Jon Henner's Open Salon Blog

Take Your Boycott and Shove It

Thu, 6 May 2010 01:05:59 -0400

Employing flowering prose is rather worthless in this situation. SB1070 is a clusterfuck of magnificent proportions. The rest of the nation, rightfully so, condemned my adopted state of five years. Several cities, many companies, and a host of individuals are implementing a boycott of Arizona. Arizona’s gasping economy is already feeling the hit. Millions of dollars that could have been used to complete payrolls, allow people to work, and pay taxes, were distributed elsewhere.

2009 and 2010 have not been good years to be a progressive living in Arizona. Our Republican legislature, in a futile attempt to prevent the state from collapsing like an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, employ ideas seemingly brainstormed during a freshman seminar on Economics at Liberty University. And when they’re not diminishing the economic capacity of Arizona for generations at least, the AZ GOP seems hell-bent to appease the God, Guns, Gays, and Greasers contingencies from which many of them hail. Meanwhile, unemployment flirts with 10% and For Sale and For Rent signs are our equivalent of Flamingos and Gnomes.

Nevertheless, we progressives persist. Arizona is our home too. During election years, we’re on the streets, in the forum boards, and in the Letters to the Editor section of our local newspapers. We are the ones defending Arizona from withering attacks from progressives in blue and purple states. I admit that it was tough though, in the immediacy after SB1070, to justify my home. SB1070 passed when I was ready to cross over into Canada during a road trip to Wasilla, to help a friend move. I pondered telling people that I was from Chicago (my home city) instead of Phoenix. It was the equivalent of American world travelers during the Bush years informing people that they were from Canada rather than the States.

The recent boycotts against Arizona solidified my resolve to defend my home. I understand that people are angry at Arizona. Our legislature is shortsighted and unable to understand the consequences of their actions beyond the immediate satisfaction of pandering to the hate of a small section of Arizona’s population and their own fears of being marginalized by an alien culture. But, the legislature and the vocal, hateful minority population is not the entirety of Arizona; however, those perpetuating the boycotts, such as Mario Solich-Marich, seem determined to punish the whole of the state regardless of political affiliation or support for SB1070. The language used in relation to the boycott is downright malicious: Arizona is a cancer that must be cut out, its people must be made to suffer. While I have yet to see calls for all Arizonians be put to the stake, our cities burned, and our fields razed and then salted, I’m sure that is because I have not been looking hard enough.

Boycott proponents point to historical instances where boycotts were used to effectively implement social and economical change. This, of course, is the motivation behind the current Arizona boycotts. The theory is that once the Arizona economy collapses the Legislature here will go “Ooops. Our bad,” and repeal SB1070. I am not sure what will happen after that, but I suppose we will need a Federal bailout or something to jump start our economy again and everyone that lost their jobs, homes, and health insurance during the boycotts can sleep in the streets knowing that their suffering was for a good cause and such. Furthermore, it is rather questionable how much damage the boycotts will do to proponents of SB1070. Arizona already has one of the highest concentrations of senior citizens in the United States. Those folks’ social security checks will not be cut if the Arizona economy collapses.

Boycott supporters do not seem too terribly concerned with what will happen to the businesses that collapse and the people that lose their jobs as result of their actions. But, then again, they also did not seem too terribly concerned with immigration reform until SB1070 passed

I theorize that the reason the boycotts are a popular right now is because they allow people to express their disgust with SB1070 without actually having to effect major changes in their lifestyle. To implement a boycott against a company based in Arizona, such as Petsmart, consumers need only to travel a little further to Petco. To implement a boycott against the state of Arizona, consumers need only to not go. Bonus if they were not actually planning on going in the first place! On some level, this is comparable to the green twitter avatar movement, but with the collective potential of seriously damaging people’s lives. The feeling I get, though, is that collateral damage of that sort is okay as long as it happens to others, specifically others in Arizona. Those others, unfortunately, are my friends and family, and they are not collateral damage to me.

