The Dichotomy of Politics pt. 2: In the Belly of the Beast

The bourgeoisie finds itself involved in a constant battle. At first with the aristocracy; later on, with those portions of the bourgeoisie itself, whose interests have become antagonistic to the progress of industry.

-Karl Marx, The Communist Manifesto

 I had no idea what I would be opening the door to when I stumbled in the meeting of the Denver Metro Young Republicans. I peeked through the  door drape and saw no gratuitous bloodshed taking place, no game of smear the queer with steak knives, no shackled hippy protesters being bruised up-I figured it was safe enough to enter. The guest speaker, Ryan Call, was into his spiel about how the Republican party needed help stuffing envelopes, getting the GOP word out, via volunteers which they desperately need to stir the drive to oust the numbers of Democrats currently seated in the House and Senate. Call mentioned that, unlike the Dems, the Republicans don’t pay their volunteer workers so it would be on a strictly pro bono effort from anyone willing to sign up; whether this is factual about Democrats paying their help, I do not know.

 The Republican Party strategy (from this local perspective) is to defeat the lower ranks, then aim for the Presidency. Fill the two Houses with Republicans to support one of the GOP candidates. This was  a call out to the people to get behind a favored candidate and jockey their way into the White House. Seemed like a sound strategy to me-if I were running their race that would be the course of action I’d take. The speaker was actually rather good. Answered questions with temperance, kept the communist bashing to a minimum and gave his best to deter conspiracy superstitions-basic Government 101 stuff, keeping it real. During the Q&A portion I asked Mr. Call if the National Republican party had settled on one favored candidate to go against Obama in the fall. “That will be determined by you people” he smiled…..in other words, they wash their hands of the entire fate of Mitt Romney, Rick Santorum, et al-at least until pol numbers settle on a favored nation choice.

 The crowd itself wanted to talk about more viral issues being spread from sources like the web and FOX news, real trailer trash banter and as I listened in I got a sense that the real problem in the belly of the beast is not the local leaders, it’s the followers that have been whipped into a frenzy, working against itself in the name of some sensationalized bit thrown on the screen for them to react over. Some people tried to address Ryan with their concerns with statements that fell slightly short of coming out and saying someone needs to shoot the prez. Mr. Call quelled that kind of talk and again, stressed the importance of playing the game the way it’s supposed to be played; majority rules. When I asked my question about a viable candidate, this anxious woman with a face like Lauren Bacall leaned over and touched my arm. “That’s what we need” she said with this haunting gleam in here eyes, but a viable candidate may not be enough. I think they want a blood sacrifice from the Dems, Nancy Pelosi strung on a crucifix with a board nailed to her head reading NEVER AGAIN, or maybe Barack Obama caught on birth certificate fraud and forced to put on an orange suit and do the perp walk.

 The after party was more than I could handle. Expensive beer and food platters-I was still buzzing and had to get out of there before I caused some bad commotion. I had the information needed and still had time to hoof it some 10 blocks down to where the opposition was holding an Occupy rally. I wanted this GOP meeting fresh in my mind to put in contrast to the street Dems. No more drugs-for now. I pecked away at my hand held word processing tech as I lumbered toward the State Capital.

The Dichotomy of Politics; Two Sides of Bedlam pt. 1

I had been planning this venture for weeks once I saw a posting online: The Denver Metro Young Republicans were holding their monthly meeting tonight and I needed to get there. My objective was to mill among the crowd of conservative men and women and witness-firsthand-what such an animal as a Denver Metro Young Republican looks like up close, what they think, what they feel-if they feel. I felt it my duty to see if the portrayal of the right wing political devotee as sensationalized by the press was accurate or exaggerated; was the heinous crap coming out of their pie holes as nasty as reported? I needed to give them the same courtesy I had given the liberal left and lie down with the dogs, see if I get fleas.
First things first: I needed to dress somewhat appropriate for the event. I couldn’t show up in some ragged tshirt with ‘Obama Care’ scrawled in blood across the chest, they might scatter like zebras from an approaching lioness. They tend to frown on someone showing up looking like Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver. I chose to wear long pants and a collared shirt with an American flag pinned on my jacket, a real ‘Father Knows Best look to conceal the demon beneath. My tag along electronics at hand, vast amounts of drugs and off I went to discover what a Denver Republican was about.

