Obama definitely soft-pedaled his message in his inaugural address. There was little of the soaring rhetoric of his campaign speeches. More on the nation and economy he is inheriting. As The Onion wrote, "Black Man to Inherit Nation's Worst Job."
There was a euphoria that was different from Clinton's 1993 takeover. The man is the message and the message is the man.
Hard to watch as Obama walked outside the bullet-proof (and other proof) car on Penn. Ave.
You could see the tension in the secret service men, ready for a shot, a bang, a boom.
"You may become a prophet, but prophets get killed," a black leader told Bobby Kennedy in 1968.
My worst nightmare (except for those involving me) is Obama killed in office. Newark has never recovered from its riots in 1968. Detroit is still trying, despite a body count in the '67 riots that was finally surpassed by LA in 1992.
But the most interesting clip I saw was of a black 14-year-old. He said that before Obama he thought that rap and pro basketball were the only way out of the 'hood. Now, he said, he thought that he could become president.
Caution for liberals. Philadelphia mayor Nutter (who supported Clinton) essentially said that very few people in the ghetto are going to go to Columbia and Harvard Law. He touted more attention for the public schools.
Let's begin again, to something that has never been accomplished in the history of man: a republic and a democracy that excludes no one.
Greece and Rome had their slaves. The British had the largest empire on earth. The American south had, again, slaves.
So the question remains: can we have a great civilization which is great at no ones expense?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Scary Man
What exactly is that giant football-player robot-thing in the corner of the screen on Fox's games? All I can think of is that it's preparing us for the day when human players are replaced by pre-programmed automatically controlled machines.
These weird transformer-performers are so bizarre than whenever my cousin's toddler sees one of them appear on the tube she calls it "the scary man."
And that, of course, is probably what Fox wants. In the future, even huge 320 pound linemen will be crushed by these mutants. And the crowd roars on.
These weird transformer-performers are so bizarre than whenever my cousin's toddler sees one of them appear on the tube she calls it "the scary man."
And that, of course, is probably what Fox wants. In the future, even huge 320 pound linemen will be crushed by these mutants. And the crowd roars on.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Scum Have to Go Somewhere
The immortal title of this post comes from the Rambler. It seems our prolific friend actually opposed the Times Square clean-up. His reason? "Scum have to go somewhere."
Now no matter what you think of a Disneyfied Times Square, it is a million times better than it used to be, for most people.
Sure I miss the thrill of being led into an illegal netherworld. Me and friends fake license quest ended up with numerous colorful people all offering to kick our suburban asses when we didn't buy their, uh, product.
Rambler's thesis about urban scum was hilariously brought to light when the whole of 42nd St. between 7th and 8th Avenue became Hiaku Boulevard. That is, their lurid marquees had now been transformed by installing weird sayings on the signs. It was hoped that somehow these messages would somehow discombobulate the dirtbags.
It did seem to work, for some reason.
Where can scum find shelter, suckers, and sanctuary, plus runaway teenage hookers in today's NY? Wall Street? Maybe the plaza in front of Murdoch's News Corporation? It makes a good fit.
All right then, get a new Travis Bickle to clear out Times Square, because some day a real rain's gonna come.
Now no matter what you think of a Disneyfied Times Square, it is a million times better than it used to be, for most people.
Sure I miss the thrill of being led into an illegal netherworld. Me and friends fake license quest ended up with numerous colorful people all offering to kick our suburban asses when we didn't buy their, uh, product.
Rambler's thesis about urban scum was hilariously brought to light when the whole of 42nd St. between 7th and 8th Avenue became Hiaku Boulevard. That is, their lurid marquees had now been transformed by installing weird sayings on the signs. It was hoped that somehow these messages would somehow discombobulate the dirtbags.
It did seem to work, for some reason.
Where can scum find shelter, suckers, and sanctuary, plus runaway teenage hookers in today's NY? Wall Street? Maybe the plaza in front of Murdoch's News Corporation? It makes a good fit.
