The Continental Divide

Heart: You're really going through with it?

Head: I don't see any reason not to.

Heart: Even though it's a creative piece, it's bound to piss people off. You could really anger somebody.

Head: Hopefully, I will. I think that's the point.

Balls: Welcome to the party, Poindexter.



Load.



I've had enough, and I won't take another bite. I just can't stand all of the naked, unadulterated bullshit that passes for broadcast journalism these days. Large media outlets that are run by even larger corporations, which are driven by the demand for profit, cannot be counted on to tell the simple, unvarnished truth. What we once relied upon, the people we trusted because they didn't come with a price, are long gone. They have been replaced by entertainers, and spokes-models. Our watchdogs of the past, legit newsmen like Walter Cronkite, and David Brinkley, have been replaced by house organs, churning out harsh notes that only serve the constant demand for ratings rather than the public welfare.

The American version of the Fourth Estate is particularly specious as each outlet wraps itself in its dogma and openly criticizes the other network's programming as "rumor mills" and "claptrap". What the producers of this brand of network news rely upon is our fear. They force us to choose sides, to make the other idea wrong so that we can be right. During the first Gulf War, the fledgling cable network CNN offered unprecedented access to the news as it happened. You saw on your television what was happening as it happened, with very little commentary. Fast forward nearly twenty years, and you see the news as the production team creates it. The crawl underneath the talking head subliminally screams outrageous lies, based not on factual reporting, but attributed to "sources", while bubble-head foments on "striking visuals", most of which are presented out of context, quite often using stock footage, and for the most part, just dead wrong.

This is why I am forced to read several newspapers a day, and although I appreciate the talent of the many columnists, reporters, and editors that I follow, I lament the loss of an objective voice on television, who quite confidently and with out a hint of snark, would sign off his air shift with "and that's the way it is."



Wash.



April 18.

My name is Tim, and I refuse to apologize for my views.

If you don't understand that, I won't convince you.

I don't feel obligated to explain myself, but because you asked, I'll try and shed some light on my activism.

You see, I consider myself a patriot. I believe that America is the greatest country in the world, her ideals are worth fighting for. America was founded by brave men who rejected tyranny. They fought, bled, and died to establish a free country that upheld strong moral convictions. They believed, like I believe, that the Government should be of the people, by the people, and for the people.

Now we are engaged in a cold civil war. The house is divided. Our government represses it's citizenry under the yoke of taxation, without the slightest hint of representation. Taxes are a joke. Regardless what a political candidate promises, taxes go up. More taxes are always the answer to government mismanagement. They mess up. We suffer. The Federal Government spends our money on a never-ending battery of social programs that benefit the deadbeats, the welfare queens, illegal immigrants, and criminals.

Many of us have stood up in vocal protest against this tyranny. We are ridiculed for being outspoken. We are dismissed as ignorant hillbillies. We are called racists. We are shouted down.

Yet some of us are willing to stand in the face of this oppression and refuse to be tread upon. We organize in militias, exercising our constitutional right to keep arms, and we are called gun freaks. We adamantly oppose our jobs being shipped overseas or given to cheaper illegal workers and we are branded xenophobes.

"Phobes". That's what we are reduced to. I oppose the idea of two gay guys getting married and I'm demonized with the tag "Homophobic".

So be it.

I am tired of my rights being trampled on. I won't give up my guns without a fight, and I can assure you there will be a hell of a fight if you come for them. I don't care if you think I'm not "politically correct". That term is just a control device anyway, a liberal media yoke that I refuse to wear.

Here's the deal: I won't sit quietly by and watch a socialist government take away my hard earned money, property, rights, and freedoms. Like our forefathers, the founders and framers, I will stand, and fight. Come and Take it.

Our country, this America, was created by men of conviction, strong men who bravely organized the Boston Tea Party and other acts of defiance knowing that they would be charged with sedition, and would likely pay for it with their lives. These True Americans were willing to pay the ultimate cost even as they fired the first shot in a great uprising. They believed as I believe.

Tomorrow, I will park a rented Ryder truck filled with fertilizer and racing fuel in front of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, and calmly strike the first blow in a shooting war between men of action and the oppressive government which seeks to stamp us out.


My name is Tim, and I refuse to apologize for my views.



Rinse.

The seminal 1960's protest song "For What It's Worth" has aged in a way that is quite interesting, and apropos to this moment. The lyric by Steven Stills and performed by Buffalo Springfield was practically a marching tune for the counter-culture movement, which was basically anyone who didn't identify with middle-aged, middle-class America. The song is a warning of sorts: Protest at your own peril, because the change you seek won't come easily. Most listeners catch on to the viewpoint of the writer immediately: He's a spectator/observer/uncommited participant in some protest du jour. What is strikingly apparent is that something has gone awry. The peaceful protest has run up against armed resistance from a police or military presence, and the men with guns over there are "telling me I got to beware."

He speaks directly to the youthful protester, the voice of caution: "It's time we stop, children, What's that sound? Everybody look what's going down."

Screaming? Taunts? Gunshots? Teargas Canisters popping? The tearing of our national fabric? In the ensuing chaos, perhaps at the police line, or in the park in preparation to march into a confrontation, he makes an appeal for reason: "Battle lines being drawn, nobody's right if everybody's wrong."

The enormity and gravity of the situation is described: "What a field day for the heat. A thousand people in the street. Singin' songs, and carrying signs mostly sayin' hooray for our side." Amidst the noise, and clamor, and passionate protest, a moment of clarity is revealed by the writer: "Paranoia strikes deep. Into your heart it will creep. It starts when you're always afraid, you step out of line, the Man come and take you away."

Today, Steven Stills is probably as far away from that moment as he can get, because for all the screaming, and gnashing of teeth, for all the pain that was inflicted and received, it wasn't the physical resistance that brought about the change that he and his generation sought. It was the willingness to open a dialogue, to listen to and speak plainly with their parents about their concerns that turned the tide. After all the freaking out and threats, and taunts, and violence, it was simple cooperation.

Stop, children, what's that sound? Everybody look what's goin' down.

Spin.

He voted for Nixon. Twice.

He wasn't crazy about the Beatles.

He never really had a Sixties. More like Two fifties and a Seventies.

He worked for one company practically his whole life.

He quit smoking cold turkey and ate bran muffins because he was afraid of dying.

He took care of his lawn, and was respectful to his neighbors.

He wrote a book.

He valued being a decent, honest, open-minded person over education and opinion.

He taught me to read. I sat on his lap as he scanned through the newspaper, every night, just after Cronkite signed off.

He likes Johnny Cash...and Willie Nelson.

I guess he's not so bad after all, but I definitely don't understand the Nixon thing.