This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VI

Episode VI: Tank Trouble

Illustrative purposes only.

At least I think it's Episode VI. I haven't named them all in sequence, so those of you thinking there have been at least six episodes of This Old Motherfucking House, you would be correct. Had I known it was going to be a friggin' series, I'd have started naming them in sequence from the get-go.

First off, I'm home sick today. Not at death's door, but feeling crappy just the same. So I drive Male Offspring to school in my pajamas with the full intention of returning to my nice warm bed. Upon my return, I hear water. NOT good. It's the toilet tank, overflowing. This is infinitely better than the lower portion of the toilet overflowing, trust me. At least it's clean water. But still, it's not doing my subfloor any favors. This happened a few weeks back, but I hadn't really had any problems since taking the tank lid off and yanking up part of the toilet's innards. Apparently my toilet was just biding its time. Waiting for a sick day. A rainy, cold, sick day.

Long time readers may remember the son and I installing this toilet not long after purchasing TOMFH. (You know, right before the housing market crashed. Yes, still bitter.) New toilets are not supposed to cause problems.

So who knows how much water flowed out of there before I got home. Also, the tub was partially full of water. Not sure how that relates to the toilet tank overflowing, since this shit never happens when I'm actually home, but there you go. So I take the plunger, go out to the back yard, where the grass is growing to jungle-like status due to the never-ending rain and my still-broken lawnmower (I was going to get it fixed until I had to pay for the new roof), open the overflow pipe and plunge the hell out of it until I hear the requisite loud sucking sound that is the water flowing freely.

Kind of reminded me of the sucking sound of consumer confidence draining out of our economy. Or the value being sucked out of our houses. Or the jobs draining out of the market. Or the Republicans draining out of the legislative and executive branches of our government. Yeah, let's stick with that one.

I think the pipe is starting to get those damn roots again. Fuck. Like I need a big ol' root growing into my pipes. Always leads to trouble.

AND, I still haven't changed the furnace filter for this winter. I've been putting that off as long as possible. No, I am not looking forward to skulking down to the dark maw of hell that is my crawl space, nor am I looking forward to skyrocketing electric bills. All hail the fireplace and my $50 Costco heater. Also, I've decided we're going back to our European habits - the dryer has been off limits except for extreme emergencies. No son, "But I like the black sweatshirt better than the brown one" does not qualify as an emergency - hang those clothes up to dry.

Hey, it adds up. Just like turning off lights and not running the water when you brush your teeth, right? I figure with all these little efforts, I can have the roof paid off before I have to buy my first walker or dentures.

Oh, and I think our rabbit is sick. When it rains it pours.

Thank You, All Who Serve.

Today is Veterans Day. Last week I went to a veterans panel at work, made up of students and staff who are veterans, and one staff member who is a veteran's mother. I was not on the panel, but all the veterans had to stand up and be recognized. Yes, even after all this time, it felt good to know that people are appreciative of those who have served, more so during this current climate of polarization this country has come to. It means something.

One of my colleagues is a Vietnam vet. He talked about how different it was, returning home then, from how it is now. It was hard to hear him talk about it, a man I know and respect, but it was good to hear that those returning from service today are largely supported, respected, and welcomed by their countrymen. At least we've come that far. (The lack of support and care from their government after returning is another topic for another day.) I'm a veteran, but I never had to serve in a war. Those who have, and those who are serving in harm's way right now, deserve our highest admiration and respect, whether or not you agree with the current administration's actions. One of my most fervent hopes for the new administration is increased support for our veterans and their families.

One of the younger vets on the panel talked about the red poppies worn by many on this day, the meaning behind it. Willym wrote about that very thing on his site. Please take a minute to read it.

Double-Oh-Bama

I don't know how I'm going to get through the next eight (yes, I said eight) years. Everything I see and hear about the new First Family makes me either tear up or smile so big I'm in danger of losing my cynical status. The whole First Dog story? With my rescue mutts sitting here beside me? Please. Water works. What school will the girls attend? Grandma moving in for family support? The little girls living in the bedrooms that the Kennedy children lived in? All of it brings about much sniffling and wiping of the eyes, accompanied by the requisite, "Aaaww". Pass the syrup. Goodlord, I'm worse than a 10-year-old at a Hannah Montana autograph session. To wit:

The Secret Service has assigned code names to the new First Family:

President-elect Barack Obama: RenegadeFuture First Lady, Michelle Obama: RenaissanceMalia Obama: RadianceSasha Obama: Rosebud

Yes, the Secret Service code names turned Cowbell a bit misty. Yeah, yeah, I said it was bad. But come on, is that not perfect? Radiance? Rosebud? For those precious little girls? And Renaissance for one of the classiest first ladies we'll ever hope to see in the White House? And both mom and dad's names bring to mind their overarching theme, change. So yeah, what of it if I get emotional over code names? 

They've also assigned the VP and ... Second Lady? Is that the term?

Vice President-elect Joe Biden: Celtic

Jill Biden: Capri

Those are nice, too, aren't they? Didn't make me tear up, but they did make me smile. (It will, however, annoy the hell out of me to hear people pronouncing it "Seltic". You know, after the basketball team.) Compare and contrast to the names for the outgoing couple:

Dubya: Tumbler

Laura Bush: Tempo

Dick Cheney: Angler

Tumbler? Angler? Boy they do tend to get it right with these names, don't they? And Tempo, well, she did try to keep him in balance, bless her heart. Wonder what the code names would've been had McPalin won? Come on, too easy: Maverick and Mavericker.

President-Elect Obama. What It Means.

I just like saying that. I still can't say it without my throat closing up a little bit. Yes, We Did, and all that. I have so much to say about this historic event, yet I can't seem to write anything of import.

It's too big, too much. I can't make it fit into words. And I kind of don't want to. Maybe later, but right now, the thought of trying to express what this means to me, to my children, let alone the country, Black America, the world ... I can't fit it into words yet. Not really. I mean, I can write this post about how wonderful it is, where I was that night, how I felt, but the bigger picture? How to express that?

