CHAPTER 2:
"Well, it's noon, the shit should be hitting the fan by now," Greg said, as he looked at his watch. We were on U.S. 31, just north of Manistee. The old Datsun was hurtling along at 85 miles an hour, the bald tires snapping dangerously on the pavement. "I feel kinda bad about Bob and John, but Big Bill's gonna know it was us, even though it was only you."
"I don't know, I still think we should've woke them up," I said.
"They'll be up in a few minutes, you know that fat ass is going to come after us the minute he sees what happened to his money."
The theory was this: Big Bill would want the guilty parties only and our flight would define our guilt. Bill would probably try to get Bob and John to tell him where we went, but they wouldn't know and their exclusion would exonerate them. We were proud of our logic, but we had smoked a lot of pot that morning. Besides, John was a prick and we were going to fire him as soon as we found another bass player, Bob, our drummer, on the other hand, was a great guy. The thing about Bob was a self-preservation thing on our part. He would have cracked, or told the wrong person or in some way jeopardized our plan.
Our plan.
Our brilliant scheme.
The crime of the century.
A plot so intricate in detail and logistics that it had to be executed by a very drunk and drug addled guitar player to be effective. Special tools were camouflaged to look like souvenir baseball bats and guitar cases. The getaway vehicle was cleverly disguised as a beat-up car that would stop running permanently right around the time the last payment was due. Cunning and catlike, we hobbled down Route 31 with a car full of stolen money, cold beer, pot and very little in the way of functioning brain cells.
I counted the money in the bag, which was cleverly hidden under the driver’s seat. Eleven thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills and some twenties, which I didn't bother to count but split up as evenly as I could between Greg and I. In Manistee, we bought some sandwiches at a greasy spoon and ate them as we drove out of town. We were going to continue driving south until we thought of something to get us out of the mess we were in.
And we talked. We knew we had a lot more in the guitar case than what was in the bag, as much as another thirty or forty thousand, maybe more. It was a lot of money in 1973, but not retiring money. We also knew that Big Bill was the leading bookie in Traverse City, and that with football, basketball, and hockey all in full swing, business had been good lately. We didn't know if Bill would be able to report the burglary to police, they had to know about his business, though.
"I'll bet every one of those cops in that town use Bill's book," was Greg's opinion. "In that case, they'll know because he won't have to hide it from them. But, they can't do anything on the record."
"No, but they're cops and they're telling their cop friends to watch for us. We need a new car, and we need a plan," I said. "We don't even know where the hell we're going, we're just running away, we should be running towards something."
At midnight that night, we were sitting in a room at the Holiday Inn in Hammond, Indiana. In South Holland we had bought a 1970 BMW 2002 and left the Datsun, minus the plates, in a Denny's parking lot. The BMW was $3900 and, after driving the limping Datsun, it was a dream to operate and a sign of our new affluence. It made us feel successful.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Mayor of Whiskey Hill. Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1:
One of the ugliest sights in all the world has got to be the November sky through the window of your car at about nine-thirty on a Sunday morning. It was something I'd seen a lot of in the past week or so, the naked trees like jagged black threads against the gray Michigan sky.
My face was kind of stuck to the vinyl upholstery of my 1970 Datsun 1200, a car that was three years old but bore the scars of a much longer life. As I sat up, I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that my right cheek held an imprint of the grain and a pleat that ran from the back to the front of the passenger seat. I knew from experience that it would fade rapidly after a shower and some coffee. This was, after all, the fourth morning in a row that I'd woken up in my car. Looking around me, I saw that I was parked in front of the cottage that I'd rented, along with the other members of my band, overlooking scenic Traverse Bay. We usually stayed in hotels when we were on the road, but we had booked this job for a month and we decided to go the more exotic route of staying in a 3 bedroom beach cabin. The price was right and we had a great view of Lake Michigan out of the windows looking west.
I was cold, and I had a hell of a headache, but at least I didn't have to play the "Where Am I" game. That's the game you play when you wake up in front of a strange looking place, usually in the middle of East Cat's Ass, Michigan (town motto: "We can't give you directions until you have brushed your teeth."), and you drive around, in ever-widening circles, fighting the accompanying vertigo, until you're rescued by someone who recognizes you. It helps if you have a hole in your muffler to attract the attention of people who are on the street and in a position to help.
I opened the door and raised myself out of the seat until I was upright and standing next to the front left fender, leaning on my right hand. This flurry of activity caused a wave of nausea to pass through me and I felt the sweat on my forehead turn amazingly cold in the brisk wind that blew in from the bay. I knew I had to get inside the cottage quickly or I'd have some serious health problems to deal with, along with the temporary, alcohol induced, serious health problems that I was already in the grips of.
Somehow, I managed to get inside the cottage. I have a vague memory of my keys not working, or not fitting the keyhole, or maybe they were still in the ignition of my car, and after fumbling around for awhile I tried the doorknob and found that it was unlocked. Inside, the air was way too warm and filled with the subtle sounds of sleep. I closed the door softly behind me and walked, shakily, through the tiny living room to the kitchen.
As I was searching for the can of coffee among the rubble that covered the counters and table, I was overcome by a feeling of indifference that compelled me to walk out the back door, which was also unlocked, and sit on the wooden steps outside. I found my cigarettes in my jacket pocket and the smoke seemed to settle my stomach.
That's where I was, about an hour later, when my cousin Greg came out the door with two cups of coffee. Dressed in a blue terry cloth robe, Naugahyde slippers, flannel pajamas, and wearing tortoise shell mad-professor glasses, he had a smoke dangling from his lips.
"Nice outfit," he said.
