“Claws” teaser 4
Opening his eyes, he looked down at Emily, staring into her blue eyes upturned to meet his. Her chin was nestled just where his diaphragm would be below the tunic, and he could feel her warmth in the cold room, a contrast to the barren wall behind him. He smiled for a moment, knowing what he saw in her eyes, knowing that she was the one person who understood everything that was happening, knowing that she was putting her fate in his hands this time.
“We have the signed document. Her blood signature, confirmed by Tech, is there. She is “in”, “all in”. If she backs out or betrays us, we can go public – the Prime Minister is a vampyre.” He was nodding his head as he spoke, whispering softly, running through part of the plan out loud. “She will be like us then. She will be persecuted, tracked, hunted, murdered, unacceptably different, a “monster” herself. How will it feel to be ostracized? No, they won’t fuck with us. They know how strong and how deep our network is. We would not have survived this long without a network.”
“Absolutely, Willem.” She looked up, watching his mind spinning through the details of the plan. “They cannot fathom the depth of the network here. And it’s your network here in the mid-Atlantic that is the reason your coven still stands, Willem. It’s a testament to your wisdom and courage. We were fools in New Orleans. We had no idea the needs we would have and how to meet them. I did my best, but cultivating an underground network there was very difficult. The superstition always inherent in that city, the voodoo, the black magic, the culture – it was always against us. We were competition, not persecuted. We were turned out, not allowed to co-exist. And when the government came to seek us out, we were too easily found. Everyone wanted us gone because we were the competition for the occult, the odd, the wildness of the Cresent City.”
She watched him. She saw the glazed look in his eyes as he turned the plan this way and that, searching for flaws, for openings to be exploited. She saw that he was only half listening, but she went on. He needed the boost right now, the extra confidence in a moment like this. “You, Willem, you put together quite a network. The vampyre race is strong here, yes, but the network of non-vampyre support is broad, and that has a lot to do with the economy and the mix of people. Also, Willem, you had something that we never had – political clout. How many Congressmen and Senators became vampyres? How many pages and aides and undersecretaries? How many chairmen? How many lobbyists? Even the Vice President? Killed, yes, by not everyone was killed. Money is old in Washington, Willem. Money is broad. Money still talks, even if you need a pint of blood rather than gin, moreso maybe if you need both.”
“I’ve watched things happening here for over a hundred years, Willem, long after they destroyed my coven. And I have seen how you cultivate the human contacts, contracts, agreements. You are not the mob, not a mob boss, but you can be one when the time is right and the situation calls for it. You are not a philanthropist, but you can be when it improves life for vampyres. You are not a businessman, but we do real business in this town and others. You are no longer a diplomat, but you have contacts, diplomatic credentials with those here, those former ambassadors or embassy workers who were stricken so long ago. No, Willem, the network is the key.”
His grip on her hands loosened, and she felt the tension ease, saw it slip from his eyes, felt it in his heartbeat. And she pulled away, dragging him along by his hands as she backed up.
“The hospitals were the key, Willem. My dear, the hospitals are the key. Vampyre doctors and vampyre nurses working side by side with men and women, humans, some of whom know and some who do not. And yet, the very people who were loathed so long ago are now accepted. I’ve seen the ER’s where our people work. I’ve seen the vampyre doctors work 30-40 hours straight with only an infusion to keep them going. A pint of blood and the doctor is back on the floor, saving lives.”
She stopped as she felt the edge of the iron table press against her lower back. “It was your stroke of genius, Lord. Make our people part of society. Don’t let them hide.” She leaned back, sliding her round buttocks onto the cool metal, feeling its enticing contrast against the warm, bare skin of her legs. “You, my dear, are the mastermind of this all, and it is working well. There is no doubt that we are well taken care of here in the District, under the very noses of the Council, living peacefully with sight of the Capital Building and the White House.”
She sat still now, pulling him in farther, opening her legs and wrapping them around his waist, dragging him closer still. “We drive the trains on Constitution Ave. We shuttle the VIPs in the skycabs. We put out fires in Bethesda. We are everywhere here, and no one sees us – not because we are hiding,” she continued, releasing his hand and reaching down, opening her shift, baring her pert breasts and hard nipples…..she was aching for him now, and it showed between her legs, her glistening lips pouting and full. “It’s because, my lord, my Master,” she breathed, “you have planned it that way, to hide us in plain sight…..” She slipped his belt off, unbuttoned his trousers. “….to put us out there to be part of the community, showing some that vampyres are not monsters, not to be feared. This is not the 21st century.”
She reached down and stroked his engorged cock, pulling on the skin, sliding her hand up and down, feeling his strength, the throbbing, the passion rising, and she pushed it down, pressing it against her, ready for him to thrust home. “And now we are yours, Master, to command. You have put us just where we need to be, even Michael, and we are here now to make your dreams and your plans come true for our better good, for us, for our community, and that of the humans.”
And with that, she leaned back, waiting, her head slipping back and resting lightly on the table, her chin turning to the right, exposing her jugular, eyes closing slightly in anticipation, feeling the pulse of his cock at her dripping entrance, feeling her blood coursing in her throat, open, expectant, accepting, submitting to his desire. “We serve you, Lord. Only please command us.”
“Yes, Emily…….I will,” he whispered, now looking down at her for the first time, and he growled, baring his fangs, feeling the hunger, tasting the memory of her blood, her cum. He leaned in close, inhaling her scent, pressing his lips to her supple throat, and plunged into her.
Saving the Big 3 for You and Me …
Wednesday, December 3rd, 2008
Friends,
I drive an American car. It’s a Chrysler. That’s not an endorsement. It’s more like a cry for pity. And now for a decades-old story, retold ad infinitum by tens of millions of Americans, a third of whom have had to desert their country to simply find a damn way to get to work in something that won’t break down:
My Chrysler is four years old. I bought it because of its smooth and comfortable ride. Daimler-Benz owned the company then and had the good grace to place the Chrysler chassis on a Mercedes axle and, man, was that a sweet ride!
When it would start.
More than a dozen times in these years, the car has simply died. Batteries have been replaced, but that wasn’t the problem. My dad drives the same model. His car has died many times, too. Just won’t start, for no reason at all.
A few weeks ago, I took my Chrysler in to the Chrysler dealer here in northern Michigan — and the latest fixes cost me $1,400. The next day, the vehicle wouldn’t start. When I got it going, the brake warning light came on. And on and on.
You might assume from this that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about these miserably inept crapmobile makers down the road in Detroit city. But I do care. I care about the millions whose lives and livelihoods depend on these car companies. I care about the security and defense of this country because the world is running out of oil — and when it runs out, the calamity and collapse that will take place will make the current recession/depression look like a Tommy Tune musical.
And I care about what happens with the Big 3 because they are more responsible than almost anyone for the destruction of our fragile atmosphere and the daily melting of our polar ice caps.
Congress must save the industrial infrastructure that these companies control and the jobs they create. And it must save the world from the internal combustion engine. This great, vast manufacturing network can redeem itself by building mass transit and electric/hybrid cars, and the kind of transportation we need for the 21st century.
And Congress must do all this by NOT giving GM, Ford and Chrysler the $34 billion they are asking for in “loans” (a few days ago they only wanted $25 billion; that’s how stupid they are — they don’t even know how much they really need to make this month’s payroll. If you or I tried to get a loan from the bank this way, not only would we be thrown out on our ear, the bank would place us on some sort of credit rating blacklist).
