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“Man, I Miss Them”

From 1969 to 2001, the Twin Towers made countless cameos in Hollywood films. Sometimes featured prominently in the foreground, sometimes lurking in the distance. This montage celebrates the towers’ all-too-short film career with songs that capture the passing decades. Man, I miss them…” Dan Meth

My New Hero

Once I stopped weeping, I wanted to track down this beautiful young man and hold him to let him know that everything will get better. But, by the end of the video, I realized he already knows that. Heroes come in many a various guise. Here’s a face of the New World Hero. The bilious [...]

Imagine If The Tea Party Was Black

Clearly this is the most profound essay on the bleeding, pustulating scab of America known as the Tea Party Movement. Anti-racist essayist/polemicist Tim Wise doesn’t relegate to blatant name-calling, but that’s what makes him a smarter – and more important – man than I’ll ever be.

This bowel “movement” – once (and still) a punchline – is a frightening reality we can no longer afford to dismiss as a demented (that’s still true) fringe group.

Fuck the fundamental mendacity – damned the blatant hated bigoted blackest threads woven into the very fabric of their bloodline tapestry. None of that matters to the Tea Baggers. What matters is “their truth”.

I’m neither Republican nor Democrat. Neither Conservative nor Liberal. I’ve championed both parties throughout my life, soley dependent on the candidate and the issues.   But, sadly, many Conservatives have aligned themselves with the Tea Party as a mechanical monomaniacal ploy for  power. Nothing more, nothing less.

But never forget that the Tea Party Movement – and those Conservatives who have nailed their palms to it (e.g. Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck, Sarah Palin,  Satan’s daughter Michele Bachmann)  – is basically absolute ANTI-AMERICANISM masqueraded in the Red, White & Blue.  They are the real terrorists. They are the American Taliban.

Imagine: Protest, Insurgency and the Workings of White Privilege

by Tim Wise

Let’s play a game, shall we? The name of the game is called “Imagine.” The way it’s played is simple: we’ll envision recent happenings in the news, but then change them up a bit. Instead of envisioning white people as the main actors in the scenes we’ll conjure–the ones who are driving the action–we’ll envision black folks or other people of color instead. The object of the game is to imagine the public reaction to the events or incidents, if the main actors were of color, rather than white. Whoever gains the most insight into the workings of race in America, at the end of the game, wins.

So let’s begin.

Imagine that hundreds of black protesters were to descend upon Washington DC and Northern Virginia, just a few miles from the Capitol and White House, armed with AK-47s, assorted handguns, and ammunition. And imagine that some of these protesters–the black protesters–spoke of the need for political revolution, and possibly even armed conflict in the event that laws they didn’t like were enforced by the government. Would these protesters–these black protesters with guns–be seen as brave defenders of the Second Amendment, or would they be viewed by most whites as a danger to the republic? What if they were Arab-Americans? Because, after all, that’s what happened recently when white gun enthusiasts descended upon the nation’s capital, arms in hand, and verbally announced their readiness to make war on the country’s political leaders if the need arose.

Imagine that white members of Congress, while walking to work, were surrounded by thousands of angry, screaming, black people, one of whom proceeded to spit on one of those congressmen for not voting the way the black demonstrators desired. Would the protesters be seen as merely patriotic Americans voicing their opinions, or as an angry, potentially violent, and even insurrectionary mob? After all, this is what white Tea Party protesters did recently in Washington.

Imagine that a black rap artist were to say, in reference to a white politician and presidential candidate: “He’s a piece of shit and I told him to suck on my machine gun.” And what would happen to any prominent liberal commentator who then, when asked about that statement, replied that the rapper was a friend and that he (the commentator) would not disavow or even criticize him for his remarks. Because that’s what rocker Ted Nugent said in 2007 about Barack Obama, and that’s how Sean Hannity responded to Nugent’s remarks when he was asked about them.

Imagine that a prominent mainstream black political commentator had long employed an overt bigot as Executive Director of his organization, and that this bigot regularly participated in black separatist conferences, and once assaulted a white person while calling them by a racial slur. When that prominent black commentator and his sister–who also works for the organization–defended the bigot as a good guy who was misunderstood and “going through a tough time in his life” would anyone accept their excuse-making? Would that commentator still have a place on a mainstream network? Because that’s what happened in the real world, when Pat Buchanan employed as Executive Director of his group, America’s Cause, a blatant racist who did all these things, or at least their white equivalents: attending white separatist conferences and attacking a black woman while calling her the n-word.

