Protest Song

Santa Claus brought us a wonderful historic collection of last-century protest songs. A huge collection!

The music must have gone right into my brain pan because my noggin’ concocted some kind of verse or refrain that has been popping up over and over. I guess that means I needed to write it down.

Folk music for modern times:

John Boehner’s got a boner—
a hard-on for the working class.
And each of us is really gettin’ screwed!

Mitch McConnell’s got a gobble
underneath his turkey neck
You should see how it looks in the nude!

Tar and feather the turkey!

Run the dick out of town on a rail!

Got to keep the ship afloat!

We shall overcome.

Occupy Reality

Just as everyone suspected, it would only be a matter of time before our Corporate Overlords would get really nervous about the Occupy Wall Street (and other areas) movement and put out the call to shut it down and shut it down permanently.

Calling out the inequalities of the “Ninety Nine Percent” versus the plutocratic slave masters of the One Percent can only serve to rile up the masses, and that’s just not good for Business (all hail!). As everyone knows, a riled mass is an unproductive and disorderly mass, not subject to control and manipulation. The illusory veneer of prosperity and fairness was beginning to crumble under the weight of the protesting masses. More importantly, the Occupy protestors were beginning to wake up much of America from its narcotic sleep of induced consumerism. Something had to be done.

So the Slave Masters put out the call to the hired hands—our bought-and-sold elected officials who reside at Federal, State and Local levels—and soon we had legions of bootlicking cops swarming in with pepper spray and Billy Clubs to bust a few heads and break up the movement. Their instructions were to set an example, to show the Occupiers that America’s Corporate Overlords reign supreme and are more powerful even than Constitutional Rights or any sense of moral and ethical decency that we had deluded ourselves into believing that we may have once possessed. Spill some blood, break some things and scatter these protestors like roaches, came the order. And the cops eagerly obeyed.

So now that our once-great nation has formally rescinded the First Amendment (may she always be remembered and rest in peace) with the full blessings of the Mindless Milling Masses who don’t bother to vote and who spend their days face-down in the artificial world of (anti)”Social Media,” the only thing left to do is to take direct action against those who enslave us and rob our planet of all that is good and decent.

Want to take action against Wall Street and corporate greed?  Here are a few direct actions you can undertake. They may seem small on an individual scale, but when done collectively by every member of the 99 Percent, they will help restore the American Dream.

There are better solutions than protesting or camping out on the streets. Let face it, the Occupy Wall Street movement started out good, but quickly got polluted by interlopers and agitators (likely paid plants sent in to change public opinion about the movement). While most Americans agreed with the original sentiments of the Occupy movement, many later got turned off by it as the actions of a few tarred the reputation of the many.

A better solution to protesting is acting directly against “The One Percent.” Here’s how:

• Are you contributing to a 401K or similar plan? Stop your contributions. Set aside that 15 percent a year for yourself. Your returns will be greater and you’ll stop fueling the incestuous money train of “fees and commissions.” As many have seen since the early 1990s, the myth of big returns through investments in Corporate Ponzi Schemes is just that: A Myth. If every American eliminated his or her contributions to 401K plans, it would be the death of a thousand pin pricks in the jugular of our Corporate Overlords.

• Support small, local businesses. You may pay slightly more, but those businesses directly support your community and neighbors. Big Box supports overseas jobs and overseas manufacturers. Don’t shop by price, shop by conscience. Shop local, buy local. The job you save may be your own.

• Purchase only what you need. Stop texting and look at the world around you. See what’s worth preserving and witness what your addiction to consumerism and plastic is doing to our habitat. Realize that once this place is gone, there is no other place to go. While the Über Rich may think their affluence can shield them from catastrophe, no amount of money can restore a species, a watershed or a body riddled with cancer. Is that extra pair of sneakers worth it? Do you really think you can amass enough wealth or Cheap Chinese Junk to stop the inevitable?

