Friday Night and Static on the Radio
They told us that the two bodies washed up over near Richmond (California) were Lacy Rocha and her baby, Connor. We've all known it since the bodies were found. What a low life sonofabitch. Scott Peterson killed both his wife and his son. Of course he did it. The mathmatical probability that a stranger abducted her and then disposed of her body only two miles from the marina Scott admitted to using to go fishing the day of her disappearance is only about a gazillion to one.
You know what I want? I want them to have him look at the bodies, all fresh from the autopsy and after 4 months in the Bay. Scott, is this Lacy? Scott, this is what Connor looked like. Your son, Scott. Doesn't he look just like you?
I started thinking he was guilty about a month or so after the disappearance. He never referred to the baby whom he and Laci had already named Connor. I never heard him say "my son." I'm sure he did say it at least once or twice subsequently, but not the first month. The reason I'm so sure is because it registered to me and I talked about it. I'm sure a lot of others noticed it, too. I'm sure the police noticed it.
Wow. Those guys, the police. I think they probably got this right. They probably went to the Rochas and said, we need you to be patient. He did it. If we charge him before it's right, he'll walk. Give us some time. He'll get sloppy. The bodies will be found. Someone will come forth with something useful. Please, be patient. Four months later, the bodies wash up. Today, 5 days later, a large piece of black plastic washed up in the vicinity of the bodies. If Scott can be linked to the plastic, it'll be a slam dunk. It's hard to convict someone entirely on circumstantial evidence. Hard, but not impossible. So far, though, I have a lot of respect for the competence of the people who will be presenting the People's case against that cursed man. I wish upon him the death met by William Wallace. In 1305 he was arrested by the English and hanged, then disemboweled, beheaded, and quartered. I think he was flayed, too, but I couldn't find that reference.
I guess that means I believe in the death penalty. Well, only when appropriate. I don't particularly like the process. I mean, it's important to be careful, but the system here in California is so lawyer-intensive that it's very inefficient. Scumbags who have been sentenced to die get an automatic appeal to the California Supreme Court that takes about 10 to 20 years to resolve. Okay, that's an exaggeration. What, wait, no it isn't. There are guys on death row who were tried back in the 80s. Last century, 80s. There are lots of reasons. But each reason takes about 2 or 3 years. Most of them are more likely to die of old age than they are by injection.
And this process that takes so long is doing exactly what it's supposed to do, delay the execution long enough to be sure it's not arbitrary. Hell, the only thing arbitrary is the delay. Justice delayed is justice denied. If you're going to execute the lousy bastard, do so quickly, like the do in Florida and Texas. To delay it 10 and 20 years puts the family of the victim(s) in pergatory for that period of time, and purgatory is painful.
Do it better or quit doing it. I'm tired of so much of my tax dollars being spent on the process. Either figure out a more cost efficient way, both in terms of money and time, or do away with it.
Something to think about.
Friday, April 18, 2003
Today I read, Tomorrow I write
Monkey mind here jumping about all over the blogsophere, reading the railings and rantings of my betters. My newest discovery and today's favorite new (to me) blog is Dancing with Dogs. It may be several people, but the person with whom I am most familiar is Shanti. Shanti has been my gateway to a bunch of blogs maintained by Asians, mostly Indians, I think. The more I'm exposed to Indian culture, the more I identify with it. At this point it's a romantic-like fixation, but who cares which key you use to open a door. The important point is that a new door is opened. Thank you Shanti over at Dancing with Dogs.
Monkey mind here jumping about all over the blogsophere, reading the railings and rantings of my betters. My newest discovery and today's favorite new (to me) blog is Dancing with Dogs. It may be several people, but the person with whom I am most familiar is Shanti. Shanti has been my gateway to a bunch of blogs maintained by Asians, mostly Indians, I think. The more I'm exposed to Indian culture, the more I identify with it. At this point it's a romantic-like fixation, but who cares which key you use to open a door. The important point is that a new door is opened. Thank you Shanti over at Dancing with Dogs.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
Travel Advisory for France
From a friend in Chicago.
Travel advisory for Americans heading for France The following advisory for American travelers heading for France was compiled from information provided by the U.S. State Department, the Central Intelligence Agency, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, the Food and Drug Administration, the Center for Disease Control and some very expensive spy satellites that the French don't know about. It is intended as a guide for American travelers only and no guarantee of accuracy is ensured or intended.
General Overview
France is a medium-sized foreign country situated on the continent of Europe, and is, for all intents and purposes, fucking useless. It is an important member of the world community, although not nearly as important as it thinks. It is bounded by Germany, Spain, Switzerland, and some smaller nations of no particular consequence or shopping opportunities. France is a very old country with many treasures such as the Louvre and EuroDisney. Among its contributions to Western civilization are champagne, Camembert cheese, the guillotine, and body odor. Although France likes to think of itself as a modern nation, air conditioning is little used and it is next to impossible to get decent Mexican food. One continuing exasperation for American visitors is that the people willfully persist in speaking French, although many will speak English if shouted at repeatedly.
The People
France has a population of 54 million people, most of whom drink and smoke a great deal, drive like lunatics, are dangerously over-sexed and have no concept of standing patiently in a line. The French people are generally gloomy, temperamental, proud, arrogant, aloof and undisciplined; those are their good points. Most French citizens are Roman Catholic, although you'd hardly guess it from their behavior. Many people are Communists and topless sunbathing is common. Men sometimes have girls' names like Marie and they kiss each other when they hand out medals.. American travelers are advised to travel in groups and to wear baseball caps and colorful pants for easier mutual recognition. All French women have small tits, and don't shave their armpits or their legs.
Safety
In general, France is a safe destination, although travelers are advised that France is occasionally invaded by Germany. By tradition, the French surrender more or less at once and, apart from a temporary shortage of Scotch whisky and increased difficulty in getting baseball scores and stock market prices, life for the visitors generally goes on much as before. A tunnel connecting France to Britain beneath the English Channel has been opened in recent years to make it easier for the French government to flee to London.
History
France was discovered by Charlemagne in the Dark Ages. Other important historical figures are Louis XIV, the Huguenots, Joan of Arc, Jacques Cousteau and Charles de Gaulle, who was President for many years and is now an airport. The French armies of the past have had their asses kicked by just about every other country in the world.
Government
The French form of government is democratic but noisy. Elections are held more or less continuously and always result in a runoff. For administrative purposes, the country is divided into regions, departments, districts, municipalities, cantons, communes, villages, cafes, booths and floor tiles. Parliament consists of two chambers, the Upper and Lower (although, confusingly, they are both on the ground floor), whose members are either Gaullists or communists, neither of whom can be trusted. Parliament's principal preoccupations are setting off atomic bombs in the South Pacific and acting indignant when anyone complains. According to the most current State Department intelligence, the current President is someone named Jacques. Further information is not available at this time.
Culture
The French pride themselves on their culture, although it is not easy to see why. All of their songs sound the same and they have hardly ever made a movie that you want to watch for anything except the nude scenes. Nothing, of course, is more boring than a French novel (except perhaps an evening with a French family.)