When it was announced, all the stress and adrenaline I'd apparently been holding for months just fell away. Like I'd imagine a body would feel after running a marathon. I could not get a hold of myself. It was too big to fit into feelings, let alone words. It hasn't completely sunk in. I still find myself on the verge of tears, just hearing bits of the speech on the radio, or looking at pictures online, the faces of people's reactions -- Jesse Jackson, ohmygod, did you all see Jesse? What this must mean to him and Andrew Young and all the people who were there during the civil rights years ... I can't even think about that without my heart feeling off beat.

I was on the phone with the Bohemian when it was announced. The networks were counting down the seconds to release the Western states' numbers. We were wondering how long we'd have to wait, contemplating (cynically) whether there would be vote tampering, whether there would be problems, when all of a sudden my phone erupted in my ear, exploded, as the students at Howard University reacted to the news that Barack Obama would be the next president of the United States. At that moment it flashed across the TV: Barack Obama, projected winner. It happened so fast -- it took a few moments for either of us to realize it was real.

Hearing those Howard students, even just over the phone, had me laughing and crying at once. I will never forget that. The Bohemian said people were pouring outside, literally dancing in the streets.

Then Teen Demon called, Teen Demon who is not given to exuberant displays of emotion, called laughing and shouting and so happy, caught up in a student mob that was parading around campus and through surrounding neighborhoods. Later she sent me a video of students breaking into an impromptu version of the Star Spangled Banner. As a former soldier, that song still gets to me anyway, but to hear young people spontaneously singing on their own, reacting to the election of the first African American president; that means a lot more than hearing it at a sporting event or a parade. It meant something.

Male Offspring was at an election party at the high school with the debate team, and when I picked him up, he was practically bouncing out of his shoes, said he needed something to focus him (of course, he was referring to driving us home) because he was so hyped up from the excitement. Hugging him, I could only think about President-Elect Obama's mother and grandmother, how proud they would be, and how their son/grandson has made the future a different place for my son.

Earlier that night, I had been a little sad that we'd all be in separate places, but then I thought about how this election was so much about the young people this time, and I wanted my kids to have that memory, to experience this in crowds of young people who helped make this happen and who are our future. What I heard in my daughters' voices that night, what I saw in my son's face, means more than I can explain. It is too big to fit into words.

You go, President-Elect Obama. I'm proud and honored to have you as my president.

The Countdown Continues

You would think that I'd be posting more than ever right now, with all the current political goings-on. You would think the past few months would've provided enough fodder for non-stop bitching up in here. A rant a day. No. This whole Grampy McSame and his hypocrite Barbie-girl sidekick is just more than I can stomach. Every time I think about getting a good old Cowbell rant on, my heart threatens palpitations at the mere thought of Team McFreak running this country. Because you know after they're sworn in, she'd be slippin' him some poison also, and end up being Mayor in Chief of the whole goshdurn country, just leadin' the good people of this great land, also.

If I hear ALSO come out of her empty head one more time, I'm going to pull my hair out, also.

The hypocrisy is just amazing. All of it, the big issues, the scandals, the little dramas. Just today I was amazed that after all the Right's shrieking to LEAVE THE KIDS OUT OF IT, Palin admitted dressing her youngest daughter, Piper, in a Philadelphia Flyers jersey, and bringing her out on the ice to "drop the puck" for the start of the team's season, in order to quell the expected booing from the crowd.

But what I thought I’d do is I’d put Piper in a Flyers jersey, bring her out with me. How dare they boo Piper!

What? I guess using your little kid as a political prop is OK when it benefits you. But don't bring it up, Dems! The kids are off-limits! And yeah, the crowd still booed. No tomatoes though.

I don't often have occasion to use the words flabbergasted or aghast, but the past few weeks have found me existing in a constant state of flabbergastedness. Like when the good Guv'nuh says she's so happy that the Tasergate (Yeah, that's Troopergate for the rest of the world) investigation cleared her of all legal wrongdoing. Whaa...? That's what she got out of it? What about her schtick of reforming and changing politics as usual? What about not understanding how those Washington Insiders do things? What about ETHICS?

Sometimes I even wake up aghast in the middle of the night, with questions such as, "Did they really say that Obama is putting personal ambition ahead of the country? Seriously?" Listen honey, take a look in the mirror, mmm-kay? Or, "Are they really saying Obama is going to screw me on taxes, when they want to tax my health care benefits?" Yeah, that'll help Joe Six Pack, tax his health care benefits. IF he has health care benefits, that is. Or how about this bit about the Right now crying about voter fraud -- WTF? I'm sorry, did you guys miss what was happening on YOUR end during the last two elections? Ohio? Florida? Hypocrites!

I think the McCain campaign strategy is to line up their own fuck-ups and shortcomings on a sheet of paper each day, then cross out their own names and write in "Obama". It's ridiculous.

Every time they come out with more bullshit, I'm left thinking, "Wait, wasn't it THEM who did that shit, not Obama?" I mean, come on, the Troopergate investigation -- which, in my mind, is between the people of Alaska and their governor so the McCain campaign needs to butt the hell out -- finds that she abused power, McCain's got that whole Keating 5 deal in his closet, McCain fucked around on his first wife after she became disabled and gained weight from an accident and ended up marrying his mistress who just happens to be an heiress who could finance his political campaigns ... and they want to trot out character? Seriously? They screech about the Troopergate investigation being "partisan and unfair" (even though the Legislative Council had 10 Republicans to 4 Democrats), but then they turn around and drag out this tired Ayers story a month before the election, and they don't see THAT as "politically motivated", they don't see that as a "smear tactic"? Hypocrites.

The whole thing is just crazy. And this new bit about their rally crowds turning all scary ala the old school lynch mobs or Nazi crowds ... all joking aside, that's frightening. I mean really. Things have turned an ugly corner. They are squealing about terrorism and stirring up their base with the fear stick -- you know, kind of like the Bush administration did over those non-existent Weapons of Mass Destruction that turned out to be a LIE. They know exactly what they're doing, also. They know how to push the buttons of that crowd, and they were very skillful at doing it while simultaneously disavowing the inevitable responses.

They are deliberately creating an us-them dynamic, and not based on issues, based on who we are. Patriot or not. And if not, you're probably a terrorist. Not a real American. "He doesn't think like we do." We? Who's "we", Sarah? If you're not with us, you're agin' us. Sound familiar?

