Sean Rima

8.30.2010.

As I stood in the blazing August heat, in the Press section, at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, surrounded by several dozen journalists and bloggers and celebrity preachers and even Chuck Norris, with only a low metal barricade separating me from the estimated crowd of 500,000 of Glenn Beck’s most devoted fans, packed, as they were, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip along the rim of the reflecting pool and up the hill of the Washington Monument several football fields away, and as Alveda King, niece of the late Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., punctuated her speech over and over again with the words, “I, too, have a dream,” and as I quietly stole away to the Media Tent for a bottle of water and a smoke and a bit of shade, I realized—indeed--that I was something of an alien creature amidst this grand spectacle of patriotism, and faith, and community.  I just wasn’t feeling it.  I wasn’t getting the message.  In fact…I felt kind of weird just being there.  Like an interloper.  Like a spy.  Like the only kid at the Christmas party who doesn’t believe in Santa Claus, but is resigned to keeping it to himself, so as not to spoil anyone else’s fun. 

And it felt weird to feel so weird. 

Ordinarily, I whole-heartily agreed with the spiritual platitudes and raw positivism surrounding Beck’s “Restoring Honor” Rally in D.C., and the intense on-air campaign leading up to it.  I, too, respect our troops, and am grateful for the courage and sacrifice of our military personnel.  I, too, believe that a person’s life on this earth will remain largely meaningless without some sort of spiritual connection, either to God, or the Universe, or Whatever You Call It.  I, too, believe that such a spiritual evolution is only possible through unrelenting self-honesty and obsessive personal inventory.  I, too, estimate Political Correctness to be one of our nation’s greatest weaknesses, primarily because it willfully distorts the honesty of discourse in the public square, usually for political reasons, which, as an American, ought to make you barf.  And I, too, believe in the Reverend King’s admonition that a person should judge other people based upon the “content of their character” over such silly things as skin pigment.

Like Glenn, I also unapologetically love America, and honestly believe that it is the best place to live on Planet Earth, given the choice.  Despite her missteps and brutality, America represents the purest of human ideals, her heart pumping a quantum concept of cosmic freedom that no other nation has the stability or confidence to maintain.  We are, as a nation, magnificent.  We are exceptional.  We are represented by every known community on Earth.  We are the world, and what the world would do, if the world could be America.

So, why did I feel so out of place?  And, occasionally…a little creeped-out?

As a Philosophy Major and admitted fan of the Socratic method, I questioned my reactions throughout the day, wondering, silently, if I weren’t just suffering from a bout of jealousy.  Did I envy Beck, and his ability to command such attention?  Did I covet his success?  After all, I’d said for years that I wanted to merge my theology with my work on the radio, and commit myself to a new kind of ministry that would truly set people’s hearts on fire, in a very personal way.  Isn’t that what Glenn was doing, a few yards from me, with the eyes of the national press following his every move and word?  Was I feeling inadequate?  Did I secretly, professionally, hate his stinking, Mormon guts, and was that fogging my perceptions of this experience?

Perhaps.  But as the day continued, and as the heat bore down on the pores like an acid, and as the soaring speeches continued and the crowd roared like a dragon being tossed an endless supply of red, raw meat, the insecure Talk Show Host in me slowly gave way to the Poet, and, weary of the many questions I had, I emptied my mind, and began to simply observe and record information.  As a Poet, I trusted in the idea that whatever I happened to remember about this day would, ultimately, reveal the source of my discomfort.  I’m a ‘noticer’ of things, and in the noticing of life’s random details, I tend to find a measure of truth, and usually quite by accident.

Maybe it was the portraits.  Tall, imposing prints of familiar American heroes, draped over foam replicas of marble columns, framing the main stage.  Abraham Lincoln.  Frederick Douglas.  George Washington.  And, of course, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  Each designed with the same color scheme and style as the famous Obama “Hope” posters.  But this wasn’t about politics.

