Frank, my good friend who plays saxophone marvelously, called this week. He told me that he has been in touch with people he believes can help his music career. He is trying to think of ways to include me so that I can benefit from it, too.
I had an awful week, and was so out of energy and so despondent that his words just sounded to me like another potential disappointment. So, I began crying on the phone, which understandably shocked him.
But then, to cheer me, he gave me a compliment that was really from his heart, and while it was untrue, and meant nothing to me at the time, last night I began thinking about it while lying awake, staring at the ceiling fan. It may have been the nicest compliment I have ever received from anyone in my whole life, let alone from a middle-aged black man who has the experience and street cred to know whereof he speaks.
Frank told me that, even though I'm white, I GET black people.
Now, as I say, this is untrue. White people do not GET black people. It's physically impossible because of the continuity of being black. But it still warmed me immensely to hear him say that because it's what I have always wanted. I've always wanted to be a bridge between communities and to build understanding and intimacy. I think it's the only way to have a civilization.
I want to explain what I mean about the "continuity" of being black, as it was explained to me by a friend, Puddin' Pie Moss.
Pie told me that he is black continuously. There is no escaping it. When he walks down the street, people he sees a half a block away have formed an opinion of him, based on his skin, before he ever gets close enough to them to speak.
When he is in the black community surrounded by black people, there is a specific dynamic that whites can observe, but can't be a part of. And it's not always very good. This dynamic is both inclusive and demeaning. Some of these folks do, you know, call each other the "N" word, and it's accepted. But if I did it, it wouldn't be. That "N" word reinforces the sense of unity and community, but it also demeans and denegrates. It says, "Yeah, you're one of us, but as such, your're in the same sinking boat. It's us versus a juggernaut of white power."
So Pie, within the confines of his friends, family, and neighbors, is largely defined by something that is both strenthening and pejorative.
But, when Pie is in the white community, the dynamic changes in ways that are easier to predict, but sometimes very hard for whites to identify because it's a subtle dynamic. The little non-verbal messages that black folks get from whites all the time are often things whites don't even know they're saying or doing, but they come across loud and clear.
"You're probably a criminal, or at best, not someone I should trust." "You aren't as good as me." "I'll hire you if someone makes me, but you should view it as a gift." "You're gonna have to be twice as good to be regarded as half as valuable." "I'm afraid of you and what you may represent." "You and I have no common ground. None at all. We shall not talk because there's nothing to say."
Rick, a black man, once told me that at the hospital where we both worked, a place where he was as comfortable and relaxed as any place in his life, he stepped into an elevator one day. An elderly white woman in the elevator took one look at my friend's dark face, and clutched her purse tightly to her chest.
My friend felt like he'd been cold-cocked.
This assault certainly wasn't subtle to Rick. But it's pretty fair to assume that this frail little woman had no idea at all that she had hurt him.
Now, I'm a white person who has tried pretty hard for many years to understand how black people feel. The innate racism in this country is not that hard to document. Whoopi Goldberg does not have to scream at me on "The View" that racism is real. She's a black woman, albeit a wealthy one. I'm willing to take her word for it.
And I can also catch on that within the black community, there is another form of racism that suggests to young people that they will never be allowed to succeed in the white world, and if they do, it will be such a rare, miraculous thing that it will be tantamount to a Powerball win. "So, take our word for it. Limit your expectations, give the minimum effort, and ratchet back your personal goals, cause you aren't going anywhere."
If a young black man is convinced by his friends that the only way to get over in this life is to take short cuts that will borrow a lot of trouble for himself, that is destructive. But if he buys the party line, stays in school, gets the education, struggles to succeed and then goes off into a white-dominated world and learns to embrace the same hopelessness and inevitable failure there, that's just as destructive.
Which is worse? I don't know.
The only thing this young black man knows for an ironclad certainty is that he's black. And he always will be. He has the continuity.
White people have it another way. Ones like me who have been accused of being bleeding hearts can thrust our psyches into what it must be like to have these subtle, disheartening messages piled on top of our every-day struggles. We can tell ourselves, "Oh, my! How hurt and insulted would I be if a stranger clutched her purse to her chest when I got in the elevator."
But I'll never live it. Empathy and imagination nothwithstanding, I have no continuity.
We well-intentioned white people can try to walk in a black man's moccasins if we so choose, but afterwards, we can and will hide behind our white skin. We can stop being black with a toggle switch in our imagination. Even if we are white people who are poor and struggling, we don't have the continuity, the inescapability, of being black in culture that thrives on divisiveness. And without that, we can't really understand.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Death of an American Icon
As you know, the Lou was in the national news yesterday because of the sell-out of Anheuser Busch to InBev.
The InBev leader appears to be the only one happy about this. No one in the Lou is. To no one's surprise, the first change made will be to cut costs. That means labor, benefits, and probably charitable contributions. InBev in Belgium has no charity program, so it is unlikely that the $13 million/year that AB gives to local charities will not be affected.
There was a movement on to stop the takeover and my cousin, Dan, was on the front lines. It was a wasted effort, though, because the takeover was inevitable. In the end, InBev sweetened the deal considerably, and that caused the change to become a "merger" rather than a "hostile takeover." But I don't personally see the diff.
Things that make sense always take a back seat to things that make money. And if AB had been able to fight off this merger, it would have had to raise capital anyway by making the same cuts in salaries and bennies, etc. that InBev is making, so the end result would be the same.
The only thing that opponents could have achieved is keeping a foreign national from assuming ownership of an American icon. I think we should get used to this kind of thing, though. It certainly appears that America's tenure as a world power is drawing to a close. Our dollar is weak, our economy is shot, our leaders are stupid and our values are skewed. We place way too much importance on irrelevancies, and not enough on important matters.
The InBev leader appears to be the only one happy about this. No one in the Lou is. To no one's surprise, the first change made will be to cut costs. That means labor, benefits, and probably charitable contributions. InBev in Belgium has no charity program, so it is unlikely that the $13 million/year that AB gives to local charities will not be affected.
There was a movement on to stop the takeover and my cousin, Dan, was on the front lines. It was a wasted effort, though, because the takeover was inevitable. In the end, InBev sweetened the deal considerably, and that caused the change to become a "merger" rather than a "hostile takeover." But I don't personally see the diff.
Things that make sense always take a back seat to things that make money. And if AB had been able to fight off this merger, it would have had to raise capital anyway by making the same cuts in salaries and bennies, etc. that InBev is making, so the end result would be the same.
The only thing that opponents could have achieved is keeping a foreign national from assuming ownership of an American icon. I think we should get used to this kind of thing, though. It certainly appears that America's tenure as a world power is drawing to a close. Our dollar is weak, our economy is shot, our leaders are stupid and our values are skewed. We place way too much importance on irrelevancies, and not enough on important matters.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
In Memoriam: Customer Service
My bank did not do a mitzvah recently when the car burned up in August. It took seven weeks to get my insurance settlement. Shelter Insurance sent a check to my bank with dispatch to pay off what I owed on the car, almost $4,800. Three weeks elapsed and I called Shelter to find out why I hadn’t heard from them about my settlement. They had not received the title from the bank. I called the bank. They had never received the check.
Ms. Brooks assured me that this is not unusual. They misdirect, lose or else never recover bank drafts all the time. This appalled me. I told Shelter to send another check. A week later my bank had not received the second check. It was lost. A letter was sent to the bank from Shelter explaining what had been going on. The letter was lost. A third check was issued. It never found its destination. While all this is going on I am on the phone daily with this bank who assured me repeatedly that the address I had given Shelter was the correct address to send pay-off checks to. After seven weeks I was on a first name basis with the loan department’s supervisor’s supervisor’s supervisor. After the third check was lost I told Ms Really Big Shot to prepare the title for pick up, that someone would be there in person to get the title and drop off another check. This is against bank policy, I had learned by that time, but I didn’t care and Ms. RBS was too embarrassed to argue with me.
Then I had Shelter prepare another check. Then I sent a cab to pick up the check, take it to the bank, pick up the title from there and take it to Shelter. I forced Shelter to pay the $76 for the cab.
Now, let's not let Shelter off the hook here, either. They knew that something was not right with this entire procedure, and their office should have stepped in. So when I got the phone call from the claims adjuster that he wanted to bring me my check, I got ready.
He met me in the lobby of my office building. He had nerve enough to say to me, Well, Jana, we took steps to force your bank to release the title, so I am here with your settlement check.
"No, Ed. WE didn't. I did the work. I did your job. I forced the bank to act by sending a cab and instructing the driver to stand at the bank until those imbeciles did right. You did not. You didn't do ANYTHING to settle this. I did."
He was quiet after that, but he gave me my check.
Several weeks later, the bank headquarters sent to Shelter all three checks which they had had the entire time. Shelter called me and told me that.
Ms. Brooks assured me that this is not unusual. They misdirect, lose or else never recover bank drafts all the time. This appalled me. I told Shelter to send another check. A week later my bank had not received the second check. It was lost. A letter was sent to the bank from Shelter explaining what had been going on. The letter was lost. A third check was issued. It never found its destination. While all this is going on I am on the phone daily with this bank who assured me repeatedly that the address I had given Shelter was the correct address to send pay-off checks to. After seven weeks I was on a first name basis with the loan department’s supervisor’s supervisor’s supervisor. After the third check was lost I told Ms Really Big Shot to prepare the title for pick up, that someone would be there in person to get the title and drop off another check. This is against bank policy, I had learned by that time, but I didn’t care and Ms. RBS was too embarrassed to argue with me.
Then I had Shelter prepare another check. Then I sent a cab to pick up the check, take it to the bank, pick up the title from there and take it to Shelter. I forced Shelter to pay the $76 for the cab.
Now, let's not let Shelter off the hook here, either. They knew that something was not right with this entire procedure, and their office should have stepped in. So when I got the phone call from the claims adjuster that he wanted to bring me my check, I got ready.
He met me in the lobby of my office building. He had nerve enough to say to me, Well, Jana, we took steps to force your bank to release the title, so I am here with your settlement check.
"No, Ed. WE didn't. I did the work. I did your job. I forced the bank to act by sending a cab and instructing the driver to stand at the bank until those imbeciles did right. You did not. You didn't do ANYTHING to settle this. I did."
He was quiet after that, but he gave me my check.
Several weeks later, the bank headquarters sent to Shelter all three checks which they had had the entire time. Shelter called me and told me that.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Fermentation
I moved back in with my dad after my divorce, and the experience was good for both of us. He was less lonely, and I certainly was. One feature of my father's taste that will always stay in my memory was his fondness for pineapple-grapefruit juice. He always had some on hand. To lengthen its refrigerator life, he would pour it out of the can it came in and into a glass bottle with a screw-on cap. That way, it never tasted like the can, and was easier to pour.
Not long after I moved back home, I introduced him to Laura Haskell, and they were constant companions until she died. When she got sick with cancer, he moved to her house to care for her and left me to take care of our house. Me and the pineapple-grapefruit juice.
Trouble is, I didn't care for pineapple-grapefruit juice. It sat in the fridge for a long while, unmolested by me. I never drank it. I never opened it.
One day I came home from work, opened the fridge and found the result of the life threatening disaster that I had averted. The juice bottle had exploded. The juice had fermented, generating gas pressure inside the sealed bottle and on that particular day, the pressure exceeded the bottle's strength and an explosion occurred inside the refrigerator.
Tiny shards of glass were stuck to the inside of the fridge, glued on by dried juice. The shards covered much of the refrigerator walls, and all of the other items within. It was a horrible mess, and I took great care cleaning it up as the shards were tiny and very sharp.
I have thought many times in the years that have past what would have become of me if fate had dealt me a very bad hand and I had opened the fridge at the moment of critical mass. And I shudder. And I am thankful.
Not long after I moved back home, I introduced him to Laura Haskell, and they were constant companions until she died. When she got sick with cancer, he moved to her house to care for her and left me to take care of our house. Me and the pineapple-grapefruit juice.
Trouble is, I didn't care for pineapple-grapefruit juice. It sat in the fridge for a long while, unmolested by me. I never drank it. I never opened it.
One day I came home from work, opened the fridge and found the result of the life threatening disaster that I had averted. The juice bottle had exploded. The juice had fermented, generating gas pressure inside the sealed bottle and on that particular day, the pressure exceeded the bottle's strength and an explosion occurred inside the refrigerator.
Tiny shards of glass were stuck to the inside of the fridge, glued on by dried juice. The shards covered much of the refrigerator walls, and all of the other items within. It was a horrible mess, and I took great care cleaning it up as the shards were tiny and very sharp.
I have thought many times in the years that have past what would have become of me if fate had dealt me a very bad hand and I had opened the fridge at the moment of critical mass. And I shudder. And I am thankful.
Monday, April 7, 2008
The Lord of the Flies
An excerpt from about 1995:
Clint gets on Carl’s nerves with things that he does that I think are hilarious. Recently at a performance in Steelville, Illinois, we were at an outside fair and flies kept getting in our car. Carl wished for them to get out (there were many). He got in the car and began shooing them out the window.
