1. Those who are losing their homes through no fault of their own (laid-off and/or fraudulently misled about mortgage terms) have a right to defend their homes...take the last mortgage payment and buy a shotgun. Explain your reasoning for defending your home. Eventually, the police will not have the will to arrest you and, instead, they will turn on the banks.
2. If you have more than 1 acre of property, give the rest away or sell for a reasonable price to like-minded folks who are in need. Now you have more people to defend your combined interest and you have done much to alleviate the country from the unreasonable dynamics that catalyzed the recent chain of economic events.
3. The first step in revolutionary change is preparing your "thoughts."
4. The second step in revolutionary change is aligning positive action with your thoughts.
5. The third step in revolutionary change is knowing "when" and having some idea of "how" to land the sucker.
6. The last step in revolutionary change is happiness. If there is no happiness then you haven't changed anything.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Exploiting the Final Frontier
Language is dead.
Our writing and use of words grows smaller and more efficient with each new technological advance. We really don't need our words anymore so we should stop encouraging our toddlers to "use your words." Instead, we should teach them to "use your gadget."
There is only one frontier left that has not been exploited: and those are our Thoughts. Don't worry, that will happen.
How do you get on the cutting edge of the "deadness" of something? How do you make profit when there is nothing left to mine?
One day I will send my latest manuscript: a single blank piece of paper-- something nice of course, perhaps 100% cotton, vanilla-almond shaded-- to the newest, most fashionable, up-and-coming book publisher. Upon receipt of the envelope, a confused clerk will send the page on for review. The agent will look at the page and their stomach will flip.
"Ohhh... mhy... Gawwd!
She will immediately pick up the phone and call her publisher in. Excited, he will come running into her office asking what has happened.
"Look at this! Look at this! Can you fucking believe it!"
Both will take turns holding the blank page, turning it over, examining it, considering the possibilities.
"I can't believe this!" says the publisher.
"It says Soooooo much by saying so little! In fact, it says everything by saying nothing. It's as concrete as they come. Like a plain, white, turtleneck! WE MUST SIGN THIS AUTHOR!"
Thus will begin the exploitation of the last frontier.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I Blew Myself Up In 2 Seconds: Shrinkage
While I was outside on the ground the air was cool, probably 50 degrees, and the burns only hurt at about a 9 on a scale of 10. Once I was in the ambulance the pain level went up to about 12 on a scale of 10.
The ambulance begins to pull out of my driveway. The actions of the EMT's- two men and one woman- are giving me a sensory overload. One of them is cutting my pants off (' do I have clean underwear on?'), one is on the phone asking the local hospital if they should take me to Albany or have me airlifted to Westchester, the third is trying to figure out which pain medication to give me. Amid the action my entire physical being throbs with pins and needles and I continue a meditative groaning.
For just a split second I make a feeble attempt to find some humor in all of this. In fact, I try to think of some wise-ass comment to make to the EMT's. Then I realize that at this moment there really is nothing funny, and my mind returns twice as clear to the pain. While my pants and long-underwear are cut off I can only muse about "shrinkage."
The EMT who was on the phone hangs up and directs the ambulance driver to take us to the Freehold Airfield. Finally I feel lucky. We couldn't be farther out in the boonies and this little village actually has an airfield! But then again if they are airlifting me that means I must be in pretty bad shape.
The one and only thing that brings me comfort in this 10-minute ride to the Freehold airfield- is this chain of events:
The female EMT says, "Your doing good," and in spite of my current state something in me responds to her voice. I manage to look at her and I recognize that no matter what pain or what situation a person might be in, the soothing power of a woman is remarkable. And the fact that I can have this thought at this moment is remarkable.
I immediately feel guilty and try to apologize to the EMT's. I'm not sure what for. I probably just want more sympathy. Typical male.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Revolting Thoughts 2-5-09
1. We need a way to get whistle-blowers from all walks of life (cops, firemen, politicians, businessmen, etc) to give us information that we can use to revolt.
