On words

“Your word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path” - Psalm 119:105

A while back I mentioned that I was working on a play for the grove drama team about the words of Psalm 119. At the time, I lamented that it wasn’t going well. I had a lot of loose ideas floating around in my head. And I was afraid that since I no longer have hair, those ideas would seep out through the bald spots on top if I didn’t get them down on paper. The problem was not in the typing, but in linking the ideas and expressing them, with meaning, in a fashion that is interesting. Or mildly interesting, anyway. I’m not a professional writer or anything. We’ll leave compelling and intricate plotlines to Arthur Miller and E.L. Doctorrow. Right now, I’m interested in the basics.

Like spelling.

An interesting thing happened over the weekend, though. Saturday night, after church, I got a call from Chad and Christy saying that a small group of people had gathered at their place for drinks and conversation. Chad (junior) decided against joining the festivities due to the pain from his exploding ear syndrome, which is not as debilitating as my exploding eyeball syndrome, but immensely more painful.

Having spent the majority of the week at home, doing nothing, for hours on end, I couldn’t handle another night of boredom. So, despite the fact that my vision comprises a kaleidoscope of images dancing in intricate patterns across the visual cortex of my brain, and despite the fact that said lack of discernable information is exacerbated by both the darkness and rain that existed in droves at the point in time, I decided to drive there anyway.

Because I’m cool like that.

Luckily, I didn’t kill anybody, although there was one point where I found myself driving on the wrong side of a concrete median, trying to determine if the flashing lights headed towards me were those of a street sign or oncoming traffic. I think it would have been better if I closed my eyes and tried to drive from memory.

At any rate, I made it over to Chad and Christy’s whereupon I met Abbie, Katie, Ben, and Nathan engaged in both the consumption of fine liqueurs and in-depth philosophical conversation. The topics included such riveting subjects as Chad’s vehement hatred of sports, our collective reminiscence college days (I had more memories since I was in school for 8 years), and the definitions of truth and justice inherent Socratic philosophical dialogs. Euthyphro my ass!

We also made fart jokes. Because there were three guys in the room, and if I have learned one thing in life it’s that a gathering of men will always include at least a modicum of crude humor; regardless of age, education, or standing in the community.

The evening waned and most people went off to sleep. Ben, Nathan, and I stayed up until 4 in the morning talking about ideological differences between denominations in the Christian church, and how many Christian churches have let go their adherence to their roots in Jewish kashrut law. This was, I believe, an extension of our earlier discussion of overall Truth in the Socratic sense.

At any rate, Nathan and Ben passed out around four. We were downstairs, looking up stuff on the internet, when I heard Nathan start sawing logs from the couch and Ben wheezing from the office chair behind me.

“Ben,” I said. “They have couches upstairs. Why don’t you go sleep up there?”

“The t-shirts have different color paints,” he said earnestly, still caught in the haziness of new sleep.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“The t-shirts….have….different…color…paints!” he said, as if speaking to a child or a person of low intelligence, and then turned the chair away.

“Alright man,” I said, and went upstairs to sleep on the couch.

But I couldn’t fall asleep. I laid on the couch in the living room, thinking about the Psalm 119 play I’ve been working on and how to make it interesting, meaningful, and relevant. I also wanted to see if I could work in a fart joke or two (not really). I had what I feel were a couple of good characters, but the setting and the story arch – the idea that binded the characters and their stories – felt forced and contrived. It seemed only loosely related to the verses that described it. There was also no ending. It was pointless and stupid. Like reality television, it kept going when everybody involved wanted it to just die.

So I said a prayer there on the couch. I asked God to help me figure it out. “You don’t have to write it for me,” I said. “I enjoy this whole ‘discover it as I go’ style I have going. Just give me a nudge. Or let me know if it sucks. That’s fine if it does. I am forever in need of kindling”

Sometime later, I fell asleep.

Nathan left shortly after seven. I know this because the couch on which I was sleeping is located next to the door and you can’t hardly leave the house without making some kind of noise. I know this also because, despite the fact that he was now awake and moving, it sounded like he was still sawing logs. I suppose it could have been Abbie or Katie, but this figure had facial hair. Unless I am mistaken, neither Abbie nor Katie has a goatee and large mutton chops. If they do, then I might as well give up and register for status as a proud member of the visually impaired because I’ve never seen it.

I woke up and I had an idea. It was an idea about the play. It solved a few of the questions I’d labored over for a week or so and it lead to other, easier questions which, in turn, lead to plot points I had not considered. And I got an ending that I think is experimental but interesting. Now, rather than having a play that is overly complicated and uselss, I have something with which I can work. And I have an ending about which I am excited (and I’m not going to tell you what it is, so don’t ask).

Of course, I attribute this to the prayer I said as I fell asleep.

In Christian circles, people often talk about the good things in their life as a gift from God. For some people, this is a difficult concept. For a person who spends 10 years in school and immense hours of training to become a skilled physician or lawyer or craftsman or parent or whatever, saying that this was a gift from God and not largely through their own hard work, is a difficult thing.

For me, writing is definitely a gift from God. I don’t want to brag, but it has always come easily to me. One day, when I was a kid, I read a story my sister had written and I thought, “I can do that.” And I did. And the words just came to me.

Rest assured, I have worked hard at it. I write several pages of something every day, whether it is a blog entry or a short story or a play or a loose conglomerations of words that have no real meaning. Rest assured also that I do not consider myself to be a genius or even “real good.” There are literally thousands of people out there who write better than I do; who have a better sense of humor, a more in depth understanding of scripture and how it pertains to life, or who ask better questions with more open honesty.

But I’m not bad. And what insights and epiphanies and interesting turns of phrase I do come across while I waste time pounding out words on my computer are undoubtedly through no work of my own. They just happen. I reach into the ether and pull out something shiny and new. When things are really good, it feels like I’m transcribing for someone else. The great joy I get while writing, even things as pointless as this blog entry, has to be a gift. What else could it be?

And when I have insights like the one I had this past weekend, it is very easy to believe without a hint of doubt in the existence of God and his love.

Bad Mutha...SHUT YO MOUTH!

You know it’s going to be a good day when you step out of your car in the Best Buy parking lot and the theme from Shaft plays loudly over the outdoor speakers as you pimp walk into the store.

Talk about Lucky

From last night's NLDS game between the Houston Astros and the Atlanta Braves [link] :

Lucky fan is twice in the right spot
By LEE CEARNAL Copyright 2005 Houston Chronicle

Chris Burke's homer might not have been the only history-maker in Sunday's 18-inning victory over the Atlanta Braves. The fan who caught it — Shaun Dean of Porter — also caught Lance Berkman's grand slam shot in the eighth. Dean, 25, was sitting in the second row of the Crawford boxes. A client had given tickets to Joslin Construction, where he is comptroller.

"I never caught one in a game before," he said.

I've been to a million baseball games. And since they were Reds games, there was hardly ever anybody there. You think I would have at least caught one - or maybe I would have at least had a chance. This took place at a packed playoff game. And he caught TWO homerun balls. The odds of that happening are, I think, about the same as winning the lottery while getting struck by lighting and falling out of an airplane that is being flown by Mike Tyson and the Emperor of Japan.

Nessun Lavoro Lunedì

I'm really glad not to have to work today.

Name this person

Name the above actor and botht the movie and television show that made him famous (sorta).

A Rambing Friday

Today is Friday! And rather than spend time crafting an intricate or sappy entry, I'll just slop ome some down as it comes to me throughout the day.

7:15 am: The power went out last night and then camme back on a half hour later. I consider the fact that I made it in only 15 minutes late a testament to my fortitude. Either that, or a statemen on my inattention to personal hygiene. One or the other.

8:37 am: Three different people brought doughnuts to work today. The gods of evil are tempting me, trying to thwart FatQuest3 in the early stages before it can take root. Though my stomach does rumble for the sugary goodness therein, I will hold fast. Just remember the rice plate I have waiting for me at lunch. Remember the rice plate....I'm screwed aren't I?

8:54 am: Oh goodie. I get to call a podunk airport in norhtern Quebec. Why in the world would anybody want to go to northern Quebec?
Bonjour monsieur. Donnez-moi les informations s'il vous plait....Non!...Donnez moi les informations, MAINTENANT!...Tu es un American tres stupide....Mais le chat est sur la chaise et ma grande mereest en flambe. Vive la Wayne Gretzky!...Ah! Vive la Wayne Gretzky! Je t'aime. Je t'aime...eh, donnez-moi les informations? S'il vous plait!...Non!..Merde!

10:55 am: It's official. There is no more work to do. We have reviewed all the airports, we have edited the database, and we have audited each and every single file. I have written all the reports there are to weite, I have fixed every possible portlet on the webpage, and I even defragmented my hard drive. Twice. There is literally no more work left to do; not only for today but for the next several months as well. What fun!

2:23 pm: You might not think so, but I love the weather on days like today, when it’s cool enough to wear a jacket and the rain hasn’t quite made up its mind to fall just yet. I took a long lunch and walked down to Champps (don’t forget the double p!) for a Southwestern Chicken Caesar salad. Yes, FatQuest3 continues unabated. I’m closing in on the end of day 3. It would have been day 4, but I went to dinner at a bar after playing frisbee golf on Tuesday and ended up having a cheeseburger, a large pile of French Fries, and no less than three beers. That’s not exactly healthy fare, and although I went for my evening neighborhood walk, I didn’t quite feel right counting it as cannon. It’s always good to make the official start a good one. You don’t want to mire yourself in failure from the outset. While at lunch this afternoon, I started reading “Haunted” by Chuck Palanhiuk. The guy who wrote “Fight Club” and several other nihilistic books. It’s pretty strange thus far, which is to say it is just like every other book he's written. It's a collection of poems and short fiction set against the backdrop of a larger story about a group of people who take part in a writer’s retreat where they are cut off from all of civilization for three whole months. They are literally trapped in a large building with no means of escape. The only price is that they promise to work on their masterpiece. The stories we read are those written by the people who are trapped in this commune of sorts, and each of the stories is crazy. One of the first was the short story “Guts,” which apparently caused many people to vomit upon hearing Mr. Palanhiuk perform it at local readings. I’m guessing these public displays of disgust were staged, though, because even though the story was completely insane, it wasn’t all that bad.

