I'm Afraid of Americans

I got talking to a friend of mine a few months ago about things we've gotten used to living here in the United States.

Middle aged suicides are up, junkies and perverts abound. Everyone we know is at the very least neurotic. Why?

My hypothesis is that we as a nation are the dregs of other continents. The only reason any of our ancestors came here is because they couldn't make it in Europe or Africa or Asia. Sure, how are you going to make it in the middle of wars and political upheaval: I'm not denying those things were a strong prelude to most of my relatives fleeing Alsace-Lorraine and Northern Italy.

However, the New World was a dumping ground for the mentally ill. Recent statistics show that most prisoners suffer from some variant of mental illness. The entire state of Georgia was a penal colony: Atlanta holds the Olympics and some one sets them up the bomb. This didn't happen in Lake Placid. Look at the law that makes corporations people, and then see those "people" behave like sociopaths: they will do anything to make a buck, without regard to morals or fairness.

There is a phrase in America that gets tossed out in the childrearing arena so often it's almost a caricature of itself:
Snotty 13 year old denied a Wii: But it's not fair. Billy's parents bought him a Wii and he gets C's.
Exasperated parent: Well, you know what kid? Life's not fair.

True enough. But how often does that statement get drilled into kid's head in Somalia? They can obviously look around and see that life is very unfair. But we as Americans are supposed to be different.

The ultimate protection from the unfairness of all our mental illnesses, whether it be as unintentional as ignorance or as mean-spirited as sociopathy, is our Constitution. Anyone that would dare to say civil liberties and/or the Constitution is "just a piece of paper" or that we have to be prepared to protect ourselves is too mentally ill to hold office.

Keep that in mind when you go to vote next year. Don't support a member of a party that would even utter that or act that way. Acceptance of any of it is un-American.

Don LaRose, or, Why I Avoid Leaving Indianapolis City Limits

Some of you may have heard the story of an Arkansas preacher kidnapped in 1975 by satanists by the name of Don LaRose. Then he disappeared again in 1980 from Hammond, IN. There is even a website that explains his "amazing story" (on every page). This is an excerpt from Benton County Daily Record online:

"Lee Roy Floyd was a member of the Hammond Baptist Church's Deacon Board for 45 years and knew LaRose. A reporter with the Times of Northwest Indiana newspaper interviewed Floyd on Tuesday.

"The night before he disappeared, he was speaking to a group in the church, and in the middle of his sermon he stopped talking and looked at the back of the room," Floyd said. "No one else who turned around saw anything, but LaRose later claimed he had seen one of the Satanists through a window outside.

"And the next day he left. He was gone," Floyd said."

I'll be the first to admit that ultimately this is the story of some flim-flam man that used the Word to lure in women and keep his sociopathic mind engaged for few decades. Big whoop. Just another in a long line of PT Barnum-types falling all over themselves to prove suckers are born every minute. But there is a darker side to all this.

I never leave Marion County unless I am forced to. Even then, I prefer it to be on a jet plane. 'Why?' you ask. Simple: "they" get you as soon as you leave the city. Between the satan-worshippers, preachers as John-Wayne-Gacy-type ringleaders, tweaking meth heads, Klansman, serial-killers picking up drifters along the highway, and alien abductions, there is no reason to leave. Ever. Even the most rational of my concerns is I don't leave because of the tornadoes. I would like to think living downtown cuts out a lot of problems. The skyscrapers provide man-made mountains that break up the wind shear that would otherwise whip into a tornado that would flatten my house. Thanks Chase Tower!

I really avoid leaving downtown all together. I know my neighbors, I know my downtown district cops, and the homeless folks that might want to rip me off know I don't have anything worth stealing and will only give them food if they ask me for a handout. So a few of them do crack or drink too much. Response time in my 'hood: 3 minutes.

Sylvia Likens couldn't happen in my neighborhood. Put your tractor beam on that, Martians.

(s)election

Greg Ballard, [insert patriotic rah-rah bs here], just got elected mayor of Indianapolis. In addition, the people of Indianapolis chose to hand back the city-council to smug, good-ol-boy Republicans. Which is better, I have to guess, in the wisdom of the crowd, than smug, good-ol-boy Democrats.

It concerns me that people in this town are so shallow. We tried to analyze what gives this town such a bad "vibe." Empirically, it is this shallowness.

In Hollywood/LA, they make whole feature-length films about the shallowness. And to that I say, "Well, at least it's glamourous."

Here, the shallowness is different. From a very early age, it seems like everyone gets divided very quickly into their little pigeonholes: you're korean/black/white/white trash/of some ethnic decent--over there. you're catholic/protestant/jewish--you stay in that corner. colts fans--over there. army--yeah we got a spot for you here. get back: you support the navy--find another spot. Of course, this applies to Republicans/Democrats too.

This works out great for the do-nothings we keep hiring to run the joint. Whip everyone into a froth about Bart Peterson for raising taxes. He's a Democrat, so he can't be trusted with fiscal matters. Get in your hole and start cheering for the winning team!

To which I say: the dude dragged this city kicking and screaming into the 19th century. He finally had the balls to say the sewers haven't been updated in 100 years, we can't afford the luxury of 9 seperate governments running Indy, three police departments, and by the way, you can't discriminate against gay people and veterans in housing or employment. He got a nice new stadium built, the canal expanded, and put seed money with neighborhood development corporations to slowly bring back burnt-out downtown neighborhoods. But whoops, had to raise taxes. Too bad he used the state's antiquated and unequal methods for doing so.

So here come the Republicans to save us. They won't raise taxes (until they do). They won't put any money into the arts. They won't keep civilization going by protecting the homos from smiling discrimination. Oh happy day! I hope I get some trickle down monies from the republican-connected businessman's paradise/cultural gulag we're about to become. Again.

Because that's the long and short of it, isn't it? Government isn't about the people it tries to protect and give enough freedom and opportunity to live a decent life. It's about how much power you can wrest away from an opponent, how much money you can drain out of a tax base to make more money for your team, and think you are morally superior because you go to church every Sunday.

And as for allowing anyone near the government's money, the Republicans that run the state have an awesome ability for reading spreadsheets: the tax assessment the state proscribes is what brought down Peterson, and when Gov. Mitch Daniels was the Budget Director at the White House, he said the Iraq War would cost like, $2 billion, tops. Don't even get me started about how he walked away from the IPL workers retirement meltdown smelling like a rose.

Nostalgia

Since Halloween is but a bump in the road to Christmas for retailers (the local Kmart I am forced to run to occasionally already has decorations for sale in Seasonal), I got thinking about holidays. More specifically, It's a Wonderful Life, starring Jimmy Stewart.

His family and tour through happier times keeps him from offing himself. I can't identify with this at all. It occurred to me today while talking to Cat about scheduling for time off that holidays are now meaningless to me. The only family I have to celebrate with, other than being an walk-on at friends' celebrations, is Cat, my in-laws, and my sister. And if you think for a second that I am not one to get all emotional and sappy about holidays, Sis could be an extra in a movie about robots NOT discovering their humanity.

My in-laws (Cat's sister and mommy) are religious people. And I have no qualms whatsoever about spending time with them. They take the time to make family time/holidays special, even if it is small and quiet. Sis and I, when we were outcasts and alone on the East Coast, just drove up and down River Road in Pennsylvania and ate at Chinese restaurants (only places guaranteed to be open). I would rather work and make double-time.

But most importantly, I was trying to remember back to a time for which I would be nostalgic. The 90's? Hmm...Dad came out, I came out, had psychotic girlfriends, had a few dissociative moments myself, my mom killed herself. Stopped seeing my dad around the middle of them, which is a positive thing, but not something to get all squishy inside about. Something I Can Never Have by Nine Inch Nails would pretty much be the theme song.

The 80's? Reaganomics took its toll on our little family. My parents, being conservative Catholics, were a one-income family, which spelled disaster in 1982-1983. Ever see an FBI agent heat his house with a fireplace and a kerosene heater? Going to sleep with your coat on and your Dad works for the government in a professional, need-a-college-degree-type job? Very sad. Even sadder is culturally what we were forced to wear and do to our hair. Crispy bangs anyone? What am I going to get nostalgic over? Billy Ocean songs? The Cories? Maybe The Goonies, but I really have to be high and in a mood. God Save the Queen by the Sex Pistols or maybe We're a Happy Family by the Ramones (if we're feeling perky) would be appropriate mood music.

The 70's? I can't really say I remember it very much. The only thing I really remember is how easy it was to put on my red courdoroy bell-bottoms with my shoes already on. And the hostages being released from the Embassy in Iran. Again, nothing to get squishy about.

Does this mean I want to off myself? No, that's not it at all. Do I hold out some kind of crazy hope that an angel or messenger from some imaginary friend in the sky will come and change my mind about how ridiculous everything seems? Of course not.

I watch people get excited about football, baseball, music, holidays, family, Jebus and the Big Daddy, beer, sex, and all kinds of preposterous things and I can't help but think: My word, was Jean-Paul Sartre just in it for the cigarettes, fast cars, and paychecks?

