I know you take an hourly dose of the life-enhancing potion you were given by your friends in the Illuminati. That's cool.
However, just in case you get sick of it all and decide you've had enough of the burden of living inside your God-forsaken vessel, built out of spare parts of organ donors and hobos, I have an idea for a swan song. You're going to like it.
You know how Sarah Palin has been studying about the world from you in the last few weeks? You know how you teach her about borders and different ways of governments and about the Queen of England? You know how she's preparing for her Thursday debate by memorizing anything you tell her? Like the words proliferation and sovereignty? Remember her shock when she discovered Native Americans were real but unicorns were not?
Now tell me, is all this worthy of the great Henry Kissinger? The man who determines the fate of nations by the angle of his thumb? Washington's own Übermensch?
Didn't think so.
Now, what if-- What if you fucked with her?
What if you told her the Prime Minister of Britain was Gordon Shumway? What if you told her the Iranians were on the brink of being able to teleport their entire military? That Jews in Israel celebrate Napkin Day?
I mean, these are just examples coming from a mere mortal, but go crazy. This could be a final farewell worthy of a great man like you. You'll show them. You'll show them all.
I know you like it because I know you have an ironic, post-modern sense of humor. After all, you've accepted the Nobel Peace Prize.
And while we're there, I don't want to sound like Mr. Pervy, but can NBC give Michelle Kosinski a desk job? I can't sleep at night knowing she's risking her life covering hurricanes. (Now, I know she will always be remembered for Canoe-gate, and that since then she's been mostly covering missing girls in Aruba, but she's back on the disaster-front, and I'm not happy about it).
After 35 years, I've finally found my brand:
And finally, here's a picture of someone's shoulder. He works with a friend. He has a Jimmy Hendrix tattoo:
On September 15th, 2001, a friend of mine, Honey, and I took the subway from Brooklyn to Penn Station to help Honey with her luggage. She was going to visit her parents in Maryland. It was a beautiful day, so when we left the station, we decided to walk around for a while rather than go back home. Waiting for a light to change, we heard a faint sound of bagpipes. We followed it.
When we reached the fire station, we looked around and suddenly found ourselves standing next to Bill Clinton. He gave a short statement to a group of reporters and started walking away. A few of the reporters tried to catch up with him, not paying attention to a man lying on a stretcher next to them. A few of the reporters fell over the injured man. He screamed in pain.
Next door to the fire station was a small store. I bought a disposable camera. We started walking downtown.
Remember how for a short time, before 9/11 was even known as 9/11, these patriotic displays weren't offensive? Maybe offensive isn't the right word. What I mean is that if you see a biker dressed like that today, then he's making a statement about himself and about the world around him, and that statement is often a confrontational one. Can you imagine today a group of New Yorkers standing in a circle and taking photos of a biker? But it made sense then, because his clothes made sense. And it's sad, because his clothes don't make sense today, because the memory of the attacks has been hijacked; taken away from the people, for the fascists in power to use as they please.
And look at Union Square.
This was our tragedy. It wasn't a New York tragedy or an American tragedy. It wasn't a Christian tragedy and it definitely wasn't a Republican one. It was a human tragedy. And the beauty of the people who were there to experience it was that they didn't go to the streets to demand blood, but to mourn. And for a short time, before the politicians made the connection between the attacks and the word Freedom, these were just murderous attacks on innocent people, and the American flag at the center of the peaceful gathering wasn't a symbol of retribution, but of unity.
We walked further downtown.
And further. Closer.
You know, I never got that picture below. Any conspiracy theorists out there?
You see people slowing down next to a car accident and you think, "What's wrong with these people?" And you hear about the people who found ways around police barriers just so they could experience it (whatever "it" was) with all five senses, and you ask that same question.
And I was one of these people. Because seeing images on TV wasn't enough, not after I could hear the tower collapse while walking the dogs in Prospect Park four days earlier; not after I could smell the burned papers that were carried over from the towers all the way to my empty hand in Brooklyn. It wan't enough. To make sense of it all, I had to see the empty space.
A few days ago, on a political blog, I commented that no matter what happens, this is going to be a historic election because either an African-American becomes President or a woman becomes Vice President, and no matter what happens, this is historical, blablabla.
Well, I take it back. Saying Palin's nomination is historic because she's a woman is like saying the last eight years have been historic because it was the first time an idiot man-child has been allowed to rule a nation.
How embarrassing is this semi-empty convention? After last week's high, watching it end with Obama's girl standing next to Biden's granddaughter, both laughing together, marveling at the confetti, I thought I would lose my cynicism forever. Thank you, Governor Palin, for restoring my faith in the absurd.
On another political site, I commented that this "energized" convention seems more like a high school reunion. I then added that everyone there, funny enough, looks like everyone you beat up in school.
But I was wrong there, too. It's these people, but it's also the despicable asses that push ahead of you in line at the airport. Know what I mean? Like these guys:
(Yes, these members of the party of rich whites are laughing hysterically at the words, "Community Organizer").
And the crazy women that the moment you met them in high school you knew exactly what every minute of their future lives would be. Like this gal:
It's a fucking cult.
And you know what? If the rigged voting machines end up giving McCain and Crazy Pursed Lips Woman the White House, then so be it. Call it the reverse story of Sodom. Because it's enough that one person in this country is voting Republican to make us all guilty. Because it's enough that we see these people in airports and at the extended family dinner table ("Let's not talk about politics") and in baseball games and state fairs and even on the other side of a TV screen, and we don't immediately lie on the floor pleading to God or to Natural Selection, saying, "Please, forgive them--they know not what they do. Take me instead. Yes, they are racist and sexist, and yes they cherish American lives more than the lives of Arabs in Iraq, and they cherish the lives of Republicans more than those of Democrats, and they cherish the lives of fetuses more than the lives of living people. But if we live side by side with them, then don't we all deserve the same fate? Don't we all deserve to suffer together?" Motherfuckers.
See, the cynicism is back, thank God. I've seen more enthusiastic people at insurance conferences when they found out New Orleans residents were never covered for flood damage. I've seen people more energized at friendly ping pong tournaments. And Joe Lieberman, oy vey! Remembering Democrats pretending to like you in 2000 makes me think of being arrested after going to a prostitute, and then finding out she's a man. Lieberman, tonight, we're all Eddie Murphy!
And there's still a whole day left! I bet we'll see a lot more of this guy:
I was a security guard in a private school in London, and to get the parents to feel they were helping, they each had to stand around with me when the kids came in the morning and when they left. So one morning I'm standing there with this rich mother and she's being friendly, asking for my name. I told her my name, and she said, "Oh, that’s my gardener's name!"
And it's been, what, ten years since then, and I still regret not saying anything back. I should have asked for her name and then say, "Oh, that's my hooker's name!" Or something like that. So stuff like that kills me, but it's not a big deal, I suppose.
Kids in my neighborhood are always looking for a fight. I assume it's because they want to visit their daddies in jail but can't afford the bus ticket. I was walking to the car, it was a couple of years ago, and this kid calls me a Fudge Packer. And I wanted to tell him that he was right because I worked in a book store, and I hated it, and it was, indeed, a dead end job, much like packing fudge in a factory is, I could only assume. But I didn't say anything, because Honey told me to get into the car.
When I was working in the book store, this woman started talking to me. She had a little beard. And she told me she worked as a voice-over artist. And I really wish I said, "You sure have the face for it."