the Change I Wish to See

just in case...

2009-01-14T10:45:00.000-05:00

Thanks for stopping by, today.

But you should be here.

aijuswanawrite.blogspot.com is now francobeans.com.

That's francobeans.com.

Hope to see you there.

the kind of song a swan might sing

2009-01-13T09:07:00.003-05:00

There comes a time in every blogger's virtual life when he or she outgrows his or her britches and must find a bigger pair of pants, or be reduced to sauntering around in what are usually shameful undergarments.

Today is that day for me. My undergarments are holey and I can't bear the shame.

I have been known by many names, here at Blogger: francobeans, f.B, the great mouse detective, bastard... But after today, this face

... will no longer grace these html pages.*


Didn't we almost have it all, Blogger? If you hadn't gone all Bobby Brown on me --

No.

This is not the place for that. I will remember you, for better or worse.

And so, without further ado, I say goodbye.

your teardrops scar like shrapnel

lonely fragments pierce my skin

i'll bet i'll find them

still, years later

embedded next to all my sins

-----

*Not that I'm disappearing from the interwebs. Find me from now on at francobeans.com. And I would've just redirected you there, if I could. But I can't; not between hosts. So, I won't delete this blog for at least the week.

Obama's Chili Bowl

2009-01-12T10:25:00.000-05:00

It's 10:30 am. Do you know where your Obama is?

I'm sure you've all heard by now that he stopped by Ben's on Saturday.

The most important details of that trip?

1. He had a half-smoke.
2. He knew to carry cash (Ben's doesn't take cards).
3. When he got back to the privacy of his temp-home bathroom, he used two-ply, ultra soft Charmin.

Why is this huge for me?

Because I've stood in that spot, held a bag of wonderfully greasy food, and paid in cash.

Now, I've never received an ovation. But it's only because no one knows who the balls I am. This is because despite what happened last Friday, in public I wear the mask of the greatest mouse detective who ever lived --

-- and so people tend to scream and shoo at me with brooms.

But what you may not have known is that in my very own sketchy, local Giant, Obama also endorses Jones Pure Cane Soda:

"Orange 'you glad for change?'"

Well fig yeah, I am. This sh*t is bananas .

no one reads posts on Fridays

2009-01-09T07:30:00.007-05:00

--
Edit: It's official. I'm moving to WordPress. I have no idea why a Google-uploaded video won't embed on a Google-backed blog. So it's over Blogger. We are now in the "you want the house, I just want to be free, just send me the divorce papers, I've started singing Gloria Gaynor songs" phase. And so if the first video below doesn't load, search Google video for "f.B lost his pants" or go here. Sorry about that.
--

So here goes...

As a reclusive blogger, I was so unbelievably nervous doing this that I decided I should spruce up the ol' mouth and pop in a breath mint. Not only is that a useless idea -- because you're an entire interweb away from me -- but it's also a horrible idea to eat a mint while talking into a camera. Horrible. The mint was lip-smackingly delicious. And therein lies the rub: a video interspersed with me trying not to drool breath mint juice and saliva onto myself.

With that..

I couldn't find that allergy commercial. But you couldn't possibly want anymore video content in this post anyway, right?

Ok.

Because I care:

simply jane

2009-01-08T08:23:00.002-05:00

she screams in darkness

'cause whispers are familiar

scares me half to death

just trying to remember how to feel

steals what she can get for free

'cause drama's worth the price

and sleepwalks this abduction

like she's been trapped for life

but when she laughs

you see what she hides

even chameleons let their guards down once or twice

she thinks these urban shadows are where she's meant to be

but there's no disguise that's fooling me

'cause i know

there's no escape for her

when she feels she needs one most.

that a shattered life ain't mended

by, god the friendly ghost.

she plays a role she hates on stage

for popcorn crowds in evening wear.

but i love the her they're scared to see

simply Jane when she's with me

on command she's song and dance

'cause protest albums don't pay rent these days

heels tap, to bugled taps for dreams

pushed way back on the shelf

that shooting star always aims at someone else

but when she laughs

you see what she hides

even chameleons let their guards down once or twice

she thinks these urban shadows are where she's meant to be

but there's no disguise that's fooling me

'cause i know

there's no escape for her

when she feels she needs one most.

and that a shattered life ain't mended

by, god the friendly ghost.

she plays a role she hates on stage

for popcorn crowds in evening wear.

but i love the her they're scared to see

simply Jane when she's with me

and she cries

'cause i can't rescue her from living

though i've tried to break the spell

and she cries

'cause there's no where to run from living

though i've tried to break the spell

and i know

there's no escape for her

when she feels she needs one most.

and that a shattered life ain't mended

by, god the friendly ghost.

she plays a role she hates on stage

for popcorn crowds in evening wear.

but i love the her they're scared to see

simply Jane when she's with me

lost in translation

2009-01-07T07:42:00.009-05:00

I sat down last night to write something you'd be proud of.

But I was out of my element. I didn't have my Mc'Book in front of me. I panicked.

Now before you judge -- wait, no; actually, I'll pause to give you sufficient time to do so

-- I actually had two really good reasons.

1. A twist on the cliche: my computer is my journal.

I've always laughed at the idea that clicking my fingertips could ever get me back to Kansas.* I have easily a dozen real, made-from-tree, notebooks bedside. And I've convinced myself that someday, my thoughts will be back in print as regularly as they're in html. Naturally, this meant I held my keyboard in low regard. Until last night, when I realized that my brain had become so rewired that using any other keyboard was impossible. I just stared at the screen; for hours. I blinked a few times, but that was as far as I got. But the important point for you...


2. You've been looking at this blog.

Uh huh. You have. And I just learned that last night. You see, a few months ago, finally removed from nearly a decade of school, I started to post more frequently. I changed my theme to match the newly-fueled effort.

Well, I thought I did.

Apparently, my theme -- the one I researched color palettes for and everything -- looks only barely like I had planned if you're reading this on a PC.

Now, now.

I know.

But this isn't a

It really isn't. The point is that for the last few months, I thought we were really getting to know each other; that we had developed an understanding that went beyond words, that included not just the tapestry but the heart that went into making it.

Let me pull back on the Hallmark sensibility.

I thought we were speaking the same language, one punctuated by the backdrop of this theme. But last night I discovered that while I thought we were both fluid in the same native tongue, it seems instead that you speak German, I speak Polish and the appearance of this blog means we're actually just making-do in auxiliary Esperanto

Don't believe me? Borrow someone else's laptop. The font in the header is different, there are no side panels flanking the main body... And if you have no idea what I'm talking about there: exactly.

So.

I've been thinking about making some changes around here, the least of which is thematic, the biggest of which is moving to WordPress. It's not a promise -- though of course, you'd be of the first to know -- but this whole "things aren't as they seem" way of living isn't good for any of us.

I will do better. I must do better.**

----
*Not really from Kansas, just creatively plugging a little, barely successful movie.
*I will try...?

f.B's Believe it or Not!

2009-01-06T07:57:00.001-05:00

Many teens don't keep virginity pledges.

You don't say.

--
Before I continue, I considered issuing a "mea culpa" to anyone this topic might offend. Truthfully, however, it's only about the idea that highly-hormonal teenagers can be convinced that sex outside of religiously-sanctioned coupling is on par with murder, as far as eternal damnation goes. And since an idea is one of the few beings in the world that doesn't have feelings or fight back, I enjoy bullying one when it gets cocky.
I now return to our regularly scheduled programming.
--

You mean to tell me that teens -- people who generally can't really afford to go out and can't buy cars, and therefore often end up hanging out at each others' homes with nowhere to go but to the bottom of that cheap bottle of vodka and gallon of orange juice -- shack up like rabbits when the parents are away, even when they promise to be on their best behavior?

Consider my

You know what this means, right? This means there are teenage boys out there that lie. about. sex. Before, we thought it was just about to whom they gave the HBI*. Well now, apparently, they even lie about whether they give it at all.

Whoa.

Word.

I, very personally, am dismayed. Based on her not-at-all-stereotypical proclivity for telling nothing but the truth about money, I entrusted a 13 year-old cousin with one of my credit cards. She pledged to only use it in emergencies. So, what? You're saying she took my card and rented a room for her and a desperate-to-be-beneficial friend?

Of course she did. So would/did we. Because underneath the classically pimply facades, teens are volcanic assortments of unfulfilled desire. In fact, nine years ago, in preparation for this very post, I looked deep into a 17 year old friend's soul and I took a picture. I still can't reveal that picture's location because it is too deviant to share. Think

emo Sponge Bob

super-thick molasses

It was like an oil spill on the set of The Soup.

Anyway, the editorialized point? We buy great clothes, and shoes, and so many different fragrances that walking into a bar on any night after 7 can smell like walking into a Sephora. And we convince ourselves that we're so far removed from those naked, crotch-sniffing animals we watch on Discovery. We insist that what makes us better is that we can choose not to wallow in the wild and rather step into a pristine myopia, when one of the most relaxing things about this thing called life is that we can choose to wallow; we're not slaves to our instincts.

Teens definitely need some guidance,** but the lies we've told about sex -- that it should be demonized or done politely before you each return to matching twin beds -- aren't that. Our guidance should be as responsible as the behavior we encourage.

I've done my fair share of things to be embarrassed about (you've read about one or two). But thinking it's really amazing that we can safely play "naked, crotch-sniffing animals," or cops-and-robber, or what.ever, without the permission of any institution? Yeah, proud of that.

-----
*Hot beef injection.
**I get my lessons from Meerkat Manor.

slaughter for two

2009-01-05T08:15:00.007-05:00

Partner in "might as well stay inside" habitualism -- Miss Bianca

-- and I decided to throw caution to the wind and abandon the great indoors, on Saturday.

Right before "the end of the world as I know it"* began, we went over, sideways and under on a magic carpet ride (read: we walked; I "made believe") to

Now Duffy's, is no

-- since there's this one server who looks at me, every time I walk in the door, like I gave her puppy the swift punt in the ass that Jack Black gave to Baxter in Anchorman -- but it's a neighborhood bar, close to the 9:30 Club and has absolutely no complaints when its patrons want to relax and be unimpressive.

Despite watching the Cardinals win, the afternoon was cool:

We ate cheesy tater tots!
I displayed the savoir faire of a young Don Imus: When our server said she was just glad the Detroit Lions season was over, I remarked how glad I was that they went 0 and 16. Then, when she slipped in that she was from Michigan and expressed hope that at least it couldn't get worse, I pounded her subtlety with my ignorance and promptly informed her that the 1976 Tampa Bay Bucs went 0-14 and then came back the next year and lost 12 more in a row, promising her it sure as hell could get worse.
And for the first time ever, I emptied a keg** of my favorite,

But then there was this guy:

We sat at a table directly across from an arcade game, Big Buck Hunter. And this guy, as you can see above -- fake orange rifle in black-gloved-hands -- spent the better part of an hour, blasting virtual creatures.

"Now, f.B," you acknowledge, "you've never mentioned that you had a PETA card."

And I don't. But what I do have is a heart. And it unapologetically ached when I'd take a bite of my Duffy burger, look up to the left, and watch this guy air-gage pumping the sh*t out of unsuspecting little "dee-yas."***

It was like watching the special features on Bambi: Uncut and Unforgiving.

Then came the squealing: he was shelling gophers. Cuddly gophers. And they would squeal when hit with a bullet in the face. The screen read: "Number of gophers shot - 23 of 25." Oh, to be one of the maimed and gimpy two, I guess.

Then my stomach dropped. Upon reaching the status of "Hunter Hero," he got to some bonus round that let him go trap shooting. But, of course, he wasn't shooting at clay discs.

me: are those flying cowpies?

miss bianca: *aghast*

He was shooting flying cowpies; flying formerly-known-as-food balls.

We didn't stay much longer. In all honesty, it had little to do with the master blaster. He ended up running out of bloodlust before we were done. We had to return the magic carpet (translation: [none] you read that right. And you thought I was kidding about the carpet).

Anyway, this post could never get this blog confused as a food or restaurant blog of merit. So, think of it more as a theory on why we don't get around much anymore.

-----
*The division rival Arizona Cardinals hosted a home playoff game.
**Apparently Duffy's carries 2-pint-sized kegs, since after two Stellas, there was none left in the whole bar.
***I'm guessing they didn't care what kind of pants the son of a b$tch who shot them was wearing, either.

on the last night of the year...

2008-12-31T11:01:00.000-05:00

Stop laughing. That could be you tonight.

Don't believe me? Neither did these people:

... and look what happened to them.

Remember that whole "we think beyond our means.... there are ... boundaries for our talents" bit the other day? Well, it's never truer than when we dance. And tonight we'll have more reasons to flail arms and stubbornly kick feet than on any other night of the year.

But you know that guy who always shows up on nights like tonight? The guy who'll punctuate every greeting with frotteurism and insisting you party like it's 1999 (tip: he might look like this*)...

Don't fall into his trap. Don't become prime material for Google images.

"But f.B, you handsome devil," you say, "how can I avoid the inevitable?"

Easy. 3-step program.

1. For most of us, this

... is not our life; not even metaphorically. So forget this picture existed. Because you can't recreate it. And if you're just so sure you can and just so sure you're much more talented than me, know that on a night like tonight, the dance floor will look more like your metro commute

Reuters

2. Two-step. Like you never have before.**

John Sill

Yes you can cross one foot in front of the other if a pseudo-salsa is your thing. That's fine. Do you. Just do it like it's a job interview, because any employer you'd want to work for knows what the YouTube is.

3. Ignore everything I just said. Grind your hips; against your date, the wall, someone else's date, whatever you can find. It's the last night of the year. Treat 2008 like Vegas and know that the best way to stave off humiliation is knowing that everyone else is humiliating themselves, too.

I'm gonna be sifting through your blogs again come Friday. And I wanna see footage of you and your buds performing creative interpretations of the following booty shaking classic:

Happy New Year!

-----
*Dear guy's lawyers: Not that this actual guy has or would ever do something like that.
**Try the Galapagos two-step.

can i get your nuts with that?

2008-12-30T08:45:00.004-05:00

Vince, the ShamWOW guy? Yeah, he's back.

And this time I'm gonna stop pretending I don't want what he's selling. Mark my words: I will own a Slap Chop.

"You're gonna love my nuts" (at the 0:55 mark).

Really, Vince? Why not just go with "My nuts taste better than my competitors?" Or, or "My nuts: they'll leave you satisfied?" Ooh! Or how about, "My nuts: accept no imitations?" And of course there's the classic, "Check out dees nuts."

You know exactly what you're doing. I think you saw this

... and decided to be your own parody. And that earns you major points.

Billy Mays would probably beat you up pretty badly in a fight. But your marketing genius would mean you could hire someone to stand in for you. Which would be awesome. Because it would leave your precious nuts intact.

spaceballs

2008-12-28T09:32:00.002-05:00

The Detroit Lions finished the season at 0-16. 0 and 16. Way to show up, guys.

In honor of their professionalism, I went searching for a professional sports idea worse than having bought season tickets to Detroit's sideshow.

I had only three rules:

had to have been "born" in 2008
must be about sports
must suck.

I didn't have to try that hard.

It turns out, some Carnegie Mellon engineering students are developing technology to stuff GPS systems into game-official NFL footballs and gloves.

Andrew Rush

They're also pushing to figure out how to equip them with motion sensor capability and an accelerometer to gage the speed of the ball.

According to the brainchild, aside from the "obvious" officiating advantage it would offer in games, it would also help with scouting:

"Suppose you've just lost your second-string quarter back. You'd love to be able to find out who can replace this person.... you could have whoever you're scouting wear these gloves and... ask, well, does he throw the same way under the same defensive schemes or does he run the same way and make the same kind of cuts as a terrific running back does?"

Uh huh.

You see, sometimes we think beyond our means. This sounds harsh, I know, but there are limits to our imaginations and boundaries for our talents. We see it all the time. Like when this happened:*

I learned that you really just can't party all the time when I thought my greatest idea of 2007 was finding a way to already have the ketchup injected inside the french fry by the time it got to my mouth. Culinary professional friends and family turned and walked away in silence (actually, even non-professionals thought it ridiculous). And I've come to understand why. Because it would be gross. Because you'd have deep-fried ketchup, or at best some congealed goo wrapped in potato. And so my best laid plans were actually the crayon markings of an idiot.

I understand the worth of innovation. I do. But while instant replay was a step forward, auto-location services for footballs is a step into madness. I'm not a drone for tradition, but GPS-stuffed footballs -- like they're pregnant with Tom Toms -- just aren't enough of the change I can believe in to make me abandon the status quo. I like the old guard. It's fuzzy and familiar.

When I was a kid, I thought I was gonna be the next Jerry Rice.** Sometimes I slept with a football next to me -- kind of like how we'd sleep with a book under our pillow when we hadn't studied enough, hoping to absorb some knowledge (except I slept with the ball out of love and not fear). It would have been freaking creepy if that ball was transmitting my location and how fast I rolled over in bed via satellite to anyone who wanted to know.

And since that extended analogy makes no sense in the context of game-used footballs, just wait until it rains and electrocutes someone.

And since that scenario is subject to being readily avoided by waterproofing, just know I don't have anything left other than an appeal to decency: I just don't want to watch a game with GPS footballs.

-----
*Fair enough. That was awesome. But an exception. I probably should've chosen something more in line with the rule. Like Karl Rove doing what someone told him was rapping:

**Ignore the fact that mom refused to let me play football but let my little brother start playing when he was still in elementary school.

keep it in your sack, Santa.

2008-12-23T11:43:00.001-05:00

I don't need to tell you what time of year it is.*

And so let's just get straight to it, shall we?

