Damn. I was reminded today of the jungle I left behind when I moved away from DC in 1995. Last week, one of my schoolmates from high school, Jimmy Ridley, was shot and killed in the parking lot of a Virginia mall. He was 25 years old.
Jimmy was two years younger than me, so we weren't as close as I was with some other students. However, it was a small school (400 kids across 9th through 12th grades) and as one of the few black students at Sidwell Friends, Jimmy naturally stood out.
I actually have thought about Jimmy almost weekly since I last saw him 9 years ago. Every time a driver stops in the crosswalk, it reminds me of something he said. He told a story once of how a woman had stopped for her red light in the crosswalk. Instead of walking around the car, he claimed to have walked through her rear passenger doors, climbing over her seats with a, "'scuse me, pardon me."
I've always fantasized about pulling that off. Maybe now I will.
Living in Cambridge these past years, I had gotten a bit distant from how horrible DC can be. It's easier to do that when you don't watch the local news, which in any city, has its nightly quota of dead black men. At the time I left DC, I remember a study had come out claiming over 40% of black men aged 18-35 were in the criminal justice system. I saw a lot of this first hand, being forced to move neighborhoods because of an out-of-control drug trade and violence.
But it wasn't just a 90s thing. In the early 80s, my own father was shot and killed when I was much to young to understand the seemingly inescapable spiral of violence affecting black America.
Even with the statistics and my own personal experience, Jimmy's is a hard loss to accept. I never admitted it out loud, but I thought of Sidwell as a magic escape pod, not just for me but for any black person who made it there. For god sakes, Clinton sent his kid there!
Given the academic rigor and added racial ignorance, I always thought of the black kids that survived Sidwell as soldiers making it through boot camp. We had been through a lot together, and forged a kind of bond through common trials and triumphs.
It kills me to see a fellow soldier fall.
My heart goes out to Jimmy's family, and for those reading this, I ask you to send a quick thought or prayer.
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I was awakened today by my door buzzer at 9:30am. It was the FedEx guy with the boots I'd left at my sister's Michigan home at Thanksgiving. With great sensitivity, she had sent them to me after Boston's one foot of snow this Sunday. As I signed for the box, I yelled, "my boots!"
"They're a little late but better than never," I added, smiling at the delivery guy. He thought I was talking about him. "What?? No they're not. When were they supposed to be here?!" he responded. "Dude, I was talking about my sister, not FedEx. Calm down and step slowly away from the package."
This is the comment I heard from a cashier at the mega-Whole Foods in Charleston, South Carolina. Upon leaving I picked up a paper and came across an anti-Bush column, looking up just in time to see a lesbian couple kissing. I had spent the previous day at a Savannah diner surrounded by Kerry voters. If this is the Red America I've been reading about and seeing on TV, then color me purple!
Every few years my girlfriend and I go on a suicidal voyage we like to call "Black Man, White Woman, Japanese Car in the American South." We took our first trip six months into our relationship, driving a Toyota 4Runner from Denver to Fort Lauderdale. To add spice, we took the "L-route" straight south into Texas, making a left at the 99 cent steak shop to target the panhandle. This year's journey was again from red state to red state, starting in Columbus, Ohio and again finishing in South Florida.
After the tragic events of 11/2, I expected to see nothing but Clear Channel-sponsored pro-Bush billboards and gun-rack-equipped pickups with fetus air fresheners. I even feared that the car's combustion engine would fail, since it's based on science. So I was a little more than surprised to sit back and relax at a vegan coffeeshop in one of Savannah's many squares that would have been at home equally in Berkeley or Cambridge.
Aside from one less-than-pleasant checkout clerk out our hotel, everything about the coastal South was lovely. We managed to arrange our trip (really, me tagging along my girlfriend's music tour) around music and more importantly, food, spending the most time in Savannah.
I had gotten some lodging and food advice from friends, and we had our first real meal at a homestyle dining room called, simply Mrs. Wilkes Dining Room. We walked in, and a nice hostess asked us how many people. We said two, and were placed, Japanese dining style, at a big table with a bunch of strangers.
