google redeemed

I was just thinking last week (after the Christmas and New Year's logo transformations) that Google design has gone from great to sappy. If I see any more woodland creatures scampering through the "oo's" or peeking cunningly around the "l", I'm going to gag.

Then, I open today's Google and there it is. Beautiful. Google in braille. Celebrating the birth of Louis Braille. If you don't go there today, you can see the designs by year on Googles logo pages.

happy anomaly

I am conscious of, but not concerned about, my age and gender in a profession of 20-30 year-old men who probably spent significant parts of their adolescence drawing comic book panels, gripping video game controllers or creating role-playing characters. Mostly because I am engaged, enchanted and enthusiastic about working with these guys. They are smart and funny and don't seem ill-at-ease with me at all. My job is to maintain my own unique, creative approach to web design and animation. I love what I do. And I try at all times to avoid adopting a maternal approach in my relationship with them. (Though I admit, occasionally my inner "Ancient Wise One" rises to the surface.)

It's wonderful to have 47 years of chronological experience and a passion that feels ageless. It's great to be a female–and a sexual oddity to boot–in this profession and feel, for all intents and purposes, that I am not held back by that. Not as long as I treat that fact as just one aspect of what I bring to the table. Expecting to be respected (for my work) and wanting to be treated with deference (for my age or gender) are two totally different things. I'd just as soon they forgot my age and gender most of the time.

Btw, I did read the D&D Master manual when my son was younger. Dungeon Master. I liked the way it sounded but didn't ever get the hang of it...

some more musings

I have a compulsion to stick things to my forehead. This is one of those harmless peculiarities that I have learned to accept without too much introspection. Coins, bottle caps, dominos, etc. migrate to my forehead like a mutated tika or bindi. I have to remind myself while I'm at work, in a meeting or at a party that this little quirk is mine to indulge, but it might not be quite as endearing to others.

I like to think that I'm not much of a junkfood aficionado. Even though I am not as 'whole food' dedicated as my healthy daughter, I do enjoy keeping our diet more real than chemical. That said, 2005 could be recorded as my Lucky Charms year. I inexplicably craved this artificial, sugary, should-never-be-eaten-for-breakfast faux cereal. I never preferred it as a child, never let my children eat it when they were younger (except for dessert) but it's been my foolish indulgence. I think I'm over it now, marshmallow bits and all. But who knows what will take its place...

Additional returns to childish/childlike behavior include my continued fascination with the popular Harry Potter books and movies. I find myself wishing the paintings on the walls of doctor's offices and museums would subtlely come to life with movement and commentary.

the miracle of NaCl

This holiday has been wonderful. Quiet, somewhat contemplative and satisfying. My favorite memories: clipping my daughter's short hair on the porch; sitting with my son in the wee hours while he played video games and I waited for my digestive system to stop reminding me that cheese is not my friend; kissing Barbara at midnight (or thereabouts) on New Year's Eve—a sweet kiss familiar with our years together and fresh with the potential of what is around the corner; conversations in Spanish with my father; looking at house plans with our daughter—imagining how moving a wall or a door might affect the way our home "works" with the people in it.

This holiday season also affirms for the umpteenth time how salt water is the answer. We are made of it. Salt water in the form of tears cleanses us. Swimming in the ocean can be a tonic. Drinking water with some salt in it can do miraculous things to a stogey digestive system. On and on. I'm a big fan. I've even discovered the Salt Institute website. And now enters: brining. We made the most fabulous turkey and roast pork loin by following the canon of America's Test Kitchen God, Christopher Kimbell, and the holy salt water soaking ritual. It was so fabulous that my son says he's convinced that brining everything is the answer. Apple pie? Pancakes? Sausage biscuit? Drop'em in the saline.

the year in review

It's been a good, but hard, year and I'm not sorry to be seeing it recede in my rearview mirror. Here are a couple of things that make me happy today (at this manmade juncture, New Year's Day):

Thanks to Rich for rekindling an old friendship and for this NYT article link: Why I'm happy I evolved.

Thanks to Sally for linking me to this site marketing the ridiculous overabundance of cause symbols and the perfect irony of the colon cancer bracelet color.

Then there's my 2005 discovery of Natalie Angier, a woman whose prose about science has me musing whimsically about DNA...an excerpt from the Chaperoning Proteins chapter in her book The Beauty and the Beastly should be explanation enough for my enthusiasm:

When a new protein slides off the tiny molecule assembly line within a cell, it is nothing more than a droopy string of amino acids, not yet fit for its designated profession. Only after being spun and pleated and braided into its proper three-dimensional conformation will a protein burst to life, seizing up oxygen if it is hemoglobin, shearing apart sugars if it is an enzyme, or lashing cells together if it is the stout twine of collagen.

