Friday, January 20, 2006
World Ends: Minorities,Women Hit Hardest.
It's getting ridiculous. I was listening to Howard Stern yesterday, and he was interviewing former NY Giant Roy Simmons about being a gay man in the NFL and about his fall into crack addiction and prostitution. At some point, Simmons mentions that he was raped as a child, and Howard immediately says something to the effect of "that explains why you turned to drugs."
Whaaaa? With one sentence, Stern wiped away any personal responsibility Roy Simmons may have for every bad act in his life. Simmons doesn't need to play the blame game, because others are clearly willing to do it for him. Did Roy miss a tackle? It's OK, he was raped as a child. Did Roy blow all his money on drugs and end up homeless? Raped as a child. Did Roy end up in NY bathhouses giving reacharounds to fat Italians? Raped/child, See. I'm not busting on Simmons -- he never made an excuse -- but Stern's absolution only shows how trained we've become to blame outside forces for our problems.
I thought I had seen it all, however, but this article takes the cake. According to the esteemed folks over at BET, global warming and continued pollution will only spawn more national disasters, which will somehow disproportionally harm blacks more than others. This link isn't really explained, but, hey, logic and actual reporting don't seem to really have a place in this bit of pre-hysteria.
The storyline is a simple one, but no less hackneyed:
Relatively, Blacks are environmental Good Samaritans. Per capita, we emitapproximately 20 percent less carbon dioxide than Whites . . . Yet Blacks are exposed to worse air pollution than Whites in every major metropolitan area.Some charge that the Bush administration has made matters worse by creating new policies, like the Clear Skies Act and the Healthy Forest Initiative, that allow utilities and industries to pollute more. President Bush enragedenvironmentalists when he opted out of the Kyoto protocol global warming treaty, saying it would harm the U.S. economy.
I particularly like the "some charge" part of the quote. Who need attributions? We can just make accusations and pretend it's news! WHEEEEEE! My personal favorite part is where the author states, "If global warming gets worse, many African-American communities will be more vulnerable to breathing ailments, insect-carried diseases and heat-related illness and death. But asking Black folks to give up gas-guzzling SUVs and other bling is a tough sell." Nothing advances your journalistic credibility like using the word "bling" randomly in an article.
So there you have it. The heavyweight champeeen of victimology. Now excuse me, but I have to do my part to keep the black man down by spraying some aerosol cans in the air.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Frank, you belong to your wife at home, but you're my boy from 9 to 5!
Then I started getting "flagged" at certain sites that I would call, at worst, a bit obscene. The first time was from a Google link to a news story archived on some site. Instead of my story, I got a page alerting me to a violation of the firm's internet policy. What the @#$%? I realized that the website had the word "babes" in the title and figured that the porn filter was kicking back that word. Whatever. Since then I've been flagged all over the place for crap every time.
I finally complained about a couple of obvious goofs and was told that the computer dorks were still working the bugs out of the filter. Whatever.
On Friday it became perfectly clear what "bugs" were left. Now the filter is set up to block anything with "blogger" and "typepad," among other things. Now I can't read blogs or post while at work. Now, as is obvious, I have been reading and posting less over the past few months due to the picked up pace at work. Now I'm stuck having to do both from home with my increasingly limited time.
I'm not ready to shut this bitch down, but I'm a bit discouraged about this turn of events. Actually, color me "pissed" yellow.
Friday, January 13, 2006
It's so quiet up here, you could hear a mouse get a hard on.
That does not mean my life have been wildlife-free. The babe and me were driving down a little side road about a mile from our house one night when we almost ran over a opossum who appeared to be napping the middle of the road. I just did stop in time, and I asked the babe if she saw him run off the road, or was he under the truck. She said she didn't see anything, and, like and idiot, I get out and walk around looking under the truck. I knew he had run off the road, opossums are slow, not stupid, but a couple of years ago I had a run in with a football-sized bullfrog who had sought refuge under my truck and wouldn't leave, and I've been paranoid ever since.
