Happy New Year - Now Let's Take Out the Trash

I just heard that Rush Limbaugh was admitted to a hospital in Honolulu with chest pains. I want to wish him a speedy recovery, as he is so important for keeping progressives energized. I understand that a near tragedy was averted when vacationers were prevented from rolling him back into the ocean.

Anyway, this piece is all about what should have happened in 2009, and what I hope can still happen in 2010. It’s not too late, people.

1. Sarah Palin is apprehended by representatives of the Alaskan legislature and returned to that state in order to serve out the term to which she was elected. Ethical violations reviews are resumed, and she is found guilty of many. She is then kicked out of office.

2. The world gets to enjoy Dick Cheney being perp walked from his well-known location by federal officials following the open investigation of his unbelievably evil activities while Vice President. Too batshit crazy to go to regular lockup, he is incarcerated in a hospital for the criminally insane.

3. George W. Bush is tied to a tree in front of his library and is forced to watch as the keys to a brand new bulldozer are handed to Cindy Sheehan, who proceeds to knock that sucker over. A statue to Mollie Ivins is erected on the ruins.

4. Truth becomes the new black. An observer is assigned to Joe Wilson, whose sole purpose is to point out to him every time he is lying. Actually, a team of observers is assigned, since only one would grow hoarse before the first day was out. If the system works (and why wouldn’t it?), additional teams will be assigned to Michelle Bachman, John Boehner, Jim DeMint, most of talk radio, and all of Fox News. Full employment in the U.S. breaks out.

5. Congress realizes that in 2010 a kill-the-incumbents frenzy is about to take over. Seeing that they have nothing to lose, they decide to enact some actual progressive legislation:

a. Anyone carrying loaded weapons to public gatherings such as political rallies is subject to immediate arrest. Police are urged to tase the shit out of the perp.

b. Tough laws are enacted to bring finance CEOs & CFOs to justice. All of their possessions are auctioned off and the proceeds are adequate to return everyone one to their homes, fund Medicare and Social Security in perpetuity, and erase the national debt.

c. They pass a single payor option, thereby saving American businesses, large and small, eliminate 60% of all personal bankruptcies, and save 45,000 lives a year. The American people are so happy that they decide to leave them in office, after all.

6. Joe Lieberman, Ben Nelson, Mary Landrieu, Olympia Snowe and other blue dogs and fellow travelers are exiled to a distant island with all of the necessary amenities, but without any cameras. Also, there will be no health care.

7. The United States calls Rick Perry's bluff, and kicks Texas out of the union. All federal property must be returned, so among other things Ft. Hood will have to be relocated to another state. In addition, we’d like the billions we have spent building and repairing their roads and bridges, maintaining their national parks, and subsidizing their products, returned. I guess it also means that their NFL, NBA, and college teams will no longer be able to compete with American teams. Have fun being your own country. Can’t wait to see how your new constitution reinstates slavery.

8. The gate-crashing Salahis and the parents of the balloon boy are placed in a death match cage together. The survivors are interviewed by the national media. The interview never airs.

9. President Obama wakes up one day and realizes that maybe he ought to start following his principles, instead of the dead end pragmatism he has been practicing. The immediate closure of Guantanamo, end of rendition, end of don’t ask don’t tell, and the end of futile courting of Republicans follow, and the people get the guy they thought they voted for.

Those are my nine wishes. The tenth is for you. Enjoy. Happy New Year, one and all.

We're Not Going to Guam, Are We?

First, let me say that if you are not a fan (or fanatic) for the series “Lost”, you should just skip this one. Don’t worry - I’ll be whining again about politics soon enough. I just wanted a break from it for a while.

We got season 5 a couple of days ago in order to refresh our recollections and get psyched for the final season to come, and have burned through the first seven episodes in two days. I continue to be impressed with the level of respect that J. J. Abrams, Damon Lindelhof and Carlton Cuse have for their viewers. Rather than spoon feed you with the obvious, they make you work a little to understand where they are going with the series. Last year’s offering raised the bar by throwing in multiple periods of time travel for different groups of characters, making you wonder who was where and when, Hints dropped one week may only become apparent a few episodes (or years) later.

Example: When Ben and Jack are in Eloise’s church discussing their pending flight to the Island, Ben talks about a print of Caravaggio’s Doubting Thomas (1602) hanging in the church and stresses resurrection. Yet, at the same time he is driving around in a van with Locke’s body inside and the words “Canton-Rainier” printed on the outside. That’s an anagram for Reincarnated. Until the last episode of season 5 you might think that Locke has been resurrected on the Island, but it becomes clear that he has been reincarnated as another being, the black counterpart to Jacob. That’s the kind of layered subtext that’s out there but only realized when you put in the effort to find it.

I also like their willingness to knock off pretty main characters: Boone, Shannon, Charlie, Clair, Michael, Charlotte, Faraday, Jacob. The list goes on.

The black/white dichotomy between Jacob and his eternal nemesis is played out by lesser beings as well: Ben and Locke, Ben and Jack, Young Ben and Mature Ben. Okay, Ben is a bad guy. But he’s also about the most compelling villain in television history. Here’s a bit of trivia for you (and Lost fans are nothing if not trivia-driven): who has had the shit beaten out of him more: Ben or Sawyer? And why is Sawyer, the most buff guy on the Island, getting knocked around so much?

Another prominent theme in the series (and there are scores of themes to choose from): sacrifice, up to and including martyrdom. Charlie dies so that the other survivors have a chance at escape from the Island. Kate gives up Aaron. Sawyer jumps out of the helicopter. Desmond turns the key. Locke dies in order to bring the others to the point of agreeing to return to their exile. Jack will give anyone anything. Anytime. Jacob becomes a willing sacrifice.

So many questions: When will Ben realize that he has been played? What is Jacob’s greater plan? Is his dark opposite in control, or is it only temporary? What changes will he wreak? Will Widmore get back to the Island? How will the final season begin? Will they all be back at the airport in Sydney, or in Los Angeles, as though nothing had happened? Will they not know each other? Will Richard Alpert run out of eyeliner? And who will be called upon for the ultimate sacrifice at the show’s conclusion, for someone must make it. My money is on Jack.

