History project, part 3

At long last!

Yipster Times cover, June 1975

Overthrow cover, April 1979

Rock Against Racism (poster), Chicago, June 1979

Steve Conliff gives speech at Rock Against Reagan concert and demonstration, Ohio State House. April 30, 1983























~~~*~~*~~~

Truth:

I am actually hosting/posting these so I can post them someplace else. Yes, ulterior motives! Enjoy!

Good news: Despite my hands disintegrating from old-ladydom (seriously), I will be back to post some recent photos and document local demonstrations and actions that have been totally ignored (nah, go on) by the local conservative media... and thus are in danger of disappearing into the ether... so stay tuned, sports fans. I knew this blog would come in handy again some day! ;)

Love, peace, hair grease,

Your humble narrator (who finally rallied sometime this summer and has stayed on fire since),

I call this last one, the grand-handmaid's tale.


:)

Cinco de Mayo!

It's been a tough week for blogging. But at least I saw another antique Chevy when I went out to grab a bite earlier in the week!




I am grateful I woke up this morning without any notifications of direct threats, as I did last Saturday. It is not a day I am likely to forget. Five people sent me messages as soon as I signed on, several making sure I TOOK THE SCREEN SHOTS. I obediently did as they told me to do, but I did not visit the hate-page after I initially took the shot, because I found it too unnerving.

I have spent the last week decompressing from disaster, even though I gained a parcel of new Facebook friends and radio-show listeners. At the same time, I have been extremely careful, looking over my shoulder. Is this what it's like to be well-known and controversial? Apparently so. I have been wondering if I am up for this.

I was blocked from Facebook for about 24 hrs. I am not sure of the specific reason, since all my requests for clarification were totally ignored. One of my comments was deemed "threatening"--which is pretty ironic under the circumstances (as stated above, there was a whole Facebook page threatening me physically), and my questions ("Why or how is this a threatening statement?") sent to the proverbial round-file. I have since learned that if your comments are deliberately targeted (as mine have been) and reported X number of times, THAT is what deems it offensive, not the actual content of the comment(s) in question. It's all about the clicks. The warnings and blockages are executed by Facebook-bots, not by actual people. This explains the wildly-varying standards: on one Facebook page, you can talk filth and nobody cares, but on another, a simple factual statement such as (for instance) Bob Jones University-affiliates are covering up for rape-apologists is considered "offensive."

The truth is now subject to censorship for being "too offensive" for certain overprotected, neurasthenic people to be able to tolerate. And their intolerance is what makes it "offensive."

I am suddenly reminded of a bone-chilling line in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by the legendary Philip K Dick, a line that (tellingly) did not make it into the screenplay of the film, which became Blade Runner. Paraphrasing: What proof do we have that empathy exists, asks the android, except the humans' word for it? Isn't it something they just made up to prove they have this special thing?

And the Bob Jones University-apologists similarly ask: What proof do we have that your truth exists, except your word for it? Isn't it something you just made up, to say something bad about us?

It's scary, isn't it? After all, they already say this about science and evolution, global-warming and gay people.

I've long been claiming there is no such thing as objectivity, and I think this whole debacle is proof of that. The word "offensive" is no longer about unacceptable cuss words and sexual terms; the word is now assigned to any statement that bothers you, for any reason. Whether the statement is "objectively true" is of no importance in this determination.

Empathy is next. What proof do we have that it exists? OOOPS, is that an offensive statement? BOOM, down the memory hole.

You should NOT have to read such disconcerting, disorienting notions.

~*~

I attempted a joke on my show this morning, off the cuff, and it bombed. Nobody's perfect. Better luck next time and thank you for playing!

Podcast of bad joke and other topics, is up.

And last night, saw another cool car and took another picture. My favorite color! I am not sure of the make/year of this very lovely, cherry-red beauty, but if you know, speak up.

Biographical aside: I used to work in the purty pink building, which is at the corner of Main and East North Streets in Greenville. It is now a clothing store, but was a GNC when I worked there.

~*~

Lots of interpersonal ups and downs in local Occupy groups, including mine, as well as groups in Spartanburg and Columbia. (I haven't yet checked the astrological charts, but I am sure something must be going on.) I shall refrain from bad-mouthing liberals and their inability to SUBMIT TO COLLECTIVE DISCIPLINE (Yes, Barack, I am lookin at you too) but.... well, they DO have a problem submitting to collective discipline.

