The Mob of Rightists and How to Silence Them

Most Americans are probably confused by all of the media noise that is emanating from the so-called "Truthers," and other extremist elements on the far margins of American society.

These are the frightened fringes of old America. Every one active in this fringe group is white (most are fat), and please do not take offense at that. Almost all live in the midwest or the south, and almost all are Christians vulnerable to the messages of Christian extremists.

These people are to be pitied. Their messages, which currently are mainly geared to stopping health-care reform, are orchestrated by a small circle of rightest creeps who, if they actually had any real power in America, would no doubt institute a Nazi-like system.

But their day is over. Every poll of Americans' current political opinions indicates that there are -- at most -- five safe Republican states left in this country. The reality is that Republicans have no realistic chance to gain seats in Congress or challenge the second term of Obama in the White House in 2012.

So, the rightwing in this country is in full freak-out mode and though they are a tiny minority, unless the decent among us, the truly caring people, organize ourselves and make the much larger noise that we can are capable of making, and shut these freaks down, we are in for a far less compassionate, inclusive future than we all collectively deserve.

Why? Because those who shout (albeit paid by corporate sponsors) get listened to. Those who suffer in silence are ignored. Such is America, circa 2009.

Passages Recalled

It's her birthday today. She would have been 94. That's her in the lower left of the old photo, in San Antonio with my Dad during WW2. He's right behind her, his face partly obscured.

Happy Birthday Mom.

***



The Farallon Islands were visible from San Francisco, 27 miles west of the City today.

Usually they are shrouded in fog.

Looking at them made me think of what lies beyond -- Hawaii. For whatever random reason, I found myself going over to Google Maps to try and get directions from here to Hawaii.

Of course, the search giant took my query seriously, and provided me with a route that involved driving north to a point on the coast of Washington near Seattle. Then, it instructed me to "kayak across the Pacific Ocean" 2,756 miles to Oahu.

Who thinks this stuff up? An algorithm?

The total distance for this trip would be 3,614 miles, and Google estimates that it would take me 14 days and 19 hours to pull it off. Check it out.


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Who Actually Pays for Things

Much of the time, all over our planet, it feels unbearable -- life.

I'm not talking about my life, exactly, or the lives of those I know, but rather the human condition. Compared to the majority of humans on the planet I am a lucky one, even though these days, it never feels that way.

But here is what lucky means here in the USA near the end of the first decade of the 21st Century.

My ability to get through the day is controlled by Orwellian bureaucracies. I have no real access to health care or health insurance. Unless I am persistent and polite (two qualities I possess, luckily), I cannot count on maintaining my high-speed Internet connection, my land line phone service, or my Cable TV, which is mainly here for the benefit of my kids.

I'm 62 years old, and somewhere in one if my closets are at least half that many awards, some of them quite prestigious (others quite gratuitous) given on behalf of the work I have been doing since I turned 19, which is actually nothing more than trying to craft words into some sort of form that resonates with others, and maybe makes their struggles a little bit easier for them to bear -- at least for a moment.

Another goal of my work is more selfish -- it has been to support my lovely children (and my ex-wives and girlfriends) as they navigate their own crooked paths through this strange American economic landscape, which is a place that shows up on no maps, and appears in no travel guides, but makes our travel bones ache just as much as the potholes, bad mattresses, and evil pickpockets who exist simply to torture us as we try to get through our days and our ways.

Truth is, as I tried to explain to my 13-year-old son today as we bought a used video game he wanted to replace for one that has become unplayable due to a scratch, is that the MARKET views the likes of us as nothing more than consumers.

In my line of business, the "media," he and I are nothing more than eyeballs with dollars (or more likely, plastic) in our pockets. We are reduced to spenders. But we are so much more, he and I, as are you, dear reader.

Those who advertise, market, or attempt to manipulate us are the true creeps in this society. They don't fool us, with all of their moves. We see through them as if they were invisible ghosts, which with any luck, they soon will be.

They are nothing more than assholes, creeps, scumbags.

If the product is something he or I want, we buy it, and we have the power to do so, because we are of the hard-scrabbled, working classes, debt-less, and extremely conservative with our money.

Really, this is about him, then. He never lets me buy him a game unless he can reimburse me from his own funds.

I'm not saying I'm a great Dad.

But compared to many Americans, I am saying that I have great kids. Never over-indulged, they know it is their duty to come up with the cash.

So it should always be.

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Hurt

I've always learned more from my children than they could possibly learn from me. Today, driving, a song came on the radio, the alt-rock station my 14-year-old son has converted from a never-listen to a frequent-listen for me, even when I am alone. (Although NPR still rules the airwaves in my world.)

