get me wrong. I’m not in favor of revenge porn, holding 10 grams of pot, knocking back grain alcohol, and driving while texting—and especially not at the same time. But not one of my personal bills passed.
For example, I supported a bill that would physically move the state of Maryland next to my home town of Ft. Lauderdale because I still really like the beach there. The measure never got out of committee. The measure never got out of head. Consensus-building is not my strength, and it hurt me this session, too.
Take my proposed legislation to regulate motorists wishing to make a left on West Street when I’m behind them and oncoming traffic suggests multiple electrical poles have just toppled onto West Street. Is the Dunkin’ Donuts really that good to hold me up like this?
This was another defeat. You know how the state bird is the Western Meadowlark? I proposed the state bird be changed to the Meadowlark Lemon—my favorite Harlem Globetrotter who brought me more joy than any bird. I again failed to secure a co-sponsor—and a parking spot anywhere near the State House. How does the state of Maryland expect me to get involved in government if I can’t park?
My hallmark legislation, if passed, would have eliminated vehicle emission testing, vehicle registration, vehicle parking, vehicle tax and tags, and common vehicle obstructions such as tolls, inexplicable lane closures and Forest Drive. But in a stinging critique, the Maryland Department of Legislative Services labeled my proposal “fiscally criminal” and recommended a special session be called to consider a restraining order against me.
The experience taught me a valuable lesson. Politics is indeed a contact sport—unlike ping-pong, which I proposed become the official state sport. But the powerful pro-checkers lobby foiled me. And not Chinese checkers but good ol’ U.S.A. checkers.
I had other proposed legislation that never got a fair hearing. The last day of the General Assembly is traditionally called Sine Die, which is Latin for “Not the Best Headline.” My bill would have changed Sine Die to Sine Die Another Day. Opponents were quick to criticize my James Bond reference, calling it “sophomoric” and “not even close to being the best Bond movie.”
Finally, I proposed a maximum wage increase to be directly deposited into my checking account.
This, too, failed.
Listen, I’m no politician. I’m just a guy who dreams of a more perfect democracy centered on my needs.
Sine Die Another Day, my fellow citizens, sine die.
Behind closed doors
May 4, 2014
Once again our Republic’s inalienable right to petition the government misses the mark.
In Maryland, a petition drive is underway to prevent a bill to prohibit discrimination based on gender identity. The “Fairness For All Marylanders Act” has been labeled by opponents “the bathroom bill” for fear, in part, that men will be able to walk right into women’s restrooms.
But the true weakness of the petition is that it fails to address the more serious issue of discrimination—the unjust and glaring disparity in quality between men’s rooms and women’s rooms.
Consider your run-of-the-mill public men’s room. What are its defining features?
Allow me to paint a picture.
You enter the men’s room of your favorite dive bar. The door does not lock much less close all the way. Graffiti papers every square inch of the cubicle; Death Row cells are bigger. You think you recognize one phone number on the wall, but it’s just a bad dream.
To enhance the je ne sais quoi, some men’s rooms still feature a coin-operated condom machine that hasn’t been used since 1972 judging by the retro brands. There is no door to the lone stall because it was ripped off by a disgruntled patron using only his teeth.
There is a stained sink. The hand towel dispenser is strictly theoretical. There is running water if one relaxes the molecular definition of water as one part oxygen, two parts hydrogen atoms. Men’s room water is missing something chemical upstairs, if you know what I mean.
In short, the men’s room is the type of environment best experienced in a hazmat suit. If you don’t own one (why would you?), don’t touch anything. And whatever you do, don’t linger. If you do linger (why would you?), you risk leaving with a tattoo or a yet-named infection.
Allow me to paint another picture.
Watch your step—there’s a couch there. Sorry, a chaise lounge. The cushions, red velvet.
Would you care for some sparkling water with a twist of lemon? No? How about a glass of Sauvignon Blanc? We offer a nice Kim Crawford that’s not too citrusy but maintains a hint of passion fruit.
You’ve noticed the chandelier. It’s French. The gold-plated faucets, Corian countertops and individually-lighted vanity mirrors were put in a few years ago. The artwork was upgraded—some ladies thought the Pollock too explosive and unsettling, so we toned the walls down with Wyeth and Hopper.
If you’re still waiting, please consider our complimentary chai honey sticks, steaming hand-rolled towels and our small library in the anteroom. The new-age music you are enjoying—“Mating Whales: The Greatest Hits”—is specifically chosen for your complete relaxation.
You’ve probably also noticed we have replaced those tacky cans of Glade with a working herb garden. Feel free to pinch off some fresh mint for your sparkling water or for our “Thank God It’s Mojito Friday!” events held in the restroom’s library.
Two restrooms—two very different pictures.
Isn’t it time we end this foul discrimination?
Please join me then as I launch a petition drive to get the “Equality for All Restrooms Act” on the ballot in November. Because our children and our children’s children should live in a world where all restrooms are equal.
Now, hand me some mint.
My brain on pot
March 2, 2014
Normally I don’t take positions on issues because that requires thinking about issues, and frankly my time is better spent binge watching “House of Cards.”
But given the General Assembly is weighing several pot bills, I feel compelled to speak out.
I urge Maryland lawmakers not to legalize or decriminalize marijuana, which, as we know, leads to massive deaths. But that’s not why I oppose pot.
They say it takes 1.2 million muscles to frown but only four muscles to smile. Some of us are proud of our 1.2 million muscles. My fear is that pot will insidiously attack that muscle group and before I know it, I’ll be smiling, which, as we know, leads to relaxation.
And relaxation leads to happiness, which leads to living longer, which leads to more thinking, which leads to more thinking about issues, which leads to frowning, which leads to unhappiness.
To illustrate this tragic cycle, let me tell you a story about a Baby Boomer who smoked pot three times (I’ll wait until that preposterously low number sinks in). Each incident was more harrowing, more frightening than the next:
Early
