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No Words, How The Story Ends For Now

/ ludlumdrive / Leave a comment

Originally sent to friends on November 4, 2008

I was searching for a better heading to forename this piece and many came to mind but nothing was sticking.  I played around with a few but nothing seemed to have enough clout to nibble my liking; so, I opted to having no words.  I have no words. I have no words to describe what I feel, no words to interpret what this means and no words to translate its limbs.

I need to weak up from this big roar, the cold shower that has frozen me in the interim as I have yet to process what this is all about.

A flow of wires is running through my brain and tears are emblemizing my cheeks, my heart is pumping at speed of light, and I am shaking. I am bewildered and it has not sinking in.

I am hallucinating from it all.  I am still floating on a couple of balloons shivers drifting down my spine as the barrel tumbled down.  I am in awe, subdued, all chocked up in a ball of emotions with pride and I have no words. I have never seen it, I have never experienced it, and I never thought I would see this day – a play that I thought I would never be able to witness in my lifetime. It is mind bugling, exhilarating and one hell of a page-turner.

My heart hammered perfidiously as I wept convulsively as I learned that Barack Obama has come victorious for this nation highest office. I squirmed back and forth biting my nails throughout the night as I waited nervously for the results. I was locked in a steel box and dumped in a wall hanging only by pins and nails, high adrenalin waiting for the ball to drop.

The feather begun to descend slowly oscillating, and waiting for the perfect place to land. The goalie positioned at the basket patiently waiting for the perfect score. The world stopped and I waited for the pin to drop.

For twenty-one excruciating months now, the pundits have been at it, giving their two cents, estimating, satirizing.  Each side mined with a perfect agenda hoisting their own game, pushing their own calculator and wonder contraceptive injecting a drill into my brain. The surrogates armed with ferocious menacing play-by-play sound bytes selling cheap spit, perpetuating me into a dangling yoyo.

This election made a pariah out of me and I obsessed with everything election.

I could not go a day without the seductive pill. It was delivered either via the tube or the net to the point of contaminating my peeps. It was additive, captivating, and downright maniacal, and yet draining. It was like killer bees going for the prey and splattering honey; bubble gums ready to pop.

I could not go anywhere without breading election. I could not turn one TV station without having my adrenalin mutilated by their every penetrating drunken words pounding, pounding, pounding vociferously into my dwindle soul.  I could not pick up one magazine without breeding election with pictures of the candidates splashed everywhere.

I was on a bubble and left alone to treat my dependency – my doing for having licensed myself to the quandary, and resorted to lollipop, which gave me a nauseating heartburn.

As if academic and as I was not tortured enough, the networks instituted the countdown clock; the little box of different colors depending where you were, on the right hand corner of the TV screen that kept winking at me every time I looked at it. Moment by moment, tic tack, tic tack, tic tack, it begun registering the seconds, tic tack, the minutes, tic tack, and the hours tic tack, intoxicating my psyche even deeper as if I did not care to ingest it.

My head spun into ferocious loop scouting for a stick to land.  I was already in a drunken stupor mode when it was alerted to me that the clock was not in my jewelry box but on the store display. I envied it for a moment but pluck right back into harmonic pastures with trickery Powerball jams: he is ahead, he is behind; he is up, no the campaign is dead; he has pulled away, how is going to find his mojo; October surprise, last minute push, miracle on the road, polls don’t count, polls count, look at numbers, he has no chance, there will be a surprise, on the home stretch, six days, five days, four days, etc, etc, etc… oh Lord stop please?! No, they did not stop and I did not turn off the TV either.

And so it was.

Like any major disease, the first round of pills did not work. As time widen down, the acceleratory rhetoric elevated even more. It was akin to a spinning class as the days changed to hours and pedaled, pedaled, pedaled driving my anxiety heartburn to needing zantax. I opted to release my burner on a basketball field, not playing basketball but jogging.

I did not get to Obama bandwagon until when the wave begun to turn. I belonged to the 18 million cracks of glass ceiling and was proud of it. Who could have imagined it? I must confess that I was part of the pejorative black section who was skeptical of a black man ever being nominated for a major party less again reaching the highest office in the land. But Hillary made it possible by making him a better candidate as the primary prolonged.

This country has come a long way from the days when Mr. Story, my English 101 professor told me “what are you doing here. Why don’t you go back to my country?” or the time when I was passed over for promotion countless times just because there was no because, or those of us who have been accused of preposterous just because of the color of our skin.

But all did not matter as we came together as country juicily starving for change. It was awesome to see streams of colorless aisles marching through the tunnel to deposit a vote for a black president or the sea of monochrome flashes at Grant Park in Chicago. The divisiveness that drove us apart, young and old, black and white, Jews and gentiles, yellow, pink or orange, brought us together in an immeasurable proportion and deliciously we became a purple nation.

In the end, race did not matter neither did the Bradley effect, neither did Ayres, neither did Jeremiah, neither did the patriotism; a testament to what we have become. Where else can a minority be elected President? Not in France, not in England, not in Italy, not in Australia, not in Japan, not in Argentina, not in Brazil, not in Iceland… not in any western hemisphere nation but only in America.

