Sarah Speaks!

Sarah Palin is not a foreign policy lightweight; she’s a super-bantamweight. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boxing_weight_classes) She’s not a pig; she’s a horse’s ass. She’s been cramming for weeks (sample question McCain staffers quizzed her with- O.K. who’s in the U.N. Security Council, again?) and finally deigned to be interviewed yesterday by ABC’s Charlie Gibson, and in case you missed it, let me give you the low-lights and some analysis.

GIBSON: When I asked John McCain about your national security credentials, he cited the fact that you have commanded the Alaskan National Guard and that Alaska is close to Russia. Are those sufficient credentials?

PALIN: But it is about reform of government and it's about putting government back on the side of the people, and that has much to do with foreign policy and national security issues Let me speak specifically about a credential that I do bring to this table, Charlie, and that's with the energy independence that I've been working on for these years as the governor of this state that produces nearly 20 percent of the U.S. domestic supply of energy, that I worked on as chairman of the Alaska Oil and Gas Conservation Commission, overseeing the oil and gas development in our state to produce more for the United States.

GIBSON: I know. I'm just saying that national security is a whole lot more than energy.

PALIN: It is, but I want you to not lose sight of the fact that energy is a foundation of national security. It's that important. It's that significant. END QUOTE

So in other words, she has no experience, but she has been the governor of an oil-producing state for (less than) two years. The idea that foreign policy/national security and oil are essentially the same thing is an interesting idea- and it more or less confirms the rest of the world’s fears that the war in Iraq and our foreign policy writ large is dominated by our thirst for oil.

GIBSON: Did you ever travel outside the country prior to your trip to Kuwait and Germany last year?

PALIN: Canada, Mexico, and then, yes, that trip, that was the trip of a lifetime to visit our troops in Kuwait and stop and visit our injured soldiers in Germany. That was the trip of a lifetime and it changed my life. END QUOTE

Sadly, Gibson did not follow up to ask, “how did visiting troops in the deserts of Kuwait change your life?” So Sarah’s been to Tijuana, and crossed over into Canada to get a better look at Niagara Falls. Doesn’t really matter, because she lives in Alaska, which is so darned close to Russia.

GIBSON: You said recently, in your old church, "Our national leaders are sending U.S. soldiers on a task that is from God." Are we fighting a holy war?

PALIN: You know, I don't know if that was my exact quote.

GIBSON: Exact words.

PALIN: But the reference there is a repeat of Abraham Lincoln's words when he said -- first, he suggested never presume to know what God's will is, and I would never presume to know God's will or to speak God's words.
But what Abraham Lincoln had said, and that's a repeat in my comments, was let us not pray that God is on our side in a war or any other time, but let us pray that we are on God's side.
That's what that comment was all about, Charlie. And I do believe, though, that this war against extreme Islamic terrorists is the right thing. It's an unfortunate thing, because war is hell and I hate war, and, Charlie, today is the day that I send my first born, my son, my teenage son overseas with his Stryker brigade, 4,000 other wonderful American men and women, to fight for our country, for democracy, for our freedoms.
Charlie, those are freedoms that too many of us just take for granted. I hate war and I want to see war ended. We end war when we see victory, and we do see victory in sight in Iraq.

GIBSON: I take your point about Lincoln's words, but you went on and said, "There is a plan and it is God's plan."

PALIN: I believe that there is a plan for this world and that plan for this world is for good. I believe that there is great hope and great potential for every country to be able to live and be protected with inalienable rights that I believe are God-given, Charlie, and I believe that those are the rights to life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
That, in my world view, is a grand -- the grand plan. END QUOTE

Aside from the fact that she used the word, “Charlie” three times within one minute, this is an astonishing exchange. Again much of the Muslim World- suspects that the U.S. is engaged in a holy war in Iraq and Afghanistan, and here Palin’s previous statement confirms this for them. And Palin’s Honest Abe comparison is simply ludicrous- her statement bears more resemblance to the Blues Brothers “mission from God” quote than Lincoln’s.

GIBSON: What insight into Russian actions, particularly in the last couple of weeks, does the proximity of the state (of Alaska) give you?

PALIN: They're our next door neighbors and you can actually see Russia from land here in Alaska, from an island in Alaska.

GIBSON: What insight does that give you into what they're doing in Georgia?

PALIN: Well, I'm giving you that perspective of how small our world is and how important it is that we work with our allies to keep good relation with all of these countries, especially Russia. We will not repeat a Cold War. We must have good relationship with our allies, pressuring, also, helping us to remind Russia that it's in their benefit, also, a mutually beneficial relationship for us all to be getting along. END QUOTE

Indeed- Palin knows well what is going on in the Caucasus region- 10 time zones away from Alaska- because the western most extreme portion of her state is close to Siberia. Nice one. Also, love the notion of her Rodney King like- ‘can’t we all just get along’ idea- this coming just one question after she had just stated that we needed to “keep our eyes on Russia”, while calling their actions in Georgia “unprovoked” and “unacceptable”. Those statements are sure to improve ties.

After stating that Georgia and Ukraine should be brought into NATO, “Charlie” then asked:

GIBSON: And under the NATO treaty, wouldn't we then have to go to war if Russia went into Georgia?
PALIN: Perhaps so. I mean, that is the agreement when you are a NATO ally, is if another country is attacked, you're going to be expected to be called upon and help.
But NATO, I think, should include Ukraine, definitely, at this point and I think that we need to -- especially with new leadership coming in on January 20, being sworn on, on either ticket, we have got to make sure that we strengthen our allies, our ties with each one of those NATO members.
We have got to make sure that that is the group that can be counted upon to defend one another in a very dangerous world today.

GIBSON: And you think it would be worth it to the United States, Georgia is worth it to the United States to go to war if Russia were to invade.
PALIN: What I think is that smaller democratic countries that are invaded by a larger power is something for us to be vigilant against. We have got to be cognizant of what the consequences are if a larger power is able to take over smaller democratic countries.
And we have got to be vigilant. We have got to show the support, in this case, for Georgia. The support that we can show is economic sanctions perhaps against Russia, if this is what it leads to.
It doesn't have to lead to war and it doesn't have to lead, as I said, to a Cold War, but economic sanctions, diplomatic pressure, again, counting on our allies to help us do that in this mission of keeping our eye on Russia and Putin and some of his desire to control and to control much more than smaller democratic countries.
His mission, if it is to control energy supplies, also, coming from and through Russia, that's a dangerous position for our world to be in, if we were to allow that to happen. END QUOTE

So essentially, yes she is willing to take actions (i.e. admitting Georgia and Ukraine into NATO) that could drag us into war with Russia, but she’s only willing to offer vague “support” and rhetoric to Georgia with vague notions of some kind of unspecified economic sanctions against Russia. Memo to super-bantamweight Sarah (SBS) :“Being called up on to help” and going to war are two different things.

GIBSON: We talk on the anniversary of 9/11. Why do you think those hijackers attacked? Why did they want to hurt us?

PALIN: You know, there is a very small percentage of Islamic believers who are extreme and they are violent and they do not believe in American ideals, and they attacked us and now we are at a point here seven years later, on the anniversary, in this post-9/11 world, where we're able to commit to never again. They see that the only option for them is to become a suicide bomber, to get caught up in this evil, in this terror. They need to be provided the hope that all Americans have instilled in us, because we're a democratic, we are a free, and we are a free-thinking society. END QUOTE

Keep hope alive! Even for suicide bombers? What is this crap about people having no hope and no options becoming suicide bombers? Most of the 9/11 hijackers were highly educated (delusional and evil, yes, but uneducated and hopeless? Not so much) and from middle class families. It wasn’t like they lost their jobs one day and then went off the rails. Pulllleeeezzzze!

Gibson then asked super-bantamweight Sarah (SBS) about the Bush Doctrine and she had no clue what he was talking about. The segment closed with SBS dodging Gibson’s question about whether she’d support staging attacks on militants in Pakistan without the approval of the Pakistani government. It was not a pretty performance for America’s favorite pit bull/hockey mom.