Cuisine
Let's face it, no matter how much garlic you put on it, a snail is just a slug with a shell on its back. Croissants, on the other hand, are excellent although it is impossible for most Americans to pronounce this word. American travelers are therefore advised to stick to cheeseburgers at McDonald's or the restaurants at the leading hotels such as Sheraton or Holiday Inn. Bring your own beer, as the domestic varieties are nothing but a poor excuse for such.
Economy
France has a large and diversified economy, second only to Germany's economy in Europe, which is surprising since people hardly ever work at all. If they are not spending four hours dawdling over lunch, they are on strike and blocking the roads with their trucks and tractors. France's principal exports, in order of importance to the economy, are wine, nuclear weapons, perfume, guided missiles, champagne, high-caliber weaponry, grenade launchers, land mines, tanks, attack aircraft, miscellaneous armaments and cheese.
Conclusion
France enjoys a rich history, a picturesque and varied landscape and a temperate climate. In short, it would be a very nice country if French people didn't inhabit it, and it weren't still radioactive from all the nuclear tests they run. The best thing that can be said for it is that it is not Spain. Remember no one ordered you to go abroad. Personally, we always take our vacation in Oklahoma City and you are advised to do the same.
From a friend in Chicago.
Travel advisory for Americans heading for France The following advisory for American travelers heading for France was compiled from information provided by the U.S. State Department, the Central Intelligence Agency, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, the Food and Drug Administration, the Center for Disease Control and some very expensive spy satellites that the French don't know about. It is intended as a guide for American travelers only and no guarantee of accuracy is ensured or intended.
General Overview
France is a medium-sized foreign country situated on the continent of Europe, and is, for all intents and purposes, fucking useless. It is an important member of the world community, although not nearly as important as it thinks. It is bounded by Germany, Spain, Switzerland, and some smaller nations of no particular consequence or shopping opportunities. France is a very old country with many treasures such as the Louvre and EuroDisney. Among its contributions to Western civilization are champagne, Camembert cheese, the guillotine, and body odor. Although France likes to think of itself as a modern nation, air conditioning is little used and it is next to impossible to get decent Mexican food. One continuing exasperation for American visitors is that the people willfully persist in speaking French, although many will speak English if shouted at repeatedly.
The People
France has a population of 54 million people, most of whom drink and smoke a great deal, drive like lunatics, are dangerously over-sexed and have no concept of standing patiently in a line. The French people are generally gloomy, temperamental, proud, arrogant, aloof and undisciplined; those are their good points. Most French citizens are Roman Catholic, although you'd hardly guess it from their behavior. Many people are Communists and topless sunbathing is common. Men sometimes have girls' names like Marie and they kiss each other when they hand out medals.. American travelers are advised to travel in groups and to wear baseball caps and colorful pants for easier mutual recognition. All French women have small tits, and don't shave their armpits or their legs.
Safety
In general, France is a safe destination, although travelers are advised that France is occasionally invaded by Germany. By tradition, the French surrender more or less at once and, apart from a temporary shortage of Scotch whisky and increased difficulty in getting baseball scores and stock market prices, life for the visitors generally goes on much as before. A tunnel connecting France to Britain beneath the English Channel has been opened in recent years to make it easier for the French government to flee to London.
History
France was discovered by Charlemagne in the Dark Ages. Other important historical figures are Louis XIV, the Huguenots, Joan of Arc, Jacques Cousteau and Charles de Gaulle, who was President for many years and is now an airport. The French armies of the past have had their asses kicked by just about every other country in the world.
Government
The French form of government is democratic but noisy. Elections are held more or less continuously and always result in a runoff. For administrative purposes, the country is divided into regions, departments, districts, municipalities, cantons, communes, villages, cafes, booths and floor tiles. Parliament consists of two chambers, the Upper and Lower (although, confusingly, they are both on the ground floor), whose members are either Gaullists or communists, neither of whom can be trusted. Parliament's principal preoccupations are setting off atomic bombs in the South Pacific and acting indignant when anyone complains. According to the most current State Department intelligence, the current President is someone named Jacques. Further information is not available at this time.
Culture
The French pride themselves on their culture, although it is not easy to see why. All of their songs sound the same and they have hardly ever made a movie that you want to watch for anything except the nude scenes. Nothing, of course, is more boring than a French novel (except perhaps an evening with a French family.)
Cuisine
Let's face it, no matter how much garlic you put on it, a snail is just a slug with a shell on its back. Croissants, on the other hand, are excellent although it is impossible for most Americans to pronounce this word. American travelers are therefore advised to stick to cheeseburgers at McDonald's or the restaurants at the leading hotels such as Sheraton or Holiday Inn. Bring your own beer, as the domestic varieties are nothing but a poor excuse for such.
Economy
France has a large and diversified economy, second only to Germany's economy in Europe, which is surprising since people hardly ever work at all. If they are not spending four hours dawdling over lunch, they are on strike and blocking the roads with their trucks and tractors. France's principal exports, in order of importance to the economy, are wine, nuclear weapons, perfume, guided missiles, champagne, high-caliber weaponry, grenade launchers, land mines, tanks, attack aircraft, miscellaneous armaments and cheese.
Conclusion
France enjoys a rich history, a picturesque and varied landscape and a temperate climate. In short, it would be a very nice country if French people didn't inhabit it, and it weren't still radioactive from all the nuclear tests they run. The best thing that can be said for it is that it is not Spain. Remember no one ordered you to go abroad. Personally, we always take our vacation in Oklahoma City and you are advised to do the same.
My Blog Roll Grows
I added another couple of blogs to my blogroll. In introducing my blogroll, I'm taking a clue from The Talking Dog, a blogger who slips blog reviews in between his political commentary. His real name is Seth. Seth thinks I'm a hardcore rightwinger, just because I told him that as a liberal he would probably die and go to hell. BWAHAHAHAHAHA. Not a rightwinger, Seth, just more conservative than most of my neighbors. Okay, more conservative than all of my neighbors. I'm not really a conservative, you know. I'm a Texas Populist Libertarian. We dislike liberals and conservatives. Back to blogrolling: whenI add a new blog to my roll, I'm going to give a brief introduction and tell you why I've added them. Hope you don't mind, Seth. Immitation is a sincere form of flattery.
There is no rhyme nor reason to my list. It's just whomever I find interesting or entertaining at the moment. Today I've added Magnifisyncopathological. This blog is written by a dude whose last name is Drizzten, although it's really just a guess. The blog allows for quite a bit of fuzziness when it comes to names and identities. What I can tell you about "Drizz" is that he lives in Austin, Texas, and he has an edge to his writings and observations. I came across his blog while visiting a blog from Australia. If you visit him, you're going to come away knowing more than you did before you visited him, and you'll be better for it. Be sure to say hi, and that rlbtzero (that's pronounced Ray)(no, really, that's how it's pronounced) says hi.
