Dreams From Malcolm X

In an effort to better understand our Premier and what he may have in store for our future, I am reading his first book, Dreams From my Father. I attempted to push through it before the election but was so frustrated by the pretentiousness and self importance of the book that I quit reading it after thirty pages. This time I am resolute and open minded, taking his words in their most favorable light and hoping to be proven wrong.

I am currently eighty pages deep and the hatred this man spews is getting more vile by the page. Barry Obama was not born in Harlem nor was he raised in South Central L.A. He was born in Hawaii, spent his childhood as an expat’s son in Indonesia, and returned to paradise for high school. His account of his experiences in Indonesia does not speak of a child subjected to racism and poverty. His step father had plenty of money in Indonesia; he loved Obama and treated him as one of his own. After his mother split with his stepfather, Obama moved to Hawaii to live with his white grandparents. He attended a prestigious prep school and lived the life of a middle class white man, which he was. The outside observer would be tempted to see Obama’s childhood as normal, even pleasant. But, he was not content to have food on the table, a loving support system, and a first class education. The budding Premier is bitter at the father who left him. He takes the few racial slights he incurs as life altering events that cause him to retreat to his room, pouring over and identifying with, Malcolm X.

His hatred has a clear origin. He describes his mother as the classic liberal- anti American, cynical. Obama recounts an exchange between his mother and her Indonesian husband. Lolo, her husband, is asking her to attend a meeting with some American oil company representatives. She is defiant so, Lolo, confused, says that she should feel comfortable attending because these are her people. “These are not, my people”, she replies. Taking this in the light most favorable to Barry, I read him as trying to say that his mother was not a fan of big business oil types. But, read in the context of his pity party, the underlying message is clear: America is bad.

The book makes this much clear: Obama does not like capitalism. He sees it as a tool that white people use to oppress black people. He sees it as the implementation of American arrogance. He despises our way of life and does not identify with the American way.

Age and maturity have made me more intelligently patriotic. I still believe America is the best place on earth but I do not blindly support American foreign policy, whether promulgated by a President I support or not. Each aspect of American life should be scrutinized and, if lacking or flawed, improved. But, capitalism is still the best way to further individual freedom. Socialism and communism have failed miserably in this goal and will not suddenly work on a 300 million person melting pot.

“You show me a capitalist and I’ll show you a bloodsucker.” –Malcolm X

I'm Back

January was a pretty busy and interesting month. On New Year’s Eve, at about four o’clock, Jami and I had no plans. She mentioned that My Morning Jacket was playing Madison Square Garden and that some of her co-workers were going. I figured it was a long shot but looked into tickets just in case. There was an ad on craigslist.com for two tickets so I called the guy. He claimed to have several tickets in several price ranges. I settled on the $40 ones and hoped for the best. It seemed sketchy but Jami made a good point, it was like playing a $40 hand of black jack. Worst case scenario we buy fake tickets, are out $40, and end up celebrating the New Year at her apartment like we planned.

The tickets were real and the show was incredible. Our seats were in the lower part of the second level. My Morning Jacket was awesome. They played new stuff, old stuff, and covers. The only negative came right before midnight. The band showed some sort of film while they took a break just before midnight. It was in black and white and initially flashed commercials like you would see in a movie theater in the 1950’s. About ten minutes before midnight, the Star Spangled Banner started playing with several pictures of soldiers and then a picture of Barack Obama looking up at the sky with a waving American flag in the background. Just after Premier Obama’s likeness, an actor came on the screen dressed in a military uniform with a Hitler haircut and moustache. In rousing Hitler style, the speaker went on about the end of consumerism, a new day in which the workers of the world will unite and overthrow the evil corporations. I was offended but not surprised. The kind of music I listen to is not patronized or performed by libertarians. These shows are almost always communist love fests that I endure because the music is really good. And, that is the beauty of music; it is what you want it to be. Plus I tend to overreact to anything that even smells of socialism. Jami on the other hand, does not get bent out of shape about politics and generally thinks of it as something about which she is ill-informed. It was her reaction to the film that made clear its blatant communist/fascist nature. She was outraged by the ignorance and gall of the band and its followers. The roof came off the place when this Hitleresque figure gave his rousing speech denouncing the individual and praising the collective effort. I mentioned this to my father who pointed out that we are witnessing a cultural sea change. Americans no longer want individual freedom or responsibility, they want the paternal government to make decisions for them, to take care of them. I hope we are able to survive this zeitgeist.

Amsterdam to New Amsterdam

The reverse culture shock is pretty much over. I am still slightly jet lagged but jet lag is a lot easier to deal with when you have gained six hours than when you have lost six hours. I am full of energy in the mornings but tire as the day progresses. Other than that and resisting the urge to say, dank u well, everything has returned to normal.

Jami is looking for a new place to live because one of her roommates decided to move home on the eve of lease resigning day. Since Jami and her other roommate have jobs, I am in charge of screening apartments. You get two types of brokers when apartment hunting in Gotham: rental agencies and private owners. Private owners are usually reasonable people who own a building and want to rent it to you. New York apartment rental agencies were apparently schooled in Obamanomics and will go out of their way to make things as difficult as possible. First they take a DNA sample and biometric photo of you at the rental office. Then you sign away your soul in blood and only after all of this has been processed will they show you an apartment. It's ridiculous. At one place I tried explaining that the apartment was for my girlfriend so all this paperwork was meaningless. She insisted that she was not allowed to leave the building with me unless I agreed to give her my first born son, and a kidney, for testing purposes. Another place refused to even talk with me and only reluctantly agreed to allow a maintenance man to let me in for a look around the apartment. Despite these annoyances, it has been a good experience. I'm learning a little about the city, getting a chance to explore, and getting a little exercise.

Contest

I need some encouragement. I am looking for someone to cheer me up about Premier Obama. You don't have to convince me that he's going to be a good President, just provide a coherent argument outlining how he is not going to drive us into a second Great Depression followed by dictatorship followed by the apocalypse. That's all. First prize is a pack of peanut M & M's. Second prize, a pat on the butt. Third prize, a high five.

Tuesday Night Fights

I went out looking for a fight last night. Not a fist fight because that’s not my style but a good ole fashion political debate. I have smiled and nodded when pressed on the election by Europeans. Last night I was taking no prisoners. Thankfully, the election was mentioned only once and it was by a very polite German who just wanted to know whether we were interested in the results.

Chris and I went to a bar that featured live Irish music. A six piece band played an assortment of Irish folk songs with a banjo and didgeridoo thrown in for good measure. The Dutch started smoking cigarettes as the band was packing up their instruments so we walked to another Irish bar around the corner. I poked my head in the door. The crowd was sparse and rough looking. They all turned to look at us and as we were walking away, thinking better of going in, they yelled at us to join them for a pint. The bar was run by a Dutchman but all the patrons were British and Irish expats. Dave was the most intoxicated of the bunch. He had a small town English accent, the kind that is difficult to understand sober and nearly impossible to understand when the accent holder is drunk. Everyone was incredibly friendly.

Dave’s buddy, Noel (father of Leon, true story), came into the bar carrying a guitar case. Dave was all over Noel to play a song. “Oh, frr fcck sake, Noel, jss play us one fcckin dune.” Noel finally relented and I am ever glad he did. Chris and I ended up staying out way too late; but how could we resist a free private show from an Irish folk singer? Chris knew several of the songs and sang along. I chimed in on "Sam Hall" and a couple of the more famous ones. They loved us. The bartender gave us half pints of Guinness and asked us to come back on Friday night. We’ll see. We have made plans to go to the West Frisian Islands this weekend. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of seal pictures come Monday.

The End of Freedom

Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States, Barack Hussein Obama.

I don’t want to go on and on about the election but I’m a little queasy right now. I wish I could enjoy the historical significance of the first black President of the United States but I can’t. Chavez, Putin, and the like are going to eat him for lunch. It’s scary. But, worrying is not going to change anything. Obama is going to be our President. There’s no way around it.

Ridin' to Leiden and Delft Interest Part II

Francesco and I biked 14 km (8.7 miles) to the University town of Leiden on Saturday. Holland rained on us all day. We talked health care, philosophy, Obama, and freedom. The trip took about an hour because we took the long way. Francesco knew of a park that we decided to visit on the way out of town. This park illustrated how the Dutch, for all their faults, are prone to flashes of brilliance. I think it is where they put all the water that should be the ocean. As you know, Holland is supposed to be the floor of the North Sea (kinda like how New Orleans is supposed to be the floor of the Gulf of Mexico). It only exists because the Dutch don’t want to live in Germany so they pushed back the sea and created their own country, hence the reason for all the windmills. The park is full of canals and what looks like swampland. Algae and funk covers the canals and various deformed wildlife- seahorses, sharks, whales- roam about unfettered. We saw a local football game being played and I wondered aloud whether the local recreation league teams have hooligans like the pros do.

