Grieving in The United States of Irony

rebel
Originally uploaded by aaronjmaier.

This photo was taken recently on a drive through the hills of Southeast Ohio. Yes, that is a Confederate flag hanging at half-mast in front of a heart shaped artificial pond guarded by a ceramic angel. The scene in the photo made me think about the part of the earth I have called my home for twenty-seven years now. What does it mean to be from Ohio? This is an issue that I began to struggle with after Ohio's collective vallues were displayed prominently upon the world's stage during the 2004 presidential election. This introspective process was accelerated by people I had met in my travels to Europe and North Africa. They would constantly want to know what this exceedingly average state in the Midwest whose decisions were determining the fate of the United States and consequently the world was really like. Most of the questions went something like this:

What are the people in Ohio like?

What is your culture like?

What do you say before you eat in Ohio?

Did they really question the concept of evolution and teach creation science based upon biblical text in public schools?

Do the poor people in the rural areas of America really vote for George Bush?

Do they know that they are voting directly against their economic interests because of the attention paid to peripheral "moral" issues?

Why does everyone have a flag in their yard, is it like somebody would drive by and not know what country they are in?

Do people in northern states really fly the Confederate battle flag in their yards?

Isn't that a symbol of a society built upon state-sanctioned racism?

Why do you fly the American flag at half-mast?

I always had a difficult time answering them. For all of you on the other side of the pond, I hope this photo of a patriotic Ohioan honoring tsunami victims in their own unique manner answers some of your questions about the mental state of my home state. For the reader back here in Ohio, I apologize for trampling the flowers in your neighbor's yard.

The Funniest Thing I Have Ever Seen

This clip from a WOUB newscast is The Funniest Thing I Have Ever Seen. It was painful to watch initially because the laughter produced was interfering with my breathing cycle. My initial response was "this is brilliant," however it turns out that Louis' performance was not intended as comedy. When he ducks out of the way of the green screen I get that queasy feeling in my stomach like I have just been caught masturbating. I particularly enjoyed that Louis bothered to create his own graphics and personalize a Four Day Outlook for this segment. Enjoy Louis' Forecast. This man will end up as a producer for Fox News soon.

This is what a Police State Looks Like

police state
Originally uploaded by aaronjmaier.

Under the auspices of protecting the nation's capital from a terrorist attack in the first presidental inauguration since September 11 an immense police presence was assembled on the streets of DC. According to the Washington Post the cost of this expirament in martial law cost the city of Washington DC 11.6 million dollars. The majority of these police officers were not stationed at centers of public transit and other potential terrorist targets - I saw no security whatsoever throughout the day in the Washington DC Metro. They were, however, doing an excellent job of securing the corner of Fourth and Pennsylvania - where the anti-war group, International Answer, had secured a permit to hold a peaceful rally.

New Fox Reality Show

twins
Originally uploaded by aaronjmaier.

Think about the possibilities. Jenna has all of the star power and trashy amoral sex appeal of Paris Hilton. Team her up with that bitchy sister of hers and they are way hotter than the Olson twins. Copy the Simple Life format and substitute the Florida trailer park with a Baghdad highway checkpoint. Can you just imagine the wacky adventures that would ensue when you put those two rich boozehound cunts in the middle of a desert war zone. Rumsfeld would probably find money in the defense budget to pimp thier ride with platinum armor and 22" rims.

Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Dissidents

brothers
Originally uploaded by aaronjmaier.

Mama don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks.
Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Willie Nelson

Checkpoint Charlie

checkpoint
Originally uploaded by aaronjmaier.

Security checkpoints proved effective in keeping thousands of protesters away from Pennsylvania Avenue, yet did little to provide any real security for the people of Washington DC.

The Worst Parade Ever

Looking at the picture adorning the front page of the New York Times one would think that January 20 was a proud and festive occasion in Washington DC. A confident and cool George W. Bush walks in front of his limo showcasing his signature resolve before a backdrop of adoring countrymen. Pennsylvania Avenue is draped in the regal dignity of a presidental inauguration. Through the lense of Times photographer, Doug Mills, the world sees a nation united behind a steadfast defender of freedom and liberty.

Nothing could be further from the truth. In reality President Bush is walking across a neatly manicured stage set of pagentry in the center of city under siege.

When I arrived in DC the sun was just coming up. The beltway was packed with pre-dawn traffic reflecting the gravity of the day's events. As I made my way through the Washington DC Metro it was business as usual as the trains were crowded yet there were no uniformed National Guard or police forces on the subway. The red train proceeded as scheduled underneath the ruins of a crumbling democracy to Judiciary Square without the interuption of DHS security checkpoints or friskings. Passing freely through the DC Metro on January 20, 2005 I felt much like a Spanish commuter would have felt leaving Madrid's Atocha Station on March 11, 2004.