I piped off a large amount of weed and climbed on the Colfax bus to make my way downtown to Hamburger Marys, an urban watering hole on 17th with superb food and drink. The meeting would be held with the guest speaker, Ryan Call, leading the discussion and fielding questions. I was running late but I would not miss this. I sat next to some hard working stiff on the bus and told him I was going to attend the young Republicans meeting. He gave me this shocked look, as if I just told him I was going downtown to hit baby chicks with a hammer. My attempts at any ambiguous conversation ended there so I sat back and jammed on my IPod. After a few cuts from an Alice in Chains album screaming through my ear buds I had come to the general vicinity of the event and left the working class behind. Once off the bus I realized just how disoriented I was. The nice thing about technology is you can pull out your phone and click this little button that reads ‘where am I?’ and it shows you exactly where you are in the world….handy when high. I sauntered through a few alleys, lighting up the remains in my pipe and continued my journey. This area is one of those pleasant little pockets in Denver; old historic buildings, J Crew sweaters on middle aged housewives walking their dogs with hubby at hand. In spite my attempts to blend in down here I stuck out like a fused bomb.It was best to hurry the rest of the trip as their meeting had begun thirty minutes ago.

Before I knew it Hamburger Marys was right in front of me and I wandered through their crowd of regular patrons to a side room where the Republican’s meeting was being held. I anticipated opening the door onto a room full of methed out klansmen beating the shit out of an Obama effigy or perhaps a room of Agent Smith drones from the Matrix, all staring at me from behind sunglasses, pointing at me declaring “you’re not one of us!” Time to calm down, the pot was working overtime on my paranoia….time to open the door and face the music.

 

The Graveyard Shifts pt. 2

huge semi used to transport fencing to Civic Center Park

 My known pendejo associate, Eduardo, has grown to become the classic representation of Murphy’s Law in the living; whenever I have other things at hand he manages to get in touch with me, strung out and raging crazy over some simplistic problem, like trying to find his lost vehicle or persuading me to meet him to shop for items to take back to his family in some dirt bowl town near Oaxaca. When I do need to get in touch with him he’s nowhere to be found. Such was the case down at the protest site when I found out while talking with Big Country that some maniac had been terrorizing the folks down there, waving a pistol around in the wee hours. One problem that goes unnoticed with media coverage of these ‘Occupy’ territories throughout the country is what happens during the early morning hours when no public traffic is there to witness the shit going down. These people are being raped, robbed, tents and sleeping bags torn apart, cigarettes and clothes stolen…it’s not enough just to be living like a vagrant, they continue to suffer these brutal confrontations on a regular basis. I grumble when I have to get up in the middle of the night just to take a piss-imagine having to put on shoes, walk a block and a half to the bus station restroom and find someone to guard your items while you go there or run the risk of having all the possessions you own in this world stolen.

 Two attempts on the phone and still no answer from Eduardo. I’m hoping he’s on his way to Mexico to deliver goods to his relatives-his brother, Nestor, isn’t answering either but I don’t think Nestor knows my phone number so that might be a problem. I kept imagining the gun waving maniac sounds so much like that Chicano madman, always telling me how the “Occupy pussies need to take it up and start getting serious with fire and guns and shit.” I continue to argue that they need a more plausible agenda to get more people involved with their cause. If they continue this circus act of ambiguous political direction they will make very little-if any-progress. Scores of people communicate daily on internet social networks but have no correlated efforts with these zombies. The zombies have the strength, endurance and deranged tenacity to be real screws in the side of the monster corporate machines they wish to battle, but don’t realize the importance (in today’s society) of becoming web bound and ‘viral’. Most YouTube, et. al, video footage you see of these groups show minor skirmishes (Oakland aside) and fist clenching citizens aged 10 to 80 but why aren’t the Occupy groups more focused on content people can follow and understand? It takes most of my internet friends about three minutes to find some info on some slimy politician screwing us over yet these squatters continue to focus on keeping their asses out of jail and protected from being raped….how will that improve the economy? Everyone knows things are bad but what are we supposed to do about it? Vote out our elected officials that aren’t doing anything? That would wipe out most the House and Senate (the President as well, according to some disgruntled citizens). Years ago when that monster Richard Nixon was sending more and more planes over to Vietnam and Cambodia, the message from the people was clear; end the war…..nuff said. Now days our society is so pitted against one another that there is no definitive solution to be agreed on. This divisive arguing reminds one of the Civil War problems our country may have faced, brother against brother in a war of ideas.