• Barter as much as possible. Can you fix your neighbor’s car for a month’s worth of eggs? Can you take a senior portrait of your neighbor’s kid in exchange for tailoring or landscape work? If so, make a trade and take advantage of ultra-local economies.

• Don’t use your credit card. Pay cash for everything you can. Stop the incestuous money train of “fees and commissions.” When you do use credit, pay off your monthly balance in total each month. Also, don’t use banks that charge fees for any service. Make it your personal annual goal not to pay a penny in interest or fees this year.

• Get to know your neighbors. They may be different than you, they may even be struggling, but they are human beings and the nearest members of your tribe. Get to know them, help them, let them help you, form close relationships. Band together and organize with your neighbors to keep thieves, criminals and crack houses out of your neighborhood. Don’t count on law enforcement to keep your neighborhood safe (because law enforcement can only be counted on to cater to “The One Percent”). Take the law into your own hands, but in a good way. Take care of your neighborhood. Take pride in it. Keep it clean. Have a block party.

• Support a veteran. They fought for our rights. They will continue to fight for them. As we saw in some of the Occupy dramas, it was the veterans out there who really understood what was at stake when the local yokels started making overtures toward rescinding the First Amendment.

• Demand that your local businesses pay their employees living wages. Patronize the stores of those who do, and gently remind those that don’t that you have a choice where to spend your money. (Also, use cash so local businesses don’t have to cut into their own bottom line with credit card fees. Local businesses lose 7 percent of their margin and the Wall Street Fat Cats grow fatter with each credit-card transaction.)

• And finally, remember that you are a compassionate human being, a creature of God, a manifestation of The Most High. Your personal behavior and actions should be a manifestation of His grace.

Occupy reality.

Judgement Day Hangover

I awoke this morning to bright rays of streaming sunshine, brilliant azure skies and sparkling green grass. It felt like I was in paradise. Maybe I was.

Last night was supposed to have been the beginning of the End of the World as we know it, according to some 89-year-old multimillionaire “preacher” who had forecast May 21 as the Biblical day of judgement here on Earth. People were flocking to the preacher’s compound in their RVs and broken down automobiles, as if ascending into heaven was a social experience that necessitated long drives to faraway places. If the Rapture really was going to occur, wouldn’t it be better to meet all your righteous friends up in Heaven?

While many across the country gave away their fortunes or made arrangements for sinners who were certain to be left behind to take care of their pets (a place with no dogs certainly couldn’t be heaven, could it?), there was no mention of whether the instigating preacher had given away his own millions since it wouldn’t be needed beyond the Pearly Gates. In heaven the streets are paved with gold and the nectar is always billed to a running tab. Money? Who needs it?

It’s not worth ridiculing some doddering old fool about having the audacity to prognosticate (incorrectly) the exact date of an event that the Bible itself says no man can ever foresee. What is worth ridiculing are all those souls—the preacher included—who were so utterly arrogant to believe that they would undoubtedly be among the chosen ones who would ascend to heaven. Wasn’t humility a virtue in the Bible?

Those who stood outside the preacher’s compound waiting in rapt anticipation for their own impending ascension are the very same people who are so quick to condemn others in the “name of the Lord” for things like domestic partnerships or different methods of showing faith in God. These are the very same people who are so convinced that they alone are so tapped into the Will of the Infinite, that they can—and should—dictate the laws and conduct of the land. I guess the fact that these sad, presumptuous souls silently drifted away back to their daily lives after it became clear last night that nothing was going to happen means that they don’t have the inside track on God’s Will after all.

Hopefully they’ve learned something.

I guess what’s saddest to me about all of this is that today there are a lot of people who woke up bitterly disappointed that Judgement Day didn’t actually occur. Some of these people have told reporters that they were hoping with their heart of hearts to take part in the Rapture because heaven (i.e. Death) is much more preferable to another day on Earth. Think about that for a moment, and think about how anti-Christian that sentiment really is.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth—a paradise for all mankind. He gave us dominion over this place, and charged us with its stewardship. The fact that people are willing to reject God’s greatest gift to us (life) for Death is an abomination. If the Lord really is angry about something, He’s angry about this. In rejecting this gift, we are rejecting Him. In condemning His creations (other humans), we are condemning Him. No man has the capacity and the ability judge—that is a responsibility that falls to God alone.