According to the Washington Post 11.6 million dollars were spent on security measures for the first presidental inauguration since September 11. Evidence of this tremendous security force was everywhere the cameras were, and nowhere where it was needed. Police officers brought from all parts of the country concentrated upon protecting the image of a supportive sympathetic crowd on Pennsylvania Avenue as the presidental motorcade passed in front of international news cameras. It seems that very little of these funds were spent defending the DC Metro system.


Editor's Note: This post is still under construction. If you want to check out a NY Times photo of Nic (orange hat) and myself (green hat) at the protests go here: NY Times Slideshow. There is also a similar AP photo that is not quite as good here: AP Slideshow.

682 in Reverse

I am pushing the four cylinders of my 1990 Acura to their very limits. The tacometer wobbles as it strains past 5,000 revolutions per minute. My engine is squeeling like a stuck pig and my neck is twisted to allow my head to peer out the window. The back window has been obscured by the sticky wet snow that is beginning to accumulate. This does not make my job any easier.

Jim's Auto Service is located just outside of The Plains, Ohio. This is where my car was taken last Friday after the clutch decided to stop driving, forward that is.

According to the mechanic at Jim's Auto Service the clutch is shot. Parts, labor and tax bring the necessary repairs to more than $600. For those of you who are not familiar with my automobile I will describe it for you. (This is probably an exercise in futility because the only two people who read this blog are my father - he is now retired - and the conspiracy theorist across the street from me - he leaves the house only twice a week) It is missing a radio, smells like the homeless man who called it home for a short time in Cincinnti, and has a broken front bumper. The car is barely worth the $600 it would cost to fix it.

Kind as the good people at Jim's Auto Service are they were beginning to grow a little antsy about having my car parked in front of their garage. As the car was not going to be repaired at Jim's they requested its removal from their lot. The ideal solution would have been to have professionals tow the injured automobile to its intended destination, you say. Unfortunately, however, my free tows from AAA expired with the trip to Jim's. I was left with only one option.

Remember the car is able to drive in reverse. Also remember that Jim's Auto Service is located at the far end of The Plains - a small Appalachain town with three stop lights - and that Vore Ridge Road - where I currently hang my hat - lies three and a half miles to the east of The Plains on Route 682.

A security entourage rivaling that of Mein Fuhrer Bush is assembled to accompany the Acura on her most difficult voyage. Nic drives in front of me to avoid any problems from the front. Zach takes up the rear position to protect my backside.

Despite the small size of the town the main street through The Plains becomes quite crowded at 5:15 on a Wednesday evening. Rush hour. I really did not anticipate this type of traffic when I considered the schematics of the project I was embarking upon.

Zach pulled out to block the flow of traffic followed by Nic and then by the hobbled Acura. If you have ever been skiing backwards without goggles you may be able to appreciate my plight this evening. For the first mile I had my door open and head sticking out into the snow to make sure that I was not heading into oncomming traffic. Shoppers returning to their cars stopped and looked on in amazement.

According to Zach's count at one point a line of 47 cars formed behind me. However, there were fewer horns than I thought there would be. A paramedic stopped to make sure everything was OK. I lied and said yes. I wonder what type of laws they have in the state of Ohio about driving backwards on a highway?

For three and a half miles this went on through the windy hills of Route 682 into Athens, Ohio. Nic says that I topped out at 25 miles per hour. I will always remember the last time I drove that stupid little car. Hopefully the boys down in The Plains have something to talk about over the poker game at the VFW Hall tonight.

Confession of an AM Junkie

Normal Life

It was early when we drove to campus to pick up the gear for the Cheshire shoot. All we needed was a camera - Panasonic DV 500 - and a tripod before we could be on our way. It had been two weeks since Nic, Zach, and I worked on the C-horror/comedy film that consumed every waking hour of our lives in the twelfth month of 2004.

I could not sleep on Christmas Eve because I was worried about a movie centered on giant mutated killer butterflies. The time away from the project was needed for everyone. Away from the movie for this length of time my mind began to wander away from the task at hand.

Holding the camera for the first time in weeks I quickly realized that I had lost focus. Only one thing could bring me back. It became all I could think about sometimes.




Downfall

Just one hit that’s all I needed. One little hit. Nobody would find out. Columbia’s finest had a hold on me. A little dance in the lush green peaks of the Andes Mountains would get me going again.

Mornings were the toughest times. I would wake up thinking about my next fix.

Through my half-opened eyes I could see Zach in the corner brewing up a new batch. It smelled like the good stuff.

Nic never used to be a user, but the stress of the production finally got to him. He was lining up for his morning dose with the rest of us today. When we were working long days we would get up first thing in the morning and do it together. Our mutual addictions brought us together during the tough times.

Once the bean has you in its wicked grasp it does not let go.

