What I learned from pretending to give a fuck about the Republican Primaries

This is an article that was removed from a certain news website due to its profanity...

In the last couple of weeks, I've learned that no matter what, republicans will go with the most obvious choice, but only if they are brought to it kicking and screaming. Since the beginning, we've all known that Romney would be the candidate of choice, the obvious choice, the man with the bank account to actually run for president. Unlike back when another east coast politician with a lot of money and a strange religion, everyone got past the Mormon thing. Everyone also got passed Romney-care as well, deciding that his business experience made up for his actual care for human beings.

But not all of them. Romney loves firing people. He has experience too. But does any of that really matter? no.

Because the republican primaries have already lasted too long. Since the beginning we've fucked around thinking about all of the crazies, even giving Sarah Palin strong numbers even though she never announced an official candidacy. Bachmann, Perry (GWBII), and even Anal Leakage Party Representative Rick Santorum have all had their shot, and it was hilarious. But now, now it's time to get serious and elect the guy with the most reasonable candidacy.

Ron Paul.

Not that Ron Paul is my top choice for... anything. Other than crazy uncle. That would be awesome. But Ron Paul is the only candidate who has consistently held a position, has real republican values (outside of war mongering) and could possibly beat Obama in a debate, seeing as he can actually string a sentence together that doesn't involve copious use of the word "I." Plus, it would be entertaining as hell to watch polar opposites when it comes to spending go head to head.

So, to bring it to an actual point, to hell with South Carolina, and Florida for that matter. The primaries are boring and a waste of time. Let's pick a candidate by lottery. That way we could gamble on it, like real Americans.

It's been a busy winter...

I spent the past month or so working on a new webzine, which is up, and you should totally check it out:

http://www.ifeelprettyonline.com

it's pretty great.

Gram

I feel like there should be a disclaimer here. Fuck it.

It should be noted that Emmy was only fourteen years of age when she won the attentions of a thirty five year old man named Gram. This, however, did not stop him from pining over the girl, staying up with dreams ever-flowing from the challis of his mind, spilling over onto the tile of his sanity, eroding it until, like so many other men, it cracked and buckled and burst, drowning his heart with nothing but visions of her. Gram thought of former students, one in particular, Darla, who had once wrote in an essay on child brides that “age is just a number,” pushing her agenda that young women have inalienable rights, including who they choose to love and when. But Darla was a blonde memory now, and instead, as he sat behind his desk, staring out over the rows of metal desks and chairs, over the blossoming minds of his students, he stared and fantasized about Emmy.

One could say that this relationship between a child and their mentor, their teacher, is at best awkward, and at worst shameful and wrong. But I leave those judgments to be passed by the Almighty and not by mere mortals on this planet. For who among us is perfect enough to judge another? Moreover, who among us can tell a tale of love and strife of any kind without striking a chord somewhere in the throngs of people clamoring for such a tale? Some will be effected by the use of language, whilst others opt to struggle with the follies of those whose lives are being dissected for art, for make no mistake, the lives that we are dealing with are very much real, or at least, as real as you or I in the eyes of the universe.

Emmy and the rest of her class sat with their heads bowed, focused on the seemingly endless stream of empty bubbles to be filled in, number two pencils clenched between teeth, and sweat starting to form on their young brows. Although Emmy didn’t sweat. She was far too perfect for that, and even in her confusion over question number thirty two, she simply bit the end of her pencil, leaving a trace of lip gloss around the eraser, and pulled on her brown curls, which were lopsided and the product of half an hour in the mirror, trying to figure the process out on her own. Her chest heaved as she sighed, finally picking an answer, and Gram shifted in his seat, trying to see past the pimply faces that blocked his view of the budding B-cups that haunted the far reaches of his brain.

Here, Gram stopped in time. While outside of him, the world spun as usual, breaths were taken, heads were scratched, answers were read by other students, but inside, the Earth stood still, unchanged and unmoving. Frozen, Emmy leaned back, stretching, staring at the nerdy Asian kid’s test, memorizing the answers with a fake yawn that would have fooled the most cynical of teachers. But not Gram, as he watched her every move and begged any Gods that would listen to give him an excuse to force Emmy’s company. This was it, and as the world slowly started turning again, Gram half yelled, half squeaked “Emmy!” Though instead of authoritative, it sounded excited.

