911 is a guilt trip

I had the occasion to call 911 for this first time last night. Around midnight some sort of conflict erupted on the sidewalk in front of my house. From my third floor dwelling I heard a rising, raging voice calling obscenities and threats along the street. Looking down from my darkened window I could see three men: all youngish, white-ish and yuppie-ish. One was forcible restraining the yeller and the third stood calmly by, scrolling through his cell phone. The angry one seem to be calling out to another unseen person or persons farther down the street. As I watched, thinking his companions would get him under control, the restrained one became more and more enraged, unleashing variations on “fucking motherfucker” and threats of ass-kicking and killing to the foe(s) down the block. But as the companion strained harder to hold back his friend (?) the threats then began to rain down upon him. For a time The Restrainer had the would-be attacker hugged tightly against a wrought-iron fence. The Third Man still appeared to be observing dispassionately. Then the Enraged One seized on a moment of distraction or relaxed grip and took The Restrainer violently to the ground. One of their heads smashed the side of an SUV and its alarm began to sound. This is when I decided to make the call. I can’t believe some neighbor hasn’t already alerted the cops – not to mention that all this is taking place less than a block from a major MPD station.

While the two men struggle to a Greco-Roman standoff on the ground, The Third Man walks away and I get the 911 operator on the horn. As I’m providing the address and details of the event The Restrainer has managed to get The Enraged One on his feet and forcibly herd him up the sidewalk, away from whomever he was screaming at. As I’m still on the phone a police cruiser rolls by (coincidentally) and The Restrainer bolts into the street to flag it down. He’s successful. The cop car pulls over a little ways up the street but far enough that I can’t see what happens. I inform the 911 operator and we finish our call. She asks if I’d like to give my name but I choose to remain anonymous.

In first moments after hanging up, I feel I did the right thing and I think I provided cogent information. But then I start to wonder if it was really an emergency enough to use the 911 resource. As I second-guess, two more cop cars with lights flashing pull up right in front of my house. I look up the street and it seems the first cop car is gone. The officers jump out of their cars and now a few neighbors are out in the street. I see them explaining and gesturing to the police as to what had occurred and which direction the disturbance had gone. The cops roll out and all is quiet again.

I wonder if I was the only one to call 911. Obviously some of the neighbors had been watching the melee and were out their front doors as soon as the flashing lights appeared. Maybe the whole block called in. Or maybe people just watched and waited to see what would happen. In my second-guessing I speculated that perhaps I over-reacted, and that being a non-confrontational person myself I didn’t recognize that this conflict was nothing more than common bluster. It probably was, mostly. That and/or drunken antics. I started to worry that I sent that angry jackass to jail for the night. The guilt I felt was stemming from a sense of responsibility for setting a potentially large chain of events into action. The whole thing did make me miss Jimmy Kimmel’s monologue though… Fuck ‘em. I’ve lost my 911 virginity and now I feel more prepared to call should the need arise. I’ll take that from the experience.

From an unprepared speech...

While I was in Iraq, I watched Halliburton profit off the war like nobody's business. Workers from the private sector moved in, and pushed servicemen and women not properly trained for heavy combat to the front-lines (everywhere outside of bases and safe-painted greenzones).

I was an E-4, an NCO in charge of one security vehicle, and the four marines who operated in and on it. Before we had deployed, we went through nine months of intense training to familiarize us with urban and guerrilla warfare, so when our mission statement dictated we spend our days in the thickest of shit, the majority of my company was well prepared. I cannot, unfortunately, say the same for all others.

"Every Marine is a Rifleman", is the motto. Sadly, that motto is not realistic, as all marines are not given the same resources and learning opportunities. This was realized when the king's men moved in, illegally, to cash in on everyone's losses. Marines who were getting payed $2,000 a month to fix radios and vehicles were replaced with contractors who made $12,000 a month to do the same job, poorly. So, Pvt. Jones who was supposed to change tires was now in charge of civil affairs in an anarchist's jungle. Life was given a price-tag, friends died, shit was fucked.
We should all pay attention to what's coming from where, and who is making money off the transaction when this war comes to a close. We'll see the emperors, new clothes and all.

So I get kind of steamed when people support war, and the governments who fund them, especially when they have not been there to witness its effects. There is no one who can convince me of legality or righteousness in our country's actions. That is an argument that no intelligent man with a soul would even attempt to make.

In closing, fuck us, them, and everyone we know. The wall's falling down around us, and we're running out of time.

