Category Archives: Politics

Judy Miller .. Chalabi's girlie girlie, & Scooter's, & Lou's, &c

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This is all pleasantly vicious gossip from the last few days. If you're too fine for that sort of thing, skip this. We'll be back to being high-minded tomorrow. 

 

Judy Wudy Miller .. Chalabi's girlie girlie,

& Scooter's, & Lou's, &c

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I thought this last paragraph of the permission-to-talk-to-the-grand-jury letter to NYT's chief shrill shill for the Iraq war (she gulped down slitherer-in-chief Ahmed Chalabi's koolaid) Judy Miller in jail from vice president UnLiving Dead Chenoid's Chief of Staff Scooter Libby was an urban myth made up by some enterprising blogger, but no, he really wrote it to her. Very very odd.

“You went into jail in the summer. It is fall now. You will have stories to cover — Iraqi elections and suicide bombers, biological threats and the Iranian nuclear program. Out West, where you vacation, the aspens will already be turning. They turn in clusters, because their roots connect them. Come back to work — and life. Until then, you will remain in my thoughts and prayers — With admiration, Scooter Libby.”

All the bloggoagoggosphere is speculating that it's code for “if you don't stay connected (& on connected message), look out, cowgirl.” “Thoughts & prayers” — ???? Sounds a tad hazily gazing over a glass of champagne in low light to me. Not exactly a source to a journalist. Too many trysts under the scowling portrait of Uncle Dick in the outer office after hours? 

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It was EMBARRASSING to see Judy Wudy Miller on Lou Dobbs — she was being so girlie and flirty and submissive and sychophanty, I all but womitted. “Oh Lou,” bat eyelashes (I didn't know real people actually did batting eyelashes — I thought it was only Barbie in some pubescent guy's fevered imagination) bat eyelashes, “oh Lou-ie, your littly whittly calendar counting my days in jail gave me so muchie wuchie hope!!!” — bat eyelashes, sigh, sigh. One could all but see the hearts as 'i' dots. Groan — took woman-kind back at least 2 centuries. I wanted to say Get a Room.

 

It was ghastly.

IF Cheney were indicted, I would spontaneously bust into a bloody confetti of Compleat JOY

 

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Chancelucky wrote a very droll piece on his chancelucky blog about the NeoCon's Poets Society which you'll enjoy. To which I added the following Breaking News.

 

In the interests of Image Warming, ChanceLucky, I too have been hired by an increasingly, if I may say so, frayed Karlsie Rove. Karlsie and I had a little fling once upon a fairy-tale time, oh my, but we're all back on a pretty professional basis now that he took up with that <b>Scooter-leavings slattern Judy Miller</b>. I heart Karlsie, but he's trying to keep her from talking by doing her favors, nudge, wink.

I am negotiating for a new Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream to be called Karl Roves Band: NeoNutCons, 10% of the profits to go to the Scooter-Karlsie Defense Fund — ScoKaDefenFu. It will be a Noble Cause. This delicious vanilla ice cream will contain peanuts, walnuts, almonds, cashews, pistachios — the leitmotif of this wonderful new ice cream is NeoNutCons — Lots o' Nuts!

I am including an excerpt from the super double secret transcript I found on pogblog that gives further info on the Judy A. Miller complex of infatuations. I'm not trying to suggest that she slept her way to the top of the DC Mis-Info Chain — I'm stating it baldly — including my once-squeeze Baldy Karlsie, may he live an eternity of conscious torment!

I think Chalabi just unzipped & she went all girlie & believed him about the non-existent nukes. “Oh Ahmed, you are so strong. Please tell me more.” And kinda like Mata Chalabi, he plied her with fantastical tales.

Next day phone call to NYT, left on private phone message machine — “Miss Judy, I will not see you again and show you my Saddam-sized weapon of mass distruction if you do not print my stories on the front page of the New York Times. Why do you think a flighty birdbrain like you was ever planted on the NYT staff in the first-place? It's pay-up time. This is Ahmed. 555-555-3450.” [The zero where the 'six' should be is a code for 'no sex' according to my college prof talking about 'A Perfect Day for Banana Fish' & the 507 number on the hotel door. Who knew?]

Return call, on machine “Please no, please no, my Chalabi. I must see you so our aspen roots can intertwine. Please be mine. I cannot print your stories on the front page because they do fact checking! Of course, unless I slip some on the side to the fact-checker. Who is a burly brute. Please no, please no, my Chalabi.”
Well, the rest is, as they say they say, history.

There is a subsubsubunder-alles rumorrumorrumor surrumor that the Lurker In Your Dreams, Dr. Lurker could take an indictment in the neck. But I don't think even Fitzgerald The Noble would have the huevos to do that. He wouldn't live through the afternoon. Dr. Lurker would cue Armageddon for sure & go off to the underground Dr. Lurker Haven under that mountain in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Colorado. My fear is that he is already there with his pus-dripping finger poised over the Armageddon Button.


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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
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Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Human Race is Deformed by Militarism

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The Human Race is Deformed by Militarism

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   Please note that all over the USofA Inc, there will be vigils on the day following the Death of Soldier #2000. We are at Soldier #1951 tonight.

    I wrote Grave of the Known Soldier .. Save Juan Smith #1999 when there were 146 kids left before #1999 for us to wake up, for us to stand up. Stand up. Now we’re down to 48. We still could save Juan Smith #1999.

   Every time I read this #1999 piece, it seems distilledly stupider for grown-up conscious beings with consciences to be pretending to solve problems by mutilating other people’s children at the cost of $200,000 per minute in Iraq, $820,000 more dollars per minute for militarism in general. (The idea that we need more next-generation destroyers or more trident submarines or more D-5 missiles or any Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrators or any of that fantasy Missile Nonsense aka Star Wars program while we in our small city and you in your town are increasing class size or closing schools entirely is pornographic past any bared bosoms or rumps. This pork & paranoia of bloated papally infallible military grand theft must be arrested if we are ever to thrive in the next age.)

     I have Grave of the Known Soldier .. Save Juan Smith #1999 for you below, but if your heart can stand it, also please read Hector & the Abolition of War which is as compelling a pro-peace piece as I ever get to write. If you have any wavering doubts about whether it is ever ok to deliberately kill anyone, those doubts end with this story.

    The anniversary of my beginning to go out alone with my  teach peace sign just around and about downtown is 10.09.2005. It will be three years exactly. Today is 1095 days in a row with my now beat-up sign. I went out this Friday evening to stand on a main corner at commute time, waving at the cars streaming by. People wave back or ignore me or honk or flash the peace sign. Only one ‘F**k Peace,’ whatever that could mean?

   Anniversaries make us gather and condense our considerations around some hub. A birthday. A marriage. How many years we worked some place. How many days in a row you've carried a peace sign. 2000 kids killed in Iraq. (Who counts the Iraqi dead? About 30 World Trade Centers worth. They aren't American, so so what?) William Blake of ‘Tyger Tyger burning bright in the forest of the night’ and of ‘the Universe in a Grain of Sand’ flays us to the anniversary attention in every hour. It is so solemn and splendid and giddy to be alive as long as we can stay awake and not sleep walk through our days – or nights, sooth be said.

    Blake exhorts us to know that ‘A skylark wounded in the wing, A Cherubim does cease to sing.’ And we hurl shock and awe by the explosive tons at the collateral children of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq? In Auguries of Innocence, Blake also says ‘Nought can deform the human race Like to the armor's iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plow To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.’

    We are deformed by this war. It is too late in history to be mutilating children to haruumph that we are strong. If it weren’t so dangerous and stupid, we could howl derisively at the absurdity. No, George, no, we are making more terrorists and proving to them how very effective their suicide cheap-car driver is compared to our suicide expensive-tank driver. Ours noble, theirs craven? No, both insane. But conned and brainwashed by adults who never send their own children or, gods forfend, find the cause noble enough to go themselves.

    We got past one kind of human sacrifice in history. However, we still sing a war anthem and drink the putative blood of our deity. But we did get past separate water fountains for Colored and White (in my benighted town when I was a child). My mother was born in the year when women were considered human enough to vote. Big changes do happen. War is a dinosaur. We do dump militarism on the slag heap of history – how soon depends on you. When do you stand up? Kick Inertia in the shin. Apathy is only amusing and then vaguely in petulant 13 year-olds.

    ‘What difference can *I* make’ you waveringly wonder? Well, if the sonsa bitches woke up one morning and every single one of us who is adamantly pro-peace was standing out in front of her or his house or apartment house or trailer with a peace sign, do you doubt their gonads would jellify? There is a tipping point. The sooner you add to the body count for the helicopter photo, the sooner it ends. It is up to you.  

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The Grave of the Known Soldier .. Save Juan Smith #1999

 

What do we know about Sgt. Juan Smith who is doomed to die on Tuesday November 22, 2005? 

 

Why does it bother me particularly that he is a huge fan of the fey  movie Spinal Tap, a celebration if there ever was one of harmlessness? Perhaps because it is unexpected that a 26 year-old has such quirky taste. I like that in him.

 

Well, he'll be 26 when he is shot in the head. The left side of his head. His brains will splatter onto soldier Raymond Callahan, his second best friend, a 22-year-old from Alabama whose mother, Joyce Callahan, voted for George Bush in 2000, but will never vote Republican again. Mrs. Smith, Juan's mother, dwells in a twilight of sadness.