Isn't that just the shit?

I am still awash in the glow of having a job and supervisor that make my day-to-day pursuit of a paycheck such a pleasure. A supervisor with whom it is well worth navigating the friendship/work relationship balance. You're a rare bird, Dave. (And you've got damn good taste in women I, respectfully, might add.)

And here's my last hodge-podge for the day: Peter, call me. Joe, write me (Dick York says you must). Mike & Marty, let's get together. Cyndi and Lola, I want you to come to my menopause party (if you don't get too weirded out by the idea). Sisters, I miss you. Barry, you're still my favorite private eye. Chris & Katie, don't wait until that intrauterine bundle of joy is out and about to keep us up-to-date. Bob and Kathy, loved the creche. L&M, come over while the house is clean. Eric J, let's kick up our respective sensible shoes. Eric H, habla conmigo. David & Alvin, can't wait to see you in the fall in beautiful Vancouver. Ruthie, Barbara's and my 20th anniversary may trump the 30th high school reunion this year, which doesn't mean you and I can't get together for our own small 31st reunion.

Felíz Año Nuevo, y'all.

the year of 06.06.06

Among other things, I'm happy that this year we celebrate the Christian bugaboo date of 6/6/6. It's a silly thing but I love number juxtapositioning. And it's amusing that humans sometimes think significant celestial or worldwide events are imminent just because we approach a certain date...like the year 2,000, for example. Hello? We made up this calendar/time-marking system—we just pulled it out of our collective b.c.e. asses, people! How could our clumsy little after-the-fact system suddenly become a soothsayer?

worth remembering

Something I read years ago and came across the other day (while reading A-Word-A-Day, wordsmith.org, my favorite subscription. Anu Garg is a man who honors and loves the English language.):

For all our conceits about being the center of the universe, we live in a routine planet of a humdrum star stuck away in an obscure corner...on an unexceptional galaxy which is one of about 100 billion galaxies....That is the fundamental fact of the universe we inhabit, and it is very good for us to understand that.

—Carl Sagan, astronomer and writer (1934-1996)

there are only two of them

How do you detail the account of a maddening experience? Particularly an experience chockfull of maddening details—without boring the shit out of your reader? It's not an original solution, but this is what prompted the birth of bullets. Scan or skip...

• got called back (for the 3rd time in 5 years) on a mammogram
• ominous "mass" in my left breast (all former were in the right)
• but I'm not worried...probably just a cyst like the others
  
• set up appointment for spot compression and an ultrasound
• for the uninitiated: spot compression is the difference between someone stepping on (let's say) your foot with a big boot and someone stepping on it with a high heel. It's all physics, baby.
• picked up my own film from M.D. Anderson because River Oaks Imaging has a history of not being able to find their metaphorical ass with both latex-gloved hands
• got there half-hour early (as mandated) and waited the customary hour before someone came out and told me there was a problem
• even though I'd brought my own film, the report was not included...they needed the radiology report
• my doctor's office was closed for lunch
• another half-hour elapsed before they had everything
• finally I was called and put on the odd mam-cape (like a small, thin cotton poncho with snaps)
• the technician did the series: a couple large plate horizontal and vertical x-rays and then a series of small plate ("small heel") x-rays
  
• she took the film to the radiologist
• then, like random searches, I qualified for another round of the same
• back to the radiologist
• and back for a third series
• and then, holy shit, a fourth round of increasingly tight compressions
  
• and she seems very concerned about the area closest to my chest wall and under my arm
• now I'm worried
• finally she sends me in to get the ultrasound
• the ultrasound technician sets me up, squirts warm gel all over my now glowing-with-radiation left breast and begins rolling the sensor around and watching those mysterious images on the screen
• she gets called away and I'm miffed
• 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes pass
• the previously warm gel-covered left tit is now freezing and I am fully pissed off
• doing the enraged patient twice in one week is exhausting
• I clean off my abused breast and put on my cape, hop off the exam table just as the technician comes in
• what the hell is going on here? I am not smiling while I bark.
• the ultrasound technician seems uncomfortable and says she is waiting for the x-ray technician...in comes the masher tech
  
• they stand there awkwardly and try to tell me (without compromising themselves legally) that the think the original mammogram was mislabeled.
• that the breast that was labeled "L" was actually the right breast and that they've been furiously trying to find something on the left breast that had already been examined, biopsied and cleared for landing three years earlier on the right.
• their concern and thoroughness and apologetic behavior reminded me not to kill the messenger
• then they mammed the right breast, for good measure, ultrasounded the left (as ordered) and said that the original work had to go back to M.D. Anderson for reevaluation and correction
• when all was said and done, I was infuriated but too weary to give a shit
• and relieved. I hate it when I start thinking about saying good-bye to my breasts.
  

