Props to Propaganda

I am not really a TV snob. First of all, the snobbiest of all TV snobs are those that don't own television... that might be like calling an atheist the most godly of all men, but I prefer to think that TV people would watch television if there were enough value there for them (they'd be able to squeeze in reading and hiking and masturbating into their routine around TV if there were). Very few atheists would believe in a god if only there were better options.

Anyway.

I used to really dislike shows like Cops and shows dedicated to high speed car chases. And when I say "used to", I mean until about an hour ago.

An hour ago I was at the gymnasium (I'm gonna call it that for a while, rather than the gym, just so you know) and I was on the elliptical machine and I was straining my neck to see the end of a Mariners'-Blue Jays game that I didn't really care about (although if I had picked up Aardsma early this year, I might be winning my fantasy league). It went to commercial, and I saw the TV in front of me for the first time this evening. And I liked what I saw.

I usually ignore TVs without sports on them in the gymnasium, because I have seen too many "Animal Rescue" shows and I hate having to hold back tears as I try to sweat. Except in bed, but I don't want to talk about it.

If it's not Animal Planet, it's the Food Network, which is boring. Unless it makes me hungry. Either way, it sucks.

Tonight, though? Some sort of high speed chase show, where cops chase ne'er-do-wells. It was exciting, it was easy to watch. And I loved it.

One of the reasons I liked it so much is because of the overwhelming sense of... law and order. I dunno how else to describe it. It shows people acting poorly, and it showed incidents that explain why so many cops are on edge (one guy got out of his car and charged a cop car and his mom got out of the car and yelled at the officer; he had to wait for backup before he even wanted to talk to the guy because he didn't want it to get out of hand; another involved a chase that ended with an officer getting shot three times and left for dead on the freeway after he went to write the guy a ticket).

I'm generally very supportive of law enforcement. Sure, there are bad cops, just like there are bad teachers and bad musicians. But most have our best interests at heart, I feel, and I can understand that their training makes them appear to be assholes. It's just the way it is.

The show, though, sort of reminds me of elements of Starship Troopers (a GREAT dark comedy, in my opinion). Here's a portion of the movie where the media is rallying the public to support the war against the aliens:

Classic.

Even as I support the cops, and even as I enjoyed the show, I couldn't help but savor the whiff of propaganda. It was an opportunity for people to think, "Hell, yeah! Those guys are heroes!" Which they may be, but... I dunno. It just is so one-sided that I find it hard to take seriously.

Which is perfect as I huff and puff and try not to count down the remaining minutes during cardio.

Ironic Dressup Parties

On Saturday evening I went out with Clever Dunne's (the person, not the bar) near the University District and we wanted to get a drink and play some pool. We wandered around a bit and saw a bar named after a primate. I can't recall the name of the bar, but I believe it had "monkey" in it.

We weren't feeling too picky, so we went in and after showing our ID we took a hard right into the pool table/primary bar space and our senses were assaulted. And by "senses" I mean:

• hearing
• sight
• dignity

It was more crowded than it had appeared at first, and Hava Nagila was playing loudly on the sound system.

OK. Fine. I'm not Jewish (as far as I know; my mom was adopted, so who knows?) but I'm down with the Tribe. If there was some sort of celebration of Semitism or Zionist hoe-down, that's fine. Rum still will be rum, irrespective of all of that.

My sense of dignity, then, was not that we were (at first glance) the only gentiles in the room... no. It was that, upon further (like, two seconds worth of) inspection, I began to suspect that none of the party participants were actually Jews.

How did I come to that conclusion? Why would I reach such a belief?

Maybe it was the coffee filter yarmulke (by the way: I had a devil of a time finding out how to spell that correctly; normally I'm a master Googler, and therefore seem omniscient, but "Jarmulka", my first guess, wasn't helping me out... so I had to Google for "Jew cap" to get that spelling). Maybe it was the construction paper sidecurls. Maybe it was the couple of asian chicks wearing the coffee filter yarmulkes (and, yes, I know that there are Asian Jews; I think they're called Micronesian).

