Happy Independence Day, Costa Rica

(Which was a relatively peaceful event, but into every history, some asshats must fall. This particular one came from Tennessee.)


On this day in 1821, Costa Rica, quietly obtained its independence from Spain, as did most of Central America, with the exceptions of Belize and Panama. Costa Rica abolished its military in 1948, and people here are very proud of the reputation they've built as a peaceful, tranquilo country. They've avoided many of the hardships suffered by their neighbors, starting with colonization. Not that the colonizers didn't come. Of course they came. They just didn't amp up the raping, pillaging, and murdering to the levels they enjoyed elsewhere. They did pass around some smallpox because that's just the colonizer's calling card. A given.

When that genocidal asshat, Cristóbal Colón, (You may know him as Christopher Columbus) came a-sailing in 1502, he dubbed this place Costa Rica, meaning "rich coast", believing it to be rich in gold.  It wasn't. Nor were there enough indigenous people for old Cristóbal to pull his usual stunt of enslaving them and forcing them to work their own land for his pleasure and profit. The settlers on the seemingly Rich Coast were largely left to their own devices, meaning they had to do their own work. Needless to say, Costa no-muy-Rica was mostly ignored while the Spanish colonization *cough genocide cough* continued in golder pastures.

Likewise, Costa Rica hasn't been affected by military conflict, dictators, corruption, or the effects of the drug cartels to the extent that its neighbors have. They did have to fend off an attempted takeover by one William Walker, a member of the Southern Confederacy who hailed from Tennessee. Willy decided he wanted a couple of Central American countries of his very own, by gawd, so he pulled a Cristóbal and decided to just go take them. Willy planned to convert Central America into a slave territory, extending the land of cotton right on down to the land of bananas.

Manifest Destiny wasn't just heading west, y'all.

He declared himself president of Nicaragua in 1856, and then set his sights on his neighbors to the south. The Costa Rican president rallied his people and raised a substantial militia in short order. Armed with farming tools, rifles, and (of course) machetes, they tracked down our Nashville native and commenced an ass-whooping. The Battle of Santa Rosa lasted about 15 minutes, ending with the would-be usurper high-tailing it for Nicaragua.

They followed him.

This is where the story takes on the stuff of legend and folks start with the toasts. Having cornered Walker and his men, President Mora asked for a volunteer to carry a torch and set fire to the building in order to drive the evil-doers out. A humble drummer boy, Juan Santamaría, bravely stepped forward, asking only that his mother be cared for in the event of his death. Our courageous boy-soldier did his duty and, tragically, met his end, but he succeeded in flushing out ol' Willy and his merry band of assclowns.

Costa Rica prides itself on its claim of being the only Latin American country whose national hero is a campesino, a humble laborer, rather than a politician or military hero. Juan Santamaría was also of mixed race, being partly of African descent, though you won't find that reflected in any of the statues. (French sculptor. What are you going to do?) Our main airport is named after Juan Santamaría, so if any of you head down, now you know the story behind the name.

This is the Costa Rican national anthem. I like how it reflects peace, the beauty of nature, and working the land with your hands. It briefly mentions defense in the context of the pueblo -- here meaning the people -- exchanging their tools for weapons to defend the country's honor, in the tradition of the militia that schooled William Walker.  No rockets' red glare, no bombs bursting in air. I like the idea of a national anthem being about peace, work, nature, and the land providing sustenance and shelter for its people.

The video has some nice scenes of Costa Rica. Give a listen. It's short and sweet. (Lyrics in the comments)

The anthem sounds sweeter to me this year, as I just received notification that my Costa Rican citizenship has been approved. In about a month, I should have my cédula, or national ID card, making me an official, card-carrying citizen of Costa Rica, or as my favorite taxista likes to say, más tica que gallo pinto. (You're more Costa Rican than the national dish. Yeah, flattery, but I'll take it.)

Feliz Día de la Independencia, Costa Rica.

Columbus: Still a holiday. Still a Genocidal Asshat.

I'm humbled and, frankly, shocked shitless, that many of you apparently remembered my 2007 rant about Columbus, bold discoverer of genocide and thievery.

If you want some truth about Columbus, check it out: Columbus: Bold Explorer or Genocidal Asshat? I even reread it my damn self, just to see if it still had the same effect on my blood pressure. Check.

Also, as some of you know, I've been attempting to butcher learn the Spanish language. As such, I've plowed through some simple articles, most of which kicked my non-comprehending cerebrum in the dirt, but I laboriously learned some cool stuff about various revolutions and other historical tidbits.

Like the fact that in Venezuela, Hugo Chávez renamed it Día de la Resistencia Indígena in 2002. A couple of years later, some students celebrated that auspicious October day by toppling the statue of Columbus that had stood in Caracas. Nice. One year on Oct. 12, Chávez gave 1.65 million acres back to some of the indigenous peoples in particular areas. I think it'll be a cold day in Alabama before we see anything like that here, but it was nice to hear that someone somewhere realizes that celebrating this man's "contributions" to the world is just a shameful way of condoning genocide.

Anyway, click the link if you haven't read it. No, you know what? Click it if you have. We all need to remember...

Unnatural Causes for the Rest of Us

Tonight's the night. Regular folks can now catch part 1 of PBS's series, Unnatural Causes tonight at 11pm (PST). If that's too late, it also airs Saturday at 1pm (PST). No HDTV needed! This is the 4-part series addressing health inequities in the US that I wrote about last week. Please consider tuning in, it's supposed to be a fantastic program.

That's the info about tonight, now on to the related rant:

The viewing schedule has been a bit confusing. I was all stoked to watch it last Tuesday, at the convenient time of 7pm. I saw the little "HD" added to the listing, and assumed that meant that if you had HDTV, you'd get to watch a sharper more detailed version of the show, while the untechnologied masses would see the same old dull and fuzzy picture we've always had. (which has always worked just fine for me, by the way.)


