Burnett's Urban Etiquette

Community Voices Appearance

2011-02-23T17:46:00.002-05:00

Appearance on "Community Voices" radio with host Cheryl Mizell, to discuss fall 2010 primary races in South Florida.

Hollywood Homicide

2010-11-02T18:48:00.003-04:00

Wish that title was about a movie.

But this one's about a murder that took place on Halloween eve in Hollywood, FL.

I've covered lots of homicides as a reporter, and I've seen some pretty terrible crime scenes.

This story, though? One of the worst, for no other reason than the brutality.

You can check it out here.

Since the article first posted, yesterday, I've been bombarded by email with the inevitable questions: "Should the son (the killer in this case) be executed?" "Do you think he was (legally) insane?" "Doesn't this prove that some people should be hospitalized and not imprisoned?" "Is this guy evil, or what?" "Is this guy, crazy, or what?"

Those were just a few of the questions I received. But only the last two on that short list grabbed my attention.

Since I'll be covering this story as the case against the killer proceeds, I can't and won't offer any opinions about it. But even if I could, I don't believe I know how to answer the latter two questions.

My answer in the form of a question might be: Is it possible that they're both right? I know "crazy" is not a medical term. But on the assumption that the reader who emailed me meant "mentally ill" instead of "crazy," isn't it possible that while the act itself and the results are bad/evil, the killer is mentally ill?

Just asking, 'cause I've covered homicides where long after the fact, when I was able to offer an opinion, I expressed concern that the killer was downright evil. Others I wondered if the killer was mentally ill. And still others didn't seem to fit solely in either category. Maybe because the other circumstances encompassed a little of both characteristics.

Anyway, follow me, please, at twitter.com/jamesburnett.

I'm Baaaaaaaack!

2010-10-29T10:20:00.003-04:00

What's crackin', friends and frienemies?

For the past couple of years, the Burnettiquette Blog has been hosted on a blogging platform operated by The Miami Herald/MiamiHerald.com, my "day job" employer.

Alas, I haven't blogged much over the past six months or so (even though I say once a month, "I swear, I'm going to start blogging daily again!). Sorry, been busy - chasing articles, building up my weekly column in the Miami Herald, dealing with stuff at home (no worries, happy stuff!), etc.

So as the Herald revamps its blogging setup, Burnettiquette won't be a part of it. Sad, I know. I plan on holding a candle light vigil, along with other colleagues whose blogs are being put out to pasture.

But I really do plan to start blogging again on a daily basis...most of the time. There'll be times the contraints of work and life itself will prevent me from blogging daily, but I'll do my best.

A colleague and friend is building a new home for Burnettiquette, as I type. So blogging at this old/new address is temporary. Still, until that new home's ready I'll be hitting you right here with All the news opinion that's (not) fit to print.

My first substantive post will go up some time between today - Oct. 29th - and Monday.

Welcome back.

JB

THIS BLOG HAS MOVED!

2008-05-12T13:07:00.003-04:00

Here's the new address: http://miamiherald.typepad.com/burnettiquette.

If you need it, here is an explanation for the move.

See you over there.

JB

Burnettiquette is Moving

2008-05-09T13:37:00.003-04:00

No worries. I'm not going underground. I'm just becoming a ~~bigger tool~~ more formal part of my newspaper's blogging efforts.

For those of you who don't know, in my day job I'm a reporter for the Miami Herald, thus the giant banner across the top of this page encouraging you to visit MiamiHerald.com...and subscribe...or check the weather in South Florida.

In an effort to make for smoother connections between staff-written blogs, etc., the bosses have nudged those mavericks among us who have stubbornly clung to Blogger to come into the fold and join the rest of the family on TypePad.

I'm OK with it. My voice won't change. My tone won't change. My 'tude won't change. All that'll change will be the address and look of my blog. And the current look was getting stale anyway. So it's all good.

So, starting Monday morning, my new blog address will be http://miamiherald.typepad.com/burnettiquette/. Please make the switch on your blogrolls. I'll be moving all of you...as well as some new folks who've been visiting Burnettiquette-land lately to my new address over the weekend. So if you're not already on my blogroll and want to make sure you get on it at the new address, post your address and blog name in the comments.

Don't offer to help me unpack yet though. I've gotta walk around and kick the walls and make sure I like my neighbors first ;>)

I'll be reminding you guys of this move again throughout the weekend. But don't abandon this address quite yet. I've got another new post or two to do here, before Monday.

Don't Fake the Funk

2008-05-08T14:16:00.004-04:00

That phrase used to puzzle me.

My Uncle Wimpy used to say it all the time. Wimpy was a cool cat. He's still alive. He's just not cool anymore. He won't mind me saying so. In his words, he has "aged gracefully out of coolness."

But back in the day Wimpy was cooler than the other side of the pillow. Maybe that's where I got it from...ahem.

Anyway, Wimpy wasn't a wimp at all. He was actually a tough guy, and intimidating at 6-foot-7. He was a master carpenter, always with a heavy tool belt around his waist. He used to walk around with two big-assed growling, slobbering Dobermans named Kunta and Kinte, after the character from Alex Haley's masterpiece Roots. And he drove a white '72 Cadillac convertible with fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror.

For years I understood almost everything about Wimpy, except that phrase. Then I finally got it in my senior year of high school.

In a scene reminiscent of the movie A Bronx Tale, where Chazz Palminteri's gangster character gives dating advice to Lilo Brancato's teenager-in-love character, Uncle Wimpy told me at a pre-prom barbecue at my grandma's house "Jamie?" Yes? "Don't fake the funk." It hit me all at once that he was simply - in his cool way - telling me to just be myself and don't pretend to be something I'm not, especially not a "baller," 'cause pretending to be a "baller" never impresses a smart woman.

For the record, I realize if you were raised in certain parts of the country and born before the 1960s, "baller" may have a sexual connotation. But in my generation it's a reference to a flashy person - the guy who has cash to spare, a nice car, a hot wardrobe and all the girls.

So why I'm I doing all this reminiscing? Mrs. B and I were just at the beach and I saw a guy showing off for couple of young women. And I thought it was funny. He was young, and he was trying. I give him credit for that. He was pretending to be a baller, but with self deprecation. So I guess it was OK.

As we left I cracked a joke about people faking the funk and pretending to be ballers. Mrs. B didn't fully get it, so I said I'd point out a better example next time I saw one.

We stopped at the grocery on the way home. And during our brief stop we had the "pleasure" of ending up several times behind a really annoying, really in your face, flashy couple. He was as cavalier as one of the Three Musketeers, gesturing wildly as if telling his girlfriend she should grab anything she wanted, 'cause he was the man. Reminded me of the guy in the bar who loudly announces that he's buying drinks for the two women next to him, 'cause he's cool like that and wants everyone to know. One item after another, this young woman snatched things off the shelves and tossed 'em in their cart. With each item she looked adoringly at this god among men with the apparently bottomless appetite and fat wallet. It seemed like they were shopping for a huge barbecue - not for food to feed starving babies or anything. By the time they ended up at the checkout counter their cart was loaded up like the Clampett's pick-up truck. And once again, we found ourselves in line behind them.

It took the cashier and the bagger 10 minutes to ring up and pack up that car-sized pile of groceries. The braggadocious boyfriend grew cockier and jauntier, and the girlfriend looked more and more adoringly at him. They groped each other like two preacher's kids on a first date.

And then the cashier announced the total: three hundred seventy-something dollars, if I remember right. No problem. Boyfriend handed her a credit card.

One minute. Nothing. Two minutes. Nothing. "Sorry, but it didn't go through," the cashier said.

As a courtesy she ran the card through again. Nothing. The boyfriend tried it himself. Nothing.

The braggadocio came down a notch. Just a notch. The adoring, yearning look faded to one of slight confusion.

A second card. Same result.

Finally, the bagger pushed aside the overloaded cart, and the boyfriend walked away on his cell phone, a credit card in the other hand. I assumed he was talking to the card provider or something. The girlfriend, looking fully confused and a little taken aback at this point, reached for the grocery cart and said something to the effect of "I'll go ahead and take these. He'll be right back." The bagger, bearing a slight smirk herself, shook her head and held the cart with a vice grip. The girlfriend sheepishly stepped back and folded her hands.

As Mrs. B and I got outside finally with our two little bags, the boyfriend was gesturing angrily at an ATM machine that had just rejected his request for cash.

Swagger almost completely gone, he strolled back toward the entrance, presumably to retrieve his girlfriend and go away quietly.

I predict that was a cold evening on the romance front. He faked the funk.

Moments in Education to be proud of

2008-05-07T12:04:00.002-04:00

A substitute teacher in the Tampa area says he was fired earlier this year, because a middle school student and the student's dad complained to school officials about the teacher.

Did they complain that the sub touched the kid? Nope.

Or that he told the kid dirty jokes? Nope.

Or that he pimp-slapped the kid? Nope.

The teacher performed a "magic" trick, in which he made a toothpick disappear.

Just so you know, the toothpick didn't disappear 'cause the teacher sat on it and squeezed it between his butt cheeks or anything. It was simple, sleight-of-hand.

So this kid freaked out and after school ran home and told his dad he believed his substitute teacher was some kind of sorcerer and had performed wizardry at school. Wizardry.

What does the dad do? Pimp-slap the kid and say "quit being silly; go do your homework!" Nope.

Say nothing, but go into the kid's room and gather all his Dungeons & Dragons parphernalia and burn it? Nope.

Tell the kid he's been reading too much Harry Potter? Nope.

Use the kid's paranoia to his advantage and tell him if he doesn't do his chores Dumbledore will come and get him in the middle of the night? Nope.

The dad got angry with the teacher and complained to the school and to district administration.

What did the school officials do? Tell dad and son to get a life and get bent? Nope.

They fired the teacher, because he scared the kid...with his wizardry.

To offer both sides, the school district says they dumped the teacher 'cause of bad habits in the classroom.

I don't know why, but my cynical side believes the teacher.

And moving right along to "higher" education, a Dartmouth professor is suing some of her students for violating federal discrimination law. The alleged discrimination? They sometimes failed to pay attention to her, they complained to her supervisors about her teaching style and alleged that she refused to accept contrary opinions and would lower the grades of students who openly disagreed with her.

This all makes me wanna consider homeschooling when we eventually have kids. Even for college. Probably cheaper ;>)

What a shocker!

2008-05-05T22:46:00.006-04:00

A guy named Manuel Balbin was convicted last week in Miami of torturing a "colleague" from his private social club, because the colleague allegedly stole Balbin's Playstation 2.

So what, you say?

Balbin's social club is called Satan's Disciples, and his nickname is "Insane." That's right, Manuel "Insane" Balbin.

Instead of telling the alleged thief to return the Playstation 2 like a normal person would have done, Balbin, among other things, flambéd his buddy using a lighter and a can of Axe Deodorant Body Spray. Balbin also tazed the alleged thief's right testicle. Why the right one? What exactly did righty do that was so much worse than lefty's behavior?

In the end, Balbin and other Disciples made the alleged thief put on a tube top and steal booze from a gas station before they turned him loose.

I want to feel bad for the kid, the alleged thief. But here's the deal: if you're gonna steal from a friend, steal from the one whose nickname is something like "Buddy" or "Pallie" or "Sneezy" or "Dopey" or "Smiley." Smiley would be best. No one named Manuel "Smiley" Balbin would taze your fellas for a little misunderstanding over a gaming system.

'Cause if you knowingly steal from a guy whose friends call him "Insane," then you're just tempting fate unnecessarily.

Anyway, Insane Balbin will have the next 10 years to pine for his Playstation 2.

BTW, if you haven't already weighed in on the latest chapter of our race relations discussion, follow the link and give it a whirl.

Real Talk about Race: Chapter Four

2008-05-02T16:06:00.003-04:00

Friends, Frienemies, Countrymen, lend me your eyes. What I mean is keep reading, 'cause I promise this installment of our series on race relations will be the simplest yet.

In chapters one, two, and three, we've talked about fear of being lumped in with bad people who look like us, the legacy of slavery in the U.S., race and politics, and defining hate crime, among other things.

Today I wanna talk stereotypes and pros and cons of political correctness.

First, how many of us know the formal definition of "stereotype?" Dictionary.com says its sociological meaning is "a simplified and standardized conception or image invested with special meaning and held in common by members of a group."

I ask about that definition, because in the comments section of Chapter One, my friend Og honestly asked about black men and razor bumps and black men and straightened hair.

I gotta give him props. A lot of people would have stayed away from those sorts of questions for fear of sounding bad, looking bad, whatever.

But Og didn't say anything disrespectful to me or about me. He simply asked about two physical characteristics that he's seen in/on black men and that he did not understand. And the fact is, under a specific circumstance lots of black men get razor bumps when they shave their faces.

Political correctness (by some other name, please!) can serve a purpose: to keep a seed planted in the backs of our minds that we should exercise common sense and basic respect when talking to or about someone else's differences. Too much PC - which, in my mind, is almost any - is a bad thing.

So when does political correctness go from common sense caution to overkill? When you get angry about a comment or question that is rooted in fact - the exception being when you say it or ask it in a tacky, tasteless way.

Remember, just 'cause something is a stereotype, doesn't make it false. I love to eat chicken, for example. And anyone who doesn't like that can bite me.

From the beginning of our race relations discussions, I've said if we can't talk about ALL of it - the complicated and the simple - then we're doomed to maintain at least a smidgen of misunderstanding between us, even in the best of times. Best way to break barriers and avoid embarrassing situations involving our differences is to just talk about 'em.

So in the spirit of real talk, Og here's the deal with the razor bumps: Many black men have coarse, curly facial hair. While this may be aesthetically pleasing, it's a pain in the behind when it comes to shaving, because when some of us use straight, traditional razors our facial hair is cut so short that it begins to curl virtually from the second it starts to grow back. And sometimes when that happens, the hair can grow right back into the skin, creating an ingrown hair effect. It's why, when I was a kid my dad would use this smelly concoction called "Magic Shave," to to chemically lift the hair off his face, so he could get a clean shave. Magic Shave prevented razor bumps. Otherwise, a straight razor would have really done a number on his skin. It's why I don't use a straight razor. I shave with an electric shaver - the same kind they use in the barbershop to shave your head bald. It gives a clean shave, but not so short that your facial hair has a chance to grow awry.

There. That wasn't so painful.

As for the processed hair, like I said in the comments section back on Chapter One, Og, that's a much more complicated explanation. And no doubt it will vary depending on who's giving the explanation. I was always taught by my elders that black men started processing their hair back in the day - as early as 1930s, my grandmother always said - so that they could style their hair after the stars of the day. It just so happened that the stars of the day were almost exclusively white, so they had hair that was straight or wavy. In order for black men to achieve that effect with their own hair, they had to essentially put heavy perms in it. My grandfather used to call it getting his hair "conked." He said when he was young and dumb he'd get his hair conked or fried, dyed, and laid to the side. Fortunately, as he exited childhood and entered manhood he recognized that his naturally curly, coarser hair was just fine, and that he didn't need to chemically torture his scalp to look like something he wasn't and feel cool.

Now, I know I'm not the only one with stereotypes to answer or to ask about. After putting myself out there, I'd better get a helluva lot of feedback. I want to know what you'd like to know...about one another. If you have a question about Asians, or women, or whites, or Latinos, or blacks, ask it in the comments. And whichever of you has the answer, knock yourself out. Just keep in mind to be respectful.

So let's wrap this up with a brief cautionary tale of political correctness overkill. I spent last night at a surreal neighborhood association meeting that was supposed to be a meeting of the minds between association members and reps from the city, police, etc., and a welcome to prospective new members. In a matter of minutes though, the meeting turned into a free for all of angry people trying to out talk one another. I'll blog more on the meeting this weekend, but one incident stood out to me.

I had walked out of meeting hall to go to the rest room. While I was out, apparently a shouting match started. Tones and tensions escalated, and Mrs. B, reasonably afraid, got up and walked to the back of the room to find me and get close to the exit, in case we needed to scram. Things calmed down eventually, and another woman who had been sitting next to Mrs. B came to the back of the room and struck up a conversation with her. Nice lady. In minutes the two of them were comparing notes about the 'hood, talking about getting together to walk dogs, and so on. Mrs B then introduced me to the other woman. We exchanged pleasantries, and I turned my attention back to the meeting.

As Mrs. B and the other woman chatted and discussed neighborhood issues and crime prevention, and so on, the other woman, whose house was broken into...while she was at home sleep two years ago, talked about how paranoid she can be sometimes. Well, one of the rabble rousers who started the shouting match in the meeting walked by. And the woman made a comment to Mrs. B about being nervous and wondering where "that black guy" had gone.

Almost immediately, she turned to me and apologized profusely, insisting she shouldn't have said "black guy." And it wasn't right.

Why not? I mean, I guess she could've described him as the guy in yellow shorts, or the guy in the blue baseball cap. But human nature is that we tend to hone in the most prominent feature. And that's how we describe people in a snap: the fat guy, the tall woman, the guy with the Mohawk, the woman with the jaundiced skin. Whatever.

My response was "Don't be sorry. I'm not mad. You weren't talking about me!"

Let's get logical folks. If we can't simply mention another person's obvious features, we are way past the point of trouble. We've gotta lose those sorts of hangups, in the interest of eliminating race as a "problem" topic.

BTW, that woman was really nice. I hope she and Mrs. B do end up hanging out. And from the short conversation I had with him, I have no doubt I'll end up tipping a pint with her husband....without regard for his appearance.

right, wrong, doesn't matter?

2008-04-29T10:37:00.002-04:00

The State of Florida currently offers more than 100 varieties of specialty license plates for drivers willing to pay a few extra bucks. As CNN put it, the state has tags available that celebrate everything from Manatees to the Miami Heat, a really crappy basketball team in the last year or so.

One legislator wants to add a Christian-themed plate to the mix, a plate that bears a cross and the slogan "I Believe."

Another legislator, a Catholic, says that she's opposed, because this plate will lead to future vanity plates displaying the Star of David or other religious symbols. And ACLU has moved to block production of the vanity plate, saying it would send a message that Florida formally promotes Christianity over other religions. The ACLU also argues the plate could open the door to other "specialty" groups to get their own plates, groups like the KKK.

First, I say the ACLU is wrong about the plates suggesting that Florida formally promotes Christianity. The whole point of vanity plates, why they call them "vanity" plates, is to reflect some personal interest of the person whose car carries the plates.

So if I pay extra to buy a license plate that has the image of a pimp stick on it does that mean the government of the State of Florida is officially pro pimp? I don't think so. Tax dollars don't pay for these types of tags. Vain individuals pay for them.

Second, I'd be fine with other groups having specialty license plates, especially the KKK. At least then I'd know who not to turn my back on. It would be like all the klansmen driving around with scarlet letters on their cars. The rest of us would see 'em coming a mile away.

Real Talk about Race: Chapter Three

2008-04-28T12:09:00.005-04:00

What's crackin' folks?

I did not post anything at the end of last week, 'cause I was beat. And I just didn't have the energy to do our "regularly scheduled" post on race relations.

Still, we have a game plan and need to try to stick to it. So here's the two-pronged topic we skipped on Friday: being your brother's keeper and political partisanship.

I had wanted to talk about stereotypes and how we shouldn't automatically get up in arms about them, but all the renewed discussion of Barack Obama's former pastor, Rev. Jeremiah Wright, altered my focus, because increasingly TV pundits are asking what Obama is going to do about Wright.

And I would argue that Obama shouldn't have to do anything more about Wright. Don't forget that I'm not voting for any of the three major candidates left in the presidential race. So this isn't a vote-for-Obama post. I'm just saying Obama has publicly denounced Wright's controversial sermons. Maybe he should have done that sooner. Maybe he was sincere. Maybe he only did it 'cause he's running for office. But whatever his motivations, he did it. Beyond that, Wright stepped down as pastor of Obama's church. So how much further, and deeper do those denouncements need to go. Does Obama need to drop kick Wright and punch the former pastor's wife in the nose to get his point across?

So here's how this post took shape: I was having a phone conversation with a buddy who has known my family - me, the folks, my sister, etc. - for more than 20 years. He's white. Clearly, I'm not. In the conversation, we discussed how we were raised and to what extent we're bound to speak up and out about our associates. The conversation then took a turn to politics.

My buddy knows how I was raised: in a military household with religious overtones by no-nonsense parents who set strict curfews, who eschewed criminal behavior and criminals, who were good neighbors, who were pro-military, who weren't necessarily pro-government but were definitely civic-minded. You might say my fam was socially conservative.

And with that thought in mind, my buddy asked this question: "JB, would you say that the average, middle class black person was raised like you?"

Using those strict parameters, I answered yes.

So my buddy's follow-up question was: "Then why don't most black people vote conservatively?"

And that, my friends, is the $64K question.

We all know about the perception that since the 1960s Democrats - as a party, not individuals - have demonstrated more care for civil rights, etc. And while that may be true in those matters that stoke emotion, like establishing a holiday for MLK, and recognizing on a civil level African Americans' contributions to larger society, I don't think it has been true in terms of policy. Get down to the bare bones of all the major legislation to come out of D.C. since the late 1960s, and I defy you to tell me that one party has done significantly better or worse than the other, when it comes to social policy. They're both really lousy. And I wish we had a viable third party option.

But the short, sweet answer to my bud's follow-up question is that there is a perception among some average, middle class black folks that Republicans - as a party, not individuals - think that we're all responsible for one another. And that ticks people off.

We've had a related discussion on this blog before: about being lumped in and what not. But just how responsible are we for our "brothers?" If a young black man in my neighborhood commits a heinous crime, is it my job to hold a press conference and denounce the crime so as to soothe the fears of my other neighbors and assure them that other black people in the neighborhood are appalled by the crime? Or am I responsible for just continuing to try to live a halfway decent life of my own?

If you want to get philosophical, we're all responsible for trying to make things better - whether that means setting a good example for a troubled kid, or helping a willing-to-work neighbor find a job, if we have that ability, and so on and so forth. But in terms of behavior, where do we draw the line? And does where that line is drawn affect political leanings?

Pat Buchanan, MSNBC commentator and former Republican presidential candidate, recently wrote a column that said in so many words that black folks should stop complaining about racial issues in the U.S. He suggested that "we" have no grounds for complaint, because through slavery "we" were introduced to Christianity and given a chance to be a part of a growing society. He wrote that black folks have benefited more than anyone else from welfare and food stamps and so on. He suggested "we" have no grounds for complaint, because in terms of crime and perceptions, many more black criminals assault white victims than the other way around. And he suggested any legitimate conversation about race in this country should be bound by the facts as laid out in that column.

Tell all those things to a black criminal, and you have reached your target audience. Tell them to the average black person who, like his neighbors of all races, is just trying to earn a living and live happily within the law, and you have turned that person off. You have told him that until he does something about bad people who look like him, then he is not to be taken seriously. You have told someone who likely never received a dime from the government that he is the beneficiary of a handout. You don't think average, middle class black folks are aware of glaring problems like 2/3 of black children being born to single moms? You don't think they're aware that the percentages of young black male violent criminals have skyrocketed over the past 20 years. They know. But they've worked hard to earn their own way and don't feel responsible for explaining to the rest of the country that "you don't have to be afraid of us. We're not like that."

I know people like this. I have relatives like this. They are church-going people. They are reasonably strict with their kids. They donate to the Police Benevolent Assn. fund. They coach little league. They look both ways before they cross the street. They always return their movies to Blockbuster on time...and rewound. They don't fit any of the negative stereotypes that Hollywood and D.C. have brought us. So you could argue in theory that they are "conservative" people. But, on principal, because of the perception that the Pat Buchanans of the world are the face of the Republican Party, they will never vote G.O.P.

What say you?

The last thing I needed to see

2008-04-24T10:51:00.013-04:00

So some of you know I have a thing about germs.

I'm not as bad as Seinfeld. If I had a neighbor who'd prepared me a salad in his shower, I'd spit it out too. Same goes for a toothbrush I'd dropped in the toilet. Fans of the show will get those examples.

And I do have a dog, whom I'm required to clean up after on walks. And I do tons of yard work. So I can handle dirty things.

Germs though? Don't get me started. If you feel the need to laugh at me, take a moment and read this old post.

Anyway, I opened up my work email account and saw this in the subject line of a new message: "Shoes are full of feces..."

I did not need to see that. Sure, it's common sense that we pick up things from the sidewalk, but I don't want to know what. It's better if I don't know. My germ semi-phobia is definitely at least that sensitive.

Your first instinct may be to say the message was spam. But we have the kinds of email filters here that probably rival those in government offices. So almost all my messages, even those with weird subjects, are legitimate. This was no instance like the widow of the late Gen. Motumbo offering me access to his fortune in exchange for my checking account number and a small fee.

The email went on to say that a new study by the University of Arizona and Rockport Company found that 96% of shoes have coliform and E. coli bacteria on them. If you'd like to see a scientist's version of poop humor, check out the study's two minute video, which follows a pair of feet/Rockports around New York City for a day.

I get that this was a clever way for Rockport to market their shoes, but unless Rockports come with built in hovercraft, then they're no safer than any other shoes.

So I'll be heading home early today to gather all my shoes in the backyard and have a bonfire. In fact, I may burn my feet too. And at a minimum, I'm calling a man of the cloth to come over and exorcise the floors.

Shoes are nasty.

Catching up on the Memoir Meme

2008-04-22T13:47:00.005-04:00

I am a hypocrite. But I tell you guys that all the time.

In this case, I'm talking about my meme hypocrisy. I like sending them out for other people to do, but I hate being tagged for 'em, 'cause it requires me to think. And there is a limit to the amount of time each day I like to think. Once I past that limit, my brain begins to hurt like I got punched in it. I stop thinking. And I watch Family Guy and Futurama reruns.

But when a friend calls on you, you can't turn them down. And I consider Melissa, from Spoke in the Wheel, a friend.

So Melissa tagged me a while back with a meme. The challenge was to write your memoirs in six words or less. I promised her I'd get to it. So here we are.

You have to understand that my reputation with my editor is that when he gives me a 20 inch limit for a story, I have a bad habit of submitting a 25 inch story. He knows that I'm prone to do this, so while he won't admit it - not with a straight face, anyway, I'm sure he sometimes tells me 20 inches, when he really has 25 inches to spare, 'cause he knows I'm gonna take the extra five inches anyway. Does that make sense? If not, the abbreviated version is I'm often long-winded.

It's hard for me to say hello in six words or less.

Anyway, here's my memoir: I always considered myself even-keeled.

And since I consider memes to be torture, when I'm on the receiving end, I refuse to suffer alone.

Og, M@, Grizzbabe, Stewart, and Pamela, consider yourselves tagged. And the rest of you, all of you, you don't have to post the meme to your own blog if you don't want to. But let's have some fun with it. In the comments section here, let's have your six-words-or-less memoirs.

What not to say to someone you're just getting to know

2008-04-21T14:49:00.004-04:00

It's been a while - or a Hwhile as Meg Griffin might say - since we've discussed a specific element of Burnettiquette.

Sometimes it's hard to talk about, because you want to believe the average person possesses the basic common sense to, as Grandma Rosa says, not "act (like) a fool!"

Occasionally though, I'm reminded that belief is just wishful thinking.

So I was riding the people mover in downtown Miami about 30 minutes ago, on my way back to the newspaper with a court file I'd gone to pick up for an article. I had five stops to go.

At stop number one, a young man steps into the car and looks around. His eyes light up when he spies another young man a few feet away. He approaches. The other guy lifts his eyes. A second of recognition and then they laugh.

I'll call 'em Guy 1 (who was already on the train) and Guy 2. So Guy 2 says "Yo! How you been man? I haven't seen you since (indecipherable) party. I was thinkin' after that 'Yo, that guy was cool. I could probably hang out with him, you know just kick it'."

Now, let's pause for a moment: I know some of you will think this is a tale of failed bromance. But it isn't. This is more along the lines of the guy who is clueless enough to ask a first date if he can touch her.

Moving right along, Guy 1 nods enthusiastically, indicating he felt the same way about Guy 2.

For a couple of minutes they engage in small talk. By the third train stop the conversation shifted. Guy 2 asks Guy 1 if the latter had seen a certain young woman lately.

"Not since the party," Guy 1 says.

Guy 2 nods thoughtfully and then says "You know I heard she was a freak, right?"

Guy 1 grins coyly - as guys who really don't know are wont to do in order to keep up appearances - and nods. Then he volunteers "You know we texted each other for a minute after that party. Yo, she was sayin' all kinds of stuff, like she wanted to get with me. I might have to, you know..."

Guy 2 giggles and exchanges a cool hand shake with Guy 1. We've just passed the fourth train stop. One more to go.

They both chat for another minute about their sexual prowess and the humongous number of women they've turned down.

We're at the final train stop. Guy 1 and Guy 2 step off the train. I follow. Not 'cause I'm trying to eavesdrop, but because I happen to be walking the same direction.

At the bottom of the stairs, right before they step onto the sidewalk, Guy 2, wearing a "Hey, I just got a bright idea!" look, turns to Guy 1 and says of the alleged freak "You know, we could probably both get buck naked and (hook up) with her at the same time!"

Verrrrrrry pregnant pause. Like a vacuum. Like when a fighter jet passes overhead and breaks the speed of sound, and you have that moment of weird serenity, before the sonic boom follows.

Guy 1, face screwed up in horror - maybe mock horror, but it didn't look like it, sidesteps the playful punch Guy 2 has just thrown at his shoulder and snaps "Man, somethin's wrong with you. I don't know you like that!"

Guy 2 looks stunned and remains flat-footed as Guy 1, looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure Guy 2 isn't following, stalks off toward a nearby college.

