My New Year’s Resolutions

In 2009, I resolve to stop thinking that I am the Center of the Universe. I will no longer feel responsible for things beyond my control. It's not my fault that the world is going to Hell in a hand basket! No more letters to politicians, pleading for world peace. They're men. They want to fight. No more contributions to charitable organizations. They use the pittance I am able to send them for postage to send me more solicitations. Sorry, Polar bears! Sorry,Whales! Talk to the Humvee drivers and big oil executives.


I will no longer deny myself the pleasure of eating chocolate for fear of becoming fat. I'm fifty years old! No one gives a rat's ass whether I get fat or not! They're not looking at me! I will no longer make any attempt to be fashionable. (See the preceding sentence.) My new mantra will be, "If it feels good, wear it."

I will no longer be concerned with any but the most basic social graces. I will, of course, try not to pass gas in public, but I will say whatever I damn well please. No one gives a rat's ass what I say! They're not listening!

I just wish that I were a smoker and a drinker, so I could resolve to not try to give up those bad habits. But, I doubt that anyone would notice, anyway, given my extremely small and remote place in the Universe.

Thank you for not reading this, or caring what I think, or what I resolve.

Braindrops Keep Falling From My Head

(These materialized while I was on an airplane recently)

We're suspended in air

Between the ocean and sky

Someday we will land

____________

I have no headphones

I cannot hear the movie

I saved five dollars

____________

I have a headache

Why don't I take some aspirin?

Perhaps I like pain

____________

Neurotic, you say?

No! Just dreadfully nervous

And a bit anxious

____________

Life is not easy
I try to understand it
It's quite confusing
____________

Where are my ideas?

I've looked everywhere for them

Perhaps they are gone

Hai-ku. Kan-yu?

I have decided that my life could be adequately expressed in a series of Haikus. Are you familiar with haiku? It is a Japanese form of poetry (I think so, anyway) consisting of three lines, the first line has five syllables, the second has seven syllables and the third has five syllables.

Here are some samples of my Nipponic attempts:

I wish I could write

I would tell a dark story

That no one would read

_________

I hear the music

It flows over my body

and jangles my mind

__________

I'll tell your fortune

Sit down, and show me your palm

It's all written there

__________

I gather sea shells

From yard sales, not from the sea

It's much easier

__________

I tried to hate you

But it was impossible

I love you too much

___________

The day is over

I hear the clock striking twelve

Now I'll go to sleep

___________

Quick! Call the doctor! I've been infected with the Splotchy Story Virus (aka V3)

Here are Splotchy's rules:
Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

Ready? Set? GO!

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)
Rivulets of sweat began cascading down my face and I hurriedly wiped one from my brow before its salty bitterness could burn my precious, precious electric eye. No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to my allergy to cardboard that always resulted in patches of bloody pustules and mottled skin akin to a poorly applied KISS® -- see, Gene? Put your lawyers away -- makeup job nor the fact that a fair number of the riders were curiously dressed like a toupee-less, yet masterfully make-upped Chaim Witz nor the fact that motionless tentacles were protruding from a number of randomly punched holes in the cardboard box that bore the hideous label Contents, frozen spawn of Old One, 72 oz. nor the realization that I had forgotten my glasses and couldn't see not whom, but what, was slowly shambling down the aisle towards me, its apparently glistening appendages slopping on the possibly filthy floor of this potential deathtrap of a bus recklessly driven by an attractively miniskirted, yet maniacal, maniac, her lapel bearing a button barely visible underneath a swath of jet-black hair and emblazoned with I worship Dagon, ask me how!, which I never did by the way.No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to any of those mundane things. My wind wandered, dreaming up all sorts of misadventure where I stared death in the face and he stared back and then we had a series of staring contests of which I think I won nearly 40% of them, an excellent number against an entity bearing a head-lopping scythe, don't you think?I stared out the window, and the undulating, slowly shifting, tree-saturated landscape stared back. I won that contest but quickly remembered the old saw about looking into the abyss and having it stick its tongue out. I pulled my electric eye back into the bus and stared ahead instead.Next, a cavalcade of nervous fumbling and rummaging through my pockets to make sure I had an extra nine volt battery. I did -- the apparently glistening appendages slopping ever closer amidst a cacophony of bizarre, intermittent noise -- so I knew I wouldn't have to worry about my electric eye running out of juice until I got back.Which, of course, turned out to be the case, for how else could you be reading this erratic, poorly-written account of horror, unless you stumbled upon the abandoned wreckage of the bus and were rifling through my strangely mutilated corpse severely underdressed for the freezing weather and found this sheet of crumpled and charred paper riddled with poor penmanship along with my wallet that contained a drivers license, library card, work ID, three singles and a bus ticket!But you didn't because I'm not dead, for I just handed the bus ticket to the shambling beast which indeed was slimy for it -- and it, despite its general human visage, was the most accurate description I could muster -- was close enough that I didn't need my glasses."Last stoop fer yew vis'turs."Ahead in the distance, beyond the cardboard box's melting water -- at least, I assumed it was water, and you know what they say when you assume: Nyarlathotep tears you a new one, chump -- pooling at my feet, the creepy troupe of riders and the inhuman coughing of it, bathed by the light of the red moon, I saw the low, yet eerily distinct skyline of Arkham. (Randal)

