If you should die before me, ask if you can bring a friend.

Music – Mance Lipscomb – Going Down Slow

Thirty-three days until the election and ours is a nation in chaos.  We watch the news with an unhealthy compulsiveness, listening to the politicians and powerbrokers hiss and bray and lie.  There’s nothing to do but sift through their endless bullshit, trying in vain to find some glinting nugget of truth.  Alas they know as little as the rest of us, and are so desperately scrambling to save their own pathetic asses that they barely have time to go through the motions of governance.  We may as well turn to auguries and astrology for guidance, as they’re stalwart and reliable sources of information compared to the damn Treasury department.

The panic is upon us, and there is fighting in the streets.

Pelosi gave a speech this week designed to calm her flock and, in turn, their constituents, but her terror and paranoia were so poorly veiled that by the end of it, the reps were tearing at their hair and rolling in the aisles like madmen in some Victorian asylum.  She looked like fucking Keith Richards in a four-dollar Halloween wig, and her quavering voice and shifty eyes gave comfort to none.

I came in very late Saturday night to find Molly sitting at the kitchen table poring over a thick voter’s packet that came in the mail.  She’d built up a little fortress of empty coffee cups and pads of legal paper around her, and was wrapped in some freaky purple sarape thing.  All the lights in the house were on.


“We’re beyond all that now, Molly.” I said, pulling up a chair.  “You need to start thinking about serious measures, about fucking stockpiling canned food and ammunition.  Do you own a gun?”

“NO. We can’t be so close to the end. There’s too much at stake.”

“We are.  Believe it.  Our downward momentum is such that no matter who gets elected, we’re fucked. We could invent a time machine and re-elect Abraham Lincoln with Jesus Christ as VP and Princess Diana as Secretary of State and we’d still be fucked.  We have too much inertia to stop the slide now.  It’s pure physics.  The next president is just going to be one more bug on the fucking Great American windshield.”

She sighed and put her head on the table.

I sat a moment and ate some chips, then went in the bathroom and puked up the half case of Bud Light I drank at Claire’s birthday party.

It was one of those nights.


Friday we stayed out late eating Indian food and talking about Academy business.  It feels satisfying to apply myself, to work on something tangible with immediate and apparent results.  The price of it, the financial struggle and the endless phonecalls and shit, I gladly pay.  It’s certainly more rewarding than the hours I spend shepherding retards and explaining the mysteries of technology to the old and mentally infirm.  I am a special ed teacher who gets no summer vacation.

Saturday there was a bateria performance and open roda in rememberance of Mestre Carlos.  He’s been dead two years now, which is strange to say, almost unreal.

The bateria was so incredibly loud, a two hour non-stop thunderclap.  It was deafening even in the hall, and when I stepped into the room with the drummers I could feel my brain start to bleed.  Fifty drummers and a hundred dancers, pounding and twisting away in ecstasy.  It was a powerful sight, so many gathered years later in Carlos’ memory.

And my god, the roar.

More than just hearing it, you could feel every stomp of the dancers in your chest, every beat in your bones.  It awakens a primitive thing inside you, a concussive sound like that.  The primordial subhuman that lurks quietly just beneath the surface knows well the sound of those drums.  He’s gone to war a thousand times to that sound, danced out a thousand prayers for rain or sun or crops or simple release to that beat.  It’s an eerie, rare thing, hard to understand and harder still to describe.

Whatever it is, it was alive and out of the cage in us all on Saturday.  The roda was large and aggressive, the force of the drums having beaten every last drop of fear or exhaustion or self-consciousness out of us all.

I remember trading martelos with a big guy from New York named Macarrão and feeling the blood begin to leak through the bandage on my foot.  I remember not caring or even feeling the pain, drunk as I was on the force of it all.

A fitting tribute to our old Mestre.


Four days later and my ears are still ringing.  My limp is back, but hopefully not for long.

That’s the way it goes.  The passion recedes and you’re left with your wounds and your trifling concerns, your political fixation and your insurance forms and your fucking grocery list.


The bailout hasn’t passed yet, thank fucking christ.