Leiden is beautiful. I have a few pictures but they will have to wait because I inexplicably left my camera at Chris’. Speaking of Chris, his mother was in town and she made a home cooked American meal. We had stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, fried chicken, salad, and a round of jump high fives. It was awesome. We (I) followed the meal by watching the Packers at the Titans. It was Thanksgivingesque. The dinner had been preceded by a second trip to Delft. Chris’ mom, Julie, had a little trouble adjusting to the bike culture but she caught on much more quickly than Rhett. Delft was just like the last trip aside from the fact that this time the square was not full of a carnies and death traps.

I faxed my absentee ballot today. If this election is as close as I think it will be, they will have to either throw out my ballot or get Bush’s lawyers on the case. Incredibly, you can fax your absentee ballot and have it counted just like all the others. The only caveat is that you waive your right to secret ballot. This is fine with me as I am willing to shout from the top of Mount Holland (the bridge that slightly rises over the canal down the street) that I am voting for John McCain and against King Obama. But I keep thinking that if hanging chads were an issue in 2000, what are they going to say to five-page-copy-of-ballot-faxed-from-Europe? What will they even call that?

McCain = Bush = Worse than Hitler

I worked all day Thursday while Rhett gave himself a bike tour of the town. I asked how things went and he gave me his typical, "No sweat dude, no sweat", answer. After work, I met Rhett back at the apartment and we set about finding some food and having a few beers. Francesco was going to meet us at the aforementiond, Sheleighla, at 8:30. As you know, my record with meeting Francesco is not very good. I stood him up last time.

Rhett and I made some calls home and then set off to find dinner. The only problem was that Rhett's bike (nicknamed Traveller after General Lee's favorite horse) did not have a functioning light and it was dark. The politie do not like it when you ride around sans illumination. We took it back to the bike shop where the attendant refused to replace the bike. He wanted to fix the light. So I waited in the cold, Rhett in the dingy bike shop, while this guy puts Traveller on the rack and fixes his light. We are not going to make it to Sheleighla by 8:30. When Rhett and Traveller finally emerge from the bike shop, I start to realize something is not right. Rhett doesn't seem to know how to mount the bike and then, when he finally does, the bike is wobbling all over the place. Rhett has done the impossible. He has forgotten how to ride a bike. This is obviously very entertaining for me except that it is not helping my- meet Francesco on time- cause. Compounding Rhett's general biking ineptitude is the challenge of biking in Holland for the first time. Bikes are as much a part of the traffic as cars and you have to act like it to survive. It takes a while to get used to this. Rhett is not completely grasping the concept. When I go to make a turn, he ends up in the opposite direction. Turning is apparently a problem for Rhett. I'd love to seem him handle a motorcycle.

We eventually made it to an Italian restaurant where I practiced my six Italian words, much to the delight of the Italian waiters and waitresses (not really, they were understandably indifferent). The food was good and affordable. The portions were more American sized than Italian sized so we got full and went to meet Francesco. Rhett started to get the hang of things on the way to Sheleighla. He was still slow to turn but the trip was decidedly less eventful. Francesco was pissed. He had only been there for ten mintues but he showed up fifteen minutes late, knowing I would not be on time. He only ordered a half pint, a very unEnglish thing to do. Sheleighla is an English/Irish bar; I'm surprised his countrymen did not attack him.

Sheleighla was dead so we returned to the Plein because the bars are cool and it is close to home. I made friends with the bartenders at the last bar. They invited us to stay after hours and talk politics. One of them compared Bush to Hitler and said that John McCain was exactly like Bush. They thought American hospitals denied emergency surgery to those without insurance. Just thought we let people die. And, don't even get them started about abortion. There is only one way to look at it and America looks at it the wrong way. One guy told me that America should be more like Holland because Holland is perfect. I run into this kind of attitude everywhere. Europe is perfect and America is wrong. It's amazing that we have the reputation for being closed minded.

They finally asked us to leave once they realized that we were not going to install Obama as Supreme Chancellor. On the way home I gave a ride to a Dutchman on the back of Willie, lost Rhett (twice), and bought frites. After scouring the town, Francesco and I found Rhett at my apartment. "Where you been? I took a shortcut." I thought we would have to exchange the bike for a tricycle but Rhett has morphed into Lance Armstrong.