I think the decisions you’ve made are like crap from a constipated iguana. Your mere existence is a waste of internal organs. Therefore, our policies should change.
Sincerely,
Tom
If that’s you, if your name is Tom and you wrote that letter, you may need ToneCheck, simultaneously one of the most necessary and obnoxious advancements in email technology since laughing out loud was shortened to three simple letters.
The basic idea behind ToneCheck is that people don’t know how to properly express themselves in writing and we need to help them. Often, it seems, people sound more angry on email than they actually are. One example is "understood" versus "understand". If you were to say, "You misunderstood," the inferred meaning is generally more aggressive than saying, "You misunderstand."
The idea of ToneCheck is valid enough. Each of us has received (and probably sent) a number of emails that were taken the wrong way. And, more likely than not, we know of a few people in each of our lives that would greatly benefit from a program that made sure they weren’t being complete jackasses before clicking SEND. On every email.
The unfortunate thing about ToneCheck is that it’s just another crutch in a line of instruments that hurt communication by helping communication. I don’t want to get all Grandpa Luddite – technology is ruining the way we interact with people, people should get off their BlackBerrys and look at where they are, stop texting while driving, call your Aunt instead of emailing her for Godsake, no one writes letters anymore and our children’s penmanship atrocious! However, ToneCheck is going to kill me and then kill all of you once I’m gone.
ToneCheck does not replace bad spelling (lazyness) or bad grammar (stupidity and laziness); it replaces common sense.
The example on the ToneCheck website is an email that reads: Bob, You should get off your pedestal and listen to your sales team. They do support you and will do what needs to get done. Sincerely, Mary.
ToneCheck has an angry face near the underlined portion. Why: to indicate that that portion of the letter conveys an angry tone.
No shit. I’d like to see Mary walk into Bob’s office and say that sentence kindly. It’s angry because it is intended to be angry, not because Mary is trying to take it easy on Bob. If that’s the case, Mary is a sociopath and we’ve a whole other postal-worker issue on our hands beyond the tone she’s taking in her intra-office memos.
Let’s keep it simple. We can tonecheck ourselves using techniques and technologies that we already use everyday anyway – a little decency and respect and common sense and, of course, a little smiley changes everything:
Dear Sir,
I think the decisions you’ve made are like crap from a constipated iguana :) Your mere existence is a waste of internal organs ;) Therefore, our policies should change… :-) :^) :-D
Over the weekend marking the 234th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, thousands of patriots and parishioners sat to enjoy a game that was born around the same era, in one form or another, in the country from which the United States of America ratified a their declaration on that Thursday afternoon in July.
The game is baseball. The origins of the game are as oft and passionately debated as the origins of just about anything that evolves slowly, steadily from one incarnation to another with almost imperceptible change until it reaches its current, roid-ridden form. In 2005, David Block published a booked called "Baseball Before We Knew It: A Search for the Roots of the Game" in which he suggested, based on certain historical evidence, that modern day baseball is a variant of an mid-eighteenth century British game called rounders – and that both games were descendents of English games of stoolball and "tut-ball."
Whether brought by the English or the Irish, or based on a French game from the 14th century, baseball has been with America since the beginning and has, like all great "American" loves, been slowly seduced into bed and kept as our own. In recent years, many have questioned the stamp "national pastime," saying baseball is less popular, slower, less characteristically "American" than, say, football. Baseball’s detractors discredit the game’s traditional place in our society, but they do so without warrant.
Baseball is America not because the game was with us in the beginning, but because the game has come to metaphorically define the American Way of Life – or, perhaps more accurately, the way American’s live their lives.
No other sport can claim metaphorical significance the way baseball can. Two weeks ago, a meeting in Hollywood was begun with, "I hear we’re going to hit a long ball today; what’s the first pitch." (We’re not talking soccer field here.) Similar clichés are used every day in business: swing and a miss, real pitchers’ duel, he really dropped the ball, two down in the bottom of the ninth, knocked it out of the park, he went down swinging, he was clutch.
Other sports can claim clichés that have spilled into our lives (third and long; puts up a prayer; putting from the rough), but none is as descriptive and universal as baseball. Even our high school romances are explained using baseball; and although the obscure meaning of the bases changes from generation to generation, a home run will always remain the same, ultimate goal.
