I just don’t feel it anymore.
The things that once excited me leave me cold. There is no joy, no transcendence, only greed and self-interest and disrespect and competition. They have sucked the life out of this music I once loved so much with their selfishness and self-aggrandizement. I am tired of hearing about who's "in" with the band, how many shows someone went to, where they sat, which obscurity got played this time, which band member they went drinking with, and on and on...
I want to be moved, I want to be transported. And the music itself just doesn’t move me anymore. I keep hearing about how Band X's new record is better than the last, how these latest shows by A Certain HOF Singer/Songwriter are so amazing—and yet the most exciting thing I’ve heard in months is the new Dylan bootleg series release. Christ, that man had it. (Sometimes still does.) There are songs, and then there is “Blowin’ in the Wind.” There are performances, and then there is Dylan spitting nails on “Masters of War.” Calling us to arms on “Chimes of Freedom.” And duetting with Rambling Jack Elliott on “Mr. Tambourine Man,” for my money one of the greatest lyrics ever written by anyone.
I always said I would have this song played at my funeral, now I know which version I want. Here, there is no jangly (and in my opinon trite) accompaniment, there is just the acoustic guitar right up in your face, that piercing harmonica, and that voice :
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand,
Vanished from my hand,
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet,
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,
My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip,
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wanderin'.
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun,
It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin'.
And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind,
I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're
Seein' that he's chasing.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Copyright © 1964; renewed 1992 Special Rider Music
You can have your Next Big Thing from Philadelphia Currently Performing Sub-Par Material To Embarrassingly Small Audiences. You can have your Future of Rock'n'Roll Whose Fans Desperately Cling to the Past. I'll be at home listening to Bob and waiting for another Maybe Pete show in search of that Indefinable Thing, that Buzz...
"Some people have a hard time explaining rock 'n 'roll.
I don't think anyone can really explain rock 'n' roll.
Maybe Pete Townshend, but that's okay.
Rock 'n' roll is a lifestyle and a way of thinking...
and it's not about money and popularity.
Although some money would be nice.
But it's a voice that says, '' Here I am...
and fuck you if you can't understand me.''
And one of these people is gonna save the world.
And that means that rock 'n' roll can save the world...
all of us together.
And the chicks are great. But what it all comes down to is that thing.
The indefinable thing when people catch something from your music.
What I'm talking about is-- Wait, what am I talking about?
- The buzz. - The buzz."
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Monday, October 31, 2005
Yes It's Me
And I’m in love again—no wait, that’s Fats Domino. Man am I glad he’s ok. But I digress (and you certainly don’t want to get me started on that whole New Orleans fiasco again…)
It’s been a long couple of months getting settled in here in coastal New Jersey, but I’m finally back online and ready to rock. The reasons for the long delay are pretty lame, actually—my DSL wasn’t up and running because I had to upgrade my sissified 1999 Dell from Windows 98 to XP. EEEK. Hate giving money to that man. Hate it so much that that’s the primary reason why I hadn’t already upgraded. So a couple hundred smackers and several trips to Circuit City later, I am now in the lovely world of wi-fi DSL. And I must say, it does rock. You can’t beat being able to write whilst sitting on the couch in your sweats with your laptop in your lap (where it belongs).
What have I been doing with myself all this time? Well, getting situated in a new job for one. I am working at Borders again--the one where Bruce shops--though I haven’t seen him yet. (Scarily enough, I actually saw his assistant Terry in there last week, though, and my husband ran into his old sound man in the grocery store. Ah, the perks of living on the Jersey Shore…) This is not the be-all end-all job by any means—I am merely paying bills whilst attempting to ensconce myself in the local journalism scene. I have a couple of good leads, and with any luck, I will be getting paid to write, at least on a freelance basis.
I have been taking lots of walks—it helps to be 10 minutes from the beach—and this has helped me to clear my head and refocus. It’s pretty hard to be to concerned with much of anything when you are sitting and staring at the waves. Ocean Grove is a quaint, if somewhat claustrophobic, little town—full of antique shops, cute restaurants and overpriced grocery stores. The Victorians range from gorgeous, tasteful and imaginatively decorated to completely run down and scary. I live on the first floor of one that is somewhere in between. The cellar flooded a bit during the rains we had a couple weeks back, not because of leaks, but because it has one of those crazy Wizard of Oz storm doors and it’s falling apart. (Must speak to the landlady about that.) We hear the carillon bells from the Methodist church every night at 6, and it reminds me of the National Cathedral bells from my old ‘hood in DC.
We live on the north side of town, right next to Wesley Lake, which is the southernmost border of Asbury Park. We can walk out behind our house and see and hear the redevelopment transpiring on Cookman and Lake Avenues. (If I look to my left, I can see the painted advertisement for Thom McAn shoes on the back of the building that once housed the famous Upstage club. More on that later.) I wish I could say I was happy about the construction, but as usual, it seems the people with the money are the ones without imagination, without soul. They have, sadly, torn down the storied Palace Amusements building instead of finding a way to incorporate this unique, historic building into their plan, and are at present building generic-looking waterfront condos that are already out of my price range. (I find it interesting that real estate speculators have already convinced people that they have to pay New York-style prices in a town that lacks a decent grocery store, or worse, any sort of a business plan for reviving its struggling economy, especially on “the other side of town.”)
I plan on writing about the troubling racial issues in this area at great length—it is a subject with which I continue to be deeply concerned. And I will write about some of the positive things happening in this area too, especially the resurgent local music scene. There are some great things happening, some exciting bands to watch, including my current favorite, the hard-working Maybe Pete. For now, though, I have a lot of catching up to do. It’s Halloween night, and there are little kids knocking on my door in all sorts of costumes. It’s different here, and it’s going to take some adjustment (as much as I have continued to deride it—I really miss my Washington Post!), but damn, it’s good to be back.
