Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

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One Hundred Years Of Solitude, By Gabriel Garcia Marquez

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Gabriel Garcia Marquez is obviously not for everyone, the reviews on this site alone should suffice to point that out, here, he gets one star from one person who claims it's little more then intellectual porn, to the five star review where the constant ride of characters is likened to an oceanic ride... But for me, this book took on a whole new range, for me, it was like listening to a story told by my mother. Maybe it's the Latin American culture's shift to Christianity despite it's magical origins that has created this genre-Magical Realism.

I can't say for sure, nor would I claim that I understand Mr. Marquez' intentions, but I do know that my mother would often speak of magical events as if they were the norm. But that was my upbringing, so reading a lot of this story was quite literally like listening to my mothers voice.

The story itself is simply the tale of the fictional town of Macondo, it's founder, Aurelio Buendia, and roughly 23, or 24 more Aurelio's, and their family. The town was blessed at first, and through various stages of it's development, goes through countless magical and odd transformations.

It is a bit choppy, in that almost no characters are allowed to fully develop, and you are simply allowed to view them from a distance, so to speak. Also, the characters pop in and out, and back in again at such a rate that I could see how one might get confused. I even noticed a few of the reviewers actually used the family tree at the beginning to try and keep track. I didn't do this, but perhaps I have a better memory than most, or perhaps I was a bit more absorbed by the text.

Marquez is also on the top of his game in terms of writing style. Almost 432 pages, yet never once did I feel jarred, like some have claimed on this site. I felt he very smoothly transferred from character to character, and he writes with this fluid prose that for me is absolutely entrancing.

From beginning to end, this book seems to challenge the reader to look beyond the realm of whats real, to become absorbed in the drama surrounding the characters, and never really the characters. It compels one to try and digest the massive tale. Ultimately, you will feel changed when you are done with this story.

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Happy Birthday, Mom.

I wrote the following piece for an English course I took in school. It was a definition piece, where I supposed to define anything I wanted. I chose my family, and I do so through a fictitious get together reminiscent of our typical family parties. I'm posting it today to celebrate my mother's birthday. Eight years ago, her life was tragically cut short, today she would be celebrating her 52th birthday. But tomorrow is never promised to us, and today is only borrowed. For this, we should cherish every moment above ground.

Defining My Family.

I drink Bourbon; Booker’s if I can afford it, Jim Beam since I can’t. My brother pours me the first shot of the evening. The shot glasses are lined up side by side, five in all, one for me, one for my older brother Danny, my oldest brother Yulio, Fernando, a brother by choice, and my little sister Darleen. Yulio lifts his glass in toast. “Salud!” he shouts. The Spanish phrase means health, but he only says it for decorative value, it’s something to say. I take the shot down as my face grows hot, then I gasp a little, a mistake in my family, and one that they don’t miss.

“What’s the matter Nancy?” I hear shouted out, but I ignore it.

My sister comes up behind me and grabs my shoulder. She whispers, “That was for us, but I got a bottle of Limon for Mom. Not till later though, aight?”

I remember my mother then, and since she’s passed away these get-togethers happen a lot less. If she were alive right now, she’d love this scene. She always loved the symphony of voices clogging the air with memories, the children laughing and playing, and the smell of the roasted pork shoulder cooking in the oven.

A table stands proudly displaying the various plates we all brought with us. Well, they brought, I never bring a dish. My sister is expected to bring her special potato salad since she’s always broke and the dish is relatively cheap to make, so it’s hers to make. I used to wonder why she called it her “special” potato salad, but my sister is the definitive hoodrat, so I don’t want to know anymore.

A couple of pans of Spanish rice glow amidst the dishes, one was brought by my older brother Danny’s wife, the other was cooked here by Yulio’s wife Sarah. The former is yellow rice with sausage and corn made just for me, the latter; yellow with beans. I don’t eat beans.

Along with the main dishes, there are the desserts. Sarah has made her marshmallow cheesecake, and Danny’s wife Cathy has made a Flan, which is a custard like treat. My sisters’ kids have made a pie which looks, um, interesting. They claim it is apple-banana, but we may never know for sure. The girls have all made cookies for the event, various shapes and sizes, but mostly hearts.

I hear my new name for the evening being beckoned at the row of shot glasses, and I join them gladly, ignoring my new feminine moniker. They’ve cracked open a bottle of champagne, and my brother Danny says the toast; “Champagne for my real friends, and real pain for my cham friends! Salud!”

“Salud!” we all reply in unison.

“Hey!” Yulio reply’s with a start, “To Costa Rica, too.”

“Yeah,” I start in, “To Costa Rica, only six revolutions till were Mexican.”

My brother begins to tell of the idiocy of my remark, and to tell of the beauty of our supposed native land. I’m only half Costa Rican, the other half is Puerto Rican, and so I could care less. I leave before he begins to tell me why Costa Rica is paradise.

I head over to the children. My daughter, a seven year old red headed fireball of energy, is leading a dance off to a High School Musical number that I now know by heart. Yulio’s daughter, a six year old doll, joins in along with her little brother and my sister’s armies of kids-three in all-also begin dancing. My daughter spots me, and requests my hand in the dance. I join in, and we all begin to “Bop to the top” I wipe away my inhibitions as the anarchy these kids call dancing erupts around me. They grow bored with me after my first set, so I excuse myself to the kitchen were my brother is still talking about Costa Rica. My sister pulls out a bottle of Bacardi Limon, my mother’s favorite drink. We all notice it, and quickly head towards the row of shot glasses.

The five glasses are still in place, only now, three more have emerged. The wives have joined in. The glasses are filled, and then lifted to the air. I glance around at the people around me, this is my family. I wish I could get this more often. My sister says the toast now.

“To mom and the family she left behind. Salud!”

