Happy Wednesday, my friends.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
An eye for an eye
It’s over. And I am thankful to report that in the hours before the state of Virginia killed John Allen Muhammed, I rediscovered my righteous indignation.
He is dead.
His victims are still dead.
And we all died a little tonight.
He is dead.
His victims are still dead.
And we all died a little tonight.
Brought to you by the words “happy” and “birthday” … and by the No. 40
In honor of 40 years of excellence, I present one of my favorite Sesame Street ditties...
Monday, November 9, 2009
What happens when it hits close to home?
I am torn today.
Typically, I am categorically, undeniably against capital punishment, for many and varied reasons.
1. It’s too damned expensive. You don’t even need to get to the debate about whether a just government should execute anyone on behalf of its citizens. Just look at the price tag and you can make an informed decision. Fact is, it’s far more expensive to execute a man than it is to let him rot in jail. Don’t believe me? Research it yourself.
2. There are too many chances for mistakes in our judicial system. Just look at the track record of the Innocence Project. And one particularly heinous case in Texas. Execution is forever. You can’t right that wrong.
3. It puts us in the worst company imaginable. You know all those countries we think are back-assward and wrong for the way they treat their people? THEY are the ones still doling out capital punishment. Well, they and WE. The countries whose company we all think we belong in? They gave it up centuries ago.
In my mind, capital punishment is wrong on every level. I’ve sung this tune since college, when I was forced, in a persuasive writing course, to defend a position I didn’t espouse. I had arrived at the University of Fun and Sun a confirmed, dyed-in-the-wool, fry-the sons-o'-bitches conservative. After a semester-long immersion in anti-death penalty rhetoric, I walked away a changed woman.
Since then, I’ve protested planned executions. I’ve shed a couple of friends whose glee over the execution of Ted Bundy was just too much to stomach. I’ve even argued (and believe) that I’d be one of those people who’d beg a judge not to execute the person who harmed her loved one.
So imagine my surprise when, after reading that the U.S. Supreme Court has refused to hear an appeal from John Allen Muhammed — the D.C. sniper — I was unable to find that feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I’ve searched all day. It’s just not there. And I’m horrified by the shallowness of my conviction.
I could chalk it up to spending three weeks of 2002 living in terror that I or someone I love might be next to fall victim to a bullet that came out of nowhere. Or that walking out of Home Depot or vacuuming my car might be my last act on Earth.
I could just say that you had to be there, when the killings were so random that every moment you weren't under cover felt like it could be your last.
I remember crying into the phone as news of the Home Depot shooting — at the Home Depot less than 3 miles from my home — scrolled across my TV screen. The helicopter search lights passed through the parking lot outside my townhouse. The sirens were close enough to scare my cat.
It was a terrifying time in D.C. First 9/11, then the anthrax mailings, then the sniper. The three-pronged attacked left us all shaken and stirred.
So, yeah. I have personal feelings about John Allen Muhammed. His reign of terror affected my life. I could even say that I hate him.
It’s hard to accept, though, that these feelings are somehow enough to make it OK, in my mind, for the state of Virginia to send enough poison through his veins to end his life. And yet, there it is. The depth of my conviction, when put to a personal test, turns out to be an inch deep.
I still don’t believe there is ever a valid reason for a just government to execute a man on behalf of its citizens. But if death is a legal option, John Allen Muhammed is an exact portrait of the man for whom it was intended as punishment.
And so, I am torn today.
Typically, I am categorically, undeniably against capital punishment, for many and varied reasons.
1. It’s too damned expensive. You don’t even need to get to the debate about whether a just government should execute anyone on behalf of its citizens. Just look at the price tag and you can make an informed decision. Fact is, it’s far more expensive to execute a man than it is to let him rot in jail. Don’t believe me? Research it yourself.
2. There are too many chances for mistakes in our judicial system. Just look at the track record of the Innocence Project. And one particularly heinous case in Texas. Execution is forever. You can’t right that wrong.
3. It puts us in the worst company imaginable. You know all those countries we think are back-assward and wrong for the way they treat their people? THEY are the ones still doling out capital punishment. Well, they and WE. The countries whose company we all think we belong in? They gave it up centuries ago.
In my mind, capital punishment is wrong on every level. I’ve sung this tune since college, when I was forced, in a persuasive writing course, to defend a position I didn’t espouse. I had arrived at the University of Fun and Sun a confirmed, dyed-in-the-wool, fry-the sons-o'-bitches conservative. After a semester-long immersion in anti-death penalty rhetoric, I walked away a changed woman.
Since then, I’ve protested planned executions. I’ve shed a couple of friends whose glee over the execution of Ted Bundy was just too much to stomach. I’ve even argued (and believe) that I’d be one of those people who’d beg a judge not to execute the person who harmed her loved one.
