Pulled Versions of Me

America and the American media as a whole loves a loser - no matter the race, religion, gender or political affiliation. This distraction generated by the media HELPS Obama as it makes him just like many of our past post-Nixon Presidents. Filled with that ONE family member that makes them less perfect as once thought and YES, less of an elitist. Our past presidents were no different than you or I with that ONE loser relative that we hoped the press wouldn’t check on twice. That’s why Obama was so smart as to equate Wright with any member of his family, including his racial slur slingin’ Nana.

SAT Question #75 (10 points)

Reverend Wright is to Barack Obama as:
A. Billy Carter is to Jimmy Carter
B. Ron Reagan Jr. is to Ronald W. Reagan
C. Neal Bush is to George H.W. Bush
D. Roger Clinton is to Bill Clinton
E. George W. Bush (1970’s) is to George W. Bush (2000)
F. All of the above - CORRECT

The media will begin turning against this nutjob (and I say that with all the respect and knowledge a preacher’s kid can), and as part of keeping the story alive will actually create a narrative that Wright is trying to destroy Obama’s chances or secretly supports Hillary. Once the mainstream creates that picture, the story will begin to die and they’ll bond with Obama for being so forgiving to Reverend Wrong, and the polls will follow to bring back support. [This same pattern worked for Hillary to become U.S. Senator months following Clinton's impeachment] The Media will turn to the next firestorm or generate another investigation on a candidate’s family. Gee, what’s Hillary’s brother Tony been up to since he was paid to have brother-in-law Bill make pardons before leaving office?

Leaving the Press Club yesterday, I saw more shaking heads coming from the balcony (filled with press) than the cheers (from supporters on the floor). Start reading the columns over the next few days and note the lean to pointing Wright as a modern day Billy Carter.

Despite Wright’s degrees, perception is key. Mainstream America does not want to understand the black church and black America does not want to explain it.  America does not want to hear  "G*d Damn America" from anyone, no matter the education, while men and women are fighting and dying in a nonsence war.

Do Wright’s word worry me? Yes, for the moment. But these stories are necessary in preparing a president and reminding him/her that America loves a loser.

This morning, I exited a small elementary school in Alexandria, Virginia that in five previous mid and general elections I’d left before. However, while entering my car to depart across the beltway for the daily grind, I felt for the first time, my vote mattered.

Now, for those who know me, I’m a huge political junkie. Have been since I was child after the Reverend Jesse Jackson spoke at best friend’s baptist church in Southwest Philadelphia in 1984.

I was awe struck by the image of a man I had seen on my mother’s 17-inch Zenith there in front of me and auditioning before my community for the role of a lifetime. I chuckle now remembering how many of my childhood friends afterwards would do their best Jesse Jackson impression at the luncheon that followed morning service.

We mocked his lines and intonations as children do, but especially the line "I Am Somebody" and "Keep Hope Alive". I can still remember that guttural roar whenever he said "I AM"…"SOMEBODY". So like children, my friends and I repeated the phrase, in church, in school, at home. As we grew older we still recalled it, just said it silently through middle school graduation ceremonies, honor roll announcements and eventually high school and college graduations. My mother and stately grandfather repeated it when grades slipped and rose & scholarships granted and denied.

"I…AM…SOMEBODY"
"KEEP…HOPE…ALIVE"

We also said it to ourselves as those childhood friends of yesteryear became men who fell into crime, drugs, mental and emotional despair. I say it now as that same Philadelphia neighborhood in 2007 set records for the number of black men killed in one year; represent the majority of prison inmates, and the minority of high school graduates.

Three weeks following Jackson’s sermon at that South Philly Church, my mother walked me to Alexander Wilson Elementary school two blocks away from home, and before I started my classes, escorted me into the voting booth with her, where I, yes a 7-year old child pulled the ballot. Supervised by Mom of course. That ballot was power and pride for a community that never thought they’d see the day when a black or brown man’s name would be equal to that of Walter Mondale, Ronald Reagan and other’s seeking theor party’s nomination. Yes, there was disappointment and reality that followed this and a subsequent campaign, and a growing negative reaction to his actions later in his life, but what grew was a generation of youth who could never say it was impossible, because they had seen it.

