A Cold Wind's A Blowing

"Wanna know why the straw broke the camel's back? Here's the secret: There were a million other straws underneath it."

-Mos Def

War never materializes out of thin air. There is always a string of provocations leading up to the Fort Sumters of history. Raised as much on Nintendo history as I was real history, as a kid I thought World War II started in 1942. I guess that's typical of Americans to assume that a world war isn't really a world war until we arrive. That could have something to do with the fact that we live in a good neighborhood of the world. We have pretty good neighbors that we get along well with, and for the most part, we don't have to deal with their kids being hooligans and corrupting our kids. Sure, they jump the fence once in awhile and raid our barbeques, but they're mostly respectful, hardworking folks. We don't need to be suspicious of their motives, right?

Wrong.

The border wars have begun to gather steam, America. The campaign against our continental dominance is under way. But not from the source you might think. We've all read the news reports of heads in duffle bags and Federal agents being kidnapped and assassinated on our southern border. But the drug war with the Mexican cartels is not what I'm talking about. In that war, we are united with the Mexican government. The new aggression I speak of, detailed in a New York Times article, comes from our northern neighbors, Canada, host of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games. In an act of incitement, the Canadian Olympic Committee has severely restricted access to Olympic facilities for foreigners:

Count the American speedskater Catherine Raney among the athletes, coaches and officials of several sports surprised by Canada's approach to hosting the Winter Games in February.

Raney, who spent more than seven years living in Canada and training with the Canadian national team, was told after the 2006 Olympics that the Canadians did not want foreign athletes training with them leading to the 2010 Games in Vancouver. She and many other foreign athletes had expected to spend quite a bit of time practicing at the Olympic sites, but have been granted only minimal access.

And get a load of this double speak, eh:

Canadian officials said they were following rules of access to competition sites, as set by each sport's governing body. But they also intend to protect the Olympic host's home-field -- or home-ice, home-snow, home-track -- advantage.

At the Whistler downhill course, unfamiliar to most of the world's best skiers, several medal contenders were left watching over a fence as the Canadian team trained. "Everybody was pushing to get on that downhill," said Max Gartner, Alpine Canada's chief athletic officer. "That's an advantage we cannot give away."

[Officials] acknowledge that they are also driven to succeed at these Olympics, perhaps more than any previous host country.

"We're the only country to host two Olympic Games and never have won a gold medal at our Games," Priestner Allinger said. "It's not a record we're proud of."

To put that into shorthand for you, they're essentially saying, "We've gotten our butts kicked on our home court too many times and we're ashamed of ourselves. To remedy this we're going to handicap every other team and give ourselves as much advantage as possible to prove that ours are the best athletes in the world." You've got to be kidding me. What that means to me is they're admitting in advance that their athletes are inferior, but they just care about the gold medals, not about competing.

When the first shots in a war are fired, those who've been paying attention are never surprised. Unfortunately for us Americans, we pay sparse enough attention that when war does break out, we as a public are caught off guard. Especially shocking in this case is that it involves one of our neighbors, whom we generally think we can trust. Well let this be a warning to you, America: Canada is not the jolly, flannel-clad lumberjack nation they pretend to be. They keep their ax honed for more than chopping lumber. Be on guard.

And to Canada: thank you for hockey. And Rachel McAdams. And back bacon. I still like you. We're still friends. But you're playing a dangerous game. And I'm watching you.

Does the ShamWow! Absorb Blood?

Back in March of this year, I caught a news snippet about the arrest of chameleon-eyed TV pitchman Vince Shlomi, face of the ShamWow! super-absorbent chamois and the Slap Chop kitchen aid.