The revolution has been televised, and Good, already bruised and beaten, has almost lost.

Guilty Pleasures

It all began with Z100's blind date call-in show. It was basically a radio version of the hoary* old TV classic The Dating Game. Each week, I think it was on Fridays, they'd have one (presumably hot) male or female player who would choose from three call-in contestants of the opposite gender, go out on a date, and the report back the following week on what had transpired. I can't explain why, but I was hooked. Something about the circus freak gaping/schadenfreude inducing/superiority complex nature of the event made it just crackilicious. You could listen to the contestants, make guesses about them, and then shout in shock at the radio as the player inevitably chose the person you found the most annoying.

The next contender for my delightfully horrified obsessions was Elimidate. This show had it all. The main player would in the beginning be introduced to four members of the opposite sex. They would all go out on a group "date." At the end of the date (generally hard core drinking at some local watering hole), the player would boot one of the contestants. And so it would continue until there was only one remaining (drunken) contestant and the player, who would, it was heavily suggested, proceed to have sex the second the cameras were shut off. These kinds of situations do not tend to bring out the best in people. As the contestants grew more competitive (and inebriated), they'd do increasingly outrageous things to stay on the show. Total train wreck. And, of course, I was hooked for years.

My latest guilty pleasure is the covers of the tabloids and the celebrity magazines at the supermarket. I feel an almost desperate desire to know what's up with Brangelina (according to one I saw this week, they're really on the rocks this week!); wish Jen luck and just *knew* John Mayer would be bad for her; really wish someone would just lock poor Brittney and Lindsay up until they somehow got the crazy knocked out of them; and love, love, love best and worst dressed and "celebrities who look bad in bikinis" editions. It's a sad thing I think sometimes, as I crane my head to catch just one more headline, that I am so addicted to these things. And then there's the rush of another cellulited previously presumed to be perfect bottom in my face, and I'm a happy girl.

Like I said, guilty pleasures.

*Yes it's a word, and it doesn't mean what you think it means. www.dictionary.com

The outlets are SOOooo last year...

My mother, faced with an onslaught of blank-slate children, adopted the Dandy label on our behalf. She locked us down in prep-wear classics at the slightest provocation, generally when it occurred to her that some among us might bask in sunlight.

There were suggestions that we stand up straight, clear elbows from all table-like surfaces, and pat down errant hairs with ferocious suspicion, like cops searching suspects during a drug raid. And then there were the impromptu reviews of English grammar, not quite intended to keep up appearances but nonetheless essential to projecting upper-class aspiration. Mom was an intense hater of “ain’t” and any plural noun/singular verb conjugation, though somehow “nu-cu-lar” escaped her pro-literacy campaign. In short, she made it clear that her role model was the hectoring death-inducer of a dad from Dead Poets Society. (Full Disclosure: Mom, whatever her fascist dictates, succeeded splendidly in feeding and cleansing us, though I’ll reserve credit for housing us to Dad. Way to go, both of you.)

I’ll never forget the sleep-clogged sights of morning: the alarm clock, bleating at ten-minute increments; my door cracked, unleashing the scents of breakfast on my Star Trek-infused bedroom; and my clothes for the day, lain out with Tooth Fairy stealth on the chair accompanying my prop of a desk. Mother had yet again determined the precise pant and shirt combo worthy of this school day.

She, alone among the big-haired suburban stylists laying waste to the malls of Long Island, and later Florida, understood how her boy would be judged on the long bus ride to school. I simply did what I was told and adapted to my “classic” look.

It went on this way for years, first through a protracted “preppy” period which lasted through sixth grade, followed by a shorter, and tragic, “surfer” epoch that ruined me in junior high. I never felt comfortable in those palm- and fish-splattered duds, no matter the popularity of Jams or the prevailing tastes of my classmates. Where the hell had the Fairy taken my blue oxfords? I suffered from Mom’s sartorial nonchalance and was visibly weakened by the bright prints – always some seascape with an intruding image of slacker whimsy – clashing with related K-Mart progeny. My peers, the teenaged hyenas circling my discount-clad carcass, took potshots as astrology dictated. One suggested I had sex with actual cows, male cows even.

They meant bulls, of course, but I didn’t bother correcting.

