Buddy Cushman Art

engaging stories of hope and joy


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Bread Crumbs

The guy behind the counter was playing jazz when I took my coffee to a chair in the Just Bob Coffee Shop on Alberta in Northe20160916_142455_hdrast Portland last Friday. It was just after two in the afternoon, and while there was the occasional customer lining up at the take-out counter, most of the seats in the shop were empty. Mostly I didn’t hear the jazz music playing, and when it would intrude into my consciousness every once in a while, I’d ignore it. Jazz is not my thing. It’s funny, my non-appreciation of that purely American music form, because it was a favorite of The Beat writers, including Jack Kerouac, one of the writers I most revere, and try to borrow from as a writer. He wrote like jazz, these long, often connectedly discombobulated riff of words, sometimes making up new words to suit the flavor of the riff. Like jazz.keruoac

Which isn’t really the point, other than saying I love Kerouac and don’t like jazz.

There was a woman sitting in one of the three stuffed chairs in the shop — I was in another, facing her — and she was reading a paperback book, a softcover to be exact, and squinting my eyes I could see the title of the book was “Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together In the Cafeteria?” She herself was a black woman, young, maybe mid 30s, and was taking notes in a bound notebook like the one I carried in. Mine was for recording any ideas I could brainstorm for the 11th and final story in my collection of Astoria, Oregon tales. (None happened to arrive while I was there.) So, I shifted tasks, and asked The Universe for ideas for future Blog posts — like this one — and the thought came to me to play detective — Buddy Cushman, Coffee Shop Sleuth — and follow the woman’s book wherever it would lead me.

When I got home, it took quite a while from NE way down to SE where I live, with Friday afternoon city traffic, but it was sunny and hot and I was playing, very loudly, one Tower of Power song after another, so the trip was not only tolerable but, in fact, a wicked blast, rolling, singing, howling, party on wheels (think The 52s “Love Shack” www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SOryJvTAGs ) Anyway, at the computer dr-tatumI googled the book from Just Bob’s and learned it is a highly valued thought piece on race and race identity and relations in the Country, collective experiences and perspectives written by Dr. Beverly Daniel Tatum, the President of Spelman College in Georgia. Here is a ten and a half minute review, very thorough and interesting, of the book and its author. It’s worth a look and listen:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_l5bO9KZrY&list=PLlFqqfHxQmjOGUX3oN6On3kJW253lUGRx     I now have the book on order from The Multnomah County Library system.

What can be more important than how we live with, and value, each other?

The woman with the book left before me, and I sat there looking at the sun stream through the multiple front windows of the shop. At some point the barista behind the counter changed the music and I instantly recognized the opening descending bass and violins of The Left Banke’s “Walk Away Renee”. Hard to imagine anyone doesn’t know the song, and certainly anyone who grew up in the 60s. I mean, the empty sidewalks on my block are not the same.

I was struck, wleft-bankehen “Pretty Ballerina” came on a couple of songs later, about the so-often-highlighted black and whiteness of the world — of the day. The woman and her book, it’s black title, and now a thoroughly ‘white’ sounding pop group from 1965 New York City. After another song I walked up to the counter and asked the guy what exactly he was playing. Turns out it was a “best of” collection by The Left Banke called ‘There’s Gonna Be a Storm: the Complete Recordings 1966 – 1969’. A
couple of songs , white poppy little things, stood out to me — I’d never heard them, shame on me, especially working in a record store most of those years and holding The Banke’s debut album in my hands many times. So here they are, for your listening enjoyment, and maybe they are long-time favorites. “She May Call You Up Tonight”:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZSlF2AkrS4   and “Let Go Of You Girl”:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=POdiO1xOg-E

Way cool. And maybe all this matters not a wit to anyone but me, Buddy Cushman – Coffee Shop Sleuth. Oh well. And by the way, as Oakland’s Tower of Power — a strong example of what glory we can get when you combine black and white — since they helped me along my way home, I’ll end with one from them. Thanks for showing up.

“So Very Hard To Go”:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9BRqGpppJw

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Yesterday Once More

 

One of my joys in life is listening to “Oldies” on the radio – preferably the car radio. I’m a siIMG_1258mple guy. Much to my delight, a new “Oldies” station showed up in Portland about a year ago, with an amazing playlist: songs that carry the banner of Oldies; songs tKaren 4hat would be considered “B” sides; and songs that are clearly album cuts, many unfamiliar to my highly trained Oldie ears.

