Friday, January 23, 2004
I charge you with a task!
I want you to ask everyone you know if they are registered to vote. If they say no, ask them why.
If they say they don't know how, take a deep breath and send them here.
If they say they don't want to get called in to jury duty, tell them that is a myth and isn't how you get called in.
If they say they don't care, remind them that when voter turn out is low, the Republicans traditionally win. When turnout is high, the Democrats. If they are a Republican already, they are probably already registered.
Apathy kills. And this year more than any, voter turnout is the key. I'm not going to draw any conclusions from these facts other than this:
vote, dammit.
I want you to ask everyone you know if they are registered to vote. If they say no, ask them why.
If they say they don't know how, take a deep breath and send them here.
If they say they don't want to get called in to jury duty, tell them that is a myth and isn't how you get called in.
If they say they don't care, remind them that when voter turn out is low, the Republicans traditionally win. When turnout is high, the Democrats. If they are a Republican already, they are probably already registered.
Apathy kills. And this year more than any, voter turnout is the key. I'm not going to draw any conclusions from these facts other than this:
vote, dammit.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Two things:
First a story.
It was a rare bitter cold morning in AusTex, my hometown for you googlers, and my mother and I were on off on our day. Me, soon to get dropped off at school (a rare reprieve from a frigid bus) and her, on to her job. I was 11 or so.
It was 1982. And in 1982 there was, among other things, a real and tangible threat of nuclear war. As an 11 year old, it was certainly something I was concerned about. No shit. Really. I would really, really worry that I would wake up, well, dead. But I was kind of a weird kid anyway.
But I digress.
It was in this frigid car on this frigid morning that my mother asked my what I looked so worried about.
"Nuclear war," I replied.
"Don't say it like that", she said.
"Like what?" I retorted.
"Like how you just said it. That is the wrong way. That's how people who don't really know anything say it."
"Well, how did I say it?" I stammered.
"You said 'new-cue-ler'"
"Yeah. Nuclear. New. Cue. Ler. Nuclear." It was as if my mother had gone mad. Did she not understand me?
At this point in the memory, my mother slams on the brakes and turns on me. In reality we just kept driving.
"Eric- it is pronounced 'New-Klee-Er'. Just like it is spelled. There is no 'Q' in there. There never has been. If you want to be regarded as a hick with no clue, say it your way. If you want to be correct, say it mine."
Silence. She was right. From that day forth, I went ahead and pronounced that word correctly. (And to this day, being raised and groomed in the heart of Texas, every New Yorker who meets me says, "But you have no accent!")
So that's my story. I figured out how to say the fucking word when I was 11. And I don't have any nuclear weapons at MY disposal. Where's the justice in that.
OK, second thing:
Does anyone see the irony in the fact that this new Medicare plan announced in the State of the Union- which prevents Medicare from haggling with pharmaceutical companies and looking for cheaper products (you know, free trade)- has a cornerstone benefit which reads like this:
Medicare recipients currently on Medicare will begin to receive prescription drug coverage.
In 2006.
2006??!?!?!
"Just hang in there honey...fight off that emphysema for just another 25 months..."
How do you figure?
First a story.
It was a rare bitter cold morning in AusTex, my hometown for you googlers, and my mother and I were on off on our day. Me, soon to get dropped off at school (a rare reprieve from a frigid bus) and her, on to her job. I was 11 or so.
It was 1982. And in 1982 there was, among other things, a real and tangible threat of nuclear war. As an 11 year old, it was certainly something I was concerned about. No shit. Really. I would really, really worry that I would wake up, well, dead. But I was kind of a weird kid anyway.
But I digress.
It was in this frigid car on this frigid morning that my mother asked my what I looked so worried about.
"Nuclear war," I replied.
"Don't say it like that", she said.
"Like what?" I retorted.
"Like how you just said it. That is the wrong way. That's how people who don't really know anything say it."
"Well, how did I say it?" I stammered.
"You said 'new-cue-ler'"
"Yeah. Nuclear. New. Cue. Ler. Nuclear." It was as if my mother had gone mad. Did she not understand me?
At this point in the memory, my mother slams on the brakes and turns on me. In reality we just kept driving.
"Eric- it is pronounced 'New-Klee-Er'. Just like it is spelled. There is no 'Q' in there. There never has been. If you want to be regarded as a hick with no clue, say it your way. If you want to be correct, say it mine."
Silence. She was right. From that day forth, I went ahead and pronounced that word correctly. (And to this day, being raised and groomed in the heart of Texas, every New Yorker who meets me says, "But you have no accent!")
So that's my story. I figured out how to say the fucking word when I was 11. And I don't have any nuclear weapons at MY disposal. Where's the justice in that.
