samedi, novembre 19, 2005

Intergalactic Anti-Jingo Bloodsuckers

Activists and Protestors: your time has come.

Days past, you were marginalized--even trivialized. Your genuine concern for the miserable state of the world was taken as your personal quest to make everyone else as miserable as yourself. No longer.

They gave you dismissive titles like "Flower" and "Children." They misinterpreted your odor. They Co-opted your music for advertising. They turned the mechanism of Capitalism against you. They wrote the local paper and jeered your grotesquely enlarged photos of abortions in letters to the editor.

You were relegated to nostalgia.
You became precious.
Your screaming from the legally cordonned "Protest Area" felt muted and sepia toned, like those photos of you in magazine retrospectives. And you were left to wonder, "I used to be so shrill . . ."

You couldn't stop integration. Or illegal immigration. You couldn't rid the world of poverty and war. No matter how loud and long you sounded the alarm, people still ate whatever they wanted, watched all the wrong television programs, and circumcised their male children. Pornography ran rough shod all over you. The Cubans and the North Vietnamese stopped returning your calls.

"Don't go!" you cried, as people unthinkably went on with their lives. The clamor of living and the tyrannical cacophony of comfort drowned out your pithiest chants, obscured the view they should have had of your soul bearing signage.
"But I'm so angry and conscious! . . ." your voice trailed off, "it used to count for something."

Don't stand for this. You will not be ignored.
The time has come to lift up your head. People may have long since stopped squinting at your bumper stickers, but your voice can still be heard. Why should you be the only one burning to a crisp as the unfiltered sun beats down through the tattered remnants of the ozone layer? Why should you be forced to warn teenagers about homosexuals from the obscurity of your lawn chair? Rise up!

You who single handedly prevented the otherwise inevitable nuclear holocaust of the 1980's were not meant to be a mere footnote in history. Rise up and take your rightful place lording over people who live and work quietly and get their consciousness fix from helping others. That kind of selfishness can't go on forever. The wind blows, the pages turn. It may have taken her several months, but Cindy did finally manage to get arrested.

So take heart. The sun also rises. An old day is dawning. The pendulum is swinging. Divisive galvanization will be cool again. Haves and have-nots alike will soon be ready to hear once more how seriously screwed up everything is.

Open wide.

lundi, octobre 24, 2005


Sometimes, this world can really get you down. You get surrounded, engulfed, swallowed up in the cacophony--the idiocy--the punditry.
Events--or, rather, gross misinterpretations of what might be events--swirl around your head. Ignorant, one sided, venomous journalists stand on the roof tops of the flooded city of your mind and pelt you with sharp objects. The only question you get answered on the news is: What if Chicken Little had been a rattle snake?
Meanwhile, lost in the fray of oversimplified, overglorified, lukewarm ignorance, there are a few beautifully good people out there, mixing it up with a fiesty minority of truly nefarious evil people. The lukewarm majority chaffs under their title ("INFERIOR"). And somehow the prevailing doctrine becomes: trivialize the whole deal by making politics the dividing line.

And you open your mouth to scream and either nothing comes out, or nobody hears (which is worse).
Or you raise your hand to say something, and all you hear is that horrifying, indecipherable horn sound that Charlie Brown's teacher makes, and you realize you just don't speak the world's language. And you start to feel like a note that God wrote in the margin.

Then, at some unpredictable juncture, the clouds part, and light shines through in glorious clarity.
For me, this happened the other day when I dropped my keys. I bent down to pick them up, and noticed, for the first time, a really pleasant sensation.
The fabric of my pants had some stretch to it.
It made bending over a whole new experience. And I realized: These are the girls pants.
And I wondered: Where has this fabulous stretchy corduroy been all my life? The perfect cut, the perfect color and texture--AND they give a little when I need it? Shame on you, ladies, for keeping this miracle to yourselves.

Or, maybe not. It isn't for me to say who should be let into the circle and when. Really, the pants found me. It's not like I was out looking for girl pants. Even when they found me, I was wrong about what they had to offer. But here I am, finally taking that vital step past the mock enlightenment of "my ass is as hot as the day is long," to a greater truth: I am comfortable.
I don't know if the Universe put them in the men's section of my local Salvation Army on purpose. It would be presumptuous to assume such specificity in the grand scheme. But I do know this: I would never have come to the pants in their so-called "natural place." They had to come to me. This doesn't mean I'll be shopping in the women's section. But I will be keeping my eyes, and my mind, open.

