My clothes felt a little baggy on me last night as I trudged up 19th, past the Hilton. I was bit heavier in step, and each hurt. Stopped at the corner market, lugged the milk home, then cheated: took the elevator the rest of the way.
But this morning, my step was light again. I practically ran to the Metro. Walked up the escalator at Bethesda: sixty steps before my legs burned and I stopped. Last week, I could only do fifty. Next week, I’ll be doing seventy.
And this weekend! Oh, I was so disappointed, reading the weather reports. I had assumed that the rain would keep me from walking, and this was disappointing because when it comes to exercise, oh how I hate the gym. But please give me the opportunity to walk the streets of this lovely city, to and from whatever my destinations might be. Work. Grocery.
And okay — it wasn’t sunny. It wasn’t a weekend that screamed, “Spend me outside!” But spend it outside is indeed what I did, as much as possible.
Okay, not so possible when you’ve got to work your part-time job both days. But both days, when I stepped outside to catch the bus or run to the Metro, I realized: Hey, this is good walking weather. Not perfect walking weather, but good walking weather. So I did. And both days, when work was over, I realized: hey, this is good walking weather. So I did.
According to Google maps, it’s 2 miles from my apartment to my part-time job. Both days, I varied my route home, came up 19th, over through Kalorama, added .2 miles to my route. 8.4 miles over the course of the weekend, 8.4 more miles than I’d expected to walk.
I haven’t walked every day of the last week: Sunday I called out, didn’t feel well, same for Monday, flu (was in bed by 4pm, slept 12 hours). I didn’t work Tuesday night, got off at Dupont Circle on my way home from my day job, walked west (and then north) on Mass Ave, rounded Observatory Circle on my way home, spied the Cathedral in the background (2.7 miles); Wednesday night I was getting over the flu, I caught the L2 home. Thursday I walked. 2.2 miles. Felt great.
Weighed myself this morning, with every one of those 13.3 miles working with me, and Thursday’s lunch at Chipotle against. Last week, after I wrote my resolutions post, I’d stepped on the scale: 259, it said. This morning it said: 252.5. That’s a good start, don’tcha think?
I woke up this morning at 3:30, and I felt like a million bucks.
Which is at is should be, since I went to bad last night at 4pm (having snoozed on the bus and the Metro most of the way home), having been sick for the last couple of days.
Saturday, at the Bookstore, I had a bit of a sore throat, but I wasn’t too concerned about it. Then I woke up in the middle of the night unable to swallow without incredible pain. Fortunately, some orange juice and theraflu put things well enough for me to sleep, but as I still felt pretty lousy the next morning, I called out from work.
And, look: I hate calling out from work. Especially my part-time job, where there’s no vacation time and work missed is work unpaid. I also hate doing it because, look, most days, the store is operating with just enough people to cover all areas. And for reasons passing understanding, management isn’t gung-ho about trying to call people in to cover open shifts — which is also mind boggling. In no restaurant or retail job I’ve ever had will management not call everyone they can, “Hey, want to work late tonight?”
Anyway, because I felt better Sunday evening, I went to my day job Monday morning. And I felt okay until Monday afternoon when I became nauseas. So I called out — again. I managed to make it through the rest of my day, and went home and to sleep.
And voila, woke up feeling like a million bucks — like I’d been reborn, and the whole world was awoken anew to me, with opportunities for the taking. It didn’t hurt that the weather was warm enough that only a sweater was required for walking out of my building, and I was tempted to walk the long way to the Metro station (although I didn’t).
But all of this feeling of renewal and rebirth …
It’s tempered by coming into work this morning to find out that one of my colleagues was fired yesterday after I left. He started two weeks after me.
Reflecting on these, there are two lessons (well … two lessons I’ve known, but only just recognized): One, I am a 31-year old independent adult male working two jobs and living paycheck to paycheck, and this needs to stop. Two, I could stand to lose some weight (especially if I hope to take one* of my sister’s friends back to the hotel with me after the wedding).
So I made some resolutions: the first is Money, the second is Weight, and the third is Free Time.
First – Money
I need to gain a healthy little savings account. At the bare minimum, I need not to worry when taking my cats in for routine (or non-routine) health matters. I’d be happy with that, for a start. This involves, pretty much, a complete spending freeze on things not considered “essential.” Essential by whom? Well, by me. So, no more books or media. No more eating out (far cheaper to bring something from home). These are the big changes:
1. I am not going to buy any new books, or media. As far as books go, if they’re CL or QPs (which is publishing/bookstore lingo for “hardcover” and “oversized paperback”, I can borrow them for free so long as they’re returned in undamaged condition). Besides, do you know how many books I’ve got on my “to read” list? (A LOT!)