This humiliation, and others, sparked a series of events leading to the wardrobe Revolution of 1988. Turns out my bag-boy paycheck, abetted by a rare fatherly intervention (where had this guy been?), allowed for Mom’s ouster as Keeper of the Closet. Finally, at the dawn of high school, I was deemed mature enough not only to procure clothing of my own choosing, but also wear said clothing as my nerd impulses commanded. Goodbye, Ron Jon beach wear, hello sci-fi inspired dreck. Somehow, even after the Revolution, my reputation remained in cosmic deficit, but I’d still felt liberated: now I, and I alone, would determine how terrible I looked in public.

By the ‘80s and ‘90s, globalization started its own revolution, making “fashion,” however defined, increasingly accessible to pimply teens and hard-working middle-class climbers alike. I found that four bucks an hour, and later sums up to seven-fifty, went a long way towards shaping my identity. I bought button-downs with the stately striped patterns adored by baby boomers and favored slacks with pleated waistlines. I actually called them slacks. I tried everything possible to restore the “classic,” fashion-backward certainty of the elementary-school era, hopeful – never confident – that I’d be upgraded from “poseur” to “Derek” in the popular consciousness.

Turns out poseur-dom was pretty easy to shake. But the metamorphosis came at a price. My penalty, it seemed, for abuse-free bus rides was the acquisition of a new super-power: invisibility. Perhaps I, nestled snugly in my conservative yester-gear, had slipped too convincingly into the wardrobe expected of the inhabitants of NerdLand (population: Top Ten of Class, Amy Rosenblum excepted). The virtual “kick me,” stenciled onto my back years before, hadn’t washed quite washed away.

Yet the culture provided ample opportunities to renew myself. If I’d missed the Reebok craze, then maybe I would avail myself to the self-affirming potential of Z. Cavaricci, or if not that, Polo. I dreamed of finding myself in the lamentable position, outlined artfully by Chris Ferraro one day in the boys’ locker room, of being unable to date girls because I was too much in hock to the retail clothing establishment. Chris’s parents, happily, bought all of his clothes for him, thus freeing him to spend lavishing on all the lovely girls who totally wanted to fuck him.

“That’s how you get the pussy,” he told me. Chris was fourteen; I was sixteen.

Chris would be getting the pussy for very many years before I too got the pussy, probably because my income, minus parental subsidy, provided only for on-sale merchandise and bottomless salads from the Olive Garden. I remember how delicately he handled his high-end jeans, as if mistreating them would release the golden fibers maintaining his testicular aura. Rogue lint was flicked away like an invite from those among the ugly or somewhat intelligent.

Those pants were, for him, THE THING, that which in the confines of the gymnasium, anyway, mattered most. On the one hand, I admired that he didn’t seem utterly confused by everything. On the other, though, I really had to question his priorities. Had he not noticed his ridiculous surfer bouffant? Suddenly, my sensibly parted hair, evocative of prep-school Dead Poets Society-grandstanders, didn’t seem that bad.

Who ARE These People?

Looking at a map of the United States, mentally tracing the thin lines I’ve traveled on it and thumb-tacking the hops and jumps I’ve made around to different spots, I come to realize that although I fancy myself somewhat of a domestic journeyman I really haven’t intersected with all that many of my fellow Americans. I’ve been to lots of places but, as is my nature, I have not communed with the people of these places. I once drove across the country and back – by myself. But the only people I interacted with were truck stop cashiers, night-shift hotel clerks and entrance booth park rangers. Even in Las Vegas, where I walked the Strip amid the throngs of neon-eyed tourists, I simply passed through the crowds like a ghost and eventually settled into a comfortable relationship with a slot machine in an unpopulated corner of a casino. I enjoy observing and not being noticed so for me, it was a most wonderful journey.

For others, the whole point of traveling (and perhaps of life itself) is to meet and interact with all the wacky people out there. And this is how we get the archetypes of the hospitable Southerner, the hippy-spiritual Westerner, the friendly Midwesterner, the loud New Yorker, etc. - the "interactive" type person goes out into the world and returns with stories of the extraordinary and amusing people he met. And so everything ends up being defined by its extreme: the loudest New Yorker, the most hospitable Southerner and the dippiest Sedona hippy leave the biggest impression and create the stereotypes. When you go to see for yourself, having heard the legends, read the tales and seen the road movies with all these characters making an appearance you find that most folks you meet exist in a middle ground. I think you find the stories of these people only in that destroyer of stereotypes known as Great Art. You know, where the drama, struggle and ultimate humanity is found in the life of the ordinary person.

