Inconvenient Veil
Honk if you hate Muslims.
For good measure, flip ‘em a semi-peace sign.
For extra credit, shout out: “Bombs on you and your effin’ burka.”
Only I wasn’t wearing a burka. Few Muslim women—even in Muslim majority countries—garb themselves thus, face-to-foot, with black-meshed peek-a-boo eyes. Commonly-worn variants of veils cover hair and neck only, leaving the face fully exposed. One type, the hijab, is a square scarf tucked or pinned into place. Another, the al-amira, is a two-piece veil that consists of a close-fitting cap with a tube-like scarf overlay.
It was the al-amira that I unwittingly wore yesterday, the day of the drive-by abusing. I say “unwittingly,” because I am not Muslim—by happenstance, my windy-day headwear of choice is a close fascimile of an al-amira. My version comprises a pair of tubular scarves in contrasting colors that shift out of synch, such that the one over my forehead, peeking from underneath the other, simulates the al-amira’s cap.
Over the last few months, my veiling has garnered some good-natured remarks re my Muslim-hood. A friend who joked that I’d become a “Muslim sympathizer” was himself a staunch supporter of maligned minorities, Muslim and otherwise.
My Muslim colleagues were pleased that I’d adopted their look—indeed, one marveled how the veil flattered my face. (That was the day that the yellow fellow slipped down my brow while his stealthy sidekick aqua-blued himself over my nose.)
Last week a not-so-wise-guy made me a flippant admonishment: Put that foolish rag mag down NOW and get back to the Koran! The man wasn’t motivated by hostility, merely aspired to be a wit. (He’s half-way there.)
Yesterday was the first time that I got head-on spewed—full-force hatred from the spigot of a bigot. I trust it will be the last. After all, spring is soon coming, so I’ll be casting my inconvenient veil to the winter wind.
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In Defense of Fur Coats
Most women these days shun fur. Many of us would-be “foxy” ladies fear flaunting ourselves in the face of animal rights activists; rabid ones of their species have been observed in the wild drenching red mink—and its wearers—in buckets of blue paint. Big mess; small comfort to the soft and empty shells of their doomed donors. I say that inherited furs—sacrificial lambs of long ago—should be exempt from contempt under a “grandmother clause.” That said, I speak in support of a ban on further cruelty to these creatures. To that end, I will gladly forgo the pleasure of their pelts.
There is another kind of furry pleasure that I am loath to forgo, but have been forced to. Ape-men, alas, are an endangered species. Sightings of gorilla guys are rare. They used to run rampant on beaches; no more. Since the turn of the century, it seems that “wax to the max” is mantra for men and women alike.
Men and women alike indeed. Boundaries grow fuzzy when fuzz no longer grows out of bounds. Grooming’s gone wild: It has been duly decreed that hair venturing south of the neckline shall be uprooted forthwith.
I’ll admit to preferring that a lady “Gillette” her legs. And should she have the misfortune of a mustache, by all means, she should “Schick” it ASAP. But as for the male contingent—limbs one and all, torso to and fro—I say: let it grow; let it grow; let it grow.
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Have Your Toke and Eat It Too?
Marijuana, whether intended for recreational or medicinal use, should never be cast in sweet disguise. Not Milky-Wayed, Gummy-Beared, or Fruit-Looped.
No other drug intended for adult use is candied up. Turning toke to tempting treat is irresponsible. Smoke if you will, else swallow a pill. Have your brownie on the side.
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Undeterred
“The death penalty is not a deterrent.” I concede the prosecution’s point. If I were death penalty personified on trial regarding my deterrence-effect, I would accordingly enter a plea at this time of “nolo contendere.”
Indeed, I will grant that a would-be killer would be likely be equally deterred at the prospect of life in prison without parole. Or indeed, by the prospect of serving any time at all. I would venture that the commission rate for premeditated murder is proportional to the collective confidence of the perpetrators regarding their not getting caught.
So there: I’ve summed up the prosecution’s case for conviction: “The death penalty is not a deterrent.” As to the ironic sentence thereby pronounced upon the death penalty: that is, its prompt “execution,” allow me to argue for the defense that it be spared.
The issue on trial was whether the death penalty is a deterrent. The prosecution presented compelling evidence that it is not. Common sense concurs.
