OPEN LETTER
TO THE MAYOR OF HELL

Picture added by GLF

THIS IS NOT THE LIFE I ORDERED
By: MichaelGoodspeed

Denial Of Equality Is
The Root Of All Evil
By: MichaelGoodspeed

OPEN LETTER
TO THE MAYOR OF HELL

Posted By: MichaelGoodspeed
Date: Tuesday, 1 May 2007, 10:49 a.m.

http://www.rumormillnews.com/cgi-bin/forum.cgi?read=103726 

Dear Mayor Goodman,

Or perhaps I should begin this communication with the same discourteous introduction as Hunter S. Thompson in his letter to then President Nixon:
"Dear Dickhead..."

Of course, you remember Hunter. He both lionized and mortified the city over which you so proudly rule in his brilliant tome, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." Perhaps Hunter's continuous inebriation opened his perception to some psychic foresight -- in the 21st century, your city, with all its garishly seductive promises of instant wealth, cheap pussy, and satanic escapism, has little left but "fear and loathing" to offer.

If these introductory comments seem slightly less than etiquette, Oscar, let me assure you that I am not a hothead, a reactionary, a Christian fundamentalist, an activist of any kind, or even an idealist. I'm actually a quite circumspect and even-tempered fellow, and I place the highest priority on civil discourse with those that see the world differently than I. But any pretense of nicety is flatly absurd when addressing a truly colossal prick such as yourself. Some wretched people have been running "our" government for a long time, and their debasement of America's bedrock principles is sickening, but one is hard-pressed to find amongst these maniacs any as overtly sociopathic as you.

For the good reader who remains uninformed of your repugnance, here are a few objective facts: The 19th mayor of the city of Las Vegas, Oscar B. Goodman (that would be you), is a former mob lawyer and a recent spokesperson for Bombay Sapphire Gin -- a job that reportedly paid you a salary of $100,000. In fairness to you, you did donate these earnings to charity. However, when asked by a group of fourth-graders what possession you would favor if marooned on a desert island, you replied "a bottle of gin." And when asked about your hobbies, you listed boozing as your favorite. In justifying these wretched and cataclysmically irresponsible remarks, you replied, "I'm the George Washington of mayors. I can't tell a lie. If they didn't want the answer the kid shouldn't have asked the question."

Your truly stirring forthrightness and honesty has not been limited to your unabashed endorsement of alcohol. In 2005, you opined that graffiti artists should have their thumbs cut off on television: "You know, we have a beautiful highway landscaping redevelopment in our downtown....These punks come along and deface it....I'm saying maybe you should put them on TV and cut off a thumb."

OK, I can understand how the endorsing of booze and cutting off of thumbs might be viewed in an admirably rugged "salt of the earth" kind of light. But when you advocated beating children about the spine with canes ("I'm dead serious....Some of these (children) don't learn. You've got to teach them a lesson, and this is coming from a defense lawyer"....), I wonder if even your staunchest supporters -- perhaps including the murderers and thieves who are today walking around free thanks to your enthusiastic efforts -- felt just the slightest twinge of doubt of your sanity.

But rest assured, Oscar, I am not writing to you because you're a dick and a louse -- the world is overflowing with such people, and my lifelong policy has been to simply ignore them. I'm writing to you because you're a hypocrite, the most cowardly and useless creature on Earth. Your hypocrisy is more overt than the house edge for craps or Siegfried and Roy's sexual orientation or David Copperfield's unit or a showgirl's breasts...I could go on forever with these terrible analogies, but you get the picture.

In your time as mayor, your policies toward the homeless citizens of your city have been nothing less than genocidal. You actually outlawed the feeding of the homeless in city parks (a measure which was later correctly ruled to be unconstitutional.) In "justifying" your astonishing sociopathy, you stated, "This is not a punishment; this is to help people...The people who provide sandwiches have good intentions, but they're enabling people not to get the help that is needed."

The help that is needed? And where, precisely, would they go for that? Henderson? Laughlin? Hundreds of miles north to Carson City or Reno? You know perfectly well that your city is correctly notorious for its astonishing lack of shelter and resources for its homeless. The shelters are strategically placed far, FAR away from the tourist areas, in a dangerously violent place referred to as "the corridor." It is reported that these shelters hold only a few hundred beds -- a pathetic and outrageous figure, considering that at least 12,000 homeless men and women currently live within your city limits. When the homeless attempt to sleep in city parks they are arrested and jailed for "trespassing." So thanks to you, the homeless have not the right to eat or sleep or even breathe within the remotest distance of a cash-spending tourist.

I'm sure you have at least heard of the Kurt Borchard book, "The Word on the Street: Homeless Men in Las Vegas", though I doubt you would impinge on your busy schedule of drinking and carousing showgirls to actually read it. Borchard has documented through years of meticulous research and fieldwork the utter IMPOSSIBILITY of self-reliance for the homeless in your city. The only work for which they can get hired is day labor, and the city's structure (including the location of the feeble "shelters") is such that a homeless person without reliable transportation cannot consistently get to and from work. Day labor offices typically open at 5:30 AM, and there is no shortage of illegal immigrants who pack into their shitty pick-up trucks and arrive prompt and rarin' to go after a good night's rest. The homeless citizens in your city, who have the LEGAL RIGHT to live and work (a right you refuse to recognize), are not so lucky.

Have you ever tried performing eight or ten hours of physical labor after a night of aimless shambling through a concrete jungle, unfed, dehydrated, and in constant fear for your life? Of course you haven't. You are the self-described "happiest mayor in the world!" You love your drink and your women and your money and the mob friends who helped get you elected. You're all about fun and debauchery and contempt for those less fortunate than you.

And that's why you're a hypocrite, Oscar the Grouch, Oscar the Dickhead, Oscar the misanthropic lunatic, Oscar anything-but-a-Goodman. If you are as honest as you claim to be, if you were asked directly how you feel about the homeless, you would reply, "F*ck 'em. They did it to themselves!" And no one can deny there is an element of truth in that sentiment. A vast majority of homeless have been ruined by addiction to alcohol -- the very lifeblood of your city's economy, and by your own admission, your favorite pastime on Earth. The only difference between you and the most devastated transient slowly dying on your streets is that you've been a bit more successful at moderating your self-destructive vices.

