Unlike Stupid Bowl 2010, an occasion on which your bloguero’s use of various intoxicating liquids led to an uncharacteristically  spectacular flame out and a gigantic, public crash, in which the biggest injury was self-inflicted embarrassment that would persist unabated for a full calendar year, Stupid Bowl 2011 was mild.  It ended in relative quiet and probity, and was quickly eclipsed by the excitement of AOL’s buying Hufflepuffle and, much more important, Egypt’s Televised Revolution.

As usual, your bloguero had no idea what the week would bring.  Self absorbed, he was thrilled that he would not spend the year until Stupid Bowl 2012 in penance and vain attempts to apologize for his unfathomable folly and excuse his bad behavior.  No.  He would be able to move on.  What a relief.  But he admits it: his having committed to writing this Digest did cause him some slight concern.  What, he asked, would happen if he couldn’t bring himself to write anything this week?  What if the writing muse were on vacation and the story warehouse were padlocked? Maybe he could avoid this potential problem be being abducted to someplace in the Caribbean  with coco palms and warm beaches and, best of all, lacking all Internet and/or electricity.  Alas and alack.  No such luck.  No space ships.  No armed kidnappers.  Not even an invitation to escape. Nada.

If you look at the last week in The Dream Antilles you will find:

A Haiku about snow.  Because of ice and sleet, my dog friend was finally able to walk on top of our deep snow cover.  A brief reflection on the canine world.

Huffpo Bought By AOL. The news that the beleaguered, dinosaur of dial up, AOL, bought Huffington Post and made the doyenne of coy self promotion, Ariana, even richer.  A $315,000,000 deal built at least in part on the backs of those who blogged and wrote for free, who were, of course, screwed in the deal.

Sorry, Ariana and Markos, No More Free Content For You.  I didn’t write anything at Hufflepuffle, but I was sure that when dailyKos was eventually sold to a group of investment bankers and venture capitalists-I think this is now likely– I wouldn’t be paid for all of the writing I posted there, that Markos would argue that I got the “exposure” I deserved and that nothing further not even a propina piquena was required.  So, though I think the GBCW genre has fallen on bad times since ErrinF penned her immortal screed, I waved my middle digit in the rear view mirror and rode away on a cloud indignation.  This was surprisingly easy.

Skewering Spiderman.  How often can you find a review that says this?  “Spider-Man” is not only the most expensive musical ever to hit Broadway; it may also rank among the worst.”  Ouch.

Brian Jacques, RIP.  A children’s author I really loved to read to my kids passed on.  In his stories good always triumphed.  He will be sorely missed, though I’m sure that for generations to come parents will enjoy reading his works to their kids.

Mubarak To The World: I Fart In Your General Direction.  No Nixonian adieu for the perennial tyrant.  No.  Instead, defiance and indignation even as he was secretly packing his bags and moving his money around getting ready to do the Mobutu.  

A Haiku about a subzero night sky.

A Haiku about Haiku.

And Now Algeria? wonders whether the demonstrations we saw on Saturday in Algiers and elsewhere are the starting bell for events like Tunisia and Egypt.

A Piece Of Internet History marks the end of dKos as we know it, and the transformation into what I think amouts to “Left Coast Facebook^TM.”  

This essay about what is on The Dream Antilles. It’s supposed to be a  weekly Sunday morning very early digest for the Writers Port Alliance. As you can see, today is Saturday.  I’m putting this up now, because I won’t be able to on Sunday. See you next week, if the creek don’t rise.  On Sunday early.

   

I Taunt You

Well, once again the pundits have shown that they can get it wrong.  Very wrong.  Today’s supposed love fest, to be commenced when Mubarak would go somberly on TV and announce in tones reminiscent of Richard Nixon that he was stepping down or ceding power, is canceled.  Until further notice.  Mubarak insists he will remain  Apparently until he is forced to leave.

And he’s served notice that the force requiring him to leave isn’t going to come from the millions of demonstrators.  Or from the US and EU, which have propped up this tyrant, our Man in Cairo, democracy be damned, for thirty years.  No.  He’s going to stay the course.

Said the tyrant petulantly in today’s television speech:

“We will not accept or listen to any foreign interventions or dictations,” Mr. Mubarak said, implying that pressure to resign came from abroad as opposed to masses of people demanding his ouster through his country.

