I had my own little "Sliding Doors" moment this evening. Bear with me through the background: Lisa and I were making spicy ginger sticky wings for dinner, and we thought we'd do a cabbage salad to go with them. I, however, had forgotten to buy scallions last time I was at the store. So while the wings cooked, I headed over to Rainbow Foods to get a bunch. Rainbow in Robbinsdale is in a giant old building with an interminable surface parking lot that spans a couple thousand feet along Bottineau Blvd, where it is shared by an Outpatient Center for North Memorial.
So I walked in from the car through hurricane gusts (it's been windy in the Midwest today), got my fifty-nine cent bunch of green onions, and stepped up to the register. The clerk and I exchanged some banter: "Just the onions?" "Yeah," I said, "I forgot ONE ingredient when I was here earlier. Next time I'm making a list." We both chuckled. As I walked away I realized she had forgotten to give me my 41¢ change from my dollar. I paused and thought, "it's just forty-one cents," and kept walking. As I was exiting the store there was a woman in front of me pushing a cart with one bag of groceries and her (I would guess) four year old son in it. Coming out the front door I noticed out of the corner of my eye one of those big, heavy, child-seat equipped carts rolling, propelled by this evening's heavy winds up the parking lot straight for them. There was a girl coming into the store who had seen this and was jogging over, but couldn't get there in time. I ran ahead and stopped the cart just before it hit this woman, her cart, and consequently her kid. It was actually moving at a clip with some destructive momentum. She thanked me, and I said "Where the hell did that come from?" The other girl said, "Way over there! We watched it come all the way up from the hospital!"
I'm not saying I saved anyone's life, but it occurred to me that if I had turned around and said, "Excuse me ma'am, I think you forgot my change," I likely would have exited the store to see this woman standing over her son, skinned knees and all, surrounded by groceries in the parking lot. I'd say avoiding the band-aids and repacking was worth forty-one cents. But now I have to go raid the couch cushions so I can get a paper tomorrow morning.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Of Ice and Men
I was thinking about something last week while my team lost our final curling match of the season.
My Grandfather (maternal, I never knew my paternal) died when I was twenty years old. I remember very few moments of my early childhood, but those that I do involve his errorless hand. Not in some creepy Jim Jones way, but merely as the trusted family elder who knew a lot of things about a lot of things. All of my uncles, competent men who were experts in their fields, would defer to him and ask his opinion.
When Grandma moved out of their house a couple years later, I was just starting to curl at the St. Paul club, so my mother nabbed his old trophies for me as they were clearing out the house. I thought, wow, my grandfather led his team to victory! After six seasons of playing the game myself I now know that this, of course, is not even remotely true. Curling is a four-person game. From the order of names on the trophies in my den I would guess my granddad played second or third for his team. So there is a good chance he got chewed out on a semi-weekly basis. Don’t get me wrong – curling is a tactful sport, it’s not like anyone was tearing into him, but if he flashed a take-out, or hogged a guard, I’m sure his teammates let him know just how short he fell of their expectations.
It is a really odd thing… picturing my grandfather, the family patriarch, as a curler. Picturing someone turning to my grandfather, sacred elder of my childhood, and calling, “why weren’t you on that earlier, chucklehead?!” This is not the portrait I have of him in my mind (perhaps my mother’s may come closer to that than mine). The vision makes him instantly more relatable, not the wise distant elder, but some bumbling guy who happened to sire five children (and he was a great father who did raise them well). I have to say I think I prefer this idea of him. I never really saw too many likenesses between us until I could imagine him stepping out onto the sheet and forgetting he had his gripper off and landing ass-first on the ice. Or having to buy the first round after the game because he missed his last shot. He has attained a hallowed place in my pantheon of Stoic Old Men Who Talk Straight, but the idea of him throwing 42 pounds of granite across the ice makes him seem like a fallible human again. It is so easy to canonize the dead, and some people will always condemn you if you try to make them human. I however am happy to see the ills of my heroes so I know I can someday hope to become a shadow of what they were on this Earth. So thanks, Grandpa - you still have mighty big shoes for me to fill, but with this new perspective I at least have a fighting chance.
My Grandfather (maternal, I never knew my paternal) died when I was twenty years old. I remember very few moments of my early childhood, but those that I do involve his errorless hand. Not in some creepy Jim Jones way, but merely as the trusted family elder who knew a lot of things about a lot of things. All of my uncles, competent men who were experts in their fields, would defer to him and ask his opinion.
