If you hadn't seen her naked all these months, in those yellow-fin, fat-lady pants suits, if you hadn't listened to her plastic weep, and watched her tongue hanging out and white-lathered with ambition, and working up her own manogyny, you'd assume it was just coincidence. And now with this latest drama, you'd assume that "Hill's" mention of Robert F. Kennedy's assassination, in the context of how a campaign can change in June, was just another example of political lips shaped like a torn pocket. Not a Hush-Hush Sweet Charlotte mind.
And perhaps it was just coincidence. Or perhaps it's just that Ms. Billary is so entwined in the zeitgeist of American political history that she cannot help herself, she cannot not bring to mind those subterranean desires that reveal us all as Manchurian candidates, hair-triggered to respond to the slightest mention of violence. As though this whole society is one vast organic suicide bomber.
But what if it's something else? The most horrifying suggestion is that she understands on some very deep level that by throwing the association of Obama and RFK together she'll spook the electorate. "Mamma knows best, don't you go out with that man. He'll come to a bad end. Yes he will." And of course why would we want to go through that all over again. And we all know that Obama has received threats, we all know he's a target, we all know -- I've heard it myself and wrote about it just a few months ago -- how many in the black community would rather he not run at all than to endure just the thought of his coffin carried through the streets of Washington.
It's hard to imagine that Hillary doesn't get this. But then perhaps she has this double, this 'other' Hillary who peeks out from out of that gabardine-minded heart and keeps the attention coming. That's the thing you have to fear. Maybe we should just let her become president because otherwise, she'll keep having these temper tantrums, and these psychotic episodic outpourings that will get more and more perverse and loud. And dangerous.
May 23, 2008
The Bicycle Thief Revisisted
This is the scene when the father and his son, having lost their one good lead to the bicycle thief — and after the father has suffered the excrutiating sensation of having punished his child one moment and thought he was dead the next — and now to make up for things they go to an expensive restaurant. The father has almost no money left. He is at wit's end. There is a boy from a wealthy family at the next table. Father and son are throw fate to the wind. The next day their lives will unravel just a littl more, leading up to the climax. To the moment when the father realizes his son's love is all he has, and will ever need.
May 18, 2008
May 10, 2008
The Nanny
He picks up Bobby from soccer practice. The first time I saw him he came right up to me, from across the field. Twenty-five, 6'4" maybe, stringy. English short-hair was part of the initial impression. I thought he had an accent but later I couldn't hear it. "Hi, I'm Olivier," he said. "I'm Bobby's nanny." Congratulations, I thought. Bobby is 14. I wouldn't have thought he needed a nanny.
And it was odd that Olivier would introduce himself that way. If I'd been in his place I would have tried to pass myself off as a friend of the family or at the least as an unidentified walking object that accompanied Bobby. I just wouldn't have used that word, "nanny". But Olivier seemed to think nothing of it. "I'm Bobby's nanny." As though "I'm Bobby's uncle". There was that sort of intimacy. A revelation. Almost in the vein of, "I'm Bobby's therapist."
Bobby, by the way, is always "Bobby". Never Bob. Or Robert. He's seems like a good enough kid. He's friendly although he can be derisive. You can see that for a long time he was a Bobby, not clearly boy or girl, but now he's out of that, he's a Bob. He has a deep voice for 15, he's tall for his age, he's in P, clearly. At tournaments, between games, he reads far more than any of the other players. As you would expect, he goes to one of the exclusive schools. He has that nurtured, self confidence you find in those children.
Meanwhile, Olivier waits for the practice to end. He pushes the soccer balls into a corner of the goal. He talks briefly on his cell phone. If a parent of one of the other players arrives he talks to them. You suspect he's lonely. Sometimes, he wears dark, wrap-around sunglasses. As though to say, "I'm Bobby's nanny and I'm armed and sort of dangerous in a way...."
Yes, so Olivier is part bodyguard. Bobby could be kidnapped after all. It's happened in this city. There was that boy that was 7 or 8, kidnapped from a bus stop, and then eight years later he got free. It could happen, although with Bobby, you get the sense he could see it coming. He would struggle. He's tuned in to what might happen to him. He's been warned that his priviledge makes him a target.
And so Olivier has a grand purpose. Not just the mundane, especially when Bobby's mother offers his services, say to pick up other kids to go to practice. She will write in an email, "Okay, have him stand on the northeast corner of Presidio and Sacramento and look for Olivier in my gold Lexus."
And it was odd that Olivier would introduce himself that way. If I'd been in his place I would have tried to pass myself off as a friend of the family or at the least as an unidentified walking object that accompanied Bobby. I just wouldn't have used that word, "nanny". But Olivier seemed to think nothing of it. "I'm Bobby's nanny." As though "I'm Bobby's uncle". There was that sort of intimacy. A revelation. Almost in the vein of, "I'm Bobby's therapist."
Bobby, by the way, is always "Bobby". Never Bob. Or Robert. He's seems like a good enough kid. He's friendly although he can be derisive. You can see that for a long time he was a Bobby, not clearly boy or girl, but now he's out of that, he's a Bob. He has a deep voice for 15, he's tall for his age, he's in P, clearly. At tournaments, between games, he reads far more than any of the other players. As you would expect, he goes to one of the exclusive schools. He has that nurtured, self confidence you find in those children.
Meanwhile, Olivier waits for the practice to end. He pushes the soccer balls into a corner of the goal. He talks briefly on his cell phone. If a parent of one of the other players arrives he talks to them. You suspect he's lonely. Sometimes, he wears dark, wrap-around sunglasses. As though to say, "I'm Bobby's nanny and I'm armed and sort of dangerous in a way...."
Yes, so Olivier is part bodyguard. Bobby could be kidnapped after all. It's happened in this city. There was that boy that was 7 or 8, kidnapped from a bus stop, and then eight years later he got free. It could happen, although with Bobby, you get the sense he could see it coming. He would struggle. He's tuned in to what might happen to him. He's been warned that his priviledge makes him a target.
And so Olivier has a grand purpose. Not just the mundane, especially when Bobby's mother offers his services, say to pick up other kids to go to practice. She will write in an email, "Okay, have him stand on the northeast corner of Presidio and Sacramento and look for Olivier in my gold Lexus."
May 2, 2008
A Clean, Well Heated Room
At the Crown Plaza down the peninsula, a local Montessori elementary school celebrates its 10th anniversary. The theme tonight is "Vienna" and during the silent auction you are encouraged to waltz. The school director has put up tall gaudy mirrors around the room to suggest elegance in the midst of 'hotelance'. What would you call it? The room holds 350 people, all Chinese tonight, all parents and their children from Burlingame and Hillsborough promenading around the dance floor, girls in white dresses; boys in white shirts and bow ties. The children are all cute in the way children are who seem more like miniature adults. Everyone is smiling. Every parent has a camera. The director is trying to speak but the sound system is poor. The dinner is buffet. People waltz but no one knows the steps. The dancers are stiff. They work from a box step; there’s no whirling, no dervishing. No mistakes. Everything is under control.
The biggest student in the room is in the 9th grade. He's a burly child with a furrowed brow. I’m sitting across from his mother who has come with her estranged husband. They are not Chinese. Her hair is down. She is not wearing a long dress but more a cocktail dress. Which is to say, I suppose, that she has a certain sexuality and she wants you to see it. Going out at night is a chance for sexual expression, no matter the occasion. Her husband is burly like his son. He wears one of those tuxedos with a collar reminiscent of a pastor. No bow tie, just a white collar, shaped like a trapazoid. He’s a landscape contractor, his Ford 150 is outside. The son has learning disabilities, but you might not guess that if you were not his teacher. He always seems serious,always looking down, trying to figure something out, get things organized. You very rarely see him laugh. Yet he likes acting. If you get him out of from under himself, he comes to life. Tonight, he looks composed in his white shirt and bow tie. He seems confident.
Some years ago, when the boy was much younger, his mother went into a rage one night and set fire to the house where they all lived. The house burned right to the ground. Nothing left. Her husband and son barely escaped. Later, the mother went away, but whether to jail or to an institution or to stay with relatives, no one knows. Or no one will say. The Chinese are above all, discreet. The mother now lives by herself. She refers to ‘my son’ whenever she talks about him. The word 'son' is in bold as it were, as though to say, 'he's mine, I don't care what I did or what you think'. She seems pleasant enough, but she watches everyone at the table closely. No doubt she wonders what people know of her life and whether they are judging her. Our eyes catch and they don’t unhook easily.