All right then, get a new Travis Bickle to clear out Times Square, because some day a real rain's gonna come.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Saved by Zero
From what I've been scrawling here in January, I am seemingly read by no one. As a former daily reporter, this is tough. I worked at a regional paper, the Trenton Times, which are most at risk in this recession. People get their news from the big papers or wire services. If they want local, they turn to the uber-local newspaper, which can tell you the flounder prices at the local seafood place.
Then there's the publication by article, piece work as it were. You're living from their 0K or their rejection. Disposable; anyone else can work by piece and not by salary.
Tell that to the landlord. You can either wed into wealth or do what the entertainment magazines offer.
I could give one flying fuck about Jennifer Anniston. Yet there has been a cute-fest with her and Marley the dog which has proven boffo box office. The question is who is more cute, the dog or the actress.
Yet I'm seriously thinking about LA as a place to make a living and time to write. There are over 100 tour agencies in the area, and its a place of high turnover. New Orleans is screwed because of their rule that you have lived in the metro area for six months or more, plus a test.
Maybe I'll start by reading Entertainment Weekly, and try not to barf.
Then there's the publication by article, piece work as it were. You're living from their 0K or their rejection. Disposable; anyone else can work by piece and not by salary.
Tell that to the landlord. You can either wed into wealth or do what the entertainment magazines offer.
I could give one flying fuck about Jennifer Anniston. Yet there has been a cute-fest with her and Marley the dog which has proven boffo box office. The question is who is more cute, the dog or the actress.
Yet I'm seriously thinking about LA as a place to make a living and time to write. There are over 100 tour agencies in the area, and its a place of high turnover. New Orleans is screwed because of their rule that you have lived in the metro area for six months or more, plus a test.
Maybe I'll start by reading Entertainment Weekly, and try not to barf.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
I Beat the Breathalizer
There are two bumper stickers on my car. One says "I Beat the Breathalizer - NY, NJ, PA, and MD." The other one says "Blow on This, Cop." I have another that says "Drunk Driving King," but I haven't decided where to put it.
I take my car out onto the turnpike, drive very carefully at the speed limit, and hope that I get pulled over, since I haven't had a drink in days or weeks.
When I do get picked off, I slur my speech as much as possible, and say "bring on the bretlizer, pig."
When I blow a 0.00, they really get pissed. Usually they'll say something like, "This is not a game! In the time we've wasted on you, we could have pulled over someone who might kill someone else."
Yeah, yeah, we've heard it before. Some kid on a tricycle is going to be plowed over by the drunk driving menace.
What I usually say is, "look at it this way Some guy who might have blown a 0.09 is back in bed with his wife and family, instead of being in the lockup so you can increase municipal revenue in whatever ugly-ass Jersey town we're in."
This, I'll admit it, is risky. They'll pull whatever law was passed in 1820 to try to nail you. Disorderly conduct, interfering with police business, impersonating a drunkard.
Usually I'll be let go after the usual threats: if I catch you driving fast or drunk I'll have you sent to the gas chamber, that kind of thing.
Then I'll roar off, within the speed limit. I fight the urge to throw the empty beer cans I've got hidden in a secret hatch out the window.
My work is done for the night.
You'll never catch me,
The Drunk-Driving Avenger
I take my car out onto the turnpike, drive very carefully at the speed limit, and hope that I get pulled over, since I haven't had a drink in days or weeks.
When I do get picked off, I slur my speech as much as possible, and say "bring on the bretlizer, pig."
When I blow a 0.00, they really get pissed. Usually they'll say something like, "This is not a game! In the time we've wasted on you, we could have pulled over someone who might kill someone else."
Yeah, yeah, we've heard it before. Some kid on a tricycle is going to be plowed over by the drunk driving menace.
What I usually say is, "look at it this way Some guy who might have blown a 0.09 is back in bed with his wife and family, instead of being in the lockup so you can increase municipal revenue in whatever ugly-ass Jersey town we're in."