As soon as the stuff was ready Zach filled the long green cylinder to the top. The steam rising softly from the life-giving potion felt warm and soothing on my red bloodshot eyes. Regardless of the quality the first fix in the morning burns a little entering your body. Today’s brew was no exception as the stuff was piping-hot.

I took that glorious first sip of the brew and the euphoria dripped to the very depths of my soul.

That was until I tasted the shit.




Depths of Despair

What the fuck?

Where was my good stuff? This batch tasted like the shit that strung out truckers used. Was the bag of Columbian blend cashed?

It was.

Zach decided to recycle yesterday’s stuff for today’s batch. He is good cameraman and a better actor, but he just can't handle his shit.

Like a crazed junkie scouring an alley for a discarded needle I crawled into a dealer downtown and bought a Starbucks Double Shot Espresso for my fix. That glorious nectar coursing through my aching veins brought me rushing back to life.




Moment of Clarity

I began to think straight again. This perspective allowed me to view the consequences of my addiction. This caffeinated consciousness, however, did not come without a cost.

The profits from my purchase here in Athens are funneled back through a complex network of suppliers and dealers to the international cartel in Seattle, Washington. I have seen their dealers setting up shops all over the world.

The beautiful cobbled streets of ancient Rome are now marred with their hideous bright green graffiti. Turf markings. A new breed of gang warfare is plaguing the cities and small towns of the world. And I am contributing to the spread of it.

Like all addicts I was beginning to feel guilty about the consequences of my actions. Paul Wellstone once said “Live like you talk and talk like you live.” In this era of rogue corporations and errant globalization we vote first with our wallet. It was only after my morning cup of coffee that I realized this.

Vore Ridge Conspiracy

Today marks my return to the hills of Appalachia and a small cabin on Vore Ridge Road just outside of Athens, Ohio. It has been raining all day. Raindrops falling on the gently sloped eaves of corrugated metal provide me with nature's playlist in the ipod of my mind. The path down to the house always gets muddy when it rains. So do the cat's paws.

A nondenominational Christian church that more resembles a tool shed with a fresh coat of white paint than a place of worship sits next door. On Wednesday nights the faithful can be heard speaking in the hurried tongues of religious fervor that mark a heightened level of devotion to their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. They were generous enough to lend us a ladder to do some painting.

Across the street a tall gaunt man with scraggly gray hair and thick-rimmed Coke bottle glasses lives alone. His horse is named Abraham - not like Lincoln - but Larry Abraham. Call it Conspiracy with a prologue by Gary North, Ph.D. The cluttered van in his driveway is a testament to the adage that one man's junk is truly another's treasure. According to Abraham's owner the beached whales washing up on the Pacific Ocean result from the United States Navy’s history of dumping nuclear warheads there.

The neighbor makes frequent trips to the Athens Public Library and to the Hegemony Hardware store in the newly constructed shopping center blighting the rolling hills surrounding the town. According to his research it is only a matter of time until a sleeping giant is awoke. Through the corrective powers of his Coke bottle lenses our neighbor has learned from a Google search that the Chinese will make their way across the Bering Strait to fall the great American war machine. In the mean time he collects day-old bread from the bakery in large plastic garbage bags and is always generous enough to share his bounty.

The bunker next door is the perfect abode for the gun enthusiast, anarchist, or hippie seeking solace from a world too callous to embrace their beliefs. Members of all three groups have called the bunker home in the past year. The hippies are so boring and inoffensive with their pot-fueled docility and inclusive worldview. You can’t even see what they are up to with all of the wall hangings and tapestries hanging in the windows.

Wayne, the gun enthusist, was cool. So cool that the cats often chose to hang out in the bunker with him instead of their own home. He flew a plane every day. To blow off steam in the evenings he would lick off a few rounds from a twelve-gauge shotgun into the woods to keep the local population of White Tailed Deer on their toes during the off-season. Wayne may have been the most intelligent man to ever make the unfortunate decorating choice of displaying a Confederate flag in his home. His roommate, Nes, seemed to leave the house only to buy cigarettes. He proudly displayed pictures of naked women and George W. Bush campaign flyers on his bedroom walls.

Wayne and Nes are gone now. Wayne’s National Guard unit was called into active duty and he is now licking off rounds in Iraq. The cats don’t bother to track their muddy paws into the bunker any more. The hippies are boring. They just sit at home all day listening to the rainfall on the bunker roof talking about ways to stop the war.

According to the faux-press reports from the Pentagon there is no need for the military-age residents of Vore Ridge Road to worry about being drafted. It seems Rumsfeld finally covered his bases. A backdoor draft is in place. Ask the parents or spouse of any National Guardsman who's tour has unexpectedly been extended by an ill-prepared Department of Offense about this conspiracy theory. The neighbor with the Coke-bottle glasses is tired of talking about it.

Save some hurried tongues for Wayne this Wednesday.