Now for something completely different…

I was at my local grocery store today buying liquor and other assorted implements of impairment to help smooth the flight to Orlando tomorrow. Not so much for my sake, but for the sake of my fellow passengers who would no doubt prefer a passed out sasquatch to one that rocks nervously in her seat while mumbling about defective jackscrews and fuel vapor explosions.

At any rate, I was being checked out when the kid behind the register asks for my ID. So perplexed was I by this request that I stared at him blankly for a few moments before diving for my wallet while muttering something incomprehensible.

“Come again?” The kid asked.

“Uh… nothing. My english is not so good.” I joked before handing over my ID to prove that I am, in fact, 34 over 21.

“Really? I think you speak English pretty good.”

I gave the kid a half smile and narrowed my eyes. He looked back at me with the kind of bright-eyed innocence that told me that 1) he didn’t catch the joke, and 2) he really thought that English was my second language.

Which reminds me of when I was in college and working at the IHOP on Florin Road (and my readers from Sacramento will read “IHOP on Florin Road” and their eyes will cross because nothing good ever happens after midnight. Or on Florin Road.)

Anyway, after I started working at IHOP on Florin Road it was only a matter of days before it became apparent that many of South Sac’s residents had little regard for a white waitress. Or rather, a white waitress who was blonde, blue-eyed and six feet tall. In fact, so deep ran their disregard for me that many customers derived great joy from plying me with their rather colorful collection of racial slights.

Good times!

The matter was not helped by the fact that my primary advocate was a manager who was a warm and wonderful human being and spoke the king’s English but – being fresh out of Pakistan – had not yet mastered the blighted vernacular of his customer base. This led to frustration when I would try to explain to him why, exactly, a customer’s exclamation of “DIE HONKY BITCH DIE! DIE! DIE!” did not sit particularly well with me.

Another employee and I finally took matters into our own hands.

Aaron was a fellow server who, having noticed my difficulties, devised a plan by which I would be more readily accepted by the community: he made me a nametag that said “Olga” and started telling everyone that I was a Russian immigrant.

Though I concluded the plan was completely retarded I went along with it. It would work something like this: if a customer started giving me the third degree Aaron would sidle up to me, eyebrows raised.

“Her English isn’t bad huh?” My co-worker would then take advantage of the baffled silence to explain my status as a Russian refugee.

The “problem” customers totally bought it. In fact, most of them became downright civil with me.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so I’m leaving for a funeral director’s conference in Orlando tomorrow and the guy at the grocery store now thinks I’m a lush who speaks English as a second language and while I’m gone I really do think you should check out the best political blog entry I’ve ever read, my brother’s squibbles on the occupational risks of being an archaeologist, and my future sister-in-law’s thoughts on, well, everything*.

* Oh yeah. That little tidbit there will most definitely get me a stern talking-to by my brother, probably right around the time I’ve finished the third screwdriver at the airport tomorrow and have been rendered incapable of speech. You’re welcome Matt.

Better Left Off Twitter: The Funeral of a 3-Year-Old Boy

For those who don’t have the time to click the link, the basic gist of the article describes a reporter from the aforementioned paper attending the funeral with Blackberry in hand. Throughout the service and burial the reporter issued “tweets” – updates issued to Twitter users who subscribe to a particular user’s feed – detailing the progression of events down to such details as “people again are sobbing”.

…which brings me to my point. While a funeral director’s job is to coordinate everything in such a way as to achieve a desired level of fluidity – they may, in these instances, also be able to provide a much-desired public service.

Enter the ball peen hammer.

I mean think about it: if you are the parent of a small child who was killed in a tragic accident and you discovered that some jackass reporter was exploiting your public show of grief to further his career, wouldn’t you want to see the FD you hired wrestle the Blackberry from the boor and smash it to pieces in front of everyone?

I sure as hell would.

So there I was; bloodying my head against my steering wheel trying to find a parking spot amidst the moving vehicles from which little yuppie children were being cast by hurried parents because daddy’s Very Important Meeting and mommy’s Appointment With Sven The Personal Trainer trumps The Safety Of One’s Offspring.

Again with the run-ons.

I finally found a parking spot in a dirt lot roughly thirty miles from the school and was making my way in when I noticed my son’s teacher struggling to get our of her car and into the dirt lot.

My son’s paraplegic teacher. Struggling to assemble her wheelchair. In the unforgiving dirt of a rutted lot twelve parsecs away from civilization. She couldn’t have been further from her classroom if she had parked in Lodi.

So what was she doing here and not, say, parked in her regular spot located closer to the school on easily navigable asphalt? The one equipped with a wheelchair ramp? That is clearly marked with a large blue and white handicapped sign?

It would seem that one of the parents – in their hurry to be as big an asshole as the laws of physics allow – had aced the teacher out of the handicapped spot because she was “in a hurry”. What’s more, the able-bodied parent who parked in the handicapped spot was more than aware of the teacher’s need for that spot because her own child was in said teacher’s classroom.

All of this was made all the more rankling when – in the course of helping my son’s teacher make her way out of the not-at-all-wheelechair-friendly part of the parking lot – said parent returned to her vehicle, smiled cluelessly, and said:

“Hey Mrs. [teacher’s name]! Why didn’t you park here? Isn’t it easier for you to get in from this spot?”