Two weeks ago, the CEOs of the Big 3 were tarred and feathered before a Congressional committee who sneered at them in a way far different than when the heads of the financial industry showed up two months earlier. At that time, the politicians tripped over each other in their swoon for Wall Street and its Ponzi schemers who had concocted Byzantine ways to bet other people’s money on unregulated credit default swaps, known in the common vernacular as unicorns and fairies.
But the Detroit boys were from the Midwest, the Rust (yuk!) Belt, where they made real things that consumers needed and could touch and buy, and that continually recycled money into the economy (shocking!), produced unions that created the middle class, and fixed my teeth for free when I was ten.
For all of that, the auto heads had to sit there in November and be ridiculed about how they traveled to D.C. Yes, they flew on their corporate jets, just like the bankers and Wall Street thieves did in October. But, hey, THAT was OK! They’re the Masters of the Universe! Nothing but the best chariots for Big Finance as they set about to loot our nation’s treasury.
Of course, the auto magnates used be the Masters who ruled the world. They were the pulsating hub that all other industries — steel, oil, cement contractors — served. Fifty-five years ago, the president of GM sat on that same Capitol Hill and bluntly told Congress, what’s good for General Motors is good for the country. Because, you see, in their minds, GM WAS the country.
What a long, sad fall from grace we witnessed on November 19th when the three blind mice had their knuckles slapped and then were sent back home to write an essay called, “Why You Should Give Me Billions of Dollars of Free Cash.” They were also asked if they would work for a dollar a year. Take that! What a big, brave Congress they are! Requesting indentured servitude from (still) three of the most powerful men in the world. This from a spineless body that won’t dare stand up to a disgraced president nor turn down a single funding request for a war that neither they nor the American public support. Amazing.
Let me just state the obvious: Every single dollar Congress gives these three companies will be flushed right down the toilet. There is nothing the management teams of the Big 3 are going to do to convince people to go out during a recession and buy their big, gas-guzzling, inferior products. Just forget it. And, as sure as I am that the Ford family-owned Detroit Lions are not going to the Super Bowl — ever — I can guarantee you, after they burn through this $34 billion, they’ll be back for another $34 billion next summer.
So what to do? Members of Congress, here’s what I propose:
1. Transporting Americans is and should be one of the most important functions our government must address. And because we are facing a massive economic, energy and environmental crisis, the new president and Congress must do what Franklin Roosevelt did when he was faced with a crisis (and ordered the auto industry to stop building cars and instead build tanks and planes): The Big 3 are, from this point forward, to build only cars that are not primarily dependent on oil and, more importantly to build trains, buses, subways and light rail (a corresponding public works project across the country will build the rail lines and tracks). This will not only save jobs, but create millions of new ones.
2. You could buy ALL the common shares of stock in General Motors for less than $3 billion. Why should we give GM $18 billion or $25 billion or anything? Take the money and buy the company! (You’re going to demand collateral anyway if you give them the “loan,” and because we know they will default on that loan, you’re going to own the company in the end as it is. So why wait? Just buy them out now.)
3. None of us want government officials running a car company, but there are some very smart transportation geniuses who could be hired to do this. We need a Marshall Plan to switch us off oil-dependent vehicles and get us into the 21st century.
This proposal is not radical or rocket science. It just takes one of the smartest people ever to run for the presidency to pull it off. What I’m proposing has worked before. The national rail system was in shambles in the ’70s. The government took it over. A decade later it was turning a profit, so the government returned it to private/public hands, and got a couple billion dollars put back in the treasury.
This proposal will save our industrial infrastructure — and millions of jobs. More importantly, it will create millions more. It literally could pull us out of this recession.
In contrast, yesterday General Motors presented its restructuring proposal to Congress. They promised, if Congress gave them $18 billion now, they would, in turn, eliminate around 20,000 jobs. You read that right. We give them billions so they can throw more Americans out of work. That’s been their Big Idea for the last 30 years — layoff thousands in order to protect profits. But no one ever stopped to ask this question: If you throw everyone out of work, who’s going to have the money to go out and buy a car?
These idiots don’t deserve a dime. Fire all of them, and take over the industry for the good of the workers, the country and the planet.
What’s good for General Motors IS good for the country. Once the country is calling the shots.
Yours,
Michael Moore
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Yes, this is just a reprint, but I liked the sentiments in this so much, I had to. That said, I would like to see Congress also bail out the Detroit Lions, who are obviously under the same management as Chrysler!
Paved Paradise (part three), or What is your “fullocity”?
What is your “fullocity”?
Yes, you heard right. “Fullocity” is a word you have never heard before. But it’s very likely a concept that you are completely familiar with. In fact, I bet you are much more aware of your “fullocity” that you think.
What is “fullocity”?
It’s the measurement of your time consumed by everyday things. Chores, errands, dropping little Ricky off at soccer practice, the PTA meeting, meeting friends for Happy Hour, checking your email, work, work, work, work, work. “Fullocity” is the calculation that will show you something that you probably don’t want to see, tell you something you don’t want to know, teach you something you don’t want to learn: how much of your time is spent being busy.
Why is “fullocity” important?
Because in this country, we are always busy. We are always in a hurry. Because in America, we are overbooked, overworked, and overwhelmed. We are undernourished, but not underfed. We are tired, but wired. We are booked, but always bushed. Taking account of your “fullocity” will allow you to take account of your life, which is passing before your very eyes one minute, one day, one year at a time…..only those minutes, days and years are passing by faster and faster, and when you look back, you can’t remember what you were doing last week or last year. It was a blur, and you ‘booked’ through it!
We, as a culture and a country, have absolutely no idea how to relax. And I don’t mean watch a movie, stare at the television, hang out at a bar and drink, or run on a treadmill in a crowded gym. I mean relax, sit still, close your eyes maybe, and just be, just think, just turn off the world.
In America, we go through the motions of “life”, or what we have established as “life” here, the norm, the average day. We don’t take time out to just be, and we don’t do things that contribute to our growth as an individual, a person…..we don’t play with our children, play with our significant others, talk, be creative like paint or draw or write…..we don’t communicate face-to-face, spend time just enjoying the company of another, touch and kiss….we don’t read a book or go for a walk.
We multi-task instead of relax. I do it! I text two people, IM with another, check my Myspace messages, watch baseball, and listen to music all while I’m cooking and doing laundry. Am I totally ridiculous, or what? How often do I just sit and chill? Almost never!
How often do you? How often do you sit and chill? How often do you just turn everything off and let silence reign? How often do you just sit quietly and let your brain do what it wants? Take a walk? Read a book? Take an hour out to play with your kids, your siblings? Just sit and talk about life with your best friend?
We all need to turn off and tune in to ourselves and our loved ones, but first we need to realize how badly we are in ‘the shit’, how deeply we are in the pool. We need to check in with ourselves and discover our “fullocity”. Only then can we look around and realize that our lives are passing by and we don’t even realize it.
So what do I do now? What’s my “fullocity”?
Stop for a second. Sit down. Grab a piece of paper. Jot down your week. Each week, Sunday to Saturday, has 168 hours minus 56 hours for sleep (if you get 8 hours), and you have 112 hours in the week. How many of those hours are you on the go? Work: 40 hours. Sleep: Commute to work: 1 hr/day = 5 hours. Errands, chores, kids to soccer, ballet and piano lessons, hours spent mindlessly watching TV or playing Xbox. Add it all up. Now subtract and see how much down time you have. Do you have any time left?