Well, ok, then.  That will put the US and the EU and pro-democracy forces across the world on notice and in their place.

Let the demonstrations continue.  This guy clearly has to go.

I know all too much about writing for free.  I do it here all the time. It’s a labor of love.  I’ve been at it for more than 900 blog posts and more than 5 years.  I know about writing without being paid for it.  Despite that, and despite my understanding that when I post at group blogs I know I won’t get paid, I am absolutely furious about the AOL-Huffington Post Deal.  Why?  Because the writers are getting screwed, and they’re not going to get a cent out of the deal. Not a sou.

The news this morning–  I’m sure you haven’t missed it–  was that that beleaguered, dinosaur of dial up AOL has bought Huffington Post and made that doyenne of self promotion and faux progressive politics, Arianna, an AOL executive.  Here’s the essence of the story from the New York Times:

And what a week it was.  Your bloguero finds himself hiding out in Columbia County,

New York, southeast of Albany and abutting the Massachusetts border, an area deep  in winter, full of snow,  crusted of with heavy ice,  and very cold.  In two words: hard winter.

While some blogs can tell you what’s coming in the future, an attribute your bloguero  admires, The Dream Antilles can’t.  Why not?  Because in a phrase: this blog doesn’t  know what’s coming up.  Your bloguero doesn’t know what, if anything, will write itself into pixels this week.  This is just one of the blog’s many delightful but sometimes vexing idiosyncrasies, like having the comment instructions be en Espanol.   And having the videos be too narrow.   Like having many dead links in the blog list.  Like, because of the bloguero’s obvious laziness, not giving you the links to stories in this posting: you just go to The Dream Antilles and scroll down to what you’re looking for.  It is not a long way.  Like the way he refers to himself in this post in the third person, as if he were the typing Deion Sanders.

So, if you look at the past week you will find:

Bob Marley’s Birthday: He’d Be 65.  Hard to imagine, but it’s been almost thirty years since he passed on.  And he’s an icon.  So we celebrate his birthday with a video of him performing “No Woman No Cry,” one of my favorites.

Making The Independent Judiciary A Joke  complains about Clarence Thomas’s wife’s rightwing political activism as a threat to judicial independence.  Specifically, she’s selling access. The comments posted to this essay at dKos make one suspect that commenters at that blog are on the payroll of rightwing think tanks.  Prove that wrong.

Announcing An Internet Serialized Novel tells the world that our friend, the novelist Claudia Ricci, is posting a serialized version of her latest novel at Huffington Post.  This is exciting, and it might herald the return of the serialized novel to America.  

Storm Central? is an essay about what happens when bad weather detains your bloguero at home and the local NPR affiliate is on full time fund raising, which by the way persists even as you read this.  He gave, really he did, but he notices a passive aggressive tilt in the fund raising strategy.

Welcome to the Port Writers Alliance.  What a great idea.  The Dream Antilles is honored.

Enough, I Say, Enough.  Even more crummy weather increases your bloguero’s cabin fever and grouchiness.  And why on earth not?  You have to be here to understand it.

Haiku For Imbolc.  Imbolc is the cross-quarter day, February 1, half way between the start of Winter and the first day of Spring.  So we’re half the way there, but it’s still a long slog to the first snow white.

Four Haiku For Egypt.  Fed up with all of the  analysis and blibber blabber, your bloguero cuts to the chase: poetry in support of democracy and the protestors in Egypt.

This essay about what is on The Dream Antilles is a weekly Sunday morning very early digest for the Writers Port Alliance.  See you next week, if the creek don’t rise.  

The independence of the judiciary means that the Courts should be free from improper influence from outside interests.  What a great idea for having a transparent, fair judicial system.  It’s a concept that has so much promise.  But in practice the present Supreme Court and its members may be driving it off a cliff. Today’s news about Justice Thomas’s wife’s lobbying business may signal its ultimate demise.

The New York Times reports that Justice Thomas’s wife,

who has raised her political profile in the last year through her outspoken conservative activism, is rebranding herself as a lobbyist and self-appointed “ambassador to the Tea Party movement.”

Virginia Thomas, the justice’s wife, said on libertyinc.co, a Web site for her new political consulting business, that she saw herself as an advocate for “liberty-loving citizens” who favored limited government, free enterprise and other core conservative issues. She promised to use her “experience and connections” to help clients raise money and increase their political impact.

