Wednesday, March 31
“Idle chatter”
Rachel -
So I’m at the clinic for what I thought was a 1 o’clock appointment. I get to the counter at 12:30 and spell my last name a couple of times to be told, “You’re coming up Person Not Found in the computer. You’ll have to wait for the administrator. Great. “The Administrator.” For some reason I picture this short, black bitchy woman with hoop earrings and a lot of attitude, who’ll tell me to go fuck myself. I mean, she won’t actually say the words, “Go fuck yourself,” but it will be pretty obvious that is what she’s trying to convey.
Stupid of me, I left the appointment papers they gave me in the kitchen so my mother could throw them away two days ago. How convenient, you know? So I have no way of proving I was ever here four weeks ago and that I was given a prescription and an appointment to refill said “scrip.” (That’s how we medical specialists refer to them). By the way. Have I ever mentioned being poor really blows? Consider it mentioned.
Okay, the administrator turned out the be a pleasant woman in a yellow sweater and a big smile. She said, “Oh, we’ll go ahead and see you. That’s your gift for today!” Thank you, thank you. They gave me a form to take up the third floor: “Turn left and go to the glass room.” Of course, you get to where they send you and then have absolutely no idea what to do once you arrive.
There’s no one sitting at the desk near the glass door and nobody in sight. I wish I could get one of these jobs where you don’t have to give a flying fuck about being helpful, efficient or visible. Remember at the Visitors Center when we had to act like we gave a damn?
Now I’m waiting in front of the Registration and Information room, so I can get an appointment to go back to the second floor and wait some more to see a doctor. I am the luckiest person in the world. Even better – get this – the fuckin’ Maury Show is on. If you’ve never seen Maury, don’t bother. It’s trashy. Not as bad as say, Jerry Springer, but certainly on the same level as Ricki Lake. Every other day, Maury has on these women who have asked their current or ex-boyfriends to take paternity test. This is supposedly to establish if the men are also fathers. In reality, it gives Maury the opportunity to parade pathetic, desperate women and their sleazy, disrespectful sex partners on the stage and so he can scream either, “You ARE the father!” or the dreaded “You are NOT the father!” Note how Maury changes the emphasis depending on the outcome. Very dramatic. Seriously, this happens every other day. I guess the two-headed midget lesbians need some time off, too.
The TV in the waiting area is blaring this drivel to folks who can’t help but hear it. Today’s “topic” (I use the term loosely) is young teenage girls who dress like boys. We’re talking XXL hoodies, baggy sweatpants / jeans, do rags or backward caps, finished off with sk8er shoes. All of the girls (13-14-15) white or black talk as if they just stepped out of the ghe-tto! two minutes ago. It’s very annoying to hear Little Miss Suburbia mouthing off like a black dude to shout down a loud New Yawk audience.
Anyway, Maury promises the moms (there’s also a big bald-headed dad and a boyfriend of one girl thrown in for good measure) of these miscreants that he’s gonna transform the tomboys into good looking honies. Every commercial break we’re relentlessly shown previews of what’s to come – the parents looking all shocked at their “new” girl. To keep us out in tvland on the edge of our seats, the girls are blurred out. Hoo boy. I can’t wait to see this.
I’m still waiting to get into the holy Mary mother of god glass room, by the way.
Oh, now the moment we’ve all anticipated has arrived. Let’s check ’em out, Rachel … Okay, not bad. I’m not right on top of the television set – nor do I want to be – but I can definitely see from here the “boyz” have been transformed into proper young ladies. Several of them are quite cute. Good lord. One woman is gushing over her daughter like she just came out of the womb. Great, they’re calling my name ...
I’m back on the second floor waiting another eternity. Earlier we were talking about shitty employees. May I present Exhibit A, the woman who registered me whilst I sat in the holy land. She comes to the door and spells my name (she can’t pronounce Lwanga) and says, “Go to blah-blah,” and points vaguely into the office. I clearly look confused because she immediately yells, “Go to BOOTH 4.” Pardon me for not hearing your original, non-helpful mumble. This is the short black woman with attitude I’ve been waiting for all my life. Thankfully my time with her was brief. I’ve got the distinct feeling I’ll be on the second floor for at least a while and a half.
To chat about something else for a bit, guess what mix CD I’m listening to right this moment? Wrong. Nuh-uh. Sorry. All right, I’ll tell you: Rachel’s Pop Psychology Mix. No, I didn’t sneak back to Oakland, break in and steal yours. I’m “borrowing” a copy Johnny made for himself. Remember, it’s the CD he burned for you last year. Or was it 2002? It’s good; I like his selections. Perfect waiting room music, it turns out. Yo mix is spinning in my brand-new SONY Sport CD playa. I bot it last week from Sears. My father gave me a giftcard to The Big Store for Christmas. I’ll admit, my first reaction was “Sears?!” The last time I walked through that place, I was using it as a shortcut to get the hell out of the mall. I don’t even browse in Sears, much less shop there. But right after that I thot, “Cool! I can use it to replace my old CD player.”
Last August, I dropped it on the sidewalk in front of John & Brian’s complex. I paid something like 90 bucks for the damn thing, and the CD stopped working. So now I had a very expensive portable AM/FM radio that was less than a year old! (It was one of those tuner/CD combos). As you can imagine, I was pissed off by this development. Lucky my dad came through, huh? The new playa is so chic looking – and sporty; don’t forget sporty – for the urban young gay man on the go. You should see people’s heads snap to catch a glimpse of me walk by as I listen to my hip tunes. I’m even jealous of myself.
