A Journal of Humor and Verbal Anarchy

 

un-heroes

It's not easy being a Progressive in an unprogressive, retro-50's, cartoon-patriot world. Not a single day goes by that America doesn't seem to be slipping back into the days of J. Edgar Hoover, the Cold War, the hoola hoop and the quicksand of universal blandness. To most of the world, we represent the bully on the block, thugs with laptops, warmongering hoodlums ready to take over someone else's oil wells without a 'please, beg your pardon' or even a nod from the UN.

Here in liberal Ithaca, folks walk around with signs, 'Not in my Name.' We have French Festivals to celebrate Gallic resistance to the imperial Bush agenda. Ithacans visiting Europe this year will probably walk around with buttons that read 'I Apologize' or 'Wasn't Me.' Or, how about pinning the ticket stubs from the last bus trip to DC to protest against the war on your lapel instead of an American flag?

Progressives feel isolated, alone, cut off. The media establishment has sold out to the other side. It's not worth buying the Sunday New york Times except for the exercise of carrying it home or hauling it out to the curb on recycling day. Thomas Friedman waffles between writing editorials on 'Why They Hate the US' and pushing Israeli war bonds. There's hope, however, today. The Times is reporting that Ariel Sharon criticized Israel's occupation of the West Bank. That's like Goebels coming out against the Holocaust.

So what do you do? what do you read,? What do you teach your children?

Che Guevera didn't write any children's books. At least none that have turned up anyway. Subcommandante Marcos isn't making the round of talk shows. He seems content sucking his pipe, itching under his ski mask and wearing the wrong kind of ammunition around his shoulders for the gun he's lugging. You can buy Zapatista gear for your kids down to the ski masks and bandoliers with fake bullets but they'll still be mistaken for right wing Colombian paramilitary.

Kids need heroes. If you don't supply them with examples, the little suckers will start aping Arnold Schwatzennager, or playing with Tom Clancy video games filled with images of techno-mayhem and laser-guided murder. All the left wing heroes are in the past. Today's heroes, whether they be in the jungles of Chiapas or the streets of Seattle wear face masks. Let's face it, kids aren't impressed with the likes of Leon Trotsky, Emma Goldman. Joe Hill, Malcolm X and Huey Newton. They're looking for real life, action heroes with whom they can identify.

That's why Ez has started to write a children's book in his spare time. He's only got the rough draft of the story line down so far. As usual, he's eager to share.

The hero of Ezra's story is named Don QuicksOat. As you may have already guessed, the story is based on Cervantes' Don Quixote. Hey, everything is a rehash today. All the great stuff was already written between 1400 and 1960. If Disney can rip off the classics, why can't Ezra?

Don is an unlikely hero. If he wasn't an unlikely hero, would he really be a hero? The Marine Corps stamps out likely heroes, makes them run around in the hot sun with 80 pounds of gear, spend hours practicing bayonet techniques, combat killer flies in places like Georgia or North Carolina. Those guys are either going to turn out to be true heroes or they get shipped off to the Pentagon to walk around in a maze trying to figure out where the men's room is.

He was an organic farmer who lived in a tiny, home-made cabin on the outskirts of EcoVillage. His neighbors could all afford $150k condos with solar panels and built-in cappuccino bars but Don lived in relatively obscure poverty, scraping out an existence growing organic rhubarb and cucumbers. He dreamed of combating the spreading evil of genetically modified foods, super-pesticides that cause birth defects in bunny rabbits, and big argribusiness. In other words, he wanted to be a Green Knight.

One day, Don woke up from a fitful night's sleep spent on his lumpy futon rescued from the Salvation Army. He had dreamed all night of building windmills to harness natural energy. Suddenly he knew for certain that he was the chosen one; he was being called to a mission. He had to go out and stop WalMart from building a 75,000 sq. ft. megastore next to the Sacred Gorge, a giant monstrosity that would block out the scenic splendor and leach contaminants like motor oil into the water table. Many other eco-knights had tried but failed. Big boxes had slowly crept over the landscape of Ithacaland. There were big box bookstores, big box drugstores, big box grocery stores, big box laundromats, big box liquor stores, big box one hour photomats. Big boxes everywhere. Little hippie boutiques were languishing on the vine from competition with nationally franchised businesses. It made Don sad.

