| "On October 17, 2006, President George W. Bush signed the Military Commissions Act of 2006, which does away with Habeas Corpus and makes it perfectly legal for the government to secretly arrest any American citizen, strip him of his citizenship, hold him indefinitely without charges, try him in front of a military tribunal, and execute him in secret." I don't know what to say. And apparently neither does the rest of the country because they don't even know it happened. I didn't even know this happened until well after the fact, not because I am ill informed but because it got so little coverage in the general media. What the fuck, America? Now they really are giving away our civil liberties, burning them with the bodies of our soldiers on the funeral pyre for all that was good about this country, offering them as tribute to our glorious ruler George W. Do people understand that the executive branch now holds all the cards? This is about to get 18 times worse than the McCarthy trials- at least Joseph McCarthy couldn't unlawfully imprison citizens without telling them what they were being imprisoned for. He drove people to suicide with the blacklist, but as wrong as it was at least they knew what they were being accused of. Without Habeas Corpus we are all at risk. This is not an overstatement- we are now without the right to a trial by a jury of our peers, a limit to how long we can be held without that trial if it is granted to us, and most essentially the right to know what we are being accused of. This is supposedly only in regards to enemy combatants, but who decides what makes an "enemy combatant"? This mystery tribunal? Are we in a comic book all of a sudden? Where is this administration cribbing from- Battlestar Galactica? What happened to reasonable people in this country? Why aren't people rioting in the streets? In Hungary a politician says that he lied about some economic statistics and people are setting fire to the governtment buildings- we can barely keep ourselves from changing the channel. Perhaps part of the problem is that most of our citizens didn't know what Habeas Corpus was in the first place. It's exceedingly easy to dupe an unsuspecting public- how can the miss what they didn't know they had? Being uneducated about our government and our history is now costing us our most basic freedoms, possibly our lives. We are better than this America. We are better. We can do better than these people and their duplicity. We have become lazy and silent and overfed and comfortable but the comfort is costing us something much more dear- our souls. No amount of comfort and personal security is worth sacrificing this American Experiment- this great exercise in the will of the people. We have become a joke, the democracy without demos, the people. Even as a representative democracy we have failed- we do not notify our representatives of our wishes and we do not hold them accountable for their poor choices. We must do better, or we will perish. The United States will remain, but it will be a vastly different place than our forefathers imagined. It will be a place familiar to the Ray Bradburys and George Orwells and Margaret Atwoods and Kurt Vonneguts of the world- a nightmare of control and oppression disguised as personal choice. It has happened before- the Romans had their bread and circuses, we have MickeyD's and American Idol. Think about that for a second, American Idol. Idol. As in idolatry, as in worship. We are worshipping celebrity and excess while our leaders are quietly and quickly dismantling the constitution. We have become our own Nero, fiddling while Rome burned. Please, protest this. I don't care how you do it- call a congressional leader, a senator, write a letter to the editor, for God's sake vote on November 7th, but do something. We have to do something, we cannot be complacent- complacent is complicit. Keith Olbermann is right, history will judge us, and it will not be kind. Where were you when our constituition became just a piece of paper- I pray to God you weren't watching Dancing with the Stars. | |
Sunday, October 29, 2006
October 17, 2006: The Day America Died and King George was Crowned
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
The Hooter
What is it about men?
I mean seriously, what the fuck is it with them? I know much has been written on the subject.; women are from venus men are from mars or whatever bullshit is marketable to women who watch Oprah in elastic pants. But really, when it comes down to it, they are just plain, old-fashioned weird. It started in grade school, some bully on the playground pushing you into the teeter-totter, fracturing your pelvis and laughing, all because he liked you and didn't know how to take the funny feeling in his pants and articulate it in a non-violent manner.
Things are essentially still the same.
Case in point: tonight, I travel with two of my girlfriends (I'll call them Amber and Maureen because that's what their parents named them) to a new favorite hang out, the Town Talk Diner. I know every single person in this joint, mostly because once upon a time I worked as a concierge at the same hotel in which the owner used to manage a restaurant. The grammar in that sentance was horrible, but I'm a wee bit tipsy, so begrudge me the poor English and move on. Anyway, it's like old home week- I feel like someone is going to yell Norm when I walk through the door. However. There is a gentleman, and I use that term loosely, sitting at the bar who I do not recognize. He looks to be about 37, not bad looking, but nothing to write home about. He smiles at me and winks, like he knows who I am.
