Frankenstein’s Cloud pt. 2


One last online group I forgot to mention (at the pause of this sermon; Frankenstein’s Cloud pt. 1) and that group is, you and I. Every day we get on the internet or check our phone for social chatter, watch media, listen to flotsam. We become victims, caretakers of a monster which seems unstoppable as we try to ignore the barrage of shit that offends us, by posting shit to offend them. Eventually, one of the dozens of videos we stumble across hits a nerve. Something startles you into reaction and before you know it, you’re busy searching online for validation of your opposition. Someone was shot by cops. Somebody kicked a dog or screwed their kids. Some politician just took your good earned taxes and put it in their pocket. The news feed hits you so fast that you barely take the time to slow down and check the sources of a story, you just sling it along to shock the next person you know.

So the suggestion I bring to you, to help thwart this madness we suffer (being hooked to our devices), is to unplug a bit. A simple sounding suggestion, but so many won’t do it on a regular basis. Leave your phone alone one day out of the week. Remember; our society, back in 2000, was not filled with everyone-everyday-being thrust within the social cloud, via their phone. That was less than twenty years ago, but now we act as though we can’t get through one day without phones running our lives. I suggest you back off from the daily horrorshow on your phone and reconnect with just being yourself. Observe things, look at birds, reflect and evaluate what you’re experiencing. visit a good friend-in person. Go to a bar in your hood and talk someone’s ear off. Trust me, your phone will be there when you get back to it.

Homes and offices are equipped with internet access, phones to check Tweets, television broadcasts on 24 hour news channels and we all seem to get in the habit of letting them run in the background, like white noise. Some of our actions have become Pavlovian in response, the involuntary checking of the screen for messages, the pensive moment waiting for a response to what you just posted.  Avoid news and entertainment programs for one day and use it to open your eyes and view what’s walking right in front of you. Steer clear of McDonald’s for one day, if you know they have a television blaring Fox News in the morning. Don’t pull up the MSNBC website on your computer home page and start perusing the latest political drool. Online program services like Netflix or Hulu allow you to gang watch entire seasons of programs any time we want, so all you have to do is avoid them on your particular unplug day. Your favorite show will be there when you get back. Those shocking news stories hitting the airwaves, right now? They’ll be there the next day. It’s all just like soap operas; you can go away for a month, come back and pick up right where you left off. The online entertainment extravaganza just keeps on going. The online news scare will never go away…not totally.

I’m not suggesting we all revert back to a more simple time, that would be a ridiculous thing to expect. What I suggest is a more equal time in your life between the social cloud we make and interact in, and the world of flesh and blood where humans connect with one another on an unseen level. People who don’t think we need contact with one another forgot, or never saw, the footage of the experimental Rhesus monkey they deprived being able to touch it’s Mother. The thing went batshit, acted like a strung out crack addict. Humans need contact as well, but if we become reclusive and shy away from contact with others (other than online), how can we expect a healthy outcome?

One day a week. Could you do it?


Frankenstein’s Cloud pt. 1


So many of us have become like Odysseus; tied to the mast of a ship, eager to hear the sounds of the sirens, even knowing that to do so will leave us incapable of sane thought or reason. We plunge headlong, day after day, onto social media sites, we fill out ears with 24 hour news prattle, we watch YouTube clips and assorted media pumped to us by friends and enemies alike, showing heinous crimes and abhorrent behavior. We spend very little time to holding media stars accountable for their words or actions and let them off the hook in a few days after we become inundated with the newest monsters. More swill thrown at us to gasp at, more click bait tugging at our curiosity. Fuck that old video of some kid who died, there’s a new dead kid video someone just posted. Shock footage and teaser headlines have become more addicting than crack cocaine, attitudes flare up on a daily basis and get shoved in your face via phone, television and computer. We’re all getting caught in a trap and refuse to fight the monkey developing on our psyche. Welcome to the mother fucking Church, people. Scream all you like, we’re tied to the mast and can’t get away.