(I don’t know if the British have these same wonderfully descriptive clichés revolving around cricket (he hit three wickets in one night?), but I suppose it’s possible.)
While baseball is America because the American zeitgeist is baseball, there is one overlooked cliché that I believe should be more often used in a positive context.
Last weekend, the New York Times published an article about a pair of economists that published a book based on 800 years of economic data. "Their handiwork," says the Times, "is contained in their recent best seller, ‘This Time Is Different,’ a quantitative reconstruction of hundreds of historical episodes in which perfectly smart people made perfectly disastrous decisions."
The book and article extrapolate an interesting point – many of the disastrous decisions were between doing something and doing nothing. Most often, that something proves to be wrong. But, at times, the nothing is just as frowned upon, as in the still cooling case of Alan Greenspan.
When something is done, the approbation is hailed. But never is credit given to he who did nothing and was right in his decision.
That is of course with the exception of baseball. While basketball has "you miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take" and football has the "hail mary" pass, baseball has "good eye" and "good look" and "don’t go chasing balls in the dirt."
With all the other baseball clichés floating around our lives, it may be wise to incorporate the "good look" every once in a while and appreciate the times we said no to Paul Wolfowitz when he suggested we invade Iraq; no to Bernie Madoff when he told us he had can’t-miss investment opportunity; no to Lindsay Lohan when she said she was OK to drive us to In-n-Out at 3am. By the next Fourth of July, I hope we’ve incorporated some more good looks into our lives. There’s a lot we can learn from baseball yet.
Feeling blue? Life got you down? No way out? Is death the only adventure you have left? Need a permanent solution to a temporary problem? Well, you’re in luck!
Suicide used to be such a hassle. There’s the waiting period for the necessary semi-automatic firearm, if you want to shoot yourself; the trouble of tying the noose correctly with the perfect length of rope if you want to swing; the messy blood all over your roommate’s duvet, if you’re a cutter; talking the doctor into a prescription, if you’d like to go quietly; and how many times have you put your head in the oven, only to realize it’s electrical?
Those days are gone! We no longer need to kill ourselves like our grandparents did! Today things are made simple thanks to Zealotism! With Zealotism you can off yourself indirectly and in only three simple steps!
Step one: Choose an important religious figure.
Step two: Create a satirical work of art based on that figure.
Step three: Just sit back and wait for the zealots to come to you.
It’s easier than insulting a gumba’s mother. You don’t even have to leave the privacy and comfort of your living room.
The Death by Zealotism method has been around for eons, but it wasn’t perfected until the late 1980’s when Salman Rushdie published a little book called "The Satanic Verses," his fourth novel which took a satirical look at the life and inspiration of the prophet Muhammad. Within a year, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, the Supreme Leader of Iran called for the death of Rushdie and of his publishers.
The Death by Zealotism method was furthered when in 2005 the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten published cartoons depicting Muhammad in various satirical situations. The most famous of these was created by Kurt Westergaard, who was promptly threatened with death.
The method hit a new high just this month when Colleen LaRose, a Pennsylvania woman who calls herself "Jihad Jane" was accused of conspiring with terrorists to kill Swedish cartoonist Lars Vilks. Vilks used the Death by Zealotism method when he sketched the Prophet Muhammad's head onto a dog's body in 2007. The brilliance of Vilks’ work is that it is one of the worst sketches ever published, yet the ostensible insult still translated perfectly.
LaRose allegedly wrote in a September 2009 email that it would be "an honor & great pleasure to die or kill" and "only death will stop me here that I am so close to the target!" This was despite the fact that Jihad Jane wasn’t even Muslim. She wanted to murder a terrible sketch artist on absolutely no basis at all. According to the Los Angeles Times, she’s never even pledged her faith at a mosque. She was simply a drunk hillbilly that liked to fight. That is a true testament to how effective the Death by Zealotism method is.
If you call within the next thirty minutes, we will send you not just one, but two cassette tapes on the Death by Zealotism method. And that’s not all! Order right now and you’ll also receive:
A video camera and tripod!
A free version of Microsoft Paint!
An internet connection!
A list of important religious figures, including Moses, Zeus, and Martin Luther!
Your very own Holy Bible -- already on fire!
A limited edition DVD of "The Notebook" starring Rachel McAdams!
Plus...much, MUCH more!!!!!!!