Imagine that a black radio host were to suggest that the only way to get promoted in the administration of a white president is by “hating black people,” or that a prominent white person had only endorsed a white presidential candidate as an act of racial bonding, or blamed a white president for a fight on a school bus in which a black kid was jumped by two white kids, or said that he wouldn’t want to kill all conservatives, but rather, would like to leave just enough–“living fossils” as he called them–“so we will never forget what these people stood for.” After all, these are things that Rush Limbaugh has said, about Barack Obama’s administration, Colin Powell’s endorsement of Barack Obama, a fight on a school bus in Belleville, Illinois in which two black kids beat up a white kid, and about liberals, generally.*

Imagine that a black pastor, formerly a member of the U.S. military, were to declare, as part of his opposition to a white president’s policies, that he was ready to “suit up, get my gun, go to Washington, and do what they trained me to do.” This is, after all, what Pastor Stan Craig said recently at a Tea Party rally in Greenville, South Carolina.

Imagine a black radio talk show host gleefully predicting a revolution by people of color if the government continues to be dominated by the rich white men who have been “destroying” the country, or if said radio personality were to call Christians or Jews non-humans, or say that when it came to conservatives, the best solution would be to “hang ‘em high.” And what would happen to any congressional representative who praised that commentator for “speaking common sense” and likened his hate talk to “American values?” After all, those are among the things said by radio host and best-selling author Michael Savage, predicting white revolution in the face of multiculturalism, or said by Savage about Arab Muslims and liberals, respectively. And it was Congressman Culbertson, from Texas, who praised Savage in that way, despite his hateful rhetoric.

Imagine a black political commentator suggesting that the only thing the guy who flew his plane into the Austin, Texas IRS building did wrong was not blowing up Fox News instead. This is, after all, what Anne Coulter said about Tim McVeigh, when she noted that his only mistake was not blowing up The New York Times.

Imagine that a popular black liberal website posted comments about the daughter of a white president, calling her “typical redneck trash,” or a “whore” whose mother entertains her by “making monkey sounds.” After all that’s comparable to what conservatives posted about Malia Obama on freerepublic.com last year, when they referred to her as “ghetto trash.”

Imagine that black protesters at a large political rally were walking around with signs calling for the lynching of their congressional enemies. Because that’s what white conservatives did last year, in reference to Democratic Party leaders in Congress.

In other words, imagine that even one-third of the anger and vitriol currently being hurled at President Obama, by folks who are almost exclusively white, were being aimed, instead, at a white president, by people of color. How many whites viewing the anger, the hatred, the contempt for that white president would then wax eloquent about free speech, and the glories of democracy? And how many would be calling for further crackdowns on thuggish behavior, and investigations into the radical agendas of those same people of color?

To ask any of these questions is to answer them. Protest is only seen as fundamentally American when those who have long had the luxury of seeing themselves as prototypically American engage in it. When the dangerous and dark “other” does so, however, it isn’t viewed as normal or natural, let alone patriotic. Which is why Rush Limbaugh could say, this past week, that the Tea Parties are the first time since the Civil War that ordinary, common Americans stood up for their rights: a statement that erases the normalcy and “American-ness” of blacks in the civil rights struggle, not to mention women in the fight for suffrage and equality, working people in the fight for better working conditions, and LGBT folks as they struggle to be treated as full and equal human beings.

And this, my friends, is what white privilege is all about. The ability to threaten others, to engage in violent and incendiary rhetoric without consequence, to be viewed as patriotic and normal no matter what you do, and never to be feared and despised as people of color would be, if they tried to get away with half the shit we do, on a daily basis.

Game Over.

*(Denver Post December 29, 1995)

Jai Guru Deva Om***

Reality (and logic…and truth…and common sense) gives Creationism a bad name.

 

***That persnickety genius John Lennon was a very spiritual (religious?) man, which goes to show that just because you’re one of the greatest songwriters in history doesn’t automatically mean you’re always the smartest…

Got Milk?

Yep! Finally, after vetoing it in the past, stating that slain San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk should be honored locally, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger signed a bill recognizing May 22 (Milk’s birthday) as “Harvey Milk Day” in the state of California.  This comes almost two months to the day after President Barack Obama posthumously awarded Milk (and 15 other recipients) the Presidential Medal Of Freedom.

Sean Penn, as you know, won a much-deserved Oscar for his monumental portrayal of Milk in Gus Van Sant’s great MILK. The film also won an Oscar for screenwriter Dustin Lance Black, who gave a moving acceptance speech (watch it after Penn’s below.  The official Oscar page on YouTube doesn’t allow videos to be embedded, so click on the link within the frame to watch both speeches).