In the case of the death penalty per se, the issue of deterrence is a red herring. In support of the death penalty, I offer, unapologetically, one word: Retribution.
That’s right. As in that old-time trading game: eyeballs and choppers. As an atheist, I rarely resort to biblical references, but, as the good book says “…to everything there is a season...” Given that election season ushered in open season on the death penalty, I’m determined to start my spring season with the R-word: Retribution.
Politically incorrect indeed, for a purported liberal democrat. I stay true to form on human rights in general, but regarding the rights of murderous humans in particular, I’m an unrepentant party-hopper.
Sometimes, after all, what’s Right is right. This is one of those times. The Right time for me to have left the Left behind.
For a time. We’ll play catch-up next season on Gay Marriage. Promise!
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Suckers and Company
Attacking from the outside in: Whilst drenching you, they drain you dry. Whilst spewing their stuff, like one possessed, they bleed your body, sap your soul.
They are metaphorical mergers of Linda Blair and Count Dracula. Demon and Vampire. In 21st-century parlance they are, less dramatically, called “needy.”
In 20th-century parlance “needy” was synonymous with “poor” in the material sense; today, the “needy” are “poor” in the figurative sense – to be pitied for it nonetheless.
Which is the reason the less pitiable among us feel obliged to do our part to help.
We lend an ear or two to sound off on. A set of shoulders to “carry on” on. Strong arms for support, hugwise and otherwise. A pair of handy-dandy hands always at their service.
So far, so good.
But it’s not good enough. It’s never enough. No canyon, however grand, can contain the grandeur of their sufferings. A twice-bottomed-out abyss cannot suffice to store such abysmal miseries.
And so I say: Gotta cut bait before you get tangled in the line and dragged down under with your side-kicker. Toss him a lifesaver, if you will – just be sure to stay safely on saner shores.
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Take it or Leave it
Typical Thrift Shop Transaction:
“How much do you want for the dress?”
“I’ll take two dollars.”
“I’ll give you twenty and not a penny less!”
Oops! Seems I swapped “two” and “twenty” and typed “less” instead of “more.” Must have been my wishful thinking.
I won’t deny that I love a bargain as much as anybody. A 40% markdown is a bargain; a belligerent, 80% badger-down is a low-ball; below that low is a step above a steal.
Thrift shop prices are already low—so why the haggling? Does one feel empowered by being “assertive?” By exerting pressure on a hapless cashier? Who, by the way, is not a paid employee—thrift shops are staffed by members of the organization in whose behalf they raise funds by down-selling (often up-scale) sundries.
The charity I work for—Bread of Life (BOL) food pantry—has a thrift store on site. I refuse to visit; I cannot bear to see the for-a-pittance-price-tags. In counterpoint to BOL’s (literal) basement installation; I operate in their behalf a (literal) top-level “boutique” on the second floor of my house.
Hoity-toity Hyacinth of BBC TV’s “Keeping Up Appearances” insists on pronouncing her surname, Bucket, “Bouquet.” I don’t entertain such snobbish aspirations--I refer to (and have so named) my store as “boutique” rather than a “thrift shop” not out of pretention, but by way of practicality.
A dress in a “boutique” is priced at twenty dollars. No, I won’t take two for it. I won’t take ten, or even fifteen. I’ll either sell it for twenty, or I’ll give it away. Bread of Life keeps a table outside, next to where needy people line up for the food we distribute. I’ll just put that dress on the table so that one of the “ladies-in-waiting” will take it.
I can assure you of two things about that dress: 1) that inside of two minutes it will be gone; 2) come rain or snow, I’ll delay a week—but no way will I chuck it on the two-buck table inside.
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Letter to local paper: Please Don't Deck the Trees with Doggie Bags
Fellow Dog Walker: As you merrily skip on your business trip, why bother to stoop, scoop, and sack the scat only to hurl the bag into the bushes? If you don’t want to carry, no need to tarry. A flick with a stick will do the trick. So long as the stuff is out of sight and squishing range, leave it to enrich the woodlands. The only tree tags a hiker should encounter are the official trail markers. Which cannot begin to compete for attention with the electric blue and neon green danglers, stuck on thorns, torn and oozing.