 I left the campsite, still vaporized from the highly potent weed I’d been smoking, and gave up trying to reach Ed that night. The police said they caught whoever was menacing the zombies so if it was Eduardo, he’s probably on his way back to Mexico now, in the back of a blue colored school bus. The change of events there left me wondering what would happen now that the state, rather than the city of Denver, would have to pay patrol officers to keep a watch on things down there. The strategy to break the bank of Denver’s tax funds switches to a federal level now so how long can that hold out? The graveyard has shifted and a changing wind has added an air of suspicion to those residing in Grand Central Zombieland. I hope to earn their trust again with time, cigarettes and sundries. Time will tell.

The Graveyard Shifts; Eduardo on the Prowl?

Medicinal marijuana comes in a variety of strengths and is priced accordingly. I recently stumbled onto a wicked psychosis inducing strain and plummeted into the bizarre world of the depraved and insidious in downtown Denver. Denver is filled with freaks and vampires of all flavors but it does allow you to do your own thing and not be so much a spectacle. Groups of barely legal kids hang on 16th Street that remind you of something like Dicken’s street punks from Oliver on X. Girls in tight dresses all dolled up as waitresses for outside restaurants that pay attention to anyone with money, various hucksters and pimps of all merchandise. Open patio bars where people go to pay top price for a drink and engage each other on a humid dance floor to do the hump and bump….they feel 20 years old again, or wish they were, for tonight. Various street performers litter the LoDo district, most half assed, some exceptional-dear God, a fucking mime! The police are on hand, parked on their cycles in a circle, no real problem tonight, everyone is grooving on the fine weather. Political dementia takes the mind of some and leaves them leaning against walls with crude signs, shouting random two word protests at passing people. This is Denver.

Then, there is the other side of the route on 16th Street, the one that ends at the Occupy Denver encampment. The zombies down there have turned their quarters into some parallel dimension, living off scraps of food and bastardized technology. Being piped up on some strong strain of weed can either relax you in these surroundings or turn it into a real nightmare and mine took a turn to the dark side this evening. I noticed a bad vibe the minute I showed up among them which is uncommon for me. They typically welcome me down there but this time things were pretty quiet and standoff-ish. One noticeable difference was a large iron fence that now stood around the Civic Center park where the zombies had been  residing. No one was in that part of the park now. The entire clan had dropped their bags and belongings on the other side of the Broadway Street, one block closer to the State Capital. Their numbers were diminished to 30 or so people, a sloth gathering of the really nasty mongrels, dirty urchins pawing over pipes and egg salad sandwiches. They stare at me but make no attempt to greet me. I sit down and pull out my drugs to try and coax some information out of anyone interested in a buzz but the only taker was some small skinny character that reminded me of Ratso Rizzo from Midnight Cowboy. He keeps hitting me up for cigarettes, more pot, anything he can scrounge from me.

Finally, A familiar face walks by-it was Big Country, the easy going young man with a southern twang in his voice that I had met not long ago (see earlier blog, ‘The Man Called Big Country and the Rainbow Fingered Girl“). I walked up with a smile and asked what was going on but even this friendly face looked at me with suspicion. Dear God what had happened? Were the drugs that strong or was this paranoia I was experiencing justified? The zombies may turn on me at any moment so I prepared myself for a quick escape. Big Country did explain to me that the fence was put up to allow maintenance on the park. Apparently all the police cars, people and tents were so weighty that it crushed the sprinkler system and repairs were needed. Actually this somewhat worked to their advantage; the park area bordered on the west side where they had been living is under Denver PD jurisdiction, the east side is under Colorado State Police territory. Although the east side of the park is smaller the state cops are a lot more lenient, or have more to do than play tit for tat with the zombies like the city cops do.  While I stood there talking to Big Country a State patrol car rolled to a stop in front of us and the officer said they caught the man everyone was looking for down there.

