The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Chapter 27 - Things to Laugh About

2009-03-16T23:18:00.003-05:00

She who goes on audacious adventures should expect whatever insanity appears.

I freely acknowledge that I live life on the edge. I do things that my friends think are crazy. I don't follow many rules. I'm the last person in the world who needs to be told life is short. I milk every single second out of every single day that I can, because I'd rather live with a little red cheeked embarrassment for the things I did than the melancholy regret for the things I didn't. And thanks to my aversion to the mundane, I'm going to have one hell of a book to publish one day.

Not that all of my stories have pretty, wrapped up, happy endings. The endings are always amusing and evocative, but I've had my fair share of explosions. But that's the thing... even the explosions are good. They're real. They're filled with emotion and life. And they're all part of my story.

And so I try to write it all down as it happens, because I know how I am. After the fireworks subside and the dust settles, I'll be back on another adventure, probably involving a passport. Once I set out again, I'll just remember the good of what happened in the chapter before. I forget the angst in making a life changing decision, the profound loneliness of an unknown place, the rage at life's injustices, and the bitter taste of the inevitable. After they pass, why bother with them? Do they make the sweet times any less satisfying? Does anguish make a memory more real than joy? I don't think so. And even if they did, there's still something to laugh about, just up ahead.

Taking Stock

2008-12-31T12:54:00.003-05:00

New Year's Day is one of my favorite days of the year. It's the perfect day to take stock of the 365 days prior, and daydream about the new year to come.

I've gotten in the habit of measuring my life in a series of before and afters that seem to revolve around the places I've lived. Before Lubbock. Austin. After Jersey. Spain I, II, and III. DC. It feels like the chapters of my life have started flying by since Austin. It was a staggering thought to wake up on my birthday this year and realize that I graduated from college 6 years ago. Eesh. Fortunately, I feel like I'm in a good place in the world. I'm happy with the exhausting degree I'm working on, my family exists in relative harmony these days, I'm blessed with wonderful friends across the globe, and all is as it should be most days of the week.

The fact that life is so good right now has done much to reinforce my mantra that everything happens for a reason. I can't help but think how much things can change in a year. If someone had told me last New Year's that I'd be living in Tennessee in less than a year, I would have laughed. It certainly wasn't in my life plan that I'd painstakingly assembled. Fortunately, I have friends and family willing to smack me back into reality and keep me from missing the hidden opportunities life has to offer, even if they don't come wrapped in the sort of package I might expect.

Perspective

2008-11-19T08:33:00.002-05:00

Law school is sort of like being on Survivor. 196 of us have been tossed on this island. Every once in awhile, we win a prize and get to have a visitor, or get to go back to whatever city we came from and reclaim a teeny piece of our old lives for 36 hours. The rest of the time, we hang out with the same people, in the same classes, with the same really lame law school jokes that we all come up with in our non-existant spare time. And the dreams. Dear God. We've ALL had the most effed up dreams since we moved here. And somehow, the goal is to win. The jacked up thing? Most of us really don't actually want the prize. 90 hour weeks and soul selling to the man isn't what everyone signed up for. But does that matter? Not really.

It's so easy to lose perspective in law school. It's an insanely competitive environment that attempts to prepare you for the insanely competitive job market by implementing trial by fire methods. And when the only people you see all day are law students, it's totally easy to forget that you were once a normal, functioning human being with a day job, disposable income, and hobbies who had no idea that the word reasonable actually has a completely different meaning than the one the rest of the world knows. There's a whole world out there, but if it doesn't involve the library, Bar Review, or Blackacre, we certainly wouldn't know about it.

And then finals season starts, and people really go bat shit crazy. Ordinarily reasonable people become patently unreasonable, and the stress level gets so unbelieveably high that you can almost hear the energy in the room humming. People lose their center of gravity and all rational thought processes. As a general rule, law students are a pretty volatile bunch from November 1 - December 20. And the 1Ls are the worst, because we've been convinced that nothing we've done up to this point matters in any way, shape, or form beyond whatever grades we get in this, our first year of mental assault.

I won't lie. I sort of drank the Kool-Aid for a minute and started to get sucked into the madness. And then as always, something popped the Crazy Bubble and brought me back down to earth.

K, a friend of my family's has been battling an incredibly aggressive cancer since mid-June. Everyone has been hopeful for the best since the beginning, but it's become apparent over the last weeks that the harder they seem to fight it, the more vengeful it becomes. K is tough as nails. We met in high school and got to know each other on a couple of different trips to Latin America as teenagers. I always identified with her because, even though we came from pretty different backgrounds, I saw a little bit of myself in her. We both had sweet as pie fathers, phenomenal, strong, no-nonsense mothers, and we ourselves were a little headstrong and independent. You couldn't really tell us much that we didn't think we already knew. I haven't seen her much since high school, but have always kept up with her through my mom's updates and random encounters with her mom in the mall. K has led a superstar life - amazing jobs across the country, an opportunity to work in Africa... real work doing real things to help real people. I cried when I found out she was sick, but had faith that she'd fight her way back again. Tonight I cried again. K's fight has become a losing battle, and she has been moved to hospice. We're still praying for a miracle, but at the same time praying that she'll find peace and rest after a hard fight. The part that shocks me the most is that K and I are the same age. We're adults in our own right, but we're still sort of getting started. We've been busy changing the world while keeping an eye out for a life of husbands and babies and mortgages. At our age, we're supposed to have our whole lives ahead of us.

K has been in cancer wards for about as long as I've been in law school, and I'm the one complaining.

So here's to perspective. Here's to the unfairness of being graded on a curve, cancer, and life. And here's to K, for reminding me what's important, and inspiring me to be a better person. Please pray for her.

Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

John 14:27

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...

2008-10-14T00:34:00.001-05:00

My poor, neglected blog. I met my goal of checking out of the world for awhile. It was amazing. I missed the growing concerns regarding the subprime lending crisis, fingerpointing across the aisles of Congress over failed economic policies, and obituraries for the American Dream. The only indication I had of any trouble in paradise was the ever increasing cost of withdrawing Euros from ATMs across the Iberian Peninsula. Apparently, while I was off gallivanting across Europe, it appears our American economy was priming itself for a downward plunge. And plunge it has, just in time for me to get settled into my new life and start itching to write something that isn't a faux legal memorandum. Fortunately, it appears all may not be lost as the decline seems to have been stemmed, at least for now. I hope that in this painful process, some of us have learned some lessons about how our changing world works these days.

I recall having an 11 hour conversation with my favorite Madrileño one sunny July day on our way up the steepest mountain God ever created. We picked politics as our topic that afternoon, in the hopes of exasperating each other to the point that we'd forget about the pain we were inflicting on ourselves on our way up the cliff. Our conversation shifted from America's lenient firearm laws to how loans work. Their government helps grad students by providing grants and scholarships to those who continue to study after undergrad. My companion was appalled not only by the cost of my impending legal education and the amount of loans I was going to have to take out to finance the entire affair, but also by the ease of obtaining credit and loans in our country. He was in the process of purchasing a flat, and our conversation quickly turned to the stringent requirements that must be met across most of Europe when one decides to take out a mortgage. He was further scandalized to find that, not only do you not need a 50% down payment or well established guarantors to obtain a home loan, but our banks had been in the business of summarily handing out money at variable interest rates to people who barely had the cash on hand for closing costs. You can imagine the interesting conversations we've had over the course of the last week, one of which actually started with the statement that my country is responsible for tanking the entire global economy in a matter of days because we don't know how to manage money properly. I think he might be on to something.

Thanks to the sad state of our affairs, lots of previously "comfortable" people are having to worry about making their lives fit into the confines of a tight budget. For all the ridiculousness that we've seen in vice presidential politics as of late, the one thing Sarah Palin has said that I agree with was a statement on Americans having to bite the bullet, get over ourselves, and learn to live within our means. Sometimes, people have to go without. This is going to be an especially interesting lesson for a lot of American teenagers. The NY Times did an article this weekend about the effect that our economic crisis is having on the current generation of pampered teens, many whom have been raised in households unfamiliar with the word 'no'. I'm one of the cheapest people I know in all areas of my life except travel. I'm perfectly willing to buy my jeans off eBay to have extra money to spend on a plane ticket to a new and nifty place. I refuse to buy new furniture, and my new bicycle is one of the only things I've payed full price in many, many moons. I justified it because I sold my car out of sheer refusal to pay current gas prices, especially when I live across the street from campus. This mindset of mine makes it almost impossible for me to understand a teenager who wouldn't rather buy thrift store Sevens and have cash left over to play with. Or, God forbid, save.

I'm disheartened by the number of people whose livelihoods and retirements have been submarined by the abysmal economy. But maybe there's a silver lining to be seen here. As we come out of our own modern version of the Roaring '20s, maybe we'll get back to ideas of a less materialistic and greedy society. The Times article makes interesting observations regarding families that have previously used money and tangible gifts as a way to assuage their guilt for not spending enough time with their children. People are having to adjust and deal with the emotional baggage that often accompanies money issues of all kinds as they become accustomed to a new and more restrictive economic reality. But that's okay. There are worse things than the forced enjoyment of simple (and cheap) pleasures. After all, it builds character.

I liked him more when we were just texting.

2008-03-28T12:33:00.004-05:00

I have long likened myself to Bridget Jones. She and I share a penchant for making idiots of ourselves in front of other people, with or without the assistance of vodka. Kind people give me the benefit of the doubt and assume I'm easily flustered. Others just assume I'm a card carrying member of the Asbergers 'R Us Society.

Fortunately, Gansie says it's not my fault that my social skills are declining. I've forgotten how to act in public settings because there's just no real need for face to face interaction anymore. I spend 8-10 hours a day in my small, small office, door closed. If I have to ask someone a question, I email them. Voicemail scares me. I have incredible typing skills based on my ability to recount an entire Thursday night via gChat in under .5 billable hours, complete with caps for inflection. I judge people who misuse "your" and "you're" in their texts, and "Ur" is enough to get yourself deleted from my phone entirely. I have friendships centered around cellular and internet based exchanges that involve nary a phone call, much less any in person contact. When my most important interpersonal interactions involve the ability to type and retype my thoughts before actually imparting them on another human being, it's not a wonder that I sound like an experiment in artificial stupidity when you get me face to face.

And I know I'm not the only one. My friends don't call or write, they blog. Screw holiday cards - I get mass text messages on major holidays. I've met boyfriends, dogs, and children via Facebook. I'm quite familiar with entire hookups and breakups that have been engineered via electronic means. It wouldn't be my first friend who has engaged in witty repartee with a member of the opposite sex until the wee hours, just to find that they're wildy uncomfortable with the mere idea of sitting next to each other, sober and sans cell phones, at a restaurant. And we've moved past waiting 3 days to call. Why on earth risk a phone call when you can shoot a quick "What r u up to?" text? If they don't answer, you can assume they never got it, as opposed to the more painful option of exploring the idea of rejection. We've even graduated from the 3am booty call to the 3am drunken, misspelled text message. Thanks to all this ridiculous technology around us, we're becoming more socially retarded with each passing second.

So next time you hear me make a complete ass out of myself in public, I hope you'll understand - I would have been much pithier if I could have just texted you.

The End is Near

2008-03-26T10:00:00.003-05:00

Somewhere between my landlord showing our apartment to prospective tenants and me researching storage units in Tennessee, it has come to my attention that I am not long for this city. In an attempt to combat the melancholy creeping into my heart, I'm constructing a "Things I Have To Do Before I Leave DC" list. This is no time for tears, as there are still many restaurants, museums, and concerts to be enjoyed in a baccanalian manner before I pack up my car. Suggestions welcome, as are tagalongs who want to enjoy the next 3 months with me!

Thus the list begins, in no particular order...

1. National Portrait Gallery - Hip Hop and Contemporary Portraiture, Katherine Hepburn Exhibits

2. Dinner at Marrakech

3. Boating in the Tidal Basin

4. Drag Queen Brunch at Perry's in Adams Morgan

5. Dinner, drinks, or both at Proof

6. Sushi at Makoto

7. The Phillips Collection

8. Old Rag

9. Manassas Regional Park

10. Friday night Jazz at the Natural History Museum

11. An Orioles game at Camden Yards

12. A Nationals game at the new stadium

13. The FDR Memorial (I know - I have no idea how I haven't seen this yet)

14. The National Firearms Museum

15. Mount Vernon

16. Pope-Leighey House

17. A night at HR-57

18. Ethiopean food. I don't even care where.

A More Perfect Union

2008-03-18T15:21:00.002-05:00

I have my own warped opinions about race and society. I credit my opinions to the fact that I am the product of a slightly complicated multiracial family. The only public statement I have heard to date that even begins to match many of the things I believe in came today from Barack Obama. It's not lost on me that the first person to put words to many of my thoughts is also of mixed racial heritage. As globalization shrinks the size of our comfort zones, I hope Obama's thoughts are prophetic to the type of world we're moving towards.

"We the people, in order to form a more perfect union."

Two hundred and twenty one years ago, in a hall that still stands across the street, a group of men gathered and, with these simple words, launched America's improbable experiment in democracy. Farmers and scholars; statesmen and patriots who had traveled across an ocean to escape tyranny and persecution finally made real their declaration of independence at a Philadelphia convention that lasted through the spring of 1787.

The document they produced was eventually signed but ultimately unfinished. It was stained by this nation's original sin of slavery, a question that divided the colonies and brought the convention to a stalemate until the founders chose to allow the slave trade to continue for at least twenty more years, and to leave any final resolution to future generations.

Of course, the answer to the slavery question was already embedded within our Constitution - a Constitution that had at is very core the ideal of equal citizenship under the law; a Constitution that promised its people liberty, and justice, and a union that could be and should be perfected over time.

And yet words on a parchment would not be enough to deliver slaves from bondage, or provide men and women of every color and creed their full rights and obligations as citizens of the United States. What would be needed were Americans in successive generations who were willing to do their part - through protests and struggle, on the streets and in the courts, through a civil war and civil disobedience and always at great risk - to narrow that gap between the promise of our ideals and the reality of their time.

This was one of the tasks we set forth at the beginning of this campaign - to continue the long march of those who came before us, a march for a more just, more equal, more free, more caring and more prosperous America. I chose to run for the presidency at this moment in history because I believe deeply that we cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together - unless we perfect our union by understanding that we may have different stories, but we hold common hopes; that we may not look the same and we may not have come from the same place, but we all want to move in the same direction - towards a better future for of children and our grandchildren.