Why am I picking on SBS? I don’t care about the fact that her daughter got knocked up, or her trooper- gate scandal, or that she tried to fire the town librarian for objecting to her plan to ban books, and I’m not even that troubled by the fact that she’s only been a governor for a couple of years. Let's also leave aside the fact that she named her children Track, Trig, Bristol, Willow and Piper and what that says about her judgement. Obama doesn’t have a wealth of foreign policy experience either- but at least the man sounds intelligent when asked a question- whereas Palin is barely coherent. I’ve overheard more intelligent banter in the urinals of sports bars for God’s sakes. This is a woman that attended five colleges (two of them community colleges, and two others were in Hawaii) before managing to graduate with a degree in sports journalism. She did win “miss congeniality” in a beauty pageant years ago, and last night that was essentially what she sounded like: a beauty pageant contestant that was trying hard to sound intelligent but was completely out of her depths. But will Americans say “she’s a dumb-ass, I’m voting Obama”, or will they say, “she’s a dumb-ass just like me, I think I’ll vote for her!”

http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/Vote2008/story?id=5782924&page=1

Michael Phelps Takes a Crap

We get it already- Michael Phelps can swim. NBC, which paid 14 trillion dollars- or approximately the cost of waging the war in Iraq for one weekend- or, put another way- the dollar value of Dick Cheney's Halliburton shares- is, once again, trying to make the Olympics a soap opera- all about personalities rather than athletics. Not to take anything away from Phelps' achievement, but I keep reading that he's the greatest olympic athlete ever. Hmmmm. Why? Because he has the most gold medals? Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but swimming has a motherload of events- many of them pretty damn similar (someone who is good at swimming 2 laps of a given stroke is pretty darn likely to also be good at swimming 4 or 8 laps of that stroke as well, no?) It really isn't fair to compare swimmers with athlete's that compete in sports that only have a few medal opportunities. Like what about those 4 foot tall midgets who can lift 1,000 pounds? Or how about those Cuban or Venezuelan women's volleyball players that wear those daisy duke like gym shorts?

While we are on the topic of the Olympics, why on earth is NBC spending so much time showing us beach volleyball? Does anyone actually give a damn about beach volleyball? Or are they thinking that people just want to watch women in bikinis? I have seen enough of the following sports to last me a lifetime: rowing, beach volleyball, water polo, badmitton, softball, and cycling. How about a little tennis, NBC? Anyways, what I find far more interesting is Beijing's pollution. Just show me a smog cam and people straining to breath and I'm riveted. Then mix in some interviews with Chinese officials claiming that the air is fine, and I'm happy.

Companion to Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star Part 1

In the first year of the new millenium I ditched what passed for a job at the Chicago Tribune to take a (mostly) overland trip from Cairo to Shanghai. I wrote what should have been a runaway bestseller about this challenging journey called, Resumegapping- Cairo to Shanghai the hard way. But instead of gracing the bookshelves of your neighborhood Borders, this "book" languished in a dusty binder- a forlorn collection of e-mails that few people ever read. Last week, Paul Theroux released another stellar travel narrative- Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, in which he travels to many of the same places he visited on his Great Railways Bazaar trip in 1973. Theroux travels to some of the same off the map places that I visited, and for those who plan to read his book- and you should- check out what happened to me in some of the same locales. This segment below is about a memorable trip from Turkey into Georgia- the only border in the world where you travel east from Asia into Europe. Enjoy:

Blood Feuds


After three days of heavy rain in Trabzon, I set off for the Georgian border on yet another miserable morning, feeling as though I were sneaking out of town as I walked down the wet empty streets of Trabzon. Small to mid-size otogars (bus stations) in Turkey are highly perplexing places and Trabzon’s was a mess. There was no posted departure board so one must canvass the scores of competing bus company counters to determine which company has buses to your destination, when they leave and what they cost. I looked out onto a big L-shaped row of counters, there must have been 20 different bus companies- where to start? I randomly approached a counter for a company called “Metro”, where 3 men were chatting: two of them behind the counter and one leaning across it’s front. My look of bewilderment must have betrayed me.
“Where you go?” asked the fat, balding man whose belly lazily slumped across the counter.
“Batumi- Georgia” I said to looks of eyebrow crinkling confusion.
I pulled out my map to show them where I wanted to go, yet none of them seemed to understand until I said the name of the border town of Sarp.
The fat man wrote down 5.9 million on a scrap of paper. It was unclear to me if he was qualified to sell me a ticket, but I set my concerns aside since especially since he claimed the bus was leaving in 15 minutes at 9am. 5.9 million seemed like far too high a price ($10) but I had 5 million Turkish Lira left so I was prepared to unload it. I wrote down my offer, and the fat, gap toothed vulture shook his head smiling at me.
“Fixed price” he said. I wondered how people who speak little English somehow always manage to learn phrases like that. I showed gap tooth my wad of crumpled bank notes and he relented, smiling and shaking my hand to seal the transaction. He led me out to the parking lot and pointed for me to board an empty parked bus.
“Where is my ticket?” I asked incredulously. He waved his fat fingers, palm down in a fanning motion, indicating for me to relax or wait I suppose. In any event, he scurried off back into the station as I lingered in the rain.

I grudgingly headed off to what looked to be a new bus, but I smelled a rat. The side of the bus did not bear the “Metro” logo of the counter I’d just been at, it said “Ulusoy”- how could he sell me a ticket for another company? I looked at the sign on the bus window, it said, “Hopa”, not Sarp. Where the fuck was Hopa?? I yanked out my map in the rain and struggled angrily with it, before discovering that Hopa was on the Turkish side of the border- would I have to walk from there to Sarp? It all suddenly fit together, I had solved the puzzle-I was being had. But was it too late? I ran back into the otogar, my backpack ungracefully slapping against my ass to find gap tooth. I looked for him near the Metro booth but his pals would not clue me into his whereabouts, I ran around the corner and our eyes met. He looked alarmed that I was not compliantly sitting on the bus, waiting for my doctored, inflated black market ticket. He was heading towards the Ulusoy counter- that bastard! He was just going to go buy a ticket there and then give it to me! I dashed towards the booth trying to beat him there-I wanted to know the real price of the ticket to Sarp, or Hopa or wherever the fuck they were sending me. Gap tooth grabbed my arm as we collided perhaps 5 feet in front of the Ulusoy counter, he flashed a ticket at me and grabbed my arm trying to pull me in the direction of the bus. “Get off me!” I yelled angrily yanking my arm out of his grip and turning to face the uniformed Ulusoy folks.
“How much is a ticket to Sarp or Hopa?” I demanded to know as gap tooth howled his protests at them, no doubt imploring them not to tell me. A nervous young girl wrote down 2.5 million. “Bastard!” I yelled, staring at gap tooth, who had been caught red handed, right in the eyes. He came over and thrust 2.5 million into my hands and the ticket. “No fucking way” I said, demanding and getting all 5 million before thrusting his ticket back at him. I wanted him to be stuck with it, but sincerely hoped he wouldn’t use it himself. Gap tooth disappeared as I bought a legit ticket, feeling angry and shaken by the experience.

I bought some rock hard bread and cokes with my spare cash and headed out towards the bus. Just before getting on though, I decided that I wanted to teach gap tooth a lesson. I had seen a police office in the station- how could they allow gap tooth to get away with swindling foreigners? I stormed back into the station, approaching a uniformed policeman. My useless list of Turkish phrases did me no good, so I merely motioned for him to come with me, which he did. We walked over to gap tooth, who was by then reminiscing with his friends at the Metro booth. I pointed at him, fingering him as though I were staring down a police line-up. Yep that’s him- lock him up boys. I showed the cop my ticket, and wrote down 2.5 million, pointing at the Ulusoy booth, then I wrote down 5 million pointing at gap tooth, who was now already defending himself in Turkish. A small group of curious Turks formed a circle around us now, as gap tooth loudly defended himself, attracting more attention with his lusty voice. It was now 8.56, 4 minutes till blastoff. I knew that I was being slandered and I wanted to defend myself, yet I had no linguistic means to do so. After gap tooth finished his speech, the crowd and the cop looked at me, as if to say, “So what do you have to say to that?”
In desperation, I began to shout, “Thief” “Criminal” “Bastard” “Crook” “Animal”- pointing at Gap tooth, who in turn began laughing and taunting me. He seemed to be saying to the crowd, which had grown to at least 20, “This stupid American thinks there is something wrong with fleecing tourists! Ha!” His sinister looking crooked smile, his disgusting hairy chest and uni -brow gave him the look of a real parasite. He jabbed one of his fat fingers too close to my face while making some point and I pushed him forcefully away from me. He pushed back and a wave of adrenalin rushed over me, I wanted to end his miserable life, in front of the whole crowd. Alas, though the cop stepped in and shrugged at my protests as if to say, “I’m washing my hands clean of this situation”. Meanwhile gap tooth began taunting me again, and the crowd began laughing- was he mimicking me? I had hoped to, at the very least cause him some embarrassment, to let people know I was on to him. Yet as I was led out to the parking lot by the cop, I realized that Turks probably find nothing wrong with the parasitic behavior of people like Gap. I was out of my element. The cop and I walked past the Ulusoy booth and I addressed the young girl, who seemed to understand some English. “Why do you allow this guy to hawk tickets for your buses- he’s obviously not going anywhere?” But she only shrugged sympathetically. Another clash of civilizations under my belt, I grudgingly boarded the bus feeling bloodied but unbowed.

