Missing: My Stereo

Let me say this about stealing a guy's car stereo: You gotta be a real son of a bitch to steal a guy's car stereo.

But that's exactly what happened to me this morning.

As I walked out my place for work this morning, I noticed a couple guys standing around my car, a black Toyota Celica.

I thought, "Oh how nice. They're admiring Raam Lightening."

"This your car, man?" one guy asked.

"Sure is," I responded. "Keep your dirty paws off her."

As I approached the car, I realized what they were looking at, and it wasn't the the naked girl on the mudflaps.

The passenger window was shattered. My stereo had been yanked, and it was clear that the thieves' screwdriver had done a number carving up the center console.

What pisses me off is how much destruction was done just for a measly CD player. I would've gladly given the thief the stereo if it had saved me all of the hassle and money of reparing the car. Hell, I would've taken it out myself.

It seems like there are far easier ways to make a buck than breaking into a guy's car.

Hell, hold me up, or cut the chain off my bike. But smashing a car's window and tearing up the interior just for a cheap stereo seems vindicative, or, dare I said, inconsiderate.

A lousy stereo! It couldn't have cost more than 50 bucks.

Now if the thief had broken into my house and stolen my TV, laptop and fake plants, maybe I'd be a bit more understanding. I'd think, "Oh, this poor fellow must be trying to send his kid to Middlebury."

But a lousy stereo? Well, I hope the bastard is enjoying my $50 stereo, as well as my 9-CD audiobook of Bill Clinton's My Life and my Best of Patsy Cline album.

(Just kidding. I don't like Bill Clinton.)

It was also startling to see what he left behind: a checkbook, a Cure CD and my Patsy Cline fan club membership card.

This is, unfortunatly, the second time that my car's been broken into. The first time, a bunch of CDs that included Dave Matthews and showtunes were stolen. Maybe having you car burglarized every few years is a good way to purge your bad musical tastes.

City Different

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So, how is life in Santa Fe? In a word, terrific.

Friends ask me how I like it here, since I moved to Santa Fe nearly two months ago. I rack my brain for something to complain about, but come up empty. It's terrific.

People ask me if it's hot here. It is. But not the shirt-stuck-to-your-back variety of heat. It's warm, dry, and afternoon monsoons -- loud, thunderous rainstorms -- dampen the land and break the heat. Still, Santa Fe is the nation's highest state capital at nearly 7,000 feet, so it's mostly mild in the summer, and cold and snowy in the winter, at least that's what I'm told.

Around the city of Santa Fe, it's brown and dry. But drive into the city center, and the town explodes with the color and vitality of hundreds of artists and the adobe homes and shops that keep them and me cool.

With all the great art and scenery here, I'm almost embarassed to post my photos. But as my family can tell you, an overwhelming sense of humliation has never stopped me from doing something before. So, here goes:

Raam and Mom, Mary

And now a note on this blog. For the time being, I'm taking a break from writing humor columns. This is for two reasons. One, I haven't had a funny thought since May 2, 1987. Second, due to the nature of my profession, I think it's inappropriate for me to continue to blog. So I'll return to the original purpose of this blog -- showcasing some of my photos. Thanks.

Guilt at Chipotle

WASHINGTON --- Outside the Chipotle Mexican restaurant that I frequent most every day, volunteers from Save the Children often stand on the sidewalk, attempting to flag down pedestrians with their clipboards and a chirpy, “Hi! How are ya?!”

Most people keep walking, tuned out to the volunteers as they tune in to their iPods.

The first few times I encountered the volunteers I stopped to listen to their sad statistics of global poverty and stories of children going to bed hungry.

Each time, the stories tugged at my heart strings.

I’d ask, “You mean, these kids don’t have Chipotle?”

While I admire the work that these volunteers do, I’ve never found it necessary to write a check.

To me, my bleeding-heart, fervent belief that these children should be helped, is enough to absolve me of any responsibility of actually doing anything to help them.

“A dollar a day is just too much of a sacrifice,” I’ll say as I sip my Starbucks.

I can understand the difficulty of the work. I used to go door-to-door and make phone calls for political campaigns.

I vowed that I would never become one of the mean, jaded people who often hung up on me or slammed the door in my face.

But that’s what I’ve become as I brush past the volunteers, giving them a fake smile and a cold, “Sorry, I have a meeting,” as I rush for my Yoga class.