Not out of any altruism or foresight of course.  It’s stalled by the same petty infighting, greed and deceit that got us here, but when it comes to benevolent actions by our government one can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s going to pass, of course. In some form.  It can’t not pass.  Because not passing the bill would do the unthinkable, which is make the rich sleep in the shit-fouled bed they made.  War, poverty, plagues or riots, almost nothing stands in the way of McCain and Obama taking pot-shots at each other, but the second the Wealthy Elite are threatened, they’re best fucking friends just trying to do what’s right for America.  If there’s anything that Democratic and Republican politicians can agree on, it’s that we Must Protect The Rich.  That photo circulating of Bush and Obama and McCain all standing together, presenting a united front to face the Financial Crisis is like some sick joke, something the terrorists photoshopped together in their caves to give me the Fear.

At last it has come to this.  All pretense of fairness and justice has been abandoned, dumped in the gutter with the used condoms and the dogshit and the non-biodegradable Pete’s Coffee cups.  The powers that be have become so accustomed to our complacency and passivity that they don’t even bother with subterfuge when it comes to fucking the citizenry.  Why wait for cover of darkness when they can screw us in the glaring light of day without consequence?

Why not just come out and say “Hey, our totally fucking stupid economic policy of the last decade has failed as epically and predictably as we hoped.  So, America, please give us a 700 billion dollars so we don’t have to sell our vacation homes or send our kids to public schools where they might be exposed to drugs or minorities.”

We can’t come up with money for math books or veteran’s prozac or state parks, but as soon as these cocksuckers fall into the cesspit of shit and disaster they’ve been digging for the last ten years, we’ve got seven hundred billion dollars to spare?

Fuck off.

That’s seven hundred billion dollars of my money, and I do NOT want it spent on unrecoverable real estate investments just so John Q. Wallstreet won’t have to melt down his platinum hummer to pay off his mistress’s credit card bills.  Go fucking die.  I would honestly rather throw seven hundred billion dollars away than give it to these evil twats.  Just pile it up in a big green mountain and set fire to it while we dance around it, shrieking and rabid and glorying in our wasteful revenge.

But I am one man whose voice counts for nought, so they’ll pass the bailout in some form and fuck us all in the most shameless and disgusting display of corruption in our nation’s history.


Update:  I just read on SFGate that both McCain and Obama approved the latest bailout plan.  One’s evil and one’s spineless. I give up. I’m voting for Nader.

“But Trevor, I don’t know anynthing about the bailout!  They never have articles about it on MSN.com and I can’t listen to NPR this week because it’s a pledge drive week and I hate that shit.”

Well here I come to bail you out: Important shit about the bailout. Some of these links are even videos for you lazy fucks who don’t read.  I know most people our age don’t know thing one about the crisis because it’s seriously insanely boring, but if you’re gonna get stabbed in the back you might as well know how long the knife is.

Best thing to come out of Ohio since Ocho Cinco: http://www.poetv.com/video.php?vid=44264

A whole mess of crap, some of it outdated, all of it good:

Hilarious and depressing.  GYWO owns me:

And this one’s really good and kind of makes me want to die:

I need to stop writing and reading about politics, because now it’s two AM on a Thursday and all I want to do is go burn down a WaMu and take a shit on the Senate floor.

What can I do but drink heavily, vote, and cry myself to sleep watching CSPAN?


At least during the first Great Depression the banking elite had the good taste to commit suicide in droves.  You modern financiers should really learn to respect traditions like that.

If you fuckers had half the grace and tact of your predecessors, the sidewalks of the financial district would look like somebody airdropped a hundred tons of ground beef wrapped in Brooks Brothers suits.

Now I’m gonna go drink some whiskey and eagerly fantasize The Revolution.



2 Responses to “If you should die before me, ask if you can bring a friend.”

  1. You misspelled Peet’s

  2. I was beginning to think I was the only one who took the Red pill – really well put together ranting….I love it. I also love the fact that out of an entire page of well put together thoughts, someone actually posted JUST to tell you you misspelled Peet’s,..amazing.

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