Briefs...:::

RAP IT UP-Who's screening your luggage? This article from MSNBC details the story of how Transportation Safety Officials in Houston uncovered the side-job of Bassam Khalaf, a baggage screener. It seems that Mr. Khalaf is also known as the rapper, Arab Assassin. His many works include songs like 'Terror Alert' that praise Osama Bin Laden, September 11th along with rape and mass murder. A sample of his lyrics:

“My name is Bassam, a one-man band, I came from sand, affiliated with the Taliban.”

Apparently TSA officials didn't take his moonlighting lightly. Read More>>

WE'VE ALL KNOWN THIS GIRL - Minnesota Court of Appeals sent a case back to trial in May, ruling that Jenell Casarez could indeed sue Amy and David Klema for injuries suffered as a guest in their home. According to the lawsuit, Casarez needed to use the bathroom, which was occupied by David, and so with Amy's acquiescence, went to the basement and attempted to relieve herself in a concrete laundry tub, but when she climbed on top, it tipped over and crushed her fingertips. According to the trial court, Alcohol was involved....big surprise.

Back After a Brief Hiatus

To my readers I say hello and I'm glad to be back after a brief (and much needed hiatus.) Think of it as my season premiere, if you will.

Check back in the next few days for fresh stories, laughs and interesting news.

Mr. Blackwell goes to the Gulf

In another example of how the sensationalist American Press creates stories and sexes them up, Kenneth Li of Reuters reports in "Texas Warns of Catastrophe" about the plight of those who have evacuated and those who have stayed behind.

What possessed Mr. Li to report on not only the desperate words of these resident, but their attire is beyond me.

"I'm really scared. We're going to get wiped out," said Annie Johnson, 54, staying behind with daughter Anisha, clad in bedroom slippers decorated with tiny Tweety Bird cartoon figures, daughter Monique and a year-old granddaughter.

What's next? Full Runway-Style reporting of the news?

"The evacuee is wearing a Vera Wang Brown silk chiffon seamed top with jeweled underbust band and sage brocade skirt. Oh no! This is just devastating. She has just broken a Jimmy Choo heel while trying to escape the storm surge."

"Jim we are wathing a dramatic rescue as this woman is raised into the helicopter from the rooftop. M'am. Can you hear me? Who are you wearing?'

In our increasingly fashion-conscious culture, it's only a matter of time before Joan and Melissa Rivers are dispatched at the first sign of dark clouds.

Who Runs Your World?

In a new feature entitled Who Runs Your World?, BBC News explores the ideas of World power - Who has it? Who wants it? And how it's being used. One of the most interesting pieces of this series is an interactive piece that let's you build your ideal collecton of eleven World Leaders from a browsable list of 100 influential names.

Click here to choose and submit your own. The results of the polling will be available October 3rd.

Who is on your list? Share your picks and the reasons behind them in the comments section of my blog.

Another Suitcase in Another Hall

Just two nights after my conversation with my friend Karen about her failed relationship, I found myself once again sitting at Busboys and Poets listening a friend recount his story of his recent breakup. You can see the pattern here. In this case, "Kevin" had just broken up with his boyfriend of 10 years after much deliberation. Apparently, after all of his mulling and considering, it only took a couple glasses of wine to spill the news. Not only did he decide to take the step out of his relationship, but in grand fashion he also walked into work and quit his job of 12 years and announced that he was moving to Pennsylvania.

On this particular night, Kevin was relating to me how sure he felt of the decision about all the changes in his life. The one thing he wasn't sure of was whether ending a relationship of 10 years is the right thing to do.

"How can I be sure? Ten years is a long time", Kevin said.

Indeed it was. In his case, it was long enough to turn a slightly overweight republican from the suburbs into a thin, youthful liberal who was now unemployed and single. I marveled at this change in Kevin and thought about his decisions.

