Bye, Murphy

Although he was a member of our family for only a month, the loss of a new friend pulses as raw as the loss of an old one.

My mom formally adopted Murphy just one month ago. In his new Sacramento home, he spent the first week cloistered under the bed in the guest room. I remember crouching on my hands and knees, head pressed against the carpet, coaxing Murphy out into the open. Over time though, it was my mother's affections and gentle voice that conquered Murphy's agoraphobia.

It was here, once Murphy regained his personality, that sweetness and charm bloomed. Like a gregarious puppy, Murphy asked his new family members for belly rubs. He would stretch out, arching his back, emulating the crescent moon. We would stroke his underside white fur, and Murphy would thank us with purring as consistent as heartbeats. And though animals seem more adorable to their owners' egos, I swear Murphy's heart-shaped nose was no mirage of my adoration.

Pets bind to our souls. They honor and cherish the mundane naps and impromptu walks. They depend on us, not as slaves, but as friends who trust unconditionally. Our rage, our tears, our weakness are neither judged nor exploited; they love us simply, without pride.

As the vet pushed the cocktail of euthanasia, I dreamed of all the possible futures, and none of them ended quite like this.

To the skies...

Homage to Michael Jackson: Jason Derulo's "In My Head"

Jason Derulo's "In My Head" is a typical pop song with predictable pitch-perfect auto tuning, bridges nestled in cookie-cutter verses, and anemic lyrics about unintentionally sexist intercourse.

But despite all this, there is one aspect that makes the song more than a repetitive echo in the Top 40 charts: The "In My Head" music video, di­rect­ed by Kai Craw­ford, is a purposeful and elegant homage to Michael Jackson's "The Way You Make Me Feel" directed by Joe Pytka. Though Derulo's lyrics have little connection to Jackson's 1987 classic, the music video is a subtle, almost masterful, update to Jackson's wooing dance tune.

At the heart of both videos, a male character engages in flirtations, dancing, and flirtatious dancing. Though Derulo doesn't solely imitate Jackson's dance moves, the specific cinematics of those dance moves are similarly silhouetted. Derulo's video goes even further to introduce a blue hue to the screen in a similar style as Jackson's dramatic final dance number.

Derulo goes beyond simple imitation though. One criticism of Jackson's "They Way You Make Me Feel" is negative portrayal of the loitering and fraternizing aspects of male society. Jackson's video, in a misogynistic fashion, isolates the female object of affection (Tatiana Thumbzen) in an accosting manner. Jackson chases her around the streets, simulates sex (or rape), but still manages to win her over.

Derulo's video, perhaps trying to avoid this distasteful perception, updates this idea by providing his female character supportive friends from the start of the video. Also, the female lead in "In My Head" clearly enjoys Derulo's advances from the start, while Thumbzen seemed actually to fear Jackson up until the end of the 1987 video.

Though there is an obvious imitation, great steps have been taken to push forward while acknowledging Michael Jackson's groundbreaking, although sometimes controversial, music video style. Filmed in late 2009, still in the wake of Jackson's death, Derulo's eulogy is more than imitation, more than wearing a blue hoodie instead of a blue buttoned-down shirt. The "In My Head" video takes the grandeur of 1987 and rebuilds it in 2010.

Halo Reach ID

I just wanted to buy Halo Reach. That's all.

All weekend, I planned on purchasing the new Xbox 360 game during my Tuesday lunch break. This would allow me to go home directly after work and avoid the brutal rush-hour traffic around my local Best Buy. I put my "Happy Birthday from Best Buy" gift card in the top drawer of my desk at work. With a $100 balance on the card, the only thing standing between me and Master Chief was 4th period.

The second hand moved with the speed of melting ice on a cool day. Though I usually appreciate student comments, today, minutes from Halo Reach, their inanity grated my patience. I kept glancing back at the top drawer of my desk, imagining the moment when I could fondle the plastic gift card and slide it into the cashier's scanner. So eager for the climax of my day, I held the card in my hand five minutes
before class even ended.

And when the bell finally released me, I shooed the children from their chairs as if the room was on fire. I power walked to my car and almost vehicular-manslaughtered the janitor as I cut through the lines of the parking lot. Down the street, the deep blue of the Best Buy sign taunted me like the ocean taunting a captive goldfish.