Gentle reader, he does not know who I am. I do not know who he is. But for the next two hours he unleashes a campaign of oddness that even wild gorillas attempting to attract a mate would be ashamed of. He does the whole catch my eye and wink thing like seven times before I order my first drink. He's elbowing his buddy like it's third period French class- I keep waiting for him to pass me a note. I would find it flattering, if it weren't so damn creepy. There is a very thin line between flirting and stalking, and this guy has not been aquainted with it. At a certain point in the evening he takes his two first fingers, dips them in his drink, sucks them (all the while looking right at me) and proceeds to hoot.
I'll repeat that for effect: hoot. As in hoot and holler. He lets out a wail that some hogcallers might be interested in hearing. Then looks at me again, leeringly, as though the hoot was what I was waiting for. Oh yes, be still my heart. All my life I've waited for a hooter. Take me, I'm yours, hooting-man.
Who hoots? This guy, that's who. Now please, someone tell me why this was a logical response. When I find myself drawn to a young man, I do not bellow at him like some creature from the Black Lagoon. I do not wink at him like I'm having an epileptic seizure and stare while he is trying to enjoy a perfectly decent grilled cheese sandwich. No. I smile, bat my eyelashes, perhaps even stop by his seat at the bar on my way to the restroom to have a casual chat. I do not hoot. This guy, again, not bad looking, could have come over to me, said, "hey, how you doing", or even, *gasp* pulled out the old chestnut of buying me a drink. But no. I attract men that think putting their hand in a cocktail and licking it off like some bad Jenna Jameson impression is the way to win my heart.
So I return to my earlier question: What the fuck is it with men?
I mean seriously, what the fuck is it with them? I know much has been written on the subject.; women are from venus men are from mars or whatever bullshit is marketable to women who watch Oprah in elastic pants. But really, when it comes down to it, they are just plain, old-fashioned weird. It started in grade school, some bully on the playground pushing you into the teeter-totter, fracturing your pelvis and laughing, all because he liked you and didn't know how to take the funny feeling in his pants and articulate it in a non-violent manner.
Things are essentially still the same.
Case in point: tonight, I travel with two of my girlfriends (I'll call them Amber and Maureen because that's what their parents named them) to a new favorite hang out, the Town Talk Diner. I know every single person in this joint, mostly because once upon a time I worked as a concierge at the same hotel in which the owner used to manage a restaurant. The grammar in that sentance was horrible, but I'm a wee bit tipsy, so begrudge me the poor English and move on. Anyway, it's like old home week- I feel like someone is going to yell Norm when I walk through the door. However. There is a gentleman, and I use that term loosely, sitting at the bar who I do not recognize. He looks to be about 37, not bad looking, but nothing to write home about. He smiles at me and winks, like he knows who I am.
Gentle reader, he does not know who I am. I do not know who he is. But for the next two hours he unleashes a campaign of oddness that even wild gorillas attempting to attract a mate would be ashamed of. He does the whole catch my eye and wink thing like seven times before I order my first drink. He's elbowing his buddy like it's third period French class- I keep waiting for him to pass me a note. I would find it flattering, if it weren't so damn creepy. There is a very thin line between flirting and stalking, and this guy has not been aquainted with it. At a certain point in the evening he takes his two first fingers, dips them in his drink, sucks them (all the while looking right at me) and proceeds to hoot.
I'll repeat that for effect: hoot. As in hoot and holler. He lets out a wail that some hogcallers might be interested in hearing. Then looks at me again, leeringly, as though the hoot was what I was waiting for. Oh yes, be still my heart. All my life I've waited for a hooter. Take me, I'm yours, hooting-man.