Clint tried to help by calling the flies by name and speaking to them sternly about not obeying Carl.
“Lloyd! Hannibal! Get on out of there! What’d I tell you?”
He also attempted to explain their uncooperativeness by attributing to them personalities. He explained that Jackson preferred to sun himself on the steering wheel and that Oscar had found a piece of discarded french fry on the floor and did not wish to leave until after lunch. Thorndyke, he remarked, has had an attitude for as long as Clint has known him, and buzzing around his face annoyingly is just the kind of thing Clint would expect from Danté.
Carl got madder and madder at the flies and at Clint and I was holding my gut and laughing with tears streaming down my face.
Clint gets on Carl’s nerves with things that he does that I think are hilarious. Recently at a performance in Steelville, Illinois, we were at an outside fair and flies kept getting in our car. Carl wished for them to get out (there were many). He got in the car and began shooing them out the window.
Clint tried to help by calling the flies by name and speaking to them sternly about not obeying Carl.
“Lloyd! Hannibal! Get on out of there! What’d I tell you?”
He also attempted to explain their uncooperativeness by attributing to them personalities. He explained that Jackson preferred to sun himself on the steering wheel and that Oscar had found a piece of discarded french fry on the floor and did not wish to leave until after lunch. Thorndyke, he remarked, has had an attitude for as long as Clint has known him, and buzzing around his face annoyingly is just the kind of thing Clint would expect from Danté.
Carl got madder and madder at the flies and at Clint and I was holding my gut and laughing with tears streaming down my face.
My Life as a Guy Magnet
Related to my questionable memories of my high school career, let me explain about the first and last date I had with Frank Glendon. My friend, Judy, and Frank went to the same church and youth group when we were all in the same high school. I went to a different church and youth group, but often we cross-fellowshipped.
Frank had a crush on my friend, Debbie. Debbie couldn’t stand him. He followed her around, lurked at her locker, hovered around her when she tried to get to class, bothered her immensely. She complained bitterly to me, and I took pity on her. I told her to let me try something.
The next time I saw Frank lurking around Debbie, he was with her at her locker. I strode up to Debbie, and gushed, “Debbie, where did you get this gorgeous guy?” (Big fat fib.) “Why don’t you walk me to my locker sometimes?” I effused to Frank. Linking arms with the hapless dupe, I led him away so that Debbie could escape out the door.
Sure enough, he left her alone after that. Curiously, he left me alone, too. Problem solved.
A year or two passed and Frank turned up at a Bible study I attended. I was cautiously friendly to him. He was apparently with my friend, Lorrie. (Lorrie was later murdered by a drunk driver.) A day or two later, Frank called, having obviously gotten my number from Lorrie, who didn’t know any better. Before I could get my bearings, he asked me out, and I accepted.
He arrived late Friday night, having gotten lost. The program was to go to a Bible study, and then to a improvisational theater performance. Judy was at the Bible study, and I had a really good time. Afterwards, Judy and the rest of her youth group invited Frank and me to join them for a bite to eat. The bite to eat lasted so long that we missed the improv, which was okay.
I should point out that this date occurred on the coldest night in recorded history. It was very bitter. After the bite to eat, the walk back to Frank’s car was miserable as it was several blocks in the icy temperatures. His arm came around my waist. I didn’t object, but felt that if he has to do this, he should hold on tighter for the warmth.
We got to his car. He put the key in the door lock on the passenger side and unlocked it. I wanted to get in. I wanted to get in soon.
Instead, he turned to me, leaned against the door, crossed his arms in front of him and announced, “Well, I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” Several thoughts went through my mind at once. The first and foremost was Oh, sh*t!
The second thought was a hazy recognition that this whole evening had been set up for this climactic moment when he pulls this off. I am now expected to rush into his arms with an orchestra playing some impassioned crescendo, and mutter, “Kiss me, you fool,” as I climb on top of him like butterscotch topping on a scoop of ice cream.
The third thought that went through my mind was Oh, sh*t!
I did not rush to him, say “Kiss me, you fool,” or jump on top of him. I was cruel and unfeeling. I was brutally honest and vicious. I burst his tender male ego.
I asked to be taken home.
The ride home was a little chilly even though the heater was on. He was giving me the silent treatment as he licked his emotional wounds. I ruminated the whole way about how much he had counted on this big finish and how hurt he must be to realize that I would rather not kiss him.
In fact, I would rather kiss a rhinoceros. I began to feel really bad about the way I had let him down, and reasoned that one kiss wouldn’t cost me anything except a few moments of revulsion.
It wasn’t that he was really repulsive. He was just your average guy. But it was the “I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” approach that was smarmy and repugnant.
He was sullen and angry all the way home. My attempts at pleasant small talk were met with one-word responses spat between clenched teeth and dripping sarcasm. So I added “childish” to my list of indictments against him.
When we got to the house, he walked me to the door. Typical end of date scenario, right? I said, with regret and exasperation thinly veiled, “Why don’t you kiss me, Frank?”
His eyes lit up like I’d announced his winning lottery ticket. He grabbed me by the shoulders and the kiss was such that I was led to believe he was actually trying to eat my tonsils. After a few moments of enduring this, I broke the embrace and said good night.
An entire bottle of Listerine gave its life in an attempt to get his kiss out of my mouth. When he called the next day, I was prepared, and terminated the relationship.
Frank had a crush on my friend, Debbie. Debbie couldn’t stand him. He followed her around, lurked at her locker, hovered around her when she tried to get to class, bothered her immensely. She complained bitterly to me, and I took pity on her. I told her to let me try something.
The next time I saw Frank lurking around Debbie, he was with her at her locker. I strode up to Debbie, and gushed, “Debbie, where did you get this gorgeous guy?” (Big fat fib.) “Why don’t you walk me to my locker sometimes?” I effused to Frank. Linking arms with the hapless dupe, I led him away so that Debbie could escape out the door.
Sure enough, he left her alone after that. Curiously, he left me alone, too. Problem solved.
A year or two passed and Frank turned up at a Bible study I attended. I was cautiously friendly to him. He was apparently with my friend, Lorrie. (Lorrie was later murdered by a drunk driver.) A day or two later, Frank called, having obviously gotten my number from Lorrie, who didn’t know any better. Before I could get my bearings, he asked me out, and I accepted.
He arrived late Friday night, having gotten lost. The program was to go to a Bible study, and then to a improvisational theater performance. Judy was at the Bible study, and I had a really good time. Afterwards, Judy and the rest of her youth group invited Frank and me to join them for a bite to eat. The bite to eat lasted so long that we missed the improv, which was okay.
I should point out that this date occurred on the coldest night in recorded history. It was very bitter. After the bite to eat, the walk back to Frank’s car was miserable as it was several blocks in the icy temperatures. His arm came around my waist. I didn’t object, but felt that if he has to do this, he should hold on tighter for the warmth.
We got to his car. He put the key in the door lock on the passenger side and unlocked it. I wanted to get in. I wanted to get in soon.
Instead, he turned to me, leaned against the door, crossed his arms in front of him and announced, “Well, I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” Several thoughts went through my mind at once. The first and foremost was Oh, sh*t!
The second thought was a hazy recognition that this whole evening had been set up for this climactic moment when he pulls this off. I am now expected to rush into his arms with an orchestra playing some impassioned crescendo, and mutter, “Kiss me, you fool,” as I climb on top of him like butterscotch topping on a scoop of ice cream.
The third thought that went through my mind was Oh, sh*t!
I did not rush to him, say “Kiss me, you fool,” or jump on top of him. I was cruel and unfeeling. I was brutally honest and vicious. I burst his tender male ego.
I asked to be taken home.
The ride home was a little chilly even though the heater was on. He was giving me the silent treatment as he licked his emotional wounds. I ruminated the whole way about how much he had counted on this big finish and how hurt he must be to realize that I would rather not kiss him.
In fact, I would rather kiss a rhinoceros. I began to feel really bad about the way I had let him down, and reasoned that one kiss wouldn’t cost me anything except a few moments of revulsion.
It wasn’t that he was really repulsive. He was just your average guy. But it was the “I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” approach that was smarmy and repugnant.
He was sullen and angry all the way home. My attempts at pleasant small talk were met with one-word responses spat between clenched teeth and dripping sarcasm. So I added “childish” to my list of indictments against him.
When we got to the house, he walked me to the door. Typical end of date scenario, right? I said, with regret and exasperation thinly veiled, “Why don’t you kiss me, Frank?”
His eyes lit up like I’d announced his winning lottery ticket. He grabbed me by the shoulders and the kiss was such that I was led to believe he was actually trying to eat my tonsils. After a few moments of enduring this, I broke the embrace and said good night.
An entire bottle of Listerine gave its life in an attempt to get his kiss out of my mouth. When he called the next day, I was prepared, and terminated the relationship.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Paper Clip Update: How Did We Get Grown When We're Too Stupid to Live?
Paper clip update. You will recall the case of Sarah who recently had a baby by Bill Roberts, one of the men accused of abducting, assaulting and brutally raping a young woman outside of a night club on the east side. Sarah is living with her aunt. I pointed out previously that Sarah is exceedingly stupid. Just terribly stupid. Just mind-bendingly stupid. Like a paper clip.
Carl continually defended her because he liked pretty young women and it doesn’t much matter if they are bright enough to work a vending machine on their own. But he is fed up with Sarah. He was all set to throw some work at her so she would have some extras for the baby, etc. But when she told Carl that she was still in love with Bill and wished he would be out of prison so they could all live together as a family, that is all Carl could stand. He no longer contradicts me when I announce that there isn’t a retarded ferret anywhere in the world who does not have a huge leg up on this little twit.
Not that I have been Einstein when it comes to men. I have committed acts of unbridled stupidity that defy reason, myself. But I have never claimed undying love for a violence-crazed misogynistic rapist.
Another of Carl’s less-than-gifted friends, Chris, is in jail. Several years ago she was dating some guy who mistreated her. So she dumped him and started dating his father instead. Dad was a truck driver who was out of town a lot, so whenever he would leave, his son would call Chris and ask for a reconciliation just enough to get his rocks off. Chris fended him off, but he got angrier and angrier. Eventually Chris married the old man because he was decent to her at first.
But matters did not stay that way. The apple don’t fall far from the tree and the tree don’t grow far from the rotted fruit. The old man began to hit her and so forth so she took her kids (not by him) and left. He pulled some strings and had her utilities turned off and then reported to Family Services that her kids were hold up in a place with no heat or electricity. Family Services removed the kids to foster care.
Chris went through endless grief trying to get the kids back and to prove that she is stable and can provide a home, etc. Once DFS suspects you of something your life can be made a shambles.
Chris eventually did get them back and divorced the old man. This upset him. He and his son came over, and in a cooperative inter-generational effort, beat the crap out of her together. Way to bond with your son, huh?
She got a restraining order against the two men. When the son called her up to notify her that he was on the way over to beat her up again, she called the cops. Our friends, the cops. They arrived and were willing to enforce the restraining order, but could not find it in their computer. So they ran her name through the computer looking for it and a bench warrant popped up for $250 worth of traffic tickets she had not paid. So she went to jail and the kids went to foster care. Hundreds are needed to bail her out and there is not a soul in the world to help her. She is frightened and alone in the jail. Fortunately, she is huge, so she won’t be bullied as much as she could be. Plus she is unkempt and her teeth are green.
Do you realize I have never been physically abused by anyone? No pedophiles have ever done me harm; no relatives have wanted to play doctor, no man has ever raised a hand to me. For years I have wondered how I lucked out on this when there are so many women who don’t. It can’t be because of my sweet and loving personality that doesn’t inspire the rage or hatred usually linked to abuse because a) I don’t have a sweet loving personality; I am a bitch and b) I don’t think the temperament of the victim moves an abuser one way or the other.
There was an occasion when I was seven or eight years old when I was in a movie theater and a pervert sat down next to me. He had a trench coat and everything. He put his hand between my legs and rubbed.
Being uninitiated in matters of pedophilia and sexual deviance, and having no idea at all what this touching was about, I did not respond with fear or panic, but with bewilderment and annoyance. I crossed my legs and leaned away from him and he got up and left. I was lucky.
It was years later when I realized I had been molested. I can’t say that I suffered any long term psychological problems because of it. I think the incident had no impact on me whatsoever. As I say, I was lucky.
I wish now I had stood and screamed my head off in the theater until they had to stop the film and have the man arrested. Perhaps something worse happened to some other little girl because I did not. It pays to be educated about everything.
It is because of this episode and all the things that could have happened to me and haven’t that I suspect my life has been charmed in this area. I guess this is only fair since it has been righteously screwed up in so many others.
