Instant Karma, or I Like My T-Bone Well Done!

This morning, after viewing The Tree That Tried To Eat the Apartment Building, I headed off to work, as is my wont. I've never been fond of traffic circles, but just about any way I approach the office, I have to go through at least one. This morning's route took me off 16th Street, through Scott Circle, onto Mass Ave for a whole block, down 15th to my garage on M. Got all that? Good.

There's an exit off 16th Street to enter Scott Circle. Two lanes feed into the circle at a stop light. After the stop light, on the actual circle, there are three lanes of traffic; two go straight only, and the innermost lane goes straight or around the circle, with another stop light before you actually make that move. I use that innermost lane to go around to Mass Ave. (I know, this sounds like a story problem, no?)

At the first light today, I was three cars back from the front. Patiently waiting, I heard someone laying on the horn like his life depended on it. I looked in my rear view mirror to see a young dude in a little import sedan behind me waving his hands for me to move forward. I had, maybe four feet between me and the car ahead of me. Now, call me old-fashioned, but I come from the school of driving that says, "if you can't see the license plate of the car ahead of you, yer too darn close." Also, I operate within the laws of physics that decree my car can't occupy the same space as the stopped car ahead of me.

The light was red. There was nowhere for us to go. I raised my hands in the great shrug to the anxious driver, to say, "Dude, ain't no place for me to move!"

This was not, apparently, well-received. Dude responded to me with an aggressively shaken middle finger salute. Whatever.

The light turned green, and I followed the other two cars ahead of me into that innermost lane, and again waited for the next light to go green. Aggressive dude pulled up into the straightaway lane next to me, rolled down his window and started to scream at me: "FAT COW! DON'T YOU CARE ABOUT THE PEOPLE BEHIND YOU, FAT COW?!? I HAVE SOMEPLACE I GOTTA GO!"

Nice. I just ignored him. If he doesn't understand basic physics or the rules of the road, nothing I could say to him was going to help.

Then, the light turned green.

And Mr. Hurry Hurry made a serious error in judgment. Let's just say, he failed basic physics. From the straightaway lane, he decided to turn left.

Directly into the side of a very large SUV that was making the left turn around the circle.

Yep, he t-boned that sucker. Big time. And, you see, when you're in a little Japanese sedan and you gun it into the side of an SUV... you lose, babycakes! The SUV may sustain some minor body damage, but your car will look like a vehicular accordion. (Ha -the Honda Accord-ion!) A cab stopped (perhaps as a witness, perhaps sensing an impending fare) and I continued on to work. Usually I stop for accidents I see, but this time, the cabbie could handle witness duties. And I wasn't entirely heartless - before leaving, I took a look over at the poster child for anger management and saw him cursing from his crumpled car. Yes, he had survived to be a jackass another day.

Karma, dude. It's a biyotch. I may be a fat cow, but at least I understand how traffic circles work. And today - for once - karma kicked the correct ass.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Thunderboomers are getting closer - time to shut down for the night!

Bad drivers of the DC region: YOU SUCK!

I went out at lunchtime. I made the mistake of getting behind the wheel of my car.

And I got rear-ended.

Again.

Nice and hard.

But this time, at least, my car is okay. Scratches, dings, but that Taurus is a tank. My lower back and head, however? That all hurts like hell.

And I have tickets to Joe Jackson tonight. Last time I got hit? I was going to see Thomas Dolby.

(Apparently, some higher being has a wretched sense of humor and doesn't want me to see live music. I think I'm staying home from work when Crowded House comes to town...)

I have a bag of ice on my head. It's very attractive office attire.

Feh.

Yours, in great discomfort,

Merujo

Pierced

The experience of airline passenger Mandi Hamlin last month when ignorant TSA thugs forced her to remove body piercings with pliers in a Texas airport nauseates me. I don't understand the enchantment of most body piercings. I do have three manmade holes in my head, but they're in my ears. (Two were done at one of those shopping mall piercing kiosks somewhere in New Jersey, and the third one was the result of an evening drinking with an insane Texan on whom I had a pathetic crush my first year in college.) Nipple rings aren't my thing, but if you've got a hankering for cold, hard surgical steel in your chesticles, go for it. Just don't expose them at the Super Bowl.

And, apparently, if you're in the Lone Star State, don't try to take a plane.

Mandi Hamlin's nipple piercings set off the metal detectors in the airport in Lubbock. Instead of giving her the option for a "visual inspection" of her piercings (which is pretty intrusive, frankly, but if you're wearing metal in sensitive places, it may be somewhat understandable), the local branch of TSA's moronic monster squad insisted she remove the piercings before she would be allowed to fly.

Now, I know how painful it is if I try to move a tiny earring through that extra booze-induced hole in my left ear after not wearing anything in it for ages - it's miserable. Imagine having to remove a steel post from a much more sensitive location - one where new skin has possibly grown around that hunk of metal - in an airport, with pliers, while male TSA vermin laugh at you a few feet away.

I've read a couple of articles about Ms. Hamlin's humiliating and painful experience, and it just makes me more and more angry. TSA's half-assed website response to Ms. Hamlin's protests and complaints was to say "TSA acknowledges that our procedures caused difficulty for the passenger involved and regrets the situation in which she found herself. We appreciate her raising awareness on this issue and we are changing the procedures to ensure that this does not happen again."

"Difficulty"? TSA "regrets" the situation?

How about this as a response, you fascist bastards: fire the fuckers who laughed at her as she was humiliated and put through physical pain. APOLOGIZE to her. Don't "regret" jack shit.

APOLOGIZE.

And stop hiring thugs and jerks.

A couple of years ago - not long after I was hit by the Murano-driving toolette who backed into me as she left a parking garage - I was hobbling through the security line at Dulles and was pulled aside for a "random" secondary search. I was walking with a cane, and as I approached the female screener, I explained I was unstable without the stick and asked her if I could hold onto it as she wanded me. She said no and took the cane away from me. As I wavered, afraid I was going to fall, I asked if she could hand me the cane. She was wanding my legs as I asked, and that vermin - that guard from a British women's prison soap opera - shoved her wand up into my crotch as she said "NO" again.

