Grab your torches and pitchforks

Anyone up for a walk down to the Hill tomorrow night? I'm wondering if looking out their windows and seeing something like this:

might inspire our elected representatives to put aside their petty differences and actually do the People's business. Seriously, do you think we'd get our point across if we surrounded Capitol Hill with people carrying torches and pitchforks? And just stared.

Really hard.

The people we need to get through to are the ones in the middle - no matter how small it is these days. There should be just enough of them to balance out the idiots on the fringes of the left and right to actually get together and actually Pass. The fucking. Budget!

This situation is ridiculous. We are the laughingstock of the world right now. A hard look does need to be taken at the entire budget, but not this one - this year is already shot, just pay the fucking bills and move on. And probably not the next one either - not enough time left to get that done. Now the 2013 budget that's a whole 'nother question. It needs to be looked at now. All of it: Defense, entitlements, social programs, pork. Especially the pork. Get out the knives and start cutting. When we - as a country - owe the world more than $14 trillion we can't even think about a tax cut. I don't care if you believe with all your heart that it will stimulate business. As my dad reminded me and my brothers growing up when we asked for something expensive "We can't afford it."

The 535 "representatives of the People" need to pull their heads out and remember that while they represent the 500k or so people in their individual districts, they work for all of us. And all of us are a bit pissed right now.

And they can be replaced. All of them. And they probably should be.

Here endeth the rant.

An Unoriginal Idea*

I have a friend. A very, very educated friend - he's been through, like, 24th grade. Every once in a while I'll get a text from him that, quite simply, must be shared with the world at large. That said, I'll identify him no further.

Also, I don't think he reads my blog (sadly), so I feel pretty safe posting his missives. One or two of you might recognize the style, but I don't think you'll rat me out.

The Rant

"My GOD...Wal-Mart is an amazing example of what happens when natural selection is halted by misplaced social programs, entitlement mentalities and a philosophy of redistribution. The anthropologist in me can't help but stare in a macabre curiosity typically reserved for only the fringes of human behavior. Like head shrinking or bestiality; you don't want to look but you can't look away. We need to allow for certain Darwinian realities or the human race is SCREWED!!"

My first though about his observations was perhaps it was just the area where he lived. An area, I might add, that has long been the brunt of jokes about the evolutionary success of its residents. Then I realized he'd probably feel the say way about the clientele of a high-end boutique on Rodeo (I like to pronounce it the way they did in Tejas) Drive.

Then I realized he was entirely serious.

*As Mark Hunter said, "All the great themes have been used up and turned into theme parks."

Just Play Ball fer Chrissakes!!

Skip: You guys. You lollygag the ball around the infield. You lollygag your way down to first. You lollygag in and out of the dugout. You know what that makes you? Larry!
Larry: Lollygaggers!
Skip: Lollygaggers.
– Bull Durham

I went to a Nationals’ game a couple of weeks ago with my cousins (one who lives here and the other who was in town on business) and my cousin’s wife. And even though they’re both (the cousins) Mets fans (the Nats’ opponent for the evening), it was a pleasure to see them and spend time catching up.

You know what wasn’t a pleasure? Nationals’ Park. Not the park itself, the park is a great place to go and watch baseball: great sightlines, not a bad view and, hell, it’s a baseball game. Who doesn’t like going out to the ballpark and watching a game? Commies, that’s who. OK, maybe not commies, but you get my point.

My question is this: Why do the people who own the Nats and the people who run Nats’ Park hate baseball so much? What has it ever done to them except make them a bunch of money with an inferior product?

Maybe I’m just old school, but a baseball game is supposed to be relaxing. The game is already entertaining; it doesn’t need anything else. It’s the friggin’ American pastime. You know: “Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet.” (OK, maybe that was an ad from the 80s, but the point still stands.) You don’t need to blast (mostly bad) music through the PA system for each batter. And you especially don’t need to blast three bars of the same music between each and every fucking pitch.