Simply put, if a whole group votes that you are disruptive, stay your ass away. Is that too difficult to understand? People seem to get this concept in ANY endeavor but politics. It appears that some folks think they are just so wonderful that they deserve to be heard and listened to (including their sorry excuses) more than other people, certainly more than they have ever listened to anyone else. How does that work exactly?

In any event, I am once again reminded of my mentor, Steve Conliff, and his rule of thumb for the Yippies, that I know I have quoted numerous times previously, in this space: If you let anybody in, anybody WILL come in.

And yes, they do. The confused, the argumentative, the power-tripping, the lecherous, the whole Hee Haw gang is present and accounted for. I always take their presence as a given. I can easily accept these people, if they are aware of their personality-issues, as I am (mostly) aware of mine. I want people to cut me slack, so I cut others slack, too. But I notice many of these people do not think they have any personality-issues, in fact, they think they are just peachy-keen and wonderful. Unfortunately, that is often where the liberalism comes in: they have been believing their own press. They believe they are compassionate, aware and kind, just because liberals are said to be compassionate, aware and kind. (By contrast, radicals never get this kind of good press; radicals are dangerous, crazy, insane, outside agitators, etc.) Thus, when these folks go off the rails, you also have the attendant spectacle of other liberals going into catatonia: But I thought he was... NICE!

And there is often no evidence that this person was EVER "nice"--except that they agreed with us. We tend to assume a lot about the people who agree with us: they MUST be good, since (it goes without saying!) WE are GOOD!

Maybe the operative difference is, I don't think I am particularly good. I try, but I fail repeatedly. Thus, I assume others are trying and failing, repeatedly, all the time. And as we know, passing the kid who has consistently failed is ultimately a mean thing to do and sets them up for more failure. So it is with people who repeatedly fail us.

At some unavoidable juncture, it is time to send them back to Decency 101, that class they obviously missed. We tolerate their continued failures at our peril.

~*~

Greenville Occupiers, bringing the radicalism! Yeah!







There will be an Occupy Picnic in McPherson Park this afternoon, 3:30pm, be there or be square. General Assembly is tomorrow at 2pm in Bergamo Square; Main and Coffee Streets, across from Coffee Underground... which is especially handy for quick coffee-junkie fixes, also a very good refuge for bad weather, which has only happened a couple of times.

Bergamo Square is currently under construction; it will soon be the home of some monstrous new building, currently given the ominous title of PROJECT ONE. (Wasn't Kampuchea named that by Pol Pot?*) It is growing fairly enormous by the day, and we usually picket right in front of it.

The Greenville Antiwar Society used to have our yearly candlelight vigil exactly where the construction is now, but the small building with two giant flights of steps (where I took this photo from) is now gone.

Since we are standing there with signs, several people have asked us if we are protesting the construction.

They seem disappointed when we say no.


*Correction, that was THE YEAR ONE. I always get capitalism and communism mixed up, sorry about that. ;)

Ben Masel 1954-2011

Lots of other people have memorialized Ben Masel, most of them far better writers than I am. But I was unsatisfied. There is a word missing in these obituaries, from Daily Kos, to NORML, to TalkLeft and everyone in between.

That word is YIPPIE.

Ben was a YIPPIE.

Why are the lefty honchos avoiding the word in the obits? Because the "serious" leftists never liked us, that's why. But they loved Ben, who was extremely lovable. So, they avoid the word. It's their way of being polite.

Ben would say, hey, you gonna mention that I was a Yippie?

I can hear him now. And my reply to him, is to write this.

He sure was. He was THE Yippie.

~*~

At times like this, I wish I had a scanner, and I wish I was more organized. Somewhere in all the detritus, I have several photos of Ben, including one of us together on a skanky old couch, looking particularly wide-eyed and paranoid. This photo has someone's thumb in the corner of it, and I remember: peyote and lots of it. We are looking at the camera, but not really. I was wearing a Jeff Beck t-shirt, and Ben is holding a cigarette. (Now that we know his cause of death was lung cancer, I dearly wish he wasn't holding it.)

Ben looked exactly like Cat Stevens when he was young, and I had a ferocious crush on him. He was witty as the dickens, and I loved provoking him to see what kinds of funny things he would say.

