Brilliant idea!

Many of you may recall that during the Bush Administration there were “Free Speech Zones” set up at GOP functions so the lackeys of the rich wouldn’t have to put up with embarrassing truths being fired at them.  I’m thinking now that the Obama Administration should do something along the same lines, but from a different direction, ie, ”Free Gun Zones”.

Imagine if you will, barbed wire enclosures full of gun nuts strutting around like banty roosters, with all the ordnance they want strapped to their mangy little camo-clad carcasses.  What a picture, eh?  Then, if they want to exercise that ol’ 2nd Amendment right, well, who better to practice on than their own paranoid, brown-rice-eating, gold-bullion-hording, sandbagged-compound-dwelling, country-n-western-listening, flag-saluting, conspiracy-elaborating selves?

Hell, as a public service, the Secret Service could even provide them with reasonable amounts of ammo in various calibers, free of charge.  Think of it as “redistributing the wealth”, crazed-pinhead-militia-style!

Maybe I should email this to the White House, see what they say.  Or see how long it takes before I get a knock at the door and some nice men in cheap suits ask me if I’m doing anything the next 10-20 years.  Which I’m not, as it turns out.

The Last True Journalist

There are people whom I admire–Michael Moore, Rachel Maddow, Paul Ehrlich and Ralph Nader are the living ones.  But I can’t really say I have heroes.  Heroes per se tend to disappoint, to have feet of clay; to be all too human.   Thus, despite the many good works performed by the aforementioned and a paltry few others, at the end of the day I would not want to emulate them.   In other words, “Role model” is a term I rarely find useful.

But occasionally, our species of gibbering, club-wielding ape produces an individual about whom even a raging cynic and misanthrope such as myself can feel safe in saying:  “If most of us were like this person, this world would not be the hell-hole of hypocrisy that it is”.    So it was that when I heard of Walter Cronkite’s death this morning, it was as if the last candle in a dark, dark room had gone out.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Walter Cronkite.  Naive I might have been, but nevertheless I thought that if people could only get the unvarnished facts, they would ignore the lies of the narcissistic sociopaths in business, in government, in religion and yes, even in journalism, and thus rise up and eliminate the injustices that humans commit against their fellows by the billions, day in and day out.  To me, there could be no higher calling, nor more needful one; honest reporting–getting the facts of current events to the voting public, pure and unvarnished–was, and indeed still is, the foundation upon which a successful democracy is built.  And no one in my memory fit the bill better than Walter Cronkite.

I know what some are thinking right now:  there’s no such thing as completely unbiased reporting.  And if one uses the principle of reductio ad abusurdum, then they’re right–there will always be a flavor of personal prejudice in any news story.  But applying more reasonable standards, I feel it is still possible enough that people of good will can look at an incident or a principle, make note of all the more salient aspects, and then describe them with a high degree of accuracy, in spite of their own opinions.

Walter Cronkite did just that, and people respected him for it, and trusted him even when they didn’t like what he was saying.  What better evidence, than when LBJ finally said:  “”If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost middle America.”  Nowadays, however, media figures have become 7-8-figure entertainment personalities bought and paid for by the rich and powerful.  And the US has suffered for it.  Would George Bush have ever gotten into office if it hadn’t been for the well-dressed and -coiffed venal mouthpieces disguised as credible, objective reporters whom acted as if his “victories” were credible?  Would self-serving arguments against overpopulation, global warming, and universal health care be treated with anything more than the contempt they deserve?  Would the tag-along cheerleaders such as Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly be seen as anything more than the lying, manipulative demagogues that they really are?

When I’ve seen what journalism has become, I despair; when I remember Walter Cronkite, I mourne.  And in the end, I’m glad I instead found more honest work sweeping floors and driving trucks.

A Three-and-a-Half Decade First

I just got back from the first funeral I’ve been to in nearly 35 years.  Here’s the announcement.

