Met this fabulous young woman named MacKensie (don’t know the spelling) who is a barista at the Starbucks at Nichols Hills. She’s done missionary work in Africa in the Sierra Leone and Ivory Coast area with the children of their civil wars who’ve had their feet chopped off by machetes. She’s working with Scott Sabolich to get prosthetic feet for these kids. Wow!!! I’m impressed. That’s no shit impressive. Putting your life where your ideals are. Your money where your mouth is. Wow. Anyway, I met her because she was wearing this beautiful Togo neckpiece and I commented. She was kind enough to take a moment and tell me a little about her story. After I left, I knew I had to go back and ask her if we could film her for the film that The Oz is doing. Haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it, but what a great story. I love living in OKC and getting to meet such wonderful people everywhere I go.
Monthly Archives: December 2005
picking up a dropped stitch
I forgot to mention that I went to GSpot last Thursday night with The Oz to see a band called Spirit Journey. Damn! They were wonderful. A kind of jazz/rock fusion. Very danceable, sophisticated music. Very long cuts — maybe 8-12 minutes. A sax enriched the sound of two percussionists, a keyboard, lead and bass guitar. Mostly instrumentals, but they did a set of vocal music covers. It was one of those magic evenings of going out to hear live music when the band was HOT HOT HOT and so was the crowd. I don’t know when I’ve seen so many really good looking women in such a high proportion to the crowd and the crowd filled the rooms with buzz and good vibes. It was one of those nights when people are relaxed and having a drink and no one is really getting drunk, just having a good time. There was one table of a family that had gathered for a holiday celebration and one of the older men at the table was over the top, but his daughters were so cute apologizing for him and taking care of him. The Oz and I chatted with the younger women after the older men left and they were very nice and repeatedly told us that it was very out of character for their dad to be so loaded, but I’m guessing it was one of those moments that happen when you drink — you get carried away by the moment and don’t realize until too late that you’ve passed the line. As a former drunk myself, I can relate. Also saw Katie P there about midnight and she and her 9 tattoos looked wonderful. I’m always happy to see this former student yell “D Long!” at me from across the room and she’s also the daughter of Pat and Doug, both of whom I adore, and brother of another former student, Charlie, who was one of the superstars of my teaching experience. Anyway, if you ever get a chance to see Spirit Journey, do yourself a big big favor and go hear them. I thought they were really wonderful and that their music isn’t something you hear everyplace and any day. Original and compelling. My highest musical kudos.
Holiday stresses
John X sent me an email today saying that there hasn’t been a blogblah entry for a week, and I’ll be doggone if he ain’t right.
I did try to blog over the Christmas holiday, but I ended up trashing my effort because it was just too harsh. Yeah, I know. Too harsh for blogblah? Nahhh. Nevertheless, there it is. I had to back up and start over because there was stuff I just didn’t want to put out there in the universe.
So, here’s a bit of what went on in and around OKC to blogblah in the past week:
There’s much ado over not much amongst those I love these days. Angst everywhere I gaze.
I am not immune. I have my own angst.
So, I’m going to blog about my doings lately, but I won’t be very kind and if you read me saying something really snarky about you, you’ll just have to understand — or not, and get your own knickers in a twist over not much.
Let’s go back to last Tuesday.
It is a day that will forever be enshrined in my memory as “Dog Butt Tuesday”.
A day that will live in infamy, as FDR would intone.
Babs decided she would put together a show. Very 30s musical. She, of course, was cast in the Judy Garland role as Oklahoma City’s Pearl Mesta, the hostess with the mostest. I’m not sure who was supposed to be Mickey Rooney, but my metaphors can be mixed and flawed if that’s what I want. It’s my damn blog. Shut up.
So, she put together a show and put flyers all over town saying there would be three artists and it would be where The Celtic Cup used to be at 23d and Hudson, kind of across the street south from Cheevers.
One of the artists was to be The Oz, which is good stuff, except she didn’t tell him until after she’d advertised him, but he’s flexible and that worked out.
So, Tuesday, we get together at The Paseo and decide to go to this show because, although we didn’t remember that there was supposed to be a show, Button called The Gary to say she was delivering the food she’d prepared and were we going? We couldn’t pass up her food, whether we recalled there was to be a show or not, and went to the show.
I’ll just stop here and say that I don’t eat German chocolate since I’m allergic to cocoanut, but everyone says Button’s muffins were the greatest ever made. I can attest to the other treats as being out of this world, but all and sundry praised the German chocolate to the heights. It was worth the trek just for the food.
There was also pizza being cooked in the back room, an unusual event, and it turns out there was a disconnect between Babs and Button about that. Button thought she’d be able to deliver her treats and get paid and be on her way. Didn’t work that way. Babs expected her to cook pizza onsite as well. Never did find out if Button got paid, and for a girl who can’t fix her transmission or keep the cellphone working, that is an important issue. It’s even more important because there had been a “mixup” at the last thing Babs and Button did and there was a problem about payment. Button has a regular Tuesday gig that pays her $100 for cooking that she passed up for this show, but I just haven’t gotten around to finding out the bottom line of all that.
Anyway, it also turns out there was a curatorial mixup. Derrick was supposed to be part of the show, but the show was hung without Derrick’s work. No room at the inn. So, there was an annex show at his apartment around the corner from the show. More goodies — delicious salmon — and a crowded venue that included his gorgeous 19 year old sister and their father.