Baseball, even when played badly, which is something the Nats have perfected over the past few years, can still be beautiful to watch. Somewhere in amongst all the pitches and balls and strikes, there’s a Crack! of a bat, the cheers of the crowd, a diving catch up the middle by the shortstop, and turning two with a 6-4-3 double play. Or, if you’re lucky, the CRACK! of a bat and a moonshot of a home run.

Then the idiots in the PA booth at Nats’ Park (and most other parks around the country for that matter) go and ruin a good thing with some stupid music.

As much as I like the movie, I blame “Major League” for this situation. Blasting “Wild Thing” as Charlie Sheen walks from the bullpen to the mound was cute. But, unfortunately, it has inspired legions of wannabes.

I’m thinking the constant blasting of music and the many, many other annoyances that now call Nats’ park and other professional stadiums home are like the headsets smart people are forced to wear in "Harrison Bergeron." For those who haven’t read their Vonnegut, in the story everyone is equal under the law and made equal by the government. This is done either by the addition of weights to lessen physical advantages like strength, or headphones blasting noise to break their concentration so the intelligent can’t hold a thought for any length of time, or some combination of methods.

The blasting music and other annoyances, I believe, are there to distract us from the crappy product the Nats put on the field day after day after day after day. If you can’t pay attention to the game, you don’t notice how much they stink up the joint.

Baseball didn’t need anything more than an occasional “Da, da, dant! Da, da, dant!” from an organ for a century and it doesn’t need it now. Turn off the music and let fans learn to enjoy the rhythm of the game again.

Oh, and play more day games. D.C. needs to loosen up and learn to play hooky like the North Side of Chicago. Nothing quite like a “long lunch” on a Thursday.

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Photo credit: My friend MB, who lives in Dallas, sent me the second picture above from the first baseline of Saturday's Boston Red Sox at Texas Ranger game. The Rangers won 7-2.

Still on? Damn Skippy it is!

A year ago today, I wrote “Is this thing on?” as my very first blog post. And now, 218 posts later, here we are. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have even remembered if I hadn’t read Lemmonex’s post from yesterday today about her second blogiversary.

This is how this whole thing got started:

“I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain.” — John Adams

(I, like many, had just watched the HBO miniseries John Adams, but I already knew that quote from way back. It’s one of my faves.)

A little pretentious, I admit it. But, maybe, we as Americans have been studying too much poetry, music, statuary etc. over the past couple of decades and need to get back to studying mathematics, philosophy and natural history. It might be a good way for us to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and right the ship, so to speak and to mix a metaphor or two.

I’ve gotten to know a lot of great people through writing The Foggy Dew – not The Liffeyswell as the Express insists on calling it (ARRRRGH! Those warthog-faced baboons!). People like her and her and him, and her and her and him and her and her and her. Hopefully, they’re not too embarrassed to be mentioned here. (And, wow, are there just a whole lot more women blogging than men? Or are they just more interesting?)

I’ve written about politics, national security, art and love along side piss, puke, phlegm, penises and pussies. (Strange, I've covered four of the five major and one of the minor TMI "Ps", but never poo. Perhaps I should be grateful?) Gay rights, space travel, searching for a job and tales of both the misdemeanor and felony stupidity of our fellow man have graced this space.

Also, I’ve gotten a chance to show off my pictures. I’ve really enjoyed that. Up until last July, the only people to really see my pictures were the ones who actually visited my home. Now I get to throw them out there for everyone to see. (I’m not going to dig out the links, but here are all the “pretty pretty pictures” posts.)

All in all, it’s been pretty fun. I think I’ve strayed a bit from my intended course – politics and government – but that’s OK. I write about what seems important or silly or stupid or interesting to me at the time and, hopefully, someone at the other end of the Interwebs finds it just important, silly, stupid or interesting enough to take a moment or two to read.

Thanks for reading everyone, hope to see you back here soon.

