Hot Buttons

From the desk of The Chairman, re: Hot Button Issues of The Day

To: ALL

Salutations and so forth …

Recent BBC report: “A move to provide free internet access to native Indian tribes to help protect the Amazon rainforest from illegal logging has been announced in Brazil.”

Astounding news! Amazing technology! Curious, and I’m still attempting to decipher the meaning of those words, but I don’t think it’s a joke. Could be some sort of South American prank but I don’t think so. (Please have someone, anyone, read the full report and notify our agent in Rio that me and The Wife will be visiting/inspecting again this spring … umm … standard rules of engagement, and so on.)

But it is as if very few folks are in a laughing mood right now, anyway. This new year is about a third of the way through already and, up until now, the annual theme seems to hinge on an agonizing list of “non-binding resolutions” piling up in the Out Box.

Well, I agree, it is all very confusing, it has little to do with our bottom line and there’s no time for laughter. We have too much work to do. Allow me to briefly recap.

For example, I see here this note that we need some new laws. Indications are the old ones aren’t doing their job. From the Seven Deadly Sins to the Twelve Commandments, nobody -- nobody – seems to be paying any attention.

Murder? Oh, that’s a good one. That’s a perfectly written law, another Thou Shalt Not declaration which seems to make sense and one that’s been in the books for a long time. Yes, it can be mitigated to lesser crimes like manslaughter and justifiable homicide but, to my recollection, the rule generally states that if you kill a person then you must be punished in some way.

Maybe PR should spin up on that again. I hope it comes as no surprise to anyone.

It seems so simple, I am not suggesting that law is bad and I’m sure the punishment comes in more forms than just one. But I agree, maybe it just needs a little selective reinforcement. I always thought that laws of the land were written to codify the most beneficial desires of society, OUR society. Perhaps, judging an earthly society of mankind which appears so intent on killing each other off in one way or another or so determined to destroy its natural environment, the language of the laws should be restated to reflect the truth of the matter. It’s almost as if it might be better to just go ahead and say the law only applies to those under the law, excepting those who are above it from any unduly or rude concern.

(Please contact our Legal Dept. on this subject; I need to speak with someone, anyone, down there.)

“What is the point,” to paraphrase Missus Secretary of State, “what is the point of having it if you don’t use it?”

Well, she was talking about something different but that is my point exactly.

Maybe murder is such an inbred condition of man that only those who are held below the demarcation line of purchased discipline and knowledge should ever be held accountable. We can’t expect the cautious caretakers to be responsible for the indiscrete actions of their humble servants. We, the ruling class, do not drive or take the bus to work. We tele-commute or are chauffeured. To my recollection, the moneyed elite do not cook their own meals, they are served their feasts. Our corporate leaders do not wallow in dim, smoky bars watching televised sporting events, they attend lavish galas and calmly observe the game from posh executive suites. These are honest expectations of the status we hold in the community.

I am a firm believer that all should be judged by a jury of self-righteous peers and holding the elite to the same standards as the underprivileged just doesn’t seem fair.

What’s this? Abortion, gay marriage and gun control? Who put this in here? Hot button issues to some, perhaps quick and easy political choices to others, but humdrum concerns to only those hungry fish who swim just below the thermo layer of privilege, those who will never sense the warm enlightenment of a sun created to shine upon them. Fun topics to chat about with your neighbor across the rustic picket fence, I suppose, but murky issues for our suntanned elite to casually ignore. Please!

Universal health care and education? Aha! Finally some good news! These may only be pipe dreams for the destitute and the working class but beneficial tools already bequeathed by the corpulent fathers of fortunate sons and rightfully so. We know about this. At least a few of our many earned these rights and we can and should take some pride in that!

Ehhh … The environment? The ENVIRONMENT? This is where I draw the line, folks. The environment is a resource to be managed and programmed for steady future growth. A diet of pristine beauty that once existed can be fed to the ignorant masses but all the laws must be changed immediately if not sooner to reflect the interests of the shareholders. As a result, I regret to inform you all that one day the water may be colored orange and the trees may be burnt black. But fear not, the sky will always be blue somewhere. Think nothing more of it.

(Those jokers at Legal … are they in today or not?)

Well, that really only leaves me two notes to consider: taxes and a balanced-budget.

Please, people, pay your taxes and pay them on time. I don’t really think I need to remind you that Accounting has done a heck of a job trimming the fat. I see some concern about where the money is all going, indictments regarding certain flamboyant expenditures and so on, but trust me, it all goes to serve your better interests. And if any of you think that I’m going to answer another 2 AM phone call and be driven in to bail you out, well, you’re wrong. I am not doing that again! Word to the wise, you know. As to the balance of things, well, until we see some improvement in the numbers (SALES! ARE YOU LISTENING?) or until the planned takeover in Austria goes through, we will be subsisting on credit for some time to come. So, be prepared to operate under austere conditions, limited funding for future programs, and so on, and so on.

Umm … of course, it’s all very non-binding, to be sure … hope this finds you all well … looking forward to the annual roundup in Houston this fall … warmest regards … The Chairman, etc, etc.

Cheers,

Mb

Nixonian Moments

In August of 1973, Vice President Spiro T. Agnew said, “I am innocent of any wrongdoing.” A young lad I knew back then listened to that statement and believed it.

