All the Dogs Bark at Once

Santa is a fat white guy and this is a great country for fat white guys. They’re getting fatter, threatening to leave the United States of America if we stop them from eating more. They will take their fat white asses and swallow everything in sight somewhere else. As much as they can no matter what. Their hunger is powerful. They proved it this week when Obama said they could go ahead and run the government. Supposedly, the tax breaks about to expire will instead last for another two years, creating jobs along the way. They didn’t create any jobs since passed during Bush’s first year, but for some reason they will this time. What can the cable addicts say about Obama now? He had to convince the fat white guys to include unemployment benefits in the new bill, just enough to get through Christmas and the New Year. Then what? Then the fat white guys will hire people and they can get all the things they couldn’t get on unemployment: iPods, flatscreens, guns, trucks and books (I wish). And the Tea Party can say I told you so.

My neighbor Feo is fat and he’s white, but he’s not a fat white guy. He despises them more than I ever could. His rage is so fierce I often feel threatened when we're alone together. This does not stop my frequent visits to his cluttered isolation. His weapons take up most of the place– I’m not a fan but I’m comforted knowing the arsenal is there in case– and the rest seems like big frames leaning and a couch covered in books and magazines. All Feo could talk about was Julian Assange and the epic state of Journalism. “It’s a shame they won’t hang him. That’s a true heroes death. He’s a fucking hero.” I opened a beer and dropped it and picked it up before too much spilled on the corner of carpet I squeezed into. Feo waved his favorite machete with one arm, the other arm pushed in his pocket, searching for his capsule of psychedelics. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you and your family.” He staggered back into the kitchen, disappeared beyond the doorway. I finished my beer quickly– Feo has a few rules– placed the empty on a stack of books about the fall of Roman Empire and snuck away to my own cave nearby. Locked the door in three places. If I could warn the others I would, but I was safe so I settled for a better chance than those who didn’t know.

There’s a fine line at the finish and the sooner you start the sooner you will get there. The poetry of everything is lost along the way. Automobiles get bigger. Wastes get wider. People get louder because they need to be heard, acknowledged in any kind of way. Some don’t even care when the attention is negative because it’s emotional despite being confrontational. This was clear when Feo started banging on my door an hour after I left him and his machete. I watched him through the peephole. He appeared unarmed but was salivating mad about Amazon.com, Pay Pal and Mastercard. “China will turn them all into piggy banks in the next twenty years. Open up, I need to talk.” I suggested we talk through the door. He walked off and came back with a stool and sat. He started in about John Lennon. “He’s still a villain. He’ll be a hero someday.” I stopped watching because it looked like Feo was crying. I listened to his weak wimpers, the way he cries, I’d heard it before. He managed to express his hatred for fat white guys calmly, as though it would all be over soon anyway. His perspective sounded hindsight. “Then they voted on a war against Iran. Then Russia sided with Iran. Then China watched, quietly. Then Cuba sided with the US. You know that’s never a good thing.” He insisted I respond. Even his delusions were self-conscious. In his dreams people were as bad as animals get and what’s the use if that’s just how it is. He was silent for a few, so I watched him wipe his eyes with the back of his trembling hand. He picked up his stool and left. I heard the door close.

It’s almost Christmas, then the New Year, and this has been a good year for both Right and Wrong. It’s all straight forward, the way we see it. Everyone thinks they’re right. There aren’t many maybes anymore. I’m definitely not a maybe, though I could be wrong. I like to think about it and I’m yet to discover an objection I find reasonable. I’m looking because the way I see it the fat white guys are in control. That means one thing and we’ve seen it before. It’s remains consistent, refuses to change. We can publish all the Mark Twain there is and ever was. We can read it as often as fish swim. We can eat it up and get fat on it. Psychedelic condemnations aside, Feo had point, lost somewhere between his thoughts and his words. He was in Vietnam and sometimes I realize that jungle is still with him. Some people are just better at war with themselves. Those who know this handle it better than those who don’t. Those who don’t find others who don’t and together they pound their feet like stubborn apes. From now on I will leave the apes out of this.

I should finish here. Someone is listening on the other side of my door.

12/10/2302

BW