HT to facebook friend Ellie Corrow. Another example of the Constitution and liberty vs. the Police State and thuggery.
κηρύσσω ὁ λόγος! (2 Tim 4:2).
Bonus: a commenter on this last story wrote:Even a cursory glance at the news on the internet on a day to day basis is chock full of the folly of government - even here in my small city Gretna, Louisiana (the Louisiana part should have been a giveaway of funny business). And the one guy on the City Council who is saying what needs to be said is himself a crook.
Stop me when this sounds familiar:
Step 1: You are free to do XYZ.
Step 2: You are free to do XYZ, but you must ask permission first.
Step 3: You are free to do XYZ, after getting permission, but are subject to reasonable "health and safety" regulations.
Step 4: You are free to do XYZ, but only after applying for a permit or license, paying the fee and getting permission. XYZ is subject to a variety of restrictions and regulations for the good of the community.
Step 5: You are free to do XYZ, but only if you are a member of a class with a certain kind of education or training and accredited by an "independent" XYZ organization or association. You must apply for a license with a steep price tag, and only a few licenses are available each year. XYZ is heavily regulated and managed by distant government bureaucrats. Cottage industries spring up to navigate you through the legal, procedural, and insurance issues involved with doing XYZ.
What's step 6? Come on, everyone, you know it.
Meanwhile, things get loonier on the street. I went to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore from DC by train and, so help me, they’re doing the same garish security theater on trains that they do at hairports. Cops and German Shepherds everywhere. To buy a freaking commuter-rail ticket, you need a photo ID, and they type heaven knows what into a computer.
Okay, suppose I show up at the Obedience Training window with my suitcase full of Semtex, buy my ticket with my own ID or any ID with a balding ugly mutt on it—they barely look at it—and blow the 9:07 MARC to metallic sawdust. After the fact they assemble my shards, check the computer, and determine that It Must Have Been Fred. This miraculously brings the dead back to life. Bet you didn’t know I had such powers.
None of it makes sense, except as Pavlovian conditioning. Every few minutes a tedious recording plays in stations saying to call some number if you see suspicious behavior. Blah blah blah. No one pays the least attention. No one writes the number down. Has anyone ever called it?
“Uh, I want to report suspicious behavior.”
Voice, annoyed at having the Redskins game interrupted: “Yeah, what?”
“Well, there’s like, this guy, he has a funny looking raincoat and he keeps, you know, looking around, and I think his left hand is twitching.”
“Uh…yeah. Tell him to stop twitching.”
“What if he, you know, blows up or something?”
“What am I, your mother?”
I don’t get it. Something is happening to this country. It still has a lot going for it—friendly people, great diners, good blues, country bands, widespread availability of illegal drugs. But the government is out of control. Everything is illegal and watched. It’s getting so you can’t shoot cats from a car window with a twelve-gauge any more. Who wants to live in that kind of world? We’ll probably be overrun by cats, drown in them.
Today I went to the Hill to see the new Visitors Center. As usual, cops everywhere, squad cars parked on sidewalks, steel stop’em-cars plates rising from streets. People don’t seem frightened, but the government is, or pretends to be.
The Visitors Center turns out to be underground at the Capitol. It is said to have cost $761 temporarily deflated green ones and has the mental fingerprints of Albert Speer all over it: It’s huge, drab, squarish, monumental without even being imposing, with the élan of a K-Street office building.
I don’t get it. This is the country that produced Peggy Lee and Tampa Red and the ’fitty-sedden Chevy, the country that spits techno-whizz golf carts onto Mars just like it was even possible, that brought the hamburger to gorgeous bejuiced perfection and invented most of the modern world. It’s the home of sand-lot baseball and Little Peggy March and BB guns and Tasty Freeze. It is, in a phrase, one fine place.
How did it sink to being a proto-Soviet surveillance state that builds vast awful Visitor Centers in the style of a Hitlerian mauseoleum? You can’t go to the john without a photo ID anymore. Something ain’t right.