I am enraged by an article I just read on CNN about the possible downside for blacks should Obama win the November election. The gist of it is that instead of being a vehicle for fundamental change, Obama would be a puppet for white guilt, the penultimate statement on the death of racism among white Americans.
By publishing an article whose premise is utterly incendiary and stupid, CNN has decided that the scandalous opinions of a few rogues looking to breath new life into the otherwise waning saga of black victimization and welfare economics are, in fact, more important than their potential backlash. I am awed at the creativity of many people to turn the election of a black president into a racist event. Maybe I'm the dumb one.
Thank god the kind of white people who Obama will need to carry are not capable of being dumb enough to believe that suddenly everything is rosy for black people.
I can see this kind of bullshit being spewed from Republican pulpits as a clever way to discourage blacks from voting for Obama, but if there is one single black person that thinks an Obama presidency would do more harm than good, please, kindly, go fuck yourself.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
iWait
I've been on the West Coast for the past few days. Last night, my host and I attended a Padres game and cut out an inning early to give the Apple store one last try. We'd been all over Southern California and hit up several, between meetings, trying to get the newest version of the iPhone, released just yesterday.
We got to the store and were surprised to see the line vastly diminished. In fact, they'd cut off the line and were taking their last customers. We were shuffled to the "standby line" and told that if we'd like to wait around for a few more minutes, they'd try to get us in too. The Apple folks looked complete unfazed by the madness of the day, and seemed in high spirits. My colleague and I were impressed.
The queue manager was a congenial twenty something and seemed friendly enough. "How long have you been here today?"
"Since 9am," he said, without even a hint of exasperation or fatigue. I looked for white residue under his nostrils, but saw none.
"You must be exhausted," I said, fishing.
"I'm a little tired, but it's all good, after all I WORK FOR APPLE." It wasn't an explanation, it was more like an anthem.
I marveled at the man's unbridled enthusiasm even as I contemplated his sanity. What a cult these Apple people have created, I wondered with a slight air of smugness. I chuckled quietly at the concept of working a 14 hour day for a retailer's salary and having the audacity to actually appear ecstatic about it. Then I realized that I, in fact, had an equally long day in meetings all over Southern California, and here I was in a line waiting to buy a phone. And I wasn't even getting paid.
We got to the store and were surprised to see the line vastly diminished. In fact, they'd cut off the line and were taking their last customers. We were shuffled to the "standby line" and told that if we'd like to wait around for a few more minutes, they'd try to get us in too. The Apple folks looked complete unfazed by the madness of the day, and seemed in high spirits. My colleague and I were impressed.
The queue manager was a congenial twenty something and seemed friendly enough. "How long have you been here today?"
"Since 9am," he said, without even a hint of exasperation or fatigue. I looked for white residue under his nostrils, but saw none.
"You must be exhausted," I said, fishing.
"I'm a little tired, but it's all good, after all I WORK FOR APPLE." It wasn't an explanation, it was more like an anthem.
I marveled at the man's unbridled enthusiasm even as I contemplated his sanity. What a cult these Apple people have created, I wondered with a slight air of smugness. I chuckled quietly at the concept of working a 14 hour day for a retailer's salary and having the audacity to actually appear ecstatic about it. Then I realized that I, in fact, had an equally long day in meetings all over Southern California, and here I was in a line waiting to buy a phone. And I wasn't even getting paid.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Pickin' Boogas
I’m sitting in the rear of a Delta jet, the right-side aisle seat of the middle row, 39E to be exact. Before leaving the ground, I am already assured of arriving at least an hour and a half late to LA, courtesy of variable winds and creative traffic control at the world’s busiest airport. I was initially pleased to be seated next to an unassuming, gangly teenager; it could have easily been little Johnny first plane ride, or a sweaty, fat, bald executive – the kind that commandeer the armrest you’re supposed to share and somehow ooze into your seat like hot play doh.
When he reached into his bag to pull out a cylinder of unopened Pringles, my stomach gurgled in jealousy. He made yeoman's work of the Pringles and I realized it'd been quite some time since I’d hung around an adolescent. No sooner had he finished did he launch his pinky clear into his cerebellum, clawing at an unseen nostril foe. My eyes, in direct violation of my brain’s orders, could not look away, widening in silent horror as he extracted the carnage. At that moment everything slowed down, like they say it sometimes does just before a car wreck, when the occupants have just enough time to register impending doom but not enough time to do anything about it. The wheels had spun off, and I watched as the booger hand fell to his lap, mere inches to my left. He had to be 15 or 16, old enough to have a face full of acne yet young enough to apparently feel at ease picking his nose in the middle seat of a full airplane. I returned to my book and tried desperately to put it out of my mind.