“Who’s this guy everyone was looking for?”

Big Country told me some guy had been terrorizing the protesters, running around their camp waving a gun and ranting;  my thoughts immediately went to Eduardo.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Tebow-Jesus Has Left the Stadium

I woke up listening to talking head radio trying to focus on what the day’s  subject was while wrestling with the espresso machine. . The call-in diatribe pounding the airwaves revolved around that nasty social media distraction we call football. Normally at this time of year my mind is off season from any gridiron activity as I have other pro sports to focus on, but the recent negotiations involving Pat Bowlen and John Elway (legendary quarterback for the Denver Broncos and current Executive Vice President for Football Operations of said team) finalized a five year, 96 million dollar contract with former Indianapolis Colts quarterback, Peyton Manningm to play for the Denver Broncos. This announcement shocked a huge amount of Mile High fans that had experienced the Second Coming of football last year thanks to the shaky efforts on the gridiron by that hulking Christian media darling, Tim Tebow.
From my observation I found Tebow to be an above average QB for Denver -he did get the Broncos into the playoffs, which is a big bonus for any team, plus I take into consideration the rocky start he had, thrust into the starting position as a disgruntled Kyle Orton left the team. Post season play brings more cash to the owners and gives the average Joe and Jane additional eye candy to numb the senses so it was no surprise that most Bronco fans were pleased with Tebow, even those that scoffed at the religious following he attracted were happy. The paranoid hysteria increased with each game that took Mile High fans closer to the Big Enchilada. Fervent fans crossed their fingers and prayed to this demigod to let the team win one more game.
With every player transition comes a rash of support, opposition and madness from crowds of fans that feel they have all the answers to catapult their team into the winner’s circle; Denver is no different. Huge scores of Tebow fans are sobbing now, a scene akin to Elvis leaving for the Army. Zealous Christian supporters and misdirected housewives are saddened and distraught, their youngsters no longer have the Lamb to look up to and admire, no role model to say their prayers for. Naysayers are calling the incoming pro quarterback ‘Satan Manning’ without ever having seen the man play longer than a few seconds on NFL highlight footage and they’re ready to string his ass on a cross.

 I don’t know how many times I’ve explained this to people and still a large group of them don’t get it; God doesn’t give a rat’s ass about football. Any God that would focus on a pro league team with the largest percentage of praying devotees, while neglecting the rape and genocide in Africa, is not a God to follow folks. As far as role models go, football players are unstable animals that should not be trusted outside the boundaries of a chalk lined field. They breathe testosterone out their nose and swallow violence to survive this game of  tug and tussle. They are performers to entertain you not Jesus in pads and helmet. If you really want a sport to let your kids watch, take them to a good hockey game. hockey is the definitive example of team effort and tenacity. Hockey is the only sport I have watched live where the crowd will applaud both teams whenever someone on either team performs well-THAT is true sportsmanship.

 The dust will settle on the Tebow-Jesus/Manning story and we’ll all forget about it until fall, just about the time our presidential race should be in full kicking gear. Perhaps we should view our politicians in this same light and remember that God does not sit there with a scale weighing your devotion to him like Anubis, punishing those that don’t meet the quota. God’s love is supposed to be unconditional. Gang fucking a prayer out on to the field will not guarantee a win in the NFL-watch old footage of Roger Staubach sometime, learn from that old Christian fart that bombed the big one on a regular basis. In that same vein, massive Christian prayers will not ensure the survival of America over other countries. Praying may well help you sleep at night, but don’t bank on it for all the answers and help. If God wanted us to be a nation of subservient drones….he would have made us all Raider fans.

