Gainseville Again

This weekend an opportunity managed to find me (or my friend Michael's mother, but she couldn't take it, so it found me as it's fallback.) I got Gator tickets. That's the team name for the University of Florida, for those of you who hate sports. This particular event was football, as is right, and just. They played the Kentucky Wildcats, arguably the worst team in the SEC.

To get me to Gainseville is a bit of a chore. I'm very much like a toddler (right in the middle of his "terrible twos.") I kick and scream, and drag my feet, and if you try to pick me up I go limp so quickly that you drop me. And then I'm hurt, and crying, and it's a whole thing. You might think this is crazy, what's so bad about Gainseville? It's not the city. Or even the school. It's the drive. First off, I am a completely social animal, and being alone, with no one to talk to for over an hour gets me physically ill (or when I'm driving, sleepy.) Every time I find myself on a highway, I think about those brave men, truckers, and their twenty hour drives. I can't even imagine surviving that job. As soon as I reach the city limits I'm drowsy and the seat is really comfortable, and the sun always seems to be shining at that angle that just screams nap (even at night.)

I've found answers to my problem, but if I am lucky enough to have a passenger, they tend to hate my solutions. I either need a stimulating conversation (known in my family as a "good old fashion throwdown" and or argument) or really loud music that I can sing to. This results in me playing the same thirty or so songs both ways, singing at the top of my lungs (I have a passable singing voice, but when I'm all slouched in my seat, it just sounds like I'm yelling at the other cars about love and souls and upbeat girls from New York.)

I went to the University of Central Florida, and have never been to a college football game that wasn't either them playing, or at the Citrus Bowl. Even for bowl games, the Citrus Bowl is so large, that it's nearly impossible to fill. I didn't understand what a UF game would actually be like. First off, I wore my comfy shoes for the drive up. Which, was a wise decision. For the car portion of the weekend. Then I was informed that I would be walking to the stadium, a grim reality that didn't truly set in until we had been walking for fifteen minutes, and Michael told me (smiling in his thick souled leather shoes) that we were still another fifteen minutes away. And this ignored the stark and haunting truth that we would have to walk around the entire stadium to get to the tailgate, and then again to get to our seats. Suffice it to say my feet took a beating, and have not yet forgiven me for my crimes against them. What really got me was all of the women, walking the same walk in sandals. I asked my feet what the problem was, and they were like "Dude, you're huge." I agreed and just dealt with the pain for the rest of the evening (by complaining as often as possible to Michael with edgy statements like "Ouch, my feet really hurt.")

After a few runs at the tailgate's food and alcohol, we made our way to our seats. Although, to be fair, I shouldn't really call them "seats." The spot itself was an absolute gem. Thirty five yard line, sixty rows up, perfect view of the entire game. But calling the places where we found ourselves seats implies that Michael and I are about a hundred pounds, after a fully clothed jump in a nearby pond. If Michael wasn't six foot four, he might have been OK, but the fact that my size can be compared to a compact car without much loss of accuracy might allow you to grasp the truth, we weren't going to be comfortable. However, I took solace in the fact that neither would my neighbors, and we could all be uncomfortable together, like a family, only with less yelling (at each other, but the referees were going to get it) and financial worry.

We were not on the student side, which was good, because we could at least attempt to sit down. The student section doesn't actually need seats, they all just stand on them (despite the constant reminders from the announcers that this activity is considered dangerous, and serious injury may result.) That allows for quite the sight for anyone in viewing distance, 30,000 college kids standing up and shouting, singing and yelling cheers. Coming from a school whose football program's rich history can be summed up with two words: "Daunte Culpepper," I wasn't ready for the raging bull that is a University of Florida home game. The entire campus seemed to have gotten the same idea in their heads when they woke up: Mainly, go outside and watch football there. Every available stretch of grass had a tent and a television, red cups and blue cups and even a few white ones (however the owners of said white cups were generally shunned and looked upon with distaste) presumably filled with liquid with a high alcohol content.

