Talk to strangers

Under the strange, Transylvania-red glow of Second Story's wall lights, my friend asked me quite facetiously, "What do you want to destroy tonight?" I knew his question was unloaded and lobbed up in metaphorical jest, but considering his greasy mohawk and affiliations with well-known anarchists, I warned him, "You know, there are men sitting in covert vans as we speak, just waiting for some barb like you to say that. They're the local henchmen of Bush's campaign weeding out 'The Evil.' They're Tom Clancy fans and God-fearing Catholics to boot. They will bust in here within seconds if you keep muttering things like that."\nIn his usual, Ritalin pounce, he retorted, "Oh, they've already found me. I told you how I was held at gunpoint the other night." It was quite true. Though Bloomington has always struck me as a Midwest oasis -- an island of sorts -- surrounded by the shark-infested waters that harbor Great Whites. These are the people that proudly wore Pat Buchanan buttons on their lapels on Election Day and therefore should be considered part of "The Threat." Hey Georgie-boy, if your homeland security branch is looking for a good place to start, I'll be glad to draw you a map to Campbellsburg. You can even wear your cowboy hat; they'll dig that, and you'll be able to make a clean sweep. \nGood Lord, I've drifted. But I guess that's easy to do when finks and fascists are clawing up Bloomington's utopian spine. What I had meant to say earlier was this: Bloomington has always prided itself on unity and diversity. This city has always seemed to provide an almost tropical alternative. Though not all, most Bloomington residents roll up their sleeves to oppose the cookie-cutter mentality of tunnel vision. There are streets laid with brick and trimmed with maple trees so voluptuous that you can't help but stop and stare. \nYou would think it is still safe to indulge in romanticism. But, taking a moon-lit bike ride with your lover can suddenly turn violent, especially for those who sport a mohawk and don't dress like they just stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. Such is the case with my friend. We'll call him Dante Piranha.\nWhile taking a midnight bike ride with his girlfriend, Dante was just about to comment about the glare of the moon when one of Bloomington's finest junior officers peeled out in his squad car as Dante and his lover peddled by. In flurry of red and blue sirens, Officer Johnny whipped out his gun and ordered Dante to get on the ground, thus spoiling a darling escapade and reminding us all just how result-oriented profiling can be. After stepping on Dante's back and fingering the trigger, the Creed-listening police officer uncocked his weapon and offered a fledgling apology, "Sorry kid, you fit the description."\nThe crimson bar lights were still giving off that vampire vibe when I told Dante, "I want to destroy people's comfort zones. Enough of this suspicion of foreigners. Let's talk to strangers tonight!"\nThat didn't go over so well. We failed to negotiate that we may be considered foreigners in our own country. While attempting to engage in a friendly conversation about Mexican border control at Rockit's Pizza, some Rotarian's son began attacking us and hurling vulgar epithets in our direction. He was spitting with rage and clenching his fists like only a Republican could. Careful, soldiers.