This morning I received an email from the Obama-Biden Transition Project at Change.gov I am subscribed to their website and have sent in suggestions and feedback as have hundreds of thousands of other Americans. Here is a video they posted today that is an answer- of sorts- to all of our suggestions.
The video talks about job creation- it shows pictures of solar panels, wind farms, and construction. The speakers outline issues and claim Obama's plan is going to fix our national "infrastructure." There are pictures of pot holes, and steamrollers. There is talk of people losing their health care plans, teachers getting laid off, crumbling school buildings, putting in broadband internet pipes, etc... This is all to shows us Obama's goal is job creation and fixing America. The video claims he is waging a "War on Waste" and that he has to make sure that The American Recovery and Reinvestment Plan is as "effective and efficient as it is bold." I think that "War On Waste" is an interesting choice of words considering our previous "Wars on [insert nounn]." I, as an American and child of the 80s, still remember how effective the "War on Terror" and the "War On Drugs" was...
Obama has appointed Nancy Killefer as "chief performance officer" to make sure the plan stays on track. Additionally, he has created "a whole set of new mechanisms based on the [internet] for monitoring" so that "that the American people can monitor these investment projects." Are we to expect a web site that lists what parts of the federal budget are being spent where? That would be awesome, very awesome! Perhaps these mechanisms for monitoring will be revealed to us soon after the inauguration.
This video feels like a well made piece for the history channel- it has hi-rez pictures and crisp attractive video footage. The tone is hopeful, calm, and sure of itself, much like Obama was during the campaign. This style of communication helped him win- hopefully it will help our country make some very needed changes.
I arrived home early this morning after spending ten days in the tropical island of Cuba. I was there on vacations but it turned out to be so much more rewarding almost life changing experience. I covered most of the north Peninsula on a motor bike. Talking to people who were not afraid of sharing the little they have. I then moved south to Havana, the capital; An amazing city frozen in time.
The Cuban people live under a Communist regime and the rule of Fidel Castro. For most Cubans a true national hero like the ones we read in history books.
As much the USA government has made you believe that Communism is EVIL. Think again. I have just seen a country without social classes and where EVERY person has the right to food provided by the state as well as free social care for life.
The most beautiful thing to me was in actuality a cosmetic one. There is absolutely NO ADVERTISING anywhere on the island. Fuck that was great!
How this tiny island has survived with dignity and certain joy almost 50 years of the US embargo even after the end of the cold war and new fictional threats such as "terrorism" is a sad mystery to me.
Read about CUBA and the only real successful REVOLUTION from the 20th century. Be inspired! I so recommend you learn more about this island in the Caribbean sea. Then write a letter to Washington and ask them to lift the embargo. If that doesn't do anything then go and visit Cuba through Mexico because thats the only way Americans can do it. You will discover a beautiful peaceful country filled with music and breathtaking tropical beaches and colonial cities.
Will post photos once I develop them (yes I still shoot film)
As I look inspiringly at the recent posts here with pictures of meditating naked in the snow, I find myself thinking about someone else who will have their ass on the line - Barack Obama.
Now don't get me wrong, I like Barack. I'd have "the B Man" over for a beer or two and to shoot a few hoops. We could blow a doobie (no inhaling, of course) and listen to some Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.
But running the US into the ground is a slightly more difficult challenge, especially for someone who's not much older than me. And considering he has about as much political experience as I do, there are some questions.
Nonetheless, everyone is happy now and satisfied how the media has recently decided he'd be our next president about 18 months ago - including Russia and Iran, for obvious reasons.
But if you ask me, nothing's changed; all the idiots who drove SUV's are all still out there, this time with "Be Green" bumper stickers instead of "Support Our Troops". Everyone will still blame the government for their own stupidity, no one will take any personal responsibility, and everyone will go on and on about how Obama will 'save the world' while they wait for their stimulus checks.
Sounds like change that's hard to believe in -- oh well don't blame me, I voted for Jello Biafra.
1) You're gonna need an instrument. If you've got chutzpah, you can sing a capella. Bless your black heart.
2) You're gonna need some songs. Go with covers that
"cover" the gamut: Led Zeppelin for the frat boys, Simon &
Garfunkel for the old hippies, Mountain Goats for indie hipsters, and
"Freebird" to satiate the hecklers. The Bob's usually
work--Dylan and Marley. Originals tend to get one of two
responses--"Who wrote that?" or "Play something I know". Usually, the latter.
Now, if you play this genre know as, uh, jazz (I never heard of it either), you can noodle around, quote a melody of popular songs, and just play sssssssslllloooowwwwww... Know your standards because everyone knows "My Bloody Valentine". Brass players who need to save their
lip's stamina should go the Miles Davis method--you're gonna be out there for hours, so save those high-notes!