I have a couple of Ben-stories to add to the collection.

The first one involves an endless journey, and I am not quite sure where it began and ended, but it took us through most of the Midwest, Madison and on into the Dakotas, to the Black Hills Alliance Survival Gathering in 1979. I do remember a van breaking down in the dead of night, leaving us stranded in what seemed like a vacant moonscape, as we had just left the Badlands. We walked or hitchhiked (a little of both?) to the rest area, which was designed as a giant cement teepee, appearing quite formidable from a distance.

After using the restroom, I come out of the giant cement teepee, and some clean-cut fellow approaches me out of nowhere. "Hey!" says this strange person good-naturedly, "Ben is already in the van!" The van? Which van? And so I follow the stranger to a gleaming new van with Missouri plates, where Ben is already sitting in the passenger seat, holding forth, talking to the other passengers about the Black Hills Alliance.

Okay, what!? Who are these people?

So, I go ahead and get in (glad they weren't serial killers or anything), and it comes together: these are friends of Ben's. Well, of course they are. But... damn, in the middle of South Dakota? He has friends at a rest stop in the middle of South Dakota????!!!

Yes, he did. Ben had friends everywhere, all over the place. When I told other Yippies this story, they just shrugged: "Ben knows everybody." And I think of all the other people I've known who supposedly "knew everybody"--and it usually meant they only knew a lot of people. I can't imagine them getting picked up by strangers at a rest stop in God-knows-where.

But Ben knew everybody. I mean, he really did.

~*~

Unfortunately, my next story is somewhat garbled, since the two principals are no longer with us.

I can't remember who was in jail, Steve Conliff or Ben. This was during the Republican National Convention in Kansas City in 1976, and one of the two (often known as the Glimmer Twins in Yippie parlance) was in jail for some silly traffic violation (and probable possession of marijuana) in Raytown, Missouri. If memory serves, it was Ben who was in jail, while Conliff took to local talk radio to threaten to bring a thousand Yippies to Raytown, to spring Ben. (Of course, there were never "a thousand Yippies"--which was the inside joke.)

"We aren't gonna let a punk town like Raytown get away with this!" Conliff bellowed over the airwaves.

And so, magically, the authorities let Ben go. That afternoon. And they specifically told him to tell his friend on the radio: "This is not a PUNK town!"

Ben assured them he would pass the word along. He then repeated the charge later that night to a reporter for the Kansas City Star: "I got busted last night in some punk town called RAYTOWN!" he pointedly said.

They quoted him, too.

~*~

A young photo of Ben; I told you he looked just like Cat Stevens!



And finally, THIS colorful and insane event, the Republican National Convention in 1980 in Detroit, wherein Ben was busted and Conliff miraculously avoided detection by shaving his head.

In the Detroit courtroom where about a dozen Yippies were arraigned, one Yippie was given 10 days for contempt of court. Ben spoke up: "Your honor, you have to give me 20 days, because I have twice as much contempt for your court as she has!"

They obliged.

Ben went to jail a lot, and sued them all later for arresting him. He won, too, frequently joking that it was a good living if you could wait forever to get paid.

~*~

This is the obit that gets quoted here on DEAD AIR, since it dares to use the dreaded word YIPPIE:

"Ben knew the laws better than the police did," explained his longtime friend Amy Gros-Louis, echoing a sentiment shared by judges, lawyers and the many police officers who came to regard Masel with a mix of frustration, awe and, eventually, respect.

So it was with Masel, whose death Saturday at age 56 robbed Madison, Wisconsin and the United States of one of the truest champions of the Constitution, the rule of law, and the founding faith that the freedoms outlined in the Bill of Rights are not just ideals; they are practical tools to be used on a daily basis to challenge the powerful, to offend the elites, to tip the balance toward some rough equivalent of justice.

These commitments made Masel a supreme annoyance to prickly policemen, prying prosecutors and pretenders to the presidency. Before he reached the age of 18, Masel made it onto the list of Nixon White House enemies, and he would later earn national headlines for mocking segregationist George Wallace and spitting at conservative Democrat Henry "Scoop" Jackson, who earned the wrath of Masel and his Yippie compatriots for his steady service to the military-industrial complex.

In later years, the exuberant agitator would express a measure of remorse for some of the more extreme acts of his youth. But he never apologized for exercising every right afforded a citizen.