The biggest student in the room is in the 9th grade. He's a burly child with a furrowed brow. I’m sitting across from his mother who has come with her estranged husband. They are not Chinese. Her hair is down. She is not wearing a long dress but more a cocktail dress. Which is to say, I suppose, that she has a certain sexuality and she wants you to see it. Going out at night is a chance for sexual expression, no matter the occasion. Her husband is burly like his son. He wears one of those tuxedos with a collar reminiscent of a pastor. No bow tie, just a white collar, shaped like a trapazoid. He’s a landscape contractor, his Ford 150 is outside. The son has learning disabilities, but you might not guess that if you were not his teacher. He always seems serious,always looking down, trying to figure something out, get things organized. You very rarely see him laugh. Yet he likes acting. If you get him out of from under himself, he comes to life. Tonight, he looks composed in his white shirt and bow tie. He seems confident.
Some years ago, when the boy was much younger, his mother went into a rage one night and set fire to the house where they all lived. The house burned right to the ground. Nothing left. Her husband and son barely escaped. Later, the mother went away, but whether to jail or to an institution or to stay with relatives, no one knows. Or no one will say. The Chinese are above all, discreet. The mother now lives by herself. She refers to ‘my son’ whenever she talks about him. The word 'son' is in bold as it were, as though to say, 'he's mine, I don't care what I did or what you think'. She seems pleasant enough, but she watches everyone at the table closely. No doubt she wonders what people know of her life and whether they are judging her. Our eyes catch and they don’t unhook easily.
Apr 28, 2008
Black On Black Crime
No doubt we're all thinking the same thing. Why is Rev. Wright undermining, even destroying Barack Obama's candidacy? Above all, out of pride, I'm thinking, out of some gross negligence of spirit, out of a childish ill will, out of the dark habit of rage perhaps. Maybe, it's as simple as that.
but is it racist to suggest that this is a pattern among African Americans? Look at black on black crime in American ghettos. Or is this a phenomenon of the poor? And yet what other ethnic groups so intent upon denying their own? And Wright is not poor. To hear Vaughn Williams talking today on the Sean Hannity show, and you might wonder why Williams would be on such a show, but there he was talking about how Wright was torpedoing Obama's campaign and how there was something sinister in it all.
It's a mystery for pundits. And as you explore it you can make a perfectly good argument that maybe America in general has this strain of self-destruction, that transcends Rev. Wright and black on black crime. After all, what is George Bush if not proof of American on American crime, if not a proof that twice Americans would vote for someone so unlike them in many ways and yet a projection of all of America's worst personal traits. And who would so unwittingly destroy his own country....
In the end, you could say that this election is a test of America's soul. Are we able, are we willing, to see through the smoke and mirrors of our own fear and brittleness and get this man, with all his faults, to the office? Have we got it in us to give this man his dream, his potential, the parts of him that represent the best of us all? Are we willing and what will make us willing? What exactly is the courage required here?
but is it racist to suggest that this is a pattern among African Americans? Look at black on black crime in American ghettos. Or is this a phenomenon of the poor? And yet what other ethnic groups so intent upon denying their own? And Wright is not poor. To hear Vaughn Williams talking today on the Sean Hannity show, and you might wonder why Williams would be on such a show, but there he was talking about how Wright was torpedoing Obama's campaign and how there was something sinister in it all.
It's a mystery for pundits. And as you explore it you can make a perfectly good argument that maybe America in general has this strain of self-destruction, that transcends Rev. Wright and black on black crime. After all, what is George Bush if not proof of American on American crime, if not a proof that twice Americans would vote for someone so unlike them in many ways and yet a projection of all of America's worst personal traits. And who would so unwittingly destroy his own country....
In the end, you could say that this election is a test of America's soul. Are we able, are we willing, to see through the smoke and mirrors of our own fear and brittleness and get this man, with all his faults, to the office? Have we got it in us to give this man his dream, his potential, the parts of him that represent the best of us all? Are we willing and what will make us willing? What exactly is the courage required here?
Apr 14, 2008
Obama And Those "Bitter" People In the Middle
It's an interesting question. Do people in the Heartland really believe in their religions and the need to own guns and the danger of gays and immigrants? Is this really th culture, or are they lead to these beliefs out of bitterness from history, from the fear they are no longer needed economically, and so now are forgotten? What are the core values of these people who fight the wars, play guard and center on the football team and live with only the most modest expectations?
I once went to a small town in western Ohio where the Philipps 19-inch-TV factory was being relocated to Mexico. This was in the early days of NAFTA. I went with my wife and her mother for a drive. We passed through the town. There were maybe three stop lights. We had lunch at a rundown diner. I was thinking of writing a story about it at the time. I took notes but I've since lost them. No one wanted the story; it was not entertaining. All the editors had heard that story.
As I sit here now, and I usually have a good memory for these things, I don't remember a single detail of that restaurant or what we ate or what we spoke about. I don't remember a single face or expression. I can't even make something up. It's as though that memory is a black hole that sucks out the last of your imagination.
My wife insists that her mother only believed in Catholicism because there was nothing else, no other hope. No other chance for grace. When she died we went to her funeral. There was a 21 gun salute. It was so cold the old soldiers could hardly reload their guns. The wind was blowing hard. They must have used blow torches to dig up the ground. We stood in a tent. Everything and everyone was old. The death was expected. Afterwards, there was a wake. People seemed happy enough. But you got the sense that life's rhythms are so strict, so relentless that any 'bitterness', a gun or a cross or being able to hate someone on the news is all more entertainment, more a sensation, than a conviction.
I once went to a small town in western Ohio where the Philipps 19-inch-TV factory was being relocated to Mexico. This was in the early days of NAFTA. I went with my wife and her mother for a drive. We passed through the town. There were maybe three stop lights. We had lunch at a rundown diner. I was thinking of writing a story about it at the time. I took notes but I've since lost them. No one wanted the story; it was not entertaining. All the editors had heard that story.
As I sit here now, and I usually have a good memory for these things, I don't remember a single detail of that restaurant or what we ate or what we spoke about. I don't remember a single face or expression. I can't even make something up. It's as though that memory is a black hole that sucks out the last of your imagination.
My wife insists that her mother only believed in Catholicism because there was nothing else, no other hope. No other chance for grace. When she died we went to her funeral. There was a 21 gun salute. It was so cold the old soldiers could hardly reload their guns. The wind was blowing hard. They must have used blow torches to dig up the ground. We stood in a tent. Everything and everyone was old. The death was expected. Afterwards, there was a wake. People seemed happy enough. But you got the sense that life's rhythms are so strict, so relentless that any 'bitterness', a gun or a cross or being able to hate someone on the news is all more entertainment, more a sensation, than a conviction.
Apr 11, 2008
grenade thrown at Rwanda's genocide museum (April 11)
"A man walked up to the museum and threw a grenade at the policemen on guard. It killed one of them instantly," said police spokesman Marcel Higiro in Kigali. "Another was seriously injured and has been hospitalised."
"It must be one of those extremist fellows still harbouring the genocide ideology," Higiro said.
Rwanda is in the fifth day of an official week of mourning that follows the 14th anniversary of the start of 100 days in which Hutu extremists slaughtered 800,000 ethnic Tutsis and moderate Hutus. Some Hutus complain that the mourning period, during which all bars and other recreational facilities are shut down, enforces a perception of collective guilt against their ethnic group.
According to a bystander, the attacker ran into the neighborhood, stole a bicycle, and sped away. The bystander told police he thought he knew the man. "Oh yes, I think I know him. He's the brother of someone I used to know. They are Hutus. If it's him, you'll see he's missing an arm and a leg. The left leg. He was given (prostheses) but they are very uncomfortable to wear. Your skin itches terribly. I have the same problem." He showed where the skin on his arm had become hardened into an ugly scab from his own wooden arm.
"It makes you do crazy things," he added. "But you should see his wife. She has no arms or legs either. Just an upper body. Very ugly. Also, his children are, what do you say, 'incomplete'. We are all 'incomplete here'. Maybe this is why he did it."
"But don't worry, we'll catch him," said the bystander. "We'll cut him into pieces of stew. We never forget. But I don't think this was an attack on the museum, more likely the man just needs a job. Kill a policeman and he will need to be replaced. And this is not a bad job standing in front of the museum. Many dignitaries come here. They give money, they look at you, what do you say, as though you are a poor idea, but it was a good try, like you are someone who can eat pity. Well, many do. Some people are growing fat on pity while the rest of us starve."
"It must be one of those extremist fellows still harbouring the genocide ideology," Higiro said.
