A Christmas Showdown at the PO

This Christmas, shopping was easier than it has been for some time.  In years past, my wife has been the one in charge of the Christmas shopping.  Since she likes shopping and I could care less, I've always considered this a fair deal.  But, unfortunately for me, this means hours of standing and feet shuffling in one department store after another.  

“What do you think about this?” my wife asks.

“It looks fine.”

Back on the rack it goes.

“How about this one for your mother?” she asks again.

“Looks good.”

Back on the rack.  On to the next store.

When we lived in Massachusetts, the pain of this ritual was made slightly more tolerable by the small bar inside the mall in Springfield.  I would sit, drink, and grade final exams; my wife would return periodically for quick visits, a sip of beer, and to drop off bags. Maryland, it seems, has something against boozing it up in the mall.

This time, however, I was spared the whole tiresome ordeal.  With my wife overseas visiting her parents, I did the Christmas shopping with stunning efficiency.  Before leaving the house I hit amazon.com and had two presents in the mail before my feet hit the front steps.  BING!!  I drove to the local mall and grabbed a few more.  BANG!!  And I cruised on past the Barnes and Nobles for the last few. BOOM!!!  Done!  Home in time to watch LSU loose to Arkansas.  Almost a perfect day!!

But as work picked up and my free time thinned out, those gifts sat around waiting to be mailed.  Finally, just a few days before Christmas, I managed to walk them down to the post office.  As I passed the first box over the counter, the woman glared at me and told me she couldn’t mail the box. 

“What do you mean?” I queried.

“This box had alcohol in it once.” She retorted.

She wasn't wrong.  The box was one of the many I collected from a local liquor store to use during our last move. 

“OK?” was my confused response.

“Alcohol is flammable!” she muttered in an exasperated tone.

Once again, Madame Curie was correct.  Alcohol is indeed flammable.

Normally, when confronted with problems like this, I sigh, narrow my eyes in the most condescending manner I can muster, and haughtily walk out.  Why bang my head against a brick wall?  The bricks never appreciate that kind of effort.  But this time I felt I had the time and the energy to try reasoning with the wall.

“Right” I said.  “But you can see that no wine was spilled on this box.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she shot back.

“Does it also not matter that the box itself is far, far, far more flammable than a bottle of wine?” I went on.

“No it doesn’t,” she exclaimed.

“In fact, were this box to contain the six bottles of wine it once held, it would be far less flammable because of it. Wine is over 85% water!”

“I cannot accept the box!”

Undeterred I went on. “And I guess it doesn’t matter that the gasoline in the truck that will carry the box away is far more flammable than a bottle of wine. . . .  And I guess it also is no concern of yours that the fuel in the wings of the airplane that will carry the box to Louisiana is far more flammable than that. . . .  My God!  The oxygen we’re breathing right now is more flammable than a bottle of wine!!”

Maybe I had gone a little far with that last one.  At least she thought so.  Her only reply was to gesture menacingly toward the door. 

I brought the box home, wrapped it in brown paper, walked it back to the post office, and handed it over to her silently. 

Brick wall 1, Logan Row 0

Merry Christmas!!  Happy New Year!!

"Ordinary Injustice: How America Holds Court"

I can see the inside of that courtroom just as clearly as if I had been there yesterday.  Packed with confusion, there was little room left to stand.  I arrived late, having spent a few minutes outside smoking cigarettes to cover up the pot smell.  So, when I got inside I casually leaned against the back wall, opened up my well-worn copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s The Great Shark Hunt and began reading. 

I wasn’t taking the proceedings very seriously.  Hell, I thought to myself, I wasn’t here for anything serious at all.  About a month before I had had the unfortunate experience of being issued a misdemeanor summons for taking advantage of a candy machine.  The damn machine didn’t work.  Y’see, you could put a dime in the thing and turn the knob to get your candy, or you could just turn the knob.  Either way you would get the candy.  Not having two nickels to rub together, I commonly chose the latter option. 

