The List

"Put 'em on the list" kinder Jay said solemnly. "The list, Jay? Do I really need to go talk to George's parents about getting him up too early on Saturdays?" I asked. "Yes," he responded, "on the list". Okay. George's parents were on the list, along with the asshole parents that made their kids go to church, go to bed early and eat vegetables. George snickered with delight. "I'm gonna go over there, George" I promised. "I know where you live".

I happily skidded through downtown Atlanta on my sister's bike, mine got a flat. It was May Day, rallies, and Georgia has a lot to worry about. We chanted and roamed a bit at the Capitol, then got hungry and well, thirsty. In most cities, downtown is where it's at. In Atlanta, downtown is where yucky people in suits work from 9-5, Monday through Friday and then drive their SUVs to the suburbs, leaving it a ghost town until Monday. The rest of us live a mile or two away from downtown, where normal life continues: restaurants, bars and movies. But the downtown, well, it's dead.

We wandered around. And finally, went to the Underground, an odd tourist attraction that has higher odds of getting mugged and shot than actually enjoying your bad tourist self. We went to a sports bar and ordered some food. It was sunny and nice and seedy, with signs advertising a multitude of things that you couldn't carry into the bar or do in the bathroom. "We got four dollar pitchers of margaritas" our earnest waitress offered us. I was surprised when my sister took her up on it. Good days. Good days in the Underground. Happy May Day.

I sure am going to miss that Osama bin Laden. I was as horrified as the rest of you that day in early autumn, ten years ago. I was shocked when I looked through the window of my La Guardia bound flight when it flew over the smokey pit that used to be the World Trade Center, six weeks after the attack. I bawled my head off at the funeral I was attending for everyone and everything that had happened. I am surprised by how I feel about his death. Believe me, I know this guy was was THE hijo de la gran puta. It is just not everyday that a person, raised in privilege, decides to dedicate his life to a conviction that does not include silk sheets. To start a movement. To put his money where his mouth is. I am impressed by his ability to organize. Would you know how to do it? No, me neither. Obviously, I don't agree with what he agreed with, but I have to respect his conviction and ability to organize multiple countries into a massive movement. He's the Che Guevara of the Arab world. A few slight changes and I would have been cheering for his wild-ass, guerilla army. But he killed us. And wanted to keep killing us. And I am one of us. But I haven't done shit with my life and that guy gave it all up to actively and wholeheartedly pursue what he believed in. It is a lesson to me.

Well, except for the killing of civilians part and freaky religion stuff.

I quickly perused my email, hair still wet and late for work. Alejandro had sent me a message, another Dreamer in trouble, sign the petition. It made me sad. It never ends, does it? It just goes and goes and goes.

And then Governor Nathan Deal signed the law, putting us second only to Arizona for hate laws against immigrants. We're number two!

Cheers.