Burnettiquette

Dubious Moments in October

As we wind down this month with an evening of hardened sugar and scary creatures, let us reflect on one truly ghoulish changing of the guard that will go down in history as having taken place in the fall of 2008: the face of the modern American bogeyman.

What has been the scariest thing you've seen over the past month or so?

The scariest thing I've seen is the haste with which the federal government - yes, that includes both presidential candidates...and the current executive branch whose unwritten motto once could have been "God helps those who help themselves" - has opened the tax coffers to save the arses of wealthy Wall Street zombies who've willfully broken their own financial institutions.

Given this spookiness, I'm baffled as to how the image of a monster in an Armani suit and a pair of Bruno Maglis meshes with the nearly 25-year-old image we've all been fed of an evil, lazy, shiftless, single mom being the biggest drain on government resources, followed closely by banjo plucking mountain folk, who stalk good, clean big city folk on their canoe trips through West Virginia.

The way we've all been dropped hints to fear the frightening welfare moms and mountain folk you'd think the giant sucking sound to which Ross Perot once referred was them draining the coffers of the federal government via $200 monthly WIC allotments, rather than jobs fleeing this country.

I am the first person to gripe about undeserving recipients of my money. And even you haters, who've read me for years, know that's how I feel. So don't try to paint me with a bleeding heart brush...though that imagery does work well on Halloween, don'tcha think?

Anyway, regardless of my desire to keep all my pennies, I'veI never bought that hype about the poorest of the poor breaking the government's pockets. Sure some of them have contributed. But here's a hellacious analogy most appropriate for Halloween: Even if those welfare recipients - the ones we were taught to loathe - have been a bunch of goblins, then the bank presidents and investment firm CEOs have been the collective Devil Himself.

And with the month we've had? Forever after the bogeyman will have a different look to me.

If, after a night of horror movies, I wake up in a cold sweat to escape a monster in my dreams, I can assure you the monster won't be a chain-smoking, baby-having, young, female, stereotype, chasing me with a deadly book of food stamps. She will be a he. And he will trying to strike me with a rolled up copy of flaming bailout legislation and laughing at me behind piercing red eyes from a corner office in the sky in lower Manhattan.

Boo!

If you build a polling place, will they come?

My latest formal offering to the campaign speculations: Will the youth turn out for McCain and/or Obama?

There's love n the air between Democrats & Republicans

I forgot to post sooner the article I had in yesterday's paper.

Tough Love: Jennifer Hudson

By now you probably know that the mother, brother, and nephew of singer and Oscar-winning actress Jennifer Hudson were murdered last week at their Chicago home.

And you probably know that the prime person of interest in police custody is the estranged husband of Hudson's sister, the stepfather of the boy.

I feel sympathy for Hudson and her sister Julia,first and foremost. But beyond that sorry I had to think hard about the blame game in this case.

What prompted my reflection was part of a statement Julia Hudson wrote on her MySpace page about the murders of her mother, brother, and son: "...Now because I chose to do what was natural to me and love someone, it cost me my beautify family my wonderful beautiful loving supporting mother Darnell, my true blue baby brother Jason, I love you Big Baby...And last but never not (sic) least my only son Julian, my innocent baby one that was sheltered from all the evil oin (sic) the world because we loved him so much..."

The logic for her self-flagellation? William Balfour, Julia's estranged husband and the Chicago Police Department's "person of interest," has a lengthy criminal record, peppered with violent behavior, including attempted murder, for which he was convicted and served prison time (from which he may have accidentally been paroled too soon).

I get why Julia Hudson would blame herself. She survived. Her kid and family didn't. Survivor's guilt is a common reaction after this sort of tragedy.

But she's not to blame for the murders. The killer, who hopefully will fry, is to blame.

