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Aug 20, 2008

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Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 31
Sign: Libra

City: Beaverton
State: Oregon
Country: US

Signup Date: 07/31/07

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Thursday, August 14, 2008

Hotel Hell Hath No Fury
Current mood: busy
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Roughly around midnight, a frazzled businesswoman checked in.

She wanted an upstairs room, but we didn't have any. Per the Summer norm, we were sold out. There was an air of discontentment about her, but she kept silent. I gave her the keycards, wished her well on her way, and she sauntered off to her room in a tired haze.

As I was checking in two other gentlemen, I heard a loud clanking on the back door. Someone was rapping on the glass. I excused myself from the two gents to investigate. It was the woman, appearing even more frazzled, clutching her luggage in white fists of vehemence. When I opened the door, she pushed herself and her rolling suitcase in.

"That room stinks," she snapped. "I need another one."

I informed her that I'd be with her in a moment. The two men still needed their room keys. She waited like a pound of C4 on a short timer.

The computer showed no more rooms available.

Of course not, I thought.

I relayed the bad news, and she demanded that I put her up in another hotel. All the while, she also ranted about how she never ran into this sort of situation before. Like any well-honed desk-monkey, I tuned her out as I went about calling other hotels. Every place I called had no rooms available; save one. The Phoenix Inn.

She overheard the words "walking a guest", and she panicked. "You mean I have to walk to the new hotel?"

"No, ma'am," I said through a very apparent sigh. "That means that we are putting you up at the new location free of charge. As in, you won't be billed."

"What about my reservation here?" she asked.

"You won't be billed," I repeated.

That seemed to settle her a bit. I returned to my duties - processing the walk letter for the new location and calling her a cab.

She chimed in again, "Are you paying for the cab?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, we don't do that," I said. "But the room is on us."

"So, you're telling me that I have to pay for a cab ride there because of your screw-up?"

I bowed, "I do apologize, ma'am."

"How far is it?" she asked again.

"Two blocks to the left," I added.

"Can't I just walk it?"

I stifled my scoff, "At this time a night?"

"You mean it's not safe?" She sounded nervous.

"Not that," I replied. "But do you really want to risk it?"

Then she haggled me about the cab again. In the end, I acquiesced and handed her ten-spot from the register. Just to shut her up. A taxi van finally showed a few minutes later. She asked if that was hers. I assumed it was since it was the same cab company. Amidst this, a group of younger guests departed the van. Another cab car showed a few minutes later. I almost told him to leave, thinking their'd been a miscommunication. However, I learned from the van driver that he was only there as a drop-off. The miscommunication was mine.

The woman transferred her load of luggage from the van to the arriving cab, all the while yelling, "I'll never stay at your hotels again!"

I shook my head with a laugh, thinking another uptight dumbshit had left. In times past, guests would often make wild accusations about a room's quality if certain unrealistic demands weren't met. Example: So-and-so didn't get an upgraded suit, so they'd complain that the fireplace was dusty. I assumed she complained about the room stench because she couldn't get an upstairs room, having heard that before.

Out of curiosity - or pure shits and giggles - I went down to the room I gave her. Sure enough, it reeked of nicotine and ozone defogger.

I'll be damned, I said to myself. She was right.

There are, indeed, times when I'll admit a complaining guest has a point. This was one of those times.

4:01 PM - 8 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Sunday, August 03, 2008

Painting the Dark Lady
Current mood: inspired
Category: Art and Photography

I'm going to say July never happened. Is that allowed? Can I call it a ret-con? I think that's my right.

Moving sucked. Work sucked. Looking for new work (still) sucks.

Of course, this is all redundant. Even with the fecal ferocity of events that made up the midsummer night's "squeam", I do have to pay homage to the brighter wing beats from the bat outta Hell. Small and insignificant, though they may seem, they resound with the strength of a butterfly's flight. Hurricanes form with their very finite flutter. I won't see the storm soon, but the tide will come - a monsoon of melody. Pandora's hope, it ain't, but it panders to my quasi-creative grasp nonetheless.

And it all began by reading a book.

Small confession, I wasn't a reader until late in my childhood. Illiterate until 7, barely cogent with the written word until the 3rd grade, I skimmed by. Not for lack of smarts, but rather lack of motivation. I admit to my shitty studiousness. Book reports up until then were an exercise in futility. If a shortcut existed, I took it. Then I encountered a nemesis I couldn't counter, a hard-ass of an English teacher. He expected a detailed synopsis on a novel of our choosing.