Everyone’s got a story-I’m no different in that regard-and we all want to be heard, or seen, or paid attention to. All of this is possible, on the cloud. The positive concept behind what the social cloud could offer us was the opportunity to express ourselves, be creative, share moments of our life with loved ones and educate ourselves on a rapid scale (by comparison to the age of paper bound publications). Technology grew and gave us fast, new, exciting ways to convey the sublime…and the mundane. It got way out of hand though, and here we are, wrestling with the madness, fighting the taunts thrown at us by media moguls that prey on your attention. We’re given minor distractions in the form of apps we take with us wherever we go. We develop this nervous tic of snapping pictures, regardless of how meaningful they are. People are given free games where they can look at bubbles and put them in rows and eliminate them, while taking a shit. We never seem to be alone, yet we all feel so lonely.

This technological lifestyle is a growth spurt that humans and machines are going through…growing pains, I should say. It’s as awkward as puberty and lots of folks are still trying to find solutions; I’m no different. I wonder if this is the foretold Age of the Singularity coming about ( for those of you unfamiliar with the term ‘Singularity’, use your tech. You’re reading this blog; you have the ability to Google ‘Singularity’). Maybe it’s not going to be some stark reality where robots are running down the street using their laser eyes to kill humans. Maybe the Singularity comes about in a subtle form of societal hypnotism, mesmerizing humans with flashing lights and sounds. Serotonin triggered moments from getting so many ‘likes’ on a post-and if you think you’re vulnerable from that particular rush, if you think you can fight that feeling, see what happens when something you post out there spikes three and four digit numbers of online viewings. It’s a rush, a high tech blow job and we all could use one of those, so I understand folks-but with the good comes the bad. Saddled to the back of those good feelings from social media is this monster which frightens us into an alert status, pulling at our primal fear instinct. It doesn’t matter whether we want it or not, it will be there. The evil side of our technology is the equivalent exchange, the penance we pay for now having the ability to reach a global audience in an instant. The beast that can frighten us is being fed and nurtured by people with fat wads of cash who can fuck with the world at their wallet’s leisure. They fuck with the world on a grand monetary scale. We also have the lone kid in some distant room in Bangkok, or Russia or anywhere else, that has a lonely bored lifestyle and can fuck with the world, because that lone kid has nothing but a computer and time. And, of course, we have our politicians. They are vapid pieces of monotony who strive to be more spectacular than ever, online. They pummel us with video footage and press releases each and every day, email campaigns that never stop, while the common problems they could fix or help out with, go untouched. Roads decay, environments rot, people’s health care depletes  and our political leaders continue to dance before our eyes while nothing gets done. The Crimson King, Donald Trump, masters his tweet launches as a stinging weapon to harm those who oppose, and mentally masturbate those who follow. His outlandish statements and jaw dropping on air performances sidetrack everyone from stopping his clandestine operations. The flippant behavior to his civil service, the job he was put in place to do, has everyone wondering what the hell could he possibly do or say next?….and then he does it.



Revolution 2018 pt. 4:


Purple neon laser lights flashing across the expanse of huge rooms while young teen dub step pseudo-music cranked out across stages and stages of teen cheerleaders. Competition at it’s most pro moment…I don’t think there are any adult cheer team competitions, so this is as high up as the sport goes. Maybe college competition falls in there somewhere but I don’t recall having seen it. The charm of cheer team competition falls off in college, usually veering toward sorority of fraternity involvement.