I read it while eating lunch!

3:08 pm: Just so you know...

-----BEGIN GEEK CODE BLOCK-----
GIT/FA/L/P dpu s++;++ a-- C++>$ UL(++) P! L@ E---- W++ N++ o-- K-- w++ +O- M- V- PS+ PE@>! Y+ PGP+ t+ 5 X++ R- tv- b+++ DI++ D- G+ e++<++++ h- r--- y+
------END GEEK CODE BLOCK------

3:20 pm: Don’t you just love it when you walk into a room and the previously loud conversation quiets to a whisper as the people involved share furtive glances in your direction? Me too.

5:06 pm: I'm outta here in 10 minutes. The end of another long week fast approaches. Have a nice weekend!

Hunger and Self Pity: A Fatman's Lament

There are two hours of work left; one hundred and twenty minutes until the fresh light of freedom envelops me, taking me away from this pit of despair to the land of everlasting happiness. Well, everlasting insomuch as I am given leave of this place long enough to forget the salty bands of hate which wrap my head and warp my thoughts each afternoon.

A friend of mine once said that happy is the main who takes joy in his work. Try as I might, I can find no joy in what I have forced my hand to do. And thus I am not a happy man, at least between the hours of 7:00 A.M. and 5:15 P.M. And what joy I do find is tinged with the sad knowledge that m reprieve is fleeting and subject to the incessant return of another long, grey day.

Nietzsche once wrote that a life of little significance is a life not worth having lived. In short, he said that our actions are doomed to repeat themselves again and again and again without ending. And if, as we pass each time, we have not impacted the world around us in a way that either benefits or harms the greater human community, we may as well have never existed.

I am paraphrasing, of course.

Nietzsche was insane and his conclusions in this regard result in a scary sort of moral relativism. But true therein does lie; at least in part. If all we do is take part in the greater rat race of humanity, what is the point? How can we look at the lives we have lead in comparison to those who define vile slothfulness and conclude that our existence is somehow superior? That the world is better for having seen us? That it all meant something?

How can I stare at the clock all day and justify having spent all that money on a college degree instead of a sports car? Or, to give a worse perspective of my character, blind charity? How can I, in good conscience, collect a paycheck and call itmine when all I do is this?

Is there a way out?

At lunch this afternoon, I sat behind a woman who spent her time away from her office speaking on the phone with her sister. Her sister was sad. Her sister was in a bad place. And the woman in front of me was a bottomless spring of hope and joy and warm expectation. As the conversation ended, I got the feeling that the gorl on the other end, whom I will never meet, is lucky to have this woman in her life. And that things will be alright for her.

And maybe for me as well, I think.

Then I return to work and strap myself in, staring at nothingness for an eternity until the bell rings and things change from one waste of time to another. A senseless cycle of distraction. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. And keep on keeping on. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. He probably isn’t there anyway.

** ** **

The easy solution to all of this is to eat a large Pizza Hut pizza. With pepperoni. And mushrooms. Mmmmm.

Football!

If anybody in the Columbus, Ohio area is interested in getting together for a happy little game of football (American football, not "soccer") in the next few weeks, e-mail me and let me know when you are available and if you can bring friends.

Tackling will be involved (in the game, not in the recruiting)

FatQuest 3: Son of FatQuest

I was at dinner with some friends last night when one of them mentioned the abysmal failure that was FatQuest2.

“I know,” I said. “I know, but what can you do? There are just too many good hamburgers out there that end their days alone and uneaten in some scary dumpster or other type of heretofore unknown trash receptacle.”

A single tear crossed my cheek “We can’t have that. Can we?”

But then I got to thinking. It’s those very hamburgers and other cholesterol-laden foods of the same ilk which are gathering near the top of the grave they have dug for me, waiting with baited breath to toss the first shovels full of dirt onto my still warm corpse. I can’t go out like this. Can I?

Naw, baby! (*CENSOR*) those hamburgers! It’s time to start again.

Except this time its for real. And I mean that. You know how I know? I ate an entire head of broccoli for breakfast. That might not sound like much to you (you skinny punk), but that’s a lot to a person whose system has grown accustomed to a regular influx of sugar coated meat and fried, breaded pseudo-cheese. That much nutrition that quickly can shock a system. It changes things, you know, on the inside, and can leave you scuffling in worried steps from your desk to the nearest bathroom; wondering if the impending doom within your lower intestines will hold its fury just a little while longer. When you put yourself through that kind of physical torture, you know you’re in it for the long haul.

The good thing is that, once your stomach adjusts and you get used to eating like a psychotic rabbit, it becomes easier. I don’t mean to say that you actually enjoy meals in the way you used to. It’s a change in mindset. A new form of stubbornness, if you will. Spend three weeks chomping on frozen grass and you tell yourself that you can’t quit or all those painful moments were for naught.

It’s the same reason the Rolling Stones keep pumping out crappy record after crappy record. “We’ve come this far,” they say, “we might as well keep on truckin.”

So the FatQuest has begun again. Except this time its in earnest. And unlike the trend in movie sequels where each successive sequels gets more pathetic each time you see it, this time we’ve saved the best for last. There are no sharks to jump and we won’t see an appearance of Hulk Hogan as “Thunderlips” here to wrestle Rocky Balboa. No. This sequel will be more like Indiana Jones or Die Hard. The good guys win and everybody goes home happy. So are you ready? Alright. Let’s go!

Hoo-ahh!

Who Dey?

ESPN ranks the Bengals at #3. A little high in my book, but still a welcome change from the previous two decades of lousiness. My heart doesn't want to believe it, and my mind is waiting for the other shoe to drop. But for now, I will put all that aside. Everything is are sunshine and happinessin Bengal country.

Fun Times

When you have a conversation like the one my mother and I recently shared, you know you had a little too much fun in college:

MOM: Oooh, your cousin was telling me the other day about the time you were drunk and running half-naked down the middle of the street with a bottle of liquor in your hand. (laughs). Tell me that story.

SASQUATCH: Umm...You're going to have to elaborate. There are several of those stories.

Still Can't See

The verdict is in! I spoke with my doctor this morning and it seems that my complete inability to see anything for the past month is due to the nasty viral infection on my eyeballs. I haven’t had a cold in over a year and I have no seasonal allergies as far as I know, so it would appear that I picked up this infection by sheer luck. My luck is compounded when you consider that I wash my hands more often than an obsessive compulsive man locked in a garbage dumpster filled with rat feces.

That's a pretty picture!

The end result is that I have to buy some expensive eyedrops, and some expensive steroids which should fix the problem in either a few weeks or a few months. It also means that I have to throw away my very expensive contact lenses and that I won’t be able to drive to work with any regularity.

Sure, I could make it there in the morning, but after ten hours of staring at a computer through the wrong prescription, I won’t be able to see straight enough to judge a beauty contest between Selma Hayek and Salmon Rushdie much less drive.

So it’s walking for me! That’s 9 miles of walking per day, baby. I think I might try a little experiment. In addition to all the extra exercise, I’ll start the extreme Atkins diet. This is no carbs and as little fat as possible. So for the next few months, I’ll eat nothing but vegetables and lean meats while walking 9 or 10 miles a day. Watch as I waste away to a paltry 230 pounds (oh, the humanity). It’ll be truly depressing, I’m sure. The good news is I’ll save about a million and a half dollars a week on gasoline! So yay for that.

unrelated addendum: I've never noticed it before, but if I let my hair grow out, I'd probably look a little bit like Salmon Rushdie.

addendum #2: Somebody asked me how bad my eyesight really was. It's hard to describe. Everything is blurry and there is a lot of double vision. There is extreme light sensitivity as well. When I'm driving, if it is a bright day outside, my eyes start to hurt and I have to sqint a lot. Here are a couple examples of what it looks like:

Bad Journalism

I was bored this morning, so I googled myself to see what would come up. It turns out that one of the articles I wrote for Swine Inc. some years ago caught the attention of a Cincinnati blogger who felt the need to “rip me a new asshole” as the saying goes.

I wonder what he would have said if he’d responded to this article.

Now, you might expect me to fly off at the handle and respond in kind, but I won’t. And the reason for this is that I agree with him. That article was, in fact, poorly written and amounts to little more than senseless whining. I didn’t actually believe the things I was saying when I said them. I was born and raised in Cincinnati and I actually wanted to stay there when I graduated. Had I not been offered the job in which I currently work, I would have stayed.

So why, you ask, would I say such bad things when I don’t actually believe them? The answer lies in the words at the top of the page. It was a point counterpoint article. I had to pick one side and since the good side was taken, I had to write from the “I hate Cincinnati” angle. There is also the small fact that my articles were due at noon on Sunday mornings, and I often started them at 11:30. It wasn’t that I was lazy. It was that I just didn’t care.

This kind of thing happened often. Isaac or Brian (the opinion editors) would come up with an idea and Mark and I would fight over who got to pick which side. This would work if you had two people who were diametrically opposed on everything from politics to social issues. But we weren’t. Mark and I were generally in the middle of the road, and both of us were steeped in the mythology and culture of our city. So one of us got screwed each week.