That was not the case.

When a cynical friend reported that it was not showing up on our local TV listings, I called PBS to find out why. I was informed that the initial airing was for HDTV customers only. Well, la-dee-fucking-da. So if you were somehow squeaking through life with regular cable or, godforbid, the doomed technology of analog, you were out of luck last week.

I told my local PBS station (I'm talking to you, KCTS Seattle, Channel 9) that I found it quite ironic they would air this fantastic program addressing socio-economic and racial disparities in health, yet make it available only to the wealthier set among us.

What's up, PBS?

I'm thinking that the people who are most affected by these socio-economic and racial inequities do not, in large numbers, enjoy the benefits of HDTV. I know my ass sure as hell can not afford HD anything. Even the picture in my bathroom mirror is framed in old school wood-grain from the 80's. Further, the PoFolks' version airs at 11pm on a weeknight. I'm also thinking that a large majority of people who can not afford HDTV are hard working people who might be too damned tired to tune in at 11pm on a weeknight. How come the HDTV folks got to watch it earlier?



What I'm really thinking though, is this is just one more subtle step in the cable companies' quiet drive to roll high-end costly options into what they call "basic service". See, I view HD as a luxury, not a necessity. Hell, I view most of the hundreds of channels I get in my basic cable package as a luxury and not a necessity. Remember when basic cable really meant basic cable? Limited, but cheap.

Nowadays, "basic" cable runs $50 a month and includes individual channels for bass fishing, QVC shopping, and other worthless crap. I do not fish for bass, nor do I purchase bric-a-brac from QVC. The bass fishing channel is the albatross of my cable package.

Why can't Comcast and their ilk offer custom packages? Custom, of course, meaning customized according to the needs of the consumers who are paying for them. I would be happy as hell to have a package that included PBS and the NFL channel, but did not include QVC or Outdoor Life. That, however, would benefit the customer, not Comcast's bulging pockets, so it will probably never happen. When a customer feels that basic cable means 22 channels as opposed to several hundred, it's harder to justify charging her $50 a month for "basic cable", isn't it?



The NFL, many of you will be pleased to know, created an NFL channel last year. I know, exciting, right? When it first came out, it was available in my basic cable package. Then it disappeared. Turns out my cable company (that would be you scumsucking bastards at Comcast) pulled it from the basic line up and rolled it into a "for pay" sports package. To get it, customers must 1) upgrade from basic cable to the digital package, and 2) also pay for the new sports add-on. Why? Because the NFL channel didn't have a broad enough audience base to support it being offered (for free) in the basic line up.

Excuse me?

The NFL channel does not have the viewer base to support it, but the fishing & hunting channel does? Please. I call bullshit. The NFL fan base in this country is huge. In fact, I'm betting that a goodly portion of the hunting/fishing crowd are included in that fan base. I'm also betting that a much smaller portion of NFL fans are bass fishers. I'm sure I could draw some bastardized Venn diagram to illustrate that, or get Leonard Nimoy to verify that Comcast's position is not logical, but Comcast wouldn't care. Because they know good and goddamned well that there is a huge NFL fan base in this country, which is exactly the point: they stand to make a shitload of money off of that fan base.

Why give your customer something for free if you can convince them to pay for it?



So the HDTV thing? Same deal. Mark my words, Missy, the cable companies will slowly and quietly work it so HD becomes the norm, not a luxury. They will keep pulling stunts like this, and I'm betting there will come a day when a wonderful informative program like tonight's offering will be offered only to the HDTV crowd. Not as in "offered to them this week, and you can watch it next week", but offered only to them, period. You want to see it? Get up off some dollars. Upgrade your cable subscription and purchase the compatible equipment.

Now that's bad enough when it comes to me missing a playoff game (oh yes they did) that was broadcast on the NFL channel because I have not paid for a sports package, but if it gets to the point where informative and educational programming is only available to those who can afford it, that's where I really develop a case of the ass.

So tune in tonight or Saturday afternoon while you can folks; right now this information is still considered "public broadcasting", but next year, who knows.


Photo Credit: Michael Sears

Santa Bush: Man or Myth?

This just in. Heidi Harris, conservative radio talk show host, commenting on whether Michelle Obama is proud of America:

We've got President Bush out in Africa, like Santa Claus, giving out money left and right. That's not something to be proud of? She should be thrilled about that!

Well. That changes everything then.

Thanks for Nothing, Officer Donuts

I'm very discouraged today after more conversations with the State Trooper handling my case. Basically, they're closing the case. Yes, already. Apparently there are so many accidents on WA highways every day, especially in the Seattle area, they just do not have the manpower to follow up on them all CSI style. I mean, it's not like I was expecting Grissom himself to come find Hit & Run Guy, but ... that's it?

The vehicle is registered to a female, that's one complication, because we know right there that the owner is not the driver. Trooper Full Caseload called the phone number associated with the registration, no answer. No shit, Columbo! I mean, if you hit-and-ran someone, would you be answering phone calls from unfamiliar numbers? Please! He went by the address a couple of times yesterday, the vehicle was not there, and no one was home. Hello, let's just assume Hit & Run Guy is not going to be rushing for the doorbell to receive callers anytime in the immediate future.

He will go by a couple of more times today, but he only works the day shift. I asked if perhaps someone who works the swing shift could check, as there is a good chance the owner/driver works during the day, but all those guys have their own burgeoning caseloads.



So basically that's it.

I said I couldn't believe this is how our system works ... or doesn't. My dad was a cop, and I'm the world's biggest cynic (OK, except for Tony, maybe), you wouldn't think I'd be surprised. I really thought if you had the goddamn plate number, though, you catch the friggin' perp. Yes, I understand that given his behavior, it's nearly certain the guy is uninsured anyway. But really ... even with a plate number, the procedure is to call a few times, go by a time or two ... and that's it? Free pass?

