Occupation Street Pt. III: This Time It's Personal

A few months back I was in my big bank, cashing a check and moving around funds between accounts.  When the teller stopped me. 

"My manager would like to speak with you," she said, after staring at the screen a little too long.

Now there was a time when a teller would do that, and I'd know it was time to get the fuck out of that bank.  Those times are long gone.

"Mr. Clifford," the manager said, walking up.  "It looks like you have been pre-approved a line of credit."

"I didn't apply for one," I said.

He smiled.  "It's for your being...a valued customer."

"Valued customer?"

"That's correct."  He smiled big.

I got it.

"If you'd like you come over here," the manager said, "we can have you sign the paperwork--"

"Because I have money now," I said.

The branch manager stared at me.  "Pardon?"

"I needed your credit couple years ago.  When I didn't have money.  I don't need it now."

Couple years ago, I was down to a few hundred bucks, and my big bank pretty much bent me over a barrel and fucked me raw.  I was a week, maybe two, from having to crawl back to Connecticut and live in a car port.

"But you don't understand," the manager said.  "Why don't you sit down, at least listen to what we're offering?"

"Because," I said, "I don't need your help now.  I needed it a couple years ago. When I was broke, and nobody was extending me a line of credit.  Not that I have some money, you want to give me credit?"

"Well, yes," the manager said.

"And what I'm telling you is, I don't need your help now."

I walked out.

And, fuck, that felt good.


*


So I've been trying to figure out why these Occupy-whatever types piss me off so much.  Part of it is overexposure/media saturation, and a natural reaction of any rebel to, well, rebel.

Even if you're rebelling against the rebels.  Plus, I'm leery of any mass movement, from left or right, because there is idiocy in numbers.

Yes, we may be the 99%, but in that 99% remember: 17% think Joan of Arc was Noah's wife.

I hate a lot of movements, including, but limited to, environmentalism, consumerism, commercialism, tea partyism, yogaism, and most symphonies (I've said it before, I'll say it again.  No one really likes classical music any more than they actually like jazz.  They like the idea of it.  Like foreign films about boys with red balloons, and David Foster Wallace).

No, this Occupy shit has been getting to me for another reason.  It's not the cause itself.  I mean, is there anyone out there reading this blog who isn't pissed off about economic inequality?  You'd have to be fucking blind not to notice a wee disparity between the haves and the you, a little pissed that while you are busting your ass, someone else is whacking your dreams into their Olympic-sized swimming pool with a polo mallet, having a good laugh at your expense.  Even the most staunch defender of free enterprise and a competitive market has to concede that there is something just a little amiss when the average CEO (who's tanking company has earned him a fat bonus with your taxes) is making anywhere from 280x to 450x that of the average worker.  But it's not just the distribution, is it?

It's the gaudiness of the excess in the face of pronounced deprivation.  Or to quote Lou Reed:

We who have so much / to you who have so little

to you who don't have anything at all.

We who have so much / more than any one man does need

and you who don't have anything at all.

Does anybody need another million dollar movie?

Does anybody need another million dollar star?

Does anybody need to be told over and over

spitting in the wind comes back at you twice as hard?

There's more.  It goes on and on, filling up the Hudson... But you get the point.  You're going straight to the devil, Strawman.

So what are we arguing about, really?  We're all on the same page.  Unless you're a CEO or somehow rich enough to be considered in that upper eschelon.  And you're not.  The rich are getting richer, we're staying put.  Here's a bone.  Good dog.

And yet these Occupy times give me such a terrific pain in the ass.  I mean, they really bug the shit out of me.

After the General Strike last Wednesday, which my wife attended, and at which, it had been suggested, my son should also appear, bad stuff happened.

What started like this

as expected, ended like this

Which was followed by this

Again.

