Saturday, November 17, 2018

Safe and Sound

I'm back from the pushback protest. I think we numbered in the several hundreds, with lots of signs and Bronx cheers and middle finger salutes, and chants. The Proud Boys (or whoever they were) numbered at most 30. And there were dozens and dozens of cops.

We sent those Nazis packing like egg-sucking dogs. We didn't let up until their permit expired, and we were at our loudest when they took their Trump flags and crept back to the worm holes from which they came.

Antifa served as our protection unit. They were mostly on the perimeter, watching our backs.

It got a little dicey here and there, some running and shouting ... but Heir and I kept our distance from that.

A lovely thought: We were on Independence Mall, which is federal property. I don't want a record with the U.S. government, so I'm glad all went well.

Nazi scum, off our streets.

Just In Case

I'm one of those planners who likes to have all my ducks in order. Everyone who knows me knows I'm an alarmist who always expects the worst and never gets it. But one day I might get it. Therefore:

If I should meet an untimely fate, here are my wishes.

May Day ceremony at Spoutwood farm, run by Michael and Debbie Bull. Call the quarters from the Black Oak Grove ritual and say the prayer that unites all Druids. Sing "And When I Rise" and "LaTooshie."

If Otter and his merry band are available, some mayhem would be nice.

These days everyone gets cremated, although I would rather be left out for the vultures (of course).

Re-construct my shrine in the Mount Hope cemetery at the foot of Polish Mountain. Do not put the brachiopod fossil on it, but put lots of sea glass on it, please. You may want to replenish the sea glass from time to time, because it will be coveted by the locals up there.

Off to Philadelphia now.

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

Scared but Got To Go

I've got two wonderful daughters. One calls me every day. The other one, if she's busy, doesn't call me for a week and forgets to return my calls. It's okay, I'm not insecure. I know she loves me.

But when she doesn't call for awhile, and I can't roust her up, I get a little bit nervous and start trolling.

That's how I found out that my daughter The Heir and her significant other had signed on to a rally that is not going to be warm and fuzzy in Philadelphia.

Some fascist Trump supporters have decided to hold a get-together at Independence Hall. This has not passed the attention of Antifa and another group called Pushback. Daughter and s.o. had announced intentions to join the action with Pushback.

If you have been a regular grazer on this pasture for awhile, you know I've been rattling my saber all along from the safety and security of my Barca-lounger. But the moment arises when it feels pretty hypocritical to sit and suggest what we ought to do.

Readers, I will stand with Antifa on Saturday. In Philadelphia, where (one member of the gendarmes told me) precisely 50 percent of the cops love Trump, and 50 percent hate him.

I'll be making noise to drown out "Proud Boys" who claim they aren't racist and they don't want racists at their rally. Frankly I don't care what they are claiming. They need to know that in the city of Philadelphia, their hate won't fly.

When I started this blue blog back in 2005, it was all making fun of Dubya and the Christian "chippies" and their Armageddon agenda. Now this shit is serious. I'm not strolling into Center City on Saturday expecting to be surrounded by gentle grandmothers in pussy hats. This will be the hardcore opposition. And I will be part of it.

 I'm 59 years old with bad knees and a pathological fear of confrontation. But if my beloved Heir has the guts to go, then I've got to be there too.

Plenty of good Germans sat back and clucked their tongues while the Nazis gained strength. That's not going to happen here on my watch.

At dawn we ride.

Monday, November 05, 2018

The Superstitious Voter

I'm going to vote.

I'm going to vote a straight Democratic ticket. I have done this since 1980.

This year, after I vote, I'm going to come home and avoid the television like the plague.

Two years ago I was off work on election day. I spent the day painting trim in my foyer, and as I painted I kept hearing the prognostications. Then the evening came, I was still painting near the t.v., and I heard all of the awful events unfold in real time.

My daughter The Fair was still living at home, and she turned six shades of pale and asked for a glass of wine ... which she couldn't drink. Mr. J just stared at the t.v. in a state of apoplexy.

By midnight, Fair and I were weeping.

This time, maybe if I don't watch any returns, some degree of normal will return to the landscape.

It's magical thinking. But what if I'm right?