We have elected the first minority President of a free world and for that we have to pad ourselves on the back. The mountain is stiff and difficult to climb; and even if he turns out to be the hopeless or dreamless President, he has transformed us; he has opened the doors and good or bad, the new chapter is here; we can finally holler that change has really come to America.

What a race, what a fight, and what an amazing drive it was.  The battle is over and the party has just begun. Where were you when …

Congratulations to President Barack Obama, COC – Community Organizer in Chief

To All Liberal Media

/ ludlumdrive / 1 Comment

Dear Crazy (not lips!) Libs,

I hear you have been thrown in a blender, put in a glass and served chilly. I hear you have been put in a platform, thrown in a ring and under the bus.

Rumor has it you are a punching bag of sorts for everything traditionalist, a terrifying ear for a bullhorn and chili sauce for Tostitos. They don’t think highly or have much regard for you. They grumble daily that you are a menace to society, pesticide, and a disease that they do not fancy.

They strike and hammer you but you continue to lick your gashes without shame. You continue to open the doors, cuddle and barefacedly invite them to your party; yet they still spit at you. You continue and yet they still spit at you; they still spit at you and are still spiting on you… hoof, I pity the foul!

Considering that you are a disease and might infect the almighty;

Considering that they believe you are wicked and sinful, have no scruples; they question your wisdom; they do not give any credence to your position and would like you to go away;

Considering that you don’t believe in evolution and they do;

Considering that you are and will always cry “victim” and “feel sorry” for yourself; you are masochist and don’t mind the beating; you would not like them to blame you for their immaculate collapses; you are drained of hearing the same old rhetoric;

Considering that they are not looking for full-court media press, pass them the baton; why not, why not for a month or at least a week, allow all, turn your back on anything and everything republican. Don’t talk to, interview or refer to them in no way, shape or form on your newscast, blog or print. Just do not do it!

If you see them walking towards your microphone, run away, disappear like they yearn you to; do not let them near anything you whatsoever; leave them on their own for a time or for as long as you are able.

If you see them coming towards you in a parking lot, scream bloody Mary Joseph Madeleine, call the police and point out that they are not harassing you; they are not coming to get you; they are just coming to straighten your ways so you can have good manners and please keep silent while they rant. Let them teach you how to conduct yourself.

If they have a book, a documentary or a show, any event to promote, don’t book them on your program, don’t listen to their agents or publicist, do not read what they are sharing. If they invite you to their program, decline, do not attend. And if you come around to finally accept them on your show, do not fuss; do not introduce the topic of the conversation or raise any subject; do not get into a debate – shuhh it is a trap; give them more than an inch, park yourself gently across from them and stare, set the alarm clock and give them the floor, let them speak, spew out for the duration of the segment, and when the alarm goes off and their time is up, thank them for having been there and move on to the next segment.

Do not invite them to appear on your movies, documentary, TV show since you Hollywood – yes, I am pointing at you fake rich people – are a fantasyland and the basis for everything appalling and immoral, and don’t let them in your theaters either. Locate their TV signal and blackout the entire liberal shows from reaching them; do not watch any of their shows, performances or movies; don’t be out of your character. Do not read any of their books, magazines; do not read none of their blogs, do not infer to, link or mention them anywhere in the air or sea. Do not gang – you bunch of criminals – on them even if they are forthcoming; let them say whatever is on their minds and desire. Do not court, watch or listen to them; have a real media blackout day and enjoy the reputation of being a discriminator, a bona fide “real” jackass, show them your quirky side by hiding your self-governing smug.

If you are like many after having water thrown at you, after having been kicked on the groin, taking so much crap and hearing numerous spiteful chants; you either fade away, give the other cheek or punch back; something (any action demands a reaction), whatever fits your fancy.

In concluding this fallacy, instead of giving them the lip service, give them chocolate or butter; do not heed to their bawl.  If they are looking to be in the spot light, enjoy bashing you because it makes them feel good, terrific; just do not refer them to Mr. Feel good shrink or Who Let the Dogs Out.  And if you are or consider yourself a liberal or a member of the liberal media, change your locker, TV and radio station; don’t let pity clout your judgment.  Entertain their thoughts and judgment and do whatever they like; give in to their requests, become a butler to their own domain.

The balance is in the pudding.

Sincerely,

Misery Loves Company

No, she didn’t!

/ ludlumdrive / 1 Comment

What an insolent little thing. The gall of this girl! Is she genuine?

I went to a Walgreens store to buy some spirits for the holiday when I got stuck in a line longer then route 66. It stretched a mile long all the way to South Dakota, and was flaunted by colorful individuals who converged to the store in search of a good bottle to cheer their jolly souls.