I looked down and realized I was still dressed in my "show-clothes" from the night before. No more than twenty-five feet away, people were walking up and down the beach and were, apparently, finding the sight of me quite entertaining. I had been pretty far away, mentally, for the last hour or so and hadn't noticed that I had become something of a spectacle. Oblivious to the world, I had been chain-smoking, staring at the ground, wearing bright red satin pants with electric blue suspenders, red satin racquetball shoes, a Superman t-shirt in the classic red, blue and yellow design, and a canary-yellow sport coat. I checked to see if I had been drooling.
"Did you ride back with me last night?" I had to know. Normally, I don't like to admit what I don't remember, but Greg was happy to fill in the blanks when he could. That way he'd be able to ask me what I remembered when he needed to.
"You don't remember a fucking thing, do you?" He shook his head. "Do you remember getting us fired?"
"Kind of," I said weakly. It was coming back to me, but very slowly, and hazily. I had gotten into an argument with Big Bill, the owner of "Big Bill's", our boss. He said he didn't like our obscene language onstage, especially during dinner and if we didn't cut it out he'd "show us the door". I had stood by my convictions and denied that we'd said, or done, anything obscene and I'd expressed my disbelief at the notion that anyone could see it otherwise. I think my exact words to Big Bill were, "You're full of shit." Things went really bad from that point on and the conversation ended with Big Bill firing us. He told us we could come back when he opened up at noon the next day to pick up our equipment. I think I told him to go fuck himself because there was a quick flailing of arms and bodies, and I was pushed out to the street by Bob and John, my drummer and bass player, while Greg held Big Bill back.
So while Greg droned on and on about how we were going to starve to death due to our unemployed condition, I started thinking about a dream that I'd had sometime during the night. In the dream I was very drunk and was arguing with the guys in the band about the events that had transpired at Big Bill's that night. We were in the living room at the cottage passing around a bottle of vodka and had smoked several joints and everyone was at that point we used to reach where we made no sense at all but felt like everything we said was very profound. Still in the dream, I had left the cottage in a snit and a huff and went outside to where my car was parked, got inside and pulled a cold Stroh's beer from the cooler that was always in the back seat. I couldn't be sure what happened next, you know how elusive dreams can be, and usually when you try to pin your dreams down they slip further away. But, this time was different. This time, it seemed like I was remembering things from the dream, and the more I concentrated, the more I remembered.
I was in the alley behind Big Bill's. I could smell the grease and garbage in the dumpsters that stood on either side of the back door. In my hands was a Detroit Tigers souvenir baseball bat, which I swung at the small window above and to the left of the back door. A week before, that same window had been broken by a drunk who, after being bounced out the front door, walked around back and tossed a brick through the window. The next day, as we rehearsed in the afternoon, a guy came and repaired the glass. I overheard him tell Big Bill that he didn't have a replacement part for the alarm at that window, but he said he was going to bypass the window so that the alarm would be active throughout the rest of the building. I had to hit the window a few times before I was able to break the glass, then I ran the bat around the window frame to remove the rest of the shards before raising myself up on a dumpster and through the open window, into the kitchen. Once inside, I groped around in the darkness until I found Big Bill's office and threw myself against the hollow, wooden door.
I've never been much of a door smasher, although I have tried, on occasion, to enter a room a la John Wayne. Dreams have a way of making you stronger and less vulnerable, able to breathe under water, soar to great heights. This dream was no different in that respect, the door caved in after one blow from my hundred and fifty pound bulk.
Sitting there in my clown clothes, with my cousin's voice admonishing me for my stupidity, my mouth suddenly went dry and my head started to pound.
"You look like a fucking clown, you know that?" Greg had lit a joint and was passing it to me, my empty coffee cup hit the ground and I ignored it and reached for the joint. I took a long pull and held it in my lungs for as long as I could, then I slowly exhaled through my nose. I felt my nerves and muscles relax slightly, my head stopped throbbing and the knot in my stomach loosened.
This dream was starting to frighten me. It had the surrealism you expect in a dream, but it had some qualities that didn't fit. It was too linear; it made too much sense.
"Greg, something bad happened last night," I said.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Just because you got us fired from the last place in town that would even consider hiring us, there's no reason to think of it as something bad. Bad is when we can't pay our bills anymore and we have to work in welding shops and shoe stores. Bad is what's coming, not what just happened."
I stood up and said, "I better figure something out."
"What? How to shut up long enough to think about your situation, our situation, before you get us killed with your big mouth?" He was walking around the porch with his chest puffed out, proud of the only sermon he'd delivered in his life. But, I was up and moving toward my car, my sport coat flapping in the breeze like a caution sign in a tornado. Greg followed me around the side of the house to my car, keeping a safe distance.
I found my keys in the ignition, and felt my hair begin to stand up on the back of my neck. That dream had been too vivid, too full of hazy detail. In my heart, I knew that the dream wasn't a dream at all. The key slipped into the keyhole in the lid of the trunk, and as I turned it and my heart skipped several beats, I was dizzy now as the lid sprang open and my guitar case was the only thing inside. I unsnapped the clasps that secured the top half of the case and raised it slowly.
By now, I knew what was inside the case because by now, I knew that what I'd thought, at first, was a dream was a horrifying reality. You see, stuffed in around the neck and body of my '67 Fender Telecaster was the most money I'd ever seen in one place in my life.
In the course of ransacking Big Bill's office I had discovered that he had a metal box that was in the bottom drawer of his desk. I had beaten the box with the souvenir baseball bat until it fell apart, inside was the cash that was now inside my guitar case. I didn't take the time to count it but I knew it was serious money. I grabbed my guitar and put it in it's case and packed the money in around it until I couldn't fit anymore in. There was still a big pile of money on the floor next to my case and I found a bag in the office to carry the remaining bills out to my car.