The young lad then listened to President Richard M. Nixon tell the world how he still supported his vice president. The young lad believed that, too.

Oh, back then, that young lad was what they call naïve.

When Agnew resigned in October of the same year, after pleading nolo contendere in federal court to various bribery charges, the young lad was rudely enlightened to the truth which hides behind fancy words. Suddenly, it seemed to the young lad, all the words he had spent so much time and effort learning up to that point changed in a big way.

They did not lose their meaning but simply reflected the opposite of their original intent. With this understanding, ‘yes’ was forever ‘no’ and ‘no’ was forever ‘yes’.

A month later, on November 17, 1973, a date which should live in infamy, the young lad listened closely as 400 Associated Press folks were told that President Nixon had not profited from public service.

"I have earned every cent. And in all of my years in public life I have never obstructed justice. People have got to know whether or not their president is a crook. Well, I'm not a crook."

President Nixon, 11/73

It was somewhat comforting then for the young lad to learn a few months later, in April, 1974, that the White House announced Nixon would pay $432,787.13 in back taxes plus interest as a result of investigations into his finances.

This policy of using words with opposite intentions, thought the young lad, was a very effective tool, indeed. It seemed every time it was employed, it signaled that a nolo contendere truth was about to be unveiled. And Nixon and his particular crowd, the young lad noted, had mastered this policy with great effect.

What would life be like in this world where all spoken words only represented their opposite meanings? It was not known but, as time flowed on unflinchingly, the young lad grew to anxiously await the declarations of proud men. As each statement of opposite nature was spoken, the young lad dissected it, glorified it, and transcribed it for posterity in a small notebook he titled “Nixonian Moments in History.”

"Our government has a firm policy not to capitulate to terrorist demands... We did not—repeat, did not—trade weapons or anything else for hostages, nor will we.”

President Ronald Reagan, 12/86

A year later, in response to accusations that he really did know public funds were being secretly diverted during the Iran-Contra affair, President Ronald Reagan said, “I just didn’t know.”

Such brilliance, gushed the young lad! This journal entry reveals his joy: “How perfect, how succinct, how utterly Nixonian!”

When it came to words of opposite intention, the young lad then expected nothing less from a man called the Great Communicator. The young lad later noted that even if President George H.W. Bush was able to keep a straight face and say “No new taxes” without a waver in his voice, Reagan was still the King.

But the truth would be restrained and the big wheel of illusion kept on rolling.

Speaking to the media, President Bill Clinton’s voice did waver as he declared, “I want to say one thing to the American people. I want you to listen to me. I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky."

With a raised clenched fist, he went on: "I never told anyone to lie, not a single time, never. These allegations are false and I need to go back to work for the American people."

That was in January, 1998, and for some the era of words with opposite meanings was just beginning. To the lad, who by then was a young man already wet and weak with unclenched fists, it was more than just what “is is or isn’t” but it was at the same time all just more of the same game.

Honestly, though, even this young man who had devoted his adult life to the study of words with opposite meanings was not prepared for what would happen next.

“Again, I want to thank you all for -- and, Brownie, you're doing a heck of a job. The FEMA Director is working 24 -- (applause) -- they're working 24 hours a day.

Again, my attitude is, if it's not going exactly right, we're going to make it go exactly right. If there's problems, we're going to address the problems. And that's what I've come down to assure people of. And again, I want to thank everybody.

And I'm not looking forward to this trip. I got a feel for it when I flew over before. It -- for those who have not -- trying to conceive what we're talking about, it's as if the entire Gulf Coast were obliterated by a -- the worst kind of weapon you can imagine. And now we're going to go try to comfort people in that part of the world.

Thank you. (Applause.)”

Applause, indeed, wrote the young man in September, 2005. Applause, applause, applause! Every item covered, every truth befuddled, every word magically crucified and exposed for what it is.

Could it get any better?

Yes, there was still something lacking, thought the young man. It was no time to ease up.

In this critical period, we need more, he thought.

“Secretary Rumsfeld's energetic and steady leadership is exactly what is needed at this critical period," President George W. Bush said in a written statement in April, 2006.

Good. That was close! Could not have said it better myself, thought the young man.

Then, the Washington Post reported that during a recent news conference on Capitol Hill, when asked about the declining support for his Attorney General Alberto Gonzales, Bush interjected: "He's got support from me."

How strange! How oddly indirect and passive!

Yet, the now old man cautiously entered that quote into the last page of Nixonian Moments and closed the book. ‘We have now come full circle,’ he thought to himself.

Gonzales is doomed and Nixon would be proud.

On the death of Nixon, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson offered the following dispatch:

“Some people will say that words like scum and rotten are wrong for Objective Journalism--which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place. He looked so good on paper that you could almost vote for him sight unseen. He seemed so all-American, so much like Horatio Alger, that he was able to slip through the cracks of Objective Journalism. You had to get Subjective to see Nixon clearly, and the shock of recognition was often painful.”

Yeah, thought the old man, the Doctor was right about that. When judging words with opposite meanings, a Subjective approach is absolutely necessary. The “built-in blind spots” of Objectivity prevent us from acknowledging the illusory content of unintended meaning. The ultimate and intoxicating nolo contendere result is only possible in the minds of people who are led by the nose to drink from the stagnant waters of a frothy subjective analysis.