This belief comes from my unyielding faith in the decency and generosity of the American people. But it also comes from my own American story.

I am the son of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas. I was raised with the help of a white grandfather who survived a Depression to serve in Patton's Army during World War II and a white grandmother who worked on a bomber assembly line at Fort Leavenworth while he was overseas. I've gone to some of the best schools in America and lived in one of the world's poorest nations. I am married to a black American who carries within her the blood of slaves and slaveowners - an inheritance we pass on to our two precious daughters. I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents, and for as long as I live, I will never forget that in no other country on Earth is my story even possible.

It's a story that hasn't made me the most conventional candidate. But it is a story that has seared into my genetic makeup the idea that this nation is more than the sum of its parts - that out of many, we are truly one.

Throughout the first year of this campaign, against all predictions to the contrary, we saw how hungry the American people were for this message of unity. Despite the temptation to view my candidacy through a purely racial lens, we won commanding victories in states with some of the whitest populations in the country. In South Carolina, where the Confederate Flag still flies, we built a powerful coalition of African Americans and white Americans.

This is not to say that race has not been an issue in the campaign. At various stages in the campaign, some commentators have deemed me either "too black" or "not black enough." We saw racial tensions bubble to the surface during the week before the South Carolina primary. The press has scoured every exit poll for the latest evidence of racial polarization, not just in terms of white and black, but black and brown as well.

And yet, it has only been in the last couple of weeks that the discussion of race in this campaign has taken a particularly divisive turn.

On one end of the spectrum, we've heard the implication that my candidacy is somehow an exercise in affirmative action; that it's based solely on the desire of wide-eyed liberals to purchase racial reconciliation on the cheap. On the other end, we've heard my former pastor, Reverend Jeremiah Wright, use incendiary language to express views that have the potential not only to widen the racial divide, but views that denigrate both the greatness and the goodness of our nation; that rightly offend white and black alike.

I have already condemned, in unequivocal terms, the statements of Reverend Wright that have caused such controversy. For some, nagging questions remain. Did I know him to be an occasionally fierce critic of American domestic and foreign policy? Of course. Did I ever hear him make remarks that could be considered controversial while I sat in church? Yes. Did I strongly disagree with many of his political views? Absolutely - just as I'm sure many of you have heard remarks from your pastors, priests, or rabbis with which you strongly disagreed.

But the remarks that have caused this recent firestorm weren't simply controversial. They weren't simply a religious leader's effort to speak out against perceived injustice. Instead, they expressed a profoundly distorted view of this country - a view that sees white racism as endemic, and that elevates what is wrong with America above all that we know is right with America; a view that sees the conflicts in the Middle East as rooted primarily in the actions of stalwart allies like Israel, instead of emanating from the perverse and hateful ideologies of radical Islam.

As such, Reverend Wright's comments were not only wrong but divisive, divisive at a time when we need unity; racially charged at a time when we need to come together to solve a set of monumental problems - two wars, a terrorist threat, a falling economy, a chronic health care crisis and potentially devastating climate change; problems that are neither black or white or Latino or Asian, but rather problems that confront us all.

Given my background, my politics, and my professed values and ideals, there will no doubt be those for whom my statements of condemnation are not enough. Why associate myself with Reverend Wright in the first place, they may ask? Why not join another church? And I confess that if all that I knew of Reverend Wright were the snippets of those sermons that have run in an endless loop on the television and You Tube, or if Trinity United Church of Christ conformed to the caricatures being peddled by some commentators, there is no doubt that I would react in much the same way

But the truth is, that isn't all that I know of the man. The man I met more than twenty years ago is a man who helped introduce me to my Christian faith, a man who spoke to me about our obligations to love one another; to care for the sick and lift up the poor. He is a man who served his country as a U.S. Marine; who has studied and lectured at some of the finest universities and seminaries in the country, and who for over thirty years led a church that serves the community by doing God's work here on Earth - by housing the homeless, ministering to the needy, providing day care services and scholarships and prison ministries, and reaching out to those suffering from HIV/AIDS.

In my first book, Dreams From My Father, I described the experience of my first service at Trinity:

"People began to shout, to rise from their seats and clap and cry out, a forceful wind carrying the reverend's voice up into the rafters....And in that single note - hope! - I heard something else; at the foot of that cross, inside the thousands of churches across the city, I imagined the stories of ordinary black people merging with the stories of David and Goliath, Moses and Pharaoh, the Christians in the lion's den, Ezekiel's field of dry bones. Those stories - of survival, and freedom, and hope - became our story, my story; the blood that had spilled was our blood, the tears our tears; until this black church, on this bright day, seemed once more a vessel carrying the story of a people into future generations and into a larger world. Our trials and triumphs became at once unique and universal, black and more than black; in chronicling our journey, the stories and songs gave us a means to reclaim memories that we didn't need to feel shame about...memories that all people might study and cherish - and with which we could start to rebuild."

That has been my experience at Trinity. Like other predominantly black churches across the country, Trinity embodies the black community in its entirety - the doctor and the welfare mom, the model student and the former gang-banger. Like other black churches, Trinity's services are full of raucous laughter and sometimes bawdy humor. They are full of dancing, clapping, screaming and shouting that may seem jarring to the untrained ear. The church contains in full the kindness and cruelty, the fierce intelligence and the shocking ignorance, the struggles and successes, the love and yes, the bitterness and bias that make up the black experience in America.

And this helps explain, perhaps, my relationship with Reverend Wright. As imperfect as he may be, he has been like family to me. He strengthened my faith, officiated my wedding, and baptized my children. Not once in my conversations with him have I heard him talk about any ethnic group in derogatory terms, or treat whites with whom he interacted with anything but courtesy and respect. He contains within him the contradictions - the good and the bad - of the community that he has served diligently for so many years.

I can no more disown him than I can disown the black community. I can no more disown him than I can my white grandmother - a woman who helped raise me, a woman who sacrificed again and again for me, a woman who loves me as much as she loves anything in this world, but a woman who once confessed her fear of black men who passed by her on the street, and who on more than one occasion has uttered racial or ethnic stereotypes that made me cringe.

These people are a part of me. And they are a part of America, this country that I love.

Some will see this as an attempt to justify or excuse comments that are simply inexcusable. I can assure you it is not. I suppose the politically safe thing would be to move on from this episode and just hope that it fades into the woodwork. We can dismiss Reverend Wright as a crank or a demagogue, just as some have dismissed Geraldine Ferraro, in the aftermath of her recent statements, as harboring some deep-seated racial bias.

But race is an issue that I believe this nation cannot afford to ignore right now. We would be making the same mistake that Reverend Wright made in his offending sermons about America - to simplify and stereotype and amplify the negative to the point that it distorts reality.

The fact is that the comments that have been made and the issues that have surfaced over the last few weeks reflect the complexities of race in this country that we've never really worked through - a part of our union that we have yet to perfect. And if we walk away now, if we simply retreat into our respective corners, we will never be able to come together and solve challenges like health care, or education, or the need to find good jobs for every American.

Understanding this reality requires a reminder of how we arrived at this point. As William Faulkner once wrote, "The past isn't dead and buried. In fact, it isn't even past." We do not need to recite here the history of racial injustice in this country. But we do need to remind ourselves that so many of the disparities that exist in the African-American community today can be directly traced to inequalities passed on from an earlier generation that suffered under the brutal legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.

Segregated schools were, and are, inferior schools; we still haven't fixed them, fifty years after Brown v. Board of Education, and the inferior education they provided, then and now, helps explain the pervasive achievement gap between today's black and white students.

Legalized discrimination - where blacks were prevented, often through violence, from owning property, or loans were not granted to African-American business owners, or black homeowners could not access FHA mortgages, or blacks were excluded from unions, or the police force, or fire departments - meant that black families could not amass any meaningful wealth to bequeath to future generations. That history helps explain the wealth and income gap between black and white, and the concentrated pockets of poverty that persists in so many of today's urban and rural communities.

A lack of economic opportunity among black men, and the shame and frustration that came from not being able to provide for one's family, contributed to the erosion of black families - a problem that welfare policies for many years may have worsened. And the lack of basic services in so many urban black neighborhoods - parks for kids to play in, police walking the beat, regular garbage pick-up and building code enforcement - all helped create a cycle of violence, blight and neglect that continue to haunt us.

This is the reality in which Reverend Wright and other African-Americans of his generation grew up. They came of age in the late fifties and early sixties, a time when segregation was still the law of the land and opportunity was systematically constricted. What's remarkable is not how many failed in the face of discrimination, but rather how many men and women overcame the odds; how many were able to make a way out of no way for those like me who would come after them.

But for all those who scratched and clawed their way to get a piece of the American Dream, there were many who didn't make it - those who were ultimately defeated, in one way or another, by discrimination. That legacy of defeat was passed on to future generations - those young men and increasingly young women who we see standing on street corners or languishing in our prisons, without hope or prospects for the future. Even for those blacks who did make it, questions of race, and racism, continue to define their worldview in fundamental ways. For the men and women of Reverend Wright's generation, the memories of humiliation and doubt and fear have not gone away; nor has the anger and the bitterness of those years. That anger may not get expressed in public, in front of white co-workers or white friends. But it does find voice in the barbershop or around the kitchen table. At times, that anger is exploited by politicians, to gin up votes along racial lines, or to make up for a politician's own failings.

And occasionally it finds voice in the church on Sunday morning, in the pulpit and in the pews. The fact that so many people are surprised to hear that anger in some of Reverend Wright's sermons simply reminds us of the old truism that the most segregated hour in American life occurs on Sunday morning. That anger is not always productive; indeed, all too often it distracts attention from solving real problems; it keeps us from squarely facing our own complicity in our condition, and prevents the African-American community from forging the alliances it needs to bring about real change. But the anger is real; it is powerful; and to simply wish it away, to condemn it without understanding its roots, only serves to widen the chasm of misunderstanding that exists between the races.

In fact, a similar anger exists within segments of the white community. Most working- and middle-class white Americans don't feel that they have been particularly privileged by their race. Their experience is the immigrant experience - as far as they're concerned, no one's handed them anything, they've built it from scratch. They've worked hard all their lives, many times only to see their jobs shipped overseas or their pension dumped after a lifetime of labor. They are anxious about their futures, and feel their dreams slipping away; in an era of stagnant wages and global competition, opportunity comes to be seen as a zero sum game, in which your dreams come at my expense. So when they are told to bus their children to a school across town; when they hear that an African American is getting an advantage in landing a good job or a spot in a good college because of an injustice that they themselves never committed; when they're told that their fears about crime in urban neighborhoods are somehow prejudiced, resentment builds over time.

Like the anger within the black community, these resentments aren't always expressed in polite company. But they have helped shape the political landscape for at least a generation. Anger over welfare and affirmative action helped forge the Reagan Coalition. Politicians routinely exploited fears of crime for their own electoral ends. Talk show hosts and conservative commentators built entire careers unmasking bogus claims of racism while dismissing legitimate discussions of racial injustice and inequality as mere political correctness or reverse racism.

Just as black anger often proved counterproductive, so have these white resentments distracted attention from the real culprits of the middle class squeeze - a corporate culture rife with inside dealing, questionable accounting practices, and short-term greed; a Washington dominated by lobbyists and special interests; economic policies that favor the few over the many. And yet, to wish away the resentments of white Americans, to label them as misguided or even racist, without recognizing they are grounded in legitimate concerns - this too widens the racial divide, and blocks the path to understanding.

This is where we are right now. It's a racial stalemate we've been stuck in for years. Contrary to the claims of some of my critics, black and white, I have never been so naïve as to believe that we can get beyond our racial divisions in a single election cycle, or with a single candidacy - particularly a candidacy as imperfect as my own.

But I have asserted a firm conviction - a conviction rooted in my faith in God and my faith in the American people - that working together we can move beyond some of our old racial wounds, and that in fact we have no choice is we are to continue on the path of a more perfect union.

For the African-American community, that path means embracing the burdens of our past without becoming victims of our past. It means continuing to insist on a full measure of justice in every aspect of American life. But it also means binding our particular grievances - for better health care, and better schools, and better jobs - to the larger aspirations of all Americans -- the white woman struggling to break the glass ceiling, the white man whose been laid off, the immigrant trying to feed his family. And it means taking full responsibility for own lives - by demanding more from our fathers, and spending more time with our children, and reading to them, and teaching them that while they may face challenges and discrimination in their own lives, they must never succumb to despair or cynicism; they must always believe that they can write their own destiny.

Ironically, this quintessentially American - and yes, conservative - notion of self-help found frequent expression in Reverend Wright's sermons. But what my former pastor too often failed to understand is that embarking on a program of self-help also requires a belief that society can change.

The profound mistake of Reverend Wright's sermons is not that he spoke about racism in our society. It's that he spoke as if our society was static; as if no progress has been made; as if this country - a country that has made it possible for one of his own members to run for the highest office in the land and build a coalition of white and black; Latino and Asian, rich and poor, young and old -- is still irrevocably bound to a tragic past. But what we know -- what we have seen - is that America can change. That is true genius of this nation. What we have already achieved gives us hope - the audacity to hope - for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

In the white community, the path to a more perfect union means acknowledging that what ails the African-American community does not just exist in the minds of black people; that the legacy of discrimination - and current incidents of discrimination, while less overt than in the past - are real and must be addressed. Not just with words, but with deeds - by investing in our schools and our communities; by enforcing our civil rights laws and ensuring fairness in our criminal justice system; by providing this generation with ladders of opportunity that were unavailable for previous generations. It requires all Americans to realize that your dreams do not have to come at the expense of my dreams; that investing in the health, welfare, and education of black and brown and white children will ultimately help all of America prosper.

In the end, then, what is called for is nothing more, and nothing less, than what all the world's great religions demand - that we do unto others as we would have them do unto us. Let us be our brother's keeper, Scripture tells us. Let us be our sister's keeper. Let us find that common stake we all have in one another, and let our politics reflect that spirit as well.

