I'm outta here...

I am two days away from rejoining Aleda and Maria in Nova Scotia. Being alone these past few nights has encouraged an extreme personal cuisine. Each evening, I taste my various chiles in an attempt to gauge their flavors, their subtleties, their dynamics... and it, the volcanic IT, finally erupted. This 3" yellow pod (pictured) is called the DEVIL'S TONGUE... and it licked me. Just two hours ago I halved the fruit, inspected its "oils," and inhaled the exposed flesh. [The best way to immediately discern the differences of all these many varieties is through smell.] There were citrus blossoms and a ripe habanero fragrance, but the capsicum pungency immediately kicked me in my ruddy face and I started to cry. I shook IT off and went in for a taste with my eyes shut and a full glass of wine on hand (normally the best fire-soothing companion). Lemon merengue, honey, and... Death! Or, at least, damn near death. I buckled or swooned... I'm not sure what happened because I lost a few moments. Gargling lava, swimming in sulfuric acid... I dunno. I really don't know! For the first time ever I resorted to ice cream (more than a pint!) to dull the pain and swore that Nova Scotia would be free of this kind of self-abuse. I finally need a break. Satan won!

Never Trust the Little Orange Ones

With apologies to Quentin Tarantino, this is the real "Hateful Eight." One particular pod of poison, pleasantly named "Orange Teapot" (second from right), seems like a friendly fellow; but damn him straight to Maleboge (his place of birth?): He's a duplicitous, vulgar little jerk who nearly destroyed my evening.

Two Hours Before Turning 47 and...

I’m starting to feel too old to be a question mark, but just about old enough to be an exclamation point… finally. I'm still young enough (or is it "old enough"?) to fight clichés (and often lose like I just did). My earlobes are droopy. My nose is longer and more visibly crooked. My eyebrows are thinning. [Just my eyebrows!] I almost have more grey hair than brown hair on my head. I have strange and floating white patches in my beard. My eyes are hooded (especially my right eye). I’m creaky in the morning. I’m creaky in the afternoon. I’m creaky at night. I’m creaky. I’m up to 1.75 magnifiers and I buy reading glasses by the ½ dozen because I lose or break a pair weekly. I’m starting to feel too old to wear my Bad Brains t-shirt but finally old enough to wear my Iron Maiden raglan. I like heavy metal more than ever… especially growling death metal like Dying Fetus, Decapitated, and Arch Enemy,… but I also like Abba and the Bee Gees more than ever. EVER! I go full Dancing Queen when Barry Gibb pours his disco on me. After 47 years, I’m finally comfortable in a comic book store and even more comfortable at a convention – this I can’t explain. I just now forgot the point of this post… but I’m still young enough to rack (or is it “wrack”?) my brain(s) and eventually remember.

Chile Season Begins

First venom-blooded chile to (almost completely) ripen: Trinidad Moruga Scorpion Chocolate Chile... And yes, as suggestive as this reads, I just ate (or, rather, munched) the tip. Not a sneaky little devil -- an immediate expansion of fire on the front of my tongue followed by that familiar habanero kick with a fruity peppercorn aftertaste. Not as acidic as other Scorpions I've grown/eaten and with a bursting sensation (like weak Pop Rocks) that tickles the palate. Burn lasts only minutes; definitely not an extreme heater. [I would consider the spice of this pod to be like a sarcastic, witty teenager -- sharp but clearly not mature.] I just now followed with a gulp of Umbian Rosso and my mouth is happy... which means that I am happy. Bring it on!

Start Screaming!

And now a shooting at a UPS facility in San Francisco. The climate deniers, pollution enablers, warmongers, pharmaceutical pushers, Twitter twits, and gun violence advocates may not live long enough to reap the rewards of their diabolical pursuits and cruel positions. Nor, at this rate, will we live long enough to scream into their swollen faces, “I told you so!” But just in case, start screaming.

Done

From my little foxhole, it looks like Facebook and Twitter (and the likes) are helping to shape our national, global, universal crises. I'm done. I'm absolutely, positively fucking fed up with the condemnation of the press; Sessions' impending attacks on our liberties; the squelching of enlightened thinking and acting; the unprecedented and celebrated rise of ignorance; the assault on our intelligence (in both specific and broad senses); the increased radicalization of ALL forms of religious beliefs; the renewed hatred of women, non-whites, non-conformists, and progressives of all types; and the baseless, monosyllabic rhetoric that bullies eloquence from the headlines. I'm done with social media being the catalyst, the home, the megaphone of all this ugliness. I'm done.

A Scantily Clad Victory

You're exhaling, right? Feeling relieved? Macron will win by over 60%... but I still can't help feeling somewhat defeated. In a country of rhetoric and reason, this is the best the French can do? Comparatively, hell yeah! Le Pen(urious) would've been a disaster. Progressively, hell no! I'm still holding my breath. Sorry, y'all.

Taking a Back Seat

I realize our daughter is a year away from driving a vehicle herself, traveling the same roads, finding new routes, switching lanes, paying tolls, exploring the world with the windows down,... and I'm already in the rearview mirror taking pictures while she just sits quietly in the front seat contemplating the road ahead.

The Little Thingies

Sitting on the Q train, stuck outside the DeKalb Ave. stop, the woman to my left with two children is screaming at the canned voice that announces "train traffic ahead," the Dice Clay clone to my right just unleashed a litany of expletives and then apologized to the schoolgirl sitting across from us, and in the fog of my massive headache I worry about the inconsequential things... like the fact that I woke up this morning to a world on the brink and Velveeta-the-Hut is still the president of the United States. It's just the little things that ruin my days.

President Comey

Things are so corrupt in the Trump administration and the links to Russia are so dangerously evident, that for all intents and purposes the various United States intelligence departments are running the country. For those who are worried about the Orange Jabba Slushee, his war-waging impulses, and his clear desire to push little red buttons, cease your fretting: he and his team of men, men, and more men are a gilded collection of castrati. I couldn't imagine writing this two months ago, but I think, for the time being, we're safe. Whatever you think of Comey, he's our president now.

More Than a Ride

When it comes to the teacup ride, I know my limitations. Last time I was on one, which was the last time I will ever be on one, I was waving wildly for the carny to let me off after one rotation. It was the greatest amusement park experience of our then eight-year-old's life. For aging me, round and round is so much worse than up and down.

A Flight of Fancy, of Sorts

No need to tell me how ridiculous I am. My family and I are well aware of my issues and obsessions -- comic books, especially from the 70s; action figures from my youth; magazine and newspaper cartoon gag art. But here’s another of my loves: simple, actual balsa wood model planes. Over the past 15 to 20 years, whenever shopping in a country store or town supermarket, I always look for these flimsy, "Made in U.S.A." throwbacks to my youth; and when I find ‘em, I buy ‘em out of the worry that there will be a time when they are no longer available. Here’s the display box that contains my collection. It doesn’t occupy a lot of space, but it brings me joy on a spring day like today when the idea of opening one up, putting it together, launching it in the park, and losing it in a tree is exactly what I should be doing instead of grading papers (and writing this post).

Lessons I Learned This Week

Two lessons I learned this week thanks to a couple of good friends: 

1. No matter how liberal my ideals, no matter the strength of my pluralistic convictions, there is a very dogmatic collective on the far, far left that will never accept me and my beliefs because I too am reduced to my appearance. To them, I might as well be a Trump supporter. Sad.

2. When you go so far left and fervently embrace the madness of limited, controlled (and controlling) rhetoric and politically correct positions, you are no longer liberal. No, you are conservative! Very, very conservative!

Prediction for This Week:

Mark my words: We're going to wake up one morning this week to another series of batshit crazy Trump tweets to be followed by an afternoon White House statement that his Twitter account was hacked. The morning after, a new series of Trump tweets will be accusing Obama of hacking his Android phone. 

Path to Enlightenment

Let the toxic blowholes speak! I’ve endured some of the stupidest lectures and they ALL helped to shape my ideology, my opinions. I now see how my daughter processes the idiots, bigots, and narrow-minded twits (men, mostly!); and as she processes, her eyes penetrate and her words level the clowns with verities. Listen. Twist. Turn. Grumble. Learn. Respond. Substantiate. Flatten. Let this be the path to clarity; but first, let the assholes speak.

When Zack de la Rocha Is the Oldest Person in the Room

Last night at the Run the Jewels show with a couple of good friends, I was in conflict of age. We were the oldest dudes in Terminal 5, standing at our balcony perch, and digging everything that was taking place on stage. But the good vibes took hold and I wanted so badly to be in the throng of bouncing kids on the dance floor below. Bob, always game, and I made our way through the crowd and immediately lost each other. I skirted to the side of the stage and joined an army of kids losing their minds (like I once lost mine). And there I was, middle-aged-man-groovin'. As it started to get thicker with pressed bodies, a security guy, right by the stage entrance, cleared space for me in front of him. We fist bumped. There I was, in a safe place, dancin' like a dork, and the oldest guy around... until Zack de la Rocha took the stage. And then I wasn't the oldest guy around (even though I looked and felt like it).

Note the Fucking Differences!