I say this as back story. The other day, late last week, the song “Goodbye to Love” by The Carpenters flowed out through my wife’s car speakers while driving home from Trader Joe’s. It got me thinking about The Carpenters, Karen and Richard, and the basket-full of hit, Top 40, mainstream, gushy, pop songs they gave radio and turntable listeners back in the late 60s and right through the late 70s, a few years before Karen’s death.

I never would have described myself as a Carpenter’s fan, back then, waaaay too straight. But, there was something about some of their songs, and Karen’s voice. Something special about her voice. And something, all along, about her as well. A yearning after something else. Maybe that’s not the best way to say it, but that’s the way it felt.

I wasn’t enKaren 3ough of a fan, even secretly, to follow them, so I did not learn about Karen’s eating disorder until after her death in 1983 — the year I got sober at age 34 — when she was just 32. Reports and subsequent features make clear that most people had never heard of anorexia at that time, which, it turns out is what caused her death, by heart failure. I learned about anorexia first hand in 1985, when I went to work at a residential treatment center in Watertown, Massachusetts, and was assigned as a counsel-ee a 13 year-old girl with a diagnosis of Anorexia Nervosa. I bought a book back then, still have it, titled “The Golden Cage”, a book considered one of the seminal studies on the subject. Anorexia is described in the book as “the relenKaren 6tless pursuit of excessive thinness.”

This isn’t a post about anorexia.You can Google it if you want to know more. It’s about the Carpenters and some of their songs, and Karen’s voice. I discovered a wonderful BBC documentary about The Carpenters on Youtube a while back. It’s a five-part series, with Dionne Warwick and Herb Alpert, Richard Carpenter, Petula Clark and Tony Peluso, many more. You can see it here, and it’s worth the investment of some 60 minutes:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOCk-D2fOpg

And the songs. Hard to not include this one from 1970 : www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFx-5PGLgb4    Or this one from the same year: www.youtube.com/watch?v=__VQX2Xn7tI      Or this one, released 1973:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTaWayUE5XA  Then there was this release from ’72, with a ripping, soaring fuzz guitar solo courtesy the aforementioned Tony Peluso:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=FdG-ITxL8ok

Turns out The Carpenters sold more records than Elvis. Turns out The Carpenters had more conseKaren 5cutive number one hits than The Beatles. Who knew. Doesn’t make them better or as good as, it’s just interesting.

My favorite Christmas song has always been “Let There Be Peace On Earth and Let It Begin With Me”. This song, released in 1970, holds the number 2 spot. Always will:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=YR1ujXx2p-I

In “Goodbye To Love”, the one up there above with the bitchin’ guitar, there’s a line, “All I know of love is how to live without it.” Here’s a Wikipedia blurb on the creation of the song.  en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goodbye_to_Love    Even though Karen was not involved in the writing, words and music, the line fits. That yearning thing right there. For me, at least.

Last week my Blog Post discussed Patti Smith. Next week I’m thinking about a little ditty on the musical merits of Black Flag, The Butthole Surfers, The Dead Kennedys, and X. This week, hearing a song on the car radio, I felt like writing about The Carpenters, and Karen. Too sweet?

Sue me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Fear and Hoping From the Basement – Storytelling

This is my today story. My Sunday story. But, first a brief note on everyday.

I get up at 5:30 a.m., my wife turning off the alarm and, she tells me, touching the warm spot where I have been in the bed. I drag on some clothes, go to the bathroom and splash water on my face, then head downstairs. There is a straight-back, dining-room chair I have placed in the middle of the living room the night before, and for the next 13 to 25 minutes I sit in the chair, the goal being to meditate, and think about a whole bunch of whatever it is that shows up today. When I’m done I go turn on the coffee, while waiting I usually go outside and look at the sunrise or lingering darkness in the winter, then I take the first of my two cups of coffee to the pinkish, mauve-colored recliner I bought for $40 (delivery included) on Craigslist when I first moved to Portland seven and a half years ago. Reclining there, I read something I consider to fall beneath the broad umbrella of ‘spiritual’.blog pic

