Give;Keep

The drive down to Texas was among other things, introspective. Or as I like to think of it: quiet think time. Really, it was something more in line with a detox clinic on wheels. My behavior, and myself, indeed, had become toxic. Just look at pictures of me from that going away party at 215 Park Street and you can see what kind of bad-way that I was stuck in. Stuck in? I lived in a bad place; but my place was exactly where I put myself. No regrets…buy the ticket, take the ride.


Illinois was long. Arkansas was hot. Little Rock—the Clinton Library—was cool. I found it easy to smile out the window at the unfamiliar look of Texas' dirt because I had successfully escaped the North without ohio getting in the way. And the long, speechless silence that was the norm on our drive South was some how the best time of my life. I've never been more terrified in my life. Dad couldn't hear shit anyway, and we drove across the country from North to South with the windows down so the music was loud. I thought a little each time I put a new CD in, and then explained a little bit about it to Dad; he doesn't need to know good things about a band to like the music. It only need be music, and loud enough to hear over the wind blowing up from the freeway. Dad was dropping me off at kindergarten again. I remember sitting in that tiny-assed little seat attached to his bicycle. I remember how hard I fought when I thought that my Mom didn't need me anymore. But strangely enough, I also remember how excited I was to go back the next day. That could be Dan and Mikey's doing, but that's neither here nor there…


ACL Fest is long. Hot. Dusty. The women by far out shine the 8 stages of music that fight each other for dominance. It could be that I had been thinking about the drive South two years ago. It could've been Bart, who asked me many months ago why I always defend my Jewish heritage and not my Catholic. I had been thinking about, the defining moment of a cross country outline for a future Chautauqua, was when all the errands were done. It was when we could do nothing else to busy ourselves. It was when for the first time in 3 days of silent thought dotted with honest inquiry that we experienced our first awkward silence. "Now Dad, we go to the bar." So I did the only logical thing: I sat and drank beer with my Pop until it was time for Uncle John to come get him to take him to the airport. His eyes said "My baby. My son." Tears.


I really wondered for a time about that whole Bart thing: why do I defend my Jewish blood more than my Catholic? I came to the conclusion that I never had to defend my Catholic blood. Bart accepted my answer at the time, though I don't think it was as in-depth as he was hoping. I wondered right up until I was walking down the street toward downtown Austin and the bar, with Pop, and I just asked him. "What happened to Grandma and Grandpa during the Holocaust?" I never got any of that from them. Jess got more than I did. But still. I guess it doesn't really matter. It's a matter of what you are willing to give, and what you are stout enough to keep. That may or may not be what gives you an identity. No digression necessary. The little I did know about my Pops' folks, and what happened to them, before ACL Fest and the long walk back downtown were more important to me because it was borne from the fiercest hate that can come from men.


Turns out, that my Pops' blood line started out in Romania (Itali-roma-garian?). Funny how you can have ties to a place that you have no conscious awareness of. But I'm not getting into that. It must have been a peculiar conversation to listen to while you were sipping on something cold to drink, under that tent, last day of Austin City Limits while a guy in a red Bob Marley shirt and his son with all his tattoos and shaved head talked for hours about Hungarian Jews. Grandpa getting drafted into the Russian army after they liberated Auschwitz. And so on, and so on…It may have even been a learning experience for them? It was for me.



Like I said: it comes down to what you'll Give, and what you'll Keep. What I Keep.

El Estado de la Unión 07

El Estado de la Unión 07

The Cowboy’s guns are no longer smoking. He appears to be out of bullets; his sneer turned to a grimace; his enemies breathing down his neck at all times. Footsteps in the hallway at nighttime; a dictator and his generals suddenly and for the first time leery of the noose. Things have changed. Things have changed.

