July 19, 2010

the week in racism

I invited the real world to my house, always a mistake. Come to think of it, I accepted the real world's request to come visit. Seriously, what was I smoking?

It happened again.

I sat with a complete stranger, the parent of a friend, as he smoked my cigars and drank my liquor and ate the food I had so carefully slaved over. He looked at Percy's house, which by the way is for sale, and asked what the school districts are like here. I shrugged. Not the best. He seemed surprised.

"Huh. You don't have many African-Americans out here, so I'd think they'd be pretty good."

Again? The fuck. On what planet is it okay to say this crap to a complete stranger? At least this time I knew what to say. After his curious word choice, it was the only thing on my mind.

"Is using the PC term 'African American' supposed to somehow mitigate the racist remark?"

"Huh?" said the product of a school system no doubt blessed with an abundance of people just like himself.

• • •

Whenever I have some sort of hired-hand here while I'm working, I always let them choose the music to which we listen. Everything from crunk to baroque has passed through my stereo speakers in this way.

"Channel 867!" squealed Tomás just now, referring to a station called "¡Bailamos!" The description reads "Spicy hot Latin rhythms to fuel an endless tropical party." The music sounds exactly like the overthrow of Batista, if the overthrow were set to bongos duct-taped to a megaphone that was tumbling down a flight of stairs.

"Dude. Hell no."

"You said anything."

"I'm reaching for the show tunes channel..."

"OK! OK! Anything but that!"

And thus did we achieve the multicultural accord of listening to NPR.

posted by john at 09:27 AM  •  permalink

May 11, 2010

your not welcome

The problem with the democratization of communications is, of course, that most people aren't worthy of a vote. Moreover, not long ago, if bigotry-spewing morons wanted to share their thoughts with me, they had to brave doing so to my face.

No longer. The web has seen to that. Count me among the old farts who shake their fists and yell at trespassing webizens to get off their lawn.

Ignorance was bliss. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but I think far less of my fellow man than I did 10 years ago. I was happier for not having known them.

My least favorite phenomenon is rather like the schoolyard. In any web discussion, there will be a bunch of preliterate punks and a smart kid. The punks can't bang two words together, and the kid makes excellent points backed up by evidence, but the punks take a vote and agree that they're right and the smart kid is very, very stupid indeed. They mock the intellectual gulf between them and him, as if they're not on the shallow end.

Go look at any discussion that the tea party has a stake in, and tell me it's not your schoolyard revisited.

I try to avoid web comments, but I often can't, largely because outraged friends quote them to me. The only part I enjoy: seeing the punks misspell their insults of the smart kids' intelligence.

"I wonder," I thought last night, "Have we reached the point yet where most people are spelling it your stupid instead of you're stupid?"

To Google!

We're not quite there, but a life-depleting 24% of all uses of this phrase on the web are "your." I shall track this over time. When it hits 51%, I'll move to some country without broadband. It'll surely be less backward.

Stats
You're an idiot: 4.3 million
Your an idiot: 1.3 million

posted by john at 11:15 AM  •  permalink

April 20, 2010

peeve: inquisitions

Work utterly exhausts me. My boss, Flo, and my underling, Annie, are the exact same kind of person, in crazy-making stereo. It's best demonstrated.

Flo: So did you have a good night?

Me: Meh.

Flo: Come on, what did you do?

Me: I can't remember.

Flo: Jesus Christ. What did you do?

Me (resigned): I watched TV.

Flo: What did you watch? Who's in that? Did you like it? What are your favorite shows? What shows do you hate? What shows does Percy like and who's in that? How is Percy? What model car does he drive? What year is it? 4 cylinder or 6 cylinder? Why doesn't he have a hybrid? Does he hate the earth? How did he vote in every election since Eisenhower's first term?

Thusly warmed up, she'll then draw a breath and really get to the meat of her questions.

With Annie, you would think that the employment club I hold would give me some leverage. You would be wrong.

Me: I'm forwarding you this job inquiry. Let me know if you're interested in the gig. I DO NOT KNOW ANY MORE THAN THIS MAIL CONTAINS. It represents the sum of my knowledge about, and interest in, this topic. You now know everything I know. I swear, if you pepper me with questions, I will drive up to Bellingham and publicly smack the ever-loving shit out of you.

Annie: Cool! Okay! How much does it pay? Are they okay with part-time? What are the benefits? Is there free parking? Who founded the company? What color's his wife's hair? What's her sign?

Hitting the road. Later.

posted by john at 10:03 AM  •  permalink

April 12, 2010

waiting for the other 7,800 dropping shoes

I've spent way too much of my life wondering why the person in the hotel room above mine must walk so bloody much, with so much urgency. In even the finest suite, there are only a couple of step-worthy attractions.

The sum of my strolling in a hotel room: walk to bathroom, walk to bed, sleep, walk to bathroom, walk to tv, sit at computer, walk to tv, walk to door. I've paced it out. It's 34 steps.

Makes me wonder if someone didn't slip a note into my reservation record: "prefers to be under gym."

posted by john at 09:27 AM  •  permalink

March 25, 2010

let's go hatin' now

I am hardly alone in this sentiment, but I love the web. I want to marry the web and bear its children. Its adoption allowed me to move away from Redmond into the (relative) country 90 minutes away. In related news, web sales and cheap shipping allow me stay home instead of driving 45 minutes to the nearest mall. Two weeks ago, I set a personal record: two UPS trucks and two FedEx trucks arrived in one day. I am the Sasquatch of carbon footprints.

Yet like most spouses, the web comes with relatives I would just as soon not have in my life. If Metamuville ever loses broadband, I will mourn, but not for these miscreants.

The wite soopremesist—In real life, it's relatively easy for the discriminating white guy to avoid bigots. They have their circle, I have mine, and if they ever entered the latter and started shouting misspelled epithets, they would be pounded into grease stains.  This is understood by all, so a detente exists. Not so on the web, where, vastly emboldened by anonymity, they delight in spewing bile into every crevice. Because of them, I wouldn't much mind if web anonymity disappeared altogether. How about a full name and Mapquest link for every commenter, web gods?

The attention whore—This is the guy who demands your attention. You. Yours. If you're interested in, say, Steelers discussion and politely ignore a guy's implications that he'll commit suicide, he demands to know why you're ignoring him. You say you're not interested in anything that's not Steelers news. You are accused of snobbery. And as if to prove the point, you leave the discussion.

The labelmaker—This is the guy who's incapable of constructing an argument, so he labels yours. You're a liberal. You probably voted for Bush twice. You're a fanboy. You're a hater. You're stupid. Except this person will invariably and without exception spell it "your." But hey, I'm not not judging.

The laugh track—A close cousin of the labelmaker, he too is incapable of constructing an argument, so he merely deems yours amusing. "Your so pathetic, you make me laugh," he'll write before vomiting bile. He is a curiously unmirthful fellow, despite his earlier claim.

The beaten horse corpse—Let me put it this way: if you're still making tampon jokes about the iPad, this is you.

The goose-stepping parrot—This person simply repeats what he's heard elsewhere. You can tell from the phrasing, which you see repeated a lot, despite its underlying untruth. Obama is a "socialist" "Muslim" even though he demonstrably isn't either. Clinton's troubles were "about a blowjob," even though they were about perjury. Bush's wars are "illegal," whatever that means in warfare. iPads are "just a big iTouch." Avatar "has narrative merits." (Okay, I made the last one up. No one actually says that.)

Rip Van Winkle—Confronted with an unimpeachable argument, this garden tool dismisses it as "tired" instead of refuting it.

"Um, what about the part of the second amendment that mentions gun rights in the context of a 'well-regulated militia?'"

"Oh god. Not THAT tired old argument. Get a new one."

The supreme arbiter of the universe—This guy claims veto power over reality itself. "A REAL Republican wouldn't vote for this bill," he'll write. As soon as I get to the word "REAL" in all caps, my brain switches off. When in Rome.

The crouching tiger—This is the Stank troll who reads three sentences before firing off an accusatory email, sending me back to my post to see if I really endorsed rapists.

"Sigh. You just don't understand, John."—When your arguments fail to persuade me, there are three possible interpretations: 1) your argument failed, 2) reasonable people can reasonably disagree, or...

The consensus builder—"God your stupid. Everyone knows Obama is the worst presdent we've ever had," he skillfully argues. "ROTFL so true! I cant beleive how stupid some people are!" some douche-nozzle invariably replies. The public mutual masturbation that ensues is unbefitting the Internet's standards of taste and decorum.

The absolutist—He speaks for everyone. "Everyone knows Bush stole the election," he'll say in lieu of evidence. "No one likes Chevy trucks," he declares. His apparent strategies: 1) to sneak what he wishes to be true into the short list of unassailable laws of nature, right between gravity and the speed of light, and 2) if someone falls outside the bounds of "everyone," well, just how freakishly stupid must that person be? Me, I'm neither everyone nor no one. Just like everyone never says.

posted by john at 07:14 AM  •  permalink

March 03, 2010

again

The dog park meeting last night hadn't broken up for three seconds before some Old White Fart with an Overdeveloped Sense of Entitlement (OWFOSE) had me trapped in a conversation, literally pinning me to the wall by blocking my escape. I'd never met him before, but man, did he ever have opinions he thought the guy who contributes nothing but wisecracks should hear. Racist opinions.

How, you might reasonably ask, do racist remarks rear their head in a community meeting about dog parks, in a five-minute conversation between strangers?

Allie says it never happens to her, which given how hermetically sealed my life is (for JUST this sort of reason, I might add), surprises me. "It must be the way you look," cheerfully offers the #1 critic of my shaved head.

I'm not buying it. So I throw it open to you. (Note to Mike and d'Andre: bigoted things I say don't count.)

posted by john at 07:35 AM  •  permalink

November 18, 2009

getting fitted for my cemetery plot, now

Left 4 Dead 2 appeared on store shelves yesterday, which means that, among other friends, Dorkass and I were killing newly minted zombies last night. In every sense of that dangling modifier I just wrote.

We both bought our copies at GameStop. I was milling about the teenagers who dressed up as zombies for the occasion, reading my email on my phone, when I vaguely heard "I wanna know what that guy in black is buying. The guy in the black sweatshirt. Looking at his phone."

I looked up, and everyone was looking at me. "Um. Left 4 Dead 2?" I said, to the delight of the onlookers.

I didn't even get a chance to tell Dorkass about this experience before she was telling me about her own. Her GameStop clerk incredulously asked "Are you buying this for yourself?"

"Um. Yeah."

"Good for you!"

posted by john at 09:37 AM  •  permalink

November 09, 2009

web 2.0: the great asshole emboldener

I owe the Internet a lot. Just between 1) my being able to telecommute and 2) Amazon Prime, the Internet has made living where I live, well, livable. It has made my lifestyle of choice possible.

And yet I truly, deeply resent the Internet.

Part of that lifestyle, you see, is the near total elimination of assholes from my daily existence. I work only for friends. I see only who I want, which many days is just the UPS guy (see Amazon Prime, above). Oh sure, there's the occasional clod at the grocery store, the occasional cop who's King Shit with a Badge, the occasional drunk in a bar, the occasional Percy peeking in my window. But for the most part, if I don't want to know you exist, I don't know you exist.

Except for that 10 year-old kid on X-Box Live who's spewing bigotry at strangers.

Or the guy who commented on the YouTube clip of the moon landing "WHITE MEN PUT US ON THE MOON. Remember to thank a white man today!" (The Internet: the emboldening white hood of the 21st century.)

Or the great mass of morons on both the right and left, perpetually searching for someone to validate what they already believe, polluting my news with their intellectual glory-holing.

Or the hate groups at their fringes.

Or pretty much any attention-whoring illiterate on a discussion board, misspelling his insults of others' intelligence.

Yes, I love my anonymity. I just hate theirs.

posted by john at 11:24 AM  •  permalink

November 06, 2009

adding another deadbolt to my door

So how do you guys handle it when some stranger (or even friend) says something bigoted around you? This can range from the n-word to gay-bashing to sexism.

Not that I'm above tweaking these groups myself, but it's always affectionately and to friends who are members. Do I call gays "prancing Nancies?" No. I just call Mike that. And then he rips me back. It's what we do. He is my pink d'Andre.

No, I'm not talking about un-PC banter amongst friends. I'm talking about sitting next to a white old fart on the plane who groans, with the gravity of a man in the same beleaguered foxhole as me, "I ain't ever had a lady pilot before."

"I have," I said, obviously mocking him. "It was horrific." He nodded as though I needn't have added that part. It was a given. "I'm, um, kidding," I felt compelled to add.

What do you do in this circumstance? Humor them in silence? Tell 'em to shut up? Treat it as a learning opportunity, the ultimate act of hubris with a man clearly determined to learn nothing in his 70 years on earth?

posted by john at 10:10 AM  •  permalink

October 22, 2009

the viruses have breached my firewall

When I traded in the Jeep, I stripped it bare, and I've been selling it off part-by-part ever since. By the time I'm done, I expect to exceed $8000 in part sales and government handouts. For a '94 with 300,000 miles on it. That cost $14,000 new, 15 years ago. God Bless America.

I'd like to thank the ditzy left...but I suspect they'll still come out ahead somehow, someway. And yes, I think about selling the Prius at an enormous profit pretty much every five minutes. I could put the money toward a Humvee.

I jest. Kinda. I only thought of the Humvee now.

Parting out the Jeep has meant some time on Craigslist for me, and as with all things Internet, I've come to resent Craigslist for putting me in direct contact with the moist recesses of humanity that my hermetic lifestyle ordinarily allows me to avoid.

"You're awful far away. Can you meet me in Port Blatherboro?" says one man, proposing that I embark on a three-hour round-trip in order to sell him a $40 item. That I'm listed only in my region's little corner of craigslist doesn't dissuade this type from complaining that my region is too far away.

"Can you bring it to Seattle?" says another of the Jeep's hardtop roof, which is lying in my front yard. Delivering the hardtop in a Prius would be like transporting a folding lawnchair in a Nyquil measuring cap.

"How much for the doors?" ask countless people about the ad that says "SORRY, THE DOORS ARE NOT FOR SALE."

"Will you take $5?" says someone of the $160, brand-new stereo. "I really need it!!!" Yeah, why wouldn't I? It takes up so much space; I'm dying to get rid of it. Plus you're obviously entitled.

Of all the responses, though, the most annoying is this staggeringly common one: "is your hardtop still for sale call me 253-555-1234." Given that we're meeting online, one would presume a certain comfort level with online interactions, but fully half of the respondents' top priority is to get me to call them long-distance. Which ain't happening. I'm perfectly comfortable with grass never growing there again. Before I call one of these people, I'll flip the goddamned hardtop over and make a planter out of it.

posted by john at 11:00 AM  •  permalink

October 20, 2009

what not to say to me after you do this spectacularly stupid thing

"Does this happen a lot?"

posted by john at 03:25 PM  •  permalink

October 13, 2009

orientation day

Once again, Allie was trying to talk me into doing something I didn't want to do. "If it was fun, you should just bite the bullet and go." And thus concluded the only moment in human history where a guy's girlfriend, past or present, tried to talk him into going to Hooters.

• • •

Last Sunday, I decided to try a different Steelers bar. This is the area's largest, and sure enough, 250 Steelers fans crowded the Tacoma Hooters. Did I mention it's Hooters? I hate Hooters.

"Yeah it's stupid, but they've got great wings" you'll hear some guy say in the exact same cadence as "I get Playboy for the articles." Well, no. No, they don't have great wings. Their wings rather suck. They're frozen breaded, consequently mushy, and even the "hot" have no flavor, let alone heat. So let's dispense with the pretense of great wings.

I'm not sure exactly what I hate most about Hooters. I'd venture it's that the girls are so, so young, except that the place has always bothered me. There's definitely an element of creepiness to commercialized objectification. I certainly don't want to be seen there. I don't want to identify with the cretins who comparison-shop the waitresses. And I can't help but think that secretly, the 19 year old caressing my arm and sticking her cleavage in my sight-line while I'm watching the game thinks I'm contemptible for simply being there. How can she not? I hate myself for being there.

"I know I'm getting old," I said to the guy on my right, who was probably about 65. "When I look at our waitress, I wonder So what do your parents think you do for a living?"

"I must not be old, then, 'cause that's not what I'M thinking when I look at her!" he chortled, actually elbowing me in the ribs. I didn't know people really did that.

As revolting as the wings and elbows were, the part that bothered me most was the kids. Steelers fans brought their little kids to Hooters. To. Hooters. The 10 year old boys ogled the waitresses and deliberately dropped things so that they'd have to bend over. What caught my attention most, though, was an 8 year old girl near them, in her little Steelers cheerleader outfit, studiously taking it all in. Of all the women in the room, she was the one I'll always remember.

posted by john at 06:56 AM  •  permalink

October 02, 2009

she loathes to fly and it shows

Of all the perfectly fine reasons to hate al Qaeda, I think what's become of air travel must be in the top five. This week, we have a guy who stuffed a bomb into his underwear, possibly even into his anus. My fingers trembling, I now remind you: when the shoe bomber appeared, we all had to start taking off our shoes.

But I'd gladly drop trou for every Barney, Wally and Ned manning the security station if I could just yell at a few deserving flight attendants. We can't do that anymore. They might turn the flight around and have us detained for questioning. So we walk on eggshells around these Napoleanic bitches, not defending ourselves.

"Sir! I need you to show me that your seat is up!" she yelled at me before takeoff. It was. She glared at me for not being wrong.

"Sir! Is your phone off?!?" she yelled as I was holding down the power button in response to the pilot's request that we turn off devices. She said it with such fearful urgency that I thought she was yelling at someone who was lighting a cigarette.

"WHOSE BAG IS THIS?" she yelled, outraged. It was mine. I was in the first row of first class, and I had no under-seat storage for bag, so I placed it in the large vertical luggage bin by the door.

"Mine," I said, thinking she thought my Ohio State backpack must surely belong to someone in coach, if not steerage.

"You can't put that here," she dripped disdain. "This is only for large bags. You have a spot under your seat."

Well actually, douchepacker, no I don't. The guy behind me is using it. How long have you been working this job, exactly? After I walked halfway down the plane and found a rathole in which to cram my bag, I returned to my seat and watched as she shut the still-two-thirds-empty luggage bin. After she placed her own backpack in there, of course.

The flight went on. Being in the first row apparently made me the very embodiment of all she hates about her life. Or maybe I look like the ex-husband who emotionally abused her. I can only hope so. For whatever reason, the seat for which I paid with 50,000 miles went without beverage service that day. Not a coke. Not a water. The whole 4.5 hours to Chicago.

I had to use the lavatory twice. The first time was, um, the more the more time-consuming of my two options. After about five minutes, I was washing my hands when there was a ungodly pounding on the door. Christ, the plane is going down. I opened the door. There was the stewardess. She pointed to a sheepish-looking Latina. "THIS WOMAN HAS AN INFANT WHO NEEDS TO BE CHANGED, AND SHE'S BEEN WAITING A REALLY LONG TIME."

"No. She hasn't."

"YES SHE HAS!" she actually shuddered with rage. How dare I question her supremacy? Her eyes flashed.

At this point, I was tired of her masturbating on me, but I was also wary of pissing off someone who would gladly perjure herself to an Air Marshall. I stewed in silence.

Shortly before we landed, I used the bathroom one last time. I left it exactly as I found it, but she still managed to 1) inspect it and 2) find flaw. "Who fucking does this?" I asked myself. She slammed the door and glared at me again. I was getting used to this. "Did I give her a fake phone number 10 years ago, maybe?" I thought.

"I need you to put the toilet lid down," she said as I was buckling my seat-belt.

I laughed. I pretended to read my newspaper. So she said it louder.

"I need you to put the toilet seat down right now."

"And I need a Diet Coke. How does it feel to need?"

posted by john at 08:43 AM  •  permalink

September 16, 2009

digitalis

I'm pretty meticulous about keeping my hands clean, and I'm octuply so when I'm flying. With their closed ventilation systems and fabric that's marinated in human filth for 30 unwashed years, airplanes look pretty much like giant maxi-pads to me. (With wings, naturally.) I refuse to eat on planes if my fingers have so much as brushed my tongue-depresser of an armrest.

It amazes me, then, to see what I saw at O'Hare. I was washing my hands, naturally, while an unseen guy in a stall was grunting and moaning as if in enormous pain, then relief. He finally finished his business, exited the stall, and walked straight out of the bathroom, presumably to resume tossing pizza dough. I felt positively woozy.

After I nestled into my first class seat, I massaged Purell on to my hands. Gotta kill what I can. The stewardess asked if I would like a warm cookie. Why yes, it's as if you can hear my thoughts, I would very much like a warm cookie. In fact, you can assume that this is my default state. The long-term forecast calls for John wanting a warm cookie for the duration of the warm cookies, and for a good while longer after that.

And then with a familiar grunt, the bathroom moaner plopped into the aisle seat next to me.

The stewardess tried to put the cookie on the armrest between our seats, but Dr. Dook would have none of that. He thoughtfully grabbed the plate, taking care to place his thumb on my cookie as he handed it to me.

"You can have it. I'm not feeling well," I said, not remotely lying.

posted by john at 07:14 AM  •  permalink

September 15, 2009

kanye west doesn't care about white people!

Since no one else seems to have made the obvious joke, heck, I'll take the shot.

posted by john at 09:17 AM  •  permalink

August 31, 2009

something to lose

Last week, a middle aged man on a scooter was stopped at an intersection. He had no signal on and was positioned to go straight. I wanted to turn right, so I eased next to him to do so. I was a good four feet away from him, but he erupted in profanity and gave me the finger. Now I wasn't turning right. I followed him as he went straight.

Realizing I was following him, he pulled over, hopped off his scooter, removed his helmet, and gestured for me to come get the ass-kicking I so richly deserved. I pulled over and got out of the car. He used every swear word he knew, which topped out at about four.

"Just out of curiosity, what exactly do you think I did wrong?"

"YOU FUCKING PASSED ME ON THE RIGHT!"

"Uh, no I didn't. I was stopped and turning right."

"YOU PASSED, DUMBASS!"

"Passing on the right rather requires, um, a pass. Hence the word."

He challenged me to a fight, right then and there. I considered it, thinking aloud. "I don't really see the upside. If I fight you, it'll end up one of two ways. Either I kick your ass, or you kick my ass. Agreed?"

"You're not gonna kick my ass, you stupid fucking faggot."

"So either I'm the guy who kicked a retard's ass, or I'm the guy who got his ass kicked by a retard. Either way, I lose." I shrugged and got in my car.

"ARE YOU A MAN, OR ARE YOU A FUCKING COWARD? YOU'RE A COWARD!" he yelled repeatedly. I considered this. I hadn't been so challenged since the seventh grade. Since then, I've stood up to much more formidable threats than him, although none so clearly in need of medication. I've had guns pointed at me several times, knives twice, and thanks to my mouth, I've been punched in the face countless times. Yet when faced with a deranged middle-aged man, I was backing down. Had I indeed softened? I wasn't feeling afraid. What was I feeling? Was this maturity?

No, it wasn't. Since we pulled over, I could see he was poised to throw his helmet at my new car, the dealer temp tags plainly visible. Protecting the first new car I've ever owned was all I'd thought about since the confrontation began.

Carwardice. This is new.

As he was strapping on the helmet, I lowered my window and offered a bit of advice. "By the way. Middle aged men who wear leopard print blouses and drive scooters really shouldn't be questioning people's manhood."

His helmet bounced off my rear window as I drove away.

posted by john at 08:07 AM  •  permalink

June 01, 2009

coyote ugly

You know how married couples will argue in front of you, and you would chew your own leg off in order to extricate yourself from that particular trap? Last week will forever (please god) set my personal gold standard for that feeling.

This couple chose the occasion of my visit to address whether or not they should have aborted their three year old daughter. When the sentence "I would have gotten an abortion if you'd asked me to!" was uttered, the daughter was sitting on my lap.

I wanted to claw open my own carotid artery.

posted by john at 08:25 AM  •  permalink

March 05, 2009

panning for gold

"Hi, John," said a vet I barely remember visiting—once, for eye drops—"I noticed that Dex is getting old enough to be spayed. We generally like to do that at six months, and as luck would have it, we're having a special on spaying this month. Can I make an appointment for you?"

"No thank you. I'm planning on doing it myself."

A sale?

In choosing a vet, Dex and I have had a few false-starts, so several vets know she exists. Each of them has cold-called me about spaying (and microchipping) her. One of them twice. It seems as though I'm the sediment in some bubbling stream, and Dex's ovaries are sizable nuggets of gold.

The economic downturn has made salesmanship extra-obnoxious. The number of catalogs going straight from my mailbox to the trash can five feet away has doubled. Ditto the spam in my Inbox. When I recently bought sunglasses and picture-framing and an oil change, the aggression was undisguised. The merchants would upsell me, goddammit, or die trying. Allow me to vote for the latter.

In Time magazine, there's an article about how the recession is impacting and changing the restaurant business. Out are pretentious, expensive dishes; in are comfort foods. Out, bottled water; in, tap water. And so forth. I read the article in a restaurant. Or I tried to. I was interrupted constantly by various staff.

An aside: when I'm stressed out, one of my favorite means of decompressing is to dine alone. I want to read, have food and drink brought to me, and not have to attend to the needs of a human being, including myself. When I'm in this zone, chatty staff is decidedly unwelcome. They make me stabby. I'm paying to relax. I can be irritated for free.

So I'm in the restaurant, ducking and weaving "where do you live?" and "my name is Erin, what's yours," trying to get through the bloody article. And then I read a quote from a restaurant owner who said that during a recession, the staff has to turn dining out into a relationship between staff and customer. No more snooty waiters, he says. The staff must chat every customer up, ingratiating themselves into repeat patronage.

So you think, motherfucker, I thought. I crumbled the magazine into a roll and waited for someone to beat with it.

posted by john at 08:21 AM  •  permalink

August 04, 2008

seattle times

Last week I was working from home when a woman identifying herself as my neighbor brought by a pie. Had I known her, I would have gushed with gratitude and devoured it. But since I'd never before laid eyes on her, I gushed with gratitude and chucked the pie into the trash as soon as she left. I enrage way too many geriatric motorists to be eating their unsolicited mystery pies.

But it was nice. Except for Percy, I seldom interact with anyone in my neighborhood. "Maybe people aren't such complete shits after all," I thought.

Later that day, I went to a low-rent grocery store. A stranger, a 35ish guy tattooed from his fingertips to his armpits, smiled at me. I smiled back. You have to understand, for a midwesterner in the Seattle area, this is a moment of nearly religious significance. And then the guy grabbed my forearm.

"Hey, brother, how are you today? Brother, it's really humiliating, but I blew my valve gasket in the parking lot and would really appreciate it if you can lend a hand and this isn't a scam because you can see my family waiting for me out there (I craned my head, but I saw no family) and I need to buy oil but oil is six bucks and I can't walk home from here and brother, this is really humiliating, but I was wondering..."

It went on for about five minutes and 18 "brothers," but you get the drift. Something about white guys calling me "brother" really bugs me.

"All you need is six bucks?" I said. At that point, I would have paid $1200 to make him go away.

Two days later, another neighbor knocked on my door. He introduced himself, said we'd met once. (Not unlikely. I never remember people. It stems from my not caring about them.) He clarified that it was his wife who had brought by the pie, and oh, by the way, would I mind if they used my beach stairs in perpetuity?

posted by john at 01:41 PM  •  permalink

July 31, 2008

where credit is due

You know that money I owe you? That book I borrowed and never gave back?

No. You don't. Unless your name is Frank, who I owe a pizza, I don't owe you one goddamned thing.

The barbecue debacle 10 days ago got me thinking about how much money I accidentally spend on friends. It usually goes like this. We'll make plans. To facilitate things, I'll offer to pay for the groceries or tickets or whatever. They'll promise to pay me back. And then it never comes up again.

In most cases, it's honestly forgotten. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it's my own fault for offering. So I'm going to knock that off. Shortly after the BBQ, I sent out reminder e-mails. So far I've collected five books, three DVDs, a chainsaw, and $1150 from seven different people. Today I received the record-holder returnee: my "Best of War" CD, lent in 1997.

Another guy owed me $480 for two years. He sees me all the time, yet I had to be a dick about it. Did he apologize for my having to ask him, two years later, to repay? Was he sheepish? Nope. Actually, he's pouting. Apparently it was a gift.

posted by john at 03:46 AM  •  permalink

July 22, 2008

you'll really like them

Two great mysteries vex me.

1) What is a guy supposed to do with his extra arm while spooning? His choices are to lie on it, which lasts about 4 minutes until the embolism occurs, or to contort it awkwardly over his head, thereby wrenching it out of its socket. Both are painful. Guys, any solutions? Amputation is on the table.

2) How did Whole Foods ever earn its halo? I've never had a meal originally purchased there that wasn't conspicuous in its utter flavorlessness. The Louisiana Hot Sausage tasted exactly like the bangers I bought for the kids, which is to say, like Indianapolis tap water. The meat sucks. The produce sucks. The choices of staples suck. And the people who shop there are plastic, pretentious, tasteless, soulless fucks who suck.

---

You ain’t artsier than me
'Cause you only read books, don’t watch tv.
You ain't artsier than me
'Cause you shop at Whole Foods
In open-toed shoes

- "Artsy" by eDIT with the Grouch

---

"My neighbors are coming," Kelly told me. "They're a hoot. You'll really like them."

Why do people promise me this? I hate everyone.

I didn't pay attention to their names during the introductions, so let's call them Ken and Barbie. While I prepped bland food in the kitchen, they and our hosts stood on the deck and drank wine. At one point I expressed hope that Whole Foods would come through, for once, and you would have thought I'd insulted Barbie's messiah. "I LOVE WHOLE FOODS WHAT'S WRONG WITH WHOLE FOODS?" I told her that the food sucks. She concluded that yes, she could see why I wouldn't want to go there. "Yes, they're very expensive."

It was officially time to pay attention to Barbie. She's your prototypical eastside kept woman, with her freakishly unnatural yellow hair, Versace capris (!), and yes, open toed shoes. At Whole Foods, I had just been bumped into, without acknowledgment, by a dozen of her self-centered ilk. I know Barbie.

After meditating on my single status for everyone's amusement, she moved on to dogs. In that among the options I'm considering is getting a purebred dog, I am the devil. "There are so many puppies available for adoption, we'll be sure to find you one," she said. "Don't get a purebred. That's irresponsible and I could never do that when the world has so—"

I was then I stopped listening. I have this speech memorized. As this stranger shoved food that I'd purchased and prepared for her into her cry-hole, I reflected that she's a living metaphor. She actually bit that hand that was in the process of feeding her.