Why I love Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I spent the last two days of my life quite bored. Yesterday, I visited a library over in Leominster and spent almost three hours indulging in the almost symphonic prose of the great literature of one Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I did this on Wednesday as well. Yesterday, I read "A Chronicle of a Death Foretold"; on Wednesday; "Memories of My Melancholy Whores". The latter I read in the Fitchburg Public Library, the former in Leominster's. Leominster definitely has the better Library, as it carries an almost Barnes and Noble feel to it, Fitchburg is more like a crappy bookstore.

With his story, "Memories of my Melancholy Whores",Marquez has this remarkable prose that even with a vulgar topic such as this story-a tale of a ninety year old who decides that, on "the eve" of his ninetieth birthday, to bed a virgin-an obvious beauty shines through in his writing.

The tale centers around a sort of anti-hero, whose name I don't believe is ever revealed. He is a washed up, retired journalist of no fame who has spent his life bedding whores with whom he "makes love without love", sometimes not even fully undressed.

The story follows him on his mission while he recounts his life. In true Marquezian fashion, the tale is filled with a very original prose which is so fluid that to stop reading is almost impossible. I read this at the library in about 3 hours...much to the chagrin of library lurkers-of which there is few in my new local library.

I would highly recommend this book...whether or not you know Marquez

As for "A Chronicle of a Death Foretold", What I learned was a)Marquez enjoys intermingling his stories-a couple of characters from "One Hundred Years in Solitude" make a reappearance here. b)Marquez has a fluidity in his writing that I can only dream of one day possessing and c)For a man who rarely ever ends a book well(I love him, but you know I'm right)this book will surprise.

The story is a retelling, after the fact, of a heinous crime in which despite the clarity of the suspects and victim and motives, a great deal of unanswered questions remain.

The story itself is told in first person, by the friend of the victim, in what appears to be a report of some sort; like a journalist trying to get at the heart of the matter. But this formula is undermined by the writer's use of ethereal metaphor; a trademark of Marquez's Magical Realism. The writer is hardly concerned with discovering the truth-it's obvious that the truth is already found--but more with understanding the motives, and exposing further the many failings that it took to create the crime.

In essence, the "Death" was "Foretold", but nobody listened. Marquez has a way of making even this magical. If you like anything by Garcia Marquez, you will "love" this story.

Also, a master of the short novel, at 120 pages, you will barrel right through this story; I finished this in just shy of 3 hours--and I enjoyed every minute

The Death of a Poet

Our President spoke last night about his troop surge in Afghanistan, and what struck me first was the lack of poetry in his words. I think we saw the death of a poet live on primetime.

The first ten minutes of his speech was essentially a history lesson on the Afghan and Iraq wars, with a much needed emphasis on the fact that we want nothing to do with occupying these nations, but rather to simply to remove a common enemy. His retelling of the history of our wars in that region was very kind to our former cowboy president. And it was very clear that, as most already knew, Afghanistan is the proverbial ground zero. Although, as Chris Matthews pointed out, his logic in this situation was slightly more a domino effect than an all out assault on Al-Qaeda.

Afghanistan, as the president pointed out, can not be lost because if we lose, the Taliban will set up shop, and give safe haven to Al-Qaeda. Winning in Afghanistan will help to keep pressure on Al-Qaeda, and show Pakistan that they have a partner, which will help to further drown out Al-Qaeda’s power.

His plan is fairly simple; increase troops by as much as 30,000 in Afghanistan as early as January, 2010, spend 18 months helping to train Afghan soldiers, combat the Taliban-which has grown in strength while we wasted time over in Iraq chasing imaginary weapons and such-and try to suppress the presence of border region militias that operate with, as Obama himself put it, “impunity”, who send terrorist to America to execute various nefarious plots to disrupt western life, while preparing Afghanistan to take over and hold the fort down themselves.

Dennis Kucinich would rather not send more troops to Afghanistan; he would prefer to bring the troops home, and focus solely on “nation building” here at home. Several other well known democrats have joined him, including Rep. Maxine Waters, and they are poised to disrupt funding for the task. Unfortunately, Obama does not have the luxury of focusing on one problem, a point that he stressed in his speech.

Now one point that can be made is the concern over whether we should be fighting a war for a country steeped in corruption, but this holds onto a mistaken belief that corruption is unfixable. I will concede that “60 percent of the population said Karzai's government was the most corrupt in 40 years” as is stated in a report by Integrity Watch Afghanistan . And it is somewhat disturbing that Hamid Karzai, the President of Afghanistan, is himself incredibly tainted with both of his two elections to office marred by fraud and the fact that his brother is one of the most powerful drug lords in the area-as well as his well known tendency to keep incompetent generals in power for political reasons-but this assumption that going only through the President is the only way to stabilize the region and push Taliban forces away, is historically wrong.

Mark Moyar, a professor of national security affairs at the U.S. Marine Corps University, points out that the U.S. has, on occasion, effected political change through convincing leaders to designate particular cabinets posts to effective leaders, and to shift certain power to those posts. And this can happen in Afghanistan.

Another point that the President made in his speech, was that he was not dithering, as former Vice President Dick Cheney has recently been claiming, but that he took the amount of time allowed him by his Generals to think this decision through. He correctly pointed out that in no way has he stalled any assistance to our troops over in Afghanistan. I like that, a President that actually thinks the problem through, not just some gung-ho cowboy looking to shoot from the hip. He made it very clear that he does not take this lightly, that it weighs heavily on his mind. I like that.

But the one thing about his speech that struck me was the pragmatic perspective. As Rachel Maddow pointed out, there was a lack of poetry in his speech, it was more prose. But I like this approach, old fashioned pragmatism, a realistic look at matters. There was no sloganeering, he gave us the facts, laid out in a very precise manner. And I believe he stated his goals very clearly. I, for one, never truly understood the goal of the Afghan war, nor the war in Iraq, but in his speech, not only did our President very clearly spell out his goals, he has assured us that they can be met.

