pith…

While listening to BBC news coverage of Iran on the radio this morning, the words “Revolution speeds evolution” came to my head. At the time, the words fit the current Iran situation very well and time will tell whether there is a revolution, a new election, or crushed hopes and lives. Since it rang in my head, I scribbled it in my ever-present notebook for later reference. As I scribbled the, I thought this must have been said before.

When I got to work, I googled the phrase, searching various combos for 10-15 minutes, thinking full well that those simple words had been written before. By somebody, sometime. More likely many times.

I was surprised when I found nothing. It’s SO basic. Too basic. Certainly too basic not to be found. It strikes me as such a fundamental truism that it almost goes without saying. A bromide at birth.

The fact that I was pretty sure such a bromide had been born before is conditioned by the lateness of human times, the “been there, done that” attitude to which one is prone in these late days. The post- after the post-modern, if you will, or maybe the post-post-. Who can say? Even the identifiers of “ages” can’t keep up. All I can say is this old horse feels like he’s always chasing a moving post, racing to, but never reaching, the starting gates where a race should begin.

Nevertheless I wrote it. Maybe I should copyright it. But what does copyright mean any more? In this not-world yet hyper-communicative ether of twitter & ilk? Words are open source. Now more than ever. Once released out to the ether, the interwebs (as the clever kids call it), words are community property.

And, after all, they’re all already in the dictionary. Already written, already t/here. Been there, done that, as it were.

Been there, done that? NO. NOT that post-y, unearned cynical pose that may blind us (especially the pre-jaded young) to very fundamental, wholly non ironic, potentially useful TRUTHS.

When we’re too jaded for fundamental truths, small or large, bromidic or aphoristic, we’re truly lost.

But I’m joesmith. A bromide at birth. What the fuck do I know that hasn’t been known already? Too basic to bother, but still do. Too common to claim ownership of anything, let alone three simple words. But yet…

Sometimes a bromide fits the bill.

Revolution does speed evolution. I’m with you in spirit, people of Iran. If I can, I’ll assist however a common man can. May your God be with you.

Recently, New York Times reporter Motoko Rich wrote an article about how during a recession, what people want is a happy book, with a happy ending. Incidentally, book sales have soared in the romance novel genre, and, as the masses know, the vampire love story genre. Mass-market paperbacks fly off the shelves of your Walgreens, Walmarts and Kmarts, while large trade paperbacks suffer at your Barnes and Nobles.

I understand that the heart may be a lonely hunter during this tough economic downturn, and some may feel the need to inject some escapism or sentimentality into their lives. But for the incredulous, a romance novel may not be plausible.

Thus, I’ve assembled what I believe to be 10 “thinking man’s” books to read during an economic slump. Rather than picking 10 books solely dedicated to economics, I’ve tried to be diverse in representing the general tone of this recession. In addition, I’ve incorporated a few books that may not evoke the tone of the recession, but will hopefully encourage you about overcoming it. Most of these books are not de facto “feel good” reads (with the exception of one indispensible comedy), but they are relevant and rewarding in many ways in regard to how one views world discourse. And when the world is in trouble, these books are what I consider food for thought, or reexamination, if you have read them before.

THE WEALTH OF NATIONS

Adam Smith was a strong advocate of a free market economy, and this was in 1776, before the term economics was even coined. Smith argued that a free market economy is more beneficial to society because it promotes healthy relationships with employer and employee, as well as makes people responsible for their choices. “If a nation could not prosper without the enjoyment of perfect liberty and perfect justice, there is not in the world a nation which could ever have prospered”

THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO

Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto is an obvious choice because Marx opposed bureaucracies and the bourgeoisie, and was for the proletariat. With the crisis on Wall Street that propelled us into an even deeper global recession, many (most notably, Christopher Hitchens) have argued that Marx is still very relevant in the discourse of our nation, and the world. “Working men of all countries, unite!”

ATLAS SHRUGGED

Ayn Rand’s gargantuan novel about free enterprise, free market and laissez-faire capitalism, uncannily evokes the tone our current recession. It shouldn’t surprise you that this anti-bureaucratic novel has sold hundreds of thousands of copies in the last 18 months. As some recent bumper stickers have pointed out, we may have to modify Rand’s question from: “Who is John Galt,” to Where is John Galt?

ON LIBERTY

John Stuart Mill echoes his Utilitarian philosophy in this famous essay on civil and social liberty. Mill believes that political actions are necessary and right if they benefit the majority of the people, and provide happiness to the majority of society. Similar to Thomas Paine, he believes that the rights of individuals should be safeguarded or if necessary, fought for by the government. John Stuart Mill was a liberal-minded thinker, and his tone certainly resonates with us today: “the disease which inflicts bureaucracy and what they usually die from is routine.”

THE AUDACITY OF HOPE

With the subtitle: Thoughts for Reclaiming the American Dream, The Audacity of Hope serves well as a manifesto for change in politics. With Obama in office, he is finding out how difficult it can be to overcome partisanship, but many historians agree that although his first hundred days have been challenging, they have been effective and highly productive. As Obama once said, and as we found out in the detail of his latest press conference, “Issues are never simple. One thing I’m proud of is that very rarely will you hear me simplify the issues.”

FAHRENHEIT 451

Ray Bradbury’s dystopian novel on censorship and how television destroys interest in reading literature creates a world of paranoia and little choice. Bradbury’s “fireman” work as book burners who burn books for the “good of humanity.” The novel takes place in a future American society run by self-interest and indulgence; critical thought through reading a book is outlawed. Disturbing? Yes, for: “we must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the constitution says, but everyone made equal.”

RIGHTS OF MAN

Thomas Paine’s polemic asserts that the rights of man should not be taken away by any government. Paine believed that government was there not to interfere, but to safeguard the individual and their inalienable rights, and this is the central thesis of this work. “Nothing then is unchangeable but the inherent and inalienable rights of man.”

LIES AND THE LYING LIARS WHO TELL THEM

I didn’t want to get too partisan with any of these choices, but Al Franken’s book offers some important insight into the changing spirit of America’s political discourse. And it’s funny as hell. Although Franken’s book is subtitled, “A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right,” it is still biased to the left. This, however, shouldn’t stop anyone from reading it, whether you’re left, middle or right. Al is just full of staggering wisdom, for who else could put things so eloquently: “it’s easier to put on slippers than to carpet the whole world.”

LETTERS TO A YOUNG CONTRARIAN

Christopher Hitchens’ witty and educational book is written as a series of letters to whom he calls contrarians. Hitchens uses his incredible knowledge and reason to advise people to question the things they were taught. Question your religion, your politics, your education, your society; question everything. Hitchens’ allusions to politics, literature, history, religion and even pop culture and current events are beautifully integrated in each letter. A lesson from Hitchens that can be applied to all vocations: “write because you have to, not because you want to.”

BANKER TO THE POOR

Nobel Peace Prize laureate Muhammad Yunus discusses how $27 lent out to a village of 45 people spurned his idea for Grameen Bank, a bank that has now lent out about 4 billion dollars to over 7 million people – 95% being poor women. Yunus will inspire you to make a social entrepreneurial difference, whether it’s with $10 or billions of dollars. As Dr. Yunus says, “today, if you look at financial systems around the globe, more than half the population of the world – out of six billion people, more than three billion do not qualify to take out a loan from a bank. This is a shame.”

It seems there is a shortage of gods in the universe today. Here on earth, if you mention the name Baal, Njord, Horus or even Krishna, people will look at you like your nuts, or like you’re alluding to someone out of a fairly tale. These gods, now considered to be blatant myths, are basically extinct. In a day and age when people can recite at least a dozen basketball players, it’s all too interesting that most people are only familiar with their one god, and sometimes that’s even a stretch.