I was screwed.

Before the childhood migration to Oregon, my Dad had left me some of his old sci-fi novels. Among them were titles I'd never heard of, though that wasn't saying much. I knew of very few authors to begin with. These rang even less of a bell than usual. The one I picked up first showed a picture of a bald, mustachioed man in mid-melee with a bipedal bat-type creature. The title was Tales of the Galactic Midway: The Wild Alien Tamer, the second in a series of four by Mike Resnick.

The book blurb stated it was about a circus in space, and the installment revolved around a man and an alien who formed an unlikely partnership by duking it out in the ring. From the looks, it sounded uninteresting. But I was in need of a book and didn't feel like looking too hard. With a shrug, I removed it from the box and plugged away at the pages. My eyes widened. I saw the word "fuck" in print.

To a chronic potty-mouther, this was a revelation. A word deemed a death sentence of detention was smack-dab in the middle of a novel. Enamored beyond imagining, my glee seeped through my drudging lit level. I turned the page and kept right on turning. Other epithets made themselves known to me, ones I hadn't heard before as well. A reader was born by way of curse word.

Exploring my Dad's garage on one of my routine Cali visits, I came across another novel by Resnick entitled Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future. By junior high, I'd polished off a good five or six of his books including the rest of the Midway series. The new space opera before me had escaped my notice. My Dad summarized and called it "excellent". I gave it a go. The only way I could describe it was equal parts sci-fi, western, myth, and tall tale, all rolled into a tightly-written package.

My love of genre-confused fiction was already prevalent. My favorite movies by this point in my life weren't easily pegged by one solid label. Buckaroo Banzai, Krull, Big Trouble in Little China, they all possessed a little piece of everything. A wide-eyed geek was born from repeated viewings of these, and to add a novel with the same qualities further solidified it. Upon completion of Wild Alien Tamer, I toyed with the notion of being a writer. By the end of Santiago, I was one.

As the years piled on, I thought I perfected my craft. I used Resnick as my writing template. My command of dialogue was competent - clay-like in its solidity - and my characters were somewhat fleshed out. No one could call me great at the written word, but somewhere along the way I considered "Moi" the cat's meow. That ego self-fellating didn't last long. A wake-up call came in 11th grade. Someone called me on my bullshit; a teacher.

Their prognosis of my penmanship was thus: "You have a tendency to overwrite. Your poetry is solid, but your prose is rather weak."

Heartbroken but stubborn, I chose to discard their assessment of my "gift". How could they know? They were teachers, not an ink-stained quill-licker suck as I! Okay, I wasn't much of one either, but try telling that to a high schooler with a case of the cockies.

The only opinion that mattered to me - in regards to writing - was my father's. After all, he introduced me to the writings of Resnick, so he was a better judge of such things. Early on in my attempts at storytelling, he conceded that I may have a talent. His nod of approval fueled my elitism until I was 23.

When I went away to Reno for college, the professorship came to a similar conclusion as teachers past. My writing was glib at best, rushed at worst. I brushed these judgments off with a "pishaw" and "poppycock", or a well-placed middle finger if the situation called for it. I-if they weren't looking, that is.

Then my dear ol' Pa said something that finally cast a kink in the ego-armor, "Some of it's pretty good, but your dialogue needs work."

From there, I finally began to doubt my prowess with the pen. What did I have to show for the last decade of self-declared scholarship. Answer? Not much. The longest piece I wrote was seventy pages, unfinished. In my portfolio? Five or so completed, two-thirds of which were crap and/or in dire need of a rewrite. In the writing classes I took, I skated by with substandard papers and last-minute queries. The culmination of my college life, a big-whoppin' "C" earned by the skin of my teeth. Any new revelations I took away regarding writing never came from a class, but from other better writers; those with a novel or two under their belts.

Yet I still chose to wear the moniker, for what else did I have to show the world? There were signs of a possible gift hidden beneath the dreck produced up until now. I never fully gave up, but I never committed to it either. Writing and I were friends with benefits, a physical manifestation but not an ephemeral one. And the malaise carried through until the present.