Last night, on prime time, we might have seen the death of a poet but at least we saw the birth of a true President.

Eric Pabon

Inaction is not an option

It’s been repeated over and over, and by several well-known liberals--inaction is not an option.

When the healthcare bill passed the House on Saturday, I was excited; at last, I thought, finally, these Democrats managed to pass something, and the healthcare bill, no less. Now, I’ve seen the original bill and I agree wholeheartedly with it, but since I last read it, it’s been abused, and abused, and so badly changed, that I no longer know what it is.

Let me specify, I, for the most part, agree with the current healthcare bill, but I do disagree with this arrogant belief that we should allow some very important reforms go away in the name of the public option. I know that the provision in this bill that say’s insurance companies will no longer be allowed to deny coverage based on pre-existing conditions, could help a lot of families. And removing the health insurance industry’s exemption from anti-trust laws would help to bring prices down. Along with several other really important reforms.

But for some in the senate as well as the house, the public option is a do or die provision. And this is true for both sides. For Lieberman, that clear attempt at maintaining the healthcare revenue stream that flows so well from his home state insurers is of the utmost importance, and as such, he is poised to insure it remains that way. And he has a great deal of power right now; with a single deviation on a procedural vote, he can bring this reform to a complete stop, all because of the public option. So, what we can have is nothing, and the insurance industry keeps on abusing customers.

Now, if we dump the public option, Lieberman has no real reason to complain, and any complaints will be clear cut greed.. Not that his objection to the public option can’t be supposed greed, but at least it is defendable, and with the nation so evenly split, it is defendable. But, none of the other major provisions can be deemed overly controversial; I would love to see him defend the insurance industries exemption from the anti-trust laws, or see him defend pre-existing conditions.

Now, if we do dump the public option, it would behoove us to also remove the mandate, not the employer mandate, but the personal mandate. I can understand the frustration, people run to the emergency room because of a lack preventative healthcare, and we the tax payers are forced to subsidize, but mandating that we get insurance is at best laughable. Perhaps a better solution would be enforcing hospital pay the same way we mandate federal loan repayment, by force.

Now, the republicans have been touting this portable insurance idea, allowing all insurance companies to cross state lines, and I agree, but only if we agree on a federal standard that must be met, and allow states to keep whatever standards they have, which any insurer doing business in that state must abide by.

This is hardly a cure-all, but at least it gets us moving in the right direction, and until we get a more liberal senate, it’s as good as it gets. And at the very least, it’s action.

Ghetto WordSmiths-Hip-Hop as Modern Poetry

Poetry is defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary as being “A metrical writing…that is arranged to create a specific emotional response.” Unsatisfying as it may be, that is roughly what all dictionaries agree upon as a definition. I would prefer Mark Flanagan’s definition, that Poetry defies definition. He likens defining poetry to “grasping at the wind.” Although his definition is a lack of definition, it seems surprisingly fit to its task. Robert Frost wrote in his notebooks that “a poem is an idea caught fresh in the act of dawning.” and that “poetry is the renewal of words.” Perhaps the New Englander’s loose definition is a bit too abstract, but then so is Poetry.

Following suit, Hip-Hop, or rap, is equally definable. Merriam Webster defines Hip-Hop as “a subculture especially of inner city youths who are devotees of Rap music.” And then rap music is defined as “a rhythmic chanting often in unison of usually rhymed couplets to a musical accompaniment.” What a sexy way to describe a social movement, perhaps Merriam Webster would claim Dorian Gray was a little too into his looks, or that Gregor Samsa had a bad hair day.

To a degree, some words redefine themselves over time, so the fault cannot lay in Merriam‘s hands entirely. The definition of these words grow like vines, increasing their reach, and blending into other vines in odd Gordian knots. Rap, and Poetry have grown like vines, and to an extent, are no longer truly indistinguishable from one another. We can see where they both started, but which stem belongs to which vine?

Like any proper craft, Poetry has its tools. Aside from the obvious knowledge of words, other tools in the poets tool box are metaphors, analogies, similes, as well as the ability to apply them. The range these simple tools provide though is staggering. Poetry itself has grown with the age of the poets who compose it. From Homer to Dante, from Hugo to Poe, Frost to Hughes, Angelou to…well, I suppose Nas and Necro now, Poetry is constantly evolving.

Opponents of Rap music will lay claim that because of the vulgar language often employed, and the way rappers use slang terminology in their lyrics, that rap can not be considered poetry. I oppose this view. In my opinion, Poetic Rap is a reflection of society, and in some cases it raises the consciousness of its fans. Oscar Wilde, in the manifesto to Dorian Gray wrote that the realism movement in literature created the “Rage of Caliban at seeing his own image in the mirror.” Or, simply put, society hates to view itself in a negative light. Rap suffers from this view, and the Poets who create it suffer a lack of artistic respect.

Several rappers could serve as examples of the poetic nature in rap, but Nas has gained the most respect in terms of accolades, so I will use him. One song in particular serves to showcase his wide range of topics. In “Last words” he takes on the persona of a prison cell. He starts off by telling you that he’s a prison cell, then he explains that he is alive, giving the eerie warning that “Convicts think they alone/but if they listen close/They can hear me groan/touch the wall feel my pulse”. In the dark nights, when you think that nobody is listening, he can hear you crying. He taunts you by making it hotter in the summer, and colder in the winter. He hides your weapons for you. He watches you sleeping, and he makes you dream of freedom, but when you wake up, you wake up to him. He warns you that he can turn the toughest man into a beast, and should you ever be freed, he will go with you wherever you go as a constant reminder to live legally.

