Senate Intelligence Committee Hearing Room, Washington D.C.
Members of the Committee file in and take their seats behind the dais. A few moments later, David Petraeus, incoming CIA Director, sits down at the witness table. Although he will soon be a civilian, Petraeus wears his dress uniform.
Dianne Feinstein (Democrat, Chairperson): Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with us, General.
DP: No problem. War is hell, ladies and gentlemen, but our brave warriors carry on.
Saxby Chambliss (Republican): Amen, General. How’re things going in Afghanistan?
DP: We’re taking the fight to the enemy, hitting him hard where he lives and breathes; we strike fear in his women and children and make his animals cower at our feet. I think it goes well and I believe we can secure the country by 2024.
Daniel Coats (Republican): That’s fantastic news, General.
Ron Wyden (Democrat): General Petraeus, I don’t mean to rain on the parade, but we invaded Afghanistan in 2001, and you’re telling us it will have taken 23 years to secure the country by the time we’re done.
DP: You’re not a military man, Senator. You’ve never tested yourself on the field of battle against an enemy intent on blowing your brains out. You’ve never eaten MRE’s for weeks on end and crapped in an open latrine in a hailstorm. Al Qaeda has a foothold in Afghanistan, and is aided and abetted by the Taliban. Together, they are a formidable enemy, as cunning and merciless as any fighters in the world.
Ron Wyden (Democrat): How many Al Qaeda fighters do you estimate are in Afghanistan, General?
DP: Last time I checked there were 12. We may have taken one or two out since that point in time.
Ron Wyden (Democrat): Do you mean 1,200 or 12,000?
DP: No, I mean 12, as in a dozen, although, as I said, we may have taken one or two out during night raids.
Ron Wyden (Democrat): Let me make sure I understand…in all of Afghanistan there are maybe a dozen Al Qaeda operatives? How many US troops does it take to contain 12 Al-Qaeda fighters?
DP: A minimum of 100,000, not counting contracted support forces, CIA agents and private mercenaries. Don’t look so surprised, Senator. As I told you, these Al-Qaeda fighters are devilishly clever. I’m convinced some of them have invisibility cloaks like in the Harry Potter movies.
Daniel Coats (Republican): Let’s shift gears for a moment and talk about President Karzai…what’s you impression of the man, General?
DP: Well, it’s clear that most Afghans despise him and his family, and that he’s up to his eyeballs in the opium trade. He lies, he schemes, he cheats. He’s hopelessly addicted to smoking opium, totally unreliable when the going gets sticky, in short, the kind of tinhorn strongman the United States has always supported. Karzai can be sanctimonious when it comes to civilian casualties, but overall, not a bad guy. I’m encouraging him to take up golf.
Daniel Coats (Republican): Shifting gears again…what about Pakistan?
DP: A nation of two-faced liars and thieves. They take our military aid with one hand, support the Taliban and Al-Qaeda with the other. I curse them all. I’d like to put 150,000 combat hardened troops on the ground in Islamabad and teach those lying rag-heads a lesson they will never forget.
Saxby Chambliss (Republican): Well said, General, my sentiments exactly.
Dianne Feinstein (Democrat): General, some Americans have expressed concern about the cost in lives and money in what seem to be perpetual wars. How do you respond to these concerns?
DP: I don’t. War is hell. Get used to it.
Ron Wyden (Democrat): Give us a sense of what is going on in Iraq.
DP: The flower of Democracy is definitely taking hold in Iraq. When necessary we take the fight to the enemy, hit him hard where he lives and breathes; we strike fear in his women and children and make his animals cower at our feet. If the current trend continues, our troops can come home in 2085.
Daniel Coats (Republican): That’s fantastic news, General.
Ron Wyden (Democrat): Out of curiosity, what duties are American forces in Iraq performing?
DP: Our brave warriors stand on guard against undesirable elements in Iraqi society. Other than that, they spend their time playing softball, tennis and soccer, all indoors in air-conditioned comfort, of course. We’ve spared no expense to make our brave warriors comfortable.
Saxby Chambliss (Republican): Would you also call them gallant?
DP: I would. OK, ladies and gentlemen that’s all the time I can spare for you today. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch engagement with Sarah Palin.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Confidants
Huma Abedin is standing by her husband, Anthony Weiner, while Weiner battles to salvage his political career, though unlike many other political wives in recent years, Huma’s not standing anywhere near Anthony. Her support is of the low profile variety.
Huma works for Hillary Clinton at the State Department, and is said to be one of HC’s most trusted advisors. When it comes to dealing with a lying, cheating, scofflaw husband, who knows better than Hillary? One can easily imagine the older more experienced Hillary offering solace to her shell-shocked aide.
“Men are pigs,” she might say. “Especially men who also happen to be politicians. They treat their marriage vows like campaign promises: easy to make, hard to keep.”
“I feel stupid,” says Huma. “He swore he was done catting around on-line and I believed him. I believed him! I was clueless!”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Huma. Now, now, shhhh, don’t cry. Our men are of a particular breed. Like Bill, Anthony can be charming, persuasive, suave, and sincere. Oh, the sincerity! I knew Bill was messing around on me long before the Monica story broke, primarily because he was skipping around the West Wing with a permanent hard-on, but even though I had seen that telltale energy many times before, I believed him when he looked me square in the eye and denied there was something going on. I know what you’re going through, it’s a terrible blow, but you can survive it. You will survive it.”
“How did you do it, Hillary?”
“First of all, I exacted revenge, that’s very important. Don’t listen to any BS about forgiveness and putting the incident in the past. My past with Bill was littered with cocktail waitresses, secretaries, interns, hotel maids, other men’s wives, etc. Lewinsky broke the camel’s back. I told Bill in no uncertain terms that my support came with a high price tag. I made that man crawl on his knees.”
“Can I ask you something? If it makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to answer… “
“Huma, dear, after what I’ve been through, nothing makes me uncomfortable except being in the same room with Newt Gingrich. It’s about the cigar, right?”
“How did you know?”
“Woman’s intuition. Yes, the little bitch rode that Montecristo like it was a stallion, up, down, in, out. I’m sure Bill was fascinated. It was like going to Bangkok and watching the whores shoot ping-pong balls from their VJ’s.”
“They really do that?”
“Oh, Huma, you’re so sweet and innocent. Take my advice, go home and treat your husband like a dog for the next eighteen months. Exact ten pounds of his flesh.”
“Thanks, Hillary.”
“OK, I’ve got work to do. The Libyans are pissing me off. Dictators are complete assholes.”
“That’s because all of them are men,” says Huma.
Huma works for Hillary Clinton at the State Department, and is said to be one of HC’s most trusted advisors. When it comes to dealing with a lying, cheating, scofflaw husband, who knows better than Hillary? One can easily imagine the older more experienced Hillary offering solace to her shell-shocked aide.
“Men are pigs,” she might say. “Especially men who also happen to be politicians. They treat their marriage vows like campaign promises: easy to make, hard to keep.”
“I feel stupid,” says Huma. “He swore he was done catting around on-line and I believed him. I believed him! I was clueless!”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Huma. Now, now, shhhh, don’t cry. Our men are of a particular breed. Like Bill, Anthony can be charming, persuasive, suave, and sincere. Oh, the sincerity! I knew Bill was messing around on me long before the Monica story broke, primarily because he was skipping around the West Wing with a permanent hard-on, but even though I had seen that telltale energy many times before, I believed him when he looked me square in the eye and denied there was something going on. I know what you’re going through, it’s a terrible blow, but you can survive it. You will survive it.”
“How did you do it, Hillary?”
“First of all, I exacted revenge, that’s very important. Don’t listen to any BS about forgiveness and putting the incident in the past. My past with Bill was littered with cocktail waitresses, secretaries, interns, hotel maids, other men’s wives, etc. Lewinsky broke the camel’s back. I told Bill in no uncertain terms that my support came with a high price tag. I made that man crawl on his knees.”
“Can I ask you something? If it makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to answer… “
“Huma, dear, after what I’ve been through, nothing makes me uncomfortable except being in the same room with Newt Gingrich. It’s about the cigar, right?”
“How did you know?”
“Woman’s intuition. Yes, the little bitch rode that Montecristo like it was a stallion, up, down, in, out. I’m sure Bill was fascinated. It was like going to Bangkok and watching the whores shoot ping-pong balls from their VJ’s.”
“They really do that?”
“Oh, Huma, you’re so sweet and innocent. Take my advice, go home and treat your husband like a dog for the next eighteen months. Exact ten pounds of his flesh.”
“Thanks, Hillary.”
“OK, I’ve got work to do. The Libyans are pissing me off. Dictators are complete assholes.”
“That’s because all of them are men,” says Huma.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Control Thy Weiner
Enough already, Good Morning America. Weiner-Gate is a non-story that you and your breathless correspondents keep dressing as a major “scandal.” It’s not, except as the details pertain to Mr. Weiner and his wife. OK, granted, the congressman from New York might be a little weird and a lot lacking in self-control and common sense, he might be an inveterate pussy-hound or an incurable narcissist, but his offense is hardly as egregious as sending young Americans to fight and die in unnecessary foreign wars or using taxpayer dollars to host orgies with underage hookers in the Presidential Suite of the Ritz-Carlton hotel.
Are Weiner’s constituents – the people who voted him into office – the ones clamoring for his resignation? No. The clamor is coming from talking heads and the Democratic Party power structure and Weiner’s colleagues who are now petrified to associate with him.
Nobody wants to hang out with a leper.
The Democrats are afraid of being embarrassed by one of their own, when they should be embarrassed by how cravenly they act and how quickly they cave in the face of right-wing pressure.
Of all the shit going on in America at this moment, why is our media totally absorbed with this pedestrian story? Husbands cheat on wives every day. Porn is a multi-billion dollar business. Sex sells cars, beer, cell phones, deodorant, shampoo, yogurt, clothing and jewelry. Facebook, Twitter and MySpace are the next best thing to sexual carnivals. Hey, ruling class, let’s get fucking serious here. Do something about the devastating foreclosure crisis that shows no signs of tapering off; do something about the scarcity of full-time jobs at better than McDonald’s wages; do something meaningful about climate change; do something about the grotesque disparity in wealth that is making America look like a Third World country; do something to bring the endless treasure-sucking American occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan to an end. Stop jabbering about “deficits” and “tax relief” for the wealthy; at this point, deficits have no business being the country’s number one priority. As for the very wealthy, they’ve been sucking at the public trough long enough.
But most of all, gilded and out of touch rulers, stop masturbating over Anthony Weiner and get down to real business before the unemployed and the hopeless surge into the streets and what remains of the National Guard is deployed to restore order.
Are Weiner’s constituents – the people who voted him into office – the ones clamoring for his resignation? No. The clamor is coming from talking heads and the Democratic Party power structure and Weiner’s colleagues who are now petrified to associate with him.
Nobody wants to hang out with a leper.
The Democrats are afraid of being embarrassed by one of their own, when they should be embarrassed by how cravenly they act and how quickly they cave in the face of right-wing pressure.
Of all the shit going on in America at this moment, why is our media totally absorbed with this pedestrian story? Husbands cheat on wives every day. Porn is a multi-billion dollar business. Sex sells cars, beer, cell phones, deodorant, shampoo, yogurt, clothing and jewelry. Facebook, Twitter and MySpace are the next best thing to sexual carnivals. Hey, ruling class, let’s get fucking serious here. Do something about the devastating foreclosure crisis that shows no signs of tapering off; do something about the scarcity of full-time jobs at better than McDonald’s wages; do something meaningful about climate change; do something about the grotesque disparity in wealth that is making America look like a Third World country; do something to bring the endless treasure-sucking American occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan to an end. Stop jabbering about “deficits” and “tax relief” for the wealthy; at this point, deficits have no business being the country’s number one priority. As for the very wealthy, they’ve been sucking at the public trough long enough.
But most of all, gilded and out of touch rulers, stop masturbating over Anthony Weiner and get down to real business before the unemployed and the hopeless surge into the streets and what remains of the National Guard is deployed to restore order.
Friday, June 03, 2011
This Bud's for You
Watched Game 2 of the NBA Finals, Dallas at Miami, Dirk Nowitzki and friends against the Dream Team with the Big Three: King James, D-Wade, C-Bosh. Hometown fans in white t-shirts, courtside seats occupied by attractive women, an overblown introduction of the home starting five just before tip-off, with pyrotechnics and pumping music.
Broadcasters for ABC/ESPN hype the game from all angles. Can the Maverick bench respond and contribute? Will Dirk’s finger injury be a factor? What should we look for from the Heat Magic Johnson?
The Heat dominated for most of the contest, James and D-Wade slicing, slamming and jamming to a big 4th quarter cushion, but the gritty Mavericks refused to fold and in the end, found a way to win.
Sandwiched between the B-Ball action are the commercials, targeted for consumers of beer, cell phones, cars, fast food. One Budweiser commercial showing a young soldier in fatigues coming home to a surprise party in an old barn ran several times. This Bud’s for you, glad you made it home in one piece. A hug from a brother, a kiss from a teary-eyed girl – cue the music, yank the heartstrings; this is what America is all about. Support our brave troops – run out and buy a six-pack or two.
Yesterday was a day for it, I guess, hard on the heels of Memorial Day. Standing in line at the post office in the morning I saw an ad about special mail rates for military members. Later, when I tuned in to watch the game, two soldiers were being feted by the Miami Heat – two more heroes, home from the wars; one female, one male, both black.
In the commercials and the pre-game ceremonies our soldiers are always heroic paragons of self-sacrifice who fight long wars in far away countries against implacable enemies so that the rest of us can sip beer, upgrade our cell phones, buy new cars and eat fast food. No mention, of course, is ever made of those soldiers who return maimed, broken, psychologically destroyed, or crippled. Nor is any mention made of civilian casualties in the countries where our heroes have been deployed.
Dress a pig in army fatigues and most Americans would stand up and salute. As our politics has become more and more corrupt, and our economy tilted in favor of the haves at the expense of the have nots, as we deny the logic and evidence and consequence of climate change, as our infrastructure crumbles, as high unemployment persists, the more we celebrate our warriors, the power of our killing machines, and our inherent right to unleash the dogs of war whenever and wherever we see fit.
This national obsession with military might is common to dying empires that refuse to recognize that they are dying. To prove to the world that we are still as bad-ass on the battlefield as Lebron James is on the hardwood, we manufacture new threats, new enemies, new rationales for invasion and occupation, and, tragically, we devote more and more of our resources to these foolish efforts.
And our most renowned corporations cloak themselves in patriotic garb as they sell us stuff we do not need.
Broadcasters for ABC/ESPN hype the game from all angles. Can the Maverick bench respond and contribute? Will Dirk’s finger injury be a factor? What should we look for from the Heat Magic Johnson?
The Heat dominated for most of the contest, James and D-Wade slicing, slamming and jamming to a big 4th quarter cushion, but the gritty Mavericks refused to fold and in the end, found a way to win.
Sandwiched between the B-Ball action are the commercials, targeted for consumers of beer, cell phones, cars, fast food. One Budweiser commercial showing a young soldier in fatigues coming home to a surprise party in an old barn ran several times. This Bud’s for you, glad you made it home in one piece. A hug from a brother, a kiss from a teary-eyed girl – cue the music, yank the heartstrings; this is what America is all about. Support our brave troops – run out and buy a six-pack or two.
Yesterday was a day for it, I guess, hard on the heels of Memorial Day. Standing in line at the post office in the morning I saw an ad about special mail rates for military members. Later, when I tuned in to watch the game, two soldiers were being feted by the Miami Heat – two more heroes, home from the wars; one female, one male, both black.
In the commercials and the pre-game ceremonies our soldiers are always heroic paragons of self-sacrifice who fight long wars in far away countries against implacable enemies so that the rest of us can sip beer, upgrade our cell phones, buy new cars and eat fast food. No mention, of course, is ever made of those soldiers who return maimed, broken, psychologically destroyed, or crippled. Nor is any mention made of civilian casualties in the countries where our heroes have been deployed.
Dress a pig in army fatigues and most Americans would stand up and salute. As our politics has become more and more corrupt, and our economy tilted in favor of the haves at the expense of the have nots, as we deny the logic and evidence and consequence of climate change, as our infrastructure crumbles, as high unemployment persists, the more we celebrate our warriors, the power of our killing machines, and our inherent right to unleash the dogs of war whenever and wherever we see fit.
This national obsession with military might is common to dying empires that refuse to recognize that they are dying. To prove to the world that we are still as bad-ass on the battlefield as Lebron James is on the hardwood, we manufacture new threats, new enemies, new rationales for invasion and occupation, and, tragically, we devote more and more of our resources to these foolish efforts.