When Grandma moved out of their house a couple years later, I was just starting to curl at the St. Paul club, so my mother nabbed his old trophies for me as they were clearing out the house. I thought, wow, my grandfather led his team to victory! After six seasons of playing the game myself I now know that this, of course, is not even remotely true. Curling is a four-person game. From the order of names on the trophies in my den I would guess my granddad played second or third for his team. So there is a good chance he got chewed out on a semi-weekly basis. Don’t get me wrong – curling is a tactful sport, it’s not like anyone was tearing into him, but if he flashed a take-out, or hogged a guard, I’m sure his teammates let him know just how short he fell of their expectations.
It is a really odd thing… picturing my grandfather, the family patriarch, as a curler. Picturing someone turning to my grandfather, sacred elder of my childhood, and calling, “why weren’t you on that earlier, chucklehead?!” This is not the portrait I have of him in my mind (perhaps my mother’s may come closer to that than mine). The vision makes him instantly more relatable, not the wise distant elder, but some bumbling guy who happened to sire five children (and he was a great father who did raise them well). I have to say I think I prefer this idea of him. I never really saw too many likenesses between us until I could imagine him stepping out onto the sheet and forgetting he had his gripper off and landing ass-first on the ice. Or having to buy the first round after the game because he missed his last shot. He has attained a hallowed place in my pantheon of Stoic Old Men Who Talk Straight, but the idea of him throwing 42 pounds of granite across the ice makes him seem like a fallible human again. It is so easy to canonize the dead, and some people will always condemn you if you try to make them human. I however am happy to see the ills of my heroes so I know I can someday hope to become a shadow of what they were on this Earth. So thanks, Grandpa - you still have mighty big shoes for me to fill, but with this new perspective I at least have a fighting chance.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
I think we've all had enough here.
Language alert: some people or employers may take issue with a couple of words in this post. Also, an apology: I know I promised a reprieve from my recent rants, but this is too important not to talk about, even in this micro format.
In the year 2009, Minneapolis had 19 homicides, down from 40 in 2008. We all felt good – violent crime was on the retreat. These numbers were in contrast to the mid-nineties, when my city was burdened with the moniker “Murderapolis” with 97 at its annual peak in 1995. Last year’s 19 is the lowest we’ve had in over 25 years.
It is now March 7. In 2010 so far, we’ve had 10 homicides. In the first two months of the year (the quietest crime months, historically), we’re already halfway through last year’s total. I was at the store buying some beer yesterday after driving through a mob of people on Penn and 26th. There were bullhorns, cruisers, and hand-made signs. I didn’t read the paper on Friday, so I asked at the store about the gathering. The cashier said it was a march for peace, and the guy behind me in line chimed in: “This is messed up, man! I’m not from here, but where I’m from, if someone’s on the street and they fuck up, brother gets gat, but no one else. Up here, this gang banging all over, people ain’t even involved, minding their business getting gunned down!” Last year I would have said he was wrong, and that innocents are largely safe. This year I’m no longer so sure. The crowd was a peace march to the church where the funeral was being held for the latest shooting victim, a 17 year old girl shot in the neck while standing in a group of friends outside a party. I thought, well that’s good. It’s good that people are standing up to this and being counted against this violence. Then this morning I opened up the local section of the paper to read that a gang fight broke out inside the church at the conclusion of the 17 year old girl’s funeral. Do me a favor and read the underlined, linked portion of that sentence aloud. See if you aren’t just a little ashamed to be talking about a major American city. Seriously, at a fucking funeral?!
What the hell is wrong with these assholes? I’m sorry, but I’ve lived on the north side long enough to say this is my neighborhood too - as well as the woman two houses down who works for the city, the men who own and run the Quick Mart two blocks over, the teachers at the school at the end of my block, not to mention the children going to said school - and I’d like to respectfully ask these gang bangers to get the hell out of our city. We citizens of this place are trying to build a positive community up here, opening restaurants and businesses, creating community gardens, making public art, and you are cutting down our efforts. So get out. If you want to be a tough guy, cowboy, or vigilante with your guns and dope, you go do it somewhere else. We’re trying to freakin' live here. The quotation in the paper from Al Flowers, the former mayoral candidate, community activist, and sometimes political troublemaker, says it best. Outside the church yesterday, he called into a bullhorn as the police tried to diffuse the situation, “This is a baby’s funeral! Seventeen years old and she can’t rest in peace?”
