the whole hate crimes thing

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[in the comments section of my previous post, reader judi asked me for an explanation of the hate crimes legislation which, having slam-dunked its way through our house of representatives, is currently in the process of being rubber-stamped through the senate towards its inevitable obama signage-into-law.

the following is my answer to her question.]


basically, judi, it goes like this: for the past 233 years in america, you fucked somebody up, you did time.

under this bill? let's say you fuck somebody up because they're gay (or a member of any number of other protected minorities covered by said bill), you're gonna do time plus several extra years because, since your crime was motivated by hate, you're obviously an extra-bad person and therefore deserving of far more punishment than had you beat the guy up merely because he dissed your girlfriend or spilled a drink on you or something else perfectly reasonable like that.

but what if it's not so clear-cut? what if you maintain you fucked him up for reasons totally unrelated to his being gay? well, in the good old days, it wouldn't matter why you did it; all the court would care about is if you did it or not.

but not anymore, judi. in this brave new post-"hate crimes" world, the mere fact of your crime won't matter nearly so much as WHY you did the crime--never mind that the object of your rage would still be a puddle of bloody goo on the sidewalk either way, the law will now tell us that, if the victim happens to find himself in a class of citizen protected by this new hate-crimes statute, then he's far more injured--and thus, you're far more guilty--than had he not been so protected.

but that's ok, because homophobes are worse than bad, and they need an extra-special incentive like a "hate crimes" law to keep them from beating up on poor, hapless faggots, right?

thing that kills me is, the folks arguing this position are usually the same ones who can reliably be counted upon to scornfully laugh at the "death penalty as deterrent" folks.

[imagine the following scenario:

billy bob: "hey bobby joe, let's grab our baseball bats and go out and fuck us up some faggots, ok?"

bobby joe: "well, billy bob, as much as i love to fuck me up some faggots, that new extra-added "hate crimes" enhancement on top of the ordinary ol' assault-and-battery makes me think twice, so maybe we better not."

because that's the way it'll work, right?

yeah, right.]

of course, being as smart as i know you are, judi, i'm sure you will immediately see the other problem with this new order of things.

because if you're anything like me, you might believe that the objective, material and provable evidence of what you actually DID should be what matters in a court of law, rather than the subjective supposition of the thoughts which were presumably in your head AS you did what you did.

but in the end, no worries--the thought police will sort it all out for us and all will be well, right?

yeah, right.

* * * * *

had you asked almost any fag in america, judi, they'd have told you this "hate crimes" law is basically the greatest thing since sliced bread, since it's gonna save us all from homophobic hate and all.

but you? you had to ask me.

[next: the problem with creating protected classes in america--and boy, do i have a few things to say about that]

and i'll bet when it passed, his mama stood up and cheered

two months ago, this 16-year-old kid was dragged, handcuffed, outta his house and thrown into lock-up on suspicion of making a threat from his home computer. since then, he's been held virtually incommunicado at a juvie detention center far from his home, his future murky and uncertain.

his mother claims that her son--conservative, flag-waving, church-going and home-schooled--had never been in trouble, there was no evidence to support the arresting officers' claim recovered from their home, and that someone must've hacked the kid's ip address and made the threats in his name.

is the kid guilty of the charge? who knows--maybe, maybe not.

point is, in this case it doesn't really matter, because the feds aren't interested in any defense he might offer, nor are they required to be; hell, they can hold this kid in a kafkaesque limbo--no charges, no communication with the outside, no lawyers, no hearing, no arraignment, no defense--forever if they want.

"but this is america," i hear you say, "land of habeas corpus and rule of law--how could this be?"

simple: the patriot act makes it so.

see, the "threat" in question was apparently a bomb threat, thus making this a potential act of terror--and thus giving the feds, via said patriot act, virtual unchecked, unquestioned power over this american citizen's life.

kid's mother is mystified, wailing and wondering what happened to due process in america.

this story makes me chuckle darkly to myself for two reasons:

first, because at the same time the obama administration is falling all over itself trying to close guantanamo, free many of its prisoners and downgrade middle-eastern "terrorists" to mere "extremists," it's now using the patriot act (among other things) to target conservative "terrorists" in the heartland of america; and

second, because i'm sure that, as long as the previous administration was in power and the patriot act seemed only to apply to towelheads, liberal librarians and similar other pinko troublemakers, most conservatives (such as the mother in question here) were perfectly fine with it.

see what happens when you pass dangerous, poorly-thought-out, emotionally-charged legislation and then the tables turn?