2. Any revolt necessarily includes gaining control of air-space and Air-Force-1.
3. Children are not the problem. It's the adults we need to cure.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
A Tale of Two Yippies
With the recent election of Barack Obama, a colleague and I were discussing the history of the 1950's and 1960'e era Civil Rights Movement. While my friend was quick to heave praise on the CRM she was rather apologetic about the cultural changes of that time. I found myself in what has now become an akwardly familiar position: defending the legacy of the 1960's to the obvious dismay of an activist from that period.
When I pushed her to explain why she felt such gall about it, she pointed to the example of Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. "One killed himself and the other sold-out." She said, "That kind of sums it up." This kind of reaction, although not new to me, did cause me to ponder the very intriguing tale of these two Yippies.
Abbie Hoffman, in spite of ego and chauvenism, will always remain a hero to me. I read his book, Soon To Be A Major Motion Picture when I was a 16 year-old high school dropout. I wasn't infatuated with his writing just because he spoke out against authority figures. He had an ideology and a clearly defined belief in the power of young people to bring positive change to our country. It was the first time I'd ever heard an adult say that someone like me was important and relevant. Plain and simple, he gave me hope. It was at that point I began to learn about the powerful passion of the 1960's era and different media, methods and strategies of the time- including the loveable antics of the YIPPIES.
I never really knew what had become of Jerry Rubin. I'd read his book, Growing Up at Thirty-Seven, in which he painfully describes how the streets he once loved now seemed to have nothing for him; how he felt as politically confused "now" as he was politically sure "then." I recalled feeling disturbed by this book and fearful of it's meaning. In many ways Jerry's coming of age represented mother's terrible curse: "When you get older you'll change." Change in and of itself wasn't a bad thing. The real question was "what did you become?"
I knew that Abbie Hoffman continued to speak and fight for a host of ideals that helped to loosen society's often oppressive shackles. The day Jerry Rubin died I was frantic to hear what the "world" made of this man. I watched TV and listened to the radio all night. There were hours and hours of the typical collage of pointless and irrelevant nostalgia pieces. "Jerry Rubin's last radical act: J-walking." and "Jerry Rubin, the Yippie turned Yuppie." "Was Rubin a sell-out?" "Jerry Rubin proved the Sixities didn't work." "Jerry Rubin, clown."
I fell asleep and awoke with a brain-numbed, dumb-media, hangover. Blury-eyed, I rolled over and tuned-in to what felt like the last bastion of free-expression: the Howard Stern show. Please, Howard, save me!
Caller after caller made their appeals, "Yes, Howard. I don't think Jerry Rubin is worthy of talking about. You can't compare him and Abbie Hoffman. He sold-out while the rest of us kept fighting for change." The next caller, "I think Jerry Rubin should have been shot for what he did during the Vietnam War. Hoffman too. They were both criminals!" Call after call it was the same thing: bickering and petty statements dripping with some kind of dysfunctional passion. Proudly, Howard told them all to "shut-up and go to hell." He explained, in usual Stern-fashion, that both Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin were great people who fought for free-speech.
As I thought about the morning's social commentary and that of the previous night, what I found myself sensing was an underlying passion-- a pleading really-- behind every cheap media spot and comment. No matter what people felt, no matter what the story angle was, it became clear that the message was delivered with a desire to be proven "right!" As if the way that anyone listening made up their mind about Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin was so important that it would determine not only their own personal fate, but, indeed, the fate of our Democracy. It occurred to me how these two long-haired freaks, their lives and their deaths, seemed to reflect something back to America about her collective Id and Ego.
Stern went on to talk about what Jerry Rubin was doing when he died. He explained that Rubin had hooked-up with former Black-Panther, Bobby Seale, and they were organizing gang members to go door-to-door in the Oakland ghetto selling Bobby Seale's new BBQ cookbook.
