Where The Rubber Meets The Road

Note: I’m pretty much making this an annual thing. If we’re going to assaulted with pinks and hearts and unicorns and wuggley-buggley-booszhy-booo! Sorry. Anyway, if St. Valentines Day keeps rolling around just as gaudy every year, I see no reason why I shouldn’t rebut just as repetitively. So, here it is, for those who find the whole thing tacky and banal; my sledge-fisted love letter to the incorporeal entity that inhabits many a person out there, filling their hate-bladder to bursting on this, February 14:

Ah, St. Valentine’s Day. Notice the “St.” part. That means there was once a person named Valentine who became a X-tian saint. How did he become a saint? Well, for one, he secretly married couples against the decree of the Roman Emperor, Claudius II. For this, he was beaten to death with clubs and had his head cut off, a fate that is symbolic of nearly everything that has ever happened to me on St. Valentine’s Day.

But I’m not here to bitch about me.
I’m here for you.
And by “you”, I mean those people for whom St. Valentine’s Day – or V.D., as my friend Lindsay calls it – is a shameful and bitter gauntlet of happy couples who inflict their saccharine brand of gropey-sweet, smoochy-smoothie ubercuteness on everyone. A day of reflection upon the ceaseless tide of sub-intellect and emotionally retarded jackholes who have made your love life the Hindenberg drama-o-rama that it is.
For you, I forge ahead. Only for you.

If it ever was a day intended for lovers, St. Valentine’s Day is no longer. It is now the providence of marketers; soulless, greedy, empty, walking ethical corpses who exist only in the realm of profits, and hew to them with the fixation and tenacity of undead zombies. It’s like Sweetest Day: a capitalist gang-bang, and the starting wide receiver is you, the lowly consumer.
You need look no further than the Larry The Cable Guy as Cupid Git-R-Done heart-shaped box of chocolates. (Yes, they really exist.) But if you must, there’s the cards, the flowers, the stuffed animal toys, and the not-so-subtle intimation that if you buy her a terrorist-financing diamond, for the rest of your life, she will drop down on you like your love-nub was made of French Perigold truffle and spurted the Elixir Of Life. Yeah. And Axe™ body spray makes fourth-tier actresses mosh-fuck you in the elevator.
And it’s worse for the women. All the tension and build-up leading to the big moment when your One True Love™ surprises you with heretofore unknown quantities of romantic panache, only to be let down at the last second. Again. Hmmm. Sounds like some… other… thing… ladies have to deal with. Oh well, I guess it’s not important.

Anyway, for those of you who find yourself alone on this day for lovers (of cheap, gimmicky, bullshit products that buying will do nothing but prove you’re a gullible asshole), take heart. Reread the above paragraphs, and remember: misery loves company. Find one of those obnoxiously high-on-life, pixie-dust-sprinkled couples with unicorn horns warming their spotless bungholes, and let them know what a shallow, tacky, pathetic display they’re putting on. Tell them that if they weren’t this in love yesterday, then they’re nothing more than sad little tools of consumer culture, witlessly following the bouncing dollar sign, lemming-like, down a primrose path devoid of any depth or meaning. Ask them if they shouldn’t reexamine their relationship if it takes some marketing ploy to get them to be nice to each other for a day. Exult as – even while they scoff at your bitterness – the doubt settles in, and their day loses it’s faux color and becomes the flavorless wad of cud that it truly is.

Then go home, watch When Harry Met Sally, and wish with every fiber of your being that you could be exactly like that couple: lame and happy. You bring the tissues, I’ll provide the ice cream.
Be strong, my little bitterbots. We shall all sell out some day. I did.
I love St. Valentine’s Day.

Recently, as many of you are aware, radio personality and reactionary right figure Rush Limbaugh was part of a consortium who’s intent was to buy the St. Louis Rams.

Unfortunately for Rush, being a polarizing figure did not help him in his quest to become part-owner of one of the worst teams in football. After much protest and public display, the group intending to bid on the Rams decided that Limbaugh was simply too much of a distraction, and cut him loose.