Talking Heads…that’s what I like to call the guys and gals that get all dressed up to talk about stuff. Political Pundits is what they might call themselves—or experts even. Just as the State of the Union address was getting started with all the grandiose entrances of the Joint Chiefs and the Supreme Court the politicos were saying that this year’s speech is going to be greatly different than the last six—this time the president is decidedly not sitting at the cool kid table.
One guy went as far as to say that W’s position is weaker for this address than Clinton was for the one he gave during which he was being impeached. At long last, some evidence that a president should be under more fire for starting a war based on lies and deception rather than getting some head in the oval office. But I digress…

In previous years, last I think, W was all about bashing me over the head with and shoving down my throat as much “faith based organizations need federal funding.” This year, he barely mustered a “god bless America” at the end. This was a speech lacking any of the fire and brimstone sensibility of the previous years. No more smug, self-assuredness. This president has shown me how much T-U-F-F-E-R he is than everyone else, including the Congress, every day of the week—up until about two hours ago.
By my count there were thirty (30) standing ovations this year. From the time Pelosi introduced the president till he walked off the podium. Although this year, the majority Dem’s made it more apparent, regardless of how the cameras tried to crop the shot, that most of those standing O’s were not extended throughout the house. I also counted about seven (7) or eight (8) “I asks” from W. “’I asks?” you say.
Well, in the past, W wouldn’t “ask” for a damn thing. He would say “you must” or “we must” or “Congress must” because up until two hours ago, there wasn’t anyone standing up to him. Even Cheney was falling asleep behind him. (And I think it was funny that during the W’s spiel on reducing our dependence on gasoline as a fuel source, Cheney wore a scowl, and refused to join the standing ovation that followed the W’s declaration of increased support of alternative fuel sources. Hilarious.)
Lieberman, what a douche bag. And for that matter, Cheney laughed in his chair when the W suggested a twenty (20) percent (%) reduction in gasoline use within the next ten (10) years.

“Twenty percent less gas? That’ll never happen—I got one word for you: it starts with an H and ends with ALIBURTON! I’m gonna go eat some souls…” Cheney wears his heart, his cold, black, soulless heart on his expression.

This year, less by a few days than one year later, I realize now how much of a disconnect there is between how I was during the last State o’the Union and now. Although I look at how last years speech affected me, and I can see the seeds had already begun to germinate. I haven’t become a person who doesn’t care about politics, there is simply no more pieces of my heart left to break on the subject. I have lost the faith.

During the Dem’s rebuttal, Sen. Webb said a quote from one of the Andrew’s, Jackson or Johnson, I forget which, but the point was that we should measure the greatness of our nation not by the apex, but by the base of our society. There is a similar saying in all sports: “you’re only as strong as your weakest player.” For us, after electing a president to satiate our own need to hate each other, one of our most fabled and unique cities was smashed by a storm and left to fend for itself. I am one of many who think that New Orleans was more indicative of how ill-equipped we are as a nation to provide the most basic services to our own people. Hey, Detroit has been under water for decades; many great cities, once great cities, were hit by a title wave of poverty and have been bailing out the dingy with a little bucket ever since. Finally there was no more room for metaphors, and what was necessary to make us see what we were doing to each other came in the form a hurricane and storm surge. The real tragedy about Katrina wasn’t that a fucking storm destroyed a city, it was that a city filled with citizens of the “greatest nation in the world” was so unimportant to us all it had to be washed out of existence for us to realize how badly off the people who lived there were.

To sum up: maybe in the next few years, some one will bring Humanity to the United States. We already have democracy…which is probably why W isn’t concerned with us at all.

Peace.

how heavy is heaven?

Well, what can I say? I think it strange when I apologize for not posting—in a post. But I do it anyway. My time is much regimented theses days: up about 830 or so, eat breakfast, pack my shit, out the door. Class from ten ‘till four-ish. Justin, Brendan and I are playing music again at camp so I’m flyin’ home the night before we’re playing with the intention of a smash and go practice session the morning of, followed by dynamic and invigorating show Friday night. Funny. I haven’t played my instrument since this same show last year. I’ve been so occupied with moving, and starting my life over—figuratively speaking—that once again I’ve forgotten how much I love playing music. I get to play with my friends, and we play for people who are not there to examine us, but just to sing along and dance. Pretty kick ass.
Being that my kit is buried in the basement of mis padres casa, I have no way of practicing down here. So I got hold of the right person over in the music building, and gained access to a practice room—with a whole week and a half left of the semester! It’s cool, a couple hours a day should be enough to sufficiently prepare me for a hard nights rockin’.

