Via MinusCar, a group of Iowans have started an online petition, seeking to put a measure on the ballot to make bicycling on farm-to-market roads illegal. Because, you know, when you’re driving along on a back country road in your minivan, just trying to send a text message to your husband or pastor, and you accidentally kill a cyclist, it really makes you feel bad. And not just for a little while! Sometimes you feel really, really bad about killing someone with your car for a long time! Plus, just like hitting a deer, it can cost a lot of money to fix the car.

A commenter notes that there is now a counter-petition to have motor vehicles removed from Iowa’s rural roads:

Over the past ten years the number of motorists using these farm-to-market roads has increased dramatically, as have the number of preventable accidents and fatalities.

Traditional rural methods of commerce are significantly impacted when forced to share the farm-to-market roadways with motorists. Because of the growth of today’s commerce and agricultural business, shared roadways are no longer safe or practical in today’s society.

Operators of automobiles routinely disobey speed limits, spook horses and raise clouds of dust. They zip about, and act as though they own the public road itself!

So please if you are a resident of the world join us and help make our roadways safe for both people and livestock. Thanks for your time and your support.

My favorite comment so far:

These 4 wheeled horseless carriges have gone too far, besides creating useless wars for rubber, oil, steel they create a place for youths to experiment with sex and liquor! Time to ban them from all our roads!

Sex and liquor? Really? Hm. Maybe I should drive a car more often.

I know that saying this may result in some gnashed teeth and rent garments, but I’m going to state, unequivocally, that I think this is going too far. I’m reasonably certain that Iowa’s rural roads can accomodate bicycles, tractors, buckboards, and motor vehicles, and that people can share the road safely and responsibly.

Maybe the folks on opposite sides of this debate need to get together, and experiment with sex and liquor (maybe even in a car, so long as they’re not driving on a rural road at the time). I mean, it couldn’t hurt?

I hadn’t meant to take a vacation from blogging last week, but events came in waves and it was all I could do to keep my head above the surface.

The Wife’s Big Birthday Bash week crescendoed and crashed through the President’s Day weekend, featuring dozens of munchkins, their parents, a couple pecks of oysters, several bottles of wine, leg of lamb roasted on a spit, a whole grilled salmon, and major reconstructive surgery on the house.

Thursday I woke up solemn and prepared to serve jury duty by blasting Screaming for Vengeance, showering in ice cold water and slapping my grim, squinty, clenched face in the mirror.

“Don’t you have jury duty today?” Rebbie hollered from downstairs.

“I do,” I yelled back, then growled to myself, “and this time… it’s personal.”

“Don’t forget to take a book!” she called back.

I rode down to the courthouse on Nigel. It was a cold morning, colder than the pans hanging from the Scales of Justice. And windy, windier than the… Winds of… it was really windy. Pretty morning though, if I hadn’t been committed to holding some poor sap’s fate in my hands I totally would’ve taken the long way through Rock Creek Park.

I arrived at the courthouse early, passed through the metal detector and wanding without incident, and headed for the Juror’s Office. Once there, an extremely polite young man took my summons and returned with my Juror’s Badge. I don’t think that the badge officially deputized me, but I sure felt like one of the fingers at the end of the long arm of the law! And I was itchin’ to point that finger at the first evil-doer I saw.

But first, they directed me to the Juror’s Lounge where I was to wait until they called my name and number. The Juror’s Lounge was cavernous, and had several large flat-screen televisions. National Treasure was playing when I came in, and, I must admit, I was annoyed at the distraction from my meditation on Justice. But I studied the film, the looks of virtue on the Good Guys’ faces, the phrenology of Bad Guys, dramatic recreations of scenes in which the Good Guys seemed to be doing something illegal (stealing the Declaration of Independence), but which they clearly should be forgiven for (they needed the map, they were going to give it back, and if they hadn’t taken it first then the Bad Guys would have gotten it and probably used it for toilet paper!). Also, the presence of a virtuous hot chick with moxie totally cancels out whatever’s wrong about breaking into places and stealing documents… if you can convince her that your quest is righteous (after you’ve kidnapped her). Also, Bad Guys will not hesitate to fire pistols with silencers in crowds.

It was a lot to take in, but after an hour or so, I was pumped up and ready to serve up a hot platter of fiery, delicious Justice to one of my Bad Guy fellow citizens, and I was pretty sure I could tell whether they were Good or Bad by what they looked like, or their accent if it came down to it. As luck would have it, they called 72 names, each with a badge number, and mine was among them.

