Oh so the skies are a’meltin’ and the birds be building homes in the wakening trees. Yours truly is flubbergating over yet another restart of Honest Women and trying to give herself leprosy rather than attend a St. Pat dinner at the relatives. I’d rather gouge my eyes out for Jesus than endure the carping of Fox well-trained seals still waiting for Hilary to be arrested…no, not kidding. There is no kid here. The kids have left the building, to hunt down the real Elvis.
I find myself waffling, like a giant lady waffle, over WHAT THE HELL IS THE STORY for my full length Honest Women, instead of just, um, writing and letting whatever lorch onto the screen/page. Lorch is such a spot-on word for vomiting. I can’t even. Are the children still using–I can’t even– as a catchphrase? Do I need to move on?
However, I wrote thirty some pages yesterday. My fingers flew like yard robins. Things coalesced. Themes emerged from the murky swamps. Those murky dirty swamps that one swims in and often drowns many times over within before deciding such and such is crap and thus–goodbye forever. Or decides such and such needs a total ass-kicking rewrite from scratch. There’s options here.
Basketball plagues the airwaves and the minds of hearty, flag-wavin’ ‘muricans right now. A plague on all your brackets! I don’t care and could care less if Seton Hall defeats Satan in a thrilling overtime deathmatch involving flamethrowers, those Mad Max cars and naked female mud wrestlers straddling ‘gators. Nope! March Madness is just basketball. It bounces, it goes in the net, it bounces. It overshadows Women’s History Month…coincidence?? Huh. Prolly not. Ahem.
How come women get a whole month? When will it be Men’s History Month??
Yep. Yep yep yep. Head. Explode. Ah.
I didn’t have a cohesive topic for a blog post, but since my pattern seems to post on Friday or Saturday or any other day of the week, I thought I’d gather a few rando notions and force them into the same vague essay-ish lorch.
To sum up– am reworking Honest Women YET AGAIN BECAUSE I GET TO ACT TWO and I wonder…who the fuck is gonna want to sit through this shit? And then start a new version, where, eventually, I will consider the poor audience members suffering through this dreck and then restart YET AGAIN BECAUSE WAH. Yeah, that’s my super-secret writing process, laid out in surgical precision and coldly logical robotic terms.
Trying to get leprosy or just calmly state, no thanks…for the St. Green feast of corned beef and America First.
Some other piddlings to fill in the sparse content a bit. Though…I’d probably have material for about ten blog posts if I attended the St. Green’s feast of corned beef and America First but oh my blessed baby Jesus and pint of Guinness Stout…IT’S JUST NOT WORTH LOSING MY SOUL OVER. Satan, after all, has first dibbs on that poor, battered bit of swamp gas that floats in me with a bewildered puzzlement nearly all hours of the day or night.
I was younger then. A sprat in the great garden of life. This movie, so many said, is the funniest thing since Duck Soup. It’s got a dash of Beckett and a smearing of the Muppets! Nobody said that, but that’s the praise that floated about for the cult classic known as the Big Lebowski. It was both highbrow indie art secret inner circle fare AND a lowbrowish fart joke, boobies out, lots of cussing lowest common denominator sorta popcorn flick. I sat through it, young sprat that I was, and went…eh.
Jeff Bridges, one of my favorite actor type people, shuffled through this trainwreck of a movie where nothing happened and he got a rug and then it ended. Or did he get his rug back? Ugh!
Also, this guy Bridges played whined like a stepped on puppy the entire six hours of this movie! How many hours was the Big Lebowski?? Ugh times two. I liked the music. Yep. That was what I basically took away from this Coen effort. The music was okay. I had no desire to watch the Dude shuffle through Los Angeles scenarios like a bewildered whiny, well, Fozzy Bear. [Which is probably not quite the right Muppet.]
Fade in, years later–
I’m at the Idaho Youth Ranch. It’s a local thrift store, right next to the Canned Food store. Which, if you don’t know, is a bargain basement sorta discount grocery outlet joint. Cheap, past the date stuff, cleaning products, VO5 shampoo.
So! There I am, at the Idaho Youth Ranch, plucking through the VHS tapes. Which are, like fifty cents or so. The DVD’s are, like, two bucks or so. Just so you get an idea of price range and options. The paperbacks go for about fifty cents or so, hardbacks a dollar or so…mostly because they have stacks and stacks of books, not because they’re trying to save YOU, THE CONSUMER, any cash. As the books used to be quite pricey which is why they didn’t move very many of them…so, the commies win that one. Dang commies. Anyhoo!
There it is. The Big Lebowski. In a battered VHS jacket. A rather comfortable gold-ish hue.
Eh, I figure. Why not. I can have it on in the background as I…write. It’s cheap. Jeff Bridges is in it. [I might have a bit of a crush on Mr. Bridges. Don’t tell anyone.]