 

Juan Smith's birthday is on November 8, so he is 25 now as we watch in August, waiting for him to die. Just turned 26 when he dies. He is a Scorpio with Pisces rising. Brave, dreamy, very very smart about the conscious world of day and of tanks, RPGs and rubble, and of the unconscious world, which runs the whole shebang in Iraqi, but which is never spoken of. 

 

Juan Smith does not have to die. He does not have to be #1999. We could stop it at once. Someone will be the last man's name on a stark white cross. The last man on The List. Maybe it could stop at # 1888? Mr. Bush could see that piling up more dead in flag-draped coffins we are not allowed to view will not make the war end better. It is going to end badly. We know that. Nothing will keep the insurgents from blowing up American soldiers for the next 300 years. Cheap explosives. Countless idealistic young men, sold, like ours, a bill of goods.

 

There will be some morning when The Lizard Leaders lie no more. Because nobody's buying their snake oil — well, lizard oil, I guess.

 

Damnit, Juan, I don't know what to do to save you. I do not know what to do. We talk now a little. I'm psychic. I've seen his death. He's seen me seeing it. He's imploring me to turn back time before it is reached so he can go home, marry the very pretty — not beautiful, but very pretty, Felicia, buy the blue pick-up truck his cousin could sell him in the first week of December if he could only live that long. Their first child would be named Joseph.

 

Is it Baquba? Taji? Al Asad? Abd Allah? I cannot read the address of the bullet yet. He has written the name of Felicia inside his helmet with a Sharpie. Felicia es mi ángel. He drew a heart above and one below.

 

Felicia keeps his tooled cowboy boots by her bed, waiting for his return. Which does not happen because we did not pour into the streets soon enough. We lamented, but did not act. As if our being embarrassed or discomfited was more unbearable than the death of #1999.

08.16.05/ 98 days/ 141,120 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

09.18.05/ 64 days/ 92,160 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

09.24.05/59 days/84,960 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

10.08.05/45 days/64,800 minutes until the Death of juan Smith #1999

 ∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

Today, 08.15.05,  we're at 1852 American soldiers dead. To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid?¹ Today September 18, we’re at 1900 American soldiers dead. Today October 08, we’re at 1951 dead.  

 

Is there ANY way we can save Juan Smith #1999 using the energy and the smarts of people like you and Cindy and me and any darnbody at all?

 

“How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”²

 

I actually asked myself when I woke up this very morning, “Would I sleep with Karl Rove if it would stop the war today?” I have to tell you it was a sobering question which I could not answer at once. You cannot possibly imagine how much I despise slitherer Karl Rove and how much stealthy evil he has done malice aforethought. But now after a few hours of thought, clearly yes, to stop the senseless death of another kid, I'd even do that.)

 

As I write this mid-August, 1852 American soldiers (sons daughters fathers mothers individual unrepeatable lives) have died in the quagQuicksands of Iraq. [Now on September 18, we have 1900 dead. Only 99 dead to wake up. Now on October 08, we have 1951 dead. Only 48 dead to wake up.]

 

Can we possibly pull our ingenuities and resources together and save Juan Smith destined to be #1999?

 

That would give us 146 dead to wake up, write our Congress people, write Letters to the Editors. Save Juan Smith #1999. Or does the count drone on and we sit baffled, eloquently lamenting?

 

Save Juan Smith #1999.

 

pogblog

 

ps. Please send this Save #1999 link to your friends.

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/15/1140249.html

 

All the contact info for House & Senate is at afterdowningstreet. Get on their emailing list for Actions. It is beautifully and heartfeltedly organized. http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/

 

² adapted from John Kerry’s 1971 speech before Congress; 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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pro-peace, not anti-war

 

   It's the eve of the Big September 24 Peace March in Frisco. (I know they're supposed to hate being called Frisco, but that's just obdurate — Frisco is so cool, & after  32 years of living 40 miles south of that misty and mysterious city, I'm bloody gonna call it Frisco.)

   A few days ago I thought, Well, we should dub ourselves pro-peace rather than anti-war. This better obeys the powerful but slightly tweaky notion of what in hypnosis is called an embedded command. Stick with this because it is important in all your life. Once you see through the psycho-lingual trick, you'll grok it forever.

   If I say “Don't fall off the ladder!” — it's called an embedded command TO fall off the ladder. Because in order to comprehend the words themselves, you have to (unconsciously) imagine yourself falling off the ladder. The really helpful exhortation is “Hang onto the ladder!” or some such version which requires your brain to process actually hanging onto the ladder.

     The other subtlety of this is that you cannot do a negative. You cannot stop smoking. You do something else instead. You start breathing freely. You observe the sunset after dinner instead of smoking, or whatever. 

   (Larry King always goes to a break saying, “Don't go away.” I always shout at the screen, “Embedded command!” Charlie Rose & others say, “Stay with us.”)

   IF we say 'anti-war' instead of 'pro-peace' in this micro-embedded command, we are requiring people to imagine the war. IF we say pro-peace, they have to imagine something about peace to even comprehend the words.

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   I have put Compulsory Cannibalism here because it's such a darn good piece of cherry pie idea. And I put the Grave of Known Soldier #1999 here too because this afternoon at the weekly major intersection mini-peace demo, one of our folks had taped 1913 on the street light pole. And I had written #1999 when we still had 145 dead kids to go. Now we only have 86 kids to collateralize. 86 families to shatter. Of course who cares about the Iraqi dead and their ruined mothers — they aren't Americans.   We could still save #1999 — who should haunt us all.   

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Compulsory Cannibalism

 

   “Compulsory cannibalism: if you had to eat everyone you killed, war would end damn fast,” said Abbie Hoffman.

 

Another sign at the 03.15.03 SF Rally: Mirth on Earth. Power to the Peaceful is a perennial favorite of mine. This sublime guy with an huge pink wig had a beautifully lettered sign saying, If you don’t choose peace over war, aliens will land in my wig. A sign like that makes humanssooftenunkind worth saving after all. Jonathan Schell talks about the ‘unredeemably stupid fatality’ that leads to war. On 11.29.02, I was talking to a guy about how ‘Mr. Bush & Mr. Hussein won’t get any dust on their shoes.’ He said that if like George Washington they were required to be out there themselves, then he would listen to them. I said, “Why aren’t we called pro-peace?”

 

I wrote then a little piece called Dead is Dead. On 9.13.02. Before I had made my teach peace sign on 10.09.02.

    Reading in the New Yorker about the World Trade Center, our rage & disbelief: The ‘How could this act of brutal madness,’ the ‘Who could do, could conceive such a thing? seem obvious and emotionally rational. ‘The enormity of the act.’ The dazed, bereft people holding cheerful snapshots of the lost. Yes it was an irredeemably evil act. Yet we never as Americans imagine or connect that the vaporized souls in Hiroshima or Nagasaki or the dozens of wooden Japanese cities we firebombed were also someone’s sweetheart or son or sister. We have already proved ourselves terrorists, or deliberate killers of civilians, with weapons of mass destruction. Ye gods we ought to be humble. Instead we escalate in arrogance and sanctimonious patriotism.

     Dead is dead. Whatever fancy justification we prettify it up with, we vaporized over 200,000 civilians, and it doesn’t disturb our sleep. We had our reasons.

     They have their reasons.

     Until there are no reasons we can bear, we will not be actually human yet.   

 

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    Our local Peace Group, Mountain View Voices for Peace, is already planning a solemn March for after Death #2000. (If you haven’t had a chance to read Grave of the Known Soldier #1999, I have it here below for you. It’ll break your heart. I keep thinking we could still save this kid #1999 – he wouldn’t have to die.

     MVVP has members meet at the intersection of El Camino & Castro every Friday from 6p-7p, the height of the commute, with pro-peace signs and waving. (This is a major local intersection.) You could start such a group in your town if you haven’t yet. You can get more info and ask questions here. Or you can be an individual loon like me and go out a little every day with something like a teach peace sign as you go about your business to the post office or the library. See details on that here. (It’s only the first two excruciating forays you have to get past and then you feel foolish without your sign! I’ve been out 1076 days in a row now. It isn’t about me, or you – it’s about that one little girl or boy who sees a person willing to appear absurd to some for the sake of peace and harmlessness and that kid will grow up to be the next Martin or Mohandas. If I don’t have my sign, that kid may not see it. The butterfly’s wings will not start a storm of peace.)

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To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid? </strong>

 

“How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”²

  

ps. Please send this Save #1999 link to your friends.

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/15/1140249.html

 

All the contact info for House & Senate is at afterdowningstreet. Get on their emailing list for Actions. It is beautifully and heartfeltedly organized. http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/

 

² adapted from John Kerry’s 1971 speech before Congress; 

 

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Quit Smoking, Quit Religion, How To

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Quit Smoking, Quit Religion, How To

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   Christians and other religious Zealots are like smokers and boomboxers, and, sadly, like the poor, they’ll probably always be with us. It’s when the Evangelicals took the fateful turn to Avengelicals in about 1980 that we should have gotten frightened, very frightened. It’s late now – I hope not too late.

