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.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
"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;
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
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
Thursday, October 29, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
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.
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).
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