---

If you're cool with me, then I'll look past the void in you.

- Same song

posted by john at 07:46 AM  •  permalink

July 21, 2008

gratitude

Two weeks ago, my co-worker Kelly had a family emergency that required that she fly off immediately. This left her husband in a stressful situation where he was watching their two kids, one of whom is autistic and requires undivided attention, while trying to work from home. Kelly was freaking out and asked me to take him beer and verify that the kids were alive. It seemed kinda invasive and insulting, but I did. I embarked on a 5 hour round-trip to their house with $120 in groceries and alcohol.

Two days ago, to thank me for that effort, Kelly invited me for dinner. "We're grill challenged," she said. "Can you cook?" Um, sure. I'll stop and pick up stuff en route. And thus did I buy another $85 in groceries and courier it five hours to their house.

Where I spent the evening cooking for my hosts. And their neighbors. While they talked and drank in another room. And at the end of the day, I was lauded for all my expense and effort. Lauded. As in not compensated.

To summarize, my thank you for driving five hours and buying them $120 in groceries was to drive 5 hours with $85 more in groceries and refine said groceries into a meal for them and their neighbors. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn't have to clean up.

Lauded.

"Please," I said. "I can't afford any more of your gratitude."

posted by john at 10:36 AM  •  permalink

March 18, 2008

the death of doubt's benefit

Over the weekend, Blondage got an email from a professional acquaintance. He'd heard she's separated, and he's in town, and he'd always found her attractive, so what does she think about a date with him? If you want to just remain friends, I can do that too, he added.

Blondage rushed to the Internet to remind herself of what the guy looks like. I, meanwhile, for the first time in memory, ruled on the side of a guy being decent. "Actually, that sounds pretty respectful. He's being up front about his intentions and expectations. He's not slime-dogging it like, say, I do."

Blondage was not convinced. "Something doesn't feel right. He's rebounding or looking for a booty call or something."

"Nah."

She met him at the airport and they hung out, during which time she found out he was just dumped the week before.

Point, Blondage.

To make himself even more attractive, he declared to the 11-years-older Blondage that the lesson he'd learned is that he's interested in older women. "I've been reading up on being with older women," he offered, apparently unaware that if he knew anything whatsoever about older women, he wouldn't have used that line.

"Did you just throw your legs open for him when he said that?" I asked.

"No. It was surprisingly resistible."

And then she got fateful email. But for their names, this is verbatim.

RE: hotel

Blondage

I know you don’t get 'around' and I really don't either (think thats easy to tell based upon my personality type which is similiar to yours in alot of ways). And I know your married yet been separated for a year...And you are wiser/experienced in life but your also still a sexy woman with wants/desires (ignore them or not their there!). I would still love to hang out if you have any time this week but if you want something else w/me you know where to find me, leave your inhibitions. Saturday AM will be here before we know it. I'm not ashamed of being attracted to you.

Frank

Oh Frank, you honey-mouthed sweet talker, you.

posted by john at 06:45 AM  •  permalink

January 26, 2008

thai leaders criticize woods

AUGUSTA, GA  (Stank Press) - The backlash over two Amazing Race contestants saying that the only thing they know about Taiwan is that "we like Thai food" continues to ripple through the American Thai community, and their attention is focusing on half-Thai golfer Tiger Woods. Woods has typically avoided public lockstep with his ethnic community, a fact not lost on his fellow Thais. "We demand that CBS fire the contestants in question," says noted Thai rights leader Na Songkhla. "Their subsequently losing the competition is insufficient redress for this grotesque slight against our people. It's a shame that the most famous Thai in the world is so out of touch with his community. We demand that he publicly validate what we think."

NFL Hall of Famer Jim Brown concurs, and then some. "Woods doesn't have the guts."

Brown reckons Woods is not outspoken because the golfer fears losing hundreds of millions of dollars in endorsements. "He waited until it was politically correct to come out when he should have come out right away. He should be in front of the cameras, decrying these comments with Pad Thai dangling from his mouth as a show of solidarity with his people."

Woods had no comment for this story. Typically gutless.

posted by john at 01:05 PM  •  permalink

January 21, 2008

race or gender?

I was gonna file this under "Politics," but I decided "Rudeness" was more appropriate. Black women, prepare to have your intelligence insulted. My favorite part is where they say of the Obama vs. Clinton choice:

For these women, a unique, and most unexpected dilemma, presents itself: Should they vote their race, or should they vote their gender?

No other voting bloc in the country faces this choice.

Right. Except for a little demographic I like to call "white guys." Fantastic logic.

posted by john at 10:19 PM  •  permalink

January 03, 2008

pulp friction

For the first time since the Travel Channel started airing the World Poker Tour and shattering ratings records in 2003, I ventured into a poker room last week. It's saddening. Gone are the games I loved. Gone are the characters I loved even more. Everyone's younger, dumber, ruder. They only want to play what they see on TV. They only know how to play what they see on TV. It made me positively ache for yesteryear.

Like this one time...

A buddy and I were playing at a Stud table in the Plaza, a true shithole of a poker room off Fremont Street in Vegas. I was grinding along, amassing a nice stack of chips a little at a time. I played well that day. I didn't chase hands, and if I went to the river—the final card—you could pretty much bet you should have folded a few raises ago.

Seated far from me but next to my buddy was someone who could be a character from...from...a literary reference fails me. The man clearly lived in the Nevada sun his whole life. He seemed about 60, but after so much irradiation, who can really tell? Cows' skin is less leathery than his. Permanently the color of peanut butter, the man had a great shock of white hair sprouting out of his scalp and ears. He was unshaven, and one suspected that if he actually took a razor to the many ridges of his face, carnage would ensue. He wore the same faded, tattered jeans and flannel shirt he'd been wearing since Roosevelt's first term. Teddy Roosevelt's. He capped the ensemble with a mangled straw cowboy hat, snakeskin boots into which he tucked his jeans, and a gigantic silver and turquoise belt buckle. When I would raise, he glared at me with one good eye. His left eye had seemingly been punctured by a pencil. Yet there it was on proud display, ancient gray pulp with the remnants of a hole in it, staring at us all from its socket.

He was also a poor player. My stack dwarfed his, and I mercilessly raised into him all night long. I pulled out all the stops, checkraising, feinting, buying pots. I could tell he was getting discouraged by my aggression and good luck. Suddenly, security came to the table and forcibly escorted Ol' Pulpy away. He did not go away lightly. To my ever-mounting surprise, he pointed his scaly finger at me, screaming that he'd slit my throat in my sleep. Me? Me? What did I do? I didn't have him thrown out of the Plaza.

No, my buddy had. Apparently that last threat was one but one of many Pulpy had issued upon my person, not suspecting that the other player in whom he was confiding was, in fact, the friend of his intended victim. I had been blissfully unaware. It was all well and fun for my buddy—who was saving up anecdotes with which to regale me later, if I lived—but when Pulpy snarled something about finding out where I was staying, that's when my travel companion selflessly rushed to action. My hero.

posted by john at 07:46 AM  •  permalink

December 26, 2007

bad santa

For me, Christmas is, like Mother's Day and Hanukkah, mostly a holiday celebrated by other people. I don't particularly belong anywhere. If I have a girlfriend, I spend it with her. Failing that, I'd rather be alone. Sure, I could fly home and spend it fending off the various viscousnesses hurled by my family. Next. I could spend it with any number of friends. Their invitations are warmly welcome, and it's lovely to be remembered. But I also know going would just make me feel tacked on to someone else's holiday. Nah.

That isn't to say that I don't participate. I enjoy baking kolachi, as well as buying and receiving gifts. Allie tells me I'm impossible to buy for. "Anything you want, you already have," she grumbles disapprovingly, sometimes wondering aloud why other people are off the hook when it comes to exchanging gifts with me. Yet she always comes through with gifts I never knew I wanted. This person knows me and cares enough to wrack her modest brain until she imagines up something that will delight me. The most touching gift of all, that.

The opposite of touching? Getting crap. Token gifts. When one friend started dating a guy who had a small child, I gave her an elaborately equipped picnic basket, the idea being, of course, either romantic or family excursions. And what did she give me? A Rubik's Cube. My interest in Rubik's Cubes waned around 1985, although I admit to a more recent fascination: what on earth made her look at this in a dollar store and think of me? I gotta say...I'm still interested.

The all-time such statement was made by the Approval Whore. It was at Christmas, in fact, when I decided the relationship was over. For months I'd heard my girlfriend obsess over getting just the perfect gifts for her mother and new friend. I'd listened. I'd advised. I'd helped. And when Christmas Day came around, she conferred on me a bunch of crap she's scooped up the day before at Tuesday Morning, a local thrift store. I remember bath towels that felt like burlap. And an ugly wooden ship that she'd hastily repaired. The contrast with her intense planning for others was striking. None of these monuments to how little she cared about me survived to see the new year. She did not notice.

Better to get a card than such a monument, don't you think?

posted by john at 06:32 AM  •  permalink

December 17, 2007

nurture v. nature

There is a demographic in Seattle, I note, that does reliably make eye contact with strangers: little kids. Really little kids. Sometimes they stare until they get your attention, and if spoken to, they usually beam. At what point do locals lose this delightful capacity? 4? 5?

You know you're from Seattle when toddlers make you look like a self-centered asshole.

posted by john at 08:06 AM  •  permalink

December 10, 2007

reshuffling the enemies list

In the sixth grade, my grades plummeted. Never before had I brought home Cs, Ds and Fs, and never would I again. Mom was livid with me. I told her it wasn't my fault. This teacher hated me; she was unbelievably unkind. Mom, a grizzled veteran of four children before me, wasn't buying what I was selling. "Get your act together," she cautioned. "Now."

Then mom went to Parent/Teacher Conference night and met Mrs. Meague (Pronounced meh-GUE) for herself. She came home, sat on the edge of my bed, and swallowed hard. "I apologize. She does hate you. Just get out of the sixth grade."

Mrs. Meague couldn't have been older than 25. Framed by fake red hair feathered in the "Farrah" fashion of the day, her face sometimes made me recoil. I say this not to be unkind but to explain, as best I can, the probable source of her contempt for children. Her deep-set, sullen blue eyes were too far apart and perpetually half-closed, and I've seen healthier-looking noses and mouths on prize-fighters. The net effect was a contorted, sometimes stomach-turning ugliness. The ugliness was heightened by the fact that Mrs. Meague never, ever smiled. Not unless a kid fell down a flight of stairs or something.

I'd say that she was old-school or new-school, but the fact is I've never met anyone like her, before or since. Some teachers are product-oriented. Some are process-oriented. Mrs. Meague was punishment-oriented. On the wall was a demerit chart. On the chart we were all listed, and you could see how many demerits your classmates had accrued. Not doing your homework? A demerit. Talking in class? A demerit. Failing a quiz? A demerit. A rumor that you threw a snowball? A demerit. Taking too long to get back from the bathroom? You'd better believe that's a demerit. If you got five demerits, you had to serve detention. Ten meant you were suspended. I did a lot of time.

Mrs. Meague also gave us the good side of the room and the bad side of the room. If in her estimation you had failed or misbehaved, you were made, in front of your peers, to move your desk to the bad side of the room. I only made it to the good side so that she could order me back.

I was as good a kid as I'd always been, but somehow I was always the butt of her jokes. Personal hygiene and my limited wardrobe weren't uncommon themes. At the year-end sixth grade assembly, awards were handed out. We had the Good Sport award, the Class Brain award, the Hardest Worker award. Me? I got the Nobody's Perfect award.

CUT TO: INTERIOR—JOHN'S LIVING ROOM
TODAY

I've been in a pissy mood lately. When I get angry, I run down my Enemies List, see what its members are up to, and generally look for ways of tossing grenades into their lives. Right in the middle of the list is Mrs. Meague. She wasn't hard to find on the web. Neither was her son.

I found a court document in which none of the following was contested: he got in trouble at school for fighting with several other students. When called to the principal's office, he threatened the principal and called him a "faggot," among other things. The secretary called the police, and when the female officer arrived, the kid swore at her and stomped on her feet. He was arrested on multiple charges. For this, Baby Meague was suspended a mere 10 days. I know this because his mother sued the school district to get the suspension overturned.

Allow me to recap. Me: no swearing, no epithets, no fights, no threats, no assaulting an officer of the law. Yet detentions and suspensions abounded.

Congratulations, Mrs. Meague. All these years after I last swallowed my own vomit when looking at your face, you shot to the top of the list.

posted by john at 06:51 AM  •  permalink

November 19, 2007

travels with sheldon

When I go hiking by myself, I'm certain to take four things: water, flashlight, compass, and—lest I die of exposure and Outdoor magazine canonize me—a means of dying with dignity. I'd very much like to avoid the headline Lone moron breaks leg, eventually dies of dryrot.

In a heavy Saturday morning rain, I repeated the five mile hike I'd done just last Tuesday. At about the 2/3 point of the loop, I was stunned to come across a man sitting, unsheltered, with his foot in a stream. This is mountain runoff water, mind you. It can't possibly be more than 34 degrees. Soaked, the man was 70ish but in incredible shape. He had the whole Jack LaLanne thing going on. It was a while before I realized he was injured.

"You okay?" I called, forgetting momentarily that I hate people.

He was startled and went straight to rage. "It's about time!" he snarled.

His name was Sheldon. He'd been hiking by himself the day before and broken his ankle, and he'd been one-hopping it as best he could since. He'd spent the night out there without shelter, which contributed to his foul mood. Still, though, in my situation one might expect to be well received, if not showered with kisses like the liberators of Iraq were to be. Alas. Sheldon was more like the Iraqi insurgents. He despised me on sight.

"You can't go forward," I said. "I was just there the other day, and a bridge is utterly destroyed by a tree. It's kindling. You need to go back the way you came."

"Piss-fuck."

It's not often I come across a combination of profanities that I have never heard. Like my father and his father before him, I am a pureblooded Vulgarian. But I had never heard of "piss-fuck," nor its even more dubious derivation "piss-fucking." Over the next few hours I had ample time to ponder the etymological origins of "piss-fucking." I was at a loss.

Sheldon argued with me. He did not want to turn around, and for whatever reason, he didn't believe me about the bridge. I showed him cellphone-photo I'd snapped of the bridge four days earlier. He glared at me. "How do I know that picture was taken here?"

I had to spell out his options. I would call for help when I got back to my car, I offered, or I would help him retrace his steps, but under no circumstances would I help him go forward. Enraged by my petulance, he opted for Plan B. And for the rest of the morning, Sheldon's massive, veiny arm was wrapped around my shoulders, and his right leg bobbed uselessly between us.

He passed the time by making wry observations in my ear about every 30 seconds. "Piss-fuckin' rain never stops," he'd snarl, or maybe he'd just moan about the pain in his urethra-boinking ankle.

Three hours of pure bliss later, we finally arrived at the trailhead. In a movie, Sheldon would have been revealed at this moment to be an eccentric billionaire who, grateful for the assistance, showers me with riches out of the trunk of his waiting limo. This is the thought that had kept me from killing him during our trek, anyway. This, however, was real life. There was no gratitude, no handshake sealing an arduous shared experience. He was as glad to be rid of me as I was him. Sheldon simply climbed into his car, broken right ankle and all, and drove off.

"You're welcome," I said to his exhaust fumes.

posted by john at 07:32 AM  •  permalink

October 31, 2007

my hero!

From distinguished Stank troll Rob comes this delightful post about a Maine man's experience with self-righteous Seatards. I'd like to say I don't condone his act of violence, but on the other hand I know these people.

posted by john at 09:22 AM  •  permalink

October 03, 2007

what’s spanish for “mouth breather who’s drunk on his sense of entitlement?”

Decrying Latinos' lack of special treatment in the PBS series "The War," shrill imbeciles like this guy succeeded in getting 30 minutes of jarringly irrelevant footage tacked on to the end of the series.

Now, I'm well aware that "special treatment" is a racially charged term oft abused by people who look like me. But it fits here. From an artistic standpoint, the series was told from the point of view of four small American towns. This narrative device does not lend itself to easily accommodating the demands of special interest groups. The Latinos-only epilogue is jaw-droppingly irrelevant to that arc. Imagine watching Star Wars, and the boys get their medals at the end, and as everyone in the theatre rises to exit, you suddenly see a Latino rebel pilot telling his own mildly interesting story about a separate skirmish. "Many Latinos fought alongside all the other, unspecified ethnicities during the Rebellion," a narrator intones almost apologetically.

Worse, though, is their calling out Ken Burns for recognizing black, Jewish, and Japanese stories during the war. Perhaps the protesters should shut their cry-holes for a moment and actually listen to those stories. If they did, they'd learn that blacks were segregated and therefore have a story of their own; that Jews were slaughtered and therefore have a story of their own; that Japanese were thrown into internment camps and therefore have a story of their own. Latinos? Intregrated, not murdered, not incarcerated. They have no collective story of their own that warrants a collective history of their own. Their story is the American story. Their story is, in fact, indistinguishable from mine, except that mine doesn't warrant its own, unjustifiably racially-themed epilogue.

posted by john at 07:03 AM  •  permalink

September 09, 2007

familiarity

When I moved to Metamuville, I noted the nearby Indian reservation and its dilapidated housing. I thought the loftiest of guilty white guy thoughts. The poor, put upon Native American is my neighbor now, I thought whitely. I'll give them whatever business I can, be it gas, groceries, or whatever.

My thought two months later: Really? Twelve dollars for butter? Really?

And thus did my contempt for my new neighbors begin. In retrospect, it follows. When I was lofting whitely, I simply didn't know them. But why should American Indians be any different from the rest of humanity, really?

"Native Americans," someone white will correct.

This used to confuse me, too, but I have a handle on it now. They're "Native Americans" when they're selling art or killing whales, right up until they're trying to lure me into their casino or sell me cigarettes, liquor or fireworks. Then everyone's magically "Indian" again.

Which isn't to say I don't honor their people and their traditions. Like casinos. Like clearcutting. Like using a machine gun to shoot up a gray whale this past weekend. It's their noble, ancient way.

The whale later died, by the way.

posted by john at 06:36 AM  •  permalink

August 23, 2007

got therapy?

Some days, I really hate Stank readers. Like the guy who asked me if I'm going to remove Ed's photo from the filmstrip at right. Why would I? Why would it even occur to me to do so? More to the point, why did it occur to you to ask?

Ca-righst.

Speaking of doltery, is it just me or is Edie's sing-songy chirping here a tad inappropriate for the message?

(Apologies for the audio quality. I simply held my cell phone up to a headset mike.)

posted by john at 08:55 AM  •  permalink

August 22, 2007

everywhere you go, there you are

I was browsing the shelves at magnificent Powell's bookstore in Portland, enjoying life in general and warm-blooded people in particular. I came upon a man about my age who was clearly looking for something. I mumbled a polite greeting. He stood upright, stricken, staring at me and not knowing how to respond.

"Visiting from Seattle?" I asked. Yeah. How did I know?

Lucky guess.

posted by john at 08:05 AM  •  permalink

August 17, 2007

baltimoronic

Yesterday was one of those "gray cloud" days. Every small advance was permawelded to an enormous setback. In the penultimate setback, I moved my boat to its new slip, about four miles from my house. Having left my car at the original slip, I'd taken my bike aboard the boat and, after the move, started riding it home. Flat tire. Damn.

A big guy in a golf cart crested the hill. He was about my age—actually, he was a good 15 years older, but in Metamuville that's "about my age"—and stopped to introduce himself. He builds custom golf carts. Would I like a ride?

Blaring Supertramp on a comicly oversized stereo, he drove me to my house. Him: trying to sell me a golf cart. Me: feigning interest so that I wouldn't have to walk home. We got out and stood on my deck a few minutes, amiably chatting. It turns out he's from Baltimore, so I identified myself as a Steelers fan. And then he dropped the n-bomb.

As in "Ya know, that Ray Lewis, he's no ordinary nigger."

No, you didn't miss anything. It was that out-of-left-field. He proceeded to drop the n-bomb several more times in the same paragraph. I was stunned. It was offensive, of course, but it was rhetorically appalling as well. Who does this? Forget ethics for a second. Forget good taste. On what planet is it considered a good idea to go out of your way to use the most hurtful, divisive word in the language in front of a complete stranger to whom you're trying to make a sale?

One final observation: the last time I was in this position was on a Football Weekend in Baltimore, where our cabbie was similarly flinging n-bombs. I'm starting to build a Baltimorian profile, and it ain't pretty.

posted by john at 07:30 AM  •  permalink

August 14, 2007

memo to a gender

Stank troll Jean checks in with a doozy.

"If your wife has been telling you for four years that you're neglecting even her nominal needs (and how), if she's begged you to go to marital counseling and you made her go alone, if she recently said she 'feels done' and is inclined to move out (and your response was to say if she'd just have sex with you, everything would be better)...if you've done these things, here's a tip: helpfully leaving her a shiny new copy of Dr. Laura's 'The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands' is probably not going to get you laid."

Bravo, brother.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

posted by john at 01:23 PM  •  permalink

August 07, 2007

you have the right to remain indifferent

Pulled over by a cop, I had no idea what infraction I could have possibly committed during such an excruciatingly slow drive. It turned out that five miles earlier, when the car in front of me was turning left against an endless parade of cars coming the other direction, I had used the paved berm to pass him on the right. Upon later hearing that this is illegal, I was confused, as not long ago when my friend's car had been struck during a similar maneuver, that officer had told us in very certain, very annoyed terms that a berm pass wasn't against the law. Could it be, I gasped, that someone in law enforcement wasn't fully truthful?

Normally, I cops and I treat one another with professional courtesy. We both have our jobs to do in the civic ecosystem. My job is to speed, and their job is to catch speeders. For me to get angry with them would be like my being mad at rain for being wet. I like to compare our relationship to that of Sam Sheepdog and Ralph Wolf in the old Warner Brothers cartoon. We greet each other cheerfully, set our lunch pails down, punch the clock, and then wail on one another until the end of the work day. We're rivals, but there's no reason not to act like fellow professionals.

Every once in a while, though, King Shit with a Badge comes along. He doesn't know from professional courtesy. His only interest is masturbation, and, sadly, only his own. My cop was such a cop. You know the one. He's self-important. He's a drama queen. "Do you have any idea," he scolds exactly like your mother, "Why I'm pulling you over?" He lectured me about the dangerousness of what was a decidedly undangerous, slow, deliberate maneuver. "There could have been a baby stroller there!" he said of the empty chasm my car had passed through. "And if there had been, I wouldn't just be giving you a ticket. I'd be taking you in on manslaughter charges right now!"

He made no mention of citing the fictitious (but astonishingly negligent) parents.

And on he droned, each imaginary scenario more dramatic than the next, and I eventually started to think about the work I needed to get done that day.

"HEY!" he yelled, coming in for a closer look at my pupils. "Have you been drinking?"

"Huh?" I was taken aback. Uncharacteristically, I had not been drinking. Then I realized why he asked.

"Oh. I see. No. If I seem distracted, officer, it's not because I'm drunk or stoned. It's because I don't care about any of the words coming out of your mouth. I'm just bored, is all. Carry on."

He didn't take it well. He amped up the lecture. Now imaginary little old ladies were standing in the berm. You remember the berm. It's between the forest and the quarry. "And I'll give you another reason not to be bored," he concluded, shifting into Dad. "I can give you a (pause to emphasize that this is all the money in the world) NINETY DOLLAR TICKET!"

"Nope, still don't care."

He fumed. I continued. "See, I'd gladly pay several times that just to get out of this conversation. I know it wasn't dangerous. You know it. Maybe you can make me pay your little fine, but you definitely can't make me listen to your inconsequential yapping. Yap yap yap yap yap. Christ, who can pay attention?"

He stomped off purposefully. He spent ten minutes on the radio, presumably trying to find something, anything to arrest me for. And then he let me off with a warning.

And with that, the untruthful party in law enforcement revealed himself.

posted by john at 08:54 AM  •  permalink

ms. metzker: gentleman scholar

The problem with "Fuck-off John" stories is that they're too bloody long.

• • •

Academia and I are an uneasy fit. Culturally, we're too far apart. The problem is uninteresting and complicated, but it boils down to this: each party thinks it's doing the other a tremendous favor, and only one of us is right.

Adjunct faculty positions in English departments are prized. True, they're prized by the otherwise unemployable, but they're prized nonetheless. And thus are departments accustomed to treating adjuncts as shoddily as they like and having these folks beg for more abuse. The departments are doing these people a favor by hiring them, because otherwise they'd be selling their bodies or, more likely, their body organs.

And then there's me. I had already established my career when the university approached me about teaching. I turned down lucrative work in order to teach. The tiny stipend I received barely covered the $1500 in gas, ferries, and parking it cost me to teach each quarter. At its most expensive, teaching one quarter cost me $19,000 in lost income and expenses. Meanwhile, the investment in time was enormous. Each of the forty one-way trips to took me five hours. That's twenty hours a week on the road, folks, for a "job" that hemorrhaged my money and made me use a park-and-ride for the final few miles of my already ghastly commute. At my own expense, of course. I'm not complaining, mind you; I wanted to teach, to give back. I love the kids. But yes, I very much viewed teaching as charity work—every bit as much as the thousands of dollars in software I donated to the department's labs.

Therein lies the culture clash. The English Department was perpetually unsatisfied with how I conducted this enormous, expensive favor. And I was appalled by being treated like I was damned lucky to be performing it.

A few weeks after Spring Quarter ended, one Ms. Metzker, the associate chair of the department, wrote to scold me for not submitting my evaluation materials. I replied that this was the first I'd heard of such a thing. She said that she'd put a packet in my mailbox "some time ago." This seemed unlikely, as after my last Thursday afternoon class—before I'd left town for the quarter—I'd checked my mailbox one last time.

"When were the materials placed in my mailbox—after my last class meeting?"

"I put the notice in during the last week of classes," she evaded, likely meaning 11:59pm Friday. Suddenly, it felt like I was dealing with the student who has his late assignment routed across the International Date Line, then argues that this makes it on time. Her request was made all the more absurd by the unlikelihood of my arranging for a student survey, faculty observer, etc. after my last class had been conducted.

Up until this point, the exchange was merely annoying in the manner that all of my interactions with academic twinkies are annoying. Then Metzger overplayed her hand: "Advise on when you can provide these materials. Usually reappointment can not proceed until the letter of evaluation is submitted."

I had just been slimed for the last time.

"I'm excited by the prospect of not being reappointed. I'll opt for that," read my entire reply.

And thus did I dissolve a seven-year relationship with the university.

A simple "thank you" would have sufficed. It's a pity that those entrusted with teaching our kids about rhetorical analysis and critical thought are themselves so utterly incapable of practicing it.

posted by john at 07:06 AM  •  permalink

July 09, 2007

exhibit a

For posterity's sake, here is the Q-Tip I grabbed when reaching for a new one.

I didn't photograph any floaters. You're welcome.

posted by john at 11:37 AM  •  permalink

July 05, 2007

solitude, good

Not for nothing, but when I stay in someone's home, I try to leave it how I found it. My goal is to leave no evidence of my brief existence there, but for perhaps a few crushed Diet Coke cans in a bin. Not everyone shares this ethic. I go back and forth on which development pisses me off more:

• A guest showing up at my house with a horrendous hacking cough and sore throat, both of which I now have.
• Being asked why she can't just use my bath towel instead of taking a fresh one from the rack a foot away.
• Streaks and floaters in my toilet. All weekend. Eat some fucking vegetables once in a while.
• A used Q-Tip, brown and yellow crud intact, making it back into the Q-Tip box for me to find.
• Huge, mysterious brown stains all over my nice white guest robe.
• Cigarette butts somehow making it on the floor of my kitchen.
• Leaving my guests in my Jeep while I run into the store, returning 10 minutes late to an empty Jeep with its windows still down and my video iPod still prominently displayed on the dash, then being scolded for thinking this might have been a problem. "Waitasecond," I said. "Are you actually maintaining that if you left the doors unlocked and the windows down and the iPod was stolen, it would have been my fault?" Yes, came the answer, for I shouldn't own such an expensive thing.

posted by john at 07:37 AM  •  permalink

June 10, 2007

fetardation iii

In discussing the Fetardation post last week, I realized that I haven't published the tale of my final seconds with the Approval Whore (AW). It's post-worthy. I'm tellin.'

When she first left her husband, the predictable surge of losers appeared. Having waited their turn in her queue, they were now hoping for promotion. Loser-in-Chief was Todd. He was huggy. He was drippy. He signed work emails to her "Much love, Todd." He constantly lobbied to go out so he could better comfort her in her time of need. When I was out of town, she granted him a lunch, and he took her to the premiere "this cost so much, you owe me sex" establishment within driving distance of Microsoft. And of course, he paid.

It was around then that I started asking for the AW to acknowledge what his interests were. She refused. They were just friends. Moreover, I was an irredeemable sack of shit (I'm summarizing) for thinking that it was more than that. Meanwhile, Todd send her photos of his gorgeous new girlfriend, whom no one would ever actually meet. The AW and I would fight about Todd's intentions until the very bloody end.

• • •

Years later, near the end of internment with the AW, I detected the presence of someone else. Her affections were clearly going elsewhere. Any mention of the future, any compliment, any bouquet of daisies from me made her supremely uncomfortable. So naturally, I poured it on. It was great fun, torturing this deserving woman. I entertained my friends with tales of how the slightest gestures of kindness caused her to visibly implode.

"Hey, honey," I cooed sweetly, having just discovered the receipt for two tickets for a New Year's Eve event. "What say we go to Times Square for New Year's? My treat?"

"GAAAAACK!" she replied, fleeing the room.

Eventually, of course, she could hide it no more. Two days before they would be seen grinding on the dance floor at the company party, she called to clarify that we were "just friends." As if we were even that much at that point.

I knew there was someone else, but I didn't know until the day after the party that it was, in fact, Todd. All his years of hard work had finally paid off. I couldn't help but admire his success.

The next day, I went to the AW's house to collect my things once and for all. She was in the shower. On her bathroom mirror, I used soap to draw a heart with their initials inside. And then I left, never to return.

• • •

A few months later, a mutual friend corrected me when I spoke of the AW cheating on me like she had every other guy in her history. "No she didn't," the friend corrected. "She told me that they were just friends until a month later."

