Renegade

A super sad true story

The flags were flying on every house on the street.  We were all in a constant state of fear, of confusion, of dread, of heartbreak not just for those who lost loved ones and those who lived through the horror, and those who died, but also for the way of life that we knew had come to an abrupt end.

I was certainly no different in doing my best to retain some sense of normalcy, which was exactly why I was sitting on my back porch drinking a cup of coffee in the morning sunshine on September 14, 2001. It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was just another start to another day in a world I no longer recognized.

I heard some shouts. So in my bathrobe and slippers I peered around the side of the house. I saw smoke coming from behind a car in front of the new house being built across the street. I figured the car was on fire, so I dialed 911 and reported it. But when I got off the phone and looked back, the smoke was gone. Shit, I thought I was going to be in trouble for reporting a non-incident at a time when high-strung high-alert was new. I heard sirens anyway.

I looked over again, and one of the construction guys had a garden hose. I guessed he’d put out the fire. But the smoldering smelled weird, sweet. Then the fire trucks were on the street, then an ambulance, then marked police cars, then unmarked police cars and the bomb squad. Then I went out the front door and saw a figure being carried on a stretcher and into the back of an ambulance. But he didn’t have a face, not anymore.

The fire chief came across the street.

“Is it a bomb?” I asked, “Am I safe?”

He looked disgusted. He didn’t know that I didn’t know: the man without a face had lit himself on fire.  

“He’ll live, but he’ll wish he were dead.”

The street was blocked. Yellow tape was everywhere. I called my partner and managed to spit out what happened, then I sat on the hall chair and shook and shook. Shannon came home from work and together we walked to the coffee shop. We sat there, stunned, not knowing what to do, whether or when to go home, what was going on.

Eventually we did make it back to the house. The bomb squad was gone.

The next morning, I crossed the street to talk to the general contractor. It was a high school friend of his, he said, who was schizophrenic and had stopped taking his medication. He drove up, parked his truck, got out and walked up the street with a briefcase in one hand and a container of gasoline in the other. He put down the briefcase, poured the gasoline over his head, and lit a match. Yes, he was alive and at a trauma center. The bomb squad was called because he had an American flag on his jacket. But don’t worry, we’ll finish building the house on schedule.

I do not ride a bike.

The following rant is not going to make me the most popular girl in Boulder. Which is a-ok by me. It's about cyclists. Sanctimonious, self-righteous, spandexed cyclists, specifically.

In this town, lots of people ride bikes. To commute, to run errands, to get to McYoga classes, to their salt spa appointments, reiki parole officer meetings, primal scream therapy support groups, and the grocery store. And that's great! People riding bikes is great! Bikes are awesome! Yay bikes! Know what, though? Just because you ride a bike, you are not better than people who don't. Riding a bike does not make you a morally superior person. So then what does it make you? 

It makes you a person who rides a bike.

Riding a bike (in and of itself) does not make you a raging douchebag either, though many cyclists are -- it's been scientifically proven -- extremely douchy. And in Boulder, even more so. But there's no causal effect, just some suspicious overlap as illustrated in the below artistic and complex venn diagram:

So, riding a bike clearly does not make you a jerk. Then what does it make you?

It makes you a person who rides a bike.

I do not ride a bike. That's right. You heard me. I don't ride a bike. Here's why: when I was 12, I rode a bike. Head on into a moving car. I flipped up and landed square on my chin. Broken teeth, broken jaw, heinous concussion in which I apparently said awful things to my mother. I had amnesia and still do. And every single time I try  (and believe me, I have tried a LOT) to get back on a bike, I get panic attacks.  My muscles freeze up, I can't breathe, and I feel like I am about to vomit. Guess what? It is not fun. 

After years of trying, I have realized and accepted that I do not give one shit whether I ever ride a bike again. I am not a bike rider. And for their own valid reasons, many other people are not bike riders either. Does that make us "worse" than cyclists? Does that make us bad, gas-guzzling, unhealthy, lazy jerks? No. Know what that makes us?

