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Archive for the ‘Ripped from the Headlines’ Category

Or right across the river, anyway.

1. I Will Destroy You With Mangoes

I used to get a massage in this building — in fact, it’s the place where, back in 1986, I met my first professional mentor, who eventually shared her lease with Sister Age some years after I became her mentor, and they both worked on me there, only the first lady I parted brass rags with after she had canceled my appointment on account of being “too busy” one too many times, and in passing given me one too many speeches about what was wrong with my answering machine message. She was from Northern Germany, a region where (at least from my observation) fault-finding is a form of folk art. Something in the water maybe.

Anyway the neighborhood is totally Latino now and there is this mini-mart called Miguel’s, where I have clear memories of unsuccessfully trying to buy an apple and a bottle of Deer Park when it was more of a video store, but apparently it has diversified now:

Police say German Cruz-Coreas, 49, entered Miguel’s Q-Mart on the 5500 block of Columbia Pike and demanded money from a store employee.

“When the employee refused, the subject proceeded to light coffee filters on fire and announced that no one could leave the store,” according to the Arlington County Police crime report.

The man started throwing mangoes and avocados at store employees and a 16-month-old child, according to Arlington County Police spokesman Dustin Sternbeck. He tipped over the store’s shelves, destroyed merchandise, broke the store’s slushie machine, and partially melted a television with the flaming coffee filters, Sternbeck said.

“He literally destroyed the entire store,” said Sternbeck.

Store employees barricaded themselves in a room inside the store during the incident, but the store’s manager was eventually able to subdue the man and hold him to the ground until police arrived and placed him under arrest.

Other than the Arlington PIO’s inaccurate use of the term “literally” (I drove by and the place is still standing), I am charmed by this account. I know of no television that would not be better for a little melting and no 16-month-old child that would not make me want to shot-put an avocado at it. But they hauled him off to the pokey anyway.

2. The Lunatics Are Running The Asylum

Gotta love the damage in the mug shot. This badass chick thing is catching on.

 

The chief of the U.S. Air Force Sexual Assault Prevention and Response Branch has been charged with sexual battery.

Lt. Col. Jeffrey Krusinski, 41, of Arlington, was removed from that position Monday afternoon, Air Force spokeswoman Jennifer Cassidy told Patch.

Krusinski, who worked out of the Pentagon, was charged this weekend by the Arlington County Police Department.

At about 12:35 a.m. Sunday, a drunken Krusinski approached a woman in a parking lot in the 500 block of South 23rd Street and grabbed her breasts and buttocks, according to Arlington police.

The woman fought him off as he tried to touch her again, according to police, at which point she was able to call for help. He was arrested and held on a $5,000 unsecured bond.

Krusinski and the woman did not know each other, police spokesman Dustin Sternbeck told Patch. She was not injured, he said.

Monday afternoon, Krusinski was removed from his position leading the Air Force’s Sexual Assault Prevention and Response Branch until more information could be obtained, Cassidy said.

“The thinking was it was best not to have him in this position right now,” she said.

The Sexual Assault Prevention and Response Program “reinforces the Air Force’s commitment to eliminate incidents of sexual assault through awareness and prevention training, education, victim advocacy, response, reporting and accountability,” according to its website.

Further, “The Air Force promotes sensitive care and confidential reporting for victims of sexual assault and accountability for those who commit these crimes,” the site states.

Krusinski has served in Afghanistan and Iraq, according to Stars and Stripes.

Tuesday, the Pentagon is expected to release its annual report on sexual assault in the military, according to Wired.com.

[Credit: Arlington Patch]

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It looks like they got him. The younger Tsarnaev brother, that is.

He will, of course, turn out to be a fucked up kid. Then again so was Caligula.

This is not a matter on which I am really an expert, other than that I have known a lot of fucked up people. On the other hand, I have also known Boston.

I think more people read my blog from places like Europe and Down Under than in the States, and the States are big. Let me tell you a little about my encounters with Boston, a lady I have been privileged to know slightly.

I had a best college friend — a gay (he wasn’t really aware of it at the time) pianist and organist from Providence who enrolled at the New England Conservatory. He shared rooms in Jamaica Plain, where I would visit him in the summers, beguiling the hours he was in class or studying with visits to the Boston Public Library or the Common below the State House. There is a memorial there to the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry; you look from the frieze of freed slaves turned Union soldiers to the golden dome of the State House — something that would not be out of place in the Caucasus, it occurs to me — and then down the Common to the skating pond. It is American in a way that not even my hometown (if you count suburbs) of DC is. New England thought the country up, and let Washington work out the details.

Boston’s transit system is complete and embracing; you might say that of New York, but New York is frightening. I passed through New York City in the seventies when I was in college and I swore never to go back; the collision of human passions and goals was like a marble game in your head, to quote my gay organist friend again. But when I stepped onto the Boston T I felt as if I were on a magic carpet that could take me anywhere. Years later I met the man who is now my Albino Ex, a native of Somerville, where big up-down duplexes house families or cohorts of students from Tufts, variably. He loved the T so much as a child that, in his forties, he had its logo printed on his pillow cases.