What keeps people going? Children, I suppose, would give me something to get excited about. I like my dog. I like talking to my sister and having Cat in my life. So I would have to say that yes, love does make my world go round. Love is a vacation from fear: of loneliness, death, isolation.

I don't have to celebrate this on Christmas or Valentine's Day or Thanksgiving. I tell everyone important to me everyday that I love them or demonstrate it in some way. Every day is a holiday with them around. Think about what would happen if they were gone tomorrow, and it isn't hard.

Theme songs for these happy daily occurences:

Cat = I've Been Waiting for You by the Pixies (Neil Young cover)
Sis = My Sister by Juliana Hatfield
All the rest of the homies = Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode

The madness of crappy tipping has infected our local millionaires!

On a report from a server at a local eatery downtown (hint: a spinoff of a very venerable and long-lived steakhouse), the crappy-tipping bug has bit and won't let go.

Twelve Indinanapolis Colts players joined a very famous quarterback for a night of drinks and snacks at said location on Sunday night. After keeping the restaurant open 3 hours past closing, our source informs us that he waved and smiled goodbye to the players. One player, (hint: FA, TE, 6'5", 230#) was gracious enough to pay for his teammates with his credit card. When my source locked the door behind them and looked at his slip, he lost it.

For 3 hours working over, he and his coworker made $2.13*3 + 50. Divided by two. BEFORE taxes, that's $9.40/hr. Which is all well and good for say, third-world unskilled labor, a shift manager at a fast food chain, or even a late-night hash-slinging queen at a truckstop in Winslow, Arizona. But this is a fine-dining establishment. It doesn't fit any of the above scenarios.

For an over $600 bill and party of 12, that is an insult. It is an 8% tip. EVERYONE knows you tip 15%-20%. And if you aren't a sh*theel, parties of 6 or more should be tipping 18%. If you are fitting all the criteria above, PLUS making the servers stay over when all the chairs are up in the restaurant and they stay open for you anyway, PLUS you all make more money than doctors, the bare minimum tip in this situation would have to have been $120+ range.

So the Colts have now joined the ranks of Conseco guards. F*** those cheap SOBs.

Even Pacers' players tip better than that.

Happy Labor Day!

Members of the Proletariat, today is your day to BBQ and drink American swill. I raise my can of Miller-something in salute. And even if you don't have a job, buck up. You'll probably get one soon. Things aren't so bad for too long, as long as you have love. Hopefully, you at least have a reasonable facsimile of that.

A-hem...

So I got a part-time gig delivering for the Joint downtown. If I tell you it's going to take more than an hour for your delivery on a lazy Sunday afternoon, it's because you've f*cked up.

Granted, my job pays almost minimum wage. But unlike a pizza joint where the creepy kids in the back put my orders together, I have to do everything except cook the orders. That means I am the one who makes sure you get your extra mayo, your drinks in a well-sealed to-go cup, utensils, and syrup for your pancakes. Then I have to make sure my little towers of foodstuffs don't shift around while I'm tearing a** crosstown in 5 o'clock traffic to bring you your food. I am basically a server on wheels without the post-gorging cleanup. In short, just like a server, I work for TIPS.

I am glad to have two jobs in this wintry economic climate. So don't get me wrong.

But here's the thing:
Conseco Fieldhouse guards, I hate you. I hate bothering to get your food together. You could send the dumpy, mentally challenged guy a few short city blocks over to get your food and then you wouldn't have to worry about tipping or the "delivery fee." (THAT is not my tip. My boss gets it because I drive his car and use his gas.) And Dumpy honestly needs the exercise.

Giving me a 70-cent tip is not generous. Yesterday's two-cent tip was an insult. 70-cent tips are passably OK if you come over and get your order yourself. I am not asking for a mint. Two dollars. That is standard for orders under $40. Otherwise you are wasting time: mine and yours. I'm going to go run every other single delivery in the restaurant BEFORE yours. So if you wonder why your food is lukewarm and soggy, it's because I ran out to Woodruff Place, Methodist Hospital, and that sweet old couple who live OUTSIDE our delivery area in Haughville before I even thought of bringing you your food that was actually made first. Or stop ordering from us all together. There are plenty of pizza places in town. Knock yourself out.

Maybe you all don't make anything guarding the Pacers and Fever from terrorist attacks. Take this Labor Day to rise up against your corporate overlords and demand a few more bucks an hour so the two-buck tip doesn't break your back.

I can hear some of you now: "But Gosh, if we do that they'll give all our jobs to the Mexicans."

And to that I say: Awesome. Maybe then I'll get a tip. At least the chick at the Mexican Consulate gives me two bucks even if all I bring her is a sandwich. And she has more personality than a wet, trigger-happy dishrag.

This is how I spent $7000 on a rockin' wedding*

A recent book states that people spend $28,000 on average on weddings in the United States. I find that horrifying and ridiculous. I understand that my wedding last Autumn to my beautiful, talented, and wonderful wife was special circumstances. However, due to popular demand amongst some friends and acquaintances, I will post some particulars as to how I spent $7000 in the 12th largest city in the United States and had every single one of my guests say: "That was the best wedding* I've ever been to."

1. Rented out a cheap but beautiful historic building (old movie house). It had been repurposed to have events. Their catering prices were very reasonable.
   
2. Dropped a few more bucks to have the second half of the wedding in the duck pin bowling alley on the third floor. Not just good times, great times.
   
3. Put our money where it was really important to entertain our friends: booze. Top-shelf, open bar.
   
4. The food was something all our but vegan friends could eat. For starters, a yummy Mediterranean salad and a yeast roll. Buffet-style chicken, potatoes, broccoli. We went light on the food, but again, all our friends drink so we went big on the booze.
5. We're both atheists. So there was no need to hire a religious overseer. We had her mom, who is religious, say a blessing. This made her Jesus/God-loving family and mother very happy. We were very pleased even if we aren't believers because she is beloved and got to be an active part of our ceremony. We approached the ceremony in empirical terms we could live with: a celebration of union, witnessed by the community that cared. Back before the church got into the marriage racket (in Europe about the 13th c.), this is how marriage was--pretty much common law. Say your vows, light a candle or something, have your mates say something nice in witness, get on with the food, cake, and dancing!
   
6. No slide show of pictures. Luckily, the people we have been friends with knew what we looked like as children, have seen us kiss a bazillion times, and all our vacation photos. No need to rehash. We decided that while this was nice and poignant at other weddings, it was a completely unnecessary expense for us.
   
7. The photographer was a very good amateur who was willing to do the photos at cost. And we ended up with candid and fun photos. Who really needs photos that look like they were staged at an Olan Mills? Now we have captured the fun everyone was having instead of looking like we had the hangers still in our dresses.
   
8. The dearly departed (my mommy, her grandpa) were there in spirit. The girls got together, went to Kinko's and had oversized portraits on simple foamcore mounts. Touching and wonderful. Thanks ladies!
   
9. Holding it in a single location also saved money and a ton of confusion for our guests. No church to rent, no figuring out how to get the reception hall.
10. Would you rather have 200 people who don't or barely give a crap about being there or 70 of your good friends and co-workers? Plan on about a 30% decline rate. So we invited 100, 70 showed. Magic. Everyone who was there really wanted to be there. "No children" made it super-smooth. Save the hassle: Adult Only Reception. In the evening. Let Mom and Dad find a sitter and have a good time together. The rest of your guests will appreciate the absence of screaming, crying, mess-making, and uncomfortable questions. Mom and Dad will appreciate the time away from responsibilities.
    
11. *Disclosure: this was a lesbian wedding. Therefore, we both bought custom-made bridesmaid dresses from the same designer in the same color but of different designs. MUCH cheaper than wedding dresses, and we looked bitchin'. We had one best man each, and one maid-of-honor each. The girls bought bridesmaid dresses that suited them, and we rented the boys' tuxes. Why have parties of 14? No one really wants to be in the wedding unless they are your very best friends.
12. Less people meant a smaller cake. Saved hundreds of dollars on a smaller yet gorgeous cake from a very well regarded bakery in town that has been doing this thing for 20+ years. (And doesn't discriminate against the gays. You know what local company I hope goes out of business or has a regime-change.)
    
13. One year of research into florists. I have been to too many weddings where the florist was an acquaintance of the mother of the bride/groom and the flowers, in a word, sucked. Spend about a year hitting the florists in town (it's a great way to woo your sweetie bringing home flowers about once a week). How many flowers do you need? We got corsages for the girls and boutonnières for the boys. Instead of beating our guests over the head with the fact they were at a lezzie wedding with hers and hers cake toppers (none of which even sorta looked like us), we had the florist put a floral cake topper on top and some extras around the side. Less guests meant less tables, so we had 7 centerpieces. We gave them away to guests on the way out. They looked like they were departing a bacchanalian festival of some Roman goddess (Ceres?) by wearing them as crowns. Awesome.
14. Don't over-decorate. Clean linens, tea lights, and a great florist who understands "big, colorful, and beautiful centerpieces" is really just fine. I assure you. Decor is not the focus.
    