Can I just say that in five plus years of owning a home on the north side of MPLS, this spring is the first time I’ve ever avoided certain areas of the neighborhood, even in my car, for safety reasons. That is not the neighborhood I bought into, and desperately wanted to turn into a beautiful urban area. That is not a place I would want to open a business or raise a family in. That is not a place that will attract new residents – residents who care about the place and want to live in a truly neighborly hood.
I’ve always been the quiet neighbor. The guy who lives here and gardens and walks places in the neighborhood, but pretty much keeps to himself. As of now I am making a resolution (if a late one). This year I am going to be more involved in the life of the greater community. I will get to know more of my neighbors, and show them that I truly care about our block, our community, and their own well-being. I will attend block parties, Take Back the Night picnics, and public festivals. I will be a visible part of this neighborhood, because I am a part of it, and I don’t like some of the violent elements that have been rearing their ugly, gun-toting heads lately. So to the north side council members, Don Samuels, Diane Hofstede, & my own Barb Johnson, police chief Tim Dolan, and Mayor R.T. Rybak, I say this: I’m going to do my part. Now it is up to you all to give us a fighting chance. Step up beat patrols, yes, but also get more familiar with this troubled community. Ask us how the municipal powers that be can facilitate growth and the culture of this part of the city. We are unique, and have unique problems here. We will need unique solutions that only we on the ground can come up with, but only you can make happen. Let’s talk.
In the year 2009, Minneapolis had 19 homicides, down from 40 in 2008. We all felt good – violent crime was on the retreat. These numbers were in contrast to the mid-nineties, when my city was burdened with the moniker “Murderapolis” with 97 at its annual peak in 1995. Last year’s 19 is the lowest we’ve had in over 25 years.
It is now March 7. In 2010 so far, we’ve had 10 homicides. In the first two months of the year (the quietest crime months, historically), we’re already halfway through last year’s total. I was at the store buying some beer yesterday after driving through a mob of people on Penn and 26th. There were bullhorns, cruisers, and hand-made signs. I didn’t read the paper on Friday, so I asked at the store about the gathering. The cashier said it was a march for peace, and the guy behind me in line chimed in: “This is messed up, man! I’m not from here, but where I’m from, if someone’s on the street and they fuck up, brother gets gat, but no one else. Up here, this gang banging all over, people ain’t even involved, minding their business getting gunned down!” Last year I would have said he was wrong, and that innocents are largely safe. This year I’m no longer so sure. The crowd was a peace march to the church where the funeral was being held for the latest shooting victim, a 17 year old girl shot in the neck while standing in a group of friends outside a party. I thought, well that’s good. It’s good that people are standing up to this and being counted against this violence. Then this morning I opened up the local section of the paper to read that a gang fight broke out inside the church at the conclusion of the 17 year old girl’s funeral. Do me a favor and read the underlined, linked portion of that sentence aloud. See if you aren’t just a little ashamed to be talking about a major American city. Seriously, at a fucking funeral?!
What the hell is wrong with these assholes? I’m sorry, but I’ve lived on the north side long enough to say this is my neighborhood too - as well as the woman two houses down who works for the city, the men who own and run the Quick Mart two blocks over, the teachers at the school at the end of my block, not to mention the children going to said school - and I’d like to respectfully ask these gang bangers to get the hell out of our city. We citizens of this place are trying to build a positive community up here, opening restaurants and businesses, creating community gardens, making public art, and you are cutting down our efforts. So get out. If you want to be a tough guy, cowboy, or vigilante with your guns and dope, you go do it somewhere else. We’re trying to freakin' live here. The quotation in the paper from Al Flowers, the former mayoral candidate, community activist, and sometimes political troublemaker, says it best. Outside the church yesterday, he called into a bullhorn as the police tried to diffuse the situation, “This is a baby’s funeral! Seventeen years old and she can’t rest in peace?”
Can I just say that in five plus years of owning a home on the north side of MPLS, this spring is the first time I’ve ever avoided certain areas of the neighborhood, even in my car, for safety reasons. That is not the neighborhood I bought into, and desperately wanted to turn into a beautiful urban area. That is not a place I would want to open a business or raise a family in. That is not a place that will attract new residents – residents who care about the place and want to live in a truly neighborly hood.
