It ain't all pizzas and cream

Catching up

Two weeks ago, my computer shit the bed.  Well, not exactly, but the monitor did emit a flash of bright light followed by a small puff of acrid smoke, as if from a tiny dragon.  The good news is that the machine could be repaired without great expense or loss of data.  The bad news is that it took two weeks to get a part that actually worked.

As a consequence, I missed a few things.  First, the surfacing of a ruling by Supreme Court nominee Alito that strip-searching of children is, in some cases, permissible. Of course, controversy about the decision, and Alito's comments afterward, continues.  But the whole thing reminds me of a quote from the poet Charles Bukowski.  When talking of the police, Buk said something to the effect that "to prevent a potential wrong, we [as a society] are willing to create an actual monster."   When we combine the Alito decision with VP Cheyney's "pro torture" stance (see my earlier post on the topic), we can start to see that monster materialize.  Are we so afraid of terrorists that we are willing to publicly endorse torture?  Are we so afraid of drug dealers who use children as "mules" that we are willing to defile those children yet again? 

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If with all the hoo-ha lately about chaos in Iraq, controversial Supreme Court nominees, outing of CIA agents, threats to women's rights, and indifference to the needs of the poor during a natural disaster, anyone had forgotten what the real GOP stands for... bribery and fiscal corruption... we can thank this guy, for getting us back on track. 

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The "Badlands" case in Lancaster County, PA.  Is it me, or has the media missed the parallels between this case and the film starring Martin Sheen and Cissy Spacek?  Anyway, if you haven't heard, this kid brought his girlfriend home at dawn after a date, and when her parents objected, he shot them.  Then he and the girl drove off to Indiana.  All very dramatic.  You can read more here.   Anyway, turns out that this home-schooled kid from a sleepy little Amish town that rarely sees any more excitement than a barn raising had ammassed quite a collection of guns.  54 to be exact.   My question is: even in this foolish, shoot-your-own dick-off, gun-loving country, isn't there a limit on the number of weapons one person can own?   

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Ever notice how the only people who wear ski masks are armed robbers?  If we can't get a mandatory background check on gun-buyers, maybe we can get one on ski-mask buyers.  Just a thought.

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Apologies again for the recent technical difficulties, and thanks to all who continue to check in.

Sticky situation

My family folklore tells of an Uncle Larry who had a talent for throwing himself in front of cars.  No, he wasn't suicidal.  He was doing it for the insurance money.  And it worked.  Every couple of years, he'd walk out in front of a car in such a way as to be struck yet not too badly injured, then sue.  Although not an honorable skill, he got quite good at it.  Of course, cars were slower then, but they were also made of metal.  Remember metal? 

Anyway, there have been lots of frauds, both before and since Uncle Larry.  But I recently read about one that seems  to warrant "dishonorabe mention."  It seems that this guy in Colorado claims someone put glue on a Home Depot toilet seat, leaving him stuck to the can.  Apparently the suit alleges that Home Depot employees ignored his cries for help for 15 minutes.  So he's suing Home Depot for $3 million.  For those of you keeping score, that's 1 million dollars for every 5 minutes.  Problem is that this doesn't seem to be the first time this has happened to this "unfortunate" fellow.  Now I've heard of lightning striking twice, but it us more likely that we have another Uncle Larry on our hands. 

I keep trying to imagine I how low, broke, desperate, or mentally ill I would have to be, to consider playing a fraternity prank on myself, then having to be extracated from some institutional toilet, mocked in the press, just to get an out-of-court settlement.  Perhaps this guy needs therapy.  Or a good coach to teach him how to roll across the hood of a car.

My Uncle Larry's dead.  But I'm sure if he were alive he'd give lessons.  For a fee, of course.

Two Frenchmen walk into a bar...

For nearly two weeks, I've watched the disturbing reports coming out of Paris.  Every night, entire neighborhoods in flames, cars torched, ambulances attacked.  Police and fire personnel struggling to keep pace with the chaos.  Then a few daylight hours of relative calm before the cycle begins again. 