For we have a choice in this country. We can accept a politics that breeds division, and conflict, and cynicism. We can tackle race only as spectacle - as we did in the OJ trial - or in the wake of tragedy, as we did in the aftermath of Katrina - or as fodder for the nightly news. We can play Reverend Wright's sermons on every channel, every day and talk about them from now until the election, and make the only question in this campaign whether or not the American people think that I somehow believe or sympathize with his most offensive words. We can pounce on some gaffe by a Hillary supporter as evidence that she's playing the race card, or we can speculate on whether white men will all flock to John McCain in the general election regardless of his policies.

We can do that.

But if we do, I can tell you that in the next election, we'll be talking about some other distraction. And then another one. And then another one. And nothing will change.

That is one option. Or, at this moment, in this election, we can come together and say, "Not this time." This time we want to talk about the crumbling schools that are stealing the future of black children and white children and Asian children and Hispanic children and Native American children. This time we want to reject the cynicism that tells us that these kids can't learn; that those kids who don't look like us are somebody else's problem. The children of America are not those kids, they are our kids, and we will not let them fall behind in a 21st century economy. Not this time.

This time we want to talk about how the lines in the Emergency Room are filled with whites and blacks and Hispanics who do not have health care; who don't have the power on their own to overcome the special interests in Washington, but who can take them on if we do it together.

This time we want to talk about the shuttered mills that once provided a decent life for men and women of every race, and the homes for sale that once belonged to Americans from every religion, every region, every walk of life. This time we want to talk about the fact that the real problem is not that someone who doesn't look like you might take your job; it's that the corporation you work for will ship it overseas for nothing more than a profit.

This time we want to talk about the men and women of every color and creed who serve together, and fight together, and bleed together under the same proud flag. We want to talk about how to bring them home from a war that never should've been authorized and never should've been waged, and we want to talk about how we'll show our patriotism by caring for them, and their families, and giving them the benefits they have earned.

I would not be running for President if I didn't believe with all my heart that this is what the vast majority of Americans want for this country. This union may never be perfect, but generation after generation has shown that it can always be perfected. And today, whenever I find myself feeling doubtful or cynical about this possibility, what gives me the most hope is the next generation - the young people whose attitudes and beliefs and openness to change have already made history in this election.

There is one story in particularly that I'd like to leave you with today - a story I told when I had the great honor of speaking on Dr. King's birthday at his home church, Ebenezer Baptist, in Atlanta.

There is a young, twenty-three year old white woman named Ashley Baia who organized for our campaign in Florence, South Carolina. She had been working to organize a mostly African-American community since the beginning of this campaign, and one day she was at a roundtable discussion where everyone went around telling their story and why they were there.

And Ashley said that when she was nine years old, her mother got cancer. And because she had to miss days of work, she was let go and lost her health care. They had to file for bankruptcy, and that's when Ashley decided that she had to do something to help her mom.

She knew that food was one of their most expensive costs, and so Ashley convinced her mother that what she really liked and really wanted to eat more than anything else was mustard and relish sandwiches. Because that was the cheapest way to eat.

She did this for a year until her mom got better, and she told everyone at the roundtable that the reason she joined our campaign was so that she could help the millions of other children in the country who want and need to help their parents too.

Now Ashley might have made a different choice. Perhaps somebody told her along the way that the source of her mother's problems were blacks who were on welfare and too lazy to work, or Hispanics who were coming into the country illegally. But she didn't. She sought out allies in her fight against injustice.

Anyway, Ashley finishes her story and then goes around the room and asks everyone else why they're supporting the campaign. They all have different stories and reasons. Many bring up a specific issue. And finally they come to this elderly black man who's been sitting there quietly the entire time. And Ashley asks him why he's there. And he does not bring up a specific issue. He does not say health care or the economy. He does not say education or the war. He does not say that he was there because of Barack Obama. He simply says to everyone in the room, "I am here because of Ashley."

"I'm here because of Ashley." By itself, that single moment of recognition between that young white girl and that old black man is not enough. It is not enough to give health care to the sick, or jobs to the jobless, or education to our children.

But it is where we start. It is where our union grows stronger. And as so many generations have come to realize over the course of the two-hundred and twenty one years since a band of patriots signed that document in Philadelphia, that is where the perfection begins.

Fear and Optimism

2008-03-05T10:26:00.003-05:00

One of my best friends is having her first child today. In my excitement about this fantastic new person we're all going to get to meet in a few hours, I've done a little reflecting. It's been a big year for a lot of people I'm close to. Some people are getting married and some people are starting over. Some people are starting new careers making more money than they've ever made and some people are walking away from it all. So many of us are moving to new places, and some people are moving back to the familiarity of home. I joke that the exodus from DC has begun, but the joke isn't so funny anymore when it's actually happening before my eyes.

When I first graduated from college and found myself naked and cold in the middle of reality, I thought I'd adapt eventually and my fear of the future and the unknown would fade away. I wish someone would have told me the truth. Now I'm realizing everything will just be sort of scary all of the time. Fear is an incredible motivator. Sometimes it gives us the intestinal fortitude to do things we never thought we were able to do, and sometimes it turns us into the biggest cowards we never thought we'd be. It's hard not to get bogged down in the emotional minutia and find the happy medium between moving a direction (even if it might not be the ideal direction) and not moving at all.

Fortunately, we all have those little moments of clarity that come to us in the middle of the shit show we call life. We catch a break. We get a raise. We meet that person. We meet ourselves. Babies are born. Houses are sold. And as scared as we might be, we remember why we've made all the sacrifices and put up with all of the hassle when it would have just been easier to walk away. There's a fortune taped to my computer monitor from an otherwise unmemorable chinese lunch I had two months into my current job. It had been a long two months. I had just decided to put off applying to law school for the 2nd year in a row. I was in a relationship that was crashing and burning quickly, and I knew I needed to get out but didn't know how. My checkbook wasn't balanced. I was working 75 hour weeks with minimal interaction with other human beings and didn't really like my life right that second. After my lunch that I probably didn't chew properly, I opened my fortune cookie. It told me "All the effort you are making will ultimately pay off." Desperately wanting to believe that was true, I saved the fortune. Two and a half years and a few bad days later, I still have it, and I'm more convinced than ever that hard work and a little faith go a long way.

My roommate forwarded me this link the other day, and it touched me to the point of making me cry at work. As you'll see in the video, it is a lecture that was originally given at Carnegie Mellon last September by a professor suffering from pancreatic cancer. His doctors have told him that he only has months to live. Despite the tragic state of his life around him, he stands as one of the most inspiring testaments of what life can be like with some work, persistance and optimism. You don't have to look very far to know that life just isn't easy. The pessimist in all of us can point to examples in our lives that prove that nothing can be absolutely perfect for more than about 4 hours every 6 years. The key is getting the optimist in us to appreciate those 4 hours and tide us over to the next perfect moment.

The Reason for the Season

2007-12-03T11:24:00.000-05:00

Most people who know me have heard me say that while I love the holiday season, Thanksgiving is actually my favorite holiday. I enjoy the opportunity to spend time with my family and friends without all the chaos and noise of presents and parties and expectations that you find during the month of December. Don't get me wrong - I love a good party, and Christmas Eve is still my favorite night of the year. There is something so crisp and magical in the air, and I can feel it right about 10:15pm when we're leaving the house for church, even in the middle of the desert in West Texas. I'm still bothered, though. We somehow manage to lose the basic message of the season between consumer confidence reports and debates over buying toys made in China. The ads on tv don't encourage you to buy a winter coat for someone who may not have one this year - they want you to buy a new cellphone for your spoiled 14 year old so they can make money off the impending barrage of TXT MSGS to their BFF, Jill in the coming year.

My sentiments were reinforced last night after a conversation with my 89 year old aunt about everything we're cooking for Christmas this year, our attempts to shop for presents for the 3 teenagers who will be in the house, and the disturbing increase in the promotion of materialism that has left us unwilling to set foot within 100 yards of a mall. If we're honest with ourselves, we don't really need most of the things we're given, and the same applies for many of the gifts we give to friends and family.

I'm personally a huge fan of finding a better cause to support than WalMart's bottom line and the pile of future white elephant gifts in my cousin's junk closet. That's why I'm excited about Brad Pitt's new project called Make it Right. Through this organization, he is trying to help "make right" some of the things that have gone so terribly wrong in New Orleans by focusing on rebuilding the city's cultural base in one of its most important neighborhoods. He has worked with world renowned architects and designers to create plans for affordable, environmentally sound and culturally relevant homes for New Orleans' Lower Ninth Ward. They have identified a target area of 150 homes in one of the most devastated parts of the city. Through grants and donations, financing will be offered to families that will cap their mortgage payments at 30% of their income and allow them a chance to move back to their city. The public can help by making general cash donations, or by participating in their interactive website that allows you to help sponsor part or all of a home.

Still looking for a great Christmas gift for your best friend? Why don't you call her and suggest that, instead of exchanging gifts, you pool your money and sponsor a $40 low flow shower head for one of these homes, or buy a few gallons of paint starting at $25? Or get a group of friends together and sponsor a $100 thermostat or $250 flooring. There's something satisfying about knowing that your contribution might help make this the last Christmas that a New Orleans family has to spend without a home to celebrate the real reason for the season.

2007-10-07T12:33:00.000-05:00

I've been mulling the events of the last couple of weeks around in my mind, and despite the fact that I have many creative thoughts rolling around my head, I don't have a complete one I can put to paper just yet. I guess that's what happens when you get to be a first hand witness to the formaldehyde-and-undertaker-not-included funeral rituals of a traditional Honduran household. It may take me a few months to hash this one out with my shrink, but once I do, you'll be the first ones to read my dissertation on The Traditions of Death and Burial in the Tropics.

Until then, I'd like to leave you with a witty excerpt from an Op-Ed by Maureen Dowd of the New York Times. She seems to be as tired of Clarence Thomas' bitching as I am. She's brilliant, and I sort of want to be her when I grow up.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/07/opinion/07dowd.html?em&ex=1191902400&en=286298be7ca13d3a&ei=5087%0A

I Did Do It

O.K., folks, you want the truth?
The whole truth and nothing but?
After all this time, you’re still dying to see the mystery solved?
Fine. I did it. Everything A. said — let’s just use the initial because it’s still hard for me to speak the name of my victim and tormentor — was true.
I did what I had to do and I didn’t care if it ruined A.’s life. I didn’t even care if people thought it was obscene.
I knew I was misusing my position, but I enjoyed having that kind of raw power over A. and saying the things I said. It made me tingle all over. I’m not going to deny that.
The liberals have turned A. into an icon. Give me a break. We are talking about a world-class know-it-all — someone prissy, uptight and no fun.
Not the sort of person I’d like to tailgate with, listen to Marvin Gaye with, share Ripple or a Scotch and Drambuie or a blackberry brandy with — if I were still drinking.
Not the kind, like my wife, Ginny, I’d bring along on an expedition in my custom-made motor home — those idyllic times when I get away from the meanness in Washington. Can you imagine that stiff A. spending the night in a Wal-Mart parking lot or hanging at a truck stop?
The liberals championed A. because they wanted to keep abortion safe. They can’t stop reliving the historic face-off, reopening the wound, replaying that whole media circus, wishing it had come out the opposite way.
Ginny has her heart set on having my memoir reap redemption. A lot of journalists on A.’s side in the last round have come over to my side. They’ve even shown the lighter side of Clarence. My new friend, ABC’s Jan Crawford Greenburg, called me one of “the most complex, compelling, maligned and misunderstood figures in modern history.” And thank you, Steve Kroft. I never thought “60 Minutes” could be so sweet.
A. looks a lot different now — I’ve caught the TV interviews and op-ed opining — but the old self-righteousness is still there.
I have no apologies to make. When you’re born in a backwater shack in Pin Point, Ga.; when you grow up poor, cold and hungry; when you get a bellyful of racial slights and condescension; when you can’t get a job after graduation, even with a degree from Yale, because you’re competing with rich, white, well-connected guys who were legacies at Yale, that’s when the anger boils up in you.
Every Southern black who lived through Jim Crow knows the feeling. From the time I was a kid, when my white classmates made fun of me as “ABC” — “America’s Blackest Child” — the beast of rage against The Man has gnawed at my soul.
Your Yale law degree isn’t worth 15 cents when everyone assumes you got special treatment because of the color of your skin, when, really, it was the witless Wonder Bread elites who got special treatment because of the color of their daddy’s money.
I still have a 15-cent sticker on the frame of my law degree because it’s tainted. I keep it in the basement.
That’s why I refuse, as a justice, to give a helping hand to blacks. I don’t want them to suffer from the advantages I had. Few of them will be able to climb to my heights, of course, but if they do, they will have the satisfaction of knowing that they made it on their own, as individuals.
Because Poppy Bush put me on the Supreme Court after I’d been a judge for only a year, I’ll always wonder if I got the job just because of my race. I want to spare other blacks that kind of worry. That’s why I pulled the ladder up after myself — so that my brothers and sisters would have the peace of mind that comes with self-reliance.
I used to have grave reservations about working at white institutions, subject to the whims of white superiors. But when Poppy’s whim was to crown his son — one of those privileged Yale legacy types I always resented — I had to repay The Man for putting me on the court even though I was neither qualified nor honest.
So I voted to shut down the vote-counting in Florida by A. — oh, I’ll just say it: Al — because if he’d kept going he might have won. I helped swing the court in case No. 00-949, Bush v. Gore, to narrowly achieve the Bush restoration.
I know it wasn’t what my hero Atticus Finch would have done. But having the power to carjack the presidency and control the fate of the country did give me that old X-rated tingle.
Al Gore’s true claims didn’t matter in that standoff any more than Anita Hill’s true claims did during my confirmation. That’s the beautiful thing about being a conservative. We don’t push for the truth. We push to win, praise the Lord.
It’s a relief to finally admit it: I’m proud to have hastened Al’s premature political death, hanging by hanging chads. It was, you might say, a low-tech lynching.

And the Jerk of the Week Award goes to...

2007-09-12T14:10:00.000-05:00

I'm loathe to even write this, because even bad press is good publicity, and I'd hate to draw any further attention to this idiot than he's already getting. Sadly, he's picked on my friend, and for that he earns my Jerk of the Week Award, and the wrath of sunscreen deprived foodies across DC.