I have my VHS/DVD combo hooked up to my truly ancient Sanyo at home. I have since had to unhook that and replace it with a DVD player, bought at the Idaho Youth Ranch. Fifteen bucks. I was rolling in dough back then.
And thus begins the second phase of my Big Lebowski Spring Awakening minor epiphany.
The Dude. Everyman sort of character, wandering through a rather Apocalyptic ***if you use this term three times in a single document, Jesus shows up and tells you ‘No butt stuff, go Patriots!’ before returning to heaven–I heard this on Fox News, hand to Satan*** vision of Los Angeles, encountering devils and angels in his simple quest to replace his rug.
He doesn’t change a whit. Not a single lesson doth he learn. He doesn’t go on any sort of inner spiritual journey, which is the damn hallmark and actual lodestone of Western Lit and Western filmmaking. The Dude ‘abides’, which is the famous quotable quote from this film. From being attacked by a ferret in the bath to his friend dropping dead to a snit fit over the Eagles, he abides. He abides. That’s, as I’ve pointed out earlier, rather radical storytelling.
As who has not been taught that ‘something’ has to happen, when telling a tale of some kind? Remember those writing classes, kiddies? I barely do! But I’m no longer a sprat. I’m a gone to seed faded sprout! Sad face. Big sad face here.
Are we not lectured on the arc of a story? We start here at X, something happens, there’s a climax, the end. We assume the hero [rarely the heroine] learns something or is changed in some way, for the better. The hero changes. Something happens. Stuff adds up at the end. There’s a reason for why that stuff happened.
The Big Lebowski says nuts to that.
Which is probably why I went, eh, and didn’t embrace its laid back radicalism. After all, some guy having absurd encounters while taking time now and then to bowl– just not my cup of sarsaparilla. I have plebian tastes in movies, I like em simple. Things blow up, stuff happens, things blow up, big speech, things blow up, the end.
Back to the BL!!
Storytelling. Ah. BL says nuts to traditional ways and means to tell a story. What is the story here, in BL? Is it about a rug? About the Dude? About consumerism? About porn? About Vietnam? Conservative versus liberal? White Russians are the bomb? Is there a story here? Isn’t Sam Elliot dreamy? That voice! Like rough velvet and those twinkly blue eyes!
I might have a bit of a crush on Sam Elliot, too. Oh gosh, I’m revealing so much of myself with this post. Damn it.
I just know that if I turned in something like the Big Lebowski to a writing teacher, I’d have been told to rewrite it so that ‘something happened’ and there was a pay off of some kind. Or not. They, those that taught various writing classes and such, might have just shrugged, given me a passing grade so as not to deal with me further and forgotten my efforts entirely.
Now, I’ve seen Fargo. And the Coen remake of the John Wayne magnum opus, True Grit. Which, to me, didn’t quite fire on all cylinders. There was something lacking in it. It had gorgeous scenery, the acting was okay…eh. I can rewatch it and not get sick. So, yeah.
I’ve enjoyed the comedy stylings– O Brother Where Art Thou. We thought you were a toad! I thought they did a bang up job with No Country For Old Men. [That hair cut!! That hair cut gave me nightmares. Now that’s a film.]
I didn’t ‘get’ the Big Lebowki until I’d lived a bit. Until, like the Dude, I’d been tossed about by a truly indifferent life and thrown away to root, hog or die. I get it now. It’s…yeah. There’s no reason for any of this and then the credits roll. Yep. The BL is a metaphor for life itself. Gag me with a spoon, rightio? I should leave my house once in a while?? You get born, you live, you do a lot of drugs, you go bowling, you do stuff that doesn’t pan out, then you die. Amen.
I can go on in this vein for some time. That it’s all for nothing. You strive like a motherfucker, do most of it right, die anyway and…we don’t ever find out if what you did was all worth a hill of beans during a shitstorm. The Dude drinks his White Russians, grieves over his rug which brought the room together and bowls with his buddies, and he’s happy. He complains, but he’s generally a content sort without too much worry or stress. He’s that guy who drifts on life’s waters and bumps gently up against this or that with no real visible damage. And don’t we all know one of those sorts? That floating through life like a balloon sorta person? They just nudge and bounce against the walls and ceiling and then find a way out into the sky through an open window. And float away with a ‘well, fuck me, look at that’ smile of beautified indifference for it all.
So maybe, we watching are the story. Maybe we’re the journey. Which is a bit uncomfortable and high-falutin’. Maybe the BL is performance art! Talk about being precious and elitist! Probably communist, as well.
“They” were screeching about commies elsewhere, as the fear of commies under every bed is back with a bullet, baby!– this morn. So I find myself grinning and including commie references into this rambling take of the Coen Brothers ode to bowling, rugs and abiding dudes.