Rwanda is in the fifth day of an official week of mourning that follows the 14th anniversary of the start of 100 days in which Hutu extremists slaughtered 800,000 ethnic Tutsis and moderate Hutus. Some Hutus complain that the mourning period, during which all bars and other recreational facilities are shut down, enforces a perception of collective guilt against their ethnic group.
According to a bystander, the attacker ran into the neighborhood, stole a bicycle, and sped away. The bystander told police he thought he knew the man. "Oh yes, I think I know him. He's the brother of someone I used to know. They are Hutus. If it's him, you'll see he's missing an arm and a leg. The left leg. He was given (prostheses) but they are very uncomfortable to wear. Your skin itches terribly. I have the same problem." He showed where the skin on his arm had become hardened into an ugly scab from his own wooden arm.
"It makes you do crazy things," he added. "But you should see his wife. She has no arms or legs either. Just an upper body. Very ugly. Also, his children are, what do you say, 'incomplete'. We are all 'incomplete here'. Maybe this is why he did it."
"But don't worry, we'll catch him," said the bystander. "We'll cut him into pieces of stew. We never forget. But I don't think this was an attack on the museum, more likely the man just needs a job. Kill a policeman and he will need to be replaced. And this is not a bad job standing in front of the museum. Many dignitaries come here. They give money, they look at you, what do you say, as though you are a poor idea, but it was a good try, like you are someone who can eat pity. Well, many do. Some people are growing fat on pity while the rest of us starve."
Apr 1, 2008
Getting In
From time to time I walk up to the Polo fields to walk around the track. Sometimes,I imagine I'm Donald Crowhurst circling off the coast of the Argentine while the rest of the race goes on.
Once in a while, I see Emory, a friend I worked with 15 years ago. We keep in touch and occasionally have lunch. He's a journalist and has written several books. We always end up talking about our kids and lately of course there's been the whole matter of getting in.... Getting into one of the city's top private high schools, generally considered to be University, Lick and Urban. For weeks we'd been talking about the process and how unfair it was and how much stress there was. What we didn't say was how much this getting in had become a measure of ourselves and how we saw each other.
He was huffing and puffing around by the old stables when he saw me. He's the consummate jogger. He stopped, came over and we had a big shaking of the hands. Shaking and pleasantries and what's going on and how's work and 'the question' hung in the air. Finally, he couldn't resist.
"Well," he began with a huge smile. "Justin got into Lick."
"That's great," I said, trying my very best to sound enthusiastic. It was entirely unexpected. He'd told me all along they thought there was no chance.
"Yea, we didn't know how it was gonna turn out. His test scores were on the borderline..."
"I know what you mean."
"But we got in and now now that's over at least."
The finality hung in the hair. That he would say "we got in" is a slip of the tongue you only notice if YOU haven't gotten in.
"How'd your boy do?" he asked, still with a silly smile, proud and embarrassed at the same time, as though to say, "Beat that hand."
"He got wait-listed at Lick, but in the end he didn't get in," I said, and didn't relate what effort had been made, how much we had let it come to mean.
Emory looked concerned. "That's too bad," he said.
Frankly, I don't know what was more embarassing, getting the rejection or having to tell Emory. He went on reciting still again all the things they'd done to get Justin in, how they'd nearly tutored him to death, and persuaded him to write an essay about the weekend he spent with an uncle in Oregon, one of those events that parents think of, not children; and the 15 minutes the boy spent that weekend watching a Habitat for Humanity house being built and how, "and I'm only telling you," Emory had said, how the 15 minutes eventually became a 20-hour weekend, "you know what I mean," and before they knew it the essay detailed how the boy had nearly fallen off the roof of that house in his attempt to help some people from the "bad" part of Portland build their own home.
"That's great," I said. "That is."
He nodded and went on about how they'd turned off the TV every night, Justin himself, had made the commitment to turn it off. "What a guy, huh? And he never thought he'd get in, because what is it? 1 in 7? Like getting into the Ivy League isn't it?"
It sure is, I said.
"And when you think they're just 13. It's ridiculous."
Absolutely.
"Actually," he said, "it really doesn't matter where they to school. Where you're going is perfectly good."
Yes, 'perfectly good', I said.
Once in a while, I see Emory, a friend I worked with 15 years ago. We keep in touch and occasionally have lunch. He's a journalist and has written several books. We always end up talking about our kids and lately of course there's been the whole matter of getting in.... Getting into one of the city's top private high schools, generally considered to be University, Lick and Urban. For weeks we'd been talking about the process and how unfair it was and how much stress there was. What we didn't say was how much this getting in had become a measure of ourselves and how we saw each other.
He was huffing and puffing around by the old stables when he saw me. He's the consummate jogger. He stopped, came over and we had a big shaking of the hands. Shaking and pleasantries and what's going on and how's work and 'the question' hung in the air. Finally, he couldn't resist.
"Well," he began with a huge smile. "Justin got into Lick."
"That's great," I said, trying my very best to sound enthusiastic. It was entirely unexpected. He'd told me all along they thought there was no chance.
"Yea, we didn't know how it was gonna turn out. His test scores were on the borderline..."
"I know what you mean."
"But we got in and now now that's over at least."
The finality hung in the hair. That he would say "we got in" is a slip of the tongue you only notice if YOU haven't gotten in.
"How'd your boy do?" he asked, still with a silly smile, proud and embarrassed at the same time, as though to say, "Beat that hand."
"He got wait-listed at Lick, but in the end he didn't get in," I said, and didn't relate what effort had been made, how much we had let it come to mean.
Emory looked concerned. "That's too bad," he said.
Frankly, I don't know what was more embarassing, getting the rejection or having to tell Emory. He went on reciting still again all the things they'd done to get Justin in, how they'd nearly tutored him to death, and persuaded him to write an essay about the weekend he spent with an uncle in Oregon, one of those events that parents think of, not children; and the 15 minutes the boy spent that weekend watching a Habitat for Humanity house being built and how, "and I'm only telling you," Emory had said, how the 15 minutes eventually became a 20-hour weekend, "you know what I mean," and before they knew it the essay detailed how the boy had nearly fallen off the roof of that house in his attempt to help some people from the "bad" part of Portland build their own home.
"That's great," I said. "That is."
He nodded and went on about how they'd turned off the TV every night, Justin himself, had made the commitment to turn it off. "What a guy, huh? And he never thought he'd get in, because what is it? 1 in 7? Like getting into the Ivy League isn't it?"
It sure is, I said.
"And when you think they're just 13. It's ridiculous."
Absolutely.
"Actually," he said, "it really doesn't matter where they to school. Where you're going is perfectly good."
Yes, 'perfectly good', I said.
Mar 31, 2008
Someone Should Kill The President
It used to be unthinkable to express such a thing openly. Maybe not in the counter culture, but in the gray-flannel-suit culture you certainly might have thought of it, but you wouldn't say it, never, because those three assassinations that became the coming-of-age for this generation were too close, and still they're fresh in the mind. So even if you hated the president, and we're not just talking about liberals, if you blamed Jimmy Carter for 20 percent interest rates, for example, or you despised Bill Clinton after Monicagate, still, no matter who was president, you wouldn't want that old sick feeling again.
I remember people saying during Watergate how somebody ought to 'get rid' of Nixon. And, of course, the same thing about Lyndon Johnson. I remember feeling how daring it was to say on a sign at a march, "get out of Vietnam like your father should have" (gotten out of your mother). I remember people saying they wanted to put Reagan on hormone replacement therapy. Because he was too stupid to assassinate. It would be like killing Dumbo, the elephant. Or what Nancy Reagan needed was a good gang bang.
For sure, no president has escaped his would-be assassins, his vermouth-with-a-twist killers. His pot head killers, his SDS and Black Panther killers... But now there's something relentless about the loathing of Bush. And the idea of assassination seems more than just an outrageous thing to say. It's what some people really feel. "I want him to know what he did," someone told me recently. "But I don't think there's any way to do that. So yea somebody should shoot him. And it always amazes me no one has."
What's striking is that the people I'm hearing say these things are gentle by any other standard. They're not repressed, angry people underneath, or on the surface. They're smart middle class people, and not so 'liberal' as you would assume, people who are too sophisticated to honestly wish such a thing, much less say it. They're also women.
Incidentally, killing George Bush is not my own fantasy. Beyond Buddhist teaching, my argument is, why would you wish to make the man a martyr (Or men, since often the fantasy involves Cheney as well as Bush). And can you imagine how that would further deepen divisions and suspicions in this country?
