pages

8/27/11

The Goat




















I first saw Gaddafi on 60 Minutes about 42 years ago. We had
just sprung him from some asylum, and installed him to rule Libya. I
watched him ride a tractor at breakneck speeds through the fields. I
thought he was crazy then, and my opinion hasn't changed. So on
February 17, 2011 when the good people of Libya finally decided to do
something about it I followed along with a lump in my throat. These
people were coming to the square hesitatingly - to be identified by
one of Gaddafi's death squads had repercussions. These people were
teachers, realtors, doctors, lawyers, journalists; they all had
families. One man said "My kids are just inside eating dinner - I
just wanted to see what was going on." The news media christened them
as "rebels." Suddenly, their lives, their very struggle for existence
was at hand. No one even knew how to shoot a gun. No one had been in
the military. These were just plain folks, these "rebels." So I
cringed. I worried for them.

I watched every day with increasing excitement. They took up
arms, and fought. They weren't organized in the beginning, but,
they're organized now. They committed themselves to destroying their
government as they knew it. 42 long crappy years of tyranny and
torture and and corruption and they found the moment, and they took
it. They are so brave.

I pride myself on my apathy, unless someone says "Sarah Palin is
the most brilliant woman," and then I have to go for the throat.

I remember about two years ago, when Gaddafi decided to come to
New York City,September 2009. For some reason he was supposed to
speak at the UN. All the hotels refused him, thank God. ( I still
have nightmares about Castro at the Waldorf, plucking chickens in his
suite). The Donald was pressed for accommodations, a call I would
have loved to have listened in on.

"Find a place for Gaddafi? He's got a big tent? 40 really? Do
they have to be... - are they all...?" The Donald pauses to watch a
video of Gaddafi strutting around in the dust in his military get-up.
"Is this him? Really? He looks like a Puerto Rican doorman -
Actually he looks like the Puerto Rican drug dealer who brought cash
to Mickael Jackson's garage sale - look, is there a badge for tyranny?
Do any of those things light up? I think one of those badges is an
IHOP sticker. The dark glasses are priceless - Just how crazy is this
guy? 40 virgins as bodyguards? Don't you guys like me?"

But Donald had the place. The perfect place to get this jerk out
of town, Donald had the Country Club. Seven Springs, in Westchester
County, its rolling hilly golf course bordered by a nature preserve
with riding trails and, for Gaddafi, armed military guards. The
limousines deposited he and his entourage in a French Normandy
inspired house with large wrought iron gates across the cobblestone
drive with the fountain; a sloping grassy yard was showcase to a
sunken rose garden on limestone tiers; I passed by everyday when I
walked my adorable rotty, Honey.

I called my husband from Florida. He was game. He leashed
Honey and they carried on. We talked until, suddenly I heard him say
"Uh, oh."

"Yeah, yeah, I see ya," my husband shouted waving his cell phone.

"All these guys in dresses are out here waving me off." And then,
loudly, "Come on, Honey, let's go the other way!"

"He's really here," my husband hissed as soon as they turned
around. "I see his big tent all set up - that rose garden's out of
there." And then he started laughing. "And you know how I really
know that maniac is really here? There's a fucking goat tied to the
side of his house. Like a goddamn peasant."

$30,000 in property taxes to live down the street from a madman
who ties a goat to the side of his house, my neighbors were more than
ticked off.

This is how white people riot.

"Fore!"


[posted by richardporter for pixelasana]