No one pushed harder against the limits on dissent in what was supposed to be a free society. That pushing earned him dozens of court dates. But Bennett Masel, the New Jersey native who came to Madison as a UW undergrad and remained to become a local icon, was never merely a provocateur. He was, for all the theatrics, a serious believer in a left-libertarian analysis of the individual liberty that lawyers and judges came to understand as a credible extension of the thinking of Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas, the longest-serving justice on the high court and a hero to 1970s radicals such as Masel.

Goodbye Ben, and thank you for teaching me to be a Yippie. It was the major lesson in civil disobedience that I never forgot.

~*~

More:

Ben Masel, an activist's activist

Activists and Visionarys

Ben Masel - Professional Activist

Heap big woman you made a bad boy out of me

Just when I thought it was safe to come back to the blog, another nasty comment this morning. Honestly, loyal troll-readers, I have absolutely no interest in what you have to say, and I now enjoy consigning your comments to the abyss. No more First Amendment Guilt for Daisy! Yes, I once tossed and turned at night, torturing myself over whether I was unfairly denying people their right to insult me, but no longer. Once again, be advised.

Perhaps it is just impossible to have a public blog without assholes invading. I mean, that happens everyplace else, doesn't it? As my late mentor, Steve Conliff, used to say (he was specifically talking about the Yippies, but it's a great adage to keep in mind): If you let anybody in, then anybody will come in. I've noticed, over the years, that this is a rock-solid truth.

The troll was pissed off about my "lack of awareness" about fat; the continuing drama and foofaraw around this post. Never mind that I have probably been much fatter than the troll, for much longer. Trolls know everything, including what you should be blogging about.

I have NOT turned this blog into a "diet blog"--nor will I. But it's quite amazing to me that it is now apparently considered EVIL to try to heal oneself of something one considers limiting and debilitating. (?) Some of the "big" feminist and progressive bloggers constantly reference working out and doing yoga. Why are they allowed to do this without being censured, but I'm not? Amanda Marcotte looks like she weighs maybe 95 lbs soaking wet; you gonna climb her ass over her little wispy frame? Why doesn't she gain weight in solidarity with fat women? (Is that the next demand? Kit Reed's very witty short story titled "The Food Farm", comes to mind.) I can find twenty million lefty blogs in which the author talks about getting in shape for grueling triathlons, weight-training, marathons, 5K runs, afternoon yoga sessions, tennis, hiking, you name it. Speaking of class, God forbid some old working class redneck thinks any of this might be for her, too: You just stay fat, retail-worker grandma, and stay OUT of our 5K marathons! You just don't understand fat awareness, barked the rail-thin marathon-runner as they whizzed by. Um, okay.

The person who left the nasty comment this morning self-righteously announced that my awareness of "fat and class" was lacking, but until I get a good answer for why I am singled out as a baaaad, baaaaad girl for trying to salvage my overworked, overstressed knees and feet ... while none of these other (middle-class, college educated) people are called on the carpet for looking like skinny movie stars... well, I politely invite all people who think I lack "fat awareness" to go fuck themselves.

And the direct question I posed in the comments of the aforementioned post, still stands: Do you have a 400+ lbs best friend you lost before their time? (Well, I guess if you did, you'd shut the hell up and understand where I'm coming from, now wouldn't you?)

Meanwhile, lovely Thene showed me this wonderful set of posts about fat from Greta Christina's very readable and fascinating blog. (Aside: At some point, I'd like to argue atheism/religion with this person, since she seems basically respectful, not like some nasty atheists I won't name, who call me vicious names as a confirmed sky-fairy [1] believer and refuse to dialogue in a polite fashion.) Greta Christina has already grappled with some of the "fat awareness" issues I find most confusing, and has (rationally!) deconstructed some of the arguments from the fat-positive movement that I find most disturbing and contradictory. I have quoted some excerpts I especially relate to.

From The Fat-Positive Skeptic (Part 2 of 2):

I completely agree that the fat-positive movement does often trivialize the very serious, extensively documented, no-joke health risks of being fat. I think they focus on their political ideology about bodies and feminism, at the expense of the actual scientific facts on the ground. I think they're often guilty of wishful thinking: of acting as if the mere act of saying "Fat is as healthy as not-fat" over and over again will somehow make it true, regardless of the medical evidence. And I think they dismiss the fact that, while it's fairly easy to be a healthy, active fat person in your youth, it gets increasingly harder as you get older.