The game itself left a little to be desired (for Kentucky) and ended with a large margin of victory for the Gators. However, watching them live allowed me to watch ever play with a little more focus (without the "last" button I found myself being forced to watch the same channel, i.e. the field, the entire game.) In the interest of allowing this column to age like fine wine, I won't get into who they play or when and how I think the Gators have relatively little chance of going to the National Title this season, instead I'll say this: Their offensive line doesn't seem to like their running backs. As soon as one of these poor runners took the hand off, the line seemed to fall apart. Like old french bread, they just crumbled and flaked and missed even the slightest hint of an opportunity to hit someone (something you can do and get away with in football.) This means that if the running back isn't shifty as a thief in the night, he's going to get hit. Hard. Defensive lineman are not small guys, and they do not love tap (running backs.) At first, one is inclined to think "Wow, the UF offensive line is very bad, and should not be feared." But this is not true. As soon as Burton steps in to take a snap (this is the kid widely regarded to be the next, if much smaller, Tim Tebow) the offensive line grew six inches and was able to bench at least two hundred pounds more than they could a few seconds before. At least that's what it looked like. Out of nowhere the defensive unit for Kentucky was getting thrown around like rag dolls, and chewed on like tasty morsels. Burton ended with six touchdowns on the night. So either, they (the offensive line) really like Burton, or they really hate running backs. There's probably a middle ground, some common denominator, but if so, I couldn't see it. The Tebow era taught them that blocking for a quarter back was good, and the Percy Harvin era taught them that blocking for a running back was meaningless, he's just going to out run your opponent and therefore your block anyway.

Woe is the life of the UF running back today. Or more specifically, on Saturdays.

Idealists are having a Tea Party!

Ah, populism. Stick it to the man. Gotta' love idealists. (Actually, you don't. At all.)

Idealism, in every day life, is a lot like optimism. Everyone wants to be an idealist. But we all realize we can't, because that's not real, and to quote Yoda: "Work, that will not." (He never said that, but were he involved in politics, i.e. Attack of the Clones, he probably would.)

But at the very same time, being a realist sucks, so we tend to dance in this political middle ground where we don't actually know what to do all the time. We call this state of dancing "being a Moderate." (Because not knowing what to do all the time is actually a human characteristic, and is OK.) And it's what works. Sure, idealists (Who are wrong, about nearly everything.) call us "fence sitters" and say we have no opinions of our own. But, like I said, idealists are wrong. About everything. See, here's the thing. In life, so many unique situations come at us, so quickly, that we can feel like we are under a constant attack. Sometimes, the security blanket we need is the 100% certainty that it is someone else's fault. At this point, joining a grass roots political movement, liberal or conservative, begins to make a lot of sense. All they do is functionally point fingers at their opposite numbers, blame them from everything from the State of the Economy to the death of Christ, and claim that everything good in the world has come from their ideas and Dolph Lundgren movies. Political idealist are a lot like fundamentalists in religion. They believe in a concept so wholeheartedly, so fully, that it consumes them. They simply cannot understand how you (A moderate.) don't agree with them. And because you don't, you are deemed ignorant. (After about two nights of news reports and talk show interviews, begins to sound more and more like unholy.)

The truly baffling thing about idealists is that they are, and I stress this, the minority. And yet somehow, they always end up getting the most air time, and the longest speeches. Every time one side gets a majority in Congress, up springs a new extremist group, pushing to get them replaced in the next elections, with candidates who will make everything better. (Despite over 100 years of this, nothing ever seems to get better, at least according to the growing number of protest groups and extremist parties.)

Enter the Tea Party "Protest" Movement. A group of right wing hippies against "big government." They are a grass roots movement who favor the saying "Don't tread on me." Despite the fact that they are funded by some of the richest men in America, mainly the Koch brothers. (Don't have time to read two blogs? Essentially, the men that fund the Tea Party are at the heart of big business in America. They are so mind numbingly concerned with their profits that they are against public schools.) The deep irony here is that the people that accept this money, are self proclaimed "Christian mothers." They never stop saying that they are doing this so their children can have a better country to live in. Really? By taking money by men like these? (Read about Palin, or O'Donnell, listen to one Tea Party protest, and experience the heart stopping irony of who actually funds them.)

