The United States of America is a giant piece of poo!

There, I said it, that three letter word that might bring me down for good one day. Who knows, I may go down like the rest who spoke the truth, like Tommy Chong; former seller of glass water pipes. He was brought down by the Federales because he got rich selling bongs but moreover, he was Tommy Chong, the one from the movies and old Cheech & Chong records, who made a living poking at paranoid government officials like Sargent Stadanko.

I still remember the scene in Up in Smoke where Stadanko and his crew keeping surveilance on the party-happy duo, using an old laundry truck as a decoy vehicle. On the outside was a pair of blue jeans and the bumbling detective would pull the zipper down from the inside and shout out "Shoot the Moon! Shoot the Moon!" Movie watchers laughing their asses in theatres, and now, in living rooms around the world.

As funny as that scene in Up and Smoke was, what isn't funny is that that kind of attitude, that paranoia from our government has leaked over from Nixon's seventies through the 21st century. Chong did time, (nine months federal time) for selling glass! Glass. America will arrest you for selling glass. Not only will being in the glass business get you busted, but if you have a successful comedic career and play a landmark role that is arguably more memorable than John Wayne cowboy movies, you may have to serve time. After watching the documentary "AKA Tommy Chong" I am reminded now that our constituional rights are not worth the paper they are written on. It's a facade, a sham. To see Federal prosecutors spend 12 million dollars to bust Mr. Chong is absolutely ridiculous; this makes Sargent Stadanko look like Columbo.

Now, obviously, the title of today's blog is an attention grabber (a device I teach my writing students) to not only make a statement but to reel the reader in. My only question to my readership, do you believe that statement. Should I be arrested and charged with being unpatriotic, for being a traitor for claiming that this country is a piece of poo? I might. Accoriding to the U.S. Patriot Act, Section 802, which states that domestic terrorism intends to "(i.) intimidate or coerce a civilian population" so, with that said, if any citizen of this country finds that language intimidating and offensive I may be subjected to federal prosecution under the Patriot Act. In Up and Smoke, Chong fires up a giant joint, Cheech takes a hit and asks what he's smoking.

"You're smoking Labrador. My dog ate my stash and I had to follow the little mother fucker until I got it back."
"You mean we're smoking dog shit?"

Dog shit. Poo. Tommy Chong getting busted for glass pipes and his movie career and America laughs because they see through all of this; the haze, the gall of Federal prosecutors and other politicians who have linked Marijuana use w/ terrorism; who have linked Tommy Chong, a true hero of free speech as an outsider. The irony is not that the U.S. government got its man, the number one on their hit list, but rather, that common everyday Americans (many of them avid smokers) are saying, with hands raised in surrender, "Country, what are you smoking?"

I imagaine Tommy Chong, with that sly, troublemakers grin, his horn rimed glasses of the seventies getting fogged up in a cipher of smoke saying, "Their smoking Labrador, man, dog shit!"

Having A Beer At The Landmark

I had a beer earlier tonight at the Landmark with my friend Gene. The last time we met at our usual hangout I told him I was on the wagon, that I was protesting beer, how it done me wrong, how it took me down like a bully, how I let it, and how I wanted to correct that. So I told him that I put myself on the wagon; I drank their strong coffee all night, until closing.

I think telling Gene about the wagon was a little hard for him to take; for example, I can see him think to himself, "Who's gonna drink w/ me?" though I was indeed drinking, not beer, but a coffeee so caffeineted, who needed beer? A week ago I was proud to be a passenger on that wagon of chicken farmers and former bootleggers, tonight, I stumbled off, or plainly put, I stumbled on the 24th. Did it matter? I did limit my intake, one beer and I was out. I put a fiver on a Bass, chatted about my day.

Gene told me they let him out early at work because someone called in a bomb threat. Imagine that, a bomb threat at Cesar Chavez Adult School. Somebody didn't want to go to school tonight. I didn't bother asking how my brother was doing, the Laker game was on, they were playing the Trailblazers, Greg Odom's first game. I think the bartender responded, "Again?" He was smiling, I figured the sarcasm.