In case you don't remember the story, ShamWow! had taken a hooker back to his room in a swanky Miami hotel for what the police report refers to as "straight sex." (I find that portion of the police report odd. Straight sex. You don't say? Wouldn't you assume that if you're taking a female prostitute to your room, straight sex is somewhere in the evening's plans? Was that just a contractual prerequisite to make sure he didn't have to pay her if he got back to his room and discovered she was packing extra gear? It's like the old Gaffer used to say, "No use packing a fishing pole on a spelunking trip." Be that as it may, a quick deployment of the Crocodile Dundee technique could have clarified any questions before the subject of price was even broached.) So back to the story at hand: ShamWow! goes in for a kiss and this gal bites his tongue. He has to punch the girl repeatedly until she releases his tongue. Cops show up, arrest both for felony aggravated assault. The Smoking Gun picks up the mugshots, both of them with that "longing for the meth lab" glaze over their eyes. It splashes across a slow news day, and I tuck it away in my Hilariously Sad file next to Gary Busy and Ashley Simpson without a second thought.

Then one day in September, I happen across the pictures taken of the two lovebirds at the hospital. Graphic. Back in March, I remember thinking, "Wait, he had to punch this little pixie multiple times to get her off his tongue? What kind of limp wrist was he swinging?" Well the hospital pics, (her passed out drunk and him trying to sell the photographer that Snuggie he's wearing), tell me he did more than Slap Chop her. He bloodied her nose and blacked her eyes. And I'll admit, I thought less of ShamWow! for hitting on a girl. But from the looks of it, he's lucky to have his tongue at all. She didn't just bite down, she bit in. Deep. A fair amount of that blood on her face must be his.

Now ShamWow! may or may not be the type who would, under normal circumstances, hit a woman. I can't say for sure. However, I can say for sure that I am not that type, and I'm not positive that if, (take a big hypothetical leap with me here, people), if I were in the same situation, I wouldn't employ the ShamPow! defense. How was he supposed to know kissing wasn't on the menu? I mean, he's paying $1000 for access to her VIP area, but he can't even get a kiss to start the show? As aggravating as that may be, it's not punch-worthy by itself. But why couldn't she have said, "No, sorry Romeo. Pretty Woman rules are in effect. No kissing." Instead, she launches straight into chomping down on his tongue, which, by the way, you don't get into someone else's mouth without an initial level of acceptance on the part of the other party. She waited until his tongue was in her mouth until she remembered that the Whoring For Dummies manual forbids it. That's malicious intent to bite. I'm not saying she deserved the two black eyes and a bloody nose. I'm just saying.

Ride Boldly Ride, The Shade Replied

In my short time here in DC, I've discovered that among the Mormon community, there are a few events that generate enough buzz to reach the ears of even the most socially inept hermits like myself. I know (or at least am on close enough terms with) so few people that I don't get invited to the regular parties where the cool kids hang out. So when I hear of these bigger events, I will generally try to go and make fond memories. Or at least send the cool kids home with someone to make fun of. Just like summer camp, right? Well when I managed to get on the email list for Dutch Bike Dutch this year, I trembled in anticipation of the mirth and merriment that lay in store.

Dutch Bike Dutch has become an annual event, started by a couple of aggressively charitable and considerate young ladies to raise some walking-around money for orphans somewhere. I'm glad I got to contribute for some pinatas and Jarritos for the childrenz, but if I'm being honest, I didn't really pay attention to exactly what the funds were for. Call me passively charitable. It was a good cause, I'm sure. Anyway, DC is only about a two hour drive from Lancaster County, PA, home to Dutch Amish country. It's beautiful farm land with rolling hills, so it makes for some good cycling. As a result, in the spring, carloads of DC Mormon singles haul their bikes up to Pennsylvania to do rides varying in distance from 15 miles to 50 miles.

I chose to go for the 30-mile ride. Never mind that I hadn't been on a bike since I was 14. I was fit as a fiddle and ready to rock. Or to fiddle if needs be. So I rented a high-priced carbon fiber road bike to really allow me to fly. But to simply ride a bike would be too mundane. The occasion demanded more spice, more verve. So I decided to make my thrilling return to cycling in heroic fashion. As a luchadore.