There's no time to waste. Start dying today. Call now.
There’s not a great deal to add to this – it’s just a great idea that came off in a decent rap.
The idea was: Spike TV producer John Papola was obsessed with macro economics and with and with a podcast called EconTalk. At the same time, Papola was indignant that the media was giving no attention to the underlying theories of economic – the reasons the economy is as shitty as the economy is. So, he called, Russell Roberts, the host of EconTalk and said, Let’s do something about this.
They did. They staged a rap battle between opposing economists John Maynard Keynes and F. A. Hayek. The result was a music video that is a clever, subtle and, while fucking hilarious, doesn’t stoop to be so.
We now know a) the man who tried to incinerate the passengers of Northwest flight 253 bound for Detroit from Amsterdam on Christmas Day is named Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab; b) he is Nigerian by birth, born to a wealthy family; his father made his money in banking; c) his father warned US officials at least two months ago that Abdulmutallab had recently espoused serious religious beliefs and had suddenly eschewed his mechanical engineering studies to study Islam in Yemen; d) the airline attack was organized by al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula in response to recent operations against the organization in Yemen by US intelligence; e) Abdulmutallab say he is “the first of many.”
What we don’t seem to know (or aren’t being told) is how and why. How will be illuminated slowly, but eventually. And the how is only interesting because he was caught so far into the execution of the plan.
He bought a one-way ticket (in fairness, some sources report round-trip) from Amsterdam to Detroit. He bought the ticket on December 16, a little over a week before the flight. He paid for the ticket in cash.
Each of these variables should have raised concern independently (as the system is supposed to). Together, well… I doubt if anyone is going to be able to use cash to buy a one-way ticket to the US in Ghana any time soon.
The why – why the 23-year-old decided to suddenly leave a nominally promising future in a respected field to give his life as a response to something that had obviously not negatively affected him directly, or at least substantially – we probably already know.
Many will guess what they always guess: Radical Islam. Fine. Obviously a branch of al-Qaeda claimed responsibility. Obviously “The Base” (whether it is in Iraq, the Arabian Peninsula, or the good old Pakistan-Afghanistan border region) is an Islamic organization that has carried out attacks on “infidels” and Western nations in the past. This latest is attack is just an extension of a fight that we shouldn’t plan on finishing any time soon.
But this explanation does not cover Abdulmutallab.
As mentioned, Abdulmutallab came from a good family. One that could probably buy and sell yours. He was the youngest son. He had a fine education. As a boy, he attended the British School of Lome, in Togo. An administrator from the school, Rose Amegah, said he was "a perfect example of a good student… Punctual, serious, but keeping to himself most of the times, Farouk was a brilliant student.”
NPR interviewed fellow students that said there was nothing unusual about Abdulmutallab. One student said only that “with the benefit of hindsight,” yeah, maybe he was a bit religious and sometimes kept to himself.
Before heading to Yemem in August, Abdulmutallab told his father that he could study for free in Yemen, that he didn’t need any of his family’s money to pay for that education, as he certainly had needed for his mechanical engineering education.
It’s unfair to blame the parents. Just like the Columbine shootings ten years ago were not the faults of the parents of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, that Abdulmutallab tried to set a plan on fire is not the fault of Abdulmutallab's father, Alhaji Umaru Mutallab.
Regardless, just like Harris and Klebold of Columbine High, Abdulmutallab’s troubles started at home. Although these kids had families and even a few friends, they were inexplicably lonely. They felt like the world did not appreciate them or understand them – and they craved both appreciation and understanding.
As the Washington Post reported yesterday, Abdulmutallab “sought friends online, through Facebook and in Islamic chat rooms: ‘My name is Umar but you can call me Farouk.’ He often invited readers to ‘have your say’ and once wrote, ‘May Allah reward you for reading and reward you more for helping.’”
It’s hard to know what to do about kids who feel like their in the stop-motion Land of Misfit Toys. What’s clear is that it is a local issue that a universal outcry will do little to solve. And, once again, exasperating a false divide between Islam and the Christian West is not going to do anything other than create more bad options for more lonely kids.
On Sunday, the New York Times ran a cover story about food stamps: Food Stamp Use Soars, and Stigma Fades. "With food stamp use at record highs and climbing every month, a program once scorned as a failed welfare scheme now helps feed one in eight Americans and one in four children," the writers begin. The article goes on to detail, sometimes painfully, how more and more people (some with shame, some with alacrity) have become reliant upon the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.