Though Egyptian symbology abounds on the show, so do Christ figures. Someone’s going to go out big as a martyr. Hell, it could even be Ben.

A final thought: Each of the last two seasons has ended with Locke in a box. Do you suppose that they're trying to tell us that Locke is dead?

A Modest Proposal

I haven’t blogged in a while. It’s just been too depressing, with Healthcare Reform being picked apart until it no longer represents reform in any meaningful sense. Most disturbing about the whole circus has been the manipulative, self-serving performance of Joe Lieberman. His preening before the cameras, his convenient memory lapses (touting a Medicare buy-in in Sept., only to fight against it in December), his vicious vindictiveness, have all made it nearly impossible to watch this human train wreck in action, It certainly has made it tough to comment on his disgusting behavior.

It has been said by those who are close to him that, having lost the Democratic primary the last time out, he has been hell bent on revenge on progressives ever since.

It’s hard to deny it after witnessing his fawning over John McCain and the woefully under qualified and dangerously radical Sarah Palin. And he used to call himself a liberal Democrat. Virtually every position he has taken since 2006 has been far right of center, from war-mongering and torture-friendly, to denying the most basic of rights to the citizens he is supposed to represent. Having had it demonstrated to him convincingly that the Senatorial version of Healthcare Reform would actually reduce the deficit, he persisted in stating the opposite. Well, he seems to have learned well from his Republican masters.

Since Little Joe has been so instrumental in creating the anemic reform that is before us now, I would like to propose the following measure; that it be named the Joe Lieberman bill. That way, when the pathetic, meaningless, desiccated husk of a bill that is Healthcare Reform is passed, it will have an appropriate name attached to it, representing the one who, as much as anyone, is responsible for its existence.

Plenty of Blame, addendum

What I hadn't heard yet when I wrote my previous post is that there is consideration being given to replacing the public option with an expansion of Medicare to folks over age 55.

Yes, this ignores those under that age, though older people have the most trouble getting covered (assuming they have jobs). But - it could be a bigger deal than the current, emasculated version of the public health option, because Medicare is better, people.

It will all depend on whether it is made available to all people over age 55, or just those who don't have coverage currently. It's my assumption that it will be the latter. The debate is being framed by the blue dogs, after all.

Plenty of Blame to Go Around

We continue to see the evisceration of the public option by the Senate, and this time they are getting plenty of help.

First, the President gives them a "pep talk" behind closed doors and fails to mention either the public option itself, or the looming threat of the anti-abortion amendment movement in the bill.

Then, Ben Nelson compounds the danger of the Stupak amendment from the House by duplicating it on the Senate side. This is classic Republican strategy: introduce a wedge issue having nothing really to do with the issue at hand, and use it to distract people from what they are trying to accomplish. In most cases it has to do with trying to win election by addressing the issues. Here, it is trying to pass healthcare legislation that is about a century overdue. But no, instead we're debating abortion (which, by the way, is constitutionally guaranteed. But then, the Right is all about legislating away our rights, not in enhancing them).

You know, the right-to-lifers like to hold up pictures of dead fetuses at their rallies. If this abomination goes through, maybe the body of every woman who dies because she was compelled to get an illegal abortion (just like in the good old days) should be delivered to the office of Ben Nelson. No? Not enough room there for the expected mountain of coffins?

Finally, the so-called "public option" being touted these days (if Olympia Snowe deigns to come down from her mountain to give it her approval) looks like this: the fed gives buckets of money to the uninsured to allow them to buy coverage from the same old bloodsucking insurance companies at whatever rates they see fit to charge. This will be called a "nonprofit" plan, though how that will work out is profoundly unclear.

What it means in reality is that it will mean another sloppy wet kiss to the same companies who are the source of the problem. Their profits will reach even higher heights, allowing them to "donate" even more to their favorite whores, namely; Ben Nelson, Mary Landrieu, Blanche Lincoln, and of course, our little Joe, to ensure that real reform will not threaten them again for at least this generation, and probably the next.

Further Adventures in Central Asia, contd.

So the decision has finally been made, the die cast. We’re going into Afghanistan with both feet. Well, with an additional 60,000 feet. And at a cost of $1 million per soldier per year. There is a lot of commentary afloat right now, falling about where you would expect it to fall.

The liberal side of Congress is opposed to our further involvement, and would like us to withdraw as soon as is seemly. The Right is saying that they applaud the commitment, but are upset that Obama has set a timetable to our escalation. So what are we to make of the President’s decision?

He continues to operate in a predictable pattern. Desperate not to outrage anyone, he attempts to hold to a middle course. The escalation seeks to appease the hawks, by increasing our effort. It wants to assure the doves, by stating that we have a plan to get out, and relatively soon. As with most hedged bets however, it accomplishes little and pleases no one. If you’re going to go in, go all in. If you’re going to leave, do so now and avoid further bloodshed and needless cost. He has satisfied no one with the possible exception Karzai, and even he must be pissed at being spoken to like a truant schoolboy. And did he refer to the recent Afghan election as flawed or a fraud?

Our President has major intellectual chops and despite his tendency to prevaricate, I have to say that I love the guy. I want him to be the leader we expected him to be. I want him to be a man of convictions, not a poster boy for pragmatism. Sometimes you have to hold to a position because it is the principled thing to do, regardless of the political fallout.

Because, let’s face it. The Republicans are going to cream him no matter what course he adopts, or what the outcome. They need to praise him faintly right now, in order to appear to be supportive of the troops, but will continue to condemn a scheduled pull out, and anything that goes awry (anything) will be blamed on him. There is no winning with a group who thinks that the surge as practiced in Iraq can be transplanted into Afghanistan. In the former country the surge met with success solely because we paid Sunni leaders who ran towns not to fight against us. There is no anomalous situation among a polyglot of hilltop, illiterate warlords scattered across numerous mountain ranges.