It’s been a long couple of months getting settled in here in coastal New Jersey, but I’m finally back online and ready to rock. The reasons for the long delay are pretty lame, actually—my DSL wasn’t up and running because I had to upgrade my sissified 1999 Dell from Windows 98 to XP. EEEK. Hate giving money to that man. Hate it so much that that’s the primary reason why I hadn’t already upgraded. So a couple hundred smackers and several trips to Circuit City later, I am now in the lovely world of wi-fi DSL. And I must say, it does rock. You can’t beat being able to write whilst sitting on the couch in your sweats with your laptop in your lap (where it belongs).
What have I been doing with myself all this time? Well, getting situated in a new job for one. I am working at Borders again--the one where Bruce shops--though I haven’t seen him yet. (Scarily enough, I actually saw his assistant Terry in there last week, though, and my husband ran into his old sound man in the grocery store. Ah, the perks of living on the Jersey Shore…) This is not the be-all end-all job by any means—I am merely paying bills whilst attempting to ensconce myself in the local journalism scene. I have a couple of good leads, and with any luck, I will be getting paid to write, at least on a freelance basis.
I have been taking lots of walks—it helps to be 10 minutes from the beach—and this has helped me to clear my head and refocus. It’s pretty hard to be to concerned with much of anything when you are sitting and staring at the waves. Ocean Grove is a quaint, if somewhat claustrophobic, little town—full of antique shops, cute restaurants and overpriced grocery stores. The Victorians range from gorgeous, tasteful and imaginatively decorated to completely run down and scary. I live on the first floor of one that is somewhere in between. The cellar flooded a bit during the rains we had a couple weeks back, not because of leaks, but because it has one of those crazy Wizard of Oz storm doors and it’s falling apart. (Must speak to the landlady about that.) We hear the carillon bells from the Methodist church every night at 6, and it reminds me of the National Cathedral bells from my old ‘hood in DC.
We live on the north side of town, right next to Wesley Lake, which is the southernmost border of Asbury Park. We can walk out behind our house and see and hear the redevelopment transpiring on Cookman and Lake Avenues. (If I look to my left, I can see the painted advertisement for Thom McAn shoes on the back of the building that once housed the famous Upstage club. More on that later.) I wish I could say I was happy about the construction, but as usual, it seems the people with the money are the ones without imagination, without soul. They have, sadly, torn down the storied Palace Amusements building instead of finding a way to incorporate this unique, historic building into their plan, and are at present building generic-looking waterfront condos that are already out of my price range. (I find it interesting that real estate speculators have already convinced people that they have to pay New York-style prices in a town that lacks a decent grocery store, or worse, any sort of a business plan for reviving its struggling economy, especially on “the other side of town.”)
I plan on writing about the troubling racial issues in this area at great length—it is a subject with which I continue to be deeply concerned. And I will write about some of the positive things happening in this area too, especially the resurgent local music scene. There are some great things happening, some exciting bands to watch, including my current favorite, the hard-working Maybe Pete. For now, though, I have a lot of catching up to do. It’s Halloween night, and there are little kids knocking on my door in all sorts of costumes. It’s different here, and it’s going to take some adjustment (as much as I have continued to deride it—I really miss my Washington Post!), but damn, it’s good to be back.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Hell No We Ain't Alright
“Hell No We Ain’t Alright” by Chuck D
New Orleans in the morning, afternoon, and night
Hell No We Ain’t Alright
Now all these press conferences breaking news alerts
This just in while your government looks for a war to win
Flames from the blame game, names? Where do I begin?
Walls closing in get some help to my kin
Who cares? While the rest of the Bushnation stares
As the drama unfolds as we the people under the stairs
50% of this Son of a Bush nation
Is like hatin’ on Haiti
And setting up assassinations
Ask Pat Robertson- quiz him.... smells like terrorism.
Racism in the news/ still one-sided news
Saying whites find food/
prey for the national guard ready to shoot
‘Cause them blacks loot
New Orleans in the morning, afternoon, and night
Hell No We Ain’t Alright
Fires, earthquakes, tsunamis
I don’t mean to scare/ Wasn’t this written somewhere?
Disgraces all I see is black faces moved out to all these places
Emergency state, corpses, alligators and snakes
Big difference between this haze and them diamonds on the VMA’s
We better look/ what’s really important
Under this sun especially if you over 21
This ain’t no TV show/ this ain’t no video
This is really real/ beyond them same ole “keep it real”
Quotes from them TV stars drivin’ big rim cars
'Streets be floodin,’ B/ no matter where you at, no gas
Driving is a luxury
Urgency
State of emergency
Shows somebody’s government
Is far from reality....
New Orleans in the morning, afternoon, and night
Hell No We Ain’t Alright
I see here we be the new faces of refugees
Who ain’t even overseas but here on our knees
Forget the plasma TV-ain’t no electricity
New worlds upside down-and out of order
Shelter? Food? Wasssup, wheres the water?
No answers from disaster/ them masses hurtin’
So who the f**k we call?--Halliburton?
Son of a Bush, how you gonna trust that cat?
To fix s**t when help is stuck in Iraq?
Making war plans takin’ more stands
In Afghanistan 2000 soldiers dyin’ in the sand
But that’s over there, right?
Now what's over here is a noise so loud
That some can’t hear but on TV I can see
Bunches of people lookin’ just like me
[Courtesy of Allhiphop.com]
New Orleans in the morning, afternoon, and night
Hell No We Ain’t Alright
Now all these press conferences breaking news alerts
This just in while your government looks for a war to win
Flames from the blame game, names? Where do I begin?
Walls closing in get some help to my kin
Who cares? While the rest of the Bushnation stares
As the drama unfolds as we the people under the stairs
50% of this Son of a Bush nation
Is like hatin’ on Haiti
And setting up assassinations
Ask Pat Robertson- quiz him.... smells like terrorism.
Racism in the news/ still one-sided news
Saying whites find food/
prey for the national guard ready to shoot
‘Cause them blacks loot
New Orleans in the morning, afternoon, and night
Hell No We Ain’t Alright
Fires, earthquakes, tsunamis
I don’t mean to scare/ Wasn’t this written somewhere?