12 things I'd punch you in the face for giving me on Christmas

12. Something you got and hated. I don't judge re-gifting. I judge treating me like a landfill. You're a pretty cool person; at least I think so. I mean, we hang out and stuff. So we have similar and overlapping likes. If you got something so bad you didn't even want to hide it in a box in your attic, giving it to me... well, you should know better.

11. The sweater. This had to make this list. I don't really wear sweaters. I radiate heat like an equator-monkey during mating season. And so I probably will never wear it, but instead move it from apartment to apartment for years out of guilt, even if it's a sweater vest as awesomely bad as this:

10. The untouchable -- that means anything where the enjoyment of the gift is found in not touching it. I like gadgets, and doing and using. "Looking" is wonderful at times, but almost never for gifts that are surprises. For example, what about a painting to hang on the wall? Well, maybe. I'm cultured. But this kind of gift giving is a dangerous game. I'm finicky about interior decor.** And if the painting isn't something that really works, it might as well be a huge, used bean bag chair you thought qualified as "additional seating."

9. A skinny tie.

8. Eight voicemails voicing. I wish you a "Merry Christmas," too. But I'm with my family. It's our time -- probably one of few times a year -- to be with each other. I'm not checking my phone every hour. I'm just not. And this might last for a couple of days. So if I don't get back to you within a few hours, don't call me back at regular intervals until you bludgeon me with your ringtone into finally making it stop picking up the phone. I'll call. I promise.

7. Infomercial paraphernalia. I've actually already been given a Chia Pet and the Clapper in the last three years. I don't want something I can "set and forget," or a tube with a fork on the end that styles and cuts hair -- that's right, not the Flowbee. Let me be clear: the commercials are funny, not owning the product.

6. I love the show and I love my PS3. But I don't want -- well, I'll just show you the picture:

5. The flu. I've just got too much to do as soon as Christmas is over. I don't want, your germs.

4. CSI: Miami on DVD (or in blu-ray, or in mpg for you "content-borrowers..."). Why? Everyone, unfortunately, slows up to watch a car wreck. But that show is the kind of colossal failure that deserves an analogy to the Titanic. And if I had been in position to slow up and watch the Titanic sink, I'd have been stranded at sea, or drowning in frigid water... I'd be in that "wishing for quick death" place. Plus, the air of self-loving, masturbation he wears on his face makes me sick.

3. A Weird Al Yankovic album. Any of them. I detest that man. Creative? Arguably. Entertaining? Balls no. I love music. I love remixes. I love covers. But "Amish Paradise?" I will shun you. I take pride in my music catalog. And simply accepting this as a gift would insult my impression of myself (which is already in shambles). So, no thank you, but no thank you.

2. Something -- actually, anything -- you think black people like. I promise you: you are probably wrong. And if you happen to guess right, admitting I like your gift would mean I'd have to admit to being a stereotype -- which is something I might just deny on principle.***

1. Underwear aka vitals.

I have plenty. You also don't even know what kind of vitals I wear. Know how I know that? Because I don't ask you whether I prefer boxers or briefs. I already have this ever-critical information. Besides, depending on who you are, the real gift you give me when you give me a pack of necessaries is the realization that you're thinking about my nethers. So ask yourself, "Am I the kind of person he wants thinking about what he puts in his vitals?"

But seriously.. it's tough for pretty much everyone this year. So, be less concerned with what's in the boxes under the tree, or whether you even have a tree, and focus on finding the people you love and staying warm.

Merry Christmas!

-----
*Unless you live in DC, where it never snows, and so you might just think it's still late fall, because the only chance we've got at a white Christmas is if Marion Barry is re-elected and makes it rain coke from the Verizon Center roof.

**Interior decor? I'm really not gonna get out of the shadow of yesterday's post, am I?

***Unless it's the blu-ray version of I'm Gonna Git You Sucka.

what I want for Christmas

2008-12-22T09:45:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time, I was just a boy, sitting in front of a blog, asking it to love me.*

Then I read this, which led me to analyze my type and platinumize my body analyze my gender.

This was exactly one month ago yesterday. And it wasn't a good day.** Much to my surprise, I learned I was the following:

A Performer

A 56% "male" who performs in soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells while doing work that makes it hard to advance to management level positions.

I found that unsatisfactory. It felt like I was being more unisex than an Ally McBeal bathroom. So, over the last 30 days, I took it upon myself to make you laugh, cringe and think harder -- maybe even sing along harder, if you knew the lyrics to "The Nightman" -- than you ever have.

I failed. Because as of this morning, using the same evaluative methodology, I am this:

A Doer

Less of a whore, not yet invited to stay the night... active and playful, with pigtails.

And don't let the soccer ball, tether ball, volleyball? and athletic wear fool you. I'm not a butch doer.

I am now 65% woman.

Sixty. Five. Percent. Really? I post this and I add 12% of womanness? Maybe it's the song lyrics that screw me. Or maybe it's the forming a coherent sentence thing that is presumptively female.

Either way, what I want for Christmas is now obvious. Move over MacBook Pro, and make way for a blog-sex-change.

Starting next week -- is that enough rehab after an operation of this sort? -- I'll be new and improved. And you will see so much content about football and breasts you'll think a corporate merger married ESPN and Maxim.

I don't know how I'm going to change my imagination in 7 days. At the very least, I figure it means bypassing the family tradition of A Christmas Story for some soft-core boom-boom videos.

I'm doing it again, aren't I? Ok, medium-core boom-boom videos. That's manlier enough without breaking decency laws in the District.

Blog. Sex. Change. Three words, one surgery, millions of smiles.***

-----
*Even when you paraphrase that horrible line it gets better.

Anna Scott: After all... I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.

You just can't recreate that glorious Notting Hill dialogue, I guess.

**Definitely not the kind Ice Cube likes.

***No, I'm not actually gonna do it. It's just a little creative license. Just like that part about millions of comments.

S[H]e Says

2008-12-19T08:00:00.001-05:00

he says:

“together

we can be more

than we are apart,

til forever

i wanna be with you

i'll play my part,

now or never

it will never be now

again,

god i miss you

all i need

is another chance

i've gotta be with you

this back and forth we do

this tangled web

is all i've got

to hold onto,

i promise

i believe,

i love

i guarantee,

i mean it

wait and see,

i won't ever again”

she says:

“yeah, whatever

should've said that

at the start,

you want forever

now that yours

is the broken heart?

now or never

passed

i won't be your next mistake,

god i'll miss you

but i need

to be free

i can't be with you

this back and forth we do

this tangled web

where we step forward

then back two,

you promised

i believed,

i loved

you guaranteed,

i mean it

wait and see,

i won't ever again”

he begins,

“but what if we-”

she cuts in,

“there's no we”

he says,

“if you and me

got married maybe

you would see..”

he drops down to his knee

and for a second she..

then she remembers

how he always makes a final plea,

and she says

“i can't be with you

this back and forth we do

this tangled web

where we step forward

then back two,

you promised

i believed,

i loved

you guaranteed,

i mean it

wait and see,

i won't ever again”

S[H]e Says by Bradley Fields is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

not in the slightest bit TMI

2008-12-18T11:05:00.001-05:00

My iCal tells me today is TMI Thursday. Ok, well no, I haven't actually scheduled it. But I did do that thing where you know something at a previous point and then know it again later on -- what's that word? Right, right: "remember." I remembered today is TMI Thursday.

Anyway, there are some new people with ready access to this blog because I use it in the signature for my official email address.*

And so, for the record, I have suffered some memory loss today.**

I have never done anything disgusting, I have never participated in anything gross and I wouldn't even understand what it meant to disappoint my parents. I am also a great addition to the workplace and a stand-up citizen.

Accordingly, the following are 5 TMI-caliber scenarios that have never played out in my real life. Well, one did. But I'm going to hide it amongst the other 4 so you can't tell the difference.***

1. At the ripe, budding age of 26, having spent 7 of the last 8 years in school, almost a third of my life has been dominated by roommate-living situations. However, I have never had a roommate become so intoxicated that he barged into my room, late at night to give me the gift of being able to relate to the following song:

2. I've never been adept at math. Never. I don't like having to do it anywhere. Anywhere. And, necessarily, that includes while on a solo road trip between DC and New Jersey, on the bottom part of the Turnpike where there are virtually no rest areas, at 2 o'clock in the morning. So, again, math I've never done out of necessity while in a car:

(empty cup) + #1 = relief.

3. I am not a desperate man. I am patient and kind; flatteringly so, I might add. So, naturally, I have never gotten the "Spirit in the Dark" so badly, that I forgave a lady's overly-curious domesticated animal for thinking its presence in the room meant it was invited to participate.


4. I have never acted out of character; certainly never in the back of a jam-packed school bus. And so I have never done/received such heavy petting in so public of a setting that while I wouldn't have actually...

... I might have left a rather obvious "watermark," for the whole world to see, in a place that needs no identifying signature.


5. I have never been, am not now, and by the grace of jebus will never be the kind of guy who spent the night in a female friend's bed -- an actual, honest-to-goodness, seemingly-impossible-to-believe, you-still-probably-aren't-buying-it-now, platonic, female friend's bed -- and to my surprise and hers woke up to find myself moving my hips towards her at a rate inappropriate for the platonic situation. This is because my dreams are asexual and not vivid, and therefore the movement of my body during sleep is not vulgar.


Happy Thursday.

-----
*I know what I'm about to do, and I'm not proud of it.
**Spineless? Probably.
***If you think you figured it out, click on the "Contact" tab above, or just hit me at franco.beans[at]gmail[dot]com, and we can talk about it over a drink or two.

in all seriousness...

2008-12-17T08:15:00.001-05:00

I'm sick of living in a city I can't trust with my life.

Eight people have been murdered in this city since Wednesday.

And I'm sick of hearing that "the arrest 'was another example of the hard work and dedication' of the unit's detectives."

It's not enough. It's incomplete. The job description is serve and protect. Somebody, somewhere, has to have a better plan than "great reactions."

Whether it's a product of the long-running gentrification, the newly official economic downturn, bad parenting, violent video games, or whatever the eff you want to blame, people are killing each other in group homes, stabbing each other in the metro, breaking into homes wearing masks SWAT-style, conducting indiscriminately general "attacks on neighborhoods," shooting people near college campuses, killing people "a few dozen feet" from patrolling officers...

And now this, near the route I walk every day:

Chief Lanier, Mayor Fenty: your women and men in uniform have arguably the most difficult job on the planet, especially in a city where "administrative efficiency" is an oxymoron. But something has to give. You have a city that's falling apart. And I just don't think the murder of anyone I care about is the price we're supposed to pay for your services.

Go back to the drawing board. Have a scheme -- a preemptive, aggressive, scheme. Because as appreciative as we are that your people put their lives on the line for us, if it's not making any livable difference, you might as well just pull your people from harm's way.

smokey-eyed planet

2008-12-16T09:22:00.001-05:00

Forgive me, this post isn't about Facebook, but this story is absurd.
-----

I haven't seen CNN's Planet in Peril.

Hearing that it was essentially in its second edition was the second most surprising news of the week for me. The first? Learning that the Arena Football League is suspending play in 2009 after 20 years.* 20 years? There's been arena football for 20 years?

Anyway...

It's not looking good for Planet in Peril. And anyone who reads or watches any attempts at journalism knows that those crazy journalists love their puns. So drum roll please...

CNN's "Planet in Peril" endangered in ratings

Nice. You stay classy, Reuters.

Now, again, I haven't seen the show, but I'm thinking the reason isn't the stale excuse that we don't care about our planet. The truth is, a favorable proportion of people who watch CNN probably do.

The problem is in the promos:

Take a closer look...

... and one at this

Everyone looks like a smokey-eyed bastard. The photo shoot must've been a disaster:

AC 360: *pouting lips*, *confused*

photographer: AC 360, baby, no. think "hungry."

Sanjay Gupta: but we're not.

AC 360: then can we think "horny?"

Lisa Ling: for polar bears?

photographer: *sigh*. i want to you to look into the distance. look like you're Kate Moss, it's 1993, and a wind from the north has just carried in the scent of a cheeseburger. HUNGRY -- but a hunger for planet-saving.

Sanjay: nailed it!

Jeff Corwin: i effin hate you guys

-----
*Said a league source, "We couldn't be taken seriously if we lost too many teams." Uh huh. Taken seriously.

the flu made me do it

2008-12-15T10:15:00.002-05:00

Over the weekend, I finally found I had a few moments to do the little things you promise yourself you'll do as soon as the weekdays are over. Saturday comes and it's like I'm my own administrative assistant, doing all the actual work that makes the weekdays productive*.

Instead, I spent that time on the

That's right, The** Facebook.

Since I hadn't done this in a while, I had a string of requests, which despite being described as from "friends" felt more like panhandling.

Someone wanted me to tell her the "color of my heart." Another wanted me to play "Parking Wars" or join "Parking Wars" or something "Parking Wars" so that I could catch my friends "parking illegally and nail them with a big ticket." There was a slot machine invitation and a roll-the-brim-to-win invitation***... I was sent a couple of teddy bears, two patches and was asked to "tell everyone about JESUS." In all, some 33 requests.

There was also a lone friend request. It was from someone in Maine, a state I've been to once 10 years ago and promptly left without sadness.

Using my keen great mouse detective skills...

... I tried sifting through this stranger's profile, but I was blocked. So I wrote a pleasant message to the stranger in search of more information and this is how our correspondence unfolded:

me: hi. i got a friend request from you a while ago. but i don't recognize your name and couldn't see your profile info to jog my memory. do i know you?

stranger: damn... my computer must have virus.

I find this explanation unsatisfactory. It makes less sense than that time Fox and E! let the The Simple Life run for five seasons.

Which virus would that be, stranger lady? Is that the one that inexplicably auto-generates my and only my email address? Or is it the one that makes you full of crap: full-o-crap-o-request-itis?

I don't believe you. And you suck at lying. And you are woefully under-responsive. Let's say I acquiesce: so your computer has a virus -- I'm sorry, "has virus." So we never met? Or we did and only a virus could make you interested in being my Facebook friend? Are you sorry it wasted my time?

You didn't even repeal the friend request!

Fine. I'll do it myself. Whatevs. I don't like you either. My computer has bacteria.

-----
*Productive (pro- duck-tiv): having the quality or power of freeing me to check out blogs.
**Pronounced as only an octogenarian could.
***Can you roll a brim? What does that even mean? Seriously, if you're gonna make up stuff, it might as well be funny, like come "shave the fart" or you gotta try "plugging the fruit."

i won't follow

2008-12-12T08:15:00.001-05:00

she's standing there

with a smile so bright

her fingers stretched

and her palms so wide

and i've wanted her

to see me

but not like this

believe me

and it's not my pride

but i can't reach out

i just can't let go

i just can't back down

and i know that she'll just leave me

she won't need a better reason

and it's as easy as starting all over again

turning back time to a brand new when

so close

she could be my great escape

but she'll just have to wait

'cause i won't follow

i'll find my own way

back home

i'm not a traveling man

who's heart's on the road

not better off scared

even if all alone

but i can't quite fight the feeling

that i can't break through this ceiling

and if it's not with her

then it's not with her

and i can't push on

'cause to pull might hurt

'cause i can't just do what's easy

no i need a better reason

and it's as easy as starting all over again

turning back time to a brand new when

so close

she could be my great escape

but she'll just have to wait

'cause i won't follow

i'll find my own way

back home

take on me, take me on

2008-12-11T11:47:00.000-05:00

Some preliminary matters...

Just got added to Alltop and the confirming email I got told me I would lose my life be vasectomized break an honor code if I didn't caress its tit to get my tat tell you about it to increase Alltop traffic.

Anyway, I don't know if it's something I should be excited about, but I am kind of excited about it. Like, flatly excited about it. Like, Michael Flatley excited about it:*

Ok. Enough of that. On to the real deal...
-----------

Ladies and gents, it is TMI Thursday. And, much to my chagrin, that means the SnugWOW was ahead of its time. Thankfully**, the well is far from dry. Here goes...

I started life as a virgin. It's a shame really. You spend so much of life trying to be anything but that, that it's really, really frustrating to realize there was a whole section of life where it was completely beyond your control -- namely the fetal stage.

And so having started life as a virgin, I fell into a rut. I thought it was what I was meant to be. And so I developed character traits and habits to support this theory: going to church, well, uh, religiously; pristine prudishness; not dating; not understanding why the female figure is so freaking amazing***; a bunch of other really outdated ideology.****

So my proverbial first kiss caught me by surprise. She asked me out -- something I had only ever seen on that episode of Saved By the Bell with the Sadie Hawkins dance.

We went to see Enemy of the State.***** Correction: my dad drove us. Correction: and my 9 year-old brother insisted on coming along and my mom told me I had to let him.

It was a creepy setting actually, when we got to the theater: Bergenfield, NJ's Clearview Cinema 5.

(photo credit: johnkay1)

It was dark. And a little damp, actually. It was winter outside and there was that humid feeling because the heat was on low, but because the floor was really wet from people tracking snow in, moisture was in the air. And there was this old guy in the rear corner of our otherwise empty theater. Just sitting there. Hands invisible.

So let me refresh the scene. The young lady and I are watching Will Smith and Gene Hackman flee the hideout after Smith screwed up and gave away their location. My 9 year old brother is sitting directly in front of us. And there's a solitary, senior citizen in the back corner, not showing his hands. And the air is sticky moist.

Then she jumped me. She literally jumped out of her seat and onto me. Now, since I look like this...

... I understood, and may have forgiven her. But I don't like the inside of my esophagus being licked. Call me a romantic-traditionalist. And I don't like being forcibly straddled while my 9 year-old brother is within an arm's length. And I don't like knowing the eyes of a guy I'd later recognize to be Herbert from Family Guy...

