Big is beautiful but small consolidates power

I told you so!  Okay, not you, probably, but listen up you 15 or so people from my Election Law seminar, Spring Semester, 2003, who teased then dismissed me as a hyperbolic worrywart when I pronounced my views that the U.S. was fast approaching an oligarchy.  To you, I say, with verve: I told you so!  Ha!

Hmph.  I don't really feel any better.

People used to make fun of me for my long neck, too.

Oh?  You still laugh?  Think I'm that kind of person who's going to search for some variant power structure to label the government because I'm trying to drum up fear or confusion among readers?  Okay.  I get it.  That's a trend.  Truth is, I ain't no Glenn Beck.  I actually know what oligarchy means.  Fascism too.  And communism, socialism, representative democracy and direct democracy and autocracy.  Wanna play Trivial Pursuit with me?  Grandma didn't sign me up for Teen Jeopardy for nothing.

This morning, I read this post by Paul Krugman, one of my favorite economists because he consistently rises to the challenge of recognizing the role of the working classes in the function of our broader economy.  Indeed, even the Free Exchange blog at The Economist is affirming my man Krugman on a topic that has been making my blood boil over the last couple weeks.  Namely, the ridiculous budget cuts the Republican house is proposing and passing in its willfully blind siege on the deficit.  The Economist reviewed Paul's column from last week, in which he aptly labeled the current budget debate as a sham orchestrated by wannabe deficit hawks with no more bite to their beak than my furry cocker spaniel has to her bark.  The programs on the chopping block are not the programs pilfering from the nation's wallet.  The Economist blog provides this tasty morsel: non-defense discretionary funding in 2008 is at precisely the same level as it was in 1963.  That would be 3.6 percent.  The programs on this small budget line did not and are not breaking the bank.  Thus, focusing cuts on this area is a fool's errand.  It will get the U.S. no closer to solving its deficit woes than the Army's sponsorship of a NASCAR car will solve its problems with obese recruits.  (By the way, the House of Representatives did NOT cut its $7 million annual sponsorship of NASCAR.  Really.)

Krugman lodges an appropriate charge on those clipped hawks: by looking to slash spending in those areas where money already isn't, they are effectively snatching food from the "mouths of babes" (and their mothers and siblings).  Indeed, they are also skinning and feathering those babes' giant yellow bird friend and jeopardizing access to health providers working at Planned Parenthood.  (Much like the name of the organization suggests, Planned Parenthood ain't just about abortions.  If so, they might be called Unplanned Abortions.)  Oh, and they passed cuts to the Securities and Exchange Commission, just as it prepares to enforce new Wall Street reforms targeted to address some of the problems that caused the financial meltdown in the first place.  Nothing like removing a beating heart to ensure death.  Works every time.

This week, Krugman describes the impetus behind the ongoing Wisconsin protests.  It isn't just an attempt to end collective bargaining; it's a politically inspired effort to consolidate power away from the working class folks who unions represent.  In other words, the Republican governor of Wisconsin, Scott Walker, is cashing a literal and figurative check provided by those big money interests who prefer not to compete with all those tedious union demands diminishing their profits.  Note, I didn't say diminishing the economy.  I said, their profits.  Because that's their interest, not the improved quality of life of those who might do the work to obtain those profits.  Guess what that consolidation of power in the hands of the wealthy is called?  Oligarchy!  

The budget cuts being sought in the House are much the same.  By gutting the already paltry programs that benefit the working classes and those ephemeral social niceties like education, arts and public media, and avoiding cuts or limiting spending that benefits very wealthy and corporate benefactors, the House is assuring that power remains in the hands of the wealthy.  Mostly, in the form of cash.

So, if you laughed at me 8 years ago, that's cool.  But get used to the word: oligarchy.  Because that's what you've got now.  And don't think for a minute that you've got a shot at sharing that power.  If you aren't driving the train now, it's pretty damn unlikely you're going to get a shot in this life.