2. I’m not eating out anymore. I might make an exception if I’m working all day at the Bookstore and an Easy Mac just won’t fill my tummy. But no more dinners at Mackey’s. No more lunches from the café downstairs.
3. I’m canceling my Netflix. I’ve had my current three movies for three months. The money I spent on Netflix per month is essentially being pissed down the drain, and it’s not like I don’t have plenty of DVD options at home to choose from.
4. I’m also scrapping my cable TV (keeping the interwebs). The only things I watch are CNN and Lost anyway, and I can go to CNN.com for the news, and Hulu or ABC.com for Lost.
5. Things that I will buy: food, cleaning supplies (like laundry detergent), toothpaste, cat litter, cat food. Essentials. But actual essentials.
6. I’m going to open a savings account. I had one, but thanks to a bizarre bank merger (where some of Chevy Chase’s banks in northern Maryland were given to another bank?), it wound up being closed. I’m going to put at least a few bucks a week into it. I will not touch it.
And because making extra money never hurts … I’m also going to try to increase my hours at the Bookstore. Since Christmas, I’ve been working two weeknights and all day Sunday – that’s about eighteen hours a week. Before Christmas, however, I was often working close to forty hours. It’s not like I enjoy having no free time, however, gotta be honest: when I’m working, I’m generally not eating, or spending money. Plus, on a busy night, it’s good exercise running here, there, and wherever. Really, this goal can be easily accomplished: pick up the phone, call, “Hey, did anyone call out tonight? Do you need any extra help?” Gotta be proactive!
Second – Weight
Right now, this morning, I’m somewhere between 250 and 260 pounds (not exactly sure), which is (or is at least very close to being) the heaviest I’ve ever been. I’m changing my eating habits (we’ll see how long this lasts – the last time I tried, I stuck with it for a few months and actually lost 30 pounds). These are the big changes:
Eating:
1. No more hot chocolate in the mornings at work.
2. I drink 2 to 3 gallons of milk a week. I’m going to try to drink more water at home and hopefully drop my milk intake to 1 gallon. This will also help with the whole “not spending money” thing, as milk can get expensive.
3. No more ice cream. AT ALL. (This one makes me really really sad). Also, no Skittles. Boo.
4. Pretzels, carrot bits, and rice cakes for snacks. No more jalapeno cheddar Cheetos! This one is also going to be really tough (they’re sooooo good).
5. When I do eat not-good foods (i.e., most frozen foods, chips, etc.), I’m going to try to respect the “serving size.”
6. On Fridays (“bagel day” at work), I will only eat one bagel with cream cheese.
7. I am going to start eating breakfast, which is a meal I usually skip. Thankfully, the café downstairs sells bananas for seventy-five cents, because if I tried bringing some in, hoo-boy would they spoil.
Exercising:
1. Sure, sometimes the escalators and elevators are impossible to beat – like, at Bethesda and Woodley Park Metros – but there’s no reason I just have to stand on the escalator: I can walk up it! Or down it! Also, in general, I’m going to try to shun elevators in favor of stairs whenever possible.
2. I will walk home as much and often as possible. Sure, I don’t always have an option – it’d be a three hour walk to and from my day job, but there’s no reason I can’t start walking to Van Ness Metro in the mornings (1 mile); and I won’t use sore feet for an excuse to catch the L2 home after a late night at the Bookstore – that’s a good two mile uphill hike, and it feels so good when I get home (I might cheat and take the elevator up to my floor, though).
Third – Free Time
Admittedly, I’m not going to have much free time. However, I want to be more productive in the free time I do have. When I racked my mind to consider what I wanted to do, this is what I came up with:
1. Blogging – Not only do I want to blog more here, I want to talk more about myself rather than just the occasional political or bookstore related ranting or raving. In addition, I want to resurrect dc.crimereporting.net, which had a brief life last summer. I made some mistakes with it initially, but I think if I keep it limited to a link-page of DC-only crime, it should be manageable.
2. Reading – I’ve been bad on my reading. Tripped up and ran into the wall that is Bolano’s 2666 and Peter Hamilton’s Pandora’s Star. This really sucks because they’re both very, very good.
3. I have, for some time, wanted to build a Lego spaceship. Not one that could actually fly into space (duh), but a model of a spaceship built out of Lego. And I’ve wanted it to have a complete, functional interior – in the sense that, were someone to dissect it, not only could they could point out, “Ahh, here are the cannons, and here’s the magazine, and the sickbay, and the airlocks” but also, “Here’s the water filtration system, and the gravity generator, and the oxygen scrubbers, and the fuel tanks…” I’ve got a lot of Lego, why the hell not give it a shot?
