unConventional

It's broke.

Grammar teachers, please give me a pass, because 'broken' doesn't properly reflect its state.

It's broke.

By "it," I refer to our government--in both form AND function.

Because I'm a political junkie and news nerd, this is something that I've actually thought and talked about for a very long time with a wide variety of people. Over time, I've culled a collection of ideas; some are completely mine, others I've gotten from friends, pundits, and random people at bars. But I think they're good ideas, and I'm finally ready to put them down on paper for public ridicule.

1. The U.S. House of Representatives should be selected at random.

The current process is entirely too long for such a short term. Since a Congress(wo)man only serves a two-year term, and a Congressional campaign takes about a year to execute, it stands to reason that you start raising money for the next campaign literally moments after being sworn in.

Solution? Have each legislative district put the names of all its registered voters into a hopper, and pull out one out. The 'lucky' new Congress(wo)man gets a letter informing them that they are to report to Washington in six months to perform their civic duty.

How would it actually work?
Well, we'd have to set up some sort of legislative boot camp that the newbies would have to go through. I imagine it'd take about two months of training and familiarization with the details of the legislative process, but all of that would be cheaper and smarter than what we do now. You'd tack time for that training on to the beginning of the term, so the new class would actually report to Washington a couple of months before the new session starts, and be sworn in and assume their offices after boot camp was finished. An actual 'term' would end up being 26 months, rather than 24. But even THAT would allow for more legislative time than the existing model where Reps are out on the campaign trail for the last half of their term. Leadership positions would be picked the same way they are now, by vote--or if you really wanted to reward competence, by highest scores in boot camp. If 12 strangers can pick a foreman to lead them, I can't fathom why 495 couldn't pick a Speaker.

What are the pros?
To me, there are too many to name, BUT here are some that sit at the top of the list.

• We'd have a MUCH more diverse Congress. There would be MANY more women, considerably more ethnic minorities, a wider range of careers and expertises (the current House is primarily lawyers), a wider range of social backgrounds, a wider socio-economic representation across the board, a wider age range, a wider group of political points of view, in short Congress would look a lot more like America.

• We'd have a full-time Congress. The existing Congressional schedule would barely qualify as a part-time job. This isn't to say your Representative isn't "busy," only that the majority of their time is reserved for travel, meetings with lobbyists, and fund-raising. In this system, since the entire group KNOWS it's done in two years, they can spend all 24 months of their legislative term actually legislating. PLUS, I suspect that dynamic would cause them to literally work up until 11:59:59 of their last day, because they KNOW they're not coming back, which means they have nothing to lose.

• Lobbying would have less long-term effect. Senator Obama talks a lot about the role that lobbyists play in our government. It's true, but in a sense it's to be expected. The lobbyist-politician relationship is allowed to form and mature over decades.

And in an environment where the politician needs a bottomless pit of cash to stay in office, and the lobbyist has access to a bottomless pit of cash--you don't need a Harvard Law degree to figure out the most likely form that relationship will morph toward over time.

In this plan, there would still BE lobbyists, but the relationships wouldn't have time to turn so incestuous. They would have to actually lobby, instead of bribe--which, in my opinion, would be a turn for the better.

• Interesting and shifting caucuses. One of the very interesting things about group dynamics is that people thrown into an unexpected situation form odd pairings and groups. I think we'd see some very unique alliances emerge in a randomly selected Congress. Over time, many of them might even hold over in consecutive terms.

• A randomly selected Congress(wo)man would probably be more responsive to opinions from home. In the current system, by the second or third term, a Representative’s life tive’s life has essentially shifted to Washington.

They have much more in common with their colleagues than they do with their Constituents. The ‘Party’ position often holds a LOT more sway over their votes than what’s popular at home. A person whose family, friends, and culture are still based in their home district would be more likely be sensitive to THOSE interests than any other.

• It’d definitely be cheaper.

Clearly, we’d get some duds. But hell, we get those anyhow. Statistically, we’d also find some hidden gems and discover some real leaders as well.

Next, an idea that my friend Terry first presented to me at work. I’ve modified it some from his original proposal but the core idea is his.

2. The President shouldn’t select Supreme Court Justices, Federal Judges should sorta like the way Cardinals pick the next Pope. If you think about it, this is a totally underused brain trust.

Federal Judges are highly educated and experienced, probably more in touch with what’s really going on in America than any other single group of people, and paid to be fair.

Sure, they’re partisans, but they seem to be a lot more realistic in their partisanship than their Capitol Hill or White House compatriots.

Who knows better which judges are good, which judges are great, and which judges are losing a step than other Federal judges? How likely is it that a wildly partisan judge could get a majority vote from the wider collective of judges?

Sure, the President could still “nominate” their choice, and the Senate could still “confirm” the nomination—but wouldn’t we have a better nomination; based on a recommendation from THEM, than on the simple question of whether a judge is pro-life or pro-choice, as determined by the sitting President?

IN THE ALTERNATIVE, how about populating the Supreme Court with a wider grouping of people than just judges?

What if that body was turned into a council of elders instead; and a retired businessman, or college professor, or philosopher, or respected member of the clergy could help serve the country as a Supreme Court Justice?

Wouldn’t it be kinda cool to have some views other than those of “just” lifelong lawyers? America has, and has always had hundreds of thousands of really smart people. I wonder how it would change the game if a perspective from academia, or elsewhere determined these sorts of outcomes.

I’d love to see a Warren Buffett, or Bill Gates, or Michael Bloomberg, or Cornell West, or Colin Powell, or other respected national figure on the bench.

How would T. Boone Pickens have decided Roe v. Wade? How would Billy Graham have resolved Gore v. Bush?

Sidenote: If I had to pick the next Supreme Court Justice, I’d nominate Judge Judy. Seriously. Like her or not, is there anybody who thinks she’s not fair? Is there anyone who hasn’t watched her judge in action? Is there anyone who gives a rat’s ass if she’s pro-life or choice? Is there anyone who thinks she’s not smart enough, or competent enough? That’s kinda what I want in a Justice.

I’ve got more ideas, but this is enough for a start.

Fellow news nerds, and polijunkies … thoughts?

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:
https://blog.id.iit.edu/wpmu/newidiom/files/2008/03/uncle_sam_pointing_finger.jpg

The Robbery.

"Somehow, I just know they're going to fold." --Stew.

* * *

I've wanted to finish the games series, but haven't been in a writing mood until now.

I don't remember where I first heard it, but one of my beliefs is that the smartest way to rob a bank isn't at the teller.

If you want to rob a bank, you back a Brinks Truck up to the back door, and just fill it up.

Sure, you’re going to need a cover story, and a plan—but having chosen to rob a bank, you’re going to need those two things anyway.

The Brinks Truck method is just simple. It cuts out a bunch of middle men, and leaves you with enough trunk space to take what you actually want ... which is all the money.

Enter “the bailout” to my little screed.

I know, you've been hearing about it all day--but THIS ... really is a robbery. They're distracting us with arguments about necessity and the collapse of the economy, but this has very little to do with that. This is a flat out, back the brinks truck up to the safe, snatch the money and run, theft.

Oh Stew, you're being hyperbolic again.

Riiiiiiight. It's ALL me.

Let's review shall we?

Hyperbole: extravagant exaggeration (as "mile high ice cream cones") -- Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary, TENTH EDITION.

Flashback:
Date - February 8, 2007.
Location – US House of Representatives
Event – Govt Oversight and Reform Committee Hearing
Speaking – Paul Bremer, former Iraq Occupation Chief

Details – The “Honorable” Mister Bremer has been called to testify about the whereabouts of …

wait for it …

363 TONS of newly printed, shrink-wrapped $100 bills.

NOT HYPERBOLE; not VISA debits, an actual military cargo plane FULL of Benjamin Franklin-faced currency.

For those of you who DIDN’T spend your youth counting crack money or in banking, I’ll spare you the math. That is 12-Billion, with a Big-ole B for “butt,” American dollars.

And let’s talk about a billion dollars really quick, since math isn’t the American strong suit. A billion is a thousand millions. A five-bedroom, four-bath, three-car garage, McMansion on a quarter acre in the nicer D.C. suburbs would run you about a million dollars, even now.

Buy 1000 of those, and you are the proud owner of a billion dollars worth of real estate. That’s enough houses for all of your myspace friends, your facebook colleagues, your drinking buddies who can’t use a computer, your family—even the ones you don’t like, and all the hangers on who’ve figured out you have some extra houses lying around. And THAT’S just ONE billion.