Mildred

I don’t have much to add to what was said better by others, nor will I linger over my heated disgust at the phonies whom treated Mildred like dirt while she was alive but then suddenly got all teared up when the microphone was in their hands.  All I know is that Mildred was one of the few people I could be ornery with in this oh-so-PC town, and not only would she not stick her nose in the air, or scold me like some constipated school-marm, but she would ornery me back, and give as good as she got, and sometimes even more.

Goodbye, Mildred.  I’ll miss you more than you’d realize; more than even I would have guessed.

That does it!

It’s official:  the American movie industry is as dead as GM.  Once one of the few things the US did right any more, yet now the same lack of innovation and foresight that doomed Detroit has settled over Hollywood like a fat stinking pile of cow whomp.

They are going to do a remake of–hold on to your chosen body part–Highlander!

This is insane.  Is no older, almost-perfect movie now safe from these hacks?  Citizen Kane, Grapes of Wrath, Metropolis…are they ALL going to suffer from the brainless, clay-footed, short-term-profit-driven madness in the front office?

I mean, come on; it’s not like there aren’t thousands of fledgling authors out there, everyone of them capable of delivering a salable commodity.  Hell, give me ten grand and six months and I’ll produce something that will out-gross Tom Cruise’s War of the Worlds 2.0, or Sutherland’s Body Snatchers, Jr, or Reaves’ Day the Earth Stood Still Again.  But noooooo, the suits would rather play it timid, operating on the entirely untenable notion that “if they liked it before, they’ll like it a hunderd times!”

Well, I’m stating right now,that I for one will never see Highlander Remake.  Ever.  And when it comes out, I’m going to write to the studio–and to the papers–and tell them EXACTLY why.   Who knows, maybe I can get Obama to chime in.  After all, the US can’t afford to lose any more industry, even if all it is, is flicks.

Another GSW Goes Into the History Books

Well, figuratively, anyway.  True, we’ve had a couple of anthologies published with varying success, both compiled from years of stories all composed  in 24 (approximately) hours beginning Friday evening, then read aloud over the course of the following Saturday night.  But mostly the whole thing’s been about getting together with old friends, having good food, good fun and many laughs, and occasionally getting a wee bit freaked out (thanks for the “finger food”, Christina!).  This one was no different–except that having wireless Internet access now makes my own research-heavy attempts easier…or at least more redolent of a scholarly bouquet.

Make no mistake, generally I have lamented the 21st-Centurization of Siltcoos Station (http://www.lanecc.edu/florence/siltcoos/ ; be sure to check out the “Photos” section).  When I first started coming to the Ghost Story Weekend some 13-14 years ago (since then having missed but one), out of the 15 or so attendees only a couple of us had laptops; the rest wrote out everything in longhand.  Add to that the fact that there was no phone service (not even cell; we’re quite a distance from the nearest town), and one had the feeling of a true “retreat”, where the rest of the world kept its nonsense temporarily to itself.  It was just the writers, their muses, and a quiet lakeside locale.

Enter Cybernetica, in the form of satellite-dish communications, telephones included.  True, having access to various scholarly websites gives my forays into the hauntings of the Mediterranean of the Late Third Century, BC, a bit more authenticity, or so I flatter myself.  Also, the ability to communicate with folks back at the old homestead can ease some of the distracting concern that one’s house might have been burgled or nuked in one’s absence.  And need I even mention the benefits to writers provided by  portable computers, printers, and so forth?

Still, with the slowly-eroding isolation, I miss as well the ratty old furniture, the bats collecting in the eaves, the doors and windows that often stuck, and the overall battered ambiance of buildings built back in the ’20′s, in a climate that is unkind to wood frames and shingles.  I’m afraid that the current aspect is one of stale, bright humdrum, the soullessness of an atmosphere designed specifically to offend no one, yet in doing so also inspiring no one.  Call it, “architectual correctness”; the Muzak of habitation.  Good with the bad, I suppose…yet those old chairs, though admittedly tattered, chipped and sprung, fit Ye Cap’n's broad “aft deck” much better than these stylish “seating modules” with which we’re now inflicted.  And the venerable, if much-repainted, metal bunk beds, hideously uncomfortable though they might have been, lent an air of summer camp to the proceedings, complete with 2:00 AM gab-sessions with the guy up top, buzzing insects and spilled soda pop.  Even the missing baseboards, half-rotted foundations and bat-guano-coated exteriors were to be appreciated for the air of hoary individuality with which they once graced these backwoods hideaways.

