A DUBIOUS DISTINCTION

A little over a week ago, I overheard an interesting story that at the first sounded anything but extraordinary, but upon further consideration struck me as an altogether revealing account of the human tendency to turn fiction into fact and fact into fiction.

According to New York 1, the locally televised twenty-four hour news program, a street in New York was recently named in honor of Thomas Brick, a New York City firefighter who died in the line of duty on December 16th, 2003. The commemoration took place on October 27th, and among those interviewed by New York 1 was Brick's father.

"He was the first firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11." said Tom Brick Sr. with equal parts pride and sentiment.

His declaration struck me as somewhat dubious. The first firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11? As though this were something to take pride in? Taken literally such a claim would seem ludicrous. The first firefighter to die since 9/11 within the New York City Fire Department, perhaps, but within other companies across the nation, let alone across the globe, it'd seem highly unlikely. That the context within which Mr. Brick identified his son relative to the N.Y.F.D. was clearly obvious. That it was said within the context of a brief interview at a commemoration ceremony was equally if not more so obvious. What was not so obvious was why Brick chose to make such a distinction, given a lifetime's worth of memories he might otherwise have called upon.

I quickly dismissed his assertion as that of a proud father honoring his departed son the best he knew how. However, as the news on New York 1 went through its usual hourly rotation, I ended up hearing the same sound bite several times in succession and each time I heard it, I found myself that much the more perplexed by the absurdity of such a distinction. Whether or not he was the first or the last would seem irrelevant in the face of death itself. Finally, after the fourth or fifth time I'd heard Brick's statement, I couldn't take it anymore and turned off the television. However, his words stuck with me and the harder I tried to dismiss them, the harder it became to resist the compulsion to question them.

"Was Thomas Brick really the first N.Y.F.D. firefighter to die since 9/11? Had no N.Y.F.D. firefighters in the two years past died in the line of duty prior to Brick's death? Why was old man Brick so proud to have made such distinction? Would he have done so if his son had been the second firefighter to die since 9/11?"

I envisioned such a scenario, wherein Brick stated as much on public television.

"He was the second firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11."

Somehow, it didn't pack the same emotional punch as his original statement. At any rate, being the confirmed obsessive compulsive I am, I couldn't help but hop on the internet and do a little research. The only way I'd be able to put a stop to the endless inquisition taking place in my head was to dig around for some answers. However, the answers I soon found had the opposite effect, posing yet further questions in search of definitive answers.

According to a press release located on no less than nyc.gov, James O'Shea was the first firefighter to "die in the line of duty since 9/11." Apparently O'Shea'd "suffered a fatal heart attack on September 27, 2003 after returning home from a tour of duty at his firehouse." Yet another article found at firehouse.com reveals an inverse assertion, stating Brick was the second firefighter to die since 9/11.

Alternately, an article from the New York Times states that "He was taken to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center but soon became the first firefighter to die fighting a blaze since Sept. 11, 2001."

"Which is it?" I wondered. "Was he the first or the second? Does it matter?" Apparently it does, otherwise folks wouldn't be given to make such distinctions in the first place.

Given the obvious inconsistencies, I found myself left but to conclude that something had gone wrong here. If Thomas Brick "was the first firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11", well, more power to him, he'd earned his place in the hearts and minds of those who knew and loved him, and the public at large. But if he wasn't, why was James O'Shea overlooked? And why hadn't there been any effort made on the part of the N.Y.F.D. to set the record straight?

Clearly O'Shea had beaten Brick to the grave by a good couple of months. An oversight on the part of the press perhaps? It certainly couldn't have been a blunder on the part of the authorities, what with the press release posted on nyc.gov and all. Unless, of course, it was an intended blunder. There had to be a distinguishing factor somewhere amid the mire of misinformation available and I suspected it had something to do with timing.

Thomas Brick was pronounced dead upon arrival Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, having lost consciousness at the scene of the fire. Though indeterminate by the absence of an exact time of death, Thomas Brick's death undoubtedly took place between his collapse at the scene of the fire and his arrival at the hospital. The moment of James O'Shea's death was clearly established. He died shortly after arriving at the hospital.

