Socialism For Dummies

Lots of people like to get all fancy-ass intellectual about definitions of words and phrases. Those people are always wrong. Remember, intellectual spelled backwards is lautcelletni - don't sound so smart now, do it!? Bottom line is instead of putting words in people's mouths listen to what they be saying.

Socialism to the widest swath of good people means this: "Taking hard earned money out of my pocket and giving it to someone who ain't deserving of it."

No wonder it's such a hot button word! This definition is then naturally compared to our pure religion of capitalism where "everyone pulls his weight". It's all about people being responsible you see. Yessir, there's nothing capitalists love more than responsibility! Right?

For the sake of argument, let's say all these things are TRUE! We can't let loafers and thieves take all our money, can we? Why, anyone caught doing that would be strung up and hung out to dry in a heartbeat in this honest, hard-working country of ours. You socialists better not show your face in these parts, no sir!

Easy to tell who the good guys are in an

honest society: they got all the money!

Then I got all confused by my God-fearing, capitalism-loving, advocates of personal responsibility when I read this headline right on the front page of the morning paper:

Rise of commodity speculators helps fuel soaring cotton prices

Now, every good capitalist I know swears up and down and six times to Sunday that the free market is the only way to go! The free market is God talking, they says. Hell, who am I to doubt God?? See, when people want stuff real bad in the free markets prices go up and when folks don't want it so bad no more prices go down. That's what all them smart folks call natural fairness.

But this here article says something different going on!

Pension funds and Wall Street banks are pouring money into futures for cotton, oil, natural gas, wheat, coffee and other commodities. Such financial speculation, weather and demand helped drive the price of cotton to a record $2.17 a pound March 7.

Before peaking, cotton prices rose by more than 140 percent in less than 18 months.

Some analysts say this speculative money from investors who will never take delivery of cotton is distorting the futures market, driving up cotton prices and thus raising prices for apparel retailers and consumers.

My capitalist friends say, "Give them food now
and they'll be wanting handouts for life!"

Don't know about you but that sounds like socialism to me! Them lazy-ass investors taking money right out of the wallets of every decent man, woman and child in this country! You can't just make prices be what you want them to be just to suit your own selfish interests, no sir! You gotta think of the greater good!

Just how did these deadbeats and parasites get a foothold in the Greatest System On The Face Of The Earth? I don't understand it! How could anyone even dare when they just got to know the minute a righteous American hears about this their sorry ass is toast!

A McClatchy investigation found that an increase in cotton prices has corresponded with the changing composition of the futures market, where speculators hold more contracts than do growers, producers, buyers and users of commodities.

"What happens is the markets become unreliable and therefore unusable" for growers and buyers, said Commodity Futures Trading Commissioner Bart Chilton, whose agency regulates commodity futures. "It's the same thing with cotton, same in energy. If you look at the volatility in the markets, there are not many of them that have sort of been stable."

Sifting through commission data, McClatchy found that total outstanding futures contracts grew by about 80 percent from 1990 to 2010. That's big growth in such markets.

Moreover, the number of contracts doubled between 2004 and 2010. This parallels the time when institutional investors began to play seriously in commodity markets, aided by popular commodity indexes developed by the Goldman Sachs investment bank and the disgraced financial giant American International Group.

Lord-a-mighty! They been doing it for years! Those scoundrels! Good thing those McClatchy folks dug up these cockroaches so we all can bring them to justice. We'll execute them Texas style! Hard labor for life - that'll show 'em for trying to get out of work! Let's see how they like them apples!

I know this stuff may sound harsh to you folks, but trust me, it's the only thing these kind of people can understand! People getting hurt out there and us God-fearing Americans are gonna do something about it!

The huge increase in the price of cotton is also hurting manufacturers. Ralph Lauren and Levi Strauss say profits have dropped because they can't pass along cotton prices to consumers in this economy.

Speculators are resisting change.