15. Your guests, no matter what people say, don't really need gifts. Showing them a good time is better than some candy, tchotkes, etc.
    
16. Get a DJ who does it for a living at a real bar. We suggested some fun music but allowed him to use his gift of getting a room moving. Let go of controlling everything. Trust your professionals. A few miscues are OK. Your wedding won't be ruined if you're doing the rest of it right.
    
17. $3000 of the total was actually in estate planning. Due to the Defense of Marriage Act, I needed to make sure Cat was my medical power of attorney. That way she can make any medical decision necessary for my health and well-being should I fall into a state in which I am not able to make decisions for myself. Hell, having that stack of paperwork assures that no matter what bigots are working at the hospital she has the right to be there, in a worst-case-scenario, to hold my hand as I breathe my last breath. Also, it very clearly spells out how my estate is to be divided in the event of my passing and who specifically is NOT to be considered next-of-kin. The partnership (third document) spells out in no uncertain terms how we are to divide our estate in the event of dissolution of our partnership. We also had the lawyer draw up the professionally prepared legal documents that allowed us to go through the system and change our last names.
    

I think #17, even though married straight couples can get all these benefits and more for the grand total of $18 and a blood test in this state, was well worth it. No Terry Schiavo BS because we have clearly defined living wills. No estranged cousins, aunts, uncles, etc. coming out of the woodwork like vultures because of a will technicality: the lawyer we use specializes in CYA for LGBT couples in this state. No question as to whom is making medical decisions. A prenuptial in the event things don't work out.

My advice to a lot of the straight couples I know is this: If, while you are still in love with your sweetie, you both cannot plan for the end before you begin, maybe you shouldn't start at all.

To my LGBT brothers and sisters: For the love of all that is beautiful, get your documents in order. If you are over the age of 18, there is no excuse to not visit a lawyer, at the bare minimum, to get your will and living will in order. Even if it means you have to travel 300 miles to the nearest town to CYA and your partner's A. Get one who is reputable and specializes in LGBT family law. The wolves are always at the door. Don't find out the hard way.

Report from GenCon 2007

So Sis is out at GenCon today. Rock on. Having a great time trying to look at other stuff than just the Cthulu doll T (of T&J fame) has been harping on for weeks. She's out at lunch today with the group that's going to True Dungeon tonight at 6:30PM. They are at a local branch of a nationwide chain of "family-style Italian" restaurants. She just called in this report:

So the boys are in the bathroom and are taking forever. S___ comes back from the bathroom to report that his hands are still wet and needs a napkin two wipe them because there was something weird going on on the bathroom. Well, of course us girls want to know what it was cause very rarely do weird things go on in the women's room [alcohol-fueled debauchery on the weekends downtown is de riguer-Ed.].

S___ says there was a guy in there, standing in front of the hand dryer (the unit was not on), his pants around his ankles, holding his junk. Just standing there. Obviously, S___ couldn't dry his hands. We debated for a minute what he could possibly be doing, but then J___ came back to the table.

J___ confirmed that he saw the same thing. However, exiting after S____ allowed him to realize the guy was standing there taking a dump in the wastebasket located right next to, you guessed it, the hand dryer. He couldn't wait for S____ and J___ to finish in the stalls and used the waste can instead.

We kept chatting about it even when the guy came and sat down at the table next to us. J___was sure that if we didn't shut up he was going to get beat up.

I asked if the guy was wearing a suit, 'cause that would have been priceless. Sis confirmed that it was just some dude in business-casual Dockers and a polo. He was a cube-dweller wearing an employee badge of one of the larger financial presences in downtown. Classy.

And I had to listen to all the rednecks talk about "all them weirdos" coming into town on Thursday. To all of you afraid of "weirdos" from GenCon, I say: Don't worry so much. We apparently already have plenty of our own.

TSA Heavy Petting Zoo

According to the Star (TSA checks IndyGo bus passengers), everyone was getting a little feel up from the TSA yesterday downtown. Awesome. I'm glad my homie, MJ, talked me into going to the Art Museum yesterday. My other plan was to get a hip flask of Old Grandad and just ride the bus to the end of the line and back all yesterday afternoon for fun. If that'd happened, I wouldn't be posting this until maybe next week. Or whenever Sis and Cat could make bail.

Political sites such as dailyKOS want to know WTF? Is this some new conspiracy?

While I am the first one to admit that from a few federal predictors that make me uneasy (such as doing away with habeas corpus October 16, 2006, the end of the 4th and 5th amendments over the last two weeks, and the fact W owns a 900,000 acre ranch in Paraguay), this is Indianapolis. What goes on in Indianapolis, stays in your mind like a sore you keep tonguing in your mouth. Then it makes you want to curl up in a ball in a fetal position and cry for everything bad that's ever happened to these people. Seriously, think Norman Rockwell paintings of Thorazined mental patients-without the advantage of Thorazine. But I digress...

There was actually something waaay less sinister going on here:

• God knows that our public transit system is so worthless that there are really only three types of IndyGo riders: People who have never learned to drive a car, the poor, and the mentally ill. With the price of gas gone up, even middle-class folks are starting to ride their bikes but still refuse to ride IndyGo. These folks are used to being bullied around. It's going to take two hours to get anywhere you could walk in a half hour but due to the humidity that's jamming the sweat back into our pores, they'll wait. They aren't in a hurry anyway. I'm sure most of them were like, 'Play along with our national mall security guards and my ride won't be held up any longer than necessary.'
• The gentle and docile (compared to other cities of comparable size and demographics) people of Indy are less likely to start screaming for the ACLU the second agents start digging around behind their testes for C4. With the way things used to run with the IPD, let's just say that the IndyGo demographic is used to that kind of treatment. Go to Chicago or New York or some culturally sensitive place where people will listen to you when you complain. Unless you have the money to destroy some one's career, no one cares.
• This is just another win-win situation in the partnership between local and federal government: if feds find...whatever it is they're looking for..., they get to be heroes for saving us. YAY! Local government gets off the hook for having to fix our crappy public transit by saying, "SEE! This is what the terrorists and evildoers want! To bomb us back to the stone age. Via city bus. So there's no point in fixing the public transit. They're just going to break it anyway. It's just going to be a waste of your tax dollars."
• Training exercise for the TSA. I was watching ABC the other night/morning and happened to catch a clip where the FBI was giving an explosives demonstration here earlier this week. Federal agencies are having their national convention here this week. That's just me putting two and two together. Obviously, they aren't going to advertise this all over the news. Funny thing, the news. You really have to read a lot between the lines anymore to get a real picture of what goes on.

Like I said, not really too freaked out about it. Just another training exercise for the coming totalitarianism. No real or immediate threats to our little burg.

If you are really worried, make sure your passport is up to snuff, do whatever you can to clean up your criminal record, and figure out a way to spend Novemberish-2008 through Marchish-2009 in a foreign country. Be prepared to stay in other foreign countries for longer if necessary. Good luck!

I'm back. Huzzah.

Sorry. Really. I wanted to keep you entertained with my barbs and witticisms. But for almost 2 months now, I just really didn't have anything to say.




Now that we've gotten my luke-warm apologies out of the way, on to local-ish news. Former Purdue student Vikram Buddhi is going up the river for threatening President Bush, other luminaries of the current regime, and their families. On Yahoo! Finance message boards.

• Perfect choice of audience. Yahoo Finance is where the Revolution will start.



• Perfect medium. Thanks for clogging up the internets tubes, guy, with your rants. Let this be a lesson to anyone who says anything negative and crude, especially on message boards. I'm talking to you, illiterate thirteen-year-olds parading as xians on venzaga.com.



• And perfect time to have a tan in America, especially in our little red neck of the woods. If you are sheet white, it's okay to say John Edwards should be assasinated. But if you look like you've been to the beach a few times, baked to a nice dark shade, nadie no dice nada. Got it? Go take some spelunking lessons with Ann Coulter or something. That chick (it wears dresses so for the limitations of English pronouns I'll just refer to it in the feminine sense) is bullet-proof. No pun.

The one thing, journalistically speaking I find odd about the whole thing, is the accompanying photograph to the story.

I suspect they show the defendant's poorly resized and warped picture in such a way he looks like an evil, Indian-version of Montgomery Burns for a few subtle reasons.

• Mad genius goes nuts. See what being smart got ya? Children, stay stupid or you'll end up like this guy.


• Can't trust those non-white folks.


• He even looks like an alien. This is why we need Star Wars Missle Defense shields.

Possibly maybe?

My Obligatory Vonnegut Piece

I loved the work of Kurt Vonnegut. I am not alone, because all of his books stayed in print or came back into print over the course of 50 years.

He was due back in town in April. We're celebrating the novel Slaughterhouse-five with this One City, One Book deal.

As most kids, childhood was upsetting and traumatic. So I read all his stuff. It made me laugh out loud. It reminded me of the dark humor of my grandmother (who was born the summer after he was, only on the kitchen table in the ghetto. To my knowledge they never did or would've crossed paths.) I always wondered if it was being well in touch with one's European roots, Indianapolis of the 20's-30's, or the Great Depression followed by World War 2 that made them sound the same. Gram passed last November. Mr. Vonnegut passed last night. I doubt I would've gotten a good answer out of either of them.