Well goddamn, if it's that easy, I should just go out and get my rage on by ramming all the W in '04 stickered cars. Just park my car at work for a few days, don't answer the door or pick up the phone, and I'm home free.

What's the point in even making the damned report? It just took more time and energy, accomplished jack shit, and the added rage factor probably aged my heart at least a couple of months. Apparently, the report is mainly for the purpose of insurance. The companies need a report, "proving" that I did not back into a pole and try to commit fraud for the privilege of paying my $500 deductible, and getting a new bumper that looks the same as the old one. Since Trooper Full Caseload was not actually at the scene, and no witnesses came forward (bastards), I don't see how his report proves anything, but whatever.

I know I'm just another file in his caseload, probably with hundreds of other people, but come on. Trooper Full Caseload will move on to other folders, Hit & Run Guy will hide out for a few days and go back to life as usual. They don't care how long it takes me to replace that $500 any more than my clueless dog does. In fact, my dog probably cares more, on account of me buying his food.

This has turned into a full on Charlie-Fox, people. First Hit & Run Guy gives it to me hard, right in the bumper, then Trooper Full Caseload comes in for round 2, and has the nerve to have a lackadaisical attitude when he does it. At least say my name, bitch.



I'm just really discouraged. It seems that the past year or so, things keep chipping away at me financially, I just can't get ahead. Between the plumber, the oven, the dog's tooth, and this freeway ass-reaming, damn, I should at least have something to show for dropping that much bank. It'd be different, $1300 gone, but a new washer and oven, or a refrigerator, or a titanium fang for the dog to show for it. Or a fucking dishwasher, damn. I'd like one of those. I mean, I'd still be pissed about having to replace my crappy washer or any of those other things, but as it is, that money's gone, and my washer is still acting funky, I'll still have to replace the fridge before selling TOMFH, there's no titanium in the dog's mouth, and I'm still washing dishes by hand. 2008 is starting to suck as much as as 2007 did, and it's barely started.


Fuck. I know I'm whining like a little girl here people, I'm fully aware I'm bitching way more than normal, which is considerable on any given day to begin with, but I'm just tired of it. If it's cheer you're looking for, best be moving on, because I just don't have it in me. I just want to crawl under my blankets and not come out until 2009.

Hit & Run Guy, I Hate You

Someone slammed my car on the freeway hell known as I-5 this morning, and took off like a bat out of jail.

Motherfucker!

Broke my entire bumper all the way across and dented the hatchback door. I still have no idea why this accident even happened. I was taking the Bohemian to the airport. We were in the express lanes, separate from the main highway, the commuters hadn't taken over yet, so traffic was very light. The cars in front of me were the length of a football field away. No one beside me on either side, I was in the middle lane. All of a sudden

BAM!

with no warning at all. Out of the friggin' blue.

Someone rear ended me - HARD - in the middle of the goddamn freeway, with no traffic to speak of! I hadn't braked, there are no turn offs. Did he fall asleep? Was he drunk? Maybe he came flying over the hill of the bridge and didn't see us? But the hill isn't that steep - he would've had time to see us. And even if not, traffic was so light, he could've easily moved to one of the other lanes. We were on the lower level of the bridge, so even weather was not a concern.

WTF, people?

He moved to the right of us, we looked at each other through the windows. He had no front license plate ... uh-oh Sheriff Taylor, something's fishy in Mayberry. He looked like he was saying something to us, we both slowed down (me cursing like a banshee, of course), he got back behind me on the shoulder. Fine. I continued, slowly, toward the end of the bridge, because only an idiot stops on a bridge in the dark with the commuters coming. He kept falling farther and farther behind, still on the shoulder. I thought, damn, he must've fucked up his car, but Red Flag #2 started flapping inside my skull as he fell farther back, so I stopped, just before the end of the bridge.

All of a sudden, the Bohemian says, "Hey, that's him! He's leaving!" The asshat ripped over to the far left, and took the hell off. Bastard! Betcha a dollar he's uninsured. Because who takes the risk of pulling a freaking hit and run, hello, unless you're uninsured?

Holy fuckmonsters, people, I really would like to know what the hell I've done to knock my karma so far out of whack. Why does this random shit keep happening? I mean, a freeway pileup, I could see. An on-ramp accident, ok. Crowded freeways, a merging incident, something. Who the hell rear-ends someone on an open freeway straight-away? What is that? It was so odd, I thought maybe he was a serial killer, but if he were a serial killer, he wouldn't have left. No, he'd have already finished me off with a nice Chianti and fava beans by now.

The Bohemian got the license plate - we're 98% sure it was him. It was dark, so I guess there is the possibility that he doused his lights at the exact instant someone else flew from the right lane over to left at a high rate of speed. With my current run of luck, that may well be exactly what happened.

No witnesses stopped. Of course they didn't. Probably the folks behind didn't realize what happened anyway, to be fair. Again, who the hell even does some shit like that?


Given that the Bohemian still needed to catch her flight, and we were sitting on the side of the freeway in the dark with the commuters coming, no perp and no witnesses, there was nothing to do but head to the airport. Talked to a police officer there who advised me to call the State Troopers, which I've done. I'm waiting for their callback, which they say may not happen for a day or two. WTF?

So basically, I'm still on the hook for my deductible. $500. Fuck. Add that to the upcoming cost of Batman's dental work, and I'm looking at $1000 bucks. This month. 'Tis the season to shake my fist and curse the Fates or the Furies or whoever keeps hitting this flashing neon target on my back.


