TA-branded Commentary

Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce to you the world premier of the latest national campaign: Competent Drivers UNITE!

A networking and support group for competent drivers across the country, this is an open forum designed to foster honest and open communication about the habits and practices necessary for the worldwide spread of driving competency. Recognizing that the vast majority of Americans seem to lack the skills and knowledge necessary to ensure their own highway safety, we feel it is our obligation as United States citizens to open their minds to new frontiers, all the while discouraging bad habits and offering helpful advise and solutions to common, everyday problems. We seek to reach out to those less competent than ourselves, though we will not hesitate to point out their downfalls and weaknesses. This is justified, however, by our intent to remain in close accord with the rapidly growing domestic movement to make our freeways safer, cleaner, and moving along ever more quickly. This goal can only be achieved by the increase of competency on our roadways.

Competent Drivers UNITE! (CDU!) seeks the unity of all drivers under the rules and regulations outlined by the competent ones. We are of course open minded in our pursuit of this goal; we will be happy to entertain suggestions from the incompetents, though we reserve the right to ridicule them.

Membership for Competent Drivers UNITE! will be launched shortly. Stay tuned for more details.

There are a lot of things that I consider to be a la Americana. Chain stores. Overusage of street lights and underusage of yield signs (which is probably a good thing, since no one around here can figure out that “yield” is not a synonym for “stop”). An addiction to buying ultra cheap consumer products made with ridiculously cheap labor while simultaneously chewing out your Congresswo/man for not doing more to protect the U.S. labor market. Complaining about politicians while making no attempt to get to know the character of those running for office.

But for all these things, there’s one very American habit that I don’t understand how the rest of the world lives without:

The caffeine/sugar combo.

Of course I realize that the rest of the world doesn’t “do without” these items. They’re available in mass quantities just about everywhere. But I’m not sure that any other country or culture consumes them in such an obsessive-compulsive manner as we do here in the U.S. I recognize that this addiction contributes to our morbidly high obesity rates, but I genuinely have no idea how I would survive without it.

So, am I as addicted as the next person? Well…no, not exactly. It’s not like I can’t live without caffeine and sugar. It’s just that I believe in using them for the drugs/energy-boosters that they are.

And I have a sneaking suspicion that the key to America’s demise isn’t tied directly to politics or economics. Switch the brew in every coffee shop to decaf and eliminate soda and chocolate and the nation would collapse within minutes.

You might not know this, but I’m one of Reverend Moon’s closest friends. I mean, I’ve never actually met the guy…and it so happens that I disagree with basically everything he says…but all that aside, it’s the truth. We’re tight. Here’s the story.

Several years ago, I was sent to D.C. on behalf of my job in order to attend a big celebration of the Washington Times’ 20^th anniversary. You are likely familiar with the Washington Times. Large circulation. Well known and reasonably respected. An unusual “right-leaning” (for whatever that phrase is worth…I use it loosely) newspaper in the metro D.C. area.

And it’s owned by none other than the Reverend Sun Myung Moon.

Now, before I progress further, let’s make sure of one thing. Do you know who Rev. Moon is?

Rev. Moon is the head of the unification movement, or “church,” as he’s fond of calling it. He refers to himself and his wife as the “True Parents” – the ones sent by God to pick up where Jesus left off. He says that all people should believe he is the second coming of the Christ because he’s Korean but has invested all his resources in America. He is constantly giving to this country, and we never give back. This (so he says) is a perfect example of God’s love, like how Jesus gave to the world and they couldn’t return his gift. He then goes on to say that Americans are the chosen people, and as such, all other nations should intermarry with Americans so that they can be “sanctified” by intermarriage, and so that their children will become part of the chosen people. If you google his name, you’ll find a whole host of other teachings. A rather infamous message of Rev. Moon’s was the one in which he advocated on behalf of total world nudity – an action he claimed was necessary if we are ever to attain complete purity.

This, my friends, is but a taste of the Unification movement and the teachings of Rev. Moon. With that knowledge, you will never again look at the Washington Times in the same light…

But I digress.