I thought there was a chance that others would be making the ride in costumes of some sort as well. I mean, who wouldn't want to raise some Amish pulses with a bit of bravado? I was wrong. So very wrong. The closest anyone came was Colton in his $2 Incredible Hulk riding jersey. Ugliest shirt ever, but I applaud the showmanship. And he one-upped me by doing the 50-miler. Two claps for you and the chef lady, Colton.



Anyway, the video will fill in the visual blanks for you. How was it riding 30 miles after a 16-year absence from the sport? Pros and cons both, I'd say. The biggest con was those padded biking shorts. Mercy me, I felt like I was walking around with a maxi pad attached to my gooch with rubber cement. Extremely uncomfortable for a man. Not in a wedgie way, but in a turn-and-cough way. Another con, when I attempted to dismount my bike after 30 miles, I had the spaghetti legs real bad. I almost had to fall over sideways so I could roll away from it, because I didn't have the strength to lift my leg over the bar. Pros, you really do feel like you're flying sometimes. When you crest a hill and hit the downslope and drop the gear, the road slips away beneath you as your cape flaps in the wind. It's quite a rush. It builds hella leg strength in your quads. Boy howdy. And it's a peaceful way to take in the countryside and get some exercise while doing it. I will have to be sure to beg onto the invite list for next year.

And now, a short film (footage compliments of V Slice. Edited by yours truly.)

How To Make Sexxy Time Less Sexy

I always get a bit of a chuckle when I read edicts issued by religious authorities about how to have healthy sex. I can appreciate the desire of those authorities to provide advice based within the structure of an individual's moral foundation on how to control the more primal animal instincts. They are generally good-natured attempts to get the faith's adherents to give proper weight to the issues surrounding the act. But these puritanical directives always come off awkward and oblivious to the humor they hide in plain sight. You can imagine my delight when I read this article in the Daily Mail talking about the special prayer issued for Catholics to read before unleashing their inner beast. An excerpt from the article:

Roman Catholic couples are being encouraged to pray together before they have sex. A book published by a prominent Church group invites those setting out on married life to recite the specially-composed Prayer Before Making Love.

It is aimed at 'purifying their intentions' so that the act is not about selfishness or hedonism.

The prayer, which appears in the Prayer Book for Spouses, implores God 'to place within us love that truly gives, tenderness that truly unites, self-offering that tells the truth and does not deceive, forgiveness that truly receives, loving physical union that welcomes.'

It adds: 'Open our hearts to you, to each other and to the goodness of your will. Cover our poverty in the richness of your mercy and forgiveness. Clothe us in true dignity and take to yourself our shared aspirations, for your glory, for ever and ever.' 

Man. It's funny and sad at the same time. I'm by no means trying to single out the Catholic church here, because heaven knows my own faith makes its share of ham-handed proclomations on makin' good whoopy. But when it comes down to getting down, the last thing I want to do is stop the train to ask forgiveness that my wife and I are about to totally ravish one another. Philosophizing about sex is fine, but come on, to every thing there is a season. Making God an integral part of your relationship is good, but praying for dignity, mercy and forgiveness kinda loses its meaning when you're wearing nothing but a cape and firefighter boots, doesn't it? Do we have to get off the kitchen table first or can we just read this on the fly? Are we supposed to memorize it or am I gonna have to add an extra pouch to my tool belt?
No, my pre-coital petition would take a little different form. It would be something more like, "Lord, I'm here knocking on the very door of creation, and if you'll just let me focus for a few minutes and do this thing right, I promise we'll work you in here before all the shootin's done and the smoke clears."
Of Course, I'm probably not the best person to consult on this. My perspective is obviously skewed, and perhaps more than a bit fantasized. As a practicing Mormon, I follow the commandment to keep my naughty bits under lock-and-key until some mythical keymaster called a "spouse" appears to unlock my special purpose. At this point I'm like a dog who's been cooped up inside all day waiting for my master to come home and take me to the park to play frisbee. I sit at the window watching the other dogs frolic in the grass, thinking every car that goes by could be my master arriving to play. In reality, when the keymaster does arrive, she'll probably take me for a quick duty walk around the block before Survivor comes on. Whatever. So long as she doesn't read me a prayer before she puts my leash on, who cares. I'm walkin', man.