It was such a violating move, a vile thing, designed to make me feel insignificant. Diminished. Powerless. And as she did it, she smirked with this absolutely reptilian grin, her eyes narrowing to a evil slit. I felt like I was on the grade school playground with a sociopathic bully, just about ready to move up from pulling wings off flies to drowning puppies.

It used to be that I that didn't anticipate ignorance, malice, and stupidity from those who represent my government.

Now, I expect it.

Hands-Free or Not At All

The Maryland Senate is soon voting on a bill that could ban the use of handheld phones and texting devices by drivers in our state. I am all for it. If you shrug off the significance of such a law or think it's too intrusive, I'll invite you over to see my x-rays or come to a session of physical therapy with me. I'm lucky, and I know it. But luck only goes so far.

Why anyone needs to text behind the wheel of a car is beyond me. It's insane. And with Bluetooth technology everywhere (or wired headsets a dime a dozen), there is NO excuse for driving with one hand up to your ear, clutching your Razr.

I guarantee - get hit in an accident like I did, and you'll get passionate, too.

The status of Senate Bill 2 is pretty shaky right now, and that's a real shame. I've never sent mail to one of my elected representatives before, but today, I've sent my state senator an e-mail:

Dear Senator Frosh:

My name is Merujo, and I live in Bethesda. Last autumn, while I was waiting in my car at a red light, I was struck from behind by a distracted driver using her handheld cell phone. I was in a small Ford Escort, and she was driving a large Toyota SUV. And, because she was driving distracted, chatting on her phone, she plowed her vehicle into mine, full speed. She could not even pull into a vacant lane to avoid me because she didn't have both hands on the wheel to turn out of my way.

I was shot into the intersection. My car was totaled, and I ended up with spinal fractures throughout my back. In fact, one doctor told me it was a miracle I was not paralyzed.

It's been six months since the accident. I still have to use a cane to walk, I have a pronounced limp, and there are days when I can barely function because of the pain. All because someone selfishly and foolishly had her phone up to ear, looking out her side window, chatting away. She's fine, by the way. She got a dent in her bumper and a flat tire. I'm still in physical therapy. And that not only depresses me, it makes me incredibly angry.

I travel the 270 corridor frequently, and I am astounded to see what I assume are successful, well-educated people doing amazingly dangerous things like driving with their forearms on their steering wheels, so they can text with both hands. It's clear - and terrifying - that they have no care for the people around them as they weave erratically through high-speed traffic. We have seen horrible accidents happen throughout the United States because people were driving distracted, with hands too occupied in text or conversation. I keep waiting for one to happen here in Montgomery County. I sincerely hope we don't have to have a tragedy happen here before people really pay attention.

Even hands-free laws won't keep people from being completely distracted or selfish, but it will help keep their hands on the wheel. Hopefully, the possibility of fines may make some people pay attention. It's not enough, honestly, but it's a start.

I'm lucky. I'm alive and I can walk. But, frankly, I don't want to have to press my luck again.

Senator, I sincerely hope you are supporting Senate Bill 2, and that Maryland roads will soon be a hands-free zone.

Respectfully,

Merujo
Bethesda, Maryland

But when do they drop the gay bomb?

Representative Sally Kern of Oklahoma believes homosexuals pose a greater risk to America "than terrorists or Islam." She believes, in fact, that they are going after "your two year olds." No, I'm not kidding. She really said those darn gays are gunning for your small children!!

Honestly, I did not realize the great Gay Plan to Take Over the World begins with toddlers. Damn, those homosexuals sure are sneaky, huh? I will have to take a gay friend for coffee soon and ask to see the secret gay community attack plans to co-opt the Play-doh and Gymboree set.

(I blame that swishy Teletubby with the handbag...)

Ugh. Watch this report. Judge Miss Sally for yourself. Nice to see just how Christian this supposed Christian really is.

Representative Kern: yeah, free speech is a great thing. If you're not a total tool.

Sally, Christians like you make Jesus cry. Tinky Winky, on the other hand, just thinks you're a jackass in need of a fashion intervention.

Jag-off

Thursday night, I stopped by the CVS in downtown Bethesda to pick up a box of Nice & Easy 114, the current (non-freaky red) cheap hair color of choice. I snagged a parking space next to the two handicapped spots and went in. As I scanned small boxes for the right color, I overheard snippets of a loud conversation between a couple perusing the Easter candy aisle.

"But do you think he's really handicapped?"

"It's just wrong."

"Yeah, no shit! Nice car, though..."

I assumed someone with no handicapped plates had pulled into one of the few designated spots at the pharmacy. Wouldn't be the first time that had happened here in the land of entitlement. I thought nothing of it and paid for my box of chemicals.

When I got to my car, I saw there was a very spiffy Jaguar parked next to me, occupying a handicapped spot. Indeed, there was a handicapped tag hanging from the rear view mirror. An older gentleman sat behind the wheel, the driver's door open. He had one leg stretched out the door, and, though I tried not to look, I could not help but see he had a serious palsy in one arm.

Or so I thought.

As I did the "healing spine sideways shimmy" to get into the Crapmobile Mark II, I got a better look.

Nope. No palsy.

The guy was going to town, whacking his willy in his fancy-schmantzy car. Polishing the wood. Beating his well-aged meat. Wanking with abandon.

I could not help it. I just stared, my jaw scraping the ground.

The onanistic Jag-ster finally noticed he had an audience and tried to stuff his member back in his trousers and get his leg back in his car. People, this parking space is directly under a big light right on a busy section of Wisconsin - there is no way you can masturbate in your luxury car a few feet from the entrance of this CVS and NOT be seen.

For once, I didn't say anything. I was just astounded and drove off, shaking my head. I know being affluent is no guarantee of having common sense, but there clearly had to be something wrong with this dude. At least I understood the conversation of the candy aisle couple.

What the hell is the problem with this CVS? Is it a second Pike Hellmouth, like the 7-11 by White Flint? I'm starting to think so. And I think I'll start using Purell after touching any products in this particular CVS location...

Survey says...

Ralph Nader IS still a douche!

