Compulsion

My column about eliminating compulsory public education got more comments than anything I’ve written since the nineties. Most of them were favorable. The heart-warming part was hearing from a reader—I’ll call her Sweetums—who’d last written more than two years ago. Back then she said that my “sick” writing had infuriated her and, “I assure you that I won’t be reading it again.”

I admired her clarity of purpose, and I’m especially gratified to know that Sweetums was drawn inexorably again to the back of the CN&R in spite of her vow. Her inner struggle must have been epic, her agony excruciating. I imagine a thrill running through her in anticipation of what she might find. I bet she read “Free Will Astrology” and “15 Minutes” to warm up.

I admit that a thrill ran through me, at least, in anticipation of what dear Sweetums had to say this time, and I was not disappointed. She opened with, “Once again I am reminded why your column is on the last page of the CN&R. Abolishing public schools would yield even more nitwits than this country already has.” She seems anti-nitwit.

I don’t mind public schools. I mind compulsion. Enforced curricula stifle social progress. That’s about all they’re good for, and that’s enough for politicians.

Good Sweetums suggests that it’s better to work within the system than to create negative energy by criticising it from without, and she has a point, except that I think the system’s coercion is the source of way more negative energy that I could possibly generate, which is why I’d like to see public education radically changed into a market-based enterprise. No students show up? No class. No class? No money. If you can’t attract young people—who are naturally energetic and inquisitive, after all—you won’t have a school. And no tenure.

Kindly Sweetums says that most parents aren’t prepared to teach their children at home. If that’s so, it’s time they got prepared. That some people will find themselves in over their heads is inevitable. They’ll figure it out when the time comes. Thanks to public schools, they’re probably in over their heads anyway.

Gentle Sweetums suggests that I take positive action and volunteer at a local school, because I “could make a difference . . . [a]nd I’ll bet you’ll learn a lot more than the kids will from your experience. :)

I don’t doubt that I’d get more from the experience than the children, and that’s my point. Everybody involved gets more from the experience than the children. The children know that if they don’t toe the line, they get extra school as punishment. Even a nitwit can read that sign. :)

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Alan Watts on Life

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Killing Schools

A lot people are out of work now because their basic training was invented, overseen, and approved by business. And because business can’t see into the future any better than you, it turns out that now they don’t need nearly so much of whatever the unemployed people used to do for money. When President Obama said we needed more science and math majors, he meant that businesses expect to need more people with those skills and want there to be so many people like that that they won’t cost much to hire. He’s the President.

So “Let No Child Escape” is designed to produce graduates at all levels who are useful for business, directly as a wage slave or indirectly as a teacher of the approved knowledge. Business often doesn’t know what’s good even for business, much less for the rest of us. Congress and other legislatures use and ignore ordinary people, steal our money, and hire more goons to keep us in compliance with ever-increasing restrictions on our lives. Hardly anything Congress votes on affects them directly except salary increases.

Some people despair of the lot of most people ever improving, and I can understand that. I’ve always assumed that the average person was a bit dim, and it seems that she may be insane, because she keeps giving the glad eye and her money to that lying sleazebag who never does what he said he would, and she keeps thinking he will next time for sure. Meanwhile her cupboard is bare and her teeth are falling out. She crazy.

The United States and California could save a boatload of money, give children their lives back, empower parents, decrease air pollution, and begin a cultural, political, and social renaissance by killing compulsory public education. Just kill it. The industrial model is punitive and awful and deserves to die. Pioneering dropouts and homeschoolers could be supported handsomely with the money being sucked up by administration and buildings. We could send the professionals home. They’ve followed their orders, and now they can do something else, maybe find somebody else’s orders to follow. They’re smart enough to think of another way to make a living. People do it all the time.

More than anything else, getting rid of compulsory public schools will free our children to do better for themselves than we have. Letting professional educators run the show has gotten us massive ignorance and corruption and increasingly massive unemployment. The experts in business, government, and public education more than anything else preserve their careers. Have you noticed?

Defunding public schools will add to unemployment. So what? Public policy and expenditure based on a number are what got us where we are. We can ignore the numbers. Yes, we can.