4. I’ve been living in DC for just about two years, know where I still haven’t gone but I’ve been wanting to? The Building Museum! You number is mine, buddy. (Also, a National’s game).
To Keep On Goal:
A friend once gave me good advice: “Don’t weigh yourself every day, you’ll never see any progress.” So I’m going to weigh myself every Sunday evening. I know that I should expect a big weight loss the first week (water weight), with less over the following weeks. Given my experience in 2006, I know I can do it. Just gotta have the will power.
So, I am not only going to keep track of my weight on a sheet of paper tacked to my bathroom wall, I’m also going to post about my weight every Sunday night.
In addition, I’ve got a little black book – I’m going to carry it with me wherever I go. Anything I spend will be recorded in said little black book, and once a week, I’ll post what I’ve been spending my money on. With luck – and your help! — this’ll keep me in line.
A couple of weeks ago, a whiner-cry baby by the name of Joe Stack was apparently so distraught that the Federal Government wasn’t going to allow him to cheat on his taxes anymore, that he jumped into a plane and flew it straight into an IRS office, killing a government worker named Vernon Hunter. Before doing this, he apparently scared the crap out of his wife (she was living in a hotel), and then torched his house.
A lot of people applauded his actions as “heroic”: while I agree that he might not be a terrorist* (added emphasis on the “might”), there is nothing “heroic” about his actions or conduct. Essentially, the “hero” line of argument goes as this: “Government is big and bad and people who resist the government’s might and/or kill the agents of the government are heroic.”**
Apparently, especially so when they’re homicidal terroristic arsonists.
So, flash-forward to Pittsburgh, last week.
Those of us who live in the Mid-Atlantic area have been buried under snow since roughly the beginning of the month. Anyone who has survived a snow storm in Baltimore or DC (or apparently Pittsburgh) can comment on the notion of “reserving one’s space.” Basically, what happens is this: it snows. Your car is buried. You dig it out. But fearful of being unable to find a place to park said car when you return (because most street parking is lost to mounds of snow), you place a piece of furniture in the spot to indicate that it is “yours.”
Technically, this is illegally. Practically, however, it is not enforced. (Not that I’ve ever seen).
So there’s this guy, TRUE STORY!, who goes outside to clear his lady’s car of snow, and apparently moved it at some point. A gentleman by the name of Errol Parker then parked in the space (how could he do this if the dude’s lady’s car hadn’t been moved?), and when the snow-clearing guy asked him, “Hey, buddy, can you move your car?”, Parker punched him in the face, and then pulled a gun. So obviously, having been assaulted and threatened with a deadly weapon (look, I’m as pro-gun as you can expect a liberal to be: but when you punch someone and pull a gun, you’re clearly indicating, “Hey, for my next trick, I’m going to shoot you.”), the victim called 911.
Parker’s back in his home by this point, and when the police entered, Parker came at them with the gun. They exchanged gunfire, Parker got tasered, no one was seriously hurt, and all of this …
… over a parking space.
Er, I mean, “Over a person’s right to keep the government from telling him where he might or might not park his car.”
But I guess he’s not a hero because Rep. Steve King’s never had a ticket maid’s “thumb in the middle of [his] back.”
Funny story: Interestingly, a few days after the snow storm, Neighbors A. and B. dug out their cars. Both drove elsewhere. Another car appeared, and took neighbor A’s spot. Neighbor A returned, and parked in B’s spot. The third car left, and Neighbor B. returned and parked in A’s spot, because B.’s spot was taken by neighbor’s A. car. Apparently, both were upset that someone else had claimed their space, and over the course of the evening, I watched as both car owners came out of the building with pitchers of water and poured it on the other’s car. I would’ve yelled at them, but a.) I’m six stories up, and opening my windows during the winter I don’t do and b.) I didn’t know what apartments they live in, so I coudn’t go and explain the situation.
*Although I have to honest, I’m considerable more in the “Terrorist” then “Not Terrorist” camp. Anyway, Newsweek had a very interesting inter-office e-mail debate on who qualified as being defined as a “terrorist”, they eventually posted it to their website, and it’s a truly fascinating read, but I would suggest this as an epilogue.
**Let me tell you: as a retail employee who has to enforce the local DC’s government bag tax, this kind of scares me, especially when some right-wing TV pundit scowls when I ask, “Would you like a bag? It’ll be five cents.” I mean, technically speaking, the conduct of charging for bags makes me an agent of the government’s will, yes? (Then again, so does adding the 6% tax charge to the purchase).