Justine was incensed the next day, wringing her hands over police reaction.  I was like, What do you expect? People were breaking windows, trying to "claim" buildings, and, in general, acting like jackasses.  Because there are always jackasses.  I know the mass majority who attended the General Strike did so peacefully.  But the very nature of this sort of thing invites the jackasses who only want to break shit.   How else do you explain inciting the same police who just last week unleashed tear gas and were shooting unarmed vets? (http://tinyurl.com/43osg22).  Don't poke the fucking bear.  Idiots.  I have no love loss for the police, having seen them beat the shit out of more than a few friends of mine, but what did they expect?  They were just waiting for the excuse.  And the dipshits gave it to them by throwing rocks through bank windows.  

And that's why this thing is getting to me.  Because I would love nothing more than to believe there is actually a groundswell that could bring about real change. I talk to friends, on both sides of the political spectrum, and everyone is pissed.  You fight to get ahead, fretting over how to pay medical bills (something Justine and I got to enjoy first hand, when we lost our health insurance when she was pregnant), hoping to get to a day where you can breath a little, relax... And you're still waiting.  I saw this handwriting on that fissured wall when I was 16.  I remember saying to my old man, Take away the car now.  I ain't working.  And of course he lost his shit, because hard work and gainful employment was his life.  I was lazy, true.  But I also saw an inherent flaw in the wage system.  And my father?  He worked his whole life for nothing the pain. Now he walks these empty rooms looking for something to break...?  No, Bruce, sorry.  He don't.  He's dead.  Killed by toxic slop from the same company store he sold his soul to.  He worked a contaminated site when they knew full well the danger. They just did the math.  Worth more to pay out the million(s) dollar settlement to my stepmother (whom I haven't seen since. Strange, eh?), than it was to clean up the mess.  Oh, the sweet irony.

And that's why I hate these Occupiers.  They remind me of me.  And I hate me. And there's no me I hate more than the 20-year-old me.  The fucking railing against the system and the man, the let's take to the streets, rah rah bullshit.  Shut up, 20-year-old Joe.

All it meant was finding a way to circumvent the laws and rules that govern the rest of polite society.  So I could get high.  It's pointless.  Like writing poetry.

Nothing's perfect.  Never will be be.  Life is unfair.  Shut up and find a way to survive, take care your shit, and stop blaming others.  No big mystery.  I don't want to be reminded of my misguided notions.  Even the ones I was right about. Especially the ones I was right about.  I once believed this was my fight.  It's not. I'm not sure it's anybody's.  But it sure as fuck ain't mine anymore.  And I don't want to go back there.  

Because I am a fucking family man now, mutherfucker.  

And yet...

Maybe it's the old anarchist in me.  Not "anarchist" as in "look at my cool punk rock T-shirt."  I mean, the genuine article, the one that's part dreamer, and who still wants to believe in a better place, where you can work hard at something you love and have everything you dream of, instead of slaving away for the company store, at some piece-of-shit job you hate, with your balls in hock to the bank.  I hold out hope.  I still clench my fist, hold it up high... These days, I just do it privately, cautiously, from a safe distance, like DeNiro watching Freddy after he chastises him for coming up short when he had the chance to do something when it mattered.

Maybe it's not too late to make something good happen.  For everyone's sake. 

I ain't banking on it.  

But I'm paying attention.

How's That Novel Coming Along, Brian?

"You write your blog posts the night before, right?" Justine asks.

"I write the draft the night before, yeah.  Why?"

"Maybe you could post it tonight then."

"Why the fuck would I want to do that?" 

"Because tomorrow is the General Strike."

"So I can't check my grammar because a bunch of kids are cutting class for an education they prepaid for?"

So today is the General Strike.  For Occupy Oakland.  This is the thing they were talking about taking my kid to (http://tinyurl.com/3dzrjwf) (they're not; he's safely off at daycare).  And I'd love to show my support for the front lines by not doing any online banking or writing today, except I like my money, and I don't have the luxury of take a whole day off. At least, not by choice.

One of the problems with being a self-employed writer (i.e., guy with a computer who makes his own schedule) is that some days just ain't happening.  Like today, which will be yesterday by the time this post airs, since we record our blogs before a live studio audience in advance.  And on those days, it really sucks.  You take the hit twice.  One, you didn't get shit done, and two, you feel like a bum for not getting shit done.