... are watching our every loins-fueled move, while he whistle-whispers sweet nothings through his gums.

Of course I didn't stop it, though. That would've been tasteful. I just struggled to breathe and tried to, uh, use my hands to do some, uh, stuff. The whole hands-on approach failed miserably, of course, because it was December and she had left her huge winter coat on over her scarf and sweater. And if you've ever tried maneuvering two bodies in down coats, silently, in a small town movie seat, you know how little space you have to work with and, ergo, how Mission: Impossible your feat is. You don't even want to touch most of what surrounds you, let alone rub it all over you.

Anyway, at some point we stopped; awkwardly, because there was like over an hour of movie left. And when the movie was over, as we walked out, remember that old guy? Yeah. He was giggling. Giggle. Ing.

-----
*Please, please, please watch the whole thing.
**For whom?
***At this moment, I'd like to personally thank Salma Hayek for making a big, big difference in my life.
****Outdated for me. I somehow actually understand if you're still at that place. I credit this to the adage: "you can take me out of the church but you can't Eternal-Sunshine-of-the-Spotless-Mind me enough to make me forget I was there."
*****Yes, I know. That dates me. I'm only 26. Secret's out.

Step right up and get your...

2008-12-10T10:53:00.001-05:00

Hey kids! Franco Beans here.

You've heard of the Snuggie!

You've seen the ShamWOW!

Well at The Change I Wish to See, we bring you

the Shamie

the ShamSnug

the SnugWOW!

It's a Snuggie! It WOWS!*

Busted water heater? Tired of ice cold winter showers? Bathe in my SnugWOW! It'll keep you warmer than showering naked like those hygienic fundamentalists and it holds more water than any of those dated, 20th century, Martha Stewart Living towels you still use. Martha's got a life. I want a life, too!

SnugWOW!

Fed up with your lover's messy goodies? Trash the lacy teddy. Rock a SnugWOW!** No more sleeping in "the spot." No more SLS.*** Cut a hole -- maybe two! make it work for you! -- and keep on trucking. And clean up? No clean up! It wrings out dry when you're wrung out dry!

SnugWOW!

You might think a body glove like this would cost $100. Maybe even $200.

But no! This ain't your mama's body glove! This, is the moisture wrap of the future. And it's only -- wait for it... -- two easy payments of $49.99! And if you comment today, you'll get not one -- not one! -- but TWO

SnugWOWs!

for the price of one. Sing it with me: "that's two, two, two Snugs' for one!" Give the holiday-appropriate gift of Snug, and WOW your partner, your coworker or your mailperson!

Act fast! Supplies are imaginary!

Due to the SnugWOW's propensity to trap used liquid in its grasp, tests reveal it's like wearing a sopping rag of mildew, which is rumored to guarantee some sort of fungal infection somewhere. The makers of SnugWOW do not -- we repeat DO NOT -- want to hear about such conditions and will smother you with a SnugWOW if you complain.

-----
*It humiliates.
**Translation: full-body prophylactic.
***Sticky Leg Syndrome.

the one with subtle jokes

2008-12-09T09:45:00.002-05:00

So you know those new State Farm commercials? The ones where someone says something clever to describe where her/his life is headed, like...

... and from that we're supposed to deduce that we should buy car insurance?

Well, you know that place where failure pile meets sadness bowl? Yeah, I'm there. And State Farm insurance commercials, even with Patrick Dempsey voiceovers, don't fix that. I've been teetering on the rim of that bowl until four Fridays ago when it became official that I was the only person I graduated with that I knew had failed the bar exam. Then it was sort of like I had stepped into one of these:

Fortunately, putting pen to paper -- or rather, html to web page -- has been like finding a good samaritan, Jamaican hero with a refreshing bottle of Red Stripe waiting outside my unexpected room of evil. And so I haven't completely lost my mind.

So, to anyone who has commented on any post lately, or even just read without leaving a trace, thank you. You have unwittingly been a wonderfully samaritan, alcohol-wielding, Jamaican man and I am so grateful. I've been able to maintain at least a modicum of perspective. And that led to this sight last night:

Now you have to look really closely, maybe squint, and default to your imagination if none of that works, kind of like you're doing for the setup of this very moment, because the iPhone camera doesn't zoom or flash, making it functionally irrelevant at night. But that, my friends, is a replica leg lamp from A Christmas Story in the top window on the corner of 13th and O NW.

If there's any cheer I love, it's cult-followed, retro, Christmas cheer. It empties that sadness bowl (a little) that I mentioned above. In the end, Ralphie triumphantly got his Red Ryder BB gun.* And I will have mine. And it will be sweet.

-----

*Yes, I know he then proceeded to shoot his eye out and then crush his glasses. Stop being so alert. Dream-crusher.

That's one giant lump of coal for you... and another...

2008-12-08T08:31:00.001-05:00

Dear Purveyors of Evil,

Yes, you, credit-pusher Visa and producers of "Secret Millionaire" on Fox.

You deserve to die.* In fact, since Santa is real and Great Depression-proof, my Christmas wish is that you be dead.

You may not have noticed, being blinded by the reptilian scales covering your eyes and all, but our economy is on the verge of being in shambles. The Economist says we're seeing such global housing market declines that we're probably going to have to redefine "homeless." Like all well-intended descriptive words -- e.g., "special" -- "homeless" loses a little meaning when it can be used to describe pretty much everyone. There is obviously a problem when the market is such that

(by tbonzzz_6)

(by shainelee)

Now I don't want to get all Nader on you, but you two giant peas in a corporate pod have outdone yourselves lately.

Visa, your newest contribution to an incredibly fragile world is an advertising campaign for "the ultimate buying tool:" your Black Card. It's made of carbon graphite -- not plastic -- and "available to only 1% of US Residents." It costs $495 a year to hold (not to use, just to take space in your wallet).**

Fox, not to be outflanked, your good people are pushing Secret Millionaire -- a show where flatulently-wealthy people travel in private jets to less financially fortunate areas of the country, camouflage themselves with neediness to blend in, and then surprise unknowing locals with their actual identities and $100,000 checks! But the giving isn't charity. Those in need have to be found "worthy." You actually use the word "worthy."

Your timing is unimaginable. I have written you a new combo-slogan: "Visa and Fox -- poking poverty in the eye since inception."

If there is a god, she*** will smite you. And I hope it's at least tied for the worst smiting ever.

That is all.

-----
*Though if you actually read this, and die, and I get criminally charged or something, I'm suing you. And then you'll be dead and sued. So. Sued.
**Admittedly, this may be the least expensive penile implant ever for men in search of a couple imaginary inches. And you don't even have to go under the knife!
***I imagine her as Alanis Morissette in Dogma.

Oh Boy, George!

2008-12-05T08:48:00.002-05:00

It's always a shame when celebrities don't take their own advice.

Take Boy George for example.

I bet he really, really wishes he was a little more chameleon and a little less convicted of falsely imprisoning an escort.

Now I know things aren't always what they seem in any justice system. But there's a pretty good chance you're going to be convicted of something somewhere when you admit to the cops you

"invited Carlsen to [your] home after a cocaine-fueld pornographic photo shoot in January because [you] suspected the Norwegian of stealing pictures from [your] computer."

Balls.

Not a good start George. Say it ain't so. I dunno if it's my lack of arrogance or my well-aged whisky-like wisdom, but if I ever get interrogated, no freaking way am I explaining my way out of it by mentioning a cocaine-fueled porn shoot gone awry. No freaking way.

Know what else I'm not doing? Hiring a defense lawyer who actually stands up in court and says, "Your honor, we move for judgment notwithstanding.* My client was too fat to attack an escort in his flat." In all fairness, what the real lawyer actually said was, "With the greatest of respect to George O'Dowd, he is not someone you could describe as terribly fit.... He has put on a few pounds since the 1980s." Yeah, so much better.

And to that end, I don't know what's worse. The fact that the jury said, "Nope, just not fat enough. He's all round, but he's not huge," or that if acquitted it might have been because he was too porky for prison.

And George, why'd you have to punch and beat him with a chain once he was already handcuffed? Overkill. You got greedy. You brought a chain to a non-fight. Maybe if you cuffed him to the wall but then just grilled him about the jpegs you thought he stole, he would've let it all go. But you beat him. Hmm. Kinda like he stole something, I guess. But just because it makes a good joke doesn't mean it's funny. Well it does, but for us, not for you, George. Get some perspective.

I guess we'll see you when we see you.

-----
*I did mention that whole "went to law school" thing in a post at some point right? Eh well. Guess you know now.

I don't want, your cat.

2008-12-04T11:41:00.004-05:00

by Kevin Steele

I don't really like cats. So, they get to make my TMI Thursday.

It's not that I hate cats. I mean I do. But only in the way we 20-somethings abuse hyperbole. I don't punt them, or bark at them. And I still pet touch pet them.* I actually touched a cat the other day and it wasn't horrible at all.

But I do hold grudges. And I used to be deathly allergic to our domesticated felinious ones.

I also don't like competing for affection. Certainly not with animals. And certainly not with an animal's fragile sense of self.

So it came as a surprise when I moved into my house last summer knowing the roommate had two cats. Should I have known better? Obviously. But do I ever actually admit that with enough time to avert disaster? Meh.

Normally I have a penchant for embellishment. But today, and for today only, I will simply list as pure fact the 25 horrible things these cats did to me by way of their owner. No pretty adjectives, no sexy adverbs. Fair and balanced.

They existed.
They had three litter boxes.
That equals 1.5 box per cat.
One box was next to the refrigerator in the kitchen.
All three of the boxes were uncovered.
The box under the sink in the main bathroom was on a mat. This mat was so the cats could scrape their feet. This mat was larger than the space it was in. So, to brush your teeth or wash your hands at the sink, you had to stand on the litter mat.
My roommate and her boyfriend did this barefoot and smiling.
One morning, not yet awake, I did too, but with a different look on my face.
One morning, not yet awake, I stepped out of the shower and onto a fresh turd.
I cried on the inside.
Many days, cat #1 would vomit on the floor and then poop on the pile of vomit.
Some days, #1 would then start eating the pile as I watched.**
The cat poop was left in a plastic grocery bag on the front step to our house, several times a week.
In the summer.
In DC.
These bags would be covered with flies and would emit a smell that you could taste.
Those flies and that smell would follow you inside when you opened the front door.
They would, though, then give way to the ammonia smell from three uncovered litter boxes packed into a small 2 bedroom rowhouse.
Cat #2 peed on the kitchen counter.
I didn't grow up with cats so I thought it was apple juice and decided to wipe it up with a sponge.
That sponge was for hand-washing dishes.
One or both of the cats peed on the stove. There was a lot of pee. It happened on the weekend the roommate moved out. I had left town to avoid the awkwardness. Came back to clean up and show the house. Found an inch deep, thickened to the point where it didn't resemble liquid, yellow substance on the stove. I started scrubbing.
I almost fainted from the smell.
Months after the roommate left, I still found litter in new places.
Like the refrigerator.

-----
*Hilarious how changing one word in that sentence makes me sound like someone you don't want to meet.
**HORRIFIED.

McDelicious

2008-12-02T23:13:00.004-05:00

Ignore that Creative Commons thing from yesterday. I'll get on that tomorrow. Promise. I need help.

Thanks to Morgan Spurlock, that famous McDonald's jingle

...has been much maligned.

McDonald's facade, as a whole, has been peeled back to reveal a hideous underbelly. We treat it like that cousin the law and our family say we're a little too attracted to. We flirt with it -- "Oh, I just want some fries" -- but refuse to commit publicly, protesting a bit too much -- "I rarely eat fast food. It's like the Wal-Mart of grocery."

And so that jingle? These days it sounds more like "two all queef patties, 'special' 'sauce,' lettuce, grease, pickles, funyuns on an opium seed bun."

But I take pride in my infrequent appearances at the golden arches.* "You could say I lost my faith in science and progress. You could say I lost my belief in the holy church.... but if I ever lose my faith in you,"** McDonald's, I will use the following three commercials to restore it.

-----
*Something about the word "golden" bothers me. I wonder, what, it, is...***
**Oh, Sting. The Billboard charts miss you.
***Yep. That's it.

You say 102(a)(5)... I sigh and nod

2008-12-02T13:29:00.001-05:00

I'm a media-phobe: video clips, still shots, whatever.

And sometimes it leads to me borrowing things I probably shouldn't.*

So, I'm taking the initiative and moving towards Creative Commons stuff only. They've even got a Flickr profile, which makes things pretty simple and integrated.

My first search? Used a "Disney" tag, naturally. And this turned up, caption included.

They were just perfect. They made two little girls cry in front of us, and were just fantastic....

Righteous.

Those little girls probably deserved it. They should've made those little girls scrub the floor for a chance at a picture. It's Disney World, not Disneyland. It's Orlando, not Hollywood. It's a take no prisoners, take your fantasy-job seriously kind of place. And that means if you're an evil step-sister or the kind of step-mom that thinks step-daughters are for indentured servitude, you sell it and you sell it hard.

What would Cinderella have been if when Cinderella started crying the ladies above apologized? It would be like when religions edit commercial DVDs for "inappropriate content" and re-market them to families who want more wholesome material: un-American.

Yet another reason to really love the Disney corporation.**

-----

*Nope, not a confession.

**Yes, I'm biased.

today's second post

2008-12-01T11:43:00.002-05:00

So, uh... I've been having a ton of formatting issues with this blog lately. Though usually they can be corrected with furious repeated re-posting, it's a bit of a hit on my pride (me being technologically literate and all). But if you blog with Safari and Blogger and have been struggling to get out of this formatting funk, too, leave a comment and let me know.

And since every post must have at least something entertaining or engaging...

No, that is not my baby.

No, I do not know what they did to that baby.

No, I have not yet stopped laughing at that baby's face.

the Sound of Muzak

2008-12-01T10:22:00.012-05:00

muzak

usually consists of, but is not limited to:
...
that horrific clapping sound every 5 seconds or so instead of drums
...
generally accepted as proof that the world is doomed.

Thanks Urban Dictionary!

Wikipedia agrees.* And it says that "muzak" is designed for... grocery stores... public toilets... and elevators" and is a "generic epithet for excessively bland music."

And in that epithetical spirit, I say, " 'Zak you, von Trapp children."

I was channel-surfing Thanksgiving morning. Trying to avoid watching the Awesome Original Second Time Arounders come back around, yet again. And I stumbled upon the ugly cousin of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade:

the 6-ABC / IKEA Thanksgiving Day Parade in Philadelphia.

IKEA?

Of course it sucked. So we'll skip that part. But it featured the Von Trapp children -- the great grandchildren of Captain and Maria Von Trapp from The Sound of Music.

If you didn't see them embarrass the city of Philadelphia, congratulations. I tried to find a clip, but apparently no one wants to remember. The air-quotes performance air-quotes included a bunch of this

Seriously? Inserting "the point" into any dance is just creatively dishonest.

But they do have a MySpace page, with five friends. One of which, "Matt Damon & Mark Wahlberg," is really just a 16 year old boy from New Zealand.

IKEA should've just called Bergenfield High School's marching band, instead. It's been to the Macy's parade before, but wasn't invited this year in some obvious administrative oversight. Disney World asked it to march in its light parade in the Magic Kingdom a bunch of times. And it played the Tony's in 1987:

...and Giant's Stadium in 1996**

-----

*And it speaks with the same kind of authority as that Simon guy who says stuff.

**I'm at the 4:07 mark, in glasses with a trumpet. And by the wincing on my face, apparently I farted.

Not that it's all about us...

2008-11-25T10:08:00.006-05:00

We -- and by "we" I mean Miss Bianca, Orville and me

-- had some apparently wild and crazy aspirations about being useful on Thanksgiving. There's some important guy who's been clamoring about being the change we can believe in lately and so rather than sue him for infringing this blog's title, it seemed worth the try. Volunteering here we come!

Allegedly-Giving-Website FAQ: Not so fast, silly generous one. You can't volunteer. You didn't follow the obvious protocol.

me: the what?

FAQ: for each of you -- a volunteer application, employment history, 2 references, blood work*, SSN and a minimum 30-day advance notice window

me: so let me get this right. in arguably the worst financial crisis since the Depression, the most important question is "whether we are qualified to give away food," with "whether it fits into your calendar" being a close second?

FAQ: that is correct.

-----

And so, again, not that it's all about us -- or you, if you tried to give and also failed in a way you didn't expect to be possible -- but we are less than horrible characters. We definitely wouldn't steal the goods. And we would have done anything you asked. Anything.**

But you rejected us. I won't reveal your name here, evil organization. I can't afford to defame. But if a couple people this year have even less to be thankful for, it is entirely your fault.

Inspired by LiLu's -- er, uh, her B's -- utility bill fiasco discovery, I even sent you this photo of an actual cat hoping it would sway your lifeless heart.

But you are unwavering in your soulessness.

So, we'll make it without you. We will. And we've already got other plans, so don't try to call or text us like, "Hey, so, uh, you busy this Thursday?" Cuz we so are.

Because we don't have time for this:***

-----
*Ok, ok. But it was funny.
**ANYTHING.
***This may undermine our fervor, but we'd be there in a heartbeat next year. Whatever you need. Remember the ** footnote.

when you wish upon a Google

2008-11-24T16:42:00.001-05:00

So I was gonna post this story today about a dream I had this weekend.*

It involved indoor tennis, socialites, Wayne Gretzky, someone's living room and personal failure.

