Fighting racism, two fists at a time

Buddy One and I used to go to Ozzies together. We'd drink and sing and generally make merry. One night, though, the peaceful environment was corrupted with ignorance and ended with blood running on the streets.

How does something so right go so wrong? Allow me to explain.

BO (nice shortening of the nickname... you're welcome!) and I wandered in and saw a fella wearing a Michigan shirt. We'll call him Michigan. BO had recently purchased a Detroit Tigers hat and I have found that only Australians like me more than Michiganders, so we took a couple minutes to talk to him. Nice guy. Kinda plump, but a nice guy.

BO and I (at this point I might just see how often I can use "BO" in this story) took a seat in the singing area and saw our buddy, Black Karaoke Buddy, there. ("Why that nickname?" you might ask. Well. He's black and he's our karaoke buddy.) We had a good time, singing our songs and singing along when other people sang theirs... standard stuff.

Standard, that is, until it was Michigan's turn to sing. He chose Vanilla Ice's generation-defining "Ice, Ice Baby"... which is both extremely repetitive and, at times, challenging. Challenging, especially, for guys who have had some alcohol and don't really know the words that well. Guys like Michigan.

In any case, we were singing along. BO, BKB and I. Michigan's buddy was watching and leaned in to our table's flight zone and declared (seemingly good-naturedly) to BKB these fateful words:

"Keep that up and they'll have to revoke your card!"

The three of us heard it. BKB, probably (unfortunately) more used to this racist sort of stuff, didn't make a big deal out of it. I, being me, don't make a big deal out of anything that doesn't involve some sort of typographical error.

BO, however, took umbrage. He looked at us with an "Is he SHITTING me?" kind of look on his face. He then swiveled in his chair and told Michigan's buddy, known in this blog as Racist, that it was not cool and not to be racist. Whether Racist heard or not is unknown, but further incidents at Ozzies were avoided.

At Ozzies, they were avoided.

Somehow BO and I started talking to four chicks at the end of the night. Not only is that a lot for us to bite off at the end of the night, but they were professional softball players and lesbians. But I was drunk and had nothing better to do, so the six of us wandered over to another bar for a final drink before closing.

Unfortunately for ignorance and oppression, Michigan and Racist were at the same bar. We got our drink and BO, looking down at the end of the bar where Racist was sitting, stated in a rather loud voice, "There's that racist motherfucker!" And when prompted by the professional softball players to explain, he elucidated by stating, "That guy is a racist asshole!"

Which obviously cleared things right up.

Unfortunately, sometimes to make an omelette you need to break a few eggs. BO did not go for the Eggbeater-based omelette. He was going for the real deal, and that involved breaking some eggs. And some blood vessels. (Ick. Maybe the thought of breaking eggs with blood vessels in them isn't such a good image; I don't like blood in my breakfast foods as a general rule.)

Racist heard the proclamations. Rather than trying to clear up the matter, though, he took extreme umbrage. He returned that he wasn't a racist. He cursed back at BO.

And things were taken outside.

With the four professional softball players still in tow, BO and I went outside and took a right on Queen Anne... heading back to vehicles and (in my case) apartment.

Michigan and Racist were right behind us. Racist and BO were talking and at some point the two got closest enough for one punch to be thrown, and one punch was enough for BO to drop Racist.

BO kept talking, but he caught up to me and the professional softball players. Michigan was restraining Racist, who was raging and wanted a piece of BO. (Of course, as it turns out, he did NOT want a piece of him, but it seemed a good idea at the time.)

It would have been easy for us to disperse. For BO to take his 1-0 victory and for the professional softball players to go their own way (go their own way...) but easy is not always best, most just, or most fun.

BO kept yapping. We could see Michigan holding Racist back and it was simultaneously admirable of Michigan, idiotic of Racist, and hilarious to watch.

A pair of black guys walked past and BO told them that he'd just dropped a racist guy, and one of them rolled up his sleeves, as if he were going to drop Racist if he made it past the Michigan defensive perimeter.

Fortunately for everyone, as Racist made his way slowly up the block to our position, all non-involveds left... just the six in our party were left, waiting, when Racist charged.

BO stood his ground and Racist waded into a short flurry of punches that staggered him. He lurched backwards and fell onto the sidewalk. His head hit pretty hard, and in my medical opinion, he was concussed.

He popped up, though, with a bit of the ol' "I've just been concussed" crazy-eyes... and blood streaming down his left arm. I'm not sure how or where it came from, but he bled a lot in a very short amount of time.

Seeing a bleeding dude who'd just had his skull bounce off the sidewalk pop up ready for more of an ass-whooping, the professional softball players skee-daddled. Leaving just Michigan, Racist, BO and me.

Michigan was at the end of his rope. He was a decent guy who didn't want to see his friend get beat up. He started talking--pleading--with me to leave and to take BO with me. Of course, I wasn't going to risk my hide by getting in between the two guys, especially since my friend was winning. I calmly explained that I lived very close and that THEY were the ones who ought to leave, especially considering Racist had started it all.

Michigan tried to explain his perspective, and he managed to dig himself a nice little hole as he recounted the matter:

Michigan: My friend saw your friend singing my song, and--your african american friend might have been gay, I don't know, and he--
Me: What?
Michigan: He might have been gay, and he--
Me: Uh... he's not gay, first of all, but who gives a crap if he is?
Michigan: OK. He might not be gay, but my friend...

I kinda tuned him out there. He could sense it, and he started pointing the finger at me, personally, for not keeping my friend under control.

This conversation was taking place on the street corner. Where were BO and Racist? They were in the crosswalk, circling and talking and taking one another's measure... at least BO was taking Racist's measure... Racist might have been counting the hallucinations the bruises on the back of his brain were causing.

As I spoke to Michigan, I was keeping and eye on the in-the-street hostilities to ensure that BO was doing OK. I didn't want to escalate things with a four man brawl for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that I'm the worst fighter on the planet.

Or at least that's what I thought. Then I saw Racist finally make his move.

He rotated his hips so he was in profile, facing BO. He then did two weenie little sidekick things towards BO's stomach. One missed entirely and the other connected, but it (shockingly, I know!) lacked any sort of power.

After the two kicks of fury, Racist didn't change tactics. He went to the well, as it were, once too often.

The third kick was one that BO was ready for. When it approached, BO caught it and sort of twisted Racist, who hit the pavement like a concussed ton of bricks.

If BO were a trained fighter, I think Racist could have ended up in the hospital at this point. As it was, BO got a couple more licks in before Michigan finally pulled the bloodied but still outraged Racist away. Racist, at that point, claimed he was going to go get a knife and kill BO.

*yawn*

BO and I wandered back to my place to cool down. He had blood on his shirt and various spots on his upper body. Seen, in part, here:

Racist was taller than BO, Racism had the reach on him, and Racism had the cultural and institutional inertia.

But Racism lost. Big time.

Three assholes

I think I'm a pretty easy-going guy. Much of my easy-going nature is rooted in laziness, of course, but as my personality manifests itself towards people, I tend to get along well with most people, I think.

I don't actually LIKE most people, but I can tolerate them and realize that they're good people without going out of my way to be buddies with them. The flipside to this general indifference is that I rarely actively dislike anyone. I don't know whether it's a reflection of my optimism that the number of people I like (as relatively meager as it is) outweighs the number I dislike, or whether my optimism reflects that positive imbalance.

In any event, I rarely dislike people. I can count on one hand the number of people that, right now, I can tell you that I don't like. As a matter of fact, I am going to do that in this post.

To protect the identities of these poor SOBs, I am going to do some creative time management. I hope that, by reading these descriptions, an observer won't be able to tell about whom (or from what time in my life) these three emerged on my radar screen. I will tell you (a) none of them are on my MySpace friends list, and (b) this blog is friends-only. [Blogger.com migration note: (b) is no longer accurate.]

Without further ado, and in no specific order (such as chronological or intensity) here we go. Three assholes.

