Benjamin Whitmer's Blog, page 30

The Other 99 Percent

I keep trying to like this Occupy Wall Street movement, I really do. I made a crack recently that I wished they would emulate John Dillinger a little more and Michael Moore a little less, but, hell, anything that identifies bankers and CEOs as bad guys and crystallizes a sense of class consciousness can't be all bad, right?

Right?

I'm not so sure. And exactly for the reasons in this picture posted by Chris La Tray:

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That's not to say that there aren't some serious concerns that need addressing, but when I read stuff like the messages posted in We Are the 99 Percent, what I see are a bunch of incredibly over-educated middle-class people bitching because their incredible sense of entitlement hasn't yet been met.

And that's something I ain't interested in. Not even a little bit. Because what it does is reinforce the vantage point of those CEOs and bankers. Instead of questioning their right to do what they do, it only requests that the plunder be spread a little more broadly amongst the educated class. And I have a big problem with that, for reasons that Joe Bageant summed up a few years back:

For maybe 20 years I chased after the "things" that symbolized transcendence of my poor rural background — big historic house with several fireplaces, antique guns on the wall, complete silver service right down to the caviar ware. And when I was done, it all just sat there looking back at me from behind glass cabinets — and I was drinking too much and creating nothing. A couple of refinances later, I finally got the message. This stuff owns you. Because a system owns you.

Now I am debt free, writing what I want, and understand that capitalism is the name of that extractive monetary system. It is the wine press and we are the grapes. And I have come to understand that our elite monetary masters will continue to crank the press down on anyone who participates in this system. No matter how poor we think we are, there is plenty more to be squeezed from Americans.

Anyway, just my two cents, but I don't think the world needs a movement made of people whose sole goal is to gain their place at the wine press. And that's what Occupy Wall Street looks more and more like — like middle class people trying to retain their place doing what middle class people do, which Joe Bageant speaks to here in The Kingdom of Survival:

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To be honest, I have trouble even conceiving of Occupy Wall Street as a movement at this point, in that  it only reifies the legitimacy of the wine press. And the only movement I'm interested in would be the one looking to smash the fucking thing into splinters.

Crimes in Southern Indiana giveaway

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Thanks to the kindness of Frank Bill and his publisher, I've got an extra copy of Crimes in Southern Indiana, and I wanna give it away. I'm busy, though, and don't wanna have a contest where I have to read anything.

So, let's try this: I'll send it to the person who emails me the best picture of something shot all to hell. Like, say, the car on the cover of Bill's book. Or this sign by my shooting spot up Left Hand Canyon, here in Colorado:

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You don't have to take the picture yourself, but extra points if you do. Likewise, extra points if the subject is covered in bullet holes of your own making. And, in honor of The Other 99%, you flat-out win if it's a Wall Street banker.

That's simple enough, right? Call the deadline next Tuesday. That gives you the whole weekend to pump something full of lead. Or, y'know, find a cool picture on the internet.

Update: It'd probably help if I gave my email address. It is: benjamin.whitmer@gmail.com

Left out

Finally got a phone with a camera worth a shit. So, a picture. My son, not able to play with the other kids because he's got pink eye.

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Quote

From a piece entitled Marco Polo in Boulder, Colorado:

Though the city was bucolic and beautiful it had a sinister side. Deep woods surrounded the city and there was a large graveyard running through the middle of it. Mountain lion attacks were frequent and many perished when they fell drunkenly into the snow. The year before I arrived a child was snatched and slaughtered in her own home. The following year, in a nearby town, two schoolboys procured automatic rifles and explosives and killed 17 of their fellow students before committing suicide. I too felt very unhappy in the thin air and departed for the coast, struck mute by some psychological quirk.

Russell Means

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I wanted to post more about Russell Means on Wednesday, but I haven't been doing much posting, or anything else, this week. Turns out the cold I had at Bouchercon wasn't actually. I've been feeling really shitty and weird for about a month now, but last Saturday night it turned into a fever. Hating doctors, I tried to wait it out, but my wife finally convinced me to go to urgent care last Sunday night. Which, it turns out, was a pretty good idea, because what I actually had was bronchitis and pneumonia. So, after almost a week of bedrest, and lots of steroid mist and antibiotics, I finally feel something like myself for the first time in three or four weeks, albeit a little weak.

So, anyway, excuses aside, on to what I wanted to say about Russell Means. The first time I met him was probably 12 or 13 years ago. We had dinner with him at the invite of a mutual friend, Ward Churchill. Now, I don't consider myself particularly easily intimidated, either by celebrity or tough-guy presence, but Russell had the affect of reducing me to a quivering mess. Just scared me shitless. I found the best description of his demeanor in a book by Peter Matthiessen called In the Spirit of Crazy Horse.

"Russ is a psychological terrorist, at least in public," one Indian says. "Until he has control of the situation, he is always trying to throw strangers off balance, and he usually succeeds. But when you're alone with him, and he doesn't have to prove anything, he's great — warm, intelligent, and a lot of fun to be around."

I got to know a little of that warm side as I saw him over the years. I never knew him real well, but now and then we'd end up at the same dinner table or event (or jail cell, on at least one occasion), and his generosity and sense of humor kept coming out more and more.