Ohhhhhh goodness mercy yes. This is the crux of it, for me. I found it pertinent that the people who became so angry with me for daring to diet are all significantly younger than I am, and do not work on their feet all day. It does make a difference.

And in the post I linked above, I was trying to talk about the American Problem with Fat, which got me roasted alive. But Greta Christina gets it, and goes further in her analysis than I did:

It's helped for me to think of this as a political issue. It helps to remember that the multinational food corporations have spent decades carefully studying the abovementioned evolutionary food triggers, so they can manipulate me into buying and eating way more food than is good for me. It helps to think of weight loss, not as giving in to the mainstream cultural standards of female beauty, but as sending a big "Fuck You" to the purveyors of quadruple-patty hamburgers and Chocolate Chip Pancakes & Sausage on a Stick.

...

There's a weird circularity to the arguments as well. "Weight loss never works... but when it does work, it's harmful... but even if it would be beneficial, it doesn't matter, because it never works." And the arguments are rife with logical absurdities. If set points can get re-set upwards with crash diets or poor eating and exercise habits, then why can't they be re-set downwards? If it's okay to accidentally lose weight as a side effect of a "health at every size" food and exercise plan, then why is it so unhealthy to consciously lose weight... even if the "conscious weight loss" plan is identical to the "health at every size" plan? If weight is genetically determined and diet and exercise have nothing to do with it, then why have Americans become so much heavier in the last 50 and indeed 20 years... and why do other cultures who start eating an American diet almost immediately start putting on weight?

This IS what I was trying to say, and thanks to Thene for referring me to someone who has already said it far better than I could.

In her "Open Letter to the Fat Positive Movement", Great Christina writes:

In addition, an unsettling tendency has apparently developed in the fat-positive movement: a tendency to take the most extreme positions -- no matter how logically absurd or morally repugnant -- simply to avoid having to concede any points whatsoever. Many fat-positive advocates insist that weight loss never, ever, ever works. Others insist that there are no health problems caused by any degree of fatness. Still others insist that even if some health problems are caused or exacerbated by fatness, weight loss is never, ever, ever the more healthy choice for anyone to make. Ever. Even if you weigh 400 pounds and have had three heart attacks… you still shouldn't try to lose weight. And if you're me, if you weigh 200 pounds and are having serious mobility impairment due to knee problems and have exhausted all other treatment options for it... forget about it. It's better to have a fourth heart attack, it's better to gradually lose mobility over the years to the point where you can no longer climb stairs or walk more than a block, than it is to try to demonstrate that any belief of the fat-positive movement might be mistaken.

I was frankly shocked at how callous most of the fat-positive advocates were about my bad knee. I was shocked at how quick they were to ignore or dismiss it. They were passionately concerned about the quality of life I might lose if I counted calories or stopped eating chocolate bars every day. But when it came to the quality of life I might lose if I could no longer dance, climb hills, climb stairs, take long walks, walk at all? Eh. Whatever. I should try exercise or physical therapy or something. Oh, I'd tried those things already? Well, whatever.

This is alarmingly similar to what happened to me... all my whiny blogging about my painful knees and feet (the conditions that finally brought me to the conclusion that weight loss was worth pursuing) was patently ignored. Instead I got (more or less, distilled to its essence): "Fuck your knees and feet! Fat rules!" (This is actually a type of ideological fundamentalism, which is why an atheist blogger like Greta Christina can spot this line of defense in a line-up.)

It is not up to you to decide for me that the costs of losing weight are greater than the costs of losing my knee. It is not up to you to decide for me that the long odds against successful long-term weight loss (roughly 10 to 1) mean that my attempt to treat my bad knee by losing weight isn't worth it. My body. My right to decide.

Let me ask you this. If you read a post from a blogger saying that they were a heavy drinker, but it was adversely affecting their health and they'd decided to quit... would you send them comments and emails saying, "Don't bother, it's a waste of time and energy, the overwhelming majority of problem drinkers who try to quit eventually fail, and the ones who succeed get obsessed with it and have to go to all these meetings for the rest of their lives and aren't any fun to be around any more, and anyway the connection between heavy drinking and poor health has been totally made up by our anti- drinking society, so instead you should just focus on being the most healthy drinker you can be"?

