Hothead

I have a temper. I really do. Despite no less than seventeen years of formal academics, countless classroom and practical hours of leadership and ethics training, and a good bit of life experience, I'm still prone to popping my top at times. On balance I feel like its the only way that any rational, caring intellectual can to respond to a world that's becoming ever stupider and ever less-ashamed of it. Case-in-point, I almost got into a fight at a Super Bowl viewing party.

The relative wisdom of going to watch the Super Bowl at a place where there will be many drunk and rowdy strangers aside - I was in downtown Los Angeles at the ESPN Zone last Sunday nonetheless. I was there with some friends, and we had gotten there early to get a good table (and maybe have a few drinks in advance of kickoff). Most of the room, including the majority of the group I was seated with was rooting for Arizona, although if any of you are familiar with the average Pittsburgh Steeler fan, you know it only takes a few of them to make a scene.... and a few of them there were. Two of which were particularly noticable (and by "noticable" I, of course, mean mind-numbingly annoying). We'll call them Sticks and Stupid.

Sticks was an African American woman who looked like she purchased the majority of her Steelers gear (and, as luck would have it, her haircut) some time in the early nineties. She was tall and lanky, and had a habit of walking around the room when she became particularly enamored with the progress of the game. Of course, her obviously marginal understanding of football made this difficult to watch. She'd begin these informal parades and their preemptive loud clapping after moments which were not particularly Steeler-positive, and seemed oblivious to the fact that she was in a room full of people rooting for the other team. Even the people at her own table (who I would only loosely refer to as "friends") encouraged her to be a little less cantankerous - as they were becoming vicariously embarrassed.

Stupid was the kind of jerk-off that I usually associate with Steeler fan-dom. He was the kind of guy who is seriously flirting with middle age and had the body to show for it. He, of course, had a Steelers jersey on, and was presdisposed to standing up in the front and center of the room and waving his arms about - shouting and pointing at other patrons. He looked as though to closest he'd ever been to Pittsburgh was looking it up on Google Maps, and about as hard as a good, solid pile of cashmere. But he liked to get things stirred up, and felt compelled notify all the Cardinal fans in the room that we were not "real" fans because we weren't wearing Cardinal colors. As if the douchebaggery that is wearing a football jersey out in public when you're not a football player is some sort of rite-of-passage than validates one's overzealous support of a pro sports franchise in a city you've never even been to. Although, I'm sure that even if I was wearing a Cardinals jersey, I'd have heard it from this guy because my jersey wasn't "authentic" enough, or because I couldn't name the starting lineup from the 1987 squad.

Well, by halftime, I'd had about enough of listening and watching Sticks and Stupid, and couldn't keep the ire than was bubbling inside me inside any longer. I yelled at them to sit down and to shut up. Of course, if you know these sort of people, this is precisely the sort of behavior that will guarantee that they will not do any such thing (as my attractive companion pointed out to me afterwards). Having inspired their continued mindless rambling, Stupid felt compelled to involve a few other Steeler supporters in his response to my requests. That's when it all got a little out of hand.

There was a table full of buzz cut and generally rough-looking young hispanic men (with one woman) wearing Steeler jerseys who I had previously not noticed - as they were enjoying the game along with the rest of us. But Stupid pointed out to them that I was a Cardinals fan who had lost my temper, and they were just the sort of kids to jump into what could be a good fight. I tried not to include them in my ranting, but their particularly slight and young leader took to cursing and making obscene gestures at me. Now, I keep a pretty current list in my head of people that I will take shit from, and people that I will not. For example, the large man in the booth behind us, who looked like he went at about 6'4", 275 and maybe 7% body fat, was someone that I would definitely take shit from. But, the punk ass kid who looked like he couldn't even locate Pittsburgh on a map was most assuredly on my "Not to take shit from" list - and I was already pretty fed up.

So, I let him have it, and at the apex of it, he came towards my table. I stood up to face him, and the adrenaline began to course through me. But, as he came around the corner, one of his friends grabbed him and security was close to follow. I sat down, and a warm hand on my leg began to help me come down off of it.