Today at 30, I walked to a similar elementary school. With the same looks, sounds and smells of my youth. Only this time I saw watercolor paintings of children as they drew a strong Hispanic governor, A courageous woman with fair blond hair, a heroic Vietnam Veteran and a Black man filled with the Audacity of Hope - debating for the same role of a lifetime. In line ahead of me, I also saw a seven year-old Mexican girl accompany her mother, a 10 year-old black boy with his grandfather, and a young white teenager with his father, and on each of their attire read a single word.

HOPE!

Hope is what I felt in my car crossing the Potomac to work this morning. Hope that those same three children will see a country not driven by fear - but strength, courage, hope and heroism. For many of you in the Maryland/DC/Virginia area today, my hope is that your whatever drives you to spend ten minutes and press three buttons, mattered to you as much as it did to me, and my child hood friends, and to so many young black men who’ve lost hope so long ago.

Regards,
Ryan

There are oft times when I review the local news, web and radio that I am kept up with frequent happenings at the National Zoo. However, in my now seventh year in the district, I’ve failed to hear any positive news about the nation’s cherished and popular zoo without the word ‘panda’ in its name.

This year, in particular, I couldn’t help but be a bit miffed over the recent coverage of the lives of Washington popular panda couple and the ever-waking movement, bamboo chewing, and the more than frequent stumbling of baby Tai-Shan -the black and white bear with an Asian name that kinda sounds like a black kids name. The recent coverage of his 365th day on earth surpassed breaking world news out of Iraq, Iran, Northern Korea and was treated with more hearth and depth than the death of two adult male gorillas in the same zoo. More on the latter issue later.

Granted the bear (okay marsupial…whatever nerd!) is cute, and by having this creature in the nation’s capital calls increasing attention and on site education of these and all endangered species. But riddle me this? Have any of you heard of the other animals that take residence in the gated Rock Creek Park establishment? How about the giraffes…you know the one that died this past year…or the elephant that passed away suddenly from a yet unanswered disease.

For many of you who’ve known me in my years in the Washington, Dc area, you know I detest this zoo with a passion. I feel the purpose of any zoological park is to educate, elevate and advocate for all creatures great and small, furry and bald, cute and even the butt ugly. For instance, Zoo’s in Cleveland, San Diego and of course my birthplace Philadelphia (home of the nation’s first zoo) have grown to become staples of this growing evolution of conservation. One item that sets these zoos apart from the federal city’s attempt is a ticket - and the charge for entry. The feeling of getting what you pay for when you enter a park you’ve paid ten to fifteen dollars for is eminent when you enter the Philly, Columbus or San Diego equivalent. The San Diego Zoo, for example, reaps more than $500 million dollars for the recorded three million visitors that visit yearly. You’re greeted with happy & friendly flora and fauna as you zoom by on the park’s monorail anticipating your next venture to the next animal habitat.

The National Zoo, however is government funded, seen as a less than important line item on the Smithsonian Institutes’s total funding of 75 Million a year. The Zoo also reaps support of by FONZ (Friends Of the National Zoo) whose mere dollars and cents raised amounts to the equivalent of a local bake sale at your neighborhood United Methodist Church. Both of these funding options barely make for the effective care and maintenance of the hundreds and flora and fauna that survive (sometimes barely) at the nation’s zoo.

From its sordid history to a less than glowing present, the National was born from controversy and continues to this day as a comedy of errors.

The United States Congress commissioned the need for a National Zoo 1889 when the National Mall moved away from being the prime location for buying goods and services (slaves) years earlier to become the scene where traveling industrialists, politicians, and even President Theodore Roosevelt,  known for his hunting trips, would exhibit these "exotic creatures" to Washington natives and visitors.

166 acres of Rock Creek Park was plotted and designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, the same creator of the Capitol Hill Grounds and New York’s Central Park as the nation’s premiere zoological park. The original "Smokey the Bear," rescued from certain death in a Western forest fire, was housed and became it’s firsts star attraction before Ling-Ling and Sing-Sing made an appearance as a gift from the People’s Republic of China in 1972.

In light of its illustrious history, the zoo today is known more for animal deaths and its vain attempts to hide rodent-infested conditions and poor animal care for the supreme focus on web cams devoted to constant viewing of this one magical bear. 

God I wish this tale weren’t true. A few of you know this story and have asked since I posted my airline adventure that I had to share this with others.