Who hoots? This guy, that's who. Now please, someone tell me why this was a logical response. When I find myself drawn to a young man, I do not bellow at him like some creature from the Black Lagoon. I do not wink at him like I'm having an epileptic seizure and stare while he is trying to enjoy a perfectly decent grilled cheese sandwich. No. I smile, bat my eyelashes, perhaps even stop by his seat at the bar on my way to the restroom to have a casual chat. I do not hoot. This guy, again, not bad looking, could have come over to me, said, "hey, how you doing", or even, *gasp* pulled out the old chestnut of buying me a drink. But no. I attract men that think putting their hand in a cocktail and licking it off like some bad Jenna Jameson impression is the way to win my heart.
So I return to my earlier question: What the fuck is it with men?
Friday, October 06, 2006
Kids With Mullets: Why?
Upon arrival into the Minneapolis/ St. Paul International Airport I took the 8 mile trek to baggage claim and was greeted by one of the most horrific sights in Christendom:
The kiddie mullet.
This little boy, I'll call him "Cletus", was probably no older than 7 years old, and was running around the terminal like he'd just been given his first 8-ball (cocaine, not novelty item). Of course, cocaine is a high class drug, so maybe it was crystal meth. Anyway. Cletus was sporting faded denim jeans, high top sneakers, a Starter jacket (I didn't know they even made those for munchkins)and some manner of stain covered sweater- in all an exact replica in miniature of his daddy. Now, on top of all of this was a mullet that would have done Billy Ray Cyrus proud... it was super short along the back and sides with a litte tufting at the top, some spiky front bangs, and a series of curly ducktails eminating from the bottom of his skull like horrible fingers of sartorial ugliness.
Now I know what some of you are thinking: "The kid's parents are probably dirt poor you callous bitch." And you are probably right. But I don't fault them for shopping at Goodwill or keeping Cletus warm and clothed. In that they should be commended. What I don't get is the fashion haircut. Those sorts of styles, not matter how ugly, cost real money. So wouldn't it be better for all involved if you just cut junior's hair with a bowl and called it a day? Given a choice I think the world would rather look at Moe than Mel Gibson circa 1987.
This sort of hair choice on a child just defies all understanding. It's complex, it requires upkeep- even product in some extreme cases. The more hair you have on a kid the more you have to hogtie them to wash it, and you just know those little tendrils are going to pick up dirt from God know's where. And furthermore, why would you want your child to look like a diminuitive Nascar driver? Is it the red state equivalent of dressing your daughter in a tutu to make her want to be a ballerina or giving your son a basketball in an attempt to make him into the next Michael Jordan? And what if Cletus ends up like Martina Navritalova? She had a mullet too. Do you think his parents would be happy then?
The kiddie mullet.
This little boy, I'll call him "Cletus", was probably no older than 7 years old, and was running around the terminal like he'd just been given his first 8-ball (cocaine, not novelty item). Of course, cocaine is a high class drug, so maybe it was crystal meth. Anyway. Cletus was sporting faded denim jeans, high top sneakers, a Starter jacket (I didn't know they even made those for munchkins)and some manner of stain covered sweater- in all an exact replica in miniature of his daddy. Now, on top of all of this was a mullet that would have done Billy Ray Cyrus proud... it was super short along the back and sides with a litte tufting at the top, some spiky front bangs, and a series of curly ducktails eminating from the bottom of his skull like horrible fingers of sartorial ugliness.
Now I know what some of you are thinking: "The kid's parents are probably dirt poor you callous bitch." And you are probably right. But I don't fault them for shopping at Goodwill or keeping Cletus warm and clothed. In that they should be commended. What I don't get is the fashion haircut. Those sorts of styles, not matter how ugly, cost real money. So wouldn't it be better for all involved if you just cut junior's hair with a bowl and called it a day? Given a choice I think the world would rather look at Moe than Mel Gibson circa 1987.
This sort of hair choice on a child just defies all understanding. It's complex, it requires upkeep- even product in some extreme cases. The more hair you have on a kid the more you have to hogtie them to wash it, and you just know those little tendrils are going to pick up dirt from God know's where. And furthermore, why would you want your child to look like a diminuitive Nascar driver? Is it the red state equivalent of dressing your daughter in a tutu to make her want to be a ballerina or giving your son a basketball in an attempt to make him into the next Michael Jordan? And what if Cletus ends up like Martina Navritalova? She had a mullet too. Do you think his parents would be happy then?