That's some nice light on the water

Summer surges on down here in the antipodes.  (My crossed fingers severely obstructed the typing of that last sentence.)  And before those of you suffering one of those mildly alarming California winters, cool it with your envy.  The temperature here has yet to surpass 75.

But I'm not complaining.  This morning, I woke to the glaring sunrise prying its way through the blinds and ricocheting off the shivering water of the bay.  The wind is in a holding pattern.  I was told by a Kiwi that the absence of wind in Wellington is actually the peaceful consequence of a blustery north versus south skirmish being waged overhead.  Whether the winds are duking it out or blowing their breath on other parts, I'm pleased to rest easily and unruffled in the hot, unchallenged February sun.

A little inspired by the golden glimmer beaming off the ocean's many facets, I did some extra sun salutations and reflected on the bits of goodness I might be reflecting these days.  And with some shock and a little disappointment, I realized that I haven't done any volunteer work since September of last year.  This may be the longest I've ever gone without donating time to something, someone who could use a little help.

I did try, some.  I contacted an organization called Volunteer Wellington and after having my interview time scammed by a woman who claimed my name and appointment, I sat in an office with a man who didn't know how to type or apparently use a mouse who asked me questions typed on a print-out about my interests and experience.  He then took ample time tediously converting my answers into the letters that comprised them and entering them on the keyboard.  I made it clear that I was not in the mood to do any one-on-one counseling, as all that lawyering had pretty much sapped that protective plasma that keeps counselors from falling victim to empathy overload.  I knew the guy didn't really understand because he told me, "I don't quite understand what you're saying."  Accents, etc.  He typed slowly, "n-o-(space) t-a-l-k-i-n-g."

Despite my request, Volunteer Wellington suggested that I give my time to a community clinic offering ears to frustrated folks with financial, social, medical or educational issues.  "No, thanks," I said, and then reminded them gently that I had overtaxed my compassionate ears for a while and wanted a break.  "Remember," I asked, "no talking?"  Apparently, the guy had failed to save my answers.

Ultimately, I finally secured three referrals to some Wellington organizations who needed something. One was a hospice looking for fundraising support.  Another was a refugee assistance group looking for someone to review business plans.  The last was a volunteer support organization that aims to serve as something of a clearinghouse for other charitable organizations looking for help.  Only the hospice made an appointment to meet with me.  The refugee program never called me back and the last organization called but then forgot then called then forgot again and ultimately offered a project that had already been completed but was "something that was easy" for them to reassign if I really wanted to do something.  At that point, I sort of... um... forgot to contact them again, feeling like my repetition of someone else's work probably wasn't going to be the best use of my time or their supervision.

Both the hospice and the support organization suggested that I volunteer at the community clinic after reviewing my resume.  I politely ignored their suggestions.  Now, staring at this beautiful water shooting more points of light than a pristine night sky, I'm thinking about the effort required in self-transformation, especially when it seems to go against everything lumped on a resume, especially when I still hope to prove myself somewhat useful to humanity, even in the smallest ways, like just one of those tiny points of light on the water.

I suppose it's like accepting that summer comes in February and planning accordingly.  And when one side of the wind emerges the victor, I'll do my best to keep it at my back as I continue to type with crossed fingers that I might ultimately become someone who can find a role to play around here.  In the meantime, I'll keep busy writing a bunch of words that no one reads.

Ahem.  Yet.

Shame v. Embarrassment

Wow, so, uh, reading a book that you write yourself is daunting.  I suppose it's a bit like taking a mirror to your genitals.  Maybe some people totally dig that.  Personally, it's not high on my list of great activities to undertake.  Is that bad to say?  Am I a prude?  Fuck it.  Go stare at your genitals.

Back to my point.  This book.  It's long and I wrote it.  I mentioned that previously.  I'm happy to have constructed a semi-coherent story in a probably plausible world inhabited by potentially believable people.  At least, I'm hopeful.

