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.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
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?
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?
Thursday, March 22, 2007
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."
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:
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....
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....
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
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?
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?
Friday, March 16, 2007
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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.
"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.
Monday, March 12, 2007
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!
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.
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!
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.
Friday, March 2, 2007
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.
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.
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?
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?
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