Arkum hums with a high electric whine, a noise that is like tinnitus to the nth. The man with the monocle who was so strangely dressed coughed on me as the bus lurched to a stop. I hope it wasn't the virus. Now I hunch my shoulders against the freezing wind that hugs the frozen ground. I have two cloptomiters to go before I'm home and it's dark but for the purple neon gloom, looking like a distant nuclear disaster but is merely low light bouncing off the distant metropolis along with the nearly unbearable high whine. And then the wind blows it back upon itself and for a few moments of relief I almost hear silence. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet.What was I thinking when I dressed for the day? My feet are freezing. Thank the dog for the electric eye. I can see the faintly pink glow of my signature footprint along this well trod strip of stone. But it seems eerily empty for now. Odd. This time of night is usually humming with voices coming out of the dark. All I hear is the high city hum and the wind. Several layers of skirts fly up from a gust of wind and I almost topple backward. These tall rubber boots on their platforms are wonderful in a crowd, extend the stride, and strengthen the buttocks, lifting its heft of weight into the air like a pillow. But skirts?I hear the dog once and know I will turn left half way up the lane to my bunker. His voice always rings out once when I reach this spot and even without the eye I turn left, arm raised, palm flattened upward to make contact with the wire of the compound. I trail my gloved fingers along the fence until I feel the gate. Here I must remove my glove and place my naked palm against the freezing surface of the palm ID pad. And it slides open almost silently. I enter and hear it slide shut behind me. It locks with a hollow sound that makes me shudder with pleasure. Now small photocell lights flank the path like little pale full moons.I have a single bunker. I am gifted in certain arts. I can talk to the mad and read their minds. I can smell danger. And I am old. No small accomplishment in these times. So the dog, as he calls himself, and I live together in a cube of concrete with a pyramid roof alone, in silence, but for the sound of my own voice softly talking to myself and his rare great bark or low growl.He doesn't rise when I come in. But I hear him panting softly in his dark corner. The room is only warmed with his body heat. All the fuel was burned long ago. But food will be brought for both of us. He could so warm me better if we slept together but he will not. So I wear all my clothes trying to keep from shivering. I would never ask to sleep in his bed but have invited him into mine. Often. No luck.And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears.(Utah Savage)

The irony of hating that Will Smith movie where he was the only pure human he knew of makes me laugh until I cry only once a day usually, but this makes the second time today.
I'd like to be able to distract myself from this existence as I sometimes can with some maudlin or quirky tale that was uploaded to this confounded eye, but for the time being I just place it on its charger, wondering yet again what renewable substance has been able to sustain the charger's life these 25 years. If I knew that, would I be freezing here like this?
I wish someone, anyone, could or would answer that question. I wish Lilith were here to ponder it with me.

Yes, there are the halflings, but they really are not very good company. The electronic portions of them seem to override most of their humanness. But, compared to those the blogoscopic entities have fully infiltrated, they are a veritable schmorgesborg of spontaneity. I am not sure if I should admit that my insane mother was right and that my "specialness" would "save" me in the end, but those like me are few and far between these days.

What was once a blessing, my telepathic tendencies, has become such a curse that I would no doubt kill myself were it not for Lilith. My only hope is to find her. (Freida Bee)

But wait! If my telepathic tendencies were more reliable, I would know where Lilith is. But I do not know where she is. So perhaps I should rely more on my psychopathic tendencies, which are very reliable. You may recall that I am mad… quite mad, I might add, and in my delusional state I am certain that I no longer need Lilith to ponder with or pander to, as the case may be. What I do need, and need badly, is a man! A real man, 100% human, and with only one tentacle (ahem), if you know what I mean.

I am keeping my electric eye open (thank Xeus for that extra 9 volt battery!), but so far, neither the slimy, multi-tentacled, oddly dressed, freaks on the bus, nor the selfish dog-man in my cold concrete cube measure up to my strict standards.
Of course, there is a strong possibility that I should lower my standards, given the fact that, as I mentioned earlier, I am fricking old and getting older by the minute, and I’m crazy as a lonesome loon howling at the moon. So, I think I’ll try something different…maybe a train ride. I think there’s some kind of law that requires train engineers to be human, and it’ll be nice and warm in that engine room. (Madam Z )

I hereby tag:
Katie Schwartz
Spartacus
Bill Stankus
The Japing Ape
Honeysmack

Never Mind. I'm Good.