Another way to look at this is to write down your schedule. Sun, Mon, Tues, Wed…..what are you doing? Write down your average week’s schedule or what you have planned for this week. Where is your down time? Do you have any at all?
Look at your list now. Is 4/5ths of your time spent in work and chores and mindless activities? Your “fullocity” is 80%. 2/3rds = 66%.
But why should I care?
Because time is precious, and we all really have very little of it. In a very real “I could die tomorrow” sense (consider that approximately 45000 American’s die on US highways every year), your time on this Earth is very limited. What are you doing with time? Are you doing anything to contribute to yourself as an individual or a member of the family, or are you in pursuit of possessions?
Take a look around you. We are all working our asses off to have a nice house, a nice lawn, a new car, a vacation, a new set of golf clubs, a big backyard. We are all running around like crazy to acquire possessions, stuff, things, crap that we don’t need because we think it makes our life better. We suffer from time poverty (“high fullocity”) because are suffering from inner (spiritual) poverty. We fill our houses with toys and our lives with distractions so that we don’t have to think or feel. Instead of appreciating the world, nature and each other, we are busy with things.
Is that extra $40 worth your time? Is it more important for you to provide a nice house for your family or for you to spend more time with our family? It’s very well established that Americans are stressed and unhappy about life in general, which means our way of life makes us unhappy. We work harder and make more money (GDP) than anyone in the world, but among industrialized nations our quality-of-life issues rank us near the bottom: health care, vacation, and other “perks”. We ALL know that buying things is not the path to happiness, and yet we work hard to buy more things that will maybe give us more opportunities to be happier. We “buy” into that lie over and over, and what’s worse – we know it’s a lie.
So, now what?
Now, take a long look at your “fullocity”, and decide if your growth as an individual, if your life, if your family is worth all that hard work, all those long hours spent in that cubicle, those hours spent queued up at those big box stores, grocery stores or gas stations, hours “killing” friends over your Xbox connection, hours making sure your lawn is green or your BMW is sparkling. Wouldn’t it be nicer to just go home and enjoy what you have? Wouldn’t it be more fulfilling to spend more time with your kids, your wife, you boyfriend? Wouldn’t it be nicer to just sit and relax and take some time to reflect and maybe figure out who and what you are as an individual?
Take back your life. Start by measuring your “fullocity” and taking back your time. Your free time is the only real freedom you have. And while you are at it, visit http://www.timeday.org/ to see what you can do to make your life more meaningful.
What is your “fullocity”? How will you change it? And if it wasn’t so high, what could you do to change your life or another’s?
excerpt from “Claws”
He closed his eyes, listening, taking in the near silence of the Underground. Something scuttled along the edge of the reddish building to the left. And there, so faint, in the distance, footsteps approached. They moved slowly, creeping. Multiple sets. They were listening, too, wondering, thinking. Cautious. How many men were already dead? How easy were they killed, these soldiers? He smiled and opened his eyes. They were cautious. The rifles would be set for full automatic. There would be no games, just shooting to kill. They’d already tried to take him alive; they’d learned the hard way that it was a waste of time – of life.
25 yards? Less? More? Shit! No time. No time. If they are spread out, I could be in the line of fire in seconds, if not already. Damnit!!!
He waited, crouching, listening. The footsteps closed. Suddenly all he could hear was thunder again as automatic fire opened up, spraying the car, rocking it. And he ran, springing up, driving for the building behind him. It was a mile, two, six, twenty miles – too far away. Not enough time. No time! The automatic fire reverberated off of the vehicle, and then above the din, there was a shout. And suddenly the ground erupted to the left of the vehicle, kicking up dust and shards of asphalt and concrete, the bullets tracking back. The first round hit the building, crashing against the old brick, shattering it. He held up his hands to protect his eyes, and leaped, hearing the rounds tracking closer, closer on the wall toward the window. Glass shattered, spraying the room, digging in to his arms and legs are he fell to the floor, rolling, springing up into a crouch, on knee on the floor, glass ripping through the cloth of his pants and cutting into his flesh. The far wall exploded in a torrent of shots, showering him with debris.
Go! Go! Go!
He scrambled to the right towards an open doorway, scuttled through the door, and was up on his feet running in a second……and slid to a stop, dropping onto his back. Gunfire erupted throughout the darkened hallway, the muzzle blast in the distance revealing three men in hard gear, rifles leveled, and casting eerie shadows on the solemn walls. Tracers whipped by, a horizontal meteor shower in the black space of the corridor. He could feel the heat of the rounds as they ripped through the air, trailing luminescent tendrils, a terrifying optical illusion.
Jesus! Fuck!
Rolling to the left, he flipped over onto his hand and knees and scrambled the last few inches to a hole in the wall, pulling himself through as the rounds tracked down and the floor erupted around his feet in a mushroom cloud of dust and debris. Just before he pulled himself completely into the safety of the adjoining room, a round ripped through his ankle and shattered the bone.
Toccata and Fugue (reprise)
Toccata and Fugue in D minor – J.S. Bach
Toccata and Fugue
There was a knock at the door. It was almost lost in the crash of thunder outside, where the thunderstorm was raging. All the local stations would be blaring red warning signs on their screens, she thought. Stay home! But she hadn’t listened, and so far it had been a terrific idea!
Answer that, will ya? He stuck his head out of the kitchen, smiling again, his hair tussled but still wet.
The sheets smelled like vomit. Her vomit. There was no doubt about that. And she could taste it still. She’d had to swallow most of it down to keep from choking, to keep from making any more noise. Just doing so had almost made her puke again, and the horrid emptiness in her stomach, less from the vomit than the overwhelming fear, kept her from retching again.
Thunder rolled across the night somewhere in the distance. The storm was growing more violent, a reflection of the night. It was all she could hear. And she couldn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t see him again. She couldn’t see what he’d done. Not again.
Shivering racked her body. She couldn’t stop it. Her teeth would have chattered against each other if not for the cloth in her mouth, stifling anything above a sob or groan. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to hold her body still, willed herself to be still, prayed again to a God only hours before she’d not believed in. Was God real? Was this it? Would He welcome her after all these years of denial and disbelief?
Thunder crashed against the outer doors, shaking the glass and ripping a muffled scream from her lips. Even as the thunder rolled away into the distance, her sobbing filled the room with a heartbreaking descant, a counter to the soothing rain on the balcony and what had been an evening of simple pleasures.
She’d thought the classical music was somewhat pretentious at first, but decided that perhaps, on a night like this, it was just right. It was rather playful for the most part, and she found herself enjoying the soothing strings. But now and again, the deep tones of the horn section swept in with forbidding undertones – such sharp contrast! It left her wondering about the composer who could interweave such light-hearted notes with such melancholy strains, seemingly a perfect reflection of the storm, its thunder sporadically breaking through the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the windows.
Toccata and Fugue, he announced. My favorite.
He crossed the room to the fireplace and clicked the second of the two remotes. The fire flicked into existence as if Prometheus himself was locked in the small silvery piece of plastic in hand. He looked back at her and winked.
She’d giggled, still standing there by the door, the bottle of wine in her hand, watching him dart around the room, setting the scene, building the ambience one block at a time. Soon the whole castle would be built, and he’d turn and smile childishly and ask if she liked it, if it was tall enough, if she was impressed that he’d used all of the blocks and how the yellows formed a pyramid. It was amusing. It was endearing, and it was more effort than anyone had put into her in a long time.
