Justified Injudiciality

DAN RUDY
North Dakota

Greetings, dear dirty Americans! This sort of thing has been discussed before, I know, but the War on Terror doggedly refuses to end, continuing as it does to monster the general consciousness.

In a letter addressed to Committee on the Judiciary chairman Senator Patrick Leahy, US Attorney General Eric Holder admits that the government's drone programme has killed four American citizens. While the bulk of the letter focuses on the targeted killing of al-Qaeda leader Anwar al-Awlaki and that course's legal justification and precedents, it pays but brief mention to the other three killed, who were:

• Jude Mohammad, implicated in the Raleigh jihadi conspiracy of 2009, in which eight men (seven citizens and a naturalised Albanian) of varying ages were charged with advocating and plotting acts of terror in the US. Those convicted in the case got anywhere from several to no more than twenty years in prison, a far cry from the death penalty meted out to Mohammad. Ostensibly to visit his father, but possibly to become involved in the insurgencies of its tribal areas, he had moved to Pakistan shortly before the arrests were made. He was reportedly killed in a drone strike in Pakistan in 2011.
• Samir Khan, certainly a vocal supporter of violent acts against the United States, but not linked as a plotter of or direct participant in them. A one-time glee club member and writer for his high school newspaper in America, shortly before graduating Khan began to embrace an extremist brand of Islam, blogging and eventually becoming an editor for al-Qaeda's online magazine Inspire. Never specifically targeted for destruction, he was collaterally killed in al-Awlaki's convoy while traveling in Yemen.
• Abdulrahman al-Awlaki was Anwar's 16 year old son, killed only weeks after his father. He was one of ten people accidentally killed in a strike meant for Egyptian al-Qaeda leader Ibrahim al-Banna. Abdulrahman had no ties to terrorism, and was said to have been on his way to a barbecue.

All three were US citizens, and despite the justifications given by Mr. Holder, were "deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law," contrary to rights enshrined in the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments to the US Constitution. In his letter, the attorney general sluffs these aside, essentially rationalising their deaths as the result of keeping bad company.

As the president is fond of saying, make no mistake. Holder ultimately makes an unsatisfying case for the drone programme, citing emergency measures questionably adopted during the world wars as suitable precedents. Three conditions are given as necessary to target an American citizen abroad (he actually underlines in a foreign country), that the government determines "after a thorough and careful review" that the individual is an imminent threat, cannot be otherwise captured, and that the action be held to an "applicable law of war principles".

Of the four, Anwar al-Awlaki is made the focus of this apologetic because he can be held in some degree to meet those conditions. Thus the glossing over of the others, where no thorough or careful review was given. They weren't specifically targeted, to be sure, yet their deaths raise another question, as to the general efficacy of the use of drones as vehicles of assassination. Evidence found in leaked documentation and otherwise available online (grains-of-salt required) would suggest they are anything but dependably or discerningly used.

With its 'signature strike' tactics, alleged and highly illegal 'double-tap' attacks targeting first responders, murky oversight, and a total lack of accountability, the drone programme is most certainly a national mistake. Rather than making America safer, Predator drones are sloppily sowing the seeds for future conflict and inflaming the underlying factors contributory to militant religious extremism.

Far from surgical, it has been a socially, morally disfiguring experience.

*     *     *

Dan Rudy is living the American dream, writing for a community newspaper and developing ulcers during the tedious course of proofreading articles. In his spare time he drinks heavily, and occasionally posts things to Dear Dirty America and his page at sluffabout.com.

Former Mayor Villaraigosa Immortalized In Smooth L.A. Metro Sound Bite

ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE
Los Angeles

In an attempt to pay homage to former Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and his eight years of service to the city, the LA Metro clan has outfitted every bus in the city with a short, but charming audio clip of the mayor saying, in his hoarse, but silky mafioso's voice, "For your safety, please watch your step when exiting the bus."

The audio clip is played before every single stop. It's a fitting tribute to a legendary mayor, and it should have him blushing. While he continues to get free VIP tickets to the nation's favorite TV shows, like Dancing with the Stars and American Idol, he can be assured by the thought of a few thousand people throughout the city hearing his voice, and word of caution, again and again, before every screeching stop of the bus.

This information is not public. City Hall would not confirm it. It's only a rumor, but a very convincing one. I heard it on the bus the other day, from a man who looked as professional as people who ride the bus can. We're a ragged lot, those of us crammed into that clunky orange or red can. Some of us smell bad. Some of us smell too fresh. Some of us are crazy, and others of us are unnervingly sane.

My informant that day was an Hispanic man with a bowed jawline. He was wearing a button-up blue shirt. The hair on the top of his head was spiked and shiny from the gel he must have rubbed through it that morning. The fog of cheap cologne, heavily applied, clung around him.

"That's the mayor talking," he said to me, pointing up.

We sat in the back of the bus. The mayor? I asked. I'd suddenly become paranoid. Where's that quirky little guy? I imagined him ping-ponging through the bus, bouncing on the shoulders of those standing in the aisle and holding tight to the bars overhead. Nice to meet you, the mayor said into everybody's ears. He ruffled an old man's hair and elbowed a woman in the ribs. Nice to meet ya, nice to meet ya, nice to meet ya.

Never lacking energy, that guy.

"He's on the sound system," my fellow bus rider said, "it's over now, but before the next stop, you'll hear it again." He explained that the city of Los Angeles wanted to memorialize Villaraigosa, who'd just finished out his full two terms and was replaced by the newly elected Eric Garcetti (who is already being labeled in some coffee shop conversations as "a prick").

I pulled out my smartphone and set to record the mayor's voice, and also determine if this man was telling me the truth. L.A.'s public transport system is filled with bullshitters, including the bus drivers.

But sure enough, before the next stop, that old gangster's voice piped through the bus with that signature, buoyant charm that the former mayor embodies. The voice that makes, at any given time, a dozen or more pairs of panties drop (as the kids say).

"For your safety," the mayor's voice said, and then, after a collected pause, continued, "please watch your step when exiting the bus."

