[from 2/24/10]
They're already starting with April Fools jokes in February this year! Seattle's parks superintendent says that on April 1st it will be illegal to use tobacco within 25 feet of any other person in a Seattle park. Brilliant!
Details of the law, being created, recreated, revoked and decreed by Gallagher (not that Gallagher), Seattle's Legislator of Parks, are currently baroque, and should be rococo by the time everyone gets the gag.
Especially funny is the idea that the law would protect Seattle's children from seeing people use tobacco products -- but only in parks! That's the only place children exist! You'd think downtown parks would be exempt on account of that.
I think there should be a law against joggers wearing spandex at Green Lake. Not for the children, for me.
When I was growing up, we children were protected from bad adult behavior by being issued blindfolds, told to shut up and not repeat anything we overheard, particularly words starting with "a", "c", "f", or "sh". We were told that we couldn't complain about cigarette smoke because hot smoke rises, and we were low to the ground. As I got older and taller, I learned to duck as I walked through the living room, to keep my nose and eyes out of the smoke-o-sphere. Eventually, I had to crawl on my hands and knees. It built character and the kind of humility you need to cope with modern life in a police state, and prepared me for years of hunting for butts and spare change. So turns the spinning wheel of life.
I love these 25 foot rules. What an idea. Nobody carries a 25 foot measuring tape around with them, least of all the police. But that's OK, because for these kind of rules, we're just making excuses for people to be barred from parks. So who cares? And besides, if a policeman who thinks 3 inches is 6 says you're within 25 feet of Bobby, you're probably closer than that.
Since you won't be allowed to smoke or chew within 25 feet of anyone else in the park, all the police will have to do to get you to either stop using or leave the park is to gradually approach you. "I'm 30 feet away, now! Better get moving! I'm 27 feet away, now! I take one more big step, and you're busted!"
Speaking of gradual approaches, Parks Superintendent Gallagher says that a gradual approach to a tobacco ban is reasonable, after having before said it wasn't, and also adds that the new law is that gradual reasonable approach. So it will be 25 feet on April 1, 24 feet April 2, 23 feet April 3, etc. By May 1st, possession of an ounce or more of tobacco in a park will be a misdemeanor. And so on, until, by April 1st, 2011, possession of a single half smoked cigarette, even one of those weird clove things, will be an excuse to shoot you on sight.
The important thing isn't the details of the joke, it's the message being sent. Look, they're saying, we know there's thousands of malnourished homeless people walking the streets, who are smoking cheap rollies just because they subdue appetite and anxiety better and more cost effectively than food. If we can do something as simple as this to make their lives more miserable than they already are, and maybe even get them a longer record, and bar them from some or all of Seattle parks, then, hey, why not?
Things to look for if the law is ever really enforced: Disreputable looking men smoking out of paper bags. Teenagers wearing hoods backwards, so you can't see them chew. When challenged they'll produce bags of baby spinach. People standing 18 inches outside of a park, deliberately fanning their smoke toward it, laughing. Dogs at dog parks wearing doggy T-shirts with packs of Camels tucked under the arms. "Not my Camels, officer. I've never met this dog in my life."
Showing posts with label smoking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label smoking. Show all posts
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Don't Ask, Don't Light Up
[from 7/15/09]
One of the things I thought was going to happen, like the next day after Obama took office, was, "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" would be rescinded and Obama would flat-out order the military to stop discharging homosexuals. Instead, after nearly six months of no movement on the subject we get a study commissioned by the Pentagon and the Department of Veterans Affairs recommending a total ban on cigarettes in the military, including a ban on smoking in quarters and a total ban on sales of cigarettes on bases.
Before I begin exhaling the rant that is just now forming in the pit of my tar-stained lungs, I should explain my relationship to the subject at hand. No, I am not a veteran, I was an army brat. And no, I don't smoke. Well, not for almost 12 years now. I watched my Army Dad smoke 3 packs a day for decades, getting incredible deals on cheap smokes even well into his retirement, first at Fort Lawton, and then when he couldn't buy them there, down in Fort Lewis. Then, I watched him die of cancer. So I totally get that smoking is bad for you. But I bet you get that, too, you've seen the PSAs. So we'll just brush that aside and get to the heart of the matter.
