CYNTHIA JOHNSTON

Dispatches from the Field: Women in Prison -- An American Growth Industry

2011-11-25T22:28:00.000-08:00

However high the cost of justice,

the cost of injustice is greater still.

Who says “American Exceptionalism” is dead? Not when it comes to incarceration. Nowhere on Earth -- except the USA -- does a country put more of its citizens in prison. And, increasingly, those citizens are female.

In 1980, before the War on Drugs became big business and prison corporations were allowed to regain a toehold, there were 12,300 women incarcerated in the United States. By 2008, that number had grown to 207,700. The rate of increase between 1995 and 2008 alone was a staggering 203%. The $9 million dollars it cost to incarcerate female offenders in 1980 has now ballooned to over $68.7 billion.

Who are these women, and how did they come to be caught in the web of the prison-growth industry?

By and large, these are young women who have less than a high-school education, have a history of being battered and/or sexually abused, and, with that, a resultant history of drug abuse. They are more likely to be HIV positive or infected with Hepatitis C, have either symptoms or a diagnosis of mental illness, and prior to incarceration were unemployed. While young African American women are the fastest growing incarcerated population, roughly 49% of women in prison are white, 28% are African American, and almost 17% are Latina. More than two-thirds are incarcerated for drug, property, or public order offenses. And the vast majority are mothers of minor children.

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Dispatches from the Field: War Without End

2011-11-25T22:24:00.000-08:00

It does not matter if the war is not real, or when it is, that victory is not possible. The war is not meant to be won. It is meant to be continuous.

~ George Orwell, 1984

While it’s fairly well known that the United States Constitution was written on paper made from the controversial hemp plant, it may come as a surprise to know that growing hemp, also called cannabis, or marijuana, was once mandatory. Indeed, our first marijuana law, written in 1619 in Jamestown, Virginia, ordered all farmers to grow “Indian hemp seed.” During hard times in the mid-1760s, a farmer could be thrown in jail for not growing it. By 1850 we had over eight thousand hemp plantations, boasting at least two thousand acres each.

George Washington and Thomas Jefferson both grew hemp. In a 1794 note to his Mount Vernon gardener, Washington said, “Make the most of the Indian hemp seed and sow it everywhere!” Washington and Jefferson were known to exchange gifts of a smoking mixture that was definitely not tobacco.

Many of our forefathers were said to have smoked marijuana. Given the inspired concepts inscribed in the Declaration of Independence -- that all men are created equal, that they are endowed with the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness -- enthusiasts like to say it was written on marijuana.

However, long before the birth of our nation, from the 5^th century B.C. until the advent of the steamship in the 19^th century, hemp was a mainstay in commerce. In the shipping industry, for instance, ninety percent of all rigging, ropes, wood sealant, flags, maps, logs, Bibles and clothing, as well as the canvas sails themselves, was made from hemp. Today’s industrial uses include biodegradable plastics, construction materials, biomass fuels (renewable energy,) health food and medicine.

Proponents claim that hemp, the world’s only known fully-sustainable natural resource, can meet our paper, textile, transportation and home-energy needs, reduce greenhouse gas emissions, clean the environment, and rebuild depleted soil, all while healing the sick. “In other words, it’s the greatest plant on Earth,” concludes a narrator in Melissa Balin and Jack Herer’s short film, The Emperor Wears No Clothes.

So, after a couple dozen centuries of being the greatest plant on Earth, how did marijuana suddenly become Public Enemy #1?

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Dispatches from the Field: Bend Over and Assume the Position

2011-11-25T22:19:00.000-08:00

In the Halls of Justice, the only justice is in the halls.

~Lenny Bruce

Thursday, June 9, 2011

When Joe Byron opened the doors of Egg Heaven at seven o'clock that morning, breakfast was on him. For most diners, a free breakfast at this friendly spot on the corner of East 4^th Street and Ximeno Avenue in Long Beach would be a happy occasion, but the folks sliding into booths on this chilly morning bore the obvious signs of strain. It was a familiar drill for most of them. After breakfast they’d be heading to court to stand once again with Joe, a medical marijuana defendant, and his friend and former business partner, Joe Grumbine, in their ongoing legal nightmare.

This morning’s Pretrial Conference would be just one more step on the tortuous road the Joes had been traveling for a year and a half. The torment started in December of 2009, when the Long Beach Police Department unleashed one-hundred-and-twenty armed police officers with dogs, helicopters and a fleet of vehicles in a raid on seventeen locations across three Southern California counties – Orange, Riverside and Los Angeles. Three of those locations were legally sanctioned medical marijuana dispensaries co-owned by the two Joes – one in Garden Grove in Orange County, and two in Long Beach in Los Angeles County. Another was the collective grow room in Long Beach. The remaining incursions took place at the homes and businesses of everyone connected with the collective – owners, volunteers and employees.

They even busted Egg Heaven.

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Dispatches from the Field: The Mother Teresas Refused to Cop a Plea

2011-11-25T22:12:00.000-08:00

You should all be put down like animals.

~ Los Angeles Police Detective Salb

December 17, 2009, 10:30 AM.

It was almost Christmas, but the clatter outside was definitely not Santa’s reindeer. It was helicopters, SWAT teams, and police dogs. A total of one-hundred-and-twenty armed police officers swarmed seventeen locations across three Southern California counties in a highly-coordinated raid on legally sanctioned medical marijuana dispensaries, as well as the homes and businesses of everybody connected with them.

According to The Orange County Register, Long Beach police officials, with the help of the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office, served “a series of warrants” at locations in Orange, Los Angeles and Riverside Counties. Fifteen people were arrested.

At Unit D, a medical marijuana dispensary in Orange County’s Garden Grove, co-owner Joe Grumbine had just finished making a pot of coffee. When he opened the front door he found himself staring down the barrel of a 9-millimeter handgun. “I saw the round that would have taken my life. The officer had his finger on the trigger. If I’d sneezed…. I thought, Wow, that could be the last thing I see.”

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A Walk in the Park

2011-05-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

MOTHER'S DAY

2011-05-08T10:44:00.000-07:00

Cold and bitter. So’s the weather. I can’t help but wonder what my life would have been like if she’d stuck around. Although she died when I was 18, she was gone long before that. We can delve later. For now, let’s just leave it at cold and bitter.

For whatever reason, a vicious whiplash from a 1989 car wreck has decided to return for a visit. It feels like a hollow-point exit wound and I’ve been forced to dip into the hard stuff: one Vicodin Friday night and two yesterday. Having to resort to opiates bothers the hell out of me, not only because I want medical marijuana to be the answer to everything, but because opiates and alcohol killed my mother. And my sister.

My mother. My sister. My mother. My sister.

Quick. Somebody slap me. Paging Jack Nicholson...

Wow. I didn’t think I was going to pull myself out of that one for a second there. As any pilot will tell you, the only way out of a tailspin is to floor it. So, just for a minute, I dove in. Grief. Loss. Anger.

I’ll be needing all the energy those emotions can generate for the fight ahead.

All I have to do is think – even for a minute – what it’s like to go through life’s big moments without a mother, and my heart goes out to Mollie Fry’s kids – one daughter is pregnant – and on Mother’s Day, both their parents are beginning Day Six in federal prison. Six days into a five year “mandatory minimum” sentence.

Given how sick both Mollie and Dale are, this is almost a death sentence.

At least my mother was blessed with sudden death. One minute she was walking up the stairs with a bag of groceries and the next she was dead of a heart attack. At least that’s what they told me.

So as I sit here, trying to work my way into writing about Mollie and Dale, I find myself wondering not only what it would have been like to have a mother like Mollie all these years, but what it must be like to actually have Mollie for a mother and know she’s suffering in jail without either of the medications available to me right now.

Thinking about what that must be like for Mollie's family really burns me. Have I mentioned that my granny (on my father's side) was in the Signers Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution? As far as I'm concerned, it's time for patriots to stand up and fight for their rights all over again.

I’m don't need any more of the Vicodin. The three I took broke the cycle of pain. I'm glad I have them, because they are effective against sudden, acute pain and I can't afford edible medical marijuana right now, which is equally good for acute pain, with none of the side effects of an opiate. The bottom line for me is that if I’d had to lay there, bunched up and sleepless for two nights, it would be even worse now. But it's time to get some work done and opiates take too heavy a toll on the creative process. I can face the day, knowing I’m coming to the end of this particular pain cycle and that my depression may be something else entirely – namely grief, loss and anger.

It is Mother’s Day, after all. And I did have a mother. She was smart and funny. She wanted to be a writer. So here’s to you, Ma. Let’s share a little bowl of Blue Dream mixed with a pinch of Hillbilly Kush and remember the good times – sitting around that little yellow Formica table in the kitchen, overlooking Suffolk Downs and the harbor spread out at the bottom of the hill, talking about how great it was going to be when I was older and we could drink coffee and smoke cigarettes together like grownups.

NO RELIEF

2011-05-06T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was only awake a few moments when the pain fired up. Fingertips burning from within like they were in a microwave. One flash and I holler out loud then laugh out loud thinking how lucky I am to live alone because that one would have awakened the house. No sense laying here trying to go back to sleep.

What the hell is going on with me? Reach for the thermos and pour out a cup of steaming mud. Trader Joe’s “Dark” blend. And dark it is. A sure distraction from my boiling hands and aching knees. What the hell is going on? Beautiful weather. Eating right. What the hell?

Mollie Fry. What must it be like for her, to wake up in a cold and heartless jail cell with no hope of relief? If I’m feeling sorry for myself sitting here in Paradise, what in God’s name must it be like for Mollie and Dale?

Touch keyboard and yell as my right thumb explodes. Then the left. I press myself back into the heating pad and think of a metal cot in a chairless cell. For me, relief is sitting on the little table next to me. I know that one puff of Blue Dream, a locally grown and lovingly cultivated little Sativa, will place my pain just outside my reach – or maybe it will place me just outside my pain’s reach – but the point is, I can get relief. Mollie can’t. On this, the fourth day of her incarceration, it must really be hitting home. I wonder if she’s already focused on helping others around her or are they looking out for her. Will she be embraced like a sister or will she have to fight for survival?

Feeling slightly guilty, I grab my pipe. With Eric Satie’s Sarabande No. 1 drifting from my laptop speakers I can’t help but imagine the relentless, inescapable cacophony of incarceration. A thousand tiny cuts to the psyche every minute of every day.

I am free. Free to sit here and drink coffee and kill my pain with medical marijuana… when people exactly like me are rotting in prison for doing the same damn thing.

Kind of takes the fun out of getting high.

What I can’t get my head around is that this is America. I can’t help but remember being a little girl living behind the Iron Curtain preaching about America. Land of the Free.

Went to court with Joe Grumbine and Joe Byron yesterday. It was a bloodbath. A very civilized, soft-spoken bloodbath. A goddamn vale of tears. In such a soft spoken and civilized setting, it’s hard to believe (BAM! Scream at the top of my voice as my finger explodes on the keyboard...) hard to believe… where the hell was I? Hard to remember what you’re writing when your hands are exploding. If this wasn’t so funny, it wouldn’t be funny at all. Where was I?

Sitting in court. Straining to hear what Allison Margolin is telling the judge in her rapid-fire sotto voce. She has his undivided attention. Finally he says he’s heard enough, read enough, thinks he knows enough about case law in general and this case in particular to come down with a ruling.

Motion denied. No defense for Joe and Joe. The case will be tried on it’s “merits.” We will be looking into what that means in the weeks to come as we drum up support for... the Defendants.

Fear takes up residence in my solar plexus. Nausea rolls in like a noxious wave. But that is neither here nor there. Medical Marijuana 411 would like me to send a quick report on yesterday's courtroom drama:

CATCH 22 FOR JOE AND JOE

After hearing arguments from attorneys Allison Margolin and Chris Glew, Judge Charles D. Sheldon ruled that Joe Grumbine and Joe Byron will not be allowed to present an affirmative defense in their case -- meaning they will not be allowed to tell a jury that they were providing medical marijuana in full compliance with the Compassionate Use Act.

Instead, interpreting the law to mean any sale of marijuana is illegal, the case will be tried on its “merits.” In other words, using this far-from-compassionate interpretation of the COMPASSIONATE USE ACT, if money changes hands between provider and patient, a crime has been committed and the provider can be sent to prison.

Said Judge Sheldon, “Judge Rodriguez did the right thing…. I won’t grant the defense motion.”

He did leave the door open a tiny crack, saying, “If you can prove sales are not illegal, you can make an affirmative defense.” The catch? By his interpretation, and that of the judge before him, sales are illegal, so you can not make an affirmative defense. “Even if the judge cannot prove that they are illegal.”

He also made it clear that Jury Nullification will not be allowed. “I’m going to limit Voir Dire to actual purposes…. I am likely to not allow questions on how did you vote, what do you think of the law.”

Trial date set for June 17. Papers may be filed beginning June 9. Peasants with pitchforks prepare.

Coming very soon: Full reports on both cases.

A YEAR AGO TODAY

2011-04-20T11:15:00.000-07:00

A year ago today, it was a very different world.

Pain isn’t the only thing that’s hard to remember once it’s gone. So is joy.

You can remember that it was there, but it’s hard to call up as an image, a tangible reality you need only describe.

What I had last year was a sense of long-awaited freedom. I felt that I had finally embarked upon a greatly anticipated journey. I was, at long last, engaged in the true pursuit of happiness.

It wasn’t just that I was legal.

It wasn’t just that I had stepped out of the shadows and into the mainstream of society as a medical marijuana patient, having come out of the cabinet to my neighbors down the block, as well as to the world at large, through the internet.

It wasn’t just that I suddenly had an astonishing array of marijuana strains to choose from, although, let’s face it, that was a huge part of it.

It wasn’t just that I was infused with a heady sense of possibility.

It was all these things, of course.

But back then, peace was at hand.

Today, we are at war. It’s that simple.

Last year, it felt like the bus was coming ‘round again and the so-called Love Generation was going to have a last blast. One last Merry go-round. We were happening again.

This year, battle lines are being drawn. The bus is still coming ‘round. Make no mistake about that. But this year we’re riding tanks and the flower children are wearing war paint.

This is what they have done. The Feds. The DA. The local cops.

Over and over.

I see it everywhere, all across the country:

Peaceful people forced to fight for their loved ones, their land, and their rights.

They have re-ignited the very fight this country is all about.

A well regulated militia being necessary to the preservation of a Free State, the right of the people to bear arms shall not be infringed.

But let’s not kid ourselves about what that means. It’s not about guns. It's about preserving a Free State. Perhaps we should spend more time defining what that is, and less time talking about guns.

It's also about fighting tyranny with whatever we've got. And We the People have no chance against an oppressive government, using guns. Besides, we are not about guns and violence. That's the whole point.

We have something better. We the have internet. Hippies with computers. They will rue the day.

And now I'm off to celebrate this cool and cloudy 4/20 where I celebrated it a year ago today: At The Green Goddess Collective in Venice, California. Then I'm going to reconnoiter in Hollywood with my fellow warriors.

I love the smell of OG in the morning. It’s the smell of victory.

AND LEAVE IT ON!

2011-04-12T08:06:00.000-07:00

It’s a three day ride from Bakersfield
And I don’t know why I came
I guess I came to keep from payin’ dues.
~ Bob Weir/John Perry Barlow

So much awful truth rolling ‘round my head, I finally got it about how the Grateful Dead actually can chase the blues away.

Mexicali Blues brought smiles then tears.

Joy/Loss
Yin/Yang
Light/Dark

It’s all here in this corner. Too much ugly truth so early in the morning.

Come on, Baby.

Shine your light.

Mr. Pen screams like a wolf at a mad moon. Darkness gathers in the opposite corner, ready to spread like muddy backwash.

Thank you.
And LEAVE it on!

Hard to believe I only just got that. The light. Leave it on. The last thing Pig Pen shouts at the end of "Turn on Your Love Light."

This blues-busting moment brought to you by The Good Old Grateful Dead and a bowl of Blue Dream, a perky Sativa from Green Earth Farmacie in the San Fernando Valley, with special thanks to my Kind Bud Tender.

ASK YOUR DOCTOR

2011-04-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

Today my recommendation runs out. I have a call in to my regular doctor. I told his assistant yesterday that my recommendation for medical marijuana expires today and I need to know if he will write me a new one.

She put me on hold.

When she came back, she had me explain the situation again. My recommendation for medical marijuana runs out tomorrow. If I don’t get a new one, I won’t be legal.

Your recommendation for what?

"Medical Marijuana. I already talked to The Doctor about it. He knows I’m using it for pain and he approves. I just realized my recommendation runs out tomorrow and I’m asking The Doctor if he will write me a new one.”

For some reason, she suddenly started calling me “Dear.” Let me check, Dear.

I reiterated, “He knows what I’m talking about. We’ve had the conversation. I just need to know whether I have to find a different doctor to renew my recommendation.” After a moment she said, “Call back tomorrow afternoon. You’ll have your answer. If it's yes, you can come in and pick it up.”

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I could swear she was just a little bit nicer to me than before. I like to think he will put on a big white hat, step up, and be a hero in this drama.

The next act is called Ask Your Doctor if Medical Marijuana is right for you.

This has to be our next line of defense. We need more mainstream doctors. We need more professionals. We need more straight people behind us. It’s not enough to be a legal patient, following guidelines passed into law fifteen years ago. Fifteen years! It’s clear from some of the current cases about to go to trial that they don’t want to hear from any more sick people.

Don’t be rolling your wheelchairs into my courtroom, because I don’t want to hear about your symptoms or your miracle cures. I don’t want to see your broken bodies and crooked smiles. I want you out of my sight while I sit here and destroy the lives of the people who grow your medicine out of God's Green Earth. I want those growers... those cultivators... those farmers... I want them where they belong - in prison with the murderers and pedophiles. I want the taxpayers to foot the bill for wrecking their lives and businesses. Thanks, but no thanks to the tax dollars their businesses and employees would be feeding into our financial recovery.

No, it's not enough for a room full of patients willing to put their freedom on the line to stand up for Medical Marijuana. We need doctors and lawyers and cops. People judges relate to and respect. Patients and caregivers need not apply.

Last time I saw my doctor, as he put the cuff around my arm, I predicted my blood pressure would be normal. “Better than normal,” he smiled at me after looking at the gauge. “Perfect."

I don't believe I'd be making that same prediction right this minute, because my blood is boiling. If anything, I feel like I'm about to be sick.

PANIC IN PARADISE

2011-03-28T01:18:00.000-07:00

Busted
Down on Bourbon Street
Set up
Like a bowling pin
Knocked down
Gets to wearin’ thin
They just won’t let you be.
~Hunter/Garcia, Weir

“God, I hope I can…”

“You can,” she interrupted as I trailed off.

We both laughed and hugged and held on tight as we laughed harder. One of those laughs that goes deep - all the way to the heart of the matter. It was leaden with the weight of what had to be done.

Desperation in Paradise. It’s a heavy, sad, consuming feeling. It could take you down. The sheer enormity of it all.

Images of Willow Creek Springs filled my mind’s eye with shimmering greenery the moment I woke up this morning. A canopy of delicate branches and flowers. Meandering paths to seating areas surrounded by herbs and flowers with hand made signs. Lavender. Calendula. Sage. Comfrey, Aloe, Rosemary…. On and on as far as you could see. Sculptures. Hummingbirds. Children laughing and running about.

A pair of classical guitars playing live over hidden loudspeakers. A stream running through it all. And a great fire pit with people talking and laughing on a brisk March day in Southern California.

Then the panic. It came back in a flash. This could all be lost. All this loving hard work.

She was fighting back tears. Lawyers. Court costs. Loans. "How are we going to pay all this money back?" Not to mention the mere upkeep of an ambitious, labor-intensive business enterprise. The Craft Fair was a bust, as pleasant a day as it had been. They’d all been depending on making some money today, but in the end, vendors wound up trading their wares with each other. The crowd never showed. The weather – cloudy, damp, cold – didn’t help. Then there’s the stupid economy. And dumb luck. Whatever the reason, the Willow Creek Springs Craft Fair wasn’t the solution everybody hoped it would be.

At least, not in dollars and cents. Fortunately, there are other solutions. People connecting around the campfire and the music and the arts and crafts. Word is going out. Maybe it will finally - miraculously - reach the right ears. Maybe help is on the way.

You have to hope. You have to stay positive. Which is what Joe and Liz Grumbine are all about. He's the first to tell you he's the most positive guy you could meet. "Because that's what I choose to be."

As I write this, Liz's beautiful Willow Creek Springs Healing Salve is working on a scar and stitches on my leg from yesterday's minor surgery to remove a skin cancer. Made of a luscious blend of Olive oil, Cannabis, Calendula, Comfrey Leaf & Root, Aloe, Rosemary, Beeswax, Tea Tree and Lavender oil, I fully expect it to enhance the healing. Time will tell. I took a picture of it but I think I"ll spare you that image.

Meanwhile, it's almost 2 am, and technically no longer Sunday, so I'm going to hit send and call it a day. But this story is by no means over. It's more than a story. It's a cause.

OMG! I'M HAVING A MELTDOWN! WTF?

2011-03-25T09:13:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time the word "meltdown" had meaning. Serious meaning. It meant a nuclear reactor had lost control of its cooling mechanism in the core of the reactor and the radioactive fuel inside was going to get hotter and hotter until it melted through the bottom and into the earth - all the way to China. Hence the name, "China Syndrome."

Nowadays a "meltdown" means a teenage tantrum. Slammed doors. Thrown phones.

Way back in the 'seventies, I worked on a campaign called Californians for Nuclear Safeguards. We talked about meltdowns a lot. We lost the campaign but we put that word in the national dialogue.

It's so commonplace today it seems almost benign. It's not. It is, in fact, the very opposite. It's malignant.

Speaking of which, I have to go to the doctor's office now. I have a little thing on my leg that has to come off. It's not benign. So maybe that makes me just a little bit more aware about the silent, invisible, inaudible malignant menace unfolding on the other side of the Earth. Which in these times, is not all that far away. And it doesn't have to melt all the way through the Earth to reach us. It can float like a cloud over the ocean and land gently, silently on our bodies. It kind of feels like this thing on my leg. Except you can't go to the doctor and have her scrape it off you before lunch.

OK. That's it for today. My new resolution is to blog regularly about whatever, rather than wait for inspiration to write something momentous. In truth, every minute we spend on this Earth from now on is momentous. At least, that's how it feels to me right this minute.

