Thursday, June 30, 2005

Of Chicken Dinners and Condoms

A comrade of mine, J. Quinn Brisben, is a fellow I greatly admire. For many years he taught in the Chicago Public School system, and he published a book of poetry entitled, "The Significance of the Frontier: Selected Poems 1966-2002" that is quite exceptional. I met him in 1992, at the Socialist Party USA National Convention in Chicago. Within minutes of meeting me, he insisted that I join him and his wife Andrea for a chicken dinner.

Over dinner, Quinn told me how he had recently smuggled 3,000 condoms into Russia for a gay and lesbian rights organization. It was love at first sight. Smuggling contraceptives anywhere is just plain cool. Quinn was and is used to talking to young people who don't say very much, so he didn't find fault in my general silence. I did mention, on occasion, my high level of admiration.

As a result of that convention, Quinn ran for president with a fellow named "Big" Bill Edwards as his vice-president. In case you're wondering, they lost. In 1996, Quinn visited me here in Boston and stayed at my flat for a day. Andrea, his wife and the owner of Changing Woman Design needlepoint, stayed here, as well. I've never actually seen them apart.

When Quinn Brisben passes on, he almost certainly won't be remembered and considered as much as he deserves to be. As a tireless activist, primarily for civil rights and people with disabilities, and as a poet who has traveled to every US state and 38 foreign countries. Tireless intellectual activists who modestly try to improve the world are rare these days. People with loud mouths and nothing thoughtful, compassionate or even interesting to say clog the airwaves. If you want to meet Quinn and discuss the direction of our species, you have to go out and hear him speak at a venue, which can be a university or a bookstore or out in the rain during a protest. Right now, he's toddling around London with his grand daughter.

So to you, Quinn, I tip my cup of coffee in deep respect. And to David McReynolds, Bill S, Greg Pason, and the late Ann Rosenhaft, know that I will always love you. My lack of activism may seem to indicate my apathy, but that's not accurate. Mental illness has made me a man of little consequence to the movement. My passionate concern for those around me, and strong class consciousness, compel me towards activity that I am too cowardly to take. But it's anything but apathy. Think of me as a startled, hunted animal that hasn't the feet to flee nor the ability to defend himself. Pathetic, eh?

Bread & Roses,
Darren W. Lyle

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

The Big Enchilada

A woman in Wisconsin recently gave birth to a 14lb baby girl who at this point remains unnamed. The father, however, in the grand tradition of men saying and doing stupid and/or wildly innappriate things, has dubbed the massive flesh dump, "The Big Enchilada." This thing was born via the use of a C-section, which means they cut the mother open and ever so gently yanked the baby out of her body. A vaginal birth was clearly out of the question; the mother's taco wasn't nearly large enough for the enchilada to pass through. That being the case, the doctors had to think outside the bun and ditch the vaginal birth.

Just remember to be courteous if your baby is as large as this abomination. Flush twice and spray the bathroom with Lysol, or at least light a match.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Of Solidarity Among Flies and Getting Lost

I find myself digesting the opinions and comments of countless people every day. Unfortunately, this doesn't happen over a cup of coffee at Someday Cafe, or while listening to the rarefied and erudite members of our cultural and political elite. Instead, it comes from the television and radio. Sometimes a friend will email me with a compelling observation, which I appreciate greatly. This doesn't happen very often, however, as people are busy...I am not.

For four days last week the mainstream media was totally focused on a Cub Scout who made the poor aesthetic choice of getting lost in Utah. On the list of places to get lost, the wilds of Utah has got to be near the bottom. Because I'm an idiot, I get lost all the time. A couple of weeks ago, I took the wrong bus from Lechmere Station in Cambridge and ended up in some sort of alternate universe that, luckily, was connected to Harvard Square. I wonder if the little fucker in Utah will get a badge for getting lost. They could call it the "Christopher Columbus Badge." I do know that I won't get a badge.

I find it hard to feign concern for imperiled people I do not know. If they found the kid impaled on the antlers of an elk or ripped in half by a skunk-ape, it would have no impact on my life. Little black children die every day, and they had the good sense to stay at home...and away from Utah.

I have a couple of comments to finish out this entry (my first) to my 'blog. Regarding those fly-covered kids in Africa who were unfortunately born black and in Africa, and poor to boot, I have to ask: Do the flies ever get together and try to fly away with a kid. I bet they could do it. I would guess that 1,000 flies working together could lift little Mbugua to a place where they could eat in peace. That would be a World Health Organization report worth reading. "In the last ten years alone over 100,000 children were carried away by small, but well organized, flies."

My other comment is about insults. When I hear someone say something really stupid, which happens frequently, I think, "Cram it, Fatty!" I automatically go to that insult for some reason. Sometimes I add, "...you douchebag!" to the mix. But I'm fat...and may even be a douchebag. That gives my opponent a really easy comeback. I don't want to give it up, though. I may have to actually lose weight so I can use it. I also like, "Go fuck yourself," but that's a little severe; I don't want to get whacked in the schnozz.

Keep it fake.

Don't Mock Me, Duck Boat Fiends

About once every month I head out to Boston Common, walk up Beacon Hill to the State House, and stand and consider the Massachusetts 54th Memorial by Saint-Gaudens. I decided to do that a little earlier today, as it is so beautiful out and medical matters had me leaving my flat anyway. It's tradition for romantics and history buffs to place flowers on Robert Gould Shaw's lap at the center of the memorial. So I cut a cluster of roses off my rose bush (the one plant I have that housing will allow) and headed on my way.

When I got to my destination, I sat and waited for the right moment to put the roses in their place. Someone had already put small bunch of carnations there, but I would add my roses anyway. Tour buses and Duck Boats were driving down Beacon Street with noisy regularity. The State House is right across the street, so there are a lot of visitors. Defying my anxiety, I rose and stood on my toes reached just high enough to deposit the roses in their place.

Then I slipped. My right forearm took the brunt of the fall, and is now black and blue. People rose to help me, but I waved them off and smiled. I felt like a complete jack-ass. If I had fallen and broken my neck, would it be my romantic inclinations that killed me? And if so, would it then have been a noble death? I think not. Like every other noble intention, it ends either in banality or absurdity.

Love, D

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Rage Against the Dying of the Snack

I was just drinking coffee and eating a popover whilst checking my email. The content of one of my emails required a lot of my attention, and I had to check my facts with some papers on my desk. Here's where the story takes a horrific turn, so brace yourselves. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that I had some popover left, sitting on my address book. Without looking I reached for it and found that it wasn't there. I thought I saw a piece of popover where no popover existed.

It is no small thing to be mocked by the void. Death will soon stick to us like an ill-fitting track suit on a fat, honey-covered jogger. Before I yell, "cannonball!" and fling myself into the abyss, I just want to be able to correctly gauge how much food I have left as I eat it. The bitter disappointment of unexpectedly living in a popover-free bedroom has me ensconced in ennui.

There is no achingly beautiful tragedy here, nor light-hearted comedy, nor base desire compelling me towards recklessness. There is only a banal contemplation of the abyss. I'm perched here on my little chair, sadly remembering my beloved popover, done too soon. My fat body perched on this stool like a water balloon on a flagpole. Oh, whither this pain!

I will mock the void back...and go downstairs and get another popover. Oh, yes, there is one more, and this time it will be different. I'm wiser now, and will no longer be tormented by my peripheral vision.