So after I had convinced myself that they were not actual sons of David, celebrating their culture in a dive bar with macaroni salad and cake, I became a bit indignant... were they having a Jewish-themed party? Again: I'm not Jewish (probably) and I'm certainly not the most politically correct person in the world, but... that just seemed wrong.

But whatever. We played pool (I won... she really wasn't kidding when she said she was no good, because I'm pretty terrible) and had a drink and went on our way.

I think that my subconscious was able to set aside the negatives of the idea and it went to work with coming up with a theme party of my own. Later that night, after substantially more drinking, it came to me: Ed Hardy Party.

Ed Hardy is a design line (primarily of clothes, but also things like bed covers and steering wheel covers... it seems that if anything needs covering, Ed Hardy branded goods will be available) inspired by Don Ed Hardy, who is considered the father of modern tattoo.

Of course, I knew none of this until the last few days (when I felt some odd compulsion to research for my theme party). What I did know was that Ed Hardy clothing is (in the words of some random blog that I can't currently locate the URL for) "the magic cape for douchebags". It's expensive, it's brightly colored, and it's got some combination of skulls, great cats, dragons, birds of prey, and "Ed Hardy" in large text all over it. To wit:

Some of the shirts are black. Some are brown. All are douchie.

In fact, as part of my research, I turned up an entry in the Stuff White People Like blog entitled "Hating People Who Wear Ed Hardy", which included the following commentary:

To put this in proper perspective, Ed Hardy is so hated by white people that it cannot be worn ironically. This is no small feat. As it stands, the only other entries in this category are Nazi Uniforms, Ku Klux Klan Robes, and self-tanner.

Since you cannot in good conscience have an Ed Hardy themed party, the best way to make use of this white hatred is to give your stories a little more appeal to white people.

As bold as I am, I'm not going to consider either of the other options (after all, I am down with the Tribe) but I'm going to risk the wrath of my people by not only wearing Ed Hardy but encouraging some of my friends to do so, too... at least for one night.

Cars, the Tow Truck Driver, and Me

I don't know shit about cars.

I don't know about horsepower in cars. I don't know about rims on cars. I don't know about the make and models of cars, and in fact I have only recently learned what the difference between a make and a model is.

I don't know, and I don't care. Maybe someday I'll buy a nice car so I'm not embarrassed by what I drive, but at the moment I've moved past embarrassment about my 1997 (or 1996? Heck... I don't know) Mazda 626 and place the focus of my insecurities about other things (the number of cats I own, how often my litter box is cleaned, and other stuff (some of which are not cat-related, even!)).

Theoretically, I know it makes sense to get a car serviced. To occasionally get it washed. To pay attention to it other than when it's low on gas or when the insane amount of paper that it accumulates in the back seat starts to become a driving hazard.

I know these things in theory, but I don't think about my car other than when I drive it, get gas, or have to pay my insurance every six months. Getting the oil changed or getting a tune-up is about the last thing I want to deal with. And so I don't.

In spite of my lack of commitment to keeping my car in good working order, it does work. I have AAA as a backup, though, because I know that someday, somewhere, it won't. Well, this morning about two blocks from my apartment was one of those "someday, somewhere" moments.

I was driving to work after using my car a bit more than normal over the weekend. It had seemed "chuggy" when I was running errands on Saturday, so I wasn't surprised when it repeatedly sputtered and eventually came to a stop at an intersection during my commute this AM. I could re-start it, but it'd die again shortly thereafter. Not an ideal, nor particularly safe, way to navigate the Seattle streets.

No biggie. I parked it, called my office, called AAA, called the garage where I am gonna get it towed, and waited for the tow truck.

Eventually the guy showed up with his large AAA truck with a flat bed and we went around the block to get my car. A very, very nice guy. Really. No sarcasm. Don't make the series of conversations we had change your mind. Let's dig in:

AAA Guy: Wow. Your car has a lot of pollen on it.
Me: Yep.

and

AAA Guy: Do you live in an apartment?
Me: Yeah.
AAA Guy: How much do you pay?
Me: $[n*.8, where n=actual monthly rent]
AAA Guy: [eyebrows raised] Wow. That sure is a lot. I guess you gotta pay a lot to live in a neighborhood like this.
Me: Yes. It is great to be able to get drunk regularly and not have to pay for cab fare since I have about 10 bars within staggering difference.