Or maybe it was Alveda, obviously basking in the personal victory of addressing a massive crowd on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, as “Uncle Martin” had some forty-seven years before.  Then again, his moment was about the right of a person to exist, as a full human being.  I’m not sure what Alveda King’s dream is, but it has something to do with unity, and legacy, and God, and Glenn.  But then again, this wasn’t about race, right? 

Or maybe it was the message itself, which I couldn’t quite figure out.  According to Glenn, something very bad was going to happen unless we, as Americans, “restored honor” to our country.  The way to accomplish this is to focus, in our daily lives, on Faith, Hope, and Charity.  These ideas were so important to Beck’s working philosophy that he had three silver medals fashioned—stamped, of course, with his “Restoring Honor” logo--which he then handed out to those individuals who, I guess, he felt deserved them.  I’ve already forgotten who the recipients were, but it hardly matters.  What’s important is the emphasis he placed on these three ideas, as a means to restoring one’s personal honor, and, in doing so, bring a few molecules of it to the nation as a whole.  Good stuff.  Certainly, it’s a positive message that all of us can easily fold into our worlds without much effort.  For the most part, I tend to view myself as a reasonably faithful, hopeful, and charitable dude, or at least as charitable as I can afford.  I think most people see themselves in much the same way.  Indeed.  Most people, I believe, are good and charitable folk, despite the occasional jerk, or collection of multiple jerks working for some damned political action group. 

What I failed to comprehend was what, exactly, is the Very Bad Thing that’s going to happen to America if I and everyone else do not measure up to Glenn’s standard of Faith, Hope, and Charity?  Sounds pretty dire.  But, of course, this wasn’t about Glenn.  At least that’s what Glenn told the crowd, repeatedly, as he gazed down upon them with tears in his eyes from his thirty-foot TV screens.

Without specifics concerning the endgame of this bad, bad situation Beck feels the country is facing, his spiritual rhetoric loses its cohesiveness, and is reduced to a loose collection of nice ideas and nice things to do.  People shouldn’t lie.  People should watch out for their neighbors.  People should take their religious traditions more seriously.  Again, all good and positive stuff to get folks to consider.  Most people would live better if they did these things as a matter of course.  But lacking a singular, cohesive theme linking his random ideals together, Beck’s impassioned challenge to America, though well intentioned, feels more like amateur evangelism from a guy who is apparently not content with being one of the most successful and influential broadcasters of his generation.  And that’s where some of it falls apart for me, like tugging at a nagging thread on a fluffy Christmas sweater.

As a professional broadcaster myself for over twenty years, it is vital for my show and my sanity that I maintain a healthy separation between the Radio World and the Real World.  The Radio World, by its very nature, is a contrivance.  It’s a fiction.  An entertainment.  A show, designed by the host and his producers to swell the listening audience well into the profit margin.  That’s all it is, and that’s all it ever should be, at least according to my experience.  I’ve found that when the Radio World and the Real World overlap, even by just a few inches, the potential for one to start believing one’s own Press Kit grows…subtly, to be sure, but steadily, over time.  It spreads through the ego like a silent cancer, and poisons the gig.  Until the gig ain’t the gig anymore, and the disconnect sets in, and all that’s left are the lonely echoes of a Radio Guy spending three hours a day talking to himself, about himself.  And then it’s time to hang up the headphones, brother, and go do something else for a living.

My ill-ease during the “Restoring Honor” Rally, I think, had something to do with the gnawing idea at the back of my head that Glenn has not only overlapped these two disparate worlds, he’s fused them together into a single reality for himself.  He’s P. T. Barnum, gone native in his own freaky-deaky American Museum of Curiosities.  My hope for Beck—and remember, I am a fan—is that he doesn’t become a curiosity himself.  At that point, when the barker becomes the monkey mermaid in the jar, the validity of all those wonderful and exciting things he’s asking people to do goes spinning right down the toilet.