I’ve always been the quiet neighbor. The guy who lives here and gardens and walks places in the neighborhood, but pretty much keeps to himself. As of now I am making a resolution (if a late one). This year I am going to be more involved in the life of the greater community. I will get to know more of my neighbors, and show them that I truly care about our block, our community, and their own well-being. I will attend block parties, Take Back the Night picnics, and public festivals. I will be a visible part of this neighborhood, because I am a part of it, and I don’t like some of the violent elements that have been rearing their ugly, gun-toting heads lately. So to the north side council members, Don Samuels, Diane Hofstede, & my own Barb Johnson, police chief Tim Dolan, and Mayor R.T. Rybak, I say this: I’m going to do my part. Now it is up to you all to give us a fighting chance. Step up beat patrols, yes, but also get more familiar with this troubled community. Ask us how the municipal powers that be can facilitate growth and the culture of this part of the city. We are unique, and have unique problems here. We will need unique solutions that only we on the ground can come up with, but only you can make happen. Let’s talk.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Familiar, and Familial, Arguments for Common Decency
Liberal Alert: As a heads up, I feel I must inform you that this is a leftist political rant. Feel free to skip it if you think you'll angrily disagree.
Two weeks ago, our MN legislature overwhelmingly passed an extension of General Assistance Medical Care. For those of you outside the state, I'll explain. In MN, the GAMC program provides for our state's poorest citizens. They make less than $8,000 per year. They do not have children, and many do not have permanent housing. They don't qualify for Medicaid, and they would face a four month waiting list for any procedure under Minnesota Care. At any given time there is an average of 35,000 of them on the rolls. The program was set to expire March 1st. The legislature rallied to the aid of these people, many of whom survive on $203/month for their housing and food, and have mental illnesses that make it difficult to locate their bootstraps, much less pull themselves up by them. A sixteen month extension of the benefits was passed with some alterations, so we would have time to create a permanent fix without throwing these people to the wolves in the meantime.
The senate approved the measure 47-16. The house, in an amazing show of bipartisanship for the common good, blasted the measure through 125-9 (an aside: the nine who voted against it are listed here. I did some math at the U.S. Census website, and the approximate median income of the cities and townships in which they live [in the 2000 count] is about $60K. The median poverty level for individuals over the age of 18: 1.9 percent). They were both sturdily veto-proof majorities. We all felt good.
The day that it passed and was presented to our anti-governor Tim Pawlenty, he faxed a veto letter from Washington, where he was speaking at the Conservative Political Action Conference. Okay, we all know he's a prick, but they were veto-proof majorities, remember? This should be a piece of cake! Last Thursday the senate voted to override the veto. The result: 45-21. Done. Then, yesterday the house voted. Remember the house vote numbers? 125-9. You'd think this would be easier than falling down a flight of stairs. The override vote tally: 86-47. Fail along straight party lines. So it would appear that all of these worthless empty suits on the other side of the aisle (38 of them in total) couldn't be bothered to stick to their guns as soon as our globe-trotting village idiot weighed in with his own political posturing (recall what happened when his veto of a gas tax was overridden last year in my previous post).
Here's my rant. I don't understand how anyone with half a heart can look at someone making less than $8000 in a year and say, "sorry, but you don't deserve to get better." I also don't understand how anyone with half a brain can look at that same person and say, "no, I won't help with preventative care - you should wait until you need ER care. Then you can bill me through higher premiums."
For a while now I have found the tired Anti-Tax argument of “when families have to tighten their belts, so does government,” really offensive. After all, when families are tightening their belts, whom do they rely on to pick up the slack? Why do we have GAMC or Medicaid or WIC or EBT or even Unemployment Insurance if not to take care of those that can’t take care of themselves for whatever reason? When my belt is tightened by circumstances out of my control (Full disclosure: I made $17K and change last year, so I’m not destitute, but still not quite A-OK), I expect government to step up and say, “Do not worry – we shall catch you and put you back on your feet.”
But that old argument I hate so much seems entrenched, so let’s explore it: If we’re running government as a family, we’re running society as a family – government, by definition, governs society. You don’t get to decide who is and isn’t part of the American Family. We all are here, and we all have needs. What do you do with a nephew who can’t quite make ends meet? If you have the means, you help him out. When your granddaughter gets sick and can’t pay the bills, you don’t let her languish in an E.R. until she can be seen by a doctor – you make the changes to your own lifestyle that you must to help her out and get her healthy. When your niece gives birth to a child with developmental problems who can’t attend regular public schools, you make whatever sacrifices you can to help that child attain the quality of life you would expect of a relative.
Fine. Let’s think about government in these terms (I’m looking at you, Taxpayers’ League). Times are tough. The family (the American populace) is in financial trouble. Not all of us cousins can keep getting by. As such, we expect the rich uncle (or grandparent) to carve a little apartment out of his or her six-bedroom suburban estate for us to have a roof over our heads. We expect the executive who drives on the same potholed roads we do to step up and make sure we don’t unduly suffer from a pre-existing medical condition that an actuarial formula has decided is too risky for the bottom line to insure. You would never want your progeny to take an hour-plus bus ride through a dangerous part of town to go to two jobs that barely pay the bills and don’t carry health insurance, so if you treat government as a household how do you forget these people?
