"There's never a policeman when you need one; only when you're speeding."
The woman speaking was young, middle-class, educated, and held a beautiful sleeping baby on her lap. I was an outsider at a bar-b-que at a house where I knew no one but one friend, whose friends these people were. It made a perfect opportunity to observe.
"I mean, look at it today--it's Independance Day and where are all the police? Not catching the drug addicts, that's for sure. They're only interested in making money, so they sit around in speed traps."
She was an educator, or married to one. A young mother. She'd been nabbed going 26 miles an hour in a school zone, and she was furious about it in a cool, unruffled way. Mustn't upset the baby, of course.
"Then when they do arrest the crackheads, they just let them go."
"The jails are full," my friend said. "They can't keep them, anyway." Most are there are drug offenses already, I wanted to shout, but didn't. I didn't trust myself to speak.
"That's what I mean, the system is broken. They're more worried about traffic violations than crackheads bothering you for spare change downtown." This, from a woman who undoubtedly has never had to sit in a welfare office. I could be wrong, but I'm almost certain. Her expression was cool and level-headed; I was sure she'd never made a bad decision in her life and got plenty of sleep at night and probably donated to charity, too. After all, it's much better to write a check to a worthwhile organization than give five bucks to a vagrant in the street, who would only go buy drugs or fortified wine. We want to help people be better, not enable their addictions. I could already imagine the conversation in my head; I didn't want to engage.
"There are never cops down at the free family concerts in the park, either," she said. "I always look around and think, oh my god, there're so many people here, where are the cops?" I've been to these concerts. They're harmless, full of families and giddy children and dancing, aging hippies. "That one guy--you know who I mean, the hula hoop guy--he's creepy." Another harmless thing, a man in tie-dyed t-shirts who attends these free concerts to dance--with anyone, himself, other adults, hyper-active children. "I'd keep an eye on him. He's like a pied piper with those kids. But--no cops!"
Because, as anyone knows, the police have nothing better to do than stand around and watch a park full of happy families in the evening listen to bluegrass music.
The conversation shifted. Someone they knew had experienced an episode of aphasia at work and had to be rushed to the hospital. The emergency passed; tests were done, but nothing conclusive. "I bet someone slipped him an acid-soaked napkin at McDonald's or something," this woman said, patting her baby. "Sounds to me like he was drugged. Those people sell drugs on the sly that way; I bet he got something that wasn't meant for him."
Sounds to me like a mild stroke, a brain lesion, epilepsy, I thought, furious. Those people? I got up and checked my phone on the pretense that my husband called. "Ah--looks like I have to check in at home," I said. My friend jumped at the chance. "Really? I'll come too."
Maybe I've been reading too much Paul Theroux lately, but the stifling sense of well-being, bigotry and privilege were starting to choke me. Maybe I can't simply sit and have a simple conversation anymore--I don't know, but I'm tolerating fools less and less, and I lack Mr. Theroux's conversational skills (or lack thereof--he isn't known for subtlety in such situations). I would've loved to have made some cutting remark, but of course couldn't think of anything that wouldn't draw me further into talking with this stupid, bland, featureless, judgmental woman, for whom everything represented danger to herself or her loved ones, and who suffered a complete lack of charity, as far as I could tell. My friend and I left and cycled down to the fireworks display, where there must've been close to five hundred people milling about--families, of all kinds--and where there were plenty policemen sprinkled quite liberally through the pleasant, jovial crowd.
There is nothing like attempting to write fiction and editing one's own writing and submitting said writing to expose one's own lack of understanding of the basic function of ANYTHING.
Well--I've done it! I've become the owner of a Lasiodora parahybana spiderling, otherwise known as a Brazilian Salmon Pink Birdeater. She's only about 1" diameter right now--very small, but I just had to post this because she's molting right now! I'm extremely excited and impressed, such that mere text cannot imbue.
I hope I don't do anything stupid to hurt her, either.
Why are we people so generally freaked out by terrestrial arthropods (insects, spiders, oogly-boogly things) and not freaked out by ocean-going creatures?
Heck, we even eat ocean-dwelling arthropods, but not too many of us (with a nod to Asians and indigenous South American tribes) eat terrestrial arthropods.
What is up with that? I'm starting to get really curious about this. The further I pursue my own interests in bugs & insects, which seems to be growing by the day, the more I notice I'm not nearly as frightened or skeeved by bugs as I used to be--and I was a fairly squealy, annoying girl when it comes to frightening bugs.
Anymore, I'm all "OH COOL WHAT IS THAT THING?!?"
Anyone have thoughts on why we'll scarf down the shrimp and crab by the pound, but get wall-eyed and skittery when the littlest spider goes scampering across our bare flesh?
The sheer variety and strangeness, the clever adaptations, make arthropods in general just endlessly fascinating to me. It's like discovering alien species at every turn, as if I've got Deep Space 9 in my garden. How could anyone ever get bored? And no, I don't cuddle these creatures or want to hold them--but I often find myself just awestruck at the beauty.
Yes, okay, I'll go crawl back under my nerd rock now
Yes, I have agreed to do something insane. Possibly certifiably so, but bear with me.
A friend of mine owns a yarn shop downtown. Tomorrow night is something called "Ladies Night Out", which is a big to-do involving several downtown merchants. It's all benefitting a womencare shelter, so there is a noble cause involved.
Anyway, some bright young thing came up with the idea to have these window boxes with life sized mannequins in them, modeling outfits from the various downtown merchants. Among whom my friend with the yarn store is numbered. Who do you think agreed to model some of her finished knitted goods?
Oh dear. If there are photographic records available of this insanity tomorrow night, I will be sure and post them on teh internets so the whole world can feast on my idiocy. Because--you know--the more people who see you making an ass out of yourself, the less of a thing it is. Right? RIGHT?!
Either it'll be the most fun EVAR or merely fodder for the writing.
We'll see. *ominous music, and PLAY HER OUT, KEYBOARD CAT*
WIDGETIZE