Miguel-o and me, stoned up and at the cheerleading competition-the fucking nationals of cheerleading. A seemingly endless sea of costumes and jumping youths, proud parents and vibrant colored banners flashing in your face. It was as eye popping as Vegas and the most bizarre thing I could imagine getting caught up in Saturday. I was keeping things together in my mind at this spec-spangular (my word…spec-spangular: spangled and spectacular) event, not even concerned at that moment with the protester’s across the street. My fear of crowds, dusted over with a glazing of cannabis, looking for shots but not looking too long or focused for shots…

Soon enough we felt it was time to leave, time to check back in on the march. Once the Capital was in sight we noticed the steps and surrounding grounds were once again, barren of people. The pole tents were still there, police still patrolled and some organizers continued to shuffle around, but no other people. We walked over to get some answers from the organizers as to where the crowd went, when slowly we began to hear the familiar chant of people marching toward us. a march did take place after all. Now the big question was, how large was the crowd? How quick could they have grown in that small amount of time we were at JamFest? How would they fare, size-wise, to the Women’s March 2018 marchers? We waited and eventually the march made it’s way west on Senate Avenue and upward to the main entrance steps where the tents and police were waiting. The marchers at best, numbered about eighty people. The only strength in voice they had was from the fuzzy microphone hooked up to a speaker that the main honcho organizer carried. The main honcho organizer was the same one who had delivered the sad news to the crowd about the no sticks ban they were hit with earlier. You could see in her eyes that she struggled to keep some dignity, but I know she would have felt a lot more dignified and energized with a larger crowd; certainly, a crowd larger than eighty people were needed for her to clear that hump.

Here it was, at my face, once again. The failed protest of the masses, the inability to make a dent in the wall of (their) oppression. This smacked so hard of the back and forth movement I witnessed years prior, halfway across the country, in Colorado. Already, the fever of taking down Wall Street, the Occupy Movements that swept the country with mild interest, are being forgotten. The current Administration-the current leader of this country-has become a worse nemesis to Progressive and Left Wing voters than the Occupy era, worse than Bush Junior or Senior. Things appear worse to them than the Cheney years, but they can’t seem to produce enough boots on the street today, in two thousand eighteen, to even acknowledge a look their way, from the Crimson King. He continues, unscathed.

The back to back protests took a lot out of my concentration. Since the beginning of this 4 part post, I went back to polish syntax errors and grammar; I whisk along to get out these sermons before they are too old. News streams through at an incredible rate and it seems every day, some insane, torturous story is thrown in our news feeds via phone, television or computer. Media stations continue trying to scare and startle you with their newest fabrications of concern to Amerika. I try to devote time to keep this blog going and keep my observations relevant. Hard, in contrast, to compete with the stream of 24 hour news mania.

The most shocking thing of your day may be some video clip you saw, filmed some place you probably can’t (or won’t stop to) identify, and the most commitment too many out there will give to a revolution, is the commitment of changing a profile picture to sport the theme colors of that week’s protest. If you want to go on protesting via online memes or posting little emojis of turds and thumbs down gestures to friends, if this is the therapy you need to get through the day, then by all means, continue with that cyclical, spiritual act. Or maybe you want more women elected into our political system. Maybe if we vote enough women into positions of political power, this will all get fixed. Now-go stare at a picture on Nancy Pelosi or Hillary Clinton, and see if you can buy into that, totally. Try to remember the protesters squatting in the Northwest, with guns. Try to remember the protesters being hit with water cannons at the pipeline…those were all before Donald Trump.

You think it’s gonna be easy?



Revolution 2018 Pt 3: Impeachment Failure, Cheerleader Danger Zone


The Bollywood video shoot went off before the Women’s March mob arrived at the Circle, and our photo session continued. We followed inside the crowd of marchers all the way to the State Capital, to the West side of the building, where tents lined up waiting for the protesters to arrive. Tents for Democrat candidates from seemingly every District of Indiana, hawking to the crowd for their support and vote. The demonstration started to wind down for me and Miguel at that point. We got the crowd shots we came for and the speaker’s PA wasn’t loud enough to hear, so it was time to go. This march wouldn’t break into radical protesters demanding blood. These were families and citizens wanting to participate, in their own way, showing how they felt about the current state of society. There would be no rock throwing from this group. The best chances for rock throwers would occur the following weekend, when a demonstration for the Impeachment of Donald Trump was going to happen. We left that day and waited for the following weekend.

