A feast of friends, alive, she cried, waiting for me outside

I feel tired and a little beat up, but not bitter about it though, like a football player who, despite taking licking after brutal licking on the practice field, still considered it a worthwhile experience and maybe even grew from it. I had an active day, portions of which were taxing. In the morning, I took the T into Boston to do some recording at the registry, followed by a visit to the one in Cambridge to do some research and get certified copies of various documents.

At the Boston registry, where the help is generally nice, but with the prickly entitlement that city folk tend to have, I sensed open hostility from everyone around me. If you believe I was exhibiting signs of paranoia, you may be on to something. I believe it's equally as plausible that there were a number of people irritable from the heat and the run and the long week, who weren't invested in projecting glee.

My first order of business was to record several documents in registered land, where, before you do anything, you have to retrieve the massive book, or books, as the case may be, that houses the certificate of title your documents reference. I loathe this part of the process, but only at the Boston registry, because there you can't get the books yourself. No, you have to stand at a counter and ask the person working behind it to get it for you.

And it's always the same person, unfortunately. He is a miserable fuck who seems to relish his little crumb of authority a little too much. I suspect this is because in every other area of his life, he is an abject failure with no authority over anyone. I want to make him a t-shirt that says "Because My Life Just Plain Sucks, It Is My Duty To Make Sure Yours Does As Well". Actually, I want to make him a number of t-shirts. Here's a sampling:

"When Life Deals You Lemons, Deal Out Even More Lemons To Everyone Else. Why? Because Fuck Them, That's Why!"

"Happy? Not After I Get Through With You, You Privileged Cunt!"

"What's six foot two, has a stupid mustache, looks like the step father who most likely killed his son in the powerful documentary, Paradise Lost, and is two seconds away from punishing you for the stupid decisions he's made in life? Me, you rich, goodlooking, self involved asshole"

As you can tell, they're variations of a theme, but they're gold, baby! Anyway, back to our interaction.

I've tried being cordial and respectful, but he hasn't made it easy. Every time I approach his counter, today being no exception, he sits at his rickety desk no more than five feet in front of me and ignores me until he's decided he's made me squirm long enough. Then he saunters over to me with an accusatory stare that says, "This better be good, asshole. You just disrupted me from something very, very important." And when I tell him which book I need, he looks put out and even more miserable than before.

One of these days, and it may be soon, I'm going to punch him square in the face and knock him right the fuck out. The only thing that stills my hand is the belief that life has already beat him up pretty good, better than my knockout punch ever would. Ah, but a man can dream, can't he?

So, after dealing with this miserable fuck, who for the record looks like an uglier, more disheveled Meat Head from the early days of All In The Family, I headed over to the Registered Land counter, where I had another miserable fuck to deal with.

This guy, though, is usually respectful, if not affable. Today, though, he was getting on my nerves. The certificate Meat Head had pulled off the shelf for me had an issue with it and its replacement was recorded in another book. There was no way for me to know that, though. The clerk closed the book, looked at me, and shook his head.

"Is there something wrong?", I asked.

"This certificate has been cancelled", he said and continued staring at me as if I was an imbecile.

As much as I try to be polite and deferential in this type of situation, I've discovered there are times when it's to my detriment, that some people see it as an opportunity to be rude and condescending. I was already a little prickly after dealing with Meathead and wasn't in the mood for this guy's nonsense, so I said "Ok, and...?", with a little bite in my tone.

"You've got to get another book"

"Which book?"

"Let me look it up for you".

As he did, I wondered why he gave me a hard time when there was no way for me to know I needed to get another book, and even if I did, he still would have had to look it up for me.

He gave me the book number and I went over to Meathead's room and didn't wait for him to acknowledge me on his own terms. I barked out the book I needed and thanked him when he handed it over to me. My change in demeanor must have worked; he was much quicker this time.

I finished my business in Boston and took the T as far as North Station, where I had to wait with throngs of other people for another one headed to Lechmere Station. When it arrived, the train filled up quickly and, what seemed to me, beyond its capacity. I had to stand and couldn't move three inches in any direction. Having dealt with the horrors of anxiety, I was well aware that this situation had all the markings of being the perfect storm for a panic attack. Alas, I rode it out without even the slightest pang of anxiety creeping its way into my being. Instead, I fell into a meditative state, my heart warm and body relaxed, and enjoyed the ride.