BigHeadDC seems to pride itself on publishing up to date news on DC's latest scandals and escapades. Not really that difficult of a feat when you consider the number of criminals and deviants in Congress alone. On a page that boasts headlines from "Hooker Says Sen. Vitter Helped Her Score Drugs" to "Fred Thompson's Dirty Cigar" Biggie seems to have scored a picture of my favorite food blogger seeking some much needed breeze for her painful sunburn. Biggie attempts to turn it into a story by mocking the Native Jersey inability to pronounce certain words properly and attributing her current employment to her voluminous assets as shown in Exhibit A. It's almost entertaining in a very National-Enquirer-Elvis-is-living-in-the-Lincoln-Bedroom sort of way, except he really doesn't make any sense, and probably just wanted an excuse to post a picture of a rack similar to one he's seen at Millie and Al's but can't convince to go home with him.

At the very least, Gansie can relish the fact that her ship has come in. You know you're famous when people start talking shit about you in a public forum.

Today's Bit 'O Wisdom by Jimmy Kimmel

2007-09-05T08:33:00.000-05:00

"If I was Larry Craig I'd say, 'Here's the deal -- I'm not gay, but my feet are' "

Give me more Sex!

2007-08-10T11:27:00.000-05:00

In my quest to be uninformed, I've spent my mornings cruising the entertainment headlines. I'm usually bored by 9:05 by the next ridiculous thing done by a rich, blonde skank in California. This morning, I was greeted by the delightful surprise that "Mr. Big" has signed on to the Sex and the City movie!! I knew they couldn't just leave Big and Carrie in Paris and not finish the freakin' story. That, and I'm in love with Chris Noth. Filming begins in New York in September. Fortunately, my fabulous friend Rebecca has just moved to Manhattan, and the Chinatown bus to the Big Apple is only $20. I see some SATC stalking in my future...

The Problem of Pain... except it's really not a real problem

2007-08-07T11:46:00.000-05:00

I really don't have a creative thought in my head today, however my roommate forwarded the below email to me and I found it so true to life that I had to post it. I couldn't agree with it more, and I actually laughed out loud while reading it because very, very recent conversations I've had with friends about boys came to mind.

I have no idea who wrote this, but whoever he is must be fabulous... and have a house cleaner than mine.

Why do women fall for jackasses?

Repeat this to yourself one thousand times:
Screwed-up people are not more interesting than people with their heads together.
Baggage is not fascinating, romantic, or exciting. It is very, very tiring. Men who are polite and emotionally mature are hot. Learn it, love it, live by it.

I have no idea whom to blame for the romantic mythology surrounding brooding, emotionally limited, narcissistic yahoos. I'm tempted to chalk it up to movies, where most men who start out as selfish jerks are eventually revealed to be wounded birds of some sort. Or it might be the uglier side of the therapy culture, which tempts you with the idea that these jerks might be amenable to solution, like crossword puzzles.

For whatever reason, there are a surprising number of women who are attracted to guys who can't commit, who can't relate, who can't get along with anyone, who can't tell the truth… these guys get a lot of action.

It's not that women really want jerks, exactly. I think it's a matter of mistaking emotional clutter for emotional complexity. Here's an analogy: Imagine a messy apartment. You walk in, you survey your surroundings, and there's an incredible quantity of stuff lying around. Books in tall stacks, Chinese food containers in the corners, DVDs in and out of boxes scattered around the TV… the place is in chaos. And while you wouldn't really want to live there, there might be some part of you that would look around and grudgingly admit, "There's a lot going on here." Now, imagine the same apartment, once somebody has managed to get it cleaned up. The books are on the shelves, the trash is thrown away, the DVDs are alphabetized. This is a much nicer place to live. But it's a little… you know, boring. And that's in spite of the fact that the same books are being read, the same food is being eaten, and the same DVDs are being watched. You're just in the presence of a person who knows how to clean up after himself.

I think that for a lot of women, guys in turmoil seem strangely fascinating, as if they are, by definition, more interesting than everyone else. There's more of that clutter, so there's more going on, and there's more to sink your teeth into, and there's maybe even more emotional depth to such a person.

Let me tell you something about the guys I know who are emotionally mature. The ranks of the healthy and rational include plenty of guys who have been in rehab, or been divorced, or seen their parents' marriages end horribly, or had their own dreams thwarted in some ugly way—all the things that creeps are fond of waving around as explanations for why they lie or cheat on you or generally continue to be creeps.

The difference is that the healthy and rational people have at least undertaken the process of digesting all of that stuff and placing it in some sort of perspective so that it doesn't have to become your problem. They know from suffering, just as much as the ones who sit around brooding into their beers and writing free verse and dragging everyone else into their little theater of agony. The sane ones are still working on their crap, too—who isn't? The difference is that they're not fetishizing their own misery or asking you to embrace it. And that's a benefit to you, because the only thing you can guarantee yourself about that kind of hair-pulling drama is that if you cuddle up next to it, it'll get on you.

You're going to get plenty of emotional complications from anyone. Even people who have their lives very well pulled together are going to give you lots of opportunities to practice patience and understanding. There's no point in starting out with someone who isn't even trying.

According to studies, many intelligent women prefer men with emotional complexities, even if it means that he can be verbally abusive, inaccessible, and generally loonier than Courtney Love on a bender. Now, I can't speak for all men, but while I may have tolerated similar behavior, I can't say I've ever preferred it. Any time I found myself dating a woman who was an emotional roller-coaster, the only reasons I stuck with her were because a) I was lonely and her presence in my life helped to fill a void or b) I was getting the best sex of my life. Lame, but true.

Put another way: Could you ever picture a man saying out loud, "There's something that's just so mysterious about her. Sometimes I look in her eyes and I feel like she totally understands me, and other times, I have no idea what she's thinking. She runs really hot and cold but I can't get enough of her. I think I'm going to stick around until I can crack her shell. One day she'll learn to be more emotionally available and loving." Tolerance for female ambivalence is not a stereotypically male attribute.

This isn't at all to castigate women, as much as it is to acknowledge that women see more nuance in every scenario, so it's no surprise that they give undeserving men the benefit of the doubt. But what for? Hasn't every woman since the beginning of time had a thing for jerks and realized at some point that jerks were always going to be jerks?

I was the nice guy in high school who enjoyed being friends with cute girls who wouldn't go out with me in a million years. I figured, "If that's as close as I can get, I'll take it. Maybe one day they'll realize what I'm worth." I would listen to boy problems galore — essentially, nice girls being treated badly by jerks — and not once did any of these girls ever say: "Hmm, Steffan's a great guy with a really kick-ass afro. I'll bet he'd be a wonderful boyfriend."

But it's not simply the rejection of the nice guy that's keeping so many women single. It's the acceptance of the screwed-up guy. Because screwed-up guys draw screwed-up women into a whole Misery Loves Company episode of Love Connection—where both parties are brought together not by the audience but by their insecurities and inadequacies.

All that "You can't love anyone until you love yourself" stuff? So true. And if you're choosing to date guys with major issues, you're just as guilty as he is. Yes, everybody's got issues, but not necessarily deal-breaker-type issues. Which is why women often say they're seeking men who can fit their baggage in a carry-on. Unfortunately, there are lot of men who try to sneak a 75-pound trunk onto the plane and protest that it has wheels so it's technically a carry-on. Women with issues are the ones who choose these guys.

Women who have their act together simply don't have the patience. Admittedly, there are a few people who probably enjoy the histrionics and the moods and the make-up sex that come with dating drama kings and queens. But I'd bet that most are just willing to tolerate the drama, because, thus far, that drama comes attached to the "best" person they could find. Essentially, they're saying, "Yeah, he's inconsistent, selfish, and distant, but he's all mine." Just realize that every second you're spending with the wrong guy is a second that you're not out looking for the right one — the guy who gives, the guy who listens, the guy who learns.

Things That Make My Skin Crawl

2007-08-02T23:16:00.000-05:00

Pedophiles. They're at the top of my list of things that make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and not in a good way. I've been a firm believer that there is a special place in hell for people who take advantage of children and old people. Pedophiles fall easily into that category. My absolute disgust with them has spread to what should usually be a sacred and respected institution - the Catholic Church. The horrific stories that have come to light in many of the clergy abuse cases have really rocked me to my core. I can't comprehend how an adult who stands as a role model to their congregations as a man of the cloth can find the gall within themselves to do such poinlasting damage to innocent children. I'm not happy about the fact that much of what I have read and heard has affected me to the point that I have a difficult time even going in to Catholic Churches now. But I digress.

Based on my feelings towards child molesters, you can imagine my absolute horror when I heard about Jack McClellan. He's a "self proclaimed" pedophile living in California. He's a sick piece of shit who has his own website that serves as a "How-To" guide for adults interested in molesting underaged girls. His links range from statutory laws regarding sexual relations with minors to lists of current LG (Little Girl) sightings and events.

I can't effectively articulte my utter revulsion with this disgusting predator. I'm all for free speech, but the fact that something like this can be allowed to exist in a public forum where children are already such visible targets is simply unacceptable.

Killing Me Softly (or Why I Think Michael Moore Is On To Something)

2007-08-01T09:46:00.000-05:00

I'm well aware of the fact that the American health care system is broken. I've known this for quite some time, yet somehow that is of little consolation to me when I'm the target of a deficiency in my medical care.

I'm really fortunate. I work for a very large company that has gone to great lengths to provide its employees with the best health insurance possible. I will never have health insurance this good ever again. Unless I sell my soul to a corporate law firm after I graduate from law school, but that's another demon for another day. My health insurance is incredibly important to me because, unlike most 25 year olds, I actually really need it. I'm on several medications to manage my asthma problem I've had since childhood, and without CIGNA, I couldn't afford the drugs I'm supposed to take on a daily basis to make sure I can do dumb things like run 5 miles at a time and not drop dead. CIGNA is such a phenomenal insurance company that I am able to do extraordinary things like walk into my local pharmacy and pick up my 5 prescriptions at the beginning of the month and walk out without having paid much, if any, money out of pocket.

Until I can't.

I've been the unfortunate victim of my tempermental allergies and asthma this summer. My recent episodes have led me to believe it's unwise for me to be involved in any outdoor situations that don't primarily involve concrete and other non-organic ground coverings. In an effort not to turn blue and pass out while in the presence of other people, I've used more of my asthma medicine than I usually do and found myself in short supply last night while wheezing away at an outdoor Pete Yorn/Guster concert. A late night call to my Happy, Helpful Pharmacist didn't really get me anywhere. My insurance company's computer system was down last night, and despite the fact that I was the only person waiting for a prescription at midnight on a Tuesday, he wasn't able to guarantee that I'd have it before 1am. That was difficult for me to process when a)tired b)snot faced and c)wheezing like an injured accordion. Fortunately, HHP felt sort of sorry for me and handed me a box with my inhaler in it. He said that, while I couldn't take it home with me, he'd let me use some there and pick up and pay for the prescription later. I didn't have it in me to wait until 1am for my medicine. After a few hits and a Benedryl, I decided my bed would be a better remedy.

Until this morning.

Clearly NOT healed, I woke up sounding more bagpipe-ish than accordion-ish. I was in a hurry and opted to head in to work and grab a spare inhaler from the Happy, Helpful Pharmacist across the street from my office. After all, a nerd like me can't have too many inhalers. I called in my prescription, tossed back a Benedryl and Red Bull in an effort not to completely pass out face first on my desk, and popped over to pick up my inhaler. I thought I had it all figured out. When HHP2 pulled my prescription, she said my insurance declined the claim on the basis that it was a duplicate. I told her it wasn't a duplicate and explained that I was filling a separate prescription from the one I filled last night. She said the insurance considered it a duplicate because they were filled so closely together and wouldn't spring for another refill for at least two weeks. Two weeks?? Not acceptable. HHP2 offered me the option to pay for the prescription out of pocket. I was pulling my debit card out of my wallet when she announced, "That'll be one thirty five." I got a little confused. Thinking that perhaps the lack of oxygen to my brain was affecting my hearing, I asked her to repeat herself. HHP2 then said, "One thirty five. As in, one hundred and thirty five dollars."

I almost dropped dead right there, a reaction that would have completely negated any need for any inhaler at all.

One hundred and thirty five dollars? Are you effing kidding me? Needless to say, I left the pharmacy without my inhaler and vowed to wheeze all 3 verses of "Danny Boy" before I paid that much money for an inhaler. Despite all the hassle and my minor discomfort, I'll be okay. I'm still disturbed, though. Tonight after work I'll pick up my original prescription from the Happy, Helpful Pharmacist down the street from my house and huff all my problems away. Unfortunately, it's not that simple for people without insurance. Asthma is a frighteningly common disease among children, especially in urban areas. An unsettlingly large number of these children come from families who really have to stretch to make ends meet every month. $135 for a rescue inhaler is out of reach for a lot of these people, not to mention the $250+ cost for steroid inhalers intended to prevent attacks in the first place. It's easy to understand why many children then find themselves treated with simple remedies to this potentially deadly condition in an emergency room instead of at a pediatrician's office, and why your grandmother is being cuffed and cavity searched at the Canadian border for drug smuggling.

Universal health care might not be the perfect solution to our health care crisis, but when pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies make it so cost prohibitive for people to receive the sort of treatments they need to live productive and useful lives, something has to give somewhere. I'd bitch about it, but I'm keeping busy just trying to breathe.

For Sale: The US Military

2007-07-30T09:42:00.000-05:00

You know you had a great weekend when you're beside yourself thrilled that it's finally Monday so you can go to work and clear your head.

It seems my public is demanding a new post. By public, I mean Leslie, my college roommate/favorite photographer/almost oldest friend in the world who somehow seems not to have enough to do in her day despite her insanely busy schedule, household and wifey duties, and the fact that she's expecting a little bambi(no)/peanut/lentil. Did I mention she's my favorite photographer? She's so great, she can even make my Uncle Fester bags under my eyes go away AND make me look 10 pounds thinner. Pretty miraculous stuff.

My current events blogs have kind of tapered over the last couple of weeks because I'm on a news diet. My favorite green eyed man is leaving me for sand and sun - not the bikini kind, the burqa kind - so in the interest of my personal sanity and mental well being, I've decided I don't really need to know about EVERY suicide bomber who finds success in the Middle East. However, despite my best efforts to be an ignorant American, a few ridiculous news stories have managed to seep into my News-Free Zone.