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Also, Schwarzenegger signed Senate Bill 54,  a measure that recognizes gay marriages that were performed out-of-state:

“The bill provides the same legal protections that would otherwise be available to couples that enter into civil unions or domestic partnerships out-of-state. In short, this measure honors the will of the people in enacting Proposition 8 while providing important protections to those unions legally entered into in other states.”

After the despicable PROP 8 passed last November, Californians finally have something to celebrate.

Music Box: Kurt Cobain ~ Act Of Abandonment

February 20 1967 - April ? 1994

February 20 1967 - April ? 1994

James Montgomery of MTV News remembers the loss of the idealism of youth.

Kurt Cobain: The Death Of The Scruffy Noble

Nirvana frontman represented the honor that came with never compromising, whether he liked it or not, in Bigger Than the Sound.

By James Montgomery

Fifteen years ago today, an electrician named Gary Smith was sent out to a gray clapboard home near Lake Washington in Seattle to install a security system. What he discovered, in the greenhouse above the garage, would change the face of rock and roll forever. It was the body of Kurt Cobain.

The Nirvana frontman had been missing for several days, after fleeing a rehab facility in Los Angeles. His mother, Wendy O’Connor, had filed a missing-persons report with Seattle police, advising them to look in Capitol Hill, where Cobain may have been attempting to score drugs. In actuality, he was already holed up in his Lake Washington home, in the greenhouse above the garage, where on the morning of April 5, he removed his hunting cap – which he wore when he didn’t want people to recognize him – tossed his wallet on the ground, wrote a one-page suicide note to an imaginary childhood friend named “Boddah” and ended his life with a 20-gauge shotgun blast to the temple.

Three days later, sometime around 9 a.m. PT, Smith discovered Cobain’s body. He called police (and a local radio station), and then there were the breaking-news bulletins and the vigils and the questions and the tears. And then it was all over.

Not the remembrances or the hand-wringing or even the speculation about Cobain’s death, mind you … that all continues to this day, in voluminous tomes and box sets and documentaries and the like. Rather, April 8 marked the end of an ideal, of a movement. That sounds hokey, but if I’ve learned anything in the 15 years since his exit, it’s this: When Cobain left, he took a lot more with him than just Nirvana.

This isn’t another piece meant to codify Cobain (or his band) or measure the length of their musical shadows. Suffice to say, Nirvana released three studio albums, and all of them rip. And Cobain possessed a growl that could crumble walls and a wail that could cut glass (to say nothing of his songwriting or his underappreciated sense of melody). Everyone knows this. Nirvana were probably our Beatles. Cobain was probably our John Lennon. Let’s move on.

What I want to talk about was everything that Cobain symbolized, whether he liked it (or most likely didn’t). He was hope, he was heft. He was the everyman, the end of the rock star, the punk dream realized. He had made it, and he was going to lift people up with him. He was cynicism and venom. He represented idealism and truth and the honor that came with never compromising. When he lived, rock music had importance, it had vitality. It was very possible that his songs could change the world. There was a scruffy nobility to him.

Of course, it is entirely possible that he was just the right man at the right time. Nobody represented the idealistic (and, at the same time, nihilistic) ’90s like Cobain did. But if you noticed, when he died, all that idealism, all that hope, all that import seemed to die with him. The very idea that a band (or a man) can change the world with music now feels beyond laughable. We have become scarred and jaded. A lot of us are no longer willing to believe in the power of a guitar or a lyric, because Cobain took that with him 15 years ago.

And that’s sad, because no matter what Cobain was, no matter what he symbolized or who he inspired, he was ultimately just a man. He had demons that proved too strong and too numerous, and they ganged up on him and dragged him away. And that taught us a lesson: Don’t deify, because you’ll just end up betrayed. We’ve spent 15 years doing the complete opposite – we no longer build up, we tear down. We don’t believe in things. We no longer strive for truth or subscribe to any particular ethos. Probably because we’re afraid to.

Two years ago, on the eve of his 40th birthday, I interviewed a host of people who knew Cobain well and asked them what he’d be doing if he were still alive. They said he would’ve retreated from public view (perhaps to a desert, as Butch Vig surmised); made deeply personal, decidedly anti-commercial music; and despised the way our society had turned out. I tend to agree with all that. It’s difficult (if not impossible) to imagine Cobain alive today … at least not the way we all remember him. He just wouldn’t fit. He couldn’t.

I was in 10th grade when the news broke. I remember watching Kurt Loder read the emerging details of Cobain’s death on TV, and I remember watching the vigils in the Seattle Center park, and I remember being very sad. At the time, I think it was because of the loss of our great and noble leader and the shuddering of an entire generation. Now, I realize it was because a little piece of me died that day too.