 The following weekend came; mild temperatures and rainy skies. We were hoping a good sized crowd would show up. A friend of my brother had manufactured a paper mache head and puppet body of Donald Trump, something we were sure would add to our photo ops. Big fucking Donald Trump head. I thought how magnificent it would be to set the thing on fire, but I would most likely refrain-in fact, with the weather being hit with rain, fire wasn’t going to happen. The rain might soak the puppet head and cause it to melt apart, which would be a nice symbolic image to capture. Then I started wondering if some overzealous protesters might try to tear the Trump puppet apart. More potential photo ops.

We approached downtown and saw they had jacked up parking prices due to an event somewhere near the Capital. Twenty dollars to park in a garage-screw that. We street parked and headed for the protest. It was scheduled to begin in 30 minutes and by the time we arrived at the site, that time was cut to twenty. We had our cameras ready, jockeying with umbrellas as well, going into photo snapping mode. But that feeling got killed as we closed in on the Capital. There were about ten people at most, (excluding the Indy police officers stationed on the steps and grounds of the state building), huddled and rained on, their body language showing disappointment, defeat. They smelled of something similar to apathy…more like lost hope. The crowd organizers prayed for were a no show. We walked about the sidewalk among those organizers, unable to find any inspiring pictures to shoot. Teams moved in to hoist up flimsy portable tents and had political flyers ready. At one point, one of the head leaders for this event told those gathered that the police just informed her of an 18 year old Indiana law prohibiting the use of sticks on protest signs, on the Capital grounds. They were taking away their sticks. When your radical group of protesters can’t even hold onto their sticks, you might as well hang it up and go home…pussies.

We walked across the street for coffee, to give time for the crowd to build-if it would build. Outdoor ads for Jamfest were on nearby buildings, which piqued our curiosity about Jamfest. We noticed packs of tween aged girls and high school students in unitards, outfits you expect to see at a circus, meandering at the Starbucks where we went for coffee. Jamfest had to be the downtown event that drove parking prices up. A mother of one of the costumed kids told us that Jamfest was a national competition of cheerleading teams; extreme gymnast-like routines by kids ranging in age from (probably) 8 years to eighteen. Miguel suggested we check out Jamfest.
“We’ll probably get better pictures there than at the protest.”
He had a good point. The protest was too somber and depressing to witness. It reminded us both of the failed protests we saw down here last year. It re-reminded me of the failed protests I followed years ago in Denver. Jamfest had gymnasts and colorful outfits, happy energetic people. The protest had folks who couldn’t even hold onto sticks. He talked me into it and soon, we were wandering through a sea of kids and parents, all psyched up and ready for some wicked, cheerleading competition.

It wasn’t until we wandered down the wide corridors of the convention center a while that a slow realization hit us. We were two older men with cameras, racing around a crowd of perhaps 100,000 people or more; kids and their parents. This country has been going through as rash of sexual predator and abused women reports, so in spite our clean intentions, this probably made a lot of people here uncomfortable. We photograph crowds at various events; Comicon cosplayers, protesters, various groups of individuals that make up our world, but the mendacity of what we were capable of unleashing here walked a razor’s edge. Our hobby for crowd shooting turned potentially lethal. We were deep in a cheerleading danger zone.



Revolution 2018 pt. 2: The Meat of the Deal


We had a couple blocks to go before hitting the grassy plaza where the main event took place. Distractions along the way had us slowing down to look and see if there was anything to survey, anyone meaningful to talk with, any shot worthy of taking. More knit pink pussy hats the closer we got. A lady in a wheelchair overturned in the street, a flock of citizens helping her back up. A couple down-on-their-luck guys trying to shame us out of a few bucks. I was not up to funding someone’s cigarette habit right then. Closer to where the crowd stood was the table of merch, t-shirts and buttons, pussy hats in a multitude of colors. Merchants like these show up at every large event to persuade the money out of giddy patrons’ pockets. I understand the desire fans have to purchase t-shirts, etc. at a concert, but I can’t imagine rocking a ‘Women’s March 2018’ t-shirt, faded from numerous washings, in 2019 or 2020. The result of that would be folks looking at your old shirt with pessimism; pessimism for what it failed to pull off.