Disgraces all I see is black faces moved out to all these places
Emergency state, corpses, alligators and snakes
Big difference between this haze and them diamonds on the VMA’s
We better look/ what’s really important
Under this sun especially if you over 21
This ain’t no TV show/ this ain’t no video
This is really real/ beyond them same ole “keep it real”
Quotes from them TV stars drivin’ big rim cars
'Streets be floodin,’ B/ no matter where you at, no gas
Driving is a luxury
Urgency
State of emergency
Shows somebody’s government
Is far from reality....
New Orleans in the morning, afternoon, and night
Hell No We Ain’t Alright
I see here we be the new faces of refugees
Who ain’t even overseas but here on our knees
Forget the plasma TV-ain’t no electricity
New worlds upside down-and out of order
Shelter? Food? Wasssup, wheres the water?
No answers from disaster/ them masses hurtin’
So who the f**k we call?--Halliburton?
Son of a Bush, how you gonna trust that cat?
To fix s**t when help is stuck in Iraq?
Making war plans takin’ more stands
In Afghanistan 2000 soldiers dyin’ in the sand
But that’s over there, right?
Now what's over here is a noise so loud
That some can’t hear but on TV I can see
Bunches of people lookin’ just like me
[Courtesy of Allhiphop.com]
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Survival of the Fittest is Not a Policy
That is the homemade sign presently located on the bumper of my car. Because I truly feel New Orleans' pain. I live in a city of approximately the same size, with approximately the same racial makeup and an African American mayor. I know what it is like to be mocked, scorned, ignored, powerless. We have lived for hundreds of years under the auspices of the federal government with very little stake in our own future because we lacked the power and authority, both budgetary and legal, to do anything for ourselves.
Now, belatedly, we see the federal government attempting to step in in New Orleans because "the locals" (i.e. Crackers, African Americans, Latinos) couldn't do it. How familiar, and how heartwrenching. As though the mayor and the governor didn't plead for money and supplies and assistance BEFORE the disaster even hit. And as though the real reason for the government stepping in at this late hour ISN'T to cover their asses, keep the media out, etc. Bush spokesman Dan Bartlett was quoted as saying something to the effect of "the US government stands ready to protect the citizens of New Orleans." This would be laughable if it weren't so tragic. These people are so hopelessly out of touch they might as well be living on the moon.
The three greatest potential disasters that were feared by the feds were: 1) a flood in New Orleans 2) attacks on the World Trade Center and 3) major earthquakes in California. If I lived in the Golden State, I'd be seriously considering my options right about now.
As for the impotent rage I, like so many others, feel right now, well I am not going to stand quietly by. I am donating what I can locally (DC is set to receive several thousand victims in the next day or two), and will be traveling with a group of Springsteen fans to New Orleans at Thanksgiving in order to help with the relief efforts through Second Harvest Food Bank. This is not bragging--I know that people of conscience are already doing what they can. People are handling this tragedy in their own ways, and not everyone is in a position to drop everything and help. But Americans are fundamentally good, giving people, and I know they will help their desperate brothers and sisters to the extent that they can.
As for the Bush administration, there is not a sorrier group of people on the face of the earth. They are all truly sociopathic, and I have nothing but pity for them. Well, pity and disgust.
At times like this, it's hard to believe we're living in America. What has happened to us? Is this how we care for our weak, our infirm, "the least of our brothers?" And what must the foreign press be saying right now? (Sure would be nice to have the help of Germany, France, Spain, now wouldn't it? Too bad we've already alienated most of our allies with this ridiculous war of aggression...) The whole world is watching and judging, and what they will have to say will most definitely not be pleasant...
"Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers that you do unto me."
Now, belatedly, we see the federal government attempting to step in in New Orleans because "the locals" (i.e. Crackers, African Americans, Latinos) couldn't do it. How familiar, and how heartwrenching. As though the mayor and the governor didn't plead for money and supplies and assistance BEFORE the disaster even hit. And as though the real reason for the government stepping in at this late hour ISN'T to cover their asses, keep the media out, etc. Bush spokesman Dan Bartlett was quoted as saying something to the effect of "the US government stands ready to protect the citizens of New Orleans." This would be laughable if it weren't so tragic. These people are so hopelessly out of touch they might as well be living on the moon.
The three greatest potential disasters that were feared by the feds were: 1) a flood in New Orleans 2) attacks on the World Trade Center and 3) major earthquakes in California. If I lived in the Golden State, I'd be seriously considering my options right about now.
As for the impotent rage I, like so many others, feel right now, well I am not going to stand quietly by. I am donating what I can locally (DC is set to receive several thousand victims in the next day or two), and will be traveling with a group of Springsteen fans to New Orleans at Thanksgiving in order to help with the relief efforts through Second Harvest Food Bank. This is not bragging--I know that people of conscience are already doing what they can. People are handling this tragedy in their own ways, and not everyone is in a position to drop everything and help. But Americans are fundamentally good, giving people, and I know they will help their desperate brothers and sisters to the extent that they can.
As for the Bush administration, there is not a sorrier group of people on the face of the earth. They are all truly sociopathic, and I have nothing but pity for them. Well, pity and disgust.
At times like this, it's hard to believe we're living in America. What has happened to us? Is this how we care for our weak, our infirm, "the least of our brothers?" And what must the foreign press be saying right now? (Sure would be nice to have the help of Germany, France, Spain, now wouldn't it? Too bad we've already alienated most of our allies with this ridiculous war of aggression...) The whole world is watching and judging, and what they will have to say will most definitely not be pleasant...
"Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers that you do unto me."
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Ta-Ta For Now
I'll be posting less frequently for a bit whilst I am in the process of moving and other life changes...see yas down the road apiece...
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Cindy Sheehan Rocks
"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
---Margaret Mead
Cindy Sheehan, who lost her son Casey last year in Iraq, is taking it to the Bushies on their home turf. She's turned a visit to Dallas last week into an international media event in Crawford. And while the mainstream media struggle to catch up, the blogosphere is going crazy, and others are fashioning similar protests in support. What's her beef? Well, seems she can't get a straight answer out of our beloved Commander in Chief as to why her son died. Sounds like a reasonable request to me, yet now she is being dismissed as "dishonoring" her own son by such great minds as Bill O'Reilly and Matt Drudge. The arrogance of such an assertion by media pundits--how can anyone else know her suffering except other families of those killed?--is staggering.
