Author Archives: Greg Wees

I Have Nothing to Say

Posted on by
Reply

You know, sometimes there’s just nothing to say. I have been, for the last couple of years, as they say, largely “silent” as a writer. Some claim writer’s block. I, on the other hand, claim it not. It’s different. It’s more as if, with the great cacophony of opinions swirling around the – I can’t say it – blogosphere, the prospect of adding one’s lonely voice to that tiresome, bloated chorus is just a little bit demoralizing.

Or a lot. I don’t know. But this is what I do.

Suffice to say, I am crawling back to the surface like some college boy tossed into the pool at the 3 a.m. mark of the frat party. Why? Because, oddly, I must. I have no excuse for it. I have been working on some fiction, which I believe I’ll start stapling out on this board for anyone who may be interested. And I’ve got matches – matches for sale.

Seriously – I have felt like some primordial mud pit long crusted over but with an insistent bubbling magma beneath – some of which must surface, and form some strange new organism, while other channels must stay submerged, flowing forever beneath the surface. So it is.

I won’t say my mood is good, but it’s not too bad. There is, again, a kind of pacific stability to my life – it is the peace I crave in order to hear myself in the quiet, and also the peace I abhor because, let’s face it, life is not a study hall.

I mean, dude.

There’s so much to say, I have no excuse for not saying it. So here we go. I was reading over the old entries here today, one day after I pulled the switch and registered supergiantsquid.com as my own personal domain*. So here’s my pledge to you, dear possibly non-existent public: I will take up the mantle of explaining life inside this mortal coil once again, and try to make public sense of this world – the one we drop into, like a baby set adrift in the rushes.

But we can leave all that behind.

Welcome Home, Bub

Posted on by
Reply

How long has it been? Well, I last checked into this place in 2005. I guess a lot of time has passed. Does it matter? Let’s check:

2005: At war in Afghanistan.
2009: At war in Afghanistan.

2005: At war in Iraq
2009: At war in Iraq

2005: Economy straining under the weight of two wars, investors getting rich on vapor securities
2009: “Is this the end of the bread line?”

2005: Patriot Act II
2009: Socialist Act I

Of course, in 2005 we were in year 5 of George Bush, and looking down the barrel of 3 more. Who could have predicted just how bad those three years would be? As pessimistic as I was, I never imagined a total economic meltdown, nor the abject failure of both wars to achieve any kind of U.S. advantage in the middle east (or anywhere else), nor the unfathomable persistence, during the implosion of our society, of persistent conservative faith in the very policies that have brought us here, to the brink of the second great depression.

It truly was a presidency of historic import. Just not the good kind.

 

In the summer of 2008 we saw something very frightening coming – the grave possibility of four to eight more years of war, war, war, and tax cuts, tax cuts, tax cuts and, let’s be frank, very light intellectual efforts. These two prongs of the McCain plan–both expensive in terms of government solvency–are clearly incompatible over the long term. Wars are paid for, I’m told, with tax dollars. So if you want lots of one you need lots of the other. We all actually liked John McCain previous to the campaign (and now that it’s over). He was actually kind of bright and fairly moderate, even level-headed, until the Klieg lights went on. But then we had to watch him, live and in color, as we watched the likable George W. Bush of the 2000 campaign, morph into a generic Republican presidential candidate pandering to the religious right, the America Firsters, and the trickle down bubbleheads in Congress who can imagine absolutely nothing else the government can do to aid the country apart from cutting taxes for the very wealthy, whupping Islamist extremist ass, and doing as little else as possible.

And it looked like they were going to win it. They were going to win it on personality alone, and not just personality, but the personality of Sarah Palin the Painted Pit Bull. When this appeared to be the case, when the country fell over for an American Idol politician who, it appeared, was going to get by on her looks alone, I almost couldn’t deal with it. I almost went a little crazy. I mean, I’ve never been a big flag waver, but I do wish for the country to persist. I can’t even imagine wanting to vote for its likely implosion out of partisan spite – and yet that looked to be the way it was going for conservatives. Palin was “funny,” in that she had some clever put-downs of Obama in her campaign bag of tricks. She was “down to earth,” in that she was not an intellectual, not interested in the news or American foreign and domestic policy and what not – no, she was interested in…hockey. And old-time religion. And abstinence-only sex ed (sorry unwed 17-year-old highs school drop-out prego daughter – it’s a vision thing). And the “young earth” theory. Because science is offensive to God.

This was the woman who, should the cancer-addled, increasingly disoriented, 70-something McCain expire or become incapacitated during his term, would assume responsibility for a nation on the brink of economic and military disaster – responsibility for an economy which, should it go down, would bring the rest of the world down with it in a prolonged world-wide depression.

Turns out, of course, we had nothing to worry about. Things were so bad, so systemically broken and mismanaged at every level, from mortgage brokers to finance CEOs to government “regulators” at Justice and the SEC – so bad that everything fell apart well before inauguration day.