In my own experience, I usually encounter the muted countenances reserved for superficial public interactions and assume folks don't want to be bothered, so I keep to myself. I know the complexity and character is there but I'd rather study it from a safe distance. Maybe that makes me a misanthrope. Or maybe that makes me a defective human. We are supposed to be social animals after all – I can understand this instinct to connect with others yet this instinct is not with me. So I rely on the work of others to know the lives and minds of my countrymen.

My fellow Americans, I know you through television and radio, movies and books, but I have not met you.

Perhaps some day.

Untitled

I'm at the Nats game on Saturday. A beautiful day, cloudless, hot and just the kind of day that makes you think summer will really never end. I'm with a friend from work and she is ebullient and chatty in her impossibly pink ball cap (pink? really?), swinging ponytail and carefully ironed polo. I've only known her for a year, but she has attached herself to me with a somewhat manic intensity. After a few conversations at our company softball games, she decided I was just the social catalyst she was looking for in a friend.

My first outing with Cho involved Old Towne Alexandria, seafood and eager young Army studs happy to keep us in an endless supply of martinis. During the ebb and flow of flirtation, cocktails and bartender introductions, her story unfolded.

As a first generation Korean-American, she was struggling with family and dating issues. Her parents divorced after her mother become devoutly involved in some charismatic cult and has since relocated to some commune out west. Her father remains disapproving of Cho's tendencies to date and socialize with Caucasians - not to mention the fact that she's been engaged to be married three times, and three times broken it off.

Needless to say, she was due a little stress release and perhaps some friendly stability in her life. Despite our cultural, familial and age differences, we always seem to have a great time.

So. Back to the game. Chatty Cho and I have decided to hit the bar first for a couple of icy beers and to get "caught up" on work and play. With two seats at the bar and a clear view of the large screen tv so we wouldn't miss the openings, we got started. During our conversation, they introduced the National Anthem. Popping up off our seats, and our hands over our hearts, we enjoyed the precocious little guy that was picked to play his trumpet. He couldn't have been more than six and he did a great job. The crowd went wild when after he finished, he blew out his puffy lips and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth in pure Satchmo style.

We decided to get to our seats, picking up our hot dogs (mustard for me and crazy amount of ketchup for her) on the way. The seats were perfect, we were two rows into the shade and just above third base. Fantastic! We proceed do what all chicks a at a game do. We check out the crowd seated around us. We have a cute family with two kids decked out head to toe in Nats paraphernalia. The crazy statisticians that keep their own score books, and of course, the requisite enemies in camp. We had some Atlanta Brave fans cheering on their team and an incredibly annoying young man that kept shrieking "Yankees" at odd times. After a few times, some annoyed Nats fans started yelling "suck!" after he'd call out "Yankees". All very entertaining. And the game was fun too.

As the day shined on, we were up at the inning when there was a break and the MC announced the little trumpeting phenom. The sweet opening strains of "America the Beautiful" soared above us all. Almost as one, we all leapt to our feet and started singing. Everyone except the guy sitting to my left. Still seated, he was busy tallying up some arcane characters on his score sheet. Without thinking, I said, "hey" to get his attention.

He briefly looked up and I gestured to the standing crowd. He didn't budge, kinda shook his head in dismissal and went back to his tablet. Cho saw what was going on, stepped around me, leaned over and whispered something into his ear. Startled he looked into her steady brown eyes, blushed and stood up. Cho came back to her seat and picked up the refrain.

I grabbed her hand and squeezed her fingers in appreciation. She smiled at me, and the twinkle in her eye allowed me to see the mettle below the butterfly exterior. My fellow American.

On fellow americans ...

Its election time and you'll hear a lot of people i.e. the politicians, their foot soldiers, your politically hyper-enthused friends, and friends who are no longer going to be friends after November calling you a "Fellow" of many sorts, particularly the "American" kind – So here we go my fellow Americans!

"We are all fellow Americans that mean more to me [than you]" said Senator McCain during is speech the last day of the RNC shindig this week. I can only assume the statement means, euphemistically, that Barak Obama the effete, lanky, three-pointer hitting, martini drinker with a super-model on his side (characterized by Karl Rove) at the country club parties who mock others, does not "get it."

In the alternative reality of the "Right" where mothers compare themselves to Pit-bulls and intelligence is reviled in leaders, as soon as one takes a bite of the Arugula-Nuance-Salad and shy-away from the declarative statements normally fashioned by the Ayatullahs and one Dr. Phil, one can't understand or get what it means to be a regular "Fellow American." By the way, those absolute and resolute statements include answer to questions like: what to do with evil? And when does life begin?