I lost the idealism of youth. And the idealism that comes with plugging in a guitar and playing it very loudly (and very badly). That’s never going to come back, either. Probably for any of us.

Mother Hindsight

Mom at 16

Mom at 16

Of course, this was the most numbingly painful day in my life…saying goodbye to Mom.  I wrote this for her memorial service, but I could not read it aloud – it was far too excruciating – so I asked Denise if she would read it (she was the most eloquent of all my friends) and of course she said yes.  Tears emanated as we cried…I remember my brother Scott just sitting there, quiescent, during the whole service, still absorbing the fact that she was gone…I recall my friends still thunderstruck that this was reality.  It was odd, there were no adults mom’s age at the ceremony, just most of her children and their friends…which showed where Mom was in her life.  She had no “girlfriends” in her life, except for her daughters, and that came in the later years, at execrable costs.  Lord knows her husband was never a friend (or a spouse)…she only knew her immediate family for most of her life after marriage.  And the questions that arise about that part of her will always remain a mystery; it died with her.  At the conclusion of the reading of this soliloquy, Bedelia sang Mom’s favourite song, “Wind Beneath My Wings” so unbelievably powerful, that it rocked the very core of our aching souls…It was so hard to say goodbye, but we knew…Mom was just a song away…

Goodbye, Barbara Jean

September 20, 1940-April 5, 1993

I don’t know where to really begin.  I should first say thank you to all of you who were gracious enough to come ~ kind enough to be here in my family’s and my great sorrow.

I’m best at describing and expressing how I feel with pen and paper ~ but at this time, my voice cannot speak the words wrote, the words I feel, so I asked one of my soul sisters to read them for me.

What is there really to say?  Everyone who knows me knows how much I treasure my mother.  It wasn’t the conventional mother/son relationship…we were more like friends (Heh! Ma always loved a good cliché!)

We can take peace within ourselves and be thankful that she went away in her sleep ~ gently, quietly ~ finally content in the knowledge that we loved her ~ finally feeling there’s a need to smile.  She clawed her way through 34 years of hell, escaping, at last, to a new form of happiness, which was her last few months.  Evil incarnate no longer haunted her, mentally abused her [or us].  She was rid of the monster, freed of that anguish, and at last could say she was happy.  She told my brother and me, for example, that this past Christmas was the best she’s experienced since she was a child.

I know I’ve mentioned this to a few of you, but I feel I should repeat it.  Mom believed in fate.  All the debates could not stop her beliefs.  She felt that when it’s your time to go, you go.  Period.  She wasn’t a churchgoer, but she kept her own internal religious beliefs.  Keeping these beliefs in mind, then, we must accept her philosophy and believe that, YES, it was her time.  She was strong enough to wait long enough to escape doom before she just…let go.  She held on long enough until she was content, until she realized it was okay now.  Of course she knew that whenever it was her time, it would be hell for most of us, but she always told me that when it was, “…do not mourn too long”.  Crying is natural, so, yes, cry ~ but also laugh ~ remember ~ never forget ~ but cry not forever.  Besides, if we are going to believe it was her time, then tears will not bring her back.  I used to tell her, “You’re nuts.”  Then we’d laugh.  But she really believed in that fate.

Yet, how does one not mourn when you lose someone who is part of your blood from day one?  How do you not halt your heart from leaping?  And then you start feeling angry ~ angry at life ~ angry at other people’s happiness ~ angry at survivors ~ angry at your family ~ angry at anyone who’s older than Mom ~ and ultimately angry at this entity she named God.  “How could you do this to us God!?” you scream to her god.  “How could you take away the one constant thread in our life and expect us to believe in you!?  And without even the chance to say goodbye?!” Then you start hating her god and denouncing her god.

Then…I remember Mom.  Then I realized I’m wrong to curse her god because to do so was to curse her belief system.  Then the anger disappears and then you cry again ~ then sigh ~ maybe wonder a simple “Why?” I take comfort, then, when remembering Mom’s favourite poem  ~ I’ve always loathed it because, well, as a non-believer I thought it to be pretentious ~ but she cherished it.  It’s called “Footprints”, and she stood her ground.  She loved it, believed it ~ she felt she lived it.  So, again, if we are going to accept Ma’s beliefs, then we must accept that she felt she was the one being carried by this “lord” in the poem, and that now, she always will be.