So,

Dear Uninsured Hit & Run Spawn of Satan's Asshole Guy,

I fucking hate you. You're a selfish, irresponsible, dangerous asshole. I hope your engine falls out. I hope I get to pick you out in a line up and throw tomatoes and hungry leeches at you. I hope you catch crabs that climb into your ass and breed. I hope you and your mean aggressive horrible dog that I don't feel sorry for both break your teeth this month. I hope your toilet backs up and floods your house. While you're sitting on it. I hope your oven explodes. Because that $500 you just yanked out of my wallet, simply because you are a selfish parasite on the asshole of humanity, needs to come out of your own ass tenfold, to teach you to be a decent human being. You just don't do that shit to people. Golden Fucking Rule, assmeister. I hope your mother finds out and bitch slaps you for being a sorryass loser. I fucking hate you.

Cracked Bumper Chick

Assdad's Testosterone Surge

Where to begin? Today's thoughts range from assholes to playoffs to presidential candidates. Yes, actually I am thinking of separate situations.

I only caught the last portion of the 2-party presidential debates this evening. More about the debates in a minute. The son's wrestling tourney, for some insane reason, fell on the same day that Seahawks played - and WON - Game 1 in the Playoffs (hell yeah) Who schedules these things?! The Bohemian and I, along with some of the other dads (ha) stayed on the run between the gym and the hospitality room, where they had a TV set to the game. Male Offspring had 4 matches. We'd run to the gym to cheer him on, then run back to watch the Seahawks take another step toward the Superbowl. (No, RG, I don't have any illusions. But I sure would like to stomp the Packers next week.)

Something happened at the tourney today that really bothered me. Actually it pissed me the hell off. One of the son's teammates was wrestling. The guy is a good wrestler, but lost this particular match. His father was sitting behind me in the stands acting like a complete ass. I don't know the dad all that well, but from what I'd seen previously, I didn't like him. He's the type of guy who talks big shit about how his kid can kick the ass of any scared little pansy on the mat. Dude, seriously, no "I" in TEAM. I once heard him say this shit to Male Offspring:

Yeah, so [his son] was standing there, right, this was back in 7th grade man, and the other kids were looking scared. They thought he was in high school, man, I mean, he already had a beard coming in! 7th grade! So he's standing there, his arm's in a sling, he couldn't even wrestle, so the JV guy had to step up and wrestle in his place. The JV guy sucked, [his son] could've beaten that kid with only 1 arm! We were really pissed that the JV guy lost the damn match for him.

Meanwhile, his son (who is really a good kid, who isn't big or brawny, and who doesn't have the Beard of Sasquatch) was kind of digging his toes into the floor and looking down at the ground. The next time Assdad cornered Male Offspring for more testosterone tales, my son actually sent me a text message (without the guy even noticing) that read, "Help!" so I'd come rescue him.


Anyway, back to today. Assdad's kid is wrestling. Hard. He's a good wrestler. Assdad is cheering his kid on. But this guy is getting angry. I don't mean worked up in the excitement of the match, I mean actually angry. Not at the refs, not at the opponent -- he's getting angry at his son. Now, I was sitting directly behind the team area, so most of our wrestlers, including a large number of freshmen, were right in front of me. Assdad was directly behind me, and yelling loudly. His diatribe went something like this,

Hook that ankle! Aaaww, no! NO! Goddamn it, get your points! There ... get it ... get the ankl----he didn't get it! What're you doing? You're giving away your points!!!! What the hell are you doing out there?!

OK ... now stretch it out ... stretch!!!! Aaaw! How can you be so stupid? He's not ... I told him to ... goddamn it! OK ... now get it ... you little di-------- damn it!!!

This went on, for a very long 6 minutes. At one point I blatantly turned and gave him a very nasty look. He wasn't expecting it, and met my eyes, full on. There was no question he understood. He looked away, quickly, and toned down for about 30 seconds before he couldn't take it any more.

His son lost the match, only by a couple of points. At this point, a female family friend cuts in, laughing, trying to lighten the mood, "He tried! Come on, it was a tough match, you'd better be nice to him!" Assdad really went off then:

It's his own stupid fault!! How could he lose that? He didn't even try for his points, he just gave it away! Goddamn it. The dipshit!

What? Are you kidding me? I'm sorry, but when you call your own son a dipshit within earshot of his team members, you are truly an asshole. In fact, you're such an asshole, you could have your own bumper sticker. "Have You Called Your Kid a Dipshit Today?"

The Bohemian leaned over and said she hoped the kid wouldn't come over. But, of course, he did. Assdad couldn't even talk to him for a couple of minutes. Then he launches into an encouraging pep talk, with supporting thoughts like,

If you don't care about the points, why are you even going out there?

Don't ever, ever go out there if you don't really want to win.

Didn't I tell you to get that ankle? But you stepped wrong, you didn't listen.

Wasn't I the one who told you stretch it out when you're in that position? But you didn't do it. You didn't do it, and look what happened.

You handed your points over yourself. Why in the world would you do that?

There was a lot more, but that was the gist. At least he didn't call the kid a dipshit to his face. I can't imagine how his son felt. If I could hear all this, I know his teammates, at least the row in front of me, could hear it. And writing it here doesn't begin to convey the disgust and anger in this guy's voice.


Hey, Freakshow, newsflash for you: your son is going to feel the sting of your inexcusable behavior much longer than he'd feel the agony of defeat from one lousy match. And if this is the way you act every match, your son is probably going to feel queasy every time he remembers high school wrestling in the years to come. I'm pretty sure he felt bad enough about losing a match without any help from you.

You're there to support your son, not to relive your own failed glory days, assclown.

Your son took 3rd place out of 8 schools in his weight class -- his coach and his team was proud of him. You should be too. You should be proud of him whether he placed or not. Our school won the damned tournament, and your son had a part in that. How about giving him some credit for that?