Everyone has their own personal point of view on the war. I'm not getting into that debate this morning. One less divisive topic that has totally enraged me over the weekend is the amount of money private contracting corporations are raking in thanks to this incredibly brutal war. I will be the first to agree that contractors do have a place within our defense department and I firmly believe that contractors should be used to fill certain administrative and support staff positions to take some of the burden off our overworked military. What I don't agree with is war profiteering. Thanks to the greed of the largest military contractors in the United States, exhorbitant amounts of money are being made off the backs of members of our armed forces and civilian contractors who are being put in harm's way in the name of a quick profit.

While contractors who work with the United States government should be allowed to make a measure of profit for their services, their first priority is to provide quality support to our troops, freeing up much needed man power for other tasks. Like fighting a war and coming home to their families in one piece. Basic security precautions, like staggering meal times to allow for varied schedules to avoid planned attacks on large groups of soldiers, were thrown to the wayside by companies like Halliburton because of "cost concerns." Interestingly enough, the same companies complaining about their bottom line seem to have enough money to pay their CEOs millions of dollars in salary and benefits each year. To say we deserve better is an understatement. When our men and women in uniform can't even be guaranteed fresh drinking water, how are they supposed to effectively do their jobs? Even worse, how can we expect them to when we allow our own government to sell their safety and, in turn, our country's safety, for campaign contributions?

Fallout Boys

2007-07-10T11:43:00.000-05:00

Well, at long last, the drama begins again.

Our famous DC Madam has released her phone records, thanks to an order handed down by the District of Columbia District Court last week. Our first victim? David Vitter, a Republican Senate candidate in the state of Louisiana. He's had enough problems up to this point with accusations regarding his relationship with white supremacist David Duke, who seems to be providing help under the table to the Vitter campaign.

It's going to be a long, hot summer in DC, and it's easy to get bored with the daily grind. We'll have plenty of time to pore over the phone lists in search of number we recognize. I wonder whose boss is next on the chopping block?

In other news, here's reason # 487 being a government employee in the U.S. is better than being a government employee in China. Apparently the wages of getting lazy on the job are death. Can you imagine if we held FEMA to the same standard?

Feeding My Addiction

2007-07-09T15:44:00.000-05:00

In honor of one of America's favorite pastimes, I have to give a shout out to my fabulous friend Gansie and the fruits of her successful partnership with friend BS and roommate 80 Proof. They're the founders of and contributors to endless simmer, a rising, epicurean authority on all things edible. Gansie gets extra kudos for actually being able to cook the things they discuss. While my experience with haute cuisine is strictly limited to actual consumption rather than creation, I feel qualified to state that the majority of their blogs will make you so hungry, you'll want to devour your mouse. Check them out. Try your hand at one of their recipes. Then call me so I can help you eat it.

2007-05-27T11:16:00.000-05:00

There are few things more painful than being the sober person in Adams Morgan on a Saturday night. Fortunately, sobriety heightens my sense of hearing. Or something. Here are some of my favorite conversation snippets from last night's... outing.

"Man, you're hot baby. So how many kids do you have?"
"I don't have any kids."
"Girl, really? No way. You Puerto Rican or something?"
"No, and fuck you for saying that."
"Girl, I'm just saying. You 25... You sure you ain't got no kids?"

"Hey baby, I like your dress. Can I call you next time I go shopping?"

"It warms my heart that everytime I see you, you get better looking."

"This isn't a drunk dial. This is a Capital of the United States drunk dial."

"I'm not kidding! I miss the freakin' annoying lady!"

2007-05-24T08:25:00.000-05:00

The Constitution gives every American the inalienable right to make a damn fool of himself.
- John Ciardi

The brownies will get you every time

2007-05-18T09:09:00.000-05:00

I've seen and heard some pretty ridiculous things in the last 24 hours, but the following is so absurd, I just don't even have words for it.

Ding Dong...

2007-05-15T14:04:00.000-05:00

I went back and forth with myself for a little while as I tried to decide if I was going to bother commenting on the one thing that might entertain my sad little mind for the next day or so. I've come to the conclusion that since God already knows what I'm thinking, what harm will it do to put some of those thoughts to paper (or screen, as it were).

So Jerry Falwell died.

I have a friend who is currently trying to decide if he feels bad about the fact that he's happy Jerry Falwell is going to hell. I won't go quite as far as my friend, since I do well enough on my own on a daily basis when it comes to reserving my own eternal picnic spot next to the lake of fire. I will say, however, that I would love to be a mouse in the corner watching THAT conversation with St. Peter.

So here's to the man who blamed the sins of America for September 11th. He's the one who told us the Antichrist was alive, well, and Jewish (of course). He said a cartoon character was gay and would turn all of America's children gay if they watched him. I don't know what else we expected from a purple fluffy toy named Tinky Winky. Here's to the man who actively supported Apartheid in South Africa and denounced the Civil Rights Movement, saying "Where God has drawn a line of distinction, we should not attempt to cross that line."

Jerry, we'll miss you. Thanks for the laughs, and don't forget your sunscreen.

And now, for something completely different

2007-04-26T10:55:00.000-05:00

I'll just cut to the chase. If you are a woman under the age of 27, run, don't walk, to your favorite doctor, internist, gynocologist, whatever, and get the series of HPV shots. There are three of them. They hurt like hell (or maybe I'm just petrified of needles...), but colposcopies and cervical cancer hurt worse.

Why do I care? Well, two reasons. I'm at a high enough risk for enough other cancers, and I'd really like to keep cervical cancer off that list. In my efforts to take care of myself, I got the first of the three shots on Tuesday. My arm didn't fall off, so I'll go back in 2 months for the second shot. The good news - my health insurance covers them. The realistic news - even if my health insurance didn't cover them, I'd get them anyways. They're that important.

Reason number two? The one thing the Governor of Texas has ever done that I've wholeheartedly supported was shot down by the Texas Legislature out of a sense of foolish, dangerous pride. The Governor sidestepped the Legislature by issuing a mandate that female students in the State of Texas receive the shot in order to enroll in school from grade six and beyond. The Legislature got their feelings hurt and passed a bill instating a four year moratorium on any mandate requiring the shot as a prerequisite to school enrollment. Parents are in an uproar because they don't want to talk to younger children about the purpose of the shots for fear that it will start a premature conversation about sex. Well, guess what? Teens are becoming sexually active at younger ages, and if all we do is stick our heads in the sand, we'll end up with a bunch of disease ridden, confused teenagers. When it comes to sex, ignorance doesn't equal abstinence.

That being said, my readers are old enough to know where everything is and what it all does (or doesn't do... but that's another blog for another day). I don't really care if you're married or in a monogamous relationship. You still need the shots. HPV is a virus that can lie dormant in your body for years before becoming active, so even if you've been faithful to your favorite guy, that crazy frat boy from college might still come back to haunt you when you least expect it. Even scarier, it will eventually affect 80% of women at some point in their lives. It's a game of Russian Roulette if you're part of that 80%, because you might be unlucky enough to contract the strain that causes genital warts or worse, cancer. Get the shots, and take a friend so she'll get her shots, too. Make a day of it. There's just no real good reason not to.

the collective wisdom of ignorance

2007-04-25T23:47:00.000-05:00

Monday afternoon I passed within 2 feet of James Carville on the street while walking back to my office from a quick snack break. I'm still giggling about it. While some individuals mock my fascination with my DC people sightings, I feel nothing but childlike glee when I see people in my daily life who I'd ordinarily only catch glimpses of on Sunday morning talk TV. Between The Ragin' Cajun Sighting and my incredible tan, it's been a fabulous week. I love my life.

While my gut instinct is to introduce you all to my jackass landlord today, I think I'll save him for the month of May when I get closer to moving out and he actually does fray and break my very last nerve. After all, I'm sure he'll wander into our house unannounced and catch one of us in a towel at least one or two more times before our lease is up.

Rather, I think I'll discuss Ayaan Hirsi Ali, the inflamatory anti-Muslim feminist without a country. She lives under the constant eye of bodyguards who protect her from death threats just short of the fatwa imposed on Salman Rushdie, which she supported as a teen and young adult. She has defied her family and walked away from two husbands. She lives with the twisted emotion of survivor's guilt since the death of her friend and associate, Theo Van Gogh, who was murdered after producing the anti-Muslim screenplay she wrote. She has denounced her religion and had the intestinal fortitude to openly call Muhammed a pervert.

While I won't be so naiive as to take Ali's point of view as the Rosetta Stone for all modern Muslim women, I am intrigued by her life story and the events of her past that have led her to her present day opinions about religion and current affairs. Her recent autobiography Infidel not only discusses her life, but also brings perspective on Muslim society. She makes comparisons between the fundamentalist religion she found while living in Saudia Arabia, her lax religious upbringing in Somalia, and the present day rise of fanatical beliefs in Africa. If Ali's own experiences are not poignant enough, she also narrates the story of her younger sister Haweya. A graphic description of the female circumcision ritual performed on both women during their childhood paints a backdrop for the remainder of Haweya's conflicted and tragic existence, a life that almost provides a textbook prototype for the abused and manipulated Muslim woman.

Beyond any emotion I felt while reading Ali's memoir, I was most moved by her selflessness in speaking out. I'm beginning to understand the personal and professional ramifications that can present themselves anytime a person decides to voice their opposition to an injustice, no matter how big or small. To do so on the far reaching scale that Ali has astounds me. She has given up a good measure of freedom in her personal life to raise awareness to the situation of oppressed Muslim women around the world. In return, she has been publicly scorned for her divisiveness, no more than by those she has sacrificed so much for.

It takes courage to acknowledge the things that matter. It is much easier to allow daily events to pass by unnoticed, or at least unmentioned. People's feelings don't get hurt, tough decisions don't have to be made, and everyone can stay in their own undisturbed comfort zone just a little longer. And things never change, because everyone is too busy pretending not to notice.

Frankly my dear, I just don't give a damn.

2007-04-13T14:13:00.000-05:00

So I haven't been really good and offensive lately. I clearly have some catching up to do. I think I'll do that today.

First off, let me say how incredibly appalled I am by the state of our news coverage. There's a war going on. People around the world are dying in droves every day because of famine, civil war, disease, genocide, you name it. So what does CNN focus on? The death of a stripper, her illegitimate child's real father (we had 4 doors to choose from on this one) and a shock jock's really bad joke. Seriously? I have an entire theory on how television is an experiment on lowering the collective IQ of the masses, but that will have to be another blog for another day.

Today, I'm a little obsessed with what most will call my incredibly racist and bigoted opinion on what's wrong with the world, namely a good portion of American society. There's an amazingly misplaced sense of entitlement that people seem to have acquired, and I am convinced it's killing the basic soul and spirit of our country. Here's a thought: we are owed absolutely NOTHING we don't work for. The corollary to that thought is this: even when we do work for it, we have absolutely no right to assume that our compensation will be anywhere near what we expect it to be. That's life. It sucks and it isn't fair. Get over it.

I have a rant I can go on for days about how a large percentage of the 20-something generation and younger are suffering from this entitlement syndrome, but I don't think that will offend quite as many people. Instead, I'm going to focus on the roots of this entitlement syndrome afflicting sections of the American minority population and the situations that perpetuate them. As I am only speaking about sections of populations instead of groups as a whole, I will not offer qualifications for my opinions. I hope my readers are intelligent enough to handle that.

Case Study #1 - The Don Imus Factor

My sheer annoyance with this entire situation has left me without words, so I'll borrow Kansas City Star commentator Jason Whitlock's, since he can clearly read my mind.

"I don’t listen [to] or watch Imus’ show regularly. Has he at any point glorified selling crack cocaine to black women? Has he celebrated black men shooting each other randomly? Has he suggested in any way that it’s cool to be a baby-daddy rather than a husband and a parent? Does he tell his listeners that they’re suckers for pursuing education and that they’re selling out their race if they do?

When Imus does any of that, call me and I’ll get upset. Until then, he is what he is — a washed-up shock jock who is very easy to ignore when you’re not looking to be made a victim."

What Imus said was stupid, I won't dispute that for a second. I absolutely abhor the casual usage of the word "ho" and the misogynistic ideas it promotes. On top of that, I'm reasonably sure I can find at least 5 things said each day on Imus' show that will leave me offended and incensed for the vast majority of my morning. That's why I don't watch the asshole. Do I think he should have been suspended for a few days? Yes. People say stupid things every day and their right to do so is protected by the American Constitution, but having a public forum provided by a major broadcasting magnate and funded by private corporations is a privilege. Do I think he should have been fired? Twice? Of course not. He's a shock jock. He gets paid to be a prick.

Even past what Imus actually said, I am further scandalized by Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton's blatant and shameless exploitation of the situation. In the words of my dear friend Stefanie, "[J]ackson and [S]harpton need to get real fucking jobs already." They have wasted their credibility and their positions as de jour leaders of the African American community by picking battles that honestly don't matter. I have a suggestion for them. If they want to do some real good in the world, lobby for better education for everyone, be they black, white, brown, green, or blue. Half our problems in the world are a result of a lack of education. It's amazing what can be accomplished within a society that can read, write, and speak properly. The way to further a downtrodden group of people is not by fueling their sense of victimization and pandering to a need for sympathy and attention, it's through empowerment. To Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton I say this - Stop enabling the African American stereotype.

Case Study #2 - The Duke Factor

This case has upset me most of all because of the incredible amount of damage it has done to a section of our American legal system, the American sense of prosperity and success, and the rights of women, all at the same time.

Mike Nifong committed the worst offense imaginable against one of the most basic tenets of the American justice system: he took the blindfold off of justice and threw it headfirst into assumptions and stereotypes. For that he should be punished severely. In America, we are guaranteed fairness by the Constitution in that the courts will not consider race, gender, or economic situation when dealing with legal matters. Sadly, that's all that mattered from the very beginning in this case as the media helped Mike Nifong hang 3 wealthy college boys over an accusation by a less fortunate African American single mother.

I'm convinced the only reason those boys won't see the inside of a jail cell is because of their parents' ability to hire the best legal representation around. The one thing that saved them was what called their credibility into question from the beginning - their affluent background. Everyone has their own opinion about what the stereotypical rich college boy is like, and everyone pulled out every negative opinion they could think of when the media first broke the story. Like every stereotype, there had to have been someone who did something to give birth to the idea in the first place, but is it fair to immediately judge a person not because of their actions, but because of their place in a demographic poll? Prosperity and success are traits to be applauded, not attacked in the hopes of getting an apology for one's own inability to attain either.

