Racism is alive and well in liberal Seattle

Racism.

It's such an ugly word, with so much baggage. Some use it for political gain; some dispute its very existence. Most of all, we ignore it.

Last week at a Washington State Supreme Court meeting, the "r word" poked its head out of the sand yet again, as justices Richard Sanders and James Johnson shocked some participants when they stated that African Americans are overrepresented in the state's prison population because they commit a disproportionate number of crimes. They also disputed the view that racial discrimination plays a key role in the disparity.

Before I get all emotional about how my state's most powerful jurists feel about crime and punishment, I'd like to break things down, using some logic:

If what they're saying is fact, that would imply that African Americans are committing more crimes because either they're inherently more evil  than other ethnicities, or because they've learned that crime is more lucrative than attempting to find "legitimate" work.

If you believe the former, go ahead and log out of this blog and turn on FOX News, because Glenn Beck's coming on in a few minutes. If you lean toward the latter view, you may be right, but doesn't this shine a harsh light on our society and its disenfranchisement of a huge chunk of America?

Now let's assume that the justices' stance is merely ignorant conjecture, and in reality, the criminal justice system is unfairly stacked against African Americans. This would acknowledge that "institutional racism" is alive and kicking, and these judges don't want to cop to it.

I'm not a sociologist. I'm just a middle-aged guy who lives in the upper left corner of the country, trying to make sense of my surroundings. My city, Seattle, prides itself on its liberal politics, its open mindedness. We love to think that we're some of the most inclusive, tolerant people in the nation.

But really, things are no different than they were fifty years ago. Black people still live predominately in the lower elevation areas of south to south-central Seattle. The white folks live everywhere else, plus any areas with views of water.

We hear people like Rush Limbaugh spouting off about racism having been rendered moot sine the election of our first African American president. And, granted, we no longer see cereal boxes like this:

or restaurants like this:

But here's an indisputable fact—every position I've ever attained has been the direct result of a relationship with a friend or an acquaintance putting in a good word, dating back to my first job as a dishwasher in 1979. And you can say all you want about bootstrap-pulling and earning everything you've gotten, but isn't that just an easy way out?

If we can rationalize that we're all given an equal opportunity to succeed, that we're all viewed by our economic and legal systems as colorless and classless, then we never have to acknowledge that there's a big problem with race in America.

Maybe we can all dig a little deeper.

The Dream Team Hall of Fame

Dream Team.

It's become such an overused term, such a cliché. It's used to describe any assembly of all-stars or any group of entities stacked mercilessly against its opponent.

Here's the original Dream Team, the 1992 USA Olympic basketball squad:

After witnessing the complete erosion of its advantage in the amateur arena, the US Olympic Committee decided it was time to re-assert American dominance in basketball, kind of like when your big brother switches to his dominant hand after you've beaten him at H-O-R-S-E too many times.

These guys destroyed everyone in their path on the rode to Barcelona gold in '92. It was almost embarrassing to watch Charles Barkley dunk over a 5'10" malnourished Angolan, but the Americans accomplished the task, short shorts and all.


Since then, dream teams have risen up in all areas of pop culture. The O.J. Simpson Dream Team, consisting up of superstar barristers Robert Shapiro, F. Lee Bailey, Barry Scheck, Johnny Cochrane and Alan Dershowitz, muddled the jurors minds with so much doubt, both reasonable and not, that the glove never fit. And oh, did they acquit.

Other dream teams have emerged over time, like the formidable lineup of ABC's The View or my co-workers and I. And just the other night, Chris Bosh, Duane Wade and Lebron James debuted as the new-look, omnipotent trio of the NBA's Miami Heat.

Here's the scene last summer, when James and Bosh signed free agent contracts with the Heat, and before the ink had even dried, the organization staged a little debutante ball for the three.

Tuesday night, someone forgot to tell the Boston Celtics about the chosen three from Miami, so they went ahead and unceremoniously walloped the Heat. Hopefully, those ringers from South Beach will lose all their other games as well.

However, what I'm really here to discuss are some of the lesser known dream teams. We don't often take notice of them, but every one is a tour de force in its own right. First of all there's the male, adult contemporary, easy listening dream team of Kenny G and Michael Bolton. Witness their brilliance for yourself:


Other worthy additions to this juggernaut would have been John Tesh, Yanni or any other dude who played a solo show at Red Rocks.

