September 2008 Archives

OK, so my friend and failsafe dinner partner Jane met me at Kerbey Lane.

First, let's get it out there: Kerbey Lane, at least at some locations, has come to suck. The South Lamar location is often laden with bad odors, as it was last night, and the bathrooms are so horrid that it seems inadequate that the frequently indifferent staff are expected to wash their hands in there. Self-immolation is the only really sanitary option.

The thing is, it's a block from my apartment. In fact, it's another block closer now than it was from my previous apartment in the same complex. It seems stupid not to go there, particularly when the veggie burger with veggie chili, cheese tots, and cold beer I had post-run four hours earlier is forgotten in the glare of a pancake craving.

So, there's this odor. It's worse near the door, near the restrooms, and it immediately occurs to me, as it usually does, that I've made a horrible dining mistake. We're placed by an only somewhat indifferent host in a booth on the far side, where the odor has diminished to what Jane believes might be the sort of vegetable soup that smells "like sweat" when it's cooking.

Our waiter shows up, and I'm happy that it's a kid that is more like waiters in Austin, and certainly at Kerbey Lane, used to be: personable, even fun, and not visibly annoyed at having to refill your fucking iced tea. In fact, it becomes a race to see if I can get three gulps from the tea before Kevin materializes at my elbow with a pitcher.

There's a couple in the booth behind me. I get a brief look when we pass. The guy sounds like a stoner, and then his phone keeps ringing. The whole time, while I'm rattling on and on to Jane about stuff, he's rattling on and on about stuff, only louder and more... dumbly. And, it's not the kind of dumbly that you can forgive, like from a small child, dog, or person that is doing the best they can with what they've got in the brainpan. Granted, this guy doesn't seem to have a lot more untapped capability under his long, contrivedly disheveled mane.

After lots of separate ringing gone unheeded, he finally answers his phone, and we're treated to his side of a loud conversation. Several times, in my increasingly curmudgeonly way, I half- turn, kind of a mix between "Oh, I'm sorry, I was concerned something might be wrong," and, "I want to beat you unconscious with your Samsung."

To her credit, the girl leaves almost immediately, possibly seeing her chance, possibly to smoke, possibly to have her own conversation, politely outside, or possibly to brave the bathroom. Eventually, finally, after an unbearable length of time, he ends the conversation. By this time, the girl is back.

He's doing well over 90% of the talking, to the point that, though an attractive blonde, she could have sounded like Mike Tyson or Mr. T, and I would never know it. I catch snippets, and he's talking about acting. I hear bits about football, bits about lines...

Then a couple sits in the booth behind Jane. He and his companion talk little. He's in a UT shirt and a ball cap. Their food arrives quickly, and the guy shovels his food in, with his fork gripped like you'd grip a homemade shiv as you jammed it into one of your fellow inmates.

This, of course, impacts or annoys me little. He can eat as he wants, and I won't judge him for it. He's not my date.

SNGNNNNNKT. NGT. HWOCK. I look up from my migas taco in shock. It's the guy behind Jane. No, this can't be. Jane tries to suppress laughter. Well, Ican get over it. But no. He does it again. And again. He is clearly on a timed regimen, making the really loud snorting-phlegmy noise with his nose and throat, roughly every minute and a half. When I occasionally catch his eye on accident, he looks at me with the sort of look that says, "Yeah, my pet possum killed your fucking cat, and yeah, I got $8 for the skin. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?"

Meanwhile, the few tidbits from behind me that survive the hocking across from me begin to piece together. He's not just in theater. He's not just some actor schlepping in local commercials and student films. No, this guy's got real work, regular work. It's what he does. He's not actually discussing working construction, he's talking about stage business. He mentions "not having lines in the last eight episodes." He mentions someone named Minca or something, and despite never having dulled my brain on the show, I finally put it all together. I look it up when I get home, and this is the guy. I'm much less certain about the girl, but this might be her. She was far less annoying, with less contrived hair, but her choice of friends/people to know at all raises serious questions.

I mention this later to my girlfriend Chirstina, who says, "Christ, what is worse than an actual asshole high school football player with a gigantic ego? A fucking LA actor with a remarkably larger ego playing a high school football player on TV."

I am myself confused by this duality in me: the person who is angrily annoyed at the behavior of the people infesting the world around him, that doesn't see any realistic hope for humanity's resolution into something even mostly worthwhile and noble; and, the love for and belief that any good in people is worth appreciating and trying to nurture.

My friend Amber finally put forth a theory one night, leaving a bar of frats and maneuvering through drivers taking any visible advantage for themselves. "Maybe you like people, but just expect better from them."