Sometimes the simplest acts are the most powerful: one of the lessons of Gandhi. So rock on, sister Cindy--we are with you!
_______________________________________
For the latest on Cindy, please visit Gold Star Families for Peace, After Downing Street and michaelmoore.com, where the ever vigilant Mr. Moore has given her some blogspace. Also see The Lone Star Iconoclast online for some great photos and a timeline of last Saturday's events. Finally, there is a new site called Meet With Cindy that provides details about how you can help Cindy by donating money and supplies, contacting media, etc.
Update: William Pitt from Progressive Democrats of America is on site and blogging. Check it out here.
---Margaret Mead
Cindy Sheehan, who lost her son Casey last year in Iraq, is taking it to the Bushies on their home turf. She's turned a visit to Dallas last week into an international media event in Crawford. And while the mainstream media struggle to catch up, the blogosphere is going crazy, and others are fashioning similar protests in support. What's her beef? Well, seems she can't get a straight answer out of our beloved Commander in Chief as to why her son died. Sounds like a reasonable request to me, yet now she is being dismissed as "dishonoring" her own son by such great minds as Bill O'Reilly and Matt Drudge. The arrogance of such an assertion by media pundits--how can anyone else know her suffering except other families of those killed?--is staggering.
Sometimes the simplest acts are the most powerful: one of the lessons of Gandhi. So rock on, sister Cindy--we are with you!
_______________________________________
For the latest on Cindy, please visit Gold Star Families for Peace, After Downing Street and michaelmoore.com, where the ever vigilant Mr. Moore has given her some blogspace. Also see The Lone Star Iconoclast online for some great photos and a timeline of last Saturday's events. Finally, there is a new site called Meet With Cindy that provides details about how you can help Cindy by donating money and supplies, contacting media, etc.
Update: William Pitt from Progressive Democrats of America is on site and blogging. Check it out here.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Land of the Free?
According to this quiz on the ACLU website, I most likely have an FBI file. Whilst I consider this a badge of honor (MLK and John Lennon both had files), I find it more than a little disturbing that my government is spending my tax money spying on me. Welcome to the Third Reich...
Things I Like Vol. 28
Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World
1) "Prisoners of Paradise" - Jesse Malin (brand new 'n' unreleased)
2) CBGB - 'nuff said
3) Little Steven Van Zandt, the coolest man on the planet
4) Frankie, Lizzy and Keith, my new rock star boyfriends
5) The Continental NYC - $2.50 shots and all the punk rock you can handle
6) The Dirtbombs - garage rock at its finest
7) Sami Yaffa, bassist extraordinaire and all around cool guy
8) Six Feet Under - keepin' it real on HBO
9) "Trick on Love" - Marah (unreleased live version)
10) Debbie Harry - just 'cause
Hero of the Week: Steven Van Zandt - the living embodiment of rock'n'roll
Villain of the Week: George W. Bush - for the recess appointment of John Bolton, for promoting creationism in our public schools, and for taking a five-week vacation while Rome burns
1) "Prisoners of Paradise" - Jesse Malin (brand new 'n' unreleased)
2) CBGB - 'nuff said
3) Little Steven Van Zandt, the coolest man on the planet
4) Frankie, Lizzy and Keith, my new rock star boyfriends
5) The Continental NYC - $2.50 shots and all the punk rock you can handle
6) The Dirtbombs - garage rock at its finest
7) Sami Yaffa, bassist extraordinaire and all around cool guy
8) Six Feet Under - keepin' it real on HBO
9) "Trick on Love" - Marah (unreleased live version)
10) Debbie Harry - just 'cause
Hero of the Week: Steven Van Zandt - the living embodiment of rock'n'roll
Villain of the Week: George W. Bush - for the recess appointment of John Bolton, for promoting creationism in our public schools, and for taking a five-week vacation while Rome burns
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Spare Parts
Did you ever feel like your life was just one big mess, that no matter what you did or how hard you tried, that everything would still end up turning out wrong? That some people were just blessed with good fortune, and that you were not destined to be one of those people?
Life deals different decks of cards to different people. You try and get philosophical about it, tell yourself you don‘t get what you can’t handle, you learn from your mistakes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But why is it that for some, things just seem to fall their way—the perfect boyfriend (girlfriend), job, home. Perfect kids—a boy and a girl (of course) with perfect straight teeth (well maybe one front tooth missing for the cuteness factor) who do perfect things, and the grandparents just love everything they do and all is rosy in this perfect world that stays free from error and sin and darkness and harm.
For some people there is nothing but struggle and heartache and misfortune and self-doubt and fear and anger and contempt and disgust and worst of all, that absolute terror that nothing that you do, nothing that you have ever done or will ever do, will be of any great consequence. You are sad and shapeless and insignificant, and when you go there will be nothing left behind you, not a trace of who you were or what you did except those mistakes, left behind for the whole world to see as monuments to your misfortune.
"She sighed Ma sometimes my whole life feels like one big mistake..."
from "Spare Parts," Copyright © Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP)
Life deals different decks of cards to different people. You try and get philosophical about it, tell yourself you don‘t get what you can’t handle, you learn from your mistakes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But why is it that for some, things just seem to fall their way—the perfect boyfriend (girlfriend), job, home. Perfect kids—a boy and a girl (of course) with perfect straight teeth (well maybe one front tooth missing for the cuteness factor) who do perfect things, and the grandparents just love everything they do and all is rosy in this perfect world that stays free from error and sin and darkness and harm.
For some people there is nothing but struggle and heartache and misfortune and self-doubt and fear and anger and contempt and disgust and worst of all, that absolute terror that nothing that you do, nothing that you have ever done or will ever do, will be of any great consequence. You are sad and shapeless and insignificant, and when you go there will be nothing left behind you, not a trace of who you were or what you did except those mistakes, left behind for the whole world to see as monuments to your misfortune.
