Docility and the Lack

This week at work I heard from a cohort that this Saturday, today, there was to be a Solidarity march on the Wisconsin state capital. First mind was so the fuck what, but it chiseled its way into a brainspot nonetheless. I consciously made no time in my weekend schedule for it, but after I scrapped my plans to get sushi and eat lunch in-house I suddenly found myself with a window of time that coincided with the timing of the demonstration. Once conscious of this window I put some thought to the day's activities. Tanya and I are moving(surprised?)at the end of the month and so far there were four bags of stuff that needed to find their way to Savers, which is a Goodwill type haunt here in Madison. I'm guessing the Midwest too. Cool. So now I'm going to the Eastside where the "people" of Madison reside. It's supposedly different from the Westside culturally and politically. It may be true to some, but in my experience it's really just an adjustment of Uniform. Tightly wound applies universally to the fairer shade, anomalies notwithstanding.

In the car and moving, the deal I make to myself is that if I can find a free parking spot on E. Wash, I'll park and hoof it to the big show. Left turn onto E. Wash and there appears a spot. Dude don't even have to parallel the bitch, just slide it on in. Roll out the rig and roll towards the capital. I'm about five blocks out and by two blocks closer I start to hear what faintly sounds like incendiary rhetoric. Three blocks closer and two blocks out aural clarity: orator orgasm commencing towards climax. Now on the square and Teamster AFL-CIO cat speaking is fully afire. Talking things like taking rights back, not taking shit, putting a line in the sand, ack-ack-ack. Crowd is responding. A dull roar, stunted most likely by diet and lifestyle, flaccidly rumbles approval as the announcement to march to a street I don't remember the name of crumbles out of the public address system.

It's at this point that I realize that I arrived right at the finish of the final speech. No matter. I wasn't there to learn about the mission. I was there to learn about the peripheral. In scenes like these I think the details and nuances are the true harbingers of lucidity. When you pay attention to the things not emphasized I believe a truer picture of intent materializes.

As the crowd moves towards and into the street a voice redirects the crowd out of the street and onto the sidewalk. The compliance is swift and immediate. What good protesters, I thought. Get in line, suckers, you're still not in control. Too harsh? I don't think so. I stood on the snow covered lawn and took in three hundred sixty degrees of continual observance. Flags and banners. Championing unions, vilifying Scott Walker. Praising the Teachers union and declarations of non-Isis affiliation. The whole thing seemed so triumphantly scripted that I giggled. Then I laughed out loud.

The dissections continued as music blared through the p.a.. When I got on the scene they were playing some Irish rock music, Flogging Molly or some shit. True fight songs. True race specificity. Next song: John Cougar Mellencamp, Authority Song. For those of you who don't now the lyrics to this song or for lovers of grand irony permit me:

They like to get you in a compromising position
They like to get you there and smile in your face
They think, they're so cute when they got you in that condition
Well I think, it's a total disgrace

I fight authority, authority always wins
I fight authority, authority always wins
I been doing it, since I was a young kid
I've come out grinnin'
I fight authority, authority always wins

So I call up my preacher
I say: "Gimme strength for Round 5"
He said: "You don't need no strength, you need to grow up, son"
I said: "Growing up leads to growing old and then to dying,
And dying to me don't sound like all that much fun"

I fight authority, authority always wins
I fight authority, authority always wins
I been doing it, since I was a young kid
I've come out grinnin'
I fight authority, authority always wins

I fight authority, authority always wins
I fight authority, authority always wins
I been doing it, since I was a young kid
I've come out grinnin'
I fight authority, authority always wins
Oh no
Oh no
I fight authority, authority always wins

I fight authority, authority always wins
I fight authority, authority always wins
I been doing it, since I was a young kid
I've come out grinnin'
I fight authority, authority always wins
I fight authority, authority always wins
I fight authority, authority always wins
I been doing it, since I was a young kid
I've come out grinnin'
I fight authority, authority always wins

Interpretation yours.