I don’t think we will, though. Killing public schools sounds fantastic to me because I can’t imagine Congress or any state legislature bucking all that pressure on them to stay out to lunch and leave things to the experts. It probably sounds like a fantasy to you, too, and that’s why it won’t happen. The kids could totally do it, though. Mass action—that’s the ticket.

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The Power of Forgiveness

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Nitpicking

English can drive you crazy, if you let it. I know I’m a little peculiar when it comes to words, and I try to be broad-minded and open when it comes to bad diction and sloppy usage. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes not.

For example, I look at “buts” with a critical eye. I tend to look at language generally with a critical eye, and I’m especially interested in “but” and other words that set up contrasts, like “although” and “however.” My objection is that the contrasts are usually misleading and often false.

“But” is especially insidious. One of the most common misuses of “but” is in phrases like “poor but happy,” which assumes that one wouldn’t ordinarily expect a poor person to be happy, that somehow poverty and happiness aren’t usually found together, and so the use of “but” is justified to highlight the contradiction inherent in any poor person’s happiness. Of course, “but” isn’t justified in this example, and perhaps not in most of the contexts in which it is found. Blond but smart, simple but beautiful, compassionate but conservative, dumb but educated.

“But” is nearly always a poor choice when one is trying simply to impart information without a slant. Try this: Many students take that test, and some do well. Then: Many students take that test, but few do well. As a description of what happens with the test, both statements may be true, depending on how we define “few.” Let’s assume that they are true.

Those two sentences differ in essentially one way. The first sentence states more or less plainly what seems to happen. The second sentence puts a negative spin on the same phenomena and serves perhaps to discourage prospective test takers about their prospects of excelling, solely as a result of the writer’s or speaker’s subtle assumption about that group of test takers.

As a parent, I’m curious about the ways our opinions and premises are affected by suggestions, and so I’m on a constant “but” watch.

I attend to commas, too, serial commas in particular. Serial commas are the ones before the final conjunction in a series—the Twin Cities, Berkeley, and Sacramento. In this instance, the serial comma is all that stands between the reader, namely you, and the erroneous notion that Berkeley and Sacramento are the Twin Cities referred to by the first item in the series. The use of serial commas is fading fast in mass media, promoted primarily by the Associated Press Stylebook and Libel Manual, which should be ignored by anybody with a fondness for clarity. Popularity is not commensurate with quality. Thus we got VHS tapes, Windows, and Congress.

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Crisis Counselors

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Former Cat

Last week in our front yard there appeared a dead cat. Since the object in question exhibited no signs of cathood other than its form, perhaps what I found was the corpse of a former cat, an ex-cat.

The first thing I thought of was if, now that I had one, I had enough room to swing a dead cat, that being a unit of measurement that I’d heard of but hadn’t experienced. As it turns out, my front yard would be big enough to swing a dead cat except for the porch.

I stood there in the front door looking carefully at the body to see if it was merely resting. No rest there but eternal, though, so now I had a corpse to dispose of. We’d had a complete absence of dead cats until then, and still I felt sure that nobody else in our house would deal with the late cat but me. I was right.

Not that my wife wouldn’t take care of a dead cat with effectiveness and dispatch, because she would. After making sure that I had no pulse, she would indeed dispose of the dead cat, but as things are, dead cats are Dad’s job. My son asked what I was going to do with it, and I said I’d dispose of the body respectfully and appropriately in our household’s large black receptacle in the driveway.

My wife suggested that it might be one of our neighbor’s cats, and I should check before I moved the body. I hadn’t noticed a long-haired grey cat next door, but I hadn’t been looking for one either. I have vowed not to let my neighbor become a certified cat lady, and I take a cat census now and then to ensure that she hasn’t slipped over the edge. I texted her, “Do you have a grey cat?” That was her notice.

The matting grey hulk by the east cypress in the rain was probably somebody’s pet not long ago, so maybe I should advertise its fate and ease its family’s anxiety, although from the looks of its fur maybe not so much anxiety at that. Some cat owners would want to retrieve the corpse and maybe cremate it and save the ashes in an urn on the mantle. There are such people.