I wish to post something a bit lighter this time. It’s March, the ground squirrels in the yard dart about and the moon seems extra bright all night with its ghostly light. I saw a cat trotting down the side of the road. A black and white beastie with a clear agenda. As cats seemed to have disappeared from my area, it was rather like watching a unicorn trot by, with a hobbit seated on its back, both munching toast. It was just like that. That sense of actual wonder and delighted eyeballs and spring about to act like spring, no matter what the snowflakes and feminists claim about global heating.
I’ve yet to re-see that cat. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe all of life, this life, this life I think real, is a dream. Wah. I’m actually hooked up to a machine harvesting my fluids for lizardlord martinis.
Outer space lizardlord martinis!!
Oh the horror, the horror…!
I am, yes, bowels deep, in a rewrite of Honest Women. No, am not sharing anything from that other than…INVISIBLE WINGED TAPE WORM. I bet you now wish to sit through two hours of that! Yes, you do!
Oh those kiddies! Can’t they go back to eating Tide Pods and let the grown ups wring their hands and offer thoughts and prayers in peace?? After all, Jesus will come back soon to clean up America’s border problems and bitchsmack the liberal elite with some common sense non-college knowledge. LOL, kiddies!
Where was I?
Something frothy and light in between the doomy gloomy posts. Um. Oooh.
Today is both Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s birthday and the twentieth anniversary of the Big Lebowksi. That…that cannot be a coincidence. The Dude abides can apply to both of those facts.
Now, it took me many years to accept that the BL was, indeed, a movie I wished to watch more than once. I ‘didn’t get it’ for quite some time. I found that movie annoying as a basket of not-fluffy kittens. I, being a Jeff Bridges fan, just shrugged it off as ‘eh, he’s done better work’. And then I watched it again, on VHS, which I bought for about fifty cents at my local thrift store. True story! I had fifty cents!
I ‘got it’, gradually. It ‘rang some bells’ in me. That drifting, rather harmless, Everyman, rubbing shoulders with the absurd, the bungled and the botched, the gorgeous and the damned alike and escaping all this intact, with no visible change or journey experienced. This is truly extremist storytelling. It’s rather…radical. It’s a sly slap at writing teachers who tell ya you have to have some kinda character arc, damn it, Janet.
The Dude at the center of this sprawling, very long slow mud-wrasslin’ sorta world…never changes. He doesn’t grow, he doesn’t learn a fuckin’ thing. He isn’t going to clean up his act and fly right. He’s…I tell ya, watch movies on VHS, it’s a transformative experience.
And my VHS/DVD combo player, yes, I still have one…only plays the VHS side these days. I have to keep it cleaned, as the door that drops down over the VHS part broke off eons ago. Frothy kittens, indeed! I have boxes yet of VHS movies. They’re very cheap now. I do mean cheap and…they don’t get scratched.
I am truly a dinosaur in the modern tech world. I don’t do ‘streaming’. I’m not even sure what that is. Sad! I do know what it is, I do. I was making a feeble, shallow jest.
I should just do a post on the Big Lebowski. I, apparently, have ‘thoughts’ about it.
I have no such Bank of America depths toward Marquez, however. Isn’t that odd? Or truly American. Mm. He is Colombian. A foreigner. We should be reading American authors! Do we have any?? Bring em on! Have some wall, Marquez!! LOL, just LOL all over your bottom!
I am in Act Two of my rewrite. I am just writing. I don’t care if anyone ever produces it. I’m having fun.
And then I start sobbing because no one will probably ever produce it, unless I mount a production somewhere close by and I’d have to find seven women and try and explain that the tape worm is invisible and that the plant is dead, it’s supposed to be dead. Yes, I meant to type those words, no you can’t change them…oooh, yes, change them to that, I like that so much better! Wah!!
Oh look, there’s Bilbo Baggins riding by on Hornio, the neighborhood unicorn who voted, ironically, for Jill Stein in the last presidential election because votes don’t count. Or maybe that’s just a black and white, very busy and important, cat trotting by. It’s all fake news anyway.
Last night, the winds blew. I mean BLEW. Freight trains rumbling through the very air. Thunder going crack crack, lightning, the whole grand cosmic main stage show at play last night in the heavens above Malheur County. I waited for the old cottonwood, which likes to shed dead large branches on vehicle or roof alike with bad-natured tree laughter, to shed a dead bit of lumber atop the house or even to fall over with a last maniacal snicker. It’s a very real fear we share here at Castle Wuehler. When will that old cottonwood give up the ghost and smash us to bits in the middle of the night? When O Lord, when?
It makes life ‘interesting’. Uh huh.