OK. I didn't say that last sentence. I wasn't irked, but the guy was nosey! He asked me to pop the hood and tried to get a handle on what was going on, and we had this exchange:

AAA Guy: When was the last time you had this serviced?
Me:Um. I dunno. A while.
AAA Guy: Like how many miles?
Me: I have no idea.
AAA Guy: You said it did this before?
Me: Yep. Like two and a half years ago.
AAA Guy: Have you had it serviced since then?
Me: Probably not.
AAA Guy: What was wrong with it when they fixed it last time?
Me: I have no clue. I don't know anything about cars and don't really have much interest.
AAA Guy: Sounds like my wife.

Haha. I don't think he was joking. At. All. But it makes me laugh.

After we got into the truck, he fell into a bit of a pattern. I need to make a bit of a system here so you can get the flow of our chitchat.

When you see "**", put in him saying, "Yeah."
When you see "##", put in him saying, "Sure."
When you see "^^", put in him saying, "Wow."

AAA Guy: So are you a lawyer, or what?
Me: No, I actually work ** up on Capitol Hill ## at a creative agency.
AAA Guy: Yeah, wow.
Me: I manage a team ^^ that builds ** Web sites ^^ and stuff.
AAA Guy: Sure.

After the first interjection, I actually sort of paused. Then after the second one, I thought he might have been making fun of me. After the third and fourth I thought he had just stopped paying attention, but he kept talking to me, asking me questions.

We moved on to discussing the Seattle Sonics and the possibility of the Portland Trail Blazers relocating up to Seattle. Him asking my opinion on that topic is like an five year-old trying to get a drink of water from a firehose, but ...

AAA Guy: So Paul Allen might move the Blazers up here, huh?
Me: Well, I ** don't know about ^^ that because ** he actually had sold ^^ the Rose ** Garden and ## looked ## to sell the team, too ^^, but ** he ^^ ## bought it back and ## now ** it's looking like ## they're not ** going anywhere.
AAA Guy: Wow. Yeah. Because we need a team. All we have is soccer and football. And baseball. And the WNBA. And college football and college basketball at two universities in town. Where are the Sonics now?
Me: They're in Oklahoma ^^ City. ## They're the ** Oklahoma ^^ City ** Thunder ##. ^^

OK. He didn't go into quite that much detail about the surfeit of teams, but he sort of trailed off when he realized how many sporting options there were in this town even without the Sonics. The rest is pretty accurate, though.

Nice guy. I wasn't disappointed, though, when the shuttle driver from the garage didn't talk to me much when he gave me a lift to my office...

Seattle Date Night! Guest Blog Application

One of my favorite blogs, Seattle Date Night!, is written by a pair of my friends. It deals with their date nights throughout Seattle and it entertaining and gives good info. (And, really, who wouldn't want to be involved with a blog that gives good info?)

Brett and Mandy are having a competition to allow readers to submit their own "Date Night" blog entry. They claimed they wanted details, and if I can do anything in my life, it's write up details. Plus, there was potentially free food involved, so I had to enter.

I immediately scoured the darkest part of my dating history and type up the following. A few brief notes before I cut and paste from my email:

1. I am pretty sure that didn't win. I think that Mandy was letting me down easily by encouraging me to put it on my blog.
2. One of my grandmother reads--or at least is a fan of--my blog. I sort of hope she skips this one. And pretty much all of them.
3. If you read this and think to yourself, "She sounds familiar!" then you are correct and (a) know me well enough to know more stories about this woman, and/or (b) obviously remember my "The Worst" blog entry from January, where she had a prominent role.
4. There are a few bad words sprinkled in. Be warned.

OK. Here we go.

###

(This date occurred almost three years ago, and it's a bit of a departure from the Brett and Mandy Date night format. I understand if it's not appropriate for your audience, and if you believe that it's fit to reprint, please feel free to zap a couple of key words.)