These fuckers DISAPPEARED TWELVE BILLION DOLLARS into thin air. (The conservatives Agree)
Not spent it—there are no receipts. Not loaned it, or burned it, not flushed it down the toilet. It just … DISAPPEARED. We don’t know what happened to it EVEN NOW.

That, my friends, is called robbery. If you’re rich enough they might call it embezzlement, but “we” just chalked it up to collateral damage from the war and sent The Honorable Mister Bremer on his way.

Fine. What’s 12-billion dollars among friends?

If you answered “it’s casing the joint,” YOU my friends have won the grand prize, which we’ll award you as soon as we get our 12-Billion bucks back.

Why, Stew? What on earth would make you say that??

Ahem.

Today, they’re back with a plan to turn over $700,000,000,000.00 ... that’s seven hundred billion dollars, to ONE MAN.

And Congress is actually CONSIDERING it.

Wait, WTF?

Okay, lemme breathe for a minute.

It’s time for more perspective.

The US Government’s FY 2008 budget was about three trillion dollars (2.931 Trillion to be precise). Of that, roughly 410 billion was deficit spending, which is to say we were going to put it on a credit card, drawn from the bank of … I dunno, China. That was the PLAN … at the BEGINNING … of the fiscal year.

(That number doesn’t include the Global War on Terror, which isn’t part of the budget or deficit numbers because the Pentagon insists that since they don’t know how much it’s going to cost, they can’t project anything … but again, bigger fish, stew. Bigger fish.)

Fine. Deficit, schmeficit.

That three trillion covers 22 departments, all of which have a Secretary or Director who reports to a committee in Congress responsible for oversight.

But not for this heist.

The Secretary of the Treasury will get to singlehandedly oversee a fund that is almost 25% of last year’s total budget … BY HIMSELF.

I draw your attention in the proposal to Section 8 of the draft:

Sec. 8. Review.

Decisions by the Secretary pursuant to the authority of this Act are non-reviewable and committed to agency discretion, and may not be reviewed by any court of law or any administrative agency. (italics mine)

Some things just don’t require elaboration. But read some of the rest of the draft plan. It would be funny without a laugh track, if they weren't serious.

For the record, I support the notion of bailing out the economy when and if it’s in trouble. I just think the Congress should have to oversee it.

In spite of my rebellious and conspiratorial nature, I consider myself an American and a Patriot. I believe in the Constitution, and I take it seriously. Once upon a time, I took an oath to defend it … and I just don’t believe the founding fathers would look kindly on Congress handing one guy a check worth at least 25% of the total outlays for the country last year, with no day-to-day oversight.

That doesn’t sound like government to me.

It sounds like a robbery.

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:
http://members.aol.com/musiletter/car/images/boss-in.jpg

Rules of the Game Part I

I think it starts at recess. Five or six little boys decided between freeze tag and hide and seek.

Pretty quickly, it becomes kickball or dodge ball. There's that first time teams are chosen, and somebody is, and has to be, picked last. The boys don't do it to be mean, the game requires that a captain pick the best of his options every time its his turn to draft for his team.

Over time, the trend is set--changeable only by moving to a new neighborhood, or sudden popularity of a new game. The athletic are ranked and rated, and the clumsy are relegated to the end of the line--the undesirables.

These 'unpicked' boys subsequently join one of two camps; the quitters or the plucky.

Quitters find some other way to spend recess. They swing or teeter, while the plucky stand there every day, waiting their turn while the athletic and popular get their first-round status for the day.

These strong-willed little boys have discovered that there is social value to the game itself. And on some level, they reason that 'last picked' is a social step above not playing the game at all, and disappearing from view.

As an adult, I've met some of the people scarred by this process. I admit the damage can appear to be severe. In some cases, it seems to literally shape certain people's self-esteem across decades and in spite of later accomplishments.

But these are the rules of the game. Well-coordinated, fast, strong kids who understand the game of the day get picked first. New kids move to the end of the line until they have demonstrated thier ability to play. There is no referee, no appeal, and no relief.

Over time this becomes the law of the playground, in the same way that gravity became the law of the planet.

And every little boy knows the rules. Even the outcasts know better than to try to game the system; opting instead to either not play the game, or gamble on pluck.

Some will try to make their mark elsewhere; in the classroom, or with their parents, or with comedy, music, or art. But they all know that once they step on the field, the rules apply.

A few years pass, and the more evolved team sport concept is passed down from fathers, older brothers, the big kids, or television. Team sports introduce new concepts--fair play, playing by the rules of the game, learning how to win--and just as importantly--honorably lose.

By this stage, the outcasts have typically started declaring that they don't "like" sports, as if the game is something that requires an individual's affection. It doesn't matter, they are still aware of the rules. And the society in which a little boy lives doesn't care that he 'likes' the game. His is a culture ruled by the concepts the game teaches.

And the little boy finds himself semi-permanently assigned to one of the myriad social strata-jock, participant, player, referee, cheater, coach, substitute, or cheerleader. And the outsiders avoid the game but not the concepts, because these are the rules by which boyhood is lived.

And the plucky get pluckier because you get better when you play more.

In time if you're plucky, you discover through 'hard work' and persistence that you don't have to be great to be valuable. All the game requires is that you learn to do one thing well enough.

Maybe you're a natural at defense, a great goalie, have a knack for rebounding, or the skills to be a punter. Everyone isn't born to be a pitcher, or wide receiver, or point guard. These are the superstars. They are rare. Many, if not most boys are born to be role players. And the game has evolved plenty of roles for the plucky.

And whether you play the game or not, the game is all around you. And every boy needs other boys, and where tow or more boys find themselves together, the rules exist and are followed with religious fervor.

And then grownups get involved. Little League standardizes the equiment, and introduces practice--which is a new concept to a little boy. And in the early days, "everybody plays," and there "are no winners or losers." But every little boy knows this isn't the natural order of things. He sees the gited pulled aside after practice for extra reps, and sees the grownups encourage the mortals to just drink their juice before the ride home.

And once he's home, and the boys gather to play, he takes his place in the natural order of things. The place where the best play first, there are winners and losers, and the game has a beginning and an end.

And in many ways, this is what it MEANS to be a little boy. It is to learn to navigate this wonderfully simple and complicated landscape.

And by the time you reach high school, you understand.

The purpose of the games is to teach you the rules. It doesn't even matter whether you are good at sport or not. Very few truly are. What matters is that you have absorbed the rules, because they are not the rules to sport, they are the rules to manhood.

And men rule the world.

And if you are going to survive and eventually thrive in this wolrd ruled by men, you MUST know and understand the rules.

High school is where you ultimately learn the importance of the uniform. This is where teams first represent larger groups of people. Here, if you are lucky enough to make the team, you proudly wear the colors of your school in neighborhoods you've never visited before, on a field of battle you first encounter moments before the game is to begin.

You may letter. You may be recruited to a higher level of competition. You may get your name in the paper.

Or you may be one of the plucky ones who just play the game, on whose shoulders every high school dynasty is built.

Watch for them, every team has them. They're the ones who sit on the bench during varsity competition. They know all the plays by heart, but they aren't fast enough or quick enough or nimble enough to be the first option. Some of them have never actually ever played in a game that counted.

They will never become famous for their contribution; but they practice every day. They get knocked to the ground over and over again by linemen learning the fine art of the proper tackle. They do wind sprints and suicide lines until they puke. They spend hours in the weight room. They field hundred of bunts, swim thousands of laps, and shoot millions of free throws, because to be unprepared is against the rules.

Even though they know they will never get into the games that count, they wake before dawn because that's what it means to be on the team. Everyone on the team respects them. this is their individual trophy.