O'Donnel, the newest white woman to run for politics on the Republican billet, has had a string of victories over Democratic nominees, and says this is due to the country "finally waking up." She ignores the fact that men like Sal Russo, savvy politicos who have been behind many of the Republican extreme right wing victories over the past 50 years, have spent nearly a quarter of a million dollars on political smear campaigns against her opponents. (Ignoring the fact the O'Donnell very publicly lied about her education, and has had a string of incredibly bad publicity incidents due to her views on sexual education. I.E. She thinks masturbation is wrong, she thinks AIDS research funding should be lowered because it promotes bad behavior, and she thinks that condoms won't work in preventing STD's. Yes, she's against condoms.)

And this is the reality with political idealist movements, the reality that forces me to consistently align myself against them, even in defense of administrations I'm not particularly fond of: these idealists don't care who funds their message, or what they're really saying, all they care about is that people they disagree with are hurt, that their opinions and messages are discredited.

This is not how the political system should work. This is not what a democracy is. We shouldn't make others look bad, but make ourselves look better. Other people's opinions matter, otherwise we would still serve the King. Being ignorant of your own groups goals, and not questioning what it is that you are doing, better defines a cult than a political party. It is absurd to not have anything to say for yourself, but have a myriad of thins to say against someone else.

Politicians and political groups constantly miss the point. Governments do not exist for the sake of Government. (Yes, bureaucracies lead us, and their own members, to believe that, but I assure you, it's not the case.) Government is about the people, about what's best for the nation. And that includes more than just Christians, whites, blacks and people who think reality TV is "totally cool." Politics are about being inclusive, about working together to find the best solution for all of us, and if you can't agree with that, you don't belong in office.

That's not saying don't get together and protest, don't share your beliefs. We need that as a country. Sure, I don't want to hear it, but that's my prerogative. I just don't believe people like Palin and O'Donnell, people who want to force their views upon the people, should be allowed in office. Have your say, get a talk show, throw your rhetoric over the air waves, that is your right as an American. But don't pretend that way of life is best for everyone.

Next up: The Pope's visit to Britain a success! Only 10,000 people protested, and Germany didn't invade!

The Demon Tooth and the Root Canal Experience

I cannot feel my teeth. Logic dictates that this means I could, in fact, feel my teeth before. How is it that I have never noticed this? I notice similar things, for example, I noticed that I cannot feel my hair, unless someone is pulling it. I can always feel my knee, because, despite the normal aging expectations of the human body, my knee has steadily out-aged me and is now nearing its fiftieth year.

I came to this understanding when I went to sleep, or more accurately, when I tried to sleep. I never quite succeeded in this goal, because my tooth insisted, painfully, that I remain awake. And so my nights took a collegiate turn. As you might expect, the toothache party didn’t stop the next evening.

After the second night came to its much appreciated end, I decided I had a serious (and possibly paranormal) problem. Clearly my tooth had been possessed by an evil spirit. My father, however, assured me that this wasn't the case. He insisted that I had something called an "abscess" and that I would probably need a "root canal." Being raised in a heavily sitcom influenced era, I understood these phrases to be inherently painful, and as such, I instinctively feared them.

I knew what I needed—but there was no shaman available, so I called my dentist instead. He (his assistant) told me to come in the next morning. One more night should be easy enough to handle (it wasn’t.)

Imagine my relief the next morning, after several x-rays and a series of commands where I was directed to “bite down and hold,” when I discovered that I wouldn't have to have a root canal. "You see," my dentist explained to me, "You already have a root canal. A root canal is actually a part of your tooth. It's the inside, it's also known as the dental pulp, and it’s how your teeth actually grow. Once the teeth are mature, the dental pulp begins to function as sensory nerves. (It also serves as a relaxing vacation spot for microbial infections, and therefore intense and abundant amounts of pain.) What we're going to do is actually called endodontic therapy."

Of course I had no idea what he meant, but going by my earlier interpretation of root canal I decided that making the phrase more complicated and adding the word "therapy" (a word clearly intended to soothe) to the end could only be synonymous with "more pain."

Next, he told me he needed to drill into my tooth, and take said dental pulp out. After he was through with that, he would proceed to fill my recently pulp-vacated tooth with what can accurately and quite scientifically be called "melty goop." He assured me I wouldn’t feel a thing, Novocain, it turns out, is a very successful anesthetic.