The fact is, Afghanistan no longer represents a haven for Al Qaeda. That would be in Pakistan. And if the Pakistani leadership gets real serous about evicting them, they’ll somewhere else. Like maybe to Saudi Arabia, where most of them are from. Why do we continue to pursue the insane policy of going after these people with a conventional army?

This is one of those times when a truly brave leader will do the very thing that is unpopular because it is the right thing to do. Contemporaries may criticize, but history would laud him for it. I’m afraid that instead, he will do the apparently expedient thing for which no one will thank him, leaving those of us who support him to wait that much longer for him to grow into greatness.

Lies I Was Told By My Right

Before I get into the subject of this blog, let me just say that I called Sen. Joe (aka “little joe”, aka “the senator of the 51st state, Israel”) Lieberman to say that I was counting on his vote in the pending Healthcare Reform debate. The voice mail on his phone was full. The voice mail on his minions’ line was full. Oh well, at least I had a number to call at his Hartford office. Its voice mail was full. Well played Joe. CI guess you can’t say that your constituents are pleading with you to do the people’s business, can you?

Anyway, on to them lies. I won’t even get into the most egregious, most insane examples. Those have been covered by folks more eloquent than I. These are just a few that happen to grind my gears.

For instance, there is the oft-enforced belief that unions are bad for the country, and that their greed is one of the reasons why we are in such bad shape today. After all, if they hadn’t been able to negotiate their bloated wages and benefits packages, the American worker would have been more affordable, and all of those jobs wouldn’t have been shipped overseas. Explain Europe to me, then. They retain a strong manufacturing base, yet their workers have far better benefits, a month’s vacation every year, robust, government-sponsored healthcare that they like very much, thank you. What’s wrong with our unions?

Well, for starters the government has been openly hostile to them since Reagan came along, and sought every way to reduce their effectiveness while demonizing their very activity. People forget: unions created the middle class in this country. They caused a profound surge in the working man’s income, gave us the eight-hour day, eliminated child labor, made employers provide health insurance, and so on. Since the big roll back on union gains, we have seen almost all manufacturing jobs leave these shores, benefits have shrunk and/or become less affordable, and everybody is working longer hours for less pay, if they are working at all. Meanwhile, these same actions have created a monied elite who have gotten richer each year, further separating themselves from the rest of us peasants. Who is the enemy here?

Second lie: “There are extremists on both sides.” Really? We’ve seen teabaggers and TV and radio hate mongers, not to mention militia nuts and armed thugs in their thousands, on the Right. Just who are their counterparts on the Left? All they can give us is Rachel Maddow and Keith Olbermann. Extremists? They have opinions and are forthright about expressing them. Have they ever advocated the use of violence in the furtherance of their worldview? No. Have they been caught in lies? All they have done is use actual facts to make their points, something which is seldom used on the Right.Let’s stop trying to make this false comparison.

Next lie: “Our country is basically conservative to moderate.” Not as it ages. Every poll shows that the youth of our nation is more accepting than the last generation when it comes to social issues such as gay marriage, science vs. religion, a woman’s right to choose, comfort with minorities and their rights, etc., etc. Once the older generation dies off, these will cease to be issues at all. State by state, gay marriage is seeing greater tolerance. It’s only when special interest groups (read: churches and Republicans pursuing homophobia as a wedge issue) pump millions into television ad campaigns that the numbers migrate in the other direction. All it proves is that people are swayed by whatever they last watched on TV (surely a subject for another blog). I truly believe that we Americans are a live-and-let-live people who prefer that most find their own way to happiness, and that the government has no place in the bedroom.

Last lie (for today): “There’s a class war going on in America.” Actually, this one is partially true. But the war (undeclared) is being ferociously waged by the wealthy, on the poor and the middle class. You may define the wealthy as those who worship at the temple of Wall Street and who are served by their lapdogs in the Republican Party. Almost their every act is to enrich a small minority, shareholders, at the expense of the many. They started by taking most of the well-paying jobs and moving them out of the country, in the service of those shareholders, who did quite well in the bargain. (The Onion headline: “Everybody laid off - Wall St. reacts favorably”). As an increasing number of Americans became un-or-underemployed, they steadfastly refused to raise the minimum wage (it took a Democratic Congress to do that). Under Republican administrations (OK, Bill Clinton had a hand in some of this too), one tax cut after another was enacted, nearly every one benefiting the wealthy only. Meanwhile, the rich welcomed undocumented workers into the country to perform their jobs even more cheaply, accomplishing several things: they saved money on wages, did not have to pay a payroll tax or offer health benefits, and undercut unions. As an added bonus, they created an irrational fear of illegal aliens, providing an easy target for the working man to hate, rather than directing his anger at the real agent of his distress, the gilded class.

Yes, there is class warfare underway, but let’s not kid ourselves about who started it, or who’s been winning for the last few decades. The question is: why would anyone not already wealthy identify themselves with their heinous policies?

What's Your Excuse Now?

Okay, Joe Lieberman, what's your excuse now?

The Congressional Budget Office has just announced their take on the Senate Healthcare Reform Bill, and they peg it at $849 billion over 10 years (less than Obama had said he was looking for), and state that it will REDUCE the budget by $127 billion over the same period. You know the CBO, don't you Joe? That same body you have been quoting for months now, as the primary reason why you won't support reform? Because you couldn't stand the thought of passing on a huge debt to your (embarrassed) grandchildren? Because Healthcare Reform would only add to the deficit? And used them (the CBO, I mean) to give credence to your obstructionist ways?

Whatever are you going to use now to hold back the tide of public support, which has been crying for years (decades, really) for relief? It seems that the bill would cover 94% of Americans, which is a big improvement though not the best solution (see my blog of Oct. 27). What are you going to say now? Maybe that Healthcare Reform causes warts? Or are you afraid that a public option will "undermine the private insurance market' as Mary Landrieu has said? Let's all cry some crocodile tears for the underprivileged, private insurance market.

