Did you know that back-to-school “season” is second only to Christmas in sales volume for many retailers? According to the National Retail Federation, it is estimated that families spend an average of $441.60 on back-to-school supplies. Holy friggin’ crap. Are we sending kids to school with their own laptops now? Whatever happened to a fancy lunchbox and a backpack full of Mead spiral bound notebooks? ($14.43)
But of COURSE this news would shock ME – I don’t have children. But Geri recently sent off her little man to kindergarten, and I saw the list of required school supplies. It was not short. It looked like the kind of list you’d draft if you were being shipped off to a remote island in the South Pacific to start your own civilization from scratch. Or if a researcher instructed you to complete a two-minute free association exercise that started with the word “marker” – and then didn’t stop you for an hour and a half. The kid’s list looked like an inventory sheet from Staples. Film? He’s in kindergarten. He can’t even read and he needs FILM? Is anybody looking at the ROI here? Is there an accountant in the house? Are schools turning out smarter kids than they used to or is that just the cost of mediocrity these days?
And can you believe they're selling Halloween candy already? At least wait until summer's over. It's 88 fucking degrees outside. The chocolate will melt in the car on the ride home! Where's my medication, dammit.
Friday, September 09, 2005
DISASTEROUS!
If you've ever watched live television coverage of a news conference, you know it's not uncommon to see the speaker's talking points in text along the bottom of the screen.
Here's a screen shot from a news source in New Zealand that picked up coverage of Bush's news conference following Hurricane Katrina.
What exactly are they trying to say?
Here's a screen shot from a news source in New Zealand that picked up coverage of Bush's news conference following Hurricane Katrina.
What exactly are they trying to say?
LONG WINDED
I hope you’ll forgive me for sharing, but I’ve just got to get this out. I just finished releasing the single longest continuous stream of rectal wind in my entire life. Gross? Not really. Completely disgusting is more like it. I’ve had some long ones in the past, but nothing like what I just experienced. What’s with the snickering? Gas is a completely natural bodily function, people. Can we talk about this like adults please? Okay. So this is what happened.
[If you don’t want the details, I advise you to stop reading now. Otherwise, proceed at your own risk.]
I hastily stepped into the bathroom here at work after my third cup of coffee with an emergency plan to evacuate Poo Orleans. There was a lot of pressure to move fast – I knew that if I didn’t hurry, my boxers weren’t going to see tomorrow. I took a seat and my cheeks immediately started exhaling loudly into the bowl. It resembled gunfire at first, rippling like a howitzer at the bottom of a deep ravine. This gave way to the ominous blowing of a foghorn, accompanied by a distant whistle. I half expected to hear the ringing of an offshore bell buoy. The final salvo sputtered like an old engine choking, then transitioned to a long sigh - like the sound an air mattress makes when you're pushing all of the air out of it - followed by what could only be described as a cymbal crash.
I couldn’t believe my ears, or my rectum. How was this much gas possible? I’d never been this long-winded before – at least not without a keyboard in front of me. The gas exodus must have gone on for a sustained 6 full seconds. That doesn’t sound like much, but in dog years that’s 42 seconds. And let me tell you about the smell. No – I’d better not. You may be eating.
Anyhow, the episode made me curious about farts, so I did a little digging around online and found some interesting facts. Like, for example, people fart on average once per hour. It’s true. And adults can produce up to about 2 liters of farts every day. (I am certain I let loose several liters in just that one sitting) Contrary to what you may have heard, men and women fart equally as often. Yes, there’s a lot of information out there for those who want it. In fact, all you need to know about farts (and much more – I PROMISE) is right here:
http://www.heptune.com/farts.html
Check it out. You know you want to. Don’t lie. Yours stink, too. Go ahead. It’s cool. Everybody does it. Really. Speaking of everybody doing it, have you put a pin in my Guestmap yet? Why NOT? There’s a little button on the left margin that will take you to my Guestmap. Click on it. It only takes 2 seconds. It’s not like I’m asking you for money here.
[If you don’t want the details, I advise you to stop reading now. Otherwise, proceed at your own risk.]
I hastily stepped into the bathroom here at work after my third cup of coffee with an emergency plan to evacuate Poo Orleans. There was a lot of pressure to move fast – I knew that if I didn’t hurry, my boxers weren’t going to see tomorrow. I took a seat and my cheeks immediately started exhaling loudly into the bowl. It resembled gunfire at first, rippling like a howitzer at the bottom of a deep ravine. This gave way to the ominous blowing of a foghorn, accompanied by a distant whistle. I half expected to hear the ringing of an offshore bell buoy. The final salvo sputtered like an old engine choking, then transitioned to a long sigh - like the sound an air mattress makes when you're pushing all of the air out of it - followed by what could only be described as a cymbal crash.
I couldn’t believe my ears, or my rectum. How was this much gas possible? I’d never been this long-winded before – at least not without a keyboard in front of me. The gas exodus must have gone on for a sustained 6 full seconds. That doesn’t sound like much, but in dog years that’s 42 seconds. And let me tell you about the smell. No – I’d better not. You may be eating.
Anyhow, the episode made me curious about farts, so I did a little digging around online and found some interesting facts. Like, for example, people fart on average once per hour. It’s true. And adults can produce up to about 2 liters of farts every day. (I am certain I let loose several liters in just that one sitting) Contrary to what you may have heard, men and women fart equally as often. Yes, there’s a lot of information out there for those who want it. In fact, all you need to know about farts (and much more – I PROMISE) is right here:
http://www.heptune.com/farts.html
Check it out. You know you want to. Don’t lie. Yours stink, too. Go ahead. It’s cool. Everybody does it. Really. Speaking of everybody doing it, have you put a pin in my Guestmap yet? Why NOT? There’s a little button on the left margin that will take you to my Guestmap. Click on it. It only takes 2 seconds. It’s not like I’m asking you for money here.
BLUES BAYOU
Here are a few pictures I found online.
Canal Street. Irony?
The highway from hell.
And you thought YOUR commute sucked.
Here's a drawing of how it all happened. When that bitch Katrina left town, she took a bite out of the levee that kept the lake at bay.
Not lovin' it.
Old news.
Whoa! How'd this one get in here??
Canal Street. Irony?
The highway from hell.
And you thought YOUR commute sucked.
Here's a drawing of how it all happened. When that bitch Katrina left town, she took a bite out of the levee that kept the lake at bay.
Not lovin' it.
Old news.
Whoa! How'd this one get in here??
Thursday, September 08, 2005
SOUTHERN HOSTILALITY
Here's a live television interview with Dick Cheney during which a passerby clearly offers up a big "Go fuck yourself Mr. Cheney."
Great stuff!
Great stuff!
WANNA GET HIGH?
This is to be the highest bridge in the world. You can read more about it by clicking on the header. I do not care much for heights, so just looking at this photo makes me want to crawl under the table and cling to someone's leg.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
TALES OF THE LOST AND FOUND
I have a very good friend here in town – a guy I’ve known for over 15 years. No, I’m not talking about Captain Morgan. But nice guess! To protect his identity, let’s call this friend “Scot” (yes, with one T...I'm trying not to give away his REAL name).