Security had a talk with the offending table, and true to form, Stupid tried to weigh in and let them know that the whole thing was my fault. Security then came to have a talk with me and let me know that if I did anything of the sort again, I'd be referred to LAPD (who had also arrived by then) who intended to keep anyone who got into any sort of fight, overnight. Well, that was enough for me. As much as I deeply wanted to let that kid know that it takes more than three big friends and a big mouth to be a tough guy - I certainly didn't want to avail myself of the LAPD's hospitality. I remained sitting for the balance of the game - and even tried to buy his table a round of drinks, which they refused.

I have to admit, I was worried about walking out of that place and back to the train station with a friend who, while awesome, was a little too little and a lot too female to really be much help if things went sideways. But fate intervened. The only female in the offending group got into it with some other female fans, and as that little skirmish escalated, things finally did boil over, and before you know it, people were being led out of the building in handcuffs. That's right, arrested at a Super Bowl viewing party at the ESPN Zone. Go Steelers. Of course, pursuant to the cosmic injustice that even allows these sorts of people to keep breathing, Sticks and Stupid were not in the detained group - I guess inciting and general idiocy were lower priorities than the assualt and battery than had just taken place.

In the end, the whole thing was a bit surreal, and certainly an interesting story to tell - but also a valuable couple of lessons learned:

1. A year after spine surgery, I've finally recaptured enough of my old self to feel like I'd be perfectly fine getting into a tussle.

2. Stupid people will not listen to you - that's how they got so stupid in the first place.

3. There's not much that's quite as awesome as someone who will try and keep you from making a mistake, and even after you've made a complete ass of yourself, tell you that they totally understand, and that it's totally ok with them.

I'll take that over my team winning the Super Bowl, anytime.

Taking My Own Advice

Okay, so I don't have anything particularly profound to write about... it's been a bit of an emotional rollercoaster lately. But I have been busy this week - catching up on taking my own advice.

First up, reading. Yes, I know, the other part of the writing advice that I regularly give out (despite the fact that I'm really not qualified to do so) is that you've got to read to write. And yet, I haven't read anything that hasn't come with a glossy cover for months. So, I went to the local Barnes & Noble and went NUTS. Five books. Yup, five. In no particular order:

Erik Larson - The Devil in the White City - A book recommended by a friend that I've intended to buy on at least two other occasions, but never got it to the counter. Plus it won a whole bunch of awards... generally a good sign - and it's good so far.

Stephen King - On Writing -- A book recommended by an (about to be published) author I know. I've read just about everything else by Mr. King, including his seven book opus, The Dark Tower (which had the greatest ending in the history of storytelling). So I figured, why not?

Arthur C. Clarke - 3001, The Final Odyssey - As a general rule, Science Fiction has the most bad writing of any genre outside of "Romance" - so I tend to steer clear. Additionally, it has a well-deserved stigma of attracting a socially awkward and disconnected audience. Which despite my previous charter membership, is a group I'm no longer a part of. There are however, a few gems that I've found that really are quite worth the read. I last read this book in college - and remember being blown away by the vision of the world a thousand years from now... especially one based on some real research. I'm truly excited to read this with my adult brain. We'll see if it's still as good.

Clive Barker - Mister B. Gone - The book opens with the following:

"Burn this Book. Go on, BURN THIS BOOK. Go on. Quickly, while there's still time. Burn it. Don't look at another word. Did you hear me? Not. One. More. Word."

Now tell me you wouldn't read that... So, turns out it's about a demon trapped in a book. The one you're holding. I know. Some deeply dark and very cool shit. Plus Clive Barker is just sick enough to be scary without being stupid. I shouldn't be as excited as I am to read it.

Greg Cox - Infinite Crisis - Okay this one's a discount rack dog. But my guilty reading pleasure is reading novel adaptations of comic books. Shut up. You read Danielle Steele when no one's looking.

Second, I finally submitted some query letters to write an article for Gourmet magazine. I know it's not Esquire, but I'd like to have something besides my Broo articles and my blog to attach as clips when I finally send a letter in to my favorite magazine. We'll see how that goes.