I was really a mess. Hung over and dull in the crisp autumn air, I couldn't talk or move or think. I just stood there and watched as Greg closed my guitar case and then the lid of the trunk. "Let's get the hell out of Dodge," he said. I coughed and sputtered but no words would come out, I felt paralyzed. Greg pushed me into the cottage and as the other two guys in the band slept, oblivious to the situation that had developed, Greg and I gathered our stuff and loaded my car.
"It's quarter to eleven, if we aren't out of this town in an hour, we're screwed." said Greg. His eyes were bugging out and he was sweating in spite of the cool weather.
One of the ugliest sights in all the world has got to be the November sky through the window of your car at about nine-thirty on a Sunday morning. It was something I'd seen a lot of in the past week or so, the naked trees like jagged black threads against the gray Michigan sky.
My face was kind of stuck to the vinyl upholstery of my 1970 Datsun 1200, a car that was three years old but bore the scars of a much longer life. As I sat up, I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that my right cheek held an imprint of the grain and a pleat that ran from the back to the front of the passenger seat. I knew from experience that it would fade rapidly after a shower and some coffee. This was, after all, the fourth morning in a row that I'd woken up in my car. Looking around me, I saw that I was parked in front of the cottage that I'd rented, along with the other members of my band, overlooking scenic Traverse Bay. We usually stayed in hotels when we were on the road, but we had booked this job for a month and we decided to go the more exotic route of staying in a 3 bedroom beach cabin. The price was right and we had a great view of Lake Michigan out of the windows looking west.
I was cold, and I had a hell of a headache, but at least I didn't have to play the "Where Am I" game. That's the game you play when you wake up in front of a strange looking place, usually in the middle of East Cat's Ass, Michigan (town motto: "We can't give you directions until you have brushed your teeth."), and you drive around, in ever-widening circles, fighting the accompanying vertigo, until you're rescued by someone who recognizes you. It helps if you have a hole in your muffler to attract the attention of people who are on the street and in a position to help.
I opened the door and raised myself out of the seat until I was upright and standing next to the front left fender, leaning on my right hand. This flurry of activity caused a wave of nausea to pass through me and I felt the sweat on my forehead turn amazingly cold in the brisk wind that blew in from the bay. I knew I had to get inside the cottage quickly or I'd have some serious health problems to deal with, along with the temporary, alcohol induced, serious health problems that I was already in the grips of.
Somehow, I managed to get inside the cottage. I have a vague memory of my keys not working, or not fitting the keyhole, or maybe they were still in the ignition of my car, and after fumbling around for awhile I tried the doorknob and found that it was unlocked. Inside, the air was way too warm and filled with the subtle sounds of sleep. I closed the door softly behind me and walked, shakily, through the tiny living room to the kitchen.
As I was searching for the can of coffee among the rubble that covered the counters and table, I was overcome by a feeling of indifference that compelled me to walk out the back door, which was also unlocked, and sit on the wooden steps outside. I found my cigarettes in my jacket pocket and the smoke seemed to settle my stomach.
That's where I was, about an hour later, when my cousin Greg came out the door with two cups of coffee. Dressed in a blue terry cloth robe, Naugahyde slippers, flannel pajamas, and wearing tortoise shell mad-professor glasses, he had a smoke dangling from his lips.
"Nice outfit," he said.
I looked down and realized I was still dressed in my "show-clothes" from the night before. No more than twenty-five feet away, people were walking up and down the beach and were, apparently, finding the sight of me quite entertaining. I had been pretty far away, mentally, for the last hour or so and hadn't noticed that I had become something of a spectacle. Oblivious to the world, I had been chain-smoking, staring at the ground, wearing bright red satin pants with electric blue suspenders, red satin racquetball shoes, a Superman t-shirt in the classic red, blue and yellow design, and a canary-yellow sport coat. I checked to see if I had been drooling.
"Did you ride back with me last night?" I had to know. Normally, I don't like to admit what I don't remember, but Greg was happy to fill in the blanks when he could. That way he'd be able to ask me what I remembered when he needed to.
"You don't remember a fucking thing, do you?" He shook his head. "Do you remember getting us fired?"
"Kind of," I said weakly. It was coming back to me, but very slowly, and hazily. I had gotten into an argument with Big Bill, the owner of "Big Bill's", our boss. He said he didn't like our obscene language onstage, especially during dinner and if we didn't cut it out he'd "show us the door". I had stood by my convictions and denied that we'd said, or done, anything obscene and I'd expressed my disbelief at the notion that anyone could see it otherwise. I think my exact words to Big Bill were, "You're full of shit." Things went really bad from that point on and the conversation ended with Big Bill firing us. He told us we could come back when he opened up at noon the next day to pick up our equipment. I think I told him to go fuck himself because there was a quick flailing of arms and bodies, and I was pushed out to the street by Bob and John, my drummer and bass player, while Greg held Big Bill back.
So while Greg droned on and on about how we were going to starve to death due to our unemployed condition, I started thinking about a dream that I'd had sometime during the night. In the dream I was very drunk and was arguing with the guys in the band about the events that had transpired at Big Bill's that night. We were in the living room at the cottage passing around a bottle of vodka and had smoked several joints and everyone was at that point we used to reach where we made no sense at all but felt like everything we said was very profound. Still in the dream, I had left the cottage in a snit and a huff and went outside to where my car was parked, got inside and pulled a cold Stroh's beer from the cooler that was always in the back seat. I couldn't be sure what happened next, you know how elusive dreams can be, and usually when you try to pin your dreams down they slip further away. But, this time was different. This time, it seemed like I was remembering things from the dream, and the more I concentrated, the more I remembered.