I suspect these two will not be hanging out or kickin' it anytime soon.

Some things are not good conversation for budding friendships. And if you don't get it, please let me advise you to not:

ask the slightly paunchy checkout woman at the grocery when she's due, unless you are 100% certain she's pregnant,
tell your new would-be girlfriend on a second date that she should perform certain acts with you...and soon, because your last girlfriend did,
ask your new gal pal to accompany you to divorce court, so you can lean on her while you do battle with your soon-to-be-ex husband.
tell your new pal that you have a rash,
or tell your new pal that he shouldn't worry 'cause your foaming at the mouth will stop as soon as your meds kick in.

Keep "too much, too soon" in the back of your mind, and you should be safe from Guy 2-type mistakes.

Monday Morning Quarterbacking

2008-04-21T09:05:00.007-04:00

Morning folks, and thank you for reading and commenting on chapter two of our race relations series. Please continue reading this post, but don't think you have to just "move on." If you're not finished with chapter two or you haven't read it yet, click the link and take a couple of minutes to read that post too.

In the mean time, I wanted to weigh in on something that happened here in the Miami area last week: the Rev. Jesse Jackson came to town to speak about the economic and structural meltdown in Haiti and to exhort Americans to be compassionate, help lower food prices in Haiti, etc.

Inevitably, when he was done at least one local TV reporter cornered Jackson and asked him about violent crime - murders, robberies, drug dealing, gang activity - in urban communities. There seems to be a lot of all of the above lately, at least here in South Florida.

I didn't have a problem with what Jackson said. What disappointed me was what he didn't say. Granted, he only had enough time to give a soundbite on local TV. But his comments were general in nature and safe, too safe. Things to the effect of we have to find solutions and a better way and what not.

All that's fine and good, but there are small-minded people who have been designated community leaders who will latch onto generalized safe comments about crime, and they will, of their own volition, stretch them and interpret them to mean government solutions. They don't get that back in the day "community solutions" literally meant that - neighbors, and churches, and relatives, and friends, not government.

Governments have never fixed anything. At their best, they've taken tax dollars, your dollars, and offered assistance: work assistance, school assistance, food assistance, etc. At their worst, they have spent your money, and not wisely.

Yes, they should use some property tax dollars to build parks and youth centers to give kids stuff to do. You know, the whole idle mind being the devil's workshop and all.

But once and for all governments can't stop violent crime...unless they establish some sort of Martial Law. And nobody with good sense wants that. The violent crime problem is a complicated issue, but not so complicated that we need bureaucrats mucking it up.

Violent crime is about behavior, soul - in this case the ability to place a value on life on an almost spiritual level, and familial leadership.

I don't know everything by a long shot, but I feel like a broken record player on this issue: If folks want the shootings and robberies and all that nonsense to stop, then a standard has to be set in which every parent teaches his kid that no matter how down on their luck they get and no matter how down on their luck all the folks around them seem to be, nothing - not money, not cars, not attractive members of the opposite sex, not power, not fame - is worth as much as another person's life.

If kids start to believe that other folks' lives are sacred and shouldn't be risked or taken for any reason outside the confines of life-or-death self defense or military combat, then when they're adults and feeling desperate for any one of those items they'll find another way to get it, or they'll exercise reason and logic and resolve to do without.

OK, I'm done. I get dizzy when I stand on soap boxes.

Real Talk About Race: Chapter Two

2008-04-18T11:26:00.003-04:00

OK, so chapter one went well, I thought. Not everyone agreed on everything. But they weren't supposed to.

This week, let's make it a little less formal and touch on a few different topics that Pamela, one of my favorite bloggers, raised last week in the comments.

First, Pamela said she stresses at times when she observes (like in the news) a white person accused of committing a crime against a black victim.

She said that just like I worry that I'll be lumped in by the casual observer with every other young black man who commits a crime, she worries that people will automatically assume the white offender chose his victim based on their race and that it was a hate crime.

Is this a common fear among white people you know, or a common fear of yours if you're white? I'm just curious, 'cause I have a buddy who used the words "under siege" to describe how he felt when talking about this issue with black and some Latino colleagues and acquaintances. He says he sometimes feels like some black folks think race-based crime works in only one direction.

Pamela also mentioned that she gets bothered when the reverends Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton "go on the defensive" over issues involving racial division.

Again, I'm curious about the average white person's take on this. I'm mainly curious, because I am certain there is a misconception among some white people about the reverends' relationship with working class/middle class/upper class black America. Ask the average black person who has a job and is handling his business if either of the reverends speak for him, and he's likely to tell you no. I think because we see them on TV a lot - at the invitation of these cable news channels, there is an assumption by white America that black folks fall in lock step behind those two. The reality here is the average black person doesn't put any more or less stock in what those two have to say than they do any politician.

On the other side of this coin, you see outspoken pundits like Pat Buchanan and the Rev. Pat Robertson on TV too. But I honestly don't know whether the average black person believes white people as a whole pledge allegiance to the likes of Robertson and other similar outspoken white religious bosses/businessmen who allegedly rouse rabble. I've never really heard it come up in conversation with other black folks.

Moving right along, Pamela also said she believed all crime - I believe she meant all violent crime - is hate crime.

I know what she means about that. And I tend to teeter on the fence. I know that for the purposes of law enforcement and prosecution, if you commit a crime against another person for a characteristic over which they have no control, like race, then there is a rider for additional charges that can be attached to you.

Generally speaking though, if you have so little regard for human life that you would kill, or assault, or rob someone else with a weapon, you're full of some form of hate, regardless what your victim looks like.

Maybe that's one of those first steps we take to finding a common ground: agreeing that all violent crime is hateful in nature, and barring some really, really, really convincing extenuating circumstances, should be treated the same across the board. And the "same" means identical punishments, and so on.

Or should there remain in place special, extra punishment for going after a person of a different race...because of their race?

Tough call.

So next topic is the documentary called Meeting David Wilson that MSNBC aired last week. Don't know if you saw it, but I thought it was eye-opening. It was about a young black man from Newark, NJ, who looks into his family tree and traces his ancestors to North Carolina. In the process he meets an older white man named David Wilson whose ancestors owned the younger man's ancestors. The documentary covers the research and how these men connected and slowly began to evolve into friends.

Take away all the social science and psychobabble, and I was moved by how the two men - the black David Wilson and the white David Wilson - built a cautious friendship. And speaking of psychobabble, NBC missed the boat on the town hall-type conversation about race that Brian Williams hosted after the documentary. The conversation was too lofty and too academic, and too - as my grandma would say - saditty.

On the stage they had a famous white newsie, a white author who's written apologetic books about slavery, a black poet-turned-reality show cast member-turned author-turned politician, a black professor, and a black woman who is the wife of a wealthy black man.

What they needed on that stage was a mixed panel of factory workers, office drones, etc. - middle Americans, everyday people. No eggheads. No famous people. No famous people's spouses. No people who like hearing themselves talk. Just regular people who, without reservation could have asked "why do white people...," and "why do black people...," and "why do Asian people..."

BTW, the moment I was dreading in the David Wilson documentary, the moment that was equivalent for me to the climactic point in a horror movie? It came when young, black David Wilson hypothetically asked older, white David Wilson how he'd react if the younger man requested reparations. The documentary is airing again on Saturday, April 19th, from 1 - 4 p.m. If you have time watch it to see how that part of the conversation went.

The Cowboy Code: Chapter Eleven, Art of the Bromance

2008-04-16T15:57:00.008-04:00

One of my guys called me earlier. He's feeling lonely.

His two closest male friends have recently moved away - second time that's happened to one of my guys in recent months. So he's craving a new bromance.

On the scale of platonic relationships between straight men, there are acquaintances, buddies and friends, good friends and guys and homies, and bromantics.

You say hello to your acquaintances in the hallway of your apartment building, in the laundry room, or on the smoking deck at work. You grab a beer after work with your buddies and friends. You help your buddies and friends move furniture on weekends. You go on double dates with your good friends, guys, and homies. You will stand back to back with your good friends, guys, and homies in a hostile bar and fight off the onslaught of angry drunks whose girlfriends your good friend/guy/homie hit on. You know your good friends', guys', and homies' parents and siblings. You take road trips with your good friends, guys, and homies.

Your bromantics, though? These are guys you'll make plans to go to dinner with, without a woman along for the ride. You'll do a vacation with a bromantic. You'll meet for Happy Hour for drinks and you'll consume something more frilly than beer. You'll have serious conversations with these guys, about life and religion, and women, and politics. And you'll share your innermost thoughts on each of these topics.

Women have been this tight with one another for eons. But they don't require stupid names for this level of closeness. Well, actually they do. They call it being "girlfriends." But you'll understand why most straight men, even those who consider themselves to be secure and open-minded, would have a problem referring to their closest of male friends as "boyfriends."
But my guy has a problem. As with his romances, he doesn't know how to pick a new best dude friend.

With his romances, he tends to select women who are off the scale, like in another galaxy in terms of beauty, because they satisfy his visual fantasies. But he finds 'em without personality. Or he'll pick the woman whose knowledge of video games and action movies is as deep as his own, but she tends to be the woman who wears lots of flannel and could bodyslam him if she wanted to...whether he objected or not. There's no middle ground for him.

Conversely, when trying to locate another bromantic, my guy tends to pick guys who are only acquaintance material, or basic friend material.

So fellas, if you, like my guy, have a problem maintaining healthy bromances, take note of the rules:

If a dude doesn't get your jokes, he's not bromance material. He's an acquaintance. It's simple. You wouldn't go on a second date with a woman who thought you were dull....unless she was a super model. So you wouldn't hang out with a guy who doesn't think you're funny.
If a dude lacks self confidence, he's not bromance material. When you guys are in the high end cocktail lounge getting your professional-fresh-from-the-office look on, you don't want a guy who is going to be almost clingy with his conversation. You don't want that guy who is going to pine for you when you walk away to the can or to go make a cell phone call. Women in the joint will notice this and will think you two are a couple, or just pathetic. And your chances of planting the seed(s) of romance that evening are shot. Again, would you go on a second date with a clingy woman...who isn't a super model?
If a dude is the smash-an-empty-beer-can-on-his-forehead kind of guy, then he is not bromance material. He is not the guy you have dinner with. He is the guy you have a beer with on that occasional after work-honey-I-have-to-work-late outing to the gentleman's club. As for that second date analogy, think of this guy as you would the woman who belched a lot on your first date.
If, for example, you would not date a stripper, then you should not engage in a bromance with a bouncer. It's not about elitism. It's about connecting with people you have lots in common with.

And one rule for you: if you like women and you don't have one in your life, even for casual dates, then forget the bromance. Grow up and focus your time on getting a girl...or two or three. After you have that worked out, then you can get back to the bromance.

Follow these rules and you too can have a balance in your life of romance and bromance. Don't laugh. Every well-rounded guy needs 'em both.

Random Stuff

2008-04-14T12:22:00.005-04:00

What's crackin' friends? I'm not speaking to my frienemies today.

Hope you all had a wonderful weekend, and thank you for weighing in on the first chapter of our race relations series. If you haven't checked out that post, feel free to take a minute, go back, read it and comment. Chapter Two will post Thursday or Friday.

So my weekend was pretty uneventful.

Saturday morning we stopped at a Miami-area mall for some crap I can't even remember right now. We had the pleasure of seeing auditions for the Miami Dolphins cheer leading squad. Of course, I didn't realize the whole set-up was for auditions, at first. Thankfully Mrs. B stopped me before I could wave dollar bills at the stage. And for some reason no one near me thought it was funny when I called out "skeet, skeet, skeet, skeet, skeet!" Seriously, if you get that joke then you listen to some really bad music...as bad as I occasionally listen to, apparently.

I'm kidding, by the way. I didn't yell "skeet, skeet, skeet..." at the would-be cheerleaders. They've gotta eat too. So more power to 'em. I hope they all made the team, and I hope they inspire better than 1-and-15 next season.

Anywho, we had dinner Saturday night with old friends from Milwaukee, plus one of their friends from here in South Florida. A local TV reporter, who used to work in Milwaukee also, and with whom I'm acquainted (but not friends), was supposed to join our group. But he was a no show. He didn't even call to say he was bailing on us. He is friends with the woman who organized the dinner. Tsk, tsk, TV reporters. This is why you should read your local newspaper and/or your newspaper's Web site. We're always on time. I admit I'm biased, 'cause we're a better, more thorough news source. Plus, pre-Mrs. B, I dated a couple of TV reporters back in the Midwest. They never knew how to turn off the "personality." Every conversation was like the 5 o'clock news had just started. And that makeup - the kind that's powerful enough to resist the hot lights on the set? - is toxic. I swear it ate a hole in one of my shirt collars once. Or maybe I'm just exaggerating that part 'cause I'm pro newspaper and local TV news bites.

We ate Thai. And I fell for the crispy duck...again. I order it repeatedly, because I hope one day it will actually be crispy. Once again though, I had the soggy duck...which sort of got crispy as it got colder.

Sunday I spent the afternoon scooping a fresh batch of tadpoles out of my koi pond. I got about 1,000 of 'em out before I tired of that exercise. It's not very nice to look at, but if I'm gonna prevent this from happening all summer, I may have to resort to putting a net over the pond to keep the mating toads out. Last time I broke out the net it inadvertently became a toad trampoline. I don't know if they couldn't see it, or if they just thought it would go away if they jumped on it enough, but it was a pretty funny sight - these giant toads hitting the top of that taut net and bouncing a foot higher than normal.

And Sunday evening I did homework, looking around for story ideas, hints of trends, and taking the race quiz at artist Faith Ringgold's Web site.

Quick takes on the news:

Barack Obama messed up with his assessment that blue collar and rural folk are so bitter over the bad economy that they've turned for solace to their guns and religion. I'm no fan of Sen. Clinton. Actually, I'm no fan of any of the candidates, at least in terms of political positions. But even if she wasn't being sincere in her criticism of Obama, she was right about his comments sounding elitist. People don't go hunting, because they're bitter...unless they're Michael Douglas in Falling Down. Average hunters go, because they enjoy the sport. And while some bitter people may embrace religion in search for some kind of redemption, the average practicing religious person embraces their faith simply 'cause they believe it, it helps sustain them through good and bad times, and they like it. It makes 'em feel good.
The current issue of Details magazine has a story about this year being the 20th anniversary of The Real World on MTV. Hard to believe that show is almost of legal drinking age. Even harder to believe they still call it "Real." I admit I was hooked on that first New York season, the one with Julie, the country girl, Eric Neis, the model dude, and Kevin Powell, the poet/writer dude, and those other people. I was a fan till I met Powell. He came to speak at my college in my junior year, and the Student Activities director asked me to shuttle him around and what not. So I did. I drove him to/from the airport, etc. And Powell, a couple of other folks, and I ended up out for dinner and drinks after his speech. The abbreviated version is he treated us like no 'count punks who should have been grateful to be in his presence. Not cool. First impressions, ya know?
~~Dr.~~ Phil is half a step away from becoming Jerry Springer.

Real Talk About Race: Chapter One

2008-04-11T17:51:00.003-04:00

Greetings friends and frienemies.

As promised yesterday, I'm kicking off the first of what I hope will be a long string of weekly conversations about race relations, things we know about one another, things we should know about one another, things we think we know about one another and things about one another that just shouldn't matter.

I thought I'd make this first installment personal. Others will be personal. But as we talk and as folks open up, I'm hoping you guys will share stories with me and we'll talk about your questions and speculations too.

So I was having a conversation with a good buddy yesterday and he asked me one of those "why do black people..." questions. I didn't take offense. This is my buddy, and I knew that if he was starting a question out that way, then he really, genuinely wanted to know. And his most comfortable reference point to black people was me, his friend.

Anyway, the question was in reference to two news events that happened in Florida this week. One of them, right here in the Miami area, involved the guy(s) who allegedly murdered a roadside fruit vendor. And the other event was a brutal beatdown applied by a group of teenage girls against a solitary girl in Lakeland, Fla., in the central part of the state.

After these two incidents occurred, I heard about them on the radio before I actually saw photos of the people involved in either case. So as I was chatting with my buddy my first reaction was to shake my head and grimace.

His reaction to mine was to chuckle and say "go ahead, say it." So I said it: "Please God, don't let them be black!"

I was joking, but then again I wasn't.

"Why," my buddy asked. It's a question he's asked me before, and usually I brush the question aside. This time though, he persisted and asked further, "why do black people do that?"

By the way, the girls in the Lakeland beatdown were white. The fruit vendor murder suspect is black.

So let's answer this question and wrap this up. Many black people fear that we still live in a time in which we can't be sized up - for better or worse - stricly on our individual actions. Many black people fear that when one of us screws up we're all going to be scrutinized. It may not be so, but its what some of us fear.

Let's be honest. When you think of an accomplished black man, you do think - even if just for a fleeting second - about him being black. It's not a knock on anyone. It's what we do in this country...still. Conversely, many black people today have personal experiences, memories from times past, and stories shared with them from times even further past about their color being held against them, without consideration for the content of their character. I know people who look like me who compare notes about being lumped into this category or that.

Think about the last time you saw a white man paraded on TV for having committed a horrendous crime. Did his skin color cross your mind, or did you just think "Crazy S.O.B?"

What about the last time you saw a black man in the same setting? C'mon, did his look even cross your mind? I'm a black man. I can admit it. Yes, I thought for a second about him being black. For several seconds. Maybe you didn't.

What can I tell you? I swear to you every time I hear about a horrible crime I silently say that little prayer, 'cause I don't want the offender's behavior to be used as an excuse by some closed-minded person to treat all black people like we all committed a violent crime.

I joked with my buddy that I need to learn to think more like white people in these situations. Why? I've never seen him or any other white person I know cringe when a white person is splashed across the TV in handcuffs and accused of some horrible crime.

I asked my buddy why. He said "I don't know that person. Why should I feel guilty about what they did? Why should I worry that I'll be connected to him. I don't know him. No one is gonna look at me differently 'cause some white guy in Bismark went nuts!"

Refreshing. He's right and logical and appropriately confident. Usually after I say my silent prayer, I chant a silent mantra to the effect of what my buddy said. Sometimes it works to soothe my mind. Sometimes it doesn't.

I'm not ashamed of who I am. You can say I'm proud. But I fear being lumped in with bad people who look like me but don't act like me.

That's my word. What are your thoughts?

Stuff from all over

2008-04-10T10:17:00.003-04:00

I have this problem when there's tons happening in the news and around me. I want to cram it all into one blog post. I'm trying to break myself of that habit, but no luck yet. So right now I'll compromise and instead of five or six items that'll take you 20 minutes to read, I'll limit this post to four short items.

Bad Karma: Two numbnuts in Miami killed the fruit lady, not a drug dealer or a jewel thief, or a sexual predator who had been harassing children in the neighborhood, not a criminal of any sort. They killed a 47-year-old married mother who sold fresh fruit and vegetables from the back of her pickup truck for a living. Who's so hard up for cash that they beat and shoot a fruit vendor, an unarmed mom? Whether these guys are caught or not, they have a lot of negative energy headed their way. And I hope it finds 'em in spades.

To legislate, or not: City of Miami officials are considering a ban on panhandling in parts of downtown, so as to cut back on harassment of downtown workers and tourists. Miami already lost an ACLU-filed lawsuit to a homeless man about 12 years ago, after a court found that police and other city workers were systematically hassling the homeless in unlawful ways. I'm not calloused to homelessness. But I'm all for the panhandling ban. I've written before it's like walking a gauntlet of outstretched arms, open palms, and sometimes harsh or loony words, in some parts of downtown Miami just to get from one end of a block to the other.

Shameless self promotion: I keep forgetting to post my articles. I've been writing a lot of profiles lately. No rhyme or reason. Just coincidence. Here and here are my two most recent.

Real talk: That's what the kids call it, when you're speaking bluntly and honestly and not pulling punches for the wrong reasons. So lately more and more politicians have made public calls for "real" conversations about race relations in the U.S. Apparently it's the latest chic thing for them to say publicly. Clearly they've been reading from the playbook of some major media pundits - TV and print, who like to wax poetic about how "we," whoever "we" are should be having deep conversations about the things that make us different...and similar. I personally don't think it's possible for politicians to have such conversations though, 'cause they would be required to sometimes speak in politically incorrect terms. And they would be forced to admit that they don't know everything about every race/ethnic group. Then again that hasn't stopped some of the pundits. So for the foreseeable future, every Thursday or Friday we're going to have a "real" conversation about race right here on Burnettiquette. No worries. It won't be a black and white conversation. It'll be black, white, Asian, Latino, and so on. You can post questions in advance by emailing me, and we'll discuss them. Or I'll pull something from the headlines and break it down and you can give your take. Maybe sometimes we'll do both. Let's hope we all learn a little something.

Monday Kickoff

2008-04-07T14:23:00.005-04:00

So much to say, so little time. So let's get right to it:

Car-dinger update - After nearly a week of telling me every day that the incident report was almost done, the security folks at my job passed the ball to the human resources department on Friday afternoon, saying in the 11th hour it was too sensitive for them to handle since it involved a potential dispute between employees. HR wasn't sure what to do initially and seemed to be under the impression that I nudged the security folks to pass the ball to them. I didn't. One HR person did give me good advice though: don't park next to the door dinger. Hmmm. Must bite tongue. Must bite tongue. Moving right along, by the time I left work Friday I was so frustrated with the whole thing that I told HR to drop it. So there you have it. I meant well. And all that got me was a headache. This isn't a huge deal. My good intentions haven't paved any road to Hell. But I'll certainly think twice before ever asking an employer to step in and help, if I ever find myself involved again in a non-work-related incident at work.
Politics - With the plans the White House is pitching to bail out people who suddenly can't afford their ARM mortgage loans, I don't want to hear any gripes from anyone of either party about individual welfare recipients mooching off the hard-working taxpayer. This is welfare by a different name. And just like the "brand" of welfare that got lambasted in Ronald Reagan's political ads back in the '80s, this brand involves using tax dollars to bail out people who wanted their American dream to start now, even though they couldn't afford it in the long run. And yes the banks are at fault for issuing so many shaky loans in the interest of quick profit. But ultimately, before you sign on the dotted line, if you don't have sense enough to do a little homework and find out what ARM means then you don't deserve to be bailed out. And BTW, if you run an investment bank (hint: BEAR STEARNS) and you put all your eggs in the quick, easy money basket of high risk mortgage loans, then you're stupid too. Where's my govt. money for making my mortgage payments on time?
Sex Study - I might have been reluctant to post about this one, since this is a rated PG-13 blog and all, but since the Miami Herald ran an article on this last week, I consider it fair game. Apparently a recent survey of sex therapists says that the ideal duration for intercourse is three to 13 minutes, 'cause on average it doesn't take longer than that for most women to feel "satisfied." Ladies, don't kill the messenger. I'm just reporting what these fine experts shared with us. So here's what I want to know: If this duration - three to 13 minutes - is acceptable to women, where did guys ever get the notion that they have to be able to perform non-stop for hours on end? Seriously, EVERY guy I know - I mean my buddies, not casual acquaintances - has always had the same fear in this department, that they won't be able to hang in there long enough to get the job done or to at least adequately display their stamina. It's the reason pornos, from what I've heard, loop the same scenes over and over to give the impression that sex between the stars always lasts for 30, 40, 60 minutes or more, before a conclusion is reached. Well, thank you very much Penn State University - Erie researchers. I am A OK....I think.
Crime - This and this are what I meant when I posted a couple of weeks ago about parents being responsible for their juvenile children's criminal behavior. If you don't wanna click the links, one is to a story about a 7-year-old in Baltimore who went to school earlier this week with a loaded handgun in his pocket and a loaded handgun in his backpack. Authorities say he didn't mean any harm and probably snagged the guns while spending the night at his uncle's house. I'm pro-gun for honest, law-abiding folks, I mean if honest, law-abiding folks want guns, that is. But the adult(s) who left those guns where this kid could get them should be locked up for at least six months each. And they should have to do a year's worth of community service in a hospital ward, working with kids who get shot in avoidable circumstances. The other link is to a story about a group of third graders who brought handcuffs, duct tape and other crap to school so they could do harm to a teacher who'd pissed them off. Little bastards. Where in the world did they get handcuffs? Somebody's parents are either cops or freaks...or both.

The evolution of fear

2008-04-04T12:51:00.006-04:00

I still have no update for you on the car-door-dinger. He's been hard to catch up with the past few days. When I have an update, I'll post it right away.

In the mean time, check out this story about a young man in Homestead, Fla., south and west of Miami, who was arrested on March 27th after making threats over the Internet to carry out a Virginia Tech-type massacre.

So police went to his home and they found a stash of more than a dozen guns, including several AK-47s, and more than 5,000 rounds of ammunition. Authorities are looking into whether the guns were purchased legally. Either way, 20-year-old Calin Chi Wong, who threatened to light things up like Va. Tech was released on $7,500 bond the very next day. He's free. On the street. After making that kind of threat.

There was a time people would have reacted in pure fear to that sort of threat. But what I found interesting about Wong's case is people around here - especially news consumers - sounded pissed off, not scared.

One Friday or Saturday night when I was like 17, I had the evening off from my part-time job at Belk, selling women's shoes. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I made a mint on Nine West. Anyway, I had no date this night, so I was at a gym on a local naval base playing pick-up basketball with my buddies. We were all enjoying a good game - a little rough, but typical for playground style hoops. Anyway, after one sorta hard foul, the recipient of the blow complained that it was uncalled for. It was an accident. He was hit during a mad scramble for the ball. But instead of accepting the offender's apologies, the guy who was fouled yells out that he's pissed off and that he's going out to the parking lot to his car to retrieve a gun. Well, at first we all reacted the way you might expect. We started yelling and running in circles like chickens with our heads cut off. But then one of the guys stops us and says wait a minute. If he supposedly has a gun in his car, why are we allowing him to go to his car? Good question. So our fear instantly turned to anger, and we banded together like Minutemen, sprinted out the door, and caught him before he made it to his car. Then we proceeded to beat him like a cartoon character. I'm not a violent guy by nature. I'm more peaceful than Gandhi. But this guy threatened our lives. Surely no one will disagree with me, when I say this guy deserved it? The base police came. We explained what happened. Surprisingly he didn't deny it. And the police basically told him he got what he deserved. They searched his car and found no gun, made him leave the gym, and he was banned from coming back onto the base.

My point is these types of reactions are good signs, as far as I'm concerned. People who mass murder and people who threaten to do so may be forced to think twice about their actions if they believe us sheeple, the general public will stand up to them and stop them in their tracks.

Cheek turning

2008-04-02T12:30:00.005-04:00

So you all know that I am a man of faith. Not very strong or deep faith, 'cause I'm not very consistent with it. I'm what is technically known as a hypocrite...sometimes. What can I tell you? The closest I'll ever come to walking on water is ice skating at Rockefeller Center in the winter.

One concept of faith that I've never been able to fully embrace though is the turning of the other cheek. I've heard minister after minister exhort their congregations to turn the other cheek, because allegedly that's what Jesus would do if offended.

But I'm not buying it. I've written before that we only have two cheeks...above the waist, and once I've turned that pair I'll no longer be conciliatory over a particular issue. I can't. Beyond my two above waist cheeks, I have the other pair, the pair that helps hold up my pants. And if I turn that pair, I'm likely to get kicked in 'em.

I'm rambling on about all this, because I am engaging in a real-time experiment of the appropriate way to react to that second cheek being slapped.

When I walked out to my car yesterday after work, I noticed a red Firebird/Trans Am parked next to my passenger side. It hadn't been there when I got to work Tuesday morning. As I got closer to open the front passenger door and insert my bag, I noticed an inch-long scratch on the door and red paint.

I stepped back and took a wider look. The Firebird was parked over the yellow line, partially in my space. I didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what had happened.

If this had been the first time I'd gotten a scratch, or the first time I'd gotten a scratch at work, or the first time I'd gotten a scratch from this particular car I might have had a different reaction.

But, believe it or not, two months ago when I was driving a rental car while mine was in the shop, I arrived at work, and parked next to this exact same car. When I left the office at the end of the day, I noticed the Firebird's driver about 30 yards ahead of me. By the time I reached my car, he was in his and approaching the exit to the parking lot. When I made it to my rental there was a huge ding in the driver's door. And there was red paint in that huge ding. I tried to wave down Firebird guy, but he was out of the lot and on his way and either didn't see me or didn't care to stop.

What are the odds? So I sort of know who the guy is. I don't know his name yet. But I see him all the time driving up to the office with the T-tops off, bumping Night at the Roxbury music and bobbing his head in kind.

I've never spoken to him - not so much as eye contact and a head nod, or a simple "hello."

But now I'm going to talk to him.

I alerted the security boss, 'cause I want there to be a record in case I'm unlucky enough to find the only parking space left some day in the future is next to Firebird guy. But I told the security boss I don't want any formal reports that I can take to an insurance agent. I'm not looking for money. I don't want anything tangible from this guy. I good bit of Carnauba wax and some elbow grease, and I'll be able to buff out this latest scratch. I just want to talk to the guy.

So I've been mulling this morning over what I want to say when I meet the door dinger.

There are two incarnations of old James. There is the incarnation that would have turned the other cheek and dismissed it as no big deal. There is the incarnation that would have raged over the incident and walked around with a vein bulging out the side of his neck. That second incarnation may have also planted a penalty shot-worthy kick on Firebird guy's car.

Relatively new James is going to compromise though. I'm not turning anymore cheeks. 'Nuff of that. And I'm not boiling over. I'm getting old. I have to watch my blood pressure.

