Why Don’t We Just Sell Texas?

• Ahh.  Back to work today.  I’ve been getting jerked around by a small town police department on my quest for a chauffer’s license.  Yes, it was my own damn fault that I waited until my third week to seek out something I was required to have by my fifth.  Yes, I’d experienced the indifference and abominable lack of public service effort that cops exude.  Still.  Pain in the ass.  So, I was suspended on Monday, my 31st day in the system.  It was a shame, since it was beautiful day whose warmth had me more motivated than I’d ever been as a cabbie.  I called the traffic sergeant when I learned I was suspended—for the second or third time in the past week without a return phone call—and as I was hanging up after leaving voicemail, I saw the sergeant’s call waiting.  I made an appointment for the next morning.  I went in Tuesday, but forgot my passport, the one (out of a dozen) required items I needed for the license.  He wouldn’t let me run home and get it, which would’ve taken 45 minutes tops; instead, he told me to call and make another appointment.  I called Tuesday, then again Thursday, and didn’t hear back.  I left cordial, concise messages.  Today I finally went to my company’s main office to beg a commuting of my suspension, as I’d been advised by my fleet manager Milan (a fucking character, let me tell you.)  On my way there I called and left another voicemail for Sergeant Givesnotafuck, which he responded to just ten minutes later.  The gist was that a new traffic sergeant was starting Monday and that I should call back then; this current one does not want to inconvenience his replacement by setting any appointments for him.  Which I understood, and concluded that the sergeant I’d met was retiring—he’s about that age—and had already half-retired on the inside.  I got my suspension lifted until the 14th, giving me what should be plenty of time to get the one chauffer’s license and take it to the bordering town where the process will be much easier on account of having the first license.  Phew.  A feeling of dread left me.  It was 50 degrees and a little sunny.  I wound up getting a fare in a northwest suburb a bit after four o’clock.  The customer wanted to go downtown to some bistro on Wabash, to retrieve their car.  I figured they’d gotten drunk and left it there, wisely enough.  Naively, though, the customer insisted than rather than take the Kennedy I ought to take local streets all the way there.  It was a flat rate, their dime, so I didn’t give a shit.  But the reasoning behind his decision was that “90 isn’t moving at this hour.”  And it’s definitely jammed on a late Friday afternoon, yes, but it generally moves at higher average speed than fucking local streets with their traffic and stoplights.  So we went.  It took awhile.  He tipped me pretty well.  But then the rain had begun; it was dark and the temperature was dipping.  No matter what I did with the vent and internal temperature controls, I couldn’t keep my windshield defogged; I gripped a clump of tissues as I drove, wiping the glass for a decent view every 20 seconds or so.  I had to return to the burbs empty, since I don’t have authorization to work in the city (our sister company covers it.)  I figured I’d go home.  I’d made a good buck, and been up since 8 am.  Early to bed maybe, and up again in the morning to work a full day tomorrow. 
• If you follow this blog, or if we keep in touch and dish dirt on Facebook, you may have noticed that I’ve been a little muted when it comes to political discourse in this country.  I’ve touched on this before.  But I just want to say, again: this country is sick as shit and stupid as fuck.  I may hop on here to vent occasionally, but my engagement in any discussion is limited.  I still pay attention, peripherally, and continue to read books and such that are reasoned, forward-thinking and whose ideas are applicable to The State of the Union.  But I’m just sick to death.  I’m too emotional.  And while I may have said that before, I didn’t illustrate my main problem, which is that most people’s political “knowledge” exists in a vaccuum of presuppositions.  Their historical context is limited to their lifetime or just a few decades beyond.  Capitalism, in their minds, is the only system we have (they’re oblivious to the fact that part of human evolution is developing new systems.)  It may not be perfect, but it’s there.  They can’t imagine anything else.  Fuck man, there’s no imagination.  And I can’t take the batshit insane war cries from the Right on Fox News, etc., nor can I listen to the outrage of liberal pundits lorded over by corporations.  As long as Fox News is in existence, I think it’s somewhat beneficial to have Maddow and Co. on MSNBC, and Stewart and Colbert on Comedy Central, whose shows are superior to any news shows while also being more subversive and more entertaining.  These are good gateways to progressive thinking, but they aren’t reliable sources for anything revolutionary.  That shit’s available on the internet and in libraries.  It’s available in the streets.  It’s available within us.  We just have to first towel off all the shit we’ve had our heads dipped in since we were first able to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. 
• I wanted to talk about other things, but I’m tired and in need of some relaxation before I go to bed.  On March 22, Al Burian and Liam Warfield, two fantastic underground writers, will be appearing at Quimby’s along with Anne Elizabeth Moore, who I’m sad to say I’m not familiar with.  If you’re in the Chicago area you should check it out.  If not, find the things these people have published, purchase them and read them.  I don’t know what Liam has in print but you can enjoy him at his website Secret Beach; there’s a link to both that and Burian’s blog to your left.  I mean on the left side of your computer screen; no need to turn your head like that, wiseass.  Here’s a link to that Quimby’s event: http://www.quimbys.com/blog/store-events/burn-collector-15-zine-release-event-with-al-burian-anne-elizabeth-moore-and-liam-warfield-on-322/