The Foggy Dew

Man’s best friend?

I’m gonna piss a couple people off here, but what the hell.

Let me start by saying I like dogs. They’re pretty great for any number of reasons: They’re always, always happy to see you. No matter what your day’s been like, there’s nothing like a wet nose and a wagging tail waiting for you at the door.

I never owned a dog growing up. I once asked my dad when I was about 8 if my brothers and I could have a dog. (Please! Please! Please Dad!) He smiled and said he really like to but, unfortunately, the landlord didn’t allow dogs. It wasn’t until I was older - like when I was 33 - I understood a critical omission my father made. I’d never lived anywhere growing up where my dad didn’t hold the mortgage, and just exactly who the landlord was. As a character in one of my favorite books once said, “It’s not nice to fuck with kids.”

Anyway, like I said, I like dogs. Who wouldn’t love this face?

It’s Snoopy for God’s sake!

Or be inspired by the grace and power of the Rhodesian Ridgeback? (One of my personal faves.)

And this fellow here, he totally reminds me of my brother’s dog Smokey who has unquestionably the flappyist ears I've ever seen and is also, I’m quite sure, considerably more intelligent than some people.

That being said, dogs are dogs and they are most definitely not people. I don’t care what you think. This is a very simple concept some of our friends and neighbors here in the nation’s capital seem to have either a) forgotten or b) willfully overlooked.

Like last night, for instance, at Screen on the Green. What kind of brain dead fucking moron brings their really cute black lab puppy

to an event where a couple thousand people are packed on the Mall? Seriously? Yeah, I’m talking to you, you cretin.

Did any critical thought go into your decision? I’m guessing you and your girlfriend/wife both took a massive overdose of stupidfuckin’moron pills on Monday. Why do I know this? It’s because you not only brought your really cute, adventurous and inquisitive black lab puppy to SOTG - on the end of an 8-foot leash no less - but then, as he’s lustfully eyeing another party’s dinner spread on the adjacent blanket (read: my KFC tenders and my friend's hummus), YOU UNCLIP HIS FUCKING COLLAR AND TURN HIM LOOSE!!

Were you dropped on your head, repeatedly, as a child? There is absolutely no fucking excuse for this kind of behavior. I don’t blame the dog, he was really cute and just doing what dogs do: following his nose toward something that smelled tasty. I blame you, you mouth-breathing jackass!

Get this through your friggin’ paper-thin skulls numbnuts: There is a place for dogs, IT IS NOT, I REPEAT, NOT SOTG!! (Or any other large gathering of people, for that matter.) I swear to God if this happens again I'm gonna sack punch the two-legged idiot at the end of the leash.

Don’t even get me started on the dipshits who think the combination of a dog, a 20-foot leash and the C&O Canal Towpath is a peachy idea for a Saturday stroll.

Have to say it...

I gotta ask everyone this question: What the fuck is up with the whole world going nuts over Michael Jackson dying and getting planted?

Yes, he was a decent singer, but he was a singer who hadn't put out a song worth buying in more than a decade. He did nothing to change the world for the better and, basically, he was just a consumer of oxygen the rest of us could use. And he was a total nut job.

I do not understand some people's mania and worship of "stars." I can't think of a single person in movies, TV or music who's memorial service I'd go to. (Disclaimer: I once went to the memorial service for Charles Kuralt, but that was because he was a Carolina guy and it got me out of an afternoon's work painting dorms during the summer of '95.)

Also, aside from my blood relations and a small circle of friends, there isn't a single living being I'd shed one tear for if they died. I may be momentarily taken aback by the death of someone famous, or even not so famous if it's sufficiently gruesome. But, to tell you the absolute truth, if I don't know you I'm not going to lose a second's sleep over your shuffling off this mortal coil.

Hmm, maybe it's just me?