Still, for at least 500,000 individuals who spent money they didn’t have to travel across the country, taking time off from work they probably couldn’t afford, just to be there for Glenn’s history-making party on the Mall, last Saturday was a Real World Event, and one they won’t soon forget.  Certainly, they got their money’s worth.

As for me?  Honestly, I kept waiting for the tee-shirt cannons.

Yours in Jesus,

s 

August 20, 2010.

I’m curious about a word, and the word is “ban”.

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, the definition of the word “ban” is:  To prohibit, especially by legal means.  Doesn’t offer much as to why, of course.

Ban.  It is a freaking ugly-ass-sounding word.  Much like “war”.  Leaves a bitter taste on the back of the tongue, like pencil shavings, or crusted, dried blood.     

Unfortunately, it’s a word you hear a lot these days, as someone or some coalition or some humorless community action group is almost always trying to “ban” some damned unhealthy human behavior, on the grounds that it’s bad for humans, despite the fact that humans are the ones who came up with it, and it must be fun--really, really fun--otherwise enough humans wouldn’t be suffering from it in order to warrant a general ban.  Of course, that presupposes the idea that enough people are suffering.  In the dark world of Progressive politics, “enough” might mean “just the idiots you think will vote for you if you make an issue of this.”  What’s surreal about this rather trendy idea of “banning” stuff is that the same ideologues who were, two generations ago, burning their underwear in protest of The Evil Establishment and its Nazi-like oppression of individual rights, now seem to have no problem with “banning” the very same rights, now that they, themselves, are The Establishment.   Philosophically speaking, how does that work?  How can you admonish the government for the continued prohibition of marijuana, and, at the same time, argue for the banning of salt, public prayer, Santa Claus, Mark Twain, Talk Radio, breastfeeding, the Internet, and Happy Meals?

Not that I have anything against the smoking of marijuana.  Personally, I look forward to the day when I can bop on down to the Walgreens and legally pick me up a carton of Marlboro Heebee-Jeebee Menthol Ultra-Doobs, with no questions asked.  But it’s the point, Mang.  If I can buy pot legally, and if I can abort my child legally, I sure as horsecrap should be able to order my kid a freaking 3-dollar chicken nugget Happy Meal with a 9-cent Taiwanese Shrek toy included, legally, if I so choose…?  I mean, that makes sense, right?  If we’re talking about individual liberties?  Beyond that, I figure I’m creating or “saving” thousands of Taiwanese sweatshop jobs, by supporting the world market for plastic Shrek toys.  My favorite is the Donkey doll, who repeats the word “Waffles!” every time you push the back of his head.  Without Donkey, all those poor Taiwanese orphans in all those destitute Taiwanese villages would be eating dirt cakes tonight, instead of rice and a bit of grain.  Seriously.

The experts (specifically, the San Francisco city council) claim that putting toys in Happy Meals markets unhealthy food to children, and adds to the Childhood Obesity Rate, also known as Fat Kid Bloat, but only by me.  As if Ronald McDonald hangs out in the parking lot, in an overcoat, with wild, red eyes and a cigarette hanging from his red clown lips, accosting passing kids, “Hey, Mang, you looking for a My Little Pony?  How’s about an Avatar doll with a 3-D trading card?  I know where you can get ‘em real cheap, dog, and all you got to do is eat one little cheeseburger…” 

The reality (the one many parents are obviously trying to avoid) is that if your kid is fat, it’s your freaking fault, and the Happy Meal and the clown ain’t got nothing to do with it.  The child doesn’t have a disorder, and you’re not a victim.  You’re just a parent with a fat kid.  Banning Happy Meals—and fun in general--won’t do anything except make your kid fat and boring.

Personally, I think we should ban Arrogance…but then again, who would operate the state and federal governments?

Yours,

s 

From August 9, 2010.