…and that’s when the almighty hand of God himself burst forth from the heavens and bitch slapped the parent and tore her minivan asunder.

Seriously ladies, WTF? I mean… you live in nice suburban homes with your perfect wardrobes tucked into perfect walk-in closets with perfect packing islands and perfectly trimmed lawns out front. You go on perfect little Hawaiian vacations, have perfect little jam sessions with your perfect little girlfriends about perfect little Oprah and are perfectly up-to-date on Us Weekly and People.

Everything about your life is perfect. Am I right or am I right? Ok, yeah I’m sure that things would be better if your BFF didn’t have her wedding ring upgraded with a diamond that’s twice the size of yours and probably cost a dozen tiny African children their limbs to extract from some dingey cave but hey, what’s life without a little adversity, right?

Is this not what you professed to envision your life being when you and your fellow shallow twits pored over back-issues of Brides magazines? When you strong-armed daddy into spending the GNP of Iceland on a Vera Wang gown and Tahitian honeymoon? Isn’t this what you wanted when you gleefully abandoned your half-assed attempt at majoring in Early Childhood Education because you finished your MRS degree early?

I mean holy crap ladies! Are you not living happily ever after with Mr. He-Doesn’t-Care-That-I-Can’t-Do-Long-Division-Or-Know-What-NAFTA-Stands-For-Because-I-Have-Big-Titties?

So how is it that you are so angry? How is it that every morning I see at least one of you wield a perfectly manicured middle finger at your fellow parents and their school-aged offspring? Why do you aim your Texas-sized SUV straight up my ass and careen through the parking lot at freeway speeds? Why do you blare your horn as if you’re in the middle of a crack and Starbuck’s bender? Why have you and your shallow legions of yuppie twits made it your personal mission to make the carpool experience as harrowing as life in the Eastern Congo?

Why do I get the impression that you’re trying to kill me? What did I ever do to you? Why can’t you focus your aggressions on your own offspring? Or small animals? Or environmentalists?

Why? Why? Why?

(And no, this open letter in no way indicates that I may have my own issues to overcome, why do you ask?)

So I have a few readers – those from Canada specifically - who have gently inquired in the polite way that I have come to know as being characteristic of our friends from the North about why I would allow a certain ridiculous comment in the last post to stand unchallenged.

The answer is easy: Like the title above suggests, I don’t argue with idiots. It’s a waste of my time. If you are a decent human being whose mama has raised you right it is a waste of your time too.

Not that I have never argued with idiots. There was a time when -as a vigorous young college student – I felt it my sacred duty to put the verbal beat-down on anyone who disagreed with my point of view. It wasn’t hard for me to “win” in these exchanges, seeing as how I was a graduate of the James Michener school of verbosity and have always possessed the energy of ten thousand yapping chihuahuas. 

(Typically my sparring partner would give up: not because I was right, but because I had a habit of physically outlasting anyone who challenged me.)

Since then, however, I have changed my mind.

It happened one day while I watched one of those Explorer documentaries on the National Geographic channel. The subject of this particular program was white supremacy and while I can’t remember the bulk of it (the documentary wasn’t one of NG’s better attempts) there was one scene in which a group of be-sheeted KKK members had rallied on the steps of some public building. Or at least they were attempting to, because while the march may have originally been intended as a recruitment event it was clear that it was better attended by hordes of angry residents (both black and white) who were absolutely pissed that their streets had been taken over by a bunch of swaddled redneck jackasses.

I’d assert here that I can’t blame the residents but that would be digressing.

So anyway, while the embattled members of the KKK (and I refer to these guys as “embattled” in the same way I might refer to Fred Phelps should he ever find his way into a windowless room filled with gold star mothers) worked their way up the parade route I noticed something very interesting; their police escort was heavily manned by men and women from the local law enforcement detail… a good number of whom were black.

So…

#1 – In the KKK you had a group who, no matter how ignorant and disgusting their message is, has an inarguable and constitutional right to assemble peaceably.

#2 – You had the counter-demonstrators who were exercising their own constitutional right to publicly decry the event.

#3 – You had the requisite law enforcement outfitted in riot gear with batons encircling the KKK folks in order to prevent them from being torn to pieces by said counter-demonstrators.

#4 – And! There was nary a recruit in sight. Maybe because even in the South showing up to participate in such a disgusting spectacle without having your identity hidden by mom’s best egyptian cotton is a sure way to get your ass kicked when the cops aren’t looking.

I’ll admit it was quite a sight watching several white supremacists being protected by the very people they deride as inferior. But then again, I thought, maybe it’s not so awful.

Obviously I don’t know any of those officers personally and if the program featured interviews with any of them I don’t recall it. I have no way of knowing what was going through their minds as they performed their duties to protect free speech that day.

That being said, it did occur to me that there was really no reason the KKK should have ruffled the feathers of those officers in the least. When you get down to it, the very reason the police were there was because the KKK and it’s message is so wildly opposed that the group required police protection in the first place. Why should those officers lower their personal standards by engaging in behavior that was anything but dignified? Why should any of them have wasted their breath uttering contempt for a relic of an ugly past that is clearly dying?