Here are the rules they learn:

1. Every game has rules. These are inviolate.
2. You play to win the game.
3. You must compete for the honor of being on the team. The best players play.
The rest are backups, who must be ready should injury strike.
4. Try-outs are about your mental ability. Everybody here knows how to play
the sport. But it doesn't matter how theoretically good you are; if you don't
do well at tryouts, you aren't going to make the team.
5. There is no shame in not making varsity.
6. There is great glory in making varsity.
7. Practice is MUCH harder than the actual game.
8. Respect your opponent.
9. Shake hands before and after the game. Go for his throat between the whistles.
10. Protect yourself at all times.
11. There is a winner and a loser of every game.
12. Your record of wins and losses matters in determining the champion(s).
13. Sometimes you win the game, sometimes you lose the game. When you lose, don't whine. Congratulate the winner and vow to kick his ass next time. Do it.
14. Communism is the enemy. Everyone else is just an opponent.
15. Don't blame the ref. It's never the ref's fault.
16. If you're hurt; rub some dirt on it, walk it off, and keep playing. Never pretend to be injured.
17. If you're injured, don't pretend like you're just hurt. We can't afford to lose you for the entire season.
17a. If you're not sure, you're not injured.
18. If you lose to the same opponent repeatedly, he's better than you. This is called a worthy opponent; you can measure your progress by narrowing his margin of victory over time. If you work hard, you WILL eventually beat him.
18a. If you beat an opponent repeatedly, you are better than him. it is time for a new opponent. Either way, the wins and losses count.
19. Cheating is part of every game. Assume your opponent will cheat.
Cheat back if you must, but never get caught. Nobody likes cheaters who get caught.
20. Always play as hard as you can. There are no bonus points for potential.

There IS a point to this rant. It is political in nature, and hopefully you'll get there without me having to guide the way. Either way, I will tie of the loose ends, next blog.

Peace,

--Stew.

photo:
http://cache.daylife.com/imageserve/07oV6VH3Xpcs1/610x.jpg

The Tightrope

A baby is born to a teenaged, interracial couple in college. Dad, an African graduate student, leaves before the baby can form complete sentences. Mom gets her degrees and eventually moves home --to lily-whitest Kansas, where her parents can help her raise her family. There, the little boy gets a solid Midwestern upbringing; ten commandments, good neighbor, pull your weight, earn/save/spend, study hard/work hard. The tightrope is fully formed; but it is a faraway feature, the furthest tree in a distant forest. The boy has the luxury of being “just” an observer.

To his benefit, the boy probably misses the “You’ve gotta be twice as good to get half as far” lecture that would’ve been the staple in Big Mama’s house. There are other lectures that a white grandfather gives the golden-hued progeny of his freethinking little girl. It is probably for the best, considering this boy, because he has been born with twice as much potential anyway. The tightrope is closer, but the love that surrounds him, properly shields him from its danger.

The adolescent awakens to the wider world, and steps out in it. By appearance, he is black, and by many accounts beautiful. Part of a sizable community of men who statistically underachieve, he accomplishes an impressive young adulthood; post-graduating with honors from the Ivy League, simultaneously trying to discover the nuance of navigating a polarized culture from inside his mulatto skin. He is beginning to understand the tightrope, but wisely finds other ways to negotiate the chasm.

He chooses to embrace his appearance; to own the darkest side of his birthright, rather than fighting the unwinnable war of persuading those who see him--that he is not what he appears. He selects the most bittersweet piece of a chocolate city in which to make his mark. These … ghettos … always have a battle in progress, and a battle or two lying in wait. He engages. He finds a strong black woman with an intellect to match his own. He marries her. He fathers and she bears two beautiful little girls. He has now acquired the balancing pole that will be his most useful tool, should he ever have to walk across the tightrope.

He joins a church tended by a cleric old enough to be his black father. A masculine man with a manly past who stands in the pulpit each week facing a congregation culled from a community where fathers are like tooth fairies; everyone has seen what they leave behind, but only a small percentage have ever caught them in the act. Recognizing this vacuum, the pastor has an obligation. Tradition requires that the black Shepard must risk ridicule. The black preacher says from the pulpit the things that black fathers have always said to their black children. But the aging Reverend is forced to say them in the light of day, and into a microphone without the protection of beer, or bedtime stories, or barbeque.

He doesn’t know it now, but he will one day have to sacrifice the manhood of this black father on the altar of public outcry. Yet, these are the words that every black child who has a black father recognizes as “what my daddy told me we believe. " They are the legacy of black--in America. The man hears the words, and through them is formally introduced to the net that will catch him should he ever fall off the tightrope.

Years pass, and this mulatto man’s quest for identity is as resolved in his own mind, as it is unsettled in the streets on which he walks. The perfect storm of educational pedigree, politics, good looks, and eloquence find him on the biggest stage of the world; the General Election for President of the United States of America. He is a pioneer in every sense of the word.

And he awakens in this moment for which he has dreamed, calculated, and planned--standing on the tightrope. He is too far from his humble beginning to turn around, and too far from his destination to believe he can simply sprint to the finish line. He will have to walk—stabilizing pole in hand—cautiously, carefully, and deliberately to the other side.

From one side, the billowing wind of white America; intrigued by his intellect, captured by his eloquence, and hungry for his potential. The same white America wary of his hue, shackled by the tint of a shared history, and terrified by the legacy he can rightfully claim. They know part of him is white, but they wonder which part—and if that part is enough for him to feel their pains.

From the other side, the steady pitter-patter of black America; choired in chords from a community in chaos, straining at the seams for signs that THEIR long national nightmare will soon be over.

They comprehend, while they would NEVER say so into a microphone, that he cannot fully be one of them. They do not consider this an insult, this is their perception of reality. They welcome him, they admire him, they applaud him, they support him. But they KNOW that many men wear black skin but lack black souls.

Theirs is an experience from birth. It lives in barbershops and beauty salons, but it isn’t born there. It shows up at family reunions and around the water cooler, but that isn’t its home.
Being black is not a shirt to be selected and worn. It is a skin that is assigned once. It is to heralded on good days, and endured when things go wrong. It is an identity that walks with you through trial, but precedes you in every other moment. These people know that part of him is black, but they wonder which part—and if that part is enough for him to feel their pains.

And his tightrope walk continues.

A wiser man with the benefit of history will have to tell you if he makes it to the other side. I can only tell you that he has all the external tools he needs. This journey is treacherous even without the tightrope. Many great men have failed to successfully traverse it from much more solid ground. Like everyone else at the circus, I’m here for the show. I want to see a good performance, and I want my money’s worth. He has my support, and my admiration. But he’s got to walk the tightrope … alone.

Peace,
--Stew

photo:
http://blogs.itworldcanada.com/security/files/2007/07/j03863031.jpg

Thoughts from a Silent Keyboard

...I think it's been too long.

I used to sit at this keyboard every coupla days and force my thoughts through the tunnel. From this side of the wall they'd start out as an undisciplined mob of memories, impressions, and opinions.

Out there they'd show up as metaphors and missives; allegories and allusions.

I think it's been too long.

I'm pretty sure they weren't ever the most important words in the datastream that is the information age.

But they were mine.

They were my mark on an everchanging universe of opinions and shared ... no, I mean Shared!, experiences.

They were a proof that I existed. An erasable touchstone that no one would ever have the energy or impetus to completely erase.

And then I almost died.

And they were suddenly unimportant to me.

Now with no excuses, I'm not sure I need them anymore.

Oh sure, I want them -- those ... words that connect me with you; that find you even when I don't know where to look, or how to make you know we should be connected.

But the need ... after months of a different fight, doesn't punch the inside of my gut the same.

And in that way "my" life enjoys its irony -- the hunger is fleeting in an era where I've so much to say.

You know I'm aching to talk Barack, and Hill, and Russert, and that goddam R. Kelly.

I have ... questions.

Like:

What the hell was Kevin Garnett talking about?

and

Why do I dislike Michelle so much, but get so fing pissed off when other people talk badly about her?

Oh ... and I haven't told you about my trip to the DNC Rules Committee meeting in Washington where the determination was made about delegates from the Disneyland and Motown.

That was some rich shit.

Oh, and the Supreme Court. I've got ... thoughts.

Yeah ... and the media's pornification of my hero Mr. Russert.

Awwww fuckit.

I may as well write.

Stand by...

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:

http://www.crunchgear.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/11/macbook_keyboard.jpg

Good Habits

One of the three media experiences I had over the weekend was a play hosted by St. Mary's, a local Catholic College for women.

The title was "Doubt: A Parable." I went because a friend of mine invited me; neither of us had any idea what the play was about, only that one of her friends had a role in the production.

I have ranted here about the scourge of Priests molesting little boys, most recently in October of 2006, in a blog called "Priests." I've been VERY critical about the way "religion," and the religious have addressed, or more accurately failed to address the issue.

This play didn't so much challenge that idea, as much as point out one perspective that I'd never considered.

