Dear friend,

After a lot of years of devastating setbacks in the fight for marriage equality, it seems like we’re finally moving in the right direction. With marriage legal in Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont and Maine, and the fights going strong in New Hampshire, New York and California, this movement is gaining more momentum every day, and I’m excited to be a part of it.

To that end, I wanted to let you know that CREDO Action is giving away some awesome stickers about supporting gay marriage – I think you’d really like them. I just got mine – if you have a minute, click this link to check out the stickers and get one of your own (for free!).

https://act.credoaction.com/stickers/?r_by=-1148246-1fY5mMx&rc=taf.stickers

Thanks!

12 April 2009

This entry begins at six-thirty on Easter morning, the bunny has officially died, and Christ has risen again. I find this holiday to be a wonderful reappropriation of the Pagan fertility rituals of spring. I have just finished watching Alexander (2004), directed by Oliver Stone and starring Colin Farrell and Angelina Jolie. I started out thinking about how cheesy and poorly written it was, and left it wanting to watch it again. I am glad to find out that it plays again on the 23^rd of this month. I have been busy with some new writing exercises, and reworking of my blogs, lately. I need to be more disciplined with my reading and writing, these days, and have begun some new modes of behavior, in an attempt to instigate a better pattern of behavior. The results will be transferred over to my letters to you, I am sure.

Before I forget, I wanted to fill in for part of the above entry, by saying that I learned that the pretty orange pills that make me ill are Soboxan™, which I will research further, before this letter is sent to you. I took half of a pill, the other night, and ended up hurling my guts up, twice. I can say that the buzz is not worth the whole sickness aspect. Maybe that is why I never was attracted to continuing with my heroin experimentation. Strange, but I have not talked to Mary, again, since that first date. I guess that we did not connect enough in person to continue the relationship online. I have been burning through attempts at friendship like they are kindling on a bonfire. Maybe my cyberspace persona is suffering from an identity crisis.

As the sun begins to rise, I begin ruminating about making a run to the storage space, to switch out some old computer equipment that has been stacked up in the living room, for some of my art supplies. The Usual Suspects begins, on the channel that was playing Alexander. While I am writing to you, on one machine, I am watching the AOL chatroom on another machine. Yes, I have three monitors running at once, while I pay attention to each one. Maybe I am simply celebrating my attention deficient disorder. I find the card that gives my storage space hours, and it is, in fact, open, now, so I begin preparing for a quick run over there. I realize that it is only 37 degrees, and consider waiting a few hours before I make my move. Checking the weather forecast on this machine, I learn that it is only going to be a high of 42 degrees, today. I guess that I should enjoy dressing in layers for the last few moments of the winter season. Rather than pack up the computer, I think that I will just go over and get my printmaking materials. It has been months since I visited the storage area, so this is a good exercise for me. I will return shortly.

I return, a short 30 minutes later, after switching a box of computer equipment for the box of printmaking materials. I have been jonesin’ to work with my prints, again, so I am excited for a change, to be reveling in my supplies. My friend Andy, who was my first publisher, has been working with paperweights, and I find, in my grabbing, a perfect piece of glass to experiment with, in the same fashion. Okay, so maybe today is all about rebirthing, after all. My toys and supplies looked lonely, but still intact, in the storage space. I realize how much I miss having a workspace, in this tiny apartment. I should make it a goal to find a new place to work, again. It is almost as if my thoughts have been clearing up, lately, and my focus on a path rejuvenated. It would be nice to break loose of the rut that I have been in, for too long- a year or more. It would be nice to feel like I know my identity again.

As part of my endeavors, this week, I should find my way to the post office, as I have several packages to go out. I have been horribly uninterested in snail mail, in this last chapter. I think that I burned out on it, two or three years ago, when my printed magazine experiments did not work out. As part of this transition, I feel like I need to be inspired again, to play with the notions of snail mail. I pull out my framed piece of glass, my impromptu worktable, from the closet, while saying Hello, to Mama Slutcat, who has made my closet her private room, lately. I wonder if my box of baby towelettes is in this box. I unpack the box, and they are not. I need to be careful not to get ink, everywhere. The nice thing about living in a run-down apartment is the notion that I do not have to worry about ruining the carpet, like the new house environment of old. Now I have a bunch of supplies scattered on the floor in front of me, and my thoughts are spinning with potential projects.

It is now noon, I have been working on new magnets, while watching The Sopranos, then professional basketball, and playing games on Faceplant, I mean Facebook™. After talking to one of my online friends, I began looking at the recipe book, for a bean or vegetable casserole. It is an active day, and I am craving some adult liquid libations, and art supplies. A couple months ago, Little Julie sent twenty-five dollars worth of art supplies in the mail, but wrapped them in brown paper, instead of investing in a box, and the supplies were lost in the mail. Meanwhile, I have become desirous of making new print blocks, even though I have broken up with Little Julie, the art student. I am just about ready to find a new piece of ass, following the upset of our breakup.

