Harbinger

Bye Bye Bunkey: These three "cowboys" won the Chatham County NC Commissioner's Democratic Primary Tuesday, May 2, against three conservative incumbents aligned with full-tilt growth at all costs interests. It might be a bit o the old tip of the iceburg deal, huh?

I haven’t been writing much lately because… I don’t really know. Picking up lots of stone, and playing a good bit of music, might just be excuses. The news keeps outrunning my outrage, yeah, that’s the ticket.
Anyway, the three white hats who won the primary election in Chatham County this past week could be the tip of a big iceberg. I’m sure lots of folks are thinking that at least: could it be? A return to reality at last?

Reality has a way. Over in what we call the Heart of the Triangle, they are running out of water. You folks in New Mexico, just laugh all you want. Yes, I’ve driven across, from here to out there, and yes, the trees pretty much stop at the Mississippi, and we over on the East Side don’t really have a clue about dry. Nonetheless, they are having water problems in Raleigh. The reason is not so much that there’s not been enough rain, although last year was a relatively dry year (again, relative to here, not to Out There). The reason is that there are way way more people living over in the Heart of the Triangle, which means that there are more taps on the supply, and also more rapid rain runoff which doesn’t get down to the local ground water table but instead rushes to the rivers and on down to the ocean, for the most part. People are worried. For us, it’s at the stage of What If We Can’t Warsh Our Cars??? The white hats in the photo beat out some commissioners who seemed to believe in All Growth, All the Time. Clear the land, build the houses, damn the water. That might not be a winning campaign any more.

Then I read this morning that not only did Mr. Colbert actually tell the mainstream media, in the presence of the President no less, that they were all pretty much living in a fantasy world, but just a week before that, Noam Chomsky had given a speech at West Point! Delightful. I hate summers, and pretty soon that Gulf Stream is gonna stop (because the Greenland Ice Sheet is gonna melt and all that fresh water will stop the convection current up in the North Atlantic that keeps the Stream moving) and it’s gonna get seriously chilly, just before it really warms up. That’s reality for you. It shows up.

Here’s another bit of reality, captured in a thought experiment. We’re having this horrible flap around here about the Duke lacrosse team and its alleged rape party, which might otherwise be called an alleged male bonding ritual, and whose other name if you recall your NYC tabloid history is an alleged “wilding.” If you’ve not been following this sordid story, the team has stuck together in team-like fashion (bonded as they are) from the very start of the inquiry, forcing DNA testing on all 46, errr, members, and the team has hired a veritable phalanx of lawyers who have been running WTVD’s newsroom with their daily pronouncements of innocence and district attorney malfeasance, to where you have to do things like this here thought experiment to catch a bit of reality in the exposed film you’ve hidden in the black box, the whiz of the truth showing up like a white blur as it joggles those silver nitrate molecules on its way past. Get ready. Now, ask yourself, What Would Coach K Do?

I guarandamntee you he would not have simply resigned his position and left town, as the Duke lacrosse coach has done. Not unless he was so completely embarrassed and so completely sure they were guilty of the allegations—which would be such a profound indictment of his failure as a coach that there was absolutely nothing more to say, nothing at all but undiluted shame and depression. Memo to the defense—a missing coach isn’t the same as missing DNA. When there’s DNA present, it’s information. When it’s absent, it means absolutely nothing. A missing coach though, that’s a little odd.

Slick’s good, but it has limits. Rumsfeld’s answer to all criticism, that in a democracy there will always be dissent, is as slick as Miles Davis’ “So What.” But it has a flaw, that smooth glide of the hands he performs at his pressers, and somebody really ought to call him on it. The defense is too big. “Are you saying, Mr. Secretary, that there is no point in considering the content of specific dissent, because after all, there’s always dissent? Is this how we got into the morass of Iraq? You used that defense against all your internal opposition, just waved your hands and, as they say, moved on?” Explains a lot at least. The best thing about the Colbert routine was that the Washington Press Corps sat there and said nothing. They couldn’t laugh because Coach Dubya might notice. He nailed them to the wall. Look who’s saying nothing in the Duke lacrosse story. Sometimes, like my man Wittgenstein said, what you cannot speak of you must pass over in silence.