     As someone who, in the upstairs bathroom, started smoking Parliament cigarettes pilfered from my Mother when I was twelve (tho I never smoked my Mother’s religion); as someone who smoked a pack a day, often Camel straights, for 30 years; as someone who went cold turkey seven days before my sister’s gala wedding with its parties and wines and champagnes, I’m here to bring you the good news that horrible and deadly addictions can be quit cold cold turkey, and after two weeks, 14 days, a fortnight of vigilance against the Insinuating Voice of the Inner Tempter, you are free and clear and living a more wholesome new life under a kind of cosmic Witness Protection Program. Nicotine and Religion and Heroin are three of the most addictive substances on Earth. They can be quit.

    And society can say, we’ve had enough of that crap. These new virulent Christians are exactly like smokers of yore who used to blow smoke in your face without a thought to your personal ecology. We have to speak out, stand up, and say, “What you do in the privacy of your own room is your own weird business, but I have the right to work and be governed without your, to me, soul-threatening, toxic christiotine tarring up my lungs. If that’s your poison, happy to it, but leave me and mine deeply alone.

    Trust me, I would one mile short of infinity rather be puttering around admiring the origami petals of the begonia – begonia begonia burning bright in the forest of my morning than riding the Steed of Wrath against the tediously ever-present overtly zealous Christians who like the mannersless Picts and Visigoths have invaded and befouled our simple, cheerful lives previously blissfully devoid of their Savior the Lord Jesus Christ, that occasionally insightful whippersnapper.

     There were three vials worth of Wrath that led to the launching of this anti-Crusade, this war against the once-insidious, now braying and blatant Zealotorism.

     Well, the first two were vials of Disbelief. The last turned the water of Incredulity into the wine of Wrath.

    Probably eight years ago – I don’t quantify time well – I was in our local Red Rock café  talking to a very nice middle-aged woman, Amy Turner, a Democrat, a person of deep thought and earned and practiced compassion. I knew she was a sincere Christian whose ‘faith’ informs and enfolds her heart and soul. Far be it from me, a jolly and happy heathen who dances at the Altar of Comedy to begrudge her her comforting and perhaps invigorating hallucinations. It’s all a smorgasbord. You eat squid tentacles. I don’t. You have a weekly slurp of your god’s blood. I don’t. No harm, no foul. So far, so jolly.

    “Amy, I need to ask you a question,” I say. We’re sitting at the big round table in the north corner of the café. Well, I know the likely answer to this question intellectually as you, dear reader, will think you do. But slow your thoughts down and perceive this slower, thicker, like blood or molasses, with heart-thought.

    “Amy, you know that I am generally good, that I actively act upon principle and honor in a daily way, imperfectly but earnestly. I need to know if I, your friend, must go, in your Christian view, to Hell because I will never take Jesus as my savior?”

      It was as horrible a 40 seconds as I’ve spent. Blood rose in her face. Then she went pale. A clammy sweat broke out on her face. She was unable to look at me. She said, “It is the single hardest thing about my Christian faith,” in a voice strangled quiet and of agony.

   “You would watch me, your friend pog, be herded onto the Down Escalator (I could still summon a grim joke)?” She could not speak. She nodded.

     A few years later, there was Ben Davis, a Christian friend who actively studied and practiced local decency, though schizophrenically a convinced capitalist and a high-order of screw-the-peasants Republican. An economic and political pitbull and a personal Golden Retriever. At a point when we knew each other very well, I asked the dreaded Down Escalator Question. “I hate it, but I have to believe it,” he says, also stricken with dismay.

   I thought – oh the open-hearted pagan naiveté – in both cases that a living breathing friend would trump a doctrine. That they would say, ‘I believe and cleave to my Faith and eschew this clearly dumb garbage that would cast a friend who is good into the fiery pits for an eternity of conscious torment.’ That’s what I would have said. I would have ripped from the Book the stupid pages which damned my friend who was good. (Probably even my friend who was bad if nothing but the truth be told.) I still reel when I think of it – the horribleness of a spiritual addiction that would condemn your friend. That’s deeply ugly stuff. This is the nub, the hub, the rub – it is this willingness to choose a spiritual or political belief over a person that leads to all this collateral damage that litters the juggernaut swath of destruction that Christianity has scathed through history. I, real pog, was collateral damage to my two Christian friends, an unfortunate but necessary cost for an Idea. Ask your Christian friend the Fiery Pit/Eternal Conscious Torment Question. The horror the horror.

    I still don’t care if they hold their repugnant ideas in private – between or even among consenting adults, who really cares? How you beat upon your spiritual gonads is your business – just, please, get a room.

    I forgot – there are four tipping points. The first two are the cast-good-ole-pog-into-hellfires friends. Then a few months ago, I surfed upon a program on CNN. There was this poised, lively little seven-year-old girl, articulate, vivid. Her pleasant-looking, apparently un-horned, un-cloven hooved mother was home-schooling this child. The interviewer off-camera asked the little girl something like, “How did religion start in your life?” This marvelous child piped up in her little girl’s voice, “When I was three years old, I took the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal Savior and He saved me from Sin.”

   Sin? Sin? You were three years old. Sin?

    What sane person could poison the mind of a three-year-old child with the idea that they are sinful? What sane person could poison the mind of a three-year-old child with the idea that they are sinful?

    The 4th tipping point for me is Van Orden v. Perry condoning the garish Ten Commandments monument on public ground in the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Texas state capitol. The state should not support Christian granite,¹ nor paper, nor heads-of-pins monuments. It is not a Christian Nation – it’s all of ours, so the idea of democracy says.

     It’s hard to rile a pagan. We never got kicked out of the Inner Garden of Earthly Delights. Basically, we don’t want to be fussed and we don’t want to fuss you. But your Stupid, Belligerent Narrow-minded, Narrow-hearted God is Not the Lord, my God, and I’m sick of it now. How dare you tell gay people they can’t get married? How dare you tell a woman she must bear a child she can’t emotionally or financially cherish? How dare you support the Military Death Machine? The first big act of JC was to kick over the tables of the money changers and you applaud grotesque profits?

    One of the Founding fathers, John Adams suggested to Thomas Jefferson that he take the Christian Bible and a pair of scissors and cut out everything that was stupid, cruel, tribal, and insane. In what is known as the Jefferson Bible, a very few wise pages are left. Which should be embraced in the Eclectic Canon of Merry Good Sense smorgasbord of kind and wry thoughtfulness where we might all be nourished.

    As to the rabid stuff Thomas Jefferson left on the cutting room floor, dear Christians, please take your meds.

    Sweeter honey bee Christians vs the sting-everybody-to-death swarming Killer Bees Christians — consider that to do the right thing, the just thing, you might have to gainsay your very Faith. Which is, of course what Jesus did in his time. It don’t matter what a Book says, your father, your preacher, even if they say Jesus said it – you can’t join in or even stand by while a good person is kicked off the cliff into the Fiery Pits. It ain’t right. (And of course the Stupid Book got it wrong, and your father and the preacher. Horribly, the Universe forgives forever, but that’s another story for another campfire.) It can be a hard and lonely read, conscience, but what are we doing still lauding red-glaring rockets and bursting bombs in our national song? Ain’t right, it’s wrong. Suppose all the Books vanished for a decade (Books and sutras and all of the other fancy dress Clothes stored in the attic or the basement) – and we had to think for ourselves and couldn’t quote any bludgeoning verses?

    If I revere my Lord & Savior Chocolate Ice Cream, am I less saved than you? What universal law requires redemption to be solemn?

    At least if I fight with Ridicule, and believe me, brother, I will, at least you have a chance to tut-tut and berate the frivolous infidel or whatever feeble outcry you noisily raise against the Trumpet of my Ridiculously Righteous Wrath. Against bunkerbusting bombs, none of us rises again on the third day, pilgrim – Jesus neither. Think it through and through. Quit blowin’ your smelly holy smoke in my face; whatever you’re smoking makes you dangerous and cruel and paranoid. If you can’t go cold cold turkey, at least quit smoking on our parade.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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¹ pict of Christian granite monument;

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Irony Saves the World from Rove et ilk

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for amigosueño 

 

Irony Saves the World

 

Gingko Tree, part 1

 

     The gingko tree is an orphan from the past; I am an orphan from the future. Why did I make the terrible journey from the sunlit sane future back into this brutish and cynical past? It's a good question which I'll answerish for you in pages to come.

     Gingko trees are the last member of their ancient family, the last of their phylum, class, and species. Look at a gingko leaf sometime and you'll notice the ancient fan-shape with its veins radiating up and out from the bottom stem joint toward the upper edge of the leaf. A modern leaf like a maple leaf will have a river-system of veins, a central long river with tributaries branching out into the lobes of the leaf.

     Along with pigeons and squirrels, gingkos are making an ironic comeback in modern Urbia. The gingkos keep me company in my quite vast loneliness. They remind me that even absent all daily company of chronoscient fellow dreamweavers, truth shimmers at dawn and whispers at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />midnight. (I don't plan to flak you with too many unfamiliar words, but 'chronoscient' harks to 'time sailors' in welsh, the fire poets, the folk who saidsang the past and the future by many fires in many forests. We hear these songstories in our dreams, for few until much later were written down.) 'Ancient' is old time; chronoscient is my time, where I dwelled before I journeyed back back over the seas of time to this time, to your frightening brutish Turtle Island in the Great Eternal Sea. Did I come back so I could see thee here? You dared me then to journey back to the Time of Blood, said that I would not, said that I could not, said that I didn't dig or gig or grok you enough to go back down the telescope to the small end. Promised you would meet me there if I dared. Damn dare. Do I regret it?