Carl continually defended her because he liked pretty young women and it doesn’t much matter if they are bright enough to work a vending machine on their own. But he is fed up with Sarah. He was all set to throw some work at her so she would have some extras for the baby, etc. But when she told Carl that she was still in love with Bill and wished he would be out of prison so they could all live together as a family, that is all Carl could stand. He no longer contradicts me when I announce that there isn’t a retarded ferret anywhere in the world who does not have a huge leg up on this little twit.
Not that I have been Einstein when it comes to men. I have committed acts of unbridled stupidity that defy reason, myself. But I have never claimed undying love for a violence-crazed misogynistic rapist.
Another of Carl’s less-than-gifted friends, Chris, is in jail. Several years ago she was dating some guy who mistreated her. So she dumped him and started dating his father instead. Dad was a truck driver who was out of town a lot, so whenever he would leave, his son would call Chris and ask for a reconciliation just enough to get his rocks off. Chris fended him off, but he got angrier and angrier. Eventually Chris married the old man because he was decent to her at first.
But matters did not stay that way. The apple don’t fall far from the tree and the tree don’t grow far from the rotted fruit. The old man began to hit her and so forth so she took her kids (not by him) and left. He pulled some strings and had her utilities turned off and then reported to Family Services that her kids were hold up in a place with no heat or electricity. Family Services removed the kids to foster care.
Chris went through endless grief trying to get the kids back and to prove that she is stable and can provide a home, etc. Once DFS suspects you of something your life can be made a shambles.
Chris eventually did get them back and divorced the old man. This upset him. He and his son came over, and in a cooperative inter-generational effort, beat the crap out of her together. Way to bond with your son, huh?
She got a restraining order against the two men. When the son called her up to notify her that he was on the way over to beat her up again, she called the cops. Our friends, the cops. They arrived and were willing to enforce the restraining order, but could not find it in their computer. So they ran her name through the computer looking for it and a bench warrant popped up for $250 worth of traffic tickets she had not paid. So she went to jail and the kids went to foster care. Hundreds are needed to bail her out and there is not a soul in the world to help her. She is frightened and alone in the jail. Fortunately, she is huge, so she won’t be bullied as much as she could be. Plus she is unkempt and her teeth are green.
Do you realize I have never been physically abused by anyone? No pedophiles have ever done me harm; no relatives have wanted to play doctor, no man has ever raised a hand to me. For years I have wondered how I lucked out on this when there are so many women who don’t. It can’t be because of my sweet and loving personality that doesn’t inspire the rage or hatred usually linked to abuse because a) I don’t have a sweet loving personality; I am a bitch and b) I don’t think the temperament of the victim moves an abuser one way or the other.
There was an occasion when I was seven or eight years old when I was in a movie theater and a pervert sat down next to me. He had a trench coat and everything. He put his hand between my legs and rubbed.
Being uninitiated in matters of pedophilia and sexual deviance, and having no idea at all what this touching was about, I did not respond with fear or panic, but with bewilderment and annoyance. I crossed my legs and leaned away from him and he got up and left. I was lucky.
It was years later when I realized I had been molested. I can’t say that I suffered any long term psychological problems because of it. I think the incident had no impact on me whatsoever. As I say, I was lucky.
I wish now I had stood and screamed my head off in the theater until they had to stop the film and have the man arrested. Perhaps something worse happened to some other little girl because I did not. It pays to be educated about everything.
It is because of this episode and all the things that could have happened to me and haven’t that I suspect my life has been charmed in this area. I guess this is only fair since it has been righteously screwed up in so many others.
How a Man is Like a Sea Lion
I received unconfirmed word that a sea lion living off the west coast of the U.S. may be put to death by wildlife officials because he has killed some 15 to 20 sea lionesses by crushing them to death in an attempt to make love to them. I hate when that happens. The Mike Tyson of sea lions.
I am unfamiliar with sea lions as lovers, but there are men out there who are terrible in bed. I’ve done the field research; I know. There was one guy, Bill, who would have had to improve 1,000% before he could be terrible. When I met him, he was whining about how the love of his life, Sherry, THE relationship, had left him to be with a woman. I felt bad for him. What a blow to ego, self-esteem, etc. After we had done the deed, I had a different attitude. If it is possible to convert to lesbianism, if it’s not actually your nature, Bill was as good a reason as there could ever be. I considered it briefly myself.
Unfortunately, it is my observation that most men know what they are supposed to do, but many just don’t care to be bothered. A shame. I wonder if good ole Bill, the graduate of the pneumatic hammer school of love making, ever found happiness with, say, a female water buffalo or something of a suitable nature.
Let me take this opportunity to say, as the song says, I like a man with a slow hand; I like a lover with an easy touch. I want somebody who will spend some time; not come and go in a heated rush. And I definitely don’t wish to be crushed to death, either. Thanks anyway.
I am unfamiliar with sea lions as lovers, but there are men out there who are terrible in bed. I’ve done the field research; I know. There was one guy, Bill, who would have had to improve 1,000% before he could be terrible. When I met him, he was whining about how the love of his life, Sherry, THE relationship, had left him to be with a woman. I felt bad for him. What a blow to ego, self-esteem, etc. After we had done the deed, I had a different attitude. If it is possible to convert to lesbianism, if it’s not actually your nature, Bill was as good a reason as there could ever be. I considered it briefly myself.
Unfortunately, it is my observation that most men know what they are supposed to do, but many just don’t care to be bothered. A shame. I wonder if good ole Bill, the graduate of the pneumatic hammer school of love making, ever found happiness with, say, a female water buffalo or something of a suitable nature.
Let me take this opportunity to say, as the song says, I like a man with a slow hand; I like a lover with an easy touch. I want somebody who will spend some time; not come and go in a heated rush. And I definitely don’t wish to be crushed to death, either. Thanks anyway.
No Matter How Bad Your Life is, Someone Else's is Worse
I went to grade school and high school with a girl who was severely scarred by a fire as a baby. Her neck and chest and right arm looked as though they were partially melted and huge misshapen globs of flesh rippled like water over rocks in a brook all down her legs. The first time I saw her I was about six, and the sight of her frightened me terribly.
If, in an intimate moment, you would ask her about the fire, she would offer one of several explanations she had prepared. None had anything to do with any of the others. And if you asked her brother, you would get yet another tale. I was never able to determine which, if any of the tales were true, or to what degree. I have often wondered about the secrecy.
After going to school with her several years, though, most of us kids forgot all about the scars. Stopped seeing them. But I was with a deaf girlfriend walking in the neighborhood. We were 8 or 9 at the time. I saw Jeanne with the scars across the street and crossed over to greet her. Sherry, the deaf girl, was obviously terrified of Jeanne and refused to come over. The look of panic, fear and revulsion on her face was clear. I could say or do nothing to smooth it over. I felt worse for Jeanne in that moment than I ever have before or since.
Now I make sure I only hang out with beautiful people. People who are attractive are winners. People who aren’t are losers. I am a winner and only want winners around me. Pathetic ugly people should get off the planet. Image is everything.
Signing off. Jana Meehan. Pioneering new frontiers in superficiality.
If, in an intimate moment, you would ask her about the fire, she would offer one of several explanations she had prepared. None had anything to do with any of the others. And if you asked her brother, you would get yet another tale. I was never able to determine which, if any of the tales were true, or to what degree. I have often wondered about the secrecy.
After going to school with her several years, though, most of us kids forgot all about the scars. Stopped seeing them. But I was with a deaf girlfriend walking in the neighborhood. We were 8 or 9 at the time. I saw Jeanne with the scars across the street and crossed over to greet her. Sherry, the deaf girl, was obviously terrified of Jeanne and refused to come over. The look of panic, fear and revulsion on her face was clear. I could say or do nothing to smooth it over. I felt worse for Jeanne in that moment than I ever have before or since.
Now I make sure I only hang out with beautiful people. People who are attractive are winners. People who aren’t are losers. I am a winner and only want winners around me. Pathetic ugly people should get off the planet. Image is everything.
Signing off. Jana Meehan. Pioneering new frontiers in superficiality.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Virginity Sucks
I met a man named Richard. He was a noted Christian minister, evangelist, author, teacher, prayer warrior—you know the type. He and his Mrs. had been married for about 23 years, no children, when he abruptly left her and married someone else. The someone else was in her mid-twenties and Richard was more than twice her age.
Stories like this are a nickel a dozen, you say? He had an itch, the cad, you say.? A woman stands by him more than two decades and this is how she is rewarded. The pig!
Keep reading.
When Richard took a powder from his first wife, there was no divorce. There was an annulment. Mrs Richard #1 was unable to argue with his assertion before the court that in 23 years of marriage, the union had never been consummated. Richard entered into matrimony in good faith, not realizing that she. had been taught from earliest childhood that sex is horrible, abhorrent, filthy, sinful, and to be avoided at all costs. Her parents, evidently, were so determined that their little princess be a virgin on her wedding night, that they overdid, and she was still a virgin 23 years afterward. And to this day, as far as I know.
What gets me is that this unfortunate man was faithful and patient for this huge span of time, and did without (or so he says). I suspect arguments took place regularly behind closed doors on the issue, but to the outside world, the couple was the epitome of Christian harmony. But she never upped the goodies. At last,he couldn’t stand it anymore.
The new Mrs. Richard was happy to give him children.
What else gets me is the tremendous power that parents have to f--- up their children’s lives. It happens all the time, that our individual pathologies are rooted in our upbringing. But Lord, have mercy! This was child abuse.
My own mother tried her best to convince me that having sex is tantamount to eating pig slop. It is dirty and humiliating, but must be tolerated if one is to have children. I guess I was supposed to be grateful for her sacrifice in bringing me into the world. I, however, am less stupid and more self-aware than some—plus I watch TV—and managed to overcome this conditioning with remarkably efficacious determination. I like sex a lot. A lot. A lot. It would be difficult, in fact, to overstate how much I like it. Or to stop talking about it at times.
My mother, in her defense, was her mother’s daughter. Gram was raised to believe that one does not discuss the topic in polite company—or in any company. When my mom was 14, she went to the bathroom at school and discovered blood, a lot of it, in her underwear. She nearly went to pieces with panic and fear until one of the looser, less ladylike, more jaded girls came in the bathroom and told her what’s up. My mom was angry with her mom, who felt terrible about he failure to warn her daughter, but to her, talking about menstruation was a sin.
My mom made sure I knew everything ahead of time.
Stories like this are a nickel a dozen, you say? He had an itch, the cad, you say.? A woman stands by him more than two decades and this is how she is rewarded. The pig!
Keep reading.
When Richard took a powder from his first wife, there was no divorce. There was an annulment. Mrs Richard #1 was unable to argue with his assertion before the court that in 23 years of marriage, the union had never been consummated. Richard entered into matrimony in good faith, not realizing that she. had been taught from earliest childhood that sex is horrible, abhorrent, filthy, sinful, and to be avoided at all costs. Her parents, evidently, were so determined that their little princess be a virgin on her wedding night, that they overdid, and she was still a virgin 23 years afterward. And to this day, as far as I know.
What gets me is that this unfortunate man was faithful and patient for this huge span of time, and did without (or so he says). I suspect arguments took place regularly behind closed doors on the issue, but to the outside world, the couple was the epitome of Christian harmony. But she never upped the goodies. At last,he couldn’t stand it anymore.
The new Mrs. Richard was happy to give him children.
What else gets me is the tremendous power that parents have to f--- up their children’s lives. It happens all the time, that our individual pathologies are rooted in our upbringing. But Lord, have mercy! This was child abuse.
My own mother tried her best to convince me that having sex is tantamount to eating pig slop. It is dirty and humiliating, but must be tolerated if one is to have children. I guess I was supposed to be grateful for her sacrifice in bringing me into the world. I, however, am less stupid and more self-aware than some—plus I watch TV—and managed to overcome this conditioning with remarkably efficacious determination. I like sex a lot. A lot. A lot. It would be difficult, in fact, to overstate how much I like it. Or to stop talking about it at times.
My mother, in her defense, was her mother’s daughter. Gram was raised to believe that one does not discuss the topic in polite company—or in any company. When my mom was 14, she went to the bathroom at school and discovered blood, a lot of it, in her underwear. She nearly went to pieces with panic and fear until one of the looser, less ladylike, more jaded girls came in the bathroom and told her what’s up. My mom was angry with her mom, who felt terrible about he failure to warn her daughter, but to her, talking about menstruation was a sin.
My mom made sure I knew everything ahead of time.
Heroes Come in All Colors
The Apaches engaged the Mexicans, but were under-manned. Losing, out of arrows, and with broken spears, the Apaches noticed four Mexicans coming over a rise to scout their situation. Goldiya grabbed a spear and killed the first Mexican. As he fell, his sword flew and Goldiya caught it in the air. As he killed the second Mexican, the last two turned to flee. He jumped on a horse and gave chase. As he killed the third, he was in view of the Mexican camp. The Mexicans saw the attack on their fellow and began chanting his name, Jerome, to encourage him to escape Goldiya’s sword. He did not.