If you ask a neighbor, coworker, friend or family member to name their god, you will find confusion and ignorance. Seriously, try it. At work a few days ago, I took it upon myself to ask this question to ten colleagues. Most people responded by saying, “My god is the god of the bible” or “Jesus Christ” or “I have no idea” or “The Judeo-Christian god.” Out of the ten, not one responded, “well, obviously Yahweh is my god, and he is the great god of the New and Old Testament.”

Shouldn’t one at least know the name of the god they choose to worship? I personally wouldn’t want to pray to an invisible manifestation I don’t know the name of.

The problem with this new evolutionary juncture regarding the few gods still worshiped on this planet is that we have used up all of the gods. Gods are not evolving like they used to – Krishna is not transforming into Jesus (both stories are presumably taken from the same myth). We are stuck. Once these remaining few are christened as myths, what will we do? People are not as superstitious as they were in the past. I don’t see people propagating gods out of thin air. Maybe the Catholic Church will offer a few new gods (as they always have good responses to crises). Maybe alien life will be referred to as gods.

As for now, however, we remain in our comfortable world with our comfortable myths. But the myths, and therefore, the gods, are becoming more and more obsolete.

Currently, we have less than 5 prominent gods to work with. The three-headed monster consists of Christianity’s Yahweh, Islam’s Yahweh and Hinduism’s Krishna and Rama (Hinduism is polytheistic and worships other gods as well, but Rama and Krishna are the main culprits). Add Mormonism’s Yahweh, and we are still only at three gods. These gods are so popular that nearly 5 billion people adhere to them.

So there they are, the three gods the average person should know, but doesn’t. Will these gods continue their reign through child indoctrination, perpetuation of organized religion, and other popularizing techniques, or will they fade into the realm of reason? With the rise of secularism, agnosticism, atheism or other nonreligious groups, it seems as if reason is on the way. Over a billion people in the world today consider themselves secular, agnostic, atheistic or nonreligious – and one can only hope that these people tell (or have told) their children the beauty about the cosmos and the fantasy of the mythos.

It is reassuring to think of the extinction of these gods, and maybe, just maybe, reason will prevail in our future.

Times are hard, money is short, things seem to be spinning out of control. The new President is trying to fix things but these solutions may be too little too late. There is something the President has brought to the table that has been lacking….a sense of cool.

Look back to the old Hollywood movies and you’ll see it. The person who has things, but isn’t controlled by them. The hero who doesn’t need to brag or show off, cause the losers who oppose him aren’t in his league. Plays by the rules when he should, breaks them when they are silly, but does it for a reason always. Smart, quick with a joke….but when he’s pissed, its a bad situation. Not the out of control rage of the villain, not the ranting and false bravado of the rascal, but a tightening of the eyes, the sudden leadness of voice…and the impression of deadly concentration and seriousness.

President Obama knows the power of cool. After a decade of blaring false bravado and irony, the States may be ready to reimbrace its old self-image. Things may be going to hell, but the hero of the story (who is always us in our minds)? The hero’s got it together, man.

By Jeremy Benishek and Kyle Romeis

Drinking Courvoisier on a random Tuesday night can lead to some random entertaining conversations. But can we truly say that this particular Tuesday night was a “random” night? Or can we say that we had “random” conversation? What about that Tuesday would make it random, and likewise, what about those conversations would make them random?

Random is defined by Merriam Webster as: “without definite aim, direction, rule, or method.” Or, according to American Heritage Dictionary, “having no specific pattern or purpose.” This includes its derivatives, randomly and randomness (but throughout the article, the word random will suffice for our argument).

It’s easy to cower when hearing the multitudes of people who use the word random erroneously. Photo albums on Facebook labeled “random pictures,” people alluding to “their random thoughts,” or that they are proud of their “random acts of kindness.” Why do we enjoy throwing the word random around in conversation to such excess, and why do we think we’re using the word correctly?

It is probable that the word random is misused in conversation far more often than it is used correctly. Because it is so acceptable to use it incorrectly, the word has come to mean something entirely different that what it really means, according to its definition, and its etymology.

As a rule of thumb, two things that can stop us from using random incorrectly are: if you can consciously think something before acting on it or saying it OR if it has definite aim, direction, rule or method, it is not random. This therefore includes random pictures, random acts of kindness and random thoughts, which will now be explained. It also may include other phrases with the word random in it, but we will focus on these.

The photos you just uploaded onto your Facebook page and labeled “random photos” were not chosen at random, unless you threw them up in the air and grabbed each photo from the ground (at random), and scanned them in. Even if you have a photo of a piece of toast, a picture of you in Peru, a picture of Barack Obama, one of your kitten and one of your condo, you still consciously decided to upload these photos onto Facebook (and probably in a specific order). Therefore, the random photos argument can almost always be refuted. They may be weird, and have no order per se, but this does not make them random. These photos could properly be referred to as miscellaneous photos, since they do not all share a common theme or were not all taken at the same location.

Sorry to tell you, but your random thoughts really are not random either because the thought is consciously deliberated on before it is said. It may be a completely absurd or ridiculous thought, but that does not make it random (and just because it popped into your head at that particular moment does not make it random – as all thoughts pop into our heads). If you’re talking politics with some buddies, and someone says, “I’d like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” this isn’t random, so much as it is a non sequitur. And although it may sound random to your buddies, it was your fatuous mind that consciously thought it, and therefore it is not random. Random thoughts could properly be referred to as absurd, spontaneous or ridiculous thoughts.

Just as random is misused to express absurdity; it is also used in conversation in the place of other, more suitable words. When a 15 year old, flaky adolescent is sitting around with her friends and says, “I should really curl my hair tomorrow,” and her friend responds, “Oh, random!,” her friend is incorrect. In this case, it is more likely that the comment, made on the spur of the moment, is a spontaneous or compulsive statement. There was not premeditation, nor was there conversation leading up to her words before speaking them. Of course the girls understand each other when they use random because in this context they understand random to mean spontaneous (an example of how random has become more of a slang term).

Lastly: random acts of kindness. A random act of kindness is not a random act because it’s consciously preempted by the motivational drive of knowing that you’re going to engage in the act. Even if someone was drowning as you were on your daily walk – yes you may be able to call it a fairly spontaneous event, but your conscious thought to rescue this person was not (it may have been instinctual, but there was still meditation that went into your decision to rescue this person). The event and outcome may be spontaneous, but to claim that they’re random is once again using random where there are other, more suitable words.

The problem with these phrases is that they are semantically inaccurate. The English language offers a wide-range of words that can be used and make more sense, in the place of the word random. Random pictures, more accurately stated, would become miscellaneous pictures. Random thoughts, more accurately would become absurd, spontaneous or ridiculous thoughts. A random act of kindness, more accurately stated, would become a spontaneous circumstance that led to kindness.

Maybe we should start using words like absurd, spontaneous, ridiculous, baffling, miscellaneous, etc. in place of random. This might help us break the habit of using random wherever we damn well please, particularly where it doesn’t belong.

Good luck.

THE HAUL FROM HELL. NIGHT TERRORS ON HIGHWAY 25 REVISITED. WILD-EYED PLOWING THROUGH THE HELL-FREEZING WHITEOUT. DELIRIUM IN THE DESERT. WELCOME TO TUCSON.

This wheels on fire, rolling down the road.
Best notify my next of kin, this wheel shall explode.
-The Band

A SHORT PREFACE TO MY ROAD, THE PULSING VEIN OF AMERICAN MOVEMENT & EXPANSION.

Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent a trucker’s career behind the wheel of an automobile careening out across desolate highways or winding through terrifying mountain passes. A son of this cracked asphalt generation, I have covered the wild breath of the lower forty-eight in just a chunk of my twenty-four years on this paved earth. For as long as I can remember I have been fueled by restlessness and an unquenchable thirst for careening through the bowels of this vast American landscape in a vehicle stripped to bare essentials yet filled with the necessary commodore that it takes to drive for inhuman numbers of hours and days. From the lobster trap lined harbors of Maine to the blizzard-riddled peaks of the Rockies down to the entirety of the strange California coast, I have traveled far and wide on four wheels.