     Perhaps I came back on a wind of longing in our unfathomable game which pinballs among times? Perhaps I am actually altruistic and hope to give courage to a few hearts beginning to dream of a more physically harmless and psychologically hazardous-for-grins world, a world which does come after The PearShaped Epoch? They call me Breddwyd  — you would say 'breath-wooed' for the sound, but here most folk say 'Brath-wid' and I answer to it.

     It is quite the feat fantastic to put back on the psychic armor needed in this barbed-wire world. The subsonic hostility here fairly bristles with offensiveness and defensiveness and humorlessness. Your delicious and ferocious mildness is a foreshadow of what will come when we 'humanes' begin again after The PearShaped End. But perhaps upon the subject of you, I am not objective because I know that for the last Really Big Pot, I've got your number and I win. I win so astonishingly much for my psychic coffers, that I can afford to be gracious in these little preliminary games, however galling the pesky and quite numberless present humiliations might be. It is the knowledge that I c.o.m.p.l.e.t.e.l.y snooker you in the end which gives me these acreages of patience.

     Whether my only original impulse was to find and three-up thee — Ha! Ha! See, I made it, amigosueño! — In the christly-long wait for you to appear in whatever guise you devised for this game, this mabolgamp, to divert myself from wondering whether you actually would show up before I expired of terminal boredom and local mindless-game tedium, I did get somewhat interested in the perils of the planetary natives, groaning under the yoke of truly horrible humorless religions and long boring wars. I see the bog and tangled jungle out of which we lemur our way to eventually get to our spangled chronoscient sea where hearts are free from the chains of religion and the pornography of greed. 

    In the age of gigantism, of dinosaurs, the Earth or y Daear (Dy-ear) uprose such vast energies that butterflies were the size of condors and condors blocked out the sun when over they flew. (Don't fuss thee, I'll clean up the chronoscient grammar if I send this to someone else than thee, mokha (welsh for pig as thou wilt recall). I am almost fluent in one of the dominant y Daear tongues, but have relapses when I've had as much cocoa to drink as I have now. I know I promised you I'd cut back on the cocoa before I left the future, but gollywhiz, taking away all my solaces when you were no where to be found yet — you can be a hard man, my porkchop.

     Anyway, in my researches, I found that there were cat-squirrel simian creatures, the lemurs, who, by being small and quick with twitching noses and stereo eyes, outwitted the crescendoing Great Extinction of the lumbering who lived on enormous fronds  The cat-squirrels kept our clever mammalian hopes cunning and alive through the Great Dark. The bio-history of bones has a big record but the psycho-history of hopes and fears and chuckles is quite invisible. The laughing ape. The laughing ape will win beyond the killer ape in the end. That's the thread I'm following through The PearShaped Finale. The ironic inherit the Earth. Y Daear. [“Laugh & the world laughs with you;Weep & you weep alone; For the brave old Earth has to borrow her mirth But has troubles enough of her own.” Wilcox].

     Why do the ironic win? Not because the worlds are just, but because everything else is so damn boring. Only irony remains forever puzzling. We love to do puzzles. And when the stakes are our very (secret) lives, that's interesting. Always interesting.

     There is, however, more irony abuse than any other dreaded abuse you can imagine. Most apes just don't get it. It's eel-slippery. Irony is the ultimate drug, but you can't fake it or take it or inject it or smoke it. You can sure bludgeon it tho. And most people do in these early days. Maxwell's leaden sledgehammer. Sometimes I cry out to the sky for relief — save me from this irony-deficient damn planet now please. But I wake up here again and lurch on. Diogenes spent his life searching for an honest man; I have spent my life looking for an ironic man. I found one. One. And then he just has to be horrible and cruel and pride-infested. Go figure. Everyone else drinks his damn koolaid. “Oh sweet adorable sexy James.” I am not in that way wholly blinded; only wholly irony besotted. Sweet, adorable — Ha! Ha! Ha! He is a monster, and he ebbs and flows like the tide; waxes and wanes like the moon. But when he's on, I am lost — babblingly, happily, drunk. When I'm not so wounded that I hide in the cold shadows of the forests licking my bleeding wounds; but he doesn't need to know about that. He accumulates large and petty triumphs. Until the last legerdesoul of course when he icarusly plummets into the sea of fire, but that secret's too sweet to reveal. He will not see it coming. That is sweet.     

 

//Mirth are us. Clowns rule.  Buffoons Arise. + 

 

ps. gin = silver in Chinese; ko = apricot;             

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gingko tree part 2

    Nobody really knows how the denizens of Y Daear got so irony deprived? You'll have to admit that the system of tiny tiny coiled patterns is ingenious. (Gluck-prints as our scientists call them instead of blueprints, but then we are no longer so publicly prissy and privately vulgar as the ancients. The trick is keeping such dna things damp — or allowing that they re-vivify when wetness re-occurs. They took a ten-thousands of years-old seed from an Earth pyramid and plopped it into some wet ground and presto, papyrus) You try to jam all that rabbit or giraffe or papyrus info into a couple of molecules and pull a rabbit or a giraffe out of that hat. You'd be mighty impressed with yourself, I bet. It is no wonder that the results go awry now and again. Too bad that a whole species became genetically susceptible to a variety of putridly virulent diseases: religiousism; patriotism; greedism; humorlessness.

     Now the question that Digrif, my ironist, and I are asked most in chronoscient times is how we pioneered the possibility of high (or low for that matter) hilarity with sensual adventures? It was not easy tho it was our gift to the future. I tell you these brutes back here are so damn serious so damn much of the time that it makes my brain ache. You try a little riff with these folks and they either go the Full-Kicked-Puppy, how could you be so mean; or they go Pursed Lips with silent but deafening disapproval as if they had smelled something flatulent; or they start ripping your face off with their mis-judgment of joining in the 'fun.' They don't get that there is actually an art to this like shooting an arrow at a target rather than spraying the room with machine-gun fire and laughing over the writhing and dying bodies as if you'd been clever. Even when they don't really intend to hurt, are not biting their lips in sarcastic, flesh-eating rage, they are tone-deaf and don't get that though irony is meant to appear to hurt, it’s supposed to be between more-or-less equals both of whom have tacitly agreed to take it.

     Irony and sexualness are advanced alchemy. Sexualness is in objective fact so grunting and preposterous that people have developed saccharine-blinding or lust-blinding masks to cover their actual lumpy splotched nakedness. The hormones give a blessed ignorance to the occasion in which the inherent appalling embarrassment is cloaked with fervor until satedness averts the eyes from the previous throbbing desiree. The various hormonal hallucinogens on this planet are rampant and recklessly indulged in.

     Digrif means 'funny,' 'comic' in welsh and he is that indeed. Though if I had to nickname him, I'd go for 'Saharo.' If in Earth terms being sentimental (e.g. Hitler loved his dog.) is called by the Brits, an island people near the Welsh, “wet,” my ironist Digrif is Saharan. The Sahara is a sand sea in the grand continent of Africa. Great waves of golden sand break past the horizon. It is an octessence of dry. Now my tactic in advanced irony includes an occasional token of truthful and overt affection, not very wet, I think, but a break in the routine of merry or furious or lazy or imperious insult. Not our Digrif. No chink in his armor. Saharan of merciless dry. I don't mean to suggest that he speaks aloud every pain he might inflict. He doesn't. (As if it isn't writ all neon for anyone with the slightest second sight.) He pulls a punch now and again. One notices. But sweetness? Never. I expect the Sahara to roll around to become a sea with ships and gulls and penguins before he relents and says something soft. One would occasionally like to curl up in his lap and purr for a catnap without having to be perpetually on guard.

      The planet is harsh in a different and hurtful way. Only irony can transform violence into (even brutal) harmlessness. It is how the planet must evolve so we can still use the violent muscles and lash out, without harm. There is no limit to the weapons irony may use and it can hurt like hell actually, but the point between ironists is the almost-harm. A bullseye is a miss; the arrowpoint should be exactly at the edge of the bullseye and the next ring — showing that one could have really ficking hurt, but just didn't. That's how it's supposed to work. Otherwise it's not playing, it's just being a jackass.

     Of course between experienced, beloved ironists, the bullseye gets smaller and the blow is nearer the center of the dreaded pain or truth.

     Murder is nowhere as deadly really as seriousness is. The pompous, the pious, and the patriots are all terrifying in their claims to the one true way and word.

   In the GreatTimeOcean, luckily clowns rule, clownily luck rules, and there are indeed few rules at all except that if by some horror you relapse into serious or religion or patriotism, people pour itching powder all over you and leave you in the stocks over the weekend while they go eat bbq and dance a lot.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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the fiercely pro-peace world

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An Outlaw After Midnight .. the pain of pacifism

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An Outlaw After <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Midnight

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    I think of the other outlaws after midnight and what we pay and what we owe and how down and dirty is it going to get. Almost all my ties are cut now. I own nothing but rage. I have you, my darling, in my mind like an ember-coal under a dove-grey silt of ash – I have but to blow on the thought of you and the lava of you in my heart is re-revealed. But the rest, like Dante’s 10th circle of Hell, is cold or colder or coldest. Hate is not hot in the end.