In Somerville, in the Spring, you walk down the streets past the shingled fronts of the big houses, whose dooryards are more cement than grass, except that lilacs bloom there in the sandy soil. In some of those walkup structures three generations of the same family have lived.

People seemed to smoke a lot in Boston, at least when I was there last. For a place that shelters Harvard and MIT and Boston College and Boston University and Tufts it is one hell of a blue collar town, and these are people who will buy you a beer, but you had better not fuck with them. Seriously. We have learned that in these last four days.

My Albino Ex’s dad was a transit cop. The Ex himself worked for a police department in the suburb of Malden. When he moved down here and got into politics, he marveled: “If I said the things I’ve said around here when I was back in Boston, two guys named Guido would have paid me a visit.”

Bostonians are tough, in a splendid way. I salute them.

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None of my runners are in the Boston this year.

I never thought I’d be relieved to say that.

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I was looking around for a parody of Baby Got Back — not the Gilbert and Sullivan version I posted here years back, but another one I ran across reversing the song to bag on the scrawniness of white women’s butts. I kind of gave up looking, because I was only going to link it in the comment thread of a news story about how yet someone else felt called on to tell the world he thought that Michelle Obama’s arse was big, which first I ask how small does a butt have to be before no one says that anyway?, plus most of the people who say that would kill for her arms (men included) and should STFU. But meanwhile I came across this.

I remember back at Bard, doing term paper all-nighters at three in the morning with a student of cathedral history, dissolving in hysterics over the term “groin vaultings.” Those were the days.

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Presidents and Vice Presidents have way too much to do as it is, so probably it is churlish for me to observe that neither the Obamas nor the Bidens seem to have managed much past a display of closing-the-bar slow dancing at the inaugural balls.

After the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Cabinet and who all else I guess it would be excessive to expect our Commander in Chief and his deputy to spend time with Arthur Murray.

But on the other hand, I once learned to plattl in a hurry (the guy step, not the girl step; don’t ask me to do it today) for a New Year’s Eve panto performance, so you would think even a politician could learn to, oh I don’t know, box step?

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As I listened to the wind-down of the Presidential inaugural coverage — shirt-tailed with a dire weather forecast for the rest of the week, highs well below freezing, nasty wind chill — I realized I didn’t have the rue in the ground yet. Dammit.

Back in 2009 the people of Virginia, including a large rural demographic in the South of the state whom I half-suspect eat their own dead and hunt non-locals for sport, elected a hard-right governor and attorney general who proceeded to pursue, in no particular order: state affirmed gay bashing, harassment of climate-change researchers, and the hounding of women’s clinics out of existence. Oh yeah, and abolishing the gas tax. Because we SO need to get people buying more fossil fuels. As Aleister Crowley said long ago of Thelemic disciples Jack Parsons and L. Ron Hubbard (back before Hubbard founded his own religion), “I get fairly frantic when I contemplate the idiocy of these louts.”

There is only so much one can do, other than back better candidates and wield one’s vote, but in the matter of women’s abortion rights I felt moved to some sort of symbolic declaration and bought a seedling of rue.

Ophelia declaims upon rue in her crazy scene. “There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace a Sunday’s.” More than one critic has pointed out that Shakespeare, not a man to use words carelessly, was implying that Ophelia was up the duff, since rue is nature’s RU-486 (I’ve often wondered about the provenance of those initial letters in the alternate name for mifepristone) — not just a “toxin” as some writers suggest, but a progesterone blocker. No progesterone, no stable endometrium, no pregnancy. Remember how witches, when they were burnt, hanged, ducked and all the rest of it, were typically taxed with having “caused miscarriages” (as if they hadn’t, most likely, been asked to do so)?

I decided a nice stand of rue would make a statement. Mine came with a tag admonishing me not to handle it, especially if I were going to be in strong sunlight. Not surprising; progesterone is very close in the steroidogenesis column to the corticosteroids that inhibit sensitivity and inflammation. You would figure a smear of oil of rue might precipitate a good welt or two of urticaria.

So when the County people arrived with cement mixers and backhoes and jackhammers to fragment my curb strip, sidewalk, and nearby parts of the yard, including the bed where the rue was planted, I wore gloves to take up the by now woody and luxurious plant and pot it.

It’s been out there for a few weeks while the curb work wrapped up, and I haven’t been quite sure where to dig it back in. They sodded over the best location, and it was a little too exposed to passing dogs and brats anyway. And I kept meaning to find a place, officers, I really did, until I realized it was going to fecking freeze and I hadn’t.

Sometimes I think the best reason for me to work out like a lunatic is that it keeps my neighbors too frightened to confront me when they see me out in the shrubbery with a spade under a frigid clear half-moon sky, mulching.

We’ll see how Sister Rue winters over. State offices are up for election in November.