I hate asshole sports parents. I was ashamed of how our school's fan group looked today. And we were the hosting school. Nice. I found Teen Demon afterward, and filled her in. She made sure the Yell Leaders found the kid and told him what a good job he did (It was a tough match, seriously). Even if your dad is a total assfreak, it's got to help at least a little when 5 hot Yell Leaders hunt you down to say you did a great job, right? Especially when they come bearing snacks.

Anyway. I know I do tend to wax bitchy about these things, far longer than may be interesting, but it upset me.

Anyway.

So, Male Offspring got 6th place out of 8 in his weight class. He did fantastic. A freshman, wrestling his first varsity high school tournament? Hell yeah. He pinned his first opponent in the first round, lost the other matches, but they were close, and he wrestled hard, and learned some things. Got a purple ribbon to hang in his room.


I'm done. Thoughts on the debates (the part I saw, anyway) tomorrow. Goodnight all.

Athletic Supporter

I'm sorry, but there's something wrong when you're sitting among a group of parents at a freshman football game, at 3:30 in the afternoon, and somebody reeks of alcohol.

When it's coming out of your pores? Yeah, we can smell you.

Dude, show some class; stay home. Seriously. You're just embarrassing your kid.

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Because I have wise blogfriends who call me on my shit, I am adding the following addendum regarding Mr. MadDog: at least the guy showed up. And maybe his kid was just glad to have him there. More than I can say for a lot of parents ...

"But It's 2007!"

It seems ignorant comments are not just confined to my son's history class.
(Read "Yes, Virginia, People Still Do Say That Shit", if you haven't yet.)

So this is a list of local situations that I've seen personally in 2007, in case anyone still is clinging to the notion that racism is over.

Male Offspring, while fully expected to excel at sports, did not receive the IB* application packet when the other kids did. This despite the fact that he took sophomore math and honors science in the 8th grade. Despite the fact that both sisters are/will be succesful IB diploma graduates.

(*IB = International Baccalaureate, an international honors program.)

No one could tell me why. Something in the IB coordinator's "Sorry about that, but the deadline has passed now ... he can try next year, though," gave me the feeling they just wanted me to quit asking.

Next year? Excuse me? He's supposed to jump into this program after missing the first year? And then you'll wonder why he's not successful? No. Fuck that. Fuck you. He earned his place same as those other kids, he's going in this year.

Thank goodness for his counselor. We got him in through the back door. He'll have his shot.

But I've learned that it is part of my privilege that I am listened to and often see results when I go to address an issue at the school, and that I even have that expectation. (Often there is visible relief when I show up to deal with a situation.  "Oh!  So ... YOU'RE Male Offspring's mother!  Okay!  Sooo nice to meet you!") Many, many parents of color I've spoken with do not experience the same results when they address things. In this case, the parents of color I talked with said they didn't even know about the IB application, let alone the deadline.  This says something about who receives information. And who doesn't. If it weren't for the fact that I'd already fought to get my girls into the program, I wouldn't have known that this opportunity existed for Male Offspring.

They are usually the only Black students in their IB classes. And I had to fight for that.


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There is an African American girl in Teen Demon's class who is the personification of school spirit. She is student body president, is involved in school clubs, and one of the few Black kids in IB. Her grades started to slip; she was stretched too thin with all her activities. She was told to consider moving to regular classes. That's a message about the expectations for her.

Another girl, a White girl, actually wanted to drop IB. School was not her biggest priority, she wasn't involved in clubs, sports, or activities. She actively attempted to move to regular classes. Not only was she encouraged to stick with it, they did not allow her to drop out.  Let me say that again:  they did not allow her to drop out. She eventually did, but those adults had expectations of her; they fought for her, they encouraged her, despite the fact that she wasn't even interested in the program.

The first young lady was not encouraged. They did not fight for her. In fact, she was told maybe IB "wasn't the place for her," even though she had three years of that program under her belt, even though she contributes to the school in many ways. There were expectations for her as well.  Fortunately, she is not living down to those expectations.

Same school, same program, same teachers and administrators.  So even being class president isn't enough to overcome the disparity in treatment and in expectations here.  What the hell, people?


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The Radical Bohemian somehow got marked in the school's records as "White". This means her grades - excellent - were being credited to the White category as far as school performance. This pissed us off, as she was one of only two Black students in the IB program for her year, and now her performance was being credited as a White kid. I asked both the school and the district how that had happened.

Apparently, when we moved here, there was no provision for bi/multiracial students. You checked one box, and one only. So she didn't check any. (These days she just checks Black) Well, it turns out that,

Caucasian is the default.

What? I'm sorry, did you actually just say "Caucasian is the default"? No shit, we knew that; I just didn't know it applied to my daughter's school records as well as to life in general. I was told by a different person:

Oh, she's such a good student. Since you didn't check a category, someone probably looked at her grades and her WASL scores, and made a judgement call.

Are you fucking kidding me? So ... let's see if I've got this straight:  good grades + good standardized test scores + IB program = Caucasian kid? I don't think so. Unconscious bias, anyone?


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A Latina student was asked in Spanish class last week, where her family was from. She'd been taught her family history and Chicano history since she was a little girl. She is also shy, not one for speaking up. This though, was one area she knew, and she confidently told the teacher her grandparents were from the northern part of Mexico. The teacher looked at her name again and replied, smiling,

No -- Spain! Look at your name. Your family must be from Spain.

then she turned to the class and said,

Do you know why I say that? Because _________ is fair-skinned, and her last name is Spanish. Mexicans have the influence of the Indians, so many of them are dark-skinned.

All the kids in the class turned to look at this young lady. Surprise.

Are you kidding me? How arrogant. This teacher, who, by the way, speaks the most awful, gringoized Spanish I've ever heard, has the audacity to correct this child about where her family comes from, AND throw in some fucked up racist incorrect shit on top of it?

