Wednesday, December 10, 2008

One of the reasons…

…I love The Onion is because their jokes so often perfectly mirror my own interior monologue. For instance:

It's Okay, I'm Attractive | The Onion - America's Finest News Source:

"Behold! My radiance is gently glowing like the soft light of the moon, drawing awe and admiration from everything it casts its light on. I'm paying attention to you. Yes, to little, less-attractive you. Doesn't that feel good, knowing that I am not only in the same room as you, but that I'm also acknowledging your existence momentarily? I'll bet it feels great. After all, this sort of thing doesn't happen to you every day. So what say we settle the pesky little matter of you not bowing to my every whim?

Pretty please?"

That "little, less-attractive" person being addressed? Yup, that's me. Stick me in a room with a pretty woman and watch me cave. See if I don't.

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

'Prop 8 — The Musical'

Leave it to Doogie Howser MD, to put it all into perspective.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

'Nice shot, kid…'

"…that was one in a million."

The Rebel Alliance has finally won a tremendous victory. It's not time to cue the Ewoks, yet. But it sure feels good.

I'm very, very tired, though; working through the election, on deadline, trying to make sure every dot and comma was where it needed to be while giddy with exhilaration was exciting, satisfying and, ultimately, exhausting.

I have lots to say, and I will, probably at great length. The only thing I want to say right now is that I thought McCain's concession speech was a class act; I really wish he'd run his whole campaign that way.

For now, though, I'm going to make some tea. Then I'll see if the Stewart/Colbert election special is on hulu.com. If it is, I'm going to watch it. Then I am going to pass right out.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Forget Joe the Plumber…

…let's talk about Ashley the Liar.

Police: Campaign Volunteer Lied, Injured Self

PITTSBURGH (KDKA) — Police say a campaign volunteer confessed to making up a story that a mugger attacked her and cut the letter B in her face after seeing her McCain bumper sticker.

At a news conference this afternoon, officials said they believe that Ashley Todd's injuries were self-inflicted.

Todd, 20, of Texas, is now facing charges for filing a false report to police.

The Huffington Post has a couple of roundups on the story, and The Smoking Gun has a screenshot of her ever-so-convenient twitter entries, but the story is simple: A McCain volunteer from Texas claimed that, while she was working in Pittsburgh, Pa., a giant black man viciously mutilated her specifically because of her politics.

But, that's not what happened. Instead, this girl apparently blackened her own eyes and carefully carved a backwards letter B into her own face, then began spreading a story that panders to the worst fears of racists everywhere: giant, lawless, black men lurk in the shadows, wanting only to leap out and hurt helpless little Southern belles at the earliest opportunity.

This is what fear-mongering robo-calls and a campaign hinging on the politics of otherness has brought you, John McCain. This is the face of the people you're courting: scared, confused and willing to batter and mutilate themselves because you've terrified them with your boogey-man stories and outright lies.

This is your poster child, Mr. McCain. Are you going to embrace her the way you've embraced Joe the Plumber?

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

'In charge of the Senate'

Wait, whoa…hold on a sec; where's that copy of the U.S. Constitution? Ah! Here it is:

The Vice President of the United States shall be President of the Senate, but shall have no vote, unless they be equally divided.
That doesn't sound like "in charge" to me. I mean, I have friends who wield more power than that when they decree that, since it's their car, they choose the radio station, even if they're not the one driving.

So, has Sarah Palin even read the Constitution? I mean, that little job description is, you know, kind of in Article I; including the Preamble, it's only 10 paragraphs in. I mean, true, nine of those paragraphs are pretty long and boring descriptions of how the House of Representatives and the Senate are supposed to work, but it's not like this is some kind of twist ending.

Is it too much to hope that, once this gets pointed out to Gov. Palin, she'll decide she doesn't want the job? Maybe even, I don't know? Shut up and go home?

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Say it ain't so, Joe!
(And Joe replies, 'It ain't, you dumbass!')

Of course, I watched the debate last night: MCcain came across as a rabid bat stuck in a small enclosure made of glass, while Obama came off as a bemused biologist looking in on said bat as it battered against the enclosure. McCain got off his "you should've run against Bush four years ago" zinger. (Hey, John, I have a question: If you're so big on standing up to your party, how come you didn't run against Bush four years ago?) But Obama spoke what was on everyone's mind when he said, in reference to the paranoid ads linking Obama to William Ayers and ACORN, "I think the fact that this has become such an important part of your campaign, Senator McCain, says more about your campaign than it says about me.”

Perhaps McCain's most enduring contribution to the debate, and to the American political landscape, was "Joe the Plumber," that salt-of-the-earth small-businessman from Holland, Ohio, who may, or may not, be punished by Obama's tax plan.

After the debate, Joe found himself in the center of a media maelstrom, everyone asking him who would get his vote. "That's my business," he replied, while giving the impression that he certainly wouldn't vote for Obama, who tap dances like Sammy Davis Jr.

I support Joe in his decision not to reveal the name of the candidate for whom he'll vote, especially since that candidate's name is, apparently, "Nobody":

"'Joe the Plumber' not voting for McCain" — Huffington Post

It might be heartening to McCain to know that he has at least one vote in Democratic stronghold Lucas County, Ohio, but for one small fact. A download of the Lucas County voter rolls from the Ohio Secretary of State's website lists four Wurzelbachers, two in Holland, but none of them named Sam or Joe or Samuel Joseph. There's a Robert Lee and a Frank Edward Wurzelbacher, but no Joe.

Apparently, Joe the Plumber don't vote.

Personally, this is my favorite kind of conservative voter: The one who, apparently, hasn't bothered to register and missed his chance.

UPDATE: Oops, I jumped the gun on this one. The New York Times is reporting:

Mr. Wurzelbacher is registered to vote in Lucas County under the name Samuel Joseph Worzelbacher.
Sorry, man. Sometimes I get excited. Best to you, dude; hope your vote works out for you!

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Swingin'!

Battleground states have become swing states, this election. Which way are they swinging? Watch this all the way through and check how conservative columnist Kathleen Parker seems to be leaning:

I love Stephen Colbert. Really.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

And now…

…your moment of Zen.

This is preeminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great Nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself — nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. In every dark hour of our national life a leadership of frankness and vigor has met with that understanding and support of the people themselves which is essential to victory. I am convinced that you will again give that support to leadership in these critical days.

—U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt, first inaugural address
March 4, 1933.

Americans are asking: What is expected of us? I ask you to live your lives, and hug your children. I know many citizens have fears tonight, and I ask you to be calm and resolute, even in the face of a continuing threat.

I ask you to uphold the values of America, and remember why so many have come here. We are in a fight for our principles, and our first responsibility is to live by them. No one should be singled out for unfair treatment or unkind words because of their ethnic background or religious faith.

—U.S. President George W. Bush, address to a joint session of Congress and the American people, Sept. 20, 2001.

I am just so fearful that this is not a man who sees America the way that you and I see America — as the greatest source of good in this world. … I’m afraid this is someone who sees America as imperfect enough to work with a former domestic terrorist who had targeted his own country.

