Pounding On The Whitehouse Door

Knock knock knock!!!

Hello?? Senor Bush?? Are you in there???

I know you're very busy defending your legacy right now, Mr. President, but surely you can see that it's time to let Ignacio Ramos and Jose Compean out of prison now. They're not collector's edition one-of-a-kind/never-been-out-of-the-box action figures, sir. They're not shiny gold trophies.

Sure, it's a little too late for your approval ratings and all, and I AM super sorry that the media "misunderestimated" you. But don't you see?? This can be the ultimate "misunderestimation" of all time! Pardon Ramos and Compean and keep those reporters guessing! Come on, sir. It isn't too late to do the right thing.

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So they say we've lost the drug war. Did you know that? I suppose we all might as well unlock our doors, open our garages and hand our car keys over to the drug cartels because one of these days they'll be coming to a neighborhood near YOU. According to a whitehousedrugpolicy.gov article, "Drug-related offenses and drug-using lifestyles are major contributors to the U.S. crime problem."

That's right, kids. Crack dopers and weed snuffers run the country while the rest of us drive our little station wagons down the freeway praying to whatever God we worship that we won't get hit by gang crossfire that day. On Friday I heard the local news report that a young man was shot on the 15 N freeway near 21st. He was just a random teenager who happened to get in the way of two gangs trying to poke each other's eyes out. With bullets. The poor kid died. And this happened in UTAH! Utah, people! Happy valley!! If saggy pant rag wearing joint pushers are running lawless in Mormonville, I don't even want to know how the rest of the country is faring.

So, sit your butt down if you want to hear a sad story about Ramos and Compean and why I'm so outraged.

Once upon a time there were two border patrol agents named Ignacio "Nacho" Ramos and Jose Compean. They were just ordinary citizens going to work everyday, putting their lives on the line to protect our borders from mob bosses and fat cats. They had families. Little children. Wives. You get the picture.

One day Ramos and Compean came accross a dude from Mexico trying to smuggle drugs accross the border. Now, this little schmuck was a repeat offender. A bad man. A fat cat who needed to be put down, if you know what I mean. So Ramos and Compean began to chase him on foot. Now, according to Ramos, this little drug lord's peon pointed something shiny at them. The agents, perfectly within their rights as border guards, opened fire. And they hit him. In the derrier. The posterior region. The keister. This guy's flabby bottom must have been the perfect target.

Anyway, offended by the bullets lodged in his backside, the drug smuggler fled back to Mexico and began complaining about how painful it was to sit down now and well, the U. S. District Attorneys caught wind of it and decided to punish the well-meaning border patrol agents for their hate crimes against narcotics traffickers because CRIMINALS have feelings too.

You can read the whole story here if you want. Basically, Ramos and Compean were convicted of all kinds of trumped up charges (keeping the peace instead of disturbing it, you know) and today they are both serving 10-year sentences in solitary confinement. It is an outrage and nothing short of barbaric atrocity. They are political prisoners of a government owned lock, stock and barrel by the Mexican Federalli.

When I first heard this story several years ago I was like most of you and thought, "Oh, how sad," but never tried to do anything about it. Today, with our rights and freedoms slowly diminishing, I have realized that terrible scenerios could very well play out in my lifetime. Consider this one: When the government went after border patrol agents, I did nothing because I wasn't a border patrol agent. When the government went after foster parents, I did nothing because I wasn't a foster parent. When the government went after religious conservatives I did nothing because I wasn't a religious conservative. Then, when the government came after me, there was nobody left to defend me.

Today I wrote an e-mail to the Whitehouse urging the president to reconsider pardons for Ramos and Compean. I strong encourage you to do the same.

Here is the address: comments@whitehouse.gov

After President Obama is inagurated, the Whitehouse comment line will come back up and I will be making a phone call to the new administration. I'll let you know how that goes.

Remember: evil wins when good people decide to do nothing. Don't let the drug mafia take over. Don't let innocent people rot in jail. Don't let hamberger sit out on the counter. This has been a public service announcement from yours truly. Don't be a bum. Tip your waiter on the way out.

Mini Super Colliders and My Laundry

When something occurs once you can call it an isolated incident and shake it off like water on dog fur. But when something occurs over and over and over you call it a shakedown. A chronic epidemic. Male pattern baldness, if you will.

I was in my Quantitative Reasoning class today when I happened to look down at my shirt, and right there near the bottom was a little hole about the size of a small pencil eraser. No! I thought. How can this be?? It's a beautiful orange cotton shirt with long sleeves and a hoodie. Two months old. You hear that, Mr. Snuggle? Nearly brand new and already looking like I got into a fight with a gang of disgruntled chickens. And I don't even like eggs for breakfast. I'm allergic. Isn't that ironic?