¨¨¨¨¨¨


Technically, we were driving eastward from Asia into Europe along a muddy path paralleling the Black Sea. The closer we came to the Georgian border, the worse the road became. The distance between Trabzon and Sarp, which looked so utterly insignificant on the map, would take an arduous five hours. We arrived at the dire looking village of Hopa as the rain seemed to intensify. Luckily, there was a mini bus about to leave across the border. Unluckily, it was packed to the hilt with Georgians who looked considerably more 19th century in dress and manner than the Turks. The mini bus slogged its way across a mud track, a sort of no man’s land that neither country had bothered to pave.

A few minutes into our journey we were recklessly cut off by an expensive white sports car that looked highly incongruous on this inauspicious mud path. Our driver, a scruffy, thin, middle-aged man, became enraged, blaring his horn and waving frantically for the offender to pull over. Shockingly, the sports car did just that, pulling over perhaps 30 yards in front of us. There was a buzz of chatter in our van as our driver stopped the car and got out. It was literally poring rain, what the hell was he thinking? There were about a dozen of us on the bus; all watching our driver approach the vehicle with rapt attention. We could see that an animated conversation was taking place. The sports car had put all of us in danger by recklessly passing us on such a narrow shithole of a road, but what was this proving? The concept of revenge and blood feuds has a long history in the Caucasus. Essad Bey in his 1930 tome, Twelve Secrets of the Caucasus, attempted to explain to European readers blood feud etiquette….

“Almost every tenth Caucasian is involved in some affair that has to do with a
blood feud..one should never introduce two Caucasians before finding out
in what feuds they are involved. Killing in self defense, manslaughter and
accidental homicide are not recognized by the justice of the mountains..
Vengeance is taken in the following way: Immediately after the murder,
the injured family arms for the campaign, and the house of the enemy family
is besieged. During the siege the besiegers support themselves at the
expense of the enemy, until the intermediaries are successful in concluding a
treaty according to which the murderers are permitted to move freely about their
own house and courtyard upon payment of certain damages. At this the beleaguerers withdraw, and only the close relatives of the murderer are watched. The moment the
later leaves the house, the hunt begins.”

Essad Bey goes on to note that, “blood vengeance follows not only upon murder, but also upon any other form of loss. For example a substantial theft is a ground for it, as is a love affair with a girl by which her moral value is diminished. Intercourse with animals- an abuse which is very widely practiced in the mountains- also demands blood vengeance. The animal in question is considered polluted, and the miscreant must pay the owner the whole price of the animal if he wants to escape blood vengeance.” Bey concludes that, “the law of the blood feud renders any peaceful government of the mountains an impossibility. No policeman dares arrest anybody, no judge dares punish anybody, because they would instantly be declared blood enemies of the damaged family.”

All hell broke loose, as a man who could only be described as a giant emerged from the passenger side of the sports car and came around to confront our man. The giant had at least a foot on our driver. Sensing our driver was in danger, and that the very pride of our vehicle was at stake, 6 or 7 men jumped out of the van and ran off down the mud track towards the parked sports car. I felt a tinge of guilt for not jumping out with them, I was the lone male left in a van of women and children. I didn’t want to run out in the rain, but I didn’t want to lose face either. I rationalized that by sticking around I was looking after the women and children. The potentially volatile situation seemed to have been defused, as the giant was apparently not enthusiastic about taking on 7 or 8 men at once. The driver of the sports car never did emerge from his perch. Our men returned to the van muddy and wet, smiling triumphantly; we had seemingly won the standoff, or at least taught them a lesson of some kind. Welcome to the Caucasus.

Almost the entire minibus got out at a dire looking village just before the border- only two of us were actually crossing the border: myself and a Turkish student named Aydin, who was heading to Batumi. Although he spoke little English, he seemed to have been through this border many times and would clearly be my patron. I followed him to the first hut, where we stood in the rain, waiting to pay a “3 dollar computer fee” as Aydin called it. Thankfully, we were then sent indoors, into a garage of sorts that resembled an abandoned car wash, to be questioned by an officious looking woman in full dress grays and a cute pointy hat. She spoke fluent English.
“American, my god, well what are you doing here?” she asked smiling almost flirtatiously as she scrutinized my thick blue passport of privilege.
“Just traveling” I said trying to be both vague and non-threatening.
“What do you do?” she persisted in a friendly way, as though we were chatting in a pub, instead of some obscure border crossing in a small ex-Soviet republic.
“I’m a student” I lied hoping to avoid any follow-ups.
“Welcome to Georgia, Welcome, we are lucky to have you here!” she said smiling more broadly now. “Why did you come here?”
“I’ve heard a lot about Georgia, good things about the people, the land, the culture- I wanted to see for myself.”
“Do you want to change money?” she asked in a pretty radical segue. I agreed to change some money with her, although I felt it odd to be conducting such a transaction with a border officer, but by now I surmised that we were becoming friends.
“I’ll give you a good rate- 2 lari to the dollar, better than out there- go look if you don’t believe me.”
“No, no of course not- I believe you” I reassured her as I yanked out a damp wad of American bills. She noticed that I had a few of my trusty two dollar bills.
“You have a two dollar bill?” she inquired snatching it from my hand and setting it on her desk. “THIS” she said holding up the Jeffersonian bill, “is a present for me, OK?” She smiled demurely at me, attempting to be coquettish despite her age, which must have been around 40.
I agreed that yes, the deuce would be for her, and we completed our transaction. As I hoisted my backpack on she said, “You know I’d like to go to America, maybe I’ll see you there some day” smiling broadly at me beneath her funny hat.
“I hope so, that would be nice” I said, wondering if she was fishing for my phone number, which I decided not to relinquish.

Aydin gave me a wry smile as I left the garage; he had been waiting for me and had understood the flirtation and the “present” despite the language barrier. I was like some minor celebrity, perhaps a local newscaster or some other such pseudo celebrity who had not earned their fame. She had not been interested in having any conversation with Aydin. Perhaps the opportunity to chat with a young American in this little traveled post was as close as my interlocutor would get to America. I thought mistakenly that we were free to leave, but alas, we were soon being given the once over at one final shed, which had four soldiers in it. None of them spoke a word of English. A heated argument ensued between Aydin and the soldiers. I assumed that they must have been giving him a hard time for some reason; I shamelessly wondered if his problem was going to hold me up, should I ditch him? Aydin slammed his bad down on the ground and sat on the cement, totally disgusted. We were at a momentary standstill that I did not understand. Rain pored down upon us. The soldiers had our passports. Life was beginning to suck. Royally. I was just about to go summons my new girlfriend but Aydin motioned for me to stay with him. Moments later,
the soldiers seemed to have a change of heart and we were off.
Since we were both heading to Batumi we split the only cab in sight. I felt a bit apprehensive, not knowing or understanding what motives Aydin might possibly have. Yet in the rain at this remote border, there seemed no other option. We hopped into an old white Lada with a cracked windshield. Aydin wrote on a piece of paper that we would each pay 2.5 laris, or a buck and a quarter each to get to Batumi, which was half and hour away. Batumi looked frightening in the rain, there was garbage and muck everywhere, the homes looked to all be in a state of disrepair, like an old disused horror movie set. We arrived at Aydin’s apartment building, which was a tall, ugly Soviet looking gulag.
Another big and incomprehensible (to me) argument ensued between the driver and Aydin. Aydin signaled for me to come with him and I did as I was told.
“You come, my home” was all he said. What the hell was going on? Why was I going to his house- to be beaten and robbed? I decided to put my fate in his hands and go with the flow.

Aydin introduced me to his roommates, three other Turks studying in Batumi- one of whom spoke fluent English. Their apartment was neat and well furnished, especially given the bleak exterior of the building. I was given a pair of slippers to wear and a hot cup of Turkish coffee. Aydin was understandably relieved to finally have a translator. Abdullah, who made extra cash by teaching English, attempted to explain the events of the last hour to me.
“Aydin says that at the border they were demanding you give them ten dollars, the soldiers told him that Americans are rich so they must pay a special tax- he told them you would not pay, that’s why he got so upset.”
So I was the cause of the delay! I immediately felt guilty for considering ditching him at the border-he had saved me ten bucks.
“What about in the taxi- what was that argument about?” I asked curious to know
if I was being subjected to another foreigner “tax”.
“He says that once the driver found out you were American, he insisted that you pay more, so Aydin wanted you to get out with him, because he knew you would be in trouble.”
I thanked Aydin profusely and he seemed genuinely bashful at the accolades he was receiving. Abdullah turned to me and said, “You two have been through much together, you are brothers now.”