Here’s how not to get yourself a job in the Bookstore:
1. Stay in the store ten minutes after we’ve closed talking up everyone about how much you’d like to work here, somehow failing to notice that the “Ma’am, will you please leave?” has become “Please get the fuck out.”
2. Come to the Information Desk with a list of 150 authors and the request that I track down every single book by every single author and find the publisher’s address. Okay, two things: A.) We’re not a reference library. And B.) This is why Al Gore invented the internet, don’t you know what a wonderful modern world we live in?
Not for me, for little Tippy, the youngest of my two cats. She’s a domestic short hair calico, a temperamental nine-and-a-half-pound fleabag who’ll rub up your leg for attention one moment, and hiss at you the next.
For the last several weeks, I’d been noticing an increase of cat vomit about my apartment. I cleaned it up to the best of my ability, chalked it up to whatever brand of food I was buying at the time, and crossed my fingers that the next brand I selected would ease whichever cat’s stomach wasn’t agreeing with what I was feeding them. And then early last week, I was home when I heard Tippy howl.
Cat owners know that cats can vocally express themselves several different ways: they can meow, that nice little polite “meow”, or they can whine, “mrrrrowl”, or they can even scream — as my older cat, Guy, did when he jumped off the bed … or rather, tried to jump off the bed, as his front paw was stuck in the afghan. Scream-scream. Like, “holy crap!”
But none of this compared to Tippy’s howl, which made me jump. And immediately after howling, she threw up: twice. But after that, she seemed recovered quite well, so I didn’t think a whole lot about it. I cleaned up the mess, I poured some cold water into the cat bowl, but it wasn’t until the following night — when she howled again — that I began to get scared.
I moved to DC almost two years ago. Both cats were up to date on their shots when I moved, so finding a new veterinarian wasn’t a priority. And as they’re both very healthy cats, I really didn’t give it much thought, until Tippy’s howling. I immediately went on Twitter and solicited vet recommendations. And pretty quickly, both on Twitter and Facebook, people responded.
Ultimately, based on a Twittersation with @Shaw_Girl (who blogs here), I opted to go with Dupont Veterinary Clinic, located on P Street just west of Dupont Circle. I called them Tuesday morning, and was able to arrange an appointment for that evening. While I considered taking Tippy on public transport, I ultimately decided to take a cab to and from. Truthfully, when transporting them by vehicle before, they’ve always cried and howled the whole way — I didn’t want to subject an L4 full of people to an upset cat. And while getting her into the cat carrier involved a considerable amount of effort — !!!!! — I was able to flag down a cab pretty easily.*
But that was later that day — after I’d been at work all day, after I’d gotten home and forced the cat into the carrier. Meanwhile, I spent all day googling “cat symptoms vomiting” and many of them were worst-case: “Cat dying.” You can possibly imagine how worried and scared I was feeling. And sick.
Also — wow! Was Tippy a good traveler! There was no hissing, and this little beast was eyes wide examining the world I take for granted. Sadly, no cute women told me what a cute cat she was, but she was a tiny little thing in a big blue box with bars.
We got to the vet’s without incident, and yes, I did tip the cabby quite well: I gave him $10 for a trip from Woodley Park to Dupont, and I think the meter fee was $6 or $7. We also got to the vet’s early, so I had a few minutes to wait, which was fine, because I had some forms to fill out.
In any case, before too long, a woman with pink dreadlocks took us into an exam room, where she had to coax Tippy out of the carrier which, considering how much the damn cat didn’t want to get in it in the first place, she was surprisingly reluctant to leave. But once out, she strutted her stuff and was quite happy and purring and getting scratched and loving it all …
… right up to the point she got stuck with the rectal thermometer, at which point her disposition went from “Excited! Curiosity run amok!” to “I’m gonna kill you both. Hiss.”
Not long after, Dr. Mitterman came into the exam room and used a stethoscope on the cat. Hoo-boy. Even though I don’t think the doc did any sort of anal probing, Tippy wasn’t much happier about being poked and prodded. Fortunately, Mitterman’s verdict was that Tippy was a pretty healthy cat, and wanted to do some bloodwork (to find out if perhaps she had kidney disease, or thyroid problems) and take some X-Rays (to see if something was physically wrong with her). I was totally all about those checks, so Tippy got loaded back into the cat carrier and taken upstairs and I waited in the lobby screwing around on my iPhone for a few minutes.