That young lady later said she felt stupid in front of her class. Like she didn't even know her own history. How do you undo that feeling?

My son has the same teacher. He says she has asked other students with last names like Garcia and Sanchez, why they are in her class. "Why don't you already speak Spanish?"  What?  Look, lady, do you speak Swedish?  No?  Why the hell not?  Explain yourself.

This is the most qualified individual the district could find to teach Spanish? You seriously expect me to believe there was not a more qualified native speaker who could teach Spanish? And you think there's not been a need for affirmative action?

In fact, I'd suggest that this one local situation is a great example of how our system has included automatic affirmative action for Whites since before we even became a country. In addition to being ignorant about her field of study, this teacher (whom Teen Demon also had for two years) is not even an effective instructor in her field. But she's the one they hired, she's the one who gets to teach the Spanish language to kids in this school. Hello, people, the White kids lose out too, in situations like that. That means your kids too, they're getting fucked up, substandard information in classrooms like this, all across the country.

Is it any wonder US folks in general are abysmal at speaking other languages?


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This same student, last spring, went on a field trip to the UW. Her mother put the trip together on her own, after finding out that the colleges only recruited from honors classes, and that a whole group of Latino kids had never been exposed to a college campus. The girl was fired up after the trip. This shy young lady got her nerve up and actually asked the school club administrator how to go about setting up a Latino Students Club. The advisor told her this:

I'm not sure that's such a good idea. It's not inclusive, you know? I mean, what if a White student wanted to start a White supremacist group here on campus? How would that make you feel?

Really? Are you fucking kidding me? An adult in this school actually compared a Latino Student Club to a White supremacist group. A hate group. What message does that send this student about the value of her culture? What does that say about the level of awareness we accept from the people in positions power? And why was this person permitted to take that action which is against the school handbook/policies on starting up student clubs? We can have a prayer group and a Young Republicans club, but not a Latino Club?

So between those two incidents with this particular student, what do you think the chances are that she, with her already shy personality, will take another chance on speaking up? What is the lasting impact on her? And without that club she wanted to start, what are the chances that she'll even find any support or understanding in the school?

(She did, eventually start the club. She had to fight for it, she had to bring in allies, but it's there now. It is very popular, and the young lady is coming into her own through the business of running it.  She's winning.)


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An individual in a high position in my area took a group of her (White) staff to the Central District of Seattle in order for them to "learn what it's like to be a minority". I'm serious. So they trooped in for a meal, and now, apparently, they understand what it's like for, say, a student of color to be the only one sitting in a White classroom. Really. That hour is somehow equivalent to living a lifetime with a constant awareness of your environment behind the history of being Black in this country? That must've been one hell of a meal.

Oh, and they also, apparently, have increased their cultural understanding with collard greens!

This was relayed to a group of Black women and a Latino man in that well-intentioned way that suggests the person expects approval or even accolades for her actions. Or a cookie. The person relaying the story did not pick up on the reactions of the group. She truly thought she had done a good thing, and that she's ready for diversity work now.

More harm than good here, people.  This lady and her cohort may conclude that since they were fine on their dinner outing, a Black kid in a White classroom should be similarly fine. If he's not fine, they may see it as his fault, because after all, they managed when they were the "minority". For an hour. They may be even less willing to listen to voices of people who do live this stuff every day, because now they "know from experience".

Sigh.

So now, how to deal with that person, and her staff, who are in positions to affect things for young people? Her good intentions have made the work even harder for those around her, and she has no idea.


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So yeah. These are just a few of the things I've personally seen or heard about, the kinds of things still happening in 2007. These are the things that well-intentioned people say and do. It happens a lot.  This is just a sampling.

And it wears a kid down after a while.

Rudy & The Mittster: Not Down With the Little People

Mitt Romney and Rudy Giuliani are backing out of the Republican YouTube debates. Check it out here, on their own Charlie-Fox news.

Apparently, they have more pressing engagements than answering actual unscripted questions from the American public. Hmm. Really? Because you'd think, with the Republican party's rep basically being in the toilet, they'd want to give the impression of actually giving a shit about any concerns the American public may have.

And here I was thinking that the Republicans would try to distance themselves from their Clueless Leader, in order to show that it's not the party as a whole that doesn't give a flying fuck about the voice of the people, it's just that chimp with veto power who doesn't give the aforementioned flying fuck.

I stand corrected.

Giuliani cited scheduling conflicts. (You know, I really think I'd find a way to work around those conflicts, Rudy.) Romney had this to say about the debates:

I think the presidency ought to be held at a higher level than having to answer questions from a snowman.

Are you kidding me? So the question itself -- how will the candidate address global warming -- is invalidated because the format in which it was asked was creative and memorable? Really?

So this guy holds himself at a "higher level" than having to answer silly questions from the unwashed masses. Wait ... he wants my vote, and he can't even make time to step down and answer a question I might have? Really?

What, does this guy squeeze gold out his ass or something? That is some High & Mighty thinking, right there.

I am disgusted, but not surprised and most definitely not outraged; it only works against him. In my opinion, this is just one more incident illustrating what the Republican party is all about. The rich and elite are the Deciders, and to hell with the rest of y'all, they don't have time for your petty problems, and they sure don't have to answer to anyone.

Romney also said that in the Democratic debates, Senator Obama

... is slowly but surely revealing who he is.

Yeah, Mitt, and your refusal to even step out to that podium is sure as hell revealing who you are. That's ok, because I'm thinking folks will not be impressed. The Mittster may just unwittingly rack up a boatload of votes for the blue side.

You just keep on, Mitt. If the rest of your party is as uptight and Holier Than Thou as you and Rudy and your Boy George, I'm glad I vote blue. Way to represent.