Earlier this July, a friend of mine and I bummed around the Powell's Books in Beaverton. It smelled of scholastic pursuits - a combination of Central Air, dust, leather and paper. And perhaps patchouli from an employee or two. My friend went for the Koontz section, whereas I gravitated to my sci-fi standby. Every once in awhile I perused the shelves of a bookstore for a Resnick I hadn't read. Most of the time, I came up empty. Not this day. Nestled between his Widowmaker and Kirinyaga (both of which were utter crap) was some old school Resnick, one I hadn't read. The book was The Dark Lady: A Romance of the Far Future. A used copy for $2.95? Damn right I was getting it!

I started it in the wee hours of that night without sleeping a wink, and finished it around noon the following day. Polishing off an eyefull of the last page, closing the book, I let off a sigh of "Wow." The story without spoiling anything was thus:

Throughout time, a woman appeared to men, and they were inspired to paint her image. Several paintings and statues, dating back as far as Sumeria, captured her beautiful yet sad likeness. At times she was portrayed as a Goddess or a royal princess, other times a normal maiden. Each time the expression was the same, melancholy and longing. The tradition carried on even after Mankind had reached the stars.

A group of men, and one alien, sought to unravel the mystery of "The Dark Lady", and her motivation for searching out certain men - risk-takers on the fringe who later met an untimely end. Was she an Angel of Death, an immortal, an alien herself, or something more? What was she after? And what inspired men to capture her timeless expression? They didn't know.

I shan't spoil the answer. All that need be said is it struck a chord...and hard. I remembered what I was supposed to do.

I remember saying, long ago, that my goal was to shock and awe a 6th grader in the manner that I was introduced to Resnick. My brother recently told me that the best approach to use when writing is to dive into it head-on. "Balls to the wall", he put it. Dad reminded me that in order to be a writer, "Writers have to write." One of my bosses said, "As a writer, you need to leverage your time."

Tonight, I'm up late putting fingers to keys. Alas, not to write fiction, but at least I'm writing. As to what I plan to put out first to make a name for myself with, I have no bloody clue. Perhaps I'll dust off the kung fu strippers, the surreal unstuck-in-time town, or the (literally) star-crossed lovers. I haven't decided. All I know is that I have a portrait to paint, one of a yearning that is bittersweet...and a long time in coming.

1:24 PM - 13 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, August 01, 2008

Musing at Midnight
Current mood: cantankerous
Category: Blogging

I woke up around midnight. The ol' bladder beckoned for release. Ew, what a way to begin a ramble, eh?

Most can tell that I do a fair share of my writing at night. I'm not exactly sure why that is, but the only time I follow up on a textual tug is in the wee hours. When the average citizen is either asleep, working, or drinking themselves to Mordor, I'm clanking away at a keyboard. However, I can't really call this a tradition, rather a recent phenomenon.

A clear side-effect is that the mind never shuts off; day, dusk, doesn't matter. The last few days are evidence of this. During my work week, I averaged about five hours of sleep. Not for lack of trying or lethargy, but more for an overabundance of pondering. Oh, and dentist appointments.

So, here I sit after a mid-evening nap, right cheek numb with Novocaine, preparing to unleash an unhinged stream of conscience. Apologies in advance if none of the thoughts appear cohesive, connected, or correct. I'm in a off-my-damn-chest sorta mood.

Offhand Offense

Nothing surprises me more than what sets people off, what they find offensive. In my limited experience and slightly-curved worldview, I always thought that "offense" should be reserved for something directed at you personally. People will speak of finding a movie "offensive", but I have to wonder, did a protagonist actually say shit about them in the movie?

I can understand those that would find subjects relating to their own experiences offensive. For instance, if a character with a debilitating condition was being poked with a stick, I could see how someone who experienced something similar would find it troubling. What I don't get are those that champion the cause of tolerance who are in no way, shape or form relevant to the offending issue.

Example:

In December of last year I posted a Penny Arcade comic that I found hilarious.

It was poking fun at deaf porn. (Yes, there really is such a thing.) My curiosity was instantly piqued, and I "researched" the subject. Sure enough, there was indeed pornography for the hearing impaired. Sites catering to this niche market even had trailers for some of their movies. Shit you not, one of the titles was Deafs Gone Wild.

