I think the reason it’s been so silent here at Dy’s Mind’s Eye lately is because I’m just plain overloaded. Not by The Slave Box or by family…though those definitely have been taking their more-than-fair share out of me lately. No, I’m really talking about the media shit-storm.

We’ve got revolutions in Egypt and Bahrain. We’ve got funeral mourners being killed in Lybia and protests in Yemen and Morocco. We’ve got the working class under attack in Wisconsin and the GOP Fascist Asshats in Washington continuing their idiotic war against the poor, elderly, women and children. We’ve got Planned Parenthood and NPR and PBS fighting to stay alive. We’ve got the Seattle Police Department getting away with continued unwarranted brutal force…and even cold-blooded murder of a partially DEAF, drunk man with a CLOSED 3″ pocket knife…going unchecked, uncharged and unbelievable. I am just am all stopped up with all this crap and don’t know where to start. I’m flabbergasted. I’m so freaking angry at it all I’m just that cat in the corner that is spitting and hissing and can’t form words to express it all.

I WANT to write about each and every one of those horrific things and how it makes me angry and   sad and appalled. I WANT to rile you all up into action to DO something…ANYthing…about it. Any of it. All of it.  I just can’t get around my own mind. I’m stuck. I’m angry. I’m sick. I’m fucking in a state of blue screen shutdown.  I just don’t have the mental hard drive space to process, save and upload.

Overflowing GarbageYes, that sounds like a cop out…but I just can’t wrap my head around all of it. It’s too much. It all keeps falling out the sides and seams of my big bag of tricks, one topic at a time, in a torrent of cats and dogs falling from the sky sort of way. My A.D.D. keeps shifting from one topic to the other, trying to keep them all in order…hell, just inside the bag…until my orientation is off and my head is about to explode and then…Blue Screen of Death. Garbage Overload.

The logical little voice in the back of my head says, “Just pick one thing and focus on that. Write about one thing at a time.”

Yeah, I don’t know how to do that.

Not right now…not today. 

I’m going for a Mimosa, damn it. It’s Sunday and I’m worth it. And maybe it’ll quiet that nagging little voice in my head that keeps saying over and over, “Get on your soap box, it misses you…”

© 2011 D. Kessler

I don’t know about you, but I never use a phone book. You know…a telephone book…that thick  paperback book comprising mainly of yellow pages that gets delivered to your door every year whether you want it or not…a big chunk of wasted paper that lists all the phone numbers in your area. Yeah…that phone book. I can’t remember the last time I actually opened one to look up a number to anywhere.

In the pre-Internet years, I was all about looking up the phone number or address in the phone book, while most anyone else I knew was all about the dial 411 (or some other equivalent for computerized “Information” in the area). I tend to be tactile/visual, so reference books of any kind are welcome, comfortable and even entertaining (yeah, I’m a nerd). However, in this day and age when we all have a computer in our lap and a cell phone in our pocket or purse, the phone book seems about as relevant a corded land-line with a rotary dial. If ever I need to perform the increasingly archaic task of actually calling a business on the phone but don’t have the number, I Google the business name…I look it up on dexknows.com…or, more usually, I open my YellowPages app on my iPhone.  That fat paper phone book usually gets tossed into the recycling bin the same day we get it delivered…and, if your city is anything like my city, there are usually more than one of those obnoxious bricks of paper dropped on your doorstep every year…sometimes more than once a year!

I suppose if you don’t have a computer and are still using an old-style, bare-bones cell phone or…dare I say it?…a land-line, that big tedious book might get more use, but to me it just seems as outdated as the Sears Catalogue. Remember that old dinosaur?

Luckily, there are apparently some options starting to crop up. Sites like YellowPagesOptOut are popping up where you can opt out of having this huge waste of paper dumped at your door.

Thank. The. Gods.

Or…You can find something way more entertaining to do with all that otherwise wasted paper on your…and all your neighbors’…doorstep. Something cool…like, um…I dunno…maybe haute couture?  

© 2011 D. Kessler

I’m sitting in my local just having a drink or five. It’s Friday night, it’s payday, my buddy’s pouring stiffies (you know…Mike…of previous post fame). The jukebox is playing the good, the bad, & lots of the ugly…everything from Nine Inch Nails to Hank III to Journey to Gogol Bordello…it’s a Good Thing. Very.

So, pardon me if I don’t really have an earth shattering rant or a sage blurb to dispense to the masses.

I’M GETTING MY DRINK ON, DAMMIT! 😉

I deserve it! I preserve it! (Okok…no B-52’s references, I gotcha.) Damn it if I haven’t earned this cocktail and all it’s cousins!