Karaoke Kevin Strikes Out

So last Friday night, to celebrate the end of Hell Week at work, some friends and I decide to go get our par-tay on. Hell week left me too beat to actually drive into The City, as Seattle proper is called 'round these here parts. Plus, we needed to party hardy locally because alcohol.

This meant karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant.

I guess I should give some background on the whole going out deal. Before returning to the land of fast food and NASCAR, I went out all the damn time. We had community overseas, and someone was always up for fun. You could go out by yourself, and within five minutes, you'd hear someone else speaking English, and -bam- automatic connection. Before long, there'd be a group, and multiple languages, and you'd be making the rounds. Plus, the ex and I were still friends at that time, so we each had a free babysitter whenever one or the other of us was feeling all Saturday Night Fever.

Here, everybody speaks English. (And English only, bygod. This here's 'Murka! ) There's no connection. You go up and start talking to someone, they think you're a freak. Or that you want a hookup. Also, my friends are scattered all over. A night out with the girls isn't quite the same when you only have one girl.

I've got one close friend here. One. I met her because her brother was my boyfriend. She stayed with us for a while after an extended trip to Europe. Anyway, I ended up giving her brother the boot, but she stayed on for a few months. This led to a rumor that she'd stolen me away from her own brother with her nefarious bisexual ass. This rumor made it all the way to the brother, to my ex-husband in the Middle East, the brother's ex-wife in Jersey, and the brother's friend in Texas. We thought that shit was funny as hell, seeing as how I, apparently, am "nowhere near butch enough" for her. Those subtleties, however, are lost on most straight guys. That whole gay agenda thing.  They have to take their fantasies where they can get them, I guess.

Sometimes I still call her My Bitch just for old times sake.

Anyway, My Bitch and I used to go out in The City my first year or two back in 'Murka. We had to compromise when it came to our party establishments, as her ass is stuck in the 70s, musically. She also gets annoyed at "straight clubs", because men "don't know how to respect women,". Compromise was in order.

She is all about some 70s soul. It's great music. Love it. But it ain't the only show in town. Just sayin'. Anyway, my favorite place to go was Larry's, which was known around these parts as The Hip Hop Club, or The R&B Club. Which are just politically correct ways of saying The Black Club by people who "don't see color". I liked Larry's because it wasn't uptight and the music was good. (If you ignored any lyrics which happened to be misogynistic.) My Bitch maintained that it was all about men "getting all up in your ass", but when E'rbody in the Club's Gettin' Tipsy came on, her ass was the first to step out.

My Bitch, who tends toward the cynical when it comes to US race relations, told me often that Larry's was not long for this city, because "Whenever there's a black club in Seattle, they shut that shit down. Too many black folks in one place at the same time, folks here get nervous. They're going to shut that shit down."

I believe she even used the phrase "Mark my words," with an air of superiority thrown in for good measure. I blew it off. Larry's was doing the business. Seattle is all about diversity (in theory, if not in the flesh). This is a laid-back town. Larry's would be fine.

Of course, they shut that shit down about a year later, which did wonders for My Bitch's air of superiority.

Anyway, in the spirit of compromise, we'd hit Larry's sometimes and we'd hit Neighbors sometimes, which was a mixed-orientation club tending toward the techno tunes. I'd had enough of techno in Hungary to last me a lifetime, but the crowd was fun. We hit a few other places too, in search of a 70s soul music, and would go out about every couple of weeks or so.

The last year and a half, two years, I've been passing on the party more and more. This has a lot to do with the whole Seasonal Affective Psychosis I'm pretty sure I've developed here, and my ass going from phat to fat in the space of three years. And Larry's being shut down. There's that. Anyway, we've kind of turned into first rate duds.

Which pretty much horrifies me.

Goodgoddamn, but I do digress.

Okay, karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant: we actually had a group, actually a foursome -- a veritable crowd for me and My Bitch. The other two ladies and I had been there twice before, after our fledgling advocacy group's first meetings. We were so charming that we are already "regulars" for our favorite waitperson, a feisty Brazilian hottie, and the manager -- also a hottie of the male persuasion -- who keeps us happy by bending the musical selections to our desires. Feisty hooks us up with the right booth, titillating conversation, and fast service, and MixMaster keeps the tunes flowing, much to My Bitch's delight.

Would that MixMaster was not quite so young. Or my ass not quite so fat. Anyway...

Karaoke was interesting. Whole lotta country going on. But there was one chick who did a few non-country songs. We were liking her. One lady did The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. Now I love me some Roberta, y'all, but don't sing that slow shit on karaoke night.  About that time, our two compatriots decided to call it a night. There was one petite white girl who did The Humpty Dance. Girl did a great job. She also did Rapper's Delight. You just never know. Her boyfriend did a country number. He was real twangy, now. You just never know. She told us to gear up for Ice Ice Baby, and we decided to order a shot while waiting for that great American classic.

Hey, you takes what you can get. If it's Vanilla Ice or Conway Twitty, my ass is all about some Ice.

Now My Bitch isn't much for drinking. When she does, nursing a Lemon Drop is her thing. But every great once in a while, she'll do a shot. Last Friday it was a Pink Pussy. Which turned out to be sickeningly sweet, and sat neglected on our table. Now, it's not like My Bitch to neglect a Pink Pussy, but I guess the shot is nothing like its namesake. I went for a Blow Job.

We're still talking shots here, people.

As many of you may know, you don't just pick up a Blow Job like any old shot. That wouldn't be in the spirit of the drink. You have to go down on it. My Bitch was making all kinds of noise about how big and heavy the shot glass was, and how maybe she's safer on the Pink side of the fence, when I knocked it back, hands free. My Bitch was suitably impressed and was about to take notes, when some dude suddenly appeared at our booth.

