I Bet You I Can Kill You With This

I'm deathly afraid of my boss.

I'm not afraid he is going to give me too much work. I'm not afraid he is going to block my review. I'm not afraid he is going to fire me.

I'm afraid he is going to kill me.


His name is Stan (not really, but we'll call him that). Stan is a former White House Security guard who now works in technical assembly and project management. He has travelled the world and has certifications from various unnamed government agencies.

Stan is a great guy. Stan doesn't give me much work and when he does, he always shows me respect. He is funny. We swap CD's, talk war stories and generally have a great time.

But the man is not safe. First, he has a vast collection of knives and pointed weaponry at his desk which he often comes back to shows Logan and me in the warehouse. Yesterday, he presented a seven-inch blade whose point could puncture Kevlar and whose serrated edge could cut through corrogated steel. He further explained that when someone comes at you, you should grab the protruding arm, slash upwards and take them out at the elbow. You should then spin them and a quick shot to the kidney will ensure the end of their life in 30 seconds.

"You know why the kidney?" Stan asked rhetorically. "It's a major artery."

Today he comes back to the warehouse and in a subsequent conversation with Logan proclaims that he could kill him with a Whiteboard Marker. Yes, a whiteboard marker. Somehow I believe him. I fear for my very existence at this point. Stan is a wonderful guy, but under that playful veneer, I sense a serial killer just waiting to jump out. Heaven help us.

Now I Will Show You How An Italian Dies

There are many evil people fighting in this world. And there are many men and women of honor.

One of these men is Fabrizio Quattrocchi. He and three other Italians were taken hostage earlier this month by Iraqi Insurgents calling themselves "The Green Brigade."

Quattrocchi, a baker from Sicily working as private security guard, was forced by his captors to march out into a field and dig his own grave. He was then hooded and told to kneel. Instead, he refused and attempted to remove his hood, saying "Now I will show you how an Italian dies." The terrorists promptly shot him in the neck.

All of this was filmed by his captors and later given to Al-Jazeera to air to the world. Al-Jazeera refused to show the film, saying it was too gruesome. After having shown the riddled corpses of Americans dragged through the streets, I have to question their motives.

According to the Washington Times, Fabrizio's fiancee later said her only consolation is that he died with honor. I am personally at a loss for words and I struggle to hold back tears as I write this. I sit here, wondering if I would have the courage to stand up and face evil and tyranny with such strength and courage. I feel like I am betraying his memory living in what almost amounts to criminal comfort.

May we all take courage and strength from men like Quattrocchi. We are not the only ones fighting in this war. Italy has thousands of troops in Iraq. So do the Netherlands, Poland and our dear ally England. These men and women, who presidential wannabe John Kerry calls, "The Coalition of the coerced and bribed" are performing heroically as they stand beside our countrymen and women. Let us remember them in our prayers. And let us remember that heroes and men and women of honor are found under all flags.



For more see this article

Over Half A Million Angry Women--What A Force To Be Reckoned With!

This march yesterday was really something else (See New York Times Article).



My mother and I took the subway downtown, starting at Springfield and making our way to the Federal Triangle. It was obvious from the moment we parked our car at the station we represented a very small minority. On cars and on peoples bodies were stickers with the words "Count Me In," "March for Women's Lives" and "Keep Your Laws Off My Body." Even tho our signs weren't showing, we could feel the tension in the air. No one going supporting pro-abortion had to bring signs. They would be provided at the march.

We made it downtown and walked to Constitution Avenue. We were immediately surrounded by hundreds of pro-choice people and could hear the momentous chants from the Washington Mall. My mother said it reminded her what she'd watched of the Nuremburg rallies in the 1930s. Every few minutes the voice of the speaker would reach a fevered pitch and the crowd would shout. Despite the prevailing opposition to our message of the vast majority of people around us, We both felt the energy in the air.

We set up near the corner of Constitution and 15th Street where we would be sure to be seen by most who passed us. We made sure to stay away from the small groups of religious Freaks who had signs showing mutilated fetuses and scriptures damning the protesters. That just wasn't our crowd. Across the street were some pro-lifers with much more reasonable signs (such as "Women Need Love, Not Abortion"), but we both felt better being what my mom called "a delegation of two." A phalanx of seven police on horseback watched our every movement.

