Hello once again, my devoted readership. It's been a good while since I last checked in with anything meaningful (financial contractions caused me to have to shut down my home Internet) so I'll do my best.
I've been reading the paper a lot these past few weeks,as well as listening to the beer-infused rants of the customers around me while at work. There's a good deal of anger going around; two unpopular wars, an explosive health care debate, and an economic situation that's less attractive than a tavern commode. People are angry, bitter and cynical. Even the sunday funnies are, well...not.
A lot of this resonates with me as well; I work two jobs in order to barely support myself, have friends risking their necks in Iraq, and tend to view our current health care system as a polite form of legalized piracy. Occasionally, I succumb to the black humors so prevalent in this modern age. And I've done my fair share of bitching about it.
But most of the time I'm happy to be here.
Seriously, I'm pleased and proud to be an American. Why? For the sunny side of the reasons I just discussed. So I have to work two low-paying jobs; so what? Those jobs keep me in food to eat, a roof over my head and the occasional bit of fun. There are many in other countries that would sell their soul to be able to make such a claim. So our health care system sucks; so what? It doesn't leave us to die in the street of diseases humanity learned to fix before WWII. Can the common inhabitant of Peshawar or Calcutta say the same? So our young men are dying in wars we aren't 100% sure about. Tragic, but at least they volunteered for the job. The child-soldiers in Burma likely wished they were so fortunate.
Another example; about a year ago I was harassed on the streets of Seattle by a young man extolling the virtues of Communism. Seriously; he attempted to press a pamphlet on me with the zeal of a street-corner evangelist and did not leave me alone until I threatened him with bodily harm (to whit, I adopted a cheesy redneck drawl and mumbled something about shooting folks like him where I was from. Stereotypes can occasionally be useful). The incident stuck in my head; it was only after I got home that I realized what bothered me about the confrontation.
In the countries that practiced the form of government he was praising, the young man with the Che Guavra t-shirt and the black birth control glasses would have likely been beaten, jailed or killed for being critical to the established powers-that-be. Only in America is the freedom to do such a thing woven into the most elemental fabric of our legal code.
The point that "things are always worse somewhere else so we should be grateful for what we DO have" is a well worn one, and I understand that. But in the dark times that currently assail us, it is also something we should remember.
Love of country is like love of anything else; it's never perfect and sometimes drives you up the wall, but it's also something you appreciate in the good times. Like all other love, it should never be blind, just accepting of imperfection. I know America is a nation with blood on its hands and skeletons in its closet, but I challenge anyone to find a country that is bereft of such things. Of all the places I could be living, I'd say I fucking well lucked out.
Despite the flaws, I love my country.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Technology is cool!
>Well, this will be a short entry, as I am speaking to you via my phone. I just wanted to make a brief comment about how technology certainly has come a long fucking way since I was born. I mean, really, some days it really boggles my mind. When I was 16, cell phones were enormous bricks that you couldn't fit in your pocket. Now, they are semi-intelligent postage stamps that allow
a person to write entries in an electronic journal that can potentially be read by millions.
Oh, and they'll correct your spelling while you do it.
Seriously, I love this little gadget. If I can find the oral sex and cooking applications, I may give up girls entirely.
a person to write entries in an electronic journal that can potentially be read by millions.
Oh, and they'll correct your spelling while you do it.
Seriously, I love this little gadget. If I can find the oral sex and cooking applications, I may give up girls entirely.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Gay Marriage: Let it Be
Recently, the perennial topic of gay marriage hit the news again, with President Obama's new bill (and the negative reactions it drew). As always, I was torn between the desire to laugh and to tear my hair out. Watching this issue unfold has always baffled me: Haven't we learned from history?
Let me explain. For years, it was illegal for members of different races to intermarry. Blacks couldn't marry whites. Yes, there were actual LAWS on the books that prevented it (the last ones being finally struck down in the early eighties). During the 50s and 60s, the argument against interracial marriage was that it would be a socially destructive force, that it would lead to irrepressible moral turpitude and society would crumble.
Flash forward forty years or so. Interracial couples happen with regularity (my own sister, in fact, is married to a black man) and the social destruction prophesied by the conservative racists hasn't come to pass. Personally, I think my black brother-in-law makes a damn fine father.
But, to raise another point, do the arguments against sound the least bit familiar?
There is no argument against homosexual marriage that makes the least bit of sense. None at all. Like it or lump it, marriage is a LEGAL CONTRACT between two people. and the law is supposed to be blind to matters of race, color, creed, or personal belief in this country.
If a Catholic priest does not wish to perform a homosexual wedding, that is certainly his right. This country supports freedom of religion. But marriages can be performed by court commissioners (mine was) and there is NO REASON WHATSOEVER for them to be able to refuse. And there is ALSO no reason why the leaders of this country should take this freedom away from the tax-paying homosexual citizens who live here.
In disallowing the right of marriage to a certain segment of the population, we create in that segment a second-class citizen. He or she does not have the same rights and freedoms as another, for an arbitrary, unchangeable reason. Speaking as an American, I find this totally unacceptable, and morally reprehensible.
To all those who speak against the right of homosexuals to marry, I say this; you are betraying your country. You are eroding the principals of liberty and equality upon which this nation was founded, and you are doing it for no good reason.
Grow up.
Let me explain. For years, it was illegal for members of different races to intermarry. Blacks couldn't marry whites. Yes, there were actual LAWS on the books that prevented it (the last ones being finally struck down in the early eighties). During the 50s and 60s, the argument against interracial marriage was that it would be a socially destructive force, that it would lead to irrepressible moral turpitude and society would crumble.
Flash forward forty years or so. Interracial couples happen with regularity (my own sister, in fact, is married to a black man) and the social destruction prophesied by the conservative racists hasn't come to pass. Personally, I think my black brother-in-law makes a damn fine father.
But, to raise another point, do the arguments against sound the least bit familiar?