Surely there are more battles to fight, more hills to climb, more barbs to endure, and more philosphical incongruencies to unravel. There is ignorance, and evil, in ever increasing quantities, encroaching daily upon the sanity of us all. But each time I bend over, I'll feel the Universe reminding me:
"No matter what else happens, child, you've experienced perfection in this fallen world. Treasure that, my child. Treasure it."

dimanche, octobre 09, 2005

I Have Thrust My Sword into the Arena of Ideas . . . or, My Existence Has Been Encapsulated Just Above My Exhaust Pipe

Bumper Sticker Conundrum Kills Three.
Three motorists were killed, and several more injured, in a multi-car pile up Wednesday afternoon. Police on the scene said the accident was the result of a "particularly inane" bumper sticker.
Roger Cralen, who received only minor injuries, which were treated on the scene, was interviewed by police as his wife was life-flighted to Sutter Roseville ER.
"This old Volkswagen passed us and we noticed the bumper sticker that said 'honk if you hate bumper stickers that say honk if you love something.' I was about to honk, because I really hate those bumper stickers. But my wife pointed out that by honking, I was sort of
approving of those bumper stickers. The next thing we knew we were flying over the center divide."
When the Cralen's vehicle careened into oncoming traffic, they were side-swiped by a stickerless SUV which subsequently rolled accross several lanes before coming to a halt on top of a Geo Metro, whose only bumper sticker was the controversial "Mean People Suck." These two vehicles were then smashed into the fast lane by a Lincoln Continental with too many bumper stickers to name, most of which had something to do with "boogers." Medical officials on the scene reported that the drivers of all three vehilcles, (whose names are being withheld until the families can be notified), were killed instantly. At least 12 other cars had locked bumpers as traffic along the I-80 corridor came to a total stand still. Bush/Cheney stickers smashed into their Kerry/Edwards counterparts, and the driver of a "pro-choice" Honda was found pinned beneath the back wheel of a Toyota Prius bearing the Jesus Fish with the Darwin legs.

Emergency crews were able to open the far right lane as police began taking reports from eye-witnesses and victims, but progress was slow due to rubbernecking and the occasional gesture made towards one of the victim's anti war stickers.
"I don't know what's worse," said Mr. Cralen before being escorted to the hospital, "the rubbernecking or all these goddamn bumper stickers. There ought to be a law."
Police on the scene refused to lay blame for the disaster, saying only that the insurance companies will decide who is at fault, and that bumper stickers are still legal in Placer County.

The Volkswagen that allegedly caused the accident could not be located.

dimanche, septembre 18, 2005

Ear Tags

Go ahead, say it. You'll be doing us all a favor.

We were about to start the tagging and tracking program. But identification remained a dilemma. "Where to start?" the interns said. "And what if, in our haste, we tag the wrong person?"

Judging human potential is as morally wrong as it is mathematically unsound. Hence the tracking that follows the tagging. We assume that at some future point you might well have something to contribute. But we can't have you fooling people into giving anything you have to offer any credence. You must be tagged, if only to warn potential listeners. The identification was to be based on a combination of factors: your musical tastes; your blind acceptance of dogmatic jargon from any source; your susceptibility to propaganda from either side; your bumper stickers; ETC.

It was a complex social algorithm that involved hundreds of hours before we could even tranquilize you and attach the tracking tag to your ear. The Operation was on the verge of becoming prohibitively expensive.

But you just saved us the trouble.

By suggesting that America caused or allowed populated areas to flood on the basis of race, by shooting off charges of racism in a time when people should be coming together, you have labeled yourself officially "Irrelevant to the Public Discourse." If you have recently used a natural disaster to make political hay of any kind, you can expect a brief reprieve while a minor jurisdictional dispute is settled. Just bear in mind: it is highly probable that the "Loathsome Mass of Putrid Sludge Where Your Soul Should Be" tagging study will get to you first.

We appreciate your assistance in this matter. The tagging teams have been dispatched. Enjoy your time in the cellar beneath the Arena of Ideas. We look forward to your reinstatement in what is most likely the very distant future.

vendredi, août 26, 2005

Learn a new word everyday.