Derrick’s work is composed of single, continuous lines that are then colored in brightly, forming figures, flowers, butterflies. It’s a distinctive look and curiously compelling. The works tend to be smaller and intimate and are generally unframed and therefore affordable.
Another peripatetic feature of the show was that next door to the former Celtic Cup, in a building also owned and being redone by Sam, the architect, was the band and dancing. However, the band itself also turned out to be a catch as catch can matter with new people joining in and leaving the jam. Curious, but spontaneous of Babs.
So, that’s what is going on generally at this Tuesday confab. There are people here eating Button’s confections. People are there looking at Derrick’s work and more people are another place listening to the band.
Sorta reminds me of Larry P’s penchant for last minute inspiration and perspiration.
So, the scene is set, I hope.
I walked in and my eye is drawn first to the work by The Oz, specifically one of his portraits, this one of Amanda, next to one of his falling women. You had to go around a corner to see one of my all time favorites by The Oz, one of his floating dress series. Gorgeous work, immaculately conceived.
When I turned around, though, Oh. My. God.
Most of the room is given over to another artist, an oil painter whose name is, I believe, Diane Hall. Sorry if I got that wrong. The artist is showing about 18 works, all paintings of dogs and all about life sized. Now, any painting of dogs will be charming to a certain audience and I’m sure that dog lover Babs, with two scotties she loves and adores and who are the center of her life, owns at least one of these paintings and adores the work.
It was not my cup of tea.
In fact, since all — yes, ALL — the paintings were of dogs walking away from the perspective of the artist, there were about a dozen and a half dog butts portrayed. I’ve never seen so many “pink eyes” staring at me at once. Canine anus overload. It was even hard for me to taste and eat the many wonderful Button baked goods while being confronted by so many doggie assholes. Sort of put me off my feed, you might say. Dog butts everywhere I looked. All around me. I was surrounded by assholes and then there were the paintings on top of that (it’s a joke, see. I changed from dog asses to a scatalogical reference to people. It’s not as funny if you have to explain it. Shut up.).
So, anyway, Tall Ed and Michael H walk in separately and it’s like two women with the same outfits. Both are wearing berets. If it had been a situation comedy, the laugh track would have gone wild. If only it had been that funny in person instead of merely an amusing coincidence. We talked about berets and chapeaus and caps and hats as if that were an actually interesting topic of conversation, but that’s what we do. You can’t always fulminate about Bush and God and the other important questions of the day, so we hide behind such conversations as much as possible and hope to find yourself smiling at the banter at least a little. Michael H wore his as he often does to cover his balding head in the cold of the evening and Tall Ed wore his in hopes that he would not only cover his comb-over, but that he would gain the kind of panache that would attract women. Tall Ed’s funny and it’s great to be around him, even if he is stabbing me in the back on occasion, and the reason is that he’s capable of stabbing me to my face and of taking his own hits from me in return, all with jocularity. In this case, not even the ribbons in the back of the beret were much help and he was reduced to going to dinner with us old folks because no women were attracted either despite or because of the little ribbons on the back of the beret.
So, we gathered up about 8-10 of us and walked over to Cheever’s with some treats already in our belly, but in need of hot and nutritious food. Most of us would share someone’s chicken fried steak meal because cheever’s serves such a large portion of that delicious battered mystery meat.
while we were waiting for our food, Tall Ed and I bantered and he gigged me and I gigged back and then, he says, look at those two beautiful women at the bar. I turned around and, lo and behold, I knew one of them: Beth, who was there to flirt with the bartender, my myspace pal, Christian of the many beautiful women. “Beth!” I called out. Tall Ed was left to shake his head in wonder. What were the chances he would spy two beautiful women and I’d know them? HeeHeeHee. Some guys walk into a bar to get lucky, I just AM lucky.
That was to my left as I sat at the Cheever’s table. To my right, a latent homicide is brewing unbeknownst to most of us.
You see, most of us including me are, shall we say? “of a certain age.”
The Age of Cranky.
The in-between age where we are not young, but we are younger than our parents, who we are cranky about having to see at Christmas and who are really really ancient. We, ourselves, are old enough that we have health issues. We’ve lately had friends, contemporaries, who have died. It’s a sensitive subject.
And, there in our midst, was Typhoid Mary, sneezing, coughing, oozing germs and viruses, and bitching to high heaven that she felt as bad as she ever had in her whole life, was headed for the doctor’s tomorrow and just couldn’t possibily, except go to dinner with all and sundry.
Now most of us had avoided the typhus from first notice. However, ONE particular person who is an inveterate people pleaser who just wants everyone to like her and to get along … OK, it was the Debster, OK? … lost her head over her neurosis and invited the plague to dinner.
Now, the plague carrying party is, at best, a pill. Not always the easiest to get along with. So, although the plague came to dinner at Debster’s invite, Debster didn’t want to sit next to the plague. Not all Debster’s fault to want to sit next to her hubby and all, but it left some of us who didn’t want to be exposed to a flu that left Typhoid Mary feeling “as bad as I’ve ever felt in my life” exposed to a flu that we did not want, didn’t want to take home to our aging parents, all octogenarians, nor were we glad to be sitting with a pill who was an even bigger pill as a result of feeling like crap.