Then there was this morning. Since we moved in our house in August, we've had an armoire parked in the garage. A few days ago the babe decided that the armoire would look better in an upstairs bedroom, and had me wheel the monster in to the bottom of the stairs. After measuring for size, weight, and wind speed, we decided that their wasn't a snowball's chance in Houston we would be able to get the damn thing up the stairs. Actually, we were democratic and voted on it, and it was 1-1, with the person who would be doing the actual lifting voting against the proposal. Failing to reach a consensus, the armoire has remained sitting in front of the steps, which is sort of the interior equivalent to having a car on blocks in your front yard.
This morning, I was in the middle of my constitutional when I noticed that one of the cats was staring intently under the armoire. Now, this particular cat is a freak for anything that is small and moves. I can't count the number of times I've found a dead spider, cricket, or gecko on the floor where the jackass had mauled it and left. So I figure there's an insect up under the armoire that needs removal. I get down on my hands and knees and look into the small dark space and don't see anything but a toy mouse. I look up and there is, incredibly, a flashlight sitting on the end table next to me, so I grab it and shine it under. That's when I notice that the toy mouse had distinct, untoylike attributes, such as wet eyes and moving whiskers. Great.
So I go in the utility room and grab my work gloves. I come back, reach under the armoire and flush the little guy. He shoots across the room, drawing the attention of my dangerous cat that, I kid you not, has been observed catching a bird in midair. Now my den is beginning to resemble race time at the dog track with the mouse playing the part of the mechanical rabbit, my cat playing the greyhound, and me playing the fat guy who can't get off the ground fast enough to participate.
Fortunately, the mouse ran into the closet containing the water heater. The problem is that the space is so confined, I can barely see around back of the drum. I go get the mouse-catching tool (which resembles a spatula) and after several minutes I was able to flush the beast out into the neighboring bathroom. I cornered him behind the trash basket, scooped him up, and headed for the front door.
Now, I figure the best thing to do is to put him in the landscaping toward the front of my yard, like that will somehow keep him from finding the house 20 yards away. So I get up there, bend down, and open my hand expecting him to haul ass. Instead, the little bugger started casually walking up my arm, where he stopped on my bicep long enough to take a crap on the sleeve of my dress shirt. Nice. Then he continued his climb up to my shoulder, around and down my back, where he jumped off my ass and headed back toward the house! I manage to grab him again, and on the way to the bushes the little ingrate bit me -- or he would have if I wasn't wearing gloves. Next time, he's cat food.
And that, sir, is why I was late to work today.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
It's something Carson Daly came up with.
For example, yesterday I ran across this t-shirt and thought it quite amusing (although a friend of my suggested it would be funnier without the "the"). I gave some serious thought to buying the damn thing, but I couldn't get over the whole "blasphemy" thing. Do I really want to risk eternal damnation just to give Yankees fans the business? I'll admit it's a close call. It's probably my old school Southern Baptist upbringing shining through, that had me wussing out. Of course, it didn't stop me at lunch today from replying to a girl who told me she had 12 bridesmaids, "What, did you marry Jesus?" My best guess is that my conscience just didn't get the joke. (I just realized that "Losing My religion" by R.E.M. (duh) was playing in the background as I was typing this. Heh.)
Another moral quandary I'm in concerns my site counter of all things. I took some "me" time away from the blog in December, and when I came back I discovered that my hit counts were WAY up -- like quintupled. It turns out that I had linked to a pic of Johnny Cash giving the one-finger salute some time before I took my sabbatical, and evidently everyone seeking Johnny Cash is bumping up my hits. I actually feel like I'm being dishonest. Like I should either punt the pic link or explain to both my readers that they are a more elite group than my counter would indicate. What's up with that?
I also am curious as to why I'm willing to say words like "retard" and "gimp," but I have a big problem with N-bombs and such. Perhaps that's because I'm a Southerner and we have become particularly aware of the evils of racist speech. At least, those of us from states where teeth outnumber eyes do.
While we're on the subject, why is it that if you decline an alcoholic drink the person either assumes you are a raging alcoholic or deeply religious? Or both, God help you? I know, it seems like this would be something I would have NO experience with, whatsoever -- at least from the point of view of the offeree -- but believe it or not, for several years I did not have a drink (yeah, and those years were called my "toddler" years). It wasn't for religious, moral -- it was just that it was easier to score with drunk chicks when I was sober.
