Rhapsodize

"To speak with extravagant enthusiasm."
 

Window in the Sky

The shackles are undone
The bullet's quit the gun
The heat that's in the sun
Will keep us when there's none

The rule has been disproved
The stone it has been moved
The grain is now a groove
All debts are removed, ooh

Oh can't you see what our love has done
Oh can't you see what our love has done
Oh can't you see what our love has done
What it's doing to me

Love makes strange enemies
Makes love when love may please
Soul in a strip tease
Hate brought to its knees

Sky over our head
We can reach it from our bed
If you let me in your heart
And out of my head

Oh can't you see what our love has done
Oh can't you see what our love has done
Oh can't you see what our love has done
What it's doing to me

...

Oh I know I hurt you and I made you cry
Did everything but murder you and I
But love left a window in the skies
And to love I rhapsodize
 

Oh can't you see what love has done (to every broken heart)
Oh can't you see what love has done (for every heart that cries)
Love left a window in the skies
And to love I rhapsodize

Oh can't you see.


(U2, "Window in the Skies")
 

Earwax Omnipotence

This has got to be the funniest SPAM e-mail subject line I've received yet: Earwax Omnipotence. That's a title; that's something to read.

Hopefully I can live up to it here.

I'm in a funk.

We all get them. Recent research shows men have biological rhythms very similar to the kind most people associate with pre-menopausal women—more spaced out and not based upon menstruation, but mood rhythms nevertheless. Biological rhythms.

Last night I was talking about writing the human race off. I was talking about how a cosmic vacuum cleaner would come in handy, in light of the cancerous nature of our species. I was talking about how our population explosion—which, from the perspective of mitosis, exactly mirrors cancer—and our disregard for other species, and even for our own, earns us absolutely no regard from a planetary standpoint. I still think that.

Though now I've remembered that the truth isn't quite enough: The fact that we are the single most destructive and morally abusive species ever to exist on this Earth, over billions of years, is not the point.

See, I forgot about kindness.

My wife reminded me of this as we left Il Fornaio in Coronado, San Diego, after celebrating her birthday eve (today she is out of town for work). She mentioned music—which is usually a salve for me—and art, and the good things our species has and does accomplish in a spiritual sense.

Sometimes it's hard to remember the kindness when things are so fucked up. When things really aren't going very well. When the more you are aware of, the more outraged you become. And then I remember:

     One love,
     one blood,
     one life,
     you got to do what you should.

     One life,
     with each other,
     sisters,
     brothers.

     One life,
     but we're not the same,
     we get to carry each other,
     carry each other.

     One life.
     One life."

As usual, my wife was correct.


(Lyrics: U2, "One")
 

Words

"Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world."

The Buddha.
 

God Help Us

This graph, which I found in the Local Section of today's San Diego Union Tribune, is meant to illustrate the relatively small amount of contributions environmental charities receive. Another disturbing element is the disproportional amount given to "religion"—outstripping its closest competitor (education) by more than 200%.

That's not to say the environment is unimportant; to the contrary, I feel it is one of the most important concerns of our times. Clearly we are doing a poor job protecting it when another species falls to extinction each year (a rate 1000 times greater than naturally occurs) and it saddens me that so few charitable dollars make their way from American wallets to these environmental and animal rights organizations.

But look at how much we donate to religion.

The idea of donating money to "religion" is a strange concept to begin with. Obviously this must refer to tithing and other forms of church taxation (not my term, look in Random House). Members of my own family practice tithing, and I'm sure they would be quick to defend the practice. They would be correct in pointing out it is their personal choice.

Still, it is a valid question: Do we really need to be putting money into religion? Isn't religion about faith, not finance?

Of course, churches have to make it in the real world. Money is certainly necessary for that. And practitioners certainly believe that it is their mission to spread their particular flavor far and wide. Money is pretty important when it comes to this sort of thing.

Now look again at how much we donate to religion.

What does this say about our priorities—about our hopes and wishes—when religion is the cause of so much suffering around the world, when religion is the catalyst for innumerable conflicts, when religion is by far the most genocidal force human kind has encountered.

Do we really need to give so much of our charitable dollars to such a destructive sociological force while ignoring the environment and demoting education—two things without which religion would certainly spiral into mayhem?

This graph, and the reality it illustrates, speak volumes about contemporary society and about the powerful effects of subscribing to a religious doctrine. There is much to be considered here.
 

Will You Donate to Perigee?

It's somewhat audacious, I know, but I have to ask you for a little cash. This close to the holiday season I won't be surprised if you mark me off your Christmas list because of it. That's OK: Perigee needs your generosity more than I do.

What's this all about?

After months of paperwork and anxious anticipation, the U.S. Internal Revenue Service has granted Perigee 501(c)(3), Non-Profit, status under section 170 of the IRS code.

What makes this such good news?

First, donations to Perigee are now tax-deductible! Because of this we have created a brand-new donorship program. The program includes eight different donor levels, each with its own unique benefits—including free Perigee merchandise, discounted contest fees, and much more. All starting at only $10!

Second, our Non-Profit status qualifies us for a bevy of grants aimed at promoting the arts and advancing small publishers. With luck, this future grant money will go a long way toward not only moving Perigee from the Internet to the printed page, but also expanding our readership and enhancing our content.

How can you help? Please consider donating to Perigee today. Like many of you, Kate and I are on a pretty tight budget. I know that money isn't easy to come by these days. But even just $10 will go a long way: it pays for two-thirds of Perigee's domain fees for a full year, could help compensate one hard working writer for his or her work when we publish it, or could offset two weeks of server charges. Add your $10 to another donor's and even more can be done. Imagine how much $25 or $50 would mean to us.

And when tax time rolls around you can deduct your donation.

So why not choose from one of our six regular donor levels, or maximize your tax benefits by making an extraordinary donation and joining either our "Contributor's Circle" or "Publisher's Circle."

Your donations are critical. Please consider making one today—even a small donation can make a big difference. Visit our current issue and click on "Donate," or simply click here to review the donation options. And if now isn't the right time, I hope you will consider making a tax-deductible donation to Perigee in the future.
 

