revolution

The Chool Bus (ch38)

CHAPTER 38: Thanksgiving dinner with Jack’s family in Savannah, Georgia.

The house was pregnant with autumn olfactory assaults, sage, pumpkin spice, and simmering family traditions: food, spirits, and the “Scarlet P.” At one side of the long table sat Chloe, immaculate in a tailored cream turtleneck, radiating the polished, certain energy of a libertarian pundit who just signed a three-year own the libs book advance. Directly across, her favorite fightin’ cousin Jack, leaning forward in his trademark Thanksgiving navy-blue overalls, tapping his index finger trying, like always, to apply selective hearing as Chloe, grown less and less willing to leave the Scarlet P off the Thanksgiving table, droned on about unelected meddling federal bureaucrats.

Between them sat the traditional battleground: a glistening, perfectly basted twenty-pound turkey, wine, stuffing, cranberry sauce, aunts, uncles, cousins, and the Forks secretly looking forward to this legendary battle of matched wits.

The spark caught when Buck politely declined the candied yams.

“Good idea,” Jack announced, he and Buck agreed about Americans’ obsession with sugar. “No offense to Aunt Jean’s dish, but it’s always been a bit too sweet for my taste. Besides, it’s time to break the system promoting food and beverages loaded with sugar and high-fructose corn syrup to marginalized communities. Old habits die hard ya know.” Jack was waxing eloquent. “For a gustatory shock, give Japanese hard candy a try one of these days. My first exposure had me wondering… ‘where’s the sugar?’ It’s a totally different system there.”

Chloe dabbed her mouth with a cloth napkin, letting a patronizing, camera-ready smile bloom across her face. “Jack, daaarling. The only thing systemic at this table is your inability to eat a carbohydrate without turning it into a class-struggle talking-point. Are you going to debate the yams, or are you going to pass them to someone who actually believes in personal joy?”

Uncle Fred let out a low whistle from the corner. “Round one…ding, ding, ding.”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. He leaned in, his retort spinning at three hundred words per minute. “I believe in joy, Chloe. I just prefer my joy aligned with verifiable facts, preferably from recognized communities of experts, peer-reviewed, and buttressed by double-blind tests for iron-clad veracity. Speaking of credible sources, i noticed your peanut-butter pie has a store-bought crust. Don’t you usually do that from scratch? Is this your way of pulling yourself up by the bootstraps? You know that’s physically impossible, right? Try levitating the cranberry sauce over here.”

A ripple of laughter echoed down the table. Cousin Sam slapped the mahogany. “It’s true! I tried that. I put on my boots, grabbed the straps, and tried to pull myself up. Levitate…? Ha! That’s one of my favorite Dr Hook songs.”

“Sure, you got me, the crust was pre-made in a grocery store,” said Chloe. “Most likely mass produced, even. But i brought something better than homemade pie crust,” Chloe adjusted her cuffs. “I brought cash to pay for groceries. Because unlike some, whose entire ideology is dedicated to complaining about capitalism from their iPhones paid for through their parents’ family wireless plans, i actually understand market logic. Every day, i expose the hypocrisy of keyboard warriors planning revolution from their climate-controlled Brooklyn lofts.”

“Are you sure those lofts aren’t shared with three roommates because they can’t afford private housing due to venture capitalists turning the market into a casino?” Jack shot back, his hands gesturing in rapid, geometric chops. “But that’s fine. I know it’s hard for you to grasp structural inequity when your entire aesthetic is ‘I read Thomas Sowell once and made it my entire personality.’ You don’t have political philosophy, Chloe, you have a Pinterest board of 1950s tax codes.”

Aunt Jean nearly choked on her sweet tea. “Bless her heart, not the Pinterest board!”

Chloe’s eyes gleamed. She was in her element. “And your entire aesthetic is ‘I have a fancy high-tech degree and now i yell at people faster than they can blink.’ You don’t have conversations, Jack. You just have verbal seizures. If you spoke at a normal human cadence, your students would realize you’re just an over-educated shithead with a Bernie Sanders crush.”

“A fast repartee is only a seizure to someone who processes data at dial-up speeds,” Jack retorted, zeroing in. “It’s okay, take your time. I know you’re used to the teleprompter feeding you rebuttals on behalf of the billionaire class. But tell me, Chloe, when Elon finally colonizes Mars, do you think he’s gonna let you ride on the bridge, or are you gonna have to podcast from the cargo bay with the gear?”

