March 16, 2014
I sympathize with the mayor. Wow. I’ve never uttered those words about a politician. But I do sympathize.
This past week, a frustrated Annapolis Mayor Mike P. passed a note to an alderman during a prickly public discussion.
“Thanks for (expletive deleted) me,” the mayor’s note read.
Mike P. apparently then made private amends to offended parties. But the note had already made headlines. It was embarrassing. It was dumb. It was interesting. And it was human.
Still, there’s a lesson here—a lesson I failed to learn.
When I was in the fifth grade I had a girlfriend named Jean M. Our relationship existed primarily—if not exclusively—on paper in the form of passed notes. That I had her house on constant weekend surveillance neither enhanced nor threatened our bond. The point was I had her in my sights.
But the course of true love seldom runs smooth, as they say.
I don’t remember what was so alluring about Diane S. Maybe it was the way she walked to the chalkboard or sipped her chocolate milk. Maybe it was the way she absolutely ignored me—yes, that probably was the way. Whatever the attraction, I felt compelled to start writing her notes. Surely, she could read; hadn’t we all begun working together on reading in kindergarten?
I don’t remember the contents of my first and only note to Diane S. My guilt remains an open case (Jean M. hovers to this day on Facebook) since I’m pretty sure I threw her under the school bus. No doubt, I sloppily professed my affection for Diane S—while not mentioning any home surveillance I might have had in mind. Upon reading my words, her heart would have no choice. Soon, Diane S. would be sharing her chocolate milk with Rob H.
But our love was intercepted.
It wasn’t an alderman, citizen or alert reporter who exposed my note that spring day. It was my elementary school nemesis: Bill M. Foolishly, I had asked him to hand Diane S. my note. She was just two rows over, after all. But that scoundrel, in between stabs of satanic laughter, read my letter out loud. He always did have a good speaking voice, I’ll give him that.
To Jean M’s surprise, to Diane S.’s disinterest and to my horror, my note went viral in a musty classroom of Peters Elementary. Had there been Google, I would have crashed the operation or landed a book deal.
My remaining days of fifth grade were spent largely alone. Writing notes to girls or stalking their homes didn’t feel as rewarding anymore. But because few of us stop while we’re behind, I resumed my note passing in the sixth grade.
Diane M.
Yes, another Diane.
Another bad idea.
Dear mayor, allow my story to be a cautionary tale. Let’s keep our notes to ourselves no matter how honest, stupid, human and regrettable they may be. Because there will always be a Bill H. setting us straight and on other courses in life’s better passing.
Sine Die Another Day
April 13, 2014
The General Assembly’s 2014 legislative session concluded this past week with all the hoopla and excitement of, well, watching laws being made.
But who can blame lawmakers? They can’t have hot, hot, hot button topics every year. How often can you bust out the Dream Act, gun-control laws and same-sex marriage? Can we blame the closing-moment confetti from looking a little bored?
I just wish lawmakers could have mustered the moral and political courage to pass legislation that affects me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in favor of revenge porn, holding 10 grams of pot, knocking back grain alcohol, and driving while texting—and especially not at the same time. But not one of my personal bills passed.
For example, I supported a bill that would physically move the state of Maryland next to my home town of Ft. Lauderdale because I still really like the beach there. The measure never got out of committee. The measure never got out of head. Consensus-building is not my strength, and it hurt me this session, too.
Take my proposed legislation to regulate motorists wishing to make a left on West Street when I’m behind them and oncoming traffic suggests multiple electrical poles have just toppled onto West Street. Is the Dunkin’ Donuts really that good to hold me up like this?
This was another defeat. You know how the state bird is the Western Meadowlark? I proposed the state bird be changed to the Meadowlark Lemon—my favorite Harlem Globetrotter who brought me more joy than any bird. I again failed to secure a co-sponsor—and a parking spot anywhere near the State House. How does the state of Maryland expect me to get involved in government if I can’t park?
My hallmark legislation, if passed, would have eliminated vehicle emission testing, vehicle registration, vehicle parking, vehicle tax and tags, and common vehicle obstructions such as tolls, inexplicable lane closures and Forest Drive. But in a stinging critique, the Maryland Department of Legislative Services labeled my proposal “fiscally criminal” and recommended a special session be called to consider a restraining order against me.
The experience taught me a valuable lesson. Politics is indeed a contact sport—unlike ping-pong, which I proposed become the official state sport. But the powerful pro-checkers lobby foiled me. And not Chinese checkers but good ol’ U.S.A. checkers.
I had other proposed legislation that never got a fair hearing. The last day of the General Assembly is traditionally called Sine Die, which is Latin for “Not the Best Headline.” My bill would have changed Sine Die to Sine Die Another Day. Opponents were quick to criticize my James Bond reference, calling it “sophomoric” and “not even close to being the best Bond movie.”
Finally, I proposed a maximum wage increase to be directly deposited into my checking account.
This, too, failed.
Listen, I’m no politician. I’m just a guy who dreams of a more perfect democracy centered on my needs.
Sine Die Another Day, my fellow citizens, sine die.
Behind closed doors
May 4, 2014
Once again our Republic’s inalienable right to petition the government misses the mark.
In Maryland, a petition drive is underway to prevent a bill to prohibit discrimination based on gender identity. The “Fairness For All Marylanders Act” has been labeled by opponents “the bathroom bill” for fear, in part, that men will be able to walk right into women’s restrooms.
But the true weakness of the petition is that it fails to address the more serious issue of discrimination—the unjust and glaring disparity in quality between men’s rooms and women’s rooms.
Consider your run-of-the-mill public men’s room. What are its defining features?
Allow me to paint a picture.
You enter the men’s room of your favorite dive bar. The door does not lock much less close all the way. Graffiti papers every square inch of the cubicle; Death Row cells are bigger. You think you recognize one phone number on the wall, but it’s just a bad dream.
To enhance the je ne sais quoi, some men’s rooms still feature a coin-operated condom machine that hasn’t been used since 1972 judging by the retro brands. There is no door to the lone stall because it was ripped off by a disgruntled patron using only his teeth.
There is a stained sink. The hand towel dispenser is strictly theoretical. There is running water if one relaxes the molecular definition of water as one part oxygen, two parts hydrogen atoms. Men’s room water is missing something chemical upstairs, if you know what I mean.
In short, the men’s room is the type of environment best experienced in a hazmat suit. If you don’t own one (why would you?), don’t touch anything. And whatever you do, don’t linger. If you do linger