So I think when I get the guy's ID and find out what department he works in later this afternoon, I'll just introduce myself, explain to him that he's hit my car twice with his car door in recent months, that there is overwhelming evidence against him, so he shouldn't even try to deny it, and that he needs to be a little more careful when he opens his car doors.

And I'll even say it without swearing...I think. I may ask him what the "hell" is wrong with him, but I'll only take that tone if he cops attitude with me.

So that's my social/psych/faith/cheek-turning experiment - shaming the perpetrator. I'll report back later on how it went.

WTMI

2008-04-01T10:59:00.004-04:00

Yes, that stands for waaaaaaaay too much information.

As I write this, I've just finished reading up a fascinating academic/psych paper on what has been driving the new governor of New York, David Paterson, to confess to pretty much everything.

Since the day he took office to replace Eliot Spitzer, who resigned in disgrace because he couldn't explain what exactly he was getting from prostitutes for $4,300 a pop, Paterson has been singing like a canary. From what Matt has told us a good prostitute shouldn't cost more than $200. Definitely an abuse of funds on Spitzer's part.

You realize I'm kidding, right? I mean about why Spitzer resigned.

But I'm not kidding about Paterson. In the past two weeks we've learned that he has had multiple affairs on his wife...at a Day's Inn in Manhattan. And she confessed she's had multiple affairs on him - though at what hotel is unclear. We've learned that Paterson has smoked weed. Eh. So have most of my friends and most of our parents...except mine. We've learned that Paterson has done coke. Hmmm.

A news conference is scheduled for noon today, in which Paterson will admit he once bit the head off a kitten, pulled the skin off a bucket of KFC thighs and wings and then put 'em all back in the bucket for other unsuspecting picnickers, and that he once joined Kenny McCormick in smoking dried cat pee.

Seriously, I believe the old adage that the truth shall set you free. It makes sense. Telling lies and keeping secrets is stressful. Admitting you, all of you, is like unsnapping a girdle, not that I've ever worn one.

Kudos to Paterson for admitting that he too is a flawed person and for clarifying that he hasn't engaged in reckless behavior in recent years, so his past moral lapses shouldn't affect his ability to govern.

But I'm not sure we needed to know all of that.

I have another adage for you: It's the thought the counts. Unless this guy has committed murder or some other violent felony in his past and has "forgotten" to tell people, frankly, I don't want to know anymore about what he's done outside of his office.

There is a caveat: Apparently there is some question as to whether Paterson used campaign funds for his personal romps back in the day. If he did, punish him and send him to Spitzer Island, which soon could have bars and barbed-wire around it.

Otherwise, I'm satisfied that this guy is willing to share his flaws. It's the thought that counts. Now, it's time for him to learn to keep it to himself...in more ways than one.

Friday Debriefing

2008-03-28T18:43:00.004-04:00

What's up friends and frienemies?

I won't whine that it's been a long week, 'cause no doubt plenty of you have had one too. I will say though, I've been swamped working on feature stories for the paper. On a good day in a good week I can slip in a blog post during the work day. But frankly, in weeks like this, by day's end sometimes - especially at the end of a long day - the last thing I want to do is come home and sit back down in front of a keyboard.

All that being said, this week is officially over. So consider this our board meeting. Let me fill you in on the lot and the little of the past few days:

My next article, the one that took up the early part of the week, will run in Sunday's paper and, as usual, will e on MiamiHerald.com. It's a profile of IndyCar racer and Dancing With the Stars Season 5 winner Helio Castroneves. The story's more about Castroneves' life at home and his unique design and decorating tastes.
People can change in a good way, I guess. That guy who tried to bully me off of a public sidewalk near my job last fall, smiled and waved at me earlier this week and asked how I was doing, while I was strolling on a coffee break. Maybe it was for embarrassment. But I give him the benefit of the doubt. If you don't remember that story, say so, and I'll amend this post and put the text of the column I wrote about the incident at the bottom.
Like dance music? I've never been a huge fan. I've never quite been able to tell the difference in "electronica" and "dance" and "techno" and "house." And it all makes me think in the back of my mind of A Night at the Roxbury. I really liked that movie. Either way, I know who some of the big DJs are, and I respect their work. It's entertaining, and it's an honest living. Mrs. B knows more about 'em than I do. Anywho, while on assignment Wednesday night I got to meet Paul Oakenfold. If you're into electronica music, you'll know that name. Nice guy.
I finally lost some of my fickle nature and picked a name for my Web site. I hope to unveil the site within a week or so. Until then, you have to wait to get the name.
It never ceases to amaze me what people will do to themselves in the name of good looks. I stopped in Whole Foods this afternoon to grab lunch and saw a woman with a swollen mug. I was about ready to offer to call 911 for her, under the assumption that someone had just punched her in her mouth, creating a permanent pout, when I realized that she was fresh from a collagen injection. I hope that swelling goes down at least a little, 'cause she looked like she'd been pimp-slapped. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

Reading between the lines and an unrelated tidbit

2008-03-25T14:27:00.005-04:00

First, I'm not sure what to make of an email I received a little while ago from Lifestyle, the condom maker. Maybe some auto search engine their marketing folks use linked my name with "lifestyle" reporting and they thought I was the official boom-chicka-wa-wa reporter for the Miami Herald.

You always have to be careful what you open at work. But the subject line got my attention, so I opened it. It read: "Survey says America likes big butts and it cannot lie."

Hmmm. OK. Again, I'm not sure why they sent this to me. I'm fairly certain there's no bulletin online that says James Burnett is seeking academic studies on large behinds. But someone thought this was newsworthy.

While my own boom-chicka-wa-wa habits are not up for discussion, I did read the attached survey. And I have to confess, it was sort of interesting.

Apparently, using pictures instead of detailed questions, Lifestyle encouraged its Web site visitors to download a free poster portraying the image they liked best. Based on those downloads, Lifestyle would measure what people (I'm guessing mostly guys) like most. Among the choices of picture were a woman smiling coyly while wearing a white tank top and gray undies and sitting on top of a washing machine, and a woman wearing a vest and lowrider jeans with her bare midriff showing.

Now, here's the interesting part. Most of the images used featured full-length shots of women in various poses. The picture that won, hands down, however, was a cropped shot of a single body part: a big butt. It was not a bare butt, BTW. It was covered, in case the I.T. department guys are reading this post in horror right now.

Anyway, 15% more people downloaded that butt shot than any other image on the site.

I have no idea why that interests me, 'cause I have always been a fan of proportionality in ~~human~~ female bodies. But I guess I'm shocked, 'cause in spite of what ad campaigns like this obvious one that Lifestyle sent me and TV and movies and music thrust in our faces, most guys I know agree with me: that a proportionate body is 10X more attractive than a body with one extremely large part...or set of parts.

I'm still not convinced. This is unscientific, of course, but I'd guess that only 1-in-10 guys I know is impressed by a disproportionately large part on a female body. Balance isn't just good for the universe.

Ladies I'm not sure how this Lifestyle survey would work for you. But I'm certainly curious about what y'all think.

And here's the unrelated tidbit: My most recent article, an artist profile in Sunday's paper.

Responsibilty scale tipping

2008-03-24T12:14:00.003-04:00

So I was talking with a cop buddy this morning - several of 'em, in fact - getting their insights in a number of phone calls and brief meetings on a story I'm working on.

As one call wrapped up and devolved into small talk, one of my guys brought up the case of a Miami-area woman whose young daughters got snatched yesterday by a guy she described to authorities as a "family friend." The problem was the woman didn't even know the "family friend's" last name. She knew him only by one of several first names he's given police. He had only been in the area a month or so, and she had moved him into her home...with her daughters. This guy was a virtual stranger. An Amber Alert was issued, and the good news is the girls were found alive and safe this morning in a small city about 30 miles from home.

My immediate response to this story from my cop buddy was that the suspect, if this isn't all a big misunderstanding and he really did kidnap those girls, should have unbreakable fishing line tied tightly around his jewels till they fall off...for starters.

My guy laughed and agreed, but then replied something to the effect of "yeah, but you gotta wonder what the mother was thinking."

And he was right. So that comment led the conversation briefly in another direction, to kids who have recently found themselves in trouble with the law. I used to insist that most teens and some tweens have enough sense to know that violent and assault and murder are wrong - the exceptions being some kids who suffer from some form of mental retardation or kids with diagnosable mental/psych conditions that make them prone to violence.

I rarely budged on that issue. But just like with this Amber Alert case, I'm seeing a rash of incidents involving juvenile offenders that are making me ask what responsibility the parents have.

There's a 12-year-old in custody here in South Florida for allegedly beating to death his toddler niece with a baseball bat, because she was crying too loudly and interrupting his cartoons. A 16-year-old here in South Florida is fast approaching a trial date on murder charges after he and a few buddies allegedly terrorized a high school graduation party and fatally shot a party-goer during what was supposed to have been an armed robbery. Also in South Florida, three more teens - two are legally adults now, I believe - are in jail awaiting charges of assaulting a bunch of homeless people in parks and a gas station parking lot. They allegedly killed one of the homeless, and reportedly admitted it during questioning by police. Before a couple of the homeless-killers were caught, they fled the state temporarily (likely with their parents' help or knowledge) to hide with family elsewhere in the South.

I never, ever would have bought that "he didn't know better argument." And I'm not saying these cases have completely changed my mind about that. I'm just saying maybe the kids alone aren't responsible.

These particular parents can't have it both ways. If their killer kids are so incompetent, as to not understand that violent assault and murder are bad, that's not a level of incompetence reached overnight. It had to've been stewing a while. And that would mean the parents were conceivably aware that their kids were ticking time bombs. And if they weren't aware should they have been?

What do you think; is it unreasonable to put some of the legal responsibility on the parents of killer kids, or do you believe the average parent could be completely caught off guard and not know their kid had it in 'im to kill?

It's not a PC thing to say, but remember, one need only look back to the woman who moved a guy whose full name she didn't know into her home with her two young children, to realize that sometimes the parents do share some blame when bad things happen with their kids.

Locks of love

2008-03-20T11:36:00.004-04:00

That's not a misspelling. I didn't mean "lots," and I'm not making fun of the hair charity.

It is a play of sorts. It's about what you're willing to do for a significant other in order to please them.

No need to get sexual. And I'm not talking about giving a significant other money or gifts. I'm talking about how much you're willing to change yourself for them.

I'm loath to even use the word "change," 'cause lately I've heard it so much I want to permanently expunge it from my vocabulary. If it isn't being offered by the presidential candidates, then it's being requested by someone on the corner in downtown Miami trying to cull together enough coin for the next visit to a sidewalk pharmacist. Needless to say, I've decided to start referring the latter to the former. I hear senators Clinton, McCain, and Obama have plenty of change. Their kind of change may not be worth enough to buy crack, but all three say they want to share it...the change, not the crack.

But I digress.

I have a neighbor. A very cool guy. He too is in the other side club, as in cooler than the other side of the pillow. I've always liked this guy 'cause he's a little loud, a little raw, a little crazy, but always solid, reliable, respectful, etc. He's a good neighbor. He mows some other neighbors' lawns, just because he's a nice guy. He's always quick with a joke and a smile and a wave. And he's always had a really cool Mohawk hairdo.

Not everyone can sport a 'hawk, just like some women can't wear low-rider jeans, and some guys can't wear flat-front slacks, and almost no one should wear biker shorts. You have to have the right 'tude and carriage and confidence to pull off a 'hawk. This guy has all three.

He recently began dating a nice young lady. We don't even know her and haven't been formally introduced, but almost immediately after she began spending time at his house she too started waving and smiling and saying hi and occasionally engaging us in small talk in passing.

Something curious happened after a few weeks of her presence though. The 'hawk started to get shorter, and droopier. The side hair started growing back in. It was like an erect flower had begun to wilt for lack of watering. After a week-and-a-half or so of this metamorphosis, the 'hawk had disappeared. In it's place was a common, Caesar-style haircut that you might see on a million guys in a million places. To top that off, my neighbor's tude changed. He seemed tamer. We stopped doing the Tim the Tool Man thing, comparing notes on lawn mower "technology," offering one another cold, canned beverages, and yelling stupid jokes at each other over our respective privacy fences.

This made me think of the Old Testament character of Sampson, who was so smitten by a woman, he let her chop off his magical hair, which was reportedly the root of his super human strength. She subsequently had him blinded, the story goes, and reduced to a shadow of the man he once was.

A more modern analogy would be the actor/rapper Anthony "Treach" Criss, former leader of the group Naughty by Nature. In the group's 1999 single "1,2,3," in answer to speculation that his long, braided hair was fake and should be cut off and that his girlfriend was pressuring him to cut it off, Treach rhymed "Au contraire mon frere/this is all my hair/I wouldn't cut it for the biggest buttocks out there."

My first question would be what kind of tough guy rapper says "au contraire?" But that's another post altogether.

Treach refused to cut his crazy 'do. My neighbor, I suspect, caved.

Maybe my neighbor is really in love with his new friend. Maybe, logically, he figured her companionship was worth more to him than his very cool 'do.

But this sort of change always annoys me. I admit, it's easy for me to talk big and tough here, 'cause all Mrs. B has ever asked me to change was my beard or goatee, when I occasionally grow them. If I let 'em get scruffy she'll ask me to trim 'em or shave 'em off altogether.

Still, my neighbor's not some kid sporting a 'hawk out of rebellion. He has gray hair. By now that 'do was part of his lifestyle, I'd argue...until Mrs. B told me to be quiet and stay out of it.

It's like going into a strip club and meeting one of Eliot Spitzer's friends. She was dancing on a pole when you met her, and you were attracted to what you saw enough to date her. So what makes you think you have any business insisting she swing her way off that pole a few weeks into your relationship?

I miss my crazy neighbor buddy.

Food for thought

2008-03-19T11:18:00.003-04:00

I have never been much of a conspiracy theorist, but when I heard last week about the soylent water many of us have been drinking - if you drink tap water - I did flash back to my college theories that the moon landing was fake, JFK was shot by several people, and there really are aliens living underground in Roswell, New Mexico. I haven't purposely drank tap water for years. I have been giving it to my dog though. And based on the list of medicines they say are in our water supply, my dog will probably never catch a cold or have a puppy. Of course, he is a boy so he wouldn't have had puppies anyway, although the scientists involved say some male fish in the affected bodies of water are becoming female and having eggs. I'm surprised Cheko the Dog's fur hasn't turned into a coat of armor. He may be getting bottled water from now on.

Barack Obama's former pastor is out there and what we've seen of his sermons on TV has been outrageous. But don't think he's the last religious advisor who will undergo scrutiny. You heard it here first...or maybe you heard it somewhere else. Either way, if things continue as they are, expect the national media - especially the TV folks to begin looking at the ministers whom John McCain has befriended and accepted as advisors, the ministers, who in the vein of Pat Robertson, have given sermons in the recent past about terrorist attacks and natural disasters in the U.S. "possibly" being God's punishment or God's wrath against homosexuals. And if you think it will end there, you're kidding yourself. It'll only be a matter of time before a Catholic candidate is asked to denounce the Pope, because of what some folks view as the Church's once lackluster efforts to control pedophile priests. This ball is only going to start rolling faster.

As long as we're in the vicinity, I had a long chat with a buddy of mine the other day about all this racial chat that's been going on with TV pundits on the cable news networks. He wanted to know if I was angry. I asked in what respect. He said, in general. Based on what the pundits have been saying his assumption is that all black people, or most anyway, walk around pissed off everyday, bitter and hating life. I have an announcement: The pundits are idiots. Besides, if we're gonna be blunt about this topic, why does anyone care what a bunch of middle-aged (mostly white) guys who live in gated communities have to say about what minorities in the U.S. think and feel? What do those knuckleheads know? Here's a tip. Most middle of the road black folks in the U.S. aren't angry. They're cautiously optimistic with a sprinkling of lingering cynicism - a description which, if you think about it, could be applied to middle of the road folks from every other racial and ethnic group in the U.S. too. Remember, the pundits are idiots. And will remain so...until they invite me on.

Ear Torture & Dear Abby

2008-03-17T14:19:00.010-04:00

Greetings, friends and frienemies. Normally I'd be working on my next article this time of day.

Instead I'm posting to the blog, because it is the only way for me to not think about the bleeding in my ears caused by the repetitive sound of a pre-recorded voice in my newsroom blaring "Attention! Attention! Attention! This is security! There has been an alarm..." That comforting line is then followed by a high-pitched squeal for about 10 seconds.

Apparently, we are to remain calm and continue working, the voice says. Of course, that's easier said than done with this audio-water boarding coming out of the loudspeaker system. Still, I'll try to be calm until the voice comes back on and follows the "Attention..." and the squeal with "Danger, Will Robinson." I swear it sounds like the same person/robot...and that person who does the "do not leave your bags unattended" voice in the airport.

Anywho, moving right along. There's a letter to Dear Abby in newspapers today from a guy in Rochester, NY, who says that while he and his fiance were on a visit to his parents' home recently, she decided that she was coming down with a cold. And since the guest room downstairs was so tiny, the fiance thought it would be smarter to sleep in the guy's old childhood bedroom upstairs, I guess so as not to give him her cold. Well, the guy's three brothers were also home for that visit. And their old childhood bedrooms were upstairs too. The next morning the fiance tells the guy she was glad he'd changed his mind and come to her bedroom the night before and made love to her. The guy was taken aback, 'cause it wasn't him. He told Dear Abby that he and his brothers are all about the same size. I assume he was talking about their height and weight, not their twigs and berries, 'cause that would raise another set of questions altogether. He said he confronted his brothers, but none of them will 'fess up. He also said his fiance still doesn't know it wasn't him. He hasn't told her.

This story smells. Dear Abby told the guy she found it hard to believe that even if he and his brothers were the same size, etc., their manner of touch, their smell, taste, etc., could fool his fiance. She also told him to confront his fiance and make her get tested for shell-fish and what not.

I do agree with Dear Abby about the fiance being fooled. I don't think it's possible that the fiance didn't know, not even if this guy and his brothers were identical quadruplets. My thing is I doubt the story is true at all. I think some loon sent it as a prank.

But who knows? I used to think all of Dear Abby's stuff was fake, until I got a call from her. Seriously. When I worked in Wisconsin, I learned one morning of a unique case in which police searched a man's home and took him into custody based on a tip that he had confessed to "dreaming" and fantasizing about doing bad things to his girlfriend's young daughter. He hadn't done anything. But he had the thoughts. The situation was tricky, depending on whom he'd confessed to. If it was a shrink, questions would have been raised about doctor/patient confidentiality, since he actually hadn't committed a crime...yet. Anyway, turned out he confessed via letter to Dear Abby. And it turned out she was the tipster. Against her long-standing policy of letter writer confidentiality, she contacted the police in Milwaukee and spoke with the chief. When the police chief confirmed to me later that was the case, I thought he was teasing. He said he wasn't and would prove it. Sure enough, an hour or so later my phone rings, and on the other end I hear "Hi James, this is Dear Abby!" It's like getting a call from Santa Claus, except she explained she was "Jeanne Phillips" and had been writing under the Dear Abby pen name for years, since taking over the column from her mom.

Sorry, I'm rambling. So folks, especially women, is it possible to hook up intimately in the dark, and mistake whom you've hooked up with? I say no. And if I was that guy I'd have three bruised and broken brothers right now, and one homeless fiance...who had given me my ring back.

UPDATE: The voice from the loudspeakers is back. Now, he's saying "This has been a false alarm. Please disregard. I repeat, this has been a false alarm, please disregard!"

What a tease. I don't trust the voice. I think the voice is like the Wizard...of Oz, conducting a giant lab rat experiment on us poor unsuspecting folks in the newsroom. Silence! We have a newspaper to produce.

Bedtime Stories

2008-03-15T21:52:00.005-04:00

What's crackin' folks? It is Saturday night, and I admit I am three sentences away from taking the lazy way out with this post.

Here, my friends, are the links - here and here - to the two articles I had in today's paper.

The latter, some of you have seen the video for already, but the accompanying article just got published.

Enjoy! More rants tomorrow.

Ferraro-Gate

2008-03-13T13:25:00.008-04:00

When I was a kid - a dorky kid, long before I became cooler than the other side of the pillow - I remember watching a Steve Martin comedy routine in which he was boasting of his amazing command of the English language.

But when it came time in the routine for Martin to throw out a word to describe just how special he was, he stuttered and stammered and eventually spat out "pizazz." That was his shtick, of course. That he was so smart, and yet he couldn't quite figure out how to say what he meant.

So I thought of Martin, over the past couple of days as former congresswoman and vice presidential candidate Geraldine Ferraro shared her opinion of Barack Obama and why he is where he is in the '08 race for the White House.

If you hadn't seen or heard about this issue, Ferraro basically said that if Obama wasn't black he wouldn't be getting so much attention, he wouldn't be leading in the Democratic race, and he never would have gotten as far as he has. She said the same would be true if Obama was a woman...of any color. Ferraro later said her comments were misconstrued.

Obama's camp said Ferraro was out of line. Some of his supporters called her racist. She said she was just calling 'em like she saw 'em and that those lashing out at her were being reverse-racist 'cause she's white.

Keeping in mind that the only horse I have in this presidential race is Dave Barry, whom I would campaign for if my bosses would let me, I have mixed feelings about Ferraro's jabs.

The first thing I wanted to do was go dance in the street with the Lion King soundtrack playing in the background, 'cause Ferraro taught me for the first time in my 35 years on this earth that being a black man in the United States is actually an advantage for me.

Who knew? I guess it is pretty far-fetched to think if Barack Obama was white, blond, blue-eyed and named Captain America that anyone in the U.S. would ever want to put him in power. I mean if he has an advantage with that name, I should be in the running for Emperor of the Galaxy. I'm plain old James Burnett, a name with good Scottish roots. How much more harmless could my name sound?

Seriously, while it is lame for people to use something so sensitive as race in a conniving, self-serving manner, it is equally lame for people who don't think before they speak to use out-of-control political correctness as a crutch and defense to their ill-chosen words.

We all have an advantage. We live in the United States of America. Had to say that. No one's gonna come in here after the fact and accuse me of not being proud to be an American.

Anywho, Ferraro isn't corny because she thinks Obama's not prepared to be president. It's her opinion...one I'm sure she had about Bill Clinton when he ran for president with the experience of a small state governor under his belt. And I'm sure, if she's a history buff, she felt that way about the four or five other U.S. presidents in the last century who ascended to the White House with less than six years in elected state or national office.

And Ferraro is not corny for backing Hillary Clinton. More power to her.

Ferraro is corny for being a hypocrite and then falling back on a weak excuse like reverse racism to justify her use of race as a weapon in the first place. Take note you folks who think the only institutional political types who are in the dark about issues of race relations are crusty old GOP legislators. It ain't true.

So even though I'm not getting a million dollar a month consulting fee, I'm gonna give a valuable piece of thought food to Geraldine Ferraro: You were given the benefit of the doubt by members of your own party back in the day that in addition to your gender you brought brains and skills to the vice presidential candidacy. So who's being closed-minded if you're not willing to give that same benefit of the doubt to the people in your own party who are supporting a different sort of minority today?

Either way, vote Dave Barry!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to exercise my privilege in life by taking candy from a baby, skipping in front of an elderly woman...using a walker at the grocery store, and telling someone, anyone, wearing a badge to go and fornicate himself. These are the advantages of being a black man.

Bits and pieces

2008-03-11T11:21:00.004-04:00

So I've caught up on my beauty sleep, and I'm finding in the three days I was on the road and focused on my day job, all sorts of nutty things have happened.

When the cat's away...

I'm not the cat, but you get me.

Anywho:

My pond - Speaking of being away and mice playing and what not, I have a habit of checking my pond about three times a day - once to feed my koi, and twice to check for tadpoles. I always know when the evil, (literally) poison, Bufo toads, have laid eggs, 'cause they're noisy lovers the night before. Every now and then I get teased for my vigilance. So get this, I leave home on Friday. I'm away Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I come home, and what do you think I find in my pond besides huge fish? About 15,000 toad eggs and tiny tadpoles. The fish are pissed off. I can't blame them. It's like a black cloud swimming in there. This is going to take some work.
The Vatican's new deadly sins - After 1,500 years the Catholic Church has updated and added to its deadly sin list. The new ones are environmental pollution, genetic engineering, being filthy rich, drug dealing, abortion, pedophilia, and causing social injustice. Based on the pollution sin alone, half my neighborhood is going to Hell, especially those knuckleheads who toss their food wrappers and empty beer cans in the street and let their dogs pollute the swale in front of my house. And the drug dealer one makes a lot of sense to me too. You have got to be a selfish person to push poison on vulnerable people and justify it by arguing they want it and someone has to give it to them so it may as well be you, or arguing that you have to pay your bills and feed your family. Bad excuses. Get two jobs or three if you have to, real jobs, not sidewalk pharmacy. Not sure what I think about the super duper rich sin. I admit I'm scornful of most obscenely rich people, but that's because the hater in me is just a little jealous of the fact that paying bills and living with money stress never a worry for them. But if they earned it honestly, I don't see what the problem is. I don't think I even have to the explain why I'm all for pedophilia being on this list. I'm leaving genetic engineering and abortion alone. But I'd be curious for a little more definition on the social injustice sin.
Eliot Spitzer - It's funny. A buddy and I were talking yesterday about the things apparently smart people will do to ruin their lives. Hooking up with hos was one of those things. And by the way, guys, if you do business with a prostitute, like Ludacris said - and I'm paraphrasing - you're a ho too. So how could a man who built his career on law and order and strict enforcement, a man who was nicknamed "Eliot Ness" after the prohibition-era G-Man, be so dumb as to purchase a prostitute? And not just get a prostitute but get one from a Web site? It was wrong, no doubt. But even if Spitzer didn't take issue with his "sin," anybody who watches TV knows high end prostitutes keep records of who, what, when, where, how much, etc. A rising career, and more importantly an intact family ruined. I am curious about one thing though: What in the world were guys like Spitzer buying for $1,000 to $5,000 an hour or $10,000 a day? If I paid that kind of money, I wouldn't want sex. I'd want my house painted inside and out, a few new trees planted in my yard, maybe some sod laid down on a few bare spots in the yard, and if there was time left over at the end of the day she could wash my car...and if she wanted to look sexy while doing the chores I suppose that'd be OK.
Day job stuff - here is an article I had in yesterday's paper. Enjoy, if you have time. It's a profile of an interesting lady.

Where in the world is Carmen San Diego James Burnett?

2008-03-10T14:06:00.004-04:00

Hey folks,

I'm just back in town from a weekend reporting assignment on the road. I'm both swamped and beat. But I will do a regular post this evening after I've rejuvenated a little.

JB

Duped!

2008-03-06T09:58:00.003-05:00

I can honestly say I don't get scammed that often...anymore.

There was a time I might have bought that bridge you were offering or that perfect-for-condo-development swampland you were trying to unload. But in recent years the scales have fallen off my eyes and I've gotten smarter.

One thing I did fall for though was Airborne, that fizzy, alleged cold-preventing, immune system-boosting pill sold at drugstores everywhere. A federal court just issued a $23 million class action judgement against the company that makes Airborne, because apparently everything about the pill was baloney. In fact, baloney would have tasted better and probably cured your colds quicker. Turns out that even the scientific trials conducted by the company to prove it's healing claims about Airborne weren't conducted by doctors, scientists, or even skilled lab techs. They were done by two schmucks who knew the pill's creator. After being called out over the cold-curing claims, the company backed off and said the pill was an immune-system booster. Then they backed off a little more and said it was just an herbal supplement.

My first clue should have been that it was developed by a second-grade school teacher. Not that I have anything against elementary teachers. Mrs. B is one. But if this woman's scientific skills were that off the chain then why was she teaching 4+4 instead of working in a lab somewhere developing medicines?

My second clue should have been that she claimed to study "Eastern" herbal treatments in the development of Airborne.

My third clue should have been that my dad, who is a pretty health-conscious guy broke down laughing when I told him I was taking Airborne for a cold back in January, and encouraged me to enjoy my "sugary alka seltzer."

My final clue should have come when South Park clowned on people who take Airborne. If South Park is making fun of what you do, you know you've got problems.

I may as well have drank a Zima to cure my cold. I'd have gotten more fizzy and less bloat from it.

I have to go now. My allergies are bothering me this morning. And I need to find 500 mg of eye of newt.

Suicide Mart

2008-03-05T11:34:00.003-05:00

I was listening to Footy, a South Florida talk show host, while driving to work this morning, and he tossed out an interesting premise that I thought I'd air out here.

Over the past year or so there have been some really crazy murder/suicides in the U.S.

There was the Virginia Tech student. There was the guy at Northern Illinois University last month. There was a guy last week, I believe, in the Bristol Tennessee area who shot four people at an apartment complex before fleeing and later fatally shooting himself.

And on Tuesday afternoon there was the guy here in South Florida, who walked into a Wendy's restaurant, blasted a bunch of diners and then shot and killed himself.

So I won't get into a deep argument about whether or not the killers needed help. Clearly they needed something.

Also, I don't mean to sound calloused, but whenever something like this happens the experts are always so quick to look for a reason that involves a treatable condition...gone untreated.

But I wonder sometimes if it isn't that complicated. Maybe these people who kill others before taking their own lives are just old-fashioned, unfixable, bat poop crazy. Maybe they're just bad. Those aren't medical theories, and I'll probably catch flack from mental health care workers. But I'm a simple guy. I sometimes think in straight lines. I'm just wondering.

It seems to me that of all the violent things to do, suicide is pretty selfish - especially for those people who are leaving behind dependents and loved ones. And to murder other folks before you commit suicide? That's hella selfish.

But I'm rambling.