There is no argument against homosexual marriage that makes the least bit of sense. None at all. Like it or lump it, marriage is a LEGAL CONTRACT between two people. and the law is supposed to be blind to matters of race, color, creed, or personal belief in this country.
If a Catholic priest does not wish to perform a homosexual wedding, that is certainly his right. This country supports freedom of religion. But marriages can be performed by court commissioners (mine was) and there is NO REASON WHATSOEVER for them to be able to refuse. And there is ALSO no reason why the leaders of this country should take this freedom away from the tax-paying homosexual citizens who live here.
In disallowing the right of marriage to a certain segment of the population, we create in that segment a second-class citizen. He or she does not have the same rights and freedoms as another, for an arbitrary, unchangeable reason. Speaking as an American, I find this totally unacceptable, and morally reprehensible.
To all those who speak against the right of homosexuals to marry, I say this; you are betraying your country. You are eroding the principals of liberty and equality upon which this nation was founded, and you are doing it for no good reason.
Grow up.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Slow Death of Rock
Has anyone else noticed a trend in music lately?
No band sticks around longer than a few months. This month's cock-of-the-walk is next month's feather duster; no musical act seems to be able to acquire the dependable longevity of their ancestors. I asked myself; where is this generation's Bruce Springsteen? Who's going to take up the "we're gonna do this forever" banner once the Rolling Stones finally kick the bucket? Nobody, if the music industry continues as it has been. Especially with the rise of the Internet.
Now, I am the first person to champion living in a more connected world. Heck, I'm communicating to my readership with it. But being able to send a message to every computer-equipped person in the human sphere has caused one problem; it no longer takes any time at all for a musical group to get discovered.
Think about this for a minute. Back in rock's early days, bands had to suffer the painful vetting process of the live club circut. To get discovered they had to get out and play, in front of rude drunks; if they sucked, people knew it, and they either got better or got the hell out of music.
To put this in perspective, Black Sabbath guitarist Tony Iommi's response as to what was the biggest factor in his band's success: "We had a job as the house band in this little blues club in Switzerland...we played five and six hour sets, three nights a week. That really tightened us up."
Now, with the advent of the Internet all that isn't necessary, and in skipping that step bands skip the vital maturation process of playing live on the road for small stakes. Now, the first catchy ditty that any group churns out is flung out into the world market, without regard for things like artistic merit. As soon as a band fails to make another one, they are shed from a label's roster without regard to artistic growth. If they manage to make several good songs (never mind albums, a single's good enough), but their career starts to show any kind of irregularity, the artist releases a "Greatest Hits" album and fades into obscurity.
And people wonder why dependable hitmakers are no longer showing up.
In another perspective-making example, consider Aerosmith. These days everyone knows who they are, but when they began their musical careers, their first single failed to chart. Instead of being dropped, the band toured live for a few months and kept on the label's roster. The song was released again, whereupon it became a hit.
The song in question? The ballad "Dream On". Interesting that a staple of classic rock radio tanked its first time around.
The music industry has caused its own troubles by turning the entire music scene into a production line; make the hit, that's all that counts. Artistic merit and maturity has gone by the wayside, and labels no longer nurture artists who just need a little seasoning. (Another interesting note: Bruce Springsteen took three albums to attain anything like the mega-fame he possesses now.) The industry also doesn't want to take a chance on anything that doesn't sell well, no matter how interesting or potentially influencing it might be. The prog-metal group Queensryche is a good example; their album sales hardly cracked the million-mark until late in their career, but their album Operation: Mindcrime is cited as an important influence by many current bands. In today's music industry, they simply wouldn't have been given a chance.
What's the solution? I'm not really sure. We can't take music off the internet, we can't make the record labels sign bands that don't sell many albums but make damn good music. But I wanted to call attention to the seriousness of the situation before rock-n-roll simply collapses under its own bloated weight. Don't laugh, without some kind of change, it'll happen in our lifetime.
And a world without meaningful music is not a world I want to live in.
No band sticks around longer than a few months. This month's cock-of-the-walk is next month's feather duster; no musical act seems to be able to acquire the dependable longevity of their ancestors. I asked myself; where is this generation's Bruce Springsteen? Who's going to take up the "we're gonna do this forever" banner once the Rolling Stones finally kick the bucket? Nobody, if the music industry continues as it has been. Especially with the rise of the Internet.
Now, I am the first person to champion living in a more connected world. Heck, I'm communicating to my readership with it. But being able to send a message to every computer-equipped person in the human sphere has caused one problem; it no longer takes any time at all for a musical group to get discovered.
Think about this for a minute. Back in rock's early days, bands had to suffer the painful vetting process of the live club circut. To get discovered they had to get out and play, in front of rude drunks; if they sucked, people knew it, and they either got better or got the hell out of music.
To put this in perspective, Black Sabbath guitarist Tony Iommi's response as to what was the biggest factor in his band's success: "We had a job as the house band in this little blues club in Switzerland...we played five and six hour sets, three nights a week. That really tightened us up."
Now, with the advent of the Internet all that isn't necessary, and in skipping that step bands skip the vital maturation process of playing live on the road for small stakes. Now, the first catchy ditty that any group churns out is flung out into the world market, without regard for things like artistic merit. As soon as a band fails to make another one, they are shed from a label's roster without regard to artistic growth. If they manage to make several good songs (never mind albums, a single's good enough), but their career starts to show any kind of irregularity, the artist releases a "Greatest Hits" album and fades into obscurity.
And people wonder why dependable hitmakers are no longer showing up.
In another perspective-making example, consider Aerosmith. These days everyone knows who they are, but when they began their musical careers, their first single failed to chart. Instead of being dropped, the band toured live for a few months and kept on the label's roster. The song was released again, whereupon it became a hit.
The song in question? The ballad "Dream On". Interesting that a staple of classic rock radio tanked its first time around.