Could the timing of their deaths, from the time of their departure from the scene of the fire to the time they were declared dead have been the sole distinguishing factor in the determination of who would be graced with such a distinction, or were there other factors involved? What other distinguishing characteristics might have seen the reversal of such a judgment, if any?

According to the nyc.gov press release O'Shea was a seventeen year veteran of the N.Y.F.D. By contrast Brick had only been a member for two years at the time of his death. O'Shea had "received a unit citation for his heroic actions at a Queens fire in 1995". In addition he'd been "a former winner of the International Fireman of the Year award.", according to firefightinglinks.com Brick had been the recipient of the "Thomas R. Elsasser Memorial Medal" for rescuing two occupants in a five-story multiple dwelling on 187th Street in Manhattan", according to nyc.gov. O'Shea was forty years old, happily married and a father of two sons. Brick was thirty and divorced with two children.

Perhaps it's simply a matter of personality that led to the apparent reversal. Though O'Shea had served much longer than Brick, he had a reputation for being somewhat of a "gentle giant" among his fellow firemen. His term of seventeen years was long and steady. His personal story, outside his life and death as a fireman, was anything but dramatic.

Apparently Brick had little with which to identify outside his life as a fireman. In an article in the New York Daily News, Mayor Michael Bloomberg observed that on his first day of duty, Brick assisted in rescuing six people in a fire in Washington Heights, an act for which he was later awarded a medal of honor. "If that's not hitting the ground running, then I don't know what is", said Bloomberg, "he always wanted people to know he was one of New York's Bravest." Perhaps Brick's pride was ultimately his undoing. What had he to prove in identifying himself as a fireman and to whom was he compelled to prove it?

It seems it's not so much life we celebrate here in America as it is death. A life characterized by modesty and humility, reaps little reward, but a death fueled on the drive for success that so characterizes this nation most certainly does. The felt need to distinguish ourselves from the masses often leads us to seek distinction where we otherwise might believe ourselves to be commonplace and average. Perhaps this is where Thomas Brick Sr. re-enters the picture.

What motivated him to distinguish his son's death against all evidence to the contrary? Did he feel as though his son's passing might otherwise have gone unrecognized? That the City elected to name one of it's streets after his son leads one to believe the answer would be a resounding "no". Did he feel as though his own personal stake in the matter necessitated taking such liberty with the truth? Certainly he was aware of the death of James O'Shea and the announcement via the nyc.gov press release that he was the "first firefighter to die in the line of duty since 9/11". Perhaps swept away by the current of nostalgia present at the commemoration, fact had become fiction for old man Brick and fiction, fact.

Beyond all fact in the matter, did he feel the folks his son died serving might otherwise conclude Thomas Brick Jr. died in vain? Perhaps. Apparently an alarm installed in Brick's helmet that otherwise might have alerted his fellow firefighters of his collapse had failed. Given the prospect his son might have been saved it's entirely plausible that Thomas Brick, Sr. might suffer the pangs of such a regret. Worse perhaps than the revelation of his son's death would be the realization that it might have been averted had it not been for the failure of his equipment. Did he feel motivated by guilt, perhaps even responsibility for his son's demise that could only but be assuaged by taking liberty with the truth? Would he rather his son died in 9/11, than in a relatively pedestrian event such as a warehouse fire? Suppose 9/11 had never happened. What then would he have to call upon in order to distinguish his deceased son?

It's strange the significance we place upon events that might otherwise force us to face the apparently meaningless nature of the events that give rise to them. It seems our very lives are constructed of efforts to evade the terror posed by such perceived meaninglessness. A lifetime's worth of hope and faith can be dashed in a day and where otherwise the death of a dream might seem entirely without reason, we feel compelled to assign meaning where none might otherwise exist.

In the final analysis whether or not Thomas Brick was truly "the first firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11" is of little consequence. Were that the case, I'm sure James O'Shea's family would have stepped forward to correct the error made in the public record. However, given O'Shea's nature, I suspect his family has accepted there's more to life than dubious distinctions and medals of honor. There's the memory of James himself. James the father playing with his kids in a moment of leisure at home; James the husband taking a late night stroll on a sultry summer's evening with his wife; James the son, stopping by to see his folks on a sunny Sunday afternoon. In the end it's these things that stand out as worthy of distinction. All else is mere window dressing.