The plot was simple. Sister Aloyusius, principal/head nun of an elementary school in the Bronx, 1964, believes that the local priest is molesting the first young black boy to attend. Absent the sort of evidence any "fair" investigation would require, she acts. Armed with only her conviction, compassion for the students in her charge, and a bullheaded determination born from decades of experience, she puts ALL of what little she has to risk at stake to do the right thing. She ultimately makes a series of very savvy political moves to force him to resign ... which sadly means he is transferred to another parish, with another elementary school.

On another day, perhaps I'll talk about how fantastically acted and produced it was. Or about how completely I fell in love with the character of the old stodgy, icy nun almost from her first words.

But today, a different focus.

I have come to believe that the secret to processing events in this confusing life is to find and articulate the poignant moment, that instant in the past that most vividly paints the face of good or evil on your conscience so that you can overcome apathy to respond in the proper manner.

It is easy to despise a murderer when you are confronted with a corpse. You are sorry for the family, sad for the victim, and afraid for society.

But to me, the poignant moment you require to fully ... comprehend the energy of homicide is the instant in which the murderer stood over his victim; knife in hand, armed with the collective sum of an entire life's experience and knowledge, plunging cold steel through skin, past muscle, around bone and fat, and into soft vital organs, fully knowing that he is stealing the life force of another human being. It is the splattering of blood, and whether he dabs it with a cloth, or smears it in ... before washing it off.

Facing the blunt, gruesome imagining of THIS moment, allows you to see past the man on the witness stand who wears a stylish suit and has a savvy lawyer. You can zip right past the well-groomed hair and fresh shave to the essence of the man minus his purchased advice designed to sway you.

You can snap and develop a mental picture of him in a moment less ... evolved. You can witness his heart-pounding, adrenaline pumping, anger seething, common sense on pause, excuses irrelevant, enraged moment, and envision him ... guilty.

And with THAT vision, it becomes easier to grasp the hand of justice and choke the living shit out of him with it.

It is the same for me with pedophile priests. I don't see men of the cloth, tortured souls struggling with pitch black temptations.

I see unworthy judges--men hearing the sinful and immoral confessions of others while fresh memories play in their mind's eye of recently exposed penises, anuses, and mouths; daring to counsel their peers, and assess the appropriate number of hail Marys and Our Fathers required for absolution from far lesser crimes than their own.

Your honor, I'd like permission to borrow the hand of justice to strangle this worthless bastard.

There is a moment in virtually ALL of these priestly stories that makes my blood run more frozen than cold. It is the sentence in every story that describes how MANY different environments this particular deviant has been allowed to stalk and hunt in.

It wasn't until this play that I allowed myself to wonder if perhaps all that moving around was the hand of honest but helpless people, too powerless to STOP the activity, but too concerned to sit apathetic. Engaged enough to get the demon spawn out of their purview while hoping that someone more powerful would be better positioned and inclined to cut if off at the root.

I still have nothing but a hearty FUCK YOU to pedophile priests, but I can only hope that the people lower on the totem pole from Rome to home aren't as complicit as the sky-dwellers.

For the sake of the thousands of little boys that will one day be my doctors and lawyers and congressmen and teachers of my grandchildren, I hope there are some "good habits" developing ... somewhere.

Photo:
http://www.creightonmagazine.org/files/Winter_2005/42-15198116-nun.jpg

Two Thousand Eight

2007 was an ass-kicker. I genuinely hope that when I'm an old man I have its force, and width, and breadth for my endeavors. When it dealt with me; it was never shy, or somehow unresolved. It came with a power that I will probably never forget.

I am still standing.

It has always been my tradition to offer New Year wishes to my friends. It is a tradition I don't plan to break this year.

Whether you are a person who stops by now and again to read a random blog, or someone whose presence allows me to continue to breathe in peace--these words apply equally to you. In short, I wish you well--not between me and you, I tend to wish the very best for me, given the choice between us. But between you and the universe; you and God, or Karma, or fate, or choice. In THAT battle, I want you to be victorious. And in that context, here is my 2008 blessing on you:

"

I wish for you an understanding of life ... and your place in it; to see clearly the distinctions between the events you encounter because you exist, and the events that know you personally, and seek you out with the intent of destroying you. I wish for you the power to stand steady, and beat back their fiercest attack

I wish for you the desire to not merely survive today, but to thrive in it;and be resolved to have the evening sun set on a wiser, braver, and stronger you than the one who was warmed by the first rays of the morning.

I wish for you a constant awareness of the value of each breath. I bless you with the ability to measure each word you spend that precious breath on with a scale to measure its value should it be your last.

I wish for you a bubbling health; an inner spring that defies you to say anything other than "I feel wonderful."

I wish for you inner vision, so you can understand the motivations of the people you encounter; and where it is beneficial, I bless you with the will to help them when it counts.

I wish for you a circle of fellow travellers who will walk before you to check things out, beside you to keep you company, behind you to watch your back, above you to keep things from falling on your head, around you to warn of attack, and beneath you just to help keep you up.

I wish for you the fulfillment of all your necessary needs; to have air available when you inhale, freshcleancold water at your beckon, a meal available when you open the cupboard, someone to talk to and hold when you are scared or just lonely.

I wish for you great sex. I still don't care what anybody says--a bad year with great sex doesn't feel like such a bad year.

I wish for you peace; as I do every year. And while that peace is still en route; I bless your quiet place to be a refuge for you, when you must escape the ongoing battle for just a moment, everyone needs a cave.

I wish for you laughter; and that the fun runs out long before the money.

Most importantly, I wish for you the successful completion of the year--even if it beats you up a bit, and I bless you to be here next year, to read the 2009 blessing, even if you find yourself outside what I wish for you.

"

Happy New Year.

Peace,
--Stew.

Photo: http://www.geocities.com/seanyspics2/Fathertime.jpg

Save the Boobies...

I feel kind of weird writing about breasts.

Perhaps its because I don't have them, exactly.

In my parents house, they weren't a topic of conversation.

I don't think there was actually a taboo ... we didn't have many of those.

As a subject, breasts just never came up, except in the occasional conversation about the care and feeding of infants.

They weren't objects, or factors. My mom had them, her friends had them, but the conversation never centered around them.

I can't remember them ever actually being mentioned, and the comment being followed up.

I remember my first Playboy magazine, and Penthouse, and Oui. It wasn't lost on me that my fellow fellows were passionate about them. How they looked, how they felt; later, if they were flesh or silicone.

Over time, breasts have certainly earned their place in the conscious part of my life. I've been privileged to have lots of them enter my world, and add a bit of comfort.

As different women have entered and left my life, I've appreciated breasts here and there, but in context, I don't think I have ever really given them their due.

I've always intrinsically understood that from an economic standpoint, the breasts of America are a market unto themselves.

Put a naked set in a movie--even a crappy one, and the men of the world will put a million dollars in your bank account.

Build a better bra, and the women of the world will bring a billion dollars to your doorstep.

Design a better implant, and in THIS generation ... the xx's AND the xy's will literally shower you with cold, hard cash.

Breast is this awesome word that silently conjures up a thousand happy memories.

There aren't many words in the English language that can create a response without a sentence around them.

Breast can.

As can cancer.

I don't understand cancer, don't know what it is, or where it comes from, or why it sometimes appears without warning, leaving almost instantaneous death in its wake.

Other times it seems to appear on a whisper, and hangs on for years ripping a human's insides apart thread by thread until there is nothing left but an essence of life, with no smiles or happiness to grab onto for stability.

I can't ... "see" it, like I can see so many other things. I have no concept of what it smells like, or sounds like, or how it feels, at least not outside the human body without a context or a platform.

Put those two powerful words TOGETHER on a piece of paper, or a blank part of a computer screen, and something almost tangibly ... evil(?) seems to stare back at you.

Breast cancer.

Even now, as I type it, it looks oxymoronic, like angry clown or stupid President.

And I guess its the ribbon thing that ties them together.

I'm not a ribbon guy.

I don't think there are enough colors to contain our crises, and I'd hate to find myself in the Obamaesque position of having to explain "why" I've gone a day or year without a particular one.

I remember yellow. It meant bring my husband home from Iraq (the first time).

Red's huge. That's for the aquired immuno-deficiency syndrome.

I've seen green for the earth, and white for ... pet rescue, I think. The rainbow one intrigued me, and some guy downtown tried to get me to buy a black one for the Jena six.

I donated, but didn't take the piece of cloth.

The first time I saw a pink one, I think it ... well, startled me a little bit. I honestly thought it was a lesbian thing, maybe? I like lesbians, and while I haven't been offered a roster spot on their team, there wasn't anything threatening about the little pink ribbons that started popping up.