As this song carries on people with banners and union jackets and even dudes wearing their hard hats start dancing and singing along. Meanwhile the line-slogging continues on the sidewalk. Roles assigned. Roles played. Script running strong.

Observations continue.

Across the street is a Teamsters tractor trailer radiating American values in a patriotic haze of red, white and blue. Cops are now sparingly lining the street the demonstrators were told not to occupy just moments before. Cop cars start to appear in the intersections. I walk by one of the cops and by now I've joined the dirge-march. I look at him. He's young. He's probably got a young child at home. His life is relatively comfortable as his salary provides his family with more than they probably need. He looks uneasy though. His face seems to wear what my brain is saying; if this crowd actually wanted to do SOMETHING, there is no way this skeletal police presence will stop them. I smile as if to tell him not to worry because violence isn't in the script. The real problem is that change isn't either. Everyone read that part, right?

While we're on the subject, let's address the idea of everyone.

This central scrutinizer noticed a curious thing about the cultural composition of this crowd. Conspicuously absent: all races not white. I don't mean kinda absent either. If you were to create a frozen pizza smashing, GMO beer imbibing, squeaky cheese loving, Packer backing, co-op membered super race of Wisconsin honkies with no genetic standard deviations this is what you'd get. I'm sure they're mostly nice folks. I'm also sure that many of their children brush their teeth in the morning and before bed too, but my point pointedly is that this is a streamlined pool of homogenous origin.

That's part of the script too.

What the demonstrators are protesting is the Right To Work litigation. Complex issue to be sure. What's at stake? Rights? Civil Liberties? Freedom? Money? Hegemony? I want to believe that unions exist to protect the worker. I want to believe that the union stands firm against the political heretics and the tyranny of evil men. I want to believe that they are the bulkhead and the last bastion of resistance to the wicked and non-discriminate slashers of budgets and bureaucratic entanglements, but I'm not so sure. My personal experiences with unions is mostly sordid and bathed in ineffectiveness. For the record, though, weekends are pretty swell.

There are much deeper issues driving these ideas. The most pertinent of which is the reality that the dude behind the curtain is slowly becoming harder and harder to hide. There exists a quiet but poignant panic on all sides. The leverage is exposed and the systems are scrambling to perpetuate methodologies that need desperately to be eliminated. The abuse of sound ideas and the tendency for the decriers to become the decried is a cycle that can only be stopped by honest assessments not designed to shift the balance of power but to encourage them to find their own equilibriums. Agendas, demagoguery and directive-ness serve the master only. For those of you in the master's favor, a tit to suckle you'll be given.

What of the others? What of meritocracy? Efficacy? Take the Mexican. He will work twice as hard for twice as long for half the pay, not complain and go to another job as soon as his shift ends. How does this ethic work its way into the Right To Work debacle? Smacks of competition. Better eliminate that, right? Or provide it. Now whose side is winning? I forgot. If you're a business owner and you can get this ethic working for you for less than a union wage, would you take it? Or, would you defer to the union's stance that if you pay more you're getting more and they're ensuring that? And, are you? How about having the hardest working, most qualified person in the position and pay them FAIRLY. How do we determine fair? Should the state? Shit. You may have to consult honesty, possibly love and certainly wealth redistribution, but you're going to have to do that anyway.

Walking back to my car so I can go to Savers to drop off the donations I giggle more. And laugh out loud more. I encountered a homeless dude who matter-of-factly told me that the demonstration should have been on a weekday because governor Scott Walker doesn't work on weekends and therefore wouldn't hear it. We both agreed he wouldn't hear it anyway.

Docility is the lack that guarantees we don't progress. Solidarity banners and sing-alongs ain't gonna do shit. Well, maybe they will. I'm sure every cell phone that was present today was GPS "pinged" and databased. By now all in attendance today will be home watching TV and eating Papa John's pizza as the nightly "ping" confirms non-combative activity. Some will get drunk in the man cave or garage and reminisce fondly about their contribution to the fight. Some may even get a low interest loan and put a down payment on that Harley they've always wanted. In the final analysis we're all contributing to this social stagnation masquerading as economic stability. It must be what we all want.

