A Stranger in My Own Land

Have you ever had to piss so badly that your whole body hurt? Your ears begin to ring in that high-pitched dog whistle sort of way that renders them useless. This is stage one. At the same time your stomach muscles contract as if sucker punched by a nonexistent bully. It is much like the helpless feeling you experience while sitting in the back seat of your parents’ car on a family vacation to Washington DC as yet another rest area whizzes past.

After the first hour you enter stage two as this intense physical pain begins to subside and your body learns to cope. It then falls into a type of mild paralysis where only essential movements are performed. Normal thought and vision become impaired at this stage of urinary deprivation as the walls of your bladder are stretched tighter than a snare drum. When you realize that there is no end in sight the intense pain resumes in the form of sharp abdominal cramping. It is like a form of torture.

Logic and reason elude you as you enter the third and final stage of pee deprivation. The search for the nearest urinal or secluded stand of evergreens to purge the warm yellow demons from your body consumes your mind. Instincts of self-preservation take over as you are forced to forget problems of the world around you. Stage three - the search for relief - consumes every fiber of your being. At the end of this last stage you enter a strange alternate universe devoid of meaning and context. Relief becomes your only God and the porcelain orifice its holy temple.

The cramps and pain have subsided since the last time my body has endured this type of pain, but the memory of my exposure to this most innovative form of torture remains. It was January 20 of this year and I was in Washington DC, not to visit the Smithsonian, but to voice my displeasure with the inauguration of George W Bush into his second term in office. The last time I visited the Washington Monument I remember it being much easier to find a public restroom.

My roommates and I had driven all night through a blizzard in West Virginia and Maryland to reach DC by 8:00 AM. In order to stay awake through the snowy Cumberland Gap I guzzled all of the contents of a thermos full of piping-hot coffee. Time and kidneys did their work and 1.5 liters of coffee landed squarely in my bladder as I surfaced from the subway on Government Square. It was here where I entered the first stage.

The 8th Amendment to the United States Constitution, in a section known as the Bill of Rights, protects citizens of this nation from any type of cruel and unusual punishment. Ironically enough this document was being displayed at the National Archives just blocks away from the spot where thousands of US citizens were lined up like cattle in a slaughterhouse yard without restroom facilities in the name of national security.

In this line we waited nearly two hours to be nonchalantly patted down by DHS agents and National Guard troops. I cringed gingerly hoping not to have an accident as a man in cammos patted my bladder in search of my nonexistent vile of anthrax. The numbing effects of stage two allowed me to pass my frisking without incident. I could hold out for a little longer. There had to be a rest area at the next exit.

After we passed through the DHS checkpoint we were asked for our inauguration tickets. These passes were distributed through Ticketmaster to qualifying Bush campaign donors and RNC supporters. Those with tickets were granted access to the corral to the left and readily available public restrooms. Those who were concerned about the dangerous political climate in their country went to the corral on the right with no public restrooms.

This path of dissent followed a long series of barricades that led us from the DHS checkpoint to a holding pen the Parks Department created for us far away from network television cameras and their audiences. Thankfully the US Parks Department, National Guard, and Department of Homeland Security and police officers from all over the nation were on hand to ensure our safety, and make sure that nobody took a piss in public.

At 10:00 AM I cold take the pain no longer. I had entered stage three and something had to be done. I left my spot in the protester pen not knowing if I would be allowed to reenter. My spirit had been broken. The organizers of the inauguration had succeeded in their mission. If you were there in support of the president and his amoral policies you were cared for well. If you were there to voice your dissent your needs as a human being were simply disregarded. The United States government now has political repression down to a science. Make the crowds uncomfortable and they will stay at home.

After a frantic search for a port-o-let proved unfruitful I came upon a small coffee shop and entered into my own personal Twilight Zone. The scene in the small cafe was surreal. It was filled with well over 50 police officers from all over the country gorging themselves on a buffet line of fried chicken and beef tips in heavy gravy. There were only two toilets, both occupied. The pain in my abdomen carved out a maniacal look in my eyes as I staired in disbelief behind four cops from four different cities all holding the same Styrofoam cups full of the same bad coffee all mocking my plight.

I struggled to find some common denominator of humanity with these burly men being paid to protect me from terrorists who hate my freedom. It was a freedom I did not know. The only thing that was real to me that cold day in January was the pain I felt deep inside. Sadly, it had nothing to do with my bladder.

