I was at a funeral in some rural area: the sky was overcast and there was a white country church in the foreground, and woods in the background. As the people (none of who i knew) gathered around, I noticed the casket looked more like a greenhead fly trap, painted white. Behind me, a woman was crying and wailing, mourning the dead person. Even in my dream, I recognized the voice: it was from one of the funeral scenes in Harlan County, USA. Funny how my brain stores that data away, and dredges it up for my REM sleep.

Anyway, it was time for the burial, and I wasn’t excited about being a pallbearer (I didn’t even know the dead person) but was resigned to it. For some reason, in the dream there was a tradition of throwing some soil into the coffin with the corpse, but all that was available was perlite when I opened the casket cover, the body wasn’t laid out the way you’d expect, with the hand crossed over the chest. Because of the small size and boxlike shape, the corpse looked like it had been thrown into the coffin the way mobsters throw their victims into shallow graves in the Jersey Pinelands.

That’s when I woke up.

Five years ago today, Andy Card and Alberto Gonzales rushed to John Ashcroft’s ICU room to try to trick him into signing the re-authorization for George Bush’s illegal wiretap program over Jim Comey’s objections. Jim Comey arrived at the hospital in time to prevent Card and Gonzales from succeeding.

Five years ago tomorrow, George Bush re-authorized his illegal wiretap program with only the signature of Alberto Gonzales–then White House Counsel–to give it legal sanction.

Five years ago today and tomorrow, attorney Wendell Belew spoke to al-Haramain Director Soliman al-Buthi by telephone. Belew has reason to believe–and once had clear evidence that may have proved–those calls were wiretapped under Bush’s illegal wiretap program.

As bmaz explained last year, in March 2004, FISA had a standard 5-year statute of limitation….

That means that the statute of limitations on the potentially criminal March 11 wiretaps of Belew expire today. By all appearances, that means the statute will expire without George Bush being punished for illegally wiretapping an American citizen, even though clear evidence of that criminal wiretapping almost certainly exists….

Congratulations George Bush, Dick Cheney, David Addington, and Alberto Gonzales! With your stonewalling and delay, you appear to have avoided legal consequences for this particular crime committed while in office. You have deliberately violated a law designed to check presidential abuse of power, and Mukasey and Congress and Obama have let you get away with it.

On top of no single payer health care.
And no EFCA.
And no end to state secrets.
And an ongoing, accountability-free bailout.

Synoia, in comments:

From the outside, it appears the Wall St, Washington and almost the entire NE corridor is one large body of organized crime.

what do you mean, “appears”?

We know how this ends up…

‘Gentlemen,’ concluded Napoleon, ‘I will give you the same toast as before, but in a different form. Fill your glasses to the brim. Gentlemen, here is my toast: To the prosperity of The Manor Farm! ’

There was the same hearty cheering as before, and the mugs were emptied to the dregs. But as the animals outside gazed at the scene, it seemed to them that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the faces of the pigs? Clover’s old dim eyes flitted from one face to another. Some of them had five chins, some had four, some had three. But what was it that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause having come to an end, the company took up their cards and continued the game that had been interrupted, and the animals crept silently away.

But they had not gone twenty yards when they stopped short. An uproar of voices was coming from the farmhouse. They rushed back and looked through the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel was in progress. There were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials. The source of the trouble appeared to be that Napoleon and Mr. Pilkington had each played an ace of spades simultaneously.

Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.

WHERE’S MY FUCKING CHANGE?

This Saturday is Valentines Day, and what Philadelphia institution is more deserving of a little love than our beleagured branch libraries?

Celebrate Philadelphia’s great public libraries at the following branches this Saturday, February 14, 2009. And make sure you see below for an earlier event at the Ogontz Branch.

Haddington – 446 N. 65th Street
1-3pm : Arts & Crafts for the Whole Family

Fishtown – 1217 E. Montgomery Avenue
3-4:30pm : Library Celebration & Arts Workshop

Kingsessing – 1201 S. 51st Street
1-3pm : Friends of the Library Celebration

Wadsworth – 1500 Wadsworth Avenue
2-4pm : Arts & Crafts for the Whole Family

Durham – 3320 Haverford Avenue
12-3pm : We Love Our Library Fun Day!

Queen Memorial – 1201 S. 23rd Street
1pm : Valentine’s Day Poetry Party

PLEASE NOTE THIS EARLY EVENT!
FRIDAY FEBRUARY 13th* – 6017 Ogontz Avenue
Ogontz – 3-4:30pm – Valentine’s Party

And please visit the Coalition to Save the Libraries for more information!