I was in the alley behind Big Bill's. I could smell the grease and garbage in the dumpsters that stood on either side of the back door. In my hands was a Detroit Tigers souvenir baseball bat, which I swung at the small window above and to the left of the back door. A week before, that same window had been broken by a drunk who, after being bounced out the front door, walked around back and tossed a brick through the window. The next day, as we rehearsed in the afternoon, a guy came and repaired the glass. I overheard him tell Big Bill that he didn't have a replacement part for the alarm at that window, but he said he was going to bypass the window so that the alarm would be active throughout the rest of the building. I had to hit the window a few times before I was able to break the glass, then I ran the bat around the window frame to remove the rest of the shards before raising myself up on a dumpster and through the open window, into the kitchen. Once inside, I groped around in the darkness until I found Big Bill's office and threw myself against the hollow, wooden door.
I've never been much of a door smasher, although I have tried, on occasion, to enter a room a la John Wayne. Dreams have a way of making you stronger and less vulnerable, able to breathe under water, soar to great heights. This dream was no different in that respect, the door caved in after one blow from my hundred and fifty pound bulk.
Sitting there in my clown clothes, with my cousin's voice admonishing me for my stupidity, my mouth suddenly went dry and my head started to pound.
"You look like a fucking clown, you know that?" Greg had lit a joint and was passing it to me, my empty coffee cup hit the ground and I ignored it and reached for the joint. I took a long pull and held it in my lungs for as long as I could, then I slowly exhaled through my nose. I felt my nerves and muscles relax slightly, my head stopped throbbing and the knot in my stomach loosened.
This dream was starting to frighten me. It had the surrealism you expect in a dream, but it had some qualities that didn't fit. It was too linear; it made too much sense.
"Greg, something bad happened last night," I said.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Just because you got us fired from the last place in town that would even consider hiring us, there's no reason to think of it as something bad. Bad is when we can't pay our bills anymore and we have to work in welding shops and shoe stores. Bad is what's coming, not what just happened."
I stood up and said, "I better figure something out."
"What? How to shut up long enough to think about your situation, our situation, before you get us killed with your big mouth?" He was walking around the porch with his chest puffed out, proud of the only sermon he'd delivered in his life. But, I was up and moving toward my car, my sport coat flapping in the breeze like a caution sign in a tornado. Greg followed me around the side of the house to my car, keeping a safe distance.
I found my keys in the ignition, and felt my hair begin to stand up on the back of my neck. That dream had been too vivid, too full of hazy detail. In my heart, I knew that the dream wasn't a dream at all. The key slipped into the keyhole in the lid of the trunk, and as I turned it and my heart skipped several beats, I was dizzy now as the lid sprang open and my guitar case was the only thing inside. I unsnapped the clasps that secured the top half of the case and raised it slowly.
By now, I knew what was inside the case because by now, I knew that what I'd thought, at first, was a dream was a horrifying reality. You see, stuffed in around the neck and body of my '67 Fender Telecaster was the most money I'd ever seen in one place in my life.
In the course of ransacking Big Bill's office I had discovered that he had a metal box that was in the bottom drawer of his desk. I had beaten the box with the souvenir baseball bat until it fell apart, inside was the cash that was now inside my guitar case. I didn't take the time to count it but I knew it was serious money. I grabbed my guitar and put it in it's case and packed the money in around it until I couldn't fit anymore in. There was still a big pile of money on the floor next to my case and I found a bag in the office to carry the remaining bills out to my car.
I was really a mess. Hung over and dull in the crisp autumn air, I couldn't talk or move or think. I just stood there and watched as Greg closed my guitar case and then the lid of the trunk. "Let's get the hell out of Dodge," he said. I coughed and sputtered but no words would come out, I felt paralyzed. Greg pushed me into the cottage and as the other two guys in the band slept, oblivious to the situation that had developed, Greg and I gathered our stuff and loaded my car.
"It's quarter to eleven, if we aren't out of this town in an hour, we're screwed." said Greg. His eyes were bugging out and he was sweating in spite of the cool weather.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Just Because You Own A Camera Doesnt Mean You Should Take Pictures
I know what this is.
I don't know what this is.
This is classic Babs perspective. I've been there many times and have no idea what I'm looking at.
This is my sister, Pandy. She only wears that hat when she prays.Don't get me wrong, these are unique pictures, I just wonder why they were taken.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
I Hate Email
This is an email that I received recently:
Subject: Stimulus Package
It's so good to be informed!
"Sometime this year, taxpayers will receive an Economic Stimulus Payment. This is a very exciting new program that I will explain usingthe Q and A format:
"Q. What is an Economic Stimulus Payment?
"A. It is money that the federal government will send to taxpayers.
"Q. Where will the government get this money?
"A. From taxpayers.
"Q. So the government is giving me back my own money?
"A. No, they are borrowing it from China. Your children areexpected to repay the Chinese.
"Q. What is the purpose of this payment?
"A. The plan is that you will use the money to purchase ahigh-definition TV set, thus stimulating the economy.
"Q. But isn't that stimulating the economy of China?
"A. Shut up."
Below is some helpful advice on how to best help the US economy by spending your stimulus check wisely:
If you spend money at Wal-Mart, all the money will go to China.
If you spend it on gasoline, it will go to Hugo Chavez, the Arabs and Al Queda.
If you purchase a computer, it will go to Taiwan.
If you purchase fruit and vegetables, it will go to Mexico,Honduras, and Guatemala (unless you buy organic).
If you buy a car, it will go to Japan and Korea.