So I gotta say that while last semester sucked, this one is pretty kick ass. With the exception of my lame Mass Com teacher (mass com? Who expected this class to be interesting/worth my time?) my Spanish and Psych teachers are fantastic. My psych teacher is a funny guy who has been teaching for over fifteen years, he’s published, and he does the same thing to his son that mom did to us: he tests the theory in real life. I remember doing all kind of “games” as a kid which mom had learned in class. Good times. He teaches in a manner which is easy to stay connected to. And overall, he gets a little giddy about the subject matter: he still thinks this stuff is cool. So that’s pretty groovy. All I’ve done in my Spanish class is learn more about the language and culture in four weeks than in the past thirty. All it takes sometimes is a teacher who relates the content to you in a way that makes sense to you. No se. pero este semestre yo no quiero me mato.

So before the last semester was done, I felt a serious absence which needed to be filled: I had no book to read. So I decided that this summer I would pick some books to read and then when I was done with the worthless, shitty, semester, I would have time to expand my mind (bro!). I chose to spend the summer reading about my favorite musicians. Originally, I looked up John Coltrane, but by chance—not chance, I mean every library probably keeps all their related material together—all the biographies of musicians and bands were together. Before I could get to anything about Trane, there were several books about Bird Parker, and Dizzy, and Ella, and every one from Carlos Santana to the Beatles on down to Mozart and Tchaikovsky. There was also, one I hadn’t considered until the moment I read the name: “Heavier Than Heaven” in faded gold lettering on the dull black spine of a hard cover book—what a title; what a book.

Charles Cross, the author of this particular biography, chose the right title. I wouldn’t have read this book otherwise. The title dragged me in before I had even put a finger on it; this is a biography of Kurt Cobain. Someone for whom I’ve had many years of anger built toward. But I knew I had to read this book, so did. I finished it this afternoon after my Spanish test.

Here’s my thing about Nirvana: when I got to high school, there was a massive worship for this band, and the lead singer and song writer. I had heard this band in 80’s when our neighbor and good friend Kelly played a bootlegged copy of what was probably “Bleach” for my sister. I was just a kid, like six or seven years old. But by the time I got to Community, all my peers and many of my old friends were enamored with this grunge god named Kurt. You should’ve heard the shit people said about this guy, and seen how we modeled ourselves in his image. We ridiculed ourselves and each other for trying to fit a mold, but ostracized any one who didn’t fit neatly inside it. (See also: why punk rock is bullshit and punk rockers can suck my balls.) But I digress…

I didn’t get into Nirvana as intensely as my friends did. I liked them well enough, but I didn’t see them as this great artistic exodus from the mental slavery of the 80’s. At this point, I hadn’t even started listening to Jazz. I had a bootlegged tape of Bob Marley songs which fed me all I needed from music. (Thanks dad) Gabe had done a favor for this girl named Lauren: he carved the name “Kurt” into her arm. Apparently it was important for this to happen in her mind, as she was in so much pain over his passing. I shouldn’t make light of someone who felt so intensely about someone that they hurt themself. But for me, when he died in the spring before I was even out of Jr. High, I didn’t care what any one said about why he did it.

I really started to love Nirvana around ’95 when I started playing music and we jammed out, at one point or another, just about every Nirvana song ever. But by this point, I was well beyond any connection to the person who was Kurt Cobain.

The book about him that I finished today was pretty good. Really, I began the first chapters with a nagging uneasiness as it described the horrible situations that he faced as child. His folks divorced, and he found himself homeless frequently as he couldn’t live with either of his parents and their new spouses. The author may have been pushing me to feel pity for the circumstances of Cobain’s childhood, but I’m not that easy to sway. Many of the situations that Kurt was the “victim” of were situations that many of us have looked at. But for what ever reasons, maybe his artistic genius maybe, he was unable to eat shit in order to have a roof over his head. Many people don’t get along with their step father or mother; many people try to live with surrogate families. I don’t know where I’m going here, I just don’t buy that his crappy life growing up is what caused him to eat a shotgun at 27.

In this book, as it detailed his last moments on earth, and even shared the note he left behind (as well as many excerpts from his copious journal entries) it was hard for me to keep myself from crying. (picture me sitting at a table in the library eating my Tupperware dish of pasta and choking back tears at 1 in the afternoon) I found myself right back where I was when he had killed himself over a decade ago. I remember watching the vigil that took place in Seattle. Where thousands of people stood in the rain, sobbing and broken, while Courtney Love read pieces of his suicide note over a P.A. system in a prerecorded message. She spouted answers to each statement he made in the note as though she were addressing him directly: “why didn’t you just stay?” I remember so vividly. It makes me so mad, even now. Some one who loved US so much that he had to leave.

