By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
"Our freedom belongs to the troops," warned the prettily lettered sign in front of someone's Garden Grove Boulevard home on the long, lovely Memorial Day weekend. I'm sure they meant well, but does no one take high school civics anymore? Do I have to explain everything?
Well! Happy to do it!
See, according to Thomas Jefferson, our freedoms are bestowed by God, not generals. Jefferson? He wrote a little thing we like to call the Declaration of Independence—and incidentally, for all you mild-mannered bigots out there who discourse on our founding fathers' intent while shouting, "Under God" during the Pledge of Allegiance till your neck veins bulge (but I would never call you Hitler-like), despite his stirring poetry, he was not aChristian. Gods and generals? That was a clever reference by me to Ted Turner, who isn't a Christian either; according to those who know such things—Eagle Forum ladies, wha's up!—he's a globalist, and therefore in the thrall of Lucifer, the Saddest Angel. Jefferson's particularly beautiful prose may be the reason we've yet to have our freedoms benevolently handed to us by kindly dictators and the United Fruit Co.—yet. Just wait and see what kind of crazy martial law Cheney declares if Kerry wins the Electoral College. Dude, you know they're gonna.
I think I'm done for now.
No. No, I'm not.
Our freedom belongs to us. Maybe I'm just crabby because it's Memorial Day and I'm working, or maybe I'm just crabby because I'm generally a bitch, or maybe I'm just crabby because my neighbors insist on mowing their freaking lawns at 8 in the morning on national holidays, but I've just about fucking had it with you people who look so smug when you talk about being American as if somehow God had bestowed on you instead of Adam sovereignty over all the lands without taking into account even for a second the actual ideals of our founding fathers. There's a long list of grievances in the Declaration of Independence (I particularly like the one about how King George incited insurrections by merciless Indian Savages). Here's just a couple for you to chew on like the stupid cow you are: "HE has kept among us, in Times of Peace, Standing Armies, without the consent of our Legislatures. HE has combined with others to subject us to a Jurisdiction foreign to our Constitution, and unacknowledged by our Laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation: FOR quartering large Bodies of Armed Troops among us; FOR cutting off our Trade with all Parts of the World: FOR imposing Taxes on us without our Consent: FOR depriving us, in many Cases, of the Benefits of Trial by Jury: FOR transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended Offences: FOR suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with Power to legislate for us in all Cases whatsoever. HE has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us. HE is, at this Time, transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the Works of Death, Desolation, and Tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty and Perfidy, scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous Ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized Nation."
Who does that sound like to you? Go ahead. You, with your un-American ideas about dissent, call me a traitor. I fucking dare you. And while I'm at it, fuck you for making liberal an epithet, and fuck you for being so small-dicked and mean-eyed when you talk about the world outside your own back yard, and also while I'm at it, the French gave us the fucking Statue of Liberty, the most beautiful symbol of what this country has always been meant to be that ever was. How about laying off the cheese jokes, Bubba? Your Mussolini is showing. You don't own this fucking country. You don't even understand what made us great and what will again—real soon.
Now. Now I'm done. On with the drinking stories.
There aren't any drinking stories. It was a mostly crabby weekend because I'm hardly drinking at all. I've been thinking about having a session with the Lord and changing my hard-charging ways, but everyone knows the Lord don't listen to Catholics lately, and I'm not really willing to get all kooky 'n' Pentecostal. I have too much respect for evolution and sex ed. Saturday, I was in bed by 9:30, waiting for Ben Affleck's hair plugs to host SNL, and I liked it like that. Friday, I trudged up to Hollywood for a play written by a family friend about love and bars, which sounded promising, but all I can say with kindness is that the fellows at the Snake Pit down the street were very attentive. I would have gone home to bed after the talky, talky, talk, talk of the show, but Skeith needed a drinking buddy, and The Quillwas beckoning. It's a perfect low-key alternative to The Fling and on this night had its very own mumbling, long-dustered Silent Bob/ Columbine Killa. Skeith told me amusing stories of his culty sister and her friend, visiting poor Skeith for four days, leaving the loft only to go see disciples of Aleister Crowley, and in one afternoon drinking a case of expensive import beers each.
Ha, ha! Skeith has a culty sister!
Sunday, we did the Strawberry Festival; allegedly, Garden Grove once had gardens and groves. The festival was full of fat people, up to and certainly including us. We talked about having a pool party and quickly realized it would entail having to see our friends (and ourselves) in bathing costumes and that this would be sad. The Gravitron had duct tape around each spoke of the roof. It was heartening. And if one so chose, one could eat sausage.
That night, we hit various and sundry barbecues—one, at Chris Hall of Papa Byrd's, was supposed to feature a much-anticipated visit by Santa Ana planning-commission jefe Don Cribb, who's currently angelically planning the unparalleled brilliantness of a 37-story building on a two-lane road that's already abulge with traffic, his only concern to compassionately bring shade to the poor folks without air conditioning who live under what will be a glorious sundial. He hadn't showed by the time we left, but there was lamb and the lilting girlishness of "What Are Words Worth" by Tom Tom Club. "I saw them with Blondie!" I told Chris.
"That would be a trick," he said, kind of like a little bitch. Huh? It wasn't Tom Tom Club at all; it was Chicks on Speed, who covered Tom Tom Club without changing one note. It's a whole music movement now—I believe Chris called it Xerox-Core, except he didn't because I just made that up—and instead of being cool for knowing it was Tom Tom Club, I'd just outed myself as ancient. Again.
Having grubbed gloriously, we hit the Canyon Inn; it was the only place I could think of where we'd be fine in cut-offs and flip-flops, and they probably were laying down some fine southern-fried rock!
Even better, it was karaoke night. We assumed there weren't many people waiting to sing, since every third or fourth song, the KJ was laying down his fine baritone on songs that were all either Alice in Chains or Pearl Jam. We were wrong! People were totally waiting to sing, including one lovely miss for whom the KJ kindly left in the vocals. To which she lyp-sanch. (Yes, it is a word . . . now.) It was rad: her mouth was nowhere close to matching the words. Milli Vanillimuch, sweet seŮorita?
Cruelty and perfidy, scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages! I love you all. And fuck you, too.
Better now, thanks for asking. CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.