Which keeps me from having a meltdown.

Mahalo~

STATE OF THE UNION

2011-01-25T12:07:00.001-08:00

I had just started reading David Plouffe's email entitled,"You've Never Seen a State of the Union Address Like This," when my cellphone beeped. Text message from the White House reminding me to watch the State of the Union address tonight at 9pm ET, either on TV or at http://wh.gov/live and participate in a live discussion on Facebook afterwards.

Not only is this type of technological participation a first, so is the suggestion by Colorado Senator Mark Udall that party lines be crossed in the people's house while the President speaks. I love this idea. I think it will add up to much more than the sum of its parts for Democrats and Republicans to sit side-by-side instead of separated by party on either side of the aisle - a house divided.

I don't know whether staying glued to the TV and my laptop, participating in history as it unfolds increases social isolation or helps us break out of it, but I do know how much I love it. And the symbolic significance of "Date Night on the Hill" should not be underestimated. Maybe it's because we're at such a dire point in our national politics that a small gesture could mean so much. Maybe that's all we have left. I can only hope that this spirit of harmony is as contagious as the constant spewage of hatred that has poisoned our airwaves and our national dialogue for much too long.

Yes, I am looking forward to hearing My President, whom I still support whole-heartedly, describe his vision for the way forward. But I'm even more excited about being part of it.

99 HIGH ART COLLECTIVE

2010-10-24T00:04:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who is 89 years old. I call her Miss E. She has scoliosis, among other health problems. Her twisted body is filled with tiny, excruciating fractures. In the few years I’ve known her, she has been in constant pain. “My back is killing me,” is something I heard her say pretty much every day.

She also has sundowner’s syndrome, meaning that in the afternoon she gets confused; can’t finish a sentence, can’t remember what she wanted to say; can’t figure out what’s going on around her. She would weep with pain and frustration and end up just going back to bed. Visiting her was agonizing because there wasn’t a damn thing I could do, except give her Vicodin, which didn’t completely kill the pain, but did make her a fall risk.

Cut to Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice, California: The 99 High Art Gallery, a medical marijuana collective that boldly crossed the line into the fun zone. In fact, I found out about them in ROLLING STONE MAGAZINE.

Every Friday at the 99 they had Get Happier Hour. Trust me, that was a scene. And it was a lot of fun. But aside from all the amazing people I met there, especially the lovely 99 herself, I got turned on to something far more important than a cool scene and fun new friends. Someone was kind enough to lay out some bowls of edible marijuana treats. They came in tiny goldfish type crackers and mini pretzels, as well as coco puffs. They were very tasty and great fun. The energy of the party went through the stratosphere.

But something else happened. I decided to try them on Miss E the next time I went to see her. They are considered medicine, after all. Following the long, painful process of getting her to the table, I put a small bowl of pretzel snacks in front of her. Although she can barely see, there is nothing wrong with her appetite and her frail fingers quickly found those pretzels and popped them in her mouth. Mmmmm, she said. These are good!

I sat back and waited. About a half an hour later she looked up at me with her blue eyes, smiled brightly, and said, “I feel marvelous. I feel like I could do something with my life.”

I couldn’t believe it. I watched her while she wolfed down a big breakfast and instead of crawling tearfully back into bed afterward, she sat there and hung out. After a little nap in the afternoon she perked right along through dinner. No Vicodin. We visited until 9:30 or so, occasionally refreshing her snack bowl with two or three mini-pretzels. Finally she announced she was ready to call it a day.

The next morning, when she normally would have said, My back is killing me, I found her brushing her teeth and washing her face, and then slowly, carefully folding her hand towel when she was finished. When I asked her how her back felt, she said, “Fine.”

Just like that: Fine. I never heard her say that before. Ever.

A few minutes later, she said her back was beginning to hurt. I gave her four tiny goldfish and suggested she rest for an hour longer, which she did without her usual morning anxiety attack: too much pain to stay up, too agitated to stay down, painfully getting up and laying back down until the Ativan kicked in. But not this time. She just lay back down, smiled, and went back to sleep. No Ativan. For once, she looked relaxed. An hour later, she woke up wanting to know what was for breakfast.

Journal entry:

I’m not sure but I think I’m ready to say I’m witnessing a miracle in terms of what medical marijuana has done for Miss E. She was present at dinner, aware that she was present, and aware of pleasure while not complaining of pain. I have never seen that before, regardless of how much Vicodin she took. Both the Vicodin and the pain took her away from the present moment. But with a handful of cannabis-infused pretzel snacks, she had a fun night, stayed up until 9:46, went to bed and slept through the night, got up in the morning and walked into the bathroom, washed her hands and brushed her teeth and toddled back into bed with nary a complaint.

Miracle? Why not? In the few years I’ve known her, I have not seen that before, even on her best days.

I saw this with my own eyes. I do think it's a miracle. And even if certain politicians consider it a crime, I’d do it again. I will do it again. Seeing Miss E go from excruciating to “marvelous” would be worth the price.

I expected medical marijuana to help me. But never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d hear Miss E say her back feels fine. And that, your honor, is because of the happy scene created around medical marijuana at the 99 High Art Gallery and Medical Marijuana Collective on Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice, California.

But the story isn’t over. One day, a friend suggested I try the edibles for my own pain. I was dumbfounded. It hadn’t even occurred to me to use them for pain. I munched on them at Get Happier Hour, and definitely got happier. Which, by the way, I have a constitutional right to do. I wonder why that isn’t brought up more often in this context. Just yesterday, at a rally at USC in Los Angeles, President Obama made a point of mentioning our constitutional rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of our own version of happiness. Thank you, Mr. President. I love you back.

But up until my friend suggested I try the edibles, I’d only smoked marijuana for pain control. My previous experience with edible marijuana was that it either did nothing at all or too much. Too much is very uncomfortable for me. As a recovered alcoholic (also thanks to cannabis) eating too much marijuana feels a little too much like being drunk – a feeling that scares the crap out of me.

But what I never realized was that with edibles there is the exact right amount. Like Goldilocks, you need to get it just right. If you’re in it for medicinal purposes only, you don’t want to take so much that you actually notice it. You just want to notice your pain is gone and you’re back in the world again.

You just want a simple, everyday miracle. And that’s what it’s been for Miss E and me. Yes, it did kill my pain. When I got my dosage right, I found myself completely without pain for hours at a time. I often even woke up pain-free. That is something I’d like to share with others, without breaking the law or going through the whole rigmarole of getting them legal, or worse, putting them in legal jeopardy. Especially someone who is old, sick, in pain, or all three.

On November 2nd, California may well pass Proposition 19, the initiative to legalize marijuana for adult use. It will be close, but it could really happen. Every person I have spoken to, whether they have tried marijuana or not, is voting for it. I think we are going to see a massive outpouring of quiet support for sensible drug policy and simple compassion.

When that happens, I can’t wait to say, without guilt or fear, Here, try some of this. It’s not for medicinal purposes only.

FOR MEDICINAL PURPOSES ONLY

2010-10-21T14:27:00.000-07:00

...But to live outside the law

You must be honest.

Bob Dylan – Absolutely Sweet Marie

Here’s my problem: Medical marijuana is legal. Recreational marijuana is not. But Marijuana doesn’t know the difference. She has a naughty habit of crossing the line. Refusing to stop at pain relief, she slyly transports you to the fun zone.

And once you’re in the fun zone you’ve crossed the line.

Ever since I got legal in early April, I've been trying to do a serious scientific study of medical marijuana from a patient’s point of view. But I've just about unhinged myself trying to keep a straight face about the whole thing. The truth is, marijuana isn't just medicine; it's also serious fun.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, let's get back to the business of using marijuana for medicinal purposes only. I don’t need the wind and rain to tell me it’s Autumn. My flaming knuckles have been predicting this weather for weeks; arms aching to the bone; thumbs and fingertips scalding. But let us not lapse into negativity. And let us also not wander into the fun zone. After all, that would be a crime.

I don’t plan to make a career out of describing my pain. But since my plan is to experience as many different strains of medical marijuana as possible, in search of the perfect cure for arthritis and depression, I need to at least set the baseline. The arthritis pain is relatively new. It comes with age. I’ll be 66 in November. The depression has been with me as long as I can remember. Some of my earliest childhood memories involve a little thing we like to call “suicidal ideation.” Those thoughts remain a constant companion – more like a neurotic friend with a morbid sense of humor than an actual threat, so don’t get all suicide hotline on me, OK?

Besides, we are not here to dwell on the negative. We are on a mission. A healing mission.

Here’s the drill: I go to a dispensary and tell the caregiver what I’m looking for. I try to be consistent, although I use depression and writer’s block interchangeably. To me, they’re the same. One causes the other and each makes the other worse. And I’m not going back on anti-depressants. So, I need a pain-killer that won’t put me to sleep or dull my senses the way Vicodin does. I need something uplifting and inspiring. I need creative energy. I need pain-killing, high-energy, creative inspiration.

That’s a lot to ask a little bud.

Invariably my caregiver will recommend a Sativa or hybrid, meaning a combination of Sativa and Indica, in varying degrees. Say 70/30 Sativa/Indica. We can go into greater detail later, but for now let’s just say that Sativa is considered cerebral, while Indica has a physical effect. Or, to risk crossing the thin green line into the fun zone, Sativa is a “head high” while Indica is a “body high.”

After the strains, we get into brand names. Blue Dream. Blackberry Kush. Dragon. Endless Sky. Purple Haze. Skywalker. Jack Herer. A literally mind-blowing array of choices.

This is where it gets to be a challenge. You’re looking at a list of about forty different designer plants, each carefully grown somewhere by someone who cares very deeply about the effect that plant will have on you, the patient.

The care doesn’t stop there. When I refer to caregivers, I’m not tossing the word around lightly. Every bud-tender, “herbalogist,” or caregiver I have encountered has given me fully-focused personal attention. And compassion. This is another term that gets bandied about. But to a person suffering from depression, a moment of understanding; a few words and fearless eye contact that says, “I get it. I’ve been there,” can be the first step toward healing. It doesn’t take long. It doesn’t have to. But it could be a life-saver. You never know. All I know is that compassion is one of my criteria, when it comes to the dispensary experience itself.

Then there’s the medicine. As my best friend, my doctor, says, Medically, it’s about how does it feel and how does it function.

We’ll make that the bottom line.

So there you are, staring at about forty glass jars filled with happy little green buds. Your caregiver opens one after another for you to lean over and breathe in the variegated and subtle scents of each kind. Some fruity, others pungent and dank, all smelling deeply, gorgeously of Nature. Even without smoking them, the buds give off an exciting energy. It’s the energy of life. And when there are live plants growing in the room, that energy is even higher.

Decision time. Indoor and outdoor grown are also factors. After a while the names and scents and images of so many different kinds of cannabis all run together and my mind is abuzz. I’m definitely over-stimulated and giddy, but I’ve narrowed my selection down to three. At this point I go with my caregiver’s recommendation.

The next day, after my morning coffee has begun to cut through the fog of pain, I pinch a small amount, about the size of a TicTac, off a bud and crumble it into a small, clean glass pipe.

I jot down the date, time, dispensary name and the brand name of the cannabis, and take one puff. Maybe two. The next time I look up I may be three pages into my journal. Somewhere along the line, I’ve forgotten my pain.

Thursday, April 22, 2010.

Earth Day. 7:25 AM and three puffs into my Endless Sky from the Green Goddess.

Immediate effect, head-wise. Hyper-aware of the quality of light, which has diminished from this morning's sunrise...

…When I dropped by the Green Goddess, I said, One of the things I wanted to let you guys know is I had to tear myself away from my journal this morning to take my friends to the airport.

“Oh yes,” said Christina with her blazing turquoise eyes. “Dragon is very creative.”

She may have said Sativa in general is very creative. Again, as I launch into this project I see a subcategory emerging that is all about keeping my mind alive and my brain functioning.

One of the general rules of dispensary culture is no electronic devices. No cameras or cell phones. So far, I’ve even been hesitant to take notes, 1) to build trust and 2) to exercise my brain. Have I mentioned I’ll be 66 in November?

Anyway, this kind of kicks the “scientific” part of the experiment out the door. I’m not asking the exact same questions in the exact same order and writing down the answers verbatim. So clearly “scientific” is too strong a word. Perhaps “gonzo” would be more accurate.

8:30 AM and I’m on Page 8. This truly is remarkable and once again I’m transported back to San Francisco in the ‘seventies. One little bowl of Endless Sky.

That’s exactly how the first puff felt. Endless Sky…. I smiled at the thought. Haven’t felt that particular connection to Spirit in a while….

4/22/2010

I’ll tell you this: it’s been decades since I’ve scribbled in my journal the way I did today. And yesterday. Restoring my almost child-like impulse to write down everything that streams into my head is a miracle of creative healing.

One of the reasons I like the Green Goddess, I told Christina yesterday, is the interaction between patients and caregivers. The way you work with us to…

“Give you exactly what you want?” she finished my sentence. Exactly, says me. By the way, what do you call yourselves?

“Connoisseurs.”

Come to think of it, the Green Goddess never lured me into the fun zone. Instead, the caregivers there are wildly, passionately in love with what they do. They are all about the medicine.

Other collectives have gone all-out to create a scene around the culture of medical marijuana, which is definitely fun, but it puts them in the cross-hairs of the Law. Ironically, staying religiously focused on the medicine didn’t spare the Green Goddess from being raided by the police, placing caregivers, patients and even onlookers in legal jeopardy, and disrespecting the medicine by dumping all of it into one big bag. Mean-hearted. The opposite of compassion. And the noble concept that the Law is here to protect and serve feels more like a cruel joke.

But let us not dwell on the negative. We are, after all, on a healing mission.

THE GREEN GODDESS - PART I

2010-09-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

"Get your hands back up in the air!" hollers a female cop. "Face the wall!"

As night falls on Venice Beach, my compassionate caregivers - my friends - are perp-marched down Windward Avenue like criminals: The security guy from the front desk, followed by a patient with his hands cuffed behind his back, pushed from behind by a helmeted cop in riot gear. "Keep going! Come on, let’s go..."

One of my caregivers walks with her arms held out in front, a beefy cop at her side, his hand on her arm, hustling her along. Another caregiver hurries down the street with her hands over her head. A young man in an orange T-shirt, hands up in the air, steps sideways, already facing the wall.

All of them are paraded conspicuously under the Italianate arches of Venice’s famously funky tourist district, and lined up against the wall to face the closed gate of a tattoo parlor.

My caregivers. My legal caregivers. Up against the wall.

On September 10, 2010, at 7:45 PM, they busted the Green Goddess. "They handcuffed everybody in the building - patients and volunteers," said a legal spokesman for the Green Goddess Collective, seated at the empty front desk in the empty dispensary. "Everybody was held for an hour in handcuffs. They took all our medicine. Emptied all the buds into one bag."

Only a week before, I stood at the little glass counter with these same good people, overwhelmed and excited, as always, by the variety and the energy of their medicine.

"And it was all a mistake. Their mistake," he emphasized. "They thought we weren't on the list of people - 186 clubs - who registered in 2007. But we were. We should be open again by the middle of next week.

DR. KUSH - PART II

2010-08-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

When I find myself in times of trouble

Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be.

- John Lennon/Paul McCartney, 1970

On April 6, 2010, I "got legal." I now have a license to use Medical Marijuana in California. This being one of many reports, we can go into the process of getting legal some other time. For now, I'll just say that after visiting the on-site "Kush Doctor," my Colorado doctor's recommendation for medical marijuana has been transferred to California and I am now ready for my first California dispensary.

Which is conveniently located right upstairs, as it turns out. First, a stop at the security desk to fill out a form and sign a contract agreeing to follow the laws of the state and the rules of the house.

Once my info's in the computer, I’m officially a member of the collective. Joe the Security Guy escorts me down a long dark hall and opens a heavy metal door with a key. Holding it open, very friendly and welcoming, he lets me pass through. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed by a sensory assault of sight, smell and sound. Sumptuous. Sensual. Sensational. It's a whole new world. I'm blown away.

To my left is a small counter and a menu board boasting an astonishing array of Cannabis strains. I scan the list, divided between Indicas, Sativas and Hybrids, looking for something to kill arthritis pain and writers block (aka depression). It’s only the arthritis that makes me legal, though. Depression, along with a host of other ailments that respond well to medical marijuana, is not on the list of acceptable miseries for which marijuana can be legally recommended.

The striking young brunette behind the window reminds me of forensics specialist Abby Sciuto on NCIS. She goes over the various strains, their effects, and which hybrids would combine to best treat my symptoms.

Generally speaking, Cannabis Sativa is considered "cerebral," affecting the brain and central nervous system. It's best for motivation, "activation," focus, creativity and for treating chronic pain. It's excellent as an anti-anxiety medication and a great anti-depressant. Indica is "physical" and affects the body in general and the muscular and central nervous systems in particular. It's best for sedating, relaxing, treating acute pain, as a muscle relaxant, decreasing nausea and stimulating appetite.

I need the motivational, creative and anti-depressant effects of a Sativa, combined with an Indica to kill the acute pain in my hands and wrists – minus the sedative effect. By the looks of things I've got a lot of experimenting to do.

For my first tests, I select a gram each of Trainwreck OG and Sour G, both Sativa-dominant hybrids, and another of Shake Salad – a mixture of several Sativas, the names of which I promptly forget. Since they don’t allow cameras or recorders, I'm not comfortable taking notes on-site, either. I’m dependent on memory alone to tell this tale. A good exercise for an aging Boomer, if I do say so myself.

One last question. What do you call yourselves? We are Herbalogists, she said. Indeed, behind her in the little apothecary is a sign that says, "Herbalogy."

LET IT BE

Having been completely absorbed in my transaction, I turn around and really take in the whole scene for the first time: Spectacular ocean view out two huge picture windows. Big open room with black leather couches in an L-shape – one along the South wall, one against the West wall. A big black leather armchair facing West makes up the third side of the seating area around a large square glass-top coffee table. A small wooden bench stands against the North wall. Between the bench and the main seating area is a pathway to the windows and then a right turn into a little alcove with wooden benches. Music playing. Smoke billowing into the air. Dudes sitting around the table rolling joints and loading pipes. Mellow vibe. “Let It Be” playing on the P.A.

I walk into the lounge, sit down on the bench and begin rolling a joint of Shake Salad, constantly looking up to take in the scene. I can’t believe I’m actually sitting there, rolling a joint in a room full of strangers who are openly smoking weed, everybody smiling, relaxed, chatting amiably. It’s like a scene in a movie, with spot-on dialogue.

Crazy, man.

But so normal.

Yeah. The way it should be.

People should be able to just walk in, buy some weed, smoke it, drink some water (holding up water bottle) and watch the sunset. What's the big deal?

Here. Try some of this. It's from up North.

Smiles all around.

Let It Be.

Welcome to Heaven, says me to a gray haired African American elder as he walks in, followed by a younger African American woman in a strawberry blond wig and an apricot pants suit. A little stooped over, walking with the use of a cane, he moves past me and over to the alcove, taking in the spectacular view:

Down on Muscle Beach, big grown-ups play on big toys.

Body builders, bicyclists, skaters, buskers, hawkers, gawkers, walkers, vendors, tourists, families on Summer vacation, clowns, musicians, singers, rappers and dancers crowd the sidewalk.

I move from the bench against the wall to the big leather couch against the picture window. Dude on my right hands me a large glass pipe full of home-made hash. He’s a distributor from Northern California. Young blond dude with blazing blue eyes sits on the bench against the wall. Movie-star-surfer-looking dude on the big couch opens up a large plastic container, rolls a fat one on the coffee table, puts the container in his backpack and lights up.

We're all talking about how normal, how natural it feels to come in, toke up and watch the sunset.

But weird at the same time.

Not really, not if you’ve been doing it a long time.

Actually, this is my first time.

Well then, it still feels strange to you.

Indeed. He comes off like a world traveler who’s definitely been there and done that. Turns down the hash pipe. “Got a long way to go. Got to keep it together. Peace out, bro.” True to a sign that invites us to “smoke out, not hang out,” he heads for the door. Other signs prohibit cameras, cell phones, alcohol, food, bongs and tobacco, including blunts – joints wrapped in tobacco leaves.

Sister in apricot pants suit comes over to the coffee table to hit on the hash pipe. Hits it a couple times and starts coughing. She passes it to me and sits down. I take a big couple of hits, thinking it won’t happen to me, pass the pipe to a chunky Latina in a blue T-shirt and start coughing my brains out. Some children never learn.

The Elder also declines the hash pipe. “I like where I’m at with the weed.” Looks out the window with the same look in his eyes I had when I returned from the counter a few moments ago. I’d gone back to buy a bottle of water and a lighter and was pleasantly surprised to be gifted with both. After adding a few more bills to the tip jar, I thanked my lovely Herbalogist, turned around and again was stunned by the panorama.

A billion-dollar sunset. A room full of people smiling, talking, smoking herb and drinking water.

The pure, simple beauty of it all.

Thank you, Jesus.

We’re all one big happy family now, all part of the same moment. In the alcove, sitting with the Elder, is a gorgeous young Asian woman in a tank top and mini skirt. Beside her, a young man – I’d say pan-Asian-American – whom I’d seen downstairs earlier and who avoided eye contact, was now grinning back at me with eyes alight. A momentary connection I can still see and feel months later. Who knows, maybe it was a blip on the evolutionary time-space continuum. A hundredth monkey moment. From here the whole species takes a step forward.

And why not?

The Elder leans back against the alcove wall, facing the ocean, a faraway look in his eyes.

Been a long time coming, I say quietly.

But it's here, he softly answers with a smile. It's here... and I love it.

He closes his eyes in contentment.

The trouble with magic is when you’re in the middle of it you think it will last forever.

Then it’s gone.

The whole vibe has changed since that day.

Back in April it felt like the world had suddenly gone sane and anything was possible. I was on a magical journey. There was the proverbial dispensary on every corner. There was a stunning array of excellent, highly effective medicine. People had jobs in a burgeoning new green economy. Everybody was happy. There was a feeling of genuine amazement in the air. It reminded me of Hunter Thompson’s famous “Wave Speech” in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

“There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . . And that, I think, was the handle – that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting – on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .”

And that’s exactly what it felt like in Venice in the Spring of 2010.