    They say love solves everything. I have not noticed that to be so. It is hard to know which is more gigantic in these Present Menaces, their gigantic Greed or their gigantic Stupidity? If you know, please tell me. I long for something known.

   “Why are you an outlaw, Miss,” asked a young journalist named John Plume, who wished he dared to bear that unflinching look into the darkness of their hearts, but wanted to hear the blindness secondhand. I remember the color of strawberries. I remember the celadon color of your eyes struck with a shaft of sun, the color inside the curl of a breaking wave. I see so clearly now that the sight of their other-than-human not placable, not relenting obscene bastard midas meanness drove me blind.

      “I went blind, Mr. Plume,” I said not unkindly because he was so earnest and not bereft of hopes, even high ones – he reminded me of myself once upon a time – “I went blind, Mr. Plume at first only on Mondays and Thursdays, because the ratbreath bastards became so brazen and so gruelingly cruel and my brothers and my sisters were still bamboozled by their skillful gigantic Deceits. One day my right eye just burst into tears of blood from watching their Lies in full color on CNN. A friend of mine said, ‘Ye gods, Belle Z. Babe, your right eye is weeping tears of blood.’ I smeared my hand across my wet cheek and saw that it was so. ‘I’m not so surprised really,’ I said to him. ‘Why is your right eye not weeping tears of blood?’

   “I cannot believe that we just go to sleep at night and let day after day pile up like corpses along side the highway of history while these bastards loot and steal right out from under our noses and we do not whimper, not even like a kicked dog. Where in the hell, Obol, amigo de mi corazón, is our dignity and our sacred honor? Such sheepery and lemminghood disgust me about ourselves. They don’t even have to bestir themselves to defeat us. They must be putting saltpeter in the junk food. Are we tamed by aspartame?”

    Mr. Plume looked at me bemused. This was an hour when my fractured vision, which was like looking through shards of broken glass, had some light not only darkness. I saw him begin to see.

    After midnight us outlaws devise and revise. How do we move the Titanic an inch away from the iceberg that is looming in our sweet comrades’ dark while they don’t or refuse to know? A militant pacifist, I only get keen words in a noisy world. If you begin to see, begin to do small disobedient acts. Stealthy subversions. Our planet should be tended not plundered. I sharpen the guillotine words on our behalves.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools .. pro-peace rally

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

.. pro-peace rally .. pied beauty

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part 3

    On the 1081st day in a row that I’ve been out with my Teach Peace sign – going to the post office, the cocoa shop, walking down Castro, the one main street in Mountain View CA USofA Inc – on the 1081st day, I went to a huge pro-peace march ending in Jefferson Square Park, Turk & Gough, in Frisco. It was an halcyon day – a day so sweet that the kingfisher can make her nest upon the swelling bosom of the sea. Blue, zephyric.  I was wearing my Militant Pacifist t-shirt, the very first one in the whole world. Many comments on its coolness. (I do get irked that pacifism need have anything to so with being nice, per se. I don’t want death nor mutilation. Niceness is style points for people who prefer hall mark cards. Militant Pacifist: I’m fierce about not killing people.)

    I’ve told you the totemic story for me about the astronaut who was asked what it was like looking back at earth from space. He said, “When I looked back at our planet earth from space what struck me is that there aren’t any lines on it.” Of course! we have internalized the non-existent lines. How striking indeed to realize, to grok that there aren’t any lines on it. I became global in that single sentence.

    What struck me about this September.24 pro-peace march was the pied beauty of all the people. You’ll recall Gerard Manley’s poem, Pied Beauty, “Glory be to God for dappled things … .” Each person and the whole crowd was pied, splotched, lovelily lumpy. Few people dress up for a pro-peace march. Now, they probably attire themselves very superstitiously and carefully, but it ain’t tuxedo time. People are adamantly comfortable. They are so loveably, splotchily human and humane that you find yourself besotted with the human race again. After news & news of KarlDickGeorgeDonaldCondi, you think the human race must be exterminated to prevent infestation of the galaxy, so foul are these folk in their damnable greed. But at the March, you see all the people of good will, aghast at what our beloved country has doriangrayily become.

    The mix of ages and types and spikiness of hair and baldness of head and bared midriffs and Hawaiian of shirt if not billboard of t-shirt is touching.

    The sign that percussed my zeitgeist was College not Combat. The Education Industrial Complex is my dream: the real defense of  the future is more fabulous education and continuing education for your citizens. This is an urgent priority. The $820,000 per MINUTE that we spend on the Military industrial Complex, the additional $200,000 per MINUTE we spend on the continued rubble and trouble in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq could be invested in Quantum Schools (see below) which would catapult America back into the future. We are a dinosaur surparanoidally bellowing forth insanely unnecessary weapons systems Add another $14,000 per minute on the fantasy Missile Nonsense System aka Star Wars. We are a lumbering and lumbered dinosaur – we just don’t know it yet. We were sinking fast into 3rd World Countrydom way before Katrina.

     The only tonic which could shapeshift us into lemur-litheness for the collaborative and nifty future is a massive transfusion of social plasma or money into the education system. This is an investment which would explode our contributions for the future.

    Every person has the human right to not just education, but a fabulous education.

    More upon which anon. I think I am going to crash from a dappled exhaustion – so inspired tho by all of you who got yourselves there to Jefferson Square Park on September 24 2005.  

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools
(1) draft 1
 
“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” Bucky Fuller
 
   We cannot fix where we are. We cannot fix the gordian snarl we’re in. We must take the small but distinct quantum step to the Sane Fruitful Vision where we act in the gloryful, gleeful, liberating light of the fact of The Burning Child.
    Once you see that, as every bush burns, every child burns in the forests of delight, you will be honor-bound, duty-bound, future-bound to make complete superb K-College education an emergency Manhattan-Project national priority beginning today.
    The once-stolen treasure of children who blossom, not stunted, whose education is subsidized at $14,000 per minute + $200,000 per minute + $820,000 per minute – the treasure once stolen for death-dealing instead of life-dealing now fuels armies of carpenters and artists who build schools, schools that look like the vatican, the cathedral-care taken, the whimsical gargoyles, the sistine chapels cafeterias. Your learning, burning child, is sacred to we.
 
What can’t you tell about a society by what its schools look like? We got enough to lay off taxing you so you can have a 2nd mansion and a 3rd Hummer — and the school buildings completely suck? Is this what we want to say about ourselves? Shame.
 
   We should have a Manhattan Project of building and equipping the next quantum level of schools. Quantum schools. In 10 years all national schools should be splendid. We should be exporting school technology, not weapons technology. Our national security utterly depends on this urgently expanded education technology – most of which is wetware obviously. We will need to integrate lucid waking with lucid dreaming to make use of the full range of humane experience and resource.  
   We do not need one single new weapons system. The weapons we have now are sufficiently plentiful and sufficiently hideous that we can declare a moratorium until 2029 on any consideration of new weapons. It’s not like even in the dungeons of their sick and sickening fear-ridden imaginations the Death-Dealers can conjure up some opposing power fiendishly devising weapons that will unman us. We are the Boogie Man. Claro que si, so shuddup Weapons Mongers.
    So the new Manhattan Project, the Fierce Education Project, “It’s the Education, stupid!” starts fomenting education by in 3 years establishing South Korean-grade broadband – wi-fi – not wire the whole country, but unwire the whole country, every hamlet, every alley, every valley immediately.
   Hello, Mars to Earth, it is a scandal, the USofA Inc is a 3rd world communications-capacity country. We’re losing the race that matters. We’re running the last century’s race. Just like we needed the electrification of America, we need the wi-fi-ification of America. Don’t blather on about how the government can’t do things well. Piffle. It can do lots of things well. It built the InterState Highway System. It built the fxxxxxg atomic bomb in two blinks. Now we want to explode brains-&-hearts wide open and bring aesthetic and invention power to an intense and playful, sustainable crescendo of lambent planetary lights — northern, eastern, western, southern lights.
    The nation must invest in a giga-light 14” titanium metal-hinged laptop for each citizen to go with the continental wi-fi. This would cost about 150 billion dollars max, roughly ¼ of the 2006 projected military budget. If  America is to survive, least of all thrive, this is the first investment to make because the Future Fierce School is mainly mobile, the world is your school, and you plug in anywhere. (The nano-cyber-enhancer is implanted and telepathic, but that’s a few warp-miles down the star road.)
   
    The glorious schools we will build or restore have a 90% social function so people don’t lose total flesh touch. Presently we in the USofA Inc are the atavistic fight-or-flight old-Reptile-brain-stem equivalent in the rampanting symphonikizing noosphere, the world brain-soul.
    Every hour we spend in the fear-based theo-milito-think, we are losing ground.
 
Notes:
(1) We will need to invest in a buy-out of the military-industrial complex and a retraining of those personnel for a constructive rather than a destructive mind-set. This will be fabulously expensive, but it’s as cheap now as it will ever be.
 