The music industry has caused its own troubles by turning the entire music scene into a production line; make the hit, that's all that counts. Artistic merit and maturity has gone by the wayside, and labels no longer nurture artists who just need a little seasoning. (Another interesting note: Bruce Springsteen took three albums to attain anything like the mega-fame he possesses now.) The industry also doesn't want to take a chance on anything that doesn't sell well, no matter how interesting or potentially influencing it might be. The prog-metal group Queensryche is a good example; their album sales hardly cracked the million-mark until late in their career, but their album Operation: Mindcrime is cited as an important influence by many current bands. In today's music industry, they simply wouldn't have been given a chance.
What's the solution? I'm not really sure. We can't take music off the internet, we can't make the record labels sign bands that don't sell many albums but make damn good music. But I wanted to call attention to the seriousness of the situation before rock-n-roll simply collapses under its own bloated weight. Don't laugh, without some kind of change, it'll happen in our lifetime.
And a world without meaningful music is not a world I want to live in.
Not Your Father's Anti-Racist Rant
I hate niggers. Faggots and beaners also piss me off real good.
Wow, I can smell the outrage from here at that line. I can hear the indrawn breath of a million indignant social activists as they prepare to verbally eviscerate me for uttering it. “How dare you” they all want to scream. How dare I, indeed? A middle class Anglo-boy (blond and blue-eyed, no less) shouting racial slurs? For the liberal shark, blood has most definitely hit the water. Well, hold your mud for a few and let me finish. If after I’m through you still think I deserved to be crucified, I will, like Jesus before me, willingly raise my hands to the cross. But now that I have your attention, let me begin.
I am not a racist. I want to make that clear right now. I judge all individuals as people; I let superficial concerns like the presence or absence of pigment have as little say in who I like and dislike as I’m able to. I dislike being judged almost as much as eating Brussels sprouts or drinking Canadian whisky, so I do it as little as possible. I hate racism, it makes me coldly furious. Over the next few paragraphs you’ll see just how much.
More to the point, I am related to a black man (I personally don’t like the term “African-American”; it sounds like they just got off a boat from Kenya or wherever). The relation is by marriage, to be sure, but in my family once you’re in you’re in. My ”brother from another mother” is one of my favorite people. He’s a charming, relaxed dude who is awesome to hang out with; getting drunk with him is especially enjoyable. He’s a loving husband to his wife, an attentive father to my infant nephew. He’s a hardworking, productive member of society and in all ways a pretty fine example of humanity. And I’d fucking well black-bag anyone who tried to say anything nasty about his marriage to my Caucasian sister.
I also voted for Barack Obama. I know, that’s not a radical display of racial tolerance, but I really respect his intelligence, his willpower, and his message. For the first time ever, I saw a politician who gave a speech that could stir me. I liked the fact that he owned up to having once been a cokehead without a blink. I applauded his refusal to play dirty political games when Sarah Palin’s teenaged daughter became pregnant. And I laughed myself silly when he said “of course I smoked pot. And I inhaled, frequently; that was the point” at a press conference. When was the last time a politician said something like that to his constituents? Truly, I wish they were all so goddamned witty. C-SPAN might actually be worth watching.
Oh, and I didn’t vote for him because he was black, or biracial, or whatever. I voted for him because I liked what came out of his mouth. In other words, I judged him not on the color of his skin but by the content of his character.
Most importantly, I recognize that the black American toils under a small mountain of inequities that he does not deserve to shoulder. His antecedents were owned like cattle; his parents were beaten and lynched by bedsheet-wearing hillbillies (and sadly, this hasn’t stopped happening). And in this time, there are still people who view him as inferior and untrustworthy. Which is why I have a good deal of respect for people like Obama and my brother; they have risen above the unjust bullshit and found success, wealth and happiness.
This is also why I want to put a bullet between the eyes of the thugged-out, gun-toting, crack dealing tar baby who thinks putting spinners on his ’95 Corolla makes him cool like Tupac. I want to take a truncheon and hit him in his trash-talking pie hole so he spews blood and broken teeth like a miniature Mount Saint Helens. I want to strangle him with his cheap-ass 14 karat chain (taking a moment to stick the stupid little Kalashnikov replica dangling from it through his eyeball like the swizzle stick in an olive; you know…for flavor). Bad enough that he and others like him are helping to cause the violence and social distortion that have turned our cities into dangerous jungles. White people, of course, also do their fair share in this department. But he’s also setting the clock on Afro-Caucasian race relations back ten years with every admission to the local lockup for theft, rape and murder. People like that are a reason why my brother has been maligned for the color of his skin. And I despise them for it.
In the same vein, I’d like to storm a trailer park and whack out the gap-toothed, meth-addled cracker bitch who feeds her eight berjillion kids on the government dole, so that upright Southerners like my aunt and uncle could wave the Confederate flag with pride. I’d choke the Oxy-snorting Lummi wastrel in my casino to death with his own greasy ponytail, thus allowing the Native American success stories I know to get the respect they deserve. And if I still hadn’t gotten arrested, I’d roll up on my block and blow away all the vatos who spend their time smoking mota and listening to their polka music instead of getting a job and keeping their fucking kids out of the road. That would be for the benefit of the hard working, family-oriented Hispanic carpenters my father feels blessed to employ.
Oh, and while I’m on the subject, the piece of airy-fairy queer bait that pinches my ass and expects to get away with it in the name of “tolerance” is in for a rude surprise. If a girl has the right to kick me in the man-bits if I try to cop a feel, then you will get a taste of my pimp hand, sweetie. Suck all the cock you want, with my blessing; I for one love blow jobs and wouldn’t stand in the way of anyone’s chance to receive (or provide) one. If some homophobic frat boy throws a punch at you because you “dared” kiss your boyfriend in public, I’ll be there to stop him (with a stiff left hook if necessary). Just do me a favor; go home, wash off the mascara, stiffen up that wrist and keep your hands off the straights, please. The rest of the homosexual population (including my gay friends, who have complained to me of this very thing) would appreciate it if you didn’t shove your proclivities up the world’s collective bunghole. Who knows, it might even make your life a little easier. Ignore me at your peril; make a grab for any part of my anatomy without permission and it’ll be my fist rebounding off your well-coiffed skull.