They pulled us out into the hall, and the enthusiastic young man who’d deputized me in the Juror’s Office came out and told us to meet outside of a courtroom on the second floor. Upon our arrival, another gentleman came out of the courtroom and started calling our names and numbers again, this time to put us in lines of six, and to lead each line, four lines at a time, into the courtroom to be seated. We were told the barest facts of the case by the Judge (who didn’t seem the least bit wrathful now that I think about it), and then he asked some very general questions to the whole room. Once we’d all weighed in on the general questions, he told us he’d be bringing each of us up to answer a few questions from him and then from the attorneys. I was in the last group, so we were told to go to lunch and to return in two hours to answer questions.

Two hours! How was I to keep my burning desire to administer justice to the fullest extent of the law at full boil for two hours? But then, thinking more about it, I realized that they knew what they were doing. We’d come out of the Juror’s Lounge as bright, glowing irons, but could not be strong, sharp, balanced instruments of Justice until we’d been pounded on the Anvil of Boredom, and finally dunked repeatedly in the cold waters of a very long lunch.

So I went to a little local burger joint called Hooter’s, had a burger and a root beer, and read my book. I returned to the courthouse feeling a little off from the burger. Hooter’s food was not very good, I imagine they must’ve had an off day, otherwise I don’t see how they could have been as crowded as they were. I was concerned about that, since I figured I was going to have to ascertain the guilt or innocence of an evil-doer with gut instinct, and my guts weren’t going to be able to bring their A-game, but one of the other Fists of Justice sitting next to me assured me that there’d be evidence. They think of everything.

At last the judge started bringing potential jurors from our section up to the bench to ask them questions. I’m sure they were asking things like, “What if you have to pass judgment really, really hard, think you can do that? Think you have the guts to give this guy what’s comin’ to him?” And I was ready to answer “fuckin’ A!” But then, halfway through the row in front of me, the judge announced that they thought they’d gotten a big enough pool, and the rest of us could return to the Juror’s Lounge.

Upon returning, I saw that they’d been screening Flight Plan, in which Jodie Foster demonstrates that Good Guys are sometimes Bad Guys, Sean Bean is not always bad, and that you should never sleep on an airplane. Evidently, this was considered too advanced for beginning jurors, so it was stuck on the menu screen before they finally turned it off and left us with a bouncing “DVD” icon. After another half an hour they started calling a panel, and I prepared, again, to deliver swift, terrible justice. About halfway through the roster, another woman announced over the PA system that the judge did not need a panel after all. Apparently the defendant could just feel the swiftness and terribility of the coming justice, and decided to beg for mercy like a wussy. Either that, or the judge had gotten a Mushroom and Swiss Burger at Hooter’s and was busy sustaining his digestive system’s objections.

Either way, that was my last chance. They thanked us all for our vigilance and dedication to punishment, and sent us home. I was still pretty pumped, it was hard not to let the U-Lock of Justice soar through the windows of a few evil-doing motorists on the way home, but I held my wrath in check.

Friday, I woke up sick. Saturday, I woke up sicker. Sunday, I woke up sick but not as sick as Saturday. Administering sweet, sweet retribution on behalf of the state is stressful to the immune system, such is the price of fulfilling one’s civil duty.

But I’m feeling much better now. How was your week?

The president issued an order yesterday to stop the military tribunals at Guantanimo. This stood out for me.

Following Monday’s hearings, the Office of the Military Commissions held a press conference with several 9/11 family members, who had reportedly been selected by lottery to travel to the base to attend the hearings. Visibly angry, and holding up large photographs of their relatives who died on 9/11, they appealed to President Obama to keep Guantánamo open.

“Today we were in the presence of true evil,” said Donald Arias, who lost his brother Adam in the attack on the World Trade Center. “Mr. Obama needs to reexamine his decision and keep these tribunals going.”

Joe Holland, who lost his son in the World Trade Center, trembled with rage as he took the podium.

“My name is Joe Holland and I lost my son in 9/11,” he said. “When I said I was coming down here, people asked me what they could do. I said, ‘Write a letter to Obama saying that this place should stay open.’”

When journalists asked Holland about the possibility of trying the 9/11 suspects in federal court, he replied, “No, right here, at Guantánamo,” then excused himself from the podium as he fought back tears.

Report after report concludes that most of the people we held at Guantanamo were never affiliated with Al Qaida, weren’t picked up on any battlefield, and were being held for little or no reason, which means we were destroying lives and families across the globe in response to 9/11. I mean, put aside from the odd Taliban foot soldier who was conscripted, never understood what was happening to him, but finds himself imprisoned a world away from his family with no hope of escaping the Kafkaesque nightmare we’ve created. Perhaps you can’t stir up sympathy for anyone that picked up a gun for the Taliban. Fine. What about the fucking Uyghurs, that everyone, everyone, understood weren’t even peripherally involved? What about the fact that 18 Uyghurs were held in isolation for years and years in Cuba? Why isn’t Donald Arias concerned about that, and how can he be certain that he’s in the presence of “true evil” knowing any of that?