Even in Cambridge, where I almost always have a good experience, I dealt with cold looks and behavior bordering on hostile. I was going to say hello to Carol Anne, the friendly clerk I've developed a little crush on, but she was too busy to approach. Oh, well. I'll have to write more in depth about her someday. I think she has muscular dystrophy because of her awkward gait, but that doesn't make her any less attractive or kind. Meathead could learn a lot from her.

Ok, it's getting late and I've got stuff to do. We're almost at ten thousand, people!

The things that you tell yourself, they'll kill you in time

I turned on my Ipod the other day and discovered a problem. While some of the screen was back lit, the rest was an inkblot worthy of Rorschach.

Psychiatrist : Tell me, Kevin, what do you see?

Me: I see myself shelling out a couple of bills for a new Ipod.

In addition to the problem with the screen, I noticed a sizable dent in the rear of the unit. I quickly figured out what happened. Last week, when I fell on my bag in the pouring rain, in addition to ruining my lunch, I had crushed my Ipod. I'm glad I didn't find out about it then because it would have made my day that much suckier. It was only a couple of minutes later when my car wouldn't turn over.

Haven't bought a new Ipod yet, but I will. It will be a good investment; I used the last one all the time. In the meantime, I've been running sans music and, you know what, it hasn't been so bad. I've been enjoying the resultant quietude. I've enjoyed this new dynamic so much, in fact, I may continue going music-less on at least some of my runs when I finally do get a new Ipod.
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Larry King will be interviewing the Boston cop -- Barrett, I think his last name is -- who wrote that racist email and sent it that Globe reporter. I may just watch it, if only to see how he tries to wriggle out of the spot on charges that his email was racist. How can you repeatedly call some one a banana eating jungle monkey, or something to that effect, and come out the other side of the act claiming you're not racist. And, lets' not forget, he made at least a couple of sexist remarks, to boot. Sorry, Officer Barrett, you're fucked, but I'm curious to see how you defend yourself. Ah, I'll probably miss the interview in favor of Six Feet Under, which just arrived in the mail (you're back in my good graces, Netflix, ol' friend). I'm sure I'll have ample opportunity, ad nauseum, to hear his remarks in the coming days.
--

Oh, and Big Papi got himself in a little hot water, too. I am not surprised at all. The only people who are, I think, are the ones who are blinded by their image of him. "No way Papi juiced. No fuckin' way! He's a class act and, most importantly, he's a Boston Red Sox player!" I know it's crazy, folks, but even nice guys who play for the vaunted Boston Red Sox can make mistakes. It is a shame, though, that so many of the game's heroes are proving to be cheaters.

We're fast approaching visit number ten thousand. Aren't you excited? I know I am. We are totally going to celebrate the occasion. Stay tuned.

To bring you my love

I'm a little irked with Netflix. This is an unfortunate development, and one I hope to get past soon. I've been a big fan of the site; any issues I've had, and they've been few, were handled promptly and to my satisfaction . If I have to have an Et tu Brute moment with them.... well, that would just suck. But, I don't think that will happen, and if it does, I won't be too surprised; I live and breath on this planet we call Earth, and, despite my pure heart, am hardwired to be cynical.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Netflix, ordinarily prompt with deliveries, has, in the last couple of weeks, been dragging their asses. Usually, there's a two day gap between my returning a DVD and them shipping me a new one. Lately it's been three or four days. If the trend continues, I may have to reconsider where I rent my DVDs. You've pulled through for me in the past, Netflix, my old friend, and I have faith you will continue to do so. Don't let me down! I need my steady diet of Six Feet Under.
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Finished Bakker's The Judging Eye last night. Wow, what a read! He is the Lebron James of writing. If he has a weakness as a writer, it's beyond me. Can't wait for the next installment.

About three quarters of the way through Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee. A wonderful, yet tragic read. The betrayals, the slow and steady extermination, the reckless maltreatment of nature -- what our forefathers did to the Native Americans makes me sick. We came upon them like a cancer and devoured their territories, their traditions, their lives.

Our country was built on lies, murder, and excess. The plight of the Native Americans is our dark scar, the black secret we don't even whisper about. I suspect there will be a reckoning -- how could there not be? Our land is bloated with tumors, thick with hubris. Our leaders, reptilian. A reckoning, indeed.

