Jim Trainer

A Working Class Hero Is Something To Be

In Uncategorized on February 3, 2018 at 12:51 pm

Even the end of the republic is theater. This is not base reality.
Charlie O’Hay

Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.
Hunter S. Thompson

…She is trying to reach you
trying to reach you…
Protomartyr

Good Reader. That last post was born of anger and frustration. It was some kind of week. The job was brutalizing me. I ran out of gas on 290. I practically shit my pants in San Antonio. The boss asked for 2 weeks but liked to walk around yelling about you “slackin and lackin”, getting fired and an email at the end of the day that says END OF ASSIGNMENT. Most of the time I can festoon something comic or poignant out of the morass, something to laugh at about the wreck or take it in solemnly and do my best to open our hearts to the twisted tragedy of the human race. Not last week, pal. I was beat down and demoralized and too angry to write. The news was overwrought and on loop about you-know-who. The sign for TRUMP electrical supply rose up on me in Nixon, an hour outside of San Antone, right before I hit Dollar General for fresh undies. Even further out on U.S. Highway 87 a cadre of black vultures huddled in the brown grass. They were picking at something, flitting about and bickering with each other over something dead. It seemed apt so I held on to it, like I do, before humping 35 totes full of lunches and chocolate milk into NS Middle and headed back to the shop. It was ugly at the shop but in the afternoon you can keep moving and not look at it for too long or too closely. Vultures feeding and fighting with each other–and management that ruled in a punitive way with a jailhouse style. It wasn’t good there so I quit. But I ran out of gas on my way home and then I realized I still had the truck key so I went back, one more time.

I’m free this weekend, as free as you can be working labor. I saw The Post last night and if anything can be gleaned from these dark and harrowing times, it’s that Art’s got no time to be fatuous or pollyanna. It’s an important film with an urgent message, and even Spielberg abstained from his usual schlock&spiel to get this one out and have it be lean and ontime. This one’s straight and no chaser, which is how we at Going For The Throat like it ain’t it though. I’ve gone from whatever-it-took to a mean 12, down to 8 and even a slick 6 but usually 900 words oughta do the trick. I’m no journalist though I do claim to be. Perhaps the distinction is “reporter” and anyway most journalists working today are purveyors of outrage culture wont to sell us on War every 10 to 20 years. Maybe War is ok with you and it’s all just fake news anyway—you’re a true American and a racist in denial.  Or maybe the state of this union is enough to make you want to wish for Armageddon, or at least be a little less frightened when a despot in the other hemisphere talks about dropping the big one. Myself, I’ve got work to do so, who cares? You’re going to bomb us to back to black–um…ok? Nuclear obliteration isn’t just low on my list of my concerns either, Brother.  They’ve got bigger fish to fry in Puerto Rico but no pan or water to fry it in. Everything is so fucked and it’s too early in the evening to get catty, Sister. I just wanted to get back on routine and reach out, like I do–so we’ll feel the isolation a little less, and feel together a little more, before we head down into a 40+ hour workweek and shitshow the New Century has become. I’m writing this on a rainy Saturday in my city. It’s quiet and warm here and my espresso is honey-sweet. Friends you are an embarrassment of riches and I think I might be living right or trying to, when I look around the table and see hard Brothers on the good red Road and witchy Women in the ethers and sending me mail.

My routine for this column has been to pen it on Sunday and post Thursday, unless something big happens, which–let’s face it, nothing big happens in my world. It’s mostly a slog with a little glide and lots of laughter if I’m lucky. Which brings me to point–I’m writing on Saturday because I’ll be writing something else this Sunday. Stay tuned for that little bit of luck, and also…no matter how haggard and fucked it’s going to be for a while, as heinous as they’ll allow and treacherous and dehumanizing and uphill as it’s going to get for the 98% in this country, it’s always worse somewhere else and it always was. I’d never be as simple or Christian to think that should make you feel better because it doesn’t–unless you’re an idiot. Keep your heart open and your light on for those who have it worse and it will help you and may even reach them, if it does, in their night. Running across 290 with a gallon of gas, arthritic with irritable bowels and a $200 check in my work khakis, I smiled, as up against it as I ever was–I smiled in the cold wind thinking that as tortuous and brutal as it’s become, I am still grossly, abundantly and unbelievably lucky to know you and always nowhere except in service to your love. Stay beautiful, pretty babies. Get off Twitter and off with their heads.

Ab irato,
Your Dayworker

  1. Brilliant as always.

  2. I guess I’m late in reading. I think I’m on social media less and less so I missed last week’s debacle. You are allowed to have bad weeks and be angry about it. It makes the not so bad weeks feel better. I drive home daily and gripe to my mother about the insanity known as our public education system. I then thank her for allowing me to dump it on her and then meal prep for her in repayment. At least you have your readers to let it out to. Hope to keep up better with you. Hugs.

    • I’m hoping this is chrysalis, and the shell I’m breaking out of is what’s hard. Or maybe, god forbid, it’ll have to get worse for me to change. Either way, it’s brought me to my knees, Annemarie, where I say “Help!” and “Thank you!” Thanks as always for reading and your kind words. See you soon my Friend.

  3. Get off Twitter and off with their heads.
    Ha, like that. Vive la revolution, vive la guillotine. Where’s me knitting?

    • I was just thinking yesterday, while working a 12-hour shift in the wastelands of Texas, how we’ve all accepted the Lie. We know the government is corrupt, we know it’s rigged but carry on like this is the best place on Earth to be. We’re inured and trapped by our own convenience. Thank you for reading! And commenting!

  4. […] gig and started there. Worked there for 2&1/2 weeks before the anxiety got to me. It’s well documented. I was in the depths of IBS, and the dangerous conditions out in the Texas wasteland turned me. […]

  5. […] time the next year I was having explosive movements.  Painful, wet gas.  Not easy to deal with driving a box truck to W. San Antone or through the Samsung lot in the pre-dawn dark.  I know this is gross.  I can’t let that stop […]

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