Somewhere between him discussing drilling into my tooth with the same offhanded attitude one could expect to hear in regards to the weather and sticking rather large needles into my rather fleshy gums, I began to regret my earlier decision to stop looking for a shaman, or at least an apprentice exorcist.
However, one look at my dentist's tools and I realized that I had, against the odds, found my man. He had scissors, pokers and scrapers, various needles and a lighter (a tool whose purpose I could only assume, was to light things on fire—in my mouth), shaman indeed.

A couple Sports Center reruns later, (subtitled, by what I can only assume to be a third grader on his fifth espresso of the morning) my dentist had waved his magic wand six times (that's code for stabbing me in my gums with the previously mentioned needles—six times) and I no longer felt my teeth. (Or my lips, left cheek or tongue.)

It is an odd sensation, having something inside one of your teeth, and vibrating at high speeds. I felt no actual pain (that would come later), just the standard discomfort of having two people leaning over me while waving around tools that could also be considered weapons. Had my hands been strapped to the chair, the movie might have taken a darker turn.

Instead of that horror scenario, he wrapped up his exorcism with the professional grace and speed expected of a high class dentist (shaman.) and told me in the smiliest manner possible that he would see me again in three weeks. Of course, he had just made two hundred dollars (beyond the deductable) and had been the one holding the drill (and the lighter.)

In amendment to this article, I find it to be important to note, that my father, unknown to me, traveled to my very dentist (Shaman.) later that afternoon for his very own appointment. I'm not calling this a guarantee, but let's call it likely (Outside of Mayberry, NC.) that my father and I are the first father son combo to get a root canal (Endodontic therapy.) on the same day, by the same dentist, (And Dental Assistant.)in the same chair, (Presumably with the same, hopefully cleaned, tools. Including the lighter.)on the same (And I'm not kidding about this.) tooth. (Not exact same, for all of you literals out there, but rather, the same tooth position.)

Follow Dave's adventures in dentistry three weeks from now in: the Demon Tooth 2: The Crown

Hugs on Holidays, that !@$#'s Important!

Sometimes you don't need the World to supply you with news. Sometimes it happens right on the home-front. Sadly, this is normally the type of news we want to avoid. Sure, this isn't always the case, there's the baby news, getting married news, the cousin won the Lottery (but probably won't share, because you're like barely first cousins.) news and such. OK. So to be fair, news is balanced. However, this weekends news was of the variety none of us wanted to receive, but weren't particularly surprised when we got. Great Grandma Vera had passed on.

No on is upset about her death. Not in the traditional sense. We'll miss her, and the one's who knew her best (my grandmother, mother...etc) they'll think of her quite often, sometimes fondly, sometimes not. But me? All I remember are hugs at Christmas (Which always leads directly into thoughts about fruit cake, which I still haven't the slightest idea to why, exactly, it's called fruit cake. Is there actually any fruit in it? Debatable.) and the occasional phone call. (To my mother. I was like 10 and probably even more annoying to talk to than I am now. Have your doubts? Lose them.)

So today, rather than taking my normal 10 minute trek to the bookstore, I huddled into the car with my father, mother and little sister, and buckled in for the two and a half hour journey to Jacksonville, where my grandmother lived most, if not all, of her life.

I have no interest in the Jacksonville area. it's home to a football team I've never really liked, a girl I'm crazy about, and a smell that I can't quite comprehend, (I'm told it's a pulp factory? I'm not even sure what that phrase means.) but it's definitely not my place.

Funerals have always freaked me out. And not for the standard reasons. I don't mind death. I've understood, or believed (People get so upset when you say things with clarity and confidence. Well, if they say something different the same way, that is.) that death isn't really that big of a deal to the deathee. My great grandmother doesn't (More than likely.) care that we showed up to watch her interred. She might have appreciated the thought before hand...but, in general (I hope we can all agree.) funerals are for those left behind. They're chances to say good bye and chances to get some closure, or at least the illusion of it.