1. Once upon a time, I liked a woman. She liked me for a bit and then changed her mind. Time went on and I still clinged to the feelings and, after a considerable haitus from communicating with her, we met up and spent the better part of an evening together. We talked about this and that and then we talked about a guy. A guy she had a crush on. Her smile lit up and as she shared specifics I felt like I was going to vomit.

I had never met the guy, but there are ways of learning things about people (muhahahaha) and she'd given me his name so, after a week or two, I knew things about him. What he looked like, where (generally) he worked, where he played high school baseball (OK, Google.com sometimes returns some crazy shit).

I also knew that I didn't like him (although I didn't know, one day, that I would be blogging about him).

One day I was walking downtown and I saw him walking down the street and I wanted to spit on his shoes. Or punch him in the groin. I restrained myself.

Did he do anything wrong? No. Might he be a nice guy? Yes. Do I give a crap? No. He's someone I still don't like, and even if he never meets me or knows who I am he'll always be an asshole.

2. My family all lives in other parts of the country nowadays. I don't visit as much as I'd like (although maybe more than they'd like), but the second guy on this list emerged during one such visit. I had a redeye flight and I was lying on a couch, watching TV, in anticipation of some sort of party or gathering of friends (none of whom I knew). I was dozing happily in spite of the hustle-bustle of the house when I felt something hitting me in the face. I kinda brushed it away but it persisted and I finally opened my eyes.

Standing over me was a guy with a goatee and an annoying voice. I learned both of those things simultaneously, as he apologized half-heartedly (in terms of emotion, not in terms of volume) for opening the blinds next to the couch, and the drawstring things were hitting me in the face.

He was going out to have a smoke on the porch, you see, and wanted to see the television. He was unconcerned, it seems, that I was trying to get a bit of sleep. He had to have his nicotine and he couldn't miss any part of the game that he was watching.

I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt... after all, I am a sports fan, too.

But the guy was annoying. Loud (as mentioned), short, a big-talker (slightly different from merely loud)... just generally extroverted and lacking in anything I would consider a sense of humor. He also had a pretty darn cute wife. And his family had money.

Asshole.

3. There have been a few times in my life where I've been between jobs. I have never been comfortable or confident talking myself up, so the application and interview process is terrifically uncertain for me. At one of these points of unemployment, I got a lead on a job and jumped through a few hoops to get an interview.

I was expected to speak to multiple people and to give a presentation in front of a group. Lunch with a group of employees was a possibility, as well. The longer the interview process went, the thinking went, the better my chances of getting a job.

Things were going swimmingly for the first couple of hours ... until I walked into the room to give the presentation. I noticed a face I'd recognized--someone I had worked with previously--and I gave him a smile and said hi. He gave me a stoneface in return, but I thought he just had his gameface on and so I moved forward. I spent the rest of the day with the company. Things went well.

My former coworker, as it turns out, had an issue with me. With my personality? With my work ethic? With my beautiful hair? I never learned. But he said something--or somethingS--bad about me, and I didn't get the job offer.

After initial confusion, my emotion resolved into anger. I have always got along with people I've worked with. I was shocked that someone would go out of their way to submarine my chances to get a job.

Why would he do that? I was higher on the food chain when we worked together, but we simply didn't share many tasks or conversations. Had he held some kind of grudge for that time, and when he was presented with an opportunity to "get even", he did?

Who would do that? An asshole.

Musings on my first regular season Seahawks game

I went down to San Francisco this past weekend with Buddy One and three of his other friends. Actually, three of us went down from Seattle and met up with two others in the Greater Bay Area (is Sacramento part of the Greater Bay Area? From now on it is, dammit).

A few stories emerged from the weekend ("emerged" is an odd word choice... I might just be tired and sloppy, or the verb might reflect the passive nature of how I approach adventures: just put yourself in a situation and see what happens) but rather than go into beer pong or karaoke tales, I wanted to focus on the last major event of the weekend: the Seahawks game.

People who have known me for a long time know that I'm a pretty big sports fan. I played sports from a young age all the way through high school at a relatively competitive level. I played IMs in college. I collected baseball cards and played Strat-o-Matic baseball and followed the Portland Trail Blazers rather religiously. I've been in the same fantasy football league for over 15 years.