Scot is, by all accounts, a great guy. He’s easy going, mild mannered, and sociable. Scot and I, together and with groups both large and small, have attended music concerts, Cubs games, Bears games, Illini games, camping trips – you name it. In some neighborhoods, we’d be called “homies.” So you can imagine my shock and concern when I learned some days ago that Scot was missing.
The first part of this mystery takes place a couple Friday evenings ago. Geri and I were enjoying a lovely dinner together at Chicago’s premier sushi establishment, Japonais. It was my second birthday dinner of the week, a fabulous feast to precede a theater date where we would see the new Broadway sensation, Wicked. (It was wickedly clever, incidentally – I highly recommend). We agreed that the food at Japonais was a close second behind the best sushi restaurant you've never been to, Tsuki Sushi (Fullerton and Greenview, Chicago) - but that the service was far superior. But why we're talking about sushi now, I don't know. Would you please FOCUS on Scot? He went missing, dammit. Thank you.
Following dinner, Geri excused herself to reference the ladies room…so I passed the moment accessing a curious voice mail message left me from Scot’s cell phone number. Unfortunately, the ambience of the restaurant prevented me from fully comprehending the message. I presumed it was a drunken message laced with incoherent whiskey-babble, which is not so uncommon in my world, so I flipped the Samsung shut and slipped it back into my suit pants.
Scot had flown to Washington that weekend to visit our mutual friend (who we will call Brent - also with one T). Brent had secured tickets to an outdoor music concert featuring the Dave Matthews Band and the two were to party like college kids with Seattle Seagals and the like. It was going to be the best time two grown up kids could ever have in the state of Washington.
While I am personally unfamiliar with the region, Brent described much of central Washington State as a “desert.” The concert was to be held at a natural outdoor amphitheater, not unlike the world-famous Red Rocks venue in Colorado. Just swap mountains for desert. And without any bridges to sail under in the middle of the desert, the odds of getting shit on by the band's tour bus driver were much slimmer. At the very least, one particular flock of sightseeing Chicagoans would consider this a major plus. But I digress...again.
The whole weekend sounded like a grand time – and for an extra $20, Brent, Scot, and thousands of other show-goers were to camp out after the concert under a sea of stars. Cars lined up for acres like a massive tailgate party. All around them people pitched tents to pass out in afterward. Unfortunately for Scot, there was no “afterward.” That’s because he went missing before sundown.
Geri and I were having a Post-Wicked drink at a neighborhood pub when I received a strange text message from Brent. It was 12:40a CST – which would have been 10:40p out west. It read: “Dude. Scot is missing. He wandered off and we haven’t seen him for hours.”
Messages like these are also not uncommon in my world, so I jestfully replied “OMG – go find him!” Geri and I retired for the evening shortly after, as far as you know.
The next morning I received a call from Brent.
“Hey – sorry to call so early in the morning…but…have you heard from Scot?”
“No. WHY?” I asked, concerned.
“Because he’s still missing. We don’t know where he is. He just wandered off somewhere at around 7:30 last night and we haven’t seen him since.”
“Shit. I thought you were kidding, dude. He’s REALLY missing? Have you tried calling him?” Geri, who was browsing the unappetizing collection of condiments in my refrigerator, looked over at me with concern. The text message had been no joke. Scot was really missing - and he had now BEEN missing for 12 hours.
“Well…we did try calling him. That’s how we found out that his phone is in my car.” Brent sounded genuinely worried.
“Well has he tried calling YOU at all? He must have tried calling you?”
“I honestly don’t think he knows my number.”
That made sense, actually. People don’t memorize phone numbers any more. We program them into our cells with nicknames and don’t bother committing them to memory because we don’t have to. I call Geri all the time – I've been calling her for well over a year – but I couldn’t do it from anyone’s phone but my own because I don’t know what her number is. I only know to scroll down to her name on my contact list and press “send.” Things were suddenly not looking very good for Scot.
Brent and I thought aloud for a second. Scot had been drinking Jack and Coke for several hours in a large field in the middle of the desert, partying with an enthusiastic concert crowd. He then, for some unknown reason, decided to leave the group and wander off. He didn’t have his cell phone, didn’t know where he was, didn’t have a ride other than the people he came with, and couldn’t remember any important cell phone numbers. Most importantly, he had now been missing for over 12 hours.
“Dude,” I said, “You need to get a hold of the police.” Brent said he was working on it and would get back to me. I agreed to call should I hear from Scot first. This was a distinct possibility, we thought, as I have the easiest phone number to remember in the entire world. No, I’m not going to tell you what it is. Dream on.
I hung up with Brent and told Geri the news. We were suddenly fearful that something terrible happened to Scot. We imagined him wandering off somewhere, getting lost, falling into a hole in the ground, getting attacked by an animal of some kind, running into a group of deviants, passing out on the desert floor. Where was he? Where’d he go? Who was he with? Was he okay?
And then I remembered the call I’d received at Japonais the night before. The one I couldn’t hear that I assumed was whiskey-babble. Had that been Scot calling for help? I panicked and replayed the message. What had I done? Had I been the only one Scot thought to call in his hour of need? Was he in danger? I hastily plugged in my password and listened closely to the message. It wasn't Scot at all - it was Brent using Scot’s phone, drunk, and pretending to be a gay man looking for man love. Again, not so uncommon in my world. It’s really better that you not ask any questions.
Several hours later I received a phone call from Brent. “Scot’s alive, man. We’re going to get him now.” That was all I needed to hear to know everything I needed to know.
“He’s in jail, isn’t he?” I asked knowingly.
“Yep. Criminal trespassing.” Scot’s weekend in Washington State to see the Dave Matthews Band had become a $250 overnight stay at The Grant County correctional facility. Meanwhile, we all breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't been eaten by fireants.
Scot is released from the Grant County facility and there's only one mystery left to be solved: Did he drop the soap?
Scot’s version of the story, unfortunately, would shed little light on what actually happened that evening. He remembers very little - only that he had been drinking and stumbled off to find a place to urinate. At some point he lost his bearings and became disoriented. He didn’t have a phone or a number to call, so he wandered lonely as a cloud for a bit until he spotted some police officers. He says he approached them asking for directions, at which point they decided he was a either a menace to society or a menace to himself and gave him a ride to the station. His story completely blew my theory out of the water. I'd imagined a herd of police on horseback with long nets sweeping across neighboring farmland like the gorilla soldiers in Planet of the Apes, nabbing stray drunkards and piss bandits.
Scot is home safe now, so this long-winded story does have a somewhat happy ending. I like to remind Scot that this kind of thing never happened before he bought that Harley Davidson. Ever since then, trouble's had no problem finding him.
In closing, I'd like this be a lesson to all of us. For how much easier technology has made our lives, it’s not without some drawbacks. I recommend you memorize at least two phone numbers on the off chance you get lost at a Dave Matthews Concert and find yourself behind bars for criminal trespassing. Maybe even write a few down on a scrap of paper and stuff them in your wallet just in case.