I was just sitting here feeling sorry for myself because my life is so dull and boring

and winter is coming and my feet are always cold and I have nothing to show for having lived another day and my shoulder hurts and I want to eat that last Snickers bar from Halloween, but I'm so afraid of getting fat and it's dark outside and I don't remember the last time I actually had fun, AND THEN I remembered tonight's news report on Zimbabwe. As if the poor people didn't have enough trouble, with a totally disfunctional government, civil war, horridly-hyper-inflation, famine, no clean drinking water and who knows what else, NOW they have been stricken with CHOLERA! The camera chronicled people dead and dying, mothers crying over their sick and dying children, and poorly equipped hospitals that are overflowing with desperate sick and dying people.

And THEN I thought, I HAVE NOTHING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT! NOTHING, NOTHING NOTHING!!! I am SO thankful I don't live in Africa.

On the other hand, it's much warmer there than here, and the sun shines longer and no one would care if I got fat, and not every country in Africa is as bad off as Zimbabwe. There's uh...or maybe...hmmm...

Never mind.

The end.

I'm Thankful Thanksgiving is Over!

Oh man! Where should I start? It's not that my in-laws mistreat me, it's just that we are so different from one another. They're Irish Catholics - I'm a heathen. They are not affectionate with one another. It's my nature to be demonstrative. Except for the mother and one brother, they all drink beer and wine non-stop from noon to midnight. I seldom drink, because I am fearful of getting drunk and acting like an idiot. (I saw way too much of that when I was a child.) But the worst thing is that NO ONE gets my sense of humor and only one or two of them has any interest whatsoever in anything I have to say. If I had to be around them more than once or twice a year, I would be convinced that I was the most boring person ever to walk the earth. Fortunately, I have more positive reactions from my own family and friends, so I try to remember that and not get too demoralized.

Bear with me for an example of what it's like. Several of us will be sitting around the table, chatting. Something will strike me as funny, and I make a joke. The conversation stops, everyone becomes stony-faced, and after a few moments of silence they continue talking. I flush with embarrassment and leave the table. It's as though I have thrown a dead fish onto the table. Everyone looks at it with mild disgust and then turn away. You'd think I would have learned by now to just STFU! One of the other sisters-in-law does that. She just gets silently smashed and reads a book through most of the festivities.

Oh well. The food is good and there's no violence, so I shouldn't complain. And, even though my mother-in-law helpfully explained to me that I should cut my hair and regain the weight I lost when I was sick, because long hair and lost weight make a woman look even older than she is, I still love her, because if not for her I wouldn't have my sweet hubby.

Oy veh! Six hour drive tomorrow morning. Going to mother-in-law's for Thanksgiving. Get up at 5:30 A-fucking-M! Make nice with all the in-laws, while fretting that they're looking at every wrinkle on my face and thinking "Why did my brother marry someone so much older than him?"

Oh well. In ninety-six hours we'll be back home and I can be "old" in peace.

Peace.

How do I love thee, Blogging? Let me count the ways.

1. I can yammer on and on, about anything I want, and no one interrupts me! How cool is that?

2. I can make false assertions, present fiction as fact, describe myself as tall and willowy, and no one corrects me! That's pretty darned cool also.

3. I can say fuck, shit, cunt, prick, fuckety-fuck-fuck, suckety-suck, lickety lick, 69 x 69, and no one censors me.

4. I can make lame jokes, and no one groans (at least I can't hear the groans...).

5. I can pretend that I have friends out there in the ether, even though we've never seen one another, heard each other's voices, or touched, tasted or smelled one another. Maybe, in a way, blogging is kind of a "sixth sense."

6. I can entertain myself by reading the truly clever stuff that some of my favorite bloggers write, like grant miller, katie schwartz, dr. monkey, politits, some guy, spartacus, whineguide, oneman, billstankus and so many others.

7. I can yammer on and on, make false asserions and lame jokes in the "comments" section of other people's blogs, when I'm too lazy to think of something to write about in my own blog.

8. What's not to love?

If It Feels Good, Don't Do It!

This quote from George H. Smith is, to me, a brilliant and concise commentary on what I regard as one of the most unfortunate aspects of the Christian religion.

"Christianity cannot erase man's need for pleasure, nor can it eradicate the various sources of pleasure.

What it can do, however, and what it has been extremely effective in accomplishing, is to inculcate guilt in connection with pleasure.

The pursuit of pleasure, when accompanied by guilt, becomes a means of perpetuating chronic guilt, and this serves to reinforce one's dependence on God.

Christianity, with some exceptions, has never explicitly advocated human misery; it prefers instead to speak of sacrifices in this life so that benefits may be garnered in the life to come.

One invests in this life, so to speak, and collects interest in the next.

