RIP Margaret Thatcher “The Iron Lady”

We’ve lost one of the great minds of our time. If she was a man, I’m sure the Queen would have knighted her in her own good name. I’m talking about the noble and gifted Margaret Thatcher. Say what you want about her, but whatever you say is, uh, just your opinion.

Now I can’t help but to have a deep respect for anybody that holds office, nevertheless gets voted in by a democratic society. Of course there’s always exceptions. [Cough cough] George W. Bush, cough [Kim Jong Un]. Well, he calls himself the Supreme Leader, even though he leads a country also known as the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

Could I get a Supreme Leader, super-sized to go, please? Hold the mustard.

If anyone should be named under the definition of ‘perseverance’, it would be Margaret Thatcher. During her time as Prime Minister of Britain, she had to deal with the Cold War, the Falklands War, AND The Sex Pistols. Alright, that last one wasn’t so bad, and she probably took it all in good taste. She probably even bought all their records for her living room.

She got the name ‘The Iron Lady” from a Soviet journalist. Coming from someone behind the Iron Curtain, that’s quite a compliment. It was her strong opposition to the Soviet Union and socialism that brought upon her this nickname, which is ironic now that she’s being called a socialist days after her death.

Some crude individuals in the UK are actually celebrating her passing, having voted “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” to the second spot on BBC’s top music charts. Maybe it’s a sign that the Wicked Witch of the West still lives on beyond the grave, amid chants of despair or celebration, flying high through the night, laughing on her silver broomstick all the way back to her golden grave.

I can’t help but to wonder if this world will ever be completely sane. It’s times like these when you hear awful news and expect a grim reaction from the folks who lived during her time, but it never comes.

Instead, we hear the heinous cries of the werewolves as they offer themselves an easy excuse to drop their chains and let the rabid animals out, the ones looking for blood. And during this time we get a sudden glimpse of exactly who the Iron Lady was fighting against; the unreasonable, the irrational, the untamed.

RIP Margaret Thatcher (1925 – 2013)

 

“I ain’t got no time for your Soviet Union.”

Religion vs. Human Rights?

The last time I looked at the calendar, it read 2013.

The year of our lord, 2013?

No. It can’t be.

But it is.

When I wake up with my morning coffee and read news headlines about racism, sexism, bigotry, and prejudice, I get confused. Sometimes I get angry.

What kind of a newt minded individual in this day and age feels the need to lash out against their fellow man for thinking their own innocent beliefs? How can they live with these feelings of resentment? Have some people really become completely indoctrinated with these hateful beliefs? In all seriousness, the people with ethnic/racial issues need to give their head a shake, and while they’re at it, a good kick in the ass, too.

Anti-bullying bill like ‘persecution’ in Steinbach

 

 

 

What? Did I read that right? Was this published on April Fools day? Does heavy irony not obey today’s common practice?

Guess not.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, persecute means “to harass or punish in a manner designed to injure, grieve, or afflict;  to cause to suffer because of belief.”

To call an anti-bullying bill an act of persecution is blasphemy. It completely contradicts itself. Call me obtuse, but when I read this headline, it gives me the impression that the people of Steinbach have something to hide.

Something ugly.

City councillors in Steinbach passed a motion to ask the province to review Bill 18 because they feel it infringes on their religious beliefs. Bill 18, also known as The Public Schools Amendment Act was basically put into legislation to help combat against bullying, which is undeniably a major problem to those affected by this intolerable and inexcusable enigma.

Upon reading Bill 18, we can see that the bill is vague in itself and doesn’t really explain the punishments for belligerents.

But that’s not the point. What’s important about this bill, is it’s giving the victims of bullying a voice. It’s a start to confront this societal problem which has run virtually rampant for decades, from 1960s racism, up to same-sex marriages today.

The main problem here isn’t an infringement of beliefs, it’s common sense. Sure, in today’s society there are different levels of class, income, and living standards, but there should never be different levels of human rights. I don’t care who you are or what you know, everybody deserves to be treated equally.