The most surprising factor was that this supposed product was being championed as progressive. Having watched the trailers, I could see the argument, but...I also found it ludicrous. I mean, it was subtitled porn, and I don't mean the foreign kind. That and the participants were signing while they were screwing. I'm sorry, but that's pretty damn funny.

I said as much in my footnote below the comic. Two of my friends went ape shit. Not in a good way.

Stranger still, neither of these friends actually were deaf. One claimed to have "deaf friends", but anyone can make that claim. She informed me that a hearing impaired person would find the comic offensive. I replied with something akin to, "That's fine, if someone who is hearing impaired complains, I'll be sure to take it down." That didn't stop her from continuing the piss-train.

In the end, both friends removed me for the offending post, but it still exists. I hate to end this section with a question, but it's the only capper I can think of. Why are the people who combat intolerance always the most intolerant themselves?

Think on it.

And - as a disclaimer - if you are easily offended...uh...best stop reading now. The further inquiries herein are a bit touchy.

Pronoun Problem

I was having a conversation the other day, and the subject of transgender came up. Often the issue surrounding this is how to address someone who is between procedures. How do you address them? Sir? Ma'am? Uh...hey you? That steamrolled into a topic of discussion about pronouns.

If someone were - say - gender-confused, mid-op, or possessing both sex organs, what is an appropriate way to address them? There's a fifty-fifty chance feelings could be hurt. Heavy odds for so small a thing as a greeting. Opting out of the issue entirely would also cause trouble. "He/She" sounds stupid, "They" is too obvious and unspecific, "It" is plain wrong on so many levels. A person is not plant.

This got the ol' English major side of me thinking. I had to dust off the degree a bit, the thing had been mothballed since the first Bush term of office. I started by adhering to universality and specificity. Most Indo-European tongues divide terms according to gender. One can't think of language without putting forth masculine or feminine attributes to it. I blame the French for this.

The answer was easy; sidestep gender entirely. I came up with "herm". You guessed it, the nicked version of hermaphrodite, and it acts as a blending of "him" and "her".

Here's an example of a gender-specific phrase: "He went to get him some soup."

Altered to gender-unspecific: "Herm went to get herm some soup."

Not perfect, but there's at least a flow, albeit dodgy.

However, we finally settled on nothing. It was a moot issue. If all else fails, you simply address the person by the name they give you. Asking as such would also give a clue as to how that person wishes to be referred. But it was an interesting convo while it lasted.

Werdz ar phun.

Midget or Dwarf

One thing that has always surprised me is how a term so common in our lexicon can be harmful. Of all the words an average joe or jane wouldn't believe to be offensive, it's "midget". I was surprised when I first heard of it. Monikers and labels that have graduated to the level of epithetism usually sound awful once they roll off the tongue. Without citing examples, everyone can agree that even the most benign of all racial slurs has a harsh - almost gutteral - quality when uttered. They don't sound nice.

Midget, in sharp contrast, doesn't have the same bite as it's slurry cousins. When I think on it, I hate to admit it conjures an "Awww". That's just it, it sounds cute. Cuddly even. However, I can see how someone with that condition might deem it a slur. Not everyone wants to be called cute. I certainly don't. Well, unless the bearer of the brand was of the buxom brunette variety.

Uh, moving along.

What I don't understand are the terms that are deemed acceptable. Other than the commonly-grafted "M-word", the alternatives sound worse, in my opinion. I will admit I'm not educated on the subject, but when it is addressed, the two accepted labels that stick out are "little person" and "dwarf".

I'm sorry...dwarf? When I think of a dwarf, I think of this.

An ill-tempered, bearded, hermitic, gold-horder.

And little people?

Visions of DArby O'Gill come to mind. Or Gulliver.

If ever there were two terms that had negative connotations, it's those two. Don't get me started on the acronyms. The community is oft-referred to as the "LP Community". There's one problem with the lettering. The average American poo-flinger won't make the correlation between L.P. and Little People. More likely, they'll think of a vinyl copy of an Iggy Pop record.

I think some serious brainstorming needs to be done at LP Central for cooler terminology. If I had a vote, I would make a case for "minja".

C'mon, it sounds badass.