I'm a sports fan.

The thing is that something funny happened to my fandom. I can't pinpoint an exact date or even year, but I believe that I became a bit of a closet sports fan some time after moving to the Greater Puget Sound Area (is Renton part of the ... never mind).

What do I mean by this? People can't tell, most of the time, that I am a sports fan. I rarely wear sports apparel, I don't talk much about sports to people I don't know well, and I almost never attend live games.

This is quite different from the time before I lived in Washington, and it made me wonder why. So, rather than leave you in suspense, I will reveal the two major reasons:

1. My ex-wife. She was great in many ways and in many ways we got along great. She was not a sports fan, though, and while her a(nti?)pathy towards sports didn't stop me from watching or discussing/ranting about sports, the utter absence of comprehension, interest and any sort of spark of anything positive about what I was into regarding sports sort of sucked the joy out of it. (Whether I mean "my marriage" or "sports" when I say "it" is something I will leave for you to figure out.)
2. My career. I've had two employers in Seattle since I've been here. Both were agencies with a lot of creative people... the kind of people who have only owned Apple computers and listen to NPR podcasts. A lot of smart, nice, good people... who didn't give a shit about sports. It was only in the last couple of years that I had more than one or two people in the office (of around 30) that I could possibly talk sports with.

I suppose I unlearned the habits of talking about sports to real people and relied on Web-based outlets to argue about the Blazers and fantasy sports to have interaction above and beyond television broadcasts and box scores. That I now have friends who actually are into sports, and that I've actually dated women who like sports... I still haven't grasped it emotionally, and my communication skills have lagged, so I feel awkward talking about them in a way I don't feel awkward talking about, say, vacuum cleaners or kitty box cleaning or karaoke (the three most important things in my life in the last 17 months).

Another reason that I don't talk sports in person? I don't think that I relate to the average sports fan. With the exception of the Blazers, I almost never care about who wins a game. I care if I have a fantasy player involved, and I care from a curiosity or historical perspective, but I don't get fired up and I don't feel real passion the way so many fans do. Even regarding the Blazers I'm more analytical and patient and ... cold... than many fellow fans.

I felt the difference in San Francisco this weekend. I root for the Seahawks more than I do any other NFL team, although I don't get too invested. (I'm more upset, for example, that I lost my fantasy matchup this week than I am excited by the big win the 'Hawks had).

Even setting aside the level of interest, my mental approach is just different. Seahawks fans were pockets of blue in a general sea of red in the stadium, but they were pretty loud and quite conspicuous any time something went well for the team. That's just not me.

I found myself looking at the crowd. Not people watching, exactly (although some women were definitely worth watching, for the record). I was watching for mob mentality manifestations. I was interested to see how the police blocked off a section towards the end of the game to prevent all of the Seahawks fans from accumulating there (and then withdrawing their cordon after about 15 minutes of trying to turn people away). I was fascinated/horrified by fights that took place in the stands and in the parking lot. I was horrified/impressed at how many $9.50 beers were sold throughout the course of the afternoon.

That has nothing to do with what was happening on the field--although the play definitely influenced those things (well... maybe not the beer sales), as well as costing me my fantasy game (O'Sullivan got benched and got me 0 points... I ended up losing by 5).

Going to games is almost a distraction. I would have seen a lot more--and, perhaps, at some level enjoyed the game a lot more--by watching on TV, with my browser pointed to NFL.com so I could get stats of other games. As an overall experience, however, I am definitely glad I made the trip down there.

I'm not sure if that means I'm more or less of a sports fan than I used to be.

The best part of my days...

I love being half-awake. I love finishing a nap, or waking up from a night's sleep, and being able to just lie in bed and relax, somewhere between being able to dream and being able to speak. There's something serene and comforting and safe that I only feel when I am in this state and in that position.

There is no reflection on failures--past or potential. There is no hand-wringing over missed opportunities or mistakes. There is no focus, in fact, on the past at all.

I look forward without fear. I make plans and set goals and make myself smile in a way that I simply cannot replicate when I am wide awake.