Ok, maybe it’s not such a good idea for me to own a gun.
Seriously, though; I hope my point is plain. Every stereotype-generating fuckhead in this world causes problems not only for themselves but those of his group that don’t do so. The fact that stereotypes exist is a dark, sad chapter in the book of human nature. But in time, they will become less prevalent and damning if a certain segment of the populace would stop perpetuating them by example. Though he never speaks of it, I can see in my brother’s eyes the occasional flash of bitter anger that comes of being thought inferior for an arbitrary reason, and I get pissed off all over again at those who perpetuate this infamy against him. He should not have to suffer for their sins, but he does. It makes me sad. It makes me angry. And it makes me want to reach for a baseball bat.
To be sure, people who use stereotypes to define their human relationships must shoulder a share of the blame. Fundamentalist Christians who think every gay male is a depraved, sex-crazed man-whore deserve a bonking with a Bible (preferably an unabridged one, they might learn something). Police officers who automatically assume the black they see driving a Mercedes jacked it from a white man should get terminated and incarcerated on the grounds of simple stupidity (hopefully they’ll get buggered a bit and also learn something).
But they, and others of their ilk, in all their arrogance and ignorance, are not the whole story.
Enough ink has been put to paper about the evils of the “Anglo-Saxon majority” to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Taking a poke at the white man’s insensitivity to the minority condition is one of the easiest intellectual sports one can engage in; it is sure to find an audience, and no one (not even me) can say we don’t somewhat deserve the verbal drubbing. But still, nothing changes and the Anglo majority just gets tired of being pilloried. And as a member of that majority, I am fucking sick of taking all the blame.
With this essay, I take a good hard swing at the face of human prejudice. I make no apologies for the language it uses or the tone it takes. I accept full responsibility for the results. Racism and intolerance have crushed the dreams, spilled the blood and raped the human spirit of countless millions; in choosing to tackle the subject, I will not glaze over the ugliness with sugary prose. A straight-up double shot of from-the-heart street preaching honors the victims and their sacrifices with far more honesty than any amount of kid-gloved euphemistic bullshit. In the passion I feel and the eloquence I possess lie the power to change the world; I cannot in good conscience ignore the social responsibility inherent in deciding to employ them.
If the stream of gory vitriol you read in the opening paragraphs made you wince, good. If you are outraged, indignant and a little nauseated by my descriptions of bloodshed and my casual use of racial slurs, that is wonderful. I intended it so. That sick feeling in the pit of your stomach means that you have not forfeited your essential humanity to a cruel and unjust world. It means you still care about your fellow humans, though they may be imperfect, and that warms my heart more than words can convey. I would shake your hand and congratulate you on emerging from life’s fiery crucible with your idealism intact.
On the other hand, if you were amused by all the evocative violence and are thinking, “Yeah, shoot the niggers, what a great idea, that’ll fix things” then here’s what you should do. Come find me. No, really. We’ll have a drink together and you can tell me exactly why you think we should go a-hunting. And then I’ll chain your stupid ass to the tree in my backyard, cut myself a good stiff switch and whip you soundly about the derriere until you learn humility, maturity and respect for the agony of the oppressed. It would be no less than you deserve.
But enough with the cheap-seats posturing. Without further ado, I shall come to the point.
Ending intolerance in this world will take time, patience, temperance and empathy on the part of all. It will take peaceful discourse and a strong desire for change. But it will also take a hefty measure of good sense, and most importantly cooperation. The Anglo and the Negro must both take a long honest look at their souls, shed the undesirable elements of their respective cultures and lay down the grudges of the past. If the ebony and the ivory really mean to coexist, then they must both make some sacrifices and grow the hell up. The time has come for the narrow minded, judgmental WASP to leave us be, but so too the selfish shortsighted Negro in whose mind the inequities of the past give him cart blanche to behave as he pleases in the present. The alcoholic redskin, the gangbanging vato and the flouncing fairy need to take a hike as well. After such a session of painful social housecleaning, we would have peace instead of armistice, and acceptance in place of mere tolerance.
I hope the wastrels and losers I’ve placed in my imagined crosshairs (and you know who you are) will change their ways peaceably and of their own will. I hope that those who share their skin color or belief structure will help them, for their own sake as much as everyone else’s. And I hope those who judge with a single look will see the error of their ways and learn better. My barometer for success will be when racist jokes stop amusing us.
Because at that point, they’ll no longer even be occasionally true.
In closing, I love people. But I have no respect for niggers. And I think I’ve done a good job in explaining why. If you still believe I deserve to be crucified for my ideals, I bow my head and peacefully await your nails and thorny crown. To keep the integrity of my position demands nothing less.
Wow, I can smell the outrage from here at that line. I can hear the indrawn breath of a million indignant social activists as they prepare to verbally eviscerate me for uttering it. “How dare you” they all want to scream. How dare I, indeed? A middle class Anglo-boy (blond and blue-eyed, no less) shouting racial slurs? For the liberal shark, blood has most definitely hit the water. Well, hold your mud for a few and let me finish. If after I’m through you still think I deserved to be crucified, I will, like Jesus before me, willingly raise my hands to the cross. But now that I have your attention, let me begin.
I am not a racist. I want to make that clear right now. I judge all individuals as people; I let superficial concerns like the presence or absence of pigment have as little say in who I like and dislike as I’m able to. I dislike being judged almost as much as eating Brussels sprouts or drinking Canadian whisky, so I do it as little as possible. I hate racism, it makes me coldly furious. Over the next few paragraphs you’ll see just how much.