I didn't really know what to say goodbye to. Grandma Vera was 98. I hadn't seen her for years, and even then, she just sat on the couch and chatted, very, very slowly, with my grandmother and the other adults. To me she had always been hard evidence that people, do in fact, get old, (A fact that, if you looked at my mother and her sisters, you may deny.) with the comfort in knowing it won't be anytime soon. She was someone to hug and say "I love you" to for vague reasons and familial propriety. (That doesn't make the love any less true, but maybe a tad less meaningful.)

So I said goodbye to a woman I barely knew, but still loved. I chatted with family members that I had forgotten I had, and tried to be a comfort to my grandmother, who has been much more than someone to hug on Christmas.

But, to say that this funeral was bland or smooth would be a lie. First, it's Florida. And for those of you who don't know, Florida doesn't have seasons. Rather, it has a State of Being. And that State of Being is "Muggy." (If you live in Miami it's "Muggy & Mugged." A two for one deal if there ever was one.) In the vein of all great lineman (That's an overweight athlete, for those of us who haven't turned on their TV's in the fall, ever.) I sweated so profusely that I'm pretty sure I have to burn the shirt I was wearing.

I got to walk around a cemetery, which was a solid mix between incredibly interesting and terrifying creepy. Every time a cloud passed overhead I expected the zombie horde to come screaming out, and every time the Sun glared off a windshield or someone's glasses I expected Steven Seagal to jump out from behind one of the headstones, guns blazing. Of course, none of these things happened. (But what if they had? What if they had?) Rather, we had the oldest living women I've ever met, fall--in what seemed like slow-motion. Miraculously she managed to land in one of two spots in the entire area that didn't have a headstone or plot marker, and was relatively unscathed. (She was damn sure she had ruined the whole funeral, we'd probably have to start over.)

To make that situation worse, her daughter was not entirely in the know about what we'll call "common cemetery protocol." Well, neither was the Old Woman herself, but if she wasn't 100, she was fast approaching it, she can be forgiven. The plot where my great grand parents were buried is right by her neighbors plots (the Old Woman's husband had already gone on.) Apparently, a salesman had gotten the bright idea to go door to door selling the "doorway to Heaven." (Yeah, I just went "Salesman Speak" on you.) He must have made a, pardon the pun, killing on my Grandmother's block.

This woman, Kitty, I believe, decided she would look for her future resting place. I can't imagine why anyone would want to see this. Ever. I understand it needs to be done. Buy the plot, put money aside for your funeral, be responsible to those you leave behind. But, isn't that something you do, and then never talk about again ever? I thought that's why parents had children Today. Cheap labor and someone to take care of all of their stuff when they finally (Don't read into this Mom and Dad.) pass on. Kitty's daughter, no shame in her game, was doggedly determined to show her mother where her husband had been buried. (*TAP TAP TAP* "Mom! I'm hitting Daddy! I'm hitting Daddy!") And her mother, bless her, looked at her husband's grave marker and said "Oh look! There's my spot." (While she stood, literally on top of, her future grave.) Before she plodded her way back to her daughter's car.

I wasn't sure how to handle the situation. Until I locked eyes with my cousin and aunt, who had been staring at me, waiting, knowing that when I looked over, I wouldn't be able to hold it any longer. Suffice it to say I found a very good reason to be somewhere else. Quick, fast and in a hurry. (Admittedly, the two women probably would have laughed too. They wouldn't really comprehend they "why" of it all. But damn it, they'd be laughing.)

I won't get into the ride home because, who wants to hear that stuff? Much less be forced to read about it? (A lumber truck rolled over on the high way and it took us like an hour to get by. Ha!)

I think the real message here, at least that I want to understand for myself, is this: Our time on this planet is limited. Believe it or not. It's hard to cherish every moment with those you love, (Hell, it's hard to cherish even a few of those moments, sometimes.) and it's hard to look at life with a consistently positive attitude. But, life shouldn't be something that you "struggle on" with. Something you "push through." Take your time. Enjoy it. Make sure you have people in your life that you get to hug on holidays. Make sure you can say "I love you" to them for more than the childlike fear of getting popped by your mother, or because you know you should. I'm not saying do this: http://xkcd.com/791/, but you totally should.

Let's Hop Ignorances!