Now today. Sunday. I read from three books that I checked out at the library yesterday – actually I checked out five, but two cups of coffee only go so far. This morning I read the ‘Introductions‘ to these three: “The Right to Write” by Julia Cameron; “Bagombo Snuff Box” by Kurt Vonnegut; and “Thunder and Lightning” by Natalie Goldberg. Last night I’d brought upstairs “Maps and Legends” by Michael Chabon to the other recliner in tkurt-vonneguthe house, the blue one that belonged to my mother Irene and was gifted to me when she died 11 years ago, and which I have dragged across the length of these United States three times since then. I began reading the first story (there is no Introduction) of the Chabon book about 10:45, but between the smothering heat on the second floor and the length of a long day the words began dancing before my eyes, and I quickly gave it up and went in to sleep , no covers, beside my already sleeping wife.

I checked these particular books out yesterday – the fifth being “The Pocket Muse, Endless Inspiration” by Monica Wood – because my step-daughter Marie and I are heading off on our second annual “Writer’s Retreat” next Sunday foIMG_6634r four days, to a cottage partially owned by Marie’s Dad (meaning we get a big discount)  which sits not four hundred yards from the Pacific, to write stories (and in my case edit already written stories). The five books, which are all coming along, will serve as anchors and inspirers and rectangular muses and anything else they wish to be, and we will write in timed writing periods throughout the days and take long walks on the fabulous beach and deal with my cooking and watch DVDs we bring (with my fave “Super 8”   www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCRQQCKS7go   among them).

Because writers we are, and writing is what we do. I’m an artist – as is Marie – and I have a brand new Artist Web Page ( www.buddycushmanfineart.com ), and I go on long walks and have a long career in human services and administration and even an original music CD to my name. Yet, after all the meanderings and dead ends and geographical cures and flights of fancy that make up the 67 plus years of my life through this morning, I’m a teller of stories first and foremost. A story teller. Hence the writers retreat. Hence the blog. Hence the telegraph avelibrary.

And then there’s this.  A musical story by The Stories for the song of the week:    www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJxZL9L6YWc        And here is author Michael Chabon talking about my favorite book of his, “Telegraph Ave” and the 1970s:     www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvgjhwuxKeE       And, lastly, here the wondrous Kurt Vonnegut takes a minute and a half to explain his “Eight Rules” for writing a story.  www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmVcIhnvSx8

I ‘d like to mention these books as well – Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones” and Julia Cameron’s “The Artist Way” – as having profound influence on my storytelling life.

My Monday blog appearing Sunday this week, just because.

Do you have a story to tell?

 


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Who Are Your Friends?

Sitting in the recliner early this morning, with coffee and a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Big Magic”, I got to thinking about the people in my life, and more specifically, the color of the pimageseople in my life. It’s a current topic for thought, what with the incredibly sad events of this last week, and further back in time. Where there has been much discussion and suggestion and confrontation regarding the idea of walking a mile in my shoes.  Regarding that just maybe you, whoever you are, haven’t got a clue what it’s like to live and shop and sell and drive and gather and sing and worship, for that matter, in my shoes.

So I got to thinking about my life, and the people in it, mostly the people currently in it, but back all along the way too. And I thought that I would try to get a little analytical about it, though me and analysis are usually like the Hatfields and McCoys. Anyway, what better place to begin my search for the reality of my people milieu than in that friendliest of friend places of all — Facebook.

As of this morning I have 408 “Friends” on my Facebook page. I italicize the word because, I’m imagining like most people on FB, some of my friends are more like friends I haven’t met yet, in my case other artists and writers, the occasional friend of a friend, people from various locations along the way, etc, etc. I came down into the basement, here, to the computer, found a blank sheet of scrap paper, and began tallying up the exact specifics of just who make up my friends today.

Of my 408 Facebook friends, 20 are black. That works out to just under 5%. If I add in friends of Hispanic heritage, and the artists I’ve befriended along the internet way from Iraq, India, Portugal, and Japan, the total of my so-called non-white friends, I find that a little less than 9% are non-Caucasian — not Honkeys, if that resonates more.

