Ever since Dubya stole the presidency from Gore (Gore got more votes, remember?), thus perverting and debasing our political system even further, three questions regarding Republicans in general keep coming to mind? Have they no shame?  Have they no decency?  Have they no intelligence? Well, I have finally gotten a partial answer to one of those semi-rhetorical questions.

If you have been paying attention to the news, Dubya and his cronies have been doing lots more damage to America this week.  They rolled back clean-air standards by about ten years, so Dubya’s rich buddies can pour more poison than ever into the air we breath.  The creeps in Washington are working hard to do away with your Miranda rights.  And finally, and most egregiously, SOMEONE managed to tack a rider onto the Home Security Act (which is really fucked up–fucked up from the point of view of those who cherish the Bill of Rights–to begin with), which would exempt a major drug company from liability suits stemming from kid’s dying from their vaccine with a rather questionable ingredient.

The drug companie in question donated $1.8 or so million to  various politicos, 79% to the Republicans.  And boy are they getting a good return on their investment.  Now here is the interesting part, and I promise I will get to the point very soon.

As you know, politicians like to take credit for stuff, whether they had anything really to do with it or not.  (Was it Al Gore who once claimed to be the father of the Internet?)  Anyway, according to the New York Times, the latest party game in Washington is trying to guess who added that rider to the Act–no one seems to know.

Thus, one of my little questions–Have they no shame?–has been partially answered.  They have no decency or intelligence, really, but at least, one or two of them have some shame, expressed by the anonymity of the malefactor who paid back Big Pharm big time.  It stinks. 

The whole system stinks.  And I keenly await the day the whole sorry mess comes crashing down under its own weight. It has already started happening.

This being Thanksgiving, it seems altogether fitting and proper to forego my usual rant (and the next one will be a pip!), in favor of a listing of some of the things I am thankful for:

1.  My nutty, brilliant, challenging family.

2.  One of our cars is running, and it has studded snow tires and 4wd.

3.  The unseasonably mild weather, especially since our oil burner isn’t working.

4.  My arsenal.  Nuff said.

5.  Being super-intelligent, handsome, witty, charismatic, and above all, humble.

6.  My rock collection and my cat.

That’s everything I want to list, since Dubya is about to spend $300 million to compile a computer dossier on me and 200 million other usual suspects.  Dunno about you, but I am going to be using my credit card a lot less and money orders and cash a lot more.

From time to time, I rail against the wretched excess and rampant degeneracy to be found in society today.  Well, here I go again.

Kathy and I went to Wasilla yesterday, Wasilla  being a charmless tsrip mall type of community which is sometimes cited by Anchorage residents as what happens when you don’t have enough zoning regulation.  The former mayor, Sarah Palin, is a slick Republican bitch with the political ambitions–and  ethics–of Lady Macbeth. But I digress.

As much as we hate town–a shopping trip takes all day and burns half a tank of gas in our trusty Subie–we kind of had to.  Prices shoot up the farher north you go–for instance, a little jug of STP injector cleaner stuff that costs $5.49 in the valley goes for $1.97 in Wasilla.  Bread is a buck or two more than it is in Wasilla.  Plus there are many things you just can’t get out here, like romaine lettuce and health supplements.  When I get my full dosage, I take upwards of 50 pills a day–pills for my heart, for my prostate, antioxidants, DMAE, DHA and so on and so forth.  Anyway, as I was browsing the pill aisle at Fred Meyer’s, I saw something that truly disgusted me, something that forcefully reminded me how, well, fucked-up things are getting.

As I browsed, I was distracted by this little flashing red light on the shelf.  A few years ago, Safeway got the brilliant idea of sticking little coupon dispensers with flashing lights in the aisles–this didn’t last long, I hope they were all vandalized.  But the flashes I saw this time was part of the bloody packaging of a health product. 

At a time when recycling is a major concern, and waste disposal is a major problem, and printed circuits are a known source of heavy metal pollution, these pin-headed promoters are including an LED, batteries, and a circuit board in a little cardboard box.  Like I said, I don’t know who is responsible for this outrage, but I do know I would love a few minutes alone in a locked room with him.  Or her.  I am an equal-opportunity curmudgeon.

