Doomed to repeat it

I've got a t-shirt for the band NOFX that is disrespectful to the president of the United States. That might not sound very impressive to you now that his entire cabinet is going to jail and most people have discovered that he is not in fact Jesus Christ and Abraham Lincoln rolled into one condescending package, but in a primitive time I like to call 2003, things were quite different.
That shirt nearly got me hit at least a dozen times. A lot of folks made the leap from mocking George Bush to hating the troops a lot quicker than I did, and frequently announced their conclusions to me loudly and in public. Never mind that I disliked Bush because I liked the troops, and never mind that a lot of the fraternity guys didn't know anyone who was actually getting blown up so Exxon stock could catch a half-point bump. They knew the score and were prepared to flatback me like we were at a high school football game. Which we weren't, because I never played and they'd put on 30 pounds of Coors Light weight since the last time they'd practiced.
Once I wore the shirt to a rugby club party. I knew several people who played and knew that they prided themselves on breaking rules and sticking it to the man, which was why they played a contact sport at the club level, where the university couldn't effectively bust them for vandalism or pre-game drinking. I foolishly thought that meant that the whole club would be inclined to agree with me, or at least be interesting to argue politics with after a series of beers.
Wrong. I'd disregarded the first rule of guys in groups, which is that there's always some ignorant jackass looking for a fight. I was talking to a girl I knew and messing around with a pair of those juggling sticks you see at Renaissance fairs when a big guy with a bad haircut walked up and made a show of squinting at my shirt, like he couldn't quite read it.
"You gotta problem with your commander-in-chief?" he said. He let some chewing tobacco run out of his mouth into a red plastic cup in his left hand and took a quick pop from the one in his left, his eyes never leaving me. "Not sure I like that."
"I'm sorry," I said, still juggling.
"Not sure I like that at all," he said. "What's your problem?'
"I'm not a fan of the whole Iraq thing. I think it's happening for the wrong reasons and I'm worried about my buddies over there. Also, I'm a liberal." I gave him a smile after that. No hard feelings, buddy.
But there were. I let the middle stick drop and looked at him. There's a misconception some places that Nevadans are not large folks. Visitors to Las Vegas believe that this is because everyone has had cosmetic surgery, while visitors to other parts of the state tend to attribute it to meth. At maybe six-three and 250, this guy was no meth head, and if he'd ever had work done he was desperately due for a refresher.
"You think that's cool?" he said. "What do your parents do? Did you grow up poor?"
If I hadn't made the same argument myself, I never would have followed. As it was, I figured he was questioning my punkness because I clearly was well nourished and not high. Unfortunately for him, I've never claimed to be a punk rocker, and yet I was still able to call George Bush a fascist with no ill effects. I explained this to him, using small words so he'd be able to understand. That might not have been a prudent decision.
"You...you need to get out of my house," he said. The girl I'd been talking to had faded into the surrounding crowd like an undercover cop. So much for loyalty. "Why do you hate America?"
"This is your house?" I said. "If you're asking me to go, I'll leave. Let me grab my friends."
He gave me an expression that seemed to be somewhere between pained at my treason and confused by my stupidity. "No, it's not my house. It's just... Dude, I'll mess you up!"
I considered my options. I had two juggling batons, each about an inch thick and 36 inches long. Ego aside, I'd spent a significant amount of time learning how to hurt people with instruments just such as these and was pretty sure that if I cut loose, he'd wake up under the distinct impression that someone had dropped an atom bomb on his head and wouldn't be able to testify regarding my involvement in the incident. But rugby guys roll deep, and if it was game on with Lurch, it was going to be game on with at least six more guys, and I wasn't keen on getting ratpacked. I tucked the sticks back into my forearms and said, "No problem. We're going."
And so I got run out of a house party in northwest Reno. Half my crew stayed behind, and those are the people I rarely speak to these days. As soon as I dropped the sticks and we piled into my Tercel, the jeering started. Who dared question the president in These Dire Times? If you weren't in favor of the Patriot Act, you could just... uh... move to Canada! Yeah, that would teach you! Never mind that Vancouver is the single greatest place you've ever been, full of blazing hot 19-year-old brunettes and amateur models of both sexes with realistic dispositions regarding marijuana use. You must suffer for not being a complete tool!
Here's my point: What I'm saying is satire now but it wasn't always. According to public opinion polls, a full 85 percent of you hated my ass as of 9/12/01. Let's remember this little inconvenience. People who try to erode our civil rights by frightening us are terrorist bastards, unless they give said scare tactics a catchy name, such as "The War on Terrorism," in which case they get Bronze Stars, while the war heroes I drink with get limited health benefits and meaningless Purple Hearts for saving these pencil-necked desk jockeys from the consequences of their own inept actions.
If you're still not clear on my alleged "point," it's this: If you've never seen an IED, even if your name is George W. Bush or Harry V. Reid, it's time for you to shut up and let the grown-ups work out this Iraq situation. Yeah, we all have ideas, but somehow they start to get a little more focused when firey destruction is a distinct possibility.
Some people might say that my views are Spartan because military minds get bonus points. My response is: You nailed it. If you wanted to live in peacetime, you should have voted the other way in 2004. Wake me up when we've stopped invading sovereign nations and I'll hit you with some Democrat ideals. Until then, suck it up and watch my Haliburton stock flourish.