There are other options to a general boycott of Arizona and its businesses, such as donating to the Arizona Democratic party. Or, even holding massed rallies. Those options require actual action and expenditures. In my experience, once progressives find out that they need to spend money or time to effect equity, their passion for it fizzles rather quickly.

If the country is ready to break Arizona and its innocents to make a point, I suppose I have all the chances of stopping that as I do electing a Democratic representative from my district. I hope there is some kind of plan to repair us afterward.

Disclaimer: My sister works in Petsmart Corporate. She lives in the same political district as me, has the same political leanings, and absolutely does not support SB1070. I do not believe that she is willing to lose her job so that the rest of the Nation can express its displeasure with SB1070.

Bop-pa

Thu, 6 Aug 2009 01:08:29 -0400

Dying in the ICU is a numbers game; a colors game. A green, red, yellow, and blue game. As humans, we’re conditioned to quantify everything. We stare at score boards, ticker tapes, and polls. Our joys crescendo when the numbers are right and diminuendo at other times. With sforzando, everything freezes. The swirling colors on the floor of the Chicago Merc blur and wash out. The people walking besides us press their noses against the viewing glass. It’s a numbers game; a colors game. And, in the ICU, a fatal game.

A year ago, we decided that Hellspawn was old enough to make the long trip and it was time to introduce him to his Great-Grandparents. Like so many times over the years, I pulled up to the house and saw Grandpa towering in his doorway. When I was younger, he’d pull me up and hug me close enough that I could feel his stubble brush against my face and smell his smell and see his blue eye dilate as they focused on me. Grandpa did the same with my son; grabbed him and hauled him laughing to his face.

Those blue eyes were reeling by the time I arrived at the ICU on Saturday. It was my third attempt at seeing my Grandfather after his stunning Pancreatic Cancer diagnosis. The first two times I planned on going, my mother cautioned me not to attend. The Grandparents weren’t able to handle the Hellspawn’s typical energetic torrent so soon after the diagnosis, and then Grandpa was in too much pain to be able to tolerate having someone so naïve and joyful around. The last time, my wife agreed to take time off from her schedule and watch Hellspawn. I left before the sun came up. When I crossed the California border, my sister texted me and let me know that Grandpa’s kidneys failed during the night. Mom told me to stop by my Grandparent’s house, but when the right exit came up, I drove past it and headed straight to Eisenhower Hospital. Then, I parked my car, grabbed my laptop bag, and ran to the main building. On the way, I passed two men exiting the Cancer center. They paused to watch my rapid flopping and their sunken eyes clutched at my health.

Locked doors and a telephone guarded the entrance to the ICU. I begged a nurse to call me in. She did and the doors swung open to a rather drab room, almost empty except for my Grandfather, my Aunt, and my Grandmother. I tried to run to them, but the nurse grabbed me and started talking things that I couldn’t understand. My Aunt quickly went over and pulled me to my Grandfather’s bed. The nurse looked us over and decided to let protocol lapse.

“Talk to him,” begged my Aunt. “Let him know you’re here.” I looked down at my Grandfather. When I was a child, my Grandfather was my everything. I wanted to do what he did; be what he was. He was a baseball player in the Major League Farm system. I tried T-Ball and decided that I liked playing video games more. He was a dedicated and beautiful French Horn player. I tried to join Band in the fifth grade, when all my peers were choosing the instruments that would define their educational music journeys. The teacher told me no Deaf child would ever be allowed to play a musical instrument in her group. It just wasn’t possible or done. He drank scotch every night for his heart. Glenlivet. Macallan. 12 year. The day I turned 21, I went out and bought some Glenlivet. It burned my throat and made my eyes water. I couldn’t hack it. Grandpa was in the Navy. I was 4F. Grandpa boxed. When I was growing up, Grandpa would come up to me and ask me to punch his stomach. Even at 60, 70, it was harder than mine. I was punched at once in my life and forgot to duck. Later, after my nasal reconstruction surgery, Grandpa asked me why I couldn’t even block the punch like he taught me when I was younger.