So!! I really have no topic I wish to explore in shallow, easily digested slickness. Gun control talk rages like a Los Angeles wildfire for now and that’s rather surprising. It seems the kiddies have stirred up the giant pot indeed, those kiddies from Parkland. And people think those teenyboppers should stop being disrespectful and go back to selfies and eating Tide Pods or whatever the kiddies are doing nowadays…yep. Because taking actual action after a shooting is just so…selfish or something. Or, it’s all a conspiracy, by the left, to take away guns. Mm. If you’ve been near the newz, of any kind, from America, well. And of course the Big Solution to shootings at a school is to…arm the teachers. More guns! WE NEED MORE GUNS. If everyone is armed! Then! Uh! Whee!
It’s rather funny if you don’t live here in America. It’s funny stuff. It’s absurdly richly funny stuff. And you hope the so-called grown ups are not serious. Except they are. In Pennsylvania, a church had a ceremony honoring AR-15’s. Praying for the guns. I. Can’t. My. Brain. Ooooh. Help. help help…Though, that church ceremony, which puts a gun where Jesus usually goes, might help turn the mighty American Gun-Lovin’ tide. Or not. Or not! Who the fuck prays over a weapon like one would pray over a dying kitten? God damn it! What the fuck is wrong with my country?? I blame Big Pharma, Big Agriculture and lack of Afterschool Specials!
So!! Before I meander into truly dark dystopian waters, waiting for that old cottonwood to crush us all beneath her bug-riddled carcass, let’s whiffle over to PROJECTS.
What has captured my writerly attentions?
The Honest Women. A play. Stop, come back, I am not sharing from it. Calm down. Seriously, excerpts from someone’s play makes people puke a bit. It’s like a learned response. Oh you wrote a play? [Taste of puke in back of throat.]
It’s in rewrite territory. I am reworking it.
For an indifferent set of rascals who will sniff somewhere near it, when I get it rewritten, pages numbered and sent off to various places. Those rascals will then reject it, and might even bother sending the form rejection letter about how many submissions they got and how they’d rather choose someone’s shopping list at the Dildo Store than your ‘play’. Usually, that rejection letter is so generic, they don’t put your name or the name of your submission anywhere in it! Fun!
Or not! Life is a capricious clam at high tide, after all!
I laugh as I type on that play, so that’s a good sign. Ha ha, I go aloud. Ha ha. Spinach wrap. Tape worm. White zombies. There are no zombies in my play, don’t worry. Or tape worms. Not yet, anyway. Not yet.
I don’t normally venture over into vaguely comedic territory, though I’ve been told I’m funny. By people rather off-put by my dark, dismal prose, plays or poetry. You’re funny, you should write more funny stuff, was their vague, damning praise.
Which renders me into a truly sad little muffin.
Trying to please people with my ‘funny’ writing, which goes about as well as you’d expect. As comedy must come from an honest savage raw place, so I’ve been told. By writing teachers who more than likely lied to me about my writing abilities. I also read that in collections of Important Quotes by Important Snots. [Comedy comes from PAAAAAIIIIIIIINNNNNN ARGH]
And that universe of cyclone-strong doubt wallops me. What’s the point of writing anything at all?
And yet I write.
It’s an old moldy habit by now. It’s the only thing I have. I don’t have money or children or a life. It’s the only fucking thing I have that keeps me from slicing my wrists open or swallowing a thousand ibuprofen at one go. I know to take those pills in shifts or you just vomit them up. And then you’re just throwing up and not dead. Another failure!
I have made a bit of a vow to be brave. To write the words that are actually in my head and not censor that awful spewing. Like oh…not admitting I think about just ending it nearly every day. That it creeps across my inner stage like a comforting old friend. To not admit my innards and inner workings always swirl with giant storms and horse latitudes and despair and weird smirkings and that I’m just trying to make it through to the next hour at times. I have been swirling along in a near frenzy of up-ness for a couple months now. And now that’s cross-fading into that down-ness that infects me. Hello, depression, my old friend, have you come to fuck with me again…and bore what few friends I have left. Hurray! Oh those poor not so patient sorts who have to endure my sniveling, I salute you, dear friends still left.
So, I’ll write. And watch, from somewhat afar, as kids burning with revolution and change, take on adults who’ve dropped the bullet down the rabbit hole. The kids, as they say, are all right.
And isn’t that a bit of hope offered in America’s twisted landscape at this moment? I think it is.
So, I will try to finish Act One today. And maybe submit to a few places, because it’s what I should do. You never know. They might like it. You never know. You never know. You never know. Come on, cottonwood, end it. I’m starting to think you’re just a big tease.
I went to lunch, recently, with the relatives. Here’s a gem that sparkled in the very air. Prepare to be dazzled.
“…yeah, that school shooting in Florida was bad. But listen to this, I was listening to [I didn’t catch the name, because I was wondering what was worse than seventeen or so kids dying at a school shooting…] and there’s this court. In New York City. This landlord painted over some graffiti on his OWN PROPERTY. And this liberal New York judge, mind you, awarded the shits SIX MILLION DOLLARS. He whitewashed over their art, it was his property! So the judge goes on about how those people had rights! And she goes on how that landlord raped her, the #metoo thing! Artists have rights now to destroy property!”