Here, as the old man sadly noted in his last chapter, we may have a democratic republic still inebriated if not suffering a wickedly enduring hangover from the final words of one dark gatekeeper of the curiously subjective, words which may never be overshadowed in their ironic tribute to the truth in opposite meanings:

“There is one cause above all to which I have been devoted and to which I shall always be devoted for as long as I live.

When I first took the oath of office as President 5 1/2 years ago, I made this sacred commitment, to ‘consecrate my office, my energies, and all the wisdom I can summon to the cause of peace among nations.’

I have done my very best in all the days since to be true to that pledge. As a result of these efforts, I am confident that the world is a safer place today, not only for the people of America but for the people of all nations, and that all of our children have a better chance than before of living in peace rather than dying in war.

This, more than anything, is what I hoped to achieve when I sought the Presidency. This, more than anything, is what I hope will be my legacy to you, to our country, as I leave the Presidency.

To have served in this office is to have felt a very personal sense of kinship with each and every American. In leaving it, I do so with this prayer: May God's grace be with you in all the days ahead.”

The resignation speech of Richard M. Nixon, 8/8/74

Cheers,

Mb

The Story of Our Lives

As I walked into the Two Dogs Café, I braced myself for the possiblity that the patrons of the bar would be drenched with gloom and despair. If my fears were founded, I knew it would not be a happy day.

But before I could even sit down or get a feel for the atmosphere, a short and dark Carlos of Sturgis waved to me from the corner of the bar.

“How’s Bamboo today?” he asked cheerfully in his standard third person. I’ve noticed that this removed acknowledgment is his favorite and, being the charismatic leader he is, he has encouraged many others in the area to speak in this same fashion.

I gladly realized my fears were misplaced and then thought that it was curious how a selected reading of Hemingway had so easily encouraged me to reconsider time. But that week I had a lot of time to reconsider it.

At some point, long before I reached the bar, I also read about the modern scientists who now claim time travel to the past is impossible. They reported nothing new, of course, about travel to the future.

Fools, I thought. Had they not read Hemmingway? Had they not traveled in their minds to days gone by to learn from anyone? Had I not learned their own claim only after they had spoken it?

Earlier that afternoon I sped up the ramp onto the tired, looping interstate. Approximately two minutes after I began my trip down the highway, I slowed to a stop in between exits. The traffic had clogged and I could see that an accident had occurred only moments before about 300 meters in front of me. Soon, other stopped cars and trucks surrounded me there in between the off ramps. I switched off the truck’s engine and sat there helplessly watching as a screaming ambulance, fire truck and other emergency vehicles all responded promptly to the scene.

I could see that soon after the emergency crews arrived their urgency was replaced with a more methodical pace. Bad news here, I thought. Yet it was a well orchestrated response, no doubt one that took considerable practice to perfect.

Crash scene photos were taken, crucial distances were measured and witnesses were isolated and interviewed. Paramedics first scrambled with heavy gear and then walked with a brisk understanding of their task and the nonchalant tow tuck driver stood quietly near his truck and smoked a cigarette. As their orderly routine progressed, I realized I would be there a while.

So, I retrieved The Sun Also Rises from its secret hiding spot and proceeded to finish the book there on the highway while the fatal accident was cleared away a few hundred meters in front of me.

I only had about 70 pages remaining. Honestly, up to that point, I found the story meandering and filled with pointless dialogue. Perhaps, I thought, it was only pointed in how it had once affected and altered American literature. Had it been written today, though, I doubted it would have found a publisher.

Semantics is alive and the words in this story are so old. Sound cautions for any future author, I suppose, but I wondered how any modern child could understand them now. The words “sore” and “tight”, for example, were employed in a very trendy way for the time but in uncommon way for our reference.

After the first few chapters, I had to ask young D$ to confirm the style in which the word “rather” is spoken by major characters in the book. To my mind, whether you are prone to the harsh Midwestern “r” or the softer coastal version, you would never properly voice that word in the tonal way Hemmingway heard it if you hadn’t been fed a steady diet of high-browed movies from the 1940’s.

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Lady Ashley.

The catchy little tune “pity and irony” was sung by the entire chorus throughout but, in fact, I discovered little irony rising to the surface.

But then I entered the arena and was finally introduced to the bull fight and the grand festival of Pamplona. It was the part of the story that I was anxiously awaiting but it still took me by surprise. As the scene went on, I wondered about all the possible ways to describe it and the unlimited endings it could have had. I expected that if it was like a modern American novel it was at this point that the plot would twist and turn into something more intriguing than what had proceeded. I halfway pondered how the bullfighter’s painful goring and bloody death would be described. I wondered how his unfulfilled love would bear up in the face of such tragedy.

Then the story ended with only the slightest tribute to what might have been.

Ha! What I thought for moment might be allusion to Hollywood, turned out to be more like testimony to Kansas: Waterless and flat -- very flat.