Today, during my Chipotle lunch --- my 1,000th burrito, by the way --- I decided to try a different tact.

Instead of feeling like an asshole in ignoring the volunteers, I decided I would simply tell them that I already gave the group money.

After all, what’s wrong with a little white lie when it comes to feeding 500 million starving children?

But the plan’s execution was disastrous. I exited the Chipotle and began walking down Connecticut Ave. toward another Chipotle for my afternoon snack.

The sidewalk was lined with six of the volunteers, one on each block.

I smiled at each of them and said I had already given them money.

The volunteers treated me like a hero, each growing increasingly appreciative of what I had not done:

“Hey, that’s terrific! Thanks!”

“Alright, man! You just fed 50 hungry children!”

“You are like Gandhi, Mother Theresa and Bono rolled up into one!”

I felt horrible as I picked at my second burrito. It didn’t satisfy me.

The burrito left me feeling so empty that it might as well have been made with a scoop of shame and a sprinkling of my mother’s “why-haven’t-you-called?” guilt.

I thought about the previous night out at a bar, where, struggling to make conversation with a pretty woman, I grilled her about what toppings she got in her burrito.

The conversation ended when she mentioned that she liked extra sour cream.

This evening, I gave in and made my contribution. (And you can too at savethechildren.org)

Obviously, I didn’t give money out of any sense of do-goodness, but simply to relieve my sense of guilt.

Like a bland Chipotle burrito, pure altruism doesn’t exist.

Still, if people acting in their own self-interest allow a few thousand Ethiopian kids to eat at their local Chipotle tonight, then I’m all for it.

Marine for a Day

Capt. Duncan stared out at us, a dozen wussie journalists learning to be embedded war correspondents. He was explaining the day's agenda.

"... And in the afternoon," he said, "we'll have a little lunch, and then you'll go into the gas chamber and get gassed."

We were a tad shocked. Getting gassed isn't your typical post-lunch activity. I could see a nap, maybe, or even some friendly conversation about what we just ate and who are favorite celebrities are.

But a gassing?

My mom always told me that after eating, you should wait at least an hour before getting gassed.

I didn't believe him, and for the rest of the day every time he mentioned not wanting to be "late to the gas chamber" or warned of the side effects ---"watering eye, burning flesh and nonstop snot-rockets" --- I chuckled to myself. He wasn't fooling me.

How wrong I was.

Only the select few are admitted into the Marines, and only a smaller number actually survive the rigors of basic training at Quantico Marine Corps Base. I spent Monday there getting just a small taste of what basic training is like.

I pictured the pioneering war correspondents that had come before me.

I had to wonder, did I have what it took to be the next Geraldo Rivera? The courage? The bravado? The mustache wax?

As Cptn. Duncan lead us around the base, I looked around at countless lieutenants running, jumping and crawling through obstacles courses, followed by hundreds of pull ups and push ups.

I've been working out for several months now, and I was secretly hoping that Cptn. Duncan might dare me to attempt some of the Marine drills, allowing me to show off my accomplishments in the gym.

Cptn. Duncan might say, "Who here thinks they can do 20 minutes on the Elliptical while reading Women's World?"

"I can, sir!" I'd yell.

He'd command me: "Lt Wong, get down and give me 20 Butt Busters! And then I want a Downward Facing Dog for 30 seconds!"

I'd impress my colleagues as I changed into my leotard, and then stretched, strutted and squeezed on my yoga mat as Marines stood around saluting me.

At lunch, Cptn. Duncan passed out Meals Ready to Eat, filled with dehydrated, vacu-sealed chips, cookies, peanuts and an entree like meat loaf or enchiladas.

But to my dismay, the captain said that they didn't make low-carb MRE's. I stewed in anger as I ate the beef from my enchilada and threw the tortilla away. I may learn important lessons at this "Marine school," but there was no way I was going to blow six months of step aerobics for a lousy tortilla.

The moment was upon us. We followed Cptn. Duncan down a long dirt road. We sat on bleachers as several Marines explained how to properly strap our gas masks to our faces in less than 9 seconds.

I was nonchalant about the whole thing, cracking jokes and doing my best Darth Vader impression.

We put on our chemical suits and tightened our masks as Cptn. Duncan started the "CS gas" --- which he explained was a "concentrated form of pepper spray."

"What a gas," I joked, as white clouds whafted around the twelve of us sitting there with our chemical gear on. "This is nothing," I said.