"She sighed Ma sometimes my whole life feels like one big mistake..."
from "Spare Parts," Copyright © Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP)
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Things I Like Vol. 27
Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World
1) The Saint, Asbury Park NJ - it's all in the family
2) "Black-Haired Girl" - Jesse Malin (brand new 'n' unreleased)
3) "Beautiful Day" - ditto
4) Maybe Pete - New Jersey's best unsigned band
5) Team America, dir. by Trey Parker - the best laugh I've had in ages
6) Chat and Nibble Restaurant, Asbury Park NJ
7) "Ball of Confusion" - The Temptations
8) Major League Soccer - bringing the beautiful game to the US
9) IOTA Cafe, Arlington VA - come for the food, stay for the music
10) United For Peace & Justice - see you in September
Hero of the Week: Rep. Barbara Lee (D-CA), for finally introducing the long-awaited Resolution of Inquiry with respect to the Downing Street Memos
Villain of the Week: Sen. Rick Santorum (R-PA)--this nut job wants to send the US back to the 18th century (apparently the 19th wasn't good enough)!
1) The Saint, Asbury Park NJ - it's all in the family
2) "Black-Haired Girl" - Jesse Malin (brand new 'n' unreleased)
3) "Beautiful Day" - ditto
4) Maybe Pete - New Jersey's best unsigned band
5) Team America, dir. by Trey Parker - the best laugh I've had in ages
6) Chat and Nibble Restaurant, Asbury Park NJ
7) "Ball of Confusion" - The Temptations
8) Major League Soccer - bringing the beautiful game to the US
9) IOTA Cafe, Arlington VA - come for the food, stay for the music
10) United For Peace & Justice - see you in September
Hero of the Week: Rep. Barbara Lee (D-CA), for finally introducing the long-awaited Resolution of Inquiry with respect to the Downing Street Memos
Villain of the Week: Sen. Rick Santorum (R-PA)--this nut job wants to send the US back to the 18th century (apparently the 19th wasn't good enough)!
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
He's Just a Man
When did it become not about the music but about the star power? Why, when you have the honor and the privilege of witnessing performances that often border on genius, when you are given the chance to truly connect with one of the most warm, generous, human artists of this or any other era—why is it more important to simply bask in his presence, to be physically close to him, to maul each other like a pack of starving wolves for a look, a glance, a touch?
I saw and heard a particularly solid and moving performance by Bruce Springsteen on Saturday night, the kind that you never want to end, never want the spell to be broken. It used to be that it all continued after the show was over, that even when the lights did come back up, there was a high, a magic that continued for hours afterward. A warm glow almost like a drug–you wanted to relive each moment with those who had witnessed it with you, to go over each detail, each nuance. It was a special bond that existed in few fan communities. We all felt a part of something special, something we didn’t have to defend or explain; it was just understood.
But something’s changed. When the lights come up now, you just want to run before the inevitable behavior continues. You can ignore it when the show is in progress, but when the lights come on, you have to look into their eyes and see the madness, the greed, the jealousy and selfishness that have infected these seemingly intelligent, sensitive people. They are sad and they are desperate. The music isn’t enough—the need to be close to The Man, the Jesus figure that they think will change their lives overwhelms them. One look from him, one touch will not suffice. They measure and compare how close they were to him, count how many times they made eye contact, whether or not he reached out and touched them. And they compete against each other, it’s some mad game out of a movie, this obsession not with a person but with a persona. If they could only embrace this presence somehow, this contact would give their shallow, empty lives meaning.
It must be so startling, so disconcerting, so depressing, to look down from that stage and want to really reach people, to really connect, and instead to see the same manic faces desperately clawing to get closer, knowing that you can’t give them what it is they want, no one can, it must come from inside themselves. He knows this, knows it better than anyone, for it used to be that, like them, he needed these performances to remain sane because he had nothing else. Those four-hour shows of yore were literally his means of survival. Happily, he finally allowed himself to see that the emptiness inside him wasn’t right, that things were out of balance, that there was more to him, more to life. That he was worth something without a guitar in his hand. It took years of hard work, and it is clearly still an ongoing process. But he saw it, continues to see it, and is at last, a whole person.
Paradoxically, though, as he has found and embraced his true self, he increasingly seems to draw empty, sad people who come to him for precisely the reasons he used to come to them—sustenance and meaning and self-worth. And he can’t give that to them—never could—he can only give them grace and power and uplift, give them the knowledge that they are and always have been worthwhile, that the respect and dignity that they crave like a drug must come from within. And they would know this, if only they would listen, really listen, to the music. But they can’t, or they won’t, and so they continue to demand from him what he can’t give, what they can only get from themselves. It is a desperate, unfulfilled yearning that will never be satisfied, and it is a terrifying, depressing thing to watch.
Part of being a performer is a basic human need, a craving to connect, to communicate because you can’t do it any other way. What must it be like to realize that with your core audience, there is no true connection, only sycophancy and desperation and need that sucks you dry? How must it feel night after night to be the trained monkey onstage evoking these same predictable emotions from these same sad people no matter what you do, how great or terrible your performance was? Do they even listen to the songs, do they even understand what it is you’re trying to do? They say they love you, but really, do they even know you?
When that realization finally hits you, it hits hard, and you had better be ready, better be strong, better know who you are and what you’re about and have that strong foundation of self-awareness and self-love, because if you don’t, you are lost. And even if you do, sometimes it’s still too much to ask of a person. After all, the only person in this world that you are responsible for—the only one you can ever really save—is yourself. You are not responsible for the happiness of others.
No wonder John Lennon retreated, resigned, hid. Who wants to be Jesus when all you really are is a man?
I saw and heard a particularly solid and moving performance by Bruce Springsteen on Saturday night, the kind that you never want to end, never want the spell to be broken. It used to be that it all continued after the show was over, that even when the lights did come back up, there was a high, a magic that continued for hours afterward. A warm glow almost like a drug–you wanted to relive each moment with those who had witnessed it with you, to go over each detail, each nuance. It was a special bond that existed in few fan communities. We all felt a part of something special, something we didn’t have to defend or explain; it was just understood.