Exquisite in her consistency, ain't she?

posted by john at 03:08 PM  •  permalink

May 29, 2007

collegetown

I've been spending a great deal of time in Collegetown lately. It's one of the socially warmest places I've ever known, and I'll sorely miss it when the quarter's over. It's easy to understand why alumni dream of returning to Collegetown to raise their families. It's the kind of town where a longshoreman stops on the street to ask a hippie how his day's been. And he cares.

I was outside a landmark-but-closed Mexican restaurant, reading an article taped to its window. Locals were resurrecting the restaurant. A woman came outside to smoke and, noticing that I was another human being, chatted me up. I liked her instantly. I explained that I was teaching and spending the night up there. She explained that they were all painting furiously in the hopes of reopening that weekend. "C'mon in and help!" she chirped. I declined.

"What else do you have to do tonight?" she countered.

Nothing. Nothing at all. But I'm wearing completely inappropri—

"Turn your clothes inside-out!"

But my dog is in my hotel r—

"Go get her!"

And so did Ed and I join a small community of painters, furiously finishing their labor of love. Everyone told tales of what the restaurant meant to them. First dates, first kisses, food on credit. "How about you, John?" someone asked. "What's your story?"

"Um. I just kinda followed the ponytail in here."

• • •

I take great reassurance from the ease with which I assimilated into Collegetown. Seattle might not have damaged me, after all. Mindful of Katrina's insistence that Seattle is fine, that I'm just a moron who after 13 years here is still incapable of recognizing the boundaries between Seattle and the areas she herself deems icky, I've had a fun couple weeks. When walking around Seattle, I engage locals like I would in Collegetown. I'm warm. I'm inquisitive. I make eye contact. I make them so paralyzed with discomfort, they swallow their own faces. I expect a restraining order any day now.

posted by john at 05:46 AM  •  permalink

May 15, 2007

“loser” defined

The sequence of the conversation:

1. Beautiful woman tells me she dreamt that we had a child together.
2. Turns out this dream kid happened without our having had dream sex, which is pretty much the worst conceivable scenario. So to speak.
3. Turns out I wasn't in the dream, period.

Turns out that you can get the bends from descending too fast, too.

posted by john at 10:50 AM  •  permalink

May 14, 2007

fight! fight!

I recently boasted that, siblings and Dorkass notwithstanding, I've never thrown a punch. I later realized I can no longer make this claim. That's a little disappointing.

Before last year, each story was the same: belligerent drunk comes after me; I get in his grill; I get punched in the face; I mock his impotence and offer him another shot; certain that I must be on PCP, he backs off. There were slight variations. Sometimes, for instance, I got punched in the ear. One time a guy fell down before reaching me. One time after absorbing a roundhouse to my mouth, I gestured to a guy's petite girlfriend and suggested that perhaps she should take the second shot. But the theme was more or less the same.

When I scored Super Bowl tickets last year, I sold one to a man in Houston. I made sure it went to a Steelers fan, of course, but I otherwise had no idea who would be sitting next to me. He arrived shortly before kickoff completely soused and holding two enormous beers, neither of which was for me. In the first quarter, he finished them (who could blame him, really) and left for more. He was a horrible drunk, constantly demanding attention from those around him. A perpetual high-fiver is bad enough, but he was also a chronic hugger. Shudder.

He annoyed me. He annoyed everyone else. They complained about my "friend" when he left. Finally, when Ward hauled in El's touchdown pass, his enthusiasm erupted. He tackled me with surprising force, wrapping his arms around my thighs and sending me tumbling into the little old man to my left, who was on crutches because of knee surgery.

That's when I punched the guy. Hard.

He was instantly subdued, sitting in his $3800 seat and desperately trying to stop his mouth from bleeding. He was apologetic. People patted me on the back. But of this moment, I have three dominant memories: 1) I completely missed celebrating the Steelers' "kill" moment, 2) the only thing I had on hand to stop his bleeding was my Terrible Towel, which is still covered in his blood today, and 3) he ruined my "never punched a guy in anger" story.

Thanks, pal. Why do I have the feeling you've ruined that for a lot of people?

This story is loathingly dedicated to my brother, Russ, who made it his childhood mission to ensure that I would have both the ability and need to take a punch to the face.

posted by john at 08:25 AM  •  permalink

May 10, 2007

academic twinkies

Yesterday I attended an all-day faculty meeting. I say "attended" because that was pretty much all I accomplished. I looked out the window a lot, squinting while I tried to will the sweet, sweet release of death. Alas.

I've been away from academia for too long. It's torturous for me now. Perhaps it was the long-winded Twinkie whose every unit begins with an acronym, like the seven components of good writing:

Respect for the reader
Entertaining all options
Staying in focus
Providing good organization
Enabling the reader
Changing prose as necessary
Technically accurate

I include this so that my friends can imagine my discomfort as the windbag pontificated about the virtues of this acronym for a half-hour. It's been successful beyond his wildest imagination, he says. The students get it, now. All they needed to become good writers was a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t.

Below are my exchanges with a professor who's been growing roots in her office for nine years.

• • •

"I don't know that I buy that for tech writing and editing to prosper, humanities classes have to suffer in stature," I say. "Why would it be a zero-sum game? Why is there this institutional resistance to our students being able to get a job when they graduate?"

A senior professor is appalled. "If that's what they want," she snaps, "They should transfer to the University of Washington."

• • •

An junior faculty member asks me how I look at resumes when reviewing them. "First, I look at the Objective," I begin.

"No one looks at Objectives anymore," corrects the same senior professor. "That's, like, so 20 years ago."

"I do."

"No one does."

"I'm saying that I do. Half of the resumes sent to you aren't even relevant to the job for which you're hiring, and that's the quickest way of moving people looking for part-time, FTE editing work out of the full-time, contingent writer pile."

"You could better get that from other sections of the resume."

"No I couldn't. I don't want to spend more than five seconds on a resume I shouldn't even have."

"The average is two minutes," she corrected yet again.

"Like hell it is. Anyway, my only claim is that I look for the objective first. You're really correcting me on what I, myself, do?"

"Hmmm. Maybe objectives are coming back 'in' recently and I haven't heard."

I'm exasperated. "I don't know that they were ever out, except maybe in academic textbooks."

"IT'S NOT JUST ACADEMIC TEXTBOOKS! I get my information by going to job fairs and talking with recruiters from actual companies. Including," she sniffed haughtily, sensing the kill, "Microsoft."

"The HR twinkies you talked to aren't doing the hiring. They never hire anyone except one another. Hiring managers hire. Hence the title. And more often than not, the managers rely on a network of contacts that completely circumvent Twinkie Central."

"Twinkie?"

• • •

Yeah, Twinkie. An in someone with zero nutritional value who manages to get a job for which he or she is utterly unqualified. Someone with an improbably long shelf life. Like, say, nine years.

posted by john at 07:05 AM  •  permalink

May 07, 2007

be prepared to be creeped out

Keep your eye on the careful revision to 17 year old Emma Watson's waist and bust.

Nah, that's not crass. I'd love to know who ordered the enhancements. What are the odds it was a guy, you think?

posted by john at 10:52 PM  •  permalink

May 06, 2007

one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong

I remember the first time it happened.

It was New Year's Eve, and my friend Jayne and I attended a party. It was a typical Seattle social gathering, meaning it had the appearance (and depth of feeling) of a beer commercial—Seattle folks' only reference for social normality. Well, not quite like a beer commercial. No minorities are ever present. But the parties are attended by fine white stock from all walks of life, provided the walk was no longer than three miles.

Everyone was very kind. "Nice to meet you, John," they dutifully said. These would be the last words spoken to me all night. I would be spoken at, of course. If only I'd found these people remotely as interesting as they found themselves, I would have been fine. As they stared through me and droned endlessly about god knows what, unable to discriminate between their every moronic thought and something that was of any conceivable interest to another human being, I glared at the only person I knew.

Aware of my misery, Jayne did nothing about it. She thought it was good for me, that the relentless waves of banal vainglory eroding my soul were sculpting me into a well-adjusted Seattlite. And so I feigned interest in their witticisms—"Ha ha! Hoo boy! I'd have thought someone pronouncing 'Volvo' as 'vulva' would get tiresome after the first 200 times, but dang it, some jokes just age like fine wine!"—and as soon as their backs were turned, I slipped out the back door. Only Jayne would notice my absence. She noticed the hell out of it, as I recall. Something about midnight and mothers fucking, I think. The memory's hazy.

This story has many stanzas, but they're all pretty much variations on the first.

• • •

It's amazing. Point me in any direction and fire me 100 miles, and it's like landing in a warm bath. My college town is jarring in that complete strangers make eye contact, smile, and ask me how I am. I made more friends in four days in Detroit than I have in four years in Metamuville. Pittsburgh, Atlanta, Chicago, Phoenix, Oakland, Kansas City, even New York—you name it, they're all warm baths to me. I can't bloody wait to hit the road. I'm tired of hiding.

posted by john at 06:50 PM  •  permalink

April 20, 2007

mop-headed corpse

I've avoided the whole Imus affair, as it seemed like there was little to say that hadn't been said simultaneously in 172 media outlets. But I have four observations that I haven't heard elsewhere:

• Have you actually seen the Rutgers women's basketball team? They look like a church choir. Lovely, glowing young women, every one. WTF was he even mocking?
• College athletes are easy targets because they're often frauds. Specifically, male college athletes. The Rutgers women? They're serious students. They have to be. They're not doing a required bogus year of college and then skipping town for a $70 million contract, a la Roethlesburger or Durant. They're doing four very real years. They get their degrees, and they don't have a university escorting them through easy teachers and basket-weaving classes while they do it. They don't get $1000 handshakes from boosters. They don't have a wealthy future in basketball. They're the scholar-athletes we all wish our male athletes were, working twice as hard as everyone else to keep their grades up, knock out the rent, and win a championship. Clearly, they need to be derided.
• Quick: who won the women's tournament in 2007? Right. No one will remember Tennessee's great season. They're a secondary victim of all this.
• On one hand, I recognize these post-outrage apology tours for what they are: 21st century dancing. A guy says something offensive? Let's make him dance. The more obsequiously and publicly, the better. On the other hand, I just can't make myself feel sorry for Gibson, Richards, Hardaway, and Imus when guys like Sharpton and Jackson start clapping a beat. In tormenting and humiliating their ilk, aren't the latter doing us all a huge favor, really?

posted by john at 01:09 PM  •  permalink

March 28, 2007

things i will never get

Most of life baffles me; it's true. But I find the following things especially confounding this week.

Mechanics and car seats. What is it, exactly, about driving my car the 20 feet from the garage to a parking space that requires him to adjust the seat?

Japan not surrendering immediately. Three days passed between Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Three days to sort through the rubble and count the bodies. They didn't know Nagasaki was next. It could have been Tokyo or wherever Hirohito was. Was there no sense of self-preservation? What the hell else does one have to do to get an "Uncle?"

Grits. Overcooked candle wax, only blander. And less nutritious.

Restraint with bigots. This is dedicated to Serena Williams, who yesterday during a match was taunted with vicious racist vitriol from a spectator. She calmly asked the judge to do something about him, then crushed Sharapova 6-1, 6-1. I cannot fathom such calm and grace. If I'd been her, the man would have a permanent waffle imprint on his larynx today. And I'd be in jail instead of the quarterfinals.

The anti-abortion demographic. I actually have no logical quibble with the anti-abortion argument. If you think the fetus is a human life, then you can't be faulted for defending it. A perfectly valid point of view. No, what confounds me is that I can't name one secular pro-lifer. Although the above argument is not religious, its proponents universally are. Bizarre.

Obnoxious fans. I'm not talking about people who root for their team loudly. I'm talking about people who think the price of their ticket entitles them to ruin the good time of people who also paid for their tickets. "It's the Super Bowl! I paid $3000 for this seat!" said one such moron when the elderly gentleman behind him asked him not to leap up during plays in progress. "It'd be a shame for it to go to waste, then," I replied.

Diamonds. Even animals are fascinated by shiny things. I get this. And diamonds are pretty. But talk about having no intrinsic value. If you set thousands of one-dollar bills on fire, at least you'd get heat. Ever try to sell a diamond ring? The same dealer who appraises your ring at $10,000 will offer you $350 for it. Those figures aren't made up, either. That would be my mom's ring.

The big mortgage lie. For years, I was told I was stupid for renting a house and thereby passing up on the fantastic tax savings a mortgage provides. Uh huh. These people annually set aflame $15,000 on interest in order to "save" $2000 on taxes, and everyone else is stupid. This reminds me of my mom buying items she didn't want in order to use coupons. "But I saved twenty cents!"

posted by john at 07:43 AM  •  permalink

March 22, 2007

dungy and dumber

All around nice-guy Tony Dungy celebrated his second month as the First Black Coach to Win the Super Bowl by throwing his newfound fame behind the worthiest of all possible causes: denying rights to a minority.

Read that paragraph repeatedly until your face has pruned from disgust.

Specifically, he raised money for an anti-gay group and endorsed a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage. I'll skip past whatever form of mental retardation allows this descendant of slaves to, without a whiff of historical irony, advocate institutional discrimination. Something else is on my mind.

"We're trying to promote the family—family values the Lord's way," explained the man whose disconsolate young son took his own life last year.

What we have here is a congenital irony defect. May I suggest that the energies Dungy devotes to imposing his version of "family values" on strangers are perhaps better devoted to making his own family feel valued? When your own kids are killing themselves, should you really be devoting your spare time to regulating everyone else's family?

posted by john at 12:09 PM  •  permalink

February 28, 2007

for every action

Whenever people first tell me they like this site, I caution them: read it long enough, and I will eventually get around to offending you. For it is on this page that I record my irritation with humanity, and "humanity" is a rather inclusive group. If I have sacred cows, I don't know what they would be. Skewering whites, blacks, Latinos, Asians, Native Americans? Check, check, check, check, check. Christians, Mormons, and Muslims? Oh my. Young, old, rich, poor, left, right, me, you—I've belittled 'em all.

When I'm posting, I sometimes wonder "Have I gone too far this time?" Almost invariably, though, reader reaction is supportive. I attribute this to the reactive nature of my posts. This is one of the things I learned from Bugs Bunny, in fact: the ethic of attack. If you only attack when provoked, no one can really accuse you of unfairness. You don't see me mock Jews, for instance. That isn't for a lack of material supplied by my Jewish brother-in-law. He's eminently mockable. Just ask him. But collectively, Jews have left me alone. They do not offend me. They do not demand my endorsement, they do not threaten to kill me, they do not attempt to ram their views into the curriculum of the schools for which I pay, and they have not damaged people I love. Thus far, Jews get a pass. I have no particular love for them; they've simply given me nothing to which I might react. They're Canada.

For the most part, I never hear from parties who might be offended. Or if I hear from 'em, they usually aren't critical. When I mock rich old white farts (ROWFs) and their overdeveloped sense of entitlement, I get supportive mail from that very demographic. When I mock young blacks for asserting that their blackness makes them better qualified than me to declare what white people are thinking, I get words of support from fed-up blacks. Ditto with parents, perhaps my most surprisingly supportive demographic. (How many shots do I have to take, people?) In the end, only one demographic consistently feels compelled to respond with hostility. Every time I post about religion, I know exactly what's coming.

And these people, dear reader, are why I disallow comments on this site. You don't want to read what I read.

You'd think God's chosen people, the heaven-bound elite (whatever religion they practice) would have loftier things to do than portray themselves as my victims. I'm a hideous, tiresome Mormon-basher, for instance. Just look at last week's posts. I'm just another in a long line of persecutors in their history of innocent and quiet self-reflection. I'm Pilate to their Jesus, they tell me as they busily nail their own limbs to a cross.

Better yet are the mails that declare that I'm a stupid, miserable person and it doesn't matter at all what I think. My opinion is so inconsequential, in fact, that they took the time to write. The logic is plainly evident.

Just once, I'd like to see a religion post elicit rebuttals that don't put words in my mouth or cherry-pick phrases out of context in order to imply a different context. Just once, I'd like to get feedback that argues with the actual content of the post, as opposed to claiming victimhood or vilifying me.

Are you people intellectually capable of this? And why does that feel like such a pointless question?

posted by john at 07:10 AM  •  permalink

February 26, 2007

giving the media devil its due

It's been 10 hours or so, and to my knowledge, white reporters have yet to ask Forrest Whitaker or Jennifer Hudson "How long have you been a black actor?" This is progress. Or maybe the media is just bored with coloring their stories that way. Which would also be progress.

"The Departed" won, and as it was the best movie I saw last year, I'm pleased. Doubly so because the pleasant but wildly overpraised "Little Miss Sunshine" seemed poised to steal the award. It's a testament to the media hype machine that in a two-month span I went from thinking "Well, that was a cute little movie" to thinking "THEY BETTER NOT SAY 'LITTLE MISS' ANYTHING, OR I'M NEVER WATCHING AGAIN."

10 hours, six minutes. Go media! You can do it!

posted by john at 08:04 AM  •  permalink

February 15, 2007

happy birthday

Normally I only post about rudeness I've personally observed, but this one was just too ripe not to publish.

Sarah and a group of co-workers went out after work to an elegant restaurant. At a neighboring table, a man quietly sat alone. He ordered a dessert, which came with a burning candle. One of the women, upon seeing this, drunkenly declared that "We need to sing Happy Birthday to him!" His mouth full, the man held up his hands in protest, but the drunk ignored him. He had to interrupt the song with pleas for them to stop.

He showed them the picture on his table. It was a photo of his dead wife. It was her birthday, he explained. She was recently killed in a traffic accident.

"THEN LET'S SING TO HER!" the unflappable drunk squealed. And then, over his protests, she boisterously sang to the dead wife, butchering her name.

• • •

Nested rudeness: when the man ruefully said that his wife's death was the reason for a new local traffic light, another member of the party felt compelled to point out that "See? Some good comes out of everything."

posted by john at 08:22 AM  •  permalink

February 07, 2007

willed misery

Two friends were mid-conversation when they ambushed me. "John, when you wake up in the morning, are you generally in a good mood or in a bad mood?"

I had to think about it. That morning, the first thing I'd thought of was: I go into Redmond today. Who do I have lunch with? Ah. yes. Dorkass. Great! I haven't seen her in months.

"A good mood," I replied. "I tend to concentrate on whatever the highlight of that particular day will be."

"Jesus christ!" Jill sneered. "That's so gay."

Why? It's just a question of emphasis. Life is, of course, a steaming sack of assholes, chores and other unpleasantness, but every day, I do something fun for myself. I naturally focus on that.

"It's so...pop psychology."

It is?

• • •

Jill is one of those people. Being depressed is her "thing." It's what identifies her. Rather, it's how she chooses to identify herself. "My life is horrible," says the healthy, wealthy mother of an adorable child in her funky new home. "Just look at my life. You wouldn't be depressed?"

No. No, I wouldn't. Depression is something I tend to reserve for unimagined tragedies. How about you, Justin?

"No, I'm actually a pretty happy guy," he said.

"I hate you both."

• • •

I was still wondering about the pop psychology remark when Jill pressed on. "What if you have no highlight of your day?"

Since she was sitting in a bar having beers with her buddies, I thought this a telling, not to mention vaguely insulting, remark. Was she not with her friends? Did she not play with her kid? "You didn't do one fun thing today?" I replied. "Not one positive thing for yourself?"

"Like what?"

I mentioned the friends, the kid.

"That's stupid. Those aren't things to look forward to. Tell me what my highlight should be."

Her perpetual foul mood was starting to make a whole lot of sense. She works damned hard for that mood. I suggested that perhaps, if she took a break from doggedly chasing misery, happiness might naturally occur. The suggestion was, of course, deemed stupid.

posted by john at 09:32 AM  •  permalink

February 02, 2007

company loves misery

I'm a little ashamed. It's not like me to take eleven years to notice that people are steaming sacks o' crap. But here we are.

When my Steelers lost Super Bowl XXX, I heard from everyone. E-v-e-r-y-o-n-e. Acquaintances and a ex-girlfriends came out of the woodwork to say they'd watched the game and thought of me, and I must be really miserable, huh?

Cut to:

When my Buckeyes won the championship in 2003, I heard from no one.

Cut to:

When the Steelers finally won in 2006, I heard from no one.

Cut to:

Present day. It's been almost a month, yet several times a week, some dimwit from some peripheral crevice of my life will go out of his way to remind me that the Buckeyes just got thumped.

"I don't even watch football," says the ninth-place trophy wife instead of taking my order. "And I was all, like, 'GOD, they SUCK!'"

"Ha, ha. Thanks."

Yesterday, it was the UPS guy. He spotted the Ohio State decal on my Jeep.

"Ohio State?!?" he said incredulously. "Ohio State?!?"

I nodded. "I'm an alum."

"Whoa!" He shook his head gravely, yet his tone bordered on delight. "They just got their asses kicked!"

I glared at him. Is this because I didn't tip at Christmas?

"Really? I hadn't heard. Say, where did you go to school?"

The answer was both mumbled and untypically complicated. He petered out and backed toward his truck.

I grabbed my box and went inside to seethe. Enjoy backing down my driveway, motherfucker.

posted by john at 07:13 AM  •  permalink

January 28, 2007

running out the clock

It started out nobly enough. Given my dog Ed's recent physical deterioration, I stopped making any plans that would require me to leave home for long. Spokane folks can visit me this year, and I don't think I'll be watching the Seahawks play in Pittsburgh as hoped. That's okay. I owe it to Ed.

Somewhere along the way, though, this notion has transmogrified uncomfortably from "I owe it to Ed" to "making a list of really cool stuff I get to do as soon as Ed dies."

I try to puncture my guilt with gallows humor. "Would you get a move on?" I ask her. "You're critical path on my Australian road trip."

It doesn't help.

posted by john at 08:42 AM  •  permalink

January 26, 2007

youthanasia

I never know what to say when someone dreads, out loud, my own reality. For instance, a friend getting back together with her exceedingly paranoid and nasty ex because "I was alone all weekend, John. It was horrible. Horrible!"

"Uh, I haven't seen another human being since last Thurs—"

"So I don't care if he is emotionally abusive. It's still better than being alone."

Another friend insists he needs a new car because his old car is, as it happens, half my own car's age. That he needs a new car is clearly not a self-evident truth to me, yet here we are, blinking at one another.

Christmas is an oldie but goodie. "I didn't even get to see my Dad this year until the 30th," a friend practically weeps. "Isn't that...just...awful?"

I haven't seen my family on a holiday since the 80s. She knows this. My parents are dead. She knows this too. Neither thing upsets me particularly, so I settle on:

"I spent Christmas alone, sick as hell, and heavily medicat—"

"This isn't about you, John."

Finally, we agree on something.

posted by john at 07:48 AM  •  permalink

January 18, 2007

trade ya my ohio state diploma for a six pack. and it doesn't even have to be cold.

Historically, I'm of one school of thought when it comes to NFL halftime shows. Three words: frisbee catchin' dogs. I don't need anything else. I don't want anything else. Frisbee catchin' dogs. Sadly, they seem to have fallen out of fashion. Perhaps the dogs unionized.

On Football Weekend this year, in Indy, they fielded something quite close in entertainment value. While the Colts and Bengals retired to the locker rooms, various mascots from around the league played a quick game of football. While in full costume. There's something oddly thrilling about a guy in a giant foam dolphin head catching a 10 yard slant and getting laid out by someone in a foam bronco costume. Yes, this feels good. It feels right.

I had the opposite feeling at the BCS championship game last week. Normally, I enjoy watching Ohio State's band humiliate the other team's, but this time it was me who was hanging my head in shame. You tell me. They set up a lean-to along the sideline, about 120 feet long and 20 feet wide. It had waves painted on it. The band, meanwhile, was out on the field playing the theme from "Titanic"—how hilarious is that bit of foreshadowing?—and forming a giant outline of the ship, which "floated" on the water lean-to. Okay. Stupid, but okay. But then the ship split in two, and we watched first one, then the other section disappear under the lean-to.

We sat speechless in our seats. Finally I gagged out "Um. People. We just re-enacted the deaths of 1500 people as halftime entertainment."

I was utterly appalled and embarrassed. What do you have in mind for an encore, Ohio State?

"The Hindenburg Follies"

"Oh, Guyana!"

"A George Gershwin Salute to the World Trade Center Collapse"

The mind reels.

posted by john at 06:55 AM  •  permalink

January 10, 2007

fan DOs and DONT’s

Even when Ohio State still led—hence before I was questioning my very birth, let alone why I was at the championship game—I wondered if I should really be attending games in person anymore. The bigger the game, the more deplorable fan conduct is becoming. I spent most of the Super Bowl and BCS championship wishing I could see the game. Thanks to my fellow fans and their underdeveloped senses of consideration, I would guess I saw maybe 70% of the Super Bowl and 40% of the BCS. When you're shelling out this kind of bank, those percentages inspire murderous daydreams. Visions of shivs, specifically.

Because of the overwhelming evidence that football fans are not born with this knowledge, I hereby bequeath to fandom this primer.

DO	DON'T
Stand and jeer when the opposing team is on offense, especially on third down.	Stand the whole time. See the fans behind you? See how some of them are short, old, handicapped, or lazy? They cannot see through you. While you're still turned around, please also note the nice seat the team provided for your use. See how they didn't provide risers?
Stand and cheer after great plays.	Leap up in the middle of the great play. I'd like to see how it turns out, thanks.
Get front row seats. I sure wish I had.	Inexplicably stand up so that the 5000 dominoes behind you all must do likewise.
Sit the fuck down. Seriously.	Argue with people when you're politely asked to sit down. For example, "It's the Super Bowl!" is not really a compelling argument for impeding a crippled 70 year old's view of the Super Bowl. (True story. He'd just had knee surgery and was on crutches, yet he was told off for very nicely asking someone to sit down.)
Proudly wear your team's colors.	Wear an oversized rainbow afro that completely eclipses your neighbors' view of the field. If you must get on TV, paint your chest like a man.
Proudly wear your team's colors.	Wear those asinine "ladies' versions." Your team's colors almost certainly do not include pink.
Make comments to your neighbors. That's what fandom is all about.	Yell comments to players and coaches 2000 feet and 40,000 fans away. Amazingly enough, they cannot hear you.
Bitch about our mutual team. That's really what fandom is about.	Attribute player/coach failings to race, sexual orientation, etc. I didn't shell out good money to be slimed, thanks.
Participate in team chants. Here we go, Stillers, here we go!	Drunkenly inform your fellow fans that they suck because they don't join your theatrics. Double-penalty for ignoring the game in order to lecture "inferior" fans.
Say hi to friends at the game.	Call them on your cell phone, stand up, and wave. See "shiv," above.
Good naturedly needle opposing fans. Buy them a beer, while you're at it. We're all one fraternity.	Ruin the game for them and everyone else. The right to unleash your pent-up hostilities and ruin someone else's good time is not included in the price of your ticket.
Root for your team at road games.	Clamor for everyone's attention. This is about the game, not about you.
Bring signs	Hold them overhead during plays. This really needs to be said? Jesus Christ, people. And by "during plays," I don't mean "lower it a millisecond before the snap." To those of us without rainbow afros and "Romo is a homo" signs, watching pre-snap shifts is an integral part of the game.
Urinate as needed.	Walk in front of me during a play. During a 3 hour football game, there are 2 hours and 48 minutes of down time. Use that.

posted by john at 02:07 PM  •  permalink

December 26, 2006

putting the mess back in christmas

Christians celebrating the birth of Jesus every December 25—I understand this.

Ancient Babylonians celebrating the son of Isis every December 25—okay by me.

Modern Americans who never go to church, moving mountains to celebrate Christmas—this utterly baffles me. There's complete disconnect. Even avowed atheists feel obliged to suffer the commercialism, the imposition, the expense, the travel, the guilt-laying families. Why?

• • •

I'll forever remember this Christmas as the one I don't much remember. Miserable, flat on my back, medicated, watching the Mythbusters marathon. Ho.

It's in my top 10 Christmases ever.

There've been a few good ones, invariably with girlfriends. I can't remember a family Christmas that was short of a bloodletting. Knifing one another around the holidays is a fine family tradition. We save up bile just for the occasion. Striking early and hard becomes a mission. Whoever cries first loses, as all the other sharks will join the feeding frenzy, so your Yuletide priority is to make someone else cry first. Several someones, if you want to win Christmas.

I've joined a few girlfriends' families for the holidays over the years, and I'm utterly inept. I sit there on the couch, cup of nog in hand, nervously awaiting an attack that will never come. And oh, my twitching, witty repartee. "Oh w-w-wow! A frosty mug! You put it in the freezer and then put your drink in it, right? Ha, ha! That's awesome! Ha, ha! How clever. How did you know I wanted this? Needed, really. It's really just the perfect gift. Really. Perfect. I-i-it means a lot, how much thought you put into this."

I get elbowed a lot on Christmas.

posted by john at 06:56 AM  •  permalink

December 22, 2006

kid out the womb, head up the ass

I haven't written my Football Weekend rollup because I've been flat on my back with the flu. Trust that the weekend was fun but exhausting, an exercise in overcoming logistics every bit as much as a football experience. The storm that struck Seattle on Day 1 set us back a long, long way. My favorite statistic: between us, Bubba and used nine different airports in two countries. That's not counting the five airports we used multiple times. Now that's insane.

• • •

I leave you with this challenge to undertake during your holiday travels. Of the people in airports who rudely jostle you without apology or acknowledgement, what percentage have kids? For me it pushed 100%.

posted by john at 07:26 AM  •  permalink

December 13, 2006

thanks, boss, thanks

See my boss.

See my boss drink.

Drink, boss, drink.

See my boss blurt out my gross income to my underpaid co-worker.

Blurt, boss, blurt.

• • •

Gee, that was fun. She even inflated the number grotesquely. I'm already taking home 20% more than anyone else, and she somehow managed to characterize it as 95% more. So then I had to defend myself from the torch-wielding villagers by disclosing the actual number. Yep. That went over really well.

posted by john at 09:28 AM  •  permalink

December 09, 2006

the back-pack

In a season where the producers of Survivor crassly commercialized racial tensions, a far more naturalistic experiment quietly occurred on the Amazing Race. The show quickly—and uncomfortably, for me anyway—divided into haves and have nots. You had your well-manicured, unlikable white teams—the indistinguishably pretty, heroin-addict male models; the intolerably smug, stupid couple complaining about the rest of the world smelling funny and not speaking English; and the blond, tank-topped Miss America contestants targeting man after man to help them get a leg up, and giggling at their own cleverness every time they called black contestants "the sistas."