Fortunately for Christianity, the dead cannot return for a refund."
-- George H. Smith

Your Body Language Talks Better Than You Do

I watched an interesting History Channel program on body language tonight. The two "experts" who were making the presentation claim that 93% of human communication is through body language. At first I thought, "You guys are nuts!" But by the end of the program I thought, "Shit! Maybe they're right!"

They showed lots of real life examples of things people do with their hands, their shoulders, their eyes, their heads, the way they walk, and so on. Then they analysed the significance of those movements and it made a lot of sense.

The most amusing example was the film footage of Bill Clinton making his Monica denial. "I did not have sexual relations with that woman," he stated firmly. In the meantime, he was poking his index finger in the air in one direction, while his eyes were looking in the opposite direction. Apparently, if someone is telling the truth, his finger and his eyes are pointed in the same direction, preferably at his audience.
The saddest example was poor Richard Nixon during his infamous debate with John Kennedy, back in 1960. The camera focused on him wringing his hands, behind his back, while sweating profusely and looking unhappy. JFK, on the other hand was a perfect picture of self-confidence and poise. You didn't even have to listen to their words, in order to know who would make the better president.
-
The "experts" (I wish I could remember their names, but...) talked about body language "coaches" and gave some before and after examples of their training. The most interesting to me was Hillary Clinton. It showed film footage of her, back in the early years of Bill's administration. In public presentations she often looked down, her shoulders slightly forward, and didn't look straight at the camera. Quite the shy lass. But she got some coaching, and look at her now. Standing straight, eyes forward, pointing her finger at various admirers, she is the picture of confidence and authority.
The hand-wringing discussion struck a chord with me. They called it something else, but of course I can't remember what. But essentially it was touching your hand with the other in order to calm and comfort yourself. I know for a fact that I am always fiddling with my hands when I am stressed or uncomfortable.



Of course, facial expressions are a dead giveaway too. They illustrated that with several amusing examples.



Can you imagine what Tony Blair is thinking at this moment?




If you could see my face at this moment, you would probably deduce that I am very sleepy, even if I were to swear I am not.

Maybe I Did, or Maybe I Didn't

Last night I attended a lecture by an author who supposedly knows what he's talking about, on the subject of "Writing the Memoir." I have the attention span of a autistic gnat, so I didn't get much out of it. But I do remember one line that he attributed to someone whose name I can't remember. It was something like, "Writing your memoir is easy. Just make it up as you go along." The lecturer disagreed with that advice, but I like it. After all, who can remember every single detail of every single event in his murky past? And who, upon reading what you have written, could reliably dispute your rendition? He or she may disagree, because, after all, we all take away our own impressions of any given event. But, unless he can produce a documentary video of the event, his word has no more weight than yours. Also, according to Mr. Memoir, it's acceptable to take more liberties with a memoir than an autobiography. So...I think I will discard my fantasies of someday writing my autobiography and replace them with fantasies of writing my memoirs.

Orrrrrr...I can just continue to wander around all day, moving items from spot A to spot B, picking leaves out of the flowerbed, arguing with myself about whether or not it's okay to eat the Peanut Butter Cups left over from Halloween, reading 50 different blogs, working the N.Y. Times crossword puzzles, fantasizing about cleaning out the bulging closets, drawers, attic and basement, and attempting to recover my lost youth.

A Highjacked Meme via Bill Stankus via Willow

The Truth, the Whole Truth, Induced by Self-Coercion

My uncle once: Was so drunk that he let me drive the car from L.A. to Arizona, even though I was only 14 and didn’t know how to drive.

Never in my life: Have I committed suicide.

When I was five: I was ready to quit Kindergarten after the first day, because I was so disgusted that I hadn’t been taught to read and to type.

High school was: Okay, except for Phys Ed, which was one long lesson in humiliation and shame.

I will never forget: The day I finally got the courage to jump out of a swing while it was in motion, on the high upward arc. I was 25 years old.

Once I met: John Wayne. I was 11 years old and was with my mother in a liquor store in Pomona, CA. She was buying cigarettes and chatting with the proprietor. I was perusing the rack of paperback novels, especially the ones with naughty pictures on the covers. John Wayne walked in and went to the counter. Mom and the shopkeeper were electrified. They started talking. I picked out the book with the naughtiest cover and took it to the counter. Without showing the book, I interrupted the adults and asked Mom if she would buy me the book. She said no. I started whining, and Mr. Movie Star said, “I’ll buy you a book. Which one do you want?” I placed the book on the counter and all three adults gasped. Mom said, “You can’t have that!” Mr. Movie Star grabbed his cigarettes and exited the store. We left shortly after. Mom was angry with me for the rest of the day.

Once at a bar: I was trying to act more sophisticated than I was and drank TWO WHOLE Guinness Stouts. I was so drunk that my friends confiscated my keys and drove me home.

By noon I’m usually: Up, showered, dressed and ready for a nap.

Last night: I thought briefly about setting the clocks back an hour, but wasn’t able to hold the thought long enough to actually do it.