However, Sis and I spent an awful lot of time raising ourselves and our brother. A book never mentioned in all the tribute pieces, and one Vonnegut even rates poorly, was his book Slapstick. Sis and I loved that book. We still refer to each other as Betty and Bobby, because she is the left brain and I am the right, and it becomes painfully obvious when we are more than 10 miles away from each other. We had well-intentioned parents who ended up torn up by societal expectations. And we ultimately found family is the artificial one we created for ourselves out of our friends, my wife, and our in-laws. While the Lonesome No More!-model in the book failed miserably, setting one up in our personal lives has been successful and fulfilling.

My suggestion to anyone is to read that book and think about what it means to make a satisfying grown-up family out of the people who are good to you and in whom you can place your trust. You can't choose when you are a kid, but you can once you are an adult. Trust and Respect. Isn't that really what love is? Isn't that what ultimately really makes a family?

Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, James C. Dobson/Focus on the Family.

Good-bye, Mr. Vonnegut. Thanks for the insights.

Romance in the Crossroads of America

Downtown offers two very romantic excursions to visitors to our fair city: gondola rides on the canal--a bargain at $75 when the ones in Venice, Italy go for 50 euros--and horse drawn carriage rides at $25.

Cat has been on me since we moved down here in '03 to take her on one. I have been trying to avoid it for the obvious exploitation of animals who are rumored to be made deaf so motorcars don't spook them. But also because I don't like horses, and I have almost hit these carriages a few times myself. It doesn't appear to be a romantic carriage ride around Central Park: more like a blind dodge 'em through a sea of lost out-of-towners driving erratically around our one-ways and an ever-growing population of taxis from hell. I'm not going to pay $25 to white-knuckle it for a half hour when I can do that for free on my bicycle.

This weekend, my worst fears came to life: Motorist jailed in horse-carriage crash
Another quality Indianapolis driver got high on who-knows-what but never got around to getting a driver's license (this laissez-faire attitude towards responsible car operation is pretty common) and slammed into a carriage. Luckily a dropout from Broad Ripple HS (go Rockets!) was smoking outside and jumped into action. He tried yelling "Whoa!" to stop the horse, which didn't seem to work. But he did pull on the reigns and eventually got it to stop. This only reinforces the rumor the horses are made deaf.

So what have we learned? High school dropouts aren't worthless, smoking is good for you sometimes, and Cat is getting a gondola ride on the canal when the weather warms up.

Happy Days

SO I'm not much of a sports fan, but it was nice to see the Colts stop choking and win a Superbowl finally. The Pacers on the other hand, after 10 years of maybe, almost lost out for the final playoff spot last night to the Detroit Pistons 100-85. Le sigh.

And the bike (bicycle place) that we really liked on Mass Ave is shutting its doors. I went to go pick up my Nishiki they rebuilt and they told me the sad news. Paying the lease on the place is cheaper than trying to run it.

The balmy weather of the past few weeks is gone. Last night while we slept, winter came again for it's final roar. This morning I awoke to less than 20 degrees-Fahrenheit and wind gusts that would test the strength of any one's toupee glue.

So I flipped to the Indy Star and saw the following article:
Same-sex marriage ban collapses

'Yay!' I thought,'Maybe the Hoosier State is coming around to the last quarter of the 20th Century.' Dare I even think it? Maybe even the 21st century.

Oh, no. I couldn't be that lucky. The article starts off optimistically enough in the first few paragraphs.

"This truly is significant," said John Joanette, a lobbyist for Indiana Equality, a leading opponent of the amendment. "This was all about doing what's right for the state of Indiana and the people of Indiana."

But then the swing vote, the one vote that finally managed to stall the bill in committee, Terri J Austin, D-Anderson, tearfully said:

"I have cried over this. I have prayed over this. I have sought advice from everyone I know to try and come to the right decision in my heart."

What was her crisis about? Not the first sentence of the amendment that defines marriage as only being only between one man and one woman, but the second sentence which reads:

"may not be construed to require that marital status or the legal incidents of marriage be conferred upon unmarried couples or groups."

Super. When walking the razor's edge for equality for all her constituents finally made her make a decision, it really just boiled down to: if a girlfriend was stalking her boyfriend or if some dumb redneck was smacking around his girlfriend and her kids, the police wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. And get sued again, just like in the '80's when they wouldn't prioritize responding to domestic violence calls and women got beaten to death. And the departments got their backends handed to them in million dollar increments.

The corporations chimed in with their arguments that they already offer domestic partner benefits and they would be worried about attracting librul, educated talent to the state. Because most talented, educated people are libruls, I guess. To be fair, I used to work for Lilly at a part-time gig a few years ago setting up their training sessions: they put their money where their mouths are. They very often had sensitivity workshops on the topic of LGBT coworkers (in addition to Japanese, Chinese, Indian, an Latin American coworkers as well).

To summarize, it stalled this year because the police don't want to get sued, and the corporations still want you smart people to come to our Tent Revival to make them some more money. Come to think of it, this may very well turn out to be the theme of the 21st century. Indiana, for once, might just be right there on the cutting edge.

If that's the case,(to the tune of Morrissey's "Everyday is Like Sunday")"Come, Mayan Calendar prediction, come..."

A Challenge to the Talented and Recently Graduated

I had the grand advantage of pretty evenly splitting up my childhood between Philadelphia and Indianapolis, back and forth between middle school and college.

As a mid-20's adult, I was sad to leave southeastern PA because I knew I'd miss the things I could get on the East Coast, like Yeungling beer and a decent cheese steak on good, crusty bread. And people who knew to use the right lane on the highway if they weren't going faster than the guy behind them. Oh yeah, and that the lines on the road weren't just a suggestion: they really want you to keep your car between those lines. But I wasn't going to miss the people. Poor, desperate people with the emotional mindset of Attila the Hun (and that was just navigating the Giant supermarket lanes). People who had to make some really hard decisions in order to afford a house, much less an apartment. I still have friends out there who work no less than two (cr#ppy and unfulfilling) jobs trying to stay on track with a mortgage for a dingy row house in a very unsafe section of town. And I don't miss the mindset when I go back and have seemed to become softer and gentler. Guess what guys? Being proud that you think you're some kind of hard-a**, carrying around a cross made of telephone poles really just makes you an a**hole. Get help.

I remember watching the news on New Years Eve in '95, and the news channel from NYC that I was watching said, "...broadcasting to you from the center of Western Civilization." I cracked up thinking, "If New York is the best western civilization has to offer, we're in a whole helluva lotta trouble." And I was right: for every bible-belter we have here, you guys elect somebody like Rudy Giuliani. And I heard more racist jokes there than I do here. And I know more interracial couples here than I ever saw there.

Is there a lot to be sickened by in the people here, too? Read the comments section of any Indystar.com article involving "the gays."

Sure as anything, this short life has already taught me that every place is somehow nice or has something redeeming. It's just the people that ruin it. What do the mountains of Central New Jersey and West Virginia have in common? Both are stunningly beautiful. Just don't get out of the car to talk to anyone.

But every day I am pleasantly surprised by a populace that doesn't live its everyday life like rats in a cage. I was riding the Monon trail with a friend yesterday, and people were just waving and saying "hi"--and not because they wanted to rape me or mug me or that had a touch of "the special" in the head. They did it just because its a polite and human thing to do (it took me a good 2-3 years to stop flinching when people I didn't know would just say 'hi.' That was the biggest culture shock.) And for every bible thumping, mouth breathing idiot, there are thoughtful and reflective college-educated people who wanted cheap housing and a small, easily navigable city (everything is usually 20 minutes away.)

So here is The Challenge:
If you're graduated from college and think you're smart, ask yourself: Why are throwing away your life paying $1100 for some shoebox apartment in an already saturated creative market? The most intelligent and cunning among you would move here, to the "cultural wasteland" because these kinds of places are where the most opportunity hangs like heavy fruit from the lowest branches. There is all the room in the world to create your opportunities.

Dang

So I filed my taxes. For the second time in 5 years I have a refund coming from the state. The down side of this is: when I don't get to send in a check for the usually $3 I owe is that once again, one individual in the State Revenue department is not subjected to opening an envelope covered in stamps that says

LESBIAN $$$

all over it.

It may be small, petty, insignificant. But I can't help but imagine it's received by some state drone with polyester pants who is a feather-haired chick life passed by in 1983. Just about the last time there was a Foreigner concert at Market Square Arena.

Join me in what I imagine goes on in the bowels of the State Revenue refund division every time I send my refund in: Feathers has a marriage to some good-for-nothing. A guy that spends all their money on NASCAR collectibles and having his mullet trimmed and his bitchin' Dodge RAM pickup Rhino-lined and subsequently detailed every week. He buys a case of Pabst everyday, and not to be ironic. She is horrified that it says, shall I whisper so as not to offend the other drones? "Lesbian" all over it. She holds it out at arm's length, expecting a nest of cockroaches to spill out. She holds it between her index finger and thumb, barely daring to look. She tries desperately to open it with the finger nails on her other hand. She tries for 3 seconds and gets up. She walks to the cube down the row, and gives it to the new girl, Shanita.