Despite my insensitivity, we did have a lively discussion about the novel "Kiss of the Spiderwoman" by Manuel Puig. Gene told me he was interested in using that book for a future class; my ears perked and I posed the question if he thought the book would be appropriate for English 1A students being that the novel is purely dialogue. He agreed and I made a mental note to adopt Spiderwoman for the spring or future semesters.

Mmm, a cold beer, the holy grail of any bar. Goes great with Laker games; literary speakeasy's; and Tuesday evening bomb threats.


peace,


Michael Medrano


I listened to "Los Ritmos Calientes" by Cal Tjader
during this blog.

Right Now

I am taking a break from grading my students papers; an essay assignment where they were asked to document the progression or non-progression of a disenfranchised group in a particular medium, for example, African-Americans in cinema or Latinos in television. For the most part, my students have done the assignment correctly, only one will have to redo. Way off base unfortunately. I will give the writer a second chance. Yes, I refer to my students as writers, because they will write, and, for at least four hours each week, behave as writers do.

The Dramatics "In The Rain" is on the ipod shuffle, and though the clouds have yet to go berserk tonight, my front door is open and I can see my neighbor and his affiliates through the screen door walking back and forth to the car parked out front. They are preparing for a drag show, each in their own unique costumes; one looks amazingly like a woman; loading miscelaneous items. They are in the entertainment biz as I am into the po-biz. My neighbor tells me that he and his homies write skits, perform them, and broadcast their show through a podcast; one of the actor, he says, does an amazing Sarah Palin. I bet he does. I haven't yet asked him what the name of the podcast is, but I think it would be interesting to listen.

Earlier, I met with a few other poets; as we are interested in working as a collective. We met at Margaret Hudsons barn; moved around the space in our socks, on the wood floor, surrounded by piano, a drum kit, and a myriad of percussion instruments. Writing and trust exercises. It was a productive night. If you haven't been to Margaret's barn, it's part of a communal space of approximately three or four houses. You have to cut through her backyard, amidst shrubs, bushes, wild weeds, etc. Very earthy landscape. The problem, however, lies in the fact that at night it is completely dark and without a flashlight, it's almost impossible to get back to the front of the house. So, the lot of us, formed a train---right hand on each shoulder, (we're all men mind you) and we slowly made our way through the fig garden night. It was a productive evening, yet I wonder if we were as productive as my neighbor and his drag show friends. To be honest, we were bumbling through the dark like the Three Stooges; they got their shit together.


Peace,


Michael


On the ipod shuffle as I conclude tonight; "Where Was You At" by War.

First Blog

To all my camaradas, homies, poets in the trenches, all you light seekers, all you suckas and hipsters in Fresno Station; Mini-Apples, Sandy-ego, and beoynd: welcome to my blog!

I have been contemplating doing this for a while, and now that I have finally initiated the damn thing, I come to notice a few things when creating my profile. 1.) This is the first time I had named specific Raza organizations that I had, at one time, belonged to. These organizations (MEChA and Brown Berets) were quite intstrumental in my poetry. I gained a love for justice and being a soldado in the movement gave me the courage to speak to the community in a grass roots fashion. Though my politics (if you wish to call it that) has evolved, or I think an awareness based on continous change has affected me profoundly. For example, if we stand in one place, without movement, without agenda, without any attachments to community or race, or culture, we are changing. Not reacting is change. Reaction of course is change. I am changed even as I write this, everything is everything is everything.

And what do my ties to Raza organizations have to with any of this; those organizations changed me and those organizations have changed. One of my longtime mentors, the poet Juan Felipe Herrera was asked in an interview, "what needs to change in gaining support of poetry by Chicano/Latino circles?" He responded by saying that maybe its the message not the means of delivery that has to change. Maybe we have to start talking, evaluating, experiencing our art, music, language, culture, poetry, etc. differently?

Through this blog, I hope to express my views on such questions and would encourage my readership to engage me in dialogue. Thank you for participating as a reader and thinker.


peace,


michael medrano