President Obama (Barry, to his friends) paid a quick visit to Austin today, stopping off for a 30-minute speech at UT in between fundraising gigs for the Democratic Party.  Obviously, the purpose of the UT speech was to justify his travel expenses on the taxpayer’s dime, for without the UT stop, the Texas trip would have been purely political, and President Barry would have had to hit-up Sir Paul McCartney for food, gas, and lodging.  Or maybe his wife could have wired him some money from the ATM in the lobby of a Spanish resort, in between shots of Sauza and the odd nibble of opera cake.  Whatever the hell.  It was merely a presidential visit, which is why, obviously, Texas gubernatorial candidate Bill White chose not to attend, given his busy campaign schedule required him to appear at an important lunch meeting held in a Whataburger drive-thru in Abilene, roughly about the time the President was slated to speak.  Governor Perry, and his hair, were afforded a two-minute audience with The President, which, in keeping with The President’s deep respect for the people of Texas, took place on the steps of Air Force One, as The President and his entourage made their way to Baggage Claim and the public lavatories.  On the issue of National Guardsmen and border security, the office of the Governor is proud to announce that a dude wearing a black beret and an earpiece assured Gov. Perry on the steps that, “Yeah, right…we’ll get back to you on that real soon, G.”

President Obama then went on to give a speech in a UT gymnasium, surrounded by a throbbing crowd of weeping, hand-picked Poli-Sci and Liberal Arts Majors, most of whom were not wearing underwear, and smelled suspiciously of potting soil.  The theme of the President’s comments involved the idea that young people graduating from college somehow bolsters the economy.  Watching the President’s speech, one gets the idea that if Obama were addressing a tank of pilot whales at Seaworld in San Antonio, he would just as passionately argue that eating sardines and balancing a beach ball off your snout somehow creates, or ‘saves', millions of jobs.  Again, whatever.  These kids are his crowd, and every time the President uttered the word “fundamentally,” a small group of vegans near the front ripped their Che Guevera tee shirts from their backs, and began to self-flagellate using hemp cords knotted with bits of cut bong glass.  A disturbing scene, to say the least.  But not nearly as disturbing as what took place outside the gymnasium.

Down the road from the entrance to the gym were the so-called Free Speech Zones, which amounted to little more than a pair of 7 by 10-foot chicken wire cages which, at full capacity, could hold up to nineteen hippies, or at least eight Tea Partiers between the ages of 35 and 56.  Walking a close perimeter around the cages were several large Mediterranean dudes in leather vests and skullcaps, brandishing long metal rods which they smacked against the side of the cage whenever some poor bastard’s fingers happened to slip beyond the wire.  “Protest all ye wants, ye filthy, pointless rubes!” a witness claims a guard said, “but if ye stick any part of ye outside that cage, I’ll have it for a charm on me keychain!”

Of course, I exaggerate.  A little.

I made up the bit about Mediterranean dudes in leather vests.  But the scourge of Free Speech Zones has been with us for a while, and is most often credited to President G. W. Bush, although the term itself was first coined by the Democratic National Convention in 2008.  That summer, in Denver, a chain link fence was constructed around a small parking lot several hundred yards from the entrance to the Pepsi Center, where then Senator Obama was scheduled to accept his party’s nomination for president.  This is where the Security folks interred over two hundred anti-war protestors and assorted anarchists, who complained they were kept so far from the walkway to the stadium that even Harry Reid couldn’t smell them, let alone read their signs.

This dark tradition of shuffling dissenters off to secured areas far from the eyes and ears of our elected officials continued today at UT, but not for several Austinites who seem to know the Constitution better than the President.  John Bush, Executive Director of Texans for Accountable Government, and four other protestors, were arrested and charged with Criminal Trespass after they refused to enter the Free Speech Zone.  John is an impressive young man who is making quite a name for himself in Texas Libertarian politics.  When asked why he refused to enter the Zone, he replied, “I was freely exercising three of my First Amendment Rights: Freedom to Peaceful Assembly, Freedom of Speech, and Freedom of the Press.”  Well, apparently we arrest people for that sort of thing these days.  And that should really creep you out.  Unless you’re an idiot, a Benadryl addict, a panelist on “The View,” or from France.