Of course you can understand how someone might think such a thing, not wish it, but conceive of it. Not imagine themselves doing such a thing but feeling the way my Moroccan students felt about 9/11. 'It was a terrible thing,' they'd say, 'but America had it coming', and you could see that it made them happy on some level. And I would say to them, 'but you have to see those people jumping out the windows, 80 floors up, to really FEEL the horror of that day.' But they hadn't seen it and they couldn't imagine. All they knew was Goliath took a shot to the head....
That an American could talk so blythely about killing the president doesn't just come from opposition to the war. And it's not the feeling of hatred coming from the rest of the world, or wiretapping without a warrant, or any process of habeous corpus. Nor does it come only from the conviction that this administration has been overwhelmed with moral corruption, and utter stupidity, or that veterans have been abandoned or that corporate-profiteers have been so shamelessly rewarded, or that education feels like it's been sacrificed for the armchair policies and politics of the Vice President. And there's a piece of work. There's a figure you would want every child to know, like the sexual predator that lives in a house two streets over, and you would say to the child, "don't ever be like that person, that person is evil".
Thinking such things doesn't even cover this body blow to the economy and the culture of greed that brought it, Bush's culture of greed, and now the growing dread that this is not a recession but a depression and all the old ghosts of the previous generation are coming out of their crypts: That deep down fear that in old age to make ends meet we'll be selling life insurance door to door, and in a minute here there'll be no jobs and no social security and people will just start killing themselves because they won't see a way out or they'll think the only way they can save their families, is to commit suicide.
The black desire comes from all of that but maybe also the sense that every good thing you wanted for this country now seems lost. It's as though you realize the fantasy is over. This is the end date history books will include, marking the end of America's run. It's as though we've been exposed, as a country, and somehow as individuals, as second rate. As pretentious, naive bores who never did anything for the world after all, despite the good intentions. The truth is, Michelle Obama is right, there is very little to be proud of these days. And there's a lot of people that feel that away and not just latte liberals or blue state, blue collar people....
Theis black desire I'm hearing flourishes in the fear that all we've built up in the last 60 years is being washed away. It doesn't help that on the right wing talk radio, on 560 am in the Bay Area, one after another these pundits take the mic and blow fear and hatred your way. Limbaugh is the least of them. You listen to them and even the likes of Jeremiah Wright and John Hagee seem small in comparison.
We always say in this country that this is the 'turning point', this is the moment when we've all got to show our hand, and always we make a drama about it, we talk in extremes, we talk trash, we talk like we don't know the danger of reckless expression... but now we really are at one of those moments.
I remember people saying during Watergate how somebody ought to 'get rid' of Nixon. And, of course, the same thing about Lyndon Johnson. I remember feeling how daring it was to say on a sign at a march, "get out of Vietnam like your father should have" (gotten out of your mother). I remember people saying they wanted to put Reagan on hormone replacement therapy. Because he was too stupid to assassinate. It would be like killing Dumbo, the elephant. Or what Nancy Reagan needed was a good gang bang.
For sure, no president has escaped his would-be assassins, his vermouth-with-a-twist killers. His pot head killers, his SDS and Black Panther killers... But now there's something relentless about the loathing of Bush. And the idea of assassination seems more than just an outrageous thing to say. It's what some people really feel. "I want him to know what he did," someone told me recently. "But I don't think there's any way to do that. So yea somebody should shoot him. And it always amazes me no one has."
What's striking is that the people I'm hearing say these things are gentle by any other standard. They're not repressed, angry people underneath, or on the surface. They're smart middle class people, and not so 'liberal' as you would assume, people who are too sophisticated to honestly wish such a thing, much less say it. They're also women.
Incidentally, killing George Bush is not my own fantasy. Beyond Buddhist teaching, my argument is, why would you wish to make the man a martyr (Or men, since often the fantasy involves Cheney as well as Bush). And can you imagine how that would further deepen divisions and suspicions in this country?
Of course you can understand how someone might think such a thing, not wish it, but conceive of it. Not imagine themselves doing such a thing but feeling the way my Moroccan students felt about 9/11. 'It was a terrible thing,' they'd say, 'but America had it coming', and you could see that it made them happy on some level. And I would say to them, 'but you have to see those people jumping out the windows, 80 floors up, to really FEEL the horror of that day.' But they hadn't seen it and they couldn't imagine. All they knew was Goliath took a shot to the head....
That an American could talk so blythely about killing the president doesn't just come from opposition to the war. And it's not the feeling of hatred coming from the rest of the world, or wiretapping without a warrant, or any process of habeous corpus. Nor does it come only from the conviction that this administration has been overwhelmed with moral corruption, and utter stupidity, or that veterans have been abandoned or that corporate-profiteers have been so shamelessly rewarded, or that education feels like it's been sacrificed for the armchair policies and politics of the Vice President. And there's a piece of work. There's a figure you would want every child to know, like the sexual predator that lives in a house two streets over, and you would say to the child, "don't ever be like that person, that person is evil".
Thinking such things doesn't even cover this body blow to the economy and the culture of greed that brought it, Bush's culture of greed, and now the growing dread that this is not a recession but a depression and all the old ghosts of the previous generation are coming out of their crypts: That deep down fear that in old age to make ends meet we'll be selling life insurance door to door, and in a minute here there'll be no jobs and no social security and people will just start killing themselves because they won't see a way out or they'll think the only way they can save their families, is to commit suicide.
The black desire comes from all of that but maybe also the sense that every good thing you wanted for this country now seems lost. It's as though you realize the fantasy is over. This is the end date history books will include, marking the end of America's run. It's as though we've been exposed, as a country, and somehow as individuals, as second rate. As pretentious, naive bores who never did anything for the world after all, despite the good intentions. The truth is, Michelle Obama is right, there is very little to be proud of these days. And there's a lot of people that feel that away and not just latte liberals or blue state, blue collar people....
Theis black desire I'm hearing flourishes in the fear that all we've built up in the last 60 years is being washed away. It doesn't help that on the right wing talk radio, on 560 am in the Bay Area, one after another these pundits take the mic and blow fear and hatred your way. Limbaugh is the least of them. You listen to them and even the likes of Jeremiah Wright and John Hagee seem small in comparison.
We always say in this country that this is the 'turning point', this is the moment when we've all got to show our hand, and always we make a drama about it, we talk in extremes, we talk trash, we talk like we don't know the danger of reckless expression... but now we really are at one of those moments.
Mar 5, 2008
After 3 a.m.
And now the senator should respond something like this... "The danger this country faces is not the "inexperience" of the person who answers the hotline at 3 a.m. George Bush has proven you can have neither experience or intelligence and get through that call. The danger is from ignoring the calls that come in throughout the day — from people who have lost their houses, their jobs and their confidence. After all, we have the strongest army in the world; we don't need to fear other countries or other societies. They may attack us, they may wound us but they cannot destroy us, physically. But clearly we need to begin a new era, not based on fear and trepidation. That's the legacy of the Bush administration. That's the old enslavement. As a nation, as individuals, we face difficult times and we need our wits about us, but we also need to regain our spirit, our fearlessness, our humor as she would say, that quality that's always distinguished America and Americans."
Feb 23, 2008
Feb 20, 2008
Something Out of Nothing
Hence, the purpose of the Holy Life does not consist in acquiring alms, honor, or fame, nor in gaining morality, concentration, or the eye of knowledge. That unshakable deliverance of the heart: that, indeed, is the object of Holy Life, that is its essence, that is its goal.
-Samyutta Nikaya, translated by Nyanatiloka
-Samyutta Nikaya, translated by Nyanatiloka
Feb 18, 2008
Woman Sitting In A Chair
I heard this from one of the parents at the school. Naturally, you're thinking, ‘was this one of those Steinerian hystericals telling how someone's birkenstocking got ripped, or else a finger-knitting went awry in the middle of winter.'
Actually, this same person once assured me that everything in the Spear of Destiny was absolute fact. Which is nonsense. What Trevor Ravenscroft wrote in that book was largely make-up, particularly the business about Rudolf Steiner coming up with a potion to rid a wealthy Bavarian landowner of rabbits, not to mention the story about the psychic battles he fought with the intelligencia of the Third Reich. It’s all cult memorabilia mixed with urban myths. Chatchkas from Lourdes.
On the other hand, Steiner did believe he was the reincarnation of Aristotle. And he did sell indulgences as it were, famous reincarnations, to wealthy Anthroposophists. He needed the money to rebuild the Goteneum after it burned down. You'll remember what an architectural triumph that was.
Anyway, this story I was told was about a man who recently suffered a stroke. There's been a lot of that lately. A man in our own school had the same thing happen to him. When you hear this, immediately you think of the character in The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, although the man I'm talking about can see, can talk, albeit with a slur, and he can almost sit up. He can also move his right arm a little.