And our most renowned corporations cloak themselves in patriotic garb as they sell us stuff we do not need.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Graduation Day
Sunshine all over the American Riviera, sea glittering sapphire, roses in bloom, grapes hanging heavy on the vine.
It’s graduation day for hundreds, sixth grade to junior high, junior high to high school, high school to college. White chairs in neat rows on the grass in Peabody Stadium. Anticipation for the march in cap and gown, for one’s name to be announced over the PA system, for the cheer to rise up from friends and family, anticipation for the next step, for the beginning of the road, for the class trip to Disneyland, anticipation for the long days of a carefree summer, for liberation from mom and dad, duty and convention, rules, restrictions.
Mylar balloons, still and video cameras ready to go, house full of relatives all itching to freeze the moment in time, something the kids can’t yet understand. Hold onto to seventeen, eighteen, fleeting youth and unbridled optimism, that sense of invulnerability, as long as you possibly can. Listen to Lady Gaga, respect your youth, be yourself, love who you are. Don’t listen to the old farts yet; they had their shot – now it’s your turn. Claim your inheritance no matter how minor. Play, goof off, slip into a new identity every other week, sing at the top of your range, trace your beloved’s footprints in the sand. Sleep under the stars as often as possible. Skip stones across lake or stream, jump in puddles, eat pancakes for dinner.
The world is out there, waiting for you. You’ll find no shortage of windmills to tilt at, though take the road anyway, see where it leads, leave home and come back, run to stay in place, chase whatever mirage makes you happy. The world is patient, time masquerades as an ally when you’re young and your heart is invincible and your teeth are white and your skin is supple.
Read the great philosophers, read billboards, read comic books, read and save every fortune from every fortune cookie; plant flowers; swim naked; ride your bicycle with no hands; party all night; remember mother’s birthday.
Milestones and markers, signs and portents, omens and premonitions. Claim it. Own it. Your turn and time, Generation Now, speeding through the galaxy, where the fake, the staged and the contrived might be more real than the real thing. Find out, return to tell the tale, conjure a memory of places you’ve never been.
What did Paul Simon say? “Every generation throws a hero up the pop chart.”
It’s evening now and a gusty wind asserts itself, whipping across the empty stadium, where the white chairs are folded and stacked; the graduates have scattered.
It’s graduation day for hundreds, sixth grade to junior high, junior high to high school, high school to college. White chairs in neat rows on the grass in Peabody Stadium. Anticipation for the march in cap and gown, for one’s name to be announced over the PA system, for the cheer to rise up from friends and family, anticipation for the next step, for the beginning of the road, for the class trip to Disneyland, anticipation for the long days of a carefree summer, for liberation from mom and dad, duty and convention, rules, restrictions.
Mylar balloons, still and video cameras ready to go, house full of relatives all itching to freeze the moment in time, something the kids can’t yet understand. Hold onto to seventeen, eighteen, fleeting youth and unbridled optimism, that sense of invulnerability, as long as you possibly can. Listen to Lady Gaga, respect your youth, be yourself, love who you are. Don’t listen to the old farts yet; they had their shot – now it’s your turn. Claim your inheritance no matter how minor. Play, goof off, slip into a new identity every other week, sing at the top of your range, trace your beloved’s footprints in the sand. Sleep under the stars as often as possible. Skip stones across lake or stream, jump in puddles, eat pancakes for dinner.
The world is out there, waiting for you. You’ll find no shortage of windmills to tilt at, though take the road anyway, see where it leads, leave home and come back, run to stay in place, chase whatever mirage makes you happy. The world is patient, time masquerades as an ally when you’re young and your heart is invincible and your teeth are white and your skin is supple.
Read the great philosophers, read billboards, read comic books, read and save every fortune from every fortune cookie; plant flowers; swim naked; ride your bicycle with no hands; party all night; remember mother’s birthday.
Milestones and markers, signs and portents, omens and premonitions. Claim it. Own it. Your turn and time, Generation Now, speeding through the galaxy, where the fake, the staged and the contrived might be more real than the real thing. Find out, return to tell the tale, conjure a memory of places you’ve never been.
What did Paul Simon say? “Every generation throws a hero up the pop chart.”
It’s evening now and a gusty wind asserts itself, whipping across the empty stadium, where the white chairs are folded and stacked; the graduates have scattered.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Fiction: Legal Tender
In the money universe I am a grunt, common and run-of-the-mill, printed by the millions, cut, stacked and bundled, sent to Federal Reserve banks and then dispersed into the world. I doubt very much that you have ever given me a second thought or considered that I might have feelings, dreams, desires and hopes. I don’t blame you for this.
The single. The buck. My life expectancy? Eighteen months, on average. But let me assure you that a month in the life of a dollar bill passes like a year. My kind travel non-stop, hitching rides in pockets, purses, wallets and backpacks, never in one place for long. As crisp, clean freshly printed dollars many of us dream of cozy piggybanks where we can remain in one place, conversing with our metallic cousins -- pennies, dimes, nickels, quarters and the occasional half dollar – as well as the fives and tens and twenties received from relatives in birthday or Christmas cards. That’s the life. Calm, routine, predictable, but mainly, stationary.
Imagine life without the $1 bill. I see that you’re beginning to understand and view my kind in a more appreciative light. Listen now as I tell you how I came to be here, in this silk purse, under this pillow.
My first glimpse of daylight came in New York City when I was handed to a Norwegian tourist – a big boned blonde woman with blue eyes -- by a sidewalk vendor. The woman had a habit of biting her fingernails, and in general seemed nervous and high-strung, traits not normally associated with Scandinavians. For reasons I never understood, she hid me and my kin from her husband, a heavyset fellow who took hours of boring video, mostly of street scenes; he was particularly fascinated by taxi cabs and their drivers, most of whom were sullen looking Hindu or Pakistani men. Ending up in the pocket of one of these men, wrapped in a greasy wad, frightened me, but that was my fate and fate is inescapable. After a visit to the Empire State Building I was unceremoniously wrapped around a bunch of soiled tens, fives and fellow ones – none of them as new as I -- and held captive by a thick rubber band.
The cabbie’s name was Humayun. He smelled of stale cigarettes and onions. When he wasn’t making change for his fares, Humayun kept us in his coat pocket, alongside lint, salted almonds and scraps of tobacco. His cell phone rang constantly and in his native tongue he barked at whoever was calling; more often than not he hung up while the other person was still talking. Humayun grumbled about his customers and made it very clear that he thought goats far superior to people. Into the pocket and out, in and out, until I was peeled off the wad and handed to a woman on her way to JFK and then Philadelphia. She carefully folded me in half and slid me between a snooty twenty and a tired, dog-eared ten. The twenty was talkative, arrogant, and boasted of his recent travels in Atlanta and New Orleans; the ten was weary and morose. I didn’t converse much with either of them.
Sue was the woman’s name, plain, vanilla Sue. After flipping through the airline magazine in her seat pocket she spent the entire flight to Philadelphia working on her laptop. My impression was that she had been jilted recently, her heart crushed and left to wither; now she was immersing herself in work in order to block her pain. Tap, tap, tap on the keyboard, rapid fire, words and numbers, lines and columns, but I was not fooled: her fingers were full of sorrow.
My time with Sue was short and uneventful and, to be honest, I was happy when she traded me for a Diet Coke at the airport and went on her sad way. After a short trip to the night deposit I landed in the hands of a man named Reed who was visiting Philadelphia from Santa Fe. Reed owned an art galley with his wife but I soon discovered that Reed had a secret life with a man named Peter. Reed and Peter. There were monogrammed towels hanging in Peter’s bathroom and fuchsia sheets on the bed. Egyptian cotton. Yes, it was a cozy love nest that Reed and Peter shared, full of books and paintings and delicious smells because Peter was a remarkable cook. They knew many people in Santa Fe and were openly affectionate with one another, which led me to assume that Reed’s wife knew about Peter. Understand that I make no moral judgments – I’m just a lowly $1 bill.
I rode in Reed’s expensive wallet for more than a week and thoroughly enjoyed myself and the ambience of the art gallery. Well-dressed tourists ambled through the gallery, admired the paintings and sculptures, chatted with Reed about color, perspective and style, the attributes of particular artists, up and coming talents on the Santa Fe scene, and enjoyed wine and cheese set out by Peter. This life suited me very much and I wanted it to continue forever, though I knew my hold upon it was tenuous and fleeting. To circulate is the destiny of a $1 bill.
And I did circulate, in places low and high, hand to pocket, pocket to hand, until a wannabe gangster known by the nickname Bobcat scooped me off the counter at a Taco Bell.
Bobcat had seen too many music videos. He wore a baseball cap sideways on his shaved head, a thick gold chain around his neck, a Kobe Bryant jersey, baggy jeans, and new Nike’s. How ridiculous he appeared swaggering around in this getup! The fool boy carried two hundred dollars in worn bills and three ounces of marijuana into an area of Albuquerque controlled by Calderon, a dealer with ties to the Sinaloa cartel and a deserved reputation for vicious retribution on his rivals. When Bobcat, all of seventeen, crossed West Alvarado Street to meet his customer I noticed that my fellow bills, even the $20’s – usually so boastful – had fallen silent, as if they knew something awful was about to happen. I have to tell you that a chill swept over me even before Calderon himself stepped out of the shadows with two henchmen behind him.
Have you ever heard a young man beg for his one human life? It’s not pleasant, believe me, and Bobcat’s tearful pleas for mercy only amused Calderon, who toyed with the boy the way a cat toys with a cornered mouse. In a calm, casual voice Calderon explained how he couldn’t afford to let Bobcat slide. It would damage his reputation and invite others to poach in his territory. He had a business to protect, after all. You’d do the same thing if you were standing in my shoes, right? A man’s not worth shit if he’s unwilling to protect what’s his. Nothing personal, see, just the nature of my business. Shaking his head as if human nature was beyond understanding, Calderon told Bobcat that the tragedy here is that he, Bobcat, has nobody but himself to blame for his current predicament. Who forced you to cross the wrong line with the intent of upsetting the order of things? After ordering Bobcat to hand over the contents of his pockets, Calderon made the trembling boy kneel before a cinderblock wall sprayed with graffiti. If you think it will help, say a prayer, Calderon suggested. Hail Mary, Lord’s Prayer, whatever, and don’t mumble because God won’t understand you, and right now you need him to hear you. Laughing at his own gallows humor, Calderon pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and calmly pumped two bullets into the base of Bobcat’s skull.
We Treasury notes, backed by the full faith and credit of the United States of America, home of the free and land of the brave, witness more suffering than we deserve. Bobcat’s brains were splattered against the cinderblock wall and this grotesque fact meant nothing to Calderon; he had solved a problem in the same way a plumber solves the problem of a clogged drain, and now that it was resolved he was taking his girlfriend to the movies.
And that is where I parted company with the murderer and found my way to the shirt pocket of a hard working, God-fearing janitor named Luis Valdez, born in Mexico and now making a meager but much appreciated living in Albuquerque with his wife and daughter, Maritza. Luis once worked in an electronics factory in Ciudad Juarez so he was no stranger to exploitation and suffering, the unfathomable cruelty that human beings inflict upon one another without a moment’s hesitation. I felt comfortable in his simple hands and the chill that had gripped me finally abated.
On the day that Bobcat lost his life, Maritza lost a tooth. After Maritza fell asleep that night Luis placed me in a silk purse and slipped me under her pillow, and it is there Maritza found me when she woke. Her gap-toothed smile was as beautiful as any painting in Reed’s gallery. Like her father, Maritza possessed the capacity to be thankful for small gifts.
The single. The buck. My life expectancy? Eighteen months, on average. But let me assure you that a month in the life of a dollar bill passes like a year. My kind travel non-stop, hitching rides in pockets, purses, wallets and backpacks, never in one place for long. As crisp, clean freshly printed dollars many of us dream of cozy piggybanks where we can remain in one place, conversing with our metallic cousins -- pennies, dimes, nickels, quarters and the occasional half dollar – as well as the fives and tens and twenties received from relatives in birthday or Christmas cards. That’s the life. Calm, routine, predictable, but mainly, stationary.
Imagine life without the $1 bill. I see that you’re beginning to understand and view my kind in a more appreciative light. Listen now as I tell you how I came to be here, in this silk purse, under this pillow.
My first glimpse of daylight came in New York City when I was handed to a Norwegian tourist – a big boned blonde woman with blue eyes -- by a sidewalk vendor. The woman had a habit of biting her fingernails, and in general seemed nervous and high-strung, traits not normally associated with Scandinavians. For reasons I never understood, she hid me and my kin from her husband, a heavyset fellow who took hours of boring video, mostly of street scenes; he was particularly fascinated by taxi cabs and their drivers, most of whom were sullen looking Hindu or Pakistani men. Ending up in the pocket of one of these men, wrapped in a greasy wad, frightened me, but that was my fate and fate is inescapable. After a visit to the Empire State Building I was unceremoniously wrapped around a bunch of soiled tens, fives and fellow ones – none of them as new as I -- and held captive by a thick rubber band.
The cabbie’s name was Humayun. He smelled of stale cigarettes and onions. When he wasn’t making change for his fares, Humayun kept us in his coat pocket, alongside lint, salted almonds and scraps of tobacco. His cell phone rang constantly and in his native tongue he barked at whoever was calling; more often than not he hung up while the other person was still talking. Humayun grumbled about his customers and made it very clear that he thought goats far superior to people. Into the pocket and out, in and out, until I was peeled off the wad and handed to a woman on her way to JFK and then Philadelphia. She carefully folded me in half and slid me between a snooty twenty and a tired, dog-eared ten. The twenty was talkative, arrogant, and boasted of his recent travels in Atlanta and New Orleans; the ten was weary and morose. I didn’t converse much with either of them.
Sue was the woman’s name, plain, vanilla Sue. After flipping through the airline magazine in her seat pocket she spent the entire flight to Philadelphia working on her laptop. My impression was that she had been jilted recently, her heart crushed and left to wither; now she was immersing herself in work in order to block her pain. Tap, tap, tap on the keyboard, rapid fire, words and numbers, lines and columns, but I was not fooled: her fingers were full of sorrow.
My time with Sue was short and uneventful and, to be honest, I was happy when she traded me for a Diet Coke at the airport and went on her sad way. After a short trip to the night deposit I landed in the hands of a man named Reed who was visiting Philadelphia from Santa Fe. Reed owned an art galley with his wife but I soon discovered that Reed had a secret life with a man named Peter. Reed and Peter. There were monogrammed towels hanging in Peter’s bathroom and fuchsia sheets on the bed. Egyptian cotton. Yes, it was a cozy love nest that Reed and Peter shared, full of books and paintings and delicious smells because Peter was a remarkable cook. They knew many people in Santa Fe and were openly affectionate with one another, which led me to assume that Reed’s wife knew about Peter. Understand that I make no moral judgments – I’m just a lowly $1 bill.
I rode in Reed’s expensive wallet for more than a week and thoroughly enjoyed myself and the ambience of the art gallery. Well-dressed tourists ambled through the gallery, admired the paintings and sculptures, chatted with Reed about color, perspective and style, the attributes of particular artists, up and coming talents on the Santa Fe scene, and enjoyed wine and cheese set out by Peter. This life suited me very much and I wanted it to continue forever, though I knew my hold upon it was tenuous and fleeting. To circulate is the destiny of a $1 bill.
And I did circulate, in places low and high, hand to pocket, pocket to hand, until a wannabe gangster known by the nickname Bobcat scooped me off the counter at a Taco Bell.
Bobcat had seen too many music videos. He wore a baseball cap sideways on his shaved head, a thick gold chain around his neck, a Kobe Bryant jersey, baggy jeans, and new Nike’s. How ridiculous he appeared swaggering around in this getup! The fool boy carried two hundred dollars in worn bills and three ounces of marijuana into an area of Albuquerque controlled by Calderon, a dealer with ties to the Sinaloa cartel and a deserved reputation for vicious retribution on his rivals. When Bobcat, all of seventeen, crossed West Alvarado Street to meet his customer I noticed that my fellow bills, even the $20’s – usually so boastful – had fallen silent, as if they knew something awful was about to happen. I have to tell you that a chill swept over me even before Calderon himself stepped out of the shadows with two henchmen behind him.
Have you ever heard a young man beg for his one human life? It’s not pleasant, believe me, and Bobcat’s tearful pleas for mercy only amused Calderon, who toyed with the boy the way a cat toys with a cornered mouse. In a calm, casual voice Calderon explained how he couldn’t afford to let Bobcat slide. It would damage his reputation and invite others to poach in his territory. He had a business to protect, after all. You’d do the same thing if you were standing in my shoes, right? A man’s not worth shit if he’s unwilling to protect what’s his. Nothing personal, see, just the nature of my business. Shaking his head as if human nature was beyond understanding, Calderon told Bobcat that the tragedy here is that he, Bobcat, has nobody but himself to blame for his current predicament. Who forced you to cross the wrong line with the intent of upsetting the order of things? After ordering Bobcat to hand over the contents of his pockets, Calderon made the trembling boy kneel before a cinderblock wall sprayed with graffiti. If you think it will help, say a prayer, Calderon suggested. Hail Mary, Lord’s Prayer, whatever, and don’t mumble because God won’t understand you, and right now you need him to hear you. Laughing at his own gallows humor, Calderon pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and calmly pumped two bullets into the base of Bobcat’s skull.