As the evening wore on, the teapot got more and more tempestuous until the next day it raged into a perfect storm of isolation, protest and ill temper.
The Gary wised me up. Anyone who knows me, he said, knows the flu would kill my mother. It never ocurred to me that the flu could be life and death for an older family member, but there were others there who understood the homicidal rage felt by the plague’s unwitting and unwilling dinner companions.
good thing a few blasts of verbal napalm scoured the area of flu germs.
Anyway, the Tuesday group narrowed and the remainder went to the GSpot.
there, at the large, kidney shaped table, we held court, adding to our weight with some people we met there.
I was seated next to the lovely Laura of Pikepass fame who proceeded to scorch my ears with a diatribe about the high costs of professional services like story editing. Just what I needed and wanted at the end of a cold evening.
but, we also saw Julie, who regaled The Oz and wife with stories of the film world in OKC, a topic of great interest to the nascent film-maker in The Oz.
Tall Ed tried his beret on Julie, but left with nothing but his head covering. the next day, he’d switch back to his lucky orange hoodie.
The Wednesday night movie was Dr. Strangelove and that twisted little bit of film from Stanley Kubrick was perfect for the twisted holiday season.
We met again, you know where (G Spot) and you know when (4 p.m.) and had a little coffee chat as usual. It wasn’t much attended since a lot of people were busy with last minute christmas and family stuff. another reason to hate the season. You have to spend time with your family instead of with the people you love. (It’s a JOKE! DAMN! DO I HAVE TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING?!?)
We ate at Sleazy Dee’s and, as usual, filled the balcony with raucous laughter and pain. I happened to bump into Heather (?), the punk’d girl who also saw “Coffee and Cigarets” that I’d chatted up at Paseo the week before. I love the fact that Oklahoma City is such a small town that you can bump into everyone you know in the ordinary course of daily life. Of course, I also hate the fact that Oklahoma City is such a small town that everyone knows everyone and all their business.
After the movie, a small group of us went shopping. Yes, I know, odd. We met up with KW, an Edmond adjunct to the group for the purpose of re-igniting a “tradition” we started last year. Other than to say I got to revisit a familiar story about cell phone unavailability, I’ll leave it at that.
Seems like Thursday was the day the grandkids came over and did fingerpaints with Uncle Jack on my kitchen floor. We made handprints and turned them into turkeys and I have a new set of orange, yellow and red artwork for my special place of safekeeping. Having trashed the holidays, I’m so grateful that it means that I get to see my Tucson family, even if my daughter is looking quite thin. Oh, that reminds me, we’ve been warned that blogging about my son in law’s Iraqi adventures can be a security risk, so if you’re curious, you’ll have to ask me in person since I won’t be blogging about that any more.
Friday, I finished up all my Xmas shopping and wrapping and delivered presents to various friends and family. took my family, including grandkids, to dinner at Hideaway for the world’s best pizza, the Paradise Pie. YUMMM!!!
Christmas eve, Saturday, has gone from a very lonely time for me when my family is with my ex-wife going to midnight mass and I’m all alone to a time when I get the real spirit of Christmas by reaching out to a family less fortunate than me. A few people gathered at my house, including both children and the grandchildren for the early part of the evening, and we wrapped presents for a family of five children living with grandmom in a one bedroom apartment. They had not had Christmas the previous year, but this time there were trikes and red wagons and dolls and personal cd players.
Afterwards, the group shares dark stories of wounded childhoods and horrible holiday tales as an antidote to the good feelings we’ve accumulated by doing something nice for someone else. Just to keep the cranky quotient at a stable level, you know.
christmas day was fine fine fine. for one thing, my crazy local sister — as opposed to my terrifffffic coastal sisters — wigged out once more and didn’t show up for the gifts and gastronomic delights. That avoided some angst for me, if not for mom.
I made off with a buttload (technical term used by engineers to mean a large amount) of bounty. A new sharkskin suit, a new shirt, some CDs, and a wonderful new tea set with some Ceylon black tea to brew in it. Eat your heart out, MB! This teapot is MINE MINE MINE!!!
Son Jack stunned me with a wonderful gift from the film world: a movie poster of Orson Well’s Touch of Evil, just like the one at OCAM I see every Thursday in good weather while going through the museum cafe to the roof.
went to see Narnia Monday and really really really liked it. I cut my teeth on those stories as a child and it was just the best to see The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe so fully realized onscreen.
I suppose there’s lots more, but I’m tired of blogging and I’ll have to pick it up another time.
Tonight’s movie (Wednesday the 28th) is 2046, a quirky Chinese film that I have to see again because I didn’t get it the first time through, but I could tell that there was something there to get. Much in the way of use of color and stiched together achronistically, it’s a stylish and interesting movie.
Big Brother is Listening
From today’s Slate Magazine, a roundup of NSA horror stories. Violations of law, violations of our Constitutional rights, violations of our freedoms and liberty. Resist Bush while we can.
Listening In and Naming Names
The old tricks of the National Security Agency.