So when some religious folks in Steinbach argue that they want to be able to practice their own beliefs while denying others theirs, it doesn’t sit well with me. No sympathy for the devil, I guess.

I hope Bill 18 passes just so these people have to re-evaluate their system, because it just doesn’t seem right.

Because I’ve always been taught that when someone starts to push you, you start pushing back.

A Thousand Farewells

Nahlah Ayed speaks volumes of bravery, disappointment, and courage in the Middle East, while staying true to her fundamental ethics of truth. What really gets the job done, is the real life stories of struggle and despair she witnesses along the way. Her descriptions of the sorrow and displacement faced by the inhabitants of these desert lands are powerful. She captures the insecurity of the region, while staying true to her own beliefs.

At one point, Nahlah finds herself at the site of a mass grave, where folks are sifting through the piles of bones and decay, trying to find remains of loved ones. She notices a woman praying, for hours undisturbed by the commotion around her. Nahlah tells us how she debated whether or not to try to talk to the woman, but decides against it. Nahlah’s respectable morals kick in, and she leaves the woman to her own.

I didn’t feel there was anything substantially missing from this book. Nahlah stays true to her belief that people are the story, always. She doesn’t get caught up in opinionated political jargon or religious fanaticism. She does however, tell us the harsh reality by being brutally honest. She tells us how the Shiites and Sunnis have been deadlocked in a deep religious schism that cuts bloody borders through cities. She backs it up with interviews of indifferent atheists who suffer from displacement caused by these conflicts, to radicals on either end. She also interviews people on every side of the religious spectrum.

If there was something that could be useful to the indifferent reader, it would be the history of the region. Nahlah doesn’t really explain the history of the Israeli occupations of Palestinian land, or the six-day war in 1967. Events like this played a huge role in the future of the area, and even today remain as a blemishes on human rights in the Middle East. The role that dictatorships in Iran, Syria, and Iraq are explained a bit, but not as much as it could have been. Nahlah failed to mention the brutal, hellish conditions people lived with everyday under those regimes of terror.

If we all knew the history of the Middle East, we could all understand what’s going on now. For example, Nahlah could have mentioned that Iran was basically under a totalitarian regime, with policies similar to those of Nazi Germany, and how America tried to fix things. Nahlah could have explained this in a way like: “If humans don’t learn from history, they’re doomed to repeat it.” If we had a little history lesson about it, then that would sum up what’s going on almost perfectly.

Journalists can take Nahlah’s main point to heart, and tell stories about the people. The people are the story, always. Every journalist could at least take away that point from this book. The most important part about this book is that one rule Nahlah sticks by. She reports on how the people are handling the current situation, whether it be political, religious, or downright violent. By telling the stories about who is truly affected by these conflicts goes a long way into letting us gaze down into the gun barrel, or peer into eyes of a tortured young man. Nahlah’s intent from the very start of her journey proves that she wanted to stay true to her people, and tell it how they experience everything, from their point of view. She did that by going right to the front line, and sometimes beyond. Her courage and inquisitive nature give us a glimpse into this fascinating, yet dangerous land, far different from our own.

I couldn’t help but think of the documentary Ghosts of Abu Ghraib, the film based on the torture scandal by United States Marines in an Iraqi prison in Baghdad. The documentary was the first glimpse I had had into the war in the Middle East. I remember being disturbed, and turning off the movie before it ended. The film had shown me a dark, hidden part of war, the prisoners. During A Thousand Farewells, the very mention of torture would make me cringe. I’d think back to those horrible images on that screen, and think: That really happens to people. That’s about as real as it can get.

To be honest, the book reminded me of something. It reminded me of how lucky I am to live in Canada. While reading the book, I was in the Middle East, Nahlah took me there. She guided me through Damascus, and down to Cairo. I could see the sea of sand, and vast cities built on stone. I could hear the cries of the homeless, and the desperate pleas for the confusion to stop. I took away a new and fresh appreciation for the good life. A life away from universal war, poverty, and hunger.

Now, when I see somebody from the Middle East, I stop and wonder if they had escaped a life full of fear, for something better.