Before posting, I sent this story to a friend of mine named Scott (two T's) to review. Here are his comments:
“…If this "Scot" is who I think it is, I believe he'd appreciate you throwing in a few truths into this “story” or “life lesson” or whatever literary term befits the text. First off, you need to mention the many hot (female) whores he banged that night prior to incarceration. Got that, many. Also, he's sporting a new prison tattoo he acquired from a homemade ink needle constructed from a Bic outer casing, a sharpened Bobbie pin, and a borrowed "Make the Pussy Purr" 3-speed electric motor. Finally, when the Deputy Sheriff hosed him down following booking, he kept calling "Scot" stallion, because he's hung like a horse. Now yous gots yourself da whole story.”
Yes, it's a hard knock life.
Scot is, by all accounts, a great guy. He’s easy going, mild mannered, and sociable. Scot and I, together and with groups both large and small, have attended music concerts, Cubs games, Bears games, Illini games, camping trips – you name it. In some neighborhoods, we’d be called “homies.” So you can imagine my shock and concern when I learned some days ago that Scot was missing.
The first part of this mystery takes place a couple Friday evenings ago. Geri and I were enjoying a lovely dinner together at Chicago’s premier sushi establishment, Japonais. It was my second birthday dinner of the week, a fabulous feast to precede a theater date where we would see the new Broadway sensation, Wicked. (It was wickedly clever, incidentally – I highly recommend). We agreed that the food at Japonais was a close second behind the best sushi restaurant you've never been to, Tsuki Sushi (Fullerton and Greenview, Chicago) - but that the service was far superior. But why we're talking about sushi now, I don't know. Would you please FOCUS on Scot? He went missing, dammit. Thank you.
Following dinner, Geri excused herself to reference the ladies room…so I passed the moment accessing a curious voice mail message left me from Scot’s cell phone number. Unfortunately, the ambience of the restaurant prevented me from fully comprehending the message. I presumed it was a drunken message laced with incoherent whiskey-babble, which is not so uncommon in my world, so I flipped the Samsung shut and slipped it back into my suit pants.
Scot had flown to Washington that weekend to visit our mutual friend (who we will call Brent - also with one T). Brent had secured tickets to an outdoor music concert featuring the Dave Matthews Band and the two were to party like college kids with Seattle Seagals and the like. It was going to be the best time two grown up kids could ever have in the state of Washington.
While I am personally unfamiliar with the region, Brent described much of central Washington State as a “desert.” The concert was to be held at a natural outdoor amphitheater, not unlike the world-famous Red Rocks venue in Colorado. Just swap mountains for desert. And without any bridges to sail under in the middle of the desert, the odds of getting shit on by the band's tour bus driver were much slimmer. At the very least, one particular flock of sightseeing Chicagoans would consider this a major plus. But I digress...again.
The whole weekend sounded like a grand time – and for an extra $20, Brent, Scot, and thousands of other show-goers were to camp out after the concert under a sea of stars. Cars lined up for acres like a massive tailgate party. All around them people pitched tents to pass out in afterward. Unfortunately for Scot, there was no “afterward.” That’s because he went missing before sundown.
Geri and I were having a Post-Wicked drink at a neighborhood pub when I received a strange text message from Brent. It was 12:40a CST – which would have been 10:40p out west. It read: “Dude. Scot is missing. He wandered off and we haven’t seen him for hours.”
Messages like these are also not uncommon in my world, so I jestfully replied “OMG – go find him!” Geri and I retired for the evening shortly after, as far as you know.
The next morning I received a call from Brent.
“Hey – sorry to call so early in the morning…but…have you heard from Scot?”
“No. WHY?” I asked, concerned.
“Because he’s still missing. We don’t know where he is. He just wandered off somewhere at around 7:30 last night and we haven’t seen him since.”
“Shit. I thought you were kidding, dude. He’s REALLY missing? Have you tried calling him?” Geri, who was browsing the unappetizing collection of condiments in my refrigerator, looked over at me with concern. The text message had been no joke. Scot was really missing - and he had now BEEN missing for 12 hours.
“Well…we did try calling him. That’s how we found out that his phone is in my car.” Brent sounded genuinely worried.
“Well has he tried calling YOU at all? He must have tried calling you?”
“I honestly don’t think he knows my number.”
That made sense, actually. People don’t memorize phone numbers any more. We program them into our cells with nicknames and don’t bother committing them to memory because we don’t have to. I call Geri all the time – I've been calling her for well over a year – but I couldn’t do it from anyone’s phone but my own because I don’t know what her number is. I only know to scroll down to her name on my contact list and press “send.” Things were suddenly not looking very good for Scot.
Brent and I thought aloud for a second. Scot had been drinking Jack and Coke for several hours in a large field in the middle of the desert, partying with an enthusiastic concert crowd. He then, for some unknown reason, decided to leave the group and wander off. He didn’t have his cell phone, didn’t know where he was, didn’t have a ride other than the people he came with, and couldn’t remember any important cell phone numbers. Most importantly, he had now been missing for over 12 hours.
“Dude,” I said, “You need to get a hold of the police.” Brent said he was working on it and would get back to me. I agreed to call should I hear from Scot first. This was a distinct possibility, we thought, as I have the easiest phone number to remember in the entire world. No, I’m not going to tell you what it is. Dream on.
I hung up with Brent and told Geri the news. We were suddenly fearful that something terrible happened to Scot. We imagined him wandering off somewhere, getting lost, falling into a hole in the ground, getting attacked by an animal of some kind, running into a group of deviants, passing out on the desert floor. Where was he? Where’d he go? Who was he with? Was he okay?
And then I remembered the call I’d received at Japonais the night before. The one I couldn’t hear that I assumed was whiskey-babble. Had that been Scot calling for help? I panicked and replayed the message. What had I done? Had I been the only one Scot thought to call in his hour of need? Was he in danger? I hastily plugged in my password and listened closely to the message. It wasn't Scot at all - it was Brent using Scot’s phone, drunk, and pretending to be a gay man looking for man love. Again, not so uncommon in my world. It’s really better that you not ask any questions.
Several hours later I received a phone call from Brent. “Scot’s alive, man. We’re going to get him now.” That was all I needed to hear to know everything I needed to know.
“He’s in jail, isn’t he?” I asked knowingly.
“Yep. Criminal trespassing.” Scot’s weekend in Washington State to see the Dave Matthews Band had become a $250 overnight stay at The Grant County correctional facility. Meanwhile, we all breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't been eaten by fireants.
Scot is released from the Grant County facility and there's only one mystery left to be solved: Did he drop the soap?
Scot’s version of the story, unfortunately, would shed little light on what actually happened that evening. He remembers very little - only that he had been drinking and stumbled off to find a place to urinate. At some point he lost his bearings and became disoriented. He didn’t have a phone or a number to call, so he wandered lonely as a cloud for a bit until he spotted some police officers. He says he approached them asking for directions, at which point they decided he was a either a menace to society or a menace to himself and gave him a ride to the station. His story completely blew my theory out of the water. I'd imagined a herd of police on horseback with long nets sweeping across neighboring farmland like the gorilla soldiers in Planet of the Apes, nabbing stray drunkards and piss bandits.
