Words and photographs by Linh Dinh
The fountain of recovery.Until
1982, Philadelphia had three daily newspapers, and the surviving two, the Inquirer and Daily News, are owned by the
same company. Both are hurting. Fewer and fewer readers force extreme
cost-cutting measures that reduce the quality of each rag, which means even
fewer readers. Competition from the internet, as well as the degraded reading
habits it fosters, choppier and sloppier, are mostly to blame, but corporate
greed and shortsightedness also played an important role.
The
Inquirer used to rake
in Pulitzers, but serious reporting required a sustained investment of money,
time and intellect, so when its then-owner, Knight Ridder, balked at this, the
Philadelphia newspapers went into their death spiral. This is no local
phenomenon, because the entire country is suffering from the dearth of
hard-hitting news about anything that really matters: Wall Street and DC
corruption; constant lying from our government; an endless war that’s
bankrupting the nation and begging for blowbacks and, soon enough, riots; or
the accelerating collapse of the economy, and thus, your way of life.
In
their stead, encyclopedic sports coverage and celebrity gossips, as purveyed by
various moronic outfits. Today’s earth quaking burp from Yahoo!, “The prince
says an unusual noise kept him awake the night before his nuptials.”
Divorced
from local news and conversations, rootless and detached from what’s closest to
them, most Americans are drag netted into a national matrix as defined by
cynical or sinister mind fuckers who care nothing about them or their
individual communities.
Yahoo!
is run out of San Jose, long a cultural wasteland, but it was the home of Gary
Webb, an American hero who broke the story about the CIA pushing crack cocaine
to LA blacks to fund its covert war in Nicaragua. For being an excellent and
ethical journalist, Webb was ran out of a job, then hounded into committing
suicide, the official story, or simply killed. In any case, what happened to
Webb is an apt parable for an America that punishes integrity and bravery, and
rewards dishonesty and cowardice. In such a society, degradation is guaranteed.
Yesterday,
I walked by the Daily News
and Inquirer
headquarters and saw, in its window, a blown-up cover about Chase Utley, an
aging and often-injured second baseman. Like the country itself, the city is
unraveling, but let’s fret over the Phillies, Sixers, Flyers and Eagles. Hey,
how about dem Birds! Across the street, I spotted something unusual, however:
an upside down 13-star flag in front of the Steak
& Bagel Train, a diner in business since 1907. We’re due for another
American Revolution, wouldn’t you say?
As
I photographed this provocation, a security guard from the adjacent building
marched over, “Hey, I didn’t even see that! Somebody is going to burn his place
down. I’ve got to ask him tomorrow what’s up with that.” He also informed me that
a flag cannot be up at night, unlit, and that he had a flag on his front porch,
with a spot light shining on it.
“It’s
freedom of speech,” I said to this security dude. “He probably thinks the
country is in distress.”
“Yeah,
but he’s playing with fire, buddy. Somebody is going to burn his place down.”
So
for being a good enough citizen to rouse your compatriots from their slumber,
you and yours may be torched, or, like Bradley Manning, held in solitary
confinement and stripped naked each night.
Don’t
rock the USS Full Spectrum Blowhard Righteous Recovery, you terrorist asshole,
though this ship has neither fuel nor compass, nor even rats, not unless you
count the Congressmen, Senators, Cabinet Members and Supreme Court Justices
surrounding an oil-slick and blood splattered POTUS.
A
block from the newspaper office, I saw a sign common in many distressed
neighborhoods, “PROJECT FUNDED BY THE American Recovery and Reinvestment Act.”
I wasn’t sure what the project was, but the sign itself had been well tagged by
graffiti, plus some clever guerilla art, a depiction of the Fountain of Youth.
Seen
from the side, a hag, with cane and sagging breasts, enters a fountain, then
emerges as a lovely young lady, proudly frontal in her nudity. The hag half is
shadowed by a vulture and littered with thorny weeds, while the sexy chick half
is serenaded by song birds and blooming with flowers. No spring chicken myself,
I wouldn’t mind a personal recovery through a dip in some miraculous pool, but
as with Juan Ponce de León and his dolorous dick, to believe in magic is to
court disaster.
Speaking
of the paranormal, let’s walk a few blocks up Broad Street to check out the hulking
ruins of the Father Divine Hotel. Few remember him now, but Father Divine was
once nationally famous. Known as America’s first cult leader and an inspiration
to Jim Jones, Father Divine inspired his followers with the commonsensical,
such as being self-reliant and debt-free; to the idealistic, such as being
color blind, even to yourself; to the puritanical, such as abstaining from
tobacco, alcohol and gambling; to the weirdly ascetic, such as total celibacy
even among married couples.
Mother and Father Divine.
Though
he declared himself a living god, and his second wife, four decades his junior,
to be the reincarnation of his first wife, his followers believed everything
their 5’2” leader said because he was supremely confident and a charismatic
speaker, and when he died, many of his devotees even thought he would rise
again. It is telling that Father Divine’s movement peaked during the Great
Depression.
Now
that we’re entering what promises to be an even greater period of material and
spiritual despair, which Father Divine will rise up to save the desperate and
gullible?
Instead of preaching self-control, racial harmony and charity, what
bitter impulses will they unleash?
The magical Fountain of Recovery will likely
gush blood.
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