I'm not afraid of online dating. I actually signed up for Match.com some time back and managed to have a girl contact me first. I was stunned and a bit dubious as to the actual non-spammer nature of the person, but we exchanged emails and I she gave me her number. It was a Wednesday evening (a day or two after our last email) when I called. She didn't pick up, but I left a voicemail and after an exciting couple of hours of network television, decided to go to bed early. The time was about 9:30 PM. At approximately 9:47 (about 35 seconds after I fell asleep) my cell phone rang. I couldn't reach it easily, and figured the person would leave a voicemail or whatever if it was important. I was trying unsuccessfully to get back to sleep when the phone rang again, so I got out of bed and answered it. It was the Match.com girl.

I was sleepy but I was delighted she would call me back so quickly (and persistently). We had a nice conversation going about this and that when, about seven minutes into the conversation, it took a weird turn:

Her: How tall are you again?
Me: I dunno... like six-one, maybe?
Her: OK. Do you have a big cock?
Me: ...

(Uh. What?)

Her: Just kidding!
Me: Haha? Ha ha ... ?

Actually, I thought it was funny. Who SAYS that? Who has that sense of humor with a person they just met?

So I continued to enjoy our conversation for another five minutes or so when it took another turn:

Her: So you have a big cock?
Me: Uh... wha-?
Her: Because I have a tight pussy.
Me: Uh... hey, did you want to get coffee?
Her: Sure.
Me: Like, now?
Her: Yes.

I don't even drink coffee. I rarely go to coffee stands or huts or shops or markets or whatever coffee point of sales might be. But I knew that people tended to like coffee, and I knew we were in Seattle, and I thought that at 10:15 on a Wednesday night, a coffee place (to use a generic noun) would be open.

As it turns out, I was wrong. Neither Match.com Girl nor I could name a single place that was open at that hour for coffee, but I knew that 13 Coins was, so we went there.

13 Coins is not your typical restaurant. It's open 24 hours (good), serves good food (good), charges $14 for a hamburger (bad), and has security, i.e. bouncers, late at night (kind of scary). I knew it would be open, though, and she was down with getting food, rather than coffee, so we went.

The place has a night lounge kind of vibe to it. The booths are leather and some have curtains that can be drawn for privacy. You can also belly up the bar and see the food workers scramble around behind the scenes, looking like chickens with their heads cut off. The food is, as I mentioned, rather expensive, but it's good and the vibe of the place is distinct... and it's open late.

My first hint that there was something weird about this girl (yes, I admit it: some people MIGHT have found the phone call more than a bit odd, but...) was when we were being seated. We had had to wait in the waiting area for about three minutes and as we were walking to the the booth where our table was, she mumbled something:

Her: Did you see that guy?
Me: What?
Her: Did you see that guy staring at me?
Me: At you? No. Why would he do that? Who?
Her: He was just staring. I don't like him.

(Uh. What?)

We sat down at the booth. She sat REALLY close to me. We ordered about $40 worth of food, including an omelette and a club sandwich, if I remember correctly. Both tasted delicious, but after about five minutes of me nibbling at the food (I wasn't particularly hungry; I had eaten dinner and been actually asleep for the night earlier, remember) it was clear that she wasn't much interested in food.

We left about $37 worth of food (plus tip) on the table and I did the gentlemanly thing of giving her a ride back to her place.

Two Wrong Thoughts

Some thoughts I have have great pith. Some do not. Of those that do not, occasionally I have a thought that is so ... wrong ... that I savor it. Here are two brief examples of the "wrong" variety.

First Thought:

We were celebrating TM2000's bday over the weekend and four people came up to the bar, three women and a dude, all dressed in white. Three of them were caucasian and one was African American.

I was sorely tempted to approach them with this icebreaker:

"So... you guys clearly are just coming back from an all white party. Did she have trouble getting in?"

Even typing that makes me wince. But giggle. If there is a hell for "White Guilt Rejection Leading to Borderline Racist Thoughts" people (which there is, if Dante is to be believed), I might in some trouble.

Second thought:

I was in a prep meeting yesterday for work. We had a PowerPoint deck open and were adjusting it as the team thought things through. One of my coworkers was driving and he made a horrific typo. Not a "they're"/"their" typo, but like a "consensus"/"conscious" error.