Then we hit the part of history (thankfully) where the breast cancer survivors found their megaphone, and started to speak up.

And I discovered that some of the women I admired most for their ... spunk, earned it through the trials of fighting the oxymoron.

Everyone has a cross to bear. Some people achieve the most commendable parts of their character through the specific trial they've spent a lifetime fighting.

But you know what?

I'd love to see women lose this particular avenue to strength. Motherhood, and wifedom, and keeping the world connected and functional is a big enough superhighway to confidence.

From the male point of view, rising breast cancer rates mean that eventually, more and more of us are going to have to stand next to a woman that we know, love, and can't imagine living without, and squeeze her hand while we beat back fear tears and wait and hope that the source of most of OUR strength can summon her internal fortitude to rally her own.

I'd like to see that end.

I'm not a "joiner" of things, anymore. I don't speak on behalf of any organization, or movement, or particular approach to a cause. I just speak as a guy, who loves breasts.

And tits and boobies and melons and tatas and jugs and any other nickname we've given the literal source of nutrition, comfort, and aesthetic joy we, as men, take for granted until the biopsy comes back positive.

Some will raise money; others will spend thankless hours in a lab, separating evil cells and trying potion after potion to find the one that makes them scream out in pain before curling up and dying.

A few will fight the good fight, and trailblaze blueprints of inspiration behind to make the fight easier for the next generation of fighters.

Wouldn't it be awesome if we could save the boobies, so the next generation never had to learn that fight?

If you have boobies, please check them for lumps, and get your mammograms, and do everything the little pamplet tells you to do.

If you've already lost one or both to this horrible entity--guess what? You're even more beautiful and necessary than you were on your most perfect bikini day. Smile for me. You made it!

And if you're just a guy like me, still in awe of a set that makes you look twice--get in here and help do something.

I'm just a writer. I type words on a screen, and make donations to this cause because I've finally matured enough to scream to the world...

SAVE THE BOOBIES!!!!!!

Peace,

--Stew.

Swim Lessons

Swim Lessons:

When people ask me what I do, I tell them I’m a journalist.

It’s technically true, what I was trained to do, and the job I was hired for in my present career.

The truth is, at some point my bosses realized that they needed “an idea guy,” more than they needed an anchor/reporter on staff, and apparently my journalistic training … (namely the courage/stupidity to say pretty much what’s on my mind, tactfully enough to not be thrown out of the room, no matter who’s sitting at the head of the table) makes me just the man for that job.

The truth is, just about ALL of the people I have the privilege of working with could put “brilliantly flexible” at the head of their job qualifications.

But in spite of changing daily job requirements, if you ask most of us what we do, our answer will reflect whatever we were initially hired for.

Except Alex.

That’s his real name, and if you ask him what he does, or who he is … he never wavers.

“I make movies.”

I'd probably known him for a couple of years before I found out that in addition to the work I'd seen from him, he was editing a movie in his basement for which he was planning a public release.

I don’t concede that anyone in the universe writes a better news script than I do. After watching the trailer for Alex’s most recent documentary, I hope he doesn’t concede that anyone is a better movie-maker.

He asked me to blog about it, now that it’s hit Youtube.

I’m honored to do so.

I don’t know how to ask you to see this film yet, because I’m not sure the release details have been finalized.

But if you ever have the opportunity to see Swim Lessons, I ask you to take advantage of that opportunity. Alex has told me about the inspiration behind it. It’s a beautiful story, and I know his work enough to know that he's undoubtedly done a magnificent job of telling it.

I’m a big recommender of things. If you tried them all, you’d probably love about half of them. I can have weird tastes, sometimes.

YOU can see the trailer by clicking on the title of this blog. Please do.

I get to see the final draft of the movie next week ... I'll keep you posted.

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:
http://www.wisdomoftheelders.org/prog205/images/tis_missouri_river_flows_past_yankton_riverside_park_south_dakota_nps_1.jpg

The Long Road Home

I haven't blogged much, of late. Too many other more important things are going on.

I miss it.

But a recent experience has seared itself on both parts of my mind; the conscious, obvious part where a memory sticks like a scab, and the deeper subconscious where the brain analyzes events to find metaphors and meaning.

I drove from my apartment in Northern Virginia to my home in Omaha, Nebraska and back several weeks ago.

In many ways, it was probably the most important drive of my life.

Most of you know that I've had some medical issues that in retrospect were life-threatening, even though they seemed more annoying and frightening in real time. I'm doing much better, and while I'm still not 100% yet, I feel capable and comfortable in my normal patterns.

DannyB, my father ... who I've blogged about before, flew out to accompany me on the drive home. At some point along the 1200 miles, we realized it’s the first time we've ever taken a road trip together since I was old enough to drive.

We expected to take it over the course of three days. We were prepared for hotel stays and overnights with old family friends I haven't seen for ages. I was worried that I'd have a nicotine fit at some point that would agitate my lungs, and freak Pop out.

(I still haven't made it a practice to rub my smoking in his face, he didn't "raise me that way.")

I think he was worried that I'd have some sort of relapse along the way, and it'd end up being all dramatic and weird.

Neither of our fears played any role on the trip. It was simply ... fantastic.

After a month of surgical recovery with crutches and a cast, two weeks writhing in pain, and a week in the hospital, hitting the road felt wonderful. I've blogged before about how gorgeous I think this America place is. It’s even prettier with good company and an empty schedule.

I insisted on a southern route that took us through Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, Southern Indiana, Southern Illinois, and into St. Louis. We left a bit after noon, and the conversation never stopped.

We talked about our lives, how they’re going, his business, my job, Mercer, the Iraq War, God, my agnosticism, his religious convictions, our family, and dying.

I realized for the first time that it’s not just the people from home that I still think of as children, even though most of them now have children of their own who are getting older.

My Pop is getting older too. He’s aware of it, and for the first time, so am I.

I’ve been too distant for too long.

He’s much better company than I remember.

I had a couple of nicotine fits. We stopped at rest stops, I smoked, we continued. We laughed and ate, and realized that we’re not terribly fond of the little towns in West Virginia.

The hours flew by, and our turns behind the wheel didn’t seem to tire us out at all. We stayed awake talking even when we weren’t driving, and before I knew it … we’d driven all night, and were approaching St. Louis.

The Gateway City is one of a number of places that are “home” to us. From StL to Kansas City is about three hours. Omaha is only a couple of hours from K.C., so getting to St. Louis, is sort of like being just around the corner.

At some point, we decided to keep driving.

It wasn’t like one of the marathon trips I remember from my childhood. The one that always comes to mind is the time I had to “hold it” all the way through Ohio, making it STILL the longest state in the Union to me, even 30+ years later.

This was … comfortable, and relaxed. No rush, no hurry, no pressure. Just a nice drive with my old man.

The sun came up when we were 50 miles east of Kansas City.

We crossed the Nebraska state line just before 10 AM – 21 hours after leaving the D.C. area.

This entry is getting long, so I’ll save the visit and the return trip home for my next entry. And probably later still, the whole metaphor the trip has become for me.

For now, I’m still digging America the beautiful, and looking for new places to drive.

I’ve lost touch with many of you.

I genuinely hope that things in your universe are better than fine. I hope you’re finding peace, and surrounded by love, and feeling vibrant every morning when the sun starts shining into your window.

I hope you’re laughing, and getting along with the people you have to see every day.

I hope you’re enjoying the road home.

Peace,

--Stew.



Photo:
http://www.vanderhawk.net/Images_main/longroad.jpg

DISABLED

So this stupid Achilles rupture has allowed me a different perspective on the world, for a few weeks. And, as you might expect … I’ve taken as much advantage of it as I could. The point of view is that of a mildly disabled (as in needs crutches to get around) person. In no way do I think I can fully appreciate what its like to be like this ALL the time, or to have my world-view BE from this angle, but some of what I’ve observed and learned has been instructive to me.

1. The world is gigantic! Not in some geopolitical, or philosophical way. I mean practically. The distance from the front door of a supermarket, to the let’s say … meats, is a considerable hike, when you’re hobbled. Modern American society has created two conveniences that make this distance manageable.

A. The disabled parking space.
B. The electric scooter.

Hail to the kindness of bureaucrats who pushed through the legislation making wheelchair access mandatory. After this experience, I will NEVER swoop into one of these again, even for “just a second.” When you NEED one, few things can add as much time/effort/exhaustion/inconvenience to your day, as not having one available because some able bodied person has usurped it “just because.”

