Hope & Hell in a Hand Basket

Velvet is in a valley in the Green Mountains of southern Vermont, not far off the Long Trail. It's Fair Day at the Hippy Dippy Quaker Camp. I wanted to go, but being impoverished and refusing to sleep on the ground at a state camp site with public toilets and showers that run for 3 minutes on quarters, I couldn't afford it - particularly since in less than two weeks, we must install Velvet at Tree Hugger Academy.

He's prepared in every way I could think of. He knows that some people make better friends than others, and he knows good weed when he smells it. He's been exposed to diverse environments such as the Nepalese Jungle and the Wind River Region of the Grand Tetons which has given him a broader perspective on the planet and its people. It was important to Buzz Kill and me that Velvet see the world.

In keeping with the meme that has developed into the Menopausal Stoners Soundtrack, here's another one from the vault:



My parents listened to these guys all the time back in the sixties when all things were possible. In that valley, at Fair today, those kids, the parents and Hippy Dippy Quaker staff, believe all things are possible. too. Theses guys also believed all things were possible:




We're old and tired now, but many still believe and trust in the next generation to accomplish more than we could. Maybe we didn't do so badly, and maybe we're not that old after all. But when you consider things like the national malaise that swept the Reagan administration into power which led to a country full of SUVs crowding parking lots at churches and malls and Costco and Christian Feeding Troughs with all you can eat buffets on Sundays - well, it's fucking depressing.

I feel like all I can manage is to make enough money to send my kid out into the world with the values and education to keep trying to make it a better place. If I'm lucky, I've got a few bucks to send to activist organizations where people have enough energy to aggitate for the progressive agenda.

As it happens, my chosen profession - my vocation, if you will - is teaching preschoolers. I fully believe that if you can show little kids how to act in a community then there may be hope for the future. I work at a place where the parents are already on board with this idea. My old school wasn't bad, but in September, I will be returning to an institution that was designed back in the 1930's with the mission of becoming a beacon of hope on a hill in New York City. The grandchildren of a robber baron provided the funding in an act of supreme karma cleansing. The foundation money supports the structure itself today, although like most everything those funds have been compromised by the economic clusterfuck.

In any case, I'm delighted to be in a place where every brick in the building was laid to spread progressive values. Back in the 1930's, progressive philosophy sprung up all over the place as a result of the stock market crash in 1929 and other miseries caused by rich assholes. I only know about progressive thinking through my studies in the foundations of modern education in America and some personal research into theology - but the principles are the same. It's an entirely different ethical orientation than that of the robber barons - who exist today running health insurance companies instead of rail roads and the slave trade. Same shit, different day. Brings you back to that fucking depressing point again.

The other day, JD at This Tumbleweed Life posted The Beatles' song, "Little Piggies." The piggies to whom George Harrison was referring back then are the same jerks in clean shirts playing in the dirt of the health care industry. Last night, I was listening to my favorite music, relaxing in the big, green leather barcalounger that Buzz Kill mandated remain in the living room via our divorce decree. As the music washed over my tired soul, it seemed like audio comfort food. Like surrounding yourself in mashed potatoes or macaroni and cheese, this favorite music from the formative years.

While a small percentage of the country shouts down Reason, sometimes with firearms at presidential appearances (Mr. Charlestown called it correctly in the comments to JadedJ's post when he said that guy was a whore just trying to get hisself on TV) - it looks like this country is going straight to hell in a hand basket again, led by a crew of Contemporary American Nonthinkers.

But the sun has come up on another morning, and I haven't killed myself yet in a fit of despair and the world hasn't collapsed into post-apocalyptic chaos like in Mad Max, which means we have to keep on keepin' on. Actually, Mad Max was keepin' on, too. It's a big drag that Mel Gibson is nut job from a family of nut jobs - but that's life. What are you going to do? Me? I'll listen to The Beatles: