The Lucidity and Lunacy of Millicent Frastley

Study of Texting While Driving Proves that Studies are Worthy of Further Study

2009-07-28T10:39:00.000-07:00

“The first study of drivers texting inside their vehicles shows that the risk sharply exceeds previous estimates based on laboratory research -- and far surpasses the dangers of other driving distractions. The new study, which entailed outfitting the cabs of long-haul trucks with video cameras over 18 months, found that when the drivers texted, their collision risk was 23 times greater than when not texting.” So writes MATT RICHTEL in the New York Times.

Really? REALLY?????
Okay, this goes to show (Please see below posting for further comments on STUPID STUDIES) that you can get people to pay for studies on ANY ASSININE SUBJECT WHATSOEVER. There was a STUDY required to prove that texting was dangerous while driving. By the Virginia Tech Transportation Institute, no less.

Okay, let’s think about this for just a moment. What is “texting” exactly? Well, according to a way-down-the-list definition from the interweb, “texting” is:

“To communicate by text message: He texted that he would be late.”

Texting is the act of typing a message onto a miniscule keyboard which requires looking at said keyboard and printout screen and using peripheral vision ONLY for anything not associated with said miniscule keyboard and printout screen.

Huh. Okay, so what is this “peripheral vision” that I speak of?

According to the interweb, peripheral vision is “the capacity to see side or fringe areas when one is looking ahead; one’s vision using only the outer edges of one’s retina”

Yeah. It really needs a fucking study to prove that using only the outer edges of one’s retina as a vision tool while driving because it is soooooo important to let your BFF know that OMG, you’re like SFL and ROTFLMAO did you see the dress that FG was wearingggggg?????

Fuck you, Virginia Tech Transportation Institute.

Have a nice day.

Patience Pays????

2009-07-24T10:47:00.000-07:00

One of the joys of new home ownership is the thrice-weekly trip to Home Depot. Yes, yes, I know. Home Depot is an evil conglomerate that is ethically vague, disregards safety guidelines and I am sure they commit various, sundry other evil things that go without saying.

They are also exactly one minute, thirty-seven seconds drive from my house. And they guarantee their plants.

On one of the thrice-weekly trips to Home Depot, we happened upon a significantly marked-down patio set. Loveseat, coffee table, two easy chairs with ottomans. Nice! We have been looking, and a 50% markdown is, after all, a 50% markdown. So we called our friend with the pickup truck (for these purposes, I shall call him d'Artagnan – read a book, people) to arrange for pick up (get it?) the following day. D’Artagnan came through, yet again.

This pick up arrangement involved standing in the Service Line to arrange a “Will-Call” ticket.

We were behind quite possibly the most disagreeable man to ever walk the earth. I was pretty sure MANPANTS wanted to kill him. In these situations it is always the job of the other person in the partnership that is not homicidal at that particular moment to appeal to the more rational side of the person about to commit said homicide. I mentioned to MANPANTS that WE did not have to live for even one moment in the head of this creature passing itself off as human. Nor did we have to be married to it -- as I looked meaningfully in the direction of the spousal partner of the aforementioned horrific being.

When this objectionable vertebrate ambled away to make yet another Home Depot employee miserable, we stepped up to the counter. The woman behind the service counter looked ruffled, but had her best customer service poker face in place. She started helping us.

I said, “I’m sorry about your last 20 minutes.”

She said, “I can’t say a thing. Not a thing. But thank you.”

She started to input our information. She then said, “Here’s another 10% off for being understanding.”

Score one for Patience.

Apparently, it does indeed literally PAY to be patient and understanding with our fellow humans. Mom was right. And during a huge recession, who can really argue with Mom on THAT old courtesy lesson?

Michael Phelps, Pizza and the Ballet. And Coffee. What???

2009-07-20T10:54:00.000-07:00

There seems to be some stereotype out there . . . .okay, hang on. Start over. There are actually thousands of stereotypes out there. Seriously. I wonder if anyone has ever done a study on how many there actually are? They pay top dollar for any number of studies – for example there was recently a study that determined that women over 40 who drank two cups of coffee per day were more likely to wear blue than pink and that women who drank only one cup of coffee per day were as likely to choose black (an absence of color) as they would any actual color, but that pink and blue were not one of their choices. Who funded this study and how did it get to the stage where the results were not only taken seriously, but they were taken so seriously as to PUBLISH the results of the study? Okay, that never happened, but you get the idea.

I digress. I’m talking about the stereotype where the MAN is dragged by his nagging FEMALE partner, wife, significant other, MOM, whatever -- off to the ballet against his will. He would rather be anywhere else. Countless commercials selling countless MAN-CENTRIC products (e.g. the ESPN cable package; the buy one pizza, get another one for a dollar at Pizza Hut) that use the dreaded ballet scenario to make their point to us FEMALES that MEN DO NOT LIKE THE BALLET. Unless of course they are gay, henpecked, or too old and lacking in virility to care WHERE they are, as long as it is somewhere. No means no, ladies!!!! Have you no humanity???

MANPANTS and I went to the ballet on Sunday. Specifically American Ballet Theatre’s production of Romeo and Juliet. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. How’d you manage to get him to go? Simple, people.

I said I’d like to go.

We were sitting there watching So You Think You Can Dance – ahem, excuse me? Was that a chuckle? Yeah, we watch. We also pick up the phone and vote. I challenge any professional baseball player – hell I challenge Michael-Freakin’-Phelps to attempt the athleticism required to do what these kids are asked to do each week. May I continue? Thanks. Nigel Lythgoe, the producer of the show, mentioned that ABT was in LA doing Romeo and Juliet. I turned to MANPANTS and said, “I want to go.” He said, “Do you?” I said “Yup.” We looked it up on the Interweb, selected tickets we could afford -- more or less --and made our purchase. Thanks Nigel.

We went yesterday. It was 106 degrees of dry, hot, blazing awfulness outside. It was 74 degrees of lovely, air conditioned bliss in the theatre. For three hours we got to sit on comfy seats, listen to Prokofiev’s masterpiece and watch dancers create a tragic, tear-worthy story, all while doing things we mere mortals can never hope to accomplish with our bodies, no matter how many times we do the American Ballet Theatre Home Workout DVD.

Afterwards, we treated ourselves to a lovely little meal at California Pizza Kitchen – okay it WOULD have been a lovely little meal if CPK hadn’t started with that most foul and evil of practices -- namely the listing of calorie count next to all of their menu items. Who’s fucking idea was that????? Is this where we have gone? We live in L.A. where everyone has to be a sample size (2) and Botox themselves into oblivion and count every calorie because God Forbid one should ingest ANYTHING during the day other than the pack of Marlboro Reds you are smoking to keep yourself at sample size (2) and did I really need to know that my pasta with asparagus and spinach was 1163 calories per serving?????????? Fuck you, California Pizza Kitchen.

We had a really nice day.

Come Back Sarah Palin!!!!

2009-07-10T09:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, I simply cannot say anything here that was not already said, with far better wit, snark and charm, than Mark Morford at SF Gate. Ya gotta read it. Click Here. I admit to having a major talent crush on him. Sorry Manpants. Tis True.

Michael Jackson -- The ARTIST, or the MAN?

2009-07-07T10:13:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson’s HUGE memorial service is today. A few of my friends are there. They managed to get tickets. I find it appropriate and fitting that two of them are there – I think they would be crying for a month if they weren’t.

I am curious though – what or who specifically are they/we all mourning today? The list of A-List participants at the memorial is pretty impressive. Stevie Wonder, Mariah Carey, Usher, Kobe Bryant, Brook Shields to name a few. But are they there for The ARTIST, or the MAN? Are they there for who he was a very long time ago? Who he became? Can they possibly be there for both; possessing the infinite capacity of compassion necessary to embrace ALL of it? – Is it even possible to be there for both in this particular circumstance or is an astronomically vast fog of denial the collective need here? Can a proper memorial service celebrate the life of someone like Michael Jackson without mentioning the MAN, independent of the ARTIST?

Okay that was annoying. Yeah, I know – that’s a lot of questions, but seriously. My mind is churning here.

According to the relatively simplistic definition of Wiktionary, ARTIST is defined as follows:

A person who creates art.
A person who creates art as an occupation.
A person who is skilled at some activity.

Well, by that definition, Michael Jackson was certainly all that.

It defines MAN as follows:

A MAN is a male human. The term man (irregular plural: men) is used for an adult human male, while the term boy is the usual term for a human male child or adolescent human male. . . Sometimes it is also used to identify a male human, regardless of age.

The term "manhood" is used to refer variously to the condition of being male, male sexuality, or the actual reproductive organs.

Okay, by that definition as well, he was a MAN in that he had the requisite organs, he was an adult male, (though reportedly an adolescent human male in arrested development due to early childhood trauma.)

Like Howard Hughes -- the genius aviator and brilliant visionary; on one hand an undeniable talent and artist in his field and on the other, crazier than a shit-house rat – Michael Jackson was a dichotomy.

Back to my friends who are attending the memorial. One is a singer, one is a dancer. I am pretty sure that neither of them would be the type of performer they are today without the influence of the incredible artistic talent that was Michael Jackson. I am relatively certain that the mentally ill, self-hating-skin-bleaching-plastic-surgery-addicted-child-molesting recluse that slept with young boys and a chimpanzee had no influence whatsoever on the hundreds of thousands of people who grew to love Michael Jackson for his music, dancing and all around fashion forwardness. I am pretty sure that most people would like to forget all about that part.

I am also pretty sure that there are those that will never forget that part. There are those who would not be who they are today without the influence of THAT part of the equation and that is not really a great or even a good thing. I would not want their therapy bills, nor their nightmares. Nor still would I want to live for even five minutes in the head of any of the parents that pimped out their children to him so he could have unsupervised overnight child guests at Neverland Ranch and they could make a little cash. I would not want to be the staff that worked for him. I think Michael Jackson, the MAN, was a sick individual that needed to be locked up and not allowed custody of his soon-to-be-very-fucked-up children. I think he should have had himself cryogenically preserved after the Thriller Album – okay Off the Wall -- and ceased being at that place – it seems to be the place the rest of us stopped at with respect to our worship of him as an ARTIST. Our collective willingness to overlook each and every progressive action during the course of his mental decline, regardless how lawless or morally repugnant, is evidenced by the stadium-sized memorial going on as I write this (while simultaneously checking in on FaceBook to get the photo updates from my friend in VIP seating.)

Wiktionary also defines MAN as: Humanity as a whole. I interpret this to mean our collective ability to be compassionate -- to forgive. We are celebrating and mourning the life and death of Pop Culture itself today. The complete awesomeness that Pop Culture is, along with the twisted, sick and pathetic state Pop Culture can become.

I admit to feeling rather confused, numb, sad, angry and all of the feelings that go with being rather confused, numb, sad, angry. Not really knowing HOW to feel about something so large is an entirely undefinable thing that requires a new word that has not yet been invented.

Politicians and Their Penises -- DOH!

2009-07-01T12:28:00.000-07:00

What is up with politicians and their runaway penises? Honestly.

How about this:

Her: “If you sleep with someone other than me and I find out about it, the outcome is very simple. You will come home to find the locks changed and your crap in the middle of the street outside. Done and done.”

Him: “Likewise.”

The couple high five, cheer, chest bump and sit down together to watch So You Think You Can Dance.

That’s how it’s done. This business of standing stoically by your man at a press conference as he humiliates your coupledom on national television – is absolute hogwash. To be fair, I suppose I should say “stand by your man OR woman”, though I have yet to see a female politician spend tax payer money on getting a boy toy a staff position. Nor have any of us seen the aftermath of a she-powerful-public-servant haplessly running off to a foreign country because she just can’t get enough of that sweet boy ass. The second he OR SHE ventured outside the marriage agreement, they lost all privileges in the “I’ll stand you, no matter what” department. Especially if the idiot is in a career that involves exposure to television, FaceBook, Twitter, YouTube, Fox News, etc. . .

We do not live in a country that has a good or healthy relationship with sex – and there are many who are paid good money to state on camera that sex is evil and dirty and icky and something to be very, very afraid of. So if you are actually having THE SEX and you are one of those people who let us know how evil and dirty and icky and something to be very, very afraid of it is, make super duper sure that you are having the kind of sex that you yourself have endorsed in public as being permissible. That would be the male/female only kind that is all about having babies and not about having fun or joy or pleasure at all. Make super duper uper guper sure you are not having the type of sex that you have openly condemned as evil and dirty and icky and something to be very, very afraid of. Is it just me? Doesn’t that seem like a no-brainer?

We do not need Maureen Dowd (though I adore her even while her snark is akin to drinking straight lemon juice first thing in the morning) writing an advice column for “wives of politicians” when their politician husbands dip their pen in somebody else’s inkwell. Seriously. When it DOES happen (and happen it will because the biggest protestors when it comes to sex are always the biggest closet kinks) the Associated Press should then treat it accordingly:

“Another public servant in the area of politics disgraced his spouse and family today by publicly admitting to an extramarital affair. This is pathetic, sad and unworthy of further comment.”

Isn’t there still poverty, or war, or a failed economy, or a flu, or extreme weather, or a food recall, or [insert topic here]. . . that is infinitely more important to know about?

Compost O My Soul

2009-06-29T11:29:00.000-07:00

One of the awesome things about buying a house – oh, by the way, Manpants and I bought a house while I was away. Away from the blog, that is. “Away.” Sounds like I was off for “the cure” or in jail or the funny farm or other such nonsense. Actually a lot of things happened while I was away, leaving us both a little older, wiser, fatter. And while Manpants still has a lovely head of dark hair, I seem to have developed a large quantity of gray that my hairdresser liberally covers with some sort of ash blonde something-or-other to get it back to its natural state.

What was I saying? Oh right. One of the awesome things about buying a house is that the amateur gardener in me gets to come out and play. I have to admit I love it. It is literally the only time my head shuts up completely and all outside sound is gloriously filtered by my subconscious to include only birdsong and the buzzing of various insect life. Oh, and the sound of the next door neighbors’ giant front yard fountain that sounds like Paul Bunyon is relieving himself. That one is kind of hard to tune out and often triggers a sudden urge to relieve my own self in the Bougainvillea.

We’re on water rationing here in California, so I am moving certain plants and shrubs from the front of the house to the back into areas where they won’t need so much – putting a lot of peat moss and compost around the plants to hold onto the moisture longer – all while improving my upper body strength and thereby holding off bone loss for another day.

This brings me to the subject of this ramble. Rather than staying in bed and drinking coffee Saturday morning, Manpants and I went off to a workshop given by LA County on . . . composting. About twenty minutes of our lives to find out what one can and cannot put in said composter – and we then get to take home our fancy schmancy Bio Stack from Smith & Hawken, at the subsidized price of $45! Didja know you can put dryer lint in there? I know!

Com-post [kom-pohst]: –noun -- a mixture of various decaying organic substances, used for fertilizing.

I like to think that the mundane and terribly suburban act of introducing a composter to our garden is somehow symbolic in the larger scheme of things as we begin this new portion of our lives – and that perhaps we can – I can – allow the experiences of the past two years to become a form of decay that I can put into a metaphorical bin, add water, and something altogether wonderful and nurturing and fabulous will come out of it.

Fertilizing my HOPE, as it were.

Other than that Mrs. Lincoln . . .

2009-06-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

Previously seen on Millicent: Oh hell, read the archives – but they are over two years old and so much has happened! Turns out Dick Cheney IS a demon that eats small children and puppies! Who knew! Our new president can READ!!!! His wife is awesome and completely her own person with her own fan base!!!!

There’s a famous track on a recording by Tallulah Bankhead where she posed the same question several times to demonstrate how vocal emphasis could COMPLETELY make a performance. That question, posed thusly below, can sum up my last two years away from this blog.

What have you been doing?
WHAT – have you been doing?
What HAVE you been doing?
What have YOU been doing?
What have you BEEN doing?
What have you been DOING?

[fill in blank here]

No seriously. What HAVE you been doing? No, not me. I mean you. I’m talking to you. Duh. Oh, and Manpants says hello.

A NEW DAY

2007-04-20T10:31:00.000-07:00

That title does not in any way, shape or form refer to the jingle in the Herpes commercial. Horrible what commercial jingles do to language association.

Anyway . . .

Well, hello there. It has certainly been awhile. First and foremost, I wish to extend my heartfelt gratitude for all the kind wishes and support many of you have given, and extended thanks to those of you who have continued to check in with comments here and emails there, reminding me that I am indeed part of the fabric of the universe and that it might be time to rejoin it.

I have been okay, considering. People keep asking me if I have had an inappropriate outburst at anyone yet. That answer is no, however it was suggested to me by my Chinese Medical practitioner that I do so, and soon. The suggestion being to unload it on someone completely unconnected to the situation, i.e. get in a cab, tell the driver to drive, and just go off. Or unload on an unsuspecting telemarketer. Something like that. I haven’t yet, but it is an interesting idea.

Much has happened in the last three months. Many things have happened in our world and nation in the past three months that go beyond the scope of my own recent family tragedy. Anna Nicole (insert all hourly news updates and scandal here), Obama’s impressive fundraising, more soldiers lost, the horrible tragedy at Virginia Tech and the U.S. Supreme Court donning medical scrubs sans medical degrees to declare what they believe to be sound medical practice when it comes to reproductive health.

Oh, and Manpants and I got engaged.

I plan on commenting upon all of the above at some point and in my fashion, but today I think I’ll talk about a few things I have learned and I’ll try not to make it too Lifetime Movie of the Week.

I have learned that having an inappropriately dark sense of humor is crucial to human survival. I have learned that I can pack up an entire house and close up financial affairs in an insanely rapid, yet efficient amount of time. I have learned that it is actually rather important to name a legal executor of one’s estate because if that isn’t there, other people cannot do whacky little things like legally sell, donate or even inherit a car; that the only recourse is to drive said car to a dodgy neighborhood and leave it there with the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition. I have learned that bathing can sometimes be left off the chore list for a week without it being all that icky. I have learned that Southwest Airlines staff are absolutely wonderful if one ever has the horrible task of flying anywhere while carrying a loved one’s ashes on their lap. I have learned that waiting in line at Trader Joe’s or sitting in L.A. traffic is just not that big a deal when compared to sitting and watching a 7 ½ hour chemo treatment and a willingness to wait as long as it takes and more if it meant my sister would still be alive. I have learned that it is important to have friends with you when strangers come over to pick up things they bought from you on Craig’s list. I have learned that some of those people who buy things on Craig’s list can leave an entire house smelling like fried chicken. I have learned that the people who live and work in St. Louis, Missouri are some of the kindest, most considerate, patient and helpful people I have ever encountered and that the people of Los Angeles could learn a lot from them, especially when it comes to waiting in line at the Post Office. I have learned that one can indeed survive on coffee, salami and cheese alone if one’s imagination and energy is not capable of venturing beyond those three items. I have learned that the closest of friends can turn out to be those people you fought with and haven’t spoken to. I have learned that Ambien doesn’t work very well as a sleep aid, but over-the-counter Simply Sleep is good in a pinch. I have learned that it is okay to accept help. I have learned how to create a rockin’ PowerPoint slide presentation.

I have learned that life is very short and that each of us has an obligation to those who left before us to remain interesting.

In Memoriam

2007-01-18T14:39:00.000-08:00

July 25, 1967 - January 5, 2007

My little sister. I'll miss her forever.

Holiday in Iraq

2006-11-30T13:14:00.000-08:00

Mom and I were chatting over the cooking dishes prior to Thanksgiving dinner. The discussion began with a discussion of the Lafayette Iraq War Memorial hissy fit (see previous post)and moved on to a discussion of the war itself.

The first thing she said, which I don’t actually recall anyone putting quite so well, was this:

“Imagine if we had a leader in the U.S. that had become an intolerable despot who committed all manner of human atrocities and completely trashed our basic rights. And imagine if another country, like China or some such entity, said to us, “let us rescue you” and they proceeded to come occupy our country – which involved them completely ignoring American culture, values or traditions, our monuments, our museums – everything they touched for our so-called betterment ruined before our eyes – it would be seen as an invasion and not something that we as a country should tolerate. The despot leader might be a lousy leader, but he’s our leader and we take care of our problems internally, no matter how bad they are. If that happened here?" she said, "I would fight to the death the occupation of these people. No one comes into my country and tells me they are going to rescue me because they decided among themselves we needed saving.”

Interesting thought, no?

The conversation went further. My mom had siphoned off the grease from the Turkey and commented on how many meat coupons it would have gotten during WWII RATIONING . I asked her to explain. She said that the family saved every drop of cooking grease – because the more you saved, the more meat coupons a family would earn. She said they did that with everything; used rubber, you name it. All was used for something that ultimately was made into something usable in the war, whether it was the grease to lubricate weapon machinery or something else. Everyone recycled because they had to – and the environment was not even a consideration at that time. Families got coupons for items that included everything from clothing and shoes, to food, cigarettes, coffee or chocolate, to gasoline and new tires for your car. Even if one could afford to pay more for goods, they were only allowed the allotment provided in their coupon book.

Our current administration has asked us to do nothing. Not to conserve, not to have the wealthiest among us pay taxes proportional to the middle and low income classes (thereby reducing the amount of debt to our financial sponsors in China), not to conserve gasoline, not to recycle (since that’s just for tree huggers) and for God’s sake, not to give up any earthly material comfort that might assist in getting our boys and girls more body armor or reinforced tanks. That’d just be silly.

I wonder how long we would stay in Iraq if we had THESE restrictions? And would people really get all that hot and bothered about a war memorial going up, if daily rationing was in effect as a constant reminder that our country is, in reality, at war?

With that thought - let’s take a look at how the White House will be rationing this holiday season, by perusing their holiday menu, as printed this morning in Tim Grieve’s column in
Salon.com:

“What we'll be missing:

Display of Specialty Cheeses and Winter Fruits (Served with a Bountiful Display of Lavish Specialty Crackers and Spiced Pecans).

Colossal Shrimp Cocktail and Jonah Crab Claws (Served with Ramsey’s Cocktail Sauce and Spiced Remoulade).

Stuffed Turkey Breasts with Winter Mushrooms, Cheese and Brandied Cranberries.

Sugar Cured Virginia Ham with Hot Pepper Mustard (Served with Warm Blue Corn Muffins).

Chicken Fried Beef Tenderloin with White Onion Gravy (Served with Tiny Icebox Rolls).

Herb Roasted Lollipop Lamb Chops served with Warm Yeast Rolls.

Honey Cup Mustard Sauce.

Fresh Tamales with Tomatillo Sauce and Black Beans.

Baked White Cheddar Farfalle.

Sweet Potato Soufflé.

Asparagus Tier with Lemon-Garlic Aioli.

Golden and Crimson Beet Salad with Orange, Fennel, and Feta.

Chocolate Peppermint Cookies with Peppermint Crunch.

Pecan Sandie Tree (Mexican Wedding Cookies, Russian Tea Cakes) with Layers of Cookies.

Holiday Ornamental Cookies: Barney, Miss Beazley, Christmas Trees, Snowflakes, Candy Canes.

Red Hat Box Mascarpone Cake.

White Pound Cake with Mascarpone Cream Filling, Red Marzipan Frosting and Red Ribbon Bow Decoration.

Coconut Cake.

Coconut Chiffon Cake, Coconut Pastry Cream Filling and 7 Minute Meringue Frosting.

Chocolate Roulade (Christmas Log): Soft Ganache Frosting with a Chocolate Sponge, Meringue
Mushrooms, Magnolia Leaves in White Chocolate, Raspberries.

Mini Tartlettes.
Pecan Pie, Lemon Meringue Pie, Orange Chiffon and Chocolate Boston Cream Pie.

Chocolate Truffles.

Homemade, Bittersweet Chocolate Ganache.

Long Stem Strawberries with Dark Chocolate Dipping Sauce.

Warm Macintosh Apple Cobbler With Oatmeal Crumble.

Pumpkin Trifle.

Spiced Pumpkin Mousse with Whipped Cream and Shaved Dark Chocolate.

. . . It's like the president says: "The time of war is a time of sacrifice."”

War Memorial or Anti War Protest?

2006-11-27T12:16:00.000-08:00

I went home to my parents for Thanksgiving this year. Home is a little town in the San Francisco Bay area called Lafayette. Lafayette usually makes the news when a teenager kills someone and the story is later made into a movie with Tori Spelling or a Law and Order episode. Other than that, it is pretty quiet.

So imagine the uproar when someone took their pricey piece of undeveloped land and turned it into a memorial for the soldiers lost in our current Iraq war.

Now, keep in mind that we have honored our fallen soldiers in every war that this country has fought in - In my family we have newspaper photos from every war going back to WWI, because family members have fought in every single one of them - Our country honored our soldiers with newspaper photographs, footage of flag-draped coffins, memorials at places like Arlington, later televised funerals when the teeVee entered the living room - that is every war except this one. It is part of our culture to acknowledge and mourn the dead. In this war, however, we are apparently to close our eyes and do like the president does. If we don't see it, does that mean our dead aren't really dead? This is not really happening? Our kids aren't really in danger?

One angry motorist got out of her car and knocked the sign down. Turns out that motorist was a retired Marine Sergeant. Okay, so a military officer takes an oath to support and defend the U.S. Constitution. That doesn't mean supporting and defending only those portions of the U.S. Constitution that they agree with, and whatever the intention the message might be by the person or persons responsible for erecting the memorial, anti-war or not, it IS what every city in this nation needs. A memorial; a symbol of sadness and respect for those lost and who continue to be lost and a reminder of the high cost of war.

I went to see for myself. And I cried. There are more crosses now than when the newspaper photo was taken that I have posted above. In addition to 350 white crosses, there are Stars of David, a Muslim Crescent and a cross painted in the rainbow colors of the Gay flag. One cross was plain, unpainted wood. The sign was updated to read the most recently reported number of soldiers killed. People have placed flowers and flags at the base of many of the crosses. I guess they saw it the same way I did, which sure as hell is not political and is about as patriotic as anything I can think of.

There is apparently a public hearing tonight about the memorial. Some want it torn down. My question is - why aren't MORE towns erecting memorials?

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Programming...

2006-08-15T06:45:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. What happened to you in the jungle, Millicent? I'll tell, I'll tell. But first, I want to discuss something truly grinding. That and give a shout out to Tom Harper over at Who Hijacked Our Country for posting today's parable that everyone should read. It relates to my next story. In an obscure kind of way.

On Saturday, Manpants and I were invited to an impromptu dinner party at a friend's. We offered to bring dessert and went to our favorite little cake place for a scrummy little light lunch, followed with our request to Uncle R. behind the counter for the dessert of the evening - a black-out cake with a layer of espresso that could put a person into a coma.

While we were there, a man comes in - very Beverly Hills Adjacent looks, harried, holding a cell phone. He proceeds to interrogate the owner about every single cake. The owner goes into the cooling room and brings out cake after cake after cake, explaining the fillings, the confection toppings, etc. . . After each cake, the man either says, "Oh that won't do," or he gets on his cell phone, says a few words and then says to the owner, "That won't do. What else have you got?"

Enter a Beverly Hills Adjacent harried looking pregnant woman with a 6 year old girl in tow. She approaches the harried looking man.

I'm thinking to myself, "Of course! She's pregnant! It's a Pickle Cake problem!" I'm guessing she is looking for something very specific, and I'm completely down with that. Hell, girl, eat the entire left side of the menu.

She speaks a few words to her husband, who relays something to the owner, who schlepps back to the cooling room for what appears to be the White Chocolate with Rasberry Filling and confection cake. Yummy. There are looks of concern on the faces of the family all around, and I decide to go back to my delicious turkey breast sandwich and stop spying on humanity for once in my life.

I look up just in time to see the whole family turn around and leave, with no cake, while the owner stands there with this funny look on his face that is sort of combined amusement with disbelief. Well, the cakes are pretty dreamy - how could they leave with no cake? Okay, just a side note here, the place is too crowded already so I'm not saying the name because I'm feeling ornery today. I picked up a little parasite in Peru that has left me feeling annoyed. But to borrow from The Devil Wears Prada "I'm one [parasite] away from my ideal weight!"

Where was I?

Oh yes. So, while Manpants has gone up to the counter to speak to Uncle R. about the cake, the owner (with the combination look on his face) plops himself down in the seat next to mine. I, being really nosy, say, "What was that over there?" It turns out, it was Pregnant Beverly Hills Adjacent's birthday and the cake was for her. She had her heart set on the White Chocolate Rasberry. The 6 year old girl, however, informed everyone that she wouldn't be eating that, so they were negotiating other possibilities with her. She wanted the black out cake because of the pretty toppings. The owner told them he couldn't sell them the cake if they were going to feed it to a child because they'd never get the child down off the ceiling if she ate any. After 25 minutes of back and forth and negotiations with the child, they gave up and left. Happy Birthday, Mommy.

And people wonder why we're calling it the "Entitlement Generation." Since when do we negotiate with children? Especially over a birthday cake that is not theirs? The kid will be a monster by 8 and in rehab by 12. If we don't teach structure, boundaries and respect for others when they are young - can we really expect them to grow into people who are anything other than lawless individuals with disdain for everyone around them?

Kind of like our current president.

Our Journey Begins

2006-08-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

Our first stop was in Lima, Peru.

We were placed at an airport hotel which happens to be in the thick of the real Lima - the Lima that the travel guides, brochures and guides do not show you. The disparity between those with money and those without is on grand display in Lima, and it is not recommended that one venture far with a camera hanging around one’s neck - that is, unless you want it yanked off. We were instructed to be sure to not get into any cabs not arranged directly by the hotel. They said that the cab drivers or mini-van cabbies will simply rob you. The area we were in was rife with graffiti, bars on windows and doors, squatter constructions made of available materials like corrugated metal and amateur masonry attached to existing structures. Kind of like parts of East or South Central Los Angeles. Due to the fact that I live in a city where the grand divide between people with money and people without is growing daily, and the number of homeless people approaching me in my car has increased tenfold since I moved here - I wasn’t all that bothered or alarmed and my friend brought her camera anyway. We already have our urban training. I actually didn’t take any pictures of Lima out of respect for the people living there that might not want me showing their roofless, caved in, graffiti decorated dwelling. It was depressing. I show a picture here of the Plaza Mayor; an approved version by the Tourist Board. Add a thick layer of grime, and it’s closer. Add 8 million people and you’re closer still. I couldn’t help but think as we rode in our hotel approved transportation, that if the U.S. keeps going in the direction it is being led to go in, we are simply not that far behind.

There’s something we ordered at a café in Central Lima - a novelty of sorts. It’s called a Coca-Cola. You might remember it. It was a soda we drank as children and is no longer available unless one travels to a foreign country that doesn’t have a High Fructose Corn Syrup trading agreement with the U.S. That’s right. Actual cane sugar. That stuff they are selling here in the U.S. in a Coca-Cola can or bottle is something passing itself off as Coke, is much cheaper to produce - but it’s not it. The second I brought the glass of the real stuff up to my nose I could smell the difference and the taste was just what I remembered from my youth. The Coke we drank years ago was not the stuff one can chug - but was more a sipping soda. No chance a kid could down 3 of those in a sitting and then wonder later why they have juvenile diabetes, ADD and are obese. Oh wait - that’s right - they are using high fructose corn syrup instead of cane sugar in EVERYTHING now, including those Wheat Thins in your cupboard sitting there waiting to send your Liver into hyper drive. No high fructose corn syrup in Peru. And guess what? Despite the poverty and the diet high in white rice and pasta and eggs that are used as filler foods - there are no fat people like we see in our poorest neighborhoods here. None. Curvy yes, fat no. You got kids? Check your labels and if you have anything with it, including that Yoplait you like for breakfast, throw that shit out.

But I digress.

We didn’t have time to go to the areas that the Tourist Board would prefer the Gringos go to - the posh sections with miles and miles of flowers. I hear it’s quite lovely. But there are 8 million people already living there that generally don’t get to see it either.

When in Rome.

I Return From The Jungle

2006-08-06T10:58:00.000-07:00

Allow me to introduce Martín. This little Marmoset adopted the very small camp of Onanyan Shobo (literal translation means Shaman’s House) where my friend and I stayed for 10 days. He would repeatedly visit our hut to kill bugs. He peed on my backpack before we left.

We also had the occasional bat.