Now, I have to read it, rewrite it, revise it and this first step, the reading step, had me wrinkling my nose for four days.  My stomach knotted in the same way it does when I'm reminded of junior high, offered mussels or asked to stand for a picture.  It isn't that I'm ashamed; this is embarrassment.  Two very different things, I'm discovering, as shame, I think, requires some knowledge or suspicion of the crudity of a subject, while embarrassment could be shame's little sister who hasn't quite discovered the need for a bra.

I'm not averse to a fair bit of self-reflection, and I like to think that I've uncovered, addressed and repaired or accepted a decent share of my idiosyncrasies.  But reading something that has unfolded silently and surprisingly over eight months had me worried.  Would this be like time-traveling to my first months in New Zealand, when the sun traveled low and fast across the northern sky and never for a minute overpowered the strength of the wind?  Would this be like reviewing a failed attempt at a power grab over my subconscious?  Would I hate it, and therefore start to hate myself?

Well.  As it happened, I plugged my nose this morning and started to read.  I'm a third through it.  Thirty-five percent, actually, according to my kindle's curious progress bar.  And, I didn't puke.

It ain't perfect, not even close.  But it didn't drive me to drink as the apprehension of the read did last night.  Instead, it was clarifying, instructive and even surprising in parts.  I recognize some sentences with the same appreciative welcome that I would use to greet a friend I met only once in another country long ago.  Other sentences, I would french kiss if I could.  And then there are those that deserve a rusty machete right through their weak hearts.  The good news is: I totally didn't die of embarrassment.  Which is a silly prospect, I know, but hey, that's what shame advises its admiring sibling.  Thankfully, my naked embarrassment started to feel pretty good when I let the sun get to it.  Now, to put my top back on and get to work.

Whoa... I did it.

Here's a quick note of congratulations to me: well done.

If I'd been raised in a home that valued creative endeavors and constructive criticism of them, I'd probably not feel the need to celebrate my minor triumph.  But I wasn't.  So there.

On Friday, at 5:17 p.m., I finished the first draft of the beastly novel I've been frantically drafting since July.  It's a pus-eyed hydra with stank breath but it's finally contained, top to bottom.  I'm inclined to call it all sorts of foul names which only confirms the absolute imperative that I never have children.

I woke up on Saturday wondering, "now what?"  And then, this morning, I opened the document and started reading it.  I suppose I'll revise the pus out of it and then do what every wide-eyed dilettante with an internet connection and some time does: impose my writerly reiterative travails on my lovely blog readers.

First things first: I'm going to pretend for a moment that this festering monster requires some air before I attack it with my rusty machete.  I want a week at least to savor the infection I've created.

Superbowl Monday!

If you know me, you might be aware that I like the football.  That's American football, the game that took rugby, applied order and copious amounts of body armor, and then mixed in commercials.  I like it played by college kids the most, especially kids at non-scholarship schools like U.C. Davis.  The school calls them "student-athletes" to remind the community of its academic priority.  I like that even more than I like the football.

During my three long years of law school, I counted down the days until Aggie home games and rejoiced from the cold metal bleachers on those soggy fogged-in autumn Saturdays.  The Ags have since built their team a nicer stadium in their recent quest for status in a new and more competitive conference.  I donated money to the stadium, but I gave more money to my law school.  Truth be told, I preferred the Aggie's position in its former, smaller division but I get it: competing in Division I sports will bring more funds to the school.  It's an understandable evolution, however distasteful it may be to someone like me who just likes the game and not necessarily the pomp.

Anyhoo, today was the Superbowl.  'Superbowl Monday!' was my first thought on waking to the persistent summer gloom squatting on the restless bay.  My second thought?  I'm going to need Superbowl snacks.