—Republican vice presidential candidate, Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin, speech at a political rally in Clearwater, Fla., Oct. 6, 2008.

Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts. Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison. Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger. Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot. Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream, to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK; for nigger-killin' lawmen, feelin' their notches; for decent church-goin' women, with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces. Thanks for "Kill a Queer for Christ" stickers. Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs. Thanks for a country where nobody's allowed to mind their own business anymore. Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the memories — all right let's see your arms! You always were a headache and you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.

—William S. Burroughs, "A Thanksgiving Prayer," Nov. 28, 1986.

Tuesday, October 07, 2008

Be careful what you wish for…

…Gov. Palin, because Keith Olberman may give it to you:

Granted, with his calls for forgiveness, Olberman kept the gloves on.

But they were silk gloves worn over titanium hands.

Why I don't talk about work

So, y'all may have noticed that I rarely talk about my job here. There are very good reasons for that:

  • First, I don't hide my posts — anything I say here, I'd be comfortable saying to folks at work (even though I'm pretty sure none of them know the address of my blog), and that's pretty important to me. Those of you who have met me in real life know that I sometimes have, for lack of a better, less psychobabble term, boundary issues: sometimes I push for closeness that is unwarranted and, in the long-run, regrettable. So, keeping everything I post here public means that I am accountable for everything I say. It also means that, any time I do feel like going beyond the pale on topics, they're pretty damn-well thought out; I'm not about to rant or write a narrative about something that doesn't have some importance to me.
  • Second, to paraphrase something my boss said today, "We journalists are at our best when the world is at its worst." Sadly, this is very true: for every front page I've done that helped a 98-year-old woman cut through bureaucratic bullshit to get a passport or celebrated a silly charity event that had pillars of the community kissing camels, I've had countless fatals, homicides, drug busts, sexual assaults and corrupt cops to fill out the balance sheet. True, I don't write the stories, but I do sit there staring at a blank page thinking, "Hello, World, here's a little snippet of history; it may not be important next week but, right now, it's the most important thing there is: How do I make you realize that?" You can see how that, with all its obvious distaste as well as undertones, wouldn't be a very fitting subject for posts, no?

However, today I feel like I did some pretty good work, even if it is along negative lines:

There it is, the top half of today's front page; a somewhat smaller version of what you would see if you walked by one of our newsracks and were debating whether what was contained inside was worth your hard-earned 50 cents. Click on it to get the larger version. Or don't; it may be old news by the time you read this.

I argued with myself about whether or not the stories presented there were a big enough deal to warrant the banner, ALL CAPS "screamer" headline with the abutting centered subheads. But the more I looked at that stockbroker's eyes, the more I thought about his kids' college funds going down the drain. And the less I cared about the weaknesses my bosses would inevitably find in what I'd done.

Personally? That's some good work up there. That is — minus the ghastly, drop-shadow bedecked masthead — some New York Times shit.

And, perversely, I'm glad that the global media seems to be bearing my opinion on this story's import out.

Oh, hey, just to end on a clever/funny note, I did manage to get one joke "above the fold," as we like to say in the journalism business. It's kind of obscure for your average Aikenite, maybe, but I've got high hopes for you folks.

Did you catch it?

Monday, October 06, 2008

Singalong time!

WARNING: Lyrics are not safe for work, unless you work someplace where swearing and Christian fundamentalist bashing is considered cool. In which case, turn it up, man!

Thanks to Morgane for the link!

Thursday, October 02, 2008

Wow…

…just…fucking wow.

Parents Give Up Youths Under Law Meant for Babies - NYTimes.com

…The biggest shock to public officials came last week, when a single father walked into an Omaha hospital and surrendered nine of his 10 children, ages 1 to 17, saying that his wife had died and he could no longer cope with the burden of raising them.

In total last month, 15 older children in Nebraska were dropped off by a beleaguered parent or custodial aunt or grandmother who said the children were unmanageable.

Officials have called the abandonments a misuse of a new law that was mainly intended to prevent so-called Dumpster babies — the abandonment of newborns by young, terrified mothers — but instead has been used to hand off out-of-control teenagers or, in the case of the father of 10, to escape financial and personal despair….

I don't even know where to begin….

My annual test sharing

OK, I hardly ever bother to share these things because, honestly, who cares? However, this one is funny:

Your result for Test Your Ideal Role in a Rock Band...

Rhythm Guitarist

6 Talent, 8 Energy and -2 Charisma!

Damn, so close! You get to play the guitar, but not the solos! What a crappy fate, you think. Really? Crappy? So you're saying that your average AC/DC fan has wet dreams about all those 4-minute guitar solos, but they never really feel like hearing the intro to Back in Black? Nooooo, rock is as much about riffs as about solos! And riffs are good for jumping around to! The worst guitar nerds will walk away from the gig replaying good solos in their heads, but it's your massive stage presence and rock hard riffs that will make any normal fan come back again and again. Because they admire the lead guitarist and like the singer, but it's you that they love!

Take Test Your Ideal Role in a Rock Band at HelloQuizzy

See…I am a rhythm guitarist! Or, at least, that's what I've been in every band I've played in, and it's all I've every wanted to be. (Although I prefer playing the intro to "Highway to Hell," but that's because I prefer Bon Scott AC/DC to Brian Johnson AC/DC.)

So, there you have it. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go play "It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock 'n' Roll)" for a bit.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

So much fun!

And so much to learn!

Are you a loudmouth? I am! I frequently rant and rave about the injustices of our world and feel like, should I ever be the one in control, it would be easy to define my priorities and, in the inestimable words of Capt. Picard, make it so!

Do you enjoy games? I do! If given my druthers I'd skip work and play games, occasionally taking a break to alternate between ranting and raving on my blog and abusing the Western, 12-tone musical system on my guitar.

So, I give you my latest obsession: Budget Hero!

Put your skills where your mouth is…and realize why sticking to your principles—and promises—while spending way more money than you've ever imagined even frickin' existed is harder than you think!

I am, no surprise, a socialist: All of you would end up paying much higher taxes in exchange for cheap education and free health care, were I in charge.

Of course, your children would grow up happy, healthy and knowledgeable in a country free of crushing debt.

Let me know how you do!

Thursday, September 25, 2008

I think John McCain…

…may've pissed off the wrong guy:

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Say what?

So…my name's John and I'm a news junkie. Can't leave the stuff alone—New York Times, Guardian, CNN, BBC, al-Jazeera, Fox News, Wall Street Journal, Huffington Post, Daily Kos, Aiken Standard: I read 'em all.

Seriously, I admit it: I have a problem.

I'm such a news junkie, that I've gone ahead and signed up for releases from both presidential campaigns, even though I only support one.

Anyway, what follows is a release from the McCain campaign that just showed up in my mailbox; it's long, and I'm going to summarize parts of it because it's so long:

(All emphasis is added by me.)

John McCain's Remarks on the Economic Crisis
New York, NY
Wednesday, September 24, 2008

America this week faces an historic crisis in our financial system. We must pass legislation to address this crisis. If we do not…(all kinds of horrible things will happen; Obama and McCain both have some ideas about what should be done; McCain's met with his advisers and some members of Congress).