Toward the end of the book, through many excerpts from his private journals, all the proof I need was presented. The only thing that killed Kurt Cobain is drugs. A few of the things that he wrote, particularly about the addictions which had estranged him from almost every one in the world including himself, read like a road map to suicide. Fame didn’t kill Kurt. Courtney didn’t kill Kurt. Depression, family, chronic illness, traumatic past, uncertain future—none of that shit killed Kurt Cobain: Drugs killed him.

I’m glad I read this book, although I feel like all my nerves are raw all over again, like I just got broken up with or something. This guy made music that sounded like I felt, but then he crossed a line I wasn’t willing to follow him past. I wish he was still here; I wish I had the music he was going to make, the musician he was going to become. But I don’t.

thoughts are fleeting

I thought about the weekend that the poets came to town; a hundred poets from two dozen universities and colleges all converged on my school for three days. I thought about how it made me feel like I was in high school again: full of ideals and creativity and piss and vinegar. I thought about how a hundred people all absorbed with words, all with ears fixed to the stage and a pencil burning a hole in their hand found inspiration in each other.

I thought about how making music so closely mirrored the feeling that a hundred strangers brought to light from a dormant place inside me. I thought about how much better off musicians would be if they dropped the egos that divide them and became a support structure to each other rather than a hindrance. I thought long and hard about the days when I played music for three or four of a seven hour school day and was not satisfied. Not satiated.

I thought about the night that my roommates sat in the basement and painted all over the walls in bright colors. Murals and doodles in all the colors that passed through thought while I sat in Gabe’s reclining chair and wrote because nothing inspires creative thinking like the actions of creative people. I thought about the countless words and the nearly completed screenplay that sit idly in my room unused and unread and unfulfilled and neglected.

I thought about how I used to feel better than I do now. But when I really think about it…I’ve always felt this way.

I thought about the days when I could walk up and speak to any person I set eyes on. I felt as though I was a representative of the many people who were just as fucked up as they looked…the more a person tried to avoid eye contact the more I spoke to them. I thought about the closeness that I felt to every person in this world. Thought of the closeness that I felt to every tear that rolled down every cheek and every laugh that rumbled from every gut and every sigh that filled every silence from every mouth that draws breath.

I thought about how close I came to madness…I thought about how much pain there is in the world…

I thought about the faceless and the voiceless who couldn’t care less about what I think; those who never think about anyone, those who can’t think of anyone but themselves, those who have more important things to think of.

Then, I took off my headphones, and went into class, and thought about Shakespeare.

who knows where this is going? not me, that's for sure

For the longest time, I thought I was uninspired to update this here blog-a-migiggy because I was basically uninspired. And I still think there is something to that. Since then, a whole bunch of things have happened that are blog-worthy to say the least. But the simple fact is that as amusing as Shotgun Cheney jokes are, that old, rich, white, guy is not nearly as important as the thousands of young, diverse racial and financial women and men whose deaths and dismemberments Cheney is partly responsible for. John Stewart and Steven Colbert are funny and all, but they’re bleeding this one a bit dry: Dick Cheney is one of many people who have taken actions to make death more prominent than it needs be; the less I have to look at his smug face the better.

Now that I’m past that bit of ugliness, on to more happy musings…

I went to Dallas for the first time: and contrary to what I’ve been told, it was a good time. I spent the bulk of my time lost, and driving past, around, and past again every location I wanted to find—but that was the type of light hearted, random silliness that makes a vacation successful. A good long nap in the afternoon, effectively wasting the day on purpose, followed by making very good use of the clear nighttime is at the very least an underrated formula for sight seeing. We did make it to The Sixth Floor Museum which is where all the artifacts pertaining to the JFK assassination are kept. And it overlooks the scene from the film. We made it an hour before closing time, so we were unable to dwell for too long and become bummed out on what appears to be a colossal bummer. We hit some of the local color, drank some of the local color, and some of the foreign scotch, and all in all had a very low key yet still kick ass time.