I looked down at Grandpa. The nurse just finished taking out the tube that breathed for him, and he was gasping. The blue numbers showed 100% and the green lines looked like the mountains ringing Phoenix: high peak, dip, peak, valley, high peak. “Hi.” The blue eyes turned. “Hi.” He never spoke again.

Later, while sitting Shiva, I told my mother that I wish I said something different. I wished I talked about Hellspawn. Like, how Hellspawn’s vocabulary was rippling through our vernacular sea. How every day he grew larger and stronger. And, that one day, I was going to have him learn the French Horn so he could be like his Great-Grandfather and that no one was going to tell him that he couldn’t do something because of a blasted disability. And, I wanted to tell him that he was my hero, but I couldn’t do that because what exactly to you tell someone who’s laying in the ICU with the blasted, infernal numbers games next to the bed screeching about this alarm or that alarm, and everyone knows how the game’s going to end even through we’re all deluding ourselves.

Through out the day, more family members arrived. My aunt’s husband came in from Los Angeles. My sister ran sobbing through the ICU doors. My mother and father trailed after her. My uncle and his wife flew in from Colorado. My uncle, a hard man prone to popping in and out of my life, someone who when I was a child called Uncle Knight for his uncanny resemblance to David Hasselhoff in Knight Rider, walked to my Grandpa’s bed, stared into those blue eyes, and started sobbing. During those hours, we watched the gasping. We stared at the numbers game.

The yellow numbers fell first. Bereft of sound, I had been tracking my Grandfather’s life by watching his throat shudder with effort. When the numbers game finished, the shuddering slowed until it no longer happened.

Hellspawn went to visit Grandpa and Grandma in March, with my sister and my mother. They invited me along, but I declined to go. A weekend without the Hellspawn was just too delicious to pass up. I planned on spending it lounging, without being beholden to someone’s every need. If I wanted to nap, I could. If I wanted to play video games until my eyes bled, I could. If I wanted to stay up late and then sleep in the next morning, I could. The next day, after sleeping in past 9 (a rare treat, indeed), I woke up to a text from Mom explaining that Hellspawn and Grandpa were fast and inseparable friends. Grandpa played the Horn and Hellspawn begged him to play for hours after. “Bop-pa, more, go,” he’d ask.

Tuesday, at the funeral, Hellspawn saw the Horn section, friends and bandmates of my Grandfather, and fussed until we walked over together, past the Naval honor guard, and the plain, pine box covered by an American Flag. We stayed next to the Horn players for the duration of the services. At the end of it all, the Horn players played.

Hellspawn tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention.

“Bop-pa. Bop-pa.” He pointed off to a lone tree at the far end of the graveyard. I broke down.

Tumbleweeds

Wed, 8 Jul 2009 00:07:20 -0400

The temperature in Phoenix is finally above 100. It’ll hang there until September, at the earliest. Walking outside is like dredging through molasses. The heat slows everything down. Occasionally, a jackrabbit makes a mad, almost suicidal dash across the pavement. If the cars don’t get it, the blacktop will. Each hop draws water from the bottom of its soles, and water has been scarce lately. We are all waiting for the monsoon rains. Some areas received a light sprinkling, but out here, in the west, we’ve only had the metallic wet smell of dusty air (get over here, already).

Our plants are suited for desert life, but after weeks of no rain, even they begin to look weary. First, the tips of their spikes/leaves/feathery things begin to wither. Then, the limbs. Finally, the entire body turns brown. Some plants are lucky to release their roots and flee across the desert landscape after dying, but most become some sort of biomass on the ground. Eventually the rains come, but not yet.