The Apaches rallied behind Goldiya and went on to victory in the battle. As they attacked, they also chanted the name of Jerome to mock and humiliate the Mexican criminals. That night at the victory party, the warriors officially changed One Who Yawns’ name to Jerome to honor the warrior. Jerome, in the Mexican language, is Geronimo..
The Apaches were very skilled horsemen. Geronimo was taught at an early age to ride a horse at full gallop using no reins and no saddle, but merely his knees to steer and hold on. This left his hands completely free to wield weapons. This is why Apache were fearsome in battle. They could concentrate on their targets.
The Apaches rallied behind Goldiya and went on to victory in the battle. As they attacked, they also chanted the name of Jerome to mock and humiliate the Mexican criminals. That night at the victory party, the warriors officially changed One Who Yawns’ name to Jerome to honor the warrior. Jerome, in the Mexican language, is Geronimo..
The Apaches were very skilled horsemen. Geronimo was taught at an early age to ride a horse at full gallop using no reins and no saddle, but merely his knees to steer and hold on. This left his hands completely free to wield weapons. This is why Apache were fearsome in battle. They could concentrate on their targets.
Swinging on a Star
My dad built a swing set in the back yard when I was little. It wasn’t like most kids’ swing sets. He strung a heavy chain between the two trees on either side of the yard. The chain was about 30 feet above the ground. From there he hung two more chains down to the ground in the center and attached a board between them to sit on. A rope was also attached to the cross chain and one person would pull on the rope and cause the swing to gain great speed and altitude for the person sitting on the board.
But I found out that it was more fun to swing on the rope itself, so my dad got the swing out of the way and put a board in the noose at the end of the rope. I would stand on the top level of the climbing bars he had also made for me. The top was about eight feet high. I would put my right leg through the noose so I could sit on the board that was fixed there. Then I would hook the rope across my body and behind my left shoulder so that it was in effect behind me and out of my view. Then I would dive off the top of the climbing bars like Superman flying off a roof. Basically lying belly down in mid air, I would swoop across the yard and sail up to nearly the second floor window of the house. It was a lot like flying. It was absolutely wonderful. You could go high.
I have often had flying dreams. Lots of people do, and so I don’t know if I have them because I’m like other people or because of my swing set. Dream experts say flying dreams are indicative of ambition and aspiration. Maybe, but mine were indicative of a desire for freedom and power. Things I still seek.
But I found out that it was more fun to swing on the rope itself, so my dad got the swing out of the way and put a board in the noose at the end of the rope. I would stand on the top level of the climbing bars he had also made for me. The top was about eight feet high. I would put my right leg through the noose so I could sit on the board that was fixed there. Then I would hook the rope across my body and behind my left shoulder so that it was in effect behind me and out of my view. Then I would dive off the top of the climbing bars like Superman flying off a roof. Basically lying belly down in mid air, I would swoop across the yard and sail up to nearly the second floor window of the house. It was a lot like flying. It was absolutely wonderful. You could go high.
I have often had flying dreams. Lots of people do, and so I don’t know if I have them because I’m like other people or because of my swing set. Dream experts say flying dreams are indicative of ambition and aspiration. Maybe, but mine were indicative of a desire for freedom and power. Things I still seek.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Some Lessons Learned at the Cash Register
The best job I ever loved was at a small local drug and sundries store in downtown St. Louis in the 70’s. The community was extremely diverse, and that was part of its charm. The clientele ranged from upper level white-shirted executives who filled the surrounding office buildings, to poor, struggling people trying to stretch their welfare checks, to the addicts who slept in recessed doorways and marked their territory with urine and discarded Mad Dog bottles.
The bus lines brought families from outlying parts of the city, and with them, some poignant early lessons for me about the ravages of being poor.
For instance, if she had been a wealthy woman, the lady with a face decorated with tumors might have been able to have them removed. The tumors looked like in-shell pecans hanging from thin pieces of skin on her face and they swung back and forth as she turned her head. They were like Christmas tree ornaments, but weren’t festive at all.
The woman whose right eye was greatly enlarged, dead, hooded, and located where her cheekbone should have been might have also had some help, if she had had some money.
With poverty also comes ignorance quite a lot of the time, and as a dedicated employee, the onus was on me to provide simple, kind answers to some customer questions that defied reason with their stupidity, but originated from a place where the customer simply could not help himself.
One such event was very telling. My boss, Mr. L. was a wonderful guy with an outgoing, sanguine temperament and a loyalty to his employees that I wish I could have enjoyed in one or two jobs I’ve had since.
An angry woman confronted him one day. She was bringing back a punch bowl she had purchased. Her objection was that the punch bowl came with only six drinking cups when she believed it was supposed to have eight. She was adamant. Mr. L pointed out that the box listed the contents as one large punch bowl, six drinking cups and a ladle.
She didn’t care. She had gotten the box home and opened it and found that the packaging was such that there was room for two more cups, but they weren’t there. A cup rested in each of the four corners of the box on two levels, so her confusion was somewhat justified. There were two empty spaces, but the box was clearly labeled.
Repeated reminders that only six cups were promised on the box was to no avail. At last he refunded her money and she stormed out, furious that it took such a fight to get her money for a product that was obviously defective.
I didn’t understand. The box clearly said six, and the picture on the box showed six cups. Why on earth could she not be made to understand?
Mr. L understood. He had been at this a few years and explained it to me: the woman had never learned to read. The contents list on the box meant nothing to her, and having suffered for years with this particular handicap, she had grown accustomed to being cheated, and had learned to be distrustful. So, my anger washed away, and my heart went out to her. She became an object lesson to me in the value of literacy and culture.
There were many object lessons for me in that drug store. I was a college student when I took the job, and I often wonder if it was college or the drug store that provided the richest education.
A teenager was hired after I had been there a year or two. Her name was Angie, but we’ll call her “Dipshit,” at least for purposes of this narrative. She was moderately pretty, but lacking in savvy. Her behavior soon began to manifest a terrible self esteem, and a knack for self destruction.
So when regular customer, Louis the Pimp found her stocking the toothpaste aisle, he asked her for a date. He was 25 years older than she, lived down the street in a flea bag hotel, and was well known for selling girls whom he drugged regularly to keep them compliant. Knowing this was not enough to dissuade Dipshit from spending the night with him. And it took all of a ten-minute conversation for Louis to make the arrangement.
The next day, Louis came by the store again. He came in regularly to buy cough syrup which he was rumored to combine with some other drug as a cocktail for his girls. He told Helen, who managed the tobacco department, that he was throwing Dipshit back in the water. She was too inexperienced to make him any money.
I was pretty sure that Dipshit didn’t even know that her night of passion was actually a test drive. But the fact that he never spoke to her again didn’t seem to bother her.
She didn’t stay with the company long. Her lack of common sense, I suspect, was her career’s undoing.
The object lesson to me that time was visceral. I, too, was young and inexperienced. But I learned a lot that day about the value of thinking well of oneself. And how ugly some men are to women.
And I came away from that lesson feeling a bit charmed. Louis the Pimp was, after all, routinely very nice to me. He never offered such a suggestion, but he did buy me Cokes and candy bars. When I asked him frankly about his line of work, he would say, “Oh, baby, don’t make me lie to you.”
There were some ugly women, too. One of them was hired about the same time as Dipshit. The pejorative nickname I gave this new employee was “The Dysentery Kid.” This, because she was filthy and smelled like a urinal whenever she came to work.
She seemed like a nice enough person, but ravaged by poverty like so many in that community, and I wondered if she had working plumbing at her home. Surely her personal hygiene, or lack thereof, would not be a personal choice. And I liked her, but from a safe distance.
She wore garish make up, wildly teased hair, and ill-fitting thrift store clothes. Dysentery was hired to take the places of various workers who had scheduled vacation time including, unfortunately, Rose, the pharmacy technician.
On Dysentery’s first day in the pharmacy, she arrived at work wearing her white uniform, flaming blue eyeshadow and a huge Dolly Parton blonde wig.
Mr. L. was embarrassed and felt that such a get-up would compromise the credibility of the pharmacy department.
I kept my mouth shut. I believed that someone who smells so unclean and looks so unwashed will compromise the credibility of the entire store no matter what department she worked in. But I wasn’t in charge.
He sent her home to change.
So, given Dysentery’s odor, appearance, and over all lack of good taste, it was a great surprise to me when she announced once at the lunch table that she was with child. I honestly wondered what kind of man would DO that, but, as I said, I was young and inexperienced.
The lunch break at the store was a great chance to socialize and develop the close friendships that I cherished during my tenure at there. There was, of course, the sense of community and team spirit that happens on a lot of jobs. Plus, there were the shared goals of servicing such an eclectic clientele while we all sought to keep our sense of humor.
For the few months following Dysentery’s announcement, the lunch crowd was regaled with stories about her pregnancy. We heard about the morning sickness, the kicking fetus, the frequent trips to the girls room, and the shopping for baby clothes in second hand stores. While this was not her first child, nothing was said about the father, so we didn’t know if he was in the picture. None of her other kids appeared to have fathers in the picture.
The stupid thing I said occurred one week when Dysentery was back in the pharmacy. She was wearing that white uniform to work again, and had it on when she arrived and stopped at my counter on her way to the locker room. I was in the cosmetics department that day, and that was where employee purchases occurred. She set down a box of tampons on the counter, but wouldn’t look at me while I rang them up and calculated her discount.
The stupid thing I said was, “I thought you were off these things for a few more months.”
She looked at me and her expression was one of pain, loathing and contempt. She grabbed her purchase and marched away from me. As she did, I noticed that the backside of her white uniform was soaked in blood.
She had miscarried on the bus.
My education continued as this drug store offered a comprehensive tour into the nuances of race relations.
On the good side, there was Gene. Gene was an elderly black man who sold newspapers at a stand across the street. He shopped with us regularly, and always talked to me in his gentle, homespun way. He delighted me frequently when he paid me for his package of cigars. He would reach across my counter and touch my lily-white earlobe with his finger. Then he would put the finger in his mouth, smile, and say, “Mmmm, good! Vanilla!” Something about that gesture warmed me to my toes. It still does.
But not all of my attempts at race relations were as joyful. One regular customer, a dark-skinned lady, came through my check out line one afternoon. She presented a large leather bag, black, with a zipper top. She unzipped it and began pulling out the items she had to purchase.
Now, I don’t believe that what I said to her should have been a cause for so much anger, but she sure did, and that’s where my education took a leap forward.
“Mrs. Johnson, you know, we have shopping baskets for you to use. I’m afraid that if you are seen putting items into a container like that, there might be an misunderstanding with the security guard.”
She went off. She hurled accusations at me that, at the core, suggested that I assumed that since she is black, she must therefore be stealing.
Now, it was true that there was a lot of pilferage at that store, and it was also true that we had a large black clientele. And I dare say it was true that many of the shoplifters who were stopped at the door were of African descent. And all of those facts were admittedly in my mind when I made the remark. But I merely meant to express that Mrs. Johnson was borrowing trouble for herself.
One important lesson here, as I furthered my education, is that racism can appear very quietly. It can be a hidden enemy lurking surreptitiously in the heart and can jump out unexpectedly and without intention.
And, to mix a metaphor, it isn’t always black and white. There are shades of grey. On the bad side, I may have assumed that Mrs. Johnson was at higher risk of being misunderstood because of her race. On the good side, the side where I defend myself, I was just giving her a heads up. But in my heart, the lines were blurred.
Another important lesson for me here is one that was repeated for years. To wit: black folks, especially poor ones, are often poised and ready to be angry. Many of them have been put upon for so much of their lives by white people with white assumptions, innuendos, and fears that it often takes very little to trigger the pent up rage. Mrs. Johnson was no child. She had been a victim before.
For my part, as a rather sheltered, white 19-year-old, I just wanted to be fair-minded, and to not do anything wrong or cause any trouble. I felt horrible. My understanding of her anger was very limited at that time. It was wholly theoretical. Over the years, and especially following my marriage to a black man, I began to build a knack for walking in black people’s moccasins, as much as that can be done. But at 19, my sheltered upbringing rendered me clueless.
And speaking of our security guard, his name was Bill Bailey. No kidding. He was a large, jolly man with a huge laugh and a high-pitched voice that belied his size. I liked him a lot.
One day I was taking my break in the cafeteria next door and Bill was taking his at the same time. The topic turned to Dysentery, and I expressed some bewilderment about who would care to impregnate a woman with her personal hygiene issues.
(Okay, I was catty. All right, I was VERY catty.)
Bill, who was also kind of catty, explained that Dysentery was a “two-bagger.” It was my first exposure to the term. He explained that with her handicap, it wasn’t enough to put a bag over her head in bed. He’d have to put a bag over his own, just in case hers slipped off.
Yes, it was catty, but I laughed.