This wide-eyed surprise at their crowds' ugly responses is phony. This line about "we don't condone those statements" and how the campaign may have gotten a bit out of control, but John McCain himself didn't know anything about it is straight up bullshit. For one thing, these aren't amateurs here, people, these are professionals, campaign experts hired to do a job, they know exactly the effect it would have on the racist, uber-religious FOX-news following portion of their base. And as far it being the campaign and not McCain himself? Bullshit. Who's in charge over there? Is this how McCain would handle the presidency? "Oh, damn, I didn't know Palin was going to invade Pakistan ... she must've gotten a little enthusiastic there, and things got a bit out of control, but my friends, I didn't personally know anything about this, and I don't condone this action".

Oh, well, it's ok then, if he says he didn't know about it.

And do not even try to sell me on this newest thing where McCain "defends Obama", brought on by some ignorant woman at his rally who said she couldn't trust Obama because he's "an Arab". McCain corrected her by saying no ma'am, in fact, Obama is "a decent family man", not an Arab. WTF? So ... what, Arabs aren't decent family men? The crowed booed him even for that lame-ass veiled statement. So he gets the best of both worlds. He gets the press saying he took the high road to defend Obama, but his crowd stays riled up, secure in the notion that Arabs are not decent family men.

Oh, and he only rose to this defense after days of him and Palin blatantly ignoring the frenzied shouts of Terrorist! and Kill him! and Off with his head! in their rallies. No, that was fine and dandy until their polls started sliding even faster, then all of a sudden they needed to rein in their supporters. Not impressed -- you correct that shit because it's wrong, not because your ratings are falling. Hypocrite.


Anyway, as you can see by this long-winded diatribe, I can't even write coherently about this, in fact, I can't take time to write about it much at all, because I"m spending what little online time I have checking every available source to see what's going on with this mess of an election. I'll be glad when it's over.

Plus, I'm having major internet problems the past few weeks, and don't have time to find out what the hell is wrong with Comcast this time. My connection drops like every 15 minutes. Bastards.

Too lazy to link, but you all get on the Googles and read about the latest PalinGate story -- looks like there may have been some impropriety and campaign kickbacks and links to the infamous Wasilla Sports complex with ... the building of her house. That's right folks, the scandals just don't stop in Palin Land. Check out Mudflats or the Village Voice or Daily Kos, it's starting to make the rounds ... it would be nice if they could uncover some facts before the election, but you know the McCain Campaign will be up there scrubbing everything.

Well, I've got a test to study for, still need to run to Costco, get gas, do laundry, and I'm still working fairly long hours (but that's getting better), have mega meetings with my advocacy group, the city and the commission, but that should slow down somewhat too. And you all know the Rainy Season cometh to this part of the globe, so of course at that time I will be holed up in This Old Motherfucking House with my computer and will return to the blog world with much more regularity.

I'm not proofreading. Less than a month to go ... VOTE.

The Real Sarah Palin, Straight From the Alaskan Mudflats

Hey all -- yes, I'm still alive and kicking. No, I have not given up blogging, despite evidence to the contrary. Very quick and dirty:

• Teen Demon is leaving for college soon
• This Old MF'in House needs A NEW ROOF (yes, I'm serious)
• I got a new position at work, and have been absolutely swamped with the transition (no, it will not even come close to paying for the roof)
• I am now officially Commissioner Cowbell

So, some good, some bad, but with all the everyday-life things added, I just haven't had time for beans, let alone blogging. How Sarah Palin would have time to wipe her ass as VP, I have no idea. Maybe her nanny would take on that duty, whilst a-wiping little Trig's ass, or she'd just have an Official Ass Wiper on staff.

Anyway, I am dropping in here today to exhort you to immediately check out an Alaskan blog that has been one step ahead of the media, and right on time with accurate info. Maybe you all have already found it -- I haven't made the rounds at all, so my apologies if you all have already jumped on this train.

The Right is falling down at this woman's feet as if she were the Second Coming. I've been researching the hell out of her, and she scares the bejeezus out of me. If the Right would actually look into her a bit, instead of fawning and drooling based solely on the fact that they're so goddamned relieved to have someone with a little spunk and personality to prop up Corpse McCain, they'd be scared as well.

Click, read: Mudflats

Check it out. Very reasoned, fair, informed and accurate writing.

Looks like Ms. Lipstick finally agreed to an interview, under the mounting pressure to come out from behind Grandaddy McCain's skirts. 'Bout damn time. I read a comment online somewhere that I wish I could take credit for -- something to the effect of the Pit Bull turning out to be more of a cowering Chihuahua, when it comes to the press. Lipstick still kicks ass, though, I'll give her that.

I have already written Charlie Gibson, asking him to please hit hard on this interview, and not softball it.

Wake up, Americans -- the Right is trying like hell to cut the brake lines on this hand basket ...

Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football

On July 12, Luis Ramirez was viciously kicked and beaten by at least six white teenagers in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania. The attack left him bleeding, convulsing, and foaming from his mouth. He died of head injuries two days later, the imprint of his crucifix still indelibly stamped into his chest by an attacker's boot. He was 25 years old.

Three of the attackers were finally charged for the crime on July 25th. Colin Walsh, 17, who punched Ramirez in the face, causing him to fall and hit his head, and Brandon Piekarsky, 16, who kicked him in the head after he lost consciousness, were charged as adults with homicide, ethnic intimidation and related offenses. Derrick Donchak, 18, who apparently chased Ramirez down and tackled him, was charged with aggravated assault, ethnic intimidation and related crimes.

Luis was engaged to Crystal Dillman, with whom he was raising three young children. Luis supported his family by working two jobs: one in a factory, the second picking strawberries and cherries.

Despite the fact that there were eyewitnesses to the brutal attack -- including a retired police officer and Arielle Garcia, a friend of the couple who went to school with the attackers and named them to police -- it took two weeks for charges to be made.

Each of the eyewitnesses heard racial slurs directed at Ramirez throughout the fight, yet town officials were not convinced that the attack was racially motivated.

Retired Philadelphia police Officer Eileen Burke, who lives on the street where the fight occurred, told The Associated Press she heard a youth scream at one of Ramirez's friends after the beating to "tell her Mexican friends to get out of Shenandoah, or you're going to be laying next to him."

