Hamas pulls ahead

The Sonoma County Sheriff's Department has a bigger Air Force than Hamas. (In fairness, this helicopter crew has saved a lot of people's lives.)

Yesterday I said that the Santa Rosa Police Department is better armed than the Hamas Militias operating in Gaza. However, despite the fact that they were outgunned by the PD Hamas and the Sonoma County Sheriffs were tied for kills in December. According to the Israeli Defense Force Hamas is now ahead by two. Given their extraordinary success at killing unarmed civilians Sonoma County law enforcement may still manage to come out ahead by the end of the month.

Real Gangster Times

the Specials from back when they were going to usher in the Two Tone Apocalypse and make it all better. They were right, they were good and they should have succeeded. Instead, the gangsters won.

I found a very nice looking suit in a thrift store. It wasn't quite a nifty looking English suit, but that sort of thing was hard to come by in Indiana in 1980. I was accused of trying to import an English fad to the Midwest. I didn't want to wear the punk rock uniform, that's all. I was getting old. I was at the point where I was too old to have new ideas and too young to have a body of experience to fall back on. I had a suit.

I'm having a problem with this

Look this is supposed to be "personal" blog. I'm a political person, but politics is peripheral to what I'm doing here. Thing is that I am having a real problem with what's going on in Gaza.

Remember way back to, like, days ago when terrible, horrible, evil, wicked, bad, monstrous, evil, did I mention evil? terrorists attacked Mumbai? 170 people were killed and it was very, very, very bad because some of them were Western tourists and others were wealthy Indians. The American press could really feel their suffering. That's because some of the suffering was done by the very few people on Earth that the American press gives a shit about.

Never mind that let's move on, as right wingers and racists like to say. So now, Israel has launched a terrorist bombing campaign against the Gaza strip. They've built walls around the place. They've cut off the electricity, water, food and medical supplies and now they're bombing the hell out of the country because Israel has been targeted by Palestinians firing home made rockets that are very little more than fireworks. So far, about 300 people have been killed and 700 wounded.

The thing is, this isn't a tragedy. It's a military operation. It's a military operation by a military that has state of the art weaponry including nuclear weapons. It's a military operation that is aimed at a people who do not even have an army. They have rifles, sidearms and those home made rockets. The Palestinians are less well armed than the Santa Rosa police.

The American press has taken to calling this a humanitarian tragedy. Well, I suppose it is that, but they're still calling it a military operation and they're still saying that those bad Palestinians brought it on themselves by voting for the wrong people. How dare they?

Look, I'm just some asshole in a trailer, but this is a slaughter. It's a monstrous act. It's an attempt at Genocide. I don't know what else to say.

Posted elsewhere

Somewhere in my profile, I mention that most of my good stuff is posted at other people's blogs. I've also mentioned that I don't spend a lot of time with my family. Here's a little story about a family wedding. It was originally posted as a comment at Mr Beer N. Hockey's DOPE CITY FREE PRESS.

"(My Cousin) Sandy from Indiana. She was managing a Pizza Hut in Indianapolis. Got really drunk after work and ended up in bed with a guy who was working as a bus boy. Shortly afterwards she discovered that she was pregnant. The bus boy, Russell, agreed to marry her. Family tried to put a brave face on things but everyone knew what was up. The wedding turned into a gigantic booze up. The high point for me was when the Maid of Honor disappeared. She was found, face down, in a mud puddle, unconscious and very nearly drowned in two inches of muddy water. Sandy got drunk enough that she forgot what the party was for and almost took some guy from the groom's side off to bed with her. Uncle Jimmy and I never liked each other. We almost came to blows. I was on one of my periodic dry spells, not to be confused with sobriety. He took that to be a statement on my part that I was too good to drink with him. He stopped everything and announced that he was going to kick my ass. This was a continuation of a fight that had been going on since I was 15, when he decided that my hair was too long and he was going to kick my ass. He never got around to kicking my ass. He would just swagger around and loudly announce his intention to kick my ass. I took a beer, ended up really fucked up. Sandy was crying, "Oh God! I'll never be able to bring home anymore hot men!" Periodically, Uncle Jim would come over and tell me I was an asshole. There were a couple of fist fights, I forget why. It was a special day that most of us will never forget, if we can remember any of it."