Mexico, I'm Unimpressed

In January, I took a cruise to Mexico with the family. We made port in Ensenada by about the third day. And...oh...what to say about Mexico. The city of Ensenada was beautiful, bustling and lively. The architecture, stunning. The food was exactly what you'd expect authentic Mexican to be, a gorgeous gut bomb. On the roads between towns, though, yeesh.

My aunt informed me that Baja and most everything north of South America didn't have sanitation services. The evidence was as clear as the smog-filled sky.Trash littered the road like a trail of tuberculosis. During one excursion, I noticed a pile of garbage as tall as a neighboring building. Seagulls swarmed the bonfire of debris in a King Kong-Vs.-biplane manner. I wasn't impressed.

The other feeling I got was an impending sense of dread when I was exposed outdoors for too long. Mexico feels like a surprise attack waiting to happen. This could've been media-induced paranoia, but the same aunt chimed in again with, "Oh no! Mexico is perfectly safe..as long as you know what you're doing. And if you have someone who knows the lay of the land to show you the ropes."

Wait, what?

I'm not a Layman when it comes to tourism, having left the country on three occasions - twice to Europe. Not once did I feel I needed to latch onto a local for subsistence. The only precautions afforded me on those treks were to keep my passport with me at all times and my wallet in my front pocket. The rest was self-explanatory. Mexico felt unsafe.

After observing the grime and grit, I can safely say Latin America is not high on my traveling to-do list. I'd sooner hit Siberia. Next on the docket is definitely Asia Major.

In a point of irony regarding Mexico's sanitation deficit, does anyone else find it odd that a hefty percentage of the U.S.'s sanitation employees...are Mexican?

[Blank] and the Boys

I shall close this long-winded loquaciousness with one last observation.

Karaoke-ing is my proudest guilty pleasure. Maybe it's the faux-fame, the peacocking element, or the challenge of testing one's vocal chords, but nothing beats rocking the mic at a dive bar. Nothing. The dingier the atmosphere, the better, as long as I get my four songs in. However, there is one nitpick that I'd like to make.

One phrase that I dread from the KJ is, "Ladies and gentlemen give it up for Chet and the boys!"

And the boys. I fucking hate that. Once I hear that addition, I can expect one of three groups of people:

(1) Frat fucks.

(2) Aged frat fucks.

(3) Frat fuck bachelor party.

And not a singer among 'em. A yeller or two, maybe, but not a one to act as a tuning fork for the rest of the posse o' pain. Worse is the song selection. It never deviates, two options only; "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard or "You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling" by The Righteous Brothers. Like they're in fucking Top Gun or something.

No beverage is strong enough to withstand the mournful howls of four or five drunken douches waxing un-melodic. Jameson came close once, but my ears still caught it. And they wept wax.

If one of you readers happens to belong to an And the Boys group, I have one request. Trade up a little! Go for some Neil Diamond, maybe. Last I checked, "Sweet Caroline" is nigh on un-butcherable. You can't be any worse than an aged Neil.

2:59 PM - 16 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Thursday, July 31, 2008

A Shift of Tone and Paradigm
Current mood: content
Category: Blogging

I noticed a trend I don't like, a bit of a shift in emphasis in my "blogging style". The tone appeared angrier. This might've been a reflection of the last few weeks, which - to put it mildly - were Hell Incarnate. Work life reached critical mass while in the middle of moving, and a cloud of uncertainty hung over me. Such outside stimuli does seep into the text.

For the record, I like to rant. Pointing out the nuances and nitwittish aspects of everyday life are my anecdotal bread and butter. However, I try to approach it with a twinkle, a tad bit of silver lining. "Everything'll be alright, all we have to do is laugh." The problem is I stopped laughing.

You know what a hack is? It's someone who isn't writing for themselves anymore, but caters to the whims of the masses. Rather than seeing which of his/her ideas match (or relate to) the herd...they succumb to the herd.

Blogging itself can be considered a bit of a hackneyed medium. In order to boost viewership, you have to cover a topic that will garner attention. Your ultimate goal is to make the unsuspecting monke-...er...I mean, reader go, "Shiny!". What are the topics most people discuss on the blogosphere? Sex, drugs, music, politics and religion.

Don't believe me? Just look at the Top Ten on Myspace. You have a three-way war going between atheists, Christians...and the Jonas Brothers. Personally, my money's on the Jonases.