BEING A SOLDIER IS BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH.
Can we have warnings on military recruiters, pasted to their foreheads? "NOT IGNORING THIS MAN MAY RESULT IN SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH." "MILITARY SERVICE -- A LEADING CAUSE OF DEATH." "DON'T LET CHILDREN BE EXPLODED BY YOUR BOMBS."
We can't have gays in the military because it would be socially disruptive. Sort of like the kind of social disruption you get when you tell the one in three smokers in a room they not only can't smoke there, they can't smoke anywhere on the planet. The Pentagon will see Seattle's 25 foot rule, and raise it to a 25,000 mile rule.
And what about the security of this country? OK, I can't have gays in my country's military who can translate from Arabic to English and keep my ass from being blown up by Al Qaeda. Fine, I've come to accept that. But now I find out that my country will no longer be recruiting people who can't quit cigarettes, cigars, or chew, even though they know it could kill them (because they've seen the PSAs.) Excuse me, but who does that leave? Are we only going to be defended by mooses, squirrels, and aging Boy Scouts who still call their mothers every day? Are there really enough of those?
Then there's an irony that begs notice. There's the gay/cigarette connection. It's not widely known by you young people, but there was a time Marlboros were a favorite gay men's cigarette. When Marlboros were originally created in 1924, it was marketed as a woman's cigarette. The slogan was "Mild as May," and the ads showed a feminine hand (May's?) reaching for a pack. Straight men wouldn't touch them, and would be embarrassed to buy them in a store. Being filtered cigarettes, rude conceptions and ruder jokes sprang up in the culture. "Tampons" and "going bare-assed" come to mind. But Philip Morris didn't care as long as the product had a decent share of the market.
In World War II, sales of Marlboros tanked, so they started to think about changing their image. Eventually, in 1954, they came out with the Marlboro Man ads, forever linking even filtered cigarettes with macho straight images
As an immediate consequence gay men were forced to don cowboy hats and boots in order to continue to smoke their favored brand of cigarettes without clashing. This in turn led to the writing and production of Brokeback Mountain, but that's like death by cancer -- it's neither here nor there.
"What's your point, Wes?" OK, what are our servicemen supposed to do now during R & R, play Scrabble while sucking on beef jerky?
Before I begin exhaling the rant that is just now forming in the pit of my tar-stained lungs, I should explain my relationship to the subject at hand. No, I am not a veteran, I was an army brat. And no, I don't smoke. Well, not for almost 12 years now. I watched my Army Dad smoke 3 packs a day for decades, getting incredible deals on cheap smokes even well into his retirement, first at Fort Lawton, and then when he couldn't buy them there, down in Fort Lewis. Then, I watched him die of cancer. So I totally get that smoking is bad for you. But I bet you get that, too, you've seen the PSAs. So we'll just brush that aside and get to the heart of the matter.
BEING A SOLDIER IS BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH.
Can we have warnings on military recruiters, pasted to their foreheads? "NOT IGNORING THIS MAN MAY RESULT IN SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH." "MILITARY SERVICE -- A LEADING CAUSE OF DEATH." "DON'T LET CHILDREN BE EXPLODED BY YOUR BOMBS."
We can't have gays in the military because it would be socially disruptive. Sort of like the kind of social disruption you get when you tell the one in three smokers in a room they not only can't smoke there, they can't smoke anywhere on the planet. The Pentagon will see Seattle's 25 foot rule, and raise it to a 25,000 mile rule.
And what about the security of this country? OK, I can't have gays in my country's military who can translate from Arabic to English and keep my ass from being blown up by Al Qaeda. Fine, I've come to accept that. But now I find out that my country will no longer be recruiting people who can't quit cigarettes, cigars, or chew, even though they know it could kill them (because they've seen the PSAs.) Excuse me, but who does that leave? Are we only going to be defended by mooses, squirrels, and aging Boy Scouts who still call their mothers every day? Are there really enough of those?