I mean, really, the shot glass hadn't been back on the table a full minute. Show some restraint, man.

First time a guy's flirted in 20 or 30 lbs -- gee, ladies, I guess a good blow job really does cancel out the poundage. Bastards.

Kevin was drunk. That was his first mistake. Hook-up tip: slurring your words, not attractive. Kevin also veiled his baldness with a Kangolesque hat that looks sexyhot on some people, but looked like my grandpa's on him. That was his second mistake, trying to hide the bald with a hat.

In fact, let's stop and talk about bald, because it needs to said:

Men --especially straight men: bald is sexy. It's true. We like it. If you're upset over that receding hairline or that donut ring, shave the shit off. Sex-say. Hot.  Just shave the shit off and call it a day. A field of lonely hairs waving over your dome is not fooling us. We can see your scalp. Patrick Stewart? Sexy. Sexier than a guy 20 years younger who thinks he's fooling me with his lonely hairs or sloppy donut ring. A comb-over is a definite no-go. You can just stop reading if you think a comb-over is a viable option for thinning hair. If my man had a comb-over, I'd lop that shit off while he slept. Growing it long in the back and making a ponytail out of it? Well, I won't say it can't work, but if you choose this option, make sure you can carry that shit off. You'd best be one sexy motherfucker to go with the balding ponytail option. The hat? This is the male version of wearing falsies. Someday that shit is going to come to light. You're not fooling anyone, honey, and you may well piss a woman off with that little ruse. Now a hat can be hot, and I'm not saying you can't do the hat AND the bald. Just don't wear the hat specifically to hide the bald. It does not work.
Moving on. So, Kevin:

"Hello Ladies ... may I interest you in some conversation?"

Blank stares.

Kevin would not be dissuaded. Now I'm sorry, but when two women hesitate, look at each other, and come back with, "Um, we're actually leaving before too long, but thanks," they're really not that into you. I won't even go into how many times he asked if he could sit down. Again, guys: if the answer is not a definitive YES, assume that means NO. I decided, fine, you want to push yourself on us, let's have some fun. I'm fucking with you, Kev, and not in a good way.

I asked, "So, Kevin, what brings you over to our table?" Knowing full well it was the now-empty shot glass with whipped cream lingering on the rim. Kevin stammered and stared and finally came back with some lameass shit about true conversation and connections. Right.

"So, ladies ... what's your story? I'm a bit of a philosopher. Why are you here? Ah you're friends. Of course. The question should be, 'Why are we friends?' (ha ha ha) Are you married? Out with the girls? May I sit down?"

We did not scoot over.

We gave fake names. I was Shania, in honor of the karaoke pouring through the speakers. Kevin didn't make the connection. My Bitch was Jasmine, which apparently is some sort of street name she'd had back in the day. I believe it was actually "Sweet Jasmine", but Kevin didn't need any encouragement.

We asked Kevin about his philosophy. His philosophy was "true connections" and "real people". Right. Like I've never heard that before. At least be original, dude. I'm surprised he didn't whip out the always-impressive I Like Walks on the Beach deal. He did, however, drop the fact that he takes care of his sick father, and that he's pretty much solvent, as he's got some sort of business selling windbreakers, which allows him to pursue his passions. Including philosophy.

I told Kevin that we'd actually met through My Bitch's brother, and she caught on and chimed in that she had stolen me away from him. Kevin was looking a bit uncertain at this point. I let him know that My Bitch tended to get pretty jealous, so ...

Kevin blinked. He responded smartly with, "She does? Tha's okay ... I'm drunk too!"

Me: "No. JEAL-OUS, not drunk. I said jealous."

Kevin blinked some more. He raised himself half way out of his chair, rubbed his face, eyes darting nervously around the room. Good, I thought. That freaked him out -- he's so out of here. I underestimated the power of testosterone. (Fool!) Kevin sat back down. "I like it!" he confessed, breathlessly. "I've got to hear about this!"

Typical. I am out of practice. When has the possibility of lesbians ever freaked a guy out enough to get rid of him? What am I, a rookie?

Kevin eyed us with new interest and respect. Whatever. Like that whole "I'm so down with lesbians" bit is any kind of original.

"Do you ladies like Faith Hill? Tim McGraw?" he asked, whipping out his cell phone.

"Um... NO," in stereo.

"Oh." he shrugged, slipping the phone back in his pocket. "Then there's no point in it..."

We didn't take the bait. Kevin held out for about 10 seconds. "Oh, I just have to show you this ... I'm not trying to intrude, but when you ladies see ..." he flips open the phone and proudly reveals a picture of some chick's back on a stage with a bunch of lights. "That's Faith Hill!" He reverently confides.

"Oh. Mm-hmm." (again with the stereophonics)

At this point, Kevin gets a bit emotional. His barefaced desperation is clutching at our sleeves. "No, ladies ... I met her. Faith Hill. I was on stage with her. I gave her my windbreaker. We were all together -- everyone -- this was after 2001, after 9/11." Kevin shuts his eyes tightly and takes a moment. "9/11, ladies ... it was ... we were all there," Well shit. Now he's whipped out 9/11 on our asses. What is he, George Bush? Fuck. "To this day, she still has my windbreaker. I gave it to her."

My Bitch and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. Mainly, "This motherfucker is just too damn pathetic to mess with. Let's blow this pop stand." I told Kevin I needed to get home to my kids. I was tempted to tell him I had nine kids, but this shit wasn't even entertaining. Plus, that probably wouldn't have fazed him.

Kevin was just on this side of tears. Goddamn. "But ... I'm real! I'm true! I showed this to you," waving the phone. Yeah. About that...

We were out of there. On the way out, I told Li'l Humpty that we were sorry to be missing her rendition of Ice Ice Baby after all.

She understood.