My Liberal Friend
God Bless What?
by Phil Jacobsen
Grain of Salt
September 27, 2001
Man that’s weird. I just realized that when I bleed, my blood is red,
white and blue. I am an American. I can’t hit the high notes in the “Star-Spangled
Banner” and I don’t like Whitney Houston. But I’m still an American.
When I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,
I forget the words and mumble through that part about being “one nation,
under God.” My friend Richard is an American atheist. I know all of the
words to “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” but what red-white-and-blue blooded
American doesn’t? Because I have the right to do so, I decided to start
smoking again. Besides, not to sound fatalistic, but if the world is coming
to an end, I don’t want to be nervous, edgy and grumpy because I’m having
a nicotine fit.
The tags on my car expired in July and guess what—I’m not in jail. I know
the law. I haven’t paid taxes, but I’m still an American. Driving the
streets, running yellow and sometimes red lights, exceeding the speed
limit—except in school zones. I never speed around kids. I love kids.
Well, not all of them. Some kids have runny noses and don’t share. But
still, I don’t speed around them. If the yellow lights are flashing in
a school zone, I don’t drive 20 mph; I drive 15 mph.
My brother worked for Cantor Fitzgerald on the 105th floor of the World
Trade Center. He was so young when he got married, on his wedding night
he had braces and wore orthodontic headgear. Doesn’t he sound like the
kind of infidel you’d like to kill? Luckily he got a new job, so I still
have a brother. Unfortunately, over 700 of his co-workers’ families no
longer have a brother, a sister, a father or a mother. They were Americans.
The quad-iced mocha I drink every day costs $4. I have expensive tastes.
The beer I drink is Pabst Blue Ribbon. My clothes come from Thrift Town.
I can’t afford to register my car. I don’t own a home. And when rent is
due I say, “Didn’t I pay that bill last month?” I’m an American.
Even though football, baseball, soccer, boxing, golf and other sports
were canceled last week, I bet more people were glued to their TV sets
during this time than five Superbowl Sundays combined. Even 24-hour news
coverage was too little, too late. I voted for Ralph Nader and against
Orrin Hatch. George W. Bush is my president, but I don’t like him. He’s
like the wimpy kid on the playground telling the bullies he’s going to
punch them in the nose. His vocabulary is statisticably and calculably
atrocious. Luckily, this is masked by his inability to communicate effectively.
Did I mention I’m an American? I really love my country and I voted. In
other countries, journalists have been killed by their own government.
Voters’ hands have been cut off for exercising a right many Americans
take for granted. Ralph Nader isn’t running this country, but I’ve found
new respect for the guy who is: Rudy Giuliani. OK, I’m also support-ative
of the president, George W. Bush.
But keep in mind, I have the right to download Internet porn, gamble online
and protest my government. It scares me that some people own guns. I have
a shotgun, a rifle and a pistol. Depending on world events, the Olympics
may or may not be coming to my city. Either way, I won’t go. I can’t afford
to buy a ticket; and unless drinking, smoking and television tuning become
Olympic events, I won’t be qualified or asked to participate.
Sure, it seems like there’s very little I can do right now. I waved to
a fireman driving his truck down State Street and I cried. When I saw
a policeman with a black band around his badge, my stomach dropped. And
I hate to admit it, but I got sentimental when I went to lunch—two slices
and a drink ($4.25)—at Big Apple Pizzeria. It really did taste like New
York-style pizza.
There were three other groups of diners in this small restaurant when
I walked in, and all of their conversations revolved around what sounded
like strategies for the canceled sports of the week. The people at the
tables, however, weren’t talking about home-run hitters, quarterbacks
or the Denver Broncos when they said “long bombs,” “great offense,” “hitting
hard” or “turning up the heat with nuclear weapons.” These men were all
cheering for Team America. They were rooting for war.
I thought about my friend Kevin Cummings. He’s a navigator in the United
States Air Force. The plane he navigates drops first-strike Delta Force-like
commandos behind the enemy line. I don’t know where Kevin is today, but
I can guaran-goddamn-tee that he’s not landing his plane in Salt Lake
City, Utah. I feel safe. I’m an American.
Quick, turn on CNN. We’re at war and I have a front row seat. Who said
reality TV is boring? Where’d I put those cigarettes?