And fortunately, on inauguration day, instead of a mediocre, shape-shifting political stalwart with no new ideas standing there taking the oath because it was his “turn”, Barack Obama stood there, and took the oath that may have just saved the world.

So I’m hopeful. I voted for hope. That doesn’t mean things will get better any time soon. But it means that if they get worse, it won’t be for lack of brains or due to an ignorant willingness to let the “invisible hand” of the markets finish the job it started: namely, the decimation of the American and world economies through greed, malfeasance, incompetence and a criminal disregard for the safe management of other people’s money. Yeah, banks, I’m talking to you. Apparently you are the market, and you are also, ironically, the enemy of the market. You have destroyed yourselves, and are attempting to take us along for the ride.

But I’ll say this – you look at Barack, you listen to him, and you get one overarching impression: sure, the guy’s a politician – that’s who does politics since we’ve made it a business – but he’s also smart, capable, decisive, broad-minded, and fair. And he wants to beat this thing for the benefit of everybody, not just Wall Street.

Anyway, I’m back. And I’m pissed. But you know, I feel better already. Thanks for listening. Next time I’ll fill you in on what I’ve been up to.

October

Posted on by
Reply

I awoke to the first cold Monday morning today. The bed, with its pillow-top mattress and down comforter, seemed mighty preferable to the cold floor, dark hallways and…work. How many personal days do I have left…?

The day brightened up as I got some hot coffee in me and made it to the car–I mean it literally did. The slanty sun himself came up over the city as I crested the highway North, the first time I’ve seen it do that in months. And it did not disappoint. A hazy red gumball, a Japanese flag. Later on, a small V of geese, black in silhouette, passed overhead, heading down the Missouri to wherever they are going. A fog monster glided up over the stubble field they crossed, trying to act threatening as the sun burned its edges into feathery wisps of cold smoke.

I do love October. Yesterday I spent all morning cleaning windows, to let that strong October sun in the house, perhaps also an unconscious attempt to head off that snowbound feeling before it starts. In the afternoon I walked a golf course alone, cheating and cursing myself into a pretty good score. My calves are sore now, remembering all those uphill par fours.

The day before we took our annual pilgrimage to Nebraska City, home of Arbor Day and Arbor Lodge, which is now a state park. The Lodge, on 160 acres (bought from Uncle Sam at ten cents per), was originally a four-room frame house built in the 19th century–the first one, they say, West of Nebraska City and East of the Rockies. Through several generations and additions it ended up as the impressive mansion home of J. Sterling Morton, secretary of agriculture and founder of the Morton salt company as well as Arbor Day itself. There’s a fantastic carriage house with various period carriages from the 1880s to about 1910, bought on a whim when Morton could snatch them up for a song (cars, you know). There’s also a working apple orchard and many varieties of trees planted throughout the estate. There’s also some new commercial crap they’ve built to increase the tourist factor–I think they call it “Tree Adventure”–but we always avoid that area of of the park.

We had lunch at Johnny’s Corner Cafe in downtown Nebraska City, where I had the massive hot beef sandwich, famous in three states. We bought some nice Fujis and come cherry cider at an old orchard outside of town.

As I walked the grounds of Arbor Lodge with my little family that afternoon, full of roast beef and mashed potatoes, I was able to capture for a little while a bit of that unattached contentment that is so rare, and so valuable. As my daughter swung on my arm and we walked up the rutted carriage path to the house, she scattering squirrels and us laughing at her, the sun friendly on us and not too warm, the clouds like big scoops of mashed potatoes themselves and the sky that curious October blue, the moment lapsed into one of perfect ease. For those few minutes, absolutely nothing else was on my mind, nothing nagged at my attention. I was, the day was, we were–it all was, and always will be nothing more nor less. Time unconstrained, simply lived.

That night the crescent moon lulled low among silvery clouds, the clouds being their unique October selves. Friends came by for dinner, I built a little fire outside and drank a couple of beers with my friend, feeling the chill of the air and the warmth of the flames and the conversation. He told me about his garage sale, and of course we talked about music and life.

It was continuing to be a good day.

Editorial – Notes on the Passing Scene

Posted on by
Reply

–Revelations on global warming are coming fast and furious, such as an announcement the other day that atmospheric temperatures in Alaska have risen 3.6 to 5.4 degrees Fahrenheit over the past five decades, and another announcement that the Arctic ice cap is shrinking rapidly. It appears even our “leaders,” who generally prefer to ignore the environment in an apparent hope that it will go away, are being forced to admit the reality of industrial society’s contribution to the greenhouse effect. If only we could get them to admit that it’s time to do something about it.

–As we watched in horror, Katrina raged, people suffered and the government–all of it–failed utterly in its primary task to protect and assist its citizens. However, we were provided, and continue to enjoy, a spirited, roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-to-it display of “the Washington blame game.” So we can take heart that at least one function of government remains operational in times of peril.