It was actually perhaps a vocabulary/word finding error, more than a typo.

He followed it up with a few more words that were not spelled well, and two of the guys in the group eventually cracked up. I, being the new guy and master of the poker face (I can say that since I never play poker, so I haven't had that illusion shattered just yet), maintained a deadly silence.

The guy eventually handed over the laptop to one of the gigglers, who made an intentionally terrible typo before laughing and commenting that typing in front of people is bad.

Which might be true. Typing can be difficult, along with some other tasks. I remember the first time I played my guitar in front of more than one person... even though it was in front of merely six of my closest (at the time) friends, I fumbled and bumbled and got all flustered.

So after thinking about how much I might stink at typing in front of other people, I think that I have a newfound respect for male porn actors.

Bumbershoot, Day II

Day II, Morning

It was Sunday, and it was a bigger day. Many of the crew were going to be attending some or all of the day, including TM2000, Flowers, Thor, Viewmaster, Heels and Force of Nature.All-Star was potentially in the mix, and I bumped into Winner there, too.

(Quick tangent #1: Buddy #1 is now Force of Nature. It's a good thing, dude. Just relax.)

(Quick tangent #2: I am acquiring quite a galaxy of codenamed superstars. I will have to start an official "Guide to Ed O's Blog" that has information about everyone who's been honored with a codename. Or maybe I can pawn that task off on my fanclub. Once I get a fanclub, I mean.)

FoN and I had breakfast at Peso's and went to get in line for Patton Oswalt tickets. Heels caught up with us and we waited in line to get the tickets (which would guarantee entry to the 8:00 show) and we chit-chatted as we trudged forward in the long line.

As we waited and talked, I related a joke from the David Cross show a night before. Now, David Cross is not exactly Doug Stanhope, but he does some weird humor that is funny partly because it's shocking. FoN asked how the show was, and I shared my opinion.

David Cross tends to tell stories. Funny and strange and sometimes offensive stories, but stories. In 30 minutes he was barely warmed up, so I didn't feel I got the full experience, but he DID tell a couple of short jokes... and I told one while waiting in line.

Bad move.

After I delivered the punchline (which was ambiguously racist... but close enough for government work) FoN howled in laughter. Heels, as is her wont, remained silent. As did the rest of the line.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that a hush fell over the crowd around us, but there were a few frowns and concerned, furrowed brows where laughter and amicability had existed just a moment before. Oops.

Day II, Afternoon

Heels and I went to the main stage later that day to watch a pair of bands.

Cold War Kids were the first. I don't know much about them, but it seems like a group I shouldknow, and I enjoyed the show. It was fine. It was in the same arena that I had seen the All-American Rejects the day before, but Heels and I got much closer to the stage. The people density wasn't too bad.

Things changed, though, when the Cold War Kids ended. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs were up next, and other than knowing they had a song on Rock Band, I didn't know much about them.

And by "much" I mean "anything".

The concert was eventful. Not the music, but the crowd and my thoughts. Specifically:

• The people density was much higher. I don't mean intellectually (although maybe that, too). Just more people. People bumping me. People hitting me with their backpacks (people know where their elbows, feet, and shoulders are... they should have similar spatial awareness if they are going to tote around a forteen inch-deep backpack).
• At one point, a rather large woman was to my left. I don't like to accidentally touch people, but I don't like to be pushed around, either. I try to stand my ground so I don't get bullied. This woman, though? She literally was moving me seemingly without trying. She was bouncing up and down, and I was worried that I still am sans health insurance for a couple of weeks as she landed mere inches from my left foot repeatedly.
• At some point in the show, I thought something. I thought it and then I thought about it the rest of the show... not about IT, but about whether it's wrong that I thought it. What did I think? "Man... three of the four members of this group look Jewish." Who cares? Why on EARTH would I think that? I mean, I know that the Ramones are a prominent all-Jewish group, but that I know that doesn't justify my thought. I, of course, was racked with guilt about whether I was being anti-semitic... and also if I was correct. As it turns out, at least two of the four members are Jews, and I would bet the fourth (new member) is, too. Why do I care? I really, REALLY do not. It's fine. It's good. I'm still confused why I wrote about it. Maybe it's the David Cross Jew jokes corrupting my worldview.
• The Yeah Yeah Yeahs evidently have a thing where they have a giant inflatable eyeball and unleash it on the crowd, and people push it and punch it and have a magnificent time with the ocular orb. There were also Samsung-branded giant balloons earlier in the afternoon, so there was shit bouncing all over. So that's data point #1. Data point #2 was that this was evidently the first year that umbrellas were allowed into the arena. Combine these two points and you get an open umbrella being handed/tossed around. It was inverted (i.e., deadly sharp) and somehow I came to be holding it after it had literally been thrown about 18 feet (OK... six feet) and came within four inches of poking someone's eye out (OK... six feet). I was holding the umbrella up, and not sure what to do with it. No one wanted to take it from me, and I felt uncomfortable just throwing it. So I closed it up and placed it on the ground. Not on my watch, bitches.

