Obligatory Liberal Disclaimer: Saddam Hussein was a bad man. Osama Bin Laden is a bad man. Al Qaeda is a bad organization. Terrorism is bad.
President Bush gave a speech yesterday to the National Endowment for Democracy. This is an apparently well hung organization that is dedicated to “Supporting freedom around the world.” They were chartered by President Reagan, and they receive money from Congress. They say they want to “strengthen democratic institutions around the world through nongovernmental efforts.” Which seems covert to me. Wesley Clarke is on the board, and he has a brain in his head, so I’ll leave it to him to manage the crazies, should they ever appear.
Mr. Bush is apparently back on the horse after the devastating blow that Hurricane Katrina dealt to his approval ratings. I hate it when I lose points like that, so I understand. Granted, I am not in charge of a nation of 295,734,134 people (pre-Katrina), so I don’t know how heavily the deaths of over 1300 citizens would weigh on me. But I would probably have to get into the ring and throw punches like a prize fighter, staunchly declaring my purposes. I’d have to remind the American people that they are afraid, not angry. I’d have to get out that great glowing noun, Democracy, and its consort, Freedom, and have them puff up the chests of the faithful. I would have to redirect the nations’ eyes from the Louisiana morgue full of the nameless dead and the Mississippi families trying to rebuild.
Because we are under threat every day, every moment from extremist groups intent on burying our way of life. I would remind Americans to live in fear. Remind them that we have brought freedom to repressed parts of the world. Like Iraq and Afghanistan. (Don’t mention The Sudan, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia. Repression is relative to economics and political necessity.) Focus instead on the fact that we have “gained the peace that freedom brings.” This is peace. Remember that. Because “We're responding to a global campaign of fear with a global campaign of freedom. And once again, we will see freedom's victory.” Whatever I do, I would not liken their global campaign of fear to my national one.
September 11. Smoking ruins. Evil. Fire. Twisted metal. New York City. “Let’s roll.” September 11. Do you remember September 11? Let me remind you: September 11, “a proud city covered in smoke and ashes, a fire across the Potomac, and passengers who spent their final moments on Earth fighting the enemy.” Side note: when I mention those “men who rejoice in every death,” please don’t think about the following people:
Repent America director Michael Marcavage said that it’s too bad that many had to die, but God “destroyed a wicked city.”
Hal Lindsey thinks that Katrina shows that “the prophetic times [he has] been expecting for decades have finally arrived. And even worse, it appears that the judgment of America has begun.”
Former Nixon special counsel Charles Colson speculated that God allowed Hurricane Katrina as to remind us how important it is that we win the War on Terror: "Did God have anything to do with Katrina?," people ask. My answer is, he allowed it and perhaps he allowed it to get our attention so that we don't delude ourselves into thinking that all we have to do is put things back the way they were and life will be normal again.”
Steve Lefemine of Columbia Christians for Life saw an image of an 8-week old fetus imbedded in the satellite image of Katrina: "In my belief, God judged New Orleans for the sin of shedding innocent blood through abortion."
Also, Please don’t think about the people of Mississippi, the City of Biloxi, the countless rural dwellers who lost their lives, their livelihoods. Don’t tell them that “Oops, sorry, you were just too close to that sin pot, New Orleans. God does not have smart bombs. No. Think about “Americans in uniform rising to duty.” But don’t think about them coming home in flag-draped caskets. Don’t think about 1945 American soldiers dead. Done. Over. Lives ruined. Don’t ever take any responsibility for anything this country has ever done to bring on acts of hatred. Only women can be blamed for their own victimization. America could never wear its skirts too short and sashay down a dark alley, inviting attack. Make sure to condemn others for rejoicing in death because it makes Americans forget that I don’t even seem to understand it. Don’t remind people that you cannot have a war on a noun. (See: War on Drugs.) Certainly and absolutely never mention Oklahoma City or Atlanta or the numerous abortion clinics bombed and Americans killed. Certainly, a statement like the following, taken out of context, could ONLY denote Islamic Fundamentalists.
“All these separate images of destruction and suffering that we see on the news can seem like random and isolated acts of madness. Innocent men and women and children have died simply because they boarded the wrong train or worked in the wrong building or checked into the wrong hotel. And while the killers choose their victims indiscriminately, their attacks serve a clear and focused ideology, a set of beliefs and goals that are evil but not insane.”
Remember: these people hate you and they hate your god. They hate your freedom. None of this has anything to do with American foreign policy or American history or a general trend toward radicalism, all over the world, fueled by poverty, lack of resources, poor education, and disenfranchisement of all kinds. Religious freedom equals freedom to practice Christianity. My kind of Christianity. Extremism is usually bad, would you say? Fundamentalism usually warps the religion, perhaps? Only their kind. My kind: good. Their kind: Bad.
Please, people, understand: Al Qaeda is a propagandistic organization, recruiting based on poverty, displacement and anger. They accept only their cause as the one true cause. I know this because the real one true cause, the cause that I represent, works in much the same way. Our weapon, however, is money. Money and fear. But I know. I can’t talk about that. I must remember to keep that to myself, only as a reference.
Remember: “We know the vision of the radicals because they've openly stated it in videos and audiotapes and letters and declarations and Web sites.” This should be easy to remember because we use these tactics as well. Please ignore the sulfuric smell of my smirking. These people are “fanatical and extreme and they should not be dismissed.”