I didn’t do a flyer, and my neighbor wasn’t missing a cat, so a couple of days later I took great joy in allowing Waste Management to take a remarkably heavy, wet lump to the Neal Road landfill for me, along with some other stuff I wanted to get rid of. What a great place.

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No Comment

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Playlist

I recently noticed an iTunes playlist comprising the 25 tracks I’ve played the most since it was reset, maybe a year and a half ago. It’s as odd as you’d think.

Number 25 is “Rhythm and Romance” by Ella Fitzgerald, which I think we could broadcast to the Taliban from a drone and they would come out smiling. Number 24 is Ella and Louis Armstrong singing “You Won’t Be Satisfied.” Exquisite.

Numbers 21, 22, and 23 are the three movements of Mozart’s third violin concerto played to a fare-thee-well by Itzhak Perlman. The Adagio makes me cry, so I avoid operating heavy machinery with Number 22.

Number 20 is “Ti Mon Bo” by Tito Puente. When Herb Kent, the deejay of my youth, would play this in the midst of all the Motown even the lames would dance.

Number 19 is tenor Thomas Young’s “Nessun Dorma!” from Puccini’s Turandot. I’ve heard a couple of recordings of Pavarotti singing this aria, and he should be holding Thomas Young’s coat.

Number 18 is “Gaucho,” by Steely Dan. If you know, there’s nothing to say; if you don’t, there’s still time.

Number 17 is “Going to Chicago” by Joe Williams, with Count Basie and Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross. I’ve heard others try to sing this, but it’s like redoing the Sermon on the Mount.

Number 16 is “Unomathemba” by Ladysmith Black Mambazo. See note for Number 18.

Number 15 is “Autumn in New York” by Sarah Vaughan, who is still divine.

Number 14 is the Gayatri mantra by Deva Premal, Number 13 is “Canadian Sunset” by Gene Ammons (as I recall, fresh out of prison for self-medication), Number 12 is Loon Talk, a track from “The Sounds of Nature.”

Number 11 is a live version of “Angel from Montgomery” by Bonnie Raitt and John Prine. Bonnie Raitt is the funkiest white woman on Earth.

Number 10 is “You Can’t Fool the Fat Man” by Randy Newman, a brilliant composer.

Numbers 9, 5, and 3 are the three movements of Brahms’s Violin Concerto, in reverse order because I seldom get to listen all the way through.

Number 8 is “October Road” by James Taylor and the Dixie Chicks (mostly Natalie Maines). Number 7 is “Northwoods Night,” from “The Sounds of Nature.” Number 6 is “Chan Chan” by the Buena Vista Social Club. Number 4 is “Hide nor Hair” by Ray Charles, a jewel by the man.

On top, ahead of Bonnie Raitt, Itzhak Perlman, Ella Fitzgerald, Brahms, and Ray Charles, are Numbers 1 and 2—“Hallelujah” and “Chico Gospel” by the incomparable MaMuse.

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The Coolest Guy in the World

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Black History Month

Black History month is here again. There go the usual suspects—Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Booker T. Washington, Ella Baker, Carter G. Woodson, W. E. B. DuBois, Martin Luther King, George Washington Carver, Fannie Lou Hamer, a little Malcolm X (El Hajj Malik El-Shabazz), Oprah, and now Barack Obama. No Nat Turner, no Jackson State killings, no Martin Delany, no Marcus Garvey, no Frantz Fanon, no Jamil Abdullah al-Amin, no A. Philip Randolph, no Cheikh Anta Diop, no COINTELPRO, no Tuskegee experiment, no Assata Shakur, and definitely no Fred Hampton or Mumia Abu-Jamal. Until Obama I don’t think there’d been any official black history since the sixties, other than lower-colon Powell and Condoleeza Rice. Jebus.

So Unca Bubba gave us the shortest month—no surprises there—to take up the slack. Hundreds of years of lies and omission and lies and misdirection and lies versus Black History Month. Hah.