Well, one evening, just after a small group of friends and I had made a withdrawal, we found ourselves surrounded by a parade of cop cars.  We were all pretty young and fairly irreverent in the presence of authority figures; so I guess we caused a little more trouble than we should have.  Regardless, however, the whole event seemed absurd from the beginning.  The cops made a big scene, we made a bigger scene; but in less than two hours I was at the bar with a few friends laughing it off.

Two months later I was in that little courthouse watching it pump out “justice” like cheeseburgers.  The clerk called the name; the judge asked for the plea; and the sentence was given.  Bun, ketchup, mustard, pickle, beef and cheese!  When my turn came I was confused and high.  “Any questions?” the public defender asked me.  Not really, I responded.  “Is this all necessary?  I mean, it was about eight cents worth of candy,” I commented incredulously.  

I don’t think he was paying much attention.  He told me that I should just make it as painless as possible and plead guilty.  Fine.  Hell, I was guilty! 

“$500.00 fine and 250 hours of community service,” the old judge rattled out.  Wrap it up, add fries and a coke!

The entire experience was dizzying, and not just because I was high.  The prosecutor didn’t have my file, the arresting officer wasn’t there, the public defender seemed incompetent, and the judge clearly didn’t understand that I had been charged for taking candy from a candy machine not breaking into a vending machine.  Either way, I was fucked!  $500.00 was nearly an entire month’s salary for me at that time.  And 250 hours of community service was going to be impossible.  Any competent defense attorney could have had the frivolous charges dropped completely.  Or, at the very least, the case could have been dismissed in the absence of the arresting officer.  None of this happened.  So, I lived on very little food, clocked a lot of hours at the Salvation Army, and spent the next year and a half worrying that any run-in with the law (however small) would result in jail time—all for less than 10 cents worth of Sweet Tarts!!!!

Reading through Amy Bach’s Ordinary Injustice: How America Holds Court, I was struck by how common this predicament is.  In day-to-day criminal court, abuses happen with such regularity that they go almost unnoticed.  Defendants spend months in jail awaiting trials for offences that, if properly defended, wouldn’t result in community service.  Judges coerce guilty pleas from defendants.  Public defenders fall asleep at trial.  And prosecutors refuse to admit that they’ve convicted the wrong man even when confronted with indisputable proof.    

Anyone who’s watched a few episodes of Law and Order is familiar with the principle of our adversarial justice system.  In theory, a persuasive prosecutor argues the state’s case.  A well-prepared defense attorney challenges the case.  And a disinterested judge is present to ensure no one’s rights are violated.  What we understand to be justice, then, emerges from this process.  We accept errors (innocent men locked away for years, guilty men let loose) only because we believe so strongly in the rigorousness of the process.  All too often, however, the defense attorney is over-burdened, the prosecutor is concerned only with convictions that benefit his political career, and the judge is anything but disinterested.  In this way, the adversarial system of justice degenerates into a close-knit clan of professional colleagues (judge, prosecutor, defense attorney) conspiring to speed defendants through the system without any regard for the rights of the accused or even the presumption of innocence.   

This book made me feel ill, angry and disgusted.  I recommend it to anyone.  I don't, however, recommend fucking with a candy machine.

Yes, George; you are GLENN BECK!!!!

Holy Shit!!  I know Glenn Beck; and he lives in Korea!

Their shore is alot of wrighting errors hear

Win eye sit down and reelly think a bout it, win I really tri to reed the word’s Ive wroten, win I lock very, very, closerly, I’m shore I’ll find meany English mistakes in mine own wrighting. Hell, aye jest no that eye must write them awl the thyme. Butt, I’m knot a publisher!! And, wile eye’ve Dunn a lot of proofriding in my time, I don’t due it for a leaving.

The people that wrote this garbage (not mine above, but those below), however, do! They are not only professional publishers that claim to have hired proofreaders; but they publish books used to teach English for god’s sake! I know Korea has a race problem. I know Koreans only reluctantly and grudgingly hire English speakers to come in and teach conversational English. And, maybe Korean publishers are operating under the false assumption that Koreans are somehow better at writing and grammar than native speakers (I’ve actually had an employer in Korea make this foolish argument to me once). But, couldn’t this company hire just one of those blond-haired, blue-eyed, grudgingly-employed guys to actually read through this garbage before they print thousands of copies?

