"She."

I'm finding that a number of books that discuss the role of policy analysts default to referring to this person as "she." This seems elegant to me for some reason, though I can't quite say why, nor do I want to hazard a guess that would find me knee-deep in discussions of gender roles. But for the record, I like it.

Believing I had supernatural powers...

Indeed, I slammed into a brick wall, at least in terms of having time on my hands. More than previous summers, this one just flew by, and I have very little to show for it. We undertook some massive home improvement projects at Abstract Citizen HQ, and we expect that work to be completed no later than Labor Day weekend. I went to see Phish for the first time in over 5 years, and determined that the band is indeed Phish (and not the dreck I saw at Coventry.) I, uh, am in grad school? Orientation is under way, and I have to go to "math camp" a few nights next week.

So, life has been busy, and I fell into one of those ruts where I didnt' post here, and I started to think that I needed a really momentous post to break the silence when, in fact, all I have to do is come here and write something.

And here's my something: I will really miss a pair of shoes I recently took to Goodwill. I bought them in 2003, and have re-soled them a number of times. They were my go-to shoes, and now, they are gone. Sadly.

Ooh, and here's another something: this health care "debate" is ludicrous. Chuck Grassley, you know better than this. More thoughts on that later, perhaps.

Is Whitlock really this much of a bastard?

Far be it from me to want to keep the Erin Andrews story on people's minds any longer than it needs to be, but why would Jason Whitlock labor to find a silly race angle to this story? Not only does he directly blame Deadspin for the awful incident - despite the fact that Will Leitch wrote one of the more insightful pieces wondering whether the male sports blogosphere created an atmosphere where this horrific act might have been condoned - but he seems to somehow suggest that Pacman Jones, of all people, is the real victim here:

The Pacman Jones stripclub video served no journalistic purpose. It was aired on ESPN and everywhere else solely to titillate and entertain. The raw footage didn't help us understand the crime. There was no interaction between Jones, his entourage and the club's bouncers.

There were black asses shaking and black entertainers demonstrating how fools depart from their money. It was a reality version of Spike Lee's underrated movie Bamboozled.

America couldn't get enough of the Pacman video until Erin Andrews was caught dropping it like it was hot in front of a hotel mirror.

ESPN won't cover that story. It's climbed up on some high horse and is passing judgment on the New York Post for running pictures of ESPN's sideline Barbie.

I haven't read enough of his work to know, but he sounds disturbed or something. Is he really saying being caught undressed, unaware, by some pervert, amounts to "dropping it like it's hot"? And that Pacman Jones has the same expectation of privacy when he's throwing money around in a stripclub as anyone else should have IN THEIR HOTEL ROOM?

Sadly, had his column been about ESPN's sanctimonious silence in reference to the accusations against Ben Roethlisberger, he might have had a legitimate point about race and sports. What a jerk.

The five worst songs a major league player could use as their batting song

1. Anything by Joanna Newsom, Tori Amos, or Bjork. Imagine Newsom screeching Saaaaaaaaaaaadie over the PA as children burst into tears and dads wearing blackberry holsters cover their ears. Bjork – bonus if you get to play the video for Human Behavior, with its oversized animals running around, or that weird one where she’s in love with her cat. Terrifying and avant-garde at the same time! (And if you haven’t see the cat video, stop whatever you’re doing and watch it right now.)

2. Christmas music in general, but in particular a sad, resigned version of “Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” or something by Nat King Cole. This will be particularly dissonant on a hot August afternoon.

3. Johnny Cash’s version of Hurt by Nine Inch Nails. (Alternate, from the same album: Cash’s cover of Will Oldham’s I see a darkness.)

4. Any version of Space by the Grateful Dead.

5. Trois Gymnopedies by Erik Satie.

Summer in America: A couple of baseball notes

The first game of the Nats-Astros double-header in Houston last night featured a number of interesting things. The game was the continuation of a game that started in Washington last May, but was interrupted by rain. The Nats won the continued game last night – technically a home game for the Washington – in Houston.

The winning pitcher was Joel Hanrahan, who has since been traded to Pittsburgh. So, he picked up a win for a team that he no longer plays for. (His first win of the season, no less! Godspeed, Hanrahan!)

And the winning run was scored by…? Nyjer Morgan, who was acquired by the Nationals recently in the trade that sent Hanrahan to Pittsburgh. So, the game was won on a run by a baserunner who wasn’t on the team back in May, and the pitcher who won the game no longer plays for the winning team. And, again, the Nats pick up a home win, but in Houston.

Reminds me of the time last basketball season that Miami and Atlanta were playing in ATL. With about a minute to go, if memory serves, Shaq – who then played for the Heat – was ejected for committing his sixth foul. Except it was really his fifth,
because the refs screwed up. The game ended, Atlanta won.