I passed around some pictures I had of my girlfriend Jen, my family and also of Chicago and Egypt. The guys passed them around as they sat on the couch looking at them in wonderment. I could almost anticipate the next question, which came from Cendel, the youngest member of the group at 19.
“Where do you find money to travel like this?” he asked.
I had told them I was a student and that I’d saved up for three years for my trip. I tried to impress upon them that I was traveling on a tight budget but I don’t think they could comprehend what I was up to. The idea of traveling around the world was as foreign to them as baseball and apple pie. I told the guys that I was planning on taking the next train to Tbilisi and was told that Cendel would go to the station to get my ticket. It was still poring rain outside, so the very idea of having my ticket delivered to me appealed to me tremendously but I could not allow it. My American suspicion told me that these guys were up to something- would they take a commission? Could it be possible that they were just incredibly kind? I didn’t’ know, but insisted on going with them to the station.
Abdullah and Aydin did not want me to be put out, “Cendel will get the ticket, and we will stay here and watch Braveheart on video!”
The idea of sitting in their cozy apartment and watching Braveheart on a rainy day sounded wonderful but I insisted that we all go the station- what better thing to do then all band together to take an American to the train station in a downpour?

As Cendel, Aydin and I headed to the door I suddenly panicked realizing that I’d taken the lock off my bag to show them my photos. My backpack was sitting, half opened right next to their front door, with over $300 in cash and my camera in it. Abullah and their third roommate, whose name was beyond my comprehension, weren’t coming to the station- would they help themselves to my things? I faced a split second decision: if I bent down and locked my bag up, they would have clearly seen that I didn’t trust them and thus wasn’t an option I decided. I decided to throw the ball in their court,
“Should I bring my bag?” I asked, hoping against hope they’d say yes.
But Cendel said it wasn’t necessary since the train didn’t leave until 10pm. I decided to trust them and headed out with them into the miserable afternoon.

We took two different shared minibuses across town to get to the station, passing along cratered streets that had not been repaired in decades. Aydin insisted on paying for both rides, to my great embarrassment. With the help of Cendel’s translation, they helped me buy a $7.50 first class sleeper ticket to Tbilisi, even going to the trouble of taking me on the train to show me the difference between 1st and second class. The difference in price was modest, but I did not want to reinforce their image of me as a free spending rich American so I asked Aydin which class he would travel in if he were going to Tbilisi. Thankfully, he said if it were up to him, he’d ride first class, which made me feel completely justified in the “splurge”. The first class cabins did look relatively plush given the dinginess of the surroundings.
Cendel, who had a dark complexion and hailed from Izmir, opined that I’d be” riding with Shevernadze (the president of Georgia) on this train”.
Shevernadze they told me, was in fact running for re-election on that very day.

Ticket safely in hand we repaired to aTurkish restaurant near the center of town. The boys were clearly regulars, as they kissed members of the staff upon arrival. Cendel began to tell me their stories over delicious plates of marinated meat and steamed rice. They all came from different parts of Turkey and none of them had wanted to study in Batumi.
“None of us was accepted to the University’s we wanted to go to, so we were forced to come here” he said bluntly.
Cendel had been studying English Language and literature and Aydin engineering.
We chatted on amiably as the rain continued to pour down, and once again they insisted on paying the bill. They made a point of saying that I was their guest and that I’d do the same for them if they were in America. The sad fact was that a) they’d probably never get a visa to enter America and b) if they did, it would be unlikely they’d see this kind of hospitality. In America people are suspicious of outsiders, our curiosities dulled by fear and uncertainty. I became depressed thinking about the Darwinian aspects of our country but I did not disappoint them by cluing them into my opinions.

Back at their apartment, I found an excuse to look in my backpack and was happy to find all of my money and things still there. Their hospitality had been sincere kindness. We spent a few hours looking at photos and chatting- until it was time for me to leave. They insisted on seeing me off, literally escorting me right into my “Shevarnadze compartment”. I felt so touched as they each kissed my cheeks and told me how happy they were to have met me. I would be leaving behind family in Batumi, despite the fact that I’d been there for less than 24 hours.

¨¨¨¨¨



I shared my “Shevardnadze” compartment with Ruslan, a 20 year old Georgian who was on his way back to the capitol. I asked him where he learned to speak such good English.
“I was an exchange student in a small town outside of Winston Salem, North Carolina my senior year of high school” he said speaking in a quiet, measured tone. I cringed to hear what he thought of life in a small town in the south, but couldn’t resist asking.
“It was hard to fit in, I wanted to go home most of the year- my house was far from town and I had no car so it was difficult. By the end of the year I was making more friends, but by then it was time to come back.”
“What kind of things did high school kids do for fun where you lived?” I asked.
“They’d go into the woods to drink, shoot their guns and have sex” he said, kind of embarrassed to break this news to me. “The only thing people were interested to know about my country was that we had no drinking age- they liked that.”
“Did you vote in the election today?” I asked hoping to change the topic.
“Yeah, I voted for Shevardnadze- there is no one else, besides the West likes him for some reason, so we think maybe he can keep the aid flowing in.”
“But there seems to be some opposition to him, wasn’t he almost assassinated recently?” I asked.
“Twice in fact, but they didn’t get him and no one was arrested.”
“Who’s they?” I asked.
“Mafia probably, you see this is a hard time for us, we have lost Abkhazia, S. Ossetia and now also Ajaria, where I am originally from, is seeking more autonomy.”
“Why are there so many regions breaking away?” I asked.
“Well, Ossetians and Abkhazians are not Georgians, they have their own languages and cultures, but they’ve just historically been incorporated onto our land. I’m Ajarian, we are Georgians, we share the Georgian language. My grandmother is Abkhazian, she doesn’t even speak Georgian, you see.”
“How did Georgia lose Abkhazia?” I asked.
“There was a small band of Abkhazian soldiers who wanted independence, but Russia gave them money and weapons…they wanted to weaken us you see, so eventually we gave up- we couldn’t take on the Russians.”
“No one even knows about Abkhazia being a sovereign country, do you think anyone is going to recognize them as independent?” I asked.
“No- I think we are going to get it back eventually, it’s a very rich land, it has a great coastline- people used to vacation in Abkhazia- Shevarnadze is pledging to win it back, but I think this is only an election promise.”

I found Ruslan’s political savvy to be remarkable for a twenty year old, his colleagues in North Carolina would probably be hard pressed to name their own Senators.
“Do you think your clan, the Ajarians will eventually want independence?” I asked.
“No, just some kind of special status- it’s a ploy to get more money from Tbilisi, really.”
Our conversation turned to Tbilisi, I was curious what the impact of foreign investment was on the capitol.
“Lately, there seem to be a lot of foreigners in Tbilisi, but I’m not sure if they are good investors, or just mafia.. but yeah there are Western companies coming in, Westerners think Georgia is cheap, so they run around buying drinks and screwing all the best girls” Ruslan shook his head and laughed a bitter chuckle, I could tell he was rankled.
“You were young during the communist period, but have you seen much benefit from the end of communism?” I asked.
“Not really, in communist times we had jobs and health care and a lot of money, but there was nothing in the stores, nothing to buy. Now we have everything to buy but no money. Local companies cannot compete with Western ones- you’ll see there are Marlboro billboards all over Tbilisi- people have been brainwashed that Western goods are the best and local things are shit, local companies have no chance against all the advertising these Western companies are doing. Everyone thinks they must have snickers now for example, but we have our own chocolate that’s better!”
I tried to tell him that I believed that the hunger for Western goods was more a temporary phase, a reaction to newfound freedom that might subside in another ten years once people learn to invest and spend to support local industries. Ruslan wasn’t buying it though.
“You have to understand something, we have many foreign aid people here already who are supposed to be helping us improve our economy, your USAID is here, but they are doing nothing for Georgian people! They are spending 60K per month living at the Sheraton, but they aren’t helping people. You see, Georgia is important to America, they want to run an oil pipeline here, Caspian oil from Azerbaijan.”

As we continued to speak into the night old ladies and young boys came through the corridors selling “limonota” and other beverages from tattered woolen sacks. Just as we finished the two tall beers Ruslan had bought us, a man from the next compartment came in with two more- toasting us for no apparent reason.
“What was that, do you know him? Why did he just buy us beers?” I asked perplexed but pleased.
“It’s Georgia” Ruslan said with a shrug.
“Sometimes people start buying each other drinks in a bar, because if some people receive two drinks- they send back four- and so on. So if you don’t have much money, you might buy drinks and hope you get more in return.”
“So we need to buy him 4 beers now?” I asked naively.
“Technically yes, but its late now so don’t worry.”