I closed the book and put it back in its secret hiding place. I wanted it to end differently but concluded my summary would end the same nonetheless. I thought that if I had been around at the time I would have urged an alternative. But it was very real, I guessed, and the author was shaped by his own perceptions of reality like we all are. In fact, I believed, those practiced, dishonest perceptions are what define our reality. If we just realized that effect and practiced it some more, maybe we would one day find a way to alter our reality just by thinking about it. Maybe we could then travel anywhere to any time and change the endings to better suit us. Maybe if we really wanted peace and justice in a world full of hate and crime, all we had to do was think about it really hard. I thought about that as I sit there frustrated in the traffic jam and I closed my eyes and tried to visualize myself driving happily down the highway towards my destination in the near future. Maybe, I thought, if I could just picture it clearly then the sea of cars would part and my vision would become reality.

The cars didn’t move and neither did I, or so it seemed.

And that’s where I’m stuck now, I thought, perfectly confusing the past while not seeing the present for what it is. Maybe all our individual perceptions work against each other. Maybe it was only in someone else’s reality that I was where I wanted to be while my present perception remained stalled. Maybe, I thought, it’s this little problem I have with the true now that keeps our perceptions from ever agreeing.

Finally, I awoke without any great fanfare and the line of cars and trucks ahead of me began to hum and creep forward so I started my engine and slowly followed the line, noting with surprise that I had sat there reading and thinking at full stop on the highway for nearly an hour and a half.

As I inched past the surreal scene of the wreck, my eyes quickly scanned the red and blue flashing light for clues to the devastation of the modern bullfight. In spite of my mild irritation for the delay in my travel, I quickly understood that I had nothing to complain about. I realized that then, at nearly that precise moment, shocked family members were just being notified of a terrible tragedy. More sad news from the past, more maddening reports from a now that had already happened, I thought.

And then the wrecked vehicle came into my view.

A crumpled motorcycle with mangled handle bars and dented fuel tank leaned on the road. I could tell only that it was a soft tail body style and its color had once been a dark purple. The tow truck driver shoveled fluid absorbent under the wreckage to mop the spilled oil and gas.

Suddenly, I fought with an unwanted and frightful thought as it crossed my mind. “It looks like Carlos’ bike,” I reluctantly told myself as I crawled slowly past the scene.

Soon, I was speeding down the highway, leaving the wreckage behind me, exactly where I wanted to be at one time. But try as I might to dismiss the idea that Carlos had lost his life on the road, that distressing thought lingered in the back of my mind. Once I completed my trip, I raced back to Two Dogs Café to anxiously read the past news and hoped I would arrive there long before my false perceptions did.

“Bamboo is fine,” I replied to Carlos as I sat down at the bar. “And it’s good to see Carlos alive and well.”

“Hey, I do what I can,” he answered with a sly smile while tipping his glass towards me, “but I can only do so much.”

That may be the story of our lives, I thought, the story of our lives.

Cheers,

Mb

Children of the Lost Gen

“…Time is a tyrant, a menace that spares not one … Time becomes little more than a question of what? What is time? Modern thought is based on this question of time. And from an inquiry of time has gone a question of the nature of time. In modern literature, the thought of time has spawned from the works of St. Augustine, Joyce, Woolf, Kafka, Mann, Eliot, Sartre, Proust, Conrad, James, and Faulkner. Each writer chose to explore time and problems relating to time.”

Stolen from the hidden files of D$

In our time, it’s safe to expect the days will grow longer before they grow shorter. Or is it the other way around?

Whatever circular method you may choose, last week was a pleasant and delectable Movable Feast when all things were wonderful, just wonderful, and the smallest details unveiled great insight. With no better preparation than that, this week welcomed a reluctant realization that the Sun Also Rises on every corner of this earth. A slow and plodding realization, more like a very long letter home rather than a brisk read of current conditions and perhaps if Lady Ashley had only disciplined herself more, somehow found a way to keep her witty little mouth shut every now and then, things would have turned out completely different.

Unlike most other chains of events studied under modern man’s stern microscope, Hemingway’s unusual life is best reflected in reverse order. It’s laughable to suggest that the first chapter, written decades before, could even begin to approach the weight of those that came later. To understand a man and his lost generation, it seems, the last chapter always comes first. The wise reader must start the reading with his death.

That way certainly eliminates the guess work and saves a considerable amount of time.

Using every predictable device known to our literary detective, it’s clear now that the puddled mass of warm wax on the dinner table once proudly stood in the form of a long and slender candle. Measuring its current temperature, it is believed that this brilliant object exhausted its energy not that long ago. We can really only imagine how that flame once flickered, shedding its uneven light unto the consuming dark, waving stubbornly between warm romance and cold rejection.

Now, as to when it all began, it might be easy to conclude that an unknown hand simply struck a match and touched a fire to the wick, igniting a predetermined and unpreventable flow of events. But that simple deduction would overlook the complex fact that the candle and the match needed to be manufactured from a steady supply of natural and man-made resources. Somewhere along this line of evidence, beneficial desire forced the hand to select these tools for a reason. Without a doubt, the decision to light this candle occurred long before it ever burned.

And, obviously, such combustible materials should be handled carefully.

In my mind, these stories are just more lessons in the unpredictable nature of seemingly predictable events in a world where even “now” is truly not known. We are always a few moments from the real “now” while the blinding light bends its way toward our faces. It takes years of “now” to turn the page over to “then” but the process can appear almost instantaneous. Trust me, these words you are reading now were already read by you then even though you just began to comprehend them. Our understanding of a remote “then” is far more accurate than it is of any intimate “now”. Strangely, although it was impossible to know then what we know now, through the miracle of the mind we can still feel like we did. When that happens, a grand table is set and we find a delicious feast at the end of our wishes.