Back to Footy's theory. Just for the record, I'm not advocating suicide. But he proposed the creation of Suicide Depots, where if you want to end it, you can go and take yourself out in a variety of ways for a nominal fee. If you're the jumping type, you could leap off a roof at the depot. If you're a shooter, you could do it that way. If you don't own a gun, they could rent/loan you one for the deed. I'm assuming they'd insist on payment up front.

This way, Footy reasoned, people who wanted to kill themselves could handle it in a controlled environment without the "temptation" to harm other, innocent people first.

So go ahead and laugh, or call him nuts. But I don't think Footy's idea was so crazy. I'd throw in one caveat: that anyone who wanted to off themselves be given a psych test first. And if they're deemed mentally incompetent they be denied permission and hospitalized. But if they test clean and competent, then let them do their thing. Better that than frustrating them by denying their quest, so they can go home and plot on how to take revenge on the world or their neighbors before killing themselves.

It's messy. But I think it could fall into one of those lesser of two (or three, or four?) evils categories.

Quick Hits from the Weekend

2008-03-03T11:47:00.004-05:00

Hussein - I have mixed feelings about this ongoing debate over Barack Obama's middle name. Barack Hussein Obama is his name, right? He hasn't expressed any shame over it. It's what his folks called him when he popped out of the womb. So what's the problem? You could argue that all the hype about Republicans using his middle name at campaign rallies for McCain is just that, hype. On the other hand though, while it's perfectly OK to cite someone's middle name when speaking about them, it's just not something we usually do. I mean I don't. I don't go around calling out co-worker's and/or rivals as Joseph Robert Smith, or Jane Sally Jones, or whatever. That sounds dumb. I'm more likely to call out Joe That Rat Bastard or something like that. BTW, I don't believe I have any co-workers named Joseph Robert Smith or Jane Sally Jones. But if I do, I apologize. My use of your name in this post was purely coincidental. So anyway, I have to ask why people in those campaign speeches are calling out Barack Hussein Obama. Don't insult me and say it's because that's his full name. Again, who ever calls you by your full name? The only people who have ever called me out as James "Something that starts with H" Burnett have been my mother when she was ticked off, and the dean of my college when he was handing out diplomas back in the day.
I'm working a theory here. I'm going to drop you guys a single word, and I want you to tell me what it means to you. First, a clue: it does not involve the animal kingdom. Here it is: Cougar.
And speaking of felines, does anyone make a scarecat? I need something to scare away the neighborhood strays. At least one of them has taken to using a bare spot in my front yard as a litter box. And if you know South Florida, then you know the soil can be very sandy. So a two-by-two-foot square of that soil is a loose cat's dream. Come to think of it maybe that's why grass won't grow in this spot.
If you can't laugh at yourself then you're probably no fun to be around. I can laugh at myself. That being said, if you've been looking for a way to make fun of me, well, you haven't been trying hard enough. Even so, I'm gonna toss you a bone. Follow this link and when you arrive click number one for a better explanation of why I write and don't, say, do rodeo or fly space shuttles for a living. A story should follow in the paper tomorrow.
How badly must you hate your job to do this to avoid work?
I have once again changed my mind about health insurance. You may recall that I posted a couple of weeks ago that I thought the blame for our jacked up system and super high costs should be shared by every entity making a buck off the medical industry, not just insurance agencies. I included equipment suppliers, hospitals, etc. But then many of you scolded me for my lack of knowledge of the health care industry and shared anecdotes with me about how costs are so high because of insurance industry trickery. And I conceded in a subsequent post. However, I was watching 60 Minutes last night, and one segment was about a British guy, a former soldier and adventurer, who a few years back started this volunteer medical service called Remote Area Medical that involves a fleet of planes dropping donated goods into remote areas - like jungles - and then volunteer doctors going down to those areas and for a day or for a weekend providing medical care, from basic checkups, to C.A.T. scans, to tooth surgery. Anyway, R.A.M. is so serious about that volunteer label that they operate on a shoestring budget. Here's what I'm driving at: last year RAM's all-volunteer staff saw 17,000 people and did it all on a $250,000 budget. Seventeen thousand people. $250K. I take back my concession. If these people can volunteer their way to these sorts of numbers, then everybody involved in health care, not just the insurance companies, can find a way to charge a little less.

Spanked into freakiness

2008-02-29T14:21:00.004-05:00

A new study from the University of New Hampshire on corporal punishment says that kids who get spanked are more likely than go-sit-in-the-corner kids to have sexual problems when they get older.

Once again, an academic study that doesn't fully make sense to me.

You don't have to like spanking or apply it to your kids.

But I'll bet if you're over 30, when you were a kid you got spanked. Tell me you didn't catch the occasional swat on the behind from your parents. Maybe it was more than occasionally. Maybe it was frequently. And maybe that swat was a full-on smack, but you get my drift.

In case you don't want to follow the link, the study says its authors surveyed 14,000 students at 68 universities in 32 countries, asking the students how many were spanked and how many of the spankees had forced or coerced a partner into sexual activity in the 12 months prior to the survey.

According to the study, four times as many male former spankees said they'd coerced sex than did guys who weren't spanked very much or at all.

Hmmm. Still seems like a stretch to me.

If spanking made you more likely to do crazy sex stuff, I'd be on some offender's list right now, or I'd have grown up and become a porn star 'cause my parents spanked me like God himself was tellin' them to do it.

And look, I'm not that crazy....he writes as one eye twitches.

I think these study authors have too much time on their hands.

I want a study on what kind of freak I should be from all those back hands to the jaw I got from my mother.

Kidding mom. Hee hee hee!

A Twofer

2008-02-28T09:33:00.003-05:00

Bobby Cutts Jr: I'll be damned, I'm shocked. If you don't know, this guy is the former cop in Ohio who was recently convicted of murdering his lover/girlfriend and their unborn child, which she had been set to deliver within days of her death. Cutts appeared to act out some crying-like histrionics on the witness stand during his defense. Definitely not an Oscar-worthy performance. More like Razzies-worthy. He repeated that performance with a smidgen more sincerity during the sentencing phase of the trial earlier this week, begging the jury to spare his life. And they did it. He'll be eligible for parole when he's 80-something. If I was a gambling man, I'd have sworn they were gonna juice him up or send him to the deep fryer. The man killed a late-term-pregnant woman and her viable baby, and they didn't even give him life without parole? Hmmmm. I know some of you don't like it when I talk death penalty, but if ever there was a textbook case for it, this is it. While I don't like capital punishment 'cause of how it is applied in this country - often to innocent people, as proven most recently in Illinois in the 1990s, and often with uneven standards for criminals of different ethnic backgrounds - I am all for the concept. Some crimes are just that bad. Still, this is our system. So Cutts was done justice. I just hope they give him a 7-foot tall 400-pound cellmate whose nickname is Sausage Grinder, or something like that.
Everybody's down with the swirl: As some of you may also know, I live the Neapolitan life. I am ebony. Mrs. B is ivory. We just don't sing together. Anyway, I went to get a coffee before I really got into my work this morning, and an elderly woman complimented me on just how pretty I am. Those weren't her words. I'm enhancing. I think she said she liked my hat and sweater (which I'm wearing 'cause it was cold in Miami this morning). Anyway, we chatted briefly, and she told me I was a nice young man. She concluded her portion of the conversation by saying she should hook me up with her granddaughter and that she'd be proud to welcome a man of color into the family. Um, OK. Of course I told her I was flattered, but I was married. But this was the third time in like a week this has happened. It happened to Mrs. B and me at Costco. We were looking for a bottle of wine, and the wine lady came over and recommended a bottle. Mrs. B managed to escape to the next aisle. But before I could walk away, the wine lady and I were discussing menopause, and how it used to keep her up at night, and how the meds she took awakened her and helped her realize that she needed to be single again, 'cause miserable marriage is for the birds, and how I'm a reporter, and how I love my job and my bosses are the best ever. What? They're not reading this. And then she asked about Mrs B. "Your girlfriend?" "No, my wife." "Well, I'm going to tell my brother-in-law about you. He's a tall, handsome (or pretty; you can use pretty if you want to) man of color too! I'd marry him, but he's unavailable!" Then there was the woman bagging our groceries the other day. She insisted on walking out to the car with us. She asked Mr. B "your boyfriend?" Mrs. B answered "No, my husband." Grocery lady: "Well, that's perfectly alright. I don't see what the big deal is about black, white....." OK, so what is going on? Who's making a big deal about it? Not us. And why are all these folk feeling the need to tell us it's OK? I know it's OK. We're living in perfect harmony...side by side on my piano keyboard.

You might be nuts!

2008-02-26T12:24:00.005-05:00

In all seriousness, let's be clear that "nuts" is not a technical medical term. And mental disorders aren't funny...unless they're in the movies.

Still, are you at work right now? Maybe you're on vacation, or in an airport gate area waiting to board your plane.

Look around you. Are there three other people besides yourself?

If you do not have a diagnosable mental illness, according to the National Institutes for Health, one of the other three probably does.

That's right, the NIH says that one in four adult Americans has head problems.

I don't think mental illness is funny or anything, but I have to wonder how much of these are mental diseases that have always plagued Americans, but just weren't diagnosable before. Or are these mental illnesses that are fashionable to have, the way it's fashionable these days for celebrities to go to rehab seeking cures for everything from saying stupid things to lacking publicity?

No doubt there is abundant mental illness in the U.S. But one-in-four people? That's an awful lot, my layman's brain tells me.

Anyway, I'm sane as the Phantom of the Opera. I hope all you one-in-fours get the help you need, especially since I sit in a cubicle quad with three other lovely, perfectly together people, whom I'd be completely comfortable turning my back on while they happen to hold kitchen knives.

***Editor's Note: Yeah, I'm "editor" in this case. Don't skip the prior post. I'm curious to get your take(s) on the headlines.***

Ripped from the headlines

2008-02-26T09:17:00.003-05:00

There's the news, and there's what we think of the news. I'm curious to get your take on the following. I've provided links too, in case you'd like to read the original stories in their entirety.

A 28-year-old Pennsylvania man is in jail, and his 41-year-old brother-in-law is in the hospital, after they argued over Barrack Obama and Hillary Clinton, and the younger man, a Clinton supporter, stabbed the older man. There is no punchline. Except maybe that Stabby McStabber may not make it to the polls to vote for Clinton in Penn's upcoming primary.
That first one leads me right back to Obama. The Associated Press ran an interesting story over the weekend about how black Americans - the story would suggest lots, even though I'm certain they only interviewed four or five - fear Obama's life is increasingly in danger the better he does in this presidential race. Some of the people in the story flashed back to Martin Luther King Jr. and how he was killed, and he wasn't even trying to run the country. For me, this story presents an interesting contrast. On the one hand it examines this man who has seemingly overcome the skin color millstone hanging around his neck and made himself attractive to people of multiple races and ethnicities. On the other hand it examines a place and time where people still fear his skin color could get him killed if he does too well. Which place and what time do we live in? Setting aside his politics, I think that fear might be rational. I mean there was a time I thought the only black person who could be president was Morgan Freeman, and even then he was usually cast as president in a movie when the earth was about to be destroyed in a day or two. Even comedians have always said that if we got a mixed presidential ticket - black pres. candidate and white VP candidate, or the other way around - some extremist from one race or the other would try to do harm to whomever the top dog was. I wonder.
In my old stomping grounds in Milwaukee, Wis., a woman has filed a discrimination suit against a nursing home she used to work for - she quit; she wasn't fired, because she feels like she was hassled and menaced while working there for speaking Spanish on the phone to her mother, and with another co-worker. In case you don't follow the link, the woman's mother doesn't speak English. And she says she and the co-worker only spoke Spanish to one another in private, personal conversations while at work. She didn't speak Spanish to any of the patients or other staff, since apparently none of them spoke the language. Also, she spoke Spanish at work for more than six years. It was only more recently, when a new supervisor was hired, did the home present (or start enforcing) a "dominant language" policy: that you can speak whatever you want - even on the job - in a private setting and a personal conversation, but around patients you speak the language they're comfortable with and accustomed to. The home's management, after the arrival of the new supervisor, warned the woman in question about speaking Spanish around the patients, and even disciplined her. Their logic was it made some of the patients uncomfortable since they didn't know what was being said, and it took some of the patients' dignity away since they were in the dark. I don't know about this one. I've sat in restaurants where everyone around me spoke a different language. Did it make me uncomfortable? A little, I guess. I'm human. But it wasn't about me trying to mold people in my image. It was about a comfort zone, a lack of familiarity, especially when I was ordering and sometimes eating food whose description I already didn't understand. Living in an area like Miami, I hear all sorts of conversations going on around me that I don't understand. It doesn't bother me. It is what it is. I can't expect everyone to speak what I'm speaking, unless they're speaking to me. On the other hand, who knows? Maybe the nursing home really meant well and just intended to make their patients comfortable. It might not matter though, since an EEOC spokesman says the home's policy may already violate federal anti-discrimination law.

It was a good day

2008-02-24T22:52:00.007-05:00

I don't have any jokes, knocks on politicos, or "That's outrageous!" moments for you.

But I can report this weekend was good, exactly as it was meant to be. As Ice Cube would say "Today was like one of those fly dreams..."

Friday marked the day that Mrs. B and I would have welcomed our child to this side of the world had a sudden ailment not taken our baby from us prematurely in late fall. So we spent this weekend in quiet reflection, enjoying life and each other's company and letting faith, good sense, and even a little science and logic guide us to the conclusion that things are happening in the proper order and we'll be parents when we're supposed to be.

Even so, the past several months have been an emotional roller coaster. Family and friends - and I'm including you all who weighed in through this blog - said all the right things. Co-workers and friendly acquaintances said all the right things.

We asked why, 'cause we wouldn't be human or normal if we didn't ask why. We got bitter. I suspect before all is said and done we will again...and again...and again. We laughed. We cried.

I could wrap this up right now with some sort of ism, some borrowed line from a poem like "Footprints in the Sand," or some figure of speech like "what doesn't kill you..."

But the fact is what doesn't kill you is still likely to really piss you off, at least temporarily.

I'm gonna compare this battle with the struggles of a one-time drunk: Twenty years after you've gone dry, you still ID yourself to new people as a "recovering" alcoholic. Less than five months after our loss, we're not healed. We're healing. We're good but still getting better.

Everyday it gets a little easier. Everyday something falls in place to let us know that God or the cosmos or Fred Claus or whatever/whomever you believe in gets us and gets that we're determined to have kids and raise 'em right and teach 'em how to feel ways about stuff. I believe in Karma and fate and so on. So, I don't believe it's any coincidence that just before the weekend Mrs. B's doctor gave her a super clean bill of health and finally, finally gave us the two-thumbs-up go-ahead to try again.

So with every bit of hippietude I can muster, I'm offering a toast to the architect(s) right now:

It's all good.

Catchin' You Up

2008-02-21T17:12:00.003-05:00

Sorry about my absence the past few days. I have been working on a few articles. Gotta pay the bills.

But I have a lot to fill you in on.

First, I have an article running next week (no worries, it'll be online also, with video) that will make any of you who are car lovers drool. I mean those of you who appreciate power and beautiful, precise, automotive engineering. I'm not kidding. I don't want to give it all away, 'cause it'll take away some of the fun and surprise. But here are four huge hints of how my Wednesday unfolded: Homestead Miami Speedway, 110 - 130 MPH, yours truly, Ferrari F430. There's more to it. But you'll have to wait and see.
Second, I think I may have changed my mind about health care costs. You all convinced me with your comments on my last post about insurance company billing practices. That and the fact that United Health Care is still trying to bend my employer and me over from a mistake they (UHC) made. Plus my podiatrist, who pays $1,500 a month to Aetna for his family's insurance and rarely files a claim for care, just learned they rejected a $300 respiratory medicine he needs. Here's the abbreviated version of UHC's mistake: I went to an urgent care clinic for treatment of a severe ankle sprain last fall, 'cause those clinics are cheaper on insurance than traditional emergency rooms. Fast-forward to today, UHC is still trying to milk money out of my employer, because, as they explained, they gave the clinic the option of billing the insurance company for an urgent care visit or for an ER visit. Hmmmm. I'm the clinic, and I'm told I can bill more or less - my choice. Which do you think I'm gonna choose? Of course, they chose to bill UHC the larger amount. If they had that option, what was the point of me going to them to save money? I may as well have paid more and just gone to a traditional emergency room that was cleaner, and where the air didn't taste of stale plague. Health insurance companies are the collective Devil, and they all deserve rusty pipes in the you-know-where.
Third, I have hope that mankind can learn to get along. Mrs. B and I were sitting outside a Starbucks the other evening, when another patron left, climbed into his car and started to drive away. He made it maybe 40 feet, when a different customer began to back his car out of its parking space, blocking the path of the first guy. The first guy, an older gent in a BMW leaned on his horn but didn't back up. The second guy, a younger man in a Firebird, must not've heard the horn, 'cause he backed right into BMW guy's bumper. BMW guy jumped out of the car and began yelling at the younger guy, calling him a stupid S.O.B. The younger guy replied "Eff you, you stupid (piece of male reproductive anatomy)! I didn't see you." So for the next two minutes they called each other names, with the younger guy looking like he wanted to flee, and the older guy taunting him by waving a wad of cash and threatening to call the cops. They both walked away then, like boxers going to their respective corners. Miraculously, about five minutes later they climbed out of their cars, approached one another, shook hands, traded info...just in case that invisible scratch later materialized on the BMW, apologized sheepishly for how they'd spoken to one another, and they both drove off. Amazing. This is Miami. Under "normal" circumstances, I might have ducked under my sidewalk table in anticipation of one of them whipping out a gun.
Fourth, I've been meaning to say something for a couple of weeks about our useless Congress. But they need to leave this baseball steroids thing alone. I was listening to a sports talk radio show earlier and it reminded me of this. We have hungry people, mentally unstable military vets who need care, police who are outgunned by crooks, average folks who can't pay for decent medical care, and Congress is spending time on hearings about which millionaire jock got a shot of super juice in his butt cheeks and how many times he did it. This is almost as bad as when Congress held hearings on just how naughty rap lyrics are. Did you ever see that episode of Seinfeld where Elaine sneaked nto Mr. Peterman's office and ate is $20,000 slice of cake - a decades old slice he'd bought at auction, 'cause it had been preserved from a member of the British royal family's ascension to the throne? When Peterman found out what Elaine had done, he barely reacted. He smiled and asked Elaine if she knew what 40- or 50-year-old oil-based cake icing would do to her stomach. She didn't. He laughed and told her he had a feeling that when she found out first hand, she'd be punished enough. This is a Seinfeld moment. Those steroid-using jocks are morons. But when their coin purses start to glow in the dark and their junk starts to shrink soon, they'll get all the punishment they deserve for cheating.
Fifth, I'll believe all the tough talk in presidential debates about whether or not to talk to Cuba's next leader with or without pre-conditions, when the tough talkers drop the double standard and insist on pre-conditions from China's leaders too. Remember China's leaders, The guys who ship tons of lead-filled toys, and crappy TVs to the U.S., and who run over government protesters with tanks?

My Health Insurance Epiphany

2008-02-18T15:30:00.004-05:00

I saw the light last week, though some of you may think I'm in total darkness by the time you finish reading this.

So I was sitting in a hospital waiting room for Mrs. B's doctor to come and tell me she was out of surgery - outpatient procedure from which she's recovered fine - and in the recovery room, and it struck me that I'm finally falling off the fence. I don't like the idea of universal healthcare.

Now, before anyone on the right of the political spectrum jumps for joy, let me explain: It' s not a political or partisan thing with me. If it was, I'd point out that the first close-to-universal healthcare system ever proposed in this country came from the late Richard Nixon, 37th president of the United States.

I believe many - maybe most - doctors do what they do because they care and want to contribute to healing folks. But human nature being what it is, I'm sure plenty of them also enter the medical field 'cause there are potential big bucks to be made. And when the average person thinks his enterprising spirit is going to be taken for granted or ignored he loses some incentive and some motive to try to outdo his peers. Trust me, if my bosses said tomorrow that the market size-plus experience-plus merit pay scale was being dropped, and that my salary would become the same as that of some guy who writes his condo association newsletter for $15 per week, I'd lose the fire in my belly. Sure, I'm in this business because I believe in what I do. But I'm human. I also want a good salary for good work. And I promise you a part of me would ask "what's the point" if that distinction in pay was dropped. The last group of people we want to stop trying to be the best is doctors. I like the idea of fixed rates being set for certain services, but we have to factor in quality. Better doctors with better skills and better facilities should be able to charge more than their weaker colleagues, I think. But the scale for medical services needs to be lowered all around, in order to make things more accessible.

So my problem is not so much with the costs of health insurance as it is with all costs associated with healthcare. I have a problem with medical suppliers and equipment suppliers overcharging hospitals and clinics and private doctor's offices, because those hospitals and clinics and private doctor's offices pass those costs on to the few patients who can pay for everything. And for those of us who can pay a portion, those hospitals and clinics and private doctor's offices, simply pass the high costs on to our insurance companies. So yes, I have a problem with $3 hospital bandaids, when they take five seconds to apply, and you can buy them 20 to a box for less than $5. I have a problem with $200 charges for a saline solution drip in an IV. I have a problem with $1,000 injections of anesthesia, $20 3-foot-long strips of ace bandage, $500 a night for "room and board" when you have to stay overnight in a hospital, $10,000 for 20-minute-long, barely invasive, non-life-threatening surgery.

Simply put, "things" like bandages and "relatively" minor services in hospitals and clinics just shouldn't cost so much. If I can buy those "things" in the civilian world for pennies their cost in a hospital, something is wrong, 'cause you know the hospital is buying those "things" in bulk. The cost of a strip of ace bandage in a hospital should be less than a buck. The cost of that salt water drip should be a few bucks. The cost of that bandaid should be a quarter.

What should be left to the free market is the actual cost of a specialist doctor's services. Doctors who are the best at what they do should get paid more than Dr. Nick from The Simpsons and other colleagues who graduated last in their class at the Tijuana Mail Order Medical College. That's only fair. Mrs. B's doctor? I've done my homework. He's been described by colleagues as a star among his peers. His work on Mrs. B has not led us to think otherwise. So I have no problem with him getting the big bucks. He's earned it.

Here's the rub: Everything associated with Mrs. B's procedure last week was covered. One hundred percent of the tab was picked up by our insurance company. Good, right? Maybe, unless you consider we pay the equivalent to a Volvo payment - a Volvo for which you put zero down - for our health coverage each month.

No, the way to make healthcare affordable for everyone is not to nix traditional insurance and give health coverage away. Let people continue to pay. But have them pay what's reasonable. And the truly poor among us? Well, what they can't pay in $$$ can be supplemented. Why not? That's essentially what Medicaid and Medicare do. Let's just expand those platforms to make sure that folks who can't pay for all their care get access to doctors.

That's my generic plan. And if you think I'm all wet, consider this: If those "things" and those simple services about which I wrote were actually more reasonably priced, then the health insurance companies MIGHT quit passing on to consumers the screwing they're receiving from hospitals and clinics and private doctor's offices, who are in turn being screwed by medical equipment suppliers and suppliers. And if that happened, my and Mrs. B's health insurance would probably only cost about as much as a bicycle payment each month.

Elevator Courtesy

2008-02-13T16:48:00.005-05:00

This isn't gonna win me any friends on the second, third, or fourth floors of the Miami Herald building, but one of my major pet peeves got plucked this afternoon.

Who the heck rides a frickin' elevator up or down one floor, when there is a perfectly healthy, working escalator a few steps away? Who?

I boarded the elevator at ground level at lunch time so I could ride up to five, where our newsroom is located. I was wet from having just run through the rain with my lunch, and I was anxious to get back to my desk and dry off and sit down.

A woman who works on the second floor got on with me. She hit the button for two. She does this often. I have bad luck, 'cause I often get caught on the elevator with her. I usually grin and bear it. Today I ground my teeth.

Why do I have a problem with her taking the elevator from one to two? We have a frickin' escalator. A giant escalator that is impossible to miss when you walk into our lobby.

So what possesses you to walk into the lobby, walk past the giant escalator that stops right at the double doors to the second floor biz operation, and get on the elevator and ride up one lousy floor?

You don't even have to break a sweat on the escalator. You just stand on it and it carries you up or down like a metal toothy version of Aladdin's magic frickin' carpet. I'll bet if you stood in just the right way on the escalator it would probably sing to you and massage your calves and whisper to you that you're the handsomest or prettiest person in your cubicle city.

If you didn't attend the elevator courtesy academy, or ECA, as we used to call it when we sang the old school song in harmony while wearing lettermen's jackets and highwater jeans and white short-sleeved t-shirts and Chuck Taylors, then here's the deal:

If you're only traveling one floor in either direction, ride the escalator, not the damned elevator. It's just as quick a trip for you and doesn't slow down people who have to go several floors.
If you're only traveling two floors, and you're not in a major hurry to exit the building or get to your work space, ride the damned escalator.
There are only four reasonable exceptions to this rule. If you are physically disabled ride the elevator as much as you want and if anyone challenges you, feel free to poke 'em in the eye with your cane or crutches or run over their feet with your wheelchair, or have your guide dog bite 'em or defile their leg. If you are carrying a heavy or fragile load, and you could potentially lose your balance and drop it or fall over the side of the escalator, then take the elevator. No need to kill yourself in the name of efficiency. If you are in a genuine hurry - late for work or late for an appointment outside of the building - and the elevator is the faster option, then take it. But I'd still argue the escalator would be faster, 'cause there's no chance of it stopping at every floor to pick up new passengers. And if you are next to the elevator heading up and no one else who works on a higher (or lower floor than yours) is waiting to board then take the elevator if you want. No harm, no foul.

Learn these rules and you too can be a guardian of the elevator.

*One more exception, from Hammer: If you have a diagnosable mental condition that makes you fearful of escalators then fine, ride the elevator. But you'd better have a doctor's note.

From the Weekend

2008-02-11T16:22:00.001-05:00

Political correctness goes awry again...in my humble opinion: I realize that the minor children of prominent politicians should never be the targets of political opponents or media pundits. But grown people are fair game. That being said, I thought NBC reporter David Schuster was stupid and stuck his foot in his mouth late last week when he speculated on the air that Chelsea Clinton was being "pimped out," presumably by her parents, on behalf of Hilary Clinton's presidential campaign. My impression, all things considered, was that Schuster felt like Chelsea was being aggressively used to make her mother seem more attractive to the younger, hipper registered voters. And the truth is, she is being used for that purpose, and there's nothing wrong with that. If I had a powerhouse spouse who once held the job that I want, and an attractive young, hip, child, I'd have them both in front of as many crowds as possible cheerleading for me. Was Schuster suggesting that someone in the Clinton campaign is an actual pimp and Chelsea is that person's employee? No. Was his choice of words to describe Chelsea's role dumb? Yes. Should he have been suspended over those words? I don't think so. At the time he stuck both feet in his mouth he wasn't reporting a straight, plain, news story. He was participating in a broadcast segment in which he was expected to share his opinion. He tried to do it in a hip, snarky way. And it backfired on him.
The new face of irony: British singer Amy Winehouse. Winehouse, who won five Grammy Awards last night, got one trophy for her record "Rehab," a song whose chorus goes "They tried to make me to go to rehab and I said no, no, no!" But Winehouse did not attend the Grammys. She performed via satellite from the UK, where she is in...rehab. Seriously. But all kidding aside, good for her. Crack kills.

Absent bears: I watched "Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon" the other night for like the 15th time. And it finally clicked with me what about that movie has always bugged me. No pandas. During those fight scenes in the bamboo forests, I wanted to see pandas come darting out of the woods, putting the bear smack down on unsuspecting hikers and travelers, sort of the way grizzlies do in the wild in the U.S. Don't ask me why. I just wanted pandas in that film and never got 'em, and it bummed me out.

Karma sleeping on the job: I wish I had a photograph for you, but all I had on me was a cell phone camera with no flash when I encountered the following scenario on Saturday: Mrs. B, Cheko the Dog, and I were walking around the neighborhood and found ourselves next to a very well kept house several blocks from our own. We always compliment this place on our walks, 'cause the owners/residents make such an effort. Anyway, on their side fence the residents had posted a new sign to the effect of "You are responsible for your dog's waste....If he goes right here, please pick it up." So what do you think was lying in a tightly coiled pile right under the sign?

Being sympathetic vs. being a pushover: Mrs. B and I attended a very productive meeting of homeowners, landlords, neighborhood activists, and city officials the other night. At issue was the gentrification of the neighborhood. We live on the south end of the 'hood. Some of the residents on the north end of our neighborhood are located just blocks from what amounts to a giant soup kitchen. So at all times of the day and night they have homeless rifling through their trash cans, sleeping and relieveing themselves on lawns, leaving their empty food containers on lawns, and generally hanging around on lawns. Thankfully absent was the recent-former police chief who at a similar meeting a few months back suggested I was a mean person and accused me of trying to legislate homelessness into illegality, because I asked him if there was anything the police could do to help move people along. I'm glad the old chief was absent, because I didn't have to explain again that his argument was apples vs. oranges, sympathy vs. sucker-hood. Homelessness can't be legislated anymore than we can mandate that every human is required to keep a roof over his head. What can be legislated, however, is behavior to some extent. If you spend hours at a time hanging out in front of someone else's house, dropping trash everywhere, relieving yourself, and hollering at passing cars, you're not a problem because at the end of the day you don't have a roof over your head. You're a problem because you're loitering and being a nuisance - mostly on private property, and you need to move on. If the former chief really believed that nonsense about a cop crackdown being tantamount to treating homelessness like a crime then he's a pushover, 'cause if you're being a nuisance on other people's property and you have nowhere to go, then the the government agencies that snatch taxes need to move you somewhere where you can get appropriate help and care.