Often when you ask friends over the age of fifteen how their Christmas holiday went, you expect a quick "Fine" or "Good". When a few friends asked me this, I sighed, shook my head and shrugged my shoulders in a disbelief that can only be attributed to my mother.

Yes she gave me life - Yes she fed me, clothed me, and taught me the value of properly moisturizing before going to bed - I love her dearly, but she can work a  nerve.

In every "I’ll be Home for Christmas" made-for-TV Lifetime television movie, there’s always the scene of picking up the relatives at the bus station. The college student arriving with dirty laundry, in-laws from Poughkipsie with home-ade fruitcake and mincemeat pies , or the rural relatives who can’t fathom driving in that "damn city with the circles." My Lifetime movie turned quickly into an episode of Seinfeld where "Serenity Now" was cried out many times.

My mother decided that I would pick her up at the early morning hours of December 24th at Union Station, Washington DC. This being her first visit in the house I’ve made a home for the almost four years, I was more than excited about my mother’s first visit from Central Pennsylvania to my little suburban castle. Now did it bother me at the time that she hadn’t purchased a ticket, slightly. Did I think she’d never show up, possibly. Did I think I would go through 12 hours on Christmas Eve with a missing mother in  and around the nation’s capital as I drive around in a panic…NEVER!!

A recent relationship study reports that we more often than not look for the personalities of our parents in our search for life partners…boy am I screwed! My mother is a Pre-school teacher surrounded my kids who I honestly believe are bringin’ her down intellectually. I’m ready to commision a study proving that common sense begins to fade when your day consists of teaching boys and girls to go "wee-wee" in the potty.

She purchased the bus ticket, packed and rearing to see her only child in DC, she made her way through central PA, Baltimore and eventually to Washington. Leaving the motorcoach after the 150 minute venture, she’s ready to greet her son when she realizes, "I never told my son when to expect me, well let me call him…Oh no, I don’t have his cell phone number, or home number or home address. Well that’s okay…My son has psychic powers and knows exactly how to reach me since I don’t have a cell phone of my own…not to worry, my son is part Vulcan and can perform a mind-melt with me and see I’m chewing on a Hardees Sausage biscuit instead of joining him for a lovely saturday brunch…Hmmm…whatever could be taking my son so long as to not to know that I’m sitting with half of St. Elizabeth’s Mental Hospital in this bus station.

The journey of Deborah Mae Williams continued to Arlington, Virginia since she totally forgot that I moved in Alexandria four years earlier. No biggie, since she has a uncle along the Falls Church/Arlington border and surely they can locate Ryan. After all, her beloved uncle built the house in 1950, what could have changed in 55 years. Umm… he moved to Richmond…Good grief Mom, do you not get the family memo’s.

So she hitches a ride to her uncles house with a stranger who felt sorry for her since her pittyful son did not use the psychic powers he developed since the radioactive spider struck him during that science museum field trip.

She knocks on the door!

This is where I stop the story to ask a question. Do you have a relative that’s about your age that you haven’t seen each other since you were children? Let’s say 45 years of not speaking, seeing or even hearing about one another. Now imagine after 45 years, you’ve moved into your father’s house, the house you were raised in,  lounging with your wife and kids by the fireplace on a crisp Christmas Eve when a knock comes to the door. To greet you is a 5 foot, 7 inch caramel-skinned woman with luggage, gift-wrapped presents and lacking half of her visible front teeth. Worst of all she claims she’s related to you! If anyone here knows a David Williams of North Arlington, thank him for me and give him a pat on the back.

Oh, did I mention she recently had her teeth removed and was waiting for dentures to be cast post-holiday weekend. I told you this was good!

Now again, I know you’re asking what I am doing at this time! Getting ready to sing Christmas Carols…of course…seriously that’s what i’m doing.  Not that I gave up, but I’ve tried every effort and this point and am reserved to thinking she wasn’t coming. Trust me this is not my first wacky experience with her, and it won’t be my last. I’m reserved to the fact that she’ll no doubt outlive me and go on doing nutty things till she’s way past 110 years old.

Good news is that she eventually contacted me and arrived safe and sound to Casa Ryan, bad news is 3/4’s of the Williams family in Arlington/Falls Church/Alexandria and 5 pimps outside the downtown bus station believe that I purposely left my poor toothless mother to die at the dangerous DC bus station. Ahh Merry Christmas!!!