Seriously. That was near the actual gibberish that fell from my uncle’s indignant lips.
Here’s the actual court case, which my uncle had obviously not read or researched… https://img.nyed.uscourts.gov/files/opinions/13cv5612.pdf
There was also the rehash of ‘it’s a mental health thing’ and ‘teachers can’t do anything to these kids, unlike in my day when teachers could beat kids for looking at them funny’ and ‘mainstreaming those kids, it’s the law, they have to do it’.
Which delved into why are mentally and physically disabled threats to law and order and all things normal allowed into ‘normal’ classrooms. Liberals and snowflakes did that, liberal and snowflakes!
This went on for several hours, this ‘talk.’ Among people I’m related to in some way. Mostly. There was a stray old lady there with her scruffy little dog, called…wait for it…Shooter. Ahem. I didn’t make that up. Shooter. Now, I remained silent. It was five against one odds and I’m a chickenshit lately. For a while now. I’ve been writing polite fiction and keeping my snout down.
I feel [shhh!] like I don’t have a right to say anything to the above blarney and propaganda hit pieces. Because it’s family and I’m supposed to ‘love’ them. My mother made it very plain I was to be ‘nice’. That I wasn’t ‘nice’ to start with and that being ‘nice’ was all that counts.
Because I’m not JK Rowling-level successful as a novelist [this gets brought up every time by my uncle who wonders why I write at all if I’m not making gazoots of cash…why do I write at all?] and I’m not the possessor of some magical trust fund and…!
Oh there’s a list of my failures that burns into my brain every time I even think of wanting to speak up or speak out or even roll my eyes so that ‘they’ see it. How dare you oppose our views, you LOSER? That’s pretty much what I expect to hear if I dared SPEAK UP.
Of course a LOSER would oppose our FREEDOM TALK. LOSER!!!!
And since real life is not one of those inspirational movie scenes, ever…yeah. Those stand up and cheer scenes are mostly just fiction of writers who WISHED LIKE HELL they’d had the moxie to stand up and say something in the very loud face of nonsense and bullshit and assclownishness in an actual real life situation. Here’s a chance to say those things YOU WISH you’d said to the people who most needed to hear it. [I don’t think I’m reaching here. At all.]
I hid in the other room, where the caged birds are kept and stared at the storm coming in over the Owyhees through the porch window rather than go to town on the bullshit in the living room. The caged cockatiel tried to rip my face off and gave me warning chirps to just try it, just try it. That talk from the other room veered into the Black Lives Matter hissings against and why professional athletes should be compelled and made to stand for the flag and the National Anthem or be fired.
And my liberal brain went, hey, what about that 40’s court case which said people don’t have to pay homage of any kind to the flag or the pledge or the national anthem because there’s something called freedom of speech and…? You know, actual freedom to express your displeasure with your country openly without the government stepping in to bitchslap you? Or kill you? Or lock you away or…? Ugh!
I can’t be around that again without saying something. My conscience demands it. I’m not a saint or rolling in writer cash but…I cannot remain silent and seething any more over the things I heard said.
I watch the kids from the Parkland shooting take on the world and it’s glorious. They’ve grown up in an era of normalized mass shootings and watching people’s rights get tossed away by grinning, empty-souled Pretend Christians pandering for votes from scared elderly assclowns hankering for the ‘good ole days’.
Also, am seeing where conspiracy theorists, who went after Sandy Hook and other such shootings as being ‘false flag’ events designed to ‘take away our gunz!!!!!’ have gone after the Florida students. Accusing them of being planted actors, by the Democrats. No, I’m not making that up. I couldn’t even begin to be that awful or evil. It would be an actual stretch for me to sink that fucking low. I’d probably be a lot richer and my books would be best sellers!
Rage takes over for a bit when I realize some Americans would rather make up shit about people who’ve survived a mass shooting, some of them ACTUAL CHILDREN, than consider maybe guns are a bit of a problem and maybe we should, consider, um, some practical solutions to limit who can get a gun capable of taking a hundred lives in about ten seconds. [I know. It can only shoot X amount of people in ten seconds, I’m just being a liberal snowflake bitch plant who wants to get rid of Jesus in schools and Big Brother and freedom and eagles!]
Oh and speaking out against all things gun is somehow not-American or patriotic. Or…ugh!
I’ve rewritten this particular post about seven or eight times.
I’m watching my country swirl down the toilet and yet watching the Next Generation [I don’t know what name has been assigned them yet] rise up like tornadoes. Willing to swirl into public opinion with a gutsy teeth-bared earnestness that hearkens back to actual crusaders for things like voting rights for women and the end of Jim Crow. Which were also met with conspiracy theories and laughter and ‘it’s always been this way, can’t do nothin’ about it.’