Finally, I'm going to visit my best friend - who I've been neglecting for far too long. Case-in-point, I'm taking him his Christmas present... on January 27th. And I'm late.

Stay tuned!

Red State People - You Can Come On Out of your Bomb Shelters ... Again.

I was a little over nine years ago now... so far back that many of you may have forgotten it - but there was a disturbingly large segment of the population that believed that world was at genuine risk of coming to an end as the clock struck midnight on December 31, 1999. These people bought up dry stores, bottled water, and built out nuclear bomb shelters in preparation - sneering and laughing at those of us who were cavalierly preparing to ring in the new year with formal wear, champagne and an eerily robotic looking Dick Clark. It's hard to forget the obvious shame and embarrassment that they wore all over their faces as they poked their heads out of the aforementioned shelters like Punksawtawney Phil (yes, that's how it's spelled... I looked it up!) only dumber... and with opposable thumbs that they hardly seemed worthy of any longer.

I'm happy to welcome those same red-state folks back into the sunlight, as the general doom and gloom, multiple assassination attempts, stock market crash, civil war and other assorted harbingers of the Apocalypse that were to accompany the start of the Obama Presidency, failed to materialize.

Seriously folks, get a grip... come on out and smell the democracy.

First off, if you don't know - I'm a Republican. Yep, that's right - been registered that way since I was 18. Second, I voted for Obama. Yep, that's right, too. I won't get into it here... mostly because I'm tired of explaining to people who don't really want to listen, and because I wrote about it six months ago (Switching Sides of the Aisle:My Secret Shame as Navy Republican). But, don't worry, I haven't lost my access to right wing propoganda - because my family sends it to me via forwarded e-mails pretty much every day. You see, the fear campaign, as ludicrous as it appeared, that was conducted by the GOP in the waning months of the election was actually successful in scaring the majority of people who live outside big cities and nowhere near an ocean.

The once maligned Y2K crowd was headed back into their newly-stocked shelters to avoid the pestilence and strife that was to accompany today's inauguration.

But then President Obama took his oath, everyone cheered, and the world went on.

And his speech was epic.

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/politics/2009/01/20/obama.inauguration.speech.cnn

There's nothing I can say that he didn't say better than I could. Our generation has it's "I have a dream..." speech. And while I may not believe in all the same things that the new President does - I'm proud of what he did today. Of course, it wasn't all hearts and flowers on inauguration day - the folks in attendance did their best to try and strip the event of any class and dignity by actually boo-ing the outgoing President.

Honestly people, it's not a football game or a WWE wrestling match, put your home-made signs down. It is, in fact, the peaceful transfer of power - one of the most awe-inspiring and original things about our great nation. In the midst of my appreciation and enjoyment, I was deeply ashamed of being associated with the gathered masses as an Obama supporter. Because whatever message or moral they could possibly take from today's events, was lost on them.

This wasn't good defeating evil: it was hope over malaise; youth over the establishment; and action over apathy... although to be perfectly honest, in the case of the transfer of the Vice Presidency, it actually is good over evil. (Seriously, is Dick Cheney the only person besides Hannibal Lecter who is actually more scary in a wheelchair?!)

I'm sure there will be e-mails forwarded to me shortly from loved ones, decrying the secret Communist messages in today's inaugural address, and shedding light on the budding conspiracies that will no doubt characterize this terrifying new regime. But for now, I'm looking forward to four years of hearing my Commander in Chief speak without cringing, a little bit of hope, and a whole new excuse to point and laugh at people begrudingly coming up out of their reinforced basements wondering just what in the hell they're going to do with a hundred pounds of uncooked rice.

Philly... from just far enough away to not find a decent cheesesteak

So here I am at the Townplace Suites in East Nowhere, PA... that's right, the Townplace Suites. The "good news" given to me by overly friendly "Jay" at the so-called "front desk" of said hotel establishment was that due to my numerous recent hotel stays at the Marriott chain hotels - I was getting upgraded. Which turned out to mean that I would have a crappy suite with two bedrooms. Awesome.

