I could once veer effortlessly from reggae to country to punk to old Rogers & Hammerstein to RED DETACHMENT OF WOMEN (which was especially fun to listen to, if you consider the fact that Richard Nixon was forced to sit through it and even applaud afterwards) and then start all over again. Last year, I finally sold the ancient vinyl record collection (which you may remember I threatened to do HERE), and was embarrassed to find GUY LOMBARDO AND HIS ROYAL CANADIANS, good Lord, where did THAT come from?
For every White Light, White Heat (which made local collector/entrepreneur Gene Berger's heart go pitty-pat when he saw it), there was something goofy like HEAVY METAL TOP HITS, which featured B-sides nobody ever heard of, they weren't top hits at all. Scanning the cover, I realized I bought it dirt cheap just to listen to Golden Earring's RADAR LOVE.
At left: poster advertising the famous communist opera/ballet, RED DETACHMENT OF WOMEN. It sounds pretty much like you think it does.
I find it difficult to listen to new music now, in the proper open-eared fashion. At first, didn't think much of this, but later, I worried. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? I think we know the name for it: its called getting old.
I have lost so many of my favorite musicians recently, age and death are unavoidably on my mind. David Bowie lived on the edge for years, so it was not as surprising that he didn't hit age 70, although still heartbreaking. But Prince? He was a vegan, didn't even drink. And (take note) he is YOUNGER THAN ME. I repeat, YOUNGER THAN ME. People younger than me ain't supposed to die. Alarming and saddening.
Also alarming and saddening, regarding the musical tastes of aging people, here is a fascinating account of some research by Stanford University neuroscience professor (and great author) Robert Sapolsky:
[Sapolsky], irritated by his young administrative assistant’s eclectic taste in music, tested whether there are maturational time windows during which we form cultural tastes. He and his research assistants called oldies radio stations, sushi restaurants in the Midwest, and body-piercing parlors and asked the managers when their service was introduced, and how old their average customer was. They found that if you’re more than thirty-five years old when a style of popular music is introduced there’s a greater than ninety-five per cent chance that you will never choose to listen to it. For sushi restaurants, the window of receptivity closed by age thirty-nine; for body-piercing, by twenty-three. The findings were reminiscent of studies that show that creativity declines with age. These studies also indicate that great creative minds not only are less likely to generate something new but are less open to someone else’s novelty. Einstein, in his later years, fought a rear-guard action against quantum mechanics.
Psychologist Dean Keith Simonton has shown that the decline in creativity and openness among great minds isn’t predicted by age so much as by how long people have worked in one discipline. Scholars who switch disciplines seem to have their openness rejuvenated. That may be because a new discipline seems fresh and original, or because a high achiever in one discipline is unusually open to novelty in the first place. Or maybe changing disciplines really does stimulate the mind’s youthful openness to novelty. Or it may just be that established generations resist new discoveries because they have the most to lose by them. The explanation is not neurological: in most brain regions there isn’t any dramatic neuron loss as we get older, and there is no such thing as a novelty center in the brain. Given that aging contracts neural networks and makes cognition more repetitive, it would be a humane quirk of evolution if we were reassured by that repetition. There may even be some advantage for social groups if their aging members become protective archivists of their cultural inheritance.
But the writer remains dispirited by the impoverishment that comes with this closing of the mind to novelty. If there’s a rich, vibrant world out there, he figures it’s worth putting up a bit of a fight, even it means forgoing Bob Marley’s greatest hits every now and then.
It also seems important to listen to as much different music as you can before this cultural "window" closes.
The problem isn't just that the window seems to close, but that we haven't seen everything out that wide window first... therefore, expand those boundaries as far as you can. Best advice would appear to be: Listen to it all when you are young and have open-ears.
RED DETACHMENT OF WOMEN still doesn't annoy me the way it does most people... and its undoubtedly because I heard it so many times as a young pup, even if I WAS forced by the Progressive Labor Party.
And what would the eager young comrades in this 70s, old-school Maoist opera-ballet company say if they saw modern, hyper-capitalist China? Relieved, upset, suicidal, happy? The opera is the sound of a whole nother China, which sounds more familiar to me than today's China... just as I feel oddly warm and cozy when I see now-extinct cold-war thrillers on TV: Its all over now kids, at least the worst! Whew, was that some shit or what?
Entertainment like The Hunt for Red October used to stop my heart, and now I am thinking: I never noticed how Sean Connery's Russian accent needs some work.
I have now seen Guardians of the Galaxy twice, in both 2D and 3D. And it still ticks me off that, yes, the BADDEST BITCH IN THE UNIVERSE, Gamora (played by Zoe Saldana), has to be rescued by A MAN, and a hapless one at that. Good Lord. Is there NO ESCAPE????
Well, maybe not from Marvel Universe... but there are these cool things called INDIE MOVIES, and I now hereby recommend one: Europa Report was sheer joy from beginning to end.
I had almost forgotten how old shows like The Twilight Zone and the early Star Trek were made: on the cheap, with the emphasis on provocative, interesting scripts, excellent acting and cool, otherworldly ideas. Europa Report (2013) reminds us that IDEAS and DRAMA are behind good sci-fi, and no amount of razzle-dazzle special effects can take the place of these compelling and enthralling story-telling elements.
Europa Report was made on a scant budget (less than $10 million) and occasionally, it does seem like it. But the whole concept of watching an upload of the first mission to Jupiter's icy moon Europa (a mission by a private company, of course) is a creative way around not having the razzle-dazzle. As in the original version of ALIEN, we are watching the everyday blahblahblah-boredom of a long space mission, where people might easily become stir crazy and act silly. And then shit happens, somebody goes drifting off into space (I hate it when that happens), and we are suddenly reminded of the tenuousness of life, especially millions of miles away, "sitting in a tin can"--as in David Bowie's famous lyric.
The landing on Europa is terrifying. I felt almost-dizzy watching from that point onward, but in a good, delicious way. I could identify with the crew, who kept saying how they couldn't believe they had actually arrived and how long they had dreamed of it, how long they had waited. As I said in my review of Another Earth, I looooove invented-scenery of enormous planets in the sky, and they give us a great view of Jupiter-in-eclipse, which they see from their landing site on Europa. They are nearly hypnotized by it, as I surely would be.
And one of the best things? When it seems their landing site is on ice too thick to get the samples (the whole reason for the trip), one of the women crew-members announces she is walking out onto the ice to get it herself. NO MAN HAS TO DO IT! It's not even a man's IDEA! Praise the Lord, a woman decides to save the mission! Huzzahs! (And she isn't even the baddest bitch in the universe, as Gamora is, but just another scientist.)
