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When Israel was in Egypt's Land,
Let my people go,

The air smelled like it was burning. The buildings and faded street signs looked as though they were burned. My head ached and I was nauseous. I was in Richmond's inner city.

Oppressed so hard they could not stand,
Let my people go.

I stepped into the welfare office with my mother. Enough little children to fill a nursery shared a few of the office's toys. Signs in English and Spanish said, to the visitors but not the employees, that eating and drinking was prohibited.

Go down, Moses,
Way down in Egypt's Land.
Tell ol' Pharoah,
Let my people go.

After jumping through a few hoops, we gained admittance to the room where they gave us the papers to fill out. If the first room was a nursery, that room was a geriatric ward. If I saw anyone there without a clearly visible disability, I could bet he or she had a similarly debilitating invisible disability.

Thus saith the Lord, bold Moses said,
Let my people go,

Though my hand ached from holding a pen, I filled in the boxes. Eviction notice, check. Empty fridge in three days, check. After I handed in the paperwork, I got the computer's revised version to sign. It painted a largely more optimistic picture of my home life and credited my landlord with a lot more patience. The social worker said that the computer was programmed to do that, and that I should just sign.

If not, I'll smite your first-born dead,
Let my people go.

I did not stand for it. I yelled for the world to hear that I was not going to sign my name on a binding legal contract unless it was accurate. Though the manager herself hand-corrected my papers, God only knows how many elderly disabled folks were screwed over by that computer.

Go down, Moses,
Way down in Egypt's Land.
Tell ol' Pharoah,
Let my people go

A matter of months later, I applied for benefits in another county. I visited many offices, all of which seemed comparatively empty. The computers weren't even programmed to screw me over. One little thing bugged me, though. It was a poster that translates from Spanish to, "So long unemployment, hello freedom", or to put it another way, "Work is freedom".

No more shall they in bondage toil,
Let my people go,

In Richmond's welfare office, I saw people who couldn't walk without canes and crutches. Others may have been in wheelchairs. I guess they can always fold pizza boxes.

Let them come out with Egypt's spoil,
Let my people go.

I guess, from the perspective of the social workers, these people were all coming in cap in hand. Be they single parents, elderly or disabled, they were there looking for government handouts. From my perspective, food, housing and health care are human rights which should be granted even to those who employers would cast aside. To take beyond capacity and give below need is not freedom but slavery.

Go down, Moses,
Way down in Egypt's Land.
Tell ol' Pharoah,
Let my people go.

Well, I've lived in more of Northern California than I've ever wanted to. Most of you don't even know California from a stupid Hawk Nelson song, so follow me as I give you a cynic's tour of the land of fruits and nutcases.

First stop, San Fransisco, the first place I lived in California and I lived there for less than a month. You have to watch your feet there, because you have no idea who you might kick. It might be a meth addict, a drunk, or a beggar from Berkeley who decided to try his or her luck in the city. It might be a little dog on an overly long leash, or it might be a tourist's child who ought to be on a leash.

Who the hell needs the museums and theaters of San Fransisco~? You can hear all the local talent on every street corner, pounding guitars and drums, tormenting violins and accordions and even singing. Fire hydrants become musician's benches in San Fransisco and walls are the artists' canvass. Hey, I never said the local talent was talented.

Our next stop, Oakland. You're never, ever lonely there. There are flees and lice to keep you company, and all the bugs in Oakland are high up on the evolutionary scale. If you don't believe in evolution, then those bugs must be really good Christians, because they're immune to all poisons.

Look out the window of your fabulous Oakland apartment and you can watch the Vietnamese gangs shoot it out, or maybe the Latino gangs. Hey, the bloods and the crips put on a good show, too. After the storm is over, everyone lives in harmony and powdered peace. That's the kind of peace and harmony you want to stay far away from.

When you leave Oakland, your good friends the cockroaches will stow away to throw a surprise housewarming party. No need to serve them -- they'll just quietly help themselves for a little while until they're sure you're settled in and comfortable. Ah, such loyal, attentive friends, you'd almost think I should miss them.

Our last stop for today is Berkeley, also known as Berserkely or the Open Ward. If you look to the left, you'll see the famous People's Park mural. It depicts the famous protests to keep the park from becoming a parking lot. If you look to the right, you'll see that someone is preparing to knock you senseless and make off with your wallet.

Not far off is Telegraph Avenue, where the local craftspeople set up stands and sell their wares. My mother used to sell her crochet and Irish lace designs up there, but to most the main attraction would be the local homeless. Some of them are mentally ill people who were dumped from the psychiatric ward to Telegraph, so perhaps as a bit of catharsis, they yell and rant.

"Marijuana, kids", I often heard one person shouting, "It's good stuff". Another man, they called Rare, because that's what he'd roar in people's faces before muttering at them. Eventually, he got a home and some treatment, but when he hung out on the Avenue, some folks would egg him on to continue shouting at people.

Since Berkeley is a college town, you often see young college students from out of town pretending to be street crazies. I wish I could catch it on film and show it to their mothers. The people who really make the newspapers, though, are the homeless folks who are very sane and act the part. They write clever things on cardboard signs and have little gimmicks which make them stand out.

Well, that's a snapshot of California that you can't see from Disneyland, the Golden Gate bridge or the million dollar homes. Later on, I may extend the tour and give you a more intimate look at the tarnished golden state.

Ever notice how just one word can make an idea either palatable or horrible~? For instance, if you want to take a necessity and cut its distribution, that's bad. No one can logically defend it. However, if you say you want to reform its distribution, that's ambiguous. You're really not saying what you want to do with it, so that's palatable.

Take, for instance, a big, evil Republican like Arnold Schwarzenegger of California. He wants to cut health care. . . shame on him. Now take our righteous President Obama, who wants to reform health care. He's funded by the same people as der Ahnold, he's making the same deals with the same people as Dubya, but somehow, because he says reform instead of cut, we aren't quite so apprehensive.

Sure, reform can mean a lot of good things. Reform can be an emergency election to get all the crooks out of office, like they had in Poland about a year ago. Thailand had something like that a little more recently. Call me jaded and suspicious, but I've seen too much betrayal to easily give the benefit of the doubt. However, when it's the billionaires deciding how best to reform the distribution of necessities to the poor, perhaps it's just a bit more reasonable to assume it's gonna be the kind of reform a troubled teen does to her wrists with a razor blade.