The source of Ithacaland's distress was the evil Mayor, Alan Cohen, also known as the developer's friend. Al Cohen lived where ever some big Syracuse construction mogul or Ithacaland real estate baron paid the rent. The slippery politician hadn't filed a financial disclosure form in years. Unlike Don, he looked like a knight of the round table, possibly Sir Lancelot with his scrubbed, altar boy looks. Don, on the other hand, looked like he had slept in a dumpster or fallen in a pothole. Alan Cohen never met a developer he didn't like. Whether it meant dishing out 25 year tax abatements, surrendering 250 parking spots, or forcing small business owners out using the City's right of eminent domain, Al was ready to do whatever was required to feather his own nest and turn Ithacaland into a facsimile of Los Angeles.

Don raced out of his cabin, collected some redeemable cans and bottles to buy breakfast at Collegetown Bagels. Don always had the same thing for breakfast. Organic tofu spread on an organic sesame seed bagel with a sprout of organic lettuce thrown in for color. He liked to wash it down with a cup of Gimme Coffee Sumatra blend with Swiss-processed water.

Outside the bagelry, Don met Sancho Lopez. Sancho was pulling Red Bull cans out of a recycling bin. He looked like your average upstate NY MesoAmerican wearing a seedy Army jacket, a cross between the Noble Savage and a Bowery bum but, next to Don, Sancho looked pretty well groomed. A knight needed a groom. So, after exchanging pleasantries like 'Got any extra change, man', Don talked Sancho into following him into battle for the Holy Cause. It didn't hurt that Don knew the location of a fraternity dumpster filled with Corona empties.

Don needed a trusty steed to complete his knightly equipage. So the two of them, knight and groom, trekked out to the salvage yard on the Danby Road. They spent the entire day searching among the rusted hulks of VW's, Suburus, and bombed out Hondas. Finally, Don spotted the filly of his dreams. The sun refused to gleam on the rust-encased chassis. It was a '68 Volvo with a murky gray finish, if you could call it that. The poor thing was covered with bumper stickers that went back to the Bay of Pigs and the nuclear disarmament movement of the 60's. A Black Panther strike fist covered the entire trunk. But, even with 375,000 miles on the engine, the thing was still running. Don slapped down his $150 and drove out of the yard with Sancho behind the vehicle supplying some motive power.

It's time now to say a little about Don's girl friend. In Don's eyes, she was the fairest of the land. A maiden of the purest order. Her name was Kali after some fierce ancient Indo-European blood-sacrifice demanding goddess and she was a Lieutenant-Colonel and Defense Minister in the Wymen's Underground Army. Kali generally wore a sexy camouflage outfit with hobnailed boots, a bandolier, a tee-shirt with the ferocious image of Lorena Bobbitt carrying a butcher knife on the front. The criss-crossed tribal scars on her face accentuated the luster of her skin and highlighted her close to the scalp crew cut.

There wasn't anything that Don wouldn't do for Kali. He dreamt of winning great battles against Monsato and DuPont to prove his worthiness for her love. In more mundane moments, he fantasized that one day they would live together in an eco-palace in the woods and raise free ranging chickens.

Anyway, back to our un-heroes. Ezra, in his rough draft, leaves them trying to get their rusted out Volvo up Buffalo St. to do battle with the Big Red Dragon that lives in a cave on top of the hill, and spews out foul plutonium contaminated breath on the hapless citizens below.

Actually, that's as far as Ezra has gotten in the plot. He's sure the whole thing will make a great movie too. And a sequel. People need inspiring, progressive, politically correct, nonsexist, non-eurocentric stories to tell their kids.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 1:48 PM