WHAT WE BELIEVE--WHY WE ARE HERE
Let’s begin with some truth telling: we are always irritated about something, big or little, no matter, it’s in our blood, our genes, or perhaps we read too many books and newspapers, whatever the cause we feel duty bound to offer a corrective message against the insults, hypocrisy, stupidity, mendacity, hubris, and outright evil that envelops us like the oppressive humidity in our part of the country. And here’s another truth we hold dear: the majority opinion is just another opinion; that lots of people believe something to be true does not make it so. Remember, this is the country where a majority twice elected Richard M. Nixon and George W. Bush President.
We believe that if you aren’t alienated over something, you aren’t paying close attention to your life. We know that institutions are corrupt for their lack of memory, mercy, and responsibility. We think that anyone who calculates a small handful of people as trusted friends leads a worthy life. We believe that having an intimate companion makes everything else small by comparison.
We hold no absolute party allegiance, although when Barack Obama won the election we did drink Ouzo and roamed aimlessly through the streets for two days, if only for the possibility that he might be the real thing, not the certainty of it.
Our shared view of the world and our place in it does not come from a common taproot. We are cracker South and rural New England; we grew up in a trailer park and a five bedroom home; we are authors from two wildly different genera; we are mixed gender co-bloggers; one of us is well known and the other is a discounted big fish in a small pond; we have been around and done some things, just not the same things, or together. But these differences are but white background noise beside our shared satisfaction at a well-turned sentence and our distress at a missed opportunity to make a better world.
Fight the power.
Dr. Huesos is an unrepentant New Leftist who rebuilds old Harleys
Thursday, April 23, 2009
HOMELAND SECURITY & DOMESTIC TERRORISTS
HOMELAND SECURITY & DOMESTIC TERRORISTS
Some news people are amused and some conservatives are pissed off at the Homeland Security report which predicts a rise in extreme right-wing violence by “lone wolves” or domestic terrorists. Smirking news people believe such violence unlikely, but they love those angry conservatives who make good TV by defending the nameless extremists, as if conservative talking heads know what they are talking about. Flash—the people vaguely referred to in the HLS report do not go to Republican Party block meetings.
Some news people are amused and some conservatives are pissed off at the Homeland Security report which predicts a rise in extreme right-wing violence by “lone wolves” or domestic terrorists. Smirking news people believe such violence unlikely, but they love those angry conservatives who make good TV by defending the nameless extremists, as if conservative talking heads know what they are talking about. Flash—the people vaguely referred to in the HLS report do not go to Republican Party block meetings.
Do you know how to tell the difference between a fairy tale and a war story? A fairy tale begins, “once upon a time.” A war story begins, “this is no shit.”
Well, this is no shit. At a recent gun show, a skinny white kid with black cowboy hat, a sleeveless T-shirt, and a drawl that placed his geography at one of our local rural towns, approached me to say that a particular weapon I had on the table would sell fast. Good for home protection, says he. And now I offer an unembellished summery of the monologue which followed. That president (the lad could not say the president’s name) and the liberals in congress already have legislation written which lays out an 18 month plan to first register and then confiscate all firearms in the country. A Gestapo-like national police force will be organized to carry out the program. Foolish and uninformed citizens who trust the government will register their guns, making them easy prey when confiscation time comes. But others will not be so easily fooled—no registration for them, no confiscation of their weapons, no trampling on their Second Amendment rights!
The confiscation program, combined with extreme taxation and other liberal policies, will bring about chaos, mostly between armed citizens and the government police, until the armed violence spreads throughout the nation. In the civil war that follows, 40% to 60% of the American people will die, “you know, the kind that work at McDonalds and Burger King”. Real Americans will fight on to protect the constitution.
Get the picture? This is about gun control and race, swaddles in 21st century euphemisms. Trust me or not, believe me or not, I have heard variations of this story no less than a dozen times since January, the last time being yesterday at a place of business.
And there is more. My gun-show, new BFF explained the details of patriotic preparedness. “You need to have at least a 400 yard, clear field of fire on all sides of your house." To reach out and accurately touch the confiscation police at the outer perimeter, it’s best to have good-quality scoped rifle, at least a 4x scope on a .223 or 5.56 caliber, such as an AR 15, or even a Ruger Mini 14. As the government agents move closer (200 yards and under), switch to your AK 47, or if you’re working the low-end budget for your weapons, an SKS. When the agents get close enough to read the names on their tactical vests, switch to your sawed-off, pump shotgun loaded with double 00 buckshot; you will need at least three of these strategically place around the house. Once the perimeter of the house is breached, you will need several handguns, preferably one in every room with several, high-capacity magazines for each; nothing smaller than a .45 caliber (only liberals think a 9MM is a real gun).