The word of the day is PIMPNOTIZE.

It refers to the mental effect a dope-ass pimp has on his humble employees. When a ho can't say no, even when she know he a bad man. She been pimpnotized.

By extension, if a non pimp has mesmerized you in any way, and you have, against your better judgment, complied with his wishes in any way--you may have been pimpnotized.

You might hear it pronounced with an M. Pimp-mo-tized. This is accepted, and in some places may even be the predominant usage, but it is, technically, an linguistical error. Pay close attention, whereas in some areas it may behoove you to adopt the local pronunciation.

It is considered poor decorum for a man to refer to himself as a pimpnotizer. This title should only be conferred by the pimpnotized, and to claim the title on one's own can only mean that one is, as it were, compensating.

The word can be particularly effective when attempting to warn a friend of her imminent descension into an unhealthy relation, or relationship. As in, "Baby, don't let yourself be pimpnotized by this loser! He flash alotta bling, but he ain't no good!"

Immediate implementation is encouraged.


vendredi, juillet 29, 2005

The President is Dumb

Guess what? The President is dumb!

(In this place, I would traditionally insert some attempt at comedy, or insight, or some combination of the two. But given the genius--the originality--of the opening line, I see fit to pause, and bask in the white hot light of my discovery.)

This president is so dumb . . .

(Listen as the audience thirstily laps up the cavalcade. "How dumb is he?" you ask, bursting at the seems. The expectation is palpable. Nowhere have you seen such incisive wit. You've heard him flub lines. You saw him holding the book upside down. But no one thought to make a joke out of it! The combination of surprise and thanks turns the masses into mush. I don't even need to make the chimp comparisons, not that it would be redundant--certainly it wouldn't! It would sparkle fresh like the opening zinger, but I need to move on to something with even more show stopping glitter on it.)


(Go ahead, faint. Take a breath. It's OK. I know you didn't see it coming. I don't even need to state the joke. The deft originality of the framework is enough. So many people--certainly the idiots who have met him or spent any time with him--forget that he is, in very fact, an evil rich white guy. At this point you'll forgive a brief pat on my own back. I could have directed my trenchant tongue to some easy target, some rampaged comedic territory so well traveled by others. But no: I took the hard, insightful road. The high road. You know, it isn't easy breaking ground. PS: You're Welcome!)

Bill Clinton was an overweight womanizer!

(Didn't know that either, did you! For eight years of the previous administration you sat back, and, while you couldn't elucidate your thoughts, deep down, your silent self wondered quietly "Why is no one making fun of the President's weight, or his penchant for turning every woman within the reach of his greasy hilbilly fingers into a sexual object?" And then here I come out of nowhere, busting loose with a dirty/fat joke--in the same sentence! I'll wait a moment while you to regain your composure. I don't even have time for my Pakistani-QuickyMart-Owner impression--we'll have to take on the threat of global terrorism later)

If only we could combine the best qualities of the last two presidents. Think of the Evil-Rich-Fat-Womanizing-Dumbass jokes that could be told!

Alas, I would be the only one telling them.

vendredi, juillet 08, 2005

Fawlty Towers

The Supreme Court just put every house in America up for sale.
I was distressed about this. But buns cradled gently in stretchy black corduroy cannot long clench, nor quiver. Soon enough, a little voice whispered: "You do not live on prime, hotel ready property."
If only we could amend the law to stipulate that any hotel built on eminent domain property be run by a Basil Fawlty kind of character, with a documented minimum for wacky antics and subtle class commentary, I would have no problem whatsoever with the Court's decision.
The problem is that there really is only one John Cleese (as John Laroquette so unfortunately proved), and such a wealth of eminently seizable hotel-ready property. I don't think Mr. Cleese is up to running a hotel any more. He is currently enjoying pretty sweet retirement, living off royalties and occasionally posting a blog about how stupid Americans are. He might be induced to invest in the Supreme Court Inn & Resort hotel chain, but if he's not personally running the hotel, then count me out.

I just keep wondering: Was the seized house an eyesore? Seriously, because there are some real dumps behind my house in our otherwise charming little Colfax neighborhood. I'm quite sure that a lovely Bed & Breakfast with a quaint garden fountain would be in the best interests of our town. But then the little voice returns, and reminds me that, sadly, the Supreme Court hotel chain will most like not have my town on their acquisition list.
If we're lucky, this new interpretation of the Constitution might someday result in the seizing of ugly houses that are detrimental to property values.