If That’s Daniel Boone, This Must Be Occupy Denver

 “It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how
the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have
done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the
arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who
strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again,
because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but
who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who
spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in
the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst,
if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place
shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither
victory nor defeat.”

Theodore Roosevelt
April 23, 1910

The political zombies now recognize me as I walk among them and each trip to their dwelling at the corner of Broadway and Colfax provides a new face and story for me to enjoy. I have been given the seal of approval and can walk the park freely as a celebrity guest inside that carnival of suffrage and insanity. The permanent fixtures that spend most of their time hibernating inside plastic tarp cocoons wave to me. I can walk along the sidewalk path in the middle of the park where the serious drug dealers and abusers convene to sell almost any narcotic you can think of; I usually burn a bowl out there so they see I can be trusted-scary creatures there, tall hooded ebony dopers with blood brimming from their eye sockets, the white part of the eye now an orangish yellow, all offering to sell me pot or hash or smack.

I can’t figure why the truly insane babbling ones down here have yet to approach me with their nonsense and dribble, I’m just glad they haven’t (yet) confronted me. When I say insane I don’t mean someone with an off-key logic to the situation across from the Capital building or someone a bit drunk or high, I mean an all out run through the park waving your arms in the air screaming like a possessed harpy loon. No, the truly warped are definitely a thing to avoid, but the others, they make for an interesting take on things in the Occupy camp.

This trip’s interesting figure was a man named Daniel Boone, a 47 year old homeless man sporting two black eyes and a coating of dirt and hard times on his bare arms. He said he recognized me from the time I spend downtown and said a lot of protesters know I’m there to correspond and report what they’re up to. Daniel has an idea to write “Occupy; The Play”, a portrayal of the individuals who have come to be known a the Occupiers. His thought is to have the play carry itself in all major cities where a protest is being held. He convinces some loner playing a guitar to get in the street and start singing protest songs to inspire his writing of this play. I wish him well with his play and scoot along to other parts of the park. I love the diverse concepts being pitched here, very little of it makes sense, at times a nugget of good tought comes about but then it gets mixed up with all the other banter. The irony of something as humorous as this chalk scrawled message in front of the Capital that reads ‘ they can break the law (lawmakers and cops implied) but we can’t’. This gem of a message is not more than thirty feet away from two guys smoking weed in a pipe. ‘Fuck the Police’ has become the seasonal mantra, blaming them for hauling away fellow zombie protesters for a few days (I have to imagine the Crazy Jesus Lady is in the tank as I have now seen here down here for some time).

To conclude, I think it might behoove you to visit your own local protest site….take a bag of chips or something for the starving demons. Talk to the cognizant ones and get a feel for what’s going through their mind, show some interest in what they have to say even if you think they’re full of shit. At base level, aside from all the politics, they are human beings (sort of) and who wouldn’t give a hungry person a bite to eat? Hell an Oklahoma church youth group showed up to hand out chips and drinks, all the way on a mission from Oklahoma to feed people in protests like this. If an Okie church group can provide a small bag of corn chips, why can’t the rest of us. Keep these zombies friendly, I’ve discovered they’ll let you walk among their sarcophagus and come up with your own conclusions on the whole politics of things. Besides, if and when the masses begin to clash with ‘the Man’ you’re gonna want a lot of loons backing you up. These monsters are ripe for the cause, they just need someone to remind them what the cause is.

The numbers grow on Broadway and Colfax. They have now crossed the streets and are spreading like a weak rash. A small cantina has been erected again, the numbers are increasing. I smell the rise of the zombies.

Pt. 2: Big Country, Uffie, Fat Jesus…..

I walked toward this huge drink of water, flagging him down with a half pint of Jim Beam. “You look like you could use a drink” I smiled, to which he gave me a cautious grin and swallowed a long pull from my bottle. He thanked me and told me everyone called him Big Country while I smiled and loaded up my glass pipe so me and Big Country could have a small palaver. His voice was soft with a slight accent that sound Oklahoman. He appeared to have a poke of snuff in is front lip and thanked me again, this time for the pot.

“What’s the deal with the plastic bottle” I asked.