Around us, several Marines stood several feet away without masks on. They began coughing and tearing up. That is some acting, I thought.

Cptn. Duncan told us we could remove the masks if we liked, to "see what the CS smells like."

Still not believing that it wasn't really just dry ice, I removed my mask.

Instantly, my skin was burning, like my flesh was melting off my face. I jumped up like a school girl and ran for the woods. My eyes filled with tears and I gagged, coughed and spat, my skin continuing to burn.

I looked around to see who else had been dumb enough to take off his mask. Not a one. Behind me, my classmates sat content on the bleachers with their masks on, breathing easily and watching me stumble and trip around the woods.

It was then that I realized who I am.

Yes, I'm "That Guy."

I'm That Guy who wears socks with his sandals. That Guy who talks during movies. And apparently, That Guy, who, during chemical war fare, would probably trust an insurgent who tell him, "Take off your mask. It smells just like peppermint!"

I left Quantico with a profound respect for the Marines, their dedication, intelligence and courage. I also left knowing I would never cut it as a Marine.

But maybe, just maybe, if I work hard enough, I might one day become the ultimate That Guy: Geraldo Rivera.






Budding war correspondents

Kim happy, Brando ready to shoot

This is, without a doubt, the most embarrassing
photo of myself that I've ever seen. Our instructor
told us probably a dozen times, "The most important
thing I want you to remember is, never point a
gun at a Marine."

(In fairness, I don't believe the Marine was directly
in front of me, despite his body langauge that seems
to say, "Why don't we put that down?")

The Blind Leading the Blind

I think there might be a colony of blind people living in my apartment building. Out on the street yesterday, I watched as a parade of 25 blind folks with their canes and guide dogs exited the building and entered taxi cabs. It may explain why we're allowed to have pets in our apartment.

I watched as one man in sunglasses walked briskly on the gym treadmill, his Golden Retriever trotting along with him.

This morning in the elevator, a blind woman named Cathy began telling me about how she had just finished reading the Bible.

"Which version?" I asked.

"Well, I listened to it on tape, but then when I got bored, I read it in braille," she said.

Another man bumped into me as I was getting off the elevator.

"Oh excuse me," he said. "How are you? I'm Ken."

Ken was nice enough, but he bumped into me three more times as we exited the building and then waited at the bus stop together. Each time he ran into me with his cane or his hands, he introduced himself again, thinking I was a different person.

Feeling awkward, I kept responding in a different voice, the last time mimicking a Soutern belle waiting for her bus.

I kept wanting to ask Ken if he knew any famous blind people. But then I realized that my asking him if he knew Stevie Wonder was like his asking me if I knew the prime minister of China . . . which I don't.

ROAD TRIP JOURNAL (Part 3)
Sleep on the Cheap

After two nights of camping, I decided to splurge on more comfortable accomodations in a motel and a hostel.

The motel in Lincoln, Nebraska offered sweeping views of an airport runway and a pink neon sign blinking, "Jim's Erotica."

Apparently, my motel --- the "Economy Lodge" --- used to be an Econo Lodge. The name-change wasn't hard to figure out. On everything from the ice buckets to the telephone, the resourceful new owners had scrawled an extra "my" onto the outdated logo, reflecting the new name.

I've never felt so broke as that night staying in a discounted knock-off of an Econo Lodge motel.

All around me were other knock-offs, from a Mariot Motel down the street to the Cheapotle Grille next door.

Across the tracks from me, a new Econo Lodge had opened up. I watched jealously as the noveau riche pulled up in their sparkling Camrys and Escorts.

I pictured the rich and powerful inside indulging in a chlorinated whirlpool, a "Continental" breakfest and free HBO.

My room was a dump, which is no good for me, a Certifiably Irrational and Paranoid Obsessive Compulsive Germaphob, known by the acronymn C.I.A.P.O.C.G.

The carpet was so filthy that I had to cover it with clean towels, creating a safe path for my bare feet from my bed over to my hand sanitizer.

As I was leaving the next morning, I spotted this old boarded-up motel that was now a "Swat Training Area."

My second night in a hostel way up in the Rocky Mountains was devine.

I did have one curious experience though.

I met a kid named Jeff, who seemed ordinary enough. The only thing was, though he had dark hair and seemed quite young, the dude had bushy, gray eyebrows, like an old man's.

As he talked, I watched as the two ferrets glued to his forehead bounced with each word.