If you purchase prescription drugs, it will go to India.
If you purchase heroin, it will go to the Taliban in Afghanistan.
If you give it to a charitable cause, it will go to Nigeria.
And none of it will help the American economy.
We need to keep that money here in America. You can keep the money in America by spending it at yard sales, going to a baseball game, or spend it on prostitutes, beer (domestic ONLY), or tattoos, since those are the only businesses still in the US.
My response to this was:
Well, that's kind of interesting.
I remember the presidential campaign, which went on for at least 7 years, and Obama mentioned that there should be a redistribution of wealth. That night on the news I heard him referred to as a Marxist, when clearly what he meant was that the problem with the economic crisis lies in the fact that about 3,000,000 people in America control over 90% of the available assets and the population of 240,000,000 is suffering because of it.
Beautiful words are not always truthful, and truthful words are not always beautiful.
The enemies to our economy are not the Indians, Chinese, or the Nigerians. The enemy is us. We have sat quietly as our 'free-market" society allowed the development of a Caste system through the people that are supposed to represent us. Thomas Jefferson, in his insightful way, made sure to address this problem in the constitution and Bill of Rights and warned that if our representation starts to resemble royalty we should take the route that he and the patriots of the 18th century took. His foresight was so acute that he warned Americans to be rebelious when faced with entitled leaders and self-serving politicians. Thomas Jefferson was a tough, smart little sonofabitch and he knew about the old axiom that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
He obviously didn't realize that there was going to be a future where there is no safety in numbers, especially when the numbers collude to enrich themselves at the expense of the people that Mr. Jefferson cared the most about.
We have a broken system. We have a national delusion that things will work out. We are intellectually bankrupt because we have been spoon-fed the idea that the pricks in Washington work for us.
My kids are smarter than me in many ways, but he most important way is that they see the hopelessness that their futures hold because our generation mismanaged it for them. We made sure they had food and clothes and a place to live, we surrounded them with love and safety, but failed to secure a future that included the classic American Dream. They heard the stories about the 60's, they know about the Viet Nam conflict, they saw us struggle to make lives for ourselves and ultimately for them, But, they never saw us, the baby boom generation, do anything harder than go to work and come home with a smile on our faces. They didn't see us rebel against a machine that runs humanity and enslaves the very people that think they are free.
I don't know if I'd call the email you sent me ironic, sarcastic, realistic, idiotic, or genius.
The truths that face us each day are filled with pathos and sadness, and not one of us are willing to do the heavy lifting that needs to be done. When Abbie Hoffman called for the overthrow of the system he was called a radical. When Thomas Jefferson engineered the overthrow of the system he was called a patriot.
When John Kennedy was in the White House he hosted a group of Nobel Prize winners. I think there were around 50 of them and they were all jammed in a dining room. Kennedy greeted them with this comment: "Never has there been this much genius gathered in this dining room since the days when Thomas Jefferson ate here alone."
Let's not sweat the small stuff and let the big stuff steamroll us any further into the future than it already has. We need to do the job and get our country back, or stop our bitching and accept the screwing that we get from the elitist representation that has been the norm since the 1940's. I don't know if it means telling the Federal Government to stick their $300 check up their asses (I paid my gas bill with mine), or refusing to participate in elections that are based on how much money a candidate can raise, or whether your name is Kennedy (you can't spell Kennedy without KY). Take aim on something that means something big in your life and don't let the bastards stop you, even if it means experiencing some discomfort, which it inevitably will. That's the only way to get back to what we all believe this country was and can be.
Otherwise, these emails are all we have. Cyber revolution, which, if it's anything like cyber-sex, is not very satisfying to anyone.
The fly in the ointment,
Vince
Later, I looked at the line items in the email and this was my conclusion:
If you spend money at Wal-Mart, all the money will go to China.
(It will also employ a lot of unempoyable Americans who work for an American Corporation, possibly an evil one, but American nonetheless.)
If you spend it on gasoline, it will go to Hugo Chavez, the Arabs and Al Queda.
(The American distributors are dominating in the refined gasoline market. Exxon-Mobile is an American corporation, BP is a multi-national corporation and they employ many Americans)
If you purchase a computer, it will go to Taiwan.
(Dell, HP, Asustec, and all the people that we buy our computers from are American businesses that buy the manufacturing services from countries that still manufacture stuff. Ancillary businesses, like Ogilvy and Mather [an American advertising agency], Best Buy [an American retail giant], and all of the American media oulets employ thousands of our citizens. The biggest profit margin continues to be at the distribution level, followed closely by the retail level.]
If you purchase fruit and vegetables, it will go to Mexico,Honduras, and Guatemala (unless you buy organic).
(Simplot, a corporation based in Idaho, is still the world's largest producer of potatoes. They have been MacDonald's sole supplier of potatoes since the 1960's and if you imagine a flow chart starting with the field hands, and ending with the guy that asks, "Do you want fries with that?", you have a long line of employed Americans.)
If you buy a car, it will go to Japan and Korea.
(Unless you buy a Chevy, Ford, or GM product, or one of the many Toyota or Honda or Nissan vehicles that are assembled in plants in Tennessee, California, Ohio and other American states and contribute to the economies of those states, and in turn to the national economy.)
If you purchase prescription drugs, it will go to India.
And none of it will help the American economy.
This was written by a moron that is typical of the type of person that believes that if you read it on the internet, it must be true. If you send it to all the lame assholes in your address book you are making a difference to the masses of people that are already cynical and suseptible to crackpot ideas and looking for guidance in their shattered lives. As I stated earlier, we are all the problem, but these internet authors are especially culpable for preying on the emotions of hate and pettiness that keeps us from thinking about the real culprits.