There was a couple from Maine at the far end, two ladies from Savannah and Charleston on the right and a man from Texas in between. The waitresses didn't "take our order." They just brought gigantic bowls of food, and we are trusted to govern ourselves effectively enough to pass and not throw it. Fried chicken, corn bread, sweet potatoes and other competitors to Vioxx for heart attack were passed around in a blur as my plate disappeared beneath the mountain of edible happiness.
Then it started. A rumbling at the end of the table with the man from Texas. Apparently he used to work on Bush's Crawford, Texas ranch before it belonged to Bush and before it became a "ranch."
"It used to be a farm," said the man, "until Bush ruined it."
Oh, it was magic to my ears, but I had to be careful. Maybe this was just a Red State sting operation, hoping to smoke out the liberals. I listened further. The man explained that, contrary to popular propaganda, the "ranch" was not some long-held family land, but rather a very recent acquisition by the Bushes in an attempt to make Dubya more folksy. It used to be a real farm producing real food, but when Bush took over, it became the "ranch" and produced merely an excess of brush (requiring regular presidential clearing) and bad foreign policy.
The conversation continued with everyone expressing amazement that Bush's image makeover as a common man could succeed. I couldn't believe this conversation was happening, and I hadn't started it!
We left the restaurant shocked and awed. Could my simplistic view of an ignorant, backward, Jesusland South have been a tad bit hasty? It would seem to have been the case. Later than night, I was treated to another brainshock sitting in The Sentient Bean, a hippie style coffeeshop. I wasn't so much surprised to find a local liberal enclave, but what did catch me off guard was the presence of black people! And not just one or two or three, but like five or six! That doesn't even happen in Cambridge.
The final stereotype-breaking straw came on the form of Savannah's street layout. Savannah prides itself on its many squares, over twenty beautiful neighborhood parks in the downtown area. We've got squares in Boston too, but there's nothing square about them. They're simply intersections. Harvard Square? Nope. Harvard Intersection. If two roads come together, people up here think it's ok to call that a square. Not in Savannah! They actually build a square in the center of an intersection about a block long and wide. Then they plant trees and build fountains and benches in the space created. That's a square dammit!!!
How did the liberal, college-infested, Northeast cede geometry supremacy to Savannah, Georgia? That's just one of several key questions raised by my recent journey.
I know there are a lot of people depressed about Dubya's victory, and some of you are dusting off your passports with visions of Canada's healthcare system dancing in your heads this holiday season. But your great escape might simply require an EZ-Pass to Georgia or South Carolina.
There's hope for America after all.
Damn you NStar for cutting my power!!! What did I do to you?? So I didn't pay, so what. Maybe if you billed me I would! You can't just cut the power when I'm not home and it's below 20 degrees out. Biatches
After only a month, my new 40GB iPod is gone. I was performing at the upscale Charles Hotel and took it off my belt when I went to the bathroom. I realized 20 minutes later that I never picked it back up, rushed to the bathroom, and it was gone.
There was a massive bat mitzvah going on at the time, and the helpful employees at the Charles sent word to the DJ to make an announcement, but no one's turned anything in. So sad. Now some dishonest, snot-nosed, pre-marital sex-having, ecstasy dropping, well-to-do teenager probably had the best night of his life.
