Cindy Sheehan is at the plate

Up all night, I could not sleep
the whiskey that I drank was cheap
with shakin’ hands I went and I lit up my last cigarette

This song — South City Midnight Lady by The Doobie Brothers — always runs through my mind in times like these — after another sleepless night during a time of crisis. And it makes sense, in a way, but it’s also a bit odd, because I really don’t like the tune all that much. I much prefer Clear As The Driven Snow, which doesn’t present itself in times of crisis the way South City Midnight Lady does. On the other hand, maybe it should.

I keep rollin’, I keep rollin’, I keep rollin’ and I can’t stop, rollin’ and I can’t stop, it’s drivin’ me out of my mind

I have some good news for you: for the first time in a long time, I’m not promoting anything! I’m not even linking to anything, I’m just riffing. If it turns out to be worth reading, that’s great. And if not, that’s ok too, right? I mean: we’re all adults here, and you can read as much of me as you want before you click on something else, no?

Ok, then. Meet me on the other side … if you dare!
::flip::

Here’s another lyric that comes up at the strangest times. From one of my all-time favorite sloppy-but-wonderful long-haired wild-eyed three-quarters-crazy guitar-heroes, Alvin Lee of Ten Years After

I’d Love To Change The World

Everywhere is freaks and hairies, dykes and fairies;
Tell me where is sanity ?
Tax the rich, feed the poor, till there are no rich no more.
I’d love to change the world – but I don’t know what to do,
So I’ll leave it up to you.

Population – keeps on breeding, nation bleeding,
Still more feeding economy.
Life is funny, skies are sunny, bees make honey,
Who needs money ? Monopoly !
I’d love to change the world – but I don’t know what to do,
So I’ll leave it up to you….Oh yeah,

World pollution, there’s no solution, institution, electrocution,
Just black and white, rich or poor, them and us,
We’ll stop the war !
I’d love to change the world – but I don’t know what to do,
So I’ll leave it up to you….and Good Luck!

Truly, I didn’t come here intending to post rock lyrics, but sometimes that’s how things start. I mostly wanted to talk about Cindy Sheehan and the energy that is coming to a sharp focus around her. I never thought I’d see this happen.

Seriously.

I’m a baseball fan. Or at least I was. And I played a lot of ball [cf & ss, mostly. good glove, no stick]. So I know

it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out

and the honest truth is: I thought I had seen a swinging strike, a cut and a miss, for the third out of the ninth inning.

I really thought we were done for.

But maybe we’re not.

Maybe it was a foul tip, and maybe the catcher didn’t hold it.

-–-–-–-–-–-–-–-

The first strike came when I was just a kid.

The candle burned out long before the legend ever did.

No, sorry, Elton. I wasn’t thinking about MM — at least not directly. For me, the first strike was the public execution of JFK. I was too young to understand the implications at the time, but now I understand things a little bit better.

More public executions followed less than five years later. MLK and RFK about two months apart.

boom! boom! out went the lights

And the first “out” was on the board.

-–-–-–-–-–-–-–-

Things looked awful. But we were still at bat, and somehow we started hitting the ball. Nixon got turfed out of office and the war eventually got stopped and it actually seemed that we might get to keep batting for a while.

And things bumped along for a while, we had a lot of tough at-bats but we hung in there, got hit by a few pitches and got a few lucky breaks, and we made it into a new millenium with still just that one solitary out on the board.

But then things started to go sour, fast.

Strike one: the theft of the 2000 presidential election.

Strike two: the success of 9/11, which I have described elsewhere as “the blackest op of all”.

Strike three: the execution of Paul Wellstone and his family.

-–-–-–-–-–-–-–-

Wow. That was fast. Bang Bang Bang Go Siddown! Two out now, and we’re in deep trouble.

Those were powerful and unexpected strikes. And this is the late Lowell George of Little Feat

Trouble

you yelled “hey” when your car wouldn’t start
then you got real nervous and started to eat your heart out
now you’re so fat your shoes don’t fit on your feet
you’ve got trouble and it’s tailor-made
now mama lay your head down in the shade

’cause your eyes are tired and your feet are too
and you wish the world was as tired as you
well I’ll write a letter and I’ll send it away
and put all the trouble in it you had today

well your telephone rang and you went “oh no”
you forgot about this and you forgot about that
and you’ve got to get back to what you’re doin’
goodbye click that so-and-so
you’re an island and on your own

and you yelled “hey” when your stove blew up
upset? why yes
the footprints on your ceiling are almost gone
and you’re wondering why

well mama lay your head down, don’t you cry
’cause your eyes are tired and your feet are too
and you wish the world was as tired as you
well I’ll write a letter and I’ll send it away
and put all the trouble in it you had today

Fast forward to 2004. It’s primary season and the Democrats have a candidate for the nomination who is not only anti-war but also leading. Visions of popular opposition dance in my head. But then something happened, he got too dangerous, or something. Or maybe he simply got tarred and feathered and run out of town on a cold steel rail. He could have been, would have been, should have been, an important focal point, or maybe that was simply my fantasy at the time. Oops. Wrong again. Strike one.

Then came Farenheit 9/11. I thought it was gonna be a home run, and from all the hype it should have been a grand slam. Hell, from the hype it should have been a five-run shot — way out past the monuments. Even Shawn Green couldn’t throw it back. And this fantasy was based on more evidence than the previous one, I thought. Michael Moore had made some great TV in the 90s, he was hot on the heels of a big success with Bowling For Columbine, and I was expecting greatness again. Boy, did I ever get a wrong number. He pulled so many punches it wasn’t even funny. It reminded me of National Lampoon’s great line

that’s not funny, that’s pathetic

I sat through the whole thing, even though it was so depressing, and left the cinema broken-hearted.

He could have, should have, would have been a premier truth-teller. He was and is clearly someone who can appeal to “regular guys”. And he did, with the slacker tour and so on. But the hard truths about 9/11 never made it into his film, and neither did most of the hard questions. Boom. Called strike two. Not even the courtesy of a swing and a miss. He didn’t even take the bat off his shoulder.

And yet, I figured it was gonna be ok … because we still had one strike left. And his name was John Kerry.

I worked hard to make myself like John Kerry. I cherry-picked like mad, found and focused on all the best things I could find about him, made up and indulged in all manner of fantasies. I knew nothing. I read some of the things that he said and wrote about Vietnam and I thought “How can he not feel the same way about Iraq?” I knew nothing. I knew there was trouble with the electoral system, but I figured there would be such a landslide it couldn’t be stolen.

But then came the first presidential debate. And within the first three minutes, I realized I was wrong again. Strike three. Game over.

-–-–-–-–-–-–-–-

Most of the people around me didn’t seem to realize the game was over. So they kept paying attention. And pulled along by their intensity, I paid attention too, but in a curiously detached way, thinking: “What are all these people looking at? Don’t they realize it’s over?”

As you know, after the “election”, a fair number of people cried “FOUL!” … and clearly it was! But I never thought the umpire would see it that way. Or to be honest, I thought he might see it that way but I figured he’d be afraid to call it that way. But apparently I was wrong again.

Apparently it was a foul tip. And apparently the catcher didn’t hold it.

Unbelievable? Maybe, but it’s happened before. A World Series turned on a dropped third strike. Who knows?

Incredibly, we are still at bat. Unimaginably, we are still in the game.

Praise the Lord, or whatever or whomever you prefer to praise, if any. The game is still on.

And Cindy Sheehan is at the plate.