As the suited assholes lined up to touch Trump on his way out the chamber door, many Republican men praised his speech as “Reaganesque” and the “best speech in 30 years.” To put their zero-term memories into nth perspective, I watched Dutch’s first Joint Sessions speech to Congress on February 18, 1981 before I went to bed. He was very specific: “I am proposing a comprehensive four-point program. Now, let me outline in detail some of the principal parts of this program. You'll each be provided with a completely detailed copy of the entire program.” He even endeavored to fix what he saw as broken with actual plans: “And I'm asking that you join me in reducing direct Federal spending by $41.4 billion in fiscal year 1982, and this goes along with another $7.7 billion in user fees and off-budget savings for a total of $49.1 billion. And this will still allow an increase of $40.8 billion over 1981 spending.” His entire speech is riddled with statistics, ideas, strategies, figures, and approaches. He conveyed the “frustrations” of many Americans, sought to ease them, and offered actual, concrete ways to solve the issues (as he saw them). Sure, the outcome of this speech coincided with Reagan's social agenda (which was a disaster on almost every level…), but he had propositions -- whether they were actually effective or, unfortunately, destructive -- and detailed implementations. From his discussion on the Trade Adjustment Assistance program to his very conservative commentary on the Department of Energy, cuts, cuts, decreased taxes, economic recovery plans, cuts, and more cuts were his means to resolutions and solutions. [Shudder.] Again and again, he offered ways to tackle everything he proposed. In fact, his speech is staggeringly adept (considering his political bent), noble, earnest, and maybe even honest. Maybe actually, really honest, in comparison! Trump is no Reagan. His was not a “Reaganesque” address. Populist ideas rained on the Joint Session last night, but nary a way to implement any of them. Stop comparing Trump to Reagan! The Gipper was, at times, terribly flawed, but [and I really, truly believe what I’m about to write] he was a legit leader, knowledgeable (at least, at first), serious (with a stand up's repertoire of one-liners), charismatically hypnotic (how did I not get swayed?), and the “Real Deal" (whether you liked him or not). Note the fucking differences!

Baldwin and Me

I was just about to take the left turn onto the FDR at Houston St. when a car with Maryland plates completely cut me off with zero regard for the stop sign and the zipper effect. Not in the mood to flick a bird and curse like a sailor (or like Maria!), I just smirked and offered a cranky "thumbs up" as Maryland zoomed past. I then took my turn, entered the torrent of the FDR, and changed the radio channel from 1st Wave to BackSpin when Maryland started to zag, slow, and seemingly stall as I passed, cautiously, on the left. Maryland then aggressively pulled behind me and tailed for a bit before it was able to pull up along side. I rolled down the window and started to scream, “What the fuck?” when I noticed the car was full of teenagers, excluding the driver (who looked about 20-something), and they were all beaming and pointing and waving like Beatles fans. Maryland’s driver, full of joy, happier than happy, screamed out his opened window, “Alec Baldwin!” and then, pause, “Oh, we thought you were Alec Baldwin,” seemingly disappointed. I apologized, offered a winking "thumbs up," and took the Brooklyn Bridge exit. Every now and again these encounters happen… But I was left with a lasting insecurity: I’m 12 years younger than Baldwin is! What the hell?

The Protest of Mere Being

The $54 billion increase in our defense budget and the virtual elimination of support for other countries (especially those in need) IS, believe it or not, the most glaring warning of the impending end of American democracy. Our work moving forward with a ruling administration that no longer acknowledges the brilliance of democracy’s possibilities should also include the absolute reimagining of us, of ALL of us. Sure, there will be more to say and write, more protests to attend, more posts to share, and more chants to scream… but right now, under the weight of these terrible acts and possibilities, making WHAT you are the ART of WHO you are becomes the best protest. If you never realized it before, it is certainly clearer today: Everything we are and everything we do is political. Your mind and body are the resistance.

Trump vs. the Rosenbergs

Our daughter spent part of today (a magnificent vacation day, for crying out loud!) researching and writing about the Jewish-American couple, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg and, subsequently, teaching me all about them. They were charged, tried, convicted, and executed for “conspiracy to commit espionage against the United States." They may very much have been guilty of sharing information with the Soviets regarding the United States' nuclear program; but, after quite a bit of reading, Aleda's conclusion is that "America may have killed two innocent people just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

[Well, you know where this is going:] Trump and his Clan of Cronies have been building ties with Putin's Russia in some of the most insidious, secretive, and sinister ways and they get to rule our country with a backroom coterie of oligarchs and sympathetic media outlets (while banning other news agencies that call their connections and policies into question). When Trump and his Army of Pseudo-Autocrats are revealed for the traitors that they are, I hope, beyond hope, that the might of American Righteousness (normally a foe to many old, nondenominational liberals like myself) does the "right" thing. If the Rosenberg's supposedly got what they "deserved," what will this president and his administration deserve? My imagination is on overload.