#Hashbrowns

Okay, so I will periodically see sensible liberal people who should otherwise know better usually mostly joking say “Let Texas and the other southern states secede again. We’ll be better off without them. Can’t we just kick them out” etc etc.
You probably already know it if you thought about it seriously but even the Reddest of Red States roughly a third of the population is liberal enough to, for example, Vote for Obama in 2008. They would not be happy under your new Texas Baptist Theocracy or whatever you have.
Fun fact: the US population currently is roughly equal to that of India in 1947, when the Partition took place. During the partition of India, chunks of the previous country were carved off into what would eventually become Bangladesh and Pakistan, both officially Muslim, while the main body of the nation was more officially rendered a Hindu state. If you happened to be a Muslim in Mumbai, or a Hindu in Punjab, your government and new neighbors had a sudden vested interest in you leaving in a hurry.
The ensuing riots whilst everyone trying (forced) to move from the suddenly Hindu country to the Muslim one and vice versa resulted in mass kidnappings and rapes, and half a million fatalities (some sources estimate as high as a million.) and this was a “peaceful secession.”

My point is this: Not even as a joke. Bleach this fucking concept from your skull. We can have all the rhetoric we like about hating republicans, democrats and whatever else you like, but ultimately, our real options are peaceful dialog with the knowledge that while smug asshole conservatives will sometimes pass on those traits to their children, some will break, and in far greater numbers than the children of liberals becoming Free Republic waterboys. The weight of history is on our side, as unsatisfying as that might be, and half-baked schemes like this would do little to free us from the thuggery of conservatives, and indeed would strengthen the hand of those odious ideologies by concentrating them into their own fiefdoms where dissent is met not with apathetic shrugs from those in power establishing irrelevant “free speech zones” but with actual proper authoritarian’s long term prison sentences or executions.

Because we were slaves to pharoah in Egypt.

This is the question asked and answered, at the heart of the seder, the observation of Passover. It is central to Jewish identity in a way not often considered. Normally, when pressed for a Jewish identity statement, the resulting answer is the Shema. To be certain, the Shema (translated “Hear me, Israel, the Lord is our god, and the Lord is one.”) which is about as close to a credo statement as is presented in Judaism. But it defines little about who we worship, only a simple declaration that we do. So who is this god we announce so boldly? The god of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob?

He is the god who brought us out of Egyptian Bondage to be our god. In deference to this, we shall have no other gods before him. This is the first law handed down at Sinai. If our jewish identity was simply one of filial piety, surely this god could have easily cited his presence as the god of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But he establishes this tone. That because of this supreme act of liberation, we owe our gratitude. That this is an ongoing blessing, as we are commanded to remember this liberation just as if we had personally been freed.

But the lesson seems lost. This is what our god did for us, but that is all. Here’s the thing: it probably didn’t happen. Or if it did, in a woefully misreported form. Our god is not a man of flesh and blood to whom we shall drink a toast for the favor of manumission. If there is no entity to express gratitude to, if there is no true facts to the story, then what is the point?

Metaphors can be layered and complex, but this is not. Our god is the very act of liberation, which is our obligation to provide as we might, and aid in any way we can. Eretz Mitzrayim is not a physical country on the banks of the river Nile, but any nation, any power, that is used for ill, to oppress and destroy. Slavery, oppression and apartheid are the Pharoah’s soldiers, and we are to fight them, no matter which Pharoah commands them. Even if it is an otherwise charming man. Even if the Pharoah weilds this oppression for our benefit at the expense of others.

We must embrace the spirit of the season and call for change. We must fight the forces of State terror in word and deed. It is a long, slow process. It is our 40 years in the desert.

But next year, in Jerusalem.

Recently, I went on a drive to St. Louis. At the on-ramp for the interstate, an old man was hunched over with a set of bags; sitting, waiting, hoping to hitch a ride. I had space in my car this trip, and was happy to oblige. I pulled over. He asked how far I was going, and I told him. He needed a lift to Wentzville. An old military buddy owns a motel there, and he can usually stay at a discounted rate that his vet benefits can cover. The ride was quiet. He would occasionally mutter to himself, possibly praying. I offered conversation at the start, but it was awkward, the sort of exchange made between two people far more accustomed to listening than talking. Eventually, we settled into a comfortable silence as he would doze in the air conditioning, stirred occasionally by uneven panels of asphalt. The quiet drone of NPR churned off the radio, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what they were talking about. Instead, I focused on the quiet.

There was something real there, not merely the same commute in isolation, with the Air cranked and MP3s blasting without any connection to the world around me. This stranger had entered my field of artificiality. The experience was changed, I was no longer in my own little box, with my own little world. Looking out the window, although the sun was bright, somehow the clouds had left the world shadowless, and the wind made the crops and trees along the road shudder incessantly. It was calming and unnerving and deeply significant, a reality on the other side of reality from dreaming, more real than actuality.

I bought him a cheeseburger in Warrenton, then we continued, after he finished eating he resumed his sleep for 15 minutes before we reached his destination. He gave me directions through town to his friend’s motel, where I helped him out and waited until he had spoken and arranged for his stay for the night.

