Nov 14, 2006

Well No Shit the Dems Don't Have a Plan

The most recent Yahoo news story at the time of this post talks of a poll which illustrates that even though a majority of Americans believe that Iraq is at the top of the Democrat's agenda, three out of five Americans don't believe that the Dems have a plan for Iraq.

What a ground-breaking revelation; as if our votes last week were a tribute to the Dems because they've been hiding out this entire time, conspiring amongst one another, hoarding the answer to the problems in Iraq, waiting patiently for the moment, for the day where they would be once again elected into a majority, a position of power, whereupon they would magically relinquish the answer to the American public along with the world only to look like dumbasses because they took part in the actions illustrated above inside this very sentence which ends here.

Wake up! Nobody has a plan for Iraq. How can you have a plan when you take a hardline route while simultaneously isolating yourself from the rest of the world with bad policy and deaf ears? When you go in with one plan, stick to that plan, fail with that plan, yet uphold that same plan until finally the American public throws your ass out of office? What else could we do? It was either of vote for you, or a vote for them, so take notice of that fact. Unfortunately, for the Dems, it means that we don't necessarily have faith in you either.

There is a lot of work to do. The government needs to redeem itself in regards to us in this country, but more importantly it needs to redeem itself in the eyes and hearts of the world.
A sky stretch colored concrete brightening to blue on the eastern horizon. Only relics remain from Friday's snowfall, those oddly-shaped white boulders soiled by mud and car exhaust. In the air is the sort of chill that darts well below the dermis and settles deep within porous bone matter.

In winter you don't need to watch closely to notice someone breathing: the flaring nostrils, and the rise and fall of your lover's breast as they sleep silently nearby. No, our living essence rises out of us in a transparent cloud, and each exhale serves as a visual declaration, yes, I am alive.

Students walk in haste from building to building, hurried by the cold, but still it seems to drag, and they, like the ladybugs, wasps, flies, have taken part in the seasonal slowing down. A force comes around again, as it does each winter, and lays weight upon them as they rise in the morning, and the retreating warmth carries a voice which beckons them to return, to peace, to slumber.

Even the rain goes through change, opting for a more lazy form, and the flakes give the impression of motion slowed, time stalled, of a season's seasoning. After all, things almost always must come to a complete stop before they can begin again.

Nov 13, 2006

The Spot

The white-bricked industrial building sits unassuming, looks nearly deserted. Throughout the years, it has had its share of tenants. For at least one year, the place was completely abandoned, and one of the local community clubs designated it for their yearly haunted house. Now, the building bears the name of the man who owns it, and he rents out space to a number of individuals. I've been journeying to the second floor for over six years of my life.

The second level used to be some sort of office building; now vacant and in disrepair, the owner rents the rooms out to local musicians, turning it in to a sort of band haven. It's the only way the old guy could generate revenue from those rooms. One short walkthrough and an inspector would condemn the building; but since it's the only place in town, for an excessive fee he is able to fill this floor year after year. It seems that musicians are in no short supply, and eight of them will cram into the tiniest room to make noise not all too forein to industry, like listening to a rock concert in a soup can.

Enough beauty and chaos has taken place on that floor to make Hollywood movies and send a handful of people to Hell.

I ventured up Saturday once again, though I no longer cut a monthly check to cover my band's space. Once you're in the music scene, it seems you never get out; and, if you're part of the scene in this area, you're somehow tied to the building.

Steve and Luther, with little else better to do, were passing time up there, jamming away, Steve on guitar, Luther behind the kit. It had been a while for me, and sounded like a good idea. The first thing Steve pointed out when I arrived was that he'd broken two strings, and had no replacements. This is was not going to be a serious session.

And it wasn't. Steve and I, both able to navigate the guitar and drums, switched off while Luther took a break, perusing items around the room, trying on ski goggles. The spacious section, which was Luther's, stood nearly vacant, for he was now bandless, and rents the place alone. A yellow, industrial-sized tub of kitty litter hung from the ceiling.

We weaved back and forth, releasing some rather awkward-sounding and cliche tunes. I laid back on the drums and fumbled around on the guitar like it was my first experience with a lover, only I'd seen a couple pornos. It really had been a while.

Luther looked more nervous than anything. His lady, who he'd been on the rocks with recently, was on her way up. Out in front of him on that winter night was a quiet evening with her. Steve and I, on the other hand, hadn't much for plans. Maybe the bars, to check on the scene, visit with some friends.

It'd be me, wide-eyed and over attentive; Steve, with that left hand a few ounces heavier on account of that ring she picked out for their knot-tying in Vegas; and people reveling in a drunken reunion as if at high school house party post Friday night football game. We hung around the Spot for a while longer after Luther left, traversing jazz, rock, punk, funk, and noise. Should we have played some blues?