Our most recent debate has done little to stop the common European (in response to anything American) slogan "Damn Americans, ignorant pigs." from being shouted on high, from all the lofty places throughout their old-timey nations. So what if you have the Eiffel Tower? Big Ben? Notre Dame? We have book burnings (Rev. Jones has [sense my last article] downgraded it the protest to a 'no' then right back up into the murky waters of 'maybe.') and conservative stance on gay rights! So conservative in fact that we (I'm calling the Government "we" for the sake of this article) go right past "hate monger" and into "awkwardly Republican." In America, we won't even let our gays (yes, I'm claiming you, gays, as Americans. Take that.) die for us.

The U.S. Armed Forces have operated under the "Don't ask, don't tell." motif for the past 10 years.(Don't quote the 10 years thing. It just sounds good. I imagine the policy has been around as long as the Military. Kind of goes with the territory of "not telling.") In other words, if you're a homosexual, and you want to be a soldier...don't be honest about being gay, until your done being honest about your love of country. As far as the military is concerned, the two ideals can't coincide. If you feel the need to tell the world, or your fellow serviceman, you're going to get whatever the military calls "getting fired." (Discharged? Ewww. You can't see it, but I'm scrunching up my nose.)

The Log Cabin Republicans, a 19,000 member strong group filed a lawsuit to stop the ban back in 2004, and now the Courts are coming over to their side. U.S. District Judge Virginia Phillips has ruled that the bans were unconstitutional and have a "direct and deleterious" effect on the military. I'm not so sure the Military as a group cares either way, few Americans that aren't actually gay get into the debate. We've very much become a "yeah, what's it to me?" kind of people. Most of the people I know that actually aren't homosexual, but are pro-gay rights go about it in a very Family Guy kind of way, "They have the right to be miserable too." Obviously gay men and women in life and death situations need to handle themselves with restraint that a straight serviceman would rarely have to deal with, especially in combat/intense situations. I'm sure, if I were a soldier, and my squad-mate was gay, him falling in love with me mid-mission could cause some grief. However, the frequency of this can't be that high, if it has, in fact, happened. However, the rate of "firings" is quite frequent. So much so it has it's very own stat. The Log Cabin Republicans claim that over 13,000 Armed Forces members have lost their jobs to the ban on homosexuality.

That's enough people to man over 100 U.S.S Sea Tiger wannabes. (The Sea Tiger was the submarine in the film Operation Petticoat. [You still don't get it? It was a pink submarine, man! Get down with Cinema!]) We could even have a gay battalion, and following all of the racist and ignorant policies the Army has enacted over the years, they could be the modern military's 100th Battalion, 442nd infantry, only with better complexions and snazzier uniforms. (Those were the Japanese-Americans, who despite fighting their brethren, and despite some of them having their families in internment camps back home, still went over seas in WWII, kicked ass, and took names. Like bosses.)

The argument over gay marriage in the U.S. may continue for the next hundred years, it will probably continue so long as their are dominant religions in our nation. But we've had legislation against biases in the work place for decades, the Military is just another workplace. Albeit a one with more honor, more danger, and a willingness to die for one's country that few other jobs require. If a homosexual person wants to serve their country, what right do we (especially the majority of us, you know, the ones who have never served) have to tell them they can't. Whether we like it or not, or more importantly, whether they like it or not, this is their country too.

How to Mess up a Saturday Cookout

Steps to throwing a really bad cookout:
1) Cooking Quarans, rather than steak.
2) Televising it.
3) When the President(of the Unites States) asks you to "keep it down," you crank it up to an eleven.
4) Claim the cookout is for really elevated, yet wholly ignorant purposes. (We're grilling to protest Vegan-ism. Woooohoo processed food!)
5) Have more food than people. (50 members of the Church, 200 Quarans to be burned...math. Math. Use it.)
6) Have an unbalanced menu, and imply you won't. (This is the the "Understanding other People's Eating Habits and Choices Grill-out. What's on the menu? Hamburgers. Now shut up and eat.)

What am I talking about? Well. Read on. (No, seriously. Read on. I explain it.)

Talking about religion is something I normally like to avoid. It, much like mobs, hidden sidearms and gun cases (normally refurbished refrigerators with chains around them) frighten me. Oddly enough, if you you're famous (whooo-boy, glad I missed that train) and you talk about religion, good chance that mobs, people with hidden sidearms, and people that own gun fridges, might just come after you. Or at least write you very angry letters. About how they fully intend on coming after you. (So long as their boss gives them Saturday off.)

But when a story like the recent "Quran Burnings" or, at this point, threat of Quaran burnings, comes up, I feel that distinct urge (Journalistic calling?) to get up, drive to the bookstore, sit back down and write something. If you who don't know the story, I'll go ahead and throw down. A man, a preacher (some would say a leader of a Church.) has decided that the best way to honor the memories of those who died on September 11th, 2001, would be to burn a bunch of Quarans, he also wants to protest fundamentalist Islamic culture. (I would use the word incite. But incite, protest, who can tell the difference these days?)

The Reverend in question, Terry Jones of, and I'm not kidding you here with the name of his Church, Dove World Outreach Center, (In some circles known as "The Holy Place of Irony") has now ignored requests from both the White House and General Petraeus, (For those of you out of the know, he's the guy who runs the military in Afghanistan. Not just ours mind you, NATO too.) to not do this. A church of around 50 members (you're not misreading that number) has now incited the anger of a nation, and most likely a large portion of the Muslim faith. (Which is awesome, because there's only like a billion Muslim people in the world. I've always wanted to know what it's like to be hated by around a tenth of the Earth's population.)

I have a litany of issues here, but I'll start with the easiest one. They are aiming this at fundamentalist Muslims. The type who burn American flags and commit suicide in very loud ways on very crowded buses. And I get that they feel something should be done, I feel the same way. But, at what point is burning books the answer? First off, did these people miss the whole Nazi thing? Did they skip history class? Burning knowledge is not the answer. More importantly, what would Christians do, and I'm not talking about your Lone Wolves, or rabid Militant groups that live in the backwoods of Montana (A state mainly known for its frontwoods.) here, I'm talking about your bread and butter, meat and potato, mom and pop Christians, what would they do, if a group of Muslims burned the Bible? (Now this is a weird hypothetical question, as the Bible is generally included as one of the Muslim's holy texts, just not the holy text.) I'm pretty sure that would be a good way to, in Today's lingo, start some shit.

But this, to me, is the most important part. Forget all of the ignorance that it's taking for these people to even come up with this idea. Forget all of the stubbornness it takes to ignore the President and the Government when they condemn your planned actions. That's a lot like your mom disapproving of your girlfriend, and the party you're going to Friday night at the Quad, I get it. No, what kills me is that these people are ignoring the opinions of the man who is leading our troops in the Middle East. The man who is responsible for their lives. If he believes that this could endanger the lives of the over 150,000 soldiers and citizens we have serving over seas, than your 50 person grill-out needs to find a different way to protest.

Support their message, or don't. But when someone knowingly puts a soldier's life in danger, he had better be a commanding officer. These people are a book burning away from going down in history. And not in that "we burn bras (but not really) for women's rights!" kind of way.

And what's worse? They're from Florida. Really? Why can't we catch a break? I promise you (You being the rest of the United States and the World) we aren't all like this. I know, I know. You're thinking, "well what about the Bush election?" And all I can say is that I voted for Kerry on a whim, which at that time, was a huge thing for me. (Voting was a whim in the first place.) At what point did Florida replace Arkansas and Mississippi as the place to go for stupid? Don't take that out of context Mississippians and Arkansans. The rest of the country still knows you're stupid. Now they're just including us too.

Politics Season is Underway, Let Us Begin.

Oh, joy! It's "Politics Season" again. My favorite time of the year! (To be honest, I wasn't really aware that it actually had a season, until I saw the politicians themselves say it.) I guess there's something to be said for a political system where getting voted into office is more like a competition, and less like a ruthless dictator choosing who gets to shoot you in his name. But, in a system that claims freedom and unalienable rights, doesn't it seem a tad off message that the people representing us are consistently in fierce competition to get into office? Lofty lofty offices. With chairs more comfortable then the ones I don't have in my living room?