Ruslan and I talked late into the night, he on his bunk and me on mine, laughing and kidding as though we were at a sleep over. Each time there would be a period of silence I wondered if he was asleep, but then conversation would start up again, as if we were testing each other to see who’d fall asleep first.
Oddly, I feel less disoriented waking up on a train than I do in my own bed at home. Perhaps the motion gives me pleasant dreams or maybe it’s only waking up in the same damn place every day that unsettles and disturbs me. As we alighted onto the dark platform, I looked at my watch: it had taken 11 and a half hours to travel 300 miles, at this rate I’d never make it to Shanghai to meet Jen.

Starbucks is Closing: Boo Mother Freaking Hoo

Am I out of touch with American society or is the media going just a bit overboard with coverage of Starbucks downsizing its number of locations? I was a bit surprised, though not shocked when the Chicago Tribune carried two front page above the fold stories on Starbucks in the business section yesterday (http://www.chicagotribune.com/business/chi-fri-space-starbucks-health-cjul18,0,2229765.column) and (http://www.chicagotribune.com/business/chi-fri-starbucks-closejul18,0,876488.story). Then this morning, yet another Starbucks story was on the front page of the Trib (http://www.chicagotribune.com/business/chi-sat-starbucksjul19,0,7595492.story). I checked the Trib website, and noticed several other stories I hadn't noticed about the Starbucks closures.

The Trib is no doubt playing into the overall trend of the American media to dumb down its "news" to deliver more human interest fluff and less real news. One only need to tune into CNN or FOX any given morning and witness the endless parade of stories about celebrities, miracle diets, tips on raising children, and endless ad-nauseum coverage of whatever the latest: (pick one) weather disaster, cute missing white girl, or celebrity trial happens to be at that time. Local media is even worse. Can anyone in Chicago forget the amount of coverage surrouding the appearance of a cougar in Roscoe Village garnered? Honestly, people who couldn't tell you who the current president of the United States is can definitely tell you all about that cougar that was on the loose in Roscoe Village.

The fact that Starbucks is closing 600 locations is news- after all people will lose their jobs- but can anyone actually be surprised that Starbucks is closing locations? Anyone with half a brain could see what their strategy was- saturate the market with locations everwhere, then contract once people were addicted. The Trib has devoted more coverage to Starbucks this week than they did to the terrorist attack on the American consulate in Istanbul a couple weeks ago that killed three security guards, and far more coverage than what was given when 9 American soldiers were killed in Afghanistan last week. One can also compare the Starbucks coverage to a tiny little article on page 12 of today's paper which briefly mentions that 3 Afghan's were killed in in explosions and 2 humanitarian aid workers were kiddnapped.

But its not just the volume of Starbucks stories (which will no doubt drive sales at Starbucks locations) but the absurdity of the coverage itself that is most gauling. Two of the three stories mentioned in paragraph one imply that Starbucks is unfairly targeting minority areas with store closures, as though the chain had been taken over by some klansman who just choose stores in black areas to close because he hated the idea of African Americans drinking their beverages, rather than the fact that these are the least profitable stores. In the Barbara Rose/Wailin Wong story, the Trib quotes Phil Jackson associate pastor at Lawndale Community Church, "For Starbucks to look at all the communities that are suffering, and then to close the stores htat they are closing is really kind of hypocritical. They started the store knowing what the community was all about. You come here so you can uplift the community."

Isn't it the job of churches like Mr. Jacksons', rather than Starbucks- a purveyor of mocha latte's- to "uplift" impoverished communities? The truth is that the people hurt the most by the Starbucks closures (other than the employees themselves) are the real estate agents who try to peddle new condo developments in some of the very tough neighborhoods where Starbucks will be closing locations. Real estate agents trying to bring white folks into minority neighborhoods to buy condos try to point to Starbucks locations as a sign of gentrification, and then shuttle the person into the safety of the condo to sell them on the stainless steel appliances, vaulted ceilings, and all the other cookie cutter crap that is put in condos these days. Everbody else that actually needs a Starbucks fix ought to be just fine- after all there are still going to be around 18,000 locations in Chicago that won't close.

Love Thy Neighbor (but Celebrate when they are Evicted)

We've spent the last year sharing a two flat with a mercurial nutcase that was finally evicted nearly a month ago much to our surprise and delight. Does it make me a bad person that I was happy- no thrilled- to see her ass tossed out on the street? Before you answer, consider some of her (and her sons) transgressions over the past year:

When we moved in, Nancy (her given name is actually Anasthasia but she goes by Nancy) had a huge and unsightly collection of personal belongings in our garage that our landlord promised us would be out before we moved in. The stuff- which included a ratty, stained 1970's sofa, an inoperable lawnmower, garage sale quality paintings, and a broken exercise device that may have been an Ab-Lounger- was, of course, still there when we moved in. Nancy insisted that it would be out by the first weekend we were there. Not surprinsgly, the junk stayed put for several weeks, before I took it upon myself to drag it out to the curb myself. The only snag is that the garbage company won't move furniture for free- you have to go a store and purchase a special tag to affix to it. Nancy promised to get on this right away.

Weeks went by and in the meantime severe rain soaked the already fetid sofa beyond recognition. Our garbage area is in our back alley right next to our garage, so every time we came and went from our apartment we had to look at the filthy beast and wonder when and if it might ever be removed. After repeated pleas to Nancy and the landlord, the landlord eventually bought the tag for it and it was mercifully hauled away- probably about two months after we initially moved in.

Before we move on to Nancy's other sins, it might be helpful for me to paint a physical portrait of her for you. Nancy is, I would guess, about 40 years old, rail thin, and with the empty hollow look of a heroin addict. She has one (very) wandering eye- so when she speaks to you, there is no way to make direct eye contact. Her idea of getting dressed up is putting on her best pajamas. I only saw her wearing anything other than pajamas or sweats on one ocassion. Nancy told us she worked in a law office, but the landlord insists that she is a waitress. Like everything else about her- there was no way to no for sure, because she's a pathological liar.

We shared a washing machine and dryer with Nancy in the basement. Nancy rarely did laundry- despite having a 13 year old son- and neither my wife nor I EVER saw her wash her sheets. But when Nancy did do laundry, she had the maddening habit of putting a load in the machine, but then failing to remove it- sometimes for weeks (yes, weeks!). So we'd have to remove her wet laundry and place it on top of the dryer- where it would sit, untouched for days if not weeks, getting moldy and disgusting. Strange, right? But wait, it gets worse. Sometimes she would leave the one wet and moldy load on top of the dryer for a long time, and then start a new load without putting the original one in the dryer (or moving it someplace else). She would invariably leave that one too, so we'd then have two massive pyramids of her laundry sitting precariously on top of the dryer- which made doing laundry ourselves quite a travail.

My wife, Jen is very dilligent about removing our laundry after its done- yet, nonetheless Nancy would sometimes remove one of our loads to make way for her own, and would put our stuff flush against a dirty wall, where some of our smaller items could slip down into a filthy black hole like crevice between the wall and the dryer- and could only be removed with great effort. Nancy also frequently took the liberty of using our detergent- we know this because she had the same empty bottle of her own detergent sitting down there for months purely for cosmetic purposes. Next to the laundry machines, sat a very small garbage can- which overflowed with various items she had discarded. The full can sat there spilling over until she was evicted just weeks ago.

A couple months after we moved in, Nancy mentioned to us that her sister would be staying with her for "a week or two." A few days after that, a woman who looked just as ghoulish and frightening pulled up in a 18 wheel tractor trailer moving van and began unloading heavy items of furniture and bedding into the apartment. The sister, who ended up staying for a few months, had a yappy dog that barked at odd hours of the day and night, but the dog's owner was even louder- and most of the time it seemed as though the two sisters were on the brink of killing each other, such were the screams and squels we would here coming from downstairs.

Nancy also had a deeply ingrained mail phobia- most likely because she disliked paying- or even opening for that matter the bills she recieved. We had our own mailbox on the porch- but the lazy mailmen would often just see the big mailbasket she had sitting on the porch first and throw our mail and her mail together in a big pile. The problem with this is that Nancy used the mailbin basically like a trash bin. She neglected to pick up her mail for months or weeks at a time, and would sometimes tear open a piece of mail, but then just throw it back into the basket nonetheless. So when our mail wasn't put in our box, we'd have to sift through literally mounds of her unpaid bills (many of which bore threatening final notice stamps) to find what was ours.