And then you had the have nots—the karma-believing Cho brothers, the simple country folk from a Kentucky trailer park, and the black single mothers from Alabama. These three teams often came in last, so they allied and called themselves the "Six Pack." Meanwhile, the white teams sneered that the "Back Pack" was more like it.

And then we watched as something unprecedented happened: the alliance held. The Six-Packers helped one another avoid elimination, a first on the show. They even waited for one another mid-race in order to offer assistance. And then we watched as the snotty white teams picked them off one by one anyway, all the while attributing their success to merit and to the Pack's obvious lack of it. "They're bottom feeders," one utterly unremarkable white guy snorted.

Sorry, Survivor, it's the Amazing Race that got race right.

posted by john at 07:35 AM  •  permalink

December 06, 2006

ever wish you could give people gift certificates for therapy?

My dog, Ed, was hospitalized, and I went to the office. This was last Friday, and I was doing a lot of staring at my shoes. Ed's little medical episodes, her periodic confluences of symptoms, are getting more and more frequent in recent years, and I take very seriously my responsibility to decide which episode will be her last. I was well into that decision-making process as we waited for the meeting to begin, and I was, well, sad. Grave. Contemplating ending Ed's life will do that to me.

My co-workers asked about her, and I told them about the week's events. Sympathy was expressed and accepted, and I reminded them that Ed is, in fact, a very old dog. And then I was eviscerated.

"Don't say that!" Jill screamed at me, actually trembling with anger. "I completely reject that somehow, it's less sad or less tragic when someone dies just because they're old. That doesn't fucking matter. It's always a tragedy!"

I was shocked to be attacked as uncaring, particularly after a week of wiping up Ed's bodily fluids and carrying her lame body around. "But—"

"Bullshit! People try to make themselves feel better by diminishing the importance of someone dying, saying 'it was their time,' but it's bullshit! Hurtful bullshit!"

Everyone looked down, wishing they were somewhere else. Me, I wasn't sure how to respond to being attacked. I apologized for being insufficiently despondent and promised to do better at feeling worse. It was the perfect capper to a perfect week, really.

But you know what? It is easier to accept when Grandma dies than when a child dies. It is less sad when Ed develops debilitating health issues at 12 than it would have been at 3. Grandma and Ed would agree. A geriatric dog develops geriatric dog issues, and I'm supposed to treat this like it's a tragedy? Shall I complain about water being wet, too? Not every sadness should be milked for every last drop of drama.

posted by john at 07:25 AM  •  permalink

December 02, 2006

alfie, the best dog in the world, died in his sleep...just like you will someday, timmy...if you’re very, very lucky...goodnight!

When I arrived at the vet's for our 5pm appointment, the receptionist showed me to a special room I'd never seen. There was no sink, no table, no examination equipment of any kind. There was a chair, an end table, and a couch with quilts and pillows. On the end table was a box of Kleenex and several children's books about pet death. "I'll always love you," the child narrator assured the still corpse of Alfie, the best dog in the world, lying at the foot of his bed. And you couldn't fabricate a more comforting fate than Dog Heaven, where, I gathered, entry does not require that you worship like us and not like them. Every pooch gets in. Dog heaven easily beats that imperious country club called People Heaven.

Man.

As if I hadn't thought enough about my dog's death in the past few days, my vet gives me tales of Alfie's lifeless body? If the idea behind this room is to make people who thought their dog was alive completely tweak out, I'd have to say it's pure twisted genius. If that's not the idea, I'm more at a loss to explain what they could possibly be thinking. It creeped me out.

• • •

I'm going to tenatively say that Ed is okay now. Tentative = a battery of tests and $850 later, there's no real diagnosis beyond "bacterial imbalance." So the horrors could recur. On meds, she's certainly feeling better and comfortably sleeps when she's not insanely mining her bowl for food she somehow missed.

posted by john at 08:09 AM  •  permalink

November 30, 2006

friends in low places

The inevitable happened: Mel Gibson issued a statement of support for Michael Richards. Said Gibson in Entertainment Weekly:

"I felt like sending Michael Richards a note. I feel really badly for the guy. He was obviously in a state of stress. You don't need to be inebriated to be bent out of shape. But my heart went out to the guy."

I flip back and forth on who this speaks more poorly of.

posted by john at 09:22 PM  •  permalink

great moments in mindless phone service

My vet's receptionist jotting down notes this morning:

"Okay, so Ed has bloody vomit, diarrhea, hasn't eaten in two days, can't take a step without falling down, and can't stand on her own. Okay! Great! See you this afternoon!"

posted by john at 09:08 AM  •  permalink

a little music, if you please

As I was listening to Jesse Jackson make an obsequious Michael Richards apologize for, among many things, the lack of black executives in Hollywood, I felt a curious sensation: satisfaction. Yeah, I knew it was grandstanding nonsense. I didn't care. Few deserve the humiliation like Richards does. Make him dance, Jesse. And when you're tired, we'll send in Al.

Is anyone else finding themselves making TV choices other than Seinfeld lately? I'm not protesting so much as uninterested. I know when I see Kramer, I'll hear that damned tape in my head, and that's not why I watch sitcoms, so I make another selection. I wonder how this will affect its DVD sales.

posted by john at 08:45 AM  •  permalink

November 24, 2006

this just in: and water is wet

When I scanned my RSS feed this morning, I saw that the great Leonard Pitts had written an article with the headline "Richards' rant leaves no doubt he's a racist."

Wow, really? Why ever would you say such a thing?

But for my respect for Pitts I would have just ignored the link, but I just had to know what he was thinking. And it turns out he wasn't just stating the obvious, arguing with thin air. In a web poll that asked if Richards was racist, 40% of respondents actually said "No." It wasn't exactly a scientific sampling, but even if that number is 20%, it's astoundingly high. I, for one, would love to know the respondents' rationale.

posted by john at 10:05 AM  •  permalink

November 22, 2006

the dying is easier to take

One of us near life's mid-point, the other near its end, Miss Sue and I had an unusual conversation last week. Her lifelong best friend just moved to Arizona, and Sue's socially decimated. She described their relationship at length, especially its irreplacability and the big hole left in her life now. I asked why the friend left Spokane. "Her kid lives in Arizona," Sue shrugged. "And he wanted his mom near him."

She picked at her salad a bit. "That's what it's like when you're old, you know. All your friends move away. Or die. The dying is easier to take than the moving away."

The parallel was obvious. "Is that the geriatric version of all your friends having kids and disappearing?" I asked.

"Yeah. It's exactly the same feeling."

Great. Something to look forward to.

Sue pressed on. "And there's a middle stage. When the grandkids come along, they all disappear again."

"Jesus Christ. Any other cheery nuggets to share?"

"Yeah. Just go ahead and make new friends. These aren't coming back."

posted by john at 08:41 AM  •  permalink

November 21, 2006

the heartwarming demise of michael richards

If you haven't seen it, here's a portion of Michael Richards' recent onstage racist outburst. This is the tail end of the incident—if you've heard the audio recording, you know it lasted much longer and involved some 20 angry drops of the n-bomb. Almost as excruciating is his inarticulate, squirm-inducing apology on Letterman last night.

It's not often that you hope that someone is not a well person, but here we are. I'm actually hoping for mental illness. Skipped meds. A psychologically debilitating childhood fork trauma. Throw us a bone, Richards. Don't do it for yourself. Do it for Kramer. He's likely ruined for us now.

Much has already been said about Richards' career and social suicide. I have three observations of my own.

• Is anyone happier about this than Mel Gibson? Fit him for his halo now.
• I found it oddly affirming that Richards' audience uniformly rejected him and walked out. They could have just sat there like stunned sheep, waiting for Richards to leave, but they stormed out en masse. Fifty years ago, as they say, would that have happened?
• In the segment after Richards' satellite-link post-meltdown meltdown, Letterman of course asked Seinfeld about his three kids. They're 1, 4, and 6. "That's remarkable!!" Dave gushed.

posted by john at 08:42 AM  •  permalink

November 15, 2006

straight outta spokompton

SPOKANE - I'm visiting Miss Sue, who has yet to tell me what my problem is, but it's only 9 am. I knew I was nearing Spokane when country music and jesusing began dominating my radio. I knew I was back when I heard the Gonzaga pep band playing Whitesnake songs.

My trip includes, as it always does, a phone call to fellow Spokane escapee Katrina.

"Hello?"
"To the editor..."
"Stop."
"As I sit and look at my flag waving in the wind..."
"You're making that up."

No, I wasn't.

But that letter wasn't the main event. After I finished reading her a second, Katrina predicted that if I published it, no one would believe it was real. Fortunately, the Spokane newspaper thoughtfully posts this stuff online. I hope you enjoy it as much as Katrina didn't.

Comparison backward

Mr. Tui Lindsey's comments linking the Bush administration to Hitler are backward ("Hitler would be proud," Nov. 9). Let's compare the policies of the Democrats to those of Hitler:

Hitler banned all firearms from citizens. The Dems ban guns. Look at the crime rates where liberal bans are in place. Baltimore, for example, has already surpassed its homicide rate for all of 2005. Stupid liberals don't or won't understand that gun bans only affect law-abiding citizens.

Hitler banned religion. The ACLU, backed by the Dems, sues people who mention Christianity in public. It seems Islam is exempt from this.

Hitler was a proven liar to his people. History has on record the proven lies by Clinton and his ilk. Hitler put the German state above its people. "We know what's best for the American people." That is a Bill Clinton quote. The American people know what's best for themselves – not the government.

Gee, Mr. Lindsey, Hitler sure has more in common with the liberals after all. Liberal socialism is not the American way. Hitler squelched public opinion. The Dems discredit any opinion they disagree with. Truth hurts, doesn't it?

Mark Dana
Colburn, Idaho

posted by john at 09:00 AM  •  permalink

November 06, 2006

kanye south

Longtime Stank favorite Kanye West continues to cement his Nobel Laureate status, at an awards show.

posted by john at 07:13 AM  •  permalink

October 18, 2006

free sienna!

Eminent thespian Sienna Miller created a stir recently when she complained about filming a movie in Pittsburgh. She called the city a clever name that I'm astounded no 10 year old boy in Cleveland has ever, ever thought of: "Shitsburgh." Said the lionized megastar to a Rolling Stone reporter:

Can you believe this is my life? Will you pity me when you're back in your funky New York apartment and I'm still in Pittsburgh? I need to get more glamorous films.

Poor, poor...looking up her name again...Sienna. Let's set up a PayPal charity drive through which the concerned masses can donate to the cause of her driving a rental car to New York, shall we?

Her Pittsburgh holiday didn't get any better. A few days later, the legendary headliner was denied entry into a Pittsburgh pub because she didn't have an ID. She ripped off her hat to reveal her famous locks, then declared to the bouncer: "I am Sienna Miller! I am a famous actress!" The bouncer was not impressed. She then pouted outside for 30 minutes. Said bouncer Dan Kovacs, "She was going crazy out there, stomping her feet. But no ID, no entry - I'm sorry, we can't bend the rules for anybody."

Actress? Famous?

Do famous actresses really have to introduce themselves as famous actresses? Do they get carded, for that matter? Child, the nanny is more famous than you.

posted by john at 08:00 AM  •  permalink

September 26, 2006

the spotted sea

I live on a stretch of Puget Sound that's seldom violent but even less often still. The narrowest expanse is five miles wide, and what with all the wind and currents and boats, I've never seen that expanse perfectly still. There's always a ripple in that five miles, somehow, somewhere. Until last night.

The sky was perfectly clear, the water stiller than ever before. And for the first time, the water was freckled with white lights. At first glance, I thought there were hundreds of boat lights. But no, at that moment, the water had actually formed a perfect mirror. Instead of smearing starlight into streaks, it reflected them perfectly. All of them. Centered in my bedroom window were two perfect Big Dippers, back to back. And a few thousand of their friends.

There was a time of my life where beholding this marvel alone would have been bittersweet, when I would have wished for someone to share it with. But not now. Now, if I think of anyone else at all, it's one thought only: "Thank God the AW isn't here to say something pretentious and ruin this."

This is growth, I guess.

posted by john at 10:56 AM  •  permalink

the time the approval whore screwed her courage to the sticking place and stood up to my abuse

I've had exactly two interactions with the AW since our relationship officially gasped its last. The first was several months after the breakup, when I was acquiring from her my ancient laptop. This gave me the chance to fire an unused bullet. "Be sure to comb it carefully for my old emails and save them to roses.txt," I said.

The next and last contact was no longer than that, but it has far more backstory.

In the years I was trying to return to teaching, I made contacts at an area university that happened to be the AW's alma mater. Every year, they invited me to be a guest speaker at their Spring careers lecture, where I conducted a writing workshop. Every year, I invited my girlfriend to come with me to her alma mater and see me in my natural element. And every year, she yawned and declined.

One November, the university offered me a job in the spring. I accepted. In December, the AW and I broke up. In March, I stepped behind the lectern again. In April I saw, on the walls outside my office, flyers advertising the guest lecturers who would be speaking to my students.

"Approval Whore, a manager from the Microsoft Corporation..."

Letting go of the fact that she wasn't a manager, I was incensed. Now, now she has an interest in the lecture series? I had an exceptionally cool class, and I told them about the ex weirdness. What I found disrespectful and hypocritical, they thought downright psychotic. "I'll give you guys killer questions for her—about her infidelities, her arrest in Oregon, etc." We all had a good laugh and then agreed that the easiest course was for none of them to attend the lecture.

Soon I got mail that announced the guest lecturers, and I took that opportunity to make my displeasure known. I forwarded it to the AW.

"Thanks for the respectful distance. I'll be sure my students are exceedingly well prepared for your Q&A."

That would be our last contact.

I showed the flyer to friends on her team at work. "You don't have, like, skilled people you could send to talk to my students?" Word trickled back that she hadn't mentioned the lecture to anyone there, not so much as to ask for the day off. And then I didn't think about it for several months.

The day of the lecture, the AW marched into her boss's office and excitedly announced that a special, "spur of the moment opportunity" to lecture at her alma mater had just dropped into her lap. Yes, the AW would need to miss deadlines and screw over people at work, but this opportunity was just too special to pass up. The boss grudgingly let her go. And while she was gone, the flyer made its way from my friends to the boss.

When the AW returned and boasted about how fantabulous a lecturer she was, the boss confronted her about the flyer. Caught in a needless and gargantuan lie, the AW then did what she does best. She burst into tears.

"I don't know how much you know about my personal life, but I'm coming out of a really abusive relationship situation," she sobbed about her cheating on me and my not caring.

"He's been trying to bully and intimidate me," she wept about her following me to my new employer and volunteering to meet my students. "I used to cave in, to let him control me. But here, this one time, I finally stood up to him! And I'm proud of myself for having the courage to face down his intimidation! I'm proud of myself for going!"

Welcome once again to Planet AW, where lying, cheating, and gross disrespect are unassailable virtues. And oh yeah. She's a manager now.

posted by john at 09:12 AM  •  permalink

July 23, 2006

david mirkin

This is a first. Before I added Simpsons producer David Mirkin to my list of people who should be capped (right), I googled his name and immediately found that someone had beaten me to the idea: David Mirkin should DIE.

This is officially a grass-roots movement.

On my ferry ride into Seattle, I'll often watch a Simpsons episode on DVD. On the return trip home, I'll listen to the episode's commentary. They're usually interesting, but if Mirkin is in the studio, his co-workers might as well go home, for all they'll be heard. His nasal, pointlessly exclusive blathering drives me insane. He laughs at his own jokes. And then he explains them. And folks, this is a man who would explain, at length, that banana peels are used in pratfalls because they're slippery. He is that guy you avoid at office parties, lest he grab your arm and tell you all about his new riding mower again. "Most people think a 1" ball hitch is standard, but it's not. And let me tell you—HA HA HA—they're not exactly interchangable, boy!"

You die now.

posted by john at 10:51 AM  •  permalink

July 19, 2006

of judases and brutuses

My disdain for a particular amateur-in-editor-spectacles is not a well-guarded secret at work. At one time, she was merely a chattering annoyance, one of many people bereft of qualifications and ability, an obstacle that competent people had to circumvent. In that regard, she is wholly unremarkable at Microsoft. And then one day she screwed my friend Mandy out of a promised and much-needed job—deliberately, destructively, and without shame—and Lionel entered my personal Legion of Doom. She is and forever will remain a villain worthy of my scorn and occasional backhand. It's been 11 years, and my contempt for her hasn't ebbed a bit.

After she was unrepentant, it never occurred to me not to hate her. Hurt my loved one, hurt me. It's a simple code, one not uncommon where I'm from. Despising her was as natural as breathing air— befriending her, as unthinkable as breathing water.

• • •

Is there any form of platonic betrayal that stings worse than a friend cozying up to someone who's grotesquely mistreated you? The friend might not overtly endorse the offender's actions, but when they socialize, a tacit endorsement is what I see—and is surely what the offender sees.

"Yeah, he really screwed you royally. Tried to wreck your career. That was horrible," said my friend Robert recently of my old persecutor.

"So why do you hang out with him?" I asked.

"Oh no. I'm not getting in the middle of you two."

Ah. I see. Anything evil not done to you doesn't count. At least now I know my place. Please, do enjoy your time together. And if you ever see me hanging out with Lionel, please, if you ever cared one whit about me, kindly pump 17 bullets into my skull before Mandy learns of my dishonor and feels about me how I feel about you at this very moment.

posted by john at 09:04 PM  •  permalink

July 13, 2006

mindful wishes

As I was listening to an ex skewer me the other day, pounding the table with her fist and laughing so hard she cried, it occurred to me. The very quality that sometimes attracts women to me—assertiveness—invariably repels them later.

Ladies, if you sit in a theatre nowadays and wish someone would say something to the loud clod behind you, trust me; you don't really. Because when the time comes and some chattering asshat pisses me off enough that I actually stand up, turn around, and ask him to kindly shut his hole, you will sell me out. "John, please!" you'll cringe, slinking into your seat, tugging on my sleeve and avoiding eye contact with the guy. "Let's just move!" A confrontation with him generally doesn't happen, but one with you is a certainty.

"Do you have to do that?" you'll say in the post-mortem later, as if when we started dating you didn't reinforce the hell out of such behavior. Why, yes. Yes I do.

• • •

That sort of...confidence, I guess...has gotten me punched a few times in my life. Other than the girlfriend's reaction, getting punched isn't so bad. I'm sure an athlete would be able to drop me, but Joe Methhead frankly doesn't hurt that much. And they're freaked out when you just brush off their punch to your face and calmly continue explaining why, for the benefit of the species, they shouldn't procreate.

Dorkass, who I never dated, so don't start with that crap again, likes to tell one such story. Perhaps if we ask her nicely, she'll share.

posted by john at 10:22 AM  •  permalink

July 09, 2006

old town, new town
red town, blue town

Most people are surprised when I tell them that Washington state is mostly desert. The mountains and waters and mild weather you see on the postcards comprise only the western quarter of the state. Cross the mountains fifty miles to Seattle's east, and suddenly you're in an arid desert that continues for 200 miles until you get to Spokane, where pine trees suddenly pop out of the rolling yellow hills, where it hits 100 every summer and -10 every winter. You'd never guess you were in the same state.

That's where I lived for two years when I first arrived in Washington.

Much like their geographical differences, there's a sharp cultural and political divide between eastern and western Washington. Paint the areas east of the mountains red, the western areas solidly blue. And me, I've had the great misfortune to live in conservative Spokane when Clinton was ruinin' the country and in liberal Seattle now that W. is.

Is that ever tiresome.

If you ever get the chance, open the Spokane Spokesman-Review to the letters to the editor. Here's a synthesis of what you can expect to find:

To the editor,
When are Americans going to WAKE UP and realize that their country is being taken over by the anti-gun choice and tax-and-spend Dumbocrats? They had their chance and all they accomplished was BLOW JOBS! And now we have a President who walks with Christ and all they can do is criticize! Stop the country! I want to get off!!!

— Cooter P. McNugget, Hayden Lake

P.S. WAKE UP!!!

The letters are excruciating, yet you cannot avert your eyes. They beckon like sirens to the rocky shoals of your mind, they do. Nor can you long avoid having redneck world views shoved down your throat. "I swear to God," said one woman of Washington's new ban on smoking in public places. "The gummint just wants to control everything nowadays."

"Oh, they do not. This is reasonable. It's not like secondhand smoke is good for you."

"Tough. People have been breathing it for decades." And then she indulged in the stupid man's preferred form of argumentation: say the same thing, only louder and with a personal attack chaser. "THE GUMMINT HAS GONE TOO FAR! WHAT DO YOU WANT NEXT, BANNING FATTY FOODS?"

Because the AM radio tells them to, Spokanites complain about taxes a lot. And even those who pay zero taxes manage to complain about any public services enjoyed by those of us who shovel towering heaps of cash to the government. I once endured a Spokane retiree and a lazy-assed, white-trash, unemployed mooch of a Spokane husband complaining about how their taxes went to pay for my ferry.

"What taxes? Would you like to compare tax burdens? I guaranfreakingtee you I paid more in taxes last year than you've earned in any year of your life." They declined.

When I lived in Spokane, Limbaugh was lord, Clinton was Satan, and I couldn't wait until I was no longer pummeled by idiots' opinions. And then I moved to Seattle, and only the idiots changed.

"Hi, I'm Dawn and I drive a hybrid and go through your garbage looking for recycling fouls and wear no deodorant except for this herbal stuff I buy at the food co-op and I'm a vegan well almost but not quite because I have a silk blouse but it was made from free-range grain-fed silkworms in Tibet and I don't support Bush."

"Hi, I'm John, and I didn't ask."

"I SAID I DON'T SUPPORT BUSH! WHAT, DO YOU SUPPORT HIM?"

A friend once observed that Seatards don't show you who they are; they instead rattle off a list of trends that they've bundled together in lieu of a personality. There's no depth whatsoever to it. They'll speak smugly, and loudly, about owning a hybrid, yet their old car is still out there guzzling fossil fuels for someone else, making their purchase no more environmentally significant than any other conspicuous instance of consumer consumption. I've already railed about the stupidity of their electric busses. Their diversity parade? Please. You'll never meet a less diverse group of people than the Seattle ditzy left. Trust that they went straight from that parade back to social circles who uniformly look and, for lack of a better term, think just like them.

As evidence of Bush's election fraud, several Seatards have said the following to me: "I don't know anyone who voted for him." And they're earnest in this belief. So malformed is their intellect, they think this indicts the election results more than themselves. In a country in which a smidgeon more than half voted for Bush, they have labored to know none of them. Diversity, indeed.

So where does this leave me, other than feeling uncomfortable and vaguely assaulted on both sides of the state? I found myself preferring Spokane folks, though until yesterday I wasn't sure why. They're less educated, demographically. Marginally whiter. Flag-waving, gun-toting, ill-read drones of the AM radio–right. These are not qualities that I admire.

But yesterday when I was in Spokane, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of telling a friend that something he said offended me. And he asked why. And I told him. And he said he'd never considered that. And that was the end of it.

I felt a thud of realization: this was the difference. This conversation has never happened for me in Seattle. I can't imagine it ever happening. No, I would simply be blamed for my own offense. The idiocy in Seattle is not by lazy happenstance but by willful design. Whereas the irritating idiocies in Spokane are largely born of ignorance, those in Seattle are rooted in pretense and hypocrisy. And therein lies the crucial difference.

Ignorance can sometimes be cured.

posted by john at 10:13 AM  •  permalink

July 02, 2006

you’re wrong, mr. worf!

It occurred to me late Friday, when my level of irritation peaked. I'm not used to being second-guessed. Oh sure, it happens, but it's a couple times a day as opposed to 10x per hour.

Remember how on Star Trek: the Next Generation, the writers would bring Worf into a scene only so he could say something that Picard would immediately beat down?

"The fetus must be aborted."

"You're wrong, Mr. Worf!" Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!

That was me this weekend. Lynn and Sue can doubt me on any topic. Their degree of familiarity with said topic has no bearing whatsoever on their certainty. They simply must correct me. Whatever the subject matter—ferries, physics, my love life, plants they haven't seen, people they've never met—they are instant and infallible experts. And they are piranhas. When one second-guesses me, the other gleefully joins the feeding frenzy.

"Explain to me again why the plants are cooler in direct sun than they were where I had 'em, in the shade?" I said.

"They just are," said Lynn.

"Yes!" assented Sue, with an exclamation point, so you know it must be true.

They're gone. I'm glad. That nonsense is tiresome.

("No it's not," I hear in my head.)

posted by john at 07:10 AM  •  permalink

June 27, 2006

low fidelity

One of the very last real conversations the AW and I had was in the hot tub, where we each answered the following throw-it-out-there question: what guy/girl did you mistreat most?

Her answer was her first husband, who she'd cheated on and left, who on her way out she'd unjustifiably vilified as having a "frightening temper." I'd long smelled bullshit there, and I was impressed by the rare display of self-awareness on her part. Little did I know she was preparing to similarly smear me a few months later. Ah well. Just so long as she and the "Us" magazines are gone.

When I'd posed the question, I was focused on her answer and not mine. When it came my turn to reciprocate, I had nothing. Not that I haven't done my share of uncool things toward girlfriends, but I would be damned if I could think of a case where it wasn't in response to something worse. "Honestly, I think I'm a pretty good boyfriend," I said, knowing it was weak. "A lousy enemy, but a good boyfriend."

I pressed on in my memory, past the carnage of my adult years, past even high school. I landed in eighth grade. "This is going to seem stupid, but in terms of mistreating the undeserving, I think this is my worst offense." I then told the story of Shelly. She was a friend and a complete doll. I had a huge crush on her; a lot of guys did. And in the manner of an attractive girl just starting to discover her powers, she enjoyed the attention. She actually—gasp!—talked to these other guys. Enjoyed their attentions, even! My eighth grade brain could not process how the object of my affections could behave in such a reprehensible manner. What. A. Filthy. Whore. She must be punished, or at least made to pay attention to me.

So in the manner of boys that age (and some women in their 30s), I froze her out. You know the drill. I wouldn't make eye contact, she would make an attempt at sane human interaction, I would pretend she wasn't there, she would weep, repeat. This went on for months. Ice and tears, ice and tears. Every time I made her cry, I felt warm tinglies inside. She sent the kid who sat between us as her intermediary. "What's the deal?" Tim would ask.

"She knows," I'd growl self-righteously, having no actual answer.

We went on to high school, and I moved on to other unrequited crushes and learned to cope with competition. But I never did speak to Shelly again. Too awkward.

"That's pathetic," the AW said, quite rightly, as we climbed out of the hot tub. "Why did you even bring up this topic if you didn't have a good story?"

Fair question. Perhaps because it would lead to a better story?

Recounting my mistreatment of Shelly made me curious as to whatever happened to her. Information on the Internet was spare, but after a few hours of searching I found my first breakthrough: a genealogy record. Oh no. Look at that. Holy crap. Her mom died right when I was freezing her out? Jesus. I am less than a human being. I am a contemptible pig.

What a few minutes earlier had seemed like inconsequential teen drama suddenly had some gravity to it. I was already feeling down on my eighth-grade self when the bombshell surfaced. She was married. To our intermediary, Tim.

Karma has one long-ass reach.

posted by john at 07:13 AM  •  permalink

June 26, 2006

pity this

When I took my leave of grad school and Spokane, I promised my friends Sue, the Creative Writing secretary, and Lynn, my boss, that I would stay in touch.

They laughed. "Yeah, we've heard that one before. We'll hear from you for a year, maybe two, and then never again. You'll just fade away. They always do."

This Thursday, 12 years and three weeks after that conversation, Lynn and Sue arrive at my house again. I will remind them of their scoffing a decade ago. They will beg me to fade away with dignity.

• • •

Mothering. You can't spell "smothering" without it.

While I love being with my old friends, there's one component to their mothering I could do without. To their generations, it's positively freakish for a man over 24 to be unmarried. He is presumed helpless—drowning in his own loneliness and filth—whatever the case might actually be. Without a wife to mop the floors, my floors must be disgusting. They must be. That the maid mops them a couple times a month is immaterial, at least until I marry her. And thus will our time together include many a comment about my complete inability to function. Good times. Good, sexist times.

I will have heaps of pity piled upon me during this visit, and not for my stupid elbow injury, losing all my friends at once, Percy continuing to live—or anything else for which I might actually deserve pity. Nay, I will be pitied for not making the same choices they did.

This leads us to an emerging peeve of mine: when people profess pity for you about something with which you're actually quite happy.

"No, you're not," they seem to be saying. "Snap out of denial and be miserable."

Any time I'm less than elated, it's because I'm single. My feh time at the Super Bowl? It had nothing to do with Detroit or corporate sterility or a crappy game. "I just wish you'd been able to take someone with you," ached Lynn.

"Um, there wasn't exactly a shortage of volunteers. I just thought that given my good fortune in scoring tickets, the money from the second ticket should go to char—"

"I think you would have had a better time if you weren't alone." She sounded ready to weep.

"I go to games alone every year. I love doing that."

"Still..."

Ca-righst. Do graduating students really fade away, or is it more of an all-out sprint?

posted by john at 07:09 AM  •  permalink

June 22, 2006

rape is cool

The Denis Leary series Rescue Me used to be about firefighters, but this season it's spiraling into wretched melodrama. This week's episode struck bottom with such ferocity, it may well have been the most revolting thing ever aired on television.

Shortly after having sex with his teenage nephew's lover/high-school-teacher, our hero visits his soon-to-be-ex-wife to discuss the division of assets. She's leaving him for two reasons: 1) she blames him for the death of their son, who was killed by a drunk driver, who in turn was then murdered by Leary's uncle, who's a hero in prison, and 2) she's having sex with Leary's brother. ("This is about firefighters, this is about firefighters," I found myself chanting in denial.) Which brings us to the scene in question.

Angry about his wife bedding his brother, Leary assaults her, throwing her down, bloodying her face, ripping her clothes. He then graphically rapes her. R-a-p-e-s her. Her struggles and protests turn to moans, and when all is said and done, everyone is better for the experience. She's calmed and reasonable, and he smirks triumphantly as he leaves. The world has righted, and our hero is the badass king of his universe once again.

What the hell was that?

I'm still numb. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to think. Whatever I think, it ain't about the characters. That illusion has been shattered. No, all I could think about was the show's creators. Are they so cynical, so out of touch that they actually think this is entertainment? That this is a protagonist? That I still care what they have to say? That I want to ever watch this show again?

