If You're Mad At Paula Deen, Meet My Dad

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The only time I can recall dropping an "N-Bomb" was in the heat of a fistfight -one that I lost- when I was about fourteen years old.  For reasons never explained a guy sucker-punched me on a bus, and I pounced him.  Shocked, adrenaline-feuled, and furious beyond rationale, pow, out it came.  All the oxygen seemed to be suddenly sucked out of the vehicle.  Time stopped, and that word just hung there, palpable and malignant in the ether.  I was so mortified at hearing myself say it I kinda threw the fight, feeling like I deserved to get my ass kicked.  And boy did I ever.  (Note to self: pick more prudent times to be stricken with guilt.)

Even at the time, it wasn't in my lexicon.  My dad and stepmom were (are? more on this later) vehement racists -my dad in particular- so I most certainly was exposed to it.  But dad lost custody to my "birth" mother when I was six or so.  Mom, in weird contrast, was the first of her migrant family to be actually born in the United States, and as a consequence she was definitely not down with the whole racism thing.  In retrospect I don't know how those two crazy kids got together in the first place.  A quasi "foreigner" herself, not only did she suffer her own racial discrimination issues, but she was among the first women trying to break into the workforce vis-à-vis "Mad Men."  Working for a sexual harassment factory posing as a law firm, she returned us to the cultural squish of Chicago where I was born and raised. There, I made friends with every race and nationality imaginable -hence underlining the horror and deep regret of my action.

The last time I saw my dad's side of the family was maybe ten years ago, and I regret to inform you some of them were just as racist as ever.  Dad was a perplexing and textured cat: a former Chicago cop that passionately hates cops, and a white supremacist that had black friends who were aware he was a white supremacist.  As a decorated Chicago cop, he fought the Mob until a crime lord threatened his family, i.e. my mom (his first wife) and the toddling bundle of joy aka yours truly.  Legend has it he set his badge on the Mob guy's desk and walked away from the force, never looking back.  He would also go on to sell his house and go into bankruptcy in the bitter custody battle over me which he would subsequently lose.

I speak of him in a past tense now as I'm not sure he's even alive; he got so fed up with the country he bought a large piece of property on an Arkansas mountain, and a whole chunk of that family side sort of just receded into it.  To imagine him in a rocking chair, shotgun cradled in his arm, waiting for a hapless "revenuer" to wander up to his doorstep is not far-fetched; that single visit was anachronistic to the point that it was cartoony.  And that I don't share his views shamed him I think.  I have on numerous occasions amused myself with the idea of getting a black woman in a police uniform to go there with me and introduce her as my wife.  Hellooo, life insurance!

So let's not kid ourselves.  That culture, as back-assward as it seems today, is still out there. And Paula Deen's situation, on the face, might not seem that different than mine other than she didn't make the conscious effort to take herself out of it that I did.  She is also much (much!) older, so one could argue I had an easier time than she might have.

But the idea of hosting cotillion-like events replicating that whole ugly era is utterly bizarre.  I suppose it may have some historic value and tradition, but it borderlines being insensitive if not outright distasteful, thusly magnifying anything she can claim would have been a simple "youthful indiscretion."  Why people don't just emulate something more neutral puzzles me.  If you're not racist, why look, act, and dress like one for fun?  Even if bigotry is sincerely the furthest thing from her mind, wouldn't anyone with a double-digit I.Q. recognize she is asking for trouble?  Go get really jazzed up about something else like the Monroe Doctrine instead.  "Hooray for the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act!" has a nice ring to it.

Unfortunately, that won't work either.  America was arguably founded in 1776 and the Civil Rights movement wasn't until 200 years later.  That only leaves 20% of American history to draw from -and if you count a certain compound on a remote Arkansas mountainside, you have 0.

So Paula, please enjoy your "Smurfs 2"-themed wedding.  Don't tell any midget Avatar jokes.  And sprinkle in frequent  "I'm sorrys" to all who participate and attend.

Like I do for my do for my dad.

All Ball

-or "The Miracle of the Toaster"

Predator Press  

There was a point that I loved college. But I started getting involved in the more political aspects, the economics, the teacher unions -cumulatively this proved very disillusioning. The closer I got to the underbelly, the beloved altruism of academia gave way to the petty motives of the once-respected peers. In search of Superman, I accidentally discovered Clark Kent.

This had far-reaching ripple effects, mostly bad, on the rest of my life. I would no longer go to concerts or seek personal information on my favorite artists in fear of finding something negative that might change my opinion. Deep cynicism and mistrust seeped and eroded into a sort of boredom and malaise of humanity. For decades, I have so badly wanted that that exuberance and optimism back, and yet it escaped me;  I ached to find something truly new and marvelous.  But through the lenses I perceive the world there is little but self interest, and this blog is sort of an expression, a parody, maybe a metaphor of that; "LOBO" is written as a five year old child, devoid of a sense of consequence to action. Neither good nor evil, LOBO acts on the razor-edge Existential plane of exactly "here and now."