Midterms are this week, all mine are on Thursday and Friday; I’ve been studying Logic for the last while, but still feel very illogical. I have the sinking feeling that I’m on the crest of a multitude of bad decisions. I don’t know if I’m about to start, or have already begun, or am smack in the middle of a bad decision making shit storm—I’m a bit disconnected these days. Kind of drifting, foggy, adjective, adjective, simile, adjective… I was sick, so I went to the doctor; he gave me pills, now my stomach hurts. Counter productive if you ask me; I would ask someone else; my answers are vague and loaded these days. Maybe it’s the reading: communist manifesto. Talk about a good way to mistrust and dislike the world around you…man I’ll tell you what, with all the hippies that adopted a more socialist view point about sharing and working together for the good of all who are working, the violence inherent in communism can be lost. I always looked at communism through the lens of civil rights, more specifically the American civil rights movement of the sixties. Non-violent protest, that sort of revolution. Marx and Engels are for the violent, physical destruction of the bourgeoisie. The more I read the manifesto, the more I feel like they are asking us to practice the same hateful actions that their enemies espouse and carry on. Such is life I guess: just when you think you found something to get behind, it turns out that a German philosopher and politico revolutionary might not be the best choice.

Its election time here in Texas. They elect their judges here, and although I believe in voting, all the candidates seem to be republicans with “the conservative values that we need!” in order for the locals to feel safe from all of us “questionable” students who are learning and supporting the local economy—and some how simultaneously making all the locals’ lives suck. We can keep their businesses flourishing, and we can generate tax revenue, and we can provide growth from maybe the largest supplier of work (the University), but if more than five of us are in a room, then we must be a nuisance. Some things never change.

El Estado de Union

Typically, this is where I make a long winded bash-fest about the “Presidents” State of the Union address: but I don’t feel like it tonight. No, there’s nothing wrong—or maybe it’s that everything is wrong. Or at least more than can be fixed by, or blamed on, one inept and probably crooked politico and his cronies/handlers/puppeteers.
I like to think that this country is great, and the people therein are the reason for said greatness; I like to think that people are inherently good, and given the proper circumstances every person would like most to be happy; I also say, often, that people are by their very nature flawed and ethically crooked. I like to say that the reason Communism didn’t work is because the most important ingredient in that recipe is human nature. If we all could be truly satisfied with just enough to get by then there would be enough for everyone to get by. We all want health care, a job, a home, some type of formal education—I sure as hell don’t want to pay for yours. And historically, you don’t want to pay for mine either.
I’ve taken my share of guff from a select few people who I take guff from about my quiet appreciation of the communist view point: mostly because there has been little support for communism to be found in the cases of its practice. There is a fear inherent since the birth of the USA which dictates the mistrust of any over zealous government involvement in our lives. We don’t like the “man” holding us down; we do like the “man” to show up and rebuild New Orleans when it gets knocked down by a storm. And we sure as hell like to string the “man” up by his huveos if he doesn’t put every person without the means to do so, on a bus and ship them somewhere safer before said storm knocks down said city.
The point…where did it go? But there is something to that. The point of all this grandstanding, soapbox discourse we call the State of the Union address was once to put the chairman of the government corporation (perhaps more so today than ever) in front of the share holders and consumers to give us, in his own words, his definition of how well he’s done his job thus far. [the use of “his job,” “his def.” and such will be used until a female president is elected and shows us that a woman can be just as corrupt and greedy as a man] Immediately after…shit before, during and for days after we will be inundated by spin from both sides of the fence and from the fence builders, the fence jumpers, the fence painters, the anti-fence defamation league, and of course the Peoples Republic of the Fence who are simultaneously trying to expose every hole in the president’s speech and dam up any leak already exposed by others. Using political jargon and biased data to suggest that broken policies are not broken and that the policies were not broken until our enemies broke them even though they are sound policies still…when will this madness end? Probably never.
Our political system has become Junior High: complete with a school principal who is only held accountable for his decisions if he is found with either a dead girl or live boy, and a host of guidance counselors who are banned from giving any realistic advice to those who need it most. For example, our political system is now akin to the guidance counselor who was unable to grab me by my smart assed face and tell me that I might be smart enough to make something of myself by following my own rules, but all that fighting I was doing would damage much of my potential unless I took some time to figure out how to fight. You will never hear a president stand up and deliver a speech which chastises the citizenry for being as greedy as we are and demanding that we evolve socially and start paying higher taxes so that our neighbors can have heat this winter.