Never forget, “these extremists want to end American and Western influence in the broader Middle East, because we stand for democracy and peace and stand in the way of their ambitions. It’s not us. It’s them. They “regard Iraq as the central front in their war against humanity, and we must recognize Iraq as the central front in our war on terror.” Please do not think about how Iraq became that front. Don’t think about what would happen in the Middle East if the USA actually Let Freedom Ring and allowed these people to choose their own governments.
At this point I might bring up other despots in order to confuse the issue more. Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot. Examples of “Evil men obsessed with ambition and unburdened by conscience” who must be “taken very seriously, and we must stop them before their crimes can multiply.” I would not point out to anyone on the left that this sentence could be turned against me.
I would have a lot of poignant things to say, that would come from my own experience over the last five and a half years of governing: “Defeating a militant network is difficult because it thrives like a parasite on the suffering and frustration of others.” and “The radicals exploit local conflicts to build a culture of victimization in which someone else is always to blame and violence is always the solution.” and “The radicals depend on front operations such as corrupted charities which direct money to terrorist activity.” and “They are strengthened by those who aggressively fund the spread of radical, intolerant versions of Islam in unstable parts of the world.” But I would not point out that, with a substitution of a few nouns, you would not know who I was talking about—my government or the enemy. This is fun. It’s easy to give speeches. I like talking to people.
It would be important to again link Iraq with Al Qaeda and September 11, perhaps with a statement like this, “Some have also argued that extremism has been strengthened by the actions of our coalition in Iraq, claiming that our presence in that country has somehow caused or triggered the rage of radicals. I would remind them that we were not in Iraq on September the 11th, 2001, and Al Qaeda attacked us anyway.” Iraq is just an excuse now for the liberals and the terrorists, and I need to remind the American people of that. I need to put these concepts into a sentence together again: Iraq, Al Qaeda, September 11. And it’s always good to have an esoteric link between liberals and terrorists floating around out there in the ether.
If it weren’t ludicrous and could actually spawn laughter, I might link Islamic radicalism with communism. I might say that “this fight resembles the struggle against communism in the last century.” Because “Like the ideology of communism, Islamic radicalism is elitist, led by a self-appointed vanguard that presumes to speak for the Muslim masses.” “Like the ideology of communism, our new enemy teaches that innocent individuals can be sacrificed to serve a political vision. And this explains their cold-blooded contempt for human life.”
Don’t point out that Kristian philosophy neglects this world of the flesh in favor of an afterlife in paradise. Don’t refer back to the Wrath of God/Hurricane Katrina people. Don’t think about Valerie Plame. Don’t look into the service records of my administration or our average net worth. Don’t think about the elections of 2000. Don’t define the term “corporate oligarchic theocracy.”
Don’t point out that Karl Rove basically transposed his philosophy for taking over America into this very speech. “Like the ideology of communism, our new enemy pursues totalitarian aims. Its leaders pretend to be in an aggrieved party, representing the powerless against imperial enemies. In truth, they have endless ambitions of imperial domination and they wish to make everyone powerless except themselves. Under their rule, they have banned books and desecrated historical monuments and brutalized women. They seek to end dissent in every form and to control every aspect of life and to rule the soul itself. While promising a future of justice and holiness, the terrorists are preparing for a future of oppression and misery. Like the ideology of communism, our new enemy is dismissive of free peoples, claiming that men and women who live in liberty are weak and decadent.”
Don’t trace the co-opting of populist rhetoric by the conservative right.
At this point, I am confused, but I was told to keep reading. I won’t stumble over this because it sounds so familiar, so home grown: I will charge on. I will finish this speech with a few more points. Some of these are actually funny, but I won’t chuckle. “The essence of democracy [is] making your case, debating with those who disagree, building consensus by persuasion and answering to the will of the people.”
This is tough. But it’s on the teleprompter: “In fact, democratic federalism is the best hope for unifying a diverse population, because a federal constitutional system respects the rights and religious traditions of all citizens while giving all minorities…a stake and a voice in the future of their country.
Gosh, I hope no one analyzes this speech.
“As Americans, we believe that people everywhere—everywhere prefer freedom to slavery and that liberty, once chosen, improves the lives of all.”
Who writes this stuff? Karl? Can I have a word with you? No? OK.
Almost done.
“There's always a temptation in the middle of a long struggle to seek the quiet life, to escape the duties and problems of the world, and to hope the enemy grows weary of fanaticism and tired of murder.”
Great! This is where I get to take a vacation. Excellent. I have brush to clear. I hope no one ever passes a law that says if you start a war, you aren’t allowed to go on vacation until you finish the war. That would suck.
Last but not least:
“Tyrants and would-be tyrants have always claimed that regimented societies are strong and pure until those societies collapse in corruption and decay.”
Ah, truer words were never spoken.
Is this thing on?
Thursday, October 6, 2005
Runners' High
I don’t like running
If I had to run for my life, I’d die.
I quit track after 9th grade because they would not let me just run fast and then jump, and they would not let me just run fast and then stop. They wanted me to run. They made me run. And run. Just run. Run and run and run.
I didn’t like it.