~The Morning Call

Now, you all know my dad was a cop. Cops, in general, don't go around telling tall tales about racially motivated attacks in their communities. They'd prefer that racial disputes never happened, regardless of their personal views on anything. They are not prone to go around crying wolf about this, trust. So if a cop says this attack had racial motivation, guess what? Most likely, she's not saying that just for the hell of it.

The investigating officers, though, were not so keen to listen to witnesses, even those who could actually identify the perpetrators. Check out Democracy Now's interview with eyewitness Ariella Garcia. She went to school with the attackers. Knew them by name. Saw where they ran.

The police, however, decided to stay and search her husband's car for guns. Her husband is also -- you guessed it -- Latino. So instead of going after the white attackers whom an eyewitness named and pointed out the direction of escape, the police stayed to search the witness's car for a nonexistent gun, and rough up her Latino husband a bit.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Shenandoah is a small coal town of 5,000 about 80 miles from Philadelphia. All six of the young men who carried out this crime were on the high school football team.

I went to high school in a small farm town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. Football was big doin's, let me tell you. Friday night lights, baby, nothing like it. Of course there's high school football where I live now, and I'm at most games because of the kids. But here, it's just a high school thing. Most fans not directly connected with one of the high schools are more interested in the Seahawks or the Husky-Cougar college rivalry.

Small town football though, that's different.

It's a community thing. The whole town comes out, every Friday. In my town, there was the fish fry early in the season, second only to the county fair as far as social events. Later in the season, even the smaller surrounding towns would turn out on Fridays to watch us march our way to State, game by game. Our football team was the pride of that town. Hell, the county. Those boys got free tickets at the local movie theater, and free pizza slices at the Wig-Wam, so named to match our high school's mascot, the Indians. (I know. That's another post.) Anyway, our football players were local heroes. If they got caught driving too fast while cruising on Saturday nights, the cops - whom we all knew by name - would issue a stern warning with an admonition to "pay that off with a win this Friday, y'hear?"

The basketball team enjoyed notoriety too, but there's just something about football in a small town. The marching band, the lights, the crisp, cold air, moms and dads reliving the glory days in their own letter jackets from 20 years back. In a small town, thing is, all the adults graduated from that same high school. They all knew each other back in the day, and they know everybody's kids and grandkids now. They all remember sitting in those stands or riding the away-bus. When the town turned out to that field on Friday night, there was connection. Pride. History. Shoot, you didn't even need to go to the class reunion; just show up on Friday night.

I don't know that I can even properly explain what football means to a small town. Truth be told, I'm not sure I can fully understand it, seeing as how I wasn't "born and raised". I think that's one reason my parents were still seen as "the new folks", even years after we'd moved there, and sis and I had long left home. Not being raised that way, they didn't quite get the thing about Friday football. They didn't have any kids on the team or the cheer squad or in the band, so why would they go freeze their butts off in the stands? Didn't they go to all my concerts and watch me sing? Daddy could watch the Bengals on Monday night from the comfort of his own chair. Real football. They thought it was just a high school thing.

But it wasn't.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

So, back to Luis Ramirez and the young men who killed him. As I read different articles and the comments to go with them, all of those memories came rushing back. Folks in Shenandoah are not only reeling from a brutal murder in their town, they've also been blindsided with the fact that it wasn't a bunch of thugs who did this.  Hell, it wasn't even the white trash who live in that sorry shack out yonder on Route 24 past Pine Ridge Road, no, these were football players. The good boys. The quarterback even, who's off to college come fall.

Seriously people, this is a big fucking deal in a small town.

So it didn't surprise me that the charges were so long in coming. It didn't surprise me to read that the beating was not recorded in that night's police log. Yes, I'm serious. "Standard practice", according to police. It didn't surprise me that "despite the witness statements, Borough Manager Joseph Palubinsky said he doesn't believe Ramirez's ethnicity was what prompted the fight," or that the police chief doesn't think it has anything do with racism either. (AP)

I have reason to know the kids who were involved, the families who were involved, and I've never known them to harbor this type of feeling.
~Borough Manager Joseph Palubinsky

From what we understand right now, it wasn't racially motivated. This looks like a street fight that went wrong."
~Police Chief Matthew Nestor

I think any time there's a fight, and any time you have one ethnic group fighting another, there's going to be racial slurs. I've seen that since I was a kid on a playground 20 years ago, but they never called it ethnic intimidation until very recently.
~Roger Laguna, Walsh's lawyer

All quotes from the Associated Press

A street fight that went wrong? Really? Boys will boys. I wonder, Mr. Laguna, if school-yard scuffles would have been called "ethnic intimidation" in your day had someone died on the playground?

Damn. I don't know about you, but I'm not feeling real confident about justice being served here, people.



Neither did it surprise me to read the horrible, hateful comments following the local articles, though in fairness, they were balanced by plenty of folks who were horrified by the blatant racism and cruelty, shocked at the hate that's crawled out into the light for everyone to see.

That's another thing about life in a small town. Things can seem fine on the surface, especially if you're white. Underneath though, it's very, very carefully balanced. As long as everyone acts right, life goes along just fine. Folks are friendly. And if you're making big yards for the football team, it doesn't much matter what color you are. Whoo-eee, that boy sure can run, cain't he? Only color anyone sees when you're driving down the field with that ball tucked under your arm, is the red and white of that uniform.

Until you start dating Judge Hapner's niece. Then it matters a whole lot. Folks see color real quick then.



I bet a lot of people in Shenandoah truly do not understand how this possibly could've happened in their community. They're good-hearted, well-intentioned folks who have never had to see things any other way because life has always gone along according to their way, and they don't even know it. I can well imagine how this has torn through this little town.

I also know there are plenty of people there who know exactly why this happened. People of color who have to be hyper-aware of their white neighbors' approval and comfort level every day of their lives. You can bet they're under no illusions. But there are also people who left comments like these in the local paper's accounts of the story:

TNT: Nothing he did in the U S was legal! Now my taxes are going to investigate his death and prosecute his assailants > Parasitic even in death!

Mary: Illegals...the name says it all ...goodbye and good riddance!! Those kids did us a favor, too bad they will have to face unpleasant consequences

Deer Hunter: Follow the leads of the good Sherrif and Hazleton's honorabe American leader. Nobody wants these illegals in town. Nobody! ... They have no rights. They are in your town and are bleeding it dry. Shenandoah residents should legally carry cocealed weapons to protect themselves, their property and their young women.