It was about this time, eyes closed, radio in the background, slipping into a zen-like state of peace, that a knowing smile came to my lips and a chuckle bubbled up from my gut:
Think about it for a minute. Gang members going door-to-door in the ghetto selling cookbooks, making an honest buck rather than shooting each other or selling drugs. Now if that doesn't sound a lot like a Yippie plot to undermine the government, I don't know what does!
When I pushed her to explain why she felt such gall about it, she pointed to the example of Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. "One killed himself and the other sold-out." She said, "That kind of sums it up." This kind of reaction, although not new to me, did cause me to ponder the very intriguing tale of these two Yippies.
Abbie Hoffman, in spite of ego and chauvenism, will always remain a hero to me. I read his book, Soon To Be A Major Motion Picture when I was a 16 year-old high school dropout. I wasn't infatuated with his writing just because he spoke out against authority figures. He had an ideology and a clearly defined belief in the power of young people to bring positive change to our country. It was the first time I'd ever heard an adult say that someone like me was important and relevant. Plain and simple, he gave me hope. It was at that point I began to learn about the powerful passion of the 1960's era and different media, methods and strategies of the time- including the loveable antics of the YIPPIES.
I never really knew what had become of Jerry Rubin. I'd read his book, Growing Up at Thirty-Seven, in which he painfully describes how the streets he once loved now seemed to have nothing for him; how he felt as politically confused "now" as he was politically sure "then." I recalled feeling disturbed by this book and fearful of it's meaning. In many ways Jerry's coming of age represented mother's terrible curse: "When you get older you'll change." Change in and of itself wasn't a bad thing. The real question was "what did you become?"
I knew that Abbie Hoffman continued to speak and fight for a host of ideals that helped to loosen society's often oppressive shackles. The day Jerry Rubin died I was frantic to hear what the "world" made of this man. I watched TV and listened to the radio all night. There were hours and hours of the typical collage of pointless and irrelevant nostalgia pieces. "Jerry Rubin's last radical act: J-walking." and "Jerry Rubin, the Yippie turned Yuppie." "Was Rubin a sell-out?" "Jerry Rubin proved the Sixities didn't work." "Jerry Rubin, clown."
I fell asleep and awoke with a brain-numbed, dumb-media, hangover. Blury-eyed, I rolled over and tuned-in to what felt like the last bastion of free-expression: the Howard Stern show. Please, Howard, save me!
Caller after caller made their appeals, "Yes, Howard. I don't think Jerry Rubin is worthy of talking about. You can't compare him and Abbie Hoffman. He sold-out while the rest of us kept fighting for change." The next caller, "I think Jerry Rubin should have been shot for what he did during the Vietnam War. Hoffman too. They were both criminals!" Call after call it was the same thing: bickering and petty statements dripping with some kind of dysfunctional passion. Proudly, Howard told them all to "shut-up and go to hell." He explained, in usual Stern-fashion, that both Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin were great people who fought for free-speech.
As I thought about the morning's social commentary and that of the previous night, what I found myself sensing was an underlying passion-- a pleading really-- behind every cheap media spot and comment. No matter what people felt, no matter what the story angle was, it became clear that the message was delivered with a desire to be proven "right!" As if the way that anyone listening made up their mind about Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin was so important that it would determine not only their own personal fate, but, indeed, the fate of our Democracy. It occurred to me how these two long-haired freaks, their lives and their deaths, seemed to reflect something back to America about her collective Id and Ego.
Stern went on to talk about what Jerry Rubin was doing when he died. He explained that Rubin had hooked-up with former Black-Panther, Bobby Seale, and they were organizing gang members to go door-to-door in the Oakland ghetto selling Bobby Seale's new BBQ cookbook.
It was about this time, eyes closed, radio in the background, slipping into a zen-like state of peace, that a knowing smile came to my lips and a chuckle bubbled up from my gut:
Think about it for a minute. Gang members going door-to-door in the ghetto selling cookbooks, making an honest buck rather than shooting each other or selling drugs. Now if that doesn't sound a lot like a Yippie plot to undermine the government, I don't know what does!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)