I'm stunned that there's been no backlash.

posted by john at 10:50 PM  •  permalink

June 19, 2006

john’s second law

I invented the Second Law early: never blame your misfortune on how rough your life has been, because you never know when your audience had things much, much worse. Quite justifiably, they will think you a whiny maggot. This isn't to say I don't occasionally get caught bellyaching about having no shoes to men who have no feet, but such moments are rare now. More often lately, I'm the footless guy.

A couple of baby boomer parents were remarking to me about their miracle baby, age 31. He's a miracle because he has three kids and the occasional job. "Oh man," the parents chuckled. "We didn't think we'd ever say that, there for a while."

It turns out that from 19-21, he did some drugs. He stopped doing them. Good for him.

Apparently I was insufficiently impressed with the miraculous nature of a 19 year old white college student doing drugs and living to pay taxes at 30. "You have to understand, John, he had a really rough life."

"Very rough," added the other parent, sadly shaking his head.

"How so?"

"Well, he started associating with the wrong sort of people. Drug users. Real nasty people." It became apparent to me that they were done making their case. Their kid didn't screw up; someone else screwed him up.

My mind flashed back to all the crack dealers and, very likely, murderers that I used to ball with. Odd that d'Andre and I so effortlessly escaped those associations without drug habits or arrests. And with our degrees. This kid's friends must have been insidious indeed to have been a lower element than ours. Perhaps his friends specialized in selling crack to orphans.

"Let me get this straight," I replied. "And stop me when I'm wrong. This kid is born healthy and into a middle class family. Gets the finest medical care from word go. Never worries for a moment about where's he's gonna sleep or get his next meal. He has every material thing he could reasonably want. His only job as a kid is being a kid. His whole life, he has two healthy parents who love him and one another. He's never beaten or molested. When he turns 16, his dad buys him a car on a credit card. When he turns 18, his housing and college are paid for. He decides he doesn't like college, so he drops out and does drugs and never returns and starts a menial career...and this, this is the 'rough life' that's supposed to buy him sympathy? Sounds like a spoiled kid tripping on his own good fortune, to me."

"Well, when you put it that way..."

As if there's another way. Whiny fucking maggots.

• • •

This post is affectionately dedicated to Becky, the first person to ever make me hug my own hardships, so grateful was I not to have had hers.

posted by john at 07:48 AM  •  permalink

June 14, 2006

anti-piffle

My Inbox has been filled with piffle this week.

It turns out that I'm an anti-choice freedom-hater. And I'm also anti-Freedom of Choice. I'm not sure if there's a difference, 'cause, well, it's all so much meaningless marketing piffle masquerading as philosophy.

I blame the abortion debate. I'm sure the Piffle Wars predated the abortion dialogue (dueling monologues, really, but I digress), but if in modern times there were ever an issue in which everyone hid behind meaningless euphemism, that's the one. I, myself, am both pro-choice and pro-life. I like choosing, and I sure as hell like living.

At any rate, as soon as I hear such a slogan invoked, I tune out. "Use your words," I say in my imagination.

Which brings us to this "Freedom of Choice" nonsense with regard to motorcycle helmet laws. How noble that makes vainglorious stupidity sound. How heinous someone must be to oppose "Freedom of Choice." Bravo.

Alas, merely casting helmetless motorcycle riding as a civil liberty does not make it one; it is a privilege, not a right, and as such it is reasonably regulated by the people who issue you a license and ultimately pay for the roads and your reconstructive surgery.

In the spirit of compromise, though, I'll ally myself with helmet "Freedom of Choice"... just so long as that freedom extends to my health insurance company choosing whether or not they'll pay for repairing the fruits of motorcyclists' vanity.

Hell, I'll even support this imaginary civil right as soon as I hear women assert its existence, which would disprove what I really think: helmet "Freedom of Choice" isn't so much a moral stance as a vain, unimaginably stupid penis thing. Somehow I doubt they'd protest as much if, say, bad-ass leather jackets were required.

posted by john at 11:49 AM  •  permalink

June 12, 2006

blame ben, yes, but let’s not forget to blow kisses their way, too

In 2003, the following Pennsylvania legislators voted to repeal the longtime helmet law.

Why? Because helmets aren't cool. No? Helmet hair, then?

The jagovs in question:

Source - Remember, "Freedom of Choice wins!"

posted by john at 01:51 AM  •  permalink

May 21, 2006

unbearable whiteness

Jesus H. As if Tom's dancing and Jodie's rapping weren't enough evidence that "white supremacy" is an unintentionally hilarious term, now we have a local math professor beginning a story problem with "Condoleezza holds a watermelon..." and bravely anonymous emailers decrying that a young black woman was elected "Miss Viking Fest."

I humbly submit that when we're back to gleefully wallowing in this level of imbecility, al Qaeda has officially lost.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any more ludicrous, the professor is appealing his suspension. On what grounds, I can only imagine. Maybe he misquoted himself.

posted by john at 09:34 PM  •  permalink

May 19, 2006

look for the hybrid label

I knew I was in Seattle 'cause a complete stranger was chiding me for driving a Jeep. People do that here, and when you're offended, well, you're downright rude.

It would be unethical of me to drive that, sniffed the new hybrid owner who, for consuming the world resources used in the creation of a new car and letting someone else waste oil in his unethical old car, was clearly fitting himself for the Nobel Prize. I talked about relative resource and cost savings, but he wasn't interested. His validation was firmly invested in the hybrid label.

Astoundingly, though, the man has four kids. He's done his part to double the world population. Relative to the amount of resources his four little vanity projects are going to consume over the course of their entire lifetimes, the five gallons per week my Jeep uses to haul my fat ass to work seem trifling. An environmentalist breeder? Is that like an honest thief?

posted by john at 07:38 AM  •  permalink

May 16, 2006

toilet retraining

One of life's enduring mysteries: when I complete my business in a unisex bathroom, what do I do with the toilet seat?

On the one hand, we have my childhood shock therapy suggesting that the thoughtful thing to do is lower the seat. On the other hand, we have the next guy coming in and power-washing the seat I so thoughtfully lowered. So I leave it to my female readers. Which of my two options is the considerate one?

I'll posts results tomorrow.

posted by john at 07:42 AM  •  permalink

May 11, 2006

phone thrusters

Phone thrusters: what motivates them? I'll be talking to my friend on the phone when suddenly, they'll thrust the phone into someone else's hands, and then, with little or no transition, I'll be awkwardly talking to their kid or S.O.

"Ohmygod. Here, tell Steve what you just told me!" she says, throwing me Steve's way.

"Hello?"

"Sigh. So I'm at the office the other day—"

"I'm sorry. Who is this?"

"John."

"Oh, hi John. Why am I talking to you?"

"Because your wife is a fucking tool."

"Ah. Yes."

Awkward though this is, it's infinitely preferable to being in the middle of a sentence and suddenly hearing the "Blap!" that signals that I'm now talking to a 14-month old, as 14-month olds don't so readily understand that their mother is a tool.

This all stems, I'm assured, from my friends' desire to make me closer to their family members. I suppose being thrust into the same moment of stammering awkwardness is a bonding experience of sorts, but still. I'll ask for 'em.

posted by john at 07:01 AM  •  permalink

May 05, 2006

fringe benefits

Eight years of living in the Seattle area had me wondering if at heart I wasn't an AM-radio listening, bible-thumping, card-carrying member of the GOP. Not that my dial ever switches to AM or that I even own a bible. I just so perpetually wanted to pimp-slap the smug left, I found myself waiting in line with Republicans. Chattering airheads lectured me about my diet, recycling habits, gas-powered car, aversion to protests, etc. from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. In reaction, I even started using that most Republican of epithets: "the elite." I despise their public masturbation, their sneering presumption, their group-think. I especially despise their self-inflating answers to questions no one asked.

Just when I was about to buy a red, white and blue SUV made of old growth timber by non-union labor and fueled by baby-seal head-pulp, I moved to Metamuville. Now I'm a left-wing nut. I'm one of the "librawls" I hear derided pretty much every day. Good lord, I hear he even votes both ways. Clearly, he don't support the troops. It's time for an intervention. John needs some learnin.' Conservative learnin.'

If I vote for a school levy, refuse to fertilize my lawn, or ask that racial slurs not be used around me? I'm a bleeding heart librawl. High gas prices? Librawls' fault. Requirements that you have a permit to construct a building? Damned librawls. Can't smoke in restaurants? You better believe it's the librawls. Ill-read, ill-educated cretins made these self-inflating pronouncements, parroting, I suppose, what they heard on the radio or O'Reilly.

A typical such moment: last week I was at a buffet with some Metamuvillians. The waitress took our drink order and forgot about it, and a fellow got up and got his own. "See, I ain't no librawl," he said pointedly. "A librawl would have just sat there and whined for someone else to bring them their drink, where me, I just took care of it myself."

I stared at him. So this is what passes as a friend in the post-baby-boomlet era. Shudder.

Maybe if I make fun of him.

"Yes, we're all very proud of you. But you did that server's job for her. She's going to get paid for not working. How do you reconcile that?"

"Good point. I hadn't thought of that. Damn."

Maybe Guam. I hear good things about Guam.

posted by john at 07:37 AM  •  permalink

April 25, 2006

scary in-law moments

A real-life conversation about scary in-laws leads me to share my two scariest tales here.

Honorable mention

I was staying at Fucking Amy's parents' for the first time, and her little brother was in fine form. A nightmare child at school and at home, he had already been diagnosed with several mental illnesses, and their manifestations included incredible outbursts and fits of violence, including at me. Earlier in the week, he had put Draino in his mother's contact solution, so I counted myself lucky to just be punched in the eye. After I had iced my eye, Dad asked me if I'd walk the driveway with him to get the mail. I thought he would apologize, or maybe talk about the strains of raising such a child. I was wrong. He talked about their treatment plan.

"I don't know when he's going to realize that until he learns to accept Jesus Christ into his heart, he's going to have these problems."

"Jesus Christ!" I said.

"Exactly."

Okay, so I made that last line up.

Grand Jury Prize winner

While we'd been on vacation, Maddie had contracted a bizarre and terrifying disease. The doctors performed every imaginable test, including a spinal tap. We were in a hospital room and she was prone, naked, and with a syringe drawing fluid from her spinal column when her dad burst in and demanded to know why I was in there.

This is how we met.

Dad introduced himself to me. "I'm her father," he said, with peculiar emphasis that connoted contempt, but I'm not sure why. He spoke in italics a lot.

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" Maddie screamed. She was partial to all-caps, herself.

I stroked her hair. "Honey, be careful. Remember what the doctor said about mov-"

"Do you mind?" Dad snarled as though I were mounting her doggie-style.

"GET. THE. FUCK. OUT. WHERE DID I LOSE YOU?"

And so Dad and I moved to the waiting room, where he proceeded to grill me. After we'd discussed me, my job, my family, my car, my past, my present, my future, and several other topics I wasn't interested in, I brought up Maddie's very possibly terminal condition.

"Yep," he drawled sadly. "She's a special little gal, and—" he twisted toward me, using his right hand to pull his sports coat back and thus reveal his massive handgun—"I'd hate to see anything happen to her."

Message: sent.
Colon: evacuated.

• • •

I've shown you mine, so show me yours.

posted by john at 09:13 AM  •  permalink

April 24, 2006

media and race

It's officially time to retire using "the Arab guy" as a red herring in entertainment. No one's falling for it. It just wastes our time.

In Flightplan, when Jodie Foster is searching the plane for whatever nefarious person abducted her daughter, and her eyes linger on a bunch of pissed off Arabs congregating around the bathroom door, did anyone in America not think "Well, obviously they didn't do it. In a movie 10 years ago, sure, but not today. But which WASP did it?"

It's ineffective and hypocritical. What is intended, I'm sure, to play upon prejudice and teach us all an important moral lesson, fails. Instead, the filmmakers lazily practice prejudice—toward Arabs, toward us—and the only lesson we're taught is that the filmmakers think we're profoundly stupid bigots who haven't seen a movie in the past five years. Our would-be enlighteners would do well to examine whether cheaply using ethnicity as a red herring is itself offensive. You know my vote.

I knew it had gotten bad when I saw the trailer for United 93 and my dominant thought was not "Too soon" but "Wow, they actually cast Arabs as the Arab terrorists." I was expecting Mexicans.

• • •

While I'm on the topic of media and race, can we also get a moratorium on race-based "nexts?" You've heard them. When young black Phil Ivey won a few championships in the predominantly white poker world, he was immediately hailed as "the Tiger Woods of poker." When young white Adam Morrison established himself in the predominantly black world of basketball, he was predictably christened the next "the next Larry Bird."

The Woods comparison is simply insane. They have nothing in common except skin color. Ivey is presently one of the best poker players in the world. Tiger is merely immortal. The Morrison comparison is slightly more defensible (small school, great shooter, hick, soft on defense), but not when you consider the pantheon of "the next Larry Birds" to have come and gone over the years, the only common denominator again being hue. Where you at, Chris Mullin and Rex Chapman?

Repugnant, lazy reporting.

But just how shocking would it be to hear Morrison called "the Tiger Woods of basketball?" It's ludicrous, yet oddly no more so.

posted by john at 07:05 AM  •  permalink

April 22, 2006

a day in the life of john (2006)

6 am - Wake up. Stretch. It's all downhill from here.

6:01am - Check personal e-mail. Not a peep from my friends. Thank god for Internet trolls.

9am - Commute. Drive by Metamuville store, cringe at the owners' patheticly self-promoting sign: "Roses are red, Violets are blue, Ava is sweet, And our doughnuts are too."

11am - Try to scare up a lunch date. "If I take a lunch, that's just that much later I have to work, and I won't be able to pick up my baby from the complete stranger," they say.

Noon - Lunch alone.

1pm - Chat with Mom #1. Her baby is really, really unique and endlessly fascinating. The child likes crinkly sounds and bright colors, everything goes right into her mouth, and she sure is a handful! "But enough about my kid," Mom says. "What do you think about my kid?"

2pm - Have the identical conversation with Mom #2. "She just makes the cutest expressions!" she says.

3pm - Have the identical conversation with Mom #3. "She just makes the cutest expressions!" she says. Well, someone's gotta be wrong, I grumble. She gets cross. "Validation, please. A real friend would pay unremitting homage to my baby," comes the reply, or maybe that's just what I heard. "YOU WILL PAY HOMAGE!"

3:30pm - My co-worker cancels, at the last minute, the meeting for which I traveled 160 minutes and paid $25 in gas and ferry fees. "My kid has a thing."

3:31pm - Plan Football Weekend such that Bubba's wife and two kids can fly with us and visit family. Otherwise he can't go, you see.

4pm - Receive e-mail with baby photos. My oh my, gosh almighty and yes indeedy, that is just, um, let's see...the...cutest baby ever? Ah, you're welcome! And your baby's so distinguishable from the rest! Yep. Yep. Say, what do you think about Iran enriching uranium? A scary, can't-win situation, that. "Now that I'm a mother," the reply comes, "Those sorts of things really bother me."

5pm - Meet Mom #4 and appendage for dinner. The baby shrieks nonstop, and little is done to make it stop. Everyone in the restaurant glares at me. They want to kill me. I want to help them. Mom shrugs. "There's nothing I can do about it." I ask her if she's ever heard of the technological innovation called "babysitters." Or "condoms," for that matter. I'm told I'm rude. What? I'm sorry, what did you say? All I can hear is your little birth defect being extra miraculous.

5:57pm - Drive past Metamuville store on way home. The sign now reads: "Ava says 'ice cream and I are cool treats!'"

6pm - Play cards with Mom #5. She asks about the baby of Mom #4, even though she's never met the people and never will.

7pm - Quality time. Cigar. Tawny. Hot tub. Alone.

11:35pm - Save me, Letterman!

11:36pm - Letterman mentions his son Harry for the first time that evening. I realize that nowadays, I can't tell Letterman from my friends any easier than I can tell my friends from one another.

11:51pm - Letterman asks vacuous supermodel about her kids. She takes the hint to ask him about Harry. They conclude that their kids make just the cutest expressions. After five minutes of brain-gooifying discourse about sippy cups and table-walking, the sweet, sweet release of unconsciousness comes. Or maybe it's death. If I'm lucky, it's death.

6am - Damn.

posted by john at 11:05 AM  •  permalink

April 19, 2006

reader mail: yoko

The consensus response to last week's Yoko post is sensible enough, but nonetheless I didn't see it coming: yes, this happens with the genders reversed, and often it's a sign of an abusive relationship. The guy discredits people in her support system one by one, excising from her life anyone who might pose an obstacle to him. This is not at all inconsistent with my Yokos. Although physical abuse isn't a factor, emotional abuse is, and the hunting of the support system is too familiar. People perceived as threats are managed out.

Next question: male or female, do your Yokos have any friends of their own? Mine don't. Socially as with all else, they bring nothing to the table.

posted by john at 07:33 AM  •  permalink

April 13, 2006

how do you sleep?

Tell me if this is familiar.

You've got a friend. You get along fabulously. One day, a woman appears in the periphery of his life, hanging around just a little more than she should, trying to get his attention in any way she can. She's needy. Compared to your friend, she's wholly unremarkable. You might even feel a little sorry for her. Then one day, they're dating. Okay, fine. You welcome her. And then bit by tiny bit, you watch the man who was your friend be chipped away. I'm not talking about normal new-relationship triangulation, where this new influence causes your friend to change and evolve. That's natural and healthy. No, I'm talking about a descent into a sort of madness, where the whispers in his ear become his unquestioned perception of reality. Suddenly, you and your friend have conflicts. You question yourself but find that his other relationships are weirding out, too. He's suddenly secretive. He's distrustful of your motives, and he's not the least bit inhibited about telling you what you're really thinking—which often is shockingly far from anything that's ever crossed your mind. He's uninterested in hearing your thoughts; he already knows them. He does not allow his certainty to be diminished by data. You don't know for sure where this weirdness came from, but you strongly suspect. "This is between you two," the woman makes sure to say about each of his suffering relationships. "It has nothing to do with me." Yet his every question feels like an errand, and his every e-mail seems vetted. The new unease in your friendship breeds more unease, and you grow farther apart. You find yourself not really knowing this person anymore, nor caring to. And then one day your friend is gone entirely, and you just shrug. I've had two such friends, both male, both gone. The women whispering in their ears? Still there, still whispering. I call them "Yokos."

At first I thought Yoko unique to the first friendship, but then Yoko II appeared, so now I wonder how common it really is, and whether this happens with the genders reversed. Do tell.

posted by john at 09:01 AM  •  permalink

April 04, 2006

korean delicacy

My first experience with Asian race relations came when I started teaching. I was fresh from Ohio and naive about the splendors of racial purity, but my Japanese and Korean students quickly got me up to speed. Perhaps I erred, Takumi implied respectfully, when I put a Korean in his small group.

"Nope."

When asked how her small group was going, Yuko blushed and confessed that she'd never seen a black person before and that they all looked alike to her.

"Good thing there's only the one, then. Anything else?"

Were there any big incidents? No. But there were lots of these tiresome little ones. As time went on, my students taught me about the hostility between Koreans and Japanese. It was so, so tempting to tweak them—"Like there's a difference?" And we discussed each nation's fondness for racial purity. Japanese Prime Minister Nakasone had recently driven home that point by explaining the Japanese economic boom thusly: whereas the Japanense worker benefited from his nation's "racial homogeneity," American workers were intellectually handicapped by the presence in this nation of blacks and Hispanics. (Guilty pleasure: How's that racially homogeneous economy working for you, lately?)

Once I discovered the buttons, I couldn't resist pressing them. The first day of each quarter, I would anxiously await the first Japanese name on my roster. "Sota? Sota Yakamura? Hi. Is that a Korean name?"

And then I would watch the student implode. Great fun. All I needed was popcorn.

• • •

It's with mixed feelings that I read about Hines Ward's visit to Korea. Ward is a Steeler, and my favorite one at that. He's the child of a black American serviceman and a Korean woman—a demographic shunned and often abandoned in Korea. Fleeing certain marginalization, his mother brought Hines to America when he was one, and she worked countless menial jobs to give her child a chance. Hines became a star, of course, and years later he won Super Bowl MVP. It was at that moment that all of Korea embraced him. He and his mother are currently touring Korea. Says the government: "He showed perseverance, resilience and modesty, the core characteristics of the Korean people, and gave pride to all Koreans at home and abroad."

The desire to glom on to Ward's success is forcing Koreans to confront how they treat their mixed-race children, which can only be a good thing. Any credit I give is mitigated, however, by the fact that soul-cleansing comes not from within but from a need to explain the hypocrisy of canonizing someone who once fled the country. Ward has been famous for years. He's been half-Korean for even longer. Where's the shame?

• • •

Also irksome: last I checked, Koreans didn't give two craps about Hines Ward or American football...until this half-Korean won Super Bowl MVP, that is. Now he's a "returning hero." Please. Stop piddling yourselves. Show some dignity. I can say with confidence that if a half-American helped England win the World Cup, he wouldn't exactly need a police escort upon his return here.

posted by john at 06:25 AM  •  permalink

March 30, 2006

what he said

Anytime I peruse the great Leonard Pitts' writings, I know two things for certain: 1) he will cover a topic I've recently written about and 2) I will be embarrassed by how much better he can express what I'm thinking than I can. This is what I was tryin' to say:

Last week, I received an e-mail from a man named Keith in Atlanta. He wrote: "...I wonder if Barry Bonds were a white baseball player trying to break the home-run record if the media would entertain these unfounded allegations? . . . Once again racist America has reared its ugly head..."

It goes on, but you get the point. I wish Keith didn't feel that way, but I'm not surprised he does. I've spent 11 years writing about race -- among other things -- in this space. In that time, two frustrating truths have become clear to me. The first is that many white Americans labor under the self-justifying fantasy that racism just up and disappeared 40 years ago. The second is that many black Americans labor under the equally vexing belief that racism explains everything, that it is the all-purpose excuse any time one of ''us'' gets in trouble, gets criticized or just gets rude service in the checkout line.

posted by john at 01:42 PM  •  permalink

March 27, 2006

yeah, that’s about the size of it

Every once in a while, Seattle will appear in some list of the nation's most polite cities—one time even in a non-Seattle-based publication. The claim always makes me snort, if not guffaw. Yes, I'll guff, I suppose there's one advantage to people pretending they don't see you and fleeing the moment you attempt conversation: they don't give you the finger, either.

Here's the headline that made me guffaw this morning:

posted by john at 06:56 AM  •  permalink

March 23, 2006

spade! spade!

With the NCAA men's tourney presently between rounds and the Ohio State women taking it on the chin, I'm left with watching the NFL Network while I work. It turns out that Paul Tagliabue is a great man, and that the NFL is a totally bitchin' league. Who knew?

When it comes to offseason programming, they're clearly reaching. Yesterday, a documentary about—I am not making this up—the Dolphins' cheerleader tryouts aired. I was only tangentially aware of the show, so I can't give a whole review, but I managed to catch this moment on tape so that I could transcribe it. The scene: Ashley is summoned before two grotesquely artificial-looking Barbie dolls, who would look quite natural spritzing wrists in the Nordstrom perfume department, or perhaps working the front desk at a disreputable car dealership, or simply shilling peroxide. Ashley is a veteran cheerleader, and the narrator gravely tells us that no one—no one!—is above the lofty standards to which those who simulate masturbation for drunks are held. Or words to that effect.

Ashley sits down. Dorie Grogan, the Dolphins' Director of Event Entertainment and Ashley's pimp, immediately begins chiding:

"We're going to have to let you go. I mean, your weight is just too big of a problem. Um, I honestly was extremely upset when you came back, with the weight like that, um, it's not only, it's a disappointment to your teammates, it's a disappointment to the Dolphins"—at this point, Grogan's disgust and outrage are swelling, and she can't chide fast enough without stuttering—"i-it's-it's-it's it's disrespectful of the organization, everything that we stand for, that you would come back and not want to respect it enough to come back at your best you know, you know it's just gonna have to end here."

I pause now to show you a photo of the morbidly obese cheerleader getting up to leave after having been fired, probably the least flattering pose imaginable. Note the telltale folds of waist fat.

Ashley leaves. The other Barbie grins.

"Poor thing, she was about to...she was tearing up! Did you notice?" The grin widens to beaming proportions. "She was trying to hold it back."

That the NFL pimps and denigrates the women in its employ is hardly a surprise. That vacuous, heinous women like Dorie Grogan exist is hardly a surprise, either. Nor it it surprising that the Dorie Grogans of the world utter unintentionally hilarious things like a young woman's alleged weight gain being against "everything we stand for." Great stuff, that, and no doubt honest, although a better verb choice might have been "gyrate" or "kneel." What does surprise me is that this aired. The NFL isn't even pretending not to objectify these young women, anymore. The girls' evisceration along the shallowest and unhealthiest of lines is now good reality TV fodder. I'm surprised the cameras didn't follow Ashley to the bathroom to show her sticking her finger down her throat.

Where's your self-awareness, NFL? Where's your shame?

posted by john at 07:47 AM  •  permalink

March 15, 2006

petulance defined

"Brokeback" author Annie Proulx wrote an amazing article for the London Guardian in which she:

1. Derides Academy voters for awarding another movie Best Picture.
2. Argues that their obvious stupidity is the product of their living behind iron gates near, but not in, a yeasty ferment.
3. Argues that if you really want to see a reputable award, you should check out the one that she actually won.
4. Indulges in the argumentative cheats of "we should have known!" and that old standby of playground rhetorical legerdemain: the demeaning malaprop.
   

   "Trash – excuse me – Crash."
   

Ha, ha. Zing!

That the Guardian published this steamin' pile of petulance is surprising enough, but who knew Brokeback was written by an 12 year old girl?

posted by john at 09:42 PM  •  permalink

March 08, 2006

black. white.

For the first few years of "Survivor," you could reliably bet on the Black Guy (there would be exactly one) being 1) conspicuously lazy, 2) ultra-religious, or 3) both. "What," I wondered. "Did they get these guys all from the same family?" There was obvious stereotyping going on, be it in the casting or the editing. Although empathy extracted some offense from me, I'll admit I was also amused. I find anything amusing if I know it irritates people who aren't me. I'm just a lousy person that way.

In other words, I had "Black. White." coming to me.

BW is a new show that premiered tonight on F/X. It's reality show schlock posing as a meaningful sociological experiment. Two families, one black, one white, don makeup and pose as the other race. They live together during the experiment and give one another tips. The best moment of the first episode was a seemingly nothing moment: the black dad, wearing his redneck getup, goes into a shoe store and buys shoes, and he's blown away by the clerk sliding the shoes on to his feet. With a shoehorn, yet. A minor thing, of course, but his astonishment was not: he was genuinely shocked. That's the show at its best, illuminating the little societal differences we don't even know exist.

But good god, that white family. They're my punishment for the Survivor thing. I was utterly humiliated while watching them—and I was by myself. The daughter seems cool, but the parents are hopeless, clueless, sniveling, approval-starved losers who simply will not shut their holes. "I expect I'll walk differently!" chirps the vacuous father. "I love black," says the Nobel Laureate mother. "I mean visually, and heart-wise. There's a warmth." We know from the previews that they casually let the n-bomb fly over dinner. So we have that to look forward to. Meanwhile, I had to stop the Tivo a couple times just to wince and recover from the mortifying things they were saying. To the black family, on posing as black among blacks: "I just figured when I walk into the room, I'd high-five everybody."

Please tell me this is a put on. These people don't really exist, right? Please?

posted by john at 10:57 PM  •  permalink

March 07, 2006

in defense of hate

I've had a post with this title in my queue for some time. I was going to write about the bum rap that hate gets, about how the healthy reaction to someone contemptible is hate, about how hate can separate us from the cretins of the world. We hate them, so we are not like them, or so the thought was going to go. I don't know. The thought never finished gestating. It got derailed toward the end of Grizzly Man.

I don't know how you couldn't know the plot of this documentary, but briefly: a flaky, flamboyant man named Tim Treadwell lived with grizzlies on remote Kodiak Island. He foolishly thought of them as his friends, shooting tons of footage of himself with them until his eventual death by mauling. Filmmaker Werner Herzog cobbled together years of footage into a documentary, and voila, Grizzly Man. So far, everyone I've spoken to had a different reaction to Treadwell. Some thought him an idiot who got what he deserved. Some thought him mentally ill. Me, I thought him merely pathetic, a man who reinvented himself many times, trying to find a version that would be accepted. He, not the bears, was the star of his footage, which was crudely calculated to make him look the daring, bold avenger against the forces of...well, we're never quite sure. I thought he tried too hard at all things image. I found his posturing unappealing, and I readily admit that I enjoyed the macabre humor stemming from knowing what would be this particular superhero's fate. Was he mentally ill? Perhaps. There's ample evidence of bi-polarism and delusion. I just didn't think of it. I didn't worry about Treadwell's mental health; I just skipped straight to thinking he was a jerk. I think both impressions are defensible, and they're not mutually exclusive, besides.

At the end of the film, the Discovery Channel ran an epilogue in which they revisited Treadwell's friends, post-film. They read letters that they have received. Now, Treadwell's friends are inoffensive, even nondescript people. I can't say the same of the letter-writers. They gleefully celebrated Treadwell's death. Your friend got exactly what he deserved, they gloated. Just another spotted-owl loving liberal trying to tell the rest of us what to do. Hooray for the bears. It makes me want to send bears to places that could use them, like the Berkeley campus.

Let's skip any discussion about their assertions. I'm far more interested in this singular, gleeful act of hate. Just how much hate do you have to carry in your colon in order to track down and harrass these people? To sit down and write a letter to someone who you do not know, with whom you have no possible objection or connection, and gloat over their close friend's death? This is far worse than a drive-by shooting; it's premeditated, and while it has the appearance of targeting, it's really just as arbitrary.

These letters humbled me. I don't hate anyone that much, not nearly, not even the letter-writers. I'm a rank amateur.

And there, abruptly, the "in defense of hate" post died.

posted by john at 06:46 AM  •  permalink

March 05, 2006

yeah, but where did incuriosity ever get the cat?

I noticed the phenomenon the first time some Ohio family came to Seattle for a visit. "Look!" I said.

Shining a spectacular red, there was Mount Rainier. The mountain remains covered in snow year-round and serves as this city's most prominent and beautiful landmark. I pointed to it from the ferry. "Those are 60 story buildings, 10 miles away, and the mountain's 75 miles away." They yawned. "Just look at how it towers over them," I tried.