Tina: If these children were such cold blooded murderers they would have killed him there he died later on, yes because of the injuried these kids inficted on him, but they did not intend to murder him, it was an accident.

ddd: These boys are not cold blooded killers it was just an unfortunate mistake. Yes they must pay for their actions but if you knew them and their parents you would not be making such harsh statements against them.

John: Every city in America has a bad section. It usually has a high amount of minorites. When minorites move into a predominately white, safe and quiet town like Shenandoah, people are only assuming the worst because their reputation speaks for themselves.

Dakota: heres my 2 cents the big question ...Does his being illegal mean he deserved to be beaten to death.... YES!!! HAHAHAHAHAAH!!!!
~Comments from articles in the Pottsville Republican & Herald

You get the idea. Tip of the iceberg. Many seemed to regard the death as secondary, with Luis's immigration status firmly establishing itself as the real topic of discussion. In a nutshell: if he weren't here illegally, they wouldn't have killed him.

Again, other commenters did talk about how much more difficult the immigration process is now and how it's not really possible to "do it like our grandparents did" any more. Some local commenters even brought up globalization and US corporate colonization as the real issue behind modern immigration. These commenters condemned the beating and the boys responsible; they called it out as racism and were candid about the ongoing racial tension in their town. I was somewhat relieved to see a number of comments in this vein.

In the end though, it comes down to the fact that people were justifying murder of a human being because they disapproved of him being in the US. A man was killed by some angry racist teenagers with Town Hero complexes, and the biggest discussion point was the dead man's immigration status.

There's something very very wrong with that.

House Apologizes for Slavery & Jim Crow

The US House issued a formal apology today for slavery and Jim Crow.

So everything's fine now. Move along, nothing to see here.

My gut reaction: Gee, mighty white of them. An apology. That helps.

On the other hand, they can either apologize or not apologize. It's not like the choice is apologize or ... go back in the magic congressional time machine and just nip that nasty little horror in the bud before it starts. Oh, and while you're back there time traveling, guys? Don't colonize. Just don't colonize this time around, mm-kay?

Unfortunately though, that's not the choice. The choice is to apologize or not. And we will not be able to move forward to address the system born from that "peculiar institution" until we publicly acknowledge our part -- as a nation -- in slavery, and the fallout that still affects our nation today. So let me put my disgust and cynicism aside for a minute and say yes, I'm glad they apologized. It's a step, as they say.

After stumbling across this news online, I made the mistake of trying to find out more. Inevitably, there were a whole lotta online comments. Those in the "against" crowd, predictably, had the same tired arguments. Like these:

I believe the blacks owe America an apology for tearing our moral, economic and social fabric. The illegal immigrunts can join them.

My ancestors owned slaves and I have no desire to apologize for the actions of my ancestors. In fact, I think that the federal government should give me reparations for the lost assets caused by emancipation and the confiscation of my ancestors' lands as a result of the War of Northern Aggression. How about that?

Wonder what the black folks in Africa think of the living conditions of blacks in America? They might say you were done a favor.

How many times do these people have to be apoligized to? They were apologized to at the end of the Civil War, they were apologized to during civil rights movements, again during the intergration of schools and all other places. I never owned slaves and neither did my parents. I don't think anyone alive today was ever a slave. It seems to me that the race card is being played only by the African-Americans who just want more and more free handouts from the government. I am sick of it.

Tell all those a-holes to vote to drill for oil and forget about the apology.

I haven't done anything to apologize for. Blacks have got it made here in America and they know it. Everything gets handed to them. They work for nothing and I'm sick of it. Like someone else said here, where are the "thank yous" from these people.

These people couldn't care less about equality, they want DOMINANCE!

Who gives a rats-rear what happened to the slaves over 150 years ago. Where is my apology from them for me having to listen to this bullsh-- on a daily basis living here in Atlanta? . . . Get over it. The Civil War is over. Get a job. Get a life and stop throwing slavery up in my face. You may not like what you hear if you don't. Idiots...

We are going to make a black man king of America. When is enough enough.

You White people better wake the hell up or youll be the next American 'negros'.... Im not apologizing and I'll laugh at the faces of these inadequate and inept beings and hope it ****es them off enough so I can practice my second amendment against them. What a glorious day that will be!!...

You get the idea.

So the argument of the day is -- say it with me, boys and girls:
I didn't own slaves, my grandparents didn't own slaves, I had nothing to do with slavery!

Any time the subject of race relations comes up, so too does this argument. Even "nice white people" use this one. I used it too, back when I believed myself to be colorblind. Why, I remember when the Bohemian was a four-year-old little tyke, and we were reading My First Book of Africa from the library. Everything was fine until we turned to the double-page spread of a slave ship cut-away. I was not prepared to see my daughter go very quiet, touch the pages with her little fingers, and ask, "But ... who would do that to people, Mommy?" So, in trying to explain this atrocity to my four-year-old daughter, my African American daughter, I heard myself saying, "... but Mommy's family didn't believe in that. Remember, Mommy's family came from Norway? Well, they settled in the North, they came much later, after slavery was over." Then I launched into how lots of white people were abolitionists, lots of white people fought against slavery, not all white people's families were slave owners ... ad nauseum.

I needed to justify it. I needed to remove myself, in my daughter's eyes (and my own), from that horrible history. It was important to me that she know that I, and by extension, she, had nothing to with this. It was those bad white people what did that. The racists. Not us. Not me.


Here's what I didn't understand: it is not about individuals. It's about a system. It's about laws.

Let me be clear -- this is about the legalized system of oppression put in place by our government, not about whether individual white folks owned slaves or not. If you think we became a superpower so quickly because we're just that good, think again. We got here by stealing Native land, working it with free human labor, and enacting laws to back it up. No start-up costs, no overhead, just pure growth and profit. That's what put us on the fast track to superpower status.



Here's what else I didn't understand: if you are a white person in the United States, you and your family have benefited from this system.

It doesn't matter whether Grandpa Beauregard's granddaddy owned slaves or whether his house was a station on the underground railroad. The laws were on his side. Grandpa Beauregard, if he so chose, could read. Go to college. Live where he wanted. Get a loan to buy land, a house. Pass that property down to his children who then start off a little bit farther ahead in life than he did. And Grandpa Beauregard likely wasn't worrying about being lynched, either.

