I wrote this after a piece called "Bad News for Those who Hate 'Liberals'", because the response to that piece was to accuse me of being a "liberal"... or worse, a Democrat. This is from Saturday, October 14, 2006, and it obviously had no effect on the general populous. The links provided in the original were outdated, so I went ahead and updated them.
I've said before that we need to give the so-called "Third parties" another look, but I know without reading any of your responses to that statement that a lot of you won't. Some of you have looked at them before and decided that they were nuts, some of you bought into the ridiculous idea that NOT voting for the Donkey or the Elephant would be the same thing as not voting, and some of you were just too lazy to bother.
Well, let's address these misguided notions, shall we?
First: Those Third Parties are all full of nuts.
Okay, maybe they are. But tell me this: would you rather have a nut willing to try some new ideas, or a crook willing only to sell you out to the highest bidder sitting in that elected office? Honestly, if you are fed up with your traditional party's inability to represent you, what is the harm in giving someone else a shot? Besides, that is exactly what our system of Checks & Balances is for! If you don't like the results, you can get rid of the nut... but you have to give them a chance first.
And hold the phone -- when you say you've "looked at them" before, do you mean that you actually visited their sites, read their platforms, or done anything more than wait for someone on FOX or CNN to make snide references to them in passing? Think about how quickly you are willing to write them off and sell yourself back to the big-money boys. I'm tired of Republicans and Democrats smugly telling us that they are the only two choices, and expecting me to run to them based on the "lesser of two evils" principle.
Second: Voting for them is like throwing away my vote, because they can't win anyway.
WRONG. Voting for a guy you don't like, who will not represent you, and who won't stand up for anything you believe in is throwing away your vote. So is being too lazy to do any research, and showing up at the polls, only to pick "D" or "R" down your whole ticket. So is simply not voting, because "they won't count me anyway". Enough of that bogus, defeatist, LAZY talk!
In 1992, Ross Perot (certified nut, and "Third Party" candidate) took 17% of the Presidential vote. Some post-ballot polls showed that some 15% of those who voted for the two major parties only voted for them because they "didn't think Perot would win". In a three-way race, that could have given him more than 35%... more than 1/3 (allowing for the usual margins of error in polls). But only if people actually cast the vote according to their conscience, and not according to some misguided notion of popularity.
And last: Again, don't be lazy. I'm a very lazy procrastinator, and yet I can come up with a list of links in five minutes to find out what I feel I need to know about the candidates. Here is a handful that you might find useful:
*Write to Your Representative (search engine for finding your U.S. Rep)
*Contact your Senator
*List of Third Party Presidential Candidates
*Tweet Congress - so you can "follow" your representatives
I'd like to point out to you that I am not 100% behind any of these people myself, and I'm not campaigning for anyone (which would be a violation of the 1939 Hatch Act). But I want my friends and readers to be educated about the possibilities. I am educating myself, too. None of the candidates have fulfilled my wildest dreams, but I have emailed a few of them, and will make up my mind based on their answers. There is nothing stopping you from doing the same. Don't be ignorant; don't be complacent.
Don't be Sheep.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
I Swear
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"Profanity is an endlessly interesting subject to me, probably because my lovely bride and I are so proficient at it. Some people feel that certain words should never be spoken, and go to great lengths to purge them from the language. Unfortunately, 75% of the words in the English language have a scatological or sexual connotation attached to them, so attempting to truly "purify" our vocabulary would be utterly fruitless. And if there is one thing I hate being, it is without fruit.
"No, but I [bleep] her [bleep]ing [bleep] with it!"
There is something to be said in favor of self-control, but when taken too far, it becomes a form of dishonesty. I say we need to get away from the false prudery involved in censoring certain words. Substitution, or, as in my provocative example above, a simple absence can leave too much to the imagination. What do you suppose I censored out of there? Did you consider "perform", "danc(ing)", and "music"? Or "devour", "stunn(ing)", and "spreads"? Even if you did, people with minds already twisted by exposure to the decadent pop culture of our times might derive a naughty giggle from the connotations of "perform", or "spreads".
Tee hee hee.
So you might infer that I am going to say that it is not the words, but the thoughts behind them that are evil. Sorry to have to tell you this, but even the thoughts behind the most pure of mouth will entertain the stray bit of offensiveness. For some of us, it is necessary to entertain it and send it on its way so it doesn't lurk in the background and cause an infection. We do try to avoid polluting with our expressions and ideas where it is inappropriate; girls in my wife's scout troop are occasionally mystified by her outbursts of "F-f-f-french fries!!" or "Creamed Corn on a stick!!" After all, we do try to cushion the fall into reality that young minds must all eventually make.
Fair enough; but still, why do we blame the words? Why must we edit ourselves so superficially, leading to situations and statements which are potentially just as offensive as the vulgarity itself?