It has become clear that no consensus has developed to support the Administration's proposal. I do not believe that the plan on the table will pass as it currently stands, and we are running out of time.

Tomorrow morning, I will suspend my campaign and return to Washington after speaking at the Clinton Global Initiative. I have spoken to Senator Obama and informed him of my decision and have asked him to join me. (Additionally, McCain's talked to the president and asked him to get everybody together for a powwow.)

We must meet as Americans, not as Democrats or Republicans, and we must meet until this crisis is resolved. I am directing my campaign to work with the Obama campaign and the commission on presidential debates to delay Friday night's debate until we have taken action to address this crisis.

I am confident that before the markets open on Monday we can achieve consensus on legislation that will stabilize our financial markets, protect taxpayers and homeowners, and earn the confidence of the American people. All we must do to achieve this is temporarily set politics aside, and I am committed to doing so.

Following September 11th, our national leaders came together at a time of crisis. We must show that kind of patriotism now. Americans across our country lament the fact that partisan divisions in Washington have prevented us from addressing our national challenges. Now is our chance to come together to prove that Washington is once again capable of leading this country.

Let me see if I'm understanding this, Mr. McCain: The general election, during which my fellow citizens and I gather together to exercise our Constitutionally granted right to decide who gets to lead our nation for the next four years, is slightly over a month away, and you think that it would be more patriotic to not hear the two guys running for the job publicly outline precisely what their positions are and what they have planned for the next four years? You think it would be more patriotic to go up to Washington, D.C., and…do what, precisely? Bicker? Posture? Pose? Act all heroic for not providing the proper oversight for the last eight years?

In fact, Mr. McCain, most of the serious holdouts against this bailout are members of your party! You remember them, right? The guys you've been furiously trying to distance yourself from ever since your convention?

Here's my answer, Mr. McCain: no. In fact, hell no. As a candidate for president of the United States, you owe it to the people of this country to meet your opponent in a public forum for an open debate on the issues. You should be able to do this and lend a hand in ending our country's economic crisis. Nobody said the job of president would be easy: Having to handle multiple responsibilities seems to be the least part of the job.

I mean, for God's sake, man, this isn't freeze tag; you don't just get to call "Time out!"

And, by the way, I resent your comparison of the current economic crisis to Sept. 11. To equate a vicious attack on our country from outside forces with a foreseeable and avoidable economic meltdown caused by greed and neglect trickling down from the very top of our political infrastructure is to distort and smear the facts until they are unrecognizable from fantasy. Frankly, I'm insulted.

And to imply that it is unpatriotic to continue to run for president when this country so obviously needs someone at the top who can accomplish something? That's beyond insulting; it's un-American.

Monday, September 22, 2008

I promise…

…this will be the last time I blog about David Foster Wallace and his death. At least until I start reading another one of his books.

But, come on! This one's great!

The Onion: NASCAR Cancels Remainder Of Season Following David Foster Wallace's Death

LOUDON, NH—Shock, grief, and the overwhelming sense of loss that has swept the stock car racing community following the death by apparent suicide of writer David Foster Wallace has moved NASCAR to cancel the remainder of its 2008 season in respect for the acclaimed but troubled author of Infinite Jest, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, and Brief Interviews With Hideous Men.

In deference to the memory of Wallace, whose writing on alienation, sadness, and corporate sponsorship made him the author of the century in stock car racing circles and whom NASCAR chairman Brian France called "perhaps the greatest American writer to emerge in recent memory, and definitely our most human," officials would not comment on how points, and therefore this year's championship, would be determined.

At least for the moment, drivers found it hard to think about the Sprint Cup.

You dig? It's funny, because it is in no way, shape or form even close to being true!

Satire: Giving positive people a reason for cultivating their sense of irony since 5800 B.C.E.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Why so serious?

Wow. This place has been downright miserable for almost a week, hasn't it? I mean, fascist cops, racist neighbors, assaults, suicides, rants about suicides…and that's just the stuff I've posted.

So, time to lighten up a bit, no?

Here is a picture of Keira Knightley eating a banana:

Why did the Associated Press feel compelled to move a photo of Keira Knightley eating a banana? Your guess is as good as mine.

But, frankly, I'm glad they did.

'Till human voices wake us…'

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table…
—T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

David Foster Wallace is dead. He hanged himself while his wife was out.

I can't respect that: it's selfish, it's horrible, it's pathetic, it's evil; to disregard someone you ostensibly love, or even once loved; to not factor in the very real, very tangible people in your life—and, judging from the obituaries I've been reading, there were many: Wallace was survived not only by his wife, but by both parents and a sister; he was beloved by his students and respected by his colleagues, to boot—is to be so willfully self-centered and short-sighted that one reduces the vast universe to only two entities: oneself and everything else, which is precisely what Wallace warned against in every one of his works that I've read: the worst type of hypocrisy.

The thought that he did think this through, that he did take all of these factors into account and went ahead with it anyway? That thought terrifies me and may keep me awake for days.

Wallace was one of my favorite writers: brilliant, imaginative, unflinching. He was in that rare strata of writers like Thomas Pynchon, Philip K. Dick and Herman Melville: I can't read their books over and over the way I'm fond of doing with lighter fare because their books change the way I think and feel about myself and the world. Their writing is like surgery, requiring a balance of surrender and expertise, numbness and unwavering attention, plus thought and pain and swathes of your own blood until you come through the other side of the book raw and aching but much better than before.

Wallace's work was brutally funny and tenderly horrifying and laced around and through with irony. But the irony was not, as with so many postmodern writers, there to separate and protect the author from the reader—he was right there with you, saying, "My God, man! Isn't it funny how fucked up the world is? How did we let it get this way? Is there anything we can do to make it any better?"

Seemingly, now, there isn't. Yet finishing his books, even at their darkest (and Infinite Jest ends on an episode so abysmally dark that, had Wallace started the book with it, I would've dropped it in tears) there was always some note of hope. Because of the way he wrote and arranged his work, and because he came with you as an author the entire way, the last impression was not of darkest endings.

Wallace made of his work major literature: grand and sprawling and seething with ambition, erudition and unapologetic intellect; of his life, ending with this personal yet exponentially reaching apocalypse, he made minor literature of the kind Anthony Burgess referenced in one of the quotes Wallace used as epigraphs to "Westward the Course of Empire Takes Its Way," the final story in the collection Girl With Curious Hair:

"As we are all solipsists, and all die, the world dies with us. Only very minor literature aims at apocalypse."

Which brings me, momentarily, back to the reason I'll have trouble sleeping tonight: I fear that when suicides kill themselves, it's not because they want to die, but because they want the rest of us to die.

And yet, the thing with feathers is knocking around, alone, in Pandora's box waiting to be let out.

One of the things Wallace wrote that I hadn't read before today is the commencement speech he gave at Kenyon University back in 2005. I urge you, when you have time, to read that transcription. If you don't have time right now, here's a little something that gives me hope:

Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshiping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship—be it J.C. or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles—is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, cliches, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.
I never thought of that before, any of it. But it's true. The portion I've emphasized is the thought that resonates with me most; through realizing its truth, I know the truth of the rest.