We Treasury notes, backed by the full faith and credit of the United States of America, home of the free and land of the brave, witness more suffering than we deserve. Bobcat’s brains were splattered against the cinderblock wall and this grotesque fact meant nothing to Calderon; he had solved a problem in the same way a plumber solves the problem of a clogged drain, and now that it was resolved he was taking his girlfriend to the movies.
And that is where I parted company with the murderer and found my way to the shirt pocket of a hard working, God-fearing janitor named Luis Valdez, born in Mexico and now making a meager but much appreciated living in Albuquerque with his wife and daughter, Maritza. Luis once worked in an electronics factory in Ciudad Juarez so he was no stranger to exploitation and suffering, the unfathomable cruelty that human beings inflict upon one another without a moment’s hesitation. I felt comfortable in his simple hands and the chill that had gripped me finally abated.
On the day that Bobcat lost his life, Maritza lost a tooth. After Maritza fell asleep that night Luis placed me in a silk purse and slipped me under her pillow, and it is there Maritza found me when she woke. Her gap-toothed smile was as beautiful as any painting in Reed’s gallery. Like her father, Maritza possessed the capacity to be thankful for small gifts.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Rant: Road Rage
The most useless freeway sign in California is the one that reads, Slower Traffic Keep Right.
The major problem with this dictate from the State is that few motorists in California – at least the section of the state between Santa Barbara and Los Angeles that I normally travel – use their rearview mirrors. Of all the accessories on an automobile none is more under used. How do I know this? Because every time I head out on the highway I find myself behind some motorist cruising in the fast lane at 60mph, who, if he or she would simply look in the rearview mirror, would see my car on their tail and change lanes.
Just the other day I was driving south on the 101 in the fast lane when I had to slow for a Toyota Camry doing about 62mph. I had been doing a steady 70mph until I caught up to this joker. I wanted to move into the near right lane and scoot around, but no break in the traffic presented itself. I speeded up to get closer to the slowpoke blocking my way, hoping that he or see would notice me and move the hell over, but this was wishful thinking. The driver of the Camry was oblivious.
I flashed my headlights. Nothing. I tapped my horn twice. Nothing. I let out a string of curses: “Jesuschristassholemotherfuckingpinheadlimpdick.” This made me feel better but did nothing to remove the Camry from my path. I wished my Honda was equipped with a laser beam that could project a message in foot high letters on the offender’s rear windshield:
MOVE…THE…FUCK…OVER.
I hit the turn signal and hoped someone would give me room to pass this jackass, but my fellow motorists were not in a charitable mood.
“Look in the rearview mirror, asswipe,” I screamed.
After a few more minutes of this irritation I had space and made my move, swinging to the right and quickly back into the fast lane in front of the Camry. As I shot by I looked at the Camry’s driver and prepared to salute with my middle finger. “Don’t do it,” my wife said, mindful of the fact that there are a lot of unhinged people on California’s freeways, some of them armed to the gills.
But how could I flip off a white-haired woman who looked like a dead ringer for Mary See? She was hunched over the steering wheel, hands at ten and two o’clock, totally focused on the road directly in front of her.
Nine hours later on a northbound stretch of 101 outside of Ventura it happens again. 9:30 p.m., traffic sparse, I’m doing 75mph with the cruise control on, anxious to get home after a long day at Disneyland, and I’ll be damned if a Jeep Cherokee is in the fast lane doing all of 60mph. Another codger, I thought, a fugitive from Shady Acres nursing home, out for a late night joy ride along the ocean. Though I could have passed easily enough, I stayed on the Jeep’s ass for a mile or two, determined to make a righteous point about the rules of the road. More wishful thinking. The Jeep's driver was yet another California motorist with no use of a rearview mirror and no regard for Slower Traffic Keep Right.
Enough being enough, I veered right and jammed on the gas until I pulled even with the Jeep; old or not, armed or not, I was giving this idiot driver the finger.
Except the driver wasn’t old at all, and neither was the woman sitting beside him. Twenty-something’s by the look of them, sharing what appeared to be a joint, laughing uproariously and taking no notice of me whatsoever. What’s the point of flipping off a couple of stoners who are feeling blissful and at peace with everyone in the world?
I hate it when the joke’s on me.
The major problem with this dictate from the State is that few motorists in California – at least the section of the state between Santa Barbara and Los Angeles that I normally travel – use their rearview mirrors. Of all the accessories on an automobile none is more under used. How do I know this? Because every time I head out on the highway I find myself behind some motorist cruising in the fast lane at 60mph, who, if he or she would simply look in the rearview mirror, would see my car on their tail and change lanes.
Just the other day I was driving south on the 101 in the fast lane when I had to slow for a Toyota Camry doing about 62mph. I had been doing a steady 70mph until I caught up to this joker. I wanted to move into the near right lane and scoot around, but no break in the traffic presented itself. I speeded up to get closer to the slowpoke blocking my way, hoping that he or see would notice me and move the hell over, but this was wishful thinking. The driver of the Camry was oblivious.
I flashed my headlights. Nothing. I tapped my horn twice. Nothing. I let out a string of curses: “Jesuschristassholemotherfuckingpinheadlimpdick.” This made me feel better but did nothing to remove the Camry from my path. I wished my Honda was equipped with a laser beam that could project a message in foot high letters on the offender’s rear windshield:
MOVE…THE…FUCK…OVER.
I hit the turn signal and hoped someone would give me room to pass this jackass, but my fellow motorists were not in a charitable mood.
“Look in the rearview mirror, asswipe,” I screamed.
After a few more minutes of this irritation I had space and made my move, swinging to the right and quickly back into the fast lane in front of the Camry. As I shot by I looked at the Camry’s driver and prepared to salute with my middle finger. “Don’t do it,” my wife said, mindful of the fact that there are a lot of unhinged people on California’s freeways, some of them armed to the gills.
But how could I flip off a white-haired woman who looked like a dead ringer for Mary See? She was hunched over the steering wheel, hands at ten and two o’clock, totally focused on the road directly in front of her.
Nine hours later on a northbound stretch of 101 outside of Ventura it happens again. 9:30 p.m., traffic sparse, I’m doing 75mph with the cruise control on, anxious to get home after a long day at Disneyland, and I’ll be damned if a Jeep Cherokee is in the fast lane doing all of 60mph. Another codger, I thought, a fugitive from Shady Acres nursing home, out for a late night joy ride along the ocean. Though I could have passed easily enough, I stayed on the Jeep’s ass for a mile or two, determined to make a righteous point about the rules of the road. More wishful thinking. The Jeep's driver was yet another California motorist with no use of a rearview mirror and no regard for Slower Traffic Keep Right.
Enough being enough, I veered right and jammed on the gas until I pulled even with the Jeep; old or not, armed or not, I was giving this idiot driver the finger.
Except the driver wasn’t old at all, and neither was the woman sitting beside him. Twenty-something’s by the look of them, sharing what appeared to be a joint, laughing uproariously and taking no notice of me whatsoever. What’s the point of flipping off a couple of stoners who are feeling blissful and at peace with everyone in the world?
I hate it when the joke’s on me.
Friday, May 06, 2011
Gloriously Ordinary
Parenthood is said to bring many joys and immeasurable satisfaction.
I know a few people who hold this opinion, though I am not one of them.
Heartache and worry, maybe, but not so much on the satisfaction scale.
Every day when I take my daughter to school, I see parents doting on their offspring and it reminds me of David Sedaris, who I saw at the Arlington Theatre recently. In a riff on his childhood Sedaris pointed out that he was born before the creation of self-esteem, so his parents put him and his sisters to bed the old fashioned way: “Lights out, shut up. If your father hears any chatter he’ll be back with his belt.”
Contemporary parents, on the other hand, feel derelict if they fail to read a bedtime story for half an hour, then spend another twenty minutes assuring their child that he or she is special, exceptional, gifted, a living miracle and without doubt the center of the universe.
I love my kids, don’t get me wrong, but I tend to think we – my generation, I mean – act insane when it comes to our children. Take play dates, for instance, a concept that absolutely staggers me. When I was a kid – in a society that was as full of dangers and predators as our current one – we’d give our parents a general idea of where we were going and what we intended to do and with whom, and dash off, into the neighborhood, out of touch for hours. We didn’t have cell phones or GPS tracking or picture ID cards with a DNA sample embedded in them. Today our kids’ schedules are so jam-packed with wholesome, supervised activities that we must schedule time for them to play with their friends. “Can Sophia do 3:30 on Tuesday or is 4:00 on Wednesday better? Oh, she has ballet on Tuesday and gymnastics on Wednesday and chess on Friday and Advanced Mandarin on Saturday morning. Wow, when does Sophia sleep? Does she sleep?”
Once in a while, as my daughter and I are waiting for the custodian to unlock the school gate, I’ll overhear other parents, almost always mothers, talking. “Tyler’s doing exceptionally well in his GATE (Gifted and Talented) classes, and I definitely think he has a predilection for medicine. He loves science, and he’s always watching medical shows on The Learning Channel.” “You let him watch TV? We only allow Brianna to watch the Disney Channel for one hour each week – provided she executes all her homework perfectly, of course.” “Tyler will probably attend Stanford or Harvard – he’s such a bright child.” “I see Brianna at USC Film School. She’s very creative.”
I glance at Tyler, expecting to see him reading the Physician’s Desk Reference on his iPad, and instead see that he is picking his nose with reckless abandon, twisting his index finger up and in until he extracts a juicy green mass, which, after long inspection, he proceeds to wipe on his jeans. Definitely Harvard material.
Is it just me or do we put too much pressure to perform, succeed, strive and accomplish on our children? Is it acceptable for them to daydream and goof off, to occasionally stare slack-jawed at the TV or the computer, or climb a tree without parental supervision and a safety net below? Is it OK if our children don’t acquire a foreign language and proficiency on at least one musical instrument by age seven?
The other morning my daughter marched into the living room and announced that she wanted to ask a question about sex. OK, we said, let’s have it. “Can you get pregnant from kissing a mirror?” No, we explained, kissing a mirror won’t do the trick, there’s a mechanical component to it, the joining of a female’s egg with a male’s sperm... We can go into more detail if you want. “No, that’s OK, I just wanted to know about the mirrors.”
We learn later that our daughter’s classmate Elena is fond of kissing the mirror in the girl’s bathroom at school. Each to her own.
Play dates, questions about sex, neurotic parents on the school steps planning their child’s college experience ten years in advance – this is what kills the rapture for me. Childhood comes once and is all too quickly gone. My kids are gloriously ordinary, which is just fine with me.
I know a few people who hold this opinion, though I am not one of them.
Heartache and worry, maybe, but not so much on the satisfaction scale.
Every day when I take my daughter to school, I see parents doting on their offspring and it reminds me of David Sedaris, who I saw at the Arlington Theatre recently. In a riff on his childhood Sedaris pointed out that he was born before the creation of self-esteem, so his parents put him and his sisters to bed the old fashioned way: “Lights out, shut up. If your father hears any chatter he’ll be back with his belt.”
Contemporary parents, on the other hand, feel derelict if they fail to read a bedtime story for half an hour, then spend another twenty minutes assuring their child that he or she is special, exceptional, gifted, a living miracle and without doubt the center of the universe.
I love my kids, don’t get me wrong, but I tend to think we – my generation, I mean – act insane when it comes to our children. Take play dates, for instance, a concept that absolutely staggers me. When I was a kid – in a society that was as full of dangers and predators as our current one – we’d give our parents a general idea of where we were going and what we intended to do and with whom, and dash off, into the neighborhood, out of touch for hours. We didn’t have cell phones or GPS tracking or picture ID cards with a DNA sample embedded in them. Today our kids’ schedules are so jam-packed with wholesome, supervised activities that we must schedule time for them to play with their friends. “Can Sophia do 3:30 on Tuesday or is 4:00 on Wednesday better? Oh, she has ballet on Tuesday and gymnastics on Wednesday and chess on Friday and Advanced Mandarin on Saturday morning. Wow, when does Sophia sleep? Does she sleep?”
Once in a while, as my daughter and I are waiting for the custodian to unlock the school gate, I’ll overhear other parents, almost always mothers, talking. “Tyler’s doing exceptionally well in his GATE (Gifted and Talented) classes, and I definitely think he has a predilection for medicine. He loves science, and he’s always watching medical shows on The Learning Channel.” “You let him watch TV? We only allow Brianna to watch the Disney Channel for one hour each week – provided she executes all her homework perfectly, of course.” “Tyler will probably attend Stanford or Harvard – he’s such a bright child.” “I see Brianna at USC Film School. She’s very creative.”
I glance at Tyler, expecting to see him reading the Physician’s Desk Reference on his iPad, and instead see that he is picking his nose with reckless abandon, twisting his index finger up and in until he extracts a juicy green mass, which, after long inspection, he proceeds to wipe on his jeans. Definitely Harvard material.
Is it just me or do we put too much pressure to perform, succeed, strive and accomplish on our children? Is it acceptable for them to daydream and goof off, to occasionally stare slack-jawed at the TV or the computer, or climb a tree without parental supervision and a safety net below? Is it OK if our children don’t acquire a foreign language and proficiency on at least one musical instrument by age seven?
The other morning my daughter marched into the living room and announced that she wanted to ask a question about sex. OK, we said, let’s have it. “Can you get pregnant from kissing a mirror?” No, we explained, kissing a mirror won’t do the trick, there’s a mechanical component to it, the joining of a female’s egg with a male’s sperm... We can go into more detail if you want. “No, that’s OK, I just wanted to know about the mirrors.”
We learn later that our daughter’s classmate Elena is fond of kissing the mirror in the girl’s bathroom at school. Each to her own.
Play dates, questions about sex, neurotic parents on the school steps planning their child’s college experience ten years in advance – this is what kills the rapture for me. Childhood comes once and is all too quickly gone. My kids are gloriously ordinary, which is just fine with me.
Monday, May 02, 2011
Our Booyah Moment
We got bin Laden.
High five in the streets. Fist pumps in the bar. Crank up the ticker tape parade. Dispatch six F-14’s to do a flyover above New York City.
We got the big bogeyman.
Finally.
Killed him dead they say. Tested his DNA to prove it.
It only took ten years and thousands of deaths and casualties for the US to kill the world’s most wanted man.
This is a triumph for our crack intelligence community and intrepid troops.
Even if it took ten brutal years.
Now what? Does Al Qaeda fold its tent and slink off into the dusk?
Doubtful. It’s likely there will be reprisals, somewhere, for the killing of bin Laden, just as there will be Pakistanis and Afghans and Iraqi’s willing to die as long as their friends and relatives are being killed by US drone strikes or occupation forces. When it comes to death, people have long memories. Bin Laden may be gone, but Al Qaeda will be with us for a time yet.
Killing begets more killing, but we are blasé about it now, as blasé as bin Laden acted after 9/11. Bin Laden indirectly plotted to kill in spectacular fashion; we kill systematically with our powerful weapons, our eyes that see in the dark and through thick walls.
This really is an amazing development on one level. No, I’m not talking about the breathless reporting from Diane Sawyer and Brian Williams, or the sound bites from Uncle Dick Cheney and Hillary Clinton; I’m talking about the fact that the US cedes to itself the authority to assassinate a man on foreign soil. If any nation in the world except Israel – which plays by a different set of rules -- granted itself the same authority, the US would be screaming about the rule of law and sovereign rights.
Hypocrisy is unpleasant. Do as I say, not as I do.
But it goes without saying that the US only kills with the purest motivation and in the name of the highest ideals. Right? Our cause is always righteous, though I wonder what the back-channel traffic on this operation looks like, the secret cables between spies and soldiers, diplomats and politicians. And I wonder what the US had to promise Pakistan in order for the latter to cough up bin Laden? Why now? Why not five, six or ten years ago?
But hey, why be skeptical of the US government and its motives? After all, this is the finest government money can buy and it can be depended on to do the will of its benefactors. This is a “feel good” story, frontier justice meted out to the mastermind of 9/11.
The only surprising thing thus far is that Donald Trump hasn’t claimed responsibility for killing bin Laden.
High five in the streets. Fist pumps in the bar. Crank up the ticker tape parade. Dispatch six F-14’s to do a flyover above New York City.
We got the big bogeyman.
Finally.
Killed him dead they say. Tested his DNA to prove it.