Bill was part of a most memorable tale about my employment. A man approached me one day as I was stocking the stationary aisle. He had some sort of deformities. His wire-rimmed eyeglasses had one lens blackened out over the outer half with a felt marker. He was wearing a back pack and also a strap around his neck that held an electronic device that contained a keyboard. The keyboard was cushioned all around it. As he walked, he lurched very dramatically from one side to the other so that the keyboard banged against his rib cage violently. Hence, the cushion.
He brought to me a package of black tape. It was the kind that loads into a label maker. Your message is pressed into the tape and it comes out the other end of the label maker. There is an adhesive backing that peels off.
This gentleman was unable to speak. He pointed at the tape, then pointed at the blackened out half of his glasses lens, and grunted with an upturned sound as if he was asking me a question.
I said, “Sure, that should work. You want to stick the tape on your glasses? Yes, I believe the adhesive should hold.”
He gave me a huge, toothy grin. He lurched backwards three or four steps and pushed two buttons on the keyboard around his neck.
The mechanism said, “THANK YOU” in a deep, electronic voice that was not at all human-sounding. Then the man lurched away, machinery banging against him.
I stood there for a moment, motionless.
Bill came up behind me, and with an astonishing intuition, read my mind, and said to me, “In case you were wondering, you didn’t imagine that. It happened. I saw it, too.”
Ten years passed, and I encounterd that man again with the unusual handicap and the technology to thwart it. He was in a quick copy store making photocopies of the newspaper article that had been written about him.
The bus lines brought families from outlying parts of the city, and with them, some poignant early lessons for me about the ravages of being poor.
For instance, if she had been a wealthy woman, the lady with a face decorated with tumors might have been able to have them removed. The tumors looked like in-shell pecans hanging from thin pieces of skin on her face and they swung back and forth as she turned her head. They were like Christmas tree ornaments, but weren’t festive at all.
The woman whose right eye was greatly enlarged, dead, hooded, and located where her cheekbone should have been might have also had some help, if she had had some money.
With poverty also comes ignorance quite a lot of the time, and as a dedicated employee, the onus was on me to provide simple, kind answers to some customer questions that defied reason with their stupidity, but originated from a place where the customer simply could not help himself.
One such event was very telling. My boss, Mr. L. was a wonderful guy with an outgoing, sanguine temperament and a loyalty to his employees that I wish I could have enjoyed in one or two jobs I’ve had since.
An angry woman confronted him one day. She was bringing back a punch bowl she had purchased. Her objection was that the punch bowl came with only six drinking cups when she believed it was supposed to have eight. She was adamant. Mr. L pointed out that the box listed the contents as one large punch bowl, six drinking cups and a ladle.
She didn’t care. She had gotten the box home and opened it and found that the packaging was such that there was room for two more cups, but they weren’t there. A cup rested in each of the four corners of the box on two levels, so her confusion was somewhat justified. There were two empty spaces, but the box was clearly labeled.
Repeated reminders that only six cups were promised on the box was to no avail. At last he refunded her money and she stormed out, furious that it took such a fight to get her money for a product that was obviously defective.
I didn’t understand. The box clearly said six, and the picture on the box showed six cups. Why on earth could she not be made to understand?
Mr. L understood. He had been at this a few years and explained it to me: the woman had never learned to read. The contents list on the box meant nothing to her, and having suffered for years with this particular handicap, she had grown accustomed to being cheated, and had learned to be distrustful. So, my anger washed away, and my heart went out to her. She became an object lesson to me in the value of literacy and culture.
There were many object lessons for me in that drug store. I was a college student when I took the job, and I often wonder if it was college or the drug store that provided the richest education.
A teenager was hired after I had been there a year or two. Her name was Angie, but we’ll call her “Dipshit,” at least for purposes of this narrative. She was moderately pretty, but lacking in savvy. Her behavior soon began to manifest a terrible self esteem, and a knack for self destruction.
So when regular customer, Louis the Pimp found her stocking the toothpaste aisle, he asked her for a date. He was 25 years older than she, lived down the street in a flea bag hotel, and was well known for selling girls whom he drugged regularly to keep them compliant. Knowing this was not enough to dissuade Dipshit from spending the night with him. And it took all of a ten-minute conversation for Louis to make the arrangement.
The next day, Louis came by the store again. He came in regularly to buy cough syrup which he was rumored to combine with some other drug as a cocktail for his girls. He told Helen, who managed the tobacco department, that he was throwing Dipshit back in the water. She was too inexperienced to make him any money.
I was pretty sure that Dipshit didn’t even know that her night of passion was actually a test drive. But the fact that he never spoke to her again didn’t seem to bother her.
She didn’t stay with the company long. Her lack of common sense, I suspect, was her career’s undoing.
The object lesson to me that time was visceral. I, too, was young and inexperienced. But I learned a lot that day about the value of thinking well of oneself. And how ugly some men are to women.
And I came away from that lesson feeling a bit charmed. Louis the Pimp was, after all, routinely very nice to me. He never offered such a suggestion, but he did buy me Cokes and candy bars. When I asked him frankly about his line of work, he would say, “Oh, baby, don’t make me lie to you.”
There were some ugly women, too. One of them was hired about the same time as Dipshit. The pejorative nickname I gave this new employee was “The Dysentery Kid.” This, because she was filthy and smelled like a urinal whenever she came to work.
She seemed like a nice enough person, but ravaged by poverty like so many in that community, and I wondered if she had working plumbing at her home. Surely her personal hygiene, or lack thereof, would not be a personal choice. And I liked her, but from a safe distance.
She wore garish make up, wildly teased hair, and ill-fitting thrift store clothes. Dysentery was hired to take the places of various workers who had scheduled vacation time including, unfortunately, Rose, the pharmacy technician.
On Dysentery’s first day in the pharmacy, she arrived at work wearing her white uniform, flaming blue eyeshadow and a huge Dolly Parton blonde wig.
Mr. L. was embarrassed and felt that such a get-up would compromise the credibility of the pharmacy department.
I kept my mouth shut. I believed that someone who smells so unclean and looks so unwashed will compromise the credibility of the entire store no matter what department she worked in. But I wasn’t in charge.
He sent her home to change.
So, given Dysentery’s odor, appearance, and over all lack of good taste, it was a great surprise to me when she announced once at the lunch table that she was with child. I honestly wondered what kind of man would DO that, but, as I said, I was young and inexperienced.
The lunch break at the store was a great chance to socialize and develop the close friendships that I cherished during my tenure at there. There was, of course, the sense of community and team spirit that happens on a lot of jobs. Plus, there were the shared goals of servicing such an eclectic clientele while we all sought to keep our sense of humor.
For the few months following Dysentery’s announcement, the lunch crowd was regaled with stories about her pregnancy. We heard about the morning sickness, the kicking fetus, the frequent trips to the girls room, and the shopping for baby clothes in second hand stores. While this was not her first child, nothing was said about the father, so we didn’t know if he was in the picture. None of her other kids appeared to have fathers in the picture.
The stupid thing I said occurred one week when Dysentery was back in the pharmacy. She was wearing that white uniform to work again, and had it on when she arrived and stopped at my counter on her way to the locker room. I was in the cosmetics department that day, and that was where employee purchases occurred. She set down a box of tampons on the counter, but wouldn’t look at me while I rang them up and calculated her discount.
The stupid thing I said was, “I thought you were off these things for a few more months.”
She looked at me and her expression was one of pain, loathing and contempt. She grabbed her purchase and marched away from me. As she did, I noticed that the backside of her white uniform was soaked in blood.
She had miscarried on the bus.
My education continued as this drug store offered a comprehensive tour into the nuances of race relations.
On the good side, there was Gene. Gene was an elderly black man who sold newspapers at a stand across the street. He shopped with us regularly, and always talked to me in his gentle, homespun way. He delighted me frequently when he paid me for his package of cigars. He would reach across my counter and touch my lily-white earlobe with his finger. Then he would put the finger in his mouth, smile, and say, “Mmmm, good! Vanilla!” Something about that gesture warmed me to my toes. It still does.
But not all of my attempts at race relations were as joyful. One regular customer, a dark-skinned lady, came through my check out line one afternoon. She presented a large leather bag, black, with a zipper top. She unzipped it and began pulling out the items she had to purchase.
Now, I don’t believe that what I said to her should have been a cause for so much anger, but she sure did, and that’s where my education took a leap forward.
“Mrs. Johnson, you know, we have shopping baskets for you to use. I’m afraid that if you are seen putting items into a container like that, there might be an misunderstanding with the security guard.”
She went off. She hurled accusations at me that, at the core, suggested that I assumed that since she is black, she must therefore be stealing.
Now, it was true that there was a lot of pilferage at that store, and it was also true that we had a large black clientele. And I dare say it was true that many of the shoplifters who were stopped at the door were of African descent. And all of those facts were admittedly in my mind when I made the remark. But I merely meant to express that Mrs. Johnson was borrowing trouble for herself.
One important lesson here, as I furthered my education, is that racism can appear very quietly. It can be a hidden enemy lurking surreptitiously in the heart and can jump out unexpectedly and without intention.
And, to mix a metaphor, it isn’t always black and white. There are shades of grey. On the bad side, I may have assumed that Mrs. Johnson was at higher risk of being misunderstood because of her race. On the good side, the side where I defend myself, I was just giving her a heads up. But in my heart, the lines were blurred.
Another important lesson for me here is one that was repeated for years. To wit: black folks, especially poor ones, are often poised and ready to be angry. Many of them have been put upon for so much of their lives by white people with white assumptions, innuendos, and fears that it often takes very little to trigger the pent up rage. Mrs. Johnson was no child. She had been a victim before.
For my part, as a rather sheltered, white 19-year-old, I just wanted to be fair-minded, and to not do anything wrong or cause any trouble. I felt horrible. My understanding of her anger was very limited at that time. It was wholly theoretical. Over the years, and especially following my marriage to a black man, I began to build a knack for walking in black people’s moccasins, as much as that can be done. But at 19, my sheltered upbringing rendered me clueless.
And speaking of our security guard, his name was Bill Bailey. No kidding. He was a large, jolly man with a huge laugh and a high-pitched voice that belied his size. I liked him a lot.
One day I was taking my break in the cafeteria next door and Bill was taking his at the same time. The topic turned to Dysentery, and I expressed some bewilderment about who would care to impregnate a woman with her personal hygiene issues.
(Okay, I was catty. All right, I was VERY catty.)
Bill, who was also kind of catty, explained that Dysentery was a “two-bagger.” It was my first exposure to the term. He explained that with her handicap, it wasn’t enough to put a bag over her head in bed. He’d have to put a bag over his own, just in case hers slipped off.
Yes, it was catty, but I laughed.
Bill was part of a most memorable tale about my employment. A man approached me one day as I was stocking the stationary aisle. He had some sort of deformities. His wire-rimmed eyeglasses had one lens blackened out over the outer half with a felt marker. He was wearing a back pack and also a strap around his neck that held an electronic device that contained a keyboard. The keyboard was cushioned all around it. As he walked, he lurched very dramatically from one side to the other so that the keyboard banged against his rib cage violently. Hence, the cushion.
He brought to me a package of black tape. It was the kind that loads into a label maker. Your message is pressed into the tape and it comes out the other end of the label maker. There is an adhesive backing that peels off.
This gentleman was unable to speak. He pointed at the tape, then pointed at the blackened out half of his glasses lens, and grunted with an upturned sound as if he was asking me a question.
I said, “Sure, that should work. You want to stick the tape on your glasses? Yes, I believe the adhesive should hold.”
He gave me a huge, toothy grin. He lurched backwards three or four steps and pushed two buttons on the keyboard around his neck.
The mechanism said, “THANK YOU” in a deep, electronic voice that was not at all human-sounding. Then the man lurched away, machinery banging against him.
I stood there for a moment, motionless.
Bill came up behind me, and with an astonishing intuition, read my mind, and said to me, “In case you were wondering, you didn’t imagine that. It happened. I saw it, too.”
Ten years passed, and I encounterd that man again with the unusual handicap and the technology to thwart it. He was in a quick copy store making photocopies of the newspaper article that had been written about him.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sound Days
Did you know that I have sound days? I believe this is also monthly cycle-related, but I discovered several years ago that on one or two days of a given month, I will be driven crazy by sound. The slightest unpleasant noise that normally will make me mildly notice it will, on a sound day, drive me freaking insane.
Once I was in Ste Genevieve with Carl and Lynn and we went into an ice cream parlor. The workers, many of them, were wearing rubber soled shoes that continually squeaked loudly and unpleasantly as they stopped and started on the ceramic floor. I was a crazy person wanting to get out of there. The sound was slicing thru my nervous system like a laser beam thru Jello.
Don't, on a sound day, let me be around a crying baby. I'll strangle the little shit. And rap music . . . OMG!!!