That being said, let's talk bluntly about relationships. Julia Hudson married this fat head within months of his release from prison. There was no mistaking where he'd been all those years. Reportedly, as their marriage got rocky, Balfour told Julia Hudson repeatedly that while he had girlfriends on the side, if she dated anyone else he'd kill her. Why in the world would she have wanted to hook up with this kind of guy? Again, she's not guilty. If he killed her family, he's guilty. Still, I say my question's a valid one.

A female friend scolded me over this line of thinking earlier this morning, 'cause, she said, Julia Hudson likely had low self esteem.

Ladies, you have to help me understand this self esteem thing. How badly do you have to feel about yourself that when you consider the sort of man you want in your life and your child's life you settle for a violent felon? Why not hold out till a nice guy comes along?

That's all. No more pontification from me. The murders aren't her fault 'cause she didn't commit them, but you can't run away from the fact that this guy didn't have to be in their lives at all.

Peace and prayers to the Hudson family.

Dogs and Dinner

Big props to Mrs. B as we walked our dog this evening.

During one particular stretch of the stroll, where we passed through a busy block of downtown in our fair city, she had control of Leo the Lab/Pointer's leash. And we had to pass through a gauntlet of other strollers, diners, drinkers, etc.

A bunch of the places have sidewalk tables set up.

And as we started to pass the tables, Mrs. B moved to the middle of the sidewalk to keep Leo, who is still being taught manners, from getting too friendly.

Not a big deal, you say?

Tell me that next time some clueless dog walker's otherwise cute pooch gets on its hind legs and in your face, as you're trying to eat at a sidewalk table, and the only response you can get from the dog's owner is a burst of inexplicable pride, a stupid grin, and a lame attempt at a pun like "Wiggles must really like what you're eating!"

I speak from experience, my friends.

So, yes, I'm biased. But Mrs. B gets props. Common courtesy is not dead. And no sidewalk diner's food was corrupted by fur or dog breath on our account today.

Just so you know...

I was nowhere near Pittsburgh last night. Besides, I print my B's in cursive.

All kidding aside though, for those of you who wonder from time to time why I force conversations on race and perception even when you're tired of hearing about those things, that link above is why.

I have one bit of advice for the young woman referenced in the link above: Next time you use a mirror to decorate your face with an alphabet, stick with something easy like the letters "A," "H," "I," "M," "O," "T,"  or "U." No matter how poor your penmanship, there's no danger of writing those letters backwards.

And I have one question for my peers in media: Why were you so eager to run with this now-proven-false story, in spite of the painfully obvious red flags it waved from the very beginning?

Reason #403 that I need therapy

I need help with a prejudice, I think. But don't get your shorts in a bunch. I'm not talking "isms." I don't care what color you are, or what party of the globe your ancestors came from. My prejudice isn't that deep. Besides, generally speaking I love everybody, like a rotund kid loves cake.

Almost everybody. Everybody except hippies. I can't explain why I haven't been able to overcome my lifelong disdain of them. But in the past two days I've had two negative hippie encounters, which lead me to believe I need to go to a camp to learn to be at peace with hippies, or something.

I'll tell you what it is, I think: I love the earth, and I love animals too. But every hippie I've ever met, like most political pundits I've met, can't seem to make a point without taking it to a ridiculous extreme, or without coming off as smug and self-righteous. And that, my friends, is a turnoff and never wins anyone over to your point of view.

Case in point: I met this morning's hippie, while sitting at a coffee stand near the Herald, waiting for a source to show up. She sat down across from me, facing me, but at the next table over.

I smiled and said hello and then quickly went back to my paper and my coffee.

That would have been fine. Peaceful. Pleasant.

But then she had to start talking. First, she commented on the I.D. hanging around my neck.

Her: You a journalist?

Me: Yep.

Her: You know about the Illumminati?

Me: I think my grandfather once test drove one.

Her: No, I mean the secret global government that is using the media to take over the world.

Me: Sorry, I was thinking of Maserati.

Her: Well, whether you realize it or not you're probably a part of their plan.