I just watched him announce his candidacy for president on "Meet the Press." Tim Russert pretty much told him he'll be reviled by Democrats from coast to coast, and then showed the Florida vote numbers from the Bush/Gore fiasco, where Nader's foolishness cost Gore the election.

Grrrrrr.

This just in...

...Ralph Nader still considering being a vote-splitting douchebag.

Gahhhhh!

Back in the Dark Ages, I had a blog on another service. To be honest, I'm not even sure if that particular purveyor of blogging space is still active. It was cheesy and limited, and I paid for the pleasure of their cheesy, limited service. (Of course, I have to admit, I wrote a lot of cheesy, limited posts back then. Ahem.) I haven't had that account for years, now. Regardless, since nothing ever dies on "teh Internets", I was able to drudge up this entry for you, which I wrote precisely four years ago today. As in, almost to the hour, precisely four years ago today. I was a bit sharper-tongued back then, as you'll see. Come with me, then, if you will, on a trip courtesy of the Wayback Machine.

Sherman? Mr. Peabody? Let's go!

"2004-02-22 - 4:52 p.m.

What if Eleanor Roosevelt could have flown like a B-25?

Or, what if Spartacus had a Piper Cub?

Bonus points to you, if you remember that sketch.

Back in 2000, something almost happened to me, just as the curtain was coming down on a most contentious presidential election. While driving through the Dupont Circle area, a pedestrian bolted out into the street in front of my car. He was jaywalking and clearly not watching what he was doing. I had just achieved "urban cruising speed" - plenty high enough to be lethal, especially if the pedestrian is a skinny, aging fart.

I had to slam on my brakes, and I left a nice line of rubber down the block - I could smell my tires and see a nice bit of smoke. I was really shaken up, and I remember rolling down the window and yelling, "What the hell is wrong with you?!?! I almost killed you!!!" The pedestrian barely turned back to look me, the driver who almost smeared him across 18th Street. But it was then that I saw it was Ralph Nader.

Yep. I was within seconds of squishing Ralph Nader just as the election was finishing up. In the weeks that followed, in the middle of the whole Florida hanging frigging chad crap, and throughout the mess we're mired in today, I have stopped to wonder, every once in a while, where would we be today had I actually creamed Nader?

And now, this stupid putz is running again.

Thanks, f*cker. Split the vote again, a-hole.

If we end up with four more years of Monkey Boy in power because you snarfed up valuable Democratic votes, I will hold you responsible.

Loser. And to think - I'd just had those brakes replaced a week before the near miss. America came this close to a Gore presidency...

Ralph Nader, you suck."

Guess what? Four years later, he still sucks. People, if Nader decides to run again this time, DON'T WASTE YOUR VOTE ON HIM!!

Okay? Okay.

Thus endeth the rant.

A handful of observations and a change is coming

Yes, new entries have been few and far between lately. The wounded lungs (and accompanying insomnia) have leeched a lot of my oomph in recent weeks, and, honestly, I've thought a lot about Heath Ledger's untimely death. I understand the pneumonia/insomnia/general misery situation. If he died as a result of trying to get some measure of sleep in the middle of that garbage, what a miserably accidental tragedy.

And, not to make light of his passing, but, dear friends, family, future pool boy Raul: if you find me face down and unresponsive, PLEASE make your first call to 911. Please. Don't call Mary-Kate (or the other terrifying Olson Twin, or Britney, or OJ, or even Brad Pitt) before calling the paramedics. In fact, please don't call Mary-Kate THREE TIMES before calling 911. Jeez.

My future self thanks you.

It's likely, from descriptions, that Ledger was probably well dead before the masseuse started making (surely, in her mind, helpful) celebrity calls before dialing people with medical training, but still...

Staying on the Ledger situation for a moment -- I was disgusted, saddened, but not surprised to hear that sick, twisted, theoretically Christian uber-freak Fred Phelps and his pathetic troop of followers plan to picket Ledger's funeral because he played a homosexual in "Brokeback Mountain." WTF, folks? I personally don't have the strongest or most defined belief system, but I have a funny feeling that, if there is a god, I have a funny feeling he's got a helluva surprise waiting for Fred in the afterlife. But, then again, I can't say for sure. Unlike Fred, I don't have the hubris to think I know the mind of God.

Frankly, people like Phelps make me wish I really believed in the full-on Catholic version of Hell. He'd have his own level - one that sinks lower into sewage and broken glass each time his sad band protests the funeral of a dead soldier. Not a very Christian thought on my part, I admit. I guess that's my cross to bear. I think I'm okay with it.

I tell you this, if I was told, upon pain of death, I had to sit through a day of proselytizing and had to choose between the wackadoodle Phelps camp and the Scientologists, I'd take the Scientologists in a heartbeat. I see nothing but darkness eminating from the doors of Phelps' church, celebrating needless death and embracing hatred. Jesus wept, certainly. I imagine he still weeps at the very thought of Fred Phelps.

The Scientologists, on the other hand? While they creep me out, at least these guys come with their own punchline this past week with the leaking of the divinely bizarre Tom Cruise indoctrination video (if you haven't seen it, watch it on Defamer.com before some injunction pops up and sweeps it away.) Look, if Scientologists want to spend all their money on getting "clean" and free of all that space alien spirit juju that apparently causes all the ills of this world, who gives a shit? But the sheer hubris that Cruise radiates in this film clip slays me. Apparently, if a Scientologist drives past a car accident, he/she is compelled to stop because he/she is - if Cruise is to be believed - the "only one who can really help!"

A-MAY-ZIN'!

Stand back, everyone! I'm a Scientologist! No, I don't have any medical training. No, I don't know how to save these guys. I cannot reattach limbs. But I'm a Scientologist!

What a load of crap.

Seriously.

Big, heaping pile of steaming dung.

If Scientology is a way for people to feel better about themselves, well, that's fan-freaking-tastic. But if it gives you the delusion that you're better than everyone else - that being part of your money-sucking religion is "a privilege", and you're somehow mankind's savior??? Well, that's messed up. Want to help people, Tom? Donate money to charities that do tremendous good. Don't advise people on post-partum depression. Don't think you're capable of cleaning the toxic air around the World Trade Center. Get a grip. Self-confidence is a great thing. Hubris gets you a karmic black eye, a reputation as a joke, and people find you a bore at cocktail parties.