We finally made it to the Meat of the Deal, the first course of the event; the opening speech ceremony. After an hour or so, the crowd would march down Meridian Street, around the downtown Memorial Circle Monument, then on to the State Capital. My brother and I began mingling around, taking our shots, keeping within eyesight of one another. We’ve begun to develop quick visual signals to one another that clue in, or draw attention to, a potential good shot in the crowd. Sometimes, you have no time for a hand sign, you just float off, and get found later. Miguel floated.

Some folks (who must have arrived early) made a few small snowmen from the scattered amount of snow there, and that had Mike peeling off to see if he could capture art…or something close to it. I’ve noticed his fascination with groups of things. Numbers or collections of items, design and form from repetition or category, like the unspoken visual expression made from a shot of hundreds of flags, or rows of geometric gaming dice, dozens of dolls. Repetition can lull one into studying it, like a deer in headlights, something that hinges on mysticism. A message, but we’re not really sure what that message is…something about pairs or groups in design…something about it touches the sublime mind.

Sublime design, color and form. These are the things we seek out while waiting for disruptive groups to shove their fist in the air, throw some fucking rocks. But most the time, people won’t throw rocks. Most the time people will not get metal, especially not those who brought kids and pets. Saturday’s nation-wide marches were women marching to show their numbers, not to become a pack of mad dogs in the street. Women-for the most part-are much more tempered than men, more methodical planners and strategists. Women stick with something and persevere if the cause seems right. Suffragettes stirring up things eons ago to give women the right to vote. Women were the dominating force behind liquor prohibition-yeah, I know that one got appealed but for that era of American history, it was probably the best thing they could do for the country; get drunk men off their asses. Black women showed up to be the voting majority electing Alabama Democrat Doug Jones into office. Women methodically turn the tides of our society, and when they gather to protest, you can’t count out their effectiveness, or what they can accomplish. My way of thinking always goes back to throwing rocks….I am clearly not a woman.

The event kicked off with a prayer given by a representative of the Native American Community. The event organizers were smart to recognize the obligatory respect they needed to show various minority groups that composed the crowd that day. This helped strengthen their overall cause and made all feel welcome. It was a real fucking warm, cozy feeling, folks. There was a short period of awkward pause when a speaker representing the African American community got up and gave a speech that reeked of a ripoff diatribe from the movie Dear White People. The speaker called out White women and gave them a little taste of shame for not standing with their Black sisters in times of recent social injustices; when society gave them a double pile of shit for being female, and for being Black.

Shortly after the white lady shame speech, Miguel and I had the initial shots we wanted and decided to re-position down at the Circle, where the crowd would be marching through. I stopped and verified the march route with a patrolman sitting in his car waiting for the march to start…a police escort for the revolution. This would be the perfect time for them to throw rocks. I know, the kids and pets…

The march began after a bit and by then, we were positioned on the Monument Circle steps, ready to take more photos. The crowd looked the size of rice at this point, but they would be closing in soon enough. Then, out of nowhere, a group of East Indians take position on the Monument steps and one of them pulls out video equipment. Three of their party were dressed in vibrant electric colored outfits. The other members began to film a dance number straight out of a Bollywood video, Bolly Dance music streamed from a phone to sync with, video later. They raced to tape the dance number before the crowd of demonstrators made it to the Circle. Oh, it was fucking great. The fanfare kept going.



