I Don't Want Your Botheration . . .

My horoscope this morning said I wasn't grouchy, I was just in a bad mood. The difference between 'grouchy' and 'bad mood' is too much of an exercise in Talmudic hairsplitting for me at the moment, so let's just agree that this probably isn't the day to be pointing out that my socks don't match. If I was to be totally honest this irritability is probably a reaction to staring into the darkness last night wondering if I would ever do anything even slightly above mediocre before I died; but this is an election year and total honesty has been exiled until it has learned to behave itself. Therefore, I will do what every good American would do in my situation, and place the blame squarely on 'Them.'

Then it's the blue ones who can't accept the green ones...

To continue the thought I started in my last post:

I used to believe I was a fairly laid back, easy going sort of person who pretty much accepted everyone on their own terms. Sure, there were those I didn't care for or didn't want to be around, but it was always individuals who repelled me. I was not prejudiced against any group. My parents had taught me acceptance and tolerance, and to always base my judgments on an individual's actions and not some group stereotype. I loved everybody, dammit!

I was full of it.

Right to the top.

I'm surprised my hair could turn gray.

I am about as full of baseless prejudices and bigoted opinions as a man can get and not start a religion. I'm not talking about perfectly healthy phobias like the fear of snakes or heights or chainsaws. Those are survival mechanisms designed to keep us from doing something stupid. I'm talking about uncontrollable disgust based on nothing more than an accent, religious belief, or music choice.

First, in no particular order, is the drivers of pick-up trucks. I suppose I picked them first because a couple of my previous posts involved pick-ups. Whenever I see a pick-up truck, especially the over sized types like an F350, Titan or Avalanche, I know the driver is an alcoholic, racist bully overcompensating for secret doubts about his manhood, possibly a Klan member.

The fact that 99%, or more, of these pick-up truck drivers are either family members I care for very much or very nice, considerate people who struggle daily to lead ethical, compassionate lives just doesn't enter into it.

Next there's county music. To me it is the music of choice for the klu klux klan, alcoholics, unaligned bigots, and wife beating illiterates. At its worst it is a neo-Nazi, jingoistic, hate spewing form of pseudo-patriotism that has, for me, no redeeming value.

Again, the fact that I quite like Lyle Lovett, Kathy Mattea, Nickel Creek, Emmy Lou Harris, Willie Nelson and Rosanne Cash is beside the point. Just because the albums "American IV" and "American V" by Johnny Cash have a haunting, devastating beauty is no reason to reconsider my prejudice in the least.

And then there's Southern accents. They are, to me, the verbal proof of illiteracy, probable racism, and sloth. The use of ya'll (yawl—a boat with its mizzen mast set aft of the rudder post) as a second-person pronoun can be all that's needed to make me want to leave the discussion or change the channel on the television.

Okay, so Jimmy Carter has a Southern accent and just happens to be one of the men I admire most. What of it? And just because the last Operations Manager I worked with had an accent that would make Paula Dean ask him to tone it down a little; and was one of the best managers I ever worked with makes no difference.

The point is: even though I am morally and ethically opposed to bigotry I have still managed to develop a fair number of senseless prejudices. Recognizing them, and being able to point out the infinite "exceptions" to my hypocritical dislikes does nothing obviate them. I don't believe this is unique to me, but just because everyone has a secret load of prejudices does nothing to excuse mine. The best I can do is recognize my bigotries, and do my best to allow individuals the chance to either win me over in spite of them, or piss me off for some other reason. It's not the Ideal my parents tried to instill in me, but I like to think that at some level I am applying the lesson and becoming, a little bit at a time, a person they could be proud of.

人をそしる心をすて豆の皮むく
Discarding my wish/To revile someone/I shell peas.
—Housai

Proud to be an . . .

It's an old F150.

The driver, 100 pounds overweight, in an old sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off. His left arm straight, wrist draped over the stirring wheel with rolls of flesh under a pale, sweaty armpit. He thinks he looks like the father on "American Chopper." His right arm is stretched out across the seat back as if practicing for the day a woman might actually be drunk enough to ride there. A spit cup dangling loosely from his fingers.

Long hair combed back in honor of The King, but not a bit of movement in the wind. A four day growth of stubble forms a patchwork on his cheeks and chin.

He's doing sixty in a forty mile an hour zone, and runs a red light thinking, "shit, it was just pink." If a car gets in front of him he rides their bumper until they get out of the way, and he gives them the finger as he passes. "Get off the road, bitch. If you were my woman you'd learn to get out of the way."

On each side of his back window is a Confederate flag, and in the middle a sticker of Calvin pissing on a Chevrolet emblem. And on each side of his bumper is a decal of the American flag and the slogan, "Proud to be an American."

Is America proud he is?

いわし雲記憶は遠きことに馳せ
The mackerel sky I think of the world Of long ago.
—Kyouhou

Happiness is a warm . . .

The other day while stopped at a red light I noticed that the SUV in front of me had a decal on its rear window that said, "I belong to the NRA/And I vote." My first reaction was, "Big, bleeding whoop." Then I tried to figure out the driver's intent when he placed the decal in his window. Was this person (In my mind's eye I pictured an overweight male with a none too clean 1973 hair cut, wearing Wrangler's that fit only because he wears them very, very low—fastening his belt somewhere in the vicinity of his scrotum. (I always want to remind these guys that belt buckles are not supposed to be horizontal.) He finds stock car racing extremely interesting, and its strategy fascinating), was this person trying to make a patriotic declaration, or was it a threat?


I suppose one could make the argument that he was telling The World, or at least the traffic stuck behind him, that he was an American who takes the electoral process and his rights under the Constitution seriously, and is willing to defend them both vigorously. On the other hand, one could read those words and come to the conclusion that he was saying something like, "One way or another I'm going to force you to do things my way."

Now, I will never know which interpretation was closest to that driver's true beliefs, or if, indeed, he had even thought the statement through and actually formed an opinion. For all I know, the decal was there when he bought the vehicle, or perhaps it was in the envelope of stuff that came after he paid his dues (along with his Official NRA Membership Card—to be carried at all times) and he just stuck it on the window because it looked cool. But I am positive that the image formed by that giant SUV and that decal is one of the major reasons we Americans are so reviled by much of the world's population. The grossly oversized SUV or pickup truck is all too often the vehicle of the road bully. The driver's intent is to intimidate those around him, and force them to give way and acknowledge his power, both physical and economic. He cares nothing about your rights, or safety, and the decal is there to make sure you get the point. Not an image to generate real respect or friendship.

I'll admit that I don't really understand why so many, especially Muslims, hate us so vehemently, but when I see a black Suburban or Tahoe or Escalade or Ford 350 with an NRA sticker I begin to see why just a bit.

人をそしる心をすて豆の皮むく
Discarding my wish To revile someone I shell peas.