Scot is home safe now, so this long-winded story does have a somewhat happy ending. I like to remind Scot that this kind of thing never happened before he bought that Harley Davidson. Ever since then, trouble's had no problem finding him.
In closing, I'd like this be a lesson to all of us. For how much easier technology has made our lives, it’s not without some drawbacks. I recommend you memorize at least two phone numbers on the off chance you get lost at a Dave Matthews Concert and find yourself behind bars for criminal trespassing. Maybe even write a few down on a scrap of paper and stuff them in your wallet just in case.
Before posting, I sent this story to a friend of mine named Scott (two T's) to review. Here are his comments:
“…If this "Scot" is who I think it is, I believe he'd appreciate you throwing in a few truths into this “story” or “life lesson” or whatever literary term befits the text. First off, you need to mention the many hot (female) whores he banged that night prior to incarceration. Got that, many. Also, he's sporting a new prison tattoo he acquired from a homemade ink needle constructed from a Bic outer casing, a sharpened Bobbie pin, and a borrowed "Make the Pussy Purr" 3-speed electric motor. Finally, when the Deputy Sheriff hosed him down following booking, he kept calling "Scot" stallion, because he's hung like a horse. Now yous gots yourself da whole story.”
Yes, it's a hard knock life.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
THE BICYCLE DIARIES
Shocking! 7-time Tour de France victor Lance Armstrong may already be contemplating a comeback.
Reports say he's been motivated by recent allegations from the French press that he used an illegal blood booster agent prior to the 1999 Tour. Armstrong has repeatedly, and vehemently, denied these allegations.
A source close to the 2005 Champion says that if these reports persist, Armstrong plans to ruin the event for a generation of French cycling enthusiasts by winning it another 20 years in a row. "Frankly, we all assumed these mongrels would have backed off a long time ago - it's in their blood. As appalled as we are, we're equally surprised at the backbone they've showed in this ongoing "drug" war. If they know what's good for them, they'll shut up already."
I think Lance ought to do it an 8th time and actually USE performance enhancing drugs just for the fun of it. Why not? He's really got nothing left to prove - except maybe how much better he would have been all these years had he been really doped up. I think a little human interest story like that might actually make the event one worth watching.
Reports say he's been motivated by recent allegations from the French press that he used an illegal blood booster agent prior to the 1999 Tour. Armstrong has repeatedly, and vehemently, denied these allegations.
A source close to the 2005 Champion says that if these reports persist, Armstrong plans to ruin the event for a generation of French cycling enthusiasts by winning it another 20 years in a row. "Frankly, we all assumed these mongrels would have backed off a long time ago - it's in their blood. As appalled as we are, we're equally surprised at the backbone they've showed in this ongoing "drug" war. If they know what's good for them, they'll shut up already."
I think Lance ought to do it an 8th time and actually USE performance enhancing drugs just for the fun of it. Why not? He's really got nothing left to prove - except maybe how much better he would have been all these years had he been really doped up. I think a little human interest story like that might actually make the event one worth watching.
BREAKING NEWS
According to a "newsworthy" report on CNN, New Orleans flood waters are contaminated with e. coli - this according to an official in the office of Mayor Ray Nagin.
Is this REALLY news? I would imagine it's probably safe to say there's a LOT of shit in that water, so to speak. I guess I'm just not sure of the purpose of the report. Is this to discourage people from drinking it? Well, I've got news for the news media: if your senses of sight and smell won't prevent you from taking a big sip, or a leisurely dip, the confirmed presence of e. coli probably isn't going to. Plus, I always get e. coli and echinacea confused anyway. Which one is the herbal remedy again?
If the swimming pool at the Holiday Inn has e. coli in it - THAT'S news. Not stagnant floodwaters one week after a natural disaster. There's no plumbing! It'd be a miracle if there WASN'T shit in that water. Hell, e. coli should be the least of their concerns anyway. There's probably all sorts of shit worse than that floating around. I wouldn't be surprised if they find Nessie the Loch Ness monster swimming around in that sludge.
All this report really does is confirm the ugly truth: Nope - that's not a Baby Ruth bar.
Is this REALLY news? I would imagine it's probably safe to say there's a LOT of shit in that water, so to speak. I guess I'm just not sure of the purpose of the report. Is this to discourage people from drinking it? Well, I've got news for the news media: if your senses of sight and smell won't prevent you from taking a big sip, or a leisurely dip, the confirmed presence of e. coli probably isn't going to. Plus, I always get e. coli and echinacea confused anyway. Which one is the herbal remedy again?
If the swimming pool at the Holiday Inn has e. coli in it - THAT'S news. Not stagnant floodwaters one week after a natural disaster. There's no plumbing! It'd be a miracle if there WASN'T shit in that water. Hell, e. coli should be the least of their concerns anyway. There's probably all sorts of shit worse than that floating around. I wouldn't be surprised if they find Nessie the Loch Ness monster swimming around in that sludge.
All this report really does is confirm the ugly truth: Nope - that's not a Baby Ruth bar.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
FUN WITH ADD-ONS
Now you can show me where you live on my fancy GuestMap! I've placed a button in my sidebar that will let you stick a pin on a big map of the world indicating where you live. You can even post a little note there for all to read. Did you ever imagine you'd be having fun this big without paying for it?
What are you waiting for?? Click my little GuestMap bug on the left and put a little dot where you live!
What are you waiting for?? Click my little GuestMap bug on the left and put a little dot where you live!
THE CARNIVAL COMES TO TOWN
As reported, the cruise ships are on their way. Three Carnival Cruise Line ships, the Ecstasy, Sensation, and Holiday, have been chartered by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) to provide 6 months temporary housing for victims of Hurricane Katrina. What a novel idea! It just sounds a little strange to say 2,600 victims will be on Ecstasy, another 2,600 will ride the Sensation, and another 1,800 will be going on Holiday.
The three ships will not be touring the Bahamas, but will instead be docked in breathtaking Mobile, Alabama. Carnival crews are expected to provide service for their homeless patrons - but the operation will be run by the U.S. Military Sealift Command.
Carnival shares (NYSE) closed down 28 cents Friday to $48.24 on news refugees don't tip well.
The three ships will not be touring the Bahamas, but will instead be docked in breathtaking Mobile, Alabama. Carnival crews are expected to provide service for their homeless patrons - but the operation will be run by the U.S. Military Sealift Command.
Carnival shares (NYSE) closed down 28 cents Friday to $48.24 on news refugees don't tip well.
POINTS OF VIEW
And then there's always the point of view that poverty is a policy decision. This gentleman articulates his point rather well in implicating the local government for creating a mess it couldn't clean up.
http://www.nydailynews.com/front/story/343324p-292991c.html
http://www.nydailynews.com/front/story/343324p-292991c.html
Saturday, September 03, 2005
NOTICE TO LOOTERS
No - I'm not going to shoot you. I've just got some neighborly notes to share.