Anyway, it’s a good thing I’ve got it because my ass is still waitin’ on a doctor. At least there’s something to keep me occupied. Hold on … false alarm. A woman called my name, I gathered up ally ma shit only to have her ask me to sit down again. “Please to wait,” she says in a cute Russian-type accent. You might think I’m getting antsy, but actually I am chillin’ like a villain. What the hell else would I be doing anyway? Getting ready to watch yet another episode of Law & Order. Okay, finally ...
Well that didn’t take long. So the doc (Miss From Russia With Love) says we’ll keep doing what we’re doing now, only more of it. For that I waited half a day. Honey, I am telling you. People should be ecstatic Kasumba Lwanga is such a wonderful human being. Otherwise the strain of livin’ in America would make Kasumba Lwanga go OFF! (I was watching TV a while back and some guy was talking about himself in the third person. I found it amusing). Baby doll, our time together is quickly coming to a close. From here I’ve got to catch some public transportation which, let me tell you, will put waiting for a doctor to shame. Oh. Remind me to tell you about this one chick yakking about her co-worker drama on the cell phone behind me on the bus the other day. Wait by the mailbox.
Love,
Kasumba
So I’m at the clinic for what I thought was a 1 o’clock appointment. I get to the counter at 12:30 and spell my last name a couple of times to be told, “You’re coming up Person Not Found in the computer. You’ll have to wait for the administrator. Great. “The Administrator.” For some reason I picture this short, black bitchy woman with hoop earrings and a lot of attitude, who’ll tell me to go fuck myself. I mean, she won’t actually say the words, “Go fuck yourself,” but it will be pretty obvious that is what she’s trying to convey.
Stupid of me, I left the appointment papers they gave me in the kitchen so my mother could throw them away two days ago. How convenient, you know? So I have no way of proving I was ever here four weeks ago and that I was given a prescription and an appointment to refill said “scrip.” (That’s how we medical specialists refer to them). By the way. Have I ever mentioned being poor really blows? Consider it mentioned.
Okay, the administrator turned out the be a pleasant woman in a yellow sweater and a big smile. She said, “Oh, we’ll go ahead and see you. That’s your gift for today!” Thank you, thank you. They gave me a form to take up the third floor: “Turn left and go to the glass room.” Of course, you get to where they send you and then have absolutely no idea what to do once you arrive.
There’s no one sitting at the desk near the glass door and nobody in sight. I wish I could get one of these jobs where you don’t have to give a flying fuck about being helpful, efficient or visible. Remember at the Visitors Center when we had to act like we gave a damn?
Now I’m waiting in front of the Registration and Information room, so I can get an appointment to go back to the second floor and wait some more to see a doctor. I am the luckiest person in the world. Even better – get this – the fuckin’ Maury Show is on. If you’ve never seen Maury, don’t bother. It’s trashy. Not as bad as say, Jerry Springer, but certainly on the same level as Ricki Lake. Every other day, Maury has on these women who have asked their current or ex-boyfriends to take paternity test. This is supposedly to establish if the men are also fathers. In reality, it gives Maury the opportunity to parade pathetic, desperate women and their sleazy, disrespectful sex partners on the stage and so he can scream either, “You ARE the father!” or the dreaded “You are NOT the father!” Note how Maury changes the emphasis depending on the outcome. Very dramatic. Seriously, this happens every other day. I guess the two-headed midget lesbians need some time off, too.
The TV in the waiting area is blaring this drivel to folks who can’t help but hear it. Today’s “topic” (I use the term loosely) is young teenage girls who dress like boys. We’re talking XXL hoodies, baggy sweatpants / jeans, do rags or backward caps, finished off with sk8er shoes. All of the girls (13-14-15) white or black talk as if they just stepped out of the ghe-tto! two minutes ago. It’s very annoying to hear Little Miss Suburbia mouthing off like a black dude to shout down a loud New Yawk audience.
Anyway, Maury promises the moms (there’s also a big bald-headed dad and a boyfriend of one girl thrown in for good measure) of these miscreants that he’s gonna transform the tomboys into good looking honies. Every commercial break we’re relentlessly shown previews of what’s to come – the parents looking all shocked at their “new” girl. To keep us out in tvland on the edge of our seats, the girls are blurred out. Hoo boy. I can’t wait to see this.
I’m still waiting to get into the holy Mary mother of god glass room, by the way.
Oh, now the moment we’ve all anticipated has arrived. Let’s check ’em out, Rachel … Okay, not bad. I’m not right on top of the television set – nor do I want to be – but I can definitely see from here the “boyz” have been transformed into proper young ladies. Several of them are quite cute. Good lord. One woman is gushing over her daughter like she just came out of the womb. Great, they’re calling my name ...
I’m back on the second floor waiting another eternity. Earlier we were talking about shitty employees. May I present Exhibit A, the woman who registered me whilst I sat in the holy land. She comes to the door and spells my name (she can’t pronounce Lwanga) and says, “Go to blah-blah,” and points vaguely into the office. I clearly look confused because she immediately yells, “Go to BOOTH 4.” Pardon me for not hearing your original, non-helpful mumble. This is the short black woman with attitude I’ve been waiting for all my life. Thankfully my time with her was brief. I’ve got the distinct feeling I’ll be on the second floor for at least a while and a half.