I, for one, experience a bit of hope. I, for one, want to be a better version of my cowardly chickenshit self. Even if only for a day or two. And entertain notions of telling off those Fox News gasbags wearing the skins of my blood and kin. Yes, sensible, reasonable gun control can be achieved. Yes, global warming is real. Yes, there is a actual problem with racism in America yet. Yes, your gravy is delicious.
Perhaps I need to stuff a few things in my backpack and head off for the volcanic hills that surround this high desert. Write the silly things in my head on rocks older than the Bible. At the very least, I would not have to hate the very people I’ve been told to love and not have to listen to gut-savaging conspiracy theories about how those shootings are all staged. Or listen to how it’s white people who have it rough in America or…yeah. A backpack and some cave and living off the grid and growing my leg hair to truly titanic lengths. I’ll put that on my list of things to do today.
Right up there with write better novels and plays and poems and rework resume so that it reflects independence rather than incompetent awfulness.
I have to descend into a bit of light sarcasm as examining my country right now and its reactions to anything gun…turns me into a seething not patriotic eagle-hating liberal menace. And that here, in Eastern Oregon, will just get me shot.
Thoughts and prayers sent out. Again. And probably tomorrow, when yet another ‘senseless tragedy’ unfolds like clockwork at a school, a church, a shopping mall, a concert, a home, a military base, a movie theatre, a college, a…uh huh, there’s a list. Which gets read out once in a while people claim it’s ‘not the time’ to ‘politicize’ this ‘senseless tragedy’. And the slogans, so carefully crafted to ring like silver bells of ‘common sense’ in American ears.
Guns don’t kill people, people kill people. Mentally ill, a fruitcake, probably sick in the head, a psycho. A lone wolf. If you outlaw guns, only the criminals will have them. It’s just the price you pay for living in a free democracy that values rights and freedoms. Liberals just wanna take your guns away. Watch how all the liberals will use this to come for your guns. We don’t need to take away guns, we need a good guy with a gun then X wouldn’t happen. It’s too soon to talk about all this. Let’s have some respect for those at the funerals. Let’s not talk about this now while people are recovering, let’s show some respect. Now is not the time. It’s not time now. Time later for this discussion. We need to arm the teachers. We need to put police and soldiers in schools then this wouldn’t happen. An armed society is a polite society. Are you going to outlaw cars and knives and axes, lol? Automatic weapons are already outlawed. Well, what about Chicago? What about the no-go zones over in Europe? Do we want that here? I have the right to defend myself.
Oh yes, that list of excuses and slogans and easy-peasy pie sayings that soothe and comfort and assuage. They get offered like sacrifices to quiet those logical gods that whisper about gun control, legislation and doing something with laws and regulation that actually DO SOMETHING. The gods get their buckets of tasty hot fresh blood and go silent until the next ‘senseless tragedy’ and wait, with bored expressions, for the slogans and excuses to be slung at them. Those slogans that drip with gore, splattered child brains and destroyed internal organs fragments. Drip drip. Drip drip.
Oh and in America, you can get shot for free but try paying for it if you survive a mass shooting. At least we can crowdfund and GoFundMe for multiple bullet wounds and physical therapy needed to walk again and multiple surgeries to correct what a stray bit of metal did to your innards. Hallelujah, praise AmmoJesus, RifleGod and the Holy Machine Gun.
I know, no one can buy a legal machine gun, sure, uh huh. It’s too soon to talk about machine guns anyway. And machine guns don’t kill people, people kill people and they’d use a kitten to do it, so why don’t we ban kittens? LOL.
When Columbine didn’t make us change our ways here, when Sandy Hook got turned into a conspiracy theorist’s wettest, dankest, smelliest dream, when Orlando got used to…you wonder what it will take to take an actual look at GUNZ in America.
Others ask this one all the time. What will it take? We’re supposedly full of Christians here and allegedly love children and…then my head gives a soft little whump as my brain boils away as yet another ‘senseless tragedy’ repeats like an I Love Raymond episode over on Nick at Nite. We know the story, we know the characters involved, we throw up our hands and claim it’s all new. There’s even a laugh track flung at ‘libtards’ who try to ‘take our guns’. LOL, only out of my dead cold hands, libtard commie American-hating freeloaders! Freedom ain’t free! LOL LOL LOL
That familiar, played out trope of gun+man+lots of ammo= multiple deaths divided by Thoughts and Prayers. All of which sit over a We Must Do Something factor that never seems to get figured into that equation at all because Freedom and 2A, bitches.