By Patrick Radden Keefe
Posted Tuesday, Dec. 20, 2005, at 3:22 PM ETThe storm of controversy notwithstanding, Friday’s revelation that President Bush authorized the National Security Agency to conduct warrantless eavesdropping in the United States should come as no surprise. The press tends to shy away from covering America’s largest and most secretive intelligence agency, fearing precisely the kind of scolding President Bush delivered to the New York Times. But the truth is that the NSA—which has an estimated $6 billion annual budget bigger than those of the CIA and the FBI combined—has a decidedly checkered history when it comes to playing by the rules. Both before and after Sept. 11, 2001, the secrecy surrounding the eavesdropping agency has obscured a dangerous institutional tendency to overreach.
In 1978, congressional investigations revealed that the NSA had spied on civilian anti-war protesters during Vietnam. The response was the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. To prevent future abuses, the act drew a line between foreign intelligence and domestic law enforcement. The NSA was free to spy abroad, but when its agents wanted to wiretap in the United States, they had to ask a secret FISA court for a warrant. It was easy enough to get the warrants: Officials had to show probable cause that the person they were after was an agent of a foreign power. And the court, comprised of a rotating panel of federal judges chosen by the chief justice of the Supreme Court, almost never rejected an application. Governed by FISA, the supposedly rehabilitated NSA quietly went back to work. On the rare occasions over the last three decades when NSA directors have spoken publicly, it has been to offer assurances that the agency does not spy on U.S. citizens.
The problem was that with FISA under its belt, Congress effectively let the TV be the babysitter. Legislators relied on the new law to do the work, and oversight of electronic intelligence-gathering fell into serious decline. The justifiable secrecy surrounding eavesdropping became a bureaucratic carte blanche, and the NSA refused to produce hard information to back up its generic assurances that it was not abusing its powers. In the Reagan years, Rep. Norman Mineta, D-Calif., who served on the House intelligence committee, neatly summarized the relationship between the spies and the committee: “We are like mushrooms. They keep us in the dark and feed us a lot of manure.”
Two years before Sept. 11, members of the House intelligence committee asked the NSA’s general counsel for the internal legal guidelines that governed eavesdropping on the conversations of U.S. citizens. The agency stonewalled—not a good sign. The NSA’s flimsy excuse was a Procrustean extension of attorney-client privilege, whereby any document that happened to be sitting on the desk of an NSA lawyer did not have to be handed over to Congress. The aftermath of Sept. 11 might have prompted greater oversight of electronic intelligence-gathering. After all, one of the major conclusions of both the bicameral congressional investigation and the 9/11 Commission was that Congress had been lax in that oversight. But after decades of keeping Congress at arm’s length, the 9/11 Commission members were a piece of cake for the NSA. Despite its manifest size and resources, and its failure to hear so much as a whisper about al-Qaida’s 9/11 operation, the agency merited only a few fleeting references in the commission’s 500-page report.
After 9/11, the first sign that the NSA was overreaching on eavesdropping came when the famously circumspect FISA court took the unprecedented step of publishing a 7-0 decision in May 2002. The court, which approved about 10,000 warrant applications between the passage of FISA and Sept. 11, 2001, rebuked the Justice Department and the FBI for giving it wrong information in 75 post-9/11 applications for search warrants and wiretaps. The FISA judges called for stricter policing of FISA’s delineation between domestic law enforcement and foreign intelligence operations to “protect the privacy of Americans in these highly intrusive surveillance searches.”
Then-Attorney General John Ashcroft appealed, and it emerged that in the years since FISA was passed in 1978, a second secret judicial body—the FISA court of appeals—had been lurking in the wings. The Washington Post called this three-judge panel “a kind of ghost within the American judiciary”—one that had the peculiar distinction of never having had occasion to convene. Why not? Because it was established “to review the denial of any application” to the FISA court. And the court didn’t deny applications.
The following year, as Washington began its full-court press for an invasion of Iraq, the NSA launched a surge of eavesdropping on delegates to the U.N. Security Council in New York. The operation was revealed when an English eavesdropper leaked an NSA e-mail requesting British assistance in the effort. It was a front-page story in Europe and around the world, but the American press didn’t run with it, showing a level of deference to NSA secrecy matched only by Congress. Nevermind that the eavesdropping took place in Manhattan and violated the General Convention on the Privileges and Immunities of the United Nations, the Headquarters Agreement for the United Nations, and the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations, all of which the United States has signed.
More dramatic—and also largely overlooked—was the disclosure last spring during John Bolton’s confirmation hearings that the NSA was giving policy-makers and other intelligence agencies information about U.S. citizens. Since 1978, the NSA has insisted that when it intercepts a communication between a targeted foreigner and a nontargeted American it will redact the name of the American from the resulting intelligence report. The redactions are made to protect the privacy of the individual who was not the target, and to satisfy the Constitution’s prohibition of warrantless searches. Yet at his hearings, Bolton admitted that on several occasions while he was an undersecretary of state he had asked the NSA to reveal the names of Americans in agency intercepts. The NSA obliged without any showing of cause or process of review. Newsweek investigated and learned that during one 18-month period in 2004 and 2005, the NSA supplied the names of 10,000 U.S. citizens to interested bureaucrats and spies.
That violation is arguably more egregious than the new revelations of warrantless eavesdropping. It involved vastly more people. (Bush’s warrantless eavesdropping reportedly targeted between 500 and 1,000 people a year.) And it was an informal practice, without even the thin legitimacy of a secret executive order.