That's my problem. I want freedom for everyone except the low income white trash shack dwellers and their unsightly TV antennae that sully my view of the canyon.

Maybe if Ben Franklin had left Jefferson's original "Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of PROPERTY" line alone, we wouldn't be having to fret about this.

samedi, juin 18, 2005

This Time I'm Not Wearing ANY Pants

Finish these sentences.

1) If everyone who disagrees with you has been "duped," or "fooled," or otherwise misled, then . . .

2) People who automatically assume that everyone who disagrees with them is their enemy are . . .

3) When someone has a positive view about a politician I happen to despise, I can safely assume they are . . .

4) A knee jerk reaction of any sort proves that an invividual is . . .

You are being graded.

I took a recent Bill Moyers speech, and switched around two or three of his repeated points and catch phrases. Read it again and you have a classic Rush Limbaugh monologue. The fact that both men--not to mention their many devotees--would be offended by this little excercise is baffling. Don't blame me. I don't write their stuff.

You might hear people railing against the news, judging others by where they get theirs. One group will trash another for watching Fox News, or listening to AM Radio. Ask them: Where do you get your news? The Daily Show. It's like a monkey looking in a mirror.

News was, ostensibly, facts, right?. How can there be two sides to facts? Since when do we need a network,a radio host, or a comedian, interpreting for us? I like the competition between the networks, but I wonder exactly what they're competing for? Ratings is the most obvious answer, but that doesn't seem to cover it. An event unrolls the same no matter whose camera is on it. Why should they frame it for us? Trusting any of them makes you a fool. John Stewart might be a very intelligent man, and one of the finest comedic minds of the new millenium, but, like Limbaugh, he still says one thing with his mouth, and quite another with his ass. "Don't take me for the news, this is comedy! Oh, by the way, all the news networks are screwed up, so, between you and me . . ."

Political affiliations bloomed so that one person could say to another: "We have a fundamentally different philosophy." Then the two would shake hands and hope that whichever philosophy was implemented by the majority would achieve thier fundamentally identical goals for the common good, as the two working together kept each other in check. (I know this is an oversimplification, but anyone looking at the roots is bound to say they are an oversimplification of the tree.) Modern partisanship exists only to allow its denizens to formulate and verbalize a boat load of ridiculous, irresponsible assumptions and stereotypes. That is the full extent of your political affiliations in the year 2005. Sorry.
My brother tells me "Air America gives quotes, they let people crucify themselves. Listen to right wing radio, they only give their interpretation, they rarely use actual soundbites." So I took a day off from belting out Keane songs at the top of my lungs and took a listen. It took less than half an hour before the righties had played 4 or 5 soundbites from their "enemies" in their entirety, and quoted several more. My brother is an intelligent person. One of the most intelligent I know. I'm sure he wouldn't let himself fall into the category of people who constantly, openly berate and despise entities like Fox News--until you embarass them by asking how much Fox News they actually watch. (I don't watch it either, but when you bore me with how evil you think it is, you give me the right to ask if your opinion is based on anything.)

Truly, there are unfortunate results when humble, searching intelligence takes a back seat to ideology.

For instance, you might assume that Republicans are racist, forgetting that African Americans were predominantly republican until Nixon. You might assume that Democrats want your tax money, forgetting that Kennedy was one of the bigger tax cutting presidents of all time. Republicans are anti environment? A republican gave us the EPA. The list goes on and on.
The advantage of the two party system was that there was a party of increased government, and a party of limited government. (Peripheral social issues were to be relegated, for the most part, to non government.) That reasonable and necessary dichotomy no longer exists. If you still think there are dynamic differences in the political modus of either party, just wait.

One side of your mind can't stay on vacation forever.

At some point the social splinter issues you have permitted to define your political affiliation will switch sides, and you will open both eyes, and hear yourself saying:

"Wait a minute! Politics is supposed to be about GOVERNMENT."