So I’m in D.C. for a couple of days, specifically to attend this big 20^th anniversary celebration of the Washington Times, but simultaneously to take part in a corresponding conference.

During the last day of the conference, I heard Rev. Moon speak. Twice. The first was in an intimate setting of approximately 250 people. We were all given earpieces to hear the Korean to English translation of his presentation. He was scheduled for 15 minutes. Two and a half hours later, I got up and walked out. (What kept me in my seat for that long should be seriously questioned…) Over the course of that unbelievably torturous timeframe, I heard the same fifteen minutes worth of information approximately ten times over. I was seriously ready to scream…or at minimum pound my head against the wall in quick, rapid succession. I made it outside the door and breathed a very audible sigh of relief – only to be greeted by one of the conference representatives from my home state. Having heard my sigh, he responded sympathetically.

Guy: It’s a lot to digest, isn’t it?

Me, completely exasperated: Oh, gosh, YES.

Guy: I know. He is soooo inspirational. I don’t know how he manages to keep his messages so short.

???????????????????????

Guy: I mean, this is the guy who owns the Washington Times! He’s so powerful! And yet he cares enough to take time to bring people together like this to share his message and passion.

Again - ?????????????????????????????

Guy: This is actually a really short message for him.

???????????

Guy: His record is sixteen and a half hours. With no bathroom break.

You think I lie. I assure you, I do not. The guy was dead serious. He was in awe. Literal awe. Of a maniac. It was one of the saddest, most please-let-me-shoot-myself-in-the-head moments I have ever experienced.

I don’t really remembered how I responded…only that I managed to not return to the session room. I’m told Rev. Moon wrapped up about twenty minutes later and received a standing ovation. Yet again…????????????????? It was all I could do to keep from stalking up on stage and giving the entire audience a piece of my mind.

That night, I went to the 20^th anniversary celebration dinner. Rev. Moon’s comments were a bit more…well, short. The press folks made sure he wasn’t on stage for more than thirty minutes. But I assure you that thirty seconds would have been too long for me.

The dinner had its amusing touches, however. One was a handout that was distributed to all the tables. I wish I could remember the title they gave this document, cuz it was pretty good…but the content was better. It was a manifesto of sorts, the transcription of one of Rev. Moon’s visions – a vision that supposedly provided all the proof the world would need to believe in his claim of being the second messiah (because apparently, y’know, the first Messiah wasn’t enough…). In this dream, Rev. Moon was in heaven, and he had conversations with many “great leaders” – Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, to name a few. Why were they in heaven, you ask? Oh, let him tell you. It was because God wanted to show them the truth, and in turn have them share the truth with the world. In the transcription of Rev. Moon’s conversations with each “great leader” (his words – not mine), each of the men and woman (forty in all) explained how they had been deceived in life, but had since repented, come to know the truth, and were now proclaiming for all the world to hear that Rev. Moon and his wife are the True Parents and the ones in whom the world should trust forever.

Do you get the significance of this? I mean, other than the totally wacked, I’m-so-thoroughly-conceited-that-I-believe-myself-to-be-God mentality. This statement was handed out to several thousand people at a press event for the Washington Times!!!

Lesson to the learned: When you get cocky, it’s only a matter of time before the completely idiotic seems not only normal but prudent.

And then the comment that topped off my trip and resulted in me bursting into very audible laughter…to the dismay of several of Rev. Moon’s followers who were strategically placed throughout the crowd.

“My dear friends,” Rev. Moon concluded, wrapping up his thirty minute speech. “My dear friends, I am so glad you came here today to join me in this celebration. I can’t imagine being here without you. My friends at the press, look around – here are my dearest and closest friends.”

That’s right. His dearest and closest friends. All several thousand of us who had never met him and – at least speaking for myself - would never want to.

And all of this, my friends, is why I could never run for public office. Because somewhere out there, someone has a picture of me at that dinner, and if I ran for office, it would surface, along with a caption that says, “One of Reverend Moon’s closest friends – he said so personally.” And then someone else would get a hold of this blog and use only the opening sentence, which of course shows that I agree wholeheartedly with Rev. Moon’s statement and likewise consider him a close personal friend.