That is, no doubt, it. I expect people to be nice to each other. I expect them to make the occasional small sacrifice to help someone out, or just to be courteous. I expect them to be aware that other people are occupying the same space, space that is disturbed greatly by loud cell phone conversations and the harvesting of phlegm from their sinuses and espohagus. And, no doubt, maybe I expect them to not be so judgmental of the ones that fall short; that fall as short as I do.

I hate politics. I hate election years. I hate seeing people, conservative and liberal, Republican and Democratic and Libertarian, at their stinking, ego-driven, smug and/or desperate worst.

It's also time for the subtle battle with my conservative, Fox News-adoring parents, and probably me, as well, to ramp up the regular levels of rhetoric and try to turn each other.

My stepfather started off well, sending a couple of anti-Obama emails to me to reasarch and vet them for truth. I appreciated that, even though they were balanced by some random anti-Hillary invective, much of it by Dick Morris, the prostitute-hiring Clintonite turncoated to conservative talk show vending machine... I mean, host.

There was also the notable, if not entirely relevant, declaration at Christmas dinner, said with fearsome conviction, that Bush is the "greatest American President, bar none". Had he said Reagan, or even Nixon, I would say, well, that's a reasonable position for a Republican, I guess. But... really?

Then, a couple of weeks ago, he put the pursuit of rationality into a powered tailspin, smashing it into a virtual orphanage. He sent a Power Point titled, "Horrible knock-knock joke."

"Knock-knock." Innocent enough.

"Who's there?"

"Eyes."

"Eyes who?"

The next slide is a Samboish caricature of, let's just say, one of the two presidential candidates, with exaggerated lips and other features, and the punch line:

"Eyes yo new President!"

I got enraged. I considered an essay on growing up a minority with an openly racist parent. I held back with the simple, "Really? Is this racist bullshit the best you people have?"

There was no response. It now occurs to me that maybe he and all his white Bush-worshipping friends were sending this around, sharing their disbelief and disapproval. Yeah, maybe I was jumping to horribly wrong conclusions. That's it.

Of course, this is the guy that acted annoyed when I paused on the race question on an application, telling me to put "White." The guy who went absolutely ballistic when he found, in my room, a copy of On Prejudice, an anthology of essays about prejudice and discrimination. He went off on the fact that the dozens of authors included Malcolm X and Senator Moynahan, two people I would not think of someone reviling in the same sentence.

I would have been better off with him finding porn and pot. He wrote a note that I was an idiot and he didn't know what the hell was wrong with me, and I didn't know shit. Fortunately (not), I got home, making the note unnecessary, since he was able to yell at me while I took him to the airport.

Mom's modus operandi is a bit less obvious, and she has worked long and diligently to perfect it, employing it in personal situations as well as political discussions. Confronted with an opinion, or a documented fact, she always starts with, "well, everyone has an opinion, and that's what makes the world great, as long as we respect that." When confronted by the assertion that the discussion is about actual fact, and not opinion, she reexpresses her opinion, despite the facts, say, specific evidence of wrongdoing: "Well, I don't know, I think Bush is a good man. He is very religious."

Monday, hearing some of the "facts" swirling around about Palin, I referred some people to www.factcheck.org. I sent an email to my parents, as well, since it debunks myths in a truly fair and balanced way.

Mom emails me back

Did you watch the O'Reilly show- interview w/OBAMA?   So clear to me,  he is not ready to lead the country.  I just cannot stand J. Biden senator-Biden even said "Obama is not ready to lead the country".  Of course, now Joe Biden says the different story....pure politician.  I truly trust McCain and Palin.

I responded:

Actually, what I saw was O'Reilly acting like a jerk, as usual, just trying to shout over whoever he's "interviewing." Obama knows he has to be careful.
 
I liked some of his answers, like responding to O'Reilly hounding him about whether he'd prepare for military action against Iran. He answered the question about the surge well - O'Reilly wants a simple answer to nail him with, but the answers aren't that simple, and even O'Reilly ends up agreeing on getting Iraq to start being financially responsible, as well, and Obama knew the numbers involved.
 
O'reilly is knowledgeable, but he relies on oversimplifying, soundbites, and sarcasm, because that's what sells to the kind of people that watch Fox News. That's what that audience likes. You could watch that interview and take it apart line by line, and see that, unless you're just predisposed to believe otherwise.
 
Let's see, he called him "Robin Hood Obama", and "you're gonna ratchet all you can ratchet, whatever." He says he bloviated in Denver, which is funny, because that's all O'Reilly does.
 