Helped by the present-day actual mass shooter-helper called the National Rifle Association. Which seems to exist to sell as many guns as possible, rather than education, gun safety training, gun classes designed to teach respect and responsibility…uh. Mm. How much money flows to politicians…to keep the guns coming. To paint a picture of Americans clutching their guns at the least provocation…to bring up the Founding Fathers as gung ho gun-lovers…viva la gun. Oh sure.
Am I being hysterical and over-reactive and blaming this innocent saintly institution of American ideals for what a lone wolf psycho mixed up mentally ill lone wolf did? Prolly! After all, there’s just NOTHING WE CAN DO about GUN VIOLENCE in AMERICA. Second Amendment. Rights. Freedoms. Eagles. The flag. Liberals did this. We just have to accept such things because we’re all about freedom here. Freedom something something. Something freedom.
If someone gets sick from a strawberry in America, we regulate and even ban that red fruit and overreact and snarl and stomp about and give speeches during prime time viewing hours while looking serious and angry and resolved. We are a nation that DOES SOMETHING. Look at how we DO STUFF when SOMETHING BAD happens!
Oh look, something shiny…guns don’t kill people, so let’s ban abortions, send boxes of candy bars to poor people like that Blue Apron thingie because they don’t have jobs anyway; build a giant fencewall and shout the National Anthem with our fists to the sky because patriots and eagles flying and freedom.
I’m so tired of waiting, aren’t you, for the world to become good and beautiful and kind? Langston Hughes.
This was written a long time ago, in a world strangely just like now. Where minorities are hated and feared and blamed for everything wrong. Where racism is front and center, as it never really left the building AKA America. Where Christian power is cruel, cold and self-serving. Where ‘little people’ get stepped on with great abandon and reckless sadism by those with even an inkling of superiority that they are not ‘one of those takers’ or…
Yes. We’ve been here before.
Many times, in many ways. Where the divide between groups is Grand Canyon sized. The Grand Canyon might very well become a memory if the current gubbermint greedsters have their way with it and rape it death for its resources. Mining companies, oil conglomerates, private developers, yippee skip.
I am a bit gloomy right now. A lot, actually, but I didn’t wish to rain on anyone’s parade. As you’d have to stir about and find an umbrella or maybe check the weather reports for a good day for a parade. I don’t want you actually paying attention to my rain, because I’d have to declare some sort of truth and then wearily defend it against those frog people from the ‘other side’. You know, those weird frog people called Pepto or Peepo or Peepie La Pew…yep.
Waiting for someone/s to come save us all is fucking exhausting. Waiting for some magical savior to rise from these streets and bitchslap the crap out of the current GOPers brings on real malaise and the need for cookies and milk and a long long long nap. Are we going to get an FDR-esque sort to rise from whatever’s left of American politics? A ruthless, ballsy/ovary-bold sort who takes on the Bad Guys and wins the day? FDR has taken on mythical status, and no, I never forget the actual man behind all that. Okay? Okay.
It’s what we do here in America.
We wait for someone to come save us. Our politicians, our rock stars, our Hollywood stars, our…those with any sort of public face.
We wait placidly–except for those who take to the streets and shout things about oppression and a new dawn–for that mystical SOMEONE ELSE who will tell us where to squat and lean. “Where are our leaders?” has become the current battle cry…instead of an actual battle cry said by actual sorts who ‘stepped up’. As no one can agree or come together behind a solid banner…that squabbling over just what issue gets top billing instead of hey, let’s just get our people into office and then deal with this, that, the other. Bernie Bros versus everyone else versus feminists versus those who don’t need feminists because they’re not victims lol…yeah.
Pumpkincunt, the Great Pretender in Chief, the Liar’s Liar, made promises. Bigly ones. [Its still campaigning and holding rallies. Sad!] Those promises sounded super-bitchin’ and when said REALLY LOUD drown out the whispers that drift from the ‘other side’ that maybe this orange con-thing has never kept its word or been successful at much of anything at all except self-promotion. Fake news! You libtard losers should just get over it. You upset, snowflakes? Her emails and Pizzagate and Uranium One!
I also saw where the Bible offered to slaves, in America and elsewhere, had all the passages about freedom taken out. [Parts of the Holy Bible, Selected for the Use of the Negro Slaves (AKA “Slave Bible”) 1808. Though called “Holy,” it is deeply manipulative. Based on the KJV, it omits all entries that express themes of freedom.] That was in the Museum of the Bible tweets, by the way. I am reminded of today’s so-called Christian Right, who seem to omit any calling out to be kind to others not born to wealth and privilege. They also omit where the Bible mentions offering help to refugees and travelers, as so and so were strangers in a strange land. [Exodus 2:22, as said by Moses. Wow. Huh. Gee.]
Imagine the Bible with no Exodus. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
I hear that America is just going through a bad patch and everything will magically restore itself. Checks and balances, checks and balances will restore everything and we’ll all hold hands and skip. There will be glorious sunsets, apple pie, puppies and root beer for all!