Sometimes the words in question have a religious nature to them. Stubbing your toe may cause you to cry out the name of your god of choice, as if calling upon his (or her) name condemns them for allowing misfortune to befall your tiniest of digits. Most people in my experience have tried to use a "euphemism", such as "gosh" or "jeez" to cover up their lack of self control, apparently to avoid offending any passing clergy or deities. "Gosh, that hurt," or "Jeez, I should have moved that chair." I personally prefer to invoke the names of less familiar gods, which avoids offending the majority of the local population and brings a bit of culture into the neighborhood.
No one has yet complained when I have had occasion to cry out, "Four arms of Vishnu, that hurt!" or "By the eye of Odin, I wish I hadn't stepped on that!"
Often we use strong words to express aggression toward each other. Anger may inspire you to propose intriguing-but-impossible physical acts for the focus of your anger to perform. I suggest that it's better to let the words flow rather than express it physically. As in: "[Bleep] you, clown!" That could provide some awkward moments in the Big Top, my friend.
I have known people who preferred to substitute other words, such as the otherwise innocuous "fetch" or "flip"... which not only saps the strength of the statement, but gives innocent requests such as "Fetch my slippers, darling," a whole new level of meaning.
(Next time someone tells you, "Wait here while I fetch your wife," you won't wait so easily, will you?)
Does this mean that we need to purge our thoughts of evil? Maybe. But good luck defining "evil". It's easier to eliminate the words, which is why innuendo is so popular. "Why are you offended? I didn't mean to say anything offal! I mean, awful.
My lyrical example below is a classic illustration. No where does Jimmy Pop actually say any bad words (well, maybe one). Strictly speaking, most of what he does say makes no sense at all. BUT (or should I use the less rectal/more anal "however"?), when you allow your dirty mind to fill in the blanks, it becomes downright raunchy!
(He said "fill in"... huh, huh, huh.)
But if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, perhaps meaning is in the ear of the beholder. If that's the case, perhaps we should cut each other some slack. Let people blow off steam without holding the actual words against them. Maybe it will make them easier to get along with if they don't feel they have to pu... I mean to say KITTEN-foot around your imaginary sensibilities.
Some people will never be happy, though, until the rest of us have become completely neutered in our speech. Forcing us to control our speech is just the tip of the fascist ice-berg. Only when we all cease wallowing in our filth will they feel they have achieved a state of perfection; and then the world can end! I say stand up and tell those people where to go: the only place where they will be happy anyway. Tell them to "Go to Heaven!"
I, for one, will gladly help send them there... and then the rest of us can fetch and flip to our hearts' contents.
"Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo" by the Bloodhound Gang:
Vulcanize the whoopee stick
In the ham wallet
Cattle prod the oyster ditch
With the lap rocket
Batter dip the cranny ax
In the gut locker
Retrofit the pudding hatch
Ooh la la
With the boink swatter
If i get you in the loop when I make a point to be straight with you then
In lieu of the innuendo in the end know my intent though
I Brazilian wax poetic so hypothetically
I don't wanna beat around the bush
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo
Marinate the nether rod
In the squish mitten
Power drill the yippee bog
With the dude piston
Pressure wash the quiver bone
In the bitch wrinkle
Cannonball the fiddle cove
Ooh la la
With the pork steeple
If i get you in the loop when I make a point to be straight with you then
In lieu of the innuendo in the end know my intent though
I Brazilian wax poetic so hypothetically
I don't wanna beat around the bush
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo
Put the you know what in the you know where
Put the you know what in the you know where
Put the you know what in the you know where
Put the you know what in the you know where pronto
Sunday, October 8, 2006
Bad News for Those who Hate "Liberals"
This, with the related essay "Put Up or Shut Up", was intended as a criticism of both major parties. However, despite the angry words directed at a Democratic senate candidate, it was taken as a one-sided screed against the majority party. Majority as of Sunday, October 08, 2006, that is.
Sorry to have to climb up on the soapbox again, but with an election looming, I'm once again being involuntarily exposed to a lot of ignorant pap being uttered by wankers trying to convince me to part with my vote -- or more importantly, it seems, my money.
The most recent provocateur of my ire is Newt Gingrich, who decided to blame "liberals and Democrats" for the big flap over the moron who was sending nasty-grams to his teen-aged pages. Aside from providing more proof that anyone who voted in 2004 based on their "moral values" was suckered by cynical con-men with all the moral fiber of a box of Lucky Charms, the incident doesn't really have much bearing on anything... but of course it has been seized upon because of the election. In Jerry Springer-land, anything salacious will translate into free publicity, so of course the Democrats grabbed it and ran.