And Mother of the Year goes to...

2008-02-06T15:37:00.000-05:00

This woman, who has successfully redefined "Buckle up for safety!"

Till death do you part

2008-02-06T14:54:00.000-05:00

So the University of Michigan's Institute for Social Research just released a study that confirmed what some of you have hinted at in the past: the longer you're married the more your spouse irritates you.

While I am certain I hardly ever irritate Mrs. B, and Lord knows I can't even say the word "irritate" in the same sentence as her name - he he he! - I wonder if it really took an academic study to reach this conclusion.

From the time I first heard reruns of The Bickersons, to the staged spats between Alice Faye and Phil Harris, to watching George and Weezy and Al and Peggy Bundy, to hearing my folks behind a closed bedroom door whisper sharply at one another so as to perpetuate the delusion to my sister and I that they never argued, it became clear to me that the longer you're around a significant other the more they pluck your nerves.

I'm only 2.5 years into this marriage thing, but even before I got hitched I always assumed that the irritation arose 'cause you are constantly around one another. She or he is there when you go to sleep - or at least they should be, unless they're working a night shift. She or he is there when you wake up. Irritation is inevitable.

Hell, I'm irritated right now with the people sitting on either side of me in my newsroom, just 'cause they're here and I see 'em every damn day. No other reason. And I'm not even married to them.

I'm kidding! Really. I love them all. And I'd be beside myself if I had to say do all my writing from home, from my front porch, with a glass of lemonade, some smooth jazz playing quietly, my dog laying at my feet, and no co-workers also chasing stories on the phones around me.

But seriously, I always admire elderly married couples, 'cause frankly I don't know how they've gone so long without stabbing one another with ice picks or poisoning one another's food or something.

When I was covering crime in Milwaukee, I had a case in which a wife was arrested and faced possible charges ranging from major battery to attempted murder, after she nearly beat the brains out of her husband with a frozen fish, 'cause he came home from work, saw what she'd made for dinner...again, and criticized her cooking. She was irritated.

Anyway, if you read the entire synopsis of that Michigan study you'll see that getting irritated with your spouse isn't necessarily a bad thing. The study says that couples over 60 seemed to report fewer problems with their spouses - the suggestion being that after a while they simply grew more comfortable with and less critical of their spouses' irritating habits.

Does that mean they simply wore down and gave up complaining, or they became more accepting over time?

Who knows? But maybe one day Mrs. B will stop leaving her boxers and shoes and yesterday's newspaper laying all over the house.

Wait a minute. I do that. Nevermind.

Monday Quick Hits

2008-02-04T10:51:00.000-05:00

Greetings sports fans. Long weekend, but good weekend. I'm sad it's over. But I did have fun, gain a few insights and stumble across a few life mysteries.

First, Mardis Gras -After a day of grueling yard work and koi pond rehab on Saturday, Mrs. B and I strolled a few blocks to our fair city's downtown for the Mardis Gras parade and festival. It was a lot of fun. It wasn't New Orleans or Bourbon St. But I've done Mardis Gras in New Orleans and frankly Saturday I did not miss the stank smell of presumably human urine and vomit, or the sight of awkward, equally smelly back alley sex. If you have a younger teenage child or a sense of humor or you're cooler than the other side of the pillow like me, or all of the above, you'll appreciate this next point. Best moment of the night for me was when the South Broward High School marching band in full band uniforms on a warm evening, stopped in the middle of their stellar performance to do an abbreviated version of the Superman dance. Hilarious.
Moving right along to colored eyeball contacts - You know how I quoted the coach from Teen Wolf the other day saying never play cards with a man whose first name is the same as a city? Well, I've always had a similar distrust for anyone who wears colored contacts on any day of the year that isn't Halloween. Over the past couple of weeks I've made several short runs to a supply store near my house to get repair materials. One of the employees was especially helpful, but a little too eager, even offering to come over to our house to help, since he lived nearby. Mrs. B thought that was weird. I did too, but I guess Iwasn't completely alarmed. And then we went to the supply store Saturday morning and this dude had translucent blue eyes....He didn't have them before. I know this makes me nuts. But only after seeing the eyeball change did I deem this guy completely untrustworthy. If I can't even look you in the eyes and see your eyes, what else about you am I not seeing? The only reason for a guy to wear colored contacts on any night that isn't Halloween is that he's moonlighting as a stripper or a Man-Ho.
Super Bowl - I'd say I'm sad for the Patriots, but I'm not. Sure, the New York Giants defense beat Tom Brady like he stole something. But if I was a New England Patriot just waking up feeling bummed out this morning, I'd immediately stroll to my wall safe, remove a few dozen $1,000 bills, microwave them to make them soft and warm and then dry my tears with them and bathe in them. And then I'd create a new sports-related award like the Pimpin' Ain't Easy trophy and give it to myself and declare that the trophy ceremony has to take place in a beach-side villa in Tahiti.
Super Bowl ads - Hands down, in my humble opinion, the funniest ad was the Doritos commercial where a guy in a fancy suit slices off the corner of a dorito with a knife, places the slice on a mouse trap, places the trap in front of a mouse hole, turns on some opera, grabs the bag of Doritos, pulls up a chair in front of the mouse hole, and sits and waits for the bait to be taken. Except a mouse doesn't come out of the hole. A giant mouse crashes through the wall and starts wailing on the suit guy.

Feelin' ways about stuff

2008-01-31T10:14:00.000-05:00

I felt my age yesterday when I revisited a Miami high school that could be a real life version of that school from Fame. Just with better weather and nobody running around in leg warmers and leotards and randomly breaking into song.

No worries. I'm not a dirty old man who hovers around teenagers. I was there working on a story about a group of kids who designed such an impressive set of artistic, futuristic, furniture that it is on its way to Basel, Switzerland, soon to be displayed in the summer at Art Basel, one of the largest, most hoity toity art festivals in the world.

I like to think I'm a youngish hip guy still. I mean marriage hasn't completely left me in need of hip replacement.

But as I tried to connect with these kids once more to let them know that I too once frowned a lot and felt things about...other things, they just gave me that look, the same one I used to give my parents. While I am in theory old enough to be their dad, these kids could have cut me some slack, 'cause in generational terms I'm closer to them than their folks.

No dice. I'm thinking if I'd worn black jeans and black t-shirt I might have gotten in. That appeared to be the uniform for the artistic kids, whose company I really, genuinely enjoyed. One of those ~~little brats~~ cool kids even commented that my nicely tailored, cream colored, side-vented, single-breasted, peaked-lapel suit, purple pocket square, and sky blue windowpane shirt - that's right; I can dress myself, dammit! - reminded him of an "old" video he'd seen of Miami Vice.

Still, kids don't know everything. For example, they didn't create the first cussword substitute with "fudge it." When I was sporting my Member's Only jacket, you didn't make your swears obvious then either. Like, you wouldn't say that something was effed up. You'd say "that wangs chung!" Get it, like the band? That way you confused your parents and managed to criticize something you didn't like.

In the words of Michael J. Fox's coach in Teen Wolf, "There are three rules that I live by: never get less than twelve hours sleep; never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city; and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Now you stick to that, and everything else is cream cheese."

Bet those smart Fame kids didn't know that.

Code Words II

2008-01-29T22:55:00.001-05:00

The last time I commented seriously about presidential politics, I weighed in on Delaware Sen. Joe Biden's "compliment" that Illinois Sen. Barack Obama was a clean and articulate guy.

As you may recall, Biden caught heat from folks who asked this hypothetical: if Obama had been a well-spoken, clean cut, 40-something white Harvard educated attorney and freshman U.S. Senator, would Biden have still felt the need to compliment Obama's appearance and speech, or would he have taken them for granted?

I don't like thin skins, and if you read this blog regularly you know that already. Nor do I toss bombs like "racist" too often. But that hypothetical struck a raw nerve with me, 'cause I've been on the receiving end of such code-worded compliments - the kind that read between the lines "I'm impressed with you, 'cause I wouldn't expect someone like you to be so (fill in the blank)."

So keeping in mind that I don't do partisan politics, 'cause I think don't think donkeys are funny and elephants are only cool on the Discovery Channel, and I don't have a horse in this presidential race...other than Dave Barry, don't get mad at me if what I'm about to write is a shot at your candidate:

Anyone who is delusional enough to believe that crusty, old school Republicans are the only politicians, or even the predominate politicians, who condescend to ethnic minorities with coded language has not been listening very closely to the words of former Pres. Bill Clinton in reference to Barack Obama's potential abilities to run the country.

I can't fault the former president for vigorously advocating for his wife, Sen. Hillary Clinton's presidential run. But when he does it by dropping between-the-lines hints that many minorities support Obama just because he's half black, then Clinton is essentially suggesting that black people are not smart enough to pick a candidate because they simply like his positions more than his opponent's.

When asked by a TV reporter to comment on Obama's South Carolina primary victory, Clinton replied in part that Jesse Jackson had also won the South Carolina Democratic primary in 1984 and 1988. Hmmm. Why mention Jackson's victory? Why didn't Clinton compare Obama's victory to his own South Carolina primary wins in 1992 and 1996? What about Al Gore's South Carolina primary win in 2000, or John Edwards' in 2004? Clinton singled out Jesse Jackson's victories, in my opinion, to diminish Obama's win as being significant only because he is half black, to suggest Obama's win was a "black thing."

Bill Clinton, the guy who gladly accepted the label of being the "virtual first black president" from some numbnut who didn't get a good look at the former president before making that assessment, would never dare scoff at blocs of white voters and suggest they support a particular candidate just because that candidate is also white. He'd never dismiss a white candidate's victory as being the result of that candidate's skin color.

Why, you ask? I don't know. You'd have to ask Clinton. Maybe he gives white voters the benefit of the doubt that they have sense enough to pick candidates for the right reasons. What kind of credit he gives white politicians to whom he's not married, I don't know.

It all sounds very racist and non-Democrat to me, at least according to how the TV talking heads have described the Democratic Party's collective tender heart. And to all the preachers, retired politicians, and former peddlers of self-defeating music video channels aimed at black people, who have publicly suggested Obama isn't black enough or "real" enough because he hasn't made a career out of his race, shame on you for perpetuating that sort of stereotype.

Remember, I'm voting for Dave. And if I were to simplify my beliefs and concerns to a 10 point scale, I'd say that none of the candidates from either major party get more than a few points. So I don't care if you love Obama, hate Obama, love Clinton, hate Clinton, love McCain, hate Romney, sort of like Huckabee, etc.

But the actions of some of Obama's rivals remind me that subtle, deceitful racism is alive and well, and not always from the people the pundits warned you about.

We are (potentially) famous!

2008-01-27T23:58:00.000-05:00

What's crackin' people? Almost time to head back to work.

Before I forget, I haven't forgotten that I said I'd reveal the name to my Web site. But I'm a little indecisive right now and still stuck between two names. I'll try to choose by the end of business on Monday.

Moving right along, I was just lounging and thinking about how loose a definition we've put on fame nowadays.

Sunday evening NBC aired a two hour Guinness World Records special, culminating with a live stunt in which a motorcycle rider, sped his bike through a makeshift tunnel ringed in 1,000-plus degree flames. He made it. He broke a world record for something like longest ride through a flaming tunnel.

I guess I understand people getting titles and fame for unbelievable acts.

One guy was a stunt man who got up on a 300-something foot platform and jumped onto a giant airbag. He didn't miss the bag and splatter on the ground! Or land on his face or his head. He set a record.

Another guy smashed more watermelons with his head in a minute than anyone else, assuming someone else somewhere has tried the same while a stopwatch ticked off the seconds.

A group of guys competed to see who could suck the longest spaghetti noodle into their noses and stretch the noodles intact out of their mouths.

And another guy shoved six swords down his mouth and twisted them around before yanking them out. NBC called him a sword swallower. But the swords didn't come out the other end, so as far as I'm concerned he just tasted 'em and spit 'em back out.

All stupid? Yes. But all qualified as wild and crazy acts, worthy, I guess, of a mention in a book and on an occasional TV special about odd records.

What got me though were the people on the show who "won" titles for things they allowed to happen, things that didn't require any proactive effort or even oddball talent.

There was the woman with the longest beard, who after proving she was born and still is a female, had her unusually long beard measured. She won a world record for not shaving or plucking or waxing or electrifying her chin hair.

There was the guy from India with the world's longest fingernails, and the other guy with the world's longest hair. They hadn't trimmed in 50 and 40 years respectively.

Should there really be trophies handed out for not grooming? In theory, someone, one of you perhaps could go without deodorant for the next year or so and win a title for strongest B.O. by someone in your town. Not me, of course. I treasure my sweet, sweet scent way too much.

Time for me to sign off. I'm going to go work on my world title for most consecutive years - 2.4 and counting - a guy named James Burnett has slept in this house.

See you in the record books.

No freakin' way!

2008-01-23T23:00:00.000-05:00

Remember a couple of weeks ago I asked to what extent you'd expose your flaws for money?

Well, it has come to fruition sort of, in the form of a new game show, Moment of Truth, on Fox. This show takes "what would you do for a Klondike Bar?" to a new level.

Moment of Truth premiered tonight after American Idol. And if you didn't see it, contestants didn't really need to flex any mental muscle. They just had to tell the truth.

First, contestants are hooked up to a lie detector and asked 30-something questions, many of them realllllllllllllllllllly personal and deep. They're not told how the machine interpreted their answers, as true or false. Then they're brought on stage and the host explains that they can win up to $500,000 as long as they answer 20-something of the questions truthfully, to the extent the answers they give on stage match the truth as interpreted back stage by the lie detector. The first six honest answers = $10,000. The next five, $25,000. The next four, $100,000, and so on. The catch is if at any point you give a false answer - at least to the extent it contradicts the polygraph machine - you lose everything, even the money you've "earned" up to that point.

Sounds simple enough, right? Not at all. As you answer questions, three people - loved one and two friends - sit directly across the stage from you, just watching and listening and reacting to your answers.

The first contestant was Ty Keck, a personal trainer and former pro football player. Across the stage sat his very attractive wife of two-and-a-half years, and two good friends of his. And I'm guessing right about now that Keck wishes he'd stayed home.

The first couple of questions were easy, things like whether Keck thought he was the best looking person in his circle of friends, and whether he'd ever feigned sickness to cancel a training session with a client. He truthfully answered yes to both things.

But then Keck was asked if he'd ever looked at another ball player's twig-n-berries in the locker room, whether he'd ever had sex on the first day he met a woman, whether he's ever done anything that would cause his wife to lose trust in him, and whether he had put off having kids because he wasn't sure he'd be with his wife for the long haul. Again, Keck truthfully answered yes to each of these.

To say wifey was shocked is an understatement.

A twist to the game is that if she'd heard a question that she didn't want the answer to she could hit a buzzer and the host would ask a replacement question...with no guarantees that it would be easier than the first question. Or if Keck reached a question he didn't want to answer in front of an audience, he could quit, take his earnings and leave the stage.

I was shocked that Keck's wife, though obviously shaken, kept telling him to continue, because she was curious. He made it past the $25K round, and was two questions away from $100K, when he met his match with a question about his job: had he ever touched a (presumably female) client more than was necessary during a training session?

Keck answered no. The polygraph said that was a lie. He lost.

So let me get this straight. This guy exposed his lack of truthiness and admitted to shortcomings his wife didn't know in front of a television audience for a chance at money?

And he went home empty-handed? I'm gonna guess that it's probably better he didn't make it all the way to the $500K, 'cause by the time he got home he'd have been splitting that check down the middle with Mrs. Keck and her divorce attorney.

Oh, and there was irony. After each uncomfortably honest answer, the host asked husband and wife if they'd like to continue, and "at what cost?"

Good question.

Better late than never

2008-01-23T22:51:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday to Mrs. B. And by "late (in the title)," I don't mean I forgot the day. I didn't. I just mean I forgot to post it here.

Anyway, she doesn't look a day over 25.

There, that should earn me a few points. Kidding. Or am I?

James needs your advice...for real

2008-01-22T21:10:00.000-05:00

I'm putting together the elements of a Web page that will be home to my doodling, a place where you'll be able to connect to my news reporting which is published originally in the Miami Herald and on MiamiHerald.com, this blog, and other projects I'm working on.

But I'm having trouble settling on a name for the site. Mrs. B says I should keep it simple, like my name dot come. But JamesBurnett.com is taken. I've seen a few variations of it with dot net and dot this and dot that, etc., but nothing I like so far. So at this point I'll take clever over simple.

Thoughts?

If I end up using your clever recommendation, there'll be a reward in it. Not sure what, but I'll think of something.

Oh, and speaking of news reporting, here's a piece I wrote with a colleague in Sunday's paper on DVD & CD piracy.

Weekend wrap-up

2008-01-20T23:48:00.000-05:00

Greetings, sports fans. I am a sad one tonight.

I've never been a hardcore sports junkie. I mean I played a few in high school. I've spent plenty of time on many couches watching games on TV. For a couple of college basketball seasons back in Milwaukee three co-workers and I shared some three-rows-up-from-the-court season tickets to Marquette University men's basketball games.

But I've never been one to get emotional about sports. Until tonight. The Green Bay Packers lost to the New York Giants in the NFC championship game. It was very likely Brett Favre's last playoff game, and thus his last shot at another Super Bowl. I was fortunate when I lived in Wisconsin to have gone to Lambeau Field and seen Favre play "in person." Our seats were on the 50-yard line, about 10 rows up from the field. Very cool experience to match the freezing cold outside. Anyway, I'm hardly the expert, but with all due respect to Tom Brady and the Manning brothers, Favre strikes me as the last incarnation of that old school warrior type of quarterback. I hope he gives it one more year. I hope the Packers find a consistent running back. I also hope the Packers develop a better defensive scheme than they had tonight against really fast, really tall wide receivers.

Moving right along, I saw Super Bad last night, and I think it's the funniest high school/teen/angst movie since The Breakfast Club. Super Bad cracked me up on a number of levels. First, instead of trying too hard with a complex plot it focused on the heart of the matter for teenage boys: The film's heroes desperately wanted sex before they graduated. And that was pretty much the gist of the film, that and finding alcohol to bring to a graduation party at which they hoped their sex dreams would be realized. Second, these kids cussed a lot. My first reaction to that was to frown. But then I remembered, once we got out of earshot of our parents, my guys and I used to say all sorts of foul things in high school. We weren't very good at swearing though. There's something weak about a cussing virgin. The words lack a certain punch and sincerity and skill.

Finally, it's Monday morning now. Federal employees everywhere, and even a few private industry worker bees have a day off of work in observance of the late Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday. Most will not do anything to mark the day, not even engage in a minute of quiet reflection. Most won't think twice about whether or not the movement he inspired has helped make the U.S. a better, fairer place. Hell, I didn't do anything to mark this day but be one of the black reporters once again called on to write a story about King's impact on modern society. Maybe that would mean something if I'd volunteered to write the article. But I didn't. Never do, come this time of year. So I won't be hypocritical with my snarkiness. As my pops used to say, I have one accusatory finger pointed out and three more plus a thumb pointing back at me. Some folks will even try to politicize King today and question whether he'd align with Republicans or Democrats if he was alive today. King wasn't even close to being a deity. He had problems. He was human. But he had a brass set and proved time and again that he was willing to put his life on the line for a concept so simple as us all just getting along. So when I think about how seriously we don't take his legacy, I think about all those folks who darken the doorway of their neighborhood church once a year - at Christmas, and then go back to the same ole, same ole.

Till next year this time, if you don't already do this. strike up a conversation from time to time with the stranger sitting next to you on the train to work or across from you at the coffee shop, or whose dog is romping with yours in the park. And make it challenging. Pick a stranger who bears no outward resemblance to you. You might be surprised to learn what you have in common. A parting shot: While walking our dog Sunday afternoon, Mrs. B and I stoppped for food-to-go and coffee-while-we-waited at a little cafe in our neighborhood. While she was inside getting the coffee, Cheko the Australian Shepherd/herder and I waited on the sidewalk. A scruffy looking middle-aged white guy sporting an intense look and a ponytail approached from across the street. What can I tell you? I tensed up. Strangers spook me sometimes. But then we made eye contact. In a split second I had to decide whether to look away or hold his gaze. I held. He smiled tentatively. I reciprocated. He stopped and asked to pet my dog. I allowed it. He correctly guessed my dog's breeds and said he had a similar mix back home that he missed terribly. Five minutes later I was shaking hands with Larry from Seattle, who is on vacation in South Florida till Tuesday, making suggestions on where he should dine and drink, introducing him to Mrs. B as she returned with our coffee, and wishing him luck on the decision he'll have to make soon on whether to stay in Seattle or move to South Florida now that his youngest kid is grown and moving out of the house.

Is it a realization of King's dream(s)? No. It's not that dramatic. But considering the state of the Union, it's a good start.

What is James thinking?

2008-01-15T23:20:00.000-05:00

What's crackin', folks? Been doing a little reporting the past week or so, exercising the day job, 'cause I have bills to pay. But I've been thinking about you guys. Seriously. And if, like John Malkovich, I could somehow let you inside my bean you'd have heard me pondering the following 20 questions in my absence:

I don't want to think about Britney. But I can't help thinking about Britney. I know the pundits keep comparing her downward spiral to that of Anna Nicole Smith, but I wonder if I'm the only one who sees a little bit of Lupe Velez in her?
Why is it than when Mrs. B had a procedure done on Friday that involved X-ray, the doctor, who invited me to stay close, only made me wear a lead-filled protective vest that covered my upper torso and my boys down below? If that X-ray was so potentially dangerous, shouldn't I have been wearing a lead hat and face mask too? I ~~like~~ liked my pre-microwaved brain.
I'm not supporting anyone for president this year - except maybe Dave Barry, but I'm tired of candidates suffering in polls and ratings over superficial qualities. Take John McCain. You may not like him or his positions. But he has experience. I wonder though if in his own party his experience will eventually be overlooked because of his advanced age. I mean is he gonna get "Bob Doled," just 'cause he's a senior citizen?
And speaking of superficial qualities, on the other side of the political spectrum, I know that Hilary Clinton, Barack Obama, and John Edwards are playing the games too. It's what politicians do. But why is it OK for Clinton to pepper her speeches sometimes with the reminder that voters could make history by making her the first female president, but it's not OK for Barack Obama to remind voters that he could make history by being the first ethnic minority president? If that would constitute him playing the "race card," isn't she playing the gender card?
And why are the Democratic candidates arguing over who's more or less like MLK and JFK, anyway? NONE of them could hold MLK's or JFK's jock straps.
Moving right along, but still on the old Political Road, can someone explain to me why Bob Johnson, billionaire founder of Black Entertainment Television, while introducing Clinton at a campaign rally the other day managed to question Barack Obama's morals and not get called a hypocrite for doing so? Am I nuts, or is this the same Bob Johnson who made his billion-plus dollars by peddling to a largely black audience brainless music videos featuring rappers bragging about cash, cars and homes they didn't really have, disrespecting women, and graphically describing criminal activity? And yet Obama is immoral? Hmmm.
Why does this orange stray cat on my block keep bringing dead birds up to my front door? I don't think I've ever said anything nice to this cat. Why bring gifts? I'll bet Mrs. B feeds him.
How cool was it a couple of weeks ago that temperatures got so low here in South Florida - wind chills in the 30s overnight in some spots - that we had an excuse to use our fireplace for a couple of nights? I'm always looking for an excuse to do torch a log or two in that thing during "winter" down here.
How is it that doctors can X-ray, scan, or ultrasound virtually everything inside your body, but when it comes to prostate exams they still have to shove a tube or a pipe in your bum to look around? I had a doctor's appointment earlier this week, and even though it'll be a good long while before I see 40, the doc was kind enough to offer a prostate exam. I declined. I've gotta get counseling and get my head right, before I allow that to happen to me.
Has caffeine just been a placebo for me all these years? I wonder. Ever since I cut back on coffee - roughly five cups in the past four weeks - I've noticed my energy level hasn't really fallen off at all.
How come the dude I startled on the train platform one morning, just as he was singing "don't you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me" in accompaniment to his iPod, just kept singing? Was he incredibly confident in himself, or what? I wish I had that kind of confidence that I could get caught singing girly lyrics and not care who heard me. Not that I'd sing girly lyrics. I'm all manly tunes.
Why is it that when a young black man was arrested and charged earlier this week for the recent fatal shooting of an off-duty black cop, the same black Fort Lauderdale city commissioner who regularly criticizes police in fatal officer-involved shootings did not issue a public statement condemning the murder of the cop? And while I'm thinking about it, I wonder how many South Florida preachers next Sunday will tell their parishioners that enough's enough, and there is no longer any excuse for not turning on and turning in perps who shoot innocent people?
How come, the day I rode the train to work this week, an angry woman bypassed several rows of empty seats and plopped down next to me, and spent the next 20 minutes grumbling aloud about how much she hates people?
Why do I think that Hulu.com will be the death of some cable television? And why am I so happy about that?
Why are there so many posers in Miami? Let me rephrase that. If I had the money to afford a $65,000 luxury car, when I stopped at a gas station I'd fill up. At least that's what I was thinking when the guy in the Jaguar XJ pulled up next to me, pumped $9 worth of gas, counted out the cash and then went inside to pay. A Jag and no credit or debit card to use at the pump? Signs of posing. I knew a guy like that in college - great car, nice clothes, but barely a crumb in his pantry and little more than a card table in his apartment. He was so broke just keeping up appearances with that car that he'd stop for gas and put $3 here and $2 there in the tank, 'cause he never had enough to fill it up all the way.
How is it that domestic animals, especially cats, don't seem to mind the taste of their own grimy crotches and behinds? I don't get how an animal with a palate for fine seafood could reconcile those other tastes so willingly, all in the name of "cleaning" oneself.
What is the threshold age for finally being sick of MTV? I think I'm just about there. The latest season of the Real World just ended, and I can honestly say I didn't see one complete episode. In fact, at most, I saw 10 minutes or so of two episodes. Didn't care to see the rest.
Why are tiny elastic T-shirts, those Baby Gap-like nightclub tees, making a comeback among muscled dudes? I've seen at least a half dozen steroidal dudes proudly walking around in those things lately. I thought they were filming A Night at the Roxbury II, or something.
Why do rappers I used to like keep coming out of retirement? Why don't they do like retired non-steroidal baseball players and become talent scouts and travel the globe looking for artists who have more to say than booty, booty, booty, booty, booty, booty, booty?
Why am I cooler than the other side of the pillow? It should be a crime.

TMI

2008-01-09T22:54:00.000-05:00

How much are you willing to admit about your "flaws," in order to make money?

It's a rhetorical question, yes. But there's a point to it.

I remember watching an episode of Friends once, and I do mean once. It was the one with the black guy. I kid, I kid.

But seriously, I was watching Friends once, and one of the characters who played an actor on the show (Joey?) - how ironic that his character seemed to be struggling for work - landed an advertising gig that paid well. But the trade off was that he had pose as a guy who was happily living with herpes or some such goody bag ailment. So while he got a nice check out of the job, he suffered the awkward stares of hot women all over New York who happened to see his face on posters about coin purse warts.

I'm just not sure putting our flaws in the public eye is worth money. If I had micropenis - yes, it's a real disease - you couldn't pay me enough to talk about it. Same goes for those long-term issues that inspire Cialis and "blue diamond" TV commercials. And if I had goat-like BO? Forget about it.

What if you have yuck mouth, 'cause you don't brush? Would you really accept a check from a mouthwash company in exchange for admitting in a commercial that Cavity Creeps are traipsin' around your chompers? Sure you'd be paid, but saying "how about a kiss" afterwards would be futile.

Anyway, I'm rambling on about all of this 'cause a Miami Beach guy recently began promoting a new cream his company developed that eliminates bad smell on the old twig-n-berries.

Kidding? Heck no. This is for real. But it gets better. The company owner, one Dominic Adams, according to the company's Web site, uses himself as a marketing tool...no pun intended. He says he too has suffered from smelly junk, an ailment the site says can be a deal breaker with the ladies. Can't argue with that last part.

So I ask you, now that Adams has acknowledged that he has potentially stinky jewels, with whom will he share all the money he makes off this stuff? How will he get a date?

Who am I kidding? Adams is gonna make a mint on this stuff. And if I'm right about that, there will be women lined up around the block to meet him. And some of them won't even bother with nose clips.

But spoiled grapes? I admire Adams' self confidence. But this qualifes as Too Much Information, my friends, TMI.

Another man down

2008-01-09T10:05:00.001-05:00

Once again - fourth time in the past six months, sixth time, I believe, in the past 18 months to two years - a Miami area police officer has been gunned down.

And once again, another dumbarse is in jail on account of the shooting. This time, police believe the alleged shooter thought off-duty Miami PD Det. James Walker was an enemy who had participated in a gun theft from a friend of the shooter. Apparently the "enemy" drives a car nearly identical to the unmarked car Det. Walker was in. And so the alleged shooter opened fire on Walker's car. Wrong guy.

Even though Walker may not have been the intended target, for the world of me, I still don't get it.

You shouldn't shoot anyone, outside the realm of self defense, saving another person's life, or war, unless by "anyone" you mean a tasty, tasty animal. But you definitely don't shoot cops.

When I was a kid - which all kidding aside, wasn't that long ago in the grand scheme - you were taught to respect cops the way you respected the elderly and the clergy. If you wouldn't swear at or within earshot of a grandmotherly woman, you wouldn't shoot a cop. If you wouldn't shout "screw God" to a preacher, you wouldn't shoot a cop.

It was understood that disrespecting folks in those categories was taboo, just because, they're service people of the highest rank, people with thankless jobs, more thankless than that of your waiter or your letter carrier or your garbageman.