An Inconvenient Truth

I suppose it was only a matter of time until I bought this film and watched it for the first time. I'm not much of a theater-goer; people talk too much. But after finally getting around to An Inconvenient Truth, I have to say it is one impressive movie.

I wish I'd seen this film earlier. It is moving and powerful and entirely necessary. I plan to be its advocate. Moreover, I plan to defend the environment and fight global warming more than I already have.

Coming from a liberal that's saying a lot. Even if I do drive a Z28 that will blow your brand-new Mustang away.

The fact of the matter is, this film lays out a thorough and compelling argument for an immediate change to how each of us lives our daily lives. It asks not that we forgo questions, only that we acknowledge truths. And its redeeming qualities lie not in its production design or its cinematography, but in its frank examination of this generation's role in the terrible downfall of our global ecosystem.

Beginning with its environmentally friendly packaging—which uses 100% post-consumer recycled material and a corn-based, biodegradable, plastic—this film shows us how much of an impact we can have on this dangerous situation. It shows us that we can do this if we want to: we can fix the problem.

Bottom line? Watch it. Share it. Donate it.

And visit www.climatecrisis.net to learn how much you contribute to the problem, and how you can reduce your carbon emissions to zero.
 

We Have to Look

There has been a lot of slap-happy talk lately about how the Democrats don't have a plan. It is the flavor du jour. In fact, if we look, we'll see the Democrats have lots of plans. They've been writing them, publishing them, and proposing them for years. Beginning January they'll have a chance to implement some of them.

But we still won't notice if we don't look.

We won't notice that Democratic Congressman John Murtha's controversial redeployment plan (what was called "cut and run" by the hyperbolic GOP, but which actually involved a phased-redeployment) matches, almost to the letter, the recent advice of the generals on the ground—generals to whom George Bush has consistently differed when considering troop deployment.

Why won't we notice? Because most of us didn't become familiar with Murtha's proposal in the first place. Though we may have disparaged it.

We won't notice the Democrat's energy policy, which spells out in specific detail the goals our nation needs to achieve by certain dates, and the primary efforts which need to be made.

We just have to look.

As an example, I would guess that almost no one reading this is aware of Nancy Pelosi's recent letter to China's President Hu. I would guess an even slimmer number have read it.

But plenty will gripe, "The Democrats need to put plans on the table, they need to decide on their position and make it clear." They have.

We just have to look.

If we do we'll see that Pelosi (on behalf of her party, and as the new Democratic Speaker of the House) has proposed a new Shanghai Communique—homage to the 1972 Shanghai Communique forged between China and the United States. Specifically, she is asking President Hu to agree to three fundamental goals. Goals which can be, and are, defined objectively—you'll be pleased to know.

"First, China has committed to a 20 percent reduction in energy consumption for every 1 percent of GDP growth by 2010—a courageous commitment that President Bush has also failed to make. I ... propose that the United States as a whole match the 4 percent annual improvement ... already undertaken by California. That would mean at least a 25 percent improvement by 2012.

... Second, I want to lead an effort to help China invest in factories devoted to clean power technologies—green cars, solar panels, wind turbines ... You have $1 trillion in reserves because of your trade surplus with us. Nothing would improve China's standing in America more than using its reserves, as Japan did, to create good U.S. jobs and profits for Chinese companies—all while advancing the clean power industry.

Third, I propose we send over a 'Green Corps' of U.S. engineers to travel across China and demonstrate something many Chinese officials do not understand: being green is profitable ... You will never break out of your cycle of environmental degradation until those officials understand that pollution is wasted energy and wasted money."

Pelosi goes on to lay out some more specific plans.

"I want to require our power grid operators to purchase 20 percent of their energy from environmentally sound renewables by 2020." An improvement over China's 10 percent promise. And she doesn't stop there:

"We need to bring our U.S. engineers, who know how to clean up small engines, together with your manufacturers, who know how to mass produce them cheaply, to forge companies that will not only clean up the air in developing countries but make money for both of us."

This kind of forethought and smart diplomacy is exactly what we need. These are ideas and plans and goals. These are specifics. This is not what most people think of the Democratic party. Perhaps we should re-evaluate our impressions.

All we need to do is look.
 

Thanksgiving

In a series of suicide bombings and shellings that appeared calculated to ignite a firestorm of reprisals, at least 161 people were killed and 257 wounded Thursday in the single deadliest attack on a sectarian enclave in Iraq since the 2003 U.S.-led invasion.

The explosions in Sadr City came after a highly coordinated militant assault on the Shiite-controlled Health Ministry complex and were followed almost immediately by attacks in Sunni Arab neighborhoods that killed at least 10 others. Separate bombings, shootings and apparent sectarian executions across Iraq killed at least 62 more, leaving a total of at least 233 dead in one of the war's bloodiest days.


(from Tribune news service)
 

Be Thankful

3,709. Almost four thousand. That's the number of Iraqis that were killed in the rising sectarian violence in Iraq during the month of October, according to a newly released UN report. 3,709 men, women, and children dead as a direct result of our illegal invasion of a sovereign nation.

In one month.

And since July, 13,653 Iraqi civilians have been killed.

Once November's dead are tallied the sum is expected to eclipse October's "deadliest" numbers.

100,000 Iraqis are fleeing their country each month; nearly 27 million since the war began in March 2003 (1.6 million of these have sought refuge in neighboring countries).

As the Associated Press reports: "Assassinations of professionals continued at an alarming rate in the past two months, including journalists, teachers, professors, lawyers, doctors, and political and religious leaders."

Lynchings and torture are on the rise. Bodies are deposited in the streets with missing fingers, teeth, eyes—you name it—as Sunnis and Shiites compete through increasing brutality. These bodies number in the dozens, every single day.

Yesterday alone, as my hometown rag The San Diego Union Tribune reports, 76 bodies were found dumped in four cities—59 of them in Baghdad alone.

And today—as millions of Americans gorge themselves on turkey and stuffing, beer and wine, football and movies—the United States has been engaged in the Iraq war longer than it fought during World War II.