But what has me so irritated is that constant mis-use of the term "liberal". It reminds me of the "good old days" of communism, we could just call anyone we disagreed with a "commie" or a "pinko" (implying that they were only slightly communist) as the perjorative de jour, and thus win our political argument. It made a nice, simple shorthand for the sheepish masses to rally around. The old "give it a label so you can kill it" trick. Ever since Rush's ratings blitz in the early '90's, self-identified "conservatives" have begun to use "liberal" the same way. I find that disturbing because all of the conservatives that I know personally don't seem to know what "liberal" actually means.
I went looking for quick, concise definitions of "conservative" and "liberal" so I could contrast them for you, but it's hard, because there is no such thing as a quick, concise definition of "conservative". It seems that "conservatism" as such doesn't exist on its own. It doesn't have any of its own ideas or ideologies. "Conservatism" tends to uphold existing ideas or traditions, so it depends on the context of the political ideals of those who espouse it. And in asking my own conservative friends, and surfing around reading conservative bloggers, it seems that American conservatives believe they are fighting for "freedom", "limitations on government", "the law" and "free economy." That's funny, in light of this Wikipedia excerpt:
So you can see where I get confused; if the "polar opposites" of the American political debate both stand for the same ideals, then what is all the fighting about? I suggest to you now that it is all for show.
It is in the interests of those with power to keep us all polarized into two boxes; it doesn't matter that everyone in both boxes believes largely in the same things, because there are always things to argue about. And there will always be a media market for those who like to argue, be they Bill O'Reilly or Al Franken. They've all managed to convince us that we have to choose between "liberals" who want to abort your babies and force you into gay marriages, or "conservatives" who want to throw you in jail for having sex or for painting your house the wrong color. It doesn't matter which box you go into: as long as you get into a box. Baa-aa-aa...
I think it's significant that they don't ever ask for our votes anymore. They assume that they know whether you -- or at least your gerrymandered district -- will predictably go to either the "liberals" or the "conservatives". They so effectively marketed this idea, that as soon as you claim to be one or the other, all of the other sheep put the pressure on to guarantee that you line up with their ticket, and give them what they really want: cash.
And so, because there is an election, the pressure is on everyone to come up with the next big "red flag" to wave. Newt has his "liberals"; every Democrat challenger has some conservative boogeyman. I recently received a money-plea from some Democrat running in Washington state claiming that they needed my funding to beat "Karl Rove". Beat him at what? As I told the horse-flogging Senator:
"If your party plans to represent me, and the large number of voters like me who feel they are not represented by either of the major parties, then you will have to do something more impressive than wave a picture of Karl Rove in my face. Try offering solutions to our national problems first... If I see that happen, then you won't need my money, because you will have something that SHOULD be more important to an elected American official: my vote."
Sorry to have to climb up on the soapbox again, but with an election looming, I'm once again being involuntarily exposed to a lot of ignorant pap being uttered by wankers trying to convince me to part with my vote -- or more importantly, it seems, my money.
The most recent provocateur of my ire is Newt Gingrich, who decided to blame "liberals and Democrats" for the big flap over the moron who was sending nasty-grams to his teen-aged pages. Aside from providing more proof that anyone who voted in 2004 based on their "moral values" was suckered by cynical con-men with all the moral fiber of a box of Lucky Charms, the incident doesn't really have much bearing on anything... but of course it has been seized upon because of the election. In Jerry Springer-land, anything salacious will translate into free publicity, so of course the Democrats grabbed it and ran.
But what has me so irritated is that constant mis-use of the term "liberal". It reminds me of the "good old days" of communism, we could just call anyone we disagreed with a "commie" or a "pinko" (implying that they were only slightly communist) as the perjorative de jour, and thus win our political argument. It made a nice, simple shorthand for the sheepish masses to rally around. The old "give it a label so you can kill it" trick. Ever since Rush's ratings blitz in the early '90's, self-identified "conservatives" have begun to use "liberal" the same way. I find that disturbing because all of the conservatives that I know personally don't seem to know what "liberal" actually means.
I went looking for quick, concise definitions of "conservative" and "liberal" so I could contrast them for you, but it's hard, because there is no such thing as a quick, concise definition of "conservative". It seems that "conservatism" as such doesn't exist on its own. It doesn't have any of its own ideas or ideologies. "Conservatism" tends to uphold existing ideas or traditions, so it depends on the context of the political ideals of those who espouse it. And in asking my own conservative friends, and surfing around reading conservative bloggers, it seems that American conservatives believe they are fighting for "freedom", "limitations on government", "the law" and "free economy." That's funny, in light of this Wikipedia excerpt:
"Broadly speaking, contemporary liberalism emphasizes individual rights. It seeks a society characterized by freedom of thought for individuals, limitations on power, especially of government and religion, the rule of law, free public education, the free exchange of ideas, a market economy that supports relatively free private enterprise, and a transparent system of government in which the rights of all citizens are protected. In modern society, liberals favor a liberal democracy with open and fair elections, where all citizens have equal rights by law and an equal opportunity to succeed."