Oh, ya, a couple of other essential points: have at least 2,000 rounds of ammo for each weapon and a secure safe room (read bomb shelter for those who remember an earlier time of government-generated national hysteria).
Believe me or not, trust me or not, the dismissive news people and foolish conservatives are both wrong, and if you doubt it, come to my world and let us go together to the next gun show. Good judgment and safety suggests you wear casual clothes and for God’s sake, leave the cameras at home. Strike up a conversation or two, pay attention, eves drop, ask the right casual questions, don’t argue, talk less, listen more, it’s out there. And those fuckers are serious.
And if you remain unconvinced, we’ll go just down the road from yesterday’s place of business and stop at a gun shop where, if you have the correct posture, language and style, you could be recruited to join the KKK, believe me or not, trust me or not.
div>
Dr. Huesos
Thursday, April 2, 2009
SECOND CHANCES
SECOND CHANCES
1964 was the year of my first presidential vote. I was living in an area that heavily favored Barry Goldwater, and everyone there was certain he would win because everyone they knew was planning to vote for him, a matter of simple math. I had a state by state side bet with 2 to 1 odds on every Southern state; of all of them, I called Georgia wrong. But here’s the thing: I voted for LBJ because he was the guy who promised not to send American boys to fight a war in Vietnam, even as he was manufacturing a lie to do exactly that. Since then, I have lacked sufficient trust and confidence in any candidate to give the process a second chance, until now, and I have so much faith in Barack Obama, I don’t even second guess him (well, except for Afghanistan, and even there I deep down hope he gets it right). It’s been a long recovery from LBJ’s big lie, a long time before I was could give that second chance to any candidate for the presidency.
Let me tell you who I do like, this guy Robert Gates who is getting a second chance to shake off the taint of being appointed by George W. Bush. I was glad when Obama kept him on, not just because changing the Secretary of Defense while fighting two wars seems stupid on its face, but because Gates alone, when he came to the podium as a nominee, did not flash his vanity by talking about policy, strategy, programs, or his resume, he spoke of his patriotic duty to respond to his President’s request. A class act always deserves a second chance.
I trust in second chances, maybe even more than seconds, as well I should. I was 6 years getting out of high school and took sophomore English 4 of those 6 before I got it right. But I was just playing out the hand I dealt myself. Mickey Roark, now there’s a guy who made good use of a second chance. The director of the Wrestler wanted him for the role, but warned the truculent former boxer that he was to do exactly as he was told, no more, no less, or no deal. If only Mickey had a second chance with his plastic surgeon. John Travolta had used a string of foolish movies to run his career down to where he was getting second billing to child actors when out-of-the-blue smart Quentin Tarantino cast him in Pulp Fiction, and Travolta turned it into a big pay-back second chance—“Do you know what they call a Big Mac in Amsterdam?”
Bill Clinton needs a second chance, for my sake. I want to consider the good his foundation has done around the world, particularly with AIDS in Africa, without reservations, without having to think about a blue dress with a stain down the front.
George W. Bush, Dick Chaney and Donald Rumsfeld have squandered all the second chances any three people deserve in a lifetime, several lifetimes. They are war criminals many times over, shit-wallowing swine who murdered thousands of Americas’ sons and husbands and tens of thousands of Afghans and Iraqis all rationalized behind conscious lies and egomaniacal visions. I want to see the three of them locked up in a community cell inside a Guatemalan prison filled with full-body-tattooed gang bangers who eat acid by day and shoot crystal meth all night. I want them to live out their lives in the fear and brutality they have visited on so many blameless people in this world. Then I want them to burn in an endless, fiery Hell. I want them to suffer because they deserve to and because their suffering might be a note of caution for the next group of evil dregs who gain power and seek to abuse it.
But here’s the thing, boys and girls, you got to smarten up enough to want it, and then play it right if you get it. And if you get your hands on power or authority of any measure, use it in such a manner that you don’t need a second chance, for redemption or salvation.