"What year is your Jeep?" my sister asked, literally surveying her fingernails. "How much did you pay for it?"

I tried again with the next family member a year later. They were equally appreciative of the grandeur. "Yeah, that's nice. So did you hear Aunt Jane caught diabetes off a toilet seat?"

It's easy enough to attribute this attitude to my family's overall lameness. These are people, after all, who've never dared imagine living anywhere but central Ohio, who consider me weird for wanting a different life. They do not travel. They do not read. Natural beauty is not important to them. They have no dreams or plans; such things are best left to the next generation, so long as they too remain in central Ohio. They are absolutely incurious about the world around them. In the game of life, they are merely running out the clock.

Sure, I could write this incuriosity off as familial lameness, but that would be oversimplifying. Perhaps it's just a function of age, but most people I know seem to be running out the clock, lately. They blithely check off entries on the How Life Goes check list, talk of trips they'll never take, read only what affirms their world view, and have friends who only do likewise. For them, "adventurousness" means a midday trip to Costco, or perhaps ordering movies from Netflix instead of Blockbuster. But not both. That would be overkill.

• • •
When I was 15, I came to Washington in order to see gray whales. I was astonished by the beauty of Aberdeen, which is pretty funny to me now, but to a 15 year old kid from Ohio, Aberdeen is Cape Cod. When our commercial whale-watching vessel went to sea, it was pounded by enormous waves. A dozen people huddled in the cabin, depositing their complimentary huevos rancheros in red-striped bags labeled "Popcorn." I was the only person who remained on deck, which in retrospect was pretty dangerous. I bear-hugged a metal pole as waves crashed on the deck and swells towered above the boat. I was frightened. The storm was getting worse. But I had just come 2000 miles to see a whale, and goddammit, I was gonna see me a whale. And I did. Still hugging the pole, I watched with awe as this massive black thing rolled slowly, steadily by, completely unperturbed by the violent waters that were so battering me. For me, it was an immortal moment. For me alone.

It was a metaphor for what all of life would look like to me later. Curious people: taking a bite out of life; often out on deck alone, clinging for dear life; thrilled to have chased and caught wonder. Incurious people: cowering inside together, miserable and self-pitying; missing it all; thrilled that Netflix finally sent them that one Adam Sandler movie where he plays a guy who's kind of dim-witted. He's a kind of wonder!

They can have their popcorn bags. Point me toward the nearest metal pole, please.

posted by john at 10:34 AM  •  permalink

March 04, 2006

prejudice revisited

Oddly, I forgot to cite what inspired the string of posts about prejudice a few weeks ago. An old friend of mine has had poor luck with a string of Mexican nannies and has started uttering clever, vaguely appalling things like:

I've discovered that I'm becoming rather bigoted in my advancing age. I can't decide if it's the product of the crankiness that seems to affect a lot of older people or if it's just that I'm more realistic about broad generalizations than I used to be.

I have chosen to believe that it's an issue of recognizing the patterns in the data.

I'm still pissed off. I've spent more time angry at Mexicans in the past year than at the entire rest of the world in the past five years. I clearly need to dramatically readjust my expectations of this entire culture. I thought they'd already hit bottom, but it's now time to start digging. As our neighbor says, maybe it's time to start paying retail for childcare.

Comments like these make me feel a lot of things, but none so much as a squirmy "This is my friend?" and of course, the increasingly familiar old standby: "What about me makes you think it's okay to say this?"

People seem to be downright delusional about the self-evidential nature of their own prejudices. Have they no filter for their uglier thoughts? They hold forth confidently, unconcerned about people's perceptions. I'm the one abashed by shame. I shouldn't be.

posted by john at 11:39 AM  •  permalink

February 25, 2006

worse than pottery barn

Wouldn't the world be a just swell place if you could donate to a charity and give them your real contact information, without fear of inundation?

posted by john at 10:01 PM  •  permalink

February 20, 2006

accusations from under wheel

Astounding though it is, I am aware that this page is published on the Internet.

I never cease to marvel at people who read this page, then act as if 1) they caught me doing something covert and 2) that I should care. Clever, they. Trust that if I choose throw you under the bus, I've already decided you belong under wheel. Yelling "A-ha! It's come to my attention that you just threw me under a bus!" matters not at all, save some morbid curiosity about why you think your words matter to the guy who threw you there.

My favorite such chiding to date is "This, after I've always defended you when everyone criticized you!" That rebuke was from a middle-aged person, not from a 13 year old girl, and, not at all coincidentally, is symptomatic of the childish, bunglingly manipulative behavior that got them under wheel in the first place. Elegant in its symmetry.

To summarize: that you're yak dung who doesn't matter might constitute current events to you, but it's history to me. There's the door. Try leaving with dignity.

posted by john at 07:48 AM  •  permalink

February 14, 2006

the old valentine’s day tradition

I used to give out small boxes of chocolates on Valentine's Day, particularly to single friends and to the poor receptionists who have to process everyone else's flowers all day. I'd done this for several years when one day, suddenly and without warning, an old friend freaked out. She started speechifying. "For some time now," she said to my utter horror, "It's been apparent that you want to be more than friends..." And then she let me down rather ungently—not to mention unnecessarily. Surprised and supremely uncomfortable, I had to respond that actually, I wasn't attracted to her, and that moreover, if I were interested in a girl, I think I'd muster more than a 4-piece Whitman sampler. It was the latter part that I found most insulting.

The next year was squirmingly uncomfortable, made all the more so by the increasing sensation that this woman was going to lock me in her basement if given half a chance. By Christmas, she sent me a list of reasons why she and I should couple. I haven't seen her since.

I have since stopped the tradition. Happy Valentine's Day.

posted by john at 06:57 AM  •  permalink

February 07, 2006

sad epiphany

Although it was largely unfun, the trip home to the midwest was a watershed moment of my life. Thanks to the weird social environment created by the game, I was thrust into a single setting in which concentrations of midwesterners, Pittsburghers, and Seattlites were easily identifiable. They were plainly labeled, making Detroit a laboratory environment, complete with experimental and control groups.

The contrast was jarring.

"Watch this," I said to some new friends, a group of Detroit natives with whom I was enjoying a fifteenth appetizer. I walked up to the counter to order a sixteenth, and, just as I had with my companions two hours before, I approached some Seattle folks with an earnest "How's it going? You having fun?"

"Uh, fine," they said, scanning my hands for weaponry. And then it became apparent that I wasn't going to stop making eye contact, that I expected something in the neighborhood of an engaged conversation, or maybe even a complete sentence. And then they visibly imploded, scurrying off.

"What was that?!" Treen laughed. "Did you molest their dog or something?"

"That," I replied, "Is the warmest person in Seattle."

As the days wore on, I repeated the routine for my own amusement. But as sterotypes continually confirmed themselves, my self-righteous amusement gave way to depression. The inner nothingness of Seattle folks will never be more empirically proven than it was in Detroit, and though I long suspected such, I now know for certain: I am in a hopeless social situation. I must move. I love the natural beauty of my Seattle home, and the job market is aces, but I cannot allow the inner ugliness of its people to change me further. Today, I called a financial planner and a realtor. I'm not going to do anything impetuous, but the days of my ridiculing the problem instead of working it are over. The soulless, joyless fucks must go.

posted by john at 03:50 PM  •  permalink

February 04, 2006

rosa parks

DETROIT - Foregoing the giant tire and the world's largest ball of twine that the NFL recommends I check out while in town, I instead ventured to the Henry Ford Institute to see the Rosa Parks bus. Why is it here? Because she moved here later in life. But yeah, I too think it belongs in the Jim Crow south.

The Henry Ford is a bizarre place. A single level-building vastly larger than Costco, it's a bizarre collection of classrooms, cars, and exhibits that range from cutlery to looms to locomotives to, well, the Rosa Parks bus. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the museum was trying to be. I walked in the side entrance and asked the assembled security guards where the bus was. Following their directions, I wandered, alone, through exhibits to the bus. Not a soul was in sight. "That's sad," I thought. "With all the tourists in town...?"

There are a few moments in my life where being in a certain place gave me chills. Normandy. The Ford Theatre. The Air and Space Museum, looking at Spirit of Saint Louis and the various space capsules. Yesterday, I added the Rosa Parks bus to the list. I sat in her seat. I had the bus all to myself for 15 minutes. It vibrated with history.

I tried for a while to find an exit, and finally I came upon a security guard. "WHERE ARE YOUR CREDENTIALS?!?" he demanded in accusing all-caps.

"Huh? I don't have anything."

"YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED IN HERE WITHOUT CREDENTIALS!" He got on his walkie-talkie and talked to his boss.

"There was no sign, just an open door. And the guards waved me in. But this works out. I'm done, and I'm not sure where the exit is. Can you show me out?"

"YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED IN HERE WITHOUT CREDENTIALS! I'M GLAD I CAUGHT YOU!"

"Caught me? I came to you!"

And then, instead of leading me out of the building, he led me to the security manager, who proceeded to interrogate me and talk in terms of my presently being "detained" and perhaps some day "released."

"Allow me to explain something," I growled, barely containing my rage. "I'm here because I'm being polite. To help you understand how your security is as invisible as your policy. But make no mistake. My politeness is very nearly depleted. And when I want to leave, no geriatric rent-a-cop is going to 'detain' me."

"YOU WILL LEAVE WHEN I—"

And then I left.

Odd that the custodians of the Rosa Parks bus want so badly to violate the civil rights of people who come to pay homage to it.

posted by john at 06:35 AM  •  permalink

January 28, 2006

how unusual

You probably aren't aware of it, but Pittsburgh journalists have descended upon Seattle. Insightful and very respectful reports about the Seahawks, their fans and their city are everywhere in the Pittsburgh media. This sort of interest is common in sports towns.

One poor reporter for a Pittsburgh TV station decided to dress in Steelers garb and walk around downtown Seattle to see what sort of reaction she'd get. I could have saved her the trouble, but she didn't ask me.

"I'm not getting much reaction at all," she informed the anchor, bewildered. "People are just...averting their eyes."

posted by john at 12:14 AM  •  permalink

January 19, 2006

unlearned prejudice

I've been mulling over how to discuss two forms of prejudice I find particularly hurtful, and then it dawned on me that they should be presented together. Not because their perpetrators have anything in common, mind you, but because it'll irritate all the right people.

the unfiltered white racist

Many of you know him. This is the white guy who thinks it's okay to blurt racist comments in front of any other white person. He has cousins—the obnoxious homophobe, the chatty misogynist—but the first guy is the most common in my experience. Unfiltered whites span the education spectrum, which rather surprises me. One would think that education would temper racist comments, but no. Education just makes the hateful words bigger. My first example is mild. I recently had houseguests, a friend and her idiot husband. We had tennis on TV, and we were all intermittently watching Serena Williams beat someone. When she won, she leapt in the air and ran over to shake her vanquished opponent's hand. And the idiot husband turned his head away from the TV and snorted.

"Jay-zus ca-righst, she even jumps up and down like a black chick."

Forgetting the obvious question about the apparently distinctive nature of jumping black chicks, as racist comments go, this is downright tame. But it still filled my head with resentment. Oh. My. God. You tool. You're actually rooting against her because she's black. Jesus Christ, indeed. Out of the world of possible choices, my friend married you? What makes you think it's okay to say that in front of me, you piece of shit? What makes you think it's okay to say that in my house, my home, my sanctuary away from people like you? This particular episode ended with my friend taking her idiot husband outside and suggesting that perhaps such comments, however mild, should be repressed around me, but the damage was done. If men are icebergs, I no longer want to know what hideousness lies beneath his surface.

My next examples hurt more, both because of severity and because, well, the perpetrators and I are composed of essentially the same genetic material. You betcha, I gots some racists in my family. My brother, a dentist with some 20 years of education, a born-again Christian who oozes Jesus' love out of every pore, is an unabashed racist. He is a regular user of the n-word. And not in any spontaneous "Some n-word just cut me off!" fashion, either. He enjoys using the word. It clearly makes him feel superior. When our old high school considered installing metal detectors, I of course thought of Columbine. Not my brother.

"It all went to hell after the n-word moved in."

Unlike with the Serena Williams incident, where my hands were somewhat tied, I have no desire to get along with my brother. I told him that what he said was moronic and offensive. You know what's coming next. I'm an overly sensitive purveyor of "political correctness." That little bit of hilarity aside, I'm left with similar feelings: What makes you think it's okay to say this to me? Maybe I was adopted.

My sister, meanwhile, doesn't even wait for an excuse to use the n-word. She uses it like you or I use pronouns. She too has 20 years of education, but eight of them were spent in the third grade. To my horror, she send out broad-distribution email in which she recounted a story where she and her husband rooted through a burned-out building and emerged covered in soot, looking like-you-know-whats. With two exclamation points. Ha, ha. What makes you think it's okay to say this to....my god, look at all the names...all of us?

Sometimes 2000 miles' distance ain't nearly enough.

the chiding young black

I'm developing a new prejudice myself, and it's one I could just as soon live without. I no longer want to discuss race with young blacks. All too often, such conversations end with me being chided, dismissed. I used to talk about racial matters with blacks under the age of 40 all the time. It was an everyday, unspectacular, often humorous dialogue, like talking about current events. We were simply discussing the state of our world, sharing our very different experiences, and we gave audience analysis very little thought. I no longer feel as though I can do this freely.

I don't know what's changed. I'm older, certainly. I've moved from a black neighborhood in a city that's 24% black to white neighborhoods in a city that's 8% black. And there's been a weird backlash from whiny white guys, who bitch and moan about "reverse discrimination" and the trifling inconveniences of measures that combat gross injustices. I hate those guys, too, and I fear that my looking like them sometimes makes my motives suspect. I don't discount those significant variables. But honestly, and I offer not a shred of evidence to back up this feeling, I think it's this point in history. I don't think it's a coincidence that I still can comfortably discuss race with people old enough to remember the civil rights era—hence my "under 40" disclaimer. We're a generation removed from the civil rights era, now, and people who have grown up enjoying rights previously denied people like themselves are, well, different. At least they discuss race differently. I'm sure we all discuss race differently from the previous generation, whatever our hue.

In my previous life, a deliberate plucking of the racial line was a sign of comfort and acceptance. The example that leaps to mind was a common accusation of the day: that white people referred to black athletes by their first name and white athletes by their last, and that this was some sort of diminishment of black athletes. It's obvious to any fair-minded person that Magic is "Magic" and Bird is "Bird" simply because "Johnson" and "Larry" are dull, undistinctive names. (Poor Larry Johnson.) Just like Jordan is "Jordan" and not "Michael" and Peyton is "Peyton" and not "Manning." The charge was pure silliness, and we all knew it. We used humor to defuse the issue.

"Don't call me 'Shaun' anymore. Racist mu'fugga, always diminishing me. To you, I'm Mister Thompson from now on"

"Yeah. You keep dreaming, pal."

"Don't call me 'pal' anymore, either. I ain't your 'I got black friends' friend."

"Why would I brag about having black friends? I'm ashamed of you mothirfuckirs."

And so forth. It was an innocent, everyday exchange spawned from comfort with one another and discomfort with some loud people who happened to look like us. It's important to note the element of satire. We found it reassuring and therapeutic to make fun of people who would much rather we distrust one another. End result: more trust.

Now, let's imagine what that exchange would be like if it happened today between me and a chiding young black. Based on my experience, this is what I'd expect:

"Sports announcers use blacks' first names to diminish them."

Their pronouncement will have no trace of satire. I'll give my counter-example. They'll sigh. "It's racist," they'll intone, apparently expecting me to either 1) acquiesce and agree or 2) agree and acquiesce. My choice.

Now, when one person, any person, makes an accusation against an individual, I expect them to meet a nominal burden of proof. All the more so when it's as grave an accusation as racism. A lifetime of calling bullshit on people has taught me that when you ask for proof, you're often greeted with irritation. But until recently, the pattern of people who were irritated was random. No longer. I have met an entire demographic who thinks my expectation of evidence is unreasonable. Ask them to meet a burden of proof at your own peril.

"What's your proof? For every anecdotal example you cite, I can give a counter example. You call someone 'racist,' and you better have more than a feeling. That's a serious charge."

So far, so good. This is the same argument I make all the time to people of all colors and flavors: I've heard your conclusion; what are your premises? And normally, the person either lists them, admits indulgence, or reacts with hostility. But not the chider.

Are you ready? Here it comes. The granddaddy of all trump cards, the nuclear bomb designed to put me in my place and end the debate in a rout.

"You just don't know what it's like to be black."

Another chiding young black will chime agreement right away.

"No white guy could. The first-name/last-name thing couldn't really be for any other reason, but he'll never see that. A white guy couldn't possibly know the inner thoughts of whites as well we do."

Okay, I made that last line up, but that's what I hear. Outnumbered and buckling from the sheer weight of their evidence, I put my alabaster tail between my legs and scurry off, never again to question their pronouncements of racism. Okay, that's not true either, but the attack does discourage dialogue and encourage discomfort, and it does diminish my viewpoint based not upon its merit but upon my skin color, and those ain't exactly gains. End result: less trust.

I wouldn't have thought it, but the unfiltered white racist and the chiding young black do have something in common after all. All together now: What makes you think it's okay to say that to me?

posted by john at 07:38 AM  •  permalink

January 16, 2006

unmindful

Sure, using Christmas colors is cute, but when Google uses Dr. King's head as the letter "o" in their logo, I submit that they've vaulted into tastelessness.

Who's next? I shudder to think.

posted by john at 12:05 PM  •  permalink

January 13, 2006

Vick arrest delights hate-mongering fool

ROANOKE (Stank Press) - Virginia Tech quarterback Marcus Vick—fresh off expulsion from college because of drugs, multiple arrests, and his deliberately trying to injure another player—has been arrested yet again, this time for threatening people with a gun at McDonald's. Philadelphia NAACP chief and aspiring Nobel Laureate J. Whyatt "Jerry" Mondesire issued a statement of general approval. "Now that's what I'm talking about," he said. "Keep it real, baby."

posted by john at 08:36 AM  •  permalink

December 29, 2005

god damn thee merry, gentlemen

Just when I thought I'd gotten out of the holidays free and clear, along comes a belated "I love you" from someone I don't know well and who I can't stand. This would be my sister. Not either of the sisters who visited me this year—the third one, known in my circle simply as "the bad sister." Let's call her Nadine.

In a family in which everyone bad-mouths everyone else and manufactures nonsense to be offended about, Nadine is the undisputed Queen of All Nonsense. Half of my communications from home are about who she's not speaking to and/or is not speaking to her. (No amount of my telling them "I truly don't give a crap. Please stop sharing." dissuades family members from holding a phone to their answering machine and leaving on my voice-mail the angry message a sibling had left for them.) As for me, I fall in and out of favor with Nadine without my doing a thing. "Nadine's furious with you," I'm informed, even though nothing whatsoever has been said between us since I was in favor. This year, apparently, I'm in and everyone else is out. This unwelcome status manifested in a large package arriving yesterday.

Nadine has taken up oil painting, and god help me, she sent me not one but two oil paintings. I'll grant that they're better than I can do, but that's an exceedingly low bar. From anyone else, I'd likely think them thoughtful, even touching gifts. From Nadine, though, all they inspire is one thought: only she would presume to claim wall space in a stranger's house.

I see a letter attached. Crap. How long will it take her to go negative? Answer: not long.

Rather than put sic after every mistake, I'll just note that this is verbatim.

My dearest brother,

People in our family have no clue to who their sister really is........
They still think back to the younger days of my youth, where many trials, lessons, and hardships were.

Although many in our family have not moved on from that mentality, I have.

For the past few years I have expanded my horizons and worked on things in my life I had always wanted to do such as Genealogy as well as my Oil Painting.

I remember as a child, and in 7th grade, the teacher wanting me to take an Art Class, and Dad refused due to the financial end of it.

I remind you, this is a Christmas letter.

Enclosed are two artworks for you dear brother...... Both painted with the hands that once cuddled you, and comforted your heart. You to have grown, yet others do not see the man that is before them. I do.....

Ah, my annual Yuletide "Dad was a bastard and everyone hates me but not as much as they hate you" card from home. It's like I never left.

posted by john at 11:05 AM  •  permalink

December 28, 2005

harrison. james harrison.

No word yet on the inevitable lawsuit.

I wish they'd included the ovation that the Browns' fans gave Harrison. Not to mention all of Verron Haynes' (#34, the one who got out of the way) teammates mocking his cowardly move.

posted by john at 02:44 PM  •  permalink

December 24, 2005

wanted: a better firewall

A wondrous thing about the Internet is that people from all walks of life whose paths would never otherwise cross get to share their views. The horrendous downside to the Internet is, of course, that people from all walks of life whose paths would never otherwise cross get to share their views. It's for this latter reason that I resent the Internet. Before the Internet, I'd never met a white supremacist or a Ravens fan. I'd never been told I have severe psychological problems; been condemned to eternal hell for my non-beliefs; or called a racist, sexist or homophobe, at least not to my face. Before the Internet, I had no idea how hateful poor spellers are. Perhaps it's a lifetime of corrections that make them that way?

This morning, though, it's my fellow Steeler fans who have me staring at the knife drawer. There's no way around it: they're morons. At least the fans streaming into my home are. Listening to a call-in show from Pittsburgh, if inflicted on a prisoner of war, would be a violation of the Geneva Convention. The fans make the same dumbass assertions, over and over, unabashedly flaunting their ignorance. And the DJs patiently make the same corrections, over and over, though surely they'd rather distribute open-handed slaps instead.

Fans of other teams—same thing?

posted by john at 08:00 AM  •  permalink

December 23, 2005

wonder of wonders

Steeped in Catholic tradition as a kid, I thought I knew what a "miracle" was. It was turning water into wine, or walking on water, or God saving people from the killer hurricane He sent. Maybe it wasn't necessarily divine, but it should certainly have an element of the immortal about it, like the end of the Cal-Stanford game. Football fans don't need me to say which Cal-Stanford game. The miraculous one. If every game ended that way, it wouldn't be a miracle, now, would it?

Thrice. That's how many times I've heard ordinary childbirth referred to as a "miracle" in the last 24 hours. Most of my friends have been experiencing miracles, lately. Identical miracles. It's like Starbucks started selling mass-produced miracles along with the coffee mugs and dreadfully lousy CDs. Miracles are threatening to overpopulate and starve themselves out.

"When your dog did the exact same thing in your garage last year, was that a miracle?" I ask.

"You're so smug/self-righteous/pretentious," snorts the person claiming that cranking out one of the nearly quarter-million babies born every day is miraculous.

posted by john at 12:28 PM  •  permalink

December 19, 2005

looking down from under heel

"I just know she's out there," says Maggie, having wrapped up a full day at work and rendezvoused with me for drinks before rushing home to prepare dinner for her husband, Larry—whom she married at 19, with whom she had kids by 21 and grandchildren by 42, who does not work because Maggie's new job as a secretary, coupled with the disability benefits he collects by faking an injury, allows him to stay home and watch TV all day. "I just know it! The perfect woman is just waiting for you to discover her. Don't give up."

Physician, heal thyself. There's a direct correlation, I've decided, between how much married friends obsess over my joining their ranks and how much their own marriages suck bilgewater. Unfortunately for Maggie, she obsesses profusely.

She's a giving, sweet woman whose sense of worth is perversely dependent upon her own complete subjugation. Larry is an increasingly bitter good ol' boy who lifts no finger except to find fault with his superiors—a distressingly inclusive demographic. Put the two of them together and you have a fluid give-and-take. She fluidly gives and he fluidly takes. I asked her once why she does every conceivable household chore, from purchasing the pot roast to scraping Larry's soggy carrots into the trash. "Well, Larry's a very traditional man, and he believes in traditional marriage roles."

"But if that's the case, wouldn't he have, like, a job?"

"Yeah. Well. He's a bit more progressive there."

It's an atrocious marriage. Exploiter and exploited, asshole and sucker. It physically hurts me to have them over and see my friend be demeaned. But that discomfort is nothing compared to when she manages to condescend to me about my own unmarriedness. It's all I can do not to pin her marriage on the wall and vivisect it for easier examination. Restraint is especially laborious when she implies that with a little luck and effort, I too can attain the lofty status that she enjoys. That is, of course, ludicrous. I want what Larry's got.

posted by john at 10:25 PM  •  permalink

really. you can have it.

Actual recent conversation:

Maggie: "I just know she's out there. I just know it! The perfect woman is just waiting for you. Don't give up."

John: "Well, for us to meet, she's gonna have to lose control of her car, crash through the cement barricades and razor wire, fly over over my moat, and crash into my living room."

Maggie: "Oh my god. If you don't write that, I will."

John: "Huh?"

Maggie: "It's a great movie! The perfect woman literally crashes into the classic misanthropic hermit's life and turns his whole world around. It's romantic! I love it."

And so, gentle reader, this story idea is my Christmas gift to you. Go and write this dreadful movie. And when you market it, target people with no self-esteem whatsoever. They'll love it.

posted by john at 10:20 AM  •  permalink

December 13, 2005

approval whore: the lost singles

A friend recently pointed out that three Approval Whore (AW) anecdotes have gone unpublished. Each occurred during the Dark Year, when I wanted out but wanted a place to stay in Redmond even more. Not coincidentally, each was particularly painful for me, as I had to swallow my rage, smile, and act as though nothing objectionable had happened. If you want to know what your pain threshold is, try that sometime. So here they are, in reverse chronological order.

Two weeks before breakup
I find a receipt for tickets to a New Year's Eve party to which I am most decidedly not invited. Crap. I'm not going to make it to the next tax year, am I? I wonder if the new guy would mind me crashing here? I say nothing about it, hoping to make it a couple more weeks, but soon I can't resist suggesting that she and I go away for New Year's, my treat. Crushed by anxiety, AW swallows her entire face.

Three months before breakup
Looking for a file by searching her laptop for my last name, I get a hit on "roses.txt." That's odd. I open the file and discover that she's gotten into my Hotmail account and meticulously copied and pasted the contents of dozens of 5-year old emails between me and an old flame. I say nothing, and man, it sure is hard not to use this nuke. Dorkass marvels at my restraint.

Six months before breakup
Awakening at AW's place in Redmond, I discover that she left her gate wide open and that my idiot dog, Ed, has disappeared. I don't blame AW outwardly, but inwardly I want to flog her for a) endangering my dog's life and b) cheerfully avoiding responsibility. Several hours of frantic dog-calling and corpse-searching are fruitless, so I make a flyer offering a $500 reward for Ed's safe return. I'm still hanging flyers when AW's neighbor calls and says he's seen the signs, and yes, he has my dog. We pick up Ed, and I give the man a $500 check. AW is aghast. "I cannot believe that guy took your money," she says, disgusted. "So rude." I stare at her and silently wait for her to finish assessing the logic and culpability of the situation. But she was quite finished. Alas, such is life on Planet AW.

• • •

It's amazing how fast you can dial down from the terror and hysteria about your dog being injured, scared, or dead. As soon as I saw that the little idiot was just fine, it was like a switch was thrown. Terror, off. Irritation, on. "Get your dumb ass in the car."

posted by john at 07:51 PM  •  permalink

no wonders

I have an intense new peeve developing, oh yes I do. Once you notice it, it might be your peeve too.

The validation theory says that any manner in which, say, Adam is different from James will serve as a point of insecurity to James. This insecurity will compel James to demean the difference. So if Adam has a newer car, he's too material. If he has a pretty girlfriend, he's shallow. If he loves his career, his priorities are out of whack. If he believes in a different god, his every stumble is evidence of a spiritual failing. And on and on.

My peeve, then, is a subtle variation on this, and it can be neatly summed up in two condescending words: no wonder.

The loyal Microsoft employee, learning about any one of the million things I hate about Microsoft: "Oh, no wonder you dislike Microsoft." (It must not be that the company is unlikable.)

The love interest, learning about my family: "Oh, no wonder you [insert whatever my flaw du jour is]. You're broken!" (It must not be that her expectations are unreasonable.)

The Seattle person, learning that I live in the sticks: "Oh, no wonder you don't like Seattle. You don't live there, silly!" (It must not be that Seattle actually sucks.)

Now I'm watching for it. I'll be discussing, say, the new smoking ban with a friend, and we'll be disagreeing. Now, if they weren't my friend, they'd just dismiss our difference as the result of my stupidity/bleeding heart liberality/redneck conservatism. But I'm their friend, and to diminish me is to indirectly diminish themselves. An accommodation must be reached in which a) I am still a worthy person whose friendship is an homage to themselves and b) the insecurity-exacerbating difference between us is still diminished. Hence the beauty of "no wonder." It's a surgical strike, an invalidation-seeking missile. It's the hook on which they can safely stow the invalidating difference. It's line-item validation.

Whatever your metaphor of choice, it's also pretty insulting.

posted by john at 08:40 AM  •  permalink

December 07, 2005

sleep in heavenly peace

Many people romanticize the dead. Misdeeds are forgotten like credit card debt, and even the most hateful people are beatified. Like so many social niceties, this ability eludes me. Bitch in life, bitch in death, I say.

Which brings us to Mom.

In all fairness, my mom had a brutally hard life, and not coincidentally she wasn't much of a mother or human being. She was an orphan at 9, raised by cousins. She married my abusive dad and bore five children, three of whom estranged themselves from her. By age 8, I was taking photos of her battered face, as evidence. I thought this was normal. An impoverished single mother at 45, and with only a degree in home economics (!) to fall back on, she wiped butts for a living until she finally contracted cancer and checked herself into the hospital where she worked. Cancer, remission, cancer again. One morning, she was driving herself to her radiation treatment when a guy turned right on red in front of her vehicle, clipping her and sending her car careening off a 50-foot high bridge on to a rock embankment below. The impact pulverized several of her vertebrae—in between breakfast and lunch, her height went from 5'5" to 5'2". In addition to the aforementioned poverty and several flavors of cancer, now she battled paralysis and acute claustrophobia until her merciful death at 52.

Right. In her shoes, not many among us would be a great parent. You have to have your own house in order before you can help build someone else's. For that reason, I give her a pass. Although I can't pretend she was kind, I can understand why she wasn't.

But.