First, Let Us Pray

And the Lion Shall Lie Down With the Lamb

Last year's election was a first for our nation. We elected Abdir Ben Salaam al-Obama to be our first Muslim president. Wait, no, that's not right. He is our first domesticated terrorist president, right? No? He's the first president to openly hate white people? No? First black president?

That's right. Now I remember. This was to be a moment of transcendence, a turning point in the history of the world, when all whites and blacks and browns would beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nations would no longer lift up swords against one another, nor would they learn war anymore. At exactly 11 AM on January 20th, 2009, our new socialist overlord would begin a 1,000-year reign of peace and prosperity never before experienced on Earth or any of its tributary solar systems.

Well, boys and girls, that’s one party I wasn’t about to miss. And my brother, The Nuge, had the decency to come to DC to share in the inauguration festivities in January.  On Monday the 19^th, we worked in a road trip to NYC, Tyson’s first. It was a one day trip, so we didn't have time to see much. But that was just a diversion, a palate cleanser for the real event on the 20th. To hear the jokers on the TV tell it, the trains going into town would be jammed to capacity starting around 3 AM with people trying to get down to the National Mall. Naturally, we felt pressured to leave the house by 5 AM in order to get down and stake out our spot for history.

Stupid TV! Not only were the trains not filled to capacity, we even got seats on the train. Good thing, too, because it was the last time we would sit down until about three o'clock that afternoon.

Mirthful Pre-dawn Smile

We managed to get spots on the Mall right at the red brick Smithsonian castle, and we got there before dawn. Which was good because if we'd waited until the sun actually came up, we would never have experienced the 20-degree pre-dawn temperatures. Once the sun came out, it was almost too warm at 28 degrees. So there was that added bonus for the early birds that listened to the TV.

Other than that, it was pretty uneventful from six until about ten.   We stood around freezing and making occasional attempts at awkward conversation with those around us.  It was such a diverse crowd, all races and ethnicities waiting for the stroke of noon when we would magically scale all cultural barriers and be able to talk to each other. Some made early attempts to figure it out on their own.  I wanted to say, “Look, man, just sit back and relax.  In a few more hours, we’ll have a black/white president.  This conversation will go so much smoother and you’ll look far less ridiculous. ” But I didn’t. Watching the bespectacled white guy in his twenties with the Dave Matthews patch on his backpack trying to make conversation with the black lady in the purple floor-length leather overcoat with gold teeth was just too entertaining.  And it was the only way to keep my mind off the ache of my frozen feet.

Great View of the Speech

Finally, at 11 AM, Lord Zenu descended the Capitol steps on Aslan and knighted Sir Barry the new King of Job Creation and Economic Gravy. I cheered, because I like gravy, economic or otherwise. And from the sound of the crowd, I wasn't alone. I was excited to dab up some gravy with a loaf of unity bread with my new brothers and sisters. The One gave a speech, we cheered again, yada-yada-yada. You saw all that on TV.

What you didn’t see was the Bataan Death March out of there.  The exit strategy for this event had to have been planned by Paul Bremer.  The two nearest subway stations out of there were closed. You couldn’t just walk north into Chinatown, because the north side of the Mall was barricaded for the parade later that afternoon, and the nearest functioning subway station had a two hour line around the block.  So we walked all the way up behind the Capitol, past the Supreme Court building, and into Chinatown, arriving around two o’clock and waiting an hour for a table at the first restaurant we could get in.  The upside to all the walking was that I regained circulation in my feet.  The bad news was that they were not happy with me, and throbbed for days afterward.  Was it worth it?  Absolutely.  The people were all remarkably well behaved considering the crappy weather/transportation/food situations we all dealt with together.  How could I live in DC for such a moment and not go? Having my brother there to share the experience made it that much better. You're the ballz, Nuge.