In the moment of sweet release, I got into the Customer Service line, stacks of Halo Reach a mere three feet away. "Next in line," never sounded so beautiful. I slammed my pre-order receipt on the counter and said, "One standard Halo Reach please." The female cashier mockingly smirked at my nerdy bravado. I didn't care; I could taste firefight and forge modes, Spartans and Elites.

"Can I see your ID?"

In my feverish haste, I sped to Best Buy without my driver's license on my person. I had no form of identification to purchase the "Mature" rated title with realistic blood and gore. I pleaded with her, showing her my car keys and necktie: "Would someone under 18 be wearing this in the middle of the day?" My fingers grew wet with frustration. Sweat bled onto my gift card. It was no use: the tiny girl would not budge for my logic. I walked back to my car knowing I wouldn't have time to return until after school, when traffic would ensnare me.

Some people like getting carded. In their folksy voices, I hear crinkled women say, "Oh, I take it as a compliment!" People can only be happy when they don't have something at stake. Or maybe old women just don't care about alcohol or video games.

Pee-Free Bags

I haven't frequented the Ladies' room enough to draw any meaningful conclusions, but Men's bathroom floors are disgusting.

There are pee drippings all around the urinals. I almost wish my shoes didn't have grooves in the bottoms as I imagine the pee seeping into the rubber crevices waiting to be absorbed onto my foyer carpet. But then again, without the grooves, I'd be more likely to slip in the piss and take a knee in the yellow flood.

And because we men don't use the sit-down toilet as much, I often think we haven't developed the appropriate public throne etiquette. I see streaked seat protectors half flushed down the toilet. I see used toilet paper thrown on the ground.

So I get it: the floors are nasty as hell. But what is the solution when we have shopping bags, and we have to use the facilities? I usually just bite the bullet and try to find some dry spot in the bathroom, far away from the toilet, usually near the sinks.

But in a Southern California mall a few weeks ago, I saw a man putting his newly purchased clothing items on the diaper changing station. Is that actually better than putting it on the floor? The diaper changing station is a table designed to contain poop and pee pee within its borders. And not just any poop, but rampant, baby feces. I mean, the bathroom floor may or may not have poop on it, but the baby table definitely does have poop on it: that's its job.

As I carefully snapped a picture, I imagined an East-LA gangster getting the wrong idea as I snapped a photo in the bathroom.

Where are we supposed to put our bags? I propose a system of elaborate hooks in the entryway of public restrooms, and Satan will have a special place for those who choose to pilfer the bathroom bags from their sacred, poo-free hooks.

I'll Do It. I'll Hit an Old Man.

What is with the old people in class? You know who I'm talking about: the 55+ student in your undergrad or graduate classes that just won't stop talking. No matter what the subject area, the old guy pounces into action with some useless comment about their own life experiences.

I have news for you geriatric, aspiring student: no one cares.

I've recently gone back to school, and maybe my patience is lower, or maybe I'm just a jerk, but the old guys always respond with, "Well, that's not always true." Then they traipse down some stream-of-consciousness labyrinth talking about their dead wives and their daughters in law; I wouldn't be able to follow their logic even if I had a flashlight and a bag of breadcrumbs.

Half the time, these oldie students come out of their 2-minute anecdotes looking surprised, like how my Grandpa used to look when I woke him from his naps. How'd I get here? What does my comment have to do with teaching pedagogies in secondary education? News flash old man: no one knows.

And unfortunately, the professors are brilliant, but polite; they let the old students go off on their tangents as if it will spark some kind of classroom discussion.

No one should interrupt the lunatic old man feeding the pigeons in the park. That nostaglic sparkle in his eye while he is talking about his favorite dog is priceless, and who is he really hurting by talking about Buster the beagle? The problem with the elderly in the classroom is that they are only about 25% senile: sane enough to type in an add code but crazy enough to make me regret the rising tuition costs.

I don't know how much of them I can handle. Don't get me wrong, I love old people; I just hate it when they hobble into my academic world. It's getting to the point where I'm prepping my knuckles for the backhand. Seriously, my classes cost money, and I want to hear the PhD recipient not the senior citizen.