And if it makes Thomas Brick, Sr. feel that much the better to remember his son as a man of distinction, then perhaps Thomas Brick, Jr. died not in vain after all. Thus considered, fact does indeed become fiction as effortlessly as fiction becomes fact; what saves us enslaves us where enslavement saves the free; and what we believe becomes far less important than why we believe in it.

A CONCEPTUAL CONUNDRUM

Okay, so here's a bit of a conceptual conundrum that's been kicking around in my head with an increasing frequency as of late:

If the "Big Bang" theory is correct in that the universe was created with a singular explosion in which it continues to expand at an ever increasing rate of velocity, is it possible that it will one day begin to slow down and eventually reach a standstill such that it begins to decelerate and return to the state in which it existed prior to it's creation?

The "Big Crunch" theory would certainly support such a possibility. The theory behind the "Big Crunch" is that the expansion of the universe will one day reach a point of terminal velocity such that it can only but remain at the same rate of acceleration before eventually slowing to a complete standstill and consequently implode upon itself.

And supposing the two of these theories are compatible, is it possible then that the universe was conceived of several billion years into the future and that it's creation billions of years in the past was merely the inverse side of its own conception? In terms of life itself, is it possible we were born in the future and will perish in the past?

If such were the case it'd present a plausible explanation for the phenomena of deja vu, beyond the pedestrian psychological and parapsychological theoretical postulates available. The older I get, the more frequently I'm hit with the sense that I've already lived this life and that I'm merely experiencing it as though it were happening for the first time.

A more pragmatic approach to such a phenomenological postulate would be that I'm on the verge of what may well be a schizophrenic breakdown a good many years in the making. Perhaps my frenetically charged mind has expanded such that it has reached a kind of terminal velocity of its own and is now in the process of decelerating toward an inevitable implosion of pathetically unprofound proportions. It's quite possible. I do come from a long line of finely tuned mental defectives, a legacy I bear with equal parts pride and scorn.

However, I digress. The line between mysticism and madness is fine indeed and those of you who take the pains of reading these scatological ramblings can provide far better testimony than I whether its a case of the former or the latter.

At any rate, I just thought I'd throw a little something out there for the consideration of those of you given to contemplating such caustic conundrums

Vox clamantis in deserto...

SHOOT THE FREAK

A couple of years ago while strolling the boardwalk at Coney Island I stumbled upon a strange display of American ingenuity that was both fascinating and disturbing at one and the same moment. A large crowd was gathered at the threshold of what appeared to be a vacant lot. My curiosity piqued, I wandered over to the edge of the crowd to find out just what in the hell all the excitement was about. A carnival barker, I shall henceforth refer to simply as Barker, stood shuffling off to the side, bullhorn in hand, belting in rhyme a sadistic appeal to all who dared draw near.

"Shoot the Freak, Ladies and Gentlemen, shoot the freak, shoot him in the eye make him cry, shoot him in the head, watch him drop dead!!!"

Peering through a small opening in the crowd I finally saw what all the fuss was about. Armed with a paintball gun and a half full party cup of Budweiser, an overweight middle aged gentleman wearing a ball cap with an American Flag emblazoned upon the front, stood braced behind a beat down barricade, firing off a rapid succession of shots at a heavily padded carnie shuffling dispassionately at the opposite end of the pit below; the Freak as it were, buried beneath a complete outfit of haphazardly assembled protective gear, entirely inhuman in appearance and easily superimposed with whatever object of Freak inspired hatred one wished to project upon him, her or whomever.