In an editorial on homelessness, the Las Vegas Sun writes, "Already this year, 48 people in the Las Vegas Valley have succumbed to life on the streets. Most local programs do what they can, but the need is overwhelming. With a consistent source of federal support, the majority of homeless people could again begin having goals beyond survival."

And you have proved beyond any doubt that even their goal of physical survival is one to which you are violently opposed. 48 dead, Oscar. A body count almost worthy of Tony Soprano, a man for whom you would have utilized all of your rat-like cleverness to win an acquittal.

You not only embody everything that is wrong with Las Vegas, or even America, but the human condition as a whole. Do you really believe our species is going to survive if we don't somehow find empathy for one another? Have you bothered to watch the news anytime in the last decade? In case you haven't noticed, there has recently been a rash of grotesque violence against the homeless in America -- teenagers, perhaps encouraged by the extremely popular video series "Bum Fights" and "Bum Hunts," occasionally form packs and beat homeless men and women to death for sport and amusement. (See the CNN story "Teen sport killings of homeless on the rise,"
http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/02/19/homeless.attacks/index.html?eref=rss_latest )

Speaking of Bum Fights and Bum Hunts, I wonder how you might react to a viewing of these videos. Would you recoil in horror, like any sane person, or would you light up a nice fat stogie, glass of fine Scotch in one hand and a showgirl's buttock in the other, gaping at the ultra-violence on the screen with the same vacant amusement as a slot-jockey trying to hit the winning combo?

I hope you are aware that you are not only stupid and oafish, but mentally ill. Your murderous attitude toward the homeless is a symptom of a sickness that collectively plagues our great nation and is creating a cultural apocalypse. It is the sickness of narcissism, or the total immersion in self. You are incapable of empathy for others, because you deny the intrinsic equality of all men and women -- the very principle on which our country was founded. What did I just say? ALL MEN AND WOMEN ARE CREATED EQUAL. Do you understand the concept of intrinsic equality as outlined by our forefathers, Oscar? Of course you don't. Intrinsic equality is not affected by such superficialities as social and economic stature. A homeless human being is as worthy of his/her constitutional rights and protections as the most worldly "successful" person -- including a great mob lawyer and mayor of the most celebrated city on Earth, such as yourself. (As an aside, Oscar, I noticed that you enjoyed a "landslide" re-election thanks to a whopping 15 percent voter turn out. Yes, you received 85 percent of the vote, but 85 percent of 15 percent is...well, damn close to nothing. George Dubya would be most proud.)

I'm done talking to you, Oscar. These words are surely as futile against the barriers in your heart as the most hackneyed betting system against the Bellagio. The time for words has past; positive action is all that remains.

I've decided to explore the nightmare of homelessness in Las Vegas from a first-hand perspective. I'm boarding a Greyhound bus on the morning of May 5th, and will be arriving in the downtown of your "great city" early the next day. For two weeks, I will attempt to live and work utilizing only the resources available to the homeless. Will I have enough to eat? Will I be able to find shelter? If I linger too long near a tourist cash trap without spending money, will your goons arrest me, beat me, or submit me to a local military installation for chemical experimentation? These are the questions I seek to answer.

FYI, in late 2005, I proposed the above project to several major network affiliates in Las Vegas, and two (NBC and FOX) expressed the desire to cover it. However, I delayed my experiment indefinitely, in part because a number of friends and loved ones convinced me that my life would be in real peril. That fact has not changed, but my resolve is now absolute. I'm going to live homeless in the Godforsaken kingdom over which you rule, and tell the whole world exactly what happens.

By the way, at least one major network has again expressed interest in covering my exploits, so you would be wise to abort any plans to hunt me down and "disappear" me (a method to which your mob buddies surely well-acquainted you). I'm kind of joking, but then again, I'm not. I take your Hitleresque sociopathy very seriously, and I've no desire to be claimed as another in your city's long line of victims. As Rocky Balboa said, "Some people come to Vegas to lose. I didn't."

Sincerely,
Michael Goodsleed (aka Stuart Andrew Talbott)

THIS IS NOT THE LIFE I ORDERED

Posted By: MichaelGoodspeed
Date: Saturday, 2 June 2007, 11:42 p.m.

http://www.rumormillnews.com/cgi-bin/forum.cgi?read=105091

This is Not the Life I Ordered
By Michael Goodspeed
gspeed2000@gmail.com

Every man with the smallest inklings of humility and courage is forever discovering new things about himself. The self-images we cultivate through arrogance and ignorance are easily exposed in the harsh light of life experience. One may think himself a hero or genius or saint, but all too often, these grandiose self-analyses are born of egoic delusion rather than objective reality.

When one's false pride has fallen and his ego stands defenseless and trembling, therein lies the greatest opportunity for self-discovery. One can either wait for the ego to re-inflate and again retreat to its comforting shelter, or one can leap head-first into the cavernous abyss that the ego once filled. The latter is the action advised by some of history's great spiritual teachers, but the former is the one preferred by almost all of humankind.

We only do the really serious introspection when we have no choice, when we're at life's bottom. Stripped of every flattering self-concept, one is given an unobstructed glimpse of his own soul. The key is to not flinch when this mirror is held to your face. It is even more advisable that you not shatter it and cut your own throat with the broken shards.

I recently had an opportunity to both engage in and witness in others some brutally honest soul analysis. Whether it's ugly or beautiful, cowardly or courageous, loving or hateful, all the soul can do is tell the truth of itself. Mine, like everyone's, wants desperately to know love and joy and peace, but it is badly stunned by trauma, heartache, and loneliness. Mostly, it is barely aware of its own existence, let alone its inherent greatness. This also describes the soul of Chuck, a homeless man I met a few weeks ago on the streets of Las Vegas.