I’ve always thought of government as both a security blanket and a benevolent safety net for those who hit misfortune and can’t catch themselves. Why else would we have a centralized, federal government if not to insure both military security of the country’s citizens, but also the livelihood of the nation’s people? As such, I personally don’t think government should be run like a household, but if you insist it be so, then I too am your cousin and I can’t be ignored. I too must be cared for.
(By the way, I will return to a de-politicized discourse with my next post, so those of you annoyed by my recent rants can come back and enjoy the historical nerdiness. I just needed to get this off my chest.)
Two weeks ago, our MN legislature overwhelmingly passed an extension of General Assistance Medical Care. For those of you outside the state, I'll explain. In MN, the GAMC program provides for our state's poorest citizens. They make less than $8,000 per year. They do not have children, and many do not have permanent housing. They don't qualify for Medicaid, and they would face a four month waiting list for any procedure under Minnesota Care. At any given time there is an average of 35,000 of them on the rolls. The program was set to expire March 1st. The legislature rallied to the aid of these people, many of whom survive on $203/month for their housing and food, and have mental illnesses that make it difficult to locate their bootstraps, much less pull themselves up by them. A sixteen month extension of the benefits was passed with some alterations, so we would have time to create a permanent fix without throwing these people to the wolves in the meantime.
The senate approved the measure 47-16. The house, in an amazing show of bipartisanship for the common good, blasted the measure through 125-9 (an aside: the nine who voted against it are listed here. I did some math at the U.S. Census website, and the approximate median income of the cities and townships in which they live [in the 2000 count] is about $60K. The median poverty level for individuals over the age of 18: 1.9 percent). They were both sturdily veto-proof majorities. We all felt good.
The day that it passed and was presented to our anti-governor Tim Pawlenty, he faxed a veto letter from Washington, where he was speaking at the Conservative Political Action Conference. Okay, we all know he's a prick, but they were veto-proof majorities, remember? This should be a piece of cake! Last Thursday the senate voted to override the veto. The result: 45-21. Done. Then, yesterday the house voted. Remember the house vote numbers? 125-9. You'd think this would be easier than falling down a flight of stairs. The override vote tally: 86-47. Fail along straight party lines. So it would appear that all of these worthless empty suits on the other side of the aisle (38 of them in total) couldn't be bothered to stick to their guns as soon as our globe-trotting village idiot weighed in with his own political posturing (recall what happened when his veto of a gas tax was overridden last year in my previous post).
Here's my rant. I don't understand how anyone with half a heart can look at someone making less than $8000 in a year and say, "sorry, but you don't deserve to get better." I also don't understand how anyone with half a brain can look at that same person and say, "no, I won't help with preventative care - you should wait until you need ER care. Then you can bill me through higher premiums."
For a while now I have found the tired Anti-Tax argument of “when families have to tighten their belts, so does government,” really offensive. After all, when families are tightening their belts, whom do they rely on to pick up the slack? Why do we have GAMC or Medicaid or WIC or EBT or even Unemployment Insurance if not to take care of those that can’t take care of themselves for whatever reason? When my belt is tightened by circumstances out of my control (Full disclosure: I made $17K and change last year, so I’m not destitute, but still not quite A-OK), I expect government to step up and say, “Do not worry – we shall catch you and put you back on your feet.”
But that old argument I hate so much seems entrenched, so let’s explore it: If we’re running government as a family, we’re running society as a family – government, by definition, governs society. You don’t get to decide who is and isn’t part of the American Family. We all are here, and we all have needs. What do you do with a nephew who can’t quite make ends meet? If you have the means, you help him out. When your granddaughter gets sick and can’t pay the bills, you don’t let her languish in an E.R. until she can be seen by a doctor – you make the changes to your own lifestyle that you must to help her out and get her healthy. When your niece gives birth to a child with developmental problems who can’t attend regular public schools, you make whatever sacrifices you can to help that child attain the quality of life you would expect of a relative.