I remember once, while standing around waiting for Nancy Zimpher to meet the News Record staff, we shared baseball stories. He says he knew several people on the West Side who had gambled with Pete Rose on a regular basis, and that this kind of thing was (and probably still is) par for the course with most blue collar workers from that area. I told the story of the time my dad got a ride home from Crosley field with Johnny Bench.

Oftentimes, I didn’t like the issues they gave us. Like the above linked article on Cincinnati, these issues were often one-sided and rarely relevant. If you look at the history of my articles, you will see that the subject matter is inconsistent. I’d criticize something one week and praise it the next. This is because, all too often, my opinion was not in fact my opinion. It was assigned.

This is why I refer to the News Record as Swine Inc. I also refer to them as such because they still have not paid me for over half of my articles. Since I was a full time staff member at the University in addition to a full time student and part time journalist, they had to jump through some huge hoops to pay me. Rather than do this, they chose to simply not pay me.

Many of the people with whom I worked are currently working in professional journalistic careers. And some of you wonder why I hate the media.

Sometimes, however, it was fun working for the News Record. There was the time I got to criticize Nancy Zimpher’s new strategic plan for the University of Cincinnati. This is the same strategic plan that took advantage of Bob Huggins’s name recognition to get the sports program into the Big East conference (thus getting the University a ton of new money), and then fired him before the season started. I do believe that Bob “2nd round and out” Huggins was overrated, but he did more for the university than anybody over the past twenty years, and those players who took the initiative ti follow his lead have succeeded both on the court and off. He didn’t deserve to be taken out back and shot like a rabid dog.

It was also fun to get an e-mail from Nancy Zimpher telling me not to write such critical articles in the public forum lest the News Record should come under fire from her office.

All told, I have to agree with Brian Griffin. My articles did suck. That’s because I didn’t try to make them good, and the News Record was only interested in filling space. All of this makes the fact that I actually won a collegiate award for editorial writing that much more astounding.

NO....WORK...ON MONDAY!!!

It might still be Sunday...but who cares? Let's celebrate early!

Relax, everyone

It looks like No-work Mondays are here to stay!

Poorly written news headline

New Orleans police face looting probe.

That sounds awful painful

This post was brought to you by the "We refuse to grow up" department. Our department members would like to add the following: "Neener Neener Neee-Nerrrrr."

Work

I've said it before and I'll say it again. My degree is completely worthless. Is McDonald's hiring?

After the boys of summer have gone

"I'd walk through hell in a gasoline suit just to play baseball" - Pete Rose

It looks like the end of yet another baseball season is fast approaching. There is one hell of a pennant race in the American league, with four teams vying for two open positions. As of a few days ago, there were five teams in contention, but it looks like the SABRmetric magic of Billy Beane’s Oakland A’s has run out. Maybe you can’t trade your two best pitchers and still expect to compete. Either that or Joe Morgan is right and you can't run baseball through stats.

The post season is fast approaching and I should be excited. But I’m not. All this ongoing steroid talk has left me with a strange sense of ambivalence. Mark Mcguire. Rafael Palmeiro. These were supposed to be the good guys. These were the people who allegedly saved baseball after the dark years of the strike. Something went wrong.

I’ve been through this before.

On the evening of September 11, 1985, I sat on the floor of my parent’s living room, listening to Marty Brenneman and Joe Nuxhall call the Reds’ night game against the Padres. We had the television on but as any good Reds fan knows, listening to Marty and Joe is the epitome of the baseball experience. Television comes in at a distance second.

He came up in the first inning, and the packed stadium fell into silence. He kicked the dirt twice, as was his custom, and then transferred the bat from right shoulder to left as he gave the pitcher a mean glare. Then he shrunk and hunched into the familiar crouch that had terrified National League pitchers for almost a quarter century. Pete Rose, Cincinnati’s version of Roy Hobbs, was in his element and there was no stopping him.

You could feel the tension, even in my living room. The city held its breath in expectation. It was the same in every home within a 100 mile radius; perhaps in the whole world. That’s how it felt, anyway.

Eric Show, the Padres pitcher, ran the signs with his battery mate. An aging Steve Garvey pounded his glove, offering encouragement from First. Tony Gwynn, himself a scientist of hitting, took several steps towards the warning tack in Left, showing respect for the awesome power of the moment. Something was about to happen. Everybody knew it.

His strategy confirmed, Eric Show straightened and went into his windup. The crowd tightened in anticipation as the flashes from fifty thousand cameras flooded the stadium. We watched in awe as the pitch hurtled towards home and Pete Rose, with his keen old eyes focused on the target, stepped into the pitch and swung.

Marty called the play*. “He levels the bat a couple of times. Show kicks and he fires” he said. “Rose swings and A LINE DRIVE TO LEFT-CENTER FIELD!”

Nuxhall, less practiced in radio etiquette and steeped in the excitement that only a former player can know, was exuberant. “There it is There it is! Get down! ALRIGHT!”

The crowd roared. They danced and shook. Fireworks lit up the nighty sky and and Marty came over the radio briefly to certify the moment: “Hit number forty one ninety two! A line drive single into Left center field, a clean base hit, and it is pandemonium here at Riverfront Stadium.” Marty then let the crowd speak for itself. And they did, bringing the game to a halt as they showered their hero with mad cheers for nearly a half hour.

Four Thousand. One Hundred. Ninety Two. That was the new record for career hits in baseball and many people believe it is one which will never be broken. Three thousand hits in a career pretty much guarantees a ticket to the Hall of Fame and many famous players, including Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle, and Frank Robinson, didn’t get that far. The active leader in hits is Rafael Palmeiro with 2900 or so. He’s 39 and, given his recent steroid scandal, isn’t likely to play again much less get 1300 more hits.

To put it another way, a player would have to average slightly over 200 hits every year for 21 years in order to beat Pete Rose, who ended at 4256. As of today, with less than a week of play left in the season, there is exactly one player in the majors who has 200 hits. Last season, there were only 8 players to get 200 hits, and only one player has reached the mark in each of the last five seasons. Ichiro Suzuki. He might have a shot at the title if he stays healthy for the next fifteen years. It truly is an astounding record.

But to the people of Cincinnati, and to a kid sitting on his parent’s living room floor, it was more than just a record. To us, baseball was summer. It was a cool drink on a hot day. It was barbecues and fireflies. It was happiness. This expression of greatness from a hometown, working class hero was merely icing atop the greater treat. There would be other moments, other players, and other teams, but this was ours. And it was sweet. Lord, was it sweet.

Three years later, near the end of the 1988 season when Pete Rose had retired as a player and had managed the Reds to three straight second place finishes against the Los Angeles Dodgers in the National League West, there were rumors. Local gambling facilities had told stories of late night meetings and special deals involving the outcomes of certain games. Pete Rose, it seems, had been cheating.

Here’s how it worked. Pete Rose never bet on the Reds to lose. When he bet, he would bet on them to win. But anybody who was anybody in the gambling community knew that he had an addiction to it, and naturally he had several large debts to unsavory people. So, occasionally, Pete would not place a bet. This was the signal that the fix was in, and more often than not, the Reds would lose on these days.

In the ’88 - ’89 offseason, Pete Rose accepted a lifetime ban from major league baseball. This meant that he would no longer manage the Reds, he would never again coach or be a part of any team, and he would never be elected to the Hall of Fame.

For years, Rose held out. He maintained that he had been railroaded, that despite his gambling addiction he had never bet on baseball. You could almost believe him, too. Here was a person who meant so much to so many that it would have been easy to turn a blind eye in the face of light evidence. But the case against him was too strong, and in 2004 he came clean, admitting his deeds nearly twenty years after that early September evening of Joy and Happiness.

Pete Rose bet on baseball. Pete Rose destroyed its soul.

In 1920, shortly after investigating the Blacksox scandal from 1919 in which the Chicago White Sox allegedly threw the World Series against, ironically, the Cincinnati Reds**, Kennesaw Mountain Landis, the first Commissioner of baseball, handed out eight lifetime bans against members of the Chicago White Sox team. This ban included players who had definitely thrown the series alongside players like “Shoeless” Joe Jackson, who had taken the bribe while still performing at his usual level of excellence, and players like Buck Weaver who had refused to take money but said nothing of the deal to team management or the appropriate authorities.

People have often wondered why he banned those who didn’t actively throw games. “Shoeless” Joe would have obviously been elected to the Hall of Fame had he finished his career. In fact, he stands third on the all time list for career batting average behind only Rogers Hornsby and Ty Cobb, the man whom Pete Rose eclipsed with hit number 4192. Both Hornsby and Cobb are in the Hall of Fame.

Landis spoke on this very subject in the years after the scandal died down and things returned to normal. He said that, in comparison to other sports, baseball was linked to the American spirit. Anybody who has seen James Earl Jones’s impassioned “People will come” speech in the movie “Field of Dreams” understands this. For the last century, baseball mirrored the soul of the nation.

Landis went on to say that neither baseball nor the American spirit could suffer such an outlandish betrayal of trust. Whether you acted inappropriately, gave the appearance of impropriety, or turned a blind eye towards the actions of others was unimportant. Each deserved equal punishment.

“Baseball cannot abide such treason,” he said, and for a while it seemed that baseball had been saved.

He was right, of course, and Rose’s halfhearted capitulation in 2004 is a testimony to how far we have fallen from that high standard. The depth of our squalor is only heightened by the knowledge that Bud Selig, the current Commissioner and the very same man who claims that allowing Pete Rose to return to baseball would somehow tarnish the sport’s reputation, is now defending baseball against an onslaught of investigators and reporters and fans who claim that he turned a blind eye to the steroid scandal, allowing it to go on because the increase in homeruns meant an increase in profits.

