharp. Whoopee! I feel deprived without my HD TV! Mirror mirror on the wall, which is the dumbest country of all? The most morally bankrupt? Number one in hypocrisy? Oh, baby, we got that market cornered. We’re untouchable, the undisputed champs. And how proudly we wear our crown of thorns! Teach the children, but teach them what? To conform and obediently follow the dictates of crooked masters? Who is teaching the children to stand up and speak out against injustice and hypocrisy and greed and lawlessness? Such thinking isn’t included in the standard, state-approved curriculum. Do you feel the creep of fascism? We love our guns, fear foreigners and immigrants, propose to build walls to keep them out, and trample our most sacred traditions in the name of “security,” in the name of protecting our “freedom.” Means and ends. Remember the wise black man who said, “the ends are not cut off from the means, because the means represent the ideal in the making, and the end in process, and ultimately you can’t reach good ends through evil means, because the means represent the seed and the end represents the tree.” In other words, ends and means must be aligned. Too much hatred, too little love. The morning train rumbles through town, waking the sleepers in the homeless encampments along the tracks. Poverty and want in the shadow of prosperity and wealth. What are we building here? Man rolls over and pulls his dog closer as the train roars past. Have you checked your credit score lately? Have you talked to Chuck Schwab about your portfolio? The DOW is up, how do you feel about that? Or are you worried about your enlarged prostate? Have you heard about Avodart? Ask your Doctor. Oh, you can’t afford to see a doctor? Too bad, man, too bad; your death will be drawn out and painful. Ever thought of going down to the blood bank and selling a pint? I tried it once, but they said my blood was only semi-clean.
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