Note to my friends: definitely call 911 for me before you call Tom Cruise. He won't be able to help me. I'm pretty confident on that point.

And, for those who haven't seen it, please enjoy Jerry O'Connell's uncanny mockery of the Cruise video. Jerry, babes, you got it spot on:



Jerry, I guess this nixes your chances to be in Mission Impossible 12. I salute you!

Note to everyone: there will be a little blog change today. Nothing major, but you'll see it when you see it.

Freecycle can bite me

I've been a member of our local Freecycle group here for a while. A few times I've picked up interesting things, a few times I've been able to give things away.

Sometimes, because I'm in one of the wealthiest counties in the United States (a statistic to which I do not, I can guarantee you, contribute) you see pretty outrageous things posted in the "wanted" category, like:

- Anyone have a baby car seat for a Porsche Boxster? I'm a daddy now, but I don't want to give up my real baby! So, if you have a spare of the one specifically made for the Boxster, let me know! (Hey, Daddy Porsche -- if you can afford to drive your baby around in a Boxster, you can afford to go pay for the Boxster baby seat!)

- My maid is going to have a baby. I'd like to give her a bonus of a crib. Does anyone have one available? (OMFG, don't be such a cheap-ass rich tightwad - pay for your maid's bonus yourself! Get her a damn crib!)

Sigh.

A while back, some a-hole on the list actually listed one of his female friends as being available and not a bad choice. Har har har. Oh, the jocularity! Giving away a middle-aged single woman! (Were I his friend, I would have been pretty pissed to know he'd decided I was worthy of giving away on the "going to the dump, but still has some life left in it" list.)

Today, someone posted that she wanted a bookshelf for her daughter's room. Aha! Well, I have three really old IKEA-style bookshelves (Target, circa 1992) down in the storage room. I wrote to her - twice - and her Freecycle-registered e-mail address failed. So, I posted a message to Freecycle, simply saying, "Re: Bookshelf Wanted - your e-mail address isn't working - zap me a message, and these shelves are yours!"

Plain, simple, straight to the point. Someone needed something, I had something, her addy didn't work, I did what I could to get my message across.

Believe it or not, the moderator for the group sent me a snippy message telling me this was "not a discussion list", that my post would be deleted, and I should get in touch with this person directly.

Uh... okay, bubba... tried that.

I wrote back and said, "You're kidding, right? Did you even read the message? I only posted this because her address didn't work." I'm just tryin' to help a sistah out here, people.

Moderator wrote back that he'd read my message and that's how he knew it wasn't "appropriate" for his list. Appropriate? It's not as if I wrote, "I'M SITTING IN FRONT OF MY COMPUTER NAKED, SHAKING MY MASSIVE GAZONGAS AT THE SCREEN AS I WRITE THAT I HAVE 15-YEAR-OLD CRAPPY BOOKSHELVES AVAILABLE FOR THE WOMAN WITH THE BAD E-MAIL!! WHOOOOOOO-WEEEE! SHAKE 'EM!!!" Apparently, if I'd just written "Available: bookshelves" and not said, "Hey, chick with the bad e-mail, I'd love to give you these for you kid!" that would have been fine.

Whatever. Frankly, nobody trying to do something nice deserves to meet Mr. Snippy Moderator.

Look, I run a mailing list, too. And I know when someone breaks the rules egregiously, you need to use a measure of discipline. But I also know you don't smack someone around for trying to do something good or appropriate, especially when it's a first offense.

But you know what? Life is way too short to deal with snippy people. Fuck 'em. Most of the people on this particular Freecycle list can afford their own stuff. I unsubscribed. Salvation Army can have all my old stuff, thanks. And the tightwads of Potomac can buy themselves Boxster car seats and cribs for their maids.

No good deed goes unpunished, kids!

Let's all come together

For those not living in or around this nation's capital, lemme tell you - DC is troubled. We've got crime by the buckets, plus corruption, foolish jaywalkers, angry bike couriers, those people living in the White House, classical music critics taking e-mail swipes at poor, defenseless Mayor for Life Marion Barry, and, sadly, one of the highest HIV/AIDS infection rates in the whole country.

Lovely.

To try to combat the spread of HIV, the District government has been passing out free condoms. It's a nice gesture, but the Chinese-manufactured, paper-wrapped rubbers haven't been getting a thumbs-up (or, uh, anything up, for that matter) from potential users. People are concerned about the easily ripped paper packets rendering the goods useless. You really want to rely on a prophylactic that came out of a crappy, torn paper package? No, thanks! (I'd put more trust in those crazy Polish monster finger puppet rubbers I found in a kiosk in Moscow once.) I'd love to know who the brainchild was on this paper wrapping job -- being environmentally friendly is one thing, but this is pretty dumb. Foil is your friend.

According to this article on WTOP.com, more than 100,000 of the freebie condoms have been returned for a variety of reasons - the paper wrapper, the hard-to-read expiration date, and the fact that these guys aren't exactly locally manufactured. Let's face it, this year in particular I'd pass on Chinese-made condoms. I mean, if they've got factories coating toys with the date-rape drug, can you imagine what could serving as lube on these guys? Yeesh.

But my favorite reason for people being suspicious of the free willy warmers? The tacky design work and slogan!

Yes, it may be that some people are returning free condoms because the graphic design work is cheesy and the slogan is... well... you make the call:

It is Our Nation's Capital.

If you're going to come together, might as well be here...

I understand the importance of the District's efforts to curb the growth of new HIV infections. It's a serious crisis for an already troubled city. But I have to appreciate that some people, no matter how desperately poor - or how desperately horny - are willing to say no to free love gloves because they have a better sense of visual style and marketing language than the dorks who came up with the packaging.

Free Condoms: Zero
Good Taste: One

To the stupid drunk girls...

...who stole a bag of ice from the 7-11 on Randolph Road in Rockville tonight:

It's not so much that you stole a four-dollar bag of ice, you dumbasses. It's just frozen water, and 7-11 takes bigger hits every single day, I'm sure.