In this one song, he personifies a prison cell, warns of the hell a prison can inflict, and serves as a warning to live the legal life. All of this captured in eight bars, or to put it in poetic terms, about five stanzas of pentameter.

To capture that much emotion, and reflect it efficiently in a matter of a few stanzas showcases his ability as true wordsmith. To deny him the right to be called a Poet is simply injustice.

Works Cited available upon request

Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday

The belief in the political world right now is that yesterdays elections were some sort of teaser of the 2010 election cycle, as well as 2012’s. This is a dangerous perceptive primarily because these elections--an off-year--typically have a low voter turnout. That, in itself, should lessen the actual results impact on the national scale, but thanks to a sharp divide across this nation, democrats and republicans are willing to take the slightest win(such as minor house shifts, and somewhat benign Gubernatorial races) as a sign that a part of the “other” side is weakening. The arbitrary signs become beacons to energize the base voters for each party, and the end result is a further divide. But to that end, I would have to browbeat, and I’m not in the mood; what I will do is look over the numbers and see if we extract a little more then divisible rhetoric.

One “major” race was the Governors race in New Jersey-typically seen as a Democrat stronghold, where the Democratic incumbent, Jon Corzine lost by a fairly large margin. Republican Chris Christie will now have “-elect” attached to his name. The final numbers in the race are 50% for Christie, 44% for Corzine. Now this matched up with exit polling, as well as polling results just prior to the vote, but it should be noted that this might not be a sign for Obama, it could very well be that Corzine was the face in power when the financial crisis struck, and unemployment began to rise. This was simply a vote on whether or not the people of Jersey thought Corzine was doing good--in fact, NBC polling shows that 60% of the voters in New Jersey said that the President played no role in their vote.

Over in Virginia, a typically Republican stronghold, but which Obama managed to win last November--results were expected, but still a bit shocking. The final tally was 59% for Bob McDonnell, making him the first Republican to hold that seat since 1997. McDonnell defeated Democrat Creigh Deeds, who only took home a mere 41%

Now in true Republican fashion, Michael Steele-Republican National Committee chairman-quickly took to the Virginia election results, and added his own twist, saying in a statement that, “The Republican Party’s overwhelming victory in Virginia is a blow to President Obama and the Democrat Party…It sends a clear signal that voters have had enough of the president’s liberal agenda.” Now, that this is strictly opinion, and baseless--roughly 58% of voters in Virginia exit polls said that the president played no role in their decision--only 2% less then voters in New Jersey--seems lost on Republicans grasping at straws.
But it does energize the Republican base. Oddly enough, the Republican party, which is currently dying--only 20% identify themselves as republicans according to Washington post poll--it can’t be denied that that twenty percent is really quite loud.

Now, how much does the Mayors office cost in New York? Well, if the reports are correct, just over one hundred million dollars. That much money though should have given the incumbent Mayor Bloomberg a large margin, but he won with only 51% Sadly, for the Republicans at least, the incumbent is technically an Independent.


Now for some even sadder news, over in Maine, the belief in equal rights and equal protection under the law, has been defeated. This is terrible since New England has for a longtime been considered the most progressive region in the U.S.. Unfortunately, and for obvious reason, gay marriage is consistently defeated when placed to a popular vote, but this is a civil right, which should not be up for a popular vote. I’ve got an idea, put to a popular vote the no bid contracts with Blackwater, Halliburton, and all the other psychopathic private pseudo-military contractors. If we can vote on a civil right, we can vote on defense spending, right? Let’s just hope that the Supreme Court can overturn this idiotic proposition.

As it stands, another somewhat important election(to the 23rd congressional district at least) was decided just after midnight when Doug Hoffman, the independent by virtue of republican leaders having ignored him, conceded the election to Democrat Bill Owens. The Republican candidate, Deirdre Scozzafava, had pulled out from the race over the weekend, but still managed to steal 6% of the votes. At last count, it was 49% to 45%.

Essentially, liberals had a bad day, even the 23rd’s congressional district win will be short lived--the district will be lost in redistricting after the 2010 census--which makes this off-year election a bloody loss for those who believe this to be a referendum on President Obama. I just hope this energizes the left, I know it mobilized, and reinvigorated the right.

Washington's Gay Marriage Debate

"Marriage is in a precarious position," says [Harry] Jackson, a leader of the opposition. "What we are facing is the possible extinction of an institution we all love. To redefine it may mean to destroy it."

Quoted from USA Today “D.C. latest marriage battlefield” by Marisol Bello

I would love to hear Darwin’s opinion on this matter; that if an animal is unable to adapt, does it deserve to become extinct? I should leave Darwin out of this, he leaves a bad taste in the mouth of most right-wingers, but he had a point; survival depends on ones ability to adapt.

Let me stop myself before this becomes a rant on the fundamental differences between the left and the right, and just make an argument that we can all appreciate, Gay Marriage must be legalized in order to maintain equality in law for all Americans. By our founders words, we have no choice;

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

Quoted from the “Declaration of Independence”

There it is, we(mankind) are equal, and we have the right to “the pursuit of happiness”. Now, that should be enough, but it’s not, so I will clarify it.

Marriage was originally a religious matter, that the government stepped in and granted certain privileges to married couples changed that into a state matter and, by default, a matter that requires equality in its execution. That’s my argument, but what are my suggestions?

Well, we have two options; one, legalize gay marriage across the board or, two, get out of marriage and remove all benefits from it. Option two saves the right’s treasured institution, and option one saves our confidence in the government. You guys can choose one, I could careless, I’m never getting married anyway; for me, it’s simply a matter of what’s right.

Filling Teddy’s Shoes…

On January 19, 2009, Massachusetts will hold a special election to elect a Senator to replace the late Senator Ted Kennedy. And to fill Teddy’s shoes will take some big feet.