It only took ten years and thousands of deaths and casualties for the US to kill the world’s most wanted man.
This is a triumph for our crack intelligence community and intrepid troops.
Even if it took ten brutal years.
Now what? Does Al Qaeda fold its tent and slink off into the dusk?
Doubtful. It’s likely there will be reprisals, somewhere, for the killing of bin Laden, just as there will be Pakistanis and Afghans and Iraqi’s willing to die as long as their friends and relatives are being killed by US drone strikes or occupation forces. When it comes to death, people have long memories. Bin Laden may be gone, but Al Qaeda will be with us for a time yet.
Killing begets more killing, but we are blasé about it now, as blasé as bin Laden acted after 9/11. Bin Laden indirectly plotted to kill in spectacular fashion; we kill systematically with our powerful weapons, our eyes that see in the dark and through thick walls.
This really is an amazing development on one level. No, I’m not talking about the breathless reporting from Diane Sawyer and Brian Williams, or the sound bites from Uncle Dick Cheney and Hillary Clinton; I’m talking about the fact that the US cedes to itself the authority to assassinate a man on foreign soil. If any nation in the world except Israel – which plays by a different set of rules -- granted itself the same authority, the US would be screaming about the rule of law and sovereign rights.
Hypocrisy is unpleasant. Do as I say, not as I do.
But it goes without saying that the US only kills with the purest motivation and in the name of the highest ideals. Right? Our cause is always righteous, though I wonder what the back-channel traffic on this operation looks like, the secret cables between spies and soldiers, diplomats and politicians. And I wonder what the US had to promise Pakistan in order for the latter to cough up bin Laden? Why now? Why not five, six or ten years ago?
But hey, why be skeptical of the US government and its motives? After all, this is the finest government money can buy and it can be depended on to do the will of its benefactors. This is a “feel good” story, frontier justice meted out to the mastermind of 9/11.
The only surprising thing thus far is that Donald Trump hasn’t claimed responsibility for killing bin Laden.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Footnotes
Almost a year since the Deepwater Horizon blew up, killing 11 men and spilling an estimated 5 million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico. The explosion and spill were riveting news for nearly 2 months. The major American networks broadcast live video of oil gushing from the wellhead along with non-stop TV commercials from BP, a PR assault designed to show how concerned the oil giant was for the welfare of the Gulf ecosystem and the people who depend on it for their living.
BP pledged to make it right. Of course, pledging to do something and actually doing it are quite different things. Like any self-serving corporation, BP ducked and dodged as much responsibility as it could, blaming Transocean, the rig owner, and Halliburton, the oil services giant for being the root cause of the disaster. Not to be outdone, Transocean blamed BP and Halliburton blamed Transocean, and Republicans blamed Obama, and the Democrats blamed Republicans, and the dish ran away with the spoon, and the cow broke a leg trying to jump over the moon.
Meanwhile, oil continued to gush into the sea.
On the ground, the United States Coast Guard and BP kept journalists away from beaches and out of the airspace above the spill area. It was odd to see a government agency conspiring with a multinational corporation to limit access to a disaster zone. It was equally odd to see President Obama cheerleading for Gulf seafood and tourism – as if the spill was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a blip that should not deter business as usual. Obama talked tough, as he always does, about accountability and oversight and stricter regulation of the oil industry, but then left the clean up to BP.
Once BP finally figured out how to cap the well, the story slowly vanished from the airwaves, which is no doubt what BP and other oil industry giants had hoped for. To be sure, BP took its lumps in the media, smarmy CEO Tony Hayward proved to be a train wreck, and the claims process BP created worked as designed, paying out as few claims as possible in the longest amount of time possible, frustrating Gulf residents.
Claims are still being paid slowly and research efforts on the effects of the spill are tied up in red tape.
In other words, standard procedure on this fruited plain. Kid gloves for the powerful, tough love for the powerless, along with years of court cases, motions, denials and appeals – a lawyer’s dream, a plaintiff’s nightmare.
Yes, it’s perverse.
12 months later. What became of those 5 million barrels of oil and the thousands of gallons of chemical dispersants deployed by BP? Are we to believe that the Gulf is undamaged, as good as new, back to normal, healthy? According to Sam Champion of Good Morning America and research done for ABC by Texas Tech, yes, the Gulf is once again fine.
Would you eat Gulf seafood or feed it to your children?
And what of the 11 men who died? Why are they little more than a footnote to this tale? Is it because working men and women in America are disposable?
BP pledged to make it right. Of course, pledging to do something and actually doing it are quite different things. Like any self-serving corporation, BP ducked and dodged as much responsibility as it could, blaming Transocean, the rig owner, and Halliburton, the oil services giant for being the root cause of the disaster. Not to be outdone, Transocean blamed BP and Halliburton blamed Transocean, and Republicans blamed Obama, and the Democrats blamed Republicans, and the dish ran away with the spoon, and the cow broke a leg trying to jump over the moon.
Meanwhile, oil continued to gush into the sea.
On the ground, the United States Coast Guard and BP kept journalists away from beaches and out of the airspace above the spill area. It was odd to see a government agency conspiring with a multinational corporation to limit access to a disaster zone. It was equally odd to see President Obama cheerleading for Gulf seafood and tourism – as if the spill was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a blip that should not deter business as usual. Obama talked tough, as he always does, about accountability and oversight and stricter regulation of the oil industry, but then left the clean up to BP.
Once BP finally figured out how to cap the well, the story slowly vanished from the airwaves, which is no doubt what BP and other oil industry giants had hoped for. To be sure, BP took its lumps in the media, smarmy CEO Tony Hayward proved to be a train wreck, and the claims process BP created worked as designed, paying out as few claims as possible in the longest amount of time possible, frustrating Gulf residents.
Claims are still being paid slowly and research efforts on the effects of the spill are tied up in red tape.
In other words, standard procedure on this fruited plain. Kid gloves for the powerful, tough love for the powerless, along with years of court cases, motions, denials and appeals – a lawyer’s dream, a plaintiff’s nightmare.
Yes, it’s perverse.
12 months later. What became of those 5 million barrels of oil and the thousands of gallons of chemical dispersants deployed by BP? Are we to believe that the Gulf is undamaged, as good as new, back to normal, healthy? According to Sam Champion of Good Morning America and research done for ABC by Texas Tech, yes, the Gulf is once again fine.
Would you eat Gulf seafood or feed it to your children?
And what of the 11 men who died? Why are they little more than a footnote to this tale? Is it because working men and women in America are disposable?
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Happy Meals
Is McDonald’s an exemplary American corporation or what?
In this time of economic hardship for millions of American workers and their kith and kin, McDonald’s has done what Bank of America, Citibank and Goldman Sachs could never do: hire 50,000 workers on a single day.
Amazing. What a powerful gesture! Why should Americans build cars, trucks, airplanes, refrigerators, gas ranges, microwave ovens, flat screen TV’s, computers, skip loaders, cell phones, furniture and toilets when we can put people to work building Big Macs!
Let the Chinese build cars and computers and leave the re-heating of apple turnovers to Americans. While the Chinese are erecting bridges and constructing highways and high-speed rail systems, Americans will be building millions of fillet-o-fish sandwiches! I’d like to see the Chinese do the same! Nobody on this planet can handle a busy drive-through window the way Americans can. “Would you like fries with that? Can I interest you in a delicious vanilla milkshake? How about a super-sized ice cold Coke? Do you need ketchup for your fries?”
Think of what this generous deed will do for our fellow Americans. All the prestige of wearing the famous McDonald’s uniform and working in the shadow of the Golden Arches, along with a minimum wage guaranteed by the federal government. And – don’t worry – even after a 40-hour week you will still qualify for whatever poverty programs remain after Congressman Paul Ryan finishes building his Path to Prosperity. Health insurance is way overrated, and who really needs a retirement plan? McDonald’s hires elderly folk, too. Start young, work hard and who knows, in ten years you might move up to night shift supervisor.
Yep, it’s about time a major American corporation stepped to the plate and delivered for the average American working person. While the financial giants are hoarding their cash and paying out titanic bonuses, McDonald’s is walking the talk, investing in the little people.
In this time of economic hardship for millions of American workers and their kith and kin, McDonald’s has done what Bank of America, Citibank and Goldman Sachs could never do: hire 50,000 workers on a single day.
Amazing. What a powerful gesture! Why should Americans build cars, trucks, airplanes, refrigerators, gas ranges, microwave ovens, flat screen TV’s, computers, skip loaders, cell phones, furniture and toilets when we can put people to work building Big Macs!
Let the Chinese build cars and computers and leave the re-heating of apple turnovers to Americans. While the Chinese are erecting bridges and constructing highways and high-speed rail systems, Americans will be building millions of fillet-o-fish sandwiches! I’d like to see the Chinese do the same! Nobody on this planet can handle a busy drive-through window the way Americans can. “Would you like fries with that? Can I interest you in a delicious vanilla milkshake? How about a super-sized ice cold Coke? Do you need ketchup for your fries?”
Think of what this generous deed will do for our fellow Americans. All the prestige of wearing the famous McDonald’s uniform and working in the shadow of the Golden Arches, along with a minimum wage guaranteed by the federal government. And – don’t worry – even after a 40-hour week you will still qualify for whatever poverty programs remain after Congressman Paul Ryan finishes building his Path to Prosperity. Health insurance is way overrated, and who really needs a retirement plan? McDonald’s hires elderly folk, too. Start young, work hard and who knows, in ten years you might move up to night shift supervisor.
Yep, it’s about time a major American corporation stepped to the plate and delivered for the average American working person. While the financial giants are hoarding their cash and paying out titanic bonuses, McDonald’s is walking the talk, investing in the little people.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Fly in the Ointment
I am a common house fly, Musca domestica for you scientific types, and I like to hang around garbage cans, but the other day I got blown off course by a gust of wind and through the front doors of the U.S. Capitol. Nice place, very dignified and inspiring, but far too clean for my liking – I prefer a nice backyard BBQ on a muggy DC day, with Cole slaw and potato salad and lots of chicken grease.
Anyway, down gleaming corridors I flew, this way and that, until I detected a promising odor coming from this huge, ornate office. Zipping in for a closer inspection, I saw four men sitting around a long conference table, eating Chinese take-out off paper plates. Nirvana!
Now, being a common housefly, I don’t pay much attention to the doings of humans, unless, as I said, they happen to be having a backyard BBQ on a hot summer day, but in my line it’s next to impossible not to pick up information from discarded newspapers and TV screens and computers.
The man sitting at the head of the long table had an orange tinge to his skin and I immediately knew he was John Boehner, Speaker of the House. Sitting to Boehner’s right, looking like an overeager altar boy, was the one and only Eric Cantor. The third man was harder to identify as he was stuffing his mouth with mushu pork, but then I recognized him: Paul Ryan, the GOP’s budget Wonder boy.
The fourth man was a mystery until Boehner said, “Hey Grover, try this beef broccoli. It’s delicious.” Well, even a housefly knows that Grover was none other than Grover Norquist, anti-tax champion and political strategist.
After flying a quick recon around the table I took up a position on the wall where I could both listen and keep an eye on the egg rolls.
John Boehner: We’ve got that skinny bastard back on his heels. You gotta’ love the way he concedes his position before negotiations even begin. If Obama was a used car salesman he’d give the damn things away.
Eric Cantor: Our message of austerity is resonating with the American people! We’re putting government back in its proper place! Low taxes, small government, minimal interference in the lives of people, these are the ingredients for a strong economy.
Grover Norquist: No tax increases, ever. Gentlemen join hands with me and swear that you will never vote for a tax increase of any kind, ever.
Paul Ryan: By killing entitlement programs we instantly shrink the size of government. A few seniors might be inconvenienced, but if the result is a sound economy and a thriving business climate for our corporate allies, it will be worth it.
John Boehner: I pulled myself up by my own bootstraps, and if I can do it, by God, anyone can. Did I ever tell you about my dad’s tavern? I put myself through college unloading kegs of beer for my old man... (Sniffles, begins to tear up.)
Fly: Boehner’s skin really is orange.
Eric Cantor: We know, John. It’s a great story, an American story, but let’s focus on keeping the pressure on the President. The debate over the debt ceiling will be his Waterloo. Politically, the only thing he can do is move toward our position.
Paul Ryan: Voters understand that the deficit is a ticking time bomb.
Fly: Boy, that fried rice looks delectable.
Grover Norquist: Big government is the cause of big deficits.
Fly: Funny, I thought a decade of irresponsible tax cuts for the wealthy and pointless foreign wars caused huge deficits, but apparently I am misinformed.
Paul Ryan: The deficit is a noose around the necks of our children and grandchildren!
Fly: At least two Nobel laureates in Economics believe otherwise, but apparently they too are misinformed.
John Boehner (Laughing): Damn, it was easy to get Obama to buy into deficit reduction. He swallowed that hook like a fat bass and ran clear to the middle of the bay.
Grover Norquist: Obama has no balls.
Eric Cantor: But he makes a lovely speech, I’ll give him that.
Grover Norquist: Empty eloquence is no eloquence. The man will not fight for what he believes in once he encounters the smallest amount of resistance. In practical terms, the President is a pansy.
Eric Cantor: What we must do is lower tax rates on the producers and entrepreneurs, on small business owners and venture capitalists so that they can invest and grow an economy that will lift everyone up.
Fly: I’m just a fly, but haven’t you people been drinking this trickle down Kool-Aid for like, I don’t know, 30 years? How’s it working for you? Is your boat rising or sinking?
Paul Ryan: We will end the welfare state because we must end the welfare state.
Fly: Does that include corporate welfare – or are you just going to pick on senior citizens and single mothers?
John Boehner: Shoo fly, get out of here.
Just for jollies, I buzzed Eric Cantor’s nose, considered a kamikaze run up his left nostril, then changed my mind and landed on Grover’s ear where I took a satisfying crap. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, year after year, and expecting a different outcome than you’ve been getting, then these guys are ready for the rubber room. No wonder your country is teetering on the abyss. You elect complete idiots to do your civic business!
Anyway, down gleaming corridors I flew, this way and that, until I detected a promising odor coming from this huge, ornate office. Zipping in for a closer inspection, I saw four men sitting around a long conference table, eating Chinese take-out off paper plates. Nirvana!
Now, being a common housefly, I don’t pay much attention to the doings of humans, unless, as I said, they happen to be having a backyard BBQ on a hot summer day, but in my line it’s next to impossible not to pick up information from discarded newspapers and TV screens and computers.
The man sitting at the head of the long table had an orange tinge to his skin and I immediately knew he was John Boehner, Speaker of the House. Sitting to Boehner’s right, looking like an overeager altar boy, was the one and only Eric Cantor. The third man was harder to identify as he was stuffing his mouth with mushu pork, but then I recognized him: Paul Ryan, the GOP’s budget Wonder boy.
The fourth man was a mystery until Boehner said, “Hey Grover, try this beef broccoli. It’s delicious.” Well, even a housefly knows that Grover was none other than Grover Norquist, anti-tax champion and political strategist.
After flying a quick recon around the table I took up a position on the wall where I could both listen and keep an eye on the egg rolls.
John Boehner: We’ve got that skinny bastard back on his heels. You gotta’ love the way he concedes his position before negotiations even begin. If Obama was a used car salesman he’d give the damn things away.
Eric Cantor: Our message of austerity is resonating with the American people! We’re putting government back in its proper place! Low taxes, small government, minimal interference in the lives of people, these are the ingredients for a strong economy.
Grover Norquist: No tax increases, ever. Gentlemen join hands with me and swear that you will never vote for a tax increase of any kind, ever.
Paul Ryan: By killing entitlement programs we instantly shrink the size of government. A few seniors might be inconvenienced, but if the result is a sound economy and a thriving business climate for our corporate allies, it will be worth it.
John Boehner: I pulled myself up by my own bootstraps, and if I can do it, by God, anyone can. Did I ever tell you about my dad’s tavern? I put myself through college unloading kegs of beer for my old man... (Sniffles, begins to tear up.)
Fly: Boehner’s skin really is orange.
Eric Cantor: We know, John. It’s a great story, an American story, but let’s focus on keeping the pressure on the President. The debate over the debt ceiling will be his Waterloo. Politically, the only thing he can do is move toward our position.
Paul Ryan: Voters understand that the deficit is a ticking time bomb.
Fly: Boy, that fried rice looks delectable.
Grover Norquist: Big government is the cause of big deficits.
Fly: Funny, I thought a decade of irresponsible tax cuts for the wealthy and pointless foreign wars caused huge deficits, but apparently I am misinformed.
Paul Ryan: The deficit is a noose around the necks of our children and grandchildren!
Fly: At least two Nobel laureates in Economics believe otherwise, but apparently they too are misinformed.
