Say "Cheese," Motherfuckers!

I realize that coming to this blog is a little like waking up next to someone with bipolar disorder: you never really know what you're going to get once your eyes adjust to the light.

I mean, on Monday, I could be all sentimental and schmoopie, Tuesday it could be some obscene, profanity-laced tirade extolling the virtues of shampoo-masturbation, Wednesday there's always a possibility that it will be an emotional paean to a fallen police officer, Thursday we could be serving up some guilt-laden monologue about how I don't connect with my family anymore-- and then, if you're lucky, to celebrate the glory of God and the goodness of Shabbat, on Friday you might just get donkey-punched by another fine, upstanding edition of....

DEAR APRON!

No, sorry. This isn't a Dear Apron. But, you know-- maybe tomorrow! Depends on how Jupiter's aligned with Pluto's hot cock.

So, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate that you keep coming back here, even though you never really know if you're going to encounter Jekyll or Hyde, or some bastard lovechild of Maurice Sendak and Barbara Bush. Because, let's face it, that's a possibility, too. Some folks have said that the unpredictable nature of this blog is one of the reasons why they keep coming back. Regrettably, that unpredictability and resistance to pigeonholing is probably one of the reasons why I'll never get a book out of this shit. Well, that and because I refuse to eat celery every day for a year and write about it.

I thought I'd let you know that you're going to get Angry Apron today. Now, the trouble with Angry Apron is that, when diatribing and ripping mercilessly into society's asshole, he may say something that will hurt your feelings. Just know that he doesn't mean it. He's on his period, and his fucking office chair is positively soaked that that schmenck.

Nasty.

So, Mrs. Apron took me to see "Peter and the Wolf" yesterday at the Kimmel Center. It was an anniversary gift, and I was very excited, as "Peter and the Wolf" was an important fixture of my wife's childhood, a special experience she shared with her father. Mrs. Apron and I got gussied up as we are wont to do when going "downtown." Now, seeing a children's concert at 11:30am, you have to prepare yourself for, well, shenanigans, because children, oftentimes very small ones, are involved. Not only are they involved, the entire thing is created solely for them. I mean, if Prokofiev was the type of guy who'd have a shit-fit if a five-year-old wiggle-worm squealed or shrieked during his music, he's probably not the kind of guy who'd have written "Peter and the Wolf" in the first place.

I have to believe he was cool. He and Korsakov-- they're my main motherfuckers.

Anyway, what's funny about attending events for and with children, you spend so much time preparing yourself for inappropriate behavior by children that you forget altogether to prepare yourself for inappropriate behavior by adults. Like most any teacher will tell you-- it's not the kids that drive you batshit, it's the parents.

After the concert had started (there were several mini "acts" prior to "Peter and the Wolf") in walked a husband and wife team, and their two daughters, one was three and the other was an infant. Dad handled the three-year-old, and mom had the infant on her lap.

"I need my Blackberry," Mom hissed to Dad not two minutes after they were seated, squarely in front of us. Awesome. So, Dad handed the Blackberry over to Mom. Silly Apron thought Mom asked for the device so urgently because she had forgotten to silence it. Oh, no. She started taking pictures. Pictures of her husband holding the older daughter, and pictures of herself holding the bewildered, pink-hued infant. I mean, hey-- how could I blame her-- they arrived after the "taking of photographs during the performance is strictly prohibited" warning.

I have to admit to getting a little steamed after she turned the flash on to take pictures of herself holding the baby, temporarily blinding me. Fortunately, I regained my sight long enough to watch over her shoulder in astonishment as she used the Mobile Update function on Facebook to upload the pictures so all her friends could see how chic her family was-- at the Philadelphia Orchestra at 11:30.

Wouldn't you know that, once the pictures were uploaded, they left the auditorium? Strangely enough, the woman's pocket book was still there on the floor so, after the concert, while we were all applauding the conductor and the narrator, they came back to retrieve the bag, unfortunately before I had time to defecate in it.

Now, I'm not a conspiracy theorist by nature, but it seemed an awful lot to me like these people came to this concert for the express purpose of demonstrating to their Facebook pals just how fucking awesome and metro and cultured they are, and how well they're bringing up their daughters, exposing them to the finer things in life. Of course, their daughters didn't even get to see or hear "Peter and the Wolf," didn't get to experience the absolute charm with which the animals were portrayed onstage (the wolf was a huge gray suitcase with fur ears and a tail glued on) and the infant's brain is basically a Jell-O Jiggler, so what would have been the difference to her anyway?