Once I was in Ste Genevieve with Carl and Lynn and we went into an ice cream parlor. The workers, many of them, were wearing rubber soled shoes that continually squeaked loudly and unpleasantly as they stopped and started on the ceramic floor. I was a crazy person wanting to get out of there. The sound was slicing thru my nervous system like a laser beam thru Jello.
Don't, on a sound day, let me be around a crying baby. I'll strangle the little shit. And rap music . . . OMG!!!
Friday, February 8, 2008
Kirkwood Tragedy
The news out of Kirkwood, MO is very sad. An enraged citizen stormed Kirkwood City Hall last night and killed five people before police returned fire, killing him.
The local news was all over it last night. One intrepid reporter, the cute and blond Laurie Waters was under great pressure because she was trying so hard to report without actually reporting. On the immediate heels of this tragedy, she WANTED to say that Mr. Thornton was enraged because the Kirkwood city council tends to mistreat everyone in Meacham Park (the black community of Kirkwood), and that he was among an entire neighborhood that had been disenfranchised by tax money-driven aldermen who have legislated in favor of businesses and not these residents.
In a story she reported last year, she learned some rather esoteric facts about this community which were apparently reinforced with this incident. Those facts speak to how a community of black people can be collectively enraged at their government.
But she couldn't say that because a) there is no excuse for slaughtering five people, and b) the community had just finished last week with the trial of the (black) man who shot and killed a (white) police sargent in Meacham Park in a senseless revenge shooting. The assailant was sentenced to death after a second trial.
I got the strong impression that Laurie felt a wave of understanding and sympathy for what Thornton and many other residents had endured at the hands of the city council, but was struggling with words that could express that without sounding like she was siding with a mass murderer.
It's a sad day here.
This whole thing reminds me of a social phenomenon I have come to think of as "the terrorist scapegoat." I first noticed it in the 80s when I was studying Northern Ireland and reaching out with my heart to the disenfranchised, disrespected, disallowed, dissed people there. It goes like this:
Your government or some other authority continuously acts unfairly toward you. You try to redress your grievances. You point out how unfair it is. You catalog all the ways that the system is set up to disable you from helping yourself and your family--from even surviving. You file papers and law suits and you write letters. You try to get the community to join you. You go on petition drives. You try to behave like someone who lives in a democracy (even though you don't).
Your complaints fall on deaf ears. The system is set up as it is on purpose, and if the set up is not deliberately designed to hurt and/or kill you, it is at least true that those in charge don't care about you. You are part of a second class citizenry and your concerns and grief will never, ever be important to those in charge.
So, you protest. You use every small bit of resources to defend your life you can find. In Northern Ireland in the early 70s, those dismissed people even resorted to peaceful protests carrying placards and singing "We Shall Overcome," taking their queue from Dr. Martin Luther King.
They were shot at by police. Fourteen unarmed men and boys were killed when they were struck in their backs as they ran away. This happened on Bloody Sunday. You may recall the U2 song of the same name about that tragedy.
So you then learn, sometimes after years of acute frustration that you cannot get anywhere by legal means.
It was once said that the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over and over and expect a different result.
So, since you are not insane, you do something different. In your frustration you feel forced to do something violent. You do something unforgivably ghastly. You act against your own nature and the sensibilities of the entire society.
And it works! The outcome has changed! Now, not only are you ineffectual in your quest to live and prosper, you are also a societal pariah. In the case of Cookie Thornton, you are a nutball, a kook, a madman. In the case of the Northern Irish Catholics, you're a terrorist.
And all you're trying to do is survive.
Disclaimer: I don't agree with Thornton storming into a city council meeting and killing people. Certainly not. I don't justify it, but I do understand it. He is coming from a disenfranchised community that has banged it's head on a brick wall for a long time with no efficacy.
This tragedy is a microcosm of race relations in this entire country. But will we learn from it? I doubt it. We don't learn from much as a society if we can find a way to assign blame to someone and keep it off of ourselves.
The local news was all over it last night. One intrepid reporter, the cute and blond Laurie Waters was under great pressure because she was trying so hard to report without actually reporting. On the immediate heels of this tragedy, she WANTED to say that Mr. Thornton was enraged because the Kirkwood city council tends to mistreat everyone in Meacham Park (the black community of Kirkwood), and that he was among an entire neighborhood that had been disenfranchised by tax money-driven aldermen who have legislated in favor of businesses and not these residents.
In a story she reported last year, she learned some rather esoteric facts about this community which were apparently reinforced with this incident. Those facts speak to how a community of black people can be collectively enraged at their government.
But she couldn't say that because a) there is no excuse for slaughtering five people, and b) the community had just finished last week with the trial of the (black) man who shot and killed a (white) police sargent in Meacham Park in a senseless revenge shooting. The assailant was sentenced to death after a second trial.
I got the strong impression that Laurie felt a wave of understanding and sympathy for what Thornton and many other residents had endured at the hands of the city council, but was struggling with words that could express that without sounding like she was siding with a mass murderer.
It's a sad day here.
This whole thing reminds me of a social phenomenon I have come to think of as "the terrorist scapegoat." I first noticed it in the 80s when I was studying Northern Ireland and reaching out with my heart to the disenfranchised, disrespected, disallowed, dissed people there. It goes like this:
Your government or some other authority continuously acts unfairly toward you. You try to redress your grievances. You point out how unfair it is. You catalog all the ways that the system is set up to disable you from helping yourself and your family--from even surviving. You file papers and law suits and you write letters. You try to get the community to join you. You go on petition drives. You try to behave like someone who lives in a democracy (even though you don't).
Your complaints fall on deaf ears. The system is set up as it is on purpose, and if the set up is not deliberately designed to hurt and/or kill you, it is at least true that those in charge don't care about you. You are part of a second class citizenry and your concerns and grief will never, ever be important to those in charge.
So, you protest. You use every small bit of resources to defend your life you can find. In Northern Ireland in the early 70s, those dismissed people even resorted to peaceful protests carrying placards and singing "We Shall Overcome," taking their queue from Dr. Martin Luther King.
They were shot at by police. Fourteen unarmed men and boys were killed when they were struck in their backs as they ran away. This happened on Bloody Sunday. You may recall the U2 song of the same name about that tragedy.
So you then learn, sometimes after years of acute frustration that you cannot get anywhere by legal means.
It was once said that the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over and over and expect a different result.
So, since you are not insane, you do something different. In your frustration you feel forced to do something violent. You do something unforgivably ghastly. You act against your own nature and the sensibilities of the entire society.
And it works! The outcome has changed! Now, not only are you ineffectual in your quest to live and prosper, you are also a societal pariah. In the case of Cookie Thornton, you are a nutball, a kook, a madman. In the case of the Northern Irish Catholics, you're a terrorist.
And all you're trying to do is survive.
Disclaimer: I don't agree with Thornton storming into a city council meeting and killing people. Certainly not. I don't justify it, but I do understand it. He is coming from a disenfranchised community that has banged it's head on a brick wall for a long time with no efficacy.
This tragedy is a microcosm of race relations in this entire country. But will we learn from it? I doubt it. We don't learn from much as a society if we can find a way to assign blame to someone and keep it off of ourselves.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Metaphor
Here is the epitaph that Benjamin Franklin wrote for himself in 1728. It was saved and used even though he didn’t die until 1790:
The Body
Of
Benjamin Franklin
Printer
(Like the cover of an old book, its contents torn out
And stripped of its lettering and gilding)
Lies here, food for worms.
But the work shall not be lost.
For it will (as he believes) appear once more
In a new and more elegant edition
Revised and corrected
by
The Author.
Of
Benjamin Franklin
Printer
(Like the cover of an old book, its contents torn out
And stripped of its lettering and gilding)
Lies here, food for worms.
But the work shall not be lost.
For it will (as he believes) appear once more
In a new and more elegant edition
Revised and corrected
by
The Author.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
One of My Freedom Fighter Friends
Recently I thought of my friend, Jim G. We became acquainted when I was politically active. He has been active in leftist politics all over this country for several decades. Jim had a very admirable grasp on the spirit of political struggling. Many people who lean the way I do have no trouble grasping that trade unions are vital to keep management from abusing and lowering the standard of living of the workers. Few argue that the struggle involves rich people whose power is in their money, and poor people whose power is in their numbers. The way for the ruling class to get over is to help us divide ourselves up into isolated groups so we don’t avail ourselves of our power. Hatred of one group for other groups is a good way to do that. Not everyone gets, however, that fighting racism and bigotry is essential if working people are to maintain their standard of living.
This principle is axiomatic to Jim. And when I say that he fought racism and bigotry, I mean exactly that. He has many interesting tales to tell about his adventures defending his beliefs. Here is one I heard:
Jim is a member of an organization that publishes material and supports counter demonstrations against hate groups who commit hate crimes. He is hip to the skin head music and how it is designed to lure young people into blaming other races for everything that goes wrong. Immigrants are taking our jobs; Jews are controlling the economy; blacks are responsible for all the crime, that sort of thing. Getting people to hate each other for any reason you care to create is useful, but if you can incite bigotry on the basis of some perceived economic threat, like the stealing of jobs, that is real hard to break through.
Jim’s group helped sponsor an event where a speaker was engaged to tell a largely upper middle class Jewish group what he suffered during the Holocaust and how he survived the concentration camps. He was in his eighties when the speaking engagement occurred. Jim’s comrades got word somehow that a small party of skin heads intended to raid the event, which was taking place in the basement of a school auditorium or something, I think, and to try to knock some heads around. As a precaution, Jim’s group assigned the speaker a bodyguard. Jim was posted at the door to look out for trouble. As the speaker and the bodyguard were walking from the parking lot toward the building, five or six hooligans intervened and began summarily beating up this elderly Jewish man. Jim ran inside where people were milling about, beginning to take their seats. He yelled, “I need some help out here! I need some help right now!” No one moved a muscle. A few peered out the window and saw the attack, but no one rose to help. Someone at some point called the police, but Jim, the bodyguard and the old man were left alone to fight off the attackers who outnumbered them two to one.
Jim said they did well. Jim, as I indicated, has been in a few scrapes defending his beliefs. What surprised him, though (and me), is that the old man got in pretty many good licks himself. He held his own against these bullies who were old enough to be his great-grandchildren.
The skin heads were losing by the time the police got there. Jim was sitting on one of them. A couple more had fled. Witnesses were able to straighten the police out on who were the good guys and who were not. The cops took out the trash.
This principle is axiomatic to Jim. And when I say that he fought racism and bigotry, I mean exactly that. He has many interesting tales to tell about his adventures defending his beliefs. Here is one I heard:
Jim is a member of an organization that publishes material and supports counter demonstrations against hate groups who commit hate crimes. He is hip to the skin head music and how it is designed to lure young people into blaming other races for everything that goes wrong. Immigrants are taking our jobs; Jews are controlling the economy; blacks are responsible for all the crime, that sort of thing. Getting people to hate each other for any reason you care to create is useful, but if you can incite bigotry on the basis of some perceived economic threat, like the stealing of jobs, that is real hard to break through.
Jim’s group helped sponsor an event where a speaker was engaged to tell a largely upper middle class Jewish group what he suffered during the Holocaust and how he survived the concentration camps. He was in his eighties when the speaking engagement occurred. Jim’s comrades got word somehow that a small party of skin heads intended to raid the event, which was taking place in the basement of a school auditorium or something, I think, and to try to knock some heads around. As a precaution, Jim’s group assigned the speaker a bodyguard. Jim was posted at the door to look out for trouble. As the speaker and the bodyguard were walking from the parking lot toward the building, five or six hooligans intervened and began summarily beating up this elderly Jewish man. Jim ran inside where people were milling about, beginning to take their seats. He yelled, “I need some help out here! I need some help right now!” No one moved a muscle. A few peered out the window and saw the attack, but no one rose to help. Someone at some point called the police, but Jim, the bodyguard and the old man were left alone to fight off the attackers who outnumbered them two to one.
Jim said they did well. Jim, as I indicated, has been in a few scrapes defending his beliefs. What surprised him, though (and me), is that the old man got in pretty many good licks himself. He held his own against these bullies who were old enough to be his great-grandchildren.
The skin heads were losing by the time the police got there. Jim was sitting on one of them. A couple more had fled. Witnesses were able to straighten the police out on who were the good guys and who were not. The cops took out the trash.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Japanese Prison Camps and the ER
It has come to my attention that emergency room workers are not at all faced with the same problems depicted on “ER.” Chris’ sister, Julie, was an emergency room nurse in Indianapolis for several years. The hospital was in the city and one would presume that she would be treating a plethora of gunshot wounds, stab wounds and drug overdoses more than anything else. Not necessarily. Julie reports that overwhelmingly the lion’s share of cases she saw involved a variety of foreign objects jammed up where, as it were, the sun don’t shine. There has been everything from light bulbs to wrist watches, Coke bottles to small furry animals that have made their homes in someone’s hiney. Anything even vaguely phallic has been tried. Julie says the worst part is keeping a straight face during the fantastic stories that patients will concoct to explain how this occurred. The part that mystifies me is this: these folks with the anal retentive fetish could easily go into a sex toy store and purchase an item designed for this purpose and which presumably would be much easier to extract when the festivities were concluded than, say, a light bulb would be. (Lord! Can you imagine what someone would face if it broke?!) But they apparently feel that shopping at Dr. John’s Love Land is somehow MORE humiliating than explaining to emergency room personnel that one has a flashlight lodged in one’s rectum.