He spun around, caught her eye, and grinned. Just like a little boy. And he whirled with only the slightest of flourishes and disappeared around the corner of the fireplace toward the kitchen, paper bag in hand.
Wait here, he said. She waited, letting the door swing closed.
This was his chance to show off, to amaze her, to sweep her off her feet. But the way he had touched her in the bar, the way he had breathed in her ear – she was already floating off the ground, already traipsing through fields of dandelions and daisies. What was left but to meet her lover in the middle of the sun-stroked meadow and fall into the warmth of each others’ arms?
She closed her eyes, and let the music sweep over her, seeing him again in her mind’s eye. I have just the thing, he said as he appeared again, the boyish grin still on his face, the same one that had played across his features the first time he’d looked at her. This will fit our little picnic just perfectly, he spouted, spinning back around, and he twirled the rest of the way around, perhaps a little tipsy, but gracefully enough, one arm extended if not for balance, than perhaps a reminder of the arm that had held her closely in the walk home, just before it had started to rain.
Bach is perfect for picnics, he offered – he was a fountain of information – as the linen tablecloth fluttered in the warm air of the room and floated down to the carpet in front of the fireplace, one corner tucked underneath defiantly.
Thunder shook the room again!
Or was it the door slamming open again? She was afraid to open her eyes. She didn’t want to know. She cringed,waited, prayed again. She didn’t deserve this. She shouldn’t have even been here. It was a simple thing, a perfect storm of events, that had led her here, and this was not fair, not fair, not fair.
And not over. Not yet. Definitely not yet.
Biting down, she tried to crush the cloth in her mouth, if only to give her throbbing jaws some relief, if only to lick her dried lips. Thinking about it, she began to whimper again, feeling more tears coming.
Her hands had already ceased to ache – they were numb from the tightness of the belt around her wrists. Her feet were still tingling, some sensation left, but it would be gone soon. She wiggled her toes, fought back the urge to pull and twist and fight the constriction of the other belt around her ankles. Every time she pulled, it grew tighter. What little sensation there was left gave her some kind of comfort, some hope. It was perhaps all there was – all she had left.
Eyes closed in the darkness, there was only the steady drumming of rain on the balcony and the pounding of her heart, threatening to explode within her chest. If only it would, this whole episode would be over.
It was, in fact, a bit of a walk to his place, he’d admitted, but it was a nice night out, and the forecasted rain was holding off. They’d have plenty of time, and if caught in the rain, it might just be fun.
She nodded, feeling her head spinning a bit from the Caipirinhas. Or was it his smile and his touch? Maybe it was the way he had just grabbed her hand, leaned in and told her that it was too crowded there and they needed go somewhere else. He was hungry, and wouldn’t it be nice to have a little picnic? She giggled again, thinking about his suggestion to go have a picnic at10:30 at night. But she followed, fingers entwined. This was an adventure, and it was looking good so far.
Buildings passed by on the right, as they headed up the street. Neon light glowed orange and yellow and green. Doormen stood at the entrances, checking IDs and calling out the specials: first drink is free; live music tonight! Two hole-in-the-wall pizza joints were open side-by-side, and the owners stood in their respective doorways, shops empty, chatting. The smell of the pizza was enticing, mouth-watering. And they looked at each other as they walked by, but he assured her his suggestion was much better, and it was right up the street on the corner, about a block away.
We left the banana on the bar, he declared unceremoniously, his face contorted in mock disappointment. I might need that again, you know? She stared back for a moment, and then they both stared laughing. He squeezed her hand again, and turned up the street.
They crossed 7th without incident, but had to slip past two working girls on the opposite corner before they could duck into the House of Kabob, where the sign read “Buffet open til midnight”. A few minutes later, they emerged, packages in hand, and he turned to her there on the corner and smiled. Two servings of chicken tikka masala, rice, noon bread and a bottle of wine – now it was time for a picnic!
Can I get any spare change, buddy?came the call from the shadows, but he dismissed the man sitting against the side of the building. He turned back to her and whispered just above the noise of the street: let’s get out of here; I need something to eat. He winked and turned.
She smiled, squeezing his hand again in answer, and followed him up the street. The food smelled delicious, and his eyes were such a lovely shade of green!
The door opened again. She could hear the knob turn, but her heart was threatening to block out any other sounds he made. A whimper escaped her lips. There was nothing left to do now. A fresh tear sparkled at the corner of her eye, and for the first time she didn’t turn her head to wipe it away on her sleeve.
The bed sagged, creaking on one side, and she wailed, trying to stifle the moan but unable to suppress the overwhelming fear that ensnared her and was dragging her down now into the depths of this private Hell. He was back for perhaps the final round of his so-called “fun”, and it was utterly apparent that there was no escape for her.
He didn’t speak, and she couldn’t hear his breathing anymore. Her own breathing, her uncontrollable sobbing, the pounding of her heart, it’s threat to leap out of her chest before he could tear it out himself – these snuffed out every noise, except the rumblings of the powerful storm outside.
The bed shifted again, and her body tilted as he sat down next to her. She struggled with her bonds, but they held fast, tightening, tightening as she pulled on them. All she could do was turn her head away from where she knew him to be, eyes squeezed shut, mouth biting down on the gag. His fingertips played over her body, and she shuddered, sickened. Her stomach revolted, and she retched. Nothing more than stomach acid filled her mouth with its bitterness, and she swallowed it down, coughing.
He laugh was muffled, more through his nose than his mouth. He was enjoying her reaction, enjoying the game.
His fingers played across her naked belly, his hands mauled her breasts, and he pulled at her nipples. She felt the fingertips graze the lips of her vagina, and she nearly screamed, a muffled plea not to be touched there, to be left alone, to be left alive. She struggled violently in her bonds, but there was no way to prevent him from whatever he desired!
He growled, and moments later, she felt the knife again and grew still.
Rain was threatening when she’d walked into the corner bar, Samm’s, on 23rd and X. It was one of those Thursdays that had seemed to never end, an Olympic day – she’d nicknamed them after seeing her little brother’s training schedule one day while visiting from school. She was less awed by his water polo skills than his long hours of preparation.
There was the “ding ding” of the bells on the door and Samm standing in her usual place, Caipirinha in hand. I don’t have to be in until 10, she thought. Olympic days were always best when late mornings followed! The first Caipirinha went down smooth, and as the second was being shaken, he leaned in and quipped toward Samm, if I’d known this was a ‘fruity drink bar’, I’d have brought more than my banana.
Samm’s laughter was as exaggerated as her eye roll, and then it rolled on when he reached down into the crush of people and pulled a slightly green banana from his jacket pocket. He smiled when he dropped it on the bar and turned to her, winking. I carry it everywhere on the chance that I can use that joke and maybe meet a cute girl. And when he smiled, she couldn’t help but grin in return. And she turned away, feeling foolish, hand covering her mouth and stifling a giggle. But she noticed that his eyes were an amazingly bright green.
Two Caipirinhas plunked down on the bar, and Samm blew her a kiss and slid quietly away.