Late Friday, two huge financial industry groups sued the commodity commission to halt proposed limits on how many futures contracts speculators can hold.

What are them boys thinking? They gonna sue to stay on their lazy asses doing nothing 'cept taking other people's money? Oh boy, they got an education coming their way! This is the land of hard work and pulling yourself up by the boot straps! No free rides here, sonny boy.

I almost feel sorry for those fools when they find out we's honest folk in this country, not a nation of selfish crooks and thieves thinking only about themselves where bad people can get away with anything.

French Films I Love

From the classic A Man And A Woman

It's amazing I still have this reaction after all the great French films I've seen, but every time I hear the phrase "French film" I still cringe as I equate that notion as being like French food: too runny, snobby and effete for my tastes.

But people often forget the darker, Jacobin side of France and her at times wholly ruthless nature. French prisons have long been a deep stain on the French character with the sort of sanctioned psychotic barbarity too repulsive to repeat here. And I'm not talking the distant past either. So don't go around thinking the French are all wine and fluffy soufflés. They can be some nasty characters!

It may surprise some people then that the French can be masters at the hard boiled crime drama, a genre to which I am partial. 2004's District B13 is a prime example of French cinema flying off the screen, with its electric use of free running Parkour to a cynical look at both policeman and politicians. The police are usually portrayed as methodical and plodding but effective in this genre. Sometimes we see the romantic ending, sometimes we don't.

Jean-Pierre Melville was the master of French crime drama. He explored the underworld with a keen eye and let the chips fall where they may. If you're like me and you love Paris in the 50's and 60's with her seemingly always wet streets, smoky bars and ever-present trench coats then Melville is right up your alley. The sheer atmosphere of his films is enough to draw me in.

Un Flic (Dirty Money, 1972) has one of the most unforgettable openings to a film ever conceived. The coastal bank robbery staged during ultra-high winds that surely must be emanating from hell itself lends an eerie, edgy tone of madness to the event that causes the viewer to squirm and wonder just what one has gotten himself into.

The film also stars two great French mainstays of crime and action: the handsome, dashing Alain Delon and the suave and savvy Yves Montad. If you see one of those guy in a film, be sure to look it over. If they are both in it, just go watch!

Ladies man, action star, cop or criminal - Alain could do it all

Yves Montand always played
a man to be reckoned with

In Le Samouraï (1967), Alain plays a cop who slowly tightens the net on a professional assassin in a long, slow spiral downward for the hit man. As we explore the life of the hunter and hunted, we're conflicted on who to root for as we get to know each man. That's what I love about Melville, things are rarely black and white.

Le Doulos (The Finger Man, 1962) involves a film with a recently released convict, his illegal plans, and a police informer in their midst. It is as Melville describes a film where "all characters are two-faced, all characters are false". Yet another film where as the plot unfolds so do the characters' true natures.

Le Deuxieme Souffle (1966) tells the tale of an escaped criminal as he tries to reach final freedom by returning to a normal life but his true struggle to be free is from within more than from without.

But Bob le Flambeur (Bob the gambler, 1956) is easily my favorite among all of Melville's films. Bob is a man married to Lady Luck and the fortunes and famines that brings to his life is to him simply the price of doing business. But we all know the odds are against him in the end as he uses his criminal endeavors to support his cherished hobby. Watch the film for an ending only Lady Luck could engineer!

But Melville wasn't the only one to master the art of crime film and seedy underworlds. Rififi (1955) is a hoot and a half! The great 20 minute heist scene is done without speaking a word - but I bet you don't realize that until you think about it later! Again, the atmosphere of the night clubs and the ingenuity of the thieves is just marvelous to behold. I dare you not to root for them!

Le Trou (1960) - a film Melville called one of the greatest French films ever made - involves a complex prison break detailed after a real life event. Three of the members of the break were used as consultants on the film to provide meticulous realism. The tension is palpable all the way through.