There a several reasons as to why this election is special; first, it was unseen, and unplanned. Second, this election was the result of a bill by the former Senator which, just before his passing, he had tried to undo. It was to no avail, and although the Governor was allowed to appoint an interim Senator, this special election will determine the full-time Senator. The third, and most important reason is, will the Democratic party maintain it’s supermajority in the Senate?

As a Masshole-and a devout liberal-I think that, for the time being, yes, yes they should. But we do have to consider who it is that we are voting for. And that’s what I will do. Starting Monday, I will bring to you all the major candidates running for the seat…any relevant polls, and any relevant press releases. And to get this started, we will begin with Massachusetts Attorney General Martha Coakley.

So come through on Monday, and I’ll have it ready.

"There are no good assassins" by Eric Pabon

It seems the death penalty, a highly volatile topic in the U.S., is constantly in the news. Yesterday, in Santa Ana, California, an Orange County jury sentenced a man to death. Nothing exciting, right? Well, the problem here is, the man in question was trying to convince the jury to sentence him to death because he believes the accommodations are nicer on death row. To convince the jury, he admitted to another two murders. The man’s attorney told the press that his client “figured by the time his appeals run out…[he] won’t want to live anyway.” Essentially, this is state sponsored suicide

The death penalty in America is a funny thing; funny in that it provides justice by negating it. It’s a hole in our legal system that offers up blood thirst and revenge as justice, and is simply reciprocal anger. The old saying rings true; Two wrongs don’t make a right.

But since the founding of America, wrongs have been used to right wrongs. And this runs contrary to what a couple of founders wanted. Thomas Payne, in a 1791 work titled “The Rights Of Man”, writes “[T]each governments humanity. It is their sanguinary punishments which corrupt mankind…” And this work, he wrote in defense of the French Revolution. Maintaining his opposition to the death penalty, when the French were set to execute Louis XVI, he went before the French Convention and said “As France has been the first of European nations to abolish royalty, let us also be the first to abolish the punishment of death.”

Now granted, he was rewarded for this enlightened perspective by being sentenced to death, although saved just short of it by James Monroe, his words were wise, he knew that blood thirst, like thirst itself, can never be satiated. Another founder, Dr. Benjamin Rush, explained in a collection of his writings; “The punishment of murder by death, is contrary to reason, and to the order and happiness of society. It lessens the horror of taking away human life, and thereby tends to multiply murders.”

But respect for life seems to be a convoluted matter, the most prevalent defense of the death penalty is that it deters murder. Yet again we find a confusing string of logic. Author Victor Hugo explained that “Blood has to be washed by tears but not by blood.” And the most recent discount of this perspective is a survey of criminologists; 88% of the most respected criminologists in the field said they believed the abolition of the death penalty would have no effect on the murder rate. (Press release June 16, 2009. Death Penalty information center)

Another terrible tragedy of the death penalty is the racial imbalance. According to a report by the Death Penalty Information Center, since 1976, there has been 15 people sentenced to death in cases in which a white defendant murdered a black victim. The opposite situation, black defendant, white victim; 242 executions-almost 16 times that of their racial counterpart. Another fact is that 42% of the inmates on death row are black, and 44% are white. To put that in perspective, 74% of the country’s population is white, while only 14% is black; to that end, the percentage of blacks on death row seems oddly out of proportion.

But if race doesn’t shift perspective, perhaps the thought of accidentally taking an innocent mans life should be enough. According to DPIC, “Since 1973, over 130 people have been released from death row with evidence of their innocence.” And since 2000, an average of 5 people every year are exonerated. With the basis of our justice system being that it is better to let ten guilty men go free, then lock up even one innocent man, the death penalty offers us no means of a remedy. If we make a mistake, how can we remedy it?

Often overlooked are the affects of death upon the surviving family members. To think of losing a family member is often the most devastating thought one can have. The death penalty was put into practice in order to bring a sense of closure to the families struck by a seemingly senseless murder, to give a sense of justice. But everybody has a family, even the most sadistic murderers. What justice is then offered to a mother who’s child’s life has been stolen by the government who promised to serve and protect her? What recourse does she have? Where is her closure?

The reality of it is, we can’t give justice to one family, by robbing it from another. The death penalty is simply a savage justice. Oscar Wilde once wrote that “One is absolutely sickened, not by the crimes that the wicked have committed, but by the punishments that the good have inflicted; and a community is infinitely more brutalized by the habitual employment of punishment than it is by the occasional occurrence of crime.” Or perhaps the Spanish poet, Pablo Neruda put it best in his poem;

"May the bad not kill the good,
Nor the good kill the bad
I am a poet, without any bias,
I say without doubt or hesitation
There are no good assassins."
Pablo Neruda

Juggaloes Defined?

In order to preserve space, I’ve left out my Works cited. It is available upon request.

On Monday, September 14, 2009, Anthony Locascio was taken to out to the woods by his friends to allegedly buy some marijuana. When he got there, four of his friends, Jeffrey A. Gombert, Curtis T. Foose, Andrew A. Tutko, and Shane D. Roof, proceeded to beat him down with metal baseball bats, hitting him an alleged 80 times. He, of course, died. The assault was retribution for Locascio apparently snitching.

By all accounts, this should be the lead in to the story. Four alleged drug dealers, killing a fifth for violating a bizarre code of ethics adhered to by such a group. But, in true media fashion, Bram Teitelman, a writer for Noisecreep.com, decided to open his story with; “Following the murder last week of a Hazleton, Pa. man by four devotees of rap metal duo Insane Clown Posse”(Teitelman par.1).