I went to Las Vegas with the intention of investigating the city's homelessness crisis from a first-hand perspective. I was going to live on the streets for two weeks, with no money in my pocket and only utilizing the resources available to the homeless. I arrived on May 6th, 2007, after a 30 hour Greyhound bus ride. The first evening was frightening and disorienting. I was exhausted, and for hours, I asked anyone who might be helpful -- mostly security guards and police officers -- where I could find a shelter for a night's sleep. But each gave contradictory directions, and most admitted that they didn't know the location of a single shelter.

I had not slept for two days, and my brain felt mutilated. I decided that my best bet for an evening of rest would be the outdoors. I caught a bus to nearby Henderson and slept in an open field in an industrial area. I worried that this trip just outside of Vegas' city limits might constitute a violation of the experiment's terms and integrity. But then I reminded myself that I was sleeping in a field and things were bad enough as they were.

After a few hours of fitful sleep, I caught a bus back to downtown Vegas and restarted my search for homeless services. A few blocks from the Fremont district, a hooker approached me and asked if I wanted a "date." I told her I was broke and asked her for directions. She did so and proceeded to give me the 101 on being homeless in Vegas:

"Don't ever walk around without money in your pocket. The police will arrest you for vagrancy. And don't sit at a bus stop without taking a bus. Don't stand in one place for too long, and don't ever try to sleep in a park or in front of a building. And always have your ID on you, or they'll put you in jail."

I was concerned about these possibilities going into the project, particularly since the Las Vegas police were already interested in me. I had announced my project in an essay a week prior, and two days before I took the trip, police in Beaverton, Oregon visited my home at the behest of the LVMPD. I was a bit horrified at the prospect of being jailed and would do my absolute best to avoid it.

Following the hooker's directions, I took a right down Main St. and headed toward a cluster of homeless services and shelters. On the way, I passed a badly disheveled elderly man lying sprawled and unconscious in the dirt. Held in his right hand was a pristine Holy Bible, a "gift" freely given to homeless men and women all across the United States. Upon seeing this tragic and poignant sight, my first thought was, I wish I had my camera -- the image would have made great "art," and I might have been able to sell it to a newspaper or magazine.

Self-discovery number one on my homeless journey: I am not nearly as compassionate or empathetic as I had imagined.

I spotted what l thought was a group of good samaritans erecting a mini-campsite for the homeless off of a sidewalk, and I approached them and asked for directions. They informed me that they were homeless, and invited me into their "camp." There were four men in total, 3 of whom were Hawaiian -- an elderly man named "Uncle Dave," his nephew Mark, and a diminutive man whose name I've already forgotten. And there was Chuck, a 49 year-old bespectacled white man who immediately began offering me helpful guidance. He offered to show me the various shelters that offered meals and beds, and I accepted.

Chuck looked a great deal older than this years -- I would have guessed him to be in his early to mid 60's. He explained this by describing himself as "a straight up alkie" (alcoholic). Indeed, Chuck placed no blame for his unhappy circumstances on anyone but himself. He told me, "Mike, if I won a million dollars, within 5 minutes I would have a meth pipe in one hand, a beer in the other, and my (bleep) in a hooker's mouth." As we walked, he gave me a brief overview of his past. He said that he had earned a decent living as a casino dealer in Reno, but that drug and alcohol addictions had drained all his money and destroyed his ability to work. He had been homeless in Vegas for the previous three months, and it was the lowest he had ever been in his life. Twice, he had been badly beaten and nearly killed by street gangs. He said that he didn't believe he would be alive if he was still homeless at the end of the year.

Our first meal of the day was an early lunch at a shelter whose name I have either forgotten or never caught. (Lesson number two on my homeless journey: I am a writer and not a journalist -- I am far more concerned with the existential wanderings of my own psyche than I am with gathering objective data.) The food was plentiful, and, not surprisingly, not very good. It was bland soup and cheese pasta and all the white bread and rolls you could eat. I found that I was extremely thirsty and tried to load up on water, but it tasted the way tap water always tastes in hot desert towns -- murky and gritty. Since I didn't have money to buy bottled water, I hoped that the dirty tap water would sufficiently hydrate me for the next two weeks.

As the hour approached noon, I noticed with some alarm that the sun was already having an effect on me. The heat in the desert southwest has a different quality than what I am used to in Oregon. Even when it's not terribly hot, the solar radiation seems to act like a microwave, cooking your organs from the outside in. I asked Chuck how he had managed to live for the past three months under such an intense sun, and he claimed that his body had simply grown accustomed to it.

We headed back to the makeshift "camp," which was essentially a big tarp and blankets held aloft by shopping carts. I had enjoyed perhaps ten minutes of shade when a police unit drove by and instructed us to remove the cover. I was dumbfounded and asked Chuck for an explanation. He said that the police always insisted that the tarp remain down until at least 4:30 in the afternoon. Whether they were worried about some nefarious activities occurring under the tarp or they were trying to kill us, I don't know.

Since the sun had already become unbearable, we needed to find shelter elsewhere. Chuck told me that the only place where we could legally take refuge was a shaded outdoor area offered at the Salvation Army. This, I was told, was by far the most dangerous of all the shelters, and I was advised to never attempt to go there by myself. Chuck claimed that in just the previous two weeks, there had been a total of 6 stabbings (including three murders) and one rape.

One of the many crappy things about homelessness is the lines -- you have to stand in them for long, long periods of time to get whatever you need. The line outside the Salvation Army was exceptionally long, and I passed the time by visually scanning the many countenances in the crowd. I immediately noticed someone who seemed profoundly out of place. She was a beautiful young blonde girl, surely no more than 19 or 20, with the clean-cut features of a prom queen or cheerleader. She seemed to be alone and stared straight down at the ground with a peculiar, slanted smile on her face. Given the shelter's reputation, it seemed like an awfully dangerous environment for an attractive young woman to be on her own. I pointed the girl out to Chuck and asked if he knew her story.