Cuz that’s how we play it in politics....

I spent the weekend in North Carolina with two chics who embody all that I'm told makes the female species great. They're cute, fun, smart sense of fashion, and they like to shop. At malls.

Then there's me. I've been told that I'm a shame to my fellow females. I hate rings, I think diamonds are a waste of money (from crying out loud, who pays that much money for a rock??), I hate malls, and I’d take a Red Wings game (or any game for that matter) over shoe shopping any day of the week. For the sake of my friends, I’ve tried to be more fashion conscientious. But we all know I’m pretty much a lost cause.

So it should come as no surprise that, while we all get along wonderfully well, the mall finds us heading in different directions. When the girls are feeling generous, they point me in the direction of the closest Barnes & Noble and let me amuse myself there while they spend hours hitting something like every store on every floor of the entire mall. And they were generous...for the most part.

Except this once. We walked into this department store and simultaneously there's this "Oooooooooooo!!!! This is it!!! This is the place for the purses!!!" Maybe it was the deer-in-the-headlights look that gave me away, but Moose immediately latched onto my arm and said ever so sweetly, "C'mon Tiff, you'll like it. You can't always just look at books."

And, as all good friends (fools?) must do from time to time, I indulged their intense need to shop for purses and wandered after them.

Holy freakin' heck. Inside the four walls of this prison they call a "department store" is a cell dedicated strictly to the display of bags. Big ones, little ones, black ones, blue ones, fuzzy ones, smooth ones - anyone else feeling nostolgic for Dr. Seuss? Never mind. So there are rows upon rows upon rows of these...things...that apparently I'm supposed to be drooling over. And a conversation begins that goes like this:

Moose: "Ooooo....look at this one! No, look at this one. OH! Oh! Wait....look at this one. I like this one."
Me: "Okay."
Moose: "Which one do you like?"
Me: "I have a purse."
Moose: "Ummm....yeah. One. It's black. You can't wear it with everything."
Me: "Why not?"
Moose, sighing deeply: "Tiffany!!!"
Me: "What?!"
Moose: "I have two deep rows of purses in my closet, and I still need more. You cannot survive with only one purse."
Me: "Huh?"
Moose: "I'm serious. We're finding you another purse."
Me: "No."
Moose: "Yes."
Me: "I don't want one."
Moose: "But you need one."
Me: "I have one."
Moose: "More. You need one more."

I continue wandering. In the time that Jayme and Moose have each looked through about 4 shelves, I have managed to peruse the entire purse section four times. Well, peruse might be too strong of a word. Wander aimlessly with a blank, forsaken look on my face is probably a little closer to reality.

And so it is that I feel compelled to offer this heartfelt apology:
*clears throat*

To all the men of this world:

Those poor souls who must put up with their wives, girlfriends, sisters, mothers and (insert other group names here) shopping for hours on end in malls and department stores, laboring over whether the brown or the green or the floral patterned bag would best match whichever outfit they have in their heads at that moment (an outfit they may very well not even own yet) --

Those indulgent spirits who allow themselves to be dragged around for hours while (insert name of your significant other here) tries on half the shoes in a 20-mile radius of your house --

Those men who are more sympathetic and humoring that I, who find it in their hearts to try and enjoy themselves during this most excruciating form of self-torture --

To all you men, I offer this heartfelt apology:
I. Am. Sorry. I am so, so, so sorry. Sorry for what women have become. Sorry for their addiction to the malls. Sorry for their fetish over purses. Sorry for their need to have more shoes than outfits. Sorry for their need to buy it because, after all, "It's on SALE!"

It's all I can say. I'm sorry.

The greatest tragedy of the most recent airline carry-on restrictions isn't the added time required for security and checking baggage, or the general ban on liquids and gels, or even the prohibition on water (when have you seen those two words in a sentence together?). No, my friends. The greatest tragedy of the recent restrictions is the ban on lip gloss.