Revolution 2018 pt. 1: First Dance


One of Trump’s earliest Tweets this past Saturday encouraged women to get out for the Women’s March-celebrate “historic milestones” and “unprecedented economic success” in honor of the occasion. A lot of women did get out that Saturday, in various cities throughout the U.S. and other countries, to demonstrate en masse against what they feel is a corrupting civilization being created in our modern day society. In Indianapolis, the theme at the forefront of their local protest would focus on ‘Taking Back the State’. Approximately two thousand came to demonstrate against the Crimson King with hopes to lure more votes to Democrat candidates running in the numerous Districts of the state. The current report card doesn’t look good for Republicans and Democrats see that window of opportunity to get larger numbers in Congress, in local districts.

This demonstration would be the First Dance, the premiere protest event Miguel and I would attend in twenty eighteen. Women throughout the world were staging their protest against Donald Trump and all people associated with Donald Trump-his Cabinet, his crony Senators and House Members and his relatives. There would be splintered groups from various diverse associations as well, representing and adding numbers to the crowd of protesters, which would make for a better headline. Another added bonus was the weather being tolerable, a mild forty with clear, blue skies. This is the nice type weather cabin fevered families could endure, so moms and girlfriends packed up their husbands and kids and handmade signs and drove down to the American Legion Mall; a large square city block of memorial with good sized open grassy grounds and historic old buildings to make you feel a sense of importance. I have no idea what the hell this place is used for during the rest of the week, but today, Saturday, it would be the kick-off spot for Revolution 2018. Viva la fucking revolution, let me see what these folks got.

The night before the demonstration was when I heard about the government shutting down. The threat of a shutdown had been pending and I found myself at an artist’s gathering that Friday night. A gathering for the Bohemian class, complete with excellent foods, liquors and drugs, engaging conversations and beautiful minded people. The party went on for hours and eventually, me and a friend left there to saunter over to Dormans (my local haunt) where the liquor consumption got taken up a notch. We were throwing down single malt scotch when my friend looked down at her phone. Her face turned deadpan.
“Well, the government shut down.”
When she told me that, I made a mental note to call on the powers of God, Buddha and any other voodoo figure to make sure I woke up and was ready to go the next day. I shouldn’t close down the bar that night, I thought. The news of the government shutting down could throw more fuel on the fire of protest. This demonstration could get good. Good in the sense of improved numbers, more to observe, much more worth the effort to get down there. Some of the protests we had been to last year showed very few excitable moments, no formidable force being beaten in the streets or gassed. A couple demonstrations in 2017 did have the potential, real civil disobedience, but most of the demonstrations we had been to ended up being hapless and sad to watch. Demonstrations should, and will use, all the stimulation they can get, because if the crowd isn’t big enough, those attending lose interest quick and the revolution peters out.

Saturday morning, I was cognizant and feeling good. My brother would be at my place soon with his outdoor gear and camera and then it would be off to the show. He’s won numerous awards for his photography and has a unique eye for bracketing shots, a true artist’s survey of crowds and people and architecture, color and contrast. He’s always looking for that perfect, expressive shot that shows human emotion, or striking contrasts and shapes; sometimes, it’s just a cool fucking shot to be taken. I continue to search for social drama and visual/audible stimuli. I take shots with my camera as well, but I’m not as focused as Miguel. I search for a variety of sensations at these protests. Sound, imagery, the unspoken horror we bring out in one another. Odd scenes that slap you across the face with irony, like the man I saw last year holding a sign protesting his want for health care coverage, while smoking a cigarette. Oddities that make you giggle and shake your head.

We parked and walked seven or eight blocks through the middle of downtown toward the outside Memorial Mall. The closer we came to it, the more pink knit vagina hats we saw popping up on the streets, heading to the demonstration. Miguel paused for a second at one point, still blocks away from the event. He stopped me.
“you hear that? They’re playing Wonder Woman.”
They were playing some ripped off copy of the theme music to the old Wonder Woman/Linda Carter television series, piping it through some heavy duty speakers. Oh it was fucking on now, The fanfare had begun.