I also have a bridge for sale. And have had a child with Bigfoot and Nessie lives in my bathtub and Jesus appeared on my English muffin just this morn.
Now!! What am I doing to ‘take back my country’? Sigh. Not much.
I think I’m going to have to actually do more than mope and whimper and retweet this or that. I once thought America would never have another civil war or reasons for massive protests or go through a Nixon-esque escapade ever again. That we had learned our lessons. That we were protected from such shenanigans. [Checks and balances, checks and balances…if repeated enough, it becomes a mantra and meaningless sounds.]
That we would not react like racist fucktwits over the next wave of refugees coming to our shores. [Cambodian boat people, Rwandan fleers of genocide, Somali…yeah, there’s a list here! Not to mention the Irish, the Chinese, the Germans, the Russians, the…ergh a burgha bug fug a lulu.] That we would not be like FDR and other Americans in the days before and during WWII turning away those running from Poland and Germany, etc…who happened to be Jewish. [We just had International Holocaust Day in January, after all. Never forget. Right? Uh huh.]
I keep waiting for others to wake up [omg I hate that fucking phrase. It gets used more than a box of Tampons but is far less sanitary.] so I don’t have to. I never went to sleep, of course. I [almost never, I promise!] ignored the good, the bad and the truly astoundingly ugly. Except when it was inconvenient or it caused waves or I didn’t want to face ridicule and scorn or even violence against me or…uh huh. I am no crusader. [Except with words once in a while. Maybe.] I wish I were. I prefer to be left alone so I can write silly things in peace.
I have been called an ugly bitch by my own family and learned to MUMBLE A LOT, internalize everything and go silent and hunch-shouldered and head down all the fucking time. Except I can’t please those who were never pleased with me to start with. Life lesson in there somewhere…
But I fear that time is over. Has been over for a long time. And I am hiding and being complicit and all the things that get thrown at those who hesitate. Who gulp at taking on the vociferous trolls and the earnest ranters alike. I’m so tired of waiting for the planet to find some sort of balance. I fear America will have to actually get a taste of fascist regime fuckery before it goes, oh, that’s bad, m’kay, lol, let’s get the gunz out and make speeches. We did have that one revolution, once, well, twice, and then there was that whole civil war thing but that was fought over state’s rights and…uh huh.
I also want to watch as those who think they won’t be affected by the current crop of awful laws being flung out and the mass deportations being planned and actually executed won’t be…affected or deported themselves.
It took me about half a year to get my correct birth certificate. It’s probably still not correct. I wonder what country my country will deport me to? Norway? Germany? France? Will they DNA test me before shipping me somewhere with twenty bucks in my pocket and English as my only language? [I can get by in Spanish, sort of. I am a true American, I never bothered to learn a second language. Gulp.]
I’m a liberal. A female. I can claim to be a Protestant on a good day. Brought up in the Lutheran church.
My grandmother’s birth certificate is in Norwegian. Will that affect my current ReelMurican status? Sure, it says she was born in Nebraska, but her mom and dad were not. [If they were, their parents were from the Old Country. Just sends a shiver down my spine!] She’s a damn anchor baby! I’m a product of CHAIN IMMIGRATION. Thanks, dad! Why didn’t you apply for that easy-peasy ReelMurican post card thingie so my entire family doesn’t get sent back to NorGerFranDutchWhateverlandia?? I don’t speak EUROPEAN! They’re all SOCIAL COMMIE SPACE LIZARDS THERE. Everyone has FREE HEALTH CARE AND PAYS TAXES OR SOMETHING!
God knows what’s actually on my mom’s side of things. There’s one account of a relative who snuck over here from Germany/Bavaria/Bohemia…not sure there. And worked her way through Nebraska [both sides of my family can claim Nebraska as their Old Country]. She cleaned or invented cats, not sure there at all, either.
She also married someone who was not the father of her illegitimate baby. Slutty ancestors! Also, though, whenever her husband got mad at her, he made her sleep out in the barn, with her illegitimate kiddie. They had kids, however, [the guy who did marry her other than the guy who was not allowed to marry her because she was an immigrant and not good enough…] so it was just her and her bastard son out there. In the barn. Being punished. Traditional marriage, huh? What a hoot! So, that’s fun. Thanks, mom. I’m a double anchor baby product. God damn it!
I’m trying to gear myself up for a political protest beyond retweeting stuff and holding arguments in my head with current, super-stupid, relatives over this or that. I write a tiny bit better than I talk, so. Maybe a poison pen screed or seven will fill in my Civic Participation certificates.
While I wait for SuperPolitician to rise up and smack the bejesus out of the SuperVillains in the White House, a’course. Then I don’t have to bother with a feeble dribble of words. Hopes and prayers sent to me from me for that happy day.