Open Letter to Dianne Feinstein

Sen. Feinstein:
Much of what I have to say is aimed at Democrats in general, but since you are my senator, it is you that must hear my anger and sadness. I have voted for you faithfully in every election since I moved to San Francisco in 1977, and have never been disappointed. Until now. Allowing the funding of an expensive war with a dubious, at best, mission; and caving in to ridiculous Republican obstructionism to allow the public option to die is more than my progressive values will allow. I've always voted Democrat, mostly because I have fretted over the "Nader Effect" and don't want to see Republicans win office. But as I read article after article, it has become apparent that there remains little distinguishable difference between the two parties of power. I don't know who I will be voting for in upcoming elections, but I know who I won't vote for. I am not abandoning the Democratic Party; it has abandoned me. I realize voting for a third-party candidate will likely play into the hands of Republicans, but ultimately it won't matter much in terms of policy direction; you are the party in power, winning the presidency after eight years of atrocities -- atrocities applauded by your Senate Republican colleagues. Yet today Democrats are rolling over and showing their bellies in hopes knuckle draggers like Mitch McConnell will scratch them. As Roger Daltry crooned, "The new boss is the same as the old boss." I want you to know that as an individual I like you. You carried us on your shoulder during those horrible days in San Francisco after the murders of Harvey Milk and George Moscone. I will never forget that. I wish you well in the future; you are a good person. But it's time I recognize and live by the values I know to be true.
Sincerely,
Dennis Taylor

R.I.P. Journalism

There has been much talk about new media kicking the ass of conventional journalism. First of all, there is nothing new about the "reporting" being conducted online. The only thing new is the channel in which the information is disseminated. Propaganda is as old as language. What is new and startling is that society is confusing blogging with journalism. This blog is pure opinion; I've conducted only minimal research and the rest comes from that bouncing-ball playing ragtime tunes between my ears. The reason I used the word startling is that we are allowing the lines between blogs and journalism to blur to such a degree that we are surrendering our skepticism -- something mother nature instilled in humans to keep us alive long enough to procreate.
I enjoy fly fishing. When I blog about fly fishing you will come to know the caffeine-charged thrill of a brisk wind blowing down out of the Trinity Alps, rippling the surface of the river. You will understand how I scope out the surrounding flora, consider the season, the flow of the stream or river, select a fly, and why a cold-water trout is more enjoyable to catch on a fly than to lull it into eating a worm. You will understand a spiritual component of fly fishing. You might even be satisfied that you have read all you need to know about fly fishing. And of course you would be wrong. I am still a relative amateur, and by definition that means I know less about what I am talking about than 90 percent of other fly anglers out there. You will learn nothing about how the sport evolved, because, well, I haven't a clue. You would not come to know about the environmental ramifications of catch-and-release fly fishing vs. hook-swallowing bait fishing. You certainly wouldn't be told what Billy the bass fisherman and his cousin Bubba think about Billy's fly-fishing neighbor. Instead you will be sung to. A siren's hymn to the sport. You will appreciate, but you will not become fully enlightened. Mark Bowden (a journalist in the truest sense, and author of "Black Hawk Down" and "Killing Pablo") wrote recently in Atlantic Monthly that "work formerly done by reporters and producers is now routinely performed by political operatives and amateur ideologues of one stripe or another, whose goal is not to educate the public, but to win (his italics). This is a trend not likely to change."
That is sad. Ultimately it will be up to us, news consumers, to place value on journalism, to seek it out and know the difference. Otherwise we are destined to devolve into a Stepford Wife society, suckling off the teat of writers who want nothing more than to lure you into the romantic comfort of a river you already know too well.