As we sped out of Billings already pissed off and in the early stages of bodily and mental fatigue we were dead set on burning through the western chest of the states, scaling the entire east side of the rugged Rocky Mountain Range. Fed up with the brutal wintry weather of Canada and Colorado and everywhere in between we set our sights on the mild lowlands of the Southwest, intent on beginning a strong stint of camping in the desert and burrowing deep into the weird earth that stretches out just above Mexico. I had crawled though the underbellies of New Mexico and Arizona before and in the winter months they still upheld a comfortable arid air, even though they generally weren’t the sun-baked sandy plains that they were most of the year. Either way, we were sick of digging snow off of the now cursed Jeep and not being able to feel our fingers anymore. We?d ridden enough powder and taken enough painful high-speed crashes to satisfy our fiendish adrenaline cravings for a good while and we were ready to kick back and do some serious living outdoors and cooking over fire. We also couldn’t afford to live the ski bum life any longer because it’s so goddamn expensive.

I have little recollection of the second drive from Billings and Denver. I remember vividly doing it the first time in a shitty rented white Dodge Stratus because the intense disgust that boiled inside me from the Billings situation resonated so much. It had already been close to twenty hours since I’d picked Max up at the airport in Denver and then raced back up to Billings to pick up the Jeep from that scumbag mechanic Darrin. Memory jolts back to life when the dim lights of Denver reappeared in a foggy dusting of snow around rush hour. I hadn’t slept a wink since I’d seen them last and as I stared through the flurry-caked windshield with wild eyes my will to get out of the blizzard-riddled mountains grew as my nerves began to unravel. Although it’s just over 200 miles to the New Mexico boarder town of Raton the drive took something like eight dreadful hours.

The jeep was chugging along again like it was built to do and a little snow wasn’t about to stop us from getting out of the high country and into tumbleweed and cactus laden plains. I recall the traffic slowing to a debilitated crawl around Denver, where at all times at least two of the lanes were occupied by massive barreling plows, clearing the fresh snow that seemed to fall harder by the minute. Tuning the XM satellite radio to the weather channel only led to ugly predictions of blasting winter weather well through Colorado Springs and indefinitely down Highway 25. As we floated white-knuckled South the snow only fell harder as everything out of headlights reach disappeared along with any reasonably safe traction on the road. It should have been a blatant clue that it was stupid to keep going as we slowly passed hotels in Pueblo with packed parking lots of semis that stretched unmoving down the sides of off and on ramps. The radio was blaring warnings of whiteouts and chain-only vehicles on the road, deterring any further travel unless absolutely necessary. Our heads hummed with a feverish determination of already way too much medicine which was the only thing keeping us wide-awake and still relatively coherent.

At this point it became blindingly apparent that shit was hitting the fan, and it was frozen and white and engulfed everything outside of the ragtop Jeep. Past Pueblo the only hope of actually staying on the road was following a plow or semi close enough to trail behind the dim red blur of their taillights. Whenever we rolled the windows down a few inches to have a smoke a horizontal stream of cold wetness slapped our faces to remind us what insanity we were heading full-steam into. Slowly screwing our way up the last mountain pass that peaked at the New Mexico boarder a dark maelstrom whipped across the road that no longer had any recognizable form or direction. Blind sheer drops lurked on either side of the invisible crash guards and with a mix of mad ambition and strung-out foolishness we powered into the godforsaken blizzard. Terrifying hours peeled by behind the wheel, adrift plowing forward with hardly any sign of progress except the building anxiety and fear inside our vulnerable fortress on four wheels. The disoriented and hysterical zombie trance that one slips into in these kinds of conditions is not something that everyone can control and actually function under. It is impossible to convey the pure horror that is unavoidable when you drive through a veritable tunnel of swirling ice that takes any limited visibility and turns it into a severely disorienting vertigo. As the Jeep lurched onward up a winding road that wouldn?t reveal itself any more than ten feet ahead in the powerless headlights, a big metallic yellow sign appeared like a lighthouse that welcomed us to New Mexico. Even though the storm hadn’t eased up an ounce, we gained a minor sense of victory and maybe even relief since this meant that the road would finally begin to descend, hopefully dropping us out of the apocalyptic clouds we’d been battered by for eight blurry hours.

Raw nerves kept hands clamped on the wheel and eyes peeled open as far as humanly possible and a soundtrack of heavy rock ‘n’ roll covered up the sounds of the hammering squall outside as we ground our teeth and pressed on. Stopping for gas in the desolate little town of Las Vegas, New Mexico we must have seemed idiotic to the old weathered Native American attendant when we filled up the tank and asked for updated weather reports. His grim words and uneasy looks told us that you’d have to be both crazy and stupid to stay on the highway for the rest of the ungodly pre-dawn hours. Trucks have been sliding into the ditches like go-karts on the patches black ice out there. It’s near suicide, just wait until the sun comes up and you can at least see what the hell you’re driving on. Obviously dire predictions, we nodded like we would heed his warnings but after the serious shit-storm that we’d just gotten through over the peak of the boarder pass, it seemed like smooth sailing in our bleary heads. The snow had finally stopped falling and the suffocating darkness was turning slightly lighter shades of hazy grey as we desperately continued to fly South.

As the sun rose somewhere behind the curtain of ashen clouds that filled the morning I remember being behind the wheel as Tom Waits crowed from the stereo and finally vegetation began to break through the snowy crust and the pavement lost it’s icy sheen. Speeding up as the sky began to break apart, shedding some desperately needed light onto the earth that I was beginning to believe would stay frozen and dead until we hit Mexico, we hardly realized how fucking miraculous it was that we’d made it through the night alive. It must have been a fourth or fifth wind that we caught, induced by more medicine, that had finally put the remorseless snows and biting winds behind us. Sipping hot gritty gas station coffee as an Albuquerque that was coming alive like any normal weekday whizzed by, it was hard to even begin to conceive the ridiculous number of hours that we’d been awake. At that point it had been two full days and about 1600 miles since our bloodshot eyes had more than blinked. The stretch down from Albuquerque heading towards Las Cruces felt like family vacation drive compared to what lay behind us. Somewhere before we reached that strange bottomed out town. The Crosses we’d found what looked like an appealing shortcut over to Tucson, where the plan was to hole up in a cheap hotel for a night before we took to the arid mountains to camp for a while. On the map the angled scenic route seemed quicker and more interesting than the ass end of Highway 25, which we’d been stuck on since Northern Wyoming. Indeed, we thought, we were feeling halfway human again somehow so we?d take a little shortcut and smoke a joint along the way and really enjoy the welcoming desert landscape.

One hand naturally clutching the wheel, the other raising the celebratory stick to my lips, I wove back and forth with the two-lane detour as it wound like a scared rattlesnake through the dried rocky terrain. Although it seemed like such a good idea as we rolled it, I remember rethinking smoking it while the thing still rested smoldering in my tingling fingertips. For obvious reasons we laid off the grass for most of the first two days on that far-flung jaunt, and in retrospect we should have kept that philosophy until we finally stopped for a night. It couldn’t have been more than a handful of minutes before it crept into my utterly fatigued bloodstream and began pulsing through my on-edge and jacked-up body. Both hands grafted to the wheel at this point, the Jeep was driving me, somehow leading me down the twisting and dipping road. My head completely detached from my numb body the synapses in the back of my neck began firing in discombobulated and unexplainable sequences. Sagebrush became herds of buffalo stirring on the shoulder of the narrowing road, leafless trees jumped to life like scarecrows flinging themselves at the Jeep in my tainted peripheral vision. There is no way for me to look back and think about how long I was behind the wheel in this delirious stupor. I remember mumbling some vague words of unease to Max, who sat chain-smoking staring out the window with a similar burnt-out gaze, but he didn’t even try to comprehend it. Then it really hit me as I hopelessly tried to focus on the radiating asphalt in front of me, glanced at my dry white knuckles, while I realized that I had become completely detached from my senses. I couldn’t feel the wheel in my clammy hands, my foot no longer pushed down on the gas pedal, I wasn’t driving anymore and the epiphany came like an electric shock up my spine, somehow sparking the last functioning nerve in my brain. Another complete blank fills the spot where I somehow maneuvered the Jeep to the shoulder of the road in one piece. Crawling out of that wretched drivers seat my legs almost gave out but I managed to haul my debilitated body over to a rock where I sat down to hopefully regain any remote sense of physical or mental feeling again. Max sauntered up and handed me a bagel and told me I needed to eat it so I took a few bites and I felt like I was chewing on Styrofoam. The reality of how long we had been wide-awake had finally caught up, there was no way in hell that I could climb back into the driver’s seat and I couldn’t think straight enough to rationalize that Max probably shouldn’t either. Nonetheless, we were off again, Max hunched over the wheel with only about 200 miles to Tucson, nothing compared to the over 1800 behind us. Apparently my body and mind were desperately trying to shut down, but still popping back those magic little capsules I was determined to make it the short last leg, awake but still barely aware of that fact.

Rolling into Tucson Max expressed his relief in the fact that the small Indian children had stopped darting across the desert road as afternoon commuter traffic took their places. Knowing that something doesn’t exist doesn’t make it any less frightening to see due to the ill-advised reasons why it is there in the first place. We?d both been subjected to these strange hallucinations that jumped out of the landscape at us after letting it whiz by us for nearly sixty (60) hours, and realistically it was amazing that we made it through that brutal blizzard in one piece anyway. Completely burnt-out we rolled to a stop at the first obviously cheap motel we saw, which turned out to be more like an abandoned housing project. We paid a seedy guy cash and didn’t get a receipt, and although there were footprints on the walls, dead light bulbs, holes in the sheets and the stench of soggy cigarettes in the air, it was a place to finally lie down for a night.

John Dick

February 2009, almost a year after the Haul

Nothing is quite as appalling as the choosy eater. A grey and white and yellow plate— well done mush, in essence, drives me to spasms. My patience blanches watching a young woman carefully pick every green pea from her tiny platter of airplane provisions. Once at a museum reception I watched a man take a bite of a blueberry. Picky is icky. I wanted to smack the chopsticks out of her hands. I wanted to slap the fruit out of his fingers.

*

Why does a dog yawn when nervous? Does the canine brain require extra oxygen to process anxiety? Then why does the human feel the need to stuff some food substance into his regurgitation route whenever a television isn’t nearby? Is it the same reason given for the human who cannot but fiddle incessantly with a piece of plastic wrapping when sitting in a crowded but otherwise quiet public place? I prefer dogs.

*

Who was it allowed the man who sneezes and coughs without covering his mouth to continue living? That mother and father should be shot by a thorough-going firing squad. Shot until dead, shot until the dirty germs of snots and spits, snivels and snorts no longer hinder the sweet, silent, innocent air around him. Which begs the question— how long till an idiot’s diseases die? How long after the dumb-shit goes does his blood cease its efficacy in sickness?

*

How can the public announcement voice in an Asian airport requesting the presence of a dozen American passengers at the desk of the departing gate never have spoken a word of English in her life? Is it somehow a pre-requisite that the entire universe be so inconsiderate? When one is American, one thinks it’s just Americans who are idiots until he crosses a border. Any border, any time. We are not alone.

*

Any human activity requiring a ticket automatically shaves off half of the bearer’s intelligence quotient. PhD’s disappear into thin air. Watch a seasoned, well-traveled, well-dressed man board an airplane, for instance. Once he’s licked the sickening syrup of anticipation from his sweaty face and stuffs the nearest dead animal into his gaping maw, he’ll drift toward sleep and snore all the way to Detroit, Phoenix, Dallas, Anchorage— burping his dreams in his only bliss.

*

Excluding present company (I’m alone), one isn’t particularly concerned with education, lest he call the smallest human decency, the sparest courtesy and dignity, the basest etiquette or the simplest animal shame an education. Cross your enormous legs you fat, stupid fuck and tuck that pudding-stained sweatshirt into your thread-barest sweatpants. You’re in public now; you should have left your diaper-wear at home today.

*

There is something to be said for the human being who understands how to carry himself in the public world. To wit— when you are walking in a crowded, narrow passage, don’t stop stock still. Step aside, and turn your head and then your body around and away to look for or at whatever you’re looking for or at. If you are passing in heavy traffic, don’t slow down. If human beings were automobiles we’d all be dead. Then animals would reign again and murder would be crucial to survival. The world could eat its own annoyance.

*

The poor soul borne of a moron becomes another moron. This is not advocacy for murder or cannibalism (mind you, the Lord knows we have enough to eat if simultaneously thrifty and generous)— but if horses are glue and frogs become ink, can’t we find a way to make idiots into bullets? Can’t we find a double-duty, fool-proof way to protect ourselves from ourselves?

*

It seems all Americans in the airport are military today. Nothing against them— they too need to feed their spawn with the dead by killing sanctioned from on high. They will grow fat as saints, healthy as basketball billionaires. Someone strong needs to protect us from China when they come calling for payback.

*

No, really, we revel in eyeballing your extra 60 pounds of belly fat as you take up five seats for a nap at the overcrowded airport gate. We understand your sleep is needy, both beauty and brain, we’re tired too, but it must be exhausting for you eating that many inhuman meals in a single day. Please, snore a little bit harder for us, we can’t hear you clearly enough, can’t smell your rancid breath on our ways to Los Angeles, Stockton and Guam.

*

Women are more important than men. In Tokyo— no cows, no fruit, no dirt and the old cigarettes teach the new cigarettes about flowers. In Seoul traffic cops wear helmets for good reason. I’ve never been to Norway, but when their sneeze is a Snorri Sturluson. We are told it is America’s fault for the globe’s demise. Until we witness a Lithuanian king drive through his reckless, crooked night, or a Mexican president sink like a shit-sack, or watch the Chinese learn how to drive. The world devours itself like the ancient symbolic snake— spineless, unaware and unscrupulous.

*

One who gets wise by way of Schlitz and macaroni and cheese can easily grow accustomed to comet vintage Veuve Clicquot and crepes galettes. Why does it not work backwards? The stronger specimen, accustomed to shark’s fin soup, cannot, somehow, get used to a sardine tin. The weak link tortures the high priest with his incompetence. The strong sort tortures the weakling by way of the temper’s tribulations.

*

Pity the unpardonable sot who can’t sit still for more than a minute with only his thoughts, the poor, tortured troglodyte who must fuss with the vacancy in his overhead compartment for fear of the shifting contents within. The unforgivable cluck with no peace in his naked soul, no parcel of understanding of the joy of difference, unaware as we prepare for our initial descent. I am not an angry man. Brace for impact. We are all exactly the same. Everybody’s empire is empty.

Over 200 years ago, in 1802, Thomas Jefferson made a prophetically inferential statement apropos the US banking system. As we see our banks faltering, our credit lines freezing, our housing markets crumbling, and enough corporate greed to pass out $18 billion worth of bonuses with government allocated funds, we should review Jefferson’s ethics on our current weakening banking system.

Jefferson, a great skeptic of private banking, said the following in a letter to then Secretary of the Treasury, Albert Gallatin:

“I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies. If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around [the banks] will deprive the people of all property until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered. The issuing power should be taken from the banks and restored to the people, to whom it properly belongs.”

Jefferson couldn’t have hit the nail harder on the head concerning the future of banking. By having our banks control everything, including: credit, loans and the housing market, we are putting the American people at a disadvantage. People are genuinely worried about being deprived of property and this worry stems from the bigger worry of a failing economy and a system that has taken advantage of the American people for too long. Where is the, “freedom,” “liberty” and “equality” that our founding fathers once proclaimed?