Within the current population of the United States, the number of African-Americans totals 13.2% So I’m nowhere near representative of who my neighbors in the Country are. And speaking of neighbors, if I were to take a walk out my front door the chances are that I am not going to come along and wish a good morning hello to anyone with any color other than white for a face. Or when I sit in my favorite coffee shop.  Or at the local Trader Joe’s. In fact, I’d have to drive way up to NE Portland and North Portland to have a good chance of meeting a person of another race. Specifically, black people make up 6.3% of the Portland, OR population. And most live together.

There’s more. The black population percentage in the entire state of Oregon is 2% — TWO. In my home state of Massachusetts, black people make up 8.1% of the Commonwealth’s population, and in my adopted, wannabe home state of California, the number is 6.2%. By the way, it just might be so low in my current home state of Oregon because Oregon, in its statehood inception, not once but twice passed laws barring any people of a darker color from even moving into the state.

Then I went through my high school yearbook this morning. There were 119 of us in it graduating as the class of 1967 at Wareham High School, and of those 119, 20 — that’s 17% — were children of color. Better — and that’s the right word, the expansive, illuminating word — than any place I’ve noted above. That was us, the Class of ’67, WHS, all God’s children. And I am ever grateful that’s where I grew up, or at least started getting older.

I lived in Oakland, CA for a while, and visited there a couple of months ago. Black lives make up 28% of the current population of Oakland, and all I had to do was walk out my friend Gavin’s front apartment building door to begin my immersion into a world of color, on the sidewalks, at the Whole Foods, around Lake Merritt. Everywhere. And the fact of the matter is I felt energized and stimulated and bigger, even. And grateful.

The title of this blog post, and I wasn’t really writing it about me, is “Who Are Your Friends?” So I’ll ask my white Facebook friends to, right now, take a couple of minutes and tally up your percentages. My guess is that most of you won’t even come up with my sorry percent of 5% of black friends. I’d like to be wrong, but I bet I’m not. I don’t say that as a Yay for me or a Boo for you. I say it because it’s something to think about the next time we, any of us, think we know how it is for someone else, someone who looks different from us, and that you can at least consider that, well, maybe you don’t. Because how much practice are you getting?

Driving while black? – there’s a new phrase appearing in my world. I don’t know what that’s like. Maybe some of my friends can help me understand it a little better. Maybe some of your friends can help you.

If we bother to just talk with each other some more. And listen.


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I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

the scream

Harlan Ellison, the famous writer of science, speculative, and other fiction wrote a story/book with this title back in 1967 — “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream”.  You have to go farther back for Norwegian artist Edvard Munch and his 1893 painting of “The Scream”. For me, they both resonate too well today.

Two years after Ellison’s story was published Neil Young gave us these lyrics: “Blue, blue windows behind the stars. Yellow moon on the rise. Big birds flying across the sky, throwing shadows on our eyes. Leave us helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.”

I woke up this morning, staying up late last night with the network news, and felt that my duty – my job – was to write words of comfort. To comfort. Like St. Francis, not so much seek to be consoled as to console, that where there is despair, bring hope. That where there is darkness, bring light. I sat in the blue recliner that belonged to my mother and felt very strongly that my job for this day was to make my best effort for being a channel of peace.

And yet, it feels like there are shadows on my eyes, that my ability to see clearly, and by seeing understand and come up with a solution, is clouded, smudged, diminished. That I want to scream to stop it – everyone just STOP IT – but that I have no mouth. No mouth big enough and large enough and smart enough and brave enough to shout over the sickness, the division, the on-slot, landslide, the tsunami of bad and badder and still badder yet news that floods our collective view as a Nation, as a Planet. The horror of our everyday that leaps from the screen on ABC and CNN and The New York Times and The Dallas Morning News.

I feel like the person in the painting. Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.

And yet – again – I can’t give up. I can’t give in. I can’t say “No thank you” to the moral imperative that was waiting for me upon awakening. To be a channel of peace – tsunami or not.

In my case, where I’m at in my 68th year on the crying planet, I’m left with my writing and my painting. My mouths, as it were, with which and through which to scream. For common sense, for compassion, for plain old fashioned kindness and decency, for tolerance, for to each their own and it takes all kinds and we’re all bozos on this bus, for let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.