Look, I know all about the age in which we live. I know. And I know that I've certainly been guilty of the "OOh, let's take a picture of XYZ situation, it'll look great on Facebook" instinct, and I've followed through on that instinct on numerous occasions, but I don't do it without worrying about what it says about me, about us, about it all. Have we become a people who cannot just... be in any one given place, situation, or circumstance without recording it for Facebookville and earnestly awaiting validation, that coveted Thumbs Up, that snark-laden, clever comment that starts a chain of one-upmanship until the next status update?

I'm sure I'm not the first schmegeggie to opine about this, and I don't know what the answer is, or, if there is an answer, or if there is even a question. I just get mad sometimes. And this is Angry Apron, signing off.

See you on Facebook, Friend.

Philly's Phinest

The collective uniform of Philadelphia's public servants has gotten a little more wrinkled, a little more stained in recent days.

There's some tarnish on the badge-- and it won't be buffed out especially easy.

I hate using the word "alleged," because I'm not a news anchor and I'm certainly not a lawyer, but I'll use it because I know, before you get excused or body-slammed by a jury of your peers, you're an alleged everything, except an asshole. Juries don't lay on that title-- just guilty or not.

In the Philadelphia Police Department, we have an alleged pervert-- and a definite asshole. A 7-year veteran of the force, working in plainclothes, was alone in an apartment with a 21-year-old female. While conducting an investigation, or whatever it was, the officer in question "committed a sex act during which he exposed himself," according to Internal Affairs. The officer has been suspended for 30 days with the intent to dismiss. He's also been arrested and charged.

In even more shocking and depressing news, a Philadelphia firefighter and his son allegedy beat the piss and shit and brains out of a pedestrian who made the unfortunate decision to step in front of the firefighter's car in the Northeast section of the city. The District Attorney's office has charged them both with aggravated assault and conspiracy charges, and, after further evaluation, murder will probably be added to that charming little list.

I guess it's just a matter of time before a Philadelphia paramedic cuts somebody's nuts off in the back of an ambulance with a grapefruit spoon and sells them on E-bay.

These kind of things do tend to happen in three's, right?

I knew that, when I read about these awful, disgusting stories, I wanted to write about them-- but I really didn't know what I wanted to say. It all seems rather obvious, doesn't it? It's appalling and degrading to think that public servants, people given positions of power and authority can go so callously and cruelly wrong. On a selfish level, for me, as one who often stands up and bangs the drum in support of emergency service workers who I feel have been wrongly maligned in the press or in the court of popular opinion, it's personally offensive, because it makes me feel like an asshole-- like a dupe or a stooge. Someone who has been used, someone who has thrown his support behind some of the wrong people.

And, of course, I'll say what I always say when one or two go wrong: they're not representative of the whole-- but they are infected with an illness that could destroy the whole, most certainly. Popular opinion is a funny animal, and it is easily swayed. All it takes is one or two negative stories about one or two assholes to entice the public to turn against its protectors. And that's a dangerous thing.

Of course, in the heat of the moment-- either charged with rage or with sexual energy-- miscreants, corrupt cops, or volcano-headed firefighters aren't even thinking about the immediate, personal consequences of their actions-- let alone the consequences to the men and women with whom they served-- the people who are left to clean up the elephant shit with a feather-duster. This is the danger of belonging to a large organization comprised of lots of people of different educational, social, etc, etc differences whose emotions and actions you cannot control. One acts out, everybody suffers the consequences because, to the civilian population: the uniform is the same, and it's what defines first responders.

I have no tolerance, no patience, and no sympathy in my heart for anybody who stands up, accepts an oath, and then behaves in a manner that completely destroys the public faith and trust. It's reprehensible and selfish and stupid, and it is the mark of a true animal. More than that, I suppose, it's the mark of someone who is in it for the paycheck. And it's not a terrible thing to want to become a cop or a firefighter for the paycheck and the benefits and the job security-- but there's got to be something else behind that, or turning becomes too easy. Too seductive. Too tangible. We're all in danger of turning, of course-- you and me-- but the consequences of an office jockey turning are far less severe and far less over-reaching than when a public servant decides to turn.

And it is a decision.

That decision to take that graft. To unzip that fly. To get out of that car with fists at the ready. To fire into that suspect's back. To turn. To turn your back-- on your partner, on your City, on your oath.

It's just a fluke, right? Please tell me it's just a fluke.

In slightly related news-- you certainly can't compare it to the aforementioned atrocities, an African-American female Philadelphia police officer has filed a complaint with the Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission after her captain ordered her to change her hair color before returning to patrol duties. The captain claimed the color was purple, which is not allowed. The officer claims it was red, which is.

PPD Uniform Patrol Directive 78-D states that an officer's hair may not be of "unnatural color," such as purple, blue, or green. Trolls have also filed similar complaints, but they are further barred from being police officers because they do not reach the height requirement.

All you can do sometimes is laugh.

Right?