He flexed his eyes and explained it to me. “I want a cop to come over here and give me a ticket for pissing on the sidewalk in public. Then when he starts to write the ticket, I pull this tiny bottle out from under my stomach and he cain’t do nothin. It’s just a trick on them. I want someone to put it on YouTube.”

We talked a bit longer and I surmised Big Country was a daywalker, one of those mutant cross-breed inhabitants here that wasn’t in it for the ’cause’, but wasn’t a homeless street drunk who just needed a place to rest. These daywalkers are all about harassing the cops-in fact they’re more brutal to police than the true Occupy Zombies-but they have no directive, no political focus or concerns. They can recite the same protest mantra like mynah birds using the 99 percent slogans, but use them as justification for any actions they choose to take. Piss in the street? Call it a protest. Civil unrest is a means (and sometimes it’s actually effective) to show disfavor with laws, bad government, etc. but if you do random acts that are reminiscent of something you’d witness on St. Patrick’s night at an Irish bar, what political purpose does this serve? They’re like the drunk friend who won’t go home. The sad thing about it was, my daughter, Uffie, is all about the cause. She desperately wants a future for herself that still holds a middle class, that allows a person to make a decent working wage and able to afford health care, that provides opportunity for a better tomorrow. She and I both met a variety of zombies, daywalkers and true derelicts. My favorite was this scruffy thin guy drinking PBR singing that classic protest song by the Beatles, Eight Days a Week. Priceless. Uffie met a small young man that looked like a leprechaun with really tiny hands they call Fat Jesus. I met a gent named Al who relayed a nefarious plan the protesters set in motion to make a certain police officer’s life pure hell as payback for some earlier bust. Old Mama was this lady everyone down there knew who let my daughter hold the FUCK THE POLICE sign for a while, Ratboy with his skateboard, Ebby looking for smokes-a plethora of beasts out here of every shape and size. Still, I don’t see a plan in focus. This is not a protest this is a new shire, our own third world village pleading for smokes and more cardboard. The protest movement I first ran into down on Colfax and Broadway nearly a year ago is souring like old milk. I’m beginning to feel as if somewhere in the dark recess of the park lies the dying body of Kurtz uttering “the horror…the horror…” Where will this all lead?

Where?

The Man Called Big Country and Rainbow Fingered Girl

The reaffirmation of knowledge I received from last night’s drunken/stoned jaunt downtown is that change through political protest comes on about as fast as paint drying-more like the growth of a plant. The Occupy fiasco downtown waxes and wanes, surviving off the blood of the more strange walks of life. This is why I walk among them unharmed, they smell no fear on me. It was a beautiful evening out last night which typically thaws out a huge gathering of zombies down on Colfax and Broadway so I made it a point to go down and see what might develop. Every trip down there’s a crap shoot and I love to throw the dice folks. On this particular trip I was persuaded into taking one of my offspring, one of my political enthusiast daughters that (for the sake of this blog) I’ll call Uffie (her newly deemed nickname). She is quite aware of her father’s delicate medical condition, just like Hemmingway’s kids knew of his-not to compare myself with that gifted novelist other than the fact that I tend to go on drug induced binges like he drank. I’m more of the stoned out peace freak type, not a Joan Crawford screaming belligerent type.