Shortly after noon, the march started. At first, the protesters filed in front of us, shouting their slogans of "pro-choice!" and "Show me what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks like!" But soon, the protesters were so numerous that they began to file behind us on to the sidewalk as well as in front of us on the street. I offered to stand in front of my Mom so I would get the brunt of it, but she refused, saying "This is my march. You have the next 40 years to do what you want." I aquiesced and stood next to her.

Suddenly we two were a small island in a sea of screaming protest. Thousands of women (and a few angry men) seethed around us, shouting, calling us names and damning us with the same vehemence the religious Freaks were sharing with them over bullhorns further up the road. Meanwhile, the protesters' signs and slogans betrayed a much larger agenda than just the right to safe abortions. Gay rights protesters had inserted themselves into the cause, shouting "Gay Rights are Reproductive Rights." Others shouted for Bush's ouster and had signs saying the only bush they trusted was their own.

My mother and I stood calmly for over two hours, taking the abuse and smiling at the passers-by. Three women actually took the time to talk to us about our issues. We had great conversations. Mostly, tho, people just yelled at us (One homosexual guy came up to me and said, "you're cute!"). We took count of how many people questioned the intelligence of my sign (It said "My Mother Chose Life"). At the end, there had been 25 people who intimated they would rather my mom had an abortion. Her sign ("Abortion: NOT the only choice") got similar cries of "but it has to be a choice!." On the back of both of our signs was "March For Babies' Rights." Other people continued to call us names. Some told us to keep our religion out of their lives, screaming chants like "keep your rosaries off my ovaries!" (I hadn't realized that I was showing a religious standpoint). One young lady flashed me and had written across her naked breasts "Pro Choice."

When the last of the marchers had passed us (we estimate probably 1/3 of all the protesters saw our signs), we cut through on 15th Street and joined up again with the March on Pennsylvania Avenue. This time, we marched along the side of the protesters behind a metal barricade, holding our signs up so both the protesters and others on the sidewalks could see them. We passed other protesters of many different pursuasions, including a couple whose simply message of life and grief almost brought tears to my eyes. We followed the march as it continued down to Seventh street and then back to the Mall.

Several times throughout the day, we were interviewed by newspapers and other media. Our answers were pretty much the same each time. Neither one of us were against women chosing when or how they wanted to have sex. Neither one of us were against contraception or birth control. We both felt that abortion was an option that must be considered in the cases of rape, incest and when the life of the mother was in danger. What we didn't agree with, we both said, was that abortion should be used as a form of birth control.

I told several reporters that I felt the whole issue wasn't about a woman's "rights." I felt more it had to do with all of our responsibility to society. In addition to the deep moral undertones of the abortion issue, we each had a social responsibility to maintain life whenever and wherever it was created. I remarked earlier to my mom that the different sides of this issue really seemed to be just talking past each other and not fully appreciating the other side. While we were looking at the life of the child, for example, they were fixated on the rights of the woman. It's a noble cause to be sure, but not to the exclusion (in my opinion) of the life of an unborn child. I added to the reporter from the New York Times that I felt that issues involving the family (such as this one) would have more affect on the future of America than any wars we fought, policies we made, or whatever happens to our economy. Last I checked, nobody has used any of our quotes.

By the end of the day, my mom and I were both jazzed up but exhausted. Waiting for our train at the metro stop, another train passed in front of us, crammed full of pro-abortion supporters. Unable to move or do anything but look, they watched in fury as we unrolled our signs one last time on the platform. Neither one of us could help but laugh as the angry faces passed us by, some shaking their heads and others mouthing words of disapproval. We had shared our message. And tho we had been but a small speck on a beach of opposition, we had made our voices heard.

I'm ready for the Weekend

LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE

Take my photo off the wall
If it just won't sing for you
'Cause all that's left has gone away
And there's nothing there for you to prove

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
Oh well, it seems likes such fun
Until you lose what you had won

Give me back my point of view
'Cause I just can't think for you
I can hardly hear you say
What should I do, well you choose

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
Oh well, it seems likes such fun
Until you lose what you had won

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
A fool of everyone
A fool of everyone

Take my photo off the wall
If it just won't sing for you
'Cause all that's left has gone away
And there's nothing there for you to do

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
Oh well, it seems likes such fun
Until you lose what you had won

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
A fool of everyone
A fool of everyone

-- Jet

A Few Words on Columbine

Today is the 5-year anniversary.