To chat about something else for a bit, guess what mix CD I’m listening to right this moment? Wrong. Nuh-uh. Sorry. All right, I’ll tell you: Rachel’s Pop Psychology Mix. No, I didn’t sneak back to Oakland, break in and steal yours. I’m “borrowing” a copy Johnny made for himself. Remember, it’s the CD he burned for you last year. Or was it 2002? It’s good; I like his selections. Perfect waiting room music, it turns out. Yo mix is spinning in my brand-new SONY Sport CD playa. I bot it last week from Sears. My father gave me a giftcard to The Big Store for Christmas. I’ll admit, my first reaction was “Sears?!” The last time I walked through that place, I was using it as a shortcut to get the hell out of the mall. I don’t even browse in Sears, much less shop there. But right after that I thot, “Cool! I can use it to replace my old CD player.”
Last August, I dropped it on the sidewalk in front of John & Brian’s complex. I paid something like 90 bucks for the damn thing, and the CD stopped working. So now I had a very expensive portable AM/FM radio that was less than a year old! (It was one of those tuner/CD combos). As you can imagine, I was pissed off by this development. Lucky my dad came through, huh? The new playa is so chic looking – and sporty; don’t forget sporty – for the urban young gay man on the go. You should see people’s heads snap to catch a glimpse of me walk by as I listen to my hip tunes. I’m even jealous of myself.
Anyway, it’s a good thing I’ve got it because my ass is still waitin’ on a doctor. At least there’s something to keep me occupied. Hold on … false alarm. A woman called my name, I gathered up ally ma shit only to have her ask me to sit down again. “Please to wait,” she says in a cute Russian-type accent. You might think I’m getting antsy, but actually I am chillin’ like a villain. What the hell else would I be doing anyway? Getting ready to watch yet another episode of Law & Order. Okay, finally ...
Well that didn’t take long. So the doc (Miss From Russia With Love) says we’ll keep doing what we’re doing now, only more of it. For that I waited half a day. Honey, I am telling you. People should be ecstatic Kasumba Lwanga is such a wonderful human being. Otherwise the strain of livin’ in America would make Kasumba Lwanga go OFF! (I was watching TV a while back and some guy was talking about himself in the third person. I found it amusing). Baby doll, our time together is quickly coming to a close. From here I’ve got to catch some public transportation which, let me tell you, will put waiting for a doctor to shame. Oh. Remind me to tell you about this one chick yakking about her co-worker drama on the cell phone behind me on the bus the other day. Wait by the mailbox.
Love,
Kasumba
Saturday, March 13
“Lennon/McCartney”
By the way - I very rarely write poety. This is from a year ago ...
While you were away, celebrating your sobriety and all that comes with it, I dug myself deeper into that pit that ends in jail, institutions and death.
While you were away, doing what you needed to do, I’m afraid to say, I wasn’t.
And while you were away, outside of radio contact, up in the hills that don’t allow for new-fangled man-made inventions, I left a message that said, “I miss you.” You heard it and challenged me on it. And I could not deny.
But while you’re away, so far from me I cannot look past the ring on my finger to see your wicked smile above. To hear your laughing voice. I know.
Now you are away.
How far you are away depends on the ability of a broken heart to grant forgiveness and more importantly, receive it. I’ve broken so many, I’m running out of ways to put them all back together again. And still I’m here. Smashing the one that should be most important.
So while I was away, I dreamed of somewhere past the input, past the Moogs and hexidecimal calculations, far beyond the losing of my religion in a place where I couldn’t dream of pollution, and having no one to call at the end of a day. I had that today. For a while.
But now you and I are away.
And I ask myself, “Forever?” That hand you offered, and told me to listen to myself and said that hand was there … do I still have that hand to keep me singing on key, recognizing the 24 channels of musical nonsense Madonna pumps at me in her latest theme song? “Was she ever No. 1?” I ask Johnny.
What do I celebrate now that you are away? How could I have even thought this would work without your bassline.
While you are away, I remember not wanting to write a song about her years hence, slaving over that bassline for a lover who will never be there. In Mariposa. Or anywhere else. I know that’s not me.
And while you were away, you might have wondered, “Why?” And I ask that of myself as I walk away from another useless day.
What do I have to do, while you’re away?
While you were away, outside of radio contact, up in the hills that don’t allow for new-fangled man-made inventions, I left a message that said, “I miss you.” You heard it and challenged me on it. And then I could not deny …
[FADE]
Copyright MMIII Kasumba Kal Lwanga.
While you were away, celebrating your sobriety and all that comes with it, I dug myself deeper into that pit that ends in jail, institutions and death.
While you were away, doing what you needed to do, I’m afraid to say, I wasn’t.
And while you were away, outside of radio contact, up in the hills that don’t allow for new-fangled man-made inventions, I left a message that said, “I miss you.” You heard it and challenged me on it. And I could not deny.
But while you’re away, so far from me I cannot look past the ring on my finger to see your wicked smile above. To hear your laughing voice. I know.
Now you are away.
How far you are away depends on the ability of a broken heart to grant forgiveness and more importantly, receive it. I’ve broken so many, I’m running out of ways to put them all back together again. And still I’m here. Smashing the one that should be most important.
So while I was away, I dreamed of somewhere past the input, past the Moogs and hexidecimal calculations, far beyond the losing of my religion in a place where I couldn’t dream of pollution, and having no one to call at the end of a day. I had that today. For a while.
But now you and I are away.
And I ask myself, “Forever?” That hand you offered, and told me to listen to myself and said that hand was there … do I still have that hand to keep me singing on key, recognizing the 24 channels of musical nonsense Madonna pumps at me in her latest theme song? “Was she ever No. 1?” I ask Johnny.
What do I celebrate now that you are away? How could I have even thought this would work without your bassline.
While you are away, I remember not wanting to write a song about her years hence, slaving over that bassline for a lover who will never be there. In Mariposa. Or anywhere else. I know that’s not me.
And while you were away, you might have wondered, “Why?” And I ask that of myself as I walk away from another useless day.