I read this quote once about John Steinbeck, how when he was in the middle of writing that mammoth tome Grapes of Wrath, he was constantly bitching in his journal about how unproductive he felt.  I write a couple thousand words most days, including this blog, and I've been placing stories so often of late that I am literally out of material.  

Seems no matter what, I am unsatisfied.

If that song doesn't break your heart on a Wednesday morning/Tuesday afternoon, let's arrange the funeral, Mr. Wahoo Waturi...

(And as a quick aside, check out my friends over at Shit for Fuckheads and their latest review of the Replacements' Don't Tell a Soul [http://tinyurl.com/3su7nt7].  If for nothing else than for having the balls to tackle that particular album, which for 'Mats' fans is an oddity.  It's Paul's unabashed attempt at selling out [a concept I wholeheartedly endorse], which yields a mixed crop [and subsequent -metaphor] of uneven tunes, featuring what might just be the best pop song ever written [like in the history of rock 'n' roll], "I'll Be You," and as SFF points out, a banner alt-country prototype "Achin' to Be" [although I'll take exception with my buddy Chris, since the tune isn't about Paul in a gender-reversal role; it's about Amy Kross, my crush from college].  But it also has some real shit-bombs, like the forced "We'll Inherit the Earth," which crashes under its own weight of trying to be too much and comes off, like much of the record, as an immature, overarching anthem with no clear object of ire, aimlessly adrift in an unfocused sea of scorn.)

I complain.  It's what I do.  First no one was taking my stories.

Now I have none left to take, and think I should've been aiming higher.  Although I did just place what I think might be the best thing I've ever written over at Drunken Boat, which is consistently listed among the best online journals.  I say this is the best thing I've ever written because the editor of DB wrote this in his acceptance the other day:


Dude, I think this is the best thing you've ever written.

And for those of you who know that Drunken Boat's editor is Ravi Shankar, my former poetry professor at Central Connecticut State University, and that he is only saying that to defend nepotism, I can tell you that ain't Ravi's style.  Ravi's style is to pretend he never got the other stories that I sent him.  ("No, never got that one about the hit man and badgers.  Must've gotten lost in my spam...")

(Seriously, wait till you see this new one, "The Meat."  It's pretty fucking remarkable.  It also takes the record for the longest, hardest I've ever worked on a single short story.  Wonder if there is a direct correlation between the two?  Doubt it.)

Anyhow, back to writing.  It's National Write a Novel Month (http://www.nanowrimo.org/).  And I'm tempted to do it.  Not because I need any fucking pep talks.

(BTW, if you're going to go all Chicken Soup for the Soul on my ass and offer cheesy platitudes, is it too much to ask that you fucking punctuate correctly?)  I could, however, use the...nudge.

Writing a novel comes down to one thing: fucking writing it.  And that is a daunting task, even if I've written a few of them before, the last of which being The Payback, which is a sequel to the Lone Palm/Wake the Undertaker, a book no one published, let alone asked for a sequel to, which featured at its heart the story of a lethal hit man trained by a handless woodsman who forced him to sleep in a large burlap sack with badgers (seemed like literary gold at the time, Jimmy...).  Which sorta fucked me up.  I wrote 70K that will never see the light of day.  That's a lot of fucking words for naught, so going back in, I'm a little gun shy.  I feel a bit like Joe Thiesman after meeting L.T. in a dark parking lot.

The fucked-up part is that I am certain whatever novel I write next will be published. I've figured this shit out.  I only need to take what I've been doing with my (noir) short stories and put it in a book.  I've known this for a while.  And still, I haven't started it.  Which makes me feel a little like Brian.

Everybody is going to write a book.  Writers need to actually write them.

So, no, Love, I can't take the day off.  There is a wall over there that is in need of some head-pounding...