There’s little Constitutional argument against the idea that every square mile of public space in the U.S. should be considered a Free Speech Zone.  The authorities at UT claim that even though their institution receives public funding and willfully invites the public to the campus for the odd presidential visit, the university itself is Private Property, so they can do whatever they want to with those smelly, depressing protestors.  Wait a minute.  Just a few decades ago, weren’t our American campuses the one place on Earth where Free Thought and Dissent were encouraged, if not celebrated?

Oh, right, I forgot.  That’s only when a Republican is in office.

Better take the blue pill, Neo.  If you know what’s good for you…

Yours,

s

I apologize for not saying much over the past week, but, to be honest, I’ve been suffering through a rather annoying case of Writer’s Block, and I am one of those obsessive-compulsive-artist-types who would rather write nothing at all, than offer up something sub-par, just to get through a random slump.  Writer’s Block happens, and when it does, it’s like the freaking Berlin Wall going up between your frustrated thoughts and your fingers hovering over the keyboard, and there’s simply no way around it.  You have to let it pass through your system like a cold, or the runs, or a 24-hour flu bug.  And it will pass, as any writer worth half a grain of salt will tell you.  Not that it doesn’t Truly Suck, when you’re in the midst of it.  Especially for someone like me.

I have no hobbies.  I have no “interests”.  I play no sports, I’m not in a band, I don’t go to church, and I belong to no clubs.  I contribute my personal time to no community organizations, whether religious or political, and, in fact, I am so Libertarian that I am philosophically incapable of ever joining the Libertarian Party.  I don’t recycle, hunt, camp, picket, or participate in car washes to raise funds for the local high school band.  I don’t jog, walk, swim, golf, cycle, ice skate, rollerblade, scrapbook, knit, or take Yoga classes, and, until about six months ago, I genuinely believed ‘pilates’ were a Greek pita sandwich involving lamb chunks and grilled onions.  I suppose if getting buzzed-up and listening to very loud music on the headphones were to be considered a “sport,” then I could claim it as such, and, moreover, contact the Olympic Committee with my registration fee.  Still, considering my failing Pete Townshend ears and the increased rarity of this old, dear joy…I’d have to say that even the headphones, cranked-up to eleven, do not offer the same pleasures as they once did, when I was a younger dude, and full of piss and vinegar and sperm and sex and rock and roll.  All things must pass, as George Harrison once said, probably while lighting a fresh Marlboro.  And all things do, in time.  Thankfully.

The fact of my existence is this:  I don’t do anything, and I don’t contribute to society in any measurable way, other than Be With My Family, Do The Radio Show, Read Books, and Write Books.  That’s about it.  These are my four primary activities, as a human being.  And when I am not actively engaged in one of these four activities, you can pretty much find me on the couch, watching The History Channel, or some UFO stuff, or the odd Clint Eastwood movie.

The thing is, I’m cool with this life.  This is who I am.  This is who I’ve always been.

This is who God constructed me to be, for whatever mysterious, mystical reasons.

It’s always interesting to me when I talk to an old friend from high school or college, someone I haven’t interacted with in a few years, and they act surprised at how good my writing is.  It’s not so surprising to me.  I started writing when I was eleven, and I haven’t stopped since.  I have written every day of my life since I was a little kid.  If I’d devoted the same amount of time to learning the guitar, I’d be freaking Eric Clapton.  Which is why I am so proud of a handful of dudes from my graduating class of 1985, who were metal-heads back in the day, and whom everyone made “slacker” and “bong” jokes about, and yet are still playing gigs in their forties.  Now, that’s inspirational! 