Maybe it's time to get the insurance industry dick out of your mouth and say "yea" when the vote comes up.

I'm also talking to you, Mary Landrieu, Ben Nelson, and Blanche Lincoln.

How to Get Fooled Again

In the late eighteenth century and halfway through the nineteenth, southern preferences took precedence over that of the majority of American people. While not sympathetic to the rights of enslaved Africans, most still thought of the institution as an evil unnatural practice, and in varying degrees wished it to be banished from our shores. Their opinion mattered not a bit, because Southerners and Southern principles held sway. Nine of the first twelve Presidents were Southerners, and slave owners.

Though the South had far fewer people, including people eligible to vote, than the Northern section of the country, Congress allowed them to treat slaves as three fifths of a white person, for purposes of representation. This gave them an outsized influence in determining the course of the country, despite the fact that more people, more industry, more railroads, more schools, more libraries, and more personal freedom, existed in the North. Laws were passed which made it impossible even to hear an antislavery discussion in Congress. The ruling class in the South became violently opposed to any accommodation in the sphere of slavery, even though their predecessors in the generation that sought freedom from Britain had hoped and expected that the peculiar institution would somehow fade away by the time of their grandchildren.

This privileged class, the aristocratic planters, shunned higher education (there were almost no legitimate universities in the Southern states), and held to a take-no-prisoners approach to any attempt, however indirect, to remedy the plight of the enslaved. Rather than face an unthinkable civil war, the North again and again gave in to the demands of the South, shamefully surrendering at the expense of the helpless, rather than chance that the rich planters would go through with their threats. In retrospect, it seems crazy that they remained so inflexible in the face of basic humanity.

Last week an amendment was rammed through as a last-minute dingleberry to the Healthcare reform bill of the House, denying coverage for voluntary abortions. They have told us that it is the same thing as the Hyde amendment, in place since the 70’s. That is a lie. It is a significant step backward for women’s reproductive rights, and will mean that many of the situations now covered by insurance companies will be outlawed going forward. It is a sneaky Trojan horse and no one should be fooled by it.

In their eagerness to reach accommodation and avoid an internecine fight, Democrats went long with this execrable amendment. Some have said that the Senate would not allow the bill to go forward with the amendment intact. Let us hope that they are right, rather than endure another surrender in the face of reaction, a surrender that would have to be paid for once again by the powerless.

One of Those Dreams

“I had one of those death dreams last night.”

“What was that? Oh, you mean where you die at the end?”

“Yeah, except that you always wake up before death actually occurs.”

“I’m glad I never get those.”

“Anyway, it started with me driving, only I was still sort of asleep, so I was in a reclining position with the seat all of the way back, and I could barely reach the steering wheel. I tried to sit up, because I couldn’t see over the dashboard, and we were going really fast. It was on the highway, at night.”

“Was I yelling at you?”

“You’re always yelling at me when I drive, so yes. It was hard to sit up. It felt like trying to do sit ups with an anvil on your chest. I could finally see a little, but only a little, over the steering wheel, and it was very dark out, and the highway was wet. I wanted to stop but we needed to get off an exit first.”

“So then what happened?”

“I pulled off of the first exit that came along. We had to be doing eighty, and I could see that at the end of the exit was some kind of embankment, made of earth or stone. It was at least ten feet tall and right across our path, in back of a road that was perpendicular to the exit. I tried to apply the brakes, but the other thing about driving in a dream is that brakes only work when they’re pressed practically through the floor boards. I’m trying to get the car to slow down and it’s not really going slower at all, really like it’s speeding up.”

“Maybe you were like an old person who thinks that the gas is the brake.”

“Maybe, but I can see that I’m not going to make it. I’m going to go right into the embankment, so I turn hard to the right. The car fishtails, totally out of control. The driver’s side rear end hits a chain link fence that’s somehow there and we go right through. Now we’re going backwards, kicking up all of this dust and dragging chain link, and suddenly the car tilts backward with its nose in the air, and I can’t feel the ground any more.”

“Why?”

“Well, I realize that we’re falling, like we’ve gone over a cliff. A couple of seconds go by, and it hits me that we’re falling a long way and that we’re going to hit really hard. I say, my God, we’re going to die! I turn to you and I say, because I realize that it’s the last thing I’ll ever do or say, and I say, I love-, and then I woke up. I felt like I was actually starting to say the words, and the noise of the panic just woke me up.”

“You have some pretty fucked up dreams.”

“It has to be a real vivid one, like that, in order for me to remember them.”

“But it was nice, that you wanted to tell me you loved me, as your final thought.”

“Hey it’s the least I could do. After all, I killed you, right?”

“Yeah, that does take a little of the romance away. So, if you were to die before me, would you wait for me?”

Wait for you? Wait where?”

“You know, on the other side.

“Okay, first of all, I don’t believe in an “other side”. Second, even if there were one, how do I know what I would be capable of? How do I know if I still have free will, or the capacity to remember anything that happened in my prior life? I might not be able to “meet you”, or know who you are if I did.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Look, Ben, all I’m saying is I can’t answer a hypothetical like that. I’d be lying if I gave you a definite answer on a hypothetical like that.”

“No, Jack. You’re an asshole, because I would wait for you, and now you’re making me think that you don’t love me like you say you do.”

“Jerk, I told you I loved you with my dying breath.”

“Yeah, right after you killed me. Asshole.”

Healthcare Reform?

So we have the reform bill of the day, though this one seems closer to becoming a reality than any we have had to date. Just what are we getting? Should we be be glad?

The Insurance Industry is happy. They just got a valentine from Harry Reid. He's prepared to load them up with taxpayer money, force the currently uninsured to get coverage with them or face a penalty, block any restriction on what they can charge their customers (I'm not unusual - and I just got a 28% rate increase), and limit competition that a government-run program can give them. Silly me - I thought that insurance reform meant improvements on our behalf.