With X-Rays in hand, Mitterman summoned me back to the same exam room, and she pronounced Tippy in pretty good health (depending on how the bloodwork came back). She’d been concerned that perhaps the cat had swallowed some string which was causing her digestive troubles, but to be truthfully honest, once she said Tippy was in good health, I retreated to cat-lover’s-paradise and was just there long enough to miss the actual diagnosis.
Long story short, I left the clinic with Tippy in one hand (in her carrier); and a prescription bag of cat food in the other. In my coat pocket was a small jar of the feline version of Pepcid. Yep: Tippy had heartburn. Although I considered walking home, the truth is, I just wanted to get the cat out of the carrier so I could play with her. So I hailed a cab, and a few minutes later (after almost running over some pedestrians), we were home.
And Guy, poor cat, who was probably wondering what the hell was going on, jumped right off the bed and trotted over to greet Tippy as she emerged from the carrier.
And I’ve got claw marks up and down my arms, because every night I’ve got to load up this syringe/dropper thing with a certain amount of the stuff and shoot it into her mouth. She does not like it.
But she hasn’t thrown up for almost a week now.
***
The Clinic called me on Thursday. I’d provided both my cell and work numbers as contact. Because I’ve never set up the voicemail on my cell, Dr. Mitterman left a message for me on my office line (I’d already left for the day), to the gist of: “Bloodwork came back, she’s fine — no risk of thyroid or kidney disease.” This was a hallelujiah moment.
Tippy & Guy … Tippy’s not so happy about being disturbed. I like to call this the “she’s flicking me off” picture. Pawing me off?
I don’t quite know why she was so very still in this photo, or what she was looking at, but no, she was not stuffed.
In the carrier, enroute to the vet. This is either an expression of, “Why are you doing this to me?” or “I’m going to cut your throat.”
*True story: since moving to DC, I’ve taken a cab four times — once, when I was showing a friend around, and we wanted to get to the Zoo quicker than the Metro from downtown; once when visiting a friend out in Virginia, who lived a considerable hike from the Metro; and then twice more last week taking the cat to and from the Vets. This is probably a post in its own right, but long story short, I feel that they’re a waste of money. Take the bus, take the Metro, or walk. It’ll take you longer, but it won’t bite your wallet as much.
I have to admit: as a retail employee, the amount of training I have ever at any point received on the proper authentication and authorization of credit cards has been about zero hours. That said, having worked in restaurants and retail since my sophomore year of high school, I’ve developed some rules:
1. If the card is not signed, or says ‘Check ID’ on the signature line, I always ask for an ID.
Yeah, that’s pretty much it.
So when this guy stepped up to my register this afternoon, I didn’t think of asking him for his ID when there was no signature across the back of his American Express. I mean, look, this guy’s been in the store before, I’m sure I’ve asked him for his ID before. At the same time, guess what? We’ve got famous people who shop at the Bookstore, and even in the cases when I know the person paying with Bill Kristol’s credit card is Bill Kristol himself, guess what? I still ask: “Might I please see your ID, sir?”
I do it to everyone: young, old, cops, celebrities, heck, I’ve even asked coworkers — people I’ve worked with for nearly two years! – for photo ID if the back of their card isn’t signed.
So this random guy’s reaction to being asked for his ID blew me away.
He flipped his top.
Like, people in line were looking kind of embarrassed for this guy just loudly proclaiming how ridiculous this was. I, meanwhile, the consummate professional, repeated that if the card was not signed, I simply needed to see a photo identification to proceed with the transaction.
Meanwhile, he was trying everything he could not to show his ID:
“This transaction is so small, this is ridiculous!”
Well, that may be so, but even if you were trying to buy a fifty-cent candy with an unsigned credit card, I’d still ask for your ID.
“The card is signed! The signature is just faded!”
If the signature is not visible, then as far as I’m concerned, the card is unsigned. Go fuck yourself.
“Give me back the card!”
Yeah … see, again? Without photo ID? Why would I return a card that might or might not be yours?
“I’m going to complain to your boss!”
Let me tell you how that’s going to work: they’re going to listen to your story, they’re going to nod their head sympathetically, and then they’re going to ask, “Well, so sorry about that. Let’s get you on your way. Because this card isn’t signed, can I please see your identification?”
“I’m going to call the police!”
I would be more than happy to call them for you. Really.
Finally, when he realized I wasn’t going to cave to his insanity — and, look, we’re not talking about a rough-clothed homeless guy reeking of urine, but a well dressed and obviously wealthy individual — he finally flashed his passport in front of my face, snapped it shut, then accused me of putting him through all of this for no reason, as I’d barely looked at the ID he’d presented.
For what it’s worth, I don’t actually know if I can use a passport as a valid photo ID, but I do anyway since it’s government issued. When people aren’t being douchebags, I’ll also let them present college and employment photo IDs, too.