He dropped the knife between the two ruined bodies, and turned away, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his new coat. He could feel the watches, the money clip and other trinkets in the left-hand pocket, the contents of her purse in the right. Passing through the outer room, Toccata and Fugue was playing again, set, it seemed, on repeat. He grabbed the bottle of wine of off the floor, considered the label for a second, and then snatched up the package of bread, tucking it into a pocket. He turned back to the stereo, absorbed in the final notes of the masterpiece. As the music faded away, he crossed to the doorway and grabbed the umbrella still wrapped tightly and dryly in the corner. Nasty out tonight, he mumbled, and opened the door and slipped out into the hallway. I could have used just a little spare change to get out of the rain.
first Obama, now what?, or How to be an American again
What Obama said was WE can change things. But that means, America, that you have to be paying attention, something you haven’t been doing for a while now. This is why corporations, even those that look like political parties (Dems/GOP), run your country and you feel like you don’t have any say.
What would you say anyway? This sucks? I hate America? This party or that party sucks? Would you just repeat what you read on Drudge Report or Huffington Post? How about CNN or Fox News? Or maybe NPR?
I think it’s fairly safe to say that for a very long time, most Americans had no idea what’s been going on in this country. But we always knew what was on sale, whether Comcast was better than Direct TV, or which bar had the NFL Network for those late season Thursday night games. Lots of people kept up with their six fantasy baseball teams and knew that taupe was the new black, but those same people couldn’t tell you who their Congressmen were, much less their councilman, District Attorney, Lt Governor or PTA president (all elected officials).
I’m willing to bet that most legal immigrants know more about the United States government and our Constitution that any of us does. Why? Because it’s important to them.
And now it’s time for some of that information to become important to us. With the housing crisis, the financial crisis, two wars, endless corruption in Washington, massive company failures and subsequent layoffs, skyrocketing unemployment, a plunging dollar, and perhaps the most important Presidential election in 40 years, it’s time to start paying attention, and it’s time to start getting involved in your country, state, county, city and neighborhood.
(This section is borrowed from another’s blog, but it fits perfectly in what I wanted to say).
How? One way is by watching your government, by getting involved, by “being the change you wish to see in the world”. It takes your commitment, a change of the way you think, a change in the way you act. It takes common sense.
Here is the easiest part, watch your government:
http://www.google.com/unclesam
http://change.gov/
http://www.opencongress.org/
http://www.govtrack.us/
http://govwatch.com/
http://www.sunlightfoundation.com/
http://www.opensecrets.org/
http://www.pogo.org/
http://www.nfoic.org/
http://www.citizen.org/
http://www.commoncause.org/site/pp.asp?c=dkLNK1MQIwG&b=186966
http://www.taxpayer.net/
http://www.aclu.org/
http://www.au.org/site/PageServer
These are just a few sites where you can make sure your government is serving you. NEVER, EVER, trust the government to do what is right without your guidance.
Next, you can write and call your elected officials:
https://writerep.house.gov/writerep/welcome.shtml
http://www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm
http://www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm
(end borrowed content)
Wanna know what’s going on with the bailout? http://www.bailoutsleuth.com
That said, this is still your country. It doesn’t have to be run by huge corporations that you don’t trust or leaders that you no nothing of. Would you drop off your kids at a daycare that you didn’t research? Why would you let your country, city, county or even PTA be run by people you don’t know or think are unscrupulous?
Inform yourself. Read, listen, and participate. It doesn’t take must more than communication to make a lot of the changes that need to be made. If everyone was just paying a little attention and educated themselves using different sources, we would all be much better off, and America will benefit tremendously.
The new president is not your savior. He is a reminder that things are changing all across this country and most of us have not been paying attention at all. It’s time to change a lot of things, but most of all, it’s time to change your participation!
How to be American again? Do what the Founding Fathers did — be involved in your country. That’s what patriotism is.
Afterword (short story)
Afterword
The words tripped through her mind again. “….and what if there had been no magical wardrobe? What then?”
She bit into the plum, feeling the juices running down her chin, wiping them away casually with a stained hand. The sweetness of the warm fruit mixed with the sweet stench of the freshly rolled cigarette, and she closed her eyes, feeling the sun spilling across her skin. The supple flesh of the fruit, the warmth of the tiles underfoot, the cool breeze wafting across the balcony and through her tussled hair – these were not the things of the wardrobe. No, there, in that scratchy darkness there was only cold, only ice crunching underfoot, only the haunting ring of the sleigh bells nearing, nearing, nearing.
She bolted upright.
“No wardrobe. There is no wardrobe. No wardrobe?”
She swallowed, blinked. The plum had fallen from her hand, and she spied in on the tile nearby next to the knife…..next to the pool of blood.
“Of course there is a wardrobe, my dear,” she murmured. “Of course there’s a wardrobe.”
There was no denying it. Who was that fool to say there was no wardrobe? Another author indeed. Yes, another author, but just a fool whose works ran to all manner of horrible monsters and inhuman, yes inhuman, alliances! Author indeed! Famous? Amazing work? Who could believe that kind of work could come out of a Christian soul? Elves and dwarves? All minions of evil. All horrible monsters that no man or woman could ever ally with or defend. “Middle Earth”?
Standing, she looked down into the valley for a moment, and the mountains rose up around it. She smiled, again feeling the morning sun on her skin. The fog that had covered the valley earlier was beginning to lift, to burn away under the light of the coming day. The mists gave way to conifer forests and little dots of red roofs here and there, tiny, sparse signs of civilization. Swirling smoke drifted up from some of the little red splotches, mingling with the low clouds and then spiraling up into the sky. The grayness of it contrasted with the brightening blue above and paralleled the twisting offering of her own cigarette only inches away. Beyond, across the valley, the slopes of the mountains were still shrouded in shadow, a bleak reminder of the night’s horrible work.
“What if there had been no wardrobe?” she muttered.
It’s not like the pureness of Lewis’ tale, the very parallel of His life. The slaying of Aslan, his sacrifice to the White Witch to save a child, his humiliation, death and then triumphant return! His resurrection! How could there be no wardrobe? No closet full of fur coats giving way to fir trees, the spiny branches with their fuzzy needles, scratching at one’s skin, at one’s face. She could remember now, the scent of the pines, the cold silence of the wood, the chill of the air when her coat had fallen open – it had never fit right, after all. It had been for adults, after all.
After all – her mind drifted like the wisps of grayness warped by the morning breeze, and she reached down and caught the cigarette between her fingers, pushed it between her lips and took a long drag. The coughing set in again, but this time it wasn’t as ferocious. She held onto the cigarette lest it fall into the abyss below, and she leaed out over the edge of the balcony and tapped the ashes away.
She did not smile, but she could not help but take in the elegant beauty of the world she saw before her. The breeze made her shiver, a reminder of the night again flashing before her eyes – slash! She trembled. Her hands were shaking so much that she wrapped her arms around her naked body in a desperately vain attempt to hold herself still. Only the need to drag on the wet tip of the cigarette paper could move her. And this time she didn’t cough at all. She held the sweet smoke inside, held it against her nearly overwhelming desire to spew it out. She held the cigarette at the cusp of her lips even though she knew she needed to toss it over the edge and watch it fall away into the smoky soup below.
She exhaled, shivered again, and tapped the ashes onto the balcony wall. A breeze swept across and whipped them away into invisibility.
“No wardrobe?”
She blinked, crushing her lids together and then pulling her eyes open wide. “What?” Looking around, she licked her lips, tasting the foulness of her mouth, the thin film covering her teeth. She licked at it with her tongue, her lips curled up into a malice-less sneer. It seemed like she was just beginning to wake, but she was sure she’d been on the balcony for hours, watching the dawn break and the sun begin to peak over the tops of the black mountains.