For the past five days, Egyptians have been in the streets protesting, calling for President Mubarak, who has served for thirty years, to step down.  It is a very big story.  Print media, understandably have trouble keeping up with it because so much is happening so quickly in so many places.  Putting up a written story takes time, time to write, time to edit, time to post.  Even if you’re lightning fast, print media (and the part of them that is on the Internet) aren’t built for this kind of speed.  But what about television?

This diary is a re-publication of an essay from April, 2008.  It seems worth publishing again in honor of Dr. King.

I’m thinking about times almost forty years ago when I sang, “We Shall Overcome.” I’m remembering how I felt when I sang it, holding hands, swaying, anticipation in the air. I loved the idea of walking hand in hand, black and white together, and at the same time there was always a tension, a tightness in my jaw and in the pit of my stomach, the presence of fear. The song’s purpose was to get ready to do what had to be done. I’m committed to nonviolence, I recall thinking, but there are those who are not. They shot James Meredith, and lynched Emmitt Till, and burned Greyhound buses, and unlike me, they don’t want me to be safe. Uncertainty about what will happen tightens my jaw, while my heart commits me to the cause.

I woke up this morning with a profound sadness.

The worst part of yesterday’s shootings seems to me to be the death of the 9-year old girl.  She was apparently at the Congresswoman’s political event at the Safeway because she had been elected to an elementary school student council.  She might have been inspired to meet an actual Congresswoman.

All of the deaths and the many serious injuries lie like a heavy brick on my heart.

The many analyses of why these shootings happened began too soon for me.  They started immediately after the echo of the last bullet was drowned out by the agony of the victims and the Medevac helicopters.  They  continue today with renewed force.  And increased monotony.  They will ebb and flow for the next few days. It’s not necessary to enumerate these here.  There are many different ideas but the central idea seems to that there is something very wrong, and that’s what caused this to happen.

We have come to expect from these discussions the fixing of blame and righteous recrimination and finger pointing.  And also the scrubbing of web pages and the editing of previous statements and the making of pronouncements.  The reactions are all terribly predictable. I don’t expect anyone who did not actually pull the trigger to take any responsibility for these deaths and injuries.  And I expect that the actual shooter to have a defense as well.  This prepares a fertile ground for continued blame and justification.  And arguments.  And shouting.  And more of the same.  And more violence.

This brings me directly to the Shadow.  My Shadow.  Jung’s definition and explanation might be relevant, but what I am drawn to this morning is far less academic.  I’m drawn to how Loughner lives inside me.  My internal Loughner.  Or put another way, the aspects of my personhood that I dislike, that I am afraid of, that I have shunned and hidden, that I do not reveal, that I keep secret.  I am drawn to the aspects of myself that I consider horrid and ugly and deformed and despicable.  This morning I find that these weigh heavy on my chest. I think this is what today requires my attention.

For example, I ask, where in me does the deranged, incoherent, violent Loughner live?  Where in me is a person who writes such bizarre Youtubes?  Where in me is the person who carries and uses a concealed weapon so devastatingly?  So coldly?  Where is my seething but covert anger at apparent authority?  Where is my belief in illusory, mysterious, demented magical thinking nonsense?  And where does my persistent blaming of others for all of my pain reside?

These are hard questions.  It is very hard to look at this ugliness.  But my view is that this is what needs attention.  Today.  It needs to be looked at.  And it needs to be acknowledged.  And even harder, it needs to be honored for why it is there and what it has done for me.

I would like us to ask ourselves these tough questions and to begin to attend to them. Otherwise, I fear, embarking on an impersonal, academic analysis of yesterday’s tragedy might amount to our again disowning our ugliness, our pushing it into the darkness, and our unintentionally creating the conditions that will surely make it happen again.

————-

simulposted at The Dream Antilles    

(I originally posted this item in December, 2009, at The Dream Antilles.  This is a short story by Luis Ramirez, who was executed in Texas on October 20, 2005. My thanks to Abe Bonowitz for passing this story along to me. The story doesn’t require any commentary, and I’m not going to give any. It’s a gift to all of you for the Holidays, Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s, Solstice, whatever holiday, if any, you may celebrate.)