He used to be quite a boulevardier; grew up in New York City, became an antique dealer, then a race car driver, bought a vineyard in Italy, married three or four times, and finally settled here and into landscape architecture and painting. He loves parties and women of all ages and gets a squeeze whenever he can. On certain holidays, and not just Halloween he dresses up as a pirate or a matinee idol. He used to come as Errol Flynn but nobody knew who that was. He also used to drink a lot and would make terrible fun of his wife.
Incidentally, his wife is a doctor at California Pacific. Harvard Medical School, very cold, according to my friend, no charm, but extremely bright and sexy in her aloofness. She's always talking about the latest therapies and can quote all the statistics related to your illness, and your chances of survival.
So the story is that a friend of theirs, someone who often comes to their house for dinner, visits this man once a week, usually on Saturday afternoons and strips for him. Partly as entertainment and partly to speed up his recovery. The wife believes the neurons fire faster with some sensual stimulation, but not from her.
The good samaritan is a former jazz dancer, in her mid 40s, very in her prime, luxurious long black hair, great figure. She arrives, but the wife, the doctor, is not there. The samaritan doesn't speak. Literally, never says a word. She comes in, and believe me he waits for this all week, she turns away from him, takes off her dress, sits on a chair, a simple wooden chair, with her back to him, and then reaches behind and takes off her bra. Sometimes, he asks her to do it more than once. Then she takes down her hair and sometimes she'll turn to one side to show just the curve of her breast.
What really drives him crazy is when, after moving around for a long time, and you understand this is all subtle, this isn't pole dancing, it's more the way a painter's model might move to find a comfortable position; what drives him over the edge is when she turns the chair a little to one side, so she's more in profile, and then leans forward and spills her long hair over the chair. This is his erotic button and the heart of it is the way she exposes her neck, a very beautiful long neck. There's something about the vulnerability in that he finds spellbinding.
This teasing goes on for about an hour. Sometimes, his wife has left on some music. Jazz, New Music. Sometimes, the patient moves his good arm, as though trying to paint her. Sometimes, he begs her to show more, to do more, but she doesn't and that, according to his wife is what makes the healing go faster. The wanting is the magic potion.
This lasts an hour or so and then the woman gets dressed but doesn't face him, gets her purse and leaves. My friend tells me that this therapy has done the man wonders. I'm also told that at least once the wife, the doctor, watched the whole thing from out in the hallway.
Actually, this same person once assured me that everything in the Spear of Destiny was absolute fact. Which is nonsense. What Trevor Ravenscroft wrote in that book was largely make-up, particularly the business about Rudolf Steiner coming up with a potion to rid a wealthy Bavarian landowner of rabbits, not to mention the story about the psychic battles he fought with the intelligencia of the Third Reich. It’s all cult memorabilia mixed with urban myths. Chatchkas from Lourdes.
On the other hand, Steiner did believe he was the reincarnation of Aristotle. And he did sell indulgences as it were, famous reincarnations, to wealthy Anthroposophists. He needed the money to rebuild the Goteneum after it burned down. You'll remember what an architectural triumph that was.
Anyway, this story I was told was about a man who recently suffered a stroke. There's been a lot of that lately. A man in our own school had the same thing happen to him. When you hear this, immediately you think of the character in The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, although the man I'm talking about can see, can talk, albeit with a slur, and he can almost sit up. He can also move his right arm a little.
He used to be quite a boulevardier; grew up in New York City, became an antique dealer, then a race car driver, bought a vineyard in Italy, married three or four times, and finally settled here and into landscape architecture and painting. He loves parties and women of all ages and gets a squeeze whenever he can. On certain holidays, and not just Halloween he dresses up as a pirate or a matinee idol. He used to come as Errol Flynn but nobody knew who that was. He also used to drink a lot and would make terrible fun of his wife.
Incidentally, his wife is a doctor at California Pacific. Harvard Medical School, very cold, according to my friend, no charm, but extremely bright and sexy in her aloofness. She's always talking about the latest therapies and can quote all the statistics related to your illness, and your chances of survival.
So the story is that a friend of theirs, someone who often comes to their house for dinner, visits this man once a week, usually on Saturday afternoons and strips for him. Partly as entertainment and partly to speed up his recovery. The wife believes the neurons fire faster with some sensual stimulation, but not from her.
The good samaritan is a former jazz dancer, in her mid 40s, very in her prime, luxurious long black hair, great figure. She arrives, but the wife, the doctor, is not there. The samaritan doesn't speak. Literally, never says a word. She comes in, and believe me he waits for this all week, she turns away from him, takes off her dress, sits on a chair, a simple wooden chair, with her back to him, and then reaches behind and takes off her bra. Sometimes, he asks her to do it more than once. Then she takes down her hair and sometimes she'll turn to one side to show just the curve of her breast.
What really drives him crazy is when, after moving around for a long time, and you understand this is all subtle, this isn't pole dancing, it's more the way a painter's model might move to find a comfortable position; what drives him over the edge is when she turns the chair a little to one side, so she's more in profile, and then leans forward and spills her long hair over the chair. This is his erotic button and the heart of it is the way she exposes her neck, a very beautiful long neck. There's something about the vulnerability in that he finds spellbinding.
This teasing goes on for about an hour. Sometimes, his wife has left on some music. Jazz, New Music. Sometimes, the patient moves his good arm, as though trying to paint her. Sometimes, he begs her to show more, to do more, but she doesn't and that, according to his wife is what makes the healing go faster. The wanting is the magic potion.
This lasts an hour or so and then the woman gets dressed but doesn't face him, gets her purse and leaves. My friend tells me that this therapy has done the man wonders. I'm also told that at least once the wife, the doctor, watched the whole thing from out in the hallway.
Feb 8, 2008
The Chords Underneath
You read about the nursing student who shot and killed two classmates at a school, in Louisiana. Her mother has no idea why she would do such a thing. In Arizona, a man who was angry that he couldn't secure a liquor license to open a bar, which he wanted to call Drunkenstein's, set out to kill a lot of people at the SuperBowl. He got to the parking lot with a rifle and ammunition, but at the last moment he caught himself and went to police. There's been an epidemic of shootings lately. Many of these involved multiple victims. There was a shooting in Chicago of five women, the shooter still at large; a couple of shootings in Colorado. In San Diego, and gang shootings in Pittsburgh. Bar shooting in New Orleans, Restaurant shooting in Seattle. The city council shooting in St. Louis. The shooting in Memphis: Two boys at odds; one shot the other at school. In Oakland of course there are shootings every night. And so what is that? Underneath, something is stirring again. The economy you'd say or soldiers returning from Iraq. Folks are jumpy. Weird weather you'd say, the icebergs melting. Or else maybe it's the same thing causing bees to drop dead. Bad transmissions. Electric lines. Radar's out.
Maybe, you can trace it to the year of the rat, the 60th year for some rats. Big change all over the place. And doesn't it feel cyclical. Things coming 'round again. Every 30 years, there's a convulsion. That's a real theory and look how it works. Look at the turn of the last century, the end of an era; in the 30s, the end of an era; in the 60s, and now, a little late, but there's something familiar. The beginning of a new era. There's a war, the economy has turned to quicksand, a "once-in-a-generation" presidential candidate is on the move, Amy Winehouse, direct from Rehab is singing Back To Black, the Janis of her time; old boomers having more sex, driven to recreate if not themselves then the feeling of themselves, the moth's last minutes.... New energy. Optimism. Disgust. The illusion of new. And a new cold war, albeit with Islamodogs. Everything is adjusted to this time. You listen to the music and the violence and you can hear the faint sound of something approaching.
Maybe, you can trace it to the year of the rat, the 60th year for some rats. Big change all over the place. And doesn't it feel cyclical. Things coming 'round again. Every 30 years, there's a convulsion. That's a real theory and look how it works. Look at the turn of the last century, the end of an era; in the 30s, the end of an era; in the 60s, and now, a little late, but there's something familiar. The beginning of a new era. There's a war, the economy has turned to quicksand, a "once-in-a-generation" presidential candidate is on the move, Amy Winehouse, direct from Rehab is singing Back To Black, the Janis of her time; old boomers having more sex, driven to recreate if not themselves then the feeling of themselves, the moth's last minutes.... New energy. Optimism. Disgust. The illusion of new. And a new cold war, albeit with Islamodogs. Everything is adjusted to this time. You listen to the music and the violence and you can hear the faint sound of something approaching.