David Foster Wallace is dead, and I can't respect him for what he did.

I'm still alive, and I can't help but love David Foster Wallace for all he's done.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Friday, September 12, 2008

Bring in the feds

The latest bit about the deputy fired on assault charges here in Aiken is here.

The FBI will investigate the incident. As the first commenter on the story notes, it seems likely this will be the focus, although the FBI hasn't said so. I can't imagine what else it could be, though.

I'm not sure how the community is going to take to a Federal investigation into this incident. Comments on the stories seem to indicate a seriously divided community opinion. Plus, well…Southerners don't have a long and happy relationship with the Federal government. I mean, there's that whole Civil War thing, and Reconstruction—you'd be amazed how many white Southerners are still pissed about that. And then there's forced desegregation and, well…pretty much the entire 1960s and a good chunk of the '70s.

I think there are going to be some very angry people in this town. A lot of folks who swear up and down they're not racists are liable to show their true stripes.

I'm not looking forward to that.

Is anyone else having problems with the embedded videos? Morgane has said she's having difficulties, but it works fine for me. If other people are having troubles, let me know and I'll check into it.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Finally…

…a little embed action for the videos I mentioned in my last post. The full story explaining the videos still lives here. I'm happy to say that many people have begun commenting against the deputy's actions; my faith in humanity is somewhat restored.

THE ARREST:

THE RIDE TO JAIL:

Do me a favor?

Please go here.

That's the website of our local newspaper, the place where I work. See the "Latest Video" box? Click on it and watch the video, please. I'll wait…

What you've just watched pertains to this story. Read it, if you would. Make sure you check out the comments, as well. Again, I'll wait…

What you've just seen and read happened in the county where I live—where I've chosen to live. And most of the comments on that story support the cop. That's what my neighbors—the neighbors I've chosen—think.

And I am sick and scared and very somber about it.

Today is not a good day. And tomorrow doesn't look so hot, either.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

See this?

That picture up there? That is awesomeness!

Ombra sent me this gift package for my birthday. It's from Grounds for Change, a fair trade, organic coffee supplier.

The gift pack—from left, then moving down—consists of:

  • One 8-oz. package of Agate Pass Blend
  • One handmade brass and copper coffee scoop, hanging off of the aforementioned package
  • One 8-oz. package of Bolivia "Los Yungas"
  • One 8-oz. package of Peru "Cafe Femenino"
  • Two coffee mugs; one of which is shown wrapped, the other I have unwrapped for display purposes
  • One "Grounds for Change" refrigerator magnet
  • A letter expressing very kind, Starbucks-free birthday wishes
So, thank you, O! You've made my week!

Monday, September 08, 2008

Ratted out

Well, I was going to let it slide by without saying anything, but Ombra ratted me out in her comment for my last post.

So, yes, today is my birthday. I'm 38. Which, frankly, is a lot older than I ever planned on being.

I know that sounds horrible, but hear me out on this: I'm not saying I'm unhappy with my life (I'm not), or that I thought I'd be dead by now, I'm just saying that I never planned for being almost-40.

It's kind of like when you go to a party but you're not really in the mood for a party. You plan to say "Hi" to a couple folks, hang out a bit, be sociable, then split at the earliest polite opportunity. Those are your plans, dig? The way you figure it's going to happen.

But the party's great and, before you know it, the sun's coming up and you don't really want to go home, but you're not sure what you want to do because you'd planned on being in bed around midnight.

So…uh, yeah. Life's like a really horrible analogy. I guess.

Anyway, here's what people who believe that lights in the sky know more about my life than I do have to say about today being my birthday:

IF SEPTEMBER 8 IS YOUR BIRTHDAY: The world is your oyster for the next several weeks, so embrace new people and ideas—and bask in unqualified admiration. All this popularity, however, does not mean you can afford to shirk duties or ignore commitments. If you want to embark on crucial changes, such as a new job or a move, wait until the end of October or beginning of November. That is when you will have the best judgment and most help from the universe that may come in the form of wise counsel and assistance from others. Take care of nagging problems with your health or home while conditions are optimum.
New people! New ideas! Embraces! Unqualified admiration and (dare I say it?) popularity!

Wow. The stars obviously don't know me very well.

Saturday, September 06, 2008

What I've been doing

Before I decided to chronicle my San Francisco adventures (and, yes, I know, I'm not done yet), I had been absent since Halloween. So, what the frak had I been up to in the intervening time period?

The most interesting answer is playing guitar.

Blue Light Rosie - Overreaction & Butchered Cover Song

That's one original song and one cover tune. Click and stream (or download off the target page), then let me know what you think.

And, frankly, you know, don't try to spare my feeling; I've only got the one, and it's pretty hardened.

Thanks for putting up with me.

Wait, what does this mean?

U.S. Rescue Seen at Hand for Two Mortgage Giants

I don't understand this article at all: I don't own a house and, frankly, never will; and I'm okay with that. But does this mean that taxpayers—some of whom have mortgages, I imagine—will now be paying the government to financially back the companies to which these taxpayers are themselves indebted?

I mean, that's kind of stupid, isn't it?

I'm not saying the mortgage holders are stupid, by any means; property is expensive, and there are few among us who can afford to just drop between five and seven figures to own their own homes. But…

I mean, seriously; is this the way money is supposed to work?

Friday, September 05, 2008

Mmmmmmmmm…

…that's some tasty hypocrisy there!

Thursday, September 04, 2008

I just noticed something…

…take away one lowercase L from Palin, and you've got Pain.

And I'm sure some conservatives somewhere have made the same connection I have and are crowing about Sarah Palin's speech this evening. "Oh," they are shouting, "man, did she ever lay in to him! Palin brought the pain!"

I then imagine them high-fiving each other. Perhaps they hop up into the air for a jockish belly-bump.

I don't know, maybe I'm a kinder and gentler person, but I was kind of hoping that things wouldn't get quite this caustic quite this quickly. I was kind of hoping the overall tone of respect for one's enemies I caught from the Democratic National Convention would carry over into the Republican National Convention and, from there, into the general election. Since I have, up until this point, respected the four principals involved for being either groundbreaking in their uniqueness or steadfast and sincere in their views, I was kind of hoping this election would take the high road.

Call me an idealist or a hopeless romantic, if you will, but I thought it just might happen.

But, you know, when politicians get smug, sarcastic and self-righteous, publicly attacking a guy who took a potentially lucrative Harvard education and parlayed it into a life of fairly humble public service; when these blunt and bombastic blowhards refuse to recognize that eloquence, politeness and tact require huge amounts of thought, not to mention dignity, self-possession and diplomacy; and when thousands of responsible citizens stand up and cheer for what amounts to froth-flecked rage and resentment beaded like water on a freshly waxed antique car parked off to the side of a starship set for lift-off, well, that pains me.

I mean, seriously, consider this my friends.

See that guy there, shaking hands with George W. Bush? That's John McCain at the 2000 Republican National Convention. Do you remember the 2000 primary battles? The lying smear campaign leveled against John McCain in 2000's South Carolina primary? Do you remember how ugly it was?