A capitalist society should thrive on the premise that everyone can grant themselves wealth if worked for hard enough. This is a reasonable conjecture, but since when did this premise become: you may work hard, but nothing is guaranteed because corrupt, greed-ridden dingbats will be controlling all of your major investments?

What we should do now as a nation is ask ourselves: How much longer do we stand by our banking system? How many more times do we bail them out? When will we stand with Mr. Jefferson and restore power back to the people, to whom it properly belongs?

When everyday Americans are being taxed to hell in order to support Wall Street, it isn’t freedom, liberty or equality. In fact, it is not even theoretically capitalism (or democracy for that matter). There are certain names we call most countries who have rations or incitements (or stimulus, if you will) and pay high taxes or fees to support the government and systems controlled by the government (our banking system, for example), and it usually isn’t “Capitalistic” or “Democratic.”

Unless you want to define democracy as the great Mr. Jefferson did himself: “A democracy is nothing more than mob rule, where fifty-one percent of the people may take away the rights of the other forty-nine,” we should have this be the final chance for the banking industry.

Thomas Jefferson must be cringing in his grave right now, and asking the question every American patriot should be asking themselves right now: when is enough enough?

You cannot put that on the test. That word has two meanings. The students could become confused. That word was not in the textbook. That word was not from this lesson. That word is not used in the same sentence as the textbook. You used a picture different from the textbook. The sentences are in a different order. There is a comma here. You put this in quotations. It was not a quote in the textbook. The students will study the workbook. It does not matter that they have already finished. They need the answers so they know what to study for the test. If they have not seen the question before, they will not know the correct answer. We will use the workbook CD for the listening section. If they have not heard the dialogue before, they will not know the correct answer. Some students will not pass the test. Please correct this.

People tell me I don’t understand them because I’m foreign. People have ordered me to leave places because of my tattoos. Children stare at me as I walk by, asking their mothers why I’m here. These things don’t bother me (as they bother some of my friends). I expected some foreigner-blow-back, the kind of treatment one might expect in a country with such a strict monoculture. But there is one thing that has sparked my frustration more often than any other: Japanese foreign language education.

For the sake of comparison, let’s consider some other pseudo-oxymorons to better understand the context: civil war, living dead, deafening silence. These have meaning. We read these phrases and come away with an image or idea. Just as these examples often suggest something much more grotesque or sinister than their literal meanings, so too does “Japanese foreign language education”. It is not as extreme as fratricide, or zombie invasions, or the gnawing insanity one succumbs to in the quiet; but I would argue that it is equally disturbing.

It’s difficult to explain the feeling one gets from struggling against this system. In fact, it’s rather difficult to explain the system itself. A friend, when asked about the difference between Japan and China, described living in the two countries like this: In China there is “a way”; in Japan there is “the way”. She gave the wonderful example of driving in either country. In China, reaching your destination is priority one; pedestrians and bikers be damned. In Japan, our friend failed his driving test seven times. He failed once because he only sped up to 39 km/h in a 40 km/h zone… on a closed track. Another time he did not turn his head enough to check behind him before backing up. The next time he failed because he turned his head too much. One time he failed for not checking under the tires for cats or infants before driving, despite never being told that was a part of the test.

It shouldn’t surprise me then to find an engrained education system that, despite substantial research and evidence against it, refuses to change course. If you aren’t familiar with the Japanese education system, let me shed some light: Students listen to the teacher. Students write what the teacher says. Students do not ask questions. Questions asked of the students will be answered by the teacher, and only the teacher. Incorrect answers are step one of ostracization. Talking and sleeping is permitted so long as this order is not disturbed.

In Japan they have a saying: “The nail that sticks out is the first to be hammered down.”

That’s not to say this system is without benefits. In the hard sciences and maths, there are few countries that produce geniuses as frequently as Japan. But when talking about the arts (ideas that sit inert in front of a student, begging for interpretation, for exchange, for engagement), those studies are more often met with rejection and fear. Give a student a proof from the textbook and marvel at their spirit-fingers as they scratch out formulas and tables across the page. Give a student Yeats—or even Murakami, one of their own—and see them drown in words between words, choking on that which is felt, but lingers unseen.

Now add to that system one headstrong, college-fresh foreigner who has known only critical thinking and opinion for the past four years. Give that foreigner a class called “Oral Communication”. Do not tell that foreigner that Japanese education rules apply, despite the name of the class. Use a textbook in that class that has no lesson plans, vocabulary list, grammar points, or language reinforcement. Watch that foreigner go fucking ballistic.

Go ahead and try and talk your way out of that strict framework. I dare you. You cannot convince someone born and raised in that educational culture that English is anything other than a subject. A subject. HA! A language as a subject. Not a language. Not communication. Not the very fountain from which all culture springs. English the midterm. English the entrance exam. English the business test. Hell, not just English! Chinese, Korean, French, German, Spanish. Pick a language and I’ll give you the Central Exam that the Japanese kid has to pass to enter college.

I would prefer keeping the rants to a minimum, but it really is difficult to maintain in this situation. The first day of classes I was told, “OC is your class. You can do what you want in it.” How foolish it was that I heard that with my American ears and thought it to be genuine. How foolish it was that I spent two days making a test that I had been working towards all school year. Fundamental grammar, progressive and topical vocabulary, basic verb conjugation. They all fell by the wayside as I walked towards my Japanese team teacher. She was holding the government-approved textbook test that had been preprinted for my students.

The sentiment a Japanese person shows will only reflect their true feelings after they have been pushed over the edge. By that time it is too late to repair the working relationship and the passengers (or students, if you could even use that English word) burn and drown with the fucking boat. A years worth of work demolished and disassembled because I tried to teach the kids how to speak. Not how to speak English. Just how to communicate with a human being. Say what they mean. Question the teacher. Shout out an answer. Consider what they want to say rather than what the other person expects to hear.

Regardless of the language used (and I can attest there is very little of the English variety), these kids came into the classroom quiet as a morgue. At least they are leaving the classroom loud as a library. Call that progress, or call it futile. I call it another groundhog day in Japanese foreign language education.

SUPERBOWL XLIII, THE EPITOME OF THE ELECTRIFIED AMERICAN ARENA & THE DEBAUCHED WORLD OF SPORTS TODAY…WHAT ARE MILLION DOLLAR ADS GOOD FOR WHEN NOBODY HAS ANY MONEY?
…WELCOME TO THE GENERATION OF THE UNEMPLOYED & IN DEBT.

Yes, once again Super Sunday has rolled through and left a path of shameless overpriced advertising and a glittering display of the overzealous and exploded state of the National Football League. As expected, but not welcomed in many hopeful circles, the Steelers managed to stomp down the Cardinals with a powerful ground game and a few key field goals. The Steelers’ defense is what really won the battle for them as expected, managing to trump old man Warner when the deal really went down even though Roethlisberger’s stats were as comparably low as the numbers that trickle out of Wall Street lately. So now Pittsburgh has something to boast about with the most Superbowl trophies ever, which could possibly be the greatest claim to fame that the sliding industrial hub on the forgotten side of Pennsylvania holds. Who cares though, the big game and the season are over now, and there are bigger and more pressing things that need to be addressed these days.

Regressing into the omnipresent recession and the vertical battle that Obama has on his hands to pull America out of the murky trench that the last eight years have plunged us into, let’s forget the Superbowl already and put down the fucking remote. It appears that a good chunk of the general public at least watches the news once in a while and possibly even picks up a newspaper judging by the downward plunge of the economy and the sense of uneasy fear that is spreading like Black Death throughout them. There are damn good reasons that even the most densely ignorant and aloof people are counting their piggybanks and cutting back on trips to the drive-thru and Wal-Mart. Apparently the government can’t even print money nearly as fast as they spend it and the dollar is worth less than toilet paper in some countries. Everybody, including your bank, is sliding further into a bottomless pit of debt and the labor force across the board is being slashed and outsourced.