In terms of books of the dead, it seems “then” was an odd place where men and women once spoke in foreign tongues and basked in a luxurious sense of chaotic nowness. Forgettable characters were always remembered back then. Real bastards were given whole chapters, frighteningly dull conversation was spelled out to the letter and common public bus rides were worthy of ornate description.

Rather than the entire generation, only the expatriated slice of discarded royalty, whores and gold diggers ever rose to prominence. Georgette and Lady Ashley were only distinguishable by the color and deteriorating stage of their teeth.

Perhaps for the first time, time tended to stand still and any frail human responsibility to recognize it was cast aside. This new age then ushered in a new people who replaced time, wandered the hillsides in search of daytime gratification and lived their nights by the creed that the best time was only spent when one couldn’t remember where it went.

If Miss Stein had been more acutely aware, she would have noted in her concise way that this generation was not so much lost as it was merely following headlong in the path of its leader. If endless time flows, then it flows in both directions. As children of that generation and children of time, who are we to criticize that?

Now and then, we know there’s a lot to consider when sifting the scattered ashes of history. Sometimes, we may be distracted for a while and return to find that the flame extinguished itself, a hopeless wick bent and charred and buried, a tiny light which drowned itself in its own unforgiving fuel. That sad state is easily explainable as a helpless victim of the environment, a brief and subtle tribute to our candle maker’s skill; to our eyes, nothing miraculous there.

Other times, we may fall into a sound sleep and awake to be alerted to a more dramatic result. That cruel fire may rage for days on end. It may destroy our homes and cities and forests and weave its destructive path all the way to the nearest river. We can only hope that the river will be wide enough, its flow swift enough, that no fire will pass over it.

When an unthinking river forgives our mistakes and our distractions, then we can say that is truly a miracle.

We can casually say “He was a man of his times” and leave it at that, thinking we have no better way to explain the brutal yet healing aspects of time.

Yet these words fail to describe Time properly. No words meet the test of Time. Time is the strange universal glue that keeps the sun rising. We can enhance our vision of all known things but once we take the constant of Time out of the equation we are left with very little. We can’t think of defining the events of our lives, the speed with which we shuffle through them, or the energy we expend in such pursuit without a shallow guess of what Time may actually be.

The Sun Also Rises is the main course at the Moveable Feast and Time has a relentless appetite for all matter. If it is true that only opposites attract, then stubborn Time will continue to defy our explanation because it is the exact opposite of everything we know under that Sun.

But we can detect from the remnants of a fast life violently consumed by Time, from the small drops of dried pieces left here and there on the diner table, Hemingway’s particular flame must have given off one hell of a light. And we can rest assured, judging by what we know now of our past, that one day Time will come asking for another sacrificial meal, a brilliant flash of equal if not greater significance.

Cheers,

Mb

Who you calling nigger, nigger?

“Nigger. And so this one night I decided to make it my own. Nigger. I decided to take the sting out of it. Nigger. As if saying it over and over again would numb me and everybody else to its wretchedness. Nigger. Said it over and over like a preacher singing hallelujah...Saying it changed me, yes it did. It gave me strength, let me rise above…”

Richard Pryor, Pryor Convictions

“Imagine a white person saying that. It wouldn't make a lick of sense. Is that a double-standard, or a reflection of two totally different cultural and historical perspectives? That's what I meant by ‘Plain and simple, the word means something completely different when uttered by a black person as opposed to a white.’

History is a double-standard, a kaleidoscope-standard: In America, that history means one things for blacks, another for whites. The usage of "nigger" is the one word I'm gladly willing to allow that so-called double-standard because it is the one word that reflects the historical double-standard. What I'm really saying is it cannot be a double-standard because white and black come at the word from totally different perspectives.”

Geoff Sherwood, Uncommon Commentator of The Tropaion

Ok, I think I’m starting to get “IT” now. That last reply from the author of the Tropaion helped me a lot. I hope you realize, I am not agreeing with anyone who thinks this silly word should be outlawed. But it does bother me, no matter who says it, and I think the purpose of this exercise is to help me explain to myself why it should not be outlawed in the first place.

In order for me to understand, I have to imagine it differently, though. Instead of vague black on white, I need to give “IT” a face.

Snoop Dogg: “I call myself nigger because that’s who I am.”

Mister Boles: “I calls them niggers cuz that’s what they is.”

Or, as my dad used to subtly describe, “Old Joe’s a nigger but everyone likes him anyway.”

If you read on in Pryor’s writings, he claims to have a specific definition of the word. To him, as The Trope says, it defines a persevering perspective among blacks about themselves, a perspective that I am unqualified to even describe. To whites, I don’t know, maybe that could equate to the overbearing “average” quality that whites try so hard to define and maintain about everyone of their color. Snoop has his version, Boles and my dad had their own, and all these differing versions seem to never compromise.