Land and education. White folks had access to it, Black folks were legally excluded from access. Property equals wealth. It appreciates and is sold for profit or passed on. Education equals opportunity and increased wealth. It raises the probability that your children will also be educated. Now, would you rather be the great-granddaughter of the guy with access to the land and education (not to mention better health care), or the guy who didn't have jack shit and wasn't allowed to build it? Which side of that system would you choose?

Oh, please. Don't even play like you're hesitating.



Which brings us to our next recurring theme: They just need to work harder and quit expecting handouts. Nobody gave me a handout; everything I got, I earned with hard work and effort.

I'm sure you do work hard. And I'm sure you believe no one ever has given you anything. Did your grandparents pass property on to your parents? Did your parents go to college? Do they own a home? Do you? Do people really believe that two men -- one black, one white -- both equally motivated and working equally hard, would get the same results while operating under the legal confines of this system in 1910? How about 1940? 1960? Today?

What about the 2000 Housing Discrimination Study? They sent out 4,600 pairs of testers, separately, in 23 US cities. The testers were identical on paper, but one was white, the other black. Consistent preferential treatment for white testers occurred 21.6% of the time.

Now ... if you rented an apartment tomorrow, you'd have no way of knowing if a black applicant with your same qualifications had been turned down the day before, would you? You'd have no way of knowing that you'd just benefited from a racist system, would you? You didn't choose to benefit from it, you didn't put it in place, you may even be outraged by it; but that doesn't matter. You'll sign that lease thinking you got that apartment solely on the basis of your good credit and consistent work history. But did you earn it? Did you earn it any more than the black applicant who was told it "wasn't available", or who was quoted a price $400 higher than yours?

And did we really work for everything we have? What about unearned wealth?

[As of 2002], 24% of whites receive an inheritance, just 11% of blacks do so. Among those who get an inheritance, whites receive $115,000 on average compared to $32,000 for blacks.15 And these figures do not reflect the gifts children receive during their parents' lifetimes.
To illustrate the significance of these disparities, whites on average are more than twice as likely as blacks to be able to provide a healthy down payment on a home even in the nation's most expensive housing markets or to pay tuition for four years at almost any college or university for one child from an inheritance.

~Gregory D. Squires, Reintroducing the Black/White Divide in Racial Discourse

Okay, I know some of you are like, "Shoot, I never got $115K, or even $30K, you're crazy!" We're not talking about individuals -- everybody has a story -- we're talking about a system set up to benefit some and oppress others over time.

My own story, you all know: I'm a single mom, three kids, money problems, yada-yada. But even with all that, I've benefited from a system that has historically been better to my family than families of color. My dad lent me money to put down on my house. Without that, I never could've owned a home. And without his college education and occasional loans from his parents when he was young, he probably wouldn't have been in a position to loan me that down payment. No idea how I'm going to pay him back now that the market has tanked, and I can't imagine ever being able to help my kids like that, but I'm in the house. I was approved for a loan, even though I probably shouldn't have been. (excellent credit, shit for income, but hey, White! Just don't let Citimortgage see the kids.)



How about this one: Okay, things may have been bad after slavery, or even in the '50s, but now there's affirmative action! Now I'm the one discriminated against! Where's my apology? A white man can't get a job these days!

Right. Check out the 2005 Princeton University study in which they had white, black and Latino men with comparable résumés apply for jobs. You know what they found? Employers would hire a white convicted felon before they would hire a black man with a clean record. Yes. This was 2005, people. That playing field is not level.



And then there's the always-dependable: Slavery ended 143 years ago! It's over! Why can't they just move on and get over it?

Yes, technically slavery ended in 1865. The system did not magically change with that announcement, though. Matter of fact, new laws were put in place to strengthen the system! Slavery was over, but it gave birth to segregation, unequal education, Jim Crow, sundown towns, redlining, and lynching.

Michael Donald was lynched in 1981. This was during my lifetime, people, not ancient history. It was my 15th birthday to be exact. Of course, I didn't know that at the time. I was obliviously blowing out my candles in small-town Ohio, comfortably deluded in the belief that slavery was over and things were fine now, the day 19-year-old Michael was hung from a tree in Alabama. In 1998, James Byrd Jr. was chained to the back of a truck and dragged for miles until he was decapitated. One of the guys who did it had a tattoo of a black man hanging by a noose. In 1998. Just ten years ago! This was during my youngest child's lifetime, people. 1998.

And the President vetoed the Hate Crimes Act just last year. Slavery might be "over" but the fallout poisons our country to this day. Is a lousy apology really too much to ask?



Anyway.

Today's apology is not about whether individual white people owned slaves or not. It is about our government acknowledging that the racial inequities existing today are a direct result of slavery and the legalized system of oppression that came from it.

It's about how that system has affected people over the course of generations.

It's about facing the uncomfortable reality that some people continue to benefit from this system today -- whether we choose to or not, whether we consider ourselves racist or not, whether our people owned slaves or not.

Judging from the last four statements from our online commenters above, it's also about fear, power, and not wanting to shift the existing arrangement. Usually the people wanting to keep a given power structure in place are the ones sitting on top of that structure. Just sayin'.

That's why this apology was so long in coming, and why some people feel so threatened by it.

A Couple of Months in the Life

So how long has it been since I've written about anything of import? Where are the posts about politics, the media, race, current events, and assholes?

I'm turning into a fluff blogger. And that's not going to change today.

Trust me, I'm still ranting about all those things, but I've just got too much going on right now to write a coherent piece about any of it. So today, continuing in the vein of bees, rats, and weather, I'm going to touch on all the little things that have been happening at Chez Cowbell, as Tony puts it, while I've been non-blogging. An update post, if you will.


MILESTONES

Teen Demon graduated from high school. She looked beautiful and happy. I was so proud of her. How did this happen? Even with 18 years to prepare, there's a lag in the parental brain. You end up sitting there during the ceremony, remembering the first day of kindergarten and trying not to rush the stage shrieking, "Give her back, I wasn't done yet!"