I really do need to thank the Charles Hotel for trying very hard to help me out. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the private security guard hired by the bat mitzvah folks. Here's a letter I sent to Rick Avery, New England regional president for Securitas:
Dear Mr. Avery, Last night (Saturday Sept 4), I had the misfortune of dealing with one of your employees. I do not know his name because he wouldn't tell me. He was working for a bat mitzvah at The Charles Hotel in Harvard Square, and his behavior offended me and several other guests. Here is how the interaction happened: 7:50pm I was a performer at the Regattabar at The Charles, on the third floor and needed to use the bathroom. The actual restroom IN the Regattabar was closed, so I went to the other bathroom on the third floor near the ballroom holding the bat mitzvah. I left my iPod (a very expensive electronic music player and recorder) in the bathroom by accident and didn't realize until 20 minutes or so later. At that point, I headed back to the bathroom but was stopped by a Securitas employee. 8:20pm (approx) "Stop, you can't go in here," he said "I'm just going to the bathroom," I said. "You can't use this bathroom." "But I was just there." "When? When were you here? This is a private party," he said, clearly not believing me, and adding to my frustration. "20 or 30 minutes ago! Look, I left my iPod in there and just need to check." "I can't let you in." "Dude, it's a $400 device. Please. It will just take a few seconds." He very reluctantly let me pass. I really was not in the mood to explain why or how to this guard. I didn't even realize the bathroom was off-limits, since there was NO guard posted when I used the bathroom the first time. After checking with the hotel's front desk, concierge and housekeeping, a friend suggested I ask if the DJ at the party could make an announcement saying someone left their iPod in the men's room and to please turn it in. (Approx 10pm) I headed back over to the bat mitzvah area and dealt with your employee again. At a minimum, I wanted to know when the party was over so I could know when to check the front desk. "Sir, what time is this party ending?" I asked. "Why do you need to know about the party?" he said, in a very nasty way. Yes, this was his response. I could have been asking because I had my own event there later or any number of reasons. This was not a state secret. The front desk was able to tell me, but your employee was stone-walling, refusing to give me a small piece of information. "Because I want to find my iPod! I was hoping to get a note to the DJ so he could make a quick announcement." "I'm not letting you talk to the DJ, and now you're harassing the guests. Please leave." Note, there was no one outside of the ballroom but me and your employee. I guess he confused himself with "the guests" and harassing with "asking a question." I then decided to get professional. He was clearly shutting me down and for no good reason. For all he knows, I could have been a high-class guest of the hotel, but I doubt that possibility even crossed his mind. I went into customer-service mode: "Do you work for the Charles Hotel?" I asked, noticing the "Securitas" logo on his blazer. "I'm not telling you anything." "Really? Sir, what's your name?" "Why do you need my name? I want you to get out of here. You're harassing the guests," he said, approaching me in order to "escort" me I suppose. "I want your name so I can file a formal complaint against you for your behavior." No response. At this time, a small crowd of people leaving the Regattabar performance was near enough to hear the exchange and was appalled at the guard's attitude. One of them asked me, "Why is he being like that?" I explained, and even they were incredulous. In the end, I think the DJ did make an announcement, but it was not because of your guy, who clearly had the power to help. I ended up talking to the waitstaff at the Regattabar to see if they could contact the waitstaff at the bat mitzvah to get a DJ announcement, but I'm not really sure if that happened. What I do know is that I called the hotel a few minutes ago, and no one has turned in my iPod. Obviously, it's my fault for leaving it in the bathroom, and the fact that there were hordes of teenagers around was just bad luck on my part, but that your employee just made a bad evening worse. At a time when I was terribly stressed but still behaving in a cordial, professional manner -- when I needed someone to help me and definitely not frustrate my efforts, Securitas only added to my problems. 1. I think if I had been a few years older and white, he wouldn't have treated me with such disrespect. He could have still done his job without being so absolutely rude. 2. The fact that I was even able to use that bathroom in the first place (there was no sign posted restricting access, nor was there a guard) means he wasn't doing his job. 3. The fact that he would not tell me who he worked for or his name and accused me of "harassing the guests" when there was no one around means he probably needs some more training on dealing with people, or it means Securitas needs to improve its screening process. I recognize that you all are in a tough business, but I don't think anything excuses the way your employee treated me last night, especially considering that I was quite respectful toward him though he did not deserve it. I hope you will take this complaint seriously, even though I was not your customer. Thanks to the behavior of your employee, I never will be. Sincerely, Baratunde R. Thurston President, Kingly Companion Media LLC P.S. Just so you know, I have posted a version of this on my website at www.goodcrimethink.comIf any of you ever needs to hire private security, please don't do business with Securitas, and if you ever throw a bat mitzvah, don't invite teenagers.
During this year's Republican Convention a lot is being made of 9/11 and how it marked a turning point for the country and a devastating blow to the Big Apple. No offense to New York, but we go through hell every year on September 1st. That's the day the snowglobe that is the Boston rental housing market gets shaken.