Pépé le Moko (1937) is a rollicking film about a gangster hiding in Algiers' casbah. Starring the great Jean Gabin - who could play a gangster as well as anyone - it's an early film-noir before the genre became formalized. He's a clever fugitive on the run eluding police, but he finds love and for that he needs true freedom. Will his past prevent that?

Le Quai des Brumes (Port of Shadows, 1938) finds Gabin drifting through a seaside town as a lost and lonely soul. As atmospheric as it sounds, there's not much romance in this smoke as we watch him scrap his way along.

Gabin also starred in Touchez Pas au Grisbi (Don't Touch the Loot, 1954). He's a criminal trying to retire after a massively successful robbery but like a gunfighter whose reputation everyone wants to steal, so does a crime boss want to squeeze the money Gabin lifted. A delightful battle of wits ensues.

For more in the gritty, smoky world of French crime, I also loved:

Melodie en Sous-Sol (Any Number Can Win, 1963) Gabin as the veteran and Delon as the young turk, as Gabin's character looks to pull one last job to set up his retirement.

Le Cercle Rouge (The Red Circle, 1970) In French writer-director Jean-Pierre Melville's crime noir classic, a brooding thief named Corey (Alain Delon) and a fearless career criminal named Vogel (Gian Maria Volonte) team up with cop-turned-goon Jansen (Yves Montand) for a hot heist while a straight cop (André Bourvil) stalks them.

Pickpocket (1959) Acclaimed French director Robert Bresson helms this stylized black-and-white drama following the trials of a Paris pickpocket named Michel (Martin LaSalle), a thief who grows so successful at his craft that he worries his luck will run out.

I also recommend Bressons's films Mouchette (1967), the tragic life of a teenage girl. Diary of a Country Priest of a young priest in over his head trying to lead his flock. And A Man Escaped (1951), of a WWII prisoner determined to escape the Nazis.

WWII also inspired Melville's L'Armée des Ombres (Army of Shadows, 1969), a story of the French Resistance during Nazi occupied France. Would you rat on your fellow conspirators if your daughter's life hung in the balance if you did not? Those were the sort of situations faced by the French Underground. It's nerve wracking to the end.

What many people don't know is that the son of Auguste Renoir, Jean, became a filmmaker in his own right and Renoir's Grand Illusion (1937) is one for the ages. Two men (Gabin as one) who outside of war would be close and respected friends find themselves forced to do their "duty" inside of war to destroy the other. Why? Because there is no reason why. It's all a grand illusion. In war, the true enemy is the war. No one dares explore these themes anymore.

Remade by Akira Kurosawa, Les Bas-fonds (The Lower Depths, 1938), another Renior film, explores life in French slums with a various cast of characters struggling in their daily lives to survive. Compare both films to see the difference in attitude between the two filmmakers' takes on the Gorky play.

No mention of French films can be done without mentioning Gérard Depardieu. Yes, I've called him Gérard Diaper-doo before with his lack of American success but don't let that take away from the powerhouse performances he is able to command. One viewing of Jean de Florette (1986) should be enough to convince anyone of Depardieu's greatness. The plot reads as a simple one but is deceptive as to how much the films draws you in to feel its pain. Its sequel, Manon of the Spring, is also a must-see event.

Although remade by Richard Gere, The Return of Martin Guerre is made far better with Depardieu's engaging personality. The fact that it's based on a true story only adds to the haunting nature of the mystery of just who is Martin Guerre.

As Danton, Depardieu brought the historical character to life in a way no book ever could, a living breathing man making a stand during turbulent times only to be washed away by the wave of insanity of the first French Revolution. From comedy to history, Depardieu's legacy in French film is hard to match.

Blue (1993). White (1994). Red (1994). "Three Colors: Blue is the first part of Kieslowski's trilogy on France's national motto: Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity". When I stumbled across the Three Colors trilogy I had no idea what I was in for. It's personal, it's French, it's modern, it's universal. Immerse yourself in this deep, fine wine of films and come out feeling both exhausted and refreshed.