“Yes?” Emmy said, in a voice that would be used by a chesty blonde pulled over for speeding. She smiled, pouted, trying to use her looks that had come far too early to get out of the trouble she knew she faced.

“Bring your test up here. You’re going to have to retake this after class, when you can’t read anyone else’s answers.” It was brilliant, Gram thought, in the explicit punishment and handling of a student, as well as the implicit move to bring her closer to him.

The rest of the class finished, the bell rang, and the school day was over. Save for little Emmy, who now had a test to make up, in part to her cheating, in part to her teacher’s hidden agenda. Gram had never acted upon thoughts he knew were “wrong,” especially in his own eyes. Getting too close to a child less than half his age was certainly wrong. But something, some growing pressure deep inside had caused him to not only think of these deviant thoughts, but to also fantasize about them, to will them into reality in his darkened bedroom at home, sweating by thinking of the girl that he wanted, needed, to be with. He felt himself change inside, felt as though his blood ran black, that his heart was caked with a layer of obsession and perversion that he himself could do nothing about. Emmy wandered up to the desk.

“So now I have to take the test all over, just because I might have glanced at an answer?” Emmy said, leaning over the way her mother used to do when Emmy would get in trouble in middle school, leaning over the principals desk, asking for mercy, since she was young and still learning what was right and wrong. Emmy’s elbows were pointed in, towards one another, her T-shirt bulging the way no fourteen-year-old’s t-shirt should bulge. Gram, suddenly blacked out.

Now while Gram is unable to tell the police what happened in the ensuing moments, that doesn’t mean that the rest of the universe was not witness to it. And as the humble stenographer for the universe, it is our duty to relay those events.

First, Gram stood up, walking over and sitting on the front of his desk, next to where Emmy stood. Then, he glanced at the door, ensuring that it was closed. After seeing that they were alone, and that no one should be coming into his classroom anytime soon, he grabbed Emmy by the face, bending low, very low, to plant his lips on hers and hold her tight. While Emmy may have been suggestive, she had no idea what she was really suggesting, and it certainly did not include making out with her teacher, oh no. But that is what happens when men can no longer maintain their sanity. The insane among us lash out at the world, kissing fourteen-year-olds and grabbing at their young breasts. Gram pushed his mouth into hers, swallowing the screams, convincing himself that they were from pleasure, not fear, moving his groping hands lower, tugging at the button of her jeans, his hands much stronger than hers as they flailed, trying to scratch, to push, to pinch, hit, gouge, all to no avail as Gram pushed farther, feeling her warm skin beneath her clothes. She tried to kick at his groin, but the adrenaline flowing through his veins overpowered her own, and visions of them, both naked in front of a fire, feeding each other fruits and giggling into the night clouded his eyes, letting him see only fantasy, never understanding the horror that was fixed in her gaze or the poison in her tongue as his pushed it around, prying her teeth open, losing blood as she bit down.

Another moment passed, now with time frozen for young Emmy, her world being dismantled around her, but for Gram everything was happening too fast, his memories forming and losing detail too soon, not allowing him to revel in the moment, to take joy in the goings-on, to relish his victory. He had loosened her jeans, every kick from her allowing them to be slid down further and further, until they were at her ankles, tripping her as she tried to get away, sliding lower into his grip. He worked at his own pants now, his olive green khakis moving quickly to mid-thigh, Him moving his way inside of her. Her eyes widened as she felt the pain, and in a last ditch effort put her whole body into one swift movement, leaning her head back, breaking away from his forced kiss, and slamming it forward, stunning him as he pushed on, but only for a moment. She managed to take a breath before bellowing one quick scream before he was ahold of his bearings and able to force himself upon her mouth once more.

A fire had broken out across town, and as Emmy’s head made contact, a shrill, piercing sound came roaring down the street, just outside Gram’s window. The sirens wailed, the trucks headed towards a burning building. Emmy’s scream forced its way through the glass, and out into the world, being dragged along by the fire trucks’ cries, following them out into the city, off to rescue someone else from danger.

Thanksgiving

or as i plan to hashtag it: #thxgvn.