"That's Kimberly. Don't ever try to talk to her or look her directly in the eye. She's a 'spitter.' One time, I asked her if she was OK, and she spit in my face and tried to kick me in the balls."

Chuck went on to explain the girl's generally accepted back-story. Supposedly, her husband was a crack dealer who had a falling out with a competitor, and repaid his "debt" by offering his wife as currency. For several hellish nights, the girl was tied up, raped and defiled in unimaginable ways by a horde of gangsters and druggies. The brutalization so traumatized her that her mind shut down and just vacated reality. Now she was alone and psychotic, living in the shelter's "psychiatric" unit, receiving medication but surely not getting any better. True or not, I have no idea.

But that's the way it is with every homeless person -- they are not automatons or ghosts or ghouls or shadows. They're human beings and each has a story.

When we finally made it to the outdoor sanctuary, Chuck and I sat down and he began ascribing a brief biography to each individual. There was Kathy, a rowdy and perpetually drunk ex-Marine who purportedly still did some kind of nebulous "freelance" work out at Nellis Air Force Base (when I asked her for a description of this work, she told me to go f*** myself.) There was an elderly and functionally nameless man who had supposedly not changed a single item of clothing for the last three years. There was a gangster named either "Blue" or "Boo" with the most terrifying countenance I had ever seen -- every one of his front "teeth" had been transformed into a four-inch metal shank. According to Chuck, the man had spent upwards of ten grand on this bizarre dental procedure, the purpose of which was known only to him.

I would have liked to have remained in the shade until the sun went down, but Uncle Dave joined us drunk and out of his mind. He immediately wore out his welcome when he screamed at the top of his lungs, "De la Hoya lost! F*ck all the Mexicans!" Since perhaps four dozen Mexican men were within earshot, Chuck and I decided to leave the sanctuary post haste.

We headed back to the "camp," and I was happy to see that the tarp had been reinstated, hopefully for the remainder of the day. A bottle of "Night Train," which along with Thunderbird ranks as the top "bum wine," was being passed around. For "politeness" sake, I took a sip, and as a lifelong non-drinker I was surprised that it didn't taste too terrible. But it didn't help my emerging headache and nausea, and I was growing more thirsty by the minute.

I told Chuck about my dehydration, and he offered to fetch me a jug of water from the tap at the Salvation Army. I laid down under the tarp and stared for a while at the cars passing by. I noticed a number of drivers smiling, laughing, and pointing at the camp in apparent contempt. It occurred to me that these monkeys were so disconnected from reality it was almost unbelievable. To take pleasure in another person's misfortune is always an indication of mental illness, and these folks didn't seem to realize how close they themselves might be to homelessness. They could lose hold of an addiction, get laid off, miss a couple of paychecks, maybe get the boot from a domestic partner. And without a loved one to help them in their time of need...what would happen? They would be in the exact same mess as the people they were mocking.

Chuck returned with the water as promised, but most of it disappeared into the Hawaiians before I got my hands on it. Uncle Dave received the lion's share, since he was sporting a bloody nose as the result of his impolitic comments at the Salvation Army. I again wondered how I was going to stay hydrated for two weeks in the desert environment and resolved to earn some money through day labor to keep water in ready supply.

Around 2 PM, Chuck told me it was time for another meal. It dawned on me that staying fed and hydrated while homeless in Vegas was itself going to be a full-time job. The meals served at the shelters were offered during normal working hours -- in other words, anyone who works is going to have to go without eating until he or she gets paid. To make matters worse, without a car or even money for bus fare, the only mode of transport is walking. And I was quickly learning that this entails a very serious physical price in the desert heat.

After another long wait in a long line under the hot burning sun, I ate another crappy meal of starch and cheese and gritty tap water. Afterwards, Chuck took me to a day labor office and I signed up with them. I also signed a paper stating my availability for landscaping work. Unsurprisingly, not everyone is eager to work outdoors for eight straight hours in 105 degree heat, but hard, physical, outdoor drudgery is the kind of work one gets through day labor outfits. I wondered what it would be like to be 65 years old and homeless in Vegas -- the outrageous heat, the lack of shelter, the necessity of earning money through physical exertion. Since I was beginning to feel 65, it didn't take much wondering at all.

We made our way back to camp at around 4:30, and incredibly, Chuck told me it was almost time for yet another meal -- my third in less than 6 hours. According to Chuck, most of the shelters only served one meal a day, so the only way to get three squares was to visit each of them. I wasn't looking forward to any more time under the sun, but I knew I needed to eat and drink. Chuck then offered me the alternative of going to a makeshift "picnic" under a bridge. He said that a local church offered this service once a week and provided such meals as Chinese food, pizza, and various "take-out." I seriously doubted my tolerance for any more of the shelters' cheese pasta or mystery meat, so I happily agreed.

Shortly into our walk, we came across a towering homeless man who was having a very animated conversation with himself. I thought he looked a bit like Christopher Lloyd in his Back to the Future role. Ordinarily, I steer a bit clear of the overtly insane, but I noticed that his T-shirt was emblazoned with an interesting phrase. It read, "This Is Not the Life I Ordered!" The sentiment seemed more jovial than embittered, and I could see in the man's eye a glint of genuine humor underneath (or perhaps within) the craziness. I walked directly toward him, gave him a thumbs up, and said, "I like your shirt, man." He returned my smile and simply said, "Yeah."

At that moment, the T-shirt's maxim seemed like the most profound teaching I had ever encountered. Think about it. It's not as if anyone has ever set out to intentionally suffer. And we don't ruin our own lives out of "sinfulness" or "evil" or
"badness." We are each of us doing the absolute best that we can in a culture and a world that lives in direct opposition to the truth. Some of us have had our bodies and brains and souls damaged by circumstances completely beyond our control. And others are continually harmed by the inevitable consequences of their own bad choices, but even these individuals are doing their best and are thus deserving of compassion.