The Waiting Room

During the first scenes of The Waiting Room, you see baggy-eyed doctors drinking coffee, people waiting for their turn to see a physician with strained, tired looking faces, sick kids showing their usual quirkiness and optimism while their worried parents look over them.

At the Highland Hospital in Oakland, California, you’ll see new but not necessarily fresh faces every day from all walks of life. Arabic women wearing veils over their faces, men dressed like the Dalai Lama, obese folks with plump bellies, Hispanic people, Black people, Asian people. What is one to expect in such a heavily populated area located in a state with almost the equivalent amount of people as Canada?

A comparison can’t quite fairly be made between the two healthcare systems of Canada and the U.S. without exposing the factors which influence the systems directly. First and foremost, the U.S. has approximately ten times as many people than Canada. Secondly, the second amendment allows the right for everybody to bear arms in the U.S., which leads to one of  the highest rates of gun violence per capita in the country. Each year, 4.5 million guns are sold to the American public, adding to the estimated 283 million guns already in their hands. On average, approximately 30,000 people in the U.S. are killed by gun violence each year, with about 30 people per day getting shot and killed by guns. This doesn’t include injury related gun violence.

The U.S. healthcare system does not cater to everybody from the day they are born. No. Although their Medicare provides social health insurance for younger people, and adults aged 65+, they do not have a substantial program in place to provide everyone with healthcare. Unlike Canada, the U.S. healthcare system for the most part requires you to buy your own health insurance, unless you are insured by yours, or a family member’s employer. In November, 2012, about 12 million people in the U.S. labor force were unemployed, a figure which is slowly going down from October 2009’s estimated 15.5 million people unemployed. It is estimated that 50 million Americans are currently uninsured.

The Medicaid health program in the United States is a private health plan which essentially helps folks out with their hospital bills, but does not pay the entire shot. Medicaid is targeted at helping low income families with lower resources, and people with certain disabilities. The program does not help poverty stricken people, only the ones showing initiative with a family and a job. The Federal government helps pay roughly 60 percent of Medicaid expenses, leaving the rest up to the patient to cover.

Other healthcare insurance programs in the U.S. include the State Children’s Health Insurance Program, designed to cover uninsured children in families that do not have Medicaid. The Veteran’s Association cares for retired or disabled veterans and their families, while TRICARE provides military personnel and their children with healthcare.

Canadian healthcare on the other hand, is provided to every Canadian on the basis of need, rather than on the ability to pay. We are lucky in the fact that our system doesn’t show much indifference compared to that of our American neighbours. We pay into healthcare through taxes, which helps fund the system to help everyone in the country. Our constitution protects us in the way that it divides responsibilities between federal, provincial, and territorial administrations to ensure our care.

The Canadian federal government sets and administers national principles for the system through the Canada Health Act. This ensures that the proper criteria be met by provinces and territories. In return for good behavior, and following the required guidelines, full federal cash transfers are received in support of the administered health services.

Our Canadian healthcare system provides nation wide access to an array of necessary health services for citizens. When you receive health care in a hospital, for example, and are treated medically, you must only pay for room and board. Only in special and rare occasions will room and board be paid for by the government. Everything else will be covered by our national health insurance.

Other services like dental care, medication, vision care, medical equipment like wheelchairs are sometimes covered in expense. Depending on the individual’s situation, the costs will be varied. Seniors, people with disabilities, and low-income families are the exceptions to this. These service costs are different all around the country.

Those who do not qualify for these supplementary care services will pay out of pocket, unless they are covered by their’s or a family member’s employer. Coverage varies from person to person depending on the plan purchased.

The Waiting Room shows the life of real-time physicians and patients through the daily rotation in Highland Hospital. The film itself seems to lack a script, and runs on real people leading normal lives. The only stories in the film are that of the ailments and struggles the patients are faced with. The stories all have their own difficulties, ones that we as humans, can relate to.

A broke man, who has been unemployed almost a year shows true optimism through his nervous smile as he leads his horrified daughter through the crowded waiting room into the doctors office. His obligation for his sick and frail daughter diminishes his fear for the worst when he tells the camera he’s been in this situation before, ultimately losing his infant child years ago.