I don’t believe I’ve ever even NOTICED how many stores, and public places provide electric scooters. They are literally a LIFE saver. And now, I actually plan my shopping by determining which store has the most accessible and functional scooters.

This has actually caused a habit change that I will continue after this little lifespan, because the store closest to my home has an old beat-up scooter, that’s never fully charged. I had no idea, but now that I know … a slightly more expensive store that I’ve avoided in the past will get ALL of my impulse money, even after my recovery period is over, because they have a late model, always well charged, conveniently placed scooter RIGHT BY THE DOOR, with the key in it already.

I promise to remember that, once I toss my crutches in the trash for good.

2. People are incredibly nice, but woefully annoying to me.

I really appreciate that people hold doors open for me. I really do. BUT, holding the door open for a person on crutches, requires a different protocol than opening the door for a lady. Namely, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY, SO I CAN GET THROUGH IT.

OK, I just had to get that off my chest.

It’s a really kind gesture, and I appreciate it, but have I mentioned how FAR I’m going to have to propel myself to get to the milk aisle? You’re KILLING all the motivation and physical strength I had to muster up to go through the 100-step process of leaving my apartment, driving my manual transmission with an aircast on my left leg, and just … making it this far by essentially BLOCKING the door you are trying to hold open for me.

I’m NOW in the catch-22 of having to muster up the polite words to tell you to move, while not seeming like an ingrateyou’re your chivalry.


3. The disabled give each other dap, and ALWAYS acknowledge each other, sorta the way men do at the lingerie store, brothas do on the street, or Asians do, in the ghetto. It’s kinda cool to be in a different club, for a change.

And when I was still in a wheelchair, I realized that “short” people do it too. That was also kinda cool.

My recovery is going well, and I hope to be over this little episode in as few months as possible, but in the interim … there it is.

Peace,

--Stew.

YouTube Goes Political

Last week, the Cable News Network tried to forcefully create an historic event … or at least newsworthy moment by teaming up with Youtube in sponsoring and producing a televised conversation between the dirty dozen Democratic Presidential candidates, and the nation.

Me being the political junkie that I am, I obviously loved it loved it loved it loved it.

But why … and where did it fall short, go long, hit on all cylinders, and just plain miss the boat?

Well, the staples are finally out of my leg, my cast is off—and even though I can’t walk on my own power quite yet, I’ve got time to ask and answer some of those questions, AND get YOUR replies.

Here goes.

First—the good:

1. As we have all known for ages now, the American people ask MUCH better questions than pundits. Turns out, if you let them self-edit on webcams in their living rooms, rather than standing them up at a town hall meeting, that wit/intellect/savvy shines through. Also turns out that if you bring them in the studio live to ask a follow-up, they’re bumbling idiots again.

Even if nothing else survives this little experiment, I really hope the idea of pre-producing questions blazes into the future. I’m a political JUNKIE, I watch and listen to C-Span’s Washington Journal EVERY morning, BUT … the “does that hurt ya’ll’s feelings guys, heavy metallic distortion vaguely shouting out a concern with “no child left behind,” and two dykes that I’m glad found each other were MUCH more entertaining and prescient questioners than any of the modern day news anchor/centerfolds would’ve been. They were less obtuse, less likely to ass kiss, and much more precise and specific than the usual suspects/journalists who typically get to ask the questions would’ve been. This is the first time I can honestly say I noticed it, but one of the reasons Politicians always parrot the same answers every time they open their mouths, is because the journalists always ask them the same questions, posed the exact same way. It’s an incestuous little play, and it was good to see the public stripping and grinding for a change.

2. Another high point in this particular debate was the press—represented in the moment by pretty boy and Vanderbilt heir Anderson Cooper. This debate actually reminded me of WHY the press is important and what we should be doing. That role isn’t to ASK the question, its to make sure it gets ANSWERED. Off camera, they also did a good job, I thought, of selecting and organizing the questions. I don’t mind that part of their involvement.

I don’t want to see the press completely shut out of the debate. I think it’s wise to have some sort of buffer between the potential next Leader of the Free World and the unwashed masses. I’m only somewhat joking. Can you imagine Mr. “Are you gonna protect my baby” actually standing on stage? I thought not.

3. This format actually made all of the candidates look human.

No, really. The world is made up of the superhuman, the normal, and the peculiar. Every group has all three, so it stands to reason that if you stand 10 or 11 millionaire President wannabes on a stage somewhere, all three categories are going to be represented. One thing the more traditional “debate” formats don’t do well, is help us figure out which is which. This one did a MUCH better job. Its not that we don’t already sorta know the answers, BUT … knowing is only half the battle. Seeing how a candidate responds to both the bright lights, AND the unadulterated American people simultaneously gets to be pretty close to the whole enchilada.

THE BAD:

1. Is there some REASON all the candidates can’t answer all the questions?

This one started to bug me as I was watching the debate live, now that I’ve had a week or so to think it over, it REALLY bugs me. OK, it would take a long time. There were forty or so questions, and a bunch of candidates. SO WHAT??? CNN is a 24-hour news network. The ONLY thing coming on after the debate … was a 14 hour stretch of analysis and recap about … THE DEBATE. Does this strike anyone else as weird? CNN, as a rule, doesn’t get very high ratings. Of course, very FEW cable channels get great ratings. Do you believe that Nancy Grace or another episode of Larry King live would actually generate MORE interest than an extra hour or two of the candidates answering questions from the American people? I’d rather see them

2. If they’re not ALL going to answer every question, one thing the press SHOULDN’T do is decide which ONE is going to answer the inquiry on the table.

If I had a complaint about Anderson as the host … actually, let me take a moment to say I think Mr. Cooper did a VERY good job. I realize I haven’t said that yet, and it deserves to be said. He’s not my favorite journalist, but I respect the path he’s followed to get to where he is. He’s a rich kid I actually admire. And in THIS event, he was the right mix of hip and serious to make it a worthwhile venture. But getting back to my complaint … he did what I think journalists should stop doing—following the political script. When a question came up that wasn’t directed at a specific candidate, he always seemed to default to the obvious answer. Hell, I KNOW Kucinich is the one who’s going to say he’s going to raise revenues by canceling President Bush’s tax cuts … I’d rather know if HE would meet with Castro et al. I know Hillary’s position on health care, I’d rather hear about her thoughts on whether a cheater should get to stay in office. You get the idea…

The last thing is just a suggestion, actually. It was neither good nor bad … but it could’ve been better—the actual set.

If you’re going to watch youtube … you should be sitting on a couch, or in this case couches. A living room set with a giant plasma tv that all the candidates could watch would’ve seemed a lot more natural. It also would’ve allowed room for another sponsor, since Apple could’ve finally shown off its TV application … since NOBODY seems to have any idea what you’re actually supposed to use it for, except stuff like this. It also would’ve sparked more give and take, although that might’ve been against what CNN was shooting for, in retrospect.

My favorite question was when the minister tied Mr. Edwards in knots about religion and same-sex marriage. Being a guy who appreciates a bit of nuance with my answers and my coffee, his response makes a LOT of sense to me, although I’m pretty sure that all by itself it could knock him out of contention in at least two or three states.

The questioner who asked the question about meeting the wacko foreign leaders is a genius. As a professional journalist and questioner, his question all by itself was positioned perfectly enough to kick off the first real war between Hill and Barack. Priceless.

Anyhow, there ya go, Sneaky. My thoughts on the debate. I’ve been kinda laid up with this stupid Achilles surgery, so my blogging has been a bit … erratic at best. I’m still alive, still appreciate the notes and e-mails.

Can’t wait until the Republicans do the Youtube thing. THAT should be even better.

Peace,

--Stew.

Strange Fruit

Some months ago, I blogged about the Michael Richards "nigger" incident. And then a couple of days ago, I read a fascinating blog by one of my Yahoo 360 friends (well, sorta. she dumped me but I still adore her and her writing...) Nita.

You can click on the link to THIS blog to read her insightful thoughts and provoking question.

The topic was the appropriateness of offensive humor, and what the rules are and should be for a performer on stage.

I contended in comments to her blog that funny is the most important thing for a comic.

Those comments and this topic have stayed with me for a few days now, and they deserve more context.

I'd like to try to talk a bit about it here.

First, a moment of historical relevance. I invite you to watch the following youtube clip in its entirety.