There are a lot of things to be thankful for this year: The Chicago Police Department, Rahm Emanuel, Chicago Mercantile Exchange...

No more politics, just for the weekend. I'm going to eat more than I should feel comfortable eating, try to avoid people while in my hometown, and generally revel in the fact that I have family and friends who care about me and my life/career/school, live in a decent apartment in one of the best cities in the world, and don't worry about where I will get my next meal. Occupy the holiday! We are the 99% fat free cool whip! Banks got bailed out, we got turkey! The whole country's eating!

Occupy Wall Street raid live blog (from Chicago)

This is/was real time updates from Occupy Wall Street's eviction last night, done through watching several live streams both inside and outside of the park, as well as following twitter hash tag #ows, @occupywallst, @occupychicago, @occupywallstny, and more.

11:55am (CST): [op] The use of the courts, which are supposed to be the balance between the government and the people, and instead being used by the government to control the people. This concerns me more than anything else.

11:49am (CST): Judge in charge of protesters injunction removed from case. City decided new judge.

11:43am (CST): Wall St. Journal reports 200 arrests.

11:30am (CST): 20 arrests reported, including journalists at Canal and 6th. Trinity church makes statement clarifying that the protesters were not allowed.

11:28am (CST): Video of police hitting woman in the face posted to twitter: http://yfrog.com/n9ridez

11:22am (CST): Statement from a member of NYPD: Injunction was appealed by NYPD, until it is finalized the police will continue to deny access to Zuccotti.

11:18am (CST): " karen mcveigh

#OWS lawyer says a high court judge signed emergency order at 6.30am within an hour they had served all lawyers involved but police refused"

"

Brookfield appreciates the peaceful and professional response of the NYPD, the FDNY, and the Department of Sanitation, and thanks Mayor Bloomberg for his leadership. As had been widely reported, conditions in Zuccotti Park had become dangerous, unhealthy and unsafe. In our view, these risks were unacceptable and it would have been irresponsible to not request that the City take action. Further, we have a legal obligation to the City and to this neighborhood to keep the Park accessible to all who wish to enjoy it, which had become impossible.

As previously stated, Brookfield supports all citizens’ rights of peaceful assembly and freedom of speech.

Brookfield had hoped to reopen the Park this morning after it had been cleaned. The City and Brookfield, however, were notified of a court-ordered injunction regarding the use of the Park. As a matter of public safety, the Park will remain closed pending the resolution of this matter.

Our hope is to reopen the Park as soon as possible for the enjoyment of all members of the community in accord with the rules of the Park." -Statement from Brookfield (owners of the park)

11:10am (CST): Unconfirmed reports saying that Trinity Church supports the Occupy movement and did not request the removal of protesters.

Four police helicopters overhead

11:04am (CST): Man arrested in Zuccotti Park for hopping barricade, NYCLU reports.

At Trinity, a woman in a wheelchair is being arrested.

10:55am (CST): Violent arrests start at Trinity Church. Police kicking man on ground.

More arrests.

10:54am (CST): Clergy arriving at Trinity church to straighten out disputes on whether or not the occupiers are welcome.

Police start to enter Trinity property.

10:49am (CST): Police buses are preparing for arrests, blockades are up, helicopters are over head @ trinity church.

Riot cops are lining up, and protesters are planning for arrests.

Trinity Church told the police that the OWS protesters are not welcome on their property, request they move.

10:33am (CST): The police are refusing to allow the protesters to reenter Zuccotti Park, regardless of a court order requiring the police to allow them into the park with camping equipment.

The court ordered temporary restraining order requiring the NYPD to show just cause in arresting the protesters. A court date was set for today at 11:30am EST holding NYPD officers who refused to allow the protesters into the park in contempt of court. This was signed by a judge this morning at 6:30am EST.

3:00am (CST): Zuccotti is mostly dismantled, most protesters are arrested. Reporters who were inside left to avoid arrest. The occupy movement isn't silent. Hundreds of people still in the street, 4am in NY. Protesters are still worried about LRAD being deployed, however, there are no confirmed reports of it being activated. Tomorrow will show what this means for the Occupy Movement and the city of New York.

2:55am (CST): Video goes down on most streams. Twitter is silent.