Day II, Evening

After a break for some food and adult beverages, we came back to Bumbershoot. TM2000, FoN and I were waiting in line for Patton Oswalt (we had failed to procure tickets guaranteeing entry that morning, but there was a standby line to wait in) and we had about an hour to kill.

We were towards the front of the standby line and feeling confident we were gonna get in... partly because of our wonderful position in line and partly because of the alcohol we'd consumed.

The three of us were joined by Heels, and as we waited, I decided to tell an anecdote.

I like anecdotes. I like telling them. I like telling them, in particular, after I've had something to drink.

So I start to tell this story. I get about eight words in when I notice... it's quiet. Not, like, one of those weird lulls in all conversation. But ... really quiet.

I had a decision to make. I had to decide whether to proceed or not. I knew my anecdote was (a) personal, (b) sort of embarrassing (to tell and to hear), and (c) absolutely, 100% true.

I could have stopped. I could have started whispering.

Screw that. Full steam ahead.

I won't tell the whole story here, but I will tell you that it included the term "false positive" and ended with me improvising a classic "Fuck condoms... I'm clean!" capper to the story. (Note: I guess that part's not true... so the "absolutely, 100% true" part was a lie. Unless I'm lying now. Everything I tell you is a lie. Does not compute...)

It was funny. I think.

Once again, though (see: the David Cross joke story at the beginning of this blog entry)... people couldn't make eye contact with me. It was awesome.

The evening ended with watching Helio Sequence with Flowers, FoN, Heels and Viewmaster. It was good stuff.

The sun is shining and Day III is happening as I type this. I think I should wander back over.

Bumbershoot, Day I

Some mini-stories and mega-musings from my first couple of days at Bumbershoot (I have gone this morning for Day III, stood in line for a couple of tickets for later in the day, and am staring outside at the rain, contemplating taking a bath and reading a book, instead):

Day I, Morning

I had never been to Bumbershoot before, and I didn't know what to expect. I had avoided it (as I do almost every festival or major gathering) in my neighborhood for the last couple of years, but as I was recently re-un-funemployed, I decided to splurge and check it out. I knew that some of my friends were going to be attending--specifically on Sunday--and I live an easy four or five blocks away from the grounds, so I could walk back if I chose.

And I did so choose. I went before noon (gates opened at 11) and got a ticket to see David Cross that evening. Looked around at all of the young people and old people and ... people. And decided to flee back to my apartment.

I took a functional (if not spectacular) nap. Since my previous two naps of the week had featured nightmares, I appreciated blissful darkness.

Day I, Afternoon

I had decided to go see the All-American Rejects in the afternoon. Not because I know their stuff very well or because I simply had to see them, but because ... hmm. I don't have a good reason. Maybe in the hopes that it would be super-fun.

Well, it wasn't super-fun. But it didn't rain and it was OK.

As I txted TravelMate2000 during the show:

There are a lot of teenagers here. The bad kind.

I felt older than I normally do.

At one point, during a prelude to one of their songs, the lead singer said something similar to this:

"All the girls in the audience say, 'Dirty.' Naw... c'mon. Say 'dirty.'