I'm of the mind that political office shouldn't be something that men and women aspire to, but are rather asked to do. I understand that with the population levels we're dealing with, ("Freaking crowded." Census, 2010.) the day of the "popular vote" is gone. However, does that mean the days of "what the nation needs" are gone too? You would think that the need for jobs, a balanced tax system, free pizza on Tuesdays and google internet,(seriously, instant download speeds?) in every city were desires we all shared, Republican, Democrats, cop-outs (Independents) and awkward third-party partiest alike.

The reality is that we all grew up in the age of televised mudslinging, (Take that high school history, I did learn something.)so we all should be used to it. And at the playground levels (I'm talking to you Congress) I guess it's standard, there's like a thousand of those guys anyway, it's not like they actually do anything. No, my biggest gripe is that the teacher (i.e. the President) always manages to get involved in the recess scuffles. Just because you came from the Democratic party, doesn't mean you should be siding with them in every election across the country. That is not what's best for the nation. That's whats best for his party. And that is not what the President of the United States should be concerned with. He is above that. He is the Commander and Chief, and as such needs to either be completely above it (Out of the sandbox, Chief.) or he needs to back the candidates he actually believes will get the job done the best. (i.e. Free Pizza Tuesdays.) Strictly speaking, this is impossible to do. I understand Obama can't back a Republican candidate, his opposition in the next election would roast him for it, likely they'd roast him for not backing a Democrat. But that's not the point. Integrity is.

And for all of you liberals who think I'm picking on Obama, don't get it twisted. I understand the He Who Must Not Be Named (Bush) was just as bad. For that matter, you could probably stand in front of one of those Presidential walls found in a high school government course blindfolded, spin around five times and play "pin the tail on the President" and still end up with a man who put his party's agenda ahead of the Nation's well being. My argument is simply that it isn't right.

The Social Menace

Today's theme in the news (that I bothered to read about, that is to say: news excluding anything to do with the Middle East) seems to be focused on, well, lots of things. But I'm going to talk about the two scariest words any parent has ever heard: Social Networking.

Facebook has announced that it will begin selling gift cards at certain "targeted" shops for users to purchase their online games. I'm not really "up" on social gaming (I game like a true nerd, I buy them at a GameStop then get uppity about the used games market) but, do the people playing FarmVille even know they're playing a game? Isn't the biggest incentive to play the fact that their friends play, oh, and that it's free? The target demographic for these games seems to be mainly 14 year old girls, and yet Disney is buying out companies that specialize in this market to the tune of 563 million dollars. (Plus .4, as in 400,000 more.) Obviously the market is making money, I just have no idea how. It's most likely in advertising. If social gaming goes to a paid model, wouldn't that just encourage everyone to play the games where the companies spend millions of dollars in the production of them? If you're going to pay twenty bucks for something, why not go the extra mile and play a game that's actually a game. I thought the Sims was bad. All it did was make you live your life, or worse, someone else's life. In FarmVille they make you do chores. There's actually a game on facebook where you, I kid you not, work in a restaurant. Are you kidding me? Awesome. I'm back to high school, when I got minimum wage plus some tips to make sure the tables were cleaned up, only now it's digital, I'm not getting paid, and I'm choosing to do it. For fun. Whoever comes up with these games has a mean streak, or has a really odd understanding of the word "entertainment."

Continuing in that vein of thought, Apple announced that they are creating their own social network, Ping. But it's only for music! Isn't that what MySpace has turned into? (That and a really good way to get on "To Catch a Predator?") I think this is Steve Jobs idea of a zinger. Bill and his ilk recently came out with their own search engine, Bing, and Steve just told Microsoft to "suck it" with his billion-dollar "Geek is Chic" industry and rhyming competition. (By the way, I still have no idea what Bing actually is. After about a year of those creepy commercials that try to convince me that google, a website that literally consists of a single search bar, is too confusing to use. I'll just have to assume it's simply Microsoft's very own search engine, and continue to not use it.) The real kicker about Ping is this, the why? I already have facebook. All of my friend's have facebook. Sure, I suppose it would be nice to link into everyone's iTunes (a feature iTunes has had for over 5 years) but, if I really want to know what my friends are listening to, I'll just ask them. I don't need an entire new social outlet to steal me away from the Sun, again.

...but you can use it from your iPhone...and apparently it's only one click. No, no. I better not.