This is what happens. This is why you don’t get involved. This is why the people of the United States must, at the very least through Congress, agree to go to war when the President requests such actions.
Now, we have wars which aren’t technically wars; we have overseas contingency operations, peace-keeping missions, police action, and slick names like Operation Desert Storm and Odyssey Dawn and Iraqi freedom to cover up the fact that our government has been arbitrarily bringing perpetual warfare to whichever backwaters’ outpost they choose.
Besides the Bush-led Iraq wars, Bill Clinton unmercifully bombed Yugoslavia in order to change the lead news story to something other than his phallus. Anybody remember Grenada? If not that little dirt spot, what about Costa Rica? Nicaragua? Vietnam? Korea? Anybody remember those war declarations?
And now we have Libya; and we have questions on whether we are going to become involved in the protests and riots and possible civil war in Syria. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, after deflecting any question of Syrian involvement along the lines of Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya, said, “Each of these situations is unique,” referring of course to the fact that Yemen, Jordan, Egypt, Libya, Morocco, Syria and Bahrain are now on fire thanks in large part to American maneuvering.
What is next for Libya? Nobody really knows. Russia Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov believes it not to be in the United Nations mandate to become involved into a civil war; a charge I support. "We consider that intervention by the coalition in what is essentially an internal civil war is not sanctioned by the U.N. Security Council resolution," he said, referring to the Security Council resolution which was passed with the sole intent of protecting civilians.
He is hardly alone in the Russian state; Prime Minister Vladimir Putin referenced the strongest dagger one can wield when he referred to the actions as a “crusade.” Mr. Putin, the strongest leader of the second-strongest nation on earth (just below China), would not comment on whether his actions against Muslim Chechens were a crusade as well, mainly because the times of asking tough questions to politicians in ‘free’ societies who obviously have some moral authority on what counts as a crusade, a human rights violation, or a ‘good’ war have long since passed.
That being said, I agree wholeheartedly with Mr. Putin. The United States should not become involved any further in Libya, nor should they become involved with any Jordanian, Syrian, or even Iranian internal revolutions. Moreover, with this nation currently fighting in three Muslim nations, one has to wonder whether our heavy-handed antics will bring about the crusade Mr. Putin suggests, however with a different target in mind: America.
Not only are the United States, UN, and NATO becoming involved in an African continent civil war, there is even talk about arming the ‘rebels,’ the vaguest of all media and government-sponsored rhetoric depicting the Libyan ‘freedom fighters’ as Middle Eastern versions of John Adams and Luke Skywalker.
Richard Lugar, the President’s one Republican friend, the one he keeps around to insist he isn’t ‘Republican-ist,’ that he has a lot of Republican friends, they just keep opposite schedules, doesn’t believe we should be involved in the Libyan conflict. Being in the minority of his little clique, Lugar’s ideas and beliefs are never paid attention to when the chips are down, especially when his logical opinions go against Presidential yes-men. Obama doesn’t understand the irony of the situation.
Three wars in three Muslim nations with a President who believes his smile and his lineage will allow him to still stay on friendly terms with the radicals who WILL take over in the Middle East. Hope and change?
Monday, March 28, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
POEM: Prescription for Addiction
I had been watching the news with a grimace and cringe
The world is unraveling and now starting to fringe
Misery after misery is tough to take in stride
A queasy eternity on a roller coaster ride
The economy sucks, the politicians “fixing” it are worse
Being addicted to the news is a verifiable curse
Wallowing in human horrors, I began to unhinge
So, on doctor’s orders, I went on a weed and booze binge
On my sister’s birthday, Egypt was set ablaze
But thankfully, I was in a Absolut Citron haze
I never once noticed the panic in Cairo’s streets
The only thing that mattered were the DJ’s phat beats
I didn’t realize the revolutions were starting to spread
Because I was popping pills like a reverse PEZ head
Libya’s leader has been striking his citizens all week long
The only thing I’m hitting is my two-foot bong.
While workers in Wisconsin worried their jobs would go missing
I was at the club Wurk, getting hyphy and thizzing
As the tension and anger reached an apogee
I crashed and fell to my bed in complete apathy
Riots and protests elsewhere seem inevitable too
But I have a hangover, calling in to work with the “flu”
With three days off, I smoke out everyone I see
Never watching CNN, but MTV, Bravo, and E!
While Japan was terrorized with tremors and quakes
My Bailey’s and coffee gave me nervous shakes
The next tragedy was a terrible, killer tidal wave
At the time, I was popping X at a killer rave
Nuclear meltdowns are imminent, thousands more could soon be dead
But don’t worry, I already am in the head
The technology we create will destroy us all
But drunk and gambling, I’m having a ball!
Drunk and dazed as I certainly may be
It seems the President is right there with me
Where’s the man who’s supposed to set the world right?
Even stoned, I heard about the White House Motown night.
We all feel it differently, to me it is that subtle cringe
But sometimes it is more like a hot knife’s stabbing twinge
We’re riding the Titanic, the world as we know it is about to end
So, what the hell? Let’s all just get high, my friend!
The world is unraveling and now starting to fringe
Misery after misery is tough to take in stride
A queasy eternity on a roller coaster ride
The economy sucks, the politicians “fixing” it are worse
Being addicted to the news is a verifiable curse
Wallowing in human horrors, I began to unhinge
So, on doctor’s orders, I went on a weed and booze binge
On my sister’s birthday, Egypt was set ablaze
But thankfully, I was in a Absolut Citron haze
I never once noticed the panic in Cairo’s streets
The only thing that mattered were the DJ’s phat beats
I didn’t realize the revolutions were starting to spread
Because I was popping pills like a reverse PEZ head
Libya’s leader has been striking his citizens all week long
The only thing I’m hitting is my two-foot bong.
While workers in Wisconsin worried their jobs would go missing
I was at the club Wurk, getting hyphy and thizzing
As the tension and anger reached an apogee
I crashed and fell to my bed in complete apathy
Riots and protests elsewhere seem inevitable too
But I have a hangover, calling in to work with the “flu”
With three days off, I smoke out everyone I see
Never watching CNN, but MTV, Bravo, and E!
While Japan was terrorized with tremors and quakes
My Bailey’s and coffee gave me nervous shakes
The next tragedy was a terrible, killer tidal wave
At the time, I was popping X at a killer rave
Nuclear meltdowns are imminent, thousands more could soon be dead
But don’t worry, I already am in the head
The technology we create will destroy us all
But drunk and gambling, I’m having a ball!
Drunk and dazed as I certainly may be
It seems the President is right there with me
Where’s the man who’s supposed to set the world right?
Even stoned, I heard about the White House Motown night.
We all feel it differently, to me it is that subtle cringe
But sometimes it is more like a hot knife’s stabbing twinge
We’re riding the Titanic, the world as we know it is about to end
So, what the hell? Let’s all just get high, my friend!
The Case Against Mr. Smith and the Committee
The selection committee did a terrible job. They did so bad of a job, that completely screwing up the one task you have should now be considered pulling a “Selection Sunday.” Every year the pundits come out and bash and punish the committee for leaving one team or another out, so that should come as no surprise, but the overwhelming animosity against the picks of VCU and UAB over more-deserving teams leads one to wonder, who is correct?
Did the committee get it right? Are the pundits correct about how poorly the committee did? The answer lies with the Athletic Director for The Ohio State University, a man named Gene Smith, and he had the busiest week in America.
He had to deal with being the Chairman of the NCAA basketball tournament selection committee, debating and supervising the bracket-making, which coincidentally put his Ohio State Buckeyes atop them as number one overall. Afterwards, Mr. Smith had to field a series of questions on why Alabama-Birmingham, an underwhelming Conference-USA regular-season champion, made the tournament, but SEC West regular-season champion Alabama didn’t.
“I couldn’t point to one thing,” Mr. Smith said. “They’re a very good ballclub. We all know that.”