If I only had: A heart, some courage and a brain, maybe I could be sympathetic, brave and smart.

Next time I go to church: I will tell the congregation to go home, because god is dead.

What worries me most: No attempt at humor here. I worry most about the possibility of World War.

You’ll know I’m lying when: I say I’m not worried.

What I miss most about the 80’s is: Being able to dance for hours on end. To illustrate how totally “hip” I was…my absolutely favorite dance was the Polish Hop (a particularly vigorous form of Polka).

If I were a character in Shakespeare: I’d be fictitious and talk funny.

A better name for me would be: Esmeralda

I have a hard time understanding: Particle physics.

If I ever go back to school: Please kidnap me and lock me up until I come back to my senses!

You know I like you if: I tell you more about myself than you want to know.

Take my advice, never: Walk down a dark alley at night, while you’re naked and drunk.

My ideal breakfast is: Fresh blueberry muffins and hot cocoa, served to me in bed, by a guy who looks like Rocky I, wearing his “wife-beater” t-shirt.

If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: Carry a gun.

Why won’t people: Stop blowing each other up!

The world could do without: Talk radio.

I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: Shake hands with Dick Cheney.

My favorite blonds are: Fat and homely.

If I do anything well, it’s: Bitch and moan.

And, by the way: I saw what you were doing last night.

Sounds Good..... But.....

Well, I watched the Obama Show. It was good - well executed, well produced and directed. He looked great, sounded great, made a lot of big promises. But, except for the $10 billion a month to be saved by getting out of Iraq, I didn't hear anything about how all of this largesse is to be paid for. On the contrary, he promised a tax reduction for everyone earning less than $200,000 per year. That's most of us. Implied, of course, though I didn't hear him actually say it in this particular ad, is that he will raise taxes on those earning more than $200k. I'm too lazy to do the research and the math, but I doubt that he could raise taxes on the relatively wealthy enough to pay for more than a small part of his lofty promises.

So, where does that leave us, if he gets elected (and I hope he does, as it's better than the alternative)? Answer: It will leave us deeper in debt, borrowing even more from foreign countries to finance our profligate spending. How long can that go on? No one knows, because it's all new territory. We've never had such a huge national debt. And there seems to be no plan to try to reduce it. Instead, we have Santa Obamaclaus with his big sack of goodies, handing them out to all the smiling, wide-eyed, admiring "children."

I just hope his elves don't go on strike.

And The Subject Is...

Okay, the economy is sick and I'm sick of the economy. Let's talk about something else.



-

Politics? Hell no! I'm sick of politics.
Well, that pretty much leaves sex. I'm not sick of sex. I love sex. Sex soothes. Sex satisfies. I could go get the dictionary and find some more "s" words to continue in that vein, but I'm not that ambitious. It's Friday night. I'm tired. But I'm not tired of sex. Sex in the sunshine. Sex in the sauna. It's all good. Not that I'm obsessed with sex!
Solitary sex is okay, but not as much fun as shared sex, which can be stunning. Sex is stimulating. Sex is scintillating. But sometimes sex is too short, which can make me sorrowful. So I go elsewhere to seek satisfaction. Not really. I just wanted to use three s-words in one sentence.












Sex in the summer. Sex in the spring. Not so much in the winter. Winter is coming, but I'm not.

So ends my sordid saga.

Apparently, many newspapers refused to print this most excellent cartoon by Berkeley Breathed. He explained their reluctance thus: "Fear doesn't so much rule the wood pulp news industry. More like pee-on-themselves existential terror."

And there you have it, in a buttshell.

-

Salon.com recently interviewed Berkeley Breathed about his life after ending his Opus cartoon on November 2. One question was:

Your children's books seem to appeal to your gentler, Charles Schulz side. But how -- without Opus -- will you exercise your Michael Moore side?

BB: I'll be on my couch Sunday mornings screaming at Brokaw and Stephanopoulos to call out the blathering bastards on their stupid fucking talking points and pin the dancing, lying, spinning Tasmanian Weasels down about something, ANYTHING for Christ Bloody Sake THE COUNTRY IS GETTING STEERED INTO CHAOS AND INSOLVENCY AND WAR BY ITS UNREAD UNINFORMED DULLARD SHEEP CONSTITUENCIES AND YOU JUST LET THE CANDIDATE SAY ONE MORE TIME WITHOUT OBJECTION THAT HE'S GOING TO CUT TAXES WHILE HE CALLS FOR FREE 24 KARAT GOLD FRANKFURTERS TO BE INSERTED INTO EVERY AMERICAN'S ASS JUST BECAUSE BUTT BULLION POLLS WELL.

-

Has anyone, anywhere, described our current American political scene as well as this?