It was a truly profound and enlightening experience that I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to show up for. We were among the indigenous Shipibo people, who are the most generous, kind and affectionate people I have encountered in years. Not to mention gorgeous. I have said many times over the years that I needed to get away to a place where I was fed and watered and had nothing around me to contribute to the everyday stress of life. This was certainly the place.

The following list is of a few of the things we lived without for the duration – not necessarily listed in order of importance:

electricity
telephones
flushing toilets
hot showers
dairy
sugar
chocolate
tiled bathrooms
air conditioning
internet/email
multi-thread count sheets
fluffy pillows
coffee
bubbly water
sourdough bread
soy milk
peanut butter
facial scrub
makeup
hair product
blow dryer
stable toilet seat
dryness of any kind
stress
rushing
bug-repellant free skin
our loved ones
cars
music/radio
television
newspaper
machine washed clothes
chemically treated bathing water
smog
traffic
rude people
sales calls
people wanting things
work/job
gas prices
bills
gym
Starbucks
blueberry scones
olive oil

The day started at sunrise around 6 a.m. and ended when the forest became pitch black at about 6:15 p.m. There are more stars than the eye can take in. With nothing much to do after sundown, we went to sleep around 8 p.m. The sounds of the jungle are relatively quiet during the day because most of the animals, birds and insects are nocturnal, so at night the chorus was incredible – and sounded like any movie you have ever seen with the sounds of jungle in the background.

The spiritual healing ceremonies were profound, as were some of the day-to-day experiences, but to try to explain would sound nuts to anyone who wasn’t there. Suffice it to say, we were among a culture of people who live in a world where the physical world and the spiritual world exist on the same plane and things happen that cannot be explained – which they explain with frankness as it is part of the everyday world they live in and just the way it is.

I ate piranha and swam in the Amazon River. How cool is that?

There will be more pictures forthcoming over the next few blogs. It’s good to be home, but I do feel that I left part of myself there to make a home for part of my spirit.

EXTREME ADVENTURE

2006-07-09T22:51:00.000-07:00

Did I mention I’m traveling into the heart of the Amazon rainforest in less than two weeks?

Last March, I was in St. Louis, taking care of my sister through a particularly awful patch with her then-chemo treatment. (At some point in history a bunch of doctors sat around trying to brainstorm cancer cures and they all collectively said, “Hey, I know! Let’s try base metals!”) – At the time she was being infused with straight platinum. Apart from being the most expensive piece of bling in St. Louis – it had some pretty horrific side effects.

I was, more than anything, trying to give my sister something to distract her from what she was going through. A friend of mine had given me a copy of the March issue of National Geographic Adventure with an article by Kira Salak, entitled, Peru: Hell and Back. It was, to me, a rather harrowing tale of her journey into the heart of the Amazon rainforest and a series of Shamanic ceremonies involving the drinking of a medicine called Ayahuasca, that has been used for thousands of years in the healing of a number of illnesses – among them, cancer.

I thought her reading about some journalist going into the rainforest and the subsequent harrowing and profound internal journey was a good choice – it had mysticism, ancient ceremonial magic, barfing – the stuff of a good episode of Buffy. My sister read the article.

A couple days later, she says, “Would you want to go and do this?”

“It scares the living daylights out of me . . . But if you want to do that, I’d do it.”

She proceeded to order a few books on the subject; we talked about it more and more, and then one day she says, “I think I want to do this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“You know it’s probably not a cure.”

“I know that. But it’s the fucking AMAZON! How cool would that be?”

So, keeping an open mind, and not about to deny my sister anything when she’s been handed a truly ugly medical diagnosis – I started investigating. I should probably mention that other than a few vacations to Puerto Vallarta over the years, I have not been anywhere since I went off by myself to live briefly in London when I was twenty one. I don’t get out much.

I first contacted one of the sites profiled in the National Geographic Adventure article. I explained our situation and they said that they didn’t feel that it would be good for her to travel to their particular retreat as they were not set up for medical emergencies.

Meanwhile, my sister had been taken off that particular chemo due to the extreme side effects she was experiencing and had been put on another kind that was in pill form. She started to improve. A lot. She then reaffirmed her interest in going to Peru and talked to her oncologists. They said they would not interfere with any personal healing journey she wanted to take. Okay, now at the time it didn’t occur to us to talk to her OTHER doctors. Oncologists are wonderful people, but they are also dealing with people with terminal illnesses, so they are more than likely to say, “You want to go shark diving? Great! Go for it!” But armed with the blessing of the oncologists, I embarked again on finding a way to do Sis’s Big Adventure. I hit pay dirt. I found an organization that is administratively run through the UK, but the location itself is in the heart of the jungle with the indigenous tribe of Indians that have been doing this for centuries. We would be provided with an interpreter guide and all the amenities that jungle living with no electricity or hot water can provide. They were very knowledgeable about many forms of cancer and had a different approach than the other organization that was, while aware of her possible limitations, making it possible for her to go. Their knowledge of western medications and treatments was extremely vast. They weren’t going to take any chances and said that she might get there and not be able to actually drink the healing medicine, but that the ceremonies themselves had been profoundly helpful to many who were ill.

I’m a native Californian, and therefore have an open mind. I think there’s an awful lot we don’t know about. Sooooooo, I put the deposit down and bought the tickets for sis, my friend (the one who showed me the article to begin with) and myself.

And no. Manpants would not be joining us. This was just us gals.

Well, part of the journey involves shots. Vaccinations. One can’t just waltz into Peru without their Yellow Fever vaccination. Or tetanus, or hepatitis, or typhoid, or diphtheria for that matter. So sis goes to get her shots and is informed that at least two of them are live vaccines. Live vaccines are very bad for people with shot immune systems from chemo. Very bad. Sis can no longer go. Her adventure, her idea, the tickets are bought – and nope.

She had a great attitude about it however and the next CT results were even better than the ones before – which reaffirmed that whatever it is that she’s doing is working; macrobiotic eating, Fiji water, voodoo, pill chemo – a combo of all the above, who knows - so why mess with success? She was fine about not being able to go, but firm about wanting my friend and I to continue on with the journey.

So we are. We’re leaving July 22nd. We fly into Lima, then fly from there to Iquitos, then hike and boat into the camp where we will be for 10 days of hiking; educational treks learning about the flora and fauna of that part of the rainforest; learning about the ancient culture of an Indian tribe that is in danger of becoming extinct; boating on the Amazon river and participating in nightly ceremonies of a unique and ancient healing art that goes back quite possibly as far as the cave paintings of Chauvet and Lascaux.

It’s very exciting, scary, nerve wracking, exciting and scary. AND I’m going to get to see the Amazon rainforest in person – not just a Jeff Corwin experience. (Animal Planet viewers will get the reference.) Since the Rainforest may be here all of another 15 minutes at the rate we’re going environmentally – I am pretty grateful for the opportunity.

I will, of course be recording everything in a journal and willing to share all when I return.

Did I mention it’ all very exciting and scary?

RUMOR MILL: VLADI'S A PEDOPHILE!!!!!

2006-07-07T10:57:00.000-07:00

Will someone tell me why this is news? Not just a tidbit in the Bondage Files of the SF Gate (where this particular excerpt comes from), but chatted about on NPR (I heard it this morning), reported by Associated Press and other usually somewhat sane, news reporting agencies. And not just the U.S. national news, but apparently it is huge news in Russia. Have we humans gotten to the point that we are so screwed up with respect to affection, let alone sex, that an adult performing that age old gesture of picking up a child and kissing or doing a raspberry on the stomach of said child is now an act of inappropriate affection/potential pedophilia and that we must, must, must find out the motivation for that action? Where reporters, rather than ask the opinion of a leader about the recent testing of missiles in N. Korea, ask him instead about his motivation for picking up and kissing a child. I give you the article:

Putin Explains Kissing Child's Stomach
Thursday, July 6, 2006
(07-06) 11:45 PDT MOSCOW, Russia (AP) --

In between answering questions about North Korea's missiles, Iran's nuclear program and relations with the United States, Russian President Vladimir Putin answered what was for many observers a more burning question: What compelled him to kiss the bare stomach of a young boy in a Kremlin courtyard?

Footage of the June 28 incident was broadcast on all Russian television stations, quickly became fodder for Internet chat rooms and topped the Moscow tabloids the day after. The question was one of the most popular among the thousands e-mailed in for the Web chat, hosted by the British Broadcasting Corp. and Russian search engine Yandex.ru.

In the footage, Putin, 53, is shown walking up to a small crowd of tourists in a Kremlin courtyard and crouching down in front of the boy, who appears to be five or six years old. As the Russian president talks with Nikita for several seconds, he tugs at the boy's shirt before finally lifting it up and kissing him on his bare stomach.

"He seemed to me very independent, very serious, but at the same time a boy is always vulnerable. He was very sweet. I'll be honest, I felt an urge to squeeze him like a kitten and that led to the gesture that I made, there was nothing behind it really," he said, smiling.

Okay. Now, we were all very disappointed in the lapse in moral behavior of our former president over the whole Monica thing – just ‘cause it was really dumb – however with respect to his political savvy, his record with increased riches to the U.S. Coffers and improved environmental policies, not to mention the respect held for him (and still held for him) by our allies (who, incidentally, didn’t understand what the big deal was – it was just sex with another consenting adult and had nothing to do with running the country.) Despite that fact, the extreme right in our country, hell, even that drug addict Rush and that morning-after-the-rough-trade-night-before-cocktail-dress-worn-to-morning-interviews Ann Coulter, STILL like to throw out that lapse in judgment as being equivalent to blowing up the Federal Reserve and turning over military secrets to the enemy. Or leaking the name of a CIA operative to the press.

Were we always this screwed up by extreme fundamentalist philosophy and the resulting dirty, hysterical minds that are a byproduct of that philosophy that we live without any hope at all of being a nation evolved in any sort of rationale at all, and as a result, doomed to act out in really weird and inappropriate manners because some of us have so repressed ourselves that we become freaks that act out in bizarre and sometimes harmful ways? Are we a nation that is so repressed by that fundamentalist ideology that issues like the banning of gay marriage take supreme importance over that of correcting the poverty and illiteracy rate of our fellow citizens? Apparently, yup.

And yet I hear that certain areas of the Mid West have taken up swinging again as a way to deal with marital boredom.

Definition for Swinging: To exchange sex partners. Used especially of married couples.

Okay. To each, his and her own. Not my thing. Supposedly Orange County, California is also a hotbed of swinging. Funny – both the Mid West and Orange County are also hotbeds of conservative Republican values. What did I say about repressed people? Makes sense they all voted to ban gay marriage – I’m sure their active imaginations and obsessions with what others are doing in the privacy of their own homes are directly related to their own actions and bizarre desires.

There was an episode of Battlestar Galactica that dealt with this fanaticism over sex and affection. In case you haven’t tuned in to the incredibly savvy and entertaining remake of the dismal 1970’s series (this is actually a remake I will champion), the humans are at war against the Cylons (allegorical fundamentalist terrorists) and at one point, a military tribunal is held to question officers about any knowledge regarding a Cylon agent’s infiltration into their midst. The tribunal is held by an independent prosecutor (shades of Kenneth Starr) who quickly turns the questioning to inexplicable inquiries about the sexual relationship between an officer and that officer’s superior. Nicely written, nicely acted, and in the end, the commander steps forward and tells the independent prosecutor with appropriate disgust, “You have lost your way. This tribunal is over.” Ah, the stuff of fantasies. Too bad we can’t be so evolved and responsible here.

Fundamentalism; be it Christian, Muslim, Mormon, Jewish – it has little or nothing to do with the original philosophies of those religions that the fundamentalist version is loosely based upon and it is important we make the distinction. There are oodles of Christians, Muslims, Mormons, Jews, Buddhists, etc. that embrace the original philosophies of their faiths that all basically boil down to the same thing – let’s all be nice to each other, shall we?

I just wish the fundamentalists wouldn’t spread that nonsense and sick-making weirdness – particularly in the area of a basic human need, which they seem to need to turn into some bizarre carnival nightmare freak-show – to the rest of us to the point that the national wire service feels it crucially important to report about the possible motivations of a leader for picking up a child and kissing – or blowing a rasberry on (can’t tell from the picture) – the stomach of a child. GROW UP PEOPLE.

THIS JUST IN - and I'm proud of him.

2006-07-05T11:22:00.000-07:00

Doug's apology

AN APOLOGY FROM A BUSH VOTER

By Doug McIntyre

Host, McIntyre in the Morning

Talk Radio 790 KABC

There’s nothing harder in public life than admitting you’re wrong. By the way, admitting you’re wrong can be even tougher in private life. If you don’t believe me, just ask Bill Clinton or Charlie Sheen. But when you go out on the limb in public, it’s out there where everyone can see it, or in my case, hear it.

So, I’m saying today, I was wrong to have voted for George W. Bush. In historic terms, I believe George W. Bush is the worst two-term President in the history of the country. Worse than Grant. I also believe a case can be made that he’s the worst President, period.

In 2000, I was a McCain guy. I wasn’t sure about the Texas Governor. He had name recognition and a lot of money behind him, but other than that? What? Still, I was sick of all the Clinton shenanigans and the thought of President Gore was… unthinkable. So, GWB became my guy.

For the first few months he was just flubbing along like most new Presidents, no great shakes, but no disasters either. He cut taxes and I like tax cuts.

Then September 11th happened. September 11th changed everything for me, like it did for so many of you. After September 11th, all the intramural idiocy of American politics stopped being funny. We had been attacked by a vicious and determined enemy and it was time for all of us to row in the same direction.

And we did for the blink of an eye. I believed the President when he said we were going to hunt down Bin Laden and all those responsible for the 9-11 murders. I believed President Bush when he said we would go after the terrorists and the nations that harbored them.

I supported the President when he sent our troops into Afghanistan, after all, that’s where the Taliban was, that’s where al-Qaida trained the killers, that’s where Bin Laden was.

And I cheered when we quickly toppled the Taliban government, but winced when we let Bin Laden escape from Tora-Bora.

Then, the talk turned to Iraq and I winced again.

I thought the connection to 9-11 was sketchy at best. But Colin Powell impressed me at the UN, and Tony Blair was in, and after all, he was a Clinton guy, not a Bush guy, so I thought the case had to be strong. I was worried though, because I had read the Wolfowitz paper, “The Project for the New American Century.” It’s been around since ‘92, and it raised alarm bells because it was based on a theory, “Democratizing the Middle East” and I prefer pragmatism over theory. I was worried because Iraq was being justified on a radical new basis, “pre-emptive war.” Any time we do something without historical precedent I get nervous.

But the President shifted the argument to WMDs and the urgent threat of Iraq getting atomic weapons. The debate turned to Saddam passing nukes on to terror groups. After 9-11, the risk was too great. As the President said, “The next smoking gun might be a mushroom cloud.” At least that’s what I thought at the time.

I grew up in New York and watched them build the World Trade Center. I worked with a guy, Frank O’Brien, who put the elevators in both towers. I lost a very close friend on September 11th. 103 floor, tower one, Cantor Fitzgerald. Tim Coughlin was his name. If we had to take out Iraq to make sure something like that, or worse, never happened again, so be it. I knew the consequences. We have a soldier in our house. None of this was theoretical in my house.

But in the months and years since shock and awe I have been shocked repeatedly by a consistent litany of excuses, alibis, double-talk, inaccuracies, bogus predictions, and flat out lies. I have watched as the President and his administration changed the goals, redefined the reasons for going into Iraq, and fumbled the good will of the world and the focus necessary to catch the real killers of September 11th.

I have watched the President say the commanders on the ground will make the battlefield decisions, and the war won’t be run from Washington. Yet, politics has consistently determined what the troops can and can’t do on the ground and any commander who did not go along with the administration was sacked, and in some cases, maligned.

I watched and tried to justify the looting in Iraq after the fall of Saddam. I watched and tried to justify the dismantling of the entire Iraqi army. I tired to explain the complexities of building a functional new Iraqi army. I urged patience when no WMDs were found. Then the Vice President told us we were in the “waning days of the insurgency.” And I started wincing again. The President says we have to stay the course but what if it’s the wrong course?

It was the wrong course. All of it was wrong. We are not on the road to victory. We’re about to slink home with our tail between our legs, leaving civil war in Iraq and a nuclear armed Iran in our wake. Bali was bombed. Madrid was bombed. London was bombed. And Bin Laden is still making tapes. It’s unspeakable. The liberal media didn’t create this reality, bad policy did.

Most historians believe it takes 30-50 years before we get a reasonably accurate take on a President’s place in history. So, maybe 50 years from now Iraq will be a peaceful member of the brotherhood of nations and George W. Bush will be celebrated as a visionary genius.

But we don’t live fifty years in the future. We live now. We have to make public policy decisions now. We have to live with the consequences of the votes we cast and the leaders we chose now.

After five years of carefully watching George W. Bush I’ve reached the conclusion he’s either grossly incompetent, or a hand puppet for a gaggle of detached theorists with their own private view of how the world works. Or both.

Presidential failures. James Buchanan, Franklin Pierce, Jimmy Carter, Warren Harding-— the competition is fierce for the worst of the worst. Still, the damage this President has done is enormous. It will take decades to undo, and that’s assuming we do everything right from now on. His mistakes have global implications, while the other failed Presidents mostly authored domestic embarrassments.

And speaking of domestic embarrassments, let’s talk for a minute about President Bush’s domestic record. Yes, he cut taxes. But tax cuts combined with reckless spending and borrowing is criminal mismanagement of the public’s money. We’re drunk at the mall with our great grandchildren’s credit cards. Whatever happened to the party of fiscal responsibility?

Bush created a giant new entitlement, the prescription drug plan. He lied to his own party to get it passed. He lied to the country about its true cost. It was written by and for the pharmaceutical industry. It helps nobody except the multinationals that lobbied for it. So much for smaller government. In fact, virtually every tentacle of government has grown exponentially under Bush. Unless, of course, it was an agency to look after the public interest, or environmental protection, and/or worker’s rights.

I’ve talked so often about the border issue, I won’t bore you with a rehash. It’s enough to say this President has been a catastrophe for the wages of working people; he’s debased the work ethic itself. “Jobs Americans won’t do!” He doesn’t believe in the sovereign borders of the country he’s sworn to protect and defend. And his devotion to cheap labor for his corporate benefactors, along with his worship of multinational trade deals, makes an utter mockery of homeland security in a post 9-11 world. The President’s January 7th, 2004 speech on immigration, his first trial balloon on his guest worker scheme, was a deal breaker for me. I couldn’t and didn’t vote for him in 2004. And I’m glad I didn’t.

Katrina, Harriet Myers, The Dubai Port Deal, skyrocketing gas prices, shrinking wages for working people, staggering debt, astronomical foreign debt, outsourcing, open borders, contempt for the opinion of the American people, the war on science, media manipulation, faith based initives, a cavalier attitude toward fundamental freedoms-- this President has run the most arrogant and out-of-touch administration in my lifetime, perhaps, in any American’s lifetime.

You can make a case that Abraham Lincoln did what he had to do, the public be damned. If you roll the dice on your gut and you’re right, history remembers you well. But, when your gut led you from one business failure to another, when your gut told you to trade Sammy Sosa to the White Sox, and you use the same gut to send our sons and daughters to fight and die in a distraction from the real war on terror, then history will and should be unapologetic in its condemnation.

None of this, by the way, should be interpreted as an endorsement of the opposition party. The Democrats are equally bankrupt. This is the second crime of our age. Again, historically speaking, its times like these when America needs a vibrant opposition to check the power of a run-amuck majority party. It requires it. It doesn’t work without one. Like the high and low tides keep the oceans alive, a healthy, positive opposition offers a path back to the center where all healthy societies live.

Tragically, the Democrats have allowed crackpots, leftists and demagogic cowards to snipe from the sidelines while taking no responsibility for anything. In fairness, I don’t believe a Democrat president would have gone into Iraq. Unfortunately, I don’t know if President Gore would have gone into Afghanistan. And that’s one of the many problems with the Democrats.

The two party system has always been clumsy and imperfect, but it has only collapsed once, in the 1850s, and the result was civil war.

I believe, as I have said countless times, the two party system is on the brink of a second collapse. It’s currently running on spin, anger, revenge, and pots and pots and pots of money.

We’re being governed by paper-mache patriots; brightly painted red, white and blue, but hollow to the core. Both parties have mastered the cynical arts of media manipulation and fund raising. They’ve learned the lessons of Watergate and burn the tapes. They have learned to divide the nation for their own gain. They have demonstrated the willingness to exploit any tragedy for personal advantage. The contempt they have for the American people is without parallel.

This is painful to say, and I’m sure for many of you, painful to read. But it’s impossible to heal the country until we’re willing to acknowledge the truth no matter how painful. We have to wean ourselves off sugar coated partisan lies.

With a belated tip of the cap to Ralph Nader, the system is broken, so broken, it’s almost inevitable it pukes up the Al Gores and George W. Bushes. Where are the Trumans and the Eisenhowers? Where are the men and women of vision and accomplishment? Why do we have to settle for recycled hacks and malleable ciphers? Greatness is always rare, but is basic competence and simple honesty too much to ask?

It may be decades before we have the full picture of how paranoid and contemptuous this administration has been. And I am open to the possibility that I’m all wet about everything I’ve just said. But I’m putting it out there, because I have to call it as I see it, and this is how I see it today. I don’t say any of this lightly. I’ve thought about this for months and months. But eventually, the weight of evidence takes on a gravitational force of its own.

I believe that George W. Bush has taken us down a terrible road. I don’t believe the Democrats are offering an alternative. That means we’re on our own to save this magnificent country. The United States of America is a gift to the world, but it has been badly abused and it’s rightful owners, We the People, had better step up to the plate and reclaim it before the damage becomes irreparable.

So, accept my apology for allowing partisanship to blind me to an obvious truth; our President is incapable of the tasks he is charged with. I almost feel sorry for him. He is clearly in over his head. Yet, he doesn’t generate the sympathy Warren Harding earned. Harding, a spectacular mediocrity, had the self-knowledge to tell any and all he shouldn’t be President. George W. Bush continues to act the part, but at this point whose buying the act?

Does this make me a waffler? A flip-flopper? Maybe, although I prefer to call it realism. And, for those of you who never supported Bush, its also fair to accuse me of kicking Bush while he’s down. After all, you were kicking him while he was up.

You were right, I was wrong.

WEDGE ISSUES - IMMIGRATION - WHAT ELSE?

2006-06-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

According to the nice folks at Wikipedia, a Wedge issue is “a social or political issue, often of a divisive or otherwise controversial nature, which is used by one political group to split apart or create a "wedge" in the support base of an opposing political group, with a view to enticing voters to give their support to the first group . . . Both the Republican and Democrat Parties have been accused of using social issues as wedge issues to divide the opposing voting base.”

We have been hearing an AWFUL lot about immigration. Again. Constantly. Thought I’d finally put in my two cents.

The U.S. is a funny place, in that we have readily available historical facts dealing with this issue and how to deal with it - the issue being that U.S. immigration is a construct of the cycles of the capitalist economic order that goes back as far as early colonial days when White-Europeans immigrated to the new world and exterminated native dwellers who would not become slave labor to the new colonists. We all know how that turned out. The colonists then forced by kidnap and sale, the immigration of African natives to do the labor required to build the New World.

As many of us learned in U.S. History class, the Civil War, which was fought from 1861 to 1865 between the then United States of America and the Confederate States of America was over the use of slaves for labor. Over 600,000 people died, $5 billion in property was destroyed, and 4 million black slaves were given their freedom. Freedom to a point. But with the end of slavery and the onset of the Industrial Revolution, cheap labor was needed.

Booker T. Washington stated in his 1895 address that the nations white leaders ought not “look to the incoming of those of foreign birth and strange tongue and habits for the prosperity of the South” (Davidson 1932, 38). Hmmm. I don’t think they listened.

Enter the Chinese. Actually, the use of Chinese plantation labor actually began in 1848. They were to fill the positions previously held by African slaves. Many worked on the transcontinental railroad, which was completed in 1869. Hard and dangerous work. I’m pretty sure that many died during their labors. An early leader of the Workingmen’s Party (which was formed as a reaction to Chinese immigrants) said, “To an American, death is preferable to life on a par with the Chinese.” (Swisher 1969, 11). The Chinese helped to develop the American West, however many saw them as inferior people who were unsuited to become U.S. citizens. American workers and labor unions began an intense anti-Chinese campaign, fueled by fear mongering of a Yellow Peril and in 1882, the Chinese Exclusion Act passed, banning further emigration from China.

But wait, cheap labor was still needed and a void had to be filled. Enter the Japanese. However, the same problem existed that did with the Chinese and by the late 1880’s, the newly organized AFL “joined with the Socialists, liberals and conservatives in viewing all Asian immigrant workers as a threat to the living standard of white workers and a threat to white purity.” (H. Eric Schockman, 1998). Soon all Asians were seen as a threat to the economic welfare of white workers and the Gentleman’s Agreement of 1907-1908 lumped Japanese and Koreans into the exclusion. The 1924 Immigration Act placed quotas on national origin, so that from 1931 to 1960, 58 % of immigrants came from Europe, 21 percent from North American, 15% from Latin American and 5% from Asian countries. In non-academic speak, that means mainly white people. In 1952, President Harry Truman attempted to veto the 1952 Immigration Act due to the prejudicial provisions towards Asians. Congress overrode his veto, pandering to the xenophobia of the masses.

But folks, cheap labor is still needed. Enter the Mexican labor force, followed by a time to complain again. An Employer Sanction Law was passed in California in 1971, which was basically riding on the idea that undocumented workers would stop coming across the border if sanctions were placed on employers who hire illegal workers. I guess no one really wanted to place sanctions on our business owners really, because that’d be bad for the economy. To date, not a single person in California has ever been convicted under the employer sanction law. Nationwide, state laws have resulted in five convictions. (Cornelius and Montoya 1983, 143).

Our nation has a rather bi-polar pattern of welcoming immigrants at times of economic need, then turning against them the second the economy sours or the number of newcomers grows to a large number. “Restrictionists argue that massive infusions of alien beliefs, customs, and genes undermine the nation’s unity, destroy its cultural identity, and mongrelize its population. Those who support an open immigration policy believe that the immigrant experience has a minimal impact on the overall society and, in the end, the diversity they contribute accelerates economic development.” (Schockman, 235). “The only ‘consistency’ in U.S. immigration policy is the use of immigrants as a political football - opening and closing our borders and our hearts and manipulating public sentiments as it served the varied and changing interests of corporate and governmental elites” (Labor/Community Strategy Center 1994, 9).

The problem is not the Mexican border. Nor does the problem lie with the Russians. Or the Chinese, the Koreans, the Japanese, the Philipinos, the Laotians, Haitians or even Australian actors. Protecting our borders from potential terrorists or drug traffickers is important - but what are we doing to protect ourselves from the Tim McVeigh’s of the U.S.? The Ted Kaczynski’s? The chemistry major at UCLA with a meth lab in the trunk of his car and a vial of home made GHB in his pocket that he takes to the clubs? They are right here.

The problem lies with the economic need of a capitalist economy to make things and buy things on the cheap and with the American consumer’s willingness to turn their head the other way while they shop. The problem lies with the heads of corporations and their profit structure. The problem lies with the consumer for giving the corporations permission for that profit structure. If we don’t want to pay $10 for a bag of oranges, then things need to remain as they are. But we don’t want to pay taxes; we don’t want to pay for items that might cost a little bit more; when we wear those Mardi Gras beads we don’t want to be told that they were made by 14 year old Chinese girls who work 16 hour days for $2.00 a week and we certainly don’t want to sew our own clothing. The Minutemen are more than willing to show off their beer bellies on teeVEE and talk about the damn Mex’cans, but completely unwilling to stop shopping at places like Wal-Mart where they might actually be doing something for their country.

We vote with our feet, people. If we want things to change, then we have to actually pay attention to how we’re contributing to it remaining the same and become willing to act accordingly. In a capitalist society, that generally means acting with our wallets.

For information on the labor practices of our nation’s major corporations with respect to cheap and often undocumented labor, here is a link:

http://www.coopamerica.org/programs/rs/companies.cfm

Check out those companies. See how they’re doing.

We can learn from our own history, or repeatedly choose to ignore it. This is America. We do have choices and we need to remember we are responsible for those choices - even while we’re loudly complaining.

SOURCES:
Cornelius, Wayne, and Ricardo A. Montoya. 1983. America’s New Immigration Law. San Diego, Calif.: Center for U.S. Mexican Studies, UCSD.
Davdison, E. 1932. Selected Speeches of Booker T. Washington. Garden City, New York: Doubleday.
Labor/Community Strategy Center. 1994. “Immigration Rights and Wrongs: Don’t Comply With Proposition 187.” Los Angeles, CA.
Schockman, H. Eric 1998. California’s Ethnic Experiment and the Unsolvable Immigration Issue: Proposition 187 and Beyond. The Regents of the University of California, Berkeley.
Swisher, Carl B. 1969. Motivation and Political Technique in the California Constitutional Convention: 1878-79. New York: Da Capo.

Tastes Like It Smells

2006-06-27T18:38:00.000-07:00

I am pretty sure that the only food that tastes EXACTLY like what it smells like - is Toast. Truly. One can never really be disappointed in Toast. Even chocolate manages to taste ever so slightly different than it smells.

One can be very disappointed in foods that have had smells added to them to make them seem irresistible, only to discover the lie when commencing the chowing down of the blander, rubbier, less tasty version of the fabulous smelly thing ordered. The usual suspects leap to mind; Taco Bell, MacDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken (I heard from someone that worked there that the secret recipe is beef fat), Burger King (what’s with the scary Uncle Louis the Molester King they are using in the commercials lately?) - you get the idea.

As some of you might know, I changed the way I eat last November to a pretty organic, refined sugar-free, processed-free way of eating. Sort of vegan-plus-fish. Macrobiotic, if you will, but using that name conjures up all kinds of misconception and crinkled brows so I prefer to call it the longer “organic-mainly-whole-foods-vegan-plus-fish” moniker. But trips back and forth to St. Louis and the subsequent emotional toll of the last several months of the cancer chronicles left me fixing with food. Fixing with drugs is so very 80’s and fixing with booze is so very [insert latest celebrity party girl name here]. Food is still so accessible, tactile and fun. And one needs it to live. Of course one does not need an entire wedge of brie on an entire baguette with an entire salami to live – but hey, it’s Tasty. The body seizing in rebellion at the assault of the dairy and nitrite portion of the Tasty after months of clean living is almost worth it. Okay sometimes it IS worth it.

I bring you to my moment of Panda Express. Smells divine when you walk by, doesn’t it? REALLY good. It never quite manages to taste like it smells, but I periodically go back, just to be sure. I went back Thursday night during my work break. I had the chowmein, the Pepper Chicken and the Mushroom Chicken in their 2 item combo lunch for $6.49. It didn’t taste like it smelled, but I was hungry and it was salty enough to make me forgive yet another time. . . Cut to today, and I’m finally able to venture forth into the world again, having spent what could have been a completely lovely weekend hunched instead over the American Standard altar, swearing to never be seduced by their smelly food ever again in my lifetime – which is probably shorter anyway, since I’m sure I threw up part of my soul along with the chowmein.

When I eat again, I think I’ll start with Toast.

GAS AND MINIMUM WAGE

2006-06-21T12:26:00.000-07:00

This is a short one, folks.

"A Democratic proposal which would have raised the minimum wage from $5.15 an hour to $7.25 an hour by January 1, 2009 failed in the Senate today. While a majority of Senators -- 52 -- backed the proposal, it did not get the 60 votes needed to pass. The vote came the day after Republicans in the House defeated a Democratic led effort to force a vote on the minimum wage." Salon.com

Manpants and I took a little trip this weekend and paid $4.40 a gallon for gas in Big Sur. For the person paid at minimum wage, that is a whopping .65 cents left over that won't even buy a nutritionally suspect box of Kraft macaroni and cheese ($1.50).

A head of cabbage is $7.00.

Assholes.

What else? GAS PRICES

2006-05-22T08:39:00.000-07:00

American car manufacturers are REALLY shortsighted. Take the Geo Metro, for example. A nifty little car; gets about 50 miles to the gallon. Quentin Tarantino drove one around for the longest time – even after he was completely 100% famous. Oh. Right. They stopped making that one. Then there was the fully electric EV-1. Oh yeah. One couldn’t buy an EV-1 – one could only lease. GM pulled them off the market and took them away from the people that had them. No more EV-1.

