Dell Franklin's Blog: Politics, Sports, Cayucos and Culture

class warfare in trump's america "the real shit-hole -- america!"

1/14/2018

Yeh, just look around, with your blinders off, and listen to the subhuman abominations defending and making excuses for Trump, including our queasy government representatives on the republican side, and realize that the real shit-hole on this planet is America, and primarily Trump's America, a gigantic swath of the country that revels in its white legions making fun of minorities and people of color, a tribe ignorant of history and current events, a deranged cult steeped in hatred and intolerance and bigotry, and actually ferociously proud they dwell in intellectual squalor—much like their fulminating messiah.

Yeh, the revolting, disgraceful shit-hole that is America resides in downtrodden areas of this country where school systems are so poor they cannot even afford up to date text books for their students, much less classroom computers donated to our wealthiest school districts to go along with personal computers and hi-tech conveniences in the bedrooms of their students.

Yeh, the shameful, despicable shit-hole that is America resides in populaces in of the country that suffer and die because they have no health care, no protections from employers or banks or corporate greed-bags, and have been stripped of all safety nets by a heartless political party sucking up to a President who has been called a “moron and an idiot” by members of his own cabinet.

Yeh, America is a wretched shit-hole when a tax plan is crammed down the throat of the poor by a thousand lobbyists working for the one percent and at the same time lying to them about every tiny hidden plan to ultimately shaft them out of any remaining minute aid and comfort.

Shit-hole America is out to condemn immigrants, legal or illegal, to roust and handcuff them and deport them like Nazi SS brown shirts from their homes and workplaces, to send those born and thriving and law-abiding back to countries where they are strangers and prey to murderous gangs and an even more debilitating poverty than their parents faced when they came to America and worked two onerous jobs for rich white people to get them in college.

Shit-hole America sports billionaire lobbying firms and super pacts dedicated to make voting near impossible for the old, poor, and non white, so that the whites can hold on desperately to their power.

Shit-hole America endeavors to transform their most natural and beautiful protected wilderness tracts into earth-cracking, smoke-belching, oil-spilling authentic shit-holes.

Shit-hole America is dead set on turning the planet into an over-heated, disease infested, unlivable hell-hole for its children and the world.

Shit-hole America rejects the needy and destitute, in its inner cities, rusted out former manufacturing belts riven with opiate addiction, those clamoring to enter our country for a better life, while building gated mansions with security patrols on parcels of land reserved for the one percent.

Shit-hole America spends outrageously inordinate amounts of money on the military and border patrols, terrifying its citizens of Muslim terrorists while allowing its infrastructure to crumble like the third world countries it calls shit-holes.

Shit-hole America, like their President, depends on a propaganda wing like Fox News to form domestic policies hell bent on turning America back into the shit-hole that “hung niggers” and created a situation so unbearable Sinclair Lewis wrote a book called “The Jungle,” which depicted a sort of sadistic slavery of European immigrants with absolutely no protection from employers.

Shit-hole America has witnessed silently and stupidly as its vaunted capitalism has trampled democracy to the point it has emasculated its soul.

The subhuman abominations dwelling in Shit-hole America rally to the terminal ugliness and cruelty spewing from the White House like a toxic and demoralizing miasma, led by the emotional dwarf and empty puddle of glitz squatting in the oval office.

Shit-hole America is “America First,” which is why it is now seen by all the world as a shit-hole.

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BREAD & WINE #5 "THE ULTIMATE BRIOCHE, BELZONDALT & BUKOWSKI"

1/7/2018

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Well, now that I have discovered loaves of brioche from Trader Joe's, I decided to put my bread quest aside for a little while, and stay with Brian's white and sourdough for sandwiches ONLY, and branch out in pursuance of the highest quality brioche. I spoiled myself for two weeks, frying TJ's brioche in olive oil and butter and spreading raspberry preserves on one piece and one piece ONLY (I fry 3), and when it was all gone I remembered years back, when I published and distributed my literary magazine, The Rogue Voice, throughout San Luis Obispo county, that I stopped occasionally at La Parisienne, a French bakery/cafe down on the embarcadero in Morro Bay, an establishment with outside tables that was always busy, its long lines of pastry, quiche, sandwich and bread fanatics waiting patiently inside beside tables that were almost always filled with a hubbub of conversation among mostly older people, whole cadres of joggers, bike riders and veterans sporting ball caps emblazoned with the branch of military they'd served in, and, of course Gus Belzondalt, a La Parisienne institution, who spent his mornings there kibitzing with locals of every ilk (including fishermen, politicians and artists) and also published wicked cartoons in my magazine as well as short stories.