The singer is Billie Holiday. The song is her (in)famous Strange Fruit.

Here are the lyrics, as written by Abel Meeropol (a.k.a. Lewis Allan)

"

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

"

The question on my buddy Nita's table at the time was:

Should we support racist comments from a comedian, JUST because they are doing comedy? Isn't racism racism, no matter where it shows up?

Being the radical, race-conscious man that I am, it could easily surprise you to hear me say that in some cases ... Yes, we should.

I didn't see the particular clip she was referring to at the time, but I've watched enough comedy to know that it absolutely DRIPS with content that would be considered inappropriate at any other time or place.

I won't defend the comedian SHE was watching, because I don't know if, among other things, the bit was even funny or thought-provoking.

But there's an important distinction between a conversation involving two random people on the street, and a person performing on a stage.

Namely, audience.

In society, art is always the vanguard of social change. Artists use their various crafts to say things that society isn't ready to say or hear yet. It's true of comedians, painters, playwrights, comics, dancers, filmmakers, authors, cartoonists, preachers ... and singers.

And it is their access to an audience that makes the difference.

Which brings us back to Billie Holiday, 1939.

She was 24 when she stood on stage at New York's Cafe Society; the Big Apple's only integrated club outside Harlem. She was afraid, and rightly so, because America was still in the part of our shared history where lynching was as American as football is today.

Afraid, she sang the song anyway.

And over time, the song changed the conversation years before the Congress was ready to put legislative pen to paper.

And it WAS a real problem.

Between 1882 and 1968, there were 4,742 reports of lynchings in the United States. More were undocumented.

Billie wasn't just "whistling Dixie."

It is literally impossible today to tell an honest history of the practice without mentioning the impact of the song "Strange Fruit."

The song was both protest, and ART ... at its very finest.

Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, DaVinci, Michaelangelo, Billie Holiday, Alvin Hailey ... there is an IMPRESSIVE list of artists whose controversial works changed the game.

Which ISN'T to say that every political piece of art is worth the time you spend experiencing it. Some, perhaps even most ... is absolute garbage.

But the first amendment is unique not for the obviously useful and agreeable "speech" it protects. It is special for the tightrope walking, offensive, questionable, maddening, over-the-line, pornographic, religion-bashing, homophobic, racist, sexist, outright STUPID ideas it allows the moron to SLAM down on the table to be confronted by the group as a whole.

America at its best, ridicules these ideas off the front page and banishes their Creators to the corner of obscurity.

This is the beauty of free-market capitalism. If there's no market for your ideas, or our higher passions win the day, you AND your dumb-assed idea will disappear from thought, view, and consciousness.

We need to hear Richard Pryor say "nigger," and put it in a place where the power of the word can be challenged, and debated, and properly addressed.

And if we have to put up with dumbass Michael Richards saying it too, so be it.

We need the Boondocks, and South Park, and if having comedians who don't "get" it" is the price ... we should pay it.

We need The March on Washington, and if protecting the Klan's rally to keep it gives us indigestion, we should swallow our Pepto, turn our backs, and do our very best to protect those idiots, too.

In my humble opinion, OUR obligation when confronted with material we find useless or not worth discussion ... is to BOO!! HISS!!! HECKLE!!! RIDICULE!!! DEMAND OUR MONEY BACK!!!

Artists don't like that.

But it allows them to space WE need to protect the occasional genius who has a message and a megaphone we need to hear.

I am grateful that the first person applauded "Strange Fruit."

Peace,

--Stew.

References used for this blog:

http://obama.senate.gov/news/050614-us_senate_apologizes_for_not_e/
http://www.ladyday.net/stuf/vfsept98.html


Photo:
http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/aap/photo06.jpg

Little Black Boys

Having been a little black boy, I somehow always thought it'd be second nature to understand one entrusted to my care.

I was wrong.

The little black boy in the picture is Mercer, my son.

Until now, I've made a point of keeping him out of the spotlight. Welcome to life as the son of a journalist/blogger, son.

Let's start with a few obvious truths that need to be on the table.

I am absolutely in love with my little boy. I adore many things about him; the way he thinks and forces me to join him, the way he learns new things and tries immediately to apply them, the way he reminds me of myself in his actions and idiosyncrasies, and the way I can comprehend some of what's happening in his mind without him having to say a word--a byproduct of his having my DNA swimming through his every molecule.

But there is a part of him that hearkens Mr. Gibran's words to my frontal lobe:

"Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you."


There are aspects of this particular little black boy that completely and utterly confound me. Primarily they are related to his startling ability and willingness to sniff out uncertainty, fear, or indecisiveness.

He views these as flaws to be ruthlessly and mercilessly punished with an explosive rage that catches most people completely off guard, and causes him to be endlessly punished in return. At five years old, he's been suspended, expelled, grounded, time-outed to to futility, and even spanked.

The trouble is that I've never witnessed the bad behavior.

With Dad, he's a polite, curious, energetic, completely likable four-year old.

Which isn't to say that I disbelieve the growing cadre of teachers, counselors, and relatives who've found themselves on his bad side.

It's hard to doubt the 19 year old day camp counselor who lasted less than a morning before making the frantic call to have my little black boy picked up. Harder still when confronted with her armful of scratches and bruises that my four-year old admits causing.

Its hard to question the veteran Kindergarten teacher who insists that his disruptive behavior makes it impossible to teach the rest of a class, and wants to make notes on his "permanent record." As if anything that a four-year old does should be considered eternal.

And it would be hardest to question his mother--who is at wits end with coming up on the short stick of his blowups.

In keeping with my tradition of not pretending to be the good guy, I admit to a host of mistakes and imperfections with respect to how I've handled the situation.

I've been far from perfect.

I'm part of that 75% crowd in my generation. We who have children out of wedlock to varying degrees of disaster.

While I'm not as convinced as some that marriage is the ideal solution to every (or even most) problems ... I don't have a better idea ready to put on the table.

I'm also not willing to get married just for its own (or HIS) sake.

I AM willing to apply my best fatherhood efforts to the problem. I'm not absent, I pay my ridiculous child support payments on time, and throw as much money at the ever-present unexpecteds as I can afford.

But that's not even the tip of the iceberg.

It shows up when I start to wonder about the outcome of my little black boy's rage.

While Merc is no statistic, there are enough of those to make me concerned.

I am aware that by the numbers, the odds are significant that my little black boy is VERY likely to be arrested, indicted, prosecuted, convicted, and incarcerated at some point during the course of his life.

His numbers go UP when I throw other kids in the mix.

If the numbers can be believed, he is likely to be surrounded by poverty, a share of illiteracy, crime, drug abuse, and more likely to die at the hands of violence than natural causes.

And that's WITH my guidance and help.

My career, interests, and experiences have sent me to many of the places where little black boys statistically end up. When I find myself talking to these men, I'm usually left with more questions than answers.

As little black boys, did their daddies ever answer their questions about car engines?

Were there any daddies around to even hear the questions?

Did they have library cards? Make trips to the local fire station to pepper the volunteers with questions about the job? Have a conversation with a police officer where THEY got to ask the questions?

Inevitably, I'm left with more questions than answers. In a newspaper column, or sitcom, I'd have my answer in half an hour.

But this is my life.

And if I can't find the source of the rage, or a solution that allows me some modicum of comfort when I leave my little black boy in a room without me, my answer may take a bit longer to find.

Peace,

--Stew.

Why Barack Is Losing Me

OK, so over the months I’ve said that I’m for Barack, but hedged a bit by admitting that my support wasn’t unconditional and that I was willing to jump ship at the first sign of short-coming, or very uncomfortable moment. I haven’t actually jumped yet, but it’s safe to say that I have my life vest on, and I’m standing on the rail.

My support has been hinged on two primary factors. First and foremost, Senator Obama is black. Secondly, I applaud his philosophy.

Elsewhere, I realize writers are going through all sorts of gymnastics to make race “NOT” the primary issue of the Obama campaign. I have neither mat nor high bar here. I am what I am, and it is what it is. I’d LOVE to see a black President.

I got the same lecture as every other middle class black adolescent about being able to become anything I wanted to – a lesson that inevitably ended with some allusion to the White House.

I admit it, I was a skeptic about it then, and I’m even moreso now.

I believe I could’ve made the NBA, NFL, or played major league baseball.

I believe I could’ve become an actor, and based on my skills perhaps even earned the title of movie star. I have no doubt that I could, and can become a musician of some renown.