One of the cops looked up from his coffee and glanced back at me as I winced in pain and muttered to his partner "I wonder what's wrong with this one?" There would be no relief on the other side of the door to the toilet because I knew that I would have to come back out. My capital was a state of martial law. The Washington DC that I had visited as a kid was now gone and there was nothing I could to change it that day. It was a sad day, January 20, 2005, when I realized I had become a stranger in my own land.

Faith-Based Propaganda

I really wish that I was making this shit up. The following text was taken directly from the White House website where they run a regular segment entitled "Ask the White House." The segment works much like the Bush administration's scripted town hall meetings where invited members of the congregation, I mean, population, ask hard-hitting Gannonesque questions of White House staff concerning federal policy. This particular passage came from a February 28, 2005 "discussion" with Jim Towey, Director of the White House Office of Faith-Based and Community Initiatives. According to the biography provided on the White House site Mr. Towey "founded and ran Aging with Dignity, a national non-profit organization that helps families plan for and discuss the care they want during times of serious illness." Take a look at "Ask the White House" if you need a good laugh.


February 28, 2005

Jim Towey
Hello to all of you. It is great to be back on "Ask the White House." I always find the questions unique and interesting and I'll do my best today to answer as many of them as I can (although I have been warned that a ton of questions have come in already). I am excited about 2005 and I know the President is going to talk about his plans for his second term with his important faith-based and community initiative.

Carly, from Tallahassee, Florida writes:
Mr. Towey, While I know the Faith-based and Community Initiatives Program is nation-wide, is there equal participation among the states or do some faith-based providers in particular geographical locations participate more than those in other locations?
Thank you, Carly

Jim Towey
Hi Carly! I'll always grab a question from Tallahassee because I lived there for almost 20 years and three of my children were born there! And my bald brother lives there, too. Good question to open with: there are 24 states that have governors who have opened faith-based and community offices (including Governor Bush, who is a friend and a real leader in helping these "armies of compassion" help those in need). Today the President met with all of the governors at the White House and he urged the other 26 to follow suit so that all barriers in America to fair competition are removed.

Aaron, from Athens, Ohio writes:
What state was Terri Schiavo from again?
Thank you, Aaron.

Christmas in March

Does anyone else remember that feeling of pure euphoria that rushed through your body on Christmas morning when you tore into that bright red paper concealing the toy that would complete your existence as a kid?

I could almost smell the pine needles and candy canes when I tore open today's edition of the NY Times with the gusto of kid on Christmas morning to see a picture of a bearded man in a trench coat and hat hanging a painting in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. According to the Wooster Collective the Santa Claus of guerilla artists managed to deliver his gifts of social activism to good little boys and girls at MOMA, The Brooklyn Museum, The Metropolitan Museum of Art and the American Museum of Natural History.

The London graffiti artist, known as Banksy, gained a cult following in the UK for his politically charged public art and stencil work. When asked what type of message his tactics were meant to convey the reclusive Banksy offered the following. "I've wandered round a lot of art galleries thinking 'I could have done that' so it seemed only right that I should try. These Galleries are just trophy cabinets for a handful of millionaires. The public never has any real say in what art they see. Its good to screw with the selection process sometimes. 'Comfort the disturbed, and disturb the comfortable' as Eleanor Roosevelt once said. The gas mask painting is about how fear of terror is disfiguring society. The military officer painting is dedicated to all those who joined the forces to fight honorable and just wars, and ended up feeling like maybe they should have stayed home and been peace activists instead."

In addition to the Reuters print interview the mysterious British graffiti artist also granted a rare discussion of his work that was aired on NPR today. Visions of guerilla social activism danced in my head as Banksy told his story to the comfy liberals of the NPR set listening to the interview as their Volvos idled in traffic.

If you would like to find something in your stocking check out the Banksy website for yourself.

Dinner Time

Dinner Time
Originally uploaded by aaronjmaier.

Casa.... It’s Worth the Wait.... Sometimes

I have found a new home here in Athens, Ohio. Today, like many a weekend morning, I met friends for breakfast at Casa Nueva. My definition of morning, mind you, differs slightly from the conventional view. The fat noonday sun has spent plenty of time warming the red brick streets of Athens before I stroll down State Street to the friendly worker owned confines of Casa Nueva.