Fine. Let’s think about government in these terms (I’m looking at you, Taxpayers’ League). Times are tough. The family (the American populace) is in financial trouble. Not all of us cousins can keep getting by. As such, we expect the rich uncle (or grandparent) to carve a little apartment out of his or her six-bedroom suburban estate for us to have a roof over our heads. We expect the executive who drives on the same potholed roads we do to step up and make sure we don’t unduly suffer from a pre-existing medical condition that an actuarial formula has decided is too risky for the bottom line to insure. You would never want your progeny to take an hour-plus bus ride through a dangerous part of town to go to two jobs that barely pay the bills and don’t carry health insurance, so if you treat government as a household how do you forget these people?
I’ve always thought of government as both a security blanket and a benevolent safety net for those who hit misfortune and can’t catch themselves. Why else would we have a centralized, federal government if not to insure both military security of the country’s citizens, but also the livelihood of the nation’s people? As such, I personally don’t think government should be run like a household, but if you insist it be so, then I too am your cousin and I can’t be ignored. I too must be cared for.
(By the way, I will return to a de-politicized discourse with my next post, so those of you annoyed by my recent rants can come back and enjoy the historical nerdiness. I just needed to get this off my chest.)
Monday, January 25, 2010
Of Losses, Big & Small
Right now I can't decide which is a bigger disappointment - being a liberal Democrat or being a Vikings fan. They are actually remarkably similar disappointments. Both teams are powerless for long stretches, unable to do anything productive for fans or constituents, and then every few years they find a star (or an all-star cast), and the hope starts to grow again. It starts small - you think, hey, maybe we'll actually get to the postseason this year, or, all right, maybe we'll get the money back to get those 35,000 people back on healthcare rolls. But soon enough the stars start to impress, and you start the season 9-0, and you start dreaming Superbowl dreams. Or a young upstart shows up, energizing the party and sweeping a wave of optimism into Washington.
This is it! This is the best chance you've ever had to get to the big game, or to insure every man, woman, and child! If you're going to do it, this is the best group of people with the best shot at it! Everything is going along swimmingly until an interception is thrown, or it comes out that someone in the party said something stupid and racist. A recovered fumble is lost again, rather than being run in for a touchdown. Fox news is allowed to dictate the discourse, and somehow manages to paint you as simultaneously weak, and a fascist. The perfect kicker misses his first field goal of the year. You lose a seat in a safe state, and have to kiss your whole year of work goodbye (the Kennedy seat? Really? Top notch work, guys!). You try to play it cool - it was too bad, but we'll come out just as hard next year! However, as the year plays on, it becomes apparent that the star just can't stay here if we're not going to be competitive - we lose him to a richer team out east. Remember those Fox news viewers? They vote your guys out. And suddenly you realize you're "rebuilding" again. When will the next time come when the hope starts? You don't know, but you're sure you won't fall for it again. Screw those bums, if they can't do anything! If they're always going to almost achieve, only to shoot themselves in the foot again, you're just not going to hope anymore!
But you can't help it, because it's in your blood. I didn't ask to be a Vikings fan. I know most of them barely have any ties to this geographical place, but somehow they still conjure in me a pride in my homeland, the North Woods. I didn't ask to be a Liberal Democrat. It's not my fault I was born with compassion and empathy. I never asked my parents to instill in me a concept of fairness and justice for every person, but now I'm stuck with it. This winter has been especially brutal, with the disparity between hopes and results much larger than usual. I'm not saying I'm giving up on either of my ineffectual teams, but we'd better get either a Superbowl win or universal health care soon, because I don't know how much more of this disappointment I can take.
This is it! This is the best chance you've ever had to get to the big game, or to insure every man, woman, and child! If you're going to do it, this is the best group of people with the best shot at it! Everything is going along swimmingly until an interception is thrown, or it comes out that someone in the party said something stupid and racist. A recovered fumble is lost again, rather than being run in for a touchdown. Fox news is allowed to dictate the discourse, and somehow manages to paint you as simultaneously weak, and a fascist. The perfect kicker misses his first field goal of the year. You lose a seat in a safe state, and have to kiss your whole year of work goodbye (the Kennedy seat? Really? Top notch work, guys!). You try to play it cool - it was too bad, but we'll come out just as hard next year! However, as the year plays on, it becomes apparent that the star just can't stay here if we're not going to be competitive - we lose him to a richer team out east. Remember those Fox news viewers? They vote your guys out. And suddenly you realize you're "rebuilding" again. When will the next time come when the hope starts? You don't know, but you're sure you won't fall for it again. Screw those bums, if they can't do anything! If they're always going to almost achieve, only to shoot themselves in the foot again, you're just not going to hope anymore!