The degenrate gamblers that our representatives chose to bail out are counting on people like the author of this email. I can only compare this sort of missive to a dog watching television, occasionally he'll see another dog and that will hold his interest as long as the other dog is on screen, but don't expect him to understand the plot.
And that's why I hate email.
Subject: Stimulus Package
It's so good to be informed!
"Sometime this year, taxpayers will receive an Economic Stimulus Payment. This is a very exciting new program that I will explain usingthe Q and A format:
"Q. What is an Economic Stimulus Payment?
"A. It is money that the federal government will send to taxpayers.
"Q. Where will the government get this money?
"A. From taxpayers.
"Q. So the government is giving me back my own money?
"A. No, they are borrowing it from China. Your children areexpected to repay the Chinese.
"Q. What is the purpose of this payment?
"A. The plan is that you will use the money to purchase ahigh-definition TV set, thus stimulating the economy.
"Q. But isn't that stimulating the economy of China?
"A. Shut up."
Below is some helpful advice on how to best help the US economy by spending your stimulus check wisely:
If you spend money at Wal-Mart, all the money will go to China.
If you spend it on gasoline, it will go to Hugo Chavez, the Arabs and Al Queda.
If you purchase a computer, it will go to Taiwan.
If you purchase fruit and vegetables, it will go to Mexico,Honduras, and Guatemala (unless you buy organic).
If you buy a car, it will go to Japan and Korea.
If you purchase prescription drugs, it will go to India.
If you purchase heroin, it will go to the Taliban in Afghanistan.
If you give it to a charitable cause, it will go to Nigeria.
And none of it will help the American economy.
We need to keep that money here in America. You can keep the money in America by spending it at yard sales, going to a baseball game, or spend it on prostitutes, beer (domestic ONLY), or tattoos, since those are the only businesses still in the US.
My response to this was:
Well, that's kind of interesting.
I remember the presidential campaign, which went on for at least 7 years, and Obama mentioned that there should be a redistribution of wealth. That night on the news I heard him referred to as a Marxist, when clearly what he meant was that the problem with the economic crisis lies in the fact that about 3,000,000 people in America control over 90% of the available assets and the population of 240,000,000 is suffering because of it.
Beautiful words are not always truthful, and truthful words are not always beautiful.
The enemies to our economy are not the Indians, Chinese, or the Nigerians. The enemy is us. We have sat quietly as our 'free-market" society allowed the development of a Caste system through the people that are supposed to represent us. Thomas Jefferson, in his insightful way, made sure to address this problem in the constitution and Bill of Rights and warned that if our representation starts to resemble royalty we should take the route that he and the patriots of the 18th century took. His foresight was so acute that he warned Americans to be rebelious when faced with entitled leaders and self-serving politicians. Thomas Jefferson was a tough, smart little sonofabitch and he knew about the old axiom that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
He obviously didn't realize that there was going to be a future where there is no safety in numbers, especially when the numbers collude to enrich themselves at the expense of the people that Mr. Jefferson cared the most about.
We have a broken system. We have a national delusion that things will work out. We are intellectually bankrupt because we have been spoon-fed the idea that the pricks in Washington work for us.
My kids are smarter than me in many ways, but he most important way is that they see the hopelessness that their futures hold because our generation mismanaged it for them. We made sure they had food and clothes and a place to live, we surrounded them with love and safety, but failed to secure a future that included the classic American Dream. They heard the stories about the 60's, they know about the Viet Nam conflict, they saw us struggle to make lives for ourselves and ultimately for them, But, they never saw us, the baby boom generation, do anything harder than go to work and come home with a smile on our faces. They didn't see us rebel against a machine that runs humanity and enslaves the very people that think they are free.
I don't know if I'd call the email you sent me ironic, sarcastic, realistic, idiotic, or genius.
The truths that face us each day are filled with pathos and sadness, and not one of us are willing to do the heavy lifting that needs to be done. When Abbie Hoffman called for the overthrow of the system he was called a radical. When Thomas Jefferson engineered the overthrow of the system he was called a patriot.
When John Kennedy was in the White House he hosted a group of Nobel Prize winners. I think there were around 50 of them and they were all jammed in a dining room. Kennedy greeted them with this comment: "Never has there been this much genius gathered in this dining room since the days when Thomas Jefferson ate here alone."
Let's not sweat the small stuff and let the big stuff steamroll us any further into the future than it already has. We need to do the job and get our country back, or stop our bitching and accept the screwing that we get from the elitist representation that has been the norm since the 1940's. I don't know if it means telling the Federal Government to stick their $300 check up their asses (I paid my gas bill with mine), or refusing to participate in elections that are based on how much money a candidate can raise, or whether your name is Kennedy (you can't spell Kennedy without KY). Take aim on something that means something big in your life and don't let the bastards stop you, even if it means experiencing some discomfort, which it inevitably will. That's the only way to get back to what we all believe this country was and can be.
Otherwise, these emails are all we have. Cyber revolution, which, if it's anything like cyber-sex, is not very satisfying to anyone.
The fly in the ointment,
Vince
Later, I looked at the line items in the email and this was my conclusion:
If you spend money at Wal-Mart, all the money will go to China.
(It will also employ a lot of unempoyable Americans who work for an American Corporation, possibly an evil one, but American nonetheless.)
If you spend it on gasoline, it will go to Hugo Chavez, the Arabs and Al Queda.
(The American distributors are dominating in the refined gasoline market. Exxon-Mobile is an American corporation, BP is a multi-national corporation and they employ many Americans)
If you purchase a computer, it will go to Taiwan.
