Response to Question of Opinion on Middle Class

The middle class are believers. They follow the rules placed before them questioning, if they question at all, only briefly why they choose what they do. They believe the myths of Americana, buying the sales pitch placed before them of what to buy, how to live, who to be. They are the herd, the mob, the beast, living and breathing as a single entity. Sure, they work their butts off in an effort to increase their stock. But it includes the expectation, a trust, a belief, that their efforts won’t be in vain. Yet they will be flushed by that capitalistic system, using capitalistic loosely since we’re morphing into a feudal system, in which they so strongly believe in, smiling while the looters take money out of their hands. They are naive. They don't want to know. They are the herd, the mob, the beast, living and breathing as a single entity wearing effective blinders.

A capitalistic society doesn’t create a middle class, a democracy does. Democracy allows for the masses to have a voice that can be heard in setting a course for society, governing; safeguards against the abuses of those in power who don’t give a shit about the people doing all the living and dying in this country. But it takes effort on the part of everyone to be aware of what is going on around them, and organization to effectively combat the money men who will gladly chisel away, bit by bit, at the wealth accumulation of the middle class. Hence the efforts to privatize social security that was met with a resounding NO, even from Republicans. Apparently U.S. citizens actually like their socialism, contrary to what right wing radicals might say.




A transformation has come about over the last half century and the middle class doesn’t even realize it. The children of the Great Depression and WWII built the strongest and most viable working class in world history. They knew of hardship. They knew of war. They knew of death. They understood that by working together they could achieve great things. Some people call this socialism. I could really care less what people call it. It worked. But they were easily frightened by ‘Communism’, hence Korea and Vietnam. Korea ended because Eisenhower made it so. He knew of death and war and knew it was no good. Vietnam ended because the public at large had a stake in ending it, there was a draft. I’ve said the best way to end our war of conquest in Iraq and Afghanistan would be to reinstate the draft. The middle class would perk up its collective ears and demand the war end if their ow children were dragged away from their lives of convenience to fight it because they don’t want to make a real sacrifice. They are cowards. They are fearful of losing their life and they will gladly continue giving away their money and soul as long as they can keep their middle class style. They find it comforting, having the feeling of a grand accomplishment. But how can it be so grand if it so easily collapses? It’s a house of cards that self combusts when the hidden hand strikes.

The baby boomers are the key to the transformation. A huge surge peace and love, two viable components of Christianity, was beat back by a shit storm of gunfire. A growing movement, people working together to create a better human condition for all, possibly another Christian ideal, died following the political assassinations of the 1960’s; a collective psychological trauma. I find it not the least bit interesting the political assassinations targeted liberal leaders of the day. If one party in a two party system has all its leaders killed, who did the killing? Random acts? Most certainly. Subconsciously, people got the message. Try this and here is your result. Cutting the head off the beast kills the beast. If a movement has no leaders, there is no movement. And the Boomers gave up. They quit. They sold out on those ideals. It became every man for himself. Gotta get mine.



Each successive generation might continue the struggle to reach the middle class, but what do they give up in exchange? Individuality. Personality. They think they are unique, and on a genetic level you could make that argument. They are each other. They fear each other and do battle with each other for gain, to hold something in their hand the next guy doesn’t have enabling them to reach even higher to hold something else in their hand that even fewer possess until they reach the pinnacle of having; power and control over people and things, where they can finally see the specter of their own individuality, not from within themselves, but by what they see around them and how they compare to the competition. A struggle to achieve, accumulate and control in order to create the notion they are their own God. But the irony is, they could actualize their godliness with less effort by realizing their own god has been within them from their own beginning. It is god and it is them. It is all and it is nothing. It speaks, it is heard, but so few listen.

60 Ounces of Chicken Noodle Soup

I just got reminded of that. I'd been out to the east coast to visit my little sister. She had a darling little daughter early April. Several visitors made the rounds of innoculation to such a precious sweetheart, of which I was one. My time shifted nicely throughout. Gretchen, Bill and Ruby were kind enough to venture into the ventillation shaft known as the National Mall. New additions such as the WWII Monument bring in plenty of the touring kind, of which we were. The Rolling Thunder tour of Vietnam Vets rolled into town and staked out some good territory for lounging near the Vietnam Memorial that very same weekend. It was Memorial Day.

We found some shade under a tall maple near a couple pollutant lunch stands. I dug into a couple a ripe 'all beef' hotdogs, covering them with a healthy dose of catsup and mustard and a sprinkle of diced onion. Gretchen nourished her young child under the shade of pride and discretion. We gathered our collective energies before stepping into the mid-June sunshine of a heated D.C.


Leather clad Vets and their respective women in grieving, led a slow walk to the WWII Memorial, where a cool water pool fountain shoots bubbling streams of liquid freedom; the clear, crisp water of Democracy sprayed on my face as I squinted through the torrent to see the names of Naval warcraft etched into granite stone, lining the periphery of the monument, reminding me and those of my kind of the simple jubilation of life. And I felt indebted, yet immasculated by the atrophy of behavior masked in the halls of power, of our current time.

Stepping to the white cascade of granite before the Lincoln memorial brought a jolt of electricity from the clouds above. Are we not supposed to deny false Gods? To see them as folly in the eyes of creation? Standing at the feet of Lincoln, he himself upon a throne of stone, cements within your being a righteousness borne not of vanity, not of greed, but of pirde, courage, defiance, lore. A myth. A promise.