The crew's collective devotion to the mission, in and of itself, is intense and moving; in fact, it is quite wonderful. I often think the science-freaks (those irreverent atheists) have no respect for anything, but after seeing this movie, I get it: they respect the scientific process above all else, even above their own lives. The sample-collector (played by Karolina Wydra) doesn't know if radiation will fry her out there on Europa's surface, but dammit, they need the specimens and she plunges out onto the strange unearthly ice with no hesitations whatsoever. Her voice quavers with emotion when she finds a small one-celled creature in the ice, which she says appears Precambrian. It is like they have found God or something, and it is hard not to imagine the emotional intensity of seeing such a thing, close-up and for real. The acting is fantastic and always believable.
I don't want to ruin it for you, but the ending is brilliant and understated, both scary and amazing (terrifying and wonderful, said some reviewer I now can't find to link). Science is like that, right? The closing of one door and the blasting open of still another you never even knew existed. You can't go back, once you know.
And did I mention that this lovely understated but brilliant ending is made possible by (more huzzahs!) another woman crew member who ain't scared? (And let's be clear: by this point in the story, I would be a raving hysterical maniac, so that is truly saying something.) I can't tell you how proud of her I was.
Just as we involuntarily grimace when Gamora needs rescue (and try to forget that we just saw the baddest bitch in the universe floating around like zero-gravity-Sleeping Beauty, waiting for Chris Pratt to scoop her up in his manly arms), we are unaccountably PROUD when these Europa women kick some scientific ass and do important stuff without waiting for men to tell them.
This tells us how far we have to go.
Check out the movie. If you like drama and don't need a bunch of bells and whistles (as I admit Guardians of the Galaxy has a parcel of em), you won't be disappointed. If you have ever had intense dreams or fantasies of visiting other planets, you will find it mesmerizing, and it will stay with you a long time.
The women come out great, but the science is the thing. It's the real star.
[] The South Carolina primary is Tuesday, June 12th... and we currently have a HUGE political mess with about 200 candidates thrown off the ballot. There appears to be no end to what Governor Haley has called a "sham"--a sham that (it should be noted) occurred totally on her watch.
The terribly-infectious li-li-li's at the end of this song, have gotten me through lots of heavy traffic, blood donations and similar unpleasant events. They shall undoubtedly follow me as I am lowered into the grave. :)
First up, Senator Rick Santorum, family man, is another morally-bankrupt fake. (Nah, go on! Say it isn't so!) Check out Politico's Santorum: Ultimate D.C. insider:
Rick Santorum received a troubling email in 2009, when he was working as a Fox News analyst — an aggrieved husband was accusing Sen. John Ensign, Santorum’s friend and former Republican colleague, of having an extramarital affair with the aide’s wife.
Santorum quickly tipped off Ensign that the man was threatening to go public with the scandal, a move that set in motion a chain of events that allowed Ensign to get ahead of the news by presenting his version of the story first.
For anyone who knows Santorum, his decision to protect Ensign was not surprising. During his 16 years on Capitol Hill, Santorum developed close personal ties with Republican lawmakers, became immersed in the inner workings of the Senate, climbed the ladder of leadership and embraced earmarks.
As Santorum tries to seize the tea party mantle and paint Mitt Romney as the ultimate establishment candidate, the reality is that Santorum became the ultimate Washington insider.
Interesting! Faithful, moral Catholic daddy of seven, makes sure to protect an adulterer from the ire of his constituents. How is this moral?
Answer: it isn't. Santorum is Mr Morality when it suits him, but not when it doesn't.
Republican presidential candidate Rick Santorum has evoked squeamishness and ridicule for retelling the story of the death of his son, Gabriel, at 20 weeks gestation and the family's unconventional response -- taking the body home from the hospital and allowing their other children to cuddle the corpse and say goodbye.
The Internet lit up with comments this week after Santorum's meteoric rise to second-place in the Iowa caucuses, nearly tying him with presidential candidate Mitt Romney. Some described Santorum's story as "weird" or "horrifying."
''Elizabeth and Johnny held you with so much love and tenderness," she wrote. "Elizabeth proudly announced to everyone as she cuddled you, 'This is my baby brother, Gabriel; he is an angel.'''
But some mental health experts believe the Santorums may have been ahead of their time by ritualizing their son's death in order to exorcize their grief, though they say taking a body home is unusual and not recommended.
In the context of the times -- the year was 1996 when the family buried Gabriel -- their behavior was understandable, according to Dr. David Diamond, a psychologist and co-author of the 2005 book "Unsung Lullabies."
Helen Coons, a clinical psychologist and president of Women's Mental Health Associates in Philadelphia, said couples are not encouraged to bring a deceased fetus home.
"If a couple chooses to do a burial or memorial service for a third-trimester loss, funeral homes will assist in a caring manner," she said.
Everyone jumped on Colmes for his insensitivity, but I think he simply verbalized (accurately) what the rest of us were thinking.
And Santorum is running for the highest office in the land, Saints preserve us.
And I profusely apologize to everyone for not writing a much more fascinating blog post... but I confess I have spent my whole day babbling ON THIS INTERMINABLE THREAD instead.
And don't forget to TUNE IN TOMORROW! 9am EST, 1600AM and 94.9FM in upstate South Carolina!
At left, Daisy meets local legend Country Earl! I was thrilled beyond measure. I was introduced to him when I visited the Mauldin Open Air Market last week, to buy Joel Ann's legendary cashew brittle, as well as oodles of fabulous local produce.
I hope you are all having a good 11-11-11, which is a suitably cosmic thang.
I tried to remember to make a wish at 11:11am, and forgot. Yall don't forget at 11:11pm!
Below, some earworms and other delights.
~*~
I thought this was called "Rock and Roll Star" but it's just "Star." It's been ages since I looked at the album cover.
I also love it, since he explains exactly what he is going to do, and then he went out and did it. (And how often does that happen?) For emphasis, at the end he adds, "just watch me."
I could do with the money I'm so wiped out with things as they are I'd send my photograph to my honey And I'd come on like a regular superstar
Star - David Bowie
~*~
Okay, trigger warnings and all that stuff. You know what comes from poppies, and you know what happens when people get too fond of it. (Lyrics here)
My tarot reading for 11-11-11 started with the Temperance card, which made me think of this song. It always does.
Baby want more.