That's in the script too.

Befuddlement Prophecy

Sitting here with the wife in communicable silence I get the inner-dialogue fired up: do some writing, dummay.

Sign in and here we are.

I think about writing a lot, but that don't mean that I actually do it. Most people have the same affliction. My new jam is to combat this lack of follow through with, you guessed it, follow through.

Lots of life has chemically changed here at headquarters since my last post, and to say the events were cataclysmic is still providing a conservative assessment of their importance or impact. They will materialize as short salvos of the written word soon enough.

Today, however, we are to focus on a concept I'm calling the Befuddlement Prophecy.

Paying attention is super under-rated these days and that's a curious fact because there's more going on now than ever and access to it is instantaneous. This constant and total saturation of information on a global scale is creating, purposefully, a mindset or attitude in the common Amerikan that is manifesting in a post-pod Invasion of the Body Snatchers (70's version) existence.

The living dead. Fucking zombies for real.

Why is this so?

I believe that there are two forces battling for wholistic real estate; good and evil, darkness and light, up and down...whatever dualistic metaphor you need for clarity insert here. In the contemporary throes of this fight the presence of consciousness is expanding to a universal level not yet experienced. This expansion is spiritual and is cultivating the seeds that we see in the physical world as good ideas or ways to make things better. More people than ever have their heads wrapped around ideas that are not empirically based but are faith based or ethereally accepted. Grand Hope.

Conversely, we see that the numbers of the living dead are also expanding exponentially and herein lies a problem with an observable root.

The root of this imprint is the programming propagated by those who do not want the people to access their inner-angel or True Selves. It is everywhere and bludgingly constant. It is venerably effective. It is the Befuddlement Prophecy and its methodology is soul specific crystal-meth; so much speed, in fact, that the systems are overloaded, unable to process and retreat into unprotected, yet fertile, fields of psychic potentiality. Once these minds are controlled and exposed the malignant stream of mis-information is piped in. Don't worry. It's painless and once you don't feel anything your life will seem easier, or better and you will have entirely new and welcoming commiserates to consort with; your tribe will appear. Wonder no more. Dream no more. Waste away in a slow burn of "needs" and tangible absurdities.

The struggle to not be indoctrinated is real. It is challenging and requires fortitude and discipline. Soldier up. The insistent barrage of information is a bid for your life-force. Mitigate its presence in your life and respond with a counter attack of introspection and creative acts. You are born into creation of creation so it follows logically that creativity on this plane--the one you manifest--is of utmost importance. Do not let the Befuddlement Prophecy lull you to sleep and steal your volition to live.

Your Word is Bond. Consciously imagine the good and the glory and let the sub-conscious get to work on the forms.

Believe.

The strongest tool in your arsenal is also your greatest gift: YOU.

Interesting week, this past one.

 My wife left for about the whole summer.  The school year ended, and with it my stint as villainous "assistant"  in the toxic environment of Ms. Brand's class at Chavez Elementary.  And just today I started training at my new job as a taxi driver.

All this since Thursday.  

It's Monday.

I know I shouldn't but...

I want to like Madison.  I do give it a chance.  There are good people here.

My brain is just over-loaded with how it can process this mother fucker and have a relatively normal assimilatory experience.

I tell it to chill and not analyze, but it just can't help it.  It's just from walking, to driving, to ordering food, to the stares while standing in Trader Joe's make simple existence fucking way more awkward than necessary.

I'm working on it.

 Hearing about how all the "blacks" behave and commenting about how the "orientals" walk across the street doesn't help, though.  It just smashes on the levee that is my personal resolve.  It increases the disciplinary need to not react and just let the shit go.  I tell myself that it's learned behavior and that they just don't know any better.

I miss Tanya.

I miss my friends and family.

That's it.

Numb it is, I guess.

Just kidding.