Pardon me, I must have missed the memo. And what about Colorado? And Virginia Tech? Why did Virginia Commonwealth, a third-place Colonial Athletic Conference get a bid over those snubbed?
For Gene Smith’s comments of the tournament-worthiness of VCU, please copy and paste his words for UAB, and add about thirteen more “greats.”
This man had no idea what the hell he was talking about, in respect to the quality of teams. Rumors of dissention in the ranks of the committee, hard and hurt feelings, plus serious disagreement was evident in his words, though he was far too-political to say anything aloud, yet.
While celebrating his team’s Big Ten Conference Tournament Championship, Mr. Smith seemed
Was somebody trying to make sure the under-represented mid-majors got their fair share of the pie?
Possibly. The newly-expanded field of 68 (up three from 65) includes three more at-large teams, setting up an opening round including two matchups between what are dubbed “the last four in.” The matchups for those two games are Clemson (Atlantic Coast Conference) versus Alabama-Birmingham and Southern California (Pac-10 Conference) against Virginia Commonwealth.
Major versus mid-major; major versus mid-major. It seems far too coincidental that the two mid-majors whom nobody thinks should be in the tournament over two power conference teams in order to have a more politically acceptable opening round slate of games? Imagine if Virginia Tech and Colorado had made the field over VCU and UAB. The “last four in” games would then consist of four power teams fighting over the two spots. And the media would have killed them for under-representing the mid-majors because, even with the inclusion of VCU and UAB, mid-majors had one fewer at-large bids than last year.
Factor in the fact Mr. Smith had a whole lot more on his plate than the political games being played behind the scenes with the tournament, Mr. Smith had more political intrigue brewing at his own university. Mr. Smith had to punish his BCS Championship-winning head coach Jim Tressel for two meaningless games due to his mismanagement stemming from his students selling their memorabilia to persons involved in a federal drug case.
While the players got suspended for five games for failing to follow the rules, though many won’t ever serve them because they won’t be in school next season anyway, Coach Tressel, the man who should know better, knew about it, and didn’t do anything about it. This is also the man who coached Maurice Clarett. Tressel, normally a man held in high esteem in the college community, has lost a bit of his luster. One wonders what is next for OSU?
Mr. Smith had a lot on his plate, that much is true. Did he slack a little, get lazy and not run as tight a ship as possible? Did he and his crew overlook some teams over others to appease the masses? Did they do a good job? I have a reasonable doubt.
Did the committee get it right? Are the pundits correct about how poorly the committee did? The answer lies with the Athletic Director for The Ohio State University, a man named Gene Smith, and he had the busiest week in America.
He had to deal with being the Chairman of the NCAA basketball tournament selection committee, debating and supervising the bracket-making, which coincidentally put his Ohio State Buckeyes atop them as number one overall. Afterwards, Mr. Smith had to field a series of questions on why Alabama-Birmingham, an underwhelming Conference-USA regular-season champion, made the tournament, but SEC West regular-season champion Alabama didn’t.
“I couldn’t point to one thing,” Mr. Smith said. “They’re a very good ballclub. We all know that.”
Pardon me, I must have missed the memo. And what about Colorado? And Virginia Tech? Why did Virginia Commonwealth, a third-place Colonial Athletic Conference get a bid over those snubbed?
For Gene Smith’s comments of the tournament-worthiness of VCU, please copy and paste his words for UAB, and add about thirteen more “greats.”
This man had no idea what the hell he was talking about, in respect to the quality of teams. Rumors of dissention in the ranks of the committee, hard and hurt feelings, plus serious disagreement was evident in his words, though he was far too-political to say anything aloud, yet.
While celebrating his team’s Big Ten Conference Tournament Championship, Mr. Smith seemed
Was somebody trying to make sure the under-represented mid-majors got their fair share of the pie?
Possibly. The newly-expanded field of 68 (up three from 65) includes three more at-large teams, setting up an opening round including two matchups between what are dubbed “the last four in.” The matchups for those two games are Clemson (Atlantic Coast Conference) versus Alabama-Birmingham and Southern California (Pac-10 Conference) against Virginia Commonwealth.
Major versus mid-major; major versus mid-major. It seems far too coincidental that the two mid-majors whom nobody thinks should be in the tournament over two power conference teams in order to have a more politically acceptable opening round slate of games? Imagine if Virginia Tech and Colorado had made the field over VCU and UAB. The “last four in” games would then consist of four power teams fighting over the two spots. And the media would have killed them for under-representing the mid-majors because, even with the inclusion of VCU and UAB, mid-majors had one fewer at-large bids than last year.
Factor in the fact Mr. Smith had a whole lot more on his plate than the political games being played behind the scenes with the tournament, Mr. Smith had more political intrigue brewing at his own university. Mr. Smith had to punish his BCS Championship-winning head coach Jim Tressel for two meaningless games due to his mismanagement stemming from his students selling their memorabilia to persons involved in a federal drug case.
While the players got suspended for five games for failing to follow the rules, though many won’t ever serve them because they won’t be in school next season anyway, Coach Tressel, the man who should know better, knew about it, and didn’t do anything about it. This is also the man who coached Maurice Clarett. Tressel, normally a man held in high esteem in the college community, has lost a bit of his luster. One wonders what is next for OSU?
Mr. Smith had a lot on his plate, that much is true. Did he slack a little, get lazy and not run as tight a ship as possible? Did he and his crew overlook some teams over others to appease the masses? Did they do a good job? I have a reasonable doubt.
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Wind Story
The porch was sopping wet; the snowfall from only the second major snowstorm of the season hadn’t been shoveled, and only now, a week later, was it melting. It hadn’t made sense to get rid of it; the creaky stairs leading to the small side porch off the kitchen presented one directly with their own mortality. It was a well-known secret that the landlord of the property, a man named Courtney, didn’t know the first thing about carpentry. First off, he believed the term belonged to someone who dealt with carpets.
Second, my roommate swears he has, on occasion, seen a ghost on those stairs. The apparition appears only on moonlit nights; he says it stands atop the porch, and upon seeing something in the backyard somewhere, it casually begins a walk down the stairs, towards the driveway, but upon leaning on the railing, the apparition falls through, plummeting ten feet from the top of the porch to the sloping downward driveway. The apparition did not end; according to my roommate. He said once, “The ghost falls ten feet, and lands on her face in the driveway just as a truck is backing out of the driveway; they don’t see her and they run her over.”
I asked, “Is that all?” amazed such a straight-laced, drug-free adult would admit to believing in seeing such a spectacle multiple times.
He replied, “No. Two ghost men get out of the ghost truck and they run back to see what they hit. They check on the ghost, who turns out to be a girl; and then they throw her in the back of the truck and drive off.”
I didn’t believe him; but then I figured, Courtney is a really bad carpenter, electrician, arsonist, and exterminator, so it would be better not to risk it.
It was forty degrees outside, according to my newly bald head, which is as accurate a weather instrument as my Grandma’s knee. The temperature is probably warmer on the thermometer just four inches to my left, hanging on the outside wall, direct sunlight hitting it. A blast of cool wind off the mountains to the west, my right, recalled the springs of my youth. Back then, I hated wearing a winter hat; something about the raw, real cold spoke to me, even then. I knew I was a man if I could stand up to the cold. Now, pushing thirty, balding, and newly buzzed down to the metal, the cold wind masquerading itself with warm temperatures only excited me.
The wind was always blowing in Reno, something was always moving in and coming out. Much like the city itself. Action reigned; just not the Vegas type. If you want late-night Vietnamese food, Reno is king. If you want cheap, buck-toothed, hairy legged hookers, Reno is king. If you want the wind, as I did, Reno is king. The wind was as varied as the places it came from; and it came from all directions, sometimes at the same time.
My mind was ravenous; sticking my head out of the door had inspired me. I had to write. I had to write right now!