In the case of Mr. America the Freak quite likely represented Osama Bin Laden, Ralph Nader, or Tinky Winky, the purportedly gay Teletubby, or some other such Freak of the Week within his preferred paradigm. What else had I to go by? I could have been wrong. I frequently am and wouldn't be surprised to prove so yet again. There's always the chance he might have entirely misrepresented himself, in staunch betrayal of the liberally minded, down to earth dude, philosophical dude he truly was. There's always the chance he might have been a huge Bill Mahr fan. Chances were however, he wasn't nearly as clever as I'd imagined him to be and so far as he was concerned what you see is what you get. At any rate I turned my attention back to the man of the moment, Mr. America, hell bent on victory in the fight for freedom.

After several missed shots, an orange ball of paint splattered across The Freak's Shield. The Freak, however remained unphased. There's only so much melodrama a disillusioned young carnie can conjure before crapping out entirely and merely go through the motions. Either that or there was more going on there than was immediately apparent.

"Ooooo!" the audience exclaimed in utter amazement, doing their best to celebrate Mr. America's hit, despite the marked lack of response on behalf of the Freak.

"The Freak's been hit, but he ain't gonna' quit, do better than that if you wanna' make him fall flat!!!" taunted Barker with all the bluster of a bully on a grade school playground.

Down in the pit, the Freak taunted Mr. America half heartedly as he fired off another missed shot.

"Aww!" the crowd lamented.

"C'mon, guy that ain't gonna fly, just one shot, is that all you got?! Hit him with two, show him what you can do!!!"

His pride on the line, Mr. America tossed back a thirsty gulp of Budweiser, swiped his mouth with a flustered forearm, steadied his aim as best he could and launched a rapid volley of shots at the Freak. Not one of them hit.

"C'mon, guy, your wife's standing by, you keep firing blanks, she'll start sayin' no thanks!!!"

Having depleted his initial supply of paintballs, Mr. America tossed a shameful glance back at his wife who nodded in reluctant approval. He plunged a grubby mitt into the pocket of his shorts and withdrew his wallet, slapping a five dollar bill firmly on the counter. Barker's assistant, likely an alternate Freak himself, swiped the five and reloaded Mr. America's weapon with a fresh round of ammo, as Mr. America finished off the last of his beer.

"Alright, buddy...you got you some balls, now give it your all!!! Make your wife proud, no sissies allowed!!!"

Mr. America fired one, two, three, four, five shots in a row, none of which successfully restored his shaken manhood. His face flushed, he tossed his left leg behind him and leaned nervously into the barricade taking careful aim at the Freak who stood in staunch defiance in the pit below.

"C'mon, dad you can do it!" his teenaged son rallied in support.

"Don't be a clown and make your son frown, lay down the law, shoot The Freak in the jaw!!!"

Mr. America turned and shot an angry glance at Barker. He paused a moment, took a deep breath and focused intently on his target. He fired a single shot. It missed, disappearing into a pile of garbage. He fired another, even further off the mark, flying high over the back wall. He shook his head in disgust and launched his remaining eight shots recklessly at The Freak who staggered from side to side narrowly dodging each one.

He adjusted the bill of his ball cap, stood stone still for a moment, staring scornfully down at The Freak and turned to Mrs. America for yet another nod of approval. She shook her head side to side in an overt display of disgust. His account overdrawn, Mr. America shook his head sheepishly, plunked his paintball gun down on the counter, stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled shamefully back toward his embarrassed wife and son.

"Well ladies and gent's, it look like he's spent, every dog has its day, what else can ya' say?!!" Barker barked from behind his bullhorn. "How 'bout your son, maybe he can shoot a gun, give it a try, shoot The Freak in the thigh!!!"

"Yeah, dad can I try?" pleaded the son.

Fearful of being shamed yet further, Mr. America shook his head disdainfully as he ushered his young son through the crowd.

"Mom?!"

"No, Junior, that's it, it's over, we're done!!!" declared Mrs. America as they pushed their way through the crowd and disappeared amongst the masses.

"Shoot the Freak, shoot the Freak, ladies and gentlemen!!! Shoot him in the hand, say it was planned, shoot him in the chest and prove you're the best!!!"

Suddenly, the crowd scrambled in all directions, save for a small group of college kids, stoned out of their minds and entirely incapacitated with hysterical laughter. Barker suddenly shot a glance my way. I froze.