More to the point, I am related to a black man (I personally don’t like the term “African-American”; it sounds like they just got off a boat from Kenya or wherever). The relation is by marriage, to be sure, but in my family once you’re in you’re in. My ”brother from another mother” is one of my favorite people. He’s a charming, relaxed dude who is awesome to hang out with; getting drunk with him is especially enjoyable. He’s a loving husband to his wife, an attentive father to my infant nephew. He’s a hardworking, productive member of society and in all ways a pretty fine example of humanity. And I’d fucking well black-bag anyone who tried to say anything nasty about his marriage to my Caucasian sister.
I also voted for Barack Obama. I know, that’s not a radical display of racial tolerance, but I really respect his intelligence, his willpower, and his message. For the first time ever, I saw a politician who gave a speech that could stir me. I liked the fact that he owned up to having once been a cokehead without a blink. I applauded his refusal to play dirty political games when Sarah Palin’s teenaged daughter became pregnant. And I laughed myself silly when he said “of course I smoked pot. And I inhaled, frequently; that was the point” at a press conference. When was the last time a politician said something like that to his constituents? Truly, I wish they were all so goddamned witty. C-SPAN might actually be worth watching.
Oh, and I didn’t vote for him because he was black, or biracial, or whatever. I voted for him because I liked what came out of his mouth. In other words, I judged him not on the color of his skin but by the content of his character.
Most importantly, I recognize that the black American toils under a small mountain of inequities that he does not deserve to shoulder. His antecedents were owned like cattle; his parents were beaten and lynched by bedsheet-wearing hillbillies (and sadly, this hasn’t stopped happening). And in this time, there are still people who view him as inferior and untrustworthy. Which is why I have a good deal of respect for people like Obama and my brother; they have risen above the unjust bullshit and found success, wealth and happiness.
This is also why I want to put a bullet between the eyes of the thugged-out, gun-toting, crack dealing tar baby who thinks putting spinners on his ’95 Corolla makes him cool like Tupac. I want to take a truncheon and hit him in his trash-talking pie hole so he spews blood and broken teeth like a miniature Mount Saint Helens. I want to strangle him with his cheap-ass 14 karat chain (taking a moment to stick the stupid little Kalashnikov replica dangling from it through his eyeball like the swizzle stick in an olive; you know…for flavor). Bad enough that he and others like him are helping to cause the violence and social distortion that have turned our cities into dangerous jungles. White people, of course, also do their fair share in this department. But he’s also setting the clock on Afro-Caucasian race relations back ten years with every admission to the local lockup for theft, rape and murder. People like that are a reason why my brother has been maligned for the color of his skin. And I despise them for it.
In the same vein, I’d like to storm a trailer park and whack out the gap-toothed, meth-addled cracker bitch who feeds her eight berjillion kids on the government dole, so that upright Southerners like my aunt and uncle could wave the Confederate flag with pride. I’d choke the Oxy-snorting Lummi wastrel in my casino to death with his own greasy ponytail, thus allowing the Native American success stories I know to get the respect they deserve. And if I still hadn’t gotten arrested, I’d roll up on my block and blow away all the vatos who spend their time smoking mota and listening to their polka music instead of getting a job and keeping their fucking kids out of the road. That would be for the benefit of the hard working, family-oriented Hispanic carpenters my father feels blessed to employ.
Oh, and while I’m on the subject, the piece of airy-fairy queer bait that pinches my ass and expects to get away with it in the name of “tolerance” is in for a rude surprise. If a girl has the right to kick me in the man-bits if I try to cop a feel, then you will get a taste of my pimp hand, sweetie. Suck all the cock you want, with my blessing; I for one love blow jobs and wouldn’t stand in the way of anyone’s chance to receive (or provide) one. If some homophobic frat boy throws a punch at you because you “dared” kiss your boyfriend in public, I’ll be there to stop him (with a stiff left hook if necessary). Just do me a favor; go home, wash off the mascara, stiffen up that wrist and keep your hands off the straights, please. The rest of the homosexual population (including my gay friends, who have complained to me of this very thing) would appreciate it if you didn’t shove your proclivities up the world’s collective bunghole. Who knows, it might even make your life a little easier. Ignore me at your peril; make a grab for any part of my anatomy without permission and it’ll be my fist rebounding off your well-coiffed skull.
Ok, maybe it’s not such a good idea for me to own a gun.
Seriously, though; I hope my point is plain. Every stereotype-generating fuckhead in this world causes problems not only for themselves but those of his group that don’t do so. The fact that stereotypes exist is a dark, sad chapter in the book of human nature. But in time, they will become less prevalent and damning if a certain segment of the populace would stop perpetuating them by example. Though he never speaks of it, I can see in my brother’s eyes the occasional flash of bitter anger that comes of being thought inferior for an arbitrary reason, and I get pissed off all over again at those who perpetuate this infamy against him. He should not have to suffer for their sins, but he does. It makes me sad. It makes me angry. And it makes me want to reach for a baseball bat.
To be sure, people who use stereotypes to define their human relationships must shoulder a share of the blame. Fundamentalist Christians who think every gay male is a depraved, sex-crazed man-whore deserve a bonking with a Bible (preferably an unabridged one, they might learn something). Police officers who automatically assume the black they see driving a Mercedes jacked it from a white man should get terminated and incarcerated on the grounds of simple stupidity (hopefully they’ll get buggered a bit and also learn something).
But they, and others of their ilk, in all their arrogance and ignorance, are not the whole story.
Enough ink has been put to paper about the evils of the “Anglo-Saxon majority” to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Taking a poke at the white man’s insensitivity to the minority condition is one of the easiest intellectual sports one can engage in; it is sure to find an audience, and no one (not even me) can say we don’t somewhat deserve the verbal drubbing. But still, nothing changes and the Anglo majority just gets tired of being pilloried. And as a member of that majority, I am fucking sick of taking all the blame.