DOCTOR KUSH - PART I

2010-08-01T00:04:00.001-07:00

We are turning into a nation of whimpering slaves to fear - fear of war, fear of poverty, fear of random terrorism, fear of getting down-sized or fired because of the plunging economy, fear of getting evicted for bad debts, or suddenly getting locked up in a military detention camp on vague charges of being a terrorist sympathizer." - Hunter S. Thompson, February 3, 2003

“Nothing’s impossible,” he said. Four months ago I would have agreed. Now I wasn’t so sure. A mean-hearted city ordinance had succeeded in closing over 400 medical marijuana dispensaries in Los Angeles, flushing more than 1,200 perfectly good jobs down the drain, and making access to high quality medicine harder for patients. It also made it harder for the remaining dispensaries to survive. Many were forced to move or at least change their modus operandi.

And here's this carpenter, standing on the retaining wall in front of the now-closed Kush Clubhouse on Venice Beach with a paintbrush in his hand. Through the closed windows I could see the interior was gutted. I felt robbed. One less possibility. Hence his comment about nothing’s impossible. I wish I’d thought to follow up. Not just because I liked his vibe.

I should have asked him what the hell he was doing. I mean, beyond getting the Kush House ready to rent, which was obvious. But what else could he have told me? Where was the journalist in me?

For that matter, where was the photographer in me? I could have gotten some interior shots for the folks back home. But my heart wasn’t in it. I was almost to the car before I realized I’d blown a chance to do some on-the-ground reporting. Was he the owner? Did he work for the owner? Is Dr. Kush the owner? Who is Dr. Kush? How can I get hold of him? Can I go inside and take some pictures? Are you my daddy? But no. I got nothin'. Except maybe a reminder to stay focused. I am reporting on my Medical Marijuana Dispensary Experience from a Patient's Point of View, after all.

An experience made that much poorer with the demolition of this, one of the finest dispensaries in all of Los Angeles, at least in terms of location; beautifully appointed in polished wood, generous seating area with panoramic view, right on the beach. Gutted like a fish. Up for rent in a down economy. What a waste.

I’d been walking North from the Medical Kush Beach Club a few blocks down the boardwalk. Another Dr. Kush establishment, the Kush Club was my first smoking lounge. In fact, my medical marijuana recommendation came from Dr. Kush. But that’s another story for another time. I’d gone to see what further damage the ordinance had done to them. I was hoping the hash bar would still be open, although the smoking lounge was already closed. I was also hoping to run into one of the more interesting people I’d met there. Actually, one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, but that too is another story for another time.

Even if you’re a member of the Medical Kush Beach Club, you can’t just drop in to hang out. Nor can you smoke your own weed there. You have to obtain it on the premises each time you go.

The menu board, with brightly colored letters illuminated against a big black TV screen, is mounted on the wall adjacent to a thick glass pharmacy window. After perusing the slightly over-stimulating list of marijuana strains, I settled on a nice little Sativa-dominant hybrid.

Behind the glass was the same young brunette who was there my first time, but gone was the open, happy vibe. She was on her cell phone. When she dropped her voice to say, “Don’t cry,” into the phone, I moved a respectful distance away and went back to studying the menu.

Finishing up, she turned to me and I made a $14 contribution for the collective effort it took to get me one gram of nature’s finest. Noting the Help Wanted sign in the window I asked what job was available. She said it was at the security desk where they check IDs. Other than that, she didn’t know anything about it.

Other patients were waiting behind me so I thanked her and stepped away. I wandered over to the picture window to look out over Muscle Beach one last time. Without the smoking lounge, I probably wouldn’t be coming here to get my meds anymore. Another broken dream. I took a couple of steps to the right and sat down in the alcove.

On impulse, I pinched off a tiny nugget of fragrant green bud, dropped it into my pipe, and savored a few puffs of “Christmas in July.” Before too long, my trusty bud tender appeared at my side to remind me there was no more smoking in the lounge. Must have been the security camera in my face that tipped her off. Or smoke wafting from the alcove into the big empty room. I thanked her and put my pipe away.

All the other times I’d been here I was more than happy to follow the rules. Prohibition creates outlaws. Freedom has the opposite effect, at least on me. Now that I'm legal, I get a giddy charge out of following the rules. Having finally experienced the feeling of freedom and social acceptance, breaking the rules now was just another bummer.

For the record, I also enjoy paying tax on cannabis. Fellow patients have said it, too: I love paying my taxes on medical marijuana! Seeing it on a receipt actually makes me happy. Politicians, are you listening? We enjoy paying tax on marijuana. Stop making us part of the problem and we’re happily part of the solution.

Last time I was here at the Medical Kush Beach Club, the hash bar was still open. Today that little side room off the main smoking lounge, with the choice rock art, the elegant polished inlaid wood bar, a row of chilled bongs standing at attention,

and the outrageous view of the Pacific, is locked behind an iron door.

And all those compassionate caregivers are out of work; maybe on unemployment. No longer feeding into the economy, instead forced to feed off of it. What the hell, I thought, when I decided to take advantage of the dissolute atmosphere in the once vibrant space and stole my parting puffs. I stared out the same window I’d gazed out of in sheer happy wonder my first time here, three short months ago.

I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

JERRY WEEK

2009-08-08T10:35:00.000-07:00

Fresh mountain air blowing in my window. Tom Waits growling on my boom box. Reminiscent of last week's experience at the Boulder Theatre. Driving up Pearl Street, minding our own beezwax, hang a left onto 14th and glance up at the Marquee. Who's playing? Papa Mali. Never heard of him. But wait... featuring BILL KREUTZMANN?

Snap deciscion: Go.

Parking place in the next block. Of course. Meant to be. Walk back to the theatre past some straggling hippies and up to the box office. Are you sold out? No. Two please. Shirlene slaps down her plastic. I slap twenty-five bucks in her palm. Done.

We go back to the car and stash a poster I pulled off a pole. Just like the old days in San Francisco. Most weekend nights, the Avalon Ballroom and the Fillmore put on concerts for five bucks and you'd go from one to the other, catching the first set of Big Brother and the second set of Jefferson Airplane. Or Santana and The Grateful Dead. Or Quicksilver Messenger Service and Country Joe and the Fish.

There were posters for every "dance." Those posters sell for big bucks nowadays. Stanley Mouse, Alton Kelley, Victor Moscoso, R.Crumb, Rick Griffin, Randy Tuten. All classic psychedelic poster and album cover artists. Think: CHEAP THRILLS by Big Brother and the Holding Company. Think: The iconic skull and roses of The Grateful Dead. Ditto Skull and Lightening Bolt, aka Steal Your Face.

Steal Your Face has a copyrighted 13-point lightening bolt. Papa Mali featuring Bill Kreutzmann got around that slight legal detail by sticking a lid and dredlocks on the skull, cutting 6 points off the lightening bolt. It ain't Kelley & Mouse, but it does the job. Now I have my first concert poster from a concert I actually went to. The tradition continues.

We head back to the theatre. Opening band, Greensky Bluegrass. Never heard of them, either. The place is practically empty. Up to the balcony and grab front row seats. Couple hippy dudes dancing, spinning unselfconsciously by themseslves, down on the floor. Mellow vibe.

Greensky finishes without fanfare and a lithe young stage hand wanders out to check the mics. She picks up a couple and carrys them away. More roadies drag stuff onstage and fiddle with it. I go downstairs when I see Bill sound-checking his drumkit. Right up to the edge of the stage to try for a decent picture with my cellphone.

Never gonna happen. Not with red lighting. But at least you can see how close I was. Last time I was this close to Bill Kreutzmann was backstage at a Grateful Dead show in San Francisco.

Of the two mind-blowing Grateful Dead drummers, Mickey Hart being the other, Bill Kreutzmann always reminded me of... America.

Blue-collar, hard-working America. A powerful, driving machine. A Harley. An F250. A Mack truck pounding down the highway.

Bill leaves the stage and people mill around. There's nothing quite like the sound of milling Deadheads. Plus plenty of Phish fans in town for the Red Rocks run. I get to talking to a guy by the stage. Billy played with Phish last night, he says. Must have been quite a show, I say, and tell him I saw Phish once. Felt like they spent the whole concert getting ready to play a song. He slaps me a solid high five, we both laugh and go our separate ways. Young and old, on the same wavelength. Great energy.

I ease back up to the balcony and sit down with Shirlene. Suddenly the band takes the stage. Snap decision: Run down the stairs, into the main hall and down the middle aisle. After the first four notes I look at her and exclaim, "Lovelight!" And we're off. All the way down in front, plenty of space to either cling to the stage or drop back a few feet and dance. Astonished glances all around: Is this really happening? Could this really be HAPPENING?

The second song is very spacey and works itself around to each musician for a solo. Guy next to me asks if I can tell what song they're building up to. I listen for clues. Ballad of a Thin Man? I finally guess. Says he thinks he hears a Neil Young song coming on. But it never comes. Instead it goes off into space. "Hendrix maybe?" says me, and he just shrugs.

Turns out it must have been one of their own. An instrumental that sinks into some deep swamp funk. Papa Mali is from New Orleans and you can hear it all over the music. It's like the Nevilles and the Dead playing together. At one point I run over to Shirlene and say, He's channeling Jerry and Pigpen! She's just like me: laughs and cries at the same time. We hug and go back to dancing.

I surrender the role of smartypants song identifier and let the music play me. Smiles and tears on faces, young and old. And the look. That knowing psychedelic look that passes among people who Know What's What. Oh. My. God. I never thought I'd feel this again.

Soon comes a classic New Orleans beat. That good ole Bo Diddley beat. I can't help but think they're working their way into Not Fade Away. Instead, they launch into Aiko, then veer off into soaring, ecstatic solos that finally find their way into Not Fade Away. The bass player is a monster, with such young, fresh, clean energy. He laughs when the music sizzles and just about weeps from the sheer beauty of it when it soars.

The piano player looks like a 20-year-old Bob Dylan, with a little Leon Russell mixed in.

And he owns that keyboard. Occasionally he pulls out a harp and makes it scream and cry and call out for its mama.

I keep trying to get a good picture of him. Damn you, Samsung! Time for an upgrade. This will not do. Forget it. There's music going on here. Dance, fool, dance!

And Papa Mali, well, like I said, a mix of Jerry, Pigpen, some Nevilles, some Hendrix, some Neil Young, even some Clapton.... Just wow. With deeply funky guitar riffs and growls, and some serious, serious preaching.

You can just feel that swamp steaming up around you.

You can just feel your mind being blown.

Gone.

Then I hear the notes I'm waiting for. I lean forward on the stage and look over to Shirlene a few feet down the line and holler "RIDER!" about three times. She nods indulgently.

My song.

Big buildup.... and then

I know you, Rider, gonna miss me when I'm gone.

Everybody is maddly grinning, singing and dancing. We all know what's coming and we dance the energy higher and higher until it comes and then the whole audience shouts at the top of our voices:

I wish I was a headlight on a Northbound train!

I wish I was a headlight on a Northbound train!

I'D SHINE MY LIGHT THROUGH THE COOL COLORADO RAIN!

The place goes nuts. Old hippies, young hippies, boomers, little kids. Sheer ecstatic joy. I never thought I'd feel this way again. Washed clean with tears and laughter.

And that's just the first set. Time to head out front for a smoke and some fresh air. And to talk to the people we connected with on the dance floor. A guy in from Wisconsin who owns three funeral parlors and runs a concert production company. An artist down from New England who came to sell his stuff at the Phish concert, but got turned away by the cops before he even got out of his car. Funeral parlor guy buys three of his posters, one for each of us. Another souvenir from a serendipitous night of musical magic.

Time to go back in. I'm almost too spent to imagine a second set. Indeed, I barely remember anything about it except for a heart-wrenching yet uplifting and joyous He's Gone.

Many of us shed a tear over the passing of Jerry Garcia. It was, after all, JERRY WEEK: A term coined by the great Patti Smith to mark the time between Jerry's birthday on August 1st and his death on August 9th.

He's gone.
Nothin's gonna bring him back.
He's gone.
Gone, gone. gone.

A beautiful young man passes the peace pipe. We move to the music and celebrate Jerry to a song he poured his own heart into a hundred million times.

Then they play Death Don't Have No Mercy In This Land, a song Pigpen poured his heart into a hundred million times.

Somewhere along the way the piano player picks up a horn and turns the music into a genuine New Orleans funeral. Only thing missing is a flock of white hankies waving in the air.

Soon the energy lifts and we're all Goin Down the Road Feelin Bad. And it feels so good. The Jerry spirit is with us and we're all going down that same road together.

The band does three encores. I can't rememer the first two because the third is still stuck in my mind: Papa Mali waves all the musicians to the front of the stage for an a capella hymn:

Lay down my dear brothers, lay down and take your rest
Oh won't you lay your head upon your saviour's breast
I love you, oh but Jesus loves you best
And I bid you goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
And I bid you goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
And I bid you goodnight, goodnight, goodnight

Rest In Peace, Jerry.
WE LOVE YOU.

A MESSAGE FROM THE PRESIDENT

2009-08-05T12:06:00.000-07:00

Once again, instead of posting an original message, I am pasting in something I thought worthy of sharing. This time it's an email I just got from President Obama. I have signed on to do an event in my neighborhood, in spite of the arguments it might trigger on the home front. I really don't want to do it. But like the President says, sometimes we must chose between what's easy and what's right.

So without further ado, I give you your President and mine:

Cynthia --

This is the moment our movement was built for.

For one month, the fight for health insurance reform leaves the backrooms of Washington, D.C., and returns to communities across America. Throughout August, members of Congress are back home, where the hands they shake and the voices they hear will not belong to lobbyists, but to people like you.

Home is where we're strongest. We didn't win last year's election together at a committee hearing in D.C. We won it on the doorsteps and the phone lines, at the softball games and the town meetings, and in every part of this great country where people gather to talk about what matters most. And if you're willing to step up once again, that's exactly where we're going to win this historic campaign for the guaranteed, affordable health insurance that every American deserves.

There are those who profit from the status quo, or see this debate as a political game, and they will stop at nothing to block reform. They are filling the airwaves and the internet with outrageous falsehoods to scare people into opposing change. And some people, not surprisingly, are getting pretty nervous. So we've got to get out there, fight lies with truth, and set the record straight.

That's why Organizing for America is putting together thousands of events this month where you can reach out to neighbors, show your support, and make certain your members of Congress know that you're counting on them to act.

But these canvasses, town halls, and gatherings only make a difference if you turn up to knock on doors, share your views, and show your support. So here's what I need from you:

Can you commit to join at least one event in your community this month?

In politics, there's a rule that says when you ask people to get involved, always tell them it'll be easy. Well, let's be honest here: Passing comprehensive health insurance reform will not be easy. Every President since Harry Truman has talked about it, and the most powerful and experienced lobbyists in Washington stand in the way.

But every day we don't act, Americans watch their premiums rise three times faster than wages, small businesses and families are pushed towards bankruptcy, and 14,000 people lose their coverage entirely. The cost of inaction is simply too much for the people of this nation to bear.

So yes, fixing this crisis will not be easy. Our opponents will attack us every day for daring to try. It will require time, and hard work, and there will be days when we don't know if we have anything more to give. But there comes a moment when we all have to choose between doing what's easy, and doing what's right.

This is one of those times. And moments like this are what this movement was built for. So, are you ready?

Please commit now to taking at least one action in your community this month to build support for health insurance reform:

http://my.barackobama.com/CommitAugust

Let's seize this moment and win this historic victory for our economy, our health and our families.

Thank you,

President Barack Obama

IRAN: STOP THE CRACKDOWN

2009-06-23T15:53:00.000-07:00

This just in from MoveOn: I think it's important enough to paste it whole. It's a petition in support of the protesters in Iran. I totally agree that it has to be People not their leaders who have to stand up to the repressive regime in Iran.

Please read, sign if you are of a mind to, and forward it to anyone you think would want to sign as well.

Peace,
Cynthia

And now, here's MoveOn's message:

The situation in Iran is getting worse, with the regime using escalating violence against protesters. The regime needs to know that the world is watching and expects it to respect the protesters' human rights.

That's why I signed a petition standing with the protesters in Iran and with people all over the world in opposing the crackdown and pressuring the countries with the most influence over Iran to get involved. Can you join me in signing?

http://civ.moveon.org/irancrackdown/?r_by=16437-3279362-uLgpDnx&rc=paste

Thanks!

IT'S HAPPENING!

2009-03-13T06:06:00.000-07:00

The economy is turning around. I believe it is happening faster than we dared hope. Even though I'm in a part-time, near mimimum wage job, the day after President Obama said, ever so casually, that "now might be a good time to buy," I took that as a tip, scraped together a few bucks and bought some shares in FORD.

I believe that now is the time for ordinary citizens to take back our economy the same way we took back our country -- one share at a time. I can't afford a car but I can afford to buy shares in my favorite car company. Every day since then I've watched my stocks inch skyward a few points at a time. It's a thrill.

Just as I felt like part of the solution making phone calls and going door-to-door campaigning for Barack Obama, I now feel like part of the solution turning this economy around. I recently read that having a sense of control is (part of) the antidote to depression. Even at my miniscule level of participation, I can tell that it's true. So, if you are depressed about the depression, buy American! You'll be glad you did.

YES WE CAN AND YES WE DID

2008-12-13T15:48:00.000-08:00

You won't believe this, I told Beth. What? I just got a job. NO! Where? Borders Books at National Airport.

Our brainstorming paid off. Exactly one day after we put our heads together, I was employed.

I started this post on Saturday, December 13, but I got distracted and forgot to finish it. It's now 2:16 AM on Monday morning, January 12. I'm loving the job at Borders Books. But far more importantly, shortly after posting my previous blog I was contacted by the Presidential Inauguration Committee. I started out making calls from the call center. Then I got a call myself. I'd been chosen to be a team leader. I've been going to meetings and helping other volunteers get signed up ever since. Tomorrow morning I start training other volunteers.

I am delerious with excitement. I can barely eat, I can't sleep and I have to get up at the crack of dawn. I'm preparing to join thousands of my fellow volunteers on a journey involving many near-sleepless nights and I can tell you that every last one of us is out of our mind with joy over that prospect.

There's not a lot more I can say, for various reasons, including a level of confidentiality I've sworn to. But I can say that all of us are committed, dedicated and determined to make this event as accessible and enjoyable to as many people as humanly possible.

This is without a doubt the most exciting, and the most important, moment of my 64 years on this earth. I can hardly talk about it without weeping like a child. And I'm not the only one. Not by a long shot.

And that, dear reader, is all I have to say about it for now. I'm sure I'll have plenty later. But if you're in town, or if you're planning on coming to town for the inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States, it will be something you will remember and cherish for the rest of your born days.

IT HAS COME TO THIS

2008-12-11T14:05:00.000-08:00

I was brainstorming on the phone with Beth. There has to be some kind of job connected to the inauguration that I could snag. Anything. Of course, I've already volunteered via the Inauguration Committe website. Couldn't hurt.... Besides, there doesn't seem to be any other way to make contact with the committee. They haven't posted a link to available jobs. Or a phone number. Or a street address. Word is, they have thousands of volunteers to deal with.

The temp agencies that have kept me going since May are saying the same thing each time I call: Things are really slow right now. The Democratic Party and the Obama transition team are lost causes. I'm way too far down the food chain; way too far back in the line. Yes, I contributed a little money. And yes, I made phone calls and knocked on doors. Me and several million like me. With better resumes. Mine's interesting, I'll give me that. But it's also a little all over the place. A typically peripatetic Sagittarius, I've let my passion for adventure and love of change run my life. Now the piper is standing in the doorway with an invoice in his hand.

At another time in history, it wouldn't matter. But this is now. And things are different. We're in a depression, although the politically correct term is "recession." And we're only starting to admit we're in a recession, after about ten years of denial. President-elect Obama says it will get worse before it gets better, and just to prove his point, the auto industry bail-out just collapsed. Given that we all voted for Change and Hope, let's hope that the change includes having been in a recession for so long, we're already on our way out of it. The alternative is a severe depression. And there's no way out of that. Not in my lifetime.

It's raining hard on our nation's capitol. A fairly rare occurence. With the lights off and a single candle burning in the room, the rain on the tin roof outside my dormer window is better than music. The sky glows pink behind stark naked trees. Garlands of Christmas lights are festooned on houses across the way, toward Wisconsin Avenue. It's really very peaceful. Almost enough to make me forget the problems we face as a nation, and the problems I face as a person. At least for a moment.

Soon enough I'll be back to the job boards. Refining my searches on Monster dot com and Career Builders and The Washington Post dot com. Checking out Craig's List and USA Jobs dot gov and DC Jobs dot gov. Going though the many lists of job postings that are delivered daily to my desktop. Thinking I really need to finish my LinkedIn profile and try to get some "references" on there. Remembering that I have to give Sally a reference on FaceBook. Meanwhile my MySpace page is lying fallow. So is my Blog. What a time to run out of gas. As much as I want to come here every day and spill some clever beans, I just don't seem to be able to get from there to here. I've been blogging since before blogging was a word. I had so much to say when nobody was looking and now that the world is wide open to self-publishers, I got nothin.

Arianna Huffington was on TV the other night, talking about blogging. How it's based on the principle of "First Thought, Best Thought." That is also the premise of Gonzo Journalism, as defined by the late master of Gonzo, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. First draft journalism. Somewhere along the way I started putting too much pressure on myself. This stuff stays up here forever. It's going to be "evergreen." It's got to be perfect. It's got to say something important.

But that's not what it's about at all.

So I'm just letting it out. Whatever comes to mind. Like in the old days. When your online journal wasn't tantamount to a resume.

So there we were. Brainstorming about jobs. Everybody is either folding their tent or laying people off. NPR. Time Warner. Chicago Tribune. Even Trader Joe's is cutting back hours over the holidays. But that's more because Washington is a transitory town. Everybody is going home for the holidays. There won't be as many shoppers at TJ's, which is usually jam-packed because it's just so darn fabulous. No new hires until mid-January, even though I've had two very pleasant interviews. The Census Bureau isn't hiring until January, even though I've taken and passed the test. So back to the question at hand: Who is going to need extra help leading up to and during the inauguration? Airports. Train Station. Hotels. Restaurants. Bars. Shops along the parade route. The Newseum? Not sure if they will be open. We've heard differing reports. Besides, they just laid off a bunch of people. Pretty much everybody just laid off a bunch of people. Of course, that doesn't stop companies from hiring temps on the cheap. So who else will be hiring extra workers? Hospitals, Cabs. Caterers.