A Thing By Any Other Name

I have great difficulty in determining what is truly important. I can be very self-centered, and judge importance in terms of how the thing or event affects me, and those whom I love. While I know abstractly that global warming, the credit crisis, rising unemployment and the duplicity of politicians are much more important than my photographs of my children and grandchildren and those few remaining pieces of depression glass that I managed to salvage from the wreckage of my mother's life, I'm pretty sure that I would shed more tears over the loss of those photos and cups than I would over the failure of another bank or brokerage house. (I am also pretty sure that the previous sentence was way too long.)
I will illustrate my lack of sense of perspective with a small example of a recent Z-Meltdown. I had a glass statuette of a three-headed, winged dragon that I prized. It sat on a special stand in front of the window in our living room. It had no great monetary value, but it sparkled in the sunlight and pleased me every time I looked at it. And then, one fateful day, Hubby reached across it to open the blinds and KNOCKED IT OFF THE TABLE AND IT SHATTERED INTO TOO MANY PIECES TO REASSEMBLE (he had broken it before, but into only two pieces, which he was able to mend). I screeched and swore and cried like someone had been killed in front of my eyes. Hubby was defensive and I was unforgiving. We were both unhappy for the rest of the day. Then, at some point, I realized that the glass dragon was just a FUCKING THING, but my husband was the man I love and treasure and need more than any mere object. I apologized, we snuggled, and all was well. I will try hard to remember this example, and save my hysterics for something truly important, like a speeding comet heading straight for Wall Street. OH SHIT!

It's About Time

I have 36 minutes to kill before the "debate" between The Moosehunter and the Bloviator begins. That's 36 minutes of precious time, that could be spent wisely or wasted. Thinking about that makes me think of "time," in general. What is time, anyway? If we didn't use it, would we still have it later? If we waste it, will there be less of it for someone else? If we use it wisely, will be less old when our time is up? How do we "spend" our limited stockpile of time? I can't speak for rest of you, but here are some broad categories of my own time usage:

1. Things I do to survive, some being pleasant (eating) and some not (cooking).

2. Things I do just for fun (playing).

3. Things I do that aren't fun in the doing (working), but have fun results (getting paid).

4. Things I do that are fun in the doing and have fun results (gardening). (Fooled you, huh?)

5. Things I do that are fun, but are bad for me (eating too much chocolate).

6. Things I do that are not fun, but are good for me (sit-ups).

7. Thinking about things that I would do if I had more money.

8. Thinking about things that I would do if I had more time.

9. Thinking about things that I would do if I were older.

10. Thinking about things that I would do if I were younger.

11. Thinking about things I should have done, but now it's too late.

12. Thinking about things I shouldn't have done, but now it's too late.

13. Dreaming up implausible ideas to make unpleasant times go faster and pleasant times go slower.

Hmmm...I still have 15 minutes before the debacle, so I'll work on number 13. Maybe I could invent some kind of "anesthetic" that I could take before performing an unpleasant task. Something that would not impair performance, but would make the chore totally painless and, when finished, be forever banished from my conscious memory. For example, I used to think that I wanted to write a book. But after discovering that writing a book is very hard work and would take a very long time, I realized that what I really want is to have written a book! Then I could just rest on my laurels, rake in the royalties, and retire at my prime. All I have to do is discover some way of putting myself into a state of suspended animation, operating on automatic pilot while the book writes itself. When I wake up, the nanuscript will be all ready to send to the publisher (who has, in the meantime, given me a hefty advance in anticipation of the brilliant tome).

But before I figure out how to induce this "working-trance" state, I think I should devote some time to part 2 of number 13. How to make pleasant times go slower. That will require some consultation with hubby...

Oops! It's time!

BAILOUT DEFEAT!

Well, it's all over but the crying. The House listened to the American people for a change, and voted down the bailout plan. The most interesting aspect of this, politically speaking, is that there was bipartisan support AND bipartisan opposition to the proposal.

For the past week, I have been listening to right-wing blowhards claim that the whole sub-prime mess is the fault of political correctness and government pressure on lenders to grant mortgage loans to minorities. In my opinion, that is FUCKING STOOPID! PCness and encouragement to loan to minorities has been around for a long time, but this disaster is the result of reckless greed on the part of realtors, mortgage lenders and brokers, and on up the line. As real estate prices balooned, lending requirements softened, because regular citizens couldn't pay those inflated prices without "help" from the lenders (which consisted of all kinds of complicated finagling which most of the borrowers didn't understand, although they shouldn't have signed the deal if they didn't understand it and I have NO PATIENCE with people who do such stupid things), then the loans were "bundled" and kicked higher up, with someone getting his cut at every step of the way, until the BUBBLE BURST, AS ALL BUBBLES MUST, and everything came crashing down.