Or you might open the other ear, and hear honest people saying what they earnestly believe, and realize they are not evil, or even ignorant, but searching, like you, for the greater good. You'll find that a republican doesn't hate Mother Earth. That democrats don't necessarily want to go around ripping the fetuses out of pregnant women. That no one is really Pro-war. Or pro-abortion. Or anti-woman. Or anti-environment. Surely, there are evil people on both sides. And there is trash on both sides. But the selfishness and blindness of such people make them historically irrelevant (not to mention mean spirited, loud, ridiculous, and very often fashionable).

It should make them politically irrelevant as well, but it doesn't.

Because we keep falling for their tripe.

dimanche, juin 05, 2005

The Dark Side of the Force

It became apparent that at least two thematic elements of the postings were diametrically opposed. Blogs such as The Apricot Tree are now in better company on another blog, called Leavings.

This dealio is for girl's pants and related sass. Take it or leave it.

But for those who perseverate, there may be a gold sequined G-string in your future. What else do you wear under pants like these?

Has anyone seen that photo being circulated on the "Internet" of two Iraqi children, holding a sign that reads: "Still safer here than at Michael Jackson's house."

There is an American Soldier yukking in the background. I suppose one's take on it depends entirely upon whether you thrice daily crap your pants over who is president, or not. As a public service, we hereby provide sundry captions you can attach to the photo if you are unfortunate enough to have a "friend" who loves you enough to send it to you.

Version 1: Funny--but when Michael is acquitted and his comeback is complete, you'll be eating those words.

Version 2: When Michael releases his groundbreaking Live from Folsom Prison album, you'll jump right back on the bandwagon.

Version 3: Those boys have nothing to worry about, they're too brown for Michael.

Version 4: The military is just trying to innoculate you against the horrific injustice of their upcoming attack on the Neverland Ranch.

Version 5: So the WMD's were hidden in the Neverland Ranch all along?

Version 6: Is that a soldier or a Daily Show correspondent?

Version 7: A recently leaked memo from the Pentagon reveals the depth and scope of this embarrasing cover up. The soldier in the photo is a minute man, and the so-called Iraqi children are actually migrant workers from Mexico.

Version 8: I didn't know we had threatened them with weekends at Michael Jackson's (now THAT's propaganda!).

Version 9: "Dearest Michael, This little picture is the way the Illuminati have chosen to inform you that your application for membership has been officially rejected. Sorry Michael, you're out. No more cuddle parties with W and the rest of the Evil Whities you've tried so desperately to join. You've just got too much baggage, man. And they were starting to wonder if your contact with the Aliens wasn't just a little trumped up on your application. Shouldn't they have ended this trial with fire from above already? If you are indeed acquitted, you can re-apply in 6 months, but the standard 25 million dollar filing fee will again be applied. In the mean time, please cease and desist any and all contact with Saddam Hussein."

I have to get a haircut.


samedi, mai 07, 2005

From the Protocol Department

The answer to non-questions is now yes.

This directive, from the departmental noncompartmentalism committee,
should reduce the backlog from the protocol department.

In the event that deliberations merit a reversal of the above directive, it should not be assumed that an opposite protocol (i.e. the answer to non-questions being
will be implemented. Rather, in the event that a non-question is
not asked, various forms of silence will be considered appropriate, as outlined
in previous directives.

Employees should review the silence protocols, so as to avoid using a form of
silence that has not been approved by the appropriate committee.

Authorities in this sector are vigilant.

Thank You

mercredi, avril 06, 2005


Open Letter from the desk of MexiCorp CEO David M. Black:

The Third World has been swirling around the bowl for half a century now. The time has come to either save it--and clean up the mess--or flush it down. Considering their debt, their abject lack of anything resembling technology, and the unwashed ignorance their proletariat, many have predicted the fall and utter ruin of third world nations--giving up to despair, conceeding defeat.

Not so at MexiCorp.

A dynamic conglomerate of venture capitalists and corporate partners has banded together to purchase the struggling nations, beginning with the closest: Mexico. Absorbing their debt and assuming cotrol of all their infrastructure, such as it is, MexiCorp and its shareholders will become the sole proprietors of the nation, transforming it from a faltering political entity into a corporate dynamo. MexiCorp will also become the caretaker of the rich cultural texture of this abused principality, and will retain the most marketable aspects of their history and traditions within the brand structure and graphic identity of the operation.