Who among us feels that his life is the one that he "ordered?" Nothing turns out the way that we plan. When you're young you have a million strategies for a perfect little life, but as you get older, your choices become evermore narrow. Your identity in the world is firmly entrenched, your personality is set, and indeed, your very consciousness is growing dimmer and dimmer. It's a myth that people improve with age -- most become caricatures until they finally submit to their own worst inclinations -- the addictions, the prejudices, the neuroses, the obsessions.

I walked with Chuck and expressed some of these thoughts to him. He commiserated, but insisted that he was not yet ready to throw in the towel. "This is not the end of me, Mike. I'm gonna get back on my feet, and when I do, I sure as hell won't take things for granted like I did before." I then reminded Chuck of what he said he would do if he won a million dollars. He just laughed and took a pull from his cigarette.

When we finally arrived at the "picnic" after nearly an hour of wandering ("under a bridge somewhere" is not the most helpful direction in a big city), my throat was parched and my head was pounding. I was able to drink a couple of bottles of water, but I was dismayed to see a line of roughly a hundred people awaiting the promise of a meal. Chuck believed that the front of the line was located where a sermon was being performed. Unfortunately, this turned out to be false -- it was in fact the END of the line. We endured the boring and soul-numbing sermon for nothing, and when it finally came our turn to be served, the best of the pickings were long gone. I felt physically ill when I saw our remaining food choices -- cheese pasta, cheese sandwiches, Pepsi, and Chee-tos. I forced down the soft drink, begged another bottle of water, and said a prayer that I wouldn't wretch my stomach's rancid contents.

We got back to the camp at around 7:45 or 8 PM, and the sun was mercifully all but a memory. I lied down and tried to ignore the throbbing in my head and turning of my stomach. The ever-helpful Chuck offered me more Night Train and cigarettes and even some pot, all of which I politely declined. I dozed off thinking of nothing but that T-shirt and its world-weary axiom.

At around midnight, I woke up and instantly knew that I was going to vomit. With knees buckling, I very slowly stood and began shuffling up the street away from the camp. My headache had grown from a dull throb to a full-blown migraine, an electric spike shoving through the base of my skull. I doubled over and coughed and hacked a dry heave for maybe thirty seconds. Every wretch made my headache more agonizing, so I was enormously relieved when an ungodly eruption of pasta and goulash spewed from my mouth onto the Vegas sidewalk.

It occurred to me that there was a very real chance I might be dying -- sunstroke, dehydration, or food poisoning seemed the likeliest culprits. With all of the bemusement I could muster, I sort of chuckled at my own meekness -- it had taken less than 36 hours for Sin City to almost kill me. Even those who had advised against my experiment conceded that I might last at least a few days. Interestingly, my body had not been damaged by an attack from a homeless person, as many people had warned. Indeed, I had felt no anxiety whatsoever in their presence. It was the natural elements of the city itself -- and the ultra harsh circumstances intentionally inflicted by city officials, led by Mayor Oscar Goodman -- that did me in.

I took my cell phone from my pocket and dialed 9-1-1. I wasn't sure if this action was going to mark the end of my experiment, but I felt that I needed some immediate medical attention.

An ambulance came and took me to The Valley hospital. After about 30 minutes, I vomited again, to which the attending nurse commented, "Hmm...That looks like the stew they serve downtown." For some reason, I didn't want the guy to know that I was living as a homeless person, so I told him I had eaten dinner at the buffet line at Circus Circus (a very plausible lie).

Unsurprisingly, the physician who attended me insisted that I needed some expensive tests, beginning with a Cat Scan. I agreed to this simply because I thought it might give me an opportunity to catch a few minutes of sleep. The physician then stated that he thought I might be having an aneurysm, and he needed to perform a procedure called a lumbar puncture (or a spinal tap). I don't know much medical jargon, but any procedure with the word "lumbar" in it sounds way too f*cking expensive. I told him I felt certain that I was dehydrated and not having an aneurysm, and he responded that I knew no such thing. I then asked if I had the legal right to leave the hospital, to which he replied, "Yes, but you have to sign a waiver stating that you are leaving against medical advice." I signed the waiver and walked out of the hospital at around 4 AM.

I've done some catastrophically stupid things in my life, but leaving the hospital in the sad shape I was in is at the top of the list. And the fact that I had no idea where I was and didn't know how to get back to the camp made matters worse. For the first time in my life, my body was so depleted that I felt unable to simply put one foot in front of the other. It was like trying to walk underwater. My throat burned from vomit and my head felt like a canoe. Shit.

I took out my cell and called my parents. They agreed to Western Union me some cash, but they'd be unable to do so until 10 AM. I realized what this meant -- I would have to shamble up and down the Vegas streets in a state near death for the next 6 hours.

And that's what I did. I tried asking for directions back to the camp, but I was too exhausted to walk for more than a couple of minutes at a time. I found a bus stop that offered a little bit of shade, but as soon as the sun came up, its glare beat directly down on my head. I found it nearly impossible to stay awake, but every now and then, I would see a police car drive by and I would snap my head to full attention. I remembered the hooker's comment that the cops would arrest anyone who loitered at a bus stop. I had no money in my pockets, so according to Vegas law, my very presence on the streets was a crime. I began to feel real terror that I might get arrested, a scenario only slightly more appealing to me than physical death.

Until perhaps 8 AM, I would sit at the bus stop until the bus arrived, stand and lurch a few steps away, then return after the bus had left. I felt desperately in need of water, so I staggered over to the nearest casino/hotel, hoping against hope that my uneven gate would not lead to an arrest for public drunkenness.

Inside the casino, I asked one of the porters if they had a Western Union, and much to my relief, he said yes. But unfortunately, a casino is only a hospitable environment to those who are spending money. I had none and couldn't just sit and stare at a slot machine to kill time. So I walked into a bathroom with the intention of hiding in a stall for a couple of hours.

After drinking countless handfuls of water from the tap, I sat miserably on the toilet and drifted in and out of consciousness. The bathroom was equipped with a PA system which blasted an inane assortment of bad 80's tunes by bands like Huey Lewis and the News and Air Supply. When you're squatting and slowly dying on a toilet in a Vegas casino, a song like "Hip to be Square" seems sadly appropriate. I wished for cyanide capsules almost as badly as I wished for a 60 ounce Big Gulp.