Danger: Do not watch the arch

I meant to write this a month or so ago (OK, two months), but it kept getting pushed to the bottom of the pile. Trust me, it’ll make sense in the end.

Back in April a friend responded to my hockey game invite, an event she said she probably wouldn’t have gone to on her own, with an invite of her own. The event was a concert I know I would never have gone to on my own. It never would have even registered on my radar.

The concert at GW’s Lisner Auditorium opened with Dobet Gnahoré, a wonderful and soulful singer from the Ivory Coast, and headlined with Habib Kotié and Bamada from Mali. Let me tell you, if you’ve never seen a West African rock band, you don’t know what you’re missing. They ROCKED! The only words I understood all night were the song and band introductions they did in English, and the one song my friend kindly, and softly, translated from French.

But you know what? None of that mattered. Music is a universal language and through their music, particularly Kotié and Bamada’s, I got the gist of what they were trying to get across. Along with the expected instruments I heard many other unique voices telling their stories in the music including a fiddle, a blues guitar, a steel guitar and a flute. Add to this an amazing drummer whose hands moved so fast they weren’t even a blur, and you had some pretty powerful music.

Fans were dancing in the aisles and waving their hands and throwing money on the stage (an African custom, I’m told). It was a long way from the experience of this white boy.

It was an amazing experience both musically and personally and I’m thankful I got the chance to hear these artists. But that’s the kind of thing friends do: They challenge you to grow beyond yourself.

Anyway, the concert was wonderful in almost all respects.

“But Foggy, you said it was a great show, what could possibly have made it less than wonderful?”

I’ll tell you what could do it: the jackass sitting three or four rows in front of me and my friend in the darkened hall. The jackass with the camera. The jackass with the camera who insisted on taking flash pictures of himself and his friends in the darkened hall.

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Leaving aside the great big sign outside the hall that said: Do Not Take Pictures! (or something to that effect), this is a serious douche move.

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I don’t know if anyone reading this has ever welded, but the first thing you’re taught is to never look at the arc. E-ver. Looking at a welding arc is like looking at the sun, it leaves a really big hole in your vision. (Just to explain the he picture above: It comes from my friend MB’s theater scene shop down in Dallas. It used to say “Do not look at the arc” right up to the point where some moron applied for a job and listed on his resume “Skilled at arch welding.” They never bothered to find out if it was a typo or if he was, in fact, skilled at welding arches since he didn’t get a call-back. But the sign was changed in memoriam.)

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It’s kinda the same effect you get when some idiot decides to take a flash picture in a darkened auditorium. When a little point-and-shoot camera is used in a really dark room it throws out as much light as it can to try and brighten up the place. On the receiving end, your eyes are already dilated because of the dark so your optic nerve gets the full-strength blast of light.

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Not fun, and just plain rude to boot.

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So the next time you’re at some show or club or whatever and you think now’s just the perfect time to pull out your camera and record the event for posterity, don’t. The camera you save may be your own.

No 89th chances

Wait…did you hear that? That sound of electronic silence, the same one my phone, TV and computer were making last night (or weren’t depending on how you look at it), that is the last straw.

To take borrow a term from the absolutely lovely and radiant Lemon Gloria, Comcast is a bunch of douche monkeys. If you’re in the mood, and you should be, to read two extremely well written rants against the douche monkeys of Comcast, go here and here.

I am so through with them it’s almost as if I never had service from the Internet, phone and cable division of DMI (Douche Monkey, Inc.).

After a taxing day at the office yesterday, I came home looking forward to a little of this and that with that involving either my TV or my computer. Isn’t it amazing how these devices fail to perform to their highest potential when the signals provided and received by and from DMI fail to make it into your house?

I have an inkling of an idea how this happened. Saturday I noticed the freight elevator in my building was “Reserved for Move In” on both the first floor and my floor. Being the smart guy I am, I surmised someone was moving into or out of an apartment on my floor. Beyond that, I paid no more attention.