So imagine my surprise when, after reading that the U.S. Supreme Court has refused to hear an appeal from John Allen Muhammed — the D.C. sniper — I was unable to find that feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I’ve searched all day. It’s just not there. And I’m horrified by the shallowness of my conviction.
I could chalk it up to spending three weeks of 2002 living in terror that I or someone I love might be next to fall victim to a bullet that came out of nowhere. Or that walking out of Home Depot or vacuuming my car might be my last act on Earth.
I could just say that you had to be there, when the killings were so random that every moment you weren't under cover felt like it could be your last.
I remember crying into the phone as news of the Home Depot shooting — at the Home Depot less than 3 miles from my home — scrolled across my TV screen. The helicopter search lights passed through the parking lot outside my townhouse. The sirens were close enough to scare my cat.
It was a terrifying time in D.C. First 9/11, then the anthrax mailings, then the sniper. The three-pronged attacked left us all shaken and stirred.
So, yeah. I have personal feelings about John Allen Muhammed. His reign of terror affected my life. I could even say that I hate him.
It’s hard to accept, though, that these feelings are somehow enough to make it OK, in my mind, for the state of Virginia to send enough poison through his veins to end his life. And yet, there it is. The depth of my conviction, when put to a personal test, turns out to be an inch deep.
I still don’t believe there is ever a valid reason for a just government to execute a man on behalf of its citizens. But if death is a legal option, John Allen Muhammed is an exact portrait of the man for whom it was intended as punishment.
And so, I am torn today.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Such a Gleek...
Not long after my divorce was final, I entered what I only half-jokingly call my “morose period.” Morose doesn’t fit, exactly, but “death spiral” seems so melodramatic. Besides, “morose” sounds so artistic and fancy. And hell, who gives a shit whether it fits?
During that time, I tumbled around and stumbled around, disrespecting myself and getting into jams, all behind the veneer of a happy-go-lucky divorcée. When I finally hit rock bottom and began to pick myself up again, life took another very interesting turn.
I went back through puberty.
Not literally, of course. But you’d never have known it by the way I behaved.
I dumped my grown-up music and TV shows — traded them in for boy bands and Britney Spears. I bought their CDs, recorded their appearances on MTV and VH-1, went to their concerts.
I enjoyed a steady diet of music videos, danced to exhaustion in my living room most nights after work and wrote reams of fan fiction. I even joined a message group of older *NSYNC fans, leaving after just a few weeks when even I couldn’t handle the women in there.
Weird, I know. But it helped me through. Sometimes, in my darkest days, I wonder if it might have kept me alive.
For almost two years, I felt like the sophomore who’d just been passed a note from the quarterback. I lived on pins and needles, breaking into song in the car, and into smiles as I walked through the halls at work. The whole experience — the pop music, the fan magazines, the concerts — gave me the same feeling in my stomach as a high school crush. I loved it.
Eventually, between therapy and distance from the source of the pain, the whole thing started to fade. I never lost my taste for Justin Timberlake or Britney Spears singles, but I transferred the fantasy feelings and dreams back into reality.
And life went on.
I say all of this because I’ve taken a tiny detour back there. Only this time it’s different. I am nowhere near rock bottom. I'm not even dropping. Things are great, generally. And yet, I received another note.
This one from the Glee club.
Happy weekend, my friends.
P.S. If this one’s more your speed, I get it. Go ahead on.
During that time, I tumbled around and stumbled around, disrespecting myself and getting into jams, all behind the veneer of a happy-go-lucky divorcée. When I finally hit rock bottom and began to pick myself up again, life took another very interesting turn.
I went back through puberty.
Not literally, of course. But you’d never have known it by the way I behaved.
I dumped my grown-up music and TV shows — traded them in for boy bands and Britney Spears. I bought their CDs, recorded their appearances on MTV and VH-1, went to their concerts.
I enjoyed a steady diet of music videos, danced to exhaustion in my living room most nights after work and wrote reams of fan fiction. I even joined a message group of older *NSYNC fans, leaving after just a few weeks when even I couldn’t handle the women in there.
Weird, I know. But it helped me through. Sometimes, in my darkest days, I wonder if it might have kept me alive.
For almost two years, I felt like the sophomore who’d just been passed a note from the quarterback. I lived on pins and needles, breaking into song in the car, and into smiles as I walked through the halls at work. The whole experience — the pop music, the fan magazines, the concerts — gave me the same feeling in my stomach as a high school crush. I loved it.
Eventually, between therapy and distance from the source of the pain, the whole thing started to fade. I never lost my taste for Justin Timberlake or Britney Spears singles, but I transferred the fantasy feelings and dreams back into reality.
And life went on.