Then there's an irony that begs notice. There's the gay/cigarette connection. It's not widely known by you young people, but there was a time Marlboros were a favorite gay men's cigarette. When Marlboros were originally created in 1924, it was marketed as a woman's cigarette. The slogan was "Mild as May," and the ads showed a feminine hand (May's?) reaching for a pack. Straight men wouldn't touch them, and would be embarrassed to buy them in a store. Being filtered cigarettes, rude conceptions and ruder jokes sprang up in the culture. "Tampons" and "going bare-assed" come to mind. But Philip Morris didn't care as long as the product had a decent share of the market.
In World War II, sales of Marlboros tanked, so they started to think about changing their image. Eventually, in 1954, they came out with the Marlboro Man ads, forever linking even filtered cigarettes with macho straight images
As an immediate consequence gay men were forced to don cowboy hats and boots in order to continue to smoke their favored brand of cigarettes without clashing. This in turn led to the writing and production of Brokeback Mountain, but that's like death by cancer -- it's neither here nor there.
"What's your point, Wes?" OK, what are our servicemen supposed to do now during R & R, play Scrabble while sucking on beef jerky?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
In a Smoke-Filled Gloom
Recently the Seattle Times reported that some public-housing agencies around here are looking at banning smoking in the units of some buildings. At first this got my Wrath up and running around, and the Downtown Emergency Services Center was about to demand ID from the visiting vein in my forehead. So Anitra “Who Needs No Last Name, As Her First Is Not Yet Used Up” fetched the customary three vats of cold water, and here we are now, calm and orderly, and able to discuss this issue in a polite and civilized manner.
I should begin by saying I don’t smoke. I haven’t for nine years. I don’t plan to resume smoking ever. I don’t have a direct personal interest in the question. If smoking were banned in all the rooms of my subsidized DESC-run apartment building tomorrow I wouldn’t give a wrinkled rat’s ass.
But there is another issue behind the immediate issue of whether smoking is banned in rooms or not. It is an issue that means a lot to me, so much that I could spit flaming wrinkled asses.
Here’s the thing. The article was all about “these public health people here sent out a survey of these residents there” and “these residents responded” and “this public housing agency here will do another survey of these other residents” and then “we’ll decide what to do about it” and WHAT DO YOU THINK THEY MEAN BY “WE,” I’ll tell you want they mean: THEY MEAN THEM.
It’s just another example of how the public housing agencies don’t defer to the rightful power of their tenants.
How about if we decide our government the way public housing decides these kinds of rules.
Let’s say in the summer of 2008 Congress commissions a survey. They select a “representative sampling” of Americans and ask them questions like these: Which statement is more true FOR YOU, 1) I like a president who listens to me, 2) I like a president who goes his own way, 3) I don’t care, either way is fine. On a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being the most, tell how much do you agree the following statements. 1) It’s OK if a woman is president. 2) National security is really important to me. 3) Presidents should be tall.
Then let’s say a Congressional Committee made up of five or ten typical Congressional jerks, much like the jerks who sit on public housing agencies boards, gets together and wets it’s collective seven or eight neurons with the results of that survey. Then, let’s say they do a few more surveys, because they liked the first one so much, it tingled.
Finally they make a decision! Your next president is… whoever they say he or she is!
Meanwhile, let’s say you ask, where was the power of the people in all this? They then tell you that you, the people, WE’RE consulted. By surveys! They tell you they did everything they could to take your “issues” into account. They say they got all kinds of “public input” and “public feedback.” But in the end they decided.
That’s what public housing agencies do.
Would it hurt them to let the residents of each building work it out themselves? The enforcement could be the same. Management could stage the community meetings and set up the vote and enforce the result. But the difference is, the people whose lives are effected by the decision do the deciding, not patronizing jerks who live in houses in the suburbs and think they’re better than the people forced by circumstances to rent from their public housing.
Speaking of people forced into public housing, the Ten Year Plan to End Homelessness is underway and everyone’s congratulating themselves on the numbers from this year’s One Night Count. A piece of the plan is to lure homeless people into permanent housing and off the streets, to reduce the total cost of services.
It’s easier to lure people into self-determination, than into slavery.
I should begin by saying I don’t smoke. I haven’t for nine years. I don’t plan to resume smoking ever. I don’t have a direct personal interest in the question. If smoking were banned in all the rooms of my subsidized DESC-run apartment building tomorrow I wouldn’t give a wrinkled rat’s ass.