Many liberals opposed the bailout because it looks to them like the government would be asking Joe Sixpack to bail out the fat cats who had gambled and lost. "Oh poor babies! They got boo-boos. Let's kiss it and make it well." (I got those words, loosely paraphrased, from one of my favorite liberal bloggers, politits.) Many non-liberals, including many Republicans, agreed with those thoughts and both camps bombarded their representatives with calls and e-mails instructing them to vote a big fat NO on the bailout.

I have a feeling that many people in business and banking were in favor of the bill, because of the possible (probable?) financial mayhem that may (will?) follow. Today's stock market participants sure weren't happy with the defeat (sell, baby, sell). All we can do now is wait and see what happens next.

As for me...

Fingers in Ears, Eyes Closed, La-la-la

Must...keep...mind...off...bailout...

Keep busy, keep busy...work out extra hard at gym (I have 12 1/2 inch biceps. Can any of you ladies top that?) Clean house...nah...rake yard, front and back - YEah! Prune berry bushes...pain from thorns keeps my mind off of... la-la-la... Walk to market, buy 2 lbs of coffee because it's two for the price of one, get home and try to make a pot of coffee, because my energy is flagging, but discover that the coffee is WHOLE BEANS, NOT GROUND! SHIT!!! Try to grind coffee in blender, take lid off to see how it's going, coffee powder spews all over kitchen counter. Make pot of coffee from partially ground coffee beans, drink bitter brew, start cooking dinner, the news comes on the radio...NO, NO, MUST NOT LISTEN! LA-LA-LA! Congress will decide whether to bail out Wall Street to the tune of 700 billion smackers and they have to hurry, because it's time for their vacation! NO, NO, MUST NOT THINK ABOUT IT! Wash dishes, talk to neighbor...she asks what I think about the "stupid-ass bailout." Run! Get back in the house. LA-LA-LA!

Wishy-Washy

When you wish upon a star

It won't get you very far.

So give it up already!

Oh no! I can't! Wishing comes naturally to me. It's the only thing I do effortlessly, without having to force myself. I am tireless, creative and ambitious in my wishing. I can do it while I'm washing dishes (I wish I had a dishwasher, preferably a handsome muscley, naked male dishwasher), driving to the market (I wish my groceries would be delivered straight to my kitchen, preferably by a handsome, muscley naked man), working out at the gym (I wish I still belonged to that gym which was frequented by muscley, partially naked men), hiking in the woods (I wish I would come upon Pan, leaning back against a tree, playing his pipes), and while dreaming (I wish I could have sexy dreams without feeling guilty).

Oh yes! I will! It's a waste of time. It's a distraction from constructive thoughts and actions. Wishing will NOT make it so. Not even if you get the big piece of the wishbone,

not even if you blow out all the candles on your birthday cake in one breath,

not even if you promise god you'll be good foreverafter, if he just grants

that one wish, not even if you find a magic lamp and rub it just right.

Your wishes will not be fulfilled unless you take that genie by the horns and make it happen all by yourself.

So...how will I do it? Let's take one wish at a time.

1. I wish I were pretty.

Get plastic surgery!

2. I wish I were rich.

Redefine "rich."

3. I wish there were peace on earth.

Hm. Next!

4. I wish someone would dust all my shelves full of bric-a-brac.

Grab a goddamn dustcloth and get busy!!!

5. I wish I could get some of my short stories published.

Good grief! Pull one of those "writers' market" books off the bookshelf, find an address, type a goddamn cover letter, enclose your goddamn story, address an envelope, apply a stamp and stick it in the mailbox! Sheesh!

6. I wish I weren't afraid of failure.

Pretend you're afraid of success, instead.

7. I wish I could stop wishing.

I give up. You're hopeless.

That Goddamned Lipstick!

Okay, it was a cute joke the first time Palin uttered the now tired joke, "What's the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull? Lipstick!" But now, the horrifying follow-up to that joke may bring down the Obama campaign, if enough people get caught up in the firestorm that the right-wing talk show idiots are trying to stoke.

Do you know what I'm referring to? Recently, Obama was speaking to a gathering of his fans, and said that McCain, in spite of claiming to be a reformer, was actually not much different from Bush. Then he dropped this little bomb: "You can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig." Now I am pretty darned sure that he was just making his own little joke, by trotting out the word "lipstick" in the context of an old adage. He was referring to McCain and his policies.

But now the right-wingnut talk show hosts have started a relentless tirade, claiming that Obama was CALLING SARAH PALIN A PIG! That preposterous claim is gathering steam like the proverbial runaway freight train. How can they and the people who listen to them possibly believe something so improbable? Actually, I don't think Limbaugh-Hannity-Savage really believe it, but they know their listeners will. Have they no shame? It just goes to show that you can put lipstick on a wingnut, but he's still a wingnut. Make that a "fucking idiot wingnut asshole." Grrrrrr!

Ignorance is a Sin and I Have Sinned!