"Shanita, hon," she says,"hey, I am just swamped over here. Would you mind getting a few of these refunds for me?"

Shanita smiles and takes it. She herself is a mother of two, her husband over in Iraq. She's new. The ink on her accounting degree from IUPUI won't be laid until next December. She has to take what she can get before she can get a promotion. Inside she slumps a little, wondering what new bullsh*t this White Devil is up to.

As soon as she sees the LESBIAN $$$ stamped all over, she knows right away what the problem is. Shanita thinks to herself, "Girl, whoever you are, we all got a hard row to hoe."

Oh well. There's always next year.

Miracles Never Cease

Huzzah! Looks like the Commerce Connector that was the crux of the "decentralize Indianapolis" plan has been dropped by the Governor.

It makes me wonder what political machinations had to take place for this bit of sense to occur. Should I be happy of this turn of events, or looking out for the unimaginable boogieman that precipitated it?

Daniels' Attempt to Make a Detroit out of Indy? Part II

I have a hypothesis (not a theory by the scientific method), that seems to think that politicians in the 20th century, hand in hand with business, wised up to true affiliation, and decided to spread us out. Divide and conquer, b*tches. Most politicians aren't really in the governing people business as they may have once been. What happened to impassioned union members? What happened to neighborhood groups? No average Joe really wants to affiliate and effect change except mouthbreathing Righties who want to get this or that banned on "moral grounds" instead of focusing on real problems, like who's going to fix the sewers. Because they can just go buy a new vinyl box out in the sticks, hidden away from those godless lowlifes in the urban jungle. You know, where their kids might actually meet a person different from them and realize there really isn't much to be afraid of. Anyone who does try to organize for political change gets branded as an ineffective hippie or naive and misguided idealist.

I seem to remember growing up in the godless, liberal wilds of New Jersey a saying along the lines of, "No man is an island." You pay taxes and put up with the slights of your neighbor(s) and you elect people who will govern with making people's lives better, not just businesses' lives better at the expense of the actual people. Because to some of us, life itself is more important than the trappings of lifestyles.

American culture is business-crafted lifestyle categories gussied up as life. Why did Fight Club strike such a chord with people? Because we're all being homogenized, and disconnected from each other when they keep saying "people are more different than ever." If I were a marketer with a large transnational trying to be all things to all people, I certainly would be overwhelmed with the different tastes of different areas of the country/world. Trying to get everyone to fit into some uniform category would be a tempting goal. I certainly wouldn't try to keep local preferences and regional differences alive. Too messy, too niche. There's often no money in small niches unless you yourself are a small mom and pop just trying to get a small percentage to cover your nut.

The average American works 50-some hours a week to buy more things they don't need. They go deeper and deeper into debt (more expensive but cheaply built homes in "safe" areas), bigger and more expensive-to-run cars (SUVs) and take pride somehow in their rugged "individuality."
People lose money by eating out all the time because they're too tired to make dinner after being at work 10-12 hours a day. Kids are raised by babysitters who just want to keep the kid alive long enough to get paid for wasting the day away hanging out with some demanding, attention-starved kids.

So who has any power in this scenario? Businesses. They give you a way to make a "living," but is it really any kinda life? Politicians find the will of the people is too messy and fractured to make any sense of, so they focus on keeping the peace by focusing on business. Keep people in line by keeping them under the spell that without a job, you're nothing. While there is some truth to that (nobody wants to date someone who's "in between things right now" and how are you going to pay the rent unless you keep showing up when you don't feel like it? By not brown-nosing your boss and not spending most of your day with people you loathe?)

The housing market in this town is about to implode. Indiana is notorious for not protecting its citizens from predatory lenders. Great hands off approach to our "rugged individualist" adherents who think that if you are stupid enough to get one, shame on you. There is some wisdom to teaching people a hard financial lesson. But we are all going to pay for those mistakes when our houses aren't worth anything because too high a percentage of our neighbors' are all in default and the bank needs to unload the houses at firesale prices. Maybe if people weren't blowing $.43/mile on commutes to jobs they just might get laid off from anyway, they could afford the usurious mortgage payments.

Maybe if people lived in closer proximity to one another, they would take pride in the business down the street, and care about what happens to a neighborhood they're not just going to move from in 5 years. Where's the government tax abatement business get for staying to keep a community stable when keeping primary-residence homeowners planted a little longer might work just as well?

Maybe if we hired politicians that focused on the people who make up the businesses rather than the businesses that pervert and contort people to its will, we'd find an attractive and more productive workforce. Not a bunch of people acting like rats trapped in a cage.

Not too many people with college educations say, "Hmm, after graduation I'm moving to Indiana" because its sexy. It's usually just because housing is cheap here. I know that's why I swallowed my nausea and moved here. Indianapolis is like Detroit because it has always been more business-based, not quality-of-life-based.

A beautiful city full of trees, with old buildings full of character, people different than me...that's what makes a place attractive. When you focus on business too much, what's gonna happen when the money party is over? People are going to pack up and leave. No one is going to stick around in Nowheresville, trying to look for new ways to bring money back into the nest if the nest is a bland, bloated subdivision built on the flat nasty remains of a mosquito-infested midwestern swamp.

Who knows? Maybe Governor Daniels is onto something by decentralizing Indianapolis further. I mean, this is the same guy who as Budget Director at the White House said that the invasion and occupation of Iraq was going to maybe cost 50 or 60 billion, tops. Maybe he was just talking about the initial outlay of funds KBR was going to have to spend before getting their no-bid contracts. "Major Moves" must be code for "brainfart."

Daniels' Attempt to Make a Detroit Out of Indy? Part I

Looking through a photo blog of Detroit ruins called Detroit Yes, I came across this:

How Can This Happen?
The destruction of a mass transit system of interlinked street railway cars was effected in the 1950's when the remaining cars were sold to Mexico City. Why did the city need them when nearly everybody could drive cars to their increasingly rural homes?The consequent dispersal of the population of Detroit in the years following World War II triggered a chain of downward spiraling dominoes.
Less people of less means remained. Less taxes collected resulted in less services and a diminished quality of life and security. Neighborhood libraries closed. Fire stations and schools were consolidated, then closed. Small businesses failed and none took their place. Roads and walkways fell into disrepair. More people moved away and a new line of dominoes begin to tumble.

Is there not something to be learned about what happens to a city when you start decentralizing it? Did we not learn anything from the vacant wasteland that was downtown Indy until the late 90's? Governor Daniels recently proposed a plan to ease congestion around the city that most experts said would not in fact really help ease congestion. An outer outer beltway to complement already-8-lanes-wide I-465. Super! Let's not spend any money on creating a regional high-speed line or do anything to improve the city's already damn near worthless bus system.

Most people who work downtown would rather spend money to drive 60 miles a day and the ancillary upkeep on a car driven 300 miles a week? People would not like having the luxury of reading on the way to work or leaving the driving to someone else? (With this city's slow and sloppy driving culture, you'd think at least a few hundred people would opt for rapid transit in the morning and evening.)

I suspect nothing really gets done in this town for three reasons:
1. All the politicians are afraid of raising taxes because whiny blowhards think they're being taxed too much anyway. The 100+ year old sewer system has never been overhauled because it was cheaper to put quick-fixes on it for 100 years, and now it looks like it's going to cost a billion or more dollars to get it where the EPA says we can breathe within a mile around Fall Creek again after a semi-hard rain.
2. Republicans get elected saying that government doesn't work and then prove it. (My hat off to P.J. O'Rourke for that quip.)
3. The cultural norm is for everyone to act like a pack of Bonobos trapped in a closet with a fireworks finale rack when someone suggests change because What if the plan fails? Fear of failure and the unknown derails any kind of passionate discourse that would lead to change here, coupled with a propensity toward a "let's not rock the boat and be nice to everyone because it's the polite thing to do" attitude that leaves everything at a standstill. Much like a deer caught in headlights.

To be fair, change hasn't always been kind to this city: The destruction of the old ornate County Courthouse in the early 70's to make way for the architectural abortion that is the current City-County Building. The kickback scam that was the construction of the Madison Avenue corridor. Although it finally linked the Southside back up with downtown. The influx and concentration of those who vote Democratic. Oooooh, scary.

So tell me where is the advantage in decentralizing Indianapolis? We already have a goodly amount of sprawl, as evidenced by the vinyl box heaven that is Fishers and Noblesville. Indianapolis, for being a city, is already incredibly residential. One has to go no further than 16th Street before they start getting into neighborhoods with honest-to-goodness single family houses with yards.

A few internships I have read lately insist that you have a car because of the sprawl or they advise you to get an apartment within walking distance to the office. Indianapolis is already not like most of the other 15 most populous cities in the United States.

Visitors from Chicago are always amazed they're in a city by the time they get to 71st Street. "You mean this isn't a suburb?" I've been asked.