The last place a 15 year-old boy will be in is an operating room. He’s been shot. He loses blood fast while doctors fight the clock, fifteen of them at least. They scramble to save the young boy’s fragile life. He will never graduate. He’ll never get married or have kids. His family will weep and hopefully come to these harsh terms. Hopefully.

Outside, patients oblivious to the tragedy taking place meters away offer honest rants to each other about their own problems. They all have something in common. They’re all here for the same reason. Draining patience, strained vitality, and tedious groans escape them.

The documentary itself doesn’t provoke questions. Nor does it showcase one side of any argument. If there was an argument, it would be: “There needs to be more help for these people.” The film itself seems to show the obvious indifference of the American healthcare system. The film wasn’t appalling or surprising. We’ve all heard about the American healthcare system, and it doesn’t come as a shock to learn so many are dealing with health problems. Not with their rate of violence, unhealthy diets, over-prescribed medication, endless poverty, and extreme consumer-based nature. To them it seems health comes second.

The shooting and editing was fair. The shots were well taken, but many were noticeably out of focus and blurry. The documentary maker’s work was cut out for them when they chose to shoot inside a hospital. Seeing people in pain and agony, unsure and worried, sitting in the waiting room proved powerful. The raw anger expressed by some individuals showed their frustration. As one man yelled at his doctor while a tube stuck out of his chest. He threatened to pull the tube out, while the doctor warned it would kill him.

The filmmaker followed certain patients throughout. The patients would often tell the camera of their ailments, and later the doctor would give them the actual diagnosis. The story itself was based on these people, being told by their own words. The most powerful aspect of this way of shooting was that it was from their perspective, the actual sufferer. You couldn’t help but to notice the self-pity displayed in some of them just by the way they told their story. You could sense the regret and dismay in the man with the tumor in his testicles as he admitted he should have checked it out sooner.

The sound and music in the film adjusted well altogether. The emotional parts were complimented by sad, dreary music, while others were uplifted by the choice of background melody. They also did well to capture all parts of speech and cries made by the individuals. You couldn’t help but notice the alarms going off in the hospital during the film, as well as the blinking red light associated with it. Intercom noises and other background sounds were part of the film’s atmosphere and told the story well. There was no hiding it, and no attempt to hide it either.

American gun violence site:

http://www.theatlanticcities.com/politics/2013/01/gun-violence-us-cities-compared-deadliest-nations-world/4412/

American Healthcare system sites:

http://circ.ahajournals.org/content/101/16/2015.full

http://aspe.hhs.gov/health/reports/2012/uninsuredintheus/ib.shtml

Canadian Healthcare system sites:

http://www.canadian-healthcare.org/

http://www.hc-sc.gc.ca/hcs-sss/index-eng.php

Needful Things

The year was 2003. The year the United States of America invaded Iraq, the year Arnold Schwarzenegger became Governor of California, and the year we lost Johnny and June Cash. I was in grade seven. I wasn’t very interested in all of this, I probably couldn’t even point out Iraq on a map yet. I probably never knew the legacy of Johnny Cash, nor knew that the Terminator was in office now. All I was interested in was to ride bikes.

Mrs. Green was my seventh grade teacher, and maybe one of the best teachers I’ve had in junior high. She was strict, smart, and helpful. She was the kind of person who wanted to see you succeed.

So one day, she had a riddle for us. Not like one of the riddles in the Hobbit, with a clever answer, but one with an answer that actually meant something. It had a certain lesson to it, a hidden message.

First off, she told us that there was an island full of monkeys. These monkeys were very hard working animals. They had homes, jobs, families. Kind of like us.

Now one day, out of nowhere a box fell onto the island. The box drew the attention of all the monkeys from all around the island, and they were fascinated by it. It was beautifully colourful, sending beams of light like rainbows out to their sparkling eyes. The monkeys had never seen anything like it before, but they liked it. They loved it.