I think we’re eventually going to get our press back. That’s reality again. It’s going to take some more time. It might take $10 a gallon gasoline, which will arrive about the same time as we drop bombs on Tehran, if that’s what we’re going to do. $10 gas will also bring with it a clearer view of the United States’ true place in the world of nations. It will not be fun. Another bit of reality was when Mike Nifong won the Durham DA primary on Tuesday. I read that some of the defense attorneys for the Duke lads voted for him. Reminds me of what a defense attorney told me one time.

He was part of a team defending some dudes from Maryland who’d come down south to gun down some competitors in the crack trade. It was a bloody mess, shotgun shells and splayed bodies all over an old frame house in the wrong part of town. Cops had the shooters cold right off, but the DA’s folks were messing the case up terrible in court, and my friend looked at his teammates as they went out to lunch one day and said, “Shit, we might get these guys off!” I’m just sayin’. Course it’s also true that maybe the defense folks voted for Mr. Nifong cause they figured he’d be an easier opponent. Guess we’ll just see about that. Eventually. If they can ever find a jury.

--Bill Hicks

Guest Workers

It has suddenly become popular to talk of "guest workers." First the right wing/racist/fascist element pounded the drum of fear about how all these Mexicans and other latino workers were coming into the US illegally taking all the chicken plant and child care and roofing jobs that weren't nailed down, not to mention transforming our Food Lions and Walmarts to where we had to figure out what kind of pepper to buy, plus having to call it a "chile" or a "chili" or whatever, and figure out when we got home what the hell to do with the thing (hint: poblanos do not go in spaghetti sauce). Just the other day I heard the fear being ratcheted up yet again with some estimate by some faux educated voice that in 100 years this country would have a population of a billion people, with a heck of a lot of these future denizens speaking Spanish, not Anglish, as their mother tongue. Oh my gawd, a billion, did you hear that, Cletis?

Well for one thing, that means social security will not go bankrupt, so what exactly is the problem? Back in '98 I heard Rush Limbaugh say we could fit the whole population of the US into Texas with no problem. There's plenty of space, and there's no global warming or anything according to the GOP. Plus, these people have to be somewhere. Whether they're in Mexico or here, who cares. Let them pay our taxes and do our hard jobs so we can enjoy life to the fullest. The planet may be filling up, but the GOP isn't talking about that, they're stopping all funding of planned parenthood type agencies around the world.

But anyways, now there's the new plan, the guest worker plan. I think we're getting the plan because when a million people come out and march in LA like they did last weekend, even Republicans are going to make some sort of little jog in their march down the road to hell. They sure as hell aren't going to go head up against that, and the Haliburton detention camps they've bought and paid for aren't built yet I don't think, and probably won't be until Haliburton siphons off a few more millions in unexpected overhead. And we've seen that super domes don't really cut it when it comes to "storing" people. Guest workers it is.

Let's look deeper at what a guest worker is, since he/she is going to be part of the American social fabric from now on. Basically, it's a gussied up name for a... drum roll...... er, um, slave. How bout that. This country was founded on slavery, and damn if we don't keep coming back to it. Maybe it's the economy stupid. That is, the idea that us white folks really don't, shouldn't, need to actually work out in the sun, picking up hard things, stooping, bending, pushing, humping shit around, breathing dust and dirt and rat shit. We're the elite. We sit in the crew cab, on the cellphone. We eat a fine sweet mango and listen to jazz and drink a glass of good red wine in the sea breeze, watching the fine sun setting yet again into the blue green waves. And we can't afford to enjoy that sunset if the mango costs what we'd charge to pick it. Oh I know, "slavery" is such a terrible word, I'm going overboard. Ok. It's not quite slavery. It's just real real cheap labor, ok?

Somebody has got to do a whole lot of work on the cheap. That's the deal. That's the bottom line. Been that way forever. Been that way since massa planted his first cotton seed and cracked his first whip over the first fine strong black back that got hauled over heah. You may have noticed that a lot of these hard jobs have been exported to places where people work for $2 a day, or $2 a month. "Guest Workers" allow the jobs that can't leave to be done on the cheap by folks who don't "really" live here. See how that works? The rest of it, all of the rest of it, is just bullshit, icing, window dressing, blather about how this and that is necessary for the wellbeing and you know we are progressing, our fine world is really come a long long long ways from back then, and finally it's just a hard angry question: well, do you want to work that fucking hard?