As I waited for him to finish discussing his arrangement with the motel owner, I stood outside in the warm breeze and turned over what that day meant in my head. In a different world, this elderly man would have been played by Morgan Freeman. On the ride, he would have dispensed worldly wisdom, and I would leave the experience a better person, having earned some enlightenment through the simple act of kindness of giving someone a ride. But the real world does not generate meaning this way. Things happen. People just exist. I am not a cynical urbanite who opens his heart to a lovable stranger, nor the closet racist who only performs kindness out of a sense of guilt. He is not a Modern Diogenes; neither a source of wisdom nor a freeloading bum who skirts courtesy, taking exactly as much as hospitality can demand of others. We spent barely 2 hours together. We encountered a human being we would otherwise not have known existed, and barely learned anything about one another. Any meaning we impose on that is artificial.

Although as I left Wentzville, I noticed the wind had stopped blowing.

For anyone who doesn’t know, Takashi Miike is the hardest working man in Japanese Cinema, producing works in varying extreme styles. One of his more recent forays into theaters (which for anyone reading in Columbia, is currently playing at the Ragtag), 13 Assassins, is possibly the best L5R campaign ever committed to celluloid.

While I am avoiding spoilers, depending on your level of willful ignorance, some may follow, so be warned.

There is a foul villain, in the waining days of the Tokugawa era, there exists the sort of sadistic monster that only exist in Takashi Miike films, and a small band of committed and skillful samurai commit themselves to slaying this creep.

After the initial outlay establishing the villain is a villain for villains (in case you might feel sympathy for the guy being targeted by the titular Assassins) there is very little of Miike’s signature stylized violence, and instead we get a patient, paced, Kurosawa-esque travelling series along with quite a bit of plotting and preparation.

What this results in is a film made of overlapping films: a heist film more deserving of the title than Oceans 12 was, a slightly comedic brotherly road film on the order of Stand By Me (but with less Wil Wheaton)  followed by one of the better executions of a Chambara film in my recent experience.

I rarely think any film needs to be seen by everyone. But it does deserve some mention.

Transformers 3  cost just short of 200 million dollars. 13 Assassins cost roughly 6 million.

That money would be much better making 33 films to equal 13 Assassins. And knowing Miike, he could have those 33 finished inside of  5 years.

First we came for the landless, and we spoke up for them, because the suffering of the poor among us is the suffering of all.

Then we came for the enslaved, and we spoke up for them, because no man has the right to own another man.

Then we came for the the immigrant, and we spoke up for them, because we are the land of opportunity, where all can build a new life.

Then we came for the women, and we spoke up for them, because gender does not determine value.

Then we came for the people of color, and we spoke up for them, because there remained issues of the past which had not been resolved.

Then we came for the homosexuals, and we spoke up for them, because love is a virtue to be honored and cherished.

And so we have come for all: the rich and poor, man and woman, all races, all creeds, all identities.

And so we will continue to come for our brothers and sisters. Where ever there are chains, inequities, and hatred, we will speak and we will fight. There are voices that align against this, saying they enjoy the status quo, that raising others to their elevated status in fact diminishes them. Or that we cannot change the world.

On this last point, they are right. The world needs improvement. It will always need improvement. It will ever be enough.  And so, we will come to the aid of those that need, forever. Equality moves at the speed of Zeno’s Paradox. We can, and must, walk those infinite steps.

Stand up, speak out, and keep walking. For Liberty, Equality, and Brotherhood. Until the end.

I figured a conventional first post would be a description of my intents in having one of these internet speaking podiums. My ideal is occasional sincere expressions of optimism and idealism, sandwiched between jaded informed dissertations on popular culture and history.

I begin with storytime, about a man named John Smith T. Yes, that was his name. Well back in the day, before the great land of Missouri was a state full of political assholes, it was a territory full of political assholes. The core of power in the region was the Junta in St. Louis. Such political assholes were they, that Junta is not a term applied to them by modern critics, comparing them to banana republics. This is what they called themselves.  John Smith T was what might be called an “enforcer” for the Junta in the St. Louis area. He might also be called a land pirate.

That is not to say he was like a pirate but on dry land (though he was.) it was that he pirated land. He became a wealthy lead mine operator by finding successful lead mines, then purchasing deeds of dubious quality. When he claimed his specious ownership, the rightful owner had two options: roll over and give their property to him, or dispute it, at which point John Smith T would claim offense at “being called a liar,” challenge the man to a duel and shoot him dead. His method of provoking duels and murdering people was quite successful, both as business practice, and at murdering enemies of the political machine of which he was a part. And despite his many, many murders, he never got any sort of comeuppance and died of a fever as an old man.

Congratulations. You now have about as much benefit of a history degree as I do. Knowing about this guy was my original research, and that is pretty much the only thing I got out of it that you couldn’t gather with just a studious reading of wikipedia followed by reading some of the books listed in the reference section on the articles. Enjoy your diploma.