I was pretty pleased - I think Obama answered the questions, and didn't let that jerk bully him.

Granted, it was dumb. It was a waste of time. But I couldn't seem to stop myself. And, sure enough, the response...

I respect your opinion... The different opinion of the people is very good-as long as we communicate with respect and come up with the resolution.  I like O'Reilly.  He is very straight shooter, smart, well educated, hard working,  and try to be fair and balance, does not put up with non-sense stuff.  However, I do not like Shawn Hannity.

But this is why this all upsets me so much. Maybe my mom is on the more denial-based, unthinking end of political debate. But everyone does it. I do it, get my ego wrapped up in it. I sent her a response loaded with clips of interviews, articles outlining his errors and repeated lies, even the video of him freaking out when he was the host of that gossip show, because it illustrates the temper that is part of the reason he's a horrible "journalist".

I told her that:

People should make their decisions and opinions based on the truth, plain and simple. I think ideally, both conservatives and liberals should agree on that. But everyone wants to win. The parties want to win, and individuals want to "win", they want to be right, they don't want to feel like maybe the guy they like is anything less than right or good. We all do it, but it's wrong. It's putting our egos ahead of the truth, and every religion on the planet, from Christianity to Buddhism to Islam, talks about not doing that.

Nothing's going to get better in this country or the world until we start dumping our egos and putting value in truth. That's all I want, and that's why this stuff, on both sides (I don't like Al Franken or Michael Moore for the same reasons I dislike O'Reilly) makes me angry. We have to be better than that.

I doubt she read the articles or look at the video clips. If she does, her brain will probably block it out. She'll say something about opinion. I'll be frustrated, hopefully because a call for truth and reason is again ignored, but probably because it's my call for truth and reason that is being ignored. We'll go on defending our little fiefdoms of belief and our desires for moral superiority. We'll go on with the going nowhere, and the country will, too.

At least we both hate Sean Hannity.

I dreamed last night. I need no seer or psychologist to decode it all, to trace the shadows to their source.

I can't remember how it started, except that it started with death. I'm driving, and someone's in the car with me. We see something, and it shakes us up. It's horrific, and we drive away, trying to get away from it.

We drive on. There's a fog over the grass in the fields, surrounding and seeping into the cracks and seams of old white frame houses houses. There's a wide divider between our lane and the next. Thirty yards to our left, a massive white swan is trying to take flight, but its neck and back are partially broken, the graceful length tortured, twisting on itself. With great struggle, it leaves the ground, trying to keep hold of what it is, but it can't get more than a few feet up, and it crashes to the asphalt again.

We're moving too fast, and I can feel a momentum in my heart, mostly helplessness, but a twinge of that is self-imposed, like there's nothing we can do because maybe we won't. It's too hard. But even so, we know we can't end it, we can't get back, can't fight the momentum, no matter how much we want to.

I turn back to the road ahead, the flatbed truck ahead of us swerves to the left, there's a crunch and then I see the girl, about eight or nine, standing in the road, her bike behind her, her brother's body tangled with his bike on the street in front of her. His head is between her and his body, and she picks it up, and screams.

We stop this time, get out and start running to the girl. Whoever I'm with grabs the girl. People are running out of the house nearby. The woman isn't reacting enough to be the girl's mother. I'm reaching for the phone to call for help, and I wake up.

1:00am. I'm shaken, a little frightened by the force of it all, that I can still feel on me and inside of me. I think of calling someone, but I don't. The cat is bundled up extra tightly against my leg, like he knows, and is applying comforting pressure to some wound.

I pet him and fall back asleep.

I dream again. I'm in an apartment, just down the parking lot from mine. It's the apartment where yesterday, in the waking world, my neighbor's body was found.

Here, I walk in as several people are cleaning the apartment out. The living room is empty of the larger furniture, and now it's just the small stuff, the flotsam and jetsam of her life, the same as in all our lives, those things that are left unboxed and scattered across the floor in those final moments of moving out of a home, things to keep, but without a real place. 

I see a litterbox, and there's a cat on the windowsill, already looking lost. I pet it a bit, tell it things will be OK.

No one there knows anything about her, though I sense that one of them is a friend, maybe a brother. There's just a helplessness again. Though we didn't know her, we know what a life is. Though she's already gone, the moment she left hangs around us like a fog, something we can almost touch, and if we can touch it, maybe we can go back, maybe we can change it.

But time moves, and I'm moving towards waking again. The people in the room fall silent, and I know we all feel that momentum in our hearts, moving us past that moment, that sight of the falling swan, that point at which we can't turn back.