Okay, So I tested my ability to strike a conversation with complete stranger. On my return from a cross-country flight from Los Angeles, I made what I considered a brave move from 35,000 feet.

Let me preface by stating I hate flying. While years of studying physics, aerodynamics and technology for much too long, and I’ve fully understand the science behind flight, the caveman portion of my cerebellum cannot contain the thought of floating above the ground in a metal bird for 5.5 hours cross the continental USA. THANK GOD FOR NYQUILL - you beautiful coma-causing elixor.

Back to the story, while waking from a prolonged sleep aided by cough medicine and Tanqueray…I realized two important observations.

1. My travel agent sucks - Now if I purchase plane tickets three months in advance, explain how I am sitting in a aisle seat in row 24 (of a 30 row plane). You who fly regularly know what I went through during the cruising altitude portion of the flight. Tray Cart-meets-foot, Kid Hands - meets Face, and a plus-minus…crotch and ass-meets-face occurs throughout the flight.

2. Observation number two - Do thirty people on a plane have to go to the bathroom at the same time or is it just me. These two coach-class restrooms became the Ellis Island for sphincters yearning to be free for three freakin hours during this flight…Oh Hell Naw!!!

I became so awestruck by the need for folks to stand and wait in lines of 13-15 for these cabinets with a blue swirly dish…it was amazing. I could hardly sleep as I’m seeing these mini-huddled masses wait for the sheer pleasure of washing their disease-ridden hands with cold water and see the constant reminders not to smoke….anyway

There he was…about 5′11", sandy brown hair, swimmers build, piercing blue-green eyes walking to join this motley crew. He had that circular crease around his forehead that only meant a fitted baseball cap would greet him upon his departure from Dulles in what was now 2 and a half hours. Fingers…long, clean with a hint of color around the palm that indicates hard work and sport. I gave my usual nod and smile that means nothing…I can’t help but test another guys smile, and his response gave that same ‘what’s up?’ kind of nod.

Nothing…I think..or was there something…damn…the ‘dar is working on numb due to do my cough syrup high…or is it low..whatever. Slowly but surely he became another of this wacked out group to line up adjacent to me waiting for the next bathroom visit. Looking forward and sensing no factor of fabulousness, I returned to my book and the blaring Broadway tunes greeting me in my ear. When I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me" he mouthed figuring there was no way I could hear him above the shrieks of Idzina Mezell and Kristen Chenowith…."Are you listening to WICKED"

My eyebrows shot up wide as I gentle remove an earphone and asked him to repeat his query. Gay-dar rang supreme as he quickly identified the newest Broadway sensation and fascination by a new generation of Broadway queens. not to mention us being on a plane where blaring bawdy jet engines and blaring bawdy children eminate everywhere.  His next question made me blush…yes I blush biotch…just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean I can’t do it, and no its not purple. Damn you queens!!!

Anyway… He asked with a lilt of laughter, "are you also reading WICKED." Blushingly I proclaimed ‘YES’. His next question surprised me as his voice went from a low baritone to a high tenor in a matter of seconds. "Okay…so how gay is that"…my response " Well there are gayer things that can happen on a plane but the law forbids more than one person in an bathroom"

I swear the poor military guy next to me choked on his cup of crushed ice. Poor Jim-Bob or Bobby-Lou or whoever the poor schmuck sitting to my left was poorly named. While I’m sure he’s vowed never to watch anything on BRAVO, A&E or that blasphemous NBC, he had no idea he was going to experience two men chatting it up like two ass-sore queens at a Sunday Brunch. I love a full flight.

For the next forty-five minutes, we’re chatting it up while he’s sitting at the aisle of the Boeing-737. I’m joking about the walk to the restroom [his slow mission is to remove his contact lenses, which he makes aware by constantly blinking] - DId I mention his eyes, yes girls they’re real. Thank God for the Velvet Mafia patroling the flight for letting Jack (Great name, Right?) sit on the floor while chatting with me about my adventures in Cali the previous few days, his family, and what the hell he was doing in D.C.

Fast forward to the landing…I’m collecting my great many items to get off this damn bird, figuring I’d only be resolved to more quick glances at baggage claim before we part our separate ways, when I’m greeted upon my entrance to the gate. Jack’s waiting in a light suede jacket - perfect for the mild DC winter temps. "You didn’t think you were rid of me that quickly did you." I nervously smiled as we chatted our way to those Gallactic monstrocities that only Dulles is known for. That’s when I grew a set and asked "So do you need a ride to your hotel"

Yada Yada Yada…Marriott Burgers Rule!!!