As more and more people move to cities, one of the more intriguing, yet subtle, issues invoked by the article is the pecuniary endemic that the recession can cause in entire neighborhoods. In Clinton County, in Ohio, "DHL, the international package carrier, has closed most of its giant airfield, costing the county its biggest employer and about 7,500 jobs. The county unemployment rate nearly tripled, to more than 14 percent."
In larger cities, we forget about the Michael Moore Cities of America – the cities where you and your neighbor and your bridge club all work for the pencil eraser plant up the street. Imagine, all your family and friends suddenly being jobless. It’s like if all of Lehman Brothers had lived (and only lived) between 88th and 90th Streets on the Upper East Side; two blocks, jobless. It’s like if people stopped watching Will Smith movies (Malibu, jobless) or porn (Simi Valley, jobless) or gay porn (West Hollywood, jobless).
Everyone on food stamps. Of course the stigma is lost.
I’m willing to bet, without statistically being able to back it up, that most of those who lost their jobs when DHL closed had families, or were at least already married. However, one of the arguments provided by the Heritage Foundationagainst the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program is that it discourages not only work, but marriage, as well.
That means that, according to the Heritage Foundation, there is a man out there who is sitting in his rented living room, his last box of ramen gone, his Easy Mac & Cheese eaten, his stomach grumbling as he weighs his options between applying for food stamps or marrying Bill Smith’s overweight, buck-toothed daughter. Food stamps it is.
At first the argument that food aid discourages marriage is reasonable; yes, if you are in need of financial help, joining forces with a wife or husband could be your out. And, if we (the people, the government) provide a second option, that wife or husband could seem like more hassle than help.
The discontinuation of a food aid program on the grounds that it discourages marriages seems incredibly cynical. The resulting marriages for food could easily be happy unions. They could, just as easily be horribly abusive situations. And, not only that, but – since we are accepting my precious proposal that many of the DHL employees were already married, perhaps (just perhaps) the underlying goal of a society should not be to ensure that its citizens are legally joined, but that they are sufficiently fed.
"Some people like to camouflage this by calling it a nutrition program, but it’s really not different from cash welfare," Robert Rector of the Heritage Foundation told the New York Times. "Food stamps is quasi money."
I asked a conservative friend what she thought of the possibly that food stamps discourages marriage. Her response was unexpected, and, somehow, completely apposite. "Careful what you say," she said. "My family was on food stamps."
Few things are better than stories about porn stars who don’t want attention. But the story about former Ft. Myers Beach Town Manager Scott Janke, who was fired a week ago for being married to an adult film actress named Jazella Moore (her real name is Anabela Mota; so, if she wanted to avoid spurious nomenclatures, she was already all set), is even better because it has both the ACLU and Bill O’Reilly and his peevish blondies on The O’Reilly Factor up in a fuss.
Last Tuesday, Janke was fired after city council members learned that his wife like to do things in front of cameras that should only be seen by non-Floridians between the ages of 13 and 70. As reported by USA Today, "Janke, who had worked for the town since March 2008, canceled all media interviews around midday Thursday, saying his wife is upset by all the attention." After starring in films such as "The Cock Pit 3" (2009; you can find the link yourself), Ms. Moore is now upset by the attention. It must feel like she is standing naked in front of a thousand video cameras. Instead of, I suppose, just three.
Howard Simon, executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union of Florida, was taken aback by the firing, calling it a poor decision. "This might go down as one of the top 10 poor judgments by public officials in Florida history," Simon said.
Last night on O’Reilly, Bill and the panel guest that was not Megyn Kelly pointed out that this decision – which was pushed by the town’s mayor – was unconstitutional since it infringed upon Janke’s right to associate with his wife. I’ve breezed through the Bill of Rights and can’t actually find anything that says we can hook up with whomever we want; I’m also not, technically, qualified to interpret the 218-year-old document, though. And when they stopped to consider how all of this began, Megyn Kelly chimed up with her usual forced truculence, "I’ll bet that the mayor was sitting around watching some videos and he was like, ‘Hey! I know that girl!’"
"Just kidding. I’m kidding…But no, really…" Kelly added as the others looked on.
