Misplaced Modifier

Last week two men, Desmond Turner and James Stewart, entered a house in an impoverished and overrun neighborhood on the east side of Indianapolis and left having murdered seven members of a blended family. This neighborhood is mere minutes from where I grew up, went to school, and delivered newspapers all through college. I drive through this neighborhood at least once a week and have traversed it twice today. The crime itself has been readily categorized as the worst murder case to befall Indianapolis in decades. The horrific details made their way to national news. In fact, I was in Washington, D.C. when the events unfolded and had to watch a hometown tragedy from a detached position.

Through what appears to be police work par excellence, both suspects were apprehended and in custody in 48 hours. The city was able to breath a sigh of relief, but cold comfort really with seven funerals, trials, and numerous questions that may or may not go unanswered are still on the horizon.

On Tuesday June 6, Marion county prosecutor Carl Brizzi held a press conference to announce his decision to definitely seek a death penalty for Turner and leave the option open for Stewart. Brizzi has multiple witnesses, eye- witnesses and even further accomplices to help him build his case against what is turning out to be two men with little or no regard for human life. Details of the investigation were released in a probable cause affidavit that will chill any reader with its precise details while at the same time reassure citizens that Brizzi’s case looks rock solid against the two men. Yet, Brizzi turned a phrase in his press conference that immediately got my ire. He noted that these crimes were, “a cowardly act. An act of terrorism.”

Hold the phone. Terrorism?

Now I can only see two logical reasons as to why Brizzi would have chosen these words to describe what is most certainly a cowardly act of the most heinous degree: a) he’s merely reflecting the liquid semantics of our cherished English language or b) he purposefully misused it for shock value.

In the Reconstruction South, southern sympathizers of the imposed northern forces were branded scallywags, a word that is now synonymous with any scoundrel, not just turncoats in Alabama. A troubled, oddly-built man used to walk up and down Arlington Ave. in Indianapolis – always clad in shorts – tearing down any garage sale or lost puppy sign posted on telephone poles. He was obviously unstable and quite an imposing presence. My family called him simply, “The Nazi.” Though he did wear jackboots, we never saw him profess any fascist ideals nor swear allegiance to the fatherland, nor ever claim to have been to Argentina. Throughout my youth, any individual purposefully set against the status quo or progress was quickly branded a “communist,” no matter what color his socks were.

Has terrorist mad the leap? Is it now a catchall for anyone we’d rather not have counted in our number? I hope not. One need look no further than Canada where officials unearthed a plot by 17 individuals to detonate a bomb larger than the one Timothy McVeigh set off in Oklahoma City and behead their prime minister in order to free all Muslim prisoners amongst other objectives. This happened hours ago. I think this example alone should preclude anyone from trying to forcibly evolve the nomenclature.

And it may seem academic, or bookish, or even down right snooty, but terrorism as it was used by Carl Brizzi does not mean what he intended it to mean. Terrorism is not defined by action as much as it is defined by intent. Those conspirators in Canada were not interested in killing people as an end, but as a means to coerce others into changing their beliefs, actions, or intent. Terrorism has at its root the desire to use force – often deadly force – as a means to impose the terrorist’s will. As counter-intuitive as terrorism is, it is what it is. I’m reminded of what David Letterman noted on September 17, 2001. “If you live to be a thousand years old, will that make any sense to you? Will that make any goddamned sense?”

Did Brizzi think he was shoring up his case against these two? I don’t think he needs to. According to the probable cause affidavit, Desmond Turner made public his intention to “kill everyone in the house” in order to rob them. Turner and Stewart killed people as do terrorists, but Turner had no agenda beyond sick greed. Turner is not the leader of a syndicate with revolution on their flag. Desmond Turner is a murderer. Thankfully, he is also behind bars and most likely will be for the rest of his life. We don’t have to reinvent our language because try as you might, what Turner and Stewart did still remains beyond words.