"I know that voice anywhere," the Hispanic man said. "I love how the mayor says the word 'bus'." He tried to mimic the word four times, but he couldn't quite hit the pitch.

It's smooth, and surely a nice tribute to the former mayor, I said. It's like he's riding along with us on the public transport system. Riding along in our hearts and minds, and if you forget about him, his voice will remind you of his presence every minute or so. It's a brilliant idea by Metro, or the mayor's former administration. Whoever concocted the plan certainly knew how to plant the seeds to sprout a long term, unforgettable legacy.

The Hispanic man agreed. He checked his watch. He was off to the courthouse, he said, to stand in line for an hour and try to hammer out a lawsuit he was waging against a construction company that had failed to compensate him after he'd had an extended heat stroke as a high-rise welder. He'd nearly died, and had suffered minor brain damage, he revealed.

"But," he said, getting back to the topic at hand, "I'm glad the city dedicates a special space like the bus to Villaraigosa. Where else would so many people hear his voice day in and day out?"

I agreed. It's like being included in a city-wide toast, I said, with cheap champagne poured from a bottle that had been opened long ago and forgotten in the back of some bureaucrat's break room refrigerator. And all you'd asked for was a glass of water.

The man, I never did catch his name, just looked at me for a moment. Soon, we were both staring out the windows, watching dilapidated business fronts blow by, homeless people pushing carts filled with cans, blankets, and indistinguishable items, and then on to grander, cleaner streets and restaurants, where people roamed around wearing over-sized Kings jerseys over jeans or professional business trousers.

Ah, big beautiful city! Bursting with... but words can't finish that thought. Bursting with what? It's too dynamic and complicated for blog posts. You've got to feel thoughts like that. They need to wrench your gut. I won't even attempt to describe it. What words would I use, anyway? Just the same mediocre crap. Tired, worn sentiments.

But I did lean over and tell the Hispanic man, Riding the bus is like a small tour of Los Angeles, from Culver City to downtown, clanging along this troubled Olympic Boulevard.

But my friend didn't say anything. He was lost in his own mind.

SEE ALSO

The streets in L.A. are in utter disrepair

L.A. filmmaker's "rebranding" of Abercrombie & Fitch turns into downtown debacle

The Shell Ferrari, the bright yellow extension of his manhood

"Like" Dear Dirty America on Facebook

Zest's Aqua Soap Makes Water 'Wetter', but Could Desiccate A Cockroach: Product Review

ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE
Los Angeles

photo by Adam Michael Luebke, Dear Dirty America --
if you want to use this image, email me and tell me how you will
use it to change the world

(editor's note: product reviews are not pleasant creatures in the literary world, but sometimes they need to be written. They can be effective, such as when I wrote about Buick's LaCrosse and its dangerous electric power steering. Not that Buick fixed the problem -- that would be too costly. It's cheaper to risk a few fiery crashes. Lastly, as any good reviewer knows to do, I must claim that I have not received any compensation from any of the reviewed products' companies -- not Zest, not anybody. I'm the real deal here.)

I suppose this soap does what soap is meant to do: make water 'wetter'. In that way, Zest's Aqua scented soap is a success. It lathers instantly, and it works to wash away the dirt and the grime and the dried sweat and the dead skin and the less-talked-about areas plagued by accumulated, microscopic fecal matter.

Despite those beneficial qualities, there was something baneful about Zest's Aqua scent. With some anticipation, I cracked open that first stiff cardboard box from the pack of 8, and stepped into the shower. I slathered the frothy discharge from the pale green bar of soap over my body. My eyes started to feel irritated. But only slightly.

By the time I was out of the shower, I could smell the Zest Aqua wafting off my skin. A distressing cocktail of chemicals. A scent that threatens to dry and strip clean the velvety linings of your nasal passages when you breathe it in. A scent that throws your cells into disarray, and jostles loose your DNA supercoils.

I soon pinned down what exactly the soap smelled like by remembering an encounter with a friend.

I wouldn't have known, had I not recently been to my friend's tiny prison cell apartment just off of Wilshire and Western. He's a writer, too, and a musician. He'd just moved in, and found he had a cockroach infestation. The first day I came to visit, with a piping hot vegetarian lasagna freshly cooked and steaming in a flimsy aluminum tray, he whisked me inside. I carried my house-warming dish to his kitchen and set it on the counter top.

What is that smell? I asked. My eyes began to twitch. My vision wavered. My mouth curled into a snarl. I couldn't help it. I was under the influence of noxious chemicals wafting into the air.

My friend fidgeted a bit, but he's never been a shy person. "I've got roaches," he said, "and I just sprayed the bejesus out of the kitchen."

In 1991, a New York Times article claimed humans had made a real dent in the national roach population, I told him, because the available pesticides had become so effective. Now we're in 2013, so there should be a lot of hope in solving your situation.

He pointed to the counter top. I saw the glistening walls, just below the cupboards. I noticed the slick wet tiles on the counter. Then, in the corner, that striking black canister with the yellow letters and silhouette of the offending insect on its back, its squiggly legs poking upward.

He'd soaked the place with Raid's roach killer (shall I review that product, as well, and mention how it smells as fragrant as Zest's Aqua soap? Maybe that's a compliment for the Raid people -- they're in the business of 'cleaning up' too.)

Days later I needed soap. I went to the local grocery store to get garlic, five Red Delicious apples, two small cartons of blackberries, Quaker Oats cereal with good fiber content, and a pound brown rice (I remember it all specifically because I have a problem forgetting trivial things, which is why I'm almost always at my wits' end).

I hadn't come thinking about Zest. It had been more than a decade since I'd used that brand. But fate is a funny thing. I chose the Zest family pack. Not that I possess a family. But eight bars of this Aqua fragrance soap seemed like one hell of a deal at the time. Now I'm stuck with so much of. And there's so much goddamned soap on the shelves from which to choose.

Like toilet paper. It just doesn't end. Americans think they live in the greatest nation on earth because there are entire aisles at the grocery store dedicated to soap, or diapers, or chips, or soda, or cereal. But most people don't realize it's an illusion. A farce. A trap. A mind game.