My affection for the 400 Blows knows no bounds and is easily one of the best films - of any country - ever made as a soaring Truffaut instilled every ounce of his heart and soul into his first feature film, highlighting the spiritual struggles of his life to find his place in a world most unkind and distrusting of artistic beings such as he. Volumes have been said of this and rightly so. But Truffaut also wrote a female version of this film, not made until after his death.

The Little Thief (1988) is the story of a lively teenage girl in constant trouble and is seemingly on a path towards self-destruction as her yearning for life does not mesh with the rules and order of the world around her. The ending is uplifting and magical and restores faith in the universe, the perfect bookend to the 400 Blows.

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OK, so my list was pretty gangster heavy but there's nothing else like the black and white Paris of yesteryear and I'd give anything to roam those streets and immerse myself in a romantic time that could not last. France is very proud and protective of its film industry, reluctant to let Hollywood overrun her with its big budgets and copious output. In 1989 a directive was implemented to institute quotas to limit the number of America films shown in French theaters and TV. I think that's silly. The films of France can stand on their own!

I Crashed Baseball's Winter Meetings! (Photos)

Welcome to the MLB Winter Meetings, Texas style!

I'd made a mental note that Major League Baseball was coming to Dallas for its winter meetings and I wondered just what I could see. So I grabbed my fake press pass and video equipment and decided to crash their party and see what mischief I could get into. Frankly, I didn't have my hopes up. And I half expected to get run off.

Baseball is known for its snot nosed, pampered players and I feared the business of baseball might be much the same. But, man, it wasn't like that at all! I never really got a feeling of snootiness from anyone. In fact, I felt a feeling of openness and generosity in the air, like you could approach anyone anytime as long as your were cool. Still, I had a nervous edge to me the whole time I walked around poking my nose into anything and everything.

I'd always known the winter meetings were a get together of baseball's general managers, agents and the assorted player, and that it was a time for wheeling and dealing. But there were a couple of sidelines I did not know about. One was the hiring of baseball personnel, for everything from the front office to broadcasting to scouting and handling media events. I guess I always figured they put an ad in the paper like everyone else.

A baseball trade show was also on the premises but I could not get into it since I am not associated with a "sports related" enterprise. Should have worn my Yankee cap!

The Hilton Anatole just west of downtown Dallas


It's an expensive joint


The hotel has Chinese accents all around the place -
of which I highly approve!


Chairman Mao's offical portrait as reflected in the night glass
(channeling bbd)

The feeling was positively electric and I highly recommend any baseball fan to attend if they get the chance. It's held in a different city each year. According to what I was told it was last in Dallas in 2000 and before that 1982. So if it comes to your town, grab the chance while you can!

I kept hearing various baseball phrases (mostly forgotten) as I walked around:

"I think he should be in the hall of fame!"

"They're worried about their bullpen when they should be worried about their starting pitching."

Everyone had baseball on the brain!

The full schedule


The atrium area is huge but is just one part
of the larger complex that is the Anatole


This diagram gives an idea of the immensity of the hotel.
It's the perfect place for just such an event.

All the big shots were there - and I got my fair share. It truly takes a sincere dedication of time and energy to relentlessly wander for hours looking to see who is where and when. It almost takes a two man operation - plus the moral support of a cohort goes a long ways in shoring up the nerves. Gawkers like me stood out a mile among the suits and celebs. Everyone looks so busy it's hard not to feel like you might be pestering them.

I stopped ESPN's "baseball guru" Tim Kurkjian
for a photo and a handshake


Ken Rosenthal knows all things baseball


Tom Verducci. I shook his hand for his very fine Yankee books


Legendary Peter Gammons at the NESN desk


Very busy Yankee General Manager Brian Cashman stops for a quick pic.