Anyway, so he grabbed his stuff and stormed off in search of a manager to rant at. He found one, because he was loud enough everyone in the store could hear him. Then he stalked out of the store, throwing me nasty looks as I checked more customers out and asked them for their IDs.
The manager came over a minute later: “That guy’s an idiot. Consider yourself reprimanded.”
Me: “But I did the right thing!”
Him: “The customer is always right.”
Me: “The customer is always wrong, you mean.”
Customer: “For what it’s worth, I’d've been pissed if you didn’t check my ID!”
And that wonderful lady? Got 25% off her book for making me feel better.
Remember back to a day in September, just a year and a half short of a decade ago. Four groups of men hijacked four different airplanes. Three flew headfirst into buildings, the fourth crashed on a rural field in Pennsylvania. Fueled by an extremist branch of a religion, they died in the name of “God.” I use “God” in parentheses, because whether you believe in Him, Her or It or not, only God speaks for God, and men who claim to do so are delusional unto the point of stupidity.
Pretty much everyone in the world was all “Holy shit, WTF.” And everyone agrees that it was an act of terrorism.
Terrorism isn’t easy to define, but let’s agree that for an act to be considered terrorist, it must at least include the threat of violence, possibly as an attempt at exercising political change through the use or threat of continued force.
Right, so: fly planes into buildings and kill a lot of people: terrorist.
However: fly one plane into one building and kill one person, who doesn’t count because he works for the IRS: HERO.
Wait a second, Joe Stack is a hero?
There are some bizarre — and disturbing — comments on this piece fro the Dallas Morning News seem to reflect that opinion.
There’s something extremely wrong in this country when we label as “heroes” people who “protest” things they don’t like by the use of deadly force. There are lots of ways to protest something — make a sign, write a blog, vote for Ralph Nader — and while sometimes, yes, I will concede that violence can be a legitimate form of protest, because taxation is not a violent form of conduct (have you ever seen a 1040EZ form beat the shit out of someone?), using violence in reprisal is sort of like … well, calling yourself a teabagger** completely un-ironically.
I understand why Samantha Bell, Stack’s daughter, wants to view her father as a hero. This is quite possibly a side of her father she never, ever saw. She probably remembers him as the guy who bounced her on her knee, helped her with her homework, put her through college, gave her advice on the men she dated. I don’t know this, obviously, this is all speculation on my part, but it’s supported by this quote:
“The father I knew was a loving, caring, devoted man who cherished every moment with me and my three children, his grandchildren,” she said. “This man who did this was not my father.”
Last week, I got home Wednesday and turned on the TV. I’d watched LOST the night before, so I found myself with an episode of Oprah. Just when I was about to change the channel, the episode’s promo came on: it was about family members of serial killers, and how they dealt with what their family members had done. The son of Jim Jones spoke about how he reconciled his love for his father with the mass murder at Jonestown; and the sister of John Wayne Gacy spoke about her struggles understanding her brother’s actions.
I think it’s probably a similar situation for Samantha Bell. She just needs some good part of her father to hold on to.
As for the larger community of support behind Stack’s actions — well, maybe it’s just because he only killed one low level IRS Bureaucrat, a guy named Vernon Hunter, a Vietnam veteran, and not one of the people who crafted the tax laws Stack railed against — maybe if the collision had killed a whole bunch of children, too, maybe then some of the extreme fringe would have the necessary perspective to step back and say, “No!”
As it is, I don’t think this is the last we’ve seen of domestic, home-grown terrorists. Joe Stack, despite whatever many good qualities he may have had, died in an act of terrorism. Timothy McVeigh was a terrorist. They’re not the first, and they’ll hardly be the last.
Recently, I finished Boston Legal. I mean: I finished it. I’d seen a handful of episodes, and I liked it enough, that when I saw the series’ season sets on Amazon for $15 a pop, I scooped ‘em up. An episode here or there, a whole ton on snow days, and I made my way through the show. For the most part, I enjoyed it. I felt the fifth season was very weak; and I do truly wish FOX or David E. Kelley would push for complete DVD releases of The Practice, and Picket Fences. Barring that, I wish they’d make them available on Hulu.
So finishing with Boston Legal, I wanted something else to watch an episode here or there, and so I looked through my TV-on-DVD box sets.
So I threw in the first disc of one of my favorite TV shows from my high school days: The Adventures of Brisco County Jr., which happened to feature Boston Legal’s Christian Clemenson as a lawyer named Socrates Poole. Well, I mean, also Bruce Campbell as the titular star. The show also happened to be created by a guy named Carlton Cuse, whose name you might be familiar with because he’s the showrunner of a certain program about a mysterious island that sometimes gets unstuck in time: Lost.