It's all the same shit on the shelves, really. Most of it is cheap and worthless, or without nutrition. Most of it is interchangeable. Much of it is made by the same companies.

However, most of us feel powerful when we finally make that decision on what soap to buy. It's like we made a huge decision. Right up there with the president, as he decides who to kill overseas, and who to spare. That's how in control we feel when selecting products at the grocery store.

Sure, it's not as if you tell yourself this consciously. This is a deep, dark subconscious feeling. The uncoiling expression of power and individuality, springing through your brain. Pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps, you feel, as you fill your shopping cart how you want to fill it. Not how the Man wants you to. Not how the bloody corporations want you to. Not how your overbearing mother did it, either.

Shit, you'll choose the product you want. Fuck the rest. You vote with your dollars. Or your food stamps. The American people are a fierce people. Including you.

You're in charge. Americans are in charge. Which is what sets us apart from every other country. Americans are the great choosers.

This review has taken a wayward path, but we've stumbled to the end. The diagnosis is this: Zest's Aqua soap certainly makes water 'wetter', but its scent could desiccate a cockroach.

SEE ALSO

Color Icon releases startling ad depicting how Americans really feel

Big deals at Walmart

The end of the tissue roll: when reality hits hard

"Like" Dear Dirty America on Facebook

Shell Ferrari: The Bright Yellow Extension Of His Manhood

Just look at the other types of vehicles around--
does that yellow toy not seem goofy among them?

(if the driver of this car is in any way linked to the Italian, Jewish, or Romanian mafia, I could be in trouble. I could end up dead, or with broken bones, or both. I used to be in the German mafia, but we turned out to be more of a culture and fine arts club, so there's very little protection there. If, however, this driver is just one lucky bloke who was awarded for sucking Shell's nozzle hard enough and long enough, with exceptional firmness and deftness, I'm in considerably less danger...)

The pleasant afternoon was disrupted by a snarling, sleek yellow sports car trolling past my apartment complex.

My poor, working class neighborhood, close to downtown Los Angeles, hardly gets such a show. It's like having a professional clown wearing a yellow suit with a puff of red hair and honking a horn come rolling through on a squeaky unicycle. Sure, we all stop what we're doing, smile and stare, but it kind of pisses us off, too.

Yes, it would be with great enthusiasm and joy that I would open up that car on the freeway, had I the chance. The car's poor suspension and thin rubber tires would have me bouncing around inside like a ping pong ball. The sole of my right foot would be tingling with the low-end rumbling vibrating the floorboards.

Of course I would feel like a superstar parking in the litter-strewn local Ralph's grocery store lot and hopping out of a car that looks like a large version of my favorite childhood Hot Wheels model. The homeless drunk couple with the dirty faces, who sit slouched at the cement tables out front, would no doubt catch a second wind at the sight of that vibrant yellow. It might even turn their lives around.

Sponsored by Shell?
How many Nigerian activists died
to make this car possible?

But could I drive such a vehicle?

Having a garish yellow Ferrari is a false measure of success. Whatever that person did to earn or collect the money necessary to own that car is only a shadow of the inner deficiency of anybody clueless enough to drive it in public. It's a satirical way of displaying personal wealth.

It's like attaching an enormous golden penis to the outside of your pants and walking through rich and  poor neighborhoods alike so everybody can catch a glimpse of the glimmering thing. And if you're really desperate, you'll hook a clanging bell just below the shiny testicles to alert people over a block away that you'll be there soon. (The sentiment behind that act would be, "If you didn't think I had a big one before, well, now you know....")

That's how I would feel driving down the freeway in a car like that. A car so uncommon, and so bright, people have to look. Like an enormous yellow penis. I'd feel exposed. Overdone. Desperate. My internal issues ripped inside out and on display for everyone.

That man feels incompetent, I could hear my fellow motorists thinking, as I blow by them in their Honda Civics, Toyotas, and Fords. That man doesn't feel accomplished on the inside, so there he is, making sure you can't miss him on the outside. That man has trouble pleasing his wife in bed. That man was teased in high school and never got over it. That man was never good at sports. That man never felt adequate in the workplace. And so on.

I think writer and activist Eric Chaet laid it out best in his 'so-called poem' Achievement, where he imagines himself attaining, through the first twenty-four thorough lines, various measures of wild success, but he writes at the end, if "...there is as much suffering as when I began / and as much injustice... / ...then I will have achieved nothing worth mentioning." Including that banging yellow Ferrari.

Yes, yes, I know I'm a bit of a hypocrite

Because I want to someday win a Pulitzer for this blog, I'll come clean right now about a glaring inconsistency. For those who are familiar with Dear Dirty America, you'll know I've tried to manifest the Jaguar XK sports car. You may think, because of what I've written above, I've become a hypocrite. Well, kind of. A Jaguar sports car is excessive and silly, and it would be me pumping up my ego by trying to suggest to other people that I am, somehow, or some way, richer and more important than they are.

However, a white Jaguar is not a banana slug yellow Ferrari. It is also about three times cheaper. And, if I were blessed with that Jaguar, I'd drive my less fortunate friends around, like downtown Johnny, Frank, and the infamous wheatgrass juicer, Marlin.

The worst part about the vehicle in the picture is the Shell logos printed to its back bumper. Who would advertise for such an atrocious company? Human rights abusers. Environment killers. It's bad enough to have to buy their gasoline (which we're forced to buy because our taxpayer dollars subsidize Big Oil and stamp out other cleaner, greener energies from being introduced into the mainstream market and made affordable).

Perhaps the driver of the vehicle cut a deal with Shell. That means he's a whore. It's a classier version of prostitution than what most of us are used to, but it's still prostitution.

The other worst part about all of this is how loud the car is. It sputters and spits and snarls like it's got a snag in its throat.

A quick and excessive descent into Hell...

It's the sound Satan makes before he hawks a fat slug of mucus into his scaly palm, and then wipes it in Richard Nixon's hair. It's obvious to most people that Nixon is in hell (I don't think that's a stretch), seated at the splintered table reserved for dignitaries. It's a table that constantly sheds slivers into the soft forearms of those chained to sit around it. Of course, everybody at that dignitaries' table has shed their suit jackets, shirts, ties, and slacks, because it's just so damned hot. This leaves little protection against getting slivers.