I have mixed feelings about Black History Month. I like the attention paid to black people who didn’t sing or play ball. I have nothing against athletes or performing artists, but they get year-round attention. So, if now and then somebody learns something he didn’t know about a black person he’d never heard of, that’s good. On the other hand, Black History Month is still the colored water fountain.

If you modify history, it doesn’t count, because it’s still his story, if you see what I mean. You’ve got to quote history: No rewriting, no paraphrasing. Otherwise, it’s a special history, on a special shelf. A biography of Zora Neale Hurston is not gonna be with the other biographies. It’ll be in the colored section, as usual.

History can include many different voices, but it obviously doesn’t have to. Describing reality is primarily deciding what to leave out, and an all-inclusive history is unattainable. Nobody knows what you were doing in the moonlight on that picnic table that time, and history is incomplete without that information. Since history is always incomplete anyway, you can relax.

I can imagine the end of Black History Month. When I hear booming rap music on the street, it’s usually coming from a white man’s pickup truck. And my sons learned urban (i.e., black) slang from their white classmates. That’s major melding. Every time I hear a little white child say, “I be,” rather than “I am,” I smile. That kind of cultural appropriation is a far cry from equality or justice, but it is a sign of something new.

Each generation is new. That seems to be the point. Not only are we all individually different, generations are different from the ones before and in ways we can’t know in advance. Lucky for them.

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Rowan Atkinson

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Facebook

I’ve been on Facebook a little over a year, and I think that might be long enough. I don’t know what I expected so at least I’m not disappointed.

Most of my Facebook “friends” are people I’d never talk to in the ordinary course of things, but Facebook makes it so easy that now I know more about their lives than I would even if we actually talked regularly. I like to see their links and ideas, but I’m tired of scanning the posts about petty frustrations and I’m reluctant to “hide” anyone, even the ones I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt any feelings. I’m willing to, but that’s not my goal.

A few of my “friends” I ”confirmed” because I couldn’t think of a good reason to “ignore” them. I barely knew them—sometimes not at all—and I figured we could have an electronic relationship, and it seemed rude to say no. It seems even ruder to “unfriend” someone just because our “friendship” seems pointless and if I had something important to say to you, I’d at least call, except I probably don’t even know your phone number because you’re probably not really my friend, just my “friend.” I don’t mind a little rudeness for a good cause, though, and I am a good cause. So if you and I have an exclusively Facebook relationship, I’m gonna think about that.

I post quotations and links to my site and others, usually videos, but most of it’s on my site anyway, so why am I fiddling around on Facebook? I’m curious about social media and I want to sample it while there’s still an electrical grid up and running.

I like seeing what my particular set of “friends” has to say. The political commentators are all conventional lefties and I like watching them chew each other’s ankles and gnash their teeth at the same time. I love the keening over “not only is there not gonna be any health-care reform, the government is shilling for the insurance industry and the war budget is the biggest in the history of the world.” I admire our spirit, indomitable no matter what it’s in aid of. We keep trying to believe.

And I love the creativity of the Democrat faithful in explaining and defending the President’s actions and inactions and in deciding exactly how we should wring our hands about what a dick he turned out to be. That’s the kind of “friends” I’ve got. Most of them I rather like. Some of them I’ve never met, and I have a few “friends” who are also friends. I’m gonna call one now.

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Zeitgeist II Addendum

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Culture Is Your Operation System

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King

I don’t remember Martin Luther King, Jr., because I never met him. If you never met him, you don’t remember him, either. What I remember are monochromatic images, a few speeches, and some stuff I read. That’s not a man.

That the Federal Bureau of Investigation tapped King’s telephones and secretly recorded conversations and planted agents in his organization and tried to drive him to despair with threats so he would commit suicide doesn’t surprise me. If the FBI were even a middle-class white man it would have been locked up long ago.

One of the things the FBI found out was that King liked women a lot, mostly Coretta but definitely not just her. Some people seem to think his marital infidelity invalidates his achievements. Those people are stupid.

King started college at 15, and when he got the call from his people he answered. He didn’t dodge the hard parts, and he didn’t just organize marches and demonstrations, he led them, like generals used to do back when they had to be brave.