Nobody on the staff at Casa seems to be in any particular type of hurry to do anything. This includes seating you, taking your order, or even making your food. My friend, Vinod, an original member of Casa's granola breakfast club, has coined a oft-quoted slogan surmising the Casa Nueva experience: "Casa.... it’s worth the wait.... sometimes...."

I order homemade biscuits with soysage gravy and spicy Cajun home fries.

In the shade of the Bay Laurel plants lining the large front windows of the dining room we exchange stories over spicy Bloody Marys and dark roast organic coffee. This morning a little bit of Ohio University trivia was passed along at the breakfast table. It turns out that there is a catlike 9-lives policy with the university dining hall jobs where a student can be fired up to eight times from their job and still be rehired.

The dark black fair trade coffee quickly sets to work exorcising the daemons of a St. Patrick's Day weekend in a college town. Where is the venerable St. Patrick when we need him most? If only the great Apostle of Ireland could return to our streets and drive the slithering hordes of drunk waifish sorority girls and frosty-haired meatheads in bright green "Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky" t-shirts with fangs died green from chugging gallons of green Miller Lite in celebration of their nonexistent Irish heritage off to the sea. I take a long sip from my spicy Bloody Mary and dream a little dream.

I am so hungry by this time I am contemplating a return to the faith. If I still believed in God my soysage gravy and biscuits would probably be here already. The conversation tides me over for the time. It turns out that the everybody's favorite war turned two years old today. My friend, Rachel, brought cupcakes to celebrate Baby Viet Nam's birthday. The hippies at the table next to us joined us in a song of "Happy Birthday."

After the celebration a young lady stops by the table bearing the coveted tofu sausage in spicy gravy over homemade buttermilk biscuits. They fill my aching hungry belly with a much needed sense of warmth and serenity lacking in the turbulent world around me. It felt, if only for a fleeting moment, that someone I loved had cooked me that food. Somewhere amongst the clanking forks and gentle laughter around me I could hear my father, an expert chef in the art of gravy making, asking me in a perplexed tone if there was really no sausage in that tasty white gravy. I could not help but smile. My New Home in Athens was today.... worth the wait.

Give It Hell

Yesterday I got a ride to the plasma bank from a guy in an old Buick sedan. Settling into the weathered upholstery I drifted away from the present and into the sepia tones of the memories of my youth. The car looked like the metal and chrome grandson of the old blue Buick that my grandpa used to lug the family to church on Sunday and haul bags of fertilizer back from the mill on Monday. Despite its valued domestic duties the old Buick served first and foremost as a farm vehicle. Dried soybeans bounced across the dashboard as it bounded out of the dried mud craters of Jurassic John Deers never envisioned by the egghead engineers of planned obsolescence at GM.

"Give it hell!" He would yell imploring the boat of an automobile out of a ditch in a soybean field as he made his appointed rounds with wide-eyed grandson in tow. I would laugh with delight and parrot his command to "give it hell" while wallowing in the sheer ecstasy of cursing out loud without fear of reprisal. The jovial mountain of a man wearing tattered overalls commanded all eight cylinders of that beast on wild bumpy rides through soybean fields with the gusto of a professional stock car driver all the while keeping a diligent eye out for any dead patches or pesky weeds in the soybean crops. The drives in the old Buick were work for my grandpa, but for the eight-year-old in the passenger seat they were more about the rare ability to curse and tell dirty jokes away from the hawk-like gaze of his eldest daughter.

"Gene, Gene had a machine. Frank, Frank turned the crank. Joe, Joe made it go. Art, Art let a fart and blew the whole damn thing apart!" Grandpa's cautionary tales of flatulence were my personal favorites.

"Goddamn it. What the fuck!" Grandpa? I don't remember that one. I came to as the grizzled thirty-something driver of the blue Buick of reality jerked the wheel out of oncoming traffic as he attempted to find a burning cigarette that had landed in his lap. We had narrowly avoided a collision with a greasy-fingered victim of Captain D's returning to the clogged automotive artery of Wal Mart Boulevard.

Not phased by the brush with catastrophe the driver gave out a hoot of delight as he picked up the remainder of his burning Marlboro cigarette and gave it a healthy drag. I was hoping that my blood pressure would recover to the acceptable levels for plasma donation by the time we reached the end of the stretch of sprawling corporate hell where my favorite plasma bank was located. He offered me a cigarette and I eagerly accepted, hoping to calm my harried nerves before the bloodletting.