Happy Thanksgiving, America.

Be thankful you're not Iraqi.

And as you prepare to spend money you don't have on things you don't need—during "national good-consumer day," following Thanksgiving—I hope you will take some time away from your cellphones, maybe while you're standing in line waiting for Macy's to open, to think about the dozens of Iraqis who will be tortured, murdered, and dumped on a Baghdad street because of a policy you might have at one time supported. A policy done in your name even if you didn't support it.
 

Pop Hop

Tupac Shakur's latest, sixth posthumous release (Pac's Life) has brought some fresh blood into what has become a stale and redundant genre. A genre which has become pop—in the sense that Tupac would have been most nauseated by.

Of course, none of the material on this new release can compare to Tupac's original work. This is nothing new: None of his posthumous releases can stack up to Thug Life, Me Against the World, All Eyez on Me, or the dangerously angry (and arguably fatal) Makaveli. That isn't to say his posthumous albums don't contain work which puts 50 Cent and his kind to shame.

Tupac's perfectionism has been well documented, and the exhaustive efforts he made to perfect his releases are apparent to even the laziest listener. Some of that is clearly missing from his latest release, but even in its immature state a comparison of this work serves to illustrate the dire situation "hip hop" faces today.

In its purest form, rap is poetry (spoken word does a lot to illustrate this point)—it is about the succinct distillation of anger and passion. Tupac, and those like him, pointed out injustice and challenged our precepts ... unapologetically. This bravado is essential to the art of rap—indeed, it sustains it—but it is only the means to an end.

These days hip hop consists of recycled sound bytes and familiar themes. It is all bravado: cars, bitches, money, chronic. Parts of the lifestyle? Yes, of course. Fun in their own way? You won't get an argument from me. But elevating the art form? Challenging its audience? Questioning precepts and authority? Inspiring positive change?

Hell no.

I dearly hope that hip hop will, some day in the future, become rap again. I hope the innovation and dedication which characterized its early development and made possible the miracle of Tupac Shakur will once again grace our airwaves. I hope that all the "rappers" making money that should have been Tupac's and Biggie's, will hang up their hats, get fat and happy, and die at an early age. They (and the genre they propagate) are victims of the popular success of hip hop.

We need to be hungry again. We need to be smart, angry, confident. We need to be poetic again.
 

Why Not Smile

The concrete
broke your fall.

To hear you speak of it.

I'd have done anything.
I would do anything.
I feel like a cartoon brick wall.

To hear you speak of it.

You've been so sad.
It makes me worry.

Why not smile?

You've been sad for a while.

Why not smile?

I would do anything.
To hear you speak of it.

Why not smile?

You've been sad for a while.

You've been sad for a while.


(Michael Stipe, REM)
 

Lessons from Vietnam

Keith Olbermann, of MSNBC, responds to Bush's comparison between Vietnam and Iraq.

It is a shame and it is embarrassing to us all when President Bush travels 8,000 miles only to wind up avoiding reality again.

And it is pathetic to listen to a man talk unrealistically about Vietnam, who permitted the "Swift-Boating" of not one but two American heroes of that war, in consecutive presidential campaigns.

But most importantly—important beyond measure—his avoidance of reality is going to wind up killing more Americans.

And that is indefensible and fatal.

Asked if there were lessons about Iraq to be found in our experience in Vietnam, Mr. Bush said that there were, and he immediately proved he had no clue what they were.

"One lesson is," he said, "that we tend to want there to be instant success in the world, and the task in Iraq is going to take a while."

"We'll succeed," the president concluded, "unless we quit."

If that's the lesson about Iraq that Mr. Bush sees in Vietnam, then he needs a tutor.

Or we need somebody else making the decisions about Iraq.

Mr. Bush, there are a dozen central, essential lessons to be derived from our nightmare in Vietnam, but "we'll succeed unless we quit," is not one of them.

The primary one—which should be as obvious to you as the latest opinion poll showing that only 31 percent of this country agrees with your tragic Iraq policy—is that if you try to pursue a war for which the nation has lost its stomach, you and it are finished. Ask Lyndon Johnson.

The second most important lesson of Vietnam, Mr. Bush: If you don't have a stable local government to work with, you can keep sending in Americans until hell freezes over and it will not matter. Ask Vietnamese Presidents Diem or Thieu.

The third vital lesson of Vietnam, Mr. Bush: Don't pretend it's something it's not. For decades we were warned that if we didn't stop "communist aggression" in Vietnam, communist agitators would infiltrate and devour the small nations of the world, and make their insidious way, stealthily, to our doorstep.

The war machine of 1968 had this "domino theory."

Your war machine of 2006 has this nonsense about Iraq as "the central front in the war on terror."

The fourth pivotal lesson of Vietnam, Mr. Bush: If the same idiots who told Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon to stay there for the sake of "peace with honor" are now telling you to stay in Iraq, they're probably just as wrong now, as they were then ... Dr. Kissinger.

And the fifth crucial lesson of Vietnam, Mr. Bush—which somebody should've told you about long before you plunged this country into Iraq—is that if you lie your country into a war, your war, your presidency will be consigned to the scrap heap of history.

Consider your fellow Texan, sir.

After Kennedy's assassination, Lyndon Johnson held the country together after a national tragedy, not unlike you did. He had lofty goals and tried to reshape society for the better. And he is remembered for Vietnam, and for the lies he and his government told to get us there and keep us there, and for the Americans who needlessly died there.

As you will be remembered for Iraq, and for the lies you and your government told to get us there and keep us there, and for the Americans who have needlessly died there and who will needlessly die there tomorrow.

This president has his fictitious Iraqi WMD, and his lies—disguised as subtle hints—linking Saddam Hussein to 9/11, and his reason-of-the-week for keeping us there when all the evidence for at least three years has told us we need to get as many of our kids out as quickly as possible.

That president had his fictitious attacks on Navy ships in the Gulf of Tonkin in 1964, and the next thing any of us knew, the Senate had voted 88-2 to approve the blank check with which Lyndon Johnson paid for our trip into hell.