Basically my travel itinerary went thusly: fly into a vibrant urban center on the eve of a momentous historical and political event, rent a "standard" car from Avis (Hyundai Azera - which, it turns out is the fourth generation of a car originally called the Hyundai Grandeur, arguably the greatest automotive oxymoron of all time, which made its debut in 1986... honestly, how horrible does a car need to be to only have had four generations in 23 years?... at least Avis is still buying), then use my trusty iPhone to drive my cool-mobile as far as I can possibly get from any appreciable civilization, finally to rendezvous with suspiciously upbeat Jay and check into my pimp castle at the Towny Swee. Of course, all of this would have been slightly more tolerable if the outside temperature was, say, somewhere north of 20 degrees.

Instead, I'm enduring this tragic procession to a deep social sinkhole in parts east of the Keystone State in conditions that, if they occurred in Los Angeles, would be declared an Emergency Condition. The worst part of it all was that other hotel patrons were quick to inform me that I was lucky that I hadn't been in town in the week before, when the weather had been, unbelievably, colder. That's right, in weather cold enough to freeze the majority of your bodily fluids inside of ten minutes, residents were reveling in their good fortune to have temperatures not in the single digits. It's no wonder everyone from this part of the country hates California. In terms of weather, Pennsylvania is a chess club president to California's sunshiney prom queen.

But of all the wholly disappointing things about Montgomery County, PA, the worst was that it was so far from Philadelphia that the only place for 20 miles that was offering cheesesteaks was SUBWAY... No thanks, I can get that hot mess of a sandwich served up to me back in the land of palm trees and widespread (and completely acceptable) sociopathy.

So, on balance, my trip to Philadelphia offered nothing truthfully redeeming in the way of value - save the opportunity to understand why I pay so much for rent, and to appreciate the unbounded coolness of having been able to transfer shows from my TiVo to my phone, and foresight to have done it before week-tripping into the land that God forgot.

Someone Told Me I Should Write Shorter Posts...

There. Happy?

A little dedication, and a lotta love...

Right... so I've been really lazy about this blogging thing. I'd like to say that I have a host of convincing (or at least serviceable) excuses. But I don't. All this is especially hypocritical given the fact that I'm often overheard giving the advice "If you want to be a better writer, you've got to practice!"

But hey, isn't it the hallmark of a great motivational speaker that they don't follow their own advice? (e.g. Bill Clinton speaking on family values, Jimmy Swaggart speaking on faith, Paris Hilton just speaking)

Right, so here's my blog new year's resolution: At least 1 a week. All year. That's right. So, maybe this will actually become readable - or something like that.

So, I made it down to STAPLES Center last night - to watch my beloved Clips lose their 12th straight game... bleh. And just as the game was coming to its woeful close, heard from a dancer friend (...FRIEND, F...R...I...E...N...D) seated close by, who, to protect her name, we'll call "Whacky", lamented about her lifetime dream to have black children. A little deeper analysis revealed that Whacky didn't necessarily want to (nor is she currently willing to) date or have children with a black man - she just wants the "cute" kids.... Brangelina style.

In true Hollywood fashion, the whimsical and ill-advised behavior of the rich and famous has now become haute couture for the proletariat. As if primped up children in $500 outfits isn't a disturbing enough accessory - now we've added a white-guilt assuaging component to it, by dolling up refugee children from developing nations as effigies to our own self-esteem issues. It's almost enough to make me long for the days when all you needed to look rich and famous was the furry carcass of some dead animal draped around your shoulders. I wonder if these girls realize that these "cute kids" will someday grow up to be difficult teenagers, and that they'll still be responsible for their care and feeding... maybe I can use a "puppies grow up to be dogs" analogy.

Luckily for the rest of us (and for what's left of the moral fabric of our society) adoption is a lengthy and expensive process (even from Uganda) - which deters the casually interested... and luckily for me, just a moment later, Whacky decided that she didn't, in fact, want "black children" anymore... she was over it.

Whew.