So you can see where I get confused; if the "polar opposites" of the American political debate both stand for the same ideals, then what is all the fighting about? I suggest to you now that it is all for show.
It is in the interests of those with power to keep us all polarized into two boxes; it doesn't matter that everyone in both boxes believes largely in the same things, because there are always things to argue about. And there will always be a media market for those who like to argue, be they Bill O'Reilly or Al Franken. They've all managed to convince us that we have to choose between "liberals" who want to abort your babies and force you into gay marriages, or "conservatives" who want to throw you in jail for having sex or for painting your house the wrong color. It doesn't matter which box you go into: as long as you get into a box. Baa-aa-aa...
I think it's significant that they don't ever ask for our votes anymore. They assume that they know whether you -- or at least your gerrymandered district -- will predictably go to either the "liberals" or the "conservatives". They so effectively marketed this idea, that as soon as you claim to be one or the other, all of the other sheep put the pressure on to guarantee that you line up with their ticket, and give them what they really want: cash.
And so, because there is an election, the pressure is on everyone to come up with the next big "red flag" to wave. Newt has his "liberals"; every Democrat challenger has some conservative boogeyman. I recently received a money-plea from some Democrat running in Washington state claiming that they needed my funding to beat "Karl Rove". Beat him at what? As I told the horse-flogging Senator:
"If your party plans to represent me, and the large number of voters like me who feel they are not represented by either of the major parties, then you will have to do something more impressive than wave a picture of Karl Rove in my face. Try offering solutions to our national problems first... If I see that happen, then you won't need my money, because you will have something that SHOULD be more important to an elected American official: my vote."
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Pillow Talk Ping-Pong
My lovely bride and I are usually pretty busy. Between working two jobs, and her Girl Scout activities -- not to mention all of the around the house/kids stuff -- often we don't really get to sit in a quiet room and talk to each other until late at night.
So even though we're both exhausted, we will lie there on our pillows, hold hands, and keep each other up until the wee hours (which for us can be as late as 11:30!) just chatting. And being who we are, these talks often devolve into something silly. (What, us? "Silly"? Nooooo....)
Take the night we were talking about what the kids were up to in school, and told me something goofy one of the boys had said about dinosaurs. "Yep, he's a dork," she said. "Yeah," I replied, "He's a dork-o-saurus!"
After a few minutes, we had quite a bout of volley-quip underway... we would giggle like little kids, and then one of us would add another "dorkosaur" to the list, starting it all over again. Our parents probably would have come in and told us to knock it off... but we ARE the parents!
So that is life in our house. Our butts may occasionally drag the next morning because of it, and it may be silly, but this is one way these best friends stay best friends. The secret of the ages, my friends: choose a partner just as dorky as you are!
And my darling is a Tri-dork-atops!
--------------
(Comments posted included the following.)
كايتر ♣ kater: Oh yeah? Well you're a ptera-dork-tyl!!
Tad: Hmmph. Easy to say when you're an apatodorkus!
كايتر ♣ kater: Dimetro-dork!
Tad: Stegadorkus!
So even though we're both exhausted, we will lie there on our pillows, hold hands, and keep each other up until the wee hours (which for us can be as late as 11:30!) just chatting. And being who we are, these talks often devolve into something silly. (What, us? "Silly"? Nooooo....)
Take the night we were talking about what the kids were up to in school, and told me something goofy one of the boys had said about dinosaurs. "Yep, he's a dork," she said. "Yeah," I replied, "He's a dork-o-saurus!"
After a few minutes, we had quite a bout of volley-quip underway... we would giggle like little kids, and then one of us would add another "dorkosaur" to the list, starting it all over again. Our parents probably would have come in and told us to knock it off... but we ARE the parents!
So that is life in our house. Our butts may occasionally drag the next morning because of it, and it may be silly, but this is one way these best friends stay best friends. The secret of the ages, my friends: choose a partner just as dorky as you are!
And my darling is a Tri-dork-atops!
--------------
(Comments posted included the following.)
كايتر ♣ kater: Oh yeah? Well you're a ptera-dork-tyl!!
Tad: Hmmph. Easy to say when you're an apatodorkus!
كايتر ♣ kater: Dimetro-dork!
Tad: Stegadorkus!
Friday, August 11, 2006
Kerouac and Ginsberg Grow Up and Get Jobs
Originally posted Friday, August 11, 2006, while thinking about old friends and more adventurous days.
I was absorbed in cyberspace when I thought I heard a suspicious sound in the real world.