Like many mothers, mine nailed herself to a cross every Christmas. There was screaming. Bawling. Jealousy. Guilt trips. If we kids so much as spent Christmas Eve with Dad, cue the histrionics. One year, my brother and I spent Christmas Eve and morning with her, intending to head up to Dad's Christmas night. I knew I was getting a bike, and I had every intention of collecting. The theatrics were otherworldly. We were "hateful" for going. My brother, putting himself through school, spent a week's salary on a new phone for Mom. She opened it and snorted, visibly disgusted. "I wanted almond." We stared at her. "This is beige." I, meanwhile, had spent vast sums of grasscutting monies on a butcher block. Mom's knives rolled around freely in the utensil drawer, you see, and her doctor had warned that in her condition, any cut could be fatal. "What a waste of money," she snapped. "I already have knives." And on and on. While my brother and I played cards in the living room, thanklessly running out the clock until we left for Dad's, my mom bawled in her bedroom, at one point opening the door so that we could hear her better.

The next year, she slid into a coma on Christmas Eve. The Wailing Christmas would effectively be her last, the indelible yuletide memory of herself she implanted in her kid's memory. I've thought of her pathos every Christmas since.

The lesson has been lasting. I have an allergic aversion to my mother's sort of theatrics. Since I don't know when my own time is up, I try to treat every holiday and milestone as my last. Not for me. Not even for my loved ones. For my legacy. Who wants to be remembered every Christmas hence as a miserable, self-pitying, jealous person who's better off dead?

Merry Christmas, Mom. You always did find the perfect gift.

posted by john at 07:18 AM  •  permalink

November 11, 2005

overplaying a hand

My favorite breakup—and by "favorite," I mean the only one I look back on with any fondness whatsoever—was downright fun. I was in Month Six of a one-month fling. Steph was making me insane. She was an astonishing, lethal combination of inept and confident. Inept, I can tolerate. Confidence can actually be very attractive...when warranted. But combine the two traits and you have a person who should come with warning buoys. Bungling at a level I previously hadn't known existed, she worried me nonstop. I couldn't trust Steph to do anything adequately, or at all. The sex was fantastic crazy-chick sex, but even that lost its considerable appeal. Knowing I'd put it off for too long already, I determined to break up with her over the weekend. Mid-day Saturday, though, she decided it was time for her own power-play. She presented me with a list of my faults, the non-negotiable list of things about me that would just have to change. And thus did her ineptitude continue to the very end.

In the middle of her speech, I chuckled and raised my hand. "Wait. Stop."

"No. This is important to me."

"I'm sure, but it's about to be overtaken by events."

And then, much more ruthlessly than I'd planned, I dumped her. I told her why. She cried. She tried to retract her list. But of course the list was a coincidence, not the cause, so I was unswayed. But every time I've since been clubbed with a list of my inadequacies, I've thought back with nostalgia to the time when I just didn't give a crap. There's no other word for it: it was sweet.

• • •

I find myself revisiting this territory from time to time, usually with acquaintances. Someone who contributes little to my life or the world, who's been nothing but a time- and energy-sink for me, will see fit to level criticism. Never once do they consider what I ask myself about them all of the time: what's in this for me, again? The homage of their company, I guess.

Guess again.

I think we'd all do well to critically examine our role in our friends' lives, to ask of ourselves "what's in it for them?" I ask this about myself all of the time, and I'm not always pleased with the results. Take Katrina. (Please.) I have no idea what's in our friendship for her. I try hard to be a worthy friend, but I still don't give as good as I get. At some point, some folks are just better people, I suppose. But I credit myself with trying, which is more than I can say for a great mass of parasites who view friendship as a cynical economic exercise—as harvesting the most attention and affection they can for the least investment possible. And invariably, these same people are the ones who, like Steph, overplay their hands. They issue demands from/take shots at/lay guilt trips on the very people to whom they have made themselves disposable. If not actual liabilities. And I guess we should thank them for, like Steph before them, making our doing the right thing easy.

Moral: Before you fling attitude about, ask yourself if you're worth it.

• • •

Offers Katrina on why, despite the inequities, she continues to be my friend: "Habit."

posted by john at 11:26 AM  •  permalink

November 06, 2005

hail! hail! to mich-i-gan! the ucla of the midwest!

My undergraduate degree is from Ohio State. About this I neither boast nor apologize, even though I knew when I was there that my education wasn't what I wanted it to be. That, I decided, is what a master's degree would be for. OSU was my stepping stone, my dues payment. When you were poor in Ohio, you went to Ohio State. They charged little for in-state tuition, and they practiced "open" admission; if you met the nominal entrance requirements, you got in. Period. (In my day, admission swelled to 60,000 students. They have since closed admission somewhat.) Your name, gender, race, income, and academic pedigree didn't matter. All were equal in the eyes of Ohio State, which is to say, all were dog meat.

The football team excepted—they never did anything to me—I hated OSU when I was there. The hate has abated over time, but it hasn't been supplanted by affection. It's simply where I did time. It's where I learned to manipulate an uncaring bureaucracy to my advantage, using its agents' worst tendencies against them. It's where I learned to build relationships with people who worked not in fancy offices, but in cubicles—I befriended the clerks and secretaries who actually work all day. And it's where I learned to bet on myself ultimately prevailing, to trust myself even during setbacks. Am I grateful? Hell no. Ohio State didn't set out to teach me survival skills. They set out to teach me about Chaucer and calculus, and in that they largely failed.

But.

If I hear one more Michigan alum sniff that his alma mater is "The Princeton of the Midwest," blood will surely flow. Michigan's a fine school, the second-best in the Big Ten after Northwestern, but let's not overstate things, hmmm? The latest perpetrator was Percy, who recently came out as a Wolverine, making all the cosmic tumblers of my universe suddenly click into place. Of course he's from Michigan. He could be from nowhere else. "It's the Harvard of the Big Ten, you know," he said. "Hard to get into."

"I thought it was the Stanford of the Midwest."

"That too."

"What about the University of Chicago? Northwestern? Notre Dame? Those are better rated, more exclusive Midwestern schools."

"Nope. Michigan."

And thus do I cheerfully present a reality check for any Michigan alumni still reading. The average SAT scores of incoming freshmen in 2004:

UW: 570/590
OSU: 580/580
Michigan: 620/660
UCLA: 620/660
Notre Dame: 670/690
Northwestern: 680/700
University of Chicago: 700/700
Stanford: 720/740
Harvard: 750/750

To summarize: Stanford and Harvard should sue for defamation.

posted by john at 07:53 AM  •  permalink

October 30, 2005

more incompetant reader mail

Is there a sweeter irony than someone misspelling an accusation of stupidity and incompetence? Extra special bonus points for "drogatorys." It's the plural form of the noun "drogatory," don't you know. It's your progative to go to the liberry and look it up.

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I beheld this gifted Port Angeles reader's first sentence: "I am the chick that posted earlier that uses her hairbrush for a dildo. I've been reading more... "

posted by john at 04:44 PM  •  permalink

October 26, 2005

whoo! death!

Like many, I adore the Daily Show. Unlike many, I don't direct all of my love at Jon Stewart, who, while a decent stand-up comic, is but one of dozens of writers in the show's stable. It's embarrassing how much credit he gets. But my stars-getting-credit-for-other-people's-lines rant will have to wait, because today's post is about the increasingly insipid Daily Show audience.

One of the things that sets the Daily Show apart is its unabashed point of view. These folks lean left, and they don't hide it. No "fair and balanced" smoke here. Yet they're the kind of biased I can respect. They're no DNC mouthpieces. If anything, they're infuriated by the Democrats' ineptitude. Contrast that with one-note partisans like, say, Limbaugh or Franken, who would sooner die than utter a thoughtful criticism of their own houses. In this, the Daily Show staff stands alone.

Which, sadly, brings us to my beef. Their studio audience. They're never shown, so I can't be sure, but I'm betting the audience is jam-packed with 19 year old College Democrats of America, each with a mug in hand so that he might drink mightily from the well of validation. It has some curious results. I don't begrudge them going batshit whenever W. is insulted, but now they're spring-loaded, ready to cheer anything that remotely validates their world view. Twice this week Stewart mentioned Iraq casualties and got raucous cheers.

Stewart: So today, the list of American dead in Iraq passed 2000—

Audience: WHOOOOOO! YEEEAAAAH! WHOOOOOO! (applause)

I don't know about y'all, but the distasteful display of self-pleasuring irritates me. It makes me not want to watch.

posted by john at 08:56 AM  •  permalink

October 18, 2005

kids lite

Disclaimer: before I discuss this latest parenting debacle, I need to clarify something oft misunderstood. I do not hate children. Nor parents. I do not care if people procreate any more than I care if they buy a sedan. It's not my business, not my place, not my interest. Any frustration I've expressed in this space is simply the result of my losing a significant percentage of friends to parenthood. Yes, "lose." I'm delighted that my friends are happy, but I miss them, and the little shadow-of-what-it-used-to-be audiences I'm granted, while appreciated, are salt in the amputation stump. I do not, you see, have a demanding infant with which to fill my newfound free time. I'm still right here, right where I was with you, without you. It sucks, frankly. It's merely unpleasant at an individual level, but collectively, it's been socially decimating. Am I being selfish? Probably. But I can't believe it's any healthier to not miss my friends. Anyway. I'll deal. The larger point is that it's not really about kids at all. Got it?

• • •

Two friends, let's call them Kathy and Mike Mulligan, are in the family way. Eighth verse, same as the first—man, am I ever numb to this by now. A couple months ago, they were me. Together we mourned lost friends, and we cynically toasted our own eternal childlessness. Somewhere in the discussions, birth control came up, and she said they used none. "Are you insane?" I asked. "Pretty please, allow me to drive you to the freakin' drug store." No, she replied, it'll be fine. She is unable to have kids. Her only evidence: a lifetime of being careless with birth control. Her logic made me nervous then, and now voila. Tardo Jr. is en route.

Wishful thinking, sadly, is how they make all major decisions. Concurrent with their careful conclusion that no birth control was necessary: a $150,000 home remodel. They're turning their house into a bed and breakfast. When they entered six digit territory, I asked what the zoning restrictions were.

"Hmm?" came the reply. Turns out they hadn't checked.

"I'm sure it'll be fine," they said. Turns out it's not fine.

A week after the remodeling conversation, when news of the pregnancy broke, I wanted to bitchslap them. Not for having a baby, but for having a baby for the most moronic reason imaginable. Kathy asked me to look up abortion law on the web. She was unsure if she wanted an abortion, but Mike was sure. Damned sure. He even joked about throwing Kathy's pregnant body over the cliff. Ha, ha.

Welcome, Tardo Jr. You will be loved.

So now we're having a baby, but we're having it Mulligan style. "How are you going to run a shop with a newborn around?" I asked.

"Oh, it'll be fine. No problem. We'll just set up a playpen in the boutique."

"It's not that easy. Newborns turn your world upside down. You won't be working."

"It'll be fine," she repeats crossly, getting peeved at me for daring to question the wisdom of The Plan. She's offended? I'm offended. Do I dare mention their previously established genius for foresight? Nah. I let it go.

No, I do not hate children. But I sure do detest when people create children lightly. If any decision calls for some care, some gravity, I'd think it the decision to create a human being.

Alas. It'll be fine.

posted by john at 07:42 PM  •  permalink

October 01, 2005

because you asked for it

I cannot, we have established beyond all doubt, correctly predict which posts will be popular or controversial. I'd fare better by throwing darts at my monitor, frankly. Squarely in the "I'm still getting comments about that? Really?" category is my remark that competence is the trait I consider sexiest.

I teach a little class (or a large workshop) based on some work I did in graduate school. There, it was a 10-week class with a 50% failure rate. When I "workshop" it, it's an intensive 20 hours or so. The topic: hard-core sentence diagramming, where we learn that verbs are adjectives and clauses are nouns. It's not for the intellectually flaccid.

The first individual to whom I taught the workshop? None other than Fucking Amy, who needed it for a tutoring job. She might have space for rent where her soul should be, but the chick is seriously bright. She inhales information, and to my astonishment and great pride, she mastered 10 weeks' worth of material in about 6 hours, acing the actual final exam. I fell more in love with her that day. I remember the feeling clearly. Dead. Sexy.

Plus she could turn a double-play.

I've taught the workshop several times since, and there've been varying degrees of speed and success. The only other girlfriend I've taught the material to was the dread Approval Whore (AW). It's not often that you know the exact moment the bloom fell off someone's rose, but in her case I do. This was it. It was in a professional environment, and she was one of several editors at the table. As always, I began slowly and built incrementally on what they'd just mastered. It's rather like algebra—if you fall behind, you're hopelessly lost. She was hopelessly lost in about two minutes. Worse, she smiled and tried to fake it (in this as in all endeavors, as it turned out). The other editors started working ahead by themselves, but AW furiously spun her wheels, lapsing into what got her through high school and college: nodding her head like an idiot, pretending to understand, trying to steer the subject toward whatever pictures she saw in Us magazine that week. She was increasingly and visibly flustered by what was becoming excruciatingly obvious to all present: the woman with whom I was in love was the dumb student in the class. Of course, my embarrassment wasn't what was upsetting her, nor was it the knowledge that she was the stupid one. It was everyone else knowing that upset her. As for me, I cannot describe how mortifying it is to empirically prove that your girlfriend is dim. Not only dim, but dishonestly dim, dim with a vapid, arm-waving, giggling, this-is-boring-let's-go-shopping, cheerleader flourish. Dead. Unsexy.

posted by john at 05:22 PM  •  permalink

September 30, 2005

finding comedy amidst the floating corpses

Baltimore Ravens coach Brian Billick opened his press conference thusly:

"Tomorrow, we're going to take up a donation for the New York Jets' relief fund. Good lord, I can't turn on the TV without seeing Katrina, Rita, and oh my God, the Jets. I'm digging in my pockets for money."

I'll wait for you to undouble and dry your cheeks.

More wacky disaster humor! A manager in my group, publicly toasting his superior on the brilliance of her moving everyone from private offices to low-walled cubicles:

"You know, everyone knows that it's getting really crowded here. They're doubling people up in offices, crowding people in conference rooms, bussing people to Houston..."

posted by john at 05:55 PM  •  permalink

the validation manifesto

Several women have already stopped reading. Several weary women.

I've referred to my "Validation Theory" many times on this page, but I've never spelled it out. Simply put, I believe that the primary social force in the world is the human need for validation. In the bulk of human interactions, we are either seeking or granting endorsements. Simple, no? This theory scales like a motherfucker. Once you start filtering human behavior for validation, you see nothing else.

And yes, I'm fully aware of the irony here. I'm waxing about my belief system on my web site. Self-indulgent and validation-seeking behavior if ever there were one. See how well it scales?

So say I'm right. So what? It's a harmless enough social force. Sadly, it is not, for the Validation Theory has a very ugly corollary: most people view validation as zero-sum. If I'm to feel good about myself, you cannot—unless you make the same choices I do. But if you don't, any happiness you feel invalidates my own and must be denigrated.

My favorite example of zero-sum-validation thinking will forever be the Christian bumper sticker

Know Jesus, know peace

No Jesus, no peace

If you want to drive a fundy positively insane, show them how happy you are without their religion. That so invalidates everything they believe, everything in which they've invested their self-image, they cannot even consider the possibility. Nope, you're Satan's intermediary.

All the new moms in my life have experienced a zero-sum crossfire lately. If they continue to work, stay-at-home moms revile them as bad parents. If they stay at home, their professional colleagues snort disdainfully about "breeders." The invective is harsh, unrelenting, and unsolicited, and it invariably comes from women whose own choices are being—cue the organ music—invalidated.

Let's view recent posts through the validation filter.

• Lionel, pretentiously suggesting that poetry be read at business meetings? Seeking validation.
• Courtney, thinking people in Seattle are mean? Obviously being invalidated. Me, posting about it? Being validated.
• Jim and Marceline, irrationally defending their product in the face of evidence? The validation they get from their work was threatened.
• Ed's failing health? No validation link—she's a dog.
• Jessica Alba, saying she really wants good roles? Please.
• I'll skip Bobby Brown's playlist. That's too easy.
• Percy? His "that kid already has everything" comment suggests my age and station make him feel much resentment.
• My friends, pouting when I didn't go with exactly their color choices? I suppose they feel as though I criticized their taste.

And on and on. The need for validation is why people dress up and wear make-up. It's why they buy expensive things. It's why people pair up. It's why lousy relationships persist well past the establishment of lousiness. It's why people have kids. It's why they pray instead of taking kids to doctors. It's why your family goes batshit if you don't come by and stare at the TV with them often enough. It's why managers create direct reports aliases (e.g., "Jim Jones' Direct Reports") that are of no conceivable use to anyone but them but that inconvenience many. It's why we insulate ourselves with people who affirm our belief systems. It's why seemingly good people can rationalize doing horrible things. It's why we want our friends—strangers, even—to couple/parent/buy something/change cities/etc. like we did, and it's why we feel curiously rejected when they don't. It's why we feel self-conscious about dining or going to movies alone. It's why people with no education disdain its necessity, and it's why I so value it. It's why people find a way to diminish your new house/car/S.O. It's why the top-10 non-fiction list is half books about how smart you are, half books about how stupid "they" are. It's why readers send me email arguing "I don't seek validation from other people." It's why people kill those who don't share their beliefs. It's why they want to introduce matters of faith into the science classroom. It's why I go weak-kneed every time I hear "Lover Lay Down" and remember that the sexiest woman I've ever known actually thought of me when she heard that song. It's why my brother and sister-in-law would rather lose me altogether than admit that the John mythology they've concocted is untrue. It. Is. Everywhere.

• • •

What, if anything, is to be learned from this? Like any point of view, it's subjective. It's a theory that happens to fit the facts. A helluva lot of facts. What began as a desperate attempt to explain one person's behavior became a plausible explanation for most of mankind's behavior. Does this make it right? Is it the only possible explanation for a given behavior? Of course not. But I've yet to come across an alternative explanation that scales so, so well across all of human behavior.

Although I found the theory life-changing, I didn't exactly find it life-affirming. Understanding validation, both your need for it and others', is not an A-ticket to bliss. The benefits are more subtle than that. I look at it more as something to keep an eye on within myself. When someone upsets me, I question why, filter for my validation needs, and very often am able to let it go. This is a good thing. I take great pains not to feel invalidated by others' beliefs or choices, and that eliminates much of life's unnecessary misery. And of course, the rhetorician in me benefits from appealing to others' validation needs. At this point, Allie and I are pretty overt about it.

(phone rings)

Allie: Hello?

Me: I need some unconditional validation.

Allie (bored): You're so smart.

Me: Thanks.

So there you have it, my world view, honed by years of wondering why so-and-so is acting that way. And if you don't agree with my Validation Theory, well, you're just stupid.

posted by john at 08:20 AM  •  permalink

September 28, 2005

one microsoft way

I just visited some friends who work for the 'Squish. You might remember them; they long ago drowned in Kool Aid any souls they once had. Let's call them Jim and Marceline Jones. Jim and Marceline are one of those curiously smug pairs who've concluded that when they put their IQs of 90 and 80 together, they combine to form one unassailable 170 IQ. Together, they comprise the all-knowing masters of the universe.

Jim, Marceline and I were watching TV when a commercial for the new iPod nano came on. I braced. I needed to.

"WHAT A FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" they howled at the screen in unison, so you know they must be right. Their tone is hysterical, scornful, exactly like that of a teenage girl shrieking "SLUT!" at another girl whose only sin is popularity.

"Yeah, go ahead and throw your money away on one," snorted Jim to one of the three HDTVs he uses to watch analog programming.

The commercial shows the credit-card sized Nano in someone's fingertips. It's an impressive bit of engineering.

"The Muvo is smaller than that!" snorts Marceline.

"The what?"

"The Muvo. It's what Apple stole the design from for the Nano."

I know very little about such things, so I held my tongue, but the distinctive odor of MS Bullshit® was definitely wafting through the room. When I got home, I looked them up. I'll be damned if the iPod Nano isn't brazen design theft.

Other things Apple stole:

iPod Nano	Muvo Slim
3.5 x 1.6 x 0.27 inches	3.3 x 2.2x 0.3 inches
14 hour battery	8 hour battery
4000 MB storage	256 MB storage

Note how much smaller the Muvo is.

As amazingly irrational and, well, let's face it, made up as these Kool Aid–guzzling cultists' claims are, to really understand the MS culture, you need to understand that even when confronted with facts, they are not dissuaded from their original claims. They just do another shot and 'splain to you why you're stupid.

And this, kids, is why you can't figure out how to even minimize the media player; why your word processor changes every two years even though you were happy with it in 1994; why, say, changing the speaker volume increasingly requires you to read paragraphs upon paragraphs of "inductive" ui and security warnings; why Passport couldn't remember who you are, even through that was its sole function; and why the MS web browser blocks MS web sites as security risks. Because we're so much smarter than you. Here, lemme 'splain to you why you're stupid.

posted by john at 07:11 AM  •  permalink

September 22, 2005

bobby brown’s playlist

One of the more interesting parts of iTunes, Apple's online music store, is the celebrity playlist section. If you care what Howie Mandel is listening to and why, you can find and buy it, but I'm far more interested in what musicians I respect are listening to. Would you have guessed that you'd find Hendrix, Eminem and Jerry Lee Lewis on George Clinton's playlist? Or Gordon Lightfoot, Hendrix, and Vince Guaraldi on Weezer's? This cross-pollination stuff is fascinating to me, as are the comments the artists make about their selections. Of Smokey Robinson's "Shop Around," for instance, Clinton says "My introduction to Motown and my inspiration to become a songwriter." Good stuff. I wouldn't have guessed that.

Which brings us to Bobby Brown's playlist. Half-assed idiot-savant Bobby apparently listens to a lot of Bobby Brown and New Edition. Of his own work, he says such insightful things as "I sang this song. It's on my upcoming LP."

Clap. Clap. Clap.

posted by john at 03:45 PM  •  permalink

September 20, 2005

percy adds to his case file against me

Yesterday, I bought the oddest boat accessory yet: an old, gas-guzzling pickup truck for towing. The idea is that I can replace my 'tweener Jeep (tweener = lousy mileage + poor towing capability) with a beater truck I'll use twice a year and a car that gets good gas mileage. It took Percy 16 hours to inquire about the new arrival.

"Did you buy a truck?" Officer Percy snarls.

"Yes." He needn't know why.

This news causes him to look exactly like he's trying to pass a small sea urchin out his urethra. "Do you still have that boat?"

"Yes."

"Where is it moored?" I recognize the question as one he asked Kiki months ago, to no avail.

I tell him.

"Do you still have your place in Redmond?"

Man, Percy, why don't you just cut to the chase and ask for a copy of my W-2?

posted by john at 08:08 PM  •  permalink

busboy and becky jr.

In retrieving my boat from its mechanic at Deception Pass, I found myself riding a sequence of impossibly slow Whidbey Island buses. Early on, I noticed a fellow passenger, a young woman with a singularly distracting quality. Jesus, she looks like Becky. I mean, she really looks like her. Sparkly and pretty and fat elbows and everything. I ducked a man who was probably homeless and clearly mentally retarded. (I duck everyone nowadays, so don't think ill of me. Yet.) Becky Jr. smiled at him, and he sat next to her. You asked for it, lady. There'll be no getting rid of him now. They conversed, she asking questions not out of forced politeness, but out of genuine interest in this weathered soul. Hmm. That's like Becky, too. Graceful. They talked, they laughed, and the man went on his way, nodding and smiling at me as he disembarked. I smiled back, nearly pulling a muscle in my face. Later we changed buses, and Becky Jr. and I were still together. Perhaps sensing another charity case, she struck up a conversation, and, as with her namesake, soon we were having a lively, lovely conversation. We spoke animatedly of our lives and origins, and of course our plans for that day. I was on my way to my boat, which I would drive the length of Whidbey to my waiting car. She was going to the Puyallup Fair to see some act I'd never heard of. It was delightful, one of the best conversations I've had since moving to Seattle, and it was all her making it work. Finally, toward the end, she proposed combining our two days; she would join me on the boat-ride back, then we'd go to the fair. (Man, I love when women step up like that.) It was intriguing. Jesus, though, she looks like Becky. Didn't Becky have relatives on Whidbey Island? I declined, feeling residual bad taste well up in the back of my throat. Huh. She's great, yet I'm not interested. Sigh. I ain't ready for this yet. Nope. Stupid A.W. Did I politely decline, perhaps even leaving the door open a crack? Did I at least decline graciously, as she deserved? Oh hell no.

"No thanks. I went to the Puyallup Fair a couple years ago."

Smoooooooth.

Slam! goes the door. I think laughing in her face would have been less rude than the dismissive crap that spewed out of my mouth.

Busboy ain't right.

posted by john at 05:28 PM  •  permalink

September 16, 2005

friendly advice

I'm painting the exterior of my house this week, and I ran some of my color ideas past eight friends. They polarized perfectly. One person's favorite scheme was the ugliest thing someone else ever saw, an aesthetic abomination to the point, really, of immorality. Okay, fine. I expected as much. But it doesn't end there. Some folks have invested their egos in their choices, and my making a slightly different selection than their preference has wrought much scorn and offense. This was unexpected. To those whose feelings I hurt, I offer my most contrite, humble and heartfelt "you are waaaaay out of line." A one-time solicitation of opinion does not equal ongoing, hypercritical carte blanche.

This got me thinking about unwelcome criticism. Some folks have earned a license to give unsolicited advice, and others haven't. God help me, my ex Allie bears such a license. She had Khristi and the AW pegged long before anyone else did, including and especially me, and although that fact chafes my butt, I can't ignore such a valuable source of insight. The single best piece of unsolicited advice came from Elizabeth, who pointed out that I was repeating a pattern so disturbing, I had to pull over the car and recover from her observation.

The worst advice I've ever gotten, in contrast, is a tie.

#1a Upon hearing that I wanted to be a technical writer, Dad scoffed that there was no such profession and that I was doomed to a life of destitution. Years later, when forced to confront my success in this fictitious field, he became enraged and accused me of subsidizing my surely meager income by selling drugs. Yep. Dad was a genius.

#1b A related tale. Like, apparently, my friends, my brother has tremendous ego invested in people doing what he suggests. When in the 80s I decided his advice was dead wrong and I bought—GASP!—a personal computer, he went positively batshit. He told anyone who'd listen how I was throwing money around on impractical extravagances. You'd have thought I blew a fortune on strippers, not made a minor investment upon which my entire career would later be predicated. True story: three years ago, he finally relented and bought his daughters a computer. An Apple II. As in pre-Macintosh. As in 1982. He was outraged that no software is available for it. Yep. Genius runs in the family.

posted by john at 03:43 PM  •  permalink

September 11, 2005

rampant ismism

I once dated a woman with an infuriating argumentation style. She would tell me what I thought and felt. That's galling enough, but she didn't stop there; if I said what I thought and it contradicted her expectation, she would correct me. We were young, needless to say, but still: it takes sheer intellectual chutzpah to say to someone, "No, you don't think x. You think y." It wasn't her being controlling and trying to lead me somewhere, either; she was trying to forcibly shoehorn me into her stubborn view of the world. It's amusing the first couple of times, but after day in, day out of your S.O. saying she knows you better than you do, you're pushed to the brink of insanity. It soon became my hot-button, a button I retain to this day.

I think of this often when I see people lightly throw -ism (and its sister affixes, anti- and -ic) around.

That this presidential administration was too slow in responding to the hurricane is generally accepted, even by them, but it's not enough for some people. W. can't be merely incompetent and uncaring. It must be some deep-seeded evil. Racism, classism, cronyism, someism. And those who oppose the administration? Why, they're elitist, classist, unpatriotic, anti-troop, anti-business, anti-Christian, tax-lovin', terrorist-coddlin' baby murderers.

Another favorite example: "sexist" language. This is what academics now call someone using the pronoun "he" gender-neutrally, as in "When someone votes for Kerry, he is being unpatriotic." Mind you, I do not quibble with using "he or she" here; my complaint is with Mom being told that merely writing the way she was taught to write is a "sexist" act. Can't we just say "archaic?" "Gender-biased?" Why the personal attack? Why purport to know of an sinister motivation behind, of all things, a choice of pronouns?

Because ismism is power. When we purport to divine what evils occupy others' hearts, it not only controls the terms of the debate in our favor; it puts them on the defensive, in a position of having to prove a negative. Bush can't prove he's not racist any more than Kerry can prove he's not unpatriotic or Mom can prove she's not a sexist. It's a lazy, hurtful form of argumentation. It's the cheapest of the cheap shots.*

*Except for the yes-or-no question "Are you still beating your wife?" That still reigns supreme.

posted by john at 07:27 AM  •  permalink

September 08, 2005

what a friend we have in private katrina

There's an direct correlation, I've decided, between how full of shit your religion is and how much you claim hurricane Katrina affirms your religious beliefs.

Fundy Christians in this country point to the hurricane as empirical evidence of God's fury over our decadence and corruption. Apparently drunk, God killed scores of believers, yet left the decadent and corrupt French Quarter completely intact. Nice shot. To be fair, other Fundy Christians point to the hurricane's last second course change away from New Orleans as empirical evidence of God's grace. Uh, yeah. Clearly, God answered your prayers when he killed thousands and flooded only 90% of New Orleans. It's the Frequent Pray-er Discount: 10% off retail.

Not to be outdone, and still basking in triumph over the Battle of the Lone Downed Helicopter, Fundy Islamics hail the hurricane as empirical evidence of God's anger at America. They've even granted "Private Katrina" an honorary commission in their grand and mighty imaginary army. The Islamic God, who apparently had nothing to do with last week's tragic Iraqi bridge collapse or the Muslim-slaughtering tsunami, is powerful enough to send a hurricane to kill Americans, yet not powerful enough to make it a Category 5. Or to hit a city more populous than New Orleans. Or for that matter, to hit New Orleans squarely. Or to take out the city's cash cow, the French Quarter.

I think it's time for a fight-to-the-death cage match: born-again fucktards vs. jihadist goons. No matter who loses, the rest of us win.

• • •

Something I've been mulling over: I know that Americans and the rest of the Western world poured millions upon millions in donations into the Muslim countries devastated by the tsunami, and that legions of us remain there to help the victims cope, but I never heard about the surely intensive charitable efforts of that great self-appointed guardian of Islam, al Qaeda. Stupid biased media.

• • •

In related news, did you see this freakshow email yet? A veritable treasure trove of logic, it is.