Somehow, I know we'll get at least one comment alluding to the notion that some cops are crooked or violent, or whatever, so somehow violence toward cops is to be expected.

But don't kid yourselves. Someone who shoots a cop isn't doing it 'cause they're pissed off about being frisked one time too many for no apparent reason or pulled over one time too many for no apparent reason. If those were good reasons, I'd have shot a half dozen or so cops over the past 19 years, since I've been driving.

No excuses. People who shoot cops intentionally do so because they lack respect for what good police do.

And people who shoot anyone "accidentally," do so because they simply lack respect for life. Sad upbringing and bummed out neighborhoods and being pulled over by that occasional jerky cop have nothing at all to do with it.

There outta be a law...

2008-01-04T12:47:00.000-05:00

How many times have you heard that in reference to some stupid behavior?

I've heard my mother utter that phrase more times than I can count over things like motorcyclists riding without helmets (there are laws in some states mandating helmets, you know), little kids being let out of the house unkempt and with crusted food all over their faces and paws, and so on, and so forth.

Yet, every one of those behavioral issues that prompt us to say "there outta be a law" is about common sense. It's stuff that people with IQs above 12 should know.

Anyway, if you don't believe me, drop your jaw, read this story, and tell me if you really think we need a law to prove the behavior in question is down right crazy, just plain wrong and bad, and outright nasty, unless you're a farm animal...literally.

CLARIFICATION: Jay's comment made me realize that some folks might think I believe we don't need laws to manage bad behavior. We do. I'm just saying that some bad behavior shouldn't require a law against it, before people realize they shouldn't engage in it.

Preach On

2008-01-02T15:07:00.000-05:00

I like honest preachers.

It's not that I agree with everything that all of 'em have to say. On the contrary, as a bona fide heathen and having grown up the son of a career old-school military veteran-turned seminarian-turned pastor, I have healthy skepticism of just about everyone who claims "helping others" as an occupation. My pops taught me that doubt doesn't have to be manifest as cynicism. It can also be a tool.

But lately, I've been having a bit of a problem with some preachers in the Miami area.

Now, before anyone cringes, I have no beef with these folk of the cloth over their various brands of religion. My problem is that they seem to be sidestepping the hard parts of their jobs.

Here's the deal: The easy part of a preacher's job is telling people that some higher power, or, according to Homer Simpson, Jebus, loves folks and wants 'em to be happy, and we should all treat our neighbors as ourselves, and so on. Outside their churches, the easy part of social advocacy for preachers is holding press conferences and calling for food for the starving, and medical care for the elderly. The difficult part is, as my grandmother would say, telling people about themselves.

All that peaceful stuff is easy to agree with. Even if you don't believe in any sort of religion, you can "feel" the intended good will with those concepts - be nice and help the needy.

But then there's the hard part of the job. Whether it's behind the pulpit or a microphone on the steps of City Hall, I've never met a preacher who embraces those Sundays when the sermon involves scolding parishioners, or those Mondays when the press conference called for a secular tongue-lashing. It's in their natures to want to uplift. I get it. But when you accept that sort of calling or job, you gotta fire from both barrels, not just the one with a daisy sticking out the end.

So over the past few months - most recently at a vigil last week - I've watched preacher after preacher step in front of the microphones and cameras to address violent crime among young people, particularly young black men in the Miami area. And the toughest thing any of them have been able to eek out is a call for people to pray for a stop to the violence. They've "requested" that young people stop assaulting one another over drugs and gangs and harsh looks and silly grudges. They've called on gainfully-employed men to present themselves as examples, something I'd argue such men already do by virtue of leading stable lives. And they've called on the public to do something about it.

That's all very nice. But it's not enough. And don't anyone leave me messages about not telling other people how to do their jobs. I get emails everyday from readers and sometimes random strangers telling me that if they were journalists they'd do my job this way and not that. So all's fair...

One of my many wishes for '08 is that these religious leaders who insist on being relevant in their communities' secular social fabric, quit dancing around this stuff and start telling young people who've given up hope or never had any that they have to stop the assaults and killings themselves. Not the federal government, not the city, not the Boys & Girls Club, not the YMCA, not the Village People.

These preachers need to call news conferences and tell troubled young folk to not hold their breath waiting for an "official" solution. They need to to grab the microphones and tell the young'ns that the cops can't put an end to the violent streak. Cops can only occasionally prevent violent crimes and most often seek and sometimes catch offenders after the fact. But an end to it requires a change in attitude and objective among the young folk most affected by the violence - perpetrators and victims. They need to stop calling for investigations and studies as to why young folk - particularly - young black men are dying, and grab the microphone and tell young people the issue doesn't need to be studied. The answer, if not all the influences, is obvious. They need to call on young people affected by this violence to proudly and bravely root out the perpetrators and turn them in. And if the young people are afraid to report friends and neighbors and acquaintances to the police, then the preachers need to offer to tell the cops for 'em.

And most important, these preachers need to be consistent with that message. Otherwise, they need to retreat to their churches and leave the social science to people who will "preach" the tough love.

PS., M@? Hey, hey, hey!

Ten things I learned in 2007

2007-12-31T11:01:00.000-05:00

After watching the VH-1 100 Greatest Songs of the '90s special, I learned that Canadian Reggae singer (I know, it's like Tiny Giant or Jumbo Shrimp, right?) Snow really was saying "licky boom boom down" in his hit single Informer. And now that I know those were the lyrics, I'm not sure I want to know what he was talking about, especially since another verse in the song was about people in prison staring up his bum.
Not to be sappy, but I learned that good friends can be people you communicate with only through a computer. What makes this kind of friendship is the sincerity of the communications, not face time. So thank you all for being good friends...even those of you who only come by from time to time, to hassle me.
I learned to deal with tragedy. Most of my adult life I have been fortunate in that I have been able to largely avoid tragedy. I've had two friends - two literal peers - die, both from a form of cancer. And every time I saw other people deal with tragedy I'd say things to myself like "I couldn't handle that. It would be too tough." And then Mrs. B and I lost our baby in October. And you know what? I was wrong. My initial emotions were that I was dreading each subsequent day after it happened, 'cause I thought we would whither up from the emotional burden and crumble. But that didn't happen. We faced it head on. We dealt with our grief. She has been a trooper. And we're still rollin' like Bonnie & Clyde. It was rough at first, and since then has been sad at times. But we've dealt. I never knew, 'cause I had not experienced that kind of tragedy, to what depth your true friends (those in your neighborhood and in your family and from your home town and online, etc.) would go to help you cope with your sadness. It's like cream rising to the surface. I really learned a lot about who in my life cared for me like a brother, which is how a true friend should feel, and who in my life was really a frienemy - disingenuous and full of talk with no substance. And one more thing along these lines: It is true that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. But it's also true that what doesn't kill you probably leaves a mark of some kind.
I finally became convinced this year that my solution to fixing violent crime will work: The common denominator I saw with every case of violent criminal behavior that involved an underage suspect was that that child's parents or legal guardians were clueless. They had no idea that their little Johnny or Susie was capable or armed robbery or violent assault or murder. And although kids can be clever in their concealment of bad behavior, parents should never be clueless. There's no excuse. If you have to snoop a little, do it. If you have to chaperon your kid's parties and get-togethers or shadow your kid like private eye, when he and his friends are strolling through the mall, do it. Do whatever you have to, to stay on top of your kids' activities and attitudes. Because, I propose that if your minor child commits a violent crime against an innocent person, and you "had no idea" they could be that way, you should have to serve 1/3 of his prison sentence. Institute my policy, and we will have a new wave of parental involvement in at-risk kids' lives in '08.
Let's go back to friendships for a minute. I learned that just because you've known someone for a long time, and just because you were friends, you have no obligation to maintain that friendship if that person has changed for the worst. Don't let anyone guilt-trip you into remaining on their team, because you "owe" them that much. An acquaintance of mine finally got the nerve to ditch a childhood friend, who's since turned into a coke fiend. He couldn't do it for a long time, 'cause he thought it was his job to stick by the friend no matter what. But while he agonized over sticking by the coke fiend, the coke fiend - perhaps under the influence, perhaps not - scoffed at his own family, scoffed at my acquaintance, and all his other friends, refused to even consider treatment as an option, and insisted that if everyone "loved" him they'd accept him as is. Not true. Sometimes the friendliest thing you can do is cut someone off until they develop a little love for themselves. I finally grew a set and cut off a long-term, mean-spirited friend, a frienemy in ever since of the made-up word, who exhibited little but selfishness. It was liberating. Try it some time.
You may not like rap music, but I learned this year that Eminem was right. If given an opportunity to pursue a dream, you need to not just take that opportunity, but lose yourself in it. Embrace it. Don't neglect your "pre-existing" responsibilities, but don't punk out on what you really want to do.
I learned not to be uptight. At one point this year, even before Mrs. B and I suffered our loss, I had become so consumed with work and home-maintenance that it felt like I was living a job 24-7. And so I wasn't enjoying down time. I felt like down time was wasted potential work time. Not good. And in my "fever," I started nitpicking at people's quirks, especially annoying neighbors. I attacked personality quirks with the same vigor I'd use to strike at full-blown bad habits. It took work, but I learned to give people a little more consideration by reminding myself that no one's perfect, especially not me.
I learned to not drink the Haterade. Being a hater is easy. It's like being lazy. It really doesn't take effort. But if you're a hater - a person who begrudges a peer his/her success or happiness, just because, or downplays that success, just because - then you are a miserable person. Haters don't hate in the traditional sense. They don't hold your race or your religion or your lack thereof, or your sexual orientation against you. They hold against you your joy, your ambition, and your accomplishments, because they aren't able to look at those things in your life without comparing them to their own life. And that's what sinks a hater every time - the inability to simply be happy for you. So while human nature occasionally "prompts" us all to hate a (very) little, I believe I have largely weened myself off the Haterade. I'll stick to coffee from now on, thanks.
I generally can't stand sports equipment slogans. But I learned to try to live by Nike's 1990s slogan: Just do it. I came across a lot of talkers in '07, people jaw-jacking about what they were going to do, people jabbering on about what they planned to talk about planning to do. I even found myself discussing plans more than actually carrying them out. So probably halfway through the year I stopped making plans and started doing. Some of the stuff I did worked, and some didn't. But I'm sleeping better now, because I know I'm trying and not just blowing hot air to convince whoever's closest to me that I plan on getting around to it one of these days.
I learned to be nice and courteous. And this is important, because these are two I've had to relearn. I think I had 'em in spades up until about two years ago. I've had fun in South Florida, but the fast pace, the bad driving, the rampant lack of consideration for strangers has contributed to me slowly becoming calloused. And that's not a good way to be. Fortunately, I self-diagnosed early enough in the year to start making conscious decisions to return smiles that I had been ignoring, and to hold open doors for the slow pokes trailing me at 2-feet-per-minute from parking lots into department stores, and to willingly scoot over on the bench at my train stop to make room for the large person whose bulk would surely squeeze the breath out of me, and to wave and say hello to the neighbor across the street, even when I don't feel like being friendly. I've seen the bumper sticker. Yeah, it's dumb. But mean people really do suck.

*Bonus - I'm still not doing new year's resolutions. I told you, less talky, more do-y.

So that's all the wisdom I have to wrap up the year, my friends. All I can say is that 2007 and all the haters this year nurtured can bite me. And 2008, let's get it on!

Fish Jacking - only in Miami

2007-12-28T20:49:00.000-05:00

I have seen and heard of all sorts of jackings - your standard, run-of-the-mill muggings, car-jackings, purse snatchings, etc.

But it wasn't until now that I saw a fish-jacking.

I was walking on the sidewalk along the marina across the street from the Herald - right on Biscayne Bay. I walk there a few times a week to get coffee and clear my head.

Anyway, on the way to the coffee shop, I see a duck floating near the docks, sticking its head under water. It's fishing. Finally, after the third dive or so, the duck surfaces with a fish in its mouth. It seemed to savor it for a minute, and then the attack happened.

A huge stork swoops down and starts beating the crap out of the duck with its wings. It seemed like five minutes, but was really about 20 seconds. By the end the of the beat down the duck was swaying like a Weeble Wobble.

The duck dropped the fish. The stork snatched and swooped away. I was half expecting the stork to pull a gun.

It probably happens all the time in nature. But it's more fun for me to say "Only in Miami."

Big Ups to the Patriarch and Matriarch

2007-12-27T16:00:00.000-05:00

They'll tell me I'm being silly, but I'd be remiss if I didn't publicly say happy birthday to the elder Mrs. B (my mother) and happy anniversary to she and the elder Mr. B (my pops).

Today marks my mom's 39th birthday on the Jack Benny calendar (if you're over 50 or a geek like me you'll get that joke; if not, follow this link for an explanation). Today also marks my folks' 37th year of wedded bliss.

Congrats, mom and dad, and thank you for the good example all these years!

Apples and Oranges?

2007-12-27T11:27:00.000-05:00

Suppose I told you that I know of a community in which the tension is so thick that residents are afraid to walk down the street...even during the day.

Suppose I told you that in this community there are healthy adult men who don't work, because they insist that there are no "good" jobs to be had, and that the government is not doing enough to help them, and that it isn't safe on the streets anyway.

Suppose I told you that different factions in this community "fly" and wear colors that identify their allegiance to different groups, and that if a member of one group sees a member of a rival group in public the two will almost instinctively attack one another...physically.

Suppose I told you that sometimes innocent folks, who are members of neither faction, are also hurt or killed when these rivals fight.

And suppose I told you that even a politician or a big-named public figure risked catching a bullet if they showed their face in this community.

I posed this scenario to a buddy of mine earlier today. I wasn't trying to set him up. But this is a guy who doesn't pull punches with his opinion. So I genuinely wanted to know how he would react to such a "neighborhood" description.

I consider this guy to be pretty fair-minded...most of the time. His reaction to my scenario? Lots of bluster and ranting about the 'hood, ie. largely minority populated urban American neighborhoods overrun by street gangs. He hollered about "Crips" and "bloods" and "lazy-a$$ed grown men" using safety and government dependence as an excuse for not working. He got righteously indignant about the danger in such places, and even suggested that "the government" should just drop a bomb on communities like this, so as to spare the rest of society the headache of dealing with the place.

And then he asked what 'hood I was talking about, West Detroit, South Philly, Overtown in Miami, West Baltimore, Southside Chicago, Northwest D.C., Grilltown in Charlotte, Northside Milwaukee?

Rawalpindi, Pakistan.

That's right. I was asking about the 'hood where Benazir Bhutto, former Pakistani Prime Minister, was fatally shot this morning and more than 20 additional people died in a suicide bomb attack.

Her death isn't funny. But I found it amusing that my buddy considered that scenario in Pakistan to be part of a larger, noble fight to save society, but when he thought it was about a depressed American community he was was ready to call for the total destruction of the area.

As soon as I said Pakistan, he replied "Well, that's different. Those people are dealing with groups that want to break down their structure for power and profit."

Hmmm. Where have I heard that before?

Merry Christmas, and all that good stuff

2007-12-24T17:31:00.000-05:00

That's it! That's all I had to say tonight...and tomorrow.

Now, I'm off to eat some figgy pudding.

Greetings and Salutations

2007-12-22T19:01:00.000-05:00

So I'm not too far removed from a trip with Mrs. B to Bed, Bath & Beyond.

I've never figured out what the "Beyond" is all about. Maybe the kitchen utensils and other random crap, like oven gloves, and sea salt grinders. Or maybe if you stand in just the right spot in the store you'll be taken to a parallel universe.

Anyway, the store manager freaked me out. He said "hi" too much. I'm not kidding. It was bizarre. I worked in a couple of department stores back in the day, so I know that this time of year the pre-game cheer goes something like "The doors are about to open, people. The first customer will be walking through them any time. Look alive! And be sure to say 'hello' to every single customer you encounter!"

I also know that sometimes, when the store is busy, employees hurrying to and fro' can forget that they've already said "hi" to you, so they say it again.

But this store wasn't busy. There was hardly anyone there. Five seconds after we walked in the store manager walked up, smiled wide and said "Hi!" Then we walked about 15 feet and stopped to shop, and about 45 seconds later he passed us by and slowed briefly and smiled wide and said "Hi!" Then we walked about 30 feet more and stopped and he approached again and said "Hi!" He did this about six more times at less than one minute intervals.

There was hardly anyone in the store. He couldn't have forgotten he'd already spoken to us. Weirdo. I know I'm right, 'cause when we finally managed to escape him another employee said "hi" and smiled as we walked by. And when we passed her by again five minutes or so later, she started to say "hi" again, but caught herself, blushed and instead said "sorry" for doubling up.

Yes, I was bored. Otherwise, I'd have no excuse for even noticing the stalker store manager.

Pre-holiday Roundup

2007-12-21T13:24:00.000-05:00

What's up, friends and frienemies? I have sufficiently thawed from my New England romp over the weekend and earlier this week. And now I'm preparing for Christmas the way it was meant to be observed: in short sleeves and shorts, and surrounded by palm trees, wild iguanas, and bad drivers.

But first, a few observations:

You guys know that I've complained for some time that civility was becoming a lost art. I still think we have some work to do. But I've encountered no fewer than a dozen people since I got back to town on Wednesday who deferred their own comfort in order to demonstrate a courtesy to me. In some cases it was something as simple as holding a door for me or allowing me to merge in traffic, after I'd let 10 other drivers merge in front of me. In other cases it was more complicated and work-related, like someone adjusting his busy schedule in order to make himself available to me for an interview, or a customer service person on the phone expressing empathy with me and not acting put out. There's hope. Of course, there's no hope for the mystery neighbor, who after two years of my griping, is still letting his dog(s) bend biscuits on my swale without picking them up, biscuits that I unfortunately stepped in Thursday morning while wearing my favorite Chelsea boots. That neighbor will be extended the courtesy of an arse-whupping and a dog punting, just as soon as I can find them.
I am a fan of equal rights between men and women, and all that jazz. And I love jazz. But there are limits to how rigid we should be in that arena. Don't get your boxers in a bunch. Read on, first. Jobs, voting, salary, and civil rights, etc? Yes for equality! Nightclubs and the like? No!!! I say this, because a numbnut in NYC is suing a group of nightclubs alleging that he and ~~the other guys from A Night at the Roxbury~~ all men over 21 who have visited these clubs since 2004 have been discriminated against through Ladies Night policies. Roy Den Hollander says that when clubs including Lotus and the China Club offer women-only discounted drinks or entry it costs him. Roy, I've been out of the game for about three years now, but the force is still strong with me. So I can tell you without a doubt, you're barking up the wrong tree. Your logic is bad. Saying that discounts for ladies hurt you is like saying a 70-year-old getting the senior discount at Burger King hurts you, because you paid full price. It's not their fault you're not as old as them. But I feel your pain. There have been ladies nights - especially when I lived in a cold climate - on which I wished I could get easy access to the club. I wished I could get my first drink free, and so on. But unless you're going out to size up other guys - and if you are that's just fine - then you need Ladies Nights, because in a nightclub setting women who might spend freely elsewhere are notoriously cheap. They don't want to pay cover charges and what not. So if it's female companionship and dance-partnership that you seek, drop your lawsuit and give your full support to Ladies Nights everywhere. Or else you risk creating the nightmare of the year-round Sausage Fest.
Jamie Lynn Spears.
What? You expected me to say more about her ↑? I could barely bring myself to type the name. OK, fine. All I have to say is be careful that you've not just memorized but also comprehended your sermon notes before you deliver that sermon to the general public.
May every one of the U.S. presidential candidates, at least those who have somehow managed straight faces while taking cheap shots at opponents, get lumps of coal in their stockings. And Mitt Romney, I applaud your late father's civil rights record, but leave the figures of speech and analogies to the PROfessional speech writers.
Who knew? Turns out Ms. Puerto Rico was telling the truth a few weeks back when she said her Ms. Universe pageant gown had been sabotaged with pepper spray. She was lambasted after making that claim by pundits (and bloggers) who suggested she was just attention-hungry and that no one had tampered with her dress. I'm gonna chalk the skepticism up to most of us being used to ultra-pretty people using Jedi mind tricks to get us to believe anything they say. I pledge in the new year to cut back on my suspicious nature. This poor woman was simply being honest. One bit of food for thought for you conspiracy theorists out there: Of all the substances that could have gotten on her dress, how did she know specifically that pepper spray had been used? Lucky guess, or has she been maced before?
Finally, one more time for good measure, I'd like to say Ha ha ha! and Merry Christmas to my friends in Australia. Just teasing. Turns out that whole brouhaha was bunk.

Conversation: Good vs. Bad

2007-12-19T14:11:00.000-05:00

So it's just been hours really since I returned to Miami from my latest road trip, or air trip in this case - this one to the frozen Northeast.

And before I forget, let me just say that after decades of falling for the hype, I am declaring shenanigans on "Thinsulate." When Mrs. B and I moved to South Florida a couple of years ago we left most of our true winter gear in storage in my mother-in-law's basement back in Milwaukee. So before I left town over the weekend, I had to go out and buy myself a winter coat. This time, instead of tissue paper thin, but lined with Thinsulate, I went for sturdy, woven wool, the good stuff, with a built in heavy-duty zip-turtleneck collar. And you know what? I was warm. My face was cold, but the rest of me was just fine.

Going all the way back to middle school and high school in the 1980s and '90, however, I have fallen repeatedly for the legend of Thinsulate, and I always ended up cold. I went for weight, not necessarily bulk, this time, and low and behold I kept warm.

Anyway, on to conversation. We've all got a little bit of instinct that lets us know appropriate conversation, vs. inappropriate. Bowel issues? Not good dinner chat. Death and fear? Not great conversation when sitting at the bedside of a terminally ill friend...unless they initiate the topic. Ex-girlfriend? Not a good idea to bring her up during the first dinner with your new girlfriend's parents.

So I have to say that while I don't consider myself uptight, I did find myself a little shocked to be sitting next to Dirk Diggler on my flight back to Miami.

I was in the aisle seat. He was next to me. And a young woman - just past 21-years-old, she told him later - had the window seat.

As a rule, I try to keep in-flight conversation to simple, basic stuff like weather, living conditions, jobs, sports, etc. Anything deeper than that usually feels weird to me, 'cause I don't like sharing too much of my business with strangers. There are always exceptions. On my flight up north several days ago, I found myself sitting next to a cool guy, an engineer for a power company, who was very pleasant and funny. By the time our plane landed we were chatting like old friends. But still, it didn't get too personal.

So back to my flight home. About 40 minutes into it I was engrossed in my book - Killing the Rabbit, a really weird, but very well-written suspense/mystery/sci-fi novel set in Australia, by Alison Goodman - when I heard the pair next to me strike up a conversation.

He ordered a glass of wine. She commented that it was good wine. He said he agreed, but that she looked too young to know. She said that she was old enough and had tasted that wine several times. He then asked what she was doing up north and why she was going to Florida. She explained that she'd attended college up there, was working up there, and was on her way home to spend the holidays with her family, who live in South Florida. She asked him the same, and he explained that he lives the winter in South Florida, and the summer in the Northeast, where his business is based. He then asked where she "goes out" in South Florida. She told him. She then asked the same of him.

And that's where the conversation got weird. You have a guy pushing 50. You have a young woman barely past 21, who looks like she's 15. Instinct, in my humble opinion, should have told him to brush off the question and maybe answer it vaguely and generically, considering the truth.

Nope. Instead he proceeded to tell her that he was a swinger. And he spent the next three hours explaining to her that he and his girlfriend "attend" a number of clubs where swapping and group hook-ups go on, and describing the rules of the swinging game.

To be fair to him, she didn't stop the conversation. And she only seemed mildly disconcerted...at first, but not really demonstrably uncomfortable. On the contrary, she listened intently and even asked the occasional question. As a journalist, I couldn't have asked 'em better. And I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but considering the close quarters I couldn't help but hear every word. And I won't lie, I was curious too. Thankfully, he left the most graphic descriptions out of the conversation.

But it was still kind of creepy. It sort of felt and sounded like he was proselytizing her, enticing her like the Pied Piper.

By the end of the flight, he was asking for her phone number and encouraging her to talk to his girlfriend about "the life." She gave him a number. Whether it was her real number, or not - who knows?

I don't know. I'm old-fashioned, but again I ain't uptight. Different strokes, I say. Literally in this case. But this conversation though? Not sure it's one I would have struck up with a stranger on a plane, who looked young enough to be my daughter.

What do you think?

Don't make me chase you!

2007-12-13T09:51:00.000-05:00

There has been a lot of discussion about police take-down tactics in South Florida over the past week or so, ever since a group of police officers was caught on tape allegedly roughing up a suspect who had led the cops on a long, dangerous car chase.

The chase started when the cops tried to pull this guy over, 'cause his car was similar to one they thought had been used in a crime. Turned out later he wasn't involved in the other crime. At the end of the chase the suspect bailed from his car, ran to a nearby strip of grass and literally dove to the ground face down, before the officers set upon him. Later the suspect, who was recently released from prison, said he fled, because he was driving on a suspended license.

Debate has ranged from the cops being justified to the cops being accused of brutality, since the guy was already face down and spread-eagle when they started to "subdue" him. I've been sort of on the fence. That was until I saw a kid and his mom in a "standoff" outside my barbershop Wednesday morning, and a real time analogy unfolded before my eyes.

I was actually sitting on a bench in the shop in downtown Miami, waiting to get my hair cut, when I noticed just outside the door of the shop a woman speaking in warning tones to a young boy - I'd say either her son, nephew, or someone she was babysitting. I'm thinking son, though.

Anyway, the kid couldn't have been more than 4-years-old. And who knows how old the mom was? What I do know was she kept telling him to come to her, but she didn't have the speed or athletic prowess to make him comply.

First it was "come here, please." When he declined and scooted further away from her, mom graduated to "come here." When Junior still didn't listen, mom took a quick step toward him and reached out. Junior sidestepped her hand and laughed. Mom didn't. She then moved on to "get over here" through gritted teeth. Junior danced just out of arm's reach and laughed some more. Then she said it. Mom raised her voice and snapped "get your narrow behind over here!" And that's when Junior stopped.

His facial expression changed. It hovered somewhere between I still think this is funny, 'cause she can't catch me, to I still think this is funny..., but I may just have pushed her too far.

Finally, as Junior contemplated his situation - and I mean you could see the gears turning and his face screwing up as he weighed his options - mom saw her chance and she lunged and got that little...angel by the collar! She gave him a shake - just stern, nothing abusive, in my humble opinion - and then proceeded to give him a hardcore tongue-lashing as she dragged him down the sidewalk and into a store. Memories of Homer Simpson chasing son Bart and yelling "Why you little!" followed by a soothing "I'm not gonna hurt you boy!" flashed through my mind.

I will never condone police brutality. I've been scared half to death before by a couple of cops who hassled me for no good reason. And I don't know - the cops involved in this chase may have a history of overdoing it with suspects. But in that moment in the barbershop, after thinking about the number of times my mom, huffing and puffing, scolded me "boy, don't make me chase you," I sort of felt for the cops involved in this particular pursuit.

Seriously, I would not make a good police officer, because if I told someone to "freeze!" or to pull over and they didn't listen and they made me break a sweat and chase them and stress my bum knee, I'm gonna be pissed off when I catch up to them. I ain't saying I'd beat 'em. But I'm admitting I'd want to.

Yeah, yeah. I know cops are public officials and therefore held to higher standards and expected to keep their tempers in check. But humans are humans.

And without justifying the alleged roughing up, don't forget this situation would never have happened if the guy had just pulled over and stopped when he was first told to. Of course, he chose not to stop, because he knew he shouldn't have been driving in the first place.

Not fair, I waited in line!

2007-12-10T16:19:00.001-05:00

In college I had the luxury of having a couple of buddies who were in the nightclub promotion business. In fact, on a few occasions I did a little promotion with them to make extra money on the side.

The result was that my buddies and I built friendly rapports with the various groups who operated the hottest nightclubs in town. And whenever we wanted to go to small concerts or just for a night out, we needed only to make eye contact with the right bouncer or concierge and they would wave us on in, allowing us to skip the cover charges and the long lines of people awaiting entry.

Inevitably, someone who was suffering velvet rope burn in the queue outdoors would blurt out something to the effect of "not fair! I've been in line for an hour!"

As I read with incredulity that the Bush White House is making moves to bail out homeowners with subprime mortgages by freezing their interest rates to give them enough time to refinance or sell or simply get more money to pay their bills, I sort of feel like those folks standing in line outside the club.

I understand that there are some people out there who just didn't have the wits about them to read the fine print and gather that after so many years of fixed, low interest, their mortgages would one day be subject to the whims of the economy. And if, when that happened, the economy was doing badly, then their new "flexible" interest rate would likely also be bad.

However, I'm not convinced that's the majority of subprime mortgage holders. Just based on what I've seen in South Florida alone, a lot of what we're seeing is the result of people desperate to live above their means. I've talked to dudes on waiter's salaries who live in $400,000 houses in nice neighborhoods. How? They had "funny" mortgages that allowed them to put zero down, finance for a million years, and go five years without paying interest on their home loan. Why? Because they were desperate to keep up with the Joneses. Now the interest has kicked in and guys like these are paying 10, 12, even 15% on their mortgages. They're finding their payments climbing exponentially. And they're crying out for help.

There was a time back in the day when the norm was that you saved your loot till you could land a "normal" loan and finance the property you wanted to buy. Or you bought small, maintained your loan and your property for a few years, then you traded up.