I added another couple of blogs to my blogroll. In introducing my blogroll, I'm taking a clue from The Talking Dog, a blogger who slips blog reviews in between his political commentary. His real name is Seth. Seth thinks I'm a hardcore rightwinger, just because I told him that as a liberal he would probably die and go to hell. BWAHAHAHAHAHA. Not a rightwinger, Seth, just more conservative than most of my neighbors. Okay, more conservative than all of my neighbors. I'm not really a conservative, you know. I'm a Texas Populist Libertarian. We dislike liberals and conservatives. Back to blogrolling: whenI add a new blog to my roll, I'm going to give a brief introduction and tell you why I've added them. Hope you don't mind, Seth. Immitation is a sincere form of flattery.
There is no rhyme nor reason to my list. It's just whomever I find interesting or entertaining at the moment. Today I've added Magnifisyncopathological. This blog is written by a dude whose last name is Drizzten, although it's really just a guess. The blog allows for quite a bit of fuzziness when it comes to names and identities. What I can tell you about "Drizz" is that he lives in Austin, Texas, and he has an edge to his writings and observations. I came across his blog while visiting a blog from Australia. If you visit him, you're going to come away knowing more than you did before you visited him, and you'll be better for it. Be sure to say hi, and that rlbtzero (that's pronounced Ray)(no, really, that's how it's pronounced) says hi.
Monday, April 14, 2003
Houstonnage
Jase Oddity [not his real name, I'll bet] talks about Houston's heat and waistlines while making some rather astute observations that only someone dropped from another planet might make. I was out tripping through the blogosphere and stopped by Michael Morgan's blog, The Bayou City Perspective and, always trusting the recommendations of someone I barely know, I immediately linked over to The Atom Grid and discovered the piece by Jase Oddity. Go Jase.
Jase Oddity [not his real name, I'll bet] talks about Houston's heat and waistlines while making some rather astute observations that only someone dropped from another planet might make. I was out tripping through the blogosphere and stopped by Michael Morgan's blog, The Bayou City Perspective and, always trusting the recommendations of someone I barely know, I immediately linked over to The Atom Grid and discovered the piece by Jase Oddity. Go Jase.
Leftist Infatuation with Cuba
Emma discusses the history of Baby Boom Leftist Infatuation with Cuba over at her blog Late Night Thoughts. She does it so well that all I can add is "Amen." I have never understood it. Thank you, Emma, I understand it better now; not completely, but better.
I've always despised communism. I can't remember that it was an important issue to anyone in my family besides me. I must have read something that influenced later perceptions. But by golly, I have always hated communists. And by the time Castro came onto the scene, I was 12 years old, and I can remember hating him by the time I was 14.
Many years later, living in San Francisco, I met people who praised Cuba, Castro, and thought Che Gueverra was a folk hero. I thought they were idiots. If it was so great, why was everyone trying to get to Florida?
So Emma writes
"Dear Matt, You Don't Know Me, But..." Her essay is an open letter to Matthew Yglesias "Commenting on a series of letters of pro-Castro (or anti-Bush) letters to the LA Times posted by Matt Welch he says: The worst thing about these letters is that they don’t really even try to defend or apologize for Castro — it just can’t be done anymore — instead they change the subject as quickly as possible to the evils of George W. Bush and his man in Havana, James Cason. . . . Actually, Matt, there is a brand of American liberal who loves to apologize for Fidel."
Emma discusses the history of Baby Boom Leftist Infatuation with Cuba over at her blog Late Night Thoughts. She does it so well that all I can add is "Amen." I have never understood it. Thank you, Emma, I understand it better now; not completely, but better.
I've always despised communism. I can't remember that it was an important issue to anyone in my family besides me. I must have read something that influenced later perceptions. But by golly, I have always hated communists. And by the time Castro came onto the scene, I was 12 years old, and I can remember hating him by the time I was 14.
Many years later, living in San Francisco, I met people who praised Cuba, Castro, and thought Che Gueverra was a folk hero. I thought they were idiots. If it was so great, why was everyone trying to get to Florida?
So Emma writes
"Dear Matt, You Don't Know Me, But..." Her essay is an open letter to Matthew Yglesias "Commenting on a series of letters of pro-Castro (or anti-Bush) letters to the LA Times posted by Matt Welch he says: The worst thing about these letters is that they don’t really even try to defend or apologize for Castro — it just can’t be done anymore — instead they change the subject as quickly as possible to the evils of George W. Bush and his man in Havana, James Cason. . . . Actually, Matt, there is a brand of American liberal who loves to apologize for Fidel."
Still Working at It
This is only my 4th or 5th change of appearance for my blog. Today I figured out how to do a blogroll. A word of explanation. My blogroll is of people whom I read. It's an endorsement in that I find these people to be interesting. Often I find them to be more interesting than their opinions. If you're a pilgrim trying to make some progress, you're probably going to want to read a few different opinions. Well, here's a bunch. There are probably more conservative blogs listed than liberal. I don't know if that makes me a conservative or not. Bloggers from the Left have been irritating me more than those on the Right lately. Where does it say you have to take a stupid pill to be Liberal? Then why have so many taken one?
This is only my 4th or 5th change of appearance for my blog. Today I figured out how to do a blogroll. A word of explanation. My blogroll is of people whom I read. It's an endorsement in that I find these people to be interesting. Often I find them to be more interesting than their opinions. If you're a pilgrim trying to make some progress, you're probably going to want to read a few different opinions. Well, here's a bunch. There are probably more conservative blogs listed than liberal. I don't know if that makes me a conservative or not. Bloggers from the Left have been irritating me more than those on the Right lately. Where does it say you have to take a stupid pill to be Liberal? Then why have so many taken one?
Sunday, April 13, 2003
Our Friends the Russians
A blogger in Great Britain named Andrew whose blog always has great pictures from the war, also has an interesting opinion on the details. This morning he got my attention with his discussion of Yevegini Primakov's visit with Saddam days before the bombing started. Within the article is also a denial that the Russians offered Saddam a haven for exile.
In one of the broadcast news programs this morning, (if I find the cite I'll come back), from the Information Ministry of Saddam's Iraqi government, were documents proving much of the materiel support for Saddam for the past several years came from Russia. And yet another broadcast report mentioned that much of the debt of Iraq was owed to France, Germany and Russia.
I wish I could say that I was surprised. In many ways, Russia is the only European country that shows any understanding of Arab culture in its dealings with them. They are ruthless. They are also reasonably successful given their goals. Make no mistake, they are looking out for themselves. It seems to me that Russia thinks its European neighbors are a bunch of wusses. We're another matter altogether. I think they are uncomfortable having us play conqueror so close to its borders, but just haven't decided how to deal with it. Putin knows the world is a stage full of actors. Of the Fearful Three, only Putin earns any respect for being able to have a ability to strategize.
Stephen den Beste's favorite of the Fearful Three for being the most self-serving is France. There were reports last year that much of Saddam's manufacturing capabilities were German imports, but that information in my mind is so old that I'll wait for the story to come out of post-war Iraq for verification. Shroeder seems to lack the stature of his two co-villains. His goal seems to have been much more shortsided that either Putin or Chirac.
God, this is making me sound like a neocon.
