Peaceable Assembly

I’ve been trying to come up with a coherent post about the Toledo riots, but I’ve got nothing coherent. I do have questions:

1. Who dresses Neo-Nazis? Seriously. Do these guys look in the mirror and think “Damn, I look like a man who commands respect and attention?” Because, if so, they need different mirrors. I’m not sure how long this link will stay good for, but I don’t even think that dude with the wallet chain has his pants buttoned. And the guys in the brown shirts might want to consider lengthening their ties–just a hair–because right now, they seem to draw attention directly to the fact that their pants are hiked up unflatteringly high.

When I was a young girl, the neo-Nazis were all about khaki pants and white shirts and red suspenders and black boots. They were idiots, but they were color coordinated. Toledo has some old men playing World War II costume party and some gas station attendants, from the looks of it.

2. It’s funny to me how the definition of “white” shrinks and expands. One hundred years ago, Irish people were barely “white” and Poles & other Slavic people definitely weren’t and now you’ve got the neo-Nazis running to the defense of Tom Szych.

3. Why the hell did the Toledo police have to waste valuable personnel-time on this nonsense? Maybe the Legal Eagle can clear this up for me, but in what way does a neo-Nazi march through a diverse neighborhood constitute “peaceable assembly?” Isn’t the very point of playing skinhead dress-up and showing your numbers to be a kind of implicit threat? You emulate the genocidal regime of a madman because you want people to look at you and refer back to the real Nazis, right? What is it about the real Nazis that you want them to think of? The containment and destruction of people different than you.

If it were really just a case of “white people sticking up for each other,” why the Nazi paraphernalia? Once you bring the swastika into it, it seems to me that you want people to be afraid of you because you want to be violent against them. How again is that “peaceable?” And if it’s not “peaceable assembly,” why do they get police protection?

And why shouldn’t the people in the neighborhood be able to protect themselves from this threat?

If I can shoot a burglar coming through my window, why can’t I throw some rocks at some idiots marching through my neighborhood? I’m not the government. If they have a problem with me, I’m not obligated to hear them out.

Why Old Sinners Suck

God, it’s good to have Sharon Cobb back. Today, Sharon reminds us that Madonna is a sanctimonious hypocrite.

There’s a kind of long-standing joke among ministers that there’s no Christian like a recent convert. Miss Madonna would seem to prove that there’s no saint like a reformed sinner. Now that she’s done having her fun, the rest of us had better shape up or go to hell.


Veterans Who Have Touched My Boobs Without Asking

World War I–I was young and helping get him from his wheelchair into his car. Seemed unintentional, but maybe appearing ancient, confused, and off-balance is a good way to cop a feel.

World War II–None that I can think of. Not even any actors in awesome World War II movies. Calling them “the Greatest Generation” might be hype, but judging from personal experience, we might call them the generation with the most restraint.

Korean War–Walking down the hall at church, as a Korean War veteran put his arm around me, told me how much he liked me, and reached right over and gave me a squeeze. I backed away alarmed and then he started crying, telling me how much he loved his wife and didn’t deserve her. I agreed.

Vietnam War–Just the drunken full-body mush. Maybe we shouldn’t have had our Junior Prom at the VFW hall. That might have cut down on that.

Gulf War–Standing in my parents’ driveway. He leaned in to kiss me. I kissed him back. He pulled his head away, gave me a weird smile, said “I didn’t know you were that kind of girl” and came at me like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster. At the time, I was like “What the hell, dude?” but what did I know about being a 20 year old boy?

Christ, it’s not until you’re a thirty year old woman that you get what those twenty year old boys are going through, as La Professora regularly reminds her students.