"C'mon buddy, you got the guts?! Throw down some cash, shoot the Freak in the nuts!!!"

Apparently I'd hesitated a few seconds longer than I should have. I thought for a moment.

Loathe as I am to admit it the temptation to "shoot the Freak in the nuts" was there, if not for the novelty of shooting the Freak, then surely for giving Barker a run for his money. However, having nuts myself and a full fledged acquaintance with the pain of having them so much as lightly tapped, let alone shot at, I found hypocrisy of doing so to one of my testicular contemporaries entirely unsavory. Further to that, having witnessed the cruel demise of Mr. America at the hands of Barker, the fear of failure in the face of such a challenge was eclipsed by the fear that the nuts of my male psyche would most certainly suffer an assured shot or three, a prospect perhaps more painful than its physical counterpart.

I turned and took a few steps in the opposite direction.

"Alright buddy, it's all up to you, if you ain't got the balls I'll find a guy who has two!!!"

I paused for a moment. Despite all rational reassurance I couldn't shake the sudden sense of rage that rose up within me. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself tossing Barker a twenty, stepping up to the plate and launching a relentless round of paintballs that'd knock the Freak flat on his ass with a precision that'd make an Army sharpshooter blink twice; thus striking Barker speechless and in need of a good several years worth of speech therapy that'd render the Freak show terminal without it's essential antagonist to play upon the fears of all passersby.

Clearly there was no escape. Having long since entered the realm of the "Shoot the Freak" show, I'd surrendered the bulk of my dignity to begin with, what had I left to lose at that point? Five bucks? Enough to pick up an order of chili cheese fries and a Coke at Nathan's? Given the choice between restoring my dignity, an improbable prospect at best, and losing it entirely, I chose Nathan's; wondering all the while if there was in actuality any difference between the two. At that point however, I could care less. I was hungry as hell. Thus hunger, as opposed to hubris, won the day. A wise move on my part, prompted more by necessity than anything else.

Just as I reached Nathan's and took my place at the end of the line I caught sight of Mr. and Mrs. America seated at one of the picnic tables, shouting back and forth at one another, engaged in their own verbal version of "Shoot the Freak". Young Junior sat silently devouring a plate of nachos.

"For cryin' out loud Otis, would ya' let it go already?!" she implored him.

"Aw, hell Arlene, all I'm askin's for five more dollars, that's it, that's all I'm askin's just five more dollars, five more dollars and I'm done, I'm through, I promise!"

"How many time's' have I heard that the past hour'n'a' half, Otis!!!" Arlene challenged.

Otis was dumbstruck.

"Five is ten is twenty is forty is...for Christ' sake Otis, you damned near spent a hundred dollars messin' with that stupid thing!" she fumed.

I couldn't help but feel sorry for Otis. The ridiculous nature of the situation was all too familiar. I'd felt Otis' pain on more than a few occasions. I'd been there myself, in similar such instances, having suffered the pains of public humiliation in the presence of those I knew and loved, my manhood mangled beyond all recognition over some trivial matter equally as absurd; like riding the damned Cyclone with a former girlfriend so as not to arouse her suspicions, all the while screaming like a school girl scared shitless and in need of a good swift slap in the face; just one of many such moments I've suffered at the expense of what otherwise needn't have been proven.

I felt the urge to stroll on over to Otis and give him a hug with the full fledged assurance he'd redeem himself at some point; if not in New York City, then certainly when he'd arrived back in Omaha, full of tales to tell, which could be altered accordingly to the expectations of his intended audience. Amid Arlene's detailed account of how she met Matt Lauer after a taping of the Today Show, Otis could wax victorious about how he shot the Freak shitless while Sharon Stone looked on in wide eyed wonder. The folks in Omaha'd never know the difference. Then all would be well indeed and he could then resume going about the business of maintaining his stature in the community, if not until the next financial dispute between himself and Arlene at the local Sonic.

"Excuse me sir?! Sir?!"

I returned my attention to my place in line. There was nobody left to place an order but myself and the two dozen or so folks waiting impatiently behind me.