Let me reiterate the facts to date: Rush Limbaugh was part of a group that wanted to buy the Rams. The group refused to do business with him because he is a polarizing figure. Notice I said, “the group refused to do business with him”, and not, say, “the National Football League didn’t want a conservative owner”, or “Rush Limbaugh was banned from ever owning a team”, or, “Rush Limbaugh’s racist remarks caused the group to send him packing”. The reason why I didn’t say any of those other things is because NONE OF THEM ARE TRUE.

I make the above point because Rush Limbaugh and many of his supporters would have you believe that he was banned from the NFL because of allegations of racist remarks, and the tireless work of all the liberals in the NFL. The last bit is particularly hilarious, since the National Football League is easily one of the most conservative organizations in these United States. I mean, you can tell they’re liberal because of all the openly gay players.
Anyway.
Later, “sportswriter” and legendary résumé falsifier Mike Freeman, of cbssports.com wrote an opinion blog mwa-ha-haa-ing Rush’s ousting from the group, calling him a “race-baiter” and “pill-popper”. Freeman, for the record, is black. This will become important later.

Limbaugh’s supporters responded, conflating Freeman’s opinion with CBS policy, alternately denying Limbaugh’s remarks as falsified (despite Limbaugh himself admitting to several, and despite several more being captured in audio clips) and saying the remarks were taken out of context (what context could explain saying to a black caller, “Take that bone out of your nose and call me back” is a mystery to me). Ironically calling Freeman a hypocrite (there was a lot of this, and almost none of the examples understood how to use the word correctly), a racist, a – you know what? I’ll just let them speak for themselves (spelling and punctuation uncorrected, bold print added to display some of my favorite bits):


Freeman is who the “N” word was created for.


Weird I was thinking the same about your brotha in office.


You’re a racist douche just like your brothers Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson


Thanks for proving yourself to be the ni**er everyone already knew you were.


Are you a black sheep?


But hey, dem’s yer homies…right, Dawg?


MAke a real point please homely.


I heard that Limbaugh even attended a racist church for 20 years.  No, wait…that was Unqualified Barry!


Watch your mouth!!!   All this reverse-racism is starting to piss me off!  You better be careful, and I better not find a Koran in your house!!


Now go back to destroying your neighborhoods before planning a move to a state with an actual economy before your votes turn it into a socialist hellhole like the rat nest you went running from.


You’re just offended every angry white guy who was afraid of the PC police telling them “No you CAN’T.”  Your heyday is over.  Its going to get ugly.


You and your type, are the people who are putting society back 50 years!


The way it is now the NFL is predominantly black and overrun with DWI’s, murders, club shootings and dog fighting.


a black man calling a white man a pill popper yadda, yadda…


I, (of course me being just another Joe Plumber why would you listen?) think it is high time us white people not pay another dime to watch overpaid useless animals play sports.


And while we are at it, why don’t we just skip town and let you run this country into another African 3rd world country. Give away the wealth of the country to people who can’t earn a living and don’t want to work for it but just sit and complain about how racial it all is. Just find someone to blame for your ills and never once think to work and pull yourself from the pit of agony and frustration.


Gee. I wonder why Rush Limbaugh and his followers have had to deal with accusations of racism?