I turned around and glanced around the cluttered office, but nothing was moving. My ears listened for the telltale sounds of the kids playing in the far reaches of the house. The last thing I wanted right now was for someone to come asking to play Nintendo or watch one of the "America's Funniest" animal clips on YouTube.com. All seemed to be quiet enough, so I turned back to the screen.
What had my attention so fixed was a message from someone I hadn't expected to ever find on MySpace.
A fellow trumpet player (for 11 years!), and a fellow traveler through the late 80s/early 90s ordeal of growing up in White Middle Class America. He was the unintentional center. He was the guy who discovered things and shared them with the rest of us.
Wanderer, explorer, welcome bum. He had roamed the suburbs of Northwest Phoenix from age 12, getting into and out of the kinds of trouble only an over-tall kid armed only with a thick Stephen King novel or true-crime/serial killer book can get into.
He was the conduit through which I discovered a love of Tom Waits, the Pogues, Wilco, Nana Vasconcelos and the Bush Dancers, the Police, Elvis Costello, Ofra Haza, Les Negresses Vertes, Chris Isaak, and Buckwheat Zydeco.
He's the guy that edged me out of childhood reading material such as the Hardy Boys and into Salinger, King, Gaiman, and even a little divertissement called "Les Miserables."
He is the guy who was there for 1993 - about which, the less said the better - and yet still considered me a worthwhile person.
And I found him again on MySpace.
All of the sense memories, and not a few images from the past, were on my mind as I read his note. A catching-up kind of missive; just enough to say, "Howdy" and yet imply that there was a lot more to say. If you can't already tell, thinking about the old days takes me back to a place that most would think of as "the bottom of the barrel." And frankly, it is.
It is the Waffle House of memories, where the coffee is bitter, the spoons are never clean, and the air is full of grease, smoke, and Hank Williams songs coming from a fascist jukebox that won't play what you paid to pick.
It is all of the porn shops, bars, and flea markets we used to visit; not so much for the shopping, but for the sake of watching the people we found in such places.
We already know our safe, suburban world, and we had always been told which way was "up"... but these places and these people were the Other Option. This was the threat our parents and teachers had always held over us. More frightening was the fact that this WAS us. If we failed, or gave up, we had every reason to expect to end up there.
And now I was chatting with this old companion of the Waste Lands from my safe, warm house full of children via a slick, silly online forum.
It felt good.
Just knowing that for all of the close calls and odd adventures, we had made it to places that make us happy, or at least to some compromise between the forced potential and the rocky alternatives.
But there it was... the old rebellious urge to show him that I was still somewhat "hip"... that I still maintained my edginess. To downplay my "Mr. Mom" role, and revel in the dark side. Like the old days...
Of course, that was the moment that I felt a breath on my neck, and realized that there was someone behind me. Not just behind me, but literally climbing over the back of the chair!
With memories of horror movies and crazed homeless people -- or even some supernatural beastie from another dimension -- fresh on my mind, I was seized by cold, wet, unreasoning fear. Lacking breath to scream, I emitted a small "urk."
Then the little girl toppled over the top of my head and into my lap, giggling like a mad little imp (see, supernatural beastie from beyond!).
"I love you, Daddy!" she said, batting her eyes, which she knew would save her from any unpleasant reaction. As my heart rate returned to normal, I pieced together the "surprise" she had perpetrated; putting the kitchen stool in my blind spot, creeping up on me. Come to think of it, all of the good things in my life have been surprises.
So, sitting with her in chair, I dash off a maily to my old friend from my old life, and tuck away the hobo memories for another day.
"Daddy," she said, "Can we watch the 'Funny Dogs' video?"
Sure, honey. Why not?
I was absorbed in cyberspace when I thought I heard a suspicious sound in the real world.
I turned around and glanced around the cluttered office, but nothing was moving. My ears listened for the telltale sounds of the kids playing in the far reaches of the house. The last thing I wanted right now was for someone to come asking to play Nintendo or watch one of the "America's Funniest" animal clips on YouTube.com. All seemed to be quiet enough, so I turned back to the screen.
What had my attention so fixed was a message from someone I hadn't expected to ever find on MySpace.
A fellow trumpet player (for 11 years!), and a fellow traveler through the late 80s/early 90s ordeal of growing up in White Middle Class America. He was the unintentional center. He was the guy who discovered things and shared them with the rest of us.
Wanderer, explorer, welcome bum. He had roamed the suburbs of Northwest Phoenix from age 12, getting into and out of the kinds of trouble only an over-tall kid armed only with a thick Stephen King novel or true-crime/serial killer book can get into.
He was the conduit through which I discovered a love of Tom Waits, the Pogues, Wilco, Nana Vasconcelos and the Bush Dancers, the Police, Elvis Costello, Ofra Haza, Les Negresses Vertes, Chris Isaak, and Buckwheat Zydeco.