(Dell, HP, Asustec, and all the people that we buy our computers from are American businesses that buy the manufacturing services from countries that still manufacture stuff. Ancillary businesses, like Ogilvy and Mather [an American advertising agency], Best Buy [an American retail giant], and all of the American media oulets employ thousands of our citizens. The biggest profit margin continues to be at the distribution level, followed closely by the retail level.]
If you purchase fruit and vegetables, it will go to Mexico,Honduras, and Guatemala (unless you buy organic).
(Simplot, a corporation based in Idaho, is still the world's largest producer of potatoes. They have been MacDonald's sole supplier of potatoes since the 1960's and if you imagine a flow chart starting with the field hands, and ending with the guy that asks, "Do you want fries with that?", you have a long line of employed Americans.)
If you buy a car, it will go to Japan and Korea.
(Unless you buy a Chevy, Ford, or GM product, or one of the many Toyota or Honda or Nissan vehicles that are assembled in plants in Tennessee, California, Ohio and other American states and contribute to the economies of those states, and in turn to the national economy.)
If you purchase prescription drugs, it will go to India.
(Pfizer is an American corporation. I found this example to be the most laughable because the American pharmaceutical lobby is among the top 3 lobbying groups in our country. The lion's share of prescrition drug expenditure is spent on research and development, and the lion's share of R&D is done in America.)
If you purchase heroin, it will go to the Taliban in Afghanistan.
(If you purchase heroin you are contributing to a global underground economy that is not going to contribute to "Main Street." In fact, it will turn Main Street into a ghetto. What are you thinking with this example?)
If you give it to a charitable cause, it will go to Nigeria.
(The American Red Cross has a presence in almost every corner of the world. Without them New Orleans would have been a bigger catastrophe, if that's possible, than it was. How about The United Way? How about your local church that has local community programs that make a direct difference in American people's lives?)
And none of it will help the American economy.
This was written by a moron that is typical of the type of person that believes that if you read it on the internet, it must be true. If you send it to all the lame assholes in your address book you are making a difference to the masses of people that are already cynical and suseptible to crackpot ideas and looking for guidance in their shattered lives. As I stated earlier, we are all the problem, but these internet authors are especially culpable for preying on the emotions of hate and pettiness that keeps us from thinking about the real culprits.
The degenrate gamblers that our representatives chose to bail out are counting on people like the author of this email. I can only compare this sort of missive to a dog watching television, occasionally he'll see another dog and that will hold his interest as long as the other dog is on screen, but don't expect him to understand the plot.
And that's why I hate email.
Monday, February 2, 2009
I Hate Blogs
Life was so simple in the old days. If we had to write a letter, we found a pen and paper and used long-hand to express ourselves, then we stuffed it into an envelope and begged a stamp off mum. After affixing the stamp we gave it to a uniformed representative of the U.S. government and it would arrive at its destination, or not, in a few days. We never knew if it got there, but we didn't care most of the time. The process was the important part, not the result.
Now, we have vast networks of email groups that we send obscene jokes to, or family groups the we send pictures of our babies, vacations, and events to. We can send pictures of our penises to total strangers, and they will send pictures of their penises back to us.
Something called a "Mailer Daemon" let's us know if the email got there, or not, and then we can take further action. We can obsessively resend things until we get the gratification of knowing that our important communication is getting read.
Some of us have blogs. Some call us "bloggers", others just shrug and call us assholes. What do we have to share that is of any consequence? We are no smarter, or worldly, or insightful than we were back in the old days of stamps and mailmen, but we all seem to think we have something to share that has value just because we can.
Let me sum up some blogging subjects:
1. Politics.
If you're of the Democrat, Republican, Independent, Green Party, or any party persuasion other than the Bomb Throwing Anarchist Party, you are a fool.
2. Sex.
Most of the sexually oriented blogs are either people who believe in impressing us with their exploits, or are desperately seeking exploits. Either way, I'm sick of them. I don't want sex that is generated by a computer, even if it's with a 14 year old girl posing as a 40 year old vice cop.
3. Opinion Oriented Editorial.
When a guy comes home from his job as a clerk at Best Buy and points out the wrongs of society I just want to find him and smother him with a pillow.
4. No Subject.
These are the monuments to all that is ugly and wrong with the world. Open ended monologues are accepted as fact just because they have a global presence on the inter-web.
So, now I have my own blog. I am filled with self-loathing and I have begun to doubt every aspect of the essence of my life. I write drivel and post it in hopes that I will connect with someone's intellect and get their approval.
When a train passes a herd of cattle, the cows will stand in the field and watch it pass without any understanding of what they are seeing, even though they see it day after day. There is no more understanding in the follower of a blog. I, like many others, am just a cow looking at a passing train. I am fascinated, but not educated.
Now, we have vast networks of email groups that we send obscene jokes to, or family groups the we send pictures of our babies, vacations, and events to. We can send pictures of our penises to total strangers, and they will send pictures of their penises back to us.
Something called a "Mailer Daemon" let's us know if the email got there, or not, and then we can take further action. We can obsessively resend things until we get the gratification of knowing that our important communication is getting read.
Some of us have blogs. Some call us "bloggers", others just shrug and call us assholes. What do we have to share that is of any consequence? We are no smarter, or worldly, or insightful than we were back in the old days of stamps and mailmen, but we all seem to think we have something to share that has value just because we can.
Let me sum up some blogging subjects:
1. Politics.
If you're of the Democrat, Republican, Independent, Green Party, or any party persuasion other than the Bomb Throwing Anarchist Party, you are a fool.
2. Sex.
Most of the sexually oriented blogs are either people who believe in impressing us with their exploits, or are desperately seeking exploits. Either way, I'm sick of them. I don't want sex that is generated by a computer, even if it's with a 14 year old girl posing as a 40 year old vice cop.