Of course, the truth of the matter is that Rush Limbaugh is not guaranteed by law the right to the opportunity to own an NFL franchise, nor is he prohibited by law the right to do so. If Limbaugh still wants to own the Rams, all he has to do is come up with the money. And be approved by the other owners. Just like his former partners do.
Unfortunately for them, Limbaugh and many of his flock are incredibly thin-skinned, especially considering how much of the above they dish out. Thus, when their hero is denied an opportunity because he is a polarizing figure, they rant and rave, and so does he, providing yet another example of why he is a polarizing figure with no sense of irony. Limbaugh’s response to the ousting in a Wall Street Journal opinion article dealt almost exclusively with the “false” charges of racist remarks (which he then conflates into a charge of racism), using the very same tactics he accuses his detractors of to bring up the specter/red herring of Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson.
Of course, all of the racism talk is completely beside the point. Limbaugh was no longer wanted by his business partners, who did not want the negative attention Limbaugh brings. Al Sharpton did not stop Rush. Nor did Jesse Jackson. Nor did the host of sportswriters, players, or even NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell. His former partners did. And instead of examining why, Limbaugh – followed quickly by his flock – immediately changed the subject. Their argument, as I understand it, is as follows:
The Checketts group (Limbaugh’s former partners) were held at gunpoint by the liberal media while Al Sharpton manipulated David Checkett’s jaw and throat and Jesse Jackson worked the tongue to force the words, “You’re out” out of his mouth.
Wait, no, that can’t be it. This is it:
Incensed by Limabugh’s desire to be a minor role-player in the purchasing of a sports team, a conspiracy of NFL players, managers, Commissioner Goodell, a legion of sportswriters, and news commentators, led by infamous supremacists Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson fabricated racial quotes, attributed them to Limbaugh, got in a time machine, went back in time to October of 1990 to replace Limbaugh with a brainwashed clone who – in a Newsday article – admitted that (among other things) he told a black caller to “Take that bone out of your nose and call me back” , used state-of-the-art synthesizing equipment to fake Limbaugh’s voice saying a number of racially charged things, then hypnotized millions of television viewers to make them think Limbaugh said that Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb’s success was actually just reverse-racism and affirmative action, and when all that failed to make the Checketts group dump Limbaugh, then the Checketts group were held at gunpoint by the liberal media while Al Sharpton manipulated David Checkett’s jaw and throat and Jesse Jackson worked the tongue to force the words, “You’re out” out of his mouth.

It’s either that, or believe the ridiculous idea that his former business partners made up their own minds, and are therefore the only ones who are responsible for Limbaugh’s ousting.

Here, let me make it easy for you Limbaugh fans, and give you the actual question: Are the members of the Checketts group in any way liable for caving in to negative publicity and ousting Rush?
And, because I like to be thorough, I’ll give you the answer, as well: No.

First of all, our fight from Chicago to Montego Bay was piloted by Captain Malcom Reynolds. Of course, it had a French pronunciation, but still; Malcom friggin’ Reynolds! (If you’ve not seen Firefly or Serenity, this will mean nothing to you.) I took it as a good omen. Despite this, it was a cramped, three-and-a-half hour flight, and we shared it with a score of loud, obnoxious, teenage missionaries. All this started at four o’clock in the morning. The missionaries I took as a bad omen.

Clad in red t-shirts with “Ambassador” screen-printed on the front and “Send Me” on the back, their idiotic antics and typically empty-headed banter left me grinding my teeth and reflecting on why other countries hate us. Callow as they were, not a one saw any irony in the large dollops of western moral hypocrisy they were about to serve up to the people they intended to “help”.
One noticed that I was watching MST3K on my laptop, and through the earphones, I heard him remark on it. I turned to Noelle, indicated my laptop, and said, “I really wish I had gay porn on this thing.”
There was no in-flight movie, about which I was ambivalent. On the one hand, I had no desire to see Matthew McConaughey‘s vapid expression staring out at me from twenty drop-down screens, but on the other, it might have pacified the shrieking horde of future ex-Christians.

Refreshment came in carts, and was as you might expect, excepting that this was Air Jamaica, and so tea biscuits and banana chips replaced the usual pack of nuts or bag of Doritos. I chose the banana chips, and was pleasantly surprised that they weren’t over-sweetened, as the might have been had they been of American manufacture. Fluids were largely alcoholic in nature, and I got my first clue that there would be no such thing as a non-alcoholic, caffeine-free, sugarless drink in Jamaica, unless you counted water.
But I digress.