Remember when gas stations gave stuff away?  Somewhere around here is a nice ceramic coffee cup, maybe twenty years old, I got at an Arco station (do they still have them?) as a premium for getting ten bucks’ worth of gas.  Not too long before that, I was in college on the way home for the weekend–I didn’t have much money and home was maybe 50 miles away.  I put 25 cents’ worth of gas in the tank, and that got me home in my trusty Renault R-10.  That was an amazing car.  Among other things, it had little parking lights on the side, tiny little lights you’d turn on with a rocker switch when you parked the car at night, so other drivers could see you–it seems that Paris isn’t much for street lights.  One time I neglected the battery and it went dead, so I started the car with a crank–just took the jack handle, stuck it in a little hole in he front of the car, turned it a few times and drove off.  Try doing THAT with your new Lexis, yuppie scum.  Is it just me, or are things not getting better?

I caught the bus for grade school at the local Esso station.  It was a great place.  They sold soda and candy bars, and they had a card of foil packs of Alka-Seltzer you could get for a nickel.  I used to get one, take it to school, pop it, and sit there quietly foaming at the mouth.  The teacher got real upset.  The old Esso station was a real service station–they would pump your gas, do a ring and valve job, fix your flat tire.  You know, drive in over the red rubber hose and a bell would go ding somewhere, and a guy scurries out and pops your hood for an oil check while the tank is filling.

Plus, the Esso station, in cahoots with my father, pioneered the concept of cash advances on your credit card.  When he needed beer money, Dad would cruise into  the Esso station, flash his gas card and say “Give me five dollars’ worth of regular, but don’t put it in the tank.” The attendant would wink, fill out a slip, and hand the old man a fiver.  He didn’t always get beer.  One time he went in when he was already drunk and bought a half gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream.  Semi-sweet chocolate at that.  Worst fucking ice cream I ever tasted in my life.

But getting back to the idea of companies giving stuff away, I remember Esso used to send out little premiums to their cardholders, and Dad would usually give them to me.  One time it was this blue plastic keycase.  Thing is, the hinge of the clam-shell case was also plastic, and the accompanying literature said that it was a new miracle material that could open and close the case over a million times before breaking.  I was enthralled.  A million times!  How long would you have to live to wear this sucker out?  And how did they know–did they hire some dude to open and close it, did they have some machine thingie, did they do some theoretical quantum analysis and figured  it out, or did they just pull the damn number out of a hat?  Probably not, else the number would have been low, 6 and seven-eights, or something.  Still, it was neat thing.  I wonder what they’re making out of that plastic now.  Heart valves maybe–probably condoms.

Anyway, I loved the old service stations.  You got service, you dealt with people.  Today, you drive up to your  Chevron station, stick your credit card in a slot, obey the orders on the little screen, pump your own gas and so on.  You only have to deal with a human being if you want to  go in for some bad pizza and cheap beer.  God help you if you go to a gas station with a flat tire.

Progress.  Ain’t it great?

The number of people I really want to kill increased by about 40,000 this morning.  According to the American Humane Society, that is the number of people across the country engaged in making animals fight to the death for their own twisted pleasure.  This little factoid turned up in a Florida news story on how golden retrievers were being kidnapped and used as “bait,” training adjuncts for pit bulls and the like.  These worthless callous fucking rednecks are taking some of the sweetest, most trusting, happiest critters on the planet and killing them slowly.  What is worst, I think, is that these dogs die not only in agony, but also in fear and confusion, thinking “What did I do?  What did I do?”  Meanwhile, I see PETA doing nothing about this, as they are too busy grabbing headlines by bad-mouthing the Iditarod.

In a related story (also out of Florida–what the hell is wrong with that state, anyway?), a mother came to scholl to get her autistic 8-year old, and found him lying on the floor, handcuffed and crying.  He had thrown a tantrum and a highly-evolved, sensitive asshole school rent-a-cop told the kid he would take off the cuffs when the kid calmed down.  Right, nothing like putting a scared kid in handcuffs to make him calm down.  Hey folks, being cuffed HURTS.  I still have nerve damage from the last time I was cuffed.

Anyway.  I read someplace that a society can be judged by how it cares for those unable to care for themselves.  If that is the case, our society sucks.  It sucks big-time, and I rejoice anytime anyone strikes a blow against the empire, so to speak.  Folks my age may remember President Johnson, and his War on Poverty.  In the new millenium, that has morphed into a war on poor people.  Here are a few examples.