And yet President Bush just saw the grim reminders of that trip into hell: the 58,000 Americans and millions of Vietnamese killed; the 10,000 civilians who've been blown up by land mines since we pulled out; the genocide in the neighboring country of Cambodia, which we triggered.

Yet these parallels—and these lessons—eluded President Bush entirely.

And, in particular, the one over-arching lesson about Iraq that should’ve been written everywhere he looked in Vietnam went unseen.

"We'll succeed unless we quit"?

Mr. Bush, we did quit in Vietnam!

A decade later than we should have, 58,000 dead later than we should have, but we finally came to our senses.

The stable, burgeoning, vivid country you just saw there, is there because we finally had the good sense to declare victory and get out!

The domino theory was nonsense, sir.

Our departure from Vietnam emboldened no one.

Communism did not spread like a contagion around the world.

And most importantly—as President Reagan's assistant secretary of state, Lawrence Korb, said on this newscast Friday—we were only in a position to win the Cold War because we quit in Vietnam.

We went home. And instead it was the Russians who learned nothing from Vietnam, and who repeated every one of our mistakes when they went into Afghanistan. And alienated their own people, and killed their own children, and bankrupted their own economy and allowed us to win the Cold War.

We awakened so late, but we did awaken.

Finally, in Vietnam, we learned the lesson. We stopped endlessly squandering lives and treasure and the focus of a nation on an impossible and irrelevant dream, but you are still doing exactly that, tonight, in Iraq.

And these lessons from Vietnam, Mr. Bush, these priceless, transparent lessons, writ large as if across the very sky, are still a mystery to you.

"We'll succeed unless we quit."

No, sir.

We will succeed against terrorism, for our country's needs, toward binding up the nation's wounds when you quit, quit the monumental lie that is our presence in Iraq.

And in the interim, Mr. Bush, an American kid will be killed there, probably tonight or tomorrow.

And here, sir, endeth the lesson.
 

Fewer, Damn It!

Hey everyone:

The debate isn't about less troops or more troops in Iraq. It's about fewer troops.

Someone should tell this to the congressional committee which recently questioned General Abizaid.

If you can count it, use "fewer."
 

Where's Yul Brenner?

What would Red Cloud—the great Oglala Lakota warrior—think about this exhibit in the Museum of Westward Expansion in St. Louis? I have a few ideas of what he would say about his 21st century, bio-mechanical doppelgänger. But instead, let me tell you what I think.

The Museum of Westward Expansion, located beneath St. Louis' famous "gateway arch," is a pretty cool place. Other than its confusing layout—which attempts to herd visitors through succeeding historical decades—the museum is quite well made. One thing a good liberal education provides is a familiarity with the often specious nature of history ("his-story"), and coupled with a solid grounding in American Literature, a liberal education can provide a strong framework for understanding the blemishes in our past. And recognizing when they are being couched in platitudes or ignored altogether. This museum is remarkable if only because it doesn't couch things: it presents an admirably accurate picture of both the failures and successes of the United States during its short history.

So many museums don't do this because, speaking frankly, our moral failures outnumber our moral successes.

It is with some ambiguity, then, that I approach the subject of Red Cloud's display in this museum. While I appreciate the fact that he is represented and that a small part of his story is given voice (literally, through a recording which cycles continuously), another part of me mourns a culture we destroyed and another we have used to replace it—the kind of culture where robotics have replaced people, where technology is used to paint a portrait of spirituality, of dignity, of (dare I say it?) freedom.

This isn't to say everything was dandy back then. This isn't to say the indigenous peoples of North America didn't have their own moral failures. Any of these arguments isn't the point here.

I'm talking about us. You and me and the people whose DNA we carry and will pass on. I'm talking about the culture we have created and in which we now live.

My point is one of the greatest Sioux warriors—a man without peer among his peoples, having counted coup 80 times in battle—has been reduced to hydrolics, rubber and plastic, acrylics and fiber. The tribal hunting grounds he defends now consist of painted buffalo on a windless plain.

And what of us? Have we learned anything? What do we take with us when we watch this robotic Red Cloud lift his arms and flex his eyebrows and talk in the deep monotone of our imagination's Sioux?

Can any of us really understand the opportunity we have forever lost?

Untitled

Quiverfull

The current issue of The Nation magazine features an interesting, albeit frightening, article by Kathryn Joyce entitled, "The Quiverfull Conviction." What's it about? In a nutshell, Christian breeding. OK, so that's a simplified—perhaps even careless—way of putting it. Let's take a moment to be responsible about this.

The subtitle to Joyce's article, "Christian Mothers Breed 'Arrows for the War'," might be a better place to start. There's nothing frightening about having several children (as many as 14 in some cases)—the frightening part is what these children are being bred for: War.

The movement—called "Quiverfull," by those who practice it—is a belief system designed around not only producing as many children as possible, but around providing soldiers for Christ, warriors who will ensure future generations of practicing fundamentalists. (Psalm 127: "Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. They will not be put to shame when they contend with their enemies in the gate.")

As Joyce describes them, "Quiverfull parents try to have upwards of six children. They home-school their families, attend fundamentalist churches and follow biblical guidelines of male headship—'Father knows best'—and female submissiveness" (11).

But there's also a battle of political and sociological proportions here. A deliberate effort to reverse what these fundamentalist Christians view as morally corrupt—evil.

The founding theologians, identified as Rick and Jan Hess (A Full Quiver: Family Planning and the Lordship of Christ) and Mary Pride (The Way Home: Beyond Feminism, Back to Reality) have grounded the movement in bellicose fashion. This isn’t just about populating heaven; this is about battling feminism, de-evolving the role of women in the family and in society, and attacking birth control in all its forms.

Pride writes, "What most do not see is that one demand leads to the other. Feminism is a totally self-consistent system aimed at rejecting God’s role for women. ...Family planning," Pride later continues, "is the mother of abortion."

The answer, according to the Quiverfull folk, is to demonstrate God's dominion over a woman's body by carrying to term and raising as many children as God sees fit to provide.

Yet can't something similar be argued by pro-choice ideologues? Can't we take this spectrum and lean it the other way? I think so, yes.