She sniffed loudly, took another drag, and turned away from the splendor, crossing the balcony, around the small table and chairs toward the open French doors. The tiles were so deliciously warm, a perfect mixture with the cool morning air that set her body to tingling. It was a mouth-watering mix of sensations, similar to the juicy plum and the cigarette. These flavors played across her mind even as she stepped into the small sea of blood between the table and the doorway and felt the icky liquid squish between her toes.
She didn’t notice it at all.
Tracking blood onto the beige carpet, she retraced her already well-established path through the main room and into the bedroom and bathroom, the off-white walls blurring together as felt rather than saw her way forward. Her stomach was heaving, and she clamped her hand across her lips, one hand holding back the coming eruption, the other delicately holding the blunt while she fidgeted with the lid of the toilet. Finally her pinky caught the plastic and flipped it up, revealing the desecration already left there. There was no holding it back any longer, as the stench of it washed over her, and she spewed the little contents of her stomach across the seat and back of the bowl, retching and screaming as the liquid and bits of fruit evacuated.
She collapsed again, dropping onto the floor and onto her back. She laid still for a few moments, collecting herself for a gargantuan effort: getting back up. The stench, the wetness of the floor hinting at something unseen, and the acrid taste in her mouth all called for her to get up and move, to get away, to get back out of this awful, ruined room and back onto the pristine serenity of the balcony. She tilted her head to the side and spit over and over.
Twisting, a groan seeping out from between pursed lips as she strained, she rolled over on her side. The cigarette had fallen from her hand, something she only noticed as she turned about and tried to push herself up onto her knees. It had to be here somewhere, and it was likely that it was still lit. Hopefully it was.
“I need another hit.”
It had to be here somewhere, she thought. If only she could get up to look around, but her head started to swim with the exertion of pushing herself up and looking down. She could feel her stomach turn, and she looked up, pulling her head up, eyes forward, trying to ease the sensation. Her pale brown locks fell across her face, but she dared not shake her head to move them. And she knew if she reached up to wipe the hair from her eyes, she’d end up flat-faced on the floor.
There was no one left to see her like this anyway, was there?
She groaned. There was no one. No one. She was sure of that, but she was not sure why she was sure. Something – something was nagging at her. Something was there, tugging at her consciousness, something tapping at her brain, at her memory like the rain tapping on a window, like a man tapping his foot in rhythm. It was there, but when she looked out of the window, she could not see the rain. She could see nothing. It was there. She was sure of it.
It had something to do with that quote, that series of words that played over and over in her head. It was……it might……it was something he had said, no written, no……no he had written it. Her grandfather’s best friend for years. Yes. It was that man who had written those damning words, those words that grandfather had taken as a rejection of his faith, which he had worked so hard to regain. It was those words that had driven them apart for so many years. How dare he?!
“….and what if there had been no magical wardrobe? What then?” she whispered.
And yet, they both believed. Hadn’t they? Grandfather had returned to the church through his and others’ fictional works, some even by the man who would later criticize him and write those awful words, an inscription on the inside from cover of that first book, grandfather’s beautiful depiction of his faith through the creation of a fantasy world.
“And that bastard had questioned him?”
She felt the anger building again, remembered the laughter from the night before. Like a sudden burst of fireworks across the night sky, it flooded back into her head, the blurry, slurring laughter, the hilarity and humiliation. The closet door, the fur coats, the………..the wardrobe! The ice crunching under her feet, the cold wind across her face, the branches tangling in her hair.
How long had she been gone? Weeks? Months? And when she’d burst back through the door…….
She shifted her knee and cried out. The end of the blunt was still lit, and it slapped at the ashes that marred her pale skin. Turning her head that quickly made her stomach churn again, but she steeled herself against it and held herself steady enough to reach down and catch the bit of the cigarette that was left. Clenching it between her teeth, she turned back toward the bathroom door and began to crawl forward.
The smoke reeked, but it was a sweet, calming stench, blocking out the aftermath of the chaos behind her. The wet swamp of the bathroom rugs gave way to the dry carpet of the bedroom, a light blue weave that looked and felt like the ocean. It swam before her as she crawled slowly forward, keeping a steady pace, achingly migrating toward the incoming fresh air.
Following what had now become a rust-colored path through the azure sea, she crept along steadily.
Puff, puff, puff. She stopped a moment, looking up as she retrieved the cigarette from her mouth. She tapped it with her index finger, forming a little black pile just outside her path, a few inches away, and it mixed with the red-stained carpet.
Blood.
She thought it, but there was no alarm in her though, no sudden spike in breathing, no rush of adrenaline. No, it was a thought full of resignation. There was blood. There was a lot of blood. There was nothing else to be said or done about it.
The laughter came back full force, threatening to overwhelm her. She could feel the grimace creeping across her features, twisting her lips into a snarl, crushing her eyebrows together. There was so much! They had all laughed! Goddamned bastards!!!!
“Ahhhh!” she croaked, and suddenly she was overcome with coughing again.
The laughter! It drowned out her fit of heaving until she could only feel her chest contract, spewing out the foul air that she’d collected there. Spittle dripped from her lower lip, descending toward the carpet as if to mingle with ocean of blue beneath her fingertips. As the coughing fit eased, she reached up and wiped at her mouth, missing twice before she could clean up the drool. For a moment she just rested, trying to hold herself steady, whimpering slightly between breaths, but thankful that the laughter was fading away, drifting away back into her memory.
They had all laughed at her. All of them. And no one had believed. None of them. Not one!!!!
She’d been there. She’d seen it. Grandfather had been right! Lucy and Edmond, Susan and Peter! Who could have known? But that fucker had said it wasn’t real! He’d written it right there inside the front cover of grandfather’s first edition, the one he’d saved for himself and then his daughter and then his daughter’s daughter. It was a horrible slap in the face, one that had nearly ruined him. And yet, it was simply all true!!!
Moving forward again, she inched into the main room. The carpet changed from a sea of blue foam into a land of dark grass, but the path remained, a dark, sinister, and revealing path………….streaks of red. Stopping, she studied the floor. It was only inches from her face, but the colors were so muted. Red – definitely red, but only because she knew its source. Could anyone see that it was red? She looked up, turning her head, but there was no one around, no noise, no movement. There was only the path, the road so very well travelled, and it stained her fingers and knees as she trod along it.
But where did the road lead? Where did the path originate? She couldn’t see it ahead of her, but she knew that it led back, back along the way she’d come, through the bedroom and into the bathroom, the horror that was there. But before her – there was no telling. There was only to follow and find out. There was the unknown ahead. The laughter had ceased, but there was so much else missing, so much else that seemed no longer to register inside her mind, lost minutes or hours, or days! All she could feel inside her was an emptiness, and it wasn’t the hollowness in her stomach or the void in her chest that felt like her soul had been ripped away. There was horrible blank in her head, a black hole whirling, expanding, sucking in everything, a gaping maw that engulfed anything that came in contact with it. Already the laughter was gone! She knew it had been there, had heard it echoing inside her skull over and over until she thought she would go over the edge of the balcony. But it was gone now, and she could not bring it back. The memory of it was there, like knowing the universe is there even when she couldn’t see it.