All day, and all night, the monkeys would just sit around the box. Nothing was getting done, and the island started showing signs of neglect. The farms weren’t being looked after, the grass was growing far too high, and the fallen coconuts were littering the beaches.

The monkeys began to get restless, and started to fight each other. The children wouldn’t listen to their parents, and the parents wouldn’t discipline them. The older monkeys were starting to die. The monkeys just sat around the box. They were happy, or at least they thought so. They believed the box was a gift. A gift sent to them from some faraway place to help them, or reward them for their past prowess.

Now things had gone on too far, and the island was in complete disarray. Nothing was being maintained like it used to, and it was all because of that damn box.

So here’s the riddle.. What was the box?

Nobody in my grade seven class knew what was the box.

When I was biking home with my best friend Rusk, I remember him telling me exactly what the box was. He said something like

“I don’t know nothing about anything, but I think that box was a television.”

Of course it was. The box which seemed to hypnotize those poor monkeys was a television. Just like the one in my living room.

I thought about that riddle when me and my room mate(who happens to be my brother) were discussing whether we should get cable, or satellite TV. Then I thought about my dad, who keeps telling me he seems to be forgetting things a lot more these days, like when he didn’t want relish on his burger at Jimmy’s, but couldn’t remember the damn condiments name.

He watches too much television. That damn television. Poisons the mind if you’re not careful.

As long as me and my brother live together, we won’t be getting cable, or Netflix, or satellite. We’ll be swapping books and reading Stephen King or John Grisham novels, or actually doing something productive.

But I can’t help to think back to that riddle and think.

Those poor monkeys.

 