Nixon arrived in Hell on Air Force One --
at first, he thought he'd touched down in Heaven...

Each dignitary is forced to eat his favorite meal, again and again, until he vomits on what's left, and then he must start eating again. There is no guard standing watch to make sure each member at the table stuffs his face every minute of every hour of every day. Rather, it's an internal urge, a necessity, a fate, that these men and women must keep eating. As miserable as they are pushing their favorites meals down their throats and into their bulging guts, they are even more miserable when they stop.

There is also the slow buildup of gas in the lower intestines. The loads of chewed food press the stomach and small intestines into the bursting lower intestinal pockets of gas, but alas, not one of those men or women are able to fart until the end of the week, when they all let it out at once, but to very little relief, as they must keep eating, and then, for the whole rest of that day, the smell lingers heavy and high in the air. By the time the odor fades, a new batch of gas has begun roiling in their guts, and they have six more days of enduring it until that long moment of release, and tiny moment of relief.

And it is with great humor that Satan watches Richard Nixon frantically try to wipe out that thick string of mucus in his hair, and suffering as he does so because he isn't eating. Meanwhile, the mucus mixes with the sweat and creeps over Nixon's wrinkled brow and into his eyes, where the mucus and the sweat is then mixed with his tears, and the whole concoction slides down his jowls, which are, forever and ever, glistening with fried chicken grease that splatters, from time to time, off his plate.

That frothy, thickened solution drips off of Nixon's rounded chin and onto the drumsticks and gourmet meatloaf stacked on his plate.

And, back to street level...

Anyway, the Ferrari outside my window is loud. What I mean to say is, there's an awful lot of low-end racket before the car actually takes off. The engine sounds touchy, temperamental. I can take off in my Chevy, and nobody knows it. I used to consider that a selling point. The less social disturbance, the better.

But the wealthier you get, the more noise you've got to make. The more cages you've got to rattle. The more intense the colors must be. The whiter your teeth must get. It would be a damn shame to be filthy rich and nobody outside of your family knew it.

SEE ALSO

Manifesting an illegally parked Jaguar XK

Marring my clean slate with a tin-can rental car

Doctor: men my age are killed by cars & other men

"Like" Dear Dirty America on Facebook

Los Angeles Filmaker's Abercrombie & Fitch "Rebranding" Turns Into Downtown Debacle

ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE
Los Angeles

photo by Kim Scarborough

(editor's note: I didn't get to snap a picture, as it didn't seem like the proper thing to do at the time, so instead there are visual representations of the coveted A&F apparel on homeless folks posted throughout this article. The pictures are for educational purposes only.)

I had no idea that what I'd witnessed in my favorite downtown coffee shop was a residual effect of Los Angeles filmmaker Greg Karber's attempt to "rebrand" the exclusive retailer, Abercrombie & Fitch, by handing out used A&F apparel to homeless folks on Skid Row. It wasn't until I got home, read the news, and made the connection.

I sat at a chipped wooden table in the corner of the shop. It was the kind of table that makes you wonder who's been there before you, and what they were thinking about, and if they're still alive today. And soon you begin thinking about how much long you're going to live, and how many more coffees you might drink. Before long you're snared in a mental swirl like that bug you maliciously washed down the bathtub drain before stepping in to take a shower.

All the while I'd been enjoying a strong cup of coffee when a middle aged black man shuffled in. I didn't think much of him, except that his hair was smattered into clumps.

Not a bad look for Abercrombie
-- photo by Pattymooney

When the man didn't go to the counter to order, I looked up. He stood, with his back to me, at the table with the various canisters of cream and milk, and packets of raw and processed sugars, and stir sticks. There was also a large glass water container with a quaint metal spigot. Plastic glasses were stacked beside it.

The man wore a denim, long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I only noticed the shirt because I had been thinking about getting a new one, and I liked the professional cut of the one he wore. Tapered at the sides. The material didn't billow outward at its ends, but instead hugged his waist. Who made that shirt? I wanted to ask, but the energy didn't feel right.

The man turned partly toward me. He held a plastic cup normally used for water, but filled with milk, or creamer. With a flip of his wrist, he tossed the liquid into his open mouth. He grabbed the metal milk container and poured himself more. A homeless man. Come to pinch some milk. From the back, I couldn't even tell! And there I'd been, admiring his threads.

I glanced at the chubby barista standing next to the cash register and below a giant menu. Her long hair was dyed a dull orange at the ends. The hair hung around both sides of her face, and draped over her bulbous breasts, which were casually squashed against the counter and arced nearly into her chin.

When the man looked at me, I smiled. He smiled back. He was missing most of his front teeth. His beard was gnarled and grimy. He reached up and scratched his scalp, buried beneath the tangled hair. Underneath that open denim shirt I admired, he wore a very tight white tee with huge black letters on the front. A F. His lower belly noticeably bulged against the fabric.

He saw me glance at the barista again. I was waiting for her to tell him he had to buy something, or leave. He too looked at her, but she only smiled. "Oi mami," he said, or something like that.

From behind the counter, a heavy-set bald man popped his head around the corner. "Hey," he hollered, "get out of here!"

The man tipped the glass and let the smooth white liquid pour into his mouth. He dribbled a bit on his beard. His Adam's apple bobbed once. Almost like raising a fist of defiance, I thought. His eyes were bloodshot.

Tough, weathered, but sharp.

Behind the counter, the owner berated the Latina barista. "How long has he been here? How many cups of milk have you allowed him to drink? We don't let these guys come in here and drink the milk for free. You know that! Why didn't you kick him out right away?"

The owner's hostile tone was not as intimidating as it could have been, because it was apparent by the light smacking sounds of his dry lips and tongue that he desperately needed a drink of water.

"I didn't know," the barista said, but before she could finish the owner jumped in to ask, "What didn't you know?"

"I didn't know he was homeless," she said. "He's wearing Abercrombie and Fitch."