But there is another issue behind the immediate issue of whether smoking is banned in rooms or not. It is an issue that means a lot to me, so much that I could spit flaming wrinkled asses.
Here’s the thing. The article was all about “these public health people here sent out a survey of these residents there” and “these residents responded” and “this public housing agency here will do another survey of these other residents” and then “we’ll decide what to do about it” and WHAT DO YOU THINK THEY MEAN BY “WE,” I’ll tell you want they mean: THEY MEAN THEM.
It’s just another example of how the public housing agencies don’t defer to the rightful power of their tenants.
How about if we decide our government the way public housing decides these kinds of rules.
Let’s say in the summer of 2008 Congress commissions a survey. They select a “representative sampling” of Americans and ask them questions like these: Which statement is more true FOR YOU, 1) I like a president who listens to me, 2) I like a president who goes his own way, 3) I don’t care, either way is fine. On a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being the most, tell how much do you agree the following statements. 1) It’s OK if a woman is president. 2) National security is really important to me. 3) Presidents should be tall.
Then let’s say a Congressional Committee made up of five or ten typical Congressional jerks, much like the jerks who sit on public housing agencies boards, gets together and wets it’s collective seven or eight neurons with the results of that survey. Then, let’s say they do a few more surveys, because they liked the first one so much, it tingled.
Finally they make a decision! Your next president is… whoever they say he or she is!
Meanwhile, let’s say you ask, where was the power of the people in all this? They then tell you that you, the people, WE’RE consulted. By surveys! They tell you they did everything they could to take your “issues” into account. They say they got all kinds of “public input” and “public feedback.” But in the end they decided.
That’s what public housing agencies do.
Would it hurt them to let the residents of each building work it out themselves? The enforcement could be the same. Management could stage the community meetings and set up the vote and enforce the result. But the difference is, the people whose lives are effected by the decision do the deciding, not patronizing jerks who live in houses in the suburbs and think they’re better than the people forced by circumstances to rent from their public housing.
Speaking of people forced into public housing, the Ten Year Plan to End Homelessness is underway and everyone’s congratulating themselves on the numbers from this year’s One Night Count. A piece of the plan is to lure homeless people into permanent housing and off the streets, to reduce the total cost of services.
It’s easier to lure people into self-determination, than into slavery.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
The Ghost of Christmas Future
Now that the Christmas trees are back up at SeaTac, or those are up that haven’t since blown away, and now that people have calmed down a bit, I feel the need to work them into a frenzy again. That’s why this year I’m calling for all good Americans to stop recognizing foreign winters, and start recognizing American winters.
What I’m talking about is the fact that practically every calendar you can find around here, including calendars designed and printed right here in America, even right here in this city, show winter 2006 as beginning on the 22nd of this month! This is an outrage!
In fact, winter begins at a little past 12:20 AM Greenwich Mean Time. Did you know that’s code for British time, also known as ZULU time? Do we live in Britain? Do we live in Zululand? NO! We live in a city 8 hours ahead, or behind, depending on whether (math joke alert!) you’re positively or negatively oriented, ha. In any case winter starts on the 21st all across America from Maine to Hawaii, AND ANTI-AMERICAN CALENDAR MAKERS DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW IT. Are you paying attention, Lou Dobbs, or don’t you care about the American Way of Life? It’s time we celebrated Freedom Winter! No more Brit Winter!
OK, now that I’ve got that out of the way I can do what I came here to do. Apparently nobody else noticed it last week but me, but a huge shift has occurred in the culture wars across this land, a shift that promises to make the crooked straight and the rough places plain.
I am speaking of the fact that Senator Tim Johnson of South Dakota came this close (see pinched fingers, crushing the head of a flea) to needing a living will and testament. Fortunately all is well, this time. I’ve read that Senator Johnson has been seen by no less than three highly qualified Democrats, who all say he’s “looking good” and has an excellent prognosis until at least January 2009, so it won’t be at all necessary for South Dakota Republican Governor Mike Rounds to appoint anyone to take Johnson’s place.