On the flip side, it's probably the only reason I still have a functioning liver. Anyway, it always bothered me that people I didn't know assumed I was some sort of sot or prig instead of just a big pussy. I did always find it amusing how much it bothered people that I wouldn't drink with/around them. As soon as I'd decline, they'd begin working on me by going the "oh, one won't hurt" route or heading for the unoriginal "don't be a little girl" path ("That's something chicks do. You're not a chick are you? Ok. Good talk."). It was almost like they were doing something bad and didn't trust me because I was a big goody-goody. Freaks.
All this to say, I'm beginning to think that it may be time to re-evaluate my moral laxity -- maybe set some standards, raise some bars. Yes, My Name is Earl has got me thinking about karmic import of my sinful ways. Actually, I always thought karma was just some attempt to get me to do good by appealing to the best in me, my self-interest. Brilliant, really. However, recent events have got me thinking.
I was at a bar recently (how many of my stories begin this way?), when I ran into a friend, Sarah. Sarah is an attractive wildchild who just graduated college -- and a week later took a position at a prestigious corporation, Hooters. Anywho, Sarah grabs me and points out another female across the bar, "See that girl," she says, "she drank my piss." OK, you've got my attention. "How?" sez I. "Well," she continues, "I was on the back of the bar and I dropped my pants and pissed in a shot glass while she was in the bathroom. When she came back, I told her the piss was a shot I'd bought for her and she drank it!!!" "What'd she do?" I query. "Nothing!" she says, "I asked her if the shot was good and the drunk bitch said 'yeah!'"
So, a week later I'm talking to another friend of mine, Laura, who is out with her new boyfriend. He looks at me and says, "You want to hear something funny?" "OK," I bit. "I got hammered last night and went home with Laura. In the middle of the night I got up and had to piss. I'm walking down the hallway, and instead of going into the bathroom, I walk into Laura's roommate's room. She's laying in bed, so I walk over and just piss on her. She wakes up freaking out, and I just went back to Laura's room and went to sleep."
Yep, Laura's roommate was none other than Sarah. Instant karma, man.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Not funny 'ha-ha', funny queer.
That said, nothing has really happened to me worth ranting about. If I had talent I could take the large amount of nothing that has frequently been happening to me and turn it into an interesting, thought-provoking post or two; if I had drive and ambition, I might get out and lead an interesting life that would be worthy of writing about; and if a frog had wings it wouldn't bump its ass when it hopped. Deal with my limitations.
I do have a gripe that's on my mind. Words, man, words.
I want to reclaim a couple of words. First, I've been on a personal mission over the past few years to push the word "gay" back into acceptable usage. Sure, there is a current acceptable usage of the word, such as when you use it to describe someone's sexual orientation, but what I want to reclaim is the ability to use it in derogatory circumstances. Fer instance, when some guy starts talking about spending thousands of dollars for blue jeans, I want to be able to say, "That's about the gayest thing I've ever heard." Notice, I'm not suggesting that "gay" in this situation has anything to do with sexual orientation. I could be just implying that it is really stupid. As it happens, in this case I am also implying that the purchaser of the jeans likes other men, but that's merely incidental.
Am I stating that all gay folks are stupid or somehow bad? No. All I'm saying is that "gay" is a perfectly good descriptor for those of us with limited vocabularies, and should be tenderly preserved. So in the spirit of reclamation, let me just say that I saw Alexander the other night, and it was gayer than a male ice skater. Besides, if they didn't want us using "gay," then they shouldn't have taken it in the first place.
My second reclaimed word is "retard(ed)." Some time over the past decade or so, retarded has gone out of style. I had a acquaintance in law school excoriate me for using the word in a demeaning fashion. She had worked for a couple of years with "special needs" individuals and had a thing about the casual use of the word "retarded." I've been gunshy ever since. Why? It's not like retarded people are going to get all offended by hearing me refer to someone who buys a Nick Lachey album as "seriously retarded." I mean, they're not even going to understand -- I read Flowers for Algernon.
I think reclaiming "retard(ed)" is right and just, if only because they have stolen "special" from us. I think it's incredibly unfair that just because I don't drool on myself
While we're at it, can I just say that if I see someone screw up the lose/loose spelling again, I'm going to loose it.
That is all.