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President Bush on Monday approved the execution of an Army private, administration officials said. It was the first time in over a half-century that a president has affirmed a death sentence for a member of the U.S. military.
With his signature from the Oval Office, Bush said yes to the military's request to execute Ronald A. Gray, said the officials, who revealed his decision only on grounds of anonymity. Gray had been convicted in connection with a spree of four murders and eight rapes in the Fayetteville, N.C., area over eight months in the late 1980s while stationed at Fort Bragg.
[...]
The death penalty was outlawed between 1972 and 1984, when President Reagan reinstated it.
I'm not saying Ronald (Gray, not Reagan...) didn't do some very brutal and heinous crimes (both Gray and Reagan...)--far from it, it wouldn't be too far off the mark to call him more than a bit inhumane.
But why is it okay for a government body to justify its own murders?
Could you be the one to pull the proverbial switch? Would you be the one?
Then... what makes you any better of a human being than Mr. Ronald Gray?
There I was--feet hanging out my passenger window, head underneath the steering wheel, sweat pouring from me like god had just parted the Sweat Sea, and there's a knock on the drivers' side window.
I bang my head on the steering wheel as I try to maneuver my head around to get a view of whoever feels they need to disturb my work.
"Hey, D., what's--what's going on?" I ask as I dip my head back into the shadowy places under the dashboard.
"What're you doin' there, neighbor?"
"My key is broken in --in the ignition and-- and-- I'm trying to get the-- the-- the-- FUCK! Ouch!--get the ignition contraption out so I can get to the Umph! get to the broken half of my key removed..."
"Is that technical talk for you broke your key and can't get it out?" He laughs. "How long you been at that?"
"Oh, I dunno... Half hour?"
He laughs again. "I'll be right back--I got the tools to do that."
"Oh, that's be--Ow!--that'd be great. Thanks!"
I have full faith in D. He works at Mac Trucks, after all. He stares at vehicle parts all the live long day, as does his wife. If anyone can make short work of this, it'd be D or my younger brother Mike...
All too soon, D is back with his tools and step-son. Step-son talks to me about inane teenage type stuff while D's head disappears underneath my dash. Pretty soon another neighbor wanders over. "What's going on?"
"He broke his key in his car and can't get it out!" Step-son practically shouts. I simply nod in agreement that I, the fuck-witted moron, have broken my key in the ignition. I take another drag as Stepson goes on about different keys, locks, and broken scenarios. Pretty soon neighbor number two also has his head hanging inside the interior of my car as he and D assess the situation. After another half hour goes by, with D and neighbor 2 changing positions frequently, me interjecting at certain pauses that they don't need to go on and I appreciate the offer, they finally, sweat-drenched, emerge from Betsy's interior.
"Sorry, Jason, but there's nothing we can do. You might want to call a garage."
"Well... okay, thanks guys, I appreciate it." As I watch the threesome walk away from Betsy, I place my hand on her hot exterior. I don't have a couple hundred sitting around to treat her. I feel like I've just been told she needs chemo, or another expensive treatment which I can't afford. Like she should just be put down, like an old dog who can no longer climb the stairs.
"Fuck that!" I shout, and dive back into Betsy's internal... stuff. I was here to save Betsy.
To make a long story short, I managed to do what a bunch of straight guys who know their cars couldn't--I not only removed the entire dashboard, steering column, ignition mechanism, and removed the broken key, I put it all back together again exactly the way it was when it rolled from the factory onto the showroom floor. When I was finished two hours later, I emerged from Betsy and shouted, "Fuck Yeah!! Argh!!"
Rich and Ann (my sis-in-law) showered me with much praise while D said with some surprise from across the yard, "You got it? Wow!"
Wow frickin' right, wow! I'm the dude who knows how to put gas in the car, check the oil, and turn on the headlights...
Now I'm like an auto mechanic or something... And I thought I was a man before!
Perhaps I'll open that garage I've just now realized I've always dreamed about, eh? No? Really?
I actually forgot how sexy god was, to tell you the honest truth. Since Joan of Arcadia went off the air eons ago, Rich has been belly-aching and belly-aching about this tragic loss in his life... So, being the loving, caring, wanting-to-not-listen-to-the-whining-anymore husband that I am, I bought him Season 1 for our 9-year anniversary...
Thus, I refound sexy god... I'd sleep with him in a heartbeat... If I weren't already taken... Or a Mormon... Hmm....