Ad hoc job interviews were happening all over the place. You could easily spot the open but private tête à têtes. The job seekers needed to buy a badge for proper access ($200!) and were called by cell phone when their time came. I listened in on one and it sounded like a Hollywood audition. "If you don't hear from me in three days I'm probably not going to call you." These poor schmucks were just dying to get into baseball. You could see it in their eyes!

Want to get into Major League Baseball? Winter Meetings is your chance!


Man on the right just finished an interview
for scouting for the Tampa Bay Rays


A lot of business was conducted here, too

Naturally, this is a huge media event. Everyone wants to be the hotshot who breaks the big story first. I also saw much camaraderie as colleagues who hadn't met in a long while greeted one another with a handshake and a smile. Seemed like one, giant fraternity assembling for both business and pleasure. Professionalism was the order of the day. But the more successful you were the more you dressed down. It's the eager young turks who have to impress!

Yankee Entertainment and Sports (YES) network guys. I swear I
don't remember them looking at me when I took this photo.


Karl Ravich, ex-Red Sox Manager Terry Francona, and ex-player John Kruk.
Sportscenter is the holy grail of sports broadcasting.


Looking at the ESPN desk from above


The MLB Network was by far the best place to be to spot
baseball celebs. Everyone there was completely cool to boot.


Part of the control room set up for the MLB Network

Of course, there's much more going on than just what you see on TV. It takes an entire technical support crew to pull off a show. Again, even the crews were most gracious, chatting with the fans, being helpful. At the MLB Network desk, fans were even posing for pics sitting behind the desk like the hosts. One thing I didn't know is that most of the technical crews are local people and it's only directors and such the networks bring in.

No viewer ever knew the whole show was done between two elephants


One of the camera men for ESPN's desk


Peeking into a YES Network's camera

Overall, it was a damn fine experience! By the third day I was walking through the atrium as bored and blasé as any regular participant. They say NASCAR is fan friendly but I was pleasantly surprised to find baseball just as welcoming. There was only a smattering of fans there but if they knew what they were missing it would have been a different story. So if you are a baseball fan and the winter meetings come to your town, I have just one word of advice: GO!

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Joanna, I Love You

[She's gone from my life now but I think of her almost every day. I'm a lesser person for her absence. Time has come to pick up the pieces and go home - but home is lost when the heart is broken.]

Everyone was in love with Joanna - including me. She was the rarest of women, the kind men want but do not begrudge never having. She is a fantasy, yes, but a fantasy understood it needs to be earned and deserved. That sort of respect was part of her earthly appeal. But maybe the best way to describe Joanna was by the wake she left, just as one can tell the size and shape of a ship by the wake it leaves in the water. There were occasions where I had the privilege to travel in that wake and I felt as if I followed an angel among the clouds.

I met her in her time of great pain, she was a young widow battling to resume her life. She had taken the attitude of, "Life goes on, no time for self-pity" because she knew that was the correct path to take but like any human she still harbored feelings of resentment and anger over her loss. You had to dig deep to find it but that thorn punctured her with doubt. How to trust again? I also knew the man who could pull that thorn would be the next lucky soul to have her heart. All of us guys in love with her knew it was our job to be honest with ourselves on whether or not we were that man.

In each of us a voice whispering, "If only..."

Joanna was a drinker by sport but in this time of anguish it served a dual purpose to relieve her from the daily misery of the struggle to regain herself. It was like watching someone learning to swim: you know you can't do it for them but you live and die with every stroke, naturally rooting for them. But Joanna had one helluva cheering section. Accompanying her to a bar that served as a favorite haunt of hers I felt I traveled with a touring rock star.

First evidence I had of that was the minute we walked in the door, the bartender lit up at the sight of her, greeting her not in a way of professional courtesy, but of actual delight, not bothering to hide his open affection. He was older, tall stocky and bald, a hulking presence reflecting a mountain of stability. He was the kind of guy you'd want in a fight - but it verbal or physical - but still retained the qualities of a lamb. I immediately liked the guy.