Maybe instead of scurrying to predict the next Hour of Judgement and the next opportunity for Death, the preacher and his followers and all others of his ilk ought to focus on forgiveness, goodwill and stewardship—on honoring God’s greatest gift to us. In that way, they may actually have a better chance at ascending when Judgement Day sneaks upon us like a thief in the night.

A meltdown of values

I can think of something worse than radiation: Lies. And in the ensuing weeks since disaster devastated Japan, killing thousands of people and displacing thousands more, a pernicious cloud of lies has been swirling the globe.

Ever since we learned that four nuclear power plants suffered grave damage in the wake of the historic earthquake and tsunami that rocked Japan, the nuclear power industry worldwide has been scrambling to duck and cover—duck questions and cover up the truth, that is. This is precisely why nuclear power should never be allowed a foothold on our planet. The nuclear power industry has too much money and too few ethics to be granted such a privilege.

In the early days of the accident, news trickled out like particles of iodine-131. People naturally had questions. Were the people of Japan safe? Was anything leaking from the reactors? What about reactor number 3, with its core of plutonium and uranium? Had its core been breached? What were the radiation levels beyond the stricken reactor complex?

At first the questions were met with deafening silence. No one, foreign or domestic, dared weigh in with answers to these very sincere and very important questions. Hours turned to days, days turned to weeks. We heard stories about radiation in milk and spinach near the melting power plant. The tap water in Tokyo was tainted, unfit for consumption by babies. Then we heard the levels were low. Harmless. Like a kitten. The radiation that had left the plant was like a playful, cantankerous little kitten—all furry and fun-loving, not dangerous in any way. Stooges for the nuclear industry had the audacity to posit that these low levels of radiation were actually beneficial, good for you, as if the people down wind of the spewing reactors were actually being done a favor!

Meanwhile, in board rooms and policy rooms around the globe, big-time investors in nuclear power and their friends in high places were experiencing meltdowns in their bowels and colons. A new meltdown 25 years after Chernobyl—a span of time that should have been long enough to allow people to forget that Russian horror show—was causing as much of a run on Irritable Bowel Syndrome remedies amongst the Blue Bloods as it was on potassium iodide pills among the rest of us. And why not? The President of the United States had just recently pledged huge—we’re talking ginormous!—giveaways to the Usual Suspects to start pumping out nuclear power plants on the North American continent like McDonald’s pumps out hamburgers. It was a great opportunity: The government pays for the plants and takes all responsibility for wastes and cleanup and the companies reap the profit.

But now the public will be wary about licensing new nuclear plants, as it should be. Once again, the nuclear power industry has proven beyond a reasonable doubt that it cannot—and more importantly, should not— be trusted. Curses! Foiled again!

During the past several weeks I have spent time perusing recorded memories of people involved in the Chernobyl accident and its aftermath. It has been a profoundly sad pastime. Sadder still has been the realization that the nuclear drama playing out in Japan has been eerily similar to the Russian misfortune of a quarter century ago. In the coming months and years we will learn that “miscalculations” and “honest errors” resulted in much higher radiation exposures to the people living near and not-so-near the Fukushima Daiichi reactor complex. With the passage of time, radiation levels will become known in plain English, torn free from their confusing, confounding cloak of millisieverts, Becquerels, rads or rems—terms juggled and interchanged from one day to the next to obfuscate the true seriousness of the accident.

Like we did after Chernobyl, we will see innocent Japanese people giving birth to little monsters conceived during the flood of atomic incompetence that is playing out before our very incredulous eyes. Cancers will begin to blossom on the isle of Japan and the atomic apologists will weigh in with plausible deniability. The irradiated sea will spawn mutations. We will learn that the kitten had claws after all—claws like Godzilla.