Of course, a lot of fundies love to think that if god were one of us, he'd be going to church very Sunday, munching on wafers and drinking wine, and whipping out a "Bless you!" to every Tom and Hairy Dick that walked by, preaching the virtues of preventing gay marriage and keeping women from controlling their reproductive lives...
You really think an all-powerful deity would care? Do you really?
As Gandhi once said, "I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."
I've been trying to avoid certain subjects lately ("No, we all love your gardening stories, Jason--really!") while waiting for something I think I'm not supposed to know about to resolve itself... It's been going on for--what, three, four weeks?--but things are stalled, at an impasse, as it were.
I'm trying to be nice. It's hard these days, though, let me tell you. Since I no longer fear confrontation like I used to (and don't ask me why--I have no idea...), it is now an effort work to keep from confronting people on issues of great consequence...
Sigh. The ironies of life, eh?
At least god became sexy... Albeit briefly, and, as ever, fictionally...
So it's been a rousing success, as the pictures can attest. Every ear of corn is developing silks (which means we'll be eating corn), the tomatoes are perfection (all three varieties), the peppers spicier than your average Latin lover, and the green beans? To die for!
On the whole, we've learned a lot this year, our cherry-popping virgin year of all-out vegetable growth. Never count your spinach before it's outside: One of the biggest disasters this year, as they all popped up on the dishwasher, but once they met the great outdoors? Not so much. Popeye would be disappointed. Apparently you need very sandy soil to grow spinach successfully (lesson number 1 for spinach), and even then it can be very finicky about soil moisture content (lesson number 2...)
Also, cucumbers suck. Or, at least, in my soil they do. I even bought the "Straight 8" variety, meant to withstand elephant stampedes and polar bear excursions. But where elephants and polar bears fear to tread, clay soil was the enemy it could not beat. I'll try again next year--after all, this fall I'll be getting bucket loads of cow poop from a local farmer who apparently is wallowing in the stuff in order to boost the "nitrogen content" of my soil (can't wait for fall! Who wants to help shovel some shit around?), and from what I hear, nothing beats cow shit when it comes to growing vegetables. Go circle of life!
Corn, however, I found almost too easy. I heard plenty of horror stories on the net about growing your own corn and I was wary, 
to say the least, about going this route in the vegetable world... ? Seems I should have worried more about the greens and less about the yellow... Who knew?
In less than 15 minutes on a voice vote, the Senate agreed to repeal a 1913 law that prohibits gay couples from out-of-state marrying in Massachusetts.
"This eliminates the last (piece) of state discrimination in our marriage laws," said Marc Solomon, of Mass Equality.
Perhaps we won't need to go to California after all, eh? Rest of story here.
So says my mother at least once a month, usually as an inevitable observation ending a disagreement over god the father, Jesus the son, or Holy Casper the ne'er-do-well. As if the appearance of Scrooge were in any way proof of a god who's supposed to send people to the penthouse or the oven upon completion of this earthly domain...
On a recent excursion up to the Pocono-laden sanctuary of all who hold Jesus so dear, we had a lovely dinner (as the 10 hours of heartburn afterward can attest) and then proceeded to get down to the general catching-up of our weekends (they with my run-away dog, me with a trip to Maryland), and Sylvia, the red-headed goddess of all that is massage (and one of two blood-sisters) screamed, "Wait! Mom! You have to see this picture I took! There's a ghost!"
No, seriously...
So Sylvia whips out the tried-and-true ghost-busting device that Peter Venkman used to find Slimer and proceeded to declare to all the world that this undeniable proof was all she needed to believe! (Okay, maybe not in so many words, but about that passionately!). Mom is ever ready to believe, of course, and says "Oh! Let me see!"
Enter a five-minute dissection of the photo as to where the ghost actually resided...
No, seriously...
The picture in question which holds the unadulterated proof is here:
Well, you know how these cell pics are... You can only get so big a photo, you know? Luckily, ghosts know no such pixel restraint...
What? You don't see the ghost? Here, let me up the resolution... Change the color spectrum.... counter-point the surrealism of the underlying metaphor...
And tada!:
In all honesty, I didn't see him either until I added some of the ingenious tools employed by the Area 51 employees (I have a man on the inside), but some people just have that "second sight," you know? It's amazing his uncanny resemblance to Rock Hudson, don’t ya think?
Now that would be a good haunting...
I do apologize for the long silence, dear reader. You see, my life has been one hectic, overblown sense of haplessness and exhaustion over the holiday weekend and the gumption to write just hasn't been there. Call it a slump, call it a sense of euniu, but don't call me late for dinner, okay?