Feb 7, 2008
The Senator's Charm
What is the man's charm? He makes reporters covering his speeches weep, forget their objectivity and become like so many pod people.
But how does he do it and why not the same success with middle aged women? Actually, I know one woman who becomes wet at the mention of his name, who can barely stand to hear Michelle's name mentioned, who read Dreams of My Father and was never the same. "He's Havellian, isn't he?" she'll say."He is. He's an American Havel".
Is she kidding? Yes and no. But most women, of a certain age particularly, prefer Hillary. The best they'll say about Him is that He reminds them of Gary Cooper in Meet John Doe (1941). Clearly, they like Hillary because they grew up in the 1970s alonside her, and also because she has achieved everything they ever wanted to achieve. She went to the best schools, was on the board of great corporations, moved and shook the communities she lived in, and did the life of a feminist and political co-pilot. She has EARANED the 'right'.
"After all I've done fa you and this is the way you treat me?"
She's done all those things that women have to do for men, cleaning up all the dirty work men do, all the deferring and sublimating, all the pragmatism and forgiving, which always needs to be done.... Now finally she can return to her destiny hold on to all of us who cannot return, who were systematically diswilled, who after being the best student in college and after being a successful executive, and after once believing 'I will achieve some great thing', got off track. Life happened and the uplifting, confident voice stopped. One too many banalities to endure, one too many years taking children to soccer games and recitals. And a little too long in the lap of luxury, which after a while wraps those steamy arms of kitchen smells and the annual week in Kawai, so tight you can't ever get away.
And so of course these women live vicariously through her. Her anger is theirs, her 'mysterious emotional life', as Judith Warner put it, is theirs. And her failure, if she doesn't succeed, will be theirs.
For Hispanic women, it goes without saying. Hillary is saint-saint, Mary-Mary, Madonna-Magdalene of Guadalupe and saviourena incarnate. Abd why not? More important she courted the powers that be in the Hispanic community for years. She did her homework, she tended her garden. She earned the right.
But what about men? What's their attraction to Him? 'He's not threatening' is the answer women give. Which is to say his femininity leaves men feeling safe. He's also articulate, he's the King Arthur that draws out the Lancelot in every man, the Sir that men long for. He's Tiger Woods, Walter Payton, and John Coltrane all in one. It doesn't matter what color he is, just let him play.
In that sense he brings out the fact that men in this country are all longing for a dream, for a lot more romance, for clear change, while women have seem to have become a little hardened, a little bitter. His campaign serves as the doctor's X-ray that show you just where men and women have been wounded.
When men hear women say he's not tough enough, that strikes home. When they hear women say he's not 'experienced' enough that has special meaning. It goes back to 7th grade and the girl you wanted, wanted an older guy who was more 'experienced.' So now a lot of men out there, men you wouldn't expect, are wishing he'll put the little blonde in her place, show her who the real commander and chief is.
The world has changed. Now white men want the black guy to rape the white girl. The dark truth is she betrayed them. She was the one who was not only too clever and too ambitious, and so made them feel less, but she also forgave her husband. But maybe not out of goodness, maybe because she needed him for her own ends. A man never wants to feel used, never wants to see another man used by his wife that way.
A man I know, a teacher, an artist, an exceptionally well educated man who has gotten to middle age and is happy with his success and his life told me about a dream he had. "I was in school and here were these two homeroom teachers: Barack and Hillary. And it wasn't clear whose class I would be in and I just wanted to be in his class and I tried to make that clear. I was doing everything I could to be in his homeroom."
But how does he do it and why not the same success with middle aged women? Actually, I know one woman who becomes wet at the mention of his name, who can barely stand to hear Michelle's name mentioned, who read Dreams of My Father and was never the same. "He's Havellian, isn't he?" she'll say."He is. He's an American Havel".
Is she kidding? Yes and no. But most women, of a certain age particularly, prefer Hillary. The best they'll say about Him is that He reminds them of Gary Cooper in Meet John Doe (1941). Clearly, they like Hillary because they grew up in the 1970s alonside her, and also because she has achieved everything they ever wanted to achieve. She went to the best schools, was on the board of great corporations, moved and shook the communities she lived in, and did the life of a feminist and political co-pilot. She has EARANED the 'right'.
"After all I've done fa you and this is the way you treat me?"
She's done all those things that women have to do for men, cleaning up all the dirty work men do, all the deferring and sublimating, all the pragmatism and forgiving, which always needs to be done.... Now finally she can return to her destiny hold on to all of us who cannot return, who were systematically diswilled, who after being the best student in college and after being a successful executive, and after once believing 'I will achieve some great thing', got off track. Life happened and the uplifting, confident voice stopped. One too many banalities to endure, one too many years taking children to soccer games and recitals. And a little too long in the lap of luxury, which after a while wraps those steamy arms of kitchen smells and the annual week in Kawai, so tight you can't ever get away.
And so of course these women live vicariously through her. Her anger is theirs, her 'mysterious emotional life', as Judith Warner put it, is theirs. And her failure, if she doesn't succeed, will be theirs.
For Hispanic women, it goes without saying. Hillary is saint-saint, Mary-Mary, Madonna-Magdalene of Guadalupe and saviourena incarnate. Abd why not? More important she courted the powers that be in the Hispanic community for years. She did her homework, she tended her garden. She earned the right.
But what about men? What's their attraction to Him? 'He's not threatening' is the answer women give. Which is to say his femininity leaves men feeling safe. He's also articulate, he's the King Arthur that draws out the Lancelot in every man, the Sir that men long for. He's Tiger Woods, Walter Payton, and John Coltrane all in one. It doesn't matter what color he is, just let him play.
In that sense he brings out the fact that men in this country are all longing for a dream, for a lot more romance, for clear change, while women have seem to have become a little hardened, a little bitter. His campaign serves as the doctor's X-ray that show you just where men and women have been wounded.
When men hear women say he's not tough enough, that strikes home. When they hear women say he's not 'experienced' enough that has special meaning. It goes back to 7th grade and the girl you wanted, wanted an older guy who was more 'experienced.' So now a lot of men out there, men you wouldn't expect, are wishing he'll put the little blonde in her place, show her who the real commander and chief is.
The world has changed. Now white men want the black guy to rape the white girl. The dark truth is she betrayed them. She was the one who was not only too clever and too ambitious, and so made them feel less, but she also forgave her husband. But maybe not out of goodness, maybe because she needed him for her own ends. A man never wants to feel used, never wants to see another man used by his wife that way.
A man I know, a teacher, an artist, an exceptionally well educated man who has gotten to middle age and is happy with his success and his life told me about a dream he had. "I was in school and here were these two homeroom teachers: Barack and Hillary. And it wasn't clear whose class I would be in and I just wanted to be in his class and I tried to make that clear. I was doing everything I could to be in his homeroom."
Feb 5, 2008
A Campaign Path through Pittsburgh's Pub
It's a bar three blocks from the beach. Long reputation, low light, a holograph of Pittsburgh itself. I have some door knockers, I have one last sign. Obama isn't doing well with lunch pail men and riveters. They don't believe him, they don't think he has the muscle.
So then you better go in, I'm thinking. It's coming up to 11, evening has been downgraded to night, but perhaps I can leave something off. Up on the wall, Gonzaga leads St. Mary's by two, late. Around the horn: Someone at a pool table. Video game screens. A bartender from The Iceman Cometh. The master of bleary. In front of him, hunched over, man and woman together, and then another man at the far end of the bar, almost over the horizon: 50s, red hair, blue eyes, reminds me of Red Skelton, and sitting bolt upright, frozen, staring like a person in a casket whose eyes won't shut.
Woman sees me, the sign. "Yeah, Obama, I'm for Obama," she says, draws me over. She's curly, in a man's blue shirt, gold on her wrist, a pendant on tan skin. Pretty. Man next to her in an old Giants jacket, baseball cap, hunched over, smells smokey, never looks over his shoulder. "Oh don't mind him" she says and hits him over the head with the side of her hand. "He's my boyfriend but he's no damn good. Are you, dummy?"
"I'm from Chicago," she insists. "Three towns over from where Hillary grew up." Great, I say. "You know Oak Park right?" I shake my head. It's coming to me, but no names or dates. "Well you been to Chicago right?" Once, I say and I'm remembering the time my father took me to the Pump Room for dinner and then we went out in a limousine to a mobster's house. I don't remember the man. Danny Devito if I had to come up with a likeness. But I remember his house. Heavy dark wood, a view of the lake, I suppose. My father wanted to share his links to the underworld and it never occurred to me what that was about, what he was saying, what he wanted me to take from that.