In fact one of the concerns pro-choice activists (be they quiet or noisy) have, is that a reversal of Roe v. Wade will signal the start of a series of increasingly more conservative alterations of rights we "take for granted." Reversing abortion has implications far beyond just that one act: it will, in fact, effect women's rights in a multitude of ways—in the home, in the workplace, and in society at large. This is something we don't usually see acknowledged by the passionate Christian movement in the United States. But it is quite relevant to the discussion.

Think not? Just ask the Quiverfull.
 

One of My Turns

These lyrics have haunted me ever since I was a child listening to them in my headphones. There is something cosmic and powerful going on here. Take a moment to read them carefully. Try to look past the "depressing" aspect—there's more here.

One of My Turns

Day after day,
our love turns gray,
like the skin on the dying man.

And night after night,
we pretend it's all right,
but I have grown older
and you have grown colder
and nothing is very much fun,
anymore.

And I can feel
one of my turns coming on.

I feel
cold as a razor blade
tight as a tourniquet
dry as a funeral drum.


(Pink Floyd, The Wall, "One of My Turns." Lyrics by Roger Waters.)

[Due to technical difficulties this post was delayed.]
 

Change the Channel

Television commercials depress me. Have you really considered them lately? If our society is heading toward its downfall—Roman Empire style—commercials are the death knell.

It's bad enough that doctors are being treated like pushers, and it's bad enough that our society is (legally) drugging itself into blissful oblivion, do we really need to advertise it? To make it into some catchy jingle with a handsome spokesperson and warm, nostalgic post-production effects? It's gotten to the point where these people think selling a cholesterol drug is like staging a production of Hamlet.

"I didn't know you could play the trumpet like that, dad!"

"Neither did I, son. Neither did I."

I'm not making this up. Someone, for the love of God, shoot me now.

Drug commercials depress me more than any other: More than the Chevrolet commercial which equates patriotism and the American Spirit with a 2007 Chevy Silverado ("This is our truck!"); more than the "reality" show teasers airing on every major network, which are full of such hopelessly fake people it is a wonder they actually exist; more than Budweiser or Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum or Miller Genuine Draft reminding me to drink responsibly—as if they give a shit.

But drug commercials. God help us.

I don't know whether to feel depressed, nauseated, angry, dismissive, or hopeless. Sounds like I should talk to my doctor—fast!

I bet he could prescribe something to address my problem.
 

Atomic Procedure Says (a 3by3by3)

Atomic Procedure Says:

Study patients, two blond celebrity chains;
Open confidentiality agreement with mirror;
Bomb randomized power vessels;

Install percutaneous intervention;
Run normal heart-attack centrifuges;
Split clogged uranium, busy busy;

Enrich Manhattan warheads;
Announce nuclear Federline fuel;
Baby peaceful atomic coronary plants.


Common Heart Procedure Shown Ineffective for Some Patients
Brit's Look Says, 'I'm Back'
Iran wants 60,000 atomic centrifuges - president

---

This is a "3by3by3" poem created from the three news articles above. To read its sister poem (created from the same three articles), or to learn the recipe for your own 3by3by3, visit 3by3by3.blogspot.com.
 

travelingsittingstill.com

The domain for my upcoming collection of short stories, Traveling Sitting Still, has been established. The web site will allow readers to preview the book, read excerpts, and purchase the collection (once publication is complete) through Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, or the publisher itself.

In the meantime, a preview site has been constructed which includes advance praise, back-cover market copy, an author bio, and publishing information. I hope you will visit it.

WWW.TRAVELINGSITTINGSTILL.COM

Look for the site to be updated periodically as the publication process proceeds.
 

Endorsement

"Traveling Sitting Still is a superb collection of short stories, far superior to anything I have read by a young writer. This collection reflects an unusual combination of writing and storytelling talents. By shedding new light and insights into commonplace occurrences, many of these stories elevate everyday events and experiences to the level of high literary art. Other stories in the collection do likewise with more profound human tragedies that cast an uncompromising light on the terrible things human beings knowingly and unknowingly do to one another, while simultaneously reminding us that the roles of victim and oppressor can be easily reversed."

Dennis M Clausen, author of Prairie Son.


Traveling Sitting Still is being published by iUniverse, and will be available in early 2007.
 

Little Boxes

"Little Boxes," by Malvina Reynolds
(audio available here)

Little boxes on the hillside,
little boxes made of ticky-tacky.
Little boxes on the hillside,
little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
and a blue one and a yellow one,
and they're all made out of ticky-tacky,
and they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
all went to the university
where they were put in boxes
and they came out all the same.
And there's doctors and lawyers
and business executives,
and they're all made out of ticky-tacky
and they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf-course,
and drink their Martinis dry,
and they all have pretty children,
and the children go to school.
And the children go to summer camp,
and then to the university,
where they are put in boxes
and they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business,
and marry and raise a family,
in boxes made of ticky-tacky,
and they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
and a blue one and a yellow one,
and they're all made out of ticky-tacky
and they all look just the same.

"Anyone who puts his or her talent or effort toward changes for the better, has tremendous muscle—much more than the negative people, the destructive people."
 

Sinsemilla Sitcom?

Showtime's new series, Weeds, has already gotten a fair amount of attention from the media. Even before the first episode aired, there was a quiet debate over the pros and cons of a series whose protagonist (a widowed, middle-aged mother of two named Nancy and played deftly by Fried Green Tomato's actress Mary-Louise Parker) sells marijuana in her suburban neighborhood. Even a city-council member is buying.

It was with some amount of skepticism that I put in the first disc of season one, which contains the first six half-hour episodes. Not only am I an HBO kinda guy—Deadwood is the best show ever made, in my opinion—but I am also used to the hour-long format.

Could this really stack up? Could it do so in thirty minutes?

And how would its writers apply the illicit drug element? Would they exploit it for cheap effect or would they instead try their best to develop it as another character in the series?