It's a bit more complicated than that--you see, first there was the complete and utter meltdown of my motherboard (and no, that is not a reference to my mother's surfing days, long since gone...), followed by the scheduled-out-the-ass picnic, which in turn led to the "Is this your dog out in the middle of the highway?" conversation at one in the morning on Saturday (which, for the record, it wasn't, and thus we had a second dog for two days whilst trying to locate it's owner), the baby sitting responsibilities of four ferrets while certan family members go on vacation (well-deserved on their part), outlets in the basement trying to put on a fireworks show of their own (thanks again for fixing that, Dad!), and honorable mention must go to my boss who continues to assume I'm an idiot even after 7 years of service making green things...
Starting at about 9:00 pm EST on Thursday, July 3, 2008, just now ending on Tuesday, July 8, 2008, with me playing with my first ever brand-new computer, plugged into outlets that are no longer feeling patriotic with fireworks displays, while Hawthorne enjoys watching the four ferrets play in their playpen and Fred (the other dog) is back with his wonderful owners (aged 600 and 660, fresh off babysitting Jesus while god went and smote some poor soul for wearing plaid today...)...
I'd like to say "It's been fun!" but Momma always said not to say anything if you couldn't say something nice (although a quick drive around the water cooler leaves me wondering how many orphans there really are in the world as their mother's didn't seem to teach them a damn thing), the one silver lining I can point to is that I finally have a computer which will run SimCity 4... (yes, yes, I'll put my supernerd costume back on...)
There's much more to say, of course, but that falls under Momma's wisdom, so until situations resolve themselves, I'm taking the high road and ignoring the holier-than-thou riffraff in the hopes that all things will come to a happy resolution... If not, well then there will be hell to pay (and it should go without saying, that's in the most metaphorical sense as we all know there is no such place...)
I promise something of substance soon (for SimCity 4 love can only last so long) but hope that you'll bear with me as I learn how to operate a computer that doesn't have any technical difficulties! It's amazing how many technological things have changed since Windows 98!
The wisdom of Captain Jack Sparrow...
We come home from my younger brothers' surprise 30th birthday party (Yikes!) when Rich turns to me and says, "I have a surprise for you. It's out in the garage."
A surprise? For moi?! I pictured a rototiller for my beautiful flower beds. He'd sprung for the Mantis brand! No, wait--it was a composter! Something I could throw all my scraps in and make lovely piles of compost! Or, wait--could it be a new riding mower? How could we afford that! Perhaps it was an electric riding mower! We'd gone green in all three major lawn-care appliances! I foraged for some clues...Me: Is it smaller or larger than a bread box?
Rich: Larger.
Me: Gas, electric, or man-powered?
Rich: Hmm... Could go either gas or man-powered...
Me: (???) Umm... Is it used outdoors or in?
Rich: Out.
Me: Have I ever asked for one?
Rich: No.
Me: (Ooh! Complete surprise!) I see... Is it a color?
Rich: Yes...
Me: Will it stay in the garage?
Rich: Definitely not...
Me: Oh! What is it! What is it?!
Rich: Well, let's go and see!
Merriment danced in his eyes as we traveled the yard back to the garage. We walked around to the back side and I peaked... At something large and blue...
Large and blue? Oh, it has a handle... Is that a handle? I stared at the two-foot by two-foot blue square for quite some time. Admittedly, it was much larger that that small square of a window, but I was greatly enjoying the suspense.
"Well? Open the door!" So I reached down, whipped open Door #1 and...Me: What... What is it? (in my defense, the item was up-side-down...)
Rich: You don't know?
Me: A... A boat?
Rich: A row boat! And it came with oars!
Me: A... A boat...
Rich: Do you like it? We can go fishing on the lakes, canoing with your parents...
Me: A boat...
Rich: ... and when we go camping we can bring it along... We'll need fishing licenses...
Me: A boat...
Rich: ... but it didn't come with life jackets, so we'll need to stop at Cabela's to pick those up when we get life vests...
Me: A... I'm sorry, what?
Rich: ... I said, and we can get a motor for it, so we don't have to row all the time...
Me: Uh-huh...
Rich: ... and it needs a name.
Me: A name? All ten feet of it? Or just the part where we'll be sitting?
Rich: It's 14 feet.
Me: Uh-huh...
Rich: Oh... You don't like it, do you?
Me: No-no-no-no-no, it's not that I don't like it, it's just--well, you have to admit, it's very unexpected.