To be sure, the Times story is a bombshell. And if President Bush and Alberto Gonzales continue to argue that warrantless eavesdropping was justified under the authority granted by Congress after Sept. 11, this story will be an important chapter in the narrative of the Bush administration’s promotion of executive power. But the shock—shock—professed in Congress and on editorial pages that a U.S. intelligence agency would exceed its mandate and play fast and loose with statutory and constitutional curbs? That seems at best naive and at worst a too-little-too-late gesture by the very people who should have seen this coming. Bush’s executive order authorizing the NSA wiretaps is just the latest iteration (and not even the latest: See today’s story about the FBI’s surveillance of an Indianapolis Vegan Community Project) in a consistent pattern of inadequate oversight of legally questionable eavesdropping operations.
In 2002, then-director of the NSA Michael Hayden took the unusual step of asking for more debate about what his agency should and should not be able to do. “What I really need you to do,” he told Congress, “is to talk to your constituents and find out where the American people want the line between security and liberty to be.” That debate did not occur, and to judge by events and revelations in the intervening years, the agency—and the White House—interpreted the absence of protest as a vote of confidence and erred on the side of security. Now the talking heads are talking and a congressional inquiry is planned for January. Four years later, Michael Hayden may get his answer.
Impeach the King
This president must be impeached! He has assumed dictatorial powers and wants even more power. He has a plan for world domination. He lied to get us into a war with Iraq. There is nothing he has not failed at: the economy, international relations, balancing the budget, responding to disasters, protecting us from drugs, guns, terrorists, our nation’s education system is a disaster and our medical system is in a freefall to decrepitude. President George W. Bush must be impeached, reviled and disgraced as a top priority of every freedom loving individual American. Write your fucking Congressmen. It is NOT futile! Stick your head out your window and yell: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not taking it any more!” It is NOT stupid. Draft and sign petitions. Read Anarchist’s Cookbook. It’s on the web and it will teach you skills for armed resistance if that should become necessary. This coming year is an election year. Speak up, goddammit!!! Give money. Give time. Sit on a phone bank or go door to door. GET FUCKING MAD!!! NO TIME FOR BEING NICE NO TIME TO BE SHY SPEAK UP SPEAK UP GET A FUCKING BUMPER STICKER THIS SHIT IS FUCKING IMPORTANT DAMMIT IT’S FUCKING CONCENTRATION CAMPS AND GULAGS IT’S BEING STRIPPED DOWN TO THIRD WORLD STATUS BOTH POLITICALLY AND ECONOMICALLY DON’T YOU GET IT? WE’RE BEING GENTLY LED INTO SLAVERY GET FUCKING ANGRY GODDAMMIT THIS MATTERS
Here’s a story about Bush’s drive for power:
Here’s an excerpt to get you interested:
Experts ponder Bush’s rationale
Some wonder why law wasn’t changed instead of circumvented by administration
Matthew B. Stannard, Chronicle Staff WriterTuesday, December 20, 2005
During the four years since the Sept. 11 attacks, the Bush administration has responded to questions over its more controversial national security policies, relating to interrogation methods, incarceration policies and investigative techniques, with the argument that they were crucial in the fight against terror.
But some national security experts say that such arguments may not be enough this time to quell questions over the clandestine surveillance of Americans.
“I think there is enormous understanding and tolerance for an argument from necessity, and there’s willingness to retroactively forgive what might strictly speaking be violations of the law,” said Steven Aftergood, director of the Project on Government Secrecy of the Federation of American Scientists.
“What becomes harder to understand is four years after 9/11 the administration has not sought modification of the law, but has rather asserted unchecked authority,” he said.
How badly off the beam is President Bush? The next story will give you an idea. A judge on the super-secret, hush-hush court resigned because Bush was so illegal
Washington Post
By Carol D. Leonnig and Dafna Linzer
Updated: 11:21 p.m. ET Dec. 20, 2005
A federal judge has resigned from the court that oversees government surveillance in intelligence cases in protest of President Bush’s secret authorization of a domestic spying program, according to two sources.
U.S. District Judge James Robertson, one of 11 members of the secret Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court, sent a letter to Chief Justice John D. Roberts Jr. late Monday notifying him of his resignation without providing an explanation.
Two associates familiar with his decision said yesterday that Robertson privately expressed deep concern that the warrantless surveillance program authorized by the president in 2001 was legally questionable and may have tainted the FISA court’s work.
The rest of the story includes some stuff about Chuck Hegel and Olympia Snowe jumping ship with Arlen Spector leading in asking for investigations, blah blah blogblah!!!
This judge takes a hike from a cushy lifetime job. Republicans are starting to go “whoa”. Get fucking mad, people. Impeach this man.
Moody Moon
This poem was written for the lovely Juliet and I hope she doesn’t object to having it shared.
Moody Moon
Does this full moon tug at the ocean in your eyes?
Do you look for me skyward
Waxing and waning, always in flux?
When the sky is clear and cold
and winter’s chill reflects the ice
crystalline in rings around Lunar
Climes
Rhymes
Times
the waves lap darkly blue at the lake wall
when the wind is from the North.
But Gulf’s warm wafts
Will come again
and lights from the restaurants
across the way will give colored
sparks to the river of moonlight
we watch, kissing, holding the heart
of our desire.
Passion Power
Amour’s flower.
Your name whispers through this night.
The Holidays are SO confusing!
Sometimes family circles become spirals of memories and old feuds. Old hurts dredge up. Our childhood wounds become today’s disappointments and the love we want still eludes us.