The table erupted. Uncle Reggie had to put his fork down, laughing so hard he wheezed. “Cargo bay! He put you in the trunk, Chloe!”

Chloe broke character for a fraction of a second, a genuine smirk slipping through her practiced composure. She reached out and smoothly handed Jack the bowl of macaroni and cheese.

“Eat your dairy, Jack,” Chloe purred, her voice dripping with absolute mock-sweetness. “Your brain needs the glucose to figure out why socialism fails every single time it’s tried. Maybe you can run a quick regression analysis on the cheddar to Velveeta ratio.”

Jack accepted the bowl, scooping a generous portion onto his plate. He looked up, matching her smirk perfectly. “Thank you, Chloe. And make sure you get some of them collard greens. It’s the closest you’ll get to acknowledging your roots all year.”

The table descended into absolute pandemonium. Jimmie fell entirely out of his chair. Aunt Jean was waving a napkin in the air like a surrender flag, tears streaming down her face, while Uncle Ronnie just kept shouting, “Stop the fight! Stop the fight!”

Chloe threw her head back and let out an unpolished laugh, breaking the tension completely. She raised her crystal glass of Moscato in the direction of the turkey. Jack grinned, tapping his water glass against his fork in a mock salute. The scarlet P was put on pause, the audience was thoroughly entertained, and the gravy was finally passed.

And this scene almost didn’t happen. The Chool Bus almost didn’t make it to Georgia as circumstances began pulling on Professor T like a magnet. He needed to get back home in time to work through the sexual harassment case brought by Abigail Weiser’s corrupt attorneys. Professor T was certain all was not as it seemed, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it with what legal assistance he could afford on a mid-level academic’s salary. But Jack assured Mork the delay would be worth it as his extended family was exceedingly entertaining, especially at the annual Thanksgiving Feast.

Jack was right, and after the food and spirited debates were spent, the Forks made their way to the Bus and began the three-day journey back to home base for the holidays. Professor T was confident he would prevail in his campaign to establish innocence. If he and Abigail weren’t able to reconcile afterwards, that would be on her, he thought.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks return home for the holidays and Professor T copes with a disappointing verdict in the troubles with Abigail Weiser.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

Audiovision: Redemption

Or… sometimes redemption requires discipline:

Seems we’re coming up on some hard scrabble times for citizens down on their luck. And hard scrabble times call for hard scrabble responses. We’re going to have to grapple with how to handle the consequences of gutting the social safety nets. Nothing new, we’ve seen this play before. In Les Misérables, Victor Hugo’s novel uses the theft of a loaf of bread by Jean Valjean to illustrate the harsh and unjust nature of the justice system in his time. In more recent times, Willie Smith Ward, a Texan, received a 50-year sentence in 2013 for stealing a $35 rack of ribs. Now granted, this was the logical conclusion of this man’s incorrigible behavior in the light of Texas’ habitual offender laws, allowing for lengthy prison sentences to repeat offenders. Yes, he was a pervasive violator of civic good faith, but the final straw was the theft of food.

It’s probably no coincidence original sin is connected to behavior inspired by hunger. According to the Judeo Christian holy book, we’re guilty as soon as we hit the ground. And guilty of what? And why? Because the first XY chromosomes in our hereditary line fell for a cock-n-bull story about an apple being verboten per maximum overlord’s command? And why the prohibition? Because consuming the apple would drop the scales from our minds regarding the existence of good and evil? And the consequences of gaining this knowledge is… death? But not until one experiences a veritable parade of humiliation, pain, sorrow, and general suffering? Again… we get to ride this roller coaster of woe because some dipshit, 10,000 years ago chose to enjoy a spot of fruit with his girlfriend? Yeah… i don’t know if i can get behind this allegory. It seems a bit unfair to the XX natives. It paints them in a devious light. Like, both of them were instructed to avoid the fruit, but the devil’s serpent chose XX as an ideal target for corruption. And XY was just too gullible or dumb to mount an effective argument. Bottom line, XX is an hedonistic schemer, and XY is a goofy simpleton that just wants to eat. Naw, we’re not gonna fall for that misogynistic bullshit. XX and XY are born equally innocent, if they go bad as they grow, it’s the result of non-optimal environmental conditions or physical chemistry, but mostly… bad behavior is taught by irresponsible caretakers. 

