Friday, January 27, 2012


How the world views Barack Obama:

How Jan Brewer is trying to portray Barack Obama:

I won't speak for the rest of you, but these Willie-Horton-isms from the Right Wing were tired in 1988. One might think that by 2012 we might be beyond race-baiting tactics with the "brave, patriotic white woman" standing up fearlessly to the "dusky Kenyan." One would, apparently, be wrong. This is exactly what's going on. It certainly didn't begin with Jan Brewer, but racism was definitely a major factor in her achieving her current office. She's still using it for political leverage.

I'm finished with the politics of garish, angry, paranoid trailer trash. Call me a snob, or whatever. It's not that we don't have our problems right here in New York. Maybe it's that we spend less time trying to champion ignorance. When we go to the polls, whether we are left, right or centrist, we usually try to promote the most intelligent or savvy in our midst. Realizing our own personal limitations, we elect people who seem smarter than ourselves. Mike Bloomberg, for example, might be a dick (not might), but few people are going to question his intelligence.

We don't suffer from an inferiority complex so stultifying that we are willing to have some mouth-breathing Bocephus speak for us because we're afraid someone with an education might hoodwink us...

And to a much lesser extent than many places across this country, we do not run our lives by racially fueled fear and bigotry. That's a good start.

So to the state of Arizona and to Jan Brewer, sit down and shut the fuck up.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

On change and changing...

And it is quite disconcerting to awaken, having gone on a lark, playing one too many games of nine-pin, to your rifle rusty and useless, the world having witnessed revolution and upheaval... and find that everything is different but you. You may set about, or lay about, or set about the business of catching up. Or you sit idly and tell your story so that you may serve as a horrible warning of sorts.

Was Rip Van Winkle a Prohibitionist's lament? That remains to be seen. I've heard no indication that this is so, but there is a chilling resonance and I shudder at the word...


I awoke this morning from a dream missing this place, and a time. I am only beginning the process of sifting through the past, and separating the wheat from the chaff... figuring out what I need to let go of my attachment to, and what comes to the next place with me.

Moving. Motion. Change. Changing. Putting down. Picking up. Ending. Beginning. Etc.

It would be a lie to say that it was all bad, and more of a lie to say that all this change around me is uncomfortable.

I thought I remembered a part of the Rip Van Winkle story, a sequel perhaps, where he goes back into the Catskills to find the bowlers and play a few more games. It's sorely tempting some days, if the truth were to be told.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

I still eat my own words...

... but perhaps there are fewer of them.

Hardly haute cuisine, and certainly no emphasis on presentation. I don't even know who I'm serving anymore but maybe it was always only me at the table anyway.

So what's become of Glossophagia? I used to spill and fill these 'pages' with a nearly religious regularity. It was part of my morning ablutions. My morning pollutions. Mourning... There was always something to say. Some statement. Some proclamation. An irreverent quip. A tasteless joke at the very least.

I find myself, of late, with much less to say on any topic. It's not really a question that the world is less busy and it's definitely no less strange. It has been my observation, in fact, that our universe is more strange than ever. It is, after all an election year and it has shaped up to be one of the most unpleasant and divisive of our generation--rich fodder for commentary--and vitriol.

And perhaps that's just it. The vitriol...

Fueled by rage and frustration and a growing sense that any words I speak or actions I take are little more than pissing into the wind. It all blows back in my face and the subjects of my anger are laughing. Worse, they seem entirely unaware and unconcerned that any opposition at all exists.

And this is really just one example. It might boil down to this. I have fewer answers. The truth be told, I have come to doubt that I was ever possessed of any of the answers. There were ideas, to be sure. There were opinions.


Not really.

My energies are focused in other areas now. My belt is drawn more tightly around my middle and my spiritual waistline is more fit and taut. It's taking work and every so often there is noticeable progress.

I've been engaged in reflection, and maybe some nostalgia. My older son is out of the house and hardly talks to me. We had conflicting ideas of what we both needed to be happy living together. The younger has been applying to colleges and it came as a surprise that he is thinking of going away to school. And why not? That's great!

Great... and I am trying not to get lonely in advance of the day I watch his skinny frame walking away.

I remember the song, You Are The Everything, when it was still relatively new. It opened with the mandolin in the beginning so many times while I looked down into Kyle's crib, watching him sleep... fearfully making sure his chest was still rising and falling... holding my hand in front of his mouth to feel his breath, because I couldn't believe that I had been entrusted with the care and responsibility for this amazing thing. Who really thought that was a good idea?

There is a sense that I have spent too much of my life talking... weaving a steel web of words around myself like a suit of chain mail. Now, more than anything, it just seems time to take it off. I no longer know what it was protecting me from. Is this venue closed? No, certainly not. There is still ego.

I guess this is just a placeholder.