But something’s changed. When the lights come up now, you just want to run before the inevitable behavior continues. You can ignore it when the show is in progress, but when the lights come on, you have to look into their eyes and see the madness, the greed, the jealousy and selfishness that have infected these seemingly intelligent, sensitive people. They are sad and they are desperate. The music isn’t enough—the need to be close to The Man, the Jesus figure that they think will change their lives overwhelms them. One look from him, one touch will not suffice. They measure and compare how close they were to him, count how many times they made eye contact, whether or not he reached out and touched them. And they compete against each other, it’s some mad game out of a movie, this obsession not with a person but with a persona. If they could only embrace this presence somehow, this contact would give their shallow, empty lives meaning.
It must be so startling, so disconcerting, so depressing, to look down from that stage and want to really reach people, to really connect, and instead to see the same manic faces desperately clawing to get closer, knowing that you can’t give them what it is they want, no one can, it must come from inside themselves. He knows this, knows it better than anyone, for it used to be that, like them, he needed these performances to remain sane because he had nothing else. Those four-hour shows of yore were literally his means of survival. Happily, he finally allowed himself to see that the emptiness inside him wasn’t right, that things were out of balance, that there was more to him, more to life. That he was worth something without a guitar in his hand. It took years of hard work, and it is clearly still an ongoing process. But he saw it, continues to see it, and is at last, a whole person.
Paradoxically, though, as he has found and embraced his true self, he increasingly seems to draw empty, sad people who come to him for precisely the reasons he used to come to them—sustenance and meaning and self-worth. And he can’t give that to them—never could—he can only give them grace and power and uplift, give them the knowledge that they are and always have been worthwhile, that the respect and dignity that they crave like a drug must come from within. And they would know this, if only they would listen, really listen, to the music. But they can’t, or they won’t, and so they continue to demand from him what he can’t give, what they can only get from themselves. It is a desperate, unfulfilled yearning that will never be satisfied, and it is a terrifying, depressing thing to watch.
Part of being a performer is a basic human need, a craving to connect, to communicate because you can’t do it any other way. What must it be like to realize that with your core audience, there is no true connection, only sycophancy and desperation and need that sucks you dry? How must it feel night after night to be the trained monkey onstage evoking these same predictable emotions from these same sad people no matter what you do, how great or terrible your performance was? Do they even listen to the songs, do they even understand what it is you’re trying to do? They say they love you, but really, do they even know you?
When that realization finally hits you, it hits hard, and you had better be ready, better be strong, better know who you are and what you’re about and have that strong foundation of self-awareness and self-love, because if you don’t, you are lost. And even if you do, sometimes it’s still too much to ask of a person. After all, the only person in this world that you are responsible for—the only one you can ever really save—is yourself. You are not responsible for the happiness of others.
No wonder John Lennon retreated, resigned, hid. Who wants to be Jesus when all you really are is a man?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Rove Must Go
Sick of the lies and sleaze? Send the "Turd Blossom" his walking papers. There, now, doesn't Karl look pretty in pink?
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Rove Declassified?
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
July 13, 2005
Congressman Tierney Calls For Suspension of Rove’s Security Clearance and Access to Classified Information
Washington, DC - All Democrats on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence (HPSCI) today joined Congressman John F. Tierney (D-MA), the only New England Member of HPSCI, to call on President George Bush to revoke White House Deputy Chief of Staff Karl Rove’s security clearances and access to classified information. In a letter to the President, all nine Democrats on the Committee urged him to take immediate action.
Somebody pinch me please. Can it be that the Democrats on Capitol Hill (aside from the Conyers posse and a few other select individuals) are finally doing their jobs? Geez, next thing you know they'll be, like, filibustering a Supreme Court nominee or somethin'...
July 13, 2005
Congressman Tierney Calls For Suspension of Rove’s Security Clearance and Access to Classified Information
Washington, DC - All Democrats on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence (HPSCI) today joined Congressman John F. Tierney (D-MA), the only New England Member of HPSCI, to call on President George Bush to revoke White House Deputy Chief of Staff Karl Rove’s security clearances and access to classified information. In a letter to the President, all nine Democrats on the Committee urged him to take immediate action.
Somebody pinch me please. Can it be that the Democrats on Capitol Hill (aside from the Conyers posse and a few other select individuals) are finally doing their jobs? Geez, next thing you know they'll be, like, filibustering a Supreme Court nominee or somethin'...
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Up the Establishment
Why do we work so hard?
It can all be taken away. So don't think about who might laugh at you, or tell you you can't, or you shouldn't, or it costs too much or is too risky or you must behave responsibly because you never know what might happen.
That's true, you never do know what might happen, it can all be gone tomorrow. No one ever lay on a deathbead agonizing about whether or not more time should have been spent working. So play. Take that risk.
And when that person looks at you, looks through you, when you have made that connection and it is deep and it shakes you to the core, scares you so you want to run--don't. Because although it is terrifying to open oneself up, it is infinitely more terrifying to not know what might have been.
It can all be taken away. So don't think about who might laugh at you, or tell you you can't, or you shouldn't, or it costs too much or is too risky or you must behave responsibly because you never know what might happen.
That's true, you never do know what might happen, it can all be gone tomorrow. No one ever lay on a deathbead agonizing about whether or not more time should have been spent working. So play. Take that risk.
And when that person looks at you, looks through you, when you have made that connection and it is deep and it shakes you to the core, scares you so you want to run--don't. Because although it is terrifying to open oneself up, it is infinitely more terrifying to not know what might have been.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Baseball (in DC) is Life
Almost forgotten amongst all the furor about the attacks in London today, they played baseball in the Nation's Capital this afternoon. For those of you who haven't been paying attention, we haven't had baseball here in 33 years, and the love affair with our brand new team is on.
The Washington Nationals (formerly the Montreal Expos) weren't given any chance of doing anything this year, and yet, at the All-Star Break, my hometown team has the second best record in baseball. That's right, the team everyone laughed at, the team with one of the smallest payrolls in the major leagues, the team that has sent player after player to the disabled list, continues to find ways to win. For once, the nice guys are finishing first.
And the city of Washington, the butt of so many jokes, the city that everyone says is bland and boring, lacking in culture and fashion and fun--the city that is divided by so many things--is being brought together by this improbable bunch of misfits and rejects, and we are having the last laugh. Attendance has far exceeded expectations and shows no signs of slowing down (today's game was yet another sellout). And the team is responding in kind, refusing to give up, pulling out game after game in all sorts of gutsy ways.