To Joanna, I was part pet and part something else, I'm not exactly sure what. We'd met in a book store where we found our interests and passions crossing as happens only a few times in life. In that narrow confine we soared and I kept hearing that excited little voice saying, "Is it true? Is it true?" Sometimes even friendship can be like falling in love. We had these amazing discussions, the kind you can only have with someone to whom you don't have to "explain" everything. I was walking around with this feeling of wanting to shout, "Hey, guess who I just met!"

But like a prisoner who befriends a soul through his jailhouse window, I could see no way to be a part of her life. The price of past mistakes, of running away when the right one comes along. Life in jail is generally spent dulling your senses, waiting for the nightmare to end, but meeting Joanna put the taste for life back in my mouth and suddenly my cell became an unbearable hell and long dormant feelings of suicide tolled my name once more. But time with Joanna was like a weekend pass from that torment.

Sitting with her in the bar I realized I was in a place of privilege, in the seat everyone wished to sit. I felt special and honored even while part of me secretly fretted over actually deserving such a place. Peter, the mountain man bartender was especially nice to me, as if to say, "Any friend of Joanna's is a friend of mine." Having her seal of approval carried a lot of weight. And I also felt that same sense of protection Peter had for her spilling over on to me, knowing if I came to harm it would hurt Joanna. Therefore, that was just something that could never be.

What a swirl of emotion I had as she shared this part of her world with me! My insecurities kept pestering me, asking me how I'd feel at that moment sitting in the bar without Joanna and the implicit blessing that came with it. I'd be just another loser slob lost in the world, of that I had no doubt. I might get the professional nod from Peter as I asked for a quick drink, but certainly not the level of instant friendship I had now. It was a wonderful, intoxicating feeling of its own but I also felt the pressure of living up to one being granted so many unproven accolades.

Most every man has his primal lust to deal with and Joanna was a subject to arouse those passions in the most extreme of ways. Many women are packaged well only to reveal a nasty surprise when their mouths open. But despite her long-legged charms, Joanna sucked you in with her personality. Had you never laid eyes on her, the feelings of want just as strong and passionate, like finding a cave of warmth in a freezing winter. Highly aware of my own urges and desires, what truly caused me to marvel was watching the way men put their lust in check around Joanna. (And if they didn't it was understood Peter would give a quick education on why one should.)

Also like any animal I felt an intense competition with my fellow males. Peter was the gold standard but the drop off was rapid from there. I raged with jealousy anytime a rival stopped to speak with her, catching up on lives I knew I could never have from my prison cell. But just like the men who put their sexual lust in check around her, I too had to swallow my instinct to lash out and cage her for me and me alone. Dare I believe the voice she somehow magically felt the same joy I do in her presence? Turns out, all life depends on facing the answer to that question.

Joanna had her obligations to the many souls who requested her time, leaving my observant eye to scan the bar and evaluate my ersatz companions. One pathetic beast caught my eye here at the watering hole, despising him instantly, resenting the fact he obviously was trying to escape life and its responsibilities one cold drink at a time. His slouched demeanor and whiny tone made me wish great white hunter would come along and shoot him right out of his misery, the fucking cripple. Then I realized the true source of my anger: that's me without Joanna.

But under her spell of love, new enticing thoughts entered my mind as never before. I pictured myself speaking with the crippled beast, letting him know we shared common woes in this world, creating a bond of brotherhood instead of arrows of antipathy. The withering creature would straighten up when he saw I understood his pain; I'd almost be his Joanna. I gazed upon her as she spoke with a passing friend, admiring her tower of strength rubbing off on me. I wondered if I could ever be the strong and generous person I just imagined myself to be - the strong and generous person Joanna actually was.