He's the guy that edged me out of childhood reading material such as the Hardy Boys and into Salinger, King, Gaiman, and even a little divertissement called "Les Miserables."
He is the guy who was there for 1993 - about which, the less said the better - and yet still considered me a worthwhile person.
And I found him again on MySpace.
All of the sense memories, and not a few images from the past, were on my mind as I read his note. A catching-up kind of missive; just enough to say, "Howdy" and yet imply that there was a lot more to say. If you can't already tell, thinking about the old days takes me back to a place that most would think of as "the bottom of the barrel." And frankly, it is.
It is the Waffle House of memories, where the coffee is bitter, the spoons are never clean, and the air is full of grease, smoke, and Hank Williams songs coming from a fascist jukebox that won't play what you paid to pick.
It is all of the porn shops, bars, and flea markets we used to visit; not so much for the shopping, but for the sake of watching the people we found in such places.
We already know our safe, suburban world, and we had always been told which way was "up"... but these places and these people were the Other Option. This was the threat our parents and teachers had always held over us. More frightening was the fact that this WAS us. If we failed, or gave up, we had every reason to expect to end up there.
And now I was chatting with this old companion of the Waste Lands from my safe, warm house full of children via a slick, silly online forum.
It felt good.
Just knowing that for all of the close calls and odd adventures, we had made it to places that make us happy, or at least to some compromise between the forced potential and the rocky alternatives.
But there it was... the old rebellious urge to show him that I was still somewhat "hip"... that I still maintained my edginess. To downplay my "Mr. Mom" role, and revel in the dark side. Like the old days...
Of course, that was the moment that I felt a breath on my neck, and realized that there was someone behind me. Not just behind me, but literally climbing over the back of the chair!
With memories of horror movies and crazed homeless people -- or even some supernatural beastie from another dimension -- fresh on my mind, I was seized by cold, wet, unreasoning fear. Lacking breath to scream, I emitted a small "urk."
Then the little girl toppled over the top of my head and into my lap, giggling like a mad little imp (see, supernatural beastie from beyond!).
"I love you, Daddy!" she said, batting her eyes, which she knew would save her from any unpleasant reaction. As my heart rate returned to normal, I pieced together the "surprise" she had perpetrated; putting the kitchen stool in my blind spot, creeping up on me. Come to think of it, all of the good things in my life have been surprises.
So, sitting with her in chair, I dash off a maily to my old friend from my old life, and tuck away the hobo memories for another day.
"Daddy," she said, "Can we watch the 'Funny Dogs' video?"
Sure, honey. Why not?
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
The Drunk
Anyone who spent any time in Monterey, California, in the mid-90's may remember the reputation of Bruce Archer. He was generally well-liked by everyone who knew him, but he did have one little personality quirk: in a squadron of 700+ college-age military trainees, he was a notorious drinker.
The vast majority of our student body liked to party, but he stood out. When other people would go to the bars in town, they would usually order a few beers. Sometime of the heavy hitters would do a pint. Bruce would order a pitcher. Then he would ask whoever he was with, "Do you want one, too?"
Generally speaking, he didn't let this habit affect his Air Force career. Okay, it would be more accurate to say he didn't let the Air Force interfere with his drinking career. You could guarantee that every night, from Friday to Sunday, he was going to be publicly intoxicated. Holidays and "Blood Days" - we were given a day off from class if we donated to the periodic blood drives - would allow him to extend his drinking time further into the week.
The collection of Drunken Archer stories grew over his vast tenure at DLI, especially when he was rolled back. Usually people were only rolled back for academic reasons; if they couldn't keep up, they would get transferred into a class that was two months or more behind theirs in the program. Bruce was rolled back because he had an un-descended testicle that the USAF had decided must be removed. This extended his stay at DLI by almost a year after recovery time, convalescent leave, and finding him an open seat in a new class in his language.
Meanwhile, his adventures continued. His favorite trick was to get himself obliterated, and then evacuate himself in some inappropriate place. When Bruce was drunk, he would piss and crap anywhere, as the spirit moved him. Pun intended. His squad-mates complained to him frequently about not urinating in the flight laundry room. James went so far as to ask him to use the washing machine, as it was easier to clean than the dryer. This led to a knock on James' door in the middle of the night: it was Bruce, asking for some laundry soap so he could "flush."
Perhaps his greatest moment came when he was staggering up the hill from the Enlisted Club one Saturday night, and felt his bowels beginning to move. He was on the tennis courts, about half-way up to the squadron from the E-Club; he couldn't go back there, since they had just closed. He didn't think he'd make it up the hill, and he didn't fancy squatting there in the open on a moonlit night. So he did what anyone in his position would have done; he snuck into one of the front yards of the officers' quarters that bordered the tennis courts.