With this essay, I take a good hard swing at the face of human prejudice. I make no apologies for the language it uses or the tone it takes. I accept full responsibility for the results. Racism and intolerance have crushed the dreams, spilled the blood and raped the human spirit of countless millions; in choosing to tackle the subject, I will not glaze over the ugliness with sugary prose. A straight-up double shot of from-the-heart street preaching honors the victims and their sacrifices with far more honesty than any amount of kid-gloved euphemistic bullshit. In the passion I feel and the eloquence I possess lie the power to change the world; I cannot in good conscience ignore the social responsibility inherent in deciding to employ them.
If the stream of gory vitriol you read in the opening paragraphs made you wince, good. If you are outraged, indignant and a little nauseated by my descriptions of bloodshed and my casual use of racial slurs, that is wonderful. I intended it so. That sick feeling in the pit of your stomach means that you have not forfeited your essential humanity to a cruel and unjust world. It means you still care about your fellow humans, though they may be imperfect, and that warms my heart more than words can convey. I would shake your hand and congratulate you on emerging from life’s fiery crucible with your idealism intact.
On the other hand, if you were amused by all the evocative violence and are thinking, “Yeah, shoot the niggers, what a great idea, that’ll fix things” then here’s what you should do. Come find me. No, really. We’ll have a drink together and you can tell me exactly why you think we should go a-hunting. And then I’ll chain your stupid ass to the tree in my backyard, cut myself a good stiff switch and whip you soundly about the derriere until you learn humility, maturity and respect for the agony of the oppressed. It would be no less than you deserve.
But enough with the cheap-seats posturing. Without further ado, I shall come to the point.
Ending intolerance in this world will take time, patience, temperance and empathy on the part of all. It will take peaceful discourse and a strong desire for change. But it will also take a hefty measure of good sense, and most importantly cooperation. The Anglo and the Negro must both take a long honest look at their souls, shed the undesirable elements of their respective cultures and lay down the grudges of the past. If the ebony and the ivory really mean to coexist, then they must both make some sacrifices and grow the hell up. The time has come for the narrow minded, judgmental WASP to leave us be, but so too the selfish shortsighted Negro in whose mind the inequities of the past give him cart blanche to behave as he pleases in the present. The alcoholic redskin, the gangbanging vato and the flouncing fairy need to take a hike as well. After such a session of painful social housecleaning, we would have peace instead of armistice, and acceptance in place of mere tolerance.
I hope the wastrels and losers I’ve placed in my imagined crosshairs (and you know who you are) will change their ways peaceably and of their own will. I hope that those who share their skin color or belief structure will help them, for their own sake as much as everyone else’s. And I hope those who judge with a single look will see the error of their ways and learn better. My barometer for success will be when racist jokes stop amusing us.
Because at that point, they’ll no longer even be occasionally true.
In closing, I love people. But I have no respect for niggers. And I think I’ve done a good job in explaining why. If you still believe I deserve to be crucified for my ideals, I bow my head and peacefully await your nails and thorny crown. To keep the integrity of my position demands nothing less.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
A Slight Inconvenience
I saw a man die recently. Seriously, I did. And it is tough to say which was worse; watching some poor guy croak, or watching the reactions of everyone else.
It happened at work. Now, I work in a bar/casino; we have a small casino pit, a poker room, and a cocktail bar. The unfortunate was playing poker (irony of ironies, he had just won a hand) when he started breathing hard and collapsed. Another player jumped in to provide CPR, and I as Security staff kept anyone who wasn’t helping out of their way. So, I had a front row seat to the action.
Not to mention a front row seat to everyone else ignoring it.
Seriously, I looked over to the casino tables (less than fifteen feet away, mind you) to see people still placing bets at Spanish 21 and Pai Gow Poker. The poker players were watching, concerned, but I could see some of them looking at one of the unused tables and quietly wondering among themselves if a new game could be started. I’m not even kidding.
Well, things went from bad to worse. The EMTs showed up and began their work, producing the arcane tools of their trade and stripping this unnamed gambler of his dignity as quickly as they stripped him of most of his clothing. I watched his skin turn paler and paler, and that’s when it happened. His body just gave up.
The EMTs didn’t stop working, nor did anyone else react, but I was up close and personal and I saw it. It’s difficult to put into words the difference that came over the scene, but there was one. For just an instant, everyone was quiet. Everyone who was looking saw it too. His body sagged, relaxed, seemed to flatten out. My stomach did a little flip-flop as I realized I’d just witnessed his transition from “person” to “corpse”. It was quick, it was subtle, but it was THERE. That irrational, gibbering part of me yearned for some kind of release; screaming, puking, something like that. But I was on-duty and had to keep the situation together. I looked around for someone reacting. No one was. Everyone simply moved away from that primal moment; no one in the room wanted to face it.
For those of you who have never seen it, death is not dignified. It is not stately. It is not peaceful, serene or even mystical. It is ugly, visceral, disturbing at some level that I am not prepared to discuss; not because I don’t want to, but because I lack the words. I don’t think they exist, in any language. One minute the man was there, present, a human being battling his body’s betrayal. The next he was not. Just like that.
But all around me, life went on. People kept gambling, drinking, listening to the juke box, ordering food (something I’m really NOT sure I’d do in a place where a man was in the process of dying) as the EMTs continued trying to resuscitate him. Even the pace of their work had changed, however; instead of quick, they were operating with the measured pace of people going through the motions. They too, I suspect, knew that he was gone. But their training meant that they had to try. And my job description meant I had to watch.
After forty-five minutes, the technicians began packing up. They covered his face with a sheet and collected their instruments. By this time, police had arrived (any time someone dies, no matter what the situation, the police have to make certain that foul play is not involved). I was giving a statement to the officer, so it took me a minute to realize that the EMT vehicle had left without taking the body. It was another hour and a half before the man’s corpse was taken away.