Megyn in Washington Life.
The story gets more and more remarkable and unbelievable. Not only is Moore a 43-year-old (43!) porn star that has a current website and a video that, as mentioned, came out this year, she actually thought that her profession wouldn’t ever become public. While I’ve read anonymous poetry and received anonymous donations, I’ve never enjoyed me some anonymous porn. Maybe she didn’t realize that websites are on the internet and that people own DVD players.
After this chaos, Janke and Moore (Mota, whatever) are out of there. Earlier today, Janke held a web-chat with The News-Press in which he said he and his wife and her 15-year-old triplets (can you say Cock Pit 4…um…in three years…) are leaving Ft. Myers Beach with their "heads held high." They did not say where they are going to go. They don’t like to make their private lives public. So back off.
The most unfortunate issue of this sad sad tale is one that no one seems to be addressing. Janke is married to a porn star. Great. Maybe their sex life is more creative, more experimental than yours. However, Janke can never watch porn. And, if he does, it has to be his wife’s. And if it’s his wife’s, he watches her with other people.
Maybe as a porn star, Moore (Mota, whatever) is more opened minded. But I have a number of friends who don’t "get" pornography. One ex-girlfriend was appalled to find porn I left on her computer; it made her think something was wrong with her. Another friend asked my why any man would watch porn when they had a girlfriend or an option for sex – adding that the boyfriend she had for 10 years would call her every time he was masturbating so that she knew he was thinking of her. A woman seems to want men to think of her and only her when you’re in a relationship.
For Janke, that threat is increased. It’s raised. It’s severe. If he’s caught watching pornography, he’s not just watching strangers fucking, or women he will never meet. He is watching his wife’s friends perform unmentionable, acrobatic sexual acts. Moore walks in on him and she’s bound to say, "What the hell are you doing watching Karen? Do you like her? Do you want to fuck her? Well, fine! Maybe you should! I hope you and Karen are very happy together!"
The year was 1992. The Minnesota Twins had just won their second World Series in the past five years; America was gearing up for the Olympic Games in Barcelona and the first ever Dream Team; El Salvador’s civil war ended, while Yugoslavia’s precipitated; Jeffrey Dahmer is sentence to life, while four LAPD officers who beat Rodney King to within an eyelash of a death sentence are let off the hook; Iraqis are just becoming angry with the abandonment of the United States; ten years of fighter jet patrols from Turkey into the No Fly Zone have just begun; as Bill Clinton takes down George H. W. Bush in the November election, republicans realize they are within months of the end of their 12 year run in power; and a little movie called "Passenger 57" with Wesley Snipes hits the big screens.
At this point, Snipes still had a career. He was yet four years away from his allegedly fraudulent tax refund claims and another ten years away for being arrested for those claims. But Snipes’ impetus for making those claims was around in ’92. In fact, he could have been evading taxes at the time and was just never caught. It makes you wonder: was 1992 really so very different from 2009, or does it just seem like it was.
An example of this question is evident in a line from "Passenger 57." Snipes and his co-star, Tom Sizemore (talk about things changing, but not really changing at all) are walking through an airport. Sizemore is simply walking his friend to the plane – this was in a day where you could go through security without a boarding pass and meet your family as they alighted the jetway. They pass through security and a somewhat attractive TSA agent frisks Snipes and give him a look like she wants him to take her in the x-ray machine. As they walk away, Sizemore looks at Snipes and says, "You know, that’s what I admire about you, man. Even though you’re being hit on by and absolutely beautiful woman, you are determined to maintain your vow of chastity."
After which, Sizemore concludes, "You know, you’d make a hell of a republican."
The notion of republicans not copulating, not paying for prostitutes, hitting on interns, getting blowjobs in public restrooms, absconding to Buenos Aries for a dalliance, seems absurd today. But it didn’t in 1992. Why is that? Is it because politicians were more family oriented in 1992? Republicans were less gay? Tom Sizemore was less of a crack head? Wall Street was greed-free?
It also seems absurd that any of these things is true. What’s true is that we are getting worse at hiding things. We’re not necessarily becoming more honest – perhaps more contrite in the aftermath – but secrets simply don’t last as long as they used to.