Most of us just say no, and that's the deal. And so here we are. A bunch of blather and talk and suddenly the US of A has got itself a whole second underclass of people, mainly brown people (how odd, how bizarre, how coincidental!) who from now on are going to do the actual hard ass work that really, yes indeed, it does have to be done. These folks are going to empty the shit our decrepit parents produce. They're going to deal with the boring work of tending to the children we make in our spare moments, when we're not making money. They're going to do all the hard nasty parts of making our houses, our fine four thousand square foot houses going for 500K to a mil in the fine parts of town. They'll climb up on those steep roofs in the summer. They'll crawl into those attics, buried in the fibreglass insulation that keeps the R-values high. They'll pump the chemicals around the perimeters that kill the termites and carpenter ants. They'll lay the 12" block in the fine full basements we want so badly. Storage, we need more storage! Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. They'll be "guest workers," working for the carrot of "citizenship," which some of them will actually achieve if the bill is written with enough fear of those million man demonstrations. Or if the real fascists get their way, they might just be working for the money to send back as long as some guy in a suit keeps deciding it's ok.

One thing's for damn sure, the pay is going to stay low. Ain't nobody in this great land of ours gonna do shit work for good money. Otherwise, nobody would be living in those fine houses, or driving those fine cars, or sipping than fine red on the western deck, with the sun slipping into the Pamlico. Nice. Let the glaciers melt. Comes down to it, like it or not, we're all guests here anyway.

--Bill Hicks
A similar point is made by Paul Krugman in "The Road to Dubai"
[photo courtesy of http://www.lookoutlodge.com/]

A False Alternative

From the March 13, '06 New Yorker, in an article, "Political Science," by Michael Specter:

"Despite the official silence, the Bush Administration has been relentless in its opposition to any drug, vaccine, or initiative that could be interpreted as lessening the risks associated with premarital sex."

Read the sentence a few times, as the New Yorker tends to be as wordy as George Will fulminating on Barry Bonds. The Bush Administration has a consistent ongoing policy of defeating any efforts to lessen the risks of premarital sex. How would you like it if the X Administration had a policy of defeating any attempt to lessen the risks of smoking? Of driving? Of asbestos? How would you like it if your daughter got cervical cancer because some politicians decided that an available, effective vaccine was not going to be produced because they imagined that the potential risk of cervical cancer might stop teens (and adults) from having sex? How would you like it if your daughter died from cervical cancer?

In the same article one Reginald Finger, former medical advisor to Focus on the Family, is quoted as having reservations about a potential HIV cure for the same insane reason--if we cured HIV the kids would have more sex. This sick, confused minority of Americans is now, apparently, making fundamental decisions that affect the health of your children. Personally, in my book a parent who would rather have his child run a preventable risk of AIDS or cervical cancer in order to coerce him or her into not having sex should have that child removed to foster care. These people need deep, long-term counseling. They need to come to grips with the fears, no doubt instilled in them as children by their own warped, fearful parents, that are driving them to make decisions that are deeply delusional, as well as evil, cruel, hateful, unloving. You pick the adjective that applies. Some of their leaders--father figures who fill the sick need for an oppressive paternal figure that their own fathers have mostly vacated with age and death--ought to be exposed as the charlatans they really are, the poseurs raking in the cash and preening in the power to influence a weak, deluded President who apparently imagines that a coming Armageddon relieves him of the need to consider the negative aspects of his decisions. But of course that would demand a press we no longer have as a country, aside from tiny pockets of reality like the New Yorker. Nonetheless, this is the relationship that is driving the health policy decisions of this country today. Men like James Dobson, Jerry Falwell, and Pat Robertson stand in, in the minds of their sad, defeated "flocks," for the oppressive parents they never saw for what they really were--small, afraid people who didn't really know much about the life they were bringing their children into.

Our President, in short, supports policies that make it more likely for your daughters to contract cervical cancer, a cancer that is silent and frequently kills before it is even discovered. We have indeed come a very long way down a muddy, slippery slope.