And what is the result? You can see it for yourself in the empty ballfields across America. It used to be that summer saw every available field weighted down by the constant pattering of feet from children who spent every moment from dawn to dusk beating a patch from home plate to first base, and all the way back again if they were good enough or just plain lucky. And where there were no official fields, kids would make their own. They would mark out a diamond with whatever they could find: an old telephone book, a construction cone, a glove or a hat. By the end of the summer, the path between the bases was worn into the grass. After a few years, the markings became permanent and would last through the harshest of winters.

It used to be that neighborhood kids fought over who got to be the local hero. They would argue for weeks over who was Barry Larkin and who was Johnny Bench. Nobody got to be Pete Rose. Nobody was good enough. They would play through wind and rain and, yes, even snow. Near riots would break out between teams who argued about the specifics of infield fly rule or whether a long drive that nicked the foul pole was fair or foul. Every one of us would have given anything to get a chance to stand in against a big league pitcher. To take a mighty swing, hit the ball a long way and show him you knew something he did not.

It used to be that baseball was more than just a game. It used to be that it held the spirit and soul of America.

This is no longer so. Nobody watches baseball anymore. Football, with its speed and glitz and fancy marketing, has eclipsed it as the national pastime. Soccer fields cover what used to be well-groomed diamonds, and those haphazard fields of permanence from our youth have started to grow over.

So the season is coming to an end; another season that, at one time, would have been intense. To the boy who sat on his parent’s living room floor twenty years ago, the thrill of a race to the finish would have been almost too much to bear. Today, the man that boy has become hardly notices.

Baseball has self-destructed into a selfish endeavor and, as such, has lots its soul. It no longer embodies the hopes and dreams of a nation. Now, it is just another sport.

The boys of summer have gone. And nobody mourns their passing.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

*Hear Pete Rose break the all time hits record (halfway down on the left).

**People always say that had the White Sox not thrown it, their victory in the 1919 World Series would have been a foregone conclusion. Inexperienced historians believe that they were by far the better team. But a quick look at the stats will tell a different story. The White Sox finished the season at 88-52, three and a half games ahead of the second place Cleveland Indians. By comparison, the Reds, lead by Hall of Famer Ed Rousch, finished the season 96-44 and 9 games ahead of the second place New York Giants. This .686 winning percentage would mean a 111-52 record by today’s standard, placing them well ahead of any World Series Champion of the last fifty years with the exception of the 1998 New York Yankees, who won 114 games.

The End of No-Work Monday?

So it seems that the goodness that is no-work Mondays has come to an end. Next week I return to the mad fun of the five day workweek crowd. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted. And at least now I get to leave work at 4pm instead of 6!

Dogs in too toos

I’m writing another play for the drama group at church. In an e-mail that Abbie sent out not too long ago, she mentioned that Mike wanted us to do a play on Psalm 119 for a series of lectures he planned to do on the law or the psalms or something like that. I don’t know for sure. Originally, I had the idea of having a person on stage, solemnly reading each and every word of this chapter while clowns and animals ran around behind them juggling and clowning and doing a various assortment of carnival type things. This didn’t make much sense, though. I just thought it would be funny. And vaguely artistic in an avant garde sort of way. It would have also been cool to have a dog run across stage at the end, wearing a too-too and pulling a radio flyer cart with a placard that read “Fin” when it was all over.

We would also have read it in French. Because all good avant garde things are in French, right?

The trouble with Psalm 119 is that it is very long and mostly boring. I haven’t been able to make it all the way through the dam thing myself and I’m closing in on the halfway mark of a play that is supposed to elucidate the ideas contained therein. If you have taken the time to click on the link and read the psalm above, aside from being one up on me you might have guessed that it has something to do with Law and that the psalmist is talking about how he recognizes both the necessary stringency of the Law and humanity’s inability to live up to the standard.

But I could have guessed that if you simply said, “It’s about the Law, yo!” Because what else is the psalmist going to say? Man, I just love looking at what I’m supposed to be, how I really am, and the wide gulf that exists between the two. Even atheists can see that, even if they don’t agree with the specifics of Judeo-Christian laws or even if they are moral relativists. I keep thinking that there has to be something deeper. Because everything I read about Psalm 119 (and, despite the fact that I have not read the actual psalm, I have read a lot about it) speaks of its depth, its beauty and its heartbreaking humanity. Unfortunately, they don't tell me what that alleged depth is. They just sit back in awe and (I imagine) speak thusly in a Bill&Ted voice, "Dude..that's, like, deep...and stuff."

Perhaps there is a complete idiots guide somewhere.

If only I understood what it meant to be human. Then I might be able to comprehend the meaning of the verse and thus I would be able to craft a story that is both relevant, interesting, and full of the depth it appears I am incapable of grasping. But there’s the rub. If I understood what it meant to be human, I wouldn’t need to read the Bible in the first place. We’re talking about reality, after all, not fantasy.

So I started a play and,as things stand, it’s a doozy. In fact, I’m not even sure people will want to use it. If it turns out like I’m guessing, it’ll be long and complicated and full of bad attempts at humor; all of which is set against a backdrop of a story that is the antithesis of funny.

No. It isn’t my love life. That actually is funny…in a sad sort of way.

We’re supposed to meet tomorrow to talk about what we plan to do next. Maybe Abbie has some ideas. Maybe Mike wanted to talk about a different Psalm, hopefully a shorter one. Maybe Ronni will have written something that makes more sense. If not, we’ll be stuck with what I have. And what I have makes almost as much sense to me as the Psalm about which I was supposed to be writing in the first place.

Looks like its time for the dogs in too-toos.

FIN!

Can't See

It would seem that once again, my eyeballs are not working properly and I am forced to change the setting for Text Size from “Moderately Large” to “Just give up and try to learn brail.” Three minutes ago, I caught myself leaning in close to my monitor in order to read the words printed thereon much like a 90 year old lady trying to navigate her 1975 Lincoln Mark 4 down the narrow streets and sidestreets of my neighborhood. This discovery, along with many others, has lead to a harrowing thought: no woman will ever be interested in me.

Let’s do the rundown here. Just so you can follow along.

Fat…check
Bald….check
Makes less than $30K….check
Can’t see worth shit….check
A complete lack of fashion sense….CHECK!

If I hadn’t told you I was 27, you might think I was pushing 90 (and still talking about how Woodrow Wilson ruined the great dream that was The Republic of America). I am old before my time. I am a worthless human being! Yay for me!

Now shut the hell up ya whippersnappers. Mitch Miller’s on.

insert workless exhortation here

Did I use this picture already? Oh well. It's still funny

Welcome to the Office

The trouble with pointless work is that, eventually, you reach a point where you can’t continue. First, you have the excitement of something new. The facts and figures overwhelm and the magic of procedural doctrine belittles your mind into a state of abject fear.

Then, after a while, you begin to understand. You learn the rules behind the rules. You learn what is necessary and what doesn’t matter. Jenny, the former controller from Houston, takes care of that paperwork glut and Bob is a whiz with computers. Tina, the hot temp from the second floor, serves a greater purpose than visual stimulus while Jason, the assistant manager your boss exemplified as the paragon of efficiency, sleeps at his desk and pours whiskey into his coffee at lunch.

You learn and you adapt.

Soon, you know everything and you begin to point out inaccuracies and inconsistencies in the way things run. The waiver form is useless and the records are not kept up to date. Jenny would appreciate your hard work at managing efficiency in the paperwork department and Bob sits at his desk waiting for someone to ask for help with their computer. Better to ask him then to wait on line for the (no) help desk. You slowly position yourself within the company to have Bob run out of town on a rail and you while away your free time wondering if Tina is keeping a record of your actions to report to management or if she is just making eyes at you.

You hope it is the latter.

This lasts for a while and things seem good. Then, it happens. Sometimes it is sudden and other times it’s gradual, but it eventually happens in work like this. You have an epiphany, an insight, a clarity of thought and vision that leads you to one, immutable truth.

Your job is pointless.

The company will never fire Bob, no matter how many times he comes towork drunk, your efficiency improvements go unnoticed as the management team casually mentions, on their way to the golf course, that the new software upgrade do away with that type of work altogether. And Tina? She doesn’t even know your name. The reason she kept looking at you was because her contacts get dry whenever she in on your floor and she has to stop for a moment to clear her vision.

There is no getting around it. Your job is pointless. The people at work don’t care about you and, in all probability, they hate your guts. This is where you are and this is where you will be for the rest of your life if you don’t make a change. There is no hope for promotion. There is no leniency or stay of execution. This is your death in tiny, tiny increments.

Welcome to the office. Have a nice day.

More Stupidity

In this post, Amanda Marcotte thinks that teenagers choosing to have children in their teenage years might, in fact, be a good thing. She cites an article written by some person who goes by the name Apersand in which we learn that, due to poverty, the healthiest point of a young woman's life might actually be the 17-19 year old range. So why delay giving birth until later when you can do it now and be more healthy. They make the decision on their own. We should celebrate this!

My answer is simply this. When I was a teenager, I once decided that I would build a large, dirt ramp in my back yard, and then I further decided that it would be a good idea to ride my friend's motorcycle down the hill, over the ramp, and into the woods behind. Luckily, my parents intervened, proving once again that the decisions I made as a teenager were rarely good and almost always resulted in either a large amount of pain or a large amount of money (none of which was mine) being spent to recitfy the damage I had caused.

Sure, teenagers in poor situations might think that having a baby when they are still themselves children is a good idea. They might even get jackasses like this Ampersand person to back them up. These jackasses will say, "Go ahead and have children now, because you are poor and will therefore never attain the kind of hapiness which I was given as a child. Having a child might make you happy. The sleepless nights. The constant crying. The continuous bills. This is the only kind of happiness you will ever be allotted in life. You are poor. You are stupid. You are worthless. So have children. I say this because I feel sorry for you, and saying these things alleviates the bad feelings I have. Doing this makes me feel like I actually care about somebody other than myself. So go ahead. Act irresponsibly. Have children when you can't possibly afford to care for them properly. Forget education and work and family and love and all that stuff that I think is bullshit because I just took philosophy 101 and have become enthralled with a Socratic society devoid of family. Just go ahead and satisfy the childlike wants and desires (which are natural, because you are still just a child) while I sit in the corner while I base in my elite intelligence and feigned warm-heartedness."