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
So, Am I Moving to New York?
No.
Oh, you want more?
Ok, so, I loved New York. It was an amazing trip, it was terrific to see Melissa and Ben and to have a break from the daily grind of flyover county. The apartment was nice sized for the area, although my bedroom would have been so small I couldn't have taken any of my stuff with me, including my bed, or my shoes. Or my underwear- anyway I expected that, and that wasn't the reason, at least not entirely. I am an only child, and having lived on my own for a while (albeit with a roommate but in very large apartments) I think it would be a very hard transition to sacrifice so much personal area. I didn't think I would be happy because I would be uncomfortable in my home, something that I'm not sure I could handle and know I haven't enjoyedin the past. I can do it, but it makes me want to peel off my own skin. And all those things they say about New York are true too. It's dirty and loud and crowded and smelly and fast. And fabulous, of course. I feel at home in the city, with the fast-pace and the direct people, not rude just busy. It's the way I operate, and it's not exactly popular in the Kingdom of the Passive-Aggressive. When I'm talking to people, thats when I want to live there most. It's the most alive city I've ever been in, but it's a desperate, screaming type of life that can take a bit to adjust to. The truth is, I think New York is a miserable place to live if you don't have money, and I wouldn't have any, not a job, not the prospect of a job. I know that I said before that it didn't matter, but it's one thing to say it siting comfortably at your desk in Minnesota and another to be confronted with the day in and day out reality of living sans paycheck in one of the most expensive cities in the world. It could be done, but why would I be doing it? I suppose to say I could. Well, now I know I can; the question is, do I want to ?
I have to admit that returning to Minneapolis was like putting on an old, comfortable coat, but one that makes you look good and never goes out of style. I had an amazing first night in New York, but I woke up the next morning feeling strangely ill at ease. Part of it was a hang over, part of it was the knock-down drag out fight I was having with my dad, but most of it was homesickness. There was something refreshing about coming home last night, rolling the windows in the car down, driving along the freeway and seeing the sky, wide and open. You don't get that wide open space in New York, unless you go to Coney Island, or the Hamptons. Which is fine, but I think it's in my blood, that need for space, for being able to see for miles. I have run from Kansas, and some how it keeps pulling me back, if only spacially.
So I won't be moving to New York, at least not now. How could I, when Minneapolis and St. Paul are entering the height of haute cuisine and hipster trendiness? If Brooklyn's the new Manhattan, can Minneapolis really be that far off?
Probably, but for now it remains home, and for now that's entirely fine.
Oh, you want more?
Ok, so, I loved New York. It was an amazing trip, it was terrific to see Melissa and Ben and to have a break from the daily grind of flyover county. The apartment was nice sized for the area, although my bedroom would have been so small I couldn't have taken any of my stuff with me, including my bed, or my shoes. Or my underwear- anyway I expected that, and that wasn't the reason, at least not entirely. I am an only child, and having lived on my own for a while (albeit with a roommate but in very large apartments) I think it would be a very hard transition to sacrifice so much personal area. I didn't think I would be happy because I would be uncomfortable in my home, something that I'm not sure I could handle and know I haven't enjoyedin the past. I can do it, but it makes me want to peel off my own skin. And all those things they say about New York are true too. It's dirty and loud and crowded and smelly and fast. And fabulous, of course. I feel at home in the city, with the fast-pace and the direct people, not rude just busy. It's the way I operate, and it's not exactly popular in the Kingdom of the Passive-Aggressive. When I'm talking to people, thats when I want to live there most. It's the most alive city I've ever been in, but it's a desperate, screaming type of life that can take a bit to adjust to. The truth is, I think New York is a miserable place to live if you don't have money, and I wouldn't have any, not a job, not the prospect of a job. I know that I said before that it didn't matter, but it's one thing to say it siting comfortably at your desk in Minnesota and another to be confronted with the day in and day out reality of living sans paycheck in one of the most expensive cities in the world. It could be done, but why would I be doing it? I suppose to say I could. Well, now I know I can; the question is, do I want to ?