And while I was a-looking for photos -- much in the same way Elmer Fudd hunts wabbits -- to capture my imagination and in so doing capture yours, I found this:

And I don't know what kind of tennis that is. He probably doesn't either. But his belly is righteous, his tan unsafe, and his package too exposed not to share it with you anyway.

---
*I still might if I remember enough of it tomorrow.

if Kool & the Gang could see me now...

2008-11-24T13:03:00.003-05:00

... they'd probably sue me for copyright infringement because I am celebrating my own good times.

I can't remember how old this blog is. It started on Opera, got moved when I realized how unconnected the Opera community is, and found its home nestled between Google's comfort bosoms.

But since there are some new readers now, here's a list of posts from the annals that have never made me cringe with shamery. Thanks for reading. And I'll keep trying my best not to bore you.

The Creature from the Deep series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Bradley's First Game

Men Behaving Badly

From the Ground Up

Fight Scrubs

Produced, Directed, Written, Geniused... by me

Show Me the Monkeys!

Hyatt (pronunciation: Hye-yah! (the "t's" are French))

2008-11-21T11:36:00.013-05:00

Before we get started, I just have to note how hard I tried to channel my inner Street Fighter and make that post title sound like "hydoookin."*

I used to work at the Hyatt. I say "used to" because I no longer do.

Actually, it wasn't just any Hyatt. It was this Hyatt:

I am in no way surprised that their website still doesn't work...

but it had a castle and everything

and I was its prince.

For 40 or so days.**

They had this problem with paying people. Naturally, "people" had this funny way of meaning "only me." So I told them it was probably best that we part ways, since had I known I'd be making charitable donations for 50 hours a week, I'd probably choose a shelter or soup kitchen in my native Stamford over a Hyatt Regency in Old Greenwich, CT. Not Greenwich. Not Greenwich. But the place where CEOs come to escape clingy CFOs: Old Greenwich. The place that venture capitalized Greenwich. The creaky-jointed, Royal Tenenbaumy, dead?-no-not-really*** father of Greenwich.

Anyway, I was a star - a front desk clerk. I was the guy who checked you in, pointed you on your way, and got slipped free pina coladas from the bartender in the atrium to maintain the magic. And today is your lucky day because I found a series of journal entries from that era, collectively "The Hotel: Under the Table, Behind the Desk, and Loving It!" and today is the first installment. Enjoy, and have a good weekend.

"12.09.05

Like, I've been there for weeks and know less about what I'm doing than a person of reasonable intelligence would. So that's good.

Everyone should come to this hotel. One woman had reserved a double bed in a non-smoking room. Unwittingly, I gave her a VIP, presidential suite with a king-sized bed and Regency Club access, all for no extra charge. She just got an $1,500/night room for the low, low AAA-reduced rate of $99 plus tax and incidentals.

But hey, if they don't wanna tell me how to do this job, I'm just gonna keep on guessing. Sure, I tried asking. But playing out the scenario in my head went unnoticed so I spoke up.

And how was my take-initiative-in-your-workplace rewarded? I was told to sit down and train on a computer program. And how'd that go? It was like playing some rudimentary version of Warcraft. Seriously: an actual Wizard with a wand, guiding you through a tower that oddly resembled the castle-like structure this place presents as a facade. Success? Well, duh: that was getting the angry-dragon-haired customer to stop screaming.

So yeah, I ask. But then I get different answers, or no answers, or answers that need other answers to explain themselves. Or answers they should be embarrassed to admit. Or simulated 2-D fantasy realms. I'm done asking.

Smile and nod. Dish out the luxury. I can't believe they made me shave my beard for this."

------------------
*I know, I know - it's really "hadouken." Remember the fact-checking abilities attested to previously? They're abilities, not stuffy-butt government mandates.

**Hell yeah I put it on my resume and wrote "November 2005 - January 2006."

***Oh the brilliance below:

Royal: Baby, I'm dying. I'm sick as a dog. I'll be dead in six weeks. I'm dying.
Ethel: What are you talking about? What happened? Oh, my God. I'm sorry. I didn't know. What'd they say? What's the prognosis?
Royal: Take it easy, Ethel. Hold on. Hold on.
Ethel: Where's the doctor? Let's get...
Royal: Wait a second. Listen. I'm not dying. But I need some time. A month. Maybe two. I want us to...
Ethel: What's wrong with you?
Royal: Ethel.
Ethel: Are you crazy?
Royal: Baby. I am dying.
Ethel: Are you or aren't you?
Ethel: Dying? Yeah.

Patty Piper Pointed at a Peeking Pickled Pepper

2008-11-20T13:56:00.003-05:00

Welcomes, welcomes. It is Thursday. And thanks to LiLu, who has singlehandedly altered the modern calendar, it is TMI Thursdays. Last week, I lassoed the hitch on that bandwagon and pulled myself onboard with a puddled tale from my adolescent past. Today, you get another story that shares a couple of those key elements: a normally clothed tool and how it played a critical role in my childhood.*

Our story starts at the YMCA. Yes that YMCA -

- but no, not this era:

(not that there was anything wrong with that).

Though I was just a young boy, in need of a place to go. And since I was barely pre-pubescent, short on dough, there was really only one place to stay and be sure I'd find many ways to have a good time.

But I reminisce...

Mikey was my best friend back then. He had a doberman pincher that scared the curdled goo out of me and that always seemed to be bleeding from the ass. Mikey also had a mom. I don't really remember anything about her, so for the rest of this story (and your life) just imagine her role in this as

One spring-like, Pennsylvania summer day, my then still-married parents dropped me off at Mikey's in an effort that then seemed like a favor to me, but am now sure was so that for one day their lives could go on as originally planned. Mikey struggled convincing his mom that she should take us swimming. He won her over when she caught Mikey attempting to induce his dog's bleedy bunghole to do our bidding and leave us a trail we could then play around: the hop-a-spot-from-Spot-or-go-lie-down-on-the-cot game.*** I was an agile youth, and was prepared to relegate Mikey to that cot in his basement, but c'mon: swimming.

Mikey's mom dropped us off and left.**** I had never been to a YMCA before. I guess I've also never been back. In that sense, the YMCA is a lot like Ruby Tuesday's for me: once, mortified and done. Anyway, you were just supposed to leave your non-swimming clothes in a locker. And since they offered no locks, and Mikey apparently never brought one, it was an honor system - which is odd, because if you ever went to a YMCA in the 80s, the character of the frequents was less that of King Arthur's roundtable than that of a disbanded gaggle of roaming thieves.

So yet another kudos to Gertrude Stein: a place that looks like a place where robbery is achieved is what it is. While we were in the pool with middle-aged men with enough matted, wet hair to shame a monsooned Chewbacca and bellies that overwhelmed their wastes and bikinis, someone stole my vitals.

My. Vitals.

This is important. Not my pants. Not my shoes. Not my shirt. My underwear and my belt. A pair of Superman underoos and a nylon belt.

I tried to roll with the underoos-stealing-punches. I put on everything left to my name and we headed out to meet Mikey's mom. It was a dangerous game. The only way to keep my pants up was with a hand in each pocket. And so what happens next is my parents' fault for raising a flawless gentleman.

Mikey's mom had to stop at the store on the way home. At some point, we got out of the car and dutifully followed her towards a storefront of some strip mall. Without hesitation, I pulled my hands from their lawfully-mandated position and opened the door for her. The image?

Yeah, sorta like that.

And it happened in front of a crowded parking lot and within feet of a toddler. There was a little girl sitting in a shopping cart outside the A&P next door. She pointed. Her pointing was loud. Because she screamed.

"Mommy! Look!" she yelped, at the top of her developed-enough-to-catch-the-attention-of-dozens lungs. She followed up her scream with a "Pee pee!" - displaying her unfortunately impressive object association skills.

Her mommy looked. Mikey's mommy looked. People looked through storefront windows. People looked from their cars. And as if it was a puddle of my own urine, I just waited, again, for way too many seconds. And surprisingly, no one rushed to my aid. I was standing pantsless on a strip mall sidewalk on a Saturday afternoon in daylight in a major metropolitan city.

And yes: I wasn't yet 10. But all that means is that I was too young to be cited for indecent exposure. I like to think I aged a lot that day. I have a mature appreciation for this thing called "body." How many times have your goods been on display in broad daylight for more than 30 people? That shamery you haven't felt? Yeah, that's called experience. And I've got plenty.

*Yes, the childhood. I'm new at this, and telling humiliating stories from yesteryear is a lot like making fun of a person none of us ever met (not even me). Keep coming back and I promise the revelations will be modernized.**

**And I have to say thanks to a certain lacochran's bloggery. I've used the asterisk approach a few times now, after being inspired by its usefulness on her blog. Someone should give her a "Leader in Industry" award.

***I have great fact-checking abilities. Be careful before you insist you never made child's play out of a mongrel's leaky hide.

****Now that I think about it: wtf?

Senorita

2008-11-19T12:47:00.003-05:00

it’s a saunter

when she steps on the floor

she can feel all the stares.

they all want her

just one look in their eyes,

you knew somebody would dare.

one by one, she refused them

sat em down, brokenhearted

pushed their egos aside.

had no time for amusement

none of them knew the music

she was crying inside.

oh... senorita

what lies beneath you

is haunting me

it’s the song I wrote for you

it’s you I sing

it’s a whisper

but she shakes when she breathes it

like she’s screaming aloud.

blink and miss her

she moves in secret ways

under the gaze of the crowd.

she’s confused them

cloaked in red

seems a shout for romance.

but for her it’s acoustic

private, reclusive

a plea for a chance.

oh... senorita

what lies beneath you

is haunting me

it’s the song I wrote for you

it’s you I sing

all that's left of NaNoWriMo...

2008-11-18T11:25:00.001-05:00

....

Michelle probably should have known better. She was twelve, but even at twelve your conscience has a cadence - a rhythm, a pace, something which gives you pause when your next step feels like a stride you wish you never took.

Her older brother Bobby had told her his conscience sounded like a parrot, reminding him of things he already knew when his surroundings made him prone to forget. She had ignored his warning that “I know it sounds stupid” and launched into the chicken dance, squawking “bird-brain, bird-brain.” At eleven years older than her, he was basically just a third-wheel parent - one she could wet-willy and poke with impunity. Michelle could never remember much of anything he had told her. Seven years after Bobby left home for college and for good, she found the only things she did remember about him were that his friends were weird and something about everyone having palm lines - or was it fault lines? - and what happens when you rub them the wrong way.

She stood up from her head of the class seat. Any other kid would have at least made eye contact with Mr. Bittman. A few would not have dared to leave at all, given the five minutes they had between bells. Michelle, though, understood that there was an arrangement between herself and the person she imagined Mr. Bittman to be - the kinder, gentler, more serviceable Mr. Bittman. She just walked out, breaking into the sashay that had made her infamous.

When the hallway was quiet, she treated it like a parade route, glancing from side to side, catching glimpses of herself in inanimate objects never intended to be points of reflection - a freshly Windexed classroom door window, the glossy silver inner frame of an open locker door. Today was no exception. When the hallway was crowded, though, her strut parted a red sea, as student after student seemed to press up against crimson locker fronts. But neither setting ever changed her pace. Each step was as habitual as the last.

Michelle pressed her hand against the clouded glass. The bathroom door had not been marked “GIRLS” in months. Someone had carved the “I” into an “A,” because for below average high school boys, a prank's vandalism is funny even its joke is not. Inside, Michelle headed past the stalls to the far mirror. Disappointed in it before she even looked, she ripped off a sheet of paper towel from the dispenser on her left and wiped the glass. She brushed her dark cherry hair away from her face, curled it behind her ears and looked at her lips. They were poutier than her mom's. She was proud of them. They set her apart. Lots of girls at school were retiring their training bras. Plenty of others were filling out their jeans. But you either had great lips or didn't. No one grew into great ones. Even the ugly duckling kept the same beak.

Satisfied that she could sit through the rest of class amidst teen girls whose newest obsession was the Dorothy Hamill wedge-cut and teen boys squeezed into flared jeans, Michelle turned to leave. Everything seemed as it should be - aligned, in order - but with all her focus on the mirror, she had not heard the bathroom door open almost a minute ago. And so she was surprised when Dana Lewis punched her square in the face.

....

misplaced, misdirected

2008-11-17T13:39:00.001-05:00

i believe
in everything that's make-believe
even if my fantasy's Neverland on Earth
you say, "dream
but dream within the boundaries
when you add your color to the world"

and i don't know
what to make of it
'cause you're so perfect
the fault must be my own

but this ghost
would haunt me 'til eternity
if i backed down now

misplaced
misdirected
so much of this life
just ain't what i expected;
i don't need a miracle
i lost my faith some years ago
but i'll proudly wear my heart upon my sleeve
even if it breaks me

(and something i didn't write, obviously)

A Puddled Past

2008-11-13T13:04:00.012-05:00

Gratefully coaxed by LivitLuvit and inspired by the Top 7 Embarrassing Relics from Arjewtino's childhood, I've decided to hop on that TMI bandwagon with a horribly-kept childhood secret.

"What childhood?" you say. "You show no propensity for having been anything other than a pod," you say. Well. Feast thine eyes on this:

(I'm the bigger one (in the foreground))

and some of this!

("Baby, grab the strange man's sword. Nice. Now smile...")

But right, the story -

It was a day. Kind of like a day that deserves a modifying adjective, but I don't even remember what season it was so that will have to do.

It was science class, 6th grade. 6th grade was the year when Mrs. Carlsberg inexplicably revealed that her secret sandwich stash was behind the map in an unknown cabinet in the back of the classroom, and then proceeded to eat said sandwich in front of us at her desk. It was also the year you traveled to every single class with the same 30 eleven-year olds. Roy W. Brown Middle School treated student scheduling a little like 1950s Mississippi treated races - intermingling only during athletics. This is important. It meant when Gretel intercepted the note Jack passed to Jill in homeroom, the whole peanut gallery gabbed about it for the next 6 hours, in front of them both.*

A child of somewhat recent divorce, a year younger than all of my classmates, black in northern Jersey - let's just say I had a few reasons to be insecure and had no greater hope in life than to not rock the boat and draw attention to myself. For instance, I never left class without being asked; never. I took that to the extreme, on this, that day for which I wish had a modifying adjective.

It was several minutes into class when it hit me. There'd been no warning when my bladder went from

Any other kid would've grabbed the lavatory pass. A few would've just hopped up and left sans-permission - those that understood there to be a silent agreement between themselves and Mr. Lichter that an emergency was indeed its namesake.

Not me. Thought about the pass. Vetoed it out of a sense of allegiance to a comprehensive attendance policy that included staying in my damn seat. Thought about just running out. Vetoed it out of a sense of obedience to the order of things. Though about -

Actually I don't remember any other ideas. I was interrupted by the flood in my pants. I peed myself. Heavily. On what I'm pretty sure were khaki colored shorts. Humiliated as much by the defeat of my willpower as the growing stain on my crotch, butt, thighs and chair, I stood up to -

Nope. I sat in it. Waded in it a bit. For a whole lot of seconds, like more than a minute. Someone watching might have thought I was attempting to soak it back in via osmosis. I sat in my puddled chair and just blinked. Soon I began to smell it. And everyone knows that when it involves something that came out of you, once you can smell it someone else probably already has. So I gave in, almost. I raised my hand and politely insisted that there was a leak in the ceiling or something. Mr. Lichter (bless his heart) walked over, checked out the ceiling, looked at my pants. Everyone else did the same from their seats. I know he didn't believe me, but he put on the best poker face you can possibly play when you look down and realize that your hand is really just a bunch of Uno cards and you're playing holdem. But I don't think anyone else in class actually doubted what happened. Especially that kid** in the back who shouted "He peed himself!" as I dripped, soaking, out of class.

I wet my pants at 10 in science class and waded in the puddle far longer than healthy. There you go.

*If you don't realize the actual names have been changed...
**Hate that kid.

Home is a Place Best Haunted

2008-11-13T10:01:00.002-05:00

This is from the inside of our kitchen looking out; at about 9:15a yesterday (the bedroom view is even worse but showing pictures of my bedroom without having committed to TMI Thursdays seems premature). Yesterday in DC started out pretty bright. For those of you have not been invited in yet, the view through those windows usually looks a little more like...

So obviously we're going through a period of adjustment: boarded-up windows, cardboarded-up windows, plastic-sheeted windows, scaffolding, men on scaffolding falling into the house at 7:00a, expert masonry outside my bedroom window at 7:13a...

I haven't asked our landlord what's going on yet. I'm afraid to hear the obvious truth: our house has been sold into the production set for Saw VI. All we need is one of us to morph into a creepy guy who thinks he can make the world a better place by eliminating its weakest citizens (though as I think about it, that job description also sounds like an oddly suitable fit for Charles Darwin*).

In the next few weeks they'll start pumping in filth and grime and soul-maiming thing-a-ma-bobbers and we're gonna have to make a difficult decision; a really, really difficult decision: pull the rusty pin that peels off our faces or - (or) - at least just ask what they're doing. Because with the rent on this place, a responsive landlord, a new Safeway, Busboys & Poets and Five Guys within 4 blocks, and a new Harris Teeter opening soon 2 blocks away, this whole living under construction thing is worth it - even if walking into your kitchen makes you want to grab a baseball bat to fend off zombies piling in brain-hungry**.

*Normally, readers have creative license, too. But under no circumstances are you to read the Darwin line as anything but hardcore belief in evolution. I kid because I love. Need proof? How's this: I went to school. And nothing about my 5th grade science class spurred an identity crisis. And I posted this link.

**Do not roast me if you're someone who knows zombies don't actually eat brains because they prefer souls or something. Actually, I'm comment-needy. I'll take the niche-bad...

WTF is that thing in the window?