We will be responsible for the promises made to the present military personnel and veterans. They are, however, as out-of-date as buggywhip manufacturers and the sooner we quantum-step past our old-rut-thinking the sooner we begin to blossom in the new world now being pioneered by others.
 
(2) $14,000 per minute (cost of the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars) + $200,000 per minute (cost of Iraq quagsand) + $820,000 per minute (partial annual military budget, not including most veteran costs); 
 
(3) We have to keep our eye on the 3000/435,000 (9-11 vs annual tobacco-related deaths) prize – so-called terrorism, as revolting as it is, is a blip in the dangers the country actually faces. The obscene and absurd skewing of resources to this false Bogeyman is crippling our future, retarding our children.
 
This is draft 1 of The Burning Child – Quantum Schools.
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know: pogblog@yahoo.com
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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
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New Info 09.24.05 — Save Saturday September 24 for Peace Protest + Directions

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updated 09.24.05  ..

Wear warm clothes or take layers — when I reached Millbrae midday on Friday, I all but froze. See you there!

Please NOTE changes in Bart Schedules & other details as of 09.16.05.

pogblog permanent link for this info: http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/27/1173188.html

Save <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Saturday September 24 2005 for Peace March.

If you wonder what difference your bothering to get yourself there might make, if your friends are wavering — clearly the huge pro-peace Marches in the Vietnam era hastened the end of that grisly War — not soon enough, but much sooner than if the Marches hadn't been big.

(NEW NOTE 09.21.05 — BART trains may be very crowded — hardly even standing room if you leave it til too late — so consider this in your plans! But remember they will be crowded with fellow peace people so have an adventure no matter what.)

Saturday September 24 2005 will be I hope the biggest peace mobilization ever on the planet. (Local Mtn. View/Los Altos/Palo Alto CA directions & times below. Train/Bart; or Carpool.; or Special Busses;)

I myself always go to where the March itself ends. This March will end about 7 walkable blocks from San Francisco City Hall at Jefferson Square Park at Gough & Turk. (Details below.) I get there between noon & 1p. (If you want to make the March itself at 11a from Dolores Park, see below or SF ANSWER's site or the Busses from Palo Alto, info below.)

 “Please plan on going to the Protest nearest you on Saturday September 24. The more bodies on the street, the better. Remember if it's rainy, go anyway. Tell your friends. This is the moment to show up.”

This is the moment to show up.

 

Mark off the day on your calendar.

 

As chancelucky reminded me, Gandhi said

“First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win.”

 

If you were to come from Mountain View CA to go to San Francisco City Hall on CalTrain & Bart:

(I always take my 16″ x 18″  teach peace sign on a 4'7″ stick on the public transportation with no problem. I do carry it sign-down on the trains themselves.)
Caltrain = 800.660.4287 x2 itinerary planning;
MV à Millbrae;
 = $7.00 daypass;
Caltrain MV àMillbrae 8:19a/arrive9:08; 9:19a/arrive Millbrae 10:08a/49m;
10:19a/11:08a/49m; 11:19a/12:08p/49m;
[Wake up at San Mateo, Burlingame, then Millbrae.] 
 
Caltrain return Millbrae àMV
3:24p/4:14p/50m; 4:24p/5:14p/50m; etc.
To catch the 3:24p, leave Civic Center
2:35p/arrive Millbrae 3:12p; etc.
If spending evening in SF,
9:24p/10:14p/50m;  also trains from Millbrae at 10:24p & 12:24a – NO 11:24 train; Your day pass is good for the 12:24a train.
……………………..
BART = 650.992.2278 x3, x3 itinerary planning;
from Millbrae to Civic Center stop = $3.55/$7.10 round trip; Have $5, two $1, & a dime so you don’t need change. OR just do $5 + three $1 and print an $8 ticket for speed.
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 
Take any Bart train
from Millbrae to Civic Center /29m.
starting : 8:51am-ish, a train leaves every 20 minutes;
8:51/9:11/9:31/9:51/10:11/10:31/10:51. These trains AND the ticket-buying machines will be crowded – leave early.
The stop just before Civic Center is
16th & Mission (If you want to make the March itself, get off here at 16th &Mission and walk straight up 16th 3 blocks (16th, Valencia, Guerrero, Dolores) to Dolores, go left 2 blocks to Dolores Park.
 
If you want to go to where the March ENDS and the Rally meets : Take the UN Plaza exit out of  Civic Center Bart Station and walk a few blocks toward Larkin St; Go RIGHT (North) on Larkin St. a few blocks. Turn LEFT on Turk for 4 blocks to Jefferson Square Park at the corner of Gough & Turk.
……………..
Bart Return from Civic Center to Millbrae:
Take SFO/Millbrae Bart train;
2:26p/arrive Millbrae 3:01p; 2:46p/3:21; Etc.
IF spending evening in SF,
next to last chance = Bart at 9:26p/arrive Milbrae 10:01pm/ lv Millbrae Caltrain10:24pm;
last Bart train at 11:26p/arrive Millbrae at 12:01am no later to catch last CalTrain at 12:25am;
…………..
Saturday September 24 Peace Rally
to San Francisco City Hall (Plaza) & then to Jefferson Square (map).…
………..
 
Special Busses from Peace & Justice Center in Palo Alto.
Meet there (directions below) at 10A. PLEASE Make a Reservation with the Center by phone or email so there will be enough busses.  Email peace-bus@peaceandjustice.org    650-326-8837. Suggested Donation $20 but no one will be turned away — you pay that day, but call ahead!! Signs can be brought with you. The busses will go to the beginning of the March at Dolores Park & then to the end point to take you home.
 
Carpool meeting place from Peace & Justice Center in Palo Alto. (I'm sure there is some donation, but I don't know what it is yet.)
 
“On Sat Sept 24, PPJC will be used as a carpool meeting spot — we're suggesting people gather here at 10 a.m.  We're at 457 Kingsley Ave. in Palo Alto (Kingsley & Cowper); our phone number is 650-326-8837 if  people want more info.”  Yahoo Maps says (from MV) take Central/Alma; rt Kellogg; lft Bryant; rt Kingsley. 
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for Mtn. View CA USA every Friday 6p-7p peace protests at the corner of Castro & El Camino, check
Mountain View Voices for Peace
 
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pogblog@yahoo.com  
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Compulsory Cannibalism

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Compulsory Cannibalism

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   “Compulsory cannibalism: if you had to eat everyone you killed, war would end damn fast,” said Abbie Hoffman.

 

Another sign at the 03.15.03 SF Rally: Mirth on Earth. Power to the Peaceful is a perennial favorite of mine. This sublime guy with an huge pink wig had a beautifully lettered sign saying, If you don’t choose peace over war, aliens will land in my wig. A sign like that makes humanssooftenunkind worth saving after all. Jonathan Schell talks about the ‘unredeemably stupid fatality’ that leads to war. On 11.29.02, I was talking to a guy about how ‘Mr. Bush & Mr. Hussein won’t get any dust on their shoes.’ He said that if like George Washington they were required to be out there themselves, then he would listen to them. I said, “Why aren’t we called pro-peace?”

 

I wrote then a little piece called Dead is Dead. On 9.13.02. Before I had made my teach peace sign on 10.09.02.

    Reading in the New Yorker about the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />World Trade Center, our rage & disbelief: The ‘How could this act of brutal madness,’ the ‘Who could do, could conceive such a thing? seem obvious and emotionally rational. ‘The enormity of the act.’ The dazed, bereft people holding cheerful snapshots of the lost. Yes it was an irredeemably evil act. Yet we never as Americans imagine or connect that the vaporized souls in Hiroshima or Nagasaki or the dozens of wooden Japanese cities we firebombed were also someone’s sweetheart or son or sister. We have already proved ourselves terrorists, or deliberate killers of civilians, with weapons of mass destruction. Ye gods we ought to be humble. Instead we escalate in arrogance and sanctimonious patriotism.

     Dead is dead. Whatever fancy justification we prettify it up with, we vaporized over 200,000 civilians, and it doesn’t disturb our sleep. We had our reasons.

     They have their reasons.

     Until there are no reasons we can bear, we will not be actually human yet.    

 

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    Our local Peace Group, Mountain View Voices for Peace, is already planning a solemn March for after Death #2000. (If you haven’t had a chance to read Grave of the Known Soldier #1999, I have it here below for you. It’ll break your heart. I keep thinking we could still save this kid #1999 – he wouldn’t have to die.

     MVVP has members meet at the intersection of El Camino & Castro every Friday from 6p-7p, the height of the commute, with pro-peace signs and waving. (This is a major local intersection.) You could start such a group in your town if you haven’t yet. You can get more info and ask questions here. Or you can be an individual loon like me and go out a little every day with something like a teach peace sign as you go about your business to the post office or the library. See details on that here. (It’s only the first two excruciating forays you have to get past and then you feel foolish without your sign! I’ve been out 1076 days in a row now. It isn’t about me, or you – it’s about that one little girl or boy who sees a person willing to appear absurd to some for the sake of peace and harmlessness and that kid will grow up to be the next Martin or Mohandas. If I don’t have my sign, that kid may not see it. The butterfly’s wings will not start a storm of peace.)

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To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid? </strong>

 

“How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”²

 

 

The Grave of the Known Soldier..Save Juan Smith #1999

 

What do we know about Sgt. Juan Smith who is doomed to die on Tuesday November 22 2005? 