A blogger in Great Britain named Andrew whose blog always has great pictures from the war, also has an interesting opinion on the details. This morning he got my attention with his discussion of Yevegini Primakov's visit with Saddam days before the bombing started. Within the article is also a denial that the Russians offered Saddam a haven for exile.
In one of the broadcast news programs this morning, (if I find the cite I'll come back), from the Information Ministry of Saddam's Iraqi government, were documents proving much of the materiel support for Saddam for the past several years came from Russia. And yet another broadcast report mentioned that much of the debt of Iraq was owed to France, Germany and Russia.
I wish I could say that I was surprised. In many ways, Russia is the only European country that shows any understanding of Arab culture in its dealings with them. They are ruthless. They are also reasonably successful given their goals. Make no mistake, they are looking out for themselves. It seems to me that Russia thinks its European neighbors are a bunch of wusses. We're another matter altogether. I think they are uncomfortable having us play conqueror so close to its borders, but just haven't decided how to deal with it. Putin knows the world is a stage full of actors. Of the Fearful Three, only Putin earns any respect for being able to have a ability to strategize.
Stephen den Beste's favorite of the Fearful Three for being the most self-serving is France. There were reports last year that much of Saddam's manufacturing capabilities were German imports, but that information in my mind is so old that I'll wait for the story to come out of post-war Iraq for verification. Shroeder seems to lack the stature of his two co-villains. His goal seems to have been much more shortsided that either Putin or Chirac.
God, this is making me sound like a neocon.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
Genealogy
I saw you when you rolled your eyes. I say "genealogy" and you roll you eyes. Did you read where in Palo Alto, California, they're going to make it against the law (or at least against the rules) to roll eyes in response to someone speaking. Aren't liberals cute? You know the goodie-two-shoes making the proposal is a liberal, you just know it. I'm not endorsing conservatives, but you just know that is not one of the things they have on their legislative agenda. If I'm wrong on this one, someone send me an e-mail.
Back to the subject at hand. Genealogy. When I was growing up, back a million years ago, I lived for quite a few of my years with my maternal grandmother, Minnie Ashworth Droddy. From the time I was big enough to drive, probably 12 or 13, I began to drive my grandmother to funerals. She happened to be from one of the largest family groups in Louisiana, so we had plenty of funerals to attend.
Now to explain that, I have to go back to 1803, when my gggggrandfather, James Ashworth, and a group of friends, in-laws, and cousins, decided to forego South Carolina and migrate to Louisiana which was about to open up to American settlement as a result of the Louisiana Purchase. His wife, my gggggrandmother, Keziah Dial, had already birthed about 5 of her eventual 9 kids. Her parents and brothers were part of the group making the migration.
There were about 12 or 13 families in all. One of the leaders of this group was the Rev. Joseph Willis.. It's not my job to tell their whole story right now, just to give you a few pertinent details. Another one of my important Descended From families, the Perkins, were also part of the group. Near as we can tell, the only thing these families had in common was their rejection by the dominant culture in South Carolina for being mixed race, most likely, and if you believe our family's oral tradition, American Indian and White.
We know they got to Louisiana about 1804, because records indicate the first children of this group being born in Louisiana in 1804. They settled in a disputed area between Louisiana and Texas known as No Man's Land or the Neutral Territory. The area became home to outlaws, slave smugglers, and my grandmother's people, the Redbones. Looking at their history, it's not surprising that they chose to settle someplace outside the law. In South Carolina, they were reputed to be outlaws and had run ins with the vigilante force called the Regulators. Either my gggggrandfather, or his father, also James Ashworth, was branded with a "T" on his hand for breaking jail according to Richard Maxwell Brown in his book, The South Carolina Regulators, published by the Belknap Press of Harvard University Press in 1963. He must have reformed somewhat though, because he received a grant of land on the Little Pee Dee River in 1774. James never got a chance to develop his place on the Little Pee Dee, however. The region was soon caught up in the American Revolution. James and his family found themselves on the side of the Crown, and after the American victory, were forced to move. Family legend has it that for the years between the end of the Revolutionary War and the migration to Louisiana, the Ashworths lived in a Cherokee village in northwest South Carolina.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah. These dozen or so families lived marginally between Texas and Louisiana for over 100 years, having large families, cousins marrying cousins, so by the time I was taking my grandmother to funerals, there must have been thousands of them.
At the funerals to which I accompanied my grandmother, were groups of old women who sat together at the wakes and recounted the genealogy of the peson being buried, as well as that of any person who happened to come up in conversation, usually someone who was not present. This was also when the stories of who we were and how we came to this place were told. We know who we are.
Slowly, over time, as I have grown older, I find that I have less to say and find myself content to remember conversations from times past. This is a bit odd and unexpected because I sometimes can't remember what I'm doing, why I walked into a room, things like that, but I can remember with crystal clarity a conversation between old women at a funeral 40 years ago. How is that possible?
Be that as it may, woven into those stories are the genealogies of my family. To Southerners, genealogy is a memory tool. In telling of our kinship with one another and with the past, we remember their stories. I remember stories of those old women at the funerals. I can't account for the accuracy of my stories. Boundaries in the world of memory are more flux. Stories mix. Those things aren't as important as simply having a story. I want to thank my grandmother, Minnie Ashworth Droddy and her best friend, sister-in-law, and also first cousin once removed, Loanie Perkins Ashworth for the many stories they told. As I tell my stories, I can hear both of them laughing gently as they remember the struggles and adventures of their parents, their cousins, and their friends.
We're coming up on the 200th anniversary of the Redbone people in Louisiana. Our story is largely untold to outsiders. One of the purposes of this blog is to tell our story. It's a good tale worth telling.
I saw you when you rolled your eyes. I say "genealogy" and you roll you eyes. Did you read where in Palo Alto, California, they're going to make it against the law (or at least against the rules) to roll eyes in response to someone speaking. Aren't liberals cute? You know the goodie-two-shoes making the proposal is a liberal, you just know it. I'm not endorsing conservatives, but you just know that is not one of the things they have on their legislative agenda. If I'm wrong on this one, someone send me an e-mail.
Back to the subject at hand. Genealogy. When I was growing up, back a million years ago, I lived for quite a few of my years with my maternal grandmother, Minnie Ashworth Droddy. From the time I was big enough to drive, probably 12 or 13, I began to drive my grandmother to funerals. She happened to be from one of the largest family groups in Louisiana, so we had plenty of funerals to attend.
Now to explain that, I have to go back to 1803, when my gggggrandfather, James Ashworth, and a group of friends, in-laws, and cousins, decided to forego South Carolina and migrate to Louisiana which was about to open up to American settlement as a result of the Louisiana Purchase. His wife, my gggggrandmother, Keziah Dial, had already birthed about 5 of her eventual 9 kids. Her parents and brothers were part of the group making the migration.
There were about 12 or 13 families in all. One of the leaders of this group was the Rev. Joseph Willis.. It's not my job to tell their whole story right now, just to give you a few pertinent details. Another one of my important Descended From families, the Perkins, were also part of the group. Near as we can tell, the only thing these families had in common was their rejection by the dominant culture in South Carolina for being mixed race, most likely, and if you believe our family's oral tradition, American Indian and White.