As he did his business behind a bush under the picture window, he noticed that the car parked out front looked familiar, and he squinted at the name on the mailbox: he was shitting in the Air Force commander's yard! He proudly told a captivated audience this tale while sitting on my couch at a party sometime later, and then promptly fell into a deep sleep. We, of course, rolled him outside to keep him from taking a dump in our oven, or someplace even worse.
Then there was the incident with his roommate, Morgan Waldo. Morgan was a good guy, originally. I have to admit that I started him on his slide into sadistic cruelty by stealing his girlfriend, or so he believed. He was even more crushed when I married her, but it wasn't me that pushed him over the edge!
One weekend, just before the monthly Monday morning inspection, Waldo was livid. It was Sunday night, and Archer was still, typically, MIA, presumably at the Mucky Duck, or Characters. Waldo had to clean the whole room by himself. Okay, he didn't HAVE to, but he thought he'd fail the inspection if Bruce's junk was scattered all over the place.
About 3am, Archer was poured out of a cab, and the dorm guard on duty rousted Joe, the flight commander, and another poor sap - both were volunteer student leaders, I must point out - to drag Bruce down the hall to his room. As they did so, he woke up, and began flailing about. He only settled down after bouncing his head off the laundry room doorknob.
They pounded on his door, waking Waldo, who had only just gotten to bed after cleaning, sweeping, and re-waxing the floor of the room. They all dumped Archer on his bed (the bottom bunk, fortunately) and Waldo attempted to get back to sleep. Just as he drifted off, he heard something, and turned on the light.
He saw Archer standing in the middle of the room, spraying copious amounts of urine all over their shoes, which Waldo had lined up neatly along the wall under the window. Waldo launched out of the top bunk, pummelled Bruce on the back, and shoved him toward the door, shrieking "No, you stupid bastard! Get out of here to do that!"
So, Archer opened the door to the room and gamely obliged by whizzing out into the hallway. He finished as Waldo danced a jig of rage behind him, and then lay back down to sleep - on his desk.
The desks were side by side against the wall, so while Bruce was trying to rest his banged-up head on his desk, his feet were on Waldo's. The problem here was that Waldo had a shelf unit on his desk, which was loaded with books and language tapes, knick knacks and CDs, and other neatly tidied junk that tends to accumulate on such shelves. Bruce kicked the whole mess onto the floor.
Hearing the crash, Waldo rushed back into the room from the hallway, where he had been frantically mopping up piss with a pair of socks. He screamed again, heaved Bruce from the
desktop, and threw him onto his own bed, from which he did not budge for three and one half hours.
Those hours involved Waldo with reassembling his desk shelf, and re-shelving all of his stuff; cleaning urine out of his shoes; re-mopping, re-waxing, and re-buffing the floor of both his room, and the entire length of the hallway. (He would have only done the pissy places, but his screaming had awakened his squad leader, who assigned him the whole hallway as "punishment for causing a disturbance.")
At 0649, Waldo finally finished cleaning, and went to try to shower and get ready for the inspection. Alas, the cleaning detail had already finished cleaning them, and he was kept out. Thus, he stood inspection in an unkempt, unshaven, and smelly state, having been spattered with urine, sweat, and floor wax during the night.
As TSgt Beale was writing up Waldo's inspection paperwork, Archer came staggering out, clutching his head. It had swollen so badly that you could see straight into his ear while looking him in the eye.
"Airman Archer," said TSgt Beale, "Are you alright?"
"No, sir," replied Archer. "I think I hit my head last night." He looked every inch the victim of some horrible assault.
"You'd better get to sick call, right away!"
Waldo watched him leave through a gauntlet of sympathy for his wounds, and slowly ground his teeth at the injustice - sick call got Archer out of the inspection.
Two days later, Waldo volunteered to become a student leader. Asked why he wanted to be one of the infamous “student Nazis”, he said simply, "Revenge."
The vast majority of our student body liked to party, but he stood out. When other people would go to the bars in town, they would usually order a few beers. Sometime of the heavy hitters would do a pint. Bruce would order a pitcher. Then he would ask whoever he was with, "Do you want one, too?"
Generally speaking, he didn't let this habit affect his Air Force career. Okay, it would be more accurate to say he didn't let the Air Force interfere with his drinking career. You could guarantee that every night, from Friday to Sunday, he was going to be publicly intoxicated. Holidays and "Blood Days" - we were given a day off from class if we donated to the periodic blood drives - would allow him to extend his drinking time further into the week.
The collection of Drunken Archer stories grew over his vast tenure at DLI, especially when he was rolled back. Usually people were only rolled back for academic reasons; if they couldn't keep up, they would get transferred into a class that was two months or more behind theirs in the program. Bruce was rolled back because he had an un-descended testicle that the USAF had decided must be removed. This extended his stay at DLI by almost a year after recovery time, convalescent leave, and finding him an open seat in a new class in his language.