Rich: No, no, you don't like it!
Me: No, I do, I do! It's just a surprise is all! I never expected... Well, a boat! It's a boat. We have... a boat.
Rich: So... you aren't mad?
Me: Why would I be mad?
Rich: I bought a boat!
Me: How much did you spend...
Rich: And it came with oars!
Me: How much?
Rich: And it was cheaper than the canoe we got your parents...
Me: It was?
Rich: Yep! (Beaming again...)
Me: Well, then, why would I be mad? We... have... a boat...
Rich: You need to name her.
Me: I need to name him!
Rich: Oh...
Me: It's blue, isn't it?
Rich: Er... yes...
Me: And my car, the riding mower, and the computer are all already named Betsy...
Rich: They are?
Me: Yes, they are... So... A name, a name, a name... We have a frickin' boat.
Rich: You hate it. I knew it!
Me: I'm shocked is all!
Rich: Promise?
Me: Pinkie swear.
So I've made peace with this unexpected turn of events. I realize, of course, this surprise really wasn't for me, but that's all right. Rich doesn't buy himself many things, and I'm glad he's found something that will give him some nice get-away time (even though I know I'm getting roped into it...) I'll have to learn to like fishing... And hooking worms...
We have decided on a name, however: The AnTi-tanic. So small even God couldn't sink it! I suppose I shouldn't make fun. After all, it's in great shape, it came with oars as Rich was way too pleased to point out, and we are surrounded by more lakes and rivers than your average landlubber...
I'm still a bit shocked, though...
We have a frickin' boat...Captain Sao Feng: All men are drawn to the sea, perilous though it may be.
I wonder if this is hubbie's midlife crisis? It's a tad early, but...
We have a frickin' boat...
It was with nothing short of ghastly horror that I read over at Paige's Blog that she, too, was having Nubbin' issues... Nothing quite steals one's thunder as having a total stranger proclaim just a few days earlier than you that she'd had her potential cancer removed one week before oneself did... The only conclusion I can come to is that she's my Jewish twin sister from another mother...
But indeed, I had a nubbin' of my own--not under my breasts like Paige, but right out there for all the world to see, on my left cheek. (You can even see it in the profile pic if you look at the enlarged view... Creepy...)
It had been there for as long as I can remember, as Freddie the Freckle. Along the way he turned into Maurice the Mole. My nephew Devin had great fun last time he was over, sitting beside me watching a movie, and every five seconds poking his finger on it and saying, "Waz that, Sason?" Then at some point last year, it turned into a symptom of the Black Plague. Never having been a fan of the Black Plague myself (although I hear hundreds heeded it's siren song in the past...), I decided to have my hot doctor look at it.
Having made an appointment with hot doc (I actually have a whole team of docs right in Whitehall, but when I can, I request him... He tickles my fanny--No, no, FANCY, he tickles my FANCY!...) He looks at it, asks the usual "Does it hurt?" "What's it doing?" "Are you doing anything Saturday night?" Okay, that last one was just in my head, but you know the drill. After all that hoopla, he suggests I see a plastic surgeon.
Having never been to a plastic surgeon before, I wasn't sure what to expect--would there be varied sizes of breasts set up everywhere for comparisons' sake? A wall of noses labeled with the celebrity from whom they had been stolen? A parade of naked models wandering around with hors d'ourves trays?
I left work early so I could make it to the four o'clock appointment with plenty of time to spare, and following my Yahoo! Map directions faithfully, I pulled up to what could only be described as a mansion. The sign out front very clearly said "Dr. Edward Salgado," so I knew I was at the right place, but holy crap! I questioned whether I should even bother going in--what are the odds that my podunk crappy-ass insurance would cover this? Look at where I'm getting treated! Surely if this place had busts around, they would be tastefully placed in bronze casts and not nakedly wandering about serving pigs in a blanket...
I entered through the marked door and was assaulted by tacky well-to-do-ness. Leather couches, Windsor chairs, mahogany tables, prints and paintings. Across the large foyer was a receptionists' desk, so I wandered the 6,000 yards over, passing at least five hundred old people and one woman who looked like she wanted to be thirty but was plainly in her fifties.Receptionist: And your name?
Me: Jason Hughes, I have a four o'clock?
She winced. I looked at my hands to make sure I wasn't holding a gun, saber, or anything else remotely wince-like in nature.Receptionist: There's no need to shout, sir. Please have a seat, we'll be with you shortly.
Me: Shouting? I'm not... I'm not shouting.
She winced regardless.