We know they got to Louisiana about 1804, because records indicate the first children of this group being born in Louisiana in 1804. They settled in a disputed area between Louisiana and Texas known as No Man's Land or the Neutral Territory. The area became home to outlaws, slave smugglers, and my grandmother's people, the Redbones. Looking at their history, it's not surprising that they chose to settle someplace outside the law. In South Carolina, they were reputed to be outlaws and had run ins with the vigilante force called the Regulators. Either my gggggrandfather, or his father, also James Ashworth, was branded with a "T" on his hand for breaking jail according to Richard Maxwell Brown in his book, The South Carolina Regulators, published by the Belknap Press of Harvard University Press in 1963. He must have reformed somewhat though, because he received a grant of land on the Little Pee Dee River in 1774. James never got a chance to develop his place on the Little Pee Dee, however. The region was soon caught up in the American Revolution. James and his family found themselves on the side of the Crown, and after the American victory, were forced to move. Family legend has it that for the years between the end of the Revolutionary War and the migration to Louisiana, the Ashworths lived in a Cherokee village in northwest South Carolina.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah. These dozen or so families lived marginally between Texas and Louisiana for over 100 years, having large families, cousins marrying cousins, so by the time I was taking my grandmother to funerals, there must have been thousands of them.
At the funerals to which I accompanied my grandmother, were groups of old women who sat together at the wakes and recounted the genealogy of the peson being buried, as well as that of any person who happened to come up in conversation, usually someone who was not present. This was also when the stories of who we were and how we came to this place were told. We know who we are.
Slowly, over time, as I have grown older, I find that I have less to say and find myself content to remember conversations from times past. This is a bit odd and unexpected because I sometimes can't remember what I'm doing, why I walked into a room, things like that, but I can remember with crystal clarity a conversation between old women at a funeral 40 years ago. How is that possible?
Be that as it may, woven into those stories are the genealogies of my family. To Southerners, genealogy is a memory tool. In telling of our kinship with one another and with the past, we remember their stories. I remember stories of those old women at the funerals. I can't account for the accuracy of my stories. Boundaries in the world of memory are more flux. Stories mix. Those things aren't as important as simply having a story. I want to thank my grandmother, Minnie Ashworth Droddy and her best friend, sister-in-law, and also first cousin once removed, Loanie Perkins Ashworth for the many stories they told. As I tell my stories, I can hear both of them laughing gently as they remember the struggles and adventures of their parents, their cousins, and their friends.
We're coming up on the 200th anniversary of the Redbone people in Louisiana. Our story is largely untold to outsiders. One of the purposes of this blog is to tell our story. It's a good tale worth telling.
Victory in Iraq Irrelevant!
I know because I saw a protestor on Market Street spray paint "irrelevant" on the plastic of a newsrack so you couldn't read the headline which read BAGHDAD FALLS over a full-page picture of the statue of Saddam that was pulled over and off its pedastal Wednesday morning. An event witnessed by the w.f.w. (whole f*cking world). This act of vandalism was in response to heckling from passer-bys (one of whom was my downstairs neighbor, Joseph, a man of few words and not known for tolerance of idiotarians, who yelled at them to "Read the F*cking Headlines, Losers!"
I know because I saw a protestor on Market Street spray paint "irrelevant" on the plastic of a newsrack so you couldn't read the headline which read BAGHDAD FALLS over a full-page picture of the statue of Saddam that was pulled over and off its pedastal Wednesday morning. An event witnessed by the w.f.w. (whole f*cking world). This act of vandalism was in response to heckling from passer-bys (one of whom was my downstairs neighbor, Joseph, a man of few words and not known for tolerance of idiotarians, who yelled at them to "Read the F*cking Headlines, Losers!"
Pfc Jessica Lynch
Sara, from West Virginia, is blogging with a group called Hillbilly Sophisticate. At present she is writing a lot obout Pfc. Jessica Lynch, our American hero of the moment. She tells a good story. I'll come back to this topic and write more later. My hopes and prayers go to Pfc Lynch as her body recovers, her spirit heals, and she puts her life back on track. Good luck, Private Lynch. After the American media get through with you, you're going to think the Army was a picnic. Anyone want to bet how long it'll take for us to watch the entire rescue as a made-for-tv movie staring Wynona Rider as Jessica Lynch?
Notice how I tried not to refer to her by her first name, as in "poor Jessica." I do not wish to participate in diminishing her contribution as a soldier and as a heroine. She's not a frail young girl. She's a battle-hardened woman soldier. I'm guessing, but I bet she comes from hearty pioneer stock. I'm not sure when her Lynch's got to West Virginia, but I bet it was about the same time my people did, and that was back in that wave of Scots-Irish settlers that drifted down the Shenandoah Valley in the middle 1700s. Those were tough people, the men and the women. Women like Pvt. Lynch might be small in stature, but sugah, they tough as nails.
Sara, from West Virginia, is blogging with a group called Hillbilly Sophisticate. At present she is writing a lot obout Pfc. Jessica Lynch, our American hero of the moment. She tells a good story. I'll come back to this topic and write more later. My hopes and prayers go to Pfc Lynch as her body recovers, her spirit heals, and she puts her life back on track. Good luck, Private Lynch. After the American media get through with you, you're going to think the Army was a picnic. Anyone want to bet how long it'll take for us to watch the entire rescue as a made-for-tv movie staring Wynona Rider as Jessica Lynch?
Notice how I tried not to refer to her by her first name, as in "poor Jessica." I do not wish to participate in diminishing her contribution as a soldier and as a heroine. She's not a frail young girl. She's a battle-hardened woman soldier. I'm guessing, but I bet she comes from hearty pioneer stock. I'm not sure when her Lynch's got to West Virginia, but I bet it was about the same time my people did, and that was back in that wave of Scots-Irish settlers that drifted down the Shenandoah Valley in the middle 1700s. Those were tough people, the men and the women. Women like Pvt. Lynch might be small in stature, but sugah, they tough as nails.
Life in Paradise
I was being sarcastic. However, I do live in a place where every level of government is controlled by Democrats. I sometimes call it Democratland. It is a Leftist controlled enclave in the midst of George Bush's Brave New World. My Congressman is Barbara Lee, the only member of Congress to vote to deny the President the authority he sought to wage war against terrorism. I'm sure she had her reasons. The mayor of my city is Jerry Brown, also known as Moonbeam. I work in San Francisco whose mayor is Willie Brown, whose personal motto is "I like to live big, with white women, fur coats, frequent trips to Paris." His favorite hobby is giving his ex-girlfriends government jobs. No one thinks this is a big deal in San Francisco. I ride BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) to work. BART probably has a bigger budget and more employees than half the states. Oh, and I work for the government.
Tuesday afternoon, a couple of friends and I were walking to catch BART for home, and as we passed through a lovely plaza named to honor the most vaulted of liberal ideas, the United Nations, we saw a woman of indeterminate age, apparently homeless, obviously incapacitated by drugs, alcohol or both, urinating in front of the doors of an unused (for security reasons) entrance to the federal building facing the plaza. Urinating like a cow.