Do you remember John McCain coming out at the end of the Republican National Convention, his pained rictus of a grin as George W. Bush was smugly and unselfconciously named the Republican presidential candidate? The quintessential empty suit took the nomination from the party of Abraham Lincoln while the one Republican with the stones to buck the party line sat on a stick of butter, grabbed his knees, thought of Old Glory while humming "The Star-Spangled Banner" and set his calendar for 2008.

That's right, I said it, folks: Eight years ago, John McCain sat down in a smoke-filled room in Philadelphia (my fair city) and made a Faustian deal with the Republican powers that be. "Eat it and smile," they said, "and we'll see what we can do for you in 2008."

And John McCain rounded up his maverick thoughts, gelded them, branded them and put them out to pasture.

And not a damn thing has changed since then. John McCain is getting precisely what is due to him, by his own measurement. The Straight Talk Express has gone into evasive action, and the senator from Arizona doesn't care what he has to do to assume the position he feels he's earned.

If you have any doubts—and I can see how you might, but when the mighty fall, they invariably fall long and hard—listen to how some conservatives are taking Ms. Pain's nomination as vice president:

Oops. "Cynical" and "gimmicky."

Obama may be earnest, that's true. And it may be an earnestness that grates on some of y'all's nerves; I've been there and I can understand that position. But when other people who ostensibly share your beliefs begin to refer to you as cynical and gimmicky?

Well, you know, you may just have gone beyond the pale.

San Francisco parts 3 and 4 are coming, folks. I promise. Despite what you may be thinking after part 2, they have a happy ending.

Because ain't nothin' gonna bring me down. :)

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

A (political) aside

So, I'm still working on the San Francisco posts (I'm actually waiting to see if one of the threads concludes, if you must know), but today has been a banner day and I've got something that's pretty much ready to go.

See, my dad called me today, just to check in, and we got off on some pretty heavy political tangents. Poor Dad had stuff he needed to do, so he indulged me as long as he could, then suggested that I write some of my thoughts down and e-mail them to him. And, right after I got off the phone with him, today erupted into the weirdest political day since sometime in 1972, by my estimation.

Once I got through chronicling the day at the paper, I came home and dashed off an e-mail to my dad, because I had some thoughts and he'd asked me to do that.

So, what follows is a (slightly) edited version of the e-mail I sent Dad, under the subject line…

Er…you did ask me to write some of these thoughts down and stuff…

Hi, Dad,

So, imagine my surprise when I got off the phone with you and our fun political conversation, sat back down at my computer, refreshed my homepage and saw that Sarah Palin's daughter is 17 and pregnant out of wedlock!

Now, the situation itself really is a private matter, as everyone with any common sense is saying. However, it really does bring up some startling questions:

  1. If this is a private matter, why did they announce it? Especially why announce it as a counter to the, frankly ridiculous, accusations that Sarah Palin is actually the grandmother of 4-month-old Trig, not the mother? She and her husband have taken their 17-year-old daughter's private matter and made it astonishingly public in order to prove to a bunch of Internet crackpots that Bristol couldn't've been pregnant with Trig, because she was already pregnant with this baby when Trig was born. Is that bad judgment, or what? I mean, c'mon, this is a 17-year-old kid who is about to be thrust into an incredibly adult situation: She's got enough to worry about without being made a pawn in her mother's political ambitions.
  2. (Really, something of an aside) When the heck did the presidential election start cribbing its plots from daytime TV?
  3. Who the heck does McCain have vetting his VP choices? The Keystone Kops? Not that a daughter pregnant out of wedlock is a dealbreaker (although imagine, if you will, that this was Chelsea Clinton's out-of-wedlock child and Hillary was on a ticket), but there are other realizations coming to light in spite of Gustav not turning the Gulf Coast into a Third World country. Foremost, there's this whole abuse of power issue (Palin's hired a private attorney to deal with that). Next, there's the fact that Palin was a member of the Alaska Independence Party (which has, as its name implies, occasionally adopted a plank in its platform advocating secession from the U.S.). Third is the "First Dude" of Alaska's arrest on drunken-driving charges 22 years ago (although I'm really inclined to chalk that up to youthful indiscretion…I mean, sheesh, the current president was busted for that as well…and Obama has admitted to using drugs in his youth and was a two-pack a day smoker as little as a year ago, to boot). Finally, though—and most damning—the New York Times is reporting that nobody, not a single soul the Times—THE NEW YORK FREAKIN' TIMES, pinnacle of journalism and paper of record for this great nation of ours—could find in Alaska, from state legislators all the way down to neighbors, can remember talking to ANYONE from McCain's campaign about Palin's past. NOBODY.

Can you believe that? Hell, you remember what you had to go through just to get a security clearance. (Heck, my neighbor while I was living in downtown Aiken was trying to get his clearance renewed, and I—who barely knew the dude—had a little chat with an FBI guy!) Yet here's somebody who could, conceivably, be president of the United States before the year 2012, and the best the McCain campaign could come up with is standard credit- and criminal record-checks?! Sheesh, man! You're not hiring an assistant manager! At least have a P.I. on retainer!

Anyway, I feel like coining a new phrase, so I'm going to: McCain has McGoverned himself: He's picked a running mate with serious issues, and he can't ditch her without looking like an incompetent and doddering dingbat.

And, you know, I'm kind of sad about that. While I wouldn't've voted for him, I've always liked John McCain and thought his heart was in a good place. Maybe not the right place, mind you, but he's a sincere guy trying to do what he thinks is best for his country.

But, man…this kind of impetuousness and shallow thinking? We've had too much of that over the last eight years.

Give my love to (my step-mother), and thanks for inviting me to rant. :)

love,
j

So, there's that. It may be Wednesday night before I get the rest of the San Francisco posts up. Sorry to keep my regular readers in suspense.

But life's like that, on occasion.

Sunday, August 31, 2008

San Francisco, Day One

SAN FRANCISCO, DAY ONE, PART TWO: AUG. 15
I did not set my alarm before I fell asleep.

I wake up around 11:30 a.m. local time and make coffee in the room while I check my email and answer a call from my brother.

"You're in San Francisco?" he says. "Go to In-N-Out Burger. Pick me up a T-shirt, if you would."

I don't have the heart to tell him I have exactly $20 in the bank and, after the bachelor party, much less than that from the "walking-around money" Sean had given me the night before.

However, I am a fan of "The Big Lebowski," in which the In-N-Out Burger plays a small but significant part. "Oh," I say. "There's an In-N-Out Burger here? Where?"

"Fisherman's Wharf, right outside the aquarium. Well, just down the street, really. You can't miss it."

"Right, then," I say. "I'll see what I can do."

Surprisingly, I'm not jet-lagged; I've chased the sun west and, although I went to bed at 6 a.m. Eastern time, that's only slightly late by my nocturnal standards. After eight and a half hours of sleep and one tiny, crappy, hotel-provided pot of coffee, I've shaken off any hangover and fatigue poisons and am ready to take on a bear. Or at least go out and find some decent frackin' coffee.

With that in mind I shower, shave, get dressed, take the "Privacy Please" sign off my door and head out to hit the streets.