Do some research on Terence Mckenna.

Listen to Sun Ra.

Not kidding.

Hot Damn in the Tuna Can

People.  People.  PEOPLE.  The last nine months here in Madison, Wisconsin has taught me one thing:

THIS PLACE FUCKING SUCKS!!!

No, I'm not going to defend it.  No, I ain't gonna lie.  It's just that my experiences here have been so uncannily bugged with synchronized resistance that I've even had emotional moments where I had to self check- in on my own sanity.

Fucking believe it.

I have driven across the country probably around ten times.  No shit.  I've done the 90, the 80, the 10, the 40 and all kinds of crissity-crossity ways to encounter the peeps and landscapes  that make up this magical nation of ours.  I had stopped in Madison exactly once.  It was on my first trip driving by myself across the country on my way to be a professional musician in NYC.  I was hungry, figured that Madison qualified as a city and that it would most likely have decent ethnic food offerings.  I stopped at a place called Guadalajara some shit.  I had a carne asada burrito.  This burrito was mediocre at best, but oh well, I'm on my way to New York and this shit is temporary.  All you cats that have driven across the country know there ain't no good food to be had no-how.   Why do I bring this up?  Because in a very real way I already had understood about the food, nay, the culture here: mediocre at fucking best.

When Tanya received her fellowship to school at UW Madison I was stoked.  I do believe in the push and I do believe that experience trumps all other human choice.  Money won't do shit unless you use it for experiences.   You also don't really need much money to have a lot of great experiences.   Maybe another post I'll expound on that.  I started my research on Madison.  Shit seemed pretty promising.  The Berkeley of the Midwest, they say.  Beautiful lakes.  Bucolic acreage with farms, woods and water.  Even people I knew in New York were saying that, damn, you lucky, son.  That place has it all.  It's progressive, liberal and diverse.  There is great art.  Great food.  Great music.  Sign me the fuck up, I thought.  Tanya and I get another stop on our life-adventure together.  And not only are they footing the bill for Tanya's MFA, they're giving her a stipend as well!  Holy fuck!!!  How can we lose?!

Here's where the Madison part comes in.

I have two major strength trajectories in my life:  Music and Children.  I have been playing the drums since before I hit double-digits and I've been working with kids in a lot of different capacities since my sister was born in 1984.   Currently I'm forty-three.  Do the math if ya wanna.  My point is that I was fairly sure, and justifiably so, that I would be quite an asset and resource to the local community that is my new home.  I'm a nice guy.  I'm amiable, serious when I need to be, disciplined, hard working and honest.  Maybe this is a wrong way to look at it, but I really did believe (still do) that for the work I'm accomplished at, I'd be a big fish in a small pond.

We move to Madison in August of 2012 and I hit the shits running.  I was out at music shit pretty much every night.  During the day I applied for hundreds of jobs, most of which I was hyper-overqualified for.  I know the economy is tight.  I know that America is still tanking.  But I also know that there has to be a place for me.  There has got to be a place that recognizes what I've done and what I can do.

Right?

Well, not yet anyway.

At this point I don't know how much detail to go into.  I do not want to sound like a hater or a victim, because I'm neither.  I also do not want to sound negative or bitter because I honestly don't feel that way.  I guess I'll just pipe in that it is excruciatingly difficult to be in a place so seemingly homogenized in value and culture.  I know Madison does not want to hear that, but I gotta tell you, it's fucking true.
A teaching analogy if I may:  I started teaching in the public schools of Los Angeles in 1996.  My second year was my first year of teaching special education.  As the year progressed I noticed a distinct difference in the amount of work produced and the lack of accommodation in the grading system as applied to all student populations.  That simply means that if in my special education class you were an A student, in the general population it was actually about a C.  If you were getting a C in my class, you were failing in the general population.

In my opinion the art, music, food, weather and inter-personal relationships in Madison are getting an A.  But that is considering that the city of Madison is my special education class.  That translates as a C on the scale that  is the general population of American cities.

Mediocre at best.