Poppies - Patti Smith Group
~*~
My favorite song by the late Jim Croce, which it seems few people have heard.
Hey Tomorrow - Jim Croce
~*~
And finally, this is for Veterans Day.
How many of you were aware that Jim Morrison's father was a Rear Admiral in the Navy? It really does explain a lot.
In concert, Morrison would hit the ground at the sound of the gunshot, like, splat. No slow toppling-over, but bang, flat on the ground. I think you probably have to be really high to do that. Nonetheless, it was damned impressive.
Note the cheering-crowd noise spliced with funeral-church bells at the end. Perfect.
Today, Ash Wednesday, I sat through the evening Mass thinking I really should figure out what religion I am.
Then again, I thought, I've gone this long, so what exactly is the hurry?
I love the unchanging nature of the Christian liturgical year. I also love the ritual of having ashes rubbed on my forehead, reminding me of the facts: that I came from dust and to dust I shall return. (Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.)
I like the Season of Lent (and the attendant concept of denial, fasting and spiritual spring-cleaning) to properly prepare for the feast, happiness and celebrations that late spring and summer often bring, with so many weddings and graduations and vacations and religious holidays. We can't have one without the other. Our culture attempts to deny us the truth of Lent and deferred gratification, since modern consumerist capitalism demands it. We are constantly exhorted to buy and consume more and more STUFF. The state of "perpetual Easter" (lots of hoopla) is forced on us... then everyone wonders why everything is so emotionally out of whack. Mass depression has been the mass result of our estrangement from the yearly-rhythms of the ages.
These are the religious traditions I come from, understand and know best. On some level, revisiting them is always like visiting home. For those of us old enough to have lost our families and childhood homes, the church becomes the default home. This tends to be true whether we want it to be true or not. It just is.
Yes, I know the meme is officially FRIDAY RANDOM TEN, but I don't have the time for ten and barely have time for four. (Admittedly, I insist on editorializing about my music, which consumes valuable blogging time!)
~*~
Serious movie geeks will recognize the following lines... Mr Daisy and me are currently arguing about who actually wrote them, Orson Welles or Herman Mankiewicz? (Both of us agree that we used to know that stuff.) (((sigh))) I am unable to locate Pauline Kael's invaluable Citizen Kane Book, which every home should own.
Googling, I find that the consensus is Mankiewicz. I think of it as 'the parasol story':
A fellow will remember a lot of things you wouldn't think he'd remember. You take me. One day, back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry, and as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in, and on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on. She was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second. She didn't see me at all, but I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl.
And here is mine.
Giving Kenny Loggins all due respect for his wonderfully delightful tune... although I find his various folkie versions somewhat sad and melancholy. The hit version is below, and it's suitably sprightly and sweet, as a childhood melody should be.
I first heard it in 1970; notably, as I was exiting my own childhood... the angst of adolescence was taking over, and I recognized the child-consciousness in the song as something that had passed. I suddenly realized I was no longer a child.
The song is simply a work of art; it has always made me indescribably happy. And you know, I'll bet a month hasn't gone by that I haven't thought of the lines--
You'd be surprised there's so much to be done Count all the bees in the hive Chase all the clouds from the sky
House at Pooh Corner - Nitty Gritty Dirt Band (song starts at about 18 seconds in)
~*~
When you cross David Bowie, Bob Dylan, Evelyn Waugh and a multitude of psychedelic drugs, you get the following amazing song.
It only tips over into excessive verbiage once, but it's a whopper. I could do without the Waughish line: He's Chameleon, Comedian, Corinthian and Caricature. Okay, enough British alliterations, we know how smart you are! But since this is from a very early Bowie album, Hunky Dory, I will overlook it, since he was still establishing his genius. He probably felt Waugh impersonations were necessary. (The Dylanesque lines are perfect.)
Although Bowie later claimed the song made no sense, I find that it makes a lot of sense when you learn that Bowie's stepbrother was locked up for schizophrenia (also the subject of the song All the Madmen; caution, disturbing old insane-asylum images on YouTube version)... and BROTHERS is the name of the song, after all. Lots of people have also read a gay subtext into the song.
The Bewlay Brothers is chock-full of lovely, lyrical poetry, such as:
I was Stone and he was Wax So he could scream and still relax Unbelievable And we frightened the small children away
If you have ever had a compatriot or comrade who was brilliant and mercurial... if you ever followed a guru... if you ever belonged to a cult or similarly tight-knit group? This is for you.
And the solid book we wrote can not be found today.
The Bewlay Brothers - David Bowie
We were so turned on By your lack of conclusions.
~*~
Special dedication time! This is for my own Sister Ray! :)
I was dumbfounded when I saw Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson talking to Charlie Rose, whilst Laurie's little dog sat nestled in her lap. HER DOG. She brings the dog to PBS for an interview? With LOU REED?!? Momentarily confused, since I would not leave my dog with the Velvet Underground, not even in a TV studio.
Then I am reminded of the Buddhist lesson of impermanence, and the fact that the Lou who lives with Laurie (and her dog, presumably), is most assuredly NOT the youthful author of SISTER RAY. (Lord have mercy, are we middle aged or what?)
If you can listen to all 8 minutes and 41 seconds, you are hard core! If not, don't feel bad; usually only punk rockers are completely hypnotized by the song... and if you are into punk? BEHOLD YOUR KING. (And try to forget that this man now lives with a woman who gives interviews with her little terrier on her lap.)
Lyrics kindly linked, in the event you'd like to sing along.
Rosie and Miss Rayon They're busy waiting for her booster Who just got back from Carolina She said she didn't like the weather They're busy waiting for her sailor Who's big and dressed in pink and leather
And my semi-official FALL FOR GREENVILLE tune... used at this time and in this space last year.
I wondered why the Swedes in this video weren't acting like Texans, enthusiastically tossing beer cans, thongs and whatnot at ZZ Top, when one of my commenters schooled me about the ways of Swedes: these people are too stoned to move.
Of course, that makes total sense; so sorry I underestimated yall! Party on, Swedes!
According to my recent stats, we are practically back to START, boys and girls. Ain't nobody reading. (But if you are, HI!) I figure this means I can post whatever I want, such as (see left) photos of myself selling important books about fiber diets, taken by my co-worker's brand new iphone.
I think I have earned a bad reputation in lefty/feminist Blogdonia: argumentative; always defending Jesus, Krishna and All Their Friends; not fully understanding why the people from good homes are talking this year.* (And last year, and next year, too.)