Now, I'm figuring that I'll have the day pretty much on my own: Sean's asked me to call him, but the day before a wedding is, in my experience, pretty full for the bride and groom. Even with the bachelor party out of the way, Sean will still have his hands full getting his family settled in, helping out with the final wedding preparations, going to the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner. In short, while I plan on calling Sean once I find the coffee I so desperately need, I'm not planning on talking to him or seeing him today. All's well and good; I'm a grown-ass man and, with the free-ride BART pass Sean has given me, fully capable of enjoying a new city on my own, for less than $20.

"What, exactly, am I going to do, though?" I'm thinking to myself as I head toward the elevators. "After coffee, what then?"

I turn the corner to the elevator foyer and there, out the window I'd been too wrecked to look through the night before, I see this:

"Holy crap!" I think, "that's the Bay Bridge! And it's, like, mere blocks from here."

I now have a mission (coffee) and an ultimate destination (that bridge); wars have been fought and won on less motivation.

The foyer downstairs has a Starbucks but, c'mon now, I didn't come 2,500 miles for Starbucks, did I? I check the address of the hotel (2nd and Folsom), then head to the right out the front door, paralleling San Francisco Bay. I figure I'll head that direction until my coffee-sense starts tingling, then cut right and roll downhill toward the water.

I walk about a block, turn right pretty much at random and head toward the Bay.

While I'm walking, I start to get pretty warm. See, the whole time I'm out in San Francisco, it's topping 90 degrees back in South Carolina. Weather Underground has informed me that San Francisco won't get over 70 degrees the entire time I'm there. So, not remembering what it's like to walk around in 70-degree weather in the sunshine, I've decked myself out with a T-shirt, a lightweight long-sleeved shirt and a light jacket. By the time I'm a block from the hotel, I'm stuffing the jacket in my backpack and untucking the over-shirt. I keep walking toward the Bay.

My coffee-sense, it turns out, has both failed and succeeded: after a couple blocks I see, directly ahead of me, a Starbucks. I look up and back the way I've come: there's my hotel, replete with a Starbucks in the lobby. Ahead of me, less than a quarter-mile into my walk, is yet another one.

I bow to the inevitable and head in to order a "large coffee, no room for cream, thanks." I'm hoping the barista will get snooty because I don't refer to it as a "Vente," which I imagine would be funny, but no such luck: just more proof that stand-up comics' routines and sit-coms never do come true.

So, recycled java-jacket warmly in hand, I step out of the Starbucks and survey its surroundings. Surprise! It, too, is situated pretty much in the lobby of a hotel. I chuckle, grab a San Francisco Bay Guardian out of one of the freebie racks and sit down to sip some coffee in the shade and take my by-now customary first picture of a photo-jaunt:

Yup, there's my sneaker. It has no idea what kind of workout it is in for.

Once I've read the Guardian enough to know that, while it's a cool newspaper, it's not really designed with visitors in mind, I roll it up, stuff it in my backpack and head for the Bay. I've not gone 20 feet before I see the first "Whoa! That's weird!" thing of my walk.

Down what technically amounts to an alleyway beside the hotel is a bench that looks like this:

Bronze people, so life-like that, until I venture closer, I think they may be performance artists wearing masks and holding still:

The—sculpture? statue? installation?—is called "News," and it's done by someone whose name I fail to write down. I puzzle over the title (the guy's wearing a Navy peacoat, complete with anchor buttons; "Maybe he's going off to war?" I think), then I notice this detail:

For whatever reason, this creeps me out. I almost put my jacket back on; it's become chilly in that alley.

Back in the sun I continue downhill. I can now smell and see the Bay. The street that fronts it is, surprise to me, The Embarcadero. There's a broad concrete pedestrian frontage running along the Bay. It is full of people. I go ahead and call Sean, getting, as expected, his voicemail. Then I start snapping pictures.

Why is there a giant, strung bow shooting an arrow into the ground down by San Francisco Bay? Your guess is as good as mine. I even look for a plaque explaining it; if there is one, I don't find it. But, it's definitely neat.

The Bay Bridge, plus a sailboat.

One bird, two different angles.

Same bird, same bridge but, this time, together! It's like chocolate and peanut butter, no?

After getting these shots, I wander toward the bridge; however, it looks like not much is happening that way and like the majority of traffic—carrying cameras and wearing shorts, baseball hats and T-shirts (at least two of the three articles of clothing generally proclaiming, loudly, that the wearers aren't from San Francisco)—is headed in the opposite direction. Being not-entirely brain-dead (yet), I figure Fisherman's Wharf is that way, which means the In-N-Out Burger, and the only truly Californian cuisine I'll be able to afford on my limited budget, is within walking distance. So, I spin around and plan a leisurely stroll toward an inevitable dinner. Along the way, I snap a couple more shots:

Sculptures(? Statues? Installations?) of sea-life draped across a concrete sitting-wall.

The single most bedraggled pigeon I've ever seen.

A mountain rising out of the water, through the clouds.

Sailboats.

Palm trees, buildings constructed on extremely steep hills and the San Francisco Port Authority.

A tree which is in the running for "Single Coolest Tree I've Ever Seen" (plus non-Photoshopped lens flare!).

Alcatraz!

(Overheard: An older guy standing near me with his wife, both of them looking out at Alcatraz, says to her, "I'd always heard it looked like a ship and, by God! it does!" I've never heard this but, staring at it for a couple minutes, I silently agree with him.)

At one point, while I am wandering along, gawking at stuff, I sit down for a couple minutes and call my dad. See, my dad and I didn't talk at all for close to 10 years but, eventually, we patched things up. I remember that he'd told me he'd been to San Francisco and that he'd loved it. So, I start thinking about him and, since I'd already talked to my brother (who'd also told me how much he loved San Francisco), I figure I'll give Dad a call and let him know where I am. We have a good talk and…well, I dunno; it's good to be happy in a strange place and have someone to call and talk to about it. Maybe it's weird, but I think it's pretty cool.

Right around this time I hit Fisherman's Wharf, in all its touristy glory. I've tromped about two and a half miles and haven't eaten anything since the steak at The Salt House the night before. Needless to say, I am starving.

So, I push my way through the throng of out-of-town humanity, past steaming bread-bowls of clam chowder and strangely expensive seafood (seriously, man, the ocean's right there!) and, of course, a Hooters, until I find the In-N-Out Burger, which is, while crowded, not ridiculously so; and the line is moving fast.

Not knowing any of the super-special lingo that will get you things not on the menu, I stick with a basic double cheeseburger combo and get it to go. After a brief wait, I have my grub. I head back to the earlier referenced super-cool tree to eat:

And, naturally, I record the moment for posterity. (Extra-special dork alert: I saved the bag!)

Once I finish eating, it's past 5 p.m. and I figure I should start heading back to the hotel. I'm a good portion of the way there when I get a text from Sean: Pizza at Tomasso's. After we figure out where I am (Pier 9) and where it is (Broadway and Kearny), I realize it's only six blocks; I can walk it. And I do.

But it's six blocks uphill; one of the famous, San Francisco hills that can climb 100 to 200 feet over the course of two blocks. Which it does.