What do I have to do, while you’re away?
While you were away, outside of radio contact, up in the hills that don’t allow for new-fangled man-made inventions, I left a message that said, “I miss you.” You heard it and challenged me on it. And then I could not deny …
[FADE]
Copyright MMIII Kasumba Kal Lwanga.
Friday, March 12
“Psst! Lyndon LaRouche is a nut. Pass it on”
On my way back from having dinner with my mom (a lovely repast at Northwoods in Homewood – she had a chicken sandwich with ranch sauce on the side; I enjoyed “The Monico Burger,” an open-face half-pound sandwich smothered in gravy with a side of mashed potatoes) when we heard the strangest thing on the radio. A recorded voice informed us, “The following is a paid political announcement.” After a pause, “I’m Lyndon LaRouche, and I approved this message,” came out of the radio and my jaw dropped. I mean, LaRouche is a convicted felon who spouts the most bizarre philosophy: Take “I stand at the bedside of a doomed empire” or “I have a mission,” and who could forget, “The women on Mars.” You know what? I don’t think Lyndon lives in the same universe you and I do. This guy agrees. As mom and I drove along 183rd Street, LaRouche told us, “There are only two candidates of signifigance in the race for the Democratic nomination. John Kerry and me.” I barely avoided swerving off the road when astonishment temporarily blurred my vision. Lyndon continued undeterred: “Kerry doesn’t grasp the international monetary economy and doesn’t see it’s imminent collapse. I do.” You know, there’s probably a lot LaRouche sees that the rest of us don’t. For example, I don’t plan on seeing Lyndon speak for half an hour on CLTV this Saturday, March 13 at 7 p.m. I could hardly stand listening to 30 seconds of LaRouche, much less watching him for 30 minutes. Lyndon is the kind of nut who makes other nuts mutter to themselves as they rock back and forth, alone, in the alley behind the restaurant, “That guy is crazy.”
“No my first name ain't baby. It's Jack ... Mr. Ryan if you're nasty!”
WLS-TV Channel 7's political reporter Andy Shaw was live at a Republican fundraiser in the suburbs last night during the 10 o’clock news. He reported that “allegations” have been leveled against the frontrunner for the Republican nomination for U.S. Senate, Jack Ryan. He cautioned his viewers that because these “allegations” have not been substantiated, he would not get into “specifics.” So instead, he cut to video of him interviewing Republican rival retired Gen. John Borling’s campaign manager Rod McCullogh, the guy who opened Pandora’s box, as it were. McCullogh said he saw the documents containing the “allegations.” How and when this transpired, he would not say. He was willing to testify, however, that the excuse Ryan has given for not unsealing his divorce records (protecting his 9-year-old son) was not true. The allegations did not involve his son, he said. Then we cut to another Republican hopeful for the Senate, state Sen. Steven Rauschenberger (endorsed by many, unloved by voters) telling the camera, “Jack needs to come clean, so that we Republicans know we are nominating the strongest candidate for November!” [exclamation point, mine] Finally, we have a gratuitous shot of Ryan’s ex-wife Jeri Ryan (who played No. 7 of 9 on TV's Star Trek) in a low-cut dress, which flows into a shot of Ryan with microphones shoved in his face (he looks tall) not responding to reporters’ question. “I simply will not respond to lies and false allegations. That’s it.” And he looked like he meant it – frowny face! So then we go back to Andy live, who said he wasn’t going to get “specific,” remember? If I’m a Republican voter – heck, just a regular person – I sure as hell want to know what exactly has been alleged. Andy was everything right up to “specific” without spelling it out for ya. I was a little surprised that a major media outlet picked up the story broken by others, but now it’s out there. We’ll see if Ryan keeps on stonewalling. For me, of course, it’s sooo delish. Mwah-ha-ha-ha!
Thursday, March 11
“We have fun, don’t we?”
Off and on over the years (more off than on) I’ve belonged to a Yahoo! discussion group – di4ever. As the founder Dan Johnson-Weinberger describes it, the list is “A bunch of old wannabe columnists who miss their college days of writing columns for the DI and want to post columns to each other.” Check out how witty we are. I used to write for The Daily Illini as an Opinions editor and columnist from 1995-1998. So I have some experience in opinion writing, and I know what I like when it comes to columns. I like David Obuchowski’s writing. I thought he was funny when we worked together at the DI, and apparently, he remains high-larious to this day. After posting to di4ever this week, David had a response. I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Yay!” I cried when I saw his name, “David Obuchowski!” [I have not seen nor heard from David in many years]. This struck me as a happy coincidence, because just a few weeks before I came across an old column of his clipped from the paper long ago. David e-mailed to ask if I was living in New York? because he lived in Brooklyn, and maybe we could catch up some time? I wrote back and admitted I have never set foot in New York City (how can I call myself a real American?), a metropolis I call the capital of the Western World. If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere, &c., &c. Then I had a series of newspaper guy questions: What was he doing? How long had he been in NYC? Did he like living there? What are the steps one can take to avoid getting killed in Central Park? You know, the regular stuff. Minutes later (no kidding), I got the following response, which made me laugh, cry and clap all at once. Okay, I didn’t cry, but I came pretty close. I e-mailed back to ask David if I could put his brilliance on display. He graciously agreed. Enjoy:
Recently, David Obuchowski and Kasumba Kal Lwanga – two former colleagues from The Daily Illini and superb writers – had a chance to talk. Interview magazine is more than honored to present their conversation.
K: What are you doing?
