Category Archives: Weird & Peculiar

Intelligence Update [Unredacted Version]

MEMO: From my sources deep in the MAGA HQ, some fresh hot data:

The voting is finished. The incumbent appears to be losing. Will he resist defeat? Issue a call to arms? Seek mayhem in the streets?

From six confidential messages, electronically intercepted, rerouted to my email inbox, then painstakingly decrypted, I can report that one central strategic theme leaps out again & again:

His loyalist followers are now being told not to tolerate the current trend. And so they must now reach into their holsters, lock & load, and prepare to pull the trigger and empty their — wallets.

Yes, behind the bluster & the threats, at the heart of the response is what has always been there, The Holy Grift.

Yes, cabinet secretaries may come and go; pandemics will “turn the corner” and disappear on command; the Superspreader rallies may be paused.

Yet, one things abides through it all and reigns supreme: Continue reading Intelligence Update [Unredacted Version]

Superspreader Campaign: target, Durham NC

My Hometown, Durham NC, is surrounded. Besieged.

I’m stuck in the epicenter of a battleground state, targeted from all directions by the Superspreader presidential campaign.

At least, that’s how it feels.

Yesterday I made a list of all the visits and rallies in North Carolina by principals of the Republican presidential campaign during the last two months.

The tally came to twenty, including several which are set for later this week  (and I might have missed one or two).

Twenty essentially maskless rallies, many with ten thousand-plus crammed in, shouting, cheering, breathing hard.

Continue reading Superspreader Campaign: target, Durham NC

A Passing Ode to Beat Poet Diane di Prima

Diane Di Prima was an anarchist feminist Beatnik poet, who died this past weekend at 86, in San Francisco.

I didn’t really follow her work or career. But I was an early long-distance fan of the Beats, and one of her poems, part of a series of “Revolutionary Letters,” caught my attention.  For my second book, Uncertain Resurrection, about the failure of Dr. King’s 1968 Poor Peoples Campaign,  I included it as an epigraph and opening lament. I can still feel its sting half a century later.

Here it is, along with an excerpt from her obituary in the Washington Post:

Revolutionary Letters #19

Diane DiPrima

if what you want is jobs
for everyone, you are still the enemy,
you have not thought thru, clearly
what it means

if what you want is housing,
industry
(G. E. on the Navaho
reservation)
a car for everyone, garage, refrigerator,
TV, more plumbing, scientific
freeways, you are still
the enemy, you have chosen
to sacrifice the planet for a few years of some
science fiction utopia, if what you want

still is, or can be, schools
where all our kids are pushed into one shape, are taught
it’s better to be “American” than black
or Indian, or Jap, or PR, where Dick
and Jane become and are the dream, do you
look like Dick’s father, don’t you think your kid
secretly wishes you did

if what you want
is clinics where the AMA
can feed you pills to keep you weak, or sterile,
shoot germs into your kids, while Merck & Co.
grows richer

if you want
free psychiatric help for everyone
so that the shrinks,
pimps for this decadence, can make
it flower for us, if you want

if you still want a piece
a small piece of suburbia, green lawn
laid down by the square foot
color TV, whose radiant energy
kills brain cells, whose subliminal ads
brainwash your children, have taken over
your dreams

degrees from universities which are nothing
more than slum landlords, festering sinks
of lies, so you too can go forth
and lie to others on some greeny campus

THEN YOU ARE STILL
THE ENEMY, you are selling
yourself short, remember
you can have what you ask for, ask for

everything Continue reading A Passing Ode to Beat Poet Diane di Prima

A Whole Year In One Stroke

A year ago, on October 10, 2019, I had a stroke. And I saw a vision of my future.

It started in the living room, about 7AM. I was in my battered recliner, reading newspapers on an Ipad. Across from me, on our long couch, grandson Calvin was stirring. His mom worked nights at Waffle House, so he often stayed over. It would soon be time for him to head out for the school bus.

I glanced up at him, and then something else stirred to my left: A bright metallic blue curtain had appeared, and seemed as if it was being drawn to the right, across my field of vision.

There was no pain, in fact no unusual sensation at all. But clearly something was wrong. I called out to Wendy, asleep in our bedroom. “I think I’m having a stroke!”

Calvin had to get himself up and out that morning. Shortly I was walking into the Duke ER, which is barely a mile away. And immediately I discovered one of the upsides of my condition. Having spent many bleak and painful hours in that ER waiting room, when I calmly answered the reception nurse’s “May I help you?” with, “I think I’m having a stroke,” it was like waving Harry Potter’s most potent magic wand.
Continue reading A Whole Year In One Stroke

Michael Cohen & Trump: Something a Bit Lighter

Michael Cohen accompanied Trump on a number of trips to Las Vegas.  A snippet from one such journey, from Disloyal:

Checking into the Vegas Trump Tower, I was summoned up to his suite to discuss the day’s events. Trump was in his underwear, white Hanes briefs, and a white short-sleeve undershirt, watching cable news on television. He barely seemed to register that it was unusual for a grown man to be in a state of undress in front of an employee, but there it was.

