Line of Credit

Originally published on October 4, 1996

Or art was never meant to be taken off the shelf. This morning I awoke at 10 AM after channel tobogganing until the wee moments of early. Fifteen seconds into my new morning a power spike kills the fan and several scattered appliances around the house. Well, not killed, but put down for a sleep while men at work raid the street for quick fixes, but the Hollywood timing of it was a mindblower.

In the past thirty days this is the fourth major brownout on this section of Eighteenth Street. I find it odd that the brownout only affects part of the house. After all, we have our own breaker box, and I presumed we had single feed into the house. Hope it doesn't spread to the computer room as I write this. Timing is a sharp stick since we all know Lucifer is the author of time. Speaking of Lucifer, this morning I also pick up Blum's book, A HISTORY OF THE JEWS for the first time in weeks and was juiced by the page I'd bookmarked when last I read from it.

I had not finished my Liberty Lobby piece I'd started a few days earlier. Kevin Kreider is an old drinking pal, part of the Jack Johnson, Rob Bussius, Tim Shipman, Jim Benjamin, Priscilla Winters, Gabriel Thy and BS routine at its most regular interval from the Forestville warehouse era of 1992-1993. He & Rob Bussius (now married and serving Uncle Sam as a paratrooper stationed in Hawaii) have worked at Liberty about fifteen years between them. Young Kevin is Jewish, has writerly aspirations, and his pretty wife just had their first child. We call him Young Kevin because of his slight but handsome stature.

When I mentioned to Tim about the D'Sousa reference to Liberty I plunged into some speculation of Kevin's employment there, tossing out the line that no doubt he's a planted spy who reports back to the B'nai Br'ith Anti-Defamation League. I've been down there a few times with the two boys of Liberty, even unsuccessful applying for a job there myself at the insistence of Bussius, and reinforced by Avril Shipman, Tim's kindly mom, who gave me a contact name. Turns out they weren't hiring was the response I got over the phone. I dropped the chase, but it's a quaint friendly office located at Third and Independence, SE, right in the heart of Capitol Hill, so to speak. Jarred to realize that a barely concealed form of white supremacy was not only alive and kicking in this raging country, but, how damned really close I am to it, begged the question then, as to why not? In the knowledge of all these other rather militant groups in opposition, any other opinion would be stupid and politically corrupt...

A twisted question of personal cowardice keeps me both near and far on the issue of race to say much on the topic. Stating principles, everybody loses. Silence is kept, nobody wins. But I will have to wait until the beast shows itself. That's the only clue I have. The beast will show itself, so I wait. While discussion is hushed up, I realize this will immediately—in a so-called politically correct black ascendancy culture—brand me a foul racist type from the south, must have something to hide. Nonsense. I simply have no to add to the conversation. So I wait. Go figure, shameless finger-pointing lemmings. Might as well be albatrosses the good they provide the nation.

As we are the hollow man of TS Eliot, we are all golems, and the acronymics, go fish! The porridge is always spoiled by too few or too many cooks...

The primary question being, had I already read the page before bookmarking, or had I finished the previous page, bookmarked the next page as is usually my habit in this matter, or is all this only so much blarney, irrelevant to anything anybody anywhere needs to know, or may find mildly amusing, or self-incriminating? It's not like we have loss of life or limb anywhere among us to date...