There were two lively gentlemen to my back who were eager to get to the front so bad that they were capable of trampling or devour everyone in line if it would facilitate their journey; and in front of me were a mother and her daughter. The girl all tattooed up – she had one in her shoulder, one in her lower back and another in her neck – hearing nose bound and foul designer nails longer then a train, spent her time on the phone – who she was galloping with I have no idea but the immense phone barking really got my tail going.

We must have spent at least a good twenty minutes in line and she was conversing non-stop without interruption. The thing that elevated my temperature the most, it was not in view of the fact that she was whispering but breaking the sound barrier. I felt like taping her mouth off with a big tape or put her on time out; whatever had to be done to shut her up, I was willing to do.

It was not like she was performing in her living room before a live audience or that I objected to her being on the phone; she needed to understand that she was in a public place and by that it meant, she needed to be mindful of the rest of us. She needed to be judicious of those surrounding her and being in such close proximity, it became exceptionally relevant. Perhaps, miss manners had not delineated the rules but I doubt it. If you don’t have it, you don’t; it is simple as that.

She took some time off, long enough to babble with this guy who appeared to be the store Manager. He popped out of nowhere pimping himself to the girl’s mother and was all smiles as he begun making conversation with her.

They came across like two long time friends, two dogs in heat. She did not seem lost either as she begun to counter back, hitting him with an all friendly exchange. He threw a line and she responded; she threw and he responded.

By the looks of things, he looked like he was having a grand o’l time and for a minute there, I thought the guy who appeared to be in his late twenties (but who knows! Now a days you can’t tell, for all I know he could be in his early twenties) was going after the daughter until I noticed he was gunning for the mother instead. How clever, nice going man!

He was being fresh and it was such virile taunting taking place that an animated chick in-fight between the mother and the daughter broke out unexpectedly. It was nasty and classless but entertaining nonetheless!  Apparently, the daughter was not so keen on the mother’s happy go lucky act that she demanded she stop flirting. Hum..!

“Whatchdoin? I saw ya… you fresh and all. Why dontcha ya stop?” “I ain’t doing nothing”, the mother responded. Yeah, she was not doing anything alright but the guy looked a litttttle toooo cozy for her comfort but a great cougar she was on her way.

The unflattering wrangle put an end to the heat dance. It was not the most pleasurable thing to watch, particularly how she insensately talked to her mother (my mother would have smacked me) but it was lovely to witness the event none-the-less. Oh, it was not like she was concerned about her mother. Not!, She was just being vicious.

It was not like the girl stopped chatting; she did not take her “hears” off the phone or abstained from digging the imposter store manager wanna be while snapping at her mother. (We learned later that the dude was not the manager but he worked at the store, on the other side and just stopped by for what? Could not hear his raison d’être.). She was being feisty and injected herself into the conversation full force with a conundrum smile and would not stop quiver until she got her prayers answered. She was in a mission after all, one could argue; she wanted to know if he could get her a job but how serious was she being about it, that seemed to be the million-dollar question.

“How old are you”, he asked her.

“Eighteen”, she said.

“I am sorry but there is nothing I can do for you. You must be 21 to work here.”, he replied.

“Not even on the other side since it does not sell liquor?”, the mother intercepted.

“It doesn’t matter. You see, we hold liquor license and although, they are two different places but operate as one”. He explained to her in his macho suffix that even I believed him.

“I do not have any cashier job right now unless you want to work as stock person, something that I am pretty sure you are not interested.” Before he was allowed to finish his sentence, he already knew the answer that she would not be interested in the stock job. Hum…!

“Oh no, not stock person; no way”, she responded in a jiffy. Bingo, she did not flinch; she did not wish the stock, just like he predicted. She wanted the “prestige” clerk job.

No she didn’t?! Did I hear her right; she just rejected a job offer? She just indicated that she would not work as a stock person? She really believes that she has choices, options in this economy! Ok, whatever!

Yes, she did and I heard her right. Without missing a beat, without removing herself from the phone, without even giving it a thought, she did say it for the world to hear and her not to notice that even if she was offered, she would not be taking the job because it “ain’t good enough for me”.

How dare her, how dare her? Did she know that many successful “big” people learned their ropes the hard way; they paid their dues before they reached the mountaintop? Many begun small and made it big; many had to scrap walls to make it big; many had to pick up cotton to make it big. They started at the bottom and worked their way up. Christiane Amanpour, CNN Chief International Correspondent begun as a desk assistant on the Foreign Desk; P. Diddy started as an intern at New York’s Uptown Record; Sir Richard Branson of Virgin Atlantic begun selling records he made, out of the boot of his car to retail outlets in London, to name a few.

What rattled me the most was not her or her dim membrane; it was the mother’s who I thought was more interested in flaunting her “in heat” glands then polish her daughter’s lack of tact. She did not even scold, suggest or make her see that she does not have much to pick from in today’s market; she should have shown her the ropes and make her spot the truth. She needed to bestow some value on her daughter and could take the opportunity to do so but failed miserably.

I wish I knew how the show ended and what happened to the “job application” script but I don’t. You see, it was my turn to pay and out of the door I was.

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