Another notable triumvirate is the "I can't spell Constitution, so how am I supposed to understand it" dream team of Christine O'Donnell, Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann:

If you could somehow combine all of their brains into one huge mason jar, you'd have enough room left over to fill one huge mason jar.





Not all dream teams need to be human. How about that magical grouping of hangover treatments:

Eggs benedict,

a nice bloody mary,

and relaxing on the couch with a huge bacon sandwich to watch Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Hits the spot, eh?









There's also the steroid dream team, made up of:

Mark McGwire,

Carrot Top, and

Madonna's arms.


















And don't forget the mullet dream team of:

Billy Ray Cyrus,

me,

and Scarlett Johansson.


So keep your eyes peeled and you'll start to notice these magical combinations. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a maple bar, coffee and a cigarette.

We owned the streets

October 31, 1972

Since this could be my last time trick-or-treating (I am ten, after all), I've decided to keep a journal of my activities, just in case I want to read it someday when I'm really, really old, like thirty.

5:56—Got out of the house ten minutes later than planned. I can see kids walking around already. I should have practiced putting on this football uniform I've had since second grade. I can't stuff the thigh pads in anymore and the helmet hurts my forehead. I'm hoping no one knows that the black stuff under my eyes is mascara. I look good.

6:07—Kevin was mad at me for being late to pick him up. He told me that the house with the full-sized Milky Ways would be out by the time we got there. He seemed to feel better after he punched me and called me a dumb ass.

6:22—Some older kids rode by and threw eggs at us. Kevin got hit in one of his fake sideburns and it must've hurt a lot because he called them dumb asses in a really high voice like a girl. I got hit in the helmet but you can't even tell because my ram horns are yellow like yoke.

6:47—We accidentally went to the house where the lady wears curlers and hands out raisins. I think she heard us complaining, because she told me that by the looks of me, I could use a few more fruits and vegetables. Mean. Kevin said not to worry about it and that she's a dumb ass.

7:03—I was hoping I'd run into her and I did. She's going either as Mary Tyler Moore or Carol Brady, judging by her pantsuit. She's so foxy. I tried to hold in my stomach as we walked up to her, but these pants are really tight and it's impossible.

I couldn't think of what to say, so I asked her if she got some good candy. Ugh, stupid question! Then I offered to carry her candy for her. Hello? Doubly stupid question. No one lets someone else carry their candy. Idiot!

7:34—Bad move going to that guy's house. The place wasn't even decorated. He was just watching TV with his girlfriend, and he gave us each a quarter and a weird looking brownie.

7:50—The kids on bikes rode by us again, but they must've been out of eggs, because they just called us names. I recognized one of them. He's in my sister's grade, and even though he was dressed like a skeleton, I knew him by that weird divit in his chest that he was born with.

Kevin said he can't wait to go through puberty so he can kick those dumb asses' asses.

8:17—Our pillow cases are almost full and Kevin told me my helmet is making a purple spot on my forehead that's spreading. It hurts a lot and Kevin's platform heels are making his feet ache. Who's the dumb ass now, Kevin? You are, thinking you could walk around all night as David Cassidy.

8:30—Dropped Kevin off and went home. My mom got out the makeup remover and took off my tough football player face while I sorted candy. She saw the brownie and took it. My sister is still out, so she'll probably have more candy and brag about it.

9:24—My dad said it's time for bed, and I won't complain, because I already stashed the full-sized Milky Way under my pillow. I'm going with the comfortable Six Million Dollar Man pajamas tonight, because I've eaten a lot of candy.

I think I'll miss trick-or-treating. If I can't do it anymore, I guess I'll just feel like a dumb ass.

How to annoy the public while depleting the rain forest.

I live in Seattle, Washington. Our city has the reputation for being rainy, liberal and green, both in physical environment and mentality. As I previously pointed out in this post, the Emerald City prides itself in an organic, free range lifestyle, where our kids attend class in yurts made of the finest hemp, and if the classroom accidentally catches on fire, people gather from miles around to take in the "unfortunate event."