I have no doubt that millionaire status is within my grasp.

I even believe that if I’m willing to skip a few additional nights of sleep and work more hours, I could turn the “M” into a “B,” and join the rare air of Gates, Oprah, and Buffett.

I am positive I could run for, and win a Sheriff seat somewhere.

I am certain I could sit on any city’s council, county’s school board, or State’s legislature.

I could be the mayor, hell, Marion Barry has convinced me that I could do THAT … and not have to necessarily rule out a moonlighting career as a crackhead.

I am skeptical, but fall on the side of believing that I could be a governor … there’s been one.

If I did one of the previous things first, I could even find my way to the U.S. Senate—a pretty exclusive club.

I could make it to the US House of Representatives with relative ease, and on merit and local popularity alone.

I have the training and talent to be a network news anchor today. Unfortunately, I’m over that dream.

But President?

Hmmm …

I’m afraid you’re gonna have to show me one before I believe that anything other than a white, old, Protestant-leaning, homo-sapien with a penis, who’s relatively detached from normalcy, can worm his way to that Residence.

And this isn’t a passive belief. I’ve wasted my vote on chics you’ve never heard of (Lenora Fulani) who made it to the ballot, and squandered it by writing in black men who I knew had no chance at even making it past the primary.

But those were all in elections that I thought didn’t matter. At times I was a one-issue voter, and my issue was … “please, not another white guy.”

The truth is, up until probably … last year, I might’ve even voted for Condoleeza Rice, had she chosen to run, just for the chance to be part of the tri-fecta victory (Black, female, Southerner).

But this cycle, stakes is high. Being black isn’t enough for me.

For certain, there are black men I WOULD vote for—which brings us to Senator Obama’s philosophy.

Periodically, the nation requires some person whose primary contribution is to change the debate. Throughout the cycle of U.S. history, there has occasionally been room for a man who has a different idea about “how” America could change its focus and capitalize on our strengths in a new way.

Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman, even Ronald Reagan fit that particular mold. They were men who saw the world, sometimes very slightly, in a different way. Sometimes that vision was spawned from a crisis; war, or Depression, or poor international relations.

Barack Obama may very well be one of “those guys.”

Unfortunately, as much as we need bipartisan leadership, and a “uniter not a divider” right now, that’s not MY number one requirement.

As a political junkie, I’ve watched all … six (?) of the debates so far. And what worries me is the Illinois Senator’s inability to articulate how his philosophy would translate to policy that would make my life better.

For my money, we’ve already done the “he’s inexperienced but has good ideas” experiment. It’s a fucking disaster.

No, really.

We’ve lost an American city, a significant piece of our largest financial district, destroyed more than 50,000 lives in concentric circles of post-traumatic stress, many of the linchpins of our civil rights, whatever remaining confidence “we the people” have in our actual government (as opposed to the theory of our FORM of government), and our standing in the world.

Our economy is prepped for disaster, our language is being destroyed at the highest level of government, and we’ve been forced to learn the skill of being hoodwinked, and pretending to like it.

So now, I’m insisting on experience. NO MORE DUMMIES. No more sketchy resumes. No more "C" students (not that Barack is one of those...), No more daddy's boys, or "vote for this one cause you like some relative of theirs. No more inarticulate people who can't say what the fuck they mean without torturing the language I love.

If you can't deliver the line ... don't step up to the microphone. This is your chance to prove to me that you won't choke under pressure.

If you stutter and stumble your way through a yes or no question from Wolf Blitzer ... what's a press conference going to be like with you standing next to some extremely witty and articulate world leader who's speaking perfect English as a fourth or fifth language and crafting extemporaneous sentences next to you ... the bumbling, stumbling guy we sent out to be our champion? I'm tired of being embarrassed every time "my guy" opens his mouth to publicly speak. NO MORE.

POTUS is NOT an on-the-job training position. I don’t really give a shit if the moron handing me fries can’t count change, or requires pictographs on the cash register. It blows, and makes me afraid of the public school education system I'm financing, but it's hardly a moment-by-moment crisis. 16-year old high school sophomores are a dime a dozen, so are illegal immigrants, and you can find another one to read the number five off the cash register pictures, and make sure I get two quarters and a nickel, not the other way around.

But Chief Executive Officer of the free world?

Nah … THAT person is gonna have to actually pass the stupid tests. There is NO question in my mind that Barack is smart, maybe even brilliant.

There is no question that his service is of GREAT benefit to the country.

If he wins, it will STILL accomplish the validation of my mom’s bullshit story to me about how I could be President; I’m just not sure it would be helpful to the chaos that is my country.

From here on the rail, life vest strapped and inflated, there are two things he could do that would talk me down.

1. Announce that either Colin Powell, or Mark Warner is his Vice Presidential partner. NOW.

2. Blow me away in the next debate.


What’s that I see in the distance? USS Ron Paul? Hmmmm….maybe I should just jump.

Peace,

--Stew.




Photo:
http://msnbcmedia2.msn.com/i/msnbc/Sections/Newsweek/Components/Photos/
060919_060925/060922_BarackObama_Xtrawide.jpg

The Price of Pussy

Timeframe, 2007. The Bush administration is coming to a close, and if there is a tear being shed ANYWHERE for that, its happening either in a Corporate boardroom, or in a basement somewhere that hasn't been touched by the arrogance, incompetence, and blindly moronic path we've been led down.

Those basements are hard to find.

The nation is struggling with a combination of vitriolic dislike for a President too detached to be believed, and apparently too arrogant to just admit that "yeah, I fucked this one up, too," AND the broken promise of some symbolic return to a distant morality that no one can actually remember, but everyone wants to believe in, because the last five years have turned our collective conscience into a sucking chest wound.

And the new wannabes and Junior do-gooders have already lined up and stated their positioning statements, but wait ... wait, what's that on the horizon?

It's the rebirth of the pussy move.

Al Gore's no moron. He knows people (like me) regret not voting for the stiff (even though I didn't vote for the moron, either) and he wants to suck at the teat of sympathy while we beg and plead for a real leader.

His method? A movie, a series of lectures, and his second book in as many years.

Sir, if you're not going to help out--please stay the fuck off the stage. We're actually having a crisis right now, and if you're not here to roll up your sleeves and fight, I speak for at least three or four of us when I say with all the respect I can muster up ...

"I get it, the planet is heating up/cooling down, and to YOU that's the biggest crisis we have going, a four-alarm fire, I think you called it. Well, truth be told, unless the planet's going to EXPLODE between now and 2008, I'd rather focus on getting all of my friends out of Iraq, because I'd rather be watching ESPN with them when the planet DOES in fact explode, than still inexplicably jumping a little bit every time the phone rings late at night because I'm afraid its going to be somebody calling to tell me that ______ just got hit by an IED."

Besides, if you KNOW that you have the most experience this side of Gov. Bill Richardson, and you know he CAN'T win the race (because he can't figure out if he's a fing Red Sox or Yankees fan, for crissake), but you STILL won't play ball ... you're potentially something WORSE than a demogogue.

I've lost close games before, and I admit that it hurts ... BAD.

I cannot imagine how embarrassing and painful it must be to lose a multi-million dollar Presidential campaign on a technicality. I support a man's need to nurse his wounds, AND his ego. But humor me, and do that shit in private.

Don't show up to critique the current administration--I actually don't need your insight to figure out they're running my country into the ground. I don't need to hear your thoughts on the panel of people who opine on "what we should have done."

I don't really care about your ego. I'm just a bit thirsty for that feeling I get when the geeksquad shows up to fix my computer. They bring me a calming confidence that the smart guys are here to rub some brainpower on the problem. When their beetle shows up, I know my problem is being addressed by experts who aren't going to sleep very well until everything is restored to normal.

Nationally, I just want some smart, honest people to hash it out in a back office somewhere over finger food and Dasani, or Perrier, or whatever smart honest, people are drinking these days. And then, I want one of them to come out in front of the microphones connected to all seven of my 24/7 "news" channels and explain the solution with complicated sentences, using words I have to look up--because that's when I know the speaker is smarter than me.

My current President hasn't sent me scrambling for a dictionary for a definition even ONCE ... (although there WAS my usage question about "decider" ... and I digress.)

Mr. Gore, if you're not up to this, it's cool. I understand. Just exit stage right, and show up again AFTER campaign season. You're making my head hurt, AND ... you're making me think you're a pussy.

And what I've learned is that I can't afford anymore.

Peace,

--Stew.