Don't be afraid to play extended sections, change keys for dramatic effect (if you're in G, go to A!). Improvise by combining different sections from your musical vocabulary. For example, I've used The Venture's "Pipeline" as a segue to Dick Dale's version of "Miserlou",
which dovetails nicely into The Misfit's "Hollywood Babylon".
With an ensemble, this gets a bit trickier, but this isn't live
performance--messing up in good humor with an apt crowd tends to go over well. Its good to know some jokes--"I'm like an amputee when it comes to holding a note!"
ADDED NOTE: Also, the odder the instrument, the less you have to play! Washtub bass? Just thump! Musical saw? Narrate your own avant-garde live-action film. Be prepared for someone to stop and say, "woooowwwwww, what is that?" Then you stop, act friendly. If they don't offer you a gig with their hippy jam band, then you should get a buck or two.
3) Drink something alcoholic. Pregaming is essential. Not only is it liquid stage-fright reducer, but it keeps you warm and
gregarious. No one likes Mr. Emo-boy's ballads of The One That Got Away and wrist-cutting. Think New Order, not Joy Division!
Marijuana tends to ratchet up the difficulty factor. Not only does
paranoia tend to cut short your efforts, but forgetting lyrics tends to really put a damper on playing a song.
4) Pick a time and a location. Business districts tend to be good, but late-night uninhibited revelers have deeper pockets. Lunchtime spots for office workers tend to bad, the psychology being that a sense of entitlement mixed with your oh-so-liberated occupation causes resentment.
More kid-friendly spots tend to work wonders. Parents like to expose
their children to The Arts and do so by patronizing your aural vicinity. Be sure to make eye-contact, wave, throw in a "thanks for listening" between verses. However, be prepared at the end of the song for the little rug-rat to want to play your instrument. There's no good way to get around this one--if you want to get paid, let 'em at it. If not, claim that you have a contagious cold. For brass and woodwinds, you can have them finger the instrument's keys/valves while you play aimlessly.
Summertime on the first day of good weather is a bankable day. Think
sunny--Beach Boys, major keys, and songs that describe "walking down the
street." Christmas is good--just learn ten of the standard tunes,
repeat ad nauseum. "Feliz Navidad" for our Hispanic friend,
"Hava Nagilah" for the Jews, and "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" for everyone!
5) Clothing is not optional. Why do you think that gutter punks, caked in mud and sweat and bad dreadlocks, tend not to be "making
bank"? Besides a drug habit, you need to distinguish yourself as a
BUSKER. This isn't your lunchbreak, so don't wear a button-up
shirt. Attract attention! Look clean! Look kitschy! Fedoras work, costumes work better. Dig out that Halloween costume!
6) For your tip jar, go with something large. A guitar case works wonders. Shallow buckets work well, too, but it adds to the bulk that you have to carry.
Do keep an eye on it, though. I've had teenagers who crept up and made off with a few bucks when I thought they were making a donation. How can you run with a euphonium in your hands?
You'll also need seed money. Seed money is pre-existing money in your tip jar that looks as though you've attained public approval and have been compensated as such. Imagine a greasy performer playing next to a bucket overflowing with bills--even if he is terrible, the amount of money creates a mystique! And, remember: most people only see and hear you for a minute tops--fifteen seconds is nominal, especially in city traffic.
7) Do it. Busking takes chutzpah. Creating sound in a spot not designated for it elicits many reactions. Be prepared for chaos. I've had store employees shoo me away to as far as legally allowed, 7-11 cashiers to sing back-up vocals, teenage girls to request Armor for Sleep, gig offers, or people to yell in my ear "is this as annoying as you are!?". That's right; they might just be angry for no apparent reason. And, if you're in a large city, like New York or London, be prepared to avoid the police; they have things called "busking licenses" for you types of people!
Public places are your best option. Location, Location, and yes, location. The Woody Guthrie method also
works--go to a bar with a guitar on your back and someone is bound to ask
"can you play that thing?" Libraries tend to frown on impromptu Raffi imitations, airports are a no-go,
Be smart. St. Patrick's Day? Irish tunes. Crime-infested
area? Not a good idea. In Minneapolis? You better know
Prince, the Replacements, and Husker Du. Death metal tunes outside of a church? C'mon.
Busking is a highly enjoyable activity that can fetch some hefty dollars if you do it right. Use common sense and you may just have better musical experiences than just about any gig. Bring the music to the people!
Salvation may be a pop song, but nothing will save your vote. All
meticulouity meanders this way of mendaciousness, absolutinanimisity!
So, besides Terrell Owens being your new Water and Soil Commissioner,
the job was pure monotony. Polls had closed and the wall was still
lined with more boxes--uncounted boxes surely outnumbered the sluggish
output pace of tenured state employees and temporaries like myself.
I was cut to my 2nd 15-minute break when it happened. Hans Moleman's
espresso-flavored chocolates were still on the breakroom table, albeit resting on their side with a few spilling out near the Us Weekly's and Better Homes. I grabbed one, made charming banal banter with women old enough to be flirted with, grabbed another.