"You gonna' place an order, sir or you just gonna' stand there?!"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry. I'll take a small order of chili cheese fries and a large Coke."

Apparently I'd become so absorbed by Otis' and Arlene's argument I'd taken complete leave of my senses.

"That'll be five dollars and thirty-five cents" the vendor declared. I glanced at his name tag. Reggie, it said. Suddenly recalling I'd only five dollars left in my wallet, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me.

"Ah, hell, I...I'm afraid I forgot to...stop by the ATM. All I've got's five dollars. Is there an ATM around here anywhere, Reggie?"

Reggie's irritation increased visibly as he paced back and forth, nervously anticipating a mad rash to the counter.

"How much do you need, son?!" an old woman a good ninety some odd years old whispered from behind me.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it maa'm, I'll just…is there an ATM around here anywhere?!"

There's nothing worse than making a purchase and not being able to pay for it. ; aside from the burden of an angry horde of hungry tourists and a ticked off hot dog salesman glaring at you all at the same time.

"Here you are dear", the old woman muttered, handing me a dollar bill. "You keep the change dear, you never know when you may need it."

"Thank you, maa'm. I appreciate it", I responded with gratitude only outright humiliation can offer up.

"Oh, don't you worry dear. You just give someone else a hand when they need it."

"I will", I promised. "You wouldn't mind if I asked your name, would you maa'm?" I asked.

Of course, I wouldn't. Doris, my name's Doris."

The prototypical elderly woman behind the counter in a large town. A deus ex machina of the geriatric variety.

"Thank you, Doris."

"You're welcome, dear", she smiled.

To the relief of Reggie, I paid the remainder of my balance and made my way to an empty bench at the edge of the boardwalk. Taking a seat I turned and glanced back at the table where Otis', Arlene and Junior were sitting. They were gone. I turned back toward my chili cheese fries, stabbed my fork into them and withdrew a healthy heap, washing it down with a swig of coke. I lit a cigarette, took a drag and stared out at the water. Amid the laughter of children showering themselves under a rusty spigot, amid the crying gulls in search of synthetic sustenance, I could hear Barker in the background, taunting the tourists as relentlessly as ever.

As I sat there, staring out at the water, it occurred to me that "Shoot the Freak" was a perfect metaphor for an America that appeared to be in the midst of a schizophrenic breakdown of sorts. We take pride in our individuality and yet at the same time we loathe it. We define ourselves not so much by who we are, but rather, by whom we are not. And in so doing, we lose sight of ourselves. We trivialize and marginalize, stigmatize and dramatize the differences between ourselves in the attempt to establish whom we believe ourselves to be, all the while turning others into external caricatures of what we despise within ourselves. We render one another Freaks, in order to perpetuate the illusion of our own normalcy.

Given such sentiments it occurred that perhaps we'd be far better off aiming our arsenal at the Freak within, than the Freak without. I've no doubt we'd be far less inclined to take fire upon ourselves, given the prospect of perishing at our own hands, or at the very least emerging with our egos bruised and our pride pummeled. And that the very thought of such a suggestion defies the current socio-political power play in which we find ourselves embroiled, perhaps that's the very thing we need in order to redeem what little is left of our integrity. Perhaps if Otis had taken a moment to ask himself why he was so hell bent on proving his manhood at the expense of his dignity, he mightn't have endured the shame that made an otherwise eventful trip to Coney Island a disaster.

However, I strongly suspect such a suggestion would fall on deaf ears. After all, to engage in the kind of rigorous self examination Socrates praised, seems contrary to our survival instinct. To do so, poses the prospect of self immolation, a virtue we love to preach, but loathe to put into practice. Look what happened to Socrates for cryin' out loud. What otherwise might have altered the course of human history, was branded the propaganda of pedophilia and promptly put down with a frothy cup of Hemlock. That Socrates urged introspection as a virtue by no means was a declaration that we should examine others. But such was the way of the world back then and sadly such is the way to this day.

