February 3: A Terrible Ghastly Silence, Radio Serials, Maroon 5

The Vogons have just informed the inhabitants of the Earth that they have two minutes to live . . .

Uncomprehending terror settled on the watching people of Earth.  The terror moved slowly through the gathered crowds as if they were iron filings on a sheet of board and a magnet was moving beneath them.  Panic sprouted again, desperate fleeing panic, but there was nowhere to flee to.

Observing this, the Vogons turned on their PA again.  It said:

"There's no point in acting all surprised about it.  All the planning charts and demolition orders have been on display in your local planning department in Alpha Centauri for fifty of your Earth years, so you've had plenty of time to lodge any formal complaint and it's far too late to start making a fuss about it now."

The PA fell silent again and its echo drifted off across the land.  The huge ships turned slowly in the sky with easy power.  On the underside of each a hatchway opened, an empty black square.

By this time somebody somewhere must have manned a radio transmitter, located a wavelength and broadcast a message back to the Vogon ships, to plead on behalf of the planet.  Nobody ever heard what they said, they only heard the reply.  The PA slammed back into life again.  The voice was annoyed,  It said:

"What do you mean, you've never been to Alpha Centauri?  For heaven's sake, mankind, it's only four light-years away, you know.  I'm sorry, but if you can't be bothered to take an interest in local affairs that's your own lookout.

"Energize the demolition beams."

Light poured out of the hatchways.

"I don't know," said the voice on the PA, "apathetic bloody planet.  I've no sympathy at all."  It cut off.

There was a terrible ghastly silence.

There was a terrible ghastly silence.

There was a terrible ghastly silence.

The Vogon Constructor Fleet coasted away into the inky starry void.

Is this the end of the planet?  Will the Vogons listen to reason?  (If Arthur Dent's predicament is an indicator, the planet is doomed.)  It's all like one of those old-time radio or movie serials, where the hero is trapped on a cliff with a pack of hungry lions charging toward him.  How will our hero escape certain annihilation?  Stay tuned for the next episode of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  (On a side note, Hitchhiker's began its life as a BBC radio comedy series in 1978 before it was adapted by Douglas Adams for other medias.  So, in essence, it WAS a radio serial.)

It is Sunday, so I feel the Vogon breath of Monday breathing down my neck, telling me that the weekend is about to come to an end.  Strangely, the speed of weekends always catches me by surprise.  It seems like I just left work on Friday, a great weight lifting off my shoulders, and now I'm strapping that weight back on for another five days.  Five . . . long . . . days.  Of work.  Of teaching.  Of sleep deprivation.

So, you will forgive me if I feel like I'm trapped on a cliff right now, with lions bearing down on me.  Is this the end of our hero?  Will he jump off the cliff and plunge to his death?  Will he be torn to shreds by ravenous jungle cats?  Will he survive?

Tune is tomorrow for the next thrilling episode of Saint Marty Versus Ming the Merciless Monday!!  (Another side note, Ming the Merciless was the villain in the sci-fi movie serial Flash Gordon.)

ADDENDUM:

Yes, I will be watching the Maroon 5 Super Bowl half-time show tonight, despite the controversy.  I understand and sympathize with the ideological position taken by Colin Kaepernick.  I think that he was fired by the NFL for exercising his First Amendment right.  Kaepernick was not being disrespectful of veterans, the flag, or the country.  He was making a stand, pointing out a problem that exists in this country, just like Susan B. Anthony, Martin Luther King, and Harvey Milk did.

I am not a fan of testosterone-fueled sports.  I don't watch football, ever.  I watch the Super Bowl for the commercials and the half-time show and the snacks.  That's it.  I don't care who wins, who loses, who's MVP, who gets injured.  None of that matters to me.  It's all entertainment.

So, it's okay if Colin Kaepernick and other players want to take a knee during the singing of the national anthem.  It may remind a few people that the United States has some problems that need to be fixed.  It's okay if the members of Maroon 5 perform the half-time show.  That's their right, and, if you don't like it, don't watch it.  Adam Levine is not a racist.  He's an artist.  And he has to do what his conscience tells him to do, just like any other person.

I think the NFL is a flawed, flawed organization that caved to political and economic pressures.  That's the present reality in the United States of America.  Rich people protect rich people, often at the expense of persons of different skin colors, sexual orientations, social class, and nationalities.  The NFL is just a reflection of that.