Dr. Huesos is an unrepentant New Leftist who rebuilds old Harleys
1964 was the year of my first presidential vote. I was living in an area that heavily favored Barry Goldwater, and everyone there was certain he would win because everyone they knew was planning to vote for him, a matter of simple math. I had a state by state side bet with 2 to 1 odds on every Southern state; of all of them, I called Georgia wrong. But here’s the thing: I voted for LBJ because he was the guy who promised not to send American boys to fight a war in Vietnam, even as he was manufacturing a lie to do exactly that. Since then, I have lacked sufficient trust and confidence in any candidate to give the process a second chance, until now, and I have so much faith in Barack Obama, I don’t even second guess him (well, except for Afghanistan, and even there I deep down hope he gets it right). It’s been a long recovery from LBJ’s big lie, a long time before I was could give that second chance to any candidate for the presidency.
Let me tell you who I do like, this guy Robert Gates who is getting a second chance to shake off the taint of being appointed by George W. Bush. I was glad when Obama kept him on, not just because changing the Secretary of Defense while fighting two wars seems stupid on its face, but because Gates alone, when he came to the podium as a nominee, did not flash his vanity by talking about policy, strategy, programs, or his resume, he spoke of his patriotic duty to respond to his President’s request. A class act always deserves a second chance.
I trust in second chances, maybe even more than seconds, as well I should. I was 6 years getting out of high school and took sophomore English 4 of those 6 before I got it right. But I was just playing out the hand I dealt myself. Mickey Roark, now there’s a guy who made good use of a second chance. The director of the Wrestler wanted him for the role, but warned the truculent former boxer that he was to do exactly as he was told, no more, no less, or no deal. If only Mickey had a second chance with his plastic surgeon. John Travolta had used a string of foolish movies to run his career down to where he was getting second billing to child actors when out-of-the-blue smart Quentin Tarantino cast him in Pulp Fiction, and Travolta turned it into a big pay-back second chance—“Do you know what they call a Big Mac in Amsterdam?”
Bill Clinton needs a second chance, for my sake. I want to consider the good his foundation has done around the world, particularly with AIDS in Africa, without reservations, without having to think about a blue dress with a stain down the front.
George W. Bush, Dick Chaney and Donald Rumsfeld have squandered all the second chances any three people deserve in a lifetime, several lifetimes. They are war criminals many times over, shit-wallowing swine who murdered thousands of Americas’ sons and husbands and tens of thousands of Afghans and Iraqis all rationalized behind conscious lies and egomaniacal visions. I want to see the three of them locked up in a community cell inside a Guatemalan prison filled with full-body-tattooed gang bangers who eat acid by day and shoot crystal meth all night. I want them to live out their lives in the fear and brutality they have visited on so many blameless people in this world. Then I want them to burn in an endless, fiery Hell. I want them to suffer because they deserve to and because their suffering might be a note of caution for the next group of evil dregs who gain power and seek to abuse it.
But here’s the thing, boys and girls, you got to smarten up enough to want it, and then play it right if you get it. And if you get your hands on power or authority of any measure, use it in such a manner that you don’t need a second chance, for redemption or salvation.
Dr. Huesos is an unrepentant New Leftist who rebuilds old Harleys
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
REWARDS
REWARDS
My time as a university faculty member dragged on far too long. Teaching undergraduates kept me at it. Most were eager, attentive, and as business-like as students as their instructor were in response; the smart ones had unerring bullshit detectors. Others wanted only to skate into the next semester as effortlessly as possible; burdened early in life with a sense of entitlement that I could only attribute to over-indulgent parents and brow-beaten high school teachers, they felt put upon by demands such as arriving at class on time and taking exams when they were scheduled—but Dr. Huesos, can’t I take the midterm exam another time? This really cute guy wants to take me to the beach that day! But the good ones, not necessarily the smartest, but the ones I remember best, figured out they could learn some things—that is, get an education--while they were getting a college degree. Two of my favorite written student evaluations are symbolic of my relationship with students: First, “Dr. Huesos is the anti-Christ”. Second, “Dr. Huesos is the anti-Christ superstar.”
