The offices of Moveon.org had a commanding view of the East Bay, broken only by a few eucalyptus trees. The Transamerica Pyramid cut through a blanket of low clouds across the Bay. The window was open, and the warm breeze brought the aroma of eucalyptus with it. There were seven flat screen monitors aglow, each manned by what appeared to be college-age kids. The kids were all unpaid interns helping with the cause. The founders of Moveon.org, husband and wife, were sitting at a conference room table behind an interior glass window. Seated opposite them was Michael Moore, the filmmaker. (more…)
He took a deep breath and stretched his back to get the juices flowing. He was lying on his side, but he twisted his back to further the task of getting up in the morning, a task increasingly made difficult by age. He maneuvered in the California king bed until he was propped up on the pillow, giving him a view of the open door to the master bathroom where his wife just emerged from the shower. (more…)
Osama sat on the long edge of a four-inch thick dusty and sheetless mattress that was supported by an aluminum cot. A hyperdermic needle was taped to his left arm, another to his right. The tubes that led from these needles ran to a dialysis machine that was powered by a small Honda gasoline generator. The generator clanked and hummed, the sound echoing off the cinderblock walls of the room. A doctor in a white headress stood beside the machine, monitoring its levels and timing the procedure. There was no one else in the room, at the insistence of Osama, who believed that dialysis was a private procedure, much like sex, and that only the doctor, a male doctor, could be present for the act. Osama rarely spoke with the doctor, but the earthquake a few weeks ago had killed one of his daughters, one of his most precious possessions, and he was feeling blue. So he spoke. (more…)
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