"...And now President-elect Barack Obama will prepare to address his supporters..."
"McCain was so graceful in speech," chimed in a news reporter or one of the old ladies--who knows where the origin of the parrot comes from...
Wait. So, they're saying the election's over? That "yes, we can" and
"yes, we did" was already in full effect? What about those votes...
uncounted? The scowling Russian youths still hauled in the boxes on
the catering carts. The observers were still there rubbing their
exposed skin in contemplative thought--especially 'ol Blondie the Made-Up Oldie.
So, double-u tee-eff!! The wind in my sails?
Poof.
When I got back to my station, I told Bud. "Hey, the election's over.
Isn't it kind of funny how, I dunno, that we still have to count them.
I mean, I understand the electoral votes and stuff, but..." Bud smiled
and worked just as diligently. The gruff grandpa figure next to us
sighed, and shoved more votes into the machine. My morale was gone,
but the hardened city employees soldiered on. Battle tested, battle approved.
On my first 15-minute break, Linda had put her arm on my shoulder (all
old women flirt) and asked, "Honey, would you like to come back
tomorrow and work?" Stupidly, I agreed to an 8am shift--which left,
like, 4 hours for sleep after getting drunk to cope with dullness. And
now? My little ship on the patriotic Democra Sea was stranded (yeah, I'm hating that little literary device, too).
Then, the tugboat of a "lunch" break came. It was 9pm, and outside
the voting center people were celebrating. Musicians with fedoras played
oompah music--there were tubas. A soundsystem blared ambient dubstep
to sets of people dancing. There was kissing. Every club on the way
to the Mexican food place was filled with revelers and smiling
brunettes. Chewing on a burrito and a Coke (no Negro Modelo--I kind of
needed the job for, like, bills... man) inside of a bus station enclosure, I took in the scene.
What was it all worth? Was it just entertainment? As our Soviet
predecessors would say, bread and circus? As our English rockstars
would say, "new boss, same as the old boss, won't get fooled again!"
Even the tone of the election had some wagging of the dog--with a
tragic grandmother that just so happens to die right before
"her" moment of glory. Or, the last-second scandals unearthed for
dramatic effect. There were clever catchphrases! Lots of red, white,
and blue. And, just the massive foreplay leading to a predictable climax...
I came back from my break. The security guard didn't even look up from
his post as I walked in the building, filing behind another worker.
"How was your lunch," he asked. "It was good. Mexican," I provided.
The machines still whirred and I was back being a Helper.
"Look at all these ballots. They've got chocolate or something on
them. Bloody, bloody, bloody," Bud said, feeding the ballots into the
hopper. "Overvote, overvote, Ooooo-veeeeeeee, those last three," came
his faggy sing-song. It was true. All those votes were being
invalidated by someone who just couldn't lay off the Choco Tacos or
ketchup on their fries (there were concession carts to satiate/capitalize-on the queued voters).
"Bud, your thumb," said the grandfather.
"Oh, oopsy," Bud said. I turned to look to see a stream of blood coating ballot after ballot. Bud got a band-aid.
Oops.
At the end of the shift, our efforts seemed inconsequential. More
votes were stacked against the wall than we had counted, the main part
of the election already called--just give me a paycheck, okay? The
nightshift had taken over, looking more butt-fugly than the previous
shift--hard to believe, but the creatures of the night are not blessed with the features that look right.
After reluctantly giving my badge back to the security guard, a
dark-blue car pulled up to the curb and Bud, whom offered me a ride
home, motioned me to the back seat. "Say 'hello', Jim," Bud said to
his significant other, "and say 'hello', Ruby!" A dark-colored
Schnauzer jumped into my lap. Its fur was as soft and comforting as the end of the shift. Exhaustion took hold.
"McCain was so graceful in speech, y'know," said Jim, in a languid way.
"Oh yeah," replied Bud.
"He basically said that between the two candidates
Meanwhile, Ruby and I were getting as legally hot and heavy as
dog and man can be before commiting heinous acts of beastiality. Ruby
was generous with the kisses, and I concentrated on Ruby's dog-rump
with scratching from my weary, red-pencil writing hands. Jim drove
smoothly across the scenic bridge towards my house, the city lit up as a frozen explosion of light.
My brother was home when I opened the door to my apartment, jamming out
to NoMeansNo. "I fucking couldn't even go downtown and drink, the
fucking idiots are yelling 'Obama' and I don't give a fuck. A fuck.
These people were running out in the street with pots and pans, and I
thought, 'what the fuck is this shit?' How was your fuckin' election thing?"
"Ah, it sucked. Do you wanna go to Tony's Tavern? I could use a greyhound." We walked to the bar and I had a whiskey sour instead.
Del.icio.us
Digg
Technorati
Stumbleupon