D: Well, I’m chewing some Ice Breakers “Unleashed” gum that I got as a free sample when I purchased my coffee this morning. The packaging says that the gum is “winteractive.” Funny how much our world has changed since the advent of Interactivity...and Winter.
K: Indeed it is. Insightful as always. I have to ask, what kind of coffee did you get this morning?
D: Well, I got a large hazelnut, no sugar, and black. I take my coffee like I prefer my former colleagues.
K: [Laughs]
D: [Laughs]
K: [Laughs] Indeed.
D: [Laughs] We have fun, don’t we?
K: [Chuckling] Yes we do. So, David, how long have you been in New York?
D: Well, I moved here to Brooklyn on October 25, 2003.
K: And where did you live before that?
D: Well, Kasumba – Kal – I lived in Chicago for a year. Before that, I lived in Austin, Texas for a year.
K: Now, aren’t you from Texas?
D: [Stony silence]
K: [Anticipation]
D: [More silence]
K: David, I asked –
D: I know what you asked! How dare you insinuate I came from that, that, state?!
K: I’m sorry. I just thought I remember reading in some of your past columns about you going home to Texas.
D: Yes, well, if you read closer you’d know that I’m from New Jersey and that when I moved out of the house to attend the University of Illinois, my parents moved to Houston. Aside from the year I lived in Austin after school, I actually never held residence in Texas.
K: I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. Can you forgive me?
D: [sighs] OK.
K: Do you like New York?
D: Well, seeing as how it’s sort of a homecoming since I came from New Jersey – not Texas – yes, I love it. The neighborhood is beautiful, rather like the neighborhood in that black fellow’s TV show – oh yes, The Cosby Show.
K: Does my ass look big to you, because you know, I wrote about this in my blog, and I just wanted to see what you thought...
D: Why, you’re too hard on yourself, chum! Body of a swimmer, have you.
K: It was absolutely enchanting to speak with you.
D: The enchantment is all mine, mon ami.
Recently, David Obuchowski and Kasumba Kal Lwanga – two former colleagues from The Daily Illini and superb writers – had a chance to talk. Interview magazine is more than honored to present their conversation.
K: What are you doing?
D: Well, I’m chewing some Ice Breakers “Unleashed” gum that I got as a free sample when I purchased my coffee this morning. The packaging says that the gum is “winteractive.” Funny how much our world has changed since the advent of Interactivity...and Winter.
K: Indeed it is. Insightful as always. I have to ask, what kind of coffee did you get this morning?
D: Well, I got a large hazelnut, no sugar, and black. I take my coffee like I prefer my former colleagues.
K: [Laughs]
D: [Laughs]
K: [Laughs] Indeed.
D: [Laughs] We have fun, don’t we?
K: [Chuckling] Yes we do. So, David, how long have you been in New York?
D: Well, I moved here to Brooklyn on October 25, 2003.
K: And where did you live before that?
D: Well, Kasumba – Kal – I lived in Chicago for a year. Before that, I lived in Austin, Texas for a year.
K: Now, aren’t you from Texas?
D: [Stony silence]
K: [Anticipation]
D: [More silence]
K: David, I asked –
D: I know what you asked! How dare you insinuate I came from that, that, state?!
K: I’m sorry. I just thought I remember reading in some of your past columns about you going home to Texas.
D: Yes, well, if you read closer you’d know that I’m from New Jersey and that when I moved out of the house to attend the University of Illinois, my parents moved to Houston. Aside from the year I lived in Austin after school, I actually never held residence in Texas.
K: I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. Can you forgive me?
D: [sighs] OK.
K: Do you like New York?
D: Well, seeing as how it’s sort of a homecoming since I came from New Jersey – not Texas – yes, I love it. The neighborhood is beautiful, rather like the neighborhood in that black fellow’s TV show – oh yes, The Cosby Show.
K: Does my ass look big to you, because you know, I wrote about this in my blog, and I just wanted to see what you thought...
D: Why, you’re too hard on yourself, chum! Body of a swimmer, have you.
K: It was absolutely enchanting to speak with you.
D: The enchantment is all mine, mon ami.
“It used to be the bomb”
I had a dream this morning in which someone made fun of the shirt I was wearing (in the dream, not real life). Though most of my dreams disappear in a wisp of smoke when I awake, this one survived with several details intact. Getting made fun of is usually something you tend not to forget. Especially when it’s your own brain generating the insult. Anyway, the setting was some kind of camp – summer camp, I guess. Another kid and I were having a conversation. All of sudden, the other guy said, “What kind of shirt is that? Tommy Hill … ” he trailed off as he pointed to a label at the bottom of the garment. The shirt I wore in the dream actually exists in my wardrobe. It is a Tommy Hilfiger dress shirt with the Union Jack printed on it. In this particular instance, I had it unbuttoned to reveal a red T-shirt. (Yes, I might have worn such an outfit in real life.) The surprise in my voice could not be disguised. “It’s a Tommy Hilfiger. You haven’t heard of him?” He laughed and said, “No.” I immediately wanted to respond by telling him, “It used to be the bomb!” But my brain (whether in the real or dream world) screamed, “SHUT UP! Don’t say a word,” and promptly choked the nerve leading from the speech center to my vocal cords. The dream ended. I opened my eyes to consider the insulting experience I’d just had. “Okay, one of my favorite shirts was laughed at. And, I am so old that I considered using ‘the bomb’ in a sentence. Whaa!”
Wednesday, March 10
“Say hello to my lil’ fren’ … ”
Oh, yeah. My friend, Jay Jones, has recently started up a weblog of his own. Click here to catch a glimpse of his Hoosier wit, wisdom, occasional mayhem and acerbic comments about W. He doesn't post all that often, but when he does it's like a window to his soul. ... [Oh hey, Jay, if you're reading this don't forget to send that 5 bucks ASAP.]