And at some point on that trip, on the airplane going, my father, from 26 miles of unpaved streets, in upstate New York, having been a football star and fucked his French teacher, got down to NY to drive a cab and go to night school at Pratt Institute, and here he was in First Class showing me he could read Chateaubriand's Atala, in French.
"Well then you know Oak Park, right? Don't you?" She's saying. I know the name, but I'm not channeling anything else just now.
"Have you ever heard of anybody name Wright?" She says, rolling her eyes like a middle aged valley girl.
"Frank Lloyd."
"Where you been?" She says.
"I can't imagine".
"Well you better wake up there, boy.... Yea, Lake Park."
"He built some houses there," I say, "a few houses", remembering a PBS special about the first homes he built there. And I'm thinking that must be the money suburb on that side of the city. But is it West or East?
"A few houses? Are you fucking kidding me? He built hundreds of houses. Where you been?" She's bobbing and weaving. "You need to get up to speed there, mister."
Dummy cackles and she hits him again over the head.
Here eyes are watery but she's making a go of it, if only she could remember how all this came up.
"Oh yea, so Hillary lived three towns over from us. West side, right. Then the blacks started coming over from the south and the property went down and we had to get outta there. No, it was.... well we did, we moved outta there and got to... " then she lost track again. Nothing happend for a moment.
"No, but I'm for Obama," she said. "Let me have one of those posters." She took one. The bartender, the towel over his sholder, came over looked down on it, shook his head in disgust.
Time passed. She said something, I said something. Dummy cackled.
The bartender noticed I had a plastic cup I'd picked up down the street. "Can't drink that in here," he said. "It's just ice tea," I said. "Sorry, can't do it. Just what we sell."
I can't finish an ice tea?
"Get the fuck outta here," he said. I had that button to the floor. "Get the fuck outta here."
The woman looked at me frowning.
I didn't want to bend to this bartender. "Mystery to me," I said. "I'd think you'd want all the people you could get in here,"
He turned away and put the towel to another wet glass.
It's in the blood, I thought, I can't get rid of it. It's the nature of bars and organized alcohol, it's why birds can migrate, it's that the old gaelic bag of denial and woof-woof. It's what you get for running with Obama, I thought.
So then you better go in, I'm thinking. It's coming up to 11, evening has been downgraded to night, but perhaps I can leave something off. Up on the wall, Gonzaga leads St. Mary's by two, late. Around the horn: Someone at a pool table. Video game screens. A bartender from The Iceman Cometh. The master of bleary. In front of him, hunched over, man and woman together, and then another man at the far end of the bar, almost over the horizon: 50s, red hair, blue eyes, reminds me of Red Skelton, and sitting bolt upright, frozen, staring like a person in a casket whose eyes won't shut.
Woman sees me, the sign. "Yeah, Obama, I'm for Obama," she says, draws me over. She's curly, in a man's blue shirt, gold on her wrist, a pendant on tan skin. Pretty. Man next to her in an old Giants jacket, baseball cap, hunched over, smells smokey, never looks over his shoulder. "Oh don't mind him" she says and hits him over the head with the side of her hand. "He's my boyfriend but he's no damn good. Are you, dummy?"
"I'm from Chicago," she insists. "Three towns over from where Hillary grew up." Great, I say. "You know Oak Park right?" I shake my head. It's coming to me, but no names or dates. "Well you been to Chicago right?" Once, I say and I'm remembering the time my father took me to the Pump Room for dinner and then we went out in a limousine to a mobster's house. I don't remember the man. Danny Devito if I had to come up with a likeness. But I remember his house. Heavy dark wood, a view of the lake, I suppose. My father wanted to share his links to the underworld and it never occurred to me what that was about, what he was saying, what he wanted me to take from that.
And at some point on that trip, on the airplane going, my father, from 26 miles of unpaved streets, in upstate New York, having been a football star and fucked his French teacher, got down to NY to drive a cab and go to night school at Pratt Institute, and here he was in First Class showing me he could read Chateaubriand's Atala, in French.
"Well then you know Oak Park, right? Don't you?" She's saying. I know the name, but I'm not channeling anything else just now.
"Have you ever heard of anybody name Wright?" She says, rolling her eyes like a middle aged valley girl.
"Frank Lloyd."
"Where you been?" She says.
"I can't imagine".
"Well you better wake up there, boy.... Yea, Lake Park."
"He built some houses there," I say, "a few houses", remembering a PBS special about the first homes he built there. And I'm thinking that must be the money suburb on that side of the city. But is it West or East?
"A few houses? Are you fucking kidding me? He built hundreds of houses. Where you been?" She's bobbing and weaving. "You need to get up to speed there, mister."
Dummy cackles and she hits him again over the head.
Here eyes are watery but she's making a go of it, if only she could remember how all this came up.
"Oh yea, so Hillary lived three towns over from us. West side, right. Then the blacks started coming over from the south and the property went down and we had to get outta there. No, it was.... well we did, we moved outta there and got to... " then she lost track again. Nothing happend for a moment.
"No, but I'm for Obama," she said. "Let me have one of those posters." She took one. The bartender, the towel over his sholder, came over looked down on it, shook his head in disgust.
Time passed. She said something, I said something. Dummy cackled.
The bartender noticed I had a plastic cup I'd picked up down the street. "Can't drink that in here," he said. "It's just ice tea," I said. "Sorry, can't do it. Just what we sell."
I can't finish an ice tea?
"Get the fuck outta here," he said. I had that button to the floor. "Get the fuck outta here."
The woman looked at me frowning.
I didn't want to bend to this bartender. "Mystery to me," I said. "I'd think you'd want all the people you could get in here,"
He turned away and put the towel to another wet glass.
It's in the blood, I thought, I can't get rid of it. It's the nature of bars and organized alcohol, it's why birds can migrate, it's that the old gaelic bag of denial and woof-woof. It's what you get for running with Obama, I thought.
Feb 4, 2008
Feb 1, 2008
Three Sluts At Dinner
Around the oak table in the secret light of candle stubs,
Three faces coming to a reunion, three sluts of yesteryear.
This is the way they describe themselves, not me.
Between them, they've had hundreds of men, in their day,
Which was years ago, athough still now, at least one of them,
She is still very much at it. Prefering young professors,
The more esoteric knowledge the better. And above all, German.
Although she is Jewish, spanking the ghosts of Bergen Belson.
Is it that inexplicable pleasure in being told
you are a goddess,
By the sons of soldiers, feeling that heaviest of German artillery
firing right into your mouth, round after round,
incarnation after incarnation...
Or is it an Old Testament need to catch the bad seed
before it can take root somewhere
Else... somewhere more fertile, more deserving even,
more in the spirit
of Munich games, more supple truth to tell....
So yes, she gets her power
however she can, and when the conversation turns to a Berkely
Hot tub, a secret speakeasy for sex under the redwoods,
And one of the others makes a joke about the Jewess's predilection
for professors, she put her old friend right down.
"Professors weren't into you, truck drivers right?" Said
with a carefree bitterness you sometimes find
in childless women of a certain age.
had interest in you..."
Three faces coming to a reunion, three sluts of yesteryear.
This is the way they describe themselves, not me.
Between them, they've had hundreds of men, in their day,
Which was years ago, athough still now, at least one of them,
She is still very much at it. Prefering young professors,
The more esoteric knowledge the better. And above all, German.
Although she is Jewish, spanking the ghosts of Bergen Belson.
Is it that inexplicable pleasure in being told
you are a goddess,
By the sons of soldiers, feeling that heaviest of German artillery
firing right into your mouth, round after round,
incarnation after incarnation...
Or is it an Old Testament need to catch the bad seed
before it can take root somewhere
Else... somewhere more fertile, more deserving even,
more in the spirit
of Munich games, more supple truth to tell....
So yes, she gets her power
however she can, and when the conversation turns to a Berkely
Hot tub, a secret speakeasy for sex under the redwoods,
And one of the others makes a joke about the Jewess's predilection
for professors, she put her old friend right down.
"Professors weren't into you, truck drivers right?" Said
with a carefree bitterness you sometimes find
in childless women of a certain age.
had interest in you..."
Jan 26, 2008
Mrs. Martin
Phone canvassing continues. The work is slow. Many of the numbers have changed. Or people don’t answer. Or else we don’t speak the same language. Or some say they support Obama, but you have the sense they’re merely trying to please. Perhaps, they think you're an immigration detective, one of the police tricksters from 850 Bryant Street. Officer Bizzaro calling in a strange voice to see who is there and for how long.