It's the fact that you were drunk, driving around, slurping out of big plastic tumblers of something, after dumping your empty wine bottle in the convenience store trash can. I took a nice photo of it, by the way.

You both looked to be in your early twenties. I bet a crisp new DUI citation - and a conviction for misdemeanor theft - would be a lovely addition to a shelf of college trophies and your old prom pictures. There's a framing shop just up the block from the 7-11, fyi.

Oh - and, it's also the fact that you're too fucking stupid to recognize that you are risking many lives (including your potentially worthless own) by driving like idiots while downing glasses of booze in your car. Yeah, you thought stealing a bag of ice was cute and funny. Bet you didn't plan on the irritating middle-aged woman whose back was fucked up by another dumb-as-shit driver recently taking down your license plate number and giving your description to the Montgomery County police.

In a way, I guess we should all be glad you were brainless enough to engage in petty theft. That gave me the opportunity to help the police locate a drunk driver.

Hope you learn your lesson without anyone dying.

Assholes.

Also, I think you were listening to RATT or Poison. That's a crime right there.

A Hazy Shade of Everything

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I seriously would make a lousy junkie. Painkillers, muscle relaxers, all that jazz? They just make me extremely sleepy and a little loopy. I have the painkillers & muscle relaxers to take at night (and they are powerful suckers) and a slightly less sleep-inducing variety for daytime. Plus, of course, the killer cough syrup (that comes in a scary, big, old-fashioned glass bottle - looks like something creepy you'd get in ye olde apothecary shoppe) and yet another round of antibiotics for the pneumonia. Feh.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's return to the scene of the crime...

It's around 4:20 on Friday afternoon. I have a day off, friends are in town for the Dolby gig, and I'm not coughing my head off. It's a good day. I decided I would invest fourteen bucks in having someone else blow dry my hair at the local Hair Cuttery, so I'd look semi-human for our evening at the Birchmere. (Fourteen bucks is a luxury these days, but I just wanted to look decent!) So, there I am, freshly styled hair, gently blowing in the breeze, sitting at a red light, four blocks from home. Gonna hang with my friends, gonna see Dolby one last time before he leaves for Canada and the UK...

I never saw her coming. I didn't hear any brakes. I vaguely remember seeing something big and tan suddenly filling my rear view mirror before the sensation and sound of impact. I'm so glad I was wearing my seatbelt. So very, very, very glad. She hit me at probably 45-50 miles an hour. Hard enough to crush the back end and bend the frame. Hard enough to send me into the windshield and then almost flat back. Hard enough that my car is now totaled.

I just sat there for a few seconds, totally paralyzed. My hands were shaking, my right arm and my neck hurt and the tilt function on the steering wheel was loose and just flopped in my hands as I slowly pulled myself up. I'd hit my arm and leg against the dash and the center column and they already throbbed. My first reaction was to roll down the window and ask for a witness. Strangely, other drivers just smiled and gave me a thumbs up. WTF? I always stop and offer to be a witness when I see an accident. Why weren't these people stopping?

The driver of the SUV that struck me finally approached my car. She didn't ask if I was okay. She simply said, "So, how do you want to handle this?" A variety of inappropriate responses went through my head. As I waited for traffic to clear the intersection, a car pulled in front of me. A man hopped out with a scrap of paper in his hand. "Ma'am," he said, "I'll be your witness. You need to know, she was on her cell phone, looking out the side window, when she hit you. Didn't even notice you." He gave me his name and phone number. I patted his arm and said, "Bless you, hon." I was still pretty out of it.

I pulled over to the far right lane, and the SUV driver followed after a while. I'm not sure what was going on with her. With hands still shaking, I dialed 911 and asked for the police. The dispatcher felt, from the from the sound of my voice, that paramedics should come, too. I just waited in my car. I didn't want to get out until the paramedics had arrived. I called the Sasquatch, since he, his sister, and Gonzomantis were on their way to pick me up at home when all this transpired. That's when I cried.

I pulled myself together when the paramedics arrived. They held my neck as they determined what problems I might have. They wanted to transport me to the hospital, and they'd blocked my tires and drained the air out of a couple of them, to make it easier to put me on a back board. But I declined. At that point, I just had a mule kick headache. I asked questions about how my refusal to be taken by ambulance might affect my insurance if I decided to go to the hospital later. They explained there would be no problem, but they felt that going to the hospital would be a wise move for me. I thanked them all, wobbled out of my car so they could reinflate the tires, and suddenly remembered that I had both my cell phone and my digital camera with me. I snapped photos of the back of my car and the front of her SUV. My car was crunched. She had a dimple on her fender. She had gotten out of her car again as the police pulled up.

I asked her what happened. Why didn't she stop? She started to babble about not having time to stop, that she was being rushed by people behind her. None of it made sense, since I'd been sitting at the red light for a good 15-20 seconds when she struck me. I could see she had her registration card in hand, but the police officer on the scene asked us to please drive around the corner to exchange information - we were in the middle of traffic on Rockville Pike at the start of a busy evening rush hour.

As soon as the paramedics cleared the scene, I pulled around the corner, turned on my hazards, and waited for the other driver. The Sasquatch and crew arrived in mere minutes and waited with me. Gonzomantis went back around the corner to see if he could find the SUV driver, but she was nowhere to be found. I told my friends they should go ahead to the concert, and I would meet them there, but they all waited with me (good damn friends!) Eventually, I called 911 again, and the dispatcher sent the officer back to my location. He was astounded that the other driver had bolted. I dug through my memory and realized I had a photo of her license plate on my cell phone. Eureka! The officer used my cell phone snap to track her and he gave me all her details.

What kind of moron flees the scene of an accident with a cop around *and* someone with two cameras?!? Well, this kind of moron not only got caught, she lives one street over from me, where her boat of a car, with its wee little bumper dimple, sits in front of her door. Jerk. Weasel. Ass.

On a happier note, the Sasquatch's sister has been through this same sort of mess before, and she was able to give me a handful of ibuprofen at the Birchmere, which certainly made the evening go well. I looked like crap - my nicely blown dry hair was a mess and I was in my "running errands" clothes, complete with smear of gold craft paint. But the gig was great and it was terrific to see Thomas one last time before he hit the road for points far distant.