The tradeoff? They have to cover pre-existing conditions. I don't want to rain on anyone's parade, but the anecdotal examples of PE conditions that you've heard, while horrific, represent a tiny fraction of claims, and will be massively offset to the industry by all of the new bodies they'll be getting as they are forced to choose between coverage by one of these profit machines or pay the penalty.

Oh yes, there will also be a third choice - that of a public option. Okay, it's better than the ridiculous trigger approach so popular with the irrelevant Olympia Snowe. But it still won't kick in until 2013 at the earliest, meaning that there's plenty of time for it to be gutted by Republicans and Insurance industry whores like Max Baucus.

Then, individual states will have the option of refusing it! Got to admit, it could be fun watching Republican governors twist themselves into knots, turning it down while their in-state medical system chokes on the uninsured.

Which brings me to another point. This bill is expected to cover some 11 million folks who are currently not covered. What about the other 36 million? Are you kidding me?

OK, I'm an optimistic kind to guy. I want to believe that if we put in some kind of healthcare reform, any reform, that it's a foot in the door. Maybe the Insurance companies will not continue to pour in hundreds of millions of dollars trying to prevent additional reform. Maybe the public option will be successful and millions of other Americans will insist that they be allowed to give it a shot, generating so much political pressure that it will have to be opened up to everyone. Maybe Republicans and blue dogs will sense that political tides and history are against them and find some other cause to wreck.

But right now, the choice is yours - is this reform bill a shit sandwich, or a better-looking shit sandwich?

Tale From a Trunk, pt. 8

“Before we commence with your quest,” the Captain said sternly, “perhaps we ought to review the remaining remains of the victim. They reside in a tub of turpentine within.” He gestured in the direction of his office. Memory of the foetid alley came upon me and I protested, but the rest of the group were eager for the thrill, and I reluctantly agreed.

Inside, it was as dark as a cat, and Captain Burnside had to light two lamps to shed enough light to see the large wooden tub which squatted in the otherwise unoccupied cell. We gathered round like schoolboys ready to see a two-headed frog, while our host took a metal hook from the lip of the rub and searched tentatively in the vaporous liquid. He held it above the strong smelling brew and hesitated. “Those interested citizens of the city have generously offered a nickel apiece to view what I am about to show you gentlemen.” His pointed hesitation continued, and continued further, until with an exasperated chorus of “for the love of Christ’” and so forth, the necessary coins were reluctantly dropped onto his outreached palm. Into the tub went the hook.

After a moment’s probing he pulled a long, awkward-looking object from the bath. It took a bit to recognize a curved backbone and a set of ribs, looking red and brown and shiny from the turpentine. It was an awful sight, and pitiful. Rafe Still fumbled in his coat for a sheaf of paper and charcoal, and emitted low purr.

“A bit of respect, if you don’t mind,” said the Captain meaningfully and looking at Still. And at us: “The turpentine bath seems to have eroded Mr. Slade somewhat. There was more meat on him when last I looked at the remains.”

“Does anyone else notice that there are two ribs missing?” Billy said softly in my ear.

“That is as they were discovered in the alleyway behind Mr. Spander’s establishment,” the Captain explained. “It would seem that Mr. Phoenix had a taste for them.”

The ensuing silence passed from one of respect to that of waiting for someone to break the deadlock.

Compliantly, I said, “This fascinating artifact, while an object of surefire interest, does not tie to my client. Someone, we’ll assume not Mr. Slade himself, has removed the ribs. Let us further assume that it was for the purpose of their consumption. To do that, one would have to have the wherewithal to pull the meat from the bone. Isn’t it so?” There was a general lack of comprehension. I let it go. I turned to Captain Burnside. “Have you examined the living quarters of Moses Phoenix?”

He shook his head. “He wasn’t at home.”

”Well, then, we should go there straightaway!” I admit that I had not been in a rush to reveal my discovery: namely, that Moses Phoenix lacked the teeth to devour human flesh, and could therefore not have been the villain in our story. I enjoyed having knowledge that others did not. I was willing to draw out their ignorance, as it seemed to me that the satisfaction it would give to me once revealed, would be that much the greater the longer it cured. Further, by waiting as long as I had, my audience had increased to a respectable size. Still, I felt that the time had come. It was fitting to exonerate Mr. Phoenix by making the announcement at his own home.

With a small amount of resistance the group agreed to make one last journey (it was but two hundred yards from the jail) to satisfy my whim. Our little parade attracted the attention of townsfolk, and some of them may have joined the procession. We reached the boarding house and with Captain Burnside in our group we were readily given admittance. I bounded up the stairs to his room and thrust open the door.

It was as I had pictured it. Modest furnishings, few pieces of homely furniture, a daguerrotype of Mother on the wall. I turned to look at my companions, tears welling in my eyes. Was this not a scene of domestic tranquility? Was Moses Phoenix not a paragon of sweet innocence? On one wall set a cupboard. Surely, it held a bible!

“See here,” I said solemnly. “This is the dwelling place of a man without natural enemies. Mr. Phoenix could not harm a soul, because he is too pure of heart and gentle of spirit to wish anyone ill. He could not do the terrible deed of which he is accused” - and here I paused meaningfully - “because the man has NO TEETH! He cannot chew meat! He is incapable of everything you accuse him of!” I strode to the cupboard, in order to fling it open and reveal the bible, as a last punctuation on my performance.

There, on a shelf in that cupboard rested a beautiful set of ivory choppers, still stained red with the unfortunate Slade’s blood.

This is where the fragment ends. I assume that it is where he intended to halt the tale, but I cannot be certain. Now I’m wondering whether I should start transcribing the rest of what I found in the trunk. I am open to suggestions on that front.

Tale From a Trunk, pt. 7

There sat Captain Burnside, leaning precariously back in his chair with his feet against a rail. At nearly three hundred pounds, this was risk-taking of a high order. Considering that he was deeply drunk at this early hour, his bravado was breathtaking. His kepi was low over his eyes, and he was deep in thought or in sleep. We formed a semi-circle around him and waited respectfully.