By the time I get to Tomasso's, I'm actually hungry again, which is good, because Tomasso's makes the best pizza in San Francisco.

I'm not the only friend of Sean's at Tomasso's; there's also the bride-to-be, Kelly, whom I've never met; Mark, the best man, whom I met in Milwaukee when Sean and I were both living there and became reacquainted with at the bachelor party, and his girlfriend, Christie, whom I've never met; a woman named Heidi and her beau, George, both of whom I've never met; and a woman named Eva, whom I've never met, but who's tall, lovely, blond, wearing a Stewart and Colbert for President T-shirt and is, I find out within the first two minutes of joining the table, decidedly single.

I shake hands all around, squeeze into my seat next to Eva and sigh inwardly to myself, knowing that I will, at best, go home in a light-blue funk slightly disappointed—because either Eva will not be as smart, funny and independent as my initial impression suggests, or she will be those things and I will simply sputter and flounder and fail to make any impression whatsoever—or, at worst, I will get drunk and just end up flat-out making a damn fool of myself. I've been in this situation before; these are the only two options.

But, you know, I've had a really good day, and this is a happy occasion, and if I know that I'm liable to be a bit lonely and rough on myself for being a dumbass at the end of the night, I can just let it go and wait until the end of the night to sweat about it. So I do exactly that.

And I'm having a great time. These are great people—Kelly is perfect for Sean, more perfect than any woman I've ever seen him with; Sean positively dotes on Kelly: the love between the two of them is palpable, but not in that annoying, overly self-conscious and ultra-exclusive way so many, obviously doomed, couples adopt; Heidi has an English degree, like I do, and George is personable even though, he admits, he doesn't know anybody, just like I don't; and Mark's always polite and charming and attentive. It's a great group of folks, and I'm happy to be included, even though I suspect, in all likelihood, I'll never see any of them again after this weekend.

So, things go great. We finish dinner and hike down to a bar called Spec's, right across the street from Vesuvius and City Lights. I see a Jack Kerouac impersonator. We order Anchor Steam:

And we drink lots of it:

And three more people whose names I forget show up; it's a party. And, like with any party, a sort of conversational Brownian motion sets in and, at any given point, people are talking to a random, variable number of other people: usually more than two but less than all.

And, yeah, at certain moments, Eva and I are talking primarily to each other. There are things about me she clearly doesn't like—I'm smoking (yes, yes, I know—please don't give me a hard time about it), I eat meat, I prefer the satirical movie version of "Starship Troopers" to the deadly earnest book, I'm somewhat snaggle-toothed—but she knows what the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is, and I'm carrying a towel (it lives in my backpack—what can I say?); and she likes playing Fluxx and I, inconveniently, took my Fluxx deck out of my backpack so I wouldn't lose it while roaming around San Francisco; and when I offhandedly quote Warren Zevon's "Lawyers, Guns and Money" to Sean, she finishes the lyric….

By this point, we've all moved over to Vesuvius again, and we're all crammed into a table in a corner, practically sitting in each others' laps, waiting for another table to open up. We're all pretty drunk, but we're giddy-drunk, and Eva and I seem to be talking primarily to each other. It's nothing intense, but we're laughing at each others' jokes and making eye-contact attentively while the other speaks. It's cool, and I'm realizing that I like this woman, quite a bit. She is tall and pretty, ferociously intelligent and unswervingly independent, well-educated and ambitious. Sure, she lives in Seattle and I live in South Carolina, but it's not about possibilities, not even short-term ones. Every moment I speak to her reinforces how great the right-here-and-now feels; how wonderful it is to be attracted to someone.

The Olympics is on the bar's TV and, when some British woman athlete swims some bajillion-lap race and finishes so far ahead of the moving, superimposed world-record line that she has enough time to get out of the pool, scoot to the concession stand, buy a cheeseburger, eat it and get back into the pool to await all the other competitors coming in well-behind that magical moving line, our whole table goes bananas. Naturally, we talk about that for awhile, and a couple of Australian guys, figuring we must be British, come up and introduce themselves. Sean, who always loves meeting new people, invites them to join us. Right about this time, the table next to us empties out and we amorphously overflow into it, annexing it as well as our original table. I take advantage of the motion and commotion to excuse myself, head down to the restroom, then duck out for a smoke. When I come back, Eva's sitting on one of the Australian guys' laps. She's got her arm draped over his shoulders. He's talking about how big his cock is.

"Okay," I think, "I was right: It's disappointment time. I've obviously misread this situation: I haven't made the impression I thought I was making. I need to get out of here before I make a damn fool out of myself."

And, you know, I try, I really do. I barely miss a beat before I slide into a seat next to Sean and start seriously working on finishing my beer. I grimace in a friendly manner and introduce myself and speak when spoken to and, at the earliest polite opportunity, inform Sean that I'm beat and I'm going to split. The Australian guy Eva's sitting on figures out that Sean and Kelly are getting married the next day and goes down to buy them some champagne: This is my cue. I collect my backpack and announce good-bye, see you all tomorrow, to the group. Then Eva reaches out to give me a hug.

I'm not going to go into specifics because it's not important: as Eva leans in for the hug, I have my opportunity to act like a damn fool. And, because I am a damn fool, I take it. It starts with an attempted kiss and ends with me laying some weak-sauce, Puritan, Jonathan Edwards, "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" shit on her.

Then the champagne shows up.

Because I've already made a fool of myself, I decide to extemporize a toast to the bride and groom that starts cliche and limps to a finish. Then I all but run out of there.

On my way out, I bump into Mark, who'd driven his girlfriend home and come back out of their house to find his car had been towed and who's spent the last two hours or so trying to free his car and make his way back to the bar. I tell him I'm in the mood to walk and am headed back to my hotel. He gets me oriented and I stalk off, seething with a fool's own righteous indignation.

Once I hit the lobby, I head straight to the hotel bar, only to find out it closed at midnight. So I stomp over to the convenience store across the street, spend a good chunk of the further "walking-around money" Sean had given me at Tomasso's on a pastrami sandwich and two oil-cans of Foster's Special Bitter (because, you know, I still have a sense of humor), then sit in the hotel courtyard smoking and trying to write an angry screed to post here.

You know something? I can't do it. None of it rings true. And I can't even finish the first can of beer.

So I head up to my room, toss the unopened can on ice, turn off all the lights and lie there staring at the ceiling a bit before I finally fall asleep.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Wait a minute…

…didn't I go to San Francisco or something?

What follows is the first of four posts detailing my trip out to San Francisco two weeks ago.

Why four posts? Two reasons: 1.) Because I'm long-winded, and a lot happened on the trip, and: 2.) Because I took a bunch of snapshots—over 200 in all—and, while I'm not planning on posting all 200 of them, I do have 33 that strike me as worthwhile: 33 pictures in one post is a bit much, so I'm going to break it down.

OK, then; cue the funky drummer and hear him get wicked while we move on to…

SAN FRANCISCO, PRELUDE: AUG. 10, 2008
I'm sitting in my apartment, waking up, drinking coffee, surfing the web and getting ready to get ready to go to work. An IM pops up. It's my friend, Sean, wanting to know if I'm coming to his wedding on Aug. 16 in San Francisco. I reply that I'd love to, but I'm not going to be able to make it.