But if you’ve never seen Brisco County, Jr., and you’re a fan of Firefly, you might want to give the show a chance. While Firefly** was a western set in space, Brisco County, Jr. was a sci-fi set in the Old West: Junior is recruited by the robber-barons of the Old West to hunt down the villainous Bly (Billy Drago*), who, along with the twelve members of his gang, is on the hunt for a mysterious, powerful “orb.” Bly also happened to gun down County’s father, Federal Marshal Brisco County, Sr., so that helps with the whole “motivation” thing.
Anyway, I began Googling and IMDBing some of the folks involved with the show, and I was kind of shocked to learn that Julius Carry, who’d played rival bounty hunter Lord Bowler, passed away in August 2008.
Lately, it feels like I’ve written a lot of these “RIP” posts — they’re sort of morbid, don’t you agree? But until his death, there’d always have been the possibility that I would’ve bumped into Julius Carry on the street one day, and just had the opportunity to say, “Hey, I really enjoyed Brisco County. Hope you’re well.” But such is the way things work out that he’s been dead for a year and a half and it just pinged my radar screen. Rest in Peace, Mr. Carry.
*You probably know him as the guy Kevin Costner throws off the roof in The Untouchables.
**Zoe’s rifle? That prop was originally used on Brisco County. I think it’s actually the one Bowler wears on his back.
It’s funny, because earlier this week I was on Twitter, musing as to just how long it had been since I’d had a beer.
My best guess, if you’re interested, was probably Thanksgiving.
So then came yesterday night, and two back-to-back Happy Hours: the first was a post-work get together at The Barking Dog in downtown Bethesda. It was a fairly small turnout, but a few of the new folks came out, and a fun time was had by mostly all.
But especially by me, because hoo-boy am I a lightweight. So after having a few beers, I made my farewells and stumbled (safely) to the Metro station, where, after only a short wait, I boarded a train headed to downtown, and made my way to Vapianos in Golden Triangle for a DC Blogger happy hour, where I quite excitedly consumed several more drinks, went to the restroom a lot, made some new friends, met some old ones, went to the restroom a few more times, and finally, a bit after 11, made my excuses and stepped out for the trip home.
I checked my Next Bus on my iPhone, and voila! An L2 bus was approaching a nearby bus stop. So I hiked up to Dupont Circle, and around 11:20 (I guess), I was standing on New Hampshire, waiting for the northbound bus. There was a long line of traffic backed up, and I really didn’t give it too much thought …
… right up until some drunk crazy guy ran into the street and charged an SUV. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but the guy behind the wheel of the SUV used his door as a shield to shove the drunk guy away (who was screaming “I’m a lawyer! I’m a lawyer!”), and then jumped out of his car.
Which was hilarious because he hadn’t set the brake, so it started rolling backwards, and the woman in the passenger seat was like “HOLY SHIT WTF” as she was scrambling to get to the driver’s side to hit the brake. This was particularly hilarious because, if memory serves*, before hey husband/boyfriend/pimp/what-the-fuck-ever jumped out of the car, she’d been sort of “Mmm, sleep.” Hah! Shockingly, she managed to stop the SUV before it rolled backwards into the car behind it.
Meanwhile, Mr. I’m-Too-Cool-To-Set-My-Parking-Brake-Before-Kicking-Some-Drunk-Guy’s-Ass (pretty sure he must’ve been drinking) was busy wrestling with the aforementioned drunk “I’m a lawyer guy”, when some other dude ran up and started assailing the drunk guy, too.
Now, granted, assailed might be a strong word: it was clearly a physical confrontation, but I didn’t actually see any fists flying. You know how men will sometimes thrust out their chests and bump them with other men? Like that, but hostile. And cussing.
So I was just like, “Well, this isn’t going to make it easy to get aboard the L2″, (also, I didn’t want one of these drunk assholes to see me giving them the “WTF” look and punch me) and I just decided, “Fuck it, it’s cold, it’s icy, and I’m right at the entrance to the Dupont Metro Station — I’m going to walk home.”
So, y’know, it was cold, and there was ice, and I’d been drinking and drinking and drinking, so I walked home. And I got home safe! And in about 35 minutes, which is good on a non-winter/icy night, so, I guess the lesson is that I need to drink more often after work. At the very least, I’ll work off the beers.
*And, let’s be honest, six drinks? It probably isn’t.
While I knew that the day was eventual, I also did not know it was coming so soon.