You think I kid. I assure you, I do not. Yes, I realize lipstick and chapstick are allowed - but they represent absolutely no comparison. It is a sin - I repeat, a sin - to disallow me to carry lip gloss on a plane. Ask anyone who has traveled with me since the recent ban. The complaint "UH! I need my lip gloss!" escapes my mouth at least once every 5 minutes.

As much of a tragedy as this phenomenon is, my trip to D.C. last week presents another one...

I was standing in the security line to get on the plane leaving Reagan National, all ready to get pulled for a bag check-through and pat-down, which, incidentally, happens to me every time. I'm getting used to it. Almost. Anyway...in front of me stands another member of the group from Michigan, I'll call her Candy. So Candy's in front of me, and our bags go through the x-ray machine at the same time. I see the face of the man watching the x-ray screen look somewhat startled. He pauses the machine, pulls the bags back, then calls over another security guard. That man's eyebrows raise not-so-slightly, and he pulls Candy's bag from the machine. "Whose bag is this?" he asks. Candy waves her hand. "Ma'am, please step over here. We have got to have a look in this thing."

Amused, I continue through, get pulled aside as always, and as I'm waiting for the man who's going through my bag, I hear the security guard with Candy abruptly burst into laughter. A moment later, I get my bag and head down the terminal toward the gate. Candy catches up with me a couple minutes later.

Me: "What was that all about?"

Candy: "You would never believe it!"

Me: "What??"

Candy: "He took my lip plumper!!!!"

Me, sputtering: "HUH??"

Candy: "He took my LIP PLUMPER!"

Me: "Your...what??"

Candy, staring at me like I'm an idiot: "My Lip. Plumper. He took it. It's gone. Forever. Gone forever. He stole my lip plumper." Pause. ""Betcha he really just wanted to try it out for himself."

Me: "What the heck is a lip plumper?!"

Candy: "What?? How do you know what that is? It plumps your lips, just like it says."

Me: eyebrows up.

Candy: "Oh, it's all-natural. Just feels like a bee sting but it works like a charm."

Me: "It's all-a-naturale and feels like a bee sting? Girl, you got issues."

Candy, laughing: "I'm telling you, that man wanted to try it out for himself. He knows it isn't a weapon."

Me: "What did it look like?"

Candy: "Oh, kinda like scissors with a bunch of pointed, jagged edges."

Me: "And you tried to put that on your CARRY-ON?"

Candy: "Umm...yeah....  Oh. Yeah, I guess that kinda does sound like a weapon, huh?"

Now I must admit...I still don't view dear Candy's dilemma as a tragedy as horrible as my own forced fast from lip gloss, but y'know...I found a friend that day. She spent the next 2 hours lamenting her lost lip plumper. I spent the next 2 hours beleaguering the airline industry for forcing lip-gloss-absent-torturous existence upon me. In the end, we were sisters.

And that's the end of my story.

This world traveler is back from the craziness of two weeks abroad that included visits to Italy, Israel and Palestine (with a few hours spent in Prague during a layover). Italy was the first place in Europe I've visited where I could say without hesitation, "I could live here." I could also say that about a geographic region in the Middle East...the more likely place for me to end up...though my love of that place was of a different kind.

As I was sitting at work today, a memo came across my desk announcing the promotion of a certain co-worker. After my moment of excitement on her behalf, the thought sparked in my head that I was pretty much unmoved by the whole thing. Unmoved as in realizing that I simply don't have a desire to "move up the ladder." My "vocational ambitions" are to pour my heart and energy into the work I care most deeply about, but the idea of position and bonus pay really holds no appeal to me. What is enticing? The thought of devoting my life to the places and people who are in most desperate need.

All said and done, I stand alone

Amongst remains of a life I should not own

I suppose you can't really quantify who has the "most desperate need." All needs are real, each has its own effect on life and the world. But I am drawn...no, under compulsion...to visit places that are in the midst of war, after affects of war, or under intense human and civil rights oppression. I realized all this when I started thinking of all the places I still want to visit, when the names Afghanistan, Sudan, Iraq and Vietnam kept resurfacing. I'm told this isn't normal, but hey, I admitted to being abnormal a long time ago.