I started reading Follet's Pillars of the Earth last night. It's a massive book, I barely put a dent into it. I suspect I'll be reading that one for a while. So far, so good, though. I can tell already it's going to be a good read.
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This blog will soon receive its ten thousandth visit. We'll have to celebrate. Hmm, what shall we do? Maybe a retrospective of some sort? Oh, I know: how about for one post I let 'er rip and dish about my friends, sharing all their dirty laundry and riffing about all the things they do that piss me off? You'd like that, huh? Alright, let me think on it.

Off to work on some music.

Hey mama wolf

Ellen told me a story today that I'm pretty sure possesses at least one moral and, at the very least, is a good accounting of the resiliency of nature in its seemingly fragile form. The story begins with Ellen spying her cat on top of the bird feeder hanging from a tree in her backyard, with its paws around a small bird. She ran outside to coax the cat away from the bird before death claimed it's everlasting soul, but it appeared she was too late -- the cat had brought it down to the lawn and was feasting.

Hoping there was still time, Ellen rushed to the scene, scared off her cat, and inspected the damage. The bird, a tufted tit mouse, was a mangled, red mess. It was hard to tell where exactly the bird was injured because of all the blood, but one of it's wings was definitely in rough shape. Ellen made the determination that the kindest thing she could do for this bird would be to kill it.

"And then I went inside and found a little box to bury it in", she said.

"Wait, how did you kill it?" The first thing that had come to my mind was a vision of her stomping on the bird, and I wanted to see how far off the mark I was. How does a middle-aged, Fox News watching, salty-tongued, woman, murder a tufted tit mouse? I was about to find out.

She extended her thumb and made a pushing gesture with it, as if she was tacking something to a wall.

"You crushed its head?"

"No, I broke it's neck."

A brutal game, nature. I asked her if she buried the poor bird.

"I was about to when I got a phone call. I was on the phone for, I don't know, maybe an hour. When the call ended, I went over to the box that had the bird in it and lifted the lid. And the bird rises out of it like a jack-in-the-box , one wing flapping desperately, right at my face. Well, it didn't get far because of it's lame wing. I can't tell you how startled that made me. "

"So, the bird, this cute little tufted tit mouse, survived two assassination attempts by creatures much larger, and far more cunning, than it?"

"Yeah, can you believe it?"

"Well, what did you do with it? Don't tell me you finished it off after all that."

"No, I brought it to the humane society and they mended it's wing. It's at my house recuperating in a cage. It seems pretty happy. "

"Good for you. That bird earned the reprieve."

"After the cat had finished with the bird and before I tried to kill it, my neighbor had stood over it and said a prayer. Looks like it worked."

"I'll say. Tell me, does the bird flinch every time you come near it?"

"You'd think so", she said, "but it seems to like me."

"No kidding. Did you name it?"

"Yeah. Rocky."

I haven't the slightest clue why she gave it that name, but whatever. If it were up to me, I would have named it Tuff Lil' Tit Mouse or Tuff Lil' Tittay. Or how about Mighty (tufted tit) Mouse?

Ok, for reals, I would have named it Lincoln, as in Abraham. Why? One, they look alike. Ask anyone what bird Lincoln resembled and they'll say tufted tit mouse ten times out of ten. And two, they both survived consecutive assassination attempts by a cat and a human. Ah, but Tuff Lil' Tittay has a nicer ring. We'll go with that.

Maybe I'll get a new name, get a new face

The more I learn about the Henry Gates arrest, the more convinced I am that Mr. Gates is almost solely at fault. I say almost because, despite the corroborating testimony that indicates as much, all of the facts of incident have either not been, or never will, be made available for public consumption.

When the story first broke, I didn't know what to think. I could see it going either way. I imagined a scenario in which Sgt. Crowley, for whatever reason -- maybe he didn't take well to the sight of an affluent, seemingly well-educated black man -- treated Professor Gates so poorly that he provoked him to the point where he lost his temper, which would have been warranted. This scenario, however unfortunate in today's climate, seemed plausible. But another scenario, equally as plausible, had Crowley doing his job by the book, but because of his negative feelings regarding the police, whether based on direct or indirect experience, he misconstrued Sgt. Crowley's intentions.

I didn't expect the story to make national news, though it wouldn't have been unheard of, considering Professor's Gate's stature. In my opinion, the story didn't have national legs; it wasn't of the caliber of O.J. or Rodney King. But, because we have cable news stations that air twenty four hours a day and need to fill that space up, and because Gates had connections and wasn't going to let the matter rest, I wasn't terribly shocked when the story blew up on the national front.