After maybe an hour, I was jarred from my stupor by a loud pounding on the stall door followed by a deep voice that bellowed, "Security!" I guess that someone found it a little suspicious that the same pair of shoes could be seen in the stall for an hour without so much as a flush (this makes sense -- the function of a bathroom is, you do your business and you leave). I opened the door, and this big burly behemoth with real alarm on his face asked me, "What's the problem, sir?" I felt certain that I was about to be arrested, so I used the truth as my only defense.

"I'm waiting for a Western Union, man, and I can't wait in the lobby. You have to spend money to be out there, and I don't have any."

He responded that I couldn't just sit on the toilet. Apparently, it frightens people too much.

Much to my surprise, I was allowed to walk from the bathroom a free man. The Western Union was not going to open until 10, so my challenge was to exist in the casino for almost an hour without getting the boot for not spending money. I sat in front of a slot machine and punched at buttons while trying to stare attentively at the screen. I counted the minutes in my head and tried not to look as wasted as I felt. I hoped that when the Western Union opened I would be coherent enough to communicate intelligibly with the agent. The minutes passed and I kept stabbing stupidly at the slot machine buttons.

With legs filled with cement and acid, I staggered to the gated booth that I hoped might hold my salvation. The woman behind the counter looked at me and shook her head. "We don't open until 10." I looked at the clock on the wall behind her and it said 10:07. In a moment of blind and irrational panic, I wondered if she meant 10 PM rather than 10 AM. I watched her walk back and forth shuffling papers and stapling things and looking busy for the next few minutes. Finally, with the mercy of Mother Mary herself, this stupid yet wonderful lady asked me for my business, and I could have wept with joy.

I got enough money for a motel room, where I would wait until my sister (who -- thank the love of Christ -- lives in a small town a few hours away) could come and pick me up. It is with no shame I admit that without the loving assistance of my family, I might well have died on the streets of Sin City. For the record, I am 31 years old and in excellent physical shape -- I don't smoke or drink, I eat a healthy diet, and I've been a devoted marathon runner for the last 17 years. I knew that Vegas was a tough place to be homeless, but my God -- less than 36 hours, and I was at death's door and crying to my mammy and pappy for help.

Going into the experiment, I had been communicating with a reporter for the Las Vegas Sun newspaper named Tim Pratt. When he learned of my experiment's premature and pathetic end, Pratt insisted that it might still make for a good story. After all, the reason I almost died is because I had no money, minimal resources, and was trapped in a viciously hot climate. In other words, I was in EXACTLY the same boat as the approximately 12,000 homeless human beings who live in Las Vegas year round. 36 hours, and I was almost dead. Imagine trying 36 days, or 36 weeks, or 36 months, as many have.

As an interesting footnote, Pratt informed me that roughly 40 percent of all homeless in Vegas have no valid ID whatsoever. This prevents them from getting work and even receiving many essential services. I experienced the horror of this first hand -- I lost my birth certificate in Vegas, and while trying to get some temporary work while staying with my sister in Arizona, I found that no one would hire me, since I had only one form of ID. I don't casually use the term "police state" to describe America, but the first rule of any police state is, don't go anywhere without your papers.

Synchronistically, as I write this, I am a couple of days from returning to Vegas under much happier circumstances, to attend a scientific conference. It is with little fondness that I remember my hellish two days on the city's unforgiving streets. But I would give anything to again encounter that lanky crazy fellow with the funny, sad, and oh-so-true axiom on his T-shirt.

"This is not the life I ordered."

It's not the one I ordered either. But I have to believe that my order still matters. Self-discovery number whatever on my homeless journey: our choices ALWAYS matter. No matter how bleak or hopeless or unforgiving our circumstances, there must be meaning in choosing wisely rather than poorly. Alternatively, life is truly without purpose and God a sadistic madman. Our choices have to matter. Always. In the gutter, on a battlefield, right up to the moment of death.

If nothing else, I want my order to be a true one. I no longer ask for a "better life" -- no force in the universe exists that can provide it for us. Rather, I want the ability to choose correctly, now and forever. Sanity. Rationality. Integrity. Love. These are the gifts I want for myself, because they ARE the road to a better life. In this moment, this is the life I ordered.

 

 

Denial Of Equality Is
The Root Of All Evil
By Michael Goodspeed
gspeed2000@gmail.com
6-12-7

 