And those of you who think it gets easier after the first one, let me just quash that rumor right here. When the first one graduates and leaves home, it's a shock. It's hard in its own way. It's like your first break up -- the punch to the gut you never saw coming that sucks the breath from your lungs. But it seems more like an anomaly than a way of life. You come back from the airport to find that nest still plenty full with the raucous activity of the remaining fledglings. You can pretend the family is still intact, but one of you is off having a grand adventure. Or protesting the White House. Whatever. When the second one graduates though ... that's a tipping point.

By summer's end, I will have more children away in college than I do at home. I'm having some trouble with that. Anyway, congratulations baby -- you haven't always had an easy road, which makes me even more proud of your drive and motivation. I know you'll kick university ass.

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Male Offspring got his learner's permit. Willym, light a candle, please. You know how some people get addicted to gambling or crystal meth, and it takes over their life and they can't think about anything else, and if they go too long without it, they get shaky and kind of psychotic? Yeah, like that. Except without the physical and financial ruin. This boy thinks he was born to drive. Like it's his whole raison d'être. If financial success was determined by interest in driving, he'd have passed Bill Gates last week. I mean, the boy is like, "I'm going to check the mail." What? He's volunteering? Maturity is kicking in! "Can I have the keys?"

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Remember me writing last year about the advocacy group I helped start? Suffice it to say we've been insanely busy. We've been really proud to have helped bring about a couple of events for students and community recently that have had a big impact, and are gearing up for next year. All of that work has indirectly led to something else. I am currently going through the process of applying for my city's Diversity Commission. I've been through the first three steps, the latest being an interview with the mayor. Next step is the interview with City Council, and then they vote at their next meeting. So if you hear about a Commissioner Cowbell being appointed, that's me.



HEALTH AND WELFARE
The Bohemian got her first stitches. She, unlike her siblings, has no interest in driving. She bikes or does public transit. Last month she wiped out at the bottom of a hill -- on a curve, on a road with no shoulder to speak of -- slamming her head and various appendages into the ground. She nearly lost consciousness. She soaked a Good Samaritan's pink bath towel with blood. She scared the crap out of both of us.

The doctor, after reaming her a new one about not having her helmet on, scared us even more. "Eighty percent of bicycle head injuries are fatal," he intoned. Yeah, so are heart attacks, doc. Thanks for that tidbit.

The Bohemian is a responsible biker. She wears her helmet at all times in DC. The same helmet that is still sitting in DC, awaiting her return. She tried to wear her brother's helmet that morning, but it didn't fit over her hair. Reasoning that the park she was heading for had nothing on the mean streets of DC, she left without it. I'm so fucking grateful that she didn't come out with some kind of brain injury. That she came out of it at all. Make your kids wear their helmets, people. You can't count on them always being part of that lucky 20%.

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Male Offspring wiped out on his ripstick. Personally, I don't see how he rides that thing at all. It's got 2 wheels. That's it. Skates have more wheels than that, and you get one for each foot. In addition, the torsion bar that joins the 2 sections acts as an axis allowing each section to rotate. If that's not enough, the wheels themselves rotate. 360°. At will. The only thing that would make this thing any more unstable would be if they added a pogo stick component to it.

Anyway, the son wipes out, tearing up his hand and both knees. I get the following text message: "Can you bring home some of those really big Band-aids?" This is not the first time I've received such a text message. Parents, you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, the poor thing is unable to do dishes, what, with his injured hand and all. I'm sure his road to recovery will be long and arduous.


TRAVEL

The Bohemian is in Ghana. We took out a home equity loan for the clinic to protect her from malaria, yellow fever, typhoid, hepititis A, and the common cold. Oh wait, we don't have that much equity in our home -- better sell those shoes, honey. The clinic advertised "sliding scale fees". After the shots and pills were dispensed, they informed us that doesn't apply to voluntary travel. I guess they consider it akin to elective surgery or Botox. She's on a study trip for school, lady, not summering in a French chalet with her butler in tow.

Anyway, yes, she's there with a small group of music students and a couple of professors. She spent last Sunday in NYC, waiting for the rest of her group to arrive from DC. They missed their flight. Which means, of course, that they all missed the connecting flight from NY to Morocco, which led to them missing the weekly flight that goes from Morocco to Ghana. The Bohemian was not amused. I get a phone call as she's (finally) getting on the plane to Morocco, the following day.

The Radical Bohemian: (dramatic sigh) So, we're leaving. Finally.
Me: Oh good. Did they find another flight from Morocco to Ghana?

RB: No. As a matter of fact, they didn't. There is no other flight from Morocco to Ghana. We're now flying from Morocco to Togo.

(I can practically feel her eyes stabbing daggers into her professor's back)

Me: Togo? So ... how will you get to Ghana?
RB: Apparently, we're going to drive.

Me: Oh. Who's driving?

RB: I don't know.

Me: What kind of vehicle?

RB: I don't know.

Me: Well, is it a bus or private vehicle? I think that's a pretty rough drive. What about visas? You guys don't have visas to Togo.

RB: I don't know. I don't think anyone knows. Hey, we're boarding, I have to go ... I'll try to get in touch with you somehow...

Yeah. High times and adventure under the watchful supervision of responsible university staff. Anyway, she called yesterday, so I only had to worry for about five days. Actually, the Bohemian is a highly resourceful and experienced traveler, I wasn't too worried. She's fine and they did actually make it to Ghana. She was on a shared phone card, so I think she crammed about ten minutes worth of info into two minutes, but she sounded thrilled. Can't wait to get the full report.

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Male Offspring went to football camp in eastern WA last month. Fortunately, yellow fever was not a concern. He gloated about temperatures in the 90s and constant sunshine. He did this, of course, with a mountain range between us so I couldn't actually lash out in a moment of temporary insanity. The kid's no fool. He came back sporting the now traditional 'fro-hawk, but the guys kind of messed up with the clippers so it didn't have quite the shock value as last year's event. I am gearing up for another football season in the stands.


AT LEAST THEY'RE NOT ON DRUGS

Teen Demon got a tattoo. I'm not sure if it was at the same place where she got her belly button pierced. She'd been telling me she was going to do these things after she turned 18. In fact, she'd informed me of this fact many times, via text message. Teen Demon tells me all her important news and asks all the dicey questions via text message. Her generation should be called Generation Text. I fully expect to receive a text message rather than a wedding announcement.

