Have you ever seen that movie, Goodfellas. The scene where Ray Liotta is all coked-up, about to get busted, and he says something like, “I had to get the pasta cooked just right, and I had to keep my brother stirring the Marinara, or it was going to stick. I had to get the mule on the plane with the baby. And Jimmy needed the guns. And there’s this damn helicopter just following me all day.”
I am having one of those moments. Not in the mobster sense. (Note to any government officials monitoring this site: 99% of the crap I say here is pure bullshit; not to be taken as having evidentiary or investigative value). I got to get the young one ready for school, there is laundry like Everest downstairs, I’m working behind the scenes on mini-book deals, I’ve got myself into a conversation about U.S. involvement in 9/11 (and I don’t mean to be ignoring all you nice folks who were kind enough to offer me some reading material — I’m just swamped), I’ve got clients with fucking tax questions, the Administration is on the verge of being impeached, I had to shop all over town to find Samuel Smith’s Nut Brown Ale so I can celebrate my completed and published novel with my brother tonight, I’ve got a growing Internet activist e-mail ring of great people from BMT and Kos and Michigan Liberal (suggested by Maryscott O’Connor) that I’m managing, and I’ve got a thick-bespectacled, part-time, tree cutter who likes to tell stories like Mark Twain, and is almost as entertaining, who just can’t give me a quote for taking down the White Pine in my yard (that has most likely been killed by climate change) in four-thousand words or less, even though I’ve told him I’m going to go nuts.
Breathe.
Well. At least the tree-cutter liked my Booman shirt. He said the frog was cute. This from a 55-year old hunter, who may well not agree with the current political philosophies being espoused here. But who knows. He says, “I think I’ve heard of the Booman Tribune. But that frog is sure cute.” I encouraged him to join. So if a really great guy shows up with Twain-like stories soon, or maybe, instead, a Republicanish troll (Ed. note: No offense to my tree guy here, if you actually show up — maybe you will really enjoy the Social Democratic stuff here — we’d sure love to keep you at the pond, as we are Twain-deficient). Well. Please leave tips in my jar.
Breathe.
All right. Back to my point. Even though all this is happening at this instant. I need to be here. Because I have to share with you all some lessons from my recent ventures in the land of reluctant activism. I have to. Because, like it or not, this place — this Booman Tribune — has dragged my ass off the couch and thrown me into the middle of more humanity than I ever believed was possible for my reserved and staid self.
It Is All About the Effort, Stupid.
The other night was the height of my anti-war involvement. More important than Washington and 500,000 people. It was four people in a room. After work. Doing the grunt work for a protest that may change one mind. Or maybe a hundred. Or maybe no one. Or maybe the entire world.
We were a diverse lot. An artist who serves as the custodian at a local church. A social worker who counsels women on issues of reproductive choice. Myself — you go ahead and describe me, because I am no longer able. And my eldest daughter — a genius-like eight year old, with a good heart.
The first lesson I learned was that you should not paint political signs with brushes designed to apply deck varnish. While not a physical impossibility, I can definitively report, that it is neither efficient, nor conducive to an aesthetically pleasing sign. But, art paint brushes. I don’t know what their technical name is. But usually they are carried by artists/custodians. And my good lord, they are like the Cadillacs of the painting business. The paint goes on smooth and silky. Calvin — from Calvin and Hobbes — once said, and I paraphrase, “A good book report is mostly about having a really good looking binder.” And if that holds true with political signs. This war is over.
To summarize: While some might say, “Envision World Peace,” I would suggest, “Use Good Brushes.”
Just Get the Job Done
Some people are dogmatic. And I’m not naming any names here. It could be me who is dogmatic. Or my eight year old. But when some people look at a task, they see a vision of how that task will come into the living world, and they direct that vision upon others in the world as if they were a very, very small version of Benito Mussolini attempting to make trains make timely station appearances.
So if one of these folks shows up at a small sign painting gathering, they might have a really strict set of guidelines for how exactly the signs should be birthed into the world. There might be lines you can’t color outside of. There might be unified heights for letters. There might be brush stroke techniques that are not optional. There might be ways to clean up after yourself, that are described in painstaking detail, as if you were a very, very small child. And it may be annoying, or if you are a particularly pleasant and forgiving individual, it might be endearing. But if you just keep your head down. Smile. Keep doing what your heart tells you to. What your soul tells you — that you need to be here, because somebody in the world has to wake up and stop this fucking madness. If you can just do that. You will learn something. Benign fascism on these small scales can be a quite helpful thing. And competent fascism, well, that can leave you with a pretty good looking sign.
To summarize: Benign fascism, when exercised by the appropriate artist, er, I mean person, can leave you with really great signs.
Sign Painters Are Wise
At some point during these small group sessions, even if you are tired, and even if it is an half-hour past your daughter’s bed time, and even if the group of human beings has little in common — at some point, conversation will be exchanged, and though the conversation may have nothing to do with stopping the war, it will enrich your understanding of where you are in the world. And it will be valuable and enlightening. What I learned from painting signs to stop the war on this night: Well, let me give it to you in fairy tale form.
Once Upon a Time, in some States, women did not have the right to choose whether to terminate unwanted pregnancies. That rule had a denigrating effect on women. It meant they could not have control over sexual reproduction having to do with their own bodies, and consequently, it meant that they were like second class citizens. Unable to engage in the sexual and career freedoms afforded to men. It also caused a lot of shame and guilt to fall on all women surrounding issues of sex and pregnancy and marriage, even in States that did not follow this rather silly law. In those days, wise people who would counsel women about unwanted pregnancies always had to be sure to specifically look for the warning signs of suicide in the women who were being counseled. That’s how traumatic the age was. These women frequently killed themselves, rather than deal with the set of laws and mores that had been thrown down to control their bodies.
One day, a group of rather wise men, got together and decided that women shouldn’t be treated in this way. The wise men said that women should have equal rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, without laws making them second class citizens. It was a real enlightened period of time. Women, while not rising to a level of equality over night, certainly took some steps forward. Unwanted pregnancies were talked about rationally. And counselors who talked to women about unwanted pregnancies almost never, ever had to be concerned about suicide. In fact, young counselors, growing up in this age of enlightenment didn’t have any idea that things had ever been so bad that women would kill themselves over such matters.
But, the age of enlightenment seems that it may not last forever. The wise men (and even one woman, who was appointed to their counsel of elders long after the wise men made the decision that so drastically improved women’s rights) who made the decision which brought about some equality for women, retired and died. And they were replaced by men, and perhaps women, who are quickly giving indications that this enlightened age may soon end. And counselors. They are scared. Because they have forgotten what it was like to talk to scared young women about suicide.
And it is really doubtful that we are going to live happily ever after. In fact, the tale was so unhappy that it left me with a little shudder (that will have to be turned into a letter to my Senators) at the thought that my eight year old is about to grow up in an era not nearly as enlightened as the one in which I was raised.
To summarize: If you listen closely while painting, you will hear fascinating tales.
Well. It wasn’t the greatest fairy tale my eight year old had ever heard. But, it was about bed time. So we finished off the signs (exactly as directed) and cleaned up (exactly as directed), and headed for home.
As I will now head for home. I’m going to miss you guys this weekend. But I must go celebrate. The world is changing. And sometimes, it starts just by logging on to The Booman Tribune. Cute frog, too.
