Politics of fear

Do you remember where you were on the night of March 18, 2003?

I do. I was at Players, a sports bar, located on the physical border of Texas and Arkanas in the town of Texarkana. I remember because on that night George W. Bush commandeered the airwaves of every major television station and issued an ultimatum to Sadaam Hussein 48 hours–leave Iraq or face the Untied States military. Players catered to a decidedly “red state” crowd and I was anything but a “red stater.”

Just that morning, a letter I wrote to the local newspaper had been published expressing my dissent to the planned invasion. I lost a lot of friends over that letter, but I stayed true to my beliefs. That night, the crowd at Players cheered the TV as Bush spoke from his balls and I hung my head in shame. I felt that these people and millions of Americans across the nation were falling to the politics of fear. I never bought into the “fear Iraq” message and was a vocal opponent to the war effort from the beginning. Over time, I was proven right.

The Left attacked George W. Bush over his lies and his “fear mongering.” Imagine my surprise when, barely into his first month in office, Barrack Hussein Obama decided to play the “fear” card as well, this time in regards to the economy. Every time Obama speaks he tries to convince the American people that we should fear the current economic climate and turn to him and socialist, tax dodging pinkos to save us.

Just like I did with Bush, I’m calling bullshit on Obama’s claims. I didn’t fear Sadaam Hussein and I don’t fear this economy. If anything scares me it’s B. Hussein Obama’s attempts to deal with the economy.

Almost Cut My Hair

“Almost cut my hair
It happened just the other day
It’s gettin kinda long
I coulda said it wasn’t in my way
But I didn’t and I wonder why
I feel like letting my freak flag fly
Cause I feel like I owe it to someone”

Almost Cut My Hair-Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Per my Wednesday routine, I picked up a copy of the Dallas Observer at lunch the other day.  For those of you unfamiliar with Dallas, the Observer is Dallas’ alternative to the Dallas Morning News. Hidden among the mounds of advertisements for adult entertainment and cosmetic enhancements are often true jewels of investigative journalism, tackling many issues that the mainstream press refuses to cover.  This weeks’ cover featured a green silhouette of a man walking towards the Dallas skyline, an image I originally mistook for a marijuana leaf.  The title story, “Douchebags In The Mist”, a clever play on Diane Fossey’s Gorilla’s In The Mist, promises to take readers on an adventure “into the Dallas jungle in search of the elusive $30,000 millionaire…”

Intrigued, I immediately turned to page 16 to catch Andrea Grimes’ gripping expose.

 As a quick aside for all of my Atlanta readers, if you happen to pick up a copy of this week’s Observer, don’t miss page 29. There’s a very favorable review of Matt Lyle’s latest effort, “The Boxer”. Read the article and go check out his production. This Atlanta boy is one of the brightest stars in the Dallas theater scene.

 More me… 

Grimes seems to think of herself as Dallas’ answer to Carrie Bradshaw, and sets off on a bar-hopping mission across Dallas to find the male version of the $30,000 millionaire, to try and understand his mindset. For those of you not familiar with the term “$30,000 millionaire”, it is a term used by many to describe those individuals, who choose a Philistine lifestyle and live way above their means. Dallas, draped in decadence, boasts an exorbitant number of these individuals, an observation I made upon first moving to the city.

 Indeed, in my very first blog entry upon arriving in the Metroplex from Texarkana, I shared my initial impressions of my Uptown neighborhood:

 “…these “kids” are still attached to their parent’s umbilical chord. I love standing in my parking garage and playing “Count the Audi’s” and determining how many were bought with daddy’s money and how many were actually earned through hard work (I estimate that only 10% of Uptown residents have earned what they own.) This lack of independence is sure to affect one’s emotional maturity and their attitude towards life. Uptown residents desire to make money, present an image of success, and engage in drunken acts of debauchery Thursday thru Saturday, but these kids lack culture.

Try and stop an Uptown resident and question them about Sartre, Moliere, Botticelli, Anguissola, Gentileschi, or even Whitman or Ginsberg and you are bound to be faced with silence. Even though we live in a metro area of over 3 million people this is still Texas and the same basic ground rules apply. These Uptown simpletons subscribe to the same values and moral code as their neighbors in East Texas-but like my friends to the East, Dallas-ites try and cover their “Redneck past” as well.

In Dallas, they cover their “redneck past” with Audi’s, Mercedes, Land Rovers, with Louis Vuitton, Coach and Prada, with various hair gels, mineral waters, and imports.”

 I moved to Dallas to escape the influence of the pines-that sense of cultural depravity often associated with rural areas across our nation. I would lie awake at night asking the million dollar question, what do you do with a B.A. in English?  The answer was rather obvious, you write the “Great American novel”, move to New York City and your life becomes the stuff of Woody Allen movies. 

 Since I wrote for an on-line publication and was involved with both Internet and terrestrial radio programs, I figured I could support myself with journalism until I signed the big book deal. Immediately, I began a search for positions in both New York and Los Angeles.  I responded to an ad from a “business journal” that was looking to start an Internet version of their print material, starting salary of $80,000.00. Intrigued, I submitted my resume and immediately received a telephone call. They wanted to conduct a phone interview, at which point they told me they were a business journal for companies involved in the adult entertainment industry-a Wall Street Journal of porn and adult novelty items if you will.  While this adventure could have probably added more material for my novels, I decided it would be difficult to explain my job to my family, so I politely declined.

One night in December, a friend called me up and wanted to know if I would accompany her to the casino boats in Shreveport.  I’ve never been one for gambling, but I thought her company would be nice and I would be good for $20. As we walked into the first casino, I told her that I had a $20 bill and I wasn’t getting any more cash. Neither of us was what you would describe as wealthy, so went straight to the quarter slot machines and began feeding our money. Not 10 minutes passed by before I was down to my last dollar. I was so sick of the whole thing that I laid the whole dollar down on one spin. 

As the lights began to flash and the siren began to wail, fear clutched my body. Out of nowhere, a uniformed employee, talking on a walkie-talkie approached me carrying an electronic notebook. She began giving my physical description to someone on the end. Was this it? Was I going to go out in a scene from a bad Vegas movie? No, I had hit the jack pot.  She took down my personal information, asked me if I wanted a cash pay out. “Yes, please,” I told her. Not long after that, she returned with a fresh stack of one hundred dollar bills. I forced them into my back pocket, grabbed my female companion and made a quick exit. Finally, I had my seed money to escape. 

At the same time, my sister decided to move back to Texas from Boston and was looking for a roommate in Dallas. While it wasn’t New York or LA, Dallas was a city and would suffice. I sent off my resume to one law firm, had one interview, gave them my salary requirements and was hired in less than a week. I had finally escaped the piney woods. 

From my new apartment’s living room, I had a perfect view of the downtown Dallas skyline and I felt as if I were king of the world. The city would breathe new life into me-no longer would I suffer from “writer’s block.” I lived within walking distance of three theatres and one independent film house. I could walk to the corner, catch the trolley and 5 minutes later I was in the Arts District. This was city life and surely I could find a group of like minded people. 

What I found in Dallas was an insolent, bourgeois society, “chatting not about Heidegger but wine.” Was this what Ginsberg meant when he wrote, “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical, naked…”  I vowed to never give in, to never sell out, to remain true to the Bohemian spirit, the common blood line that ran through my veins and those of my friends.

 As time passed, I adjusted to my surroundings. I got a window office with a view of downtown Dallas and a 16% raise in my salary with the first 6 months of starting my new job. I was invited to the Platinum Club at the AAC. I saw my first Mavericks game from inside the owner’s box. Yes sir, I was living the good life. Before I knew it, I was listening to conservative talk radio.

 The external pressure was extreme. I’d always been a bit of a non-conformist. Even in my youth, I clung to scripture that taught me to go against the grain, “Be not conformed to the world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind and spirit.” (Roman 12:2) While I had outgrown the Biblical literalism of my youth, these words still rang true. However, here I was, shedding my spirit, standing naked in front of the world, transforming into a 9-to-5 suit. If I didn’t watch it, I would become a $30,000.00 millionaire. What a poser!

 It took my former landlady to make me realize my hypocrisy. She is a true child of the ‘60’s and we often sit and talk politics, sharing stories of activism. One day she looked at me and said, “You know what’s wrong with your generation? My people cut their hair, they quit caring and sold out. Had they given a fuck, they would have passed on our ways to you guys and right now we’d have students in the fucking streets.” Maybe she’s wrong, maybe she’s right, the point is she made me realize I was awfully close to “cutting my hair” and that something had to be done.

 There is a fine line between “selling out” and “buying in”. Finding exactly where that line is, well that’s what we call living.

La vie Boheme!