I am trying to formulate some ideas/theories about CLASS in Blogdonia. Being working class or coming from poor people, etc...how do we fit in? Well, that's just it. We don't. We are embarrassing. We uncomfortably remind the so-called progressives that their references to chi-chi vacations, private preschools and hoity-toity colleges, summer homes, pricey co-op apartments, frou-frou dinner parties, et. al. just JUMP RIGHT OUT AT US while reading blog posts. (Damn, I wish they didn't, but they just do.)
I am reminded of Roy Clark on The Beverly Hillbillies, the poor, dumb relations from back home who bother everybody, till we do some sort of minstrel act, some kind of savant show: Hey, we got talent, we know a few things!
In short, we are intimidated and do not belong. And they very much want us to go away, which is probably the reason I don't; I'm awfully stubborn. (Four different Virgos in my astrological chart! Just try and make me!) But certain big blogs have all but banished me/us, jumping on working class comments with aplomb; correcting, cajoling, intimidating. This reads: Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?
Add AGE to the mix, and well, you get the idea.
In the past couple of weeks, I have commented on blogs in which the Original Poster was careful to thank EVERY PARTICIPANT BUT ME for their opinion. (I mean, come on, do you have to be so damned obvious about it?) Direct questions ignored, in favor of dialogue sought with young, stupid punks. Well, okay. I get it. If I knew the hip lingo, the cool shit to say, if I knew the right brand names and the right schools, maybe they'd thank me too.
But I won't hold my breath.
I mean, I was long-ago run off the cool-kids sooper-seekrit email list (see last post for my opinion about those) for using politically-incorrect language, so this is just more of the same. Thing is, as in the last instance, I dunno exactly what I am saying that is so wrong, and nobody will tell me. You are just supposed to KNOW. That is part of being the right kind of person, the right class and age.
Meanwhile (punch line) they all blabber on about diversity and inclusion. While the average participants of their blogs are all 20 years younger than me, have college degrees, etc. Yes, real diverse!
I try very hard to erase difference when posting on other blogs... I edit several times, I go through and take out simple words and insert longer, educated-sounding ones. (they are far easier on those posts, I've noticed) I don't think it matters, in the end: WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE. And I've been placed on moderation on several of my favorite blogs... and I don't even cuss usually, while other people are effing all over the place. Huh? (Is it more than cuss words? Then what is it?)
What to do? Quit blogging? They wouldn't miss us at all; that is exactly what they want us to do. They want Blogdonia to themselves, the way they run everything else. Well, maybe it makes no difference then. They run things, always have, and we only have the illusion of being part of what they have crafted for themselves.
Try to engage? And get either ignored or singled out in embarrassing ways?
I have no idea.
Opening the floor for discussion, and all 4 of my present readers can respond!
~*~
I missed some stuff in my rather hurried post yesterday, and wanted to add some links:
Talk radio guru Trevor Carey of Colorado's KNUS, made some really ferocious comments on his show, condoning violence against transgendered people, since they have supposedly "committed fraud." This is pretty gross.
I have emailed everybody in protest, and so should you. He really deserves to lose his job, not simply "disavow comments"--but I realize this is TALK RADIO and that is quite unlikely to happen.
But it should.
The idea that transgendered people are "committing fraud" is just, well, good God, do you think you have the right to know everything about a person? If a cisgendered woman seduces you, and you get home and discover she only has one breast, has she committed FRAUD by not sharing that with you until you are in an intimate setting? Not hardly. That is called DECENCY AND MODESTY, asshole. (Not that I would expect a talk-radio maven to comprehend that.)
Maybe then the glut of celebrity-infomercials would finally come to a grinding (and very welcome) halt.
~*~
*The title of this post is from David Bowie's "Fashion"--which of course, has all embedding disabled and I can't post it here. It is linked in the second paragraph.
The lyrics--
Listen to me (don't listen to me) Talk to me (don't talk to me) Dance with me (don't dance with me) No
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
The feminist blogosphere is VERY correct and proper. There is a huge orthodoxy, on race issues, on sexuality issues, on major progressive themes, on language. on religion. I don’t think this is a bad thing, but it makes it hard to embrace outliers like me who might otherwise contribute to the conversation. For instance, I personally violate the religion orthodoxy (I hate Muslims and Islam and religious people in general), I am not all that sensitive about language (once called an Islam-apologist feminist a bitch, insist on continuing to use verboten words like “lame” and I like my gendered insults, such as prick), I refuse to include Sean Bell in my list of feminist issues, I often say I hate men, I am publicly glad when misfortune is visited upon my enemies (anti-choice Andrew Sullivan is HIV positive - yay! Marc Ambinder is ugly - yay!) and other such horrifying things. No wonder nobody links to me!
Haha.
(Yes, she really did add the "Haha"--which I think really makes the post.)
And she was ignored on the thread. Which was good; if her intent was to derail, it didn't work. But I was also disappointed that the comments about religious women and a gay man with HIV, were not challenged. Only Renee (at Womanist Musings) challenged the comment; no one else did.
Why? Did they agree with her? If any other group(s) of people had been insulted with open hate speech, would feminists have remained silent?
Initially, I wrote off Apostate's little tantrum, since I know that she once was Muslim herself, and I well understand that ex-fundamentalists are often traumatized by their upbringing. But hey, aren't we all? I responded to my racist father by becoming an anti-racist activist, for instance. Apostate has responded to her strict upbringing by trashing Islam, and then extending this critique to all religion.
Admittedly, my first emotion was: thrilled!!! Oh boy!!! Finally, after years of arguing, I was outright BANNED from AN ATHEIST BLOG!!! Hot damn. (I will be linking Apostate for years, she must have known her hits will increase from now on.) Atheists looooove to brag (rightly and correctly) that they get tossed off of religious blogs and boards as soon as they even announce themselves. BAM, gone. I've seen it myself, countless times. And they are pretty proud of that, as well they should be.
On one now-defunct Christian message board I used to frequent, the censorship was particularly aggravating. I was usually having great FUN arguing with the atheist or agnostic, while others would become greatly agitated, and eventually ban the person. I would end up defending them, and on at least two occasions, I left internet bulletin boards over the banning of intelligent, well-mannered atheists, who did nothing more than freak Christians out with tough questions.
And at least twice, I was called on the carpet for my own heresy. Yes, you know what it is, my beloved existentialism, my Kierkegaard, my science fiction and Teilhard de Chardin. From an amalgam of these sources, I employ my standard argument against the atheists, which is one they cannot refute. As far as I am concerned, the only argument. THE argument.