I’m wishing y’all a Happy Fucking Friday and go tear some shit up with people you love. RIGHT NOW! Do it. Cuz if they’re really friends worth half their salt… they miss you. Even if you saw them yesterday.

If you’ve read some of my posts in the Archive…specifically during the 2008 Presidential Campaign…you’ve probably gotten the idea that I really can’t stand a Certain Woman Who Shall Not Be Named. There’s not much worse in my book than being a total idiot and thinking you’re a genius, plus you just can’t keep your mouth shut…even when every time you open it you do more damage to yourself and those you supposedly represent than if you JUST…SHUT…THE FUCK…UP.

fingers_in_ears

Maybe I should be happy she can’t keep her oral flaps zipped. The more she spews lately, the worse she sounds, the deeper she shoves her foot down her esophagus. Hell, she should be digesting her left knee right down in her upper intestine right about now. At this rate she’ll be a candidate for a Hoveround and government assistance before the next presidential campaign. Oh no! Let’s watch the double standard kick in, shall we?  She doesn’t want a government health program for the masses, but what do you bet she’ll take government funds for medial assistance if she ever needs it!

I know I’m not spouting anything new here. I’m just letting off some steam so I don’t explode the week of February 28-March4. That’s the week we’re not only not going to write about The Dumb Barbie-Bitch from Alaska. We’re going to do that thing that Arrogant Sociopaths absolutely hate.

WE’RE GOING TO COMPLETELY IGNORE HER!

Yep. Flip that channel, turn the page, click off the website…completely fucking pretend she doesn’t exist!  Can you sing “blahdadaladalaladadahlalaaaaaah” with me while covering your ears and squishing your eyes up tight? You know…just like when we were kids?

Facebook has a info page here.

Better yet, LeftAction has a petition you can sign here.

Go do it, Join us!

Because that Dumb Bitch just pisses the hell outta me to no end. I can’t even begin to say the vile things I think about someone that bereft of soul.

The only YouTube video I can handle watching of her is this one…cuz she actually doesn’t say a damn thing.

© 2011 D. Kessler

I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know how to eat like a skinny person. Well, actually, let me clarify. I do know how to eat like one very specific skinny person…the skinny person that I used to be.

For over 35 years I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, in quantities I wanted…and never gained a pound. I was that skinny bitch you hated, the one that wore a size 2 and ate burritos the size of a small child…WITH all the extra cheese and gi-normous glops of sour cream. I ate cake and pie for breakfast, drank breves instead of lattes, ordered fries drowning in melted cheese and dunked them in brown gravy before I washed them down with a full-bodied micro-brew amber ale.

The carbs and fat grams were off the charts. The party on my taste-buds was that to rival an exclusive event on Ibiza…and I drank to match. Oh yes, I drank a lot….frothy girly drinks, heavy wheat beers, sweet liqueurs and of course vodka. Vodka with juices. Hel-LO…can you say calories?

Through all of that…all those years, well into my late 30s…I remained a lithe 5-foot-6-inch 115 pounds.

Oh,I didn’t work out…I didn’t need to. Yes, my feet were my main source of transportation…that and public transit…and I didn’t have a sit-down job, but neither did I have job that required a ton of energy either. I wasn’t running around all day and night, lifting and moving or breaking a sweat…almost never. I just was that lucky girl with the amazing metabolism.  Until…

I’m not sure what happened. Could it be that age really just kicks in one day? I mean, it was like…*snap!…all of a sudden I was growing in places I didn’t want to grow. Sure, I finally got the much coveted “Twins”, but the heck made the deal to let their “cousins” move into The Upper and Lower Asslands, and gave permission to all manner of their “extended family” to take over bodily neighborhoods I didn’t know I had!  My awesome expensive club clothes…Lip Service, Catherine Coatney, Betsy Johnson, all of them…no longer fit. My work clothes weren’t comfortable…and my ankles started bothering me if I wore heels for too long.

So, I did what everybody always says to do: I cut back on all the things you’re supposed to, and then even cut them out altogether. It didn’t seem to help, not one bit. I tried going to the gym…I really did…but I all that happened was my appetite went up and, even though I didn’t give in to it, the scales still stayed the same. I try to eat sensible: small portions, whole grains, naturally low fat…it’s not working. It’s gotten so that I’m afraid to eat anything at all…anything…AT ALL…and I get serious guilt if I eat, period.

Add to that that I live with two adults that can eat anything and do and seem to think I should eat what they’re eating, when they’re eating it. AND I have a mother-in-law that thinks the world revolves around pasta and processed/packaged foods, so she delivers such to my house every Saturday…from Costco…gratis. I’m at my wits end.