Somewhere down the line, I lost myself to the trivialities. Where before I focused primarily on harmless slices of life, or conveyances of opinion regarding...tea, for example?...now I was weighing in on the very same issues the toppers were. I ranted about religion, about race, about crapfests therein. On occasion, there were still snippets of my token twinkle, but there was an obvious shift. Things were still well within regs.

The only time I ever focused on sex was in my "tea origin" story. Sex wasn't the focus, merely an element - a step on the stairwell, nothing more. The reason why I never covered the issue as an emphasis was twofold: (a) I don't have much to say on the subject. And (b) Nor do I have the experience to back up any claims I may make. Instead, I stick to what I know, which - granted - isn't much.

Then I sold out.

What's worse? I don't have the viewership, quasi-fame, or deserved ego to sell out with! At best, I'm a distraction for those who know me in person, and by proxy, people who know them. In some rare instances, there will be a person or two that'll observe my hobo-like song-and-dance on the Information Superhighway and drop some loose change. I don't recall when I started whoring on the same street corner, though.

Oh, wait, yes I do. A month ago.

As I mentioned, it's been a difficult month. The travails were reflected in my writing tone. Subject matters were equally as dry and splitting. I even covered Myspace blogger drama in my own diatribes like a two-bit gossip queen on VH1. My voice hadn't changed, but the tune was different. I wasn't aware of it until this morning...when I looked back at what I'd posted.

A friggin' sex blog.

What...the...douche?

If ever there was a time I deserved to be dork-slapped by a beached whale, I think that was it. Whatever possessed me to think that was a good idea needs to leave my anus immediately, and be flushed with the rest of the floaters down the diabolical stream of dooky. I'm feeling much better now. Thank you, Gold Bond!

The subject of sex is a valid one. Some folks are damn good at relating the topic. Some aren't. They entertain with as much zeal as a Christian denouncing an atheist on a public forum, or Jonas Brothers fan - with their Hannah Montana fanny packs flaring - screaming epithets at both. Let 'em have at it, I say.

It ain't my gig.

I'm not exactly sure what is. Pushing the cushion to one's narrative comfort zone is one thing, pillow-biting for the sake of readers is another. I poked fun at those who did until I was no different. Luckily, I think the people who do read my drivel from time to time saw through it...and greeted the dumbshit coital post with an Almighty "Meh".

For that, I thank you.

1:07 PM - 29 Comments - 17 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Is It Because I’m Pink?
Current mood: crunk
Category: Blogging

The first time I ever heard the "N-Word", I was in 3rd grade. Some kid yelled the epithet to another. I had no idea what it meant. I assumed - in my li'l geeky grader mindset - that it was another insult like "butthead" or "stinkypants". No one had explained the dire connotations of the word. Like any dumbshit, though, I learned the hard way. On the playground, of course.

That same day during lunch recess, a Mexican kid about one grade up wouldn't stop shoving me into the pavement. He had a plethora of insults at his disposal, while I couldn't muster one to counter. Then I thought back to something I heard earlier in the day. I doubted he'd heard that before. Out of my mouth and into the air, it went. My first racial slur.

He stopped in mid-shove - frozen by what I'd just said. For a moment, I thought I'd outwitted him. I assumed I labeled him with a name akin to "butthead-to-infinite-plus-one". His expression changed from pure disbelief to contorted rage. The kid bum-rushed me. As did every other dark-skinned child within earshot. This was Southern California, one can imagine how many that would've been. I lost count.

The beating I endured (and deserved) wasn't that severe. A teacher on recess duty pulled my pale fetal form from the asphalt in time before any real blows could connect. However, I was instantly shuffled off to the Principal's office. Oh, one thing I forgot to mention. Not only did I stick out in this school for being a white kid, but the elementary school was named after my maternal grandfather. Every teacher knew who I was. Every...teacher. Admin staff also.

I had a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. This wasn't my first Principal visit. As early as 2nd grade, I had a...well..."potty mouth" doesn't quite cover it. Full-on "verbal urinary tract infection" would be more appropriate. If I remember correctly, the Principal's first words to me were something like, "What did you say now?"

Of course, I told him the name I called the kid with as much casualness as someone who said "Hiya." The Principal gave me a look that was twofold, either that I was being raised by Nazis...or...the more likely...I was an idiot. He asked if I knew what I'd said.

"It's just a bad name, right?"