The Eagles have thrown the challenge flag at the suggestion that money they owe the city could spare the libraries Mayor Nutter wants to cut.

I’m told they didn’t appreciate the headline I slapped onto my blog after posting a video that questions the team’s citizenship:

“Eagles to Libraries: Drop Dead.”

I think this one’s going up to the replay booth for review.

You hear the Eagles are fighting the city over about $10 million, and you think that’s like a rounding error to a team that, according to Forbes, is worth $1.1 billion.

It’s not that simple….

If you remember back to the go-go 1980s, when Philadelphia was flush and the Eagles were not, taxpayers helped by letting the team keep the revenue from luxury boxes built at the Vet for 15 years.

The grace period is done, but the Eagles have never ponied up. A judge has said the city is entitled to 70 percent of the revenue from those boxes. That’s about $9.6 million, plus interest.

But when the city sued for that money in Common Pleas Court in 2004, the team made a counterclaim. They seek to be made whole from a 2001 preseason game that was canceled when the new artificial turf at the city-owned stadium was so ragged and uneven that the NFL said it was unsafe to play the Baltimore Ravens.

Eagles president Joe Banner put the losses at $7.8 million for that one game, figuring what the team missed in revenue from ticket sales, TV and radio broadcasts, and concessions.

The case is before Judge Albert Sheppard. Both sides say they are eager to resolve the dispute. The clock ticks….

The Eagles are rightly feeling bruised by my clumsy “Drop Dead” line because they do work in the community for literacy. This year the team made 330 stops in poor neighborhoods around Philadelphia, giving children 37,767 new books, which cost more than $200,000.

Brendan Skwire, who helped create the video about the Eagles and the libraries, is unmoved. He is a grant writer who lives in Kingsessing, which could lose one library, a pool and a sprayground in the cuts.

“I have little sympathy for the Eagles’ hurt feelings mainly because there’s a debt – and until a court says it’s invalid, it’s still outstanding,” he told me.

“They can afford to do this and, given their community relations priorities [kids, literacy, athletics], they should. And it’s outstanding PR value that lasts for years.”

One number keeps coming back to me: $7.8 million for a preseason game. Sounds like a perfect opportunity for a benefit. They could call it the Library Bowl.

Look, let me be clear here. I think it’s great that the Eagles give out books to poor families and neighborhoods. And the bookmobile is a great investment.

But at a time when the city is slated to lose 11 libraries and 63 out of 72 pools, for a “savings” (if you can call foreclosing on a kids’ future “a savings”) of nearly $11 million dollars, that $200,000 the Eagles spent in the service of children’s literacy is a few cents. As I’ve pointed out numerous times, the libraries not only provide books, they provide internet access, community classes for adults, after-school programs for children, and a safe place for kids to go when school lets out and mom and dad work (3 shootings last year, one attempt this year, and a recent shooting right around the corner). Rubin doesn’t say the debt’s been paid back, simply that no decision has been rendered. On the same note, I’m sure Mr. Banner is sincere that his team doesn’t owe any money, but that’s for a judge to decide.

If the Eagles are upset by our video, perhaps they should think a minute about what it means to be a hero. I, for one, would love to be celebrating the Eagles, and anyone else that steps up to the plate to save our city and its resources. And the moment someone steps up, like Ed Snider, I’ll call them out as the heroes they are.

To that end, I’d like to once again point out that Ed Snider adopted the ice skating rinks. Where are the rest of our teams?

The next thing I knew, I was miles from the shore, and dark, pregnant clouds were moving in quickly. I could see lightning flashing in the distance.

Because sea water is a saline solution, it’s got a charge to it that attracts lightning, so I began swimming back as fast as I could, but no matter how hard I kicked my feet and swung my arms, I didn’t get any closer.

Then Christina said “time to get up!” and the dream was over.

The insomnia really sucks: I get this odd electric-tingling feeling all through my body and I can actually sort of feel my brain buzzing as I lay in bed looking at the wall or the ceiling. Worse, as the night drags on, I begin to get depressed as I lie there and my worries have the opportunity to rise to the surface and I’m reminded that my life is a litany of failure and pointlessness. I don’t make anywhere near enough money to cover my debts, I’m on the hook for a child support payment that’s dwarfed only by my student, music’s going nowhere, and writing’s going nowhere. I’ve had to give up everything I actually liked doing because I’m responsible for Sam, and I don’t even get him for more than a couple of days every other month, during which time I still have to go to work and leave him in someone else’s care. So it doesn’t even balance out.