Of principle.

Of equality.

Of America.

I drove five hours south to see my uncle in North Carolina for two nights. A beautiful example of serentity and cohesiveness. Back up to D.C. for a couple more days then I hopped a bus to NYC. Goodness gracious. Such a promising city. The edge of humanity. The boundary of knowledge, art, cynicism. A weekend of classic Wester ensued. Just enough fun wrapped within the proper amount of tall boys and half litre bottles of El Presidente streetside against the towering four story bus termial mixed with a random crash of a local Ecuadorian wedding played coyly with drunken Corona eyes and three a.m. lectures with the displaced crackhead from the Bronx.

i woke up hungover as shit, scrambling through a shower and a half a cup of piss warm coffee. the clock said twelve thirty, my bus ticket said one fifty five, and my body said to lay down and absorb some of the early afternoon NYC sunshine in central park. my wallet prevailed. i had no time to loiter and my tightly cranked brain powered through with bus itinerary. walk. subway. run. counting down the minutes on the subway, i figured i'd make it just in time for the return ride through Jersey, Philly, Baltimore, the industrial wasteland of Americana outsourcing.

i had five minutes to spare. i went for the logical NYC cart stand hotdog. three bucks. lame dog. satisfied. should have bought three more. tak. so it goes. it was a long ride.

Got back to MPLS late June, rolled into a music festival, went up north to the annual Crooked Lake retreat, always a relaxing trip. Hit a mid summer painting gig and fixed up a Colorado vacation to visit some old friends. I reached Rock for a lunch stop over prior to the excruciating slide across Nebraska. We played a little wiffle ball in on a finely groomed South Dakota lawn, rollig in the green grass around a walnut tree centering the front lawn. Lasagna for lunch, tepid behavior from a rush of kiddo's drew feel good laughs. We threw down a couple beers, talking current employment, possibilities, endeavors, platitudes. Making plans to visit once again. A pleasant layover.

But I knew what was ahead, the Nebraska passover. Now, in recollecting, it seems that every time i make the Nebraksa drive, it is always late fall, when the trees are bare and gray, the fields have lost their golden luster, and the flat prairies extend on and on into an endless landscape of butchered cornstalks. This time, though, Nebraska shows her true beauty. Fields of green, the Platte running aplenty. The ripe stench of crusted manure replace by the fresh scent of freshly cut hayfields, bold breezes of wildflower mixed with the pangs of dying grasses.

Mid-afternoon South Dakota lasagna turned into early evening thrusts of hunger. I scoured approaching highway signs for deliberate directives. Gas. Yes, I needed gas. Food. Yes. I needed food. That was the directive. In the midst of the endless example of the Lord's bountifulness, I pulled off the road. The station was a small four pump operation that apparently caught the eye of enough travelers bound for the west that a line three deep for refueling percolated under a dying sun. A caravan of four by fours pulling trailers with iron horse cargo finally alleviated a backlog of fuel bound hoboes. I was one of them, the sputtering contingent of four door sedans. My tank was filled but my gut kept leaping out for satifaction. At this Nebraska plains crossroads stood the Waco Diner.

I drove off from the gas pumps and parked in front of the Waco, thinking I'd sit down for some grub before getting back to the remainine three hours of Nebraska plains before ascending the Colorado foothills in the dark where burned out tumbleweed are perched in the fields, providing cover for deer headstong on crossing. Checking my pack of cigarettes, I decided against a sit down eating and asked the waitress for take out.



Waitress, Loren, had a full house at the time. Local farmers and their hands occupied the booths along the wall and a family of eight had just sat the stools along the counter. Quickly I made my request for soup to go, but let her know that I'd be running over to the station to pick up some smokes, letting her grab the chance to get a drink order out for the countertop eight, and to come up with my soup within ten minutes.

So I go pick up the smokes and head back to the Waco. Loren tends to the kids ordering cherry cokes and root beer floats and i note her aggitation. The cook in the back is in my sightline from the front counter. I see styofoam cups on his stainless steel table. He's prepping for the onslaught of grilled cheese and mini corn dogs. Loren comes by and I ask her about my soup. I'm getting a little restless to keep moving, not wanting to spend too much time on the gas and food stop. She tells me to hang on a minute and disappears into the kitchen. I see her come around from the hidden end of the stainless steel table top where the styrofoam containers stand and watch while she places lids over the top of each. There are three in all.

Loren takes the containers and brings them to the counter where i lean patiently on my elbow. She goes into a explanation about the soup, telling me that since they don't have a bowl sized container to go, that they'd give me three cups. I look at the quanitities ofthese particular cups and determine that if she's calling this a replacement for not having a traditional 'to go' bowl, that i'll gladly accept. i ask her if it's the same price as a bowl of soup and she reponds in the affirmative. this definitely makes me agreeable to the purchase. i hand Loren a five dollar bill, telling her to keep the change while forking over a couple more singles in appreciation.

the taurus creeps languidly back onto the interstate and i pick up one of the cups, removing the light plastic lid, letting the steam rise to the rearview mirror. my knee extends to control the steering wheel, a classic move one must master to handle various hands free driving adventures. i take the spoon to stir my cup of soup, glowing with the knowledge that i'm set for nourishment all the way through to Denver. I had three cup of soup; big cups. The Waco Restaurant replaces a bowl of soup 'to-go' with twenty ounce containers of soup; three-fold. Sixty ounces of soup. Hot damn.