This is great because it means that I can forget about the bad scenario I have in mind happening to Tim Johnson. I can imagine it happening to a fictitious Democratic Senator. So let’s do that together, shall we?
There are 51 Senators trying to keep the Senate in Democratic control. Actuarially speaking, they are most of them old, and no one would be surprised if they didn’t all last the next two years. The same can be said for the other 49, less the difference. But what happens when, sometime in the middle of next year, the Democratic Senator William “Willy” Orrnot from the great state of South Macadamia, governed by a Republican, slips and falls in an off-duty hula competition and gets himself concussed and then doesn’t wake up from it, ever?
I’ll tell you what happens because I can see it coming as plain as a car hurtling south on a northbound one-way in rush hour, what with all the screeching tires and the smashing glass and crushed metal. At first everyone will sit back respectfully and watch as the life support system is put into action, “the way he wanted it.” Then someone will leak the man’s actual living will, which will turn out to stipulate “no unusual life-prolonging measures” be taken. Then lawsuits will fly, at first involving only the family and the wife.
When it starts to look like the plug could be pulled, that’s when you’ll see a cultural war realignment.
I don’t know about the rest of you die-hard liberals out there, but I for one am ready right now to sign a GetOnWithItAlready.org petition calling for my Congresspeople to support “An Act for the relief of the people who don’t want Democrats’ plugs pulled.”
Did I say that the Schiavo Bill was unconstitutional? I must have been smoking something.
What I’m talking about is the fact that practically every calendar you can find around here, including calendars designed and printed right here in America, even right here in this city, show winter 2006 as beginning on the 22nd of this month! This is an outrage!
In fact, winter begins at a little past 12:20 AM Greenwich Mean Time. Did you know that’s code for British time, also known as ZULU time? Do we live in Britain? Do we live in Zululand? NO! We live in a city 8 hours ahead, or behind, depending on whether (math joke alert!) you’re positively or negatively oriented, ha. In any case winter starts on the 21st all across America from Maine to Hawaii, AND ANTI-AMERICAN CALENDAR MAKERS DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW IT. Are you paying attention, Lou Dobbs, or don’t you care about the American Way of Life? It’s time we celebrated Freedom Winter! No more Brit Winter!
OK, now that I’ve got that out of the way I can do what I came here to do. Apparently nobody else noticed it last week but me, but a huge shift has occurred in the culture wars across this land, a shift that promises to make the crooked straight and the rough places plain.
I am speaking of the fact that Senator Tim Johnson of South Dakota came this close (see pinched fingers, crushing the head of a flea) to needing a living will and testament. Fortunately all is well, this time. I’ve read that Senator Johnson has been seen by no less than three highly qualified Democrats, who all say he’s “looking good” and has an excellent prognosis until at least January 2009, so it won’t be at all necessary for South Dakota Republican Governor Mike Rounds to appoint anyone to take Johnson’s place.
This is great because it means that I can forget about the bad scenario I have in mind happening to Tim Johnson. I can imagine it happening to a fictitious Democratic Senator. So let’s do that together, shall we?
There are 51 Senators trying to keep the Senate in Democratic control. Actuarially speaking, they are most of them old, and no one would be surprised if they didn’t all last the next two years. The same can be said for the other 49, less the difference. But what happens when, sometime in the middle of next year, the Democratic Senator William “Willy” Orrnot from the great state of South Macadamia, governed by a Republican, slips and falls in an off-duty hula competition and gets himself concussed and then doesn’t wake up from it, ever?
I’ll tell you what happens because I can see it coming as plain as a car hurtling south on a northbound one-way in rush hour, what with all the screeching tires and the smashing glass and crushed metal. At first everyone will sit back respectfully and watch as the life support system is put into action, “the way he wanted it.” Then someone will leak the man’s actual living will, which will turn out to stipulate “no unusual life-prolonging measures” be taken. Then lawsuits will fly, at first involving only the family and the wife.
When it starts to look like the plug could be pulled, that’s when you’ll see a cultural war realignment.
I don’t know about the rest of you die-hard liberals out there, but I for one am ready right now to sign a GetOnWithItAlready.org petition calling for my Congresspeople to support “An Act for the relief of the people who don’t want Democrats’ plugs pulled.”