Till next time.

Pulled

A friend brought this to my attention, and I found it interesting
http://news.yahoo.com/photos/ss/events/ts/080304tropicalweathe/im:/050830/photos_ts_afp/050830192654_pfjuxrjq_photo1;_ylt=AtRg2FKqNemcYPSV2Vww_NpiWscF;_ylu=X3oDMTA3dmhrOGVvBHNlYwNzc20-

from Michael K. Watts, Freelance Journalist & Music Critic

Below are captions and links to a series of images of people, alleged looters, wading through the flooded New Orleans streets.  The first image is from AFP/Getty and depicts white people, and the remaining images are from AP and depict blacks.  Note how blacks are depicted as "looters" and how the whites are depicted theoretically as survivors.  AP also barely varies from its wording of these captions.  Clearly, there are issues here. 

Photo 461
Two residents wade through chest-deep water after finding bread and soda from a local grocery store after Hurricane Katrina came through the area in New Orleans, Louisiana. As Hurricane Katrina tore across the US Gulf coast, leaving snapped communications in its wake, Internet web logs offered a unique and often dramatic insight into the storm’s destructive fury and aftermath.(AFP/Getty Images/Chris Graythen)

Photo 506
A woman walks through chest-deep water as she heads to loot a grocery store in New Orleans, Tuesday, Aug. 30, 2005, as floodwaters continue to rise after Hurricane Katrina made landfall on Monday. (AP Photo/Dave Martin)

http://news.yahoo.com/photos/ss/events/ts/080304tropicalweathe/im:/050830/480/ladm11608301734;_ylt=Auv6o.pNfd6IgHT5Npd0cZJiWscF;_ylu=X3oDMTA3dmhrOGVvBHNlYwNzc20-

Photo 496
A looter carries a bucket of beer out of a grocery store in New Orleans on Tuesday, Aug. 30, 2005, as floodwaters continue to rise in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina made landfall on Monday. (AP Photo/Dave Martin)

http://news.yahoo.com/photos/ss/events/ts/080304tropicalweathe/im:/050830/480/ladm10908301723;_ylt=Ai6SWgxzju.M4iXjQwQRKT5iWscF;_ylu=X3oDMTA3dmhrOGVvBHNlYwNzc20-

Photo 517
A young man walks through chest deep flood water after looting a grocery store in New Orleans on Tuesday, Aug. 30, 2005. Floodwaters continue to rise in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina did extensive damage when it made landfall on Monday. (AP Photo/Dave Martin)

http://news.yahoo.com/photos/ss/events/ts/080304tropicalweathe/im:/050830/480/ladm10708301649;_ylt=AtRg2FKqNemcYPSV2Vww_NpiWscF;_ylu=X3oDMTA3dmhrOGVvBHNlYwNzc20-

Photo 534
A young man walks through chest deep flood water after looting a grocery store in New Orleans on Tuesday. (AP/Dave Martin)

http://news.yahoo.com/photos/ss/events/ts/080304tropicalweathe/im:/050830/1913/w083049ajpg;_ylt=AoiQ_AIFqDz0C8TGi0TKCSdiWscF;_ylu=X3oDMTA3dmhrOGVvBHNlYwNzc20-

Poor Frank Perdue
The man enters the gates of heaven after faithfully serving human kind for decades as America’s chicken guru. Feeding generations with the original white meat since his boyhood days in the Eastern Shores of Maryland with this father’s company ‘Perdue and Son’.

This kind patriarch of poultry whos voice and likeness graced television screens for years died Thursday, April 2nd.  I can’t help but think of Frank Perdue entering the gates of heaven. The feeling of calm and relaxation on his shoulders. Face and body filled with youthful vigor. All the stress, pain, and pressure of earthly existence far behind him during those first few fleeting moments.

As he stands in line to be welcomed in by Saint Peter, his heart is filled with gladness as he prepares to meet family and friends who’ve left their earthly existence lo so many decades before him - Suddenly, HE GET"S BUMPED. Some punk angel yells "Dude, get out of the way", the Pope’s on his way. "But wait" the now youthful Frank reply’s, "I’ve got over 80 years of chicken stories and I’m getting pushed aside."