Luckily I was able to draw her back into the world of books and literature and I realized I filled a need for her in that regard. I also knew that regardless of the attributes of anyone else in the bar, only I could fulfill this need. Only later only did I come to realize she was actually a bit intimidated by my literary abilities. I always assumed: I'm a prisoner, I have nothing to offer anyone, when the weekend is over I have to go back to jail, useless to all. What need has the world of an imprisoned poet?

People talk of pointless politics and mandated morality to make the world a better place. But in this smoky room I saw in the presence of Joanna's heart every soul striving to put his best foot forward as if it were a matter of life and death. War, money, hate - the whole fucking world - seemed so irrelevant and laughably stupid when around her. Anything and everything centered around love and her sense of family as the obvious point to life and existence. No one wants to admit to leading a life of unfulfilled hunger - until a steak dinner is set before them, and then the facade drops in undeniable desire. That was the effect of Joanna

I only merited one other visit to Joanna's world, this time to her house as we stopped by to pick up a particular book. When she mentioned it was at her house I wondered if she'd trust me to know where she lived, me being a criminal and all. Plus, it would be one more glorious, thrilling sumptuous feast of seeing inside her life and her domain. The moment I walked in her townhouse I felt "home", wanting to curl up on the couch and never leave. I don't think I'll ever forget that overwhelming pull the rest of my weary, wandering life.

I hold too much fear from self-knowledge now to ever tread in her home again but I often mentally wander back. You can keep all the mansions of the world, hers was the "in" place to be with her quick wit and dazzling smile. As I think back on it I may have even blushed like a child as my nervous hands stretched out to embrace this wonderland of warmth. How could I ever tell her I wished to spend the rest of my life there? I was both living and dying at the same time.

With the massive perspective shift created from the wake of the SS Joanna, the question of, "Who am I?" pops up over and over. When Jesus spoke of separating the wheat from the chaff this is surely what he meant as this tortuous question does just that. Once love breathes on you, you just have to know. Like so many stuck shivering out in the cold I ran away, unable to face my fears and hopes. I tore Joanna out of my life in a false recognition of myself and now I only wish to blow away like a dry autumn leaf. But I still remember my time up on the tree of life and the beautiful, exploding sun of Joanna.

The Truth Is Liberal

"Everything is the opposite of what it seems."

If I go into a room of a hundred people and ask how many of them can give me an objective answer to a question, ninety-nine of those people will raise their hand. In other words, only one person answers me objectively. It's the people who claim objectivity who don't have it and the people who don't claim it who do. For there's no man so unreasonable as a man who decides himself always reasonable. The truth can never be found without an open mind.

Ideology - like politics - is religion by any other name. It's a belief about reality that is not bound to reality. That's why I call it idiotology - and we're knee deep in it here in Texas, especially in the rich, cloistered town of Southlake (named by Forbes in 2008 as the most affluent neighborhood in the country). Rednecks and money, a lethal combination.

But what happens if you stop drinking the kool-aid? What happens if you question the cult? Southlake resident Kim Davis found the answer to that when she decided to dig deeper into the city's plan to allow "frac drilling" for gas wells into the Barnett Shale deposit underneath their million dollar enclaves. At first she thought nothing of it, having already signed up herself.

It's a common tactic the drillers use to get homeowners to sign. "We're going to drill whether you sign or not so you might as well get some cash out of it." I've seen this happen first hand and it's about as cheesy and obvious as it sounds. Lucky for them they are dealing with unsophisticated rednecks. Money is rarely a sign of intelligence. Along with Tommy Lee Jones billboards exhorting everyone to "get behind" the Barnett Shale, the drillers run roughshod over most resistance.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the derrick, Kim and her husband came across the documentary Gasland which detailed the hazards of drilling, including the ability to set one's tap water on fire with a cigarette lighter. At first, this died-in-the-wool Republican refused to believe her lying eyes. "I thought it had to have some sort of liberal agenda," she claimed. Brainwashed much?