Did I say that the Schiavo Bill was unconstitutional? I must have been smoking something.
Wednesday, March 15, 2000
Guest Column by Anitra L. Freeman
This is Anitra, Upon Whose Kitchen Floor Wes Has Sometimes Slept. Wes has a bad cold right now, which he says is my fault (because he's sleeping closer to me than the kitchen floor these days), and therefore I have to write his column for him.
Wes says I am starting out very well, staring at a blank white computer screen. He then gave me a tip to get started:
[insert column here]
Wes has just left the room, leaving me clear to talk about him with Cindy, Muse of Few Words. I ask Cindy, "I want to structure this column like Wes does, in the form that I have called a Wessitur: an apparent sequence of non-sequiturs that sneaks up behind a political subject and bonks it on the head. How do you suggest I start?"
Cindy says, "Say something about Wes now."
Wes was skinnier when I first met him (he also says that this is my fault, in spite of the fact that he does most of the cooking.) We were both homeless at that time, in October 1995. Wes attempted to teach me the use of acrylics, at StreetLife Art Gallery.
He still attempts to teach me math. I retaliate by singing sea chanteys at him.
Soon after I started going to StreetLife Gallery, Wes drafted me for the Real Change Editorial Committee. I retaliated by starting StreetWrites, to help more homeless and low-income writers develop material for publication. Wes said, "Okay, I'll attend, but you have to do the work."
How am I doing, Cindy? "At about this point, Wes says something else."
Speaking of something else, last week I attended the Seattle Police Department's first organizational meeting attempting to put together a Homeless Advisory Council. I was unhappy to see that I was the only person there who was a "community member" (still counted as low-income and formerly homeless) instead of a service provider or public official-- and I was only there because Timothy "Editor-God" Harris, Director of Real Change, was in production crunch on the paper. Tim made me feel a bit better by explaining that invitations did go out to SHARE, WHEEL & HOP -- but they went out very recently. Membership-driven grassroots organizations need more lead time to make decisions than top-down structured organizations. Adding in that the strongest memory most homeless groups have of such advisory councils is the sensation of having one's butt turned to rubber with the raised words "Whatever You've Already Decided" lettered on them, then pounded up and down -- and caution lengthens the lead time.
Speaking of caution, caution lengthened the lead time in the relationship between Wes and I. Within weeks of meeting each other we were spending large amounts of time together -- we were both officers of StreetLife Gallery, both writing for and editing Real Change, and we just hung out, because we made each other laugh, we sparked ideas for each other, I could say one sentence and he instantly knew what I meant, cutting my tendency to discourse at length and earning the undying gratitude of thousands.
But first, I was staying in shelters and he was Camping Out on Fern Hill (the exact location of which he still keeps secret in case he might have to use it again.) Then I got housing but Wes didn't; he could only visit me three nights a week at The Union Hotel, where he really did sleep on my kitchen floor, and we talked for several hours each night like kids at a slumber party. It was July 21st, 1997, at 4PM (I got the date and time from Wes) that Wes walked into the Real Change and handed his last pack of cigarettes ever to Tim Harris because I had mentioned that I wouldn't get intimate with a smoker's mouth. Then he didn't sleep on my kitchen floor any longer.
Speaking of lengthening, we were both divorced. Wes had a history of severe child abuse and suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I had a history of relationships disrupted by my bipolar disorder (manic depression). We were both used to being prejudged, misjudged, and making bad judgments about others. A lot of reasons for caution on both sides. We're now regarded as the happiest couple in the Union Hotel, mainly because we come in about 3AM each morning laughing manically over such things as the application of the policy of Harm Reduction to late-night transit.
Maybe homeless people and the SPD will someday be cracking jokes together, working comfortably side by side, hanging out together. Also the physically disabled, and those with mental health / chemical dependency / developmental issues: other groups that the SPD is hoping to have new Advisory Councils for. If there's enough common ground; enough support; enough patience. If someone gives up their cigarettes, or whatever other habits are in the way.
How did I do, Cindy? "You left out poetry."
Haiku for Wes
He sleeps on my kitchen floor
while I check my email.
I need no Valentines.
Write On!
© Anitra Freeman 2002
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