Best Friends

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You've Screwed Me Again, DST

Daylight Savings Time and I have a love/hate relationship. She's prissy and flaky, always changing the time of sunrise and sunset; I'm grouchy and inflexible, always wanting my daylight consistent.

In theory, though, I love Daylight Savings. I can play basketball with my friends later, and studies generally agree that there is less crime and fewer traffic accidents. Plus, DST means that the perfume of spring has finally put a sleeper hold on the chills of winter. We're that pathetic couple who can never break up because the sex is too good.

But all practical reasons aside, DST is like any other woman: devious.

Back in April, when Spring Forward was still new to 2010, I was having a drink with a friend after work. We met up around 6 when, and thanks to DST, the sky was still "afternoon bright." Time passed quickly as we sat sipping our beverages and laughing. And because our conversation was so engrossing, I didn't mentally recalibrate my mind that "twilight" equaled 9 pm.

Losing track of time, and DST being a harpy of timekeeping, I arrived at home to my dog shamefully apologizing for dropping a bomb on my bed. And like any other woman, DST laughed at my having to wash poop off my white duvet.

DST is a beauty, but every end of March/beginning of April, it's like I'm on a business trip to the East Coast. I love the summer warmth of 8 o'clock at night, but I always feel slightly restless knowing that sunset is that much closer to midnight.

Airport Driver

While at the airport, I saw this well-to-do gentleman with his sign. He cradled it in one arm and patiently presented himself towards the escalators leading from the terminal.

I watched him for a moment or two. He never shuffled his feet or fidgeted his hands, and the only time he checked his watch was to make sure his client wasn't going to miss their appointment. Stoic and classy to the end.

I hope that one day, I'm important enough to necessitate a driver. Nothing will ever replace the smile of a friend or loved one at the baggage claim. That after hours confined in a pressurized tube, someone is waiting just for you, waiting just to give you a hug and talk to you even though your breath stinks from the nap on the plane.

But the next best thing would be an airport driver, a hired friend. I imagine it would be quite thrilling to walk around the corner of a foreign city and see my own name in bold Sharpie writing. I imagine the driver taking my carry-on bag and providing witty banter to pass the interminable wait for my checked luggage. In the lonely cities of the business trips, the airport driver would be the welcome party, the guide, and the friend.

Yes, if an old friend can't greet me, a salutational handshake with a driver would be the next best thing.

Afraid of Sharon Stone

I was a zombie most of yesterday. Two days ago, I went to sleep at 4 am only to wake at 6 am. I was planning on going back into my deep sleep, but a minor emergency (my video game order from Amazon.com got messed up) and anger and frustration jolted me out of the sleepy phase.

So there I was, awake on Wednesday with only 2 hours of sleep. Of course, at about 7 pm, I crashed and took a two hour nap. Now, I'm one of those guys that a nap ruins my chances of falling asleep. Even a 30-minute nap will amp me up so high, I'll toss and turn all night.

So now, with my sleep cycle haphazardly shifted and my dog totally confused, I desperately searched for something on TV.

And that's when I came to Basic Instinct. I've heard good things about it, and I know there are countless references to this movie. So I took the plunge: My dog and I started watching this movie at 2:45 am.

That's when I started freaking out. Sharon Stone and Jean Tripplehorn are CRAZY in this movie. First off, they're naked for about half the movie and the other half they may, or may not, be stabbing people with an ice pick. This kind of psychological thriller totally freaked out the zombie version of me.

After the movie, all I could was imagine the killer jumping out of my closet, out of my bathroom, out from under my bed. I could feel the tingle of their ice pick piercing my neck. I felt helpless and unaware in my sleep-deprived state. So I did the only logical thing: I tied my all my doors shut with rope, and I cleared out under my bed and piled the junk in a corner. Even though I usually sleep fairly naked, I strapped on a sweatshirt like armor protecting from Sharon's potential attacks.

I slept on my side, hugging my dog close to my chest. Even though he had seen the movie, he wasn't afraid. He was as brave as ever. Sharon Stone didn't have shit on Pancake. He was my rock, my hero last night. And in an imagination where Sharon Stone was stalking me, my dog, unafraid of a murderer, guarded me.

I woke up this morning, and thought to myself, "Why the hell is the pantry tied shut with my good, blue neck tie?"