Back at home that evening I thought about the questions that this conversation had posed. How do you know when it's time to move on? In a relationship, a job, a city, when do you decide that you've given it you all? It could be argued that anything that you have committed ten years to couldn't be so bad that you couldn't try for another year. But does an extra year inevitably mean three? Or Five?

Are many people just biding time or tolerating those things in life that don't seem perfect, but could be with just a little more work? I wondered if Kevin wasn't the most heroic one for admitting that what he had seemed perfect, but wasn't working for him.

Sometimes your life comes to a fork. Often you stay with the road your on. Sometimes you take the road less traveled. And sometimes you jump off the road into the grass, put it in four wheel drive and hang on tight.

The Name Game

Last night my friend Karen recounted her most recent breakup to me over a glass of wine at Washington's newest hipSpot, Busboys and Poets. I knew most of what had occurred, and the breakup wasn't particularly recent, but this was the first time she had really been able to talk about it calmly.

She related to me how he had told her she was the one for him, how much he loved her and even mentioned marriage. This is a tactic most women have probably experienced. Suddenly, one day he broke up with her and less than a year later was married to a girl that had been his best friend for sometime. It seems that Mr. Wrong was waiting for her to become available and biding his time with Karen.

As Karen told me about meeting him as he was ending his previous marriage, a realization came to me. "Karen", I said. "You realize, you were a rebound. Not only that. You were also a prebound." "Prebound?" She looked at me inquisitively. I explained to her that not only had Mr. Really Wrong used her as a rebound to help him get over his marriage. He had also used her as a prebound to bide time until his ideal relationship became available.

"You're right." She said. "He used me as a proving ground. He wanted to prove to his ex-wife that he could have a relationship. But he also wanted to prove to the girl he wanted that he was capable of one. Bastard." I nodded, "Yep. Prebound."


Karen's experience isn't unique. Countless women out there can likely recount similar stories of men using them as a springboard from one relationship to another. But for my friend, just naming it seemed to have relieved a bit of anxiety. Sometimes you just need to name something in order to get past it.

Fifty long minutes. That's how long I spent on a table underneath a big clanging machine yesterday when I had the pleasure of having an MRI done on my lower back. I can relate that the experience was not the most thrilling of my life. Even though I wasn't subjected to the old tube-type machine (they gave me a choice. Does anyone actually ENJOY the other machine?), I was still not lying in a plush bed.

For anyone who has had one of these tests, you know the feeling. Lying underneath a large circular machine that makes vibrating/clanging noises in a sterile room with a technician on the other side of the glasses watching the screen and you. On this particular day, I had the pleasure of having the test done with and without contrast. This meant that halfway through, the technician came back into the room and injected what seemed like a big-gulp full of liquid (apparently my kharmic pay-back for too many buffalo wings since I was told it was based upon weight) into my vein so I would glow like a halogen bulb in the pictures.

As I lay under the large machine I had the option of looking straight up or side to side. You are told to lie perfectly still (no itching, shallow breathing and all) so any head movement has to be done slowly. At first I looked straight up, but my view was of the bottom of the machine 3 inches in front of my eyes. The effects this had were to a. blur my focus and make my head spin and b. cause me to ruminate about what it would be like in a coffin, which given the circumstances was not a pleasant thought.

After several minutes of anxious breathing I turned my head to the left. There was the technician on the other side of the glass examining my insides on the screen and glancing up at me. It suddenly occurred to me the cold rush of fear that would flood through me if I saw her suddenly gasp in horror. No, this wouldn't do. I had no choice to turn my head slowly to the right and stare into the cabinet full of supplies that was gaping open and towering over me which, let's face it, was just bad feng shui.

I suffered through this position for the next 20 minutes or so. My hands both fell asleep and felt like they would never move again. The relief I felt when the technician came in and I was able to move for a minute and allow the blood to rush back into my hands was short lived when I saw the need and big gulp in his hand. I don't have a problem at all with needles or shots mind you. However, I am a bit freaked out by anything foreign coursing through my veins.