I race to my bedroom and grab my laptop computer. I bring it back into the kitchen and place it down on the counter top, but finding it to be cramped with unexpected items: a side view mirror from a truck, old papers and bills from months previous, a giant plastic bag filled with smaller plastic bags, three lighters, and one pack of Parliament cigarettes—which caught my eye especially because nobody in my house smokes…cigarettes. Realizing the counter won’t be ample space for me to flex my wit and wisdom about the wind, I focus instead on the stove. The glass flattop was dirty and filled with dirty pots and pans my roommate hadn’t picked up since cooking dinner the previous night. I normally didn’t care; I couldn’t recall a moment during this calendar year I had used the damn machine which sat as an island in the middle of the kitchen.
Not using it didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate the value of it. After clearing off the pots and pans and putting them on the counter my computer still sat, along with many other objects, and after spraying it with Windex and wiping the top of the oven, I had lucked into a clean and orderly desk at waist-level with a grand view through the two floor-to-ceiling windows of my kitchen, with a view of the driveway, sloping downward from my right to my left into the backyard. From there, I could see the wind blowing through the neighbor’s trees; a gale was currently gusting directly downward down the driveway. The words were flowing out of my fingers and into the keyboard so fast, I thought I was right about to sprain my left index finger.
As I begin my attempt to write my tale inspired by the wind, and the weather in Reno in general, my roommate’s blushing newly-wed wife comes into the kitchen. She was average in height, small body, and had dark, mocha, skin and a smug face which belied her humble African origins. As I begin to write, I yell to her in excited disbelief, “It’s fucking raining now!” The sun was still shining, yet clouds were moving faster than the freeway traffic into the city from California. The clouds would continue on Interstate 80, through Sparks and out into the middle of nowhere within the hour, most likely.
She begins to make herself a sandwich; I pay no attention to her. I begin reflecting of my first journey into the city of Reno. It was two days after my birthday in 2006, I had traveled directly through a thunderstorm the likes of which I hadn’t experienced in my life before or since and probably won’t ever again. Lighting hit quite close to my car on multiple occasions, the static electricity was palpable, as if it filled my car like a gelatinous goo. I recall hearing an odd buzzing from the radio, so much so, the fear of my car shorting out, stranding me, seemed very real. I turned the radio off, only then realizing I had been listening to a CD, and yet I heard static interference; I began instead singing to myself any song I could think of, which consisted mostly of Disney movie songs, in vain attempt mask the thunderous booms which echoed in my small Honda Civic as if God were swinging a sledge hammer into my hood. In horror, I realize I cut most of this exciting story out of my manuscript. I desperately begin to write, standing with my legs spread almost two feet apart at the stove.
“Hey…hey…HEY!” she is yelling at me. She’s to my back left, at the refrigerator, leaning in, while staring at me in full-blown panic.
I yell back, “What?!”
With a curious, child-like tone, she asks, “What are you doing?”
“I’m writing. Don’t bother me,” I brush her off, with a fair amount of attitude.
She continues, “Why are you doing it there?”
I am being distracted at my fated task at hand with her unnecessary questions. I can’t but help my heart rate jump as I speak in a frustrated tone, “Am I in your way? And do you even pay rent here? And whose food is that?” With that she gave it up, walked behind me and began to make a sandwich on the excessively-full counter to my right.
“Why—sorry, why…?” she started, then stopped, then started, then stopped. I looked over and gave her the same look my mother used to give me whenever I was being a pest. She had two pieces of wheat bread in her hands, a sealed plastic container of spinach, deli salami, mustard and a package of shredded cheddar cheese stuffed on the counter next to the pots and pans.
“What?” I ask; calming down considerably, but by no means calm.
“What are you doing there?” the curious bride asks. Without knowing how, because I would only continue to scan back towards her only after she spoke, she had managed to put mustard on both slices of bread, but still had both slices in the palms of her hands.
“I’m writing. I’m writing here because I got inspired here, looking outside, then putting my head out the porch door and feeling the wind hit my newly-shaved head, you know, kind of acting like a puppy dog when he sticks his head out of a moving car door. Anyway, I got really inspired by the wind.”
“The wind?!” she bellowed in her heavy African accent. Two slices of salami were on each slice. Again, I hadn’t caught how she had done it. Then, underneath her breath, she whispered, “You’re gay.”
I retorted, in extreme anger, but not wanting to waste my time insulting her, which is one of my favorite hobbies, “Fuck you! I’m just a writer. Anything I ever do is but research for an upcoming project. And did I ever tell you about the day I moved to Reno?” I cut the question off early, I bellow, “What the hell are you doing?”
She still had the bread balancing on each hand, yet remarkably she had added a heap of shredded cheddar on each, along with the mustard and salami and now was attempting to open the spinach container, but was finding it difficult.
“Are you fucking serious?” I can’t help but say in disgust. An insult concerning a soccer ball comes to mind, but I don’t pursue it. “What seems to be the problem?” I ask, finally allowing for breath.
“I’m trying to make a sandwich,” she says with helpless naivety. I scorn her for upsetting me in such a manner, and ruining my chance to write about the wind; as I now stare at her in disbelief. She places one piece of bread down precariously on a driver’s side view mirror from a 1984 Toyota pickup which somehow ended up on counter at that precise moment. How?
The truck which formerly owned the side-view mirror, which now was a holding-place for one half of her sandwich, had cut me off while I was walking in a crosswalk on the corner of 10th and Sierra Streets months previous. Two weeks later, I recognized the truck from the oddest assortment of bumper stickers I had ever seen. One read, “Voldemort votes Republican.” One mocked the current President in the form of the statement: “O Bummer,” complete with the signature ‘O’ from the campaign posters. Another said: “My kid slept with your honor student.” That one was my favorite. Stumbling across the car on a dark Oak Street, adjacent to a Civil War cemetery, I decided to extract my vengeance for such mind-numbingly dumb bumper stickers, and take the side-view mirror. Oh yeah, and for cutting me off, too!
From there, I had stored it in a real place of honor, upon the end table adjacent to the front door, the one living room item which was most-disfigured during a gasoline attack months previous, and was thusly hidden in the corner. I placed the mirror there; over time it was hidden under more and more sediment of no interest, including the plastic baggies and numerous papers I couldn’t care less about.
I would have been content to let the items of no interest stay in the corner I never looked at until the time I moved out, but as fate would have it, the night previous, my roommate hands me a summons, I am being taken to court by an apartment complex which believes I owe them money. It seems someone put my name on someone else’s lease after I left that apartment. Now I’m being sued. After seeing the summons, I recall the papers of no interest hidden in the forgotten corner. Figuring, correctly as it would turn out, since I literally had no interest in this summons I had just been handed, perhaps I had already had no interest in it. My roommate and I tossed through the papers and items, him cleaning and organizing, I simply cautiously for a visual cue, a memory which would come back to me if only I see the correct corner of the correct paper. I find it! The papers of no interest simply become the papers I couldn’t care less about. I place them on my desk, presumably they will get lost there too. He continued cleaning; all the items which weren’t to be tossed out, or didn’t have a rightful place, were placed on the kitchen counter, including the mirror.
“Are you crazy?” I yell to her. She was attempting to pull the top off the spinach still, somehow not realizing the plastic band seal was still there. She held it against her body, pulling with her right hand; her left still held the piece of bread with the mound of cheese now falling all over the counter and the floor. I calm down, and reach for the scissors.
I walk over to her, I tell her to put her bread down, and now I notice: no plate. I begin slowly first, but by the end I berate her, “First off, don’t you realize there is a seal on the spinach. And second, don’t you realize your husband is deathly allergic to cheese and you are spilling it everywhere. And why don’t you have a plate?”
I grab the spinach from her and place the scissors atop them. “Here. Take care of that.” I walk over to grab a plate.
“What do you want me to do with this?” she asks as she takes them, incredibly blowing my mind.
“What the hell do you think?” I yell back. She looks as if she needs me to draw her a map; I instead give her another glare and she puts her other piece of bread down on the only exposed part of the counter and cuts the seal off the spinach.