OK, second thing:
Does anyone see the irony in the fact that this new Medicare plan announced in the State of the Union- which prevents Medicare from haggling with pharmaceutical companies and looking for cheaper products (you know, free trade)- has a cornerstone benefit which reads like this:
Medicare recipients currently on Medicare will begin to receive prescription drug coverage.
In 2006.
2006??!?!?!
"Just hang in there honey...fight off that emphysema for just another 25 months..."
How do you figure?
Theory:
If one male member of the Supreme Court, one male member of each house of Congress and the President (assuming that position is held by a man) all had to submit to a Rape Kit (the invasive exam that women who report a rape must endure) then we would not live in a country that thinks a women who reports a rape 'wanted it'.
Fact:
Every time some dumb ass proclaims that the alleged victim in the Kobe Bryant case is lying, another women will decide not to report a rape.
That is 100 extra rapists out there for every boneheaded comment.
Think about it.
If one male member of the Supreme Court, one male member of each house of Congress and the President (assuming that position is held by a man) all had to submit to a Rape Kit (the invasive exam that women who report a rape must endure) then we would not live in a country that thinks a women who reports a rape 'wanted it'.
Fact:
Every time some dumb ass proclaims that the alleged victim in the Kobe Bryant case is lying, another women will decide not to report a rape.
That is 100 extra rapists out there for every boneheaded comment.
Think about it.
Monday, January 19, 2004
the rest of the story
Many of you were sent here via my wife's journal and told there would be a continuation of a story she began. This is because when I read it (pre-publish, don't you know) I commented that she was only telling half the story. "Well why don't you tell the second half, Mr. fancy-pants," was her reply (note: husbands- when asked to critique, the only real response is "that's great honey").
But then you got here and found two strange entries: one, about my oldest friend on tour with a pop-queen and then another, which was just a wild political thought rambling about. OK, it was a rant inspired by an article saying that catching Saddam Hussein proved the war was just.
Wha??? See previous post for my logic/emotional rebuttal.
And now the main event...
The Rest of the Story
Friends come and friends go, but a friend made in the theatre is like a friend made in the army. You've been through a lot together. You've seen each other at their lowest point. You've stood shoulder to shoulder while the masses applaud you. You've drank, smoked, tripped and fallen all as a team. So when these buddies pass through, you make the time.
As previously mentioned, our visitor, who we will refer to as 'Sumotiga', brought with him some funky karma. I don't know if I hold the odd karmic relationship Ms. Maxwell does with Sumotiga, but he is certainly a defining character in a defining time in my life. And he has a funny laugh. But I digress.
We pick the tale up on day 3 of his visit to NYC...
It was Sunday. It was 8 degrees outside. We aren't going nowhere. So the three of us, in our 10 foot wide apartment (think doublewide- psyche: now you're white trash) are just chillin'. But there is that weird feeling in the air which is familiar to so many of us who have hosted friends and family. You see, they are in NEW YORK CITY!!! The greatest city in the world. No time to dilly-dally. They want to see it all. But we live here, and weekends, and any time off really, are spent trying to escape this filthy little world. But we understand. We were that way once too. So there is the "let's do everything" vibe versus the "let's just chill" vibe.
It was 8 degrees. We stayed in.
I felt a little guilty about it, but Sumotiga seemed to enjoy watching football all day and just lounging about. Did I mention our apartment is tiny?
Cut to Times Square (my favorite place on earth, if you discard Jerry Falwell's living room or the GOP National Convention). I have met up with Sumotiga and the little lady for a some high-fallutin Broadway theater. But there are no cheap seats, no special prices and thus, no tickets for this group. But hey, we get to wander a bit around Times Square (if only I were on drugs...no scratch that). Did I mention it was 8 degrees? Eight. One digit, no waiting.
The next evening was highlighted by my improv troupe performing in a 'contest'. As a prerequisite of the 'contest' was to have at least 10 audience members there on your behalf, we had loaded the place up. Even Sumotiga had brought some friends. But this was no contest at all. This was comedy in a crack house. OK, it wasn't that bad, but filthy, empty and loaded with attitude may not be the best business model in the comedy world. Or maybe it is, who knows. I'm certainly not using their name so we can get booked there again. I know, I'm a slut.
But we endured it all. The cold, the towing, the bad theatre, the cold, the found money, the lost money, et all.
And when Sumotiga left on Tuesday morning, I felt bad that we hadn't shown him a better time. I felt bad that we couldn't have stayed up until 3 drinking each night, carousing and reveling in a way we could both talk about for years to come.
Instead, we got four great days of old friend catching up. And I realized I didn't feel bad because we hadn't partied the whole time. No: I felt bad because I was putting an old theatre comrade in a cab to the airport, and I might not see him again for years. I felt bad because so many of my favorite memories (including the one leading to betrothal) included Sumotiga, and we were parting ways again. It was the odd pinch you get when you drive away from home.