The Barking Blues Boys

      The van was overheating. The temperature gauge hung just under the red, slowly climbing. Hank didn’t slow down. They were already late.
“Dammit, step on it Hank!” cried Dave, sitting in the back. He was wedged between a guitar and a bass drum. His bass guitar was sitting between his legs.
“Shaddap back there, Dave. I can’t go no faster ‘er else the old beater’s gonna blow!” barked Hank. He usually wasn’t a snappy guy, but he was angry with Dave.
“Well if it ain’t for you, then we’d be there already, Dave. Just had to follow your dick again, you shithead. You didn’t even share!” added Squall.
“You wish, Squall. You drummers never score. Ha ha!” laughed Dave.
Squall just scoffed. He knew it was true. He always got all choked up when he tried talking to women. He even pissed his pants, drunk, trying to talk to a girl once.
“Get your shit tuned up, boys. We just got into New Orleans,” Hank said “You know they’re going to be pissed off so don’t run your mouths. Just be cool.”
The Barking Blues Boys were rarely late. Hank, the singer, always made sure to get them to every gig on time.
Dave decided to stay late with a girl he’d met the night before in Houston. Apparently she didn’t want Dave to go, and rented a room at another hotel. Luckily, Hank noticed and followed Dave. It took a while to get everyone together after that, but he managed. They wouldn’t be heading back to Houston any time soon.
“These damn southerners better not chuck anything at us like they did in Memphis. You remember Memphis? Prit near got bucked in the eye by a beer bottle last time. I’ll be bustin’ heads if that happens again,” sneered Pete. He was a big burly guitar player who rarely spoke. He smoked heavy, drank hard and lived loose. His beard sometimes got tangled in his guitar strings.
“Don’t worry boys, they won’t say nothin’ to us when they see me,” Pete grinned. He drank the last of his Budweiser, and threw it out the window. The bottle smashed on the pavement.
“Dammit Pete. You’re gonna bust us another tire if you keep doin’ that!” said Hank, eyeing Pete up in the rearview.
“Next bottle’s goin’ up your ass.”
“Dammit I say, If we weren’t in a hurry, I’d pull over and smack that guitar on over your head, Pete,” Hank cranked the wheel, throwing the band members all sideways over the van. “Here we are, boys. Sorry ‘bout that, almost missed the damn place.”
Grawshanks Roadhouse sat on the northern side of New Orleans, down a lonely highway. The dust never settled at Grawshanks. There were never any regulars there, only drifters, vagrants, and the odd motorcycle gang. The Boys had never been this far south before, but they felt at home in the soggy, damp heat.
The California quartet met in Los Angeles, brought together by Hank. The four of them instantly gelled, and The Barking Blues Boys were formed. Now, on this muggy Saturday evening, The Boys had work to do.
The van pulled up to the back of the Roadhouse. Hank got out, and ran to the backdoor. Before he could knock, the door swung open and out stumbled a man so drunk, he collapsed beside the van.
“We’re just in time for the party,” said Pete as he climbed out, flicking his cigarette on the drunkard’s motionless body.
The Boys collected their gear from the van as Hank held the door open, and they scrambled inside to the back of the unforgiving Grawshanks. They were met by Bear, one of the owners.
“Who’re ya, and what do ya want?” He yelled at Hank.
“We’re the band. The Barking Blues Boys,” explained Hank.
“You sons of bitches are late,” Bear yelled, agitated. He was hammered, and obviously didn’t see the large, brawny Pete, as he lunged at Hank. Hank ducked, and Bear caught hold of Dave, who dropped his bass. Pete swung his guitar, narrowly hitting Squall square in the face, but connected with Bear’s back. Bear fell forward and cracked his head on the dirty cement floor.
“Uggh,” grumbled Bear, then he was out. He would have a headache tomorrow.
“Shit,” said Pete, unnerved by the sudden, unexpected attack.
“Holy shit Pete, don’t break that thing. You just put new strings on her, didn’t ya?” joked Dave, relieved that he was still alive.
“Let’s get this thing done, and get the hell outta here,” Hank said, looking down at Bear’s crumpled mass on the floor.
The Boys managed to set their gear up without much hassle. They ran into one of the other managers, Tim, who told them to hurry up. He also told the band they’d get paid based on their performance.
The thin curtain separating the band from the wild crowd in the bar provided some solitude to get prepared. They didn’t know what to expect. The later the show, the crazier and drunker the audience was. It was almost midnight, and The Boys were sure they’d be in for a show themselves once that curtain was drawn.
There was no time for a sound check. But there was time for a drink, to calm the nerves. Pete pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey, and The Boys each took a big swig.
“Let’s have a good one,” said Pete, turning on his guitar and letting out a bluesy solo as Tim pulled the curtain. The startled vagabonds in the bar all turned to The Barking Blues Boys.
One man in the bar yelled something incomprehensive at the band, and another joined in. Looks of surprise towards the sudden disruption filled the room. Somebody threw a beer bottle, completely missing the stage. Pete grunted something at Hank, who looked at Dave, who nodded at Squall. Another bottle hit Squall’s drums and shattered all over him. He yelled something at Hank, with a disgruntled look on his face.
“Do something!” Squall yelled again.
Hank stepped forward into the spotlight, nervous, and his knees were buckling. The Roadhouse was muggy, and his shirt was getting drenched in his own sweat. His throat became dry, and he couldn’t speak. He began to sweat as the drunks waited for something, anything.
“Hello, New Orleans. How you all doing tonight? We are The Barking Blues Boys,” Hank cried through the old microphone. “This one’s from our first album.”
Pete struck the first chord. A solid E-major, and Dave joined him. The sound was deafening, but beautiful. The E-chord always got the crowd going. Always.
“Oh mornin’ blues,” sang Hank as he swayed back and forth, trying to avoid eye contact with any of the males in the audience. He caught a glimpse of a cute brunette near the back of the place. She smiled at him, as the man beside her accidentally spilt her drink all over the floor.
The audience was getting into it. Another cute girl in the crowd jumped up onstage, and started to dance beside Dave, but Tim grabbed her, and pulled her off. As The Boys finished their first song, a young man came by with a tray of Budweiser’s.