Now obviously I’m nowhere close to an economic expert, or even an avid amateur when it comes to Wall Street and numbers in general, but I can read and am immersed enough as a consumer and bartender/manager to see that money doesn’t stretch far these days. Constant banter about Stimulus plans that will send jolts of life and prosperity into the financial state of the nation sound more like deeper debt to China and a way to fool the stupid into thinking that everything is going to be all right. Our money is getting harder to earn every single day and seems to fly out of our hands and bank accounts faster than it would take to burn it all. Hold onto your billfolds folks. Stimulation is temporary bliss in a cold hard reality and the tides haven’t turned in the right direction yet. The ship is still sinking, learn to swim with the sharks or drown.

John Dick
Beginning of February 2009

The year of 2009 is young, but Generation Y should start working on our New Year’s resolution right now.

As someone who is pushing thirty, I’m sick of hearing the common mantras of my generation: “I don’t have time,” or “I’m used to doing things my own way,” or “I guess I’m kind of selfish with what I’m used to – I’m scared to change,” and the list goes on and on. These are the maxims of my generation.

My generation, in comparison to our baby-boomer predecessors, are a bunch of self-interested whiners controlled by our inhibitions and our unrelenting capacity to serve ourselves. We are afraid of changing ourselves. We are lazy when it comes to satisfying someone else. We are about our needs. We, mildly put, are about ourselves.

I may be making a generalization, but when the majority of people I associate with (or communicate with) act this way, it’s hard to avoid not mentioning it. Not only is this the general tone of colleagues and friends of mine, but also I have gathered that this is the undertone of the majority of my generation.

I purposely spark discussion at a bar or coffee shop only to hear, “well, I have to do this or that tomorrow” or “I’ll take a look at my schedule” or “I’m just so busy; I don’t know if I have time.” The beautiful thing about it is we’re not busy!, we just want to do what we want to do! Without even taking into account someone else’s wants, we often denounce them, as if they would alter the sanctity of our own glorious (i.e. sub par) schedules.

And it doesn’t stop there. With the function of the everyday family changing, the choices of my generation are being tested even more. The choice to live at home with mommy until you’re 35 isn’t out of the question. The choice to not get married, because you are too afraid to risk it in “today’s society” is a common defense. Fear, hesitancy, selfishness and anxiety are becoming too much of a theme for my generation.

With this mentality, we have become the whiners – people who want things handed to us, but don’t want to work hard to achieve them. We look for guidance from others, but are afraid to look into ourselves. We need help desperately in time management. We need to reformulate the American family. “I just don’t have time!” And…you get the idea, ad infinitum.

These insecurities and hesitancies make my generation peculiar, but it also makes us vulnerable. In order to be successful, we must be strong and look past our self-interest. This means that in many ways, we need to change, and soon.

Cheers to a tough, but attainable New Year’s resolution!

Not living in the States has been a great antidote for election fever. I woke up and went to work today as I would any other day and found that I was actually the least interested in the results. My coworkers greeted me not with “Good morning!” or “How are you feeling?” (I had been out all of the previous week with strep throat), they didn’t even mention the fact that my hair had magically gone from 70’s rock-guitar-slinger to 90’s fresh-cut-for-work. I had even shaved off my beard. The only question I got was: “Who won?”

The first person to ask me this question, ironically, was the school’s baseball coach. I had been at the public bath the night before and caught the score of the Japan Series game–the world series of Japanese Pro Baseball–in the seventh inning, but didn’t watch to the end. Needless to say, my response of, “I don’t know. The Giants were winning 5 to 4 in the seventh, but I didn’t see the end,” was met with a disappointing sigh.

That’s not to say I didn’t vote. I did, almost three weeks ago, in fact. I’m actually rather proud that I did because the absentee ballot is easy to submit in person, but incredibly annoying to fill out and mail-in, especially since I needed to find an American to sign it. Seriously? I live in a town of three thousand Japanese people in the middle of the snowy mountains; you’re saying my principal isn’t good enough to be a witness?

Practically speaking, however, I had been cordoned off from the fervor that apparently had swept across the States. Imagine my surprise when I fired up my computer this morning and found nothing on the Internet but election stories. I had a couple free class periods and felt very much like procrastinating, so I followed the live updates from various news sites. My afternoon classes, despite my growing interest in the tally, were not going to be canceled.

The final period of my Wednesday was spent in calligraphy class, working in vain to write something resembling Japanese and talking about the election with my calligraphy teacher. I would be surprised if the students at my school could name the current prime minister (Taro Aso) let alone know anything about the American election. I left class a few minutes early to fire up my browser and check the latest tally.

My calligraphy teacher, Mrs. Yaegashi, is about 65 years old. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her run before, and she had certainly never beaten the students out of the classroom, but today she dismissed them early. Seconds before the bell rang I heard the pattering of elderly footsteps rush up behind me. “So? Who won?”

“Obama. Obama won.”

She grabbed me by the shoulders and let out a little scream. “Aren’t you excited?! Aren’t you happy?! I’m so happy!” I was looking through the Wisconsin elections, checking to see if my vote for Kagen had meant anything. “It’s okay, I guess. Everyone kind of knew he was going to win, anyway.”

Her desk is just across from mine. Before she turned around she said, “I couldn’t even sleep last night. I just watched the news until morning.” I think she was actually skipping back to her chair. Just as she was sitting down she saw the baseball coach walk into the teacher’s room from his previous class. I sat at my desk silently, staring at the words “Mr. President” and Mrs. Yaegashi yelled across the room, “Obama won!”

You’ve probably seen, heard or read about the anger at McCain/Palin rallies by now. If not, you should, whatever your political stripe:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuSYHnVpYbs

http:/http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/10/09/AR2008100903169.html?hpid=topnews

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvCpBvwN0e4

The rage from these crowds shouldn’t come as a surprise. Nor should McCain or even Palin take the blame for agitating these fearful proto-fascists. The number of angry, right white folks has grown steadily since the late 80s. They’ve been bred, fed, nourished and constantly shaken by the ever-present, ever-pissed political “entertainment” spewed forth by the Angry AM Army of Limbaugh, Hannity, Levin, Savage, M. Reagan, etc, ad nauseam…. Limbaugh paved the way, of course, proving that ridicule and slight humor could be mixed with partisan politics for huge ratings and, over the years, AM radio stations have moved significantly to a talk/”news” format. Since 2000, when they couldn’t skewer Clinton any more, when one of their own occupied the White House, and the last vestiges of the Fairness Doctrine were jettisoned, these permanently-pissed ranters have only grown in numbers and rage quotient. It’s difficult to find an AM radio station in rural America that isn’t religious, country or Angry Con Talk.

I’ve listened to these guys (along with Milwaukee’s local versions like Charlie Sykes and Mark Belling, a regular fill-in host for “Rush”) quite a lot over the last 10-12 years. They definitely had an affect on my vote for Bush in 2000 and how I thought the Democrats (NOT Republicans) were trying to “steal” the election by asking for a recount in Florida. From my view today, I’m amazed and wildly disappointed with myself for “thinking” that way. It wasn’t my own thoughts. That’s my excuse. I was stupid, plain and simple. I didn’t take in enough news sources, allowing myself instead to be manipulated by an all too limited number of “news” inputs during that time. I didn’t just agree with Limbaugh, FoxNews, Belling, et al. I believed their words without questioning them and was passionately opposed to a recount, engaging in arguments with co-workers and anyone who took the opposite position in my presence. Until 2000, I had kept a cynical distance from political, staying informed, but watching elections like I watch sports, studying the strategies and handicapping the odds with little or no emotional or partisan investment in the outcome. By 2000, after a few years of AM agitation, I was utterly convinced in the rectitude of George W. Bush and James Baker, whose august bearing added credibility to the fight. I’m over that now, thankfully, mainly because I’ve taken in a broader range of inputs in the last few years, now weighing the Republican complaints of registration fraud against the Democratic fears of voter suppression in 2008.