Like when you say goodbye to family.
Here's to you Brother Sumotiga. You'll always have a couch and a ten foot wide apartment waiting for you.
Many of you were sent here via my wife's journal and told there would be a continuation of a story she began. This is because when I read it (pre-publish, don't you know) I commented that she was only telling half the story. "Well why don't you tell the second half, Mr. fancy-pants," was her reply (note: husbands- when asked to critique, the only real response is "that's great honey").
But then you got here and found two strange entries: one, about my oldest friend on tour with a pop-queen and then another, which was just a wild political thought rambling about. OK, it was a rant inspired by an article saying that catching Saddam Hussein proved the war was just.
Wha??? See previous post for my logic/emotional rebuttal.
And now the main event...
The Rest of the Story
Friends come and friends go, but a friend made in the theatre is like a friend made in the army. You've been through a lot together. You've seen each other at their lowest point. You've stood shoulder to shoulder while the masses applaud you. You've drank, smoked, tripped and fallen all as a team. So when these buddies pass through, you make the time.
As previously mentioned, our visitor, who we will refer to as 'Sumotiga', brought with him some funky karma. I don't know if I hold the odd karmic relationship Ms. Maxwell does with Sumotiga, but he is certainly a defining character in a defining time in my life. And he has a funny laugh. But I digress.
We pick the tale up on day 3 of his visit to NYC...
It was Sunday. It was 8 degrees outside. We aren't going nowhere. So the three of us, in our 10 foot wide apartment (think doublewide- psyche: now you're white trash) are just chillin'. But there is that weird feeling in the air which is familiar to so many of us who have hosted friends and family. You see, they are in NEW YORK CITY!!! The greatest city in the world. No time to dilly-dally. They want to see it all. But we live here, and weekends, and any time off really, are spent trying to escape this filthy little world. But we understand. We were that way once too. So there is the "let's do everything" vibe versus the "let's just chill" vibe.
It was 8 degrees. We stayed in.
I felt a little guilty about it, but Sumotiga seemed to enjoy watching football all day and just lounging about. Did I mention our apartment is tiny?
Cut to Times Square (my favorite place on earth, if you discard Jerry Falwell's living room or the GOP National Convention). I have met up with Sumotiga and the little lady for a some high-fallutin Broadway theater. But there are no cheap seats, no special prices and thus, no tickets for this group. But hey, we get to wander a bit around Times Square (if only I were on drugs...no scratch that). Did I mention it was 8 degrees? Eight. One digit, no waiting.
The next evening was highlighted by my improv troupe performing in a 'contest'. As a prerequisite of the 'contest' was to have at least 10 audience members there on your behalf, we had loaded the place up. Even Sumotiga had brought some friends. But this was no contest at all. This was comedy in a crack house. OK, it wasn't that bad, but filthy, empty and loaded with attitude may not be the best business model in the comedy world. Or maybe it is, who knows. I'm certainly not using their name so we can get booked there again. I know, I'm a slut.
But we endured it all. The cold, the towing, the bad theatre, the cold, the found money, the lost money, et all.
And when Sumotiga left on Tuesday morning, I felt bad that we hadn't shown him a better time. I felt bad that we couldn't have stayed up until 3 drinking each night, carousing and reveling in a way we could both talk about for years to come.
Instead, we got four great days of old friend catching up. And I realized I didn't feel bad because we hadn't partied the whole time. No: I felt bad because I was putting an old theatre comrade in a cab to the airport, and I might not see him again for years. I felt bad because so many of my favorite memories (including the one leading to betrothal) included Sumotiga, and we were parting ways again. It was the odd pinch you get when you drive away from home.
Like when you say goodbye to family.
Here's to you Brother Sumotiga. You'll always have a couch and a ten foot wide apartment waiting for you.
This insanity must end now.
I want everyone to ask ten people, any ten people, "who is responsible for 9-11?"
And if anyone answers 'Saddam Hussein', slap them, teach them how to read the Newspaper and then weep.
You want to know the connection between Hussein and Bin Laden? Between Al Qaida and the former Iraqi government? Between the Baathists and the Taliban? OK, here it is. Get ready:
THEY HATE EACH OTHER
More than rednecks hate yankees. More than Red Sox hate Yankees. More than Cowboys hate Redskins. More than Democrats hate Republicans. More than Limbaugh hates Clinton. More than Bill Maher hates everyone.
So much so that our own government spent billions to support Saddam Hussein in the 1980's. But NOW he's 'Hitler'.
Don't get me wrong; he was a dictator. A horrible, horrible man whose acts on this planet were unfortunately neither unique nor final. A petty, evil little power monger who deserved to be deposed.