Whether the show is pointing out the hypocrisy and lonely alienation of contemporary suburbs (which, in ironic fashion, share much with Faulkner's and O'Connor's dusty South), or building emotional tension through the struggles of the characters (primarily the protagonist and her youngest child), there is a lot to admire in this series. Much to my surprise.

If anything, the marijuana element only undermines what is proving to be a potent series.

The hopelessly naive economics of the show will frustrate some members of its audience. More than once, Nancy is forced to leave thousands of dollars worth of collateral (her car in one instance, her engagement ring in another) for an ounce of marijuana which would sell for $300 to $500. Her money problems ring false as she lives in a small mansion and enjoys state-of-the-art electronics, wears designer fashions, and pals around with city council members. At no point does she sell that brand-spankin'-new cam corder for that ounce she needs so badly.

Nevertheless, most audience members will forgive this misstep and others will simply not notice it. The series is worth watching—for its opening theme song alone, which I cannot bring myself to skip even upon multiple viewings—thanks to its self-conscious examination of contemporary Gucci living, and its ability to cram an amazing amount of character driven drama into thirty scant minutes.
 

Opt Me Out

If there was a button, Mark would have pressed it a long time ago—if there was a way out. The thing about suicide that made it so off-putting was the actually-doing-it part. Mark tried to explain this to his German Sheppard, but Max clearly couldn't relate.

"A dog's life," Mark said to the soap suds as they disappeared down the kitchen sink drain. He dried his hands on a purple dish towel and flicked off the light switch by the Wusthof knives and the stove. "Kitchen's closed," he said to Max. The dog gave him a tiny, questioning whimper and then let his head slump back onto the cool hardwood of the entranceway.

Guns made a mess, and he had heard stories (hadn't everyone?) about uncooperative trajectories—about people so miserable they couldn't even end their own lives, about eating food through a straw or pushing yourself around in a wheelchair with a blow tube. There were other methods, of course, but none of them seemed ... well ... easy enough. It was a chicken-shit thing to do anyway, killing yourself, no reason to get macho about it. The path of least resistance was best.

This was something Max could understand. To a dog, life is cut and dry. It is crotch sniffs and red meat. It's a good hard sprint, it's a bowl of water in August. It's a bitch now and then if the gonads are still in place.

All of which would have made this easier. Even the bitch part: the idea that "loved ones" were no more attached or unattached than a one-night-stand or a quick ejaculation. That was the other problem: You piss a lot of people off when you kill yourself. You leave behind all that misery and anger and confusion. You make more of what you wanted to leave behind.

The whole thing was a pain in the ass. Mark guessed it boiled down to which was more of a pain: the living thing, or suicide.
 

Ma'at Imbalanced

Ma'at was the Egyptian goddess of balance (as well as truth, law, and justice). This image was taken "from the hip" in downtown San Diego, in July 2006.
 

Grandpa is Peeing

Grandpa is peeing
outside the house,
by the bushes and the
spigot for the hose.

His truck is parked to
block the driveway.

Road trips remembered,
or perhaps the thought
that the bathroom seat
requires lifting,

make urination easier
into the mulch.

From my vantage
across the street
I can tell when he zips.
Then Grandpa turns,

for a moment
sees me.

But the porch steps
need mounting, and
behind the front door
a grandchild waits.
 

A Beautiful Day

THANK YOU, AMERICA!

You've restored my faith in the electorate and the election process. It's a beautiful day.

Goodbye Donald Rumsfeld, hello Democratic congress!
 

A Bad Night For Democrats?

I live for this kind of evening.

Here at 4:37 PM Pacific Time—a few minutes after the close of polls in Ohio, North Carolina, and West Virginia—I'm watching non-stop election coverage. I'll be up until the House and Senate are decided, or 3 am—whichever comes first. Like Nancy Pelosi, I am growing flushed with excitement as the road to victory for the Democrats seems long and safe. After three heartbreaking elections, this feels good.

When I say heartbreaking, I mean it. In 2000, 2002, and 2004, America broke my heart. Each time my disappointment with my fellow countrymen and my alienation grew. Tonight, they might send me roses and a Hallmark card.

So with all this good news, how come the savvy political part of me is worried ... worried about the kind of landslide night, the kind of Democratic tidal wave I desperately hope for?

What's this contradiction all about?

Ask a Republican.

After enjoying total control of our elected government for four years and the Presidency for six, Republicans are choking on their own success. Oh sure, don't get me wrong, they've made a mess. When I say success, I mean only electoral success (forgetting that I believe the 2000 and 2004 elections were fraudulent).

This is nothing new. Call it the six year itch, call it incumbent backlash, call it whatever you want. This midterm election—enjoying Presidential election turn-out numbers, up to 70% in some states—has been compared to the Republican successes in 1994. Historically, we are told, this is not unprecedented.

Nor is the impact on the Presidential election only two years from now. Have no doubt, tomorrow morning it's all about 2008. Smart Democrats like me know tonight is all about 2008 too.

Which is why this could be a bad night. If the Democrats are put in a position to effect change and find that, fighting a Republican senate and President, that change is hard to come by, the American public might not endorse them in the same way during election night 2008.

And how much can the Democrats really do in two years—even with both houses of congress? They can push raising the minimum wage (and they will). They can push a change in the Iraq policy (and they will). They can pressure the executive branch through budgetary control (and they will). But can they really effect noticeable change with a stubborn and partisan, and increasingly powerful, executive branch? Will the American public really see the kind of changes they are voting for tonight?

Their disappointment—fair or otherwise—might cripple the Democrats and allow the Republicans to put someone like John McCain in the Oval Office. A Democratic landslide tonight might make a Presidential win for the Democrats more difficult.
 

The First One Now Will Later Be Last

Everybody is watching.

As the Democrats stand poised to take back the House of Representatives for the first time since 1994, politics is the talk of the town. There are even a few rumbles about those six seats in the Senate—the ones the Democrats need in order to take control of congress altogether. Today cable news, the blogosphere, and hometown rags nationwide, are all about Tennessee and Virginia and Montana and Missouri and Rhode Island and, well, you get the idea.

But I've got a dirty little secret.

The Republicans have already stolen 4.5 million votes.