During that time, I had to stand guard, to make sure no one desecrated/messed with the corpse or possessions. (The mere fact that this was a worry speaks volumes about our society’s value system.) I had to smell the stench of death, watch the man’s bare limbs turn gray, then greenish, and more to the point watch a casino full of gamblers completely ignore his presence. Once again, I am not joking or exaggerating. People had to be warned not to trip on him.
I could go on about the mass of tangled legality that caused a corpse to be left on our poker room floor, but the upshot was this; since the man had no ID, the paramedics wouldn’t have known who to bill for the ambulance ride. Same with the Medical Examiner; he didn’t come either. So they did their work in public eating establishment and left the poor bastard lying there. The responding police officer was quite offended at the situation, and so was I. Other than the cook (who walked out of the restaurant mid-shift and never returned to work), and a waitress (who was so distraught she couldn’t get drink orders straight) no one else seemed to care. Everyone worked mightily to ignore it.
Eventually, we managed to get a private funeral home to come collect the body. Eventually, things went back to normal. It was determined that there was no foul play and that we as a restaurant/bar were not responsible (he didn’t have anything to eat or drink). But I will never ever forget that day.
In ancient times, death was a big deal. When someone passed away, the family would prepare the body for funeral services (usually burial, sometimes cremation) and do all the work themselves. Shrines were erected, tombstones etched, services performed. People were able to move past their own selfish fear of death to show some respect, courtesy and love by washing, dressing and in some cases providing for their deceased family member (look at the Egyptian mummification ritual for a good example).
So, to see the death of a man reduced to a minor inconvenience, a passing piece of interest (note; it was less than two months ago and no one talks about it where I work, even though we were all outraged about it when it happened) was disturbing in the extreme. And I came to one other conclusion.
Death scares us. It frightens us on a deep, primal level we do not even fully understand. No one wants to be near it. Oh, we’ll watch a million movie murders and not blink (maybe wince a bit if the celluloid demise is particularly gruesome) but put any normal person in a room with somebody dying and they’ll close up and pretend it’s not happening. “I’m glad it’s not me” was what was running through my head, followed by “wow, what a shitty thing to think”. My brain kept churning out dark humor and wandering away, wanting to be anywhere but where I was. The fact that someday, that was going to be me was not a thought I cared to be faced with.
To the common patron who attempted to save his life, I salute you. To those who make fighting the specter of Death their business and calling, I name you much braver than I. For most of us, facing death is something we’d rather avoid.
I know I would.
It happened at work. Now, I work in a bar/casino; we have a small casino pit, a poker room, and a cocktail bar. The unfortunate was playing poker (irony of ironies, he had just won a hand) when he started breathing hard and collapsed. Another player jumped in to provide CPR, and I as Security staff kept anyone who wasn’t helping out of their way. So, I had a front row seat to the action.
Not to mention a front row seat to everyone else ignoring it.
Seriously, I looked over to the casino tables (less than fifteen feet away, mind you) to see people still placing bets at Spanish 21 and Pai Gow Poker. The poker players were watching, concerned, but I could see some of them looking at one of the unused tables and quietly wondering among themselves if a new game could be started. I’m not even kidding.
Well, things went from bad to worse. The EMTs showed up and began their work, producing the arcane tools of their trade and stripping this unnamed gambler of his dignity as quickly as they stripped him of most of his clothing. I watched his skin turn paler and paler, and that’s when it happened. His body just gave up.
The EMTs didn’t stop working, nor did anyone else react, but I was up close and personal and I saw it. It’s difficult to put into words the difference that came over the scene, but there was one. For just an instant, everyone was quiet. Everyone who was looking saw it too. His body sagged, relaxed, seemed to flatten out. My stomach did a little flip-flop as I realized I’d just witnessed his transition from “person” to “corpse”. It was quick, it was subtle, but it was THERE. That irrational, gibbering part of me yearned for some kind of release; screaming, puking, something like that. But I was on-duty and had to keep the situation together. I looked around for someone reacting. No one was. Everyone simply moved away from that primal moment; no one in the room wanted to face it.
For those of you who have never seen it, death is not dignified. It is not stately. It is not peaceful, serene or even mystical. It is ugly, visceral, disturbing at some level that I am not prepared to discuss; not because I don’t want to, but because I lack the words. I don’t think they exist, in any language. One minute the man was there, present, a human being battling his body’s betrayal. The next he was not. Just like that.
But all around me, life went on. People kept gambling, drinking, listening to the juke box, ordering food (something I’m really NOT sure I’d do in a place where a man was in the process of dying) as the EMTs continued trying to resuscitate him. Even the pace of their work had changed, however; instead of quick, they were operating with the measured pace of people going through the motions. They too, I suspect, knew that he was gone. But their training meant that they had to try. And my job description meant I had to watch.
After forty-five minutes, the technicians began packing up. They covered his face with a sheet and collected their instruments. By this time, police had arrived (any time someone dies, no matter what the situation, the police have to make certain that foul play is not involved). I was giving a statement to the officer, so it took me a minute to realize that the EMT vehicle had left without taking the body. It was another hour and a half before the man’s corpse was taken away.
During that time, I had to stand guard, to make sure no one desecrated/messed with the corpse or possessions. (The mere fact that this was a worry speaks volumes about our society’s value system.) I had to smell the stench of death, watch the man’s bare limbs turn gray, then greenish, and more to the point watch a casino full of gamblers completely ignore his presence. Once again, I am not joking or exaggerating. People had to be warned not to trip on him.
I could go on about the mass of tangled legality that caused a corpse to be left on our poker room floor, but the upshot was this; since the man had no ID, the paramedics wouldn’t have known who to bill for the ambulance ride. Same with the Medical Examiner; he didn’t come either. So they did their work in public eating establishment and left the poor bastard lying there. The responding police officer was quite offended at the situation, and so was I. Other than the cook (who walked out of the restaurant mid-shift and never returned to work), and a waitress (who was so distraught she couldn’t get drink orders straight) no one else seemed to care. Everyone worked mightily to ignore it.
