there i go again, about to take linda for a tripp again.

while she is not looking, i will get moorehead from monica, who blewinsky to town last week. as of late, i feel like i am staring in my own personal version of ground hog's day. i am that guy in the twilight zone who relives the murder trial, day after day. his lawyer, the jury, the judge, all change, but the eternal feeling of death, is constant. life rotates in 360 degree turns. or else, i am the store dummy in the twilight zone who in vain, searches for freedom, once even overextending her vacation in order to grasp for liberty. but, work predominates, and the endless eternity of alienating labor intrudes on all other possibilities. the issue of freedom denied is one that we all must face.
fine art adds the pepper to life that we all need. it changes the tenor of our lives, and drums up the vital excitement that we all need. believe me, i am not off third base, and if you cey that ron, you are hitting me with a lowell blow.
we are all that woman in the twilight zone (what is this with him and the twilight zone) on the operating table, trying to conform to the accepted standards of society. we go to social gatherings, and the first words out of our collective mouths question the other's money making capacities. "what do you do?" what did you study in college?" "oh yeah, what do you plan to do with that?" i plan to stop talking to you, you greedy, shallow, networking, prick! is there a concept more revolting than seeing the other as a stepping stone to money. curtis, there has to be something fuller than that. yet, we taylor our lives to such selfish sensibilities, and the art of life evaporates, leaving only the mundane of career and currency. sonny, i see redd when such meetings occur. donald was known to fly away like a byrd from such happenings, but how do we buck these doings. i suppose where there is a williams, there is a way, but to me, it seems that it is the same old birdsong and dance, and there is no michael ray richardson of hope to be found. perhaps my friend michael, who is a g-man, can get to the bottom of this.
but alas, i am suspect of authority figures, for in essence, they are essentially protectors of property and power. did they not murder the powerful message of fred hampton, spy on martin king, and help to drive abbie hoffman to madness? power has taken the best among us, and crippled us all, reducing what we could have been to crumbs. if the panthers had the bobby seale of approval from the powerful, what might they have become? if cuba had been allowed to develop as they would have liked, without facing the destructive disdain of the behemoth from north america, what might they have been? if malcolm x had not been picked off by malicious murderers moving hand in hand with the state security apparatus, what wonders might the black community, and hence, our nation, been capable of? if the iww not been wickedly wacked away at, what radical realities might they have realized within the american labor movement?
our system is marvelous at leaving us with questions left unanswered. quandries quickly quantify, and the man who cares for decency and justice finds himself swimming in a sea of state sanctioned violence. the bombs fall on others, but the air he breathes, the food he eats, and the water he drinks, will surely kill him too, in the end. his demise will be viewed as a personal tragedy, terrible, but nothing that will lead him toward a new social understanding of power relations and root causes. joe six pack will be busy with buying, worn out from work, after ass, and tied down with television. he may have a faint sense that all is not well, but will most likely blame the usual suspects, as the real purveyors of his misery remain out of his limited vision. yes, michael would rather blame the savage inequalities of his daily existence on evil others. he turns on talk radio, and listens to unlearned losers pontificate pointlessly about immigrants and terrorists and 9/11.
and he thinks these guys "tell it like it is."
and he goes to work, and his taxes pay for war, and he goes broke trying to keep his precious caucasion offspring away from public schools, and he wonders why he muddles along, meandering through the misery of modern life.
and slowly, but surely, this man murders the world.
and dies along with it.