She had a point there, I thought. This homeless man was, in a way, undercover. Meanwhile, he poured himself another small cup of milk and threw it into his open mouth. His aim was not perfect, and another dribble of white liquid colored his dark beard.

"He's wearing what?" the owner said. His face was beet red. His lips bared back and his tiny teeth were showing. I could tell, all the way from my corner table, that he was a man who ground them during the day, and then gnashed them with even more conviction at night. He'd been turning his pearls into powder for a few decades, with all the stress of running a business in downtown Los Angeles.

I could imagine what he was thinking: it's difficult enough to turn a profit in this economy, and now we've got bums dressed in professional clothing stopping by for freebies, and the goddamn younger generations of clueless baristas are not savvy enough to avoid being fooled by the true derelict behind the expensive clothing.

"Abercrombie and Fitch," she said again. "It's pretty expensive clothing."

"Jesus!" the owner said, and slammed his palm onto the counter.

I watched the homeless man stroll away, probably satisfied with his belly full of cool milk.

"What is this world coming to?" he continued. "We've got bums walking around wearing expensive cool-kid outfits. I've got an employee who thinks wearing Abercrombie and Fitch makes a person more legitimate, so he can come right in here and take whatever he wants, and she's not going to say anything because she recognizes his brand name clothing."

He shook his head. The barista apologized. She had a huge frown on her face. She was confused. She'd done everything wrong. "It was only a little milk," she finally said.

"About six cups," the owner said, and retreated back to his office, or whatever was behind the counter. Two seconds later, he called out, "And make sure that milk is full!"

 photo by Alex Proimos

The barista lifted the hatch in the counter and stepped out to check on the milk. She glanced at me. "It still feels full," she said, as she lifted the canister and held it next to her chest. "He was wearing Abercrombie, right?" she asked me. "It was like a whole outfit."

I'm no expert, I said, but I'm not sure what else that huge A and F could stand for. Unless he's a fan of Aretha Franklin. Or Anne Frank.

She said, "I think I've seen him before, but usually he's got on a black shirt with holes in it. It threw me off."

Don't feel bad, I said, sometimes companies have homeless people model their clothes because of that rugged, rustic look that nobody else can get without living on the streets for a few years first.

I said this not knowing that we'd just run into a direct result of that local filmmaker's efforts to try to burn a popular retail chain by handing out the brand name garments to disenfranchised folks. When I found out, I wasn't sure who should be more offended, the reluctant homeless people, or Abercrombie's CEO Mike Jeffries.

First of all, the Abercrombie & Fitch debacle as of late is a non-issue. Yes, it gives everybody on Facebook a fresh topic to bitch about. It's easier to understand the politics behind A&F's discrimination of certain body types than it is to read up about the Federal Reserve's continued quantitative easing, the sub-prime mortgage crisis, and the LIBOR scandal.

But, with all the real issues going on in this country and world, a retailer that chooses to make their clothing for a limited body type is perfectly within the limits of the Constitution, and it's their right to risk alienating an enormous percentage of an overweight American population.

In fact, my tall, thin skeleton body has trouble finding clothes that fit. Either too short or too wide, because it seems most retailers stock up on the most common sizes that fit the popular range of American body types. I love a finely tapered shirt, yet sometimes they're difficult to find for my build. If it wasn't for the silliness of their advertising, and their brain dead, superficial look, I'd give Abercrombie & Fitch a try.

Secondly, while doing a nice deed for homeless folks (giving them a free shirt or pants), filmmaker Greg Karber intentionally sought out the least attractive folks in Los Angeles, stuffed them like scarecrows into specially tailored clothes they could never afford, all with the hope of pissing off that demon Mike Jeffries and making a statement doing it.

He's called for all of us to fish out our old Abercrombie & Fitch apparel and hand them out to homeless people. It's an attempt to fire up a circus sideshow, and use people who couldn't give two shits about designer clothes. Let's get the most washed out, struggling human beings in this country to sport this company's clothes. It'll be a great photo-op. It will embarrass A&F. It'll be a hoot.

Either way, that A&F denim shirt fit that homeless man very well. He had an air of confidence in it. The shirt underneath was less appealing. I'm convinced this anti-Abercrombie move is in the right direction for the mega outfitter, as it makes the cravings for the brand among the trendies and self-proclaimed "cool kids" that much more intense.

SEE ALSO

Get to the corner! Chris Rock from a parallel universe

Manifesting money with an old friend amid numerous distractions downtown

Neither of you are real men: the proof is in the sperm counts

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Doing Business With Bangladesh

JOHN BENNETT

photo by Fahad Faisal

(re-posted from Bennett's Shard email list -- to get on the list, see bottom of page)

The Committee for the People of Bangladesh hired a Canadian PR firm to see what could be done to get the people of the United States to muster a little empathy for the one thousand plus garment workers who perished in the  eight-story collapsible sweat shop in roughly the same time frame that the pressure-cooker bombs went off at the Boston Marathon. Because mutilation, not death, was the hallmark of the Boston Marathon disaster, resulting in a number of limb amputations, the PR firm played up the lost-limb angle, pointing out that many of those who didn't die in the Bangladesh disaster had to have limbs amputated in order to free them from the rubble of the collapsed building. But the tactic backfired--the majority of U.S. citizens felt that the people of Bangladesh were trying to make light of the Boston tragedy. The firm shifted its emphasis back to the death toll, but their efforts were met with indifference.

Then an up-and-coming ladder climber brainstormed the clothing angle, claiming that anywhere from 60 to 80% of the clothing worn by participants in the Boston Marathon was made in Bangladesh sweat shops, and wiping out a thousand highly experienced sweat-shop workers in one fell swoop meant those vacancies would be filled by less experienced workers, and for a time the quality of the clothing reaching the U.S. from Bangladesh would be spotty at best--seams unraveling, soles flapping off shoes, colors running in the wash.

The average America, who now buys most of his clothing at Good Will, was unmoved, but marathon runners and sport-oriented people in general did go into mourning, not for the dead workers, but over the projected decline in the quality of goods from Bangladesh. 

A committee was formed, made up of members of various sports organizations, and in short order a petition was put in circulation to stop doing business with Bangladesh until the quality of their goods improved.