On this occasion, Trump was fresh from the shower and he hadn’t done his hair yet, as it was still air-drying. When his hair wasn’t done, his strands of dyed-golden hair reached below his shoulders along the right side of his head and on his back, like a balding Allman Brother or strung out old ’60s hippie.

I called his plane Hair Force One, for good reason. Trump doesn’t have a simple combover.

Continue reading Michael Cohen & Trump: Something a Bit Lighter

Religion? Inner Peace? Quakerism? There’s Apps or pills for all of it

Just kidding about the Quakerism App.

Or am I?

I’m holding on for some “Way Will Open” gummy bears, and an autumn seasoned with SPICE Testimony Lattes, in five (or is it six?)  flavors. I’m sure they’ll all be here soon.

But when will they have a potion for Zoom Burnout & a Remote Committee Meeting Hangover Remedy?

Probably won’t  be long.

And one more nagging question, for the elders among us: what does it mean when pandemic religion (excuse me, spirituality) starts mimicking Doonesbury strips from 40+ years ago?

What follows is not satire. Or not meant to be. Continue reading Religion? Inner Peace? Quakerism? There’s Apps or pills for all of it

Karmic Collision IV: Like a (Kidney) Stone

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Chekhov: “Any idiot can face a crisis; it is this day-to-day living that wears you out.”

Sometime around the late 1980s, I started having two recurring nightmares:

One, I’m maybe at home, or out somewhere, when the sky darkens and a dull roar starts up. It’s a tornado, bearing down on right where I am. I look for shelter, and either there isn’t any, or it’s not enough, and the tornado gets bigger and louder and then its roaring over me;  I  wake up trembling a with night sweats. Or

Two, I wake up, or at least I think I do, but when I try to move, I can’t. I’m paralyzed, and can’t speak either. Much later I read somewhere that this is a twilight, in-between state, no big deal, which goes away quickly. But I didn’t know that then; I would lie there in growing panic until, miraculously, a hand or a foot responds with a wiggle and then I was okay. But I still worried about if, next time, it could be permanent.

Let’s  review: from the outside, in those years I was earning more money than ever; I had job security, good health insurance, and a burgeoning retirement savings plan. Continue reading Karmic Collision IV: Like a (Kidney) Stone

Karmic Collision III: Living My Double Life

Post Office work is more than drudgery. It’s honest, productive work, an integral part of what keeps our society going.

I kept reminding myself of that. But I often wondered: do many children in the United States daydream about growing up and getting a job as a mail handler?

Richard Wright, author of “Native Son” and other works.

I doubt it. Maybe a few want to be letter carriers. Or even postal clerks, like an admired parent or role model.

Mailhandlers are semiskilled laborers. Google was unable to find me any history of the job, or craft in postal lingo.

But it looks like it was an example of “occupational segregation,” which was long rampant in the post office, like everywhere else in the U.S. Mail handlers filled a space between carriers on the outside, and clerks on the inside, lower in status than either.

On Google, the mailhandler’s “Functional Purpose” reads “Responsible for loading, unloading, and moving mail by the bulk. Duties may include long periods of standing, walking, pushing, and reaching. Candidates may also handle mail containers weighing up to 70 pounds.”

Was such a space filled originally by Black workers, who were excluded from other crafts? The fact that I can’t find an answer to that query suggests it was.

But the post office was also an early target of organized efforts to win more and better-paying jobs for Black Americans. And the relatively higher pay and job security attracted many who were blatantly overqualified. Continue reading Karmic Collision III: Living My Double Life

A Theological Emergency that’s part real & part satire. Can you tell the difference?

Operator: Hello, this is Theology 911. What is your theological emergency?

Aunt Mabel: Oh, thank heaven.  OMG it’s so awful!

Operator: Yes, ma’am. Please ma’am, are you in danger?

Aunt Mabel: I sure am, sonny. It’s the guns. And it’s not just me. Please send a SWAT team to my house right away, or it will be too late!

Operator: Right away, ma’am. Let me get some information. Did you say someone else there with you is also in danger?

Aunt Mabel: Yes! Oh, it’s so horrible. It’s God!

Operator: Ma’am, I’m not sure I understand. Are you saying God has guns?

Aunt Mabel: No, no— it’s Biden. Joe Biden.

Operator: Excuse me? Joe Biden is God? Continue reading A Theological Emergency that’s part real & part satire. Can you tell the difference?

Sunday Funnies: Trump & The Revenge of The Tik-Tok Nerds

I know about the register-for-Free-on-the-net thing for Trump rallies. I did it myself in 2016, twice.

But not as a trick. I actually went to those rallies, in Fayetteville NC, one before and one after the election.  I’m the wrong generation for such tech maneuvers

For the first one, I printed out the ticket, and had it ready in my pocket.  But nobody at the gate asked for it; the second time, I didn’t bother.

I was about as far from being a Trumper as one could get. But I went to see if what the media was going nuts about was really happening. Intelligence gathering.

As we now know, way too well,  it was real enough. Or maybe really surreal. Continue reading Sunday Funnies: Trump & The Revenge of The Tik-Tok Nerds