Enjoy the game tonight.  Sing along with Maroon 5.  Eat your nachos.  Drink your beer.  Laugh at the commercials.

Tomorrow, do something that makes a real difference.  Feed the hungry.  Clothe the naked.  Stand up for the oppressed.  Speak out for the voiceless.  Love the unloved.  That's what is really important here, folks.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P.:

Vote for Marty Achatz for Poet Laureate of the U. P.

January 20: Hero, Sarah Browning, "The Fifth Fact"

I have been wondering about heroes recently.  In school, they make my son and daughter learn things about men and women who have done great things.  Abraham Lincoln.  Martin Luther King, Jr.  Susan B. Anthony.  Harriet Tubman.  Jesse Owens.  These are all people who stood up to great injustices.  Looked them straight in the eye.  Said, "No."

You don't hear a whole lot about heroes anymore.  Yes, the men and women who are soldiers, fighting against hatred and terrorism, are heroes.  Police officers and firefighters.  School teachers and missionaries.  For the most part, these people are faceless heroes.  They do what they do, not expecting recognition or praise or awards or statues.  They do what they do because it's right.  It helps their community, society, world, universe.

I don't see a whole lot of Abraham Lincolns and Harriet Tubmans out there.  And remember, the heroes of the past, for the most part, were pretty hated and vilified in their lifetimes.  Hunted even.  Assassinated.  There's a reason why John Wilkes Booth went to Ford Theater with a gun.  Why Harriet Tubman risked her own life to run the Underground Railroad.  Why Jesus Christ was executed.  They all challenged the status quo.

Today's poem is all about heroes of the past and present.  It says what I'm trying to say a lot more eloquently.  It's not about people.  It's about action in the face of great opposition.

Saint Marty hopes everybody can hero a little today.

The Fifth Fact

by:  Sarah Browning

For Ben’s project he must research five facts

about his African-American hero and write them

on posterboard. He chooses Harriet Tubman,

whose five facts are: Her father’s name was Ben.

Her mother’s name was Old Rit. She was born

in 1820 and died in 1913. She was born in Maryland

and died in New York. Ben asks for advice

about his fifth fact and I suggest: She led more than

300 people to freedom. Ben sighs the way he does

now and says, Everyone knows that, Mom.

So I try to remember the book we read yesterday,

search for the perfect fact, the one that will match

his four facts and satisfy his almost-seven mind.

Remember, I ask, she was a spy for the North

during the Civil War? It’s a hit! He writes it:

Harriet Tubman was a spy for the north during

the civil war. It was a war between the north

which is where the slaves were trying to get

and the south which is where they were.

Before the war, Abraham Lincoln signed a form

that said All the slaves everywhere are free!

which is one of the reasons they were fighting.

On summer mornings, Lincoln rode his horse

to work down the Seventh Street Turnpike

close to my new home. Down Georgia Avenue

past The Hunger Stopper and Pay Day 2 Go and liquor

stores and liquor stores. Past Cluck-U-Chicken

and Fish in the ’Hood and Top Twins Faze II

Authentic African Cuisine and the newish Metro station

and all those possibilities gleaming in developers’ eyes.

There goes Lincoln’s horse down Georgia Avenue

from the Soldier’s Home to the White House –

much cooler up here in the country, in the neighborhood,

at the hospital. And there’s Walt Whitman, the sworn poet

of every dauntless rebel the world over, hanging around

his street corner every morning to bow to the president

at Thomas Circle by the homeless guys. It’s 100 years now

since any president summered at the Soldier’s Home.

But I was born only 50 years after Harriet Tubman died,

all these centuries we drag into the next century and the next.

And sometimes I see the ghosts of Harriet Tubman

and Lincoln and Uncle Walt and the true stories

and sometimes our own despair like Washington’s

summer malaria, her 40 war hospitals, Whitman moving

from bed to bed, stroking the hair of so many dying boys.

Head north up Georgia Avenue now to our own

soldiers’ home – Walter Reed – where the boys and now

girls too mourn the ghosts of their own legs and arms

and capacity for love. Where is their sworn poet?

I write here in my new neighborhood, the city old

and new around me, Harriet Tubman born so close,

all these heroes under our feet.