emma b. says

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Hot, Hot, Hot and then... Here comes the fog

We were reading our New Yorker and came across a tribute to a writer called Hamburger, who passed away last week. It was touching and we wept, selfishly, for ourself.

A great and long life, full of contributions, a lengthy legacy, a long time love affair, a minor place in history.

We want that too. We think we may not achieve it, hunkered down in a stale job, for the money and only for the money (a pittance at that). Complaining to P over salads, about the wretchedness of our love life, prospectless, B.O.B. my only solace...

The Hamburger's wife passed away last year, his friends speculated that he might follow suit, and sure enough he did.

We would have thought that Jane might do the same after cantankerous old Grandpa Bill died. Instead, in her eighties, she is hale and spry, partial to gin and cruises. She seems to relish her new freedom. Though they loved each other, she had loved him since she was fifteen years old.

These times have changed.

Since the morning we took the taxi on gorgeous day in September, the driver was playing the AM radio and I naturally thought it was some war of the worlds scenario, planes plowing into buildings... into the Pentagon... absurd... Until we saw the barricades at City Hall. The cab dropped us off at the BART station and we were paralyzed, unable to descend to the train, rooted to the sidewalk. Rooted for a long time. And then the television sets, on, everywhere. That eerie blue sky. The Leapers. The ash.

And then the fall out.
The NY Times publishing all of the dead, which engendered in us and obsessive need to read both the marriage announcement and the obituaries. Looking for clues into a life, into a love.

And then the successive wars, what should have been a great rally of our nation was a blip on Fox news. The Sheep were more interested in the doings of the Assfleck and the J-ho. And the dead keep piling up. How many corpses on the front lawn of the White House, American, Iraqi, Afghan, add to that the three thousand lost on that day in September. How can our Feckless Leader sleep at night?

Add to that the sinking of the economy, the stripping away of our various, heretofore, taken for granted civil rights and liberties... Is it any wonder we are suffering from a collective ennui, or are we just projecting. Is it any wonder we, that is Emma, would rather lose ourself in trashy mysteries and candy coated movies then contemplate the reality, that in the face of the systematic dismantling of our nation we have done fuck all besides rail at the television, NPR and other media outlets, we have voted in elections, but we have not put sole to pavement to make the change.

Contrary to what we said in an earlier posting about feminists, we would have been honored to march in Washington last Sunday.

We were pleased, and sent a congratulatory email to our Young Mayor Gavin, when he started the marriage frenzy. We wrote that we were satisfied that our singular vote did matter in the democratic process. Hey Antonin - FUCK YOU!

Many years ago, when we were living with the Frogs, there were nightly battles over wine that comes in water bottles and stains the teeth an unsightly green, about France V. America. We felt it an honor to defend our country, and when all else failed, we could always throw down the gauntlet, ah oui, mais, ze frenshweemin, zey do not schave zere harmpits... Which was patently untrue, but myths zey do peersist. The point is we no longer feel honored, nor duty bound to defend.

And that is truly disheartening.

Enough already, it is time to contemplate Angelina Jolies gigantic mouth and long, long legs as we indulge in a bit of Tomb Raider escapism.


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