The anti-intellectual arrogance of administrators and the unconscious spinelessness of most faculty colleagues eventually made my life among them impossible, made me feel like I was sipping poison every time I was among them. I never shook off the toxic after-effect of one particular incident. An untenured junior faculty member made a couple of unpardonable errors: he was brighter than the rest of us and he ran with the wrong crowd in the department. Without notice or warning—or good cause--the dean told the department chair to get rid Dr. S. The dutiful, toady chair huddled with a few of his sycophantic cronies to invent a set of bogus guidelines, issued them to Dr. S one week, and terminated him the following week. The department, which on paper was democratic and sovereign, voted 2 to 1 against approving the guidelines, or applying them to new faculty, specifically Dr. S. No matter, the thugs moved ahead with the termination.
Of the 30 or so members of the department, approximately 90%--the watered-down liberals and the thugs—walked away from the situation once they cast their votes. Three of us aggressively organized on behalf of our ousted colleague and 1 other assumed the role of honest broker. We were joined by a handful of students who put everything on the line over a matter of principle, something abandoned by most of their professors. The struggle dragged on for months—petitions, news releases, TV interviews, rallies, letters and conversations with people of power and influence, but nothing worked. When the dean received a copy of Dr. S’s formal appeal he figured out what we knew all along--any impartial faculty procedure would beat the dean like a rented mule; he skulked around until finally issuing an ultimatum: Dr. S could take a year off with pay to work on his book and accept a stipend for legal fees, or wait for another year to be fired properly.
The abbreviated telling of this story does no justice to the dedicated hard work of the students, the only class of people more vulnerable than my soon-to-be-departed-friend. They, like many of us when we were coming along, believed in the ideals of university life, of academic freedom, of the free exchange of ideas, of judging people on their merit, all the rich values that had once made academic life attractive. For their commitment, the students learned a cruel education about the potential miseries of the professional life they sought; and they learned those lessons from the very worst among us.
Word spread fast when the deal was struck between Dr. S and the administration. A lot of upset followed. One graduate student in particular (BK) was outraged that after all the effort made on Dr. S’s behalf, we had advised him to take the deal, which to this graduate student was nothing short of folding under pressure, leaving the battle unfinished. As part of a lengthy conversation that followed, I tried to explain the nut of the situation: Dr. S could take the offer or wait a year and be fired without recourse. With the brokered deal, Dr. S would receive full salary, teach no classes, work fulltime on his book and job hunt while he still had a position, a big plus in the academic market place. BK was not be appeased. Nothing practical or philosophical cut his anger or his sense of betrayal. The call ended on a bad note, although I admired his principled determination throughout the struggle and understood his anger.
BK and I remained friends. Dr S. published a prize-winning book and is a department chair at a major university. Of the 3 who tried to aid Dr. S, one fled the university in disgust, was awarded an endowed chair at a premier university, and published a book that won 17 prestigious awards of excellence, an unmatched achievement by any one’s memory. The honest broker is the only other former colleague I remain in touch with.
But catching up with the cast of characters is not the point here. Several years after the incident, BK, by then a PhD with a decent university position, returned for a visit. We spent a good bit of time together, reminiscing and telling stories, and then BK got serious and asked did I remember our phone conversation about the deal struck between Dr. S and the administration. I said I did. Then he walked me through all the details of our conversation in a question and response sequence, asking me to recall what he had said and how I had responded. I did remember the details for I had understood his disappointment. Then BK asked did I recall what I said to him at the close of the call. I said I did. He looked at me sideways with raised eyebrows, as if to say, OK, hotshot, what did you say? I remember telling him that what I was about to say would not give him comfort at his moment of anger and disappointment, but if he held onto the idea, it would have meaning in the future. What I said was, “BK, sometimes the only reward is in the struggle itself.” He looked at me and said, “I want you to know I get it now. Sometimes the only reward is in the struggle itself. And, yeh, sometimes that has to be enough. I get it now.”
That was as good a moment as I ever had as a university professor, or as a friend.
Dr. Huesos is an unrepentant New Leftist who rebuilds old Harleys.
My time as a university faculty member dragged on far too long. Teaching undergraduates kept me at it. Most were eager, attentive, and as business-like as students as their instructor were in response; the smart ones had unerring bullshit detectors. Others wanted only to skate into the next semester as effortlessly as possible; burdened early in life with a sense of entitlement that I could only attribute to over-indulgent parents and brow-beaten high school teachers, they felt put upon by demands such as arriving at class on time and taking exams when they were scheduled—but Dr. Huesos, can’t I take the midterm exam another time? This really cute guy wants to take me to the beach that day! But the good ones, not necessarily the smartest, but the ones I remember best, figured out they could learn some things—that is, get an education--while they were getting a college degree. Two of my favorite written student evaluations are symbolic of my relationship with students: First, “Dr. Huesos is the anti-Christ”. Second, “Dr. Huesos is the anti-Christ superstar.”