A Farewell at the Roadside

I love Spring Break. Even though it's technically the weekend, I'm feeling the unfettered freedom from adult responsibility. It's the kind of day where I watched a rerun of "Family Matters" and didn't feel guilty that I was wasting my time. I ate crackers for lunch and drank milk from the carton. It's the kind of day when I consider a box of fruit snacks to be a single serving.

But wouldn't you know it? I ran out of delicious snacking items: It was time to reload at the store.

As I grabbed my car keys though, an awareness of my slothfulness and obesity came over me, and I decided to run to the supermarket with a backpack in a vain effort to burn off some of my thunder-thigh calories.

It was pretty ugly outside. The wind and rain synergized into 45-degree blades of cold. Regular people, people with places to go and appearances to maintain, care about the rain. But Spring Breakers? Not so much.

Even with the angry weather, it was a wonderful day. Running out of chips and Fruit Gushers was the worst thing that could happen. I strapped on my running coat and took off with an extra pair of socks in my backpack. My stride was jaunty, and I bounded through puddles just to feel the cool water trickle down my legs.

And then I saw it. At first, I thought it was trash, collected together by the rivers in the gutters. But getting closer, the soaked teddy bears and dead plants revealed a roadside memorial to a person who must have died on that corner.

I've seen these memorials before, usually speeding by at 50 mph in my car. But up close, standing where someone died, standing where someone cared enough to offer gifts: this was something different.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the still legible messages inscribed on the signal pole. But 5 miles into the 7-mile trip to the market, I turned around and heavily jogged home. The Fritos didn't seem that important.

Do You Renounce Satan...

I've never been to a Catholic-church service before. So when I got an invite to a baptism, I didn't really know what to expect.

As I was waiting, I noticed a hinge on the pew in front of me. It looked like a tiny pew, folded into the back of the bench in front of me. With a curious heel, I yanked the hinged appendage out. But unaware of its total length, the mini pew collapsed onto the feet of the lady sitting about 10 feet to my left. Oops. Good thing the service started right after that. I could blend in with the singing.


Some old ladies who looked like life-sized Mrs. Butterworths handed me a small, 6-inch candle. It had black wick from a previous burn, and the white wax puffed on the side like a mixture of teardrops and clouds frozen in time. Before long, the priest made his way down the middle with a giant, lit candle. At first, I thought it would take a million years for everyone’s hand-held candle to ignite, but like a smile in a room with friends, the flame passed quickly from person to person before the songs started.

The songs made me oscillate between alert and fatigue. When the priest did his solos, I started to drift into a daze. But when the congregation joined, the rotund fellow in front of me bellowed sonorous tunes that jolted me to attention. Though he and I didn’t share the same beliefs, he sang with a confidence and faith that was admirable and inspiring.

And when the songs had finished, the priest took out the wine and bread. I wasn’t expecting to take communion, but the priest said, “Today, everyone is welcome.” I had researched a bit on how to receive communion, just in case, and I’m glad I did. And this was the biggest surprise of the evening: the communion wafer. I’m not sure why, but from my ignorance, I always assumed the wafer was some type of cookie. When the priest put the body of Christ in my palm, I was expecting the texture of a stale Oreo with the clean taste of a Milano. It really was just flat, edible Styrofoam. No offense.

I guess ignorance really does make us stupid.

But for all the surprises, all the fakeout cookies, and miniature furniture, nothing was quite as powerful as watching twin, 5-month-old girls get baptized. There are different types of smiles: opening a gift, seeing an old friend, laughing at a joke, but the warmest and most subtle smile must be watching a baptism.

Leave the Bums Alone!

Why does the supermarket have to be so mean to the transients? Legal action against the hobos? This is essentially Safeway stealing the bums' identities; most of the time I wouldn't know they were homeless except for the shopping carts lined with garbage bags and packed with cans.

I'm not sure if this is a real theory, but for me, the shopping cart demarcates between the truly homeless and the average panhandler.

The multi-million dollar grocery conglomerates can't spare a shopping cart every now and then? The grocery stores donate the old bread and fruit to shelters, why not dish out a few carts as well?