Not like you say it to your little boyfriends. Say 'dirty' to me... a man. A twenty-five year-old, sexually active man!"

Wow. I don't know what is wrong with me that I was more fascinated than repulsed.

I think any guy who brags to younger women about being 25... probably shouldn't. Not that there's anything wrong with that age, but... yeah.

Day I, Evening

I spent almost all of Friday on my own. Viewmaster and I spent a bit of time together before I went and saw David Cross. She was waiting in line to see Kay Kay and his Weathered Underground, so I said I'd meet up with her. I got lost about four times in the what-should-be-three minute walk from the comedy stage to the EMP stage, and Viewmaster was, like, fourth in line. I cruised up, cut in front of the other couple hundred of people (I almost typed "hundreds"... would that make me British or functionally illiterate?) and enjoyed the show. I felt a bit bad because I had a GREAT view (close enough to spit, if I so chose, on nine of the 13 band members) and I knew there were much shorter people who had circled the concert on their calendar nine months ago struggling to see.

Oh, well.

And then they were gone

As I've read about the early days of America's independence, one name that keeps popping up is Benjamin Franklin Bache. He was the grandson of Benjamin Franklin and the grandfather of another Benjamin Franklin Bache. He was also the editor of the Philadelphia Aurora, one of the fiercest sources of criticism of George Washington and, later, John Adams. Bache was once caned (not being a gentleman, so not worthy of calling out to duel) and was charged under the Federalists' great blunder, the Alien and Sedition Acts.

He was critical of adminstrations, but he wasn't quite as proactive about it as John Wilkes Booth. The guy had a great acting career, was famous, and then he shot Lincoln in the back of the head. In the Ford Theater on a Friday in the presence of his wife. Oddly enough, JFK was shot in the back of the head while riding in a Lincoln. Made by Ford. On a Friday. Lee Harvey Oswald has 15 letters in his name, just like John Wilkes Booth. Spooooky.

I guess spooky stuff happens sometimes. Like when I thought I was gonna have to go to the doctor the other day after trying to kick the top of a doorway.

Fortunately I didn't have to go to the doctor, but the most spooked I've ever been at the doctor was when I tested positive for tuberculosis some years back. I had my lungs x-rayed and there was no damage, but I had to take medicine for like nine months and I have been sensitive to people in history that have died from good ol' consumption. John Keats, the great British poet, was one of them. He also lost his mother to TB, but he was able to do some very influential work (which, to be honest, I've read precious little of) before showing signs of it himself in 1918, during a trip to Scotland and Ireland.

Maybe there's something tragic about Celtics. Larry Bird was going to be 30. McHale was gonna be 29, and Robert Parrish was 33... in an era where not many players were effective into their 30's. The Celtics were kind of banking on Len Bias to keep their team near the top of the NBA in 1986-87. Boston was still celebrating their NBA title when they lucked into the second overall pick from the Seattle Supersonics (remember them?) in a deal they'd made a couple of years earlier. Reggie Lewis picked up the mantle a couple of years later, averaging over 18 points per game for five straight years, although the Celtics only made it to the second round twice in that period.

Julius Caesar led the first foray into Keats's future homeland when he landed in 55 and then in 54 BC. It amazes me the distance Rome projected its power, but it's reported that Caesar wept at a statue of Alexander the Great in Spain because he knew he would not achieve the same level of success (Alexander built on the conquests of his father, securing Greece and traveling east all the way to India). Caligula was another Roman ruler who was impressed by Alexander... he wore armor that had belonged to the Macedonian 350 years after the man's death. Caligula was, of course, a bit messed up in the head...

Not the same way Kennedy or Lincoln got messed up in the head, of course. Or Kurt Cobain.

I remember the first time I heard Nirvana. I was in college and I wasn't cool enough to hear them before Nevermind because I was in Illinois, rather than Seattle. (Although I might not have been cool enough to see them in their Subpop days, in any event. Because I'm not that cool.) That same year, I heard Teenage Fanclub for the first time... they seemed a bit wussy for me (I was into Metallica, and especially the older stuff with Cliff Burton on bass).