Clearly this was hoity-toity neighborhood. I would have to hide my red-neck roots well here. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I pick up a People magazine and pretend to be interested in Jennifer Aniston's love life while the grandmother in cheap whore's clothing eye's me up and tries winking at me through a haze of Botox, eye shadow placed on with a nail gun, and wrinkle-less porcelain skin...Receptionist: Jason? Please follow me...
Through giant cherry-stained French doors I follow her back a long hallway with more paintings, tables, and (surprise, surprise!) a bust--but of an old dude, not some Pamela Anderson-cleavage mold.
I'm placed in a room which disappointingly doesn't look like the Hilton. I was expecting a jacuzzi at least, but it's the normal table with paper sheeting. I get all those questions again ("Any allergies?" "Does it hurt?" "Did Hot Doc ask you out?") and then I'm left to my own devices for another 45 minutes, which I use to open cabinets, look under the sink, steal a few Q-tips. I eventually give in to boredom and start playing Bejeweled on my cell when in walks not a hot Latino doctor named Salgado, but a short little old man. Nip/Tuck this wasn't.
Chart in hand, he proceeds to ask me... All the same questions! "Does it hurt?" Did the nurse not write down these answers? Or did you manage to get through med school without knowing how to read? I want to shout. However, I play his little game until I answer, "Well, sometimes it bleeds..."
Suddenly I hear a gasp. I look up from the interesting spot I had found in the carpet to see the doctor coming straight at me with a needle!Me: Whoa-ho there doc! What are you doing?
Dr. S: What--are you allergic to Novocaine?
Me: Um, first, no, I'm not, and secondly, I'd like to be warned before you start jabbing me, and third, what's the Novocaine for?
Dr. S: We have to get that thing off and into the lab! This could be serious! (He turns to an intercom, needle still in hand) I'm going to need a nurse in Room 5. (Back to me.) This may pinch a bit.
It did. More than a bit. The doctor left to give the Novocaine time to work it's magic, and it was pleasingly numb soon enough, drool starting dripping through my lips on the left side. Soon I was beginning to drift off, staring back at the interesting spot on the floor again when the door to Room 5 flew open and I see the doctor charging at me, this time with a scalpel!Me: Doc, you gotta stop doing that!
Dr. S: What?
Me: Didn't your mother ever tell you not to run with scissors?
Nurse: (Giggles)
Dr. S: I'm sorry, Mr... (looks at chart) Mr. Hughes, but we must have that thing removed and sent to the lab! Lay down please.
It took all of five seconds, and I didn't feel a blessed thing. In fact, I was quite surprised when he told me I could sit up and placed a cup in my hand. I looked dubiously into it.Me: That's it?
Dr. S: That's it. We'll call you in seven to ten days with the results.
Me: From the lab?
Dr. S: Er, yes, we'll call with the results from the lab.
Pretty soon I'm a free man again, a little warier of doctors who belong in Beverly Hills, but nubbin' free for the first time I can remember in a long time. It's only been five days (no lab results yet), but I can picture the crazy bastard in something resembling a Bat Cave, pouring strange liquids into beakers, creating an army of Nubbin' to run around with...
In other news, I got cruised at the Turkey Hill the following morning... Nothin' says lovin' like the removal of a nubbin'. Life is good again.
A woman Wednesday sued a Miami hospital that last year refused to allow her to see her critically ill partner of 18 years because they were not considered family.
Janice Langbehn and Lisa Pond of Lacey, Wash., had planned to take their three children on a family cruise departing from Miami, but just as they were about to embark, Pond, 39, collapsed with a brain aneurysm, according to Lambda Legal, which is handling the case.
Pond was rushed to Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami, where, except for one five-minute visit, neither Langbehn nor the children were allowed to see Pond until nearly eight hours after their arrival.
This neglect persisted even after a friend back home faxed documents indicating that Pond had given Langbehn authority to carry out medical decisions, according to St. Petersburg Pride, which named Langbehn its 2008 Pride marshal "to put a personal face on the consequences" of the proposed Florida constitutional marriage ban on November's ballot.
Langbehn's suit also claims that the state and the Dade County medical examiner denied her access to Pond's death certificate, which she needed to get life insurance and Social Security benefits for their children. (The Advocate)
You see, dear reader, we don't want marriage because we're lost lil puppy dogs looking for "acceptance" or "sanctioned existence." Fuck acceptance.
You know what good a "civil union" is when you're traveling abroad? Crap. Just as it's crap here in the United States.