Anyway, it's been nearly a year since Teen Demon turned 18, so I suppose one could say she's showed incredible restraint. It could be worse. One of her friends recently got a guy's name tattooed below her belly button. A couple of weeks after her 18th birthday. In big, capital, Olde English letters. Hip to hip. She met the guy on the Internet.  Sweet kid. He got her name as well. Same place, same style. This girl is a smart cookie and beautiful and funny to boot. So what happened? Young love, people, young love. It bites us all in the ass, doesn't it?

Anyway, Teen Demon got stars. Not sure what they represent, other than being cute and sparkly. Her reasoning involves stars "never going out of style, like some stupid fad". Or a guy's name. Hey, at least she's employing some sort of logic, here. And she didn't end up with a sun-turned-spider tattoo either, so there's something to be said for that.

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The Bohemian attended Pride with her friends, as per usual, with one small twist. She went in drag. She insisted on me calling her "son" that day, so she could get into character. Not sure what Male Offspring thought about me suddenly having two sons, but he said her goatee was pretty cool. To me, she just looks like the Bohemian whether she's manning up or wearing her trademark Bohemianesque skirts, but then, I'm her mom. She said she was actually passing, and even got a few looks from the ladies. The straight ones, I mean.


NEWS FROM A BROAD

Betty called from Iraq. I was so relieved. I'd been emailing her, and hadn't heard a word back. Now I'm not one to freak about that, and I know she's just a touch busy over there, but still ... I was a little worried. OK, a lot worried. Anyway, she called the other day, and we talked for about an hour, which was wonderful. She's doing well, but when I asked her how things really were, I got a long pause, a sigh, and "It's very stressful. Very stressful". She couldn't go into too many details, OPSEC and all that, but I could tell it's wearing on her. She's got five more months of the 15-month tour. If Dubya and crew don't extend them before that.

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OK, that's enough news for now. I know, how to handle all that excitement, right? Good point. Time for a beer.

Beelzebub's Minions

There is a nest of bees under my back deck. I use the term deck loosely, as it brings to mind an elevated structure that one can actually get under. The only thing that fits under my deck are dog toys. I often find myself in the prone position, scraping out a rubber ball or bone from under the "deck" with a rake. You can imagine the difficulty this presents in addressing the bee problem.

A friend of mine has a deck. Her husband built it. By himself. It's huge, overlooks their yard, and could be featured in a magazine. You know those pictures with the flowers pouring out of the pots on the deck in a cascade of color? Like that. Also planted by said husband. He also trims the gorgeous tree with the dark purple leaves that create a canopy over a portion of the deck, and he handles the grill action, also located on the deck. Yeah. If you're going to have a husband, folks, find one of this guy's brothers. They're in California. I asked.

Could you imagine what a different experience life in This Old Motherfucking House would be with someone possessing those mad skillz in residence? Neither can I.

So anyway, bees under my deck. Porch. Whatever. These bees are vicious. I consulted The Internets to see if the feared Killer Bees had  made it up to WA state. (They haven't.) No, we have a strain of regular old bumblebees, Bombus Vosnesenski, which, according to The Googles, spend their lives merrily droning from bloom to bloom like hairy, diminutive Goodyear blimps. Under normal circumstances, they're all about the pollination, and are not vicious.

Unless you are close to their nest. Seeing as how their nest is located right at my back door, they're getting a might testy.

The other day, several of them had targeted me for annihilation. After busting out a few ineffectual Bruce Lee moves I didn't know I had, I somehow made it back into the house. Damned if the little bastards weren't furiously flinging themselves up against the glass door, still trying to take their ounce of flesh from my hide. The next day, The Bohemian got stung on the cheek, and Mason got stung on the leg.

The Internets advised bee dust, applied with a bee duster at dusk. My hardware store didn't carry these items, so on the advice of some guy sporting a buzz cut and a red apron, I settled for wasp and hornet spray. I'd thought to go for this foam stuff instead, but Mr. Aprons insisted that wasp and hornet spray was the weapon of choice. The can claimed a 27-foot directed stream. This, as you may have guessed by the name, is intended for wasps and hornets, which tend to build their nests up high, like in the eaves of your house. One can stand well back, direct a stream of potent potion at the nest, and run like hell before they know what hit them. Bumble bees, however, tend to nest down low, like under a board or a cheap-ass, low-rider, wanna-be deck.

The only way to hit this devil's brood would be to settle into the prone position on the opposite side, shine a flashlight under there with one hand to mark my target, let loose with the 27-foot directed stream (which, given the size of the "deck", would be reduced to about six feet), deftly get to my feet and make like a gazelle back over the nesting site without falling on my ass before they swarm me.

I wasn't really feeling this plan, being nowhere as nimble or quick as I was before moving here and getting my fat on. Also, according to The Googles, these guys can lock on to the flashlight beam and use it to hone in on one's ass like a squadron of pixie-sized stealth fighters, so I'd need to have the presence of mind to turn off the flashlight during all this. Better yet, just drop it, like deploying chaff and flares to draw the little bastards to a false target.

Regardless, I needed some protection. Not owning a bee keeper's suit, I made do with what I had lying around the house.

I dug out the camping poncho I'd once bought during a miserable, rainy "summer" vacation on the lovely Washington coast. In lieu of an apiarist's veil, Male Offspring kindly provided the protective headgear seen to the left.

Grabbing my flashlight and Mr. Aprons' aerosol can of death, I went to do battle. I stretched out on the grass, clicked on my light, and -- surprise -- my "deck" was apparently built over what used to be a small concrete porch. My beam reflected back at me from a concrete barrier wrapping entirely around the area where Beelzebub's minions had made their land claim.

I'd underestimated the enemy.

They'd chosen a fortress from which to make their stand. This would be close-in, hand-to-wing combat, requiring me to stand over their entry point and aim the stream directly down between the narrow cracks of the deck. Miraculously, my aim was true and I made it back in with no stings, being closer to the door and having avoided the prone position.

This morning, I found my weaponry was deficient. Mr. Aprons clearly needs to refine his pest eradication skills. The bees are not resting in peace, but are plenty pissed off. Instead of waking to find a field of wee casualties, I found instead a whirling dervish of frenzied, collective rage. Berzerker Bees, if you will.

I'm going back this afternoon for the foam.