“My fellow Americans. It’s time to face facts: you are all a bunch of greedy bastards and every time you receive a refund of tax revenue you doom your nation to a long, foodless, heatless, and healthcaredless and educationedless life…”

Even in fantasy land our Commander in Chief likes to make up words. And why not, any one who said something like this to the people of this country would surely bring about the first military coup on this soil since the guerilla insurgency of the late 1700’s frustrated the crown.

“…in a democracy, people usually get the kind of government they deserve.” Adlai Stevenson said that. And I think it is proven by the hash bash in Ann Arbor.

Every year, copious potheads and politicos get together to protest for the reform of marijuana laws. And many times I was there. It was a big deal for many years as thousands of people got together and burned joint after joint on the University of Michigan’s main campus without being arrested. A few years hence, the city fathers have managed to snuff out an event that was ongoing for decades. Now I think I get it. I read in the paper, maybe a year before the city began to deny vendors licenses to be in the streets during the bash that the original cause of the bash was in town. John Sinclair was sentenced to 10 years for being in possession of two joints back in ’69. He was back visiting and surprised to find that none of the kids attending the bash knew who he was. People like John Lennon and Alan Ginsberg showed up to the first protest in 1970; middle school kids show up now. But as much as the city fathers would like to take credit for dismantling the bash, it’s pretty clear to anyone who ever attended that the life of the Hash Bash has long since been extinguished by a culture that has lost its focus.
There is no need for an omnipresent government to smash individual rights and force complacency on us: we do it to ourselves just fine. I like to make fun of stoners as much as the next guy, but the hash bash was an event that was recognized nationally as a hold over from the revolutionary political activism that swept the nation back in the day. But as its relevance waned, the irrelevant took center stage. Thirty years of people organizing an event to protest the undue and unnecessary actions of an obsolete law matters. At least there could be some glimmer of interest visible to the naked eye. Now all we can do is complain that Lost is not on tonight because the president is making some speech about something…

“…the course of human events, even the greatest historical events, are not determined by the leaders of a nation or a state, like presidents or governors or senators. They are controlled by the combined wisdom and courage and commitment and discernment and unselfishness and compassion and love and idealism of the common ordinary people.” -Jimmy Carter, 1974

We decided that the actions of homosexuals were more important than those of our elected officials. And now we are reaping the produce. Corn mostly…virtually no nutritional value and only there for the destructive production of ethanol because of subsidies.
And those people who are inconvenienced by the presence of a preemptive speech are most likely the same people who rank on my list of “people who suck the most.” The assholes and morons who only know two things: “god hates fags and if you don’t love America, leave!” These are the people whose sons and daughters joined the military because they suddenly felt a kinship with NYC despite living in Montana, or Arkansas, or Idaho for their entire nineteen years because some brown people crashed planes into some buildings. These people don’t even think about the Pentagon; they do now because they are getting their legs and arms and faces blown off due to the decisions made in a five sided building in DC that they’d never really learned about before boot. I’m not sensitive…deal with it. The last election showed me, and you, to the world as a part of a hateful culture which continues to espouse hateful beliefs but only finds new ways of convincing themselves that they are not hateful. See also: law students fighting against affirmative action down the street from one of the longest running political activist events.
Every day we make decisions which shape the culture which supports us. By doing things like donating blood, time, money, food, blankets, clothes, books, musical instruments…we actually create an environment that sounds like the place our elected officials wax philosophically about on television. Tomorrow, I’m going to class. And I will spend one hour trying to learn Spanish. And in that, I am doing more to ease the immigration problem with Mexico. Sound silly? Do you think that if every Texan, Zonie, Nuevo Mexican y Californian spoke fluent Spanish there would be an issue? We can wait for the elected body to save us from whatever it is we need to be saved from, or we can just say “fuck you, I’m doing this because it makes my life better.”

it's hard to hear with all these bibles thumping!