     “This is from a certain Missus down by the bar, sir,” said the young boy to Hank, “I think she likes yea.”
“Thanks, would you tell her that this next one’s for her?” Hank told the boy, flipping him a silver coin. The boy nodded, and ran off, trying not to slip on the slick floor.
“Hey! Grab someone and let’s dance!” Hank yelled into the mike. He took off his shirt. His throat was feeling better. The beer felt good. Pete pounded on his guitar, it sounded different since it’s encounter with Bear. He shrugged and started into the next number.
“I take a road out west, with nothing to do, gonna find me a girl, gonna do right to you. Bring me a whiskey, bring me a beer, bring me the music and grind me the gears, lets dance!” Hank screamed, all in one breath. Stepping back, he almost tripped on a loose cord. He went stumbling backwards into the drum set. Squall got up and pushed him forward. Hank caught his balance with the microphone stand.
Pete saved them with an A-chord. They could feel the energy coming through the amps, bouncing off the audience, and back through. The song ended with a solid bass groove, then a crash of the cymbals. The room filled with applause.
“Thank you, San Diego! New Orleans! Ah shit, let’s keep this party going!” Hank laughed, looking over at his band mates.

“New Mexico! I said let’s get this party started!” He grinned, and winked at Pete, giving him the signal.And only one thought overtook Pete. Guitar Solo. He edged back, holding his guitar high, the spotlight highlighting the greasy fingerprints smeared over the front. Pete let loose. Thousands of notes wailed from his guitar, all holding their own specially personalized acoustic. The guitar’s mahogany fret board held strong against the smooth silver steel of the strings, while Pete’s nimble fingers recoiled from each note, from top to bottom. By the end of the solo, the audience was captivated, staring into the colorful abyss of echoes around them. The night was still fresh, and The Boys were just getting started.

They toned it down for the second half of the show. They didn’t want to start a riot. Hank sat and played the old grand piano on the floor for a couple songs, before whipping out his harmonica to a few more blues tunes. Pete laid his guitar down, and it was completely out of tune. Nobody noticed, maybe because of the way he bent his notes.
Hank grabbed the mike, and spoke.
“New Orleans, home of the blues. I knew someday that we’d come here. I never woulda known it would be so much fun. Thanks for coming out. Now if you all don’t mind, I’m going to have a beer, and play you all a couple more songs, and we’re gonna come party with you.” The crowd accepted his speech with cheers, jeers and more beers.
For three more songs, Hanks and The Boys played their favorite songs. Squall brought down the house, while Dave brought it home. Hank himself sang one of his best shows, and Pete played flawlessly, as he usually does.
Finally, after a long night, there was time for some celebrations. The Boys packed their van in a hurry and ran back inside while Hank stayed back with the brunette and showed her his tattoos. Pete stopped at the door and looked back to Hank and the brunette in the front seats of the van. Hank gave Pete the thumbs up, and grinned as he leaned over and planted one on the lucky girl.
“He’s in for a good night,” Pete said to himself, as the back door slammed behind him. He noticed Bear wasn’t lying where he fell anymore. Pete dashed into the barroom and looked for his band mates. The first thing he saw was Bear with a bloody nose, holding a shotgun. Bear fired into the ceiling. Pete ducked behind a beam separating the stage from the floor. Women screamed all around as Pete saw his friends at the bar staring directly at Bear.
“Bastards,” Bear snarled as he clipped out the empty shell, “which one of ya made me bleed?”
Dave was trembling, and Squall wasn’t doing much better. A steady, warm stream ran down Squall’s leg and gathered on the floor around him.
“Look man, we don’t want any trouble,” started Dave. Bear cut him off.
“Where’s that big bastard with the beard?” he barked, looking around. Pete, playing it cool stepped out into sight.
“You don’t want a bloody mess in here,” said Pete as he lit up a cigarette. “Put the gun away. We all know you ain’t shootin nobody tonight.”
Bear laughed and lowered the shotgun. He walked over to Pete, who was standing defiantly with his arms crossed.
“Try me,” Bear said “Make one move and you’re gonna lose a leg.” Pete stared down at Bear, who was a good foot shorter than him.
“Ain’t nobody got time for these games, man. You put that gun away and lets settle this like men,” Pete said, staring boldly into Bear’s eyes.
Bear let out a hideous laugh, and as he looked away, Pete cranked him upside the head with his big elbow and grabbed for the shotgun. A shot rang out, and Pete fell back. Bear lurched forwards and fell onto Pete, sending the shotgun sprawling across the floor. Both men looked at each other, and Bear punched Pete in the jaw. Dave now lunged at Bear, pulling him off of the disordered guitarist. Pete garbled something that sounded like:
“Heffle Peff, cocksucker!”
And then another shot rang out as the brunette stepped through the front door, pointing a silver revolver at Bear.
“You big goof, never know when to stop,” She yelled, “someone’s gonna get killed here, and you’re gonna go to jail again.” Pete gave Bear a shove as he got to his feet and brushed the dirt off of himself.
“Thanks honey, I owe you one.” Pete smiled at the girl. She didn’t smile back.
“Get the hell outta here, you damn blues boys, and never come back!” she screamed. “And you leave my daddy alone, you big hairy bastard! Next time you be dead for hittin’ my daddy.” Hank came stumbling inside.
“Holy shit,” he said looking over at the brunette, “where’d you get a gun babe?” He got a kick in the crotch for this one. Hank fell forwards, and Pete came and swooped him up.
“Hillbillies,” Pete muttered before walking out the front door, “Lets go boys.”
The Barking Blues Boys took off with Squall still scared shitless, and they got the hell outta Dodge.