“What are you writing about?” she asks me as I place the plate on the counter; she places both pieces of bread and their toppings on the plate in haste; figuring it out much faster than the spinach.
“Nothing.” I say derisively. “So, instead of grabbing the plate two feet away from your hands in the dish-drying rack, you use a truck mirror. Don’t you get it?” I tried my best to be gentle at the end, and spare the bride’s feelings.
“In Africa, we know what are on things, we are okay with germs,” she says as she finishes her sandwich-making on the plate, placing her cheese and crumb covered hands into the baby spinach container.
Against my devilish wishes, a win for my better judgment, I do not make the completely obvious observation about her continent of origin and their propensity to not worry about germs. At least, I don’t make it aloud.
She cleans up the cheese as best as she can, she even begins to wash the dishes, even the pots and pans from the counter, after she finished her sandwich. I have to remind her to put the hot water on. I say, “You wash dishes with hot water.” She had never heard that before; and again I hold my tongue.
She washes last the mirror she had formerly used as a plate, that of the 1984 Toyota. Water gets on the inside, from a small crack in the plastic casing which had occurred as I liberated it from the truck; creating a grimy mess in the sink. All I hear is “Uh oh.”
The naïve young woman didn’t realize cleaning car parts always had inherent risks. She was about to panic, and pull the mirror from the sink, frightened about leaving dirt in the sink. I let this opportunity to make fun of her pass, I know a better opportunity will come later.
I tell her, “Without tipping the mirror and letting the water spill everywhere, keep it level, like this,” I adjust it into the proper position for her, so the crack is at the top. “Now, carefully walk that out to the side porch and put it on the bannister and let it dry.” She does as I tell her and then she vanishes. I recommence writing, hoping the inspirational spark remains.
My roommate’s diesel pulls up, driving it down the sloping driveway, from my right to my left, and into the backyard. He had just come back from getting another lift on his truck. As I would measure later, the floor of the cab was somewhere between my knees and my waist. He darts into the kitchen from the basement door to my left, and he reaches into the refrigerator and pulls the same ingredients, save the cheese, had to prepare himself a sandwich. I warn him beforehand, “Careful. She just made a sandwich with cheese, spilling it everywhere. She says she cleaned it all up, but I don’t know. She isn’t a very good housekeeper.”
My roommate flips out. “She touched the cheese without cleaning her hands too, right? That means all my food is contaminated. Quick!” He grabs me by the shoulders, twirling me away from my computer, and dropping the mustard, salami, baby spinach container, and a half-loaf of wheat bread onto the floor at our feet. “Did she touch the spinach after touching cheese?!”
I reply, “Actually, it is a funny story. Why?”
“Because I just ate some.” It was true, though I hadn’t noticed. The first thing he did after opening the refrigerator, was to snack on his favorite snack, baby spinach leaves. His wife had taken a liking to them thanks to his influence. I hadn’t thought much of them, they seemed to me clover equivalent of Sloth from The Goonies.
“Dude,” I reply, attempting to break the news as softly as I could, “She put on the cheese and then dipped into the spinach. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it at the time.”
He replied, “It’s okay.” It wasn’t.
He said next, “I will be fine.” No, he wouldn’t be.
After staring into his ever-whitening face, he whispered in a low voice, “Just get me to the hospital. Let’s take my ride.”
I follow him intently down the back stairs into the backyard and hop into the driver’s seat of his new Dodge, emphasis on the word hop. I begin to drive casually, attempting to pull around in the muddy backyard, he had seemed to have ripped it up enough with his brand-new, perfect for mudding, tires. He says, “Don’t mind that, just go.” Instinctively, I thrust the truck into reverse and haul ass backward.
What I don’t see is that his bride, in effort to redeem herself, had retrieved the mirror from the bannister, hoping fifteen minutes drying time would be enough. She sees me as I begin to race away. She leans on the bannister to get my attention, waving with all her might. The bannister quickly gives way, she falls straight to the ground, only the broken bannister and the two inches of mud breaking her fall. I didn’t see her, like I said, so I ran her over.
Upon running her over, I jump out of the truck, and call to my roommate, “Holy shit! I just ran over your wife!” He hops out of the truck quickly, breathing heavily but still seemingly fine and rushes over.
He says almost casually, “Get her in the truck, we are going to the hospital anyway.” We each grab an arm and pull her up; she seemed perfectly fine. The muddy driveway had absorbed much of the impact; she had scrapes and bruises across her face and torso. Her wrist, her left, the one I grabbed, seemed torqued and twisted at an odd angle, but she didn’t feel it, and I took special care not to injure her further.
Upon getting to her feet, she screamed as she hit me with her bad hand, “You ran over me! You jerk! Is this about the cheese?”
My first thoughts ran to throwing her in the back of the truck; I think her husband might go for it. Instead, for expediency’s sake, we shuffle her into the cab and we drive off to the hospital.
The emergency room isn’t much more than a three minute car ride, with traffic. We don’t catch a single red light or have to worry about cutting off any pedestrians, so we get there in half the time. Convulsing, looking as if he were about to die right then and there in his three ton waste of gas and metal, I get his bride to run inside and call for help as I drag him from the cab. He was speaking, but I couldn’t make anything out; I’m starting to get light-headed, the prospect of my roommate dying and me being left with his African bride is burning an ulcer into my stomach with each passing second.
Thankfully, men and women in scrubs meet us within five feet of the truck, taking my friend the rest of the way into the hospital. Thankfully, he lives. Hours later, after his wife had been released with six or seven Band-Aids and splint on her sprained, but not broken, left wrist, she and I enter my roommate’s hospital room. He jovially greets me, “Thank you, sir! The doctor wants to keep me overnight for observation. But he thinks I am fine, and that we probably overreacted.”
We? I think to myself. I wasn’t in the mood to be a jerk, happy as I was that I wouldn’t have to take care of the girl who couldn’t even make a sandwich properly for an eternity. “Did you notice, by chance, the odd similarities to what has just transpired, and your fabled ghost experience?”
He shrugged, “I suppose the situations were slightly different.”
This one I couldn’t hold back, “Slightly?!” I ask. “I should say your ghost experience was in fact a premonition.”
Again he shrugged, but added in a humorous head shake, left and right, “A premonition? Hardly!”
“How so?” I ask.
“First, it didn’t take place during the moonlight hours. And second, we didn’t throw her into the back of the truck, though I certainly thought about it.” He looked at her with a look bordering on sarcasm and seriousness.
I interjected, “Me too. Was there a third reason?"
“Actually yes,” he says to me. “If it were preordained by some silly ghost story, then we couldn’t, in all proper rights, blame our landlord for such shoddy workmanship.” My mind goes blank. “After all,” he continues, “a lawsuit might be in the works.”
“Eh….”
Second, my roommate swears he has, on occasion, seen a ghost on those stairs. The apparition appears only on moonlit nights; he says it stands atop the porch, and upon seeing something in the backyard somewhere, it casually begins a walk down the stairs, towards the driveway, but upon leaning on the railing, the apparition falls through, plummeting ten feet from the top of the porch to the sloping downward driveway. The apparition did not end; according to my roommate. He said once, “The ghost falls ten feet, and lands on her face in the driveway just as a truck is backing out of the driveway; they don’t see her and they run her over.”
I asked, “Is that all?” amazed such a straight-laced, drug-free adult would admit to believing in seeing such a spectacle multiple times.
He replied, “No. Two ghost men get out of the ghost truck and they run back to see what they hit. They check on the ghost, who turns out to be a girl; and then they throw her in the back of the truck and drive off.”
I didn’t believe him; but then I figured, Courtney is a really bad carpenter, electrician, arsonist, and exterminator, so it would be better not to risk it.