The reason I believe in God/religion/Church/sacraments, etc is an endless variation of these statement ...a riff, if you will:
I like it.
It is fun, it gives pleasure.
It makes me ecstatic/happy/peaceful/optimistic.
It makes me feel better than I would feel otherwise.
It's great. Aesthetically, it's really neat.
I want to be a priest/holy woman myself, I am pretty good at it!
I feel that God listens to me/speaks to me.
Etc.
These statements make no claim for objective truth, as I don't think we can. These statements are MY truth; they are about why I choose to practice as I do. It is about ME. I have taken full responsibility: this is what makes MY life better, gives MY life meaning, this is how I view the world, and how I relate to what I call the high concepts, and you call delusions. I do not care if you like it or not, because I don't do it for you, I do it for me.
If one is a rational atheist, you should be able to admit I am right. If I go to Mass or read a book or meditate or sing or clap my hands and claim to conjure up the living devil--why should you care? Do you care if people go to football games or rock concerts? Do you care what kinds of sex people choose to have? Do you care about which movies they watch and which books they read? Well, why is the choice of belief or religion not the same?
BECAUSE, the atheists intone, RELIGION CLAIMS TO BE TRUE.
Well, duh. The Buckeyes will kick Wolverine ass, and that is TRUE TOO, ask any Buckeyes fan. Ask any diehard fans of STAR WARS or LORD OF THE RINGS which movie is the best, and they will assure you STAR WARS and THAT IS THE TRUTH! If people are having sex and claim to enjoy it, I assume they are telling the truth and I take their word for it that it is true, this is good sex for them. But you know, it might not be good sex for ME.
We all say what we claim to be TRUE, and we constantly disagree with each other about clothes, about shoes, about where to live and how to spend our time. We all testify to the truth as we know and believe it, and yet, religion is somehow a "special" case, something apart from other choices we make, about sexuality, about occupation, about marriage, home ownership, carbon footprints, childbearing. Actually, my contention is that religion is the same type of choice as these other lifestyle choices, that feminists can discuss without hyperventilating (or should be able to). We are not living in the Holy Roman Empire; we have choices. We are no longer forced to be XYZ just because our parents were. And then again, there are lots of characteristics we share with our parents, our families or villages of origin, and this might be another one.
We may have something very special to bring to the table, for this reason.
~*~
Which is better, a Chevy or a Ford?
If we don't know what to believe, we ask someone we respect, someone we think knows about cars: Should I buy a Chevy or a Ford?
Chevy, says the Respected Person authoritatively. Then, you buy the Chevy and it breaks down in rush hour. It costs a fortune to tow it, you have no spare. You are fucking livid. GODDAMN CHEVYS! I WAS TOLD THEY WERE GOOD CARS!!!!!!!
And you know, the guy who told you that, thought they were. Chevys had always been good to him. Not a one had given him trouble, he went coast-to-coast in one and had a blast. Alriiiiite! Took my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry...
New Chevy hater: Don't sing that fucking song around me!
Yes, I just compared God to cars. As Aldous Huxley famously said, Ford's in his Flivver and all is right with the world. It is an excellentanalogy. Things do not work the same for everyone. They just don't, and no, I don't know why. (I am currently studying Buddhism, trying to figure out that part.) But why would we expect religion to fit everyone, if we can't even agree on which songs are good, which food is good, if a Ford or Chevy is best? Those are easy. Now, you bring in GOD? And we wonder why we disagree?
Apostate's Chevy might have broken down anyway--maybe her parents had (as I suspect) already driven the damn Chevy into the ground by the time she got it. But my Chevy works well, always has, still is.
Am I an idiot because I got a good Chevy?
You can see how this argument might make very devout Christians (and devout Muslims and any other devout fundamentalist of any type) very upset. They do not want you to suggest that religious truth is not an objective truth, THE truth. They claim they have the truth. And I answer: if it was, it would be self-evident. And it is not.
That is to say, we mostly agree on, say, the color green. We don't know why we do... but if I say, check the green box, most people will.
If I say check the most Godly box? I create chaos immediately.
Religion is therefore in the category of art, music, beauty, love, aesthetics. It is opinion, something experienced, an acquired taste, or maybe something someone has been starved for. Or something someone is very angry with, as in the angry Chevy-buyer. They were promised something, and it didn't deliver. Or it was delivered, rather like Apostate's sedan delivery, by wrecking her whole house with it. (Certainly, that's no way to make a good first-impression.)
The anti-religious people declare religion irrational. Music, art, love and sexual desire also are quite irrational, but they don't seem to want to ban those. And yeah, when I say that, the religious people can get as livid as the atheists. (Often the self-described agnostics are the only folks who stay with me during this discussion, nodding the whole way, agreeing that comparing religion to music makes sense.)
And few people turn against religion as thoroughly and furiously as ex-fundies. I can spot them in a line-up. Know why? Like Apostate, they sound the same. They have exchanged one form of intolerance for another. While they were subscribing to fundamentalism, it was the sinners and infidels and devils and so on, who were bad. After the backslide? You are stupid, ridiculous, sky-fairy believer, idiot, moron. (Apostate called me stupid also.) What gets me is IT'S THE SAME PEOPLE. The religious people who curse me for not being strict enough, fall away from the Church, the Mosque, wherever, and pivot perfectly into the ones who trash me for stupidity as a believer. I am sure when Apostate was a proper, strictly devout Muslim, she would have hated me just as much as she does now. She just uses different words now.
They are the same people. I can't tell them apart without a scorecard. The approach is identical: intolerant, judgmental, finger-pointing, merciless, hateful. If you don't see things their way, you are a fool. Period. I often forget who I am arguing with, and have to stop--wait, is this the atheist or the fundie?
I usually can only tell them apart because the fundies won't say "fuck"--and the atheists will.
There are feminist enclaves literally everywhere. Even in the strictest, most dangerous places on earth for women--there are women strategizing for freedom and access. What bothers me is how they are walled off from each other.
Often, this is because the women hate each other. Their countries are at war with each other; possibly their religions have historically been enemies. But they will not come together for their own rights, there is too much bad blood.