Porta-potties! It's even been on the news. How many portable toilets are going to be trucked in for 5 million people? I saw an estimate of one for every 6,500 people. One of the companies, Don's Johns, is going to supply VIP restrooms in trailers. They'll even be heated! (But they'll still stink, says she.)

"Maybe I can get a job handing out towels in a VIP porta-potty," says me.

And that's what it's come to.

Now that I think about it, the pressure to put up a decent blog post is nothing, compared to the pressure on President Obama to fix this mess we're in. There's a lot riding on his shoulders. I have faith in him and in the people he's bringing aboard. I just hope the rest of us can hang on 'til they start making things happen.

FOR WHAT DID THEY DIE?

2008-11-12T23:15:00.001-08:00

The following post came to me from Colorado Veterans for America. I hope they don't mind my posting the whole thing:

For what did they die?

By Joseph L. Galloway | McClatchy Newspapers

It is autumn, and the air is crisp and cool at night at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.

It gets very quiet at The Wall around midnight. The tourists have gone home, and are all tucked into bed.

A homeless Vietnam veteran patrols the black granite panels. He tells us that he has cancer and is having a hard time getting any benefits from the Veterans Administration. He lives in a mission that houses those who have nowhere else to go, but the doors don’t open until 11 p.m.

He sees my interest in Panel 3-East, the third panel to the east of the apex of the memorial, and he asks if I was there at the Ia Drang Valley battles that contributed 305 of the names that are on that panel. I nod, and he grows animated. "Oh, I know these guys well. Or at least I know their names." He begins calling the roll to prove it: "Henry T. Herrick, John Geoghegan, Willie Godboldt, Travis Poss, Carl Palmer, Wilbur Curry, Thomas C. Metsker . . . ."

Twenty, then 30 of the names trip off his lips. "I tell people about them when they ask."

So do I.

We slip a few bucks into his hand for something to eat and he wanders off into the night, heading for the mission and a cot where he can rest his head until 7 a.m., when he and the other homeless are shooed out to begin another day of waiting for something good, finally, to happen to them.

I hope that he lives long enough to collect some benefits and get some medical help from the VA, although given the 6- 8-month backlog in processing veterans' claims, there's no guarantee that he will.

I stand before Panel 3-East and slowly scan those names, remembering their stories, their hometowns, their wives and children, remembering, too, how and where they died and what it all means.

Did they die so that a brother veteran can die waiting in line for a little help from the nation that sent them all off to war in the prime of their youth?

Did they die so that four decades later, an American president and his cronies could start another needless war in a far-off land, a war that to date has dragged on almost as long as the one they fought in Southeast Asia?

Did they die so that wounded veterans of that war could come home to a lot of "Welcome Home" greetings and a lot of "Support Our Troops" bumper stickers, but facing the same fight that America's veterans have always faced when they try to get treatment and benefits from our Army and our Veterans Administration?

Did they die so that an administration full of draft dodgers and draft avoiders and almost bereft of anyone who ever wore a uniform or heard a shot fired in anger could prance around presenting themselves as wartime leaders?

Did they die so that 10,000 craven politicians could stand on bandstands and make speeches full of empty praise for those who protect and defend this country and make empty promises of how they guarantee that our wounded, our new veterans, will be treated better than their fathers and grandfathers were when they came home from their wars?

The men and women who wear the uniform today are, many of them, on their fourth or fifth combat tours in Afghanistan or Iraq. They and their families do all the suffering and sacrificing for the rest of us.

Meanwhile over in the Pentagon, the bean counters run their computers and come up with the good news: The economic meltdown in America, the growing ranks of the unemployed, the complete lack of work or prospect of a decent future in the rural and urban backwaters of a great nation make for a boom in enlistments in our voluntary military.

If you sign on the bottom line because you have no other alternative, no other way out of nowhereville, are you really a volunteer?

The bands will play, and the old veterans will march proudly and the politicians will run their mouths this Veterans Day, just as they do every Veterans Day.

And the 400,000 dead of World War II and the 40,000 dead of Korea and the 58,260 dead of Vietnam and the 4,500 dead of Iraq and Afghanistan will rest silent and uneasy under the modest white marble tombstones that a grateful nation has provided them free of charge.

Across town, an old and ailing veteran of one of those wars will line up tonight for a cot in a mission and wonder whether he can live long enough to collect from the bureaucrats what we owe him.

On Army posts around the nation, the battalions and brigades and divisions are either just coming home after a year or more at war while other battalions and brigades are just saying their goodbyes and heading back out on their third or fourth or fifth deployments.

"Where have all the flowers gone?
Gone for soldiers, every one.
When will they ever learn?"

Sent to you by Colorado Veterans for America
1437 S. Lewiston
Aurora, CO 80017
720-296-1936

THE ROAR

2008-11-06T05:16:00.000-08:00

It was electrifying. My whole body tingled and I could feel my eyes widen with disbelief. But it was true. Barack Obama had just been declared the 44th President of the United States.

Giant TV screens surrounded the huge ballroom at the Mayflower Hotel. Each was tuned to a different station and each station was announcing the same amazing truth:

Barack Obama is the next President of the United States.

It really happened. It's a new world. A new dawn and a new day. Like a mantra, those words kept running through my mind.

Every few seconds the words flashed on a different screen: Barack Obama has been elected the 44th President of the United States, and the roar went up again. I was hugging and high-fiving strangers in all directions. Everybody was hugging and high-fiving; dancing and clapping and waving their arms in the air.

Every time I tried to take a picture with my cellcam an incoming text message knocked it out of the box before I could save it.

Glenn: Obama takes Virginia... Prez.
Mary: Is. This. Happening?
Christina: Yes we can!
Shirlene: Byebye Bushie.
Christina: Nevada went Blue!
Glenn: Biblical.
Obama: We just made history. All of this happened because you gave your time, talent and passion to this campaign. All of this happened because of you. Barack.

The circuits were busy. I couldn't call anyone to let them hear the joyful racket. So I just looked around in amazement. All the happy faces. Smiles and tears everywhere. Larger than life on the TV screens. People waving at us from Grant Park in Chicago. Us waving back. People in Kenya dancing, rejoicing.

I took some more pictures but my Samsung Gleam takes the worst pictures of any cellphone I've ever owned, and I’ve owned a few. I knew I wouldn't be able to capture the magic of the moment, but I had to at least try.

Suddenly the TV screens showed McCain heading for the stage, followed by the ever-exquisitely dressed Cindy. A concession? So soon? It was just past eleven and the polls in California had barely closed. Everyone in the room applauded him. Nobody booed. This moment was much too big for smallness.

“My friends,” he said, and I breathed a sigh of relief at not having to hear that phrase many more times. But he did a nice job. He was very generous. I got the distinct feeling he was actually relieved.

When Obama came to make his acceptance speech, it was almost too much. The crowd in Chicago was gigantic. Everyone was beyond happy. McCain could never have created this much happiness had he won. Nobody could. This was huge and everybody knew it.

Biblical, said Glenn. And it was.

WHERE IT'S AT

2008-11-03T12:33:00.001-08:00

PS Sorry about the last shot. My phonecam malfunctioned. But these are the states, as I see it, that will put Obama over the top.

God bless us one and all.

MEMORY LANE

2008-10-19T19:53:00.001-07:00

I started a post last night entitled We're So Screwed, after watching Saturday Night Live. I meant to talk about what a terrifyingly good job Sarah Palin did on the show. She really gives good TV. Which scares the pants off of me. But instead of finishing my post, I fell asleep. After I woke up on the couch I trundled up the stairs to my little room and that was it for the night.

I'm on vacation. We're staying in a cottage in St. Leonard, on the Chesapeake Bay. Haven't actually seen much of St. Leonard. We've only been down to the corner market for a few vittles and walked along the shore. Otherwise my friend and I haven't been out of the house. We haven't seen each other in fifty years. She flew in from London yesterday.

Fifty years. That's a long time. She brought a little stack of brownish photos from boarding school in Switzerland. I was startled to see how young we looked. I mean, I knew we'd been 12 to 15 years old when we were there, but I didn't feel like a kid back then and neither did she. We'd seen some things. Experienced some things, I suppose, that made us feel grown up. Not the least of which was traveling all over Europe by ourselves. It never occured to me at the time that at twelve and thirteen I was, we were, little girls.

We were trouble, just the same. Trouble in an English boarding school tucked high in the Swiss Alps in the late '50s may be small potatoes compared to the shit kids are getting into nowadays, but we held up our end of the stick, outlaw-wise, as best we could. We even had to sign the Black Book. Something we all took giddy pride in. All of us who were at the infamous Midnight Feast.

Looking at those pictures, though, at those little faces, those purposely rumpled brown uniforms, scraggly striped ties, pony tails and bangs, was a bit of an eye-opener.

We spent the day remembering little things. The oddball choices of treats we would buy ourselves on the weekends. Condensed milk and sardines. Marmite and lemon curd. Merengues and black cherry jam. Not necessarily in that order, but often at the same sitting. Certainly at the Midnight Feast.

She's upstairs now, floating around after a lovely bath. I'm downstairs on the house broadband, candles lit all around the room, space music on the cable TV. I have to say I feel a bit rejuvenated. Just as I never knew how young I was, I'd have to say
now that I have no sense of how old I am. I don't feel at all old. I feel as if I could look in a mirror and see that scraggly tie and rumpled uniform and that innocent little face.

I guess the revelation is that I've always just felt like me. I'm exactly the same person I always was. There's something quite comforting in that.

OCTOBER SURPRISE: BIN LADEN?

2008-06-15T11:10:00.000-07:00

I've been saying it privately for years. Now I'll say it in public:

I predict Osama bin Ladin will be captured before the November election.

Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if we already had him in custody somewhere, sitting around eating bon-bons, waiting to be trotted into the studio to make another phony recording every time that lying, murdering traitor in the White House needs a distracting headline.

And when it looks like Senator Obama is about to leave Senator McCain in the dust, still trying to win the war in Vietnam, they will trot him out again -- dust-caked and in chains -- and declare victory in the War on Terra.

Maybe they'll even "find" him in Iraq.

Call me a conspiracy theorist. My friends do. But remember where you heard it first. Because you will definitely hear it again. Of that I have no doubt.

A MESSAGE FROM HILLARY

2008-06-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

I think the following message is a perfect example of the person Hillary Clinton has become over the past 16 months. I've always liked her and I grew to love her over the course of this campaign. She has grown spiritually as well as politically, as evidenced by her message. I know she will fight as hard to elect President Obama as she fought for the nomination.

There is more to say, and I'm sure I'll say it in time, but for now I just want to return Hillary's favor and thank her for the inspiration she has given me by her amazing strength and resiliance.

Something happened to her over the course of the campaign and you could see it in her face. I don't care if it's anti-feminist to say that she became increasingly beautiful over the course of the campaign. She never showed the effects of a physically grueling schedule. She never seemed tired or frazzled. She never looked defeated. Instead, she looked (dare I say it?) beatified. She has had a glow about her over the past six months or so that I found truly amazing, uplifting and heart-warming. I believe she made her peace with whatever the outcome would be long ago. I hope all her supporters will be able to draw from her strengh; her peace of mind. I know I have.

So, thank you, Hillary. You are a true inspiration and we Democrats are damn lucky to have you.

Finally, I want to congratulate you on your absolutely fabulous daughter. Chelsea has blossomed into a lovely, energetic, sympathetic and impressive person in her own right. We are lucky to have her, as well.

Thank you, God bless you and now let us all move forward together as a unified Democratic party.

And with that, here is Hillary's message:

Dear Cynthia,

I wanted you to be one of the first to know: on Saturday, I will hold an event in Washington D.C. to thank everyone who has supported my campaign. Over the course of the last 16 months, I have been privileged and touched to witness the incredible dedication and sacrifice of so many people working for our campaign. Every minute you put into helping us win, every dollar you gave to keep up the fight meant more to me than I can ever possibly tell you.

On Saturday, I will extend my congratulations to Senator Obama and my support for his candidacy. This has been a long and hard-fought campaign, but as I have always said, my differences with Senator Obama are small compared to the differences we have with Senator McCain and the Republicans.

I have said throughout the campaign that I would strongly support Senator Obama if he were the Democratic Party's nominee, and I intend to deliver on that promise.

When I decided to run for president, I knew exactly why I was getting into this race: to work hard every day for the millions of Americans who need a voice in the White House.

I made you -- and everyone who supported me -- a promise: to stand up for our shared values and to never back down. I'm going to keep that promise today, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life.

I will be speaking on Saturday about how together we can rally the party behind Senator Obama. The stakes are too high and the task before us too important to do otherwise.

I know as I continue my lifelong work for a stronger America and a better world, I will turn to you for the support, the strength, and the commitment that you have shown me in the past 16 months. And I will always keep faith with the issues and causes that are important to you.

In the past few days, you have shown that support once again with hundreds of thousands of messages to the campaign, and again, I am touched by your thoughtfulness and kindness.

I can never possibly express my gratitude, so let me say simply, thank you.

Sincerely,
Hillary

TODAY THE TIDE TURNS

2008-05-20T05:27:00.000-07:00

Today's two primaries will give Barack Obama the Democratic nomination for President. All my doubt, and there wasn't much, was obliterated by this video of Obama's record-breaking crowd of 75,000 in Portland, Oregon.

Hillary may get a big win in Kentucky, but the hog is in the tunnel. It doesn't take a genius -- or even CNN's delegate calculator -- to predict Obama will win Oregon by a huge margin.

According to conventional wisdom, he will win enough delegates today to reach critical mass. That should loosen up a good many super- delegates, especially the ones whose states have gone for Obama already. Those from states Hillary won may have to wait for the convention out of respect for her supporters in those states. But as far as I'm concerned, it's a done deal.

I could not be more excited. For a long time I've held back my support for Obama out of loyalty to Hillary. Her comments in West Virginia took me off the hook. Whether they were racist in intent -- "hard working voters, white voters" -- that's the way they came out.

She should not have played that card. By playing it she gave me and, I imagine, many others who have stuck by her out of loyalty, a reason to get off the bus.

To be sure, Hillary has achieved an historical victory. From now on, American girls will grow up thinking they can be President. Even if she doesn't win the nomination, she has smashed the big glass ceiling. For that we all owe her a great deal of gratitude. We should thank her -- over and over.

Meanwhile, I've come to agree with those who say she should not be Obama's running mate. You've heard a hundred reasons, but the most important one, in my book, is we need her in the Senate. We don't just need to take back the Presidency. We need the House and Senate (not to mention the Supreme Court, but we'll get to that later). Her experience and seniority as a Senator will be essential to the changes an Obama presidency promises. And he needs to start fresh. We all do.

The polls have opened. Let us watch history unfold.

LIGHT AT END OF TUNNEL

2008-05-10T20:37:00.000-07:00

I don't know why people are complaining about the Democratic nomination process taking so long. It's working just fine.

And I see no reason for Hillary to surrender. She has inspired a world full of little girls who now think a woman can become President of the United States. What kind of example would it set if she threw in the towel? She can't do that. But she did lay out the formula for her exit from the race: She said she would end her campaign when there is a nominee. And there will be one. Barack Obama will soon be the Democratic nominee. But he needs to win it. He doesn't need it handed to him by Hillary Clinton. And that's what's going on in front of us right now. Every few days a dribble of "super delegates" comes out for Obama. Nine for him; one for her. The pattern has been set. She'll win West Virginia and he'll win Oregon. And so it will go until there is a nominee. It will only take a few more weeks. Then she can lose with honor. Surrender is not an option.

Meanwhile, the primary process is doing exactly what the Democratic Party intended for it to do: It has made every state count. Not so very long ago, the whole thing was a fait accompli by the end of the New Hampshire primary. Back then, Iowa and New Hampshire decided who the Democratic nominee would be. Super Tuesday nailed it down. And the rest of us voted impotently. California was one of the last states to weigh in. Imagine what would have happened in 2004 if California went first. Kucinich and Dean would have made very respectable showings and set the agenda for the rest of the country.

At every national convention, the party sets the rules for the next election. Four years ago the Democratic Party came up with a set of primary rules that would ensure every state is heard and every vote counts. Michigan and Florida broke the rules by holding their primaries too soon and in that way actually helped educate the country on the way the system works, although at a great cost to their voters.

Personally, I'd say that Florida should count because Obama and Clinton were both on the ballot. In Michigan only Clinton was on the ballot and I don't think those votes should count. This is a problem because it disenfranchises the voters at home. Their issue is with their state party, not the candidates. The solution at the convention is to seat the Michigan delegates, disqualify them from the first round of voting and then let them vote on everything else, including the rules for the next election. And let this be a lesson to them: A) don't break the rules, and B) you no longer have to vote first to have your vote count.

This time around, almost every state has been, for a while, THE state. Each state has enjoyed the spotlight and had their economy benefit from the onslaught of media and politicos in the last weeks of the campaign. Restaurants, bars, hotels, car rentals, grocery stores and other local businesses all got a jolt of cash when the campaign came to town. We all got to see how the recession was affecting people in other states with different economic bases – whether it was the flight of jobs overseas or the closing of manufacturing plants or the devastation of natural disasters, we got to know our fellow citizens and the issues that affect their daily lives.

And we got to see how the candidates handled the grueling day-to-day pummeling of the campaign trail. Even died-in-the-wool Hillary haters are begrudgingly admitting she is a hell of a fighter. Isn't that a better example to set for little girls everywhere than meekly stepping aside because the Old Boys say so?

So let's stop with the hand-wringing and start preparing to support our nominee with everything we've got. It's going to be the battle of our lives.

4/20 IN GOLDEN GATE PARK

2008-05-04T09:09:00.000-07:00

April 20, San Francisco

The directions were simple:

“Walk into the park and look for the hippies.”

After devoting almost an hour to the Parking Goddess, we did just that. It was only two downhill blocks into the park. As soon as we penetrated the tree-lined perimiter, we found the hippies. A good thirty-five thousand of them, doing what they do best: enjoying a beautiful day in the park.

White peaked tents were arranged at the back of the crowd. We found Dennis manning the Media tent. Hugs and greetings all around. Been a while. Susana introduced me to their friends, Arden and Phil. Then Dennis presented us with Media Credentials, a rare privilege for this humble reporter. Big chartreuse cloth patches with white lettering: Green Apple Festival. Produced in concert with earthdaynetwork. We peeled off the backing and stuck them on our jeans.

Susana headed straight for the stage while I eased my way along the Northern edge of the happy throng of still-happening hippies.

Onstage, Dan Hicks was deeply engrossed in a spacey, jazzy rendition of “I Scare Myself.”

And his Licks were as Hot as ever.

Next up, the Green Apple String Band, featuring Ben Kaufmann from Yonder Mountain String Band and Michael Kang from The String Cheese Incident.

I wandered backstage and ran into Susana. She grabbed my arm and said, “Barlow’s here. I told him you were here... There he is,” pointing toward the backstage lawn at a man with close-cropped gray hair and a vibrant teal scarf.

I hollered out, “Barlow!” He turned and I ran over. He smiled like he remembered me but I re-introduced myself just in case. Then I told him, “I just re-read your last trip with Timothy Leary.” I put my hand on my heart and looked into his baby-blues. He took a stage bow and said, “Just trying to give Death a better name.”

We wandered off in different directions, me wondering how Susana knew I needed to talk to him when I didn't know myself. But there are no coincidences. We're all bozos on this bus.

I ran into Jonathan from Cellspace in full puppet costume as a Little Green Man. I shook his little green hand and gave him a hug. We visited for a minute and then he said he had to go shoot something that was about to come through the back gate. I left him to his mission and walked back towards where he'd pointed, past the band and crew catering tents and a row of pristine porta-potties. There was a bunch of rapper-looking dudes gathered behind the chain link fence. The gate swung open and they walked through. One of them had on a T-Shirt that said “Green: the new black.”

A camera crew walked backwards, filming their entrance. I heard one of them pointedly say “Earth Day.” I kept on walking towards the back of the stage when the director called “cut” and sent the rappers back to the gate for a re-take, this time saying “Green Apple Festival.”

Later, on the media platform, stage right, I was standing near Susana when Phil pointed to a group of badass-looking dudes gathered on the backstage field and said, “There’s Tommy Lee’s entourage.” I asked him about the rapper and he said it was Ludacris.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Tommy Lee walking over to Wavy Gravy and pointed out the scene to Susana: tattooed heavy metal rocker approaching tie-dyed hippy clown. The woman can move. In mere seconds she scrambled off the platform, scooted across the lawn and circumnavigated the growing crowd around the odd couple of cultural icons, into position for a great shot.

Note to reader: click on each photo to see even more great shots by Susana Millman.

Soon Wavy went onstage to entertain the crowd while the main act set up: Mickey Hart's "Mass Drums" with special guest Bob Weir of Grateful Dead and RatDog fame and featuring Motley Crue's Tommy Lee on drums. Indeed, a hoarde of drums was gathering onstage.

Woah. Suddenly I found myself pressed against the platform railing and held in place by a big strapping man. I did an awkward 180 within his grasp to find Ludacris’ crew had assembled behind me while I was trying to get a decent shot of Mickey and Bobby with my cellphone. Somebody pointed to the platform steps and up popped Ludacris in a blue hoody, followed by the rest of his entourage.

I asked my friendly captor who the guy in stripes was. Just somebody in Ludacris’ posse, he said. Pointing down towards the backstage field at the group of skinny white guys in tight jeans and black T-shirts, he added, “You got Tommy Lee’s posse. You gotta have Ludacris’ posse.” "Oh," says me. “I guess that must be Mickey’s posse,” pointing in the general direction of the stage.

“We want to change the world and have fun doing it,” intoned Wavy, sitting in a rocking chair onstage with a giant fish in his lap. “We are all the same person trying to shake hands with ourself.”

Down on the backstage field, Tommy Lee was playing football with a guy in a carrot suit.

Somebody from Ludacris’ posse said, “Keep rollin’ on this,” and the gaggle of rappers moved across the platform to the front, trailed by cameras and crew. It turns out that Ludacris and Tommy Lee are doing a reality TV show about whose posse is greenest.