Occupation Street Pt. II

Gotta lot of topics to cover this week.  I plan, in no particular order, to debunk the organic myth, dissect the anatomy of a good mixed tape, and delve into why NorCal soft bodies are so in love with yoga and pilates but seem morally offended when you covert your basement into a high-end health club/weight room.  This will of course be in addition to the usual pimping of my short stories and poetry (because apparently some of that is coming out this week.)

But first up.  Everyone wants me to talk about this Occupy Oakland shit that just went down.  Not sure why anyone would think I'd want to write about that, or that I'd be a good ambassador to the cause.  I guess because I live here.  But have I ever given the illusion that I am big into sticking my neck on the line with incendiary, controversial remarks and/or willing to risk the ire and scorn of those who feel differently?  I'm a goddamn Wonder Bread milquetoast when it comes to Internet fighting.

To get everyone up to speed re: what I am talking about:  (Apologies to Duane, who I know isn't the biggest Jon Stewart fan.)

*

We had a surprise party for my wife, Justine, who just turned 30 (which is unfortunate, since it means I am going to have to go find a new wife, since I don't date women in their 30s.  Kidding, honey.  Sort of), this past Friday.  Justine is a snoop, and very hard to surprise, so I was quite proud of myself that she was genuinely fooled into thinking we were spending the night just the two of us, on a boat or an island, with this woman.

Which made Justine cry.  Not so much because of this woman, but because she thought no one cared about her anymore.  I'd arranged months ago for this party and everyone was in on it.  Hence, no one was asking Justine what she was doing for her birthday.  Which made her cry.  And you have to admit: this woman is kinda scary looking, beady little eyes, and tiny teeth for gnawing and gumming the flesh... (The woman in the above picture was part of an elaborate ruse of misleading clues I gave to Justine to get her off the scent of the surprise party. Which she had suspected all along.  But after I got done with her, she didn't know which end was up.  Which you could really apply to most of my failed relationships.  [What? Haven't all yours ended too?  Oh, except the one you're in now.  Of course.  No, no, I'm sure this one will last.  I mean, all the...others.])  But then I got her to Jupiter, a bar 'n' grill up on Shattuck, where all her friends and family were waiting, and Surprise!  Then I shipped all the girls off in a limo for a night on the town and to brawl with the limo driver, while I got to go to bed at 10 p.m. (sweet sweet sleep.)

But before that, we sat at a far back table outdoors, and of course the conversation turned to Occupy Oakland and the fracas from a couple days earlier.

Justine's two brothers, both of whom are politically active and progressive, were there.  Like Justine, they are half Puerto Rican, and have had to deal with aspects of race my lily-white ass never has.

"So when we taking Holden [my 14-month-old son] to Occupy Oakland?" Justine's brother asked her.

"Maybe next Wednesday," Justine said.

Her other brother looked at me.  "Gotta the little man out on the front lines," he said.

To which I probably winced a smile, or maybe said something like "power to the people."  Hell, I might've even given a little fist pump.

Then the conversation turned elsewhere, which was fine with me.  I was glad no one pressed the point further or tried to outline the logistics of an actually time and place.  Because ain't no mutherfucking way in hell my son is going to Occupy Oakland.  Are you out of your fucking mind?  You see that shit?  Tear gas.  Rubber bullets.  Police beating people with batons.  Didn't they just shoot some unarmed vet up there? (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/10/26/iraq-vet-oakland-police-tear-gas_n_1033159.html).  Yeah, I'm going to let Holden hang out in Oakland.  Why the fuck would I subject my toddler son to that?  You want to change the world? God bless you.  Really.  All of you who think you can make a difference, a change for the better, superterrificswell.  I'm with ya.  Me and my boy.  We'll just be watching from a safe comfortable distance within the plush confines of our new home gym.

So, OK, I guess I do have to talk about this a bit.  When I last touched upon the subject (http://tinyurl.com/3qghpau), I was teased, good-naturedly, by some friends back east about my return to the Republican Party.  And I freely admit to latching onto some conservative linchpins, especially when it comes to my son (and things like bussing, etc.), in my later life.  I have far less patience for the social causes I used to vehemently champion because they interfere with my morning latte.  Still, I will explain why that (i.e., a return to GOP) can never happen (and I will do so without partisan ideology or politicking--watch this, Duane!).