Dear Ms. Manners? What's a guy to do? The Conservative in me wanted to scream at her to stop defiling my plaza, my city, my state, my nation, my earth, my universe. Where was the cop that walks this beat? Where's the federal cop whose job it is to patrol the building's perimeter? You see how quickly my outrage was channeled away from personal responsibility? Have I been trained or what?
Back to the urinating cow: although I would like to have walked over and slapped the bitch, I know better. The good ol' boy in me knows that if you step in shit, it's hard to scrape off and the smell lingers.
What I know from this is that government is not a solution for everything. If it were, the people around the San Francisco Bay Area should be a lot happier than they are. Maybe it's just me, but they sure do seem angry. And isolated. And powerless. Presented with a problem, they look to the government for solutions. There are 50 million of us here. The structure of our society is very complex. The government serves many good purposes, but it is also so large it is stifling. How well is it working? For the most part, it seems to be doing okay, but it costs a lot.
Democrats seem to think if the government hasn't solved the problem, then the program (and by extension, the government) needs to be bigger. When Republicans control the government, they treat government like it's a business, and although maybe run better, it quickly forgets that its purpose is to solve the problem and not just run itself efficiently. Big is not necessarily good. Efficient is not always better.
I was being sarcastic. However, I do live in a place where every level of government is controlled by Democrats. I sometimes call it Democratland. It is a Leftist controlled enclave in the midst of George Bush's Brave New World. My Congressman is Barbara Lee, the only member of Congress to vote to deny the President the authority he sought to wage war against terrorism. I'm sure she had her reasons. The mayor of my city is Jerry Brown, also known as Moonbeam. I work in San Francisco whose mayor is Willie Brown, whose personal motto is "I like to live big, with white women, fur coats, frequent trips to Paris." His favorite hobby is giving his ex-girlfriends government jobs. No one thinks this is a big deal in San Francisco. I ride BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) to work. BART probably has a bigger budget and more employees than half the states. Oh, and I work for the government.
Tuesday afternoon, a couple of friends and I were walking to catch BART for home, and as we passed through a lovely plaza named to honor the most vaulted of liberal ideas, the United Nations, we saw a woman of indeterminate age, apparently homeless, obviously incapacitated by drugs, alcohol or both, urinating in front of the doors of an unused (for security reasons) entrance to the federal building facing the plaza. Urinating like a cow.
Dear Ms. Manners? What's a guy to do? The Conservative in me wanted to scream at her to stop defiling my plaza, my city, my state, my nation, my earth, my universe. Where was the cop that walks this beat? Where's the federal cop whose job it is to patrol the building's perimeter? You see how quickly my outrage was channeled away from personal responsibility? Have I been trained or what?
Back to the urinating cow: although I would like to have walked over and slapped the bitch, I know better. The good ol' boy in me knows that if you step in shit, it's hard to scrape off and the smell lingers.
What I know from this is that government is not a solution for everything. If it were, the people around the San Francisco Bay Area should be a lot happier than they are. Maybe it's just me, but they sure do seem angry. And isolated. And powerless. Presented with a problem, they look to the government for solutions. There are 50 million of us here. The structure of our society is very complex. The government serves many good purposes, but it is also so large it is stifling. How well is it working? For the most part, it seems to be doing okay, but it costs a lot.
Democrats seem to think if the government hasn't solved the problem, then the program (and by extension, the government) needs to be bigger. When Republicans control the government, they treat government like it's a business, and although maybe run better, it quickly forgets that its purpose is to solve the problem and not just run itself efficiently. Big is not necessarily good. Efficient is not always better.
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Dancing with Myself
Anybody there young enough to remember that song by Billy Idol? I can barely remember the song, but I've clung to the sentiment. I'm out here in the blogosphere, bearing witness, but mostly dancing with myself.
A week ago (3/28/03), I wrote about and compared the words quagmire and quandary. The reports on the television were so, so gloomy, that I started worrying excessively. What if Stephen den Beste was wrong. What if "Rummy" Rumsfeld really was an egotistical and maniacal monster intent on bringing on Armageddon? And is it wrong for me to think this old warhawk in his 60's if not 70's is so damn cute? Scratch that last question. Not relevant and frankly, just a little scary.
I mention all of this because I think it's a manly thing to do. Admit that you were scared, and thank God you were wrong.
At the cost of our blood, sweat and tears, we have rid the world of one awful tyrant. We? Yes, we. All Americans get credit for this. You folks on the Right are thinking, yeah, like hell we're giving the Left any credit for this. Well, you have to. The soldiers and marines were not there representing the fucking Right or the fucking Left. They were there representing America. You "Not in My Name" Assholes? Too bad, was too! The strength of this country, at least in my opinion, is the iron that is forged when strongly held ideas clash and make peace with the existence of each other.
Anybody there young enough to remember that song by Billy Idol? I can barely remember the song, but I've clung to the sentiment. I'm out here in the blogosphere, bearing witness, but mostly dancing with myself.
A week ago (3/28/03), I wrote about and compared the words quagmire and quandary. The reports on the television were so, so gloomy, that I started worrying excessively. What if Stephen den Beste was wrong. What if "Rummy" Rumsfeld really was an egotistical and maniacal monster intent on bringing on Armageddon? And is it wrong for me to think this old warhawk in his 60's if not 70's is so damn cute? Scratch that last question. Not relevant and frankly, just a little scary.
I mention all of this because I think it's a manly thing to do. Admit that you were scared, and thank God you were wrong.
At the cost of our blood, sweat and tears, we have rid the world of one awful tyrant. We? Yes, we. All Americans get credit for this. You folks on the Right are thinking, yeah, like hell we're giving the Left any credit for this. Well, you have to. The soldiers and marines were not there representing the fucking Right or the fucking Left. They were there representing America. You "Not in My Name" Assholes? Too bad, was too! The strength of this country, at least in my opinion, is the iron that is forged when strongly held ideas clash and make peace with the existence of each other.
Exploring the Blogosphere
I'm still out there getting to know people. I have a short attention span complicated by good intentions. For example, I read through the blogosphere using non-structured free association, which means I click those funny colored names and words. It takes me all over the fucking place. No, really, it does. Usually this path goes through other entities's domaines.
I'm one of those people who assumes he has something in common with everyone he meets. Hey, we're both human, aren't we? I don't presume a lot in common, just something. If the entity looks interesting, I'll bookmark it and come back later to see (maybe for no other reason, but) how interesting they are. The way I see it, it don't hurt nothin' and it's free.
Curmudgeonly & Skeptical is one of those kind of sites. I do not know who this person is, but he's just irreverent enough to be entertaining in most things. I think he writes from Texas, which may be the reason I book marked him. You see, I'm originally from Texas and am still very Texas identified, even though I live in California. If you read my writing closely, you can see I write in that Texas populist style made famous by that living fart, Molly Ivins. That was gratuitous. I'm sorry, Molly. Really, I am. It's just that I read your column today and thought you were again farting and saying that you were singing. Anyway, this is a long way to get to a story, but since I'm new, I feel I have to introduce myself every time I introduce a new act.