The image of the hurricane above with its eye already ashore at 12:32 PM Monday, August 29 looks like a fetus (unborn human baby) facing to the left (west) in the womb, in the early weeks of gestation (approx. 6 weeks). Even the orange color of the image is reminiscent of a commonly used pro-life picture of early prenatal development. In this picture, and in another picture in today's on-line edition of USA Today, this hurricane looks like an unborn human child. Louisiana has 10 child-murder-by-abortion centers - FIVE are in New Orleans Baby-murder state # 1 - California (125 abortion centers) - land of earthquakes, forest fires, and mudslides Baby-murder state # 2 - New York (78 abortion centers) - 9-11 Ground Zero Baby-murder state # 3 - Florida (73 abortion centers) - Hurricanes Bonnie, Charley, Frances, Ivan, Jeanne in 2004; and now, Hurricane Katrina in 2005 God's message: REPENT AMERICA !

Clearly, hurricanes, terrorists, floods, quakes. et. al. started with Roe v. Wade.

• • •

I found this while confirming the above. The Resistible Link of the Millennium: "To View Helpless babies murdered by abortionists like Barnett Slepian click here." Oh boy, can I?

posted by john at 02:06 AM  •  permalink

September 02, 2005

kanye west’s episode

Psssst, genius: your purpose at a fundraiser is to inspire people to donate money to the charity. Yeah, this really helps. Way to mitigate racial stereotypes in the media.

Worth watching just to see Mike Myers and Chris Tucker drown.

posted by john at 09:52 PM  •  permalink

September 01, 2005

deadbeats

This summer has already seen twin miracles. First, Elizabeth finally delivered the afghan for which I purchased materials in 1995. To put this in perspective, when she promised the afghan, she was a bubbly, enthusiastic college senior; when she finally delivered it, she was an extra-crispy Microsoft burnout shopping for a retirement home. Second miracle: long after we'd both given up hope of her finding it, Annette returned the book she borrowed from me in 1997. If it were a loved one, it would be legally dead.

I'm on a roll, and I want the hat trick. Would whoever's had my "Best of War" cd since the last millennium kindly slip it under my mat?

posted by john at 11:24 AM  •  permalink

August 28, 2005

confrontation

I spend an inordinate percentage of my time driving below the speed limit.

Metamuville Road is about nine miles long and has few passing zones, and the resident ROWFs treat its posted speed limits as if that's the speed at which their engine will reach critical mass and explode. So yesterday, quite typically and very much against my will, I was driving 42 in a 55 and 21 in a 25. When I finally had a chance to legally pass the culprit, I did, and as I passed, he swerved into my lane to "scare" me. And then he followed me. I led him away from my house, of course, and into a housing development where I could circle around. Coming at me head on, he lunged left of center and made me slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.

I don't know where this sexagenarian is from, but where I'm from, you don't do this unless you want your ass kicked. I grabbed the club I keep beside my driver's seat, and I charged out of my car and toward his, foaming with rage and spewing profanity. I'm not sure what sort of conflict he was hoping to provoke, but the look on his face suggested that events had taken a decidedly unexpected turn. "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?!" I demanded.

"What's yours?"

"Nice retort. You pulled this stunt just for that?" I railed inarticulately about the legality of my pass and the illegality of what he just did. And then he started to speak. "Well, the way I see it--"

All my barely pent-up hostility gushed forth. "OH, SHUT THE FUCK UP. I'MSICKANDTIREDOFYOUFEEBLEOLDFARTSANDYOUROVER-
DEVELOPEDSENSESOFENTITLEMENT,DRIVINGSTUPIDAND WEARINGOUTMYEARS.GETOUTOFTHECARANDFINISHWHATYOU STARTEDORSHUTUPANDSTOPWASTINGMYTIME.JESUSCHRIST." Or words to that effect. I also vaguely remember predicting there'd be Geritol splattered all over his windshield, a line I've had ready for years and am most pleased to have finally had a chance to use.

Ironic that this all transpired within an hour of the below post.

posted by john at 10:37 AM  •  permalink

August 27, 2005

IH8ROWFS

On my commute yesterday morning, I saw a ROWF (Rich Old White Fart) driving a brand new, gas-guzzling Lincoln Continental with temp tags still on it, and the following bumper sticker:

Scenes like this are why I don't own a gun. (Besides, don't you mean you love their Social Security?)

posted by john at 10:48 AM  •  permalink

August 24, 2005

pat robertson

Pat Robertson on Chavez, yesterday:

"If he thinks we're trying to assassinate him, I think that we really ought to go ahead and do it. We have the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability."

Pat Robertson to his viewers, today:

“I didn’t say 'assassination.' I said our special forces should 'take him out.' 'Take him out' could be a number of things, including kidnapping. There are a number of ways of taking out a dictator from power besides killing him. I was misinterpreted by the AP, but that happens all the time. So that I may better combat such media slanders, please send me large bundles of cash in nonsequential bills.”

(Okay, I so made up the last sentence, but no more than the rest was made up.)

posted by john at 02:48 PM  •  permalink

August 17, 2005

for terrell owens haters

Man, you have to love the ingenuity of football fans.

posted by john at 07:04 PM  •  permalink

July 29, 2005

user error

I've had my fill lately of people who appear only when they want something from me. There's a rash of high school graduations back East, and relatives I've never heard from before or since are all beating me like a piñata full of cash. (When did thank-you-notes become optional, again?) Friends old and new are guilty of the same thing. Oh, they'll go through the motions of a pleasantry before the request—How are you? Seen any whales lately? Say, can you do me a big favor... But the call or email always does seem to get around to that request eventually. Lately I've experimented with ignoring one part or the other. Ignored pleasantries receive a welcome enough reception, but surprise—ignored requests reliably result in follow-up mail. Just feel the love. Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Now I'm not naive. I know that every human relationship has an economic component, that we're in them because each party is somehow benefiting. Which I guess is my point. What's in this for me, again? Beyond the privilege of serving, I mean?

posted by john at 07:20 AM  •  permalink

July 20, 2005

of poker and poseurs

Milhouse, to his classmates, on their excitement over Bart having brought his dog to show and tell:

I knew the dog before he came to class!

We've all been there. You were the one who was watching Seinfeld in 1991, when it was ranked 85th in ratings and in perpetual peril of cancellation. Or it was some other trend you were in front of, a trend whose subsequent wild popularity you came to resent. I, myself, was watching Dave Chappelle from word go and have no need to borrow your Season One DVD, thank you very kindly, fucking poseur, sir.

But nothing prepared me for poker becoming a fad. Just three years ago, poker was my secret shame. It was just me engaged in battle with a bunch of smelly old coots in some smoky back room, while my friends were flirting with skanks over the roulette and blackjack tables. If another player under the age of 40 sat down at the table, we would silently nod to one another. It was that rare for there to be two of us. Poker was lethally uncool. No one understood the url of this web site, let alone asked me to sell it to them. I couldn't scare up a game. Casinos were closing my favorite poker rooms for lack of interest. And then along came TV poker.

You know the rest. It's everywhere. But there's a catch: as TV pretty much only televises no limit hold 'em, this is the only game young poseurs ever want to play. These are the Nobel laureates for whom "No Limit Hold 'Em Poker Chips" are marketed. No, there's no difference in chips whatsoever, but they don't know that. They just throw 'em in their carts next to the "Zero-Carb Beef." There's a great psychological study to be found in the monkey-seeism of all this, but for me, I mostly care that a game I don't enjoy enough to play all the time has taken over the poker universe. Worse, though, are the new players. Three years ago, if an old coot beat my hand, he'd growl something wry and funny and maybe even self-deprecating. "Son, you didn't lose to me. You lost to seven weeks' worth of due." It was like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie. No more. Now we have whoops, hollas, high fives, choreographed dances, and moronic smack talk about the intelligence of other players. There goes the neighborhood. They disrespect the game and its players, and I can't stand to play anymore.

I was out on my boat, also named the CheckRaise, when I was boarded by a state wildlife officer. Odd, considering that I wasn't fishing. Crew-cut, young, stupid, and eager to be liked, he spoke in excited all caps. "ARE YOU A NO LIMIT HOLD EM PLAYER, TOO? I'M A NO LIMIT HOLD EM PLAYER! I LOVE NO LIMIT HOLD 'EM!"

Uh-huh. Say, would you be a dear and hand me that filet knife?

posted by john at 07:45 AM  •  permalink

July 12, 2005

guest towel quiz

Okay, pop quiz: You're my houseguest. You take a shower in my master bathroom, moving my shampoo and razor and rubber duckie around to accommodate god knows what. You're done now. You slide the shower curtain and survey your towel choices. You see a) a damp, disheveled towel right next to the shower and, next to that, b) a rack of clean, dry towels. Which do you use?

The answer, as history resoundingly proves, is A. What I want to know is why.

posted by john at 08:20 AM  •  permalink

July 10, 2005

brooke shields

I've never been a fan. I missed the whole Blue Lagoon thing when I was a kid, and the one time I watched Suddenly Susan, I was trapped under something really, really heavy. When she mentioned recently that she took anti-depressant for post-partum depression, it didn't even register with me. And then along came high school–educated Tom Cruise's sanctimonious, unsolicited, and downright feebleminded criticism of her choice, and of psychiatry in general. Shields, for her part, took the high road, offering to leave tickets for Cruise and Katie Holmes at the box office of her play.

"I'll leave one adult, one child," she said.

Just how stupid is Tom Cruise? He was crushed in a battle of wits with Brooke Shields.

posted by john at 11:33 PM  •  permalink

July 07, 2005

...and the hobby horse you rode in on

Inevitably, the Daisy saga was immediately trumped.

What brain damage does childbirth cause to some parents? Why do they think it's okay to bring their kids to an adult party, then allow the little tornados to be obscenely rude to the other guests, throw tantrums and break stuff? Why is it everyone else's fault that the kids ruin their good time? Why am I expected to share in, if not outright relieve the parents of, the burden of parenting? Why is it okay to suggest that I'm somehow so complicit in their decision to have children, I need to remake my world in plastic and outlet covers in order to protect the kids who I did not choose to birth, who I did not invite, whose electrocution I would not mind all that much?

Parents, sober up. Be satisfied with my having to pay for your little vanity projects' two decades of education. Having kids was your call, not the planet's. The next time your unparented kid breaks a glass or a window at my house, I'm rubbing your nose in the broken shards until you learn.

posted by john at 09:41 PM  •  permalink

January 01, 1800

my first ban

Originally published July 6, 2003

Over the holiday I hosted the same Mormon friends that almost provoked me to murder-suicide during their last visit. Speaking of last visits, they are not welcome back. Never ever ever ever ever ever ever. It's about respect. It's about responsible parenting. But mostly, it's about self-defense. For the benefit of my other friends with children, this weekend I compiled the following parenting primer.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  permalink

my japanese family

Originally published August 5, 2003

A day threatened for a decade has arrived: I sent for grad school friends Lynn and the revered Ehama-sama to collect an old debt. They're painting my house. For four days. Much as when I think of home, I think of Spokane and not Columbus, when I think of family, I often think of these two and not my biological kin. It's in this spirit, therefore, that I shall spend this week here listing the mothering and smothering sistering that transpires. Wow. How overwritten it that?

I predict that the first reference to my singleness will occur sometime midday Wednesday. Place your bets and watch this space. Here are the mounting motherings:

• It's ridiculous that you have caller ID on your cell phone, too. (Not that it comes without.)
• I'm not going to sleep in your bed and let you sleep on the couch. I insist on taking the couch, so that you can't possibly watch TV, use your computer, prepare my meals, clean up last night's dinner dishes, let the dog out, etc. until I wake up. So march right into that bedroom and wait for me to arise, you ingrate.
• It's piggish to throw that McDonald's bag into the back of the Jeep instead of storing down by the brake and gas pedals.
• The garden that you're tearing up in the fall needs to be weeded; oh, here I'll just do it.
• That vase/chair/table/painting/mirror/towel/stool/keys/trash can would work much better in this other room; oh, here, I'll just move it.
• It's piggish to have clean underwear in a basket in a closest. Here, I'll just bring your underwear out into the living room, show it to everyone so they can understand just how silly you are, and fold it.
• You rich fuck, who gets granite countertops?
• You're wearing that to paint?
• You're making me filet mignon? Make it medium rare and you eat too much meat.
• So. Does it ever get lonely, being single decade after decade like you are?
• I don't like that vase/music/TV show/bread/cereal/bubble bath/wall color/painting/plant/pot/soap/sandwich/centerpiece/fuse box location.
• You mean you're not going to remove that grating and clean it just because it's not visible unless someone moves the couch like I just did? Here, I'll just do it.
• You mean you're not going to get on your hands and knees and scrub the kitchen floor just because you're replacing it in two weeks? Here, I'll just do it.
• Your kitchen floor is disgusting, just disgusting. Not like when I pulled a dirty, damp, and unwashed cloth towel out of the washer—in which it had been incubating overnight—and wiped all kitchen utensils and food preparation surfaces with it.   
• What do you mean, "There's some stuff in the trash can by the road that you could clean, too"? Now that would just be silly.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  permalink

percy, the euthanasia poster child

Originally published August 7, 2004

"You drive ninety minutes from work in order to be 20 feet from your neighbor?" someone once remarked. Sigh. Yes I do. Our house configurations are such that I seldom have to see or hear them, not unless they come over. Which unfortunately they do.

Percy and Thelm@ are septuagenarians, if that's the one that means "in their 70s." They're typical of the residents where I live: old, middle-class white folks who retired to country beach houses. It's not my favorite demographic. If you pass them in a passing zone when they're going 45 in a 55, which is sadly zippy around here, they'll follow you home to lecture you. When new ownership bought the local grocery and put the local coffee klatch's mugs atop a doily on a nice table, she was repeatedly chewed out for having moved the mugs three feet from where they'd been since the Creation. And so on. I've been advised not to turn this into a "geriatric old fucks with overdeveloped senses of entitlement" tirade, lest I lose the reader.

But they are.

 

The Common North-American White-Breasted Geriatric (Anus rictus)

 

Which brings us to Percy, whom I first met during my house inspection. He walked over and introduced himself, then proceeded to stand there, silently and awkwardly, forcing everyone to work around him. Why he felt it his place to inject himself in my house inspection, I can only guess, but soon I would long for those early days of awkward silences between us. A brief history:

• Day 2. While I unpack, I'm having a crew tear out the decorative outhouses (surely an oxymoron) from the front yard and hack at the 30-inch high grass the previous owner had left me. Percy ambles over and asks if I'm having them tear down my outbuilding, too. "No," I say. "I'm tearing that down someday, but until I buy my flop, I need it for storage." He huffs off.
• Day 3. The guys are still hacking at my acre of lawn with machetes and weed-wackers. Percy comes over. "So what's your philosophy on lawn care?" he says in an off-putting, accusing manner.  What the heck does that mean, anyway? "Grass grows. I cut it." He stares at me as though I'd talked in baby talk, then asks if he can borrow my tractor in perpetuity to mow his lawn. It doesn't work, I lied. He huffs off.
• Day 5. Percy comes over. He points out that my back yard is filled with dandelions and asks if I'm going to fertilize. I say that, given that Puget Sound's at the edge of our back yards, it doesn't take a whole lot of imagination to see that's just poisoning the water and everything in it. So until I can find a safe way of weeding, the weeds stay. He stared at me like I'd just talked in Klingon. "I'll do it for you, then," he snapped, as if my lack of know-how was the issue. No, no you won't. Under no circumstances. He huffs off. Soon my yard was mysteriously dandelion free.
• Day 20. Percy sees me installing planters on my balcony rail. "I hope those don't blow off!" he snidely snorted in a way that somehow indicated the exact opposite sentiment. Two years later, they're still there.
• Day 30. Percy sees me power-washing the deck. "Are you staining or painting?" Staining. "What color?" Grey. He goes inside, presumably to update Thelm@, who presumably he's got tied up in the basement. He returns. "A natural looking stain would look pretty good, too." Uh-huh. "I need to get me a power washer," he says leadingly. "Yep. I sure do. Like yours. Yep." That night, I made sure my power-washer was locked up.
• Day 31. I'm staining. Percy oozes over. "You going to paint the house, too?"
• Day 50. For the first of many times to come, Percy inexplicably mows his lawn about 10 feet across our property line, effectively enlarging his own tiny yard.
• Day 100. "You said you're getting rid of that outbuilding?" Yes. "So is that girl your wife or your girlfriend?" My girlfriend. How about Thelm@? He huffs off.
• Day 200. I've installed a new garden where previously a debris pile lay, and behind it, I'm installing a lovely lattice around my deck, hiding the ugly cement foundation. Percy walks over. "How come you bought such little plants?" Because the mature ones cost 10x as much, that's why. "Oh!" he says with enormous satisfaction, "So you're not one of those Microsoft people!"
• Day 300. Thelm@ somehow wriggles free long enough to tell me that she loves my china cabinet. Funnily enough, I've never had them over.
• Day 350. The inevitable happens. Percy comes over while I'm walking around naked and, frustrated by the curtain I'd put on the front door, goes to the kitchen window to peer in before knocking.
• Day 400. It happens again. One would think that seeing me naked once would be enough negative reinforcement. Alas.
• Day 450. Tired of the neighbor kids cutting through my yard to get to the beach, I erect a fence on my property line opposite Percy's. Percy walks across my backyard to reach me as I work. "Well," he lies transparently, "I was going to talk to my neighbor, but I guess now I have to walk around."  I guess so.
• Day 500. I begin my kitchen remodel. Seeing the old cabinets stack up on my deck, Thelm@ comes over. "Now what this house calls for is a country kitchen." Well, I'm going with cherry and granite. Sorry. "Oh. Well. I'm sure that can be nice, too."
• Day 550. I buy my flop and begin moving items out of the outbuilding. "Are you finally tearing it down? When?"
• Day 600. The kitchen remodel is done. Percy comes over with a piece of junk mail that had been left in his mailbox and knocks on the door. I answer, physically obstructing him from entering. He steps into my space and actually bumps chests, trying to come in. When it becomes obvious I'm not moving, he awkwardly asks for a phone number. I walk to my desk, and he glides on into my house, uninvited. He surveys the kitchen. "I'm going to have to memorize the details so that I can describe it to Thelm@," he hints subtly.
• Day 650. The outbuilding is being demolished. I wasn't here for it, but the boys said that Percy was throwing his own items on their burn pile and generally interfering the whole time, even trying to get them to remove plants he doesn't like ("You taking those ferns out? Ferns are just weeds, you know.") and my clothesline rack. Mind you, these are my things. The crew was taken aback. "Dude," one finally said incredulously, "You live in a freakin' double-wide." They said he huffed off.

To be continued.

Sigh.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  permalink

if you’ve ever wondered who voted for Bush twice, wonder no more

My sister-in-law Maria is a throwback to the turn of the century. The 3rd century. She married her high school boyfriend at the worldly age of 18, and, not much seeing the point of getting her Mrs. degree when she already had her Mr., she instead became a rollickin' fundamentalist and raised their three kids in a hermetically sealed environment where Harry Potter books are banned and Jesus controls such minutia as who wins the election for class treasurer. With no sense of irony whatsoever, she will talk about Jesus' love out of one side of her mouth and utter the vilest hate out of the other. Her utter lack of curiosity about the world—I've never known her to read, travel, or in any way educate herself beyond being told how righteous she is by fellow churchgoers—inhibits her not at all. No, she is a bona fide expert on matters she knows nothing about, and she makes sure you know it. To say she is a gossip is inadequate. Remember Gladys Kravitz on Bewitched? Breed her with Jimmy Swaggart and give their love child an 8-ball of cocaine, and you'd have Maria.

When I was 19 myself, my relationship was teetering, and I was in danger of flunking out of college, so I withdrew. I tried again the next quarter, but my mind was still on my relationship, so I withdrew again. I did not tell my family, whose first through 92nd instincts are to attack, about my withdrawing. I didn't really need the additional grief, what with their already perforating me about my relationship issues. So I told them I was still in school. Suspicious, Maria took it upon herself to call the registrar and prove this was a lie. She trumpeted the news of my failure and cover-up to the four corners of the world. Fortunately for me, her world is exceedingly small.

You might think it all youthful sound and fury, signifying nothing, but it proved to be the enduring, defining moment of our relationship. Lo these many years later, nearly two decades in which Maria's seen me for maybe 20 hours, she still basks in triumph. I am a proven liar. This is established. It is what defines me. It is all she knows of me, or cares to know. You know John? Oh, he's a pathological liar now. I'd feel sorry for him if he weren't such a liar all the time. School? Career? House? Probably all lies. Any money he has is probably from selling drugs, but I'm not sure about that one. He has nothing to do with me because I know what a liar he is.

This is now a joke amongst my friends. If I say I'm picking a family member up at the airport at 3:00, Allie will press my Maria button. She insists on using an elongated y for maximum effect.

"Are you really, or are you lyyyyyyy-ing again?"
"Fuck you also."

It's a reliable button.

These days, conversations with Maria are the toll I have to pay in order to talk to my brother. They invariably go down one path: my continued friendships with ex-girlfriends.

"So, are you still in touch with, um," she'll say, pretending she doesn't have the name handy in her phoneside RIMS (Rolodex of Intelligence info and Malicious Speculation), "Allie?"

"Yeah. She's one of my closest friends. She's family."
Maria doesn't pick up on what I thought was an unsubtle dig. In fact, judgment is swift and scornful.

"See, I don't get that. I don't get that at all. If your brother still hung out with his ex-girlfriend, it would drive me insane. Insane!"

My mind parses the Fellini movie that are my disjointed memories of the 70s, searching for anyone else my brother might have ever dated.

"You mean...Tina from the 10th grade?"

"Yeah! I would be sooooo jealous."

"Well, believe it or not, relationships change a bit after high school." Another unsubtle dig impacts harmlessly on her surface.

"And [insert some girl's name] didn't mind?"

"Not a bit. I'm upfront about it from the first date."

"Are you sure? I think it's probably what broke you up," she'll declare (and no, she has no more information than this post contains).

"I'm sure," I growl, realizing for the first time that this is the speculation in Ohio.

"And what about Allie's boyfriend?"

"He's my fishing buddy."

"That's just so weird."

"Compared to what? It's not that uncommon. If we loved and enjoyed one another when we were a couple, why can't that evolve? Why would it end just because we're not right for each other romantically? My life isn't that black and white."

Maria ponders, scouring her world for an apt analogy.

"So it's like Ross and Rachel."

The right lobe of my brain fires off a quick message of sympathy to the left lobe: Yeah. I heard it too. Jesus H. Christ. Just say yes and ask for your brother again.

"Um, I guess. Only we don't, you know, secretly want to get back together. And, um, we really exist."

"It's just so weird, John."

"Yeah. So is my brother back yet?"

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  permalink

who would jesus slander?

Originally published June 11, 2005

My older sister's visit supplied a few more theories circulating about me back home. My born again Christian brother and sister-in-law, no doubt emulating Christ's well-documented malicious speculation about people he didn't know, have publicly declared the following:

• When I psuedo-married Elan in Vegas, I lied. I really got married.
• A decade ago when I took my friend Tammy to my sister's wedding, she wasn't really my friend. She was someone I hired from an escort service. (Although stunning runway models will secretly marry me, I apparently have no friends I can use as wedding dates.)
• The Approval Whore wasn't really my girlfriend. She was a friend who was lying for me for four years and is now suddenly gone. (I apparently now have friends and  no longer need to hire escorts, which I guess is progress. I haven't figured out where Elan went that a fake girlfriend became necessary, though. It's all so confusing.)
• My house is not really my house. It's a rental I use to fool Julie when she's here...because I'm a druggie, you see, and I couldn't afford both the house and the drugs...because I gotta be on drugs...because there's no other possible explanation for my disliking people as kind as them.
• They know me better than Julie, the only family member to see me in the last eight years, the only one to come to my home, and the only one who's spent more than a couple hours in my presence in 18 years. Because she's gullible, you see.

As you can see, they are fantastically central to my universe. Like Annette observed: "They think they're so damn important that you'd bother to put on that dog and pony show for them? No matter how you swing it, it's a me, me, me thing."

I can't help but see parallels between these intellectual giants' zealous, truth-be-damned beliefs about me and their equally zealous, equally spurious religious beliefs. It's all about being right, about being better, about telling everyone—damn the abundant evidence to the contrary. And you know they must be right, 'cause they agree with one another so fervently.

Praise the lord and tighten my blinders, honey!

• • •

In trying to explain their zeal—why their John mythology is so obviously more important to them than John himself—Julie offers the following explanation: "They just don't understand why you don't want anything to do with them."

Should I send it gift-wrapped?

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  permalink

don’t take me down with you

try repressing

Originally published May 4, 2005

Making the blog rounds the other day, I came across a link to the below missive. I've been mulling over a response ever since. My first reaction was that I owe a lot of good women an apology for thinking that vermin like this were figments of their imagination. I apologize unreservedly.

My second thought was of adults who spar with yappy teenagers. No satisfaction can come of it; no one respects you for making a child look foolish, and the child won't understand that he lost.

My third thought was anger—anger toward his female enablers/victims, without whose consent and collaboration this guy might have learned to be a thoughtful and responsible human being. Oh well.

Which brings us to where I am at this writing, irritated that this swine has excused his behavior by making generalizations about my gender and thereby impugning the character of every man. The generalizations, like the entire post, are unmitigated nonsense, a steaming pile of horse shit obviously designed to distract a very specific reader from his selfish misdeeds. He is the Irrepressible Shaun, and if that charmingly self-deprecating, self-bestowed nickname evokes thoughts of the Great and Powerful Oz, that's appropriate. Now I'm going to show you the pathetic little man pulling levers behind the curtain. Mouse over the horse-shit icons for line-by-line translations.

 

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  permalink

you’re so lucky

Originally published May 25, 2005

As Dirt Glazowski and I smoked cigars on his deck last night, watching the sun set over Puget Sound, we remarked that he is truly blessed. Sheepish, he then confessed something that increasingly bothers him: people urgently dismissing his new lifestyle as mere "luck." This is, after all, a man who a year ago left his career and family in Minnesota to move to a town 2000 miles away, where he knows no one but his wife and where he now makes sandwiches 12 hours a day for a living. But the move also allowed him a lovely waterfront house—affordable because it's in the middle of nowhere—and that moment on his deck last night. And he thinks the sacrifice well worth it. But the determination of some people to dismiss the fruits of his sacrifice as mere "luck" visibly hurts.

They don't have to be happy for him, but why must they go out of their way to diminish his hard-won happiness?

"You're so lucky."

I hear this sentence a lot, directed at me and friends both. Sometimes the sentence is rote politeness, like "Hi, how are you?" and nothing more. Sometimes it's an expression of like-mindedness, as in "Wow. How cool! I'm happy for you." I often use it that way myself. And then there are the sometimes about which I'm writing, the sometimes when the person repeats the sentence purposefully, defensively, even somewhat angrily. Often times they grab the listener's arm for added gravity. "You're. So. [beat]  Lucky." The intonation is not one of a compliment, but one of resentment, as in listen to me—it's exceedingly important that you understand that the only difference between you and me is that you're a fucking luck sack. Sometimes they even say as much. "Yeah, I thought about doing x, too," they'll explain, and then they'll say something derogatory about x.

In my own case, I never hear "you're so lucky" more than when showing whale photos. With this assessment I do not disagree, as most things in life are one-third luck, least of all finding wild whales. But I find the resentment thing off-putting, even insulting. I'm sorry, but blind-assed luck isn't all there is to it. Luck is, as they say, the residue of design. Consider the whales. For me to be floating out there two Fridays ago, I had to make the following decisions.

• First and foremost, I'm single and childless. I've repeatedly traded companionship, family, security, validation from other human beings, and having someone to change my colostomy bag when I'm old for the flexibility (career, time and money) I now enjoy.
• 13 years ago, I decided I did not like the pedestrian direction my life was headed, and I changed course dramatically, knowing that this would require that I move 2000 miles from anyone I knew and would likely torpedo my six-year relationship. But I wanted to get to the Pacific Northwest above all else. I bet on myself, and I won.
• 11 years ago, I moved to Seattle, again by myself, again to rebuild, again betting on myself and winning. Moreover, I made an uneasy alliance with a company that I truly despise because trading my services for its cash was the best route to where I wanted to go.
• 3 years ago, I bought my dream house in Whale Central, some 80 minutes from work, thereby committing myself to quitting soon. I bet on my ability to earn a living in the sticks.
• 1 year ago, I decided to make that switch to vending, if a bit earlier than planned. I left job security, health insurance, vacation time, sick time—trading it all for more flexibility with my time. Even in the face of job uncertainty, I stuck to the plan and dropped half a year's salary on a boat.
• In that year, I've gladly worked for two kind people whom I used to outrank, which certainly wouldn't have been possible if I'd conducted myself like many at MS. Or if my ego were invested in work status.
• In that year, I've also cracked the books hard, teaching myself how to boat in tidal waters, about the movements of whales, about using a hydrophone, about studying them safely. Every day, I track their movements in the area, trying to discern their patterns. I've gone out dozens of times and failed, usually on weekdays.
• Two weeks ago, I noted a high probability of whales in good boating conditions, and I headed out on a Friday, knowing that I would have to work on the weekend to make up for it. And then I put my tiny boat in the path of 60,000 pounds of mammal-eating predators, one of which came within three feet of landing on me.

"You're. So. [beat]  Lucky."

No doubt. But unless you too have eschewed the path of least resistance and bet on yourself, kindly shove your resentment up your ass.

•  •  •

A favorite and relevant Simpsons line:

Selma just got married, and her sister Patty is saying goodbye at the limo. Patty doesn't know quite what to say.

Selma: "Just tell me what I most want to hear."

Patty: "I am eaten alive with jealousy."

Selma (embracing her): "Thank you!"

•  •  •

The flip side of all this is that I, too, feel twinges of jealousy when I look at friends' lives and see paths not taken. Dorkass' new palace makes my house look like something that fell out of a cereal box; I bet her back yard has 3x as much square footage as my entire place. The Kerrs uprooted and got away from retarded Seattle people, and for that I'm eternally spiteful envious. The Coxes conspired to have a positively brilliant and beautiful little girl. Elizabeth is moving back to Cheney. And on and on. It's only natural, I think, to look at the fruits of their choices and feel some jealousy. Where a lack of health comes in is when jealousy ceases to be homage, when it and happiness for your friend are mutually exclusive. Their happiness is of a variety I did not choose, and yes, that makes me pause and reflect and even second-guess, but it does not threaten my own. I'm delighted for them. Is that not how it's supposed to work?

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  permalink