Featured Blog, I: So Long, 9th Street
Five Minutes to Departure
Paul Ford, F Train / February 26, 2006
These things are supposed to be marked by ritual: in about 12 hours I'm leaving this apartment, where I've lived since 1997, and moving into a new place with my girlfriend. But instead of sitting around drinking a scotch and reflecting fondly on moments past, I'm staring at a large pile of stuff on the floor and feeling a desperate need to sleep. Luckily the mattress is leaning against a wall and there is no way to just...rest...for a moment. The stuff on the floor comes first.
But I still feel that it's time for a montage. I come in the door, 22 years old, young enough for my parents to help me move. The next scene shows men delivering my futon. Then I lug some wood up the stairs to build a bookcase. My hair starts to gray; wrinkles appear around my eyes. I hug a woman and she walks away. There's a shot of a group of friends, each holding a wineglass, all laughing as I wear a wig. Etc. Then a shot as I nod slowly and close the door behind me, on my way.
Of course the montage could just as easily show me crying face-down on the bed, or the time I ate an entire chicken and a loaf of bread while watching eight Babylon 5 episodes (downloaded via Bittorrent) in a sitting. Fade to a pile of cigarette butts in a coffee cup; fade to the button popping off a pair of ill-fitting slacks as I sweat and curse, desperately try to get ready in time to make a friend's wedding in the city. Fade to me vomiting white wine in the toilet after that wedding. From outside the half-open bathroom door, my neighbor asks if I'm okay. (When I walked out of the bathroom, he said later, I was naked.)
Depending on how you cut the film, I was mostly happy; I was mostly sad; I made good choices; I made bad choices. Regardless, I've got to clean the bathroom, and my neighbor is going to help me wash the last of the dishes. There's no more time for writing or saying goodbye to the last eight years, just a pile of stuff in the middle of the room.
Featured Blog, II: Amos 'n Whity
Black and White Reality Nonsense
Progressive Conservatism/March 23, 2006
I don’t watch much TV these days. Some wrestling here and there, the occasional cop drama (The Shield, The Wire, etc.) and that’s really it. When I can watch TV I usually just watch the news and typically I settle for the most entertaining of the bunch, Fox News.
Wait; come back, my story gets better!
However, last week I had to travel to NY for some personal business and by late Saturday night, I was so worn out that I ended up watching the first show that even looked remotely interesting. That show happened to be FX’s new reality show “Black White” which is produced by rapper turned actor extraordinaire Ice Cube.
The premise of the show is that we have two families, one black and one white, whom will live together in a house for a certain period of time and will be made to look like the opposite of their race; the black family will be turned white and the white family turned black, through the magic of Hollywood makeup. Then, once each family member has been altered, they are to go out and experience the world as a new race and report back to the producers, hilarity ensues.
Just from the previews, I thought this show looked ridiculous but you’d be surprised what you’ll watch when you are dog-tired and TNA Impact isn’t on for another hour. As I watched the plot for this episode unfold I had an epiphany based on the behavior of the players in this reality drama. When it comes to race relations, black people in general have the personality of a victim borderline personality disorder.
That’s right, I said it, black people in general, when the issue of race comes seem to act like they have borderline personality disorder.
Now just what the heck is borderline personality disorder, you are asking? Read the rest at Progressive Conservative...