Which is not to say that Russell's sense of humor is exactly tender. I don't wanna try to trick anybody into thinking he's a teddy bear. By way of example, here's one of my favorite stories — one I was mangling it for M.A. Littler outside a bar not too long ago — which comes from Russell's autobiography, Where White Men Fear to Tread.

Drinking beer with my friend — officially my bodyguard — John Thomas, I met a couple of Indian guys named Weston and Jimmy Weddell. Greg was head of the local AIM chapter. These hoodlums, barely out of their teens, opposed his leadership. We got into a silly argument about it, politics compounded by macho posturing and alcohol. Suddenly they were pointing weapons at us. They told us to go outside, then ordered me across the street. Weston had a .222, a high-velocity varmint rifle. Weddell carried a .357 in his left hand and a .22 in his right.  I crossed the street and turned around. When Weddell said, "Shoot him! Shoot him!" Weston aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck just below my left nipple; the impact spun me around and I fell down. Weddell slugged John knocking him to the street. As John started to get up, Weddell shot him from about six inches with his .22. It's a good thing he was right-handed — if he had fired the .357, it would have blown John's head off. Instead the slug slammed into the bony ridge under John's eye and was deflected downward through his neck.

As the two punks took off, I crawled over to Greg's house. The last thing I remember clearly before the ambulance ride was knocking at the door. The slug had nicked my lung, detoured around my spine, and exited through my back. When I pulled off my shirt in the emergency room, the bullet fell out. When the press reported that the bullet had missed all my vital organs, as in both of my previous shootings [and at least one stabbing, several brutal beatings, etc.], people back home started to say that I didn't have any vital organs!

That's the personal side of Russell Means for me. Funny, intimidating, warm, self-effacing, but always interesting.

Vastly more important than that, however, is his political side. And since I would not, for all the money on the fucking planet, try to put words in his mouth, I'll direct you to his YouTube channel, to the Republic of Lakotah website, and to his own website.

And for some kind of understanding as to Russell's political import, the following is the final episode of a PBS special called We Shall Remain. It's the best I can find on YouTube to give some context to one of the many movements Russell was pivotal to.

Part one:

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Part two:

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Part three:

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Part four:

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Part five:

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Part six:

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Part seven:

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Part eight:

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Part nine:

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Of course, all of this is just a longer way for me to say that if you've got money — or, as some folks have been saying, the means to host some kind of fundraiser — Russell Means is a helluva person, who could use, and deserves, help.

Cancer's a motherfucker. And an expensive motherfucker, at that. You can make donations online at the bottom of the page here.

Support Russell Means

From the American Indian Movement of Colorado:

Our brother and leader, Russell Means is involved in a tenacious fight against the cruelest of invader diseases — cancer. As usual, however, Russell is putting up an exemplary resistance. He has been relying on our traditional medicines, and ceremonies, and has been treated by indigenous healers from the Lakota (Crow Dog), Dinéh (Morgan), and Anishinabe (Turtle Lodge). In addition, he is undergoing alternative treatments in Arizona. Visit his website www.republicoflakotah.com for updates.

These treatments are quite expensive, and our brother needs all of our help. If Russell has ever touched your life, has ever inspired or taught you anything, has ever made your proud to be Indian, or to be a human being, now is the time to repay him. Thank you.

You may mail your donation to: Russell Means Healing Fund, 444 Crazy Horse Drive, Porcupine, SD 57772

Russell Means is a personal hero of mine. If you've got some money lying around, this'd be a really good thing to do with it.

Also, here's a letter from Russell about the latest developments.

The making of Barfly

Bryon Quertermous's favorite Mickey Rourke movie.

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Homeboy

A couple of years ago I posted about a movie Mickey Rourke did back in 1989 called Homeboy, and how when The Wrestler came out I thought Homeboy was the better movie on the same theme.

At the time I wrote that post, Homeboy could only be found on old VHS tapes. But, as I just figured out today, its been released on DVD. And, even better, you can watch the whole thing on IMDb or Hulu for free.

Here's the trailer:

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And here's somebody's video that exists for no reason by to foreground Eric Clapton's soundtrack. Just to prove I'm a sap.

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It ain't a perfect movie, but it's always been one of my favorites for some reason. It's even my favorite Mickey Rourke movie, and that includes Barfly. Somebody told me recently that Bob Dylan says in Chronicles: Volume One that Mickey Rourke's performance inspired him to write two songs. Which I can see.

Update: Just occurred to me that Homeboy could almost entirely be summed up by this song by Billy Joe Shaver:

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And that's nothing but a compliment.

Says it all

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Bouchercon 2011

This is gonna be the worst Bouchercon rundown ever. I didn't take any pictures and I was sick with some kind of whooping cough. I did get to meet lots of great folks, but I was running at half steam the whole time, pumped full of DayQuil and trying not to die in front of anyone.

Anyway, that said, I had a great time. Just not a well time. But the mighty Frank Bill was kind enough to shoot me a picture of myself with him and one of my other favorite people, Scott Montgomery, so here we are.

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If I get ahold of more, I'll post them. Otherwise, I have the feeling I'll be spending the next week doing the early-to-bed, early-to-rise thing. I have a no-internet cabin trip scheduled for the weekend, which sounds like exactly what I need to recuperate. A rocking chair with a blanket across my lap, watching the kids play in the tallgrass.