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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

May 04, 2007

hags united

When I was a manager, my boss thought it was funny to muck with my team while I was on vacation. He'd move deadlines, responsibilities, people—whatever it took to irritate me. He particularly specialized in hiring people and putting them under me without my participation. This is where Dorkass came from, which worked out well enough, but it's also where two travesties originated. I needn't go into detail (although I can predict with confidence who will ask me to), so suffice it to say that 1) these petite young women were wholly unqualified for any job I could conjure and 2) the boss spoke lecherously about screwing them on a piano.

At one point, my team was composed of seven females and me. Gossip abounded, despite the fact that I hadn't hired half of them—let alone that my own hires were married or gay. In all, I hired exactly one single woman, whom I deemed Misery Chick because of her Opheliesque inclinations. None of this stopped the moronic chatter about alleged improprieties. It was my personal "harem." As is the nature of such things, this malicious fancy grew into perception. No one enjoyed fanning it more than my boss, who conveniently neglected to mention that the retarded eye candy was his idea.

One day, a young woman named Annie walked into my office. Lovely and talented and with the light bulb obviously on, she was interviewing for a job on another team. I shifted uncomfortably. If I say 'hire,' I'm going to get fucking crucified. I did, and I was. In short order, beautiful Carla plopped in the same chair for the same reason. Oh dear god no. Another obvious hire. But sonuvabitch... Again, I braced and said "hire." The howls were predictable by now, but I still tried to do the right thing.

Annie's first week, some hag saw fit to warn her about my predatory nature. "Just look at his harem."

Ya know what? Screw doing the right thing. Pretty chicks: categorically out. And the next time a guy of even threadbare qualifications came along, I said hire with an enthusiasm appropriate only if he'd saved my mother's life. Well, maybe not my mother, but someone's.

And on it goes. My modern-day search for an editor has led me to my obvious star, the student who does much more and tests much better than everyone else, the student about whom a professor said yesterday, "If she fails in life, I bloody quit. Not just the job. I quit life." If you could buy stock in human beings, I'd sink my every last cent in her.

My problem is that like many college students, she's pretty. That will serve her well in business and life, so I don't feel too sorry for her, but no job offer is forthcoming from me. Someone else can mentor her. I can already hear the criticism, the vicious innuendo gleefully whispered by embittered, middle-aged, self-proclaimed "feminist" hags at Microsoft. So the hags have their victory; I will take the path of least resistance and discriminate. I'll find a less talented but less aesthetically threatening protege.

The kid will be their boss in five years, anyway. The right people will still win and lose. And thus do I put my trust in physics: cream rises, shit sinks.

posted by john at 06:29 AM  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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  •  solamente

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