The Walking Five Percent

If you turn on NPR or watch the news, even for a moment or two, or if you glance at a newspaper on the stand while you're standing in line waiting for the sluggish Starbucks barista to make a $6.00 latte for some Blackberry-addicted schmuck in Italian loafers and unpressed trousers, you will likely see enough to make you want to confidently vom.

The long and short of it is, no matter where you live: people in America are cracking the fuck up.

On Halloween night in Seattle, a veteran police officer and his trainee partner were finishing up paperwork on a traffic stop when the rookie sensed danger from a slowly-approaching car. She yelled for her partner to duck as she did, but it was too late. Someone from inside the phantom vehicle opened fire with an assault rifle of some kind, killing the veteran officer immediately. The rookie, acting on bravery and adrenaline, managed to call for help and get off several rounds at the fleeing vehicle, but, several days later, there is no clear suspect or motive.

We all know about the maniac rogue psychiatrist who went berserk at Fort Hood on Thursday, killing 12 or 13, and leaving scores of others wounded, some of whom are treading dangerous water in that liminal pool that exists between life and death.

Now, some disgruntled sonofabitch Rambos his way into his former place of employment and shoots the crap out of the place, killing at least one and wounding half-a-dozen more. Fortunately, this piece of shit was caught quickly, before he could do even more damage. These frightening, unprovoked, maniacal incidents come on the heels of other violent acts that have spanned the country's landscape in at least the last year.

So, I'm left to ask, as I've done so before: what the fuck is going on here?

Are we to blame the recession? The unemployment rate? Copycat syndrome? Childhood trauma? The breakdown or the inadequacy of the mental health system? The easy availability of guns, both legal and illegal?

I have no fucking idea. The fact of the matter is, though, that people are going off the deep-end without swimming trunks and they're armed to the teeth and we're all pretty much fish in a barrel at this point. And, if that statement doesn't scare you, um, it should. In a post a week ago, I mentioned the phrase "the Lucifers in our midst," in reference to the possible parole for British triple police-killer Harry Roberts, and, sadly, I think that this phrase applies to a shitload more people than just scumbag Roberts-- it applies to people who are walking around, pretending that they're normal one moment, and the next moment, they're showering the party with bullets instead of silly-string.

I remember a trip some of us theatre majors took to Pittsburgh my senior year of college. We took a bus, because we're pretty classy. Through the windows, we observed and commented avidly on the vast array of dubious-looking personages who ambled past Carnegie Mellon University and environs. One elderly woman sashaying along wore a leather trench coat, sunglasses, and a large fedora hat, and we referred to her as "Indiana Jones." There was the elderly black man wearing plaid shorts and red knee-socks despite the January chill, and the Asian-looking gentleman who was enthusiastically talking to himself, long before the existence of bluetooth headsets.

"These are the Walking Five Percent," said Tim, the director of my college's technical theatre department. Tim has buck teeth, wears silk bowties everyday and goes to like Lyle Lovett's hairstylist, so he ought to know.

"What the fuck is The Walking Five Percent, T-Dawg?" asked Matt, a slightly psychotic classmate and friend of mine.

"The Walking Five Percent, Matthew," began Tim dryly, "is a term my friend at MIT uses to describe the portion of the population who remains, for one reason or another, undiagnosed and yet definitely mentally afflicted."

Some of our heads turned in Matt's direction.

"The Walking Five Percent," Tim continued, "look like you and me. They go get their hair cut every month at the barber, they say "hello" to you on the street, they buy normal groceries at the supermarket, and they hold down regular jobs--"

"Do any of them teach Basic Stagecraft, Tim?" I asked, most likely beating Matt to the punch. Tim smiled at me.

"Probably," he answered, grinning toothily and sweeping his blonde curls from in front of his eyes, "the thing about the Walking Five Percent is, they're like an aneurysm-- they can give way and blow up at any time, for any reason, or maybe they go live their whole lives and nothing ever happens. You just don't know."

And maybe that's what our society is contending with these days, although, like the unemployment rate, I think it's very possible that the Walking Five Percent rate may be regrettably climbing. And all we can do, I think, is take that extra glance over our shoulders every now and then, and duck as fast as we can.

Poor Black Men

Pennsylvania's tawdry little laundry usually doesn't get aired in the national breeze, but today, thanks to local headcase Bonnie Sweeten, we're on the Today Show and shit.

Thanks, dear.

If you don't recognize her name, you will. She fabricated some cockamamie story (by the way, let's bring back the word "cockamamie." We can do it.) about being involved in a minor traffic accident and then being abducted with her 9-year-old daughter by two black men and stuffed in the trunk of a 1990s Cadillac. She made a "frantic-sounding" call to 911 from the trunk of the car reporting the abduction. An Amber Alert was issued.

But, strangely enough, when police found her SUV, there was absolutely no body damage to it. Hmpf. And airport security cameras at Philly International showed Sweeten and her daughter going through metal detectors before boarding a plane to Florida, mysteriously unaccompanied by two African-American gentlemen.

Bitchcakes was arrested yesterday at a Disney resort.