It was forty degrees outside, according to my newly bald head, which is as accurate a weather instrument as my Grandma’s knee. The temperature is probably warmer on the thermometer just four inches to my left, hanging on the outside wall, direct sunlight hitting it. A blast of cool wind off the mountains to the west, my right, recalled the springs of my youth. Back then, I hated wearing a winter hat; something about the raw, real cold spoke to me, even then. I knew I was a man if I could stand up to the cold. Now, pushing thirty, balding, and newly buzzed down to the metal, the cold wind masquerading itself with warm temperatures only excited me.
The wind was always blowing in Reno, something was always moving in and coming out. Much like the city itself. Action reigned; just not the Vegas type. If you want late-night Vietnamese food, Reno is king. If you want cheap, buck-toothed, hairy legged hookers, Reno is king. If you want the wind, as I did, Reno is king. The wind was as varied as the places it came from; and it came from all directions, sometimes at the same time.
My mind was ravenous; sticking my head out of the door had inspired me. I had to write. I had to write right now!
I race to my bedroom and grab my laptop computer. I bring it back into the kitchen and place it down on the counter top, but finding it to be cramped with unexpected items: a side view mirror from a truck, old papers and bills from months previous, a giant plastic bag filled with smaller plastic bags, three lighters, and one pack of Parliament cigarettes—which caught my eye especially because nobody in my house smokes…cigarettes. Realizing the counter won’t be ample space for me to flex my wit and wisdom about the wind, I focus instead on the stove. The glass flattop was dirty and filled with dirty pots and pans my roommate hadn’t picked up since cooking dinner the previous night. I normally didn’t care; I couldn’t recall a moment during this calendar year I had used the damn machine which sat as an island in the middle of the kitchen.
Not using it didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate the value of it. After clearing off the pots and pans and putting them on the counter my computer still sat, along with many other objects, and after spraying it with Windex and wiping the top of the oven, I had lucked into a clean and orderly desk at waist-level with a grand view through the two floor-to-ceiling windows of my kitchen, with a view of the driveway, sloping downward from my right to my left into the backyard. From there, I could see the wind blowing through the neighbor’s trees; a gale was currently gusting directly downward down the driveway. The words were flowing out of my fingers and into the keyboard so fast, I thought I was right about to sprain my left index finger.
As I begin my attempt to write my tale inspired by the wind, and the weather in Reno in general, my roommate’s blushing newly-wed wife comes into the kitchen. She was average in height, small body, and had dark, mocha, skin and a smug face which belied her humble African origins. As I begin to write, I yell to her in excited disbelief, “It’s fucking raining now!” The sun was still shining, yet clouds were moving faster than the freeway traffic into the city from California. The clouds would continue on Interstate 80, through Sparks and out into the middle of nowhere within the hour, most likely.
She begins to make herself a sandwich; I pay no attention to her. I begin reflecting of my first journey into the city of Reno. It was two days after my birthday in 2006, I had traveled directly through a thunderstorm the likes of which I hadn’t experienced in my life before or since and probably won’t ever again. Lighting hit quite close to my car on multiple occasions, the static electricity was palpable, as if it filled my car like a gelatinous goo. I recall hearing an odd buzzing from the radio, so much so, the fear of my car shorting out, stranding me, seemed very real. I turned the radio off, only then realizing I had been listening to a CD, and yet I heard static interference; I began instead singing to myself any song I could think of, which consisted mostly of Disney movie songs, in vain attempt mask the thunderous booms which echoed in my small Honda Civic as if God were swinging a sledge hammer into my hood. In horror, I realize I cut most of this exciting story out of my manuscript. I desperately begin to write, standing with my legs spread almost two feet apart at the stove.
“Hey…hey…HEY!” she is yelling at me. She’s to my back left, at the refrigerator, leaning in, while staring at me in full-blown panic.
I yell back, “What?!”
With a curious, child-like tone, she asks, “What are you doing?”
“I’m writing. Don’t bother me,” I brush her off, with a fair amount of attitude.
She continues, “Why are you doing it there?”
I am being distracted at my fated task at hand with her unnecessary questions. I can’t but help my heart rate jump as I speak in a frustrated tone, “Am I in your way? And do you even pay rent here? And whose food is that?” With that she gave it up, walked behind me and began to make a sandwich on the excessively-full counter to my right.
“Why—sorry, why…?” she started, then stopped, then started, then stopped. I looked over and gave her the same look my mother used to give me whenever I was being a pest. She had two pieces of wheat bread in her hands, a sealed plastic container of spinach, deli salami, mustard and a package of shredded cheddar cheese stuffed on the counter next to the pots and pans.
“What?” I ask; calming down considerably, but by no means calm.
“What are you doing there?” the curious bride asks. Without knowing how, because I would only continue to scan back towards her only after she spoke, she had managed to put mustard on both slices of bread, but still had both slices in the palms of her hands.
“I’m writing. I’m writing here because I got inspired here, looking outside, then putting my head out the porch door and feeling the wind hit my newly-shaved head, you know, kind of acting like a puppy dog when he sticks his head out of a moving car door. Anyway, I got really inspired by the wind.”
“The wind?!” she bellowed in her heavy African accent. Two slices of salami were on each slice. Again, I hadn’t caught how she had done it. Then, underneath her breath, she whispered, “You’re gay.”
I retorted, in extreme anger, but not wanting to waste my time insulting her, which is one of my favorite hobbies, “Fuck you! I’m just a writer. Anything I ever do is but research for an upcoming project. And did I ever tell you about the day I moved to Reno?” I cut the question off early, I bellow, “What the hell are you doing?”
She still had the bread balancing on each hand, yet remarkably she had added a heap of shredded cheddar on each, along with the mustard and salami and now was attempting to open the spinach container, but was finding it difficult.
“Are you fucking serious?” I can’t help but say in disgust. An insult concerning a soccer ball comes to mind, but I don’t pursue it. “What seems to be the problem?” I ask, finally allowing for breath.
“I’m trying to make a sandwich,” she says with helpless naivety. I scorn her for upsetting me in such a manner, and ruining my chance to write about the wind; as I now stare at her in disbelief. She places one piece of bread down precariously on a driver’s side view mirror from a 1984 Toyota pickup which somehow ended up on counter at that precise moment. How?
The truck which formerly owned the side-view mirror, which now was a holding-place for one half of her sandwich, had cut me off while I was walking in a crosswalk on the corner of 10th and Sierra Streets months previous. Two weeks later, I recognized the truck from the oddest assortment of bumper stickers I had ever seen. One read, “Voldemort votes Republican.” One mocked the current President in the form of the statement: “O Bummer,” complete with the signature ‘O’ from the campaign posters. Another said: “My kid slept with your honor student.” That one was my favorite. Stumbling across the car on a dark Oak Street, adjacent to a Civil War cemetery, I decided to extract my vengeance for such mind-numbingly dumb bumper stickers, and take the side-view mirror. Oh yeah, and for cutting me off, too!
From there, I had stored it in a real place of honor, upon the end table adjacent to the front door, the one living room item which was most-disfigured during a gasoline attack months previous, and was thusly hidden in the corner. I placed the mirror there; over time it was hidden under more and more sediment of no interest, including the plastic baggies and numerous papers I couldn’t care less about.
I would have been content to let the items of no interest stay in the corner I never looked at until the time I moved out, but as fate would have it, the night previous, my roommate hands me a summons, I am being taken to court by an apartment complex which believes I owe them money. It seems someone put my name on someone else’s lease after I left that apartment. Now I’m being sued. After seeing the summons, I recall the papers of no interest hidden in the forgotten corner. Figuring, correctly as it would turn out, since I literally had no interest in this summons I had just been handed, perhaps I had already had no interest in it. My roommate and I tossed through the papers and items, him cleaning and organizing, I simply cautiously for a visual cue, a memory which would come back to me if only I see the correct corner of the correct paper. I find it! The papers of no interest simply become the papers I couldn’t care less about. I place them on my desk, presumably they will get lost there too. He continued cleaning; all the items which weren’t to be tossed out, or didn’t have a rightful place, were placed on the kitchen counter, including the mirror.