We recycle everything—yard waste, food waste, plastic, paper—if soylent green ever becomes a morally acceptable option, Seattle will be the first city to repurpose and eat Grandma.

And because I'm a lifelong resident of this enlightened region, it drives me crazy, every year around this time, when I observe the mailman, as he drives his boot heel into our mailbox to force in every last political flier. Okay, I'm exaggerating, but for the past week, our daily mail haul has averaged at least five, full-color, collateral pieces put forth by candidates and special interest groups.

From a design perspective, I probably scrutinize this stuff way too much, but it doesn't take a trained eye to notice the cheesy photography and lame Photoshop effects. Everything is too large, and if the goal is to present the candidate's head in actual size, I suppose they've nailed that objective.

But enough ranting about basic aesthetics, let's talk about messaging. You would think that each candidate's opponent is Satan him- or  herself, and the choice is clearer than Saddam vs. Cheney (Sorry, actually that's a tough call.). The major contest in Washington state is between the incumbent, Senator Patty Murray, and lifelong, smarmy Republican naysayer, Dino Rossi. He's already run for governor, and lost, twice, and now he's attempting to unseat Senator Murray, a sixteen year veteran of the congressional trenches.

We've been receiving at least one pro-Rossi piece of tree every day. Yesterday, he sent us a letter-sized document, showing a diapered toddler rolling around in stacks of cash. The headline read, "Senator Patty Murray's Spending and the National Debt: THEY SEEM TO GROW SO FAST!" All caps always drives the point home so nicely, especially when it's also underlined and accentuated with a drop shadow. I'm tempted to mail out my own flier which simply reads, "The Graphic Designers' Association of West Seattle endorses Patty Murray," based on that lame piece of Rossi propaganda alone.

There's usually also a highly unflattering photograph of the opponent, either laughing maniacally in black and white or making some sort of face that could only have been captured in a "moment of privacy."

I won't go into the various literature pushing initiatives, referendums and bond issues, because the modus operandi is pretty much the same. They want to scare the hell out of you by any means necessary, and make you believe that voting against their idea will end the world faster than even the Mayan calendar predicts.

So now, I suppose it's time to peruse a little thing called "The Washington State Voter's Pamphlet," and afterward, my wife said she could make me some nice pants out of it.

This could quite possibly be the greatest post ever written

Huge? Historical? Awesome? Really?

I'm not sure about how things are in other societies, but my culture absolutely brims with exaggeration, overstatement and hyperbole. The bigger and the more outlandish...the more it's noticed and the better it sells.

No demographic subset epitomizes this trait more than the American teenager. I love this scene from the film, Dan In Real Life, in which Steve Carell's character, Dan, informs his adolescent daughter that her new boyfriend is not welcome on their family weekend getaway:


Murderer of love, indeed. If I had a Krispy Kreme glazed for every time my kid told me I was ruining her life, I'd have enough to do a fundraiser for her school. Our most recent encounter went something like this:

"Dad, I got a pink slip yesterday at school."

"Why?"

"Because I was tardy to class."

"Why were you tardy to class?

"Because I had to get a pretzel because I was starving."

"Starving? You were starving? You weren't starving."

"I was starving, Dad."

I left it at that. I hate to sound like every parent throughout history, but kids in Africa are starving. Not my kid, who hadn't eaten anything for thirty-seven minutes. And that just illustrates how pervasive this over hyped drama is and how we're all guilty of it.

Exaggeration permeates the public airwaves, especially when it comes to sports broadcasters. How often have you heard statements like:

"That could very well be the greatest amount of Gatorade ever dumped on a coach."

"Folks. Remember this day. You and I are witnessing history being made, as Lebron James has become the first player to receive a new tattoo at halftime."

If it isn't television or other mass media, our workplaces are rife with statements of excessive enthusiasm:

"If you can get me that report by two o'clock, that would be awesome." Seriously? Childbirth is awesome. A report turned in by two is maybe a step or two above acceptable.

"You look amazing today! Those boots are sensational!" This statement only works if it's Buzz Aldrin speaking to Neil Armstrong on the moon's surface.