But that's just too depressing a conclusion.

-There must be something redeemable about existence beyond the general experience of it.

Right?

As a menial industrial minion of a book warehouse, I am allowed to listen to an iPod while doing my mind-numbingly dull job. And I find myself listening to highly-randomized lectures supplied by iTunesU. Recently, I rolled my eyes as Marshall Brain released one on how a toaster works.

But it turned out to be pretty interesting.

In fact it got me thinking. Maybe turning on ESPN Sports Center or going down the rabbit hole of news and fiction of my choice is the problem.

-Perhaps our "comfort zones" are just too comfortable for our own good.

Dwane "The Rock" Johnson Gets Tattooz To Impersonate Me

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Edward Snowden Leaks ULTIMATE "Making of Star Wars, Original Trilogy" To Kim Kardashian's Baby

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Would You Lazy Criminals Please Ratchet It Up So I Can Get To Work?

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I was in a heightened state of agitation with America well before details of America's PRISM program got leaked.  How many heroic and lucrative speed traps have you seen over the past ten years while those three little girls remained prisoners of Ariel Casto?  Why is Chicago, bankrupt and infested with murderous gang members, preoccupied with an effort to ban plastic bags?  What the Hell is going on here?  If I wrote this as a fiction story a month ago, anyone that read it would consider it paranoid and laughable -a bizarre alternate universe where Amanda Bynes is in charge. Every time I see Air Force One land, I half expect an impossible number of clowns to tumble out.

Everything comes down to money.  There's no revenue in busting up meth labs, solving crimes, and protecting American Society.  Sure those "real" criminals -seriously dangerous threats- might have a few bucks to confiscate, but that's a one-shot deal.  Then you would have to incarcerate them, something expensive in itself.  It's much more prudent to harvest us as we hurry to get to our jobs to pay taxes and fund this whole Ponzi scheme.  We have credit cards and mortgages, something at stake.  It's very clever if you think about it: you don't kill a cow to get milk.

-We hired a security team to fuck with ourselves?

A Long Time Ago On An Armchair Far, Far Away ...

 

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Like any other Star Wars fan, I have been "chasing the dragon" for another good movie since The Empire Strikes Back.  And in anticipation of my next "fix," I find myself occasionally tracking news on the next film.

Plot rumors aside I know Disney purchased the franchise, and this move has come with mixed reviews from die hard fans.  But I'm fine with that personally.  Disney is a class act.  And if you dig into Disney's food chain deep enough, you'll find Quentin Tarantino; Disney is perfectly capable of delivering a darker vehicle than the fluff we have been getting for decades.

I have also confirmed the production company Bad Robot -whose resume includes little-known projects such as Cloverfield and Lost- is onboard.  Toss in J.J. Abrams, and I am growing cautiously optimistic.  And as a recovering Star Wars-oholic on my 9th step ("Making Amends"), I have George Lucas on speed dial.

But as for my next injection of the saga, I'm not exactly tying the rubber strap to my upper arm just yet.  The problem with the series evolution as it stands, in my opinion, is centered around a failure in character development, and -perhaps even moreover- casting.  The serendipitous and captivating personalities developed by Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill, et cetera, have given way to unwarranted celebrity cameos.  If you recall, even the beloved and cantankerous Millennium Falcon had a personality ... but everyone since that original cast might as well be wearing "good guy" and "bad guy" nametags.  We need more character complexity and nuance; no one has been particularly memorable -at least not in a good way.  Perhaps this is an unwanted byproduct of playing against a blue screen instead of using actual sets.

And speaking of that, I also want the original "feel," back.  It's too polished now, sort of devolving into a CGI special effects catalog.  It was better when the universe of Star Wars seemed like a rental apartment -the Matrix-esque gloss is inescapable.  I like that the ships and droids looked all banged up.  People looked tired and well-worn.  It was a used, "lived in" universe, simultaneously textured with haggard decline and rebirth in random patches.  Like real life.

Ironically, technology seems to have made Star Wars lose its soul.

On This Day In Predator Press History

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On August 25, 1980, while General Zod made his play for control of the Earth, I wore down Ursa's morale by covering her MySpace with anonymous obscenities and slanderous allegations about her sexual proclivities; General Zod had a "don't ask, don't tell" policy, and this undermined his entire military effort.

Thanks to me (and a small supporting role by Superman), Zod, his "army," and his hairline were all soon receding into the furthest reaches of outer space.

And can you really be a "general" if your entire army is only three people?

-Pthbttt. As if!