John Boehner (Laughing): Damn, it was easy to get Obama to buy into deficit reduction. He swallowed that hook like a fat bass and ran clear to the middle of the bay.
Grover Norquist: Obama has no balls.
Eric Cantor: But he makes a lovely speech, I’ll give him that.
Grover Norquist: Empty eloquence is no eloquence. The man will not fight for what he believes in once he encounters the smallest amount of resistance. In practical terms, the President is a pansy.
Eric Cantor: What we must do is lower tax rates on the producers and entrepreneurs, on small business owners and venture capitalists so that they can invest and grow an economy that will lift everyone up.
Fly: I’m just a fly, but haven’t you people been drinking this trickle down Kool-Aid for like, I don’t know, 30 years? How’s it working for you? Is your boat rising or sinking?
Paul Ryan: We will end the welfare state because we must end the welfare state.
Fly: Does that include corporate welfare – or are you just going to pick on senior citizens and single mothers?
John Boehner: Shoo fly, get out of here.
Just for jollies, I buzzed Eric Cantor’s nose, considered a kamikaze run up his left nostril, then changed my mind and landed on Grover’s ear where I took a satisfying crap. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, year after year, and expecting a different outcome than you’ve been getting, then these guys are ready for the rubber room. No wonder your country is teetering on the abyss. You elect complete idiots to do your civic business!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Satire: Looking for Mr. Lincoln
A few days ago my wife and I took our kids to Disneyland, happiest place on Earth, home of Mickey and Minnie and overpriced food and souvenirs. After twelve hours and eighteen attractions, we stopped to take in Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln.
Uncle Walt had a deep, if somewhat uncritical love for Abraham Lincoln, and the short show with the animatronic Lincoln is a paean to an America that likely never existed. As I watched the show I thought of Robert E. Lee, U.S. Grant, William T. Sherman and William Seward, and it struck me, as I sat there listening to the stirring theme music -- that there are more great men and women in our past than in our present – at least in the political realm.
Nowadays our politicians are moral and intellectual pipsqueaks who spend all their time jockeying for legislative power and the upper hand in the next election cycle, currying favor with corporate donors, and spouting total nonsense to journalists who take down their BS without question.
The nitwits in DC would rather play ideological chicken and shut the federal government down than act like grown-ups and do what’s in the best interests of the nation.
We’re far down the rabbit hole now and I don’t think our chances of crawling out are good. Business as usual won’t cut the mustard. It’s time for the United States to go whole hog nuts and to this end I make the following suggestions:
Suspend the 2012 presidential election season and have the Supreme Court declare Michelle Bachmann President and Glen Beck Vice President;
Mandate that the Democratic and Republican parties merge. Leadership positions in the new party will be decided by duels with Glock 9MM pistols at a range of no more than 10 paces for male members and 12 paces for female members; duels will be televised live on the Fox television network and be hosted by Ryan Seacrest, with celebrity judges Newt Gingrich, Tom DeLay and Sarah Palin;
Enact a special tax on fast food workers to reimburse the major networks for advertising revenue lost during the suspended Presidential election season;
Abolish all taxes on the 500 wealthiest Americans and all corporations with a minimum valuation of $50 million;
Institute military conscription for any able-bodied man or woman less than 55 years old and with a working IQ above 85 and with an income at or below the Federal poverty level;
Invade and occupy Libya and Yemen;
Assume direct control of all poppy cultivation and heroin manufacturing in Afghanistan and task Donald Rumsfeld with increasing the sale of American heroin in China and India; profits from this venture will be distributed equally to the 500 wealthiest Americans;
To avoid the cost of long-term health care for military veterans, all injured, disabled, maimed, wounded or psychologically unstable personnel will be sent to Cuba where they can receive free, comprehensive health care. If the Castro Regime refuses to provide such services, Cuba will be carpet-bombed until a capitulation is achieved; should Cuba prove unable to handle the caseload, the U.S. will invade Canada;
Privatize all U.S. military services under a single umbrella called the Fossil Fuels Protection Corporation and appoint David Petraeus head of the FFPC at a guaranteed annual salary of $150 million;
Enact a tax on domestic beer sales to raise funds for the FFPC and the intelligence community, but also exempt domestic brewers from federal income taxes and provide them tax credits so that no profits are lost;
Abolish the Federal minimum wage and institute slave labor at a daily wage less than the prevailing wage in China;
Ban all labor unions, including the Screen Actors Guild;
Re-train unemployed teachers, firefighters, and police officers as domestic servants for the wealthy, and pay them five cents per hour more than slave laborers;
Relocate, by force if necessary, all homeless people in the U.S. to the under-populated city of Detroit;
Destroy the Lincoln Memorial and erect a new memorial to former Vice President Dick Cheney.
Uncle Walt had a deep, if somewhat uncritical love for Abraham Lincoln, and the short show with the animatronic Lincoln is a paean to an America that likely never existed. As I watched the show I thought of Robert E. Lee, U.S. Grant, William T. Sherman and William Seward, and it struck me, as I sat there listening to the stirring theme music -- that there are more great men and women in our past than in our present – at least in the political realm.
Nowadays our politicians are moral and intellectual pipsqueaks who spend all their time jockeying for legislative power and the upper hand in the next election cycle, currying favor with corporate donors, and spouting total nonsense to journalists who take down their BS without question.
The nitwits in DC would rather play ideological chicken and shut the federal government down than act like grown-ups and do what’s in the best interests of the nation.
We’re far down the rabbit hole now and I don’t think our chances of crawling out are good. Business as usual won’t cut the mustard. It’s time for the United States to go whole hog nuts and to this end I make the following suggestions:
Suspend the 2012 presidential election season and have the Supreme Court declare Michelle Bachmann President and Glen Beck Vice President;
Mandate that the Democratic and Republican parties merge. Leadership positions in the new party will be decided by duels with Glock 9MM pistols at a range of no more than 10 paces for male members and 12 paces for female members; duels will be televised live on the Fox television network and be hosted by Ryan Seacrest, with celebrity judges Newt Gingrich, Tom DeLay and Sarah Palin;
Enact a special tax on fast food workers to reimburse the major networks for advertising revenue lost during the suspended Presidential election season;
Abolish all taxes on the 500 wealthiest Americans and all corporations with a minimum valuation of $50 million;
Institute military conscription for any able-bodied man or woman less than 55 years old and with a working IQ above 85 and with an income at or below the Federal poverty level;
Invade and occupy Libya and Yemen;
Assume direct control of all poppy cultivation and heroin manufacturing in Afghanistan and task Donald Rumsfeld with increasing the sale of American heroin in China and India; profits from this venture will be distributed equally to the 500 wealthiest Americans;
To avoid the cost of long-term health care for military veterans, all injured, disabled, maimed, wounded or psychologically unstable personnel will be sent to Cuba where they can receive free, comprehensive health care. If the Castro Regime refuses to provide such services, Cuba will be carpet-bombed until a capitulation is achieved; should Cuba prove unable to handle the caseload, the U.S. will invade Canada;
Privatize all U.S. military services under a single umbrella called the Fossil Fuels Protection Corporation and appoint David Petraeus head of the FFPC at a guaranteed annual salary of $150 million;
Enact a tax on domestic beer sales to raise funds for the FFPC and the intelligence community, but also exempt domestic brewers from federal income taxes and provide them tax credits so that no profits are lost;
Abolish the Federal minimum wage and institute slave labor at a daily wage less than the prevailing wage in China;
Ban all labor unions, including the Screen Actors Guild;
Re-train unemployed teachers, firefighters, and police officers as domestic servants for the wealthy, and pay them five cents per hour more than slave laborers;
Relocate, by force if necessary, all homeless people in the U.S. to the under-populated city of Detroit;
Destroy the Lincoln Memorial and erect a new memorial to former Vice President Dick Cheney.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Rant: May the Sun Never Set
Occasionally, and to my detriment, I try and wrap my head around the news. This is always a humbling experience. My old brain can’t keep up when one of the talking heads on ABC or CBS darts from the problem of spent nuclear fuel rods to Charlie Sheen’s latest antics without stopping for breath.
Here’s what I know for sure on this fine March day: America is a wonderful country because we treat our largest corporations like superstars.
First of all, thanks to some scary characters in black robes who call themselves the Supreme Court, corporations have the same free speech rights as persons, meaning they can spend tons of cash to influence the political process in their favor. When it comes to buying legislators, the old adage is true: you get what you pay for. And since many American corporations are sitting on mountains of cash, they can buy a bunch of goodies. Think of the Capitol as a Costco or a Wal-Mart superstore. If it helps, you can also think of it as an upscale whorehouse.
Second, we’re really, really generous to our corporations when it comes to taxes, so much so that we allow the majority to pay no tax whatsoever; zero, zilch, nada, even when, as in the case of Bank of America, they have been recipients of billions of dollars in taxpayer bailout money. Full benefits, no give back; Midas himself would definitely approve.
General Electric is another happy passenger on the no-tax gravy train. GE makes super-sized profits from our endless foreign wars and from outsourcing its manufacturing to low-wage nations. When all is said and done, and an army of CPA’s and lawyers finish their chores, GE pays nary a nickel in US taxes. Even better for GE, its CEO, Jeffrey Immelt, serves on the President’s Economic Recovery Board. Wink. Wink. I’m sure the welfare of working Americans is one of Immelt’s chief concerns. Wink. Wink. Giggle.
Thanks, Mr. Obama, for your undying support of the ruling elite, the status quo and CEO’s. We love you, man.
What else is wonderful about the red, white and blue? Let’s see, Detroit, once the 4th largest city in the land, home of the Big Three US automakers and good paying jobs with benefits and union representation for thousands of middle-class workers, is dying. Grand office buildings and sprawling industrial plants sit empty, rotting from within and without, pillaged for scrap metal and copper wire. In the name of corporate efficiency and global competitiveness, we allowed our 4th largest city to become a landscape fit for ghosts and feral dogs.
We’re #1! Who can deny it?
Ah, this land of the free and home of the brave, this blessed fruited plain where all things are possible for our corporate masters in their glass towers and secure residential enclaves. The richest 400 people in our land control more wealth than the bottom 150 million people – combined. Let’s hear it for meritocracy!
We are edging ever closer to achieving Ronald Reagan’s wettest dream. Dutch’s political heirs – real and imagined – are well on their way to gutting our best institutions, cannibalizing our states, and getting an oppressive, overreaching government off the backs of the people. Woo-hoo!
Hell, yes, our cup overflowith with God’s bounty. What other nation can simultaneously wage two and a half wars against Muslim nations? Can the French pull off this impressive hat-trick? No way! The Brits? Impossible! The Russians? Laughable! Iraq. Afghanistan. Libya. Who’s next? What band of ragtag revolutionaries will dare challenge the military might of the US of A? As Mr. T was fond of saying: “I pity the fools.” Cross our line in the sand and we will rain death and destruction upon you. Shock and awe, hammer and tong, cruise missile and cluster bomb!
Hey, Gaddafi, this next cruise missile is brought to you by General Electric. We bring tin-horn dictators to their knees. Booyah!
Hot damn! May the sun never set on the American Empire.
Here’s what I know for sure on this fine March day: America is a wonderful country because we treat our largest corporations like superstars.
First of all, thanks to some scary characters in black robes who call themselves the Supreme Court, corporations have the same free speech rights as persons, meaning they can spend tons of cash to influence the political process in their favor. When it comes to buying legislators, the old adage is true: you get what you pay for. And since many American corporations are sitting on mountains of cash, they can buy a bunch of goodies. Think of the Capitol as a Costco or a Wal-Mart superstore. If it helps, you can also think of it as an upscale whorehouse.
Second, we’re really, really generous to our corporations when it comes to taxes, so much so that we allow the majority to pay no tax whatsoever; zero, zilch, nada, even when, as in the case of Bank of America, they have been recipients of billions of dollars in taxpayer bailout money. Full benefits, no give back; Midas himself would definitely approve.
General Electric is another happy passenger on the no-tax gravy train. GE makes super-sized profits from our endless foreign wars and from outsourcing its manufacturing to low-wage nations. When all is said and done, and an army of CPA’s and lawyers finish their chores, GE pays nary a nickel in US taxes. Even better for GE, its CEO, Jeffrey Immelt, serves on the President’s Economic Recovery Board. Wink. Wink. I’m sure the welfare of working Americans is one of Immelt’s chief concerns. Wink. Wink. Giggle.
Thanks, Mr. Obama, for your undying support of the ruling elite, the status quo and CEO’s. We love you, man.
What else is wonderful about the red, white and blue? Let’s see, Detroit, once the 4th largest city in the land, home of the Big Three US automakers and good paying jobs with benefits and union representation for thousands of middle-class workers, is dying. Grand office buildings and sprawling industrial plants sit empty, rotting from within and without, pillaged for scrap metal and copper wire. In the name of corporate efficiency and global competitiveness, we allowed our 4th largest city to become a landscape fit for ghosts and feral dogs.
We’re #1! Who can deny it?
Ah, this land of the free and home of the brave, this blessed fruited plain where all things are possible for our corporate masters in their glass towers and secure residential enclaves. The richest 400 people in our land control more wealth than the bottom 150 million people – combined. Let’s hear it for meritocracy!
We are edging ever closer to achieving Ronald Reagan’s wettest dream. Dutch’s political heirs – real and imagined – are well on their way to gutting our best institutions, cannibalizing our states, and getting an oppressive, overreaching government off the backs of the people. Woo-hoo!
Hell, yes, our cup overflowith with God’s bounty. What other nation can simultaneously wage two and a half wars against Muslim nations? Can the French pull off this impressive hat-trick? No way! The Brits? Impossible! The Russians? Laughable! Iraq. Afghanistan. Libya. Who’s next? What band of ragtag revolutionaries will dare challenge the military might of the US of A? As Mr. T was fond of saying: “I pity the fools.” Cross our line in the sand and we will rain death and destruction upon you. Shock and awe, hammer and tong, cruise missile and cluster bomb!
Hey, Gaddafi, this next cruise missile is brought to you by General Electric. We bring tin-horn dictators to their knees. Booyah!
Hot damn! May the sun never set on the American Empire.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Fiction: Unstable
At the moment a surge of water lifts Hiroko Kobayashi’s house from its foundation in Sendai, Japan, Jack Mintz exits Del’s bar on Chapala Street in Santa Barbara, California.
After four hours of solitary drinking in a corner booth in Del’s, Jack’s mind is still riveted on Jeremy’s trial. What drinking couldn’t a long walk might, so Jack heads east on De La Guerra Street, past Starbuck’s, past an empty storefront with a For Lease sign in the window, past darkened City Hall where a lone homeless man sits on the lawn smoking a cigarette. A gentle on shore breeze rustles the palm trees. It’s a lovely SB evening in early spring; Jack barely notices.
Jeremy will be convicted, there’s no doubt about that: only his punishment is unknown.
I can’t control what he does, Jack tells himself for the fiftieth time, though he still feels as if – somewhere along the way – he failed his son.
Hiroko lives alone in a house about a mile from the river. She recently turned 82 and is recovering from hip surgery. The pain medication prescribed by her physician makes her sleepy. When the earthquake hits she’s taking a nap, and at first the shaking feels like part of her dream, but then she realizes that real plates and tea cups and dishes are falling off the shelves in the kitchen; a lamp tips over and a bookshelf topples, a painting falls off the wall, the windows rattle. The floor pitches and rolls like a dinghy in a rough sea. During her long life Hiroko has experienced hundreds of earthquakes, enough of them to know that most last thirty seconds, a minute tops, frightening to be sure, but in the end harmless. This one is different. She hears a dog barking and what sounds like planks of wood snapping.
Before settling in at Del’s to drink his worries away, Jack drove out to the County Jail to ask Jeremy one more time. The elemental question is driving Jack mad. Maybe this time Jeremy will give a different answer, one that makes sense; Jack needs it to make sense. On his way through the main corridor that leads to the Visitors Center Jack takes note of red warning signs and carefully placed surveillance cameras, the smell of disinfectant and the shine on the floors. Metal doors clang shut. The finality and hopelessness of this sound rattles Jack’s nerves more than anything else; he will hear its echo for hours afterwards.
Jeremy has nothing new to say. Father and son stare at one another from opposite sides of shatterproof glass, just like in the movies. Jeremy wears standard issue, bright orange County jail coveralls, white sneakers without laces, and a weary expression on his face. His shoulders slump with resignation. Unlike a movie, however, Jeremy isn’t an innocent man falsely incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit. Photographs form in Jack’s mind, line up in chronological order: little league, guitar lessons, junior high graduation, high school baseball games, graduation, the day Jeremy left for his freshman year at UCLA. Milestones and markers for the passage of time, all in a neat row, success following success. Now as he stares at his son and tries to keep his emotions from overwhelming him, Jack wonders where he went wrong. What was the tipping point for Jeremy and why didn’t he come to his mother and me for help? Why did I learn of his crimes on the 5:00 news?