So America, let's give it a shot and tone it down—no more super sizing our speech for maximum impact, because it's all beginning to sound phony, anyway.  I'm going to attempt to heed my own advice here, and really try to avoid word inflation, but for now, I hope your weekend is a religious experience.

Time to drop a few names

On Sunday, as I entered our family room, I was greeted by the agitated voices of people from New Jersey—cries, screams, just general confrontational noise on the television. I asked my teenager what she was watching.

"It's Jersey Shore. They talk like this all the time. Especially that guy right there. He's The Situation."

"What do you mean he's the situation?"

"I mean, that's his name: The Situation." Then she drifted back to her show, and I felt fortunate for having received any information at all. I retreated to another area of the house, fearing for my country's future.

We're all named at birth; I feel quite confident in stating that most of us are bestowed with first, middle and last names. From that point forward, however, our names lengthen, shorten and morph into endless permutations.

For example, many athletes' names have been infused with potent, intimidating nouns, like Duane "The Rock" Johnson, Roger "The Rocket" Clemens or Allen "The Answer" Iverson. I'm not sure about Johnson or Iverson, but Clemens has already become more of a space vehicle and less of a rocket. Other guys have tacked adjectives onto their names, such as "Marvelous" Marvin Hagler or "Broadway" Joe Namath. If I weren't familiar with those two guys, I might think they sang show tunes during gay bingo.

Some of us are named one thing, but are called something different. My mom's name was Margaret, but she went by "Peggy"—Irish thing. "Chuck" is always short for Charles and "Hank" can be a derivation of Henry. "Ike" is a nice nickname for Dwight, and "I like Ike" sounds a lot less ambiguous than "Dwight is wight."

There's a small subset of folks, mostly guys, who use their first initial along with their middle and last names, like F. Lee Bailey, G. Gorden Liddy or M. Night Shyamalan, or those who use their first names with their middle initials, like Michael J. Fox or Samuel L. Jackson. Why? Is M. Night Shyamalan afraid someone will confuse him with M. Dusk Shyamalan? Sorry, but it seems a little pretentious to me.

The convicted murderers have no choice. Their entire names are always used: Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray, John Wayne Gacy. If you ever see a picture of your cousin Mike in the newspaper and the caption lists his entire name, you might want to call your aunt and make sure she's okay.

Lastly is a group of people whose first and last names are abbreviated, most famously Alex Rodriguez's transformation to "A-Rod." Great caution must be exercised in choosing this option for your own name, since it did not work at all well for Alan Holman, Frank Bombardi or William Shatner's brother, Isaac.

She was more than just June Cleaver

Barbara Billingsley has passed away at ninety-four. When you hear her named mentioned, you probably think of a beautiful, blond wife and mother, caressing her household with a satin touch.

She was June Cleaver.

June never descended the Cleaver staircase without first donning her legendary pearl necklace. Ms. Billingsley later recounted that she wore the famous accessory to hide a slight indentation in her throat, and just like that, an immortal image was created, worthy of a place in television lore next to Archie Bunker's chair and Arthur Fonzarelli's leather jacket.

Ward Cleaver, the patriarch of the Cleaver clan, would have been lost at sea without his able bride. As I wrote about in this post, Ward's only real tasks in life were grabbing his lunch out of June's manicured fingers as he departed for an unspoken, yet stressful job down at "the old salt mine," and returning to a five course dinner with his brood of hapless, yet lovable sons, Wally and Beaver.

"Sit down, dear. Here's the evening paper, and dinner will be served in fifteen minutes." June had everything under control. Ward's only remaining duty would be to discipline Wally for giving Lumpy a retaliatory wedgie that went awry, or scolding The Beav for using June's brassiere to raise some new tadpoles.

She'll forever occupy a squeaky clean world in shades of black, white and gray, but mostly white. I'll always think of her when I pour a glass of whole milk or see a woman gardening in her slacks. And, a lot like my own mom, she was there when her kids needed her the most, saying just the right thing.

But as indelible a mark as she's made on our lives as June Cleaver,  how many of us remember her performance in this scene from Airplane:



Versatile? yes. Classy and elegant? Definitely. Irreverent and hilarious? Absolutely, which makes me love her even more.

Rest in peace, Barbara Billingsley.