I know it's kind of Monday-morning quarterbacking to say that I knew this was bullshit when I first heard the initial reports on the news early yesterday morning, but I knew this was bullshit when I first heard the initial reports on the news early yesterday morning. None of it made any sense at all. Listen: if you ram some Philly homies' Caddy and start mouthing off, they're not going to waste time tying you and your daughter up and stuffing you in their trunk-- they're just going to shoot you in the fucking face. Come on. This is Philadelphia, not Sicily. People only get stuffed into the trunks of Cadillacs in mob movies.

The sad thing is, this piece of Bucks County white trash had to go and blame the brothas in her ficticious tale. It's always the brothas, you know? Can't you deranged, delusional people pick on some other minority group for a change?

"Oh my God! Police? Yes-- help! I was just abducted by three Serbian nationals wearing ski parkas and New Balance sneakers!"

Now that's more like it. Blame the Serbs. No, no-- blame the Libyans. After all-- those motherfuckers mowed down Doc Brown. Who knows what they'd do to you?

Do you remember the Runaway Bride from a couple years back? The chick who looked like a deer caught in a pair of Halogens? In 2005, Jennifer Carol Wilbanks got cold tootsies and disappeared, sparking a nationwide manhunt and speculation that her fiancee had killed her. Even though Wilbanks was nuttier than a chippendale dancer convention, she at least had the class and the creativity to claim that she had been kidnapped (and sexually assaulted, mind you) by a Hispanic male and a white woman. Now that's racial equality and harmony!

But this case is pretty much an abberation. Most people who feign abductions and criminal attacks against their personage make the ubiquitous and frankly lazy claim that "a black guy did it." And who'd really question that? Of course a black guy did it. Who makes up the overwhelming percentage of the prison population? It's a shame, really, because black guys have enough problems. I mean, sadly, plenty of black guys commit actual crimes. They certainly don't need the added burden of being accused of committing imaginary crimes, too. I mean, remember Tom Robinson from "To Kill a Mockingbird?" All he was trying to do was earn a nickel for bustin' up this here chiffarobe, and look what happened to him.

Thanks, Mayella Violet Ewell.

I remember a case in 1990. Prosecutor Sam Asbell put in an emergency call stating that two African-American males tried to ambush and assassinate him. When police arrived, they found his car riddled with bullet holes. It was soon discovered that Asbell fabricated the entire incident, shooting up the car himself. He's now a practicing attorney, which should make everyone feel good. And he'll probably be suing me soon.

But I'll win. I'll just say that I didn't actually write this post.

Some black guy did it.

Jacksoniana

Julien's Auctions has announced that it is auctioning off the single largest collection of Michael Jackson's personal effects.

While this is an admittedly lean financial time for most people, the chance to own any item from the soon-to-be shuttered Neverland ranch is probably going to be irresistable for those with even meager liquid assets.

According to the New York Times, this is a small sampling of what will be on the auction block:

A King's crown (I don't know which King, and Jackson probably doesn't know either.)

A sceptre (presumably the property of the same unknown monarch.)

An ice-cream cart (brand unspecified, used to lure boys.)

A life-sized Llego model of Darth Vader (same purpose.)

A life-sized (?) model of E.T. (Ibid.)

The New York Times article teeters on the edge of decency when it states:

"When Mr. Jackson likes something, he really likes it. Bronze garden statues of young children frolic by the dozen. Disney cartoon characters, along with Peter Pan — whose Neverland island gave the Jackson estate its name — pop up in paintings and figurines, sometimes dressed like their collector. "

As I said, this is just a a small sampling of what was published in the newspaper. Through unnamed sources, I was fortunate enough to obtain the complete list of items that are for sale at the auction. While I am up to my eye-tits in painter's estimates and mortgage payments, those of you with more financial leverage and unorthodox tastes might want to take notes:

10 full body stockings in varying shades of white, off-white, bone, cream, clown, and porcelain.

Taxidermied remains of Bubbles the Chimp, dressed in sequinced jumpsuit.

16 nun's habits, varying sizes. Rosary beads missing.

Seven frozen lemmings on sticks (found inside ice cream cart.)

1 Brazillian waxing kit (condition, poor)

Life-size statue of Joe Jackson (limbs, head and thorax missing.)

Life-size statue of Candice Bergen.

Life-size statue of Italian marathon athlete and gold medalist (Barcelona, 1992) Rosa Mota.

Five hundred and forty-six boxes of "Lucky Charms," all opened.

1 Panzer IV tank, gold-plated with rhinestones appliqued to gun turrets, license plate "GLVD 1."

12 copies of "The Jewish Book of Why."

Improvised flower and candle shrine to late "Family Feud" host Richard Dawson.

Handwritten card (blue crayon) to Barack Obama that begins, "Are you my mother?"

Manual "An Idiot's Guide to At-Home Rhinoplasty" (supplemental CD missing.)

14 assorted prosthetic limbs (varying colors, some in poor condition.)

6 Swarovski-encrusted surgical masks.

Letter (pencil) to Peter Sellers co-star Herbert Lom that ends, "Are you my mother?"

37,532 international-rate postage stamps (licked.)

5 cartons of unmarked ointment tubes.

December, 1996 issue of "Vintage Motorworks" magazine.

Envelope containing bone shavings and accompanying note of support from Sally Field.

I hope you will consider bidding on some of these lesser-disclosed items. Add a little Jacksoniana to your humble home, and score your own little piece of Neverland today.