By kick-off, I had prepared snack plates worthy of my sister's house (she is my snack mentor) and organized my day's work to surround me on the couch.  I opened the windows, turned up the volume and head-shook and hollered over the Steelers' failure to wake up for the championship game.  At certain points, I peered over the fence, convinced that the shriek of seagulls over collapsing waves and decomposing seaweed was the cry of my neighbors celebrating Superbowl Monday with me.  But, in truth, my neighbors couldn't give a shit, not about the game nor the funny Doritos commercial.  It might have been the first Superbowl that I've ever watched alone.  I didn't enjoy it any less.

Words words words...

This morning, I listened to a report on Marketplace about U.S. Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke's encouraging words.  Simple words, really, in a sea change from the normal diatribes he offers.  He said, and I'm paraphrasing a little, 'Check out the stock market.  It's doing well so the financial recovery of the U.S. is obviously on track.'

I'm no economic wizard, but something in my reptilian brain broadcast an emergency alert as I listened.  Hmm, how was the market at the beginning of the mess?  The stock market didn't crash until September 2008.  But the start of the current recession is usually pegged to 2007 and the market continued to do its little dance higher and higher until late 2008.  Hmm.  I don't know enough to say whether this means anything but I just don't think the stock market is any indicator of the country's financial stability.  For that, I think you have to look at debt, whether the debt of the country, the debt of its states or the debt of its population.  Oh, and unemployment figures.  And housing.  And the price of food and gas.

Blah blah blah, I'm going to prove my eventual point with my own diarrhea mouth.

Believe it or not, I'm not interested in talking money.  (Real quick though, I have to holler out that I think Congress's commitment to reduce federal spending by 30 or 50 or 100 billion is a heap of bullcrap in exchange for the pretty diamond they tossed in the bin when the Republicans demanded and the Democrats helped deliver tax cuts amounting to $400 billion per year in late 2010.)  What I am interested in right now is the abundance of words that circulate around and around that are the wrong words delivered strategically to become right.  It's more than revisionism because that usually takes some time for people to forget.  And it isn't simply marketing because that's somehow more benign.  I think it's propaganda.

Over the last week, I've wondered why a couple female figureheads, one a politician and the other a former, manage to secure so much press when so many of the words they utter are factually incorrect.  Then I was curious how an actually knowledgeable female politician could comfortably issue such a trite response to the violence in Egypt.  Finally, it was Bernanke's words, and the consequential mosh pit in my amygdala, that got me to writing this morning.

Bachmann, a Congresswoman from Minnesota, has decided that her version of U.S. history has the country's founding fathers "working tirelessly" to end slavery.  It doesn't seem to matter to her that this claim is patently false.  Several of the founding fathers, including Jefferson, Madison, Franklin and Washington, owned slaves.  Indeed, despite language in the Declaration of Independence that "all men are created equal," the Constitution states that slaves will count as only 3/5 of a person.  This clause was added in a concession to less populated southern, slave-owning states who wanted to count their non-voting slaves in order to secure higher representation in Congress while minimizing the distribution of tax.  Smarties, those southerners.  Tragically inhumane, but strategic.

So, is Bachmann simply a pathetic flunkie of U.S. History or is she shamelessly seeking to wipe the dirty bits off the country's slate?  And, in conveying a more perfect history, is she actually trying to cultivate perceptions among her Tea Party supporters, and others, that will keep them from demanding the little things-- social welfare, education, health care, infrastructure, peace.  I'm feeling a bit like her aim is to convince Americans who don't know better that the government has no obligation to adhere to the social contract.

Without access to those niceties that make every generation better, smarter, happier than the last, nice but wholly incorrect, words about our past might make us feel good, make us feel like we've always been right and therefore no wrong can be done.  And if we don't know better, we won't realize that our errors are actually ruining us.  We don't need to be sold fake sunshine; we can get the real stuff for free.  For now.

By the way, what's with these brunette bombshells capturing the unjustified respect of the Tea Partiers?  Come on now.  Real women speak the truth.  They know we learn from our mistakes, and not from propaganda.  But, that's a topic for another post.