So, patient reader, whenever you read about someone getting the wrong limb amputated, don't be surprised. There are only two of most of our appendages, but evidently that's one too many for some medical technicians. Before my next mammogram I'm going to label them both with a Sharpie.

fake to the 2nd power

First they extrude some butter-flavored, sugared chemicals and call it a Butterfinger. Then, they make a powder which tastes like the fake Butterfinger flavor, add it to hot cocoa mix (another manufactured pouch-sealed wonder) and before you know it, I'm drinking Butterfinger Hot Cocoa. And liking it. It's all wrong, I know. It's just that Butterfingers are so addictive. Now, I've got hot heroin.

The other day I came across another one of those words that make me grunt and look around wildly. "Cosmeceuticals" And my friend said he's heard that the corporate jargon extruder has just pooped out "Marketecture." It's blasphemy. Yes, I know...so is Butterfinger Hot Cocoa. I agree. I'm not trying to legitimize the shit, I'm just sheepishly admitting that I enjoy it every once in a while.

But cocoa can be thrown away or rejected. Kept out of the reach of children. Words, however, are sticky. Before you know it, people will think that "cremains" has always been around—like it wasn't the bastard child spawned from a nasty affair between funeral corporations and marketing.

less-than-a-cube

My workspace at the Chronicle is even less defined than the aforementioned (like many months afore) detestable cubes I've inhabited. I thought at one point that this was going to be a colossal problem but it's not. I mean, I would much prefer not to have my back to a walkway and my workspace wide open, but I don't feel like committing a homicide over it either. The saving grace is headphones and the type of job where I am not interrupted too often. So I listen to music loudly and crank out my work.

Today I discovered a flamenco station. A moorish/gypsy/spanish blend that comes close to the perfect definition of deep red. Instant images of watching flamenco dancers in Andalucia. More authetic than the staged variety in Madrid (we were bused up the narrow winding mountain roads to these small gypsy villages) but certainly tourist-driven. Nonetheless, they were spectacular.

The performance took place in long, narrow, cave-like rooms decorated with copper cookware. The audience sat one-deep along the white plastered walls and three or four deep at the end of the room. The guitar players and random singers sat near the opening of the room. The dancers entered the hall and began their dance three feet from the viewers—dancing shoes clicking up and down the room and stopping periodically to strike some dramatic stance. In spite of the tourist appeal, this was their town, these were their relatives and the dance and the costumes were breathtaking and erotic and nothing less than vertical foreplay.

P.S. Richard Pryor died this past week. Sweared extra the past couple of days in his honor. If there's a god up there, hope Richard Pryor has him peeing his royal robes.

just friends

Had the urge to roast some walnuts this afternoon. I love the fragrance of warming nut oils. Thought for a moment, "Hey, I'm enjoying a little culinary moment here! Maybe I haven't broken up completely with the Holidays. Perhaps we could meet for coffee and just be friends."

But I'm not sleeping with them again, goddammit.

on death and decorating

I was sitting in the reading room (use your imagination, we own a 1920 Victorian bungalow that doesn't have a music room, butler pantry or servants' quarters either) and noticed that, at some point, someone had closed the door on a baby gecko. There in the bottom few inches of the door jam was splayed the cartoon-flat, brown reptilian remains. Not a lizard-shaped paint chip as I had assumed in an earlier, nearsighted observation.

We're not going to go all CSI here and determine the culprit or cause of death, though one would have to be full-out moron not to have a pretty good idea how Mr. Lizard crossed-over. After the initial (brief) "poor critter," I quickly segued into "damn, that's cool." (It's abundantly clear why I am never going to be a crazy pet lady.) Anyway, I was thinking how fabulous it would be to have "fossil" remains scattered throughout the drywall of our house. Little bits of evidence of history. An architectural-archeological blend, if you will.