In every religious women's community, Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, Taoist, Sikh, etc etc... there are feminists. EVERY SINGLE ONE. And they struggle alone, often, because non-religious feminists don't regard them as "real feminists" although these same non-religious feminists live under male governments, work for male companies, vote for males, sleep with males, give birth to males, take money from male daddies and love male brothers, sons, friends, etc... they say religion is unfeminist because men run it. (I know, makes no sense, go figure.) So religious feminists try to get it done within their own faith communities. But in the process, they are not interacting with the larger feminist community, from whom they feel estranged. As a result, they don't learn all the lingo, the habits, the culture of feminism. They are thus easily shocked when they first meet feminist libertines or political radicals. It is my contention that if they were allowed in the coalition, if their presence became commonplace and unchallenged, they would get used to it, as we all get used to everything.
I assume such women, emissaries from their various communities, would be largely like me, pretty tolerant, or older and jaded from having seen a lot already (particularly if they are ordained ministers or professionals). But I can still remember back in the 70s, when Carter Heyward was on the cover of Ms, and all hell broke lose, as atheist and agnostic feminists complained. And I am there saying, wait, doncha know, this is CARTER HEYWARD!!!!
Without stopping to ask who this groundbreaking feminist even IS, just the knowledge that she was a priest, was enough to inflame the atheist rabble. It's the IDEA, you see, that women would put FAITH IN RELIGION (instead of, you know, say, money or the government) and RELIGION OPPRESSES WOMEN. PERIOD.
Money and government, of course, have never oppressed women.
(((sighs heavily)))
And so, the impasse. The small religious feminist communities labor onward, but they are struggling by themselves. They need the authority and influence of the larger feminism, which is too uncomfortable with religion. And the religious women are often too naive and provincial for the larger feminism as well. The problems feed each other.
And I get banned from Apostate's blog, and called stupid.
Maybe I am, since I am ever hopeful we can all get together.
~*~
The Five of Wands, Strife. (from the Rider-Waite Tarot deck)
And in fairness, since I linked Mandy and Brittany's piece above, I suppose I should also link their subsequent apology for writing it, or for how they wrote it, or something. (I am curious if they deliberately chose Ash Wednesday, a day of penance, to apologize, or was that an accident? Great symbolism.)
Initially, I had no problems with the piece, until reading some of the criticisms, particularly Renee's, Sylvia's and Lauren's. I still think their hearts were in the right place, and that does count for something. I am not too fond of the term "token" which as I said on Renee's blog, used to denote something very specific, back in the day. A "token" was someone who shores up the status quo using their minority status; they lend legitimacy to a possibly-illegitimate enterprise. Nowadays, it seems "token" just means any minority-person in majority space, and that is not how I use the term, or how I grew up understanding and relating to it. I have recently been called a token myself, to my puzzlement; it basically meant I was the only _____ in a certain space. No one has ever accused me (and certainly, not Renee!) of perserving the status quo. Ha!
Thus, when first reading the word "token" I assumed this was the "new" meaning: a minority person in majority space. So, I did not criticize the word. However, I now see that the term "token" is meant differently by different people, and People of Color still adhere to the old usage that radicals have historically favored. It is white people who simply mean "a minority person in majority space"! Aha!
With this helpful delineation, I am enlightened. And I understand why minority people would bridle (as I have, in various settings) at this label. And why this piece caused so much strife throughout Feminist Blogdonia.
On the other hand, I found the self-flagellation in the Official Apologia a bit much, even for Ash Wednesday. Is all of this really necessary? Well, maybe so.
Perhaps Apostate has a point--why do we go after each other this way? What good does it do, exactly?
Heart, whom I have had major issues with (as regular readers know), thinks it's the invasion of The Man. I admit, I really go for that 70s talk, and she is all over it:
Regardless the movement, the Man can be depended upon to approach movement people who are the most marketable, the least experienced and therefore the most trusting (and grateful) and the least risky, people he knows will make honest, exploitable, mistakes, and who are already leaders with manipulatable followers. He’s not all that concerned about what the people he chooses actually believe or the quality of their activism; he just wants to make a buck where a buck is to be made. Movement people are virtually always naive about these things, and their leaders often have big heads. They frequently readily believe what their followers have said to and about them and are too quick to believe their own press. They imagine they have been discovered and chosen because of their unusual skills or gifts or something like that, because the Man is impressed by their ideals, dedication and vision, when usually, it’s more that they are marketable, naive and exploitable. They are young, they are pretty or handsome, they are white, they are middle class, they have the right kind of education, they say the right kinds of things in the right kinds of ways and so do their followers, and so, people will buy. That’s all that matters to the Man.
Once the Man gets in, all hell is guaranteed to break loose. Movement people will now fight, not in the productive ways of the past but in the destructive ways that always follow in the Man’s wake. They’ll fight over who was chosen, who wasn’t chosen, why the chosen were chosen and the not-chosen weren’t. They’ll fight over the fact that some who were hardworking weren’t recognized and some who weren’t so hardworking were. They’ll fight over the way the chosen behave, what they do once they have all of that attention, and what they don’t do. They’ll fight over who did and didn’t get the credit for this or that, who stole this and who stole that. The chosen will find themselves — always, guaranteed — in a downward spiral of compromise, because you have to compromise to deal with the Man. The compromises the chosen make will become fodder for ever-worsening, ever-deepening and -intensifying intra-movement conflicts, more blaming, more resentments, increased finger-pointing, increased vigilance. New people who join the movement unaware of the history will defend the wrong people, accuse the wrong people and will get gobbled up by the Man themselves. They won’t understand the hostility they then face from other movement people; after all, they’re not doing anything differently from what others have (apparently) done. And their confusion will be eminently understandable. In the end, everybody will be drinking from the same poisoned well, and everybody will be sick from drinking there.
On this Ash Wednesday, let me say dramatically: SHE IS RIGHT.
Yes, you read it correctly, I just admitted HEART IS RIGHT.
I am reminded of a bunch of girls in high school, clamoring for a place on the cheerleading squad.
Can we please STOP?! Heart thinks it's too late, the thief has entered (nods to Heart, with my Bible reference there)...and I wonder, is she also right about what this means: The End of Feminist Blogging (the title of her post)? Is it already too late? Can we turn this shit around, or will we have eaten each other alive first?
I have criticized the denizens of Feminist Blogdonia as much as the next feminist blogger, and probably will continue whenever I think there have been damaging excesses. But the wholesale evisceration that is more suitable for a radio edition of FOCUS ON THE FAMILY, needs to stop. Going onto a blog where someone is, for example, attempting to clarify their own class consciousness and telling them what they OUGHT TO BE DOING, is not going to help us reach any feminist goals, but will instead cause more women to withdraw from feminism in fear that they cannot possibly measure up.