Find John Bennett's novels, short stories, and shards at Hcolom Press. You can contact him, or get on his Shards list at dasleben@fairpoint.net. 

Read a review of his novel Children of the Sun & Earth here

SEE ALSO

The Birth of Road Rage

Unchaining Django

It's a Cyrano de Bergerac world

Life is a Boston tea party

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Mark Sanford, from Mistress to Meditation

At least the guy is living. That's the first thought I had about the latest news concerning South Carolina's former governor, Mark Sanford, and his cherished meditation routine.

Sanford recently won back his congressional seat by narrowly defeating Democrat Elizabeth Colbert Busch.

It's no wonder the man has learned to meditate, and meditate a lot. I myself can testify to the deep relaxation brought about by sitting quietly and monitoring my breathing through my nose, in and out, in and out, and so on. Please see Good morning, stress gurus

Sanford, if you don't remember, is the infamous politician who went missing for six days in 2009. The media went into a frenzy. How did we lose the governor of South Carolina? Sanford's spokesman, doing a bit of quick thinking, told the media the governor was out hiking the Appalachian Trail (later, that would become a euphemism for coitus).

When Sanford reappeared, he admitted he'd been in the arms of an Argentine journalist with a beautiful name: Maria Belén Chapur. They'd met in 2001, and the friendship had turned passionate in 2008. After the governor arrived back in the United States, he admitted he'd been having an extramarital affair, and that he, indeed, loved this other woman. He called her his soul mate. Currently, they're engaged.

You can't deny the heart very easily. That's what I like about Mark Sanford. Sure, he should have told his wife about it, rather than hurt her like he did, but there's still something remarkable about a man (or woman) who follows his passion, rather than going through the motions of every day life and only dreaming of what's really pulsing in his heart.

And now, Sanford is into meditation. Which is dear to my heart. Sitting still for even fifteen minutes each day, without the TV on, without music, without being on the phone, without a bowl of ice cream, without thinking, and without masturbating (that's a different sort of meditation, ask this priest), but just sitting still, and being aware of your body.

Mark Sanford gets it.

From the Huffington Post:

"I've tried to be disciplined about a quiet time each day," he said.

Sanford also advocated for the importance of being present, particularly when interacting with voters while on the campaign trail ("You're present with them, you actually can have a real conversation."). Although Sanford says he identifies as a Christian, he subscribes to the Buddhist concept of mindfulness (click over to Yahoo! for more on that).

Research has linked mindfulness meditation -- the practice of cultivating a nonjudgmental awareness of the present moment -- to lowering levels of the stress hormone cortisol, improving emotional stability and sleep quality, boostingcompassion and supporting weight-loss goals, among other health benefits.

 If you happen to know Mark Sanford, please pass this video of OSHO onto him. He'll like it. If you don't know him, you can watch it yourself:

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Success After All

ERIC CHAET

(please visit 100 Peculiarly Useful So-Called Poems for more)

To fail in life, in competition
for honors, wealth, power, pleasure
is bound to be bitter
tho you were mainly trying to transform the competition
not win it
& your rivals were fully invested in winning
but to gather your self & not be bitter anyway
to enjoy being alive & the world---
a flying bird, dawn, a meal, breath, water, a friendly voice
your own striding, a tune, rhythm
the Moon, tho it seems to have no use
& the deeds heroes have left for your use
generally acknowledged tho misunderstood
or as generally disregarded as what you've done so far---
tho the competition & misjudgment
are such a vital part of the world---
& to keep competing
not retreat into consolations refined
as tho endlessly, tho an end is imminent
in order to change the misjudgment
however much it's a long shot
however much you've been disappointed
to use your experience
& not to comfort yourself
because what you've been doing & saying
is right
which is true in a way
but also just an abstraction without any traction
to continue when others assume you're beat
or retired or dead already
when everyone---
except those you're still trying to reach & work with!---
has raced ahead of you
in competition you refused to make your priority---
you only needed rations to persist---
to get over your weariness, sourness, self-pity
even tho you don't know any more than you ever did
how to do what has never been done
ever, as far as you know
& thereby change everything
not just to stick with your principles to the end
& die virtuous, integrity intact
but to apply what you know & must yet learn
& use all the energy that disregards you
to disassemble & reassemble & re-aim
the engines, armies, corporations, logistic chains
& bureaucracies & part-true ideologies & base customs
that have captivated people's hearts & minds & hands
& are enforced by deluded or resentful technicians
which everyone must make themselves components of
or be ground down---
to succeed---
not the success of those who betray everyone
to get whatever they hope to get or die trying
to really succeed---
not once & for all---but again & again
like breathing in & out & sleeping & waking---
to be the seed in an ocean of dirt & the seed's extension
pushing its heavy way up & breaking thru the surface
into the sublimity of breezes & nourishing light
where gears shift, & production begins
of fruits that produce seeds in their turn
tho delicious & delightful themselves, tho eaten.

Eric Chaet, born Chicago, 1945, South Side, beaten, denigrated, sinking, swimming---servant of a refractory nation and species, sweating laborer in factories and warehouses, wearing jacket and tie in offices and classrooms---"so-called poems" published and posted around the world, sporadically, for decades---author of People I Met Hitchhiking On USA Highways (read a review) and How To Change the World Forever For Better---perpetual polymath student, synthesizer of specialists' insights and methods, solo consultant regarding space exploration and accidents involving obsolete industrial machinery---album of songs Solid and Sound---hitchhiked back and forth between the Pacific and Atlantic, sleeping out for years and subsisting on water and sunflower seeds, stapling a series of 1500 posters he made to utility poles, inciting whoever saw them to seize the responsibility for their own lives---governing without coalition or means of or inclination to coerce or confiscate, from below, approximately invisible.

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Get To The Corner! Chris Rock From A Parallel Universe

ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE
Los Angeles

photo by planetc1

The same grungy black dude strolls up to Tierra Mia coffee on Spring Street every time I'm there. The bottoms of his dark jeans are torn. His black t-shirt is tattered. He's always got a wild look in his eyes. Dangerously playful.