I'm in house-remodeling mode. I love this part. Where there is no idea too off-center, expensive or impractical to be mused upon. I also love secret compartments and ways to display my tools that combine storage and decoration.

We went for a walk this morning. No shit. I actually left the house and allowed the sun to shine upon my happy hermit head. Stopped by a new store in our neighborhood called Tansu. I hate window shopping and I'm not crazy about the trendy, antique-stuffed, overpriced shops that have sprung up all over our part of the Heights. But some of the products they advertised in their postcard mailer looked interesting. Besides, we were out walking and it distracted me from the notion that I might be exercising.

I wandered upstairs, took one look at a bedroom set they had on display and fell hopelessly in love. As I have confessed before, I make no decision quickly. I have been "researching" (not "window shopping," dammit) headboards and dressers for...well, forever. I rarely find something that makes me look twice and there it was. Oh, hell, here's what I'm talking about (ignore the basket with the greenery—I'm never going to be the crazy plant lady either):

A blend of Arts & Crafts and Japanese furniture styles. Now, I've never been drawn to Asian design as strongly as I have to Arts & Crafts and more modern forms but these pieces have won me over. Solid cherry and black walnut crafted in Vermont at a place called Copeland Furniture. Never mind that it costs a pretty penny, look at the colors and clean lines. Covet the subtle curves and beautiful drawer pulls. Drool over the joinery and solid craftsmanship.

And I think the fossil and tool motif will work beautifully with it.

video games or alarm clocks?

milan in the morning

"...people don't respect the morning. An alarm clock violently wakes them up, shatters their sleep like the blow of an ax, and they immediately surrender themselves to deadly haste. Can you tell me what kind of day can follow a beginning of such violence? What happens to people whose alarm clock daily gives them a small electric shock? Each day they become more used to violence and less used to pleasure."

Milan Kundera, Farewell Waltz

And this written in 1973, just slightly after Atari appeared on the market but well before video games became a part of the cultural consciousness. And well before video games began to replace other outdoor kid activities like playing that oh-so-wholesome (if-you've-been-living-in-a- cultural-blackhole) game of "Cowboys and Indians." Before our society's violence became intrinsically linked to increasingly graphic TV shows and video games.

As I drifted awake this morning (for the third time, saintsbepraised), I wondered about alarm clocks and their contribution to world violence. Oh, certainly there was violence before snooze buttons and Pong, but how much have these devices really contributed? Or do they just feed the destructive need inherent in human beings?

I don't know. It's early and I haven't had my second cup of coffee. All I know is that my state of mind sans alarm clock is much more attuned to pleasure than violence. So I'm going to have my coffee and read the Sunday comics rather than rant about the roots of violence in our culture. Ahh.

junk food vs. fast food

What with mad cow disease, avian flu and the historic swine flu, the non-meat-eaters in our country must be delirious with vegetarian vindication. The vegans have probably gloated themselves into spontaneous combustion (oh, I meant bloated...all those raw vegetables make you so gassy). So what are we, the shameless carnivores, supposed to do? Begin sheepishly sifting through the organic tofu (that's right, though it seems redundant) and bulgur wheat patties at our local Whole Foods store?

Probably. But for those of us who hear the words: T-Bone, Ribeye, and even New York Strip Steak accompanied by a faint but persistent angelic choir in our heads, there must be another option. If we, as a culture, can master the chemical prestidigitation involved in making a Hostess Twinkie, than we can figure out how to raise, butcher and prepare an animal without turning the fucker into a petrie dish of deadly disease.

And speaking of Twinkies, it is amazing how much shit is written about them little snack cakes. On first googling, I found more upbeat, urban myth-destroying links with a pro-Hostess-spin than anything about the nutritional abomination that they are. Of course, it goes without saying that I love them. There is no verifiable reason, except for connecting their sweet, chemical sponginess with all things primal...like a warm bottle, a dry bottom and a well-worn blankie.

There are even Twinkie Recipes (from Hostess, of course) complete with a stunning cross-cultural, cross-genre recipe for Twinkie Sushi...don't think about it, just do it. The other recipe photos look way too much like regurgitation for me to recommend them.

Then, there's the Twinkie Project. Purportedly executed right here in Houston at Rice University. The harsh tests of Twinkie endurance were spellbinding but the haiku was disappointing. Still, you've got to love two young men, attending one of the most prestigious universities in the south, spending that much time concocting, conducting and documenting their experiments on the cellophane-wrapped nutritional equivalent of etymology's bastard child, "crapulence."