My heart jumped as the driver diverted his attention from matters of the road to the search for the cigarette pack located somewhere on the floorboard of the Buick. There were no comforting soybeans jumping across the dashboard of my memory as I yelled a string of profanities that would certainly make my mother cringe. I don't think the driver realized why I yelled "Oh shit!" because he did not look up from his search until we rammed into the poor compact car in front of us destined for a subpar meal and annoying server at Ruby Tuesday's.

In a serious and cautionary tone the driver instructed me to "hold on man" as we made haste through the intersection. I don't think that the driver of the Buick enjoyed the pesky hassles of paperwork involved with automobile accidents. The Buick fled the scene and made a b-line for the plasma bank. Hearing the tires screech as my ride peeled out of the parking lot of the plasma center to evade the authorities I could only think of one thing to say.

Give it hell.

NY Times Visits Priorat

Greetings conspiracy theorists, wine enthusiasts, family members and bored people with internet connections. There was a nice article in the NY Times Dining section by Eric Asimov called Priorat's Return Was Worth the Wait. For those of you J.O.A.N. addicts you may remember my adventures through the Hills of Priorat back in October. I had the opportunity to visit two of the vineyards profiled in the Asimov piece, Clos de L'Obac and Vall Llach which is owned by the famous Catalonian crooner, LLuis LLach.

My Hip Aunt Sharon

I would like to share a story with you, oh valued reader. This little ditty comes from the closely guarded vaults of my personal experiences.

It was the Friday last and I was sharing a round of frosty Rolling Rock beers with my Hip Aunt Sharon and some of her old hippie buddies at The Mine Saloon in Nelsonville. A lesser known troubador from TupeIo, Mississippi had just favored us with his musical stylings and raspy southern fried wit. It turns out that Paul Thorne had fought Roberto Duran for six bloody rounds before he came into some degree of prominence amongst the NPR set. Paul tells the story much better than I do, but I digress.

The Mine Saloon looks like just that. A saloon inside of a mine. The walls are black as coal and the lighting dim. I did not have a dollar to my name that particular Friday so I was dependent upon the generosity of my Hip Aunt Sharon. Her generous financial support was responsible for the purchase of the above mentioned Rolling Rock beers. She has listened to NPR long enough to know how to support the arts.

The deep southern drawl of the evening's entertainment hung in the air as thick as the cigarette smoke as card-carrying members of two eerily similar generations of the same counter culture traded war stories. Cries of yesterday's "hey, hey, LBJ - how many babies did you kill today?" bled into whispers of today's "racist, sexist, anti-gay - Bush/Cheney go away!"

Three green bottles later the conversation veered in the direction of this humble weblog. My Hip Aunt Sharon stated that she thouroughly enjoyed the contents of this site - gleaned from a hard copy I shamelessly dropped to her at a family function- with one glaring exception. She did not agree with my use of the word "cunt" in "New Fox Reality Show." I should have learned from a lesson from NPR. Terry Gross never runs questionable material during a fundraising drive. Continued funding for valued programming from the glass-lined tanks of Latrobe was in jeopardy.

I was angry when I wrote that. Sorry Jenna. Sorry Barbara.

The aging hippies at the table remembered being angry too. They said "fuck" when they were angry. Despite the different lexicon of indignation between generations we found there was more in common betweem us than any of us cared to admit. A stance of mutual admiration was tentatively regained.

Any progress that had been made in bridging the generational gap came crumbling down when Sharon's friend had the audacity to ask me why I bothered to maintain a weblog that very few people were going to read anyhow. My first response was to bristle at the question. How dare this aging hippie question my motivation as I blaze the trail towards a paperless future?

Goddamnit. That was a profound question. As I launched into my democratization of the media rant I could tell that she was just sizing me up - checking to see if I was honest. In retrospect I think that I would have asked the same question is some annoying hipster kid was telling me about his blog.

I doubt that woman will ever read these words, however I feel an answer in in order.

It is cheaper than therapy.

Flavor Crisp

Flavor Crisp
Originally uploaded by aaronjmaier.

When the weather gets better I think I will have some chicken.

White and Blue

White and Blue
Originally uploaded by aaronjmaier.

It is snowing again in Athens. It is pretty here when it snows.