November 12, 2005
Relax.
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in the dirt since history began
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"We have no words to waste on you. When you reach out your vaunted strong hands for our palaces and purpled ease, we will show you what strength is. In roar of shell and shrapnel and in whine of machine-guns will our answer be couched. We will grind you revolutionists down under our heel, and we shall walk upon your faces. The world is ours, we are its lords, and ours it shall remain. As for the host of labor, it has been in the dirt since history began, and I read history aright. And in the dirt it shall remain so long as I and mine and those that come after us have the power. There is the word. It is the king of words—Power. Not God, not Mammon, but Power. Pour it over your tongue till it tingles with it. Power."
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Stump Lane 
This guy doesn’t look relaxed to me. The furrowed brow, the creases at the edge of his eyes. This is the expression of a man “relaxing” while his kids scream and flail around right next to his head. He waits for the tackling hug and the inevitable knee to the groin. This is a man expecting to be smote.
Look how he clenches his pipe between his teeth. Is this the look of a man enjoying the sweet smells and tastes of fine tobacco? Or is his pipe-biting the nervous tic of accustomed workplace-induced stress.
Yes, he has loosened his tie. But he is still wearing his tie! It dangles from his neck in some loosened guise of “relaxation.” But the noose, lying in wait, will draw tight with one cell phone call from the office that can’t operate without him.
Are his hands dangling over the top of his deck chair, or his fingers interlaced behind his head? No. This man doesn’t know how to relax. He could just as well be lying on the rack being disemboweled like some kind of buttoned down William Wallace.