She was the mother of us all.  Can anyone in this room who knew her say that they called her anything but “Mom“?  Any friend was automatically one of her “children”.  Who else but she could bring together everyone who is here? Friends who lost touch years ago ~ constant companions ~ estranged but unforgotten family ~ friends who are strangers to other friends? All together for one reason…Mother of us all…

I don’t know if this vast, empty hole which houses Mom’s love will ever be filled completely, or if this sadness will ever cease.  For some, I gather, the tears have stopped, for others the tears have not yet begun.  I guess an overwhelming sense of loss will linger within me always, with every moment I breathe.  But I tell you, we must all move on ~ go on.  Mom would reprimand us (loudly, of course) if she thought her passing would halt our lives for more than one moment.

But Ma’s leaving has taught me a lesson ~ that bitterness leads to bitter lives.  We must live ~ and when we wish to recall, just…remember.  We have history ~ never stop thinking or talking about her and what she meant to us, negative or positive (no one is a saint in this world full of sinners).  We have memories, photos, knowledge.  The point of power is in the present. That’s what I believe because of its truth.  We must believe in our present, and believe in our future ~ and never ever forget our past.  Let the bitterness fade away.  All we have is each other now…

I could go on for one million more pages, but I think its time to let go now…not to her spirit, which I still feel around us…but to her physical presence…the body is merely a shell to that spirit, anyway.  Now, that spirit is within all our shells ~ all our lives.  When we hear the night owl sing her song, it’s Mom.  When we feel a quirt of cold breeze on our sweating brows, that’s Mom.  When we hear Garth or Reba or Gary Morris or any of her other favorite singers sing on the radio, that’s Mom.  When we turn on the television and see “Roseanne” or “Letterman” or the “Commish” or “Magnum” or the “Golden Girls” or any other of her favourite TV shows, that’s Mom.  The world, our lives, our dreams are filled with her…so all we have to do is listen to the sky, and we’ll hear her…all we have to do is listen to her favourite songs, and you know she’s right next to you…inside you, until your time here is over.  Then, no matter your beliefs, your spirit will walk to her when it is your time to greet her…in her heaven, on another plane of existence…wherever souls go…and, if you just listen…

…I think I hear her now…

…my mother…Mother hindsight…Mother of us all…

April 10, 1993


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**The intro to my mother’s eulogy was written about ten years ago, around 1999-2000. At the time, I was gathering together all my writings, my songs, and my musings for a collection I was working on, to be self-published.  That never happened.  So, on this 16th anniversary of the morning she died, I decided to post both the intro and the actual text of that memorial.

Happy Birthday Uncle Abe, Darwinism and the Devolution of Me

(See below to ‘devolve’ yourself!)

Yep, Abe Lincoln was/is my great, great, great gay/bisexual uncle, via marriage.  Don’t laugh.  While I never researched the truth in that – the ‘uncle’ aspect, not the ‘gay’ facet - I figured why would my mother lie for all those years ago about my heritage?  I know, I know…with the internet in its second decade, you’d surmise that I would at least attempt to uncover the lineage.  But, supposedly, her great grandmother’s sister was Mary Todd Lincoln.

As for the gay speculation, there’s more than enough evidence to suggest that Abe’s obsession with the theater had less to do than merely it being that era’s main source of entertainment.  You can read about it HERE or HERE.

But that’s neither here nor there.  Today marks Abe’s 200th birthday, so Happy Birthday, Uncle Abe.

And, it is also the 200th birthday of Charles Darwin:

Sharing that bicentennial birthday milestone comes with some depressing news for Chuck – appallingly, only 39% OF AMERICANS BELIEVE IN EVOLUTION!  THIRTY-NINE PERCENT!

Here how it breaks down:

So, 25% of Americans are total brain-atrophying idiots and 36% are brain-sterile cuckoos.  At least the 1% stayed true to themselves and didn’t respond.  It boggles te darkest caverns of the mind that in 2009, there are THAT many people who still we dreived from Adam and his rib-made companion, Eve. Oy.

Anyway…in the true spirit of Darwinism, I came across this funky ‘devolution’ website, via TOWLEROAD.  You can ‘devolve’ your self by uploading a pic into their interface.  Here’s what I would have looked like 3.2 million years ago during the Australopithecus afarensis era (or after I wake up after a 13-hour sleepathon on any given Sunday):

Damn, I’m still so strappingly handsome, ain’t I?

Devolve yourself HERE!

Her Royal Highness, The Queen

I know the likelihood of witnessing anything quite like this again on the stage of the Grammy Awards is a futile gesture, but because this year’s telecast is tomorrow, here’s a little something to remind anyone and everyone all of this years nominees exactly how absolute great talent is defined:

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