We hopped on the downtown bus. Uffie carryied her prized possession; a pair of multi colored light up gloves. These things are quite the show and would have gone over big in the 60’s, back when acid rock bands threw colored psychedelic backgrounds behind the amps on huge white tarps to entertain the crowds. Uffie is a big rave dance fan and loves to go into free spirit dancing with those gloves turned on. I agreed with here that the gloves would be a nice sideshow for the troops down there. By the time we arrived at the protesters encampment it was dark and the weather still held a comfortable median. No one can say from one day to the next how large the crowds down there will be; tonight’s showing was about 25-30 active protestors with big signs and bongos, whooping it up on Broadway. Diminutive in actual numbers, what they lacked in headcount they more than made up for in tenacity. They were charging out in the streets toward passing patrol cars with huge signs that said FUCK THE POLICE, raving at anyone cruising southbound like pissed off banshees. There was a parked patrol car at the edge of their rally, some 200 yards away, and a group of them decided to go over and ‘harass the pig’. My daughter being quite the political enthusiast and a teenager as well wanted to join in on the fun, earn some street cred. I was a bit reluctant as I could imagine how good that would look, me and her getting thrown in the can together, a true father/daughter moment Hallmark would cry for; what the hell I thought, let her get her ya-yas out. The police were in a mild mood tonight and I judged it to be safe-for now. If these monsters could run at a patrol car carrying signs saying ‘fuck the police’ you could pretty much assume things hadn’t heated up to a dangerous point. She ran ahead with the group of picketers who ranged in age from 14 to 65 and stood with the zombies around the patrol car while they all chanted, signs bobbing, voices howling to the full moon. My God I thought. I think my daughter’s turning into a zombie! I fumbled with my Ipod piece of shit camera to capture this Kodak moment and came away with a series of blurred head shots. Time for more dope I thought, but not in front of the cop. That might be pushing things a bit far.

Everyone had their picture taken in front of the cop car holding the protest sign, then walked back to the tarps and circled gathering of the drunk and disorderly troops that entertained vehicles diving by. I told Uffie to go over by a tree and entertain the troops with her lit gloves. The gloves were a smash with the people down there, a light show to add to the festive celebration of moderate weather on their poor bones. I like to hunt out new souls to engage at the protest site and break the ice by offering them some food, drink and/or herb. This large figure who stood about 6 foot 3 and must have weighed around 300 pounds came walking by with a small water bottle in his hand. He would take the water bottle and position it near his crotch and allow water to spurt out, giving the appearance that he was taking a piss. Oh yea, I thought. This is the character for the evening, the prize winner to speak with and indulge with some Jim Beam and a bit of grass.

-And Now a Word From Command Central

I’m sitting smack in the middle of my political watchdog headquarters trying to sort through this daily barrage of campaign dribble….must sort the wheat from the chaff. God I wish I had a ball of brown opium the size of my thumbnail or some hardcore drug to cope with the multitude of bad, good and indifferent stories piling in. Mainlined heroin would be a bit too strong. Going on the nod hits you quick and hard leaving you with no desire but sleep, that’s too heavy for my needs. A puff or two of some opium would bring me into a lulled state of nirvana where I could sort through the AP wire updates and hourly diatribes Fox News shits out. I try to sort through stories from Al Jazeera, CNN, New York Times, The Post… I can’t get this political monkey off my back; I might be suffering from an overdose of politics and yet, as soon as I walk away something really candid or mind blowing stupid shocks the Internet and I wallow in it like a pig in mud; the horror of politics in America.
This is only March and the big showdown isn’t due for eight months. I wonder how long this variety show the Republican candidates put out will continue before the public burns out on press coverage and debates, causing them to go back to watching reality tv shows or indulging in marathon online chat sessions. I keep my eyes focused on news updates constantly, wherever I can, whenever I can. I’m never without technology to hook online, searching out the best free WiFi spots in town like some nasty remora to latch on for power, an energy vampire trying to stay juiced up and plugged in. Jaunts to the downtown Starbucks for a vente latte and a quick sneak off to their restroom for herbal revival.

Super Tuesday updates put Romney back in the top slot although it seemed like one of those hold your nose and vote moments that put him there. The candidacy is still ripe for the picking and Santorum knows it. Ron Paul clings on the national scene like a turd stuck on a hairy dog’s ass, he won’t be shaken free. I still don’t know where to categorize that fellow. He’s not a Fat Cat, not a religious nincompoop….scary sly? Something continues to let him press on and keep close stride next to the big boys. Whatever it is I’d like to see him rise to the top for a week or so just to view his power trip.