So, anyway, as I was saying, this dude, Mr. Curmudgeonly and Skeptical, (and while we're at it, might I ask, who ain't?), pointed to an article about Jane Fonda speaking to a group in Canada where she called Americans ignorant. Excuse me if I take it personally, but who the fuck does she think she is? I am not going to repeat myself twice in the same breath, so go visit Spell C-A-T Jane and read the comments. I would point to the article itself, but that link disappeared before I could capture it. That happens. The ways of the blogosphere are often strange and unexplainable.
I'm still out there getting to know people. I have a short attention span complicated by good intentions. For example, I read through the blogosphere using non-structured free association, which means I click those funny colored names and words. It takes me all over the fucking place. No, really, it does. Usually this path goes through other entities's domaines.
I'm one of those people who assumes he has something in common with everyone he meets. Hey, we're both human, aren't we? I don't presume a lot in common, just something. If the entity looks interesting, I'll bookmark it and come back later to see (maybe for no other reason, but) how interesting they are. The way I see it, it don't hurt nothin' and it's free.
Curmudgeonly & Skeptical is one of those kind of sites. I do not know who this person is, but he's just irreverent enough to be entertaining in most things. I think he writes from Texas, which may be the reason I book marked him. You see, I'm originally from Texas and am still very Texas identified, even though I live in California. If you read my writing closely, you can see I write in that Texas populist style made famous by that living fart, Molly Ivins. That was gratuitous. I'm sorry, Molly. Really, I am. It's just that I read your column today and thought you were again farting and saying that you were singing. Anyway, this is a long way to get to a story, but since I'm new, I feel I have to introduce myself every time I introduce a new act.
So, anyway, as I was saying, this dude, Mr. Curmudgeonly and Skeptical, (and while we're at it, might I ask, who ain't?), pointed to an article about Jane Fonda speaking to a group in Canada where she called Americans ignorant. Excuse me if I take it personally, but who the fuck does she think she is? I am not going to repeat myself twice in the same breath, so go visit Spell C-A-T Jane and read the comments. I would point to the article itself, but that link disappeared before I could capture it. That happens. The ways of the blogosphere are often strange and unexplainable.
Remembering the Berlin Wall
When the Berlin Wall fell, I was in San Francisco. I remember crying, laughing, calling everyone I knew in Germany. I put on Beethoven's Ode to Joy. Went through at least one bottle of champagne. I hated that wall as much as I hated communism. I began to agitate for a trip to Berlin, which only took me 7 months, but with plenty of time left to take a hammer to that wall myself. I brought back my own little chunk and a picture of me hammering. My heart is with those Iraqis this morning, tearing down that statue.
Watching the Iraqis loot their own country saddens me somewhat. Now I understand why they all bought guns. They saw the anarchy coming. One Iraqi in the southern part of the country was asked why the people were looting, and he replied, "Because we have nothing." Have faith, friend. Soon you'll have your country back. What you do with it is going to be up to you.
When the Berlin Wall fell, I was in San Francisco. I remember crying, laughing, calling everyone I knew in Germany. I put on Beethoven's Ode to Joy. Went through at least one bottle of champagne. I hated that wall as much as I hated communism. I began to agitate for a trip to Berlin, which only took me 7 months, but with plenty of time left to take a hammer to that wall myself. I brought back my own little chunk and a picture of me hammering. My heart is with those Iraqis this morning, tearing down that statue.
Watching the Iraqis loot their own country saddens me somewhat. Now I understand why they all bought guns. They saw the anarchy coming. One Iraqi in the southern part of the country was asked why the people were looting, and he replied, "Because we have nothing." Have faith, friend. Soon you'll have your country back. What you do with it is going to be up to you.
Let All Who Love Freedom Rejoice!
I awoke this morning to pictures of Iraqis trying to topple a statue of Saddam Hussein and to news reports saying that Saddam's resistance has crumbled. Hallelujah!
Even the most rabid of my anti-war neighbors must let go of their bitterness about the war and just for the moment celebrate with the Iraqi people. Now the Iraqis will seriously need our help. Let us put aside our division and be single minded in this challenge.
Sic semper tyrranis! Thus say we all, amen.
I awoke this morning to pictures of Iraqis trying to topple a statue of Saddam Hussein and to news reports saying that Saddam's resistance has crumbled. Hallelujah!
Even the most rabid of my anti-war neighbors must let go of their bitterness about the war and just for the moment celebrate with the Iraqi people. Now the Iraqis will seriously need our help. Let us put aside our division and be single minded in this challenge.
Sic semper tyrranis! Thus say we all, amen.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
Remembering Rodney King
What year did that Rodney King verdict come down? Ninety-two? I was living in the Western Addition of San Francisco in a great apartment right across the street from Section 8 housing and a large group of homies. My best friend was down from Girdwood, Alaska and I had my mother's Chrysler that could speak. No, really, it could talk. It would say "Your door is a jar." I didn't say it was smart, I said it could speak. I think my mother and her long-time companion were vacationing in Australia. Jim and I were on our way to San Jose, just about to get on interstate highway 280 having entered the freeway at Glen Park in San Francisco, when two motorcycle cops passed on either side of us and immediately in front of us, began weaving back and forth, causing us to stop which, of course, was their intention. At that entrace, there are two lanes entering and adjoining 3 others, making it 5 lanes of traffic at once just below an overpass. Those two motorcycle cops got off their motorcycles and stood in the middle of the 5 lanes and stopped the traffic on the interstate highway. So, there's Jimmy and me sitting there, smoking dope, wondering what the fuck was going on. We can't exactly go ask the cops, reeking of dope as we were, so we sat there listening to good music and speculating. I speculated that since the City College of San Francisco was ahead of us, that students possibly were in the overpass throwing things at cars. I figured we'd be able to continue on our trip just as soon as the police secured the overpass. Where do I get this shit? 'Bout that time, we noticed that way up ahead there appeared to be people in the middle of the interstate. Couldn't tell from that far, but it looked like a lot, and they definitely looked like they were headed our way.
If I can be indulged a little flashback here. Most of that afternoon, we had been glued to the television watching Blacks going native down in L.A., pulling that poor schmoe out of his truck and nearly beating him to death. Like he had anything to do with anything.
Okay, back to the story. There we sat, watching a crowd--still too far away to be sure about the racial make-up, heading towards us. Of course, "us" at this point is 5 lanes of stopped traffic, with the backup on the interstate being more than a mile, and that only took 10 minutes. Okay, my mind begins immediately to figure the odds and angles. I'm the first car in my lane and there's no where for me to go. Can't back up; can't turn around; can't escape. No reason to panic, there's two policemen between me and the approaching mob. By that time, we could tell they weren't a Black mob, but one of students and other radical Lefties that look for these kind of opportunities. There's this hardcore group that thinks they can provoke The Revolution by provoking the police and committing random acts of violence against property. During the recent anti-war demonstrations in San Francisco, this group actually called themselves something like the Black Block.