 

Why does it bother me particularly that he is a huge fan of the fey  movie Spinal Tap, a celebration if there ever was one of harmlessness? Perhaps because it is unexpected that a 26 year-old has such quirky taste. I like that in him.

 

Well, he'll be 26 when he is shot in the head. The left side of his head. His brains will splatter onto soldier Raymond Callahan, his second best friend, a 22-year-old from Alabama whose mother, Joyce Callahan, voted for George Bush in  2000, but will never vote Republican again. Mrs. Smith, Juan's mother, dwells in a twilight of sadness.

 

Juan Smith's birthday is on November 8, so he is 25 now as we watch in August, waiting for him to die. Just turned 26 when he dies. He is a Scorpio with Pisces rising. Brave, dreamy, very very smart about the conscious world of day and of tanks, RPGs and rubble, and of the unconscious world, which runs the whole shebang in Iraqi, but which is never spoken of. 

 

Juan Smith does not have to die. He does not have to be #1999. We could stop it at once. Someone will be the last man's name on a stark white cross. The last man on The List. Maybe it could stop at # 1888? Mr. Bush could see that piling up more dead in flag-draped coffins we are not allowed to view will not make the war end better. It is going to end badly. We know that. Nothing will keep the insurgents from blowing up American soldiers for the next 300 years. Cheap explosives. Countless idealistic young men, sold, like ours, a bill of goods.

 

There will be some morning when The Lizard Leaders lie no more. Because nobody's buying their snake oil — well, lizard oil, I guess.

 

Damnit, Juan, I don't know what to do to save you. I do not know what to do. We talk now a little. I'm psychic. I've seen his death. He's seen me seeing it. He's imploring me to turn back time before it is reached so he can go home, marry the very pretty — not beautiful, but very pretty, Felicia, buy the blue pick-up truck his cousin could sell him in the first week of December if he could only live that long. Their first child would be named Joseph.

 

Is it Baquba? Taji? Al Asad? Abd Allah? I cannot read the address of the bullet yet. He has written the name of Felicia inside his helmet with a Sharpie. Felicia es mi ángel. He drew a heart above and one below.

 

Felicia keeps his tooled cowboy boots by her bed, waiting for his return. Which does not happen because we did not pour into the streets soon enough. We lamented, but did not act. As if our being embarrassed or discomfited was more unbearable than the death of #1999.

08.16.05 98 days/ 141,120 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

09.18.05 64 days/ 92,160 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

 

 ∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

Today, 08.15.05,  we're at 1852 American soldiers dead. To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid?¹ Today September 18, we’re at 1900 American soldiers dead.

 

Is there ANY way we can save Juan Smith #1999 using the energy and the smarts of people like you and Cindy and me and any darnbody at all?

 

“How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”²

 

I actually asked myself when I woke up this very morning, “Would I sleep with Karl Rove if it would stop the war today?” I have to tell you it was a sobering question which I could not answer at once. You cannot possibly imagine how much I despise slitherer Karl Rove and how much stealthy evil he has done malice aforethought. But now after a few hours of thought, clearly yes, to stop the senseless death of another kid, I'd even do that.)

 

As I write this mid-August, 1852 American soldiers (sons daughters fathers mothers individual unrepeatable lives) have died in the quagQuicksands of Iraq. [Now on September 18, we have 1900 dead. Only 99 dead to wake up.

 

Can we possibly pull our ingenuities and resources together and save Juan Smith destined to be #1999?

 

That would give us 146 dead to wake up, write our Congress people, write Letters to the Editors. Save Juan Smith #1999. Or does the count drone on and we sit baffled, lamenting?

 

Save Juan Smith #1999.

 

pogblog

 

ps. Please send this Save #1999 link to your friends.

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/15/1140249.html

 

All the contact info for House & Senate is at afterdowningstreet. Get on their emailing list for Actions. It is beautifully and heartfeltedly organized. http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/

 

² adapted from John Kerry’s 1971 speech before Congress; 

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at.. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

6 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 110  09.19.05 mon

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Shame Game .. Rove's Greeding Heart

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The Shame Game

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Dear Fellow Bleeding Hearts,

    First, I’d say let’s all be grateful we’ve got hearts to bleed. The Present Menaces have Greeding Hearts when they have hearts at all. How we could have allowed 37 million people in our nation to fall beneath the Abject Poverty Line of $14,680 for a family of three? You know and I know that that is severe poverty in this country with rents as high as they are.

    I recommend that you read Cogism below for a flaying examination of  corporate blood-thirst. The Next Revolution, preferably suave (soo-ah-vay), will be against the ghastly and inhuman Dominance of  Corporations in our fragile lives. We have become corporation fodder and the ghost of Kafka rises to call us to free ourselves from the suits back to human pursuits.

     Katrina washed our own people up on our shores.

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

 

 The idea that we call ourselves the richest nation on Earth when we have this grotesquely vast underclass brings shame upon us. No lamp. No golden door. Only platinum parachutes for bloated CEOs who screwed up — captains who leave the sinking ships first.. It's time for disgust. It is time to rise and become more wise and more fair.

    I have never wanted a bloody revolution. But we must be militant pacifists I think: definite, determined, and bloody-minded. Else there will be blood blood. I think it is distinctly time to play the Shame Game.      

………..

 

Cogism ..

 

     I've been trying to grok the horror of these Present Menaces' creed of giga-greed. One always needs the fortune-cookie phrase or word. I got it: cogism. A ‘cog’ is one of a series of identical interchangeable teeth, as on the rim of a wheel or gear.
    Some more quick vocabulary is in order. These words have been floating around in the political lexicon but they don't quite grasp the present extreme American situation. What's wrong? Why is it so horrible and mean? Fascism is an unholy (tho usually holier than thou) alliance among business, military, and government. A theocracy is a government ruled by or subject to religious authority – not unlike our present mob who are swept by the winds of piety. Oligarchy — the rule of a few. Plutocracy — government of the wealthy. Yes, these words have been floating around in the political lexicon but they don't quite grasp the present extreme American situation. So what's wrong? Why is it so horrible and mean?
    I was gonna call the Present Phenomenon FatHogism and remark sardonically that They don't need to get fatter, They got plenty of bacon already, the FatHoggers. Ha ha. 
    My model of, like, a Buenopia, a society that works pretty well is <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Europe where they invented al fresco dining and even the bus drivers and janitors get four weeks of paid vacation a year to allow for life other than as a minion or a cog. Another basic self-evident truth ought to be that each person's life is as valuable to them as any other person's is to them. This seems even tautological, but our society does not act in that sweet and evident light.
    What's happened in a peapod is that to the giga-greed corporations, those grim reapers of the harvest of our labor, to Them, we are cogs. They screw us under the fog of socially-correct, slippery platitudes; tranquilize us with cars; sports; war; malls. But we are really interchangeable; we are cogs in the profit machine. They pretend that we matter, like the Leaders pretend that the soldiers they send to slaughter matter.
   They think nothing of buying up a company, putting its assets into new company-A & its liabilities into company-B which they then put into bankruptcy. Only to find out in the small print that bankrupted Company B is the company that now has all the disappeared pensions of the retired people and the promised long-term health plans of the workers, 2/3 of whom are laid off and replaced by temp workers who are offered no benefits whatever and eat it because they're desperate for a job of any kind — or unkind. In our Cogacracy, the platinum parachutists gobble up the assets and spit out the bones of the workers.
   The profit motive has taken such an aggressive and gruesome and all but medieval turn that it chills the blood. Even in medieval times the hoggishly rich were wrung out of a few pence by Fear of Damnation — tithing was considered de rigueur if you wanted to squeeze through ye olde eye of the needle instead of through ye latest tax loophole.
   At what point does profit go past a reasonable profit so you can live comfortably and become an filthy obscene profit? At what point does an filthy obscene profit become the moral equivalent of usury? This Midas/Miser Syndrome, this horrible acquisitiveness, CEOs gorging soullessly on their gold, has become, heaven does forbid, admired widely in America. Dear President Clinton said “Nowhere in the Bible does it allow us to exalt the rich over the poor.” Clearly not. Well, I prefer to also go to the undeniable bible (‘bible’ with a small ‘b’), the undeniable bible of the sky and the trees and the birds and the beasts. Naked we all stand in that holy light, without facades. The ditchdigger has no less strength and glory under the just stars than does a titan of industry. The titan of industry has hogged up on the backbreaking work of the ditchdigger. Dig your own damn ditches and see how you would wish to be treated, Cogist.
   I don’t mind grotesque differences in gross accumulation of cold midas gold. It just seems just that if you’re really so damn smart Mr. FatHog, you could figure out as an obvious ethical fiat how to provide healthcare for your workers and a wage that could lead to a 10th of your comfort.
   Every single elected official should be required to spend one seven-day week of each month while they are privileged to serve actually living on the minimum wage. And that same week be required to take public transportation exclusively. And no hoarding of tasty snacks to ease the week on minimum wage. No secret stash of expensive well-brewed beer. Chivas Regal would blow the budget. Compliance would be monitored in Minimum Wage Week. My friends, my dear perceptive luminous friends, how FAST – HOW FAST do you think the minimum wage would rise if the FatHogs had to live on it? How soon a gracious rise in the frequency of buses?
   We need to lash our hearts to every policy decision. We may not cogize people. (As E.B. White once said, “I’d as soon simonize my grandmother.”) We may not cogize people. The quality of mercy cannot be abridged.
   People are as afraid to speak out against obscene FatHog amounts of money in this country as they are to speak out against war. Well, I dare & you must dare too. Will you be able to face the lidless eyes of God who judges only that you were kind or unkind? God cannot blink and sees if you dwell in greed or in generosity. Cogism is not kind. It does not seek to uplift thy brother. That bum on the street corner? That is Jesus asking for a dime. It is always a test. It is Jesus to whom you are denying healthcare. It is Jesus to whom you are paying a meager minimum wage. It is Jesus to whom you are paying minimum wage so some FatHogger can have eight Hummers. Is there no place on the Richter Scale of outrage where the terror of the shaking wakes you up? Does it make you more secure to have more than 10 years worth of my annual wage in your bank accruing what? Interest? Spiritual mold?
   My capitalist friend Bill from Canada is a super-entrepreneur up there, but he pulled his business-card-sized National Health Card out of his wallet and said, “If I am sick anywhere in Canada, I can get help. You people are crazy in America. Single payer is so obvious.” It isn’t the people who are crazy in America, it is the FatHogging Cogists. It is the Cogists who imagine that there is anything right about making obscene profits on other people’s pain. There is a difference between profit and profit at any cost.
   It is not right to cut all the art and music out of schools so the mongers of fear and the mongers of giga-greed can buy more and more and more war machines. Our souls – your soul and mine – are stained by complicity in these giga-greed creeds. Our silence stains us.
   Let them roll in cake, our FatHog Cogist masters, let them stuff cake down their own throats like the foie-gras geese until their livers become swollen and fat and greasy. Let them roll in cake. But should we stuff their coffins with cake? As they, a new phantom, stand beside  their cake-stuffed coffin and look starkly back over their life, will they be glad for the bomb they bought to blow up a kid in Iraq? Will they hold content and deep in their heart the lives their free enterprise impoverished so their coffin could be stuffed with cake? There is no free enterprise. There is no free love. You must pay the peace of your heart if you do not do these things as right as you can. Be as harmless as  you can.
   It is Gandhi whose pension you stole, Mr. Free Market. The free market is costly. The free market is costly in human peace of mind. It is Martin Luther King to whom you denied healthcare, Mr. FatHog Cogist. Your giga-greed has consequences. It is not ethically neutral. God has lidless eyes. God does not blink. God does not look aside.
   There are too many Scrooges in America now. Too many accumulating and accumulating Scrooges. And too few Tiny Tims finally noticed.
   The thunder will astonish you. You will wake and your heart will break, your heart will break. You might have done right and you did not. If by your business or by your investments, you find yourself forgetting the faces and the tears of the people whose lives and whose labor are providing you your semi-annual dividends, you are become a Cogist. And if I were you, I would tremble at the judgment, at how long in hell it takes to pay off the debt you accrued in unkindness. A terrible toll will be exacted. The 10th circle of hell is not hot; it is relentless ice. To remind you. To remind you dreadfully of your cold cold cogist heart.

