There’s always a bright side.

MOMENT OF SILENCE

The custom of observing a moment of silence before an athletic event to honor dead people strikes me as meaningless. And arbitrary. Because, if you’ll notice, only certain people get this special treatment. Its highly selective. Therefore I’ve decided that someday, when the time comes that every single person in the world who dies receives a moment of silence, I will begin paying attention. Until then, count me out. It’s ridiculous. Here’s what I mean.

Let’s say you live in Cleveland, and you decide to go to the Browns game. There you are in the football stadium, with a hot dog and a beer, ready to enjoy the action, and a somber-sounding public-address announcer interrupts the festivities, intoning darkly:

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we ask that you remove your hats and join us in observing a moment of silence for the forty-three unattractive, men

tally retarded, overweight Bolivian dance instructors who lost their lives this morning in a roller coaster accident at an amusement park near La Paz. Apparently, they all stood up on a sharp turn and went flying off, willy-nilly, into the cool, crisp, morning La Paz air. And, being heavier than air, crashed through the roof of the funhouse, landing on several clowns, killing them all and crushing their red noses beyond recognition.”

Snickering is heard in the crowd. The American announcer continues:

“And, ladies and gentlemen, lest you think this amusing, lest you think this a time for laughter, I ask you pleasepleaseto put yourself in the place of a bereaved Bolivian who may be seated near you this afternoon. Try reversing places. Imagine yourself visiting Bolivia and taking in a soccer game. Imagine yourself seated in the stadium with a burrito and a cerveza, ready to enjoy the action, and a somber-sounding, Spanish public-address announcer interrupts the festivities, intoning darkly:

” ‘Senors y senoritas, we ask that you remove your sombreros and join us in observing un momento de silencio for the forty-three mentally retarded, overweight, unattractive American meat inspectors who lost their lives this morning in a Ferris wheel accident at a carnival near Ashtabula, Ohio.’

“The Spanish announcer continues:

” Apparently, the huge wheel flew out of control, spinning madly, flinging the poor meat inspectors off, willy-nilly, into the hot, humid, Midwestern air. And, being heavier than air, they crashed through the roof of the carnival freak show, crushing the dog-faced boy, and destroying many of his chew-toys.’

“And let’s say, as you sit there in La Paz listening to this, you find yourself seated next to some Bolivian smart-ass who’s giggling and poking his friend in the ribs. May I suggest you’d be highly pissed at this lack of respect for Americans? And, might I add, rightly so.”

The American announcer continues his plea:

“And so, ladies and gentlemen, considering the many grieving Bolivians who may be seated among you today, and trying to keep in check that normal human impulse to laugh heartily when another person dies, let us try againreally hard this timeto observe a moment of silence for the forty-three unattractive, mentally retarded, overweight Bolivian dance instructors who went flying, willy-nilly, off the roller coaster in La Paz. Not to mention the poor, unsuspecting clowns who at the time were innocently filling their water pistols.”

You can see the problem either announcer would face; the fans would simply not be able to get into it. But I understand that; I can empathize with the fans. Because, frankly, I don’t know what to do during a moment of silence, either. Do you? What are you supposed to do? What do they expect? Do they want us to pray? They don’t say that. If they want me to pray, they should ask. I’ll pray, but at least have the courtesy to make a formal request.

But no. They offer no guidance, no instruction at all. I honestly don’t know what to do. Sometimes I resort to evil thoughts: I wish my seatmates ill fortune in days to come; I fantasize about standing naked in front of the Lincoln Memorial and becoming sexually aroused; I picture thousands of penguins being hacked to death by boatloads of graduate students. More often, though, I wind up bored silly, searching for something to occupy my thoughts.

One time I inventoried the pimples on the neck of the man in front of me, hoping to find one with a hair growing through it, so I could quietly pluck it out during the confusion of halftime. On a happier occasion, I once found myself staring at the huge but perfectly formed breasts of the woman to my left, her fleshy mounds rising and falling softly in the late October sun. And my thoughts turned tenderly romantic:

“Holy shit! Look at the fuckin’ knobs on her! Great fuckin’ knobs! I think I’m gonna go to the refreshment stand, buy myself a weenie and hide it in my pants. Then, during halftime, I’m gonna whip out the weenie and force her to

watch while I eat the bun and stuff the weenie up my . . . naaah! She his probably one of those uptight chicks who’d think I’m weird. She doesn’t know the problem is I’m shy.”

Those are my thoughts, and I can’t help it. During a moment of silence my imagination runs away with me. I don’t know what to do. And why is it silence they’re looking for? What good is silence? The ones being remembered are already dead, they’re not going to wake up now. Why not a moment of screaming? Wouldn’t that be more appropriate for dead people? Wouldn’t you like to hear 60,000 fans screaming, “Aaaaaiiiiiieeeeeaaagghh!!” It sure would put me in the mood for football.

And one more criticism. Why honor only the dead? Why this favoritism? Why not the injured, as well? There are always more injured than there are dead in any decent tragedy. What about them? And what about those who aren’t dead or injured, but are simply “treated and released”? How about, if not silence, at least a moment of muffled conversation for those who were treated and released? It’s an honorable condition. Personally, I’ve always wanted to be treated and released. Usually, I’m treated and detained. Perhaps it’s for the best.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

TERRORISM MISNOMERS: DOMESTIC TERRORISM

When they talk about domestic terrorism, they often cite the Oklahoma City bombing. But that wasn’t terrorism. Terrorism involves a series of acts intended to put a civilian population in a state of panic, fear and uncertainty, in order to achieve some political goal. Oklahoma City wasn’t terrorism, it was

payback. Revenge. Timothy McVeigh wanted to punish the federal government for what it did at Waco and Ruby Ridge. Revenge, not terrorism.

TERRORISM EXPERT

Television news channels will often present some guest they identify as a terrorism expert. But you can take one look at him and see that he’s clearly not a terrorism expert. He’s a guy in a suit who obviously works in an office. And I say he’s not a terrorism expert.

You wanna know who’s a terrorism expert? Osama bin Laden. Ayman al-Zawahiri. The people they hang around with. Those are the terrorism experts. Has this guy in the suit ever blown anyone up? No. So why is he a terrorism expert?

I’m sure the TV people would say, “Well, because he’s made a study of terrorism.” Oh, I see. So really, he’s an expert in the study of terrorism, the subject of terrorism. But can he make a suicide vest? Fuck, no. And if he can, he should make one, put it on and press the button. Then he’ll be a real terrorism expert. Like those people he now only reads about.

SUICIDE BOMBER

No. Sorry to disagree; it’s anything but suicide. A person who commits suicide is someone who places no value on his life: “My life is worthless, I’m going to end it.” These so-called suicide bombers don’t feel that way. They feel their lives are worth something, and that by giving them up they make a statement to the world, furthering a cause they believe in deeply. In their eyes, their lives (when sacrificed) have value. And, by the way, the “suicide bombers’ themselves don’t call it that. In a stunning example of euphemism, they call it a sacred explosion. Holy smoke!