Don’t get me wrong…I’m not shopping for clothes in the plus-sizes…yet. Oh-gawd-shoot-me-please-before-that-happens. But I sure as hell don’t know who the frak that woman is in the reflection as I walk past the glass-fronted shops and cafes on my way to and from The Slave Box…but she isn’t me and I don’t like her.

No sirree. I don’t like her one bit.

© 2011 D. Kessler

Still not feeling well, though I did go to work today.

Everything feels magnified: problems seem bigger, happy thoughts seem more shiny, everything will turn on a dime, though.

Full Moon. Oh yeah. Slap a Full Moon on anything and for me it acts like a big magnifying glass…for better or worse. Add that it’s in the sign of Cancer I definitely feel more sensitive, a little raw.

That’s all I got.

That and I’m about to kill a certain overactive teenage boy-cat.

Talk amongst yourselves. Move along, kiddies…nothing to see here today. Nothing but that crazy woman about to let out a blood-curdling scream…again.

© 2011 D. Kessler

“True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it is not haphazard and superficial. It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring. A true revolution of values will soon look uneasily on the glaring contrast of poverty and wealth.”      ~ Martin Luther King, Jr, on 4 April, 1967

“In a country well governed, poverty is something to be ashamed of.” ~ Confucius

We’re a bit under the weather here at Casa de D today, so I really don’t have the mental energy to really serve you all right with a well thought-out, creatively worded article on just about anything, sorry. However, I do want to share an article with you that a friend turned me on to earlier today.

It’s been sixteen years since the article below was written and it still rings true, sadly. We still pour money into unnecessary and immoral wars, we still refuse to legislate adequate funds to programs to feed, clothe and provide health care to the poor of this country. We sweep them under the rug while spending billions on killing machines and killing strategies…creating more poor in those countries we destroy in the name of “Freedom“.

So, although we may have a national holiday today recognizing Dr Martin Luther King Jr., the media and government still refuse to recognize what the hell the man actually stood for, worked for…and died for. We as a people refuse to take any responsibility for digging past the propaganda to find the truth. We as a people hide behind rhetoric and lies…lies told to us and lies we tell ourselves…lies perpetuated by so-called “Christians” and the Tea Party and anyone else that spews hate by way of rationalizing the denial of aid to those in this country in need.

© 2011 D. Kessler

The Martin Luther King You Don’t See on TV
Media Beat (1/4/1995)
By Jeff Cohen and Norman Solomon

It’s become a TV ritual: Every year in mid-January, around the time of Martin Luther King’s birthday, we get perfunctory network news reports about “the slain civil rights leader.”
The remarkable thing about this annual review of King’s life is that several years — his last years — are totally missing, as if flushed down a memory hole.

What TV viewers see is a closed loop of familiar file footage: King battling desegregation in Birmingham (1963); reciting his dream of racial harmony at the rally in Washington (1963); marching for voting rights in Selma, Alabama (1965); and finally, lying dead on the motel balcony in Memphis (1968).

An alert viewer might notice that the chronology jumps from 1965 to 1968. Yet King didn’t take a sabbatical near the end of his life. In fact, he was speaking and organizing as diligently as ever.

Almost all of those speeches were filmed or taped. But they’re not shown today on TV.
Why?

(…Read the full article here.)

I just don’t get this fascination people have with awards shows. The Golden Globes, The Oscars, The People’s Choice, The Grammys, The American Music Awards, The M-fucking-tv Awards…all of them. One big boring vacuum of anti-entertainment when it comes to actually watching them.

It’s not that I don’t want to know who won the stupid award…and I’ll admit they are pretty stupid actually because they don’t really mean anything. Anything other than that the person getting the award can get/charge more money for their next job, that is. It’s more that the damn show itself is so ridiculous. Bad lip-synced group dance numbers inter-dispersed with bad jokes, some honorary “lifetime achievement” award…all for a big anticlimactic whoopdee-dingdong-day. Yeay. It’s all rigged and industry-political and often the ends are rarely justified by actual talent. Even when the winners of the award are actually worthy of it…it still usually was bought and paid for by agents and producers and publicists that schlepped their client to just the right people in just the right amount at just the right times and promised their first born pedigree pug to make it happen.

Not my cup o’tea, thank you very much. 

So, I will not be watching on the edge of my seat. I will be steering very clear of that channel. I will be watching some rather annoyingly edited film on the CBC or BBC instead. Because, even though watching a film with commercials sprinkled in at all the wrong places is annoying, it beats the hell out of watching  some dancing-in-the-fires-of-hell version of the gawd-awful songs written for whatever films were nominated, sung/danced by has-been talent or wanna-be talent…none of which has any talent really worth watching.