I have to admit that returning to Minneapolis was like putting on an old, comfortable coat, but one that makes you look good and never goes out of style. I had an amazing first night in New York, but I woke up the next morning feeling strangely ill at ease. Part of it was a hang over, part of it was the knock-down drag out fight I was having with my dad, but most of it was homesickness. There was something refreshing about coming home last night, rolling the windows in the car down, driving along the freeway and seeing the sky, wide and open. You don't get that wide open space in New York, unless you go to Coney Island, or the Hamptons. Which is fine, but I think it's in my blood, that need for space, for being able to see for miles. I have run from Kansas, and some how it keeps pulling me back, if only spacially.
So I won't be moving to New York, at least not now. How could I, when Minneapolis and St. Paul are entering the height of haute cuisine and hipster trendiness? If Brooklyn's the new Manhattan, can Minneapolis really be that far off?
Probably, but for now it remains home, and for now that's entirely fine.
Audrey Hepburn is Doing Approximately 8000 RPM in Her Grave
Do you think in a million billion years that Audrey Hepburn, easily the most graceful and classy movie star to grace the silver screen would be advertising for the Gap? What the hell is her estate thinking? I can't think of two more incongruent things than Audrey Hepburn and bargain denim. The woman made a career on looking elegant, and the Gap makes a quick buck on dressing down America. It's sick.
Bend Over- Meditations on Flying in America
I have heard tell that once upon a time, in a land of promise and prosperity known as America, travelling by airplane was a thing of glamor and beauty. Families would don their Sunday best and be escorted through a shiny terminal to the destination of their choice accompanied by well-trained and tempered service professionals who would procure for them blankets, beverages both alcoholic and non, four star meals and reading materials of their choice. The compartments were spacious, the companions delightful and the children heavily tranquilized with liquor.
No more.
Flying today resembled nothing else so much as being on the bus in the movie Speed. You're hurtling through the air, cramped, unable to escape, and the person you must intrust your life and luggage too is too busy hating you to care whether you live, die or need and extra pillow- not that you can have an extra pillow, because there no longer are pillows. Pillows, blankets, magazines, snacks, and apparently the souls of most flight attendants have gone the way of the dodo due to "budget cuts". What budget are they cutting? Northwest has declared bankruptcy, is fighting with it's unionized workers, and is basically hemorraging money left and right, and yet they continue to fly all their newly-hired workers to Minneapolis just to get a urine sample. I'm sure you couldn't find anyone to do that testing in DC, or Alaska, or wherever the hell you live. And the executives certainly aren't taking the hit- you would think they could find .50 cents out of their gi-normous paycheck to front me some f-ing peanuts, but no. I now have to pay anywhere from $2-$5 for some lousy "snack-box" during my three and a half hour flight.
I was flying Northwest Airline (aka NWA- Norwegians with Attitude)to New York City, and while it wasn't the most hellish flight I've ever been on (that was American to Chicago when they stranded me at Christmas), it certainly was up there with voluntary dental surgery. First of all, there is the routine full body cavity search you are subjected to at check in- now I've spoken before about the TSA and how I feel about people with GEDs being the only line of defense between me and Crazy the Shoe Fire bandit, but now things are even more out of hand. Before my flight I was very responsible and checked the FAA website for the list of things one could take on board and what needed to be in check luggage. Here's a run down:
4 oz of KY Jelly- totally fine
Gel Filled Bras- a-ok
Cigar cutter- no problem
water- um, only terrorists and commies drink water (seriously, I saw TSA make a child pour out their sippy cup before boarding a flight... because a tiny Japanese tourist baby is going to be packing heat)
toothpaste- Oh, SWEET JESUS, hide the kiddies!
Sooooo... apparently you can have one helluva rockin' orgy on the plane (what are you doing with a half of a cup of KY jelly? How long is your flight?), but absolutely no fresh breath or moisturized skin. Martha Stewart should get involved in this craziness- she could develop a whole line of makeup and skin care products based on personal lubricant. Who knew KY was such a great hair gel?