2008-11-12T13:09:00.003-05:00

(Karel Navarro - AP)

Sorry Peru, but we don't want your "dog."

Obama was elected to bring change, some color, some style and maybe even a little Mr. Smith to Washington. Not rats - not even culturally significant ones. We have rats. Obama is not some adapted version of the Pied Piper. And we will not stand for him luring such creatures into the White House.

It was clever of you to offer so publicly, making his answer a cog in your international relations ploy. If he says "yes" he affirms the validity of your claim that the animal is a canine (a claim repudiated by almost 2 out of every 5 non-biologists); if he says "no," well, that's an affront to your people and heritage. Nice try. But this will not be Obama's Bay of Pigs and we will not be manipulated. We will Hugh Grant your Billy Bob Thornton and then Dance Dance Revolution to the Pointer Sisters.

It's not that we don't like you and your non-dog, we're just not ready for that kind of commitment right now, Peru. We just got out of a really unhealthy relationship. Give us some time; or at least a less hideous pet.

the Loneliness of the Presidency

2008-11-11T14:40:00.002-05:00

Cliche. Granted. But this was on the front of the NYT Online at some point yesterday.

The press loves to talk about this loneliness. I thought this picture captured it. A lot of people want to be the president. But how many really want to be arguably the most powerful person in the world? How many people want to know that some of their foreign policy decisions will, at best, cost thousands of young lives? Who wants to be assured that the job description includes domestic policy decisions that result in even just one more family being homeless or another child gone missing?

Bush is not Obama. And I voted believing Obama wouldn't recreate the Bush era. That stroll they're taking doesn't mean their differences are a charade (interestingly, Obama steps forward with his left foot as Bush leads with his right). It also doesn't mean I forgive Bush for anything. But they're members of a club of 44 - that's 44 presidents over 219 years. That's pretty much the definition of "exclusive." And it shows: in accelerated graying and shadow-laden walks.

I don't sleep well worrying about bar results, career goals, and a one-person budget. I talk about wanting to make a difference, a significant change. But as of yet, I want no part of being remembered for failing, and the odds are pretty solid that that cowardice will go overlooked and unnoticed. The memory of everything these two have done and will do, however - from falling off a couch while eating a pretzel to the invasion of Iraq, and from saying Nancy Reagan holds seances to universal healthcare ambitions - will be eternal, success or not.

So, at least for today, I'm looking at all presidents differently. Because we all have opinions about what they're supposed to be when the politics kick in. But what about when that whole "being human" thing does?

Birthday Smooth Jazz

2008-11-10T13:21:00.007-05:00

So Saturday was my birthday.

And unlike many, most, every year in recent memory, I actually admitted that it was. Say what? For real? Speak truth? I've run out of two-word sound bytes?

Normally, I hide it and myself from the light on that day, like sunlight is the best disinfectant and I am a petri dish jam-packed with infectants. But with a new administration on its way, it seemed time to usher out the old strategery and rush in some change I can believe in as part of an attempt to be a tad more engaging.

Facebook was willing to oblige, and so I changed my profile info and got some sweet birthday wishes. Admittedly, I still cringed a little in the spotlight (even if it's that's really dim facebook-wall spotlight) which is why I've kept the birthday a secret before - way too celebratory for my taste.

But let me take this opportunity to issue some minor clarifications:

1. I don't hate birthdays (and therefore don't hate "babies who are born on days of the week because all babies have birthdays" - as I was actually accused of once): I'd celebrate yours in a heartbeat, but I'm good just playing it cool (hence this post's title rather than something like "Birthday Blues").

2. I don't mind getting older: "Old age is not so bad when you consider the alternatives."

3. I don't worry that all this time celebrating me could be better spent volunteering for the Peace Corp or something wonderfully service-oriented for those who need.

4. I just prefer the fussiness directed at me to be in witty and/or whimsical rhetorical flourishes rather than confetti, shiny wrapping and cakes (though I will eat your cake if you so provide and I will eat it belatedly if you didn't know my birthday was coming).

So, thank you: again, to everyone who said, whispered, wrote, posted, voicemail-recorded, or card-signed "happy birthday."

And, remember that a lot of really great things have happened on November 8ths (Wikipedia informs me that the French Revolutionary government opened the Louvre to the public as a museum on the 8th). And a lot of really remarkable people were also born on November 8: people like Bonnie Raitt and Minnie Ripperton and Katharine Hepburn and Alfre Woodard...

So here's hoping that if I play my cards right, one day I can be opened as a museum (wait, that's gross). Maybe I'll just shoot for a karaoke rendition of "I Can't Make You Love Me." I'll aim for the moon, and if I miss, I'll devolve into an imitation of Tara Reid (also born on November 8).

Don't hologram me, bro!

2008-11-07T09:26:00.004-05:00

It's in the way Anderson Cooper says "There we go" (at the :10 mark).

It's this kind of outward excitement...

... coupled with this kind of intensity...

... tempered by the remnants of an internal appeal to this kind of "Network" integrity

And it's probably why the heir apparent to Wolf Blitzer's reign over the nothing if not humble "Best Political Team on Television" considered refreshing his resume. Not since Star Trek's debut in 1966 have we seen such impressive visual manipulation, complete with replica silver-fuzzy-static fade-in and complete dependency on the suspension of disbelief.

But even if Anderson is over the been-there-done-that-itude of the idea and the poverty of its execution, he's still waking up today shamed by the egregiousness of its lack of necessity. CNN has cameras; lots of them; and mosaic mural walls of TVs; and fully interactive iPhone-like screens that with a touch and a squeeze can show you who my New Jersey county voted for in the 2000 presidential election and whether I poured my milk in before or after my cereal on the morning of that November 7. Yet, on arguably the most significant day in American history, CNN hologrammed will.i.am. Can a cable news network jump the shark?

A Promise We Should Keep

2008-11-05T21:37:00.004-05:00

every moment is a once in a lifetime
not because tomorrow's not promised
but because even if it was
right now is exactly what tomorrow could never be:
this very moment.

but instead of living life like we own it
we've lived life like we've been loaned it -
like we're seat-fillers at the Oscars
only to shine after commercial breaks,
or anxious temporary cardholders
awaiting an expiration date -
we trudged through the motions
as if soon it would all be over
and we'd see the other side.

we've lived in the tiniest corners of our minds
unable to share close encounters of the human kind
figuring any extra terrestrial
must be an extra-terrestrial
and that no body on Earth
could be as heavenly as the celestials...
but we're all stars in the dopest show in the universe,
so why do we act like understudies?

we're all headliners
and though the only act we know
is in these costumes,
the only stage we're on is this one
and though we can't guarantee an encore performance next week
when the only future we can grab belongs to yesterday,
why do we hold on for dear life
like living's worth not wanting more?

and when we do get a glimpse of tomorrow,
why do we assume it's beyond our control?
like on the right hand of God sits Jesus
and on the left sits a deistic puppet master
whose strings hide from sight
as imitation silver linings in clouds,
strings that guide us
to waltz through years like ballrooms,
light on our feet
mid-dance, anxious of our judge's scores;
we get caught up
assuming destinies
awaiting hand-me-down fates...

but when we assume that we're only,
that we're second, that we're barely
we assert selfish superstition upon malleable experience;
like when the politics of hope are broken into fantasy
and the pieces show their cracks
jagged and unseemly;
or when the power of our faith,
one a god could never have,
is traded in for short-term gains
and our souls sugar-crash.

yet with our power to assume
comes power to engage -
to move from cleaning off the table
to eating off the plates,
from being victims of the law
to deciding how it's made,
from meaning "dark," "feared" and "unknown"
to shining on the brightest stage.

we won't be kings like kings once were
we won't be queens, or even dukes;
we won't get rich off reparations
it's 2008, we don't need mules;
our homes will still be measured in feet
not in acres, not draped in jewels;
we won't strike back with vengeful hearts
'cause we know what it's like to lose.

what we will be is the promise
that our parents made to us:
finally embraced
with more than arms-length transactional hugs.

LOC, mofo's! Wiki, wiki what?!

2008-11-03T11:13:00.001-05:00

So I'm sitting here at the internationally renowned, star of
admittedly watched movies like "National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets,"
collection giant Library of Congress. Trying to pass the time,
waiting on a request to rise from the annals of the law library...

One of the librarians breaks the silence when she picks up the phone.
She's giving someone intellectual property advice. This seems
completely non-groundbreaking, given the fact that I'm at the law
library. But I look up anyway, curious because it's a noise that isn't
the hum of the ventilation system and - yes - because I'm a nerd for
copyright questions.

The librarian is doing her best to make it digestible for whoever her
listener is. But something sounds weird. Something about the advice
she's giving sounds like it's advice given to her (kinda like when you
asked your math teacher for help with a formula and he went to the
teacher's manual and just read the formula out loud and really slowly,
like your problem was with functional literacy, not with decoding
imaginary entities).

Like all good bloggers realizing a story is developing, I turned on my
inner Great Mouse Detective. I could see her monitor's screen: she was
reading a Wikipedia entry on intellectual property, verbatim. When in
doubt, the law library rolled up its sleeves and Wikipedia'd it.

Now I could have been disappointed. I could have flashed back to that
moment in the Wizard of Oz when the curtain is pulled back. But
instead, I jumped back to my last visit to the Epcot Center. While
waiting in line to enter that Orlando palace, a bird crapped on my
bare arm. But the real point is that the Epcot Center is filled to the
brim with the memory that it is indeed a small world, kids. So dream
big. Because even the emperess is naked beneath all those flowing
robes. And from here, you look just as good naked as she does.

be overwhelmed by the magnitude of the little things.
--

Sent via iPhone.

A Tale of Two Hemispheres

2008-11-01T11:11:00.003-04:00

Scene: both sides of a brain enter their owner's bedroom at 10am on a Saturday.

left brain: those are not his panties

right brain: you always jump to conclusions

lefty: he doesn't wear panties

righty: there's a lot about him you don't know

lefty: you only think you know that

righty: you only think you know that

[insert impasse]

lefty: and that's not how he left the bed. are those pine needles?

righty: you're so shackled by your fair-weather OCD, you can't even appreciate the haphazard beauty; it's almost postmodern

lefty: those are definitely pine needles

righty: it feels like fall in here

lefty: where do you even get pine needles in DC?

righty: Pottery Barn?

lefty: your unwillingness to cooperate astounds me. it also doesn't explain that spot on the floor

righty: i think that might be glue

lefty: you think that might be glue?

righty: i'm capable of defending my position on this

lefty: by all means. i'm all neurons

righty: strewn fluids and clothes you claim he doesn't own - clearly it's a recollection piece...

lefty: well i must be an artless bastard

righty: ... recreating his shared dorm room sophomore year in college

lefty: you're done

righty: i smell bacon

[insert a second impasse]

lefty: what's the protocol for the "did you have sex in my bed which is completely separate from your room" talk with your roommate?

righty: just wing it

lefty: right. but seriously, glue?

new rule!

2008-10-31T11:40:00.002-04:00

If you breed a liger - that is, you artificially inseminate a female tiger with a male lion's raw organic material - it is not a tragedy if that liger kills you. Additionally, your estate must cover the ambulatory costs if you "entered the big cat's enclosure... while it was feeding."

National Geographic notes there may be a one in eight chance that your liger will have "some kind of neurological disorder" - meaning that your curiosity creates a di-carnivorous beast with supermurderphrenia. But hey, that's only a possible one in eight. The only odds guaranteed are the seven in eight odds that you've made a twelve-feet long combo-predator with no sense of self. And if you didn't enjoy a little sweat on your brow from gambling with the fabric of civilization, you probably wouldn't have cited Dr. Frankenstein in your dissertation.

it's gonna get ugly..

2008-10-29T19:29:00.003-04:00

Officially under construction. As a kid, I never struggled to color within the lines (when I wanted to). But this blog is gonna have all sorts of design and formatting issues tonight, and probably into tomorrow. If you've been here before, sorry about that. And if this is your first impression, you have just learned what your dad meant when he told you not to hold off for tomorrow what you could do today (or, uh, should have done yesterday - you get my point).

my vertical horizon

2008-10-27T12:45:00.003-04:00

Bring your patriotism...

2008-10-26T11:41:00.001-04:00

... but leave your mace at home, please.

We know DC has had a rash of robberies and assaults-by-brick (the kids call it "bricking"). And we know that the police like to balance over-responding in certain neighborhoods with under-responding in yours. But please: leave your eye-searing weaponry in your other bag.

to Oman with love

2008-03-24T17:49:00.006-04:00

an apology (postdated 01.24.09).

We are really, really sorry.

It's not you; it's us. See, it all started early in 2000. We fell asleep, let our system of government be appropriated and yadda, yadda, yadda, we woke up bruised and confused. It wasn't until about a year ago that we realized what we'd done. We had a plan; we really did. We were going to elect a dream ticket to the White House. Barack and Hillary were going to change the world!

But then it all went so wrong. Hillary started crying. Then she campaigned in a state she shouldn't have. Her husband channeled Dick Cheney (which, here, means subversively attacking those who only want to trust you). Then she campaigned in a state she shouldn't have. She started publicly calling Barack less than a republican (which, believe it or not, in this country is almost an ethnic slur to a lot of people). Then one of Hillary's advisers channeled Dick Cheney. Then her husband questioned Barack's patriotism... Barack tried to rise above it all. He really did. But his associates were less than competent and lead him headfirst into quicksand. In the end, our dream convention was a brokered nightmare and Barack emerged too politically drained to win the general election. In fact, John McCain, his VP Steve Forbes, and a slew of 512 agencies (they are like the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz) used many of Hillary's remarks about Barack to tear him down.

So we gave the world John McCain. And just as John McCain thought Iran was adopting and training al-Qaeda operatives from Iraq, he also mistook your country for Iran and bombed you preemptively. He's 72. It was late at night. Even you admit your names sound similar (*Oman* - *Iran*). Your people have the same brownness. And on the White House map of Asia, both of your countries are the same color. And we're sure at one time, someone, somewhere mistook you for a nation encouraging US-targeted terrorism. So there's that.

We will try to impeach him, but we're about as influential here as you are. And without a Republican Congress and a president who's a democrat, impeachments happen about as often as same-sexed conception around here. So the best we can offer is that if you consider changing your name to something more American, like that Georgia over there (maybe you could try "Rhode Island"), we will work on heeding the words of Chuck Norris the next time he speaks.

Our condolences.
Rationally Liberal Citizens of the United States of America. (RLCUSA)

P.S. Tell Azerbaijan to duck. Thanks.

Talk Down to Me:

2008-03-20T00:58:00.004-04:00

Dedicated to Dick Cheney and that sales associate from Banana Republic.

Ooh I love it when you call me Big Sloppy. Forgive me for my
indiscretions like you actually know what they are. Tell me again how
stupid I look with this brain. You make me feel like a natural moron.

Dumb it down. Make it good sense to me. Better yet, don't waste your
time. Prey on me like I'm at the bottom of your food chain. I feel
unsafe when I'm important. I don't like to think. It makes my tummy
hurt. I'm short on food for thought.

You are so wise you see problems that don't exist. I am too slow to
invent such cause for alarm. And I could certainly never keep up if
reason is a moving target. But you... You have eyes in the back of
your head. You are like a surveillance camera.

Remind me to thank you for your service. For I may not appreciate the
true gift it has been to make your acquaintance without being coached.

Sent via iPhone.

Second Comes Love

2008-03-19T00:53:00.004-04:00

Late tonight, huddled at my computer screen, I met Barack Obama. I liked him. We still have a lot to talk about before we're pushing a baby in a baby carriage, but at least we're finally sitting in a tree.

He seems different exposed. Maybe we all do. Maybe our truest moments come only when we're naked, moments at which we reveal the difference between being honest and being candid. Why do we roll up our pant leg to show you that scar we got when we were 6? Probably because it makes the story we tell about it more real.

Now, before you chastise me for having multiple personalities, and choosing today's persona because it has a shiny new convertible bandwagon...

I'm still not in love with Barack. So much of me wants to be. I want him to wear the air of my aspirations and a suit whose lapel is cut to the style of my conviction. Not because I am what he should be, but because I want what he is to include me. I want my words to resound in his voice. I want my ideals to shape his endeavors. Most of all, I want my passion to drive his spirit.

Today he made it possible to love him. But we still have work to do in this relationship. I can forget Rev. Wright's name by tomorrow. The name of his church already escapes me. I was never supposed to commit to Rev. Wright. No 2008 election outcome put the stability of the world, the fate of our economy, or the dreams of my parents in his hands. But I'm supposed to trust Barack with at least that, if not more.

And so we should be greatly excited at the opportunity Barack reminds us is waiting to be actualized. But we can still ask why it took so long. He has been the candidate of hope, change, dreams, faith, and everything between. We've crowned him the facilitator, if not the bringer, of the cure for what ails us. But listen to what he said today: we cannot move forward infected by anger. Yet until today, he never bothered to fearlessly identify what is arguably our most viral disease. Until there was a crisis, he offered no management.

It is critical that you understand I do not consider him an opportunist. What we witnessed was not mere political calculation. He was knocked down. He stood up. He brushed his shoulders off. He took huge strides. He was impressive. He was complete. And I thank him.

He was aware this morning. But my calendar shows more than just today. Today, Barack admitted what we all at least suspected he knew. Race is more than an issue in America. It is its own institution. I know Barack didn't learn this by watching the pundits last week. I know he's lived it. I know he and Michelle have told their children allegories, if not stories, about it. He had to know this was a speech he'd have to give, even if he imagined it never included his pastor's name. JFK had to. Romney tried to. Barack has more vision than he previously displayed. He should not have been surprised here.