I say all of this because I’ve taken a tiny detour back there. Only this time it’s different. I am nowhere near rock bottom. I'm not even dropping. Things are great, generally. And yet, I received another note.
This one from the Glee club.
Happy weekend, my friends.
P.S. If this one’s more your speed, I get it. Go ahead on.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Food rules
My friend bzzzzgrrrl always makes me think.
Sometimes it’s about deep things — God, equality, winter boots, haircuts. Sometimes it’s just about food.
The other day, she posted a list of her food rules — you know, the closely held beliefs that we all have about foods and the way we prepare and eat them. Her list made me giggle, especially the point about matzo ball soup (a point with which I violently agree, by the way).
Anyway, bzzzzgrrrl made her list at the request of whimsy, another blogger she reads. (Whimsy’s rules are here.) I’m making mine because, well, someone must say something about butter.
• Butter is food. Margarine, “buttery spread,” “spreadable food” and all that other stuff is not.
• Brownies without nuts — and I'm talking NUTS — might as well be called cake. Unfrosted, crunchy on the top, sort of dry or maybe chewy, cake.
• Chili has beans in it. “Mushy meat sauce with chili pepper and tomatoes and some other spices” is what you call it if it doesn’t.
• Thanksgiving gravy goes on mashed potatoes, dressing, corn casserole, turkey and any other food on the same plate as the aforementioned.
• Cool Whip on pie is cheating. Actually, Cool Whip on anything that doesn’t specifically call for Cool Whip is cheating.
• Peanut butter should be crunchy — the crunchier, the better. Pair it with a good strawberry jam (like the one my in-laws make every year) and serve with a heavily flavored chip, like Doritos or Cheetos.
• No pomegranates. Pomegranates themselves are just too much work. Pomegranate juice is just too much money.
• Watermelon is salted. Cantaloupe, which I can’t bring myself to call musk melon, is not.
• Fresh salsa should be served with Fritos Scoops. Period. Paragraph.
• To eat a piece of fried chicken remove the extra crispy skin (never original recipe) and set aside. Eat the meat as fast as you can. Savor the skin, by itself, trying not to signal the exact amount of pleasure you're feeling.
• Hummus without tahini is just squished up chick peas.
• The more stuff you put atop ice cream, the better. Chocolate sauce, caramel, nuts, whipped cream. It all belongs.
• Fancy macaroni and cheese is a waste of time and resources. Nothing tops the 99¢ blue box from Kraft.
• Fish sticks are, indeed, fish. I have a lifetime of Fridays to prove it.
How about you, dear reader? What do I need to know before you come for dinner?
Sometimes it’s about deep things — God, equality, winter boots, haircuts. Sometimes it’s just about food.
The other day, she posted a list of her food rules — you know, the closely held beliefs that we all have about foods and the way we prepare and eat them. Her list made me giggle, especially the point about matzo ball soup (a point with which I violently agree, by the way).
Anyway, bzzzzgrrrl made her list at the request of whimsy, another blogger she reads. (Whimsy’s rules are here.) I’m making mine because, well, someone must say something about butter.
• Butter is food. Margarine, “buttery spread,” “spreadable food” and all that other stuff is not.
• Brownies without nuts — and I'm talking NUTS — might as well be called cake. Unfrosted, crunchy on the top, sort of dry or maybe chewy, cake.
• Chili has beans in it. “Mushy meat sauce with chili pepper and tomatoes and some other spices” is what you call it if it doesn’t.
• Thanksgiving gravy goes on mashed potatoes, dressing, corn casserole, turkey and any other food on the same plate as the aforementioned.
• Cool Whip on pie is cheating. Actually, Cool Whip on anything that doesn’t specifically call for Cool Whip is cheating.
• Peanut butter should be crunchy — the crunchier, the better. Pair it with a good strawberry jam (like the one my in-laws make every year) and serve with a heavily flavored chip, like Doritos or Cheetos.
• No pomegranates. Pomegranates themselves are just too much work. Pomegranate juice is just too much money.
• Watermelon is salted. Cantaloupe, which I can’t bring myself to call musk melon, is not.
• Fresh salsa should be served with Fritos Scoops. Period. Paragraph.
• To eat a piece of fried chicken remove the extra crispy skin (never original recipe) and set aside. Eat the meat as fast as you can. Savor the skin, by itself, trying not to signal the exact amount of pleasure you're feeling.
• Hummus without tahini is just squished up chick peas.
• The more stuff you put atop ice cream, the better. Chocolate sauce, caramel, nuts, whipped cream. It all belongs.
• Fancy macaroni and cheese is a waste of time and resources. Nothing tops the 99¢ blue box from Kraft.
• Fish sticks are, indeed, fish. I have a lifetime of Fridays to prove it.
How about you, dear reader? What do I need to know before you come for dinner?
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