I've also heard the cases made by all sides--the rioters' assertions of discrimination and poverty; Interior Minister Sarkozy's claims that the rioters are hoodlums; and the shopkeepers' pleas for calm.  The poor suffer everywhere, regardless of color or race.  That's not really news.  What is news is that the riots have gone on for nearly two weeks.  Even people in countries other than France are starting to look worried. 

First, let's head off any convenient comparisons between the French situation and South Central LA. The two are not the same.  Their similarity ends at the galvanizing event: persecution by police.  But the character of the people in the streets, who they are and why they are there, differs dramatically.  Nobody needs a civics lesson to know that the vast majority of African Americans living in South Central at the time of the riots were neither immigrants nor the descendants of immigrants.

So it seems more appropriate to compare the situation in Paris to that of Irish immigrants to England or the United States in the 1840s.  Unskilled and uneducated, the Irish were forced to take the worst jobs at the worst pay.  Some of my own relatives were among this lot.  (After researching my own geneaolgy, it seems that my ancestors seemed to become either bartenders, general laborers, petty thieves, or wards of the state.)  I tried researching the issue of Irish immigration and riots, but at least in the States, most of the riots that occurred at that time were against the Irish, not by the Irish. 

So let's use some good old fashioned barroom logic.  If I go into a bar, and after a few drinks claim that I'm being overcharged and underserved, and start breaking glasses, I can expect to be thrown out, whether my claims are true or not.  Afterall, I'm a guest.  My contunued presence is contingent on certain rules of conduct.  If I can't keep to those rules, I'm out.  Simple as that.  As one of my favorite tavern owners used to say: "You don't hafta go home but ya can't stay here."

So I'm not really surprised at today's report that the French are gonna start "bouncing" any convicted rioters who are not French citizens.  Frankly I think the French showed amazing restraint in not calling in the Army.  Imagine a similar scenario in the States, if for example large numbers of Korean immigrants, instead of starting small businesses etc., began rioting in the streets.  I'm not picking on the Korean Americans.  In fact, I'd say that statistically, they are slightly less likely to riot than, say, nuns.  But if they did, they'd be shipped out faster than you can say, "Gimme back that Green Card."   

I also have my doubts about France's brand of poverty.  The apartment complexes the news reports cited as "ghettos" look several notches better than half the places I rented in the 1980s.  Really.  And, they're in Paris.  That's gotta make it easier to walk out the door in the morning than if one had to face the South Bronx.

I won't argue the fact that Sarkozy is a cruel and probably bigoted man.  And if he were the local District Attorney, I'd probably have a huge issue with him.  But given the situation, it does seem that barroom rules apply, and that it's time to call in the bouncers.   

1 word, 5 syllables, sounds like...

If "enthusiasm" is a good thing, why does it sound so much like a disease? 

Try it out:
"My uncle died last week, complications of enthusiasm."
"Use of this product for more than 5 days may result in enthusiasm."
"She's undergoing chemotherapy for her enthusiasm."
"Side effects may include shortness of breath, rash, and enthusiasm."

And there are doubtless specific types of enthusiasm..."cardiopulmonary enthusiasm", "gastrointestinal enthusiasm", and of course "genitourinary enthusiasm."

Some words are just like that.  They sound wrong for their intended purpose.  "Bucolic" is probably the worst offender in this department.  How the sound of that word is supposed to inspire thoughts of rambling green fields and gently swaying oaks is beyond reason.  It sounds more like a dangerous and unpleasant condition:

"Don't drink the water, it's bucolic."
"The flesh around the wound is turning bucolic."
"We're sorry to report that your tumor is bucolic (worse yet, it is also showing signs of enthusiasm)."

Now THAT makes sense.  I think.

Feel free to add your own words to the list (along with the meanings you think they should have).

Men and Cars: A Bonehead's Tale

There is an expectation in America that men...all men from puberty to the grave...should know something about cars.  We needn't all be NASCAR mechanics, but there are certain things we're all supposed to know inherently, things imparted to us by our dads or older brothers, things that elicit knowing glances, sypathetic head wags, or back-slapping guffaws.  Not knowing these things means that one is, in a very real sense, outside the fraternity.  Like a gay man coming out of the closet at a Klan meeting.

That said, I know almost nothing about cars. 