The aspect of this case that angers me the most is the fact that this situation has set back the rights of women. While I won't be so presumptive as to say that a woman will suffer direct mistreatment or inaction because of the false charges brought forth by the accuser in this case, I am convinced that this will effectively chisel away at the already tenuous trust in women who bring forth rape charges and dissuade victims from seeking the justice they deserve. It's a disservice to women everywhere when one woman lies about something as serious as sexual assault. Lives are ruined, public dollars are wasted and justice is pulled a little farther from reach for many women who need it the most.

In closing, I am enraged at our society's passive support of the victim mindset. It destabilizes the very fabric of our culture and poisons our ambition to succeed on our own merit. Man up, America. Quit sniveling, because unless you're under the age of 17, I really don't care what happened to you as a child. As adults, you control your destiny, not The Man.

2007-04-09T13:45:00.000-05:00

Former American Poet Laureate Billy Collins once said that all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother's heart is in iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us...

By Collins' theory, somewhere between our oppressive bosses and miserable co-workers, dirty dishes, greed, Prozac, our mothers, bills, taxes, and other offensive inevitablities, a little something gets lost. The spring in our step, our optimism, our soul's need to find the brighter, happier side of everything gets worn down. And in a city it's even worse. It's just easier to see everything that makes life so difficult when it's staring us in the face and blocking the metro turnstile during morning rush hour traffic as we try and scoot around it and get on with our day before we miss the next train.

But do we perpetuate our self absorbed misery? Are we blinding ourselves to the small happinesses that cross our paths unnoticed every day?

Take, for example, a recent experiment performed by Joshua Bell and the Washington Post. Bell, a world renowned violinist and one time child prodigy, set up shop one weekday morning in one of the busiest metro stops in Washington, DC as a street musician dressed in average casual clothing with nothing to call attention to his current fame. The demographic of metro riders who pass through this stop is very diverse, but most are well-educated and possess a minimum of some cultural knowledge. For an hour, Bell played a repertoire that included some of the music world's most challenging and heart rending pieces. Tickets to Bell's concerts are rarely found for less than $100 and usually sell out quickly, but in that hour, only a handful of people actually stopped to appreciate what was happening right in front of them for free.

When I first read this article, it instantly occurred to me to complain about how self centered and unappreciative the average person is. And then I took a step back. It's easy to be outraged at indifference, but why? More than anything, I feel sorry for people who can't recognize something peaceful and beautiful when they see it. It seems easier to be jaded, but it takes more effort to actively ignore things that make you smile.

Steve Martin and the Virgins

2007-02-07T17:26:00.000-05:00

In this month's The New Yorker, Steve Martin saw fit to parody 72 of the 99 virgins who, in theory, greet Muslim martyrs upon their arrival in Paradise. I laughed my ass off. I hope you do, too.

Virgin No. 1: Yuck.

Virgin No. 2: Ick.

Virgin No. 3: Ew.

Virgin No. 4: Ow.

Virgin No. 5: Do you like cats? I have fourteen!

Virgin No. 6: I’m Becky. I’ll be legal in two years.

Virgin No. 7: Here, I’ll just pull down your zipper. Oh, sorry!

Virgin No. 8: Can we cuddle first?

Virgin No. 9: It was a garlic-and-onion pizza. Why?

Virgin No. 10: . . . so I see Heath, and he goes, “Like, what are you doing here?,” and I go, “I’m hangin’ out,” so he goes, “Like, what?” . . .

Virgin No. 11: First you’re going to have to show me an up-to-date health certificate.

Virgin No. 12: Hurry! My parents are due home!

Virgin No. 13: Do you want the regular or the special?

Virgin No. 14: I’m eighty-four. So what?

Virgin No. 15: Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

Virgin No. 16: Even I know that’s tiny.

Virgin No. 17: “Do it”? Meaning what?

Virgin No. 18: I’m saving myself for Jesus.

Virgin No. 19: Somewhere on my body I have hidden a buffalo nickel.

Virgin No. 20: Don’t touch my hair!

Virgin No. 21: I hope you’re not going to sleep with me and then go sleep with seventy-one others.

Virgin No. 22: Do you mind if we listen to Mannheim Steamroller?

Virgin No. 23: Are you O.K. with the dog on the bed?

Virgin No. 24: Would you mind saying, “Could I see you in my office, Miss Witherspoon?”?

Virgin No. 25: Ride me! Ride me, Lucky Buck!

Virgin No. 26: You like your vanilla hot?

Virgin No. 27: Does Ookums like Snookums?

Virgin No. 28: It’s so romantic here, dead.

Virgin No. 29: Well, I’m a virgin, but my hand isn’t.

Virgin No. 30: You are in?

Virgin No. 31: Hi, cowboy. I just rode down from Brokeback Mountain.

Virgin No. 32: I’m a virgin because I’m so ugly.

Virgin No. 33: You like-ee?

Virgin No. 34: I’ll betcha you can’t get an erection. Go on, impress me. C’mon, show me. Show me, big shot.

Virgin No. 35: By the way, here in Heaven “virgin” has a slightly different meaning. It means “chatty.”

Virgin No. 36: Sure, I like you, but as a friend.

Virgin No. 37: No kissing. I save that for my boyfriend.

Virgin No. 38: I’m Zania, from the planet Xeron. My vagina is on my foot.

Virgin No. 39: It’s a lesion, and, no, I don’t know what kind.

Virgin No. 40: I’m Jewish. Why do you ask?

Virgin No. 41: Hi, I’m Becky. Oh, whoops—you again.

Virgin No. 42: I just love camping! Camping is so great! Can we go camping sometime?

Virgin No. 43: In the spirit of full disclosure, I’m a single mom.

Virgin No. 44: You like my breasts? They were my graduation gift.

Virgin No. 45: When you’re done, you should really check out how cool this ceiling is.

Virgin No. 46: I’m almost there. Just another couple of hours.

Virgin No. 47: Get your own beer, you nitwit.

Virgin No. 48: No, you’ve got it wrong. We’re in the Paradise Casino.

Virgin No. 49: I really enjoyed that. Thank you very much. Gee, it’s late.

Virgin No. 50: You make me feel like a real woman. And after this is over I’m going to find one.

Virgin No. 51: What do you mean, “move a little”?

Virgin No. 52: Not now, I’m on my BlackBerry.

Virgin No. 53: I love it when you put on your pants and leave.

Virgin No. 54: We’ve been together twenty-four hours now, and, you know, sometimes it’s O.K. to say something mildly humorous.

Virgin No. 55: That was terrible. I should have listened to the other virgins.

Virgin No. 56: I think I found it. Is that it? Oh. Is this it? Oh, this must be it. No?

Virgin No. 57: It must be hot in here, because I know it’s not me.

Virgin No. 58: Those are my testicles.

Virgin No. 59: Did you know that “virgin” is an anagram of Irving?

Virgin No. 60: First “Spamalot,” then sex.

Virgin No. 61: Great! I was hoping for circumcised.

Virgin No. 62: Was that it?

Virgin No. 63: Dang. George Clooney was being reckless on a motorcycle, but instead I got you.

Virgin No. 64: Tonight, I become a woman. But until then you can call me Bob.

Virgin No. 65: They’re called “adult diapers.” Why?

Virgin No. 66: We could do it here for free, or on a stage in Düsseldorf for money.

Virgin No. 67: I’m just Virgin No. 67 to you, right?

Virgin No. 68: Pee-yoo. Are you wearing Aramis?

Virgin No. 69: Condom, please.

Virgin No. 70: My name is Mother Teresa.

Virgin No. 71: I’m not very good at this, but let’s start with the Reverse Lotus Blossom.

Virgin No. 72: It was paradise, until you showed up.

Step away from the keyboard. No really.

2007-01-26T09:30:00.000-05:00

I've had about 3 or 4 different rants bouncing around in my head for the last week. Each of them is equally worthy of space on my blog as a means to explore the issues affecting the world around me. I had high hopes of imparting my opinions about the American health care crisis, the impending anti-war rally that is taking place in DC this weekend, Iran and their fruitbasket president, and the massive aid donation made to Lebanon yesterday. Sadly, all of these pressing situations have been overshadowed by my burning desire to teach all 2000 people employed by my firm worldwide the basics of email etiquette.

Let me preface this by saying that I truly feel for those members of our society who woke up one morning and were caught completely off guard by this revolutionary thing called "the Internet". I know it's been a tremendous shock to the many people who have been forced to learn the ins and outs of all things Yahoo!, YouTube and Google. I see firsthand the havoc that AOL can wreck upon people of my mother's generation. It's heartbreaking. Really, it is.

The funny thing is, most people who don't know how to use the Internet well, like my mother, stay about as far away from it as humanly possible. And then there are the people I work with. While I generally don't advocate an isolationist approach to modern technology, I feel justified in this situation based on the sheer fact that small test group I am exposed to every day from 8 to 6 seems incapable of grasping the basic concept of Outlook.

As a favor to me and the rest of the thinking, functioning world, please exercise something resembling judgement if and when you feel compelled to send emails to others while in the workplace. If you learn nothing else today, please remember that it is important to consider your audience when corresponding via email, especially if that audience happens to be your entire behemoth of a firm - partners, associates, contractors and all.

A corollary to this principle : If you're making an inane comment to the secretary around the corner from you, are too lazy to get up and actually speak to her, yet feel compelled to send her an email, it might be best to start with a fresh email (you can find this under the "New" tab at the top of your Outlook screen) rather than simply hitting "Reply All". By recycling old correspondence that was initally directed to the entire *expletive* firm, you not only create a 2 hour long spam session consisting of "Why am I on this email string?" emails from other employees around the world, you also run the risk of letting everyone around you in on the secret that you really are THAT inept.

The Germs You Know

2007-01-19T10:20:00.000-05:00

... might be worse than the germs you don't know. Studies have shown that the average personal cellular phone carries more germs than a toilet seat. So do keyboards. And just because they're your germs doesn't mean they're safe for consumption. It's flu season. Do yourself and those around you a favor and invest in some Lysol, because while sharing is caring, the rest of us don't want your gross cooties.

Profound Thoughts

2007-01-11T10:06:00.000-05:00

"My line between 'fashion' and 'hooker' are a little blurry."
- as overheard in a conversation between two women behind me on the Dupont Circle metro escalator

And now, for your laugh of the day...

2007-01-07T14:52:00.000-05:00

Cocaine is God's way of saying that you're making too much money.
Robin Williams

The Voyeurs Playground

2007-01-04T09:35:00.000-05:00

Humans have the uncontrollable tendancy to be nosy. Our need to know everything going on around us is why we stare at car accidents. It's why we eavesdrop on people arguing in public, even as we're making a concerted effort to pretend we don't notice and not stare. It's why there's so much interest in the Saddam hanging video, despite the fact that deep down, no one truly wants to witness the business end of an execution, even if the intended target is a despot. We demand knowledge, even if subconsciously we know we're going to end up getting a good, long look at carnage we didn't really need to see.

This basic fact is what makes the whole MySpace phenomenon so interesting to me. For a certain age group, it's a great way to stay in touch with people you haven't seen in years, as well as catch up on your friends' debaucherous activities from last weekend. It also has an amazing practical use for artists around the world as a way to market their talents to audiences they might not reach otherwise. For a lot of people, though, it's a great way to air more information than you ever truly intended. From my teenage cousins who think it's funny to put up incredibly inappropriate pictures and quotes that I really hope they don't mean, to the random person I haven't seen since high school who makes rather rude comments about people in a public forum without considering the potential audience, the MySpace community lives their "online lives" like the guy in the car next to me - he's picking his nose like no one else can see him through his windows, and the rest of us are staring in wonder/amazement/absolute horror (pick one).

I got sucked into this whole MySpace business last Christmas. I went home for the holidays, and while catching up with a few of my favorite high school girlfriends over lunch, our conversation turned to the topic of "what everyone else was up to". I got more gossip in that 30 minute conversation than I had in the 6 years since I graduated from high school. Where did all of this come from? Surely they hadn't kept up with every single person whose name came up in that conversation. Of course not. They were all on MySpace. It apparently eliminated the need for the typical 3 day email binge with a friend to catch up with them about the last decade of their life - you can usually figure most of what's gone on in their lives just by reading the details of their profiles. I was completely intrigued, and rushed home to create my own fantastic MySpace profile. But that's not enough. You need friends. After all, how much fun is it to air your laundry if you don't have anyone to read it? So the quest began to find friends from high school, church camp, choir camp, college, semesters abroad, EVERYONE I've ever known. With pictures, no less! It was addictive, and I was hooked.

And then I started to notice some aspects of my new obsession that made me uncomfortable. I started hearing news reports about people losing jobs because of pictures they posted or comments they left on MySpace. And then came the pedophiles and perverts, which I assume is a given wherever online communities populated by young people with pictures exist. And then I started hearing the REALLY good stories. Like the one from one of my close friends who was in an undefined, romantic-ish relationship with a member of the armed forces stationed half a world away. The soldier started "acting strange", and they stopped communicating as frequently. He clearly wasn't in any grave danger because he logged on to MySpace daily. Then she found out about his girlfriend from a message posted on his page. Ouch. Talk about carnage.

I don't want the world knowing that much about me. I don't want people to be able to think they can guess what I've been up to based on how often I've been on a website, or who I've left public messages for and when. Privacy is a beautiful thing. A very wise friend of mine once said "The worst thing you could ever tell me is that I've become predictable". I've laughed to myself several times that the ex-boyfriends I'm most curious about are the ones who are smart enough not to leave an internet trail behind them. My favorite one is the guy I haven't spoken to in 3 years who I can't even find on Google. I think he might be on to something.

2007 : Where have you been all my life?

2007-01-01T23:42:00.000-05:00

Before I eulogize 2006 and extol the new year, I have to share a little about my New Year's weekend with my other family members. A good portion of my mother's side of the family descended on the Boston area for the holidays, and my mom, a friend of mine and I joined them for New Years'. I have a family that tends to gravitate towards kitchens when we're all together, so the weekend was filled with excessive amounts of incredible food, dancing in my aunt's kitchen and so much laughter my sides still hurt. I honestly can't remember ever having such a wonderful time with my own relatives. Between all the cooking and storytelling, I got to watch my mom be the happiest I've seen her since before we lost my dad. What a great weekend.