This past weekend was beautiful. A showcase of Twin Cities autumnal majesty. One sparkling, warm yellow light day, and one grey blue breezy day. It was the weekend of the annual Twin Cities Marathon, and my uncle and aunt had arrived so that my uncle could run in it. I was excited to see them as they are two of my favorite people in the world and my example of how a couple should behave; madly in love, even when you are doing the dishes. But I don’t like running. I don’t know if I have mentioned this, but I just don’t like it. It kills my prematurely old knees, and it makes me sad, deep in my respiratory system. It would be great to cheer Mike on, but being that close to so many people who are running…. I just didn’t know.
I don’t understand marathons; I don’t know why anyone would want to do it; I don’t see the point. This does not mean that I am not impressed by the achievement because I most certainly am, but I did not see how I could get much actual personal enjoyment out of being a spectator for a marathon. And actual personal enjoyment is an important pursuit in my life.
Pete and I decided to ride our bicycles. Most of the route through St. Paul was familiar and relatively close to our house, and it seemed strange to use the car to cheer on people who are running. Jump in the car, drive the car, park the car, get out of the car, “GO MIKE YAY MIKE”, jump in the car, drive the car, park the car, get out of the car, etc. I figured it would stress me out and make me feel even more of a fitness loser than I already am. I jumped astride Stan (link) and Pete got his bicycle (who will remain nameless), and we struck off to meet the marathoners.
We arrived at the Lake Street Bridge that connects Minneapolis to St. Paul where the Mississippi River separates them. People, everywhere. Cheering and whooping. Waving signs and clapping. Runners passing under us on the River Road, clearly members of the elite, still cruising along at Mile 21 like they had just started out. We were meeting the family at mile 18, across the river. I was surprised by my reaction to all the activity. It was as if the air was full of the runners’ endorphins, and I felt no pain, just a positive sense of ineffable joy. It was the kind of free-floating goodwill that makes you say nice things to people you don’t know, remark on the cuteness of strangers’ dogs, and walk around with an idiotic grin on your face, directing the glow at everyone in your vicinity. I found myself looking for things to compliment. “Nice boots!” “I love your top.” I look forward to moods like that.
We crossed the river and rode up the path alongside the course. The family was there, dutifully waiting for Mike. Spectators were stretched out as far as we could see, each way along the route, and the runners formed a steady stream of endurance. Almost eight thousand people would pass through here once the day was over, running, wheeling, walking, breathing, smiling, wheezing, and sweating. It was unbelievable, and I felt emotional, teary. I thought that perhaps I was losing my mind until I looked at Pete, who said, eyes red, “I feel like crying.” Freak. Freak like me.
I guess that it was the upbeat nature of the event, the actual pointlessness of it. It is what it is, and for all its homogeneity (white, middle class, middle aged), this positive sense of accomplishment for the sake of accomplishment was hanging in the autumn air, just underneath the canopy of grey clouds. And it was affecting everyone. From me with my low expectations and disdain of running to the women who were across the course from us on Mile 18, cheering indefatigably for anyone, everyone who went by, using some stand-out aspect of the participant’s costume or appearance to designate them. “Go Spam! YAAAAY!!! All right you guys, you’re looking great!! Woo Hoo! Number 8413!! Super Fly!! Sparkle head! Batman! Robin! Superman! Keep it up!! Great Job!! YAAAAAAAAYYY!!!” They were incredible. My uncle would tell us afterwards that the crowd was pretty quiet, compared, at least, to Pittsburgh. But we can’t be compared to steel workers of the western Appalachians. It’s just not fair. I posit that they were pretty loud for a bunch of passive aggressive Minnesotans.
It’s a gorgeous route to run, if you have to run. Or if you want to run. It starts in downtown Minneapolis and wends its way past the Sculpture Gardens, though neighborhoods that inspire envy, home of the Mary Tyler Moore house and Walter Mondale’s home, past the chain of three lakes, Isles, Calhoun, and Harriet, along the Minnehaha Parkway and around Lake Nokomis, north/northeast along the river and then back down the other side, over and up along Summit Avenue through Saint Paul, past the Governor’s Mansion, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s brownstone, Garrison Keillor’s neighborhood, and down past the Cathedral and on to the State Capitol. Pete and I put in over 16 miles on our bicycles, a pittance in physical expenditure compared to my uncle and the thousands of others who finished, but it felt good. It was fun to ride alongside, to look for him in the crowd, to cheer him on, to have that brief moment where I actually understood why someone would want to do this. I won’t be running a marathon any time soon, or ever, I should say, but I will probably get the bike out again next year, and cheer on a bunch of strangers.
If I had to run for my life, I’d die.
I quit track after 9th grade because they would not let me just run fast and then jump, and they would not let me just run fast and then stop. They wanted me to run. They made me run. And run. Just run. Run and run and run.
I didn’t like it.
This past weekend was beautiful. A showcase of Twin Cities autumnal majesty. One sparkling, warm yellow light day, and one grey blue breezy day. It was the weekend of the annual Twin Cities Marathon, and my uncle and aunt had arrived so that my uncle could run in it. I was excited to see them as they are two of my favorite people in the world and my example of how a couple should behave; madly in love, even when you are doing the dishes. But I don’t like running. I don’t know if I have mentioned this, but I just don’t like it. It kills my prematurely old knees, and it makes me sad, deep in my respiratory system. It would be great to cheer Mike on, but being that close to so many people who are running…. I just didn’t know.