Eventually, we managed to get a private funeral home to come collect the body. Eventually, things went back to normal. It was determined that there was no foul play and that we as a restaurant/bar were not responsible (he didn’t have anything to eat or drink). But I will never ever forget that day.
In ancient times, death was a big deal. When someone passed away, the family would prepare the body for funeral services (usually burial, sometimes cremation) and do all the work themselves. Shrines were erected, tombstones etched, services performed. People were able to move past their own selfish fear of death to show some respect, courtesy and love by washing, dressing and in some cases providing for their deceased family member (look at the Egyptian mummification ritual for a good example).
So, to see the death of a man reduced to a minor inconvenience, a passing piece of interest (note; it was less than two months ago and no one talks about it where I work, even though we were all outraged about it when it happened) was disturbing in the extreme. And I came to one other conclusion.
Death scares us. It frightens us on a deep, primal level we do not even fully understand. No one wants to be near it. Oh, we’ll watch a million movie murders and not blink (maybe wince a bit if the celluloid demise is particularly gruesome) but put any normal person in a room with somebody dying and they’ll close up and pretend it’s not happening. “I’m glad it’s not me” was what was running through my head, followed by “wow, what a shitty thing to think”. My brain kept churning out dark humor and wandering away, wanting to be anywhere but where I was. The fact that someday, that was going to be me was not a thought I cared to be faced with.
To the common patron who attempted to save his life, I salute you. To those who make fighting the specter of Death their business and calling, I name you much braver than I. For most of us, facing death is something we’d rather avoid.
I know I would.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Wearing Us Down
I was recently at a get-together( I don't call it a "party"; no booze, no bad behavior, sorry but it's my definition) with some friends, which I found highly enjoyable. We talked, played Rock Band (which I mostly watched except for some off-key chorus help...I can't sing) drank too much caffeine, and talked about silly shit that made us laugh our asses off. After cuddling with some cute girls, I ended up out on the porch giving one of said cute girls a backrub while having the standard party spiral of unfocused conversation. Perhaps inevitably, the conversation drifted to relationships.
Well, the girl in question was a newly-minted adult; she'd just turned 18 (note to readers; I was NOT trying to score, so don't even think it) and talked a bit of some of the boyfriends she'd had. I listened to her experiences, and the talk just made me, well...sad.
Listening to the tales of self-absorbed, immature boyfriends (note; it didn't come across as a play for sympathy, just communication of information), I was struck by a thought; no wonder people are so cynical. Our young lives are never quite what we hope them to be, our first relationships (sexual or otherwise) often extreme disappointments. And with each passing failed attempt, we grow more and more cynical, and in some cases bitter, self-absorbed and manipulative. And then the cycle perpetuates itself. With each passing breakup and betrayal, we lose that much more of our "relationship idealism" and pass the emotional scar tissue off as "wisdom".
I most emphatically disagree.
What are we being "wise" about? Learning to mistrust the advances of strangers, simply because they ARE strangers? Automatically assuming the worst of our fellow humans? Assigning superficial, selfish motives to what could be acts of genuine kindness, simply because others have behaved in such a fashion in the past? If that is wisdom, then give me a bit more ignorance.
Of course, a certain measure of this is necessary to our survival; it is a sad but very true fact of human nature that a good portion of the species IS out for its own good, that a lot of people ARE just looking to get laid, and placing trust in strangers is sometimes really NOT a good idea.
But I think we go too far.
In closing, I don't wonder too much why there are so many empty, cynical people in this world. It is their lives that make them so. I try not to be counted among them, but it is often a struggle.
Remember that old phrase, "Practice random acts of kindness"? Well, I live by it, or try to. Like giving that teenage girl a backrub and listening to some of her problems (WITHOUT designs on her virtue) was one. A small, debatable act, but an act of kindness nonetheless. So paying attention to a cute girl with problems doesn't make me a saint.
I'd like to think it doesn't make me a sinner.
Well, the girl in question was a newly-minted adult; she'd just turned 18 (note to readers; I was NOT trying to score, so don't even think it) and talked a bit of some of the boyfriends she'd had. I listened to her experiences, and the talk just made me, well...sad.
Listening to the tales of self-absorbed, immature boyfriends (note; it didn't come across as a play for sympathy, just communication of information), I was struck by a thought; no wonder people are so cynical. Our young lives are never quite what we hope them to be, our first relationships (sexual or otherwise) often extreme disappointments. And with each passing failed attempt, we grow more and more cynical, and in some cases bitter, self-absorbed and manipulative. And then the cycle perpetuates itself. With each passing breakup and betrayal, we lose that much more of our "relationship idealism" and pass the emotional scar tissue off as "wisdom".
I most emphatically disagree.
What are we being "wise" about? Learning to mistrust the advances of strangers, simply because they ARE strangers? Automatically assuming the worst of our fellow humans? Assigning superficial, selfish motives to what could be acts of genuine kindness, simply because others have behaved in such a fashion in the past? If that is wisdom, then give me a bit more ignorance.
Of course, a certain measure of this is necessary to our survival; it is a sad but very true fact of human nature that a good portion of the species IS out for its own good, that a lot of people ARE just looking to get laid, and placing trust in strangers is sometimes really NOT a good idea.
But I think we go too far.
In closing, I don't wonder too much why there are so many empty, cynical people in this world. It is their lives that make them so. I try not to be counted among them, but it is often a struggle.
Remember that old phrase, "Practice random acts of kindness"? Well, I live by it, or try to. Like giving that teenage girl a backrub and listening to some of her problems (WITHOUT designs on her virtue) was one. A small, debatable act, but an act of kindness nonetheless. So paying attention to a cute girl with problems doesn't make me a saint.
I'd like to think it doesn't make me a sinner.
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