You're doing it all wrong! Apparel and electronics are valuable goods, but they're far too difficult to carry around. Here's a tip: ATM machines.
They're everywhere, and they're loaded with cash. Let's not forget - wet cash is still cash. Every bar has one. Every mall has several. Every street corner. Every gas station. Every bank. Every convenience mart. There are thousands of ATMs all over that city and they're just bursting with big bills. If you're going to steal shit so you've got something to start over with, why not start with American green? It's lightweight and more accepted than Visa.
Here's the idea. You're going to need some help with this - but not too much because then you'll have to share the spoils. Now, if it's a free-standing unit, you'll want to drag it somewhere out of the way so camera crews don't catch you. The looting already looks bad enough without scenes of people cracking into ATM machines. That might be over the line for some folks, who've only dreamt of busting into one of those bad boys just to wrestle back some of those ridiculous transaction fees. By design, these money dispensers aren't easy to breach, so getting inside is going to take some elbow grease. Secure a heavy metal instrument of some kind from the many debris piles at your disposal and give it hell. Experiment with different pokes and swings in different places. Feel around the edges for weak seams. Knock on the casing to see where it is hollow, then drop a heavy chunk of concrete on it. *
Sound like a plan?
Okay then - put down that armful of fall fashions from Saks Fifth Avenue and go get yourself some bills. You'll find it a whole lot easier to trade money for goods than goods for money. Fa shizzle.
* Please note that I do not personally endorse looting of any kind as it is against the law. I would never suggest people break the law just to feed their dying children. Huh? Sarcastic? No, not all.
You're doing it all wrong! Apparel and electronics are valuable goods, but they're far too difficult to carry around. Here's a tip: ATM machines.
They're everywhere, and they're loaded with cash. Let's not forget - wet cash is still cash. Every bar has one. Every mall has several. Every street corner. Every gas station. Every bank. Every convenience mart. There are thousands of ATMs all over that city and they're just bursting with big bills. If you're going to steal shit so you've got something to start over with, why not start with American green? It's lightweight and more accepted than Visa.
Here's the idea. You're going to need some help with this - but not too much because then you'll have to share the spoils. Now, if it's a free-standing unit, you'll want to drag it somewhere out of the way so camera crews don't catch you. The looting already looks bad enough without scenes of people cracking into ATM machines. That might be over the line for some folks, who've only dreamt of busting into one of those bad boys just to wrestle back some of those ridiculous transaction fees. By design, these money dispensers aren't easy to breach, so getting inside is going to take some elbow grease. Secure a heavy metal instrument of some kind from the many debris piles at your disposal and give it hell. Experiment with different pokes and swings in different places. Feel around the edges for weak seams. Knock on the casing to see where it is hollow, then drop a heavy chunk of concrete on it. *
Sound like a plan?
Okay then - put down that armful of fall fashions from Saks Fifth Avenue and go get yourself some bills. You'll find it a whole lot easier to trade money for goods than goods for money. Fa shizzle.
* Please note that I do not personally endorse looting of any kind as it is against the law. I would never suggest people break the law just to feed their dying children. Huh? Sarcastic? No, not all.
Friday, September 02, 2005
MESSAGE IN A BROKEN BOTTLE
The other day I rambled on about the plight of those stranded in New Orleans and stopped just short of universally justifying the pillaging that’s going on down there. The context of the situation continues to play a huge role in the behavior we’ve been witnessing day after heartbreaking day. For more on the power of context, I recommend Malcolm Gladwell’s book, The Tipping Point. He discusses how small changes in environment can have an enormous influence on attitudes and behavior. Then try to imagine the impact MASSIVE changes in environment might have.
Watching the television reports, I’ve noticed a lot of blame being passed around like a bowl of beets at the Thanksgiving table. Everyone’s willing to dish it out, but nobody wants that shit on their plate. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned tragedy to bring out the “not my fault” in people. Remember 9/11? Same story there – everybody rushed to blame somebody else. The government. The “authorities.” The border patrol. The president. Airline security. The Koran. International policy. The CIA. The list goes on and on. How has the absolution of all wrongdoing become so central to our existence as sentient beings? What’s so hard about admitting we made a mistake? I just can’t imagine it – but then, I’ve never made one. And neither have you, right? *wink*
Leggo my ego!
While well-intended folks are busy pointing fingers, frustration swells like the salty Gulf. Does it really matter who’s to blame when babies are dying on a bed of asphalt, children are being raped, and the people sent in to rescue them are being shot at?
Here’s an article I found at blacknews.com discussing George Bush’s handling of poverty as a major cause for the turmoil down south. Poverty is no one administration’s fault – but certainly a scourge worth addressing. The push against Bush is a stretch, but some of the more salient facts cannot be ignored. (http://www.blacknews.com/pr/looting101.html)
For example, one of New Orleans’ dirty little secrets is that nearly a third of the population lived at or below the poverty level. Yes, that IS a lot. The national average is 12.7%. Some politicians, including members of the National Black Caucus, have defaulted to the race card. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, as it would be impossible to ignore the fact that nearly all of the people stranded – at least visibly – are African American. I must admit, it forced me to wonder: Where are all the poor WHITE people? Were they shuttled out of the city in a massive evacuation operation? Doubtful. Were poor white people somehow better able to leave town…or were they simply more willing? Is there more to the cultural welfare dependency argument than we would like to believe, or is simply asking the question inherently racist? I have a hard time stomaching the notion that these people have been abandoned BECAUSE they are black. Yet that’s what’s been suggested by a number of high-profile public figures and servants.
It’s an argument, I believe, born of emotion. Looking at it rationally, I’d say local authorities definitely dropped the ball here. How can you tell a population so poor and so large it must leave an area in so short a window of time…without at the very least providing it with SOME means to do so? Not even the writers of the X-Files could have dreamt up a scheme to transport a crowd that size overnight. How do you tell all these people they have to leave town without providing access to transportation of some kind? Were they supposed to just start walking? How did they, or anyone else for that matter, know it was going to go down like this? If Nostradamus didn’t predict it, how the hell were a bunch of armchair weathermen down in the bayou supposed to?
There are a lot of factors at play in this disaster, the most influential of all, perhaps, being the fact that no one EXPECTED this to happen. On the family tree of psychological awareness, Expectations are the mother of Disappointment, and the wicked stepmother to Ruin. More on expectation to come…
This brings me to a final point on responsibility, which I hope to make without pointing fingers. Pointing fingers, after all, is rude. After the storm surge exceeded everyone’s expectations. After the levees broke and pumps failed. After the bridges snapped and the roads were blocked. After the power and plumbing failed. After everything that could have possibly gone wrong went wrong, there were still people left in the city. Whose responsibility is it to get those people out?
My first thought was that, ultimately, we as individuals have to be responsible for ourselves. What do refugees in other countries do when faced with catastrophes of this magnitude? Genocide. Famine. Tsunami. They walk. They move. It’s not pretty, but they get on the road and they seek higher ground. They seek shelter. They seek food. Why didn’t that happen here? Or did it?
