Friday, November 12, 2004


Raven is down in the dumps, again. I had thought he would be glad to see me, but he is immeasurably glum.

“Even cinnamon rolls have lost their charm.” He pecks listlessly at one.

I brought you cinnamon BEARS and atomic fireballs from the States. Maybe those will perk you up.

“I doubt it. Nothing you could bring me from the States would be welcome. Four more years of the Cross-Eyed Cretin is too heavy a cross to bear.”

Four more years of the MEANSPIRITED Cross-Eyed Cretin. I told you not to underestimate the ignorance and stupidity of the US electorate.

“Yeah. Yeah. How could you stand to rub elbows with that ilk?”

Actually, I kept my elbows at a good distance from most of them. Which wasn’t too difficult since there is no street life in Seattle or Spokane.

“What was it that Hendrix said: ‘There ain’t no life nowhere?’”

He checked out early. During Nixon, in fact. He missed the coup against Allende, Operation Condor, Iran-Contra, the death squads financed by the US in El Salvador and Guatemala, the bombing of Libya, the invasions of Grenada and Panama, the Gulf War and all the more recent atrocities.

“Smart guy. Saw the handwriting on the wall and it turned his stomach.”

Literally. So what do you want to do, Rave? Waste away to a shadow of your former self?

“The whole world is going to continue suffering because of your wrong-headed compatriots. How many other countries will they invade now? I suppose Iran: lots of luck. Venezuela: ditto. North Korea: they’ll need a lot more than luck. Cuba: who knows what surprises Fidel will hand them?”

It was Black Tuesday, allright. In Seattle it was raining like hell. Juana and I hid out for the last two hours of voting at the Goodwill store.

“Ironic, don’t you think? The day itself should have been called Ill Will.”

Raven pours his mostly un-drunk coffee down the drain.

Rave, you can’t just turn up your toes because of this. After all, we ARE in Mexico: Sun. Street life. Tacos al pastor....

“And the audible sound of president Fox kissing Bush’s butt. Great. Now, if Ravens had a more southerly habitat—say, as far south as Caracas....”

Well, they don’t. We found that out already. You were socially deprived. And I was wasting away on my Saturn line. Despite the presence of The Leo of My Dreams, Hugo Chavez.

You know, I’m not asking for a perfect world. Just for a small appearance of reason—the faculty your species claims to have and shows no evidence of having.”

I agree with you; we’re living in a completely senseless time.

“So, what are YOU going to do about it?”

What do you WANT me to do? Tear out my hair? It’s already too short. Rend my garments? I am grinding away trying to write a play about the Nez Perce War of 1877. It’s called “Smoke and Mirrors”—sort of like the US Defense Department’s “Shock and Awe”—only in an earlier century when it was called, more honestly, the War Department.

“Sounds like escapism to me.”

Well, it does have masks, and it isn’t strictly realistic.

“I didn’t mean the play—I meant your writing it sounds like escapism.”

Sigh. Listen, Rave—it’s either that or working. I’m not ready for suicide.

“I might be. In the meantime, I’m going to eschew the atomic fireballs and go out in the garden to eat worms.”

Raven leaves, droopily, through the kitchen window.

(Who can blame him? The fireballs aren’t all that satisfying, anyway.)