Or a certain kind of woman will answer. She’ll have a name like Sonya or Deirdre. “I understand what you’re doing,” they’ll say abruptly. “But I’m not interested.” As though you were peddling time-shares in Reno. They hang up. I assume they’re leaning toward Billary. Man haters, I’m wondering. But then I’m sometimes short when people call, so perhaps, this has nothing to do with politics at all.
Then once I get this. “Is Ms. Martin there?” I ask.
“Who is calling?”
“I’m a precinct captain with the Obama campaign”. TV gurgle in the background.
“My daughter is not here,” she begins. “I’m Mrs. Martin.
Mrs. Martin is mother of nine, grandmother of 14, a woman of 40 times 2, once a player in city politics, and in bad health in recent years. Heart surgery is at the top of the list. Diabetes, gout, inflammations. She names them all. But tonight for this moment, she is fine, smooth, wise and gracious.
I make my pitch. I don’t mention Billary, although I assume for some reason that Senator Obama is not her choice. She says something to distance herself from him. That seems strange and I want to say, “Mrs. Martin, I assume you are African American by your accent, and I can’t imagine you are not for Barack Obama. For God’s sake this is the time to believe if there ever was…
Of course, this is a white man’s appeal, some might argue this is modern racism. "Oh yea you like this man because he and his wife went to Harvard and she has straight hair and he's part white'." I know that. Still. Finally, I confront her. “What are you afraid of?” I ask, not a little impetuously.
“I am not afraid of anything. Not at this age, I can tell you that. There’s nothing left to be afraid of, although you probably wouldn’t understand that. It’s not that I’m afraid of anything. But you have to remember what I've seen. And they'll take him out. They always do. They won't let him go for a month in the White House. So what you are asking me to do is to choose between voting for this young man, and I like him very much, I do, I think he would make a great president, but you are asking me to choose between helping him become president and signing his death warrant.”
You hear this all the time in the black community, all the time. And what can you say..
“I’ve lived through too much she went on,” and described her first husband who came home from World War II, practically in a box he was so shot up. She stayed with him to the end, a bad end by the sound of her voice. She married again, and that man also had been in the war and was injured although he didn’t tell her until after they were married, and then he died…..
“What is your name again?” she asked. I told her. She broke away for a moment….
“Oh my God, baby. Don’t you look beautiful . I am looking at an angel. Where you goin’ baby. Saturday night I know you goin’ somewhere. You look so good baby. Now, you got any money? I didn’t think so,,,, well you go on over there, and get my purse. Right there under those things. Now bring it here. How much you gonna need? … Okay. Well, here what I got.”
“You still there,” she said to me. I nodded with a word.
“You look so good baby but don’t be home too late. You hear me? I don’t want you runnin’ around so you just come on home and I’ll still be up. Okay, baby?”
Baby said okay and Mrs. Martin came back to me. She launched into another subject and then another after that.
“It sounds like you have a lot to do,” I said.
“I do have a lot to do. And it’s all in my book.” She described it, an autobiography, and everything she knew about this city was going to be in it.
“Don’t you know how life just comes around. But you know, the worst racism I ever experienced has been in the last five years. Yes, right here in this city.”
“This city,” I said shaking my head. “Who does this?
“Samoans, Asians, Whites, Blacks. They call you “b” word. ‘F’ word. I’ve never been called a nigger more times than here. And you know who’s the worst? The worst are the Russians. They just hate black people. I hear it all the time, again and again. ‘Get outta here nigger,’ they’ll say. ‘Get off this bus, nigger.’ “
And that’s about the time she got to Him and how He was keeping her going. “I don’t know why. He must have some plan because he coulda gotten rid a me a long time ago. You know that. But He’s got some desire for me and I’m trying to find that. So I just get outta bed every mornin’ and go on about my business.”
She said she’d had a revelation some years before. “I hear voices, someone is always talkin’ in my head, but you can tell the difference, there’s a special voice that speaks and it’s like nothing else, it’s clear as a bell and once you’ve heard that voice you never doubt again.”
I wanted her to go on, to reassure me, to send me God’s blessing, but she had to go. Baby wasn’t out the door yet. “Baby, you look like the sun just came up,” she said. “What’s your name again?” she asked me. I told her. “Well, I’ve really enjoyed talkin’ to you tonight.” I have too, I said. “I’ll think about what you said, but you think about what I said. Bye bye now.”
Or a certain kind of woman will answer. She’ll have a name like Sonya or Deirdre. “I understand what you’re doing,” they’ll say abruptly. “But I’m not interested.” As though you were peddling time-shares in Reno. They hang up. I assume they’re leaning toward Billary. Man haters, I’m wondering. But then I’m sometimes short when people call, so perhaps, this has nothing to do with politics at all.
Then once I get this. “Is Ms. Martin there?” I ask.
“Who is calling?”
“I’m a precinct captain with the Obama campaign”. TV gurgle in the background.
“My daughter is not here,” she begins. “I’m Mrs. Martin.
Mrs. Martin is mother of nine, grandmother of 14, a woman of 40 times 2, once a player in city politics, and in bad health in recent years. Heart surgery is at the top of the list. Diabetes, gout, inflammations. She names them all. But tonight for this moment, she is fine, smooth, wise and gracious.
I make my pitch. I don’t mention Billary, although I assume for some reason that Senator Obama is not her choice. She says something to distance herself from him. That seems strange and I want to say, “Mrs. Martin, I assume you are African American by your accent, and I can’t imagine you are not for Barack Obama. For God’s sake this is the time to believe if there ever was…
Of course, this is a white man’s appeal, some might argue this is modern racism. "Oh yea you like this man because he and his wife went to Harvard and she has straight hair and he's part white'." I know that. Still. Finally, I confront her. “What are you afraid of?” I ask, not a little impetuously.
“I am not afraid of anything. Not at this age, I can tell you that. There’s nothing left to be afraid of, although you probably wouldn’t understand that. It’s not that I’m afraid of anything. But you have to remember what I've seen. And they'll take him out. They always do. They won't let him go for a month in the White House. So what you are asking me to do is to choose between voting for this young man, and I like him very much, I do, I think he would make a great president, but you are asking me to choose between helping him become president and signing his death warrant.”
You hear this all the time in the black community, all the time. And what can you say..
“I’ve lived through too much she went on,” and described her first husband who came home from World War II, practically in a box he was so shot up. She stayed with him to the end, a bad end by the sound of her voice. She married again, and that man also had been in the war and was injured although he didn’t tell her until after they were married, and then he died…..
“What is your name again?” she asked. I told her. She broke away for a moment….
“Oh my God, baby. Don’t you look beautiful . I am looking at an angel. Where you goin’ baby. Saturday night I know you goin’ somewhere. You look so good baby. Now, you got any money? I didn’t think so,,,, well you go on over there, and get my purse. Right there under those things. Now bring it here. How much you gonna need? … Okay. Well, here what I got.”
“You still there,” she said to me. I nodded with a word.
“You look so good baby but don’t be home too late. You hear me? I don’t want you runnin’ around so you just come on home and I’ll still be up. Okay, baby?”
Baby said okay and Mrs. Martin came back to me. She launched into another subject and then another after that.
“It sounds like you have a lot to do,” I said.
“I do have a lot to do. And it’s all in my book.” She described it, an autobiography, and everything she knew about this city was going to be in it.
“Don’t you know how life just comes around. But you know, the worst racism I ever experienced has been in the last five years. Yes, right here in this city.”
“This city,” I said shaking my head. “Who does this?
“Samoans, Asians, Whites, Blacks. They call you “b” word. ‘F’ word. I’ve never been called a nigger more times than here. And you know who’s the worst? The worst are the Russians. They just hate black people. I hear it all the time, again and again. ‘Get outta here nigger,’ they’ll say. ‘Get off this bus, nigger.’ “
And that’s about the time she got to Him and how He was keeping her going. “I don’t know why. He must have some plan because he coulda gotten rid a me a long time ago. You know that. But He’s got some desire for me and I’m trying to find that. So I just get outta bed every mornin’ and go on about my business.”
She said she’d had a revelation some years before. “I hear voices, someone is always talkin’ in my head, but you can tell the difference, there’s a special voice that speaks and it’s like nothing else, it’s clear as a bell and once you’ve heard that voice you never doubt again.”
I wanted her to go on, to reassure me, to send me God’s blessing, but she had to go. Baby wasn’t out the door yet. “Baby, you look like the sun just came up,” she said. “What’s your name again?” she asked me. I told her. “Well, I’ve really enjoyed talkin’ to you tonight.” I have too, I said. “I’ll think about what you said, but you think about what I said. Bye bye now.”
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