I haven’t heard much about the recession in the news. Perhaps I’m not reading the right outlets, but it seems to me that many Americans have come to realize that if they were going to lose their jobs, they would’ve by now. Or, maybe, Americans are focused on more important things, like Obama smoking cigarettes, celebrity deaths, and whether or not Jon and Kate fuck as hard as they fight. If Marijuana were legal, we could all take a drag and go man, whatever man, fuck it man, but it isn’t so our drugs are on T.V. and in the trash rags that line the Supermarket check out aisles. Farrah’s hair and Brittany’s cellulite provide some small comfort; a little toke to remind us that even the wealthy have nasty bodies and sickness and sucky things.

Phoenix is a desert plant, nestled in the valley of varying mountain ranges. In the west, there are the White Tanks. The southwest has the Sierra Estrellas. In the south looms South Mountains. There’s also the SanTans, the Superstitions, the Goldfields, the Usery, and the McDowells. It hasn’t rained for a bit and the tips of Phoenix are dying. In the Northwest area, where I live, massive door locks and for-sale signs are as common as lizards bolting when the front doors of any building open. Daily, we observe the moving trucks barrel down our residential roads. Two years into this Recession and Phoenix is still slowly dying.

My wife and I play morbid games to keep us entertained. “Remember that sushi place we ate at a couple of months ago, and it wasn’t very good. They didn’t even have any eel?” “Yeah.” “Well, it shut down the other day. Not only that, but the pizza place next door to it, and the gelato place behind it closed down, too.”

“Remember that custard place we really liked and where Hellspawn found that he could get free sweets by batting his eyelashes at the girls?” “What about it?” “Well, it went.”

“Remember the BBQ place that your parents took us out to about a week after we announced that I was pregnant?” “I remember that place. They offered free salsa but all the tomatoes in it were canned.” “It folded.”

We drive past blocks of empty office buildings, with commercial lease signs hanging in their windows. There must be hundreds of thousands of available square feet in the five-mile berth. It’ll be years before they’re all filled, if they’re filled at all. Our town isn’t exactly a business magnet. Before the Housing Bubble, the Northwest area of Phoenix was known for three things: its legions of old people, its legions of medical buildings, and its legions of services targeting old people. The Bubble brought in a younger demographic, and a shadow demographic of investors that shriveled and died when the banks combusted.

Across the street, there used to live a family of four. The youngest daughter was around Hellspawn’s age. He used to sing to her and then attempt to steal her sippy cup. They’re gone. About a month ago, they found out that the owner of their home hadn’t been paying the mortgage. The house went into foreclosure and was auctioned off. The new owners wanted the family out within thirty days. So, there was a lot of trash and cardboard boxes, and one afternoon, a moving truck barreled down our residential street and they went.

Every morning, Hellspawn learns to swim at the local pool. In the beginning, there was I, and a lot of mothers. They looked askew at me. Lately, I’ve been noticing more fathers splashing in the water. More pasty beer bellies. More sagging chest hair. More baldness. Less breast implants and bikinis. Most of Phoenix’s economy relied on construction and other typically male, blue-collar work. Everyone’s out of a job and everyone’s finding that the gender dynamics are flipped, perhaps irreversibly. It’s more fun to take the kid splashing in the pool than it is to wake up and grind through traffic. No matter how demanding the kid is, one can always put them down for a nap. No one can force an adult boss to nap. And, no matter how hard stay-at-home moms complain, stay-at-home dads are finding that the work really isn’t that hard (if one doesn’t mind the stinky diapers and the incessant whining and sometimes one just wanna, ooh).

My biggest fear is that eventually, the tips of Phoenix will crumble. We’ve been lucky, so far, that where we live is a retirement destination. Their money will keep some of the local businesses afloat. But, we need the rains to come (jobs, lovelies, jobs. I could use one), otherwise the whole of Phoenix will barrel down the desert, likely in the direction of California (with a large smattering back towards the Midwest, were a lot of us came from).

UPDATE

Pretend_Farmer has a nice response-cum-appendum that I think deserves reading in addition to this post. You can find it here

http://open.salon.com/blog/pretend_farmer/2009/07/08/jon_henner_cindy_ross_and_the_rest_of_you_phoenicians

Neat, baby, neat.