All of this is terribly funny to me while it is tragic. I know I should not judge people if I have not walked a mile in their mocassins, but I guess I never will. I hereby declare henceforth and for all time that my bottom is off limits to all flashlights, baseball bats, light bulbs or frozen sausages. One er nurse herself destroyed her sphincter by continually inserting frozen sausages. So much so that she would be on duty in the er and suddenly soil herself because she no longer had control.
One patient arrived at Julie’s hospital DOA. He was wearing a red lace teddy and high heels and had a vibrator protruding from his arse. He was a retired army colonel who had had a heart attack during “war games.” His wife didn’t seem to mind the embarrassing condition in which he had been found. She was largely concerned with having the corpse removed from the hallway. I guess she was expecting company.
While we’re on the topic, Chris disclosed another tragic story of a woman who delivered a healthy baby at the hospital, and a butt. There was a second undeveloped fetus accompanying the healthy one and all that developed of the other one was a butt. I am not able to describe or imagine what a butt looks like scooting down the birth canal all by itself, but that’s how the story goes. The parents of the baby and the butt were not upset by the tragedy. The baby was healthy and I guess they were never told of a second fetus, so it wasn’t a really big deal to them. But it is somehow disturbingly reminiscent of a 1950s B movie, or the cover of a grocery store newspaper.
Julie has experienced many horrible things during her er tenure. Abscesses the size of marshmallows that stink enough to make one sick—that sort of thing. There are many more stories, but they are disgusting.
My friend, Chris, has interesting interests. Most men in his demographic bracket are interested in sports, cars, music, that kind of thing. Chris is interested in Japanese prison camps. He talks about them all the time and shares with me anecdotal information about life inside one.
During World War II there were a number of American and European service women who were detained in Japanese prison camps. When their monthly cycles were on, these women were each given a rag about 10 or 12 inches square. They were told to embroider their initials in the rag so that each woman would get her own back after laundering. Laundering consisted of sending some poor helper around the camp with a bucket of luke warm water. The soiled rags were thrown into the water and swished around a bit, wrung out and returned to their owners. Of course each woman only had to endure this level of filth for 24 months or so. After 2 years the effects of the malnutrition and horribly unsanitary living conditions would set in and the women stopped menstruating all together anyway. Makes me feel grateful whenever I drive past a Walgreens.
I spoke to Chris recently and asked for elaboration about the report about his sister’s emergency room chore of having to remove assorted phallic devices from people’s poop shoots. He emphasized that, invariably, the patient claims the incident occurred when he/she accidentally sat on the offending object. This is how one young lady explained being violated by a Ball Park frank which then broke off inside her. She was unable to remove it unaided. I remarked to Chris that this is completely plausible; I often sit on my dinner plate in the nude and later find a bratwurst lodged somewhere I didn’t intend. It’s a constant worry. He agreed, citing the proliferation of items that are always “plunging” up his butt.
Why, it’s a wonder any of us can ever stroll through a hardware store in peace without some rogue hand tool assaulting us, or through any ordinary grocery store without having to fight off rogue zucchinis and cucumbers that would attack us from every side.
All of this is terribly funny to me while it is tragic. I know I should not judge people if I have not walked a mile in their mocassins, but I guess I never will. I hereby declare henceforth and for all time that my bottom is off limits to all flashlights, baseball bats, light bulbs or frozen sausages. One er nurse herself destroyed her sphincter by continually inserting frozen sausages. So much so that she would be on duty in the er and suddenly soil herself because she no longer had control.
One patient arrived at Julie’s hospital DOA. He was wearing a red lace teddy and high heels and had a vibrator protruding from his arse. He was a retired army colonel who had had a heart attack during “war games.” His wife didn’t seem to mind the embarrassing condition in which he had been found. She was largely concerned with having the corpse removed from the hallway. I guess she was expecting company.
While we’re on the topic, Chris disclosed another tragic story of a woman who delivered a healthy baby at the hospital, and a butt. There was a second undeveloped fetus accompanying the healthy one and all that developed of the other one was a butt. I am not able to describe or imagine what a butt looks like scooting down the birth canal all by itself, but that’s how the story goes. The parents of the baby and the butt were not upset by the tragedy. The baby was healthy and I guess they were never told of a second fetus, so it wasn’t a really big deal to them. But it is somehow disturbingly reminiscent of a 1950s B movie, or the cover of a grocery store newspaper.
Julie has experienced many horrible things during her er tenure. Abscesses the size of marshmallows that stink enough to make one sick—that sort of thing. There are many more stories, but they are disgusting.
My friend, Chris, has interesting interests. Most men in his demographic bracket are interested in sports, cars, music, that kind of thing. Chris is interested in Japanese prison camps. He talks about them all the time and shares with me anecdotal information about life inside one.
During World War II there were a number of American and European service women who were detained in Japanese prison camps. When their monthly cycles were on, these women were each given a rag about 10 or 12 inches square. They were told to embroider their initials in the rag so that each woman would get her own back after laundering. Laundering consisted of sending some poor helper around the camp with a bucket of luke warm water. The soiled rags were thrown into the water and swished around a bit, wrung out and returned to their owners. Of course each woman only had to endure this level of filth for 24 months or so. After 2 years the effects of the malnutrition and horribly unsanitary living conditions would set in and the women stopped menstruating all together anyway. Makes me feel grateful whenever I drive past a Walgreens.
I spoke to Chris recently and asked for elaboration about the report about his sister’s emergency room chore of having to remove assorted phallic devices from people’s poop shoots. He emphasized that, invariably, the patient claims the incident occurred when he/she accidentally sat on the offending object. This is how one young lady explained being violated by a Ball Park frank which then broke off inside her. She was unable to remove it unaided. I remarked to Chris that this is completely plausible; I often sit on my dinner plate in the nude and later find a bratwurst lodged somewhere I didn’t intend. It’s a constant worry. He agreed, citing the proliferation of items that are always “plunging” up his butt.
Why, it’s a wonder any of us can ever stroll through a hardware store in peace without some rogue hand tool assaulting us, or through any ordinary grocery store without having to fight off rogue zucchinis and cucumbers that would attack us from every side.
Fermentation
I moved back in with my dad after my divorce, and the experience was good for both of us. He was less lonely, and I certainly was. One feature of my father's taste that will always stay in my memory was his fondness for pineapple-grapefruit juice. He always had some on hand. To lengthen its refrigerator life, he would pour it out of the can it came in and into a glass bottle with a screw-on cap. That way, it never tasted like the can, and was easier to pour.
Not long after I moved back home, I introduced him to Laura Haskell, and they were constant companions until she died. When she got sick with cancer, he moved to her house to care for her and left me to take care of our house. Me and the pineapple-grapefruit juice.
Trouble is, I didn't care for pineapple-grapefruit juice. It sat in the fridge for a long while, unmolested by me. I never drank it. I never opened it.
One day I came home from work, opened the fridge and found the result of the life threatening disaster that I had averted. The juice bottle had exploded. The juice had fermented, generating gas pressure inside the sealed bottle and on that particular day, the pressure exceeded the bottle's strength and an explosion occurred inside the refrigerator.
Tiny shards of glass were stuck to the inside of the fridge, glued on by dried juice. The shards covered much of the refrigerator walls, and all of the other items within. It was a horrible mess, and I took great care cleaning it up as the shards were tiny and very sharp.
I have thought many times in the years that have past what would have become of me if fate had dealt me a very bad hand and I had opened the fridge at the moment of critical mass. And I shudder. And I am thankful.
Not long after I moved back home, I introduced him to Laura Haskell, and they were constant companions until she died. When she got sick with cancer, he moved to her house to care for her and left me to take care of our house. Me and the pineapple-grapefruit juice.
Trouble is, I didn't care for pineapple-grapefruit juice. It sat in the fridge for a long while, unmolested by me. I never drank it. I never opened it.
One day I came home from work, opened the fridge and found the result of the life threatening disaster that I had averted. The juice bottle had exploded. The juice had fermented, generating gas pressure inside the sealed bottle and on that particular day, the pressure exceeded the bottle's strength and an explosion occurred inside the refrigerator.
Tiny shards of glass were stuck to the inside of the fridge, glued on by dried juice. The shards covered much of the refrigerator walls, and all of the other items within. It was a horrible mess, and I took great care cleaning it up as the shards were tiny and very sharp.
I have thought many times in the years that have past what would have become of me if fate had dealt me a very bad hand and I had opened the fridge at the moment of critical mass. And I shudder. And I am thankful.
More from About 1996
When at the studio about a year ago, Carl received a call from a man named Bill Roberts who had heard of Carl, we don’t know how. He wanted photos taken of his karate students and his studio. Carl invited him to studio to consult on project. Bill & Carl got friendly, but not too friendly, and Bill ended up bringing his good bud Rudy over one night when I was at the studio with Carl. I helped hostess the pair while Carl took portraits of them. I did not think much of them. They appeared to be young undisciplined men whose main goal in life is to hunt pussy. In fact, they repeatedly invited Carl to go hunt with them reasoning that he could say he is a talent agent and they’d all get over on women because of it. Carl did not participate, but Bill and Rudy emphasized how stupid women are for believing the completely bogus lies they would tell to get the women into bed. They were disdainful of all women because all of them are so stupid.
You are about to see these two men DEFINE stupid.
Anyway, Carl took the pictures and Rudy flirted with me, and Bill was more respectful, but still gawked at me because, well lets face it, I’m female, and that seems the only criterion.
There were other studio visits that I was not present for. During one, Bill brought a middle aged woman and a homeless teenager whom the woman was helping out. They invited Carl to go out partying with them, but he declined. The woman ostensibly was going to let Sarah, the teenager, stay at her house since Sarah had been booted out of wherever she had called home, as she was penniless and lost. She is also dark-haired, slender and petite, with the face of an angel and the IQ of a paper clip.
A short time later, Bill called and reported to Carl that the woman had become tired of Sarah and had kicked her out. Since Bill was the only one Sarah claimed to know, she called him and begged for help.
Sarah ended up staying at Bill’s karate studio, and I do mean staying. He locked her in when he left for the day and only let her out when he came back in the evening to have sex with her. Not to be controlled, Sarah welcomed Rudy daily. Rudy climbed through the one unlocked window to get in to have sex with Sarah also. Sarah told Carl (whom she began phoning because she had nothing else to do) that it was real cool that she was getting over on Bill with Rudy. Later it was discovered that Bill and Rudy were laughing at her for being so stupid because, of course, Bill was sharing her with Rudy. She remained a prisoner and a sex slave until she became pregnant by Bill (probably, but who knows?) and he paid for her abortion. She promptly got pregnant again. Soon after, Bill tired of her and dumped her at the door of some woman in South St. Louis who helps out pregnant homeless teenagers.
Recently Sarah gave birth and Bill promised her and her aunt with whom she has just found a home, that he intends to take care of her and of the baby and see to it that they have everything they need. He also wants to be a good dad.
This, however, won’t transpire. Last week Bill and Rudy and a third man, Derek, I think, were arrested for having abducted a 27-year-old woman outside a night club in East St. Louis. They rendered her unconscious with a stun gun, took her to north St. Louis where they raped her and beat her. Evidently they raped her not only with their bodies, but an assortment of foreign objects. Jane Doe is very very messed up. These stupid bastards abducted her in her own car and then parked it over night in front of the home of one of them. They were all arrested the next day.
The newspaper said that Derek was the only one of the three who did not sexually assault Jane, but Bill told Sarah when he phoned her from jail that he was the one who had left her alone in that way. But he is in the trouble because it was his stun gun. His bond is $75,000. The bonds on the other two are $100,000 and $150,000. We don’t know if this is true or if Bill is lying to protect his image with Sarah. He’s that stupid.
Bill’s mom told Sarah that if he gets a really fantastic lawyer who will achieve the optimum possible plea bargain, Bill will only face 25 years in prison. We don’t know details, but Bill apparently admitted to Sarah or her aunt that they did things to this woman that were unspeakable.
I am very upset about this and have not been able to get it off my mind since I heard about it. Sarah’s aunt said to Carl, “I can’t believe I let this person in my home!” I can relate. I can’t believe I let him in my studio and sat there and chatted with him.
I do think this: The first earmark of unbridled stupidity was defined when these two knuckleheads revealed a disrespectful view of women. Whenever you allow yourself to believe that any woman is stupid for going to bed with you, then you must not think much of yourself, huh?