People who do not ride bikes. Period.

Thank you.

Who was who around there

He's out now, not to worry.

Wall of Sane, Monthly Edition

www.gregorysshoes.com

 

 

Amount saved: $1,095 plus s/h.
Funds now allocated to chocolate.

Wall of Sane, Valentine's Day Edition

Gilt

Amount saved in money: $29 plus s/h.
Amount saved by not having to look for a new boyfriend: untold.

Nonjudgmental reportage

Where I live, in a college town at the foothills of the rocky mountains, there are some wacky goings-on. Tootsie Rolls made out of hash available down the street. $16 fried chicken (the best that will ever pass your lips, I swear.) A privately owned DVD rental store, in a brick building and everything. Olympic athletes on the elliptical at the local gym.

My most common response to hearing about new happenings is "Well, you'll have that."

And then I read about something new, something completely out of the ordinary, something I had never, ever heard of before.

http://www.saltspacolorado.com/index.html

My people: here in Boulder, Colorado, home to both the Psychic Horizons Center and the atomic clock, you can finally pay your hard-earned money to sit in a room made of salt. Your kids can even play in it! All at the low, low price of $1 per minute. Or, if you're looking for an even greater value, you can sit in a room made of salt as often as you'd like for $150/month, debited from the account of your choice.


Well, you'll have that.

Wall of Sane, Valentino Edition

In a world more perfect, every girl would get to have a Valentino red dress.

Gilt

It's not just a red dress. It's not just a Valentino dress. It's a dress that is Valentino red. If you understand the situation here, and you haven't seen The Last Emperor, you should stop everything you're doing and Netflix it right now.

Amount saved via Gilt: $699 plus s/h.  
Amount saved via, say, somewhere else: $2,650.

Blood libel: not just a catchphrase

So by now we all know what the phrase 'blood libel' means in the context of religion. But just in case:

The blood libel is a false accusation that Jews sacrifice Christian children either to use the blood for various "medicinal" purposes or to prepare Passover matzo or for vengeance and mock crucifixions.

Sounds ridiculous. Who would believe that? What a totally 17th-century-Jewish-ghetto kind of phrase, right? Wrong.

About five years ago, I went to an Easter dinner hosted by friends of my soon-to-be in- (and then ex-) laws. These people live in a nice big house in the Denver suburbs with a lot of nice white carpet and nice crystal knick knacks in nice glass and wood display cases.  

They're certainly serious churchgoers, and so Easter was a pretty big deal. There was a lot of resurrection talk at the table, some pointed prayers about saving the unsaved (that would be me) and some pretty good ham. 

When we were saying our goodbyes, I said, "Thank you so much for including me tonight. I'd love to have you over for Passover next month." It was a sincere invitation to share in the springtime renewal ritual I'd been doing every year since I was born. Norm's response was this, verbatim:

"Oh, right, like I'm going to let you put blood on my forehead."

He was serious. I was flabbergasted. So much so that I couldn't get any more words to come out of my mouth. I mean, where do you start with something like that? I felt the not unfamiliar weight of my personal responsibility to explain the ways of my ancestors to white bread America. I figure it's payback for growing up in an all-Jewish town.

But I didn't. Nope. I did not explain how Jews don't use human blood in our mysterious and creepy rituals. I did not explain that the forehead doesn't even factor into Passover in any way, shape, or form that I know of. I didn't even explain what Passover is. I said good night and walked out.

I haven't thought about this incident in years. But here's the thing: When Palin busts out the term "blood libel," she's not just talking about being picked on by the media. She's also talking to a segment of the people in this country who still believe in things like Jews using human blood for religious rituals. And I'll come right out and say it: I think people in that segment of the population are more prone to Glock ownership than, say, most of the rest of the country.

Overheard at iStockphoto

"Quick! It's January! More photos of women laughing alone with salads!"