Time for the Act of Contrition--I have confessed, now it's everyone else's turn.
~*~
My official Dead Air Ash Wednesday hymn, Saving Grace by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, was removed from last year's post, you may have noticed. Warner Music Group (or similar capitalist greedhead swine) strikes again!I found the song performed live, but can't embed it here. Blah. My second choice, Redemption Song by Bob Marley, also has embedding disabled. WHAT IS GOING ON AROUND HERE?!?!? Harumph.
Looking for alternate hymns, I figure yall might like at least ONE of these.
Letter to Hermione - David Bowie
No offense to my beloved Bob, but as we all know, it's often umm, better to find his fabulous songs sung by someone else!
I found this really nice version of "I Shall be Released" by Chrissie Hynde at something called the "30th Anniversary Bob Dylan Concert"--no other details of where the performance was.
I Shall Be Released - Chrissie Hynde
And more Bob! I've been looking for this one forever--it probably won't last out Lent! Better listen now!
"For every hung-up person in the whole wide universe..."
Chimes of Freedom - The Byrds
*NSFW* MAY TRIGGER* ETC*
I defy you to listen to all 10 minutes. It's actually edited down from the original 11 minutes, believe it or not.
I have a tattoo inspired by the line "I'm not gonna wear my heart on my sleeve" at 4:39. (As a result, I do wear my heart on my sleeve.)
Some people got no choice
When they can never find a voice
to talk with that they can even call their own
So the first thing that they see
That allows them the right to be
They follow it
Know what that's called?
Bad luck.
For those who do not already know about the life of Ian Curtis: SPOILERS AHEAD!
The movie was simply beautiful to watch, in stark, British working-class black and white. There is a great segue early in the film, as we see Ian laying on a bed, smoking cigarettes and listening to one of my all-time favorite songs of the era: Drive-In Saturday, which was thrilling to hear in historic context, as well as an omen for Ian:
She's uncertain if she likes him
But she knows she really loves him
It's a crash-course for the ravers
It's a Drive-In Saturday.
(I listened to it as many times as Ian did, which gave me an immediate emotional connection to the movie.)
After this, you hear more Bowie, Roxy Music and Sex Pistols on the soundtrack, like a progression... then, suddenly, it is Joy Division. It is Ian. They have taken their place in the pantheon. We realize: this is a movie about how that occurred.
Mr Daisy didn't think the inner-life of Ian, the person obsessed with suffering, the Third Reich and Rudolf Hess, was completely shown to us, but I'm not so sure. The fact of Ian's epilepsy is introduced early, as he zones out while looking at an equation on the blackboard in school. The motif of something "closing in" is one of his repeated themes, and he undoubtedly had an instinctive "darkness" and introspection (nowadays they'd call him a goth) that made him perfect for punk.
Sam Riley portrays Ian wonderfully and captures his erratic dancing perfectly. The famous incident in which he writhes at the microphone, finally collapsing into an actual seizure (in the film, during the song DEAD SOULS, see below) is turned into an amazing scene, finally made realistic and understandable. (The audience thought it was part of the show.) The way Ian felt soul-numbingly sick and drained, heavily-drugged to prevent seizures, is made apparent throughout the last half of the movie. Samantha Morton is great as Deborah Curtis, who also wrote the book titled Touching from a Distance, on which this account is based. She also co-produced the movie.
Transmission - Joy Division
It's also understood that the song "She's Lost Control" is describing a woman having a seizure at his workplace, which Ian watches, frightened, later learning that the woman has died. This song reflected Ian's fears around the fact he could no longer manage his epilepsy. The issue I have with the portrayal of epilepsy-as-evil-interloper is the way his disability is seen as the major negative in his life, while issues of class and heterosexual marriage/reproduction are presented as a given.*
The name of the band was taken from the brothels operated by the Nazis in various concentration camps. While Curtis was not flirting with neo-Nazism, some of his bandmates indicate that they had a fascination with fascism at the time, and the whole thing suggests unseriousness and irresponsibility, as well as a growing social nihilism.**
The band’s demo EP, “An Ideal For Living,” featured a Hitler Youth member pounding a drum on the cover. The inside artwork is the infamous picture of Jews with their hands up in surrender during the Warsaw Ghetto uprising.
“I like it,” Ian explains “It’s thought-provoking.” This critical stance, however, does not prevent their shows from being overrun by skinheads and accusations of the band supporting fascism.
Much has been said of the atmospheric and sad sound of Joy Division’s music. It is usually described as depressing; others like to think of it as cathartic. Like the elephant in the room, the knowledge of Curtis’s eventual suicide hangs over the band’s music, and the film, like a long shadow. The story is not unlike that of Kurt Cobain and his band Nirvana, who underwent a similar process of achieving fame and ultimate disillusionment.
At one point, Ian is heavily drugged with anti-convulsants and unable to continue; the audience riots, and Ian feels responsible.
Below--the DEAD SOULS sequence from the movie:
Someone take these dreams away
That point me to another day
A duel of personalities
That stretch all true realities
That keep calling me
They keep calling me
Keep on calling me
They keep calling me
Ian Curtis committed suicide at the age of 23. I don't know how historically-accurate these last scenes were, but it certainly didn't look pleasant. The screaming of Deborah after entering the house to find Ian, just cut me right to the quick.
Rest in peace, Dead Soul. We love you and yes, pray for your soul.
~*~
*Annik, the beautiful Belgian rock reporter whom Ian falls in love with, remarks on Ian and Deborah's marriage: "I've never heard of anyone married so young!" At the time of their wedding, Ian was 19, Deborah was 18. (I was startled by that, since my first marriage, around the same time, was when I was 19, on his 19th birthday. These things sound shocking when you hear them out of the mouth of someone else!)
**Wikipedia informs us:Curtis's memorial stone, which is inscribed with "Ian Curtis 18-5-80" and "Love Will Tear Us Apart", was stolen in July 2008 from the Cheshire cemetery where he is buried.
Left: Ronald Reagan accepts the nomination of his party, Detroit, 1980. Photo from HowStuffWorks.
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I sat with a bunch of scruffy anarchists in a bleak motel room waiting for a phone call, any phone call. No cell phones then. This was the summer of 1980 in Detroit, Michigan, during the Republican convention that nominated Ronald Reagan. I don't remember the name or location of the motel, but it was cheap and seedy, one of those that rented by the hour.
I peeped out the door, and there was an unmarked car with some sort of unmarked law enforcement inside. They looked bored and always seemed to be eating sandwiches. Whenever we opened the door, they looked up and started talking about us. Sometimes, they'd even wave.