I don’t understand marathons; I don’t know why anyone would want to do it; I don’t see the point. This does not mean that I am not impressed by the achievement because I most certainly am, but I did not see how I could get much actual personal enjoyment out of being a spectator for a marathon. And actual personal enjoyment is an important pursuit in my life.
Pete and I decided to ride our bicycles. Most of the route through St. Paul was familiar and relatively close to our house, and it seemed strange to use the car to cheer on people who are running. Jump in the car, drive the car, park the car, get out of the car, “GO MIKE YAY MIKE”, jump in the car, drive the car, park the car, get out of the car, etc. I figured it would stress me out and make me feel even more of a fitness loser than I already am. I jumped astride Stan (link) and Pete got his bicycle (who will remain nameless), and we struck off to meet the marathoners.
We arrived at the Lake Street Bridge that connects Minneapolis to St. Paul where the Mississippi River separates them. People, everywhere. Cheering and whooping. Waving signs and clapping. Runners passing under us on the River Road, clearly members of the elite, still cruising along at Mile 21 like they had just started out. We were meeting the family at mile 18, across the river. I was surprised by my reaction to all the activity. It was as if the air was full of the runners’ endorphins, and I felt no pain, just a positive sense of ineffable joy. It was the kind of free-floating goodwill that makes you say nice things to people you don’t know, remark on the cuteness of strangers’ dogs, and walk around with an idiotic grin on your face, directing the glow at everyone in your vicinity. I found myself looking for things to compliment. “Nice boots!” “I love your top.” I look forward to moods like that.
We crossed the river and rode up the path alongside the course. The family was there, dutifully waiting for Mike. Spectators were stretched out as far as we could see, each way along the route, and the runners formed a steady stream of endurance. Almost eight thousand people would pass through here once the day was over, running, wheeling, walking, breathing, smiling, wheezing, and sweating. It was unbelievable, and I felt emotional, teary. I thought that perhaps I was losing my mind until I looked at Pete, who said, eyes red, “I feel like crying.” Freak. Freak like me.
I guess that it was the upbeat nature of the event, the actual pointlessness of it. It is what it is, and for all its homogeneity (white, middle class, middle aged), this positive sense of accomplishment for the sake of accomplishment was hanging in the autumn air, just underneath the canopy of grey clouds. And it was affecting everyone. From me with my low expectations and disdain of running to the women who were across the course from us on Mile 18, cheering indefatigably for anyone, everyone who went by, using some stand-out aspect of the participant’s costume or appearance to designate them. “Go Spam! YAAAAY!!! All right you guys, you’re looking great!! Woo Hoo! Number 8413!! Super Fly!! Sparkle head! Batman! Robin! Superman! Keep it up!! Great Job!! YAAAAAAAAYYY!!!” They were incredible. My uncle would tell us afterwards that the crowd was pretty quiet, compared, at least, to Pittsburgh. But we can’t be compared to steel workers of the western Appalachians. It’s just not fair. I posit that they were pretty loud for a bunch of passive aggressive Minnesotans.
It’s a gorgeous route to run, if you have to run. Or if you want to run. It starts in downtown Minneapolis and wends its way past the Sculpture Gardens, though neighborhoods that inspire envy, home of the Mary Tyler Moore house and Walter Mondale’s home, past the chain of three lakes, Isles, Calhoun, and Harriet, along the Minnehaha Parkway and around Lake Nokomis, north/northeast along the river and then back down the other side, over and up along Summit Avenue through Saint Paul, past the Governor’s Mansion, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s brownstone, Garrison Keillor’s neighborhood, and down past the Cathedral and on to the State Capitol. Pete and I put in over 16 miles on our bicycles, a pittance in physical expenditure compared to my uncle and the thousands of others who finished, but it felt good. It was fun to ride alongside, to look for him in the crowd, to cheer him on, to have that brief moment where I actually understood why someone would want to do this. I won’t be running a marathon any time soon, or ever, I should say, but I will probably get the bike out again next year, and cheer on a bunch of strangers.
Wednesday, October 5, 2005
Tropical Storm Tammy
Tropical Storm Tammy.
Really?
Now, not to diminish the possible destructive power of this storm, but... Tammy? It's really hard for me to take this seriously. It would seem that the National Weather Service is running out of names, and it might be time for a new system. Because I am just not ready for Tropical Storm Bambi to take out Savannah or for Hurricane Debbie to do Dallas. They only have 21 names a year, and there are apparently only a few left. Then they have to resort to the Greek alphabet, which I personally am much more excited about. Hurricane Omicron and Tropical Storm Upsilon sound peachy to me. Once we pass by Wilma (from the Flintstonian epoch), which is the last name, we're headed for Alpha. I think that the World Meteorological Organization (WMO) which is a United Nations agency, should look ahead to next year and start with an entirely new idea. Hey, why not continue with the name theme, and the Greek theme, and start in with God names from the Grecian pantheon. This could then branch out to Roman names and Norse names. Hurricane Odin? Thor? Absofuckinglutely. There are only going to continue to be more storms, guys. You had better get the name arsenal up and running.
Author's disclaimer: This was not the intended entry today, but the author left her journal at home by her bed because she is stupid. Also, the author would like to note that looking forward to Hurricane names such as Athena and Hephaestus does not mean that she condones the use of Mother Nature to inflict suffering on the human race. But hey, it happens. It might as well have a good name.