We feel the pressures of our impulse buys while we struggle to stay with our Christmas lists and the crowds make us cranky from the moment we start looking for a parking place. Today, especially, it’s a major undertaking just to get the hell out of the house only to slip and slide on the ice and snow that covers Oklahoma City.
There’s all that end-of-year business stuff when we get the bad news about just how hard we worked for how little and we have to catch up on the boring paperwork we’ve been putting off since October, or maybe June.
There’s the spillover from our friends and lovers as their stuff spins out of control and we all take it out on each other and expect some “slack” from people we love who have no more slack to give.
All of this set against the inevitable out-of-control expectations that we’ll feel all along like a 7 year old boy unwrapping an Xbox 360 on Christmas morning in our footies and bed head.
There’s nothing like Christmas to destroy my Christmas spirit.
As I write this, snow has begun falling gently, promising a White Christmas but delivering wretched driving and frayed nerves. It’s a perfect metaphor for the holiday season which, of all times of the year, is the most fertile for suicide.
Then, of course, there’s the wretched excess of New Year’s Eve when everyone tries to feign having a much better time than they are really having and so, to make up and cover up and to forget about it, we drink far too much to try and fill that gap between our heart’s desire and our reality. We fret about that perfect date that we do not have. We wish we were kissing someone else as they play that wretched Scot’s poem about old friendships.
And then we stare into the dark of cold winter and another year of the same thing same as it ever was same as it ever was same as it ever was.
Why is Leonard Cohen so lighthearted?
Because we must be led by our hopes and not driven by our fears.
Because we must act as if there were a God despite the radical impossibility there ever was one (Sartre).
Because there is nothing good nor bad but thinking makes it so (Shakespeare).
There’s no reason to face the traffic at the mall nor the crowds of cows that go there. Go to Milissa at Mockingbird Manor and order some handmade jewelry for a one-of-a-kind gift. Go to Suzanne at Paseo for an encaustic and have no problem at all parking and get a work of art instead of a boring sweater. Buy a one of a kind tie from Diane Coady instead of a boring school tie from Foley’s.
Choose one person in your family or among former friends to get right with. Stuff your old crap where the sun don’t shine and polish up your good stuff by going the extra mile to put back together a relationship. Make it your Christmas present to yourself. Enemies are easy, it’s friends that are hard. Your resentments over things that happened when you were a child is you drinking poison hoping they will die. Stop it. Instead, forgive in the same measure as you wish to be forgiven by someone else. Cut the slack you want for yourself.
For me, this is a sobering season — and those of you who know me well know that I’m a recovering alcoholic and sober is precisely the right word. You will not be surprised to know that I’ve been a full bore asshole at times this past year. My end-of-the-year business this year is to clean up some of the messes I’ve made. One part of that process is me forgiving a few people for not realizing that I’m so fabulous that whatever I want and whatever I do is the perfect thing and realizing myself that maybe I haven’t been perfect in every situation every single time. Maybe, gulp, take some responsibility for my behavior.
Despite this, I’ve watched a major relationship go south, precipitously, just this week. Some part of me says, though, that letting go may be the kindest thing I can do. I’m thinking that this may be one of those times when what I want and what is right are two very different things.
How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.
To some of you, I’m not much of a Christian. To me, a Christmas tree is a pagan symbol of the fact that the early Christian Church co-opted the pagan Bacchanalia winter solstice celebration. I do not believe the story of Christ’s virgin birth and the Holy Spirit.
I do believe in the words of Christ. Our lives will become a heaven on earth if we will only avoid judging our fellow humans and instead offer them our love. We must begin that process with ourselves, drop our heinous self-evaluations and remember that we are loveable, if by no one else then by ourselves.
I met a young woman at Galileo’s the other night and I think her name is Heather. She was punk’d in appearance with multicolored hair, tattoos and piercings. I met her because she was at the next table and I heard her start talking about the film “Coffee and Cigarets”, a rather obscure movie, but one of my guilty pleasures. I interrupted, confessing that I’d eavesdropped. I suppose she was 21 years old at least since she was in the bar area, but she was young by my standards, whatever her age. Just a random incident in my random life. Except for one thing: it’s perfectly predictable that I will meet unusual people hanging out, as I do, at the Paseo. In fact, it’s one of the main reasons why it’s my adopted second home. There’s more to it than that, even. There’s also the fact of my life that I’m gregarious. A great many people may have seen that movie and could overhear that conversation and keep to themselves. That’s not how I’m made. It’s also perfectly predictable that I’d speak up. Especially since she was a lovely young woman — Yes, I do know who I am. What is the nature of life? Is it unpredictable and random or is it merely complex?
Ah, this dance of life.
The bottom line for me is that when I try to direct my life, I fuck up. When I simply live with love and openness and passion, good things happen to me. When I insist on my self-importance, I ruin my connectivity. When I simply accept others as beings doing the best they know how to do at the time, I am serene and surrounded by friends.