In Pryor Convictions, he says again that he went to Africa where he didn't see any niggers. He came back “regretting ever having uttered the word 'nigger' on a stage or off it. It was a wretched word. Its connotations weren't funny, even when people laughed. To this day I wish I'd never said the word. I felt its lameness. It was misunderstood by people. They didn't get what I was talking about. Neither did I … So I vowed never to say it again."

Pryor Convictions

“When the underlying motivation is different, the true double-standard is in the heart of the white person who expects to be treated the same for saying, technically, the same thing that black people say all the time, while meaning, unbeknownst to themselves, something very different. This is why blacks have such a visceral reaction to white attempts to steamroller all nuance out of it and expect them to accept some white-defined universal standard for using ‘nigger.’”

Sherwood

Pryor eventually called his word “lame” which he even misunderstood but I called it “hypocritical” which even I can admit is a rug too large for my own sweep.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think we are all still speaking the same language.

Today, in spite of Pryor’s vow, we struggle on with two distinct definitions for this word which are based on opposing perspectives that can only be described as Whites-only and Blacks-only.

As we know from our history, that may be a dangerous situation but “IT” would only be a double-standard if we all enjoyed the same definition, which we clearly do not. Thus, I regret to say, the argument of general hypocrisy is lost.

My bad.

So, the original Tropaion article, which all should read, points out the misguided reasons behind outlawing this word “nigger” in NYC, even if that means allowing the most hateful Whites-only definition to linger. Personally, I am left in this murky semantic swamp where every time I hear the benign Blacks-only version, I am immediately and painfully reminded of the ignorant Whites-only version and I just want it all to stop.

Ahh … finally … there is my key to unlock this mystery.

Clearly, outlawing any words in this country should be a crime in itself. I remain steadfast in my first conclusion that the civic-minded souls on the east coast who first concocted this strange unenforceable legislation should clean off their desks, turn out the lights and lock their office doors behind them. They are not needed in this country.

Beyond that, there’s no good reason to penalize or criminalize modern youth, for example, for saying this word “nigger” if, based on a modern black perspective which I do not understand, it is deemed more a compliment rather than an epithet.

If any person merely offends another by saying the word “nigger”, then perhaps that offending person should reconsider. But the fact is that it’s only offensive when white people use the word in contrast to an acceptable black definition that whites can not even begin to fathom.

Most importantly, any legislation or moralizing against the use of the word “nigger” will only suppress a painful truth which we should not allow ourselves the comfort of ignoring. And this is the point. That truth is that as this silly word can only be defined by distinct Whites-only and Black-only perspectives, it only symbolically arises from a nation that truly remains segregated by a distinct Whites-only and Blacks-only cultural divide.

If struggling to cross over that divide means suffering the hurtful sound of the word “nigger”, then so be it.

You see, that’s the road I was going down with Willy and Dink. I have a decent idea of how and when the Whites-only definition took hold. I was hoping the brothers would show me in Part II how the Blacks-only version was first developed.

Now, after reading The Trope’s article, I don’t think I’m able to contemplate how that journey ends. But, who knows, I might learn enough to finish it some day in the future.

Cheers,

Mb

Willy and Dink, Part I

Thud, thud, jingle, thud, one hoof after the other, the old brown mule rhythmically snorted and clomped as it ambled slowly down the narrow dirt road between the darkened bean fields. The damp dust of the already humid morning barely moved in the air as each hoof hit the ground with a shuffling thump. The tiny silver bell on her harness hung in balance mostly throughout the mule’s limping gate and only sounded out when her third step pounded forcefully into the hard ground.

From his saddled perch atop the old mule, the reddened and plump Mister Frederick Samuel Boles could see about a half mile in any direction across the smooth farm land that expanded out from the road around him. Although his accurate navigation was sometimes questioned by his neighbors, he was sure he would reach his destination well before 5:30 in the morning. He lifted the brim of his fine straw hat and wiped the day’s first drop of sweat from his pink brow with the back of his right hand while holding on firmly to the leather reigns with his left. The air smelled thick with the heat of his desperate world but he pushed on toward the stream and prodded the wobbling mule to keep moving. He felt the old mule’s back muscles quiver violently now and then underneath his legs and he expected she wouldn’t go much farther than that once the sun came up anyway.

As the orange-blue sky announced the new sun’s approach, Mister Boles glanced forward to notice muted brothers Willy and Dink in worn overalls and dirty sleeveless shirts, heads down and each carrying a wooden handled shovel on his shoulder, walking barefoot side by side on the dirt road in front of the lumbering mule.

Occasionally Dink, the taller and blacker one on the right, would turn his head while walking ahead and have a nervous look back at the mule’s face. Dink’s distraction greatly disturbed Mister Boles.

“What you lookin’ at, Dink?” asked Boles loudly.

“I’s worried about ol’ Molly,” Dink said in his deep yawning drawl. “She don’t sound so good.”

Boles’ heavy jowls jiggled with irritation as the mule tilted and took an awkward step into a shallow hole in the road. He grimaced with momentary shock until the mule straightened out and then he barked back at Dink. “You keep your ungrateful eyes to the front and let me worry about ol’ Molly,” he said.

“Yessuh,” Dink answered politely.

“We only got a short more ways to go,” Boles explained steadily while squeezing his puffy eyelids toward a line of trees in the dim distance, speaking more to himself rather than addressing Willy and Dink.