Here is a newsflash from those of us who have brains: having children when you are still a child is never a good idea. Having children when you can't afford to take care of that child is also not a good idea, either, by the way. Having a child to fulfill your own wants of happiness and fulfillment is also less than smart. All of this is true because these rationalizations are all about what is best for you. And having a child isn't about you; I'ts about the child. The people who tell you these things are idiots. They are themselves still children, mentally speakingt. They are also selfish and cruel because they assume you can never rise above the stiations in life to which we are born. They don't want what's best for you. They want what's best for them and nothing more.

What you need is guidance. What you need is love. What you need is somebody to help you through the tough times that you don't understand. And, occasionally, you need somebody to smack you in the head and say, "what the hell is the matter with you...go do your homework!" This comes from friends. This comes from parents. This comes from teachers and pastors and community members and even from politicians who remember the true definitions of "public servant." Seek out these people will all your will and all your heart, and never listen to anybody who tells you that you will never amount to nothing.

Those people are idiots.

The New Face of Justice

I was in my car when I heard that GWB had nominated John Roberts to the Supreme Court. I remember the moment well. I was two bites away from finishing a chicken and bacon ranch sub from SubWay(TM), and as the radio announcer said, "George W Bush announced the nomination of John Roberts to fill the O'Conner spot in the Supreme Court today," I spilled a large globule of Chipotle southwest sauce on my shirt. I swore and then turned my car towards home. Not because I was mad at the nomination, but because I had to change my clothes and I would likely be late. I was, in fact, late for work. And I blame George W. Bush for that....OK, not really.

Since that time I have engaged in several useless conversations about the man, and after all this time I still don't know what to think about the guy. I've said it again and again. Bloggers of the liberal variety rejected him out of hand, assuming he is anti-woman, anti-gay, anti-black people, and anti-whatever it is they think they stand for. They have yet to provide real evidence to support their claims. Bloggers of the conservative variety have hailed his nomination as the second coming of "values" politics, and have thus predicted the slow death of Rowe vs Wade and gay rights and civil rights and tax and spend government.

The funny thing about bloggers is that our ranks are full of hopeless idiots. Every single one of them. Even me. We rant and we rave, we kick and we scratch, and at the end of the day we accomplish very little. William Shakespeare had us in mind when he spoke of a man who “struts and frets his hour upon the stage,” for ours truly is a tale told by an idiot. It just so happens that in opposition to Shakespeare’s singular idiot there stands a multitude of hopeless morons pounding their keyboards in rage at the newest and hottest political matière du jour.

Ann Coulter said it early on and, though it pains me to do so, I must agree. The scariest thing about this guy is that we know so little about him. He has but a few months’ experience as a judge and, before that, he argued as a run of the mill lawyer for the Reagan and Bush I administrations. He has said nothing that belies his true feelings one way or the other, over the entirety of his career.

Think about the last time you had a political conversation with a friend or a co-worker. Think about how often you make an ass of yourself on your website or a friend’s page. Think about how easy it would be to discern your political stance from the few words you have either stated out loud or written in confidence and then wonder how a man who has worked in public office his entire life can get away with the impression that he is wholly impartial on all subjects.

His evasiveness in the hearings made me wonder what kind of a person he truly is. He says he believes in law and law alone. He says that he will let the facts of the case and his interpretation of the Constitution decide merit in each instance. And that is fine. What bothers me is the idea that a man who has remained reticent on nearly every important subject throughout his entire life is now expected to equate his opinion with justice.

What bothers me is that he has apparently never stood for anything in his entire life. He passes the buck in each instance, stating that he defended this client or that client and never his own ideals. In short, he apparently has no backbone. A man with no backbone and a willingness to shy from decision-making of this magnitude can be easily bought.

This man will shortly become the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. And he ain’t going nowhere for a long, long time.

fun words

Today is a good day. Today is the day that Neil Gaiman released his most recent book, Anansi Boys, to the teeming, unwashed masses of fans who like to pretend they aren’t really nerds but who also have a collection of pocket protectors and un-opened Luke Sywalker figurines stashed away in a hidden place somewhere at home. I am one of these people, except I don’t actually have the aforementioned items of modern geekery. I only wish I did.

After reading Neverwhere, and then reading and re-reading American Gods, neil Gaiman has shot to the top five list of authors whose books I will purchase, sight unseen, whenever their works are published. Another favorite author, Kurt Vonnegut, released a book this month, catching me completely by surprise. This is understandable, however, given that he’s is practically 187 years old and has said on several occasions that he will never publish another word as long as he lives.

He’s a Socialist, though, so you can’t expect to hold him to any kind of standard.

I read the first chapter of Ananzi Boys this afternoon while eating lunch, and I am pleased to report that the book has thus far lived up to its predecessors. The main character, Fat Charlie, reminisces on the life of his father, who was a large man, fond of drink and women, whose nicknames for things followed them the rest of their days. The descriptions of Fat Charlie’s father seem like a Cajun version of Pan or Loki, but since Gaiman already used Loki in his last book (and if you haven’t read American Gods, I may have just given away the ending), I’m guessing this isn’t the case.

There is, of course, the obvious reference to the Ashanti Anansasem myths. His sister, Bia, appears in Greek mythology as the bird that eats Prometheus’s liver each morning as part of a punishment from Zeus. Bia goes under a different name there, but I think the Ashanti recognized it as the same. At any rate, there have been some mentions of birds as evil characters to be feared. Perhaps this will come into play. If a large man who goes by the name of Hercules or Heracles or perhaps just Harry shows up at the end and shoots Bia with an arrow, I will feel very intelligent and adept in my abilities to predict the outcome of the story. If not, oh well. It will be a good read nonetheless

Good Happiness

We peformed my play, "Strange Love" this evening in front of a crowd of nearly 100 people. It went well. It went really well. Ben pulled out all the stops as the pimp daddy boyfriend; Ronni had to abandon the idea of using her son onstage, but she still performed a spotless scene; Laurie kicked ass; and Christy was amazing in the lead, as usual. I even did a good job, too. I had the crowd laughing with my bear impersonation voices.

There was even talk of having us perform it again for a group at Otterbein and maybe some group from OSU. Who knows what fun is soon to be had!

And now it is time for sleep. My head it doth spin and my feet they do ache. Bon soir mes amis.

George Bush Hates New Orleans

In a move that many in Washington D.C. call "idiotic" and "just plain mean," George W. Bush has sent another Hurricane into the Gulf of Mexico and many believe he will direct it towards New Orleans area in order to "finish off the enemies of Amurka."
Story Develping

Read

A Story from the Cincinnati Enquirer:

Amanda Bullington, 27, didn't go to prison. The Anderson Township woman was convicted of misdemeanor vehicular homicide for the June 16, 2004, crash that killed Tirzah Amrein, 72, a Greenhills woman on her way to the library.

Lost on Winton Road, Bullington picked up her cell phone to call for directions. She says she never even saw the red light at Cromwell Road.

Bullington was put on two years probation and fulfilled a community service order by visiting high schools and talking about what happened. She still visits schools, even though her community service is completed.

Bullington says students always think she's about to deliver another lecture. Then, they become riveted when she says she killed somebody when she took her eyes off the road for just one second.

She reminds them that driving is a privilege to be taken seriously. "It's the best thing to come out of this, even if I can just change one person's life," she says.

Bullington has talked to hundreds of students, but it never gets any easier.

She cries every time.

Tirzah Amrein was my grandmother. I'm glad to see that the woman who did this has learned from her mistakes and is doing something to educate others. That makes me smile.

!work=(Sunday+1)

It may be no-work Monday, but I have a lot of stuff to do today. So don't get too terribly mad at me.

Funny

I recently purchased the 2006 Writer's Market in an attempt to search for magazine that might buy a story or two I have recently written. In my search, I came across the listing for Playboy magazine, which states (and I am quoting directly): "Fairy tales, extremely experimental fiction, and pornography all have their place, but it is not in playboy."

Funny, isn't it?

Impending Insanity

It’s Saturday and I am in the heart of another three day weekend. You know, if my job didn’t suck as much as it does, I think I would get more enjoyment out of this whole four day work week thing. As things stand, however, I spend my weekends living on fear of Tuesday (which is my Monday, in case you’re new to this site).

My roommate just left for Cincinnati. I told him that a bunch of us were planning to hit the Saturday evening church service and then maybe head out to a bar or a restaurant. Or maybe to somebody’s house where we can all partake in the alcoholic goodness of the Wild Turkey gold I purchased last evening.

Or maybe we’ll retreat to our homes and be lame. Who knows?

At any rate, church starts in three hours. I think I might try to head off for a walk around the neighborhood, because the weather this afternoon has that cool hint of autumn in the air, and the leaves on the trees are just beginning to dry out. The official date is still a week away, but for me, it starts today - fall, that is - and I am more than ready. I’ve been waiting for Fall since the dawn of time and now it is here. It’s like Christmas morning and Halloween and your birthday and Labor Day all rolled up into one.

And in this case, Labor Day and Christmas accentuate autumn on both ends, more or less, with my birthday smack dab in the middle right next to Halloween. It’s an orgy of holidays, one right after the other, and when its all over I’m left stranded for nine months, wondering why all the life went out of life and why the trees no longer dance their colored limbs across the sky.