I assume B&P Code 22435 can be used against hooligan teenagers from running amok. But if so, the letter of the law needs to add a Hobo-Exemption.

The New View

It was just wood and nails. 2" x 6" boards hammered together with some metal pipes for railings. The deck in my grandma's backyard wasn't an architectural masterpiece, just two large rectangular boxes with two benches dug into the ground.

Grandpa didn't use pressure-treated wood and didn't seal the surfaces. But, when he was alive, he took care of it and made it safe. I remember running on that deck looking for Easter eggs tucked carefully in the corners where the wood met the pine-needle-covered ground.

About a year ago, I looked underneath the deck planning a restoration. I am no carpenter, so when I saw mitered cross braces and latticed supports driven into concrete foundations, I knew a repair would be out of my abilities and budget.

I stepped back and surrendered to the elements. The deck fell apart. The steps leading up to the first tier started collapsing. Rusted nails wiggled loose from the joints and dry rot caused some planks to turn into trap doors. The once-level surface twisted out of flush as the hill swelled during the rainy seasons.

And so, the deck came down.

With the last splintered piece of timber hauled away, the northeast edge of the back yard is wide open. Before now, I'd never stood on this section of land. And from the new vantage point, the back yard in which I'd grown up seemed different. The perspective seemed incorrect.

I feel that I've lost a family heirloom, something I should have been able to give my own children. I could feel the violation, the vibration that told me I could have prevented the removal had I been just a bit better with tools, been a bit more handy, been a bit more like Grandpa.

Damn You, Crane Game

I don't understand claw vending machines anymore. We used to be good friends, claw machines and me. My father would take my brother and me to Circus Circus in Reno, and I'd drop my allotted $10 in quarters to grab the neon-bright bears beneath the three-pronged grabber.

But now, the plastic controls of the crane seem antiquated. The amity between us, gone.

New prize-oriented games have adapted to fit the technologically evolving market. There's the electronic stacking block game where players use painfully precise timing to stack electronic blocks up to the prize line. Other machines dangle prizes by threads waiting for the player to guide a tiny razor using twitch muscle control.

And the prizes in these new machines! A Sony PSP. A video iPod. Video games. I even saw one that dangled a Nintendo Wii.

This is not 1992. Crane games that still cost $0.50 per play? Are you kidding? $0.50 to maneuver a rusty claw over a misshapen stuffed animal I wouldn't even give to my dog? Even the cabinets that offer digital-camera prizes cost only a $1.00.

But the most egregious infraction is that the vendors of the claw vending machines still pack the hideous prizes in immutable formations. How can I pull out my deformed Magneto when there are seven giant bunnies entangled in his feet?

It's not about the prizes with me; it's about the fun. But downing money into an old-school game machine when there is virtually no hope of winning is just annoying.

Dear Crane Games: get with the damn program and make your lame toys easier to drop down the prize chute. This is your last chance or it's over.

Sadies

Sadies exists in a very specific year of my life: 7th grade. All the years before and after, this dance meant nothing. But in 7th grade, I lived only to be asked to Sadies.

I had never been to a school dance before, and I had never heard of Sadies. So when I discovered the nature of Sadies, I was filled with adolescent excitement as I foolishly thought it would be my savior. All the pressure was on the girl.

And what a girl she was. Chloe. She wore pastel shirts that reflected in her shimmering blonde hair. Her eyes looked like two butterscotch candies gently set above her defined cheekbones. She was a cheerleader, so even though I hated the school rallies, I crammed myself into the bleachers to watch her dance.

7th grade was a strange time for sexuality. Before 7th grade, "crushes" existed in the undefinable and unnameable realm. I liked a girl, but I didn't know why. Maybe it was the way she laughed at my jokes or the colors that she wore, but in the end, elementary love was just that: elementary. And after 7th grade, physical attraction became much more sensory and carnal. I wondered how hard to grab her breasts and what her neck tasted like.

But 7th grade was a strange time: where I wondered what her hair would feel like between my fingers, but even my most depraved fantasies only involved Chloe walking up to me, interlacing her hands with my stubby fingers, and asking me to accompany her to Sadies.

Of course, Chloe didn't ask me. She didn't even know my name.