I know he walks a fine line. Forget thin ice. It must be more like he's skating on a meniscus, in a glass half-full. He has to convince a nation that Cornell is as right as he is wrong: that his race matters as much as it doesn't. Don't tell me it has been unfair to expect that he found a way to deliver that message flawlessly, though. He did it today. And you should've expected it before now at least as much I did. We owe that sense of inquiry to ourselves.

And we owe both our ancestors and our children more than static reincarnations of the past. That's the subtext of Barack's speech today. That obviously means answering a call to arms to erase inequality. I understand your point: that perhaps the issue wasn't ripe, that we weren't yet ready to receive until controversy arose. It's frightening how true that may be (we too often ignore leaks until they're floods). You might even say that I had no reason to have doubts in the first place. You may be right, but only because calling my hesitation "doubt" misses the mark. You've seen it: two black men pass each other on the street, make eye contact, and nod. True, maybe neither one of them has lived anything like the life of the other. But they nod silently anyway. They believe there's a great chance they share something. They have to believe it. It soothes. All I've ever said is that the man who will be president has to do more than nod. He has to open his mouth. He has to speak.

And so my anger in my posts about Barack should be measured not as blame, but as the weight of great expectations. I want him to be great because we simply cannot survive any less. I want him to be great because he can be. And I am not afraid to ask it of him.

I am a bundle of all of the contradictions he acknowledged today. It's comforting to know he is, too.

and still I see no changes

2008-03-17T09:58:00.010-04:00

Somebody should tell Barack Obama that it's ok that he's black.

It's ok that he went to a primarily black church, with a black pastor, who often spoke to issues specific to the black community. It's not a validly categorized "political liability."

But by aggressively distancing himself from a man who was willing to acknowledge this, it makes me wonder if despite all of the energy and passion this campaign season holds, Tupac is still right: we're not ready to see a black president.

I don't know what Wright is about. Most of me doesn't care. The issue here isn't about Wright as he was en toto, but Wright as he offered the critique of "God damn America." Because that's what all the fallout is about. Truth is, his - perhaps poorly articulated - notion that global politics are integrated and we are a contributing member is neither original nor outlandish and isn't getting press. The idea that the anger we face is in part due to the disdain and ignorance we present and share, isn't offensive to me as long as it doesn't forgive other players their blame for, at best, being led to a river of poison and choosing to drink.

That said, I've written too many dissertations in the last several days, so let me be brief. Some of us are not just black, but black in America. We have parents who had their school buses stoned on integration day; we have grandparents who weren't allowed to have more than a fifth grade education; we have great-grandparents who were slaves. More frighteningly, we have siblings and children who are profiled, denied jobs and denied education.

So we have days where America isn't that great. We have days when we remember what America has done to us. And we have nights on which we go to sleep, praying America doesn't do it all over again in the morning. We will not apologize for our view of America. It's been imputed and it's empirical. Every day we walk out of our homes, we are on stage for America. We are told to behave and not react to micro-aggressions. We are told we've had long enough to assimilate and blend. We are told America is working for us better than it is for others and as well as it ever will. We are told to forget what we are.

We're not ready to see a black president. Because if we were, we'd be ready to see him or her as representative of what so many of us are. Instead, America is rallying behind a black candidate who has chosen not to believe our truth or to only silently embody it.

I'm aware of the risk of essentialism here. I really am. But at one point, it was ok to think there was supposed to be something special about a black presidential candidate. And that "something" was allowed to be more than his audacity to hope. We're not all the same. We don't all have the same history. But for a lot of us, I hope, a black president unwilling to publicly admit that America has given us as black Americans both the best and worst of times, doesn't have whatever that special something we dreamed about is.

I like to think I too have the audacity to hope. And what I hope is that a President Obama understands what gets lost in translation when "God damn America" is uttered.

Still A Bachelor...

2008-03-08T14:21:00.008-05:00

I've been silent for a long time. From the beginning, actually. I didn't vote in my primary. There were a lot of concerns to balance: my ego over a thoroughly deluded ex-dream of being the first black president; a hearty distrust of a vote approving "the use of force..."

The sum of those parts: I am mortified that I might not vote for the first black president.

But if I'm buying disingenuousness, maybe I want it to at least be predictable? Doesn't that smooth the edge of misleading rhetoric -- the "comfort" in knowing what the speaker really means? And isn't that especially true if the meaning between the lines, or behind the scenes, is really the best option anyway?

All Barack has to do is just be impenetrably straight forward. He's more charming, has a wider base, is more responsive and welcomely less salty. But, via his advisers, he has made it quite clear that he may mean little of what he says. His online "Plan for Ending the War in Iraq" never mentions the realism a recently-former senior adviser offered this week. And his current senior foreign policy adviser doesn't think he's ready to answer that infamous 3am call. Not to mention, there's that non-vote Barack never made. He constantly reminds us that he didn't vote for the use of force when he couldn't have even if he had a constituency asking him to. I guess that means that if, in the future, there's an issue he's constitutionally-prohibited from voting on, trust that his judgment won't let him vote the wrong way. I have no idea what solace that's supposed to offer. So if that's the case, why shouldn't I choose the candidate with the b-side I know? Our country's future should not be left to the element of surprise better reserved for albums with hidden tracks. Not all secrets are bonuses.

Though, of course, not all Old Faithfuls live up to their namesake. And so I don't buy nearly enough of what Hillary spews to fall head over heels for her either. She escaped way too readily from her husband's overhanded indiscretions in South Carolina. She's been given a flat-out pass for her adviser's Obama-Ken Starr comparison. And why would I ever walk into a relationship with someone who I knew couldn't admit she was wrong? Since when was it flirtatious to say you cling to mistakes like static to a fleece?

And so here I am. I'm in the place I said I hoped I wouldn't be: sandwiched between options that feel scarily incomplete. I'm tired of canvassing singles' bars. Wasn't this supposed to be the election where I found Mr. or Ms. Right? I want to be on the right side of history, but I want history to meet me in the middle. And I want you to stop telling me I'm asking for too much.

When do I get to love America? It's almost like I've been molested. I don't claim to understand or be able to relate to the lived severity of being raped or touched by your mom's boyfriend. But there's something at least remotely similar here figuratively. During my most vulnerable political years (the dating years) -- 18-25 -- George W. Bush is the only president I've seen. I've watched him "win" despite Florida and repeat despite Ohio. I've watched us let him. During my critically formative stage, I have lived and witnessed perhaps the most mismanaged and morally bankrupt administration in this nation's history. So yeah, I hope. But in a land where it takes "more than coupons to get us saved / like it takes a lot more than du-rags to get you waves," it's gonna take a lot more than promise to make me praise.

I don't want to do the best thing "given the circumstances." I want to do the right thing. At all times when it comes to politics. Because it defines struggle, achievement, life and death. And I want someone to explain to me why there is seemingly no right thing to be found and only compromise. I don't want to settle. Our system of politics is one where a nation of imperfect persons are told to make the best with what they've got because, after all, even the best of us are little more than the rest of us. But if I told you today that the law says you have to marry someone you knew but didn't love, even though you knew you'd have the option of divorce, hopefully at least some of you would tell me no one should dictate your private choices; that you're not making a serious commitment to an acquaintance, or that who you bring children into the world with matters. So why do you take handouts at their face value when in this relationship your partner is a leading decider in whether you can decide to have children, whether those kids go to war, what taxes you pay, and whether or not your job supports the very family you insist must be preserved? Is it really just because you hate being single? That the other fish in the sea are rotten?

There's no coming back from this. Am I really the only citizen who wants a soulmate?

Blogged with Flock

Once

2008-02-26T15:08:00.005-05:00

I saw "Once" today. And it was brilliant.

I took some good advice and stuffed it in my bag before I left the house. It's now back in its auto-mailer, peeking out of my vest's pocket and I don't want to let it go.

I watched it squirreled away in the basement of our law library, holed up in the smallest "conference room" you've ever seen (that I had reserved to "study"). And then I went on vacation. I didn't read a thing. I stopped kicking myself for not having a paper topic (when I actually need 3). I forgot I had a phone that at any given moment could simultaneously alert me I had an email, a text message, a voicemail, a call, a Facebook wall post, and a class in three hours. Well I almost forgot. Actually, I was really, really aware of it because I'm constantly worried that I'm going to break, lose or be separated from it in a questionably legal manner. But I forgot about the symbolism of it.

Right: this was supposed to be about "Once," not OCD.

The characters didn't have names. Even the credits introduced them as "guy" and "girl." When you're standing in a room across from someone who's completely naked, the name is the last to matter. And both guy and girl, especially guy, were completely bared. At times, I shielded my eyes, embarrassed by how starkly human and familiar they were. I watched them unfold and had to avert my eyes out of my own sense of shame.

And all of my suspicions were wrong. I saw the trailer months ago and cringed at the idea of yet another film driven by songs with as much crowd appeal as a Paris Hilton performance of "The Star-Spangled Banner" (i.e., 'and the home... of the brave... that's hot'). I just can't understand why people think you can make movies revolve around song-centerpieces that aren't written by great songwriters; as if being in a film excuses a song from being able to stand on its own. But every, single, one of these songs is memorable. Every, single, one (even the conversations he plays in the back of the bus, realizing it's often easier to sing because it sounds like a different voice).

My vacation is over. I should've been back at work a long time ago. But this movie was just so authentic. I watched the special features (not the deleted scenes, the commentary). The director and leads reveal that people are so convinced the story is real they stop them, convinced they had watched a documentary, and ask what happened next. And what do you say about fiction that couldn't possibly be?

Blogged with Flock

That kid is BACK on the escalator!

2008-02-25T08:56:00.001-05:00

Sorry if the Mallrats lead-in is misleading. But I needed something to paint my horror.

That infamous roach was BACK on the tracks again this morning. I'm beginning to think two things. One: this mofo has made a home here (which means he has cousins) and I'm gonna have to see it (and soon them) daily. Two: I'm the only one who seems to notice. And that's starting to make me feel like I'm in that episode of the X-Files where no one believes in the chupacabra.

Sent via iPhone.

Step 1

2008-02-24T15:58:00.002-05:00

Commit even if it means you're alone.

At the Archives' free screenings of the complete documentary and short categories... Submerged myself as wholeheartedly as possible this weekend. In the last four days, I've seen 18 out of the 20 screened. I've worn the same hoodie/coat combo three times in a row because I've been here too often to do laundry.

But I've gone to 16 out of 18 by myself. And maybe that's not a complaint. It's at least an observation. I saw the opportunity for free movies and dropped the world in front of me to create a better one. Because I had to. Because if I didn't, I would've been miserable about it for a while. That I'm the only person I know here who felt that or wasn't otherwise legitimately occupied might bother me more than it should. But I'm not apologizing. It's disappointing that this weekend has been as close to perfect as it could be: what I did aligned with who I am. The fact that I'm not sharing that, though, means either I'm the only one here or everyone like me had more important things to do. The resulting question seems obvious.

Wishing this weekend has some permanence.

Sent via iPhone.

Somewhat overdue.

2008-02-19T08:45:00.001-05:00

I've seen this bill a few times now.

Obviously the WMATA ad council doesn't read this blog. I guess I'm fine with that. But the claim it makes is only slightly truthful. You know, truthful much in the way that believing every day we're not attacked stands as a testament to homeland security. Truth is, it's really just a matter of perception: some of us can see, others would follow Hellen Keller through a maze.

And the half-assed swipe at NY is noted and shameful.

Sent via iPhone.

the 50th Grammys

2008-02-11T00:00:00.001-05:00

It's as simple, and as loaded, and as rich, and as full, and as
imagined as hearing your dream out loud.

There are a lot of people who malign the Grammys. They come in all
colors, professions, and ages. They'll tell you the awards aren't
punk enough and that they're too young; that they're rigged for
established artists and that they only go to those whose faces are
plastered on supermarket aisle magazines. Some will even tell you
they'd mimic Fiona Apple if they were ever offered one.

I just wished they had seen Amy Winehouse's face. I don't cry often,
but it made me. And I'm not happy often, but it made me.

And I wish I had more ways to describe it. But I don't. Because it
was a look I'm still dreaming about. I'm mad at me for still being in
the dreaming stage. But I'll fix that. Because if it means I get to
have the same look of due surprise and exhilaration, then I'd be
wasting my time here not to.

A picture's worth a thousand words when it's more than just an image.

but when she laughs
you see what she hides
even chameleons let their guards down once or twice
she thinks these urban shadows are where she's meant to be
but there's no disguise that's fooling me

Reform: First and Foremost

2008-01-31T20:24:00.000-05:00

Reporting live from the basement auditorium at the National Archives as a panel discusses primary reform.

I don't know that there's much of a story here. I suppose I just thought you should know. There are, of course, the tell-tale signs of grassroots political theater: old men asleep, middle-aged men in fanny packs, men of all ages in beards and overalls, rants via mic abductions (rants without mics for that matter), blind assertions, seemingly wilful blind assertions... Standard operating procedure. Oh right: and scattered laughter at "jokes" for no other discernable reason than to have the room acknowledge you were cool enough to show up at an event (aka the rat-bastard-masturgiggle).

And so, somewhat sadly, nothing new here. Politics as usual, in some ways.

Sent via iPhone.

What Would Jebus Do...

2008-01-15T19:19:00.000-05:00

if he walked into a public restroom and saw a guy masturbating into a urinal?

Welcome all to the newest series on The Change I Want to See. In the weeks and months to come, I will introduce you to the inexplicable things I see on the street, in movie theaters, at school, etc. that normally wouldn't get blog space; that would usually be reduced to bar stories. And I'll ask one simple question: what would Jebus do? And you will imagine me asking it in Homer's voice.

I just saw the largest roach I've ever seen.

2008-01-10T09:13:00.005-05:00

But before we get to that..

I walk into the metro station and glance at the Express. Headline reads: "Metro: service getting worse;" which I think is odd. Not for its truth, but as the second-most overdue concession of the last decade (some of us are still waiting for O.J. to write the book not even Judith Miller could back: Yeah, I Did It and Other People I Tried to Kill: A collection of short stories).

So I pick up the paper: "not once did the agency meet its performance benchmark" in the last 17 months.

But I found no solace in confirmation that I wasn't crazy nor in knowing all the times I complain about DC's haphazard attempt to be a city were validated, because I kept reading.

"The number of track fires doubled."

Christ. Of course they did. So not only are you underground longer as your train is late, but Metro has exponentially increased your risk of being trapped in a fiery grave. Sweet. Thank god they raised the fares this year to "the largest fare and fee increases in Metro history." It's nice to know someone's preparing for the casket cost. Because grad school insurance, believe it or not, doesn't cover readily avoidable horrible death (or teeth; or eyes).

But the point: I just saw the largest roach I've ever seen.

And I wonder if the fare increase (which, by the hit on my Smartcard, must be circa 20%) will cover super-duper-rodent-stain-remover. Because I saw the shadow before I saw its owner. I thought it was a mouse. You could've walked that mofo on a leash. Imagine the biggest roach you've ever seen and then give it roids. Then lock it up in a roach motel and wait for it to get prison-swole. And when it's grown too large for the box, set it free in Metro Center. Let it frolic - no! - let it gallup through the tunnels. Let the toxic breeze from the incoming orange line run through its antennae. Re-capture it and cast it as the monster in the Cloverfield sequel.

At the very least, confirm that I just witnessed the most troubling sighting since Mena Suvari appeared in any movie she's ever done.

Sent via iPhone.

Bradley's First Game

2007-11-11T01:35:00.002-05:00

So this was my first Division I college football game: BC at Maryland.

GW football doesn't exist (despite what the t-shirts at the bookstore say). There are many rumors as to why. Some say it was contractual, to guarantee the building of the Smith Center. Others say it's because Georgetown was upset that we'd finally have a chance at being better than it at something, and so we caved in to protect the "natural order of things," -- Georgetown's actual words -- when it threatened to put us on its basketball schedule.

Yet others say football teams add school spirit, and building classes of kids who care, about anything, certainly their school, would hurt GW's image and hence its recruiting with the "I'm too sexy for my Uggs - juicy-assed - collar-poppin'" Lawn Guyland apathetics crowd.

But after a night like tonight, where we sat right behind the end zone, knee-deep in student pride for a slow, dull-witted creature, it hit me: I can't feel my toes.

It was really, really cold. And I was soaking wet because some genius had spilled his entire Pepsi on my back and legs. The whole thing. It was like the dude behind the counter had put me directly under the soda fountain rather than a cup. He might as well have thrown ice in my eye. I looked like I had been in the trenches, with shin-deep soda stains on my jeans from wading through a caffeine river. He tried to help dry me off, but at that moment, it was the kind of help that doesn't stop you from wanting to punch him in the face. And through it all, there was this sopping bag o' douche a few rows ahead, who just could not let it go. Whether it was 2nd and 4, or 3rd and 19, he was screaming, "Gimme five [yards]." He yelled during timeouts. He yelled at halftime. He embarrassed his wife. He made me sad for his kids. He smelled like hobbit feet.

And it's that kind of "god, this sucks," "I should be anywhere but here" mentality that we are sorely missing. Because we would lose. We would lose hard. And we would lose interest if GW didn't put the game out of reach in 15 minutes or less. But we could be one in our failure. We could be nothing, together.

GW, the ball's in your hands.

Give us something new to complain about.

Sent via iPhone.

DC Metro Story #2471: Blackwater fandom

2007-11-07T09:25:00.000-05:00

I'm standing next to a guy wearing a Blackwater baseball cap.
It wasn't a guy in a three-piece suit, wearing the hat because he was on his way to a board meeting. It was a guy in a polo and khakis reading a newspaper with a Blackwater cap on. An actual display of Blackwater love? Really? An emblem on his sleeve, or a super-imposed logo on the American flag pin on his lapel wouldn't have been enough? He really needed to show his appreciation like a fan?