I think that is part of it, and maybe a lot of it, even possibly all of it. The let it begin with me. I knew a guy named Kevin in AA back in Chelmsford, Massachusetts back in the 1990’s. Whenever he was struggling he’d turn to one or another of a couple of older women who served as mentors and comforters to him. He’d moan his particular moan of the day and their reply would always be the same. “It will get better.” No matter his degree of discomfort and psychic pain. “It will get better.” One day, his story went, he’d had enough and confronted them both about just what this “It” was. He was told, the “It” is “You”. You will get better. You will get better, and then it will get better.

I believe that. And I believe that with the right leadership, with true leadership, and with the insistence by leaders that we come together to talk and to listen and just maybe learn something about it takes all kinds and to each their own and, yeah, all of us being bozos on the bus,  maybe then I could get better and You could get better and even We could get better. And then just maybe It would get better.

It’s possible. Harlan Ellison wrote another book, “The Beast That Shouted Love at the Heart of the World”. Neil Young wrote “A Heart of Gold.” And if you look carefully at that Munch painting you’ll see a couple of figures in the background. Who knows, maybe they’re angels, honest to God angels, just waiting for that scream to yell itself out, ready to step in and bring comfort and hope and light. It’s possible.

I’ve got some ideas, some very specific ideas, about how we could begin to fix the mess we’ve become. I’ll write about them another time, soon. I guess me writing this this morning is opening my mouth and making even just a tiny noise. It’s the best I’ve got today.

 


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Why Do I Cry

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Saw this posted by my niece Sarah on her Facebook page this morning and it was the tipping point for me to go ahead and do something I don’t like doing at all — write about politics.

Somehow, incredulously, mostly unbelievably, in these times of terrible pain and suffering, the seeming disintegration of the planet upon which we live, right before our eyes, when every living cell in The Universe cries out for compassion and love, for decency and humility, for a grateful and kind heart, the voters of our country of these United States, the voters that voted, have arrived at the choice between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump as our next President. Door A. Door B. In a shocking collective, mass-created behavior that must be listed somewhere — IN CAPITAL LETTERS — within the DSM-IV, that collection of all things mental illness.

There is nothing funny about it, not one damn thing, and if the two paragraphs above come off as glib, I apologize. Because the world needs help, the world needs love. As so vividly, achingly illustrated in the mantra that has become a reality in our daily lives, in the words we speak.  Je suis Charlie. Je suis Paris. Je suis Orlando. Je suis Dhaka. Je suis Newtown. Je suis Baghdad. Je suis Brussels. Je suis San Bernardino. Je suis Mogadishu. Je suis the West Bank.

I am tired, sick and tired, of being someplace.

And yet, here we are, when the world needs love, when our Country needs to celebrate all that we are that is good and decent and kind, here we are with Hillary and Donald. I almost can’t even talk about them, about the myriad of such troubling realities with each.

Hillary will win, notwithstanding some wickedly nasty surprise, because Donald’s inherent bigotry and mean-ness and difference-baiting will, in the end, be too much even for so many who, right here on the eve of the Fourth of July, are waving their assault rifles, yelling that someone’s gonna have to pry their cold, dead fingers off their DSM-IVs. Hillary would not win, however, against another Door B, say a Lindsay Graham or a Susan Collins or a John Kasich. Because she is so thoroughly complicit with all that is wrong with our politics, interwoven with the corporate greed-heads and power junkies, with the Boards of Directors of poisoners and, yes, rapers, those that desecrate our wonderful natural landscape. Who diminish our opportunities.

It truly sucks.

I’m not voting for either one. You couldn’t pay me to vote for either one. For a long time I thought I would write in Deborah Harry, but I’m not gonna, why would I wish any of it on her. Have lunch with Paul Ryan? Nancy Pelosi? Harry Reid? Mitch McConnell? Really? No, I’ll let Debbie rock on. As of today I’m leaning to Tulsi Gabbard, and if you don’t recognize the name please go ahead and give her a google. She’d be a great President. Or possibly Aimee Allison, an author and activist in Oakland, CA, someone I worked for in a City Council seat losing cause many years ago, a flat-out, right-on strong and caring woman. Or the aforementioned Lindsay Graham, Senator from South Carolina, who is a decent guy, who actually laughs  — at himself, at us all — and who strikes me as an actual leader. And boy do we need us a leader, because the Country and most likely the whole damn planet is woefully short in that supply today.

Right now I feel like the kid in the picture. Crying for our Country, crying for our planet. And truly not liking most of these people.