If any of you have seen the film "The 40 Year Old Virgin," you'll recall the scene where Steve Carell attempts to keep pace with his pals as they share stories of their sexual exploits.  I am much this way with car talk.   I know enough to throw suspicion off me for the first round or two.  But after that, my cover is blown. I am an alien being with tentacles exposed.

So today, I got a flat. 

I was rounding the last corner to park and pick up Cecily at work, when I heard the pop.  It was more like a crack, actually.  I thought I'd taken the turn a little tight and that I'd played a rimshot off the curb.  I was wrong.  When Cec and I got back to the car and attempted to drive away, we heard that sad flubbety-flubbety noise that every motorist dreads.  When I parked and got out for a look, the tire was a pancake.  The can of Fix-A-Flat that I keep in the car for just such emergencies would be useless. The tire was gashed.

So we flip on the hazards and begin looking for the equipment.  Fortunately for us both, the car did have a jack, a lug wrench, and a fully inflated donut.  I will tell you now that we are approaching the exact moment where my automotive knowledge ends.  Which is this: I know enough to loosen the lugs BEFORE raising the tire off the ground (try it with the tire in the air and see how far you get).  Aside from the fact that I am TOTALLY out of shape physically, things went rather well.  Well enough at least, that when a guy half my age stopped and offered to help, I was able to wave him off while Cecily responded with a confident "We've got it."  Of course, in our family, it's Cecily who loves machinery and lug wrenches and all things mechanical.  My family crest on the other hand  is emblazened with a guy waving his arm in the air and hollering "TAXI!"  Really.  It is.  Look it up.  But Cecily is pregnant, and I am supposed to be in the fraternity of men. Tho whether that fraternity encourages the sort of puffing, spewing, and cursing sounds that issued from my mouth remains questionable. Especially for something as simple as a tire change.  You know that in certain southern states there are 4-year-olds who can rotate the tires on a pick up?

So the tire got changed.  I changed it.  Just like they tell you.  And I loaded the pancake back into the car, Cec turned off the hazards, and we drove off.   Only problem was that when we got home, the parking lights wouldn't shut off.  Even when the engine was off and the keys were out.  Now it's difficult to imagine, even for me, how the two things could possibly be related.  I don't think that I've ever hit a bump large enough to kill both a tire and the parking lights.  So I played with the switches for awhile...in that random way that a chimpanzee might try to type a resume.  No luck.  So, I reasoned, I'll have to disconnect the battery for the night and reconnect it in the morning to prevent it from being drained.  But even to me, that didn't sound quite right.  I phoned a friend who knows cars well...not only does he know them, but he can build one from items found in the home, and it will run.  Unfortunately for me, he lives in Arizona and he wasn't answering his phone.  So I came up with Plan B.  Rather than disconnect the battery, why not remove the fuse?  Turns out that the auto makers must know about guys like me, because the fuse box comes with a handy schematic printed right inside the cover.  So I pulled the fuse marked "lights" and lo, the parking lights went out.  "Well, " Cecily offered, "we can do this for awhile...pull the fuse at night...until we can get it looked at."  As hillbilly as that sounded, I agreed.  So I put the fuse in my pocket and went inside.

But just for laughs, I thought, why not check the web?  So I Googled my car model and the phrase  "parking lights stay on."    What I expected to find was that my make and model of car had some persistent wiring defect that would cost about $180 to repair.  Instead, and to my surprise, I found that there is a little obscure switch atop the steering column that lets you leave your parking lights on all the time, even with the keys out of the ignition, should that ever be your desire. So, I ran back out to the car, re-inserted the fuse, and flipped the little obscure switch. Turns out that it's located in the same spot as our hazard light switch in our last car.

Voila.  Problem solved. 

Of course, there's still the matter of the tires.  But so much less humiliating than describing some electrical ghost to a mechanic, only to have him reach inside the passenger compartment and flip a  switch.   Afterall, having a flat is not un-manly.  And I can rest secure in the knowledge that I can at least change a tire.

Maybe they'll let me join that fraternity yet.

Thought for the day

Q: Ever feel like the country's being run by Carrie's mom? 
A: Yeh, every time there's a new Supreme Court nominee.