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Until I came home yesterday and had no fucking cable, phone or Internet service. If I didn’t have a cell I might still be wandering in that electron-free wasteland searching for some electron manna to ease my suffering.

Using my last link to the outside world, I dialed DMI on my mobile, jumped through prompt mine field they have and finally, FINALLY, got to speak with a live human being to explain my situation.

“I’m sorry Mr. Dew, we have no other reports of outages in your area, so the next available appointment we have for a tech to come out is Wednesday between 1 and 5.”

“Sorry,” I told the person on the other end, “I’m usually at work between 1 p.m. and 5 p.m.”

“Well,” she said, “we have a morning appointment…”

“No, you don’t get it, between 7:30 a.m. and 5:30 or so p.m., I’m at work. I don't have time to take time off to wait for your tech to fix a problem completely of your doing.”

After another round of back-and-forth, I decided I’d let the Douche Monkey techs get a close look at my modem and cable box. They can pour over them as much as they like after I return them after canceling my service. Unlike many people who have no option when it comes to service from Douche Monkey, Inc., the building I live in is wired with both Douche Monkey cable and the pretty glass fibers of Verizon’s FiOS.

This is not a brash decision because this is not the first time I’ve had major problems with DMI. I won’t get into the whole long, convoluted and sad story, but suffice it to say through a billing error solely on THEIR part, I once received a bill for more than $800.

So, before one of the simian techs from DMI has the chance to pee on my rug (thanks to Nick, Lemon Gloria’s hubby, for this visual), fling his poo around my apartment or rape me (another wonderful Nick image), I’m through with them. Never again will the dark and demonic shadow of a Comcast Douche Monkey darken my door.

I said Good Day, Sir!

[Note: After almost four full days sans electrons coming into my abode, the cable guy showed up around 7:45 Friday night. Although, this was not with out it's own comedy since the Friday night desk guy in my building is, I suspect, just a little on the racist side, and the cable guy was black. So, when he couldn't get me on the phone, the desk guy walked the cable guy up to my apartment, knocked on the door and asked if I was expecting a service call. "Yes," I replied. "But there was no answer on the phone," he complained. "This man is here to fix my phone."

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That over, and with less than 15 minutes before face-off of Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals, the cable guy got to work and plugged in the connection someone had unplugged Monday, thereby restoring the flow of electrons into my home. Seriously, it took about five minutes.

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The only reason I got it fixed instead of changed over to that fiber-optic option is because they couldn't install fast enough for me to watch the Pens with the Cup. Hockey's done now, so DMI's days are numbered despite the friendly service of its contract tech.]

Membership drive

All right, I’m officially beginning the movement for a new party, the Luddite Party. I’d say I’m about to above average in the “tech-savvy” department. Hell, being a guy I love all things with electrons running through their silicon and copper veins.

But I just saw something that’s making me rethink this whole “information superhighway” thingy.

Not only have I been in meetings where the attendees spend more time with their noses in their Crackberries than paying attention to the person running the meeting, I’ve been the person running the meeting. That shit's just rude. And, just today, in the lobby of my building, I saw a woman standing dead, stock still as she scrolled through whateverthehellitwas on her dealer device getting her electron fix.

I’ll even personally admit to maybe, just maybe, checking a score or two while sitting in what an old roommate called “the Reading Room.”

But all of these examples of electron dependence fall so far short of what I just saw. In fact, I’m having a hard time believing I actually saw what I saw.

A short while ago, during a journey to the men’s, the guy two pissers over (leaving the obligatory vacant space) looked up from his biz and greeted me with a “Hey man.” Despite this shocking breech of bathroom etiquette, I gave an upward nod of the head in return. And then saw what I saw.

Dude had his dick in one hand and his electron crack pipe in the other checking his email. There is nothing in the world delivered via email that’s so, so very important it can’t wait 37 seconds. I'm guessing you'd probably get to it even faster and with fewer chances of an "accident" if you waited those seconds, finished, shook and zipped before scrolling.