Professional courtesy

How appropriate that on the day the Columbia School of Journalism handed out its latest round of Pulitzer Prizes, a team of complete amateurs upstaged the winners with a series of masterful, heartbreaking works written under hellish conditions, tremendous pressure and seriously abbreviated deadlines.

If you haven't yet read every last word posted on collegiatetimes.com, the Web site of the Virginia Tech newspaper, since the shooting on Monday, I have something to tell you that I don't think I've ever told anyone before: Stop paying attention to me and go check it out. If you're not absolutely humbled by what these kids did while their world was unraveling around them, you're a stronger man than I am.

And yes, I said kids. As you're reading through the site, remember that this is not Wolf Blitzer speaking. It's people substantially younger than me; some substantially younger than my little sister. They are writing the story of the damned decade as it is happening with only rudimentary training. Any newspaper editor worth his salt wouldn't let these guys pour his morning coffee, and yet here they are risking life and limb in a red-hot breaking news situation to find out exactly what the hell is going on and why the powers that be aren't talking. Time was, college kids weren't the only journalists who did that sort of thing. Look at the times the articles were posted. The CT staff was on this story minute-to-minute. I was sitting in front of The Wire as a lot of this was coming out, and I'm pretty confident that the CT kicked The Associated Press' ass on this. For those of you not up on the reporting gossip, let me fill you in: One night in 1932, Mahatma Gandhi was released from an Indian prison just after midnight so his captors could avoid media attention. Ghandi was taken to a remote railroad station where darkness obscured his identity and cut loose.From the shadows emerged Jim Mills, an Associated Press reporter. This led Ghandi (whom I didn't know was funny) to quip, "I suppose when I go to the Hereafter and stand at the Golden Gate, the first person I shall meet will be a correspondent of The Associated Press." The AP does not get scooped. Ever.

Until now. Imagine yourself at, say, 19, breaking out the old laptop to post the following Web update about your own school: "At this time, University Relations is reporting one individual in custody and is searching for a second shooter. The Collegiate Times will publish information as it is made available...Due to serious wind, helicopters cannot be used to transfer the injured. According to the police scanner, ambulances are being used to transport the victims to Montgomery Regional Hospital."

Let me tell you something you might not know about the police scanner: There are few experiences as unsettling as hearing a police officer break down on the air because he cannot deal with what he is seeing at the scene of an emergency — and I guarantee at least one cop lost it during the VT shootings. How could you not crack? I've seen it happen in person and heard it over the scanner, and it was much uglier over the radio. All the static and clipped transmissions make the hair on the back of your neck stand up because you can't tell if the officer is crying or being attacked or what. Now imagine listening to that while you know there's a killer on the loose within a mile of you. And, oh yeah, your boyfriend's missing and not picking up his cell phone. Got that feeling? Good, now write a balanced news story within an hour. I just can't say enough about the bravery and composure of the CT staff.

And they're still plugging away. By Tuesday they had posted exhaustive reports ranging from victim interviews to security videos to a piece on President Bush's speech. No lie, I'm checking their site instead of CNN.com for my updates now. I think it's wholly appropriate for Columbia or another entity to recognize these guys for reporting from inside a disaster, just as the New York Times reporters were recognized for their work on 9/11. Oh, and if this doesn't count as workplace experience, the university needs to lose its accreditation.

Because here's how I see it: Real journalism isn't about having a marketable message. It's not about selling ads or going to city council meetings or identifying unique voices in the community. It's not even about having a pithy comeback for what the Republicans said this week in a press conference. In real life, it goes a little something like this: "Man, we don't know what's going on over there, but it's not good. The cops are on the way and, here, you can borrow my camera. We're live in half an hour. Go."