3. Opinion Oriented Editorial.
When a guy comes home from his job as a clerk at Best Buy and points out the wrongs of society I just want to find him and smother him with a pillow.
4. No Subject.
These are the monuments to all that is ugly and wrong with the world. Open ended monologues are accepted as fact just because they have a global presence on the inter-web.
So, now I have my own blog. I am filled with self-loathing and I have begun to doubt every aspect of the essence of my life. I write drivel and post it in hopes that I will connect with someone's intellect and get their approval.
When a train passes a herd of cattle, the cows will stand in the field and watch it pass without any understanding of what they are seeing, even though they see it day after day. There is no more understanding in the follower of a blog. I, like many others, am just a cow looking at a passing train. I am fascinated, but not educated.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Nancy Grace
Why is Nacy Grace on television?
It's no secret that I like to look at the television. It's also no secret that I sometimes watch things with the sole purpose in mind that I want to be irritated.
That's why I watch Chris Matthews, The Cubs, Henry Fonda movies, The Food Channel, Fox News, Wolfe Blitzer, House, Larry King Live (they had to add the "Live" into the title of his show so that people would stop assuming that he was a cadaver with a bellows up his ass to make it look like he's breathing.), Steve Wilkos, Andy Rooney, Dan Jiggets, Pat Buchanan, Jackie Mason, Dog the Bounty Hunter, Friends, Judge Judy, the perky girl in the Progressive Insurance commercials, infomercials (except for the ones with the guy who dresses like Zorro and plays horrible guitar, I like him), Dirty Jobs, Tom Skilling, and Will Smith.
But, why is Nancy Grace on television?
She asks questions and never accepts the answers she gets. Her makeup is obviously applied with masonry trowels, she has a hybrid accent that makes her sound like she grew up in Southern Ohio (I hate Southern Ohio), and she is a redneck with a static hit list. She is an expert on such important subjects as Natalee Holloway (who was thrown in the ocean on the windward side of Aruba, which is infested with Tiger Sharks. Period. That's it, and that's all. I feel bad for her paerents, who I also hate, but she probably wasn't murdered. She died while fornicating in a drunken, drug addled stupor and was thrown into the violent shark infested waters.), John Travolta, O. J. Simpson, Anna Nicole Smith, and lots of other subjects that none of us care about and she delivers her worthless opinions with all the importance of someone who owns a potato that looks just like Richard Nixon.
Her bio is that she, while in college, changed her major to law after her boyfriend was a murder victim in Georgia, but I don't believe it. I think her boyfriend was afraid to break up with her and took his own life and made it look like a murder.
I find it hard to believe that she is still on TV. I guess the douche-bags that wear the suits at CNN Headline News are afraid of her too, and at this minute are trying to fake their own murders. If they're smart, that is.
It's no secret that I like to look at the television. It's also no secret that I sometimes watch things with the sole purpose in mind that I want to be irritated.
That's why I watch Chris Matthews, The Cubs, Henry Fonda movies, The Food Channel, Fox News, Wolfe Blitzer, House, Larry King Live (they had to add the "Live" into the title of his show so that people would stop assuming that he was a cadaver with a bellows up his ass to make it look like he's breathing.), Steve Wilkos, Andy Rooney, Dan Jiggets, Pat Buchanan, Jackie Mason, Dog the Bounty Hunter, Friends, Judge Judy, the perky girl in the Progressive Insurance commercials, infomercials (except for the ones with the guy who dresses like Zorro and plays horrible guitar, I like him), Dirty Jobs, Tom Skilling, and Will Smith.
But, why is Nancy Grace on television?
She asks questions and never accepts the answers she gets. Her makeup is obviously applied with masonry trowels, she has a hybrid accent that makes her sound like she grew up in Southern Ohio (I hate Southern Ohio), and she is a redneck with a static hit list. She is an expert on such important subjects as Natalee Holloway (who was thrown in the ocean on the windward side of Aruba, which is infested with Tiger Sharks. Period. That's it, and that's all. I feel bad for her paerents, who I also hate, but she probably wasn't murdered. She died while fornicating in a drunken, drug addled stupor and was thrown into the violent shark infested waters.), John Travolta, O. J. Simpson, Anna Nicole Smith, and lots of other subjects that none of us care about and she delivers her worthless opinions with all the importance of someone who owns a potato that looks just like Richard Nixon.
Her bio is that she, while in college, changed her major to law after her boyfriend was a murder victim in Georgia, but I don't believe it. I think her boyfriend was afraid to break up with her and took his own life and made it look like a murder.
I find it hard to believe that she is still on TV. I guess the douche-bags that wear the suits at CNN Headline News are afraid of her too, and at this minute are trying to fake their own murders. If they're smart, that is.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
People I Hate (Dead)
1. Alexander Hamilton. I don't want to get started on this guy, so I'll just leave it at that.
2. Henry Fonda. To say I'm not fond 'a Henry is an understatement. He spawned an evil generation of sucky acting celebs that I have been forced to look at for 40 years.
3. George Burns. If it wasn't for a stupid, vapid underachieving woman, this guy would never have gotten out of the Catskills.
4. Winston Churchill.
5. The guy who invented tartar sauce.
2. Henry Fonda. To say I'm not fond 'a Henry is an understatement. He spawned an evil generation of sucky acting celebs that I have been forced to look at for 40 years.
3. George Burns. If it wasn't for a stupid, vapid underachieving woman, this guy would never have gotten out of the Catskills.
4. Winston Churchill.
5. The guy who invented tartar sauce.
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