Having given it a full thirty seconds I kicked his foot. He snatched his feet from the rail abruptly and teetered for a few thrilling seconds before his chair thundered to the boardwalk, safely.

“Jesus wept!” he cried. He was always using out of date phraseology, which was one of the reasons he was so popular. “What are you trying to do? Commit murder? Can’t a man, a man of the Law, take his rest without being the object of assault?”

I swept my hat from my head. “No offense meant Captain, but we are here to prevent an accident. The ship of justice is about to beach itself upon the reef of error. Everyone on board, Captain included, has been deluded into believing that the water runs deep and clean, but just beneath its surface lies the submerged tree that will stove her in, for sure. Without a rapid change of course, she’ll be sinking in no time at all.” I could sense the rolling eyes about me. If I occasionally lapsed into the talk of my previous occupation, it was only because I had been a man of means, of dignity. They could not help but scoff, with so little accomplishment, so much envy among them. I forgave them.

“God’s blood, young Clemens, what in the name of all that’s holy are you disputating upon?” I took a moment to absorb what he had said, then continued my course.

“All will be clear, Captain. You have been in pursuit of the murderer of Mr. Slade, who was once curator of the cuspidors at the Blue Gem.”

“I have had that honor.”

“And I have come to inform you that the object of your investigation, Mr. Moses Phoenix, is innocent of that crime. He is simply incapable of performing the deed. Your strenuous search (here, I applied a bit of gilt to the flower that was Captain Burnside), nobly acted upon, is misplaced. If my client is harmed in any way it will be a crime as foul as the one perpetrated on the unfortunate Mr. Slade.”

He rose to his full rotundity and pulled on his suspenders. “I am fully conscious of my rectitude, sir, and cannot be at fault. The facts are clear. The victim was slain by knife, then cut up like a Sunday roast. It wasn’t a crime of passion, necessarily, but mayhap more like one of hunger.”

“He was a Donner, Sam!” Stevie Gillis whispered loudly.

“And well accustomed to the craft,” Denis added, needlessly.

“Further,” Captain Burnside continued, “he has gone missing, ever since the crime was committed. The Rubicon is fairly crossed. He is the culprit for certain, and I shall not rest until he has been captured, quickly tried and found guilty, and strung up as he so richly deserves.”

“Preferably before his next meal,” Billy Stewart added.

I know had them exactly where I wanted them. The entire town, citizens, the Law and the Fourth Estate, all wanted Moses Phoenix caught and dead. There was only one man upright enough to save him. Only one man with the calm and commonsense to see through hysteria to the truth. A town can’t have too many heroes. They get in each other’s way and muddy up the narrative. I would have to do it on my own.

“If you’ll come with me to Mr. Phoenix’s abode, I’ll make all clear,” I said. “You’ll see in a flash why I am so certain.”

Miscellanea

Sometimes you have to get these things off your chest...

A.G. Eric Holder is

telling states that they should back off marijuana arrests unless the perp is ‘profiting’ from its sale, excluding for medical use. Can this mean that, at long last, we are going to move away our insane drug policies of the last few decades? When Ronald Reagan took office in 1981 one in fourteen convicts was there for a drug bust. Now, it’s one in three.

Speaking of Reagan, is there anything you can legitimately attribute to his reign that wasn’t awful for the American people? A demented drug policy, the ravaging of American unions simultaneous with reckless deregulation, which combined to eliminate the middle class, the defunding and closing of hundreds of facilities including medical hospitals, thereby throwing tens of thousands of patients onto the streets and ballooning homeless numbers, the tacit connivance with corporations, to the extent that they began to (more overtly) run the government, the acceptance of racism once again (e.g., welfare queens), Iran/contra, and that barely scratches the surface. And yet with our propensity for national amnesia he is still considered a positive creature, instead of the second-worst president ever?

Does anyone else think that, even if the Heene’s are tried & convicted for their balloon boy stunt, they’ll still get their reality program? C’mon, TLC and VH1, ‘fess up. You’re already in negotiations, aren’t you?

Why is it that, when a photographer lies on his back, on the ground, to take a picture up a young woman’s skirt as she gets out if a car, public scorn is reserved for the woman?

Michael Moore’s latest film is out, with the predictable backlash already going strong. Sure, there are better documentary filmmakers around, but for putting all of the dirty truths out there, for reminding us (as if we all needed reminding) that there are malign forces placing short-term profits for a few, ahead of the public good, he’s hard to beat. The one legacy we’ll remember from Rage Against the Machine is their tag line: your anger is a gift.

Again, why is it that a couple can be arrested for wearing anti-Bush t-shirts, and yet someone else can carry a loaded, semi-automatic weapon to an Obama event without being bothered? Just wondering...

There, I feel better...

Tale From a Trunk, pt. 6

“First,” I said, we must examine the scene where the ghastly crime unfolded.”

“Easy,” he replied. “It’s right out back, in the alley.” I stood aside and let him open the door for me, then I strolled past him into the narrow, dank pathway that separated his establishment from the whorehouse next door. It smelled foetid and foul, and I would have thought that it had been the place where the butchering of chickens or other beasts for dinner had taken place, except that I knew slaughter of another kind had occurred there.

I looked around, seeming to take in clues in order to satisfy my bilious friend. The ground was covered with litter, though the light was too dim to make out its character. The damp seemed to rise of its own accord and to clutch me about the throat. Feigning nonchalance, I took a cigar from my breast pocket and made a show of lighting it, holding the lit match aloft and looking about the alley. I could easily see the slash of dried blood on the wall of his saloon, then looked down to see that dried gore was sticking to my shoes.

Resisting a strong urge to vomit, I puffed furiously and said firmly, “Yes, yes, just as I thought!” In response to my friend Julius’ questions I merely stated that the scene was as I suspected and saw no need to delay there. I hurried out into the street, taking in great lungs full of air. Seeing through my distress he laughed.

“It’s just what’s left of Slade,” he informed me. “That, and what Moses has shat out.”

I scolded him. Had I not determined that Moses Phoenix was innocent?