So 2006... wow. Yeah, that about sums it up. Next?

But really, I have to say I'm quite excited about the new year. If the last 23 hours and 42 minutes are any indication of what the next 364 days are going to be like, holy cow. I even had a great time recovering from our New Year's debauchery - naps punctuated by Papa John's and 8 hours of mindless television headlined by the Wedding Crashers and Garden State have an amazing way of rounding out a day. That may have been the most pleasant hangover experience I've ever had in my life, even with the it's-so-early-in-the-morning-I-might-still-be-intoxicated-car-ride-to-the-airport-beside-my-mother-in-the-back-seat-of-my-aunt's-Montero factored in. If everything works out right, I might even recover from the ridiculous party bus experience and be able to hear out of my right ear again by spring.

About this time last year, I was busy overanalyzing Dave Matthews songs. I have since reformed, and while Dave will always have a special place in my heart and I'm still willing to bear his love children, I've decided to start overanalyzing Corinne Bailey Rae instead. Much happier music, much easier to dance to. I have so many things to be thankful for in my life and so many exciting things in store for me this year that the thought of wishing my days away horrifies me. It's a really great feeling to be so excited about the here and now - I guess I just needed to let loose a little.

Happy New Year!!!!

So This Is Christmas...

2006-12-25T19:48:00.000-05:00

There's nothing like spending 62 straight hours with the craziest members of your family in West Texas to put you right in the Christmas spirit. Seriously. Nothing screams "Jesus is the reason for the season" more than the undercurrent of age-old tension between family members as it's hashed out over long hours in the kitchen, last minute trips to the Midland Park Mall on Christmas Eve an hour and a half before it closes, and while dressing to go to Christmas Eve church, because really, divine intervention is the only way we all made it out of that mall alive. And you can tell it's REALLY gotten good when the cat doesn't even want to be in the house with all of you. Fortunately, we all survived, and might even get together to do it again next year, minus the cat.

During the midnight candlelight service at my church last night, I had a couple of hours to contemplate my interactions with the people who were sitting next to me in the pew who I've been told share my DNA. In retrospect, I feel as though I can sum it all up in the one comment I made to my mother halfway through the liturgy "You're lucky I like you, because you're sitting entirely too close to me." Lest you think I truly dislike my family, I don't. We're just really good at annoying each other, particularly during the holidays when we actually have to have face to face interactions. Add in the fact that our family dynamic has been thrown off by the glaring lack of rational testosterone in the house since my dad passed away, and you have a recipie for a loud, opinionated and painfully blunt Honduran holiday. My mom fusses too much, I stay out too late and smell like a bar when I finally come home at 4 am, my aunt is... well... my aunt, and my cousins always break something important when they come to visit. Like when they broke the toilet at Thanksgiving that led to the hasty bathroom remodeling that was completed the day I got home for Christmas. Thankfully, deep down, we all at least like each other a little bit to allow ourselves to sit entirely too close to one another, and a holiday wouldn't be the same without all of us together. Or at the very least, they're providing excellent fodder for my first book.

So here's to my crazy family, and our successful Christmas. I think I need a drink.

Anything you can do, I can do better

2006-11-29T11:05:00.000-05:00

Just in time for the launch of Me 2.0, MSN has featured a really enlightening article about the chic-ness of stress in our society. The article makes an interesting point about how it's become a status symbol to be more stressed out than everyone you know. Old people complain about their health problems, with one person's arthritis being unbearably worse than another's gout or emphysema. For everyone else, it's who slept the least, who worked the longest hours, who has seen their family the least...

Sure, misery loves company, but really? Everyone I know in the working world has a busy life with many demands, worries, and obligations. I know very few men and women of leisure. On top of that, despite the amount that we all complain about the load each of us has to bear, most people will admit that they'd be bored to tears without their active, albeit hectic lifestyles. We like our lives most of the time. So why do we bitch so much? Do we ever stop to think about what all this complaining does to our mindset in general? Are we so insecure that we have to find validation in something so petty and unimportant as our perceived workaholic tendancies?

So again, in my attempt to be a person of action, I'm going to try to stop complaining about my misfortune of having a well paying job that occassionally expects me to work a little. I'm also going to limit my exposure to those who feel compelled to complain excessively about their equally well paying jobs. I understand letting off a little steam over a drink after work, but those conversations should never last more than about 20 minutes after you've left the office. Let it go. I'm starting to realize that, the more time I spend complaining about work, the less time I'm spending actually enjoying my life. And whose fault is that? After all, I'm told it could be worse - I could be unemployed. And that would stress me out.

My Diatribe on Voting

2006-11-01T15:00:00.000-05:00

Today's political headlines are absolutely driving me nuts. "African American Turnout Will Determine Election Outcome", "Unmarried Women May Be Key Variable In Election". Crap. All of it. Polls. Total crap. Even when I was drinking the campaign Kool Aid, I didn't believe any of it. Polls are numbers, and you can make numbers say anything you want them to. Think about it - polls exclude most people in our generation because we don't have land line phone numbers listed in a phone book. How the hell can they be accurate?

Know what I think the truth is? We're ALL the key variable on Election Day. If we've learned anything in the last 6 years, it should be that every single vote counts. Sadly, the ones that count the most are the ones that are never cast. Elections are won and lost, causes live and die, and our American way of life is trampled by apathy.

Hopefully you've registered to vote. If you're registered, there's no good reason not to take the time to drive a few blocks to your local polling location on Tuesday. Or even better (especially if you happen to be fortunate enough to live in Montomery County, Maryland), vote absentee so you don't have to worry about dragging yourself out of bed next Tuesday morning to stand in line for way too long to mess with some dumb machine that is somehow more difficult to use than a Palm Pilot.

If reason escaped you this year and you're not registered to vote, do something to make up for your laziness and volunteer. You don't have to pick a party or a cause to volunteer for, but find some local organization that does something worthwhile, like drive the elderly and disabled to the polls. And whether you're registered to vote or not, encourage everyone around you to exercise their civic duty. It's time for us to give a damn about the things that really matter in the world around us.

Rush Limbaugh is an ass

2006-10-25T14:00:00.000-05:00

How pathetic of a human being do you have to be, after receiving the benefit of the doubt from society in general about your own personal drug addictions, to go on national radio and mock the effects of someone's debilitating disease and question their intentions in supporting research that could lead to cures for other people facing the same fate? That's right up there with pushing your grandmother into oncoming traffic.

"He is exaggerating the effects of the disease," Limbaugh told listeners. "He's moving all around and shaking and it's purely an act. . . . This is really shameless of Michael J. Fox. Either he didn't take his medication or he's acting."

Really, Rush? Because the highlight of MY day would be getting to pretend that I have one of the most frightening degenerative diseases I can think of that will eventually leave me unable to care for myself and a prisoner of my own body, all while my mind remains virtually intact. That sounds like a blast.

Michael J. Fox has the right to support whatever political candidate he wants to for whatever reason he wants to. I think there are worse political platforms in the world that you could lend your name to than one that could lead to medical breakthroughs for people battling these horribly destructive conditions. I'm a pretty big believer in karma, and I'd hate to see Rush Limbaugh's comeuppance for this one.

bah humbug, and the other socially unacceptable things I say

2006-10-12T12:00:00.000-05:00

Well, it's been a little while since I've hopped on a soapbox, so despite the fact that I probably should be working, I think I'll take some time to wax poetic about my opinions that I know you were dying to hear.

So I'll just say it. I don't really like Christmastime. It's not that I don't believe in God or good tidings or snowflakes or any of that fun stuff. I actually love Christmas carols and egg nog and the Santa hats, and going to the Christmas Eve service at my church at home might be one of the highlights of my year since I get to see so many people from my childhood and adolescence for that giddy, once-every-365-days, tell-me-everything-you've-been-doing-lately conversation. Christmas Day is fantastic because I usually eat myself into a food coma, take a nap, go to a movie, then come home and eat some more. But the actual Christmas season has been completely ruined for me by the marketing morons who think it's appropriate to encourage America to get a "jump" on their holiday shopping in September. When Christmas displays start coming out before Halloween, I get itchy, cranky, and can't wait until January gets here. I don't want to see Christmas candy or lights or nativity scenes or sales until AFTER Thanksgiving. It's just obscene.

And here comes the real Scrooge in me... I hate buying Christmas presents. And it's not that I don't like doing nice things for my friends and family, or that I'm so ridiculously cheap and self centered that I don't want to spend money on the people that I love. It's more the insult that (and this is so cliche) our capitalist society is setting an expectation that forces me to go out in the freezing cold (since I usually don't get back to Texas any sooner than two days before Christmas, and there's no way in HELL I'm setting foot in a mall then), find parking, fight through throngs of cranky shoppers and screaming children, and dedicate myself to the mission of sifting through destroyed racks and display tables to find the perfect gift that will be tons of fun to unwrap but will probably never be used until the office White Elephant party comes up NEXT Christmas, at which time my gift will be pulled out of the back of someone's closet, rewrapped, and regifted to Bertha, the secretary down the hall, all while thinking in the back of my head about the guy I passed on the street who is wrapped up in two holey flannel jackets with no gloves on who I refused to give a quarter (that's another topic for another day and another blog). Or even worse, the little kid somewhere in Southeast or in West Philadelphia who DEFINITELY isn't getting Christmas this year, and whose mother isn't exactly sure where tomorrow's breakfast is coming from either. When I think about all of these things combined, they lead me to the conclusion that Thanksgiving is certainly my favorite holiday because I get to have all the family, friends, good cheer, and food I can handle without the specter of materialism blowing in and raining on my great mood.

Because I'm attempting to become a person of action rather than a person who sits and bitches, I decided a couple of weeks ago that I'm not buying Christmas presents this year. I was sitting in my kitchen on Saturday night movie night having a conversation with a friend about this year's Christmas gift list when we discussed the idea of contributing to a charity instead of wasting money on things our friends don't need. So I mulled the idea around in my head for a couple of weeks, but wasn't able to really think of a good, quality charity that I would want to donate my Christmas present money to that would really capture the entire spirit of what I want to accomplish, not to mention someplace worthwhile that will spend my money on good things.

That is, until today. I read a heartwarming human interest piece about an organization called "Ways to Work". They provide grants and low interest car loans to low wage earners with at least one child in the household to help secure a dependable car that will get the person to and from work. Their statistics are amazing. Work absenteeism among loan recipients is down 92%, transit time to work is cut by 91%, and more than 25% have been able to attend job related training that they wouldn't have been able to attend without their own car. I have to say, that's one hell of a step up for someone who is barely living paycheck to paycheck wondering how on earth they're going to pay their utility bill next month.

In the spirit of goodwill to all people, I'm going to celebrate Christmas this year, just like I do every year. I'm still going to go to all the Christmas parties and bake and eat and have a fantastic time. I'll share the cheer and be merry and love everyone around me. I might even have a little Christmas party of my own. But I think I will feel a little less guilty about conspicuous consumption when instead of spending my money on other people who are just as blessed as I am to have enough creature comforts to get us by, I try and do something to help give another person a legitimate hand up into the world. Because isn't that what it was all supposed to be about anyways?

How to contribute

An Open Letter to Gropers Everywhere

2006-09-15T14:00:00.000-05:00

I yelled about this for a long while last night, and I thought that was going to make me get over it, but it didn't, so now you people get to listen to me.

Gropers, grabbers, pinchers, and other perverts of various and sundry persuasions, listen closely. It is NOT, I repeat NOT okay to walk down a street and grab, stroke, fondle, or otherwise handle any body part of any other individual. Ever. If you need to reach out and touch someone, touch yourself, but leave the rest of us alone. Even better, seek some professional help. It's not a funny tic or a silly sort of game, it's frankly disgusting and demeaning and makes the person on the recieving end of your bullshit want to rip your hands off, douse them in gasoline, and set them on fire.

And to the piece of shit who grabbed my ass in Dupont Circle last night - if I ever see you again, I sure hope your scary ass girlfriend who thought you were so funny last night is there to protect you, because you'll be half the man you used to be once I'm done with you.

A Life Well Lived

2006-09-14T14:00:00.000-05:00

I remember a June morning about 3 or 4 days after school let out. My dad got me out of bed early, fed me breakfast, brushed my hair, and then took me on a little road trip. Governor Ann Richards was visiting West Texas for the day, and my all knowing father decided that even if I didn't have a full grasp on what she was doing, I should probably meet her anyways. Since my favorite game at that age was 40 Questions (a variation of 20 Questions that I don't think I ever quite grew out of), my dad spent the majority of the car ride explaining to me all the important things Governor Richards had accomplished. At the time, I didn't understand what all the fuss was about. I didn't understand why it was such a big deal that a former housewife and school teacher had been elected governor, because my parents always told me that anybody can be anything that they want to be. I didn't understand why it was such a big deal that she was the first governor to appoint minorities and women to so many important positions within the Texas government, because my parents always told me that intelligence isn't based on a person's race or gender. I didn't understand why it was such a big deal that she stood up for people in Texas who other people didn't want to defend, because my parents always told me that you have to help those who might not have the means to help themselves.

What I did understand was that Ann Richards was incredibly witty and unendingly kind. She gave a short speech that day, and even though I don't remember what she said, she was plain spoken enough to make me laugh. And even with a room full of people to meet and mingle with, she still took 5 minutes to stop and talk, not to my father, but to me. She had an enormous impact on me that day, and I feel so fortunate that I actually had a chance to tell her that. I met Ann Richards again while I was working in Austin at the House of Representatives after college. Even though I know she couldn't possibly remember meeting one little snot nosed kid all those years ago, I wanted her to know that her ideals had influenced me, and that she really had helped set a path in one person's life.

Ann Richards passed away yesterday afternoon after a battle with esophageal cancer. While it's saddening to think that such an important part of recent Texas history is gone, it's hard to dwell the death of someone who lived such an inspirational life. Regardless of your politics, it's impossible not to admire her courage, her spirit, and her example to women everywhere that you really can do it all.

September 14, 2006

Ann Richards, Ex-Governor of Texas, Dies at 73

By RICK LYMAN

Ann W. Richards, the silver-haired Texas activist who galvanized the 1988 Democratic National Convention with her tart keynote speech and was the state's 45th governor until upset in 1994 by an underestimated challenger named George W. Bush, died Wednesday at her home in Austin. She was 73.