In September 2003, I didn't move. It was the first time I hadn't moved at least once a year since September 1995. This year I was back at it, but I had a little help from the most awesome moving company in the world: Gentle Giant of Somerville, Mass.
First of all, I had never used movers before. Like Dionne Warwick sang, "that's what friends are for." But this year I wasn't vying for the title of logistical king. I had saved a little money and wanted to do my part for the US economy by spending it. I'm almost 27 years old, and more than the fact that seeing college girls on spring break now makes me feel like a dirty old man, the hiring of a moving company truly marks that most important of life's rites of passage: shifting from MTV to VH1.
The selection process was pretty easy. I skimmed the online world and found some positive words about Marathon Movers, but then I read about Gentle Giant. It was like choosing between not being caned in Singapore versus full service, "happy ending" massage in Malaysia -- not that I would know. I've never even been to Asia.
What I read about Gentle Giant seemed almost too good to be true and included such wild claims as:
- They are super courteous and professional
- They would actually run with your boxes
- They would come in well under estimate
- They've won Best of Boston for the past 2,000 years and the Better Business Bureau Local Torch Award
- They didn't steal my stuff
- They're licensed, insured and bonded
- They pay their workers
Thanks to all who rolled to see me perform at the Improv in New York City. Now I can say I killed during the RNC! I'm just sad I missed the protests, but it's moving time in Boston :)
Tomorrow night I'm performing comedy at the NY Improv, just in time for the RNC, yall.
I need to have 10 reservations by 2pm today, and I need yall to show up!
If not, no performing for me. They've invited me back cause I did so well the last time, and if I keep doing well, I don't have to put up with this beggar bullshit anymore (at least not at this club).
Pleeeeeeeeeeease.
If you have no plans for tomorrow night, make a reservation and show up.
If you do have plans, cancel them, make a reservation, and show up.
If you really can't make it, hassle your friends in the city.
Consider it returning the favor for all the comedic and political insight I've shared over the weeks.
If money is an issue, let me know, and I'll handle the cover charge for you. Seriously. But people with high paying jobs get no handouts.
CALL NOW CALL NOW
Sat Aug 28 04
7pm (show up by 6:30 if you can)
New York, NY New York Improv
53rd b/w 8th & 9th
Reserve: 212-629-1921
$12 + 2 drink minimum
So I was getting all better right? Had me some nice antibiotics, was taking it easy, and WHAM! Friday night out of nowhere the chest pains returned. I had been checking out the plans for the Republican Convention in New York. Why would I ever I have chest pains after that?
I really wasn't trying to call an ambulance, but it's kind of a scary thing, and I couldn't really move myself well due to the pain. I called and six minutes later the fire department arrives. While I was waiting, I packed my all-important hospital bag including a newspaper, journal and duh, iPod.
I was sitting on my front porch when the emergency folks showed up, and had six huge firefighters standing over me.
They got me into the ambulance and took real good care of me. A big shoutout to Professional Ambulance for hookin a brotha up! More shoutouts to the ER staff at Mass General. I even ran into some of the same doctors from my last visit. They were like "Hey! It's the comedian with pericarditis!" Even in the ER, I have to promote the comedy. Don't hate.
I'm scheduled for more tests and prodding, so finger's crossed!
So for over the past week I've been in and out of the hospital, brought on by sudden chest pains at the end of the DNC. Coincidence? Hmmm...
They took an EKG (electrocardiogram) and found some abnormal results. I think the docs need a little help in communicating to the patients though. Here's what the ER tech said. "Wow, this looks just like a heart attack, but it's not, and least we don't think so."
Thanks ER guys, now I'll just go ahead and have that heart attack since you just scared the crap out of me! I kid the ER folks, though. They were actually a great bunch.
So after a week and several more EKGs, it's looking like the pericarditis (inflammation of heart lining and NOT heart attack) was caused by a viral infection or maybe pneumonia (aka "P Shitty"). I get to take more drugs and get a cat scan. Woohoo!! I'm finally getting some value for my crazy high insurance premiums!
I do find it odd, however, that the lower Bush's approval ratings, the more sick I get. This has got to be the work of an evil genius.