But there’s no need to worry about the end and the onset of another terrible, depressive winter when fall is looking us directly in the face, taunting us, yelling at us to give chase and do our worst. Fall is the time of Harvest. Fall is the time of death. Fall is the time when all your debts are called in, when the wind blows through the tress like a madman and when the world changes colors right before your very eyes.

Acid Freaks feel most comfortable in the Fall. And so do I.

I spoke with President Bush the other day, and he told me that he’s a big fan of Fall as well. “I love it!” he screamed at me. “It’s like Armageddon. It’s like the end of the world. People are so obsessed with sports and school and holidays and fun that they don’t pay attention to what’s going on the world. That’s when you got ‘em. That’s when you can do anything.”

The bastard was right. Like an all-encompassing Bacchus festival, nobody pays attention to anything or anyone but themselves once the weather goes cold and the colors melt. Rampant selfishness and senseless debauchery rule the day as we await the frozen loneliness of Ohio’s mad winter.

Demons run through the streets with reckless abandon, killing, raping and pillaging with a passion unequaled in the annals of human history. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, bad craziness has returned. Its time for another year of death, dismemberment and senseless debauchery. So put on your plastic faces, grab a bottle of whiskey, and light something on fire.

Fall is here and the world is about to end. You might as well enjoy it.

A preponderance of Fatmen?

A man recently contacted me, saying that also has a blog with the name The Fatman Chronicles. The world keeps getting smaller and smaller, huh? He asked me if I minded him using the same name as me, and I said “Why not…it’s not like we’re making any money!”

At least, I’m not getting paid to do this. Which begs the question of why I am, in fact, doing this.

He seems like a nice enough guy, and on his website he posts this about himself:

“I'm a retired/disabled, semi-skilled laborer who grew up as a Roman Catholic
son of liberal, card carrying union members. I've since morphed into an
conservative-libertarian (small l) atheist who thinks unions have outlived their
usefulness, or at least been corrupted by the NEA, AFSCME and SEIU into
something that trade unionists from seventy-five to one hundred years ago
wouldn't recognize.”

Normally I wouldn’t post somebody else’s words without first asking them, but he has these right out on the front of his website. Plus, from what I read, he seems to be rather lighthearted about life and does not appear to be the sort who gets riled up over something as pointless and stupid as a blog; especially one like mine, which epitomizes these characteristics.

He seems like an interesting person, like the kind of person with whom I would agree on many issues and disagree on others. He morphed from liberal/religious to conservative non-religious. That’s an interesting mix, one you don’t see too often. Politics and religious belifes tend to go hand in hand in this country (sadly) and it is rare that you find a person who not only mixes the two apparent opposites, but has switched sides on both. This tells me that he is a person who can look at an issue from all sides and speak intelligently and critically about many things. This I respect.

We would have some heartfelt agreements on many things, the largest example of which is the lack of faith in the current status of unions in the US. Being a former member of SEIU local (number deleted for fear of retribution), I can tell you first hand how the people involved do not care one iota for the employees they claim to protect. When I started working at that particular job, I sought information about meetings and charities and all sorts of things you would expect a union to do. They did not respond. I e-mailed and called for over six months with no response. So I dropped out of the union, choosing instead to pay the “fair share” dues (which are a bit less), because I figured that if they were going to be assholes, I would rather not give them my money. Then the 2004 election came (after several years of no responses from the union with regard to a littany of grievances from myself and others in my department) and all of a sudden they wanted to know why I was not logner interested in supporting my union brethren. They also wanted to know who I planned to vote for and if I would like to make a donation to the John F. Kerry campaign. I told them I did not plan to vote for Kerry and I asked them not to call me again.

They called me at least ten times a day for over four months, oftentimes threatening me with job loss if I didn’t vote for John Kerry. At one point they went through a whole list of false accusations against Bush, and followed it up with the question, “So have I conviced you that Bush is not right for the country?”

I said, “That’s it! You got me. I won’t vote for Bush this year!”

“Way to go, brother,” the man said. And this was creepy since people don’t normally refer to a white man as “brother” unless they are trying to sell you something or unless they want you to join a cult

He finished: “Can I count on you to vote for John Kerry, then?”

“No, actually,” I said. “I think I’m going to vote for Curt Schilling.”

“Who?”

“Curt Schilling! You know, the pitcher for the Red Sox? He’s got the lowest earned run average of any candidate in the mix. And did you see that bloody sock in the world series. Man, if that ain’t leadership I don’t know what is!”

He hung up on me after that.

So, yeah, the Fatman and I would get along well in this regard. The religion issue might be different. I’m sure we’d still get along well enough because I’m an easygoing guy and he seems the same. Large people tend not to get too terribly excited. We’re too worried about heart attacks and such. It’s best to keep the blood pressure as low as possible.

So while I bet we would disagree on religion, I’m sure we could have some fun conversations!

Blast From The Past

Hey! Look who’s leading the world’s largest chicken dance this year at Cincinnati’s Oktoberfest! It’s Uncle Al and Captain Windy. Story

ZINZINNATI (Aug. 25, 2005) — Uncle Al and Captain Windy, stars of the longest-running children’s show in television history — 1950 to 1985 — will lead the World’s Largest Chicken Dance and Hokey Pokey at 4 p.m. on Saturday, Sept. 17, at the 30th annual Oktoberfest-Zinzinnati, North America’s largest authentic Oktoberfest.

Cincinnati Mayor Charlie Luken honored Al and Wanda Lewis of Hillsboro today at the Montgomery Inn Boathouse by proclaiming Aug. 25, 2005, as "Uncle Al and Captain Windy Day in Cincinnati" and presented them with a key to the city. The proclamation read in part: "Whereas, Uncle Al’s bow tie and straw hat, and Captain Windy’s cape, will forever be cherished in Cincinnati as icons of a golden era of television and of the very best in American family values."

Al and Wanda first met in a drawing class at the Cleveland School of Art in 1945. In 1949 Al joined WCPO-TV, then a fledgling television station in Cincinnati, and in July of that year Al and Wanda were married. From 1957 to 1958, The Uncle Al Show was broadcast nationally on ABC on Saturday mornings on 130 stations coast to coast Uncle Al and Captain Windy recently were inducted into the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences for having the longest running children’s show in the United States. And acclaimed movie star Johnny Depp cited Uncle Al as an inspiration for his role in the recent children’s blockbuster, "Charlie And The Chocolate Factory."

Uncle Al and Captain Windy will lead the World’s Largest Chicken Dance and Hokey Pokey from the main Oktoberfest-Zinzinnati entertainment stage between Broadway and Sentinel on Fifth Street — near Procter & Gamble at the eastern edge of the event. Fountain Square reconstruction has shifted the entertainment focus of this year's Oktoberfest to the eastern edge of Downtown. Their appearance is set for 4 p.m. Saturday, Sept. 17.

I was on the Uncle Al television show when I was a kid. But then, everybody was on the Uncle Al show when they were a kid. I remember telling my teacher and she said, “So what…I was on when I was a kid, too!”

Here’s an interesting story. One of my college roommates mentioned that he was on the Uncle Al show as a child. We both shared the sentiment that everybody we knew had been on the show. He got a picture of the even the day he was there and, lo and behold, it was the exact same day I was on the show. I knew, because I was in the picture as well.

I guess Walt Disney was right. It really is a small world after all

Pointless Stupidity

the drama group at church is performing the play I wrote. It's next week! They asked me to write bios for the cast members. I did, but they're all fake. And here they are.

Christy
Christy was raised by a colony of anteaters in the Highlands of Scotland, and she remained there until she was banished from her clan at the spry age of ten due to a nasty political dispute involving differing theories of economic stability and the best techniques for tearing down ant hills. After short stints with both the off-Broadway production of "Bozo the Clown: the untold story" and a traveling summer carnival in Texas run by a fiery midget, she settled in Columbus to seek happiness and a higher socio-economic status than she would have known with her family of anteaters back in Scotland. Christy has memorized every episode of "The Gilmore Girls" from each of the first two seasons, and she can recite the scripts on command at twice the normal speed if you ask her nicely or threaten to use her DVD collection as frisbees. She also memorized the value of pi out the 457 th decimal place in order to win a bet, the winnings from which she used to pay off an exorbitant cell phone bill and to buy an extra large helping of fried rice which, according to Christy, is sweetly similar to the delectable tenderness of Scottish ants.

Phil
Despite a promising career as a circus freak due to his uncanny ability to fit anything up to and including a big screen TV in his mouth, Phil was eventually forced to seek full-time employment in order to feed his beer and pool habits. A talented chef, wine-drinker, moron-baiter, and Mexican wave-initiator, Phil finally discovered his true calling as a drummer while beating a competitor for the last pool table at the local pub. This competitor happened to be wearing a particularly percussive hat. Phil also contributes to the local arts scene with his outstanding free association poetry, the finest example of which being the renowned, "I've fallen down the stairs. I was up the stairs, but now I'm down the stairs. Here I am. This is where I am". In addition to his burgeoning career in the dramatic arts, Phil's one-man drum performances can be seen weekly on the public access show "Columbus Freaks." Phil once ate fifteen grilled cheese sandwiches in one sitting, but he doesn't like to talk about this incident and prefers that you not mention it to others.

Ben
A well-known teenage daredevil by the age of five, Ben specialized in diving head-first off large tables, and also removing and then discarding the front wheel of his stunt bike just after leaving high jump ramps. This may account for his rugged and "chiselled" appearance, and also goes some way towards explaining his superbly unreliable memory. Having been a fan of professional wrestling since three years before his birth, Ben recently attempted to start a wrestling career as "The Tiny Torch" with the local amateur circuit. He abandoned this dream when an opponent knocked out his teeth and shaved obscenities into his hair with a pair of clippers while he sat unconscious in the corner. Heavily involved in the technical side of dramatics, Ben independently discovered dry ice after weeks of fruitless experimentation with a hairdryer and a fridge-freezer. Ben's best friends once claimed that he should be shot and killed, and then brought back to life by some strange, voodoo séance so he could be shot and killed again. Strangely, Ben agrees.