The Taming of the Shoe

Against all odds, I finally believe it: Iraq is now safer than the United States. And no, it’s not post-election euphoria clouding my mind. No, after six years of watching an endless news stream of insurgent and poorly directed violence result in seemingly endless American casualties – I finally get a news item so purely devoid of spin that I’ve no choice to believe it and draw the conclusion above. In case you missed it, at a joint news conference in Iraq, where President Bush (alongside Iraqi Prime Minister Nuri Kamal al-Maliki) was talking about the “success” of the “War Against Terror” in Iraq, a man stood up, and threw not one, but both of his shoes, in succession at the U.S. President. To his credit, the President deftly avoided both, and remained at his podium, barely missing stride as he continued on with his planned rhetoric (or at least to the extent that the president’s stumbling repartee can be considered an artful flow of any sort) The man, later identified as Iraqi reporter Muntadhar al-Zeidi, was loosely surrounded by what looked to be other press conference attendees and security, and generated no more excitement than one might expect from a noisy coughing fit. The banality of it was overwhelming, and made me believe that we are either (a) winning the war in Iraq, or (b) losing the war at home.

But before you go unfurling the since-unused “Mission Accomplished” banner, let me explain.

Lately, work has provided me the “opportunity” to travel quite a bit (and by “opportunity” I, of course, mean the chance to spend two days a week flying coach across country and hoping that I’ll get boarded onto the plane early enough to not have my carry-on sized bag checked in the American Airlines black luggage hole due to a lack of remaining overhead storage space). And, in the interests of traveling light (and speed through the airport), I take only a carry-on sized suitcase and my briefcase. And if you have traveled in the past six years, you know where I’m headed next. In the wake of the tragedies of September 11, 2001, airport security got understandably more strict. When previously one could pass through the metal detector with anything short of a half-pound nugget of iron ore without setting off the alarm, now the metal tip on my ball point pen (if not removed from my person) sets off a security situation so intense that I began to have a very real concern for the cleanliness condition of my underpants.

Subsequent years (and associated misadvised criminal ventures in the sky) have brought even more onerous restrictions:

Gels and Liquids. I never really new how much of a sissy I had become until this rule was put into place. The “trial size” section of the drug store became the “travel size” section of the drug store overnight, and there was finally a legitimate reason to pocket all the complimentary toiletries that one was given at their hotel. I came to the shocking and disappointing revelation that I have been roped into chronic dependency on no less than ten or twelve separate gels and/or liquids for my own grooming. I can almost hear my father’s disappointment from here. Here was a man who needed only three substances in his bathroom: Ivory soap, Barbasol shaving cream, and Head and Shoulders Shampoo (the last of which I think he was deeply ashamed of). And here I am with five separate such substances just for my hair. Oh, the shame of it. But apparently the federal government has decided that with one quart’s worth of three ounce containers of things, there is no possible way that one can reliably make an explosive device.

Have these people never watched MacGyver? Or for that matter, ever seen a James Bond movie? Honestly, I’m quite certain that the only thing this restriction is preventing is the satisfactory grooming of business travelers. But hey, if you’d like to feel safe, and as if no decently motivated and well-funded terrorist group could come up with a plan circumventing this, you go right ahead. All I know is that if I ever find out that either Richard Dean Anderson or Daniel Craig has become a fundamentalist Muslim, you won’t find me anywhere near an airplane they’re flying on (unless they’re going to also prevent gum wrappers, wristwatches and ink pens on flights).

Shoes. So you know how the story goes from here: one very suspect looking “criminal mastermind” tries to light his shoe on fire (with a kitchen match) on a flight – and is later discovered to be wearing self-designed Nike Exploders. As a result, the shoes of all travelers must be removed and x-ray-ed. Wait a minute, after this and nearly twenty years of non-smoking flights, couldn’t we just outlaw matches?