So Jesus came out of his cave, and I wonder if he saw his shadow, or if it will be another six weeks of spring? I wonder if Bugs Bunny has anything to do with the death of winter. I am taking a break from this letter, upon my short return, to take care of some other tasks. I will return, just like Jesus!

Another Day Wastes Away
07 Sept 2008

As we approach the anniversary of the most devastating and humiliating attack against the globalist domination of our New World Order, we need to take a moment to remember and understand the reality of our demise. There is no clear end to the philosophical and political tunnel, when it comes to terrorism or radical fanaticism. In fact, now we are more vulnerable to a display of hatred than we have been, in the 232 years of our nation as a Republic. We are not more safe than we were, in these days following the 9/11 attacks, in fact, we are more open to the vulnerability of another, even more horrific, terrorist attack. In seven years since, the Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa have accomplished more than instilling fear upon her citizens. We can pride ourselves on the notion that it was someone else; it was their problem, it is not really happening here, in the confines of our country. To this, I beg the answers of questions that have remained open, like oozing infected sores, as to our beliefs, and our direction, as the greatest and most technologically advanced excuse that we have known on the planet.

What has been accomplished in these last seven years of war and continued racist profiling? All Christians hate Muslims. All Muslims hate Christians and Jews. We got it. We still do not understand what it means to be forth giving and willing to embrace the universal tracts of Peace, Love and Harmony. We have shamed ourselves into the closet. We have lost faith in a government that will save us from the atrocities of Hate, and radical rebellion. We have given in to the terrorists. Seven years later, we refuse to be accountable for the actions that led up to the horrific hours of September Eleven, a few years ago. Refusing to look into the mirror of the screams of 3000 deaths, we impatiently wait for another attack. We are alone. We are bruised. Today, as movies roll over the screen, I am quickly reminded of the issues that paved the way to such an exhibit of hatred. We will never again negotiate with Hate.

In this, we have created a world that will not negotiate, that will not allow ourselves to be humiliated again, in the air or the ground. Meanwhile, we wreak havoc on the rest of the world, making up excuses and attempting to shift the blame of responsibility upon the Others. We fight for the right to fight, rape and pillage. We are our worse enemy. It is no accident. Today, we die on top of each other, our cindered ashes of World Trading, and the Center of the universe secured in the notion that we are still alive. Part of me, part of the world died on this day, seven years ago. The media of public awareness is shattered. Yet, we fly, we drive, we turn away from the issues at hand. We expect someone else to be accountable. We taint the rest of the world with our tallest buildings, and movie-making patriotism. We forget.

I am here to remind you that it can happen again, sooner than later. We can smell the hatred. Of the Other, and of ourselves. In an attempt to confiscate the hopes and dreams of others, we wait. We look a second time at an airplane of hope and dreams, and inside we know that we will never feel peace in our lifetimes. To this, I beg you to remember- to feel hurt, and fear. I coddle and nurture this discontent. We will never see the rainbow, the palette of nirvana, because we are alone in this, our shame. We live inside the cocoon of hate that breeds the loss of life, and the loss of honor. Why? Because we can. We have allowed ourselves to be motivated by the fanatical extremists of our time. We lay down our arms of sanctity, our love of freedom. We allow wiretapping, and we do not question the authorities of hate. We base our lives on the notion that we cannot overcome the horrific side of ourselves that we know as tomorrow. Justifying our hatred of the Other, we encompass and hug the ideals that created terrorist rebellion at its core. In simple words, we are our enemy.

In the seven years that have passed, while we shun the notion of righteousness, we refuse to look back, to look into our selves. Today, the terrorists win. Today, we forget our yesterdays. Seven years pass, and we are willing to accept and demand the loss of three thousand civilian casualties. To this, we do not beg forgiveness. Today, we all die a little inside. Do you feel more secure now, in our bunkers, in our foxholes of patriotism than we did, a few short years ago? Do we know why and what would cause such a debacle of fate? Can we not look at ourselves in the mirror, and reflect on the notion of the Other? Do we cater to the long and brutal arms of war and death? In this, we are more paranoid and expecting of another attack, another excuse to hinder the gasps of peace. We are willing to kill, now, without recourse, and without a means of explanation. It is simple, really. We are motivated by our hate.

It is acceptable to hate our neighbors. It is not justifiable discourse for us to embrace a change of mentalities. Today, more people will die of starvation, ethnic cleansing and cluster bombs, than ever before in our minute and childish understanding of reality. Today, the monster wins. We stopped paying attention, four decades ago. Powerless, the government grovels and digs for a foothold of identity. War is war, and she tastes like blood. Intentions aside, there was not a reason why the kidnapping and hostaging of four airplanes would awaken the American populous, but it did. We live and die scared of ourselves. It was the inevitable action behind many motions of foreign policy, and domestic failings. Unlike the hurricanes, fall of the stock market, and foreclosure bust, faced with a cultural significance, a sort of identity crisis, we collectively hope that there is a moment to forget. They will never ever forgive us. They will bring their children, strapped to vests of dynamite, and ask that we teach them of our weaknesses, and our failings. Actions did not dismantle the need to believe, to exist, to grow up and die, naturally. Action has precluded, abused and misplaced responsibility. Action necessitates reactions. No one has demanded that you live here, nor has anyone screamed loud enough for you to leave. We call this idea Freedom. We married this ideal with Justice and Truth. We are alone now, with our excuses heavily sedated and leaning on our lives, his feet propped up on the coffee table as he snores. Today, we will never have the chance to dictate laws of oppression. We are the products of our beliefs, and the chains of anger. We are the damnation of that we call our homes.