If not -- then why would you say it to someone who's losing weight?

Actually, I did hear that from a few people back in the day, now that I think of it.[2]

And they were wrong. I stopped. And after an admittedly-long while, I stopped the meetings too; I learned what I needed to learn and moved on to another aspect of my life. I simply cannot imagine 1) taking a drink after 28 years and 2) going to an AA meeting after so many years of not going; those people are all strangers to me now. But according to the myth, once you get sober through AA, you are a lifelong 12-step slave. Not true. (This is why I call myself "12-step fugitive" in my bio.)

And I wholeheartedly agree with this:

[If] the fat-positive movement wants to be a serious voice of opposition to the current scientific consensus, it needs to stop denying reality. It needs to stop with the circular reasoning, the cherry-picking of data, the "all or nothing" thinking, the taking of good ideas to ridiculous and repugnant extremes, the logical absurdities, the elaborate rationalizations, the insularity, the flat denial of simple facts that are staring them in the face. It needs to be willing to follow the evidence wherever it leads... even if where it leads is unpleasant or upsetting. It needs to stop with the true believerism. It needs to treat the principles of fat positivity as hypotheses that can be debated -- not as articles of faith.

And I heartily wish it would do that.

Because we really, really need a sane, evidence- based, reality-based fat-positive movement.

AMEN, AMEN! Preach it, preach it! (jokey jokey with the atheists!) Seriously, she is just so right.

I really, really want to be part of a sane, evidence- based, reality- based fat-positive movement. But it looks like I may have to find a way to do that on my own.

Well, I had to learn to forge a new kind of sobriety on my own, one that didn't classify mostly-harmless reefer with cocaine; one that didn't interrogate every single antihistamine with "Am I high? OMG, did it make me high?" I'm sure the atheist will laugh when I say that I felt I needed to CONFESS to AA every time I took an antihistamine, rather like that other type of confession. (the more things change, the more they stay the same) [3]

My thanks to Greta Christina for her incisive take on fat. This is why we need the atheists, for this kind of cut-to-the-quick stuff. I just wish they'd admit they need us too, to keep things endlessly wacky and interesting! ;)

~*~



[1] I see nothing wrong with believing in sky-fairies. When the atheists call me a deluded sky-fairy believer, my reply is always the same: What's wrong with fairies? I like fairies. I do NOT want to live in a world without fairies, magic, and similarly delightful irrationality, which is my whole point. When we can get to THIS stage of the discussion, then we'll be getting somewhere. Why is human "rationality" (as historically defined by white, male, educated, bourgeois, heterosexual men, of course) any more real or ethical than supposed "irrationality"--since the most "rational" people in history have often turned into mass-murderers and had all kinds of logical, rational, pragmatic reasons for it (yes, I'm looking at you, Josef Mengele... a very rational man, by all accounts).

Rationality is an illusion, and this means the atheists believe in a sky-fairy called rationality--and that is no different than my belief in sky-fairies, saints and tarot cards. Really, it isn't. If you can convince me otherwise, I will take on all comers. Beware, been reading some heavy Buddhist texts, which I can add to the Cistercians, the Desert Fathers, Wittgenstein (I blame Philip K Dick for ever attempting to read Wittgenstein) and all that kinda intense philosophical gymnastics, so I'm ready, willing and able to defend my sky-fairies. BRING EM ON, as a major-movie character once said; I'd prefer a fair fight to all this sneaking around.

[2] Another criticism of AA, concerns the specific wording of the First Step: We admitted that we were powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable. For some inexplicable reason, the word powerless sends certain people into a frenzy.

If you are powerless over something, then you are, whether you choose to admit it or not. NOT admitting it, does not make it LESS true. The focus is on the ADMISSION. If it's not true, then it isn't... why should the word bother you? If it is, then admit it. NOT ADMITTING IT, DOES NOT MAGICALLY MAKE IT NOT SO.

The same is true for any other substance, of course... and I speak as one who quit multiple substances AT ONCE. I also speak as one who easily falls into the pattern of abusing substances, unless I am ultra-careful (they call this an "addictive personality"--ya think?). THIS INCLUDES FOOD, A SUBSTANCE. It is interesting that I never crave celery, but I do crave macaroni and cheese. I would venture to say that not all substances are created equal... a lesson I had to learn on my own, not from AA. But learn it I did.