He moves fast, which makes people nervous. I don't know his name. I'm not sure he knows it. Every time I'm at the coffee shop, this man bounds over to the outside chairs and tables and sits against the shop's windowsill. If there's a chair in the way, he yanks it from his path and leans against his perch.

From there he hollers or laughs. It's a booming sound that ricochets against the buildings and sidewalk. The noise sticks in my ears for a few seconds after he's finished making it. When people walk past the coffee shop, he launches into a tirade, but his words are not usually distinguishable. They sound like a series of barks and yaps, yips and howls.

Today, he laughed and laughed. How can anybody's voice be that loud? It is only drowned out when the bus stops. When that orange box roars away, the man is still laughing. He leans forward and takes a peek down the street. His mouth looks like Chris Rock's mouth. Big, pearly white teeth. Thin black mustache. Full lips that, when opened, unleash a torrent of sound.

photo by
David Shankbone

In fact, the man could be Chris Rock in a parallel universe, where he suffered a few twists of bad luck and ended up entertaining audiences in his mind instead of in big city theaters throughout the world. On this plane, there's only room for one Chris Rock, and once one of them makes it, the rest must perish.

I remember a professor of mine telling me that California lets the crazy people loose. Ever since Reagan was in office. What state has money to rehabilitate people? "They give them a few days of medication and turn them loose on the streets. They're the ones who aren't harmless. Or at least they aren't perceived to be harmless."

What if this guy cuts loose one day? He always seems two minutes from coming unglued. What if he starts swinging his fists? Or overturns tables like Christ in the tabernacle? Or picks up the flattened squirrel laying in the gutter and hurls it at the nearest table of friendly folks sipping coffee? What's to stop him? For most of us, it's a paycheck and a social reputation. We can't act like we truly feel. But what incentive does he have in life to keep from going ballistic?

"Get your ass to the corner," a gruff voice calls from behind me. My cup of gourmet coffee cools in the breeze. It's called the Mexico Cup of Excellence coffee. The man hops off the windowsill and says, "Aaaaaahhhh." It's partly a growl. Partly the beginning of a word. Again, it sounds like Chris Rock. There's a childish quality to it. But this order is not coming from the man's mother. Two policemen stroll by, watching the man hop and skip to the corner. They have guns, batons, Tasers, pepper spray, and handcuffs.

The black dude is gone. Around the corner. Somewhere else. Suddenly, I'm no longer irritated with him. Why can't he sit there? He wasn't hurting anyone. He's just a little bothersome. But where else is he supposed to go? Where do people who don't have any money go? Pershing Square? To sit with all the other non-people who don't have money to spend. Relegated to the homeless park, where most people have loosened mental filters.

I don't blame the policemen. They know the black guy. They've dealt with him before. It's obvious by how quickly he reacts to their command. Not only do I feel bad for the crazy man, I'm also slightly relieved the police are making the rounds. Like I said, what would we do if that guy started going bonkers? I wouldn't want to jump on him. I wouldn't want to put his face into the cement and say to him, in my John Wayne voice, "You'd better settle down, son."

But the man is not a monster, I don't think. So he unleashes occasional bursts of sound out of his mouth. He's the Spring Street canary, except with an alarming howl instead of a tweetie-tweet.

There are businesses everywhere along the streets. Eateries. Bars. Coffee shops. Bookstores. Wine shops. Marketplaces. Electronics stores. Clothing outfitters.

A person without money isn't welcome in front of any of them. A homeless person isn't welcome anywhere, really. That's why they keep moving. Walking around the block. Trudging tirelessly through the neighborhood in their floppy boots, ripped sneakers, or bare feet. All the public spaces are bought up. The commons are gone. Nobody wants a lean bum with a scavenger's face stalking out front. Lunch tastes better without realizing there are more hungry people within that one square mile of downtown Los Angeles than you could possibly feed. Indulging in a good cup of coffee is soured when you're reminded every few seconds of the basic, unsolved problems of poverty in this society.

The police officers had cornered another man across the street. I read my book. Donald O'Donovan's Night Train. A great novel about Los Angeles and the disenfranchised folks with their big grins and even bigger dreams, all the while fighting addictions or other setbacks that keep them wading through the dirty streets of the giant city.

A few minutes later a voice calls, "Hey brother," from behind me. I know instantly that the person is talking to me. Having long blonde hair in Los Angeles is like being a rare building with a turret capped in gold in a city of buildings that are mostly flat and square on top. It's forever, "Hey, bro", "Hey, dude", and then, "You gotta light? You got bud? You got a cigarette? You got a couple bucks for a homie?"

It's like there's an affinity between my long hair and the notion that I'll be willing to help out in any way I can. There's also the assumption that I do drugs, carry them on me, and pass out cigarettes.

"You're an intellectual," the man says. For one second I think it's the crazy guy the police scared away just minutes ago, but it's not. This one is much calmer. His eyes are deep brown and sparkling. He speaks softly, fluently. His pinky and pointer fingers are bent dramatically at the middle knuckle. How had he broken them? Or who had broken them?

He's wearing a hoodie and a long black knitted scarf wrapped around his neck three times. He sees my smartphone on the table. "Don't be using that thing," he says. "The Illuminati can listen in. They're always listening. Through the phones and computers and cameras and everything else," he says.

I know it, I say. It's no use avoiding that now. We're trapped in this world.

Of course, the man wants some money. He's young, good looking. It seems he could easily be a college student, a half back on a football team, or even an actor. But instead he's just looking for a few quarters so he can get on the bus.

I don't have any cash, I tell him. But I'll buy you a coffee with my card.

We go inside and everybody looks at us. He slides his crooked finger down the miniature paper menu in front of the cash register and asks me, "What's good? What's good here?"

I get the straight black coffee, I say, but what are you in the mood for?

He settles on a chocolate mocha latte. He pronounces it "latt-ee". The girl behind the counter says the total, and I hand her my card.

The young man, who tells me his name is Frank, looks closely at me. I get nervous. What if he goes ballistic? What if he's a nutcase with a peaceful countenance, and in the blink of an eye he's got me on the floor and stabbing me with an old pocketknife he carries in his hoodie's pouch? There would be that embarrassing LATimes headline: Little Known Blogger Gets Decapitated In Downtown Cafe, Witnesses Say He Hardly Struggled.