I can’t help but wonder what their favorite music has to do with anything? This was a case of four drug dealers killing a fifth, what music they listened to should be irrelevant. Unfortunately, I can’t decipher whether or not this clear cut bias by reporters is to over hype menial writing, or subconsciously done without malice. To be fair to the reporter, he does end his piece by adding that “N.J. Insane Clown Posse fan Bob Lugowe”(Teitelman par.6). claims that the “media…always choose to ignore the underlying positive message found throught [sic] ICP's lyrics.” (Teitelman par.6), but if I said, “your mother’s a whore.”, and then six paragraphs down, I added, “but your father doesn’t think so”, the damage to your mother’s reputation is still done.

Now, what should shock you more than anything is that I left out an important clue, this article I referred to was not about the murder, but a separate piece describing the fact that “Juggalos”, fans of the Insane Clown Posse, received gang classification in Monroe County.

One simple statement, taken out of context, and I have sullied Mr. Teitelman’s reputation. It’s okay though, he has sullied mine-I’m a Juggalo-but by the end of my piece, I will apologize to him for it. But not till the end. Right now, I’m more concerned with this gang classification.

So what is a Juggalo?

Well, according to a press release from the Psychopathic Records public relations department;

“Only a "true" juggalo can answer that, but as stated previously, there are no requirements to being a Juggalo. We don't care if you spend a dime on merch [sic], or if you know the words to every song. If this music touches you, and you get some positive experience from it, we would be honored to have you consider yourself a Juggalo.”(Psychopathic P.R. par. 5)

Now, this answer comes directly from the public relations department, but even the Insane Clown Posse’s own words somewhat mirror this belief. In their song, “What is A Juggalo?” off of their “Great Milenko” album, they answer the question with “I don’t know, but if that’s what is, well fuck if I know”, and “I don’t know, but I’m down with clown and I’m down for life, yo”. As a Juggalo, I concur, I don’t know what makes me claim to be a Juggalo, but I do anyway. I can tell you this much, I have never consciously decided to join this group, nor was I invited, and I was never jumped in. Hell, I only know a few other Juggaloes, and I have never had them ask me to commit a crime, nor any other act of depravity.

Can they be called a gang?

The answer to that question has, to some degree, been answered; according to the most recent information from “Monroe County”, Pa, yes, they can, and are “classified as a gang.” They are also classified as a gang in “Utah“, and “Arizona.”(Teitelman par. 1)

Sadly enough, the prerequisites of gang classification is at best murky. At worst, it’s designed to ensure that prosecutors get enough leverage, should they need it. For a group to be considered a gang “only requires that a group have at least three members who use a common name, sign or symbol and commit crimes.”(Guy par.12)

Following this logic, if you have a bowling team, and you have ever gambled-which is a crime-congratulations, you’re in a gang! Of course, police don’t abuse this nifty little trick, it would be unwise, but it does exist. That it does exist is sad, but many disregard this because, who is it hurting anyway? By definition, to have a gang enhancement, you have to commit the original crime, and putting criminals away for longer is always a good thing, right?

Well, this would be true, if the enhancement itself didn’t taint the trial to begin with. I’m all for locking up criminals, but not at the cost of justice. And that’s what a gang enhancement does, it makes justice that much harder to get. I am not a criminal, but if you brought me into court, and pointed a finger at me screaming “Gangbanger!”, the image of me as a gang member is then seared into the minds of the jury; could you guarantee me justice after that? And all this because I like the music of two Detroit rappers?

According to Alex Alonso, an expert in gangs, and a trial consultant, “A gang member with a minor or no criminal background, responsibly employed, and a family person, can receive an unfair trial as the defendant’s gang identity will bias the jury’s ability to be impartial.”(Alonso par.2) In an articled titled “How “Gang related” trials are tainted from the Start”, Alonso goes on to describe two such instances where an over zealous prosecutor over-stepped his power, used the gang enhancement, and managed to wrongly convict two people. Alonso points out two cases in particular;


"Recently, a conviction against Rafael Madrigal Jr. who was sentenced in 2002 to 53 years in prison by Superior Court Judge Curtis Rappe for a non-fatal “gang” shooting was overturned. With conflicting eyewitness testimony and other evidence that suggested Madrigal Jr. was at work 30 miles away, was not enough to overcome the highly prejudicial gang statements that caused this jury to sway towards a guilty verdict. In 1996, the same thing happened to Mario Rocha, then 16, was accused of murdering a high school student at a party. Even though Rocha was not a member of a gang, the evidence that pointed to his innocence was tainted by other irrelevant “gang facts” that caused a jury to find him guilty. Rocha was eventually released from prison after serving 10 years in prison and his conviction was too overturned."(Alonso par.2)

And this is the danger of calling Juggaloes gang members. Like I said, I’m a Juggalo, I’m also a father, and a law abiding citizen; why should I be subjected to the scrutiny that would befall a gang member? In Modesto, California, Harley Petero, his son, and his son’s girlfriend were all subjected to being photographed by a gang task force simply because he, “his son and the son’s girlfriend were wearing Insane Clown Posse T-shirts.”(Herendeen par.14)

Why should anybody be treated like a criminal just for wearing a shirt? Or because of the music they listen too? Sadly, the media seem to point out only the bad; type Juggalo into Google, and the list of crimes that come up is overwhelming. But type in “Metallica”, or “Judas Priest”, or hell, type in “Johnny Cash”; I’m pretty sure there are plenty of people in jail who listened to one of those three musicians.

All Juggaloes are bad…?

From the over abundance of newspaper articles, one might assume there are no good Juggaloes, but I found some.

In Tampa Bay, Florida, reporter Bill Stevens wrote about a group of Juggaloes who one day started to clean up a highway and a section of woods in West Pasco. He goes on to say that “Nobody made them. They just did it. They liked the way it made them feel, especially toward each other.”(Stevens par 4) One cleaning session was dedicated to their 15 year old friend who had died after battling diabetes.