2:48am (CST): Arrestees yelling that they are being hurt.

The white vapor was a fire extinguisher.

http://yfrog.com/163yiz

Video of kitchen being dismantled is released.


2:45am (CST): Scanner says police are bringing in bolt cutters.

2:44am (CST): "Ain't no power like the power of the people!" -Chant as last 40 occupiers remain in park.

2:42am (CST): Video of tear gas may have been of something else. Inside reports say contrary. Videos of violent arrests posted to twitter from earlier. Video of clouds of white smoke hitting Zuccotti unconfirmed as tear gas.

http://www.twitvid.com/SGWD9

2:37am (CST): Reports of tear gas being used against occupiers. Confirmed.

2:37am (CST): 4 block perimeter set up around the park, protesters kept away.

2:32am(CST): Reports of LRAD being used against protesters.

50 arrests in or around the kitchen being estimated by protesters.

2:28am (CST): Arrests are being made inside the park. Violence is being reported by both police and protesters. Video inside the park is down.

Protesters are being dragged and taken west from the park, where people can not see.


2:23am (CST): [op] What does this "temporary closing of the park for cleaning" mean for the movement? Based on NY's Mayors feelings on the protests, this cleaning could go on indefinitely. Mayors around the country have felt poorly about the protesters, trying to arrest them out of existence and only proving that there is something important happening in these movements. Something that scares politicians that are funded by lobbyists and companies that can afford to have their interests met. That, the interests being met only when you have enough money, is wrong.


2:20am (CST): Reports that NY City Council is headed to Zuccotti park now. More police seen marching in.

2:19am (CST): Reports of police violence at Broadway and Cedar.

2:09am (CST): Arrest teams dispatched to Zuccotti Park

1:56am (CST): City council member Ydanis Rodriguez "beaten by #nypd and bleeding from the head" reported by @occupywalls

1:50am (CST): Foley Square is being called the fall back, unconfirmed reports that the square is blocked off.

Police Scanners reporting that there are not enough police to maintain situation.

Confirmed reports that people have chained themselves inside the OWS Kitchen

Brooklyn Bridge is closed until 6am.

1:46am (CST): Protesters continue to block street, one arrested.

1:42am (CST): Dump truck attempting to leave the park, stopped by hundreds of protesters.

1:40am (CST): Large crowds converging together with displaced occupiers, protesting and chanting near the park.

Confirmed reports of Long Range Acoustic Device being prepared by police.

1:37am (CST): The people's library has been dismantled and thrown out.

1:34am (CST): Confirmed reports of airspace being closed off to media.

1:30am (CST): Video of protesters being arrested

1:27am (CST): Unconfirmed reports that a NY Times Reporter was arrested from @OccupyWallSt

Also, reports that NYPD Counter Terrorism officers are on scene.

1:22am (CST): Police, Dept. Sanitation shown throwing all OWS items into a pile and dumpsters. Personal objects being covered in trash.

approx. 1:16am (CST): Police shown dismantling tents, evicting protesters. Twitter buzzing with reports of pepper spray used against peaceful protesters, removal of press from site. Police commissioner on scene. NY observer reporting photographers from NYT, WSJ, and Reuters being kept from the scene.

Approximate midnight (CST): First reports of the raid on OWS come from Occupy Chicago over Facebook. Livestream: http://www.livestream.com/occupynyc

I am now on Examiner.com

Check out my politics articles over on Examiner by clicking this link here.

OCCUPY THE JAIL!

This is a first hand account of what happened after 130 protesters were arrested in Chicago on October 22, 2011.

“It is now past 11 o’clock. The park is now closed. You can vacate the premises, or you will be arrested in violation of city ordinance 10-36-185: being in a park after closing. This is your final warning.”