“Tell me how to be a Millionaire”
There is this big, black guy Francis Grant Jr. on the syndicated version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? kicking ass and taking names. He’s up to $64,000, going for $125,000 and he hasn’t used a lifeline. Which is amazing. I don’t know if there’s some kind of affirmative action going on (because both of us knew the answers - almost immediately on his part, and instantaneously on mine) but the guy is doing much better than your average contestant on Millionaire.
I have always loved this show. When it premiered in 1999, I was gripped by Millionaire mania at once. I could not miss a show. Greg Wu and I shared an apartment at the time, and we both frantically tried to get on the show, with Wu being more frantic. After you’ve exhausted yourself the previous night trying to get through to the contestant hotline, the joy of Millionaire is shouting at the idiots on the TV who are puzzling over the choices for something like “To what office did John F. Kennedy appoint his brother and campaign manager Robert F. Kennedy in his cabinet?” Can you believe there was someone on the show recently who did not know RFK was JFK’s Attorney General? That kid chose Secretary of State!
Oh, and then the ultimate, just in time for Black History Month. The question, “What are the words at the end of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech?’” The guy in the Hot Seat had to hem-and-haw before he used his 50-50 to narrow it down to “Free at last” and “Let freedom ring.” And even after that he hesitated before - thank you Jesus - picking the correct answer. I’m not even going to insult you by printing which one. Do they teach ANYTHING in social studies anymore?
The thing about Millionaire is you have to know more than just facts and figures. You must have a knowledge of pop culture and current events, or else you’re screwed. I’ve seen questions come up where it’s something like, “What was the name of Aston Kutcher’s character in the movie Dude Where’s My Car?” If you think Kutcher’s a crappy actor and avoided the film like the plague, fine. But you’re going to forced to use a lifeline to get past the question.
Ideally you should not use any lifeline before reaching the $32,000 level. That’s what Francis Grant Jr. did. And he won $250,000 before bowing out. On the revival of the primetime version of Millionaire last month, a woman sat across from Regis Philben and puzzled over this one: “The larvae of what insect cause the jump action of Mexican jumping beans?” Her choices were: “A. Housefly, B. Moth, C. Flea, D. Ladybug.”
If you’ve never noticed, there’s a thing that Regis does often. It’s called, “giving the contestant obvious hints on which answer to pick.” As the woman started talking her way through the question, she thought the answer was “flea.” Regis almost choked while on air. He leaned towards her saying, “It says LARVAE.” “Stupid” was totally implied. I certainly picked up on it.
The host looked downright irritated when the woman then decided to use the “Ask the Audience” lifeline. He leaned back in the chair with an okay-DUMBASS look on his face and asked the audience to punch their keypads. Something like 53 percent chose flea. Now Regis appeared ready to kick a few people in the butt. The woman in the Hot Seat chose flea, getting it wrong as Regis knew she would. The host couldn’t wait to shuffle her off the set.
What irritates me more than anything is when a contestant uses TWO lifelines to get out of a jam. That’s simply unforgivable. It screams to me, “LOSER.” Anyone using two lifelines before the $64,000 question will soon be walking away. Why, why, why do they let people on the show who have no clue? Ugh. Meredith Vieira, the host of the syndicated version, is another personal peeve. When I first saw her sitting in the chair opposite the Hot Seat I thought, “Oh, how low the mighty have fallen.” Didn’t she used to be a real journalist? Now this.
Meredith is no Regis.
She has this disgusting way of trying to put the audience and contestant in suspense by stalling on the correct answer. Or she’ll start by saying, “Hmm. You thought the correct answer was ‘Dog feces’ [long annoying pause, frown] … and you were right!” [big smile] Honey, I’m not buying it. Still, I love WWTBAM? and occasionally rope my sister in to watching it with me. She’s much more indifferent than I am.
A question appears on the screen: “Which of the following medicines do those who suffer from congestion use for relief? A. Antihistamine, B. Dramamine, C. Ibuprophen, or D. Acetaminophen?” The dumb-dumb de jour claims ignorance and throws it to the audience. I drop to the floor and writhe as if in pain. “Make it stop. Make it stop! Get him out of there!” The folks in the studio come back with 97 percent in favor in antihistamine. That’s about as strongly as the audience can scream, “DUMBASS!” without actually doing so. The guy shrugs unapologetically and says, “I don’t have allergies.”
I yell, “You EEDIOT!” In the loud silence that follows, sister Nakie asks with a bored voice, “Can we change now?”
I have always loved this show. When it premiered in 1999, I was gripped by Millionaire mania at once. I could not miss a show. Greg Wu and I shared an apartment at the time, and we both frantically tried to get on the show, with Wu being more frantic. After you’ve exhausted yourself the previous night trying to get through to the contestant hotline, the joy of Millionaire is shouting at the idiots on the TV who are puzzling over the choices for something like “To what office did John F. Kennedy appoint his brother and campaign manager Robert F. Kennedy in his cabinet?” Can you believe there was someone on the show recently who did not know RFK was JFK’s Attorney General? That kid chose Secretary of State!
Oh, and then the ultimate, just in time for Black History Month. The question, “What are the words at the end of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech?’” The guy in the Hot Seat had to hem-and-haw before he used his 50-50 to narrow it down to “Free at last” and “Let freedom ring.” And even after that he hesitated before - thank you Jesus - picking the correct answer. I’m not even going to insult you by printing which one. Do they teach ANYTHING in social studies anymore?
