It's Just Another Night in Paradise.
Destruction or Redemption?
"It’s just another night in Paradise".
This is my standard response when friends and acquaintances ask me how things are going. The bible-thumpers at work are outraged every time I respond with this line, fully expecting their paradise in the hereafter, or perhaps after their imaginary bloody Jesus of war lays waste to our lonely, humble world. Their strident fantasies seems but muddled nonsense to me. The sentries on base love this line. "It just another night in Paradise" they tell me with sardonic cheer. The standard is simple: if no one is hurt and nothing is broken, it is Paradise.
I rolled into Portland’s Old Port not long after sunset, heading for the Nickelodeon Patriot Theatre in order to see Going Upriver: the Long War of John Kerry, based largely on the recommendation of an online friend (waves to kathiuncorked).
Waiting at the red light on the Franklin Artery, a red Jeep Wrangler rolled up beside my pick-up truck. The driver, a young lady with a passable resemblance to Kirsten Dunst, was chirping away along with her radio. I realized with a chuckle that we were both listening to the same station as the Rolling Stones sang You Can’t Always Get What You Want. She caught my smile, laughed at herself, and waved at me with a cheerful, sheepish giggle, before driving away. I noticed the Kerry/Edwards sticker displayed on her bumper as her Jeep pulled ahead.
The evening air was cool, though I did not dwell long after parking. I paid the Goth princess at the ticket counter, and entered the dark, nearly empty theatre just as the film rolled. I must confess that I never really understood John Kerry.
When John Kerry and the Viet Nam Veterans Against War (VVAW) changed the course of history, I was living in what was then the small town of Springfield, Virginia, essentially a tidy Army bedroom community neatly nestled between Fort Belvoir and the Pentagon, and not twenty miles from the National Mall. From a lofty perch in the mighty oak in our back yard I could see the Washington Monument clearly.
Not much else was clear, however. My Tae Kwon Do instructor was Lieutenant Colonel James "Bo" Gritz, a rightwing fundamentalist lunatic. You can read all about him on the web. After a few years under his tutelage, our do jang was purchased by Won Kuk Li, who’s citizenship was sponsored by the then recently retired General William C. Westmoreland. Won Kuk Li’s primary instructor at our do jang was the avuncular Mister Choi. I was aware that Mister Choi had been a high-ranking officer in the Republic of Korea (ROK) Army, and had lost a fingertip in Viet Nam combat.
My Scout Master was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew McVeigh III, an ideological, fundamentalist idiot Texan, and proud of it. During a lecture and demonstration for our First Aid badge, McVeigh was furiously indignant when I referred to a body part by its Latin name e.g., the gluteus maximus, decreeing that obscene language would never be tolerated in his royal presence.
One time I asked McVeigh what the Peace symbol used by the VVAW and their supporters represented. As I learned years later, the Peace symbol portrays two flags coming together for truce talks. That day McVeigh told me the Peace symbol represented a chicken’s foot, and was the mark of a coward. McVeigh, who was frightened of ten years old boys speaking Latin, never served in combat.
It was absolutely fascinating for me to watch anew the half-remembered archival footage of John Kerry and the VVAW with the fog of my right-wing oppression long since cleared.
I've understood throwing medals away ever since I earned my own. I suppose that one whom has never been decorated might never understand. I understood the meaning of "extra-credit days" e.g., "its just another day in Paradise." What I did not realize is that John Kerry was a good man. He showed courage, intellect, and integrity: attributes that his character assassins will never have. While I am not ready to share Senator Kerry’s ideology, he was a good man once. I know that those who refuse to recognize that reality are often not good men at all.
The theatre was nearly empty, just a half dozen of us at most. As I was leaving, a man stood in the rear, and announced, "He isn’t going to win. Kerry isn’t going to win. He should win, I want him to win, but he isn’t going to win." The man seemed to be a retired professional, with a large belly, thick white beard, and large bulbous nose: Santa. Santa was distraught. He didn’t seem the type to be emotionally disturbed. He started talking to me. I was reminded of the older lady who punched me in the arm and vented following Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 911.