Me: They'd better keep paying me on time, or I'll expose them.

Her: It isn't funny.

Me: I'm sorry, but I don't know you. I didn't mean to offend you. But we went from hello to you telling me I'm helping bring down the world. Tell you what, I'll just finish my coffee.

Silence

Her: Is that coffee fair trade?

Me: I didn't ask.

Her: You should have. Did you know that lots of countries that produce coffee beans force kids into slave labor to make coffee for people like you?

Me: Thirsty, sleepy people?

Her: No, ignorant consumers.

Me: I see. I'm contributing to slavery...maybe. How ironic. I think I'm going to keep sipping and reading.

Her: And some companies that import pre-ground beans accidentally grind up small animals. It can be cruel, you know.

Me: So my coffee has meat in it?

Silence.

Her: Nice suit.

Me: Thanks. Let me guess. A kid named Pavel who lives in a hovel made this suit for 15 cents?

Her: No, just nice suit.

Me: Thank you. Nice t-shirt. I notice you have lots of drawings on it.

Her: Yeah, this one is my protest to the Christians who think they're going to take over the world. Some historical texts suggest that Jesus didn't even exist.

Me: I thought the Illuminati was taking over.

Her: They are, too. And this is one I drew to say death to the Nazis, man. Nazis would have never let us sit here and have this conversation.

Me: True. We probably couldn't have talked. That would have sucked. What's that one about?

Her: Oh, that one's my protest against capitalism. It's hurting the planet, man.

Me: Oh? You have a suitcase with you. Traveling?

Her: Yes.

Me: Where to?

Her: Spain.

Me: Expensive trip.

Her: My folks helped with the ticket.

Me: They bought it then?

Her: Yeah, something like that.

Me: So they have jobs?

Her: Yes.

Me: In this country?

Her: Yes.

Me: Then they're capitalists?

Her: I could see how you might think that.

Me, as I stand and walk away: This has been real. I think I hear my boss calling me.

Her, to my back: Don't let the powers use you, man!

Me: What does that even mean?

Her: It means the world is ours, man. Don't let them take it from you.

Me: The world is yours? You've been watching Scarface.

Her: Scarface?

Me, to myself as I pick up the pace: stupid hippies.

San Francisco is about to make hookers go hungry

I swear I'm not trying to be funny. Well, maybe I am. But there's a point to this too.

In case you weren't aware, authorities in San Francisco are considering legalizing prostitution - not brothels like in Nevada, but roadside prostitution. They say among other "good" things, such a move will free up more than $11 million that police spend every year chasing, catching, and incarcerating prostitutes.

Now, I'm no elitist. I understand that along with all the rest of us Average Joes and Janes, ho's have to eat too. I can't say I approave of how they win their bread, but hunger, desperation, and a lack of good home training can compel some strange lines of work.

That being said, what San Fran is proposing will never work. As a self-declared expert in what makes dudes tick I can tell you the San Fran Ho Stroll's cliente will disappear if street prostitution becomes legal.

The thing about street prostitution is the the Johns - the guys who hire the prostitutes - are often just as desperate and psychologically tilted as the prostitutes themselves. All Johns - those who are flush and those who are living paycheck to paycheck - pick up prostitutes because they are socially awkward and full of self doubt, and don't believe they can get a normal date. Finally there is a tiny percentage of men who pick up prostitutes because they - the men - are mean, and horny, and in need of an ego boost. What they all share in common a lack of self control that makes them crave instant gratification.

Laugh if you want. I admit I'm no shrink. But I'm basing this on years as a crime writer and things I observed on the street with police sources.

So here's why the San Fran plan won't work: there's one more thing that all guys who are willing to pick up roadside prostitutes have in common. In spite of whatever psych problems they have, they all have egos - egos that make them perfect candidates for skulking about in dark alleys and side streets in search of ho's. Legalize street prostitution and the guys will stop buying, 'cause none of them want to be seen picking up a by-the-hour or by-the-act sex partner.