Why? God-damn why?
The front end of an Isuzu truck crashes through Hiroko’s window, followed by a surge of brown water that smells of gasoline, sewage and salt. A dead cat floats in next, followed by a child’s doll, a broom, a magazine, a soccer ball, clumps of seaweed and a washing machine. This can’t be happening, she thinks, it has to be a hallucination, a side effect of the medication, but almost as soon as this thought crosses her mind water is swirling around her knees, cold and dirty, and her house – home for fifty years -- is being carried away. She doesn’t have time to think of her deceased husband or her children and grandchildren because the house is jerking this way and that. This is the Big One local authorities have warned about for years. Be prepared. Have a plan, supplies, water, flashlights and food. But how does one prepare for a truck to come through the window? I am going to drown, Hiroko thinks, a split second before she loses her footing and slips under the water.
Jack can’t stop the loop of thoughts running endlessly in his head. He walks as far as the armory before turning back. His mouth feels dry and he is developing a dull headache. By now Jeremy is back in his cell. The gates and doors have all slammed shut.
Hiroko fights to the surface. As a girl she loved to swim in the river with her sisters, float on her back and stare up at the blue sky; it was a way to forget the war, Japan’s defeat, the unspeakable damage caused by American incendiary bombs in Tokyo and Osaka and Yokohama, not to mention the A-bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She has never forgotten the privation in the years immediately following Japan’s surrender, the toll it took on her parents, and as she pulls herself onto a pile of floating debris and catches a glimpse of the devastation, it’s 1945 again. How is it possible for a boat to be perched atop a house; for two train cars to be nearly a mile from the nearest tracks; for the rooftops of her neighbors’ homes to nearly be submerged; for fires to burn on the surface of the water? Only this morning everything was normal in the world: she ate her breakfast, drank her tea, watched TV, made her bed, folded clothes and washed dishes. Only this morning the houses, trees, boats, cars, and trains were in their proper places; now all is surging water and chaos.
Jack walks on, ruminating on all he and his wife have done over the years to make a stable life for their only child. Hard work and non-stop planning for contingencies: life insurance, property insurance, health coverage, earthquake and flood insurance, retirement annuities, IRA’s, a modest stock portfolio, six months of living expenses tucked away in a bank account – even small college funds for the grandchildren they don’t have yet. He and his wife are steady, sober, cautious, careful, conservative and methodical -- in every way exemplary citizens of the American republic, the kind who play by the established rules.
And they earn their just reward for all this rectitude until Jeremy decides the best way to get the money he needs is to embezzle half a million dollars from the university. The speed at which everything changes boggles Jack’s mind; one minute the foundation of his life is solid, the next it’s collapsing. Friends call but after saying things they think are helpful, there’s nothing left except awkward silence. Jack wonders how many years Jeremy will serve in prison and what kind of man he will be when he gets out? Why does this cement sidewalk feel like it’s made of dough? Why am I sinking?
Hiroko floats on the debris pile for twenty-six hours. Two soldiers pull her to safety and drape a blue blanket over her thin shoulders; one of them offers her a bottle of water – she’s too weak to open it. Looking at the destruction all around her she’s not sure being alive is reason for celebration.
Jeremy is sentenced to twenty years in prison; with good behavior he could be released in seven.
On the second night after being rescued, Hiroko passes away in her sleep. The last thing she sees is the face of a little girl sleeping on a cot next to hers.
Three days after Jeremy is sentenced, Jack’s wife finds him hanging from a rafter in the garage. Methodical to the end, Jack’s coat and tie are draped over the back of a chair, and he even thought to remove his shoes and socks.
He didn’t need to leave a note.
After four hours of solitary drinking in a corner booth in Del’s, Jack’s mind is still riveted on Jeremy’s trial. What drinking couldn’t a long walk might, so Jack heads east on De La Guerra Street, past Starbuck’s, past an empty storefront with a For Lease sign in the window, past darkened City Hall where a lone homeless man sits on the lawn smoking a cigarette. A gentle on shore breeze rustles the palm trees. It’s a lovely SB evening in early spring; Jack barely notices.
Jeremy will be convicted, there’s no doubt about that: only his punishment is unknown.
I can’t control what he does, Jack tells himself for the fiftieth time, though he still feels as if – somewhere along the way – he failed his son.
Hiroko lives alone in a house about a mile from the river. She recently turned 82 and is recovering from hip surgery. The pain medication prescribed by her physician makes her sleepy. When the earthquake hits she’s taking a nap, and at first the shaking feels like part of her dream, but then she realizes that real plates and tea cups and dishes are falling off the shelves in the kitchen; a lamp tips over and a bookshelf topples, a painting falls off the wall, the windows rattle. The floor pitches and rolls like a dinghy in a rough sea. During her long life Hiroko has experienced hundreds of earthquakes, enough of them to know that most last thirty seconds, a minute tops, frightening to be sure, but in the end harmless. This one is different. She hears a dog barking and what sounds like planks of wood snapping.
Before settling in at Del’s to drink his worries away, Jack drove out to the County Jail to ask Jeremy one more time. The elemental question is driving Jack mad. Maybe this time Jeremy will give a different answer, one that makes sense; Jack needs it to make sense. On his way through the main corridor that leads to the Visitors Center Jack takes note of red warning signs and carefully placed surveillance cameras, the smell of disinfectant and the shine on the floors. Metal doors clang shut. The finality and hopelessness of this sound rattles Jack’s nerves more than anything else; he will hear its echo for hours afterwards.
Jeremy has nothing new to say. Father and son stare at one another from opposite sides of shatterproof glass, just like in the movies. Jeremy wears standard issue, bright orange County jail coveralls, white sneakers without laces, and a weary expression on his face. His shoulders slump with resignation. Unlike a movie, however, Jeremy isn’t an innocent man falsely incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit. Photographs form in Jack’s mind, line up in chronological order: little league, guitar lessons, junior high graduation, high school baseball games, graduation, the day Jeremy left for his freshman year at UCLA. Milestones and markers for the passage of time, all in a neat row, success following success. Now as he stares at his son and tries to keep his emotions from overwhelming him, Jack wonders where he went wrong. What was the tipping point for Jeremy and why didn’t he come to his mother and me for help? Why did I learn of his crimes on the 5:00 news?
Why? God-damn why?
The front end of an Isuzu truck crashes through Hiroko’s window, followed by a surge of brown water that smells of gasoline, sewage and salt. A dead cat floats in next, followed by a child’s doll, a broom, a magazine, a soccer ball, clumps of seaweed and a washing machine. This can’t be happening, she thinks, it has to be a hallucination, a side effect of the medication, but almost as soon as this thought crosses her mind water is swirling around her knees, cold and dirty, and her house – home for fifty years -- is being carried away. She doesn’t have time to think of her deceased husband or her children and grandchildren because the house is jerking this way and that. This is the Big One local authorities have warned about for years. Be prepared. Have a plan, supplies, water, flashlights and food. But how does one prepare for a truck to come through the window? I am going to drown, Hiroko thinks, a split second before she loses her footing and slips under the water.
Jack can’t stop the loop of thoughts running endlessly in his head. He walks as far as the armory before turning back. His mouth feels dry and he is developing a dull headache. By now Jeremy is back in his cell. The gates and doors have all slammed shut.
Hiroko fights to the surface. As a girl she loved to swim in the river with her sisters, float on her back and stare up at the blue sky; it was a way to forget the war, Japan’s defeat, the unspeakable damage caused by American incendiary bombs in Tokyo and Osaka and Yokohama, not to mention the A-bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She has never forgotten the privation in the years immediately following Japan’s surrender, the toll it took on her parents, and as she pulls herself onto a pile of floating debris and catches a glimpse of the devastation, it’s 1945 again. How is it possible for a boat to be perched atop a house; for two train cars to be nearly a mile from the nearest tracks; for the rooftops of her neighbors’ homes to nearly be submerged; for fires to burn on the surface of the water? Only this morning everything was normal in the world: she ate her breakfast, drank her tea, watched TV, made her bed, folded clothes and washed dishes. Only this morning the houses, trees, boats, cars, and trains were in their proper places; now all is surging water and chaos.
Jack walks on, ruminating on all he and his wife have done over the years to make a stable life for their only child. Hard work and non-stop planning for contingencies: life insurance, property insurance, health coverage, earthquake and flood insurance, retirement annuities, IRA’s, a modest stock portfolio, six months of living expenses tucked away in a bank account – even small college funds for the grandchildren they don’t have yet. He and his wife are steady, sober, cautious, careful, conservative and methodical -- in every way exemplary citizens of the American republic, the kind who play by the established rules.
And they earn their just reward for all this rectitude until Jeremy decides the best way to get the money he needs is to embezzle half a million dollars from the university. The speed at which everything changes boggles Jack’s mind; one minute the foundation of his life is solid, the next it’s collapsing. Friends call but after saying things they think are helpful, there’s nothing left except awkward silence. Jack wonders how many years Jeremy will serve in prison and what kind of man he will be when he gets out? Why does this cement sidewalk feel like it’s made of dough? Why am I sinking?
Hiroko floats on the debris pile for twenty-six hours. Two soldiers pull her to safety and drape a blue blanket over her thin shoulders; one of them offers her a bottle of water – she’s too weak to open it. Looking at the destruction all around her she’s not sure being alive is reason for celebration.
Jeremy is sentenced to twenty years in prison; with good behavior he could be released in seven.
On the second night after being rescued, Hiroko passes away in her sleep. The last thing she sees is the face of a little girl sleeping on a cot next to hers.
Three days after Jeremy is sentenced, Jack’s wife finds him hanging from a rafter in the garage. Methodical to the end, Jack’s coat and tie are draped over the back of a chair, and he even thought to remove his shoes and socks.
He didn’t need to leave a note.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Advice from the Good Doctor
I was due a phone call from Dr. Duke and surprisingly it came at what for him is a reasonable hour, 12:30, on Wednesday night. I had only been asleep for two hours.
“Where you calling from, doc?”
“I prefer not to say. I’m on the run from a woman who is formidably crazy. She has powerful friends.”
I took the phone into the living room and sat on the couch.
“How you been, Doc?”
“Wrong question, man. It’s not how I am – it’s WTF is the matter with you? The Balcony is a disgrace. There’s no political writing, for one thing, and for another you haven’t posted anything new for weeks. What’s the deal? Don’t tell me that the school district is keeping you so busy that you have no time to scribble? You must scribble, do you hear me?”
I didn’t bother trying to explain the trials and tribulations of holding down an 8-to-5 job, raising kids, helping with homework, refereeing endless sibling squabbles, doing laundry, grocery shopping, and all the other domestic chores that need to be done.
“How about the Middle East? The US of A is behind the curve on this one, of course, but that’s to be expected from a dying empire that can’t see beyond its asshole. Unless the west intervenes militarily, that insane bastard Gaddafi will probably survive; nonetheless, a very loud message has been sent to the rulers. I bet the Saudis are wetting themselves. I know you’re not caught up in the Charlie Sheen circus, so what the hell have you been doing?”
“Reading. Working on some fiction. You really should get married and settle down, doc. Do you good.”
“Only way I could be married is if I could have a harem. You bummed about Japan? Astonishing devastation. When did you live over there?”
“1977 to 1983. It’s very sad, doc. The suffering, the loss, the potential for nuclear catastrophe; I wonder if the world is being told the truth about the extent of the damage – and the risks. I keep seeing these tiny old Japanese women staring blankly at what used to be their homes.”
“Governments lie, particularly to avoid scaring the bejesus out of their citizens. Assume the worst is my advice.”
“I looked at some photographs of Chernobyl today,” I said. “The restricted area is about the size of Yellowstone National Park. Chilling stuff. Abandoned buildings, empty villages and schools, ghastly photos of deformed children. The only living thing thriving there is the forest; it’s taking over.”
I thought I heard Duke sigh, though for all I know he was taking a hit from a bong.
“Mankind is determined to destroy this planet,” Duke said. “And it will. What are you reading?”
“Absolute Friends, John LeCarre. You?”
“Plato, the Republic. I keep searching for answers. I thought I had something with this one, but she turned out to be a psycho. She knows we’re friends so if she calls you – and she might – tell her you have no idea where I am.”
“I don’t have any idea where you are, doc.”
“Let’s keep it that way – for your own good. “Write something, will you? Get something on the Balcony soon or you’ll lose all your readers.”
“Where you calling from, doc?”
“I prefer not to say. I’m on the run from a woman who is formidably crazy. She has powerful friends.”
I took the phone into the living room and sat on the couch.
“How you been, Doc?”
“Wrong question, man. It’s not how I am – it’s WTF is the matter with you? The Balcony is a disgrace. There’s no political writing, for one thing, and for another you haven’t posted anything new for weeks. What’s the deal? Don’t tell me that the school district is keeping you so busy that you have no time to scribble? You must scribble, do you hear me?”
I didn’t bother trying to explain the trials and tribulations of holding down an 8-to-5 job, raising kids, helping with homework, refereeing endless sibling squabbles, doing laundry, grocery shopping, and all the other domestic chores that need to be done.
“How about the Middle East? The US of A is behind the curve on this one, of course, but that’s to be expected from a dying empire that can’t see beyond its asshole. Unless the west intervenes militarily, that insane bastard Gaddafi will probably survive; nonetheless, a very loud message has been sent to the rulers. I bet the Saudis are wetting themselves. I know you’re not caught up in the Charlie Sheen circus, so what the hell have you been doing?”
“Reading. Working on some fiction. You really should get married and settle down, doc. Do you good.”
“Only way I could be married is if I could have a harem. You bummed about Japan? Astonishing devastation. When did you live over there?”
“1977 to 1983. It’s very sad, doc. The suffering, the loss, the potential for nuclear catastrophe; I wonder if the world is being told the truth about the extent of the damage – and the risks. I keep seeing these tiny old Japanese women staring blankly at what used to be their homes.”
“Governments lie, particularly to avoid scaring the bejesus out of their citizens. Assume the worst is my advice.”
“I looked at some photographs of Chernobyl today,” I said. “The restricted area is about the size of Yellowstone National Park. Chilling stuff. Abandoned buildings, empty villages and schools, ghastly photos of deformed children. The only living thing thriving there is the forest; it’s taking over.”
I thought I heard Duke sigh, though for all I know he was taking a hit from a bong.
“Mankind is determined to destroy this planet,” Duke said. “And it will. What are you reading?”
“Absolute Friends, John LeCarre. You?”
“Plato, the Republic. I keep searching for answers. I thought I had something with this one, but she turned out to be a psycho. She knows we’re friends so if she calls you – and she might – tell her you have no idea where I am.”
“I don’t have any idea where you are, doc.”
“Let’s keep it that way – for your own good. “Write something, will you? Get something on the Balcony soon or you’ll lose all your readers.”
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Road to Forgetting
“The struggle of memory against forgetting.” Milan Kundera
We’re Americans. Our specialty is forgetting. History is what happened five minutes ago. History is gaudy spectacle – the Super Bowl halftime show, Lady Gaga arriving at the Grammy Awards in an embryo – and we need it big, loud, and flashy, and the faster the better. 4G fast. Trivia is our lifeblood and we demand instant access to the latest from Hollywood, the doings of the Kardashian conglomerate, quick updates from the Jersey Shore, tweets from Sarah Palin. We create reality. Information that doesn’t fit is discarded. George Orwell is dead. The Ministry of Truth manufactures lies. Ignore the truth and you will be rendered powerless by lies. They say the economy is staging a recovery, yet millions of homes sit empty and millions of people cannot find decent jobs to afford those empty homes. “Imported from Detroit” is an ironic advertising slogan. Reality contradicts spin, but who cares? Verizon now has the iPhone. This is important. Demand for Botox is tremendous. This is newsworthy. The struggle to remember, the need to forget. How did we get from there to here, from peasant and serf and disposable industrial laborer to the golden age of the middle class and then to this era of never-ending anxiety? The cognitive dissonance is as loud as a screaming F-14. We can afford tax cuts for those who don’t need them; we can afford foreign wars that go on for decades; yet we can’t afford to help the less fortunate, young or old, the infirm, the indigent or the unlucky because austerity is what we do now. The poor must sacrifice so the wealthy don’t have to. This is the new fairness doctrine. Cut to the bone, slice to the marrow, a penny saved on the backs of the poor today can be handed to the plutocrats tomorrow. But who cares? We have spectacle. We have shopping malls. We have 3D television. What happened in Egypt already seems like ancient history, as dusty as the Great Pyramid. One less toothbrush in the stand, one less towel on the rack, one less plate on the table, one less voice on the phone -- one more stone in the cemetery. The powerful count on us to forget. Entire political campaigns are built on false myths and fairy tales of a time that never was. Sarah Palin is the new Reagan; once again it is morning in America, a happy time. The road to forgetting is paved with negotiable facts.