It takes all I have to believe

In the mercy that covers me

The Palestinian people are a bundle of paradoxes, and truly beautiful. I gained a much deeper understanding of the whole Israeli/Palestinian conflict while spending time in both countries, and I was struck again by how the United States seems to have taken the smallest issues on both sides and made them the greatest points of contention.

And did you really have to die for me?

All I am for all you are?

Cuz what I need and what I believe are worlds apart

I'm not bashing the U.S. government or its people. I love this country, and you only have to spend time in a country under foreign occupation to catch a glimpse of the extraordinary freedom that truly is ours. But freedom has a way of causing its people to become completely inward focused...to make their world only the drama of their own lives...to allow them the ability to abuse freedom and make it into an excuse for ignorance, a freedom that is theirs but does them no favors.

Take my world apart

I am on my knees

Take my world apart

Broken on my knees

Most of the things in life that beg the deepest answers can't be explained with words. Looking at the conflict in the Middle East, I see the struggles of both sides, I see their blindnesses, I see what makes them tick, I see a cycle of violence. And it breaks my heart.

I look beyond the empty cross

Forgetting what my life has cost

And wipe away the crimson stains

And all the nails that still remain

To really live life, I believe you have to embrace the philosophy that there are some things for which you will never have the answers. It doesn't always "work out." You can do everything you're supposed to, and the result might not be the right one.

More and more I need you now

I owe you more each passing hour

The battles between grace and pride

I gave up not so long ago

So the question becomes...what do you do? When faced with a situation where, even if you make every decision wisely and follow through with each needed action, the end could just as easily see no improvement (or be more detrimental) as become better...and what do you do?

So steal my heart, take the pain

Wash my fear, cleanse my pride

Take the selfish, take the weak,

And all the things I cannot hide

What do you do? You move forward. You don't give up. You keep loving. Love doesn't mean being blind to another's faults or putting yourself in a position to be hurt by them, but it's simply the understanding and knowledge that at any moment, you may be betrayed, and you're making the conscientious decision to love anyway. It doesn't mean the relationship won't change...if anything, it ensures it, for love is too easily confused with unhealthy obsession these days...but it guarantees that you will be "wise as serpents, harmless as doves" and that conflict, hatred, and betrayal won't change your character.

Take my beauty, take my tears

My sin and soiled heart, make me yours

Take my world all apart

Take it now, take it now

For you see, beloved, trust isn't a result of having the answers. Trust comes from having seen God's face.

Serve the ones that I despise

Speak the words I can't deny

Watch the world I used to love

Fall to dust and blow away

It saddens me to see so much hopelessness in the world...so much conflict...so much hatred...so much anger...and it kills me to know that most of the world doesn't care. They don't want to care. If they cared, they would have to change.

I look beyond the empty cross

Forgetting what my life has cost

My life is short and it's here for a purpose, and that purpose isn't going to be what most people in this world will admire, consider useful, or stand in line to get an autograph for.

And wipe away the crimson stains

And all the nails that still remain

And that's okay. I don't crave the approval of friends and family.

Take my beauty, take my tears

My sin and soiled heart, make me yours

But I do crave that words like these would make a difference. In the way you act. In what you consider most important in your life. In the way you talk. In what you're willing to let become the obsessions of your life.

And all the things I cannot hide

Take my beauty, take my tears

My greatest prayer in the world is for God to take my world apart. I pray the same for you.

Why? Because it's worth it.

Don't feel like you always have to have the answers. Allow the world to be confusing. Life is tragic. But it's also glorious. You just have to let it be what it is.

Lyrics from "Worlds Apart" by Jars of Clay

Voter apathy. We hear about it every election cycle. We - referring to strange people like me who are drawn to policy and politics - preach against it. What's the cause? Some say lack of knowledge or education, others the prevalent feeling that one vote doesn't count, still others good ole plain disinterest.

But, as of today, I say there is a whole different reason for voter apathy: Precinct workers.

Here's my story:

I walk into my local polling station around 8:00 a.m. This being the primary election, on a year and in a district where there isn't much of a primary race for anything on either side of the aisle, I knew I wouldn't have to wait long. Sure enough, I walk in and there are plenty of empty booths. I head toward my precinct's table when the woman near the door stops me.