I had a long conversation last night with someone I love and have loved for a long time now. I hope we got back on track because we’ve been alienated for awhile. One of the principal barriers between us is me. I’m all righteous about it and certain that I was right and she was wrong and, even though we talked in part because I’m determined to overcome my stuff, I still had those feelings. The hard part about it, or one of the hard parts in all events, is that I’m so very nostalgic for my relationship with her. I wish I had that intimacy back. Alas, I don’t think that’s possible. Again, I don’t blame anyone but myself. I just can’t put together the trust necessary for the intimacy I want more than anything. I know. Contradictory and stupid, but there it is. I realized that I would never regain my trust in her (or anyone for that matter) by staying aloof and refusing to be in her presence. It’s still hard. I know that I am doing the right thing by putting aside my doubts and hurts, but that next step to openness is so difficult for me as to be nearly impossible. All that’s required is the slightest change in my own thinking and I’m there, but I’m so very arrogant and self centered that it seems like an impassable chasm. Also the task seems too great for my feeble powers. The old arguments still loom out there in her thinking that’s she’s got no choice and me the same. It’s so sad to be my own observer and see both of us longing and wishing and hoping with such foolish hopes that we will someday be who we want to be rather than who we are. I think both of us would put it back together if we could and … we … just … can’t … quite … get there.
On another front, have I mentioned that I’m Alfie? Inside, I’m the man in the conversation last night who longs for the serenity and security of having only one woman in my life and in whom I can place the ultimate trust to know who I really am. Outside, I’m Alfie. I drive a sports car, dress flashy and flirt with every skirt that passes, flashing a good smile and making a smart remark. I have to own up to the fact that almost everyone regards me as an interesting diversion to a passing woman who is in a certain mood and not much more. I’m not sure why I think that acting the playboy will hook me up with the kind of woman who wants a long term relationship. And, my inner experience is not at all like the outer shell that others seem to observe. Inside, I’m horrible at meeting women and even worse at “closing the deal” because I abhor casual sex and insist on lovemaking rather than fucking. I’ve put myself in a bad place and it’s fair to say that, as a general rule, I’ve sabotaged every important relationship I’ve ever had on the reefs and shoals of sex. Fascinating little riddle, what? I absolutely hate and have no sympathy for Alfie, but that’s who I seem to be.
Just as I suggested y’all avoid the problem of holiday traffic with an alternative strategy, I think I shall do the same this Christmas — avoid the problem. If I am to be alone this Christmas, I will see it as a good thing. A time to take my own measure. A time to enjoy being with the good company of John Long. Whoever I see on New Year’s, they will be the perfect date and the perfect kiss. Or not. I will bear ill will to no one, especially myself. I forgive all tresspasses and beg for forgiveness, no matter how big an asshole I have been. I’m trying to do better and will as soon as I get perfect. Thanks for inquiring, btw, but I’m already being “fixed”. It’s just that it’s a big job and it seems to take a lifetime to get it done.
Merry Christmas, folks.
Resist Bush while we still can.
Post Script: I know this blog entry is confusing and random and scattered, but I started out saying I thought it was a confusing season.
"The Most Corrupt Congress in History"
Associated Press
Updated: 3:17 p.m. ET Dec. 18, 2005
WASHINGTON – Senate Democratic leader Harry Reid called the Republican-led Congress “the most corrupt in history” Sunday, and distanced himself from Jack Abramoff, a powerful lobbyist at the center of an escalating probe.
He would know.
Carthage Must Be Destroyed!
Roman Senator Cicero ended all his speeches by saying “Carthage Must Be Destroyed!”. After Hannibal crossed the Alps, Romans sailed against their commercial rivals, forcing Hannibal, who they could not defeat on the field, back home. Eventually, Rome would conquer Carthage, put all its people in slavery and salt the ground.
We face the same daily menace.
Not from a foreign threat.
Not even from terrorists.
From our own government.
We must resist this government, this fascist administration.
It threatens us and the world.
We are no longer free. Even if we sit in front of our televisions in our own homes, we are captives of cruel and cunning jailers.
President Bush not only admits to making 30 orders to violate the Fourth and Fifth Amendments by requiring the National Security Agency to intercept and monitor American citizens’ cell phone calls overseas without benefit of warrants, but he attacks those who question his decision as irresponsibly aiding and abetting terrorists.
He also warns Congress they must re-enact the Patriot Act, giving him war powers to roust Americans without warrants and lawyers and the possibility of being kidnapped and tortured in a North African dungeon. It is tantamount to the legislation passed in the 1930s by Germany after the phony Reichstag Fire, giving Adollph Hitler the power to be Der Fuerher.
How is Bush any different from Stalin, Pol Pot, Mao, Napoleon, any of the dictators?
He even has a plan for world domination.
We must resist.
While we still can.
Common Sense
Thomas Paine wrote a pamphlet named “Common Sense” that became a “best seller” and helped prompt the American Revolution. He also wrote pamphlets that helped spark the French Revolution.
We need him today.
The news of the past week or two leads me to believe that a new revolution is necessary in our nation.
As Thomas Jefferson wrote, the tree of liberty must at times be watered by the blood of tyrants.
I believe that now is that time.
We learned today that this president authorized the warrantless eavesdropping on American cell phone calls overseas. Thousands of Americans calling overseas were intercepted by the National Security Agency. It is such a blatant violation of the Fourth and Fifth Amendments that several NSA employees refused to participate, despite the secret presidential order.
I wonder if the half British lovely Juliet and her visiting friends Laura and Amber, who made dozens of calls to England with silly girl calls to friends about how much fun it is to be young and beautiful and visiting Los Angeles, were among the calls intercepted.