Fri, 3 Jul 2009 03:07:42 -0400

Straight up. There’s no other way to enjoy Memphis, other than straight up. Neat. Pure, baby. One grabs Memphis by the bottle and chugs it down. One does not savor Memphis as much as one consumes it. Memphis is that girl that likes it rough; pull on her hair, thrust a couple of times, then bend over to whisper in her ear. Baby, I like it when you move like that, Memphis. It is, after all, a city that built a fucking pyramid on a place called Mud Island, and has a gigantic shrine to one of the tackiest singers that ever graced the Vegas stages.

When I came to Memphis, I did what any other tourist would do and made my way over to Beale Street. Beale Street, at one time, was a nourishing environment for Black leadership, activism, and music. But, by the time I rolled around, it wasn’t anything better than a tourist attraction, designed to suck the most amount of money from visitors while providing the least authentic experience. Oh, there were girls, and rows and rows of motorcycles. Their riders strolled around, leathers stinking with full colors blazing where appropriate. I gave a wide berth when possible. Few riders are authentic road gangsta’s, but many will pound the closest challenge just to make their balls swell a few centimeters more in diameter.

The neon lights were making me horny, so I ducked inside one of the many restaurants in search of beer, fried pickles, low-rise jeans, and a good rhythm to replace the one in my pants. Some deep, brown eyes seated me in the corner and I ordered beer and fried pickles. Some sweaty, leather pants served me, and I kept ordering more beer just to see the pants again.

The music was canned and the food was scraped from the very bottom of the grease pits, but I was drunk and the evening lingered. Across from me, old men played the same flats and sharps that they’ve played every night since they answered want ads for cooks, but instead, found themselves whinging on strings in a solid attempt to emulate the Blues. Pathetic, for sure, but the tourists didn’t know any better, and occasionally they had deaf patrons who thought they knew the Blues, but instead found themselves knowing bad fried pickles more.

I escaped the whirl of sweaty folks trying to bring the French Quarter to central, west Memphis (grab her hips tight and hold on, brother) and made my way to the banks of the Mississippi.

The first time I saw the Mississippi, I was riding west on my way to observe an oral school for the Deaf. That evening, my bike’s radiator blew on the Poplar Street Bridge and cars honked at me while I tried to escape the traffic and figure out my next move. The last time I saw the Mississippi, before I moved to Arizona, I was crossing the near the same bridge, and it looked like the river was on fire, but of course it wasn’t and it was just the sun, but just the same it burned away my past in the Midwest.

For all my crossings and my flights overhead, I had never actually touched the Mississippi, although I did come close when I decided to see how far I could see down the banks, when I was in New Orleans, and I almost found myself swimming (had I gone in, I would’ve likely not surfaced until the waters overflowed during Katrina and then I may have been counted in that ugly toll, but at least I would’ve amounted to something). Now in Memphis, and walking alongside the banks of the big river, I decided that I needed to touch it, just to feel the waters run through my fingers (and maybe catch a sense of Abe Lincoln, or Huck Finn, or some other fictional character that lives mostly in books, quotes, and the imagination).

Near the pier was some river gambling boat. It was as good as spot as any to dip my fingers in. And, I did; I did dip my fingers in. Then, I drove back to my hotel on Poplar, the one with the bar off the lobby (which is one of the reasons it was recommended to me), and ordered a scotch of something cheap and off the shelf.

Neat, of course. Like Memphis. Straight up.

Then

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 16:06:05 -0400

Then, I noticed the changing of seasons not by the usual indicators; foliage embossing or withering, animals coming or disappearing for months at a time, and rising and falling energy bills, but by women.

In the Summer, there were the mini-skirts, or the figure-showing white Capri’s, where when the sun hits at the right angle, an observant viewer could catch a shade, or an outline, of panties. Titillating, for sure, because I could tell when the wearer wanted to keep their private lines hidden through the use of matching or lacking underwear. Catching a hint of her secret was like stumbling on someone’s hidden trove; thrilling and shaming, with just the right amount of erotic joy.