It had all had to do with that quote, that book, that something that had set off something, that moment that had turned into hours, that suddenly fleeting step across a great divide that had launched her along a path that she never turn back from. And suddenly she knew!
She had stepped across that line and felt it, knew it, knew for sure then that Narnia was real, that grandfather had not lied, that she could follow him to that oh so real place where Lucy could be a princess of the realm and have tea with Mr. Tumnus! It was real!!! All of it!
She’d screamed at them! The memories came flooding in, beating back the suck of the black hole, keeping it at bay for the moment. They’d laughed at her book, that beautiful first edition of grandfather’s “Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe”, and they’d said it was just a silly children’s story with no real meaning or intent. And she’d been so angry, so furious at them. And she’d stormed away, throwing open the French doors and running into the bedroom. Crying, so hurt by the sting of their words against a man she’d loved so much, she’d thrown open the doors of the wardrobe and dived in, disappearing into the comfort of the darkness, the warmth of the coats, and then suddenly, unbelievably despite her faith in her grandfather, prickly branches and crunching snow!
“I hate them!” she groaned.
It had been real. It had been! It was an amazing realization that she could barely fathom, a dream come true that she couldn’t wait to share. The wardrobe had been full of coats, and it was winter in Narnia, just like when Lucy first stepped into the land by the lantern and met Mr. Tumnus, where Edmond had followed and been ensnared by the White Witch, where Peter and Susan had eventually found themselves, too, and each of them had become kings and queens!
Bursting out of the wardrobe, she’d squealed with glee and rushed back to the balcony. Most of them we apologetic and listened intently when she’d pleaded for them to follow and see. The doors had been thrown back……………the doors had been thrown back.
“My God in Heaven,” she coughed.
Still weak and wobbly, she turned back and pulled herself to her feet. The wardrobe! She inched closer, reaching out to the door handles, focusing on them, willing herself forward. Grasping them firmly, she threw the doors open, and fell back with a scream, cracking her head against the glass table. It cracked and fell in on her, the largest shard slipping across her exposed neck, decapitating her. She died without a sound, her blood spilling out onto the cool blue ocean below, slowly drifting across the waves and mingling with the blood still dripping out of the wardrobe, the bodies piled within.
A single sheet of paper drifted aimlessly on the incoming morning breeze, slipping off the edge of the bed and catching in the sticky red mess on the floor. “Come one and all,” it read, “to see the famous Violetta and the Amazing Cirque de Soleil tonight at the Chateau de Loire.”
paved paradise (part two), or Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
“Paved Paradise”, the song ( is going to be the theme of this group of essays, so enjoy it. It’s a great song, the video is nice (the lyrics can be found in part one), and the ideas behind it fit with the things I want to say. So, listen and sing along. Then read what’s next.
What’s next? Why the country (the US of A) is going to shit, why it’s good for us, and who’s to blame.
What’s wrong with our country? It seems to be, well, coming apart at the seams. The War against Terrorism (GWOT), George W. Bush (our worst President in recent history), partisanship, polarization and ideologists taking over the media and politics, fear and warmongering, the housing crisis, Katrina and the disaster that is still New Orleans, wildfires and floods, the War in Iraq, the 2008 Presidential election, and let’s not forget gas prices. Can we come up with anything else? I’m sure we can, but these are the things that have most everyone up in arms and saying we are going to Hell in a handbasket.
And yet, there’s another way to look at this. I say it’s good for us. It’s about time we woke the fuck up and got a god-damned clue, don’t you?
What do I mean this is good for us? Well, I won’t go into very specific details here, but I will address each of these problems individually along the way, as these essays continue. What I will say is that while in my initial blog (part one), I stated how nice it was for me to ‘wake up’, or become ‘conscious’, I think that, as a result of all these major problems, a lot of people are going to finally wake up, too. This sudden on-rush of calamities is our fault, and now we are paying for being dumb, ignorant and asleep at the wheel.
Wake up, America!! While you were out shopping at fucking Target, deciding which combination of ingredients makes the perfect cup of coffee, and obsessing over whether or not Brett Favre should retire, your country is being ruled by people who don’t give a fuck about you and are driving your country into a ditch! And it’s your fault!!!
No, this is not a ‘bash George Bush’ or ‘I’m a hippie liberal’ blog. This is, ironically, a ‘wake up and smell the coffee’ blog. (And no, it’s definitely not Starbucks’ coffee — I hate Starbucks and everything is stands for.)
This blog is about you and me. And I hate to break it to you — this just in, ladies and gentlemen of America, but your country is falling apart because you are too fucking busy ‘living the good life’ to care. And now, suddenly, everything is going to shit, and you don’t know why.
America has ceased to be the land of the free and home of the brave. America is now the land of the consumer, the bastion of leisure, and champion of entertainment. Look at our lifestyles. Look at our economy. Our economy is shifting quickly. We actually make fewer and fewer goods; rather we are becoming an economy based on services. And the majority of those services revolve around leisure and luxury. Coffee shops, massage parlors, grand grocery stores, car detailers, outlets, strip malls, luxury gyms. Being pampered is the key to being American now, and anyone who is not successful enough to be able to afford some pampering is striving to be so. Affording luxury is now the #1 goal in America.
Even the news is no longer ‘newsy’; it is “infotainment”, 24 hours of sensationalism that is designed to bring you the ‘news’ in a way that keeps you enthralled and entertained. News, my friends, is business, and they have to make it look good — just like Hollywood, just like Target, just like Wegman’s (a really nice, upscale grocery), just like Myspace. CNN and Fox preach death and destruction, tell you that the terrorists are right on your doorstep, rail that the Neo-Cons or the Liberals are going to get you. They sow fear and hate and division. They divide and conquer, and we are all so busy running around with our little bullshit lives, hurry to soccer practice or getting back to our Tivo’d episode of “Lost”, that we don’t have time to think for ourselves. We let Lou Dobbs do the thinking for us.
CNN, Fox, Walmart, TGIFridays, Hollywood, Time-Warner, Starbucks, McDonalds, Best Buy — what do all these things have in common? They tell us what we want. They tell us what to think. They tell us who we are. They are the reason Americans get up in the morning and what our world revolves around. We use name brands to define ourselves now, not thoughts and deeds. Instead of seeking to improve our own being, we seek to pleasure ourselves and entertain ourselves and luxurize our lives. We no longer try to think for ourselves; we seek direction 24/7, and we can now thanks to cable and the internet. We no longer need to think for ourselves — we have people to do that for us. We are no longer the land of the free and home of the brave, we are now just enjoying life and going through the motions. Our lives prove this to us everyday. We just live in a fantasy land with well-placed ads.
Then suddenly gas prices skyrocket. Suddenly the housing market sinks. We are in a terrible war against an enemy that we are coincidentally helping create by our own actions. We are suffereing from disasters, natural and economic, that we created out of our greed, sloth, and pride. When did all this happen, you ask? Why? Where was I? Who’s responsible?
I’ll answer these questions and more in the following blogs, but let me give you a brief answer now: this all happened while you were playing Xbox, America. You turned this whole country over to politicians with agendas and corporate America. You quit paying attention, stop getting involved, and closed yourself off in your snappy little suburban McMansions. America, you are numb, dumb, and soulless. Your country is going to shit, and it’s your own damn fault.
It’s time to start fixing some of this bullshit, but most of you don’t know how. So, right now, wake up and smell the coffee.