I’d just hit my stride in The Story of Edgar Sawtelle when I heard the crunching. The boy had moved on to a bag of some kind of berry trail mix. He held the bag with the booger hand and fished its contents awkwardly with the other, before cutting out the middleman and draining the rest into his mouth. Crumbs cascaded down his face, down his shirt, before spilling onto the property line armrest to their final resting place on my jeans. In what would otherwise be construed as sweet, the boy reached to brush his mess off me, but I protested – there was no way to tell what else that boy had caked onto his clumsy fingers.
I reread the same passage several times before I gave up and turned my full attention to dreaming about the arrival of the drink cart. Only whiskey could solve this boy. It was D-Day in 39D, and the kid’s nose was Normandy. Somehow, between leafing through the pages of a monster truck magazine and managing the Tete offensive, the boy made his way through a Hershey bar and a bag of Chex Mix.
“I think I have a tissue in my briefcase, would you like me to get it for you?” I asked, when I couldn’t take it any longer.
“No thanks” said the boy, nonplussed by my offer. I might as well have offered him a doorstop.
“If you need some, they're right here," I said, while placing a bundle of tissues on my food tray.
I awoke 30 minutes later and the boy's head had drifted over into my personal space, dangerously close to my left arm, and the tissues were gone. I looked over at his tray and there they were, used and soggy and streaked with booger blood snot trails.
When he reached into his bag to pull out a cylinder of unopened Pringles, my stomach gurgled in jealousy. He made yeoman's work of the Pringles and I realized it'd been quite some time since I’d hung around an adolescent. No sooner had he finished did he launch his pinky clear into his cerebellum, clawing at an unseen nostril foe. My eyes, in direct violation of my brain’s orders, could not look away, widening in silent horror as he extracted the carnage. At that moment everything slowed down, like they say it sometimes does just before a car wreck, when the occupants have just enough time to register impending doom but not enough time to do anything about it. The wheels had spun off, and I watched as the booger hand fell to his lap, mere inches to my left. He had to be 15 or 16, old enough to have a face full of acne yet young enough to apparently feel at ease picking his nose in the middle seat of a full airplane. I returned to my book and tried desperately to put it out of my mind.
I’d just hit my stride in The Story of Edgar Sawtelle when I heard the crunching. The boy had moved on to a bag of some kind of berry trail mix. He held the bag with the booger hand and fished its contents awkwardly with the other, before cutting out the middleman and draining the rest into his mouth. Crumbs cascaded down his face, down his shirt, before spilling onto the property line armrest to their final resting place on my jeans. In what would otherwise be construed as sweet, the boy reached to brush his mess off me, but I protested – there was no way to tell what else that boy had caked onto his clumsy fingers.
I reread the same passage several times before I gave up and turned my full attention to dreaming about the arrival of the drink cart. Only whiskey could solve this boy. It was D-Day in 39D, and the kid’s nose was Normandy. Somehow, between leafing through the pages of a monster truck magazine and managing the Tete offensive, the boy made his way through a Hershey bar and a bag of Chex Mix.
“I think I have a tissue in my briefcase, would you like me to get it for you?” I asked, when I couldn’t take it any longer.
“No thanks” said the boy, nonplussed by my offer. I might as well have offered him a doorstop.
“If you need some, they're right here," I said, while placing a bundle of tissues on my food tray.
I awoke 30 minutes later and the boy's head had drifted over into my personal space, dangerously close to my left arm, and the tissues were gone. I looked over at his tray and there they were, used and soggy and streaked with booger blood snot trails.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Urban Assault
Left out of the driveway, it’s a dip and then a straight shot to the light. I goose it. Idling at the light, the bike is rough and angry; it is not a morning bike. Green and the turn is generous; I push the bike over in a pleasurable sweeper. Time to run the stoplight gauntlet: Just over a mile, 5 lights with commuters, indigents, garbage, oil slicks and bus exhaust in between. I am immersed in city.
I turn right onto a one-way, four lane urban racetrack gated by a stoplight. The light seems interminable, and accruing demand awaits its switch. Green. GO! I jump past the cagers and hurdle into the lead. I look to the sides of the street for the swinging car door aiming to end my commute earlier than I’d prefer. If I time it right, I only get one more light before turning left into 300 yards of gridlock before my right into the parking deck.
I try and coast down all five levels because every now and then the throttled termignonis set off car alarms.
I turn right onto a one-way, four lane urban racetrack gated by a stoplight. The light seems interminable, and accruing demand awaits its switch. Green. GO! I jump past the cagers and hurdle into the lead. I look to the sides of the street for the swinging car door aiming to end my commute earlier than I’d prefer. If I time it right, I only get one more light before turning left into 300 yards of gridlock before my right into the parking deck.
I try and coast down all five levels because every now and then the throttled termignonis set off car alarms.
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