Periodically we'd sort out all of her mail, put it in a plastic bad and stick it on her door handle- but it never changed her behavior. After she moved out I saw one piece of opened mail sitting right on top of her mail bin that I could not resist reading. It was her social security statement- which showed that she had claimed taxable income between about 10 and 15k for the last dozen or so years- this despite renting an apartment that itself cost 15k per year. Where on earth is the IRS when you need it, for a good audit? Even by Nancy's standards, I could not believe that she would open such a piece of mail and then just toss it on the top of her mailbin where anyone could read it.

While she didn't want to open her own mail, Jen and I both strongly suspected that she or Peter stole two UPS boxes that were left on our porch for us, and one box that was left for our landlords. All 3 boxes were left by UPS in a part of our covered porch that is not visible from the sidewalk or street- and Nancy's defensive and bizzare responses when I mentioned the thefts to her made me strongly suspicious that she or her son had taken them. One of the boxes contained Jen's Chrismtas gifts from my family, as well as priceless momento's from my childhood- hair from my first haircut, important documents, etc.

Throughout the entire time Nancy lived below us we had a constant battle with her over her smoking habit. The landlord told us that smoking was forbidden in the house- though we frequently smelled smoke that would waft up into our infant son's bedroom. Nancy had told the landlord that she was a nonsmoker- but every time she'd pull up in front of the house, we'd see a cigarette dangling from her lip. She adamantly denied smoking in her house- and claimed that what we smelled was her son "burning smelly incense." Aside from the fact that only a complete moron would confuse the smell of incense with nicotine- how many 13 year old boys do you know that are into burning incense? We tried to catch her "in the act" numerous times, but she just wouldn't answer her door whenver we smelled smoke.

Nancy had a 13 year old son named Peter whom we felt very sorry for, so I tried to be nice to him by giving him Sports Illustrated magazines, baseball cards, and other little trinkets that I thought he might enjoy. We knew his mom was nuts and not much of a mother at all- and his dad only stopped by to pick him up occasionally. Not only that, but we'd hear his insane mother berating him with the worst language you can imagine on a near nightly basis. It was impossible for us to know what he was being yelled at for, but we assumed it was more his mother's stupidity and vile demeanour more than anyting else. But Peter was no saint himself- probably not surprising given the Wal Mart quality upbringing he was recieving. One afternoon a few months ago, we went down into our storage area in the basement- a large area where we have excess furniture, clothing, hundreds of books, files and other things- and saw huge puddles of smelly water and a ceiling that was all wet and had a few large bubbles that were about to burst all over our belongings.

We contacted our landlord who called Nancy on her mobile. Nancy said that her son, Peter, had overflowed their toilet that morning, but thought he had "cleaned it up." Actually, what he did was overflow the toilet and then just left for school without bother to alert anyone to the problem, with the result being that our stuff was literally swimming in their fecal jamboree. I confronted Nancy, and she backed off of her earlier admission when I informed her that she'd need to clean and pay for our damaged stuff. She tried to claim that he hadn't overflowed the toilet, but that it had just been "running" for awhile. Her and her son made an extraodrinarily half hearted effort to clean the basement to no use. We had to toss out most of our stuff and insist that the landlord hire a professional firm to sterilize the room. There was never any apology from mother or son. She could only say, "these things happen, you don't think we did it on purpose do you?"

Several weeks after that unpleasant incident, we came home one afternoon to find Peter and one of his young friends scrubbing the exterior of our garage with a sponge. I gave him a puzzled look before noticing the orange paint he was trying to scub off. "Some of my friends came over and shot up the place with paint ball guns," he explained. I didn't really care much- seeing as though we are renters and a bit of paint didn't bother me too much anyways, until I later noticed that the little bastards had also shot a holt through our (previously) screened-in porch, and had sprayed orange paint all over the interior of our mailbox. Shortly thereafter the next door neighbors came over to ask me about the boy- they had also broken one of their windows (you could see remnants of the same orange paint along the edges of the cracked glass). Nancy claimed that since it wasn't her son that had done the shooting, that they weren't responsible for any of the damages.

These incidents, combined with our constant complaints, combined with the fact that she was consistently behind or completely delinquent on her rent forced the landlords to finally, and mercifully ask her to leave. We believed this to be great news, and it was, only she decided to leave behind a huge amount of filth and detritus when she left. Apparently she already owed the landlords for rent and damages, so she had no incentive to clean the place in order to recoup her security deposit.

Just a couple days before Nancy moved some of her belongings out of her apartment (only what she intended to keep), we noticed that the dryer wasn't working. We contacted the landlord and they resolved to have it fixed- only we later realized that ComED had disconnected her electricity for nonpayment- the dryer had been hooked up through her apartment (with the washing machine connected to ours). The landlord had to pay her huge arrears to have it restored, but since it was a disconnect, we had to wait more nearly two weeks to have it restored- all the while we had to hang dry our wet laundry all over the apartment.

We soon began to smell an unglodly odoring emanenting from Nancy's apartment- not only had she left tons of old furniture and crap in the apartment- she also left a frige full of food that rotted and drew insects after her electricity was disconnected. The landlords left the doors to Nancy's apartment wide open for a few days to air the place out, so Jen and I went in one day to look around the mess, and aside, from the accumulated junk of a pack rat, we found Peter's paint ball gun- still dripping with orange paint.

After the landlord cleaned up the mess, some of the insects began finding their way into our apartment. New tennants moved into Nancy's apartment and had their movers put all of Nancy's junk in our common laundry room- where it remained for weeks, until the landlords gave most of it to charity. Nancy's second car- an old SUV that was inoperable and had sat beached next to our garage for the entire year completely filled to the ceiling with junk, was also mercifully towed away.

Nancy is gone now, but not completely forgotten, we still have a huge old desk of hers that is sitting next to our garage waiting to be hauled away. One day I took a look at it- thinking about whether I should just go and buy the tag so the damn thing could be taken away- I opened one of the drawers and found an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. As the Sundays once crooned, "just a little souvenir from a terrible year."

Osama as a Child

A few interesting facts about Osama bin Laden's childhood according to the Looming Tower by Lawrence Wright:

+ OBL was the founding member of an a cappella singing group as a teen. The group- which seems to have been something of a babershop quartet minus the barbershop- cut some singles they wrote about jihad, but never cracked the Saudi charts.

+ OBL married for the first time in high school, at age 17. His first bride was a cousin who was 14 at the time. They went on to have 11 children together.

+ OBL's second wife had a PHD in child psycology and was seven years older than him- she bore him one child. His third wife also had a doctorate (in Arabic grammar) and bore him four children. His fourth and wife bore him 4 children. Wikipedia claims that he's had 5 wives and has divorced two of them.

+ Friends and relatives claim that OBL became interested in the plight of Palestinians at age 14, and would sometimes break into tears when hearing about events in Palestine on the news.

Confessions of a New Father: 8 States in 8 Months

Leo is now eight months old and has already lived a richer, fuller life than most of the people you see on Wife Swap- save for perhaps the family of traveling carnies that was on recently. (I swear I don't watch this show regularly) They had it pretty good. But Leo has been living a bit of la vida loca himself lately. He's already been to two NHL games, two MLB games, and done enough airline travel to know that when the pilot says, "we'll be getting cleared for takeoff shortly," that he needn't rush to secure his seat back or tray table. He's also learned that, if its raining, even sprinkling anywhere in the continental United States, Alaska, Puerto Rico, or Guam, the airlines will claim that the delays you are suffering through are related to "bad weather" rather than their own general ineptitude- even if you are flying from Cedar Rapids to Des Moines, and the bad weather is in the Netherlands Antilles.

Leo has flown to Buffalo, New York, Boston, Albuquerque (might I suggest that this city change its name to someting easier to spell?) and San Jose. He's been a real trooper on each and every flight- and that is saying something in this era of no-frills, hi-cost, delay ridden domestic travel. On our trip home from California, we had to sit on the runway at O'hare for "just a few moments" because our gate was occupied. The "few moments" turned into just under an hour on a sweltering hot plane filled with angry people. Leo was perhaps the most content chap on the plane, however, as we authorized him to shred the in-flight and Sky Mall magazines in his seat. For some reason the boy loves to rip and shred documents. He would probably fit in nicely on Hillary Clinton or Scooter Libby's staff in that regard.

We also had to sit on a hot plane at Logan for 2 hours before our flight took off a few months ago. He was also allowed to shred during that delay as well, so the basic rule of thumb has become: if there is a delay, the boy gets to rip, otherwise he has to make due with crawling around our laps and trying to eat whatever he can get his hands on. Lord knows its not easy to avoid hunger in the air these days- you're lucky if you get a bag of peanuts, even on a long haul flight.