Even if illicit North Korean nukes are screaming toward the West Coast at 25 times the speed of sound (about 19,000 mph) I’m sure the Prez, who’s famous for his Crackberry addiction, would put it aside for a moment to take a leak in peace. Yanno, before showing Kim Jong-il what a real nuke looks like.

As much as I’d want an iPhone or Crackberry myself, it’s scenes like these keeping me on the straight and narrow and away from the electron dealers.

The worst pain…ever

I’m feeling a bit of a ranty mood coming on today. You’ve been warned.

Folks, when the traffic is jammed up like on, say, I-395 going past the Pentagon toward the 14th Street bridge at just about any hour of the day, is it really necessary to pull up as close to the car in front of you to prevent people (me) from merging from the on-ramps? It’s a shitty interchange. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it.

Funny, this is the picture I got when I Googled "Mixing Bowl"

The road goes up a hill, down a hill, bends to the right, then the left around the Pentagon then back to the right again before crossing the 14th Street bridge and then bending to the right, left and right again. There are on and off-ramps coming and going every which way as they please and, seriously, whatthefuck were they thinking? Whoever designed this thing should be flogged within an inch of their professional lives with their T-square. Or, rather, I’d think, their compass since there are so many bends in this road.

But that doesn’t mean you, as a driver, have to do everything in your power short of using a particle accelerator to join your bumper to the car in front of yours to stop me from getting on the highway.

Those a bit crunchier-than-thou among us would say, “Well, if you were riding a bike you wouldn’t have to worry about all of that.” True, but that’s not the point of this rant, so shutthefuckup. (Those of you who know me, know I have a bike, love riding it and will, if properly outraged by rude drivers, not hesitate a whit to use my fist on the fenders of offending cars. U-locks work really well too.)

Seriously, you’re not going to get to where you’re headed any faster by cutting me off from merging. All you’re going to do is up your already dangerously high blood pressure and risk blowing out that artery twitching in your forehead long before you can tap into your depleted 401k.

So, it’s called the “zipper.” If you’re crawling along in rush hour traffic in the right lane it’s your responsibility, nay, your duty, to allow a car on the on-ramp to merge in front of you.

Learn it. Love it. Live it.

Second verse, same as the first
Oh my god! Everyone run for the hills with your duct tape and antibiotics, the swine flu is gonna get ya. (Note: Neither of these items will actually help you when it comes to swine flu, just wanted to mention that. Yanno, for legal purposes.)

Or, at least that’s what you’d be thinking if you watched the news in the past two days. CNN this morning was like the Swine Flu News Channel (SFNC). I heard news about it on Elliot in the Morning on the drive in. Apparently, according to the report I heard on the radio, the Israeli health minister doesn’t like the idea of “swine flu” because it’s not kosher, and from hence forth, it will be called “Mexican flu” because, yanno, that’s so much less offensive.

But would you like to guess how many people the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are, as of this morning, reporting have come down with the dreaded malady?

Three million? (1 percent of the U.S. population.) No.

Thirty thousand? (1/10,000 of the U.S. population.) No.

Three hundred? (1/1,000,000 of the U.S. population.) No.

The answer? Forty, yes, 40. Four-zero. Just slightly more than one ten-millionth of the American population (13 millionths). Let’s say that number again: ONE TEN-MILLIONTH. (This number should rise significantly, numbers speaking, in the next day or so as tests are completed, but c’mon.)

According to M. Webster, a pandemic is an outbreak occurring over a wide geographic area and affecting an exceptionally high proportion of the population. What does this mean?

According to CDC, malaria is prevalent in areas of the world where about half the population live (3.2 billion). Each year 350 million to 500 million cases of malaria are diagnosed (5.8 percent to 8.3 percent of the world population). One million of these people die, 80 percent living in sub-Saharan Africa.