Local? Federal? Oh, Jesus Christ. They scared me to death.
"It's an intimidation tactic," announced Froggy, one of my co-activists. Is it my imagination he went out to talk to them, Abbie Hoffman style? "What are you guys doing? Having a good day?"
At this apocalyptic juncture, numerous counter-demonstrators whose full, legal names we realized we didn't even know (and thus, couldn't bail out) had been arrested in front of the Renaissance Center for demonstrating overnight. The rest of us had the good fortune to be asleep in cars or on the Yippie bus that had traveled from New York City. Our fearless leaders were gone and we were in a panic. We had no money and no dope, as in the infamous Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers comic. How were we going to pay for the motel? Did those unmarked cops know about all of this? Should we ask them if they know? They might know more than we do. Go ask them! No, you go ask! I'm not talking to cops! Many rounds of rock, paper, scissors ensued, to determine who should talk to the cops. In the end, no one did.
We felt like ants after you pour hot water on the anthill, scurrying about, not knowing what to do. Law enforcement had effectively poured hot water on us. We joked that it was just like the David Bowie song, Panic in Detroit:
The only survivor of the National People's Gang
Panic in Detroit
I asked for an autograph
He wanted to stay home
I wish someone would phone
After many rounds of arguing, fussing with the ancient TV that contained no news, smoking the last of the reefer and eating the last of the Cheetos, we all slept. About a dozen people, total, and significant overflow onto the floor, even someone sleeping in the bathtub.
About 4am, a knock. Several of us jolted awake immediately. Staring at each other wide-eyed in the dark, it was decided that *I* should answer the door. Daisy will answer it. It was decided I looked "the most innocent"--one of the other activists proclaimed I looked like Samantha on Bewitched and consequently, they would never arrest me, just because. (And you know, they never did.)
Channeling Samantha (who I remembered was always covering up for some wild shit when she answered the door, too), I opened the door. A Republican with a short buzzcut was standing there, wearing a shirt with one of those trademark GOP Elephants on it. The shirt bore the Detroit Chamber of Commerce slogan for the convention: Detroit loves a Good Party!
I stiffened; who is this asshole?
He grinned at me.
It was STEVE CONLIFF! FEARLESS LEADER! He was passing for a Republican! I screamed.
He shushed me and ducked inside. I was thrilled he was not in jail, but shocked at the transformation and his short hair; it was as extreme and as shocking as if Jerry Garcia had suddenly shaved his head. (Simultaneously, I thought, what a great disguise, even I didn't recognize him.)
He pulled up a chair and began rolling a joint as two other people woke up, clambering off the floor. One glared at him. Someone whined, as if on cue, "Where the hell is Conliff? I thought it would be CONLIFF!" They sneered at the Republican, "Who is THAT???!!!"
"Yeah!" he said, lighting the joint, "Where IS Conliff, anyway?" It was his sweet grin that gave him away. Someone turned on the lights. "Oh my God!" said one woman, "What have you DONE?!" and started to cry.
"Screaming, crying, Jesus Christ!" he puffed, satisfied. "As long as you didn't recognize me!" He grinned again.
A very young yippie marveled at the transformation, "That is fucking amazing, man!"
It was. Why had he done it? Because he wanted to go onto the convention floor, hang out with delegates at Hotel Pontchartrain, drink at the local discos; he wanted to infiltrate. And he had done that.
Left: The Yippie flag.
And for the next few hours, Steve Conliff regaled us with his stories of the day. He had eaten lunch and dinner with hip Republicans, the kind who wore T-shirts instead of suits, snorted ultra-pricey coke and partied. He had shared scotch-and-water with them in local bars, and listened carefully. And he told us: They are tired of Jimmy Carter, tired of global "appeasement." They hate minorities. They hate women getting abortions and deciding they can leave husbands any time they want to. They think we are a bunch of queers. (Back then, "queer" was still fightin words, and he paused to apologize to the gay male hippie-couple in the room, then still sprawled on the floor. They both shrugged simultaneously, one still gaping at Conliff's hair, or lack of it.)
They are taking over, he announced. Ronald Reagan is the next president.
Somebody grunted from the corner, but Carter is an INCUMBENT!
Gerald Ford was an incumbent too, Conliff reminded them.
Gerald Ford wasn't ELECTED! argued the voice from the corner.
Gerald Ford didn't have to deal with Iranian hostages! Conliff snapped. "These Republicans intend to take over the fucking world. They don't care how long it takes them. Carter is just a blip, a detour, a pause in their program. They are in it for the long goddamned haul!"
At the time, this all sounded incredible, like believing Dr Strangelove was real.
"They want control of the whole Middle East," he said. "They don't care how long it takes them to get it. They are determined, more determined than we are. They WILL get it."
And the room was quiet. President Ronald Reagan?! Is that really going to happen? THIS BAD ACTOR IS GOING TO BE PRESIDENT?!?! Conliff's Republican infiltration had left him unshaken in his convictions and utterly certain: Yes, Reagan.
And then he added: Two terms.
"He'll die first, he's old," snorted the skeptic in the corner, the eternal optimist.
"Then they will prop his ass up like on that old Star Trek episode, and make it look like he is still talking!" Everyone laughed, but it was that uneasy, weird, scared, nervous laughter. Conliff's certainty was frightening, as well as depressing. Was he right? If so, what were we doing here? We were making no difference at all.
~*~
He laughed at accidental sirens
that broke the evening gloom
The police had warned of repercussions
They followed none too soon
A trickle of strangers were all that were left alive
Panic in Detroit
I asked for an autograph
He wanted to stay home
I wish someone would phone
My political mentor, Steve Conliff, was virtually always right in his political prognostications. And so, when he first explained to me what strategic voting was, I followed his advice.
Always vote for the most liberal Republican in the primary, to draw the GOP to the left, he said. In the general election, vote your conscience. I have taken his advice ever since. The man who told us the future, sitting in a bleak motel room, deserved to be listened to, his philosophy followed. He was right, after all.
And I never forgot that he was right.
And so, right-wing fruitcake or not, I will vote for the libertarian antiwar candidate, Ron Paul, in the South Carolina GOP primary on Saturday. I won't cut my hair or buy elephant shirts; I'm sure I'll be relatively easy to spot at the polls. They will look at me and know.
But if there is any other way we can stop them from taking over the Middle East, I am listening. I'm open to suggestions, as I was that night in Detroit, so long ago.