In other words, why did I expect any of those officers to waste their time pointing out that the KKK was an ignorant group of hateful misanthropes when the retards were more than willing to throw on a few sheets and prove it themselves?

And that, my friends is why I don’t argue with idiots. If you want to make stupid comments, spew hateful rhetoric, or behave like a bigoted moron then be my guest. So long as you restrict yourself to the realm of free and protected speech and don’t violate the laws of this country then knock yourself out. Your inability to think critically and relate to others in a mature manner is a poor reflection on you, not me.

Also, I don’t know about the rest of my readers but I’m a very busy person. I don’t have the time nor do I have the desire to run around the blogosphere arguing with every bed-wetter with internet access. The way I see it, these folks should be actively encouraged to reveal their particular brand of stupidity since it is only by their words that we can recognize and better ignore them. 

Which is why I don’t argue with the jackasses anymore. If those officers could – in the midst of a situation that carried over a century of hurt and ugly history – conduct themselves in a dignified manner while protecting people who hate them then I can certainly ignore a few bigoted and ignorant comments left on a freakin’ blog.

But let’s back up shall we?

Several months ago my dad’s unit was put on notice that they were about to take another tour through the land of the two-way gunnery range. Could be Iraq again or, maybe just maybe the Army would shake it up a bit and send them to Afghanistan because you know? Seeing a third world shit hole that was different from the last one might just distract them enough to make having RPGs fired at their aircraft bearable.

Well, just recently his unit passed the last of the qualifications for deployment and were given the green light. Ladies and gentlemen, update your wills, grab a body bag and kiss your kids goodbye because come February we’re heading out for the South Asian Vacation.

Since its inception, the mission in Afghanistan has ostensibly been about defending ourselves from further attacks by rogue groups such as Al Qaeda. For the record I believe this work to be necessary – albeit we were definitely a little late on the uptake in this region – and I support the effort.

I also acknowledge that our military in its current incarnation is an all-volunteer organization. My dad is in because he made the choice to be there and whining about him being sent to do the job that he trained for and accepted willingly would be disrespect of the highest kind.

That being said, I am beginning to have doubts about the war effort. Not so much with our military. When unfettered by idiotic bureaucracy the men and women of our military have proven themselves most capable. My doubts lie with us and our worthiness of such efforts. Because honestly? I look around and I find myself thinking “for these people my dad might get his ass blown off?”

I mean, it’s one thing for people to let their hair down and have a zone in which they can relax and feed their brain on silly things. It’s quite another to become utterly consumed by shallow bullshit and allow it to weaken our global perspective. For example, why have consumers decided to make the celebrity rag industry such a ginormous cash cow? Am I the only one who thinks that Brad and Angelina’s marriage is irrelevant? Who realizes that Britney Spears troubles are not worth the paper that tabloids continue to print them on?

Unfortunately, our slack-jawed obsession with celebrities is nothing compared to other weaknesses in our society. Such as the trend displayed by a few of my classmates who, after having made horrible decisions that landed them on public assistance, shrug off the opportunities afforded them by publicly funded financial aid programs and cut class. Then, on the odd occasion they actually do show up, complain bitterly about the impact that their failing grades will have on their financial aid status.

Or some of my neighbors who, about every six months, resurrect the idea of installing video equipment to record every square inch of our community because privacy is meaningless when there’s a one in a three gazillion chance that your child can be abducted and sold into the white slave trade. This is probably one of the more depressing ones to me since I question the ability of our society to survive when we are incapable of responding to the latest media boogeyman in a way that’s more meaningful than slobbering hysteria.

How about the people who claim that the proof of their magnanimity can be found in their support of goofy shit like socialized medicine? So let me get this straight, you get awesome human points for voting away the paychecks of your fellow citizens but can’t be bothered to dirty your hands volunteering at a battered women’s shelter or halfway house. How big of you. Hypocrisy should be painful.

…and don’t even get me started on the viewership that justified the making of a second season of “Flavor of Love“.

So yeah, I get a little irritated when I think of my dad and his colleagues being deployed to places Iraq and Afghanistan to protect the interests of a nation filled with people who can’t be bothered to put down the People magazine, do their damned homework, cope rationally with life’s inherent risks or abandon their comfort zone long enough to give a genuine leg up to their fellow man. Or maintain enough perspective to deal with low-fat milk and stop bitching at the underpaid Starbuck’s employee already.

Sometimes it’s necessary to expect members of our military to make uncommon sacrifices on behalf our our nation. But part of the deal is, or at least it should be, that all of us make the effort to be worthy of that sacrifice. This Veteran’s Day we should challenge ourselves to be better people whose lives and energies aren’t bled dry by brainless consumerism or massive efforts to sequester ourselves in tiny worlds in which we are the star occupant. Instead we should honor our veterans by reaching out and taking minor discomforts in stride (and trust me, anything that doesn’t threaten your life or the life of someone you love is a minor discomfort) in order to justify our continued existence in a world that has cost many their lives to achieve.