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Or will read for many days to come. Commenter rossaforbes, on a post over at John Hayden’s blog (which seems to keep changing its name :) ) responded to my remarks about the Sandy Hook school shooting — which has been talked to death everywhere, but usually with little insight — by contributing a link to a terrific essay about this type of event. The writer shares my gut instinct about mass killings committed by bright, isolated kids like Adam Lanza: simply, as a nation we treat our bright young people so badly (or at least do so little to prevent their ill-treatment), we value them so poorly, that it would be surprising if things like this didn’t happen. Leave aside, for now, the immediate glaring issue of how easy it is to get your hands on a firearm; enough people are talking about that. When I was eleven years old and being hounded and harassed to the brink of tolerance by classmates two years older than I was — because I used “big words” and liked Brahms symphonies better than the Beatles and would rather do Yoga than play kickball — I had an ace card some kids don’t: I might have been a four-eyed geek, but I was also, in my imagination, John Henry and Brynhild and the miner in the Sixteen Tons song, and when I blew my stack, six heckling little eighth-grade bitches ended up in the nurse’s office. Ordnance wasn’t as common in 1966. But beating the shit out of people does, sometimes, at least get you respect.

I’m looking at you, President Obama. It may sound profound to stand up there with your bare face hanging out and talk about “unimaginable evil,” but let’s take some time to think about the unimaginable evil committed every day when smart, sensitive kids are thrown into the dens of hyenas that we call kindergartens, elementary and middle schools — barely distinguishable from prisons in which the “sisters” and bullies actually run the social order, while the wardens, excuse me, teachers and administrators, do little more than keep the inmates warehoused and jumping through the prescribed hoops. Let’s think about the holocaust of human potential that occurs on an ongoing basis, instead of just wringing our hands about bright kids who “underachieve” or about the ones who melt down entirely. And let’s ask, for pity’s sake, what the hell is wrong with a nation that so hates and fears intellectual agility.

Here is the full essay, linked in three parts at the Daily Beast.

“We have a love-hate relationship with talent in American society. Certain forms of talent we easily respect: talent at athletics, talent for entertainment. Unfortunately for people like me, intelligence isn’t a talent American culture respects. At all. Even our supposedly pro-geek culture today isn’t born of love of intelligence, but of love of the money generated by intelligence. Did anyone appreciate Mark Zuckerberg or Steve Jobs before they got rich? The one TV show that deals (insufficiently) with what it’s like to be an outcast – Glee – takes care to ensure that all of its protagonists possess a talent that is completely non-academic. It says something that our politicians go to great lengths to portray themselves as regular folk writ large, even when they’re demonstrably not, rather than as smart and/or capable leaders. Those who portray themselves (or get portrayed) as capable rather than relatable … lose.”

The implications go a long, long way beyond school shootings. Because when capable people lose, we all lose.

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I am not much for the celebrity RIP post, but when I heard that Charles Durning had died Christmas Eve, I flashed back thirty years, to the summer when, mostly out of work, my last remaining high school friend and I went to the dollar movie every Thursday:

Damn shame the damfools who have been making exactly the same noises for the intervening decades couldn’t sing and dance that well.

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I love science.

From the latest online Smithsonian Magazine:

A fraction of reindeer—the species of deer scientifically known as Rangifer tarandus, native to Arctic regions in Alaska, Canada, Greenland, Russia and Scandinavia—actually do have noses colored with a distinctive red hue.

Now, just in time for Christmas, a group of researchers from the Netherlands and Norway have systematically looked into the reason for this unusual coloration for the first time. Their study, published yesterday in the online medical journal BMJ, indicates that the color is due to an extremely dense array of blood vessels, packed into the nose in order to supply blood and regulate body temperature in extreme environments.

Just don’t sing me the song.

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I don’t think I’m meant to have seen the picture, so I’m not showing it to you. It’s one that’s been taken, in various decades and locations, a few thousand times anyway: a buzz-cut, broadly grinning twentysomething male, muscles defined but not dense over a bony frame, clad in shorts and a muscle tank, cradling a piece of badass-looking ordnance on his lap. In this edition, a large Israeli flag hangs behind him, covering most of a bland institutional wall. His outsize sunglasses make him look vaguely arthropod. An unrecognizable tattoo wraps around his right shoulder.

I think the tattoo is a mermaid. At least, that is what it was a little under two years ago when I gave him my old car; I had the sense that some revisions or additions were afoot. The car went with him to Atlantic City for a year, then came back here to be sold to the friend who crashed him when he was in town, the cash helping fund his pilgrimage to a kibbutz where, he said, he looked forward to having someone “seriously kick his ass.”

They kicked his ass right off the kibbutz. So far, we don’t know why. At last report, he was in a youth hostel in Tel Aviv, where for the last week this has been the stargazing:

“We have not gotten bombed in the last 48 hours,” ran his most recent text message.

“Knowing you that could mean several things. Clarify?” replied my Engineer, whose gallows humor bows to no man’s.

We don’t know if he’s gone all Zionist on us — dear Goddess, I hate this, but that photograph makes me think of the Warsaw ghetto and David and Judas Maccabee — or if he just wanted to take a snarky photo or what, but I carried him out of his eighth grade graduation, and no matter how big a fuck-up someone is, nothing erases the hope you feel for him at that moment.

I think it goes on the Stupid Heap with the hope that people could stop trying to kill each other long enough to live together on the planet.

Why should not old men be mad?

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