I very much doubt that Carl Brizzi was a victim of a language changing at the speed of Google. I also doubt that if Brizzi thinks something at the water cooler is hilarious he flashes up a quick LOL. I’d like to think Brizzi made a very poor choice of words for shock value, but he’s actually done this before. Why shock us? What is more shocking than three children face down on a bed murdered with an assault rifle? What is more shocking than a man who weeks earlier had confided in a friend that he was interested in turning his life around only to end up going on a murderous wild goose chase for a rumored safe full of money? Did anyone really need to have the severity and hopelessness of this murder driven home by calling some recidivist low-life a terrorist?

Yet still Brizzi branded Turner and Stewart terrorists, as he did with Terrance Anderson, a man who murdered two men in June 2005. (In fairness, Brizzi called Anderson an “urban terrorist.”) This misplaced, willy-nilly name calling for mere shock value flies in the face of Brizzi’s personal stance on the war on terror outlined on his website. Nowhere in his plan to fight terrorism does Brizzi address street level criminals and old-fashioned sons of Cain. The closest he comes is promising to deal swiftly with those who have false identification or make fake terrorist threats. Curious. Do us all a favor, Mr. Brizzi. Call these men what they are, murderers. Update your website while you’re at it.

I’m willing to let English evolve further, but we’re still not ready to label any rapscallion a terrorist yet. As of today, that word is still more concrete than clay. It’ll happen though, I’m sure. If you don’t believe me just remember that in 1945 Nazis were on trial for crimes against humanity. By 1995, nazis wouldn’t serve you soup if they damn well pleased.

What a world.

Chris Hansen is an egomaniac (not to mention a c*ckblock)

This man is Chris Hansen, professional a-hole. Wednesday night, NBC featured 2 full hours of Chris Hansen busting alleged pedophiles as they tried to close the deal on trysts with minors, all of which were arranged in online chat sessions full of graphic suggestions and several misspellings. I know what you're thinking. How could NBC be failing miserably in the ratings when they're spending the 8p-10p block showing Chris Hansen bust unsavory shady pederasts? Isn't there some variation of "Deal or no Deal" that they can just run 24 hours a day? Alas, Howie Mandel and his stable of skanks with suitcases cannot carry a network alone. (Incidentally, look for the spinoff, "Skanks with Suitcases" starting this fall on NBC following "The Office"!)

In this particular episode of Dateline, Chris Hansen traveled to Ohio. As Deadspin and The M Zone will tell you, the men of Ohio apparently love three things above all else:

1. THE Ohio State University Buckeyes
2. Moustaches
3. Underage tail

Time and time again during this self-proclaimed "Dateline exclusive" (can you really call it "exclusive" if this same stunt has aired over and over more times than "Joey?") a police informant posing as a minor would lure and entrap a naive adult male to a house, promising rewards of cookies and 13-year-old trim in exchange for Mike's Hard Lemonade and, one would assume, free moustache rides. Of course, when each social misfit would show up to the house, they were not greeted with the bounty of heavy petting in the swimsuit area, but rather the glaring stare of Chris Hansen, journalistic hack. As he gave the 3rd degree to each of the suddenly nervous offenders, Chris Hansen was always sure to ask 2 critical questions.
1. Do you know who I am? (The answer usually was a confused look and a few men guessing, "a cop?")
2. Do you ever watch Dateline NBC? (Sadly, it seems nobody gave the correct answer, "Yes, you're the "news" show that intentionally blew up trucks and called it investigative journalism.)

Kudos to you Chris Hansen, and to everyone at NBC "News". Some people may accuse you of spending thousands of dollars to rent a house, pay for the services of Perverted Justice, and work hand-in-hand with government officials to not only document a police sting, but in fact to be an active participant in an operation which - as unpleasant as the offenders are - borders on entrapment. Some would say that rather than reporting the news, you are in fact making the news yourself and disguising the exploitative sham as investigative journalism. But I think it's quite obvious that the good outweighs the bad. At the end of the day, there's really only one thing that matters: Making sure that as many child molesters as possible know who Chris Hansen is. Good luck and God speed. That move out of 4th place in the ratings is just around the corner.

Bartender, More Orbs for My Men

I have four sisters. Two older. Two younger. By August 2004, all but one of the younger two had been married off in quintessential churchy weddings having wrought me seven nieces and nephews. The final embarkation into marital bliss ended up being a destination wedding in the Florida Keys. Needless to say, I was in attendance, though I did wear flip-flops.