Of course, this is technology’s fault. It’s not Tom Sizemore’s. Although, he is a great example. Hooked on methamphetamine and heroine and sex with Heidi Fleiss, Sizemore imploded and was deemed unemployable by Hollywood. To counter the situation, he decided to open up everything and star in a reality show called "Shooting Sizemore."
Not a bad idea. These days, most republicans would not make good republicans. But maybe they can learn something from Sizemore. Maybe they would make good reality TV.
Every weekend (read: every third weekend) I do laundry. Since my apartment has the proper hookups for a clothes washer and dryer, but is curiously without either washer or dryer, the dirty clothes and I get in the car and go visit Michael.
Michael isn’t his name, but il s’appelle Michael, so I call him Michael. He is a 62-year-old Vietnam War veteran, who has been living in Los Angeles for the past 20 years, most of those spent along the select stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard where Boystown fades into a grungier Hollywood. For those 20 years, Michael told me, he has been in entertainment, he has been something of a stand-up comedian. It wasn’t until the third time I spoke with Michael, that I realized it’s been the same three jokes for 20 years.
In New York, it’s common for comedians to perform at laundromats as practice at the beginnings of their careers. Certainly, Michael might have outgrown the odd audiences as well if he’d stocked his repertoire with more than: the one about the three ducks, the one about the little white boy and the M&Ms, and the one about the guy in the bar.
A guy walks into a busy bar in a strange town. He sits right smack in the middle of the bar. He looks around for a moment and then announces loudly, "All of you on this side of the bar are fat assholes," motioning to his right. He looks to his left and says, "And all of you on this side of the bar are sons of bitches." The man sits back down. From the left comes a very large man. He taps the stranger sitting at the center of the bar on the shoulder and says threateningly, "Listen buddy, I ain’t no son of a bitch." The man looks at the huge guy and replies, "Well then get your ass over to the other side."
Michael is always hoping to be paid for his jokes. Last weekend he told me he was hungry. In anticipation for at least one of the three jokes, I bought him a turkey sandwich at Whole Foods, a meal for which he seemed genuinely gracious. Not only was there a joke in the future, but he also tipped me to go to Subway for breakfast.
"Sometimes you get that taste for bacon and eggs," said Michael. "Me and some other vets went down to IHOP last weekend and got the pancakes and the eggs and the whole thing. And I can’t eat no syrup usually because I’m a diabetic and I got no teeth left. But this syrup weren’t too sugary. Just good. But they charge us nine bucks for that. If you want the good stuff, lemme tell you, go to Subway. Two-oh-seven for bacon en eggs. Which reminds me about the ducks. There were these…"
Three ducks went swimming in a pond behind a house. The pond was private and protected by a fence, but the ducks didn’t care and jumped the fence and swam and blew bubbles and had a great time. But then the cops come and break up the party and take the ducks to before a judge. The judge brings the first duck up and says, "What’s your name?" The duck says, "Quack." "Well, Quack, what were you doing in the pond?" "Nothin, your honor," says Quack, "Just swimming and blowing bubbles." The judge tells him to go stand to the side and brings up the second duck. "What’s your name," asks the judge. "Quack Quack," says the second duck. "And what do you have to say for yourself? Why were you in the pond?" The second duck innocently says, "Nothin, your honor. Me and Quack were just swimmin and blowin bubbles." "Ok," says the judge, "You go stand in the corner as well." The judge brings in the third duck. "I suppose your name is Quack Quack Quack," insists the judge. "No," says the third duck. "My name’s bubbles."
Most of the time, I’ll give Michael money, in addition to food, if I think about it. I want him to be able to buy alcohol. There is certainly something unethical in that. Something reminiscent of Jacksonian policy in Georgia in the nineteenth century. However, I’m not using alcohol to coerce American Indians to give up their land or sign away their birthrights. Sometimes a guy just needs a beer from the 7-Eleven that is conveniently next to the Mexican restaurant that is conveniently next to the laundromat.
After two jokes, I usually beg off, saying that I need to finish my laundry, which is, just as usually, the complete truth. Michael always gets in one more joke. Michael is a black man, tall and sinewy, with hands that feel like they’ve dragged through a desert at night. His clothes are gifts from one of the Hispanic workers at the laundromat, who doesn’t speak a word of English. For his finale, Michael likes to sit on the narrow ledge of the laundromat window. He places the turkey sandwich on the ground because he needs both hands for this one. His eyes laugh thinking about the joke he’s about to tell. He doesn’t remember that I’ve heard this twice already. He calls me a different name every time he sees me. Today it’s Sunglasses.