"Ah. Work or something, right?" he chats.

"No," I reply. "I actually have five days off in a row because I was planning on going to GenCon. However, I'm a moron and made a pretty big mistake on a pretty pricey purchase, so I no longer have the money to go anywhere except the grocery store. For cup noodles."

"Oh!" he chats. "I have money! You're coming to my wedding! Where do you fly out of? CLT? Charlotte?"

This is followed by me, fairly incredulously, asking if he's serious, him assuring me that he is and me, stunned, saying that I need to get ready for work, but I'll think about it and give him a call to let him know my decision when I get home. Provided he's absolutely positive that he's completely serious about this offer. He reassures me that he is and tells me to have a good night.

I hop in the shower, my head spinning.

I've already made up my mind: I've never been farther west than Dallas, and when I was there I never left the airport. I'm going.

SAN FRANCISCO, DAY ZERO: AUG 14, 2008
The closest regional airport is AGS (Augusta, Ga.). I'm slated to fly out of there around 1 p.m., land in Charlotte around 2 p.m., fly out of Charlotte around 5 p.m. and, five hours later, land in San Francisco around 7 p.m., local time. I've arranged for Adrian, a friend with whom I work, to drop me off; my good friends Chris and Kate will pick me up on Sunday around 4 p.m., after I get on a plane in San Francisco around 6 a.m., land five hours later in Atlanta around 2 p.m., then wait there an hour to board a plane and fly to Augusta. Cut and dry.

(Note: If the five-hour flights seem to be landing much too early and much too late, remember that flying from right coast to left coast involves a total of four separate time zones. According to Google maps, I will be over 2,500 miles from home when I land in California. Just another reminder that America is frackin' huge!)

Adrian drops me off. I've barely slept, because traveling always makes me nervous. I take off my shoes and belt, get by the plane cops and, eventually, board the plane on time. We fly. We land in Charlotte, on time. I get to my next gate with no problem and board the plane on time.

We hang out on the runway for 20 additional minutes. Kind of a problem.

We finally get airborne. The plane is narrow, and it is packed: I haven't seen this many people crammed this tightly into a vehicle since I lived in Spain and regularly saw families of four who'd all balance on a single moped. I've been on cross-country buses and subways with fewer people. I'm sitting in the very back row of seats near the crappers. I think I would, honestly, rather be sitting on the wing, tapping the windows and scaring the bejesus out of William Shatner.

About an hour into the flight, we encounter headwinds that turn our little cross-country jaunt into Six Flags Over Certain Death. I have flown to Spain and back (nine hours, both ways, uphill!), and I have never been this scared on a plane.

The turbulence lasts until we cross the Rockies. I drowse off-and-on while some douchebag loudly tries to convince the flight attendants to let him charge his phone in the outlet next to the crappers, going so far as to sneak past them on the pretense of going to the bathroom while they are out shilling $7 mystery meat sandwiches and plugging his phone in even though they've emphatically told him not to do that.

I begin to wish I was an engineer so that I could calculate how much oxygen and cabin pressure would be lost by opening up one of the doors and throwing this brainless kumquat out somewhere over Oklahoma.

The headwinds cause us to lose another 20 minutes while flying. The plane does, however, land safely. We are 40 minutes late. I call Sean to tell him that, finally, I've touched down. I know where he and his friends are and I have cab fare. I will be there as soon as I can, I tell him.

I'm in the back of the damn plane. There's only one door. Between me and that door are a couple-hundred people turned into snarling, ravening beasts by five of the worst hours of my life.

It takes me 20 frackin' minutes to get off the Gorram plane.

"This doesn't count," I say to myself as I navigate out of the airport. "None of that counted. I've touched down and I'm done with the trying, traveling part of traveling. Now is when I start…"

SAN FRANCISCO, DAY ONE, PART ONE: AUG. 14-15
I fall into a cab, finally. "Where you goin'?" asks the cabbie; I have one backpack and one huge carry-on bag. "The Salt House," I say, and give him the address. I have been told that I am to skip the hotel: This is the bachelor party, and my bags will be part of the trip.

After I catch my breath, I call Sean and let him know that I am, finally, in a cab and headed his way.

"How far out are you? Are you still on the freeway?" he asks.

"Uh…yeah, I guess. Hang on a sec'." I confer with the cabbie; my ETA is eight minutes.

Ten minutes later, I have stumbled into The Salt House, have dropped by the table—which is full; my plane's lateness has, rightly and of necessity, caused the bachelor party to start without me—and am sitting at the bar with a tall, freezing-cold beer in front of me. I am staring at the mirror over the bar, feeling and looking gray and travel-worn, trying and failing to imagine myself in California.

I stare a moment more and realize that all the people around me are so young and so beautiful that the mirror looks like a painting and that the arist—myself, I imagine—has tucked himself into it with a befuddled stare of awe and wonderment on his face.

My heart breaks, and I no longer have any trouble believing I am in California.

The hostess moves purposefully into the painting and leads me to our new table. For me, the bachelor party starts with conversation and an amazing steak. It leads, in rapid succession, to a small car full of friends and champagne, then a speakeasy. After that is a strip club and, after the strip club, beer at Vesuvius, the bar Jack Kerouac used to frequent. It's right next to City Lights bookstore.

Really, the less said about the bachelor party, the better.

I end up at my hotel at 3 a.m., local time. Sean, who's secured the reservation under his own name, checks me in. I stumble into an elevator and climb 17 stories into the sky before I find my room.

I've been awake for 22 extremely eventful hours.

I fall asleep immediately.

Friday, August 22, 2008

I have escaped Elba

Whew!

I'm back, finally. Sorry about the delay in posting (and for the fact that this will be an exceeding brief post), but I overslept and missed my flight from San Francisco on Sunday morning and, in the panicked dash to gather up all my gear, get to the airport and beg the airline to get me on any flight that came even remotely near home, I left the power cord for my laptop behind. Since I've had less than no money the entire week, I had to wait until today (payday) to pick up a replacement. Which I've obviously done.

So, expect a more robust San Francisco post this evening, replete with pictures.

I will offer this nugget of wisdom I unearthed on my trip: No situation has ever inspired panic quite like waking up three hours late and 2,000 miles from home.

Luckily, I knew where my towel was. And who my friends are.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

It's not about where I've been...

...it's about where I'm going.

Many thanks to the handful of folks who have been inquiring about where the heck I've been and what the heck I've been doing. Short story is that it's a long, dull story amounting to, "Not much." I am well, settled into my "flat" (God, I love British English!) and am enjoying my job immensely. I've been considering coming back to post again and am going to do so at greater length shortly; right after I get back from San Francisco.

Yup, you read me correctly: I'm headed out to San Francisco to see a friend get married. I've never been before, so if anyone reading this has any "must see or do" sites or activities, I'm all ears. Just try to let me know by Friday afternoon because the rest of my time out west is scheduled.

And expect a post when I get back; it's not often I get to go some place I've never been before.