I have so much to do this weekend: painting the second floor, shopping for a new bed for Sam, filing my taxes. I don’t have time for this shit. The result is predictable: my temper is going to be short all day, I’m not going to be able to focus on anything, and I’m going to end up annoying the fuck out of everyone, including myself. It’s 6:10 now, and I’m not sure whether I should make another go at sleeping (with the risk of waking up Christina, who’s having enough problems crashing out of her own) or whether I should just put some coffee on and face what’s sure to be a dreadful day. If I was certain I’d fall asleep, I’d hop back in the bed in an instant (the office space is damn cold right now), but if it’s just going to be more tossing and thrashing, no thanks.

UPDATE So I crawled back into bed and promptly crashed out until noon. I had some very vivid dreams. I was at an auction/performance of some sort with Christina that was taking place in a high school gymnasium. As I looked across the room, I saw Ralph Stanley and Bill Monroe (who’s been dead since 1996) in the doorway near the stage. Ralph noticed me and began walking my way as a family band with what looked like a dozen very small children in black pants and white shirts took the stage all carrying banjos. Ralph was a good 15 years younger than he is now, and while his sideburns were white as snow, he had this curly red beard on his chin. For some reason he knew me and began asking how Sam was doing. “Will we see you guys this summer at festivals?” he asked, and I told him yes. “What’s with all the little kids in that band?” I asked pointing at the stage. “They seem awfully young to heft those banjos…”

“Look closely,” Ralph Stanley said. “They’re all toys!” And sure enough they were: little tin wind up toys.

At that point the dream changed slightly: the show was over and my friend Matt thanked me for my performance and gave me an enormous old-fashioned cash register. “I hope you don’t mind counting the receipts,” he said.

“No problem,” I answered and began walking to my van. For some reason we were parked at a highway rest area: I think it was somewhere on Interstate 81, which would make sense since I’m on that stretch of road so often that it’s probably the default representation of a highway in whatever part of my brain deals with dreams. As I carried the heavy machine to the van I slipped and the money spilled out everywhere. I was gathering up[ the bills and shoving them back in the till when I woke up.

It was noon. I guess I got 5 hours or so of sleep, and for that I am grateful.

The place was filled with aging punk rockers and metalheads like myself, all of us ranging from 30-45 or so. Chris and Sophy have a beautiful boy named Damien: he’s about 16 months old, and at that incredibly cute stage when the kids first start to get the hang of walking. In fact most of the guests had kids somewhere between Damien and Sam’s age, and it really began to get to me.

I watched Damien go walking around searching for his daddy, crying when anyone else gave him attention. He’d go up to Chris and grab onto his index finger: it filled up the little guy’s entire hand. It’s obvious the boy idolizes his Papa.

Me, I don’t see Sam until Thanksgiving, and then only for a week. I haven’t seen him since September 9th. I’m sacrificing October (I’ve never had him for Halloween) so I can have him for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, but his mom has already tried to equate a weeklong visit that starts at the end of the month and ends in the beginning of the next as Sam visiting every month. “It’s getting a little expensive, and I’m not sure how much more I can afford to do this,” is how she put it. I had to take that notion down immediately, calling her out on what was Bush-style parsing. But again, it emphasizes what an inherently dishonest and trustworthy person she is.

I came home from the cookout around 6:00 pm, and promptly went to sleep for a few hours. When I woke up, the wet blanket on my head feeling was back. My stomach was rumbling, tying itself in knots in hunger, but I had no appetite. Food tasted like cardboard and I put off eating dinner until very late. I stayed at Christina’s and the last thing I remember before falling asleep was crying into my pillow.

I normally don’t remember my dreams, but last night was a doozy. I was being hounded by a killer, a tall skinny man with a beard who, in the dream, was someone I’d known for a long time, perhaps a brother or close friend, even though the only brother I have looked nothing like the man in my dream. He was trying to kill me with a knife, a large Japanese vegetable knife. Everywhere I went, the man showed up. He stalked me silently around my house (in the dream it was my parents’ house). When I went outside, he was there. It wasn’t one of those panic dreams where you’re being chased: the entire sequence in the dream was calm and collected, just persistent.

It finally ended in a locker room at the YMCA, when he slashed at my pants with the knife. As my trouser fell to the floor, he pointed at my genitals and began to laugh and laugh.

I woke up. It was 8:00 AM.