Funny, CNN isn’t giving this any air time, but let a couple of people in NYC or SoCal get the sniffles? You’ve got yourself a national story of the utmost importance.

Swine flu is the friggin’ flu people. Cover your mouths when you sneeze or cough, keep your fingers out of your nose and eyes and, if you feel like shit?

Don’t. Go. To. Work.

Stay home on the couch, keep a bucket handy and watch some Sports Center and TNT’s “Primetime in the Daytime,” drink lots of fluids and get better. If you don’t feel better, call your doctor. Here’s some more helpful advice from the really, really smart people at CDC.

The pain! The pain!
It starts slow, but spreads quickly. Like a lightning flash, every nerve ending in your body is on fire. It is a pain that can never, ever be equaled.

Guys, you know what I’m talking about.

It’s the pain caused by not being able to play with a new electronic toy because, say, it’s missing the right friggin’ monitor cable.

Making matters worse, the Apple store doesn’t have one in stock.

Ya know what? I’ve been looking forward to my new computer for days. Yesterday, after I saw FedEx had delivered it, I had to hold myself back from leaving work early to go home and play with it.

But when I figured out I couldn’t play with it last night, well, that was like Steve Jobs kicking me in the jimmy.

The pain is almost too much to endure.

Prop 8 Redux

I haven’t ranted in a while so, with all the snow falling from the heavens today and the pace of work a little slower than usual, I thought it’s time for a good old fashion diatribe. A screed if you will on one of my favorite topics from last year.


On the day after the election I wrote about how California voters had outlawed gay marriage but, at the same time, approved a ballot measure giving egg-laying chickens more rights.

I believe my reaction was something like this: “Are you seriously fucking kidding me? What the fuck is up with that state? How the hell do you go into a voting booth and say ‘I think we need to be nicer to chickens and give them enough room to stand up, spread their wings and turn around, but screw those fags and dykes they don't deserve the chance to love someone and be happy.’ ”

Actually, that was exactly what I said. I checked.

Well, according to the news this morning, attorneys for and against Prop 8 are heading to the California Supreme Court this week to argue their case before that august and esteemed body. (I don’t know if they actually are august or esteemed, but I liked the phrase.)

To me it seems the basic question the court must answer is this: If a majority of voters approve, can they deprive a minority of their fellow citizens of what the U.S. Supreme court has already said is a basic civil right?

In Loving v. Virginia the Court ruled:

“Marriage is one of the ‘basic civil rights of man,’ fundamental to our very existence and survival.... To deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the racial classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive all the State's citizens of liberty without due process of law. The Fourteenth Amendment requires that the freedom of choice to marry not be restricted by invidious racial discrimination. Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State.”

I included the whole citation from Wikipedia here to point out that Loving v. Virginia was a case dealing with the right of a white man to marry a black woman in Virginia, hence the descriptions of racial classifications and discrimination. I know some don’t like comparing the fight for civil rights based on race to those of sexual orientation, the thinking being it lessens the importance of those successes. But the truth is a lot of people really didn’t like the idea of equal rights for people who didn’t look like them in the first place.

To make it even more clear that Prop 8 is a violation of all our rights (in my opinion, of course), Section 1 of the Fourteenth Amendment reads, in part, “No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

Seems simple, states cannot make laws – like the ones that once prohibited interracial marriage – to deprive individuals of their rights. And, since marriage has been declared a right, they can’t prevent eligible citizens (i.e., those who are of age and such) from marrying someone they love.

(Personally, I feel marriage is a religious institution and the state has absolutely no business mucking around in it. Why the hell should people have to ask the state for permission to take part in a religious ceremony?)

Ballot referendums are a useful tool. They are often used to right wrongs elected officials are unwilling to pursue. But they can and are abused from time to time. The passage of Proposition 8 was one of those times. It’s easy to see how the term “racial classifications” in Loving can and should just as easily read “sexual orientation” today.

Or, better yet: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.”