I don't miss my lonely and isolated younger years in the suburbs devoid of sidewalks, parks with a dearth of people because you couldn't safely ride your bike to the park without parental supervision to cross 6 lane roads, proximity to school friends and any kind of area to hang out other than the mall (which again, you needed a ride to from your mom). I live in a high concentration neighborhood where most people's front yards are about 30' across. And while we have a few bad apples, I like that I am well-acquainted/know all my neighbors. I like the sense of community and barbecue we all share on the Fourth of July when we block off our street and watch the fireworks being let off the Regions' Bank Building. My neighbors are black, white, Asian, Latino, young, old, college-educated and high-school dropouts. How is it we can all get along this well while middle-class white folks in neighborhood association-controlled areas are at each other throats about what color flowers they planted in their front yards? By following reasonable "good fences make good neighbors" personal conduct, we all get along. Rigid rules come into place when you have sociopaths living all over you, and need to micromanage them because they lack any self control to leave you alone.

Are we to conclude the suburbs are full of sociopaths? Possibly some normal people burnt out with dealing with sociopaths at work all day? And the stigma of living in cities after the White Flight of 70s is just so ingrained they can't see the same drugs and crime of the cities follows them up to the sticks, now masked by the faces of their bored and neglected kids with too much time and money on their hands?

Part II to follow....

Tony Dungy: Family Man, Winning Superbowl Coach, Bigot

Skip over this post if inflammatory anti-Christian rhetoric offends your senses, and you think writing bigotry into law is a good idea solving an actual problem.

Tony Dungy, by most accounts, "is a nice guy." Quiet, always sharply dressed, seemingly more reflective and reserved and skinny than most ex-football players that become coaches or commentators. He's very likable. Tragedy befell him in 2005 when his son James took his own life. I was cleaning out the freezer the day after I heard the news, and I found a container of Edy's special Colts Ice Cream (we're not crazy Colts fans--Cat has an addiction to ice cream and it was on sale). On the back was Mr. Dungy and his many progeny, including James, touting his work with All Pro Dads, a Christian "Focus on the Family" associated organization.

I am usually pretty emotionless when it comes to other people's problems, especially celebs, but Mr. Dungy struck me as an example of everything good about Christianity. Kind, compassionate, caring: taking what appeared to be a deep and genuine interest in the upbringing of his children. His son was so overwhelmed with depression (I myself have suffered from crushing bouts of depression on and off since I was 10) that he ended it all, and this caring man was powerless to save him. I didn't cry, but I certainly got very misty at that moment. Tragic.

After the news I heard today, I have many words for Mr. Dungy, but these are the first three words that come to mind: F*ck you, Jack.

But on the other hand, thank you. As an American, thank you for speaking your piece. Thank you for doing something you care about, and taking the time to actually do something instead just sitting around bitching about it.

But back to what really bothers me:

F*ck you and your "family values" bullsh*t.
F*ck you for reinforcing every negative stereotype I have about jocks, Hoosiers, and people who tout their "Christianity" and belief in God.
F*ck you for cherry picking your verses out of the Bible you bacon-eating, shrimp-devouring, face-shaving, poly-blend wearing, walkin' free hypocrite.
F*ck you for backing the bigots, especially when that inerrant Word of God in the Bible says that the US was wrong when Emancipation was instituted.
F*ck you for only having a brain that understands football plays, not the memory of what it means to have the world living all over you while trying to raise your family.
F*ck you and the SJR-7 toting hillbillies that want to make sure we all know that you are not interested in our kind, even if we are ER nurses or mechanical engineers. We get the hint and will be packing it up to a state without institutionalized bigotry written into its constitution before the ink on our degrees dry.

What cloud I think these people live in is that all homosexuals are the same: Into sport-f*cking every piece of *ss that drifts their way and getting AIDS and molesting small children.
If you are someone who is ready to give up the brainwashing, consider the following:

Even 100 years ago, children died all the time. They died in childhood from things that are merely an uncomfortable rash nowadays, like chicken pox and scarlet fever. Most of this country was agrarian (that means people made their living by farming). There was not all the fancy farm equipment available to make the farm work. Large families were needed to farm the land. And when the Bible was written, clan elders saw the value in having multiple progeny as this meant a larger clan in which to beat other clans into submission, and ensure survival of your clan. Life was short, hard, and brutish. You couldn't do that if you were eating things that might kill you, like unrefrigerated pork or lobster. And you couldn't do that if you were getting syphilis from getting intimate with the sheep. You also were doing the tribe no favors by creating webbed-finger children by sleeping with a close relative. Nor were you creating harmony and goodwill within the tribe by sleeping with your brother's wife.

Now for the homos: if you have Joseph shacking up with Peter, or Sarah shacking up with Ruth, how are you going to make babies for the tribe? Especially since you hide in caves at solar eclipses and have almost complete ignorance on a cellular level of what actually is involved in human reproduction?

Well, thank you science for making artificial insemination possible. Now us gay folks who are family-inclined can contribute to the clan. Everyone knows Cat's mom (who goes to Bible Study, btw) realizes the fallibility of anti-gay legislation and is excited and happy to welcome her first grandchild.
Thank you science for demonstrating that most child molesters are married, educated, employed, religious men.

Sound like anyone you know?

For every negative stereotype of gay people, there is one for the straight world:
You don't like the promiscuous? Get frat boys into reparation therapy to stop sport-f*cking chicks on Spring Break.
Want to preserve the "sanctity of marriage?" Get everyone to go through what Cat and I did to preserve some control over each others lives: Spend $3000 to plan your wills, incorporate as a dual proprietorship (over domestic matters), make sure everything is spelled out in your living will (and that you are each other's medical power of attorney), go through the 5-6 week process of legally changing your last names. Then drop $7000 on what most people won't even call a wedding, but quaintly "a commitment ceremony." Spend another extra couple thousand here adopting the other person's biological child so you can pick them up from the daycare or make medical decisions in the event your partner was in the same car wreck as the child. And don't expect any tax breaks for promoting a stable loving family. Carry all your paperwork with you at all times. Hope like hell your loved ones' condition doesn't critically deteriorate while the ER waits to hear back from the Legal Department regarding the validity of your papers before you can see your partner/make a crucial medical decision. How many people would be getting married for 55 hours then?
Want to promote harmonious family life? Spend a little more brain power judging the temperament of whom you choose to spend your life with rather than falling for the facade of a "god-fearing" man or woman and memorizing Bible verses. Roles are facades masking our imperfections. Face up to them honestly, accept them, and work around them. You will be much happier in the long run, rather than trying to outrun it with some superstitious conflicting hoodoo written 2000 years ago by members of a desert-wandering tribe.

Dodging A Bullet

Say what you want about Indianapolis, but there is something of an economy here. Though I worry that Indianapolis may be trying too hard to put all their eggs in one basket with this "Life Sciences Initiatives" business. We are pushing hard to bring medical research and development companies to the area, but is that really going to pay off in the long run? Is this business going to stand the test of time?

Back in the 90's, I had the pleasure of living in the Allentown-Bethlehem-Easton area (aka, Lehigh Valley) section of Pennsylvania. During this time, it was right behind Seattle as being the cloudiest place in the United States. Did wonders for my depression. But the great thing about living there is I got to see first hand what is meant by "Rust Belt." I referred to it as "post-industrial sh#thole", which is a little less euphemistic and a little closer to the truth. Anyone remember Esther Williams? Her bathing suit line was made in Easton at one point. Textiles "Made in the USA" are now made in Guam or the Marianas Islands. Remember Bethlehem Steel? Huge place. Walking around the grounds after it was shut down was like a creepier version of Kurt Vonnegut's "A Deer in the Works." People grew up thinking that they would go go work their for $22/hour just like their folks and that Bethlehem would be around forever. See Billy Joel's Allentown for more on how that worked out.

So I'm reading up today and find out that houses cost less than cars in Detroit. Very sad. To live there is unnerving to say the least. There just isn't anything good coming out of Detroit except arguably musicians (White Stripes, Eminem). And compared to Motown, they aren't that spectacular.

So what does the sad fate of Detroit have to do with Indianapolis? We almost were Detroit. That's why the 500 track was built in the first place: it was a test track for the carmakers here. Auburn, Cord, Duesenberg, Studebaker, etc. However, the railroads worked too hard to screw the automakers, and they moved their operations to a city conveniently located near shipping ports where the shippers were not screwing with the automakers so hard. Detroit is located on an actually navigable body of water. So there went the autoplants.

What happens when healthcare collapses in this country, as it irresistably seems it will? There is too little money to be made in useful drugs to cure cancer or diabetes or alcoholism. There's just too much money to be had in keeping people sick but treating the disease.

Well, you can only go on like that for so long until globalization brings a cure to our shores, FDA approved or not. Someone will make it for cheap, sooner or later.

And what happens when people finally get fed up with paying 50% or more of their paychecks just so they can do more paperwork when their claims get denied 2 or 3 times, routinely? People will just give up paying and only go to the doctor when they are terminally ill. People who wait that long don't usually make it. So I hope they're researching a cure for death, 'cause that really seems to be the only thing they'll ultimately be able to make money peddling.

pho24

Indiana has a reputation for really chubby women.