What I want to know is why can't you order Twinkies in the drive-through at fast food places? Wouldn't that be perfect? Slick up your digestive tract with more foods that use the word "extruded" somewhere in their formulae. Until this moment, I never fully comprehended the difference between junk food and fast food and now I get it. However, the day a Twinkie shows up on Mickey D's backlit microphoned menu will be the day that the two will, once again, become one.

thanksretreating

Well, my firstborn left yesterday for his next adventure. I will miss him greatly...but it makes me smile to know that he is happily roadtripping across the country. Once again Barbara worked her magic and managed to get all of David's possessions into his vehicle. It's like watching all those clowns climb back into the Volkswagen Beetle. You're positive that all that stuff won't all fit, but she jigsaw-puzzles it together with room to spare.

He got to Phoenix early this afternoon, arriving two days before Thanksgiving for his little brother. Wednesday is "Special Person" day at 8-year old Gavin's school and he wanted his big brother David to come with him and be his "special person." It is so sweet I can't stand it.

I'm feeling a little sheepish about Thanksgiving. After all, it has been a 20+ year tradition for us to put out a huge spread and have family and friends join us. But I'm completely uninterested in doing any of it. After all these years, all I want to do is sleep late and have a turkey sandwich. The sheepish part is getting use to the 180° reversal of attitude. How could something be eagerly anticipated year after year and then, suddenly, be of no interest at all? It's like I've broken up with the Holidays.

feeling better, sort of

After making many of straight friends, family and acquaintances feel uncomfortable last week over my reaction to the whole Proposition 2 debacle, I am somewhat happy to report that my outrage and heartbreak have begun to heal over. Other people's glossed-over, laissez-faire response to our "predicament" doesn't make me want to light into them with the grocery list of ways these kind of laws and documents can fuck up our lives. I am just conscious of how much that kind of anger can debilitate me after the initial rush.

Anyway, onward and upward. Or something.

I was walking around downtown during lunch late last week. The weather is finally beautiful in this overheated city. Yet we are still a decidely indoor people. As I walked past Miró sculpture in front of the Chase building, I saw a group of smokers clustered together on their little concrete island of exile. It ocurred to me that the need to smoke every 2 or 3 hours forces them to go outside more than the rest of us. The smokers probably get more fresh air than the non-smokers.

The holidays are coming and I'm feeling unusually bland about them. For an atheist, I sure do love those Christian-glazed holidays. But this year, I find myself relieved that our kids will be visiting their stepmother and we won't have to dredge up the energy to celebrate until Christmastime.

Okay, I'm starting to depress myself here, so I'm going to bed. Like my mother always said, if you can't think of anything nice to blog about...

only halfway home, it seems

It occurred to me the this past week that I've lived in Houston for exactly half of my life: 23-1/2 years. That's amazing since I came here from New York under protest. But I never expected to fall in love with Texas nor with a Texas woman. But I did. Raised my family here, went to college here, enjoyed a career here and bought a wonderful old, needy house here.

I'm not sure why some people are content to move from place to place while others are inclined to settle down immediately. Oh, there are theories but sometimes it feels like it's coded on your DNA...it's such a primal pull to nest or wander. I'm not quick to make major decisions—particularly about where I hang my hat. I circle, I sniff, I investigate, I weigh options. It's maddening to the people around me, I'm sure. But once I've decided, I'm pretty much immoveable.

So I applied for adoption. Gave up my New York residency literally and figuratively and became a Texan. I love this place in all it's contradictory, arrogant splendor. My roots have grown deep and this is home.

Last night, for the first time in over 20 years, I began to think of leaving. Leaving my big city and my beloved house. Leaving the tang and twang of a culture that taught me to wear cowboy boots and eat spicy food. Leaving a city of full of fascinating people and dear friends. Proposition 2 passed yesterday by a heartbreaking 76%:

Marriage in this state shall consist only of the union of one man and one woman. [already a law]
This state or a political subdivision of this state may not create or recognize any legal status identical or similar to marriage. [my italics]

Oh, shit, people. Fear and Bigotry. It's not political anymore, it's personal. You have said in one loud ignorant voice that my relationship of 19 years deserves no respect and no protection. That all feeble protections I've eked out of the system (domestic partner coverage, hospital privileges, last wills, etc.) over the last few years are up for grabs. Back into that legal limbo freefall without a landing pad.