Given my past experience and the sense that I allowed myself to be manipulated from about 1996 through the Iraq invasion in 2003, I’m especially attuned now to the manipulation and dramtic anger of the AM horde. The crowds at McCain and Palin rallies and gatherings are the result of Limbaugh & Ilk bleatings. Face it, folks, angry white folks make up the majority of the Republican voter base. When it has become “anti-American” to lambaste Bush (a president who is VERY likely to go down in history as one of the worst), to believe “victory” is an irrelevant word in the occupation of Iraq, to disagree with illegal wiretaps in the name of protecting America from terrorists, or to point out the growing gap between the very wealthy and the middle class, we’ve got ourselves a little slice of the Weimar Republic right here in the heartland, especially in the parts of the country of that Palin calls “pro-American.”

Joseph Goebbels must grinning from the 8th circle of Dante’s Hell every time one of them opens their mouth. And Joe McCarthy has got to love this scary bitch.

This anger is not innate nor a result of any real threat to white folks. It’s a direct result of their inputs. People who largely limit their inputs to AM talk and FoxNews — avoiding the “Media Elites,” the “Liberal Media,” Limbaugh’s “Drive-by Media” or simply the “MSM” (that trendy conservo-speak acronym for “Mainstream Media” defined only by whatever the Poly Cons disagree with) and certainly not (Gasp!) reading books — will get worked up rather easily. Hyperbolic opinions expressed at high volume and agitation will do that to a person. (And, yeah, don’t forget the fear-inducing and angry chain emails that apparently make the rounds if you’re on the Right lists or have enough Patriotic friends. I don’t.) No bin Laden, Ahmandinijad, Chavez, Islamic terrorist or “socialist” Democrat could begin to be as detrimental to the civilized workings of American democracy as any ONE of these Angry AM radio wingers. They present themselves as paragons of “Truth” and “Justice” and the “American” way — always in contrast to the Evil “MSM.” Over time, they become a habit, something like a self-righteous friend who makes sense every now and then, even if he is pissed off most of the time.

As election day draws closer, the AM anger is boiling over like never before. Tune in to any of them in the next week or so. Limbaugh, Hannity, Levin, take your pick from the 24/7 Conservative Commercial. To a man (almost all men), they’re all positively unhinged. And they aren’t FOR anything this time around. They are only, exclusively AGAINST Obama the __________ (fill in the blank). The idea that John McCain, a man whom the AM Ranters pilloried as recently as May as insufficiently conservative, would prompt these frothing fuckers to slap every red-meat label on Obama that they can — terrorist, communist, socialist — is almost unbelievable. But they’re mad, really mad. And you must be too, they say, unless you’re stupid, liberal, weak, socialist or just plain Anti-American.

It doesn’t matter whether Obama or McCain wins this most momentous election in at least 40 years. These All-American AM radio ranters will still be there, still angry over something, still spewing from coast to coast, still gathering high ratings from people who can’t break the habit of hearing them, still stirring people up, and, worst of all, still undermining the possibility of intelligent political debate across this fine land. They get paid good money to be mad and Radical Right politicians benefit from their listeners sustaining the rage.

I’m not sure where they want to lead people with their 24/7 exhortations, but it sounds like Fascist Land from my car.

Ayers is McCain & Palin’s last arrow. There’s nothing left in their quivers but bullshit — and their reputation for bullshit doesn’t resonate as it did back in the 20th century, when it was freely bought and sold and rarely examined. The further negative tilt is in keeping with McCain’s double-down mind think, and with the Rovians around he’s got the best fixers around but I think they’re being sniffed out.

So their success hinges on a 38 year old story about a tiny group of would-be revolutionaries. Bring it up on anyone between the ages of 55 and 70 and they’ll shrug and say it was the sixties, for anyone under 45 they’ll say, “You mean Obama had something to do with that cool weather site I go to to check the weather for spring break in Cabo?”

Everyone is thinking about the economy and, while live coverage of Palin’s and McCain’s speeches were running, the cables were showing the Dow in the corner, falling in Palin’s case over 200 points in two minutes. Wait, what were you saying, something about airs and the weather? Look the fucking Dow is dropping like a rock…

They’re flat-out saying they have to turn the discussion from the economy, good luck with that. These are serious times. On a personal level, my wife lost her job last week and I’ve been calculating that opening another gallery recedes by almost a year for every day the market is in turmoil. We’re far from alone in our concerns. Serious times. Obama is the serious candidate.

Keating Five.

The 2008 presidential election — especially in Michigan, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Wisconsin & battleground states — will be decided by non-white and under-30 voter turnout. A historically high turnout of non-white and young folks in urban areas and universities will have to overcome the number of white, religious, “working class” voters who have found — in Sarah Palin, one of “their own” — their excuse not to vote for Obama, the smart young black guy. Call it anti-intellectualism (for which America has a long history), call it fear of the unknown, call it concealed racism (the big mystery), but it’s gonna come down to that. Urban non-whites & young people vs. surburban, rural, small-town white folks. Two Americas, indeed.

For all the talk — and NEED — from Obama and McCain of unifying an extremely divisive country, we’re more polarized than ever and McCain’s pick of Palin has made the divisions worse. Governing will be difficult for whoever wins and the winner should OPENLY & humbly speak of these divisions from the moment he wins. Obama is far better equipped to address the divisions with intelligence and grace.

Read this and weep if you are a rational being:

http://www.gallup.com/poll/110053/Religion-Remains-Major-Dividing-Factor-Among-White-Voters.aspx

I’ve never been more proud to be an atheist.
And never more ashamed of being white.

America will move forward or even further backward after this election. Simple as that.

America will get the president it deserves. Again.

I keep thinking we deserve better.

(A MISPLACED FLASHBACK FROM WINTRY UGLINESS IN MILWAUKEE)

“I am guilty, Lord, but I am also a lover – and I am one of your best people, as you know; and yea tho I have walked in many strange shadows and acted crazy from time to time and even drooled on many High Priests, I have not been an embarrassment to you…So leave me alone, goddamnit, and send Mr. Screwjack back to me; and if the others have any questions or snide comments about it, tell them to eat shit and die.” – R.D.

Friends, you know this is the truth, just like Raoul Duke and his blood-lusting tomcat, an imagined beastly desire hides somewhere deep within all of us. Not that there is anything natural, at all, about sodomizing an innocent animal, no matter if it has razor-sharp claws and a vice of bone-crushing teeth, but eventually one must get repulsed enough by wallowing with the human race to fantasize, on drugs or not, about the true possibilities of all life. To straighten things out, this is not a decree of bestiality, the pitiful people who fuck with animals should be castrated and stoned by an angry mob right on Main St. of whatever town they live in. The point here, which may or may not apparently lie within this obscure metaphor, is that the limit of sedentary, mundane living infects the human soul and psyche like the plague, and for me personally begs to be shattered like a brand new plate glass window.

As I lube the gears of my mind with slimy fistfuls of crude realism, and pump wild and impure imagination through the thin red walls of my beaten heart faster than raw sewage overflows into Lake Michigan, I grapple with the cold realization of inner plight. Pushing the limit of twenty-three years in this city, long gone past stir crazy, my flight is overdue so now I’m bracing myself and finally ready to get the hell out of Dodge. Naturally, West is the only direction to head, face the wind and burn out across state-long cornfields until the land starts to roll and the trail of rock jutting upward grows into the Rockies. The thin air will do my mind and lungs some much needed good, the snow will thicken my skin and fuel pointed screeds like spitting kerosene on an altar of flickering Virgin candles.