We’ve always bought American – trying to do our bit for the economy – supporting the U.S. autoworker, blah blah blah. We felt even better about not simply buying American, but for owning two Fords, due to Ford’s progressive policy on providing health coverage for domestic partners.

British Petroleum is doing this unheard of thing, called smart business policies that take into effect the changing economy and global need for fuel alternatives. They have been working with solar power, which extends the arm of Big Oil to the construction biz of solarizing homes. They now do this thing where, for every celebrity that hires BP to completely solarize their home, BP will solarize the home of a low income dweller for free. Kinda cool. And they do it here in the U.S. of A.

I am quite worried about the U.S. autoworkers – one look at the depressed and crumbled pit of despair and despoiler of human dignity that is Detroit - a huge crystal ball to the rest of the U.S. auto manufacturers and the towns that they are housed in with respect to what is shortly to come. I hope they have all sent their various applications and CV’s into the other guys in preparation for the impending horror – the horror that will be the auto-worker losing their job first, so the top of the corporate food chain can keep their shirt.

I heard a rumor that PWM’s – (People With Money) are purchasing up bulk amounts of fuel – like commodities – to be on hand for them should the time come that it is rationed to the rest of us folk.

In real life, not rumor, those of us who are already on a budget must do something differently. Here in Los Angeles, we have people who live on minimum wage that are pawning their stuff to put gas in their car to get to work – there is no subway that will take one west of Highland, since the folks in Beverly Hills, Bel Aire, et al, don’t want that element coming into their part of town. A bus ride is 2-3 hours.

Manpants and I have been feeling mighty guilty for quite a while because one of our vehicles was the Explorer Sport – a 15 gallon smaller version of the regular ole Ford Explorer that gets about 18 miles to the gallon. It has been great for the dogs and great for the various trips; great for being able to actually see when we drive, due to the sheer volume of other sight-blocking SUV's on the road here – but having it in this day and age has been eating at our souls. So, Friday, Manpants took it to the Toyota dealer and traded it in on the zippy new, 40 miles to the gallon, Toyota Yaris. Estimated yearly savings are that of a really decent vacation someplace beautiful. I have a feeling, based upon the large number of Yaris cars that were sold over the weekend at the one car dealership we used, that we’re going to be seeing a lot of this.

Right now would be a really good time for GM to pull their corporate heads out of the oil drum and re-introduce assembly of the Geo Metro and the EV-1.

OBEY YOUR THIRST!

2006-05-09T08:36:00.000-07:00

Remember the old ad campaign for that soft drink that told kids in order to be cool, they shouldn't pay attention to commercials, but they should simply obey their thirst and drink what they want - namely THEIR product? Which of course made it no longer cool because if everyone was doing it, then where does that leave you.

con·form·i·ty ( P ) Pronunciation Key (kn-fôrm-t)
n. pl. con·form·i·ties

Action or behavior in correspondence with socially accepted standards, conventions, rules, or laws: conformity to university regulations.

I am somewhat of a non conformist. When people are getting their hair cut short - I go long. When people order Lattes, I order coffee. When everyone is wearing UGG boots, I go back to 1980's Tony Lama cowboy boots. Why anyone wears UGG boots in Southern California is beyond me anyway. Ladies, if you are over the age of 11, UGG boots with a mini skirt is just wrong.

When I first started this blog, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. At first, I thought I would write in a character that was neither female, nor male - a drag queen perhaps. I used a picture of one of my eyes as my identi-photo. Of course the blog quickly became a format to vent, as me, the various observations of wackiness I see from day to day; the senior citizen couple on Crescent Heights Boulevard that walk their white duck on a leash; a man throwing his toupee out the window of his car on Wilshire Boulevard; a guy inexplicably wearing a dunce cap whilst sitting on the "bank" of the "L.A. River." Stuff like that.

Now it seems that oodles of goofy bloggers are using one of their eyes to identify their bloggy selves. So, in the spirit of revealing a bit more of myself - how very un-anonymous (don't worry, I'm still keeping "Millicent" as my nom de plume)of me, and the fact that a picture of my eye is soooo 2005, I've updated things a bit. Hope you don't mind.

Oh, and while I sit and think of something to say - though early June Gloom has settled over Los Angeles, which clouds the thinking, I share a couple links to things that just make me laugh out loud. Enjoy.

Insincere Civility

Barbra By Halstead (my dear friend, the genius)

Salad Fingers

Got Chocolate Hangover?

2006-04-16T20:04:00.000-07:00

There’s a great line in a song from the musical “Beauty and the Beast” when the villagers are getting themselves all fired up to hunt down and kill the Beast. The line goes,

“Because we hate
what we don’t understand
because it scares us
And the Beast is mysterious at least . . .”

There’s a lot of hate and insanity going on right now.

We read about and see on the teeVEE that Fundamentalists are suing for the right to be intolerant and preach hatred of those different from themselves - Because they hate what they don’t understand because it scares them and homosexuals are mysterious at least.

We read about and see on the teeVEE that the AFA is mighty terrified of a fictional adventure novel that speculates about Jesus being married to and having children with a woman of questionable virtue. Or they are protesting a series of fictional novels about a kid named Harry who has responsibilities thrust upon him that he didn’t ask for - who actually has, at his young age, the sense of right to live up to those responsibilities, despite the loneliness and isolation that comes with them. Pretty dangerous and subversive in a society that teaches us to think only of ourselves and to blame others when anything goes wrong. Like the nanny. Or liberals.

And let us not forget simply being afraid and intolerant of anyone that might have a religion that is not our own – simply because we’ve never bothered to pick up a book at the library and find out about it.

My grandmother was a church-going old school Republican – that is until the Christian Right started going all medieval and she changed her voting habits. When 9-11 happened, she actually took it upon herself to read up on the Islamic faith – simply because she wanted to understand. She was over 100 by that time, and couldn’t read because her eyes were bad, so she got books on tape. It just wasn’t a difficult choice to make. She didn’t understand something and it scared her, so she decided to find out more about it.

As some of us celebrate Easter Sunday – or rather and more accurately we celebrate the beauty and abundance of Spring and new life – the laying of eggs, baby bunnies, pretty colors and new bonnets – ‘cause let’s face it, there is really nothing about an Easter Egg hunt that has much to do with anything Christian – I am reminded of a sermon that the Episcopal priest in my childhood church gave one Easter Sunday when I was very young. Since it has stuck with me all these years – I’d say it was a pretty good sermon.

It goes like this:

A Sunday school teacher at the church handed out Legg’s plastic eggs - those things the pantyhose used to come in - to all of the children in the class the Sunday prior to Easter. She asked the children to go fill the eggs with whatever reminded them of Easter and to bring the eggs back to Sunday school the following Easter Sunday. One of the children in the class was a young boy who was born with Downs Syndrome. The children were often mean to the boy – teased him or shoved him – the kind of stuff that kids like to do to those who are different. He probably dealt with this wherever he went. Easter Sunday came and all the children came in with their Legg’s eggs for the assignment. The teacher opened them one by one. Some had flowers and rocks; some had jelly beans and malted milk eggs; some had little pieces of paper with drawings on them. The teacher got to the egg that the little boy with Downs Syndrome had brought, opened it, and found that there was nothing inside. She frowned a little and asked the little boy, “why didn’t you put anything in the egg like I asked you?” The little boy answered,

“Because the tomb was empty.”

How does a kid, who will never be able to read or write, who suffers the taunts of others for the simple matter of his having been born different – grasp something that even the Sunday school teacher did not?

There will always be people that are different than we are. They might speak differently, look differently, worship differently - and rather than treat them poorly because they are different – we might just want to pay extra attention to them, because they may have something very important to teach us.

Happy Easter, Father Bob. May you rest in peace.

"Mind as Pure as the Driven Snow - Not Violated By A Single Thought"

2006-04-08T12:20:00.000-07:00

During my last stay in St. Louis I had the opportunity to do some reading in between my various responsibilities. My sister was preparing a lecture she was to teach in an Intro to Fiction class that dealt with defining genre fiction and one of the readings she assigned was a short story by Neil Gaiman. I had never read the Sandman graphic novel series that Gaiman is best known for, nor had I actually read anything else by him. I had some time at the hospital during one of my sister's treatments to read his anthology, Smoke and Mirrors and admit to being completely drawn in, hooked, and wanting to read everything the man has ever written.

Now, I admit to being somewhat of a novice to the whole writing thing. Aside from the blog, I have written a couple short one-act plays that have been produced, which was a rewarding experience both times – but I have never really done more than dabble at it. I like it however, and the blog has given me a certain “permission to write.”

So, imagine my horror to find out that not only am I a bit of a novice – but apparently I’m a bit of a plagiarist, without ever knowing it. I have apparently been stealing from Neil Gaiman. Here's a little sentence I wrote in my blog back in January:

"As the beginning of 2006 unfolds along with the characteristic January rains that occur in California; rains that are not really rains, but more like gallons of water in giant barrels that are dumped suddenly upon one’s head; rains that kill anyone unfortunate enough to be homeless and seeking shelter in the concrete architectural mystery that calls itself the Los Angeles River; rains that cause people’s homes to go careening down hillsides into other people’s yards, only to be rebuilt by the insurance companies so that they may slide another year – I am brought to think about . . . " it goes on from there.

I have recently been reading Neil Gaiman’s American Gods (published in 2001): He writes:

"A week ago the rains began in Los Angeles, slicking the streets into road accidents, crumbling the mud from the hillsides and toppling houses into canyons, washing the world into the gutters and storm drains, drowning the bums and the homeless camped down in the concrete channel of the river. When the rains come in Los Angeles they always take people by surprise."

I'm horrified. I have once again seen example that there is nary an original thought in my head - even if I think I'm saying something new - it was said before, and by someone with better sentence structure.

Patience dear, it’ll come.

Life is a constant lesson in patience and tolerance. Some choose to sit in class and take in the lesson; some choose to look out the window and think about that 5 pounds they would like to lose, or fantasize about confronting various human objects of one’s hostility. I have been guilty of the latter at numerous times during my life. To speak in California-ese for a moment, I am a Virgo with Capricorn rising – which means that aside from loving to obsessively clean whilst entertaining thoughts of suicide, I am also guilty of, at times, having a large stick up my ass when it comes to patience with other people. There are those events in one’s life however, that put the importance of paying attention in class into harsh perspective.

I was standing in line in Trader Joes a week or so ago, behind a gentleman that was making a rather large purchase of assorted wines. They sent the box kid to go collect the various choices and put them in a case for the gentleman. It was taking a bit of time, and the man made the comment to the cashier that “obviously he’s not a wine buyer if he’s taking this long to find them.” The cashier politely explained that the kid was 16 years old and would not be experienced with that sort of thing. The gentleman took in that bit of information and adjusted his attitude, saying to the clerk, “would it help if I went over and helped him find them?” The clerk said he thought that would be great if he wished to do that. I stood there, in the Zen zone, staring at the various choices in organic dark chocolate near the cash register, wondering which was better – 70% dark chocolate or 90% dark chocolate? People in line started shifting their weight, grumbling to each other. A woman in the next line over caught my eye and rolled her eyes conspiratorially. I smiled, thinking to myself that I really liked her hair. I wasn’t actually thinking about the man holding up the line. I realized that I wasn’t feeling anxious or impatient at all. I was actually thinking – “try sitting in a cancer ward for 7 ½ hours watching someone get their weekly chemo treatment. Standing in line for a few minutes at Trader Joes is nothing. . .” and followed that with the thought – “I hope none of you ever have to do that.” It’s all about perspective I guess.

An added lesson to my L.A. socialization that is – people is St. Louis, MO are not in a hurry. They do things at a different rhythm and one must adjust to that rhythm if one means to have any peace of mind at all. Nor do they seem to have the same kind of understanding of caustic wit or sarcasm that we use regularly here as a form of banter – they just look at you quizzically – the subtext of that look being “why are you being an asshole?” Patience. Tolerance. When in Rome.

I’m not sure what the point of this is – other than to understand that in all things, including one’s creativity; patience, tolerance and a wicked sense of humor are absolutely essential.

Excuse me, doctor, but I'm having a nervous breakdown . . .

2006-04-06T13:51:00.000-07:00

Before I begin - I just want to say - if anyone is still checking in here given the fact I’ve written nary a word in AGES - Thank you to those who have been periodically checking in with me during the past couple of months. I know I haven’t responded. I have lurked at some of your blogs, but haven’t commented. Things have been a little bit more than hectic, but I truly appreciate that my cyber friends have been checking in. It means a lot.

That said . . .

There was an accident when we were children involving my sister falling through a ceiling while she and I were playing “secret-agents-communicate-via-the-air-conditioning-ducts-in-the-attic.” We had to schlep off to the emergency room to make sure she hadn’t broken anything, and hope that my parents weren’t going to be investigated for child abuse over the lame and far-fetched story told to the hospital staff of how she received her injuries. She really did fall through a ceiling and we actually were playing “secret-agents-communicate-via-the-air-conditioning-ducts-in-the-attic.”

While I was in the waiting area of the emergency room, a 40-something woman in a plain house dress walked in, walked up to the registration desk and said, “Excuse me, but I’m having a nervous breakdown and I need to see a doctor.”

Being the tender age of 10, I thought this was really exotic and a little frightening. A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN. Wow. A real crazy person.

After they handed her the forms on the clipboard and told her to sit down - she of course came and sat next to me. Even then, the crazies were drawn to me like mold to . . .well, anything organic. She reached into her purse, removed a pack of gum (what I considered to be a really normal type of action for someone about to be put in a straightjacket), turned to me and politely asked, “would you like a stick of gum?” I told her I wasn’t allowed, but thank you. She seemed so normal.

I think I understand her perfectly now.

Which brings me to my current dilemma. How exactly does one schedule in a nervous breakdown?

I’m not talking the, “oh a valium would be very nice right now” variety, but the full on gut-wrenching scream/howling, sobbing variety that includes an unfortunate forgetfulness about bathing; bouts of vomiting and diarrhea; requires that one be sent somewhere tropical to be fed, watered; told when to exercise; told when to go to bed and liberally furnished with fruity drinks in festive glasses that sport umbrellas peeking over the top of clinking ice cubes at all times. That kind of nervous breakdown. The kind of nervous breakdown that requires money and free time; a commodity generally available to those with either a really good vacation package at work, or those who are independently jobless-with-money-but-have-hobbies.

REAL nervous breakdowns are not for the working class. Call me bitter.

That said, I am currently faced with the challenge of scheduling a working class nervous breakdown that takes into account the obvious financial obstacles and the inherent/significant lack of free time from responsibilities to job, family and dog walking.

The planning stage is not going well. And of course my hair has decided to start breaking in half to accentuate the level to which I am stressed - so the grand plan for long goddess hair like that of my spin instructor, or my inner Uma Thurman - must be CUT SHORT (insert maniacal laugh here) in favor of choppy short blonde hair like that lunatic with the condoms in her purse, Sharon Stone. Who is hot, don’t get me wrong - but she is a bit of a lunatic and her new movie is awful.

A nervous breakdown, AND bad hair.

Time management is so demanding.

Google Porn Killed My Computer. Does This Mean The Terrorists Win?

2006-01-21T14:34:00.000-08:00

I would first like to say that as a 40-something liberal-somewhat-feminist woman, it pains me to know the definition of “M.I.L.F.” I believe I shouldn’t know that little tidbit of pop culture. Yet I do.

And Big Woop. I looked.

In 2004, I had to write a paper for my sociology class that involved the search and research of various “Internet Databases” that covered the material needed for said paper. Google got a wide variety of hits from my address over the course of a week that covered French newspaper articles on a disturbing gang rape phenomenon occurring among Muslim teens in the projects of Paris called “tournante,” meaning “Take your turn.” Because the scope of my paper involved reported theories linking the phenomenon to the accessibility to minors of porn on the internet, I decided to do a little surfing. My textbook did state that one could find anything if one looked. I used Google as my search engine, and brought up sites on bestiality (the textbook referenced bestiality, so I HAD do try that one), rape, incest, hillbilly sex (since a Google search on “incest” brought up a bunch of sites depicting “first rights” pictorials of father-daughter, brother-sister violent acts) and for my own non-paper related curiosity, since I’d heard the term but didn’t know what it meant, sites devoted to the fabulous “M.I.L.F.” Who knew the average suburban soccer mom could be so limber? All the sites came with little MPEGs showing little film shorts of the various acts and practices. None of the MPEGs required a credit card – they were up and running when I hit on the site. Eezy-peezy – a child could do it.

I was reminded of that painting of Kramer on “Seinfeld” that goes something like: “It’s like a train wreck. One is horrified, yet cannot look away.” I felt a little - okay not just a little - sick to my stomach – yet I kept surfing. It also occurred to me that perhaps I should contact the SPCA to ask what the hell they were doing to protect defenseless horses and dogs from what I was seeing. I told Manpants that I had been surfing these sites, and in that distracted Manpants-is-doing-other-things kind of way, he said, “Mmmm. That’s nice dear.” One little film after another – and of course the MPEGs somehow saved on my computer history, despite my going through what I thought was everything and deleting cookies, history, etc. . . so that the very same week when Manpants went to review something on Real Player, he got an eyeful. I remember coming home and him sitting at the computer looking a little green. He looked at me, and I knew in an instant. HE HAD SEEN.

“You saw them, didn’t you.”

“Yup. They stayed in the computer.”

“I feel so dirty.”

“Me too.”

“I may never want to have sex again.”

Well, I turned in my paper, (got an A) and about a week or so later, the computer seized up, crashed and died. No amount of technical savvy on the part of anyone could get the thing up and running again. Data was lost that hadn’t been saved elsewhere and we were greatly inconvenienced – not to mention having to shell out a few grand for a new computer. We were informed by my fabulous (and thankfully non-judgmental-porn-surfing) computer wiz friend that my various landings of various sites was the culprit. I haven’t touched The Porn since. At least not on the internet.

Imagine my relief to know that all my searches were on Google and not on Yahoo or MSN. Can you imagine the flags going up over my searches back and forth from Porn to Muslim teenagers? What WOULD they think; those mental giants who are running our country? The mind boggles.

I believe in free speech. I am capable of being in favor of our constitutional rights, while simultaneously finding some of that free speech disgusting, depraved, hateful and loathsome on more levels than words can express. It’s my own damn responsibility for seeking it out and looking at it. Should such sites be readily accessible and available to children? No – but they are out there and parents have a responsibility to supervise their children and speak to them frankly about all things that can effect them today – not to use the computer and television as a means of getting the child out of their hair – then blame everyone else if their child is exposed to something under their watch that they could have prevented by being, oh, a PARENT. Between internet predators that troll children’s chat rooms and a plethora of disturbing images that could seriously jar a child’s first impressions about sexuality – the parent has a tough job staying on top of that – but guess what? It’s their job. The government demanding the web addresses of those who might surf this stuff is NOT going to protect children, anymore than the idea that listening to our boring-ass phone conversations is going to actually protect us from a terrorist attack.

I applaud Google for refusing to release the web addresses of internet surfers to the government. I am also, personally, mighty relieved.

Got Patriotic?

2006-01-17T09:43:00.000-08:00

As the beginning of 2006 unfolds along with the characteristic January rains that occur in California; rains that are not really rains, but more like gallons of water in giant barrels that are dumped suddenly upon one’s head; rains that kill anyone unfortunate enough to be homeless and seeking shelter in the concrete architectural mystery that calls itself the Los Angeles River; rains that cause people’s homes to go careening down hillsides into other people’s yards, only to be rebuilt by the insurance companies so that they may slide another year – I am brought to think about and consider the word of the day that was delivered to my email by the Oxford English Dictionary.

refuse, a. and n.2

Now according to Oxford, who are experts in these matters of words and their meanings – let’s first take a look at the definition that falls under the adjective:

A. adj: Rejected or thrown aside as worthless or of little value; discarded, useless:

Now let’s take a look at the second definition that pops up under the noun:

B. n.
1. That which is cast aside as worthless; rubbish or worthless matter of any kind; the rejected or rubbishy part of anything.

2. The worthless or outcast portion of some class of persons; the scum, offscourings, dregs, etc.

Huh. So the term refuse also refers to actual human beings. Well, our country got a fine example of the treatment of people fitting that definition during various disasters of 2005 – and there’s a lot going on around our great nation that still drives the point home. People in our country who are considered worthless by others will be treated as the “rejected or rubbishy part of anything;” i.e. old tires, coffee grounds, poor children, etc. One way to let people know that they are not of worth to society is exemplified by grocery store chains that refrain from opening stores in poor and depressed neighborhoods. For example, if one drives to South Central Los Angeles, one will find one solitary Ralph’s on Slauson Avenue that services the entire region populated by hundreds of thousands of people – whereas there are three within a one mile radius in the West Hollywood/Hollywood area alone to service the greater buying power of the predominantly white area.

Poor areas have small privately owned liquor and food marts that are more expensive due to the store owners’ inability to purchase supplies at the discounts given to large chains that do their purchasing in bulk. Since the L.A. Riots, there are even fewer of these stores, which were largely owned by Korean merchants who have since left the area.

In St. Louis, Missouri – where I have spent a fair amount of time recently, the supermarket chain “Schnuck’s” has simply closed what few stores they had in the poor neighborhoods – leaving those neighborhoods with only a few small, poorly stocked, privately owned markets to service the entire area.

I guess “Refuse” like the people poor enough to live in these areas don’t spend enough money to make it a profitable venture.

Upon driving through these areas, I am further touched by the condition of the buildings and residences that were, at one time, beautiful examples of creative architecture and craftsmanship. If one looks beyond the broken, boarded up, rat and refuse infested facades, one can actually imagine a once beautiful and thriving area surrounded by beauty. I know for myself that depression makes it hard to do anything to improve one’s surroundings – let alone summon up the energy to take out the trash – so when witnessing depression on a grand scale, it is an overwhelming experience and not one that should be ignored as it is presently. Take a look.

This area I’ve pictured has no grocery store, very few eating establishments and even fewer businesses. It does however, have this billboard:

Here’s an idea that I’d like to run with, and perhaps anyone reading this might jump on board. Let’s drive to our local “bad neighborhood” and take some photos. Since emails to our government officials do not get opened if they contain attachments, this little project would involve printing out said photos and paying for postage. I propose sending a little Shame On Us letter to our state governor, with the accompanying photos, with a proposal that our state implement a secondary form of voluntary service that is non-military. A service that, like the military, will enable those who volunteer to get money for a college education, medical benefits and special loans to purchase homes. There is nothing wrong with volunteering for the military – but there needs to be another choice – and since it is predominantly the people from these neighborhoods that volunteer, they should have another choice of voluntary service that does not necessarily mean they might be killed. These volunteers, for a two-to-four year stint, would be responsible for rebuilding our nation’s neighborhoods – restoring and rebuilding the original architecture to preserve and honor the artistry and craftsmanship that once existed in this country – and, literally, rebuild America. This means that the newly restored neighborhoods don’t get to drive out the existing population to make way for “gentrification” and luxury prices – but they remain affordable to those people who live there so they can remain, open businesses, galleries for local artists, clubs for local musicians, offices, restaurants, etc. . .

Habitat for Humanity does great work – but they are a not for profit organization that can only do so much, and there is a rebuilding effort that goes far beyond the capabilities of one not for profit organization. The Peace Corp doesn’t really do this kind of work - at least not in this country, and bottom line – U.S. businesses and government organizations do not presently see this as a priority, which is shortsighted to say the least. We the People, include those People that are still considered by much of society, to be Refuse.

I consider THAT to be unpatriotic.

"IT'S A BRAND NEW DAY . . ."

2005-12-31T08:18:00.000-08:00

I woke up with the Genital Herpes commercial jingle in my head this morning. Don’t get me wrong, “It’s a Brand New Day” is a nice sentiment and a catchy little tune, but NOT when it is accompanied by the mental image of a certain blue-eyed brunette who we have all come to know and love by the name “THE HERPES GIRL.” I certainly hope she got paid triple scale for doing that spot. And I wish to kill the jingle writers at this very moment.

That said, it is time for the wrapping up of things as we end this year and head into the next. While it is simply another day where we wake and eat and work and make love and sleep or whatever it is we do – it has become, in our culture, a time to reflect on the previous year and based upon that reflection – to RESOLVE to do things differently in the new year. The New Year represents a bit of a new chance. A tabula rosa, if you will.

I’d like to take this opportunity to remind y’all of what my resolutions were this time last year:

1. Drink and smoke from the time I awaken in the morning until I pass out at night, daily, causing everyone within 5 feet from me to move away from my lethal stench.

2. Eat as much starch, cheese, chocolate, cheese, olestra free potato chips, cheese, ice cream, cheese, and cheddar-Parmesan goldfish in one sitting as humanly possible - at least 3 times a week.

3. Live a completely exercise free lifestyle.

4. Show up for work late.

5. Call in sick often.

6. Make loud and inappropriate noises from my cubicle at work.

7. Watch the TeeVee every day.

8. Throw temper tantrums in public often.

9. Be as California rude to as many people per day as I come in contact with.

10. Hug people who drive Hummers and thank them for contributing to the economy.

11. Talk about my bodily functions in a graphic manner at the dinner table.

12. Stop reading entirely.

13. Embrace mediocrity entirely.

14. Speak my mind without diplomacy or editing.

15. Be more proactive and agressive about leering at men half my age.

16. Eat as much starch, cheese, chocolate, cheese, olestra free potato chips, cheese, ice cream, cheese, and cheddar-Parmesan goldfish in one sitting as humanly possible - at least 5 times a week.

Well, I certainly did okay with some of them. Actually, I pretty much sucked at all of them, to tell the truth. I don’t actually drink – and while I did start smoking again a couple months ago, I am in such shame about it that I hide myself like the social pariah that I am. I discovered Spin class and got addicted, so there goes the exercise free lifestyle. I never missed work, or called in sick – partially because I had to take so much time off anyway, it wasn’t possible. I no longer work in a cubicle – so that’s out; I failed the teeVEE commitment and read the works of Jane Austen, Mary Wollstencraft, Emily Bronte, William Blake, Virginia Woolfe and a little Byron; I failed at cheese eating because when my little sister got cancer, the whole family switched to a macrobiotic way of eating in support of her regimen, lost weight and I’ve gone from 152 pounds down to 135. At 5’8” I’d say I’m rather svelte these days . . . hey wait a minute. Is it possible that in the grand tradition of breaking every New Years resolution ever made, that making resolutions actually nets one polar opposite results? HMMMMMMMM. You be the judge.

In any event, may everyone have a Happy New Year; a fresh start if you need it; a “Brand New Day.” (Herpes free, of course).

Here’s a little intention - NOT a resolution (that's Sooooo 2005)- I will try to uphold this year – and that is to do one nice thing per day for a total stranger and tell no one about it. If I learned anything at all this year – I learned that life is short and attitude is everything.

Be well, people. Be well.

Happy Holidays (okay those who wish to boycott reading this because it says "Holidays" can kiss my freakin' yule log)

2005-12-27T19:33:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays. Greetings, salutations, merry cheese eating, binge boozing and all that. The holiday gathering in St. Louis went truly well and a good time was had by all. Yours truly cooked again, and while we took a break from the macrobiotic eating (which I am now paying for), it was scrummy and fab. We had a gathering on Christmas eve that involved a tamale making party – okay, that was delicious. The people were fabulous, some old friendships and conflicts were resolved in the name of my sister, and of the holiday, for which I’m grateful.

Christmas day was typical of our family, in that it involved a couple of interesting excursions - the first of which was visiting Tennessee Williams grave. We brought him a poinsettia.

I must admit to still being in shock and feel somewhat violated by the “Our Lady of the Sorrow” WAY OF LIGHTS display. I can’t help but feel that Catholic charity and aiding the poor did not actually mean a multi-million dollar light display/passion play of the birth of Christ (“Angel, angel, what do you see? I see a camel smiling at me. . . .”) that one must drive through a la the wild animal park in San Diego. Behold, a picture of Jerusalem. That only took up about 40 feet – and it went on. And on. And on.

Okay, and here is a picture of the Gateway to the West – the St. Louis Arch at night. Pretty.

There is a truly awesome fun thing to do, which is to visit the City Museum, which is essentially a huge interactive sculpture created out of architectural salvage and requires a lot of climbing, crawling and general hands on touching type stuff . . .

With an aquarium.

That has a ferret one can hold. I’m not sure how the ferret fits into the scheme of things where sea creatures are concerned, but it was friendly. The turtle that I bonded with, however, desperately wished to leave.

There is a bar for the weary museum goers – that seems like a cross between stepping into Diagon Alley from Harry Potter and the fun house in the film “The Machinist.” Weird is simply not a descriptive enough word. A fun time was had by all risk takers.

I hope that each and everyone had a good time with family, loved ones; that no one got so liquored up that it was beyond embarrassing; I hope no one was arrested, and that everyone got a little something that they were hoping for this year.

What NOT to Play in the Waiting Room

2005-12-12T06:40:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well.

I’m learning quite a lot about the world of those who must undergo chemo. I'm also learning that way too many people in this country are afflicted with some sort of cancer, given the fact that the stadium size waiting room at the Siteman Cancer Center is standing room only - starting at 7:45 a.m. Mondays. That's wrong, people.

I should mention here, that the swanky auditorium size waiting area also has a lovely player piano that tinkles the ivories while one waits for their treatment. There's just one little problem. Waiting room music can be considered to be extremely important to the patient's state of mind, and there seems to be a paucity of attention to the music programming at the very busy Siteman Cancer Center. Well, it needs to be made important, since the first thing we heard playing upon arrival of my sister’s first treatment was “Memory” from CATS. Followed by the theme from “Ice Castles.” I kid you not. We proceeded to sit there and pass the time by putting together our own little death soundtrack for cancer waiting room listening that would include, “Brian’s Song” the theme from “Love Story,” “The Wind Beneath My Wings” from BEACHES, followed maybe with a little Madame Butterfly and “These are people who died died!” by Jim Carroll.

Honestly, people.

Greetings From Hogwarts

2005-11-28T13:34:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'm not really at Hogwarts. I'm posting from the campus library at Washington University, St. Louis - which bears more than a passing resemblance to the institution where Harry Potter and his merry band make their mischief whilst attempting to avoid their untimely/early demises at the hands of Dick Cheney. I mean Voldemort.

It's an odd thing, not having regular access to a computer. Or a car. Or a teeVee. One can truly isolate to a degree one wouldn't think possible. Walking around St. Louis without the general forms of communication, transportation, etc...reverts one back to the Luddite days of book reading and quiet solitary walks through the red and gold leaves that have found their way to the ground. People use more rakes than leaf blowers here, and that scrape, scrape, scrape sound is rather frightening in its relative unfamiliarity to the sound of the L.A. gas-powered leaf blower.

St. Louis is actually quite beautiful, though the unpredictability of the weather (no ocean around to do any regulating) is wacky in terms of the getting used to it. One day it might be 20 degrees, the next day 60, the next day, 65 degrees with thunder and lightning and a Tornado warning (last night) and snow flurries tonight. Kewl.

The prognosis for my sister sucks; Stage 4 pancreatic cancer really doesn't have a lot of happy ending evidence and Cranky Liberal put it best when he said, “Sometimes life is just going to kick your ass and be really cruel. Where you go from there is up to you.” He's right. Bearing that in mind, we had a lovely Macrobiotic Thanksgiving dinner (yup, I've been doing my research into the large amount of anecdotal evidence out there on the benefits of a macrobiotic diet with cancer patients and am becoming quite the macrobiotic chefette) and we are learning how to take each day for what it is, without expectation of result. Some of us are, anyway. The father character is doing what my mother refers to as "hiding behind his eyelids" and is still being as inappropriate as humanly possible when given the opportunity. I guess we all handle our grief as best we can, huh?

Thanksgiving Dinner Menu, macrobiotic style:

Butternut Squash soup with shredded carrot, parsnip and shallot garnish
Almond encrusted Filet of Sole
Kale, steamed with walnuts and cranberries
Mashed adjuki beans
Mock stuffing, made with brown rice, rye & wheatberries, sauteed veggies and herbs.
Fried tofu & tempeh
Acorn Squash with brown rice syrup and maple syrup glaze
Vegan carrot cake

Yup - it's not just brown rice and seaweed. Who knew?