Chicago 1968

I’ve been here since Sunday, and I wish I hadn’t come at all. I wish this damned thing would be over with and we could all go home. It’s just not that easy. I haven’t witnessed anything like it before. Blood, beatings, brutality. I knew it would be bad, but nothing like this. Maybe things had to be like this, to teach somebody a lesson. But who? Nothing could have prepared us for this. I just want to go home.

I dind’t want to be in Chicago very long, but with the way things were going, I had to stay. Someone needs to tell this story. Better me than some wanker who wasn’t there. At least I knew what was going on. Lots of people didn’t.

It all started in over in Vietnam, and came across the sea with the horrific images and stories told from within those gates of Hell. The Tet offensive didn’t help anything, especially with that lying son of a bitch Johnson at the helm. We know that if Jack was still in charge, things would be a lot different. We can only hope our message and struggle here in Chicago can be felt and heard throughout the nation. We can only hope people see this as a warning as to what’s happening around them.

We can only hope.

And we can only hope Hubert knows exactly what he’s doing too. Whatever’s going on inside those walls of the Convention Center must be pretty damn important. Maybe they’ve learned a lesson or two about security since King got blown away. You can taste the tension here, you can feel it with every battered bone and canister of tear gas. They rushed the park, too. If we get gassed, the whole city does. Fuck you too.

Now this brings me back to the streets. Michigan Avenue. I had my camera out to take some shots of the police barricade when a pig thwacked me upside the head. My camera got the brunt of the damage, saving me from certain blackout. It’s a wonder I even made it out alive, let alone made it. Those fuckers had us blocked in from all sides, like some quarantined animal. And they call it democracy.

Back at the Convention, they weren’t having much luck inside, either. Every time somebody spoke, they were hauled off, arrested, and given two black eyes. Just in time for the election, some real change coming. Yeah right. We’ve all heard that one before.

If Johnson would’ve decided to run again, he’d probably wind up dead like the rest of them. We never expected it to get this wild though. But the pressure was building. It had to pop sometime. The question was where? Chicago. Home of the Blues. The Blues happened here all right. Damn near got us killed too.

I guess I still have to vote Democratic this November. I was hoping that McGovern would have made it. Big surprise. The only one with a sure shot of beating Nixon was murdered in Los Angeles last June. That’s the mood in the air these days. Murder, war, riots. Bobby would have been a fine leader. He was just getting his speeches down. He was starting to sound a lot like his brother. Who knows what’s going to happen now. More riots, death and war.

I won’t leave it on such a sour note. We haven’t lost just yet. Maybe in Vietnam, but not here in America. The sixties are coming to a dead end with nothing to show for. Maybe there’ll be another revolution in San Francisco where we can all lick ours wounds.