The former citizens of Mexico will recieve unanimous immediate preliminary status as employees of the corporation, with attendant benefits. All will then be subject to a performance review. Sadly, it is not feasable to retain all employees. Those deemed redundant or feckless will be given a severance package and two weeks notice. If they wish to list MexiCorp on their resume as they seek opportunities elsewhere, MexiCorp will be happy to provide a positive reference.
Given the sheer scope of corporate land holdings, we foresee the necessary relocation of several employees to areas of the operation deemed more cost effective. Those who do not wish to relocate can trade percentages of their 401K for property rights in locations deemed suitable by the board.

The corporate headquarters will be moved from Mexico City to Puerto Vallarta, where there is ample hotel space and more hygienic recreation for the executive body, which will be flying in from sundry American cities with great regularity.

During the first three months directly following the takeover/buyout, MexiCorp will be closed for repurposing. At the completion of this process, tourists will again be welcomed as part of the "MexiCorp Welcomes YOU" advertising junket.

There is still time to invest in this exciting venture. Obtain a prospectus at our current headquarters in Atlanta Georgia, or visit our website,


David Black

mardi, avril 05, 2005

partisans and idealogues

I am in love with partisans and idealogues. They make me feel smart. I used to admire anyone with the stones to choose up sides. But both sides have become so thoroughly and equally ridiculous--the alienation is now delicious. The middle of the road is just as ugly, and non partisans were once relegated there. But the hot, fetid, rancorous and ignorant breath expelled by both sides now has the effect of billowing up the balloon of the observer. Breathing the purer air, one sees the abject foolishness of modern partisanship. All of it.

Michael Moore and Rush Limbaugh are the same person. Ever seen them in a picture together?

Partisans on both sides have sucked the comedy out of the process. Leftist comedy is merely propaganda in a pitiful disguise. Rightists are rarely funny outside their little circles. And the aforementioned rancorous, fetid, ignorant breath from both sides obtrudes real laughter. So there you are. Go there at your peril. The Onion pulls it off. But they have been at it for a century.

Even Poetry suffers: in the Holier-than-Thou area of the world where poetry readings and the like are likely to occur, one begins to wonder how delightfully politically charged the scene is going to be before it implodes. This exceeds politics now. This is a poetic misgiving. If people are going to use this venue to propound their politicality, then it is a desecration of poetry that I have no interest in. Orpheus did not charm the trees into uprooting themselves by expressing his love or hatred for any political figure or matter.

In short: POLITICAL POETRY IS NOT POETRY. IT IS FECAL MATTER. And I'd rather flush it down than clean if from my ears.

It would take too long to formulate a full exposition, but I should clarify that I fear no opinion, and revel in the earnest expression of a well founded one. But poetry being sacred, we must ensure that the practioners thereof are pure in heart. Assuming eloquence, a lady with the tribute to the fighting boys, whether she leaned to the right or left, has a place. Greenday's American Idiot is compelling. It's a delicate issue, to be sure. Art is what the artist says it is. Poetry embraces all of life. But the poetic impetus is absolutely opposed to the political modus. Mixing them destroys one or the other, and it is usually the poetry that dies. Much of what is out there is interesting. Maybe even worth a listening. But it is decidedly antipoetical.

People must have and express opinions. The process is dynamic, necessary. Even beautiful. But the majority of today's entrants in the "Arena of Ideas" are so unqualified as to make the entire exchange ridiculous. I like subversive, but only when it is substantive. Let ideas be lived, and lived in, rather than ranted. That's where Morrissey lost me. He used to be a poet. He described. He took a deep feeling or an event and put it in a poetic context that the listener had to decipher, but was beautiful even if one didn't get it. Now he simply pontificates.

Emily observed:
Tell all the truth--but tell it slant

Poet types might generally lean, in their views, to the left. But true poets, in their poetry, lean ONLY toward poetry. In this sense, poets, and poets only, are to be forgiven for channeling thoughts through narrow banks.
A similar focus, when brought to bear in the form of partisanship, makes a mind like a car with the tires deflated on one side or the other. A passenger in such a car only wants out. Onlookers would be wise to give it a wide berth.

I am now officially bereft of sass. Time to put on the pants.

mardi, mars 29, 2005

it is time

It is time to tell the story of the women's pants.