When it did, I made a concerted effort to educate myself more about the incident. I discovered that, based on the information available, an informed opinion could be garnered. Yes, at its core, the matter was a he said/he said situation, but there was enough to go on to come to the conclusion-- which, if new contradictory evidence comes to light, will be subject to revision--that Professor Gates had little or no cause to behave the way he did during and subsequent to the incident.

To begin with, we have the testimony of Professor Gates. He admits to being abusive with Sgt Crowley. He admits he was uncooperative. He admits to tagging Sgt. Crowley as a racist. Most importantly, he has not once, as far as I'm aware, contradicted Sgt. Crowley's police report, which he's had ample opportunity to do, given his predilection for the spotlight of late.

In the police report, Gates comes off as arrogant-- "Don't you know who I am?"-- and abusive--"I'll talk to your mama outside". He is described as being uncooperative to the point where he prevents Sgt. Crowley from doing his job efficiently. Despite that, he is treated with the utmost respect. To wit, after repeated warnings to calm down, Gates is handcuffed, hands facing front, a position that put Sgt. Crowley more at risk because of it's freedom of movement, but one that was allowed because Gates claimed discomfort when he was cuffed behind his back. Gates was also allowed to hold onto his cane, an object that could be used as a weapon. And, back at the station, he was booked in the presence of Harvard University administrators and was held in a room with more comforts than a cell. Again, Gates did not contradict any of these details.

The fact that Crowley taught racial sensitivity classes to cadets, that he gave CPR to Reggie Lewis, the African American NBA player when he worked at Brandeis(something a racist might be loathe to do), that among the officers, a Hispanic and an African American were present during the incident, that, to date, his record as a police officer has been exemplary -- all of these things point away from the type of man, this "rogue cop", that Gates has portrayed.

And, in order for him to have the support from the Cambridge Police Department, to still have a job, his record had to be spotless. Shit trickles downward, and no less than the President has been critical of Sgt. Crowley (an irresponsible and unfortunate statement, saying he acted stupidly). So have the Governor of Massachusetts and the Mayor. Ordinarily, Crowley would have been crucified, whether he was guilty of what Gates accused him of. Someone always has to take the fall, it's the way things work. Again, shit trickles downward -- each of the above-named politicians have referred to Gates as being a friend -- if there was a shadow of a doubt concerning Crowley's actions, he would have been tossed to the wolves. A sacrificial lamb.

What I find unsettling about this matter is it's ramifications. It has brought race to the forefront of our nation's consciousness. In a different context, that could be a good thing, something, like the Rodney King incident, or the story of Rosa Parks, to help educate us towards racial equality. But this matter, if anything, could propel us backward in that regard.

We have become so politically correct in this country that we have practically become unable to address the issue of race in a healthy manner. We're okay talking about it as it concerns racial injustice as perpetrated against African Americans, but when the roles are reversed, we clam up. We shouldn't. If our goal is equality, we need to stare racism in the face, no matter where it manifests.

In order for there to be true equality, white America has to get over it's collective guilt without, of course, reverting back to an antiquated viewpoint, and African Americans, as a whole, need to drop the mantle of victim hood. I'm speaking generally, of course, and don't wish to suggest that all African Americans play the role of victims and all whites harbor unhealthy feelings of guilt toward them, or that all white Americans are afraid to speak on the issue of race in a healthy, honest, manner. Perhaps, it's time to get beyond all of that and begin to see each other, while still acknowledging and honoring our pasts, as fellow human beings.

The above two paragraphs were difficult to write. Reading back, I think I simplified matters too much, but how could it be otherwise when you boil down race relations to two paragraphs? Maybe I should have approached it a different way, I don't know. It's never so simple as two paragraphs, hence the national debate, but I tried. Even those I disagree with regarding the incident, including Gates himself, I sympathize with. I have not had the experience that Professor Gates has had in his life. I have not had the black experience. And, even though I side rather heavily with Sgt Crowley in this matter, and find Gates' behavior throughout it to be exploitative and damaging, I can see how things turned out the way they did.

The Wire is one of my favorite shows. To me, it's Shakespeare. I love everything about it. While listening to David Simon's commentary over one of the episodes, I learned that the show had more African Americans in it than almost any other show in history. It had never occurred to me, or to be more precise, never mattered to me, all those years watching the show, that this was the case.

One day, and I believe it's achievable, I'd like to see everything be that way.