An article on MSNBC stated about one of the killers:

"Psychopaths follow much stricter behavior patterns than the rest of us because they are unfettered by conscience, living solely for their own aggrandizement. (The difference is so striking that Fuselier trains hostage negotiators to identify psychopaths during a standoff, and immediately reverse tactics if they think they're facing one. It's like flipping a switch between two alternate brain-mechanisms.)

"None of his victims means anything to the psychopath. He recognizes other people only as means to obtain what he desires. Not only does he feel no guilt for destroying their lives, he doesn't grasp what they feel. The truly hardcore psychopath doesn't quite comprehend emotions like love or hate or fear, because he has never experienced them directly."

Interesting comment. So morality, conscience and rules actually give us MORE choices? Allow us MORE personality? Because we are not living strictly for our own aggrandizement, we actually see our agency increase?

Hmmmmmm. Sounds right and sounds familiar.

We've fallen in love with our anger
We spit our emotions on to paper and call it poetry
We bludgeon each other with our indifference and don't even pretend to ask for forgiveness
We scream our questions in collective and private angst all the while denying a response...
And why?
Because we're afraid of the answers
So we worship false gods that sooth our cowardice
And abandon ourselves to ultimate indulgence
And as our baser appetites are fed
And our higher aspirations are distracted to abstraction
Our hearts grow silent

The beautiful thing about virtues is that they don't need heralding. They manifest themselves in good time. Usually when someone has to announce how smart/courageous/beautiful/tolerant/diverse/kind/charitable they are, it's because they are trying to make up for in words what they lack in action.

Who's the Poop Mira Now Baby?

So, I've been introduced to a little Russian music. No, I'm not talking about the fake wannabe lesbian teenage crap that came out a couple years ago (i'm already thoroughly versed in that, thank you). I'm talking about Zемфира! Yes, Zемфира! Why do I write her name in Russian instead of the much more legible "Zemfira"? Need you even ask?

Now I'm not yet finding it necessarily sexy yet. I'm still getting used to the whole sound of Russian on my ears, and listening to women kill the people next door so their truant boyfriends can sleep is still a bit foreign to me. But who am I to turn off an entire cultural phenomenon over a little neighborcide?

For those interested in embarking on a little cultural exploration or just want to catch a new sound, you can grab her stuff on the net. Enjoy

A Deep and Disturbing Feeling

I watched "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" this weekend, a remake to a 1973 horror classic. I'm not a huge horror fan but I have been on a horror kick recently and this seems to have been the cumulation of it.

It was really a disturbing film. It was not so much the blood and guts (that come standard with pretty much any horror film) that made it terrible. It was more the stark realism of the film and the feeling that this truly could have happened (I thought I had heard that it was based on a true story (it isn't), making it all the more grim). That feeling of stark reality stayed with me through about the first 2/3 of the film, which for me is the longest I have ever watched a film before relaxing back into the "this is pure fantasy" feeling. I think I would have been even more disturbed if I hadn't had to turn the film off halfway through to make sure the young lady I was watching the film with (who had reverted to the fetal position, fingers jammed in her ears) wasn't going to get up and leave.

More than anything, what disturbed me the most about the film was the whole deep south rotting motif. As many beautiful things there are about the south (and there are many), there are certainly parts where life hasn't moved into the 20th century, much less the new millenium. Yellowing black and white pictures, rotting houses, lots of pickled pigs feet, hot wet summers, dirt roads, broken eyeless dolls, rotting people who are still alive... you know I really don't know how to describe it. The Drive-by Truckers once wrote "There's a lot of bad wood underneath the veneer." I think that describes some of it.

Anyway, more than anything, I think that motif, and my own personal experience with the south (much of which was wonderful) reinforced the idea that there are old counties and dead end roads that people simply don't come back from. Any thoughts and ideas? I would really like to hear some other peoples' ideas on this.

You know a drifter, he holds on
to his youth
Just like it was money in the bank

Lord knows I can't change
Sounds better in a song
Than it does with hell to pay.
---- Drive-by Truckers