Annual Fundraising Appeal

The US Geological Survey recorded a minor earthquake this morning with its epicenter near Wasilla, Alaska, the probable result of Sarah Palin opening her mail box to find the latest issue of CounterPunch magazine we sent her. A few moments later she Instagrammed this startling comment…

Ayers

The lunatic Right certainly has plenty of problems. We’ve made it our business to not only expose these absurdities, but to challenge them directly. With another election cycle gaining steam, more rhetoric and vitriol will be directed at progressive issues. More hatred will be spewed at minorities, women, gays and the poor. There will be calls for more fracking and war. We won’t back down like the Democrats. We’ll continue to publish fact-based critiques and investigative reports on the shenanigans and evil of the Radical Right. Our future is in your hands. Please donate.

Day10

Yes, these are dire political times. Many who optimistically hoped for real change have spent nearly five years under the cold downpour of political reality. Here at CounterPunch we’ve always aimed to tell it like it is, without illusions or despair. That’s why so many of you have found a refuge at CounterPunch and made us your homepage. You tell us that you love CounterPunch because the quality of the writing you find here in the original articles we offer every day and because we never flinch under fire. We appreciate the support and are prepared for the fierce battles to come.

Unlike other outfits, we don’t hit you up for money every month … or even every quarter. We ask only once a year. But when we ask, we mean it.

CounterPunch’s website is supported almost entirely by subscribers to the print edition of our magazine. We aren’t on the receiving end of six-figure grants from big foundations. George Soros doesn’t have us on retainer. We don’t sell tickets on cruise liners. We don’t clog our site with deceptive corporate ads.

The continued existence of CounterPunch depends solely on the support and dedication of our readers. We know there are a lot of you. We get thousands of emails from you every day. Our website receives millions of hits and nearly 100,000 readers each day. And we don’t charge you a dime.

Please, use our brand new secure shopping cart to make a tax-deductible donation to CounterPunch today or purchase a subscription our monthly magazine and a gift sub for someone or one of our explosive  books, including the ground-breaking Killing Trayvons. Show a little affection for subversion: consider an automated monthly donation. (We accept checks, credit cards, PayPal and cold-hard cash….)
button-store2_19

or use
pp1

To contribute by phone you can call Becky or Deva toll free at: 1-800-840-3683

Thank you for your support,

Jeffrey, Joshua, Becky, Deva, and Nathaniel

CounterPunch
 PO Box 228, Petrolia, CA 95558

Gay Marriage and Imperial Terror

One Issue Only

by MISSY BEATTIE

My mother talked to the television, disputing anyone with a pro-war message. When George Bush appeared on the screen, she’d turn away, but still talk. At first this was humorous.

After Daddy died, she became pessimistic. When she said the world should end, that we’d be better off, I said, “Easy for you to say. You’re 83. Please don’t express this to my children.”

At some point, the rest of us just looked at each other, rolling our eyes.

I see my children rolling theirs. And when I’m with them or anyone who’s watching the set, I respond to infotainers with, “As if that’s important.” I seem unable to control this, even though I know it’s annoying. And while I desperately try to manage the scope of my negativity about the future of our ecosystem, often I slip. My mother, myself.

So, no surprise the other day when sister Laura said after I’d been sleeping under her roof in NC almost two weeks, “You’re smelly.”

Insert:  We’d moved to a larger house in Baltimore. This was the first Baltimore period. Prior to Nashville. Before Manhattan. My parents and Laura were coming for a long weekend. I’d taped a quote to the fridge: “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” Morning of the second day, I marked through the “three” and wrote “two”. Benjamin Franklin’s words became a family favorite—especially with alterations.

I wasn’t quite ready to exit Laura and Erma’s though. The weather forecast was ugly. Consequently, I did what any stinky guest might do—I ingratiated myself, running the vacuum, sucking up errant cat litter, angling for a reprieve. On Saturday, Laura finally said, “Wait until Monday, unless it’s snowing then.”

It wasn’t. In Chapel Hill.

Six days into spring, I drove from NC to Baltimore through mostly rain that turned to snain as I neared a symbol of mighty righteousness, the Quantico Museum, and then another—DC. I caught an odor of Wall Street influence.

I’d listened to radio music early during the drive and then to Diane Rehm, who talked with her guests about gay marriage. And, yes, I support gay marriage, vows exchanged on the courthouse steps, on the beach, while bungee jumping, in a place of worship. Defenders of the “sanctity” of marriage baffle me. Perhaps they should unite to prevent the sources of divorce.

I had an urge to call the show, to articulate two considerations—wondering why anyone would want to thwart the happiness of others, and the questionable urgency of this particular issue when the US is on a rampage of imperial terror, its foreign and domestic policies threatening all life.

I thought of a friend who suggested I vote for Obama on the issue of gay marriage alone. Of so many who support Obama on this issue alone. People are surprised that I do not, cannot. Those to whom I say, “There really is one issue only. It’s Injustice.”

This casts a wide net; so vast that it encompasses the wellbeing of our entire planet.

Missy Beattie lives in Baltimore.  She can be reached at: missybeat@gmail.com.