Only In L.A.

2005-11-11T09:43:00.000-08:00

You know you are back in L.A. when you happen to see an arm reach out of the driver’s side window of a car driving down Crescent Heights Boulevard in the opposite direction to yourself – to throw a toupee out the window. A really ugly toupee.

I know it was a toupee and that it was ugly, because I double checked what the litter bug had thrown onto the asphalt/slurry seal below. Normally, I would honk and yell at litterbugs that seem to think the world is their wastebasket – but I was simply a bit stunned by this new and innovative form of discarded trash.

In other L.A. observances, I attended the opening of a play last night. Yes, there is live theatre in Los Angeles, and much of it is quite good. This one was as well, despite the fact that 6 Hollywood types that had obviously never been schooled in how to sit in a theatre and watch a live performance parked themselves in the front row, apparently feeling it their God given right to bring in their own stash of alcohol into the performance, get hammered over the course of the play, each member of the party repeatedly getting up to leave the theatre to apparently use the loo – and one of them actually had the nerve to start text messaging people during the performance (the light from the phone shining into the faces of all behind him in the dark theatre). Since this play happened to be a long one-act of about an hour and ten minutes – this is a lot of disruption. My hat is off to the performers who did a great job, despite the assholes with lousy upbringing. I was sitting two rows back – otherwise I would have reached over and taken the phone away from the idiot – but thankfully, and I am so in awe of her at this moment – the lead actress in the play came out afterwards when audience members were standing around, said “thank you all for coming – HOWEVER…..” and proceeded to rip into the 6 people for their lousy behaviour and the disruption to the people in the audience AND the people on stage working. It was beautiful.

I go back to St. Louis on Sunday morning – after only a brief visit with Manpants, the pooches and a few dear friends. It has been a much needed rest.

I’m not sure why the guy felt the need to throw his toupee out of the window, but I do applaud the decision. May comb-overs and toupees meet the same fate that met the dinosaurs. Rest in peace, little rug in the gutter, rest in peace.

Is it Wrong to Threaten the Life of a Bedridden Drunk?

2005-11-03T21:12:00.000-08:00

Well, my sister's Zen place pretty much ended today. She had to be readmitted to the hospital after a mere 12 hours home with complications from the surgery that was a procedure that she was not expecting and not what she went in for. She's in a pretty bad way and they are doing tests. She made me promise today to not let her die in a hospital, which I did, and am making sure that it gets put in writing so no one can stop me from wheeling her out whenever that comes to pass. I can just see sneaking her out in the middle of the night and taking her to the beach - except that would be too much like the end of "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane" and there are no beaches in St. Louis, Missouri.

The Southern Belle that makes all fabulous Southern Belles look tawdry and awful that had been placed in the other bed in my sister's room has a nice nurses tech to thank for me not ending her life dramatically today. Basically she is there because she is a life long drunk (and as a former dipsomaniac I have absolutely no problem blasting my kind into the next universe) that developed pancreatic cysts. The doctor came in and told her she would be just fine and dandy, and that all she needed to do was to stop drinking. My sister listened to this and it was at that moment that she lost her Zen place. This same fine example of womanhood asked me in her gravelly permanently slurring way what my sister was in for. I said, "pancreatic cancer." She says, and I quote, "Oh my, I just have pancreatic cysts - thank God I don't have cancer, that would be bad."

I went outside to the wonderful and adorable nurses tech who shall be named Steve for this little report, and asked him if he knew what my sister's diagnosis was. He didn't. I told him, then I told him what the horrible creature in the next bed was all about and that I was about to smother her with her own pillow. He said, "Oh no, she did NOT say that - okay, we'll see about moving your sister." I gushed my thanks and she was moved in an hour. God bless Steve. The rest of the staff has been even sweeter to her since then, and they were already before. I bought them all a big box of chocolates.

I go back to L.A. for a week break on Saturday, and will more than likely spend the week on the couch with my dog children and Manpants, staring at the wall. I really need to process all of this.

Thank you to all of you who have been reading these blatherings of mine and leaving wonderful comments of strength and support. You have no idea how grateful I am for that when I am so far away from my usual support system.

And yes, I'm going to go smoke now.

Off the Wagon

2005-10-30T04:25:00.000-08:00

Family dynamics are strange. Even under the best possible circumstances, the crazy-making weirdness comes out to play at holiday time, or road trip time, or long family vacation time - causing various forms of distress, embarrassment, hurt, frustration, whatever. As some people know, Thanksgiving Dinner can be a place where strange secrets get blurted out at the dinner table, i.e., "I Wear Men's Tighty Whiteys!" followed by the embarrassed silence of the table where everyone collectively adds more wine to their glasses.

When the circumstances are at their worst possible it is up to the family to put their weirdness aside and step up to the plate for the person who needs the most from the family. Personal weirdness really doesn't have a place when it comes down to truly caring for a family member in crisis.

My father (and I use the term VERY loosely here because he never had the tools to be one), has chosen to make this most horrible time for the whole family - about him. Now, I should preface that my father is insane. Rip roaring, bug-eyed raving, creepy lunatic with little or no regard for anyone else, because it's a conspiracy to try to control him if he is told to consider the needs of others. Mad as a mercury sniffing hatter. Crazier than a shit house rat. Other cliches that escape me. And that's on medication.

Add that to that phenomenon that effects many PhD academic liberals that vote liberal, give money to liberal causes, yet in terms of their behavior they are strictly Republican with respect to how they treat the working class, women, or members of their own family. It's their world - we just live in it.

Suffice it to say that my objective here, which is to take care of my terminally ill sister - and that is my ONLY job here, is being circumvented by a maniac that believes in humiliating the family with public outbursts, yelling at highly trained nurses, title company personnel, family members, etc... demanding that every weird and inappropriate impulse of his is paid attention to and gone along with - and other people be damned. We just bought a condo to live in temporarily while we are here and I think the association is going to have us out on our asses before we are even moved in.

He needs to go home. He has made a perfectly horrible situation impossibly more horrible and stressful. I can only take responsibility for my own responses to things - stress being one of them - and I'm sure I had other choices - heroin for example - but I smoked last night for the first time in over 3 1/2 years.

ShitFuckPissMotherFuck.

Pump Up The Volume

2005-10-26T05:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a very bad day. There is really no good way to put this. I woke up with a funny feeling and decided I wanted to go to the hospital earlier than everyone had suggested. My mother came with me. We got paged very early on and the surgeon informed us that they were not able to do the surgery - that when they opened her up they found that the cancer has spread to the liver. Her only option at this point will be chemo, which will start in about 5 to 6 weeks. The prognosis is not good.

We were present when the doctor gave my sister the news. She handled it remarkably well, turned to me after the doctor left and said, "My prognosis sucks" and immediately started trying to take care of us and our feelings. I think today will be a very different day after she has had the chance to truly take it in, process the information and speak with the doctor.

I'm pumping up the volume on the positive energy. She has said that she will fight this, get well and finish grad school. So that's what we're going to help her do.

Thank all of you for your thoughts and prayers, good wishes, Reiki, distance healing...the works - it's all welcome.

Be well.

A Call For Good Thoughts

2005-10-25T05:50:00.000-07:00

Hello out there. Greetings from St. Louis. If any who read this have a moment to send some positive thoughts to my sis who went under anesthesia 53 minutes ago and will be in surgery for another 6 to 8 hours - I would be truly grateful. I love her more than life.

Be Well

Meet Me In St. Louis, Louis . . .

2005-10-22T07:43:00.000-07:00

Well, I have been ensconced in a hotel here in the Clayton section of St. Louis since Monday. It isn't freezing yet, so my Southern California Weather Wimp self hasn't had to break out the long underwear. People are pretty nice and Beef . . . It's what's for dinner.

My sister is doing remarkably well, despite the drama of bureaucratic imbeciles at insurance companies, etc. She has a remarkable sense of humor that is as shockingly witty as ever. She is still up and about until surgery on Tuesday, so she chose to drive us around for a quick tour of the area - accidently cut someone off, gave them the L.A. wave and said in a cheery voice, "Sorry! I have Cancer!" She has had opportunity to use that on numerous occasions since.

My parents have purchased a condo in the neighborhood near her home - real estate prices are quite different here than in California - so there will be a home base for family and friends who come here over the next several months. They are holding up - though emotions have been running high with a lot of energy being used to keep those emotions from showing when we're around Sis. At times I feel like I'm 13 again - and wonder just how it is that I'm going to be able to live under the same roof with them for any length of time - ah well, time to suck it up.

Manpants is holding the fort in L.A., but will be out here periodically. We talk several times a day, so that makes things less dreadful.

Well, I've been summoned. Dad's got that look like he woke up with the intention of fighting with someone today - anyone want to take bets on who that will be with?

Ever noticed that . . .

2005-10-12T12:30:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to divert myself from reality with the random comedy . . .

Has anyone ever noticed that David Caruso's acting on CSI Miami is identical to Jack Lord's acting on Hawaii Five-O? IDENTICAL.

When Lives Collide with Sharp Objects

2005-10-01T07:19:00.000-07:00

Life is always in session. No matter what one might do to try to control that concept, that is simply the way it is. Those Zen types that gave in to this concept long ago and who live stress free, miraculously zit and wrinkle free, with a “half-full” attitude at all times – have a little handle on that little factoid. Life is always in session. But there is always the potential for a curve ball to completely change the course of your game (oh wait – I’m switching metaphors mid paragraph…shit….oh well) causing one to have to reconfigure their comfortable lives. Hurricane, flood, firestorm, earthquake . . . family.

I have a sister. She and I actually haven’t spoken to each other in three years due to one hell of a falling out. It has been a lifetime of getting along, not getting along, being roommates as adults, not being roommates, writing a one-act play together that actually got produced and then reviewed mighty nicely; times we’ve been fiercely dependent upon one another – and times we wanted nothing to do with each other. The last three years has been the worst example of the latter. But “Cancer trumps everything,” as she said to me last night when we spoke for the first time after the long big chill. She has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and will be undergoing surgery next week. They actually caught it early by accident – there are usually no symptoms, so it is usually too late by the time they detect it. She was undergoing a surgical procedure for something else and during the testing prior to the procedure, they found it, did a biopsy, and Voila. Or Tah Dah. Or Motherfuck.

She lives in St. Louis, Missouri and thankfully her medical plan has her at Washington University Medical – which is apparently where one wants to be if they happen to find out they have the worst form of cancer. She’s young to be having it – just what you want to be at a university medical institution – an interesting case . . . and we all have really no idea what to do except show up in St. Louis and take it day by day.

So . . .I’m withdrawing from school for this semester, kissing Manpants and the doggies who will stay home to run things here that have to be run – like the pesky notion of working and paying bills - and will be meeting up with my parents (who are getting to be older and neither of whom are taking this news very well), flying to St. Louis next week for an indeterminate period of time while she has surgery and recuperates. After that, we’ll simply have to try to be like the Zen people and take things as they come and plan for the day to day after that.

I have no idea what tone, subject, rants, blatherings that my blogs will take on – I will more than likely have a lot of time to write them - and I'll need to . . . I understand that St. Louis is a red state and that fine dining consists of something containing a burger . . . I have an inkling that I won’t be going out much except to the hospital or to the store. Sharing with my parents and/or my sister whatever fears, angers, whatevers I have during those empty spaces between being busy will more than likely not be appropriate. Thank goodness for blogging.

Manpants has been an incredible, understanding and selfless rock through all this and I wish everyone could have someone in their lives like that – he makes the room better just by being in it.

Until later. And if you’re the praying sort, put one out there for that sister o’mine. She’ll need it.

We've Come A Long Way Baby

2005-09-28T06:52:00.000-07:00

The pictured newspaper article is from Housekeeping Monthly, May 13, 1955

It reads as follows:

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work weary people.

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it. (emphasis added)

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.

Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper etc and then run a dustcloth over the tables.

Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction. (emphasis added)

Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.

Be happy to see him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him. (emphasis added)

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, the the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours. (okay, now we're really getting going)

Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.

Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

don't greet him with complaints and problems.

Don't complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

A good wife always knows her place.

(And we wonder why we can only have a female president if it is make believe and on teeVEE. This just wasn't all that long ago, the ERA has never passed and we still make 72 cents on the dollar.)

Fellow Humans

2005-09-10T11:44:00.000-07:00

The images are awful, the stories beyond anything the word “tragic” can adequately express. The anger over inaction – the worst aspects of Bureaucracy rearing its ugly head at precisely the time we needed its best. There is fault to be had at every level, from the highest levels of federal government down to the lowest. Mayor Nagin seems the only one man enough to admit his part, “I should have screamed louder. I should have screamed louder.” The president certainly will not admit to gross ineptitude and a grievous error in judgment in thinking of FEMA as a figurehead branch of government that didn’t actually need people qualified to run it.

Our nations invisible - those living in poverty – those forgotten people that many of us walk by or ignore, either because we feel guilty or because we simply choose to not see that sort of thing – are loudly on display for us all to see, to acknowledge, to recognize their humanity and say to ourselves – do we have what it takes to persevere when literally everything has been stripped of us – everything including our dignity? Can we handle it? If faced with it, will we show our best side? Or our worst?

There are going to be a lot of parents who have lost their children – I can’t imagine anything more horrible than that. There are going to be a lot of children who will no longer have parents or guardians – these children will need people willing to step up to the plate and adopt them. They deserve no less chance at a decent and loving upbringing – in fact they will need it even more. They will need protection from predators. As the African proverb says, It takes a village to raise a child” and the U.S. needs to be that village.

There are therapists from all over the states who are taking special training courses right now to go to these people and attempt to help them through this time. I hope there are therapists for these therapists when they are through at the end of each day. I hope there are people willing to dry the tears of the policemen and firefighters who have lost everything along with everyone else, but who are still showing up to do what they do best. Some didn’t make it.

There’s a lot of work ahead. As a friend said today, they need supplies, they need money, they need professionals there to guide them through these changes, and they also need our willingness to let go of anything within ourselves that puts us against our fellow human beings. It’s only with a collective shedding of the holding on to whatever puts our mind against other people that will accomplish world peace. We haven’t done very well with that and we can do better.

There’s a supply drive at a place where I work out. It’s a great community of people – when a woman with no insurance lost her arm in a car accident – this group of people came forward, pitched in, and paid for her prosthetic. Those are the kind of people I want to stick around. And they’ve come through again, with stacks of boxes of supplies, clothing, dufflebags and sleeping bags to be shipped. I didn’t know what to contribute and started thinking about what I would want if I was in that situation – all I could think of was, new underwear. I don’t know why. It’s stupid, I’m sure, but I went and filled up the cart with multi-packs of every size I could find – male, female, boys and girls . . .

Let’s start thinking like a village. What can we do to clean up this mess we’ve made of ourselves as human beings? If any one of us has ever had a negative thought in our head toward another person, then we are part of that mess. It’s fine for those people who believe that its every man for himself – that everyone should just pull themselves up by their bootstraps. But its kind of hard to do if you have no boots. We can do better. We've got to.

Peace.

FROM THE FRASTLEY FAMILY FILES – AGAIN . . .

2005-08-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

I ran across this little tidbit in the news that made me giggle. I giggled because I have a sick sense of humor, and because I got to say, “AHA! It happened to somebody else!”

(08-11) 19:20 PDT LONDON, United Kingdom (AP) --

Some people bring flowers. But when Melvyn Reed's three wives showed up to visit him at the hospital, they brought the unexpected end to his years as a bigamist.

British police confirmed Thursday that after Melvyn Reed's marital affairs took a turn for a worse as he recovered from triple bypass surgery — all three of his spouses had turned up at the same time, despite his efforts to stagger their visits.

Media reports say that the wives quickly realized that they were all married to the same man.

The 59-year-old company director from Kettering in central England turned himself in May, telling police he was married to three women at the same time, and confessing to bigamy, illegal in Britain, London's Metropolitan Police said in a statement.

A spokeswoman for the Crown Prosecution Service said Reed was with his attorney when he turned himself in and confessed in Wimbledon, south London.

He pleaded guilty July 19 to two charges of bigamy and was given a four-month suspended sentence and ordered to pay $126 in costs, police said.

It wasn't immediately possible to reach Reed or his three wives. Reed's lawyer, Laurence Grant, also could not immediately be reached for comment.

The Metropolitan Police said Reed married his first wife, Jean Grafton, in 1966, then left her without divorcing her. He went on to marry Denise Harrington in 1998, then married Lyndsey Hutchinson in 2003.

The Metropolitan Police said Harrington and Hutchinson have since sought advice on getting their marriages annulled. But media reports say lawyers have advised the women that their marriages were never valid.

Okay, so yes. Like Melvyn, there is bigamy in the family history. We found out by chance, when asking my grandmother Alice about the names given to the boys in the family. The same two or three names kept getting used over and over again – yet I happen to know my grandfather had about nine brothers – therefore at least nine family names to choose from. So my grandmother starts running through the names and she gets to the name “Blank”. (yeah, yeah, I’ve removed the actual name – fill in your own damn name)

“Blank is a FABULOUS name! Why isn’t anyone else named Blank?”

“Well. . . ” she said, and then used that whispering conspiratorial voice that only people born at the turn of the century can really use with any degree of credibility:

“Blank was a bigamist.”

“What!?!?!” “Oh we must know. Family scandal, how delicious!”

Well, it turns out that Blank got his girlfriend in the family way – scandal enough in those days. The consequences of his libidinous tendencies were that he had to give up a well-paying job, marry the girl and move her to another part of the state so as to avoid the inevitable wagging of tongues over the very premature birth of a child that people were sure to notice had they stayed in town. After that child was born they had two more -though it was not the happiest of marriages.

Along came that War to End All Wars. Blank and the rest of the brothers went off to serve. It being a war, not everyone came home when it was over. Blank was one of them. They never found his body, so the wife had to wait the requisite seven years before she could apply for the insurance money – which she did.

One day, there was a knock at the door of my great grandmother, who opened it to see a woman standing there.

“Hello. My name is Mrs. Blank and we need to have a talk.”

Deary me. Well, it turns out that Blank wasn’t killed in WWI – but simply moved to New York when it was over and didn’t tell anyone. He married again and had three children. Suffice it to say the second wife was rather perturbed to find out about another wife out there – trying to collect the death insurance, no less.

It happens in the best of families.

Anyone See a Parallel???

2005-08-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's just me . . .

I think it is safe to say that Tom Cruise just isn’t all that concerned with his media image these days. One could hazard a guess that he’s gone all loony – what with his creepy jumping on couches all willy-nilly like a monkey; conducting a creepy romance in public rather than private in a really creepy way – right down to his creepy proposal/press conference of marriage . . .there are not enough ways to say “Ew” here.

Until today.

According to today's San Francisco Chronicle, (so it must be true): "Tom Cruise reportedly will splash out millions of dollars on an "Arabian Knights"-themed wedding when he marries fiancée Katie Holmes."

Now, correct me if I’m wrong – but The Arabian Nights (not Arabian Knights) were a series of stories told by Queen Scheherazade that started on the eve of her wedding to the King Shahryar in an effort to stay alive. You see, that rascal the king respected women so very much that he married one every day, only to have the bride executed on their wedding night. He would marry again the following day. Scheherazade proceeded to delay her execution by entertaining the king with exciting folk tales – stringing him along by telling only one per night, then promising to tell another the following night. According to legend, she kept this up for one thousand and one nights – thereby saving her life when he determined he could not live without her stories (there’s some job security for ya). The best known of these stories are Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad the Sailor - and the stories are considered as an entity to be among the classics of world literature. Now, I’m not sure if it was Tom or the Chronicle that wasn’t clear on the correct spelling of the title of that classic collection – but would it be correct to call it irony that Cruise has selected a theme for a wedding that pays homage to a woman desperately attempting to stave off being executed by her powerful husband?

Just curious . . .

Money, Money, Money

2005-08-18T10:41:00.000-07:00

I have been watching and listening to the tragic goings on (for everyone on either side of the issue) with respect to the evacuation of the settlement at Gaza Strip – I have friends and acquaintances who are Israeli and who are Palestinian – so I refuse to take sides on this most heated of events. What I do instead is wonder at the history of our people, namely the American people, when it comes to telling folks to get out of the way because they would like their land – which could be argued as one small influence in the occupation of Gaza many moons ago, since it was a preponderance of Americans deciding to move to the homeland who settled there in the first place. Years later, that no longer matters because those born there are citizens through and through – it’s their home and it’s all they know. Who is right and who is wrong is a non-issue – but instead a tragedy for everyone that no one seems able to fix to the advantage of everyone or anyone involved. And of course there is the way in which we are receiving news about this event. I wonder at the way in which our American news media reports heavily on that which effects the economically advantaged – and yes, Gaza is a mighty Tony area of prime beachfront real estate for all who live there – and there is a huge population there – my point is that stories about what happen to low income residents anywhere in the world that happen to get displaced via governmental negotiation or flat-out takeover – get little attention.

For example, Chavez Ravine got airplay on PBS decades after the fact.

Now THERE is a bit of L.A. History with respect to the displacement of citizens that has bugged me for years –

Chavez Ravine was a tight knit community of Mexican Americans, named after Julian Chavez – one of the first L.A. County Supervisors in the 1800’s. There were three neighborhoods – Palo Verde, La Loma and Bishop. They had their own schools and churches and maintained a small-town life within the larger urban metropolis that is Los Angeles proper. It was known as “the poor man’s Shangri La.” That should tell you right there that they were doomed. Poor and Happy are not states of being that should be encouraged to co-exist. In 1949, outsiders who viewed the area as an eyesore, earmarked Chavez Ravine as the location for the Los Angeles City Housing Authority to build a multi-thousand unit public housing project. Residents of Chavez Ravine were told that they would have first choice for these new homes which would include newly rebuilt playgrounds and schools. Under the power of eminent domain, they were paid little, if anything for their properties and were told to evacuate or be forcibly removed by marshals.

Enter McCarthyism or the “Red Scare” of the 50’s. Supporters of the public housing plan viewed it as a good opportunity to provide improved housing for poor L.A. residents. Corporate businesses that wanted the land for their purposes used the Red Scare tactics widely used at the time to characterize the project as a socialist plot. Frank Wilkinson, assistant director of the L.A. City Housing Authority and the man who personally promised the evacuated residents of Chavez Ravine that he would do right by them and that they would have first pick of the new homes, was brought before the House Un-American Activities Committee, lost his job and was sentenced to one year in jail.

The housing project never happened. The land was eventually sold on the cheap to the Brooklyn Dodgers, who built Dodger Stadium, removing the last of the families that had refused to leave. Anyone protesting the removal of the remaining residents for the building of the stadium was accused by public figures (like Ronald Reagan) of being "baseball haters." April 10, 1962, Dodger Stadium officially opened.

NOW – years later, rumors abound that at least one wealthy developer has designs to raze Dodger Stadium in order to move the baseball stadium to downtown nearer to Staples Center and the new hub of activity that is building up and around downtown. The proposal for the land where the Stadium sits? Yup. High-end housing to match all the other aesthetically-challenged high-end apartment buildings going up all over town in place of what stood there before. Anybody seen those Canary yellow aparments over at Hollywood and Western, or those baby-shit yellow “Palazzo” apartments over by Park La Brea? Ew. (Incidentally, Park La Brea was originally government subsidized low income housing for returning WWII vets – now privatized, repainted and high-priced “luxury apartments and townhouses.” Where’d the vets go?)

Apparently there is a tragic shortage of luxury housing in Los Angeles. Little, if anything, is said in any of the papers however about the former low-income residents from any of these places that meet the wrecking ball who are being displaced to benefit the Hollywood Re-Beautification Project.

Ah, Capitalism.

I Think When I Quit Smoking I Substituted Cigarettes with Cheese

2005-08-16T06:07:00.000-07:00

These and other stories are forthcoming.

And yes, I smoked for years. Manpants and I quit on the same day three years ago and suffice it to say I believe without a doubt that I have successfully managed to substitute my pack a day habit with a brick a day habit of fine aged sharp cheddar. Recently, I found my self succumbing to the "fake smoke", i.e. those herbal cigarettes that actors that don't smoke use when they have to smoke in movies. Man. No tobacco or nicotine, but it sure felt great. I admit it. I love the act of smoking.

A dear friend of mine on another post ran across this little tidbit, and boy howdy, some of it rang familiar....

Anyone out there suffering from BLOG DEPRESSION? Oh yes. It's real. The pamphlet says so, so it must be true. READ HERE.

An Important Diversion from My Usual: A Bit of L.A. History

2005-08-11T19:46:00.000-07:00

Tis a summer of anniversaries, as the Catharine Chronicles have reminded us of late – especially here in the City of Angels.

Today marks the 40-year anniversary of the 1965 Watts riot.

On August 11, 1965, "the Endless Summer of the avant garde ended abruptly" when what started as a routine traffic stop escalated into a five day riot that left 1000 people injured and 34 dead. It started when a Los Angeles police officer flagged down motorist Marquette Frye, "whom he suspected of being intoxicated". When a crowd of onlookers, tired and frustrated by what seemed to be yet another racially motivated harassment, began to taunt the policeman, a second officer was called in. "According to eyewitness accounts, the second officer struck crowd members with his baton, and news of the act of police brutality soon spread throughout the neighborhood. The incident, combined with escalating racial tensions, overcrowding in the neighborhood, and a summer heat wave, sparked violence on a massive scale. Despite attempts the following day aimed at quelling antipolice sentiment, residents began looting and burning local stores". An estimated $200 million in property was damaged and/or destroyed.

"Although city officials initially blamed outside agitators for the insurrection, subsequent studies showed that the majority of participants had lived in Watts all their lives...

The Watts Riot was the first major lesson for American public on the tinderbox volatility of segregated inner-city neighborhoods. The riot provided a sobering preview of the violent urban uprisings of the late 1960s and helped define several hardcore political camps: militant blacks applauded the spectacle of rage; moderates lamented the riot's senselessness and self-destructiveness; and conservative whites viewed the uprising as a symptom of the aggressive pace of civil rights legislation.

The Watts Riot changed California's political landscape and damaged a number of political careers, including that of Governor Pat Brown. The liberal Brown lost his office to challenger Ronald Reagan, in part because Reagan was able to successfully pin the blame on the incumbent for the riot."

It was of course, neither the first conflict between minorities and the police, nor the last.

Sources: Eric Bennett: Encarta, Mike Davis, "City of Quartz"

If You Think You’re on the Top of the World – Be Careful. The Toilet Seat Might Just Break Under Your Ass.

2005-08-08T19:49:00.000-07:00

More about that later.

Bless me Bloggers for I have strayed. It has been weeks since my last….whatever you want to call it.

I have been on an emotional holiday. That’s what people who haven’t taken a vacation in twelve years do. Go a little mad and find alternatives to Aruba in their mind. During my emotional holiday, I have managed to torture Manpants only a little bit. I’ve been doing a fair amount of cooking. I find cooking a therapeutic way of meditating that is far more productive than staring at a lit candle while chanting “OM.” Everyone gets to eat the results of the meditation – so that’s just darn practical all around. I have painted our bedroom a lovely sage green with accompanying nifty faux finish treatment on the closet doors – I figure that if I literally paint my way out of the corner I figuratively got myself into, I’ll feel better. I have, of course, been working at my day job and through this wacky activity called exercise, I have been attempting to get my 40-something self in fighting-form shape for my impending birthday and the start of the Fall semester at school. I have been busying myself by avoiding probing questions about how long it is going to take me to get through college, since the: “I-work-for-a-living-and-go-to-school-at-night-so-it’s-going-to-take-me-longer-than-the-average-independently-wealthy-or-parentally-financed-non-working-person-I’ll-send-you-an-announcement-when-I-graduate-if-I-don’t-die-of-disbelief-or-fall-off-the-wagon-and-show-up-naked-on-your-doorstep-nursing-a-magnum-of-champagne” response seems to put people off just an eensy bit. I participated in a Spin-a-Thon for a charity to benefit an arts program for the LA school system. The event raised enough money to run the program for another full year, so it felt mighty nice to be a part of that. I have, in addition to the aforementioned, been watching re-runs of McMillan and Wife, McCloud and Hawaii Five-O – none of which aged well and are just awful teeVEE entertainment, but Jack Lord’s hair makes me giggle and Susan Saint James was the Téa Leoni of her day.

Which brings me to the word/topic of the day, which is: CONFIDENCE. Doesn’t Téa Leoni seem to just drip with it?

Confidence:
con·fi·dence

n.
1. A feeling of assurance, especially of self-assurance.
2. The state or quality of being certain: I have every confidence in your/my ability to succeed.

adj.
Of, relating to, or involving a swindle or fraud: a confidence scheme; a confidence trickster.

The trickster part of the definition is what I seem to get more of – at my own expense. Which is where the whole toilet seat thing comes in . . . yes. It happened to me. Pinched me first - not in a good way - then just broke in half and knocked me off the toilet - arms and legs flying.

I firmly believe that this is God’s way of constantly reminding me not to take myself too seriously. . .

. . . and that bathroom humor will always reign supreme.

Where'd I Put That Pen?

2005-07-12T10:43:00.000-07:00

I seem to be experiencing temporary technical difficulty – namely the fact that my mind has suddenly become what can be termed “Pure as the driven snow . . .Not violated by a single thought.” In a nutshell – I got nothin’. So in the interest of putting something up on this fabulous blog space I’ve come to call….okay “Home” is not the right word . . . hmmm, well, see what I mean? Never mind . . . onward to today’s

LITERARY BUTCHERY!!!

To spin, or not to spin.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous saddlebags
Or to take arms against a rising scale
And by opposing, become slim again?
To park on the couch: to nap;
No more, and by a nap to say we end
The youthful metabolism
and begin the thousand natural
movements south that flesh is heir to
Chocolate tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d . . .

For the love of all that is holy, make me stop!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, that was quite possibly the worst version of Customized-Hamlet that I have done to date. Forgive me. Let’s move on.

I started spinning recently. For those of the uninitiated, “spinning” is an athletic activity whereby one wears specially designed shoes while riding a specially designed stationary bicycle in a room full of other people wearing specially designed shoes riding identical, specially designed stationary bicycles while an instructor, accompanied by a fabulously spiritual attitude and appropriate selection of “tunes” for the mood, leads one through a series of uphill climbs, sprints, etc . . . all while out of the saddle on the bike. One rarely sits while they spin. This entire process is carefully coordinated for maximum heart rate and maximum sweat. Needless to say, I look like I jumped in a swimming pool upon leaving class. Drenched. It’s addicting.

I’m afraid, however that my writing ability has left me briefly while my ass changes size. I’m assuming this is a temporary condition and that I’ll write something soon.

The People In My NeighborhoodPart 2

2005-07-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

Some years ago there was a fire in a local pet store that sold parrots. All the birds were released to the urban wild in an effort to save them from the fire. Happily, they survived and there are now various flocks of green parrots in and around the Los Angeles area. We happen to be graced with one such flock on our street. Beautiful, displaced characters; odd in their surroundings. But they have been here so long that they have faded into the every day flow of the neighborhood and go mostly unnoticed. One doesn’t necessarily think “wild parrots” when contemplating the flora and fauna of urban L.A.

There’s a child that lives in my building who hasn’t grown since he was four years old. He’s about eight or nine now. He’s deaf, and suffers from frequent ear infections that the doctors can do little for. When he gets one of these infections, there are often entire days when the child will be screaming in pain. Other days he is happy and playing, but screaming and yelling with joy. He can’t hear himself, so there is really no way to tell him to keep it down because he has nothing to compare it to. Loud and soft, that is. His mother and grandfather do the best they can. We’ve gotten so used to the sound that no one reacts to it – it has faded into the every day white noise of the neighborhood and goes mostly unnoticed unless a stranger is visiting that has never heard it before. To them it sounds as if the child is being horribly murdered.

There’s a man who lives on my street – well, “LIVES” is such a relative term in some circles – what I mean is that he spends his days and nights there. He has become as much a part of the ebb and flow of the street as the movement of the sun. He sleeps somewhere under the shrubbery at night with his numerous belongings about him and then, starting at about 5:30 a.m., he goes about his day. Being somewhat of a people watcher by nature accompanied by the fact I’m out there walking my dogs at least three times a day, I have had quite a number of opportunities to become fascinated with this person. His job, if you will, is to appear quite busy.