Thousands of people sought refuge in the Louisiana Superdome and the Convention Center EXPECTING they would be clothed, fed, nursed, and protected. By who? The government? Which government? The local government? The state government? The federal government? But government isn’t an actionable entity in itself. It’s not an omniscient caregiver capable of kissing our wounds to make them feel better. Government is run by people – people who left town because there was a hurricane coming. Some might argue that there simply wasn’t anyone left to help.
That being said, there are a lot of things that could have been done after the fact that weren’t. Those still stranded down there need a lot of things – but at the very LEAST, what they need is information. Information. Information. Expectations are managed through communication. There’s been zero communication down there. How can we blame these people for being angry? They don’t see the news every night like we do. They can’t comprehend the challenges. They don’t realize the extent of the destruction. All they know is they’re hungry, homeless, and running out of time. At what point do you say “fuck this” and start walking?
Anger always precedes acceptance. If these people were just a click away from up-to-the minute updates and information like you and I are, maybe they’d be more accepting of the situation. Maybe then they’d be able to get past the fury that drains them. It takes a lot of energy being angry. What is the function of government? Is it to provide safety for people? Is it to attend to the welfare of each and every citizen? Is it to provide medical care? Is it to provide food? There’s a lot of room for debate here – I’m just asking the questions.
My solution? It’s tongue-in-cheek, but you would expect no more (or less) from me. Get Donald Trump in charge and run this evacuation like an episode of the Apprentice. We need some highly motivated people with can-do attitudes and out-of-the-bowl ideas in charge so something gets done. How long would it take to type up some informational leaflets and airdrop them over those crowds? A few hours?
Think about how far a little information would go. Tell them what we already know and take for granted. Give them instructions – something constructive to do. They need direction. Right now there’s a mob with no direction, no information, and dwindling hope. Of course they’re going to be angry. Expectations have not been properly managed, and it’s resulted in utter mayhem.
They need to know what the plan is. They need to know what the timeline is. They need to know that women, children, sick, and elderly are going first. They need to know where they are going and what will be waiting for them there. They need to know that New Orleans will be off limits for at least 2 months and possibly 2 years. They need information like this to quell the anxiety that’s got them bursting at the seams.
They’ve been sending out an S.O.S. for almost a week now. Will someone please let them know that someone got their message in a bottle?
Watching the television reports, I’ve noticed a lot of blame being passed around like a bowl of beets at the Thanksgiving table. Everyone’s willing to dish it out, but nobody wants that shit on their plate. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned tragedy to bring out the “not my fault” in people. Remember 9/11? Same story there – everybody rushed to blame somebody else. The government. The “authorities.” The border patrol. The president. Airline security. The Koran. International policy. The CIA. The list goes on and on. How has the absolution of all wrongdoing become so central to our existence as sentient beings? What’s so hard about admitting we made a mistake? I just can’t imagine it – but then, I’ve never made one. And neither have you, right? *wink*
Leggo my ego!
While well-intended folks are busy pointing fingers, frustration swells like the salty Gulf. Does it really matter who’s to blame when babies are dying on a bed of asphalt, children are being raped, and the people sent in to rescue them are being shot at?
Here’s an article I found at blacknews.com discussing George Bush’s handling of poverty as a major cause for the turmoil down south. Poverty is no one administration’s fault – but certainly a scourge worth addressing. The push against Bush is a stretch, but some of the more salient facts cannot be ignored. (http://www.blacknews.com/pr/looting101.html)
For example, one of New Orleans’ dirty little secrets is that nearly a third of the population lived at or below the poverty level. Yes, that IS a lot. The national average is 12.7%. Some politicians, including members of the National Black Caucus, have defaulted to the race card. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, as it would be impossible to ignore the fact that nearly all of the people stranded – at least visibly – are African American. I must admit, it forced me to wonder: Where are all the poor WHITE people? Were they shuttled out of the city in a massive evacuation operation? Doubtful. Were poor white people somehow better able to leave town…or were they simply more willing? Is there more to the cultural welfare dependency argument than we would like to believe, or is simply asking the question inherently racist? I have a hard time stomaching the notion that these people have been abandoned BECAUSE they are black. Yet that’s what’s been suggested by a number of high-profile public figures and servants.
It’s an argument, I believe, born of emotion. Looking at it rationally, I’d say local authorities definitely dropped the ball here. How can you tell a population so poor and so large it must leave an area in so short a window of time…without at the very least providing it with SOME means to do so? Not even the writers of the X-Files could have dreamt up a scheme to transport a crowd that size overnight. How do you tell all these people they have to leave town without providing access to transportation of some kind? Were they supposed to just start walking? How did they, or anyone else for that matter, know it was going to go down like this? If Nostradamus didn’t predict it, how the hell were a bunch of armchair weathermen down in the bayou supposed to?
There are a lot of factors at play in this disaster, the most influential of all, perhaps, being the fact that no one EXPECTED this to happen. On the family tree of psychological awareness, Expectations are the mother of Disappointment, and the wicked stepmother to Ruin. More on expectation to come…
This brings me to a final point on responsibility, which I hope to make without pointing fingers. Pointing fingers, after all, is rude. After the storm surge exceeded everyone’s expectations. After the levees broke and pumps failed. After the bridges snapped and the roads were blocked. After the power and plumbing failed. After everything that could have possibly gone wrong went wrong, there were still people left in the city. Whose responsibility is it to get those people out?
My first thought was that, ultimately, we as individuals have to be responsible for ourselves. What do refugees in other countries do when faced with catastrophes of this magnitude? Genocide. Famine. Tsunami. They walk. They move. It’s not pretty, but they get on the road and they seek higher ground. They seek shelter. They seek food. Why didn’t that happen here? Or did it?
Thousands of people sought refuge in the Louisiana Superdome and the Convention Center EXPECTING they would be clothed, fed, nursed, and protected. By who? The government? Which government? The local government? The state government? The federal government? But government isn’t an actionable entity in itself. It’s not an omniscient caregiver capable of kissing our wounds to make them feel better. Government is run by people – people who left town because there was a hurricane coming. Some might argue that there simply wasn’t anyone left to help.
That being said, there are a lot of things that could have been done after the fact that weren’t. Those still stranded down there need a lot of things – but at the very LEAST, what they need is information. Information. Information. Expectations are managed through communication. There’s been zero communication down there. How can we blame these people for being angry? They don’t see the news every night like we do. They can’t comprehend the challenges. They don’t realize the extent of the destruction. All they know is they’re hungry, homeless, and running out of time. At what point do you say “fuck this” and start walking?
Anger always precedes acceptance. If these people were just a click away from up-to-the minute updates and information like you and I are, maybe they’d be more accepting of the situation. Maybe then they’d be able to get past the fury that drains them. It takes a lot of energy being angry. What is the function of government? Is it to provide safety for people? Is it to attend to the welfare of each and every citizen? Is it to provide medical care? Is it to provide food? There’s a lot of room for debate here – I’m just asking the questions.