A few weeks ago, I blogged about my sister’s engagement — or, rather, I blogged about the method of my future brother-in-law’s proposal. And this last weekend, out for lunch with my folks, my Dad voiced his opinion that he hoped she’d hurry up and plan the darn thing so that plans could be made.
In fact, the last I’d heard was that a tentative date for the wedding would be sometime next fall. But this morning my sister hit me up on gchat with some details, and so, the middle of June, I’ll be packing my bags and catching a flight for a small, family only wedding in Colorado.
No, no, her wedding day isn’t the day I mentioned when I said a day was eventual.
So, here’s the thing: I’ve flown on an airplane maybe a dozen times in my life. And in my adult* life? Twice. Okay, that was a flight with a stopover to Boston from BWI, but I’m still counting it at as two flights, not four. And that flight(s)? Was back in either early 2000, or early 2001 (Hey, E, when did I come visit you gals at Northeastern?).
My family, excluding my sister, all live within easy driving distance. My friends, with some exceptions, all live within easy Metro or driving distance. While I do want to go tour some of the great sites of the world (Europe, especially), this is really the first point in my life where I’m able to afford to do so; yet, my financial concerns — paying down debt, putting money into a savings account, and yes, accruing enough PTO — must be my immediate priority before traveling to distances far enough to warrant plane travel become routine.
So in about four months I’m going to get on an airplane for the first time in nearly a decade. I’ve heard the post 9/11 horror stories of airline travel, and I don’t remember the boarding process as being much fun before that.
On top of all of this, if you must know, I’m a bit of a home-body: I get homesick. I miss my cats. I miss my apartment. I miss my neighborhood haunts and yes, even my regular routine. I miss my coworkers. The people I see on the bus. Even, sometimes, the clients.
I don’t know what Kevin Smith weighs. I know that I struggle with my weight (250lbs), and I lose a prime source of exercise when the weather becomes too cold to make my routine hike from the Bookstore to my apartment in the evenings**. I am, in fact, worried that I’ll be kicked off an airplane while trying to get to my sister’s wedding, or that I’ll be kicked off an airplane trying to get home from my sister’s wedding.
Honestly, it wasn’t something I’d thought about, like, at all. Even after reading some of the posts that the event inspired, I didn’t actually have a “wait, this could happen to me” moment, possibly because in terms of body image, I’m horribly self-delusional (what, you mean I’m not a sexy beast?)
Here’s the first thing I think of when this issue comes up, for instance: The weekend my mom was dying. Two of my siblings and I got to her bedside within hours of getting the call that she’d had a massive heart attack. Our other sister took two days to get there. She could fly coach, technically, with a seatbelt extender and the armrests digging into her sides. But she couldn’t afford two seats, especially on such short notice, and knew she might be forced to buy another if the airline decided she was too big to count as a single human being. She knew she might be bumped from the flight she’d paid for, and forced to wait around for one that was less full, for who knows how long, while our mother’s organs were shutting down in another country. And she knew that even if she was allowed to fly on the flight she’d booked, there was every chance she’d end up sitting next to someone who would spend the whole time sighing heavily and throwing her dirty looks — then probably spend the rest of her life telling the story of being next to that awful fat woman on a flight from Boston to Toronto, that disgusting creature who just booked a single seat without a thought to the people who would have to brush up against her monstrous bulk for a couple of hours, like she had to be somewhere so important it was worth inconveniencing strangers.
So, rather than deal with any of that, my sister chose to drive a thousand miles as fast as she could, hoping she’d get there in time. While she was on the road, the doctors informed us that there was nothing else they could do, so the whole family’s focus shifted from wondering whether Mom would make it to wondering whether my sister would. A nurse reassured us that Mom would hold on long enough (”They always wait for their babies”) and as it turned out, she did. Just. But that agonizing day of asking my mother to please hang on a little longer — while she was wracked with pain beyond the reach of morphine, moaning like a wounded animal when awake enough to communicate at all — is the first thing I always think of when the debate about whether fat people deserve affordable air travel comes up. You think of some lumbering beast who had the gall to “steal” an inch of your seat that one time. I think of a dying woman waiting for the last of her babies to say goodbye.
So, yeah, maybe I should give up the Skittles and the Cheddar Jalapeano Cheetos for a few months. Who knows, maybe I’ll score with a bridesmaid!
(Er, except it’s a family only wedding, so that could be icky).
*Defined as post high-school.
**Because I feel very self conscious about being in the gym in my building (technically, the next one over). Everyone I always see in there is slim and fit and I feel self conscious enough just using the value-adder to add money to my laundry card.