Really?
Now, not to diminish the possible destructive power of this storm, but... Tammy? It's really hard for me to take this seriously. It would seem that the National Weather Service is running out of names, and it might be time for a new system. Because I am just not ready for Tropical Storm Bambi to take out Savannah or for Hurricane Debbie to do Dallas. They only have 21 names a year, and there are apparently only a few left. Then they have to resort to the Greek alphabet, which I personally am much more excited about. Hurricane Omicron and Tropical Storm Upsilon sound peachy to me. Once we pass by Wilma (from the Flintstonian epoch), which is the last name, we're headed for Alpha. I think that the World Meteorological Organization (WMO) which is a United Nations agency, should look ahead to next year and start with an entirely new idea. Hey, why not continue with the name theme, and the Greek theme, and start in with God names from the Grecian pantheon. This could then branch out to Roman names and Norse names. Hurricane Odin? Thor? Absofuckinglutely. There are only going to continue to be more storms, guys. You had better get the name arsenal up and running.
Author's disclaimer: This was not the intended entry today, but the author left her journal at home by her bed because she is stupid. Also, the author would like to note that looking forward to Hurricane names such as Athena and Hephaestus does not mean that she condones the use of Mother Nature to inflict suffering on the human race. But hey, it happens. It might as well have a good name.
Not With The Band
I guess I can be thankful for my mediocre musical talents in this way:
I don’t have to be in a band, deal with my bandmates (i.e. drummer), negotiate with clubs, or worry about the high school politics of “the scene.”
Pete is, however, very talented musically, and gets no greater thrill out of life than playing music, on a stage, for humans. Therefore, he gets to deal with the accompanying bullshit. This is also probably another reason that I have not ever tried to publish any of my writing: bullshit and dealing with said bullshit. Oh, and soul-crippling rejection. But that’s another story.
In other professions, you make a deal, and both sides of the deal agree to provide certain amenities or execute certain tasks. They are expected to live up to them. But it seems that in the music business, only the club matters, and the bands just have to take it, unless they are hugely up-and-coming or already established.
In other professions, if you show up on time, according to the previously arranged deal, with everything you were asked to provide, and the other side of the transaction changes the rules, say, changes the time, you have every right to say no, and walk away. In the music business, however, you have to smile and nod and suck it up, and if your drummer throws a hissy fit because he can’t stay up that late because he single-handedly runs a 6 million dollar hedge fund during the day, and your bass player is nonplussed and also works in the morning, and your fiancé is freaking out because she is not going to have time to sew your monkey head, and you decide to pull out because it’s just not going to be fun anymore and this is supposed to be fun, right?... you have to deal with the fact that you will never play that club again, and never play with that band again, and word could get around that you are pussies. And that is one less place where you can experience the weightless joy that music brings you.
And you will spend another hour, at home in bed, not fornicating like you should be, but being talked down off the ledge by your previously freaking out fiancé, reminded that this is supposed to be fun, and you are not trying to score in the music industry anymore, that this was, in fact, why you quit your other verge-of-successful band, and that life and grown up responsibilities have, for better or for worse, taken priority over stardom, and that was the choice you made, for very good reasons, four years ago.
I am all for Pete playing music, don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to Yoko him out of his band. I love going to hear them play, and I almost never miss a gig. Even when I have a monkey head to sew. (Or when I wind up in the middle of nowhere northern Wisconsin surrounded by weekend warriors). Heck, I practically ordered him to take the free drum set his drummer was offering and set it up in my basement long before we had even talked about him moving in. But I also hate to see him wrecking himself over the politics and stressing out over things he cannot change. I would love it if he had a chance to play more because it makes him so very obviously happy, and happiness is sexy. Especially when accompanied by guitar face. Really. But he probably needs a new drummer, at least for weekday gigs, and he will obviously have some damage control to perform from last night, which I have no doubt he will be able to do; he’s charming and has experience with this sort of thing.
And once that is all in order, after they have a band meeting and sort out their issues, after he makes the rounds he might have to make, he should roll out and get those gigs, and get those new songs together, and play music, even if it’s only for the 5 people who show up. I’ll be there.
With a monkey head on.
If I ever get it done.
I don’t have to be in a band, deal with my bandmates (i.e. drummer), negotiate with clubs, or worry about the high school politics of “the scene.”
Pete is, however, very talented musically, and gets no greater thrill out of life than playing music, on a stage, for humans. Therefore, he gets to deal with the accompanying bullshit. This is also probably another reason that I have not ever tried to publish any of my writing: bullshit and dealing with said bullshit. Oh, and soul-crippling rejection. But that’s another story.
In other professions, you make a deal, and both sides of the deal agree to provide certain amenities or execute certain tasks. They are expected to live up to them. But it seems that in the music business, only the club matters, and the bands just have to take it, unless they are hugely up-and-coming or already established.
In other professions, if you show up on time, according to the previously arranged deal, with everything you were asked to provide, and the other side of the transaction changes the rules, say, changes the time, you have every right to say no, and walk away. In the music business, however, you have to smile and nod and suck it up, and if your drummer throws a hissy fit because he can’t stay up that late because he single-handedly runs a 6 million dollar hedge fund during the day, and your bass player is nonplussed and also works in the morning, and your fiancé is freaking out because she is not going to have time to sew your monkey head, and you decide to pull out because it’s just not going to be fun anymore and this is supposed to be fun, right?... you have to deal with the fact that you will never play that club again, and never play with that band again, and word could get around that you are pussies. And that is one less place where you can experience the weightless joy that music brings you.