“Are you crazy?” I yell to her. She was attempting to pull the top off the spinach still, somehow not realizing the plastic band seal was still there. She held it against her body, pulling with her right hand; her left still held the piece of bread with the mound of cheese now falling all over the counter and the floor. I calm down, and reach for the scissors.
I walk over to her, I tell her to put her bread down, and now I notice: no plate. I begin slowly first, but by the end I berate her, “First off, don’t you realize there is a seal on the spinach. And second, don’t you realize your husband is deathly allergic to cheese and you are spilling it everywhere. And why don’t you have a plate?”
I grab the spinach from her and place the scissors atop them. “Here. Take care of that.” I walk over to grab a plate.
“What do you want me to do with this?” she asks as she takes them, incredibly blowing my mind.
“What the hell do you think?” I yell back. She looks as if she needs me to draw her a map; I instead give her another glare and she puts her other piece of bread down on the only exposed part of the counter and cuts the seal off the spinach.
“What are you writing about?” she asks me as I place the plate on the counter; she places both pieces of bread and their toppings on the plate in haste; figuring it out much faster than the spinach.
“Nothing.” I say derisively. “So, instead of grabbing the plate two feet away from your hands in the dish-drying rack, you use a truck mirror. Don’t you get it?” I tried my best to be gentle at the end, and spare the bride’s feelings.
“In Africa, we know what are on things, we are okay with germs,” she says as she finishes her sandwich-making on the plate, placing her cheese and crumb covered hands into the baby spinach container.
Against my devilish wishes, a win for my better judgment, I do not make the completely obvious observation about her continent of origin and their propensity to not worry about germs. At least, I don’t make it aloud.
She cleans up the cheese as best as she can, she even begins to wash the dishes, even the pots and pans from the counter, after she finished her sandwich. I have to remind her to put the hot water on. I say, “You wash dishes with hot water.” She had never heard that before; and again I hold my tongue.
She washes last the mirror she had formerly used as a plate, that of the 1984 Toyota. Water gets on the inside, from a small crack in the plastic casing which had occurred as I liberated it from the truck; creating a grimy mess in the sink. All I hear is “Uh oh.”
The naïve young woman didn’t realize cleaning car parts always had inherent risks. She was about to panic, and pull the mirror from the sink, frightened about leaving dirt in the sink. I let this opportunity to make fun of her pass, I know a better opportunity will come later.
I tell her, “Without tipping the mirror and letting the water spill everywhere, keep it level, like this,” I adjust it into the proper position for her, so the crack is at the top. “Now, carefully walk that out to the side porch and put it on the bannister and let it dry.” She does as I tell her and then she vanishes. I recommence writing, hoping the inspirational spark remains.
My roommate’s diesel pulls up, driving it down the sloping driveway, from my right to my left, and into the backyard. He had just come back from getting another lift on his truck. As I would measure later, the floor of the cab was somewhere between my knees and my waist. He darts into the kitchen from the basement door to my left, and he reaches into the refrigerator and pulls the same ingredients, save the cheese, had to prepare himself a sandwich. I warn him beforehand, “Careful. She just made a sandwich with cheese, spilling it everywhere. She says she cleaned it all up, but I don’t know. She isn’t a very good housekeeper.”
My roommate flips out. “She touched the cheese without cleaning her hands too, right? That means all my food is contaminated. Quick!” He grabs me by the shoulders, twirling me away from my computer, and dropping the mustard, salami, baby spinach container, and a half-loaf of wheat bread onto the floor at our feet. “Did she touch the spinach after touching cheese?!”
I reply, “Actually, it is a funny story. Why?”
“Because I just ate some.” It was true, though I hadn’t noticed. The first thing he did after opening the refrigerator, was to snack on his favorite snack, baby spinach leaves. His wife had taken a liking to them thanks to his influence. I hadn’t thought much of them, they seemed to me clover equivalent of Sloth from The Goonies.
“Dude,” I reply, attempting to break the news as softly as I could, “She put on the cheese and then dipped into the spinach. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it at the time.”
He replied, “It’s okay.” It wasn’t.
He said next, “I will be fine.” No, he wouldn’t be.
After staring into his ever-whitening face, he whispered in a low voice, “Just get me to the hospital. Let’s take my ride.”
I follow him intently down the back stairs into the backyard and hop into the driver’s seat of his new Dodge, emphasis on the word hop. I begin to drive casually, attempting to pull around in the muddy backyard, he had seemed to have ripped it up enough with his brand-new, perfect for mudding, tires. He says, “Don’t mind that, just go.” Instinctively, I thrust the truck into reverse and haul ass backward.
What I don’t see is that his bride, in effort to redeem herself, had retrieved the mirror from the bannister, hoping fifteen minutes drying time would be enough. She sees me as I begin to race away. She leans on the bannister to get my attention, waving with all her might. The bannister quickly gives way, she falls straight to the ground, only the broken bannister and the two inches of mud breaking her fall. I didn’t see her, like I said, so I ran her over.
Upon running her over, I jump out of the truck, and call to my roommate, “Holy shit! I just ran over your wife!” He hops out of the truck quickly, breathing heavily but still seemingly fine and rushes over.
He says almost casually, “Get her in the truck, we are going to the hospital anyway.” We each grab an arm and pull her up; she seemed perfectly fine. The muddy driveway had absorbed much of the impact; she had scrapes and bruises across her face and torso. Her wrist, her left, the one I grabbed, seemed torqued and twisted at an odd angle, but she didn’t feel it, and I took special care not to injure her further.
Upon getting to her feet, she screamed as she hit me with her bad hand, “You ran over me! You jerk! Is this about the cheese?”
My first thoughts ran to throwing her in the back of the truck; I think her husband might go for it. Instead, for expediency’s sake, we shuffle her into the cab and we drive off to the hospital.
The emergency room isn’t much more than a three minute car ride, with traffic. We don’t catch a single red light or have to worry about cutting off any pedestrians, so we get there in half the time. Convulsing, looking as if he were about to die right then and there in his three ton waste of gas and metal, I get his bride to run inside and call for help as I drag him from the cab. He was speaking, but I couldn’t make anything out; I’m starting to get light-headed, the prospect of my roommate dying and me being left with his African bride is burning an ulcer into my stomach with each passing second.
Thankfully, men and women in scrubs meet us within five feet of the truck, taking my friend the rest of the way into the hospital. Thankfully, he lives. Hours later, after his wife had been released with six or seven Band-Aids and splint on her sprained, but not broken, left wrist, she and I enter my roommate’s hospital room. He jovially greets me, “Thank you, sir! The doctor wants to keep me overnight for observation. But he thinks I am fine, and that we probably overreacted.”
We? I think to myself. I wasn’t in the mood to be a jerk, happy as I was that I wouldn’t have to take care of the girl who couldn’t even make a sandwich properly for an eternity. “Did you notice, by chance, the odd similarities to what has just transpired, and your fabled ghost experience?”
He shrugged, “I suppose the situations were slightly different.”
This one I couldn’t hold back, “Slightly?!” I ask. “I should say your ghost experience was in fact a premonition.”
Again he shrugged, but added in a humorous head shake, left and right, “A premonition? Hardly!”
“How so?” I ask.
“First, it didn’t take place during the moonlight hours. And second, we didn’t throw her into the back of the truck, though I certainly thought about it.” He looked at her with a look bordering on sarcasm and seriousness.
I interjected, “Me too. Was there a third reason?"
“Actually yes,” he says to me. “If it were preordained by some silly ghost story, then we couldn’t, in all proper rights, blame our landlord for such shoddy workmanship.” My mind goes blank. “After all,” he continues, “a lawsuit might be in the works.”
“Eh….”
Thursday, March 3, 2011
How is America like a Rolling Stone?
"Friends, Americans, countrymen...
Lend me your eyes and minds;
I come to bury America
Not to praise her.
The evil that nations do live after them;
The good is oft interred with her citizenry."