Bury your excuses along with the dead. Explain yourself. Keep it real. We cannot find you in the smoke and mirrors of the Walmatization of our lives. With a whimper, as opposed to scream, we are alone in the notion that it is, indeed, a matter of time. The book of characters demands that we script a death of ideals, and a suicide of emotions. History prophetically demands our demise. Because we can, we die a little bit more, today, and in the next week. We drool, and fool around with notions of immortality, while we dance around and chant upon Ground Zero death. We will not negotiate, and you will not think about our demise. Tomorrow, nothing will happen.

Slimeball moves pretty fast for not having a spine.
A Game the Entire Planet can play–> http://www.aksalser.com/game.htm…

The Denver Blackboots are coming! The Denver Blackboots are coming!

24 June 2008

As a member of the New Left, a term that possessed high regard by me, born in the middle 1960’s, for those progressives of the decade of change. I was two years old when the Demonbratic National Convention turned into a bloodbath, in Peace Park, in 1968. For years, I studied the happenings that surrounded the split of the party, in Chicago, and what led to the ugly reaction by the Establishment. I listened to The Doors and memorized the words to songs that I did not quite understand, at the time. Blood in the streets in Chicago, up to my knees.

This year, my hometown has the honor of hosting the Demonbratic National Convention. It is difficult not to be excited in the hopes of having a huge party in Civic Center Park, in my neighborhood, and on my hometurf. At the same time, I am naturally worried about the protesters, delegates, and police departments. While Rush Limbaugh sings “I am dreaming of riots in Denver,” to the tune of “I am dreaming of a White Christmas,” the leftist organizations bicker and battle over how extreme to be, or if one group is more radical than the others. For reference, look up the rhetoric of recreate68.org and the Green Party of Colorado for examples of what I am referring to, the groups who do not know if they can play nicely in the political sandbox, or not.

While I was old enough to vote before 1992, I did not participate in the electoral process until I was seduced by the “Rock the Vote” sales pitch of the youthful Bill Clinton. He played saxophone on late-night television, and appeared to reach out to the youth movement, promising a new look, and the buzzword of the week, change, from the status quo of the Reagan and Bush administrations that proceeded him. After campaign promises of an environmentally conscious vice-president, I voted for the Demonbrats under the hypnotic promise of change.

Shortly thereafter, I was reintroduced to the Green Party, the watered down American version, a bastard child of the German and United Kingdom parliament seats. Believing in their Ten Key Values, the message mixed well with my neo-Marxist readings of an ultra-liberal arts higher education. Voting for Ralph Nader because he was aligned with the Greens in 1996, after Clinton signed NAFTA, and the promised environmentally conscious administration that continued with the established dependence on oil, I voted my conscience, knowing that it was a symbolic gesture.

By 2000, I was firmly entrenched in politics enough to know that I was not going to see a a Demonbratic candidate that would be interested in a true change from the business-as-usual antics of the Beltway. Again, I voted for the Green Party, and this time, rather hesitantly for Nader. I have often said, over the years, that the Demonbratic Party left me, before I left the Demonbrats. We are left to wonder what would have happened, if Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth had been released in the years of the Clinton administration. Would we struggling with an ever-shortening timeline of possible repair options of global warming?

This brings me to the present campaign season, and the candidacy of Barack Obama. The promise of change is heavily sprinkled through his speeches, and on his website. However, an analysis of his voting record shows that he is, indeed, voting along the special interest party lines of the Demonbrats. In the last weeks, he has voted to allow the Bush administration and telecommunications companies to continue with their illegal wiretapping practices with immunity and secrecy. I hesitate to endorse a candidate, who is unable, or incapable, of initiating the changes that are needed to reverse the devastating impact of the Bush administration. Instead of having experience working the aisles of the Beltway, (the common excuse why Obama is not a viable candidate is his lack of national political experience) the ideal candidate would be willing to take risks that actualize real change to the established rules of the proverbial game of politics.

Mr. Obama, what do you intend to do in order to stop these ridiculous wars? What do you plan to do about the impeachment of Bush and Cheney? How will you save us from this oil and energy crisis, other than what has been put into place by the present administration? What will you do to establish an alternative energy program? When will you close Guantanamo Bay prison complex, discontinue the use of illegal renditions and the practice of torture? Will you continue to allow wiretapping and the immunity of the telecommunication companies? How will you repair the education and health programs, that are, both, rotten at their cores? These questions are just the beginning of a dialogue that you need to have with the American population. You need to convince us that you are not simply presently campaign rhetoric of change. Help us to understand what you intend to do, and you will find that there is a large group of people, who will work to see that your programs are not only elected, but actively supported, once you are the next president of the United States.