How to Make Your Voice Heard in Politics

(revised and updated)

We tend to think of Washington D.C. primarily as a large museum, full of interesting sculpture, classic architecture, and various antiquities like biplanes and senators. Occasionally it hosts that quaint three-ring circus we fondly refer to as the government. In general, it seems like a benign place, the sort of place you'd visit on a boring school field trip, a place that gets locked neatly every night and swept in the morning before the tourists arrive. But like any truly interesting city, D.C. harbors a dark, seamy underbelly. (Like almost any truly interesting city. Las Vegas, for example, manages to be interesting by being a dark, seamy underbelly, but thats a different essay.) The District is, in and around those gleaming monuments, one elaborate shooting gallery--one great big O.K. Corral, and has even occasionally carried the distinct honor of being murder capitol of the United States. This honor places it in the company of such other favorite tourist spots as Detroit and Newark.

The creative residents of D.C., ever eager to enhance the reputation of their fair city, have developed a staggering array of variations on the theme. There are drive-bys and gangland shootouts, of course, but District shooters really excel at the mystery murder. Take, for example, the case in which a police officer, dispatched to a minor domestic dispute (minor in the fact that it was not terminal for either party) noticed an odd oder nearby, and found, in a garbage bag on a neighboring lot, an unidentified body. Or the time a woman went missing, and the police dragged the river (a fairly logical step in missing persons cases in the murder capitol). They found no sign of her, but located three unidentified bodies. Of course not all bodies are unidentified, as in the case of the man who was about to give important testimony in a fraud lawsuit. He never made it, because, in the bored tones of the newscaster: "Unfortunately he was killed in an unrelated case."

Not all shootings result in murder, but most crimes in D.C. involve guns, and therefore shootings. This occurs in spite of the fact that the District's gun control laws are among the Nation's strictest. Occasionally a shooting stirs up public outcry for more laws, tighter regulations, and heavier punishments, and the government whips into a small frenzy of debate and study. So far, the shootings don't seem to be ending. Its possible that this is because we need even harsher laws, but I have a different theory.

Here it is: Any individual whose lifestyle that includes the distinct possibility of being shot at by, or needing to shoot at his coworkers (or sometimes his neighbors, or possibly random passers-by) probably isn't overly concerned with the legality of gun ownership. I have a hard time envisioning the drug dealer carefully filling out paperwork and patiently biding his time through a necessary waiting period. Gang members probably aren't in the habit of checking their weapons for illegal modifications before heading out to a turf war. Vigilantes and psycho sniper-type killers aren't likely to be respectfully studying the penal codes, or stocking up on legal weapons like frying pans. I could be wrong, but the whole idea of tougher gun-control stopping violent shootings is a bit like trying to prevent cases of Grand Theft Auto by beefing up the punishments for jaywalking... (tune in soon for the continuing essay...)

in consideration

short short tiny note today as i continue to write. I do a lot of whining and complaining, and some of you have been very good natured about it. I wanted to make note then, that today is a beautiful day, I had a lovely long walk this morning, a good, hearty laugh, and a marvelous cup of coffee (a rare good cup that I made!) and I'm feeling good, alert and sharp, so much so that I accepted the offer to chair our knitting group. Just so you don't think of me as a constant complainer. Instead you should think of me as Madame Chairman.

By popular demand

or, technically, lack of organized protest, I'm revising my shooting thing for a future right here, in blogland, with you guys. If any of you are out there. But what started as mild proofreading has progressed into a serious rewrite, so you'll have to wait a bit longer. I can hear your tears now, but never fear, loyal blog-readers (all two of you)! Your wait will not be long.

Meanwhile, Natalie named her iPod, for computer-related reasons. I didn't know it was possible to name an iPod, although mine appears under the seriously unoriginal title: "Skip's iPod". Natalie's has an actual name, which is cool. So henceforth my iPod will be known as Nixon.

As promised

see, I found a folder of stuff I wrote for my creative writing class in college, about 100 years ago. Some of it is horrendously bad, as only forced writing can be, but there is some funny stuff, including my essay on shooting public officials, which I may or may not eventually run here in serial form. But I also found a longish compilation that frankly sucks, but has some good little elements, and this particular bit made me laugh. So here it is.

Al Gore peeked cautiously around a corner.

"You gentlemen are lucky," he whispered over his shoulder. "everyone is out at a peace summit. The two shadowy men behind him kept quiet as they crept through the empty halls of the White House. They didn't need to, all the staff and aides had gone along to the summit with the first family. The lights were off, the front door locked, and the key hidden, as usual, under the welcome mat out front.

"You know, I actually invented peace summits," Gore continued, as he opened a door. "I mean, my name isn't on the patent, but I once wrote a letter to my congressman, and I said: what we need is a forum, so that leaders can get together, and discuss peace." The three men passed into a shadowy room, full of darkness and large furniture. "I said it should be called a garden of peace, because the peace would grow, like a little plant, but summit works fine too." Gore flicked a switch.

"Oooooooooo!" the Cuban and Chinaman sucked in their breath in awe.

"Now, Mr. Castro, about my payment..." Gore ventured. The bearded leader blinked at him.

"Payment? Oh yes, we've decided to pay you in the form of two pandas."