The same goes for cars and any other thing of value. My guys and I in high school all started off with junkers in various stages of disrepair. We fixed them up. We drove them for a couple of years. By the time we were in college and had jobs, we were able to trade or sell our junkers and buy nice cars. The point is we waited till we could afford the nice stuff. We didn't try to bend space and time to redefine what "afford" means.

This logic or lack thereof works for jobs too. Ask the average, healthy, unemployed, unmotivated young man what he's waiting for, and he's going to tell you something to the effect of "the right job," or "the right opportunity." Now, you would think with no income, the right job would be any job that pays a steady wage. But again, American society has convinced a lot of people that they shouldn't work certain gigs, 'cause those gigs are beneath them. They should go straight to the top, to the big-paying jobs.

So here we are at this subprime mortgage thing. When Mrs. B and I moved to Florida a couple of years ago, we drove through neighborhoods that made us salivate. But then we crunched the numbers and we realized that if we were going to live with our heads above water and keep them above water we had to go elsewhere. And we bought a house in a neighborhood that was acceptable, nice even. And we determined that when the time was right we would sell our property - hopefully at a profit - and then buy something a little better in a better 'hood.

Tell me quick - what's the point of waiting in line?

The Cowboy Code: Chapter 10, Accidental Charity

2007-12-04T15:01:00.000-05:00

If you've just arrived in the State of Burnettiquette, then you may not be familiar with the Cowboy Code.

It has nothing to do with cattle hustlers. Rather it's the guideline by which young gentlemen should deal with one another these days, where women are concerned. There have always been different names for it, but as far back as I can think - back to college more than 10 years ago, it has been the Cowboy Code.

It's the Cowboy Code that dictates thou shalt not ask your buddy's ex-girlfriend out on a date ever! Or at least not without his prior blessing and waiting six months to a year after their breakup.

The Cowboy Code says that if your buddy's girlfriend tries to trap him through you, by asking you if he really was hanging out with you last night, you don't give him up. You don't have to lie for him. But you smoothly give a neutral answer and then change the subject as soon as possible.

And the Cowboy Code says that no matter how big your crush on a woman is and regardless of whether you saw her first, if she seems more into your buddy than you, you should not keep trying as a sore loser would. You should step aside and graciously concede defeat.

So I was catching up with a good buddy, whom I consider a best friend - and I don't toss "best" around lightly. And he reminded me of a semi-funny situation that occurred in a booze hole in Milwaukee, shortly after Mrs. B and I got engaged. He reminded me, 'cause just last weekend he encountered the same situation and wasn't sure how to respond.

Here's the deal: Shortly after our engagement, I left work one evening with several buddies and strolled a few blocks to Milwaukee's Water Street bar row and we tipped a couple of pints. Mrs. B called and said she was wrapping up work and would join us for one if we didn't mind. We didn't.

Anyway, it was winter time. Colder than the girl who rejected my prom invite in senior year. And Mrs. B was bundled up in knit hat, scarf, mittens, etc. So when she arrived and spotted us, she detoured to the bar to place her order before joining us. Well, two young lions, fresh from their office stood next to her at the bar. And when the bartender brought Mrs. B's glass, one of the young lions hurriedly plunked money on the bar and said he'd get it. It was loud and crazy in there. Mrs. B tried to protest. He shushed her and insisted. She shrugged it off, and then took off her mittens so she could better hold the glass, and that's when the young lion saw the ring. He didn't say anything, but he turned beet red and turned away, apparently frustrated.

The exact same sort of scenario happened to my buddy over the weekend, except he was with a date, not a girlfriend, and not a fiance. The bar wasn't very crowded or loud. And in his case the guy who had bought his date a drink actually protested after the fact.

Now, when this happened several years ago, I felt bad for the young lion. He didn't know any better. And all because he didn't see Mrs. B's ring at first, he was out a few bucks. My instinct was to offer him the $3 or $4 he'd spent or to get his next round. But he was too proud to accept his money back as consolation prize, or a free drink. So I dropped it.

Faced with the same scenario, my buddy didn't even offer the cash or a drink to the slighted guy.

I don't know that our situations were any different. Or maybe they were, since I was with my then fiancee, and my buddy was with a first or second-time date.

The way I see it, Mrs. B had mittens on, so the guy who bought her drink couldn't have known at first that she was taken. And I gave him the benefit of the doubt that had he seen her ring up front, he wouldn't have offered to buy her drink.

My buddy? I sort of feel that since the place wasn't loud and crazy, and people could actually hear themselves talk, when they "buyer" paused for a breath the date could have spoken up and said she was with someone. Also, when you buy anyone anything in a bar, results are not guaranteed. There is a good chance they won't even say thank you, much less fall for you. So it's usually buyer beware.

Maybe I'm being a hypocrite. But I don't think so. Therefore, it's my judgment that my guy did not violate the Cowboy Code. What say you?

The worst kinds of excuses

2007-12-03T11:19:00.001-05:00

Over the past several days folks in and around Miami have been attending memorial services for murdered football player Sean Taylor.

In case you don't know, Taylor, a rising star with the Washington Redskins and a Miami native, was fatally shot in his Miami home last week, while Taylor's girlfriend and 1-year-old daughter cowered under the bed sheets. Taylor heard noises, armed himself with a machete he kept for protection and locked his bedroom door. But the cowards who caused his death, kicked in the door, shot him, and then fled. Taylor died in a hospital the next day.

Beyond the fact that an apparently innocent person was gunned down in his own home, the thing that disturbs me most about this case is how quickly everyone from the Miami-Dade County police director Robert Parker to the families of the suspects jumped before the microphones to suggest or say outright that the suspects weren't killers. Rather, they were burglars who got spooked and "accidentally" killed a man. Parker even said in one press conference that the suspects fired after they saw Taylor's machete. I know he didn't mean it this way, but Parker's comments almost made it sound like Taylor shared some of the "blame," 'cause he scared these guys by being home in the first place, and being armed with a blade.

Short of security video that recorded everything, we have to assume that Directer Parker is basing his comments on what the suspects said in their confessions. And the suspects' families? Well, how often do you see family members of violent crime suspects step up to the microphone and say "If he did it, he should get what's coming to him?" I can count on two fingers the number of times I've ever seen that. And this case wasn't one of those times.

Sorry, but I say they're wrong. They're all wrong. If these guys weren't planning to harm anyone why did they bring a gun to a burglary? This isn't meant to be funny, but you've heard the old adage about it being wise to not bring a knife to a gun fight? If I'm gonna break into someone's home I'm bringing lock-picking tools and whatever I might need to disable an alarm system. There's no point in bringing a gun unless I'm prepared to do something more than steal property.

What? Don't tell me you buy the protection argument. They wouldn't have needed a gun to "protect" themselves if they weren't trying to take off with O.P.P.

The fact that they were armed with a gun says at a minimum that the Taylor suspects were willing to threaten harm to someone else in order to get away with their crime. And since the gun had bullets in it they were obviously prepared to hurt someone in order to get away with their crime. For that reason alone, they are cold-hearted killers, and their families, the cops, and anyone else who wants to speculate at what these guys meant to do, need to stop making excuses for them.

Friday Quick Hits Christmas Edition...sort of

2007-11-30T12:37:00.000-05:00

A special lump of coal awaits - So earlier this week in the Chicago area one of those bell ringers for the Salvation Army left his post to go use the restroom inside the grocery store where he had been stationed. While he was away, some A-hole stole his red kettle. Now, granted, I can't stand those kettles. I hate the feeling of guilt that comes with not putting money into the kettle. I hate that I find myself sometimes ducking out of a different exit when I leave a store, so as to avoid the bell ringer and the kettle. But to be fair, what I hate about it is that my conscience nags at me. It's not that the bell ringer has done anything wrong. On the contrary, they're about the least aggressive charitable solicitors I've ever run across. So anyone with the cold stones to run off with the Salvation Army kettle deserves a fist full of karma. Hopefully she does her job with that thief, and soon. But I'm rambling again. My bigger problem with this situation was that a Chicagoland Salvation Army official told a TV reporter that while it was an accident, maybe the bell ringer could've handled things differently and taken better precautions to protect the kettle. I understand that is the "proper" managerial thing to say, but the truth is the bell ringer didn't need to adjust anything. The bell ringer didn't do anything wrong. The thief did. It should be a safe assumption that a Salvation Army kettle won't be tampered with if left unattended for a few minutes. That's like stealing a church collection plate. I don't think I'm naive, but even with my level of cynicism, I wouldn't even think someone could be so ballsy as to rob the Salvation Army.
Politics - I'm not endorsing parties or candidates - not that my endorsement would be worth anything - but if you watched the CNN/YouTube debate for Republican presidential hopefuls on Wednesday tell me who you thought won. In that particular debate I thought Mike Huckabee bested the rest of 'em. The whole down home southern, gee whiz thing seemed to work well for him. And in the last Democratic debate, I thought Joe Biden did himself justice. Just my humble opinion.
Miracles do happen - The college girls living in the duplex next to my house are moving out. Ten years ago I would have thought they were cute, sexy bad girls who party all the time, party all the time. Of course, 10 years ago I wasn't married and slightly overweight. Ten years ago I wouldn't have minded a thumpin' car stereo in the driveway next to mine. I wouldn't have minded their yappy little dog who sits outside and yelps for 20 minutes. And I wouldn't have minded their Eminem-look-alike boyfriends hanging out in the front driveway, holding onto their goodie bags, and saying "yo" to one another as though it was the law to utter that word in between each breath taken. Wait. On second thought, I would have minded all those things...just not as much. And these girls aren't that cute, anyway. A few needle tracks and elbow scabs, and I'd swear I saw them in a gentleman's club in Tijuana once. And their little dog is useless. Good riddance to all of 'em.
The Grinch needs a shrink - I have never listened closely to Christmas music. For the most part, it's 'cause I don't like Christmas music. I can't stand the reindeer and sleigh bells, and hos - I mean ho ho hos. Even when I was a kid I didn't get it or get into it, except for some of the old churchy Christmas songs. But Mrs. B loves the stuff, all of it. So lately when we're driving around after work, on the weekend, etc., she puts on the Christmas music radio station. I have tolerated it to the point that I catch myself humming along sometimes now. I'll even sing along when the song is an old-fashioned hymn. But the other day some really deep-voiced dude who sounded like Darth Vader came on and started singing "You're a mean one Mr. Grinch..." And I listened. I mean I listened to every word for the first time ever, and you know what? That song was disturbing. Termites in his teeth? Seriously, does this sound like stability to you? "You're a monster, Mr. Grinch. Your heart's an empty hole. Your brain is full of spiders, you've got garlic in your soul...." Down the line, I'm not sure if I'm gonna have my kid listening to songs about Mr. Grinch. He sounds depressed. And the song doesn't make me feel holly, jolly at all.
Hardy har har! - What do I keep telling you guys about Political Correctness being out of control? In Sydney, Australia, recently, Santas were banned from saying "ho ho ho!" because it might be offensive to women. I'm not playin'. I couldn't make that up if I wanted to. Instead, the Santas were told they should say "ha ha ha!" This one is so dumb, I'm not even sure what else to say about it, other than I don't think it's funny.
Annual tribute - OK, this last one has nothing to do with Christmas, but since there's just one day left in November, I have to slip in that we just passed the 33rd anniversary of the Player's Ball, the yearly pimp academy awards that once took place exclusively in Milwaukee, Wis., and Chicago, Ill. These days mini player's balls spring up all around the country, usually hosted by some corny nightclub, giving people an excuse to wear the flimsiest of holiday costumes. For the record, I do not endorse pimpin'. Cops I know say real pimps, hardcore pimps are violent headcases who often physically and psychologically abuse the women who "work" for them. They should all be in jail, I say. I mean, I believe that pimpin' ain't easy. But I still do not approve of it. Nevertheless, I share many Americans' fascination with pimps, in the same way we get fascinated with serial killers. I don't know what to tell you. Maybe it was sneaking behind my parents' back and watching Dolemite when I was waaaaay to young. Maybe that left a permanent mark on my imagination. Maybe it's the gator shoes, the fuzzy rearview mirror dice, and the rat-fur coats. Part of it is definitely the pimp stick. I am easily impressed by a gold-plated cane. It's like carrying a sword or something. And the names. How high an opinion must you have of yourself, before you can walk around with a straight face and introduce yourself as "Iceberg Slim," or "Mack'n Cheese," or "Mr. White Folks," or "Willie Dynomite?" A bit of trivia: I was sort of featured a couple of years ago in a pimpish documentary called From the Ghetto Streets to the Executive Suites, produced by Pimpin' Ken Ivy, star of the award-winning HBO documentary Pimps Up, Hos Down. It wasn't 'cause I have a diamond encrusted goblet or anything. And I don't have any gator shoes. I once had some snakeskin boots. But that was another lifetime. I had written a profile of Ken for another newspaper, pre-Miami Herald. Apparently he thought it was a fair portrayal. So I got a frantic call from a friend who was out on a date one night, and she blurted out that Pimpin' Ken was in a cocktail lounge talking about me. Not something you hear every day. He said he was relieved that more than one side of him was shown in the profile. So in his documentary he talked a few minutes about me and even held up a copy of of the newspaper. Funny. What can I say, other than pimp pimp hooray! Oh, if you're inclined to observe the passing of the Player's Ball, you should spend the rest of the day referring to yourself not as "I" or "me," but as "My bad self." Try it. It does wonders for your ego.
Finally, on a serious tip - Police in Florida have arrested two teenagers and a man in his 20s in connection with the murder earlier this week of Miami native and Washington Redskins star Sean Taylor. They're due a day in court. But if it's found that they really did it - that they shot this man as he stood helpless, no doubt in fear for his life and hoping they didn't harm his girlfriend or child - may they get 50,000 volt lumps of coal in their Christmas stockings.

My shoes are really fast

2007-11-27T22:29:00.000-05:00

Tell me I'm not the only person who blurted that out as a kid.

Seriously, when my folks would hook me up in elementary school with a new pair of Pro Keds, I would immediately lace them up and then run to the playground behind our house and yell to the other kids that I had a new pair of fast shoes.

Alas, by the time I became a slow, lumbering working man I had long since figured out that any speed I had as a child was physical. My shoes hadn't helped a bit. Wish someone had told me that when I was seven or eight.

I thought about the shoe thing earlier today, as I was reading stories by my colleagues about the death of Washington Redskins football player Sean Taylor. Taylor was shot in his Miami-Dade County home on Monday. According to police, an intruder broke in, confronted Taylor in his bedroom, and shot him in his leg. Taylor's femoral artery was apparently severed. He lost a lot of blood, and early Tuesday he died.

Taylor was shot, and somewhere in South Florida, a numbnut is walking around feeling brave, because he used a gun on an unarmed man and walked away from the face-off.

I support honest folks' right to own and carry. But guns - at least guns as used in this instance and others like it - do not make people brave. If the person holding a gun is a moron, the weapon is just gonna make his stupidity manifest 10-fold. If the person holding a gun has common sense and good intentions, the weapon is not going to seem "reckless" in his hands.

Rumors abound as to whether Taylor's death might have been the result of something other than an armed burglary attempt, especially considering his house was broken into a week or so earlier. And in this case the shooter apparently didn't take anything but Taylor's life.

Plus there was the allegation that a few years ago Taylor pulled a gun on people he thought had stolen from him. His lawyer told the Miami Herald the allegation was not true, that Taylor had not pulled a gun. I don't know who's right, or if it even matters at this point.

Another young guy is dead, and his killer, probably thinking he's the man, is walking around.

We've all heard our parents' stories about how back in the day, everyone fought with their fists. And no matter how battered, they lived to fight again.

I wish this killer had just punched Taylor. But I wish more someone had taught him when he was a kid that holding a gun wouldn't make him brave.

T. Day Images

2007-11-27T21:27:00.000-05:00

What's crackin' folks? Hope you had a good Thanksgiving week. For me it was as much about recharging my batteries as it was about being thankful and eating dead birds.

I have a lot of writing to do on lots of madness in the news. But I just got back to Miami last evening and I'm still dotting my i's and crossing my t's. So for now, check out these family pics from Thanksgiving. Enjoy, and M@, no snide comments about my fam, please.

We spent the week in Hampton Roads, Va., where my dad served most of his military career. The cool thing is like all military retirees he still has access to the facilities. So he and my mom scored us a log cabin on the Fort Story U.S. Army Base in Virginia Beach. The cabin, within a couple hundred yards of the beach, is just a stone's throw from the Old Cape Henry Lighthouse. The lighthouse was built in 1792 near the site of the early settler's First Landing, on their way to the Jamestown Settlement, I believe. So that's pretty much the extent of my shaky history lesson. Here are the pics:

This is a sea snail. You can't see the body, 'cause it's nestled in the sand. And it's about four times bigger than the photo suggests. But I'm a lousy photographer and didn't adequately convey the creature's size.

This is Mrs. B and me along with my sister, my stupid bro-in-law (I kid, I kid!) and Ma and Pa Burnett at Ma and Pa's house.

This is the front of our log cabin. Pretty cool. There's a fire pit right next to it, and that's where I spent a couple of evenings, meditating w/the flames and a can of Burnettiquette brand beverage. I also confess though I spent a couple of evenings zoning out on the couch in front of the TV. Yes, the cabin had electricity...and cable...but really lousy Internet access options.

Me, Mrs. B, and Burnettiquette dog in front of the cabin.

Me and Burnettiquette dog after a stroll through the surf, looking for king crab shells on the beach by the cabin.

Here's a pic from the beach of the Old Cape Henry Lighthouse next to the new Cape Henry Lighthouse. The new one is used to help guide ship traffic in the Chesapeake Bay.

On the road again

2007-11-20T00:35:00.000-05:00

Greetings sports fans. Burnettiquette World Headquarters is in the hands of Brinks Home Security, a police officer friend, and a capable pet sitter who is looking after the stupid cat.

Mrs. B, Cheko the Dog, and me are en route to Hampton Roads, Va., to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with my family.

We drove 'cause Cheko does not play well on airplanes. And we stopped half way, arriving early Monday afternoon in Savannah, Ga. Had I remembered ahead of time I'd have dug up the number of my old college buddy Mark, a U.S. Marshal in Savannah and emailed our blog friend Savannah, who lives in this lovely city. Nevertheless, we enjoyed a fun evening downtown - a little shopping, a lot of strolling, and a little eating/drinking. Good times. And lots of southern hospitality. Take note, Miami.

Anyway, let's call this a start-of-the-week roundup:

The value of good PR - Every time I read a story like this I think about how Mark Twain said that the differences between the right word and the almost right word are the differences between lightning and lightning bugs. Whatever you think of Heather Mills-McCartney's marital "abilities," or her semi-public battle for a bigger divorce settlement, I'm willing to consider giving her a fraction of a point for seeming to care about the earth. But then I read that she believes drinking cow's milk is no better than chugging rat milk. And in full context - something partly missing in the above link - she suggests we might help the earth by drinking rat's milk instead of moo juice. I'm guessing she meant well, but personally, I don't think Earth cares how much milk we drink. Still, I have to admit Mill's rat milk rant did make me wonder how we chose cows. I mean, way back in the day before fire was invented and humans first figured out that some animals are virtual dairy vending machines, why did we choose cows? Why not dog milk or rabbit milk or camel milk? Did cow milk taste better or something, and how did we figure that out - blind taste test? But I digress. Here's a tip to all Mills-esque vegans out there: the best way to try to get regular folks to buy into your no-dairy argument is not to suggest they drink milk from diseased rodents. That would be the proverbial lightning bug. Marketing 101. Bad imagery doesn't sell. Just ask Sheryl "One Square" Crow. Besides, it would take a whole fleet of rats to produce a gallon's worth.
Abuse of baked goods - This has Scarface or Goodfellas written all over it, just on a smaller scale with dumber characters. The link leads to a story about two Southern Illinois University students who burned a guy with fresh-baked cookies as punishment after their drug deal with him went bad. OK, who takes the time to bake cookies prior to or during a drug deal? Were they trying to be hospitable or something? I can't imagine that conversation. Rosario: Yo Jordan, the crack man's coming over in 30 minutes. Should we serve coffee or tea? Jordan: Good idea! And I'll bake some cookies, in case he's hungry! I will give these guys creative torture points. Based on the drug/mob movies I've seen, they usually burn each other with cigarettes. But creativity never works for bad guys. Just look at all those James Bond villains who strapped him to tables and aimed lasers at him, or tied him up and suspended him over a shark tank. If they'd just smacked him in the head with a baseball bat or shot him or something they'd all have taken over the world by now and he'd be a blank face on a nameless plaque in a hallway at MI-6.
Soft answers don't work - This one's personal. If you've read this blog for any amount of time you know one of my biggest pet peeves is bad customer service. And almost as much as the bad service, I get bugged when good people bend over and take it. Some of you have suggested to me in the past that a soft answer helps resolve things, a take off on the scripture that says "a soft answer turneth away wrath." Sorry, but I'm convinced that only works when you're preaching to someone or trying to make peace with your disgruntled spouse. So about five weeks ago, a few days after Mrs. B and I lost the baby, I was driving her car and noticed it felt funny. The next day I realized what was wrong. The transmission was slipping. The car is only a year old though, and has only had tire rotations, fluid flushes, and oil changes. It took the service department at the dealership where we bought the car just minutes to figure out that the transmission was seriously damaged and that the damage had been caused a few weeks earlier when a Jiffy Lube service tech, in his haste to quickly change the oil, accidentally removed the transmission fluid filter and then, after realizing his mistake, put it back on, thinking no one would know. The problem was he punctured the filter in the process, and Mrs. B's car had been leaking fluid up until I noticed the symptoms. So there we were facing a $5,800 tab for a new transmission in a nearly new car. And no, the manufacturer's warranty didn't cover it 'cause the damage was caused by a mechanic and a service shop, Jiffy Lube, not certified by the vehicle's manufacturer to tamper with the transmission. So I called Jiffy Lube and demanded they make things right. The short of this story is that they strung me along for nearly four weeks, slowly inching in the right direction. In the end, about a week ago, after Mrs. B's transmission was replaced, the Jiffy Lube customer service manager in Houston who had been handling our case, decided to get cute. She spent several days telling me the check was in the mail. I know that excuse. I used it in college. Finally on Thursday, she scornfully, almost gleefully told me that Jiffy Lube had decided to not pay for the repair, and she sarcastically wished me good luck getting Mrs. B's car back from the shop 'cause it wasn't Jiffy Lube's problem anymore. So, as my grandma would say, I had to show my arse. I think that's southern for freeing the beast. I promised her that she would have egg on her face before the week was over. Then I called up the Jiffy Lube corporate chain. I called and called and called, till I had to be no more than a couple of layers removed from the Big Kahuna's office. By that point they had to be wondering who the mad man from Miami was. And I can't imagine it hurt that among the several call back numbers I left in one voicemail was my office number...at the Miami Herald. And when one Jiffy Lube exec returned my call, she called me at work, and I answered in my angry reporter voice. Seriously, it's a practiced voice. Anywho, in a matter of two hours, not only had I received an apology from Jiffy Lube, but they paid the repair costs in full by the next morning, and paid the cost for Mrs. B's rental car in full by the next afternoon, and, according to the big boss who set this correction in motion, the customer service agent I dealt with was being put under a disciplinary review. So let's review: I'm nice and mild mannered, a virtual Clark Kent for four weeks, and the car remains broken while I talk to a brick wall called Jiffy Lube customer service. But I change my tone, put on my red cape, and start growling at people, and almost immediately - literally in less than a day - everything is fixed? Hmmm.

OK, I'm signing off. In the morning we have another seven hours of driving ahead. I'll post more later in the week. Until then, peace and hair grease - JB.

Am I overreacting?

2007-11-12T19:28:00.000-05:00

OK, so I have a not-so-hypothetical for you.

As I write this, Mrs. B is in the surgical recovery room at our friendly neighborhood hospital. Why am I writing a blog post and not by her side? Because I'm not allowed back there yet, and because I'm half loopy for lack of sleep, and because I'm so happy that the docs say she's gonna be alright.

Business first: Mrs. B suffered what appeared to be a pretty serious postpartum complication late last night/early this morning, and lost a lot of blood. We've pretty much been at a hospital since 3 a.m. I say "a" hospital, because our true neighborhood hospital, which is about five minutes from our house, discharged her at around lunch time today and sent her to her doctor's private office, because he wanted her examined further by his partner. Upon conducting that exam, the partner basically concluded that Mrs. B shouldn't have left the hospital and that she needed a simple surgery to correct the problem that manifest last night. So the partner sent us to another hospital a little further away to prep for surgery, which brings us to the here and now.

Thanks in advance for prayers, concerns, etc. Mrs. B is actually doing very well, and the problem that manifest last night, while scary, was quickly and easily fixed this evening in surgery.

What can I tell you? What doesn't kill you.... I'm telling you, she and I joke almost daily that we've squeezed about 50 years worth of those life's lessons our elders keep telling us about into the past 12 months. If they gave out a trophy for positive outlook and pragmatism, Mrs. B would get it. I have to give her credit. By nature, I'm way more cynical than she is about human suffering and way more likely to jump to the conclusion that the Cosmos hates us, or at least hates me, and is making us both pay karma in spades because of it. She is taking things in stride. I am learning from her.

So knowing that Mrs. B is OK, let's move on to my not-so-hypothetical. At one point early this morning when we were in the E.R. of the first hospital, I left to run back to our house and get Mrs. B a few things, let the dog out and clean the stupid cat's litter box.

As I walked out of the E.R., I noticed out of the corner of my eye a scruffy, middle-aged gent with several serious-looking scrapes and bruises about his face, hovering in front of an E.R. room. In a split second, I assumed he had been in an accident or something and was maybe there to be treated himself or was waiting outside the room of someone close to him who was being treated. I thought nothing more of the guy and kept going.

When I returned to the hospital 35 minutes later, the guy was gone, I noticed a city cop on hospital security detail hovering around the triage desk, and the atmosphere felt slightly different.

I got back to Mrs. B's room, and the curtain was half open. I'd left it closed. She appeared to be resting comfortably. I walked in with her things, took a seat, and picked up where I'd left off on my coffee. Something was bothering her, and knowing how much "secrets" annoy me, Mrs. B told me something to the effect of "JB, I don't want you getting angry, but that guy who was out in the hall in front of that other room? Well the police dragged him away. He came over here after you walked away. You had barely gotten around the corner, when he walked over here."

So the guy walked up to Mrs. B's room, stuck his head in and asked "Was that your boyfriend?" Mrs. B replied "No, my husband." The guy shoots back, "Oh, a nigger."

Let us pause here for a second: My temper dictates that I should have walked around the E.R. till I found this guy, and then beaten him like he stole something. But my common sense dictates that I am too pretty to go to jail. Him referring to me that way isn't what bothered me. This was a guy who looked like he might think 1 + 1 equals 11. It would have taken a little more for him to offend me....It was him getting within a few feet of my wife, unchecked - that he had the nerve to approach her, and the cowardice to do it after I'd walked away. Still, if I'm going to be honest, it's my occasional, but still too frequent, run-ins with guys like him that make me wonder if I maybe I should be an angry militant dude. As far as I'm concerned, turning the other cheek only works twice, unless you're gonna bend over and let whoever kick you in your butt cheeks. But that's another post another time.

Again, I did not react to that idiot's language. I did react, however, to the fact that in an E.R. swarming with armed security guards and a sworn police officer, this nut job could walk right up to my wife's room and poke his head in. No one noticed, no one stopped him. No one questioned him.

Ultimately, police dragged him off and he was taken to a psych ward in the hospital for a 72-hour observation.

As I tried to calm down and flush my thoughts of hurting this man, Mrs. B went on to tell me that a nurse had relayed that the guy was brought into the ER by police - as a patient, not as an inmate in custody - because he had sustained his injuries in a bar fight.

So I went to the triage desk and confronted everyone I could. I wanted a police report. And I wanted to know why, if this guy had been in a bar fight, security hadn't kept a closer eye on him. Even if he had not started the fight, he had still engaged his opponent, and in my civilian mind that warrants a little more scrutiny - especially if there was any chance he was still under the influence of alcohol.

The E.R. director initially defended her staff by saying she couldn't verify why this man had been brought to the hospital or by whom and that he wasn't displaying aggressive behavior when he was admitted, so no one had any reason to watch him a little more closely.

Later, after we had moved on to Mrs. B's doctor's office, the E.R. director called me and said the nurse had been incorrect, that the guy had not been brought in by police for any reason. He was homeless, and had wandered into the E.R. claiming he had been assaulted.

So that let's the cops off the hook. But tell me if I'm nuts here: I don't think it lets the E.R. staff or E.R. security off the hook. See, if I as a total stranger walk up to you, grimy, bruised, beaten, and sullen, with furtive mannerisms, and I tell you I need help, you may help me, but just by virtue of my appearance and my attitude, I'll bet you're also going to keep one eye or the corner of an eye trained on me just in case.

Am I right? Or am I overreacting? I mean, I'm no doctor or nurse. Just a journalist, but common sense dictates to me that I would have watched that guy a little more than say the little old lady who walked in clean, calm, and collected. Call it profiling if you want. I call it a sensible precaution.

That's it. Nothing more to this story. The E.R. director called me a couple times more, as if she was trying to change my mind. I suspected though, having gotten my business card (when I demanded on the way out that someone call me quickly and give me answers), that she was concerned that if they didn't appease me I might become the boogey man and write something negative about them in the newspaper. Sorry, that only happens in the movies.

Anyway, thoughts, please?

Veteran's Day - Better Late...

2007-11-12T07:35:00.000-05:00

I don't want to get into a debate on illegal immigration, and who "belongs" in the U.S. or should be allowed, etc., etc.