We also learned this week that the military, the Department of Defense, has spied on thousands of Americans who have protested the Iraqi war. They even infiltrated a Quaker meeting in Florida.
Does this mean that my picture standing along Classen Blvd. in front of Memorial Park with a “Honk for Peace” sign is somewhere in a DOD file? How about Lisa Ghariani and Tara Feurborn? How about our friend Rex Friend the Quaker attorney and former partner of Doug Parr? Are we all headed for a concentration camp that once housed German Nazis in El Reno?
Have you used your credit card this holiday season? American commercial records of credit card use is being “data mined” by our government looking for terrorists. Is your purchase of a sweater for cousin Bill in a government data base? Is it like that silly Mel Gibson movie “Conspiracy Theory” where everyone who buys “Catcher in the Rye” is flagged?
Our libraries are required to allow the government to search their records of books loaned to citizens under the Patriot Act. Been to Oklahoma City’s new library yet?
President Bush now admits that our pre war intelligence on Iraq was wrong, but he takes responsibility for leading us into war for the wrong reasons because deposing Saddam was the right thing to do. What? The ends justify the means? Will he next tell us, as Mussolini did his country, that he’s making the trains run on time? Or, perhaps, as Hitler did, that we must break some eggs to make an omlette? Madness, I tell you, MADNESS!!!
It is now clear beyond dispute that America is running torture chambers, defended by Vice President Cheney, in Eastern Europe and North Africa. We — and I mean you and I through the CIA — kidnap people off the streets of Germany and Italy and take them away and torture them in violation of the Geneva Convention and the American Constitution. This is not a wild charge by some mad foreigner, it is documented truth reported by American and European journalists.
Speaking of journalists, did you know that America is now in the top five of countries who jail journalists? We are tied with Myanmar, the former Burma, a regime that is among the most outlaw of the military juntas in the world, a country and government that is of, by and for heroin dealers in south Asia.
America now incarcerates more of its citizens — over 1,000,000 — than any other country in the world, including Russia and China. Oklahoma, for example, incarcerates more women than any other state in the United States.
Did you realize that it is now legal, under the Patriot Act, for police agencies to “sneek and peek” search your house? They can LEGALLY enter your home when you are gone, search your files and computer and leave without ever telling you. You do not even have the right to know WHY they are interested in you nor what they were looking for.
I would take comfort in my moral superiority should I read that these things were done by Hitler’s Germany or Stalin’s Russia or Mao’s China. I am outraged that I am writing about my own country.
I can’t even blame Bush, really. I blame you and me for allowing Tom DeLay to take illegal corporate cash, laundring it through the Republican National Committee and using it to redistrict Texas so that 5 additional Republicans could be elected to the House of Representatives, giving the GOP control over a branch of government. We just let it happen. You and me. Voters. Americans who haven’t paid enough attention and who lack a capacity for outrage.
We’ve allowed ourselves to be blinded by false issues like abortion and creationism while our basic freedoms have been crushed under a blinding blizzard of seemingly innocent legalistic paper.
I would prefer to overthrow this government by legal means of a free election. I am not so sure that we any longer have free elections in a practical sense. How is it any longer possible for common citizens to raise these issues and inform the electorate when there is so much corrupt corporate cash on the other side? Will Halliburton allow us to upset their billionaire club shell game? I think not.
I believe the time approaches when we must take up arms against a sea of troubles. When the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune require us to inquire whether we will be or not be. When our lives of quiet desperation can no longer be quiet.
Mao famously said that political power grows from the barrel of a gun. All the guns are at present on the other side. We have blogs and posters. When is it right to arm ourselves? I’m not talking about buying a 9 mm. I do not mean for the pupose of personal security, because no amount of shotguns and pistols will protect us from the military might of this repressive government. What I mean is no less than this: at what point is it legitimate for Americans to seek the violent overthrow of their own elected government?
If they come and get me for writing this, how much longer will it be before they come for you? If they do not come for you, when are you no longer free, even if you do sit in your own home in front of your own television?
I am asking you what IS America?
Is America the First Amendment? Do we have Freedom of the Press if we are jailing journalists? Do we have freedom of assembly if you can’t attend a Quaker meeting without being observed by spies? Do we have freedom of religion if the government can put policemen in the examining rooms of gynecologists to keep them from recommending an abortion because of the religious beliefs of a minority that is temporarily in power?
Is America the Second Amendment? Is the freedom to have an armed militia free if all the militia are run by the government? Is it freedom to be armed when the arms you can buy cannot fight the repressive Department of Defense that is monitoring you?
Is America the Fourth Amendment? The right to be free of unreasonable search and siezure absent a judicial warrant is no freedom if they can listen to your cell calls, look in your computer without telling you and track your purchases through your credit cards.
Is America the Eighth Amendment? Sorry about that. We torture, so the freedom from cruel and unusual punishment is now out the window.
Is America the Sixth Amendment? We don’t need no stinkin’ badges. You no longer have the right to an attorney. We can take you to Gitmo and try you without recourse to the courts or representation.
Is America the Fourteenth Amendment? Not if you are Muslim. Your chance for equal treatment under the law is out the window.
Did they tell you in grade school that America would be the kind of country where SuzArt’s 81 year old mother is separated from her walker/cane and strip searched before being allowed on a plane?
When is enough just that: Enough?
What does your common sense tell you?