This, I'll admit it, is risky. They'll pull whatever law was passed in 1820 to try to nail you. Disorderly conduct, interfering with police business, impersonating a drunkard.
Usually I'll be let go after the usual threats: if I catch you driving fast or drunk I'll have you sent to the gas chamber, that kind of thing.
Then I'll roar off, within the speed limit. I fight the urge to throw the empty beer cans I've got hidden in a secret hatch out the window.
My work is done for the night.
You'll never catch me,
The Drunk-Driving Avenger
Friday, January 2, 2009
To the Faraway Town
Ex-lovers in London have, I hope, stopped writing me. I only lose the letter,or someone else loses it, or I won't respond if my life is too much of a mess, which is all the time.
Nancy, my girlfriend sophomore year at Tulane, became convinced that I was the love of her life. She wrote me heart-rending letters asking me to respond. I've looked all over the place for the letters and return address in London. No luck.
But she is in love with a ghost. When we dated, I was young, strong, and not so terribly fearful all the time, the way I am now.
It is difficult to imagine that a woman pictures me in her mind. Imagining us together. Imagining sex, love, closeness, a soulmate and everything else.
When I was in high school, I of course fantasized that if only I could get "that girl,"then my life would be perfect. "That girl," of course, would not give me the time of day.
Inadvertently, I broke a heart on the other side of the ocean. All she wanted was a response. All I could offer was my pain. I didn't want a Florence Nightingdale. She was too much a relic from the time without suffering.
I ran and hid, like an endangered animal. I couldn't let her see what I had become: pathetic, living at home, becoming fat, with little libido and even less joy.
Last year it was Angelee. She had been a girl with serious psychiatric problems. Like me. In and out of treatment facilities. When I was gone for Christmas she began seeing a little English guy named Keith.
Keith asked to marry her. she accepted. I was relieved. The British health plans would take better care than me.
Anyway, she wrote a surprise letter here last Christmas. I don't know what it said, since I had to leave. I just hope she's satisfied with Keith outside London.
Here's the message:
If you value your sanity, stay away. If you value your sex and emotional life, run away. If you want happiness and joy, try Radio City Music Hall.
I could just say that I havn't got it in me anymore. But the truth is that my heart and soul are buried beneath years of pain. And I don't want to lay that down on anyone, because it is heavier than anyone can imagine.
Nancy, my girlfriend sophomore year at Tulane, became convinced that I was the love of her life. She wrote me heart-rending letters asking me to respond. I've looked all over the place for the letters and return address in London. No luck.
But she is in love with a ghost. When we dated, I was young, strong, and not so terribly fearful all the time, the way I am now.
It is difficult to imagine that a woman pictures me in her mind. Imagining us together. Imagining sex, love, closeness, a soulmate and everything else.
When I was in high school, I of course fantasized that if only I could get "that girl,"then my life would be perfect. "That girl," of course, would not give me the time of day.
Inadvertently, I broke a heart on the other side of the ocean. All she wanted was a response. All I could offer was my pain. I didn't want a Florence Nightingdale. She was too much a relic from the time without suffering.
I ran and hid, like an endangered animal. I couldn't let her see what I had become: pathetic, living at home, becoming fat, with little libido and even less joy.
Last year it was Angelee. She had been a girl with serious psychiatric problems. Like me. In and out of treatment facilities. When I was gone for Christmas she began seeing a little English guy named Keith.
Keith asked to marry her. she accepted. I was relieved. The British health plans would take better care than me.
Anyway, she wrote a surprise letter here last Christmas. I don't know what it said, since I had to leave. I just hope she's satisfied with Keith outside London.
Here's the message:
If you value your sanity, stay away. If you value your sex and emotional life, run away. If you want happiness and joy, try Radio City Music Hall.
I could just say that I havn't got it in me anymore. But the truth is that my heart and soul are buried beneath years of pain. And I don't want to lay that down on anyone, because it is heavier than anyone can imagine.
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