The technician placed the need into my arm and began pushing the plunger. The liquid emptied into my arm and I began to feel a pain in my bicep. Apparently, I was lucky enough to have had the needle go through my vein and some of the liquid seeped in my muscled which swelled and hurt for the remainder of the 25 minutes that I spent under the magnet silo.

The rest of the test proceeded without incident although I realized that the worst part of this whole experience was not the claustrophobia or the pain in my arm. It wasn't lying still for 50 minutes or even having that suspicious liquid linger somewhere in my body. For me the final straw was when the radio which had been turned to high decibel levels to drown out the machine began playing Celine Dion. This was too much. No human being should be expected to live under these circumstances. The fact that Celine was quickly followed by "Proud to Be an American" and something by Travis Tritt about hoping that you will know someday what it's like to live like your dying was just adding insult to injury.

If my technicians happen to be out there reading this post today, I thank you for the care you showed in handling me and my test. But your humanity quickly proved to be false when you forced me to listen to the best hits of the 80's, the 90's...and today.

Why This is News is Beyond Me

In random story that makes me suspicious that someone was sleeping with a reporter, the New York Times reports on two brothers who set up a karaoke stage in their Chelsea apartment. This obscure multimedia piece doesn't seem to be news to me, however, it's entertainment value is evident once you watch the siblings belt out their rendition of living on a prayer. Notice however, in each frame, the absense of many other people besides them. One has to wonder who is frequenting this 'karaoke club' aside from the two men themselves.

The Fabulous Life of....

In the city of Washington, one thing that never fails to amaze me is the ability of countless local social rags to make life in the Capital City seem fabulously stylish. From Washingtonian to DC Style, writers and editors really scrape the sides of the bowl to put the city's best face forward. I've watched as the Washington Post style section's cover stories featured the likes of Abu Graib dominatrix Lyndi England and the Food section profiled Washington's winning sandwich chains with increasing skepticism.

Standing in line at Whole Foods on Saturday, I turned my head to catch the latest attempt at the Fabulizing of DC. The cover jump out so ferociously that I let an audible gasp escape my mouth and jumped backwards. It seems that the editors of this magazine called, appropriately, Washington Life have collected the buzz on "This Season's Balls and Galas." Epitomizing the lack of style that Paris on the Potomac is famous for is the cover photo of 5 women of various ages standing in sitting in a room that could only be described as Embassy Chic. It was as if a debutante ball had thrown up on the cover.

I stared for several minutes at the picture and shook my head. Is this really the best that the city can muster? Five homely women in extremely bad dresses? As I pondered the question, I realized that at the very least, this magazine had captured what I have thought for a long time. This wasn't about style, it wasn't being fabulous, it wasn't even about living in the 703 and pretending you fit into the category of Washingtonian. This was about life. And when it came to summing up life in the Capital, Washington life had hit the nail on the head.

Move It, Or Lose It

A majority of Americans say that the city of New Orleans should not be rebuilt in the areas below sea level. The latest findings from AP-Ipsos shows that Americans question the feasibility of rebuilding a city that is so vulnerable.

Anyone who has been to New Orleans knows what character it had. The architecture, the music, the food all culminated to create, arguably, America's most unique city. Is it possible to recreate this character? In a time when Americans build cheap, temporary architecture lacking historical significance, can this be done? And can it be done without being killed by committee which has threatened the new World Trade Center so many times?

The New New Orleans that I envision would be a Disney version of itself, built of cheap plywood and prefabbed walls. This is the architecture that America builds today. I believe that rebuilding would be a little like cloning a pet or child that you had lost. Certainly it would look the same, but it wouldn't be the same.

If we do decide to rebuild, as I'm sure we will, we should first design a levee system like those in use in Europe. It should adapt to the height of the water and be designed to go beyond any worst case scenario.

