I Wish I Was a Gangster

ROUGH DRAFT:  Feedback/suggestions requested.

I wish I was a gangster.  Anything illegal, immoral or dangerous seems extra exciting to me.  There’s also something about being a conflicted character that’s appealing.  I love the gangster who runs a soup kitchen by day and smuggles whiskey by night.  I’d rather be a good bad-guy than a bad good-guy–I guess it seems more achievable.

If I were a gangster I’d definitely be a good bad-guy.  I wouldn’t be a knuckle-dragging jailhouse–sissy hanging my pants off my ass.  I wouldn’t wear red or blue or even green.  (I also wouldn’t wear a double-breasted pin-striped suit with a fedora.)  I wouldn’t advertise with a can of spray-paint.  Sign language would be reserved for communicating with the hearing-impaired.  When you’re a real gangster showing off is redundant.

If I were a gangster, I’d spend my time fighting the bad good-guys and eliminating the bad bad-guys.  I don’t know what to do with the good good-guys.  I’m not even sure I know who they are.  Maybe they could just go around, undisturbed by the rest of us, being delightful.

I don’t think I’d have a problem doing-in the bad-guys–they have it coming.  They wouldn’t be surprised either.  When you play the bad bad-guy game you know someday your number will be up.  (Good-guys everywhere are cringing because I ended the last sentence with a preposition.)  The only difficulty I anticipate is distinguishing between the good bad-guys and the really bad ones.

Who are the bad good-guys?  There are at least two different types.  They both steal from the poor to give to the rich and they do it legally.  If a bad bad-guy stole as much as they did, he’d go to prison for life.  If a bad good-guy steals the same amount he’s promoted to the executive office of either the boardroom or the White House.  These two groups are corporate executives and government bureaucrats.

If the people try to redistribute a rich man’s wealth it’s called communism.  (The executive hopes the working man is too ignorant to realize that a large portion of his income is in the form of dividends and options which are taxed as capital gains, and aren’t subject FICA taxes.  Leaving them with greater income and a lower tax rate than the pawns.)  If that same business man exploits those workers, pays them a fraction of their worth, and laying them off “at will”, it’s called capitalism.

The Yankee Capitalist is a master manipulator of political correctness.  He would NEVER own slaves, and secretly despises a geographical region that once did.  The executive actually preaches the value of diversity.  Of course he doesn’t give a rip about equality or reparations.  He has no intention of raising a disadvantaged group to the prosperity level of the advantaged.  His aim is to save a buck by lowering all workers compensation to equal that of the lowest group.

While the businessman doesn’t practice human ownership, he is an expert at marketing reduced wages.  Instead of referring to what historically has been called “wage-slavery” he offers a salaried position with benefits and calls it security.  Of course this employee has no realistic expectation of benefiting from the businesses up-side potential and bears a disproportionate exposure to down-side risk.  If the capitalist makes an error in judgment, he simply lays-off the thousands of people who did the real work of the business.

As a gangster I’d say, give the executives their salaries, bonuses, options, and golden parachutes; extortion is much more efficient when wealth is concentrated.  Anyone who believes they deserve a retention bonus equaling TWENTY YEARS of income for the average American family has enough moral material to support a profitable blackmail enterprise.

Government bureaucrats represent another ripe opportunity for a gangster.  As a group, government officials compete most aggressively with the gangster.  But there is room for optimism.

Gangs used to run loan-shark, liquor, gambling, and violence rackets.  Now the government backs Fannie, Freddie, and Sally.  It peddles, licenses, distributes, and taxes liquor and tobacco.  (Hey–why prohibit something when you can tax the hell out of it?)  The same goes for gambling.  The government runs everything from Vegas to Powerball.  It’s a great idea!  Tax the poor to subsidize education for the middle class so they can work as middle-managers for the upper-crust.  Now that’s capitalism.  Don’t even get me started on the violence!  Classify gun-owners as Jesse James-style outlaws and regulate anything that can do more than bring down a deer.  (Consider this an armed-uprising prevention strategy, which helps soothe the fears of the rich.)  Next they recruit the lower classes into the armed forces to fight wars for the wealthy.  (Oops, I meant to say patriotically protect America’s vital economic and political interests.)  Later those soldiers can retire to the police force to protect the rich from poor-crime.

It wouldn’t hurt my feelings a bit to take a bite out of their crime.  Sin tax is a wonderful opportunity for an enterprising gangster like myself.  Corporate-types can’t compete with a dirty black market opportunity.

In some states, the government is the sole liquor distributor.  Retailers pay huge license and franchise fees to the state for the privilege of selling the alcohol they bought from the state.  Bars and restaurants have to buy from the retailers, pay additional license fees, which are in addition to their own business licenses, sales, property, and if they earn a living, income taxes.

Consumers pay more tax on a pack of cigarettes that the combined revenue of the grower, manufacturer, distributor and retailer combined.  To add insult to injury the sin tax is added to the retail price and subjected to a sales tax.  Meanwhile the tobacco industry pays income and property taxes at every stop from seed to sale.