No sarcasm. No cynicism. No self-doubt.

It's not real, it's not even honest, in many ways. But I like it.

This and That

Stuff from the last few days.

This is a "friends-only" blog. (Blogger.com migration note: no longer.) There are three reasons I am making it friends-only.

• First reason: I am not gainfully employed, and it's possible that potential employers might be reading this blog. With one possible individual exception, I'm not too eager to expose my current state of mind with people who will have something to do with writing me paychecks.
• Second reason: I've lost a pair of MySpace friends in the last few days. One I know about (and am confused by/disappointed with) but the other I don't know. If these people are going to zap me as friends without even telling me, they don't deserve to see this. Or maybe they aren't obligated to wade through it. It depends on one's perspective, I suppose.
• Third reason: I've been feeling pretty antisocial lately. I was out briefly both Friday and Saturday nights, but didn't drink and was home and putzing around my apartment alone (baking cookies, playing Civ IV) by 9:30 each night. I just haven't felt like being around people (or at least not more than one or two people at a time) the last few days, and making this blog entry friends-only is a way to express this misanthropy.
  

Thursday I spent the majority of the day at a company, going through the interview process. We'll see in the next couple of days if I get an offer.

Friday I ... hm. What did I do? Update my MySpace music playlist. I think that's about it. Oh, wait. Buddy One and I got some lunch at Peso's and talked to some chick who told us that she had already cried two times that morning. Also, my ex-wife called about a financial situation where paperwork wasn't done and ... yeah. Not a massive deal, but not fun.

Saturday I cleaned my living room as I watched college football (including my poor NU Wildcats getting their first loss of the season). I got to use my (incredible) vacuum and it looked great... then I took the step of busting open the boxes that I've had stacked in my living room for the year I've been in this apartment. The boxes I got through included a large amount of paper that I ended up throwing away, including my financial records from 1996. Wow. I am glad I still had those, in case I had to go back in time about a decade and then got audited.

I went to bed early Saturday night... about 11:00. Read some and then went to sleep.

I woke up around 6:00 AM, feeling a blanket of apathy and emptiness... with a throw pillow of frustration that I was awake at 6:00 AM on a Sunday morning.

Some time ago (like 18 months ago, maybe) I had the realization that I had a sort of freedom that I had never had before... I could go to dinner anywhere I wanted, I could stay out as late as I wanted or go anywhere, and as long as my cats and my job were unaffected/accounted for, there was really no one to answer to. That freedom was exhilirating but also a bit depressing. I think this morning I had that feeling squared, since I currently have no job to hold me back. I could, if I were so inclined, go buy a bunch of cat food and kitty litter and let my cats fend for themselves (in violation of my lease, natch) as I drove to Toronto or Florida or LA or Hawaii. I wouldn't have to tell anyone I was going and no one would notice that I was gone. It's a weird feeling.

After that uplifting train of thought I drifted back to sleep for a few hours and have been, pretty much, camped in front of my computer and TV during the NFL games today. My fantasy football team is moving to 4-2, winning its third straight.

I remember typing up a blog early in 2008 where I was complaining about how shitty the year had started, and I look back at what I had going on and, yeah, there were some bad things. There were also some pretty great things happening, too, and I didn't really appreciate them. Some of those things are gone now and I wish I had enjoyed them more, but that's life, I suppose. This is a downcast blog, and I'm sure that in a few months I'll re-read it and shake my head and ponder how I could not appreciate the good stuff happening right now. That's life, I suppose.

First night (or: how to get two guys to ask you to step outside within 15 seconds)

I turned in a letter of resignation at my place of employment just about two weeks ago. Yesterday was my last day after nearly six years of working for the same empoyer. I was employee number four, and after a pair of name changes, a merger, and about two hundred projects, I was done.

What am I gonna do? Not sure. Sleep. Go to the gym. Clean up the boxes out of my living room.

And look for a job.

Last night, though, was the first night of being unemployed that I've had in over six years. It was (is) exhilirating and frightening.