The hole in my orange shirt wouldn't be so special if it were, as I said, an isolated incident. But lately I've been finding these curious little holes in all of my favorite shirts. They appear quite suddenly, covert and stealth-like. Little round conundrums. To show you that my time in class was well spent, I have come up with three possible explanations to this snarky wardrobe malfunction.

Explanation #1: The mini super colliders in Switzerland are working after all. All those black holes the Swiss scientists promised us have shown up alright. On my shirts.

Explanation #2: Evil mice are running a gambling ring in my laundry basket.

Explanation #3: George Norry is right. Extra terrestrial beings are floating around in invisible spacecrafts and collecting tiny pieces of cheap fabric to take back to their home planet for further observation. When they finally take over earth they'll make us all work in giant sweatshops, probably making orange shirts with long sleeves and hoodies.

At this rate I may not have much left of my shirts to wear in the next few months. I'll look down one day and realize that the emperor and I have a lot in common. I'll be jailed for indecent exposure and will then have to write these special blogs from a 9x13 prison cell.

Hey, here's an idea. Somebody call Obama. Ask him if there's any kind of mini super collider holy shirt bailout for people like me. If there's not there should be. I'm a victim here! Aliens. Evil mice. I have a constitutional right to decent clothing. That's all for today. Now go find me a tailor before this shirt falls off.

Too Much Mushy

About ten years ago I had a mentor I called Fisher. She was an older lady from Brazil, English was her second language and her accent was so thick that everything she said was cute just because of the way it sounded. I'll admit it now. Accents are beautiful. Anyway, she used to tell me "Bay Shan, a man can never be too much mushy." At first I wasn't sure whether she was talking about a man's feelings or his body fat percentage. Then as I got older I began to realize what she meant.

I want to tell you what my morning was like today. I know this will sound fairly sentimental and tame compared to my usual banter, but hey . . . I'm a capitalist and I believe in rewarding excellence.

My Andrew's college classes started today, and he got up at 5:00 a.m. so he could catch the early train to campus. Somewhere in the blurry vestiges of my mind I heard his alarm go off, but being the sleepy little punk that I am I went right back to sleep and didn't even hear him leave. My own alarm woke me up again several hours later so off I went, shuffling around the house like an old grandma, getting ready for work and whatnot. In the middle of my routine I got a phone call from Andrew. "I just missed you," he said, "and I wanted to say that I love you." It's a wonderful thing, see, when a man thinks of you like that.

As I left the bedroom and passed the kitchen table I noticed Andrew's notebook sitting open. There, in big bold letters, was a love note. Waiting for me. Keeping me company while I ate my breakfast. Making me feel like the most important person in all the world.

When I got to the kitchen it looked different somehow. Cleaner. I opened the dishwasher and realized that it had been loaded with dirty dishes from the night before and soap had been put into the dispensers. The dial had even been set on a delayed timer. Gratefully I realized that my Andrew made time to make me happy this morning. He wrote me a beautiful note. He did those dishes and even set the dishwasher to go off late in the day so it wouldn't make noise while I slept.

I have never met anyone as thoughtful and kind as my Andrew. So I guess Fisher was right. A man can never be too much mushy. If my Andrew ever reads these I want him to know that I am and will forever be his most adoring fan. Ta gra agham, mo' chroi.

Gender Benders & The Federal Candy Shop Heist

Wednesday. Day number 3 of the week I affectionately call Death Row. Why? Again with the prison jokes. I know, I know. I call it Death Row because this is the first week of my new class schedule. This is the week I get to see what schmuck I'll be stuck with for the next four months, and hey, at least I get to choose my ball and chain because in America I have the freedom to make my own class schedule. Yeah. That's one they haven't taken away yet. Isn't it great? Oy vey. Sometimes it's the little things I'm grateful for.

Today's academic selection comes from the school of Home and Family Life. This is where people come to get their M.R.S. degrees. Yeah. I hear this department has its own "special" class ring. This is the one where they hand you a pink frilly apron when you walk through the door. You bring h-ing muffin tins to class instead of textbooks and sewing needles instead of pencils. If you stick around long enough they'll show you how to make your own stain remover using goat-eye jelly and tuna juice. Anyway, I've ventured into this department because I'm taking a class called Introduction to Interiors. Like the design shows they have on HGTV. You know the ones.

Teaching this class is a very sweet elderly lady who must be somebody's grandmother. Now, I've taken classes from the Grey Panther crowd before and there's one thing I've learned about the Social Security generation: they think everything you say is brilliant no matter what it is. The teacher posed a question to the class and asked each student about their ideal design styles. I could have said something like, "Actually, I prefer basements made of moldy bricks with rusty chains hanging from the ceiling" and she would have made a comment like "Oh yes, that's nice! Unique and inventive! Very good." You can never go wrong.