"More than that," he replied. Then he explained.

I paled even further as the realization came to me and - in my best juvenile stammering - I tried to convey that I hadn't known what the word actually meant. Given my historic and perpetual battle with Foot-In-Mouth Disorder, he believed me. It was the truth after all. I hadn't known it was a racial slur. Nor had I known what a racial slur even was.

Since that time, I couldn't even bring myself to utter that word again. Of course, like any other Caucasoid craphead out there, I was privy to other slurs and variants of name-calling, but that one word rarely entered my lexicon. Even in relating jokes, I always winced when it was uttered - a reminder of that rightful playground smackdown.

Fastforward some twenty years later to Thursday, July 17th, 2008, at roughly 4:45AM.

The front doorbell chimed at the hotel entrance. At the front was a stout obsidian (read: black) man; uneven Afro, one gold bucktooth, a spiderweb neck tattoo, donning a backpack, and three pairs of sneakers tied to his waste. I opened the door, and he quickly stepped in. He made a beeline for the breakfast set-up. This was where I got suspicious.

"Excuse me, are you a guest?" I asked.

"Nah, man," he replied while foraging for food.

"I'm sorry, sir, but if you aren't a guest, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

He turned to face me, stern expression on his face, and brandished a room key.

I immediately went into apology mode, "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you were a guest."

"What did you think I said?!" he yelled.

"I thought you said 'no' when I asked. My apologies, sir," I practically bowed.

He proceeded to rant further. I escaped to the kitchen, using the coffee carafes as an excuse to not face him again. Then I heard noises from the tables. I returned to the main lobby where he was attempting - rather badly - to set up the salt 'n pepper shakers and condiments. At this point, I was puzzled.

I went up to him, "Sir, I will worry about that. You enjoy your breakfast."

I grabbed hold of the condiments tub. He gripped it tighter and pulled it back.

"No!" he said. "Your job is hospitality. Get back behind that desk."

"Sir, setting up the breakfast is also one of my duties," I explained. "Please let go."

"Wrong, your job is hospitality! You are not doing your job!" he shouted.

"Sir, give me the tub," I said slowly.

"Do you really want to go down this road?" he asked. "Because as far as I'm concerned, you are racial profiling. You are on camera causing a conflict."

In truth, I wasn't on camera, we were in a blind spot.

"You are causing an incident, sir," I said. "Enjoy your breakfast, or I'll have to ask you to leave."

He wouldn't back down. At that point, I let him finish "setting up" the condiments. I returned to the front desk.

He bellowed from across the floor, "And my name is not 'sir'! It's Wicher. W-I-C-H-E-R! I'm a marketing student and an athlete!"

The doorbell chimed again. It was the breakfast gals. As I was attempting to answer the door, he beat me to it.

"Morning, senoritas!" he said.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Oh, what're you gonna do? Call the cops?" he pressed. "Go ahead. Call the cops."

The doorbell chimed again.

Shit, this is getting old, I thought to myself.

It was The Oregonian paperboy. He humbly untied the pile of papers in his arsenal and was ready to place them in the bin. This was about when Mr. "Wicher" chose to engage him in a conversation. The paperboy paid him no heed.

"Hey, I asked you a question," he leaned in.

"Sir, could you please not start a fight with the paperboy."

"Paperboy?" Wicher said. "He is not a paperboy. He is a man! Just because you're not happy with where you are doesn't mean you can put others down. And I already told you, my name is not 'sir'!"

The paper-"man" left the lobby hurriedly. I tried to return to my duties. The phone rang. It was Wicher calling from the guest phone by the kitchen.

"I would like to speak to your general manager," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's five in the morning. The general manager is not in until eight."

"Then get me a card," he stated sharply, still on the phone. Keep in mind, I was within eyeshot of him.

I put the phone down. "Sir, we have their business cards on display by the desk."

He didn't move away from the phone.

I repeated, "Sir, the business cards are over here."

He stayed motionless, phone to his ear.

I attempted to ignore him...again. He returned to his breakfast bar rummaging. Again.

Curious, I asked, "How do you spell your name, sir?"

"I already told you. I ain't tellin' you again."

"You said it was Wicher?"

"I didn't, you did," he retorted. "Not my fault you can't remember."