“Don’t get up in his face,” posse guy tells me when I take a shot of Ludacris with my cellphone.

OK, I grinned, thoroughly enjoying the anomaly.

More drummers clambered onstage. Giant dreds, giant drums. Mickey's posse, en masse.

Suddenly Mickey and Bobby moved to center stage.

Mickey took the mic. “We’re glad to be here – in the place where we started.”

The crowd errupted in a pandemonium of sheer joy.

“Take this feeling home with you and DO something with it,” hollered Mickey.

And with that they launched into a sweet “Blackbird,” followed by “Peggy-O.” From there they swung into “Friend of the Devil” and began to stretch out.

I looked out over the crowd, saw little puffs of smoke here and there, and it dawned on me: The doors of perception are indeed wide open. You don't have to get high to be high. Take this feeling home and do something with it.

A new song began to take shape around a classic Bo Diddley beat. Sounded like “Not Fade Away,” but noodled around for a long time and my mind wandered with it. Joan Baez had materialized onstage. The music was building. The beat was building. The crowd was building. I abandoned all efforts to get a good picture of Mickey and Tommy Lee with my little phone cam. No zoom. Just can’t get the shot. Better to surrender to the music.

Onstage: Mickey, Bobby, Tommy Lee, Ben Kaufmann, Michael Kang, Wavy Gravy and Joan Baez and a thundering mass of drums.

People filled the stage all the way to the back. Musicians, crew, family and friends -- all part of a giant Earth Day drum circle.

The crowd was definitely picking up on the gathering song. Tentatively they began to add their voices to the rhythm of the drums:

Love is love and not fade away...

Love is love and not fade away...

The song solidified and the crowd became more confident.

Love is love and not fade away.

Love is love and not fade away.

Bobby stepped up to the mic and shouted out, “I’m gonna tell ya how it’s gonna be!”

The crowd roared back: YOU’RE GONNA GIVE YOUR LOVE TO ME!

Everybody clapped and sang as one and the song finally came together with full force. Everybody was part of the music. Everybody was part of the feeling.

What a vision: Mickey Hart and Tommy Lee pounding on their big drums, side by side, looking like twins: skinny, wiry, dark, bird-like, cat-like, grinning from ear to ear, pounding their drums in perfect unison. The energy was clean and pure.

Perfect for changing the world and having fun doing it.

Many thanks to Susana Millman and Dennis McNally for a beautiful day in the park. As a parting shot, here is Mickey grinning over at Dennis -- a view from the Media platform, albeit via cellcam. Thank you my friends. I definitely took the feeling home with me.

CAMPAIGN TRAIL 2008

2008-03-12T17:30:00.000-07:00

You don't have to be against one Democratic presidential candidate to support the other. I support Hillary Clinton AND Barack Obama. Either one of them represents a dream-come-true. The irony of this election is that after 8 years of a George Bush nightmare, we now have to chose between two dreams.

It's a painful situation. It's a difficult choice. It threatens to come between friends and family members. It could tear the Democratic party apart and hand the White House to John McCain. We can't have this. This is not our dream. This is doing our opponent's work for him.

Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama are both qualified for the job. On day one. Each would bring something different to the Oval Office. That's what the choice comes down to. It could be worse. And it has been, for eight long years.

We have to remember that we're on the same side. We're going to need all of us in November. We can't afford to lose the energy and enthusiasm of any of the new people each candidate has brought into the process. We are all going to have to get along.

I have been a Hillary supporter for years, as you will see in some of my other posts. She still remains my first choice. But if Obama wins the nomination, I stand ready to support him with all my heart. Deep down inside, there are times when I'd just like to get it over with so we can all get on with it.

I decided to check out both campaigns "on the ground." Maybe that would reveal something. I took some shots with my new phonecam (I have yet to master the thing).

Before I sit down to write my impressions of each candidate based on working alongside their people, I'd like to share some images. My point, even without words, is that we are all just people here. And we're all Democrats. We're in this together. And we have to win in November. As my friend Beth said the other day, "Think Supreme Court."

D.C. PRIMARY DAY WITH THE OBAMA CAMPAIGN AND
TEXAS PRIMARY-CAUCUS DAY AT HILLARY HQ

WORDS TO FOLLOW...

HEAD OVER HEELS OVER HILL

2008-03-04T06:58:00.000-08:00

Today I'm going over to Hillary HQ to make some calls into Ohio and Texas. The more I think about drinking the Kool-Aide and going for that Fabulous Obama Feeling, the more my heart tells me to stick with Hillary. Her Saturday Night Live appearance clinched it. One, Tina Fey is one of my super heroes. A FUNNY WOMAN. My whole life, funny women have been my salvation. All my best friends are funny as hell. I LOVE FUNNY WOMEN. And what a revelation. Hillary Clinton is a funny woman! She GETS funny women. She's not afraid to laugh at herself.

Set aside for a minute the fact that she's a super-wonk, with a preternatural grasp of policy details. She also has a sweet sense of humor. Not only would I feel more than secure with her at the helm, I would feel happy. How silly of me to want that. But I do. With all my heart. So today I'm setting aside a mountain of deadlines and heading over the bridge to Virginia. Why stop believing in miracles now? It's gone way beyond politics. At this point the feeling I have in my heart for Hillary Rodham Clinton is love, pure and simple. I love her and I want her to be MY President.

But before I post this little love letter I want to tell you one more reason I support her. It's because of the people who hate her. My father was a spy. When he died, most of his friends were retired CIA agents. Crusty old coots, with a world of hate in their hearts. After my dad died, I went to McDonald's in McLean, Virginia, where a gaggle of old spooks go every morning for breakfast. I asked to join them for a goodbye breakfast, knowing I'd never have a reason to see them again. There was no love lost among us, although I had a modicum of respect for them as my father's colleagues.

As I left the table to go get my breakfast I heard one of them say behind my back, I wonder if SHE inhales. I went back with my food and listened to them grouse about "Billary." They hated her guts. They hated her because she was a feminist. They hated her most of all because she included her maiden name in her married name. The "Rodham" part made them absolutely livid. They hated Bill because of Hillary. They hated him because she was a feminist. I was dumstruck by the visceral quality of their hatred. It had no basis in anything but mysogeny. It was clear to me how much these cold war relics hated women and I secretly reveled in the fact that I would have the last revenge: I would outlive the bastards.

I said my farewells as I stood up to go. Just before I turned to leave I said to them, "Oh, and don't forget to inhale. Or you'll DIE."

I left there a confirmed supporter of Hillary Clinton. I love her for the way she makes me feel and I love her even more for the way she makes a bunch of mysogynistic old sons of bitches feel.

More power to Hillary RODHAM Clinton.

And my deepest thanks to Tina Fey and Amy Poehler and the rest of the good people at SNL for waking up the world to the fact that the media, especially Campbell Brown, who should know better, are on a par with a bunch of woman-hating cold-war relics. At last, at this eleventh hour, they're acting more like journalists and less like pathetic, starstruck celebrity worshippers.

Vote for Hillary and don't forget to inhale.

**************

A footnote, if I may. Yesterday, knowing she'd just had hand surgery and probably wasn't going to be posting to her blog for a while, I told my Pal Sal that she was welcome to post the above rant. She did. Here's the link.

DREAM MAKER DREAM BREAKER

2008-01-28T04:19:00.000-08:00

Caroline Kennedy's endorsement of Barack Obama has blown my mind.

That, combined with Bill Clinton's unfortunate tone in the past week or two has forced me to re-think my position. It has brought back memories of more than the economic stability of the Clinton administration. It brings back memories of shame and degradation. We don't need to go back to that. Not for a minute.

And the excitement the Obama people got to feel in South Carolina after delivering such a decisive win to their candidate? I wouldn't take that away from anyone. And I wouldn't want the Democratic party to be without it in November.

So I'm really torn. As a died-in-the-wool feminist, I want to see Hillary win. As a boomer facing an uncertain (at best) economic future, I want to see the Clinton magic go to work on our bottom line. But as an American who has lost the ability to dream, I want that precious, ephemeral feeling back.

Underhanded tactics, playing the race card to make Obama the "black" candidate, all the things that undermine unity and mutual respect at the top, are dream breakers. And Caroline Kennedy's unprecedented support of Obama has ensured that this election is now more about restoring our ability to dream, our ability to believe in ourselves -- than it is about anything else.

And I don't know, at this point, if Senator Clinton can do that with the baggage she's lugging around.

I'd be heart broken by this realization if it weren't for the joy I saw on the faces of Obama's supporters in South Carolina. That's the energy we need to win in November and to restore the American Dream.

I haven't switched over to Obama. But if I do it will have a lot to do with Bill Clinton acting like he has to jump up and rescue the Little Woman in order to save his legacy. In this manner, Bill Clinton is making it impossible to vote for his wife -- as a feminist. I haven't felt that kind of resentment over a man trying to "help" a woman in a long time. It reminds me of the horrible, angry years when we feminists resented men for so much as opening a car door for us. But Bill's kind of "help" is definitely something we don't need right now.

Thanks anyway, Bill. I'll open my own damn door. If you would just PLEASE get the hell out of the way.

CHANGE I CAN BELIEVE IN

2008-01-11T16:31:00.000-08:00

I just got an email from Obama. It starts out, "Hi, Cynthia..."

I haven't read it yet but I glanced at it wondering how he got my email address. I didn't sign up for his campaign.

Then I noticed a reference to John Kerry's recent endorsement and realized that Kerry must have given him his list with the endorsement.

I supported Kerry in 2004 but was hugely disappointed in his failure to fight back when attacked by the Swiftboat brigade or whateverthehell they called themselves. Then I was further disappointed that his campaign downgraded Colorado from swing state to red state and the Boulder County Democrats didn't receive the infusion of money and campaign materials a swing state would get.

Colorado turned blue from top to bottom without his help, but he lost the state. Then I found out he didn't even spend all his campaign money. He kept millions to form the little outfit that has been periodically emailing his irrelevant opinions to me ever since. Now he's given me to Obama.

Well I'm for Hillary. More so every day. Obama is a lovely man. A tremendously talented speaker. I like his talk about change. But today I caught a glimpse of George W. Bush in the Middle East, surrounded by Middle Eastern leaders. Naturally, it was a bunch of men in suits. It occured to me that if Obama were in the middle of that group, in George Bush's place, it would still be a bunch of men in suits.

The change I want is a woman in that place. I want to see Hillary Clinton in that place.

Anything else will be more of the same.

DON'T TOUCH ME THERE

2007-12-22T15:17:00.000-08:00

I'm watching Hillary on CNN, campaigning in New Hampshire with her mother and daughter on stage with her -- appealing to women voters. She says she recently asked her mother when you get to stop worrying about your children. Her mother says, "Oh, I worry about you every day."

It suddenly smacks me in the face: this is what the Presidency of the United States could look like and tears start rolling down my face.

And it dawns on me why I'm still "undecided" at this late stage of the game. It's not just that I really and truly like every single one of the Democratic candidates and would be over the moon with any of them, or any combination of two of them, in the White House. Obama is fabulous. And he'd be a fabulous president. Incredibly exciting. Edwards won me over by focusing on poverty and corporate greed. That he announced his candidacy in flood- and FEMA-ravaged New Orleans really hammered it home. Biden is terrific and if he doesn't win the presidency, he would make a great Secretary of State. They would all make excellent cabinet-level appointees. I love Dodd. Maybe it's the New England accent that makes me feel so warm and fuzzy when he speaks. I was born in Boston. Hearing him tell it straight from the heart, with that wonderful New England accent, takes me back to my childhood. It also reminds me of President Kennedy.

And that brings me 'round to why I've been holding back my full-on support of Hillary Clinton. I'm obviously trying to protect myself from grief. I just plain don't dare believe. I've lost my nerve. Maybe subliminally I think my support is the kiss of death, given that I worked on the presidential campaigns of Hubert H. Humphrey in '68 and Edmund S. Muskie in '72. They both lost to Nixon. In 2004 I voted for Dennis Kucinich in the primary and worked for John Kerry in the general election. My only winning campaign was Jimmy Carter in '76 -- the exception that proves the rule.

So when media reports of Hillary's inevitability started pouring in, I feared she was doomed. Muskie was the frontrunner in 1972, annointed by The Media in '68 when he was Hubert Humphrey's running mate. He impressed them at a campaign event. ONE campaign event. It was the height of the Vietnam war and the days of rage were upon us. Muskie was talking to a group of students, I forget exactly where, when a kid in the back of the room started shouting him down. Instead of losing his cool, Muskie invited the kid up on stage to say his piece. Then he quietly asked to be shown the same respect.

In that instant, the Democratic frontrunner for the 1972 presidential campaign was Chosen. The fear and loathing came later. But that is indeed another story.

Obviously my fears for Hillary were well-founded. As we get closer to Iowa caucus day, Clinton and Obama are neck-and-neck. Edwards, who has been organizing there since 2004, is breathing down their necks. Behind them are Richardson, Biden, Dodd and Kucinich. I forgot to mention that I like Richardson, too. I like him best as Hillary's running mate. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The point is: what happens if there is no clear winner in Iowa after the first vote?

Any candidate with less than 15% is declared non-viable and his or her caucus-goers are free to throw their support behind one of the viable candidates. A representative from each of the viable candidates goes around the room and makes a pitch to the non-viable candidates' supporters. After all the pitches, unattached caucus-goers move across the room and physically stand with their new candidate's people. Delegates to the county conventions -- the next level in the process of delegate selection -- are assigned in proportion to the number of people each candidate winds up with.

This little drama unfolds in 1,784 precincts across the state of Iowa. Seventeen hundred and eighty-four "gatherings of neighbors" in school cafeterias and community centers all across the state. The outcome may well determine our next president.

I've heard Edwards is everybody's second choice. But there are 23 days before the Iowa caucuses. Anything can happen. I'm for Hillary. Definitely. But until the last vote is counted I dare not get excited. Not even a little bit.

INVISIBLE CHILDREN

2007-05-20T14:36:00.000-07:00

The directions said to click the red X on the map of the USA nearest where I live. Since I'd just moved to the Pacific Northwest, that would be Seattle.

"Check-in at 3 PM. Bring cardboard enough for a tent, a sleeping bag, a 1.5 litre bottle of water with airtight seal, one sealed box of Saltine crackers, and a current photo of yourself in a white T-shirt with a red X on the front."

2 PM, April 28, 2007. Done and done. The cardboard, the crackers, the water, the sleeping bag and the T-Shirt with the X. Everything but the photo, which I figured would happen once I got there.

And there I was. Magnuson Park, 7400 Sand Pointe Way, on the shore of Lake Washington. After locating the designated parking area I hiked down the road, following hand-made signs.
Along the way I was greeted by young event organizers in red T-shirts with big white Xs on the front. They all smiled and waved and thanked me for coming. I thanked them for reactivating an old hippie. I expected there would be many of us here today, camping out in solidarity with the orphans of Northern Uganda, displaced by war and disease.

I was here to experience life in a displacement camp as fully as possible. At the same time I wanted to be aware of all the things I take for granted that they don't have in Northern Uganda.

The road was surrounded on both sides by forest. Walking along, it occurred to me that those orphans were not free to walk down the road, calling out friendly greetings to anyone they saw. They would be creeping through the woods, trying to stay out of sight of rebel soldiers for fear of being beaten, killed or abducted and turned into killers. They would be hiding in the forest, except they have no forest to hide in.

I arrived early. The registration process was still being worked out. After a moment of confusion, a young woman jumped forward and said, "I would be happy to sign you in." She printed my name on a form. I signed it and added my email address. She put a white plastic bracelet printed with red Xs on my left wrist and then it was time to take my picture. Another young volunteer printed my name on a little white board which I held up, along with my crackers and water, against my white T shirt with the red X. Thus, I joined the Banditos for Peace. Somebody had a sign that said, Every war has an end. Today we were trying to end war in Uganda.

I walked over to the designated area to donate my crackers and water to the "relief workers." They would be distributed back to us later.

I found a grassy spot, put my stuff down and sat, looking across a green lawn sloping to the lake, a condo-strewn shoreline across the water and snow-capped mountains rising behind them.

After a few minutes I unrolled my eleven-dollar camo sleeping bag. I had a couple of cardboard boxes that I'd pulled out of a dumpster behind Cafe Bertolino in Tacoma, but no duct tape. I lay out my sleeping bag with the head inside an open box and stashed my backpack behind my pillow, inside the box.

Pretty rudimentary, but I had to give myself credit for just showing up, considering my sense of isolation and alienation, living in a new town where I didn't know anybody.

I lay down on top of the sleeping bag with my head inside the box. The side flaps helped stabilize the box. After I adjusted the top flap to keep the sun out of my eyes, an amazing sense of well-being washed over me. I lay there soaking up sunshine and listening to the sound of people setting up all around, laughing, talking and pulling tape off dispensers. And I thought to myself, They don't have any of this.

A girl on a cell phone walked by and exclaimed, "There you are! Look up! I’m coming to help with the water."

They certainly don’t have that.

“Anyone have sunscreen?” a young man inquired over the loudspeaker. Someone hollered from across the park and the connection was made. "Sharing and caring, people…. Thank you."

Sunscreen. Bullhorns. Sharing and caring. We really don't know how lucky we are.

A cardboard city had risen up around me. Mostly kids. I wondered, Where are my people? Where is my generation?

A guy my age came walking by fast, talking angrily on a cellphone. He suddenly saw me and said into the phone, "Oh I just found someone my age. One person." He stormed away, leaving me with that disturbing question: Where are my people?

Another guy my age spotted me and stopped by. He confessed that he was living large: He didn’t know about the cardboard and brought a tent. Lives in the Central District. Brings in about sixty bucks a month. Gets his rent in exchange for helping the homeowner. Heads over to help with the water.

By now people my age had begun to single each other out. "I’m so glad to see someone from my generation," exclaimed Katya, a photographer with a crown of dreadlocks. She hadn’t come prepared to sleep over. I had an extra box that I had yet to press into service but I didn’t want to give it up. Note to self: you are a selfish bastard. Self: I gotta do what I gotta do.

Somewhere in this process I began to realize I was going to have to take care of myself.

Sporadic bursts of Yay! and Woooo! from the volunteers at the registration tables. "They’re very excitable," commented an Indian woman, setting up next to me. Her name was Tisara and she too was looking for her people. Giving up on finding them in this crowd, she decided to settle where she was and lay down her cardboard. She announced that she didn’t bring duct tape and some kids building a nearby walled compound offered her theirs.

"Nice head box," a kid commented as he walked by. I laughed and felt my isolation crack ever so slightly.

Eventually I forced myself to get up and walk around. The park was large and so was the crowd. I strolled across several sections of lawn, all festooned with graffiti-covered cardboard structures, as well as a couple of big white tents with fantasy-like white peaks.

They definitely don’t have the party tents in Uganda. Or crowds of teenagers inside them, hand-writing letters to politicians.

"Hey Dad!" a girl called out as I wandered through the burgeoning displacement camp along the banks of Lake Washington. Looking around, I noticed there weren't that many parents. It was mostly kids. Again I wondered where the rest of the boomers were. These kids' parents had to be a lot younger than me.

After checking out all the encampments and decorations, I wandered back to my headbox. It wasn't that easy to spot any more. The landscape had changed as whole cardboard communities had sprung up. After spotting a few original landmarks -- a bike, a bit of yellow plastic tape -- I found my humble home and kicked back.

"Where’d you get that T-shirt?" I called out to a lovely young blonde in a black invisible children T-shirt with the Seattle skyline stenciled along the bottom in white. "Hold on," she held up an index finger to me as she followed somebody through the crowd and disappeared. Minutes later she reappeared and told me, "We’re not really supposed to be selling these yet, so keep it on the downlow." I eased back on my sleeping bag. "What size?" she asked. "Medium." Actually, come with me, she said, and led me to a couple of guys standing around a car with the trunk open. Only one medium left. I snagged it for twelve bucks.

Parked up on the road near the T-shirt guys was a TV truck. KIRO Channel 7. I strolled up and stood next to a black man around my age who was obviously with the crew. His name was Ray. I told Ray how inspired I was by the event and all the young people who put it on. But I wondered about Our Generation. "Where is everybody? What happened to us?" He said, "We quit when the cynicism set in. Too many scars."

These kids would be disillusioned soon enough, he predicted, and the place would be trashed in the morning. They’d learn something about that too, he told me. I said I thought he’d be surprised by these kids. "I have a feeling this place will be pristine by the time they leave."

Then I went to my car to grab a smoke, thinking, They can’t go to their car for a smoke. Addiction to nicotine is the least of their worries. As I sat smoking in my van, two busloads of kids pulled up. They all piled out carrying sleeping bags and cardboard. They all wore red T-shirts with black letters: Hear Our Voice.

I walked back towards the rally and passed another TV truck: KOMO Channel 4. A young cameraman was just walking back from filming by the lake. I went over to the truck and told the guys about the busloads of kids. "They should be walking right through here," I said, pointing back up the road where the shot would be.

Red-faced and flushed with excitement the young cameraman said, "Yeah, quite a turnout!" He was as stoked as Ray from KIRO was cynical.

Back at my encampment, the weather had changed. Gotten nippy. Clouded over. The park was filling up all the way down to the shoreline and across the whole park.

I was getting hungry. I didn’t cheat by eating but I did have two cups of coffee before I got there and two cigarettes. Walking back and forth to the parking lot I thought, They can’t walk to the car for a smoke. Or to get more stuff. They can’t leave their stuff to go get more stuff.

Nor do they have several dozen spanking clean Honey Buckets.

One of the tent dwellers put yerba mate into a gourd and poured in hot water from a red plastic thermos. In my displaced state of mind I saw him as a rich man breaking the rules. Weren’t we supposed to be fasting? But by now I had broken my own rules. Not by drinking or eating but by smoking. I made numerous trips to the car for cigarettes. Against my vow for the day: Live like they live. But my nicotine addiction was stronger than my good intentions and I kept sneaking away, each time missing part of the event and taking note of that fact.

I had to look at my priorities and my integrity. I also had to admit that my perception of myself as ‘poor’ was completely unfounded. No. I am, in fact, priveleged. I live in a world of abundance, not poverty. I have a car. I have water. I’ve got smokes. And a jacket. And a nifty little flashlight. And a sleeping bag. Hell, I've even got my own head box.