Beachside weddings, gazebos, and voluntarily bumped flights aside, I found myself in Key West amidst family members, Hemingway, and oodles of wild roosters and six-toed cats. (Key West is a happenin’ key, let me tell ya.) It doesn’t take too many romps down Duval St. to see numerous ads for the two local ghost tours because Key West boasts itself as almost as haunted as New Orleans. Tickets were purchased. Twilight set upon us. The ghost tour began.

Lucky for us – myself, the wife, the youngest sister, classification MCw/C* - we had chosen the less popular of the available tours. Evidently the kids that slid in from New Jersey and other environs were really jazzed about the opposing tour because it was lantern led! Well they can have their lantern in one hand and rove about in a teeming mob in the other. Our tour only had six or so people.

Intimacy, check.

We wove past many a historic locale with our well-informed yet slightly iffy guide which actually made me think she truly believed everything she fed us. The other lantern-led wags were following some dork in a cape and top hat…who happened to be my guide earlier in the day at Hemingway’s house. He’s obviously phoning it in, and Starla/Inquisiline/Lady Mysterio or whatever our guide’s name was, was just freaky and soft spoken enough to make me think there actually was a haunted doll that doesn’t like to have its picture taken without permission two stories above me. Hell, she had a binder full of photographs to prove it. Put that in your lantern and smoke it.

It was those photographs that sealed the deal. Along our tour, I was introduced to the world of orbs, mainly free-floating balls of light/energy/pixie dust that tend to reveal themselves only in developed photographs. Our guide had numerous examples of these otherwise harmless balls of light. Photographic anomaly, possibly, but when we stopped near an old church with an older graveyard behind I decided to throw reason out the window. We had run into a couple that after taking the tour earlier were revisiting some of the high points. With no preparation or coaxing the guide told them to take a snapshot of the precipice of the church with their digital camera. Bam. Orbs. Plain as day.

The tour progressed and by the end of the evening I was ready to change my name to Peter Venkman. We had too many run-ins with those not finished with this earth to recount in one post (Let’s just say we punctuated the evening by running hell-bent to escape the evil clutches of a haunted elevator). I emerged leaning farther over the fence toward the substantiation of orbs, ghosts, specters and all things spooky.

Flash forward to last Friday. I’m at the Smithsonian looking at the flag that was hung over the scar in the Pentagon on September 12, 2001. It’s massive, so massive I had to scurry back to the edges of the hall, past the ubiquitous hordes of middle school students, to get the whole thing in one picture. 184 people died in the attack on the Pentagon. Did I mention I kind of believe in orbs? Have a look for yourself.

*Married, Child, with Child – accurate as of August 2004

6-6-6

An online betting service is currently giving 10,000-1 odds for anyone willing to bet that the apocalypse will happen today. These odds are intriguing enough that I was debating throwing down 5 bucks just out of curiosity. This passed quickly however, as I imagine that were I to actually win this bet, collecting my winnings would be difficult at best, what with the world ending and all. Luckily for me, I have experience in the area of waiting for the world to end.

The first semester of my senior year at college I took an English class entitled "“Literature of the Apocalypse,"” a course as cheery as it sounds. It was based on the writings by Nostradamus among others, asserting when the end of the days would come. My english professor, an otherwise very logical and smart man, seemed to be convinced that the world would end at midnight on January 1st, 2000. His not so subtle reminder of this belief was represented when he entered class every day and before doing anything else, he would mark the chalkboard with the dwindling number of days that we had left. We all got a good laugh out of this the first few weeks of the semester, but as the number on the chalkboard grew lower and lower, it led to some uneasiness among us. I'’m not sure if he actually believed that the world was ending or not, but whether he believed it didn'’t matter. The point was that he sold it repeatedly; never giving a wink or smile to indicate that he was putting us on. I enjoyed the class more and more as the semester went on. The awkward silences at the beginning of class when people looked up and saw "“27 days left" was infinitely entertaining to me. Plus we got to watch Rosemary'’s Baby one day, so that was awesome.