[3] In Catholicism, this is known as having scruples. Apparently, as an Augustinian monk (before he permanently defected), Martin Luther used to spend hours and hours in the confessional, carefully going over every wayward thought. Finally (in disgust, no doubt) he decided to jettison the whole Sacrament of Confession: the hell with it! I guess he saw no other way out.

We are supposed to call it The Sacrament of Reconciliation now, but I don't know anyone who does.

[4] And of course you know that today's blog post title comes from the redoubtable QUEEN. (We miss you, Freddie!)

Ain't no luck, I learned to duck

Left: President-Elect Barack Obama at Furman University, during the South Carolina primary. Photo from Greenville News. (This is one of my favorite photos of Obama, and I love that it was taken locally.)

~*~

South Carolina went for McCain early, as I said last night. Nonetheless, I stayed up late, late, late, waiting for North Carolina to go for Obama. The jury is still out; they are still tallying the votes. Of course, I also stayed up to watch Barack Obama's acceptance speech.

Michelle was beaming, the girls beaming. They are the ones who made me cry, actually. Their joy and happiness was contagious indeed.

~*~

I was driving yesterday on Pelham Road in Greenville, when some guy in a fancy-ass Lexus started tailgating me and giving me the finger. At the intersection of Patewood and Pelham, turning left, he started honking at me to turn. It's a very busy intersection, and I was waiting for the green arrow-light. Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw him yelling and gesturing wildly. He looked like the actor Rene Auberjonois, and for a second, I thought it might actually be him. (Lots of people retire in South Carolina, so it isn't an outlandish idea. I reflexively thought, go back to Hollywood, asshole!)

I've been especially frazzled and rushed lately, and as a result, I am currently not the most centered person. (I try, I really do, as Billy Jack so memorably said.) I got pissed and stubbornly refused to turn until I got the green arrow, and yelled FUCK YOU so that he could read my lips. After turning, he passed me in the right lane. I gave him the finger as he passed. He then jumped into my lane and slowed down. I actually thought he was gonna jump out of his Lexus on Patewood Drive and commence to open a can of whup-ass on me. Yes, locals will realize, this was right in front of St Francis hospital... I guess we wouldn't have far to go to the ER if we ended up in a fistfight, huh?

But I was flabbergasted. Whaaaaa!?!? WTF? I couldn't figure out the tantrum, which seemingly came out of nowhere. And then I remembered my ANOTHER MAMA FOR OBAMA bumper sticker. (I didn't think a "Go vegetarian!" bumper sticker could possibly make him that angry, but you know, I could be wrong.) HAH! UPSET, ARE WE!? Most of the south went red yesterday, which made me sad, although it was far closer than it's been in decades. But I guess Mr Lexus knew which way the tide was turning, and he was agitated. TOO, TOO BAD!

I am wondering if anyone else experienced that kind of thing yesterday, harassment and unbridled assholery from sore losers. Particularly here in the red states.

~*~

Time to celebrate! In this song, the phrase "rock the boat" was widely assumed to be "rock the vote"--due to the patriotic context. I have always thought the popular slogan "rock the vote" came from this misheard lyric. Or maybe not. But we did it, huh? :)

If only my mother, my grandmother, Steve Conliff, Jerry Garcia, so many people, could be present to witness this historic event.

For them, for us, here is -- US BLUES! Thanks to Yoga For Cynics for the idea! (For those who prefer the cleaned-up studio version, click here.)



And Elizabeth Dole LOST! Let's hope she also loses the lawsuit, filed by her opponent (and new Democratic Senator of North Carolina!) Kay Hagan.

I am completely thrilled that the south has a DEMOCRATIC WOMAN SENATOR!!!! KAY KAY ALL THE WAY, KAY KAY ALL THE WAY....

I wish someone would phone

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.

Ron Paul at the Peace Center Amphitheater, Greenville, SC

I forgot to charge up my nice new camera's battery... d'oh! ...and thus, cribbed these ultracool photos from the Greenville News. If they make me take em down, oh well. But in the meantime, I can show you where I went, and who I saw tonight.



Republican presidential candidate, Congressman Ron Paul gave a speech to hundreds of revved-up followers in the Peace Center Amphitheater, in downtown, Greenville, South Carolina, this evening. I was dumbfounded (and impressed) by the fervor. There was music, food, and almost balmy weather. I actually enjoyed the event.