Ms. Richard died, surrounded by her four children, of complications from the esophageal cancer, the Associated Press reported.

Ms. Richards was the most recent and one of the most effective in a long-line of Lone Star State progressives who vied for control of Texas in the days when it was largely a one-party Democratic enclave, a champion of civil rights, gay rights and feminism. Her defeat by the future president was one of the chief markers of the end of generations of Democratic dominance in Texas.

So cemented was her celebrity on the national stage, however, that she appeared in national advertising campaigns, including one for snack chips, and was a lawyer and lobbyist for Public strategies and Verner, Lipfert, Bernhard, McPherson & Hand.

"Poor George, he can't help it," Ms. Richards said at the Democratic convention in 1988, speaking about the current president's father, former President George Bush. "He was born with a silver foot in his mouth."
Her acidic, plain-spoken keynote address was one of the year's political highlights and catapulted the one-term Texas governor into a national figure.

"We're gonna tell how the cow ate the cabbage," she said, bringing the great tradition of vernacular Southern oratory to the national political stage in a way that transformed the mother of four into an revered icon of feminist activism.

Dorothy Ann Willis was born Sept. 1, 1933, in Lakeview, and graduated in 1950 from Waco High school where she showed a special facility for debate. She attended the Girl's Mock State government in Austin in her junior year and was one of two delegates chosen to attend Girl's Nation in Washington.

She attended Baylor University in Waco — on a debate scholarship — where she met her future husband, David Richards. After college, the couple moved to Austin where she earned a teaching certificate at the University of Texas in 1955 and taught social studies for several years at Fulmore Middle School.
She raised her four children in Austin.

She volunteered in several gubernatorial campaigns, in 1958 for Henry Gonzalez and in 1952, 1954 and 1956 for Ralph Yarborough and then again for Yarborough's senatorial campaign in 1957.

In 1976, Ms. Richards defeated a three-term incumbent to become a commissioner in Travis County, which includes Austin, and held that job for four years, though she later said her political commitment put a strain on her marriage, which ended in divorce.

She also began to drink heavily, eventually going into rehabilitation, a move that she later credited with salvaging her life and her political career.

"I have seen the very bottom of life," she said. "I was so afraid I wouldn't be funny anymore. I just knew that I would lose my zaniness and my sense of humor. But I didn't. Recovery turned out to be a wonderful thing."
In 1982, she ran for state treasurer, received the most votes of any statewide candidate, became the first woman elected to statewide office in Texas in 50 years and was re-elected in 1986.

In 1990, when the incumbent governor, William P. Clements Jr., decided not to run for re-election, she ran against a former Democratic governor, Mark White, and won the primary, then later fought a particularly brutal campaign against Republican candidate Clayton Williams, a wealthy rancher, and won.
Among her achievements were institutional changes in the state penal system, invigorating the state's economy and instituting the first Texas lottery, going so far as to buy the first lotto ticket herself on May 29, 1992.

It was her speech to the Democratic convention in Atlanta, though, that made her a national figure.
A champion of women's rights, she told the television audience: "Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did. She just did it backwards and in high heels."

In 1992, she was chairwoman of the convention that first nominated Bill Clinton.
Two years later, she underestimated her young Republican challenger from West Texas, going so far as to refer to George W. Bush as "some jerk," a commend that drew considerable criticism. Later, she acknowledged that the younger candidate has been much more effective at "staying on message" and made none of the mistakes that her campaign strategists had expected. She was beaten, 53 percent to 46 percent.

Her celebrity, however, carried her onto the boards of several national corporations, including J.C. Penney, Brandeis University and the Aspen Institute.

She also co-wrote several books, including "Straight from the Heart: My Life in Politics and Other Places" in 1989 with Peter Knobler and "I'm Not Slowing Down" in 2004, with Richard M. Levine.

On her 60th birthday, she got her first motorcycle license.

"I've always said that in politics, your enemies can't hurt you, but your friends can kill you," Ms. Richard once said.

Survivors, according to The AP, include her children, Cecile, Daniel, Clark and Ellen Richards, and eight grandchildren

butt paste and refrigerator whiskey

2006-07-17T14:00:00.000-05:00

I love weddings. They make me feel every emotion on the happy spectrum, and they're a ton of fun to boot. They also seem to lend themselves to funny stories that sound like a Friends episode, such as "The One About the Butt Paste" and "The One About the Refrigerator Whiskey". I went to one of the best weddings I've ever been to last weekend. My fabulous friend Leslie married her equally fabulous husband (oooh! She has a husband!) Nick, and not only did they have a rockin' reception, they also had one of the most beautiful, heartfelt wedding ceremonies I've ever seen. I've never seen two people so giddy at the idea of getting to spend the rest of their lives together, and it was inspiring enough to give me a week's worth of warm fuzzies. It's also enough to abate my jealousy at the idea that I'm at work and they're on the beach in Mexico.

So here's to Nick and Leslie, odd beauty remedies, and wedding festivities. Oh, and Les, I left the butt paste on your bathroom sink - it works wonders on dark circles around your eyes

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction

2006-04-21T14:00:00.000-05:00

If I'm going to enjoy my weekend, I have to get this out of my system now, so please bear with me.

I am completely outraged by the extreme apathy and inexplicable lack of action by those around me regarding the discussion of gas prices. Obviously, everyone I know is upset about them. Clearly, gas prices have risen to the point that it's a little prohibitive for people to just hop in their cars (I'm not even talking about SUVs yet) and take a nice little Sunday afternoon drive without being out $50 when they head to their neighborhood Shell station to fill up. I have yet to meet one person who is absolutely thrilled about paying $3 a gallon, or even worse, the prospect that it's only going to get more expensive as summer approaches. The infuriating part of all of this is that the general public response following any kind of complaining and kvetching is "Well, what are you gonna do?", with the obligatory shoulder shrug and conceding eyebrow lift that says, "Is there anything I can do to make the oil and gas industry more comfortable as it rapes me?"

We are partially at fault for the unreasonable gas prices we're paying. During hurricane season last year, we allowed oil and gas companies to practice organized and sanctioned price gouging while we did little more than whine and pay up. The industry saw that the American public is willing to pay quite a bit of cash to keep gas in their cars, and they have now seized the opportunity to make record profits off our apathy. Meanwhile, Average Joe stands at the pump with his credit card in hand saying, "Wow, I can't believe I'm paying this much for gas!"

Joe, I can't believe you are either, because I for one, refuse. I recognize the fact that, as a young adult with an active social life, a demanding job, and friends and family scattered up and down the Eastern seaboard, it is unreasonable for me to say that I will never drive again. I actually plan on driving to North Carolina in a couple of weeks to see my aunt, and when I look at my gas receipts after the trip, I'm sure I'm going to wish I had bought a plane ticket instead. Despite all this, I do recognize that I have complete control over when and how I spend my money. I've decided that I'm not filling my car up more than once every 5 weeks, and you'd better believe that when I do get gas, it's sure not going to be from Exxon, because they don't need anymore help with their 2nd quarter profits. If I have to carpool with someone, I will. If it takes me a hour to get home because I have to wait in the rain for a bus, I will. If I'm a little late for an outing with a friend because I opted to walk from my office rather than drive my car in, I will.
Don't get me wrong- I'm not naiive enough to think that my personal refusal to feed my gasoline addiction is going to have any kind of effect on market prices. I know it won't. The average American commutes 50 minutes to work, which makes gasoline a necessity, not a luxury. Like all other necessities, though, we can control how much we use.

I am naiive enough to think that maybe some people will start to rethink their gas consumption a little. Maybe you'll decide to make your tank of gas last a few extra days by planning to run errands with a friend, and you can take turns driving. Maybe you'll take a look at the ridiculously inconvenient public transportation schedule where you live and take the bus once a week. Or maybe just walk somewhere today instead of driving?

Monday Morning Soap Box

2006-04-10T14:00:00.000-05:00

Mondays are difficult. This Monday morning is a little more difficult for me than most because I'm coming off of a fantastic weekend spent with 3 of my favorite DG's in what will henceforth be known as "East Coast 2006". 3 days, 7 states, 1 "eatin' out 95" NYC cabbie, and not that much sleep later, I find myself at my desk trying to make it through the morning on coffee and my liter of Wawa water. I got to work really early this morning after delivering the last of my girls to Dulles at 6:15 AM, so I had a chance to listen to the morning news on the radio. It seems that while I was away playing this weekend, immigrant rights advocates across the country were setting the stage for a massive protest march in favor of the immigration reform bill that stalled in the Senate last week. They seem to be expecting a rather large crowd, and by the looks of it, this large crowd is going to be assembled on the street that was supposed to take me to my Tuesday night TiVo appointment. Because having a car in a city is one of the more inconvenient decisions I've made, I'm now trying to figure out how I'm going to get out of downtown before midnight, because I need to watch the Sopranos and sleep.

In the meantime, since you're dying to know my opinion on the immigration reform bill, I'll feel free to share.

Let me preface this by saying that I am not anti-immigrant. I was barely old enough at age 3 to remember the day my mother got her US Citizenship. My favorite story about my dad's side of the family involves a tale about my great grandfather who came to the United States from Germany and proceeded to lose all 18 cents he had to his name while sleeping in a haystack in New York City the same day he arrived at Ellis Island. We are a country of immigrants, and a majority of the services and luxuries we enjoy on a day to day basis are made possible by the many immigrants who are willing to do work at wages that I am unwilling to accept for myself but am more than happy to pay others for. The immigrants who come to this country in search of opportunity and a better life for their families are generally very humble, hardworking people of integrity. From a human rights standpoint, as well in the interest of American soverignty, immigration reform is desperately needed sooner rather than later.

A-M-N-E-S-T-Y.

Noun: pl. Amnesties.

A general pardon granted by a government, especially for political offenses.

ETYMOLOGY: Latin amnstia, from Greek amnsti ; see amnesia

That being said, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, I'm going to go ahead and call it a duck.

The immigration reform bill being considered by Congress is amnesty. The President has proposed pardoning people who have resided in the United States illegally for a certain amount of time by allowing them to apply for US citizenship without requiring them to leave the country first. This is amnesty. He says it isn't. I say it is. Democrats say it isn't. I say it is. And for the first time in my life, I find myself seeing eye to eye with some politicians that I normally abhor who also say this "guest worker program" is amnesty. It is.

Without a doubt, millions of people would be helped by this legislation if it were to pass Congress. There is an entire subculture of people who are abused by opportunistic employers who take advantage of the fear and uncertainty that dictate the lives of the undocumented. Any opportunity for them to find independence from exploitation is a step in the right direction.

AMNESTY DOES NOT WORK.

Even worse, it is counterproductive to the goals of our immigration policies because it encourages illegal immigration, which most immigration policy experts agree increases exponentially any time the word "amnesty" is even uttered in political discussion. Amnesty rewards people who have broken the law, and is a slap in the face to those who follow the process provided by US Citizenship and Immigration, only to find themselves waiting decades before they are ever granted a visa to even enter the country, much less pursue citizenship. Bureaucratic backlogs can leave immigrant visa applicants in a state of limbo for 10, 20, 30 years before their petitions are ever reviewed. The US Department of State is currently processing some immigrant visa petitions from the Philippines that were filed October 15, 1983. That was 22 years ago, and a lot of things can happen to a petition and its filer in that amount of time that really make you wonder why we even advertise citizenship if we're not willing to make good on our offer.

It's obvious that immigration controls are incredibly necessary, especially given the hostile sociopolitical climate we find ourselves living in these days. Despite this, I somehow don't see the effectiveness of a system that allows an application to languish for such a long time that it actually goes to storage for a decade or two before it is ever processed. How is this constructive in efforts to screen and track petitioners to make sure they're not going to come to our country to further untoward causes? And even worse, we've allowed these people to spend YEARS waiting in their home countries for visas, while family members in the United States are born, graduate from school, marry, die... and in the end the people who scammed the system are rewarded with legal papers that can be picked up at any port of entry within the United States? What kind of message does that send? Come to our country, defraud our government, and we'll let you sit in line over here while we hold your citizenship application for another 16 years because we're too inefficient to do things any other way?

What's wrong with dealing with the problems we already have rather than creating new ones? What's so revolutionary about hiring a few more people for each CIS processing office who actually understand that they're being paid by MY tax dollars to perform a service who are willing work on the backlogs that already exist and create an more efficient and effective immigration system rather than making it a million times worse? What's wrong with passing a few laws to improve our albeit broken system rather than sending a message to the world that we would rather ignore the real issues than come up with real and lasting solutions to a situation that isn't going to fix itself?

The Space Between

2006-01-20T15:00:00.000-05:00

You always know it's going to be a good day when the first song you hear on the radio is Dave Matthews...

I'm not sure what Dave really intended The Space Between to be about, but I'm convinced I have read into it way too much as I have now applied the song to my life. The other day I caught myself thinking "Wow, I can't wait until January is over." After a little bit I felt some guilt for that thought, because living life waiting for something better to come along isn't really a quality way of doing things. How many things do I miss, how many things do I not enjoy to their fullest because something in my life is making me wish I could skip over a whole section of my existence to six months from now. I don't believe in the quarter life crisis theory anymore. I thought I did for a little while, but I realize now it was just a lame justification for a situation I had total control over but was too lazy to do anything about. I guess being a twentysomething in today's society is one big space between, but that space is what makes us the functioning members of society we always wanted to be. Everyone I know who I've talked to about this feels like we're in some kind of holding pattern. We're waiting for something to happen, but we don't know what. Who knows, maybe this is the kind of uncertainty we're going to feel for the rest of our lives. I haven't really broached the subject with anyone older than 28, so I can't be sure. Maybe at our age it's harder because we've been programmed to expect climax and conclusion. We waited for years to graduate grade school and get to junior high, then high school, our first cars, proms, graduation, and then college.... internships, legally buying a beer with our real id's, graduation, the first real job.... and after all that, what? There's sort of a drop off of expectation and at that point they suddenly strip us naked, blindfold us and throw us into traffic and say "Have a great time! These are the best years of your life!" No wonder so many of us spend the first few years flailing around bars to try and make sense of it all. Or maybe that's just narcissism. But that's another topic for another day.