Another feather in the Juggaloes cap comes from the ideology portrayed by the group, ICP. On the final album in the Insane Clown Posse’s “Jokers Cards” series, ICP have a song called “The Unveiling”, where they proudly declare “Truth is we follow God/We’ve always been behind him, The carnival is God/and may all Juggaloes find him”

And the music they put out, although abrasive, and filled with cuss words and violent imagery, the message behind their lyrics more often than not declare unity and respect for an outside perspective. Many of their songs deal with a cosmic based reciprocal justice; beat your kids and wife, and the dark carnival-the equivalent of heaven and hell combined, where visitors are virtuous, and those on display, not so much-is where you get punished.

The reality of it is, the Insane Clown Posse are merely artist, and their fans are just fans. To group them into some stereotype is equivalent to singling out an entire race.

Oh, and to Brad Teitelman, My apologies for inferring that your article was intended to malign Juggaloes, I’m sure there was no insult intended.

Lieberman, you whore! ;)

I was watching the Ed Show on MSNBC, and as it seemed that Ed's head was ready to explode, I couldn't stop myself from laughing; Sen. Joe Lieberman, the bi-partisan-curious, so-called independent from CT, a democratic party traitor(he backed McCain), and obvious republican--put all the I's after your name, your a frickin republican - was all set to join the republican filibuster that would in essence kill health care reform.

That Ed never saw this coming is a surprise; Lieberman is a Senator from Ct, the motherland for insurance companies. Shit, I'm surprised this bukake love fest with the insurance companies didn't come to light a lot sooner--the independent senator has taken well over a million dollars from them, why wouldn't he go against his constituents. With roughly 68% of Ct residents supporting the public option, Lieberman's threat seems to insult his State.

Now, Senate Majority leader, Harry Reid(D-NV), has expressed very little concern over this, maybe he knows something we don't.

The really screwed up part; Lieberman might just derail Health care reform over a procedural move. In essence, a filibuster is like saying "I don't want to argue"

If we have 60 votes, we can overcome this, but Lieberman was our 60th vote...if he joined republicans in a filibuster, this debate dies. Why does this piss me off? Because all we need is 51 votes to pass this. With all the improvements to the bill, such as the "Opt-Out" option, which allows States to opt out of the public option, this bill gives blue dog democrats a safety net for their constituents, which might preserve their seats. Also, we should be allowed to have this go to the floor.

Listen, Lieberman, if you're doing this to make a point, we can find out when you vote. If you're doing this to grandstand, fine, grandstand. But if you plan on selling your state to the health insurance industry, you should be ashamed of yourself.

I really hope a senator cost more then a million dollars, but we will see.

A playdate with the Princess

A play date with the Princess.

I'm walking with my daughter, my little, pony tailed princess, into a magical room, one that is filled with all the essentials of a young girls life. In one corner I see a plastic kitchen that is filled to the brim with little plastic dishes and fake fruits and vegetables. My princess walks over and picks up a frying pan, then grabs a plastic egg. Using the same technique as her mother, she pretend-cracks the egg with one hand and, to my surprise, the pan begins to sizzle. I can smell the delectable breakfast that awaits me. With one hand she flips the egg in the frying pan, her technique lets me see her in the future; a busy kitchen bustling with all the sounds you'd hear in a kitchen-clanking metal, orders being yelled out above the noise and the inevitable waitress dropping her tray. Through all the confusion my princess maintains order, she directs the others as to what to do, the large white cap demands the others respect and the result is a five star dinner.

My princess decides to leave the eggs to burn away on the plastic stove, its just as well seeing that her doll Kelly has caught a really bad case of the Cooties. She throws on her white lab coat, grabs her stethoscope, and throws open her medical bag. My princess is methodical in her approach; a sure sign of a future doctor. First, she listens to Kelly's heartbeat, it must be okay because she nods her head in approval. Then my princess checks her eyes(cooties are an ocular disease you know). Next comes the difficult part; her shots. I'm instructed to hold the patients hand, I can almost feel Kelly squeeze my hand. The vaccine given, we move on to more pressing issues; the unfinished painting that hangs upon her easel.

Awkward shapes and lines adorn the canvas, I don't know much about art but, this is revolutionary work brought forth by only the most talented painter. My princess is quite the artist as is evidenced by her technique; bold strokes here, a graceful arch there, and a dot is added to accentuate the playful geometry. Truly, world class work is being done here in my princess's room, and I, the lucky observer, am hear to bear witness to her greatness.

The desire to create world-class art quickly fades and she walks over to a cash register that sits upon her dresser. Daddy has to buy something she tells me, so I begin to shop around the room. I pick up the burning eggs, the various canned goods that span the floor, and, of course, the loaf of bread that has found its way onto to the top bunk. When I finish shopping I bring all of my stuff to the register. One by one she scans everything into her register, charges me, and places all of my goods into the basket. Great customer service is essential to any successful business. I can already see it; The Princess Supermarket's, America's largest chain.

She's all done, she begins to yawn in that cute fashion only children possess. She walks over to me and hugs me. I scoop her up into my arms and head over to the couch. By the time I make it she's asleep. As I lay her down for her nap I can already see it, she'll be somebody important and busy someday, but for now…for now she's not busy, she's just mine. She's my princess.

The Absence Of Power. By Eric Pabon

The Absence Of Power. By Eric Pabon

I watched from the backseat of my mothers car as she waved us on our way. Her name was Tristeza, although I always thought it was odd; before that torrid year, you couldn’t have found a livelier soul. I watched her hand send us off, the long brown limb rocking backing back and forth gave the impression of a somber tree being pushed around by the wind since it lacked the very will to move on its own. The woman waving to us was not the woman I knew; this was a new woman, a sad woman-beaten down by blinding love, lacking the will to move, and a woman very near the end of her ride. For a moment, as I watched her wave us goodbye, as if a mirage and only for a moment, I saw the woman I knew.