The song that came on was "Hurt" by Johnny Cash,a cover of the brilliant Trent Reznor's song recorded near the end of Cash's remarkable life.

I love just about everything about Johnny Cash -- his music, his life, his weaknesses, his great love. Especially his relationship with June Carter, truly one of the great American love stories of the past century.

The movie. Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon. Great performances.

But this late song cuts me to the bone. When we grow old, so old that our voices weaken and tremble, our steps falter, our skin becomes pocked with dark spots, our eyes grow milky, our bodies bend southward, we still have things to say that may prove to be of value to the young.

This song is that kind of gift. Please listen to it. I never stop being amazed by the emotional depth of the young boy who introduced it to me. Or by his music, my music, our music.

Or by the ability to teach from any age to any age; old to young, yes, but also young to old. It's all in the song.

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Fresh Fruit

When my ten-year-old planted some small tomato plants a few months ago, we had to warn her that perhaps only a few of the plants would survive and thrive. Such is the nature of gardening in soil and a climate that contains far more obstacles than in my native Midwest.

She shrugged; how the tomatoes turned out didn't really interest her much, since she doesn't like them. But today, on her first day back after two weeks away, I convinced her to try a small slice of one beauty, which fell off one of her plants while still green and I let it ripen on my back window sill.

I sliced an served it with salt -- it was sweet as a red pepper. Why are fresh fruits and vegetables so delicious?

My younger sons are back too; in fact all three of my boys visited today. My middle son went deep-sea fishing in Mexico and caught large Mahi-Mahi. I did the Dad thing, cooking a variety of dishes for all the various friends who stopped by on this glorious summer day in the Mission, albeit a cool and foggy one as it aged.

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Townies

We headed down to the microbrew pub 21st Amendment for lunch today -- the chili and cobb salad were terrific.

The view down Bryant from Spear is fabulous.

The thick white fog hung over the hills, leaving the Mission warm and sunny. Took a long walk trough this end of town in late afternoon.

This is what is known as a micro-post. Not a lot of content. I'm in a "pre-writing" kind of mood. The two long, old pieces of fiction I posted here earlier in the week, "Tidelines," and "Lost in North Islington," drew some favorable responses, so maybe I'll pursue a more formal route to getting them published.

Happy Friday Night. My three youngest are due back tonight from a long, long, long vacation in Mexico with their Mom. I've been missing them with a fierce, dull pain that never backs off, probably because our contact has had to be extremely limited. If you call or text too much on cellphones -- in this still primitive era, controlled by evil corporations -- you can end up with a monster bill.

My kids are creative and I've received one email and one Facebook message from them, so there must have been an Internet cafe in the Mexican city where they were staying.

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A Night With Los Gigantes

My son, a couple of our family friends, and I spent the night at the ballpark, which in San Francisco, is a beautiful experience.



I got there early enough to see batting practice by the visiting team, last year's World Series champions, the Phillies.



And I got a ball!



But the Philles were no match for the Giants.



The home team prevailed, 7-2.



This park, if you've never visited, is terrific. You don't even have to like baseball to have a good time here on the edge of McCovey Cove. But it helps if you do. Tonight was the 50th anniversary of Willie McCovey's debut with the Giants (he hit 4-4), and the great Hall of Famer was on hand to acknowledge the crowd's cheers.



Afterwards, the Bay was serene. I was happy to have seen a game with my oldest son, a great baseball player himself, and one of my main companions at games for many years. I actually saw baseball through his eyes, rediscovering my love for the game when he was young.

In the process, I gave up the home team of my upbringing, the Detroit Tigers, in favor of his, the San Francisco Giants.



Tonight, looking out over the city after the game, I reflected on the process of migrating my loyalties westward. It has involved a lot of nuanced adjustments, but I am a San Franciscan now to my core. All of my children were born and have grown up here.

I still love my native Michigan, and I follow and root for the sports teams from Detroit and Ann Arbor. But some of my loyalties have long since transferred to the franchises of this great city, especially the Giants.

When they are competitive, I follow the 49ers. The Lions never win, so how I feel toward them is irrelevant.

Also, sometimes, the Warriors, though not if they play the Pistons.

In hockey, though, it is no contest. Loyal to my Dad, I'll always be a Red Wings fan.

I wish I could afford to join my Michigan family at a very rare reunion a week from Saturday, but I simply do not have the resources to travel there. I've been out of work for almost seven months, with no prospects in sight.

Thanks to my friend Tom for tonight's tickets. I could not have afforded them on my own.