Anyway, I wonder if he's on his way to Capitol Hill. But I'm on the redline headed west, so maybe he's doing reconnaissance (badly, which would make sense). Maybe my train is a threat to national security because too many people are reading The Onion. Or maybe there have been reports that menacing kids on their way to one of DC's public schools are causing havoc (they can be pretty threatening). Those reports, of course, would be unconfirmed because who has time to fact check?

I'd just blend into the shadows... But that's where all of the metro's creepy underbelly already lies. And standing next to that guy who rubs up against women with his "happy face" on, probably only increases my chances of becoming an "unfortunate incident." So maybe I'll -

Oh. He's gone now.

Sent via iPhone.

oh yeah...

2007-10-22T13:16:00.000-04:00

... and I'm not moving to California until it stops bursting into flames.

Men Behaving Badly

2007-10-22T10:01:00.000-04:00

So I walked past Paul Wolfowitz this morning.
We were less than a foot from each other.
And I kinda wanted to punch him in the face.
That's it.

MSNBC just doesn't like women very much.

2007-06-06T14:21:00.000-04:00

Here we go again;
it's not the first time
the "news" left us
with wounds to mend.

It's really as simple as Pulitzer wrote in 1904:
"Our Republic and its press will rise or fall together. An able, disinterested, public-spirited press, with trained intelligence to know the right and courage to do it, can preserve that public virtue without which popular government is a sham and a mockery. A cynical, mercenary, demagogic press will produce in time a people as base as itself."

Today is, apparently, that time. We are, apparently, those people. And Joe Scarborough is, it seems, one of those mercenaries.

On Friday, Scarborough, broadcast on the newly-designated mecca of misogyny, joined by Craig Crawford, made sexist inferences about the nature of former Senator Fred Thompson's marriage. The two asked and then mutually "confirmed" that Jeri Thompson "works the pole."

I've watched the clip several times now. I've read MSNBC's knee-jerk reaction: put it in context. I tried to do so. I shouldn't have; but I did. I failed of course, because at best the remark was crass and I don't consider the pursuit of crudity an achievement of any real aspiration.

The basic gist: two shrivelled phalli walk onto a cable news set. The first one spots a woman he deems out of his reach. So he's bitter; naturally, he feels shafted. The second one is much less advanced in his shrivelling, but if there's one thing a diminishing phallus hates, it's standing alone. So the second one pokes his head in, feigning an interest. Wrinkled and past their primes, they begin flopping around, lashing out at the man this unattainable woman does care about: how could he "get" her? She's so attractive, they long for the days when they weren't mere wrinkles in time; when they were each something with some longevity, some sense of purpose, and had the tools with which to achieve it. Those days are gone. But these two don't cut and... excuse me, that word is in bad taste here. These two don't tuck and run. Instead, they prematurely spit assertions. They don't really know what they're talking about; they're inexperienced. So what happens next comes fast: "You think she works the pole?"

The breakdown:

Aside from the clearly offensive nature of the remark, more pressing for at least Scarborough (since I know neither Crawford's attraction nor relationship status) is that he has to explain to his wife his drooling envy.

But both men suffer from exactly what so many shrivelling phalli do: a lack of fore... sight. They have a complete inability to get the big picture and drown in their moment. They also can't see behind them since their dumb asses get in the way; hence, they have no hindsight. So neither could remember what the word "Imus" means this summer nor anticipate what fallout would follow.

I don't think, from the clip I've seen (my opinion may change if I see more), that they were calling Jeri Thompson a stripper per se. I don't. I realize that the use of the word "works" allows other conclusions. I don't think such conclusions are wrong, but I think these two were actually referring to the exercise technique, albeit offensively. But by no means should that be read as an excuse. What they still did is objectify Jeri Thompson. They still reduced her to an exclusively sexual being. I don't know why she, at 39, chooses to be with Thompson, at 64. But perhaps she was so sophisticated -- be it emotionally, spiritually, intellectually, some combination... -- that her maturity could only be matched by someone who had lived enough to develop similarly. The truth is, it doesn't really matter why she chose him. She chose him. And Scarborough and Crawford blatantly dishonored her choice by implying that her partner's decision to be with her was less than credible.

Reducing Jeri Thompson was not an anomaly. This morning on ESPN2, Mike Golic "joked" to Mike Greenberg that he "might as well be a woman" for not being able to bench 185 lbs. He quickly noted that he meant the inability to lift, not the remark, was the real insult to women. Huh, what? Exactly. I have no idea how he thought that put the dirt back in the hole he was digging. I'd be insane to suggest any woman reading this right now can't think of ten times she's already been "indirectly" insulted today. These insults are not indirect; they're assaults; they're micro-aggressions. Beauvoir was right: women are not born, they become. In so far as gender, as distinct from sex, is about otherization, these assaults and their underlying normative assumptions operate to subordinate females (as well as males since implying males display attributes we've assigned to females is understood as demeaning). If we don't stop them now, then when?

Again, our civic duty includes not just exercising our right to speak, but managing said exercise. Here, these two have to be held responsible for, at the very least, not realizing that suggesting a woman "works the pole" was going to be inflammatory, certainly if done so without clear, contextual qualification. I grant that structuring such a proviso would be a formidable challenge, if not impossible. Nonetheless, I'm tired of excusing the obliviousness of the ignorant. We should be informing the ignorant, not ignoring them. "Ignorant" and "ignoring" have the same root word. Take that theory a step further: how could we possibly fix the problem with more of the same?

And to come full circle, I don't know why Jeri Thompson was even dragged into this. In what newsworthy context is she relevant, let alone her exercise routine and how said routine may or may not affect her sex life? She is the spouse of a man who is bumbling through the initial steps of a campaign. I get it. But what does her attractiveness have to do with his ability to run/serve or her ability to lead his support from his side if he does so?

There's only one real "attractiveness" element of this story: you can find some of the ugliest things under the nails of pointed fingers.

a Minority Report

2007-06-05T16:30:00.001-04:00

I use to think that if this country was just us
that we could build an overdue conception of justice,
but just us could never really combat injustice
'cause when power's in just us, it's just nuts.

For instance, Gary Sheffield sounds like a bigot:

"...You're going to see more black faces, but there ain't no English going to be coming out. … [It's about] being able to tell [Latin players] what to do -- being able to control them.

"Where I'm from, you can't control us. You might get a guy to do it that way for a while because he wants to benefit, but in the end, he is going to go back to being who he is. And that's a person that you're going to talk to with respect, you're going to talk to like a man."

Can I pull something reasonable out of that? Sure. I could tell you that what he really meant to say, is that profit-hungry MLB owners and officials capitalize on the struggles of Latino youth; that they dehumanize them, seeing Latinos as potentially cheaper labor to further a product rather than young men hungry for a chance. I could tell you that baseball's athlete-sourcing has taken a huge hit stateside due to the skyrocketing popularity of football and basketball. I might tell you it's been obvious for years that baseball has little interest in scouting young black men domestically. I could tell you that young black American men are more often misled by marketing featuring Carmelo Anthony, Michael Vick and Clinton Portis than they are influenced by ads featuring Ryan Howard and -- and actually it's hard to think of a commercial featuring a black American baseball player. I could tell you that these facts are all part of a larger, ongoing social wave towards more instantaneous gratification and away from the national "pastime."

I could, but I'm not going to do Sheffield's work for him. Gary Sheffield is a grown damn man. At what point do we stop being apologists and calling these people inarticulate? Our civic duty includes not just exercising our right to speak, but managing said exercise. Why isn't Sheffield expected to be able to deliver his message, if it indeed has been publicly misconstrued, accurately? Is it because he's an athlete? Is it because he's black? If he means something different than what he says, why are the listeners burdened with decoding? He said two things very clearly: Latino men are relatively easy to control and black American men are relatively rambunctious. Neither is flattering. More importantly, neither is even true.

The larger point here is that there is more than enough intrinsically devisive about our social fabric. The last thing we need is to turn black-brown relations on themselves by excusing a man who tries to hide behind the conditioning of his skin color to be as racist as those he claims to actually be critiquing.

The message, if so intended, that MLB's power structure is an illustration of a deeply-seeded socio-eco-political dilemma that operates to divide us, is critically engaging. It is a message that is too important to get lost between the lines. It has to be said, but it has to be said well.

Gary Sheffield sounds like a bigot. The fact that he's black makes it worse, not better.

time pt. 2

2007-06-04T10:43:00.000-04:00

i'm confused
because now is both always and never:
always trying to go places i've never been,
always struggling to do what i've never been able,
always waiting for a realization that never comes.

sometimes i wonder
if life is at a standstill
or if i'm running at rest
in stationary motion:
always moving
never going anywhere.

but at least time passes.
or does it?
you'd think one so obsessed
with time could find it,
especially when all of time feels
like the same time.

i wish i could tell time;
tell it i hate it,
tell it i breathe it,
tell it i made it,
tell it i need it.
but all of my clocks are faceless.

time pt. 1

2007-06-04T10:27:00.001-04:00

they say "time
waits
for no one"
but just once
could it (could it)
pause
for me
i'm not here
here to beg
for always
just a moment
just a moment's
all i need

i promise
no, no
i guarantee
that i'll take real good advantage
of any time i receive
i won't blink, regret
desire more
'cause a moment's
all that time can afford

they say "time
waits
for no one"
but just once
could it (could it)
pause for me
i'm not here (to beg)
here to beg (here to beg)
for always
a moment
a moment's
all i need

Dom Imus getting a bad Rap?

2007-04-11T20:20:00.000-04:00

They asked for it so here it is.

"Don Imus is only doing what rap has done for decades."
There's your gauntlet; its suggestion synonymous with absurd. But if America really wants to have this debate, let's have it.

The claim:
Rappers use the same language Imus used and no one holds them accountable or vociferously demands change - certainly not with the ferocity that the cries against Imus display.

(Sigh.) Where do I begin?
I don't want to make the mistake of being trite, so let's first clarify the nature of the comments Imus made.

He, and notably his whole staff, referred to black female athletes as "nappy-headed." Ok. We live in a society, and as black Americans have ALWAYS lived in a society, that doesn't merely undervalue our beauty, but aggressively seeks to legally desecrate it. Black women have uniquely felt this sting. So to call our women "nappy-headed" in a derogatory fashion is to reify that division and to restate the hateful categorization of "black" as deplorable, disgusting... Maybe you haven't checked lately, but go open your dictionary. Any dictionary; the editor doesn't matter. Note how "black" is defined as dirty, dark, bad, etc. while "white" is quite the opposite. In short, Imus poured salt in a wound that we, quite frankly, are tired of having to mend. And we are tired of having to do the mending ourselves while the majority and its empathizers tell us "the cut isn't that bad." It's ours. We bite our lips and bear it. And so only we will determine its pain.

Then he called them "hos." Along the same lines as above, the hypersexualization of black women and their reduction to sexual chattel is precisely why his "joke" crossed the line. These Rutgers women, and black women across the globe, are human beings. They are doctors, lawyers, presidents, nation-leaders, mothers, daughters and sisters... No definition of "ho" allows for those identities. In fact, the word strips them, leaving them as exposed and vulnerable as the days we were dragged here.

But remember: more was said. An assistant said watching the Rutgers/Tennessee game was like watching the jigaboos play the wannabees. He and Imus laughed about how the women from Rutgers looked rough, especially as compared to the more attractive Tennessee players. The jigaboo/wannabee reference is directly tied to "School Daze," a Spike Lee joint, but more indirectly tied to the ever-present issue of the attractiveness of black skin. To suggest that the Rutgers women, on average with darker complexions, were rough and unattractive jigaboos, while remarking that the Tennessee women, on average with lighter complexions, were more attractive wannabees is indicative of a battle our women and men have been fighting for a time too long to count. And we seemed to all have missed that being a wannabee is nothing to be proud of. It suggests that the lighter-skinned Tennessee players preferred their complexion because it allowed them to pass or at least distance themselves from the darker Rutgers women. When is someone going to remember that Tennesee's women were insulted as well?

Nonetheless, my focus here is on the counter-argument that hip hop brought this all about... That the very word "ho" is rap construction... That no one is up in arms over the misogyny in rap...

"Ho" as rap construction: really? David Gregory et al.: really? The word is undeniably linked to "whore." So your argument is what, that black artists invented misogyny? Well here's some earth-shattering, breaking news: white men were beating, raping, killing, and verbally abusing women long before they ever encountered us. This isn't to say white men are singularly responsible for sex-based stratification. Men as a whole are responsible. Yet you ignore not just modern realities but the evidence of history in its entirety insofar as it is contrary to your own assertion. But, to be fair, I suppose that is what they call responsible journalism these days (while Pulitzer rolls in his grave).

No one is up in arms: Let me be so much later than the first to disagree. I want misogyny out of our culture. That includes a specific desire to see its end and remedy in hip hop. Has no one seen "Hip Hop: Beyond the Beats and Rhymes" by Byron Hurt? Has no one heard of the Take Back the Music campaign led by Essence? Has no one seen Def Poetry? Has no one heard the COUNTLESS underground and commercial artists whose songs cry for change? Was Jay-Z right: do you listen to music, or do you just skim through it? Oh no wait: you have been listening. When Nas released "Hip Hop is Dead" the nation was up in arms. But you saw that as black artists turning on themselves, not as black artists pushing for difference. So you don't remember. Let me remind you: people are CLAMORING for change. Real change, substantive difference. If you haven't been listening whose fault is that? If you've believed the distant critiques from outside the genre, don't displace your failure on us.

The truth is, this "argument" ignores the lesson our 4 year olds are able to learn: two wrongs don't make a right. Even if you don't buy that rap's change is inevitable because of internal criticism, your argument can't really be: "but everybody else does it." Can it? Is that your idea of intellectualism? The issue is not whether derogatory use by one group can be punished or otherwise treated differently than that by another. That approach has nothing to do with independent evaluations of wrongdoing. You don't get moral points for, you don't get to create an appropriate balance by, saying non-blacks should be able to degrade blacks in the same ways many of us already do to ourselves. Even if I was to concede, and this would be a large concession, that you're then treating people "equally", you're forgetting the point: YOU'RE NOT ACTUALLY SOLVING THE PROBLEM. The problem is not the imbalance in degradation; it's that the degradation exists at all. And so perpetuating such aggression could never be a band-aid, let alone a cure. In other words, black people realize that acquiring the respect we deserve is significantly tied to the dignity we portray. But even if we drop the ball... Even if we create derisions among ourselves with hateful rhetoric, what makes you think that's a legitimate reason for the majority to do the same?

I just find it SO interesting that when the issue is SO clear.. When it's so clear that the real issue is whether Imus, a rich white man with broadcast power, should be able to use such derogatory language, within days the topic has shifted. Now the national dialogue is a referendum on black music. Funny. Of course we all need to change. But once, just once: could we please, PLEASE maintain focus? Rap needs to change. Rap WILL change. But the necessity of creative speech to alter its message is not parallel to the necessity of political speech to alter its own. At least not today.

From the Ground Up.

2007-03-27T13:34:00.001-04:00

I pick up the pace.

I'm curious, because it sounds like he's having a conversation he shouldn't be having.

He's in his early 30s, at the most. He's got a familiar swagger (I match it with my own). Rocking timbs and dark jeans that sag on purpose, he's a young black man strutting down a DC street. He's dressed like the very kind of man Bill Cosby says is debilitating black growth. So in that sense, he's a one man civil war. He's been known to say "nigga" like it's a term of endearment, recited rhymes reducing women to chattel, and he's often adopted the militia-view of the 2nd Amendment.

But tonight, tonight he's a dad. Not a father. A dad.

He's walking with his son, who's maybe 9; maybe. The kid is his dad's miniature: boots, jeans, igloo coat (though the shortness of his stride hampers his swag). And they're talking. The kid had some sort of conflict with another kid at school. His dad is asking him if it's wrapped up now, how it got fixed... The boy tells his dad his friends were pushing him to fight, to fix it with his fists.

"You don't have to fight to be right," the dad says. "You don't have to use your hands to be strong."

They get to the end of the block and go their separate ways. It's then I realize: they're probably not related. What I'm watching is, if possible, even better. I'm not watching a father be a dad. I'm watching a man who isn't a father be a dad. And it's really, really great. And it's really, really sad. Because this is how we'll overcome, from the ground up. But Leon Harris and Eyewitness News are nowhere to be seen.

This is the kind of thousand words I want on my TV screen.

the Amazing Race

2007-03-21T11:41:00.000-04:00

So my focus has been on the promise of equality as one meant to guarantee chance or results. Current legal structure, with its concerns - both rational and absurd, accurate and incomplete - of reverse discrimination lends itself to this allegory:

A king hears of a land he recognizes as unacquired. He sends a ship, instructing its captain to stop miles shy of its shore. The captain's orders: throw a naked white man and a naked black man into the ocean. The goal? The first to make it to shore gets to lead a new nation. If there's a tie, they both lead. But there's a catch. The white man is dropped into a boat with an oar. The black man is dropped with a boulder chained to his ankles.

The winner should be obvious. The white man, though stranded in the middle of the ocean without fresh water or food, paddles his way to shore. There he finds all the resources he needs for survival. But overwhelmed with his new power, he claims all he sees as his own, confusing leadership with ownership, and stamps his mark upon the landscape with ash and mortar. As leader, the white man decides the new regime is to begin immediately. He doesn't wait for the black man to surface.