You will note, in the illustration that begins this commentary, that the leading contender for the GOP nomination in 2008, John McCain, is actually hugging our Dear Leader. People often say things like "well, at least he's had some real life experience," "at least he really served in Vietnam," or even "well, I'd vote for McCain if the Democrats can't find anyone better than Kerry." Mr. McCain is the third most conservative Senator by vote analysis. Mr. McCain supports this Administration and its policy to allow your daughter to contract cervical cancer if she makes the mistake of having premarital sex. (And, by the way, who the hell says it is a mistake, as a general rule, to have premarital sex?) He was also willing to give Mr. Bush this big hug after Mr. Bush slashed and slandered him to defeat in the 2000 South Carolina primary.

It is time to get real, to face the simple logic that this picture depicts. There are no Republicans to whom we should entrust this nation's government. Perhaps there's room for some of them in Congress, for balance, but I'll tell you, as a constituent of two Republican Senators myself, they ain't done nothing for me or for my state. One of 'em doesn't even live here at all. Those folks who still sit on the fence, who still think maybe McCain is some kind of compromise--Mr. Kerry, we may recall, actually offered McCain the Veep slot in the summer of '04--had better think about these policies and then look at that picture. This is real stuff, folks. I happen to have a daughter myself. We do not want to have sick, confused people behind the wheel of this huge juggernaut we call the United States of America. We have seen the results for six years now. Look at that picture one more time. Seeing is believing.

--Bill Hicks
(The image is from firedoglake.com)

Bob

I met Bob Brown in the winter of '62-'63, some night on the way towards spring, two AM or so, at the Carolina Coffee Shop, which everyone called "Byron's." I started going there in search of conversation, looking for poets, for politics for something--maybe a big brother, I don't know. The "Harry's" of the night. I had joined the Student Peace Union I think, or maybe that happened after I met Bob. I know I had already been passing out leaflets suggesting that the US "ban the bomb." Civil rights was already happening in other places in the South, and I had met a Freedom Rider at the Raleigh Trailways Station when I was still in high school and working as a copy boy and weekend gofer for the N&O. It seemed obvious to me that the South could and should change its ways. A practicing Methodist at the time, I had given a guest sermon on the theme of integrating Fairmont Methodist Church at the early service (at the later service, my female counterpart, a freshman at Duke, discussed the pressing issue of sexual abstinence). I was coming at this as a simple moral choice, with no inkling of economic theory or class dynamics, no clue even of the simple notion that keeping black working people and white working people at odds was a handy thing if you happened to be running a mill in the South, or a University for that matter. Bob had written a dissertation on such things, and delighted in talk.

Before long I was knee deep in the kindling Civil Rights struggle in Chapel Hill, picketing, between classes, the segregated restaurants that dotted Franklin Street. Bob was a leader, a voice with a real Left grounding, a man who'd been in the Korean War (33 combat missions his N&O obit says, something he never mentioned), had seen things, done things, out of grad school himself a couple of years but still engaged with the student scene. His energy was boundless and contagious. I was also, eventually, a member of the Reflections Magazine staff, spending hours in the cold downstairs office on Franklin Street, typing away at the fancy electric typewriter that was our typesetting machine, talking and talking with Bob, Mike Smith, Frank Blackford, Boyce Quinn, David Cheek, Kathy Strong and various others amongst the Reflections circle, sitting around the kitchen table with a cup of black Yuban instant, the oven door open for heat if it was winter. Bob was the person who taught me that even if you don't make a choice, that was a choice. That was what he understood as the core of Existentialism. Eventually I went on to Graduate School in Philosophy at UNC, and Bob was best man at my first wedding, the winter after my first wife and I had cat-sat out at his house on Smith Level (way before the fire) for most of the summer of '66, listening over and over again to "Blonde on Blonde."