It's cold on the shoulder and you know that we get a little older every day

I forked over 350 smackers for a new starter for my car. By doing so, I fulfilled my end of the bargain. The mechanic had already fulfilled his by fixing the car. He charged me money for parts and labor and expected me to pay him. I obliged, mostly because I take agreements very, very, seriously, and partly because I couldn't figure out a way to drive off in my car without there being serious ramifications.

I've just decided that henceforth, I will refrain from explaining everything in excruciating and unnecessary detail. I'm sure this is not distressing news to you.

I'm listening to Gordon Lightfoot as I type this. When we were younger, my sister and I used to tease my dad about being a big fan of his. Back then, if you had told me I'd be listening to him when I was older, and without being forced into it, I'd punch you in the sternum and tell you you were nuts. Then I'd rest the flat of my blade across your throat and whisper menacingly in iyour ear, "It ends here, son. You bring that man's name up again I'll turn your cheeks into tent flaps!".

Off to play music. I'm in the belly of a Renaissance. Hope it lasts.

I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision

Just awoke from a nap. I need it after the trying day I had. It began with my car barely turning over, a problem that had been steadily growing worse over the last couple of weeks. Wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, it went, until, finally, it started. I knew I was going to have to address the problem sooner or later. Sooner, as it turned out.

I had some recording to do at the Boston and Cambridge registries, so I parked at Spira's and walked over to Lechmere Station to get on the T. As it happened, the Green line wasn't operational, but, fortunately, there were shuttle buses running its route. In Boston, I slogged through the rain and puddles and did my business. While in the registry, I saw a strong featured, black haired, young woman that caught my eye. I caught her eye, too, it seemed; every so often I caught her stealing glances in my direction. But there was work to be done, so I made my way back out into the rain and headed back to Cambridge.

Not before being re-routed back onto another shuttle bus at North Station. This time, the bus was packed to the gills. It quickly became a sweltering affair; the windows steamed up and breathing was a chore. Fortunately, the AC kicked in a mile or two into the trip.

Back in Cambridge, I hit the registry and spotted my black haired beauty. She must have left Boston about the same time I did. Was this a sign that I should talk to her? Perhaps, but my plate was full and I was eager to get out of there.

When I was through, I headed back to my car, again through the rain. At one point, I slipped and fell on top of the bag I was carrying. In addition to the documents I had just recorded, I had my lunch, which consisted of a banana and a cup of yogurt, in the bag. I stood up, my right side drenched from head to toe, and inspected the damage. Yup, yogurt and banana completely fubar. A big mess.

Got to my car and, guess what? It wouldn't turn over. I had a feeling. Fortunately, Spira was home and I was able to use her place as mission control while I made calls to work and Triple A. To make matters more interesting, my phone was about ready to die and I didn't have a charger with me.

Triple A arrived about an hour after I called them. The driver tried jumping my battery to no avail. He quickly determined my starter had gone. I could have told him that and I'm hardly the mechanic. Because he arrived in a pickup, he had to call in a tow truck. Another hour wait.

I won't get into what happened with the second driver, except to say it was a frustrating experience. Spira drove me home after my car was towed and I'm just now starting to feel dry again after so much time in the rain. And, yes, I did have an umbrella, but for reasons I don't care to get into, I didn't have it handy when I needed it most.

So, hopefully this repair won't break the bank. It would be nice for a change to spend less then seven hundred dollars.
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Camping was fun this weekend. It was great seeing everyone, if only for one night. We had two encounters with a bear. The first occurred when we were all sitting around the fire at night. Baby Boy Z started barking suddenly and jetted off into the woods. We all got up to see what the ruckus was about. Brad went after BBZ and, before he got far, saw a bear bounding off deeper into the woods. Baby Boy Z, despite all his antics over the course of the trip, was the hero that night.

I slept through the second incident, mostly because the tent I was sharing with Janelle was away from the camp proper. This time, people were awakened by the sound of the bear nudging Rachael and Mike's cooler towards the woods. Rachael scared it off by yelling at it.

I miss all the fun.

I fell in love with Rachael and Mike's greyhound, Stella. She is so calm and graceful and sweet. I spent as much time as I could with her. Rachael said I can borrow her for a week some time. I would like that very much. I did have to have a sit down with Baby Boy Z to let him know I still loved him.

"Yo, B, don't worry. We tight, braw. We tight! We BFFs till we die, son!", I said to him. I think that made him feel better.

And, speaking of feeling better, I think a hot shower, some coffee, and The Judging Eye, are calling my name.