But you can't help it, because it's in your blood. I didn't ask to be a Vikings fan. I know most of them barely have any ties to this geographical place, but somehow they still conjure in me a pride in my homeland, the North Woods. I didn't ask to be a Liberal Democrat. It's not my fault I was born with compassion and empathy. I never asked my parents to instill in me a concept of fairness and justice for every person, but now I'm stuck with it. This winter has been especially brutal, with the disparity between hopes and results much larger than usual. I'm not saying I'm giving up on either of my ineffectual teams, but we'd better get either a Superbowl win or universal health care soon, because I don't know how much more of this disappointment I can take.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Like I needed another reason to loathe this guy.
Rudy Giuliani. Effective Mayor? Yes. Opportunistic Partisan Douchebag? Certainly. Teller of baldfaced lies? As of now, check. This prick who demeaned all community volunteers everywhere with a simple sneer at the Xcel Energy Center in '08 is at it again, on Good Morning America talking about the lack of terrorist attacks on Bush's watch. That's right, Mayor 9/11 is claiming there were NO terror attacks under George W. Bush. ...I will repeat that... the man who has based a political career on his reactions to a terror attack on New York City in September of 2001 says there were no terror attacks on the U.S. while one George W. Bush was President of the United States. For the record, George W. Bush was President from January 20, 2001, until January 20, 2009.
"We had no domestic attacks under Bush. We've had one under Obama," are Rudy's exact words. Assuming he forgot about the Anthrax scare of 2001, the D.C. Sniper attacks of 2002, and the attempted shoe bombing of 2001, that still doesn't account for his blocking out September 11, 2001, a day when I personally almost shat myself watching him tell New Yorkers not to venture south of 14th St in Manhattan on account of the clouds of dust from collapsing towers on national television. No terror attacks under GW Bush, sir? Perhaps you'd like to amend that statement to say something along the lines of "I'll do anything if you just pay attention to me! Tell me I'm still relevant!", because that's all I hear every time you open your despicable mouth lately. Rudy, please just crawl under something damp and leave us alone since you clearly don't want to be part of the Post-Bush rebuilding process in America.
"We had no domestic attacks under Bush. We've had one under Obama," are Rudy's exact words. Assuming he forgot about the Anthrax scare of 2001, the D.C. Sniper attacks of 2002, and the attempted shoe bombing of 2001, that still doesn't account for his blocking out September 11, 2001, a day when I personally almost shat myself watching him tell New Yorkers not to venture south of 14th St in Manhattan on account of the clouds of dust from collapsing towers on national television. No terror attacks under GW Bush, sir? Perhaps you'd like to amend that statement to say something along the lines of "I'll do anything if you just pay attention to me! Tell me I'm still relevant!", because that's all I hear every time you open your despicable mouth lately. Rudy, please just crawl under something damp and leave us alone since you clearly don't want to be part of the Post-Bush rebuilding process in America.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
What if this meal were your last?
I can only assume I'm not the only person who's mind wanders this time of year to thoughts of death. Remembering those we've lost, contemplating our own mortality amid the sixteen-hour nights and dormant frozen life that surrounds us (okay, maybe it's more of a Northern, Midwestern thing than I first thought). Death, I imagine, is cold, and so is December.
I have a weighty collection of books of trivia in the den, and in one of them I found a list of some last meals of recently executed murderers in America. An aside: the book is "What?" by Erin McHugh, who has a five-tome series of the five W's, and they are a wealth of unimportant knowledge for the trivia lover on your gift list.
But back to the last meals. What is the fascination with them? A last meal is food that you know you will never fully utilize, or even digest. It is ingested solely for the gastronomic pleasure of eating it. When you're trying to decide with a few friends if you want Thai or TexMex for dinner, there is always the assumption that the runner-up can be the crown winner next time. Imagine trying to make the case for one of the two if you knew with absolute certainty that you would never swallow food again in this world. Do you try to fuse the best aspects of the whole spectrum? Do you choose one and have the absolute best of that thin range? Go simple with basic culinary staples? Wolf down some comfort food, whatever that may be for you? On McHugh's list there were two in particular that caught my eye. Executed two weeks apart, they could not be more different.
In May of 2002, Stanley Baker Jr. was put to death after being served the following menu: Two 16 oz. ribeyes, one lb. turkey breast (sliced thin), twelve strips of bacon, two large hamburgers with mayo, onion, and lettuce, two large baked potatoes with butter, sour cream, cheese, and chives, four slices of cheese or one-half pound of grated cheddar cheese, chef salad with blue cheese dressing, two ears of corn on the cob, one pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and four vanilla Cokes or Mr. Pibb. That is an autopsy I wouldn't want to sit in on. Thirteen days later, Walter Mickens was executed after having chosen to be served baked chicken, rice and carrots. It was what happened to be served in the prison cafeteria that night, and he ate only the chicken.