Being a handsome eight month old boy certainly has its advantages. Leo has strangers doting on him wherever he goes, and he lapps up the attention like a hungry dog- returning every smile that comes his way and making friends wherever he goes. Leo is so popular,that when we're in an enclosed space with a stranger that doesn't remark on him, we find ourselves wondering about the deficiencies in that persons character. A small sample size of the people that Leo has charmed lately: a cashier at a health food store in Nederland, Colorado that wanted to hold him, the Mexican waitresses at Nuevo Leon in the Pilsen neighborhood of Chicago- who like to carry Leo around the restaraunt and speak to him in Spanish, the concierges at the Hyatt in Denver- who remembered Leo by name and wanted to know about his every move in their city, the staff members of several wineries in the Sonoma Valley who no doubt poured us better wine because they liked Leo so much, and a slew of high school girls that played peek a boo with him for half of our flight home from Denver. Someday I aspire to be as popular as my son is now, or as my dog Homer used to be, but I'm not holding my breath.

Meanwhile, the boy's development is pretty astonishing. He can shimmy around the house as though he were a NAVY SEAL stealthily sneaking up a hill along enemy lines. Aside from shimmying and shredding, he also loves to handle cords, wires, remote controls, cable boxes, and/or any other electrical devices he can get his hands on. If he did't have my genes, I'd say he might make a really good electrician when he grows up. He's a damn good traveler-in fact, he probably throws less tantrums than his dad does while on the road. As far as his reading habits go, he's still a bit more into chewing on his literature, which is probably a good thing- the boy's a deep thinker that likes to work through the ideas in his own way. Recently, Leo learned how to use his mom's stomache to make fart noises- and this makes him very happy. He still loves to breast-feed, but he's no longer into the traditional sit down at the table kind of meal anymore. No sir- he likes to feed standing up, or better yet, take ocassional sips while jumping on his mom as though she were a trampoline while intermittently looking at me to see if I'm looking at him.

The most remarkable thing about this age, IMO, is how infectious his smile and laugh are. Leo is one happy little guy- and when he's laughing and smiling and squeling, flashing his two little teeth, you really can't help but feel the warm glow of his charm. Of course, the boy is still not without his peculiarities and phobias. His smile turns to howls of anger when you have to take his shirt on or off. Don't even think about trying to strap him into a car seat, stroller, hi-chair, etc- if he's in a cranky mood, and, don't even think about putting that damn suction thing he hates up his nose to suck boogers out. He hasn't yet learned to throw a tantrum when you take something away from him, though, and we aren't planning on giving him any lessons in this behavior either.

Leo is 3/4 of a year old- and he has improved the quality of our lives immensely- when I'm gone, I miss him within an hour, and when I get home, I practically want to run up the steps to get my hands on him. More experienced parents say it'll just keep getting better. Ummm, right, but only up until a point right? When they start requesting Hannah Montana tickets and iphones- surely that won't be better than the hi-times we are having now?

The Ignorance Files- Ignorant Customer Service

Ignorant Customer Service Interlude #1: 5/16ths of a Pound of Baloney

The other day I asked a deli clerk at my local supermarket for a third of a pound of swiss cheese. The plump young gal taking care of me started slicing away on her machine vigorously. She kept churning and churning and I began to wonder if she might have heard me incorrectly. Sure enough, she plopped a massive stack of swiss cheese slices on her scale- a bit more than 3/4ths of a pound.

"I just wanted a third of a pound," I protested.
She looked at the scale and said, "it is a third."
"But it says .77," I countered, beginning to wonder if she was putting me on.
"Well, its a bit more than a third," she conceeded.
"A bit more?" I asked, "its more than 3/4ths of a pound, I wanted 1/3rd of a pound."

She looked totally confused so I added, "point thirty three on your scale", acknowledging that they friendly, portly young lass must have been absent the day they taught fractions in grammar school. The clerk nodded her head as though she understood. But then she took all of the slices off the scale save for just one, and then said, in all seriousness, "i didn't realize you wanted like just one slice of cheese." I looked at her puzzled until I realized that she was trying to make her scale read .033 instead of .33. After some remedial math tutoring, I eventually got my cheese- and managed to refrain from asking her for anything involving even more complex fractions.

I arrived home eager to tell my wife about my fuzzy math problem at the Jewel deli counter, but she was not sympathetic.

"A third? You asked for 1/3 lb? No one does that- you have to deal in quarters," she said, looking at me like I was the ignorant one, instead of the clerk.
" I wanted 1/3- 1/4 wasn't enough, and 1/2 was too much, i mean, its not like I asked for 5/8ths or something really challenging."

My wife may have had a point, but if I were hiring deli slicers- I'd probably only ask them 3 questions- 1) do you have any communicable diseases? 2) ever accidentally slice off one of your fingers?, and 3) can you do fractions?

Ignorant Customer Service Interlude #2: The Customer is Always a Piece of Shit

I arrived at the Budget Rent-A-Car desk in Albuquerque, New Mexico after a long flight from Chicago at nearly 10pm on a wednesday night. My wife Jen, and 8 month old son, Leo, took a seat as I joined the back of a line that was 5 or 6 customers deep. We planned to drive an hour to Santa Fe, check into our hotel and get Leo to sleep, as it was already 3 hours past his bedtime. The line didn't move for what seemed like ages- every single customer in front of me seemed to have some kind of problem, but I coudln't hear exactly what people were saying.

When I'm stuck waiting in a long line, I have the unhealthy habit of trying to speculate on why others are taking so long, while formulating strategies on how I believe the people behind the counter could be doing their jobs more efficiently. In this case, there were three clerks "working" but one of them kept disappearing into the back room for extended periods of time. The other clerk was shadowed by a man who- if i had to speculate on his formal job description- appeared to have no other fuction besides looking over his colleagues shoulder and staring at his computer screen while furrowing his acne covered brow.

By the time I reached the counter, years later, I was nearly elligible for a senior citizens discount on my car, but I tried to let by-gones be by-gones and present a friendly face in the hopes of getting a good car. My wife, Jen, has frequently accused me of demonstating a "Mr. Nice Guy" persona while requesting flight, hotel or rental car upgrades that bears no resemblence to my actual cynical, impatient and mean spirited real self. She may have a point. In any event, i pulled out my best self in the hopes of snagging a good car.

"We only have mini-vans," said the sullen Latina clerk, who had spent most of the previous half-hour plotting the destruction of planet earth from the back room while those of us in line cursed the gods and pondered the meaning of life while wondering what the hell she was up to "back there."
"But I reserved a compact car," I protested, brandishing my priceline.com confirmation e-mail.
"It doesn't matter- all I have is minivans!" she said, before adding, "do you want one or not?"
I had already pre-paid for the car via www.priceline.com, so not taking the car wasn't an option, but with gas at $4 a gallon, the last thing I wanted was a massive gas guzzler.
I asked to speak with the surly Latina's supervisor.
"You'll have to wait," she said.

By this point, I would have rather been granted immediate access to hell rather than join a queue to get into Hugh Hefner's mansion, such was my level of impatience, so I asked my surly friend why there weren't any cars smaller than the size of your average Wall-Mart greeter's ass, or something along those lines.

She went on a lengthy diatribe against priceline.com and those who use it- essentially branding us cheapskates who want the world served to them on a silver platter- while admonishing me to book directly with budget in the future.
"So let me get this straight," I said, in my best prosecutor delivering his final arguments fashion, "if i had booked directly with budget- you would find something other than a minivan for me?"
"Well, no, we only have minivans," she conceeded.
"So then help me out here- what's the relevance of your whole diatribe against priceline customers? Either way I'd get stuck with a minivan, right?"
This query seemed to send her over the edge.
"I've been dealing with angry customers all night, and I'm just sick of it!" she railed, "if you keep yelling at me (note: she was the one yelling, not me) i'm not even going to rent you the car, now do you want the minivan or not?"
"Yessssss, I would love a minivan," I said sarcastically.