I know this because I used to work at the City Hospital's Womens' Clinic, and this was a frequent observation by our residents.

"Why are all women in Indiana so fat?" they'd ask. Rhetorically, I'm sure. However, if they'd really wanted an answer, I would've said, "Well, you are dealing with the very poor population, with the barest of educational levels. All they know is a box of Poptarts is cheaper than a bunch of bananas, is more satisfying, and lasts longer. But you're a doctor, so I guess you already know that."

Anyway, I'm listening to NPR this morning and they're talking to the guy that owns Pho24, a Vietnamese fast food chain. They serve noodles. The owner said, "Nobody ever got fat eating pho." Jared, the wall of human from those subway commercials is from Indianapolis (or is now). I think he was at Indiana University-Bloomington when he started the subway diet. Does anyone besides me see the synergy forming here?

Indianapolis already has some kid genius running Noodles & Co, but we'd be shooting for the Authenticity dollar. If we were the first place to have it in the midwest, we'd be going for the Novelty dollar too.

Seriously, if they could figure out a way to serve cheap, fast, satisfying yet simple fast food that would not make you fat, I'd bet you'd even get PR money from the governors' office to promote it. And if you could disguise this diet stuff as regular food, you'd be sitting on a goldmine.

1 USD is 15,965 Vietnamese Dong. Anyone willing to lend me a few thousand dollars?

Mild Mannered Town Goes on Rampage

The St. Patty's Day parade is today. DPW doesn't want to work the 17th because it's a Saturday. Ask yourself: if it was going to be gorgeous out, would you want to either?

I went to indystar.com to find out when it starts and notice the following headlines:

2 hurt in suspected retaliatory shooting
Police plan DUI effort this weekend - 9:24 AM
Mom wants man jailed in 11-month-old's stabbing

Nude motorist nabbed after Fishers cop struck - 8:28 AM

There were no riots when we won the Superbowl recently. Digging back through history, I found out that the summer of the Watts Riots in LA (1965), 12 other large cities had race riots as well. Not Indianapolis.

But there is a funny thing that happens here though on the first few days of spring: people start driving like they're roofied, and start acting as if they've done too many lines of coke/crystal meth.

It has gotten colder at the end of this week than it was at the beginning (typical schizophrentic Indiana weather pattern). But last night Sis was working at the Joint, and a large African-american male comes in. Sits down, just starts cussing at other people. He's sitting in the section with the israeli/jordanian chick that everyone loves, D. D goes over to him and tells him, "Hey guy, can you settle down with the F-bomb? I'll be right back with you to take your order in a sec."

He starts flipping out and says, "F*** you, f*** this. I'm leaving." Gets up and walks out.
Okaaay...

Guy comes back in about two minutes later, starts full-court pressing D. "What the f*ck? What the f*ck were you kicking me out for?"

D said,"Hey, you kicked yourself out."

He replies, "It's 'cause I'm black isn't it?" He says to the fairly dark-skinned Middle-Easterner.

D had no kinda reply for him except,"I can assure you it was not because you're black. I only asked you to quiet down because the other customers couldn't talk to each other when you were screeching "F-this, F-that" at them for no reason."

He insists they give him the owner's/managers names and vows to "get you guys for this."
D, being new is a little upset and asks sis if the owner (who is black) is going to get really upset.
Sis just rolls her eyes,"This crap happens ever other week here. If it does become a problem, the cop (who works security) will let her know that if he hadn'ta kicked himself out, the cop would've in about another minute."

That was the more exciting story from last night. The only other really crazy table was a group of industry from one of the local bars who kept getting louder and louder, but when they were asked to quiet down, they did. And made that weird lip sucking face, so Sis is convinced they'd been smoking crack instead of just doing bumps like usual.

Magic Eraser Saves

So the neighbor Sis and I have been friends with since grade school relayed the following story to us about what happened to her one and only bumper sticker that reads:

"Partnership for a God-Free America"

Simple. Elegant. Blunt. Black with reversed-out white lettering. Not even very large. On the back of an old Geo Metro.

So T is out a few months ago, with her husband J and infant son E in the car. A couple of tourists from the Northside pull up next to their car in a shiny, late model Mercedes-Benz (white with cream leather interior). The lady in the passenger seat loses it. She makes a motion at them pointing to the back of their car with one hand and shaking her other finger in a "no-no"/sour face combo. T leans out the window and says something in her understated sublty sarcastic way: "Hey, free country, lady."

Lady screams back, "This is a Christian Nation, and you are going to be sorry. I hope you're not raising that baby that way."

J smirks at her and says, "Why yes we are. We don't believe in child abuse."

This incites the lady in a rabid gnashing of her teeth (dentures?), "You are all going to HELL! You are all going to burn in the PIT! Both of you are dammned, and so is that baby."

At which point T just smiled and said, "Hey, watch the language around the kid. Do you talk to your god that way?" The light turned green and they drove off, giggling. Onward you poor Christian martyrs in your Benzes.

So fast forward a few months and T starts working for a large corporation downtown, where she is offered free parking in the massive employee lot, side-by-side with about 1,000 of her co-workers. She comes out of work one day to see someone has taken a black ball point pen and very carefully colored in the "free" part of her bumper sticker.

Sigh. Typical. So she comes home and proceeds to attempt to wash it off with soap, lighter fluid, and grease cutter. Nothing works. She looks under the sink and finds a magic eraser. Those microfibers cut right through the ballpoint ink and her sticker is better-than-new in 30 seconds.

I could make all kinds of parable-like statements about science defeating misguided beliefs, but I'll just let you do that yourselves.

Carmel-by-the-Highway

There is a fabulous place in California called "Carmel-by-the-Sea." When I was younger, a magnet hung on my Gram's fridge that testified to her visit there one time. It's near Malibu, I think. Toney northern suburb of Los Angeles (?)--something as majestic as the Pacific Ocean at which to look.
However, there is a place in the Indianapolis area named the same, pronounced a little different by the farmers that originally settled the area. "Car-mel" is how the CA's pronounce theirs. "Carmul" is how the farmers pronounced ours. In the mid-80's, in the grand tradition of White Flight, they sold out to developers in droves. I think the trailer park I visited Generica the Tranny in high school is gone.
Today I read the paper and it seems that there was gasp! a crack deal that went down there. People's pretensions in HamCo are the subject of this post. People are shocked, shocked! by the recent wave of "inner city" type crimes that go on there.
I love the Northside of Indianapolis. Honestly. I spent a good deal of my formative years there. However, as the affluence rises, so does the effluence. Think about it: crime goes where the money is. Write your Economic masters thesis on that one.
People with money live in really nice places. People with a little money who think they have money live in Carmel-by-the-Highway.
Honestly, if you were hot sh*t, you would live somewhere else.

Employment schlepping a Gov't Agency at Ye Olde Job Faire

I am about to graduate with a BS. So this means I need to start using my BS skills at the job fairs to try and get a foot in the door with an employer so I can start paying back those insane school loans I racked up over the past few years.

So the latest job fair had its usual list of local corporations I really was dreading going to when one employer stood out from the rest: the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

In a previous post, I mentioned that Sis and I had a papa at one point. He was a Special Agent for the FBI working at a small satellite office of the Philadelphia office in the late 70's-early 80's. Small time gig, just a general-type agent working the Fraud Division. You pretty much just put in your 20 years, get a government pension, and then do security consulting and private investigation until you decide you gonna retire to your recliner. No big whoop. Of course, the lure of illicit profits derived from dabblings in organized crime combined with shall we say, a certain moral flexibilty (or non-existence, really), kept him from that career path.

Well, from what I remember of drunken conversations with papa when I was a teenager (where he was drunk as hell and I was trying to act nonchalant about tripping my ass off on a microdot), he recalled the glory days of what those golden times were like. One summer we didn't go camping to the bottlefly- and black bear-infested Adirondacks because they had to wait around all summer monitoring a tip on a beer truck that was going to be heisted. Darn. And then there was that agent, JS, who made fun of my sweaty dad's inabilty to follow dress code in the summer that insisted they wear undershirts, no matter how stifling the South Jersey humidity got. "Hey, Steve, you going bra-less again?" And on slow days, it was just like the good old frat days: they'd sit around lighting farts.

One of the few lucid thoughts I remember having had at the time was, "And these people are supposed to be protecting us?" To be fair though, they do protect us somewhat. From the CIA.

To boot, there is no way a farmboy from upstate New York would've ever sunk his sociopathic meathooks into my mother had that agency never stationed him with the Gary and then Indianapolis office. So I'm a little bitter about that, but let's keep moving on...

Sis and I go to the job fair. I hand out resumes to some of the less odious non-profits that I wouldn't feel like a total sell-out being in their employ. I mean, for chrissakes they are trying to hold up a piece of some culture in this town or keep the rats from overrunning it all NYC-style. Why wouldn't I want to be a part of it?