Some of the detainees were undoubtedly involved in planning or executing attacks against the U.S., but since we stepped over every bright line of human rights during their interrogations, bringing them to a fair, legitimate trial will be impossible. Maintaining the moral integrity and legitimacy of our judicial process is a prerequisite to bringing the perpetrators of 9/11, as well as terrorists we may apprehend in the future, to justice. But Joe Holland apparently doesn’t think this is important, or at least, doesn’t think it’s important in cases involving people even remotely suspected of involvement in the attack that killed his son.

And that, folks, is why victims of violent crime should never, ever be able to weigh in on how justice is best served. You can’t blame these people for being in pain, or for the depth and breadth of their grief. If I lost any member of my family to violence, I imagine I would be similarly consumed by heartbreak, rage, and vengeance. I am, after all, human.

By the same token, you can’t expect these folks to think rationally about what’s fair and just. I’m not saying that these families, or victims of violence generally, can’t overcome fear and anger to see clearly, but it shouldn’t be surprising if they can’t, and we certainly shouldn’t be asking their advice on how to proceed. It’s a circus sideshow, and the military folks that brought them down to Cuba to stir them up in front of the press ought to be deeply ashamed of themselves.

The makings of another shit sandwich, left by George W. Bush, for all of us to figure out how to eat. Thanks for that, George, and bon apetit America.

Dennis Perrin is watching the Democratic Convention, and makes a valid point in the midst of all the Blue Lovin’.

I’m happy that Michelle Obama found success in her life and loves her family, but why the fuck should I care? Her husband presumes to exert state control over me and mine, spending my tax dollars for expanded war in Afghanistan, continuing misery for the Palestinians, narco-war and repression in Colombia, among other wonderful projects, and I’m supposed to melt because his wife can read hackneyed, Hallmark copy from a teleprompter?

Here he comes, here comes Bob Novak
He is Satan on wheels!

Syndicated columnist Robert D. Novak was cited by police after he hit a pedestrian with his black Corvette in downtown Washington, D.C., on Wednesday morning.

He is Satan and he’s gonna be
Runnin’ over someone!

The pedestrian, a 66-year-old man who was not further identified by authorities, was treated at George Washington University Hospital for minor injuries, according to D.C. Fire and EMS.

He’s disappointed that he hasn’t killed you yet
He’s busy revvin’ up his powerful CORVETTE!

“I didn’t know I hit him. … I feel terrible,” a shaken Novak told reporters from Politico and WJLA as he was returning to his car. “He’s not dead, that’s the main thing.”

And when the odds are against him and there’s
Righteous cyclists…

Bono said that the pedestrian, who was crossing the street on a “Walk” signal and was in the crosswalk, rolled off the windshield and that Novak then made a right into the service lane of K Street. “This car is speeding away. What’s going through my mind is, you just can’t hit a pedestrian and drive away,” Bono said.

He said he chased Novak half a block down K Street, finally caught up with him and then put his bike in front of the car to block it and called 911. Traffic immediately backed up, horns blaring, until commuters behind Novak backed up so he could pull over.

Bono said that throughout, Novak “keeps trying to get away. He keeps trying to go.”

You bet your life Bob Novak
Won’t go to jail

I saw on television earlier this morning that for breaking traffic laws and seriously injuring a man through conduct that could easily have killed him, Novak is going to get . . . a $50 fine.

Go Bob Novak!
Go Bob Novak!
Go Bob Novak GOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ladies and Gentleman, give it up for California!

Accordingly, insofar as the provisions of sections 300 and 308.5 draw a distinction between opposite-sex couples and same-sex couples and exclude the latter from access to the designation of marriage, we conclude these statutes are unconstitutional.

Here’s a great big Fuckin’-A! for equal marriage rights, and for Californians. My wife and I were married in Santa Cruz, so I feel like my marriage has become that much more legitimate.

And finally, to folks disappointed by this decision, and feel that it threatens the institution of marriage… I understand why you might feel this way, but I can’t sympathize. Your efforts to deny people in loving, committed relationships from realizing the legal and societal benefits of tying the knot have failed, and I couldn’t be happier.

And really, if your marriage could be threatened by this, it means your partner is already gay. There’s nothing you can do about that, but you’re welcome to stay married to them if you want to.