“Not so’s I can tell,” he answered mildly. “How exactly are you certain?”

I made a show of immense patience. It was simply beyond the ken of the uneducated, I explained. The superior mind can detect hidden meanings in the mundane. What he failed to see in the alley was as clear as day to me. I needed only to peruse additional locations and it would even be clear to him. With a detailed explanation from me, of course.

“We’ve little time to waste,” I urged as I walked swiftly down the muddy thoroughfare. “A guiltless man is likely to fall victim to the mob, unless I can present the evidence to prove his innocence!” I strode purposefully, trailing the lumbering Spander in my wake.

It was only a diagonal journey to the offices of The Daily Times, and the daytime abode of my newly identified rival, Billy Stewart. Without introduction I burst into the room in which he sat, and came to an abrupt halt, hands on hips and a tower of cigar smoke issuing from the corner of my mouth. Julius struggled to keep from knocking me to the floor, so sudden was my stoppage and so close to my heels had he kept.

“Why Sam,” said Billy slowly, and looking over my shoulder to take in my companion, “are you carrying the bar with you today?”

“Not today,” I said sternly, waving my hand. “Today, I have deputized Mr. Spander, in order for him to be my witness as I reveal the results of your journalistic assassination against my client.” A fine turn of phrase I thought, as I listened to myself.

“Whatever are you on about, Sam?”

I explained rapidly that I had undertaken the rehabilitation of Moses Phoenix’s reputation, and let Billy know that he had gotten it all wrong. He sat up straighter and eyed me with greater interest.

“Do you say that you know the whereabouts of Mr. Phoenix? Why, all of Virginia City is looking for him, Sam, and you say you have him? That’s first rate work! Where is he, exactly?” I frowned at that. It wouldn’t do for a mob to take apart the offices of the Enterprise. Bill Wright might get it into his head that I was somehow responsible, and suggest that I pay for the damages.

“That’s not important, just yet. I can’t have a drunken throng stretching his neck, just because you’ve got them all stirred up. He’s in a safe place, until I can sort this all out and prove his innocence.”

“Well then,” he said, taking his hat from the rack by his chair and placing it on his head, “that’s something I have to see. Mind if I trail along?”

I did indeed. This had taken a course I had not foreseen, nor wished. Still, when a pilot comes upon an unfamiliar bend in the river, because some storm has changed its course, he finds his way. “It will be my pleasure,” I replied amiably. This way, I thought, I will have the enjoyment of seeing his chagrin, when I showed him how wrong he had been. As he stood to leave with us, he called out to one Rafe Still, an artist who worked with the paper, to join us. He wanted him to make sketches, if justified by our investigation. Magnanimity flowing within me now, I happily agreed. What was one more witness? Another member of the audience.

As we walked down the puddled thoroughfare, Still whispered mischievously in my ear: Did I know how badly cut up the remains had been? He had made sketches, but the editor refused to allow them to be printed, so hideous were they. Slade had been butchered with some skill, and the lesser cuts had been left behind in the alley. If the people of the city had seen Still’s (and the murderer’s) work, there would be no keeping them away from the killer. It would make no difference to Phoenix, I assured him, once I had proven him guiltless.

“How do you propose to do that?” Billy Stewart interrupted, concerned now, I could see, that I was on to something. His hasty reporting was about to be his comeuppance, I was certain.

“We’re going to Captain Burnside’s office,” I said happily. “I need only to determine the effects of his investigation, then I shall reveal all I know.”

Burnside was some specimen of law in Virginia City, having been appointed years previously by a long-forgotten eminence in the East. Now, his sole function seemed to be to drink from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, to eat from four to eight in the evening, and to sleep the rest of the time. Still, he was inoffensive. He let people kill themselves regularly without meddling, and kept his lone cell free from the detritus of prisoners. It left him with a good place to nap, once he was through with his daily repose.

Before we arrived at the jail however, we happened upon Denis McCarthy and Stevie Gillis, who were standing at a bar, taking in the morning along with a few bracing glasses. Stevie was a printer at the Enterprise, a diminutive bantam. Though scarcely rising to my shoulder, his fists were deadly. I always treated him cautiously and courteously. Denis was co-owner of the same paper, so I obligingly lifted my hat to them both.

“Join us, Sam?” Denis inquired. “Steve won me a hundred in a bout not more than half an hour ago, and we were just starting to celebrate.

I explained my business as quickly as possible, but there was no use to it. They no sooner heard my tale than they determined that they must accompany me, to serve as both bodyguard and reportorial back up. So we continued until we reached the jail.

Tale From a trunk, pt. 5

It was a cloudy day, even so I had need to adjust my eyesight once entering the Gem. It was nearly black as the inside of a lawyer’s heart, not in respect to the departed, but because the activities pursued within were almost always best practiced in the dark. I took a moment to acclimate my vision. There were a couple of whale oil lamps which shed what little illumination there was to be had, and they let me know that besides me, there were three characters seated around a tilting, round table, and a tender behind the bar. This was Julius Spander, made newly famous by the slanderous article recently printed in The Daily Times.

“Hello Sam,” he greeted me as I felt my way to the bar, really just a plank set on two barrels. “It’s a little late for your eye opener. It’s nearly ten.” I told him that I was all business that morning, and was maintaining my sharp senses. However, not wanting to antagonize a potential news source, I accepted a glass from him, and drained it off. I had known Julius for six months, and knew him as a man to befriend when drunk, and avoid when he was sober. He topped six feet by several inches, and a prize hog by several pounds. Peering in I could see that he was clear eyed, and accordingly I took my stance at the far end of his bar.

“Have one on me, Julius,” I said companionably. He squinted in my direction warily.

“And add it to your tab?”

“Not at all,” I replied, slapping a dollar onto the bar top. “I’m feeling fine today, and wish to share my good fortune. Especially with those who have stood me well in the past.” He continued to regard me suspiciously, but poured himself a drink and swilled it. I pointed out that the change would get him another two drinks at least, and he became more agreeable.