I didn't have any specific plans last night... I didn't really feel like celebrating quitting, given the state of the economy and given that gloating would probably result in me being out of work for six months.

A friend, though, had taken some nursing exams and she txted me to come out to Ozzies, along with other friends of hers, to celebrate.

I hadn't been to Ozzies in nearly a queen's age (where a "queen's age" is equal to 72 hours), so I decided to go. I decided first, though, to figure out why I was getting a Windows error when I was trying to update to Service Pack 3. After some whiskey, some vodka/Red Bull, and then some Jaegermeister/Red Bull, I not only was able to update my registry and get Windows updated properly, I was also having a good time doing it.

Ahh, alcohol!

I wandered over to Ozzies and saw Motown, who was acting as the "guest judge" for the weekly contest. I had done the honor the previous week (or the week before; time is elastic) and it was good to see him there on a weeknight.

My test-taking friend, we'll call her Testy since I like to give codenames, was there with a group of female friends. I got into a chair and started talking. I met one of her friends (I'll call her Genie) and we talked about karaoke and England and alcohol. Pretty good stuff.

I was seated across the table from Testy and to Genie's right. There were two seats to my right and two seats to Testy's left. A pair of people sat to her left and I introduced myself to the guy. I'll call him Asshole Number Two. Not to give anything away, but unlike Testy, his nickname is not unrelated to his personality. He seemed fine at first, but wasn't especially friendly. Whatever.

At some point it was my turn to sing. I got up to sing and another guy sat down in the seat that I had been in. Fine. I sat by Motown at another table and went about my business.

Later, when the second guy (named, for future reference, Asshole Number One) left, I waited a few minutes and then went back to chitchat with Genie and Testy.

After about 30 minutes I felt a tap on my shoulder and I looked up and it was Asshole Number One. We had a brief initial conversation. It went something like this:

ANO: Move.
Me: What?
ANO: You're in my seat.
Me: Huh?
ANO: I said move, dude.
Me: No.
ANO: What?
Me: I'm not going to move. Why do you think it's your seat?
ANO: I was sitting there before you took my seat.
Me: Well, I was sitting here before you took my seat.

It was at this point where, as things sometimes do when guys are drinking and around women, it got much more (simultaneously) serious (and ridiculous).

ANO: You wanna step outside?
Me: What? Are you serious?
ANO: (glowering)
Me: No.
Asshole Number Two: Move!
Me: Give me a break.
ANT: He was there first.
Me: Wrong. I was here. You saw me sitting here. I got up to sing and he took my seat. No biggie. But I'm sitting here now, and I'm not moving.
ANT: Wanna step outside?
Me: Really? Wow. No.

It's at moments like these in life where I feel like it's all a joke. What life have both of these guys lived--what experience base do they have that is so utterly foreign to me--that they would each want to go outside and fight me? And why do they think that I would go outside and fight over a seat in a karaoke bar?

I looked around, and both Genie and Testy were kinda fidgeting uncomfortably. Naturally, though, I wanted to know if I was welcome in this seat. So I asked Testy, for whom we were all purportedly there, whether she wanted me to move. She didn't say much, but Genie said, "No! I need you to sit next to me!"

Buttressed thusly, I looked at Asshole Number One and shrugged and said, "Sorry, dude. She wants me to sit next to her."

Asshole Number One retreated from the table, and Testy stood to talk to Asshole Number Two. They were, like, three feet from me and their conversation went something like this:

Testy: Don't worry. He's a friend of mine.
ANT: I don't like him.
Testy: ...
ANT: He's creepy. He's a douche. I don't like him.
Testy: I invited him. He was sitting there before.
ANT: (Looking at me) Stop looking at me! He's got his eyebrows all raised and shit. I don't like him.
Testy: ...
ANT: We're going.
Testy: OK. You don't have t--
ANT: No, we're out of here!

It turns out that Testy didn't even know those guys. They were friends of her friend. Genie didn't know them, either.

Wow. Guys are awesome.

The rest of the evening was rather uneventful. Michigan and Racist were there, but that's another blog, long since due in the telling... maybe tomorrow I can write it up.