A guy nearby says, "There’s a bunch of Crossroads kids over there. A whole bunch of ‘em. Looks like all the high schools turned out." I heard a lot of talk about a guy named Tom going around to all the schools talking about the invisible children of Northern Uganda.

These kids were pulling off an amazing media event. 100,000 people were camping out nationwide. They were filming at each location. Following announcements over the loudspeaker, I migrated with my fellow cardboard refugees to a giant movie screen set up behind an outdoor stage. On stage an event organizer introduced a man from Uganda:

Paul de "Qweeya" of Gulu, with the Cornerstone Academy. As he spoke, the whole encampment gathered 'round. This was his first time in America. Amazingly, when he walked into the Seattle airport, he ran into a classmate from Uganda he hadn’t seen in 40 years. Someone he went to school with in 1956 or 1957. He was happy to be in America but really overjoyed to meet someone from home that he could speak to in his own language.

He brought greetings from the children of Northern Uganda. “They appreciate the great resources and great initiative you are taking to help them; to awaken America about a problem that can be solved through the efforts of young people, school children. Thanks to the parents because your children care. When you go home you will find your home. You will find your house intact.”

He asked us to imagine having nowhere to go. "To be forced out of your normal surroundings, the place you’re used to stay. Many thousands sleep outside their home." He said his country had endured 21 years of civil war. "It seems the world has forgotten us."

He talked about places in the world where natural disasters like earthquakes and floods force people to flee their homes by the thousands. "But for us, it's war. Human greed. People want more than their share." Because of these things, whole tribes had been forced from their homes to live in displacement camps.

When people are violently forced out of their homes, he said, the first thing they lose is their dignity; their sense of being human.

Next comes the destruction of the family bond. Parents are incapable of looking after their children. Everyone is running in opposite directions. Social amenities, like schools, are abandoned.

They lose the joy and beauty of being a child. A generation has been wasted because they can’t go to school, can’t play or even eat their own food because the parents can’t provide. Schools are closed, destroyed. Teachers have left for other parts of Uganda. The children are living on hand-outs. They are abducted and turned into killers or sex slaves. So they hide by day. At night they sleep on scraps of cardboard in secret basements at the train station or the hospital or anyplace they can find where they can make it through the night.

Children growing up without parents have lost respect for themselves, for their parents and for authority. When he grew up, he lived by the credo, "I am because we are." That's gone, he told us. Now it’s survival of the fittest. Kids don’t identify with parents. Moral standards have all gone. Because of lawlessness in Northern Uganda there is an increase in child abuse and child labor. A child becomes head of the family because the parents have been killed.

What can be done? Why did I come?

1. So I can share the pain in my heart. You love freedom, you love democracy, you love people.... It’s not enough for just you to be free. America is strong enough to speak with force. If your leaders spoke up at breakfast, by supper the war would be over. Tell your leaders to speak to our leaders. You have the power to speak to your leaders.

2. So I can tell young people that with the support you are giving to invisible children we are able to build schools and bring teachers. You have made that contribution.

3. To tell you that after the war we are going to need moral rehab, reconstruction. This is an appeal to young people: Come and help us. We need your help.

When his talk was over, we stood there, four thousand of us, watching movie clips about life in the Ugandan displacement camps and then about what to expect later that night.

Women between 18 and 20 would get water, one bottle at a time, to give to the men. The young men would get crackers to give to the women. A woman alone must ask a man to get her crackers.

After the show we all headed over to the tables where we would experience the distribution of food and water by relief workers. I had one thought in my head: A woman without people has to ask a man for crackers. They didn’t say what she had to do for water.

Signs saying Women–Water and Men–Crackers were posted above the tables. The men were flying back and forth between the tables and the women, each trip carrying one cellophane-wrapped stack of crackers. They were so intent on providing for their women that the idea of stopping one of them to ask for crackers became increasingly uncomfortable for me. I worked my way from the outside edges of the crowd toward the tables, where I thought perhaps the food aid workers would take pity on an old woman with no people. They were too busy handing crackers to the men to even notice me.

I went and hung around a group of young women near the cracker table. Several young men were delivering packets of crackers to them. My survival instincts over-rode my sense of alienation and fear of banishment from the tribe and I put my hand out. A young man hesitated, obviously wanting to deliver his crackers to one of the young women. But there I was: The Old One. An Elder seeking crackers. He came down on the side of duty before glory and gave me the packet, then turned and ran back for another. By the time he got back, another man had provided for the young woman, so he cast about for someone else to give his crackers to. I wondered if in a real displacement camp culture I had ruined his life by preventing him from fetching food for his chosen one.

Then I started inhaling my crackers.

"I don’t need water. I have water in the car," I told myself. "I don’t have to learn the answer to the question of water."

But then I’d miss The Experience, which was the whole point.

About to start hiccupping from wolfing down dry crackers, I walked over to the outskirts of the women’s line. “Our line is taking longer,” everyone kvetched as the crowd of waiting women grew longer and wider. "Why is the women's line always longer?"

Given the impending hiccups, I was determined to get into the line. By now it had gotten shorter but I couldn’t see the end, assuming it was going around and around as each woman came back for another bottle, and another, until she'd provided drinking, cooking, washing and bathing water for her family. I assumed it would never end.

Some women carried their bottles on their heads. In Uganda they carry 20-gallon tanks on their heads for miles and only the first to arrive at dawn get clean water.

Instead of finding the end of the line, or asking someone what the story was, I retreated into isolation even as I merged in from the side.

"Are you merging into the line from the side?" a smiling young woman pointedly asked me. "At my age I expect to be turned away at the table. It’s a social experiment," was my lame reply. But by the time I reached the table, I just grabbed myself one of the bottles and hotfooted it out of there.

This water, in its sealed plastic bottle, was the sweetest, cleanest water on earth. I sipped it and considered my recent behavior. It was enough to make me ponder my isolation but not actually break out of it. I imagined that was a luxury I wouldn't be able to afford in the real word of displacement camps.

As night settled on the camp I snuggled into my sleeping bag and fell into a dream state. I woke up to a voice over the loudspeaker saying, If you take your cardboard with you, you save invisible children money for dumpsters.

By 9:30 the trash was almost all collected.

By 10:00, as predicted, the park was pristine.

I felt as if I had been reborn in so many ways. Not just me. My country, as well. If the young people I had witnessed in the past 24 hours were any indication.

THE STATE OF THE UNION

2007-01-24T00:08:00.000-08:00

Valerie called from Washington to see if I was going to watch the State of the Union Address. I didn't even know it was on. That's how detached I've become from the so-called real world. So I tuned in.

The first thing that impressed me was that history was being made. Behind the President was seated the first female Speaker of the House, Representative Nancy Pelosi (D. CA).

There was quite a bit of fanfare around that and I took a moment to reflect on my old days as a dreaded Women's Libber and all the frustration and anger entailed in that. As you will all recall, we had no sense of humor. We were a royal pain in the ass. We made people call us "Ms." and "Chairperson" and "female persons".

In politics, I was one of the angry female persons who took delight in telling old pols that they couldn't be delegates to the 1972 Democratic National Convention because of a new thing called gender balance. I revelled in telling some fat cigar chomping asshole who'd been imbedded in his state's delegation since the turn of the century that if he wanted to see his name on the ballot he better run his wife.

And now the second person in line to succeed the President was Senator Nancy Pelosi. Right on sister! Right on sisters!

I tried to pay attention to President Bush but my mind wandered. The next thing I noticed was Nancy standing up to applaud the President when he said that all children should have health care. Everyone in the room followed suit and the President received his first standing ovation.

Once everyone was seated the President continued and my eyes wandered to the other person seated behind Mr. Bush. My jaw dropped. Dick Cheney was sitting there chewing gum. That sneering sidewinder was chewing his bloody cud!

There were several more standing "O"s for the Prez but I must confess that my mind kept wandering. I tuned back in on renewable energy. Health care reform. Step up oil production. Double the capacity of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve. A nice mix of red and blue issues, but no surprises.

"Global climate change." He said the words: "serious challenge of global climate change." Now that IS something new -- coming out of this man's mouth.

He moved on to the global war on terror and I glazed over again. Then Cheney started clapping enthusiastically, Nancy clapped obligingly and stood up for the words, "take the fight to the enemy."

When Bush said, "finding the terrorists and stopping them", Nancy beat Dick to her feet (and I do wish I meant that literally). Then came the litany: Shia and Sunni extremists, Iran, Hezbollah, Al Quaeda, bin Laden... Pretty soon the standing ovations showed a sharp division of the house. Fully one half of the room was standing and one half was sitting, right down to Dick and Nancy: him standing, her sitting.

Everyone stood when it came to supporting our toops.

I stood too. Since I was up, I decided to run through my Kung Fu routine. In solidarity with the troops, as it were. Doing my part in that well-regulated militia we've heard so much about. Earn my right to bare arms. I did my workout until I was shaking from exertion and sat back down.

We moved on to the New American Hero, Wesley Autrey, who threw himself under a New York subway train to protect a man who'd fallen onto the tracks during a seizure. I have to admit I'm moved by this man. I've seen him before -- on Letterman and in the news -- and he is a humble and courageous man. I love the way he speaks. We need more like him.

After the Address the talking heads began. I was watching ABC. George Will or Charles Gibson talked about "strengthening the Republican brand". God, that's so 2007. The only new thing was the health-care-for-all theme. Comments were made about the "sad echoes" of previous State of the Union addresses, also about the global war on terror, Al Quaeda, bin Laden, Zarqawi. I eventually hit the mute button and returned to my computer.

My back muscles were aching from the Kung Fu but I had done my duty and watched the President of the United States give his big speech. And I watched history unfold as women take their rightful place at the helm. Whether we make the differences we have always believed we would make is yet to be seen.

I have hope.

There is always hope.

Amen.

ANGELHEADED HIPSTERS

2006-07-15T08:31:00.000-07:00

Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night…

Most people remember the poem Howl by the opening line:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix…

But Rob Brezhny’s FreeWill Astrology advises me to focus on what I want to create, rather than what I oppose. Or, to put it his way,

“When you obsess on your adversaries, you risk becoming like them. The more you shape your life through your responses to things you don't like, you invite them to define your destiny. You'll have to be on guard against falling prey to this mistake in the coming weeks... and devote your time to creating what you love.”

So I'm starting with the second line. With angelheaded hipsters. Burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night. God I love that line. Allen Ginsberg created it in San Francisco, 1955 -1956.

It was “the poem that changed America,” according to Naropa University’s celebration of the 50th Anniversary of Howl, in Boulder, Colorado on Sunday, June 25, 2006.

“Allen Ginsberg was a burning bush,” said Randy Roarke, one of his apprentices. “When he died, sparks went out and set ground fires all around.”

Sparks also went out and set fires in 1956, and kept on burning. I didn’t know what hit me in 1963. But something called me to the coffee houses in Boston to sit on my solitary barstool drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes at age 18 while visiting my mother on my way to college. I was drawn to the energy of the place, the dangerous excitement of prowling nighttime cobblestone streets, dodging drunken sailors, resonating to words like “Orpheus”. I didn’t understand a word of it. But I was pulled into it. Pulled by a cord connected at the solar plexus, setting fires along my spine, fireworks in my brain.

I would never see my mother again. She died suddenly over the weekend, as the saying goes, while my father drove me to Boulder and dropped me off in all my freshman freshness. It was almost a week before I found out about my mother and I managed to suppress the emotions until November 22, when I saw the best mind of my generation blown to pieces on the backseat of a Dallas convertible.

I’ve been trying to get my medication right ever since. I did my time in the negro streets; my angry fix was sex and suicide. I died a hundred million times. And the flame wouldn’t go out. I was mad. Mad to talk. Mad to be saved. Mad to make it to San Francisco and prowl the North Beach streets searching for the ghost of Jack Kerouac. Dragging myself inexorably toward what I love.

Love and redemption. Transcendance. Forgiveness.

Celebration.

Three hundred people reading Howl at the top of their voices. Three hundred beatified souls gathered to celebrate the poem that changed America, when sparks fell to earth like roman candles in the night and fires burned across the land.

I saw the burning bush with my very own eyes. At the Chicago stockyards in 1968. I was on the floor of the Democratic National Convention working for Hubert H. Humphrey, part of the outfit that engineered his nomination for President of the United States. Suddenly way up in the rafters there came a commotion. We all looked up. Delegates. Handlers. Media. Thousands of disturbed eyes saw him, surrounded by a motley bearded crew. He must have had a bull horn and through it came the words,

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix…

I was horrified. A fire had broken out in a crowded theater. A burning bush, quickly extinguished by Mayor Daly’s fixers while outside his storm troopers savagely beat the best minds of my generation with truncheons and dragged them bloody through the angry Chicago streets. I was torn in two. My people were Out There. I was inside with the handlers and the fixers.

For a blinding moment the smoke and whiskey haze cleared and I saw where I was - alienated from my people bleeding in the streets of Chicago for our brothers bleeding in the rice paddies of Vietnam.

But I was easily distracted by shiny objects and the kleig lights were pointing in another direction. We were the winners. We had wrestled the presidential nomination to the ground, delegate by delegate, using any means necessary, and we had won. Oh, the glory. The power and the glory.

My boss and his regional coordinators all wore green eyeshades and gamblers’ garters on their shirtsleeves. Scotch was flowing freely, the thrill of the kill sharp in our nostrils. The vision of the burning bush quickly receded to the farthest reaches of my mind while images of the maelstrom in the streets became shrouded in cigar smoke. It would be many years before the burning bush reappeared.

VIRGINIA CITY GRAND PRIX

2006-05-05T11:34:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, April 29, I drove to Virginia City for the Virginia City Motorcycle Club's Grand Prix Outlaw Race 2006. I took Highway 341 over Mount Rose - a straight shot from Incline. Two hours, tops.

I parked on C Street at Carson and hiked up C past Solid Muldoon’s, the Red Dog Saloon, the Silver Queen Hotel, The Bucket of Blood Saloon, Happy Hoofers’ Carriage Tours and the Delta Saloon, home of the famous Suicide Table, where, ironically enough, registration for the race was set up. I continued up the wooden plank sidewalk, under the Victorian eaves of saloons, restaurants and shops, to the end of the block.

The street was filled with hundreds of bikes revving and bucking into position, kicking up an acrid cloud of smoke and dust. An ungodly, high-pitched scream of two- and four-stroke engines filled the air. The combination made my solar-plexus flutter. I could imagine the same street filled with cattle and horses back in the 1800s, kicking up a cloud of dust and dung. Same assault on the senses. Same giddy excitement. Same sense of barely bridled power. Same cowboys.

I was just in time to see the start of the race. One row of ten bikes across got the yellow flag, ten riders stomped on the gas, skidded around a ninety degree turn and down a steep street while the next row of ten bikes bucked and skidded into start position. After the last ten bikes disappeared around the corner and down the hill I stood with the remaining spectators in an empty street full of dust and gasoline fumes.

We casually followed the fumes down the hill then I turned left onto pit row. I’ll see one of the dogs first, I said to myself as I began looking for my people. Sure enough, I spotted Luke weaving through the crowd, headed in my direction. Attached to him was Kimmy. I hugged Kimmy and patted Luke on his bony red head.

We took all three dogs for a walk. Bo was pulling on his leash much more aggressively than usual and I chalked it up to his Alpha status. Luke and Pismo look more like brothers, one black, one red, both thin and greyhound-looking. Bo looks like a wolf. He insisted on being out in front of the others. I was surprised at his personality change around his homeys. Kimmy laughed at my naievte. “House Angel?” I asked, and we both laughed.

She left me in charge of all three dogs while she carefully selected one of the many green portapotties lined up at the end of pit row. After locating our pit we took the dogs to her car, which was parked in a little lot below the cliff where the ancient cowboy town was perched above us. There was a festive group of people tailgating in the spot across from Kimmy. They had lawn chairs, a cooler, a barbeque grill, a boom box and a killer view of the race course spread out in tiers across the valley below. We tied the dogs up and then I went to get the truck. A parking spot opened up just as I pulled into the lot. We locked Kimmy’s stuff in the truck and left her SUV hatch open so the dogs could get in and out from where they were tied up to the trailer hitch. I decided to climb the back stairs of one of the old-timey clifftop saloons in search of indoor plumbing before heading to the pits.

We walked down the hill and found the rest of the crew - Kim, Sean and Patrick – under a blue tent-top on tall stakes. They'd set up lounge chairs and a table with supplies for the racers. On the ground were gas cans ready to be hoisted and shoved into the bikes’ tanks as they came screaming into the pits.

Who’s racing today? I asked. Just Tom and Chris, answered the crew. It was all quiet in the pits after the racers had come through the first time. Neither Tom nor Chris had stopped. Chris did a wheelie as he bypassed the pits and four minutes later Tom tore by standing on his pegs.

The shreik of a wide-open engine fighting gravity cut through the air. It was either the first of the third lap or a straggler from the second lap, headed toward the gate. The bikes came flying straight up a steep hill then took a hard ninety-degree right turn at the top before proceeding along pit row only inches from the track other racers were using to bypass the pits in the opposite direction going for the next lap. When they took that last turn in bunches, someone usually got hung up in the orange plastic mesh separating the two tracks. There had been a few pile-ups already. It could get hairy when riders start scrambling in both directions, I said to myself.

Kim looked at her watch and said, "They’ll be coming back around in fifteen or twenty minutes," and everybody started eyeballing the supplies: clean goggles, water, energy bars, gas, rags and tools.

MotoMouth was on the PA announcing racers coming through the gate and heading back to the pits. "Hey! Get that bicycle out of the pits! There’s a bunch of dogs in the pits! There’s a motorcycle race going on here, people. Absolutely, positively, no dogs in the pits! Leader in! Leader in! Steve Tichenor!"

The second lap was coming in. Everyone in the pits was standing by. Checking watches. Getting cameras ready. Looking across the valley for a glimpse of their rider. Chris rolled in and ripped his helmet off. His face was bright red and wet with sweat mixed with a layer of caked red dirt. Somebody handed him a water bottle.

He poured water over his face and head as I handed Kim his goggles. They got splashed with water and he had to wipe them off. Bad pit-craft, I said to myself and made a mental note to keep fresh goggles protected until the rider reaches for them. Better yet, take pictures and keep out of the way. Pat unscrewed the gas cap. Sean poured the gas while Pat checked out the bike. He wiped the number plate clean and Chris peeled away.

As soon as he was out of sight, I eased over to the spot right at the top of the hill where the racers would take the last turn and held my phone-cam in ready position where I thought Tommy would appear.

You can always tell when Tommy’s coming because of his orange jersey, I heard Kimmy say.

I kept my eyes on the track a few switchbacks down the hill so I could spot the orange jersey before it disappeared at the bottom of the hill a few seconds before popping back up at the top.

As soon as I detected movement through the viewfinder I pressed OK and got a shot of Tommy taking the last turn in perfect form.

I made it back to the pits just as he raced in.

Where’s Chris? He gasped before the bike rolled to a stop.

Four minutes ahead of you, answered the crew as they got busy.

Kimmy and Kim did water, food and goggles – in that order. Sean gassed up the bike. Pat checked gears and tires and cleaned off the number plate. Seconds later Tommy was back on the track trying to chase Chris down.

LIKE A ROLLING STONE

2006-04-15T12:38:00.000-07:00

It was the twenty-ninth anniversary of my One Step program. On April 1st, 1977, I quit drinking. What better way to celebrate than to see The Bob Dylan Show in Reno, Nevada, April 1st, 2006.

The day started with an Old School breakfast in San Francisco with DC Marsh at Sam's place in the Mission: caffeine, canabis, nicotine and a re-hash of the previous night's party where several people who'd heard about each other for years finally got to meet.

With plenty of time to spare I walked two blocks to Mission Street and jumped on a #14 down to the Ferry Building. Bought my ticket to Reno at the Amtrak station across from the Ferry Building. Found a quiet corner for a parting puff and waited for my bus connection to Emeryville. From there I picked up the train to Sacramento where I switched to another bus bound for Reno.

At about 4:20 I pulled into the cheap and gaudy center of town and waited for Christina under a blazing billboard boasting the buffest of male bodies. She pulled up in her white pickup and it was on. We headed for the rooftop of Circus Circus to enjoy a pre-show sunset. I changed out of my travel jeans into my super skinny black jeans, a slinky black top and a pair of black boots my pal Sal gave me when I was on the East Coast last year. Sally was the first person to help me find my way out of the alcohol haze, back in the early 'seventies. How appropriate that I would celebrate this anniversary standing in her shoes. Here's to you Sally!

We took turns putting on our makeup in the rear view mirror. When we had our heads on straight, we re-parked the truck inside the multi-storied structure and took the elevator down to the flashing lights and cacophony of the casino. We followed signs advertising Starbucks Coffee and Krispy Kreme donuts, loaded up on caffeine and sugar and settled in at a counter in the middle of the lobby where we could watch the action.

Through the crowd we spotted a guy about my age in a beard, sunglasses and a leather tour jacket. "Are you my Daddy?" I said quietly as he strolled by with his big bad self. "He's going to see Dylan," predicted Christina, also wearing dark sunglasses.

We followed him to the elevator and managed to crowd in right next to him. Christina's blinding illegal smile in that crowded cubicle gave me a case of teenage giggles. "Going to see Dylan?" Christina asked Daddy. "Of course," he replied. "How many times?" she inquired further. "About a hundred," came the answer. "Sounds about right," she said. The doors opened on the ground floor. We all streamed out and across the street to the Reno Events Center. Found our way to our seats. Row 11, seats 9 and 10.

Twenty minutes until showtime and the place is filling up with aging hippies and pseudo-straights. The level of excitement rises, nothing like the massive giddiness before a Grateful Dead show, more subdued, more like a roomful of elderly outlaws who just made another big score. Laid back and looking forward to the good times. Not a speck of smoke in the air except right down in front where a crowd has gathered. There's a definite cloud rising toward the overhead spotlights, maybe even wafting from behind the curtain. When it rises, everybody lights up. It is written: Everybody must get stoned.

Dylan comes onstage wearing a white hat. We had already heard that he would be playing keyboard instead of guitar, due to back problems. He launched into his first song and although I remember digging it, I couldn't begin to tell you what it was. Maybe Watchtower. If I had to guess. There are those who come away from concerts with complete set lists. I'm not one of them. When the second song started Christina and I grabbed each other by the arms and almost screamed like teenagers. But we remembered where we were and we were cool. The king of outlaws was singing to us:

"She's got everything she needs, she's an artist, she don't look back."