After the show, though? Oy gevalt. I was starting to hurt. A lot. My friends dropped me at home, and I gathered my things to take to the Suburban ER. Apparently, my gathering technique needs some improvement because, at midnight, when I arrived at the hospital, I discovered I had forgotten my wallet. No ID, no insurance card, no nothing. D'oh! One more trip home, and I was ready. By then, though, the car had started to give off an unpleasant smell, like an overheated cheap transistor radio. Not good.

I was in the ER for four hours. The waiting room had little in the way of entertainment. There were the other creatures of the night, like me, a TV that seemed to only show infomercials, and a December 2005 issue of New York magazine. I was desperate; I read it. I finally was ushered into an exam room, sharing space with another patient behind a thick curtain. He had apparently torn a shunt out of his body at a nursing home, and he gibbered and moaned and cried constantly. His family, clearly veterans of a long illness, gathered around his bed, only leaving when the ER staff had to undertake painful tests on him. I felt for him and his family, but the whole experience just scared me. I don't like hospitals and I fear having things like this happen to me.

Traumas were called left and right as a light rain outside turned the streets into an asphalt slip 'n' slide. A woman across the hall cried out, "Oh god, oh god, help me, help me, Jesus!" over and over and over again. I remembered I had earplugs in my purse from the concert (did not need them - the opening act was really good) and I popped them in. Still they didn't muffle the cries of the man in the next bed or the woman across the hall. I found a Halls cough drop in my purse and slowly chewed it to drown out the sound of agony.

The ER doc who finally came to see me was very nice and very certain that I'd done the right thing in coming in. She checked my range of motion and found the points where I had the most pain. In the end, I got a script for painkillers and muscle relaxers and a referral to an orthopedist, and I was sent on my way. When I walked out, at four a.m., I was wide awake and strangely, a little hungry.

I drove up the Pike to the 24-hour CVS to drop off my prescriptions. I was the only customer there, and I could tell the pharmacist was pissed to be asked to work. He was lounging in the waiting area, reading a paper when I walked up. He growled at me, "It'll be an hour." I looked around. No one here, just two prescriptions. I shrugged. There was an IHOP up the street. Might as well have breakfast. It was 4:30, after all.

Most of my visits to pancake houses are surreal, and this was no exception. My waitress was high on Vicodin from a wisdom tooth extraction the previous day. She kept calling me "Elaine" and "sir" and singing "Mellow Yellow." She also stopped to tell me about the baby daddy woes of another IHOP employee. Still, breakfast was good - and a good thing, too, as it was basically my last meal for a couple of days.

My insurance company called me at 8 a.m. on Saturday, after I'd had about three hours of sleep. I was a zombie, but they were very helpful, and they hooked me up with Hit and Run Girl's insurance folks. Other than that, I slept for all but three hours of Saturday and Sunday. It's all pretty much a blur at this point. The muscle relaxer turned me into Madame Spaghetti Legs, and I had a helluva time cleaning out the car to take it to Hit and Run Girl's insurance collision center on Monday.

By Monday afternoon, my car had been totaled. The repair bill outweighed the car's value by about $500. The Crapmobile is going to a salvage yard. I couldn't find the title, so I have to get a replacement from the State of Maryland. I have to call the insurance guys now and let them know that. I'm sure they'll be annoyed, but hey - it was *their* client who hit me. It wasn't like I was in need of my title this week, otherwise!

So, that's the scoop, kids. I have a rental car from her insurance company until next Tuesday, thankfully. It's a little SUV, and with my back hurting, it's amusing to watch me try to get up and in the driver's seat. I hurt a lot, walking is a real pain, and I'm just plain tired. Hopefully, finding a new car won't be a real trial. We shall see. My choices are limited by my financial situation, but I'll do the best I can.

And now, time for some water and a moment of fresh air. Well, as fresh as the air gets here...

Pants Suit

I swear, if I had any spare cash, I would definitely give some to this cause. Big time.

I'd say that Roy Pearson should be ashamed of himself, but he'd probably sue me. So, I'll just leave you with these images to ponder instead. Enjoy.

Figure 1. Weasel

Figure 2. Jackass

Figure 3. Tool

Bad Ideas in Lust

Attention, good people of Montgomery County! For the benefit of all, let me share this small gem of advice: do not have sex in your car in well-lit fast food outlet parking lots.

Pretty please?

Last night, I was struck with really bad insomnia. I told my friend Lunesse that I was stressed about upcoming work deadlines, stressed about money (as usual), stressed about relationships (or a lack thereof), stressed about the book, and just generally having some sort of sticky existential crisis.

Around midnight I went out for a short drive to Wendy's. Why Wendy's, especially considering that their choice of advertising music kinda grosses me out right now? Well, because they serve diet Crack on tap. And, since I couldn't sleep, some diet Crack and a quick read of the new issue of Entertainment Weekly under the suburban stars sounded appealing to my ailing brain. Big, sweaty, icy cup in hand, I pulled into a well-lit spot in the Wendy's lot to read some Hollywood news. Windows down, the night wasn't too bad. I played some Split Enz on the Podlet and took sips of the caffeinated super drug, guaranteed to keep me up for a couple more hours (it did - got to bed at 4 this morning.) It was as pleasant as a lonely night at the drive-thru can be.

But then, my car started to vibrate.

I looked at my Coke Zero and watched the surface shimmy, like the early warning of a T-Rex approaching through the concrete jungle. But then, the tuba kicked in. And the cheesy trumpets. Crap. The parking lot had suddenly been turned into the Radio El Zol version of the Headbangers Ball. Oompa, oompa, oompa, oompa. My car doors thrummed with the sound. One song ended and the next began - the same rhythm, the same melody. I swear, I could not tell them apart. I refused to pay attention - after all I had important reading to do, by God!

Then, something odd happened. The rhythm of the music slowed. The oompa was still there, but... it seemed familiar. I turned off the Enz and listened hard.