OK, so maybe "stolen" is a hard way to put it. Maybe it's more like "manipulated," or "impeded." Though I think I like "stolen" better. After all, if Republicans refuse to adopt nuance for their political rhetoric or their train-wreck policies (which have lately flown in the face of the academic definition of conservatism), why should I? No, they've stolen 4.5 million votes—about five percent of the national electorate. Plain and simple.

I've got another dirty little secret.

It doesn't matter.

Greg Palast puts it best in his recent column, Steal Back Your Vote, by speaking directly to Democratic voters: "If you can't get the 55% you need for regime change, then you’re just a bunch of crybaby pussycats who don’t deserve to take charge." He's got a point, and I think it's time registered Democrats (including yours truly), and wind-chime liberals start getting real. It's about time we learned a little something from those unscrupulous Republicans.

How to play dirty, for example.

Anyone who thinks our Democracy is actually that, a Democracy, is either hopelessly naive or ten years old. I'm not (just) talking about Diebold here: I'm talking about an outdated and unnecessary Electoral College system; I'm talking about voter manipulation and intimidation; I'm talking about money motives and election quid pro quo; and yes, I'm talking about outright fraud—though I think that makes up a small percentage of the problem we face as a nation (despite Ann Coulter's best efforts).

According to a recent CNN poll 57% of Americans are not confident that their votes will be counted. Another 30% are only "somewhat" confident. These are disturbing numbers that speak to a grave problem in our nation's democracy—and a failure of our so-called leaders on both sides of the aisle.

So, I'm echoing Palast's suggestion: let's get over it. Let's say to hell with lack of confidence, to hell with the manipulation and outright corruption. And the best way to do that is to GET OUT AND VOTE while following these recommendations:

#1: Vote Early, Vote Often

Vote today—at early voting stations—so you can spend tomorrow bringing out others to vote. Also, if you're challenged at the poll you've got another day to bring in more identifying papers or scream bloody murder to your county elections board about your missing registration.

#2: Gang Vote

Arrive with five! Never go bowling, make love, or vote alone. Volunteer at get-out-the-vote operations.

#3: Tell Them to Take Their Provisional Ballot and Stuff It

If they try to hand you a "provisional ballot," scream bloody murder. If there's a problem with your ID or registration, demand adjudication from a poll monitor, come back with proper ID, or appeal to the county supervisor of elections.

Don't just walk away: If it's provisional or nothing, take it—then return for the count to defend it.

#4: Get to Work

Volunteer to bring out the vote. Or watch a poll—to challenge the challengers. Get credentials from the parties or get information on how you can slay vote-eating dragons in your area from the National Campaign for Fair Elections; don't freelance—you'll likely get thrown out.

(If you aren't sure where your polling place is, click here.)
 

"Orlando Furioso" by Gustave Dore

Gustave Dore's illustration of Ludovico Ariosto's "Orlando Furioso".
 

Moore's Letter to Voters

Friends,

Tomorrow night, those who sent 2,800 of our soldiers to their deaths—all because of a lie the president concocted—will find out if America chooses to reward them—or remove them.

As good as things look for the Democrats, do not pop the corks and start the partying yet. Do not believe for a second that the Republicans plan on losing. They will fight like dogs for the next 24 hours—relentless, unforgiving, nonstop action to squeeze every last conservative voter out of the house on election day. While the rest of us go about our day today, tens of thousands of Republican volunteers are knocking on doors, making phone calls, and lining up rides to the polls. They're not sleeping, they're not eating, they're not even watching Fox News. A day without Fox News? That's right, that's how insanely dedicated they are.

But the reason they have to work so hard is that, before they can get the vote out, they first have to completely turn around the massive public opinion against them. Almost 60% disapprove of Bush. Over 60% are opposed to the war. Those are landslide numbers. And the American people are not going to turn pro-war or into Bush-lovers by tomorrow morning. So it should be easy for us, right?

Yup. Just like it was when we won the popular vote in 2000 and when we were ahead in the exit polls all day long in 2004. You know the deal—the other side takes no prisoners. And just when it seems like things are going our way, the Republicans suddenly, mysteriously win the election.

Well, it's not really that mysterious. They're out there busting their asses this very minute, right down the street from you. What are YOU doing? You're on a computer reading my cranky letter! Stop reading this! We have only a few hours left to wrestle control of the Congress away from these "representatives" who, if returned, will continue shipping our young men and women over there to die.

Here's what I'm imploring you to do right now:

1. Go through your address book on your cell phone and computer and call/e-mail everyone you know. Tell them how much it would mean to you if they vote on Tuesday. If they don't know where to vote, help them find their polling place.

2. Contact MoveOn.org ASAP. They will connect you to the folks who need you to make calls.

3. Contact your local Democratic Party headquarters. There are close races in nearly every state. They'll put you to work—on the ground or on the phones. Or go to the local HQ for the Dem candidate running for the House of Representatives or the U.S. Senate and say, "Put me to work!"

OK, turn off the computer—and I will, too. There's serious work to do. The good news? There's more of us than there are of them. Let's prove that, once and for all.

Is there anything more important that you have to do today? Nothing less than the rest of the world is depending on us.

Yours,
Michael Moore
www.michaelmoore.com
mmflint@aol.com
 

Election Sneak

Everyone knows it's election season. This midterm election is proving to be as contentious as most Presidential elections. Stakes have scarcely been higher—as the Democrats aim to take control of the House of Representatives and perhaps even the Senate. But you already knew that.

What you might be wondering, as I am, is how gas prices have remained low over the past several weeks. The price of oil is now on the rise again—in time for post election middle-class consumers who can't take their anger out at the polling booth.

Of course, the oil companies have denied any kind of pre-election quelling of prices. What are they going to say, "Yeah, you're right, we're doing our best to help the Republicans"? Of course not. Either way—whether they are indeed relaxing prices to stave off economic backlash against the Republicans at the polls, or if their hands are clean—their response would be the same. It means nothing.

I've lived in California long enough to recognize a spade and call it one; when it comes to energy I've gotten very good at it. I lived (and paid) through Enron's manipulations. I recognized them before it was popular to do so, and received plenty of eye-rolls from swing voters and conservatives.