The Association of Ripping Matt Off

For those of you that care, The Associated Press picked up a substantially less funny version of my article about the sheep on C Hill in Carson City. I get absolutely nothing out of it, since about 90-95 percent of reprints won't even have my name on them, but then CBS radio news picked up the APs bastardized version of my piece. The radio version will probably not carry my name in any market, but if you are anywhere in the world reading a story about sheep being used for fire prevention in Carson, you are probably reading my copy, which is pretty cool. It almost feels like I'm a real reporter...

A one-sided relationship

My boss brought her parrot to work the other day and let it clamber around on her shoulders while she sat at her desk and designed pages. Charlie was a good-sized blue and green tropical bird, with serious talons and flat black eyes like greased ball bearings that had a disconcerting tendency to follow me around the office like a Da Vinci painting. Actually, in a personality contest, I think I'd give the painting the edge.
Every few minutes, something would happen to arouse Charlie's concern. He'd begin clucking nervously in the back of his birdy throat and start sidestepping back and forth along my boss' back while flexing his beak open and closed. He'd start fiddling with my boss' hair, pleading with her for reassurance, but busy as she was, none was forthcoming, which would lead Charlie to suspect that perhaps she was out to get him as well.
After a few minutes, someone would reach for a stapler or stand up to use the bathroom, suddenly confirming Charlie's worst fears and causing all hell to break loose near the front of the editorial department. Charlie would start shrieking "Hello? Hello?" and "Num-nums!" at the top of his range while beating my boss about the ears with both wings, only to realize as though for the first time in his 30 years of life that they had been clipped when he was a hatchling. This only unsettled him further, and he could only be calmed down by everyone holding very still and avoiding eye contact while my boss soothed him. Then the air conditioner would kick on or someone elsewhere in the building would slam a door and the horror show would begin anew. After the third iteration, I was amazed that his tiny heart could bear the strain.
I've never understood the bird thing. I don't know what the owners get out of it. I know people who've fed, housed, trained and loved their birds for decades and the ungrateful little bastards still draw blood twice a month. When I leap back and ask what went wrong, the bird mommies and daddies shake their heads and say, "Nothing. He just does that sometimes." Imagine if a person had a dog that suffered unexplained bouts of homicidal rage every few weeks. After the second time, it would be off to the pound. But just because domestic birds don't have the capacity to kill people, folks overlook the fact that they still give it a try all the time. You know another pint-sized maniac whom everyone underestimated because of his flamboyant coloring and odd coiffure? Napoleon. If domestic birds weren't so astonishingly stupid, I'd almost be expecting a Hitchcock-style revolution.
Unlike most people, I didn't find "The Birds" to be a chilling, believable film about nature finally turning on man after years of subversion and abuse. I thought it was pure goofy fantasy. See, I can totally buy wild animals deciding they're sick of our nonsense and trying to take humans down a peg -- we've had that coming for years. My problem was that the pet birds in the movie seem to realize there's a jailbreak on and quickly join the battle against people. Any domestic bird I've ever seen would have just said "Pretty bird!" and flown into the wall as soon as something unexpected happened, which would totally ruin the wild raptors' carefully laid plans.
To be honest, I consider pet birds to be about as lovable as Venus flytraps or tarantulas. Yeah, they'll eat if you put food in their range, and on some level they probably enjoy it. But the rest of the time they just hang out in their absurdly expensive enclosures and make me nervous. The only reason they don't attack their owners all the time is that they're dimly aware that the owners provide food and water. But their attention span is only about 10 seconds long, so sometimes they forget and start biting anyway.
As far as pets are concerned, I'm far from a cynic. Sometimes I go to my parents' house with the express purpose of hanging out with the cat, and I've caught myself using baby talk with the dog far more times than I'm comfortable with. When I was little, I'd cry when my guppies died and my dad had to fish them out of the tank with a casserole spoon and dump them in the toilet. I'm pretty softhearted about animals.
But I also recognize that if I didn't see my cat for a year, there's a pretty good chance he'd forget who I was and, somehow, life would go on. The thing about, say, parrots is that they treat you like crap even when they remember who you are and you're still stuck with them for 50 years. Buying a young bird is like marrying Paris Hilton. Anybody that can make such a huge commitment to such a nasty little animal deserves equal measures of respect and pity, but he better not expect me to drop in for dinner any time soon.
•••
Where'd you go last night? I never heard you leaving. Woke up in such a fright when I could no longer feel you breathing. I could smell the rain from the storm blowing in. And I looked outside where your car should have been. Just a street light's glare on an empty street as the rain came down in a twisted sheet.