I remembered quoting from this song, She Belongs to Me, in my last letter to Jack English, mentor and dear friend back in my days of national politics. I didn't know it was my last letter to him. Didn't know about the cancer that was about to take him to Jesus.

"She never stumbles, she's got no place to fall," I had written from Enrico's on Broadway in San Francisco. I described a punk in a green mohawk who went by as I was telling him how much I loved the City by the Bay. After he died, a mutual friend told me that Jack had bragged to him about my letter: "Hey, I got a letter from your girlfriend," he'd said. Jack was always trying to fix me up with somebody or other. Semper Fi, Jack.

Standing up to dance was an issue where we were seated so we joined the crowd at the back of the hall to let loose. The rest of the concert is kind of a blur. Even I have to admit that most of the songs sound the same at a live Dylan concert and I couldn't recognize the rest of the songs he sang at all. Not a one. Usually you can catch a familiar phrase and identify the song by the words, even if he's changed the tune. It wasn't until the second song of the encore that I recognized a classic and called DC Marsh on my cellphone. Held it up for her to hear the man sing "Like a Rolling Stone."

After the show, while I was in the restroom, Christina got caught up in a wave of Hells Angels leaving the show and decided to float along with them to see where they were going. My phone rang just as I was washing my hands. She told me to turn left outside the Events Center and cross the street. I did. She was waiting outside another casino where they had all gathered. We went in, sat at the bar and enjoyed a couple of Red Bulls in chilled Martini glasses. Six big bikers were crammed into the booth across the bar from us, along with a young woman who fit Hunter Thompson's description of Hells Angels' women: nervous and wary from too much bitter knowledge in too few years. I had drawn my own conclusion from years of hanging around with the boys from Frisco: It's only cool when the bikes are moving. But it was fun to see them hulking around the casino in their colors. Kind of like the old days but without the hangover.

WILL KARL ROVE BE INDICTED?

2005-10-14T08:26:00.000-07:00

At this very moment, Karl Rove is wrapping up his fourth appearance before the Grand Jury investigating the infamous CIA leak. The media are lying in wait for him to emerge from the Federal Courthouse. I'm in the kitchen, lying in wait in front of the TV. There is but one question on everyone's lips:

Will the president's chief of staff be indicted? And if so, for what crime?

All week, Air America Radio has been predicting 22 indictments. If they are even close, one of them will most certainly have Karl Rove's name on it. If he is indicted, can Scooter Libby, the vice president's chief of staff, be far behind?

My hunch is that they will both be indicted. I also believe that during the trial, their fingerprints will be found all over the original "report" that Saddam Hussein was seeking uranium for a weapons program.

Within minutes, I'll either be crowing or eating crow - but at least I've called my shot. Res Ipso Loquitor.

***********

UPDATE:
Monday, October 24, 2005

Posting from the Looney Bean in Mammoth Lakes, California, after a weekend of training on the mountain for the '06 Winter season. More about that at a later time. Right now we have other fish to fry.

Politically, nothing has changed since last week's post, except the speculation, which is getting louder and louder in the absense of anything concrete from the special prosecutor. CNN has all but predicted Libby and Rove will be indicted. My sense is that the mainstream media are chomping at the bit to "break" the story of All the President's Men being indicted for criminal conspiracy, including the Vice President. Over the weekend they were saying that indictments could be handed out as early as today. Today they're saying indictments could come as early as Wednesday, and that the White House is bracing for Rove and Libby to be indicted.

As a blogger, I don't have to wait for my editor to un-muzzle me. I have been predicting that Libby, Rove and Cheney will go down in flames since September 28, when it just came to me out of the blue that not only were they involved with the CIA leak, but also with planting the fake intelligence about Iraq seeking uranium for a weapons program - the same fake intelligence that paved our way to war.

Now to change the subject for a moment. Over the weekend, I was telling a colleague about my blog and added a warning that I was very left-wing. She paused a moment after letting me know she was not at all left wing, and asked me, "Don't you have any moderate views?" Well, that got me thinking, and the fact is, I do have a few moderate positions, which I may elaborate on at a later date, but for now, let me just say this:

I fervently hope and pray that Democracy takes hold in Iraq and that the elections provide the way. I am encouraged that the Sunnis chose to participate in the recent election on the new constitution. I see that as a good sign. I also think it's good that the Iraqi people will have a chance to modify that constitution in a future election.

I further believe that the only way we can honorably leave Iraq is through adequate training of Iraqi troops and peace-keeping personnel. This is one area where we failed miserably in Vietnam, and I hope and pray that we learned that lesson well. The fact that we summarily dismissed the Iraqi Army on our way in, however, doesn't bode well for lessons learned from Vietnam.

Another of my colleagues told me she has a son in Iraq and shares my opinions about Bush et al. More than anything, I hope and pray that her son comes home safe and sound. I hope and pray that no parent has to lose a son or a daughter to war - any war - ever again.

That's about as moderate as I get.

Pax vobiscum.

SCOOTERGATE

2005-10-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

Sunday’s Washington Post is a complete mind-blower. On the front page, bottom left, under INSIDE, is an Analysis by Jim VandeHei and Walter Pincus:

White House’s Role in Leak is Clearer

“It has become increasingly clear that two of the most powerful men in the Bush administration were more involved in the unmasking of a CIA operative than the White House was willing to admit in 2003.”

On page A5, top of the fold, competing only with Tiffany and Rolex for precious space:

Role of Rove, Libby in CIA Leak Case Clearer

“As the CIA leak investigation heads toward its expected conclusion this month, it has become increasingly clear that two of the most powerful men in the Bush administration were more involved in the unmasking of operative Valerie Plame than the White House originally indicated.

“With New York Times reporter Judith Miller’s release from jail Thursday and testimony Friday before a federal grand jury, the role of I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby, Vice President Cheney’s chief of staff, came into clearer focus. Libby, a central figure in the probe since it’s earliest days and the vice president’s main counselor…”

The vice president’s main counselor.

Do you see what I see? I can hardly stand it. Say it with me:

SCOOTERGATE!

Oh, how the word falls trippingly off the tongue.

As I see it, "main counselor" means someone in a position to advise the vice president on matters such as how to “out” a CIA operative without using her name or leaving a trail of crumbs back to his own door. Which is what he and Karl Rove happened to do. Months ago, I said this thing was sliced paper-thin and now we see our thinnest cut of all. They didn’t have to say her name. All they had to do was mention the bitch who was married to that SOB Wilson, and leave our intrepid investigative journalists to root around for a name and a job description, and then call around for verification. They are professionals, after all. Professionals verify with a second source. Suddenly it’s all so clear.

One drops a rumor and the other “heard it, too”. Two sources, no names mentioned, story verified. Valerie Plame is o.u.t.

We still haven't discussed the Vanity Fair article, but in answer to Carl Frank’s question, Vanity Fair is not my "guide to topicality," it is merely another validation of my earlier assertion that Rovegate, make that Scootergate, is not going to blow over in a couple of days. Not a couple of days after Memorial Day, as Carl originally predicted, not even a couple of days from now. Maybe a couple of days after pigs violate White House airspace.

Libby, “…the Vice President’s main counselor, discussed Plame with at least two reporters but testified that he never mentioned her name or her covert status at the CIA, according to lawyers in the case.

“His story is similar to that of Karl Rove, President Bush’s top political adviser. Rove, who was not an initial focus of the investigation, testified that he, too, talked with two reporters about Plame but never supplied her name or CIA role.”

Bush and Cheney Aides’ Testimony Contradicts Earlier White House Statement

“In October 2003, White House spokesman Scott McClellan told reporters that he personally asked Libby and Rove whether they were involved, ‘so I could come back to you and say they were not involved.’ Asked if that was a categorical denial of their involvement, he said, 'That is correct.'”

Oh sweet Jesus. Seems like it was just yesterday that President Clinton’s media flack was standing before you, swearing up and down that his boss had assured him personally that he did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.

Finally, after years of wrong-headed, mean-spirited, politically motivated investigations into Whitewater, investigations which uncovered exactly nothing, the rabid right got hold of the President’s pecker and impaled him on it.

And now, “two of the most powerful men in the Bush administration” turn out to be “more involved” in a vindictive attack on a woman because her husband had them by the short and curlies, “ than the White House originally indicated.”

That flapping sound you hear? Chickens coming home to roost, Bubba. Like the hippies always say, What goes ‘round, comes ‘round. And what’s coming ‘round to hit Spawn upside his empty puppet head is a million pound shithammer. Yes, indeed.

Nevermind Iraq. Nevermind Katrina. Nevermind FEMA. Nevermind Rita. Nevermind raiding our national infrastructure in the name of tax cuts. Leave all that bubbling on the back burner for a minute and ponder this: An investigation which has now taken longer than Watergate, an investigation which will probably cost more than Whitewater, winds up fingering two of the most powerful men in the Bush administration.

But has a crime been committed? And by virtue of that crime, has national security been harmed?

Yes. And yes.

So what was the crime?

I’m going out on a limb here and calling it:

Not only were two of the most powerful men in the Bush administration behind the CIA leak, they were also involved in the bogus intelligence report that Iraq was shopping for uranium in Niger.

Uranium in Niger? What does that have to do with the CIA leak? The CIA leak was about discrediting Joseph Wilson, because Joseph Wilson had discredited the President's claim, made in his 2003 State of the Union address, that Saddam Hussein had a nuclear weapons program, justifying our invasion of Iraq.

That’s why they had to take Wilson out.

By any means necessary.

“Fitzgerald is considering whether he can bring charges of a criminal conspiracy perpetrated by a group of senior Bush administration officials. Under this legal tactic, Fitzgerald would attempt to establish that at least two or more officials agreed to take affirmative steps to discredit and retaliate against Wilson and leak sensitive government information about his wife. To prove a criminal conspiracy, the actions need not have been criminal, but conspirators must have had a criminal purpose.”

At least two or more. Well, now. We’ve got our Rove. And we’ve got our Libby. Judge Patrick J. Fitgerald has just handed us a two-fer. Now all we need is to establish a criminal purpose.

Call me crazy, but from where I’m sitting – that would be the catbird seat – it looks more like a putt than a drive.

According to the Post, regarding the recently released Judith Miller, “it is doubtful her testimony would on its own lead to charges against any government officials. But, the source said, her account could establish a piece of a web of actions taken by officials that had an underlying criminal purpose.”

Again, I’m saying that the criminal purpose will turn out not to be the destruction of Joseph Wilson, but instead, the deception of Congress for the purpose of invading Iraq. The genesis of Fitzgerald's case will begin with the fake intelligence, not with the CIA leak.

Going back to the seed of this bitter fruit, let’s not forget that Vice President Dick Cheney had a piece of sending Joe Wilson to Niger in the first place. At the time, Cheney was reported to have a great deal of interest in proving that Saddam Hussein was in the market for uranium.

“The Niger claim was central to the White House’s rationale for war, and Wilson was on a one-man crusade to disprove it. Early on, his actions caught the eye of the vice president’s office, which was often the emotional and intellectual force pushing the United States to war based on fears of potential weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Cheney and Libby were intimately involved in building the case for the war, which included warnings that Iraqi President Saddam Hussein was actively pursuing nuclear weapons.”

Cheney’s staff was “looking into Wilson” as early as May 2003, nearly two months before Plame was outed. “What stirred the interest of the vice president’s office was a May 6 New York Times column by Nicholas D. Kristof in which the mission to Niger was described without using Wilson’s name. Kristof’s column said Cheney had authorized the trip.”

According to the Post, “Cheney did not know that a query he made much earlier to a CIA briefer about a report alleging Iraq was seeking Niger uranium had triggered Wilson’s trip. ‘They were very uptight about the vice president being tagged that way,’ a former senior CIA official said, speaking on the condition of anonymity because of the ongoing investigation. ‘They asked questions that set off a chain of inquiries.’”

No wonder Cheney got so steamed. It was the fatal flaw in an otherwise perfect scheme. The teeniest, tiniest little arrow pointing straight back at him. A needle of truth to a great big balloon of plausible deniability.

“Cheney did not know that a query he made much earlier to a CIA briefer about a report alleging Iraq was seeking Niger uranium had triggered Wilson’s trip.”

That phrase might as well have been written in neon. I mentioned in my first blog entry, SWEET LITTLE SIXTEEN, that every now and then certain words or phrases set the hairs on my arms at attention. The vice president’s “query to a CIA briefer” was exactly that type of phrase. It glared. It vibrated. "That’s it!" I said to myself. "That has to be the original seed."

Maybe all Cheney had to do was casually ask if the “CIA briefer” had heard about “a report alleging Iraq was seeking Niger uranium.” Maybe that’s all the “briefer” had to hear. Oliver North didn’t have to be told to use cocaine money to buy guns for the Contra guerillas in Nicaragua. He knew he was fighting a communist evil-doer. He knew God was on his side. After that, he was free to improvise.

So maybe the “CIA briefer” went off and did a little improvising of his own. Maybe he dropped a word here, a word there, that the “report alleging Iraq was seeking Niger uranium” was true. Or that it needed to be true. That the big guy wanted it to be true. Spread the word. From an Italian cutout to a British agent and back to the CIA, who then report that "British intelligence has learned that Sadddam Hussein has recently sought uranium..."

It all went like clockwork until Joseph Wilson opened his big fat mouth. And then the New York Times laid the whole thing at Cheney’s feet. No wonder he was pissed.

He needed damage control and he wanted revenge. If he could destroy Wilson he could have both.

“By early June, several weeks before Libby is said to have known Plame’s name, the State Department had prepared a memo on the Niger case that contained information on Plame in a section marked ‘(S)” for secret’,” according to Sunday’s Washington Post. “Around that time, Libby knew about the trip’s origins, though in an interview with The Washington Post at the time, he did not mention any role played by Wilson’s wife.

“By July 12, however, both Rove and Libby and perhaps other senior White House officials knew about Wilson’s wife’s position at the CIA and, according to lawyers familiar with testimony in the probe, used that information with reporters to undermine the significance of Wilson’s trip.”

I would like to thank Walter Pincus, Jim VandeHei and Carol D. Leonig for this article. It pretty much lays the whole thing out. Walter Pincus has been on the case from the beginning, and in fact provided much of the basis for my original argument in SWEET LITTLE SIXTEEN. He should get a Pulitzer Prize for his work.

It doesn’t take much to make the last leap from what Pincus and company reported Sunday to what I’m reading between the lines:

Judge Patrick J. Fitzgerald is about to launch a conspiracy case involving some of the most powerful men in the known universe.

“Conspiracy cases are viewed by criminal prosecutors as simpler to bring than more straightforward criminal charges, but also trickier to sell to juries. ‘That would arguably be a close call for a prosecutor, but it could be tried,' a veteran Washington criminal attorney with longtime experience in national security cases said yesterday.”

If it can be tried, I say it will.

Now that Judith Miller is out of jail, her piece of the puzzle will soon become clearer. Apparently, she had permission to name her source long before she ever went to jail. So why did she insist on going to jail? We now know her source is Scooter Libby. So what in the world was she hiding?

Miller was well known as a White House mouthpiece, spouting the White House line on weapons of mass destruction long before the war. Maybe she went to jail to grab herself some much needed high ground. Or maybe she went to jail to protect something other than the source of the CIA leak.

Maybe she knew the Niger intelligence report was bogus. And just maybe she knew where it originated. Maybe the source of the CIA leak and the bogus intel were one and the same.

If her source for the Plame story was Scooter Libby, can the big guy, his boss, the Vice President of the United States, be far behind?

And irony of ironies, the bogus intel report that paved our way to war also triggered Joseph Wilson’s trip to Africa. Which begat the New York Times article, which begat the CIA leak, which very well may beget the unraveling of a "web of actions taken by officials that had an underlying criminal purpose."

Can criminal purpose be proved in this case?

I think it can. Because of the politically motivated but not necessarily criminal acts of two or more of the most powerful men in the Bush administration, American national security has been irreparably harmed. This takes us back to the original investigation into whether the official secrets act was violated. Our perps had to knowingly and intentionally cause harm to national security. I still think that will be hard to prove. Proving that they intended to harm Joseph Wilson will not.

And that was after they had deceived the United States Congress into starting a war.

If Libby and/or Rove, or even Dick Cheney himself, turn out to be the source of the false intelligence report, I think criminal purpose will be the least of the charges.

ALL WE ARE SAYING...

2005-09-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, September 24th, 2005, over a hundred and fifty thousand people marched on Washington in the name of Peace.

The following is the note a friend's cousin sent her about the demonstration.

It was very successful. We brought over 300 in our buses (and didn't lose anyone). From the feedback on our buses on the way home, all had a very positive experience. I haven't seen all the media coverage -- yesterday we didn't answer our phone or turn on the computers -- but the Wash Post gave some credible numbers and a good, fair account. 30% of the people on our buses were new, and we also had many children and students. Some of the young people -- ages 16 and 17 -- remarked that the demonstration amplified their own voices. They were moved and inspired by the fact that so many people thought like them and that their voices were part of a larger voice. We came back with great feelings of love for the people who worked with us, especially the bus captains who worried all day, taking some of the burden of worry away from me and Jack, and kept their heads in the many small emergencies that arose.

It was a wonderful day. It felt very good to stand up and be counted.

Note to the reader:
I'm still working on this page, experimenting with pictures taken with my cellphone. Being an old dog, it's taking me a while to learn this clever new trick, so please check back again for more words and pictures.
Mahalo,
Cynthia

LAUGH, I THOUGHT I'D DIE

2005-08-09T05:27:00.000-07:00

On Memorial Day, Carl Frank informed me that the Downing Street memo was a non-starter, old news, would come to nothing. Several weeks ago he told me the Karl Rove thing would blow over in a matter of days, reiterating in a comment to my MASKED MAN piece, that he'd give it a couple more days. That was Thursday, July 21.

Today, the lovely Jennifer Anniston is smiling up at me from the new VANITY FAIR, dated September 2005. Right at the tippy top of the page: ROVEGATE.

Buried among the junkie-looking models and thousand-dollar pots of wrinkle cream is the Table of Contents, which contains this teaser:

"ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROVE

Enough with the sanctimonious twaddle about protecting sources, writes Michael Wolff: Karl Rove's leak to Time was the tip of a nasty iceberg, and the media helped suppress the biggest story of Bush's presidency."

So much for blowing over in a couple of days. I haven't read the article yet. I plan to spend my morning absorbing every word. Which reminds me... I haven't read Carl's response to my MASKED MAN post yet, either. It's not that I haven't tried. It's just that every time I click on his response, the cacophony of linkage makes me catatonic. Not that it makes any difference, he obviously doesn't read what I write before he responds to it...

Alrighty then. I'm off to make myself a big, strong, hairy cup o' joe and curl up with a good magazine article. I'll be back with a crisp memo to the file.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Update to the file:

My crisp memo seems to have wilted. Hurricanes Katrina and Rita have literally blown Rovegate off the front page. At least for the moment. However, there is still the matter of a rather lengthy, rather expensive, on-going investigation. Eventually the findings will have to be announced, and when they are, it will be in the wake of those very same hurricanes. Just today I heard somebody - Cafferty on CNN, I think - connect Rove, Iraq and KatrinaRita as a continuum of bad news for Bush.

Indeed. Maybe the connecting piece will be about Rove planting the yellowcake story. Maybe that's why he had Joseph Wilson in his crosshairs. That would certainly explain a few things.

My guess is that a crime will be found to have been committed and that said crime will have jeopardized national security. Just a guess, of course. Time will tell.

Thursday, September 29, 2005
Further update to the file:

It seems I was wrong. Carl Frank has, in fact, been reading my posts before commenting on them. Just this morning, I happened to notice four comments attached to this very post, two of which were Carl's, two of which were spam. I erased the first spam, mainly because it took up too much space. For the record, I won't delete anyone's comments, ever, for any reason. But when someone posts an infomercial without so much as blowing me a kiss, they're out of here.

Now to go check out what Carl has said about me. Come along, won't you?

WHO WAS THAT MASKED MAN?

2005-07-20T06:08:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Washington, DC

Sultry. That's the word I've been looking for to describe the feel of this dense, tropical air on my skin. Marcia came up with it in the garden last night. Sultry. Perfect. The closest I'd come was sensuous, after my 12-mile bike ride with Shelly, yesterday afternoon. We were both surprised I'd made it all the way down to the river and back, only needing to walk the bike back up one steep block of Massachusetts Avenue.

Anyway, for whatever reason, while everyone else has been complaining of the oppressive heat and humidity, I've been getting off on it. Maybe because I've been shrouded in San Francisco fog for so long that the feel of a hot summer night on my bare skin takes me straight back to high school, and boys with fast cars. Hurtling through the night on Virginia back roads. Blacktop strips through forest and farmland. Luxuriating in newfound freedom. The first stirrings of kundalini energy tingling at the base of my spine. A hint of danger in the air.

What a very pleasant surprise to feel that again...

For the moment, all is quiet at the Pink House. Everyone is off doing their day, leaving me in the kitchen with the house computer, CNN on the TV, dogs sprawled in front of the fans, a week's worth of The Washington Post piled up waiting for me to catch up on the ongoing saga of Karl Rove and the White House leak.

Just below the fold on today's front page, "Bush Raises Threshold for Firing Aides in Leak Probe". Originally, he vowed to fire the person who leaked Valerie Plame's identity as a CIA operative to the press. Now he'll only fire the leaker if a crime was committed. Proving that will be a hard dollar, considering the definition of the crime in question.

Bottom line: the standard requires proof of intent to harm national security.

When all the sturm und drang dies down, at worst, they will only be able to prove intent to harm Valerie Plame's husband, Joseph Wilson, and the credibility of his report that Saddam Hussein was not actively seeking yellowcake from Niger.

So here we are again. Back to the sixteen little words that helped pave our way to war.

My right wing-nut friends keep telling me all this will go away soon. It's a non-issue, they insist. It will blow over like a desert dust storm. Nobody cares. It's all in the past. Forget the sixteen words. And then comes the Downing Street Memo. "Old news," says Carl Frank at a party in Georgetown, while dancing a gavotte on the grave of the European Union. The Karl Rove thing? About to blow over. Give it a couple more days.

