This is a virtual cafe where all ideas are entertained all facts discerned, all topics discussed. And just because the proprietor has a passion for Christ, books, and the Acoustic guitar, that doesn't mean you can't veer wildly off into different subjects. So, come in, have a coffee (imported especially from Verble's finca in El Salvador), and talk about whatever you want.
We think of all the places we want to die: In Paris, while dancing down the Champs-Elysees in the rain, Or frozen into a permanent fixture on the side of Mount Everest, where other climbers will nod their respect as they pass our Zen formation on their way to the peak.
Perhaps we wish to die being gored while running with the bulls in Pamplona, after a night’s drinking and unleashing our inner Ernest Hemingways,
or perhaps we wish to die in the arms of our lover, or beloved, or loved one, the one we have loved for decades, or met just recently, or just
And that’s it, then, isn’t it?
Because the place that we do not wish to die, is some grey room in some grey bed with some grey pillow for our one grey head: the curtains drawn and the door shut and nobody around us to note our passing, until someone knocks on the door the next day,
to find us, already gone,
only to push one button, to call for nameless others to wrap us and remove us, and make ready our grey room
for another grey head:
who will never be trampled in Pamplona, nor frozen on Everest,
These are the days in which we are unmade,
like a bed with rumpled sheets and no maid to clean them:
not here; not in this feral mist
that swirls outside this dank motel room
filled with cigarette stains and diesel fumes,
and the curtains are like shrouds and the cobwebs
fill the corners of broken windows and we long for
the break of daylight in winter,
the call of gulls at seasides,
the dark purple rain across the spiny ridge of mountains
that brings that smell of new Spring.
As I was driving the other day - it was Wednesday or Thursday - I had to change the station. Usually I just listen to NPR or Christian Rock but on this day there was some interview with some whiner from the Trump Admin about how Pelosi keeps going on vacation and that's why the shutdown is going on so long, so I just punched in some of the other numbers and I landed on one station where the guy was going on about how no worker works only 8 hours any more - how if you want to keep your job, you have to work 10-12 hours a day every day.
He said that all his employees eat lunch at their desks. He eats lunch at his desk. He said he doesn't allow his employees to go out to lunch "Why do I need them getting away from work for an hour? I need them here all this time if they're gonna do a radio show."
Then I recognized the voice. This asshole was Rush Limbaugh. The guy was on radio talking about how he was breaking the FLSA. But to be honest, this is what companies are doing all over the place now. This is becoming the standard: we pay people based on a 40 hour work week and then we make them work 60 hour work weeks, which does nothing but burn out employees - sucks them dry like you'd wring out a wet washcloth. Why? So those who make the real money can act more powerful and stroke their ego.
And I remembered then, that this, this right here, is what the American Labor Movement fought for, over a hundred years ago. American workers, immigrant workers on American soil, toiling for American capitalists, they shed their blood and they died at the hands of the corporate-owned militias, against this wage slavery that we are just wallowing in today.
We dishonor their memory when we piss on their legacy.
The workers should walk out. Let Rush Limbaugh eat his own lunch at his own desk. Alone.