–Think of all the speeches we heard, all the programs we financed, all the money that flowed to state agencies, all the training, all the equipment, all the “mock attacks”–all the budget-busting resources poured into the post-9/11 push for better local disaster preparations and greater national security. On second thought, don’t think of it. It’s too depressing.

–Say what you want about Cindy Sheehan–and if you’re a pundit, you have–the woman is doing exactly what this country and its laws were set up to accommodate: a citizen speaking out against actions of government with which she disagrees. Now, this may make her a hero to you, or a traitor, but really she’s neither. She’s just an American with something to say. And yes, you have the right to disagree with her or not listen to her. No one said you didn’t.

–A recent study suggested that gasoline prices would have to remain in the five dollar a gallon range for five years in order to create the kind of behavioral change–combined trips, carpooling, purchasing of more fuel-efficient vehicles–needed to reduce dependency on foreign oil. Even then, they say, demand will continue to rise because of new drivers. Back in the forties we conserved in order to win the war. Now, it looks like we’ll have to win a war–or maybe several–in order to avoid conserving. Do I have that right?

–Speaking of war and Cindy Sheehan, a writer in Slate recently pointed out that president Bush’s thesis–that we have to “complete the mission” in Iraq in order to honor the sacrifice of the fallen, which includes Sheehan’s son–is a textbook example of the “sunk cost” fallacy. Applied to economics, those in thrall to the sunk cost fallacy attempt to justify future spending on an investment by citing the “loss” of past spending if more is not spent to achieve success. An everyday example is finishing that expensive meal even though doing so is likely to make you ill. The money is spent either way, and if you stop eating now you’ll probably feel better, but you cram in those last bites in order to justify the cost. With respect to Iraq, it may be logical to stay and incur future losses if there is a good chance of achieving the objective. But without a clear accounting of what the long-term objective is, along with its value to the nation and world and its likely cost in future American and Iraqi lives, it’s difficult to see how we as a nation can make a rational decision one way or the other.

Memory Speaks

Posted on by
Reply

Black Elk said: “Certain things among the shadows of a man’s life do not have to be remembered – they remember themselves.” He was right. If we’re lucky, we have both memories of good times and memories of important milestones at our command. But whether we’re lucky or not, certain memories come back of their own accord, whether beckoned or not. Many of mine in that category were first lived in a dream place, a middle place, and they come calling with some frequency.

I don’t really know why.

When I was in college, my now-wife and I lived in a nice apartment that happened to be located in the g-h-e-t-t-o with a capital “G”.

One of those sentinels of bygone days, a stalwart stone inner-city middle-class apartment House with solid brick balconies and spacious rooms, French doors, built-in bookshelves, etc. In fact, my own mother had lived in the same building with her parents as a teenager. (I didn’t know this when we looked at the place, but I maintain some strange feeling made me want to live there–call it a feeling of home. I had had no interest in moving, but when we saw this place, I immediately wanted it.)

We had the top floor, and the entry door locked, and it was cheap and our old Greek landlord was a saint, so we were good with it.

One day a couple of girls with…interesting wardrobes…moved in to the apartment below us. I learned later they were sisters, and both worked as strippers at a local club. They were both very nice looking in a surgically enhanced, tacky, over-reaching sort of way.

They moved in with a lot of expensive, brand-new furniture, then completely re-carpeted the place at their own expense. They both drove brand-new cars.

After a few weeks, I noticed they were having “parties” very regularly, lasting to about 3 a.m. It seemed only men attended these parties.

Yep, they were ho’s. And I’m pretty sure they didn’t actually live there. It was just their “business” address.

Anyway, while wondering what to do about it, I noticed one winter evening, coming home around 1:00 a.m. or so, that one of the girl’s new Mitsubishi convertible was parked outside with the engine running. I could tell because it was winter, and the exhaust was visible in the cold.

I went to bed and forgot about it.

When I got up the next day, I looked out my dining room window and noticed the car was still running. What’s more, just then some cops pulled up and started rummaging through it, opening the trunk and such.

I decided to be neighborly and go down there and tell them about it.

I had never spoken to them–we kept different schedules, to say the least. I went down the flight to their place and knocked on the door. I heard considerable shuffling and nervous voices, then a strained “Just a minute” from one of them.

She opened the door a bit, a sheet wrapped around her naked body, her blond shaggy hair all over the place, visibly wired or whacked out on something.

“Hey. I just wanted to tell you your car is out there in the alley, and…”

She interrupted–“My CAR!? Is it RUNNING?”

A bit surprised, I said, “Well, yeah, it is running, and–”

–“Are the COPS IN IT?” Sort of screaming, like we’re arguing even though we’re not.

“Well, yeah, the cops are going through it.”

“Ahhhaaaaayyyy!!!” She screamed in a sort of primal angst-ridding, rolled her eyes back and slammed the door.

Well, I thought, I guess she already knows.

They were gone a few weeks later. I heard the dark haired one had died, or was she murdered?

This was just one of the tamer episodes we had at that place. I would never want to go back, but I do miss the color and unpredictability of the old neighborhood sometimes.