Meanwhile, his adventures continued. His favorite trick was to get himself obliterated, and then evacuate himself in some inappropriate place. When Bruce was drunk, he would piss and crap anywhere, as the spirit moved him. Pun intended. His squad-mates complained to him frequently about not urinating in the flight laundry room. James went so far as to ask him to use the washing machine, as it was easier to clean than the dryer. This led to a knock on James' door in the middle of the night: it was Bruce, asking for some laundry soap so he could "flush."
Perhaps his greatest moment came when he was staggering up the hill from the Enlisted Club one Saturday night, and felt his bowels beginning to move. He was on the tennis courts, about half-way up to the squadron from the E-Club; he couldn't go back there, since they had just closed. He didn't think he'd make it up the hill, and he didn't fancy squatting there in the open on a moonlit night. So he did what anyone in his position would have done; he snuck into one of the front yards of the officers' quarters that bordered the tennis courts.
As he did his business behind a bush under the picture window, he noticed that the car parked out front looked familiar, and he squinted at the name on the mailbox: he was shitting in the Air Force commander's yard! He proudly told a captivated audience this tale while sitting on my couch at a party sometime later, and then promptly fell into a deep sleep. We, of course, rolled him outside to keep him from taking a dump in our oven, or someplace even worse.
Then there was the incident with his roommate, Morgan Waldo. Morgan was a good guy, originally. I have to admit that I started him on his slide into sadistic cruelty by stealing his girlfriend, or so he believed. He was even more crushed when I married her, but it wasn't me that pushed him over the edge!
One weekend, just before the monthly Monday morning inspection, Waldo was livid. It was Sunday night, and Archer was still, typically, MIA, presumably at the Mucky Duck, or Characters. Waldo had to clean the whole room by himself. Okay, he didn't HAVE to, but he thought he'd fail the inspection if Bruce's junk was scattered all over the place.
About 3am, Archer was poured out of a cab, and the dorm guard on duty rousted Joe, the flight commander, and another poor sap - both were volunteer student leaders, I must point out - to drag Bruce down the hall to his room. As they did so, he woke up, and began flailing about. He only settled down after bouncing his head off the laundry room doorknob.
They pounded on his door, waking Waldo, who had only just gotten to bed after cleaning, sweeping, and re-waxing the floor of the room. They all dumped Archer on his bed (the bottom bunk, fortunately) and Waldo attempted to get back to sleep. Just as he drifted off, he heard something, and turned on the light.
He saw Archer standing in the middle of the room, spraying copious amounts of urine all over their shoes, which Waldo had lined up neatly along the wall under the window. Waldo launched out of the top bunk, pummelled Bruce on the back, and shoved him toward the door, shrieking "No, you stupid bastard! Get out of here to do that!"
So, Archer opened the door to the room and gamely obliged by whizzing out into the hallway. He finished as Waldo danced a jig of rage behind him, and then lay back down to sleep - on his desk.
The desks were side by side against the wall, so while Bruce was trying to rest his banged-up head on his desk, his feet were on Waldo's. The problem here was that Waldo had a shelf unit on his desk, which was loaded with books and language tapes, knick knacks and CDs, and other neatly tidied junk that tends to accumulate on such shelves. Bruce kicked the whole mess onto the floor.
Hearing the crash, Waldo rushed back into the room from the hallway, where he had been frantically mopping up piss with a pair of socks. He screamed again, heaved Bruce from the
desktop, and threw him onto his own bed, from which he did not budge for three and one half hours.
Those hours involved Waldo with reassembling his desk shelf, and re-shelving all of his stuff; cleaning urine out of his shoes; re-mopping, re-waxing, and re-buffing the floor of both his room, and the entire length of the hallway. (He would have only done the pissy places, but his screaming had awakened his squad leader, who assigned him the whole hallway as "punishment for causing a disturbance.")
At 0649, Waldo finally finished cleaning, and went to try to shower and get ready for the inspection. Alas, the cleaning detail had already finished cleaning them, and he was kept out. Thus, he stood inspection in an unkempt, unshaven, and smelly state, having been spattered with urine, sweat, and floor wax during the night.
As TSgt Beale was writing up Waldo's inspection paperwork, Archer came staggering out, clutching his head. It had swollen so badly that you could see straight into his ear while looking him in the eye.
"Airman Archer," said TSgt Beale, "Are you alright?"
"No, sir," replied Archer. "I think I hit my head last night." He looked every inch the victim of some horrible assault.
"You'd better get to sick call, right away!"
Waldo watched him leave through a gauntlet of sympathy for his wounds, and slowly ground his teeth at the injustice - sick call got Archer out of the inspection.
Two days later, Waldo volunteered to become a student leader. Asked why he wanted to be one of the infamous “student Nazis”, he said simply, "Revenge."
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