Dear lord, it was a Spanish language oompa version of "I'll Sail This Ship Alone." The Beautiful South, as performed by some Mexican or Central American dance band?!? WTF? I couldn't help it, I had to go and check this out. As annoying as the loud music had been, I had to find out what group was torturing this lovely song.

I revved up the Crapmobile and motored over to pay a visit on the revelers a few spaces away.

Aaaaaand, they were having sex.

Directly under a bright street lamp, right by the front door of Wendy's, the pick-up truck-cum-danceclub was rocking and grooving and steaming. And, oh God, they had a window open through which a bare butt was rising and falling in a universally recognizable rhythm.

Aaaaaah, my eyes! Dios mio!

I pulled out of the lot, crying "Aww, ewwwww, eeewwwww!" over and over again.

Somehow, the Beautiful South will never be quite the same. {{shudder, shudder}}

Fast forward to this afternoon. After a fairly uncomfortable six hours of dreamless sleep, I got up to meet with a friend who runs a local craft shop. She needs help next weekend at a big trade show, and I am happy to help her out. I'm going to run her "make and take" table - showing folks how to use the craft items they sell. I get store freebies for my efforts and get to spend a day playing creative teacher. Not too shabby.

Leaving the shop, I decided to hit a local drive-thru for a cool drink. The weather here has gone from unseasonably cool to super hot overnight. I tend to fade in 90F temperatures. So, I drive up, get my lovely sugar free cup (of mostly ice) and stop in a shady spot for a moment. I'm not there thirty seconds before I hear a woman scream "HELP!" I look through the windows of a truck separating me from the next car and see a woman seemingly struggling with a man, who is all over her, changing positions, holding her face. I pull out my cell phone and swing the Crapmobile out of my space to see what's going on - I didn't do this on foot because, with the numb leg, I'm still slower than mud, and if someone's being violent, I'm not fast enough to get away to save myself.

I whip up next to the bouncing sedan only to see the woman giggling like an idiot, yelling, again, "HELP! HELP! Damn, Jimmy! We can't f*ck in the front seat! The brake is stuck up my ass!" I think this is the moment when Jimmy noticed someone (me, my jaw in my lap) had pulled up next to the car where he was trying very hard to perform acts better done in slightly larger spaces. "OH SHIT!" Jimmy bellowed and struggled to get his pants back on. The woman just laughed and laughed and laughed. "I'm okay, I'm okay!" She cackled and waved at me between her loud laughs, but never made an effort to sit back up in her seat. "Holy shit, I told you we shouldn't do this here!"

I finally blinked and said, "Uh, there's a Red Roof Inn next door, you know." As I drove away, I heard Jimmy mutter, "Dumbass - you can't yell 'help' - we're at a damn strip mall." I could still hear her laughing as I left.

Twice in a 24-hour period. Maybe it's wacky sex season. I dunno. At least Jimmy and Laughing Girl didn't taint any music for me. But next time you stop for a drink in the local drive-thru, beware. If you hear the Latin oompa version of a favorite song drifting through the still night air, run away - do not look - just leave. You'll thank me for it.

Really.

And for those planning a little lovin' in the family hatchback? There's a "Car Kama Sutra" online. Google it. It may save you some embarrassment, pain, and a brake up the butt.

Is it any wonder Paris Hilton is a dumbass?

So, Paris has been sentenced to 45 days in jail. About friggin' time. While 45 days is really a slap on the wrist for a weasel driving on a suspended license after an "alcohol-related reckless driving" situation, I'm sure it will be hellish for (hasn't everyone spent a night in the) Paris Hilton. She might find her time in jail quite... interesting considering her penchant for flashing her bare crotch in a number of tabloid photos. Perhaps she will be inspired to slap on a thong after a few nights shared with some lonely fellow convicts. Hell, by the time she's out, maybe she'll be wearing granny panties and sweats.

(Yeah, I know. I suck at cut and paste. I don't have the mad dee-sign skillz...)

What got me about today isn't Paris' behavior in court, which from all accounts, was somber, sober and appropriate, shockingly. No, it's mama Kathy Hilton's response to her daughter's jail sentence. From CNN.com:

"As a city prosecutor said during closing arguments that Hilton deserved jail time, Hilton's mother, Kathy, laughed. When the judge ruled, Kathy Hilton then blurted out: 'May I have your autograph?'"

Nice, Kathy. Real nice. If this is how you react to your kid being sentenced for having broken the law and having put other lives at risk by driving under the influence, it's no surprise your daughter has turned out the way she has. Just think of how many minds you could have changed, Mrs. Hilton, had you been as respectful as your daughter finally was today. Think of how great it would have been had you, after the sentencing, told the press, "My daughter is paying a modest price for endangering others and breaking the law. No one should be above the law. I hope she learns a valuable lesson."

No, instead, you were a jerk. And the panty-free apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it?

Yuck.

Just thinking about Paris Hilton makes me want to bathe in Purell.

The Mile High Flub

"Would you sleep with Ralph Fiennes?"
"Dunno... 'English Patient' Ralph Fiennes or 'fat Nazi' Ralph Fiennes?"

- Ellen and a friend discuss the actor in question, The Ellen Show
(when Ellen's character was still straight, back in the dark ages)

Sure, I can understand that moment when the heat of passion overtakes you. You lose control. You do things you might not normally do.

Heck, you might do something that causes you to get fired.

A few jobs back, one of my colleagues was found bent over her desk, getting a "special delivery" from the young dude freshly hired for the mail room. At 10 in the morning. She was late for a meeting, the boss stopped by to see if she could join the group in the conference room, and... BAM. She did not get fired, but the new dude from the mail room did. I know that the boss, a very conservative guy, really wanted to can her, but she was disabled, a minority, and a legacy for the organization. Firing her would have been even messier than that mid-morning screw over a paper-littered desk.

But after the episode, she was shunned by management - and most of the staff. Eventually she quit. The office had become a hostile work environment, but, admittedly, that was mostly of her own doing.