So I was flipping through the channels last night, and I happened to stop on the “Jesus channel.” The one with the old nuns and even older programming dedicated to Catholicism and greater Christian beliefs. Yeah, well, apparently for the 33rd time, the “March for Life” happened a few days ago. I’ve never paid much attention to this event, being that I don’t believe a single thing that it espouses, but for some reason I just couldn’t turn away from the train wreck. It just so happened that I tuned in just as the MC, Nellie Gray, was stuttering her way through an introduction for one of the many Congressmen (and women…sadly) that were in attendance. Here is an excerpt from a site I found with a list of the politicians in attendance:

“It is expected that some Members of Congress and others will speak at the rally, including: Sen. Sam Brownback, and Rep. Christopher H. Smith (R-N.J.), Jeff Fortenbury, (R-Neb.), W. Todd Akin (R-Mo.), Todd Tiahart (R-Kan.), Steve Chabot (R-Ohio), Melissa Hart (R-Pa.), Mike Pence (R-Ind.), Steve King (R-Iowa), Mike Fergerson (R-N.J.), Scott Garrett (R-N.J.), and Jeanne Schmidt (R-Ohio).” (Letter written to USNewswire.com)



This intro for a man affectionately known as, “Mr. Pro-life” was a Rep. from N.J. But, before she gave up the mic, Nellie made mention about how he was trying to stop people from denying “personhood” to “millions of pre-born children.” I guess I’m not the only one who likes to make up words. They’re not fetuses anymore; they’re “pre-born” children. I guess since they’re now considered “pre-born” that means they no longer rely on a “mother” or “post-born organic host” to ensure their livelihood.
Some of the highlights from Congressman Smith’s (R-NJ) speech were things like “we need more fundamentalist truth policy makers” and “faith filled public policy makers” and who doesn’t grow a big rubbery one for a Congressman who quotes Matthew: 25.

Other notable quotes:

Nellie Gray who said “feminist abortionists” no less than a dozen times in the thirty minutes of air time I observed.

Christopher Smith (R-NJ) “We now know that from 20 weeks of development, probably sooner, un…pre-born children feel pain, probably twice as much as we do…”

Jeanne Schmidt (R-Ohio) “Rain is Gods way of cleansing evil.”
(She apparently hadn’t considered that the rain that had been ever present during their march may have been…well, evil. Follow with me now: rain is God cleaning away evil; it is raining on us :. We must be evil! Ramah Ramah Ding Ding.)

I don’t want to get off track here, but this involves two things I hate the most in this world: religious zealots, and Ohio. This time, two Reps. From the big Zeros couldn’t make it for more than a sentence without declaring their intentions to govern as the bible instructs them to. If it wasn’t for Cher and Milt, I would probably have joined Al-Qaeda by now and been the leader of a cell bent of destroying every inch of that vacuous hole in our gene pool.

Old Nellie liked to talk about how Roe v Wade was “not the law of the land” which is kind of silly: that’s exactly what it is. She felt that God’s laws are the law of the land. However which God is still up in the air…and when exactly God spends any time on this land is not yet being considered. Speaking of God abandoning all of us: now is when I like to tell you all about Rabbi Yehuda Levin of New York.

I’m going to say this as gently as I can. The sight of an orthodox Jew standing on the stage with copious anti-Semites is beyond me. He must have forgotten that all these people blame Jews for the death of Christ; believe that unless all Jews convert to Christianity they will all burn in hell. His agenda, which was decidedly more about being anti-homosexual, implied that Katrina, the Tsunami, Rita, Bin Laden, the Iraq War (part dos) and some other catastrophic events were to blame on abortion, or homosexuality, or both. He failed to mention the unbelievable earthquake in Kashmir which aid workers are challenged to even negotiate supplies through the mountainous region let alone the civil war with India. Maybe he overlooked that one due to the undeniable Muslim ness of that region…the good Rabbi would likely not consider me a Jew. But that won’t stop me from considering him an Uncle Tom.

The whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And the spectacle of the march makes me wonder why it is that these people felt comfortable making parallels between the Nazi party and those who support choice? Nellie Gray talked about the Nuremberg trials and suggested that a similar fate was in store for all of us “feminist abortionists.” She sounds like the white power skinheads who talk about the fall of the “Zionist Overrun Government.” Careful there Nellie, you don’t want to align yourself with that movement. Keep it to a kinder, gentler sounding fascism.

In conclusion, I’m going out now, to get an abortion…maybe two. (Breakfast at IHOP—I like my eggs over-hard, over-easy, scrambled; a fetus to feed us, that’s what I say!)