.

. 
~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~

ToadSpawn, Be Gone! The Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul Chapter 8

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know: pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

4 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 108  09.17.05 sat 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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I Blame Us For Duffism

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I Blame Us for Duffism

 

    I blame us for Duffism. Damn us for Duffism. Dithering & Duffism. The good news is that our strength is our weakness. By nature, we aren’t easily organized – we don’t have a totalitarian cast. We tend to live and let live. It’s why we’re cool with homosexual marriage. It’s why we’re pro-choice. Laissez faire. How you shuffle your cars is pretty much your business. And if you mention that our hearts bleed, we’re glad to have hearts to bleed.

   We tend to kindness. We err on the side of generosity. We jump to the best conclusion about you.  There are very few totalitarian artists, so most of the high arts and low arts are ours. The big, burly, creative, bustling cities are ours. the elegant, exotic cities are ours. We’re good, we’re beautiful, we’re interesting.

    The bad news is that we are afflicted by Duffism — remaining perched upon our duffs or rumps.  If it hasn’t burned your oatmeal chocolate chip cookies to recall that Al Gore was an almost perfect president for the time, you’re blinder, deafer, dumber. He was extremely savvy about the environment and the technological frontiers. He was actually compassionate. But we allowed the damned (& they are) Nader people, our brethren & sistren, to whine that he wasn’t the apotheosis. We did not take them by the scruffs of their scrawny necks and say do not let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Vote for Nader in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />California and Idaho, in the FC states (the Foregone Conclusion States) – do not dare to cast one vote for Nader the Nasty in Ohio or Florida. That is past even unconscionable self-indulgence to flaming insane. 90,000 stupid people voted for Nader in Florida and sealed our fate.

     Sometimes you just have to color inside the lines, children. Do you really like “the message” you sent? Who got hurt? Not GeorgeJr & Co. No, the little people took it hideously in the shorts – every one of us for generations will take it in the shorts, you stupid people. No, no, no, they are not “all the same” – that’s a pigpecker of an ill-informed petulant whine out the wazoo, and you 90,000-handedly ruined my old age, turned my golden years to lead. You let the perfect be the enemy of the good. You stood on Idiot Principle. The Little Knowledge Is a Dangerous Thing People. Idealism Run Amok. I hate you if not every hour, every day for making the boulder so much heavier.

    The agony is that we have the votes everywhere – cleanly, clearly, not  close. If 601 of you 90,000 had Got the Brain before the Election, we all could be constructing a brilliant world as we speak.

    You were smart enough and bestirred enough to get registered. That is well done. Now, if you could only consider the consequences of your actions beyond the knee-jerk herd of the-snippy-&-righteous surface. Of course they all suck compared to Enlightened You, but they do not all suck the same. You were looking through the wrong end of the telescope. You are the Tut-Tut Duffists, the Scolds.

     Then there are our Retard Duffists. The Retards who can’t velcro their shoes. Who can’t out of the two years between elections carve out the 5 minutes it takes to get thee to a library or a post office and fill out a registration form you can mail for free. Voting is not confusing. Vote for Gore or Kerry, not Bush. Period. Leave the booth. You do not need to vote for any other person or initiative. You don’t have to vote for County Water Assessor or for Prop 666. Stay essential.

    I would like registration to be even easier. It is a nuisance. Same day registration is good. There ought to be voting on the weekend. Get your damned absentee ballot. Yes, the electoral college is completely anti-democratic. Voting machines must have a paper trail.

    But look at the consequences of your ‘not getting around to it’; not ‘bothering’; of flailing into the ‘they’re all the same tantrum.’ Do they look all the same now? Ye gods, you cretins, get off your damned duffs and register and vote.

   And the rest of us long-suffering holier than thou enlightened people who did do our citizen duty – did register, did find out where our darn precinct is this year (Think absentee absentee absentee), did vote? So now we’re clucking – “Oh, oh, it’s the Tut-Tut Scolds, those awful Nader people; it’s our Retards who make excuses all the way to the Mall – it’s their fault. I did my part. Look at me, how fine I am. Change the architecture so I can fit my head through the door.”

    No, you self-satisfied Preener Duffist, the fate of the fxxcking precious Earth is at stake and you don’t get off so easy. It’s ordinary for you to vote intelligently. You pass Democracy 101. Well done. Now you have to do something – one thing – extra-ordinary. You don’t have to become a major-league political junkie pouring your heart into saving the fruited Earth. Just do one extra-ordinary thing. Take 5 registration forms from the post office or library and put them in your car. Check that the coffee-jerks at your Starbucks are registered. adopt one voter. Make it your business to personally adopt one voter each two years. If we each did that simple thing, we would double the Democratic vote.  The key is getting those 5 forms from the post office into your car.

    Of course I wish with blood dripping like tears from my eyes that you would get yourself to a Peace March, would stand up, speak out at the water cooler, with your knees trembling and your voice quavering – hell with your neuroses, friend, it’s Urgent Times for the Beloved Planet. It is always better to do one small thing than one big nothing. Don’t worry at all about being a coward. I’m the hugest coward ever. I just do one excruciating grain of sand at a time (and over time, it adds up to a pleasantly surprising anthill.)

    I have not sat freezing naked in a Tibet cave living on one dried berry a month praying for your wretched and lazy soul – I am not much holier than thou. But I do know that cynicism sucks – it’s like poisoning yourself and hoping the other person dies. I do know that inertia kills. Kennedy beat Nixon by one vote a precinct. Your vote may matter. Do not dare take a chance.

      Dear Turtle Island which is what North America was called before the Florid Hairless Biped genocided her (one man’s genocide is another man’s heroic conquest  . . .) – Turtle Island may yet become a powerful but authentically humble global-citizen-servant bringing our constructive ingenuity to bear on the fascinating future. We perfected the tools of destruction: It’s bombs, napalm, landmines into broadband and healthcare time.

    Do one small extra-ordinary thing. Let’s get off our arses, Duffists, and arise.

 

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See also:

Squawk & Re-Squawk.

The Eloquent Lamentors;

Do One Small Thing;

Dimensions of a PeaceSign;

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3 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 107  09.16.05 fri 

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