The police bullhorn echoed across what had been re-named “Liberty Square” or simply “The Horse.” Protesters were caught in the stark white explosion of light as transportable towers popped on, all of their expressions illuminated for the world to see. And see it the world would. Camera men from all of the major news networks lined the press section of the barricade; reporters from The Wall Street Journal to Al-Jazeera circled the camp trying to find one last interview from the loudest, most sound-bite ridden member of the crowd. They sat on the ground, arms linked, voices hoarse from chanting “1. We are the people! 2. We are united! 3. The occupation is not leaving!” and in-between slogans, musing over what it would be like in prison. The police moved into position, forming segmented lines around the camp, the group having encircles the medic tent, the bright red crosses fluttering in the fall air. The white shirts headed each section, their collars the same color as the zip-tie loops at their hips, leading their subordinates to their section. As the crowd watching from the sidewalk grew, the drums growing louder, the chanting more passionate, the first protester was lifted from the ground, his hands tied behind his back, and was lead to the awaiting paddy wagon amidst applause and chants of “Hero! Hero!” I looked at the man sitting across from me, his high-school-varsity-linebacker-turned-fratboy body sinking lower against the planter, and whispered “Wow, it’s really happening.”

The Occupy Chicago movement and I had some different views on a lot of issues, but regardless, I felt as though they had the right to express those view at any point, and if they wanted to peaceably assemble around the clock, then that was their constitutional right. That is what brought me to the occupation on Saturday. I went, hoping that after the week before where 175 people were arrested, that this time they would see the support and just let them stay. I was wrong. Soon, we were all linking arms, chanting slogans, and being picked up off of the ground one-by-one, put in plastic zip-ties and being led to our respective style of vehicle which would cart us off to Central Holding, where a 99% majority would experience prison for the first time, myself included.

I was asked by a white shirt police officer if I would like to be arrested because “if not, [I was] free to leave and come back next week or whatever.” I then stood up, my legs screaming from the past 2 hours of sitting, placed my hands behind my back and was walked over to the Sherriff’s bus, laughing that it looked just like the movies. As we all were taken into custody, the crowd cheered, snapping photos and chanting “Heroes! Heroes!” Inside the bus, the atmosphere was similar. We were reunited with the people we sat next to earlier, loudly greeted one another, and chatted about how we were upset that we missed the Hawks game, trying to ask the riot-gear-clad cops if they knew the score. They didn’t answer. The ride to the station was jovial, except for some complaints about the zip-ties being too tight, with the bus launching into “If you’re happy and you know it, smack your seat!” (the clapping of hands was impossible.) Some managed to pull out cell phones, and tweeted, texted, and Facebooked, a fitting moment for a movement that is based so heavily on the internet.

The bus arrived to a carnival style roped off walkway snaking through the garage. “I call the front seat of the roller coaster!” someone yelled from the back. We shuffled along, to the calls of “quickly now!” from the detention officers. The zip-ties were cut. We were given bags, told to remove any string or string-like objects, empty our pockets, and remove our jackets, which we could have back after a friendly pat down. There was a full cell of women from the protest near the entrance, and as we walked in, we got another round of applause, some of them making heart shapes form their hands, others holding up fists. Being placed in the holding cell was still another round of applause, and then the waiting started.

If you put a bunch of people who are willing to be arrested for their political beliefs in one cell, there is bound to be a political discussion. This was true on Saturday night. Discussions on what the next week would hold, on failed ideas of petitions, on what the exact message of the movement should be, on labor unions’ help, all were discussed in an organized form, the typical Occupy “stack” (line) and “peace guns” (flashing two childlike “guns’ made from the hands to signal joining the stack) were strictly enforced and followed by the impromptu general assembly in the prison cell. This discussion lasted until the moderator was called out for processing, then slowly turned to factions discussing the merits of socialism, why they were democrats, protests in the past, the world trade center attack conspiracy theories, reticence about the use of extreme leftists in the protest, and the need for a cigarette. People were slowly called out for processing, and when I left at 6:30am, there were still about fifteen people in my cell, with more in the two cells I passed.
Processing is a rather quick process, and incredibly misleading. Walking up for the mug shot, you think you’ve started to reach the end of your time there. A quick picture, a turn to the left, another picture, boom. You’re on to the fingerprinting. They digitalized fingerprinting, so each finger is placed on a glass plate with a red light behind it, some clicking, and there you go! Done! The whole process takes two minutes, tops. They then hand you a receipt for the belongings they took from you, and as the smile starts stretching across your face with thoughts of what you plan on eating when you get home, or the couch you plan to sit on that isn’t made from concrete, they call you down a hall, finally leading you into a new, smaller, colder, jail cell.