Okay, back to the story. They're coming at us. They have signs. They look very angry. They're chanting, "No Justice? No Peace!" They've come up to the police line. Line? There were two motorcycle cops, holding back a couple of hundred protestors. A couple of the protestors, broke through and dumped one of the motorcycles. Things are really tense. I'm nervously trying every button in the Chrysler trying to figure out how to make the antenna retract. Damn Chrysler!
So I turn to Jimmy and solemnly say, "You know, Jimmy, this is my mother's car and I'm not going to let those mothers take it alive. If they come towards us, I'm going to floorboard it." I did say it, but I didn't mean it, because I immediately followed it with, "No, what we really do is wait till they almost get here and we jump out and start hollering with them and trash the cars behind us, then we'll double back and wait for help." Okay, maybe not in so many words, but that was the real plan.
And just when the police line didn't seem to be able to keep back the surging mob of protestors, to our rescue came about 40 or 50 motorcycle cops coming up between the stopped lanes of cars and relieved the very stressed police line of two lonely cops who had valiantly held off the mob for the 5 or 10 minutes that this drama played itself out. Sitting in the front row as we were, it seemed to have taken place over an hour or more. When the mob saw the calvary coming, they sort of exploded in several dozen directions, heading up the side of the freeway to escape into the neighborhood. Jimmy and I got out of the car, hugged each other and waved our handkerchiefs at our saviors.
And that's a true story.
Inspiration for this remembered story goes to the blog entity Celissa's Blog. I have to go back now and see who she is. I think we belong to different churches, but I'm inclined to want to like anyone who gets me to remember something and write about it. Thanks, Celissa.
What year did that Rodney King verdict come down? Ninety-two? I was living in the Western Addition of San Francisco in a great apartment right across the street from Section 8 housing and a large group of homies. My best friend was down from Girdwood, Alaska and I had my mother's Chrysler that could speak. No, really, it could talk. It would say "Your door is a jar." I didn't say it was smart, I said it could speak. I think my mother and her long-time companion were vacationing in Australia. Jim and I were on our way to San Jose, just about to get on interstate highway 280 having entered the freeway at Glen Park in San Francisco, when two motorcycle cops passed on either side of us and immediately in front of us, began weaving back and forth, causing us to stop which, of course, was their intention. At that entrace, there are two lanes entering and adjoining 3 others, making it 5 lanes of traffic at once just below an overpass. Those two motorcycle cops got off their motorcycles and stood in the middle of the 5 lanes and stopped the traffic on the interstate highway. So, there's Jimmy and me sitting there, smoking dope, wondering what the fuck was going on. We can't exactly go ask the cops, reeking of dope as we were, so we sat there listening to good music and speculating. I speculated that since the City College of San Francisco was ahead of us, that students possibly were in the overpass throwing things at cars. I figured we'd be able to continue on our trip just as soon as the police secured the overpass. Where do I get this shit? 'Bout that time, we noticed that way up ahead there appeared to be people in the middle of the interstate. Couldn't tell from that far, but it looked like a lot, and they definitely looked like they were headed our way.
If I can be indulged a little flashback here. Most of that afternoon, we had been glued to the television watching Blacks going native down in L.A., pulling that poor schmoe out of his truck and nearly beating him to death. Like he had anything to do with anything.
Okay, back to the story. There we sat, watching a crowd--still too far away to be sure about the racial make-up, heading towards us. Of course, "us" at this point is 5 lanes of stopped traffic, with the backup on the interstate being more than a mile, and that only took 10 minutes. Okay, my mind begins immediately to figure the odds and angles. I'm the first car in my lane and there's no where for me to go. Can't back up; can't turn around; can't escape. No reason to panic, there's two policemen between me and the approaching mob. By that time, we could tell they weren't a Black mob, but one of students and other radical Lefties that look for these kind of opportunities. There's this hardcore group that thinks they can provoke The Revolution by provoking the police and committing random acts of violence against property. During the recent anti-war demonstrations in San Francisco, this group actually called themselves something like the Black Block.
Okay, back to the story. They're coming at us. They have signs. They look very angry. They're chanting, "No Justice? No Peace!" They've come up to the police line. Line? There were two motorcycle cops, holding back a couple of hundred protestors. A couple of the protestors, broke through and dumped one of the motorcycles. Things are really tense. I'm nervously trying every button in the Chrysler trying to figure out how to make the antenna retract. Damn Chrysler!
So I turn to Jimmy and solemnly say, "You know, Jimmy, this is my mother's car and I'm not going to let those mothers take it alive. If they come towards us, I'm going to floorboard it." I did say it, but I didn't mean it, because I immediately followed it with, "No, what we really do is wait till they almost get here and we jump out and start hollering with them and trash the cars behind us, then we'll double back and wait for help." Okay, maybe not in so many words, but that was the real plan.
And just when the police line didn't seem to be able to keep back the surging mob of protestors, to our rescue came about 40 or 50 motorcycle cops coming up between the stopped lanes of cars and relieved the very stressed police line of two lonely cops who had valiantly held off the mob for the 5 or 10 minutes that this drama played itself out. Sitting in the front row as we were, it seemed to have taken place over an hour or more. When the mob saw the calvary coming, they sort of exploded in several dozen directions, heading up the side of the freeway to escape into the neighborhood. Jimmy and I got out of the car, hugged each other and waved our handkerchiefs at our saviors.
And that's a true story.
Inspiration for this remembered story goes to the blog entity Celissa's Blog. I have to go back now and see who she is. I think we belong to different churches, but I'm inclined to want to like anyone who gets me to remember something and write about it. Thanks, Celissa.
Surfing the Blogosphere
Remember earlier when I said I had a few entities in the Blogosphere that I liked? A few weeks ago, I stumbled across this guy by the name of Bill. Bill tells good stories. Even when he makes them up. He turned himself into a fly on the wall of the conference of Putin, Chirac and Shroeder.
And then he takes off and rants about colored ketchup. He's right, of course, some things just aren't normal. I can't say it any better than he does, so I'll just say "amen," and y'all go over and visit Bill. Be sure to say hello and tell him rlbtzero (it's pronounced Ray. No really, that's how it's pronounced.) sent you.
Remember earlier when I said I had a few entities in the Blogosphere that I liked? A few weeks ago, I stumbled across this guy by the name of Bill. Bill tells good stories. Even when he makes them up. He turned himself into a fly on the wall of the conference of Putin, Chirac and Shroeder.
And then he takes off and rants about colored ketchup. He's right, of course, some things just aren't normal. I can't say it any better than he does, so I'll just say "amen," and y'all go over and visit Bill. Be sure to say hello and tell him rlbtzero (it's pronounced Ray. No really, that's how it's pronounced.) sent you.
Exploring the Blogosphere
If you want to see some great pictures of the war in Iraq, go and visit Andrew at his blog, Apostablog. He speaks straightforthly and has an interesting point of view. And he's got a great source for pictures. Go visit.
If you want to see some great pictures of the war in Iraq, go and visit Andrew at his blog, Apostablog. He speaks straightforthly and has an interesting point of view. And he's got a great source for pictures. Go visit.