She was strong, and intelligent. She was proud, and dignified. She was a woman who wore the world upon her shoulder as effortlessly as I wore a shirt. I saw her eyes, almond shaped and equally brown, caressing the world with her gaze. Her eyes sat upon her ruddy cheeks, which always seemed to glow whether she were happy or not. A statuesque women, her dark skin marked her a black Madonna; she was equally holy in my eyes.

But that mirage quickly faded; those caressing eyes were suddenly covered by a pair of dime store knockoff shades, her ruddy cheeks lost there glow and seemed to sink in to her face, and none of us had seen her smile in a long time.

Tristeza was my mothers friend, almost like a sister in most respects. For that reason, as we grew up around her, our mother made us call her “Titi”, the Spanish word for “Aunt”. We called her kids cousins, though the connection to them faded quickly--we were never family, that connection was merely the fanciful dreaming of our mothers. We never called her husband our uncle either, for years he seemed to be a figment of her imagination as he was always away at work. But, once we did meet him, we wished we could have left him in our imagination.

I always admired Tristeza, you see, she had a home--not a rented home, no, she actually owned her own house. It was a big house to our little eyes, though now I realize it was just an overgrown ranch. The amazing part for us was that she seemed to have it all; an aboveground pool, a garage with the basketball hoop, a descent sized yard, and best of all, it was tucked in the suburbs. Tristeza worked hard to keep the house beautiful, and it showed, the flowers were always in bloom in her yard--when some were dying, others were springing up. The myriad of colors, and the perfectly trimmed grass made her house the envy of the neighborhood. This was a fact she knew quite well, and so her head was held high. Perfection is never perfect though.

I remember the first time I began to notice the kink in her armor. It was summertime, and it was in the morning, we had gone to pick her up in my mothers car--for all the things she had, she did not have a license. As she got into the car, I noticed she was wearing a pair of sunglasses that were oversized. I chuckled to myself as I thought it was funny. My mother quickly started with the usual small talk about were the good sales were and such, and off we were. I was in the middle of the backseat--I never got to have the window--and I was staring out into the oncoming road. I glanced over at her for only a moment in passing, but I saw a reflection in the glasses. My attention was glued to it…around her eyes were blue and purple. I hastily asked what happened.

I should have never asked. Her hands quickly went up to cover that half of her face and, in that one instant, I saw that black Madonna cowering like a scolded child as she begged my mother to bring her home. She pleaded and begged, but my mother gave her comforting words like the ones she gave me when I was scared. But she never once mentioned the black eye. I knew from the reactions that my statement was heard, but there was never any mention of my statement. I should have never asked about her eye, you see, Tristeza, up until that point in my life was like a statue, strong and indestructible. What I witnessed then was the crumbling of that image.

When we got home that night, as was our custom, I joined my mother in the kitchen to watch and talk as she cooked. I asked her why Tristeza had a black eye. My mother said it was bad make up. I then asked why she reacted the way she did when I mentioned it. My mother said it was because she didn’t know her make up was running that bad and simply wanted to fix it. I looked at my mother as she chopped up the peppers and the chicken and such. “You don’t have to lie to me you know.” I said.

“There are things in life that are your business, and things that are not.” she replied very matter-of-factly.

“And your friend getting beat up isn’t your business?”

“She was not beat up, she was punished.” she said, again, as if it were law.

“By who? Her mother?”

“No, her husband. And the affairs of a husband and his wife are private matters.”

“You said I can’t hit women.” I replied in youthful confusion.

“You can’t.” she replied.

“Unless I get married?” I said, I knew the answer, but now I was provoking. I loved a lively debate with my mother, and here she was, chock full of contradictions.

“Never, not even when you get married. These are old ways, you are not old.”

“But…”

“No, now drop it.”

The next weekend, we went over to her house for a small barbeque. We had a lot of fun, until we started to get ready to leave. We were drying off and finishing our meals when Tristeza came out and was surprised to see us getting ready to leave. She asked why were leaving and my mothers reply sent shivers down her spine. I remember the time exactly, my mother told her it was 5:05pm. Again, the second this week, I saw Tristeza cower. I saw her hand, that careless brown limb, fly up to her mouth. She began to fire her words off almost indiscernibly. I made out a few phrases; “he’s gonna be here any minute”, “how could I forget?”, and “please hurry were amongst them“. My mother raced us off into our car which was just outside her driveway, then she jumped in and tried to start the car. It took a few tries, but then the engine roared to life as the belts squealed out a terrifying prophecy. We were halfway down her street when I saw his foreboding Mercedes Benz. I looked out to see him as our cars passed each other. He was mad, his thick brows curved into a horrible “V”. I looked to my mother, she was biting her nails and mumbling to herself. I turned around to see his car through our back window. I can’t explain why I felt a terrible knot growing in my stomach, perhaps my mothers fear was contagious, perhaps I could feel it.

Two months had passed before we saw her again. And when we did, she was not the same. We saw her at the grocery store near her house, we were in the area and my mother wanted to pick up some fresh meat for dinner. It was just the two of us when we saw the remains of Tristeza wobbling through the isles in search of whatever. My mother approached her while I stayed a few feet away, I was afraid to see her any closer. A few kind words later and they headed in different directions. I slowly slinked my way past her. She was still wearing those oversized frames and I saw myself in them. I looked as scared as she did at the barbeque.

We managed to leave the grocery store at the same time she did. That was when I saw her for the last time. I remembered the strong, proud woman. Then I saw her husband, the thick “V” shaped brow and angry glare. I wanted to know how, how he managed to beat her down so badly. For years I thought that he beat her soul out of her, but I was wrong. What I saw was a woman powerless to change, the statue powerless to the effects of time, the somber tree powerless to move on its own; what I saw was the absence of power.

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If something about your relationship with your partner scares you and you need to talk, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY).