Thursday, August 31, 2017
Paddling Through the Apocalypse
Is this country now just a fully corrupt, mindless, scamming, shit hole of deception and money-grubbing? I swear, Rachel Maddow is like a delightful harbinger of all that is backwards, unfair, dirty and sociopathic about this country. It's all being revealed, every day.
In response to the 50 inches of rain in Houston, I heard some fuckwit say into the microphone, "This isn't the time to talk about climate change, this is the time for action, you can talk about climate change some other time, we need to focus on the people of Houston ." Blah blah blah, which would all be well and good if those same people gave two meaningful shits about the other people. Again and again it's individuals who do the rescuing, the rebuilding, the sandwich making, one saved pet on each shoulder, in their personal canoe. "That's right", I can hear them say, "individuals, not government". To which I say, "Yeah, not your shitty, selfish government."
While denied meaningful flood insurance, we continue to build and live in the low-lying cities and coastal areas because the views are good. Meanwhile legions are licking their chops waiting for the flood waters to recede and the construction contracts to be handed out so they can build, right where they sank, a lifestyle mall, luxury condos, or an Amazon packing center. Our truck full of thoughts and prayers just showed up, you can start unloading anytime.
Oh, and by the way, because we're Texas, and have basically seceded, we have no government regulation. Because the free market will take care of those lying, cheating shitbirds who build their chemical plant right between three schools, an old folks home and some neighborhoods. Sure, free market, because you and I are trading in organic peroxides. If you don't like this thing, that they hide from you without regulation, then just don't use the pvc piping, paints, or even white flour products, all of which use this thing you never knew about. I'm so sick of the free-market argument. Like any of us mortals knew what was heating up down there. Apparently the chemical stew is piping hot and ready to be served. It's going to blow, and by all predictions, sky high. "Like a daisy-cutter bomb." Or, if we're super lucky, a giant toxic plume of lung wilting chemical smoke, singeing the cilia from your air pipes, just as you break the surface, gasping for breath above the flood waters that ate your house. They've mandatory-evacuated a two mile radius around the plant. When asked if the CEO would provide an updated report, one formerly mandated by an "Anti-business" Obama, but since eliminated by opposing powers, detailing the contents of the plant, what toxins, what explosive elements, how much, where, he responds with a straight face, "I don't see that as necessary, we've already stated the risk." To paraphrase, "We don't want to, and we don't have to, naner, naner boo-boo." Enjoy your bomb crater filled with water. Oh wait, we made a community pool! Someone get Fox news on this.
This is not the time to talk about climate change. It's the time to talk about Melania's footwear. Sure, I'll grant you the momentary gack. But people, get serious. Are we so easily distracted by the shiny object(ification)? Melania is not our problem. We can wonder about her, like an exotic bird, pelican-stepping across the lawn, but we cannot waste another moment of our precious time on her.
I might be enraged, but I am also utterly useless. Sure, wrap your yoga arms around me and tell me what a beautiful person I am, inside and out. Paste some sticker on my virtual wall about the power of wine to erase all that ails me. I am, after all, a woman, just get me drunk and date rape me, it's my fault somehow anyway.
I don't know where to put myself in this swirling maelstrom. To dip a toe in feels like risking my leg will be ripped off at the hip. There is nowhere to comfortably gaze, except perhaps at my own navel. Which, more and more I do. We all do. We try to manage as best we can, the tiny controllable things. We sort our cans from paper, or not, and try to keep the shoes lined up in the cubby holes, or not. We attempt to make a few people directly touched by us, feel OK for a few minutes, with kindness, or a good snack while we stomp with giant carbon feet across the backs of millions we don't care to see.
We name call, and shout into the yelling boxes of our phones because reasonable argument is no longer valued. That kind of smarty-pants talking is for east coast educated types (otherwise known as the founding fathers). We only argue with the people who share our identical values, one-upping each other with our righteousness and indignation. Meanwhile, the militia is forming, just like it always does in chaotic and opportunist times. While we're all gawking and tsk-ing Melania's Jimmy Choos, the weapons are being hoarded, the chants recited in unison.
Comedians are now tasked with giving us our 'real' news. Unless its dosage is dispensed from the blister pack of humor, it's contents is a pill too large and sticky to swallow. Take only as directed, this news may cause headaches, tremors, vaginal dryness or esophageal cancer. We look to the funny people to sooth us through our terror. To remind us of what effervescence might be left in this mostly flat, bad tasting, beverage of culture. I, for one, could not live without them. But I never could, even in the best of times. I rely on their voices, Seth's, Samantha's, Louis' to remind me what's important, to provide a little buoy out there in the raging waters with a beacon on top that flashes, "Over here! Paddle your canoe over here'!", you will find others like you, wet, sad and angry, clinging to their pets, but willing to share their sandwich.