Alaska has a mandatory insurance law, but the heat can only ask for proof of insurance if you are in an accident. I know perfectly responsible folks here in the valley who have driven for 20 years without having insurance, and who never needed it. I myself drove for over ten years with no insurance, and the only one that hurt was some hypothetical insurer that didn’t get my money.  Both our cars are insured now–God bless Geico!  Anyway, what I am getting to is that our legislature recently passed a law saying cops could ask for insurance anytime and lift your license and fine you if you have none.  Think this will bother Joe Average as he drives his late-model SUV to his $150,000 home?  No way.  It will only hurt people who are too poor to afford car insurance.

Going back a few years, those my age may remember back in the 60s, when thousands of nonfunctional mental patients were thrown out into the streets, having been given some meds and a pat on the back. Talk about social Darwinism–most of them quickly died, many after having been victimized by more canny denizens of the streets.  Some of them actually managed to survive–I wouldn’t call it living.

The drug laws reflect still another way our sick, corrupt, rich white male dominated society screws over poor people.  Right now, there are over 50,000 people in this country in jail for pot-related offense, and on the average, their sentences are greater than if they had been convicted of murder.  I don’t know anyone getting rich off pot, but I do know plenty of people whose meagre income is supplemented by selling the stuff.  Also–ever wonder why the penalties for crack cocaine are ridiculously higher than penalties for regular old coke? SImple–crack is more popular with blacks, Latinos, and poor whites–regular coke is favored by well-off white folks.  And did you ever–EVER–hear of a pill-pushing doctor doing time? Me neither.

Thomas Jefferson once said “If there is a just God, I tremble for my country.”  Amen.

She’s fat and lazy and not too bright, but she’s beautiful and I love her.  I daresay that many men have voiced similar sentiments over the years; I, however, am talking about my cat.  Her original name was Miss Prissy, but now she answers to Muffin, or the Muffin-stuffer, or the Muffledy Cat.  Call her anything, just don’t call her late for dinner.

She does love her goodies.  She doesn’t hunt  wild prey like our other cats do, but she is indefatigueable when it comes to stalking lunch meat.  But not just any lunch meat.  She will turn up her pretty pink nose at, say, olive and pimento loaf.  If the sliced turkey breast isn’t fresh enough, she will  spurn it.  But let her get hold of some sliced ham, or raw chicken meat and she is in hog heaven.  Yeah, she is a tad overweight (but no violet eyes to die for!).  In repose, she sometimes has a pear-shaped silhouette, and resembles nothing so much as a furry Thanksgiving turkey.

And it must be noted that she is not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Last winter, we had a little mishap with the wood stove.  We had a stack fire (this happens when built-up creosote catches fire, usually not a problem, but in this case, it got so hot the ceiling caught fire); the other two cats streaked out of the house as soon as we opened the door–Muffin hid under the bed.  No wonder Kathy sometimes refers to her as the blonde.

Actually, she is a short-haired calico, brown and tan and black and orange on her back, white socks and belly and chest and lower face.  Plus the cutest pink nose on the planet. And for reasons known only to her and God, she has chosen to bond with me.

Of our three cats, she is the shyest.  It took her the longest to get used to our new dog, and when I’m not home, she spends a lot of time in my room, napping on my clothes.  Sometimes, I am told, she suffers from separation anxiety when I’m gone, and sits back in the hall and cries. When I do come home, and go to my room to change, she is on my chair looking for strokes and giving lavishly of head butts.  Sometimes she’ll head-butt my hand when I’m trying to do crossword puzzles, and when I’m eating, I have to watch everything closely, lest she dip a paw into my milk.  Boy, she loves milk.

At night, she will wait patiently as I get undressed and ready for bed.  Once I get settled in my sleeping bag, she will come padding up onto me, looking for a comfy spot.  Sometimes she will curl up at my feet, sometimes she’ll snuggle up against the back of my knees (I always sleep  lying on my right side).  Still other times, she will be asleep when I go to bed, and I will wake up in the middle of the night with a cat on me.  Amazingly comforting.

Know this–I am by no means a tough man, but I am a hard man.  Disasters leave me unmoved, and there is a long list of people I could cheerfully gut-shoot and smile as I watched them writhe in agony as they died.  But I do love critters in general, and my Muffin in particular.  Sometimes when I can’t find anything else unpleasant to think about, I wonder how I will get along without her when she dies.  I do know one thing–it will break my heart.

“There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.”–Albert Schweitzer

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”–Anatole France

“I never met a cat I didn’t like.”–Greyfox