No, the smart way to do this is to have everyone remove their shoes. Everyone. Eighty year old grandmother dawdling along in her orthopedics? Yup, they go on the belt. Toddler with 3 inch long Crocs? On the belt, thank you. Really? Wow. So the woman and child who couldn’t light a candle on a birthday cake if their life depended on it, need to be screened to be sure they won’t light their shoes off once on-board the plane? What’s more, have you ever tried to reach your shoes from a coach seat? You’d have to be a reasonably well-accomplished contortionist to even comfortably attempt such a feat, let alone be assured any measure of success.

So let’s just say you’re the criminal mastermind of a terrorist organization – and let’s assume further than you’re at least a few IQ points ahead of the aforementioned Richard Reid (which, just so we’re clear, doesn’t necessarily put you in extraordinary company). Knowing that they’re screening grandma’s (along with everyone else’s shoes) wouldn’t you maybe, just maybe, place your match-lit explosives in another innocuous piece of clothing?

I don’t know about you, but I rest a little easier on each plane that I fly on knowing that federal passenger screening procedures have protected me from the world’s dumbest terrorists.

Which brings me to my point: Can you imagine what sort of hullabaloo would occur if someone tried to throw a shoe at a major US airport? First the thrower would be apprehended like Osama Bin Laden, himself, drawing every TSA grunt within earshot, the mildly armed airport security staff, and every air marshall who could get himself there as fast as his “inconspicuous” costume would allow. Next, they’d lock down the terminal like it was the end of days, and bring airport operations to a halt. Finally, there would be non-stop news coverage for at least seventy-two hours afterwards, when shoe experts, throwing experts and shoe-based explosives experts would opine as to just what had happened, with no evidence or information save what the few eyewitnesses could provide. And all this of course, where shoe was thrown at no one in particular.

A similar, but much more internationally intense version of the previous occurred in Iraq and ended up as little more than an oddity, and most post-event commentary was focused on the president’s “quick reaction time” (as if the obstacle avoidance mechanism which was evolutionarily developed in all humans [monkeys that don’t get out of the way of flying things often don’t survive long enough to reproduce] is somehow exceptional when identified in the President) I mean, for all practical purposes, this guy got off easier than the “don’t taze me bro” kid did. Seriously, I’ve seen a more dramatic reaction at an Apple store when the iPhone inventory got low. I take it from this muted response that no one’s taking off their shoes at the Iraqi airports to get screened these days.

By now, this news oddity – the video of which has made it around the world and been viewed and re-viewed millions of times – has become an international incident. There is an offer of $10M to buy just one of the dress shoes turned projectile, and the New York Times is reporting that a daughter of the Libyan leader Muammar el-Qaddafi has awarded the thrower a medal of courage. But this is all after the fact – the result of the same hype machine which turns nominal injuries to NFL quarterbacks into week-long national news stories. The initial reaction was far more telling. You can be certain that press conferences in Iraq will not suddenly require all attendees to go through a rigorous screening process (including the removal of shoes and the reduction of one’s grooming supplies into a one quart Ziploc bag).

For all the things that burgeoning government in Iraq may not know, it appears that they know two things which we here in the homeland have long since forgotten:

1. You cannot eliminate the existence or impact of the crazy people amongst us by treating everyone as if they might be crazy. All you will accomplish by this is making the sane people angry and make the crazy ones harder to find. For example, now everyone acts unnaturally agitated when going through airport security.

2. A permanent “heightened threat level” is no longer heightened. Am I the only one who knows “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” story? An increased awareness level can be quite powerful when judiciously implemented, but the temptation to keep it around constantly must be resisted. No matter what you call the “threat level” when everything seems peaceful, that’s the new “peace” level. Or to put it in terms that the government thinks makes it easier for us to digest: Orange is the new Green.

These lessons aside, you know that something’s terribly wrong when it feels safer at a press conference in Iraq than it does at the local airport. Of course, maybe that means we’ve finally achieved a level of peace over there, or maybe all along, the Iraqis have never been particularly prone to overreaction. Or maybe we’ve lost our collective minds with regard to airport safety to the point where the security procedures in an active war zone, seem sane by comparison. Either way, unless we start gaining a little perspective and sanity soon, I’m really not looking forward to going through airport security the day after the “Pants Bomber” strikes.