And you will spend another hour, at home in bed, not fornicating like you should be, but being talked down off the ledge by your previously freaking out fiancé, reminded that this is supposed to be fun, and you are not trying to score in the music industry anymore, that this was, in fact, why you quit your other verge-of-successful band, and that life and grown up responsibilities have, for better or for worse, taken priority over stardom, and that was the choice you made, for very good reasons, four years ago.
I am all for Pete playing music, don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to Yoko him out of his band. I love going to hear them play, and I almost never miss a gig. Even when I have a monkey head to sew. (Or when I wind up in the middle of nowhere northern Wisconsin surrounded by weekend warriors). Heck, I practically ordered him to take the free drum set his drummer was offering and set it up in my basement long before we had even talked about him moving in. But I also hate to see him wrecking himself over the politics and stressing out over things he cannot change. I would love it if he had a chance to play more because it makes him so very obviously happy, and happiness is sexy. Especially when accompanied by guitar face. Really. But he probably needs a new drummer, at least for weekday gigs, and he will obviously have some damage control to perform from last night, which I have no doubt he will be able to do; he’s charming and has experience with this sort of thing.
And once that is all in order, after they have a band meeting and sort out their issues, after he makes the rounds he might have to make, he should roll out and get those gigs, and get those new songs together, and play music, even if it’s only for the 5 people who show up. I’ll be there.
With a monkey head on.
If I ever get it done.
Tuesday, October 4, 2005
The Slow Exhale
It was a school bus morning.
I awoke to the sound of heavy rain and rumbling thunder. Flashes of lightning gave the bedroom an electric quality. The house was dim, the grey outside only lending a touch of daylight to the quiet rooms. I turned on the kitchen light in order to make the coffee and prepare for my day. When I sat down on the living room floor, I heard heavy wide tires on the wet pavement and the release of the brakes as a yellow school bus trundled down the street, and I was immediately 15. Waiting for the bus on a rainy fall morning in my house in Winona, Minnesota.
It’s definitely autumn now. It was 85 degrees yesterday and humid, but ask the garden, and it will tell you. Walk out into the light, and it will touch your skin with that certain slant that is palpable. A new season, and my favorite. All around the city, the leaves are retreating, leaving behind red and gold and orange and brown as the trees shift into sleep. The peppers and tomatoes are still ripening, running a race with the first frost that could come this week. I’ll cover the plants that need it for as long as I can, eking out those last few basil leaves, and I’ll bring in the plants that can survive over the winter as long as Miss Hazel does not chew them to bloody stumps within the first week. She won’t be able to hide it when she leaps onto the bed in the morning, purring. And we slowly notice a pleasant whiff of… Rosemary? Sage? Two more and we’d have a folk song. No wonder our house does not smell like cats. Our cats smell like herbs.
Watching the garden go, moving the green inside, these cool rains and surprising warm days, tumbling crunchy leaves, nature doing its best Kandinsky, the sun and the earth dancing to a Parrish waltz. It’s like stepping into a stipple brush landscape. The kind that makes you want to name your house and don your overalls to take in the harvest; to lean on your shovel and smile knowingly at your surroundings, humming Copland. It’s that last sigh of contentment, the settling in before the storm. With comfort, we take our places in the flow of the seasons, and we wait.
But first, there is this. This spectacular show, this slow motion yearning toward repose. Perhaps we will walk to the market on an Indian Summer morning and sip a mocha on the patio. Maybe we will open the windows to the rain and thunder and take advantage of our love, the proximity of our warm bodies. It could be that all I want is another pint of raspberries before the frost, an apple pie from the orchard, a sighing afternoon in a park with you. Or a day without the news.
I awoke to the sound of heavy rain and rumbling thunder. Flashes of lightning gave the bedroom an electric quality. The house was dim, the grey outside only lending a touch of daylight to the quiet rooms. I turned on the kitchen light in order to make the coffee and prepare for my day. When I sat down on the living room floor, I heard heavy wide tires on the wet pavement and the release of the brakes as a yellow school bus trundled down the street, and I was immediately 15. Waiting for the bus on a rainy fall morning in my house in Winona, Minnesota.
It’s definitely autumn now. It was 85 degrees yesterday and humid, but ask the garden, and it will tell you. Walk out into the light, and it will touch your skin with that certain slant that is palpable. A new season, and my favorite. All around the city, the leaves are retreating, leaving behind red and gold and orange and brown as the trees shift into sleep. The peppers and tomatoes are still ripening, running a race with the first frost that could come this week. I’ll cover the plants that need it for as long as I can, eking out those last few basil leaves, and I’ll bring in the plants that can survive over the winter as long as Miss Hazel does not chew them to bloody stumps within the first week. She won’t be able to hide it when she leaps onto the bed in the morning, purring. And we slowly notice a pleasant whiff of… Rosemary? Sage? Two more and we’d have a folk song. No wonder our house does not smell like cats. Our cats smell like herbs.