But there are two dozen more like him in the Northern Hemisphere alone. Include South America and Indonesia and we're talking 60 or so countries whose people are equally as oppressed as any Iraqi. Of course most of those countries don't sit on top of several generations' supply of oil, so they don't make the nightly news.
Which brings me back to the slapping. Why slapping? Because anyone who thinks we went to war to 'avenge' 9-11 is a fool. Or in some sort of stupidity trance. The only thing that the 'connection' between Hussein and Bin Laden exposes is this:
American Racism to the highest degree.
We were attacked by Arabs.
We attacked Arabs.
Bada-bing.
...and I don't want to hear how 'unamerican' I am. I am more patriotic than anyone could possibly imagine. I love this country. Love. Like I would love a son or a sister.
And just like if I saw my own son or sister behaving like a dumbass- usurping qualities they had worked so hard to established, wasting resources they had taken so long to save, behaving so contrary to the way they were raised- I would call them on it. And if they didn't hear me, I say it again, louder, until they do hear me. And if they still don't get it, then I'm that parent who follows them, butts in, embarasses and learns their every move until the problem is exposed.
That is called love.
I love my country, and it is going down a horrible path- making the worst kind of friends- so I protest. So don't insult your own intelligence by labeling me as 'unamerican'.
Now just hold still, and I'll start slapping....
here endeth the rant
I want everyone to ask ten people, any ten people, "who is responsible for 9-11?"
And if anyone answers 'Saddam Hussein', slap them, teach them how to read the Newspaper and then weep.
You want to know the connection between Hussein and Bin Laden? Between Al Qaida and the former Iraqi government? Between the Baathists and the Taliban? OK, here it is. Get ready:
THEY HATE EACH OTHER
More than rednecks hate yankees. More than Red Sox hate Yankees. More than Cowboys hate Redskins. More than Democrats hate Republicans. More than Limbaugh hates Clinton. More than Bill Maher hates everyone.
So much so that our own government spent billions to support Saddam Hussein in the 1980's. But NOW he's 'Hitler'.
Don't get me wrong; he was a dictator. A horrible, horrible man whose acts on this planet were unfortunately neither unique nor final. A petty, evil little power monger who deserved to be deposed.
But there are two dozen more like him in the Northern Hemisphere alone. Include South America and Indonesia and we're talking 60 or so countries whose people are equally as oppressed as any Iraqi. Of course most of those countries don't sit on top of several generations' supply of oil, so they don't make the nightly news.
Which brings me back to the slapping. Why slapping? Because anyone who thinks we went to war to 'avenge' 9-11 is a fool. Or in some sort of stupidity trance. The only thing that the 'connection' between Hussein and Bin Laden exposes is this:
American Racism to the highest degree.
We were attacked by Arabs.
We attacked Arabs.
Bada-bing.
...and I don't want to hear how 'unamerican' I am. I am more patriotic than anyone could possibly imagine. I love this country. Love. Like I would love a son or a sister.
And just like if I saw my own son or sister behaving like a dumbass- usurping qualities they had worked so hard to established, wasting resources they had taken so long to save, behaving so contrary to the way they were raised- I would call them on it. And if they didn't hear me, I say it again, louder, until they do hear me. And if they still don't get it, then I'm that parent who follows them, butts in, embarasses and learns their every move until the problem is exposed.
That is called love.
I love my country, and it is going down a horrible path- making the worst kind of friends- so I protest. So don't insult your own intelligence by labeling me as 'unamerican'.
Now just hold still, and I'll start slapping....
here endeth the rant
So my best friend is a rock star. We've jokingly referred to each other as 'rock stars' for years. But now he really is one, and the joking must now stop.
I won't get into specifics, but you can read all about it here:
A Rock Star's Journal
Suffice it to say: he and I are the oldest of friends; he and I have had many mind bending experiences together (and I'll leave it at that); he and I share musical roots; he and I used to sit on cheap furniture in leaning apartments decorated with suprisingly artistic band posters and have suprisingly erudite conversations about, well, everything. Six disks in the CD player and then hit 'Random'.
And sometimes there would be women. Well, like twice. But still!
And now I can't call him 'Rock Star' anymore because, well, he is one. And I won't be that guy.
Or will I???
I won't get into specifics, but you can read all about it here:
A Rock Star's Journal
Suffice it to say: he and I are the oldest of friends; he and I have had many mind bending experiences together (and I'll leave it at that); he and I share musical roots; he and I used to sit on cheap furniture in leaning apartments decorated with suprisingly artistic band posters and have suprisingly erudite conversations about, well, everything. Six disks in the CD player and then hit 'Random'.
And sometimes there would be women. Well, like twice. But still!
And now I can't call him 'Rock Star' anymore because, well, he is one. And I won't be that guy.
Or will I???