Bob and I stayed in touch. That marriage broke apart in '69, and I went out to San Francisco with Boyce and David Cheek just to get some space (a high draft lottery number in my pocket), and spent the winter out there. When I came back I spent the first few nights at Bob's, and I recall sleeping through a total solar eclipse during that time, in mid-March 1970, because Bob and I had sat up all night talking. I remember I showed Bob a bunch of photos I'd taken out in San Francisco, and he pointed out that there were no people in any of them. Then I got my life going back here, and hooked up with Bobbie Thompson and became a part of the Fuzzy Mountain String Band, and started working at Duke University Press, which was a lot like working at Reflections Magazine, but with pay. As my interest and involvement in fiddling grew Bob offered me a column in the Anvil, which he'd started by then, and for several years I wrote something called "Old Times," a variety of essays about people and things connected to rural southern music: an account of the Union Grove Fiddler's Convention for example, and a transcription of an old mountain lady's story about a Pet Panther.

After the Red Clay Ramblers got going I saw less of Bob, tho he'd come out to shows at the Cradle from time to time. I know he came to see Diamond Studs when we returned from the big city with it in the fall of '75, and I know he was not happy with the naive politics of the play--Jesse James was in truth closer to a Klansman than a Robin Hood, something we never really thought about because the success of the show was grounded in its music and fun. Bob always had his political/moral compass activated, and his fire was never quenched. He was certainly supportive of me throughout--glad to see me succeeding in music, getting that the Ramblers were more than a simple bluegrass band, having various conversations with Tommy Thompson (another Philosophy Grad student and another big brother) and me over one too many at the Cradle bar.

Through the years I always tried to drop by the Smith Level digs from time to time and have a chat. When I left the Blurs in '81 I know I went by there to tell him, and later I introduced him to Libby and our daughter Anna. Anna, in fact, got into a political argument with Bob during one visit, while she was still in high school. Made me proud. Life went on, I was doing a lot of stone work and playing music with Libby. We spent nearly 10 years, from '95 on, mostly on Ocracoke Island. Anna grew up. I suddenly got to be --goddamn!!-- 63 years old.

I never figured Bob would die. He was too damn alive, too tough. He'd poke death in the eye, break that scythe over his knee and toss the pieces into that old yaller pickup with the horns on the front, drive home and make a sculpture out of the metal and kindling out of the handle. I did wish he'd quit smoking, and I've always figured that the cigs just kept him slightly level, kept him from punching the wall. A trade off. And who knows. Bob had a fine life, and I'm sure he'd agree in the deepest sense with my favorite bit of philosophy--living well is the best revenge. Hell, I probably got the line from him.

I wish we'd all paid more attention to the things that really pissed Bob off, that made him want to punch walls, and to start a magazine and then a forchristsakes newspaper! I have to say, looking at the current situation, Bob was absolutely right. One afternoon in '63, after the big sit in at the Chapel Hill Chamber of Commerce (a choice of target that had a lot to do with Bob, who understood where the power was, that it wasn't in the hands of some cracker who ran a little sandwich shop), Bob went out in the intersection of Columbia and Franklin, on his own, with a sign that said "Justice." He sat down under the traffic light and was shortly arrested. That was in some ways his most elegant moment, a pure statement, as true as you could get, with no hassles about the price of ink and paper and the overhead of a building on Morgan Street in Durham, the complications of a staff, deadlines, bidness. But he also gets a big big tip of the hatlo hat for sticking with it, printing that damn paper week after week, year after year, about as bad a job for an idealist as running a dairy farm come to think of it.

We thought that we'd won. We were seriously wrong, and we went to sleep at the wheel. We are paying still, right now, with this darkening political climate, with a right wing supreme court and a government that thinks corporations and fundamentalist churches are the true citizens of the country--not people. Most of us got tired of listening to Bob. The paper folded, replaced by papers that looked like papers, printed on news print, full of sex ads to pay the freight. During the '90s it looked like things had finally settled down, and we could just enjoy life and not think about the big political issues, the economic underpinnings. Probably to some degree Bob settled down too. But I don't think his fire ever went out, and I think, looking back, that he was seriously ahead of his time, ahead of this time, right now. He kept pointing till his arm got tired, then he sat down under a maple tree, fired up another Carlton, and tried to enjoy the sunset.

Well, Robert V. N. Brown, we'll sure the hell be missing you down the road we're travelling, and I hope we can do you proud. Take a well earned rest. God Speed.

--Fiddlin' Bill

*photo by Margaret Brown