"Pandas? What am I going to do with pandas?" Castro shrugged.

"We're throwing in some sand too. China learned how to engineer perfect test-tube pandas, and in Cuba we have much sand. Americans love pandas and sand. You twisted capitalists."

"Look, Mr. Castro, ever since I didn't get elected Tip and I have had some trouble making ends meet. Now I've just used my private knowledge of White House secrets to sneak you gentlemen in for a Lincoln-bedroom pillowfight, and all I get are pandas?"

"Thats capitalism. Its not my fault you have an inadequate government and debauched populace. Two male pandas, thats all."

"Male pandas? Two male pandas? Thats not fair, I can't even breed them and release their offspring into protected bamboo groves." Gore pouted. Castro merely shrugged.

"This is not my problem. We could send one male and one female, if you'll recruit footsoldiers for a communist uprising here in America. And you can design your own commune." Castro pulled the biggest cigar Gore had ever seen from his pocket.

"And if I don't?" Gore asked, trying not too look too eager. A commune of his very own! It would be poetic justice, since the original idea for the modern commune had, of course-

"We'll kill you," Castro said, simply, puffing out a ring of thick smoke.

"I see your point, and I suppose I can work with you on this matter." Castro smiled.

"Yes, we thought you'd decide that. You may select which landfill you want to re purpose for your commune, and begin building your bamboo groves. But first, would you take a souvineer photo of us?"

to my Hokie friends

well the Hokies are experiencing a feeling that Penn Staters know well: the defeat of their team. Cheer up, Gobblers, you're still the ACC champs. I think, however, that you've been grossly unfair to your football team, with the assistance of the media. The entire Hokie Nation suffered a horrible tragedy, and almost from the start you all expected this small group of young men to rebuild the morale of the entire body of Hokie fans, worldwide, and then carry it on, victory after victory, into one long memorial season. Now every mention of the Tech team, every interview with a coach or player, and every article on every game hearkens back to the shootings, and pins hope on the team's success as the engine of healing. That's a lot of pressure for a bunch of guys who are working through their feelings and memories, trying to make it through classes, and handling all the regular pressures of college life and life in general, just like everyone else. Here's what should have happened: all you Hokie fans should have recognized that the greatest monument to Hokie healing and resilience is the simple fact that these players continue to take the field. Even if they lost every single game, the fact that they keep playing, that the students keep attending classes and the faculty and staff keep working: that's the healing, that's the memorial to the victims: that the Hokie Bird didn't sit trembling behind a locked door, he stood up and went out to face the light of day, and struggle through his failures as well as revel in his successes, to live and play and eat and fight and cry and laugh as the victims of this shooting intended to do, because they weren't sainted martyrs, they were just college kids, and neither the team nor the students should be expected to live up to some ideal or carry on some glorious crusade in the memory of slayed heroes: they should just be college kids. In the long run, it won't really matter that this particular team lost this bowl game. What will matter, over the years, is that these players took the field with dignity and spirit, and that is what should personify V-Tech, what should be its calling card to the world, that along with the quality of its education, the history of excellence, the diversity and vitality of its students. I'm not saying that you Hokies or anyone else should forget the shootings: I'm saying that every future act ever committed by any Hokie anywhere should not have to be tied back somehow to this tragedy. I'm saying that in the future when the media or the gawkers or the misguided start in on the lurid details, the Hokie Nation should hold its head up and say: yes, but we aren't a university of victims, and our successes and glories aren't defined by these shootings. We were a great school before, and we always will be, and nothing can ever change that.

and I promise some humor for the next post.

The title is really the hardest part

Or, in Fight Club terms: I am Skip's crushing lack of titular creativity.

Well the Widge and I both have sniffles. He's snoozing now, and I decided to clean the bathroom, for the first time this year. I know you're all thinking I'm blogging in order to stall, but already I cleaned, I'm just waiting for the floor to dry before putting back the diaper pail, toys, and other random stuff that somehow lives in my bathroom. I think instead of thinking of it as random stuff, I'm going to consider it art. Some people spend big money on knick-knacks and random sculptures and stuff for their house, but mine is genuine, pure in the sense that it was created without an eye toward artistic display. My home is a monument to Neo-Victorianism, my clutter comes with all the edge afforded by those T-1 cables and blister-wrapped batteries, the bookcases spill over with odd bits of paper, and the entire thing is somewhat surrealist, post-modern. If we walked away from the house now we could sell the whole mess to a gallery, to be lovingly re-assembled in some cavernous museum, with some vague, haunting title that has no link to the stuff itself. With us here, its just clutter, stuff and junk piled up, but without us around using it, it would all become haunting. There's nothing spookier than a well-stocked changing table, waiting dustily for a baby that will never be powdered here again. And every haunted house the world over is chock full of bookshelves, volumes worn and tattered and musty with secrets they will never reveal.

See, justifying clutter is quicker and easier than removing it.

In the real world, congrats to WVU, and I know you'll all be tuning in to whatever channel is carrying the V Tech game, so keep your eyes opened for #72. From all of us here in the Skiphaus: win those oranges, Forky!

Happy New Year (for real)

Let me be the very first (since its 0015) to wish you a Happy 2008!