I will be reborn on a moonlit mountaintop in a blizzard dancing naked, except for a grizzly bear tooth necklace hanging around my neck, with a megaphone in one hand and a bottle of bourbon splashing from the other. A two-hundred pound Husky, more wolf than dog with eyes that change color with the seasons will be my only companion, howling strange duets with me into the basting handheld speaker and lapping from the bottle. A catharsis of pure madness will echo over peaks and down canyons into sleepy ski villages where tourists will be ripped from a fat cat dreamland by the unGodly song of beast and man. Livestock will turn wild-eyed and tear through barbwire fences, storming the farmhouses and trampling their owners tucked away in warm beds. The deranged swan song will ring out to resound in deaf ears and make the increasingly illiterate youth peel themselves from television screens and pick up books with yellowed pages that leave paper cuts on their frail little hands. With any luck at all, my words will become shards of broken beer bottles on the painful path to the enlightenment of this darkening Reality.

John Dick
December 2007

Walgreen’s is my god. I will have no gods above thee.

Down the street from where I live is a Walgreen’s, a store that is part pharmacy, part convenience store, and entirely without shame for the contradictions within. Where else can one fill prescriptions for pain killers, anti-depressants, and erectile dysfunction while also acquiring two pounds of Slim Jims, a carton of cigarettes, and Mother’s Day cards? I have been down every aisle of the local store, often amazed by the unnecessary and often capricious use of candy products in a store that largely caters to people with type two diabetes. I shouldn’t be too critical, I too am a customer, a sugar addicted zombie parsing the four rows of things that barley qualify as food for my next fix of Jolly Ranchers. Walgreen’s caters to my laziness and carelessness. I no longer seek food that needs to be “cooked;” I can survive on sugar and fat alone.

In some southern states, Walgreen’s also sells liquor. Alas, not here. That added benefit would create an even greater sense of the contradiction that is Walgreen’s. I hope one day that I will be able to motor into Walgreen’s on my hover-round scooter for both pain killer and vodka, perhaps some Slim Jims as well. Nothing would please me more than to experience this truly American dream before I die from consuming all the things they sell at Walgreen’s.

After a recent visit I was overcome with the sense of impending doo. Not only did I buy a one pound bag of Lemonheads, but I was also consuming them with an energy drink. Has it really come to this? I live almost solely on sugar, caffeine, and mind-altering drugs prescribed by a friendly doctor. Walgreen’s has provided all of these things to me and, while I know this is not a sustainable lifestyle, I see no way out. Walgreen’s is my pusher. It won’t let me go. It keeps giving me a free hit with these incessant coupons for things I don’t need.

The only thing I can really fault Walgreen’s for is knowing their customer base too well. We are lazy, weak-willed people who love junk food and candy. They should sell hover-rounds. If you spend a thousand dollars at the store you should get 50% off on a hover-round. Maybe free insulin shots, or a colostomy bag.

Witnessed an informal poll with black middle school boys about whether or not they can control their erections. Let me back track. I teach at a small school that serves students who have been reassigned from Milwaukee Public Schools because of bad behavior. These behaviors range from use of drugs or alcohol, sex in school, fighting, or habitual level four disruptions, which translates to really bad class room behavior. Think toddlers with adolescent hormones and a whole lot of attitude. There are four of us who run the program, and in truth, it would not be possible without the force, warmth, and general black grandmother/matriarchal power of our principal, my dear friend, Ann.

So this day, like many of the days, we face a barrage of needs to attend to and to address, both academic and social. On this day I was teaching a version of Tales from the Arabian Nights, and we just finished reading and discussing the characters of Shaharazad and Shah Riyar. And despite my explanations and analyses of why Shah Riyar made the law to have his new wife executed each day after the wedding, one of my students said, “Dude’s a fag.”

Where exactly does one begin? First, I established the referent for Dude, though I knew who he was I feel I must combat the proliferation of the use of Dude, so I usually say something like this: “Could you please tell me which dude you mean?” Then another student (remember, this is a class of all black middle school boys) said, “Why is it girls” (that’s me I supposed) “don’t ever know who Dude is, but guys do?”

I said, “Please enlighten me.”

He said, “Dude is always the main Dude.” Ah, Shah Riyar then.

Once that was established I quickly launched into the rude and inappropriate use of the word “fag.” Ann entered the room at about this time, and she can never resist a chance to stand up to ignorance, so she joined me in the front of the class, and together we tried to discuss the studies about being hard wired for homosexuality. Just to be clear it is not easy to keep this group focused let alone on a topic where many have their opinions from their own life observations, for example, “I just don’t get it. Guys with guys. That’s just wrong.” There were a few in the class who got it. God bless them, and they tried to help us, but the wall of ignorance was pretty thick, and I, exasperated from teaching my class and feeling beaten by the world, slipped to the back of the class and sat at the desk while Ann forged ahead, trying to reach them.

Then she did something that could have gone very wrong, but as usual with Ann, it is spot on with making a break through with a difficult situation.

She said, “Okay, think of it this way, how many of you can control your erections?”

No one raised their hands, and there was some looking about the room in confusion, so Ann clarified, “Do you know what that is? An erection is a hard on.” Some snickering ensued, and dare I say it, some blushing occurred.

She continued, unflappable as ever: “Don’t be embarrassed, I’m a grandmother, I raised sons. You get a hard on in the bath tub or when the wind blows a certain way, so I’ll ask it again but a little differently: how many of you cannot control your erections?”

Every boy in the room raised his hand. And on this day, we had a new student, Leviticus. Leviticus. He sheepishly looked about the room, wanting to blend as new students do, no matter how rough they come to us, and he put his hand in the air with the rest of the hormonal bunch.

“So you can’t control those right. Well, it’s the same with sexual preference, you can’t control it, your body reacts,” Ann said.

Something clicked. This got through to them. There was a lot of nodding, and the boy who used the word “fag” was conversing with his neighbor and shaking his groin in his seat, commenting on how he tries to shake his erections away, to no avail. This was not the usual educational break through, but it was something.

Is it wrong to wish I lived in a different era? One where I didn’t feel shame and embarrassment over what we have become and are increasingly becoming. I feel no optimism for the future I was told to expect, It isn’t that I wish for something we never were, rather my desire is for something we should have been, and could easily have achieved. Unfortunately idealism is dead, that cold corpse was laid to rest long before I was born, but the ghost still haunts us, giving glimpses of what could have been. The remains of that noble spirit are dug up every year by the next generation of college freshman but are returned before there is a resurrection of hope. It is true that some people retain some of the essence of idealism, but the form is highly compromised. Those that retain hope and idealism are regarded as apostles to a dead and debunked religion. The reality of our ideals are perverse, Justice is for those who can pay for it, equality is for those born with wealth, happiness is for those who trample over others, and freedom is living in a cage. I know there are no absolutes, which is why I too am compromised. I believe I see the world as close to reality as I am able, ugly, vain, and cruel. I long for the time when I saw the future as hopeful, a time when our mistakes would not be repeated, and when we as Americans could truly say we are a positive influence in the world. That idealism is gone, and it won’t ever return, perhaps thats as it should be. Seeing the world as it is can lead to wisdom, but it rarely leads to hope.

We could have been the nation of hope, we could have been a true light for human dignity and freedom, but those things are now lies we use to justify our empire. Our friendly paternalism has changed into global abuse. Spreading democracy by the sword, peace through occupation, national advancement by foreign exploitation. We can tell ourselves that America is a force for good, that our actions create a better world with a positive future, but thats a lie. Our current path is conflict, exploitation, and increasing levels of hatred. People do not hate us because of our freedom, they hate us because of the things we do, the policies we support, the wars we fund. Is this what idealism sounds like? The desire for change, the accepting of principals based on human compassion and not self-interest? I wish that were so, the reality is that this path we are on is self-destructive, there will be no America we recognize if we continue to act without regard for the rest of the world. The pragmatic self-interested person should realize this path we are taking leads to a future where all the problems we now face are multiplied. It is not idealism that commands change, it is the acceptance of a harsh reality that does. Change for the better, but change principally because its in our best interest to look for a different way.