Word of the day:
bus·y Pronunciation Key (b z )
adj. bus·i·er, bus·i·est
1. Engaged in activity, as work; occupied.
2. Sustaining much activity: a busy morning; a busy street.
3. Meddlesome; prying.
4. Being in use, as a telephone line.
5. Cluttered with detail to the point of being distracting: a busy design.

His collected belongings consist of a baby stroller, two large suitcases on rollers, a camper’s backpack, tote bags and a bedroll. At 5:30 a.m., he removes the numerous jackets, ski masks and hats that he has layered himself with for the sleeping hours, folds them carefully, placing them in the baby stroller, which he then covers with a blanket and secures with twine. He then moves these items one by one down to the sidewalk and arranges them neatly the way one would if they were awaiting a cab or the airport shuttle. He spends much time on the careful arranging, grouping and placement of the various items. Once they are arranged to perfection, he begins again, starting with the stroller. He wheels the stroller down the sidewalk to another location, then proceeds back and forth between the new location and the old, collecting his life on wheels, regrouping and precisely arranging that life - perhaps in an attempt to create order out of adverse circumstances – perhaps simply to keep moving in order to avoid being charged with vagrancy. Who knows, but it is his routine and he keeps this routine going from morning until night – up and down one side of the street and then the other, repeating the actions day after day. I’m reminded of an old Twilight Zone episode where a man keeps driving the same stretch of highway over and over again only to determine by episode’s end that he is dead and in Hell . . . or something like that. I wonder about the purgatory that sentences a man to the never-ending movement of his few material belongings, a few feet at a time, endlessly, on a street where the man has no home – and where this beautifully odd and displaced character simply fades like the flying of wild green parrots through the jacaranda trees, or the screams of a deaf child that won’t grow . . . unnoticed, into the everyday flow of our comfortable neighborhood.

WHAT'S THAT STICKING OUT OF YOUR FACE?

2005-06-27T19:23:00.000-07:00

There is a kind of forced relaxation involved when one is lying upon a table while assorted-long-yet-thin needles are strategically sticking out of the skin surrounding one's delicate eye area.

Bet that got your attention.

Okay, stop screaming. Just so we're clear on what I mean when I say needle, and that it is not in fact a euphemism for something far more sordid yet pleasurable,

I bring to you the word of the day: NEEDLE

Please peruse the following definitions and adopt the one that appeals best. Please use in a sentence later. I am particularly fond of the final informal definition, which involves alcoholic beverages, surprise, surprise.

1. A small, slender implement used for sewing or surgical suturing, made usually of polished steel and having an eye at one end through which a length of thread is passed and held. (May I simply add - DUH)

2. A slender piece of jewel or steel used to transmit vibrations from the grooves of a phonograph record. (Anyone too young to know what a phonograph is needs to get off the computer and go outside to play. Right now.)

3. A slender pointer or indicator on a dial, scale, or similar part of a mechanical device. ( It goes up to eleven.)

4. A magnetic needle. (Ru-Roh?)

5. A hypodermic needle. (Ru-Roh!)

6. Chiefly Upper Northern U.S. (You Southerners will have to simply accept the following as fact)
a. A narrow stiff leaf, as those of conifers.
b. A fine, sharp projection, as a spine of a sea urchin or a crystal.
c. A sharp-pointed instrument used in engraving.

7. Informal. A goading, provoking, or teasing remark or act. (I'm intimately familiar with this one)

v. needled, needling, needles
v. tr.
To prick, pierce, or stitch with a small, slender, sharp-pointed implement.
Informal. To goad, provoke, or tease.
Slang. To increase the alcoholic content of (a beverage).

For those who have managed to read this far, get through the first sentence while managing to refrain from blurting out a most girlie and undignified scream followed closely by the act of jumping upon a chair while knocking over the computer monitor and neighboring lamp; muttering "Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew..." incoherantly - it's actually quite refreshing. I started having acupuncture done on a weekly basis - oh - about a month and a half ago for the purpose of tapping into my inner Uma Thurman. (In the Acupuncture world, that is usually referred to as one's qi (pronounced CHEE). I prefer to call it Uma Thurman. It sounds far more dramatic and glamorous. I know I've mentioned in the past the importance of tapping into my inner Sharon Stone, but I'm blonder and wiser now and I have decided to move on.

Now, I did a bit of reading and I'm sure you'll find this FASCINATING - it turns out that the primitive society of China is divided into two time periods - The Old Stone Age(10,000 years ago and beyond) and the New Stone Age (10,000-4000 years ago). During the Old Stone Age knives were made of stone and were used for certain medical procedures. During the New Stone Age, stones were refined into fine needles and served as instruments of healing. They were named bian stone - which means use of a sharp edged stone to treat disease. Many bian stone needles were excavated from ruins in China dating back to the New Stone Age.

So this whole needles-in-the-face-thing has apparently been going on a while.

SWEET.

2nd Post Today? What's Up With ME!?

2005-06-23T19:00:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, - I write nothing for weeks, and then two in one day. What gives?

Hello out there. I was just introduced to a Blog that I feel compelled to mention. I was, for want of better words to describe my experience reading it - moved. Take a look when you have a few minutes at: POST SECRET

NUDE SCENES, BODIES THAT ONE CAN CUT ONESELF ON IF NOT CAREFUL….AND THOSE ROTTEN KIDS IN THE O.C.

2005-06-23T10:46:00.000-07:00

So, according to the up-to-the-minute-hard-hitting-news on Lindsay Lohan - the actress-soon-to-die-of-Consumption – she is quoted as having said during an Access Hollywood exclusive interview that “You will never see me in a nude scene,” and goes further to state that showcasing her [bones] ahem, body, is not the way to achieve her goal of winning an Oscar. Alrighty then. And to think I was not even aware of a consumer demand to see something like that. Silly me.

Which brings us to the word of the day and appropriate contextual usage:

Consumption: A progressive wasting of body tissue.

Use it in a sentence. If you live anywhere near Los Angeles, that should be easy.

Now far be it from me to jump on the band wagon of intense curiosity (even the intellectually respectable political blog The Cranky Liberal has managed to comment) about everything and anything having to do with the life of one very confused and tormented young actress in need of a milkshake, but there are actually people out there who seem to believe that achieving the physical attributes of the comic book character, SKELETOR, should be defended as being “regular” or “normal weight.” Look at the pictures that you cannot escape seeing in every formerly-reputable-at-one-time newspaper. Okay, now consider that the camera ADDS TEN POUNDS. Okay, now that you’ve taken that important detail into consideration, now visualize what one really looks like with that additional ten whittled off. Anybody want to see naked pictures of that? Ew.

There is a bit of a sexist bent to the whole weight-loss/weight-gain of the stars lust for news that we Americans seem to crave, far more than knowing how the soldiers might be faring in Iraq or the recent news that the Federal government has now voted that yes, they CAN take your home that you have owned for 30 years to build a strip mall if they so desire. Pish tush, who wants to hear about that? Anybody see the enormously talented Christian Bale in The Machinist? He dropped 63 pounds to look like a walking skeleton which is what the script called for. And he did. He simply stopped eating. He looked positively repulsive. That’s what walking skeletons look like. Not necessarily something one wants to jump in the sack with if the consequences mean cutting yourself on the person. And definitely not something one wants to see naked. We didn’t really hear much about Mr. Bale though, because despite his talent, he’s not really Hollywood news in the Tom-and-Katie, Brad-and-possibly-Angelina way. Low Q rating. No, in Hollywoodland, we hear about Rene Zellweger gaining a paltry 20 pounds for the Bridget Jones sequel so she can finally weigh a normal amount only to be considered FAT. Her weight gain for that film put her at a bovine 135. Just recently, another “news source” quoted Elizabeth Hurley as stating that she would want to kill herself if she got as fat as Marilyn Monroe. Now there’s something to put in print for the teenage girls to read.

This is our news though, so we must develop an interest in it since there is apparently no interest in anything else. The lack of care or respect for anything happening in the world other than the hedonistic pleasures or eating disorders of the stars and/or what designer label they might be wearing during said pleasures or disorders is what we Americans truly care about. It shapes our values accordingly. Which brings me to a lesser known news item . . . anybody hear about a little high school party about a month ago in the O.C. where about 300 students organized a home invasion of an elderly couple? Nope. Not until a month after it happened.

According to KNX 1070 News Radio and the lesser known Daily Pilot of Newport Beach, the crime was not given press until an anonymous letter went out to residents of the community. Again I say, one month later. What took place was that, "apparently, fliers, e-mails and a website advertised the party, thrown by teenage children of a caretaker who worked in the elderly couple's home, police said. The children's mother -- who cares for a woman in her 70s who is confined to a bed -- was not home at the time, police said. One of the homeowners' cars, with a pass to get into the gated community, ferried partygoers from a nearby parking lot into the home, [the police] said. The elderly woman's husband had gone to get something to eat and returned to find the party going on, the letter says. "Upon returning he found, by police estimates, 300-plus kids inside/outside his home," the letter reads. "Inside, his home was in the process of being vandalized. Furniture was upended and broken. Alcohol and drugs were everywhere.... Some of his personal belongings were sitting in the bottom of his pool," the letter reads. The letter also alleges that students were in the disabled woman's bedroom, blowing marijuana smoke in her face.

300 children. From white, well-to-do Republican Orange County households. Invaded, terrorized and trashed the home of a pair of senior citizens. This is something that I think should have gotten far more press than it did, criminal charges against the parents for being, oh, I don’t know, LOUSY PARENTS, and certainly not a small news item one month after the fact. I wish there was some witty or funny quip I could make about this, but I’m too disgusted.

Guess I’ll go look up more news about what Lindsay Lohan’s wearing. There, that’s better.

CHAIN LETTER THIS

2005-06-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

This morning is still rather a blur. Due to studying for finals and the resulting insomnia prompted by unsolicited algebraic expressions invading my brain followed by oversleeping due to Dramamine ingestion to cure the aforementioned insomnia and arriving at work minutes late with make-up artfully applied over severe mattress face, I open my e mail this morning to find that I had been

TAGGED

by a few of my fellow bloggers.

Some strange non-English speaking tongue was used and the word “MEME” kept creeping into the content. I don’t know what MEME is and it is more than likely yet another word invented by some poor kid with broken glasses who has yet to lose his (or her) virginity that will no doubt find its way into the lexicon of the English speaking world thereby managing to force its way into the next edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. . .if “BLING” can make it in, one can be reasonably sure MEME is soon to follow.

I detest all things that smack of Chain Letter, because I see them all as a low-fi form of marketing designed to frighten, a.k.a. bilk me of my nonexistent millions or get me to sign my life insurance policy over to someone who needs to know how many books or DVD’s I own and if I don't send that same inquiry to five other people within X number of hours I am surely to keel over from some horrible thing that makes me die instantly while still leaving me attractive. . .like Joaquin Phoenix in LADDER 49...isn’t he just the cutest?

I got a little interested in the history of this locust plague on the serenity of millions who trustingly open their mail and or email each day only to be threatened with DEATH.

Turns out, it has a religious beginning.

Religious: The first form near the beginning of the 1900’s were Letters from Heaven which claimed to have been written by God or some divine agent, commanding observance of the Sabbath to ward off “various misfortunes.”

Luck: These were also called “prayer chains” because many would start with either a Prayer or Bible verse, and appealed to superstition to encourage their copying or circulation. Beginning around 1900, copy quotas and deadlines were added, and claims of divine authorship and magical protection were removed.

Charity. This letter requests money or some item be sent to a particular address, ostensibly for charitable, political or memorial purposes.

Petition. I think we saw a lot of these during the last election. Chain petitions request their own reproduction, circulation and delivery of signatures. A early example was an attempt to draft Calvin Coolidge as the Republican nominee for President [1927], but their use in political campaigns goes back at least to 1912 (NYT).

Money. Money chain letters urge the recipient to send money to one or more prior senders, claiming that one can likewise benefit in the future. Money chain letters originated in the United States in the spring of 1935.

Exchange. The exchange chain letters ask that an item small value, such as a recipe or postcard, be sent to one or more prior senders, promising that if the chain is not broken the sender will in turn receive many such items. They first appeared in 1935, modeling the infamous Send-a-Dime money chain letter [1936].

"World Record". In the 1980's (as if the 1980’s didn’t have enough on it’s plate what with the president, the hair, the hyper pigment shirts, ya da ya da) a certain postcard exchange chain letter specialized to circulate among children and falsely claimed that its faithful continuation would soon result in a Guinness world record for chain letters [1985]. By the new millennium the request for postcards had been deleted and the letter is now motivated solely by its promise of a world record (crediting each sender!) and the threat that anyone who breaks the chain will spoil this effort and be identified [2000].

Parody. Very soon after the first publicity (April 19, 1935) of the Send-a-Dime craze, parodies appeared that mocked both the language and the geometrical progression of Send-a-Dime. Examples mentioned in the press include "Send-a-Pint" and the "Drop Dead Club" (shoot the first person on the list).

Chain E-mail. For "chain e-mail" (frequently forwarded e-mail) there are a large and growing number of motives for replication. Hoaxes, humor and expressions of friendship are prominent. The following is an alphabetic list of some of the many topics observed since 1993: admonitions (duty to friends, sobriety, safe sex), anti chain letters, aphorisms, ASCII art and scrollers, communication experiments and demonstrations, consumer warnings, friendship, hoaxes (virus warnings, charity, giveaways, false quotations), human rights alerts, humor (single jokes and lists, office humor items, stories), inspiration, Internet protection (modem tax, phone charges, anti-censorship), good luck (often in sex or romance), missing children, money chains, number guessing tricks, parodies, patriotism, personality tests, petitions, poems, political commentary, practical jokes (especially April Fools Day), prayer requests, protests, rumors, school & exams, seasonal (Christmas, St. Valentine's Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving Day), speeches, surveys, tag (snowball fight, mooning), urban legends (warnings, humor), Web page suggestions and voting recommendations. Many of these topics appear in combination, such as a humor item with a short luck chain attached.

Okay, so now with that little history lesson – I feel safely confident that I can, with all the sincerity that one finds within the contents of a chain letter or e mail, let the next person who sends one know, and I deliver this message with the utmost of respect and love, that their genitalia will disappear and never return. I promise.

Feel free to pass this along to five of your closest friends.

source: Chain Letter Evolution, Daniel W. VanArsdale ©1998, 2002

NUDE ART MODELING

2005-05-31T21:40:00.000-07:00

NUDE ART MODEL? OR WILD-GIRL-SEX-PUPPET?

NUDE ART MODEL, OR WILD-BOY-SEX PUPPET?

Waddaya think. Betty Page – was she a crazy exhibitionist with ecdysiast tendencies, or yet another art model in a long line of memorable nudes dating back to ancient Greece? And how 'bout that guy who modeled for what came to be known as “David” - ancient Himbo? One look at the abs, and I'm thinking ART. A few of you e mailed me about my little comment about doing a little nude art modeling over the Memorial Day weekend – one email to warn me off of such a foolhardy and immature action for someone of my advancing age (so what about 40 being the new 20!?...Huh?)– one email to simply remind me that it will come back to haunt me one day...and one email to simply ask me to please elaborate in my next post...

So, to tell you a little bit about what it is like, it boils down to this. Imagine yourself opening a birthday card from a dear friend...a dear friend you did a favor for back when they were a struggling art student in need of subjects for a series on women who died of consumption in the 16th century - and you were a bit on the thin side, so you decided to be a true friend. Years later, you open said birthday card, getting a little weepy over the lovely opening sentiment on the cover of the hand made card which says, “I’ve known you and admired you for years...I’ve seen you grow as a person, I’ve seen you prosper...but mostly...(and you open the card to see an old naked photo of you taken for said series on women who died of consumption in the 16th century)...I’ve seen you naked! Snort!”

See how glamorous it can be? Now...just what does that make me? Crazy-wild-girl-sex-puppet? Nude art model? Crazy wild-girl-sex-puppet-after-40? Or a seriously naïve friend that just keeps falling for sob stories from friends claiming to need subjects for a series on. . . . .

THE U.S. DATING DEBACLE

2005-05-15T09:50:00.000-07:00

I never cease to be amazed at the ongoing evolution of the dating/courtship ritual between people in our very confused country. Every day I see the plight that some of our single, recently divorced or widowed friends go through in that horror that is: DATING SCENE: 21ST CENTURY. It is a true wonder that anyone actually manages to make a connection at all. There are certain persons that would like to make the claim that gay marriage is going to bring down the institution of matrimony – I beg to differ.

Modern day American culture neither allows nor encourages one much opportunity to get to know one's neighbors or the people in their extended community. The extended American workweek rarely involves a yearly vacation where one might actually have the opportunity to go anywhere they might meet someone. Our particular current brand of government sanctioned self-involvement that puts Self above any and all other consideration, let alone interest in other people, is far more responsible for a nationwide inability to connect with our fellow man or woman.

I am old enough to remember when a “date” meant going out to dinner, to a movie, chatting about the movie over after-dinner drinks and if there was a lot of chemistry, perhaps going out again, or if REALLY attracted, maybe getting naked. If someone used the term “safe sex” it was usually interpreted to mean a padded headboard.

The person that did the asking out was the person who would be paying for the evening. It was considered beyond rude to invite someone somewhere and then expect the invitee to pay for it. Going “Dutch” was usually deemed appropriate for a blind date or something similar. The cost of going to dinner and a movie or an evening of theatre or music was not the financial equivalent to the cost of painting one’s house that it is now. There was a certain ritualized civility, air of mystery, excitement and anticipation of discovery over the whole process with of course a simultaneous degree of fear, loathing and nausea.

People were generally pretty into the ritual of the first date good night kiss and the slow build to that (hopefully) mind blowing evening of falling upon one another in the abandon born of the pent up energy from the kind of foreplay that is the waiting-but-not-quite-playing-yet kind. Of course there would always be, as there is today and has been for hundreds of years, some occasional idiot that thought that if they paid for dinner that it was an automatic entitlement to The Sex at the end of the evening regardless of whether or not the other party was interested.

Americans now have service institutions devoted to handling that ritual which seems to strike so many as an inconvenience to be passed off to someone else the same way they might take their laundry to Fluff-and-Fold. For a fee, the service will take care of all that pesky stuff that meeting at work, being in the same congregation at church together, introductions made between mutual friends or chance meetings where eyes connect across a crowded room used to do. With an in-depth and honestly filled out character-profile and current photo (uh huh) that lists likes, dislikes, sexual likes and dislikes, diseases, prison record, education, children, etc..., the service will separate the wheat from the chaf and determine via computer software program those individuals appropriate for meeting. That is all they determine. Whether or not it is a compatibility probability that two people should bother to meet - why waste each other's valuable time if the computer says they are incompatible? There is really no point in bothering with any sort of human-style gathering of information via actual speech because there is a software program for that. I actually know several couples that have met this way and are now blissfully into their first five years of marriage, having saved POT LOADS of money on traditional dates, presents, new underwear, flowers, bathing, etc. by paying one simple fee to an outside organization to determine compatibility.

There is also a new and trendy thing called “Speed Dating.” I want to know what mind thought of THIS. Even Churches are getting in on this one. One goes into a previously rented-for-the-occasion restaurant, coffee house, veteran’s hall, church parish hall, whatever, and in a “game” used frequently on corporate retreats for employees having communication difficulty – one group stays seated with a group of empty chairs across from each of them while the second group sits in the corresponding empty chair for five minute intervals until a bell goes off. When the bell rings, they move to the next person. The duration of this new and exciting meeting opportunity is about one hour. In this way, each person who paid the entrance fee (or "suggested donation") gets a 5-minute “speed date” with every “potential” in the room to determine whether or not they might want to see that person outside the structure of that five minute mini-interview.

After one decides through these various careful screening processes if they wish to meet further, one is now free to meet for “coffee” or “drinks” - preferably early in the evening so one can get back to work for that late dinner meeting, or to the gym, or home to watch the game or the latest creation in what is now called “the CSI franchise.” I’m still waiting for “CSI-Yuba City.” I guess the whole purpose of “meeting for coffee” is that you ask a few more simple yet guarded questions about each other which are responded to with equally simple yet guarded answers, none of which tell anybody really ANYTHING about each other and are really only a method of determining whether or not you want to get naked with that person if one is going to be truly honest about it - which for many people really doesn’t involve needing to know that much about a person. Meeting for coffee is a frugal investment. Movies are expensive and dinner can be iffy if someone has undisclosed food restrictions. Like chicken. Are you with me so far? Okay, so after paying the fee, consulting the software, conducting the mini-interview with the bell, deciding to "meet" and living through that portion of the efficiency process - if that first “potential date” seems to be somewhat successful, then MAYBE another frugal investment date will follow. Like “lunch.”

Of course, there is always the other tried and true alternative which can be promising. This method entails going to your favorite watering hole, drinking yourself silly on apple martini’s and going home with a complete stranger who turns out to be decidedly less charming and attractive the next morning than he/she was at 1:45 a.m. the previous evening. But hey, who can really complain when all you’re looking for is some temporary attention and warmth? It seems that’s all anyone is truly looking for, given the dehumanized trimming down of the traditional dating ritual to its present form – what I like to call the STARBUCKS ENCOUNTER.

Thank heavens Manpants and I met the good old-fashioned way in the waiting room of our psychiatrist.

"NOBODY WALKS IN L.A."

2005-05-01T09:49:00.000-07:00

Before I begin my usual meandering way into the topic of the week, I would first like to thank all who commented or inquired upon the topic of The Merkin. From Laura’s limerick to Rhonda’s taunting of a defenseless Mormon and all persons around and in between, I was greatly warm-fuzzied by the entire experience. To add even more G.L.E.E. than one would think could be had over an arcane word dating back to the 15th century (at least), I rented the wonderful film STAGE BEAUTY, starring the phenomenally talented Billy Crudup. Not only is Merkin used in a line of dialogue...but as a costume piece. I raised both arms, raised the forefingers and pinkies of each hand and yelled “Rock on!” at the screen.

So...Nobody Walks in L.A. That was the title of a fabulous song from the 80’s. I was feeling a bit nostalgic having gone “shopping like an 80’s girl” yesterday – prompting me to put on my favorite Richard Blade compilation CD of 80’s music after arriving home to do the Saturday housecleaning; subsequently dancing around the house with the Swiffer®. This disturbs my precious princess the Jack Russell-Pit Bull mix terribly because (a) she doesn’t understand what I’m doing when I clean, (b) thinks the Swiffer® is there to do me some sort of unspeakable harm and (c) dancing inspires her to jump 5 feet into the air vertically…and repeatedly… (If you don’t know what 80’s dancing is, it’s a sort of alternating from side-to-side hop/skip in place, while flailing your arms in opposition to the skipping and was predominantly danced by white people with big hair in the heyday of the genre)…So I’m ‘80’s dancing and cleaning, she’s jumping and taking growling nose-dives at the Swiffer®, and Nobody Walks in L.A. is blasting. Now THAT’s a Kodak moment...Oh, and if you are too young to get all my ‘80’s references, as I have stated in previous postings - you are too young to be reading this and should get off the computer, go outside, and play.

As respects the topic of “shopping like an ‘80’s girl” I want to emphatically state that none of it was done with plastic, thank you very much. After seeing that frightening and infuriating program on PBS about U.S. credit card companies and their current practices, I went and cancelled all of them. I think of it as a sort of Cave Man Diet for shoppers. Remove plastic and see how creative we can get with the money we actually have. One of the creative ways I have implemented working with the money I have - and due to the fact that gasoline prices in L.A. have risen to $3.50 a gallon or more in some places - I have been taking the subway to work. That’s right. Public transportation in Los Angeles. Anathema to the citizens of greater Los Angeles, particularly people of the West Side who do not offer subway transportation on their side of town. The great majority of L.A. inhabitants define their social status by their vehicle of choice (certainly not by their fashion sense) and their ability to behave with any degree of courtesy, civility or for that matter, obey California driving law (which, among other things like turning left in front of oncoming vehicles, prohibits honking unless under emergency conditions), seems to move in direct opposition to the cost of the vehicle. What this means is that by the time one can afford to, and does purchase a Humvee, that Humvee owning person has regressed to a level of human civility one can find in a person capable of flinging their own feces at others...or at the zoo.

To those of you in metropolitan cities both here and abroad that have public transportation and far more toned thighs as a result, you must understand that since the motor car industry bought out the Red Cars of Los Angeles back in the early part of the 20th century (some of those relics are now being used as breakers in Santa Monica Bay), forcing Los Angeles to be a vehicle only city - having a subway now is an extreme novelty.

It’s not bad actually. In addition to feeling like I am living in an advanced society, I get to multitask by getting my cardio in for the day - hoofin’ it to the station, taking all stairways and then hoofin’ it up the hill at Grand Avenue to where I work. I’m down a pants size, oh happy joy. I’m saving about $30.00 a week (after the cost of the subway ticket) – so there’s a weekly pedicure right there. With tip. “Vixen Cherry, please.” I get in my weekly dose of people watching, from the wide-eyed six-foot-four man declaring “I did NOT have mangoes yesterday, and I WON’T have them today!” (repeat several hundred times)...to the woman wearing the I-Pod singing “Ain’t that a Shame” at the top of her lungs while applying an entire make-up job of bright blue eye shadow under her brows, silver white on the lids, bright fuchsia lipstick, followed by a liberal spraying of perfume...I have saved significantly on the amount of stress and anger at sitting in traffic for an hour each way to drive a mere 16 miles. I, dare I say it, actually get to decompress by zoning out on the subway after work. But wait, there’s more! It’s a floor wax AND a dessert topping! No, seriously, in addition to all those perks, I have noticed a distinct difference in the behavior of the subway rider vs. the vehicle driver...specifically they are significantly more courteous and considerate to the people around them than the average driver. So my review of public transportation all points east, north and south of La Brea is quite positive and well worth the infrequent occurrence of someone chanting repeatedly about what fruit they chose not to eat or being choked with L'AIR DU TEMPS.

Oh, and having thinner thighs doesn't suck.

BULK FOLDER

2005-04-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

Don’t get me wrong. There is, I am sure, a place for what I am about to share with you and I believe that place to reside somewhere between a rat infested abandoned trailer and a porn set in Woodland Hills or maybe a Reality teeVEE show development office, but what I do wish to state unequivocally is that I am not a forty-something woman who downloads The Porn. Nor have I followed anything that has anything to do with Paris Hilton, other than once, unintentionally. That one time prompted me to scream a huge EEEEEWWWWWWW after flipping through a magazine only to happen upon a Guess Ad featuring her sitting there, chicken legs spread wide apart with her Chihuahua placed in front of her crotch like a merkin... Where is the SPCA when this stuff is going on?...Okay, I’m getting off topic...Where was I...oh yeah. I do not intend to collect Pope memorabilia, nor do I intend to become a middle-aged wife type person looking to score hot young men to have group sex with and then video it for internet publication later; I do not intend to WATCH middle-aged wife type persons having group sex. I don’t take drugs stronger than aspirin, since there was a time and place for that and it was called The 80’s; I don’t need to enlarge my penis, since I don’t have one; I don’t need to enlarge my breasts, which I DO have; I know what it’s like to lose one’s virginity, having lost my own years ago, so I most assuredly do not need to watch someone else lose theirs.

I might however, wish to take advantage of a Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks giveaway.

I just wanted to preface that. That and to state that the word of the day is Merkin. A pubic wig for women. Merkin. Try to find a reason to use it in a sentence. I swear it will make you giggle.

Okay...the aforementioned out of the way, I wish to share with you the contents of my Bulk Mail Folder that arrived between the hours of 7:00 a.m. and 9:00 a.m. this morning. On a gorgeous Sunday morning while the sun was shining and the birds were chirping. I had just returned from a lovely hike where I communed with Nature, ran a little, hiked a little, picked up after my dogs a little – okay a lot...and feeling mighty refreshed and spiritual after all that Nature, I came home, ate a little breakfast, went to check e mail and:

· Should Paris Hilton be punished? Answer now and get a complimentary pink cell phone!
· Mature MILF action! Check it out! The hottest here!
· Yours to Keep – New Kmart Gift Card Valued at $1000!
· Watch first timers get banged and enjoy it!
· Dunkin donuts or Starbucks Coffee Gift Card Giveaway!
· Get a complimentary Sony VAIO Notebook!
· Larger Breasts Now!!!!!
· Cut Federal Student loan paybacks in Half!
· Cardiologist slashes cholesterol in clinical trial!
· Mature women bare all!
· Penis enlargement pills here!
· Now her love life might be better than yours!
· Cell phone product testers needed!
· Bonnie’s first time giving a B.J.!
· Hot blonde, teenage lesbians on video here!
· Pope John Paul II Commemorative!
· Vioxx – 50 pills for $60!
· Videos of hotties giving their first @#$!
· Aged to perfection, mature women bare all!
· Yolanda’s first time in bed and! @#$@$#@$ it!
· Herbal Breast Enlargement!
· Get a Free T-Mobile Sidekick Cell Phone!
· For $1000 cash, Is Michael Jackson Guilty?
· Get up to $500 by tomorrow!
· Fastest UP in 20 minutes!
· Tomorrows Stocks on the run!
· Trade Alert !
· Narcotics such as Pitocin may interfere with other drugs…
· (and yet another) Pope John Paul II commemorative!

Hmmmmm. After reviewing the list again, I think that perhaps Paris Hilton SHOULD be punished for sexually exploiting her Chihuahua.

The American Diet Debacle

2005-04-10T10:57:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, it’s been ages. I’ve had term papers to write, exams to take, a job to show up for, hot flashes to endure, dogs to walk, a murder to plan, someone else to frame for it, meals to prepare, a cute new haircut to access my inner Sharon Stone, a thesis to explore on The Age of Viagra v the Age of Romance about how the Age of Viagra has ruined art and poetry, in that so much classic art and poetry dealt with the desire for great passion and the humiliation of that great passion being... cut short...if you will…(okay I made that up – no one would approve that as a thesis, especially those taking Viagra)...frankly, I’m swamped...(okay let’s see how many of you get the hidden film reference)...

Speaking of meal preparation and the American culture of obsession with bizarre dieting - or bingeing and purging as a favorable alternative to healthy eating and exercise, my cousin Lillian decided one summer; the summer between junior and senior year in high school; to eat nothing but chicken. No other meats, fish, no vegetables, no fruit, pasta, potatoes, pizza, salad, dessert, chocolate, dinner rolls, bagels, cheese, cheese wiz, romaine lettuce, Velveeta processed cheese food, red cole slaw, nothing but chicken. Initially she lost some weight, which could be considered a good thing. She had always been what we liked to call a “big healthy girl,” but then after a few weeks of the chicken diet, she started to smell a little funny. Her skin took on this pasty kind of look. She started developing a white chalky substance in the creases of her arms and behind her knees and ears that was rather disturbing and disgusting. She began having really bizarre mood swings which we could only attribute to being a bi-product of her limited diet. We figured out that over the three-month summer vacation prior to senior year she consumed approximately 10,000 chickens. I know that seems like quite a lot, and an impossibility in only a three-month period of time, but I assure you that it is quite possible, in that much of the chicken she purchased came from fast food establishments, well known for fusing and compressing large quantities of chicken into miniscule bite size nuggets. I’ve never been able to truly enjoy a chicken dish without gagging since that summer.

Okay, I made all that up. I have no cousin named Lillian. My family is wacky but we have our limits. I do actually know a woman who decided to eat nothing but corn or corn based foods for an extended period of time. I remember wishing her luck with it, and expressing the notion that perhaps it would be a good time to place some classic literature in her bathroom, since she might be spending more time in there. Americans can be pretty madcap and zany about their weight loss ideas. The weight loss industry and the next big thing diet has become quite arguably the multi-billion dollar industry contributing to our gross national product that best exemplifies the American Dream. Where else can the snake oil salesman, in this instance, one with a degree at the end of his/her name, write one book that sells billions of copies to billions of people - the best seller status launching an entire merchandising industry to that person’s book, a la internet diet plans based upon the book, high end spas using that best selling diet as a meal plan used by their establishment...an author who achieves the kind of guru status and adoration that only a religious leader would have in any other country...yet most of the time the book is a re-wording of the virtues of the food pyramid and the value of physical exercise, or something so unhealthy that extended use prompts the need for removal of an internal organ. Whichever it is, the book gets enthusiasm from the buyer for a couple weeks, only to return to the shelf with the other diet books - and the person that bought the book goes back to potato chips and re-runs of Law and Order while the rest of the world wonders why we're so weird.