My solution? It’s tongue-in-cheek, but you would expect no more (or less) from me. Get Donald Trump in charge and run this evacuation like an episode of the Apprentice. We need some highly motivated people with can-do attitudes and out-of-the-bowl ideas in charge so something gets done. How long would it take to type up some informational leaflets and airdrop them over those crowds? A few hours?
Think about how far a little information would go. Tell them what we already know and take for granted. Give them instructions – something constructive to do. They need direction. Right now there’s a mob with no direction, no information, and dwindling hope. Of course they’re going to be angry. Expectations have not been properly managed, and it’s resulted in utter mayhem.
They need to know what the plan is. They need to know what the timeline is. They need to know that women, children, sick, and elderly are going first. They need to know where they are going and what will be waiting for them there. They need to know that New Orleans will be off limits for at least 2 months and possibly 2 years. They need information like this to quell the anxiety that’s got them bursting at the seams.
They’ve been sending out an S.O.S. for almost a week now. Will someone please let them know that someone got their message in a bottle?
Thursday, September 01, 2005
JUMP TO LIGHTSPEED!
So...just how fast is your internet connection? Maybe not as fast as you think.
Maybe faster.
Click on the header to find out. Don't be a baby - do it!
Might be time for broadband...
http://www.internetfrog.com/mypc/speedtest/
(Thanks, Peter)
Maybe faster.
Click on the header to find out. Don't be a baby - do it!
Might be time for broadband...
http://www.internetfrog.com/mypc/speedtest/
(Thanks, Peter)
PAIN IN THE GAS
The devastation created by Hurricane Katrina has sent gasoline prices soaring yet again. There seems to be no end in sight. I saw this sign at the gas station near my building this morning. All of a sudden my idea for a car that runs on urine is starting to look pretty damn good...
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
SURREALITY TELEVISION
By now we’ve all seen the pictures. Rooftops that appear to be floating on a bed of chocolate soup. Emergency rescue teams hammering though shingles to reach people trapped in attics. Hundreds of homeless wading through the canals of downtown New Orleans with pilfered goods. How can we even begin to imagine, from the dry comfort of our modest homes, what these people are going through?
Hurricane Katrina turned out to be even worse than expected. It is now officially the single worst natural disaster to ever hit the United States. Worse than any other storm, earthquake, drought, or wildfire outbreak. There’s no electricity. There’s no plumbing. There’s no way in or out of town in some areas. As was feared, it has proven a disaster of Biblical proportions. The entire region has been rendered inhabitable. And the water is still RISING. Hundreds of thousands of displaced people with absolutely nothing left and nowhere to go. How does a group of people this large sustain itself? They have nothing. What do they eat? When your slate is wiped clean, how do you just begin again? They need help – lots of it, and fast. At what point do we stop sending prayers and start sending money?
Survivors are finding they are not alone. There are alligators, snakes, bugs, and rats – all trying to survive in the aftermath. What had been a teeming metropolis on the gulf, attractive tourist destination, and historic hot spot has become a murky modern-day Atlantis.
So where are these people going to go for now? They can’t stay in the Superdome. Many are being shipped to Houston in buses. According to one AP report, someone even had the stroke of genius to suggest bringing in cruise ships – those massive, man-made islands of floating decadence. Only now they’ll be used to house American refugees. Think about how strange THAT sounds to say: American refugees. At least there the homeless will have a place to sleep. At least there they can be safe from infection and wildlife. At least there relief missions can dispense food and water. At least there people can be accounted for. But for how long? And then what?
Meanwhile, in the streets, there is widespread looting. And they’re not just taking the essentials. They’re stealing shit they’ll never be able to use. Plasma televisions they can’t watch. Computers they can’t surf the web on. Compact Discs they can’t listen to. One of my co-workers today suggested, and not in jest, that looters be shot on sight.
“Looting?” she responded to a television report, “I don’t care how they want to soften it – it’s stealing. They ought to just shoot these people.”
I asked her to imagine for one moment standing in the middle of a city underwater. There’s no tomorrow or next week when you’re wading hip deep in sewage, surrounded by wildlife, with nothing to eat, no place to go, and no information. These people aren’t thinking about what they’re doing. They’re in survival mode. They’re not thinking about what they’re taking. It’s complete anarchy down there – and in a state of anarchy, you grab anything that has any value at all – the standard currency of chaos. A stolen DVD player is worth something to someone somewhere…better to have that than nothing at all.
I agreed with her that stealing is not right. But there’s a big difference between the opportunistic window smashers who take to the streets during protests and demonstrations, and the thousands of displaced souls paddling through the canals of the Crescent City. The difference is in context. In one situation you have people stealing to steal. In the other you have people foraging to live. I imagine some of the looters are simply up to no good – profiteers perhaps, hoping to score valuable consumer goods and electronics for resale on the black market. But let’s not ignore the life-threatening context of the situation. Faced with the same horrific conditions, you and I might resort to the very same behavior.
Whose cars are these? And why are they still here? Submerged evidence that no one expected the levees would break, the pumps would fail, and the geographical bowl to fill with swamp.
One official in Louisiana articulated an important point. The people who are in New Orleans right now aren’t there because they WANT to be there. They’re there because they’re stuck there. Trapped. Take a good look at the people who couldn’t get out. The poor. The unemployed. The people who had it rough to begin with. Many didn’t have the resources to just pick up and go. They didn’t have any disposable cash. They didn’t have cars. They were forced to hope for the best, and the lucky ones lived through the nightmare of Katrina – only to find it is a recurring one, fraught with dangers we can only imagine. Wait until the waters recede and the breadth of the graveyard is revealed. It is now estimated thousands may have died – many drowning in their own attics. A suffocating fate as surreal as it is horrifying.
80% of New Orleans is now underwater – as much as 20 feet in places. This is not a rural area we’re talking about – this is a massive city home to nearly half a million people. Our very own tsunami, minus the global outpouring of support. Many believe its time to recall resources from our War on Terror so we can declare a War on Water.
Now is a good time to go through my closet and find the clothes I haven’t worn in a long time. Hundreds of thousands of people could use them.
Hurricane Katrina turned out to be even worse than expected. It is now officially the single worst natural disaster to ever hit the United States. Worse than any other storm, earthquake, drought, or wildfire outbreak. There’s no electricity. There’s no plumbing. There’s no way in or out of town in some areas. As was feared, it has proven a disaster of Biblical proportions. The entire region has been rendered inhabitable. And the water is still RISING. Hundreds of thousands of displaced people with absolutely nothing left and nowhere to go. How does a group of people this large sustain itself? They have nothing. What do they eat? When your slate is wiped clean, how do you just begin again? They need help – lots of it, and fast. At what point do we stop sending prayers and start sending money?
Survivors are finding they are not alone. There are alligators, snakes, bugs, and rats – all trying to survive in the aftermath. What had been a teeming metropolis on the gulf, attractive tourist destination, and historic hot spot has become a murky modern-day Atlantis.