According to a 2006 Harris Interactive survey, 16% of U.S. men and 7% of U.S. women reported having sex in the office. Of course, this statistic doesn't say if they were having that sex alone or with a partner. I don't think I want to speculate. I would hope that most of those folks had at least a private office or a conference room to get down and get funky. "Hey, Bob, heh heh... uh... sometimes it's tough to share a cubicle wall, huh? Heh heh... uh... could you turn down your radio? I'm not really into WASH FM... and, uh, while you're at it, heh heh, maybe you could thrust a little less aggressively? You guys keep knocking over my coffee... Maybe stifle Mary's screams, too???"

So, that begs the question: what if you're horny and don't have much private space at work? Say, if you're a flight attendant?

Yeah, yeah, we all know about the mile high club. But, c'mon - how many people actually indulge in the fantasy of sex in mid-air on a commercial jet? A few years back, there was a "mile high" airline called Fly Key West. Their slogan was "We fly at 5,280 feet, give or take six inches." Crass, but funny. For a fee, they would take an amorous couple up in a Piper Cub decked out with a bed in the back, so they could go at it in the very friendly skies. Patrons had the option of having their session filmed, and, if they chose, the video would be made available on the airline's website for paying members to view. They had quite the array of screenshots on their website, trust me. But, just a month before 9/11, Fly Key West had a bizarre tragedy on board one of their planes. A 60-something Cuban couple booked a flight, ostensibly to make whoopie over the lovely waters of the Florida Keys. In fact, they were would-be hijackers, and they wanted that plane to fly to Cuba. In the end, the plane crashed and the couple died, but miraculously, the pilot survived.

But there are other airlines dotting the (artificial) horizon that still serve up hot sex in mid-air, like Mile High Atlanta, where $299 gets you a bottle of champagne, an hour in a Piper Cub, and your souvenir sheets to take home after you've pumped some airborne rump. (Probably because the pilot doesn't want to have to handle your dirty linens after you're done.)

Aero-Tech, Inc. in Lexington, Kentucky offers the same type of service. You'll see the link to the $250 mile high offering on this "scenic flights" page - it's under the Kid's Flight and the Father's Day Flight (both of which may occur after the Mile High Flight.)

I'm sure there's a whole lotta lovin' goin' down on board private jets, too. Lord only knows what happens on John Travolta's Boeing 707. Sorry, that should be "Xenu only knows." My bad.

But what about commercial jets? How many people really go off to an airline lavatory and have sex? First, the couple would have to be small enough to get both parties inside one of those freakishly claustrophobic toilets. Second... well, dear god... most people would have be utterly drunk to do it there. I mean, have you really looked around an airplane toilet after you've been in flight for a short time? YUCK! I bring throw-away toothbrushes when I fly long-haul trips, just so I don't have to re-use one that's been in an airplane lavatory.

Sure, I can think of worse toilets in which to have sex: a row of porta-potties at the Renaissance Faire (or a NASCAR event)... a Central Asian open hole (holy crap, you'd have to have outstanding balance - and no sense of smell)... and, of course, the loo on a Russian train comes to mind. True story: on a business trip to rural Russian back in 1995, I went into a Russian overnight train bathroom and accidentally brushed up against the pee-covered edge of the toilet. The fluid touched my leg and - as god is my witness - it BURNED THROUGH MY TROUSERS. I can only image what kind of terrifying, homemade jet fuel hooch my fellow travelers were drinking through the night to create that level of toxicity.

But still, I cannot imagine what level of passion - or stupidity - would drive anyone to attempt sex in an airplane toilet. The yuckiness. The claustrophobia. The bruising.

Unless, I guess, it's Ralph Fiennes who wants to bang you.

I'm sure you've all heard by now of the former Qantas flight attendant that fell prey to Mr. Fiennes' charm while on board a flight to India recently. At first, the woman, Lisa Robertson, denied the episode despite, apparently, half the plane knowing something was going down inside that ocupado cubicle. Then, suddenly, she sang a different tune (probably when approached by tabloids bearing cash.) Yes, they had sex - unprotected - on board the plane, and then had a day of crazy lovemaking in a Mumbai hotel. Ralph, a UNICEF UK ambassador, was on his way to India on an HIV/AIDS awareness trip. (Nice going with the unprotected sex there, Mr. Ambassador!) Fiennes' publicist now says that Ralphie boy was the victim here, seduced by the feminine wiles of Ms. Robertson. Yeaaaah. Whatever.

Eh, who knows what really goes on behind closed doors when the bolt is pulled tight and the folding door is locked in place? Watch out for that smoke detector, baby, cuz this lavatory is smokin'!

Sure, if you can handle the "yuck factor", the potential injuries, the post-coital walk of shame back to your seat, the disgust and/or envious resentment of your fellow passengers, and the possibility of arrest (or diversion of the plane, if folks get a little overzealous), and you are a "nobody" on the flight, well, hell, I guess you should go for it. Just, when you're done, pleeeeeease wipe everything down for the next customer, okay?

But if you're WORKING the flight, why do it? And if you are a UNICEF ambassador, traveling on an HIV/AIDS project, why engage in unprotected sex with a stranger - one who might make this all public? Is a few minutes of uncomfortable intimacy worth your job and your reputation? I think that's pretty damn stupid.

In truth, Ralph Fiennes will come out of this relatively unscathed. After all, he's doing a film with Colin Farrell right now, so he's probably still looking good in comparison to his coworker! But Lisa Robertson - a former cop, suffering from depression, and struggling financially? She's been fired by Qantas, and any tabloid money she got will quickly run out. Robertson will be left a sad, broke joke, a punchline for a Hollywood actor's next Tonight Show appearance, a la Hugh Grant.

"Jeez, Ralph - what were you thinking?" Har har har har har!

I think it would be classy for Fiennes to announce that he's stepping down from his ambassadorial position. Or, at the very least, for him to say that he clearly has much yet to learn about the spread of HIV/AIDS himself. Then, he could actively participate in some of the seminars that are being offered to folks in rural India who haven't had the advantages and access to sex education that he has.

Not trying to sound high and mighty here. Just thinking that, rather than proclaiming himself to be a victim in this silly sex romp, Fiennes could do something positive and humble.

But I have a strong hunch I'll win Powerball before that happens. Hell, I'll be having sex in an airplane lavatory myself before that happens! (And yes, for the record, that will be never, thank you very much.)

Seriously, somebody, get me some Purell!