In the 80’s I think we were naturally thin from all the readily available cocaine.

Ooooooooooh, What's that SMELL...

2005-03-27T08:03:00.000-08:00

Recently, I came home from work, opened the door and there was the unfamiliar smell of what seemed to be cheap perfume in my home. The sickeningly sweet chemically-smelling stuff one can find in the sale-bin at Rite-Aid, or the type of awful assault one can experience when coming within the vicinity of someone who has never been taught how to wear the stuff. (Tip – it’s like B.O. – if you can smell it on yourself, you’re killing us and it’s time for a shower.) It smelled like a cheap hooker had been in my home while I was away.

“Manpants?” I asked sweetly.

“Yes, honey?” he said.

“Did you have someone over today?” I asked.

“No, why do you ask?” he answered.

“Because there’s a weird perfumy smell in here.”

“Well, it’s just been me and the dogs,” he said.

He came over and kissed me hello. AND I SMELLED IT.

“Are you wearing a new aftershave?” I asked.

“No! Honey, what’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“Well, there’s a weird smell in the house...and quite frankly you smell like a ten cent whore.”

“WHAT!?!?!?” he exclaimed.

Now don’t get me wrong. I trust Manpants implicitly, but the cheap perfume smell could not be denied. That’s when I saw it on the counter. The spray item that I see frequently advertised on teeVEE commercials that American households apparently need to spray on all fabric and upholstery type things they own...the name of the item is a witty combo of FABRIC and BREEZE, and it is designed to cover THE SMELL. I walked over to the counter, picked up the spray item that I see frequently advertised on the teeVEE and took a whiff of the spray nozzle.

BINGO.

Apparently Manpants decided he needed it to spray on his gym clothes so he could wear them for more than one sweaty workout session, rather than toss them in the wash. And since he hadn’t showered yet after getting back from the gym, he still smelled like the spray. It clings. Manpants had finally done the unthinkable. He had fallen victim to television advertising, which he apparently has been watching more of lately since we got rid of cable. Reality teeVEE dominates so much of network television that if one wants to see an actual actor, one has to watch the commercials.

There seems to be an ever growing collection of commercials and products designed to cover...THE SMELL...Stuff to cover smells upon furniture, clothing, laundry, living rooms, bathrooms (okay that one I might understand)...“fresheners” one can plug in, put on a table top, use as a nightlight, fresheners with built in fans so as to continually waft the scent of choice around a room, sprays, gels, solids, wipes...the list is ever growing to fill that need that the American household seems unable to be without...something to cover THE SMELL.

I got choked with this same smell yet again while hiking when a female hiker got ahead of me on the trail. Already breathing pretty heavy from the effort of the uphill climb, my oxygen supply was immediately stopped by the cloud of FABRIC BREEZE blowing into my airways off of her clothing. Ew.

Now I’m not sure when the American household decided that it was no longer appropriate to actually CLEAN a house – you know, vacuum, mop, polish the furniture, wash the laundry, wash the dog, stuff like that...or God forbid OPEN A WINDOW, but at some point we apparently decided to get all earthy about the whole thing and rather than clean anything...just cover it with something to continually mask the smell with a “spring fresh scent.” It is apparently so crucial that we adopt this way of life that in one commercial a woman literally tears apart her wall and ceiling in an effort to divert the electrical power to accommodate her favorite plug-in freshener in the room of her choice…it’s all quite violent, she greatly alarms her husband and we are unwillingly exposed to the new, improved, darker side of the current domestic environment.

Perhaps we’re trying to be more European? Except that last I checked, the European household is generally pretty neat (and has healthier food in the fridge). Yes, the French invented perfume to cover the fact that they used to bathe rather infrequently, but that was their BODIES, not their entire environment, and the French are far superior to Americans in the art of perfume creation. They gave the world Chanel #5 – we gave it Charlie.

Just open a window people...and if an upholstery cushion smells like ass – maybe it’s time to actually CLEAN it.

Potty Training and Sex Education ....but not together...

2005-03-15T13:39:00.004-08:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about potty training lately. And sex education. No, the two don’t go together necessarily unless one is into some sort of fetish behavior, or bizarre multi-tasking, but I’m thinking more of the philosophical concept attached to either one or the other of the two and how we have come to be where we are, and how it is that we have become collectively idiotic about it along the way.

There was a time, long ago before indoor plumbing and multi-room dwellings where people, couples, families and extended families sometimes, all lived and breathed under one rather cramped roof. There was no such thing as a private bedroom, let alone a private privy, and if one lived in the urban center, one did not even possess the luxury of an outhouse. The urban dweller was relegated to relieve him or herself in the porcelain (or tin) chamber pot usually located under or next to the bed. If one lived with other people, they would use this same chamber pot in front of others – or sit in the hole they made in the wall, or hang out the window over the unsuspecting passerby below, etc….the point being, there was no privacy.

As respects the concept of Sex, that too, was without much privacy, since everyone lived under the same roof. Any lovemaking that was to be done, was more than likely done in the same room and hopefully the kids were asleep. If one went to a hooker, rest assured they would probably be doing the deed outside in a doorway in plain view of passersby.

The reason I bring all this up is because during this fabulous time of no plumbing or privacy, people spoke plainly to one another. Shame about farts or shit or piss was just plain silly and SEX was not a taboo or shameful subject at all. There was no point, since all were in the same circumstances and there were no secrets.

Enter indoor plumbing and the private bedroom. Suddenly there was a closed door! Privacy at last, and with privacy, at least where the bedroom is concerned, arrived the element of SHAME. Forget original sin and the apple, it was the bedroom that did it. What went on behind closed doors was something never to be spoken of unless it was in the confessional or while repeating a dirty joke. By the time the Victorian era rolled around, we were so completely undone by all the privacy and what we could DO in the confines of that privacy that SEX became something so dirty, naughty and forbidden that many people stopped having it altogether. At least with people they respected.

How many thousands of women were treated by their physicians for HYSTERIA during this time? Which, if you’re not up on your Victorian history was a treatment whereby the physician massaged the vulva of the patient until she had an orgasm. They ended up treating so many patients for hysteria that the first vibrator had to be invented – a table that the woman laid upon face down while a steam powered rotating sphere gave her pleasure. Neat. That of course made its evolutionary way to the hand held model that was eventually sold in Sears and Roebuck catalogue.

I guess what I’m saying here is that indoor plumbing and multi-room dwellings, while fabulous sources to indulge one’s decorating hobby, didn’t do much for us in terms of a healthy approach to THE SEX. Now we have “family” organizations that throw apoplectic fits if the subject is remotely hinted at, let alone discussed frankly. And we can forget about any sort of education on the subject unless one lives on either of the coasts.

I wonder how much the FCC would fine Geoffrey Chaucer today for his writing? In the latter part of the 14th century, Chaucer wrote a little collection that came to be considered one of the finest works of early English literature. I refer to The Canterbury Tales, and would like to quote a little excerpt from the Wife of Bath’s Prologue and Tale, and then the Miller’s Tale. I’ll use the translation, rather than make anyone slog through the original English dialect.

First, on God, Marriage and Virginity:

When did you ever see, in any sort of age,
that high God forbade marriage
By express word? I pray you, tell me;
Or where did He command virginity?
I know as well as you, without a doubt,
The apostle, when he speaks of maidenhood,
Says that he has no precept about it.
Men may counsel a woman to be single,
but advice is no commandment;
He left it to our own judgment
For if God had commanded maidenhood,
Then He would have condemned marriage along with it;
And certainly, if no seed were sown,
Where would virgins come from?

Heavens! What would Focus on Family say to THAT?

And from The Miller’s Tale

...This Absolon got down on his knees,
And said,” I am the lord in every way,
For after this I hope that more will come.”
Sweetheart, your favor, and sweet bird, your kindness!”
She unlatched the window quickly,
”Go ahead,” she said,” come and do it quickly,
In case our neighbors should see you.”
This Absolon began to wipe his mouth dry;
The night was dark as pitch or coal,
And out the window she put her hole,
And as for Absolon, it happened no better nor worse
But with his mouth he kissed her naked arse
Most enjoyable, before he realized what he was kissing.
back he started, and thought something was wrong,
For he well knew women don’t have beards;
He felt a rough and long-haired thing,
And said,”Fie! Alas! What have I done?”
“Tehee!” said she, and slammed the window shut,
and Absolon went off in a sorry state...

Chaucer of course was parodying members of society of that time to make a point, but do you think anyone could get away with doing that now? They’d latch onto the literal text out of context, and it would be all over the news. “Celebrated English poet Geoffrey Chaucer is reported to have been hiding pornography and anti-Christian sentiment in classic literature! Will he be fined? Tune in! News at ten!” Now, since the FCC has not been very clear on what is offensive, other than to say that if anyone is offended by anything, it can be considered offensive and thereby subject to a fine upwards of $500,000 dollars – PER OFFENSE - I ask you – how much do you think Chaucer would be fined today by the FCC for one of the great works of English Literature?

PIE AND PHILOSOPHY

2005-03-08T22:16:00.000-08:00

Okay, here’s a wacky question that can keep you up at night. If you’re waiting for an elevator and the doors open and there’s an actual sumo wrestler inside – do you get on? I saw that on a commercial once and it just freaked me out for days.

That being said, I am moving the subject to something completely different. Of the philosophical nature, if you will. We as human beings are generally raised with, or glean along the way, a certain social awareness. An intuitive sense that certain impulses should not be acted upon. IMPULSE. I M P U L S E. A sudden wish or urge that prompts an unpremeditated act or feeling. For example, I might have an overwhelming desire to get up and leave my comfy spot in a comfy booth at Mel’s Diner, walk over to a complete stranger comfortably seated at ANOTHER comfy booth, pick up a ketchup bottle and dump it over the stranger’s head. That type of behavior is generally frowned upon and deemed unacceptable unless you are on a reality teeVEE show, and then it is expected behavior befitting a representative of the United States. And given that Mel’s, while a diner, is generally patronized by well coifed people in full makeup who have had a lot of work done to make them appear younger, more firm, lifted and (except for Linda Tripp, who had just had God knows WHAT done to her face and looked like a cadaver cheerfully eating an omelet) a lot like Barbie, or Ken for that matter, chances are I would be messing up a really nice hairdo and expensive tee shirt.

IMPULSE. A sudden wish or urge that prompts an unpremeditated act or feeling. That would be the ketchup scenario. ORRRRR the electrochemical transmission of a signal along a nerve fiber that produces an excitatory or inhibitory response at a target tissue, such as a muscle or another nerve...That would be the ketchup scenario if my body acted independently in all things, despite thought control…okay, so what if I woke up one morning and everything that I thought about I started doing – completely incapable of controlling it – just because I thought about it and the brainwaves kicked off the electrochemical transmission of a signal to the rest of me? What if I started furiously masturbating in a public mall because I passed a Circuit City and they were showing the 1996 Tom Berenger movie “THE SUBSTITUTE” on each and every one of their large screen television displays…and I just THOUGHT about it?...Okay, where was I.

An example of a NON IMPULSIVE act, but rather the desperate fight for freedom, dignity and office Feng Shui, would be my giving notice at the 7th circle of hell cubicle drone job I have mentioned in posts past. Yes, you may congratulate me for telling Ursula the Cubicle Witch that I will be moving right along. And in a group act that just warms my cockles, some of my co-workers, in silent passive aggressive protest, have arranged a little good-bye gathering where pie will be served. Rhubarb pie. Ursula the Cubicle Witch just LOATHES rhubarb pie. Which is why they will be serving it.

It is my opinion that one’s ass always looks best when one is walking away.

From the Frastley Family Files (ooooh I alliterated again!)

2005-03-01T21:59:00.000-08:00

Glee. GLEE. G.L.E.E.: Jubilant delight, joy. I like that word, and think people don’t use it nearly as often as they could. Try it. I dare ya. Make it your business to correctly use the word GLEE in a sentence today.

Which brings me to a story that fills me with glee just thinking about it.

My mother - (we'll call her Esmé for respectful anonymity purposes - what? You thought my REAL name was Millicent?! Snork! ) - anyway...Esmé used to enjoy talking to herself in the kitchen. She would consult herself on all topics relating to or involving the need for advice. She would tell herself the problem, then she would advise herself on it and either argue that the advice was ridiculous, subsequently hurting her own feelings and having to apologize to herself for bringing it up in the first place, or she’d thank herself for the advice she just received from herself. She rarely followed the advice she gave so freely, but it gave us countless hours of...you guessed it...GLEE.

Esmé had an incident once while having a rather vehement argument with herself in the kitchen. The conversation had reached a fevered pitch, with both her sides being extremely passionate about her opposing points of view, when all of a sudden she yelled “NO!” at herself and the four front teeth in the top of her mouth just flew out. Actually, they broke in half and it was the half parts that flew out, but nonetheless, teeth were flying on that particular day. She stopped arguing with herself immediately and looked rather stunned. She then put her hand up to her mouth, said “Oh Thhhit” and ran out of the room. I’m not sure how the force of her own yelling at herself would break her teeth, and I think there were probably other contributing factors, like faulty dental care during the Depression or something like that, but whatever it was, she wasn’t able to see the dentist right away. So in order to avoid humiliation, she chose to distract people's attention from the possible noticing of her mouth damage by wearing huge rose colored sunglasses. The kind one might have seen on Elton John during his fashion hey day. That in combination with the beehive hairdo was quite a sight let me tell YOU.

She later became mayor of the town, but that is a decidedly different story for a different day. And no. I did not make any of this up. My family is madcap and zany.

WHAT'S A CHOCOHOLIC TO DO?!?!?!?

2005-02-15T22:49:00.002-08:00

Okay, I have thought myself to be pretty up on current events with respect to atrocities committed upon other people in this world and I act accordingly with respect to those things I purchase, wear, ask for at holiday gift giving time, etcetera...but I did not know about this. And it burns me to no end. Of course, this ran on Valentine’s Day in the LA Times, just as I had finished my third delicious truffle of chocolaty goodness, leaving me guilt ridden and threatening to go purge like I did in high school, but for different reasons.

Taking Child Slavery Out of Valentine's Day
By Tom Harkin and Eliot L. Engel
Tom Harkin (D-Iowa) is the ranking Democrat on the Senate Appropriations subcommittee on labor, health and human services and education. Eliot L. Engel (D-N.Y.) is a member of the House International

February 14, 2005

On Valentine's Day, there will be no chocolate gifts for young Aly Diabate. "I don't know what chocolate is," said Aly, who was forced into slavery at age 11 to harvest cocoa beans in Ivory Coast. Aly's ignorance of chocolate is forgivable. Like tens of thousands of other child slaves on cocoa farms in Ivory Coast, he subsists on a diet of corn paste and bananas.

Less forgivable is the fact that chocolate lovers in the West have been kept in the dark about these harsh realities. Few realize that most of the cocoa beans that go into Nestle, Mars and Hershey candy bars come from Ivory Coast, where thousands of enslaved boys — some as young as 9 — work in the most squalid, brutal conditions imaginable.

According to one report, the child slaves of Ivory Coast "are whipped, beaten and broken like horses to harvest the almond-sized beans that are made into chocolate treats for more fortunate children in Europe and the United States."

We have long been active in efforts to stop exploitive child labor, as well as trafficking in slaves. So when news reports on the abuse of children on cocoa farms first emerged in 2001, we were determined to stop it. We knew that if consumers learned about the brutal realities of cocoa production, their taste for chocolate would sour. Sales — and the Ivorian economy — would plummet. But that was not our goal. We wanted to stop child slavery, not chocolate production.

We viewed a legislative remedy not as a first resort but as a last resort. So, in good faith, we engaged the major chocolate companies in lengthy, intense negotiations. The result was the Harkin-Engel Protocol, signed in 2001.

The companies agreed to join with other stakeholders to produce an agreement for eliminating the worst forms of child and slave labor throughout the chain of chocolate production, and to do so expeditiously. They also agreed to implement an industrywide voluntary certification system to give a public accounting of labor practices in the cocoa-growing countries. This would enable consumers to make better-informed choices.

This kind of certification approach is already being used effectively to combat trafficking in "blood diamonds." In several diamond-rich African countries racked by civil war and human rights abuses, belligerents have funded their activities by mining and selling diamonds. The Clinton administration helped to create a country-of-origin certification system for diamonds. And President Bush signed a law prohibiting importation into the United States of any diamonds not controlled by this system.

There are an estimated 1.5 million small cocoa farms spread across four desperately poor countries in Africa, including Ivory Coast. The protocol established a public-private partnership enlisting government, industry, labor unions, nongovernmental organizations and consumer groups. The U.S. government's role is to ensure that whatever certification plan emerges from this process is credible and effective in eliminating abusive child- and slave-labor practices in the cocoa industry and ensuring the rehabilitation of the victims.

We have done our best to accommodate the chocolate companies. We preferred a two-year deadline for the creation of an industrywide certification regime, but agreed to four years. We all agreed that the regime was to be completed on July 1, followed by rigorous implementation.

Last month, however, the companies informed us that they would not meet the deadline. Instead, they planned to initiate a small pilot program in Ghana and, perhaps, in Ivory Coast. Although this is certainly a positive step, it falls woefully short of the robust action promised in the protocol.

The time for talk has passed. Children are suffering. Will the chocolate companies redouble their efforts and make good on their commitments? Or, as with blood diamonds, will legislation be necessary? Our preference is for the chocolate industry to take charge of its own destiny. But if corporate responsibility is lacking, government will have a responsibility to act.

This Valentine's Day, much of our chocolate will be bittersweet — tainted by the suffering of Aly Diabate and countless other cocoa slaves. Our hope is that, by next Valentine's Day, consumers will be able to purchase chocolate with a clear conscience.”...

Yup. There reads a fine reason to give up yet another vice. So, like the good little addict that I am, I did a little research to find out if there were GOOD chocolate "dealers" out there as opposed to the corporate giant variety that, huge as they are, can't manage to say NO to people using child slave labor after being given FOUR YEARS to make that happen. It turns out there are. There are Fair Trade Farms around the world where one can order things like coffee and chocolate; where slave labor is strictly prohibited and farms are inspected to ensure that Fair Trade standards are being met. Check it out and for information where to order chocolate without guilt – go to: FAIR TRADE CERTIFIED

Thank you.

Mind Soup Sunday

2005-02-13T13:11:00.000-08:00

There are places that people in LA will not leave their place in line for, for any reason. Pinks Hot Dogs is one of those places. Even when Brad Pitt staged his own kidnapping there for a prank. People screamed, but remained in line for their chili dogs or foot long spicy dogs with extra kraut. Driving up La Brea Avenue the other day after being pulled over for 2 fire trucks and 1 paramedic vehicle, I continued on my merry way after they had passed ahead of me, only to find as I caught up with them that apparently someone had collapsed, been murdered or simply choked and/or died perhaps, at Pinks Hotdogs. Pinks is a Hollywood tradition and diet staple, like grits in the south or pickled herring in parts of Wisconsin. The line for dogs is always a long one and this particular day was no different, though you’d think the scene would make one lose one’s appetite or at least say “gee, let’s go across the street to The Pig,” but no. The long lunch line and food service was still in motion, despite the drama occurring right there. Perhaps reality teeVee has desensitized even the most weak-of-stomach-type-person. Well, the dogs are really good – in fact, Manpants and I used to have an agreement that no matter what we were on our way to, if we drove by and there was no line, we would have to stop and get a dog. The only time THAT happened was on 9/11 – and we didn’t much feel like stopping that day.

I was seriously contemplating writing the long overdue conclusion of Courtesy Confidential that I started here a bazillion ages ago, but when last I visited my hack noir tale I had just tripped over a severed leg that I mistook for a tree root after finding the dead body of the Jiffy Lube guy in the bathroom at Starbucks while inappropriately flirting with the sissy-man who was the most likely murder suspect. Now that’s not necessarily all that disturbing in that particular context but for the fact that I finally saw the 1999 film TITUS over the weekend which was Julie Taymor’s brilliant take on Shakespeare’s TITUS ANDRONICUS. There’s a scene in the film that is particularly gruesome - okay, there are several and they keep topping each other, but this particular one is haunting and burned into my memory with no indication that it’s leaving anytime soon. So clumsiness with body parts will have to wait until another day. Meanwhile I’ll have to deal with the rest of the mess that's rattling around in my somewhat addled brain.

For example, I frequently wake up in the morning thinking of “What if I woke up this morning and..." scenarios to break up my routine: “What if I woke up one morning and dressed up in a clown costume for no reason, spending the day frightening perfectly innocent people...” “What if I woke up one morning, let myself into my friends houses while they weren't at home and reorganized their kitchen cupboards so that nothing was where it was supposed to be..." This morning I thought it would be a really great idea to go for an entire day as if I were Star Man. Like Jeff Bridges (a highly under-appreciated actor in my opinion) in the movie. If you are too young to know about the movie Star Man, as I've said before, go out and play, you shouldn't be on the computer. Anyway... if I were to truly do this experiment justice, it would mean I would have to approach everything as if I had never experienced it before. First I realized the supreme flaw of my brilliant idea when I went to get coffee. I, according to my brilliant role playing, didn’t know how to make coffee, let alone know what a coffee maker would even look like or for that matter, what coffee WAS. I can’t start my day without coffee and after much dilemma as to staying true to my Sunday LIFE EXERCISE I had a rather HUGE problem. I figured I could walk to the nearest Starbucks and order a coffee, but again, that would involve knowing intuitively that there was a substance that I could ingest that would wake me up AND get rid of the headache I was starting to develop from not having caffeine, and that I could walk to a building that had people in it who would GIVE me this headache curing elixir if I gave them objects of payment called “currency” in the denomination that they specified. Phew. I knew DRIVING there was completely out of the question. I also realized that there was nothing in my refrigerator that in its present state could be interpreted as being “food” or “drink” because I hadn’t done the grocery shopping yet and I was about to be in a very sorry state. All this took place in the 5 minutes from my waking to my scrapping the idea and making myself a delicious pot of French roast. I have been spending the rest of the day quite happy in my knowledge that I have numerous skills, accomplishments and information that heretofore I have been taking for granted, and that I really DO have a well-rounded collection of coping skills despite what it says on the prescription label.

Thank God the idea to play Star Man originally came to me AFTER I’d already used the toilet this morning.

Feng Weee!

2005-02-06T23:35:00.000-08:00

As I went to work on Friday, I followed my usual routine of driving down Martel Avenue, cursing and shaking my fist in disbelief and exasperation at the gentleman of dubious intellect in front of me holding his cell phone up close to his face while he text messaged someone...while driving. I guess he’d run out of talking minutes and was trying to save money, ostensibly to pay for the coffins of the people he was about to kill by sheer idiocy. Guess he didn’t hear about that new roll over plan. Anyway, I made it to work in time to get my ritual Friday cinnamon roll from the bakery of yummy goodness nearby, my extra large cup o Joe and up the elevator I went. A 60ish man wearing sun glasses in the daytime got on the elevator and proceeded to leer at the females. Ew. I automatically pictured him in his underwear as a defense mechanism only to envision the leather thong that people of his ilk are bound to wear, I’m just sure of it. I burst out laughing before safely reaching my floor, solidifying my reputation yet again as the crazy lady that works in suite 808. Crazy, but also easily amused.

Now before I go further in my little day from hell, I should go back a couple of weeks to the day when I decided to “Clear my clutter with Feng Shui.” Now in case you’ve managed to never hear what Feng Shui is, it is a philosophy that creates an environment which is ergonomic; it lets us work efficiently, comfortably and successfully by following the patterns of nature. This huge undertaking began with my home, and extended on to my cubicle pod. Not to my car, that’s just crazy. Since I was on a roll, I took this whole “Wealth and Prosperity corner” business very seriously. So I put a fountain in it. In my cubicle. The same cubicle where Ursula, the Cubicle Witch likes to point her knarled forefinger at decorative infractions, ever reminding us what is regulation, and what is not. If you can even fathom the look on her face when she saw the fountain. Did I mention it has festive red and blue lights? She appeared in my newly clutter-cleared-cubicle (AGAIN with the alliteration. God I love it when I get to do that) and the eyes widened. The knarled hands clutched at her chest as she stammered, “Wha-wha-wha…”

“It’s a Feng Shui fountain,” I said. “It’s for productivity and the acquisition of wealth for the company.”

Ursula was speechless. Finally.

“I figured the place could use a little sprucing up in that department,” I said.

Ursula, still speechless, left my cubicle pod, in search, no doubt for the Human Resource Director. I sat there, wide eyed and bushy tailed, waiting for the guillotine.

So, back to Friday, the day from hell. Two weeks had passed without incident; I turned the fountain on every day and enjoyed the little tinkling sound of water throughout my day. I continued to clear clutter from my home and while doing so managed to drive a wall hanger straight through my thumb while hanging a mirror. Mirrors are important to Feng Shui. Apparently so is blood. Nature and all.

Anyway, it was Friday, after the text messaging future vehicular manslaughter guy and leering sunglasses guy; I was just about to dig into my cinnamon roll at my desk when my boss asked me into his office to inform me that my hours are being significantly cut.

What does Feng Shui mean again? Oh yeah –

“People will believe anything.”

These are the People in My Neighborhood....

2005-01-31T14:09:00.000-08:00

It’s not every day that you see a six foot two, two hundred fifty pound woman walking down the street in a bright pink pant suit wearing a long auburn wig…inside out. That’s right. Wig inside out and tilted a little bit down and over the eyes. The expression on her bright and smiling face said that she was having a good hair day, felt confident and looked fetching. Well. She did make me smile when I went by. So I guess she served her greater purpose, which was to make people smile, thereby brightening their day.

This brings me to a subject near and dear to my heart...and that is the culture of “characters” that inhabit the more urban parts of this fair city. Yes, they exist in every major city in the country, but we seem to have a disproportionate amount of them here due to the good weather and the particular rejection style of the entertainment industry. It’s one of the reasons I live by choice in a more urban area of the city. There’s always something going on and when it happens, it usually happens there first. Living in a more “gentrified” outer suburb of Los Angeles is something that I have tried and never warmed to. Mainly because I can't stand the term "gentrified." I lived in rose lined, pretty Pasadena for a few years and was able to see the San Gabriel Mountains a total of 5 times during that period, and then only after a heavy rain – even though they were about twenty blocks away. I figure if I’m going to live in filth at least be honest about it and move back into the city. Being able to walk out of your building to see a large, colorful woman wearing an inside out wig; a Hollywood exec picking up a 15 year old hooker in his Beemer; watching the neighborhood Tweakers make their way home squinting with pain from the glare of the morning sun after a weekend crystal meth binge in a dark room; noticing that the pretty 20 something girl at the end of the block who is prone to depression has had her face inexplicably tattooed with some sort of Maori design... can be more jam packed with comedy or tragedy than anything you’ll see on the teeVee. Unless you watch the commercials.

There is a delightful cast of characters that can be found on the avenues, streets and at the numerous Starbucks of L.A. proper – with the notable exception of a woman in suburban South Pasadena who eats avocadoes all day while simultaneously having secret whispered yet animated conversations with her left hand -

For example, there is “The Creature,” as she is cruelly nicknamed by people with jobs, but I prefer to refer to her as The Woman With the Really Tall Shoes...this woman seemingly floats down La Brea Avenue in a ground length black caftan, wears her hair in a severe top knot that puts Cindy Loo—Who to shame, wears bright circles of rouge high upon her cheeks and custom made platform shoes that are seven inches high. She slowly makes her way up and down La Brea, speaking to no one, deep in thought...floating. She’s fabulous.

Then there’s a man of indeterminate age, somewhere between 55 and 120, stoop shouldered, wizened, terribly thin, with overly tanned skin that has become shoe leather. He likes to walk down Wilshire Boulevard wearing nothing but a leopard print thong. This I could live my entire life without seeing and be the better for it.

There’s a guy at my gym who is tattooed over all areas of his body not covered by clothing – and I’m thinking that he is tattooed on those areas covered by clothing as well, since the guy that did the two that I have said that he has tattooed some “privates” in his day...which just fills me with scary visuals that know no bounds...anyway, his bald head is covered with tiny and dainty flowering vines. I wonder what kind of work he does.

One of my all time favorite characters is a guy at Venice Beach who rolls around on skates while playing an electric guitar that he has a special battery pack amplifier for...if he catches your eye, he will follow you for several yards, composing a song right on the spot...just for you. He delights in your embarrassment. It was better though before he got the guitar, because in years past it was a ukulele, which has far more embarrassment potential. To be serenaded with, I mean.

There are so many more than those I’ve mentioned and there’s always a little tragedy that goes along with being a character. That is, at some point in time the individual made a decision to completely retreat from the world – or the world retreated from them. The Hollywood history books are rife with the forgotten or rejected that threw themselves off the Hollywood sign, or killed themselves in some other fashion after their fall from Hollywood grace. For some reason a bizarrely large number of those people lived on Woodrow Wilson Drive. You will never find me living on Woodrow Wilson Drive for any reason because of that fact alone. I doubt I’d even go to a dinner party there. When I speak of the Hollywood forgotten, there is one woman in particular that I find rather haunting. She is an elderly woman, of the homeless variety, who can be found wandering around downtown or thereabouts, with an Oscar in a paper bag that by all accounts is hers. I’d like to know her story.

So...while I continue to nosily watch the goings on, wonder at the back stories and comment on the lives of my various neighbors, I’ll continue to be furious at the meager offerings of the television set and prefer the comic yet sordid entertainment and mystery of my own 'hood, reveling in the sights, smells and filth that make up that place I call Home.

Foreplay WHO?

2005-01-26T23:06:00.000-08:00

The LEVITRA chick just pisses me off. Yes, I know she’s an actress. Yes, I know she was probably strapped for cash and has already made about 40k off the insipid commercial that manages to make all women look like idiots. I know she’s just an actress doing her job. She still pisses me off and I want to boycott every product that is handled by the ad agency that does those commercials. As soon as I can find out who the ad agency is. Anyone? First, aside from the ad making women look like sex starved morons who had no IDEA that a 4 hour erection could be so damn satisfying - as opposed to chafing...if we REALLY had that great of an orgasm, we wouldn’t be awake to talk about it. We’d be passed out, unconscious, gone. We’d wake up later wondering what happened and not quite sure we remember our middle name. That’s how it works - not from a 4 hour woody, but from a partner that actually knows what they're doing. That woman is simply a representative of fakers everywhere. Secondly, a real woman would never gloat. High school boys and men who have been used to paying for it will gloat. A real woman would simply go about her business until the next time she gets knocked unconscious by the great whammy O. A woman having the great whammy O doesn’t need to gloat, or smile coyly at the camera like they have FINALLY been made to feel like a natural woman, mmhmmm...and we all know that the first time THAT happened that it was probably on a date with ourselves.

I’ve got to get TIVO. Today’s commercials are going to drive me to excessive amounts of street heroine.

Yeesh, It's HOT in here!

2005-01-25T17:02:00.000-08:00

So...today, I’m minding my own business, eating my lunch at my mandatory-by-law-un-paid-half-hour-lunch break, when all of a sudden in the middle of a bite of my delicious stuffed pepper from Trader Joes while listening to another fabulously hilarious anecdote by Halstead...IT HITS...a strange overly warm feeling came over me. No, it wasn’t an orgasm, (which would be highly unlikely at any time or for any reason between the hallowed walls of the cubicle farm where I work, not to mention the very thought of the lengths one would have to go to in order to ATTEMPT to feel sexy in that overly flourescent and oppressive environment is just gross)...and it certainly wasn’t the Holy Spirit. It was more like what a Niacin flush feels like if any of you have ever done that. I used to do them a lot back in the 80’s when I would try to detox myself off something - not sure what I was detoxing over, it could have been anything. It was the 80’s. Anyway, this was kind of like that, except that it hit much more rapidly and without the warning skin itchiness that precedes a Niacin flush...No, this was like being hit by a Hot Bomb that exploded from the inside of the inner core of my being and generated out in about a nano-second. Jane, one of the social-workers, was sitting across the table from me when it hit. She looked at me and cocked her head to one side.