I don't know.  What are some good topics to "break an ice?"  How about cocktails?

Warning about being careful, huh?  Yes, that's exactly what I was thinking.

Well, I "considers" it a fucking shame that you're not only using the passive construction, but that you're also pretty careless about the articles.

When "w're" writing an English textbook, it might be a good idea to write in complete sentences.

I've seen a lot of Cspan, but . . .

A little background:

Is this how the other half lives?

I've always been a bit of news junky.  In college I typically read two or three newspapers a day (Sports section, classifieds, and Fashion excepted).  I loved the smell of the paper, the ink on my fingers, and the satisfaction of reading crisp, clean copy that was researched in hours and written in minutes.  It will be ball-chilling cold day in hell when I give up my warm, familiar paper for a cold, computer screen or some goddamn iPad.

But, these days I'm less attracted to the hard news than I am to the opinions.  I head straight to the editorials.  I read the columnists I like first and have a passing glance at those whom I tend to disagree with.  It's my age, I tell myself.  I'm becoming a bitter old man who would rather have his opinions validated than heard.  I even find myself reading the letters to the editor.  I want to dive into the complaints, the adversarial postures, the grating discord.  I want to immerse myself in the hatred they feel for the opposition.  I want a good argument.  I want a winner.  

And, every now and then I run across something in these editorials or letters that sends me flipping back to an earlier page in an earlier edition.  This is what happened today when I ran across a letter that brought me to this:

American Dream Is Elusive for New Generation

This article made me absolutely furious.  Fuck this kid!!!  Fuck him with the rusty end of a broken pitch fork!!!  And fuck this goddamn journalist too!  Who are these people?  How dare they muster the presumption to speak so condescendingly about an entire generation!  Other than the little fuck in this article, who the hell is complaining about “entitlement?”  Really, where the fuck are these people?   

I don’t know about this piss ant kid or this jerk-off journalist, but I've worked my ass off my entire life.  From the time I was fifteen years old I've worked cutting trees, laying concrete, washing dishes, flipping burgers, slinging hash, and turning wrenches.  I walked to work, lived off potato salad made with the free condiments from the Circle K, and paid my rent on time.  

I competed against little shits like this kid as an undergraduate.  When the out-of-town wealth from Tulane went out partying, I was the one pouring their drinks, wiping off their tables, and mopping their vomit off the floor.  While they went off each summer to fill their resumes with unpaid internships and sinecures at daddy’s office, I took on extra work to make it through the next semester. 

And this little fuck has the audacity to think that his $400,000 degree should put him at the front of the line?  What happened to valuing hard work, persistence, and determination?  My god!!  Is this kid serious?  Is he really shocked that he didn't land an $80,000 executive-track position right out of college? Does he really think that merely having a degree from Colgate carries that much weight?  I honestly don't know which is more depressing, the fact that this little twerp is so delusional or the fact that were it not for this recession his expectations would be realistic.  

Thank you for your consideration

Mr. Smith
Human Resource Manager
Cocksuckers Inc.
1234 Chupame la Polla Ave.
WTFville, BS 46807


Dear Mr. Smith,

I would like to thank you again for the opportunity to interview for the Dingleberry Quality Selection Team Member position with Cocksuckers Inc.  Although I am disappointed that I was not chosen, I enjoyed meeting you and your staff and learning more about your company.

I am still interested in opportunities with Cocksuckers Inc. and would appreciate it if you would keep me in mind for future openings with any of the branches here in WTFville.

If, however, you have no intention of contacting me again, please disregard everything above.  And, I hope it's not too insensitive for me to reveal that I pray you slip on your own bathroom floor, bleed to death, and your children are forever traumatized by finding you there naked, surrounded in a pool of your own blood and holding a copy of LadyBoy Weekly.

Thank you again for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Logan Row