I went to the computer and looked up every derivative of the name "Wicher" I could find. There was no record of any such name in the system. No one by that name had checked in since 2007. And that person was from Walla Walla. I highly doubted he was from Walla Walla. Before I could call him on it, he was gone.

A guy had played the Race Card...only to get a free breakfast.

I'll be the first to admit, I'm not the most P.C. S.O.B. out there. I've said things I regret, and joked about other things I shouldn't have. Some of those issues happen to fall under the category of race. Truth be told, while I regret any serious inferences I may have made, I don't regret the jokes. In my humble - albeit pale - opinion, anyone who uses the Race Card to con a hotel out of a free meal is treating the Civil Rights movement as a joke as well. I don't think mooching a bagel and a donut is what the NAACP had in mind.

And that's the funny thing, I've seen several instances where the dreaded phrase "Is it because I'm [insert color code]?" was used. But never appropriately. Never to fight injustice, never to squelch oppression, never to the ends of equality or racial harmony...but rather the exact opposite. The phrase is brandished to further cause a schism, a divide, and usually to a devious degree.

When did brandishing the Race Card become a con?

Some of you fair readers may wonder why I have any right to complain about this at all. After all, as a "white" citizen, I've never known of racial profiling or been treated differently based upon the color of my skin. To that I say, "Bullshit."

I'm a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Male. For well over twenty years, the symbol of totalitarianism, gender/racial oppression (and suppression) has been linked to one mascot - the WASP male. Ever walk into a room where you're the only white guy and get the searing stare of: "Oh look, it's the enemy!"?

I have.

Case in point: I was at Portland State one time leaving an elevator. A nicely dressed African-American gent in a pinstriped Billy D. suit entered at the same time. I was accidentally blocking his entrance. We both tried to move out of each other's way, unfortunately it was in the same direction. After an impromptu tap dance of three seconds or so, we finally cleared each others' paths.

As I was leaving, he yelled, "I'll bet you did that because I was black!"

Then the sliding door shut.

I felt horrible, for I truly believed I'd done something wrong. And that's the kicker, folks.

Guilt.

Those of us with the unsightly displeasure of being born with little-to-no melanin pigment are still expected to apologize for the sins of our ancestors. The notion of "We suck" was instilled in us since birth. If we carry the "white" flag, we are instantly expected to surrender our tongues at the door. We have to watch what we say, watch what we do, watch out for the impressions we make. However, if we look like we're tiptoeing, that could also be deemed offensive. It's a politically correct clusterfuck - double-edged sword with a side of mayo.

I'm done.

If you're being a dick, I'll call you a dick. If you're being a bitch, I'll call you a bitch. If you're doing something illegal, I'll call you a waste of flesh. It's not because you're black, white, red, brown, yellow, plaid, or chartreuse. It's because you're a tard.

And if you think this is coming from someone with a limited world view, allow me to enlighten you. Most of my movies are not in English. I can actually tell the difference between someone from the Middle East and India, Chinese from Japanese. When's the last time you watched a Mumbai musical?

Didn't think so.

In conclusion, I'm not white. I'm pink. Last I checked that wasn't a very threatening color. Not worth getting worked up over. Nor do I have an answer to this conundrum. Differences should be celebrated and satirized in equal measure. It's the human condition. Pussyfooting never worked for anyone. If that fails...well...we can all agree on one thing.

We all hate white trash.

9:48 PM - 31 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, July 18, 2008

Okay...So Wow...Dark Knight...
Current mood: full
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

The only reason you shouldn't be at a showing of The Dark Knight right now is if you're either getting laid...or a relative just died.

There are no other excuses for not seeing it.

None.

I won't accept any, neither will God.

If you're at work? Leave.

If they threaten to fire you? Quit.

If you're in the middle of chewing? Spit it out.

If you're drinking? Drive your happy-drunk ass on the sidewalk.

Get to this movie. Go now.

Go or the Joker will kick you in the nuts.

Hold up a theater box office if you have to.

Just go.

That is all.

4:13 PM - 17 Comments - 9 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Picta-Survey!
Current mood: complacent
Category: Life

I could've written a blog last night. Could've. Instead I chose to do a survey. But I'm too lazy to write "werdz" at the moment, but not lethargic enough to prevent me from answering...only with pictures.

Here ya go...

If you got married to the last person you kissed... what would your last name be?