No it's far more fun to "Shoot the Freak" without than examine the Freak within. We all do it. The Republicans shoot the Democrats, the Democrats shoot the Republicans. The Pro-Choice Activists shoot their Anti-Abortion Activist contemporaries. All the while under the impression they're shooting someone other than themselves. To paraphrase that wise old scoundrel Mohandas K. Ghandi, a freak for a freak makes the whole world, what…freakless? Hmn. Maybe there's something to this "Shoot the Freak" phenomena after all.

Perhaps the day will dawn wherein we no longer feel the need to "Shoot the Freak", without, within, or otherwise. Perhaps the day will dawn wherein we engage in such a form of entertainment as say, "Hug the Freak". I can see it now, old Barker standing there on the sidelines crying out in plaintive plea:

"Hug the Freak, ladies and gentlemen!!! Hug the Freak!!! He needs some drugs, just give him a hug, he needs your love, like a hand needs a glove!!! Hug the Freak, ladies and gentlemen, Hug the Freak!!!"

And just as we once did when playing "Shoot the Freak" we'll superimpose whatever image we wish to project while we "Hug the Freak". We'll hug the Republican; we'll hug the Democrat, The Pro-Choice Activist and the Anti-Abortion Activist equally, favoring one no more than the other. However, having arrived at such a place of compassion and empathy for those unlike us, we'd likely have done away with our differences and simply become human beings as opposed to Freaks, utterly fallible in all of our foibles and more like ourselves than we'd previously cared to admit.

Realistically, however, we just ain't there yet. The mere notion of "Hug the Freak" at this juncture in human history poses an absurd proposition at best, let alone hugging Republicans, Democrats or otherwise undeclared partisan peoples. Why else would we find such a notion humorous? Hell it's hard enough hugging those outside our immediate circle of friends and family let alone whatever Freak we happen to loathe.

Until then, there's quite likely a "Shoot the Freak" booth somewhere within the vicinity of your immediate environment. Such is the popularity of Freak shooting these days. And if there isn't, well, hell just purchase yourself a paintball gun and practice your aim upon your favorite antagonist until the upcoming mid terms hit the stage. There's sure to be Freaks a' plenty upon which you can fire your ire.

Locally established Freak show or no, get the hell out there and have yourself a blast. I'll even donate the sixty-five cents remaining from Doris' donation on my behalf, just to get you started. And when you've exhausted your supply of paintballs and subconscious self loathing, carve a brief moment or two out of your busy Freak shooting schedule, take a flying leap down into the pit and give the Freak a hug. He needs it. She needs it. We all do.

NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE?!

Yesterday, upon entering the local Taco Bell for lunch, one of the employees was affixing a sign to the front door. "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service". All my life I've seen these signs in random restaurants and fast food joints, but it wasn't until yesterday that the absurdity of the warning occurred to me. Who in hell would ever think to embark upon their day without a shirt and shoes, let alone enter a restaurant in such a state?

A Wall Street Banker? Well, not unless he slipped up and lost his fortune in some misguided maneuver, gone on a roaring bender, ditched the suit and wing tipped shoes in a dumpster and decided to declare himself a wash-up.

A stripper? If she'd been recently fired for soliciting herself to the clientele and was hard up for a job, perhaps. I can't imagine she'd attempt to work her wiles on the management at Taco Bell in order to get a job serving double-decker tacos with a smile, but you never know.

A provocative thought and one that might see me making a "run to the border" on a regular basis, but highly improbable. An outright exhibitionist? Its possible. They do need to eat like the rest of us, but given the nature of their work, I suspect they have more titillating targets to aim for than the employees at Taco Bell.

No, Ive searched my memory for moments Ive seen anyone on the street partially clothed, and theyve been few and far between and so far as a memory in which I witnessed someone make the attempt, I have none whatsoever.

The most probable recipients of such a warning are obviously the homeless and yet the vast majority of them have enough self interest to wrangle a pair of tore up sneakers and a dirty t-shirt to keep themselves protected from the elements.

So who are these people running around without shirts and shoes? Have any of you seen them? Ive seen some pretty strange stuff in my day, but never have I seen anyone attempt to break this particular code. A testament to its efficacy, perhaps? I dont think so. Anybody with enough bravado to go around with no shirt or shoes likely has an outright contempt and blatant disregard for social mores and could care less about abiding by them.