No more.  Form marches on, it’s hobnailed boots trampling substance into the lakeside mud.  And a little bit more of the beloved funk of life slips away in to sad, sterile sameness.

It ain’t as simple as “evil Somali pirates”

You probably won’t see me referencing Ron Kuby very often, but this time I think he’s got it more right than wrong.

http://airamerica.com/doingtime/blog/2009/apr/09/doing-time-defense-ready-somali-pirates-your-honor.

In addition to being “eco-warriors”, at least to a certain degree, the so-called Somali pirates seem to be doing a bit of the Robin Hood thing, too, by spending a significant portion of their “ill-gotten wealth” (which, by the way, they have arguably liberated from real pirates, ie, rich corporations) in Somalia itself–a nation that has experienced quite a lot of hunger lately, thanks in large part to a decade or two of civil war.  So when these alleged criminals–or “Somali Volunteer Coast Guard”, as they apparently reference themselves–bring outside resources into their various communities, they are in effect helping to alleviate that hunger in a very real way.  And quite frankly, the pictures I’ve seen of the crew of the USA-registered cargo ship, which was recently attacked by the Somalis, depict people who are, like most Americans, pretty damn well-fed–so it’s very hard for me to have much sympathy them, especially since so far they don’t seem to be in any real danger.   That goes especially for the skipper, whom, as of this writing, is still being held by the SVCG; I mean, a dead hostage isn’t going to bring in much in the way of a ransom, you know.

There’s an old, old story, wherein a pirate, being captured and brought before Alexander the Great, said that when he, the pirate, stole small, he was called a criminal, but when Alexander stole large, he was a “conqueror”.   That’s reminiscent of the practice in the modern US of giving pot dealers 20-to-life at hard labor, while a white collar criminal, on those rare occasions when s/he even gets convicted, let alone tried, ends up doing at most a few months at a federal country club.

While I’m not necessarily defending the actions of the Somalis (nor necessarily condemning it, either), it remains that there is another perspective to this story than the official one, that of “dastardly African sea-wolves being mean to wonderful European merchants just out to make an honest dollar” (yeah, right). I expect mainstream media to parrot what the governments of the West tell them; I would like to think that the “opposition press” would be a little more critical of that position, but apparently most of them are on board as well.  Is this what we have to expect of journalism in the Obama Age?  No dissent from any quarter, left, right, center, or off-the-wall?

That would be a real crime.

It’s the ducks. Or maybe the cheese.

When the family and I, plus the goat, first moved to the south side of East Westville, we were greeted with hoots of derision by the local Spittoon Polishers And Masons (SPAM).  It seems they had heard of our clan penchant (pronounced “tendency”) for straining duck grease through old Lyndard Skynard t-shirts, and were dismayed enough to protest our advent into their moderately oil-free community.  For two weeks they kept up a non-stop marathon of clog-dancing, yak-bone whittling and playing “Elmo Lincoln Sings Aida” over and over again on a Victrola the size of Rush Limbaugh’s left cheek (hauled around for just such occasions on a flat-bed eighteen-wheeler supplied by the Clive Barker Auto Works).  But it did them no good; we were here to stay, as Aunt Finchknapper proved when she set her false teeth on fire and ran right straight at the crowd wearing nothing but a chemise made of leechee nuts.

After the National Guard–consisting of two mentally-challenged twelve-year-olds–calmed matters down, the townsfolk finally gave up and began to drift away, singularly, in small groups, or all at once, until the sidewalk was free and clear.

That was when we set up the “Head Cheese and Ox Burger” stand out front.  We made a tidy sum before the health department closed us down…enough to replace Aunt Finchknapper’s dentures.  Her chemise was never the same again, though, but it tasted great with filtered duck!