I believe the key to happiness in this life is figuring out what it is that you love to do, and then…you know…doing it.  Come what may.  At the age of 42, I have never purchased a new car or a new television set.  I don’t own a house, nor am I any closer to buying one now than I was at the age of 22.  But, I’ve completed three novels, written over four hundred pages of fairly interesting poetry, and published a few dozen blogs, columns, and op-ed pieces along the way.  Beyond that, I earn my paycheck by walking into a studio every day in my Star Wars tee-shirt and Crocs, and acting like a goof-ass for three hours, for the amusement of thousands of people. 

No, I don’t golf, and I sure as hell don’t know what a “handicap” is, beyond the obvious clubfoot or third arm growing out of your torso.  But, whatever the hell, I am, generally, pleased with the way things have gone in my life.  And I am most thankful, every day, for the blessings of my wife and daughter, who truly bring balance to The Force, at least in my universe.  I am even thankful for the moody, bitchy cats and the lazy ass guinea pig.

The problem with this past week is that I have been denied two of my four earthly endeavors, these being Hanging With My Family, and Writing.  As a result, I have been forced to compensate for the lack of these activities, and the spiritual vacuum created therein, by spending even more time on the couch, doing nothing, lots of nothing, other than monitoring the cats, and watching The History Channel.  I know, it sounds dysfunctional, but it isn’t, really.  It’s just my way.  If we were discussing a Heart Surgeon, who was ducking his time in the OR to go home and flop his ass on the sofa for eleven hours or more, primarily to devote himself to Nothing and Non-Thought, then I’d say we need to contact the local Medical Ethics Board.  But I’m…a poet and a talk show host.  It’s not like my wife’s mom was looking me over, thirteen years ago, and saying to herself, “Oh, yeah, he’s the Alpha-Male!”

I yam what I yam, and that’s all that I yam.  And, this past week, I’ve had a killer case of Writer’s Block.  Which is why I didn’t Write.  And now that I have readily admitted this lack, and apologized for it (“Oh, by the way, I’m sorry!”), I am going to walk away from the computer, sink my fat ass into the couch, and watch, on the DVD player, a movie called “Bitch Slap,” which promises extended scenes of cleavage, and angry biker chicks kicking ass.

Yours,

s             

Yes, there are days where I’m almost ashamed to be an active member of the American media.

Woke up this morning, had my prerequisite cup of coffee and nine cigarettes, and, scanning the headlines, came to the subtle realization that maybe Daniel, John, Nostradamus, the ancient Mayans, and The History Channel are right concerning the future of all us Silly-Ass Human Beings on Planet Earth.

Perhaps, my friends, the end is near.

Today’s leading international story is, of course, Lindsay Lohan going to jail.  Not the slow implosion of the global economy, not the BP oil spill and the ongoing destruction of the Gulf Coast, not the immigration wars along our southern border, and certainly not those other pesky wars we’re fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq (we’re still in Iraq, right?).  No, the lead story today involves a rich, substance-abusing ginger chick walking from a car to a door, the car being an expensive, Earth-killing SUV, and the door the entrance to a Beverly Hills courthouse.  Honestly, I think I may barf into my slippers.

It is argued the fall of the Roman empire in the year 476 came about not only as a result of being spread too far and too thin, but also because its citizens were much too busy watching the games, going to cocktail parties, and having really cool orgies involving slow-eyed slave chicks and the occasional boa constrictor.  Certainly, they were just drunk enough not to notice King Odovacer, stinking of beer and sausage, walking up the highway towards the Senate with all those pissed-off Germans.  Imagine how much quicker the transformation of Rome into the Middle Ages would have occurred if the average citizen could’ve watched “Jersey Shore” in Hi-Def while searching porn and reading Us magazine online?  Wow.  No more hoofing it to the coliseum!  I can get it all right here, in the comfort of my own marble living room!  What’s that noise?  Is that…marching?  Sweetie, can you click the volume up a few notches?