[and yeah, of course there's a message here; let this be a cautionary tale for all my friends out there who so passionately favor the hate-crimes legislation currently making its way through congress--think for a minute what might happen when the other side once again gains power (because it'll happen--it always does), and starts using that thought-police bullshit against you.]

a word about my (and, for that matter, your) musical tastes

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it happened again today, only this time at work--guy grabs my ipod off my desk (because i'd forgotten to hide it), scrolls through my songs as i inwardly cringe, awaiting the inevitable; finally looks up at me incredulously and says, "where the hell do you even find this shit?"

this would be the point at which i'd usually make some lame apologetic excuse for my idiosyncratic tastes like i've been doing all my life.

but not today.

today, hungover and ornery, i snatch the ipod outta his hand and snarl, "each and every one of those songs is there for a reason, and they're reasons you wouldn't understand if you lived a thousand goddam years. now get outta here and let me get some work done."

surprised, he retreats--and i have my next blogpost.

because you know what? i've pretty much had it with people who mindlessly slam the musical tastes of other people without having the slightest clue as to what they're talking about.

what none of 'em realize (and what you probably don't realize either) is that music is as much a drug in its own way as is alcohol or pot or meth or crack: to the degree a particular combination of sounds hits your endorphin receptors just right, you like it; to the degree it doesn't, you don't--it's that fucking simple.

and it's pretty much non-negotiable--i mean, you can try, for the sake of your standing amongst your peers, to get into whatever music they're into, but the bottom line is, you like what you like, and that's pretty much it.

[case in point: i can't even begin to tell you how much more easily the first 17 years of my life woulda gone had i been able to get excited about hard rock--or for the last 17, techno house music--but that's another post for another day.]

i realized this eternal truth about music early on--back when i was a lonely kid in high school, i spent countless hours locked up alone in my room, headphones on, chain-smoking and transported to another world by the music that moved me then. different songs, individually or in combination, would bring on different moods; more often than not i'd get caught up in one particular song and listen to it over and over and over.

these two drugs--nicotine and music--became linked so strongly in my psyche that when i finally quit smoking fifteen years ago, i found i had no choice but to quit music as well--and i mean all music.

why? because as soon as a song came up that i liked, i'd reflexively reach for a cigarette to enhance the high, just like i'd always done in the past.

it took me eight long years to break that trigger and actually be able to listen to music again without feeling the irresistible urge to reach for that other drug.

alcohol helped.

guttermusicality

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i may have been outta the business for awhile, but that doesn't mean i can't still recognize pure genius when i come across it.

consider for a moment a minor but vexing problem shared by all architects [because i just know that's why you come here]: namely, how to get rainwater off of and away from your building without fuglifying the design.

you've generally got three choices when it comes to gutters and downspouts: you can (a) hide them in the walls (expensive and problematic); (b) try to find some way to subtly blend them into the facade (usually not very successfully); or (c, and what usually happens) tack 'em on on after the fact and say fuck it.*

or you can do what this guy did (and click if you're really interested--it embiggens nicely):



and get this--when it rains, the whole system becomes a musical instrument. can you even imagine how cool that must be?

back in architecture school, if i heard "if you can't hide it, celebrate it," once, i heard it a thousand goddam times--and now, 25 years later, i finally know what they meant.

[sorry for the left turn into near-respectability this post took, but i'm sure it'll be back to business as usual around here in no time.]
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*then there's option (d): blow off gutters altogether (yeah, it was a disaster when it rained but i didn't care--it was beautiful, goddammit).

post 272, in which mkf makes a guilty confession, but draws the line at drunk-commenting to himself

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hell, i'll say it--sometimes i really get off on going back and reading my own shit.

never ignore the vibe, children--it always tells the truth

.poured a cocktail, went exploring backwards tonight and came across this post, which re-reading triggered the following heretofore-forgotten memory:

the celebrity wife is walking me around the garret with its dormer windows overlooking the beach, airily explaining how she wants to turn it into a playroom for her kids; all the while i'm nodding, smiling and taking notes, my insides are screaming "please god get me the fuck outta here."

it was only later that i learned that this claustrophobic little space which had so given me the cold, clammy heebie-jeebies was the self-same attic where william peter blatty spent several months polishing his final draft of the exorcist.

coincidence? you think so, go spend an hour there and then get back to me.

sober update: oh, wait, you can't--i forgot; we tore it all out and changed it all up. whatever; i still wouldn't let my kids play up there for all the fuckin' tea in china.

love keeps coming to my door with a sleeping roll, and i keep telling it to fuck off

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i am a conflicted soul of the highest order; the gap between (a) what my heart tells me i should feel and do; and (b) what i actually do feel and do, has been insurpassably vast for as long as i can remember--and it just keeps growing.

and whenever i nut up for the good fight against my dark side, the backlash can be intense and immediate.

a former roommate summed it up this way: "you know, mike, whenever you start talking about the emptiness of hook-up sex, i know it's time to get ready for one of your famous four-day fuckfests."

thing is, he was usually right.

[this would be the same roommate who would equally-famously go on to sneer "spare me your gutter morality" at me in front of lots and lots of people, but that's a story for another day.]

whatever--when i was younger, the therapists i consulted called this phenomenon "resistance," and they all told me i had an awfully strong case of it.

in other words, there's something very strong within me, that--no matter how bad it might fuck me up in the long run--not only likes things just exactly the way they are, but, when faced with a strong pull in the other direction, will go to inordinate lengths to maintain that uneasy equilibrium that keeps me where i am.

such is the case today.

i won't go into it all now; suffice it to say that, no matter what comes along to pull me up to the light, all i can seemingly do in response these days is kick back down towards the dark as hard as i can.

i'm feeling you strong tonight, joni--while i'd like to believe you've long since left your city of the fallen angels behind, i can't help but wonder every time i listen to this song if i'll ever let go of mine.