I've seen too much.

In short, I got to know the same people I once upon a time so easily condemned. And I'm not even saying I was wrong in condemning them in the first place.  Many of them are scumbags, bilking a systems and not doing their fair share. Unfortunately, judging right and wrong is more easily done in the abstract; once you become personally involved, that fucking empathy shit kicks in, and you tuck those stones somewhere safe inside your glass house.  Let me give you an example. We all know, that lowlife junkies probably shouldn't have kids, because doing drugs and being a parent don't mix, and when those same lowlife junkies not only have kids but also accept government assistance, well, it's tough to find anyone willing to defend that.  So until I knew some actual lowlife junkie parents living on the dole, I had no problem sitting back and shaking my fist.  Because, let's face it, lowlife junkies shouldn't be having kids and then taking your tax dollars to buy the kids Pampers (but only after procuring a fix).  Makes you mad, right?  Damn straight. Problem was I fell in with a bad crowd.  Who I soon learned weren't as much a bad crowd as they were lost and hurting and confused, and sure a lot of them were like me, white suburban punks who got carried away, and you don't need to feel sorry for them, or me, but a lot were the other kind, those who were seriously damaged through circumstance. Like the woman I met whose mother used to bury her in a hole in the backyard anytime she had a date, for fear the new boyfriend might find out she had a kid, and if that meant at 7 years old she was locked in a hole in the ground while mom and her new boyfriend went to Vegas for the weekend, so be it. I am not going to list all the horror stories.  It doesn't make a difference.  You didn't meet these people, even if there are tens, hundreds of thousands, and a million more.  But I ate with them.  I listened to them. I slept with them.  Got to know their stories, their hurts and confusion, their skewered perspectives, which was both the result and direct cause of further persecution.  Because that shit ain't a straight line, brother. Moreover, they became my friends, and some of them, flaws and all, were better fathers than I ever had.  Go figure.  I wish I could go back to seeing hobos and street urchins and drug addicts and criminals, and think they are there because of some moral shortcoming. It would make my life easier.  Now all I do is see them and know it's more complicated than it appears; even though I still don't give them my fucking change, because that's my fucking change, and besides what is that going to accomplish? Oh, hell, sometimes I will.  But rarely.  This is a long-about way of saying, like Doc Holliday: my hypocrisy only goes so far.

So I'm sorry, Bill, I can't go back.  But I think you'll agree I am still not your typical liberal.  Probably because I am so fucking apathetic.  And I prefer the term radical, anyway. Or maybe like my former professor Tom Hazuka, a Capitalist Socialist. Who cares?  They're just words.  Open-minded and inclusive when it comes to social causes, and stay the fuck away from my money when it comes to practical implementation of those causes.  Like most.  I just don't give a damn enough to argue with anyone about this shit. Just like I'll nod and say, Sure, take my little son to a protest.  I don't want to rock the boat.  I'm not going to let him go, obviously. But I'll deal with that, later, after the party ends.

Still, I'd hate to give the impression that in my apathy I am not incensed, which is what ties all of us, what is being called "the 99%," together.  Even the people who are, like, "I have nothing in common with those protestors," or are calling them a bunch of middle-class troublemakers, whatever the dismissive blowoff may be, I still don't see the people who are actually writing letters like this.

Which is pretty goddamn funny.

There is no getting around one simply fact, left right, middle, yellow, blue, green, whatever: People are angry.  And the number seems to be growing by the day.  I am not saying this chart isn't accurate.

I'm just saying, if I were going to go with any one chart, I'd probably go with this one.

"You're pretty good with words, but words won't save your life...and they didn't, so he died."  Which makes me think we should close here, with someone who can say what I mean a fucklot better than I can say it right now.

Maybe the revolution really will be televised.  I hope so, and that it preempts the Fat Fucking Housewives of the Jersey Shore.  Power to the people...