Chrisco Spins

This coming week in April, we’ll mark the following tragedies in recent U.S. history:

• The April 19, 1993 failed ATF/FBI siege on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas, that ended with the deaths of cult leader David Koresh and 50-plus followers in a resulting fire.
• The April 19, 1995 bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. 168 people died and more than 800 were injured. Bomber Timothy McVeigh (executed in 2001) claimed the terrorist act was in direct response to the botched government siege at Waco.
• The April 20, 1999 Columbine High School massacre in Littleton, Colorado, plotted by students Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. The pair killed 12 students, one teacher and wounded 23 others in the school before committing suicide.
• The April 16, 2007 Virginia Tech massacre which left 32 dead and numerous others injured. The shooter, VT student Seung-Hui Cho, mailed a package containing videos, writings and photos of himself with various weapons to NBC News between his two rampages on the campus. Cho killed himself after the shootings. In a video, he referenced Columbine killers Harris and Klebold.

I’ve dreaded this week every year since 1999, when I started noticing the pattern of violence apparently reserved for this particular set of April days. T.S. Eliot begins his 1922 epic masterpiece poem, “The Waste Land,” taking note of the dichotomy that marks this time of year:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

We look forward in spring to newness, warmth and the promise of what’s to come, forgetting, perhaps, just how cold, bitter and unforgiving the winter has truly been.

I posted this as a reply to Nat a minute ago. But I think its hilarity is deserving of a post of its own.

Proving once again that, given the opportunity, humans will gleefully distinguish themselves as the most asinine lifeforms on Planet Earth, we learned this week that Black Dog Syndrome exists among a certain segment of the population.

America, I have to ask: What. The. HELL?

True story: My friend D. lost her 12-year-old sheltie, Mags*, to a combination of the pain of doggy old age and some form of bladder disease this past September. She didn’t think she’d get another dog, at least not anytime soon. She was grieving.

Enter Black Dog*.

The short of it is that D. was then dating a guy who had two Labs and she adored them. Checking out Atlanta Lab Rescue’s site, she hit upon tons of awesome dogs needing loving homes. At a meet ‘n’ greet with some of the Labs, she met Black Dog, distinctive from the other Labs in that her tail was docked. BBD (Big Black Dog, as we also call her) came over and put her big ole black head in D’s lap. That, D. told me later, was the kicker. “I think I’ve found my dog,” she told one of the volunteers. “I think your dog found you,” he replied.

Black Pearl Dogs has identified “Black Dog Syndrome” for what it really is — the same kind of dumbassness that marks those among us who judge people (or pets) based on color instead of character. But unlike me they take the high road, politely say that Black Dog Syndrome is really a shame and keep on working tirelessly to promote what’s important: boosting adoption of black and/or dark-colored dogs to keep more of them from being euthanized simply due to lack of homes willing to take them.

Dogs don’t appear choosy about who they roll with. Most cool dogs I’ve known that were well-treated romped about with all kinds of guys, gals and kids and I don’t think they discriminated based on race, gender, sexual orientation or national origin. Dogs aren’t color-blind, but studies show they are color-limited. Man’s Best Friend doesn’t care about black or white much. We shouldn’t either.

Can’t we all just get a dog?

* names slightly changed to protect their goofy human friends (me)

I freaking love National Public Radio. It helps me combine my two favorite things: being smart, and letting people know I’m smart. The suite from the opera Carmen came on the other day as I was driving, and I rolled my windows down and BUMPED it. I don’t know which was more satisfying, the tension in the syncopated violins over a Jay Dee-worthy base line that defies its European origin or the fact that I got to let the entire City of Decatur watch me melt into it like Blanch Devereaux on a motherfucking cheesecake. Pure egotistical ecstasy, I tell you. Glorious.