He wasn’t afraid to die, unlike many spurious Christians, and after the dream speech in 1963, the FBI said he was “the most dangerous and effective Negro leader in the country.” The FBI director referred to King as “degenerate” and “disgusting” in correspondence. A draft of a letter sent to King calls him an “evil, abnormal beast” and suggests that there’s only one thing he can do to avoid public exposure of his “fraudulent self.” Soon King came to realize the relationship of poverty to war and imperialism, and in 1967 in New York he said, “The greatest purveyor of violence in the world today is my own government,” which wasn’t common knowledge like it is now.

The FBI says that it always gets its man, and in April 1968 after all black police and firefighters were transferred away from the 2nd Precinct fire station across the street from the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee, and King was relocated to a room there that was more open to view, and four tactical police units in the area were reassigned away just that morning, King was shot dead on the balcony. The official version didn’t make much sense, and that’s not unusual—e.g., John F. Kennedy, Fred Hampton and Mark Clark, the Waco Seige, Wounded Knee, and 9/11 for starters.

James Earl Ray did time for the killing, but even the King family didn’t think much of that. In 1999 a civil jury in Memphis decided that Martin Luther King, Jr., had been assassinated as part of a conspiracy “including agencies of his own government.” That quote is from what Jim Douglass wrote in the Spring 2000 issue of Probe Magazine. I’ve never met him, either.

One of the most interesting things King is said to have said is, “There must be a better distribution of wealth and maybe America must move toward a democratic socialism.” Listen to this.

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Achieving your dreams

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Cops

From 1997:
In Minneapolis I once got a flyer that said, “ATTENTION!!! WE HAVE A BIG PROBLEM!” There had been a gun fired across the street; young people would cut through the back yard, knock on a side window, enter through the front door, and leave after a few minutes; strangers would peek in the windows at all hours, so—CRACK HOUSE!

The pamphleteers wanted to do two things: have a meeting—it was Minnesota, after all—and send a letter to the father and son living in the house up for discussion, “offering help and demanding a cease to dangerous activities.”

The meeting was packed and included our councilwoman and a crisp representative of the police. When I got there, the politician was talking about what could be done to get rid of the bad guys, including harassment for code violations. When Fannie Lou Hamer, Annie Ponelle, and others tried to register to vote in the ’60s, their bus driver was arrested because his bus looked too much like a school bus.

The married couple who lived next door were incensed because the police hadn’t managed—by any means necessary, even if they were bogus—to get the young man who lived there out. The cop assured everybody that things would get better, their calls for help wouldn’t be ignored anymore, when the cops came out they’d be sure to make a report, calls from the neighborhood would be taken seriously, and so on.

I am astounded at the number of people who expect the police to protect them from their neighbors and who are not only willing to put up with incessant police presence but actually want more cops around. The gun-control people are no help without including government agents. Morally restricting the threat of violence to the government leads only to more oppression. I don””t know about you, but I””ve been oppressed enough.

One man wanted more black police, since the bad guys were black. President Obama has demonstrated that race is no guarantee of anything in particular. There are a lot of black fools, black racists, black pigs, black liars. I bet some black guys become cops because that way somebody will have to pay attention to them. And police forces are havens for cowards, bullies, and paranoids of all colors, because cops get to carry a gun, a profoundly stupid idea and the only way some of them stay in one piece. Nobody is as full of fear as cops, and with good reason.

We don’t need career cops. A person could be a cop only a little while, maybe a year or two, and then go back to whatever she was doing before. Anybody who wants to be a cop is qualified for therapy. We could at least draft cops, the way we used to draft soldiers. At least they””d be different kinds of people, not just the wannabe tough guys. Local, temporary police. Some people long for the old days of the cop on the beat, but those days were better because the cop was part of the neighborhood, not because there were a lot of cops around. Cops who don’t live in the neighborhood are just mercenaries, like “Xe” (alias “Blackwater”), liable to turn on you at the drop of a dime.

My neighbors railed about zero tolerance for guns and drugs and gangs and illegal activity in general. When did tolerance get to be a bad thing? We tolerate cops with guns, why not other people? We all have the same right to defend ourselves, don’t we?

I don’t care about crime in my neighborhood. I care about safety in my neighborhood, but I don’t care that what somebody does is illegal. Crime can comprise anything, depending on what time it is where you are. Your being a criminal may just mean that you found a law worth breaking. The founding fathers were outlaws. I’m certainly not afraid of criminals as a group. Frederick Douglass, Mohandas Gandhi, Socrates, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Sitting Bull, and Jesus were all criminals. A roomful of criminals could be a lot safer for you than a roomful of cops.

The only gang I’m concerned about is the gang of the rich, of the plutocracy, now the corporatocracy—the police. They don’t have just colors, like street gangs, they have uniforms and battering rams and helicopters and pretty much any weapon they want. The more fearful cops become, the more money politicians give them to protect themselves from imaginary threats, to defend themselves against things that don’t happen.

As sworn enforcers of the law, cops are always supporters of the way things are, no matter what that means, no matter what some mix of politicians has agreed on enough to pass into law. Cops resist change; that’s their job, never mind what the change is—unless it means more for them, more money, more power, more henchmen. Until their political overlords agree on something else, it’s illegal, or ought to be. A progressive cop is an oxymoron. It’s the way the job has been selected for, accidentally and deliberately. Blind obedience is useful. The way we’re doing things is always the right way.

In the ’60s, criminals didn’t turn vicious dogs and fire hoses on civil-rights marchers; cops did, preventing the pernicious spread of letting the colored folks take a deep breath. Cops are still on the job, and this time the American Medical Association is on their side for the war on drugs; so we’re all—not just black people this time—saddled with a holy war on self-determination.

Being thought of as warriors against evil and defenders of right rather than simply as goons for the power structure, cops are officially worth more than the rest of us. If you kill a cop, even to save yourself, you can write off the rest of your life. If a cop kills you, he gets a paid vacation.

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The audacity of kindness

Because he’s a human being, I want Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab to be treated with kindness and compassion, and one of my gentle readers objects. Yes, Mutallab apparently tried to commit murder, of which I do not approve. It’s just that I don’t think there’s any use whatsoever in punishing him, except to intimidate the rest of us and encourage the goons.

I’m curious about why Mutallab couldn’t think of anything else to do with his life but blow it up, and I think that his real motive would be useful to know before the body scans get to the gas pumps—“No Cash, No Clothes.”

Mutallab must have been trying to send a message, like Lassie used to do in the television show when Timmy would fall down another well—“What is it, Umar? Uncle Sam sucks?” Whatever his message, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t make sense, which is why I want him on YouTube, the only way we even might get at the truth. Experts say, “Be afraid. The system works.” I think that’s irony, or maybe sarcasm.

My sensitive and discerning reader says, “Far from a conservative hawk, I am a progressive conscientious objector and pacifist, but even I cannot rationalize Umar’s egregious behavior considering he is neither impoverished nor uneducated and has no moral justification for his actions.” I’d have to ask Mutallab about that.

I may also be far from a conservative hawk myself, although I can’t be sure. Neither can I rationalize Mutallab’s behavior. Nobody can, because his behavior was not rational. That’s why we should just get him some therapy, generously paid for by Uncle Sam.

Some of the military allegedly try to win over the “hearts and minds” of the people whose countries they’re destroying, a strategy that at least requires little munitions. Now’s the time for the sleazy greedy cowards in the federal government to show a little generosity of spirit, as unfamiliar as it is. Showing some love could win hearts and minds everywhere. Nothing else has ever worked.

I just can’t get past “Love your enemies” and “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” and believe me I’ve tried. No matter what he had done, if Mutallab were my son, I would want him cared for compassionately and to get the help he needs. The guaranteed torture of his confinement will please only sleazy greedy fearmongers and the scaredy cats who support them, and as usual that’s enough. My rational reader says my position ruins our nation’s chance “to demonstrate our universal disgust.” Damn right.

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The Ayahuasca Monologues

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