Listen, Sunglasses. There was this white boy who looked probably like you did when you were five. He gets this bag of M&Ms and smears them all over his face. (Michael mimes like he is washing his face.) He goes up to his mom and says, "Ma look! I’m a black man!" WHACK! "Go talk to your father," says his mom. So the boy goes and finds his father, smears the M&Ms all over his face (same motion) and says, "Pa! Look at me! I’m a black man!" WHACK! "Go talk to your grandfather." The little boy walks away and goes to his grandpa. M&Ms on his face (again, Michael acts it out). "Hey Granddad! Look! I’m a Blackman!" WHACK! He gets slapped again. "Go back and talk to your mother," says the grandpa. So, the boy goes back to his mother who says, "Well, did you learn anything?" "Yeah," says the boy. "I’ve been a black man for five minutes and already I hate you white people."
Today, Senator Arlen Specter (?-PA) decided to switch from being a Republican to being a Democrat.
"Last year, more than 200,000 Republicans in Pennsylvania changed their registration to become Democrats. I now find my political philosophy more in line with Democrats than Republicans," Specter said in a statement.
In other news, Specter switched from being a New York Giants fan to being a Pittsburg Steelers fan after their Super Bowl win this year; from Dancing with the Stars to American Idol after seeing the primetime A 18-39 ratings; from Cheerios to Cinnamon Toast Crunch after speaking with a local kindergarten class; and he now thinks Pontiac cars suck – always has.
On Christmas I like to think of time – particularly 33 years – I’m never interested in the Passion or the miracles or the love life of Jesus. I want to know, was he bullied as a pre-teen? On Easter I like to think of how much money Cadbury is making. And on Earth Day I like to think about God because he made the Earth.
People think Earth Day is a day to think about how we are destroying and over-consuming the natural resources of our planet, but it’s really a day to think about how, if God made the Earth in seven days, he must have ended on Earth Day. And if he ended on Earth Day (April 22), he began making things (the Heavens and whatnot) on April 16. And from that we can conclude that taxes existed before the Earth and God likes to file at the last minute – otherwise he would have started earlier.
I have three nagging thoughts upon this Earth Day and they all have to do with God. Firstly, watching the commendable "Rachel Getting Married" last weekend, I realized that people can’t become sober without God. You will never see a sober, recently converted atheist. No one spends his life going to Sunday mass hungover and then suddenly sees the light and quits alcohol and God. At the same time, Islam forbids consuming alcohol altogether. This leads to the clear conclusion that alcohol and God cannot exist within close proximity – like Palestine and Israel – which also means that they are equal forces. Which means alcohol is a god.
The second thought Earth Day shoves down my throat is: you can’t become homeless unless you believe in God. I never see rich people out on the street, holding signs that have God’s name written all over them. I only see the homeless.
Unless these people are Steven Spielberg and Steve Wozniak and Steve Jobs in disguise, it begs the chicken-egg question: Which came first? Homlessness or Godfulness?
Finally, I’m forced to think about the wrath of God. My favorite part of Him. The right-wingers of this country are often fond of claiming (the Christian) God for their side. However, in the film "Charlie Wilson’s War," Charlie Wilson warns that the fear isn’t that we are on God’s side, the fear is that, in the end, God is going to be on both sides. It’s that fear that people who worked for the Bush Administration, in the CIA and DOD should have at this moment.
People have been calling President Barack Obama the Messiah for at least eight to ten months now. It’s come to the point of saturation and oversaturation, but now it’s back. Yesterday, Obama stated that he will not hold agents of the Central Intelligence Agency who might have "tortured" prisoners under US detention responsible for their actions because they were acting within the guidelines set.
However, with respect to the lawyers who set those guidelines, Obama said, "I would say that that is going to be more of a decision for the attorney general, within the parameters of various laws, and I don't want to prejudge that."
It’s clear now, that on this Earth Day, God is not resting. He has come back in the vengeful, wrathful form of Barack Obama to strike down upon those who have wronged their fellow brothers and sisters. And you can bet your locusts and frogs that HE (if you capitalize both letters it means you believe more) will emerge victorious. Unless Memorial Day hits first.
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