"To see the universal and all-pervading Spirit of Truth face to face, one must be able to love the meanest of all creation as oneself." --Mahatma Gandhi   Late last week, I returned home to Portland, OR, after attending a three-day conference on the Electric Universe in Las Vegas, NV. The event brought together an impressive array of scientists, authors, and independent researchers from many different disciplines and walks of life, all unified in their quest to develop a better understanding of the cosmos and our place in it.   Throughout the event, I had the privilege of interacting with some very accomplished scholars in such seemingly disparate fields as electrical engineering, physics, plasma physics, geology, and comparative mythology. In every instance, I was very pleased to find that I was treated as an equal, even though I claim no special expertise on the topics discussed. This lack of pretension on the part of the "experts" enabled a very free and comfortable flow of ideas amongst all participants, specialists and laymen alike.   In Wallace Thornhill's introductory presentation, he repeatedly used the word "convergence" in describing the interdisciplinary nature of much Electric Universe research. Specialists with very different areas of expertise have found themselves growing increasingly DEPENDENT on one another, and of each has been required an openness to previously unconsidered ideas, and a willingness to be proved "wrong" on many points.   In my own intellectual and spiritual endeavors, I have sought convergence, or a unified perspective that can be applied to most every problem the world seems to face. In examining current events presented in both alternative and mainstream media, I see recurring themes and patterns that seem point to a fundamental, underlying cause of human suffering and insanity in its every form. Consider these recent news items, which at first glance may not seem to have any direct relation to one another:   In Knoxville, Tennessee, a white couple named Christopher Newsom and Channon Christian were carjacked, abducted, sexually tortured and murdered by a band of criminals who are black. The case itself garnered no immediate "mainstream" media attention, and in fact, one prominent black social commentator, Leonard Pitts, argued that the case should be completely ignored nationally. "It always amazes me when white people put on the victim hat," wrote Pitts in his syndicated column. Pitts described whites' outrage over the case as "mewling noises from that subset of my white countrymen who feel put-upon by big, bad racial minorities." Pitts went on to directly equate "white supremacists and conservative bloggers," making no attempt to delineate the two.   On May 24, 2007, the Associated Press reported there have been at least six attacks against homeless people in Cleveland, Ohio since February of this year. According to one homeless advocate, "...there have been bands of males carrying baseball bats and pipes confronting homeless people." These attacks could be viewed as part of a national trend of increased violence against the homeless. According to the National Coalition for the Homeless, there were 142 attacks against the homeless, 20 resulting in death, in 2006 in the United States. That is a 65 PERCENT increase over the total in 2005.   On June 8, in Selmer, Tennessee, a woman who blasted her husband in the back of the head with a shotgun was found guilty of voluntary mansalughter and sentenced to three years in prison. However, she must serve only 210 days before she can be released on probation, and she receives credit for the time she has already spent in jail (five months). According to news reports, the remaining 60 days of her sentence may be served in a mental health facility.   On June 10, 2007, a leading proponent of the Anti-Zionism Orthodox Jewish Movement, Rabbi Yisroel Dovid Weiss, attended a rally on the West Lawn of the U.S. Capitol, voicing his support for the freedom of the Palestinian people. In an interview now posted on You Tube, the Rabbi stated, "We are forbidden to oppress another people, to subjugate, to make another people suffer. Just as God is compassionate, we have to be compassionate. So what is being done in the name of Judaism, in the name of the Torah, the occupation of the whole of Palestine, the Zionists...don't represent the Torah, they don't represent Godliness, they don't represent the Jewish people. They have stolen our name, we our humiliated by what they're doing with our name...(W)e suffer with the Palestinian people." (The interview may be viewed here: http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=QCKD6u1gGzs)   On June 8, millionaire heiress and national icon Paris Hilton was ordered back to jail to serve the remainder of her sentence for violating probation on a reckless driving case. Hilton reportedly screamed and cried for her mother while being escorted from the courtroom. The celebrity court drama has been the overwhelmingly dominant "news" story of the last week.   An apparent black-on-white "hate crime." Attacks on the homeless. A man shot to death by his wife. A rally against the Israeli occupation of "Palestine." Paris Hilton.   Do you see the common thread in each of these stories? If so, I will shake your hand and buy you a beer over a lengthy discussion on the meaning of life. Give up?   From my perspective, each of these items reveals the ongoing denial by human beings of intrinsic equality with one another. Popular media in the U.S. is governed by the principles of "political correctness," but the self-styled PC arbiters seem to have no true idea of what they stand for. One would think that in a climate of "tolerance," the unconditional recognition of human equality would be the most PC position a person could take. It isn't. In fact, the opposite is presently true. It is not politically correct to argue that all human beings are created equal, irrespective of race, nationality, religion, creed, and/or sexual orientation. Rather, the popular culture in the U.S. at every level -- media, academia, religion, and government -- attempts to instill in us values of preferential hatred. Equality is not part of the picture.   Consider the story of the Tennessee murders. Political correctness dictates that racially motivated white-on-black crime is somehow worse than racially motivated black-on-white crime. This bias is supposedly justified because the ancestors of white people mistreated the ancestors of black people, and whites still experience an overall better quality of life today. As illogical, inhuman, and overtly bigoted as this position is, it is the one adamantly argued by most self-styled "civil rights" advocates in the U.S. today (including the aforementioned Leonard Pitts). And it is the unspoken position of mainstream "news" media, which alone explains why stories like the Tennessee murders receive little or no national attention.   A person who believes in intrinsic equality (as I do) can only feel outrage over racial double standards, "reverse" bigotry, and racial violence. All human beings are created equal, and are deserving of equal rights and protections under the law. Period. Racial vengeance can never be condoned within this paradigm. What does it say about the tenability of "political correctness," that those who believe as I do are frequently branded as "racist," while the Leonard Pitts of the world are presented as champions of "equality"?   These same bigoted double-standards are seemingly revealed in the Selmer, Tennessee case. A woman shot her husband in the back of the head as he lie sleeping in bed, and a jury ruled it "voluntary manslaughter." It now appears that she will serve no significant jail time at all. She was purportedly "driven" to the crime by her husband's physical abuse. But we must ask ourselves, how might we interpret the case differently if the respective genders of killer/ victim were reversed? Uncounted men suffer physical and verbal abuse at the hands of their spouses. At what point does abuse justify a husband killing his wife?   Remember Lorena Bobbit, anyone? A woman cut off her husband's penis and threw it out a moving car, then claimed abuse as her defense. Instead of outrage, the national response -- largely evoked by PC media coverage -- was amusement, and occasionally even approval. Now imagine the media coverage if a purportedly "battered husband" cut out his wife's sex organs and tossed them on the side of a road. Uh...not too funny, is it?   