I developed a hypothesis. Maybe Jeff had that aging disease in which you age three times faster than the ordinary person. One day you're a 12-year-old kid playing kickball, and the next, you have gray hair, wrinkles and a sudden passion for Canasta.

I had to know the truth. But I had to be sly about it. I had to act like the cunning reporter I hope to become.

"So how long have you had Andy Rooney's eyebrows?" I blurted.

"Excuse me?" Jeff responded.

"I mean, do the drapes match the carpet?"

By the way Jeff furrowed his bushy gray eyebrows at me, I knew I had blown it. Now I would never know the truth. Jeff stormed out of the room, saying it was his bedtime. It was 5:30 in the evening.

On Trail Ridge Road going over the Rockies

Freezing high up in the mountains

I felt like a National Geographic photographer
as I got out of my car and walked 10 feet into
this meadow to shoot this photo.

Goodbye, Chicago
(For my Grand Canyon post, see below)

I'm now in Washington D.C., where I'll be covering Congress through December.

But before I'm away from Chicago too long, I wanted to post some photos of some, but not all, of my favorite Medill instructors, who made the experience so terrific:

Steve's writing coaching was invaluable, but perhaps his best advice to me was to carry a box cutter when I'm reporting in certain neighborhoods.

Joe was the first instructor I met at Medill. He has to be the hardest working man in the newsroom.

Jon and Mindy made the last quarter in the newsroom a blast.The fact that Nancy is wearing Steve's bathrobe tells you everything you need to know about this party.

Some of my sources along the way:

Mayor Daley

Don King, his voice as loud as his bedazzled jacket

Senator Obama

ROAD TRIP JOURNAL (Part 2)

Grand Canyon? Eh.

How did I end up on the road?

Well, I figured gas prices were low, might as well take my Chevy Tahoe on a summertime jaunt 3,000 miles across the country.

I wanted the trip to be spontaneous and adventurous. In planning it, I spent barely a day studying maps and getting my malaria vaccines.

But I ran into trouble on the second day. Just as I was blazing across the Arizona desert, a warning light went on in my car. I pulled over and spent the next 30 minutes with the hood up.

I was actually happy to put on a show of manliness on the side of the road as I leaned over the engine.

Passing drivers must've assumed this stud in the grease-stained muscle shirt was fixing the tranny or lubing the gears, whatever the hell that means.

Little did they know that I was spending half an hour looking for the damn dip stick.

I pulled back onto the road.

I watched as gas prices ticked up as I headed east: "$3.00" . . . "$3.25" . . . "Your 401k."

Apparently, there was some hurricane, and now there's a gas shortage. Girls in New Orleans have resorted to flashing guys not for beads, but gas cards.

All I know is that the cable news channels are devoting way too much time to this hurricane, when surely there's an attractive white girl missing somewhere.

I pulled into the campgrounds at the Grand Canyon as the sun sunk in the west. It was a relief being around other campers after my previous night by myself weeping quietly inside my tent.

I still wasn't sure of the etiquette involving nearby campers.

For instance, if I hear other campers making love at night, do I ignore it, or unzip their tent and climb in?

What's the protocol on building a bonfire in the buff?

I walked over to the canyon itself, which, if you haven't seen it, resembles a big hole in the ground. I was unimpressed.

I sat down on a bench and settled in for the far better attraction: the hundreds of tourists waddling off their buses and toward the canyon.

Apparently these folks hadn't seen a large hole before, let alone a grand one. They had to document this for the ages, snapping photos proclaiming to the world, "The McCalisters were here!"

The hundreds of snapshots would eventually be whittled down to a 1,200-image slide show to captivate their friends back home in Munster.

Of course, most of the photos had little to do with the canyon. It seems that the very first thing that people want to do when approaching an attraction like the Grand Canyon or the Eiffel Tower is to take pictures of themselves in front of it.

I'm sure that in many of the pictures you couldn't even see the canyon itself. The tourists surely filled the frame with their American flag t-shirts, jean shorts and matching hats reading, I HAD A HOLE LOT OF FUN AT THE GRAND CANYON.

Of course, I shouldn't be talking. I'm so narcissistic that on vacation I now like to pose for photos in front of photos of myself.







P.S. I've come to realize that many readers may take me too seriously. I exaggerate and make up many things, especially my impressions of the Grand Canyon.

Because really, when it comes to big holes in the ground, this one tops any list.



Next time, Part III: "Sleeping on the Cheap."