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To Be Stuck Inside of Roseburg With the Newtown Blues Again

A couple of weeks ago, while out on a walk, the idea for a blog post came into my head. It was an idea for a post about gun contr20140817_090403ol, and the way it materialized as I walked, it would be written in a flip and sarcastic style, with a lot of anger. Lines and whole paragraphs formed, as I trudged along, and periodically I chuckled at my own wit and writer-ly skills.

But, by the time I reached home I had decided to let it go. Here’s the reason why — I didn’t want to add any more negativity, I didn’t want to add any more anger, to our world. This as a function of trying to move my life and the way I live it to a place of “Unconditional Love”. Following along with my favorite holiday/Christmas hymn – “Let there be peace on Earth and let it begin with me.”

Then the news came yesterday, while I sat at my desk continuing the gruelingly slow process of writing a novella about both apocalypse and hope, that someone had gone on a shooting spree at a college campus about 180 miles south from here. Many deaths, many injuries. Which brought back, for me, trauma feelings — sitting in front of the TV weeping — related to Newtown and Charleston and Aurora and Lafayette and so many others. That news was never far away the rest of the day.

This morning, sitting in my $40 Craigslist recliner with a cup of coffee, everyone else sleeping, I picked up the book I’d set out to read — “Zen In the Art of Writing” by Ray Bradbury — and couldn’t read it. Couldn’t concentrate. I was too angry. Too angry at the NRA, too angry at all the right wing, evangelical assholes in this country that howl and cry and bully about their second amendment rights and the sanctity of life and the keep your government out of my kitchen and all of it. I’d try to go back to Bradbury and I couldn’t even see the words, string sentences together.The letters were swimming on the page. I thought about the gun control blog that had popped into my head a couple of weeks ago, and about not wanting to be negative, not wanting to be angry, wanting in my self-perceived hip fashion to ask what’s so funny about peace, love, and understanding, and I was really disappointed in myself for not running back to my house two weeks ago and rushing to the keyboard to write what was in my heart. About my country, our planet. A country bathed in negativity. A country that shimmers with anger. That glorifies and slicks up and sexes up violence and guns.

Guns.

Tell you what. If someone can guarantee me that the present laws which oversee the ownership of guns in this country will keep guns out of the hands of every mentally ill and emotional unstable individual, that every gun stored in a private home/apartment/attic/basement/tool shed will be 100 percent unavailable to anyone else whose name isn’t on that registration, that every single pistol and revolver and rifle will be transported from one place in the country to another with 100 percent certainty that it will get where it’s supposed to be going safely, that no gun will ever belong to anyone other than the person who rightfully bought it, that there will be rigid, stringent background checks, and lengthy waiting periods where honest, hard-working officials tasked with enforcement will make sure everything is on the up and up — if someone can assure me that all of this is in place every single time there is some business involving a gun, I’ll be happy to fly a banner from the antenna of my old Ford Taurus that says “Hooray for the 2nd Amendment”, “Hooray for the right to bear arms”, “Hooray for the NRA and their warm and fuzzy care about “My Fellow Americans”. I’ll drive it up and down the state, up and down Interstate 5, right past Roseburg in fact.

But until then, if you are one of those “If we outlaw guns only outlaws will have guns” types, one of those “You’ll have to pry my gun from my cold, dead fingers” types, I strongly encourage you to walk directly to the nearest bathroom, look in the mirror, and tell the person looking back at you that they are the stupidest motherfucker on the planet. It’ll feel good to tell the truth, for a change.

I wonder if the NRA lobbyist — fat cats and leeches that they are — and all the “Religious” right, holier than thou, “Pro-life”, “Family Values” congressman and senators are going to show up at the homes of the families of the victims of the Umpqua Community College shootings, and the kids from Newtown and all the others. Not just today or next week, when the broadcast news is all hot for it — the story du jour, and everyone is all sorry and sad and gushy with their sympathy — but next year on those victims’ birthdays, five years from now on their birthdays, on all the holidays and special, human occasions their families endure without them. The real family values.

I doubt it. They’ll be too busy defending our rights. You know. The life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness ones.

Here’s one more thing. I might not be able to do much, to move our country and the planet toward unconditional love, toward peace, love, and understanding. But it’s for sure that they are going to have to pry my cold, dead fingers off of this keyboard.