Fucking believe it.

NEW DIGS

Be back in the mix soon enough.  Living in Madison, Wisconsin equals insanely ripe material.  C U soon.

Some new jams on the horizon.  Currently I'm listening to a session of conga and bata that Diller and I recorded last weekend here.  A new .99 DREAMS slab is under construction.  Other shit too.  Stay tuned.

Today I'd like to touch on the idea of integrity.  To me it just means being real about your shit.  And being real means exactly: serious and disciplined.  I went shopping today.  I make the trip to Trader Joe's in Danbury because, although it is a hundred mile round trip, my bill is still lower and my cart is still fuller than it would be even if I bought all the comprable items on sale here in town.  And that tally includes gas and excludes all the chemical bullshit in most of the food at the "super" market.

I wanted to get the trip out of the way, so I left early.  Or late, depending on how you feel and interpret daylight savings.  In route I figured I could always get an egg and cheese to hold me until I get home with the fresh goods.  While in Newburgh I spotted a bagel spot.  I like bagels.  I make a right turn into the mini mall...
A word on the preparation of egg and cheeses.  I do not own, nor do I condone the use of microwave ovens.  I ask you--How many of you cook and egg or two in a plastic bowl?  How many of you would then think it's a good idea to put said nuked embryos onto a piece of bread, plate or a bagel?  I hope none of you motherfuckers, cause that's where I'm at.  And that's my point.  Spinning the water molecules to cook eggs makes very fucking gross tasting eggs.  Don't believe me?  Try it.  Then lie to me--and yourself--about how the texture seems natural and tasty.  Bullshit.  That method is best avoided and I always do my best to do exactly that.
This business also advertised other fare that needs to be cooked on a grill.  It even said "oldest bagel shop in Orange County" above the door.  There is no way I'm losing.  A freshly prepared egg and cheese on a well made bagel is magical.

"Can I help you, sir"?

"Yeah, can I get an egg and cheese on a toasted everything bagel?"

"Salt, pepper and ketchup?"

"Yeah.  Thanks."

The taste bud snares are set.   Have I found a new spot?  Could the truth be sizzling away back behind the counter?  Is integrity in the house?

A few minutes later:  "Here you go, sir."

I get a good detailed look at the chick handing me the bag.  Trouble.  Shit ain't feeling right.  She's got bleached hair, a fake tan, fake bright blue eyes and blindingly white teeth.  Holy shit, she looks like a nineteen year old that just opted for the Paula Deen makeover.  I'm sure some of the local bowhunters think this chick is hot, especially when she's smoking Newports and shooting Red Bull and vodka but to me all I see are my hopes and dreams of a good egg and cheese shot to shit.

I roll out to the car and reflect.   I'm in upstate New York,  it's almost seventy degrees outside, the sun is licking my skin,  and it's the second week of fucking March.  I start to forget Paula and begin to focus on my little brown bag that's hiding my egg and cheese.   Not all is lost.  I can still win.  I pull that little foil wrapped bastard out of the bag and open the shit up.

YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.

The egg is non-existant, the bagel isn't toasted and worst of all:  THE CHEESE ISN'T EVEN FUCKING MELTED!

I want to tell myself how rare it is that I'm disappointed with what one thinks is acceptable.  And I"m not just talking about my sorry ass egg and cheese.  I"m addressing the fact that we're being TAUGHT that not good enough is good enough.  We're TAUGHT that if we don't do it someone else will and we might as well strike first because then we'll be right, or win or be in control or whatever and our gratification needs we have will be stroked.  I seriously doubt that the plastic dummy that handed me my egg and cheese would have made it the way she made it for me if she was going to eat it.  Maybe she would have increased the quality control if she knew me, or if she realized that I am a good Christian.  Maybe not.

No matter.  I ate it anyway and learned that integrity was most definitely not in the house.

So to all of you small minded pukes that put Fuck You in our food.

FUCK YOU!!!

It's about what you don't play.

Thank you Billy Mintz.