The black man is in a paradox. He can choose to quit and drown, realizing his escape would most likely require superhuman strength or transcendent mental ability; his success nothing short of a miracle. If he is blessed enough to be armed with either, his arrival at shore will be met with hierarchy; he will not be the ruling class.

Somehow, the black man makes it to shore. The miraculousness of his perseverance is ignored, and so he soon forgets it himself. He is late, so he's slow. He couldn't figure out how to win the race, so he's stupid. And he is still naked, dripping wet, so he's a raw, sexual being. He is treated accordingly. Who wants a slow, stupid, sex fiend to have power over anything or anyone?

Eventually, the nation is confronted with the notion that its past of oppressing the black man and his descendants was erroneous. Some say it's because benevolent whites sympathized. Some say the blacks demanded it. Some say both possibilities are true and incomplete. Nevertheless, the nation promises "from now on, things will be done differently."

But the black man still carries his boulder.

---

An ever-present problem with current legal structure is its literalism. It forgets that even if the black man survives and makes it to shore, the boulder is his existence. It is the evidence that he arrived late; that his power is determined by the white man's, whose arrival was timely; it is his mark of ineffectual intelligence, if any; it is the reason why he should be grateful to have been included at all. Perhaps most telling, it is suggestion that some great power intended him to have lost. And he wears these ideas on his skin (an indicator as much for those who see him as a personal reminder). If he keeps this facade, he is Stokely Carmichael. If he sheds it, he is Michael Jackson.

What is the promise of only looking forward if that gaze is affixed with old eyes? Eyes that remember the black man's arrival as late, invasive, at best functionally necessary... One could perhaps argue we could return to that original beach. But when we draw a line in that sand, and say, "The race for opportunity starts here," whether there is at that point a false start is not the sole issue. We must also note that one is still latched, dragging a weight the other does not.

How can we run beside you if our legs are tied?

2007-03-16T13:25:00.000-04:00

inside
i'm just a battlefield
my chest conceals the trenches
i just wish that i could heal
they say home
is where the heart lives
but here it feels so useless
how much more can i give?

so much for standing
i'm throwing in the towel
my knees have given out

Dupont March

2007-03-13T01:47:00.000-04:00

So I'm on my way to the forum...
Actually I guess I'm just on my way home, but "forum" adds a grandiose touch to my life that spring break was totally missing. Anyway, on my way home and I catch this band that I've now seen a few times (I've got video from before, if I can find it, you'll see it). They just set up between Starbucks and the circle and go at it. It's all about the music.

Fight Scrubs (trailer)

2007-03-02T11:58:00.000-05:00

Snow Warrior II

2007-02-19T11:02:00.000-05:00

On a cold, wintry night in the District...
One man had the courage to make Jersey proud.

crisis management

2007-02-17T18:18:00.000-05:00

they say hip hop's in crisis...
truth is, that hip hop, was always on the brink of lifeless,
'cause that's what life is...:
a small boat on a rocky sea
no paddles, just a hope to be free

but you can't just live it, gotta skin it
wear it on your arm like ink's embedded in it
showcase your faith as a model for those fakes
who've grown to see street rock as only 'bout their own fate

street rock's a group mentality
say whatever you say
but use your talents to challenge we:
if your ride's fly, don't just tell me that it drives,
tell me it's a chariot that blazes the sky

be creative, words are artillery
get caught in the crossfire, learn, go watch a spelling bee
your life's a page, make the future wanna quote it
be a poet, let history know you wrote it

show me the monkeys!

2007-02-05T17:24:00.002-05:00

First of all, it can't go without mention that I did indeed struggle over the title. I was so close to "A Man Without a Monkey." So close. And yes: I know what I just said, Ryan.

There have been two great things about Super Bowl commercials over the last two years.

One:

The realization that any average citizen can vanquish obnoxious, insistent-on-outshining-your-light tennis club members with the aid of the crime deterrent feature on your Sprint cell phone. And, thank goodness, recent tests done by me on the foreheads of overzealous law students prove that 4 out of 5 jackasses feel pain and respond accordingly when pegged point-blank with a phone, regardless of who your carrier is (so cheer up Cingular, Verizon and T-Mobile owners).

Two:

The careerbuilder.com monkeys made me want to search for all sorts of jobs -- even for jobs I knew I was less qualified for than Bush is for a Nobel Peace Prize, even for jobs that if landed would somehow end up costing me more in relocation and stress than anything I could ever hope to see in return, even for jobs that would tarnish my family's good name... It didn't matter. Those ads were the best spots since that House Was Built Too Small. There's just something so fulfilling about seeing past and present co-workers shrunken to fit into monkey suits and reenacting all the brainless, court-jester audition routines they subjected you to for way too long.

What did we get this year? The Richard Roundtree Special: we got the shaft ladies and gentleman, the shaft.

I don't know when I was first disappointed last night, but I certainly was jarred into consciousness when careerbuilder.com blessed us with a grown man with a paper clamp affixed to his nipple. Then GM dropped an ad where a yellow, human-replacing, car-manufacturing robot leaves the factory and commits suicide, after a 2006 when at least 30,000 people were left reeling from GM layoffs and in a 2007 when more layoffs have been promised. (Oh wait: so the point of that commercial was the irony? Nope, still don't get it.)

I guess the Federline ad was ok. But there were at least three problems. First, it was actually Kevin Federline. Second, if you've read my blog from the beginning, you'll understand why I'm horribly afraid his daydreamed "lyrics" will end up on a commercially successful album in the near future. And third, maybe it's just me, but I'm beginning to worry that all this "K-Fed anti-hype" is spiraling into control.

We've done this to Paris Hilton. She started out as just a skinny rich girl. Then we unwittingly convinced her she was hot. Then she was on magazine covers and catwalks. Then she was in sex tapes. Then she had her own TV show. Then she released an album that 75,000 people bought in its first week (which I call the "Joe Dirt" theory: if you drop a pile of sh*t -- "a big ole hunk of butt release," that is -- from the sky, somebody will pick it up). Then she was in sex tapes, again. Then she became the joke people told on the way to her parties. The point is that fame isn't a straight line; it's more like a sphere. And I don't know how we've done it, but we've somehow traveled by way of some twisted circle and made Federline famous for the very thing for which he had originally been infamous.

But right, the point.

I forgot to put a disclaimer at the beginning: I generally detest commercials. They're usually about stuff I wouldn't buy even if I had the money Paris got for "not knowing" a sex tape had escaped her bedroom. Or that money GM will save when the robots' union accepts pay cuts and doesn't fight for healthcare... But it doesn't mean I wouldn't like to be surprised. Geico does it almost every time. And careerbuilder.com, with its glorious, glorious, laser-pointer-armed monkeys, had done it for an entire year. If I don't see any monkeys next February, I'm... I'm... writing another entry ad execs will never see...

But it'll be so fierce. So. Fierce.

Hip-Hop: Beyond Beats & Rhymes

2007-01-28T23:09:00.000-05:00

A bunch of us flocked to Busboys to see Byron Hurt's "Hip Hop: Beyond Beats & Rhymes."

At the tables were mini-questionnaires about the film, the experience, etc. One of the questions was about what we wanted the film to do, or what it didn't do, something like that. I took that as an invitation to tell whoever the reader would be what I really thought.

In Beats & Rhymes, Hurt presents a state of the union for hip-hop, questioning the misogyny and commodification, but also looks back at the roots and forward with an eye somewhat on the goals. I think he closed the comprehension gap well. So often, there's a generational schism and he did a great job of using language a span of ages can understand.

But I couldn't help but notice that the film is missing the "what do we do" component. It reminded me of "Traffic." I guess it was near the end of high school when it was released. It presented what was thought to be a revealing portrayal of the various strands of a web of drug-trafficking. The problem with Traffic, as here, is that for those of us at the core of the depiction - this generation, these kids - so many of us already get it. We were as unsurprised seven years ago that the daughter of the nation's drug czar could be holed up in a crack house as we are that today 17 year olds are killing each other to effectuate battle rhymes.

If you didn't know, then I suppose you'd have rated B&R the five out of five the questionnaire allowed. But I felt incomplete; I gave it a 4. I felt like Hurt led the ones of us who just aren't sure how to drink, to a bowl of water we'd already found. I've kept telling myself, "You can't assign Hurt the responsibility of single-handedly lifting us from the predicament he notes." Maybe his only job is to illustrate.

But what if it isn't? What if it's more? What if what holds us - and by that I mean all of us - back is that we keep limiting our duty? It's so easy to say, "My role stretches but so far." Maybe it's too easy. We've all heard that story about Everybody, Somebody, and Nobody. The gist is that when Everybody thought Somebody was going to do something, Nobody ever did anything. I guess I think of awareness as an ocean. If there's a kid who's never seen it, then I've done something great by taking her to the beach, walking her down the coastline... But if I just push her off the boardwalk, if I totally immerse her in the water, what does she do when she realizes she can't swim? When she drowns, does the fact that I at least opened her eyes serve as any consolation? And how many kids like her do I strand before I realize I have to start giving swimming lessons and that maybe I need to be the lifeguard too?

disbelief, dismay, disdain

2007-01-23T14:31:00.001-05:00

m.e:

while discussing South Carolina's Black Code: a set of 'laws' purporting to give blacks a list of rights post 'emancipation' as servants. At the point in the picture, I am again struck by the fundamental flaw in the 'benevolence' of South Carolina's offer: blacks in 1865 couldn't read by rule and virtually without exception. Less than three years before its enactment, it was a crime to teach blacks to do so. This law promised to treat blacks fairly by putting the right to contract in their hands. It occurs to me that I spent a year learning contract law without actually learning it. The idea that South Carolina could somehow remedy what Tocqueville suggested was a perfect legal atrocity with its own version of a perfect legal remedy is so logically suspect it would be laughable if it didn't cost people their lives.

the first snow

2007-01-21T22:12:00.000-05:00

PIC-0023.jpg
Originally uploaded by bradley.fields.

there are apparently rumors that some snow fell somewhere in DC at some other time... but this is the first snow that I saw so suck on that you alleged viewers of previous snowfall.

sorry about the blurriness, I was moving while taking the pic... but dupont looks pretty good, covered in holy dust rather than winged-rats, b.k.a pigeons.

the next recession?

2007-01-13T19:58:00.000-05:00

This was easily the saddest sight I've seen in a long, long time. Anyone who doubts that the economy is failing, despite the record-setting days at Wall St., need look no further than the capture below. Apparently, Warner Bros. has been forced to make some cutbacks as of late, and the loss of the latest victim, the biggest star of them all... Well, it just makes me feel like we're all victims.. A world without Bugs Bunny? That's no world at all.

By the grace of Bugs go I.

-- thatwouldbem.e

last time on Meerkat Manor...

2007-01-06T20:51:00.001-05:00

Just like anyone else, there are a bunch of things about me people would probably never guess. Example one: I love the History Channel, despite my nearly complete aversion to history in an academic setting. It's the sleeper pick in my favorite channel listing on tv.

Example two: I learn something new about myself every time I watch Meerkat Manor on Animal Planet:

So the Whiskers -- yes, they have a last name -- are just chillin'; trying to get their lives together. Shakespeare has got a heart bigger than anybody I know and after taking a rattler's double-bite, has managed to get himself home and underground, struggling to survive a dose of venom the narrator tells me I'd struggle to survive without immediate medical attention and screaming like a punk.

Then the Lazuli, led by some bastard named Carlos who'd been scouting the Whisker's camp for a minute*, ignore the Whisker's blatant territorial markings, spring a full-fledged war on the plains similar to the hyena-lioness fight in The Lion King 2 (but without the awfulness of a second-rate sequel surrounding it). In a wave of fur and fury, signifying the essence of gangstardom, the Whiskers send the Lazuli retreating, back where they belong; probably to the same kind of unkempt sty that Scar was reduced to in the original Disney classic.

You cheer! The Whiskers kicked the Lazuli's lazy, scavenger asses, even without the help of young male Shakespeare who's leg and face are literally rotting because of that maniacal snake.

But then, the unbelievable. Even in defeat, Carlos decides he hasn't had enough. He comes creeping back, slinking through the field. And you're thinking, “When is this dude gonna learn? How many times does matriarch Whisker, Flower, have to punch him in the mouth before he gets the point?”

But this time, Carlos wants not war, but piece; a piece of ass, and he's grilling young Ms. Daisy Whisker from a distance with the sex eye and all the persuasion of a Razor Ramon. But instead of shutting him down cold, Daisy sneaks off and gives him some in a tryst the two of them wished reminded brother meerkat, Shakespeare, of Romeo and Juliet, when they really are more deserving of names like “Ho-meo” and “Booty-sweat.”

Daisy eventually gets back home, worn-out and funky, reeking of sex and tries to play Flower for a fool. But everybody knows that that smell doesn't wash off that easily; especially when instead of washing, you roll in dirt and your mom's got the nose of, well, a wild animal who smells sex for survival.

And you guessed it: Daisy might be with meerkitten. And if she is, Flower, grandmother-to-be, may be forced by Mother Nature to kill her own grandmeerkittens if she fears they'll steal critical attention from her own new babies (it's true: the narrator said so).

...

Daisy went against the family with a meerkat who'll probably never amount to anything more than a nappy ball sack. Now grandma may have to slaughter her own family to keep it together. So, lesson: don't screw your family by screwing a nappy ball sack.

-----
*That's young-people talk for a really long time.

The Town

2007-01-05T22:13:00.000-05:00

This is kinda odd for me. Maybe I'm growing into this whole DC thing;
actually, I take that back already. I think it's just residue from my
resolution to complain less, even if I have reason to (good, good
reason to). But these two shots actually made me smile tonight.
Maybe it was that I was on my way to see my brother; so, maybe I was
just in a good mood... Anyway, enjoy.

--thatwouldbem.e
(w/the first mobile entry)

Pat Robertson...

2007-01-02T22:32:00.000-05:00

should probably just be shot and dumped in a watery grave.

Reason #328,374,891,263,4...

[Uh, this is not solicitation. Thanks for playing, though.]

the I-word.

2006-12-24T04:50:00.000-05:00

Irregardless.

Yeah, I said it. Now calm down.

Irregardless.

Breathe it in. It's a word. And unless your last name is Webster, nothing you do is going to change that. For too long, I have sat idly by, while overly-aggressive, self-accredited experts of American-English lexicon spew vitriol at any good-hearted person who dared utter the word.

Stop it. Just stop it. I know why you do it; I get it. You were tracked for AP English since conception. When other kids were playing with blocks you were reading the nutritional label on your Gerber's. While we were all still mourning the loss of the Thundercats, you were suing ABC for turning over your life story to some guy named Neil Patrick Harris. And when we were all reading the stories of the Boxcar Children, you were reading Shakespeare. You built a flawless academic career only to now realize that the ability to make a living is almost so unrelated to your ability to distinguish between present and past participles that the two are inversely proportional. And now, so eager to find any utility in the vat of knowledge you amassed, you're bitter.

I'm sorry. I'm really not. I'm just saying that because people seem to say it to break up the tension when chastising. I suppose I might be sorry if the evil that is the disdain against “irregardless” was unique to your condition. But it's not. There is unquestionably an American vendetta. So it made me wonder: how is it that even the most illiterate turn into wordsmiths when offering the “regardless” correction, often in Dennis Miller-like rants? Why is “irregardless” the line in the sand, making its users heathens donning scarlet letters?

It's been, at the very least, a word since 1912, when cited in the American Dialectical Dictionary. So for all you who insist it simply “isn't a word,” you're as wrong as the now infamous “Mission Accomplished” banner. The truth is, the I-word is merely non-standard, rather than the more traditional, and popularly accepted, standard English. Neither category is any more word-like than the other.

What amazes me is the vehemence with which everyday citizens swing at the neck of those who apparently threaten to unravel the social linguistic fabric. Notice anything odd in that sentence? If you've ever barked at the sound of “irregardless,” you should. “Unravel” is a great example of the very argument used to humiliate I-word users: it's a double negative. “Ravel” means exactly the same thing that “unravel” is used to mean. And “flammable” means exactly the same thing “inflammable” is used to mean. Both of them have redundant affixes. So if your cry is, “'regardless' already means without regard, so 'irregardless' can't possibly be used to mean the same,” try again. Or better yet, just try being consistent.

Now I'm not saying the answer here is to make the I-word as staple as, say, a conjunction-junction-what's-your-function hooking up words and phrases and clauses, the foundation upon which our children learn. But we do need to acknowledge its presence; if for no other reason than that we already acknowledge so much less. Kant used “universalizable” so often you'd think it was an article. I won't even get into the “words” lawyers and judges flat-out make up and present as obscure English to impress us and capture ideas not worth all the effort anyway.

We live in a time where “bling” made it into the dictionary and no one burned their Merriam in protest. Athletes-turned-commentators constantly drop “more better” on my sacred television without punishment. There is an entire region of the country that pronounces “every” as “erree.” Erree. And we haven't forced it to secede yet. I once heard a girl say “horatious.” Or maybe it was “whorain'tcha?” Maybe she was asking her friend a question. But I didn't slap her.

I'm not asking you to start dropping the I-word during interviews. You don't even have to twist-up a new gang sign, rivaling either of the vaunted West or East sides, with a strong, solitary, ring-fingered salute [and if you take it upon yourself to do this you 1) almost certainly deserve more than you get, and 2) if seen by me, will be hurt, by me]. All I want for Christmas is a little love for a deeply resented word. Because irregardless of what you may choose to believe, “irregardless” is here to stay.

[It should go without saying that any and all grammatical errors it may seem I have committed in this entry, even in this very disclaimer, are, of course, ironic political discourse and cannot serve to weaken my critique. Thanks for playing.]