Ad men

Political candidates are on a gravy train. They really don't need to discuss any issues in detail; they simply need to check the box next to their political party affiliation and then lay back on their rafts and float down the lazy Mississippi of political discourse. Why? Because they can. What wins elections are purses, large baggy purses stuffed to the brim by lobby money. That money buys the skills of master manipulators, or as I like to call them, ad men (regardless of gender, if your quest in life is to convince consumers to buy things they don't need and voters to vote for empty-headed ideologues, then you're and ad man). Money and manipulation wins elections, not thoughtful, detailed policy positions. Our collective ADD won't stand for it. I was reading a report in the SJ Mercury News on Carly Fiorina's maiden press conference earlier this week. The subhead of the article indicated she was "straddling the fence." She enlightened voters by indicating that climate change is a serious issue and the border with Mexico should be controlled. Profound. But it doesn't matter; she will sink GOP cash and some of the $21 million she earned for getting fired from Hewlett-Packard and never have to utter a single syllable of specific policy. She will win the GOP primary because ad men will make her look like the second coming of Jesus Christ, only in a fitted skirt. GOP voters are more than happy to drain their grey matter, open their mouths wide and drink the ad men's Kool Aid. Democratic voters are only marginally better, only because statistically they are better educated and have picked up an inkling of critical thought. But only marginally. Ad men have infected progressive politics as well. I had a professor in college who listened intently one afternoon to my presentation on the sociological reasons that contributed to Ernest Hemingway removing the northern hemisphere of his brain with a 12-gauge shotgun. "Quick, spell Hemingway," she ordered after I was done and basking in the afterglow. "H-E-M-I-N-G-W-A-Y," I replied in the verve so peculiar to 21-year-old men. After class I asked her what the spelling bee was all about. She answered that she wanted to see if I had genuinely immersed myself in a critical perspective, or was just allowing my impressionable hormones to dictate a romanticized position. Knowing how to spell the subject's name, apparently, was a simple but time-worn test.
Quick, spell Fiorina.

Post Activism

What if we just stopped supporting broken things? My fantasy is everyone stops paying their health insurance premiums, and then flood emergency rooms with even the most minor of complaints. The insurance industry would collapse in a week. Is that what I want? I truly fantasize about it; that and the executives of the top five insurance companies becoming infected with some strain of foot-long intestinal parasites. Anger and injustice prompts activism, but what happens when people of good hearts simply bail out of the whole enchilada? No votes, no taxes, no contributions to 401(k)s and no income to insurance companies, major polluters, and companies that pay women 80 cents to each buck they pay men? It would be like Ghandi meets Joe Strummer. That would be change you can count on.

Smelling the Rain

Just returned from walking my dogs along a swollen creek. Christmas came early for my Lab. Ever try smiling while you swim? He can. He kicks with his back legs while splashing his front paws, like a child in a bathtub.
All the debris that is rushing by has been dead for months. Waiting. It's like fall soup. Add a little water and the smell of life, even rot, comes alive. The mud under my boots reeks of nourishment; the foliage smells sweet. Back in the garage the ritual of the towels begin. First the Lab, because I can. Rough rubbing on his face as he gleefully pivots his head to make sure I get it all. Then his back, then his belly. All the while "wet dog" smell is filling the garage. And I know why he was smiling.

Oh Gracious Daughter

The opening salvo of a chapter I'm working on involves a scene in a trauma center. There's a world of difference between capturing the stark horror of what happens in these places and what we see on ER, House or Grey's Anatomy. Yes I want drama, but not superficial. Trauma centers are made of smells, and sloppy blood-spattered floors and technical death. I want that texture. So I did what any writer would do with my luxury: I sent the scenario to my daughter Erika, who is a trauma nurse at San Mateo County General. The feedback was raw, gritty, chilling. THAT'S what I was looking for. Use friends and family generously.

Sarahendipity

I've just followed my friend Sarah to Blogspot, seeking communion with her creativity and perhaps light a fire under the arse of my muse. Sarah has one thing I don't: Optimism and, as one of her friends put it, effervescence. I'm hoping it's contagious. Sarah's a wonderful writer, something I discovered when we worked together at a magazine some years ago. I'm motivated by her energy to get past my self-serving doubts and indecision. There was a line from "Wonder Boys" where Michael Douglas' grad student provides him with a diagnosis: "You once told us that writers make decisions. You're not making any decisions." Like Sarah, bless young insight.