Touching down in Montego Bay, we experience yet more of what our English friends refer to as queueing, or, as we might put it, standing in line after line after line.
The courtesy and and hired deference had yet to begin, since we hadn’t quite reached the indolent safety of the resort’s lounge at the airport. Perhaps to serve as a contrast to such indulgent treatment, or perhaps as an unnecessary reminder that all Jamaicans did not exist to serve the whims of tourists, the customs and security personnel greeted us with all the officious ill humor we have come to expect from purveyors of illusory security worldwide.
We were halted at the first queue, where we were expected to fill out immigration cards. It seemed simple enough, save that we didn’t have a pen, and the two disinterested officials refused to provide any. After a time, we scrounged a mechanical pencil, filled out the form, and were sent to the second queue with a casual sneer. After another forty-five minute wait, we were told by the next tier of bureaucrat that the card must be filled in with ink, whereupon we were sent back to queue #1.
Of course, had the first tier of officials said as much, we’d have been already well on our way to the resort by now. I’m sure they had a good laugh over that.

Eventually we broke free of the incessant queueing, and immediately were swept into the theme park version of Jamaica. A representative of the resort met us almost immediately after we cleared customs, and (being that we’d taken twice as long as was expected to pass through the bureaucratic gauntlet) had already piled our luggage onto a cart. With a wide smile and a jovial quip about our lateness, he hustled our tired, cranky selves to the lounge. We paused only long enough to establish that we had enough time to race outside and choke down a cigarette, and proceeded to do so.
We also got a healthy dose of both the Jamaican atmosphere and the endless spread of knick-knacky bauble-junk that was to be repeated wherever gift shops or souvenir stands were.
Gulping water and carcinogenic smoke, I eyed the steel drum player sheltered in a cubby, and remarked to Noelle that despite the humidity, it wasn’t too hot for comfort.
This would prove to be true for the entire trip, though with the humidity (and under the glare of midday sunlight), I sweat much more than I would have at home.
In short order I met the only other person I was allowed to tip for the next seven days in our shuttle driver. Like every other person involved with the tourist trade, he was friendly, engaging, and humorous.

The shuttle ride was both enjoyable and a lesson in the slight differences inherent in another culture. For instance, the rules of the road seemed to be that there weren’t any, and despite this – despite missing pedestrians and vehicles alike by fractions of an inch at high speed – I saw no indication of road rage or crashes as an every day occurrence. Also, I quickly understood that Jamaica as a whole moved at it’s own speed. This was part of a pattern of inefficiency that never once seemed a bad thing. The driver struggled with a canned, underproduced tape that was intended as a broad orientation/sales pitch for tourists. It seemed to eventually defeat him, for which I was glad, since he’d run out of the admittedly funny and informative patter he used to occupy us for the one and a half hour ride to the resort itself in Negril. Thus, he was forced to play music instead, and I suggested he put in something that he liked to listen to, rather than pander to us. After a few more failed attempts to engage his weary and cranky audience, he lapsed into silence and we all enjoyed the music and scenery.
The scenery was both beautiful and somewhat tragic. The ubiquitous brochure-quality panoramas you find wherever Jamaica is advertised do not lie. In fact, I’ve always assumed – cynical consumer that I am – that they are the product of days of location scouting, set up, and waiting for the perfect lighting, when actually, you could point a camera practically anywhere and wind up with a similar picture.
Unless, of course, you point it at the equally ubiquitous indicators of depressing poverty. Populated areas are almost entirely made up of small houses in varying states of disrepair and clusters of tin-roofed shacks. While largely free of the litter and pollution associated with such, it nevertheless gives the impression of urban squalor. Unlike the United States, and much like the rest of the world, Jamaican towns seem to be tightly packed and crowded, so that no point (worth going to) is more than a few minutes walk away. Of course, the disproportionately small number of cars is yet another clue as to why this is.

Despite game attempts by practically every member of the resort staff to the contrary, I never shook the nagging thought that while I sipped frozen drinks and was waited on hand and foot, few if any of the thousands of dollars Noelle and I spent would ever reach the multitudes of Jamaican poor.
Upon arrival to the resort, I slipped the shuttle driver a twenty, which I later learned was approximately $1580.00 Jamaican.

Sobering thoughts for our first few hours of vacation.
For once, it was indeed the destination, and not the journey.

Much as I am loathe to take cues from Bill Maher, he had a point recently that spoke to my last entry regarding the ubiquitous “What’s wrong with making money?” dodge.

Put simply, not everything should make a profit.

The news, for example.

As Ben Bagdikan pointed out in The Media Monopoly, in 1983, over 90% of all media (movies, television, radio, magazines, books, newspapers, the recording industry, photo agencies, etc) was in the hands of about 50 corporations.

As of 2004, that number has dropped. To five. Five multinational corporations controlling what we see, hear, read – information itself. That should be enough to make the point, but just to be sure, let’s take a quick look at what passes for news in 2009.

The current headlines are full to brimming with Michael Jackson, Henry Louis Gates Jr., and an assortment of entertainment and sensationalist stories that have similar weight to the preceding two. What’s going on with health care? Who cares? The real burning question is what was Steve McNair’s girlfriend thinking?
Contrast this with the news from just thirty or so years ago.

When networks ran to the bottom line and sold themselves to “parent” companies (one of my favorite euphemisms), those companies put a stop to news for the sake of news. See, before then, the entertainment divisions of the networks carried the financial burdens of the news, as well as advertising. But the news – in order to remain the news – was beholden to nobody. At least, not financially. Fast forward to the takeovers, and the parent companies demanded that the news make a profit – something unheard of before then, unless you count “yellow journalism” like William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer. Of course, news for profit changes everything.
The dissemination of information for the purpose of informing is the news. The dissemination of information for money (or other, less overt gain) is propaganda.

The evolution is well documented and easily grasped. The so-called news now has less actual news in it than the average in-house company newsletter. The rest is fluff, sensationalism, “gotcha” stories, and demagoguery.

A simple piece of evidence, then I’m off to enjoy my weekend: A large majority of voters who cast their ballot for George W. Bush believed that he supported the Kyoto Protocol. What’s wrong with making money? That.

I hear it all too often: “What’s wrong with making money?!?”

Of course, this little bit of misdirection is usually delivered in an angry tone by someone who is oblivious to the nonsensical non sequitur it is. Whenever the argument is made that perhaps those who have benefited greatly from the past 30 years of deregulation, massive decrease in taxation, massive public subsidy, criminal refusal to enforce laws protecting labor, the environment, public interest – you get the idea; you’ll be treated to a rousing chorus of that dogmatic propaganda line so inextricably driven into the public consciousness:

“What’s wrong with making money?”

As if (insert any of the following: a national health care plan, tax cuts or subsidies or services or any help whatsoever for the poor, returning taxes on the superwealthy to a minute fraction of their pre-Reaganomics levels, etc) has any effect on the Working Joe who so vigorously defends the very people who keep him poor and wretched – save possibly a positive one.

So, listen, Working Joe: There’s nothing wrong with you making money. But then, you are not a global corporate CEO with a multimillion dollar golden parachute, who feeds off the public trough.

Yes, that’s right, the public trough. You see, we pay taxes, and that money is funneled into research and development in the state/Pentagon system. This R&D eventually produces technological breakthroughs, which then the public again pays private institutions to apply in the marketplace (which, not incidentally, is full of even more subsidies, tax breaks, and protections, all at the expense of guess who), with all the profit channeled back into those private corporations, further enriching the superwealthy.

What’s wrong with making money? The wrong people are making it. You pay in, and someone else gets richer. Isn’t that your whole objection to welfare? Because that’s what it is: welfare for those who couldn’t possibly need it less.

Nobody’s asking for redistribution of wealth, class warfare, or any of the other buzz phrases kicked out by the monumental public “relations” machine that greases the gears of the monumental high-tech feudalism machine. At best, it’s a re-redistribution of wealth, where in the people (that means you) are allowed to reap a tiny measure of benefit for all the money they give to that fragile, teetering-on-the-edge, barely-making-ends-meet class known as The Top 1%.

Turn Faux News back on and get fed another line of propaganda; yours is getting old.