I walked in to class today and, as expected, the room was full of women. Ah yes, I thought. Of course. Naturally the only guys I'd presume to see in a class like this would be the Carson Kressleys of the world, and our special university doesn't have very many of those. So imagine my surprise when, about 45 minutes into the class, the door opens and a man enters. A straight man. Trust me. He comes in cautiously, surveys the room and stops dead in his tracks. He's just been caught in the hen house and he knows it. I see panic in his eyes, like a warehouse man at a prime rib factory who accidently walks into the meat closet in the middle of a mob interrogation. Awkward. But what can he do? Politely he takes a seat near the back and endures the rest of the lecture in silence. Just a hunch, but I really doubt we'll be seeing him again. I'll be very surprised if we do.

Speaking of the mob, I'm very disturbed by the recent headlines coming out of Washington. As if one giant grab-bag bailout wasn't enough, right? Here come the auto maker mob bosses in their little fedora hats and paper sack lunches boo-hoo-hooing that nobody wants to buy their tin can tricycles. And what do those boot lickers in the senate do? Those lint picking wasps? They can't get to their feet fast enough. They can't wait to shake hands with the Chrystler-Ford mafia. Lucky for us they're all a bunch of lunatic sychophants who can't agree on anything. They were so busy bickering that the auto bailout bill never passed. Ah, but that wasn't the end of it. Who rode up on a dark horse at the last minute to grab the loot bag? Our very own maverick outlaw. Our very own cowboy president, Mr. Bush. He really thinks he's something. He actually thinks he has the power and authority to sign the auto bailout bill into law without the senate's permission. He's confusing that little chair in the oval office with a gold plated gem-studded throne. His cowboy hat isn't a hat at all. It's a crown. He can just go around making his own laws now, didn't you know? That's king George to you. I seem to recall another king George from this nation's not-so-distant past. Yeah. This country knows all about king George.

I'm sick of hearing about the federal candy shop. I'm sick of hearing about bailouts and fiscal irresponsibility and the way that our leaders have complete disgregard for the wishes of the American people. It's very late now (or early in the morning, whichever you prefer) and I don't have time to give this topic the fair time it deserves. I'll save it for another time. You'll be surprised to know the interesting connections G.W. Bush has with the Chrystler corporation. You're gonna love it.

Now have a milkshake and calm down. Go smell some roses. Pet a puppy. Hug your mother. Come again!

Counting My Near Death Experiences Today and Naming Them One By One

Holy snow patrol. Today was dangerous for anything on four wheels, especially those mileage friendly locomotion nightmares made out of leftover cat food cans. You press down on the gas pedal in the middle of a blizzard and you're afraid the car will just go in circles. It's like watching an Emo ballet on ice. Anyway, so I probably nearly died about four times just from going to and from my job and then to the downtown area for school.

My prison break is over and it's time for the inmates to get back to the grind. A whole new batch of classes started today, and first up was Advertising. First day not so bad. Meh. Give it a few weeks, right? In all honestly I think it'll be a great class and I might actually enjoy it a little bit. Yeah. Enjoy. Just like hamsters in cages enjoy finding new ways to escape. So far the Advertising class entertainment consists of an outgoing Latino Vin Diesel look-alike and a 50-something hush-puppy plastic surgery experiment who wore a pink business suite to class and showed up 30 mintues late. She had these horrible long nails, and everytime she typed something on the old laptop it made this eerie clicking noise. It was like zombie woodpeckers hanting the classroom and I just wanted to call the ghost hunters on my cell phone and put an end to it.

Tommorow is a death-trap class called Quantitative Reasoning. Stay tuned for more from the peanut brigaid.

It's a Dog's Life

I've noticed you can tell a lot about people by the way they spend money, which leads me to our important "what the h?"question for the day: why are most people willing to spend more money on dog care than they are on day care? Any takers?

Case in point -- I am a fly-by-night dog sitter for people in the Salt Lake Area. When folks go on vacation, I visit their home about twice a day to feed the dog, walk the dog, and generally make sure the dog hasn't been doing anything naughty to the furniture. Each visit lasts anywhere from 15 minutes to 30 mintues. Bottom line: the work isn't hard and it doesn't take me very long. I get paid $10-$13 dollars per visit. The average vacation lasts 4 days, in which case I rake in about $100 per job.