My cellmate was a vegetarian, but when the detention officer asked if we wanted a bologna sandwich, he (and I) enthusiastically said yes. After we finished, exhausted, we tried sleeping. The concrete benches did little to keep body heat, and as I shivered under the halogen lights that stopped my internal clock, I started to think that I made a mistake. Some amount of time passed (an hour? A minute?) and I stopped pretending that I could sleep. Walking up to the door, I looked around, trying to catch the eye of people in other cells. I could hear two men discussing the difference between communism and socialism in the cell to my right, finally ending their discussion with “but that really doesn’t matter. I’m a capitalist at heart, but I’ll be damned if the media cares about that.” My cellmate woke up, and we started doing calisthenics for warmth. Back at the window, I finally caught the attention of the detention officer, and when he came over, I asked for my phone call.

“Nope.” He said, chewing on the inside of his lip, looking past me at the white walls.

“What do you mean, ‘Nope?’” I asked, perplexed as to how prison movies had led me astray. Wasn’t it always when they were in their solitary cell that they were called up, told they had a phone call, and given a quarter for the payphone?

“I mean nope. You done missed your chance. You’re supposed to do it while being processed.”

“But no one ever told me that.” By this time the conversation had caught the ears of not just my cell block, but the cell blocks over, as we all were yelling. Others cells started demanding phone calls, doors were banged on, and chants that centered around expletives rang through the halls. Even though the cells were spread apart, only ten in each wing, the lot of the protesters had found out about the phone call issue.

“Don’t matter who told you what.” He said, getting annoyed at the noise. “No phone calls.” He turned, and lumbered off down the grey hallway, past the beige metal doors filled with men smacking the glass, screaming that their rights were being violated. Defeated, I went back to sleep, this time on the floor since it was slightly warmer.

I woke up to what I thought was a prison riot. There was pounding on any and every metal surface, throaty shouts and high pitched screams, “PIGS!” echoed through the hallways, and the officers yelled back for everyone to stop. I asked my cellmate what was happening as he kicked the bottom of our door. “There is a woman in one of the cells that needs her medicine, but the officers won’t come to her cell.”

Time dragged, but the network of communication established with Occupy Chicago’s human microphone (where when someone speaks, all who can hear echo) got information throughout the cells. Announcements of time were finally made. A lucky man who was finally able to make a phone call announced the information from the National Lawyers Guild. Demands for toilet paper were made. Demands for toilet paper were made again. Demands for toilet paper were continued to be made, until a few hours later they were met by a slew of expletives and yelling from an officer. The toilet paper then made its way under cell doors, through a complicated, angular system to anyone who needed it. That’s when I found the records in our cell.

Sixty to seventy vinyl records were in a plastic bag hidden behind out toilet. Rick James, Marvin Gaye, Prince, Bob Marley, they were signs of home, signs of freedom, signs of hope. We decorated out cell with pull out posters, lined the benches with record sleeves for warmth, and then tried to share our bounty. Slid under doors, the records made their way down the block, crossing the hall for the other side to have. Some throws were missed, and for the next two hours I worried that when someone walked past, we would get charged with some other crime, littering the hall with a bunch of stray records. Instead, when we finally had our cell door opened, we were just called “assholes” and told to pick them up. The best case scenario.

As we left, finally out into the warmth of Sunday’s afternoon, we were greeted by fifty or so people from Occupy Chicago, a handful of news cameras, more applause, and yet another chant of “Heroes! Heroes!” I never realized that going to prison would be such a celebrated event, but having spent the night cold and feeling alone, even while surrounded by people, it was a welcome sight. The poured us cups of coffee, handed over donuts and bagels, patted our backs, and thanked us for all we did. Five of us had left by 12:30pm, with a couple more trickling out after us. Our bags of items were returned, everything accounted for, and as I signed up for a NLG lawyer, talked with people about future strategies, and enjoyed the ability to take more than three steps at once, I felt a surge of pride. Not for myself, but for those around me who were willing to stand up for what they believed in, for those outside who had spent the night trying to keep each other warm and awake so that when we were released we would be greeted with friendly faces, and most of all, for the people that were willing to talk about or attend Occupy Chicago for knowing that there are problems in this country, but also knowing that the country is strong enough to be able to fix them.