Government regulation of virtue, or “freedoms” you might not like
I had to watch this twice before I started writing. Not only was I simply stunned from watching it the first time, I wanted to also make sure that Congressman Paul actually did say the things I was sure he’d said. You can almost see the same perplexed “I can’t believe he’s saying this on TV” look in the interviewer’s face. Check the mirror — you might see it there, as well.
Nevertheless, there it is: the outspoken, straight-talking (so much so that not only does John McCain lose the title but also voters are scared of R.P.) Congressman Paul tells it like he sees it: prostitution and drugs should not be regulated by the federal government and should most likely be legal! Homosexuals should be allowed to marry! Of course this all depends on the states’ wishes and laws, but that’s a whole different matter.
What I’m getting at here, taking a page from Congressman Paul, is that the federal government does, in fact, legislate virtue. It’s a social issue, and as a society we must have laws that protect us, but we legislate things that really don’t seem to me to be crimes, like, as Ron Paul stated, drug use and prostitution. Our elected representatives, it seems, must protect us from ourselves, from our vices, from our tendencies to self-destruct, I suppose. Because I know that if wasn’t against the law, I’d run out and prostitute myself tomorrow. I’d also go score a big bag of smack and shoot up, then follow that up with internet gambling until next March.
Or maybe I wouldn’t. I’ve never been attracted to drugs or interested in using them. I wouldn’t have my job very long if I did use drugs, and I respect my body too much to take a chance on them, besides the fact that I can’t afford the habit. And let’s be reasonable: how many of us can? How many of us would do drugs if it was ok? Would everyone suddenly go get high and stay that way for weeks, forgetting to eat or take care of the baby (Trainspotting) or lose our jobs? Stupid people do stupid things, and making drugs legal will not slow that down or speed that up. It’s reasonable to assume that more people will do drugs, but I don’t think it’s reasonable to think that more people will fall into disrepute and despair. Irresponsible people will put themselves in bad positions without the help of legal or illegal drugs, and laws can still be created that would regulate drug use, like the drinking and driving laws, which don’t tell you that you can’t drink, but only regulate your actions after imbibing.
And what about prostitution? Would hundreds of fresh people run out and prostitute themselves? Would there be a run on the market? Would every street corner suddenly be covered in scantily-clad ho’s? Doubtful. In fact, I would expect brothels to appear and maybe even ‘entertainment districts’ to arise here and there in cities or other communities, but following a strict business model, not all of them will survive, and eventually only the best places will thrive since they’d have to have a good product and pay taxes on income. Craigslist will get a boost, and so will internet ‘dating’ and massage services, but in the end, I don’t think there are thousands of women (or men, gay or straight) just waiting to jump in on this particular “get rich” scheme.
So, why is it so important that the government be involved in regulating these vices? Are they preventing lots of crime? Congressman Paul, and even the moderator, suggest that these certain prohibitions, if you will, actually contribute to crime — you think? And Ron Paul suggests that legalizing these activities will lead to jails full of real, hardened criminals rather than some guy with a ‘three-strikes’ dime-bag coke habit.
Perhaps regulating one’s vices is one’s own responsibility. Let’s face it — those of us who DO NOT commit murder choose to not commit murder because we are not inclined to kill anyone, not because we are afraid of jail. If we choose not to do drugs, then that’s up to us. But if we choose to use drugs, shouldn’t that be our choice? If we sit at home with some friends and do a few lines and watch some bad movies, is the morale fabric of America going to tear right down the middle? And how is that different that sitting at home with bottle of Patron doing shots every time they say “Obama” on CNN?
Perhaps, when drugs are legal, we will find that they are not that appealing and not that dangerous (in moderation), after all. And maybe getting a prostitute isn’t really that reprehensible. The individual could decide for himself as an adult, and he would have to live with his own choices, just like individuals do daily with all of their choices. Is it worse than the homeowner with three mortgages and $87k in credit card debt? Is it worse than the stripper trying to pay her college tuition? Is it worse than the welfare mother with seven children all under the age of 11? Each example demonstrates some level of questionable judgment.
Each of us has to live with a plethora of choices, and each of us must regulate our own needs and desires, our own vices and virtues. But we don’t necessarily need the federal government or even the state government to regulate those for us. We have a responsibility to ourselves, and as long as we aren’t hurting someone else, what difference does it make?
I’m not saying we should make prostitution legal or make drugs legal, but it’s something to think about. Maybe Americans, or people in general, are not mature enough to regulate themselves. It’s something to think about. Being free sometimes means having “freedoms” you might not like.
the black and white of being the President: Go Grey
A few years ago I wrote a piece called “Support Your Local President of the United States”, a play on an old Western called “Support Your Local Sheriff”. It was not a screen play about George W. Bush (yes I agree he was a horrendous President although I won’t go into the reasons now), but it did center around Bush after the 2004 election and just after his first State of the Union address. The concept was more about polarization (which is not the reverse of global warming), partisanship, and lack of unity.
George Bush’s legacies are many, and most of them are awful. But perhaps his worst was in direct contrast with his claim that he was “a unifier” as opposed to a, um, ‘divider-upper’. He was not a unifier, and both of his elections found America split right down the middle. While this split is not such a bad thing sometimes because disagreement can lead to good things, it came to a head in this most recent election, in which we elected a true “unifier” and put down another “divider-upper”.
Where is this going? It’s hard to say, but it’s likely (because I’m an optimist) that Barak Obama is going to do something that others were unwilling or unable to do: he’s actually going to walk the walk of the Great Unifier, cross those party lines, bridge those racial gaps, and show not only the rest of the world, but all of America, as well, what this country stands for and what this country is about.
The “black and white” of being President isn’t necessarily about race. It’s not just about liberals and conservatives. It’s not about the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’. It’s not about small business versus big business, or entrepreneurs versus welfare moms. It’s not “black and white” at all. It’s grey. It’s about the middle. Mainstream America, especially the younger crowd, is in the middle. They (we) are tired of the “black and white”. We are tired of the “he said/she said”. We are exhausted with the hypocrisy, the partisanship, racism from both races, religionists versus aethists and agnostics. We are sick of all the bullshit.
And Obama represents the grey area, the midway point between “black and white”. His African father (black) and American mother (white) produced a child in the middle, who could have opted to go either way in his life, to feel closer to whites and stick to the white world (easy to do in Hawaii) or consider himself black and go that way. In a lot of ways he did both. And he avoided, I think, a lot of stereotypes along the way. He is that grey area guy that this country needed; all that’s left for him to do is ’stay grey’, stay in the middle, actually reach across the aisle (hate to use cliches) in politics and reach out to more whites and more Latinos in areas where he did well but still wasn’t as strong as he wanted to be.
This is exactly the time for Dr. King’s dream to be realized. Obama must, absolutely must, take up the challenge and ride the middle. He must not ‘lead the black people’ as I’ve heard already in some CNN interviews with folks on the street. He must lead the American people. He must not stand up and be a champion for one race; he must be the champion for one nation. He must not reach back to his party’s base and dredge up policies that will alienate most of America and demonstrate that the Dems have not learned their lessons. He must be a moderate and a populist and listen to his constituents, not try to deceive them like his predecessor.
Obama and America, now is the time to “go grey”. Celebrate the victory and the accomplishment of a true American — a multi-racial man leading a multi-racial country — and come to the middle where there is dialogue, understanding, tolerance, community and the audacity of hope.