Today, having just sent yet another one of their best hitters to the DL, the Nats gave it their best shot (as always), and held their own into extra innings before being bested by (in this homestand anyway) a superior bullpen. And in the end, it didn't really matter, because we were all there together-kids seeing their first big league game, fathers and sons, moms and daughters, businessmen (and lobbyists) playing hookey, African-American, Latino, Asian, white, urban, suburban, young, old--we were all there together, and everyone was having a great time.
It is still unbelievable to me that after so many years of waiting, hoping, praying, of having hopes crushed again and again, that on a humid July afternoon, I could get on the subway, ride a half hour down to funky old RFK stadium (where I have seen so many amazing times), and buy a $15 seat behind home plate to watch baseball. How long we have waited here in Washington, and how disheartening the wait has been! And yet, here we are, in 2005, watching America's Pastime in the Nation's Capital.
I have been to several games since opening day, and still I pinch myself each time I walk down the long approach to that venerable old sports facility on East Capitol Street. And today, on a day when I really needed to get away, to escape from the latest horror stories abroad and here at home in Washington, to forget about the personal baggage that often seems more than I can bear, baseball saved me.
The Nats' improbable luck may continue, and then again, it may not. After all, that's baseball, and indeed, that's life. But in the end, that's not what's important. In the end, baseball is back in Washington to stay, and that is all that matters.
The Washington Nationals (formerly the Montreal Expos) weren't given any chance of doing anything this year, and yet, at the All-Star Break, my hometown team has the second best record in baseball. That's right, the team everyone laughed at, the team with one of the smallest payrolls in the major leagues, the team that has sent player after player to the disabled list, continues to find ways to win. For once, the nice guys are finishing first.
And the city of Washington, the butt of so many jokes, the city that everyone says is bland and boring, lacking in culture and fashion and fun--the city that is divided by so many things--is being brought together by this improbable bunch of misfits and rejects, and we are having the last laugh. Attendance has far exceeded expectations and shows no signs of slowing down (today's game was yet another sellout). And the team is responding in kind, refusing to give up, pulling out game after game in all sorts of gutsy ways.
Today, having just sent yet another one of their best hitters to the DL, the Nats gave it their best shot (as always), and held their own into extra innings before being bested by (in this homestand anyway) a superior bullpen. And in the end, it didn't really matter, because we were all there together-kids seeing their first big league game, fathers and sons, moms and daughters, businessmen (and lobbyists) playing hookey, African-American, Latino, Asian, white, urban, suburban, young, old--we were all there together, and everyone was having a great time.
It is still unbelievable to me that after so many years of waiting, hoping, praying, of having hopes crushed again and again, that on a humid July afternoon, I could get on the subway, ride a half hour down to funky old RFK stadium (where I have seen so many amazing times), and buy a $15 seat behind home plate to watch baseball. How long we have waited here in Washington, and how disheartening the wait has been! And yet, here we are, in 2005, watching America's Pastime in the Nation's Capital.
I have been to several games since opening day, and still I pinch myself each time I walk down the long approach to that venerable old sports facility on East Capitol Street. And today, on a day when I really needed to get away, to escape from the latest horror stories abroad and here at home in Washington, to forget about the personal baggage that often seems more than I can bear, baseball saved me.
The Nats' improbable luck may continue, and then again, it may not. After all, that's baseball, and indeed, that's life. But in the end, that's not what's important. In the end, baseball is back in Washington to stay, and that is all that matters.
And the Beat Goes On
In Iraq, they call events like this "Tuesday."
---William Rivers Pitt, Truthout editorial
Is anybody really surprised that today's bombings in London took place? Given the horrendous mismanagement of our foreign affairs since 9/11 and the shoddy state of security here in the US, the only real surprise is that the attacks didn't take place here, and that they didn't happen sooner.
We failed to go after Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, and they have now set up training grounds in Iraq, where there were none before. (Bin Laden is still at large, and no doubt enjoying every minute of this latest chaos.) And let's not even talk about the complete lack of any kind of security at most of our rail stations, ports, and most terrifying of all, nuclear power plants. I ask you, is that bomb sniffing dog I saw today as I entered the subway here in DC really going to save me? (Actually, here in the Nation's Capital, the real terror is the drug and gun culture fostered by urban neglect. But I digress...)
The reality is that funding for emergency services has been cut--that's right, cut--in almost every major city including Washington and New York. (And right here in DC, there is laughably little coordination between our local government and the feds, as evidenced by the recent incident with the passenger plane invading our airspace. Doesn't bode well, does it?) So let's not kid ourselves that we're safe, and let's not make this a partisan issue--let's deal with the problem like adults before something happens again. Now that would be a surprise.
_________
Further reading: Check out this great piece on Americablog.
And this from the Center for American Progress.
Scary stuff.
---William Rivers Pitt, Truthout editorial
Is anybody really surprised that today's bombings in London took place? Given the horrendous mismanagement of our foreign affairs since 9/11 and the shoddy state of security here in the US, the only real surprise is that the attacks didn't take place here, and that they didn't happen sooner.
We failed to go after Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, and they have now set up training grounds in Iraq, where there were none before. (Bin Laden is still at large, and no doubt enjoying every minute of this latest chaos.) And let's not even talk about the complete lack of any kind of security at most of our rail stations, ports, and most terrifying of all, nuclear power plants. I ask you, is that bomb sniffing dog I saw today as I entered the subway here in DC really going to save me? (Actually, here in the Nation's Capital, the real terror is the drug and gun culture fostered by urban neglect. But I digress...)
The reality is that funding for emergency services has been cut--that's right, cut--in almost every major city including Washington and New York. (And right here in DC, there is laughably little coordination between our local government and the feds, as evidenced by the recent incident with the passenger plane invading our airspace. Doesn't bode well, does it?) So let's not kid ourselves that we're safe, and let's not make this a partisan issue--let's deal with the problem like adults before something happens again. Now that would be a surprise.
_________
Further reading: Check out this great piece on Americablog.