Watching the garden go, moving the green inside, these cool rains and surprising warm days, tumbling crunchy leaves, nature doing its best Kandinsky, the sun and the earth dancing to a Parrish waltz. It’s like stepping into a stipple brush landscape. The kind that makes you want to name your house and don your overalls to take in the harvest; to lean on your shovel and smile knowingly at your surroundings, humming Copland. It’s that last sigh of contentment, the settling in before the storm. With comfort, we take our places in the flow of the seasons, and we wait.
But first, there is this. This spectacular show, this slow motion yearning toward repose. Perhaps we will walk to the market on an Indian Summer morning and sip a mocha on the patio. Maybe we will open the windows to the rain and thunder and take advantage of our love, the proximity of our warm bodies. It could be that all I want is another pint of raspberries before the frost, an apple pie from the orchard, a sighing afternoon in a park with you. Or a day without the news.
The Worst Thing
"There's nothing worse than seeing someone driving down the road, on the phone or shaving or putting on make-up, and there's a child in the back seat.”
-RICHARD ROY, a state representative of Connecticut, on a new law banning the use of cellphones in cars.
The worst thing? Really? The worst. Do you want to think about this at all, Sir? Not at all? It’s the WORST THING. OK. There’s nothing worse. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not a fan of people yakking on cell phones while they are driving, and this includes my lovely and talented fiancé. I might even go so far as to get one of those “Shut up and Drive” bumper stickers... but what if I have to make a call?
Granted, it would be nice if actual common sense prevailed and multitasking was not so fashionable as to make an actual law necessary for such things. But given the prevalence of AM radio-style common sense and the ease with which “the American People’s” feathers get all ruffled when anyone mentions legislating private behavior in this manner, I am sure that plenty of arm chair libertarians and many conservatives will cry foul (fowl?) over any attempt to bring mandates to the state level (as has happened in several states already, so I gather). Never mind that konservatives who cry foul over such laws don’t seem to have a problem with the federal government killing its citizens as part of its criminal justice system or pouncing into the bedroom with sodomy laws or into half the population’s naughty bits with regulations. These seem like extreme and potentially dangerous extensions of governmental power. Nope. Cell phone laws and private property laws and gun laws require red-faced ranting.
Gosh. So many things I could say about what I just said. I basically wanted to make a statement about priorities and perception in America, but I have crushed it under extra words. A woman putting on makeup in the car, baby or not, is poor judgment. Happens all the time. Is it the worst thing? I know this representative’s comments are probably taken out of context in the above quote (found in the New York Times), but I just have to wonder: don’t we have more important things to worry about right now?
Like a new football stadium.
-RICHARD ROY, a state representative of Connecticut, on a new law banning the use of cellphones in cars.
The worst thing? Really? The worst. Do you want to think about this at all, Sir? Not at all? It’s the WORST THING. OK. There’s nothing worse. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not a fan of people yakking on cell phones while they are driving, and this includes my lovely and talented fiancé. I might even go so far as to get one of those “Shut up and Drive” bumper stickers... but what if I have to make a call?
Granted, it would be nice if actual common sense prevailed and multitasking was not so fashionable as to make an actual law necessary for such things. But given the prevalence of AM radio-style common sense and the ease with which “the American People’s” feathers get all ruffled when anyone mentions legislating private behavior in this manner, I am sure that plenty of arm chair libertarians and many conservatives will cry foul (fowl?) over any attempt to bring mandates to the state level (as has happened in several states already, so I gather). Never mind that konservatives who cry foul over such laws don’t seem to have a problem with the federal government killing its citizens as part of its criminal justice system or pouncing into the bedroom with sodomy laws or into half the population’s naughty bits with regulations. These seem like extreme and potentially dangerous extensions of governmental power. Nope. Cell phone laws and private property laws and gun laws require red-faced ranting.
Gosh. So many things I could say about what I just said. I basically wanted to make a statement about priorities and perception in America, but I have crushed it under extra words. A woman putting on makeup in the car, baby or not, is poor judgment. Happens all the time. Is it the worst thing? I know this representative’s comments are probably taken out of context in the above quote (found in the New York Times), but I just have to wonder: don’t we have more important things to worry about right now?
Like a new football stadium.
Monday, October 3, 2005
The Story of the HurriKane
Alabama State Senator Hank Erwin, September 28 2005:
"New Orleans and the Mississippi Gulf Coast have always been known for gambling, sin and wickedness," Erwin wrote this week in a column he distributes to news outlets. "It is the kind of behavior that ultimately brings the judgment of God."
"Warnings year after year by godly evangelists and preachers went unheeded. So why were we surprised when finally the hand of judgment fell?" Erwin wrote. "Sadly, innocents suffered along with the guilty. Sin always brings suffering to good people as well as the bad."
Does this mean that Las Vegas will be swallowed by a dust storm of political, er, I mean Biblical proportions? Perhaps my Los Angelino friends should really be watching for that earthquake sometime during the Bush Administration’s tenure? But maybe Vegas already paid with the October 2003 mauling of Roy Horn by one of his prized white tigers, and they can rest at ease for some time to come. It’s just nice to know that if I ever want to know what God is thinking, I can ask Senator Erwin because The Big Man Himself sure seems to be whispering sweet nothings into his right ear.