Where does all this tax money go?  To police departments that prevent poor-crime.  To prisons that house poor-criminals.  To schools that convert dumb poor-people into wage-slaves for the rich.  More importantly it’s a direct deposit into a gangster’s bank account called “opportunity”.

As a gangster, I can solve these problems and become a hero to the unrepresented classes.  It wouldn’t be hard to find an over-zealous Marlboro salesman who would be willing to bypass the federal cigarette tax by selling to me through an Indian reservation.  (Hey, he’s just trying to work his way up to CEO.)  It wouldn’t be hard to buy Tequila in Mexico.  (NOTICE to all Illegal Immigrants:  While you’re walking across the border, please take a case of Petron with you.)

From there it’s a simple matter of finding an underpaid, disgruntled 7-11 clerk or a bartender.  They simply maintain their own inventory of the best-selling cigarette or liquor selling their inventory instead of the store’s to cash customers.

I’m not sure if I can really compete with the corporate or government elite, but that’s part of the gangster attraction for me.  I guess when I say I want to be a gangster, what I really mean is that I want an honest, honorable opportunity that makes me a killing, helps the little-guy, and sticks it to the bad-guys (and the bad good-guys.)  It would be a lot easier if I knew who the good guys are.

One Husband’s Experience with Breast Milk

So, I was browsing through a list of popular blogs.  One site lead to another until I found a startling post, I stopped.  Dozens of people had written responses so I knew I wasn’t alone.  The topic was: Would You Breastfeed Your Man?

I can neither confirm nor deny what may or may not have happened while my wife was nursing our three boys.  (Mostly because I don’t remember one way or the other.)  But I can confirm this. . . .

. . . I was surprised and overwhelmed when I learned that we were expecting a baby.  It took a few seconds to remember to breath.  I mustered up all the courage and romance my heritage allowed and said, “Well . . . plan a wedding. . . .”  We were 23 and 21 and still in college.  We married in August and by February we were proud parents of a brand-new baby boy.

I’m not sure how we did it—probably with an awful lot of help.  Peggy completed her RN while working in a nursing home.  I delivered pizza at night and attended classes by day, sometimes bringing the baby with me.  (Fascinating question professor.  May I answer after I change your diaper. . .er. . . I mean . . . .)

By the time classes were winding down I was entering the early stages of exhaustion.  Bottle feedings around the clock followed shortly by a diaper change, a new wife, becoming a husband and father so quickly had taken a toll.

Looking back I see a completely different woman than the wife I saw at the time.  Today I see a very young woman enthusiastically committing herself to an overwhelming combination of roles and responsibilities: wife, mother, student, and provider.  Although her life had been altered dramatically and permanently she didn’t complain and expressed no regrets.  She tried very, very hard.  She did a wonderful job.

At the time all I could see was a demanding nag who couldn’t shut-up if her life depended on it.  After a long day she’d come home, slip into the bath, and insist on sharing her day with me.  The entire day in real time!  I told her to call her mother.  It didn’t occur to me that she had been thrust, no to gently from one life to another, without the benefit of her previous social circle; they couldn’t begin to understand what her life was like.

Eventually senior finals came around.  Crying every few hours during the night, followed by morning classes and evening pizza delivery left me drained.  The stress was killing me.  I thought to myself on the way home from work that night:  if I could just get in one more night of studying before finals in the morning, I’d have a chance at maintaining my grades.

Hallelujah!  When I arrived at home the baby was sleeping and food was on the table.  Peggy was extra calm as she cleaned up the dishes and let me study undisturbed.  Imagine my delight when brought me a tall cold glass of chocolate milk.  (One of my favorites, it’s right up there with hot chocolate.)

A while later, when I was too tired to study anymore, I fell into bed.  She asked, “How did you like the chocolate milk?”  The sparkle in her eye raised the hackles on the back of my neck.  That’s when she told me she had pumped her breasts to make my chocolate milk.  The hackles turned into a vague feeling of nausea.

I don’t know for sure if the “breastfed husband experiment” went any further than that or not:  it was far enough for me.

NOTE TO SELF:  Human milk is far more rich than cows’ milk.

Dinwiddie for Mayor!

On April 9 Spring Hill, TN is electing a new mayor.  I’d love to claim an opened mind, and promise to carefully weigh issues and qualifications carefully before rendering a well-informed decision at the ballot box.  It isn’t true.  My mind was made up months ago—before I even knew who was running.

During one of those “under-employed periods” I was at home with the kids when the doorbell rang.  Fabulous, I thought to myself, another “I’m so poor and black—please buy these magazines so I can win a trip to Bermuda and never do drugs again” sales pitch.  (Yeah I know, all my neighbors generously ordered 17 magazines, and I’m a cheap racist bastard because I won’t buy magazines I don’t want and can’t afford.  I have considered asking if they have the special “Jungle Fever” edition of Hustler, but I haven’t done it yet.)