Premiere Demonstration for 2018; Pregame Warmup


Two days from now, a scheduled demonstration titled “Reclaim Our State” will be held at the American Legion Mall in downtown Sleepytown. Speakers will talk about social injustice and crap like that. Real rattle your paper saber stuff. Then everyone will be encouraged to participate in a staged march to the State Capital where even more speakers will blather on about the atrocities we Americans suffer…of course, I’ll be there representing the Church, reporting back to you avid readers, not as a participant, but as an observer. This will be my first demonstration of the new year, something to kick off Year Two: the Reign of the Crimson King-not to be missed by this preacher. Mi compañero for the excursion, Miguel, will be there too, driven by the same addiction for observing the masses that I have. This languishing habit we’ve developed for watching demonstrations and demonstrators gives us no hope for change, there’s none to be had. They still don’t fucking get it and the day they do get it together and accomplish something, I will be shocked as shit…more shocked than anyone, I think. No, we go to see the human tragedy play out before us, the nuance of social behavior being stirred up like soup, not quite boiling, but right on the verge.

My brother and I have been chomping at the bit waiting for something to knock us out of our winter hibernation. Too much television and online media masturbation leaves me aching to escape the shelter of home. I gotta get out and stretch my legs, breath in the choking fumes of buses and cars, stay out late and close down bars…chat with real people. We’d been putting out inquiries and feelers to find new sites for an urbanex walkaround, another habit Miguel and I love (see earlier writings on urbanex, somewhere in my backlog of blog posts posted here on the Church), but to date, there is nothing on our radar.

The major winter holiday cusp passed, and with Christmas and New Years being out of the way, more demonstrations and protest marches will begin to pop up. The insane whirlwind of shit coming out of the White House, Congress, and various little spots throughout the country, has worked it’s frenzied paranoia on Progressive voters and Trump haters for a year now. After this Saturday’s demonstration, there is another scheduled protest in Indianapolis, one I believe that will be focused on Impeachment of the President. As January marches on, the days get longer and the temperatures will become warmer and slowly, I envision folks crawling out of their cubbies to shake their fist at the Crimson King. How hard will they revolt? Will they reach a breaking point and go Berserker on the politicians in charge of our nation’s affairs? Will this country grow a pair of balls again? I think those who would protest at a ‘Reclaim Our State’ rally have the potential to get results, they just lack the ability to give direction…and they have to be willing to get dirty. I mean street dirty, fucking wild in the streets attitude, because those in power will not just give it away and your signs aren’t doing shit to move your cause.

Reaching back one year ago, protesters raised their weary fists on the downtown streets of Indy to protest against the pipeline being constructed on American Indian reservations. They had protests against the looming (looming at that time, before it started to be enacted) threat DACA would have on immigrant families. There were minor inflections of protest from groups opposed to Islamophobia and those trying to support LGBTQ rights; half a dozen other causes, but out of all that defiance, no change in their favor came about. The few elected officials they had on their team were ineffective at stopping the smothering rule of Republicans. People in charge of defense for the Trump Administration and political kin, people like Steve Bannon and Jared Kushner, helped influence congressional members and key politicians to hold the Right Wing fort against the onslaught of Democrats opposed to the President. A purported fever Trump has to destroy anything connected with the past Administration (Obama) brings about headlines to infuriate American voters that loathe the man. If he isn’t busy destroying the legacy of everything Obama, he’s pulling some boner statement or fucked up action that sends the press lighting into it to work up the flames of hate, again and again. How long can they keep fanning those flames before an uncontrollable fire erupts? The gripping control of a narcissistic leader whose whims are as bizarre as anything Caligula would have dreamed up have become a daily affair for us to face. At some point, the boiling point may be reached and that’s what Miguel and I are really waiting for. Maybe it will be this Saturday; doubtful, but I suppose it could be. Maybe it will be the following protest, the one aimed at Impeachment. I’ve been looking long and hard at this Generation to see what sprouts up but so far, all we have are young fucks eating detergent pods. They need some focus, because they have the potential.

Let’s see what Saturday holds.


Calendar of Posts

March 2018
« Feb    

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Blog Stats

  • 12,042 hits