Mister Boles stiffened in his saddle as the team was about fifty feet from the line of tall, thin River Birch, each dry limb unbending in the calm of the windless morning.

“Ok, ok, I think we stop … right … about … here,” he said, puffing the word “here” out through his nose as if he was fighting the urge to sneeze.

Willy and Dink stopped and faced the trees but noticed in the corner of their eyes that the old mule continued dragging on a step or two, her slow but steady momentum leaving her broad nose on a line evenly in between their opposite elbows. They shuffled forward silently as the warm, moist exhaust of her panting breath unnerved them both and they turned to face the fat white man in vest, light coat and wrinkled trousers, a dyed white straw hat sitting as uneasily on his rounded bald head as he himself sat uncomfortably atop his shuddering and spent mule.

“Now, we gonna dig,” Boles began to excitedly squeal his instructions while removing a folded piece of paper from his vest pocket, “we’s gonna dig a shallow trench from the side of this avenue on down to the crick, there behind those trees. Once we’ve done that, we’ll be bringin’ Mister Jones’ con-tramp-shun on down to run crick water into that ditch. From there, we’ll be runnin’ some pipin’ on out to try and fortify this God-forsaken spot of dirt on either side of this here road.”

“Now, uh, I knows,” Boles continued while scanning his unfolded paper for clues, “I knows, considerin’ the sad state of this crap for earth, this effort will most likely take you boys a while to complete but I have confidence it will be done. And Mister Jones assures me your efforts will not be in vain. Now, I, uh…”

Boles turned the folded paper to the side and pulled his head back to better see the note.

“Damn,” he said as continued to turn the paper upside down and around again.

“Here is, uh,” he sniffed again, “Damn!”

Willy, the shorter and lighter one on the left, let his shovel slide off his shoulder and allowed the business end of it to sink slightly into the cracked, sun-baked dirt road. He turned to silently look at his brother Dink who now had his lips pursed together, his large brown eyes staring up into the gradually bluing sky. Old Molly the mule then rang her harness bell as she shook her head and sent a thin white rivulet of drool streaming toward him, nearly evaporating before it landed and forming the tiniest darkened spot of spitted mud on the ground that he’d ever seen.

“Damn!” said Boles again as he refolded the paper and slid it back into his vest pocket.

“I’m afraid Mister Jones’ note has omitted one critical detail. His plan does not specify which side of the road is most appropriate for diggin’ the trench. Seems I have no choice now. I must return to his guv’ment office at Fishin’ River immediately and clear up this confusion. I’m afraid, boys, this will set us back a little.”

Boles spoke while turning his stout body to look around him as the sun inched up above the low hills to the east.

“I reckon it’s nearly a three mile ride to Fishin’ River, so I’ll be along as quick as ol’ Molly will allow. You boys can sit here and wait until I git back.”

With that pronouncement complete, Boles began wildly kicking and prodding Old Molly but she refused to move a leg. Willy and Dink dropped their shovels on the road and took up positions on either side of her, pushing and slapping her flanks until she hesitantly turned around to face in the opposite direction she had just walked.

“Yaw, mule!” Boles yelled and her harness bell rang out and then she took one shaky step and then another and then another. Thud … thud … jingle, thud … thud, thud, jingle, thud. When Boles was satisfied that she had built up enough stubborn steam to be headed down the road in the right direction, he turned and yelled back at his two slaves who stood still on the road behind him.

“Willy! I’m talkin’ to you now since you’re the clever one of the litter. Either one of you niggers goes to runnin’ off and you knows what will happen! You stay put until I git back, you hear?”

“Yessuh, don’t you worry none about us,” Willy yelled back at Mister Boles.

End Part I

Neighbors In The Know

At first I doubted my neighbors would know that I didn’t pay my 2006 county property taxes until the last day of February. But if they did, I wondered, would they think any less of me?

Would they just expect I suddenly came to the guilty realization that an extra $20 late fee would be added if I waited another day before I rushed home in a fit on a stormy evening and dumped a year’s worth of mail on the floor of my office and cried like a little baby because I couldn’t find the misplaced tax statement? Would they know that in such a dreadful state I would call The Wife and promise her anything if she’d hurry and help me find the damn thing? Would they assume that before I got home I would stop at the county courthouse a half hour before closing and speak with an uninformative Arlene at the information desk and plead for a copy of the lost document to no avail? Would they know that Arlene would just bat her large pitying eyes and tell me to pay it online or stand in line at the cashier’s window like everyone else? Would they then guess that I’d stand in a crowded queue which didn’t move an inch toward the window for 14 minutes before the woman and her three screaming kids in front of me made the small bones in my right ear rattle like dangling car keys? Would it not be surprising to them that I then ran from the courthouse like a madman and raced home with the windows down in my truck and yelled “Dumb! DUMB!” out loud frightening innocent road travelers at each stop light? Would they then believe I sprinted in the house from the drive and shut the doors to my office and briskly advised the affection-starved dogs in the hall to fend for themselves? Would they fully understand that while sprawled on the floor of my office, paging through old 1998 bank statements, The Wife would suddenly open the office door, stroll in with her coat still on and close her eyes, literally close her eyes, and with two well-placed fingers lift the errant document from the pile of yellowed papers and casually ask, “Is this what you are looking for?” Would they know that I then wasted the next 22 minutes frantically searching the online county assessor’s page before finding the correct user-friendly link to pay the tax and then go back and forth from the tax document to the web page nervously looking for something called a “Parcel ID #” before finally, finally paying the tax in full at 3:36 PM PST on the last day in February?