Instead of the dreaded sales pitch, or an invitation to yet another church, I was met by a real-life politician.  I don’t remember much about our chat.  But I do remember this:  it was a long conversation for one vote, and ended with him giving me a card with his email and web address, so I could sign up for his newsletter.  Oh yeah, he was our alderman—whatever that is.

Shock and awe.  In fact the effect was more powerful than anything Jerry Spring could dream up in his wildest, uncensored imagination.

Our current mayor is “retiring” at the end of his term in order to spend more time with his family.  (I actually believe him, it’s not just a euphemism for “I got caught with an intern.”)  This had lead to the current mayoral race which pits Michael Dinwiddie against Cindy “Lou Who” Jobe and Derrick “The Artist” Merrill.  I’m voting for Dinwiddie.

Derrick Merrill has some affiliation with the Spring Hill Arts Center.  I’m sorry, but I cringe, even at the word “artist”—it’s a full-bodied experience, very similar to the feeling I get when I hear words like “panties” and “feminine napkins”.  Artists have no business in an executive office.  Obviously.  Otherwise “business” would be called “artness” and “executives” would be called “artecutives”.

Creative types should stick to singing their little songs, doing their dances, play-acting, making pretty pictures, and taking yet another creative-writing class.  While they are getting in touch with their inner-children, the rest of us “grown-ups” are living in a practical adult world of personal responsibility, bills, and real-life children who need a new pair of shoes.  Maybe we can all agree:  I’m hopelessly prejudiced against creative-types.

Cindy Jobe is an entirely different story.  Of the three candidates she is the prettiest.  Even her campaign signs are prettier.  So what does she bring to the table?  She’s been president, or chairman, or something of the Spring Hill Chamber of Commerce.  She runs her own consulting firm and has advised hundreds of small cities.  I admit it’s impressive, but I’m not moved.

We don’t need yet another politician with contacts, credentials, and connections.  We need a mayor who regularly connects with individuals; a politician who gives a voice even to those not affiliated with a political action committee.  I don’t expect to see Cindy Jobe knocking on my door anytime soon—it wouldn’t be an efficient application of her Six Sigma principles toward her political throughput initiatives.  An individual might not fit into her “just in time” group-politicking approach.

You know, I think I’ve changed my mind.  Maybe I will go take that creative writing class.  (Of course it would be more convenient in a satellite community college located in Spring Hill.  Just like Dinwiddie is proposing.)

New Man

I’m lying on the floor of my garage, smoking a Camel, and trying to figure out what to write in my blog.  I’ve always wanted a platform, and I’ve wanted to be heard.  Suddenly I have nothing to say.  Who cares anyway?  Last year people created over 300,000 NEW blogs on wordpress.com alone.

I guess saying something only counts if someone is listening—otherwise I should be content just thinking.  In order to say something, you’ve got to have something to say.  Right now I’ve got nothing.

Maybe losing my voice in cyberspace is no better than having no voice in life.  Maybe I wouldn’t need to be heard if I felt I had a voice.  Maybe my problem is that I’m lost in Dr. Seuss’ WAITING PLACE.

My childhood fantasy was that I’d grow up to be a MAN—then I’d be the boss.  I’d be a good boss though.  I’d be the most loving husband and father the world has ever known.  I’d be fun, and always—always—fair.  I’d always be nice to kids, and never forget what it was like to be one.

Of course I’d also be RICH.  I’d have a huge house on a huge farm with fields, forests, and a river.  I’d have motorcycles and guns and big dogs we’d never have to give away.
My children would bring their friends to my house because we were fun and friendly and liked kids.

I also had two main childhood fears.  First, that I’d be forgotten, and second that as a boy, I would eventually be obsolete—useless—in a new world run by women.  I hoped my wife would love me even if I was a boy.  My best chance was to be very loving and nice.  Maybe if I didn’t make her have sex with me for a couple of months after the wedding she’d know I was a very nice man.

Well, things haven’t turned out quite like I’d hoped.  Little Jimmy didn’t arrive until 7 months after we were married.  My three sons bring their friends to our small house in a nice neighborhood.  (Mostly I think they like the trampoline and the sandbox.)  Years later I’m still paying on three dirt-bikes.  One was stolen, one is broken-down, and the third still works alright.  You’ve probably figured out that I’m not rich.

We have three little dogs, two guinea pigs, and seven fish.  I did get my gun.  It’s a Ruger semi-automatic .22 rifle with a 25 round banana clip.  Sometimes I like to hold it and pretend it’s an AK-47; it makes me feel big and strong.

I don’t know for sure if my childhood dreams were silly or not, but dreams aren’t silly and children are precious…right?  Whether the dreams were silly or not, I do feel sad that they don’t seem to have come true.  That might be silly.

The worst of my childhood fears haven’t come true either.  Being a man didn’t make me the boss, college and graduate school didn’t guarantee a good job, and my kids don’t always think I’m fair.  My wife earns more money than me, but women haven’t taken over the world.  My friends and I have drifted apart, but we still remember.  It hasn’t hurt me one bit to get up in the middle of the night, change some diapers, make some meals, or help with homework.  At least the dogs still recognize me as the Alpha Male.