Joe
Born at the age of sixteen on the plaza level at Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati, Joe was considered unusually intelligent by people who didn't know any better. Gifted with a musical ear (just one, though), and a natural love of languages, Joe can play any instrument at least as proficient as a two year old, and he has learned nearly two thirds of all world dialects. Unfortunately, he lost a large portion of his memory after a failed attempt at a stage dive at a Dave Matthews Band concert in 1998. Now, all he can say is "May I please borrow your yak?" in Italian while incessantly whistling the theme song to "The Andy Griffith Show." His favorite color is blue, he is a huge baseball fan, and he is also fond of Homemade Brand Cookies N Cream ice cream. So if you get the chance, buy him some. He will love you forever

Laurie
Laurie received full scholarships to both Yale and Harvard Universities after scoring a perfect 1600 on her S.A.T. But she quit the academic life after only a semester, choosing instead to pursue a lucrative career as the preeminent DJ in the New York area under the name Acid Hip Boom Boom Funk, playing a strange combination of fusion jazz, hip hop, and bluegrass country music. The crowds went nuts after hearing this new and exciting blend. As Leonard Nimoy once said, "it makes the kids crazy and it drives the parents insane!" Acid Hip Boom Boom Funk gave it all up, however, after she lost her life savings trying to start a record label for gangsta rappers who specialize in Irish clog dancing. She changed her name back to Laurie and returned home to resume her old job as the third shift delivery driver for Cut-Rate Pizza Co. She also took a new position as the lead chef for Ay-augh!, a soon to open four-star restaurant that specializes in Bangor, Maine cuisine. Laurie enjoys bass fishing and managerial accounting, and she is the undefeated Franklin county staring contest champion three years running. She mandates that her new restaurant play an eclectic blend of music whenever she works, and she smiles whenever she hears a unique blend of thumping base and twinkling banjo.

FMC Day 3 part b

Everything was fine. Work was slow, FatQuest2 was going along smoothly, and I had lulled myself into daydreaming about a thinner, more muscular sasquatch who attracted women by the thousands with a flicker of his perfectly formed bicep.

Then it happened. Disaster struck. I went to a friend's house after work this evening after not having eaten in nearly 6 hours. My stomach grumbled like the Mount St Helends and my mind reeled at the countless hours spent without having eaten. I vowed to fix a couple of nice chicken breasts after visiting my friend, but when I arrived at his house I was shocked to see that he had ordered pizza. Three pizzas, in fact. With mushrooms and extra cheese. He stood before me like Eve with the golden apple that eventually brought hte fall of man and I, like the countless others before me, gave in to temptation and took part in the fat-laden goodness therein.

But all is not lost, my friends. If the Bible teaches us anything it is that we can come back from disastrous defeat to find greater glory, provided we seek our strength from a higher power. And we can learn from our mistakes.

When I got home this evening, I went for my usual walk and by the time I got home I felt amazing. I glanced at the clock and found that I had bested my 55 minute goal by three whole minutes. My legs felt like tree trunks and my arms felt like wright iron. I felt like Samson in his prime.

Except bald. And fat. And not Jewish.

I made a mistake, yes. But this mistake is not the end. No no no! It is merely a road bump in the road to better heath. Fear not, fair reader. Soon the pounds will fly off with lightening speed and a newer, thinner sasquatch will emerge from the cocoon of lard to take the land by storm.

Just you wait and see!

you suck

There’s something about politics that I just don’t understand. Why are so many people out there so blatantly ignorant? Why do so many people choose a side of an argument because of how it makes them feel and then blindly defend it no matter how much evidence or reasoning or common sense stands in their way?

For instance, take this post by the nutjobs over at Pandagon. They link to this story about the jackasses who owned and ran a nursing home in New Orleans that was destroyed in hurricane Katrina. Despite warnings from public officials and news outlets and several other people, the owners did not help their tenants leave. As you may have guessed, nearly everybody in the nursing home died in the storm and the ensuing floods. Pandagon claims that this is just another example of racism, because the media did not take the time to mention how this travesty was a result of the owner’s whiteness.

Here is how the logic is supposed to flow. According to the good people at pandagon, whenever the media mentions something bad that happened when black people are involved, it is racism. Therefore, the reporters who unearthed this story, because they did not mention the owner’s race with disdain, are equally as racist.

It’s a catch 22 for journalists these days, apparently. If the media reports that a black person is looting, it is racism regardless of whether the person in question was, in fact looting. If a white person does something bad and the media does not mention that this is due to the person’s race, then this is somehow racist. Truth, apparently, has little to do with it.

This is all part of a larger problem. At the beginning of his post, Jesse says he’s going to explain why liberals continue to harp on the apparent cloud of racism that surrounds the Katrina disaster, but he doesn’t really offer an explanation. He just assumes that the driving factor behind the disaster and our lack of response is racism. He truly believes that the underlying reason so many people have lost so much is not because of how powerful the storm was or because the Bush administration didn’t plan disaster relief as effectively as they should have or that local governments didn’t prepare or take an active role. He truly believes that the driving force is racism. As though George W Bush and the rest of the conservative mafia had been waiting for just such a predicament to really stick it to the black man.

Such an idea is preposterous; offensively so.

Racism does exist; there is no doubt about that. In fact, racism exists in all facets of life from the highest government officials to the poorest, most destitute person in the slums of New York City. But to assume, as people like Jesse Taylor tend to do, that there is a vast racist conspiracy behind every door and under every rock cheapens the advances that have been made and lessens our ability to address racism when we actually encounter it. It makes the problem of racism seem much larger than it actually is, and it allows true racists to hide in plain sight.



If we are to believe, as Jesse does, that the largest problem of the Katrina disaster is a racial one, there is no way for us to come together and address the vast array of other problems that have risen as a result. They believe we are racist, remember, and people like us are never to be trusted.

There are several real problems, if anybody is interested. It seems that our emergency response has weakened severely since 9/11, and the Bush administration has not exactly put the right people in charge of the right agencies. You’d think he’d be all over that since it criticizes Bush.

Worst of all, Jesse neglects the true tragedies of the individual. Pandagon’s response to the fact that 34 people died due to the negligence of a couple of hapless morons said nothing of how horrible the situation was. They didn’t call for continued effort to support and help Gulf Coast peoples who have been displaced. They didn’t remind us that we need to offer monetary assistance for groups like the Red Cross and stormaid.com who are still working to save lives. No. They looked at the faces of those who are suffering and they played a race card. They threw a political jab and an opponent who isn’t even in the same ring.

And people wonder why Democrats can’t get elected.

additionally--------------

There is some good news, though. It seems that the Kuwaitis have offered $500 million in assistance. This is in addition to the $700 million offered by Americans. That’s some love right there.

The FMC Day 3

A bag of carrots for breakfast. A salad for lunch. Rice cakes in the interim. Rice cakes for Pete’s sake! We’re only three days into Fatquest 2 and already I ‘m contemplating the exuberant joys of Moeatlover’s pizza and twinkies bathed in lard.

I woke up this morning and my knees screamed at me.

“What the hell you are doing to us?” they yelled at the top of their non-existent lungs.

“What do you mean?” I asked them.

“What’s with all the exercise? Why all the walking?”

“I need to loose weight again.”

“But I thought you were all done with that,” the left one said.

“Yeah,” the right one said with a tint of worry in its voice. “Why are we starting all that again?”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” I said, “but we haven’t exactly reached out goal.”

“What’s this we crap, fatty,” Left Knee said. “You’re on your own this time. Remember that beer vending experiment?”

“Um,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Right. “Everything was going along well and then you tried to be a beer vendor for the Reds.”

“That was two months from hell, let me tell you,” said Left.

“Really,” said Right. “What kind of stuff were you smokin’ that actually allowed you to believe you could carry your already gargantuan frame up and down steep ballpark steps while carrying four cases of cheap beer?”

“It was the money,” I said. “I made $300 a game. You can find the energy and the courage to do pretty much anything at that rate.”

“You’ve got a point,” they said.

“Look guys, I’ll do my best to make things easy on you. No more 10 mile walks through the wilderness and no more jumping jacks. I’ll stay on level ground, I’ll give you at least one day of rest each week, and I’ll even try that sugar-free jello trick Suzanne kept telling us about.”

“Hey, she was hot!” said Left.

“Dude,” said Right. “That’s not right. We were her boss.”
“So what,” said Left. “It doesn’t stop her from being hot.”

“You’ve got a point there,” said Right, and we all laughed.

So now that my knees are on board with FatQuest2™, it seems that things are well underway. Now all I need to do is convince my stomach, which has retreated to a corner to whimper, and my intestinal system, which has protested mightily at all the influx of fiber.

I might have a battle on my hands with those two, but I think that with enough coaxing they’ll eventually come around.

…and now for something completely different…
I followed a young woman and very large man into the elevator on the way into work this morning. The young woman retreated to the back of the elevator car, but the man stood in the center, taking up most of the space. I tried to move around him but, being an extra for the movie “Remember the Titans” myself, this proved difficult. The man, noticing my struggle, smiled apologetically and said, “Here…let me get my J.Lo out of the way!”

I just thought that was funny. But now I’m not sure why.

The Fatman Chronicles Days 1 and 2

I actually started Fatquest 2 yesterday morning. It seems that No-work Monday is a good day to get started on new projects, because not only did I embark upon this new sickeningly health endeavor, but I also cleaned my room, did my laundry, wrote an article for a website collaboration, and started two more short stories.