The irresistable draw of the FBI's table overcomes us. Sis gives me The Look while stifling a giggle. I know there is a chance of $5 or an all expenses paid lunch if I do it. So I casually walk over to the table where a fresh-faced agent of obvious midwestern farm stock and a Jodie- Foster-in-Silence of the Lambs-wannabe in a power suit are chatting with actually interested candidates. I peruse the "hot-action" literature (as Sis calls it) for a few minutes while they finish their canned routine with a few of mouth-breathers from a local Christian-affiliated college, up from the sticks. Suprisingly, I thought Clarice would've been the one to initiate the conversation, but it was Farmboy.

"Do you have an interest in becoming an agent?" he asks.

"Umm, well my dad used to be an agent. So for a while I thought I might like to pursue a career with the Bureau." Yeah, that was until the federal government sat on my family's sunglasses with their asses. And I took all those psychedelics in high school. Note to anyone wishing to pursue a career with the Bureau: They may say they're all cool about you smoking weed once or twice when you were young and experimental, but they really aren't. And don't think you'll hide it. They will find out about it, even if it was just that one time.

At this point I notice that even though we are in a chilly large facility, Farmboy has beads of sweat on his upper lip. Are his pupils dilated?

"So what made you decide you didn't want to?" he asks.

"Oh, I haven't really decided either way. Dad was an agent a looong time ago. I'm sure some things have changed since he was in the Bureau. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

He seems delighted in that creepy recruiter glad-handy way,"Sure."

Sis is off to the side trying to keep it together, trying to keep her grin supressed. Since she's looking down at the hot action literature, I can't tell if its Clarice, the brochure, or if she knows what I'm about to say that is giving her fits.

"Ok, so since J Edgar Hoover is long since gone, do you guys all still have to wear Botany 500 suits, or can you just pick up a 99 dollar jobbie from Men's Wearhouse?"

A small, unsure smile plays at the corner of his lips. "No, we don't have to wear Botany 500 suits."

"And uh," wait for it, wait for it, here it comes "do you guys still sit around lighting your farts on slow days?"

Farmboy's smirk twists into a grimace and as he's about to say something, Clarice comes over and snaps, "You think this is funny?"

I look at her as coolly as possible. "Look up the name [censored] out of the [censored] office. I'm sure you guys got access to records. That file's a f*ckin' laugh riot," I say flatly and turn to leave.

At this point Sis is beet red and can't supress her laugh anymore. The giggle comes out like a small bark. She walks over to me and grabs my arm. Lunch is on her.

A thousand sassy tongue lashes at the Joint

So Sis works part-time as a waitress at a 24-hour place in the tourist-filled Wholesale section of downtown. We'll call it the Joint. And by tourists, I include Northsiders and residents of HamCo. To be honest, they are something all together different. And they think this is Broad Ripple, where they can act like sweaty, drunken frat-rejects, vomiting and fighting all over the place.

Nay-nay. We run a much more classy and mature set downtown, y'all. Get it together or you're losing some cash. And/or teeth. And or the lining of your lungs (you know who you are--always getting tear-gassed at the dance joint down the street).

So last night's story is this: Sis calls me in to work as hostess because Red Dragon can't be there. Boy's gotta crack habit to take care of. I decline because I have a school project to avoid, and I'm down the street at Juicy's house watching Borat anyway.

Oh, how I wish I could've been there!

So Sis gets a banned "Canadian." Not to be disrespectful to our neighbors to the north, but this breed of customer has different cultural values that do not include the importance of tipping. And more often than not, generally does not understand you shouldn't be an asshat to someone who has control over the following:
A. The police officer working security at the door who will plant his foot into your backside.
B. The timeliness and temperature at which your food will be served.
C. A sassy, razor-sharp tongue that will cut you off at the boottops because, hey, this is her second job anyway where she comes to relieve the stress of being a corporate yes woman. She will dare you to f*ck with her.

"Canadians" is apparently used widely in the food service industry to refer to black people of a certain socio-economic class. To clarify for future reference, Canadians at this establishment only fit the criteria that they are rude, nasty for no reason, are taking a bad day/night/life out on a waitress/waiter, and are obviously value shopping for food at the wrong place. If you want cheap, go hit the vending machines at the Greyhound Station. So this can apply to white people, hispanic, asian, or middle eastern just as easily as black, and suprisingly often to Christians on their way back from church on Sunday mornings.

Back to the story:
A banned Canadian, after a night of hardcore half-price drinking at the clubs, cuts the line at the door and comes up to my Sis at the counter. Sis tells her she's not welcome. Think Edina from Absolutely Fabulous, but even more pathetic. She's a tourist from the Northside. But Sis bites her tongue when Edina says she wants it to go. Ok, Sis will play along.

Of course, Edina owns a modeling agency, and according to her, she. knows. everyone. Sis gives her her to go order. The next time she turns around to look, Edina's mowing down on her greasy diner hashbrowns and eggs at the end of the bar, and says, "You know, you're banned. The only reason I took your order is because I thought it was to go. And I told you that when you ordered."

Edina feigns surprise."Well, why am I banned?"

Sis lays it out for her. "Well, apparently you have been a total bitch to waitstaff here several times. And now your name is on the list."

"Let me see that list!" Edina demands.

Sis pulls the paper down off the board and shows it to her. Her name is not only on the list, but has been highlighted. Ooooh, you've been especially naughty, Edina. They all hate your guts.

Edina is shocked. Shocked! "Well, I own a modeling agency." Whoop-dee-dee-doo."I must have told one of the girls here 'No', and that's why I'm on this list."

This is the moment every shift Sis waits for. To put a subtle slow burn on an asshat. "No. You obviously don't know any of the people that work here if you think for a second that's the case." Get a clue, lady. Large, culturally attractive cities have aspiring actor-model-singers working as waitstaff. In Indianapolis, waiting is an actual job (full or part time) or something you do until you finish your Masters in English Lit and land that dream job teaching at a university in a culturally attractive city where aspiring actor-model-singers work as waitstaff.

"Well, I don't know who I told 'No' to," Edina prattles on, "but I will make sure none of my clients and none of my girls EVER come down here again."

Sis just rolls her eyes. Edina, even more infuriated, bellows,"I know Jamie Foxx's people. He's in town, and I'm going to make sure they don't come here. That they never come here."

Sis just smiles. "Are ya sure? 'Cause that large group of people in the back there," she waves her hand over a group of about 15 people,"are Jamie Foxx's people."

Defeated and too drunk to really argue anymore, Edina picks up the rest of her chow in the styrofoam and marches out, still braying, "I will never come here again and neither will my girls..."

The Bear and the Homie, friends of ours outside of work who toil the steamy and seemy side of nightlife along side with Sis at the Joint, come up to Sis after Edina makes her Grand Exit. "You were too nice to her," they say.

"Well," Sis is a contemplative person with a philosopher's soul (sometimes),"she's gonna come to tomorrow and will be like 'That f*ckin' bitch just burned me.' And I will be at my corporate job, far away from her making a scene to the Boss, who's not going to do anything for her except tell her to leave because she's obviously on that list for a reason."

The Bear and the Homie nod at this wisdom. "Ahh, subtle, yet effective," sayeth the Homie.

Jury Duty

We'll use the expository method of getting to know each other, shall we?

Let's just get to the meat and potatoes of the story:

I have the best sister in the whole world. We live together like members of a cult in a little cottage in a cute, but not-yet-fashionable section of downtown. I bring this up because we have lived like this since we were teenagers. In several cities between here and our native land of New Jersey.
As poor and or miserable as we got, as uneducated past the 12th grade as we are, we always felt it necessary to remain good citizens and register to vote. So we have been registered voters at the 10 or so addresses we've had over the past decade. From time-to-time, we have had roommates with the same address and general demographics as ourselves: twenty-thirty-somethings with respectable jobs, tax-payers, non-felons.
Sis and I started noticing an odd trend that we are now convinced is not just a random, isolated coincidence: we never get called for jury duty. Ever. Every other place we have lived, all of the other adults in the household get called for jury duty, but not us.
This recently became an issue of hot debate two weeks ago. My partner, who I will call Cat, got called for jury duty by Marion County. Congratulations.
The next day, an old roommate of ours who hasn't lived here (or in this state) for two years recieved his. Wtf?
Cat and I both legally changed our names to an amalgam of people who were important to us. Sis and I no longer share a common last name. And our last name was pretty common to boot.
PARANOIA time:
When we were both little girls (Sis and I), all dressed up like boys in Cinderella dresses, our papa did a really, really bad, bad thing. Maybe I will bring it up in another post, but for the sake of time, we'll just say this: it was a federal case. Being someone who worked for a federal agency, it was a pretty embarrasing. Think Robert Hanlon. That puts you in the ballpark. What they could actually convict him of of was actually less than what they suspected him of doing (and to be honest, was probably guilty of).
So do I call up Doris Sadler, clerk of the courts and demand to know why Sis and I don't get called for jury duty? Or do I just let sleeping dogs lie and keep this as one of those fun little mysteries to further add romance and texture to my very active daydreaming life?