--William Shakespeare (had he been living in America right now, maybe)
Yes, folks, we are living in the end times. The Rapture is imminent. We all know it is true. The truth about this country has been hanging over the heads of all its inhabitants for a long while; only now are we realizing we haven't seen the sunlight since our childhoods. We know our economy is falling apart; we know gas prices are going to continue to rise, sending with it the price of everything else to the stratosphere; we know it is tougher to get a job then it once was; we know even the government is broke, though that doesn't stop them from spending OUR money; we know most nations seem intent on watching us throw our back out while attempting to pick them all up; we know China owns us, and is only getting stronger and better, not to mention buying more and more of us; we know we can't trust anybody in the government; we know we can't believe what they say, nor can we "Believe in" them either; we know our society is more focused on American Idol than on the Muddled East; we know a college education doesn't get you as much as it did; we know drugs are a way of life in this country, we all know someone who habitually uses marijuana, drinks alcohol often, smokes cigarettes to calm down, can't wake up without caffeine, is taking multiple anti-depressants and pain medications, loves going out and dropping E or doing a line of coke; we don't see anything wrong with this.
Is Heaven going to open up and pull all the faithful from the Earth and make them vanish as if they were never here? Would we even notice?
Will Earth cataclysmically be destroyed? I'm not entirely sure it hasn't already happened.
Maybe we just don't know it yet. Maybe if we weren't so concerned with Charlie Sheen, MTV, and TMZ, maybe we'd realize America doesn't have any moss on it.
Lend me your eyes and minds;
I come to bury America
Not to praise her.
The evil that nations do live after them;
The good is oft interred with her citizenry."
--William Shakespeare (had he been living in America right now, maybe)
Yes, folks, we are living in the end times. The Rapture is imminent. We all know it is true. The truth about this country has been hanging over the heads of all its inhabitants for a long while; only now are we realizing we haven't seen the sunlight since our childhoods. We know our economy is falling apart; we know gas prices are going to continue to rise, sending with it the price of everything else to the stratosphere; we know it is tougher to get a job then it once was; we know even the government is broke, though that doesn't stop them from spending OUR money; we know most nations seem intent on watching us throw our back out while attempting to pick them all up; we know China owns us, and is only getting stronger and better, not to mention buying more and more of us; we know we can't trust anybody in the government; we know we can't believe what they say, nor can we "Believe in" them either; we know our society is more focused on American Idol than on the Muddled East; we know a college education doesn't get you as much as it did; we know drugs are a way of life in this country, we all know someone who habitually uses marijuana, drinks alcohol often, smokes cigarettes to calm down, can't wake up without caffeine, is taking multiple anti-depressants and pain medications, loves going out and dropping E or doing a line of coke; we don't see anything wrong with this.
Is Heaven going to open up and pull all the faithful from the Earth and make them vanish as if they were never here? Would we even notice?
Will Earth cataclysmically be destroyed? I'm not entirely sure it hasn't already happened.
Maybe we just don't know it yet. Maybe if we weren't so concerned with Charlie Sheen, MTV, and TMZ, maybe we'd realize America doesn't have any moss on it.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Toke up on the Middle East Charlie Sheen, that might be the only thing which saves you
The three biggest news stories of the day, and why they are important to you:
1) Middle East troubles (what the hell else is new?)
What: Libyan leader Colonel Qadaffi is killing the citizens of his country. The smart, desperate ones are fleeing. Now that Qadaffai has gone off the rails, it seems we are headed for a war (perhaps the very thing which gets the President re-elected, one wonders). This is on top of all the unrest in Egypt, to name only one.
Who: OPEC, a cartel which is run mainly by Middle Eastern leaders always react when one of their members goes a little nuts. Tension in the Middle East means only one thing: Oil prices are going through the roof, and will continue to do so as it pushes tomorrow towards $100 per barrel.
How will that affect you: Gas prices are about to go through the roof! That means: less spending money, less money you save, less money to get through life. That also means: higher costs of groceries (for the suppliers, growers, and manufacturers will also feel the pinch; they will in turn raise their prices, which will make you feel an additional pinch), higher travel costs, higher costs of doing business of all types.
Where and when should I expect this: Soon.
Why is this happening: Because Obama wanted democracy in the Middle East.
2)Marijuana is actually bad for you!
What???!!!! People who take a mild hallucinogen, no matter whether it is natural, better for you than alcohol or cigarettes, "doubles risk of psychosis."
Who: Everyone, apparently. But in teenagers, the ones most likely to use it, it apparently turns stoners into munchie-loving psychopaths who are stupid.
Since when: Always, really. The mere act of ingesting a plant by fire isn't recommended by doctors far and wide. Ask your doctor if you should stand over a burning fir tree and breathe in the smoke. What do you think he would tell you? It doesn't matter if you are ingesting it through a rubber tube, filtered through glass, incinerated by a vaporizer, and with the taste of cherry.
Where: Though marijuana is decriminialized in some states, it is largely illegal throughout the United States. Whether or not it should be is a matter for another debate. BWB is officially libertarian, so should one want to roast LSD-laced marshmallows in an outdoor fire pit while smoking oak tree bark and worshipping the demi-goddess of hunting Britomartis, he wouldn't care one bit. I personally don't support legalizing marijuana, which will be the subject of a future column.
When: The Marihuana Tax Act of 1937 was passed during the socialist hero Franklin Roosevelt's second term as President. Should you be looking for anyone to curse for weed being illegal, feel free to curse him. I hear Adolf still curses him from hell; FDR had no comment.
3)Charlie Sheen is probably going to be dead before the 2012 Doomsday Prophecy, falling star which always seems to precede such calamaties (officially a joke)
What: Apparently Charlie has been going on benders. What the drug of choice has been is up to interpretation, to say the least. (I will not be providing links in this piece; I assume most Americans are more aware of this story than the others.) He's hanging out with porn stars and strippers and hookers and doing all sorts of unsavory things, basically kissing goodbye to his career in the process.
Why?: Because he is a god-damned fool who has been messed up for most of his career. Sadly, most of America has known this for twenty years, yet we have allowed this man to ruin his life for the sake our entertainment. What is wrong with us?
Who: Charlie Sheen, obviously. But don't forget, Charlie has children, parents, friends, family, and those who love him, even when he doesn't love himself. Charlie, please get your act together. Please, fix your life, don't fall through the rabbit hole and never come back.
Where: The jet-setting Sheen seems like he is moving even as he was sitting down for that 20/20 interview. His blood was pumping as if he was about to explode from hypertension. I felt so bad for his children just looking at the lost wretch. To anyone and all who pray reading this, please say a prayer for Mr. Sheen.
When: Now, before it is too late.
I don't want to leave things on a bad note, that would be ungentlemanlike. So please, indulge in the coolest movie trailer for the 2011 Summer movie season, thus far: HERE!
1) Middle East troubles (what the hell else is new?)
What: Libyan leader Colonel Qadaffi is killing the citizens of his country. The smart, desperate ones are fleeing. Now that Qadaffai has gone off the rails, it seems we are headed for a war (perhaps the very thing which gets the President re-elected, one wonders). This is on top of all the unrest in Egypt, to name only one.
Who: OPEC, a cartel which is run mainly by Middle Eastern leaders always react when one of their members goes a little nuts. Tension in the Middle East means only one thing: Oil prices are going through the roof, and will continue to do so as it pushes tomorrow towards $100 per barrel.
How will that affect you: Gas prices are about to go through the roof! That means: less spending money, less money you save, less money to get through life. That also means: higher costs of groceries (for the suppliers, growers, and manufacturers will also feel the pinch; they will in turn raise their prices, which will make you feel an additional pinch), higher travel costs, higher costs of doing business of all types.
Where and when should I expect this: Soon.
Why is this happening: Because Obama wanted democracy in the Middle East.
2)Marijuana is actually bad for you!
What???!!!! People who take a mild hallucinogen, no matter whether it is natural, better for you than alcohol or cigarettes, "doubles risk of psychosis."