Next please consider the ads I found in this week's Union Tribune: "Full-time Nanny wanted for 3 small children. Cooking/light houskeeping/homework help. Must have own car and speak English. $250/week. "

I'm no math genius kids, but my little friend the calculator had some harsh things to say about this. $250/week boils down to $50 dollars per day. Assuming an eight hour work day, this would average out to $6.25 per hour. Do you hear that, Walter Cronkite? $6.25 an hour to care for a life. A human being. $6.25 to guard a child from danger and harm. $6.25 to nourish the child with food, the educate the child, to love the child, to teach the child right from wrong. $6.25 an hour to be a replacement mother while the real parents are off somewhere digging trenches in Albania and meeting with union teamsters. I'm not talking about the mom who has to work or the family can't buy food. We all know there are always the exceptions, and frankly those are boring and I won't talk about them. I'm talking about the parent who abandons their child to hired helpers because working outside the home tickles their liver. The blackberry phone and the h-ing bluetooth welded to their ear makes them think they're God's special little gift to society and heaven help us all if they can't make it to the office on time.

About 5 months ago I was down on my luck and decided to take a charity-case job for a friend of the family. This lady had a little boy about two years old and needed someone to watch her kid while she went to capitol hill to lay diamond eggs and spin hay into gold for the politicians up there. Alright, alright...so I don't really know what she did for the Congressmen, but it must have been stupendously important enough to uproot the child from his father and come all the way to Utah for. Anyhow, so I watched this child for about a month. 8 hours a day, no breaks, no perks and no gasoline reimbursements. They must have thought I could turn cat turds into car fuel for all the driving they made me do. And that's not even the charity-case part. This is the charity-case part: they paid me the same as a 5-year-old kid running a lemonade stand. I made $30 dollars a day on that gig. You got that?? Mr. Calculator says that's $3.75 an hour. That's right, kids. $3.75 an hour to take care of a human life. Strawberry pickers make more than that. Toilet bowl washers make more than that. Illegal immigrant (excuse me, guest worker) coat knitters in the garment district make more than that. For $3.75 I'm willing to keep the child in my living room and make sure he doesn't throw himself out the window. Yeah. Oh I'm sorry, did you want some love with that? It'll cost you extra!

Moral of the story? I will never child sit again. I prefer watching dogs. It's faster, it's easier and far more pleasant. The dog will never spit up on my shoes or complain to me that it's bored. Best of all, the good pay suggests that the owners actually give a crap about the quality of attention their pet is receiving. You see? People DO care. About their pets. Not their children, apparently.

This precious rant is brought to you by the letter Gee. As in, Gee...can't we all just get along? Now go eat kiwi shavings and don't ever ask me to babysit again. If anybody needs me I'll be out back picking strawberries with Javier and Paco.

Pull Up a Chair and Get Comfy

I got married 4 months ago to the most wonderful man -- my darling Andrew. It was a destination wedding in San Diego. BEAUTIFUL country, in case you have no idea what I'm talking about. If you've been to San Diego then I don't need to explain to you the feel of the city, or the smell of the air, or how the bay lights up at night when the ships come in. If you've never been to this part of America then here's what you do: call the office and tell them you have the bird flu and you'll be out for a week, throw some clean underpants into the back seat of your little DeLorean, pack a few sandwiches and then take a road trip to the west coast. You'll be glad you did.

It's funny what you learn about someone after living with them for 4 months. My Andrew is a proud gamer. I'm not talking those silly mind puzzles you can play on Google for free. I mean the ones that have bigger play books than the IRS. I mean the ones with wizards and dragons, the ones with multi-global capabilities that let you play with people in Bangladesh and China. Serious stuff. And apparently there are special requirements if you're worth anything as a gamer: all your spare time MUST be spent playing. No exceptions. So, bless his heart, my Andrew suggested that I find myself a hobby. A hobby! Why didn't I think of that? What a wonderful distraction! With a hobby I'll be too busy to notice all the precious time those infernal contraptions are stealing away from me!

Alright then. So here it is. My shiny new hobby. My return to the blogging world. This isn't new skin for me since I've been down this road before, but I do feel that this time will be different and dare I say....fresh? Consider all of the delicious topic choices I have before me: a shiny new married life, shiny new jobs (I'm a legal assistant and a dog sitter) and a cabbage-patch plethora of political dribble that I can't wait to share with the wide wide world. Oh, what to talk about? National debt? Bailouts? The new President? What I saw on my way to the grocery store? It never ends. This is why I chose to name my blog libeccio. It's a word that means Southwest wind. Because you never know what's going to blow in. Or let's face it. You never know what's going to blow. Period.

So grab a chair. Take your smelly shoes off and stay awhile. Let's bang our fists on the kitchen table and sing a loud song for the neighbors to hear. I mean, what's music without an audience anyway? I'll see you back soon. Very soon.