The thing about Millionaire is you have to know more than just facts and figures. You must have a knowledge of pop culture and current events, or else you’re screwed. I’ve seen questions come up where it’s something like, “What was the name of Aston Kutcher’s character in the movie Dude Where’s My Car?” If you think Kutcher’s a crappy actor and avoided the film like the plague, fine. But you’re going to forced to use a lifeline to get past the question.
Ideally you should not use any lifeline before reaching the $32,000 level. That’s what Francis Grant Jr. did. And he won $250,000 before bowing out. On the revival of the primetime version of Millionaire last month, a woman sat across from Regis Philben and puzzled over this one: “The larvae of what insect cause the jump action of Mexican jumping beans?” Her choices were: “A. Housefly, B. Moth, C. Flea, D. Ladybug.”
If you’ve never noticed, there’s a thing that Regis does often. It’s called, “giving the contestant obvious hints on which answer to pick.” As the woman started talking her way through the question, she thought the answer was “flea.” Regis almost choked while on air. He leaned towards her saying, “It says LARVAE.” “Stupid” was totally implied. I certainly picked up on it.
The host looked downright irritated when the woman then decided to use the “Ask the Audience” lifeline. He leaned back in the chair with an okay-DUMBASS look on his face and asked the audience to punch their keypads. Something like 53 percent chose flea. Now Regis appeared ready to kick a few people in the butt. The woman in the Hot Seat chose flea, getting it wrong as Regis knew she would. The host couldn’t wait to shuffle her off the set.
What irritates me more than anything is when a contestant uses TWO lifelines to get out of a jam. That’s simply unforgivable. It screams to me, “LOSER.” Anyone using two lifelines before the $64,000 question will soon be walking away. Why, why, why do they let people on the show who have no clue? Ugh. Meredith Vieira, the host of the syndicated version, is another personal peeve. When I first saw her sitting in the chair opposite the Hot Seat I thought, “Oh, how low the mighty have fallen.” Didn’t she used to be a real journalist? Now this.
Meredith is no Regis.
She has this disgusting way of trying to put the audience and contestant in suspense by stalling on the correct answer. Or she’ll start by saying, “Hmm. You thought the correct answer was ‘Dog feces’ [long annoying pause, frown] … and you were right!” [big smile] Honey, I’m not buying it. Still, I love WWTBAM? and occasionally rope my sister in to watching it with me. She’s much more indifferent than I am.
A question appears on the screen: “Which of the following medicines do those who suffer from congestion use for relief? A. Antihistamine, B. Dramamine, C. Ibuprophen, or D. Acetaminophen?” The dumb-dumb de jour claims ignorance and throws it to the audience. I drop to the floor and writhe as if in pain. “Make it stop. Make it stop! Get him out of there!” The folks in the studio come back with 97 percent in favor in antihistamine. That’s about as strongly as the audience can scream, “DUMBASS!” without actually doing so. The guy shrugs unapologetically and says, “I don’t have allergies.”
I yell, “You EEDIOT!” In the loud silence that follows, sister Nakie asks with a bored voice, “Can we change now?”
“Baby got back”
On the way to the shower recently, before the toilet but after the soap dish, I caught sight of something in the mirror. Why I had never noticed this, I cannot say. It must have been a accidental confluence of events or, perhaps, years of ignorance on my part. But there it was, in the lookingglass, my posterior. My rather large posterior. “Oh, my god, Becky. Look at his butt.” Frankly, I had no idea my butt was so big. “How did this transpire?” I asked my reflection. It had no answer. After freezing in horror for a very long moment, I moved out of the mirror’s line of sight. I had to digest this new information. It disturbed me that none of my friends had mentioned my big butt; hadn’t taken me aside before to say in a low but urgent tone, “Kal – uh – I hate to be the one who mentions it to you … Maybe you should lay of the McDonald’s. Your - how should I say this? - butt is out there. I mean, it’s just so big. You look like a total prostitute. You're just so black.” I would have been shocked, sure, perhaps even deeply offended depending on who dispensed the warning/advice. But at least I would have known; taken the proper steps to remedy the situation. I could have installed warning lights and a “CAUTION: BIG BUTT” sign. Or in a less drastic move, started doing that “Buns of Steel” stuff. Now that I think about it, I shouldn’t be so surprised by my prodigious backside. Years ago, in college, my friend Nicole once told me, “Baby, your butt is so big, I could put an entertainment center on it and still have room for a stereo!” I’m not making that up. At the time, I thought Nicole was exaggerating. No one else, before or since, has breathed a word about my butt. So I chalked it up to teasing banter among friends. How wrong I was, apparently. I tend to wear trousers that are, “roomy,” I guess is a good euphemism. It’s not as if I walk around in tight jeans, flaunting my heretofore unknown badonkadonk. How could I have had any inkling of the wide load I carried behind me, as it were? You might think I’m needlessly fretting. If nobody can see it, unless they’re in the shower with me, what is the problem? Well, I know. That’s enough. Honestly, I don’t want to be bootylicious. From now on, until it shrinks or falls off, my butt will be staying away from the mirror. “Oh, Kal, get over it. Your butt is cute.” Yeah, cute, my ass.
Saturday, March 6
“I’m Blair Hull and I approved this message”
Right before the beginning of Saturday Night Live, there were ads from practically every single Illinois Democrat running for the U.S. Senate seat being vacated by Republican Peter Fitzgerald. I had no idea the SNL demographic was so politically attuned.
Without a break between them, I was treated to the vastly differing positions ("jobs good, Bush bad") of Gery Chico, Blair Hull, Dan Hynes,Barack Obama and Maria Pappas. Apparently Nancy Skinner and Joyce Washington own $3 in the bank between them, which pretty much rules out advertising even at four in the morning.