And then Miami protested. The NBA, rightly, decided that the last minute of the game should be re-played, because Miami was unfairly deprived of Shaq’s presence in the game. For months, if you looked at the NBA scoreboard, you would see that this game still hadn’t ended. Kind of fun and bizarre. When they were able to re-schedule the game, both teams did ready to do battle, except that Shaq was no longer a Miami Heat player. They had traded him to Phoenix between the original and the re-scheduled date. So, the wrong being righted – Shaq’s absence – was, uh, not really righted.
If an American sports fan can accept these absurd scenarios – why are ties in soccer so hard to understand?

A "habitual" drunkard? What if you're more of an "inadvertent" drunkard?

Check out question 22 on page 8.

The mind races with possible follow-up statements:

"Yes, that was a bad night, but I stopped doing shots after that."

"I was HAPPY! I was a HAPPY drunk!"

"Sure, but then again...if alcohol weren't so delicious, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

And so on. (But for the record, USCIS, in case you're reading, the answer is no. Not a nazi, not a drunkard. Ok?)

The interview: part three

(This is part three; it makes a lot more sense after you've read parts one and two.)


"Well, that's a relief," says Agent G on his way back into his office.

We look back - snap back, really - looking to see if his face is screaming "green card" yet. And quickly I wonder, "With whom did he just meet? Is there a protocol, or does he go talk to someone and say something like, 'So, I've got this couple in here - I think they're for real, everything seems right, but I can't find his OPT stuff. Do we think we screwed this up? Or is he probably ok? I could just tell them to come back another time if we need to see it...'"

And somewhere it hits me that this guy - he's not giving us a hard time. This is by far the nicest and most congenial interaction I've had with anyone in the USCIS or State department apparatus. The tension - the conflict - is entirely on our side of the table.

This guy isn't at all like that jerk at the US Consulate in Brasilia (which bears the name of the Secretary of State, Robert Dulles, of Dulles Airport fame!) who went off on me - all because my dad's secretary in Rio had booked my interview appointment for me. You should know, to share in my complete fury, that you had to use an arcane phone system to book the interview, that the phone system didn't have an international access number, and that once in Brazil, I would have been stuck there until the interview took place (4-6 weeks after it is scheduled, depending on the season.)

"You are old enough to book your own appointments, aren't you?" he asked me in broken Portuguese, but using borderline baby-phrasing (you'w'a' big boy, awen't you?). "The text on the site doesn't give an option for scheduling from abroad," I answered in perfect English. "Well, that's not possible, because I wrote that copy," he answered, in slightly accented English. Suddenly becoming aware of the power structure, I answered, simply, "I'm sure I misread it, then, and I assure you, it will not happen again. I don't enjoy visiting Brasilia anyway."

No, our guy was nothing like that jerk. He wasn't trying to keep me out - and there was no ego on display. He simply wanted to help an American citizen and her spouse settle into their life together here in her country of origin. Suddenly, we understood that we were getting the green card, that all would be fine. "Now," he added pleasantly, nodding toward our wedding album. "Do you guys have some pictures you'd like to show me?"

All of a sudden, it was more like a dinner party than a federal office. We told stories, named people in pictures (I got Sasha's grandmother's name wrong!), and generally had a great time for the next twenty or so minutes. At some point he let it slip that he'd be stamping my passport and that we'd be ok, and we took it in stride, just trying to keep the interview moving forward.

When it came for him to stamp my passport, he showed a completely different side. We had already noticed that this guy was like us - he probably chuckles over "Stuff White People" like and watches "Top Chef" - but now it really came out. "Ok, so, I'm gonna stamp it, but...oh, I'm so bad at this part. I don't think I do this often enough. Ok, so, where's my calendar? The stamp is good for exactly 365 days, so...that means the day BEFORE today's date next year, right? So, June 3 of...2010. Right?"

We smile and try to seem agreeable. He returns the passport to us.

"Wait, can I see that again? I'm just...not used to this or something. I just don't want you to get into trouble if you use that to travel before you get the green card..."

We hand it back over. Then, he tries to ask a few closing questions, but his mind is clearly...unfocused. "Ok, so, I'm going to ask for your passport just ONE MORE TIME, and then if I ask for it again, tell me 'no,' ok? I just want to be super sure that it's right."

He glances at it, and then again at this calendar. Rising suddenly, he says, "Well, that's it. Let's get you out of here before I find an excuse to look at it again." He walks us to the door, and stops. "I was lying. Let me just look at it one more time, ok?"

By this point, we really don't care. I doubt we'll be leaving the country in the next sixty days, and we're just eager to get on with our day - our day in which, as it turns out, I became a lawful permanent resident after years of legal wrangling and forms and fees and lawyers and detours. We get back in the smart car, draw our usual share of glances, and head out, back into a world that was unlargely unchanged by that morning's events.

so, video-chatting?

I'm liking this 21st century thing. Having participated in a video chat for the first time ever - and only about 8 years or so after the rest of the humanity! - I strongly encourage everyone I know to get a webcam.

RIP.

Michael Jackson is in the hospital.

I admit that I have had long internal debates about how to prepare for the inevitable deaths of Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and other such sad-bastard types. I have no idea what Michael Jackson tune would be playing if I were to sit down for a melancholy memorial glass of scotch in his name, though.