I confess. I was swayed by Sarah Palin's style and confidence. I thought I could see some cracks forming in the glass ceiling. But now, after reading countless exposes on various liberal blogs, I have become educated about her inadequacies. Now I can go back to knowing that I will not see a woman in the oval office in my lifetime. There are countless women who are qualified to be President of the U.S. But they would be savaged by the opposition for reasons that no man would be subjected to. Look what Hillary Clinton went through.

I'll vote for Obama, because I think he'll make a better President than would McCain. And who knows? Maybe someday one of his daughters might be nominated for the highest or second-highest office in the land. If so, I hope she'll have more experience in governing than any human being on the planet, an absolutely spotless past and present, and nerves of steel.

Several More Words for the Democrats

Get Obama to dump Boring Biden and find a beautiful, fiery, articulate WOMAN with some EXECUTIVE experience, even if it's only as President of a goddamn HOCKEY CLUB!

And if that won't fly, at least find a speaker as entertaining as Rudy Guilliani to address some rallies. Otherwise, Obama's campaign is going to sink like a stone. A heavy, grey, self-righteous, bloviating stone.

Four Words for the Democrat Party

Sorry guys, we're fucked.

Color Me Confused

Is he black? Is he white? The answer, my friends, is a big YES to both questions. 50% of his genes come from a black father, and 50% of his genes come from a white mother. So why does everyone refer to Barack Obama as "black?" And what the hell difference does it make anyway? If I had to assign a color to him, I would say he's a pleasant shade of brown. But I'm pretty darned sure that skin color has absolutely nothing to do with a person's ability to govern our nation. It's the brain that counts! Human brains are essentially all the same color, but their quality varies greatly. I'm going to judge a person's ability to govern by the things he says and does, not what he looks like. My top priorities are that he be highly intelligent, well-educated, up-to-date on world events and conditions, well-spoken, even-tempered, tactful, healthy, non-aggressive and reasonably compassionate. I don't know either of our presumptive presidential candidates personally, so it's difficult to be completely confident of my judgement. But I'm pretty sure that the skinny, young, white/black guy satisfies more of my criteria than the pudgy, old white/pink guy.

My Comments on the Reefer Comments

Forge said: "I personally don't and never have used the stuff, but I have no problem with it being legalized. The same rules that apply to alcohol should apply to drug use and we can move on with our lives. Now I don't believe it is JUST a plant. It's a plant that makes you do wacky things and effects your mind, but that is your choice."

MZ: And alcohol isn't just a liquid. It's a liquid that makes you do wacky things and affects your mind.

Bill Stankus said (in part):
"You can't talk about MJ as a weed or a window sill crop as if it existed all by itself- in fact, it is connected to all sorts of people - some are probably OK and just after making a few dollars but there are others - characters you don't want within 5 miles of where you live. I'm referring to oddball users and the distribution people. Would legalization change that? I don't know."

MZ: The "distribution people" are the ones that I wouldn't want in my neighborhood, but Bill, they'll be GONE once MJ is legalized. As for the "oddball users," I'm much more averse to drunks than to pot smokers.

Bill: "If you compare MJ to the prohibition era - there is a fact that should be known. Prior to prohibition there was an ungodly annual consumption of booze and beer. Honky tonks and saloons were everywhere and minors were not stopped at the doors. Drunken abuse of women was common and drunkards at work were a real problem."

MZ: Sorry, Bill, but except for the minors being stopped at the doors, this sounds just like America today. Have you ever attended an Al-Anon meeting?

Bill: "One more thing, saying something is human nature or laws should be changed because it is commonly done is a spurious argument. Just because the neighbors do something doesn't make it acceptable or right."

MZ: Of course! I didn't mean to imply that "laws should be changed because it is commonly done." Murder, rape, stealing and drunk driving are commonly done, and I am not suggesting that laws against those acts, WHICH ARE CLEARLY HARMFUL TO OTHERS, should be changed. And laws against those acts probably do have a deterrant affect. It is certainly clear to most citizens that those acts are intrinsically wrong. But laws against individual behavior that does not necessarily harm others will be resented and ignored. There is no more reason to attempt to ban pot than there was to attempt to ban alcohol, and there is no more chance of being successful in that attempt.

Bill: "By that logic, today we would all be tobacco users as was so common in the late 1940s and through the 1960s."

MZ: Tobacco use has declined because of gradually increasing awareness of the negative effect on health and because it is less socially acceptable, not because it was outlawed.

Bill: "Still, go ahead and legalize it and apply the same rules and regs regarding cigarette use."

MZ: Hooray! We agree!

Liquid said: I'll inhale and hold my breath waiting.....I swear....I will!

MZ: Um, maybe that's not a good idea...

Utah savage said: "... if you put the drug in the hands of the corps, there goes the narco-trafficker, off to find a new job. And couldn't we put all the crooks and liars and just plain criminals from the Bush admin, in one of those jails when we empty it of harmless pot smokers?"

MZ: YES! What a brilliant idea!