"Bush and his lies and the idiots who believe his lies and his dirty tricks and his character assassins are going to win", the man continued. He seemed utterly alone, and glad to have someone listen. "Bush is a coward. He hid in the Texas National Guard. Cheney is a coward too. He had, what, six deferments?" Only five, actually, though I let this pass.
"Bush thinks god talks to him and that scares me. I don’t believe in god." Santa paused, awaiting my reaction. In 21st Century America, announcing aloud that one does not believe in god, especially to a densely-built, unknown individual half your age in a dark and otherwise empty theatre is an act of courage. He added "I don’t know if you believe in god." It was his lucky day.
"Bush is a drunk and a fuck-up. He will always be a fuck-up, and fools can’t see that because when he was a drunk his Daddy called up Billy Graham, and they made Bush born-again. Religion is ruining this country and this world. Bush doesn’t know what to do about North Korea. He doesn’t know what to do about Iran. He fucked-up in Afghanistan and Iraq. He doesn’t know what to do about Israel and Palestine. I’m Jewish, I don’t believe in god but I am Jewish, and Bush can’t see that religion is the problem. He doesn’t know how dangerous it is to mix government and religion. There is a history there."
The ushers had arrived to clean the theatre, though they fled when they noticed Santa venting. This caused a minor distraction, and Santa seemed momentarily spent. "I’m sorry, I'm so sorry", he apologized, "I haven’t let you say a word, and I haven’t even let you get a word in. I don’t even know if you agree with me".
Santa was distraught, and I wished that I had the words to still his pain. I wished that I could state with confidence and certainty that everything would be set right, that reason and common sense would triumph over fantasy and faith. I wish I could see with clarity what would happen this November. There is a storm brewing - far off now, but I can sense it. I think we all can, though I know not what manner of storm this will be: destructive or redeeming.
Charles Peguy wrote "Tyranny is always better organized than freedom". The neo-conservatives are thugs, expert at making one feel isolated. One cannot trust the media, and I have suspicions that not everything is as it seems.
Still, I told Santa the truth I saw: "You are not alone."
"It’s just another night in Paradise".
This is my standard response when friends and acquaintances ask me how things are going. The bible-thumpers at work are outraged every time I respond with this line, fully expecting their paradise in the hereafter, or perhaps after their imaginary bloody Jesus of war lays waste to our lonely, humble world. Their strident fantasies seems but muddled nonsense to me. The sentries on base love this line. "It just another night in Paradise" they tell me with sardonic cheer. The standard is simple: if no one is hurt and nothing is broken, it is Paradise.
I rolled into Portland’s Old Port not long after sunset, heading for the Nickelodeon Patriot Theatre in order to see Going Upriver: the Long War of John Kerry, based largely on the recommendation of an online friend (waves to kathiuncorked).
Waiting at the red light on the Franklin Artery, a red Jeep Wrangler rolled up beside my pick-up truck. The driver, a young lady with a passable resemblance to Kirsten Dunst, was chirping away along with her radio. I realized with a chuckle that we were both listening to the same station as the Rolling Stones sang You Can’t Always Get What You Want. She caught my smile, laughed at herself, and waved at me with a cheerful, sheepish giggle, before driving away. I noticed the Kerry/Edwards sticker displayed on her bumper as her Jeep pulled ahead.
The evening air was cool, though I did not dwell long after parking. I paid the Goth princess at the ticket counter, and entered the dark, nearly empty theatre just as the film rolled. I must confess that I never really understood John Kerry.
When John Kerry and the Viet Nam Veterans Against War (VVAW) changed the course of history, I was living in what was then the small town of Springfield, Virginia, essentially a tidy Army bedroom community neatly nestled between Fort Belvoir and the Pentagon, and not twenty miles from the National Mall. From a lofty perch in the mighty oak in our back yard I could see the Washington Monument clearly.