In the Fall were the waist-huggers, the long legged denim with flares, boot-cut, Uggs. Maybe naked toes in flip-flops, trying to grab the last bit of heat before being hidden until the spring. Winter came with scarves, floppy, long, colorful; and dancing hats with various furry adornments, both real and fake.

Every Winter, I rode until the first frost crept across the pavement. Then, I disconnected the battery, dropped fuel stabilizer in the tank, and turned off the lights on one of few things that gave me joy.

In the Spring, I brought my bike out of hibernation, right about the time the heavy jackets opened up to reveal cleavage again, like flowers feeling the sun’s warmth on their petals. Like most motorcycles, the VFR kept its battery beneath the seat. Getting the seat off was a bit like unhooking bra-straps. A few jiggles there and a deft hand exposed exactly what I wanted to handle. Occasionally, I needed a bit of lube and sweet-talking to make sure everything came off smoothly. Once in its nakedness, I could touch a few things and make its engine rumble.

Every man I’ve talked to remembers his first, and he rides her occasionally in his head. And, she’s no different from the day they first discovered one of the best parts of being human; gangly, awkward, with strange smells, movements, sensations, and sound. The bike growled as it made its way through the fuel-stabilized mess and I pressed my legs tightly against the fuel tank. I couldn’t hear the small sounds that foretold shit happening, but I could usually sense variations in the engine vibrations. Then, the sharp clunks of first gear engaging, and a few twists just to send the revs up. Some times, a man needs to pump harder for the sheer pleasure of it, and then, there’s go.

Some times, there was a girl on the side of the road, and I saw her looking all coy-like, shy-there, and hey there’s that smile that says pull over. So, I did and what do you know, I had another helmet banging off the rear end so, why doesn’t she and that smile of hers take a ride with me somewhere north, possibly where the road curves through the barren corn-fields and the first shoots of Spring makes its way through the thawing soil? So, we headed north, and possibly a bit to the west, past the old, truck stop strip club where the mothers with green teeth gyrated to hair-metal, and all the farmers looked for other ways to plow and plant or occasionally find hard fronds rather than soft ones. With a little smirk on my face, I’d plant the throttle down just to feel her grasp me harder, with her legs, her arms, and the pillows buttressing my back.

And when we reached the edge of Spring, and I could tell because the jackets that had slowly shorn fresh cleavage to the Sun had finally been shelled, revealing the Woman in the near Summer; hints of freckles against pale skin and maybe a bit too much perfume, we disembarked to listen to the Cows bleat possibly their second or maybe fourth stomach’s contents. Rather, she listened and I did my best to try.

Deafness is like being thrown into a room of water. All the senses are available except for one and no matter how hard one tries, there’s nothing but the water in the ears. Some times, though, I imagined myself swimming to the shores and getting close enough that I could feel the ground beneath my feet, or at least the knob of the door shutting all the water in the room, but then I’d realize that those glimmers of sound were nothing more than possible memories, or my brain imagining what sound was or could be.

When the Sun fell out of the sky, we returned to Normal, in a literal and figurative sense. If I got lucky, I could unwrap my legs from the bike and wrap them around her. If I wasn’t, there was always a bottle of something or other in my refrigerator that gave me a different kind of wow-ness.

I still tell time by Woman, only now, I’ve married my favorite clothes model. In the Summer, there’s the white Capri’s with the hidden secrets. In the Fall, there’s the denim flow. In the Winter, there’s the scarves, and in the Spring, there’s the first peek of cleavage. I stopped riding when my son was born (except for in my dreams. No rider ever truly stops), but occasionally, when the will is right, I rev my car engine just because occasionally, a man need to pump faster for the pleasure of it. And, hey, there she is in front of the house, hey munchkin, how about we go pick her up and maybe see if we can hear through the ocean again?