The whole “bad behavior inspired by hunger” issue might grow into a nagging problem in this age of prioritizing gilded ballrooms, machine automated labor, and antiquated energy policies over the well being of the XX and XYs who happen to lack connections in society’s power structures. And how might that play out? We could look to historical record for cues. Has hunger ever been an issue for working and doomed classes through the ages as economic and technology conditions change? Indeed it has, is, and will continue to vex policy makers… Victor Hugo’s novel is a vivid example.

And outcomes have varied widely. The most recent encounter with abject mass deprivation in this country got defeated by what was known at the time as a New Deal for the nation’s people. This, many would acknowledge was a best case scenario. Things didn’t go so smoothly in Russia or France as they transitioned away from monarchical rule. You could say, for the ruling classes, these are a couple worst case scenarios. Given that, what’s driving the U.S.A. away from democracy, careening toward authoritarian ethno-nationalist governance? Time will tell, but for now, it might behoove the ruling classes to recognize working people and the doomed are talking to each other. They’re not as hampered by ignorance as has been a hallmark of previous socio-economic upheavals. Consolidating power may not be the golden ticket they think it is.

Now… how will all of this shake out? I wouldn’t venture a guess, but i do see chatter crisscrossing the social networks, and i can confidently predict how some will approach the oncoming hunger dilemma. As we advance into this age of machines automating repetitive rote tasks, and jobs continue to evaporate, people will ask for opportunities to earn the means of feeding their families. When no useful work is available, they will ask for food assistance, and when no food assistance is available, they will take the food from whatever source is handy. And there will be plenty of XX and XYs with the resourcefulness and discipline to create their own redemption. Regarding original sin i, for one, am grateful for the flood of knowledge passed down by the original XX and XYs. I’m GLAD they ate the apple. And if supporting tax dollars for food security to people i’ve never met makes me a communist, well, pepper-spray my ass and call me “Comrade!”

I gotta black bomb…
It’s tickin’ away…
Gonna take it out…
On the Blue Highway.

Cheers… Rohlfie

Dog

Lately i’ve been very… very busy… taking refuge in the shroud of night. In the light of day i work the shadows… but i’ll emerge when the whip comes down.

Lately i’m content to hunker down… patient … quiet mountain waiting… watching you. But soon the waiting will be over… and you’ll see the light when the whip comes down.

When the whip comes down… your karma will burn you down from head down to every toe. When the whip comes down… you don’t want to be around cos my dog is bigger than yours.

A rumor here… some innuendo there… keep the pressure on… don’t even let me breathe. Stay on your message… keep it simple. You better run… boy… when the whip comes down.

The time is right for a fresh start… but miles to go before we finally sleep. And i’ll be joined by the millions… and your hide will burn when the whip comes down.

When the whip comes down… our heroes will make us proud from hell down to every shore. When the whip comes down… you don’t want to be around… cos my dog is bigger than yours.

When the whip comes down… no mercy will be found… time… now… for #alloutwar. When the whip comes down… you don’t want to be around cos my dog’s bigger than yours. When the whip comes down… you don’t want to be around cos…

My dog’s bigger…
My dog’s bigger…
MY DOG’S BIGGER THAN YOURS!

Spotify link => HERE

Danger Town

Forever fight for peace… war at home. In silence you may speak… ’bout war at home. And air contagions breed… war at home.

And you won’t know but you’ll fight the war at home!

Everywhere you go… you hear the dogs… it’s all the rage on the Internet blogs… and no relief soon to be found… breathe the toxic fog of your Danger Town.

Punks and freaks embrace… war at home. And Mom and Dad belie… war at home. And crafty media oozes toward… war at home.

But the children shout revolution… waging war at home!

Everywhere you go… you hear the dogs… it’s all the rage on the Internet blogs… and no relief soon to be found… breathe the toxic fog of your Danger Town.

A new contempt pervades in business class… and religious militia enforce their holy will. With luck they’ll crown their pious king and crush the people’s will to flock. The tanks are in the street… the troops around the dome… a creeping coup de tat.

The sides no longer hear… war at home. And rancor can endear… war at home. And bileful hasty claims… war at home.

And angry shouts cannot douse the war at home!

Everywhere you go… you hear the dogs… it’s all the rage on the Internet blogs… and no relief soon to be found… breathe the toxic fog of your Danger Town.

Spotify link… HERE