God I really need get financial backing to hit the Republican Convention down in Florida, all jacked up on rum and café con leche; stumbling through a sea of Republican manatees in strange hats, shouting senseless catch phrases back and forth….eight more months of this insanity….the horror. My twisted eye will be peeled to local politics as well. This fall will bring legalization of marijuana on the ballot in Colorado this year. If it wins and there are no Federal setbacks it could mean a lot of dancing in the streets ere, as well as a huge migration from the other 49 states to beat a path over to the Mile High City. It’s like some crazy fucked up Cowtown out here. Half Marlboro Man, half Counting Crows. The city is pretty much used to the herb scene ere and treats it like Amsterdam treats their heroin addicts-turn a blind eye and let it go on, no harm done if no harm seen. Just yesterday while waiting for the bus a guy waiting with me pulls out a blunt and lights up right there on the street. No foul called…I think people would have been more offended by cigarette smoke in their face.

Yes eight more months of political satire to digest-and the real shit-kicking festival hasn’t even begun. Wait until it’s party vs. party, that’s where the really outlandish stories could erupt. More ripples in the pond are surfacing about Obama’s birth certificate, closer scrutiny making it’s way to the media jackals. There’s even a quick blurb about Sarah Palin possibly making a jump back into the scene-personally I’d rather see Bachmann again. Palin was just annoying; Michelle, she was a true beast to behold. Her eyes are like Medusa. I love it when she looks right in the camera and utters out some outlandish statement that just makes my mouth go dry. What a nice, weird, slow screw this is becoming friends….and now, back to your life, already in progress.

Rush Limbaugh, Weasel of the Year

Oh Rush, you pot bellied political nazi, you did it good this time. America’s number one conservative radio talk show host managed to shove his foot all the way to the back of his mouth, choking his uvula and making himself throw up. Calling female law student Sandra Fluke a slut was just the ignition needed to start a firestorm of angry calls to his affiliate stations. Sponsors started abandoning the radio giant, leaving him a somber, apologetic whale, beached on the shore hoping enough people would push him back in the water. What will happen to the voice of conservative talk radio now?
These are the times that really test the patience of those who hate the man. The constitutional right to free speech bullies up against the possibility of slanderous statements made against Fluke. A vast group of folks out there want that fat man’s head on a pike, blood and OxyContin dripping from his lifeless eyes, a warning to other would-be advocates of such harsh words that ‘we won’t tolerate it anymore’. Kill the opposition and no one will oppose you. The problem is, once you start prohibiting the opposition from speaking, what’s to stop them from prohibiting you? Believe me I wanted to grab a torch and seek out this Frankenstein’s monster; then I remembered Limbaugh has First Amendment rights like anyone else. If the Constitution works for the Klan, it works for anyone, including Rush Limbaugh.
Rush swallowed his pride (and perhaps a hand full of pills) and issued a formal apology in an effort to save what advertisers of his show he could muster. This isn’t the first time he’s had to do it and it won’t be the last. He belittled President Carter’s daughter, Amy, President Clinton’s daughter, Chelsea, and Jerry Garcia had barely passed away when Limbaugh aired his thought’s about the Grateful Dead leader’s death-“just another dead junkie.” A real gutless snake to go after little girls and the deceased. He’s probably afraid to personally apologize to Ms. Fluke for fear that she’ll beat his bulbous ass to a pulp. The man has been a P.T. Barnum style snake oil salesman that babbles out his conservative screed for a few decades and continues to raise hackles wherever he goes, but I don’t want to drive him off the air. I don’t want to get rid of him any more than I do Pat Robertson or Ted Haggard. I’m all for keeping these psychotic Angels of Doom around as examples to the living, sane world of just how evil and twisted some people can be. Limbaugh is dangerously charismatic to the slight of mind but if not him then some other carney barker would make his way onto the airwaves and gather the lost souls of ineptitude. Let him continue to curse the airwaves and be the legendary Boogeyman to warn children of. Watch him grow old and feeble, like Robertson, a weak little man mumbling to himself in the corner, frustrated at the loss of his facilities.

Rave on, you behemoth of AM radio. Your followers numbers are dwindling so why should we let you become a martyr for hard core Christian groups and conservative lemmings by denying you the freedom of speech? I would rather see you wisp away like smoke, a slow trickle into the night air, a dog’s fart that matters not anymore. Rave on you weasel.