However, this article by my Miami Herald colleagues Amy Driscoll and Trenton Daniel moved me.

I gotta tell you, I understand why people from depressed countries would want to slip into the U.S., legally or not. For all the criticisms from abroad of the U.S., there's no country in the world that presents fewer hindrances to civil liberties and what not. You can hate the government here and say it out loud, and no one will come for you in the middle of the night. You can own weapons legally. You can protest folks who own weapons legally. You can get an abortion. You can protest folks who get abortions. You can say/do just about anything you want. And while the reason for it isn't as simple as 1+1 or A to B, it all comes back to what American troops fought for in dozens of world conflicts and in a few fights here at home over the past 200-plus years.

But while we debate who should be allowed to stay and for what reasons, this article highlights a special group of people who so deeply understand what American citizenship means that they're willing to jump right into frays they could argue have little to do with them. They're immigrants who are serving in the U.S. military in exchange for fast-tracked citizenship.

Again, whatever you think of the politics behind this, you have to give these people props for the lengths their willing to go to, to demonstrate their feelings about this country.

Can anyone be trusted to do the right thing...without being told to?

2007-11-08T09:39:00.000-05:00

As a rule, I never ever ever ever ever ever give people who owe me the option of just doing the right thing, in terms of compensating me. I never tell them "It's up to you!"

Going back to my childhood, I learned that nine times out of 10, people just won't do the right thing if there's another option.

When I was a 10-year-old kid mowing lawns around the neighborhood - Willoughby Spit in Ocean View on the Chesapeake Bay, in Norfolk, Va. - during summers, my original business strategy for beating out the other "seasonal child laborers" was to do a butt-kicking mow job and then tell the resident "Just give me what you think is fair." My logic was that the resident would be so grateful for the good job and that I wasn't trying to stick it to them that they would ultimately pay me more than I would have asked.

That strategy lasted about a week, as slimy adult after slimy adult gave me just a buck or two or three, while the other kids were charging anywhere from $10 to $20 for the same work. Finally, I realized that I was being bent over without even getting kissed first, so I set a firm price for my services, eliminating all doubts about what my work was worth.

Even in adulthood, I didn't fully learn this lesson till a few years ago. I was on my way to a writing convention - this one in Atlanta, I think. And a buddy of mine asked if he could share my hotel room. I told him sure, so he asked what the tab was. I told him I wasn't sure, but off the top of my head I thought 50% for him would be about $300. And that's where things stayed until a week before the convention when I dug up the reservation and realized I had been way off. The total tab would be closer to $850. So I told my buddy about the difference, apologized, and reminded him that I was going from weak memory in our first conversation.

Now, considering our friendship, what I fully expected him to say was "No worries. So that makes my half $425, right?" or "I didn't set aside that much cash, but some time after the convention, when I get paid again I'll get you the difference." Instead, he said nothing. There was dead silence on the phone for a minute. So to break the awkward pause I said something to the effect of "Listen, you know what the tab really is now. Just do me right." And I left it at that. And how much money do you think my buddy gave me when he arrived in ATL and showed up at the hotel? That's right, $300.

So, my personal experiences aside, I was a little amused when I read that a recent "sales" experiment conducted by the band Radiohead did not go so well. The band recently released its new album In Rainbows. They made the album available on their Web site for free download and they invited fans to pay what they thought was fair.

Over a four-week period, it turns out that 62% of people who downloaded In Rainbows paid a whopping NADA! Zip, zero, nothing.

Of the 38% that chose to pay, an average of $6 was coughed up for the album. Forty percent of U.S. residents who downloaded the album paid for it, at an average of about $8. Thirty-six percent of people outside the U.S. who downloaded the album paid for it. They averaged about $4.60.

I applaud the members of Radiohead for being so progressive in how they share their music. But this brings us back to doing the right thing.

I believe a majority of people can do the right thing. But without a foot in the behind or some firm guidance, I'm just not convinced a majority of people will do the right thing.

Now that I've said all the serious stuff, I have this to say about any band thinking average people, even fans, would pay for something when they're not made to: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Those moments

2007-11-06T21:02:00.000-05:00

Pop quiz: Is it possible for you to say or do something and not be that something? Can you have a moment in which you are wrong that doesn't define you?

I bought a box of six generic, Krispy Kreme-like doughnuts over the weekend from my local grocery. Against my common sense and Mrs. B's protestations, I scarfed down every one of those sugary heart disease boosters in just two-and-a-half days. Does that make me an icing addict, a doughnut fiend? Man, I hope not, 'cause I only eat that stupidly every now and then.

But I asked the quiz question 'cause I'm sitting here watching Duane "Dog" Chapman on Hannity and Colmes explaining that the N-word never meant to him what it does to other people, that just as many black guys use it in the context of camaraderie, he meant it in a "brotherly fashion."

Hmmm. I know gay guys who call each other the F-word. If I see two men walking down the street holding hands - an obvious couple - I can't approach them, smile, and blurt out, "What's up, my (F-word)s!" I mean, I could say it. There's no law stopping me. But I have no desire to do something like that. It would be stupid. It could be mean. And common sense would prevent me from doing it, anyway.

Whatever the case, I like to think I'm a pretty reasonable guy. And my friends will tell you that I'm a sucker to a fault for what appears to be a heartfelt apology.

So back to my question. Based on my own experiences over the years with a lots of different people who live by lots of different philosophies, I think the answer is yes...with a couple of exceptions.

If, for example, you occasionally go to a party and someone offers you weed and you try it, that does not make you a marijuana addict or even a user, as "user" is defined in casual conversation. It makes you a periodic risk taker. And if your employer has the right to make you randomly pee in a cup, it makes you an idiot.

I once was at a hockey game with a bunch of managers from a newspaper where I used to work. They had taken me and several other younger reporters to watch the game from the company's luxury box 'cause we were all such arse-kicking writing machines. I kid. We were all wet behind the ears. But the bosses appreciated our rookie effort and decided to reward us. So at the end of the hockey match the WWE set up a wrestling ring on the ice for a 30 minute demo showcase of some of the league's new talent. One of their gimmicks was to have Saved by the Bell alum Dustin Diamond grapple with a real wrestler. I'm told that I was a "little" toasty by the end of the hockey game and that I spent about 10 minutes heckling Diamond by yelling Screech jokes at him from the box. Did that rant make me in need of AA? Nope. It made me feel like a fool at work the next day, after which I went right back to my "habit" of moderation.

Under these mundane examples, I'm convinced that in order to be something your relative behavior must be habitual.

And then there are the exceptions, extremes where one time'll sink ya: Murder someone, and the I-only-did-it-once defense won't get you off the hook. Beat your wife, and the I-only-did-it-once explanation won't get you off the hook.

So, Chapman's mea culpa is over now. I'm still not sure what to think. He says he's sorry. Who am I to question that? Even so, at what point do we tell folks their apologies are accepted, but they must still pay some price? If, as a child my parents let me slide every time I said sorry, I'd have made out like a bandit. I would never have "served" one day of grounding in my bedroom with no comic book or tune or telephone privileges. And I'd never have gotten several memorable smacks on the behind. Punishment does have a purpose.

Chapman also reiterated that he has so many black friends who have used the N-word around him that he's always felt he had "honorary" status that allowed him to use it too, as a friendly greeting.

I could buy that, in theory. Except that his taped conversation was not about friendly greetings. It was an expression of anger. If he really disapproved of his son's girlfriend's character, he could have called her anything, anything at all, crooked, shady, sneaky, vile, skankish, etc., but he chose to use that word. And that word, in a critical, lashing context is about a skin color, a race, nothing friendly. And that's where Chapman hurt himself.

Finally, as this show ends, I feel a little sorry for Dog. Shame on him for using this word in such anger and for not having good sense enough to know not to use it at all. Hell, even when I used to use it way back when to greet black male friends, I never, ever, ever, ever, let it be overheard. That sort of caution is what helped convince me to eventually ditch the word: If I had to be ashamed of it in mixed company I didn't need to be uttering it, regardless of context, I figured. Anyway, shame on Chapman's crackhead kid for selling him out to a tabloid for $15,000. And shame on us all that in 2007 in this country, we still haven't worked "it" out.

I hope Dog finds the peace and forgiveness he's looking for. And I hope we all take his situation as a reminder that no matter how cool or insulated we think we are, some things just aren't cool to say.

Oh, and a programming note to Fox News Channel: Since you guys are in such a forgiving mood for racially charged "slips of the tongue" and angry outbursts, are you going to give an hour long interview to former National Basketball Association star Tim Hardaway? I hear he's seeking redemption too, after being blacklisted and socially excommunicated earlier this year for a sexual orientation bias-charged rant. Hardaway said in a radio interview last spring that he hated gay people and that he didn't think homosexuals belonged in the NBA. C'mon FOX. Prove you're not hypocrites. Put Hardaway on the air...unless, of course, you think he's being a phony in his I-had-a-brain-fart, I-was-just-being-an-idiot explanations.

Weekend Roundup - Karma Edition

2007-11-02T11:01:00.000-04:00

There's strange happenin's out there. And I don't think it's 'cause Halloween just passed.

Santana - I just learned that Deborah Santana has filed for divorce from her genius musician husband Carlos. And it bums me out. I don't know the Santanas. I'd love to have substituted either one of them for some of the numbnut celebrities I've met and interviewed. Everything I've ever read about the two of them suggested that in spite of rough childhoods and young adulthoods they were decent people. Still may be. But they have been married for 34 years. Anything that lasts that long had to have some good attached to it. So I feel for them. Who knows? Maybe they'll work it out.
Getting pantsed - In case you hadn't heard, the administrative judge in Washington D.C. who tried to take his dry cleaners to the cleaners, 'cause the dry cleaners occasionally completed a job late - later than their one-hour guarantee - and once lost the pants to the judge's new suit for about a week, has been canned. The district board that oversees his office decided not to grant Judge Roy Pearson a 10-year extension on his job. Instead they told him to clean out his office and scram. I don't like dry cleaners either, as a rule. Inevitably, whenever I take my best shirts to them - and I have some pretty cool shirts, a couple of them are one-of-a-kind creations, seriously - I get my shirts back with broken or missing buttons. But I don't think I'd ever sue my cleaners for $50 million or $60 million. Pearson didn't belong on the bench anyway. Now he can write a book, chronicling how Karma bit him in the ass and left a bruise.
To whom much is given... - Some of you aren't religious. And that's OK. But surely you don't have an argument with the scripture that says "To whom much is given, much is required." As with Roy "The Pants" Pearson, it's a Karma thing. If life blesses you, you should bless life by trying to be a decent person and, maybe more importantly, trying to be decent toward other people, and maybe even more importantly, demonstrating to the rest of the world that you fully grasp how fortunate you are and that you really do appreciate how blessed you are. All that being said, my "faith" wavers when I read things like this. Apparently as part of disclosures in her ongoing custody battle with her ex-private dancer, Britney Spears turned over her finance and income statements to the court. Turns out she brings in about $730,000 a month in income. Of that she spends about $49,000 on two mortgage payments, more than $4,700 eating out - and it's mostly junk food, $16,000 for clothes, $100,000 or so on entertainment, gifts, and vacations, and, drum roll please, $500 on charity. To be fair, her pant-load of an ex-husband gets $35,000 a month of Britney's money, $15,000 for child support and $20,000 for spousal support. He spends over $13,000 a month on rent and private security, $2,000 for clothes, $5,000 for entertainment, gifts, and vacation, and $1,500 eating out. No mention of charitable spending. Are you with me? Does your faith get shaky too, when you read about mouth breathers making millions?
Dog the Bounty Hunter - What is there to say? If you hadn't heard, Duane "Dog" Chapman, the bounty hunter with the golden pomadour-topped mullet, was captured on tape earlier this week strongly "encouraging" one of his sons to break up with his black girlfriend, because he feared the rest of the Chapman family would get caught using the N-word around her. Of course, Dog didn't say N-word. He said N-word. And he said it a lot on the tape. He said he wasn't going to lose everything he'd worked for over 30 years because some N-word heard him say N-word and recorded it and turned it over to the tabloids. A&E Network has suspended production of the show Dog the Bounty Hunter. Chapman has issued a statement apologizing and insisting that his problem wasn't with his son's girlfriend's race, but rather with her character. OK. So why didn't he tell his son "I don't want you dating this shady (or bad, or dangerous, or crooked, etc.) young woman?" If this was about her character and not her appearance, why use that word to describe her? There are three ironies here: During the taped conversation, Chapman refers to the N-word as "a racial slur"...and then he continues to use it a few more times; Chapman's pastor/spiritual advisor is black; and in continuation of this karma-themed day, it seems that Chapman's son is the one who recorded the conversation between father and son and then sold the tape to the tabloid. Ouch! That's gotta bite...you know, like teeth marks, 'cause dogs bite? Sorry, weak joke.
Finally, a useful piece of "fabric technology" - Two Ohio boys have created wedgie-proof undies. And I'm predicting these things are gonna sell like hot cakes. When I was in first and second grade I'd have given them a little business. Laugh if you want. But they're about to be loaded. And when one of them runs for president in 30 years, I'll vote for him.

Please, do snitch!

2007-11-01T09:25:00.000-04:00

Hello folks. I haven't posted the past week or so, 'cause to be frank I came back too soon.

I found after that last post on cell phones that it took Herculean effort to try to crack a joke. Couldn't do it. So since then I've just been easing back into my groove by focusing on the element of my gig that pays the bills: reporting.

I'm wrapping up one story on child custody today (hopefully) that I was working on for weeks before my bereavement leave, and I have another on political partisanship among 30- and 40-somethings that I'll be knocking out early next week. And for those of you who need a good laugh, I'm working on a video project in which I will take on my nemesis - knock down furniture, complete with unclear assembly instructions - in time trials. That video story is scheduled to post on MiamiHerald.com the weekend after Thanksgiving.

On a personal note, Mrs. B is doing very well. We're getting there. Things are looking up. Etc. Etc. As the kid's say, it's all good...or is on it's way to being so.

So without further ado, back to blogging.

A colleague of mine, Andrea Robinson, wrote an article about the "Stop Snitching" movement last week, explaining that this "movement" appears to be gaining ground again and that it's frustrating local law enforcement. The next day, the mother of the late rapper Jam Master Jay, of Run-DMC fame, spoke out about the "Stop Snitching" movement hindering the solution of her son's murder. If you're not aware, "stop snitching" is a bit of tough guy slang that discourages witnesses to violent crimes from telling the police what they saw.

Some folks call it hip-hop/rap jargon. Some folks are ballsy enough to call it a black thing. But if you know your American pop culture history then you know the notion of "stop snitching" goes back to gangster movies from the Prohibition era in which white characters with names like Johnny the Nose and Frankie the Chin would declare "I ain't talkin!" or "I didn't see nothin'!"

We even encourage "stop snitching" in kids. Think about it. What happened when your older sibling smacked you in the head and you ran crying to mom or dad? What did your folks say? "Don't be a tattle tale!" In other words, "Suck it up and deal with the fact that you got assaulted, because your silence is more admirable than your assailant's behavior is distasteful!"

Still, in recent years the movement has been bolstered, unfortunately, by its commercial promotion in some rap music. An artist in Baltimore several years ago even made a widely distributed documentary-type video in which "snitches" were lambasted. At least one professional athlete gleefully appeared in the video. T-shirts bearing the phrase sold like hot cakes too.

Aside from the immorality of seeing one person harm another and not making an effort to help set things right by reporting the perpetrator, here's my problem with this movement: Not "snitching" does not help the depressed neighborhoods where so much violent crime takes place. It does not bring residents closer together. It does not prevent further violent crime.

Not snitching helps one person and one person only: the person who allegedly committed the crime. No doubt he appreciates you keeping what you witnessed to yourself. But what are you getting out of it?

A buddy of mine attempted to answer that rhetorical question with this history reminder: Back in the day, waaaaaaay back in the day, when poor people in depressed communities (very often minority-populated) declined to tell police anything it was 'cause they had a reasonable belief that a criminal suspect would not be given due process. Let's not forget that in some parts of this country, as recently as 40 years ago mob "justice" went unchecked. Turn over a kid who allegedly stole a loaf of bread, and your local sheriff may well hang that kid or shoot him just because. Turn over a kid who allegedly whistled at a woman who was the wrong color, and your local sheriff and friends may well hang that kid or shoot him. So fear of police for all the wrong reasons in many cases was legitimate back then.

It's a powerful argument, but like I told my buddy the difference between then and now is way back when, those suspects who couldn't count on fair treatment from the cops were not tearing their neighborhoods apart. These days? The guys who are not being snitched on, aren't taking their neighbors' silence as a sign from God that they have a second (or third, or fourth, or fifth...) chance to clean up their acts and do the right thing. Instead they're taking it as a sign that since no one will tell on them, their drug/gang/violent activity can continue as usual.

Fear of reprisal from alleged criminals is also a fair argument to not snitching. A woman in Baltimore's West End called police repeatedly several years ago to report neighborhood drug dealers doing business on her block. And several times they got arrested. But the dealers always got out. And each time they threatened her. Finally, one dealer got out and fire-bombed the woman's home. She and her kids died in the blaze.

It's easy for me to say this, 'cause I don't have neighborhood thugs menacing me. But at some point folks have to take a stand, weigh the future they're leaving for their kids or younger siblings and just do the right thing, for no bigger reason than it's the right thing.

And as cultural movements go, the first thing we can do is stop referring - even casually and even jokingly - to people who point out alleged criminals as "snitches."

Second? Until we excise that word from our vocabularies in the context of reporting violent criminals, then let's all be snitches.

Boycotting Bluetooth, sort of

2007-10-23T12:05:00.000-04:00

For the record, I like Bluetooth technology.

I've loved my wireless cell phone headset from day one. Granted, I'm using a wired headset for now, 'cause I haven't seen my Bluetooth in months (probably vacuumed it up, accidentally, or something). But I love the technology nonetheless.

So I was watching the Boondocks last night on Cartoon Network. And while I often cite moments from 'toons like the Boondocks and South Park, I'd never suggest we build our personal moral platforms off the plot of a cartoon. Still, I think I'm gonna conduct a personal experiment based on something I saw on the show last night.

Two wealthy morons were sneaking around in combat gear, burglarizing homes in a high end neighborhood in the fictional Chicago suburb of Woodcrest. While one of them barked instructions and tried to engage the other in conversation as they drove to their crime scenes, the other kept saying bizarre things. Each time the first burglar was baffled for a moment till he realized the other guy wasn't talking back to him. The other guy was talking to a girlfriend on his Bluetooth headset that guy #1 couldn't see.

So for most of the episode, burglar #1 lectured burglar #2 on the "evils" of almost-invisible headsets for phones.

And you know what? He had a point. He argued that the reason we hold phones up to our heads is to let other people know we're busy. In fact, it's how phones were designed. But his logic was sound.

Holding a phone - excluding the 1980s lunchbox-sized cell phones that caused brain tumors and shrank testicles - up to your ear, tells everyone around you that your time, for the moment, is occupied.

It is a preemptive strike against interruptions. People are less likely to approach you and break into your conversation, if they see you're on the phone.

It is also a safeguard against angry reactions to any dumb thing you might say into your phone. Say something stupid into a Bluetooth headset, and you might get smacked by the person standing closest to you on your other side. Say something stupid into a handheld phone, and the worst you'll get is a harsh look.

Plus, there's something about holding a phone that demonstrates the person on the other end has your full attention. Free your hands by way of a headset while you're on the phone, and tell me with a straight face that in less than a minute you're not already using both hands to fiddle with something else that diverts some of your attention from the person you're talking to.

Since rude interruptions, lack of clarity, and divided attention are three of my biggest pet peeves, then for the foreseeable future (until I can't stave off hypocrisy any longer), I am going to hold my phone to the side of my head...and hope that nothing inside my skull or my shorts shrinks or glows as a result of my dedication to civility.

UPDATE: I forgot one exception. If I absolutely have to take or make a call while I'm driving, I'll use my headset.

Back to the grind/Things I've learned

2007-10-22T11:51:00.000-04:00

Hello, friends and frienemies.

As many of you know I've been off the farm for a couple of weeks now, because my family was grieving. I'm always torn about how much detail to give in posts like this, because I tend to be extremely private about my personal life, almost to the point of paranoia.

On the other hand, when I started this blog, Mrs. B and I agreed that I would be as open as possible about who I am and what's going on in my life, because I want readers to connect with me - to feel me, as the kids like to say. My unwritten rule is that once ground rules of respect have been established, then I will consider sharing anything I don't have to be ashamed about. And there's definitely no shame in this instance.

Besides, I make it a rule not to have too many secrets. It's hard to live that way. So my life is a relatively open book. If you wanted to know my bank account info, my street address, and where I'm tattooed? Well, that's a different story that falls under the none-of-your-business category.

All that being said, here's the deal: Mrs. B and I lost our baby. I won't go into great detail. Guys, you wouldn't necessarily get the details anyway, unless you're doctors or dads. And moms, and would-be moms, you'll probably figure it out. A couple of weeks ago, she began suddenly exhibiting symptoms that weren't quite right. The bottom line is after being rushed to the hospital, she was compelled to deliver early - months early - and the baby didn't make it.

We are still sad. We are still grieving and probably will be for the next few months. But, most important, I think, we're living. We're not curling up into little balls shivering in a dark corner somewhere.

I used to think - actually, after comparing notes, we realized we both felt this way - that it was terribly calloused for people who had suffered a loss to say "Life goes on," or anything to that effect. I thought it was mean. I thought it was insensitive. I thought it was an indication that the person uttering those words was in denial. Naturally, I had no idea what I was talking about until this happened.

We realized quickly that this was something that would be with us the rest of our lives, no matter how many more children we have. But we also realized that we needed get our heads and our hearts in order and keep living so that we can plan on the rest of our lives. And as cliche'd as it might sound to you, we don't think our child would want us to wither away, anyway.

And one other thing I've learned over the past two weeks: Those guys who say "we" are pregnant? I'll never make fun of them again. I know I've joked about it in the past. I've called those guys all manner of wuss, 'cause, I reasoned, we're not carrying a baby for nine months. Our wives/partners are. I am one of those guys now.

When your wife/partner is in pain, physical and emotional, over anything to do with your baby you feel it. I'll never know fully what Mrs. B went through that day. I was there. Just feet away. But I'll never fully get it. I do know though, that by the time all was said and done I had stopped referring to her and started referring to we, in terms of pregnancy.

So, my friends, when the time is right we will try again. In the mean time, I/we plan to honor the scant memories we were able to glean, and continue living.

You Should Know...

2007-10-10T20:16:00.000-04:00

that I have not abandoned this blog.

But, right now the Burnetts, the Aubergers, the McCittricks, the Nowells, the Melvins, etc., - all of us, 'cause families rise and fall together, right? - have suffered a family loss. And frankly, I'm grieving.

I will post again some time next week. But for now, I just don't have it in me to crack jokes, attempt witty insights on the news or skewer dirtballs and politicians - sorry for the redundancy. All jokes aside, I'm as close to crushed as I've ever been.

If you believe in a higher power, say a prayer for us. If you don't, and you're so inclined, then think a few positive thoughts for us.

After a little time - maybe next week, maybe not - I'll share more. Till then, be patient and know that this blog will be back on track in no time at all.

Peace and hair grease,
JB

Weekend Roundup

2007-10-05T13:55:00.000-04:00

I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! I'm a huge fan of track & field, 'cause like most "retired" amateur athletes who lie on the couch on weekends and watch sports on TV thinking "what if," I really admire a great physique and above average athletic skills. And next to gymnastics, track & field probably produces the most near-perfect athlete bodies out there. That being said, I knew Marion Jones, star U.S. Olympic sprinter and long jumper, was on something. Jones is scheduled to plead guilty in federal court today to lying to investigators about using steroids over a two year period. She said that (like Barry Bonds) she didn't know the clear substance her coach had given her was 'roids. And by the time she found out, she was scared that she panicked and lied when asked about it. I don't know about that story, but I am somewhat relieved to find out she was juicing up, 'cause I was beginning to think in my Austin Powers frame of mind, that she used to be "a man, baby!" Not that there's anything wrong with that. But if she had been a dude, I would have expected her to compete in the men's division in the Olympics. It would only be fair.

Not to beat a dead horse, but double standards are always amusing, especially when the person holding them doesn't realize or acknowledge them. So I'm back on Bill O'Reilly. Understand, I don't think he's a bad guy. I just think that he's such a big guy, as in big shot, that he couldn't bring himself to admit that his description last week of the black people at Sylvia's restaurant in Harlem sounded bad, regardless of his intentions. But in the same discussion, O'Reilly reiterated something he's said on his TV and radio shows before: that most of white America has no idea that the average black American is nothing like rappers and other numbnuts portrayed on entertainment TV and in music videos. The suggestion was that black folks need to be aware of that stereotype and that perhaps black folks, using that awareness, could do more to win over their white counterparts and convince them that not all blacks rap and dance or whatever. So here's the funny double-standard: Last night I was doing my usual chat show surfing in prime time, when I came to the O'Reilly Factor. His guest in this segment was a Filipino college professor, who was upset, because he felt a joke about Filipinos on last week's episode of Desperate Housewives cast his people in a negative light. And he was concerned that it would generate or perpetuate certain negative stereotypes about Asians. So, given O'Reilly's revelation that average whites perceive average blacks to be like rappers and other folks portrayed on entertainment TV, you would think he'd told the professor: "You are right. Why, just recently I warned black people that lots of whites assume...about black people, based on TV and music videos. So you are correct to be worried that this jokey stereotype will give the general public the wrong impression of Asians." Nope. O'Reilly told the professor he was taking a stupid joke on a stupid TV show too seriously, that it wasn't that big a deal. Here's my deal: I agree with O'Reilly. It wasn't that big a deal. But if he really meant that last evening, then he needs to go on his show, face the cameras and say something like "White people of America, I have warned black folks on a few occasions that many of you assume that all or most blacks mirror the images you see of black rappers on TV, and in music videos. Well, entertainment TV and music videos are stupid and not meant to be taken seriously. So, if you do harbor such stereotypes, then drop 'em. Because it isn't fair to the average black person, who is minding his business, earning his keep, and has never picked up a microphone or been on television." What's good for the goose, no? He said last week his long term goal was to eliminate stupid racial stereotyping. If his audience, as he says, is the largest among those prime time sort-of-newsish-talk shows, then it's his civic duty to tell his audience to pass their judgments after meeting people personally and not after watching a TV show.

And while I'm at it, let me just dispel another racial myth that I've heard in recent weeks on prime time television, this one in relation to O.J. Simpson's latest legal troubles. No worries, Mr. O'Reilly. I'm not putting this one on you. These other talking heads who've been saying in recent weeks that "black America" supported O.J. Simpson during his murder trial back in the day, and that "black America" believed he was innocent, are on crack. These guys are smoking left-handed cigarettes if they really believe the drivel they're spewing. The truth is the average black person knew back then, just like everyone else, that O.J. was a hack...literally. The average black person did not support O.J., because the average black person was aware through the wonders of television that O.J. had about as much use for them as Michael Jackson - none! Or at least none, until he was charged with a crime and suddenly in need of friends and public moral support. O.J. is like the atheist who prays in the face of danger. Finally, the average black person was not happy that O.J. was acquitted in his murder trial. On the contrary, I would argue the average black person may have been slightly amused that it took O.J. getting away with murder before such a travesty began to outrage the entire country - 'cause surely no one believes that he was the first rich person to get away with it. But let's not get it twisted. We know just like everyone else that this was a rich guy who got away with murder. What he looked like was a distant second, even to him.

Finally, hybrid cars kill! Relax, I'm not saying your Prius is widening the gape in the Ozone Layer. But according to a new report, blind people worry that some hybrid cars are too quiet for them to hear, and thus a safety risk. The report says that blind people who rely partly on hearing the engines of approaching cars before they cross the street are worried that they might unwittingly start stepping into the path of hybrid cars, because hybrids are so quiet. Hmmm. I'm gonna leave this one alone, I think. This definitely goes in the damned if you do category. But I do feel more at peace restoring that 442. It's rumble will prove that I love and support the blind.

South Park and Tourette Syndrome

2007-10-04T09:58:00.000-04:00

I don't know if anyone watches South Park. But if so, did you catch last night's episode, the season premier? In case you're a fan and didn't see it, I won't be too much of a spoiler. Suffice it to say the show's theme involved Eric Cartman pretending to have Tourette.

OK, now my disclaimer. I have a question. A serious question. As God is my witness I'm not teasing, nor am I making fun of anyone with an illness. I'd never do that.

But here's the deal: I'm familiar enough with Tourette to know that it's a neurological disease and that it causes ticks or involuntary gestures in people. Some people blink uncontrollably or at random intervals. Some have a random twitch. Other's periodically yelp. And some Tourette sufferers blurt things out.

I went to school with a kid who had Tourette. He had the blurting tick. But the things he blurted out, at least in school, were exclusively cuss words. No joke. I've seen the same from time to time with kids in department stores, parks, etc. - the blurting tick, and always swearing.

Seeing last night's South Park made me think of this again, though, and leads to my question: Do people who suffer from Tourette and have the blurting tick only shout out swears?

I'm not kidding. If anyone knows someone who has Tourette or if you have it yourself, I'm genuinely curious. I'm just saying, every Tourette sufferer I've ever encountered who had the blurting tick always, always blurted four-letter words. I've never heard a Tourette sufferer blurt out "dandelions!" or "little fuzzy bunnies!" or "sunshine and M&Ms!" or "peaches!"

Enlighten me, please. And again, my disclaimer: I feel for anyone suffering from any sort of disease. No one asks to be sick. I just want to know about the circumstances of one element of this particular disease.