We will hear official figures and death tolls, all lowballed to “acceptable levels,” and we will be instructed to focus on the positive. We will hear apologies and vows by the nuclear power industry that it will do better next time.

But there should never be a next time. If we have learned one thing about the nuclear power industry during the time that has passed since Three Mile Island, Chernobyl and now Fukushima Daiichi, it is this: Greed transcends culture. And truth will always be slain by greed and corporate interests.

We send our prayers to the people of Japan.

No cheese at the end of the tunnel

Feeling a certain urge to munch on lettuce and nest in little piles of shredded newspaper? Get used to it. The U.S. Supreme Court has officially ruled that we are nothing more than Guinea Pigs for the pharmaceutical industry.

In a 6-2 vote, the Court disallowed  a lawsuit alleging that a diphtheria-pertussis-tetnus vaccine, which has since been taken off the market, caused seizures in a little girl. The court ruled that the case should go through a tribunal created by the National Childhood Vaccine Injury Act of 1986 and not to a jury. Problem is, the tribunal already ruled against Hannah Bruesewitz, the girl with the seizures, so now she has no further recourse—but her parents still must provide for her care, according to news reports.

The case, Bruesewitz v. Wyeth, is a victory for pharmaceutical companies since it provides no incentive for them to make a safe vaccine. Just so you know, the Vaccine Injury Act of 1986, which administers the “Vaccine Court,” draws its compensation pool from a tax on vaccines. With the High Court’s ruling, Big Pharma now bears essentially zero risk for a vaccine bungle. How comforting.

Conspiracy theories about vaccines abound among the foil-hat crowd. Some say humans are mere Guinea Pigs for pharmaceuticals companies, which have been enlisted by the Illuminati to prepare diabolical concoctions as part of a global eugenics program meant to ensure the survival of a cabal of Puppet Masters while selectively exterminating The Rest of Us.

I can’t vouch for the veracity of those claims, but I sure do know this: with the Supreme Court’s latest ruling, there’s no real disincentive now to prevent an evil doctor from adding some fun new surprises to a vaccine.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea! Wouldn’t it be great if a flu shot also provided natural male enhancement or added some inches to a lady’s rack?”

And away we go….

A few years from now, you’ll see me and a whole bunch of other Guinea Pigs lined up in front of the Vaccine Court arguing that our luxurious new man boobs were the result of the latest round of H1N1 vaccinations.

“Your honor, my eyes are up here!”

In the tribunal room next door, a group of women will be seeking compensation for the sudden unannounced appearance of misbehaving members that remain erect for more than four hours at a time. Meanwhile, our carefree friends at Big Pharma will be cooking up new experiments for delivery into an unsuspecting population that runs the exercise wheel without recourse.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m looking forward to settling into a newspaper. Literally.

What a rotten thing to wake up to

Uh-oh! Someone forgot to buy coffee! What a rotten thing to wake up to.

We had always lived under the delusion in our home that coffee wasn’t really a “staple” like sugar, flour or rice, that it really wasn’t a necessary part of our lives like children or dogs or underpants. It was classic denial: “Who needs it? We’ll go commando if we need to!”

The sun hadn’t even risen yet and we were going through a full-blown Jones in our dark little domicile. We began turning over every drawer in the house searching for a fix. In a suitcase I found a paltry number of beans from a trip years ago when we had stayed in a condo and brought our own brew. In the back of the freezer, we found a tiny packet of brown powder—decaf, if we correctly recalled—that had been left behind by a dinner party guest who had brought her own grind to ensure that she didn’t accidentally end up with a bad case of insomnia after dessert. I wracked my brain for more possibilities. The condo cache sparked a memory. “Could it be?” I thought, my eyes sparkling in the gray light of dawn. Yes, it could!