She knew.

“Okay, wow, boy, having a hot flash,” I said.

“Yes, you certainly are,” said Jane.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen – it’s not enough that living in Los Angeles ensures that you are unemployable after age 40 (kind of L.A.’s version of a "Logan’s Run" Utopia, where if it was legal they’d just put us to death), but along with the gradual refining that comes with age – a line here, a gray hair there, a few more minutes on the treadmill and a couple more lunges and crunches needed than there used to be...no, it’s not enough to be attempting to age gracefully in the town listed at #1 on the Ageism scale...when you can have THIS!

Menopause in Los Angeles.

Sounds like the title to a country and western song doesn’t it? Or a punk band.

Tamales, Worms and Germ Therapy

2005-01-20T20:45:00.000-08:00

I was watching a commercial for some sort of household cleaning product, where the pretty, yet bland mother answers the door pleasantly to a child there for “play date” with Junior. The child rushes in to play with a VERY high end model train set owned by Junior. Pretty soon the child sneezes, and the pretty, yet bland mother LOOKS CONCERNED. We, the viewing public, see computer-generated snot germs float from the sneeze onto one of the toy trains. No worry! Pretty, yet bland mom is there with her cleaning product to kill those snot germs on the spot!!!!

Ever notice how the kids from the cleanest and most sterile homes are always sick?

Since I still eat street food whenever humanly possible – and that includes those absolutely phenomenal tamales that people make in their bathtubs and then sell them from food carts around the neighborhood. And guess what? I haven’t had to call in sick from food poisoning since...okay, since ever. If I did, it was because I was hung over and really needed the day off and wasn’t really because of food poisoning, or it was from a three hundred dollar dinner at some place on La Brea. I think George Carlin calls it “germ therapy.” It’s important to have your daily dose of germs, otherwise how do you expect to be inoculated from anything? The flu sucks, dude, eat a tamale!!!!! I think it quite important to live a little. (Except where bugs are concerned but that's a previous rant.)

Which brings me to an absolutely FABOO email that I received today that brought it all back, and I wish to hell I knew who originated it, so they could be properly credited and bowed down to...The email deals with the old days. Since I was born before Calculators hit the market as a big ticket piece of technology to replace the slide rule...I think I can refer to them as such. I invite you to read the following, and maybe some of you will remember this stuff.

"TO THE KIDS WHO SURVIVED the 1940's, 1950's, 1960's and 1970's...

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us.

They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing and didn't get tested for diabetes.

After that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paints.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention the risks we took hitchhiking.

As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags.

Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a special treat.

We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle.

We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.

We ate cupcakes, bread and butter and drank soda pop with sugar in it, but we weren't overweight because WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING! We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on. No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K.

We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem.

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, no personal computers, no internet or internet chat rooms..........WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents.

We made up games with sticks and tennis balls and ate worms and although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes, nor did the worms live in us forever.

We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them!

Little league had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment [rather than have their parents threaten to sue the league]. Imagine that.

The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They usually sided with the law.

Here’s to those who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated our lives for our own good.

Kind of makes you want to run through the house with scissors, doesn't it?!"

wooHOOO! I'm gonna eat me some CAKE!!!!!

Millicent’s Relationship with the Insect World

2005-01-12T16:45:00.000-08:00

Okay, so the original Millicent Frastley, before I came skipping along the scene, was a privileged, yet unfortunate child in an Edward Gorey poem who comes to an absolutely horrible end – as children often do in Edward Gorey poems. In the one about Millicent Frastley, she is kidnapped and sacrificed to The Insect God. Pretty, huh? That Edward Gorey was a hoot.

My relationship with the insect world has left me in a state that the experts would refer to as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Brought about by Bugs. Oooooh, that last part was a little alliteration. I love those. Anyway, back to bugs. I hate them. Yes, there are good ones that get rid of the bad bugs, but they all can send me pretty much reeling into a screaming state followed by catatonia and occasional moaning. I like lizards (because they eat bugs) and I have no issue with snakes, mice, et al….but bugs are bad. Very, very bad. Said bugs extend to the ocean floor, where the land equivalents of spiders, cockroaches and beetles roam about bottom feeding – or feeding on bottoms, or whatever, namely crab, shrimp and the worst offender…Lobster. I had a bad experience with lobster once where my friends went on a dive and we were to have a great big ole feed. One of the people at the party drowned them in fresh water first so she didn’t have to hear them screaming in the pot of boiling water. Gelatinous mess, probably toxic, I never went back.

Example: (And single most embarrassing moment in my life to this point) – I was eleven years old, and the school that I went to was suffering from an inexplicable infestation of blue bottle flies. I think it was due to the presence of the unholy beast passing herself off as human that taught the 5th grade. Mrs. Iron. Anyway, the school answer to the pestilence was to hang No Pest Strips in all the classrooms. Every day, the boys in the class would count the flies. Dead and Alive. They sang a little song along with their counting, but the ditty is too painful to remember now. The morning of my worst day ever had a fly count of 152. Dead and alive. Ever heard a dying fly? An intermittent buzz, followed by the futile flapping of wings.

Sooooooo, the classroom had some creative project that we were hanging from the ceiling to display for Parent Teacher night. Yours truly was standing on top a file cabinet, attaching the fruits of our labors to the ceiling. My hair at that time was down to my waist. Do you see where this is going? I think you do. Anyway, a mere two strands of hair managed to float up and stick to the No Pest Strip without my knowledge. When I jumped down from the cabinet, I heard a snap, felt something attach to my head...and start to intermittently buzz. Of course the fly paper couldn’t just lie flat on the surface of my hair. No, it had managed to work its way completely into my hair. The boy I had my first crush on was rolling on the floor laughing. I was sent to the principal’s office, who promptly called my mother and told her that she would have to shave my head. Mother came down to the school, hustled me home and through a series of scientific experiments with various solvents – paint thinner, shellac remover, fingernail polish remover, etc….the mess was finally stripped from my hair, leaving it a few shades lighter in the process. That 3M Company definitely knows how to make things stick. I finally made it back to school only to find a paper crown left upon my desk that said, “Queen Klutz.”

Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll tell you the story about the giant potato bugs in the basement.

Rain, Anyone? Part II

2005-01-10T13:20:00.000-08:00

How to create one’s own humidity:

1. Drive to work.
2. Witness new and even stronger downpour of rain.
3. Get out of car.
4. Get drenched through to the skin in 30 seconds, despite the yellow plastic rain slicker.
5. Walk into heated office.

This creates steam. Especially that small area that exists between your wet skin and your wet clothing. This makes you sweat. Profusely. So imagine if you will, a drenched cubicle rat in corporate attire with hair plastered to scalp, shoes squishing down the office corridor with steam rising off of every part of said cubicle rat, simultaneously sporting beads of running sweat from the top of the head, down the face.

6. Start to mold.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and…..wait, no, that’s not the song I was looking for…..

To add to this comfy, not so fresh feeling, we have been told that due to the Los Angeles weather, the office will be closing early.

7. Walk back to car.
8. Get drenched through to the skin in 30 seconds, despite the yellow plastic rain slicker.
9. Get into car and turn on heat/defrost.
10. Steam up the car.
11. Start to mold again.

I was just text messaged by a friend asking if I want a reservation on the ark if she’s able to get ahold of Noah.

I said yes.

WHEN BLONDES GIVE US A BAD NAME

2005-01-06T10:42:00.000-08:00

We all know who they are. They are the Cameron Diaz wannabes that have minds as pure as the driven snow – not violated by a single thought. They are the ones that put women back about 100 years by perpetuating the dumb and helpless blonde stereotype as a means of getting away with whatever it is they want to get away with...traffic tickets, homework assignments, taking out the garbage, jury duty...for those of us of a similar physical type, and there are a lot of us, who actually read, who do our work without expecting someone to do it for us just because we are cute and still have a great ass, who can occasionally use a cordless drill without breaking a nail...the “DUH” population makes it very difficult to refrain from performing an illegal act of assault that involves beating them about the head and shoulders with a current edition of the New York Times or Atlantic Monthly while screaming, STOP WEARING FAKE NIPPLES IN YOUR BRA!!!!!

Or something like that.

For example, I am one of two blonde haired, blue eyed, female students in my Political Science class - POL SC 112: Race, Ethnicity, and the Politics of Difference. Our textbook is Racial and Ethnic Politics in California. Got it?

Day one.

Blondie: “Um, question?”

Professor: “Yes?”

Blondie: “I don’t see anything in this book about Europeans. Will you be discussing white European immigrants to the US?”

Professor: “This course deals with Race, Ethnicity and the politics dealing with people of color or minority as it pertains to the State of California – so no, that really won’t be part of the course.”

Blondie: “Why?”

Professor: “Did you read the course description when you signed up for the class?”

Blondie: “Well, yeah. I just don’t understand why it has to just be about that though.”

Professor: “Perhaps Poli Sci 1 would be an alternate choice for you to this one?”

Blondie: “No, I don’t want to take that one.”

My professor is a patient saint.

WHO GETS THE MONEY?

2005-01-04T13:57:00.000-08:00

Since this middle aged hotty who writes before you decided to go back to school, I have taken a job as a cubicle rat for a non profit human services organization. So I’m a little bit familiar with how they work with respect to whom and how to give in times of crisis, be it local, national, international, etcetera. I won’t say what the organization is that has me surrounded by nubby cloth walls 5 days a week, ever dodging the knarled pointy finger and scoldings of Ursula the Cubicle Witch, or what it’s rated – but let’s just say that the Orangutan Foundation is better rated. That means that the monkeys are rating better than the humans in terms of efficiency and responsible distribution of funds, costs, whatever. Or is an orangutan actually an ape? No matter, ape or monkey, they rate better than where I work. So if you are of a mind to contribute toward aiding the countries devastated by the Tsunamis, there is a great website to go to so that you can make a better informed choice. They will tell you exactly how the money is distributed and how much the CEO is taking home. It’s called Charity Navigator. Check it out. Also, please keep in mind that there are many charitable service organizations that depend on donations in order to stay afloat. For example, to use one organization that is coming to the aid of the victims of the Tsunamis, Doctors Without Borders stated this morning on NPR that they have raised the amount of money they need to properly address the Tsunami crisis, however still need donations to their general fund to deal with tragedies affecting other parts of the globe. They aren’t allowed to divert donations made to Tsunami relief to the general fund for other needs, so donations to the general fund are very much needed.

So check it out, pick one, call someone up and find out where your funds can do the most good. Let Bush continue to rake leaves on his ranch. The rest of us can step up to the plate and get something done.

NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS, 2005 STYLE

2004-12-30T11:23:00.000-08:00

For the News Years resolutions of 2005, I hereby resolve to:

1. Drink and smoke from the time I awaken in the morning until I pass out at night, daily, causing everyone within 5 feet from me to move away from my lethal stench.

2. Eat as much starch, cheese, chocolate, cheese, olestra free potato chips, cheese, ice cream, cheese, and cheddar-Parmesan goldfish in one sitting as humanly possible - at least 3 times a week.

3. Live a completely exercise free lifestyle.

4. Show up for work late.

5. Call in sick often.

6. Make loud and inappropriate noises from my cubicle at work.

7. Watch the TeeVee every day.

8. Throw temper tantrums in public often.

9. Be as California rude to as many people per day as I come in contact with.

10. Hug people who drive Hummers and thank them for contributing to the economy.

11. Talk about my bodily functions in a graphic manner at the dinner table.

12. Stop reading entirely.

13. Embrace mediocrity entirely.

14. Speak my mind without diplomacy or editing.

15. Be more proactive and agressive about leering at men half my age.

16. Eat as much starch, cheese, chocolate, cheese, olestra free potato chips, cheese, ice cream, cheese, and cheddar-Parmesan goldfish in one sitting as humanly possible - at least 5 times a week.

I really hope I can do this. In the past I have not been able to stick to even one resolution, and have often ended up doing quite the opposite. I have a good feeling that 2005 will be different. It's all about optimism.

Rain, Anyone?

2004-12-28T19:18:00.000-08:00

The Rainy season in Los Angeles that precedes the Flood/Mudslide season (the other two seasons of the year being the Fire Season and the Quake Season) has a definite effect on the people within the city. The first drizzle triggers a panic that has every news commentator on every local channel stationed at some outdoor hotspot, like the Media Center Mall in front of the Coffee Bean, talking in urgent and dramatic tone about STORM WATCH 2005. Or 2004. Or 2003. And so on. The first car accidents start due to the greasy build up that has accumulated over the previous ten months, which, combined with the bad driving habits particular to the region, makes for some pretty long hours in the car getting to and fro. Moods are generally bad. So is hair. Then comes the deluge. The Los Angeles Rainy season starts with a harmless drizzle in late December that becomes a sudden deluge of large sheets of water falling from above, often accompanied by wind that will make those lovely palm fronds from those trademark palm trees you see pictured in all those postcards detach and smash through your living room window. That is if you’ve neglected your Palms. I think they fine you for that. Anyway, the people get a little touched in the head during the short period of rain that generally tapers off in February. I think people are so dehydrated by the time it shows up that they are simply not prepared, despite the knowledge that it does this every year. The LA River fills to full with a current that moves at a good clip and generally claims a few lives, usually the invisible people that inhabit the river during the rest of the year. Weird people seem weirder, or maybe I just notice them more due to the cleaner air brought on by the rain. Who knows. For example, today, Manpants and I were driving down Magnolia and I noticed a tall man down by the river, wearing khaki pants, a sweater, deck shoes, carrying a large quantity of plastic grocery bags….wearing a three foot high Dunce Cap. I kid you not – I could never make up anything quite so random. A DUNCE CAP. He was walking into a grove of trees. To pee, perhaps. Or maybe he has a small cabin in there. Now, I’m not sure what a man would be doing in his GAP best down by the LA River wearing a Dunce Cap at 2:00 in the afternoon, or at any other time of day, for that matter and this little sighting will have me filled with wonder and puzzlement for weeks, I’m sure. I’m positively haunted by it. Then of course there was the elderly couple on Crescent Heights that were walking their pet duck. That was earlier. A pet white duck walking in front of the elderly couple as normal as you please. I thought I was losing my mind until someone else told me they saw the same couple. There is also a young lady in South Pasadena who walks her pot-bellied pig, in a bright pink harness and leash ensemble, at the same time each day down Fair Oaks Avenue. She looks at you a little defiantly if you stare. My thinking is – You’re walking a PIG, what do you expect? This is a major thoroughfare, not a rural country road.

People baffle me.

I Am a Bone Head Math Goddess!....The Epilogue

2004-12-16T22:50:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays, Ladies and Gentlemen. Well, to bring up that old sore that sits like a big boil on the overfed ass of life, the finals are almost over. And I, the supremely remedial math student got...what on her final? 100%. Yes. That's right. I studied until the skin on my face fell off. Or maybe it fell off due to the Santa Ana winds - which will make that happen right along with making this insane town even more so for the duration that the hot, bone-dry winds fly through here at a good clip - but the studying paid off - the transposed numbers were put in the proper order and my parched skin and I completed the course with a flying "Pass." The class is so remedial as to be Pass/Fail only - so no letter grade to gloat over this time. English Lit is done, Biology 3 for the Non-Biology Major (such a lie, such a lie, such a lie) will be another matter, and is yet to be taken.

I will be taking a break for the holidays, and wish you all the best of times, and the best of whatever occasion you recognize or celebrate. We will be celebrating the Winter Solstice, the WASP/Italian food fest, family and friend togetherness and will celebrate my Grandmother's 104 good strong years on this planet. She decided to begin her journey to leave us a week ago Sunday. No measures have been taken, per her wishes. When Father John sat down that Sunday and told her she was about to go on a marvelous adventure, she said in her usual matter of fact way, "I know. I'm looking forward to it." It's one of the very last things she said. She was given last rites, and many of us have been able to make the trip to have a last visit. She no longer speaks, but appears to be resting comfortably. She's showed remarkable resilience and she's still hanging on with us. I have the feeling that she is waiting for something or someone. Perhaps for one of the family members that haven't made the trip, perhaps something else. I don't know. I'll be making another trip to see her tomorrow, and am grateful for the opportunity. It's an understatement to say that she's been quite a powerful influence in my life, and I'm going to miss her.

Hug your loved ones, do something nice for a stranger and don't tell anyone about it, plant a tree, play in the snow...or mud...or frolic in the hot dry wind....and eat a really awesome dessert and forget about the calories. Happy Holidays.

YOU'RE NO ONE IN L.A. UNTIL YOU'VE HAD A STALKER....AND OTHER STORIES...

2004-12-14T15:08:00.000-08:00

As I’ve stated before, Los Angeles is a funny place. It attracts the majority of society’s underbelly, maybe because of the weather, maybe because the town is so expansive and without any discernable plan that one can disappear into the fabric and no one will be the wiser. This underbelly that I speak of is of no specific socio-economic status, but I’ll say that a lot of them live in the 310 area code. Okay, maybe 323 as well. It’s a place where people are as openly rude as possible. Holiday season or no, they will honk at senior citizens crossing the sidewalk, they will cut in line in front of you, they will crowd on the elevator before you can get off so that you miss your floor, or if you’re on the freeway, they will refuse to let you merge to make your exit – or they’ll just force you off the freeway. This is very different from the open rudeness that exists in New York, where if a person is mad at you, they will tell you to your face in as confrontational a way as humanly possible, but if they see a piano about to fall on your head, they will rush to save you without thinking twice about it, even if it means they get squashed in the process - conversely, the L.A. resident will not only not help you, but they will pretend that they didn’t even see it coming and had absolutely NO idea of the hazard to the poor stranger. This is why so-called “good Samaritan” acts end up making the local news due to the sheer unusual nature of the act itself.

If you are “no one,” meaning there is nothing evident about your social status or job description that will enable the person in front of you to move in an upwardly fashion on their way to Entitlement, you are invisible. If you are in the service industry, it is understood that you will be verbally abused as part of your job description. Los Angeles job listings will frequently contain the phrase “must have thick skin.” Los Angeles might have been a city in one of the Blue States that vehemently opposed slavery; but maids, gardeners, garment workers, valets and bus boys who are paid under the table at far under minimum wage do not count. That includes the ones who were kidnapped from other countries to work here in the sweat shops downtown. A blind eye is turned as long as conveniences remain available.

In addition to the rampant rudeness, there are the predators. These include the people who troll Hollywood Boulevard waiting for a child to use the payphone so they can drive up and snatch them into their car. These include the people that prey on innocents fresh off the bus from Iowa hoping to make their big break in the movies. These include the people who use the 14 year old hookers on Sunset Boulevard or Lincoln Avenue knowing fully well that they are children. These are the people who simply fixate on one person and make them the object of their peculiar brand of interest. This last variety refers to “The Stalker.” They say you can’t truly call yourself an L.A. resident until you’ve had at least one car accident...and a Stalker.

I think I’ve finally arrived.

To be continued...

Did Everyone Get an F in History Class?

2004-12-08T21:38:00.000-08:00

Hello there ladies and gentlemen - my wacky and winsome take on the more humorous side of life is on holiday...you may interpret that to mean that I am having a moment, and you don't want to live in my head for even 3 seconds, let alone read what's really going on in there. So in honor of the young soldier, Army Spc. Thomas Wilson of the 278th Regimental Combat Team, who had the courage to stand up to Rumsfeld today in front of the world and demand to know why they have no proper equipment and are having to use dug up shrapnel from landfill to repair their vehicles; I give you a poem by Wilfred Owen, written in the year 1920, regarding his experiences in the First World War.

Dulce et Decorum Est
(Sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin'
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen

Gongogoozler or Mammothrept?

2004-12-03T23:09:00.000-08:00

In case you’re wondering what a Gongogoozler is, it is an idle and inquisitive person who stands staring for prolonged periods at anything out of the common. At least that’s what the word meant in 1896.

In the interest of following Oh Ancient One’s advice to me (that would be Grandmother Alice, who never let us call her "Grandma" because it made her sound old, but said at 100 that we could call her "Oh Ancient One"), dispensed at various times over the course of my life whether I wanted it or not and whether or not the circumstances were appropriate for her to say “try to keep a bright outlook on things,” I have decided that I am powerless over pretty much anything that does not involve direct action or effort on my part. I will, therefore, concentrate on keeping a positive attitude. Or bright outlook. Or light frame of mind. You know, there are an awful lot of expressions that seem to say: Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” And the aforementioned are not always easy for someone like me, since I’m often an anti social, human hating sloth that would rather sit home in my own sin.

Since there are so many synonymous expressions in the English language for always looking on the bright side of life, let’s look, in the interest of FUN, at some long forgotten English expressions that I think should find their way back into everyday discourse. Okay, they are insults. To fling. Which falls better into my “I don’t hate people, I just feel better when they are not around” frame of mind that I frequently try to hide from others in the interest of maintaining the ancient and forgotten custom of civility. Now some of these expressions don’t necessarily have a contemporary match, so I’m just itching to find new situations to throw these old chestnuts into the fray. Here are a few to start:

Johnny-Raw: A raw beginner; a novice; a boor. (John Ogilvie’s Comprehensive English Dictionary, 1865) The applications here could interesting.

Cousin-Betty: A deranged woman. Cousin-Tommy is applied to a man in that melancholy situation. (William Carr’s Dialect of Craven, 1828) Since I can apply this term to ME, I would like to be called Betty for the rest of the day, please.

Gammerstang: Usually applied to a female of idle, loose habits (C. Clough Robinson’s Dialect of Mid-Yorkshire, 1876) Well then. Perhaps I should change my nom de plume from Millicent Frastley to Betty Gammerstang. Has a bit of a ring.

Crump: "One that helps solicitors to affidavit-men and swearers...who, for a small sum will be bound or swear for anybody, on that occasion putting on good clothes to make a good appearance that bail may be accepted." (B.E.’s Dictionary of the Canting Crew, 1699) – I’m pretty sure they are referring to lawyers here. Maybe paralegals. But definitely lawyers.

Fumbler: An unperforming husband, one that is insufficient: fumbler’s hall, the place where such are to be put for their nonperformance. (B.E.’s Dictionary of the Canting Crew, 1699) – Ladies, they had a punishment for this offense as far back as 1699. Think about that for a moment.

Sinworm: A vile, sinful creature. (Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language, 1755) I like it. Though I think the definition is more fun to say. VILE is just a great word.

And here’s a great one that resonates well for me personally...

Counter-Caster: Contemptuous name for an arithmetician. (Thomas Browne’s Union Dictionary, 1810) It just tickles me that at some point in time an arithmetician made someone, or society as a whole, so annoyed that they had to come up with a contemptuous name. “Nerd” is just not a word that says "contempt."

See if you can find excuses to use any of the above words over the next few days. It’ll be a hoot.

Takes a Lickin’...

2004-12-02T21:28:00.000-08:00

“Put down that paper and talk to me.”

Those were Alice’s words today to my mother, who had been sitting by Alice's hospital bed, reading the paper.

My mother thought she was still asleep. Instead she heard the command and looked up to see Alice giving her The Stare. Apparently she has not only improved rather rapidly from a rather severe stroke and is able to eat that bizarre looking pabulum food-type-awful-stuff, but she is well enough to issue orders to my mother – I think she is the only person on the planet who can effectively get away with that.

Needless to say, we are all relieved...and astounded. Yesterday she was still not speaking, and her eyes were completely vacant. Pretty devastating to us all and we were each fighting the pull threatening to take us on the trip down Grim and Gloomy Lane. She moved a hand and moved her mouth like she was trying to speak at one point, but it did not look good.

The medical staff are quite a-buzz about it. Her ability to bounce back from things is certainly still there. Her short-term memory is not good, but for her to go from comatose on Tuesday to being able to demand my mother's attention on Thursday is pretty impressive. Hell it would be impressive on a normally aged person, but at 104, that’s...well, it’s inspiring.

I’m not going to question it. I’m just grateful. To those of you who e mailed or sent your lovely thoughts, thank you.

A BIKE, A BIG RED COAT AND A SONG

2004-12-01T14:39:00.000-08:00

Upon driving today, the sighting of a 60-something-woman wearing a huge red coat, riding a bicycle on the sidewalk of busy La Brea Avenue while singing at the top of her lungs...filled me with all kinds of glee.

If I have any say in the matter, that will be Me.

Which brings me to Alice. Alice is my 104 year old grandmother. She met my grandfather on a train around 1920 or so. She noticed him checking her out on the train, so, big saucy flirt that she was (and remained her whole life); she encouraged him with her winsome smile. He took that as an invitation and came over to flirt some more. I think if I had picked up anyone on a train like that, my parents would have shipped me off to an all girl school for troubled youth. I think if I knew ANYONE in this day and age who picked up someone on a train (let’s face it, the internet is safer) I would consider organizing an intervention. Alice has always done things her own way though, and three children, five grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren later (the grandchildren didn’t turn out to be very fertile, so only one gave her any great grandchildren) she is still as in love with him today as she was then. They were married for 65 years prior to his death, and had he lived past 90 they would have been married 79 years this New Years Eve. She has lived on this earth through every major event, invention, catastrophe and war since her birth in 1900. She had a career and a family when it was considered most improper. She topped that off by going back to school during the process. Prior to meeting my grandfather, she was offered a scholarship to attend Emerson College to study drama, but “nice girls didn’t do that back then.” She became a teacher instead and used her dramatic skills to good advantage in that environment. A tiny woman with a piercing blue-eyed gaze that would silence anyone in 5 seconds if they acted up. Her efforts with education resulted in a building being named after her in the school district she taught in. Physically active and an avid reader, she has kept in shape and has a sharper mind than most people less than half her age. Since her eye sight got bad, her avid reading has transitioned to books on tape and hours of CSPAN. She has stayed progressive in thought. She is an advocate of a woman's right to choose, and she believes in civil unions for same sex couples. She attributes her longevity to keeping a positive attitude. And having a beer on Friday night.

Sunday morning when we left after Thanksgiving weekend (during which she had attended The Incredibles and the Ballet), she wished me a safe journey and said she had a horrible headache. Yesterday morning they could not wake her up. She is currently in the hospital, having had a stroke. She stayed unconscious all of yesterday. Her eyes opened today, but that’s it.

I’d like to put out there in the universe that she has lived a very good life, is loved by many and has done great things. I don’t want this stroke to have impaired her mind or abilities, but I know better than to hope for that to be the case. I cannot think of anything worse for a woman like Alice than to have that happen after 104 years of being constantly on top of her game. It’s not okay. And if that’s the case, I want it to be over and for her to finally go join my grandfather.

If you’re reading this, I hope you send good thoughts in that direction. Thanks.

Happy Freakin' Tuesday

2004-11-30T07:49:00.000-08:00

On this post holiday-midst-of-exams-papers-panic-over-finals-enlarged-thighs-as-a-result-of-excessive-amounts-of-turkey-and-dressing-can't-stand-this-creping-under-the-eyes-from-this-freakin'-weather-kind-of-day....I give you.....ME.

Oh, and by the way, if you want a good bwaa-haa laugh out loud, check out Am I There Yet and the blog entry written in "Official APA Style" (That's American Psychology Association for us laypersons)....HILARIOUS!!!!!

MANPANTS DOES MANPANTS THINGS. WITH NO PROMPTING.

2004-11-24T16:16:00.000-08:00

Hmmm, what could that mean, pray tell? Get your minds out of the gutter people. Honestly....What it means is that while I was off slaving at the Math Lab...no that’s wrong. One does not slave at the Math Lab. One undergoes torture in the Math Lab. I was being tortured with percentage formulas. So torturous it was, that the tutor, who is a whiz at higher math, was quite frankly, a bit stumped. Or maybe it was my brilliant and overpowering presence that had him so rattled. I’ll live my little dream...

Meanwhile, while I was being tortured in the Math Lab, Manpants, independent of prompting, begging, suggesting, bugging or any other synonym for what some sensitive types like to refer to as “nagging,” decided to do some fixing of things around the ole abode. Things I would probably eventually do myself in a fit of pique. Things that would be nicer done by someone else not possessed by my particular brand of neurotic domestic tendencies. Things that required new fixtures, hardware and power tools. Things that come with directions. Directions that he could choose not to read. Upon arriving home, I was met at the door by Manpants, doing the Manpants dance, singing the Manpants song (which involves something akin to “Gonna Fly Now” from Rocky morphed with anything by Guns n Roses and him holding up one arm like Charles Atlas saying, “Look at that arm! Forgot about it, didn’t ya?”). I looked at him, puzzled.

Manpants: “My first day off in 12 days, and what did I think about? YOU.”

No, he does not have an available brother.

Who I Want to Be When I’m 80 – Except for The Nose Picking Part

2004-11-20T09:18:00.000-08:00

I woke up thinking about a woman I used to work for in my youth, so the following is something I actually wrote for another tome of mine, but thought I’d regurgitate since her voice was in my head...

I’ve had multiple jobs as long as I can remember. It breaks up my week and is never dull. One of the jobs I had as a teenager was cleaning the house of an elderly woman named Freda Drahfle.

FREDA: (imagine a voice that sounded like Olivia de Havilland, but with a lot of cigarettes and gin added) “Once I week I employed the young girl who would clean my home, change the sheets on my bed, and be a bit of a companion. I had recently suffered from a broken hip and pelvis, so couldn’t get around as much as I would have liked. I apparently had a horrible habit of picking my nose in my sleep and would wipe the results of my excavations on the side of the mattress – and the young girl learned quickly to watch where she put her hands when stripping the bed. (chuckles) I filled my waste paper baskets daily to the brim with Silhouette Romance novels.”

Now at the time, I knew nothing about Silhouette Romance novels, as my barely-13 year old taste ran to Fantasy and Science Fiction or Laura Ingalls Wilder and I hadn’t yet discovered the saucier side of Judy Blume.

FREDA: “I would ask the child to fix me a highball when she was there. I had to provide careful instruction into the proper making of the beverage, as apparently the child had never been properly educated in that respect. Each time she brought me the drink, I would tell the child she was free to take any of the books with her instead of throwing perfectly good stories away. I called them my sedative novels. I thought she would like them. We could have a book discussion. (Chuckles again).”

I would thank her and say that was very nice but I had too many reading assignments from school. Years later, I’m reading an article by Cynthia Haemel – I’m pretty sure it was her – and she starts talking about reading her first Silhouette romance novel and how it turns out that they are nothing but fabulous PORN FOR WOMEN. It was only then that I realized that Mrs. Drahfle subsisted on a steady diet of highballs, cigarettes and porn and was trying to push the porn on an impressionable junior high school student. Outstanding. I wish I’d brought the books home.

Now I'm not trying to say that when I'm 80 I will have a desire to corrupt the minds of America's youth with racy fiction, but I do admire the sheer mischief of it all. And of course the idea of taking up cigarettes and highballs at the age of 80 just fills me with glee. I'm imagining my drunken escapades as we speak. So to speak.

MY BREASTS ARE STILL SPEAKING TO EACH OTHER

2004-11-17T22:46:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I’ll bet that got your attention.

Not that they were ever NOT speaking to one another. It’s just that I’ve noticed that mine happen to look like they get along, and are for want of a better description...friends maybe. Fraternal twins, perhaps. Or identical, because even identical twins are slightly different despite having the same DNA. One might be a tad taller, one more gregarious than the other one who might be more shy (I am now discussing identical twins and am not suggesting that I have one gregarious breast and one shy one….well, maybe I do…I dunno)...anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Perhaps I should explain what the hell I’m talking about.

I was walking down Sunset Boulevard the other day. I like to watch the people around me as I walk, and I am weird enough (and you are hereby forewarned that I’m going to seem a lot weirder by the end of this blog) to say hello to people as I pass by. Even the hookers have gotten used to my “Good morning” or “Good evening.” Yes, I do say “Good evening.” It just sounds better than...well, pretty much anything else. Genteel, if you will. Anyway, I’m walking along and a very young woman walked by me with the most enormous artificial breasts I’ve ever seen in person. They made my back hurt just looking at them. I wondered at the mind that would choose unspeakable suffering from Scoliosis for the chance at having a huge set of knockers. Not only were they huge, but they looked as if they had one whopper of an argument with each other and had not spoken in years. It was as if they turned their backs on each other and simultaneously raised their noses (a.k.a. nipples) to the sky, said “harrumph!” and never looked at each other...or hung around with each other (sorry, couldn’t help but go there)...again. And they were identical. One of the tip offs that they did not occur in Nature.