This all took place a long time ago. Uncle Jimmy is dead. Cousin Jimmy, his son, is dead. James Frederick the fifth is estranged from his father's family. Sandy had a terrible time with cancer. She has become a quiet and dignified woman who has obviously suffered great pain. That whole side of my Mom's family had some terrible things happen to them. The wedding happened back when times were "good". I might have remembered some things wrong. I apologize. I was as drunk as anyone else.

These weren't poor people. Uncle Jimmy was a major local employer. If you got in trouble anywhere in Owen County, Uncle Jimmy could fix it for you. Not just in Spencer, even in Gosport or Bean Blossom. He was the kind of guy who got escorted home by the sheriff when he got pulled over for drunk driving.

I used to dry out periodically. Like I said, it was not the same as sobriety. When I was dry I was pissed off, self righteous and a drag to be around. You wouldn't have liked me drunk, but you would have liked me less when I was dry.

I like to think that I'm not the same guy. It wasn't just the passage of time. If I kept drinking, time would have stopped passing a long time ago. I got sober in the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous. These days I don't spend much time with my dysfunctional alcoholic family of birth. I hang out with my dysfunctional alcoholic family of choice. Some days it's a big love fest. Occasionally it's a little pity party. Collectively, they've never let me down. It's been OK.

Hold On, Hold On - Neko Case

Mike Whybark explains the reason for the season

The true story of Osiris Claus from my recent house guest, Mike Whybark. Possibly the only holiday story you'll need this year. 

"It’s possible you may have heard some aspect of these traditions as deriving from other religions. Do not be fooled. Osiris Claus is the One True Claus, and from his workshop at the North Pole, he knows when you are sleeping. He knows when you awake. He knows when you’ve been bad or good, so, be good, for the Nile harvest’s sake."

True stories to the best of my recollection

This guy gets on my bus. He’s wearing a white robe and rope sandals. He ‘s a white man with long hair and a beard. He says to me, “I’m Jesus.”

I say, “Oh, uh-huh.”

He says, “No, really. I’m Jesus Christ. Let me show you.” And he shows me several credit cards issued to Jesus Christ.

I’ve found that it is best not to engage with these characters. If he needed help, that would be different, but, really, I’m an equipment operator, not a therapist. I said, “Oh, yeah, uh-huh”

A few minutes later a hippie girl got on. She looked quite a bit the worse for the wear. She sat down next to Jesus and Jesus asked her how she was doing.

“I was just up at Reggae on the River, man.” She replied.

“Oh cool,” says Jesus, “How was it?”

“I got, like, dysenterry...”

“Wow, bummer.” Jesus replied.

They got to talking. At one point Jesus said, “I used to ride a Harley!” The hippie girl allowed as how that was pretty cool.

A few minutes later the dysenterry ridden hippie girl got off the bus. Jesus followed her off with a smirk on his face.

That’s religion.

Another night a bunch of guys who’d just been released from San Quentin got on my bus. The last one on the bus was a tall skinny white kid. It was cold and pouring rain. The kid was dressed in prison issue surgical scrubs and paper shoes. He was shivering pretty hard.

There was a crazy lady in the front seat. She had her stuff stacked up all around her in plastic garbage bags. She’d made a sort of a nest out of old newspapers and garbage bags. Crazy people do that a lot, build nests.

The kid couldn’t find a seat. When the crazy lady saw that, she started rearranging her nest and yelled, “Here, c’mere, sit down here. Plenty of room!” The kid thanked her. “Just let you out of the joint. Huh?” She bellowed at him. He shrugged his shoulders. “They’re letting guys out of the joint so they can put more guys into the joint! Am I right?” He shrugged again. “Where you gotta get to?” She asked.