After 7th grade, Sadies meant very little to me. To this day, I've never been to a Sadies. Never been asked by a Chloe. All my dates have been off my own momentum. Sadies was the one chance to feel the rush of being desired. I guess it wasn't as trivial as I thought.

I saw this sign today at school, and I thought about Chloe. What could have been, my dear.

What's Up With Live Scan?

The first time I was asked to get a Live Scan was for a job in Sacramento. Live Scan sounded so official with its procedures and regulations. I felt like I was joining the elites of employment. Even the futuristic name "Live Scan" sounded like something from Minority Report.

Boy, was my intrigue crushed.

I went to the Davis PD, and a balding obese man was my technician. He mouth breathed all over my palms, and the dirt under his unclipped fingers looked like he was housing worms in his nail beds. The machine itself looked like an 90's copy machine, hardly something from a Spielberg film.

Since that first time, my Live Scan experiences have only gotten stranger. One time, I drove out to a building behind a dilapidated Taco Bell for my fingerprinting. The tech had a greasy pony tail and the machine was covered with those grocery store, $0.50 "Homies"stickers. The unprofessionalism was aggravated by the man's examination of my ID during which he called me "Ben" (My real name does not have a B, E, or N).

My most recent Live Scan, today, took place in a closet next to the main elevators. I'm not one to be overly paranoid about identity theft, but my SSN number strewn about the main foyer of H building?

With ungloved tentacles, the girl caressed my fingers over the disgustingly sticky scanning plate. I began to worry that a sex offender—deviant hands and all—was the client she serviced right before me. And through some kind of pervert-technician germ chain, I may now have unwanted fluids on my hands.

Live Scan is super important for safety; I get it. But why must these operators be so unprofessional? Can we not hire technicians that have people skills? the ability to read legal documents? the desire to brush their teeth?

Sweet Nap

I arrived early for my eye exam yesterday. I have terrible patience for waiting rooms, so I brought a thick novel with me to stave off boredom.

Just as I was sitting down, a woman two seats away got called in for her appointment. She rose from her seat slowly, her husband's hand gently assisting in the arch of her back. As she was walking down the hall to the exam room, her husband, as if jolted by a small current of electricity, popped out of his chair and handed his wife her purse. She didn't say 'thank you,' but she smiled a small, almost secret, smile. He returned to his chair, slower than before, and sunk into the patterned, mauve fabric to wait for her.

For the next half an hour or so, I lost myself in my book, unaware that the man had drifted to sleep in the cushioned but uncomfortable chairs. It was only when his wife returned that I looked at him, his head hanging forward like in prayer. Trying not to wake him, she sat down carefully like she was sitting on a porch swing supported by thread. She had a grin on her face like a child discretely opening a cookie jar. Instead of waking her sleeping escort, she returned to her seat, allowing him to continue his nap.

The love story in my book then seemed flat: For the next 15 minutes, I kept peering over at the couple. The man still napping, dreaming of and waiting for his love. The wife, gingerly turning the pages of her magazine to limit the rustling leaves.

When my name was called, I tried to gather my things as quietly as possible, but when I rose from the chair, I accidentally woke the man. My Spanish is rusty, but as I was walking down the hallway to my exam room, I heard her say, "Because you were sleeping."

Mystery Scratches

I didn't notice them all morning. I washed my face, ate my breakfast, buttoned my collared shirt, all unaware that my neck bore mysterious scratches. It took one my impolite students to ask, "Dude, what's up with your neck and face?"

And like all minor injuries, becoming aware of my scratches made them all the more painful and irritating. Worse still, the scratches laced my neck skin. Stretching and contracting, the fissures of flesh opened and closed with every head nod and neck twist. The above picture does not do the annoyance and pain justice. Call me a wimp, but aren't the paper cuts, hang nails, and chapped corners of lips the most egregious and unwelcome?

I checked my shirt collar for barbs. I checked my hands for shiv-like finger nails. But these scratches seemed other-worldly. I imagined a feminine werewolf sneaking into my room last night and caressing me with her fangs. That was the sexiest and most fantastic answer: a werewolf hickey.

But after a school day of living in my werewolf fantasy, I returned home to my Chihuahua/Pug dog and realized my mysterious scratches perfectly aligned with my tiny dog's nail pattern. In the end, it wasn't a secret tryst between man and lycanthrope. My dog jumping on my face and kick-starting my throat simply didn't stir me from my sleep.