Now, though? If you listen to the music that I listen to most often (karaoke notwithstanding) it all sounds like Teenage Fanclub, which sounds like Big Star (fronted by Alex Chilton and Chris Bell).

Maybe it's a sign of me maturing. We all get older, right?

I mean, we get older until we don't.

Drama at my Doorstep

I think I was in the summer before fifth grade. I was at our high school, playing catch or tossing a football or riding my bike (did I do that in fifth grade? I can't remember... sometimes things merge together) or doing whatever I did when I went to the high school during the summer.

I heard a loud screech and then a big crash.

One must remember that I grew up in the country and automobile accidents weren't that common... maybe per capita they were, but there weren't many peeps in Colton, OR, so there weren't that many fender-benders.

It wasn't close to me. I wasn't hurt. I couldn't even see the accident, but I remember thinking, "That sounded just like it does on TV."

And that--more than the accident itself--is what I remember. That sometimes things happen in real life where you shake your head and say, "Wow. That just happened."

I got out of work last evening and was feeling great. I had caught up on sleep Saturday and Sunday nights, I'd eaten a healthy breakfast, and I was looking forward to relaxing with the cats on my couch. I had a lot of optimism that I was going to make it through the week running efficiently and was hoping my refreshed feeling would last. Alas, it was not to be.

Oh, I got into bed at a reasonable time. After reading some Aaron Burr and txting with Canberra I even was asleep by 11:15 or so... plenty of time to get a good night of sleep.

Then one of those "Wow. That just happened." moments happened.

I started awake at about 3:45 AM (about 3.25 hours ago) at the sound of voices outside my window. It's not uncommon for me to hear people outside (more on that later) but this was different. There was an urgency and a level of drama that I have seldom heard in my life.

A woman's voice said something like (and I'm not sure here... I was still partly asleep), "You are going to break the window. I swear I'll tell my parents."

A dude mumbled something back and I stood up, out of bed. I pulled back my heavy curtains and peeked in between my shades (I really would prefer to sleep in absolute darkness, but I do what I can do to get close to that) and there was a woman heading towards the building entryway and a guy standing by his car.

There was silence as they stood there, about twenty feet apart, and I felt like I was watching a play or a movie. Maybe a DVD with alternate camera angles, because directors rarely shoot from a bird's-eye perspective, especially during these pivotal scenes.

"What do you want me to do?" asked the man, "What can I do?"

"You can tell me I look good," responded the woman, "one last time..."

So much tension! So much angst!

Depending on the movie, at this point, the man has a few options. He can approach the woman, or he can remain aloof. He also can be kind to the woman or he can be harsh.

Approach/kind might be a line something like, "You know you always look good to me," followed by a hug.

Approach/harsh might be something like, "Shut up and kiss me," followed by a kiss (and perhaps followed by a slap and/or assault charge).

Aloof/kind might be, "You will always look beautiful to me. Goodbye." (Get back into the car, drive off into the distance."

Aloof/harsh might be, "I could tell you that, but lying is what got me into trouble in the first place." (Slam car door and drive off fiercely, maybe somehow making out with a random chick within eyesight of the woman he's leaving.)

I sort of respect all of these options. Whether the guy acted really sensitive or abrasive, they would have been consistent positions I could have enjoyed. What happened, though, was NOT like a movie.

"You can tell me I look good," implored the woman, "one last time..."

"Why should I?" started the man, "You don't care about what I think."

Clearly unhappy, the woman immediately gave bad body language and the guy changed tact...

"You know I think you're beautiful and smart and..."

But he'd lost her. She had tuned him out because he didn't act like someone in a movie, perhaps. He acted like a person and sometimes that's not good enough.

They wandered out of my range of vision and hearing after that. I dunno what was said.

I do know, though, that he came charging back to his car a couple of minutes later and made a last-ditch effort to reclaim his leading-man-in-a-movie cred.

"What do you care? It's not like I'm going to die!"

Or something to that effect (I was, to be honest, falling back asleep). He then sped off, with his engine revving. Leaving the woman to deal with the aftermath and for me to struggle to sleep for a few hours until I finally decided to get up and write this blog.

For some reason I doubt I'll be quite as refreshed after work today...