It’s not as if these sorts of pronouncements are new. Both sides in the American Civil War believed that they had God on their side, and therefore the Cause belonged to each of them. Of course, only one could win. Sometime in the 1990’s, I went to sleep, and God became very interested in the National Football League, and seems to be on both sides as well. Again, only one team can win (and that is whoever is playing the Minnesota Vikings, it appears). But I guess that, either way, God wins because he is playing both sides. Smarty. He should be pretty happy with his odds now, what with both sides again claiming the same thing: Hurricane Katrina was the Wrath of God. Retribution for Sin. Of course, the sides in this little squabble are Kristians and Al-Kaeda, but never you mind that. It’s OK to say such things if you are Kristian. Those Arabs want to destroy America. Kristians are only trying to help.
This leads me to add two words to the Glossary of K, as I am now calling it, what with examples popping up all over. “Kompassionate” & “Konservative.” In my world, compassion used to be a good thing. Loads better than tolerance and even better then sympathy. I sense little compassion in either beliefs such as Mr. Erwin is pronouncing or in comments uttered by our Former First Lady and Queen Mother Barbara Bush regarding the better-off-ed-ness of Katrina refugees who had been granted asylum Texas style in the Astrodome. And believe it or not, I have met conservatives who I both like and respect. I even voted once for a conservative candidate for Governor of Minnesota. But he was a political conservative. A republican of the older school. Granted, not so old a school as Lincoln, but the sort of socially and fiscally responsible conservative who really had ideas and principles about how government should treat its citizens and run itself. I did not always agree with those conservatives, but I understood their reasoned arguments. These are many of the same people who have tried to distance themselves from the Neo-cons (Konservatives), but who can’t quite seem to get the ear of the press (liberal bias in the media, you know).
It’s all well and good, I suppose. We would not want William Bennett, who in Minneapolis/St. Paul is broadcasted on an AM station named “The Patriot” and whose mug is plastered on billboards under the statement “Intelligent Radio,” to be stuck with the same company over and over again in the Kristian Green Room. It’s good to mix it up a bit. A little Wrath of God is a great addition to any Social Mixer. Senator Erwin will be most welcome with the other Kristians, I believe. Hmmm… Kompassionate Konservative Kristian. Sort of has a “ring” to it, doesn’t it?
"New Orleans and the Mississippi Gulf Coast have always been known for gambling, sin and wickedness," Erwin wrote this week in a column he distributes to news outlets. "It is the kind of behavior that ultimately brings the judgment of God."
"Warnings year after year by godly evangelists and preachers went unheeded. So why were we surprised when finally the hand of judgment fell?" Erwin wrote. "Sadly, innocents suffered along with the guilty. Sin always brings suffering to good people as well as the bad."
Does this mean that Las Vegas will be swallowed by a dust storm of political, er, I mean Biblical proportions? Perhaps my Los Angelino friends should really be watching for that earthquake sometime during the Bush Administration’s tenure? But maybe Vegas already paid with the October 2003 mauling of Roy Horn by one of his prized white tigers, and they can rest at ease for some time to come. It’s just nice to know that if I ever want to know what God is thinking, I can ask Senator Erwin because The Big Man Himself sure seems to be whispering sweet nothings into his right ear.
It’s not as if these sorts of pronouncements are new. Both sides in the American Civil War believed that they had God on their side, and therefore the Cause belonged to each of them. Of course, only one could win. Sometime in the 1990’s, I went to sleep, and God became very interested in the National Football League, and seems to be on both sides as well. Again, only one team can win (and that is whoever is playing the Minnesota Vikings, it appears). But I guess that, either way, God wins because he is playing both sides. Smarty. He should be pretty happy with his odds now, what with both sides again claiming the same thing: Hurricane Katrina was the Wrath of God. Retribution for Sin. Of course, the sides in this little squabble are Kristians and Al-Kaeda, but never you mind that. It’s OK to say such things if you are Kristian. Those Arabs want to destroy America. Kristians are only trying to help.
This leads me to add two words to the Glossary of K, as I am now calling it, what with examples popping up all over. “Kompassionate” & “Konservative.” In my world, compassion used to be a good thing. Loads better than tolerance and even better then sympathy. I sense little compassion in either beliefs such as Mr. Erwin is pronouncing or in comments uttered by our Former First Lady and Queen Mother Barbara Bush regarding the better-off-ed-ness of Katrina refugees who had been granted asylum Texas style in the Astrodome. And believe it or not, I have met conservatives who I both like and respect. I even voted once for a conservative candidate for Governor of Minnesota. But he was a political conservative. A republican of the older school. Granted, not so old a school as Lincoln, but the sort of socially and fiscally responsible conservative who really had ideas and principles about how government should treat its citizens and run itself. I did not always agree with those conservatives, but I understood their reasoned arguments. These are many of the same people who have tried to distance themselves from the Neo-cons (Konservatives), but who can’t quite seem to get the ear of the press (liberal bias in the media, you know).
It’s all well and good, I suppose. We would not want William Bennett, who in Minneapolis/St. Paul is broadcasted on an AM station named “The Patriot” and whose mug is plastered on billboards under the statement “Intelligent Radio,” to be stuck with the same company over and over again in the Kristian Green Room. It’s good to mix it up a bit. A little Wrath of God is a great addition to any Social Mixer. Senator Erwin will be most welcome with the other Kristians, I believe. Hmmm… Kompassionate Konservative Kristian. Sort of has a “ring” to it, doesn’t it?
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