It starts with a political movement, which is a good deal like a bowel movement, minus the satisfaction. It was called "NOT ONE DAMN DIME DAY." It came to me by e-mail. It was supposed to cripple the economy, which, apparently, is the only way to bring innocent Iraqis back to life. It might even bring back the Saddam Hussein magical mystery tour. I had to at least consider it.

Not one damn dime. Underground, baby. They had me at "not."

Most of the planning was easy. Whereas I live a contemplative, almost monastic life, stopping the simple spending was, well, simple. But I'm nothing if not thorough. Not one dime, they said. And they meant it.

Not one damn dime for credit cards, which I payed off so as not to accrue interest on the 20th. Hope you all did the same. And the mortgage--more interest. Payed that off as well, knowing there was a movement behind me doing likewise. Called PG&E, told them to shut off my power for the day. But they left me uncertain as to whether or not they could honor my request. And the PCWA. (Water isn't free!) They said, "just don't use it." Which made sense, but took all the wind out of the symbolism. Or the symbolism out of the wind. Or both. Still, I was on a roll. This was not going to be some empty gesture. I asked the IRS if they would kindly hold off on taxing me for the paycheck I was to receive by direct deposit on the 20th, but they would have none of it.

So I decided to forget it. I'm an all or nothing kind of guy. If I can't go all the way with something, then never mind. I went to work Thursday wishing that futility was more convenient.

But then something magical happened: Women's Pants. I had discovered this really great pair of pants by Dickies. A delicious cut. Very sexy. I purchased them straightway and took them home. But as I tried them on, I realized: My ass looks way hot in these pants. Too hot. I had to wonder what was up. I noticed there were no back pockets. Only when my brain at length gave up on figuring out how people can live in a world of pocketless pants did I realize my error. Without further thought, I lamented the loss of the pants, and decided to give them to my hot wife.
Thursday morning, I was down about not being able to participate in the protest. I was envying all those who were somehow able to live up to the high ideals of mass forwarded e-mail activism. The pants seemed to speak to me: "If sexy clothes can't cheer you up, nothing can." So I decided to wear them. Caution to the wind. Total freedom. A little protest of my own. Why should the ladies get all the great gear? So I put them on, and went to work--feeling sassy, even though I KNEW that all my beloved brother and sister protesters where skipping work that day, so as not to enable or necessitate the exchange of ONE DAMN DIME.

Work was blah blah blah as usual.
The magic happened on the way home.
I stopped for a treat. (All the compliments I got on the pants had made me a little hungry.) I put it on the counter and reached for my wallet. But there was no wallet. There was not even a pocket wherein to place a wallet. Only a perfectly cradled and lusciously framed buttock. The irony hit me right away. Here I was, thumbing my nose at the protest, forced to participate in it by my own escapism. My participation was minor, but the solidarity I felt with really unhappy people all over the country surged in my veins. This was not a day to go down quietly. Our voices would be heard.
On any other day I might have simply lied to the clerk and said I forgot my wallet.

But not this day.

I thought of all the money he had taken in from all the fat cats and war mongers that had come through the 7-11. I looked him in the eye, and said, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the store to hear:

"Sorry. I can't make this purchase. Not today. You see, I don't have my wallet." I turned and lifted my shirt, showing him my pocketless rear. "THESE ARE WOMEN'S PANTS! THEY DON'T HAVE POCKETS!"

I left that store with my head held high, feeling--no, KNOWING--

I made a difference.

samedi, mars 26, 2005


This is too daunting to tackle--everyone is doing it. I can't get my head around it.
I don't have a stream of conciousness.
I don't have a witty anecdote.
I don't have a desire to connect or to alleviate suffering by sharing.
Or a penchant for observation. Or insight.

None of it. An element of blank.

I have pretension (where there should be humility). And judgement (where there might have been forgiveness). Sleep deprivation (which is a much better rush than simple fatigue).

And years of wanting to tell it all slantways--that have culminated in a fond wish to not.

I really do think I'll just start posting my poetry from high school.

samedi, février 12, 2005

Happy Birthday to Me

I, Scott Namanny, am the luckiest man ever to wear girl pants. Why? Because my friends are the most kind and generous people a fetishist such as myself could ever hope to know. Not only did they buy me an iPod, dancing girls, and A NEW CAR!!! for my birthday, but they each donated a kidney as well. The only thing that could make this day better would be tickets to this year's Burning Man.