He mumbled back, “I gotta catch a train to San Jose.”

“San Jose! That’s a long fuckin’ way. It’s cold out! Here, I got something for you man!” And she started digging around in her garbage bags. She came up with a Pendleton wool shirt that had been washed and shrunken down to toddler size. “Here. Try this on!”

The kid squeezed into the shirt. It was so small that the sleeves barely reached his elbows, but he was so skinny he managed to get it buttoned up. He looked a lot warmer. Just before he got off the bus, he dug around in his manilla envelope and came up with a twenty. He handed it to the crazy lady.

“Far out!” she yelled. “I can get a fuckin’ room tonight!”

That’s Jesus.

Cat To The Rat - Danny Barnes

"Modern nation-states which masquerade as embodiments of community are always to be resisted. The modern nation-state, in whatever guise, is a dangerous and unmanageable institution, presenting itself on the one hand as a bureaucratic supplier of goods and services, which is always about to, but never actually does, give its clients value for money, and on the other as a repository of sacred values, which from time to time invites one to lay down one's life on its behalf; it is like being asked to die for the telephone company." (Alasdair Macintyre, "A Partial Response to my Critics", in John Horton and Susan Mendus, eds, After Macintyre: Critical Perspectives on the Works of Alasdair Macintyre, 1994).

From Lenin's Tomb

Rich Mans War - Steve Earle

Another touching Christmas memory

My father controlled his drinking. When it was time for him to stop drinking you could almost smell the brakes and hear the squealing tires. That was when the vein in his forehead would start throbbing. He was not an easygoing guy.

Christmas was one of the few times of year when he allowed himself to drink his fill. We kids would get up before sunrise and creep down the stairs to look at the presents. Shortly afterwards my parents would wake up. Mom would start the instant coffee and warm the pillsbury cinammon rolls while Dad put two ice cubes and two olives in a big tumbler. Then he would fill the glass up with gin. He called that a martini. When the rolls and coffee were ready Dad would light a cigar and take his coffee and gin into the living room. Dad would hand out the Christmas presents and we would ooohh and aaaahh over what everyone got. Dad did a pretty good job of acting jolly.

After all of the presents were opened Dad would pour himself another gin. Then he would sit down in front of the TV. He drank gin and smoked cigars with a little smile on his face. He pretty much ignored us for the rest of the day. It was OK.

Daddys Drinking Up Our Christmas - Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen

"IF 3,000,000 PEOPLE WERE TO CLAIM UNEMPLOYMENT INSURANCE BECAUSE OF THE BIG 3'S FAILURE, AND THOSE 3 MILLION WERE TO GET $200 A WEEK (MOST LIKELY THE BOTTOM BENEFIT), IN 26 WEEKS THAT ADDS UP TO $15 BILLION. SOURCE: ROBERT BLEVINS"

From Joe's Union Review

This is how you should talk to the national police force. It took some real courage on this guy's part to do it. Thanks to Happy Fun Ball.

OK, that's satire, but so help me God, this is real:

"I began to think about my options: I’d have to sell the cottage in West Palm Beach immediately. I’d need to lay off Yolanda. I could cancel the newspaper subscriptions and read everything online. I only needed a cell phone. I’d have to stop taking taxis. And who could highlight my hair for almost no money? And how hard was it to give yourself a really good pedicure?
Then there is my jewelry. I’ve always collected nice watches and pearls. In the back of my mind I’d think, “Buy good stuff because if you're ever a bag lady, you can sell it.” It might have been a rationalization then—but here I am now: The nightmare may be coming true.
Before I reached for a bedtime Tylenol PM that night, I Googled the Hemlock Society. I wanted to know a painless way to die. Would you believe the Hemlock Society no longer exists?"

Oh the humanity! I'm sorry this moderately rich lady got hustled by her even richer friend, but her story just doesn't add up to sad. Thanks to the inimitable Princess Sparkle Pony. You know what they say, "You can't cheat an honest man." (or woman)

I still ain't got no class