Where will we go? Will anyplace ever feel this much like home again?

homonyms of the week

I am a whore for homonyms (almost as apeshit about alliteration):

• rheumy/roomy
• neigh/nay
• whirred/word

namely this

Nomenclature. What you call it. It's a weighty responsibility (and opportunity) that, frankly, most people do not value enough
HoMedics
What knucklebrain missed this one? Here's the deal. You don't dismiss a product name solely because of a possible adolescent interpretation. Adolescents can mutate any name into something disgusting, sexual or negative. It's their job and, by god, they are good at it. However, you don't have to be intuned to your Beavis or Butthead persona to understand why "HoMedics" is a bad idea.
They took two fairly benign concepts: Home and Medic. They noticed, cleverly, that the last two letters of one were the first two letters of the other. And they never looked back. Then, they put a little symbol under the "o" and superscripted it, just in case anyone out there missed the point. Anyway you slice it, Ho Medics sounds like sex worker EMTs. If you emphasize the home part instead, you get Home Dic(k)s. Which conjures up no healthier an image.
Liars
Speaking of whoring dicks, this just in from our favorite almost-hip, not-quite-cool, musically-challenged Captain Kirk...
William Shatner has been pimping a local law firm aptly named "Smith & Hassler" How, how, how, does he deliver this shit without a hint of irony? He's not that good of an actor. I desperately want to add another partner or two. Smith, Hassler & Irritant. Or Smith, Hassler & Sold-My-Soul-to-Satan, Ltd. (Not board certified in anything but lucrative misdirection.)
Nice Republican Apellation
My friends have a new nephew named Cannon. I didn't know if I should publicize this...but it is too good to pass up (I'll leave out the last names, okay?). The baby's older brother and sister are named Hunter and Savannah. Hunter, Savannah, and Cannon. And Savannah was almost named Remington. How can you top that? Send them to Big Game Nursery School?
In my Father's House, I mean, Neighborhood
While perusing new home ads (because I love what builders come up with for new streets and developments) I came across this beauty: "Kingdom Come Manor." Kingdom Come—no shit. What do you think? Think we're looking at a big welcome sign for non-Christians? Clearly, Apu this is not the place for you. Mohammed get thee to Allah Estates. Esther, we're building a nice, very nice development across town called Hebrew Homes. I don't know. Kingdom Come. Just sounds like it's asking for it. I would give up my left tit to name the streets on the wrong side of the tracks. And there will be a 7 Deadly Sins Avenue. And a 666 Beelzebub Blvd.

my hail marys, our fathers

Sometimes I come to this blogging experience like a penitent Catholic.
"Readers, forgive me, it's been 11 days since my last submission..."

Here are the random thoughts (you're always on my mind) I've been collecting in the interim.
All grown up
Went and had my annual PapMammopalooza yesterday. Feel like such an adult. Haven't been feeling particularly fit lately. Okay, I feel like shit being dragged around in a generic trash bag. Anyway, I only thought I felt bad as I was directed towards pre-stirrups-humiliation-weigh-in. Knew I'd put on a couple of pounds, but was unprepared for the...enormity (floabw) of the metamorphosis. Almost awe-inspiring in that "I got all that done in just six months? Damn!"
Been doing a fair amount of brain teaser/word puzzles lately. Subconscious fear of Alzheimers is my guess. It's like cerebral calesthenics—I actually get kind of a good brain rush...hard to explain. Anyway, it occurred to me that if my physical energy and my mental energy were switched out, I'd be a mildly retarded professional athlete.
My son
My son is moving from Houston to California. Or Oregon...I'm not completely sure. I hate the thought of being an even vaguely clingy mom. Hate it. But, shit, I love that boy and here are some of the reasons why.

• He was recently in Seattle and called me to tell me about this bumpersticker he thought I'd appreciate: We're making enemies faster than we can kill them. This from a previously apolitical creature who is guarded (and rightly so) about the tendency for people to turn over their mental steering wheel to whichever leader, preacher or whackjob happens to have a spare set of keys.
  

• Popular culture and music are appealing to me, but not always on my radar screen. I don't have to personally track down what's happening because I can just call my son. Like the other day I asked him, "what the hell is that tuft of hair called that guys grow just below their lower lip?" And he says, "It's a soul patch, mom." And I am completely happy.

• Our tastes in books, music and movies have enough overlap that his suggestions are almost always on target. He recently suggested we watch Me, You and Everyone We Know. And all I can say is ))<>((

Lordy, lordy
When the moons of religion and irony align, I say HALLELUJAH. Do not miss this article about a baptizing, proselytzing, electrifying Waco preacher.