So, after yoga class, at around 10:30 in the morning, I decided to try La Parisienne, feeling there would be less waiting, and I was right, only a few people lined up along the glass enclosed pastries prepared by a Frenchman indeed, a sight of cosmetic artistry and heartbreaking aromas. Obviously, at this hour the place wasn't quite as busy, and there was no sign of Belzondalt, a man around 70 last time I saw him who so resembled the writer/poet Charles Bukowski that people often mistook him for the great eloquent renegade drunkard and womanizer.

Well, my first trip back I settled on brioche with raisins and custard, took them home and realized I was experiencing the crème de la crème and would no longer fry bread for my morning sustenance, except for sandwiches. Twice more I came in after yoga and bought 2 brioche pastries with custard, and finally, on a Friday I skipped yoga, I came in earlier to wait in a very long line and in a packed house spotted Belzondalt sitting at his usual table beside a far wall, visiting with an elderly lady standing over him. Belzondalt is known for his grace and serenity and ability to discuss any subject with knowledge and objectivity and a certain low-key, unforced collegiality and joviality.

I called out his name. He peered over, but obviously, after about 9 years, did not recognize me. I hoped he would stay. Also, I decided to try their loaf of raisin brioche and put off the sweet brioche pastries. When I got to the counter, the polite, smiling, helpful girl offered to slice my brioche and I thanked her and headed to the table where Belzondalt sat alone, a paper coffee cup before him. I asked him if he remembered me. He did. I sat down and asked him how he was doing and he said he was doing fine and when I asked him about his cartoons he said he was only writing these days and had books out, including a work of fiction about his days in the 1950's and '60's in New York City shacking up with many women, boozing, engulfed in the jazz and blues and art scene while scrabbling away at any job available, savoring the off-culture wild life, which was written across his face.

We started talking about writing, and self publishing, and he said his books were out there but he was terrible at promoting them on Amazon and hadn't made much money. We veered into Bukowski, and how people still came up and told him he looked like the famous degenerate author, and I suggested he just tell people he WAS Bukowski, because most people didn't know he was dead anyway. This produced a smile full of what appeared to be generous false teeth. Belzondalt mentioned how Bukowski was the most imitated writer in America at one time, and I noted that Hemingway probably was and added that nobody could write like Bukowski with any authenticity because they did not suffer as he did, or match the persecuted anger and rage he felt against the plastic veneer of traditional materialistic culture, and Belzondalt said it was probably because his father beat him, and I agreed, adding that in his autobiographical novel “Ham On Rye,” he suffered from such acute acne he felt women were repelled by him, hated him, and thus his appreciation of the kind of downtrodden bar hussies he preferred to bed down. (As a lifetime bartender, I know personally these women are a savior of mankind and to be treated with care and sensitivity).

“I suffered from severe acne,” Belzondalt said, matter-of-fact.

“In those days there wasn't much you could do about it,” I said.

“I tried everything. Even tried to burn it off.”

“Bukowski tried everything.” I noticed the pits still on his face. “I remember kids were pretty cruel if you had acne. They called you 'pizza face,' and whatever else they could think up, it was relentless.”

Belzondalt laughed. “Maybe that's why Bukowski fought so much. He was always fighting and losing.”

“He was always losing because he was always drunk, way drunk. I tended bar twenty five years, and the reason I won most of my fights was because I was sober and the other guy was drunk. Only fear I had was when they were on speed or PCP. Then I needed a weapon.”

We were discussing the blues and a book by Mezz Mezzrow called “Really the Blues” when a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair came over to say hello to Gus. We wound up our conversation and I gave him my blog card and vowed to visit with him again, Belzondalt always easy company, informative and interesting and down-to-earth.

Back home, I broke out my loaf of brioche, a darker color than the yellowish Trader Joe's, and fried it in olive oil and butter and smeared one with jelly, and it was absolutely delightful. But did I like it better than TJ's, with all its ingredients to shorten your life? I'd give La Parisienne a higher grade, and next time I'll get the orange, but somehow I felt I might stick with TJ's.

La Parisienne had a cornucopia of so much stuff I felt there was a lot of joyous experimenting and testing in the future, and maybe more visits with Gus Belzondalt.

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class warfare in trump's america "the real shit-hole -- america!"

BREAD & WINE #5 "THE ULTIMATE BRIOCHE, BELZONDALT & BUKOWSKI"

dell franklin

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