Chico, Hynes, Obama and Pappas have the luxury of trying to advance their candidacies by bashing Bush and explaining how wonderful a performance they'd put in for us on Capitol Hill. Poor Hull, on the other hand, must try to erase from our minds images of him hitting his ex-wife, Brenda Sexton, on the shin and calling her a word that's not only unprintable, it's usually considered unutterable by most civilized people. Just to be salacious, I'll let you know the Sun-Times ran a particularly juicy story ("Hull's stormy divorce records unsealed," reported by Frank Main) on Feb. 28, which lets you in on all the details. ALL of them.
Blair's ad accused "the insiders" (you know who they are, that evil bunch) of trying to derail his campaign by bringing up dirt about his divorce from Sexton. While the people's champion is only interested in getting us all cheap drugs from Canada, the media continue to ask questions about Brenda. I'll have to be up front with you: I've never been a big fan of Hull. It's nothing personal. Okay, maybe it is. I'm not wild about multimillionaires. I'm particularly ambivalent toward them when they try to buy U.S. Senate seats. Have we learned nothing from the Fitzgerald fiasco?
Even when I was in California, Hull's mug would stare back at me every time I stopped by the Sun-Times Web site in search of news from home. His banner ads are so ubiquitous, I'm sure they're paying for several salaries over at 401 N. Wabash. I thought to myself last summer, "Do we really need another rich white guy in the Senate?" You can guess what my answer was.
After dumping $24 million - and counting - of his wealth into the campaign, Hull isn't going to walk away from the Democratic nomination simply because "the insiders" (those awful folks) are stirring up shit. I wonder if it ever occurred to Hull that perhaps it's regular folks who are also a wee bit aghast at his past behavior.
People might be able to forgive an order of protection. After all, who among us hasn't flung a remote control across the room - particularly after having to suffer through, say, another disastrous Bears game? But two orders of protection smacks not just of carelessness, but a lack of self-control. I can overlook a great deal. Lord knows I've made mistakes in my life.
But when a candidate is quoted in an affidavit asking his wife, "Do you want to die? I'm going to kill you ... " well, my sympathy can only go so far. It has been pointed out that a man can be a crappy husband and still be a good leader (exhibit A: Bill Clinton). But nominating Hull could lead to disaster in November. I swear, if that glib pretty boy Jack Ryan wins, I will jump out of my window. Yes, we're on the first floor, but you get the gist.
I wouldn't have a problem with any of the major candidates grabbing the brass ring. Even Nancy Skinner. But we need to get this seat back. I'm Kal Lwanga, and I not only approved this message, I wrote it.
Without a break between them, I was treated to the vastly differing positions ("jobs good, Bush bad") of Gery Chico, Blair Hull, Dan Hynes,Barack Obama and Maria Pappas. Apparently Nancy Skinner and Joyce Washington own $3 in the bank between them, which pretty much rules out advertising even at four in the morning.
Chico, Hynes, Obama and Pappas have the luxury of trying to advance their candidacies by bashing Bush and explaining how wonderful a performance they'd put in for us on Capitol Hill. Poor Hull, on the other hand, must try to erase from our minds images of him hitting his ex-wife, Brenda Sexton, on the shin and calling her a word that's not only unprintable, it's usually considered unutterable by most civilized people. Just to be salacious, I'll let you know the Sun-Times ran a particularly juicy story ("Hull's stormy divorce records unsealed," reported by Frank Main) on Feb. 28, which lets you in on all the details. ALL of them.
Blair's ad accused "the insiders" (you know who they are, that evil bunch) of trying to derail his campaign by bringing up dirt about his divorce from Sexton. While the people's champion is only interested in getting us all cheap drugs from Canada, the media continue to ask questions about Brenda. I'll have to be up front with you: I've never been a big fan of Hull. It's nothing personal. Okay, maybe it is. I'm not wild about multimillionaires. I'm particularly ambivalent toward them when they try to buy U.S. Senate seats. Have we learned nothing from the Fitzgerald fiasco?
Even when I was in California, Hull's mug would stare back at me every time I stopped by the Sun-Times Web site in search of news from home. His banner ads are so ubiquitous, I'm sure they're paying for several salaries over at 401 N. Wabash. I thought to myself last summer, "Do we really need another rich white guy in the Senate?" You can guess what my answer was.
After dumping $24 million - and counting - of his wealth into the campaign, Hull isn't going to walk away from the Democratic nomination simply because "the insiders" (those awful folks) are stirring up shit. I wonder if it ever occurred to Hull that perhaps it's regular folks who are also a wee bit aghast at his past behavior.
People might be able to forgive an order of protection. After all, who among us hasn't flung a remote control across the room - particularly after having to suffer through, say, another disastrous Bears game? But two orders of protection smacks not just of carelessness, but a lack of self-control. I can overlook a great deal. Lord knows I've made mistakes in my life.
But when a candidate is quoted in an affidavit asking his wife, "Do you want to die? I'm going to kill you ... " well, my sympathy can only go so far. It has been pointed out that a man can be a crappy husband and still be a good leader (exhibit A: Bill Clinton). But nominating Hull could lead to disaster in November. I swear, if that glib pretty boy Jack Ryan wins, I will jump out of my window. Yes, we're on the first floor, but you get the gist.
I wouldn't have a problem with any of the major candidates grabbing the brass ring. Even Nancy Skinner. But we need to get this seat back. I'm Kal Lwanga, and I not only approved this message, I wrote it.
“This one goes out to … ”