Who: Everyone, apparently. But in teenagers, the ones most likely to use it, it apparently turns stoners into munchie-loving psychopaths who are stupid.
Since when: Always, really. The mere act of ingesting a plant by fire isn't recommended by doctors far and wide. Ask your doctor if you should stand over a burning fir tree and breathe in the smoke. What do you think he would tell you? It doesn't matter if you are ingesting it through a rubber tube, filtered through glass, incinerated by a vaporizer, and with the taste of cherry.
Where: Though marijuana is decriminialized in some states, it is largely illegal throughout the United States. Whether or not it should be is a matter for another debate. BWB is officially libertarian, so should one want to roast LSD-laced marshmallows in an outdoor fire pit while smoking oak tree bark and worshipping the demi-goddess of hunting Britomartis, he wouldn't care one bit. I personally don't support legalizing marijuana, which will be the subject of a future column.
When: The Marihuana Tax Act of 1937 was passed during the socialist hero Franklin Roosevelt's second term as President. Should you be looking for anyone to curse for weed being illegal, feel free to curse him. I hear Adolf still curses him from hell; FDR had no comment.
3)Charlie Sheen is probably going to be dead before the 2012 Doomsday Prophecy, falling star which always seems to precede such calamaties (officially a joke)
What: Apparently Charlie has been going on benders. What the drug of choice has been is up to interpretation, to say the least. (I will not be providing links in this piece; I assume most Americans are more aware of this story than the others.) He's hanging out with porn stars and strippers and hookers and doing all sorts of unsavory things, basically kissing goodbye to his career in the process.
Why?: Because he is a god-damned fool who has been messed up for most of his career. Sadly, most of America has known this for twenty years, yet we have allowed this man to ruin his life for the sake our entertainment. What is wrong with us?
Who: Charlie Sheen, obviously. But don't forget, Charlie has children, parents, friends, family, and those who love him, even when he doesn't love himself. Charlie, please get your act together. Please, fix your life, don't fall through the rabbit hole and never come back.
Where: The jet-setting Sheen seems like he is moving even as he was sitting down for that 20/20 interview. His blood was pumping as if he was about to explode from hypertension. I felt so bad for his children just looking at the lost wretch. To anyone and all who pray reading this, please say a prayer for Mr. Sheen.
When: Now, before it is too late.
I don't want to leave things on a bad note, that would be ungentlemanlike. So please, indulge in the coolest movie trailer for the 2011 Summer movie season, thus far: HERE!
The Secretary of Defense is right, right? No, he's not, he's a fool. Why does he have a job?
"Iran is the real loser here whether they want to admit it or not. They had no hand in the change ... except the one they used to slap back their own people...I would have to say I'm an optimist about these changes. These revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt and protests elsewhere that are leading to reforms ... I think are an extraordinary setback to al Qaeda." —Robert Gates, US Secretary of Defense
The well-intentioned Secretary is a holdover from the good old George W. Bush days. First off, why would a ‘pacifist,’ liberal President, a man who derided his predecessor’s excursions in Iraq and Afghanistan, holdover the head of the department actually running those ‘overseas contingency operations?’ There is precedent of Presidents keeping members of the previous administration’s Cabinet, but how come there was no outcry from the liberals keeping this waste of a business suit and government parking pass on the payroll?
Secondly, and most importantly, how can violence on the streets of Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia amongst others be anything but good for al Qaeda and Iran? Isn’t this precisely what they want? Isn’t violent upheaval of the corrupt, Western-influenced society, which has been infringing upon their desires for a caliphate run by sharia law precisely what they want?
Are they leading to reforms? Has there been some grand upheaval? Has there been some George Washington who has emerged from the muss; is there such a grand personage as John Adams or Thomas Jefferson who is becoming a rallying point for the oppressed peoples of the Middle East? If, as this administration would like us to believe, these ‘peaceful’ protestors desiring nothing democratic freedom, when can we expect it? How long will it take? And moreover, how can you make sure the ‘peaceful’ protestors are the ones who will follow the madman Qaddafi?
Yes folks, BWB is asking rhetorical questions, so please feel free not to reply. Don’t reply because I know the answers and they aren’t pretty. First, why would the President hold over Secretary Gates? Because there is no difference between Bush and Obama, not really. Why wasn’t there any outcry? Because, the liberal media can’t criticize President Teflon because then they would be painted with the same brush they paint all those who express their displeasure with the Chosen One: that brush being the racist brush.
If the people of Pennsylvania, who according to the President, will cling to their guns and religion when times are tough, what will the unintelligent, uncivilized masses of Muslims cling to? What will they do? Answer: We don’t know. While it would be nice to think they will welcome in democratic reforms and true change with the open, diverse spirit they are known for (right?)
Oh nevermind, only in the West is diversity considered something good. Only in America, Canada, and the European Union is it looked upon as good thing to have a mixture of races and cultures that historically hate each other. How many minority groups have real rights in Iran? How many in Saudi Arabia? How many in American-controlled Iran? How many in Syria? How many will have rights in the post-Mubarak Egypt?
Counter that with Israel. Yes, they have been increasing settlements in the West Bank. But they also have granted full citizenship rights to the Palestinian Muslims living within their borders. How many rights will Jews expect to have in the new Egypt? The new Libya? The new Muslim Empire? Answer: What Jews? Do you really think they will have a place in those governments?
The Middle East isn’t America. Let us not pretend it is.
The well-intentioned Secretary is a holdover from the good old George W. Bush days. First off, why would a ‘pacifist,’ liberal President, a man who derided his predecessor’s excursions in Iraq and Afghanistan, holdover the head of the department actually running those ‘overseas contingency operations?’ There is precedent of Presidents keeping members of the previous administration’s Cabinet, but how come there was no outcry from the liberals keeping this waste of a business suit and government parking pass on the payroll?
Secondly, and most importantly, how can violence on the streets of Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia amongst others be anything but good for al Qaeda and Iran? Isn’t this precisely what they want? Isn’t violent upheaval of the corrupt, Western-influenced society, which has been infringing upon their desires for a caliphate run by sharia law precisely what they want?
Are they leading to reforms? Has there been some grand upheaval? Has there been some George Washington who has emerged from the muss; is there such a grand personage as John Adams or Thomas Jefferson who is becoming a rallying point for the oppressed peoples of the Middle East? If, as this administration would like us to believe, these ‘peaceful’ protestors desiring nothing democratic freedom, when can we expect it? How long will it take? And moreover, how can you make sure the ‘peaceful’ protestors are the ones who will follow the madman Qaddafi?
Yes folks, BWB is asking rhetorical questions, so please feel free not to reply. Don’t reply because I know the answers and they aren’t pretty. First, why would the President hold over Secretary Gates? Because there is no difference between Bush and Obama, not really. Why wasn’t there any outcry? Because, the liberal media can’t criticize President Teflon because then they would be painted with the same brush they paint all those who express their displeasure with the Chosen One: that brush being the racist brush.
If the people of Pennsylvania, who according to the President, will cling to their guns and religion when times are tough, what will the unintelligent, uncivilized masses of Muslims cling to? What will they do? Answer: We don’t know. While it would be nice to think they will welcome in democratic reforms and true change with the open, diverse spirit they are known for (right?)
Oh nevermind, only in the West is diversity considered something good. Only in America, Canada, and the European Union is it looked upon as good thing to have a mixture of races and cultures that historically hate each other. How many minority groups have real rights in Iran? How many in Saudi Arabia? How many in American-controlled Iran? How many in Syria? How many will have rights in the post-Mubarak Egypt?
Counter that with Israel. Yes, they have been increasing settlements in the West Bank. But they also have granted full citizenship rights to the Palestinian Muslims living within their borders. How many rights will Jews expect to have in the new Egypt? The new Libya? The new Muslim Empire? Answer: What Jews? Do you really think they will have a place in those governments?
The Middle East isn’t America. Let us not pretend it is.
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