But I don't jump up and down and predict prison terms for our perps. No no no. I just lay back in the weeds and wait, reflecting on my old friend, Pat (Yapcinko) Lansdale.

Pat was the second wife of Major General Edward Geary Lansdale, whom he met in the Philippines. Lansdale supposedly wrote the book on covert warfare. He was sent to the Philippines in the early '50s as "kingmaker" for his friend, General Magsaysay. Sure enough, Magsaysay went on to become President of the Philippines, thanks in great part to the efforts of Ed Lansdale. Part of Lansdale's mission had been to defeat the "communist" (today's "terrorist") Huk guerillas. According to the legend, it was Pat Yapcinko who introduced Lansdale to the leader of the Huks. Part of Lansdale's strategy had to do with getting next to the enemy. From this strategy came much of his mystique.

And what, pray tell, might the enemy stragegy have been? Could it have had something to do with getting close to the legendary spy?

I like to call it my "Silk Domino Theory" and it has to do with legendary spies falling into the silken arms of beautiful Asian women. Beautiful, patient warriors - in for the long haul.

Decades later, in McLean, Virginia, when I was negotiating with Lansdale over the rights to his collection of songs from the war in Vietnam, Pat pulled me aside and suggested I learn her secret of "ruling quietly from behind the screen".

Instead of lock horns with Lansdale and his little cadre of ex-CIA agents like Lou Conein, who was always in my face about "this better not be an anti-war film", she was saying, essentially, just lay back in the weeds and wait for your shot.

They're all gone now. And I'm still here in the weeds, watching and waiting, with the sultry summer air on my skin.

And I'm thinking. Running everything I've just read back through my head. And I'm saying to myself, there's something amiss here. All the attention is on Rove. And his piece of the puzzle is sliced paper thin: he confirmed there was a story floating around about Joe Wilson's wife being a CIA agent and that it was she who had recommended him for his fact-finding trip to Niger, thus setting up the "nepotism" scandal without leaving his fingerprints on the outing of Plame. Because Rove didn't know her name. Or speak it.

Hang on, says me. Rove is a red herring. It's the other guy we want to be looking at. The "senior administration official" who is "no partisan gunslinger". Who might also be "the person who has been briefed on the matter". Who appears to be a lawyer involved with the case.

By the way, who is Judith Miller protecting? It couldn't be Rove. He's being ever so liberally dangled in front of the Gaping Maw of 24-hour "news". If the administration didn't want him out there, he'd be somewhere else.

The beauty part is, there is no way of proving any kind of intent to harm national security with his wee piece of the puzzle. Forget about Rove.

So, who is Non-Gunslinger Guy? Could that be who Judith Miller is protecting? And could she be in for a huge reward, after playing the part of media martyr to the hilt, thus gaining for herself the high ground in this decidedly low-down deal? Who is she protecting? And why?

***

Thanks to my dear pal Sal for posting this item on her Daily Sally.

EXILE ON MAIN STREET

2005-06-17T10:37:00.000-07:00

Friday, June 17, 2005
Washington, DC

It's on. The movement to impeach President George W. Bush has been born. Our erstwhile free press doesn't want to admit it, much less report it, but the hog is definitely in the tunnel. All that's left now is the squealing.

Early this morning, after I put the water on to boil, I walked barefoot down the hardwood hallway and opened the front door onto a gorgeous, tropical morning. Birds were chirping, the garden was fresh with dew, and traffic was light on our tree-lined boulevard. On the front steps, next to a pot of magenta geraniums was The Washington Post. With sweet anticipation, I picked up the plastic-wrapped bundle, walked back to the kitchen, dropped it onto the round oak table, stepped over to the avocado green Formica counter and ground the shade-grown beans.

Moments later, with a big mug of tall, dark and handsome coffee in one hand, I slid Section A out from under the inch-thick Advertising Supplement with the other, and spread the front page out on the table. Above the fold was a large color photo of four United States Senators dressed up to celebrate "Seersucker Thursday, a Capitol Hill rite of spring."

Well damn. Here I thought that a large and noisy crowd of demonstrators, gathered at the front gate of the White House, led by a United States Congressman holding a fat stack of 540,000 signatures of American citizens - demanding an investigation into the Downing Street Memo and all that that entails - along with a dozen other US Congressional Representatives and surrounded by a media circus, might get a mention on the front page of the local rag.

Not on Seersucker Thursday, Bubba. What we do have is Minnesota's Republican Senator, Norm Coleman, showing off a spiffy pair of black and white saddle shoes while Senator Blanche Lincoln, a Democrat from Arkansas, gleefully claps her hands, the honorable Republican Senator from the great state of Mississippi, Trent Lott throws his head back, laughing with carefree abandon, and Senate Majority Leader, Bill Frist of Tennessee thoughtfully contemplates his own shoes.

God I love this country.

But wait! All is not lost. On page A6, top of the fold, a small picture catches my eye. I recognize the scene immediately, because I was there. John Conyers in shirt sleeves yesterday afternoon, crossing Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House, swarmed by media and flanked by hundreds of supporters. From the picture you wouldn't know the location or see the crowd. From the caption, you find out that "Rep. John Conyers Jr... and other Democrats hold a mock Judiciary Committee hearing as a protest against the war in Iraq".

Under the title, WASHINGTON SKETCH, is a hatchet job by some bottom-feeder called Dana Milbank. The header says, DEMOCRATS PLAY HOUSE TO RALLY AGAINST THE WAR and the piece opens with this:

"In the Capitol basement yesterday, long-suffering House Democrats took a trip to the land of make-believe."

Excuse me. I have to go flush my head down the toilet. Failing that, I'll be back with another steaming mug of oily, bitter coffee.

ROLLING THUNDER

2005-06-04T22:07:00.000-07:00

Sunday, May 29
Washington, DC

Today the Thunder came to town. Marcia and I decided on rock & roll parking, instead of leaving the car at DuPont Circle and taking the Metro over to Foggy Bottom, so we drove right up to the spot where a river of bikes was streaming onto Constitution Avenue. We parked and walked over to Memorial Bridge to watch - no, experience - thousands of riders on chrome horses thunder between two huge gilded horses flanked by gilded warriors at the gates of the bridge. They took a left at the Lincoln Memorial and then continued on to Constitution. There was a strip along Constitution where they were able to gun their engines and fire down the straightaway in all their glory.

Lord, they raised a joyful noise! There's nothing like the sound of a big pack of big bikes. It's the sound of... America.

Later on at Valerie's impromptu soiree in Georgetown, everyone was talking about Rolling Thunder. It turns out we were all there - the whole posse - watching the spectacle from different vantage points between the Pentagon parking lot and the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial Wall.

Many of the bikes flew the big black POW/MIA flag alongside the Stars and Stripes. In fact, Rolling Thunder exists to remind us that America has a long-standing policy of abandoning Prisoners of War - for reasons that are beyond shameful. Rolling Thunder is a demonstration of the kind of dedication to a cause that makes me proud to be an American - screaming into the teeth of government lies, year after year. And year after year it gets bigger and louder.

Memorial Day. The day we honor our fallen soldiers.

The fact that soldiers are dying this very day saddens me beyond words. The fact that American men and women are being put in harm's way without proper armor fills me with rage. The fact that we have systematically abandoned POWs for decades and decades utterly appalls me. Extended duty, cuts in benefits, forgotten and homeless veterans... it all makes me hang my head in shame.

Memorial Day, and I'm remembering things I'd rather forget. Things that are wrong with my country that need to be made right. Things that require courage and commitment. The kind it takes to move thousands of motorcycles across thousands of miles, year after frustrating year, to remind the rest us of our fallen - and abandoned - brothers and sisters.

* First published on RIDER'S JOURNAL, Sunday, May 29, 2005

SWEET LITTLE SIXTEEN

2004-10-20T10:23:00.000-07:00

This blog has been created in response to comments by blogger Carl Frank at NO OIL FOR PACIFISTS, posted on Sunday, August 28, 2004.

Dear Carl,

I hope you don't think I crawled off to die in the weeds after you took me to task, almost two months ago. It took weeks to plough through all your links. Actually, I printed them out so I could make notes. Quite a tome. Not the kind of book I like to curl up with, but your words demand careful consideration. By the time I was done scribbling all over my stack of pages, I had too many notes and too much to say to put into a "comment" at the end of your post. So I took your advice and created my own blog. Here are my comments on your piece and just two of your many links:

First of all, when did I "insist Kerry’s Vietnam lies are merely political tall tales and thus won’t influence the election?" I never used those words and I purposely never used the word Vietnam. I did, however, use the words "false memories", which you assumed were in reference to Kerry and Vietnam. You were right, in that the term had been used in that context. My mistake. But since you brought it up, I will gladly say that if John Kerry’s Vietnam experience does indeed "justify his policies" then that’s another reason I’m voting for him.

I reckon there are quite a few of us whose "policies" were influenced, or justified, by the war in Vietnam. Some of us even flip-flopped. Those decisions didn’t come easy, Carl. They were born of daily, heart-wrenching struggle. We grew up believing in our country and everything it stands for. We grew up asking what we could do for our country. You think it was easy to decide our country was wrong? You think we turned on a dime? Or that we flip-flopped as a career move? Not even close.

I supported the war in Vietnam, at first. Just like all but two of our legislators. Having lived behind the Iron Curtain, I was big on saving the world for freedom and what we now call "spreading Democracy". I went to work for President Johnson, at the tender age of 21 - based on my position on the war. My disillusionment began as I composed letters to his fellow Americans from the President of the United States. Just to clarify, I didn’t work at the White House, but at the Democratic National Committee - in the now-infamous Watergate building, where letters came to the President as head of the party.

Later, in Hubert Humphrey’s presidential campaign, I was part of the political operation that tried in vain to get Humphrey to break with Johnson on Vietnam. We failed, and Humphrey lost to Nixon.

As the years went on I moved further and further from the mainstream... all because of Vietnam. Where I am now, politically, has everything to do with the war in Vietnam, Carl, and I daresay the same is true for you and many of your readers.

Not having served in Vietnam myself, I do not claim to know what went on over there. I will never read enough books, click on enough websites, or study enough about war to ever think I know better than a Vietnam vet what he experienced over there. In fact, I have no problem whatsoever believing opposing versions of the same story when it comes to the war in Vietnam.

I have worked with many Vietnam veterans over the years - from "the first American advisor", Major General Edward Geary Lansdale and his crusty cohort, Lou Conein, to diplomats, spooks and early non-combatants, to grunts, river rats, tunnel rats, medics, fighter pilots, door gunners, Marines and Navymen, from photojournalists and writers to nurses and donut dollies. They range from gung-ho diehards to Vietnam Vets Against the War to vets obsessed with the abandonment of our POWs. I can’t quote chapter and verse from military records and after action reports like you, Carl, but I’ve heard a lot of stories - and I still agree with the guy who said, Everything you ever heard about Vietnam is true.

So, back to your piece. You say, "Johnston supplies two arguments: First, President Bush’s falsehoods are worse; and, second, Kerry’s exaggerations are trivial." Carl, I said no such thing. You made that up out of your pretty little head.

What I DID say was, because of Bush’s lies, nine hundred and fifty American lives had been lost. That was over a month ago. The number has risen past a thousand now. Because of President Bush’s carefully woven web of lies - lies that JUSTIFIED his POLICIES on Iraq - over a thousand Americans are now dead.

Kerry’s "exaggerations" have created nothing more than a blizzard of internet fodder and chatter. So I guess you’re right after all. Kerry’s exaggerations are trivial. And George Bush’s falsehoods are worse. Far worse.

You say, "Bush’s Sixteen Words Were True" and then claim that I said "the President overstated Saddam’s ability to acquire nuclear fuel in his January, 2003 State of the Union address". What I actually said was:

He got caught with imaginary yellowcake on his hands.

Imaginary yellowcake that justified his policy to go to war in Iraq, I might add.

You say I belittle Bush’s basis for the so-called "16 words".

Actually, what I belittled was the litany all "right-wingnuts recited ad nauseam when President Bush got caught with imaginary yellowcake on his hands. IT WAS ONLY SIXTEEN WORDS, they bellowed and brayed, as if to justify their presence in the State of the Union Address". At least you quoted me accurately on that bit.

Let’s have a look at those sixteen little words. Perhaps they’re worthy of belittlement.

"The British government has learned that Saddam Hussein recently sought significant quantities of uranium (yellowcake) from Africa."

"LEARNED"? Why not "confirmed" or even, "informed us"? It’s an odd choice of words. It glares. Raised as I was, in a nest of spies, certain words set off certain alarms for me. Neutral words. Words that can go either way.

Learned FROM WHOM? Could be just about anybody, couldn’t it? Maybe they learned it from US intelligence via some cutout in Africa? Were the British government looking at the same documents the Senate considered before voting to authorize the President to invade Iraq? Documents that turned out to be forgeries? These are questions that come to mind as I gaze at Bush’s sweet little sixteen.

"The British government has learned that Saddam Hussein recently sought significant quantities of uranium from Africa."

"RECENTLY SOUGHT"? What does that mean? When is recent? How serious is "sought". Phone call? Letter of inquiry? Clandestine meeting in an alley? Conversation between friends?

And so what? Every country in the Middle East - and well beyond - has been trying to score yellowcake since Bomb One.

If being in the market for uranium justifies war, why haven’t we occupied the whole Middle East, North Korea and France?

And how does it qualify as a cause for "going to war as a last resort" - a promise from Presidential candidate George W. Bush?

Back to your blog. This seems as good a time as any to compliment your host, blogspot.com, on the way they have set the site up. Unlike my humble yahoo page, you can link to all the backup you want, right there within the body of your post. Very nice.

Not having access to a high speed or reliable internet connection, I printed out your backup material. Or as much as I could before the printer ran out of ink. Quite a tome.

I’m a slow reader, Carl, and I have a very fragile attention span. But I printed out your links, punched three holes in the whole stack, and lugged it around with me like a dutiful student. I read every word.

Under "Liberals disputed the phrase" you link to several articles, starting with a piece dated Thursday, June 12, 2003 in washingtonpost.com, entitled CIA Did Not Share Doubt on Iraq Data. By "Liberals" I assume you mean the CIA, The Washington Post, and Walter Pincus, who wrote the piece. By "Liberal" I also assume you mean Wrong, by definition. But never mind that now.

Pincus states that "Bush’s claim" (insert 16 words) "was disputed by a CIA-directed mission to the central African nation in early 2002", according to "senior administration officials and a former government official... But the CIA did not pass on the detailed results of its investigation to the White House or other government agencies."

In other words, the CIA swallowed the poison pill. Took the fall. Provided "plausible deniability". Don’t get me wrong. I’m not passing myself off as an expert on these matters, just giving my gut reaction as an adult child of an undercover agent of the CIA. I may be "out of the loop" but I have an excellent ear for company bullshit.

"The CIA’s failure to share what it knew," says Pincus (with a name like that how could he not be a com-simp?) "helped keep the uranium story alive until the eve of the war in Iraq, when the United Nation’s chief Nuclear Inspector (obviously a bleeding-heart liberal) told the Security Council that the claim was based on fabricated evidence."

Fabricated evidence. The same evidence British Intelligence "learned" from?

Back to Pincus: "A senior intelligence official said the CIA’s action was the result of ‘extremely sloppy’ handling of a central piece of evidence..." A CIA hand goes up, the player says, "My bad", and the game goes on.

Pincus reports that "a senior administration official (clearly a liberal wacko) said the case was indicative of larger problems involving the handling of intelligence about Iraq’s alleged chemical, biological and nuclear weapons programs and its links to al Qaeda, which the administration cited as justification for war. ‘Information not consistent with the administration agenda was discarded and information that was [consistent] was not seriously scrutinized’."

In other words, Carl, ersatz intelligence paved our way to war. I think what we want, Carl, is accurate, not ersatz intelligence.

Pincus: "As the controversy over Iraq intelligence has expanded with the failure so far of US teams in Iraq to uncover proscribed weapons, intelligence officials have accused senior administration policymakers of pressuring the CIA or exaggerating intelligence information to make the case for war. The story involving the CIA’s uranium purchase probe, however, suggests that the agency also was shaping intelligence on Iraq to meet the administration’s policy goals."

Ersatz intelligence shaping policy. Over a thousand American lives lost. Worse than trivial, my friend.

Ersatz intelligence shaping policy: "Part of the agency’s standard operating procedure", according to Sen. Bob Graham (D-Fla.), former chairman of the Select Committee on Intelligence and a candidate for president, "when it wants to advance the information that supported their (the administration’s) position and bury that which didn’t."

The evidence that Saddam was "seeking to buy uranium in Niger one or two years earlier" was based on some documents that were most likely forged, according to a former Ambassador, now known to be Joe Wilson, sent by the CIA to investigate the claim.

Pincus:

However, the CIA did not include details of the former ambassador’s report and his identity as the source, which would have added to the credibility of his findings, in its intelligence reports that were shared with other government agencies. Instead, the CIA only said that Niger government officials had denied the attempted deal had taken place, a senior administration [official] said.

"This gent made a visit to the region and chatted up his friends," a senior intelligence officer said, describing the agency’s view of the mission. "He relayed back to us that they said it was not true and that he believed them."

Such clever little words, carefully designed to marginalize the source. The art of lowballing. Vintage CIA.

Thirteen months later, on March 8, Mohamed ElBaradei, director general of the International Atomic Energy Agency, informed the U.N. Security Council that after careful scrutiny of the Niger documents, his agency had reached the same conclusion as the CIA’s envoy. ElBaradei deemed the documents "not authentic," an assessment that U.S. officials did not dispute.

In other words, Carl, ersatz intelligence.

Ersatz: According to Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary: SUBSTITUTE. SYNTHETIC. According to Microsoft Word’s Thesaurus: IMITATION. SYNTHETIC. ARTIFICIAL. FAKE. FALSE. MANUFACTURED. SURROGATE.

Fake intelligence. Over a thousand American lives lost.

Towards the end of Pincus’ article, he says, "Later it was disclosed that the United States and Britain were basing their reports on common information that originiated with forged documents provided by Italian intelligence officials".

Let’s see. Isn’t the Italian president one of the coalition members that Bush says he talks to every day? And aren’t these documents the same ones that John Kerry looked at when he voted to give the President authority to take out Saddam?

OK, so that’s Pincus, on the left. On the right, you link to Jeff Jacoby at townhall.com, who on July 12, 2004, takes A New Look at Bush’s ‘16 words’. Jacoby complains that "A furor erupted over that statement when a CIA consultant and ex-diplomat named Joseph Wilson, who had gone to Niger in 2002 to look into the matter, publicly claimed that the charge wasn’t true. The White House agreed that the line shouldn’t have been in Bush’s speech, but far from quelling the uproar, that admission only intensified it." Oh, the horror.

I guess they expected to shove a hand into the air, say, "My bad", and get on with the game. Too bad about all those picky liberals.

"Within days," Jacoby writes, "Howard Dean was making comparisons to Watergate, a group of left-leaning former intelligence officers were calling for the resignation of Vice President Dick Cheney (who had taken a close interest in the uranium evidence), and the Bush-is-a-liar shrieking reached fever pitch."

Are these "the sirens in Kerry’s nightmares", Carl? Bellowing warnings of President Nixon’s war crimes? You may be an expert on any number of subjects, but I doubt you are privvy to John Kerry’s subconscious. And God forbid we should compare one Republican President’s war crimes to those of another. Obviously nothing but liberal bias.

Jacoby says the upshot (of the left-wing furor over the sixteen words) is that "Bush’s credibility took a blow, support for the war in Iraq was undermined, and the idea that Saddam’s regime had tried to acquire uranium in Africa for use in nuclear weapons was widely dismissed as false."

Support for the war was "undermined", was it? If the support was based on "bad intelligence" it wasn’t real support in the first place, was it? No. So, what was actually undermined was the false premise for going to war.

And then there’s the idea that Saddam’s regime had tried to acquire refined uranium in Africa for use in nuclear weapons. Jacoby asks the sixty-four dollar question:

What if it was true?

Indeed. Frankly, how could it NOT be true? I just cannot imagine a scenario in which Saddam Hussein did not actively seek uranium for a weapons program. The man was into weapons of mass destruction. And he had them. I personally saw a very long list, provided by a former intelligence officer, of weaponizable chemical and biological agents sold to Saddam Hussein by the United States of America, during a time when he was our enemy’s enemy, and therefore our friend. Given all that, there is no doubt in my mind that he tried to obtain uranium, probably many times. But so what? Even proof of that intention did not justify a rush to war.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re still looking at Jeff Jacoby, who is rather put out by the lack of US media interest in stories pointing to the truth of the 16 words, to wit:

Late last month, the Financial Times, a respected international newspaper, reported that according to European intelligence agencies, Iraq was one of five countries that had negotiated with smugglers in Niger for the illegal purchase of uranium yellowcake. "These claims support the assertion made in the British government dossier... that Iraq sought to buy uranium from an African country," the paper reported in a front-page story on June 27. For some reason, though, the US media showed virtually no interest in following up that revelation. (One exception: columnist William Safire in the New York Times.)

Wait a minute... One of FIVE countries? What about the other four? ? If being in the market for yellowcake is justification for a preemptive strike, why haven’t we invaded them too?

Jacoby says, "In 1999, Saddam’s information minister, Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf approached an official of Niger to talk about expanding trade, an approach the official interpreted as a possible attempt to buy uranium. The author of the book? None other than Joseph Wilson - the man who accused the Bush administration last year of making up an Iraqui interest in uranium from Africa."

"Interpreted as a possible attempt"? For this he would stop the presses? Call out the dogs of war? Jacoby bemoans the fact that, "except for a single story in theWashington Post, the media have had virtually nothing to say about Wilson’s new account." Gee, maybe they’re not combing through documents looking to justify the President’s policies. Oh, the bias.

Jacoby makes an interesting point, though. He says, "To be sure, none of this proves that Saddam’s agents sought uranium for use in nuclear weapons."

Maybe not. What they did was clinch the deal on the President’s decision to wage war. Remember the TONE in which they were used. They were the clincher. On top of biological and chemical weapons, Saddam was developing nuclear weapons. Voting against the authority to deal with such a threat would have been a hard dollar indeed - maybe even harder than voting against the Tonkin Gulf resolution.

And how convenient that Kerry’s vote to give that authority, based on that flimsy "evidence", is now Bush’s biggest weapon against him.