Consider also the recent trend of increased violence against the homeless in the U.S. This pathetic phenomenon is possibly being fueled by such underground videos as "Bum Fights," and "Bum Hunts," which feature homeless men and women being violently targeted for the viewers' amusement. Perhaps not coincidentally, in major cities like Las Vegas and Orlando, FL, it is now considered a CRIME to be homeless -- police regularly arrest people for "vagrancy" if they have no money in their pocket and no valid I.D. Of course, nothing in natural law requires any human being to have legal tenure on his person at all time. But this blatantly illegal and unconstitutional practice is viewed with little apparent outrage in the United States. In fact, in Las Vegas, the city's Mayor, Oscar Goodman, is an extraordinarily popular figure, despite (or perhaps because of) his refusal to recognize the right of homeless citizens to exist.   Why do Americans increasingly hold the homeless in contempt? I think the answer is obvious. The homeless represent a "threat" to the ideals that Americans have been programmed to value for the last hundred years or so. In our media/celebrity dominated culture, "success" is measured in terms of personal wealth, social stature, and physical attractiveness. To achieve the American Dream is to rise above the unwashed rabble and be judged by society as a Very Special Person. The homeless are defined by their LACK of specialness -- no money, no stature, and overt physical decay. So of course we hold them in contempt. They embody everything we have been trained to fear and avoid at all costs.   This human need for individual and collective "specialness" -- racial, geographic, and spiritual -- is the undeniable taproot of the endless Israeli/Palestinian conflict. Undoubtedly, many will label Rabbi Weiss an "anti-Semite" or a "self-loathing Jew" for his adamant criticism of the Zionist State of Israel. But what does the Rabbi stand for that any sane person could find objectionable? He has very humbly (and correctly) stated that as a Jew, he is not superior to Palestinians, nor does he have any special claim to ownership of a particular geographic region. Of course, he is correct. Jews are not "special." Neither are Christians, nor Muslims, nor Hindus, nor Buddhists, nor Sufis, nor atheists. But in our present "politically correct" environment, those who question the tenability of Zionism (i.e. imagined Jewish racial supremacy) and the Israeli occupation of Palestine are routinely labeled "bigots" and "anti-Semites."   This is not to suggest that Judaism is the only religion to be corrupted by ideas of Divine exclusivity. Far from it. In our purportedly "Christian nation," the mainstream Church doctrine has strayed so far from the actual teachings of Jesus as to boggle the mind. Self-styled pious leaders inform their flocks that a day of Terrible Judgment is rapidly approaching. Only the few who repent their sins and beg God's forgiveness have the chance of eternal reward. But one is very hard-pressed to find support for this weird picture in the words of Jesus himself.   In addition to being an unconditional pacifist, Jesus spoke for a spiritual path that is pleasant (MT 11:30: "For my yoke is easy and my burden is light"), uncomplicated (MT 11:25: "...You have hidden these things from the wise and intelligent and have revealed them to infants"), and undemanding of personal "sacrifice" (MT 11:28 "Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.") Jesus never spoke for the vengeful god of the Old Testament, nor did he speak of original sin, or bizarre and frightful concepts like "hell" and "satan." And he repeatedly emphasized the need of the individual to recognize the intrinsic equality of all his brothers and sisters. What else could he have meant when he advised to "love thy neighbor as YOURSELF"?   If ours was truly a Christian nation, the name Paris Hilton would not be on the lips of every American man, woman, and child. Nothing in our culture is a more obscene denial of equality than the national obsession with celebrities. What makes Paris Hilton more "special" than you or me? Nothing. And surely, the unraveling of this illusion contributed to Paris' own great trauma over her confinement. Poor Paris Hilton, and I do not say this the least bit sarcastically.   The myth of celebrity has been mercilessly drilled into your mind from the day of your birth. This phenomenon is clearly reflected in the reported growing "narcissism" amongst American youths (See Young People More Narcissistic Than Ever, http://www.rense.com/ general75/more.htm).   Should it surprise us that hordes of young American men are picking up baseballs bats and hunting the homeless for a bit of "sport?" We have all of us been programmed to live in active resistance to the principle of equality -- a principle so inarguable that our forefathers deemed it "self-evident." In the popular culture, the only way to win love and admiration is to stand out from the crowd and achieve personal "specialness." Fundamentally, this is the belief that superiority over others must be achieved as a defense against inevitable defeat, inferiority and aloneness.   This human error has been rampant for thousands of years, and its source has been widely debated. Why is human consciousness dominated by a thought structure that seeks to conquer, defend against, place blame, and inflict guilt? This question was briefly discussed at the aforementioned Electric Universe conference. Some suggested that the celestial and global catastrophes first proposed by Velikovsky embedded in the collective consciousness a terrible trauma from which we have never recovered. We still fear the angry god that reigned in the heavens, and imagine that we must win "special favor" to avoid his frightful wrath.   A purely spiritual perspective, one presented in many religions and teachings, is that mankind (or human consciousness) existed in an original state of grace from which it has fallen. What precipitated this fall was a single incorrect choice, the consequences of which have yet to be corrected. Some imagine God "rejecting" the human family out of disapproval and disgust over our "wickedness." But I prefer the notion that we created for ourselves a thought structure that made the experience of heaven impossible (this concept probably has its origins in Eastern teachings, and is the basis for the contemporary spiritual manual, A Course in Miracles). Somehow, the soul's natural inclination toward inclusion, unity, sharing, and harmony, was replaced by a belief in competing interests. Maybe a single mind introduced this belief by simply pausing to wonder, "What if?"   What if...I can be worse than, or better than?   If it's possible to be "worse than," then the natural impulse of any consciousness is to FIGHT to be "better than." The key to becoming sane is to recognize that the fight itself is unnecessary and harmful. One need not be superior to find safety and love, because the threat of inferiority is a fiction of the mind.   At the level of appearance, there is no equality and never will be. But so what? We don't need a world of human beings who are all physically and intellectually "equal" -- a grotesque and bizarre science fiction fantasy. And we cannot reasonably expect a world where everyone lives with equally evolved integrity and morality. But we can strive to correct within ourselves the fallacious perception that equality is fearful, and must be raged against. And this is a great challenge, because it goes completely against the thought structure that has dominated humanity for eons.   We wondered, What if I can be better than, or worse than, and the result has been endless human suffering and death. Perhaps it is time for each of us to wonder over new questions, ones that challenge the very premise of the initial doubt. These questions might be, What if I have nothing to fear from my brothers and sisters, because their interests and mine are one and the same? What if winning and losing are both impossible, because peace and safety are already mine? What if giving and receiving are truly the same, and to deprive my neighbor is to deprive myself?   If a question based on fear was enough to drive us from heaven, perhaps one based on love will be enough to lead us back.   This article reproduced from www.Rense.com