We’re Americans. Our specialty is forgetting. History is what happened five minutes ago. History is gaudy spectacle – the Super Bowl halftime show, Lady Gaga arriving at the Grammy Awards in an embryo – and we need it big, loud, and flashy, and the faster the better. 4G fast. Trivia is our lifeblood and we demand instant access to the latest from Hollywood, the doings of the Kardashian conglomerate, quick updates from the Jersey Shore, tweets from Sarah Palin. We create reality. Information that doesn’t fit is discarded. George Orwell is dead. The Ministry of Truth manufactures lies. Ignore the truth and you will be rendered powerless by lies. They say the economy is staging a recovery, yet millions of homes sit empty and millions of people cannot find decent jobs to afford those empty homes. “Imported from Detroit” is an ironic advertising slogan. Reality contradicts spin, but who cares? Verizon now has the iPhone. This is important. Demand for Botox is tremendous. This is newsworthy. The struggle to remember, the need to forget. How did we get from there to here, from peasant and serf and disposable industrial laborer to the golden age of the middle class and then to this era of never-ending anxiety? The cognitive dissonance is as loud as a screaming F-14. We can afford tax cuts for those who don’t need them; we can afford foreign wars that go on for decades; yet we can’t afford to help the less fortunate, young or old, the infirm, the indigent or the unlucky because austerity is what we do now. The poor must sacrifice so the wealthy don’t have to. This is the new fairness doctrine. Cut to the bone, slice to the marrow, a penny saved on the backs of the poor today can be handed to the plutocrats tomorrow. But who cares? We have spectacle. We have shopping malls. We have 3D television. What happened in Egypt already seems like ancient history, as dusty as the Great Pyramid. One less toothbrush in the stand, one less towel on the rack, one less plate on the table, one less voice on the phone -- one more stone in the cemetery. The powerful count on us to forget. Entire political campaigns are built on false myths and fairy tales of a time that never was. Sarah Palin is the new Reagan; once again it is morning in America, a happy time. The road to forgetting is paved with negotiable facts.
Friday, February 04, 2011
Fiction: A Refined Gentleman
In early September Kelsey dragged me to a wine and cheese back-to-school reception at her daughter’s school. I owed her for accompanying me the month before to an incredibly dull company BBQ where we found ourselves seated at a table with two guys from the Accounting department. Talk about heavy, uncomfortable silences.
Making chit-chat with strangers gives me the willies and I felt my anxiety level rise as soon as we entered the school courtyard, crowded with parents milling around tables loaded with cheeses, olives, bread, vegetables, pasta and dips donated by the owner of a well-known local restaurant; an adjacent table was loaded with wine bottles, all local varieties, served in clear plastic cups by a late 40’s woman who radiated an aura of established money. I pegged her for the wife of a surgeon -- one of those energetic types with unlimited time to devote to worthy causes while her spouse repairs arteries or snips out brain tumors.
“Red or white?” she asked, holding a bottle of each.
“Both, though not at the same time. Start me off with white.”
The woman gave me a disdainful look when she handed me the cup. I often have that effect on people though I don’t know why.
“Don’t go away. I’ll be back in a minute for the red,” I said sweetly.
Kelsey punched me on the arm. “Behave, OK? Let’s mingle.”
“How about you mingle and I drink my wine. This definitely isn’t my scene. Can’t you feel the neurosis in the air? It’s so thick it’s choking me. Every one of these people thinks their child is destined for Harvard, Yale or MIT.”
Kelsey warned me not to get started. “I’m going over to say hello to Amy,” she said. “If I leave you alone for five minutes can you stay out of trouble?”
After assuring Kelsey that I would remain on my best behavior, I sat on a low wall and watched a fluffy cloud slip across the sky. There was just enough of a breeze to stir the flag flying over the courtyard. Lincoln Elementary is a landmark on the prosperous side of our seaside town, built in the early 1920’s, and now surrounded by multi-million dollar homes with red tile roofs, manicured lawns, wrought-iron gates, balconies and curving driveways. Kelsey had explained that the school district bussed kids in from lesser parts of town to achieve a modicum of socio-economic balance. Brown Juan and Juanita meet lily-white Ethan and Emily.
I could see Kelsey and Amy talking on the other side of the courtyard, Amy gesturing with her cup, Kelsey listening intently, her head cocked to one side. It hadn’t been easy to get Kelsey’s kid into Lincoln, and without Amy’s knowledge of the school district’s policies it might not have happened – as Amy frequently reminded us.
I meandered back to the wine table for a refill. A striking brunette in curve-hugging jeans and an off the shoulder t-shirt had replaced the surgeon’s wife; her eyes were green and luminous and on her finger rested the largest authentic diamond I’d ever seen. Her make-up was flawless, her teeth dazzling. I figured her for the wife of a finance or real estate wheeler-dealer, and I’d of bet my last twenty bucks that she drove a Mercedes SUV and did Pilates or yoga three times a week.
The brunette asked what grade my child was in and if he or she liked her teacher, and before I could reply launched into a spiel about the PTA and the Lincoln Foundation. “Fundraising is so important,” she said. “We want the best for our kids, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Nothing but the best. I promise to make an appropriate donation. Thanks for the wine.”
Three guys had taken my spot on the wall so I sat a few feet away, sipped at my wine and eavesdropped. One of the guys was talking about a remodel on his 7,500 square foot home, the problems he was having with a local contractor who had come highly recommended but was proving to be a disappointment. His companions listened, nodding from time to time as if they too had experienced similar frustrations with hired help. I noted their expensive jeans, loafers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up, casual elegance courtesy of Banana Republic and Nordstrom. I smelled money and entitlement. When their talk turned to parasailing in Costa Rica I got up for another refill.
“Back so soon?” the brunette asked. “Are you one of those people who just show up for the free wine and appetizers?”
I leaned across the table. “Can you keep a secret?” She said she could. I glanced over my shoulder and lowered my voice. “I’m an undercover vice cop, here on a case. I don’t mean to alarm you, but everything is not what it seems at Lincoln Elementary.”
“Are you serious?”
“Afraid so. Don’t blow my cover, OK?”
“OhmyGod. Of course. OhmyGod. I won’t say a word.”
Feeling pleased with myself, I resumed wandering around like a cultural anthropologist on a field expedition. Moving on the periphery of conversations about all sorts of subjects, the mundane small talk and polite courtesies that fill adult days and nights, I made mental notes to share with Kelsey later. While I may not enjoy making small talk, I do enjoy listening to it.
On my second lap around the courtyard Kelsey joined me.
“Sorry for deserting you. Amy’s going through some hassles at work and needed to talk. Are you behaving yourself?”
“I’m a shining example of restraint and rectitude. I have stories to tell. Tidbits of juicy gossip.”
She kissed me on the cheek and told me I was full of crap. She was happy, having a fine time, thrilled that her child was at Lincoln.
“What’s the protocol for these shindigs?” I asked. “How much time do we need to put in before we can bail? I refuse to share you with these people for more than an hour.”
“Fifteen more minutes? Let me finish with Amy, say hello to the principal and the PTA president, and we’ll go.”
I continued my walk, thinking of Amy, a tolerable woman -- in small doses -- but an incorrigible drama queen whose life careened from one crisis to the next: if the problem wasn’t her ex-husband, it was her hair stylist or her auto mechanic or her mother and on and on. I hated to see Amy take advantage of Kelsey’s natural empathy.
The wall was free again so I sat down and closed my eyes and listened to the echo of voices and laughter.
“Excuse me, is this wall taken?”
The voice belonged to a man with a Clintonesque head of silver hair, pale blue eyes that looked right into mine, and skin tanned as if the man it covered had just returned from two weeks in the Yucatan. He wore a beautifully tailored navy blue suit, a white shirt and gold cufflinks.
He extended his hand. “James Casso. New parent?”
“Yeah, my lady friend’s daughter just started second grade.”
“Welcome to Lincoln. It’s a great school. What kind of work do you do?”
This is my least favorite icebreaker question. I detest being defined and categorized by my job, and if I didn’t need the money I wouldn’t do what I do; I’d much rather be a professional magician or a blues guitar player or a rodeo clown. Hating the occupation question as I do, I make a point of lying when it’s directed at me. At a wedding once I concocted three different occupations while moving down the buffet line.
“I’m a casualty of the great American casino economy,” I said.
Casso laughed. “I take it you’re unemployed?”
“Hard core unemployed, a grim statistic.”
“How long has it been?”
“Thirteen months, four hundred and seventy-six resumes, two interviews, no job offers. What’s your line, doctor, lawyer, CPA?”
“I’m a private wealth manager.”
“Sounds impressive.”
Casso shrugged. “It simply means people entrust me to take calculated risks with their money. All in all I do pretty well for my clients and myself, even in a sluggish economy like this one. It’s not rocket science: good fundamentals and a long term outlook are the keys.”
He sounded like a TV commercial you see during golf tournaments. Trust Charles Schwab. Grab a piece of the rock, etc. I admired the suit, the tan, the manicured fingernails, the gold cufflinks, but James Casso and I had as much in common as an armadillo has with an egret. I was about to get up and move on when Casso turned the conversation in a completely different direction.
“One of the marvelous things about this school,” he said, “which I’m sure you’ve already taken notice of, is the crop of trophy wives, many of whom are not above a bit of extramarital activity. Take the woman who served your wine. Brittany Lancaster Taylor, former swimsuit model and sometime jewelry designer, twenty-six years younger than her husband, restaurant impresario Randall Taylor. Randy boasts a net worth, conservatively speaking, of thirty million dollars. He’s also without doubt one of the most perfect bastards I have ever met. Cutthroat. Pitiless. No qualms about cutting a legal corner or two. You either love him or despise him – middle ground is out of the question. I never understood the attraction. Like most people, I assume Brittany married Randy for the lifestyle he can provide her, but perhaps I’m being narrow and cynical. I suppose it’s possible that Randy is the love of her life and treats her like a princess.”
Casso paused and smiled. “I’ve been trying to get into her panties for some time now. No breakthrough yet, but I’m a persistent man and sooner or later I get what I want.”
“Does your wife know about this quest of yours?” I asked, lightly.
“What wives don’t know never hurts them,” Casso said. “I’m on my third, so I feel myself something of an authority on the subject.”
I sipped my wine and held my tongue.
“You disapprove?” Casso asked.
“Not at all. Whatever puts air in your tires.”
“Are you telling me the idea of straying never crosses your mind? I find that difficult to believe. Do you share everything with your girlfriend? No secret, inner life for you?”
“Being raised Catholic left me susceptible to guilt.” A lie. I was raised a Methodist.
Where the hell was Kelsey? This is the reason I have an aversion to social functions. Of all the people to be stuck in conversation with I had the misfortune to get this serial philanderer in a thousand dollar suit.
“Your ethics come from being raised Catholic?”
I told him that I hadn’t set foot inside a church in thirty years, which was true; in fact, I said, it was my firm and abiding belief that God was the single most destructive myth ever created by the human race. This amused him.
“Under what circumstances do you lie?” he asked.
“When it’s convenient, of course.”
Casso smoothed his tie. “Lies are indispensible. Many years ago I discovered two sources of endless pleasure: making large sums of money and having a variety of sexual experiences. Boredom is man’s natural enemy. For me, money and sex keep boredom at bay. I’ve never lied to my clients -- that’s the truth -- but sex is another matter. If I have to tell a lie or two in order to have sex, I do so without hesitation and no guilt whatsoever. Some men collect antique firearms or vintage cars; I collect women. I remember them, too, every one of them – the feel of their skin, the smell of their hair, the sound of their voices.”
Golf or tennis at the country club doesn’t do it for you, huh? I thought to myself.
But Casso wasn’t finished. “Not to brag, but I have something of a gift when it comes to women. I can look at a woman and instantly know if she’s the type who takes it through the back gate. For example, see that woman over there, the one on the left? She doesn’t.”
I was on my feet and felt the blood rushing to my face. My empty cup fell to the cement. “That’s my girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. How boorish of me. Do you want to punch me?”
“I’d hate to ruin your shirt.”
“I appreciate that – it’s Armani.”
“Mine’s Ross Dress for Less.”
My last fight was in the sixth grade against a bully named Chris King and consisted of a couple of shoves, a wild open handed slap and a headlock; it ended in a draw and three afternoons of detention in the principal’s office. I desperately wanted to feel my knuckles crash against Casso’s jaw, watch him fall, and then finish him off with a kick to the ribs. What I felt was so primal it scared me. Blood lust. The overwhelming need to inflict pain, see my victim suffer, hear him beg for mercy.
“Awfully stupid of me,” Casso said.
I said nothing. My heart was still racing when Kelsey mercifully appeared at my side. I didn’t bother introducing her.
“Good luck with your job search!” Casso called as we walked away.
Kelsey linked her arm through mine. The sky had turned deep blue and a few stars were visible. “What job search?”
“Never mind. We were just shooting the breeze. Money, politics, baseball, the usual stuff men talk about.”
“You hate baseball. I bet you were talking about sex. Some of those mothers are hot.”
I pulled her close. “Would I talk about sex with a refined gentleman like that?”
Making chit-chat with strangers gives me the willies and I felt my anxiety level rise as soon as we entered the school courtyard, crowded with parents milling around tables loaded with cheeses, olives, bread, vegetables, pasta and dips donated by the owner of a well-known local restaurant; an adjacent table was loaded with wine bottles, all local varieties, served in clear plastic cups by a late 40’s woman who radiated an aura of established money. I pegged her for the wife of a surgeon -- one of those energetic types with unlimited time to devote to worthy causes while her spouse repairs arteries or snips out brain tumors.
“Red or white?” she asked, holding a bottle of each.
“Both, though not at the same time. Start me off with white.”
The woman gave me a disdainful look when she handed me the cup. I often have that effect on people though I don’t know why.
“Don’t go away. I’ll be back in a minute for the red,” I said sweetly.
Kelsey punched me on the arm. “Behave, OK? Let’s mingle.”
“How about you mingle and I drink my wine. This definitely isn’t my scene. Can’t you feel the neurosis in the air? It’s so thick it’s choking me. Every one of these people thinks their child is destined for Harvard, Yale or MIT.”
Kelsey warned me not to get started. “I’m going over to say hello to Amy,” she said. “If I leave you alone for five minutes can you stay out of trouble?”
After assuring Kelsey that I would remain on my best behavior, I sat on a low wall and watched a fluffy cloud slip across the sky. There was just enough of a breeze to stir the flag flying over the courtyard. Lincoln Elementary is a landmark on the prosperous side of our seaside town, built in the early 1920’s, and now surrounded by multi-million dollar homes with red tile roofs, manicured lawns, wrought-iron gates, balconies and curving driveways. Kelsey had explained that the school district bussed kids in from lesser parts of town to achieve a modicum of socio-economic balance. Brown Juan and Juanita meet lily-white Ethan and Emily.
I could see Kelsey and Amy talking on the other side of the courtyard, Amy gesturing with her cup, Kelsey listening intently, her head cocked to one side. It hadn’t been easy to get Kelsey’s kid into Lincoln, and without Amy’s knowledge of the school district’s policies it might not have happened – as Amy frequently reminded us.
I meandered back to the wine table for a refill. A striking brunette in curve-hugging jeans and an off the shoulder t-shirt had replaced the surgeon’s wife; her eyes were green and luminous and on her finger rested the largest authentic diamond I’d ever seen. Her make-up was flawless, her teeth dazzling. I figured her for the wife of a finance or real estate wheeler-dealer, and I’d of bet my last twenty bucks that she drove a Mercedes SUV and did Pilates or yoga three times a week.
The brunette asked what grade my child was in and if he or she liked her teacher, and before I could reply launched into a spiel about the PTA and the Lincoln Foundation. “Fundraising is so important,” she said. “We want the best for our kids, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Nothing but the best. I promise to make an appropriate donation. Thanks for the wine.”
Three guys had taken my spot on the wall so I sat a few feet away, sipped at my wine and eavesdropped. One of the guys was talking about a remodel on his 7,500 square foot home, the problems he was having with a local contractor who had come highly recommended but was proving to be a disappointment. His companions listened, nodding from time to time as if they too had experienced similar frustrations with hired help. I noted their expensive jeans, loafers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up, casual elegance courtesy of Banana Republic and Nordstrom. I smelled money and entitlement. When their talk turned to parasailing in Costa Rica I got up for another refill.
“Back so soon?” the brunette asked. “Are you one of those people who just show up for the free wine and appetizers?”
I leaned across the table. “Can you keep a secret?” She said she could. I glanced over my shoulder and lowered my voice. “I’m an undercover vice cop, here on a case. I don’t mean to alarm you, but everything is not what it seems at Lincoln Elementary.”