And this from the Center for American Progress.
Scary stuff.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Things I Like Vol. 26
Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World
1) Southside Johnny & the Asbury Jukes
2) Fins Tropicali Grill, Bradley Beach NJ
3) Cherry-flavored Slurpees
4) The Windmill, Ocean Grove NJ-best burgers on the Jersey Shore and a really cool mural
5) Ice cold margaritas with salt
6) Chilled Corona and lime
7) 4th of July, Asbury Park-A History of the Promised Land - Daniel Wolff
8) "Holidays in the Sun" - Sex Pistols
9) Rawstory.com - the truth will out
10) Howard Dean-DNC Chair and fly in the ointment
Hero of the Week: John Conyers (who else?), Drum Major for Justice
Villain of the Week: Karl Rove (ditto). How does he sleep at night?
1) Southside Johnny & the Asbury Jukes
2) Fins Tropicali Grill, Bradley Beach NJ
3) Cherry-flavored Slurpees
4) The Windmill, Ocean Grove NJ-best burgers on the Jersey Shore and a really cool mural
5) Ice cold margaritas with salt
6) Chilled Corona and lime
7) 4th of July, Asbury Park-A History of the Promised Land - Daniel Wolff
8) "Holidays in the Sun" - Sex Pistols
9) Rawstory.com - the truth will out
10) Howard Dean-DNC Chair and fly in the ointment
Hero of the Week: John Conyers (who else?), Drum Major for Justice
Villain of the Week: Karl Rove (ditto). How does he sleep at night?
Deep Breath, Count to Ten
"American politics has become a game with no rules and no referee. Play by the old rules--fairness, honesty, good faith--and face political extinction."
---Eric Alterman in The Nation
Rep. John Conyers (D-MI) ought to get a medal. Only in this administration, one receives such things for gross incompetence, (L. Paul Bremer III), more gross incompetence (Tommy R. Franks), and still more gross incompetence (George J. Tenet). Tomorrow, the gentleman from Michigan and his brethren will send yet another letter to the White House, this time demanding that Deputy Chief of Staff Karl Rove explain his central role in the Plame affair, a circumstance that is now officially documented. But alas, this White House doesn't have any honor, and it sure doesn't play by the rules. Good luck getting Mr. Rove to admit to much of anything except being a "patriot."
Oh, and expansion is underway at Arlington National Cemetery. Could this have anything to do with the above referenced incompetence? Just asking.
---Eric Alterman in The Nation
Rep. John Conyers (D-MI) ought to get a medal. Only in this administration, one receives such things for gross incompetence, (L. Paul Bremer III), more gross incompetence (Tommy R. Franks), and still more gross incompetence (George J. Tenet). Tomorrow, the gentleman from Michigan and his brethren will send yet another letter to the White House, this time demanding that Deputy Chief of Staff Karl Rove explain his central role in the Plame affair, a circumstance that is now officially documented. But alas, this White House doesn't have any honor, and it sure doesn't play by the rules. Good luck getting Mr. Rove to admit to much of anything except being a "patriot."
Oh, and expansion is underway at Arlington National Cemetery. Could this have anything to do with the above referenced incompetence? Just asking.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Ain't That America
I didn't watch the fireworks yesterday. And this is not because there were none to be had, or that viewing them would be difficult. Though (with any luck) I will soon be a permanent resident of Gotham City, I am still a Washington DC homie, and could have watched the fireworks on the National Mall from my bedroom window if I had wanted to. But I didn't.
For the last year or two--hell, since the inception of this "war" we are currently engaged in--I have not felt particularly patriotic, at least in the "rah rah wave the flag sing 'God Bless America'" sort of way. It's a little hard for me to wear the red, white and blue given the values which my beloved country is currently espousing and for which countless young Americans and Iraqis are being maimed and killed.
The America Dr. King believed in--the country I (still) believe in--stands for something different than torture and lawlessness and greed and arrogance, for lying and cheating and subterfuge. It stands for Equal Justice Under Law, for government of the People by the People for the People; for accountability, transparency and fairness.
It is extremely difficult to maintain one's belief in "the system" when it seems corrupted beyond repair; when no one seems to care, when we all seem to be looking after only ourselves. However, it is in circumstances like these, when things are at their most dire, that we need to dig deeper and keep fighting every day for the America that was promised to us, the America (as Mr. Springsteen so eloquently put it) we carry in our hearts. So because I believe in these things, I will not give up.
There will come a day when this country will be forced to awaken from its greedy, solipsistic slumber (and I fear that it will be a rude awakening). But until then, I will not watch the fireworks, I will not wear red, white and blue, I will not sing "God Bless America," I will not wave the flag. Because though I still love my country (despite all its flaws), to do these things would be a betrayal of everything in which I believe. Because I just don't feel it. And because you just don't lie about patriotism.
For the last year or two--hell, since the inception of this "war" we are currently engaged in--I have not felt particularly patriotic, at least in the "rah rah wave the flag sing 'God Bless America'" sort of way. It's a little hard for me to wear the red, white and blue given the values which my beloved country is currently espousing and for which countless young Americans and Iraqis are being maimed and killed.
The America Dr. King believed in--the country I (still) believe in--stands for something different than torture and lawlessness and greed and arrogance, for lying and cheating and subterfuge. It stands for Equal Justice Under Law, for government of the People by the People for the People; for accountability, transparency and fairness.
It is extremely difficult to maintain one's belief in "the system" when it seems corrupted beyond repair; when no one seems to care, when we all seem to be looking after only ourselves. However, it is in circumstances like these, when things are at their most dire, that we need to dig deeper and keep fighting every day for the America that was promised to us, the America (as Mr. Springsteen so eloquently put it) we carry in our hearts. So because I believe in these things, I will not give up.
There will come a day when this country will be forced to awaken from its greedy, solipsistic slumber (and I fear that it will be a rude awakening). But until then, I will not watch the fireworks, I will not wear red, white and blue, I will not sing "God Bless America," I will not wave the flag. Because though I still love my country (despite all its flaws), to do these things would be a betrayal of everything in which I believe. Because I just don't feel it. And because you just don't lie about patriotism.
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