So where are these people going to go for now? They can’t stay in the Superdome. Many are being shipped to Houston in buses. According to one AP report, someone even had the stroke of genius to suggest bringing in cruise ships – those massive, man-made islands of floating decadence. Only now they’ll be used to house American refugees. Think about how strange THAT sounds to say: American refugees. At least there the homeless will have a place to sleep. At least there they can be safe from infection and wildlife. At least there relief missions can dispense food and water. At least there people can be accounted for. But for how long? And then what?
Meanwhile, in the streets, there is widespread looting. And they’re not just taking the essentials. They’re stealing shit they’ll never be able to use. Plasma televisions they can’t watch. Computers they can’t surf the web on. Compact Discs they can’t listen to. One of my co-workers today suggested, and not in jest, that looters be shot on sight.
“Looting?” she responded to a television report, “I don’t care how they want to soften it – it’s stealing. They ought to just shoot these people.”
I asked her to imagine for one moment standing in the middle of a city underwater. There’s no tomorrow or next week when you’re wading hip deep in sewage, surrounded by wildlife, with nothing to eat, no place to go, and no information. These people aren’t thinking about what they’re doing. They’re in survival mode. They’re not thinking about what they’re taking. It’s complete anarchy down there – and in a state of anarchy, you grab anything that has any value at all – the standard currency of chaos. A stolen DVD player is worth something to someone somewhere…better to have that than nothing at all.
I agreed with her that stealing is not right. But there’s a big difference between the opportunistic window smashers who take to the streets during protests and demonstrations, and the thousands of displaced souls paddling through the canals of the Crescent City. The difference is in context. In one situation you have people stealing to steal. In the other you have people foraging to live. I imagine some of the looters are simply up to no good – profiteers perhaps, hoping to score valuable consumer goods and electronics for resale on the black market. But let’s not ignore the life-threatening context of the situation. Faced with the same horrific conditions, you and I might resort to the very same behavior.
Whose cars are these? And why are they still here? Submerged evidence that no one expected the levees would break, the pumps would fail, and the geographical bowl to fill with swamp.One official in Louisiana articulated an important point. The people who are in New Orleans right now aren’t there because they WANT to be there. They’re there because they’re stuck there. Trapped. Take a good look at the people who couldn’t get out. The poor. The unemployed. The people who had it rough to begin with. Many didn’t have the resources to just pick up and go. They didn’t have any disposable cash. They didn’t have cars. They were forced to hope for the best, and the lucky ones lived through the nightmare of Katrina – only to find it is a recurring one, fraught with dangers we can only imagine. Wait until the waters recede and the breadth of the graveyard is revealed. It is now estimated thousands may have died – many drowning in their own attics. A suffocating fate as surreal as it is horrifying.
80% of New Orleans is now underwater – as much as 20 feet in places. This is not a rural area we’re talking about – this is a massive city home to nearly half a million people. Our very own tsunami, minus the global outpouring of support. Many believe its time to recall resources from our War on Terror so we can declare a War on Water.
Now is a good time to go through my closet and find the clothes I haven’t worn in a long time. Hundreds of thousands of people could use them.
EXTRA CREDIT: READ ALL ABOUT IT
Here's some more credit news you can use. As you may have heard, all Americans are now entitled to one free credit report from each of the three major credit bureaus each year. This is a great way for you to find out if your list of obligations is naughty or nice.
All of your creditors will be listed there, along with details about every one of your outstanding debts. House, car, student loans, credit card bills, etc. If you've got lines of credit open you forgot about, they're on there. If you've missed payments, they're on there. Limits. Payments. Dates. Everything. And not all of it is correct, I should warn you.
It's YOUR credit history - shouldn't YOU have a copy?
It's FREE.
https://www.annualcreditreport.com/cra/index.jsp
All of your creditors will be listed there, along with details about every one of your outstanding debts. House, car, student loans, credit card bills, etc. If you've got lines of credit open you forgot about, they're on there. If you've missed payments, they're on there. Limits. Payments. Dates. Everything. And not all of it is correct, I should warn you.
It's YOUR credit history - shouldn't YOU have a copy?
It's FREE.
https://www.annualcreditreport.com/cra/index.jsp
FREEDOM FIGHTERS
We’ve all heard that free speech in America is not absolute. For example, you just can’t scream “Fire!” in a crowded movie theater. Not unless it’s actually burning, that is. Then feel free to go as nuts as you please. This shocking news story illustrates why there are limitations on what you can say.
Any other week, this story would likely have been all over the headlines. But Katrina, understandably, has dominated our media – so a lot of people won’t hear that nearly 700 Iraqis died in a stampede today. Yes, a stampede. Not your ordinary, everyday stampede of frightened livestock. Not a stampede of horses or camels…or even a stampede for fun – like the ones they throw in Spain every year for the criminally stupid.
This was a stampede of people.
Massive crowds had gathered to attend a religious ceremony at the Kadhimiya mosque in an old district of Baghdad when someone shouted that there was a suicide bomber in their midst. Panic ensued, and hundreds of people began scrambling in every direction, funneling to safety over a nearby bridge. Many threw themselves off the bridge. Many others were crushed underfoot by the frenzied mob. A majority of the victims were said to be women, children, and elderly.
The death toll has been listed at 700, but is climbing and expected to reach 1,000. Can you even imagine a thousand dead bodies, crushed and trampled by a wave of terrified church-goers? Just when you think they’re making some progress over there, some idiot screams “Suicide Bomber!” near a crowded mosque and 700 people are instantly no longer. Restoring the peace over there has proven nearly as futile as opening a ketchup packet with greasy fingers.
I personally find it extremely ironic that so much death can result from the very freedoms we struggle to support: Freedom of assembly. Freedom of worship. Freedom of speech. In this case, a deadly combination.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take some scissors to this ketchup packet.
Any other week, this story would likely have been all over the headlines. But Katrina, understandably, has dominated our media – so a lot of people won’t hear that nearly 700 Iraqis died in a stampede today. Yes, a stampede. Not your ordinary, everyday stampede of frightened livestock. Not a stampede of horses or camels…or even a stampede for fun – like the ones they throw in Spain every year for the criminally stupid.
This was a stampede of people.
Massive crowds had gathered to attend a religious ceremony at the Kadhimiya mosque in an old district of Baghdad when someone shouted that there was a suicide bomber in their midst. Panic ensued, and hundreds of people began scrambling in every direction, funneling to safety over a nearby bridge. Many threw themselves off the bridge. Many others were crushed underfoot by the frenzied mob. A majority of the victims were said to be women, children, and elderly.
The death toll has been listed at 700, but is climbing and expected to reach 1,000. Can you even imagine a thousand dead bodies, crushed and trampled by a wave of terrified church-goers? Just when you think they’re making some progress over there, some idiot screams “Suicide Bomber!” near a crowded mosque and 700 people are instantly no longer. Restoring the peace over there has proven nearly as futile as opening a ketchup packet with greasy fingers.
I personally find it extremely ironic that so much death can result from the very freedoms we struggle to support: Freedom of assembly. Freedom of worship. Freedom of speech. In this case, a deadly combination.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take some scissors to this ketchup packet.
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