"You're an angel," he finally says. I realize he looks like a mix between a young man I worked with in Davis, California, and a Los Angeles musician friend of mine, mentioned in this article.

No, I say, I'm just German and Norwegian. I'm very simple. I only enjoy a few things in life. I don't understand much. I try to learn what I can. I sleep on an air mattress because it seems fitting for a person like me. I read a few books. I try to write about my experiences. I can repeat a few smart phrases I've memorized from books, but I rarely have an original idea.

The barista hands Frank his latte and I ask him how it is. He sticks out his tongue and licks the foam off his upper lip. He nods and gives me a look that suggests it's very good.

Outside, Frank asks me what my astrological sign is. Scorpio, I say. He tells me he's a Cancer. Well, that's why we get along so well, I tell him. "There's a pleasant draw of energy between us," he says. "A smooth back and forth."

Frank asks me to wish him luck as he walks to Miracle Hill. "Throw out a good wish for me," he says.

I do.

SEE ALSO

Manifesting money downtown with an old friend amid numerous distractions

Some killers can read better than others

Big deals on Walmart: Speculating on future products

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For How Much Money Will the Toothless Kardashian Carp Go?

Fried carp (with Kardashian molecules?) photo by Ludek

It's refreshing to hear about very rich and famous people, who are very rich and famous for not having done anything of any importance, taking a European vacation and getting pampered in weird ways. What average joe doesn't think about vacation on top of wealth on top of endless vacation?

And so it is with the pregnant Kim Kardashian who, as I'd predicted, is quickly transforming into our modern day's Venus of Willendorf. For a short explanation on that, and a side-by-side picture of the two, see Who's our modern day symbol of fertility?

The Kardashians were blowing off some steam in Greece recently, and Kim and Kourtney decided to go to a spa and get a pedicure. With live fish. It's a luxury treatment if there ever was one. The girls lowered their feet into a pool of water and live, toothless carp pick the dead skin off the invaluable Kardashian feet dangling in the water.

The big news is that Kim didn't like it. She squealed in fear and disgust. The toothless fish-bites caused Kim to scream, "I hate it. I hate it, oh my God!" The fish were said to go after the reality TV star's feet with an extra zealousness that the shop's owners had not previously witnessed.

That's where the news story ends, but where the real story begins. Because of the lucrative dead skin these fish were peeling off of feet of inestimable value (I really doubt the fish knew the difference), these carp, after finishing their job, were to be fished out of the pond and kept in a live tank for 48 hours to absorb into their muscles that particularly special blend of DNA and molecular makeup known as Kardashian tissue.

Carp resting after a long day of eating dried foot skin

Once the fish have full absorbed the dead skin off of those Kardashian feet, they will be rushed over to the highest bidding gourmet Grecian restaurant to be cleaned and prepared into a delicate fried carp meal, which is a dish celebrated in places like Greece.

The plate will be served with either rice, a lightly whipped mashed potato, or potato salad, or possibly the sides will be flexible and chosen by the highest bidding diner. It will be the Kardashian Carp specialty. It will be a one in 6 billion chance to absorb on a most meaningful level something authentically Kardashian. This fortuitous diner will more deeply experience Kim than Kanye ever can, unless he scrapes his teeth over the dead skin on her feet and plucks, with impressive accuracy, every flake of dried skin and nibbles them between his teeth.

While it is very unlikely the diner will notice a difference in the taste of the prized strips of fried carp, he (or she) will simply know, with certainty, exactly what he is consuming.

It's weird, it's sort of sexual, it's kind of a rush, yet, it's nothing out of the ordinary. The entire planet is made of particles. Subatomic particles and atoms that make up molecules. Humans and every other living thing on this planet consume and excrete these particles every day. We pass them around unknowingly.

It's possible you've taken in one of William Shakespeare's atoms. Well, it wasn't his, he was just using it while housed in his body that lived on this planet. When his body died, no doubt it turned back into soil and maybe nourished a bed of grass that nourished a grub, which in turn fed a bird, which flew into the side of a building and fell into the awaiting paws of a cat, and then the cat was eaten by a desperate opium addict squatting in some back alley in late 18th century London, and then a pack of wild dogs chomped on the addict's neck a few days later as he slept in that alley, and they ate his flesh and crunched on his bones and then the dogs roamed the countryside until they were cornered and eaten by a pack of coyotes that would, in a few months, meet their ends due to a plague that would turn their coats mangy and make their gums bleed, and shortly after they'd be eaten by a vulture, which would be shot down by an arrow and plummet into a small field of corn and not retrieved by the hunter. The vulture's body, untainted by the coyotes' plague, would decompose and help the next year's corn crop, which would be heartily eaten by an extended family who worked on the small farm and had never even heard of Shakespeare.

But it's how those particles
are put together, you might argue

The moral of the story is that Kim Kardashian is not important unless we pretend she is. The world of particles is just that. It is up to us to place the meaning and value of those particles. It is up to us to interpret them.

Despite the news coverage and constant attention we give her, her particles are not more spectacular or unique than yours. She is simply a collection of atoms and molecules and cells and tissues and organs that happen to be purportedly worth an unbelievable amount of money. And if that body of particles can be worth so much, especially for doing so little for humanity or earth or consciousness, then you're all worth that much too.

It's high time you let it be known. "I'm as special as Kim Kardashian," you should proclaim in public. "Chances are, I might even be more special. Or, if nothing else, the Kardashians are less special." And say it often. Say it loud. And remind others to spread the good news, too. Because we need new heroes. New role models. New aspirations.

Just don't go overboard with it and say you're as special as Albert Einstein or Phillis Wheatley or Ferdinand Magellan. Because, probably, it's not true.

Stick with Kardashian. Stick with the lowest common denominator.

SEE ALSO

Venus of Willendorf: who's our symbol of fertility?

Kim Kardashian's allotment in this lifetime suggests staggeringly pristine & servile past lives

I'm sorry Kim Kardashian's cat died

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