The death of the racist, homophobe and general mean old cracker, Jesse Helms gives me an opportunity to reflect on my ambiguous feelings about my country. Do I love it? Yes. Does it piss me off? To the depths of my soul. I'm not much for the idea of hell, so I hope Jesus is having a sit down with the old bastard and setting him straight.Every July 4th celebration should include a solemn moment for Frederick Douglas' "What, to the slave, is the 4th of July."
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A couple days after Strom Thurman died, I was at a Bill Maher show. First thing out of Maher's mouth was (and I'm paraphrasing): "I'm going to do my normal show for you people, tonight, but I would be remiss if I didn't say a few words, first, about the passing of Strom Thurmon... And those few words are 'It's. About. Time.'"
Was the first thing I thought of when I heard about Helms.
One of the glorious moments of my youth happened when George Wallace was shot. Two of my friends, one white, one black, drove through downtown Hackensack, New Jersey, honking their car horn and hanging out the windows yelling, "Hooray, Good News! Someone shot George Wallace!!"
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