So i took the damn minivan, and wouldn't you know it, as we dragged our refugee like mass of belongings across the Budget parking lot, we noticed that there were several regular cars in the lot, and not just minivans. Lacking the strength to tromp back inside to do battle with the surly Latina, I approached a Budget employee sitting in a glass hut in the parking lot.
"I reserved a compact car- why can't I get one of those?" I asked, pointing towards a row of Hyundai Sonata's.
"Oh the Hyundai's- no those are premium cars, you couldn't get one of those!" he said, as though the very notion of me- obviously an unkempt street urchin with a compact car reservation- driving a Hyundai were out of the question. Someday, someday I tell you, I will aspire to drive a Hyundai. (but for now, i'll just drive un-cool minivans or whatever other shit I get foisted upon me at rental counters)

Ignorant Customer Service Interlude #3: Commando Style

Later on in this same trip, we arrived at Denver's gleaming international airport, which is conveniently located amidst vast empty fields only 3 hours from downtown Denver. The airport is also conveniently situated only about three hours away from the offsite car rental counters. We were delighted to walk into Thrifty rent-a-car's vast car rental salon and see four counter clerks and not a single customer! Nirvana. The only problem was that with no line, our friendly clerk, a recent immigrant from Ethiopia, was in no hurry at all. After nearly 20 minutes- yes- twenty minutes of agonizing questions interspersed between amharic language banter with his Ethiopian colleauges behind the counter, he told us we'd be getting- you guessed it- a Hyundai! My new Ethiopian friend described it to us as "small SUV that is goot on gass". I was thrilled to find a company willing to let me get behind the wheel of some real serious Korean engineering.

We lugged all of our worldly posessions- including Leo's stroller, car seat, food supply, diapers, toys, sippy cups, and what not-out to our designated spot. Only there was no Hyundai, but instead a truly collosal behemoth called the Jeep Commando or some such thing. It looked like it might get about a furlong to the gallon, on a good highway, if you were driving 45mph. "Where the hell is my freaking Hun-dai?" I muttered to no one in particular. I marched back inside while Jen and Leo stood by our belongings, which were stewn about the parking lot.

The Ethiopian man whom I had dealt with previously was nowhere to be found. The hall was still devoid of customers, but now there was just one clerk- an indifferent young man that seemed to be the only non-Ethiopian working there on this day.
He looked at my reservation.
"You reserved a small SUV," he said.
"Right, and your colleague was sorting me out with a Hyundai, but when I got out there it was this huge Commando thing, I don't want a huge SUV," I said, "I noticed that there were several Jeep Laredo's in the parking lot, can I have one of those?"
"The Commander is a better ride than the Lardeo," he said.
"Look- I don't want a huge SUV- just give me something that's going to be more fuel efficient."
The clerk tried to tell me that he couldn't give me any of the cars in the parking lot, other than the monster Commander or Commando or whatever the hell its called, because all the other cars were reserved for "blue chip" members.

"So, since I'm not a blue chip member, I can't get the car I want?" I asked.
"Well, we reserve certain vehicles for our loyal blue chip customers," he said.
"So how much does it cost to become a blue chip member?" I asked.
"Oh, its free," he said.
"So if I sign up for your program, you'll give me the Laredo?" I asked.
"I'm giving you the Commander," he said.
"Look, I don't want to spend a fortune on gas," I said, hoping to appeal to his sense of logic and "thrift".
"I could prove to you that the Commander gets the same gas mileage as the Laredo, but even if I showed you, you still probably wouldn't believe it, would you?" he asked smugly, shaking his head in disgust. (note: i looked it up later and the commander does NOT get the same gas mileage as the Laredo)

I wrote his name down and asked to speak to his supervisor.
"Do you want my employee number too?" he asked, seeing me write his name down.
Nearly an hour after we arrived at their empty office, we drove off in the Laredo. These days, if you want to rent anything smaller than the Titanic, better wear a suit of armor with you to the rental counter and be prepared to fight.

Next Up for Hill: A Spot on VH1's the Surreal Life?

Even by the Clinton's trailer park standards, last night's non-concession speech was particularly base,self-serving and hypocritcal. Baruch College's gymnasium was packed to the gills with defiant, screaming Clintonistas who were whipped into a frenzy with tunes like Tom Petty's "Won't Back Down", and Clinton campaign chair Terry McAuliffe laughably introduced their hero as "the next president of the United States" despite the fact that every news organization had already called the race for Obama.

The carefully assembled crowd- which included a handful of African Americans strategically placed directly behind Hill- exhorted their leader with cries of "Denver, Denver!" indicating their clear preference for her to refuse to acknowledge the obvious. Clinton, for her part, only vaguely congratulated Obama- delighting her intransigent fans by refusing to concede, despite the fact that- by any count- she had lost the race. "What does Hillary want?" she asked, vainly refering to herself in the 3rd person, before attempting to masquerade her own selfish ambition and thirst for power by answering her own question with an absurd justification for her refusal to concede the race. Hill would have us believe she's staying in because of all the little people- the woman in Sioux Falls with no health insurance, the second shift worker, the single mother, blah, blah, blah. Of course, this is complete bullshit, and everyone knows it. Everyone that is, save for the angry hooligans in the auditorium (and those of their ilk watching from home) who- in a truly surreal spectacle- jumped up and down and whoooped and hollered as though they were celebrating a victory rather than conceeding a defeat. The only thing that was missing from the twilight-zone like presentation was a rendition of "Happy Days are Here Again" and confetti falling from the rafters.

Commentators keep telling us that Clinton has earned the right to go out on her own terms, and that she shouldn't be rushed into conceeding the race. The truth is that its too late for a graceful exit- last night should have been Obama's night- but the Clinton's still cannot come to grips with losing and so they couldn't let the man have his due. Even if she conceedes the race today- which I doubt-its too late- the time to bow out was last night, if not weeks ago.

If Clinton's ultimate goal truly is to advance the policies she espouses rather than just to re-inhabit the White House, she would have conceeded long ago. Instead she and her campaign have duped their core constituency- working class women, white collar feminists, senior citizens uncomfortable with the idea of a black candidate and just plain old rednecks- that the sexist media and the DNC have stolen the election from her by unfairly refusing to count the votes in Michigan and Florida. Never mind the fact that she herself conceeded that those elections weren't going to count back when she didn't know she'd need those votes.

Die-hard Clintonistas want to believe that the nomination has been stolen from them and the facts aren't going to get in the way of that. They are convinced that she is the stronger candiate despite the fact that at least 40% of the country despises her. Years of experience with the Clintons tells us that they aren't going to go quietly from the scene- so now the only question that remains is- will Obama allow himself to be held hostage by Hill's selfish demands? Will she withold support until Obama agrees to put her on the ticket and pay off her campaign debts? No one would put it past her.

I'd like to see Obama put some other woman on the ticket- if for no other reason than to just prove a point- most American men aren't opposed to women in power- they're just opposed to Hillary being in power. Hillary for Veep? Nah, I have another idea- I think Bill and Hill are more well suited for VH1's Surreal Life House ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Surreal_Life) than the White House- perhaps the producers could even arrange to have them room with the "scumbag" reporter that wrote this recent Vanity Fair piece on Bill's shady business and personal dealings. http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2008/07/clinton200807
Check your inbox Hill- you may have missed the memo- you lost- its all over, there won't be any 3AM phone calls for you to answer, no more fake tears to shed, no more vast right wing conspiracies to fend off, no more having to unfairly field the first question at sexist debates. Extinguish your torch and get off the island. The tribe has spoken.

R Kelly: Michaelangelo or Pornographer

The tribune reports today that R Kelly supporters are outnumbering protesters 10-1 outside his child porn trial which about to begin here in Chicago. http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-r-kelly-debate-12may12,0,4763585.story
The Trib sights several so called experts to help explain why R Kelly maitains significant support in the African American community. Two of the experts have particularly interesting theories.

Bakari Kitwana- whom the Trib describes as a "hip-hop scholar" artist in residence at the University of Chicago, says that it would be premature to judge Kelly (who was caught on tape having sex and pissing on a 13 year old girl) before he is tried. The hip hop scholar goes on to say, "At what point is the art separated from the reality? Does it make his art now irrelevant because he's got this other problem going on? If we find out some crazy stuff about Michaelangelo, what do we do about his David? Should we tear it down?" Hmmmmm. This has to be the first time R Kelly and Michaelangelo have ever been mentioned in the same sentence. Why are musicians- even really bad ones like R Kelly- now considered artists? Its not enough to create music any more is it? One must create art! Give me a freaking break.

Not to be outdone by Kitwana, Cynthia Neal Spence, associate professor of sociology at Spellman College in Atlanta, says that, "there's not a lot of difference between what is on the R Kelly (sex) tape and what is on BET (Black Entertainment TV) in people's minds, adding that the sexual nature of images in the music videos makes it more difficult for people to discern what is actual pornography."

Ah yes, it is mighty hard to distinguish between music videos and a graphic sex tape where a grown man has sex with and urinates on a 13 year old. Pull-fucking-eeeze. Music videos might be a bit bawdy, but I haven't seen to many pedophilic golden showers on them any time very recently. Do college professors really think people are that dumb that they can't tell the difference?