Add to that, if women are all stupid, especially ones that can be seduced, then you disable yourself. If you cut yourself off from the equity that women have in their intellects, dismissing them, and using them as holes, then you disable yourself. Surely there are some stupid women out there. Surely. But there are also stupid men, and these two are poster boys for that group.
I'm completely fine with these cretins spending 25 years or more in prison. The world can do without them. But I've learned a lot from this tale.
You are about to see these two men DEFINE stupid.
Anyway, Carl took the pictures and Rudy flirted with me, and Bill was more respectful, but still gawked at me because, well lets face it, I’m female, and that seems the only criterion.
There were other studio visits that I was not present for. During one, Bill brought a middle aged woman and a homeless teenager whom the woman was helping out. They invited Carl to go out partying with them, but he declined. The woman ostensibly was going to let Sarah, the teenager, stay at her house since Sarah had been booted out of wherever she had called home, as she was penniless and lost. She is also dark-haired, slender and petite, with the face of an angel and the IQ of a paper clip.
A short time later, Bill called and reported to Carl that the woman had become tired of Sarah and had kicked her out. Since Bill was the only one Sarah claimed to know, she called him and begged for help.
Sarah ended up staying at Bill’s karate studio, and I do mean staying. He locked her in when he left for the day and only let her out when he came back in the evening to have sex with her. Not to be controlled, Sarah welcomed Rudy daily. Rudy climbed through the one unlocked window to get in to have sex with Sarah also. Sarah told Carl (whom she began phoning because she had nothing else to do) that it was real cool that she was getting over on Bill with Rudy. Later it was discovered that Bill and Rudy were laughing at her for being so stupid because, of course, Bill was sharing her with Rudy. She remained a prisoner and a sex slave until she became pregnant by Bill (probably, but who knows?) and he paid for her abortion. She promptly got pregnant again. Soon after, Bill tired of her and dumped her at the door of some woman in South St. Louis who helps out pregnant homeless teenagers.
Recently Sarah gave birth and Bill promised her and her aunt with whom she has just found a home, that he intends to take care of her and of the baby and see to it that they have everything they need. He also wants to be a good dad.
This, however, won’t transpire. Last week Bill and Rudy and a third man, Derek, I think, were arrested for having abducted a 27-year-old woman outside a night club in East St. Louis. They rendered her unconscious with a stun gun, took her to north St. Louis where they raped her and beat her. Evidently they raped her not only with their bodies, but an assortment of foreign objects. Jane Doe is very very messed up. These stupid bastards abducted her in her own car and then parked it over night in front of the home of one of them. They were all arrested the next day.
The newspaper said that Derek was the only one of the three who did not sexually assault Jane, but Bill told Sarah when he phoned her from jail that he was the one who had left her alone in that way. But he is in the trouble because it was his stun gun. His bond is $75,000. The bonds on the other two are $100,000 and $150,000. We don’t know if this is true or if Bill is lying to protect his image with Sarah. He’s that stupid.
Bill’s mom told Sarah that if he gets a really fantastic lawyer who will achieve the optimum possible plea bargain, Bill will only face 25 years in prison. We don’t know details, but Bill apparently admitted to Sarah or her aunt that they did things to this woman that were unspeakable.
I am very upset about this and have not been able to get it off my mind since I heard about it. Sarah’s aunt said to Carl, “I can’t believe I let this person in my home!” I can relate. I can’t believe I let him in my studio and sat there and chatted with him.
I do think this: The first earmark of unbridled stupidity was defined when these two knuckleheads revealed a disrespectful view of women. Whenever you allow yourself to believe that any woman is stupid for going to bed with you, then you must not think much of yourself, huh?
Add to that, if women are all stupid, especially ones that can be seduced, then you disable yourself. If you cut yourself off from the equity that women have in their intellects, dismissing them, and using them as holes, then you disable yourself. Surely there are some stupid women out there. Surely. But there are also stupid men, and these two are poster boys for that group.
I'm completely fine with these cretins spending 25 years or more in prison. The world can do without them. But I've learned a lot from this tale.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Manuscript Excerpt from Winter 1996
As a child I was often forced to go to the Famous Barr department store near our house. (It is now a parking lot.) When I was a very young child and it was near Christmas time, I was taken along with my mother on a shopping trip.
The store was crowded and people were tracking snow inside as they walked and it was melting into puddles near the exits.
We were on our way to the door behind a crowd of shoppers when the fat woman in front of me who was carrying tons of packages, hit one of the puddles. Her feet went straight up, her butt went straight down and her packages went in every direction. She was hurt, I believe.
I, nevertheless, collapsed into a fit of hysterical laughter and ended up falling on the floor next to her, holding my stomach and screaming with fits of mirth.
My mother was acutely embarrassed by my behavior and kept right on walking out the door in hopes that no one would realize I was her kid.
Other forms of slapstick also amused me. My father could be very short-tempered, cruel and impatient. When at the dinner table, he would from time to time drop his fork or knife on the floor and have to get a clean one. Something about the incident tickled me and I would begin to laugh uncontrollabley.
If he were in one of his enraged moods, I would have to leave the room and continue laughing elsewhere in hopes that he wouldn’t know what I was doing. But of course he did.
Once when I was still in a high chair, my mother dropped an egg. I nearly hyperventilated because it was so funny. To this day I lose it whenever an egg falls.
My mother grew up in a small rural community in northern Missouri. On Saturday morning all of the farmers would converge in town. Town amounted to a small strip of ma and pa shops. There was a liquor store, hardware, variety, grocery, and my favorite, the drug store.
The drug store was vintage Norman Rockwell. It had ceiling fans, hexoganal ceramic tiles on the floor and stools where you could sit at the counter and order fountain Cokes and phosphates. It was run by my mother’s cousin and all through my childhood and adulthood, it never changed, although farm failure, unemployment, and the mass exodus to the city has rendered the community a ghost town.
Recently, my mom’s cousin was entertaining her usual group of 3 or 4 out-of-work farmers.
They arrive early in the morning, drink coffee and chat until close, 6 p.m., and go home.
This day, someone remarked that the ceiling was sagging. She said yes, she needed to have that looked at. Then she kicked them out, locked the door and went home. At 6:20 the entire roof collapsed in on the building and within moments it was turned to a pile of dust and rubble. The last in a long strip of hollowed, musty storefront shells —the dark and yawning symbols of decaying rural America—died in this way.
The store was crowded and people were tracking snow inside as they walked and it was melting into puddles near the exits.
We were on our way to the door behind a crowd of shoppers when the fat woman in front of me who was carrying tons of packages, hit one of the puddles. Her feet went straight up, her butt went straight down and her packages went in every direction. She was hurt, I believe.
I, nevertheless, collapsed into a fit of hysterical laughter and ended up falling on the floor next to her, holding my stomach and screaming with fits of mirth.
My mother was acutely embarrassed by my behavior and kept right on walking out the door in hopes that no one would realize I was her kid.
Other forms of slapstick also amused me. My father could be very short-tempered, cruel and impatient. When at the dinner table, he would from time to time drop his fork or knife on the floor and have to get a clean one. Something about the incident tickled me and I would begin to laugh uncontrollabley.
If he were in one of his enraged moods, I would have to leave the room and continue laughing elsewhere in hopes that he wouldn’t know what I was doing. But of course he did.
Once when I was still in a high chair, my mother dropped an egg. I nearly hyperventilated because it was so funny. To this day I lose it whenever an egg falls.
My mother grew up in a small rural community in northern Missouri. On Saturday morning all of the farmers would converge in town. Town amounted to a small strip of ma and pa shops. There was a liquor store, hardware, variety, grocery, and my favorite, the drug store.
The drug store was vintage Norman Rockwell. It had ceiling fans, hexoganal ceramic tiles on the floor and stools where you could sit at the counter and order fountain Cokes and phosphates. It was run by my mother’s cousin and all through my childhood and adulthood, it never changed, although farm failure, unemployment, and the mass exodus to the city has rendered the community a ghost town.
Recently, my mom’s cousin was entertaining her usual group of 3 or 4 out-of-work farmers.
They arrive early in the morning, drink coffee and chat until close, 6 p.m., and go home.
This day, someone remarked that the ceiling was sagging. She said yes, she needed to have that looked at. Then she kicked them out, locked the door and went home. At 6:20 the entire roof collapsed in on the building and within moments it was turned to a pile of dust and rubble. The last in a long strip of hollowed, musty storefront shells —the dark and yawning symbols of decaying rural America—died in this way.
My Ameren Rant
Why is a public utility, such as Ameren, which provides a product that none of us can live without, which we MUST have and must pay for . . . why is such a utility ever allowed to make a profit?? Never mind $123 million in the first quarter of the year. Why is it allowed to make a profit at ALL?
By “profit,” I obviously do not mean monies for upgrading their systems, which are badly needed, and providing salary increases for hard-working staff. But the stockholders and those who sit on their rumps and rake in money are welcome to kiss my ass.
Would we bless the sale of water at $50 a gallon to people who can't
get it any other way? Would that be okay? This is not okay.
We are not obliged to assist huge profitable companies to become
huger and more profitable. Let Lexus and Microsoft charge what they
want. I don't need either product line. But I do need electricity,
and to have my electric rates raised by a utility that is already
making money at an embarrassing rate is wrong on too many levels to
list.
We needn't even consider allowing a rate increase for Ameren. At
this level of profitability, we need a government-mandated
independent auditor to periodically determine exactly how much money
these greedy cretins really need to provide service, and set rates
accordingly. Only in that way can the government act on behalf of
our society.
By “profit,” I obviously do not mean monies for upgrading their systems, which are badly needed, and providing salary increases for hard-working staff. But the stockholders and those who sit on their rumps and rake in money are welcome to kiss my ass.
Would we bless the sale of water at $50 a gallon to people who can't
get it any other way? Would that be okay? This is not okay.
We are not obliged to assist huge profitable companies to become
huger and more profitable. Let Lexus and Microsoft charge what they
want. I don't need either product line. But I do need electricity,
and to have my electric rates raised by a utility that is already
making money at an embarrassing rate is wrong on too many levels to
list.
We needn't even consider allowing a rate increase for Ameren. At
this level of profitability, we need a government-mandated
independent auditor to periodically determine exactly how much money
these greedy cretins really need to provide service, and set rates
accordingly. Only in that way can the government act on behalf of
our society.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Don't Tell Me to Have a Happy New Year
Perhaps I have bad karma, or perhaps I have offended some ethereal personality in the non-corporeal realm, but I often feel that many things I try tend to backfire.
Take "Happy New Year," for example. I recall several years ago, when returning to work the day after the holiday, a co-worker breezed by and said that to me. I failed to acknowledge him; I was in a conversation with someone else, but heard him out of the corner of my ear. Then, later the same day, he caught up to me in a hallway and wished it again.
A month later I lost my job. Two months later he lost his. And it has been all downhill ever since.
And it's not just the new year. Don't tell me you are praying for me. That also seems to make things worse. And don't tell me that something really good is going to happen for me very soon. That sort of prophecy will have me hiding my head under the covers, afraid to show my face.
Certainly the converse approach does not work. Don't tell me to have a flat tire, or incur big overdraft charges at the bank, or pick up a virus in hopes that I will enjoy a new car, monetary prosperity and excellent health. It doesn't seem to work that way. I don't know how to advise you, exactly, I'm just saying I don't understand how all of this works, but I am forming a pattern for how it doesn't work.
It has gotten so bad that I have given up praying for an end to poverty and hunger, and for peace on earth. I'm terrified that my negative karma may be a kiss of death for the whole world.
Apparently, I am powerless to control my destiny, but I am free to do the best I can. I'd like to speak up for disadvantaged people, be a good friend to my friends, and stand up for what I believe is right.
And hope for the best.
Take "Happy New Year," for example. I recall several years ago, when returning to work the day after the holiday, a co-worker breezed by and said that to me. I failed to acknowledge him; I was in a conversation with someone else, but heard him out of the corner of my ear. Then, later the same day, he caught up to me in a hallway and wished it again.
A month later I lost my job. Two months later he lost his. And it has been all downhill ever since.
And it's not just the new year. Don't tell me you are praying for me. That also seems to make things worse. And don't tell me that something really good is going to happen for me very soon. That sort of prophecy will have me hiding my head under the covers, afraid to show my face.
Certainly the converse approach does not work. Don't tell me to have a flat tire, or incur big overdraft charges at the bank, or pick up a virus in hopes that I will enjoy a new car, monetary prosperity and excellent health. It doesn't seem to work that way. I don't know how to advise you, exactly, I'm just saying I don't understand how all of this works, but I am forming a pattern for how it doesn't work.
It has gotten so bad that I have given up praying for an end to poverty and hunger, and for peace on earth. I'm terrified that my negative karma may be a kiss of death for the whole world.
Apparently, I am powerless to control my destiny, but I am free to do the best I can. I'd like to speak up for disadvantaged people, be a good friend to my friends, and stand up for what I believe is right.
And hope for the best.
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