Woman: "Excuse me, but do you know what Precinct you're in?"

Me: "Precinct 9 I think."

Woman at the door: "Well how about I check that for you."

Me, Okay, but I'm pretty sure of my precinct: "Oh....kay..." and give her my name.

Woman, several long moments later and after going through several possible first names that weren't mine and simultaneously exclaiming, "Oh wait! That's not your last name" after each: "Oh, yes, here you are. You," looking up at me over her spectacles, "should be voting in Precinct 9."

Imagine that.

Woman, reaching forward to grab my arm as I begin walking away: "Hold on!! Your table is....." and, scanning the room by beginning at the farthest point away from her, finally lands her eyes on the table directly next to her and waves her hand to indicate that I should proceed about 6 inches to my left, "Here!" She looks at me triumphantly, as though I should be impressed by her ability to scan the entire room in a mere minute and a half and direct my blonde head to the same place I had headed nearly 3 minutes before. Not that I was counting.

So I move to the Precinct 9 table, where I must again give my name because, apparently, the fact that the two people at that table had been watching and listening to that entire conversation didn't mean they knew my name. The woman at the desk begins scanning down her list of pages, using a ruler that is intended to help her highlight in a straight line, but is instead serving to keep her from quickly scanning the page. After tediously examining two full pages, she gets to the third page which holds my name. As she begins to draw the highlighter across the page, she stops in midstream:

Woman: "We don't see many people your age here. Is this your first time voting?"

Me: "No ma'am, I vote on a regular basis."

Woman: "Well, you just can't tell nowadays. So many young people don't vote. Why, you could be 30 and this could be the first time for you voting. You just never can tell. Why, I remember the first time I voted. Voted in every election since then." By now the highlighter is waving around in her hand as she accents her words with flourishes of the writing utensil. "But you young people," pointing at me, "you people just don't vote."

Me: Do I bite my tongue, repeat what I already said, or reach across the table and highlight my name for her?

Woman: "I'm so glad YOU came out to vote! You're supposed to. Why, I remember the first time I voted. So long ago. Harold," leaning across to the man next to her, the man I really wanted to be working with....the man who actually had the ballots..."Harold, do you remember the first time you voted?"

Harold: "I most certainly do! It was my greatest moment as an American citizen! Voted every election since then. Every American should vote. It's our responsibility!"

Me, eyes getting wider (implication: drastic impatience bordering on the intense desire to hit someone): "Ummmm...my name?"

Woman: "Hmmm....I forgot where I was." She begins at the top of the 3rd page and scans down to my name, highlights it, then hands me a card to sign. I sign it as the conversation continues about how these exorbitantly patriotic citizens have been voting in the all-American way since the first time they were old enough to, and it only takes about a minute and a half for the card to change hands between the woman and Harold.

Harold: "Here's the ballot. Do you know how to fill out a ballot?"

Me: "Yes!"

Harold: "Okay, well, you have to connect these arrows like this..." indicates connection motion with his marker, "and remember that this is a primary election, which means you can only vote for one party. That means only this side of the ballot, or that side. Does that make sense?"

Me: HOLY HECK, do I have RIDICULOUSLY RETARDED BLONDE written across my forehead in big bold black letters?!?!?!?  Don't answer that.

Me, seething: "Yyyyyesssssssssssssssssssssssssssss."

Harold: "Very good. The voting booths are over here," motioning to the chairs and booths less than a foot to our left, the very booths I'd been longingly staring at for the last 8 minutes, and finally he hands me the ballot.

Freedom. It takes me a rockin’ sixty seconds to complete the ballot.

Which means this: It took me eight times longer to get through the line of....how many people again?...oh yeah....ZERO....then it did to fill out the ballot.

And this is why, my friends, I have decided that maybe, just maybe, voter apathy is due to something other than the typically blamed attributes. Maybe it's not voter apathy at all. Maybe it's freakin' voter frustration.

But I'm not bitter.