“Are you serious?”
“Afraid so. Don’t blow my cover, OK?”
“OhmyGod. Of course. OhmyGod. I won’t say a word.”
Feeling pleased with myself, I resumed wandering around like a cultural anthropologist on a field expedition. Moving on the periphery of conversations about all sorts of subjects, the mundane small talk and polite courtesies that fill adult days and nights, I made mental notes to share with Kelsey later. While I may not enjoy making small talk, I do enjoy listening to it.
On my second lap around the courtyard Kelsey joined me.
“Sorry for deserting you. Amy’s going through some hassles at work and needed to talk. Are you behaving yourself?”
“I’m a shining example of restraint and rectitude. I have stories to tell. Tidbits of juicy gossip.”
She kissed me on the cheek and told me I was full of crap. She was happy, having a fine time, thrilled that her child was at Lincoln.
“What’s the protocol for these shindigs?” I asked. “How much time do we need to put in before we can bail? I refuse to share you with these people for more than an hour.”
“Fifteen more minutes? Let me finish with Amy, say hello to the principal and the PTA president, and we’ll go.”
I continued my walk, thinking of Amy, a tolerable woman -- in small doses -- but an incorrigible drama queen whose life careened from one crisis to the next: if the problem wasn’t her ex-husband, it was her hair stylist or her auto mechanic or her mother and on and on. I hated to see Amy take advantage of Kelsey’s natural empathy.
The wall was free again so I sat down and closed my eyes and listened to the echo of voices and laughter.
“Excuse me, is this wall taken?”
The voice belonged to a man with a Clintonesque head of silver hair, pale blue eyes that looked right into mine, and skin tanned as if the man it covered had just returned from two weeks in the Yucatan. He wore a beautifully tailored navy blue suit, a white shirt and gold cufflinks.
He extended his hand. “James Casso. New parent?”
“Yeah, my lady friend’s daughter just started second grade.”
“Welcome to Lincoln. It’s a great school. What kind of work do you do?”
This is my least favorite icebreaker question. I detest being defined and categorized by my job, and if I didn’t need the money I wouldn’t do what I do; I’d much rather be a professional magician or a blues guitar player or a rodeo clown. Hating the occupation question as I do, I make a point of lying when it’s directed at me. At a wedding once I concocted three different occupations while moving down the buffet line.
“I’m a casualty of the great American casino economy,” I said.
Casso laughed. “I take it you’re unemployed?”
“Hard core unemployed, a grim statistic.”
“How long has it been?”
“Thirteen months, four hundred and seventy-six resumes, two interviews, no job offers. What’s your line, doctor, lawyer, CPA?”
“I’m a private wealth manager.”
“Sounds impressive.”
Casso shrugged. “It simply means people entrust me to take calculated risks with their money. All in all I do pretty well for my clients and myself, even in a sluggish economy like this one. It’s not rocket science: good fundamentals and a long term outlook are the keys.”
He sounded like a TV commercial you see during golf tournaments. Trust Charles Schwab. Grab a piece of the rock, etc. I admired the suit, the tan, the manicured fingernails, the gold cufflinks, but James Casso and I had as much in common as an armadillo has with an egret. I was about to get up and move on when Casso turned the conversation in a completely different direction.
“One of the marvelous things about this school,” he said, “which I’m sure you’ve already taken notice of, is the crop of trophy wives, many of whom are not above a bit of extramarital activity. Take the woman who served your wine. Brittany Lancaster Taylor, former swimsuit model and sometime jewelry designer, twenty-six years younger than her husband, restaurant impresario Randall Taylor. Randy boasts a net worth, conservatively speaking, of thirty million dollars. He’s also without doubt one of the most perfect bastards I have ever met. Cutthroat. Pitiless. No qualms about cutting a legal corner or two. You either love him or despise him – middle ground is out of the question. I never understood the attraction. Like most people, I assume Brittany married Randy for the lifestyle he can provide her, but perhaps I’m being narrow and cynical. I suppose it’s possible that Randy is the love of her life and treats her like a princess.”
Casso paused and smiled. “I’ve been trying to get into her panties for some time now. No breakthrough yet, but I’m a persistent man and sooner or later I get what I want.”
“Does your wife know about this quest of yours?” I asked, lightly.
“What wives don’t know never hurts them,” Casso said. “I’m on my third, so I feel myself something of an authority on the subject.”
I sipped my wine and held my tongue.
“You disapprove?” Casso asked.
“Not at all. Whatever puts air in your tires.”
“Are you telling me the idea of straying never crosses your mind? I find that difficult to believe. Do you share everything with your girlfriend? No secret, inner life for you?”
“Being raised Catholic left me susceptible to guilt.” A lie. I was raised a Methodist.
Where the hell was Kelsey? This is the reason I have an aversion to social functions. Of all the people to be stuck in conversation with I had the misfortune to get this serial philanderer in a thousand dollar suit.
“Your ethics come from being raised Catholic?”
I told him that I hadn’t set foot inside a church in thirty years, which was true; in fact, I said, it was my firm and abiding belief that God was the single most destructive myth ever created by the human race. This amused him.
“Under what circumstances do you lie?” he asked.
“When it’s convenient, of course.”
Casso smoothed his tie. “Lies are indispensible. Many years ago I discovered two sources of endless pleasure: making large sums of money and having a variety of sexual experiences. Boredom is man’s natural enemy. For me, money and sex keep boredom at bay. I’ve never lied to my clients -- that’s the truth -- but sex is another matter. If I have to tell a lie or two in order to have sex, I do so without hesitation and no guilt whatsoever. Some men collect antique firearms or vintage cars; I collect women. I remember them, too, every one of them – the feel of their skin, the smell of their hair, the sound of their voices.”
Golf or tennis at the country club doesn’t do it for you, huh? I thought to myself.
But Casso wasn’t finished. “Not to brag, but I have something of a gift when it comes to women. I can look at a woman and instantly know if she’s the type who takes it through the back gate. For example, see that woman over there, the one on the left? She doesn’t.”
I was on my feet and felt the blood rushing to my face. My empty cup fell to the cement. “That’s my girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. How boorish of me. Do you want to punch me?”
“I’d hate to ruin your shirt.”
“I appreciate that – it’s Armani.”
“Mine’s Ross Dress for Less.”
My last fight was in the sixth grade against a bully named Chris King and consisted of a couple of shoves, a wild open handed slap and a headlock; it ended in a draw and three afternoons of detention in the principal’s office. I desperately wanted to feel my knuckles crash against Casso’s jaw, watch him fall, and then finish him off with a kick to the ribs. What I felt was so primal it scared me. Blood lust. The overwhelming need to inflict pain, see my victim suffer, hear him beg for mercy.
“Awfully stupid of me,” Casso said.
I said nothing. My heart was still racing when Kelsey mercifully appeared at my side. I didn’t bother introducing her.
“Good luck with your job search!” Casso called as we walked away.
Kelsey linked her arm through mine. The sky had turned deep blue and a few stars were visible. “What job search?”
“Never mind. We were just shooting the breeze. Money, politics, baseball, the usual stuff men talk about.”
“You hate baseball. I bet you were talking about sex. Some of those mothers are hot.”
I pulled her close. “Would I talk about sex with a refined gentleman like that?”
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Under the Cobalt Sky
Most of the country is snowed under or enduring freezing rain, but here in Santa Barbara it’s a balmy January evening with a full moon rising over the Lobero Theatre. My wife and I are walking down State Street toward the beach with no particular destination in mind, out mainly because we don’t have our kids and the evening is too lovely to spend indoors. Tourists and pods of young people pass us by, a panhandler plies his craft without much success, and a street musician strums a beat-up guitar.
We stop before a vacant storefront and struggle to recall what had occupied the space. I think it was a jewelry store but my wife remembers it as a place that sold imported bric-a-brac. Not often being in need of bric-a-brac, imported or domestic, I can’t say if she’s wrong or right. We move on, enjoying the air and the cobalt sky. The recently shuttered Borders book store looms before us, hollowed out and empty, outlines on the carpet and walls where display shelves once stood. Across the street Barnes & Noble has also closed, so except for the venerable, cozy Book Den on Anapamu Street, downtown Santa Barbara is without a bookstore. I know my wife is also contemplating the demise of downtown bookstores; over the years we spent many, many pleasurable hours browsing the stacks in Borders and Barnes & Noble and it’s hard to imagine our downtown without a major book retailer.
“Our downtown” is perhaps overstating things because, in my opinion, downtown SB hasn’t belonged to locals like us in a long time. SB was a town but has been transformed into a travel destination, hawked in glossy magazines and on the Internet in the same way advertisers sell soap or beer. Brand recognition. The American Riviera they call it. Santa Barbara Magazine makes it all look beautiful and refined, clean, safe, a charming paradise where life is fulfilling and rich, and unpleasantness has been forever banned.
I’m old enough and have lived here long enough to remember JC Penny, the White House, Lerner’s, Lou Rose, OTT’s, the lunch counter at Woolworth’s, the Earthling Bookstore and the Copper Coffee Pot – all relics of memory now. My wife reminds me of the many banks that lined State Street in our childhoods, which brings to mind Crocker Bank, where my mother once worked as a teller. How long ago did Crocker Bank close its doors? Twenty-five years at least, perhaps longer.
A hazard of living in the same place for many years is watching it change. Whether the changes are good or bad depends on one’s sensibilities. Businesses and people come and go, landmark stores and eateries close their doors, slip into memory and become fodder for conversations that start with “Do you remember…?”
We continue strolling as the moon climbs to mingle with the stars, lost in reverie and nostalgic feelings for childhood and a bygone era, and the trance holds until our senses are assaulted outside Abercrombie & Fitch by pulsing music and the overpowering smell of men’s cologne. Abercrombie, Juicy Couture, Old Navy, Macy’s, Nordstrom, GAP, Betsy Johnson, Restoration Hardware and Banana Republic, big name retailers that have displaced locally owned mom & pop stores. Some might call this progress, and they would be right, of course – cities either change or perish—but it leaves me feeling alienated from the main street of my hometown.
At Cota Street we cross to the other side of State and head back uptown, past the fountain near the Metro Theatre where a kid with matted hair and a dragon tat on his chest asks for change. He smiles politely when we decline to aid his cause; I’m sure he has no idea that Crocker Bank ever existed or that SB boasted a Woolworth’s with a lunch counter. He may not even realize how quickly the present becomes the past.
But his moment will come.
We stop before a vacant storefront and struggle to recall what had occupied the space. I think it was a jewelry store but my wife remembers it as a place that sold imported bric-a-brac. Not often being in need of bric-a-brac, imported or domestic, I can’t say if she’s wrong or right. We move on, enjoying the air and the cobalt sky. The recently shuttered Borders book store looms before us, hollowed out and empty, outlines on the carpet and walls where display shelves once stood. Across the street Barnes & Noble has also closed, so except for the venerable, cozy Book Den on Anapamu Street, downtown Santa Barbara is without a bookstore. I know my wife is also contemplating the demise of downtown bookstores; over the years we spent many, many pleasurable hours browsing the stacks in Borders and Barnes & Noble and it’s hard to imagine our downtown without a major book retailer.
“Our downtown” is perhaps overstating things because, in my opinion, downtown SB hasn’t belonged to locals like us in a long time. SB was a town but has been transformed into a travel destination, hawked in glossy magazines and on the Internet in the same way advertisers sell soap or beer. Brand recognition. The American Riviera they call it. Santa Barbara Magazine makes it all look beautiful and refined, clean, safe, a charming paradise where life is fulfilling and rich, and unpleasantness has been forever banned.
I’m old enough and have lived here long enough to remember JC Penny, the White House, Lerner’s, Lou Rose, OTT’s, the lunch counter at Woolworth’s, the Earthling Bookstore and the Copper Coffee Pot – all relics of memory now. My wife reminds me of the many banks that lined State Street in our childhoods, which brings to mind Crocker Bank, where my mother once worked as a teller. How long ago did Crocker Bank close its doors? Twenty-five years at least, perhaps longer.
A hazard of living in the same place for many years is watching it change. Whether the changes are good or bad depends on one’s sensibilities. Businesses and people come and go, landmark stores and eateries close their doors, slip into memory and become fodder for conversations that start with “Do you remember…?”
We continue strolling as the moon climbs to mingle with the stars, lost in reverie and nostalgic feelings for childhood and a bygone era, and the trance holds until our senses are assaulted outside Abercrombie & Fitch by pulsing music and the overpowering smell of men’s cologne. Abercrombie, Juicy Couture, Old Navy, Macy’s, Nordstrom, GAP, Betsy Johnson, Restoration Hardware and Banana Republic, big name retailers that have displaced locally owned mom & pop stores. Some might call this progress, and they would be right, of course – cities either change or perish—but it leaves me feeling alienated from the main street of my hometown.
At Cota Street we cross to the other side of State and head back uptown, past the fountain near the Metro Theatre where a kid with matted hair and a dragon tat on his chest asks for change. He smiles politely when we decline to aid his cause; I’m sure he has no idea that Crocker Bank ever existed or that SB boasted a Woolworth’s with a lunch counter. He may not even realize how quickly the present becomes the past.
But his moment will come.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
C-Minus
I’m looking for the joys of parenthood in all the usual places but would settle for far less, an IOU of gratitude from my teenage son or one day without a screaming meltdown from my daughter. I would settle for an hour without bickering. I might do a back flip if my kids’ soiled laundry was placed in the hamper rather than back in the dresser to mingle with the clean clothes, dirty socks jive talking with clean boxer shorts.
I’m not their butler. I’m not their valet. I’m not their maid. If I repeat this mantra one hundred times a day it might manifest in the real world.
My son earned a C- in Geometry. Not the end of the world, of course, though I’m bothered (actually kind of pissed off) because the C- is due to laziness not lack of ability. In his other classes the kid is earning A’s and B’s. I don’t like math my son says, as if this explains everything and ends the discussion. OK, fine, the mysterious world of mathematic concepts doesn’t put flame to your wick, but with a little more effort on your part – and effort is all this comes down to – you could earn a B. There are all kinds of tutoring opportunities…
That’s as far as I get before I see him slip behind his impenetrable wall of teenage arrogance and angst. The drawbridge goes up and slams shut. He dares me to talk until my face turns blue-green. I don’t understand. High school is different now. This isn’t 1955. He turns his back on me, slips headphones on, cranks up Florence and the Machine and disappears into his interior world. I imagine ripping the headphones off his head, spinning him around in his chair and going Tony Soprano on his scrawny teenage butt. My superior adult knowledge can be forced into his brain, right?
The C- rankles me. Why this acceptance of mediocrity when a fraction more effort would have earned him a B? A couple of sessions with a peer tutor and he could have cruised to a decent mark. It makes perfect sense to me; none to him, and this is, I think, the essence of being a parent. I can’t live my son’s life for him, make decisions for him, do the right thing for him; he is destined to be the proud owner of his own mistakes and more times than not all I will be able to do is stand by and watch him stumble over his ego, his temper, his arrogance, and his fears.
Perhaps it’s not as bleak as all that. Perhaps as Bruce Springsteen wrote many years ago, one day we will look back on this and it will all seem funny.
I’m not their butler. I’m not their valet. I’m not their maid. If I repeat this mantra one hundred times a day it might manifest in the real world.
My son earned a C- in Geometry. Not the end of the world, of course, though I’m bothered (actually kind of pissed off) because the C- is due to laziness not lack of ability. In his other classes the kid is earning A’s and B’s. I don’t like math my son says, as if this explains everything and ends the discussion. OK, fine, the mysterious world of mathematic concepts doesn’t put flame to your wick, but with a little more effort on your part – and effort is all this comes down to – you could earn a B. There are all kinds of tutoring opportunities…
That’s as far as I get before I see him slip behind his impenetrable wall of teenage arrogance and angst. The drawbridge goes up and slams shut. He dares me to talk until my face turns blue-green. I don’t understand. High school is different now. This isn’t 1955. He turns his back on me, slips headphones on, cranks up Florence and the Machine and disappears into his interior world. I imagine ripping the headphones off his head, spinning him around in his chair and going Tony Soprano on his scrawny teenage butt. My superior adult knowledge can be forced into his brain, right?
The C- rankles me. Why this acceptance of mediocrity when a fraction more effort would have earned him a B? A couple of sessions with a peer tutor and he could have cruised to a decent mark. It makes perfect sense to me; none to him, and this is, I think, the essence of being a parent. I can’t live my son’s life for him, make decisions for him, do the right thing for him; he is destined to be the proud owner of his own mistakes and more times than not all I will be able to do is stand by and watch him stumble over his ego, his temper, his arrogance, and his fears.
Perhaps it’s not as bleak as all that. Perhaps as Bruce Springsteen wrote many years ago, one day we will look back on this and it will all seem funny.
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