If only I never had to work. Imagine all I could accomplish!

So I woke up at 8:00 A.M., and went outside for a jog. At 8:03 A.M., I returned home, having twisted my knee and ankle on the curb at the end of my driveway. In the long trek from my front door to the asphalt of the road upon which I live, I came to a realization. That realization was that the pair of New Balance gym shoes that have been a part of my life since college are no longer fit to serve in the Fatman army. They were there with me through several hundred rounds of Frisbee golf. They pounded the pavement as I ran from the homeless man in Clifton who thought I was his long lost son, and they sat patiently with me as I finished the last final of my college career. They have served me well. I could feel my throat clenching and I fought back tears as I carried them to the garbage bin behind my house and I say a silent goodbye as I turned my back on my trust, cracked leather companions. In the distance I could hear somebody playing taps gently.

The death of Ye Olde Snaekers meant that I needed to go out to the store to pick up a new pair. Naturally, I procrastinated for most of the day, and when my roommate woke up at 5:00 in the afternoon, we decided to play another game of Frisbee golf and then make our way over to DSW in search of discount shoes. Chad settled on a pair of Airwalks that will likely break down into threads within a month, and I settled upon a shiny new pair of New Balance 500 cross trainers. They were on sale for $38.50, which is slightly less than what I paid for a gallon of gas. What a deal!

When we got home, I decided to take my new shoes out for a test run. I made sure to exit through the front door, however, so I wouldn’t have to listen to the muffled cries of my old shoes as they waited for a slow and painful death, which will come this Thursday when the garbage man arrives and grinds them to a pulp.

The walk was a good one. I went down Ferris to Karl, turned north, then crossed the street at the light and headed west towards Maize avenue. Now, it was my intention to turn at the first street, make a quick jaunt around the small neighborhood, and return home poste haste. I had played Frisbee golf earlier, mind you, and I didn’t want to risk injuring myself, thus facing an early end to the Fatquest.

Fatman Tip #1: An injury early on in your Fatquest will almost assuredly break your spirit and will leave you with at least a week of time to sit on the couch, eat Doritos, and contemplate how abysmally stupid this whole weight loss idea really is. Avoid injury at all costs, especially early on. It spells death for any burgeoning weight loss adventurer, leaving you at the mercy of fast food and high sodium beverages.

Those of you who know me best know that I am not good with directions. I was never a Boy Scout, I rarely understand road signs and, to me, maps are about as helpful as Britney Spears lyrics written in Chinese. I once got lost driving home from work in my hometown of Cincinnati and spent three hours tooling around the seedier sections of Over the Rhine, constantly swearing at myself for missing my turn.

So it should come as no surprise to you that I got lost and spent an hour and a half wandering around a cookie cutter neighborhood spewing obscenities and avoiding traffic, which whizzed by at excessively high rates of speed. I eventually made it home shortly before 1am and, if my calculations are correct, I probably walked nearly 6 miles.

That isn’t bad for a fat man!

Today, I took a stroll around the perimeter of Easton during my lunch break. After play practice this evening, I came home and walked what I believe will be my usual path: two parallel streets right next to my house that run between Karl and Cleveland Ave. It’s a three and a half mile walk and it took me only an hour and 5 minutes to cover that distance. There is little traffic, which means I can walk on the asphalt in the middle of the street (thus avoiding upended sidewalks and unseen ditches).

When I got home this evening, my hat was drenched in sweat and my legs ached in that strange way that lets you know that, while they enjoyed the exercise, they probably could have put up with a little bit more.

Tomorrow, I’m shooting for 55 minutes. If things go well, I might add another mile by the end of the month. I might also try purchasing some handweights for lifting in the morning. And pushups! All of this, coupled with the salad and vegetables I recently purchased from the Kroger Deli, should put me well onto the narrow path of sickening healthiness that is my new and vastly improved Fatquest 2.

And the truth of the matter is that this time I am excited as hell!

Return of The Fatman Chronicles

I’ve had this sneaking suspicion hanging over my head for quite sometime now. I didn’t want to say anything about it, because the implications could be disastrous. So I buried my head in the sand and tried to pretend that things were not as they appeared to be. Occasionally, I would notice little signs that pointed me towards the truth, but I denied the existence of these messages, dismissing them as the product of an overactive mind and a sensitive ego.

But truth has a way of making itself heard, no matter how far into your ears you can plunge your fingers while loudly singing, “La La La…I can’t hear you.”

Last weekend I went to dinner with some friends. We sat on the patio in the warm, late summer sun. With the armrests of the wicker-esque chairs digging into the sides of my legs and sweat running down my forehead like the Nile overrunning its banks, I could no longer avoid the nasty truth: I am fat again.

Four years ago, I stepped onto a scale and read the number out loud to myself. Three hundred sixty pounds. Say that again, just for effect. Feel it roll of the tongue and hang in the air about your head. Three…Hundred…Sixty. That number confirmed for me what my family and my doctors could not do with their incessant pleading and pointing and screaming. I was a fat bastard.

When we left the restaurant, I wedged myself out of my seat and limped on weak ankles and crushed knees across the parking lot to my car, wheezing the whole way. I was afraid that I had let myself get back to the horrible condition in which I spent a large portion of my life.

I was so scared that I went straight home and tried on my fat pants. The fat pants were the only pair of dress pants that fit me when I was at my largest. Luckily, they were still entirely too big for me, but they didn’t feel quite as tent-like as they have in the past.

I don’t have a scale, so I don’t know what I weigh exactly. At my best, I had made it all the way down to 235. At that point, I was wearing 38 inch waist blue jeans and single XL shirts that billowed at the midsection and strained across my shoulders (if I ever get back into weightlifting, my upper body will truly be a magnificent sight to see!). Now, I stretch out XXL shirts after washing them, just to make sure they don’t shrink too much, and I can fit into a pair of 42 inch waist pants if I suck in my gut and speak falsetto. I’d guess that puts me somewhere around 280 or 290, which means I have a long way to go if I hope to ever make it down to a reasonable weight.

In “The Fatman Chronicles part 1,” I kept a journal of what happened on a daily basis as I waded through a sea of fresh vegetables and diet soda, muscle building exercises and the endless miles of roads I trekked in my quest to loose the extra few tires I had accumulated around my midsection. So I’m doing it again! And I hope you’ll join me. You might not make it out on the road for the late night walks through dangerous neighborhoods, and you probably won’t choose brussel sprouts over pizza, but at the very least you can read this journal and make fun of me as best you can.

Because if Saturday Night Live has taught us anything it’s that fat people, by their very definition, exist for our enjoyment and our ridicule. (*please note…I don’t believe this about all fat people…just me!*).

So, without further adieu, I bring you the first of what will be many FATMAN CHRONICLES!

!yadnoM krow oN

I just can't help being excited about not working!

Sasquatch for President

I’m planning on running for President in 2008 under the BIG IDEAS party (and it all has to be in capital letters, too, or else it isn’t really a big idea). Here are a few of the things I have come up with so far:

1) Caffeinated orange juice.
2) The four day work week (No-work Mondays for everybody!)
3) No-fee ATM’s
4) Houses built on pontoons for those people living near flood-prone planes.
5) Cars that run on crappy music: an endless energy source!
6) Did I mention the four day work week?
7) Shorter lines at the supermarket.
8) No more movies starring Ben Affleck and more movies starring Selma Hayek.
9) The shortening of important lists from 10 to 9.

Vote Sasquatch, the BIG IDEA candidate in 2008, because you weren’t going to vote anyway and at least with me you have additional sources of caffeine!

It's a holiday weekend!

You may have had no-work Monday this week as well. But tomorrow I have no-work Tuesday! "Ha ha," I say. And again I say, "Ha!"

Buzzing Stupidity

I clicked over to CNN the other day and read all about how President Bush had failed the people of New Orleans and Biloxi and various other cities across the Gulf Coast in the failed response to the effects of hurricane Katrina. They called him a racist, they said he hates poor people, and they said he was too stupid to do the job correctly. They went further and called for increased spending on federal aid programs; the liberalization of our government; the need to move to an oil-free system of energy in order to avoid hurricanes, which are apparently caused by oil; and the need to pull out of Iraq in order to bring troops home to help those who are suffering.

Later that day, I read a comment from Rush Limbaugh who claimed that he had little sympathy for the people hardest hit by the hurricane because they should have got out when they had the chance. He said that President Bush wasn’t to blame for the problem; rather, it was the mayor of New Orleans and the governor of Louisiana who should bear the brunt of responsibility for their inability to manage the situation. He then went on a tirade about global warming, claiming it did not exist and that we should focus our money on smaller government in order to prevent future catastrophes. Because higher taxes, apparently, cause the suffering we now see from the people in the south.

I heard Dennis Hastert say to the people of New Orleans, who are currently sitting atop a pile of rubble and billions of gallons of water that used to be their homes, that their city, their homes, and their lives weren’t worth the effort it would take to rebuild.

I heard people on political blogs blame each other for their lack of involvement and for having the wrong attitude.

I heard co-workers joke about people who’s lives have been ruined, claiming that everything has happened because of “those fuckin’ Democrats” or “those shithead Republicans.”

I wanted to stop listening, but I couldn't. Because through all the bullshit I wanted to see what the people of New Orleans had to say. I wanted to see if their voices could be heard over the constant screaming and bickering and pontificating and posturing. I wanted to see if they had any input for this new and exciting political issue du jour.

And amidst the cacophony of stupidity and uselessness, I heard it; faint and quiet, though insistent and terribly afraid. What they had to say was this: Help us. Please. For the love of God, help us.

Then the bickering started again and the voices mixed with the ambient undercurrent to create a buzz in my ear that made no sense. They’re still out there somewhere, I think. But it looks like nobody is listening.