“What accounts for your good mood?” he asked.

“I am often thus,” I said happily, “when on to a good story.” He sipped his third drink and pretended to dust the bar at his end, but I could tell that the hook was already in. “Have another,” I said cheerfully, replacing the lost dollar with the same. “And another.”

He grunted a grudging thanks and did not hesitate. He dusted closer to me, making small talk the way a bar man does. After half a dozen whiskeys he was in a mood to match my own, and dusting the bar especially for me.

“So, what sort of ‘good story’ are you on about?”

“Why none other than the true story the Virginia City cannibal.” He snorted loudly.

“That story’s ripe!” he laughed. “It got done days ago, by that reporter for The Times. Don’t you know that, Sam?”

I made a show of my disappointment. My face dragged close to the splintery surface of the bar. I shook my head slowly, in profound disgust. “You mean to tell me,” I finally said, “that someone already figured out that Mr. Phoenix, late of the Donner party, isn’t the culprit?” He squinted more fiercely than before, and, resting his elbows on the bar his chin on his hands, leaned closely.

“What’s this your sayin’? I ain’t served you but one drink that morning. You been drinkin’ at home, Sam?”

“Not a bit,” said I. He rubbed his chin in concentrated thought.

“Then why are you sayin’ that Phoenix ain’t the one?”

I made a show of disgust, and shook my head. “Now Julius, there’s no cause to go and have fun at my expense. Just because somebody else got to the truth of the matter before I did, it’s no reason to mock me. There’s many, probably, who didn’t suspect that Moses Phoenix was not guilty of this horrible crime.”

At that he straightened up and made a show of wiping down the bar. I had him, I could tell. I had him good, and he wouldn’t want to be the last one to be in the know. He was already imagining himself lording it over the less fortunate, the gullible fools who had jumped to the false assumption. He pretended to ask his question casually.

“Now, I’m not sayin’ you were the last to know,” he allowed. “I’m only interested in how you came by your conclusion. You know, what was your method?”

“Well then, if you’re sure you’re not still making fun.” He swore he wasn’t. I told him that I would be glad to take him through every step of my process, but that it could best be done by showing him, just as I had deduced it myself. First though, I would have to have his solemn vow not to reveal my means until I had published them for the world to see. Once they had caught the drift of my genius, he could bather about it ll he wished. Eager to witness the superior mind in action, he readily agreed.

Airily, I waved him towards the back door of his establishment. He chased the few drunken customers out of the front door and quickly locked it. Assuming a pose of complicit mystery,he crept to my side and awaited my instruction.

Tale From a trunk, pt.4

I sat in silence for a moment, dismayed that they had gotten the drop on me like this. It should have been me writing this juicy, sordid tale. And to beaten by our rival, The Daily Times, hurt like the devil himself. I was a regular drinking partner with Billy Stewart, a reporter at the times, and we enjoyed a friendly animosity. Why, we had sipped and supped on at least three occasions since the murder, and not one word of the deed had passed his lips. Still, Moses Phoenix may not have been an inspirational subject for rebuttal, but he was all mine. So I made him a fine speech.

Why, here he was a beleaguered immigrant to our fair city, a man struggling, and succeeding, to make good under difficult circumstances, Against the odds he had prevailed, only to be thrust back into oblivion by the evil press. Why oh why would they pursue him, unsatisfied hounds of hell, their thirst for his blood never slaked until, he had either been driven from town or strung up by a citizenry maddened and provoked by the bloodlust of the Times? Would no one take his side, would no one listen to mild reason, would no one stay the crude mob and shine the light of justice? Why yes, there was someone.Someone who knew better than the lurching, unthinking crowd. Better than the slinking, hate-filled, ignorant and conniving newspaper, the Daily Times. There was Sam Clemens. And what a hero I would be!

Full of fire, I shook his hand, which proved to be remarkably strong, and assured him that he was as good as vindicated. I would write a vivid rebuttal to the slanders of the Times and in short order have the people of Virginia City begging his forgiveness. It was as plain as day, but first I needed to ascertain some of the facts. I would have to peruse the scene of the crime, the better to provide my readers of the base nature of the murder (after all, they oughtn’t to be deprived of the gory details). Then I would describe the scene of the non-crime, that is, Mr. Phoenix’s abode, where I would prove that nothing untoward could possibly have occurred. I would be, I assured him, his personal savior. Those iceberg eyes filled with tears, not cold but warm with gratitude. He took both of my hands in those crushers of his and professed his undying thanks.

“Not a bit of it,” I said modestly, as only true heros know how. “It is only what one does, to see that justice is done.” I left off the fact that I would destroy Billy’s standing as a credible reporter and deliver an exclusive interview with a surviving member of the Donner group in the bargain. Not bad for a day’s work.

But first I had to gather the detail for my story. I grew excited as I considered how I would insert actual, verifiable truth into my reporting (a usual story would be pieced together from random, amusing thoughts that occurred to me whilst I nursed a hangover from the previous night’s debauch). This would be something new, something entirely novel for me, and I found myself becoming more and more proud of myself. I was quite the prince.

My new friend wanted to accompany me, to show me where the various crimes against his good name had taken place, but I would have none of it. He must protect himself, and remain hidden from public view while I visited the scene of carnage. There was what called itself the law in that city to be considered, to say nothing of what an aroused citizenry might do to him, if they were to act before receiving my golden words of reasonableness. No, he would have to remain in my little office, and not show his sad face about town. With a show of reluctance he agreed to my plan. Planting my slouch hat upon my head and stuffing cigars in one pocket and some papers and a nub of pencil in another, I left him there.

Fairly skipping down the stairs I left the Enterprise building disappeared down the alley which brought me to the street on which the Blue Gem was located. I found it wedged between a brothel called the Golden Gully and another saloon, The Rye Expression. I had had some familiarity with both establishments, by way of my study of the nether world of the city. Nothing too intimate, just enough to recognize the devil’s tools if ever I should find myself in need of them.

To be continued...