It also seems to me, that we could assemble America's greatest architects to donate their time to plan a vision for a 21st century American city. We have gathered great minds before-to build the atomic bomb, to run the space race. Instead of recreating a city that is lost, we have the opportunity to present the world with an architecturally stunning American city that will be an example of what we can be, not what we were.

Summer Dwindles

Riding the Ferry back from Provincetown to Boston (Which is the Fairiest Ferry I've ever seen) this weekend, I suddenly realized that it was really and truly September. Anyone who has been to Boston knows that autumn creeps into the air just a bit earlier than in the nation's capital.

The air was crisp and cool at night. The daytimes were filled with warm sunshine with enough of a cool breeze to remind you that summer was loosening its grip.

Returning to Washington on Tuesday night, I was greeting by fairly cool air. However, in true DC fashion, I was forced to keep my windows closed at night due to the cackling, fighting and screaming by the denizens of the night that choose our front walk as their hangout. I was longing for the week I had spent in Massachusetts, the quiet, the cool air, windows flung wide open.

In the morning I was greeted with warmer (and slightly more humid) weather than I had enjoyed in Boston. I was reminded that when you live in the Capital City, summer doesn't come crashing to an end at midnight on September 1. However, I began to think about the days slowly growing shorter and the inevitable chill, the first fire, and the first day I would wear a jacket.

I think back now on the summer that seemed to fly by with the speed of a train. I think of the birth of my blog. I reminisce about Sventlana in the quiet office I now occupy alone. I think about hurricanes, about excrutiating heat and broken air conditioners, about late evenings out in Washington. There were great dinners, amazing trips, scary baby dolls and rabbits at the gym. It seemed to have gone by so quickly.

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a great dislike for cold weather and, in fact, love the summer. However, it occurs to me now that I am not mourning summer for the first time, perhaps in my life. It could be the fact that it was possibly the hottest summer I have known and that having no air conditioning for two weeks ruined, for me, the season I love. Illustrating this idea is the fact that this was the first summer since moving to Washington that I didn't venture to the mall, spread a blanket on the lawn, pop a bottle of wine and watch Screen on the Green.

All things come to an end. The infamous Washington summer will soon give way to cool autumn days filled with brilliant color.I think now about what a unique experience it is to live in the city of Washington. Life here is never the same as other places. It is sometimes exhilarating, sometimes frustrating but it is never boring.

A War for the 21st Century

In the last 10 days we have seen unprecedented death, horror and destruction from Hurricane Katrina. The comparisons being made by many to 9/11 is not only fitting, but poignant. In fact, Katrina has affected our whole country. It threatens to undermine our economy. The scope of Katrina, however, is larger than 9/11 in many ways. Millions of individuals have been immediately affected. And it is likely that in the coming days, the body count will rise to be much higher than that of 9/11.

I would venture to guess that our government will respond with the same determination it did after 9/11. I'm certain that our government, in an effort to keep us all safe from instances like this in the future, will likely launch a Global War on Weather. I'm sure many would agree that this is the best approach to preventing the horror we have seen this week.

We will likely need to fight weather where it happens. All over the world, before it appears in our backyards. We must find a way to prevent adverse weather from ever reaching our shores. This will likely result in uncomfortable conditions for those living in farflung areas around the globe where this battle will need to take place. Many will likely suffer so that Americans can live free from the agressive weather that we have seen with Hurricane Katrina.

I trust our President and our Government to keep us safe. I await the inevitible Speach before a joint session of congress, complete with thundering applause, where the president will identify the Axis of Evil-Hurricanes, Tornadoes, Drought and Snow.

I'm already comforted by the word I have received from the media that several branches of the government are forming committees to wring hands and see where 'things went wrong.' I am heartened by the action I see and believe in the effectiveness of committee to solve our problems. Because what we as Americans need is not relief. It is not supplies. It is a united front to push this adverse weather from our shores. Yes only a Blamestorm can save us now.