The republican convention though poorly organized (with the wrong Walter Reed building on the big screen behind Senator McCain – Walter Reed High School in California instead of the hospital in Washington DC area) and an almost unintentional-burlesque-ness (with fake soldiers used on the RNC video presentation) surprisingly culminated a day before the grand-candidate appearance, the big event, the McCain speech.

The premature culmination came with the Sarah "Barracuda" Palin's speech which though short on any kind of substance boosted TUMS and Pepto Bismol sales at all local CVS and Walgreen store – "All liberal customers go to antacid aisle."

Who would have known that the condescending sarcasm and belligerence of suburban Hockey-mom would be a catalyst (at least temporarily) for the republican euphoria, after the quadruple-layered sleep-aid of Fred Thompson, Joe Lieberman, Rudy Juliani and Mike Huckabee.

This time around what energized the "Base" wasn't God being on the side of all the Pierre Cardin suites, or fear of Gays turning our youth to "curious" behavior (and of course destroy marriage – "The Agenda"), or the fear of the French culture secretly brought into our houses through a French looking/acting democratic candidate but rather the acute hyperboles of the Republican Vice Presidential candidate. I bet they can do some polling to find out how many gun touting registered Republican men skipped their Viagra last Thursday night. It was a sizzling night.

Sarah Palin said a lot of things which are only good at an RNC convention and on a Brazilian Steakhouse menu. She mocked Barak Obama organization work and tried establishing her Plutocratic creds with the upper echelon of her party, the "Capitalist Bunch."

While the rest of the country find themselves at the deep end of the depression pond every time they listen to Ali Velshi on CNN talk about the gas prices and the economy (I think some of the Minute-Men go into depression because Ali, this Canadian/Indian/African guy, must have taken some good hardworking American's job away), Alaskan economy has been doing pretty well with a 5 billion dollar surplus due to oil revenues. Now we know two places under the Bush regime with this kind of joyful economic news; Alaska and Iraq. Perhaps that's why Governor Sarah Palin was able to dole out $1200 to all Alaskan tax payers earning her 80% approval and Sainthood: St. Sarah Palin as she is know in Alaskan frosty-circles!! Aaah achieving Sainthood via non-miraculous means! I am getting off Tai Chi and Yoga and moving to Alaska to pursue my goal of sainthood.

Sarah Palin said if you are not a member of Washington elite, media does not consider you qualified! I guess John McCain is still holding off on the media hookups he has scored over years and VIP access cards to elite Happy Hours from Mrs. Palin. I mean she is saucy looking for the parties but lets face it, for Johnny Mc, with that mouth of hers it might be trouble if she goes off again after a few drinks about "What [the hell] a Vice President do anyway …" and "I want this old fart's job … and sell his jet and few of his houses on eBay." "F#@$ his wife, I am better looking then her - ask Bill Maher, he called me a MILF not her." [Okay this is my visualization of Sarah Palin at a happy hour]

Sarah Palin exclaimed that for all the mothers out there with children of special needs they'll have a friend in the White house when she gets elected. In reality Sarah Palin slashed 60% of money for the special children's need from the state budget last year! Similarly she cut 1 million from the fund to help teenage pregnant girls in Alaska right before Palin's daughter Bristol screwed the pooch on this issue when she got pregnant by the non-so-affable local high school hockey star. This was another example of the lack of truthiness from the fiery Governor.

Sarah Palin of course is the new chapter in the continuing conservative (RNC) narrative that our leaders should be average and ordinary (or at least act like it and wear plaid like George Bush and perhaps not read). Sarah Palin of course is not entirely ordinary – She is a popular governor of Alaska, a strident Right-Winger, life long NRA member, Intelligent Design and Abstinence Education pusher, and a notoriously obtuse person who wants to have her way at any cost. The country of course will find out about her over the next week or two nibble by nibble. But to the RNC convention she brought something that was utterly pedestrian in nature, the shrill, overzealous and unreasonable mind-set of a frustrated hockey or soccer-mom who fights with the referee over a minor penalty and raise bullies. Her speech exuded unreasonable and at time down-right false rhetoric. But I guess for the republican that's the plan if they get elected, send out the bitchy hockey-mom up to the border of Alaska and Russia if Putin ever decides to come to that desolate part of Russia [the foreign policy credentials].

We'll see!