Then reality called - literally. Kim was informed that 1,200 feet from her house a 3 acre pad site was planned for 21 wellheads. Suddenly, her idiotology didn't mean so much to her since the part of her still connected to reality realized she could be blown sky high along with some serious health hazards to her air and water.

Who wouldn't want this 1,200 feet from their home?

"I read about Dish, Texas," she says, referring to the heavily drilled North Texas town that renamed itself for free satellite TV. The town's mayor fled because of health concerns he blamed on natural gas drilling. "And in Flower Mound [just north of Southlake] they have a cancer cluster, but no one could prove it was because of the gas companies. I read about kids, and they had drilling sites next to schools, and the kids were having nosebleeds when they practiced outside for band."

She also read a study commissioned by the City of Southlake to evaluate the potential danger posed by a battery of ethanol, gasoline and diesel tanks just a few hundred feet from the proposed pad site, where land would be graded and a layer of gravel would be laid down. Her heart sank when she saw a satellite photo of the proposed site: Her home was within one of the concentric rings of a dispersion model predicting the spread of combustible gas in the event of a blowout.

Soon, she was a part of the liberal agenda - the truth! As the justice of the universe dictates she became victim of her own vice. The shoe is on the other foot!

Now she was losing sleep, though it seemed for a time like she was the only one. She phoned a friend and wept. It was like nobody in Southlake knew what was going on, and if they did, they didn't seem to care. Or worse, she thought, they wanted the drilling.

"You find out that there are people whose kids your kids go to school with, and they're for it. There's just not enough information out there to decide if it's safe or not safe, so why would you take a chance with my family?" she says. "Whose child has to get sick?"

Mrs. Davis got a taste of being driven into the wilderness, of what it's like to be libeled "unreasonable" when being the voice of reason, and of direct threats to her well-being. Welcome to Liberal World, Kim! You're supposed to drink the kool-aid, not question what's in it! Only the truth can win, but we live in a world where the truth - and those who speak it - are demonized. Go ask Alice what that's like.

After writing an email detailing her concerns was forwarded around the community, "missives in support of drilling began piling up in her inbox." Later she received a phone call telling her she would "regret" her efforts to stop drilling. But she refused to deny her motherly instincts and lobbied the city council that children + gas wells is a bad combination and due restrictions need to be implemented.

In a backwards mirror reflection of Kim Davis we have Zena Rucker, a self-described environmentally conscious person. She recycles, she composts, has a solar array capable of powering her home, was a flower child protester during Vietnam and was Tarrant County Democratic chair for years. So which side is this octogenarian on? Why naturally she's for the drilling!

You cannot question me!

By sheer coincidence, Rucker is one of the largest landowners with 75 acres in very pricey Southlake. She has a lot to gain (in her mind) by drilling. But what does she end up saying? Garbage like, "[The companies] are making drilling as safe as they can make it," (Want to bet your life on it? Because you are!), and "They're very self-obsessed people [in Southlake]." (Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!)

See what happens when you close your eyes and declare yourself Jesus?

In the end, the city council placed such onerous restrictions on drilling that the drillers packed up their rigs and left in a huff, sending out a Machiavellian letter detailing their cruel victimization as they try to "lead the path toward U.S. energy independence." Such noble heroes! An endeavor so noble they won't even disclose the chemicals used in the fracking process.

So what do we have in the end? Everything the opposite of what it is! A mother campaigning against environmental disaster but not because she's (God forbid) an environmentalist. And a flower child fighting for the system. And a highly Republican city doing the environmentally correct thing - but only because they have the money to be able to. Such a confusing world!

But for her freedom fighting efforts, Kim Davis did come out ahead, realizing her true best interest is opening her mind:

"I used to get really angry when I'd listen to politics and I'd be like 'These liberals!'" she says. "And I always went into whatever it was from a political standpoint, whether it was the budget or tax cuts. I really looked at it in black and white, and now I'm looking at it all differently. I'm not so quick to judge something. I want to take time to research it."