Trust me. Guys don't like being seen walking into strip clubs. Think of all the busy streets under bright lights in high-foot-traffic tourist areas? The prostitutes are gonna want to come into the light, so to speak, where all the other legal business are situated. Do you really see guys - in front of crowds of other revelers - making deals with prostitutes in the open?

So, San Fran may mean well. But if they go through with this plan it'll backfire, 'cause prostitutes stripped (no pun intended) of their mystique, thrust into the open, suddenly become reputational hazzards.

The Cowboy Code: Delivering Reallllllly Bad News to an Ex

Have you ever hooked up with someone and then wondered later if you did the wrong thing?

Well, according to ABC News, if you get an email from an ex these days whose subject line starts off "You're too hot to be out of action...," don't delete it. It's probably not spam.

That subject line concludes "..."I got diagnosed with herpes since we played."

Yeah, I know. That's a messed up prank. Except it's really not. Seriously. If you have time, follow the link. ABC News profiles this public health Web site that allows people to send cutesy e-cards to former sex partners they may have infected with a sexually transmitted disease or two. The story says that the site grew out of an effort to use technology to help people keep partners informed and so on.

That part is admirable. Don't keep your crotch diseases secret. I get it. But I can't be the only person who wonders about the lack of civility that comes with informing a former partner through email that you may have infected them with something.

Now, as you may know, the Cowboy Code is generally a guide to male friendships with one another and a guide to understanding male behavior in relation to romance with women. But it is also a guide to good sense and courtesy for both men and women in relationships.

And I don't think I need to tell you that there are very few exceptions to when it's appropriate to share any kind of serious news over the Web or by phone with an ex-romantic partner.

In fact, I think that there are only two exceptions:

1. If you and an ex parted ways on reasonably good terms, geographically you and that ex live far apart these days, and you don't keep in close contact with that ex, then it's OK to tell them through email that your mom is sick, or your old dog died, or (this one's debatable) you're engaged.
2. The second exception would be that you simply write better than you speak. I don't know how many of us can say that. But if that applies to you, and it's not just an excuse to avoid seeing your ex, then at least write it the old-fashioned way - with pen, on paper. Be thoughtful, and include a phone number in the letter, in case your ex, after reading your letter, wants to call you and hash it out further.

Barring those exceptions, all serious news needs to be delivered face-to-face, unless you live so far apart that an in-person meeting just isn't practical.

It's bad enough breaking up with someone over the phone. But this takes the cake. If you kiss or otherwise swap fluids with someone, and they walk away with anything more than a warm fuzzy feeling...that doesn't require a shot of something that ends with "cilin," you owe them a face-to-face explanation.

Otherwise, you are guilty of the worst lack of Burnettiquette and are in clear violation of the Cowboy Code.

Reason # 101 that stereotypes fail

I'm on my way to work. Actually I'm going slowly through a parking lot right now.

Moments ago I approached a full-sized, double cab Dodge Ram pup sitting on lifts and giant wheels. There is a bumper sticker on it with a picture of a bass.

When I get about 10 feet away, I see the driver. He is on the passenger side, walking toward the driver's side.

Big dude. Full description? Large white male - easily 6'4" and 275, left arm covered in tats, smoke hanging from one side of the mouth like the Marlborough Man, scowl on his face, the guy who looks like he could knock you out cold just by raising a fist...without even dropping it.

A little aside: I have a habit. In my efforts to play Sherlock Holmes I try to guess, based on a look, what type of music a person is likely to play in his vehicle. Yeah, I know it's stereotyping. But I'm human. What can I tell you?

So back to the story at hand.

Grizzly Adams proceeds to climb in the truck, settle behind the wheel, and reach for the ignition.

I immediately guess new country, possibly classic rock.

Instead he drives off bumping C&C Music Factory.

This reminds me of a story about books and covers and what not.

Sent via Blackberry from AT&T