What a day: I'm not a werewolf Romeo, and my neck got tore up.

Dixinormis1983

So, you want to help but don’t have a way to get one of our shirts or make a monetary donation? Not to worry, we’ve got you covered with the easiest possible way to be a hero – playing Halo!

We are rallying our fan community to show their support by playing Halo 3 or ODST online Wednesday or Thursday while wearing a special emblem signifying your commitment to the cause. For every thousand heroes that participate, we will make a $100 donation on behalf of Bungie and our fan community to the Red Cross for Haiti relief efforts, up to a maximum of $77,000. All you have to do is don a special emblem and play a game online and know that you’ve done a small part to help those in need. www.bungie.com

Haiti is everywhere, as it should be.

Bungie, the company behind Halo, had a technologically aware fundraiser for Haiti. Play Halo over the Internet, wearing a special in-game, heart icon, and Bungie will donate money. The icon is easy to equip and is free assuming the person already has the Halo game and online service.

So I turned on my Halo ODST expecting to see hearts galore.



















I began politely to remind other non-heart players about the drive. I expected my words to be met with changes to the heart icon, but instead, Dixinormis1983 responded with, "Those niggers live on a fault line. That's their own fucking fault. Why would I change my icon for those fag niggers? It's like the Katrina shit. I wasn't going to help those welfare shits. I'm not changing my emblem because I don't want to help them." Dixinormis1983 even said that he changed his icon to look like a KKK member.

I expect online slurs and name calling. But this...?

I tried to plead my case, commenting that the very act of being on an online game was an exorbitant luxury in the scope of world affairs. That Haiti is in utter ruin the likes he would probably never know. But he called me a "hippie asshole." How could something so universally awful be seen as comeuppance?

Doesn't he understand that the world is not equal? Life in other places, even within our own borders, even within our own cities, is drastically striated. Doesn't he understand that people are not born onto flat ground? That some are born onto luxurious hilltops and others into squalid valleys with more than willpower and hard word separating them?

Dixinormis1983, even if you were joking, your words scalded me with heat that dissolved my trust in generosity and good taste. I'm sure you're a good man, but your comments have repercussions. I've written your words, so that you may take responsibility for them. Dixinormis1983, if ever you read this, please contact me. As mature men, I hope we can share words about honor, generosity, and hope. I have faith in you, even if you don't have faith in others.

My love to Haiti. Be strong.

Nice to See You Again

I don't know his real name, so I shall call him "Lucky" because he is the luckiest dog I know. Today was the second time I've found Lucky running loose on the street. He was un-collared. He was un-leashed. And, despite Bob Barker's cries, he was un-fixed. Even with all the odds against him, Lucky was still alive.

One time, about a year ago, I found Lucky running loose, crossing the streets in zig-zagging sprints like a toddler. I managed to round him up, tie him to my dog, and walk around until the owner luckily found us.

So I was pretty surprised to see an unattended Lucky again. Even after a near loss of their pet, the irresponsible dog owners still didn't fix whatever allowed Lucky to escape.

Running in a mad, collar-less dash at my dog, Lucky was totally oblivious to the green truck that almost plastered him to the asphalt. The owner of the truck braked the kind of way that would cause loose items riding shotgun to slide to the floor. As he accelerated off, he gave me a look like "control your damn dog." Funny, I was readying that same look for Lucky's owners.

In usual dog greeting, Lucky started smelling my dog like a mechanic examining an undercarriage. Then, the usual changed to the strange: Lucky started excessively licking my dog's penis.

Now, I understand dogs are very different than humans, but it's still very strange and rude. My dog backpedaled trying to escape this unwarranted fellatio, but Lucky was too amorous. Lucky isn't the cleanest dog, so I began to worry about my dog's health. Is there such a thing as doggie oral herpes?

I reached for the scruff of his neck to stop the assault and to harness the stray, but he ran off thinking it was a game. My dog was too apathetic to chase after Lucky with me. I hope he got home okay.

No address for me find his home. No phone number for me to call. No doggie-proofed house. His owners are dog owners in name only. Maybe Lucky isn't so lucky after all.