In the laundry closet we found the little gift bag that had been waiting for us at the condo with an itsy-bitsy one-cup sample pack of ground French vanilla decaf. Progress! By now, we reckoned, we had enough for about a cup each. I started to get the shakes. Anticipation is a cruel mistress. The search became more frantic, more destructive. We were starting to overturn furniture by now. The dogs were getting worried.

I struck pay dirt in my briefcase—a handful of beans that I had brought into the office to help stave off the infamous Coffee Drought of Ought-Two. Hopefully these beans were caffeinated, the genuine article, and not the pulverized, flavored methadone we had resigned ourselves to moments earlier. I readied the pot.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!” the Missus urged, licking the coffee dust from my fingertips and shooting me a final look of desperation through red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes.

Once the pot was brewed, we clutched each other and made a tearful resolution that this would never happen again. Yeah, the coffee was bitter and weak, but it gave us the jolt we needed. I sat back with my eyes closed and savored the rush. The Missus purred as she curled up at my feet gripping her mug.

For a moment we considered weaning ourselves off of coffee gradually over the course of the next few days, but we found no need. We’re not addicts. Coffee is not a staple in our house like kids or dogs or underpants.

Take my avatar, please!

I had training this week on how to write more effectively for the web. The trainer was very nice, in her mid twenties. She didn’t seem very interested in writing. Apparently, writing isn’t writing anymore. I guess the same goes for reading.

According to these gurus, if you want to write effectively for the web, the goal is to load up the first 250 words of your text with keywords that will appeal to Google search engines, even if the words don’t really fit together in any coherent fashion or provide any type of meaningful message to anyone. The goal is to lead a search engine to your page, provide enough distracting razzmatazz to keep someone from clicking away from your page for 10 to 15 seconds after they’ve landed there, and then keep rotating in fresh, confusing content at least once a day, preferably more often. If successful, you can tell people that your website garners 28,000 page views a day and they will pay you to put advertising on it. Then, of course, all your dreams will come true.

By the way, that last paragraph was way too long, included way too few keywords, and had sentences that were too long and too complex to keep people on the page for 10 seconds. That’s the new paradigm of reading: People don’t read. They’re too impatient. They’re multi-tasking.

I saw this show the other night on public television about multi-tasking and about our new “digital society.” In short, overwhelming scientific evidence shows that multi-tasking makes you no good at any of the multiple tasks you are attempting, and that texting and immersion in virtual reality makes you less empathetic, slower-witted and lowers your critical thinking skills. So I guess we all have that to look forward to.

They didn’t even go into the inevitable physical decline that comes from craning your neck over a BlackBerry until your thumbs grow numb, or parking your fat ass in a chair and then in a car seat on the commute home for the vast majority of the day, while foregoing any exercise beyond the compulsory three-day-a-week spin class that you manage to wimp out of twice a week at the local health club.

The PBS show highlighted this gaming convention where most of the folks in attendance were crowing about how awesome their world was now that they spent the majority of their time in virtual reality. They all had very cool nearly naked avatars that frolicked in lush natural settings or within the confines of tastefully dynamic architecture. They were so happy. Many said they had lost the ability to distinguish between day and night in the real world. Their days were one beatific continuum of virtual ecstasy.

In reality, most of them were big, fat, miserable, greasy-haired social maladroits who only took their hands off their keyboards or mice long enough to masturbate or suck down a Hot Pocket and an energy drink before returning to the dragon-slaying excitement of the virtual realm.

We’re doomed.

We are on the brink of becoming an isolated society of soulless sociopaths dwelling in dank little rooms spattered with semen and food crumbs, basking in the glow of LED panels segregated from a polluted, denuded reality devoid of vegetation and roiling with toxic poisons on a planet where colorful birds and fish and clean air and water exist only within software programs. Oh, and, according to the latest round of research, most of us—because we’re fat, sluggish, lazy and addicted to sodium-laden preprocessed foods—will stroke out and die at an early age, probably just before the climax  point of an “epic battle” with some kind of mythical beast bestowed with the ability to spread evil across our virtual landscape.

I guess that should have been my first paragraph.