Pass the popcorn. I’m digging in.

© 2011 D. Kessler

martinLutherKingGandhi3Today is January 15, 2011. Love stating the obvious. Yep. That’s the date.

A lot of us don’t have to go to work on Monday, but few of us really appreciate why. Here’s why:

Today, 82 years ago, a little baby was born in Atlanta, Georgia. His mother Alberta named him after his father, Michael, a Baptist Minister, but when the family traveled to Europe in 1934, the Reverend decided to change both his name, and his son’s, to Martin after the German Protestant Reformer, Martin Luther.

That little boy grew up, along the way skipping both the ninth and twelfth grade and graduating high school at the age of 15 years old, then going on to college and earning is PhD in Philosophy at the amazing age of 25. He became a charismatic speaker and a leader of men and women on the road to freedom.

Then on the 28th of August in 1963, more than 2,000 buses, 21 special trains, 10 chartered airliners, and uncounted cars converged on Washington. Something like 200,000-300,000 people were part of The Great March on Washington and that little boy that grew up to be Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., made his famous “I Have a Dream” speech. People listened. They keep on listening. That’s what we hope, anyway.

By 1968, however, Dr. King had stirred the pot to the point where he wasn’t as popular as he once had been. He had continued to rally against the Vietnam war and to uplift and support the poor of this nation. He had made a great many enemies. He was a threat…to someone…to someone that had something done about it. Some ass-hole shot him dead.

He was only 39 years old…younger than I am now.

Today, on the birthday of that amazing man…his ACTUAL birthday, not the bank holiday…I give you his words. Take the time to read them. Take the time to realize we still have “Negroes” in this country that are not free…”Negroes” that are still crippled by the chains of discrimination.

In this time we live in, when two people that love each other cannot get married merely because of their gender, when a loving couple with a loving home can’t adopt children that need homes because they’re both the same sex and sleep together in the “biblical sense”, when men and women are beat and killed everyday because they are “gay”, and when young people…or ANYONE, for that matter…are harassed to the point where they see no other course than to take their own life…there is a mighty need to have a Dream. A Dream to End the Hate, To Find Equality and FreedomFOR ALL.

© 2011 D. Kessler

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we’ve come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we’ve come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the “unalienable Rights” of “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.”

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we’ve come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, “When will you be satisfied?” We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by a sign stating: “For Whites Only.” We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until “justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”¹

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest — quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of “interposition” and “nullification” — one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; “and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.”²

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day — this will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim’s pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of
Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

(Delivered by Martin Luther King, Jr., on 28 August 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.)

Good-God, its nice to have a neighborhood bar that’s like your living room. Say what you want about the triteness of that ’80s television sitcom Cheers and the whole “where everybody knows your name” schitck but it’s fucking hella nice to just be able to walk in whenever with out worrying about what you’re wearing, who’s there or not, and know that the bartender not only knows you for real, but even has your phone number….and no, not like how your thinking! Get your mind out of the gutter! I’ve never been a bartender groupie.

I’m talking about shit like…

When baseball season hits Seattle and Mr. Rockstar and I go to a game with friends Mike & Sarah and Meg & Jim and Cory & Matt…and yes, Mike’s the bartender at my neighborhood bar. Or, I have a Girls’ Night Out with dinner at a nice restaurant and drinks & dancing at a club afterwards with five-to-eight other women friends…and yes, Michelle works at my neighborhood bar.

Or, when my wallet falls out of my handbag (it’s been known to do this more than once…I’m really bad about zipping that damn bag shut), or maybe I just forgot it on the bar, and I get a call at 1:00 am from my friend Sharon…who, yes, is the bartender…to let me know it’s behind the counter at the cash register and I can pick it up whenever. It’s safe. Yeah. That’s really cool.

We all need a place where, when you walk in, the bartender is happy to see you and, almost every time  you visit, gives you $5.00 to put music on the jukebox because she knows that, even if she isn’t familiar with all the music you’ll play, it’ll be something she will like and she’ll be asking you every few songs,”Who IS this? What song? Cool!” The Mecca Cafe, 2010. Photo by entOptic

A place where I can type this on my iPhone while sitting at the bar & nobody thinks I’m being antisocial because they know that in five seconds I’m more likely to be up & bopping about to some crazy tune I just put on the jukebox or that I’ll be fighting to get a word in edgewise with somebody sitting or standing next to me bending my ear.

This is my living room, damn it. And yes, I do use the TV remote here.

So, move over outta my seat, Sugar. It fits my ass bettah. 😉

© 2011 D. Kessler