No, I don’t think any of that would surprise them at all.

I know the neighbors witnessed The Wife and I abruptly leave the house shortly after that ordeal. They saw The Wife driving the car and me leaning back uncomfortably in the passenger’s seat wiping the sweat from my brow. They certainly welcomed us with the routine salutations as we both entered the Two Dogs café on Main Street after the short drive down the hill.

They saw Heather, the bartender, knowingly reach for the Canadian as soon as I waddled in the pub door and they heard me remind her that two glasses would be needed since The Wife was in tow. They listened as Heather and I scientifically calculated how many drinks would be required prior to ordering two KC strip dinners. She was positive that it would only take Rodney the cook 15 minutes or so to prepare the steaks so we both openly agreed that a couple figurative rounds of pre-drinking were well within the indistinct realm of possibility.

After the first drink washed away the latent anxiety, the neighbors eavesdropped as The Wife and I recovered the facts. We said that once Mom was out of the hospital and the boys were on their way and the sun came out again that we needed to get back on the road to somewhere. A long journey was at first considered but, no, I said, this wasn’t just one of those things you talk loosely about at the bar, we needed to purposefully plan a trip that was within our means, a real walk-about some place within a 3-hour drive where we could spend a weekend and have some real fun and enjoy ourselves and forget everything we left behind for a while.

And then the second round of drinks came and with future plans still hanging in the smoky air Heather looked at me and I nodded. She looked at me again and confirmed, “No sour cream on the potato; Italian?” and I replied in the affirmative. She asked The Wife’s desire and then wrote on her order form, “The Works with Ranch.”

As the sun outside had set and the clouds of another threatening early Spring thunderstorm began to brew to the West, the neighbors began wandering into the pub two by two and my salad magically appeared before me at the bar. The Wife hugged and kissed and spoke to them all the while I waved a stiff hello from my perch occasionally and tightened my lips in the acute manner of my painful smile. The Wife chatted with a pair of ladies while I poked at my limp leafy salad with horrid shredded yellow cheese and dreamed of acidic ripe tomatoes, slices of pungent onion and gorgeously black fresh olives smothered in oil and feta like the traditional Greek ‘horiatiki’ which was once my staple on an island far away and long ago.

Another round of Canadian and the steaks were served and The Wife talked while eating and I ate while thinking. And The Wife was gossiping on with another pair and she said something and they said they hadn’t heard that and she said, “Oh? Didn’t Bamboo tell you?” and I felt the sting as they looked at me with devil eyes but I tried to ignore them as I pushed the phony butter away to coarsely chop my naked baked potato then stabbed another chunk of medium pink meat from my plate.

“Well,” laughed the one, “He doesn’t always say much.”

And the other said happily to The Wife, “But that’s why we talk to you!”

And they all gladly agreed to The Wife’s beautiful charm and personality and I chewed my steak and nodded my head to confirm that the overheard characterization was well spoken. In the end, when one thinks about it, I assessed as I sliced my steak, one needn’t say much when so much is already understood so well by so many.

Then the one said, “But he is a good dart thrower.”

“Yes, he is,” said the other.

“Yes,” said The Wife.

I ignored that last pointless summary and finished my steak. Heather came to take my plate away and recharge my glass, smartly saving the whiskey-drenched ice in the bottom as I had previously instructed her to do.

The Wife was now fully engaged with others and the loud chatter around the bar was reaching a new crescendo and I lighted a ciggy and strained to hear the sitcom playing on the TV in the corner. Confused, I suddenly couldn’t understand the muted language of the show. An old man at the bar growled at Heather, “Hey, why are they speaking Spanish?” She said she didn’t know, that earlier the weather report on the inbound storm front was in English but maybe somebody was messing with her.

And I thought, well, this could be great discovery. Perhaps I had been missing out on quite a bit at the old pub. Maybe once things quieted down somewhat, maybe I could sneak nearer to the TV and learn some Spanish and then maybe I wouldn’t consider the day lost. Maybe, I thought, I will go to Spain or Mexico some day and be endlessly welcomed by those who speak that language just because I had put in a little effort while drinking whiskey at the bar.

As I sipped my fresh Canadian and pondered that idea, Heather quickly forgot the Spanish sitcom and came to me and asked if the steak was good. I looked at her, swallowed cleanly, and then placed my glass squarely on the bar and said as quickly and clearly as I could in English, “Perfect”, unfortunately not remembering the correct word to say in Spanish.

She smiled but she knew it was perfect in any language before she had even bothered to ask me. She knew how to accurately sum up one plus one. She knew what I would drink, she knew what I would eat, and she knew what I would or wouldn’t say. She knew I wanted to go somewhere but I didn’t know where. She knew I was a good dart thrower and she knew what adventures I would consider while watching sitcoms in Spanish. She probably also knew that I would forget to pay my personal property taxes until 3:36 PM PST on the last day of February.

All the neighbors knew me that day. And I don’t think they thought any less of me.

Cheers,

Mb