I got to thinking that maybe there was more than one reason to opt for huge artificial knockers...other than the glances of others; each set of eyes experiencing their own set of thoughts about the giant orbs walking by, or the possible photo layout in the June issue of “JUGS.” There had to be something truly positive about them to get them installed. By choice. They couldn’t possibly be any fun at a mammogram. A mammogram for a REAL set feels like you’ve lain naked on a cold steel garage floor while someone runs the tire of a car over your breast. The fake ones have to have that done TWICE. So that certainly would not be a positive. They didn’t look like they were going to be any help at improving balance. I thought that perhaps in the event of a potential drowning that they would make an excellent flotation device. But I wasn’t sure. Perhaps a little scientific experimentation was called for. It frequently is – perhaps one day I’ll tell you how I learned to lengthen the life of vibrator batteries...anyway...My first experiment involved filling up the bathtub, then filling a sandwich baggie with salt water (a.k.a. saline solution) and putting it in the tub. Nope. Salt weighs more. Okay, never mind. Then I tried Jell-O, which was the closest thing I had in my fridge to silicone. Nope. So no good with the flotation device theory.

This is the part where you discover that I really wasn’t lying back there when I said I was very weird. But if you actually try the above experiment to see whether or not I’m telling the truth, you are even weirder than I am. And you have too much time on your hands. Which comforts me greatly.

I’m also comforted that my friends the Twins are still speaking to each other.

URSULA, THE CUBICLE WITCH

2004-11-16T07:18:00.000-08:00

Every office has one. They are that individual that is bored, due to having a poorly defined job description with an ambiguous title that leaves them mad with power. They are that person that, after arriving late, finishing their personal phone calls and e mails behind closed doors, ostensibly in a telephone “meeting” with “corporate,” does a little on-line shopping and makes a few more personal calls. They are that individual that decides to, after all of these various activities, take a little jaunt by the cubicle pods to see what the drones are doing. It is usually at this point that the urge to control overtakes the Cubicle Witch, who will walk into one’s cubicle, place their knarled hand upon some minor decoration, like a 2 inch by 2 inch photo of Manpants or something, and say in a wet gravelly voice to the drone… “This is actually not work related, you know.”

The drone hangs its head in shame and fear of job removal. “Yes, I know,” it whispers.

The Cubicle Witch darts their beady eyes around the rest of the pod, looking for contraband not related to the actually well defined job description of the drone. Satisfied that the pod is returned to a void of nothingness and despair that lightness of being cannot emerge from, the Cubicle Witch shuffles off to search their next victim. Unless it’s time for an extended lunch period followed by a headache that makes it possible for them to knock off a few hours early.

Which brings me to the story of…….Madge, the career transition counselor.

See, Madge was an outside contractor hired to be in house two days a week working with clients. She got to have the cubicle next to mine. That cubicle is now used by Louise, the pod drone I told you about that desperately needs to loosen up a little. (I think I heard her actually snort the other day. It was at something she overheard me say on the phone, so I got great satisfaction in that.) Anyway, the day Madge arrived, it was with two moving guys and several boxes. These boxes contained a couple files related to the task of career transition counseling, but the bulk of them contained……..CUBICLE FURNISHINGS. We’re talking mirrors of various sizes, framed pictures with special attachments that enable one to hang them in a cubicle without messing up the nubby fabric, numerous dried flower arrangements, a little shrine for fruit and incense, an occasional table, a stuffed chair for clients, a new desk chair to replace the regulation one already there, more framed photos, several stuffed animals for the top of the computer monitor, an actual dried flower WREATH and I think some scented candles. It was astounding how she managed to get an entire studio apartment into one small cubicle pod. I think she must have been from New York. They know how to do that. Anyway, this was her first day. Other drones and myself walked by and looked at the environment with absolute awe.

And fear. Mixed with a little schaudenfruede.

What would the Cubicle Witch do? This went so beyond the realm of non regulation, non work related and caused such sensory overload in the sheer act of walking by that we could speak in hushed tones of nothing else for two weeks.

Which is when they fired her. I think it was the stuffed Barney that pushed them over the edge.

SHE THE DESTROYER

2004-11-15T23:12:00.000-08:00

I think I should mention that in the menagerie that is my home, i.e. the two dogs, the fish, the mourning doves that nest in our hanging fuchsia on the balcony, Manpants and occasionally me, the house is very full of Life. And sometimes these life forms go into your stuff, take things off tables and out of drawers…and eat them. Okay, Manpants hasn’t done that in a long time, but one of my precious pups (the pit bull-Jack Russell terrier mix that is a year and a half old) likes to run willy nilly through the house when we’re gone and have her version of fun. I can almost hear her running around yelling “Weeeeeeeeee!” as I write this. I am not sure what the other NORMAL and too cool for private school scruffy mutt does when she goes on her adventures. He doesn’t stop her, that’s for sure. Now, some of you who know the virtues of crate training…to you I say, yeah, sure, fine, whatever. Too many hours for me to be comfy. My strangely wired mind goes quickly to fantasies of fire, flood, locust swarm or stampede of terribly angry Peruvian Llamas that level my home while my poor dog is quietly minding her own business in her crate. Nope. Not gonna do it. Just this evening, one of my lab partners in my Biology class borrowed my pink stapler and commented on the chewed and mangled state that it is in. Yes, she extracted the stapler from my book bag and did her worst. She got that out and a small bag of almonds that I had in there for those times when I want a little snack. She ate them and left me an empty wrapper on the floor. What can I say. It still works. The stapler, I mean. I will also comment here that I have already mentioned my abhorrence to pink and I don’t know how I ended up with a pink stapler. I’m starting to be alarmed and have an appointment with my physician to check my meds a week from Wednesday.

I will state at this time that this precious princess has managed to figure out the complexities of childproof locks on cabinets and spent an entire week not long ago taking all the Tupperware out of one cabinet and carefully arranging it in an obstacle course pattern throughout the living room. Apparently leaving them in the kitchen was out of the question. We finally got better locks for the cabinets, so she has graduated to pulling things off counter tops and table tops. Like an entire box of Gevalia coffee - which is very finely ground for any of you who might not know and who have never received that free sample in the mail that suckers you into buying a few months supply – and takes ages to vacuum out of the carpet. I’m pretty sure that one was the one that had her running around yelling “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” all consumed with glee and my week’s supply of caffeine.

Tonight the object of her desire that was tantalizing her from its perch on the dining room table, was my copy of Hamlet. Apparently she is also rather refined in her choice of reading material. The fact that I actually need that copy of the play to do my paper on the graveyard scene in Act V was not really of major concern to her. Her Dog given right to mangle Hamlet was, in her limited attention span, equal to her right to mangle the box of tampons in the grocery bag that was on the counter. Both are paper products that have things in them that Mommy needs.

Sigh……

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

2004-11-14T09:32:00.000-08:00

This middle-aged college student who writes before you is a tad low-performance, academically speaking, in her Biology class. Under these circumstances it is considered appropriate, professor willing, to do extra credit in an attempt to raise that all-important grade. This particular professor picked the activity/assignment/learning experience that she would approve extra credit work on….

Gunther von Hagens’ BODY WORLDS.

Now before I go further I want to preface that I did not really read up on what BODY WORLDS actually was. I figured it was some cool, sciency thing like The Invisible Man or Invisible Woman or The Incredible Journey. Those of you old enough to remember those references, yay. Those too young, look it up or ask you parents. You youngsters can use Inner Space with Meg Ryan and Dennis Quaid as a reference. If that is also too dated, then whatEVER. You are a child and should be outside playing and not reading this anyway. Now to get back to BODY WORLDS I remember having heard something about plastic, or plasticizing or something so figured there would be cool models of things. So I traipsed down to the Science Center first thing yesterday morning to attend the exhibit. Actually I didn’t traipse, I spent an hour in Saturday morning traffic on the 110 Freeway. But that has no role in this story.

First thing I read upon arriving was: “ Gunther von Hagens’ BODY WORLDS, The Anatomical Exhibition of Real Human Bodies.”

Real Human Bodies. Hmmmm. I read the captions on the first exhibits – skeletal systems, individual bones, etc…and noted that the exhibit was made possible by individuals who had donated their bodies to science. I thought about the donor card on the back of my drivers license and thought to my self that I was going to need to add something to the instructions on the card, like, “Organs for use in LIVE bodies only, people.”

Now, it seems that this Gunther von Hagen, not to be confused with Baron von Frankenstein, has invented and patented a process called “Plastination.” He painstakingly dissects entire systems of the human body away from OTHER entire systems of the human body, like say, the nervous system only, or the blood vessels only, or the cardiovascular system only….manages to separate it, and then infuse it with a liquid plastic into the cells until the specimen fills up with plastic – sometimes dyed plastic, sometimes not. He then adjusts it to the structural contours of the human shape and does a kind of SCULPTURE, if you will. It’s got to take years. This is really fascinating and allows one to see the different systems of machinery in the human body in a completely new way.

But then the artsy sculpture. I couldn’t help but remember a bad episode of THE OUTER LIMITS with Anthony Michael Hall in the lead where he plays a frustrated sculptor who can’t get a gallery to take him seriously until he starts killing people and covering them with plaster – passing them off as sculpture. Well, artistically speaking, they WERE. They just happened to be posed dead people sculpture.

So I’m walking along, scrutinizing the pieces, looking at enlarged hearts and smokers lungs and what have you, when I get to some pieces that were definitely Mr. Von Hagen’s masterpieces.

A man, looking to the heavens, standing tall and proud. His skin had been carefully removed so that all musculature, skeleton, organs etc were intact. In his right hand, raised up in the air with pride, or triumph, or whatever, he holds his entire skin like a prized cloak, or trophy, or carpet, or whatever. I started hearing actor Ted Levine’s voice speaking one of his lines from SILENCE OF THE LAMBS...“It rubs the lotion on its skin...” over and over in my head.

There were a couple more that went in that direction that I won’t talk about here, you’ll have to check it out yourself, but suffice it to say it was at this point I was painfully aware that these were REAL people at one point in time. I wanted to know about THEM. What had they done for work when they lived, who were they, why was that guy playing chess so freakin’ skinny? I then wanted to think about Gunther for a minute. Okay, obsess about, and for longer than a minute. I wanted to know what he was thinking about when he stepped out of the realm of straight scientific exhibition and into the realm of fine art, using dead human bodies as his medium and palette.

A little creeped out ultimately, I went home. The traffic was much better and I shrugged off my creepiness by getting a nifty new haircut and fresh highlights appropriate to the winter season.

END TO CALIFORNIA DEFICIT IN SIGHT…WE CAN DO COMMERCIALS IN JAPAN!!!!

2004-11-11T16:53:00.000-08:00

Oh my gosh, it'll be GREAT! We can leave this stupid crummy State that can't make any money with its stupid people who don't want gambling casinos in bad neighborhoods because we're all a bunch of Losers and go overseas and do commercials in JAPAN! It'll reduce the whole California deficit! Really! No, silly, we don't need to give incentives to Caleefornia businesses to stay here and keep jobs here. Sheesh! Take film production companies, for example, Film companies NEED to go overseas...sheesh, if they shot films here they'd actually have to pay the people who work on them...I mean the people who aren't the stars...ya know, like the extras? And the film crew? And the stage carpenters? No one sees THEM in the movie! And we just don't have enough money for people like that, I mean c'MON!!!! And layout animators just want WAYEE too much money in Caleefornia for that kind of work when we can get ya know, people? In Korea? To do the same job for 10 cents an hour? Who do these people think they are? They draw CARTOONS!!!! They are not stars! They are hurting Caleefornia! And computer technicians? They are not stars! They are hurting Caleefornia businesses with their salaries. We can pay 3.00 a day to someone from another country to do the job over the phone!

According to the Associated Press, "As a film star, Austria-born Schwarzenegger visited Japan several times to promote his movies and star in television commercials for beer, noodles, energy drinks and other products. Thursday, he talked about filming more commercials to pay for a California trade office in Japan. "It's quick money," he told California reporters. "You work for a day, and you have a trade office open and enough money for several years..."

Well, shee-it, what WERE we thinking? Hell, I thought that if a business was in trouble, you get a whole bunch of investors to take an interest in the business, put money into it and restructure it to get it back on its feet toward the objective of being a financial success again. I didn't know you're supposed to go take a job overseas and then take your paycheck from that job and sign it over YOURSELF to the business in trouble...I would think that to be kinda foolish, though I guess it might seem nice. And appropriate I suppose if you're a benevolent dictator. I'm not sure how that flies when you're the governor. And if a state (which is sort of a REALLY big business) is in trouble,it seems to me that getting the businesses from that State investing back into the State and toward the objective of keeping that state, and ultimately the whole economy of the state...I don't know... THRIVING...that would be kinda sensible to me...but then hey, I'm not the Governator.

Okay, okay, how 'bout this? How about we ALL go over to Japan and do commercials that in one day will pay for us all to have small businesses that we can open here in California with the seed money we got from Japan and then fix the economy THAT way? Talk about your American dream! Via Japan. What? Oh we can't just DO that? We have to be movie stars? They won't pay just ANYONE to do a beer or noodle commercial? Oh. So, we don't get to just bop on over to Japan for a little one day job and use the money to open businesses here and make money here, even though we live here and spend money here? Oh. Okay. I didn't know. I guess I have to read more about these things so that they make sense, you FREAKIN' MORON, HOW DID PEOPLE ACTUALLY THINK YOU COULD GOVERN A STATE!?!?.

Yup. Our Botox usin', make-up wearin', bad hair dye sportin', acrylic manicured (I kid you not) Governator has now decided to help California by doing commercials in Japan to pay for a California trade office there. Hmmm. Well, I guess the gambling casinos in bad neighborhoods idea didn't go over too well with his constituency so he decided to go back to the drawing board...no wait...he didn't decide to go back to the drawing board...no, he decided what would really help California is to do commercials in Japan. I guess it's really taxing when one spends one's day thinking up cheesy one liners and calling the majority of the State "Losers." It must be really hard to be the Governor of a State under all that pressure.

ME, ME, ME, ME, ME....

2004-11-09T14:13:00.000-08:00

I’ve decided that today I’m going to escape from the real world into complete women’s magazine shallow superficiality. Instead of thinking, worrying about or volunteering for, some cause in the world, today I will escape by obsessing about the perfect seasonal lipstick and winter moisturizer. I will buy a new mascara because the magazine told me to discard the one I have if it is over a month old. The magazine said that my trusted concealer choices are passé so I will sample the new multi-hued concealers…like Blue. I might try that new toothpaste that is supposed to build up my enamel while simultaneously whitening my smile. I will shop for gloves to wear over that nifty new cuticle conditioner. And maybe a hat. I think gloves and hats are pretty and more women should wear them.

I will think about completing the practice test for the math exam I must re-take on Thursday……later.

I had occasion to be at a star studded fundraiser over the weekend. Most of the stars were from the Broadway stage and so had not made huge alterations to their faces and bodies. Most of them came from backgrounds that included dance, so proportionally they were all fit and lookin’ good, no matter how old. There WERE however many patrons there of the L.A. variety. Those types were generally seen sporting one-out-of-the-standard-five-approved-nose shapes and had that very specific look to the skin that can only be achieved by excessive chemical peels and botox. You know the look. China doll fresh with no discernible character or unique qualities whatsoever. And of course, the L.A. Lollypop People were in abundance –stick figure bodies with great big heads. Imagine a sea of men and women of varying heights all shaped like Celine Dion. Freaks to look at in person, but they look great on camera. Like I’ve mentioned here before, unlike most women in the Los Angeles Basin and surrounding Burroughs, I do not have a desire to undergo plastic surgery or injections of any kind. I believe that I came by each wrinkle through hard work, good fun and a modicum of dramatic self destruction. They make me look like I’ve got a few scandals in my past and that I currently have something going on. Kind of gives me that Mrs. Robinson, “I could show you a thing or two, Sonny” air of mischievousness and mystery that can only be attained by actually having facial expression and eyes that haven’t had the twinkle removed by excessive eye lifts. Shows like Extreme Makeover and The Swan (which is hands down the most EVIL thing on television) succeed in taking women into their embrace and turning them into bad impersonations of drag queens from the 80’s. Which is actually an insult to my friends, the 80’s drag queens. Why on earth would anyone think they looked GOOD after that?

Anyway......I’m sticking to that which is fluffy and superficial today, so I cannot therefore consume myself with disgust over the pervasiveness of TeeVee producers preying on female insecurity and then mutilating those same females on national television. I will go back to talking about ME.

I’m ecstatic to report, that due to my weight loss efforts I was finally able to buy new bras. Two sizes smaller. That’s right, kids. SMALLER. Anti-surgery diatribe aside, I am still a big ole girly girl when it comes to finding great new pretty making PRODUCTS and THINGS not related to forceps, scalpels, needles, scrapers and industrial strength acids….and so my little winter supply shopping spree I’ve scheduled for after work has me all a-flutter and giddy.

"WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?"

2004-11-04T23:36:00.000-08:00

As you may have surmised from my last entry, I am not taking the election results well. I think as of today, I’ve decided to plunge myself into a state of denial about the state of the world. I’ve simply decided that Hell is truly on Earth and that I am living in a kind of limbo purgatory reserved for all humans because we as a collective body have become complete assholes. So here we are. And so life in other areas continues to plod along on life’s terms and things like work and school and dog poop and sour milk in my coffee are all part of it, along with those greater horrors I can do damn little about at this moment.

So since things are going so well, I should mention that any gloating, glee or good feelings about the 90 on my last math exam have been squashed, nay annihilated, by the FAIL that I got on the exam this evening. That’s righty. FAIL. It’s a bone-head class that is strictly pass/fail that I am required to take in order to get to the math class that will enable me to transfer to UCLA. Anything over 3 wrong is a FAIL. I got 5 wrong. I really FAILED. Now I ask you, since I don’t play fantasy baseball, fantasy football or bet on the horses at Santa Anita, when am I ever going to use Ratios? And if you say “when you’re cooking rice” I will punch you in the neck. And units? Proportions? Unless it’s the proportional changes in the circumference of my thighs measured over a three month period of time whilst jumping back and forth between Weight Watchers and whole foods only, I’m truly not interested. I doubt that I will ever use ratio and proportion when taking on a critical analysis of Hedda Gabler or To Kill a Mockingbird….which DO interest me.

Books were my first drug of choice. I never discovered or gravitated toward finite math (or any other kind of math for that matter) as a means of escape from the realities necessary to escape from that Life had trapped within my troubled brain. I suppose it could be equated with a choice between Alcohol or Xanax. Alcohol requires a certain amount of ritual and takes a certain amount of time. Time to savor. There is an actual beginning, middle and end to the experience of alcohol, from the pouring (prologue) to the first sip (introducing the characters) to the conflict introduced after drink 3 when the personality changes (plot commences). Anything can happen at that point. At that point it becomes either a suspense thriller or a slapstick comedy. The experience progresses to the climax, which is facilitated by the lascivious, sloppy or just plain bad behavior of the protagonist slash villain slash omniscient narrator and ends with passing out. There’s a solid story structure to a good drunk, be it comedy or tragedy.

Xanax on the other hand is the 3 martini pill that takes you on a linear path from point A to point B with about as much excitement in the getting there that one might experience picking lint off one’s blouse. I think there is a solid reason, probably related to brain chemistry or talent genes, that so many writers are fabulous alcoholics and so many people in the math and sciences lean toward the predictable, carefully calculated and crafted formulations that are prescription drugs.

Now how did I arrive at this topic? Oh yeah. I FAILED my math exam.

A SCREAM WAITING FOR A MOUTH

2004-11-03T22:44:00.000-08:00

That’s how I feel. Like a scream waiting for a mouth. I am saddened, lost, frightened and feel that I’m in a very small group of outsiders that do not belong. You see, and I’m echoing the words of others from that small group of outsiders, the country that I live in is not the country that I thought I was living in. I am most disillusioned, because once again, I trusted. I had hope in people. The definition of Insanity is one who keeps repeating the same action, expecting different results. In my case, I kept hoping that people would turn out to be the kind of people that built this country and fought hard to uphold Its principles. A country willing to fight a Civil War for the rights of all people and adopt a united front that All are created equal under the eyes of the law and that all have the right to Life, Liberty and Property. A country that, while flawed, still maintained a majority of people with a kind of moral character and civility. A country made of people like those who wrote a Constitution that has worked well for over two hundred years, but is apparently now dated and out of style. The Europeans, Asians, Middle Easterners etc who came here (by choice) from all walks of life for the promise of a better life, free from Religious, economic and social class persecution. Not the people who have taken the spoils and inhabit the place now. But the People have spoken. And they have spoken for everything that I am morally and socially against. They have mandated that our government can lie to us and we must accept it. They have mandated that diverting attention from real terrorist danger to attention to a war for oil rights is a righteous and proper thing to do. They have mandated that bigotry and hatred of entire sections of our population is not only acceptable, but legal, despite what our Constitution might say. They have mandated an ever growing divide in the economic status of our fellow citizens, namely those who have the money for services, and those who do the serving. They have mandated that women’s equality is going to have to continue to wait. They have mandated that “Pro Life” means caring for the unborn until they are out of the birth canal, only to then cut back on human services for those children once they are born, like proper medical care, equal education opportunities, proper nutrition, clean air and water, and vigilant protection from sexual predators and other unspeakable abuses that rob a child of any kind of “life” that they deserve. And “God” forbid those children are adopted by a gay couple that would raise the child with respect, love and opportunities.

This is not the country that I truly believed that I lived in. But the majority has spoken and I am an outsider. My country has turned upside down. Therefore, from this day on, I will in silent protest, place an upside down American Flag on the bumper of my car. Who knows. Maybe the concept will catch on. Like the early pacifist Christians who if exposed as Christians would be executed. They were outsiders who didn't belong. So they quietly identified themselves to one another by drawing a small fish in some subtle place outside their home. Look how upside down things turned out for them. They wouldn't recognize those who claim the title these days.

Things seem quite bleak right now and I fail, this time, to see the silver lining.

Just a Couple More Days.....

2004-10-31T21:01:00.000-08:00

Alice Paul, wearing "suffragette white," toasts the 1920 passage of the Nineteenth Amendment
Photo modifications © Jone Johnson Lewis 2000 All Rights Reserved

We are praying, we are hoping, we are visualizing....and above all - WE ARE VOTING!!!!!

The woman you see here was beaten, tortured, imprisoned, then went on a hunger strike only to be force fed with a tube shoved down her throat into her stomach. Woodrow Wilson himself tried to have her committed for being insane. Why did he think she was insane? Because she wanted women to have the right to vote. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. We women folk just HAD to be insane if we thought we were going to tread into a Democracy that was for men only. Thank God for people like Alice Paul, and for all the people who suffered greatly so that we don't have to today. Unlike Alice, who stood in protest in front of the White House for months with a group of other determined women through rain and snow, today we can walk out our front door and saunter into our neighborhood polling place, give our name, and be given a ballot. We owe her, and all the suffragettes, a profound debt of gratitude that we can only repay by voting in EVERY election that comes our way. And remember your I.D.'s this year. They are not telling THIS woman that I don't have the right stuff to vote.

See you at the polls. Be well.

MILLI'S A BONE HEAD MATH GODDESS

2004-10-28T21:57:00.000-07:00

That's right, boys and girls. Yours Truly got a 90% on her math exam this evening. Now to some of you out there who are whizzes at math, who may have actually taught the stuff at some point or are teaching it now, this might strike you as less than spiffy. A 90% is the bottom rung of the "A" ladder. Hardly something for a Grade Grubber like myself to be all swingy from the chandeliery. But I have never in my forty plus years of life gotten a 90% on anything in the mathematical universe. That includes grade school, junior high, high school and that weird class that I took at community college in 1981 that I don't remember because I was probably on something. It also includes Music Theory (also math), but that's another blog for another entry. This is about The Math.

I would like to share here what Manpants had to say about my 90% on my math exam. Keeping in mind Mr. Smarty-Manpants-NYU-Economics-Major is way good at the math and makes condescending (and dare I say chauvinistic) comments about my math skills on a regular basis.

Me: "I got a 90% on my math exam!"

Manpants: "You got a 90% on a Math exam?"

Me: That's right bucko.

Manpants: "Well, it makes sense. The Red Sox won the series, and You got a 90% on a math exam."

Me: "You're an asshole, and I want you to tell everyone you know that the woman you love just called you an asshole."

Manpants: "They already know I'm an asshole."

We're so in love.

On another note - regarding the whole diet thing that everyone was doing in my biology class? It looks like the Mayo Clinic Diet is the one that netted the most weight loss in the two week period. 7 pounds the first week, (water weight) and 6 the next. I'm not a huge fan of the rapid loss thing however, and am quite pleased with the 6 real pounds I lost on the whole foods thingy. Thing is I'd already lost 12 on Weight Watchers over a three month period - so whatever water weight lost was minimal. So I like to think I won. I think I got to eat better. Miss Mayo Clinic only got to eat eggs and spinach and grape fruit. Or something like that. Ew. And on NPR this week, I heard the ATKINS pushers are actually getting sued by someone adversely effected (and I have a friend who lost their gall bladder) from being on it more than a year, so bye bye ATKINS, never gonna use ya. I'm not sure of the exact amounts with the others ones like South Beach, but if yer interested I'll let you know!!!!

Have a great Halloween everyone. It might be the last partying we ever do. November 2 looms near and I'm getting more and more antsy and irritable by the second in anticipation and nervousness. This country cannot withstand 40 years of neo-con idiocy and figurative shredding of our nations constitution. And 40 years was not a typo. I'm thinking not only about another 4 years of a mad-with-power man allowed to turn our democracy into an oligarchy, but the potential Supreme Court to be - and the few in power are stupid and dangerous.

Things getting worse at work lately to the point that I'm losing self respect for remaining there. (Stay in school kids, or you'll end up with fewer options). I think I'll go to work tomorrow in costume as my inner cubicle rat psyche. That will require my wearing cut up fatigues and doing a little special effects make-up with the bruise wheel and the fake blood. I'm thinking two black eyes, a head wound, arm bruises and a split lip. If people ask me what I'm supposed to be, I'll say:

"Low Self Esteem."

Good God, it’s PINK

2004-10-25T23:37:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m now officially LOSER BEHIND with my little noir/murder serial that I keep threatening to continue. And now, drum roll please...nay, not drum roll...duck call followed by kazoo please....I think the problem that has plagued me my entire life, namely the inability to finish what I start, has reared its way-ugly head. My habit of non-completion effects many things. Piano lessons, Violin lessons, College (the first time around), sign language class, a half assed run at a first career, cleaning my pantry, writing the great American novel, or novella, cleaning behind my stove, reading the entire works of Herman Hesse...I think the only things it doesn’t effect are sex, cooking, eating and painting a room. Perhaps in that order, perhaps not. Which brings me to today’s lament……The Terra Cotta Blues.

I am known to respond to extreme stress by taking on a redecorating project. The number of homes, rooms, gardens that have been reconfigured, re-painted, re-accessorized, roto-tilled, weed whacked or just plain spruced up is rather extensive. I would not say that the aforementioned was my true calling due to the circumstances that surround these Extreme Projects (Incidentally, I am sickened to find out that all those poor bereft people helped by the team at Extreme Makeover-Home Edition have to pay taxes on the improvements as if they are game show winnings, and pay the increase in property tax as a result of the improvements. Sort of takes away that feel-good-for-humanity cry I used to get when I used to watch.) Anyway...the last week that was spent caring for maMAH and grandmaMAH (see previous blog) was done on high functional mode – that means be very pleasant, take care of what’s in front of you and never show fear. And never go off on grandmaMAH for watching Bill O’Reilly. So I think what happened when I arrived home on Saturday night was that after greeting Manpants and the dogs and sleeping in my own bed for one whole night, waking up to the reality of losing a week of work and a week of school, I found it necessary to paint two rooms and a hallway. Three different colors. On Sunday. I started about 11:30 a.m. and finished at 7:00 in time to get to the grocery store, do the shopping, get back home and cook the weekly casseroles. As an outside observer, looking down at myself from the place on the ceiling where I’ve been hanging from my fingernails, I find this somewhat manic behavior a tad...oh...a little outside the realm of...let me see, what’s the word I’m looking for...oh yes - SANITY. But what’s truly insane about this whole thing, what shouts a wakeup call to the heavens and back, or at least to Thalians Center at Cedar Sinai Hospital and back, is, I believe, the Terra Cotta shade I painted the kitchen.

The bathroom got repainted a lovely deep sage (I was thinking of painting SOMETHING with Martini Olive due to an implanted suggestion by Rhonda at Skinny Dipping With the President - but Tashman’s Hardware, the manly-man Hardware store in the heart of Boys Town where even Adam Carolla, formerly of the MAN SHOW has been spotted, didn’t have it.) So, deep sage in the bathroom with white trim, a lovely butter shade down the length of the hallway that warmed up what was previously rather drab, and TERRA COTTA in the kitchen. I think I wanted something Mediterranean. A vacation, perhaps. Anyway, I know I’m a fabulous woman, hear me roar, and that Pink is the new Gray, but I truly loathe pink after overdosing on it as a five-year-old. I hate it. I give money to Breast Cancer research but can’t even THINK about wearing the pink ribbon. Or that scarf that Nicole Kidman wore in that PSA ad in ALLURE or ELLE or GLAMOUR or whatever it was that I was reading while waiting for my highlights to process. I just can’t. So when I stood back to view my handiwork in the kitchen with its new TERRA COTTA HUE, imagine my stunned shock to realize that TERRA COTTA is actually PINK. Albeit a specific shade of PINK that looked decidedly less PINK in the manly-man hardware store, but PINK nonetheless. Manpants likes it. My neighbor liked it. I hate my curtains now and they need to be replaced immediately.

I wonder what would happen if I woke up one morning, decided to knock on a complete stranger’s door and then offer to paint their kitchen TERRA COTTA. Would they call the police or simply bludgeon me immediately...

OH WHERE, OH WHERE HAVE I BEEN?

2004-10-23T20:43:00.000-07:00

Hello there ladies and gentlemen. I feel like I have been absent forever. The fact of the matter is there was this little matter of my mother landing herself in the hospital. She is much better now, however she needs to completely alter her lifestyle or she will no longer have the same digestive system that she started out with in this world due to the doctors removing part of it if she continues to be naughty. And she was very naughty. In addition to maMAH being in the hospital, my grandmaMAH, the spry yet opinionated and demanding 104 year old (who watches Fox News and thinks Bill O'Reilly is just a nice Irish boy), lives with maMAH and needed help as well. I have never washed so many sheets and towels, nor prepared breakfast, lunch and dinner everyday in....well, ever. Bit of an eye opener at what the older two generations are accustomed to, expect and of course need. PaPAH was there, but working most of the time and about to run out of the country for GOD knows what technological contribution.... so the time was mainly spent with the womens.

I also, and here was the cultural eye opener I was not quite prepared for...Apparently in Irish families it is completely appropriate for one to write the obituary for another family member prior to their demise so that said family member can approve it....Prior to said demise. Sooooo, I researched, asked questions, pulled out old newspaper articles, etc...and wrote grandmaMAH's obit. And yes, she approved it after telling me to include the part about her being recommended for the Peace Corp (!?!) I left the year of her demise blank, but teased her that it would be sometime around 2040 at the rate she's going. Her obit of course included the sinking of the Titanic, the Great Flu Epidemic, Lindbergh's first solo flight, the kidnapping of his infant son, the wars: WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam (family, siblings, husband, son, etc present in each), the Great Depression, inventions like the car, the plane, the TeeVee, the Computer...She's pretty much lived through it all, so it was actually quite fascinating that she's still so with it and able to discuss it all in detail. Also interesting to find out that she was a school teacher while she was raising her family, with a two year degree, and that during that career she went back to school to finish her four year degree - the whole while going to school, raising a family and teaching school simultaneously. Did my heart good to know a woman already did something akin to what I'm attempting to accomplish, and did it during a time that was a lot less friendly to a woman trying to have both a family and a career. I don't even have children, so what the foo do I have to complain about when I'm too busy to sleep?

All in all a very valuable week hanging with the women from generations spanning back to 1900, despite the circumstances, and a time I'll treasure for a long time.