Whatever.  Since beginning this piece, Lindsay has made the dash from the SUV to the courthouse, to the screams of “We love you, Lindsay!” and the excited gibbering of a few dozen international journalists.  And I missed it.  Had my back turned to the computer, trying to come up with amusing descriptors for King Odovacer.  Oh, well.

When the End comes, I’ll probably miss that, too.  No worries.  I can always DVR the apocalypse, and check it out after dinner.  Between now and Christmas 2012, I just have to remember to clear out all those old episodes of “City Confidential” and “House, M.D.”

Keeping the faith,

s

What, exactly, does Political Correctness do for the human race?

What person’s crummy situation is improved, what person’s empty belly is filled, what person’s marginalized vote is counted, and which community’s civil rights are honored, whereas before, they were not?  Honestly.  After thirty freaking years of this shrill, yuppified, linguistic nonsense, I really want to know. 

Tonight, during the last half-hour of the show, I very purposefully went on the air with the intention of being as Politically In-correct and offensive as I could be, without violating FCC standards.  I was talking about ‘little’ people.  Specifically, I was raging against all the ‘little’ people shows currently featured on The Learning Channel, Nat-Geo, and even, oddly enough, Animal Planet.  Throughout this rant, I willfully and knowingly utilized the words dwarf, midget, elf, squirt, and Oompa-Loompa.  I didn’t get around to vocalizing the word ‘hobbit,’ but it was there, I assure you, in my mind, just waiting for its number to be called should the right broadcast opportunity arise.  Again, I did all of this for a very specific reason.  I wanted to offend your sensibilities, whether you’re six feet tall, or three feet tall.

Personally, I am disgusted by all the Shrimp Shows on cable TV.  These shows, while couched in corporate marketing that involves sensitive piano-based soundtracks, sensitive, caring voice-overs, and sensitive promotions that assure the viewer this whole experience is about learning, or raising awareness, of the plight of a certain community…really, they’re nothing more than a rolling Freak Show, which, in its effect, is about Normal People feeling better about their Normal Lives, and having Freaky People to look at just to reinforce that illusion.  I call it an “illusion,” because there’s not a single one of us on Planet Earth who does not have an affliction or an abnormality or a handicap that we must either deal with and embrace, or attempt to conceal.  I certainly do.  At least when you’re three feet tall, it’s right out there, for everyone to see.  The inner-handicaps, the invisible ones, can be a real bitch sometimes.  And it hardly matters what you call it, linguistically speaking. 

Beyond this, yes, I have ‘little’ friends.  At least one.  At least, I used to.  And this person is not only one of my oldest, dearest friends, but also one of my most favorite people on Earth.  We don’t talk much anymore, which I understand.  I suspect that has more to do with who I’ve been over the years, in my affliction, than anything else…and, you know, I’m ‘normal,’ and just over five feet tall.  Dearly, I miss our conversations.

Whatever the case, I grew up in an era where the proper term was “Dwarfism.”  Now, it’s something different.  It’s “little.”  Frankly, I hate that term.  I’ve known a few folks who were shorter than me, but the little people I have known were that for some other reason.  They were little because they were jerks.  And that’s how I’ve come to separate the human race.  There are Jerks, and there are Non-Jerks.  There is very little in-between.  I, myself, have been much more little than any little person I have ever known.

As far as the value of Political Correctness, I would pass on this anecdote to you:

A few months ago, during The Big Talker’s coverage of Austin’s SXSW 2010…I was doing a live gig at some place in town during St. Patrick’s Day weekend, and there was a “little” dude running around the place, serving drinks, and interacting with the crowd.  I turned to a friend, and in my conversation, I happened to invoke the word, “dwarf.”  My friend, being much hipper and more socially appropriate than me, corrected me, explaining, “They’re called Little People now.  Watch the dwarf-stuff.”

To which, silently, mentally, I responded, “But he’s dressed-up like a freaking Leprechaun!”

Which he was, making tip-money hand over fist, all the while doing a really bad Irish accent.  Now, you tell me who’s exploiting who.

Yours,

s