And now Saddam has been sentenced to death. It's a development likely to cause increased anger, blood shed, and sectarian violence among Iraqis—but it will no doubt be hailed as some kind of victory by President Bush and his conservative base.

Two days before these contentious midterm elections.

I've lived long enough to recognize a spade and call it one.
 

Traveling Sitting Still (2)

The morning is usually cool and dewy, opening a day's worth of secrets to her while the rest of the exhausted world stirs from their beds and stumbles into their showers. The slowness of the morning, the cool anticipation, reminds her of being young and she usually cries. Just a little. Just in the best kind of way.

Charlie is always nice to her: he helps her onto the bus in the mornings and off the bus in the evenings. He's too young for her—and she's too old for such nonsense—but sometimes she dreams about him. You can't help what you dream, she tells herself in the morning, bracing against her waking arthritis and wiping the night's dust off her photographs—photos taken on the beach at Coney Island, at the lip of Niagara Falls during her honeymoon, or barefoot in the backyard. Friends. Children. Husbands.

"It's not any of my business," Charlie says to her one morning, his empty bus idling patiently while the gray morning lightens toward day, "but I sure am curious why you like riding this bus so much. If you don’t mind the question."

Before she can answer he settles back into the driver's seat and reaches for the metal pull handle that closes the bus doors. People are always doing that these days, asking questions without waiting for the answers. Mona thinks television has something to do with that. Television and all those electronic devices people stick in their ears. That is their way of traveling, she guesses, as if a television show could replace a trip to the African savanna on safari, clutching her father's hand, watching giraffes pirouette above the distant horizon—the unending, molten horizon—listening to the hyenas screaming somewhere safe in the distance.


(Coming in 2007)
 

Please to Remember

Remember remember, the fifth of November,
Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,'twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!
 

Got Democracy?

Today's front page of The San Diego Union-Tribune reports that San Diego has run out of absentee ballots. The Registrar of Voters cites "unusually high demand and a printing order that wasn't filled fast enough." Now someone is making 5,000 photocopies because Diebold (yes, they) didn't fill the printing order in time.

As if our democracy wasn't already under siege. As if I wasn't already worried my vote—and yours, and yours, and yours—would be either miscounted or tampered with by those in power.

Haven't you heard? Even upstanding, righteous, bastions of patriotism and conservative moral values are doing it: Ann Coulter is under investigation for Florida vote fraud. The same woman who called me treasonous.

Haven't you heard? The 130,000 Diebold electronic voting machines preparing for November 7th can be—and have been—hacked and the "ballots" reversed. Not just changed: reversed. Those who can do it describe it as easy. Someone even sent the source-code from the 2004 elections, in an anonymous package, to a Maryland legislator.

And we can't even get the absentee ballots right.

The photocopied versions are to be returned by likely confused voters, whose votes will then be transferred by hand to new ballots which are (supposedly) being printed. Am I the only one rolling my eyes? I'd sure like to know what kind of oversight will be taking place during this transfer process.

I'll say it here first if it hasn't already been said. If the Democratic congressional landslide predicted by every poll from coast to coast doesn't come to fruition late on November 7th, it will mean someone under Karl Rove's employ has committed voter fraud on a scale that would make even Ms. Coulter blush. Bush and Rove have both said Democratic Party control of the House or Senate "won't happen."

Now, how do they know that?
 

I Want to Hurt Someone

by Greg Palast
Friday, November 3, 2006
The Guardian (London)

It was pure war-nography. The front page of the New York Times today splashed a four-column-wide close-up of a blood-covered bullet in the blood-soaked hands of an army medic who'd retrieved it from the brain of Lance Cpl. Colin Smith.

There was a 40 column-inch profile of the medic. There were photos of the platoon, guns over shoulders, praying for the fallen buddy. The Times is careful not to ruin the heroic mood, so there is no photograph of pieces of corporal Smith's shattered head. Instead, there's an old, smiling photo of the wounded soldier.

The reporter, undoubtedly wearing the Kevlar armor of the troop in which he's "embedded," quotes at length the thoughts of the military medic: "I would like to say that I am a good man. But seeing this now, what happened to Smith, I want to hurt people. You know what I mean?"

The reporter does not bother—or dare—to record a single word from any Iraqi in the town of Karma where Smith's platoon was, "performing a hard hit on a house."

I don't know what a "hard hit" is. But I don't think I'd want one "performed" on my home. Maybe Iraqis feel the way I do.

We won't know. The only Iraqi noted by the reporter was, "a woman [who] walked calmly between the sniper and the marines."

The Times reporter informs us that Lance Cpl. Smith, "said a prayer today," before he charged into the village. We're told that Smith had, "the cutest little blond girlfriend" and "his dad was his hero." Did the calm woman also say her prayers today? Is her dad her hero, too? We don't know. No one asks.

The reporter and his photographer did visit a home in the neighborhood—but only after the "hit" force kicked in the door. I suppose that's an improvement over the typical level of reporting we get. In dispatches home by the few US journalists who brave beyond the Green Zone, Iraqis are little more than dark shapes glimpsed through the slots of a speeding Humvee.

Last month there was a big hoo-ha over the statistical accuracy of a Johns Hopkins University study estimating that 655,000 Iraqis have died as a result of this war.

I doubt the Iraqi who fired that bullet into Lance Cpl. Smith read the Hopkins study. Iraqis don't need a professor of statistics to tell them what happens in a "hard hit" on a house. Of civilians killed by the US forces the Hopkins team found 46% are younger than fifteen years old.

I grieve for Lance Cpl. Smith and I can't know for certain what moved the sniper to pick up a gun and shoot him. However, I've no doubt that, like the Marines who said prayers before they invaded the homes of the terrified residents of Karma, the sniper also said a prayer before he loaded the 7.62mm shell into his carbine.

And if we asked, I'm sure the sniper would tell us, "I am a good man, but seeing what happened, I want to hurt people."


(For more of Greg Palast's writing, along with information on his books and films, go here.)