I used to call this place Mayberry, but in the last decade it has turned into what David Brooks calls a Latte Town. It was interesting to see Ron Paul's middle American populists in the pricey mall-atmosphere that downtown Greenville has become. Greenville was built by working class people, like those at the Ron Paul rally. Now that the mills are gone, and once-humble Reedy River neighborhoods transformed into the millionaire's River Place (with appropriately upscale restaurants and hotels), I could easily guess which families were headed for swanky Soby's, and which were headed for Ron Paul. Many of the people in the surrounding, trendy, spanking-new restaurants and apartments came out on their decks, cocktails in hand, to have a look at the spectacle. I felt the impact of them looking down, quite literally, on us.

Not the money people, in other's words. Not your father's Republican party.

Standing around beforehand, sipping hot chocolate with Carolina fans for Ron Paul, I tried to sort out his appeal. Lots of these people were saying they don't usually get involved in politics, so what brings them out for Ron? Let me count the ways. The GrannyWarriors, with their pet monkey, never tire of telling you how much they love Ron. The collapse of the dollar, among other concerns, is one motivation. But overwhelmingly, I heard young men especially say that the trashing of the constitution in fighting an undeclared war (with no end in sight), was something that they felt strongly about.

Ron Paul was introduced by a conservative talk radio guy from Charleston (whose name and radio station I didn't catch), who promptly confused me by trashing Sean Hannity. Huh? Again, not your father's GOP.

"Why is the national media talking about Huckabee in Iowa when Ron Paul has more money and bigger crowds? Why do they patently ignore the actual numbers, in favor of coverage of Giuliani and Romney?" he asked. Indeed, I hadn't thought of it, but Ron Paul doesn't get much mainstream TV coverage.

Living in an early primary state and deciding to become a Political Blogger(tm), I dutifully signed up for all the campaign updates. It's been an illuminating exercise in what politicians consider important: money. Most campaign emails do not discuss policy, ideas, intentions, plans for the country, etc. They discuss CONTRIBUTE HERE, with a bright red button you can click to take you to the contributors page.

Here, as in other respects, Ron is far ahead of the rest of the pack. Certainly, he asks for money, but he always includes strong political statements in his email. He actually assumes people on his mailing list care about what is happening. And he doesn't talk down to them. Decidedly not a movie star of any sort, he repeatedly says WE instead of "I"--as in WE can do this together, not I will do this for you.

There is the sentiment in the crowd that he is a savior, but also, somehow, that he is an ordinary person. I find the confluence of the two sentiments odd, but thoroughly American and completely fascinating.

One of my political mentors, the late Steve Conliff, taught me to think strategically about elections. A radical and Yippie, he nonetheless deliberately ran as a Republican candidate for governor, not as a Democrat. He used to counsel us to vote for the most liberal Republican in the primaries, drawing the most conservative party to the left, which he felt was crucial. Then, cast your vote according to precinct in the general election. If your precinct can't waste a single Democratic vote, you know what to do. However, if the GOP has the election sewn up in your neighborhood (as SC is a predominantly GOP state, and there is little chance of that changing in 2008), get creative. Send messages. Vote for the Green Party, or Ron Paul, or a write-in candidate. Do something.

Let them know that Tweedledee and Tweedledum are simply no choice.

Ron Paul: Missing weapons put soldiers at risk
Ron Paul: No escalation with Iran

----------------
Listening to: Magazine - A Song from Under the Floorboards
via FoxyTunes

Feast of Elvis Presley

Alphabitch just reminded me that it's Elvis week! I was gonna post on him tomorrow, since I always (mistakenly) think his date of death was the same day my dearly-departed friend/mentor Steve Conliff hit the Governor of Ohio with a banana cream pie (Aug 17), but in fact, Elvis died the day before. However, Steve was always proud that he made the cover of the NEW YORK TIMES the same day as Elvis!


Since I am feeling like a bad Catholic today, I thought I'd try to keep with the general theme. Photo above: Elvis and Mary Tyler Moore in CHANGE OF HABIT! Tagline that should have been: I'll bet you never knew Vatican II could be like this!

In fact, Elvis did drive one beautiful, broken-hearted actress into the convent, where she stayed. If you can't have Elvis, the only logical man is Jesus. Makes sense to me.

AND WOW--she is actually MOTHER DELORES now! The other nuns are probably in awe. Why not? I am!