I was intrigued by the dichotomy of these two meals, and did a little more research. I found out that the internet really does contain at least one of everything when I found the Dead Man Eating weblog. The cases involving the two executions in question are covered here, in the third post down titled "Last Mealopolooza."
What strikes me the most about these two cases is that they both seem so cut-and-dried, but if you look at the last words you see two completely different men. Mr. Baker didn't have a final statement, and he even got his victim's name wrong. He was "doing what was expected of him," and never seemed to have believed he did anything evil. Mr. Mickens, on the other hand, showed nothing but remorse in his final statements, begged for forgiveness, and referred to his having been born again into the Christian faith. The man who ate a shopping cart's worth of everything before being put to death wasn't even clear on the details of the crime he was being killed for. The man who ate whatever the rest of the inmates ate was saved already by a higher power.
I guess if I were assured a seat at the right hand of the Father, I'd be a little more nonchalant about my last meal too. It appears Mr. Baker was less confident in his eternal lodging arrangements than Mr. Mickens.
Full Disclosure: If I got to choose, my last culinary adventure on this Earth would be a steak I grilled myself to a perfect medium-rare with hand-cut shoestring french fries dipped in garlic-pepper aioli, and Brussels Sprouts sautéed in a balsamic reduction. It would be served with a bottle of 1996 vintage Veuve Clicquot.
I have a weighty collection of books of trivia in the den, and in one of them I found a list of some last meals of recently executed murderers in America. An aside: the book is "What?" by Erin McHugh, who has a five-tome series of the five W's, and they are a wealth of unimportant knowledge for the trivia lover on your gift list.
But back to the last meals. What is the fascination with them? A last meal is food that you know you will never fully utilize, or even digest. It is ingested solely for the gastronomic pleasure of eating it. When you're trying to decide with a few friends if you want Thai or TexMex for dinner, there is always the assumption that the runner-up can be the crown winner next time. Imagine trying to make the case for one of the two if you knew with absolute certainty that you would never swallow food again in this world. Do you try to fuse the best aspects of the whole spectrum? Do you choose one and have the absolute best of that thin range? Go simple with basic culinary staples? Wolf down some comfort food, whatever that may be for you? On McHugh's list there were two in particular that caught my eye. Executed two weeks apart, they could not be more different.
In May of 2002, Stanley Baker Jr. was put to death after being served the following menu: Two 16 oz. ribeyes, one lb. turkey breast (sliced thin), twelve strips of bacon, two large hamburgers with mayo, onion, and lettuce, two large baked potatoes with butter, sour cream, cheese, and chives, four slices of cheese or one-half pound of grated cheddar cheese, chef salad with blue cheese dressing, two ears of corn on the cob, one pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and four vanilla Cokes or Mr. Pibb. That is an autopsy I wouldn't want to sit in on. Thirteen days later, Walter Mickens was executed after having chosen to be served baked chicken, rice and carrots. It was what happened to be served in the prison cafeteria that night, and he ate only the chicken.
I was intrigued by the dichotomy of these two meals, and did a little more research. I found out that the internet really does contain at least one of everything when I found the Dead Man Eating weblog. The cases involving the two executions in question are covered here, in the third post down titled "Last Mealopolooza."
What strikes me the most about these two cases is that they both seem so cut-and-dried, but if you look at the last words you see two completely different men. Mr. Baker didn't have a final statement, and he even got his victim's name wrong. He was "doing what was expected of him," and never seemed to have believed he did anything evil. Mr. Mickens, on the other hand, showed nothing but remorse in his final statements, begged for forgiveness, and referred to his having been born again into the Christian faith. The man who ate a shopping cart's worth of everything before being put to death wasn't even clear on the details of the crime he was being killed for. The man who ate whatever the rest of the inmates ate was saved already by a higher power.
I guess if I were assured a seat at the right hand of the Father, I'd be a little more nonchalant about my last meal too. It appears Mr. Baker was less confident in his eternal lodging arrangements than Mr. Mickens.
Full Disclosure: If I got to choose, my last culinary adventure on this Earth would be a steak I grilled myself to a perfect medium-rare with hand-cut shoestring french fries dipped in garlic-pepper aioli, and Brussels Sprouts sautéed in a balsamic reduction. It would be served with a bottle of 1996 vintage Veuve Clicquot.
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