Moving on from that ridiculousness, we are met with the flight itself. Now, American asses are getting bigger, anyone can tell you that. But planes are getting smaller in conjuction, to meet up togethger in the perfect storm of uncomfortable. I have actually read an article that stated that for shorter flights Northwest is looking to develop a standing "seat", ie a plank of wood onto which passengers will be strapped in like Hannibal Lecter. Does no one else see a problem with this? How can that be safe? We aren't astronauts, this isn't space camp, let the people sit down for God's sake. Of course, we'll have to pay top dollar for the priviledge of being lashed to our "chairs" like Odysseus avoiding the Sirens.
At this point I can say with all seriousness that the experience of riding the New York City Subway was far and away a more enjoyable one than flying pretty much anywhere. At least on the subway i can listen to my iPod without fear that I'm going to bring the plane down. How can anyone really believe that? How is listening to the Postal Service on the ascent of a flight going to jam the circuts? The thing is self contained, it doesn't receive or emit a signal of any sort. Are the electronic systems of most modern aircraft so delicate and fickle that they can be brought to a crashing halt by something with less communicative power than a walkman?
No more.
Flying today resembled nothing else so much as being on the bus in the movie Speed. You're hurtling through the air, cramped, unable to escape, and the person you must intrust your life and luggage too is too busy hating you to care whether you live, die or need and extra pillow- not that you can have an extra pillow, because there no longer are pillows. Pillows, blankets, magazines, snacks, and apparently the souls of most flight attendants have gone the way of the dodo due to "budget cuts". What budget are they cutting? Northwest has declared bankruptcy, is fighting with it's unionized workers, and is basically hemorraging money left and right, and yet they continue to fly all their newly-hired workers to Minneapolis just to get a urine sample. I'm sure you couldn't find anyone to do that testing in DC, or Alaska, or wherever the hell you live. And the executives certainly aren't taking the hit- you would think they could find .50 cents out of their gi-normous paycheck to front me some f-ing peanuts, but no. I now have to pay anywhere from $2-$5 for some lousy "snack-box" during my three and a half hour flight.
I was flying Northwest Airline (aka NWA- Norwegians with Attitude)to New York City, and while it wasn't the most hellish flight I've ever been on (that was American to Chicago when they stranded me at Christmas), it certainly was up there with voluntary dental surgery. First of all, there is the routine full body cavity search you are subjected to at check in- now I've spoken before about the TSA and how I feel about people with GEDs being the only line of defense between me and Crazy the Shoe Fire bandit, but now things are even more out of hand. Before my flight I was very responsible and checked the FAA website for the list of things one could take on board and what needed to be in check luggage. Here's a run down:
4 oz of KY Jelly- totally fine
Gel Filled Bras- a-ok
Cigar cutter- no problem
water- um, only terrorists and commies drink water (seriously, I saw TSA make a child pour out their sippy cup before boarding a flight... because a tiny Japanese tourist baby is going to be packing heat)
toothpaste- Oh, SWEET JESUS, hide the kiddies!
Sooooo... apparently you can have one helluva rockin' orgy on the plane (what are you doing with a half of a cup of KY jelly? How long is your flight?), but absolutely no fresh breath or moisturized skin. Martha Stewart should get involved in this craziness- she could develop a whole line of makeup and skin care products based on personal lubricant. Who knew KY was such a great hair gel?
Moving on from that ridiculousness, we are met with the flight itself. Now, American asses are getting bigger, anyone can tell you that. But planes are getting smaller in conjuction, to meet up togethger in the perfect storm of uncomfortable. I have actually read an article that stated that for shorter flights Northwest is looking to develop a standing "seat", ie a plank of wood onto which passengers will be strapped in like Hannibal Lecter. Does no one else see a problem with this? How can that be safe? We aren't astronauts, this isn't space camp, let the people sit down for God's sake. Of course, we'll have to pay top dollar for the priviledge of being lashed to our "chairs" like Odysseus avoiding the Sirens.
At this point I can say with all seriousness that the experience of riding the New York City Subway was far and away a more enjoyable one than flying pretty much anywhere. At least on the subway i can listen to my iPod without fear that I'm going to bring the plane down. How can anyone really believe that? How is listening to the Postal Service on the ascent of a flight going to jam the circuts? The thing is self contained, it doesn't receive or emit a signal of any sort. Are the electronic systems of most modern aircraft so delicate and fickle that they can be brought to a crashing halt by something with less communicative power than a walkman?
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