The anti-intellectual arrogance of administrators and the unconscious spinelessness of most faculty colleagues eventually made my life among them impossible, made me feel like I was sipping poison every time I was among them. I never shook off the toxic after-effect of one particular incident. An untenured junior faculty member made a couple of unpardonable errors: he was brighter than the rest of us and he ran with the wrong crowd in the department. Without notice or warning—or good cause--the dean told the department chair to get rid Dr. S. The dutiful, toady chair huddled with a few of his sycophantic cronies to invent a set of bogus guidelines, issued them to Dr. S one week, and terminated him the following week. The department, which on paper was democratic and sovereign, voted 2 to 1 against approving the guidelines, or applying them to new faculty, specifically Dr. S. No matter, the thugs moved ahead with the termination.
Of the 30 or so members of the department, approximately 90%--the watered-down liberals and the thugs—walked away from the situation once they cast their votes. Three of us aggressively organized on behalf of our ousted colleague and 1 other assumed the role of honest broker. We were joined by a handful of students who put everything on the line over a matter of principle, something abandoned by most of their professors. The struggle dragged on for months—petitions, news releases, TV interviews, rallies, letters and conversations with people of power and influence, but nothing worked. When the dean received a copy of Dr. S’s formal appeal he figured out what we knew all along--any impartial faculty procedure would beat the dean like a rented mule; he skulked around until finally issuing an ultimatum: Dr. S could take a year off with pay to work on his book and accept a stipend for legal fees, or wait for another year to be fired properly.
The abbreviated telling of this story does no justice to the dedicated hard work of the students, the only class of people more vulnerable than my soon-to-be-departed-friend. They, like many of us when we were coming along, believed in the ideals of university life, of academic freedom, of the free exchange of ideas, of judging people on their merit, all the rich values that had once made academic life attractive. For their commitment, the students learned a cruel education about the potential miseries of the professional life they sought; and they learned those lessons from the very worst among us.
Word spread fast when the deal was struck between Dr. S and the administration. A lot of upset followed. One graduate student in particular (BK) was outraged that after all the effort made on Dr. S’s behalf, we had advised him to take the deal, which to this graduate student was nothing short of folding under pressure, leaving the battle unfinished. As part of a lengthy conversation that followed, I tried to explain the nut of the situation: Dr. S could take the offer or wait a year and be fired without recourse. With the brokered deal, Dr. S would receive full salary, teach no classes, work fulltime on his book and job hunt while he still had a position, a big plus in the academic market place. BK was not be appeased. Nothing practical or philosophical cut his anger or his sense of betrayal. The call ended on a bad note, although I admired his principled determination throughout the struggle and understood his anger.
BK and I remained friends. Dr S. published a prize-winning book and is a department chair at a major university. Of the 3 who tried to aid Dr. S, one fled the university in disgust, was awarded an endowed chair at a premier university, and published a book that won 17 prestigious awards of excellence, an unmatched achievement by any one’s memory. The honest broker is the only other former colleague I remain in touch with.
But catching up with the cast of characters is not the point here. Several years after the incident, BK, by then a PhD with a decent university position, returned for a visit. We spent a good bit of time together, reminiscing and telling stories, and then BK got serious and asked did I remember our phone conversation about the deal struck between Dr. S and the administration. I said I did. Then he walked me through all the details of our conversation in a question and response sequence, asking me to recall what he had said and how I had responded. I did remember the details for I had understood his disappointment. Then BK asked did I recall what I said to him at the close of the call. I said I did. He looked at me sideways with raised eyebrows, as if to say, OK, hotshot, what did you say? I remember telling him that what I was about to say would not give him comfort at his moment of anger and disappointment, but if he held onto the idea, it would have meaning in the future. What I said was, “BK, sometimes the only reward is in the struggle itself.” He looked at me and said, “I want you to know I get it now. Sometimes the only reward is in the struggle itself. And, yeh, sometimes that has to be enough. I get it now.”
That was as good a moment as I ever had as a university professor, or as a friend.
Dr. Huesos is an unrepentant New Leftist who rebuilds old Harleys.
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