Not much else was clear, however. My Tae Kwon Do instructor was Lieutenant Colonel James "Bo" Gritz, a rightwing fundamentalist lunatic. You can read all about him on the web. After a few years under his tutelage, our do jang was purchased by Won Kuk Li, who’s citizenship was sponsored by the then recently retired General William C. Westmoreland. Won Kuk Li’s primary instructor at our do jang was the avuncular Mister Choi. I was aware that Mister Choi had been a high-ranking officer in the Republic of Korea (ROK) Army, and had lost a fingertip in Viet Nam combat.
My Scout Master was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew McVeigh III, an ideological, fundamentalist idiot Texan, and proud of it. During a lecture and demonstration for our First Aid badge, McVeigh was furiously indignant when I referred to a body part by its Latin name e.g., the gluteus maximus, decreeing that obscene language would never be tolerated in his royal presence.
One time I asked McVeigh what the Peace symbol used by the VVAW and their supporters represented. As I learned years later, the Peace symbol portrays two flags coming together for truce talks. That day McVeigh told me the Peace symbol represented a chicken’s foot, and was the mark of a coward. McVeigh, who was frightened of ten years old boys speaking Latin, never served in combat.
It was absolutely fascinating for me to watch anew the half-remembered archival footage of John Kerry and the VVAW with the fog of my right-wing oppression long since cleared.
I've understood throwing medals away ever since I earned my own. I suppose that one whom has never been decorated might never understand. I understood the meaning of "extra-credit days" e.g., "its just another day in Paradise." What I did not realize is that John Kerry was a good man. He showed courage, intellect, and integrity: attributes that his character assassins will never have. While I am not ready to share Senator Kerry’s ideology, he was a good man once. I know that those who refuse to recognize that reality are often not good men at all.
The theatre was nearly empty, just a half dozen of us at most. As I was leaving, a man stood in the rear, and announced, "He isn’t going to win. Kerry isn’t going to win. He should win, I want him to win, but he isn’t going to win." The man seemed to be a retired professional, with a large belly, thick white beard, and large bulbous nose: Santa. Santa was distraught. He didn’t seem the type to be emotionally disturbed. He started talking to me. I was reminded of the older lady who punched me in the arm and vented following Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 911.
"Bush and his lies and the idiots who believe his lies and his dirty tricks and his character assassins are going to win", the man continued. He seemed utterly alone, and glad to have someone listen. "Bush is a coward. He hid in the Texas National Guard. Cheney is a coward too. He had, what, six deferments?" Only five, actually, though I let this pass.
"Bush thinks god talks to him and that scares me. I don’t believe in god." Santa paused, awaiting my reaction. In 21st Century America, announcing aloud that one does not believe in god, especially to a densely-built, unknown individual half your age in a dark and otherwise empty theatre is an act of courage. He added "I don’t know if you believe in god." It was his lucky day.
"Bush is a drunk and a fuck-up. He will always be a fuck-up, and fools can’t see that because when he was a drunk his Daddy called up Billy Graham, and they made Bush born-again. Religion is ruining this country and this world. Bush doesn’t know what to do about North Korea. He doesn’t know what to do about Iran. He fucked-up in Afghanistan and Iraq. He doesn’t know what to do about Israel and Palestine. I’m Jewish, I don’t believe in god but I am Jewish, and Bush can’t see that religion is the problem. He doesn’t know how dangerous it is to mix government and religion. There is a history there."
The ushers had arrived to clean the theatre, though they fled when they noticed Santa venting. This caused a minor distraction, and Santa seemed momentarily spent. "I’m sorry, I'm so sorry", he apologized, "I haven’t let you say a word, and I haven’t even let you get a word in. I don’t even know if you agree with me".
Santa was distraught, and I wished that I had the words to still his pain. I wished that I could state with confidence and certainty that everything would be set right, that reason and common sense would triumph over fantasy and faith. I wish I could see with clarity what would happen this November. There is a storm brewing - far off now, but I can sense it. I think we all can, though I know not what manner of storm this will be: destructive or redeeming.
Charles Peguy wrote "Tyranny is always better organized than freedom". The neo-conservatives are thugs, expert at making one feel isolated. One cannot trust the media, and I have suspicions that not everything is as it seems.
Still, I told Santa the truth I saw: "You are not alone."