Needless to say, the world did not end when 1/1/00 came, although I would be lying if I said that the thought didn'’t enter my mind several times during my drunken New Years Eve. I silently wondered if maybe I should warn people. What if the apocalypse came and I kept the info to myself? Would that be frowned upon? I felt a sigh of relief when the clock struck midnight. After all, if I had seen Dick Clark broadcasting with angry green skies behind him, and frivolous party-goers strewn across the streets of Times Square with their eyes bulging from their skulls and genitals bleeding of their own accord, well, I would have been more than a little embarrassed.

So with my conscience clear today, don't say I didnt warn you, kids. And also, stay off the pipe.

Eddie Cheever: Necessary Idiot

Role playing time. Let’s imagine you’re Marco Andretti, fabled scion of racing royalty, headline grabbing teenage darling, and IRL driver with the skills and performance to fend off whatever open-wheeled Kournikova curse might be lurking around the next chicane. Now, plop yourself into the well-dampened course at Watkins Glen. Did I mention you’re running the fastest laps on the track and mere minutes from putting that humbling Sam Hornish defeat in the Indy 500 fully behind you? In a word, you are an 800 horsepower stud ready to usurp Danica Patrick and earn your own deodorant deal.

Say hello to Eddie Cheever. You remember Eddie. He put you nose first into a tire barrier earlier this year at St. Petersburg and no doubt leveled some smug, off-handed excuse for the undercutting. Well Eddie’s up to his old tricks again, and he’s ready to take out the frustrations of a lackluster day and cold tires on your NYSE car.

Kretch! You somehow find yourself skidding down yet another tire barrier and emerge from the fracas fist shaking and in 16th place. Adding insult to injury, you just wrecked your dad’s car thanks to a 48-year-old idiot who has still managed to do something neither you nor your dad has, win the Indianapolis 500. Ain’t that a pissah. Your official response, “If he says he didn’t know I was [alongside] he doesn’t belong in this series. Ridiculous.”

Your opinion is justifiable. Your nose just t-boned a stack of Firestones. You’re at the back of the pack. You’re mad. You’re also absolutely wrong about Eddie Cheever. The more ridiculous an idiot he is, the more the IRL needs him.

Ever since the dawn of man, life has been enriched by the presence of an enemy, a foil, a nemesis. Stone age cave drawings depict men hunting great bison and mastodons, not reclining in front of a bookcase for a caveman family portrait. The oldest narrative, Gilgamesh, is rife with opposition for everyone’s favorite Sumerian giant. Call it good and evil or yin v. yang, but try to imagine the 1936 Berlin Olympic achievement of Jesse Owens without the backdrop of an emerging Nazi Germany and Hitler’s quest for a master race. Jump ahead to 1938 when Joe Louis pummeled Max Schmeling in a 124 second rematch even further at the heels of WWII. The miracle on ice, Seabiscuit v. War Admiral, and even IBM v. Apple are all born of the very human need to hate someone so much you’re willing to do whatever it takes to take them down.

That’s your cue, Mr. Cheever.

Eddie Cheever is the latest in a long line of knuckleheads that make our achievements all the sweeter. I myself have partaken in many battles of wit only to be smote by a wiry band of overcooked, overeducated blatherskites. Their victories were genuine, but any time my team was able to best them, even if finishing second to last, it was an event to behold. I was an eye witness to many great Purdue v. Indiana basketball matchups that were made doubly succulent when paired with a Gene Keady and Bob Knight tandem. Once Bobby got drummed down to Lubbock, the rivalry lost a bit of its sheen and the exit of Gene loomed in the offing.

The world needs bad guys because without them good guys would be nothing more than boring showoffs. I give you Michael Schumacher. Had Eddie Cheever not barreled recklessly into Marco yesterday we may have seen a nineteen-year-old with the laurel wreath. However, fate wove a separate ending and the IRL (easily the dominant open-wheel circuit in the US) now has an authentic soap-opera feud that would make the cast of Dynasty jealous and the NASCAR execs weep with envy.

Scout needed Boo. Marco, you need Eddie.

He is an idiot though. No doubt about it.