No, I think its a direct warning to those of you out there whove been on the brink of breaking the code yourselves and are ready to do something crazy. Its both a provocation and a warning: "You know you want to...but dont even think about it!" Expose yourself and there'll be no tacos for you today my friend.

So if you're thinking about following through on such a plan, think again: You may be starving for attention, or tacos, or both, but if you attempt to walk into a Taco Bell with no shirt and no shoes, you may get some attention, particularly if you're a woman, but you'll surely be tossed out on the street in short order, with an empty belly and nothing left to prove. It happens all the time. Think about it.

COYOTE IN THE CITY

I just realized that the ten years I've been in New York have desensitized me to the absurd. A couple of years ago a full grown tiger was found in a Harlem apartment. Apparently the owner had brought it into the apartment as a cub and was finally found out when a downstairs neighbor called the police and told them of a "large wild animal" lurking in the apartment upstairs whose urine had seeped into her apartment.

So when the news broke that a coyote was found in Central Park yesterday it didn't seem anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it kind of made sense. Of course a coyote was found in Central Park. If there was any place a coyote would be found in this nightmare of a city it would be there. Given the choice between Penn Station and Central Park that's where I'd go. A little time in the park can do a hell of a lot to soothe the nerves. Especially if you're a coyote. But upon further reports and deeper reflection, I had a bit of a realization. I'm not a coyote.

With the exception of a few bad acid trips I've spent most my life under the impression I'm human and as only an indignant few have gone out of their way to label me otherwise I've pretty much accepted it as a fact. Given the opportunity I suppose I wouldn't mind being a coyote for a day or two, just to get an idea what it's like, but certainly not in New York City. Hell being human here is hard enough. No, if I were a coyote I'd much prefer the wilds of the Catskills or the Adirondacks to this mess. Sadly, that won't be happening any time soon, at least not in this life. Perhaps it will in the next. One can only hope.

At any rate, I got around to actually thinking about it and the more I thought about it the more incredulous I became. The fact that the damned thing actually made it to Central Park without being run down by a delivery truck or held as ransom by a dope fiend is nothing short of miraculous. Considering he had tens of miles of urban sprawl to make his way through before he even reached Manhattan is amazing enough, but add to that the fact that he had either to cross one of a handful of bridges with limited access to pedestrians or swim to the other side of either the Hudson or East Rivers to get there and you've got yourself one hell of a courageous critter. Then there's the tens, perhaps even hundreds of congested city blocks he'd have had to navigate his way through, assuming he knew where he was going of course. I'm sure there's some high minded animal rights activist out there who'd assert he did, but I ain't one of them.

No, I'm more inclined to believe that like so many others of us who come here looking for who knows what, he had absolutely know idea where in the hell he was going, or why for that matter. Further to that he clearly had no idea where he was coming from, 'cause if he'd did, he'd likely have stayed there. But that's a debate better applied to we humans. We're just as bad, if not worse about having no idea where we've come from until we've already left. And on top of that we're actually held accountable when finally figure it out. The worst that can happen to a coyote is he can get shot in the ass with a tranquilizer and wake up in the woods wondering how the hell he got there. I've often wished I could suffer a similar fate, but if anybody's going to rescue me from the city it sure as hell ain't gonna' be somebody from the New York Department of Wildlife. If anything it'll be someone from the N.Y.P.D. Or the flight deck at Bellevue.

You know, amazing as it is that a coyote can make his way from the wilds of upstate New York to Central Park what's more amazing to me is how we humans did it. He was just doing what he had to do. He sure as hell didn't question himself about his motives. Misguided as he may have been he just followed his nose and left the rest to nature. What baffles me more is the question of how the rest of us got here and why we came. Though we could all cite a multitude of reasons why we chose New York as a place to live, I have a sneaking suspicion we did it the same way he did it. After years of trying to get things right in life it sure does feel like it. Perhaps we're not all that different from that coyote in the park after all, perhaps we just think we are. Hmn. I'll have to mull that over as I make my way home. That is if I don't get lost along the way.