day 13 pick-me-up

So I read some corny jokes to pick up my spirits. And now, I'll share them:

One-liners
So a dung beetle walks into a bar, and pulls up a stool...
------
If you shoot a mime, do you have to use a silencer?

Ageism
A couple in their nineties are both having problems remembering things. During a checkup, the doctor tells them that they're physically okay, but they might want to start writing things down to help them remember.

Later that night, while watching TV, the old man gets up from his chair.

'Want anything while I'm in the kitchen?' he asks.
'Will you get me a bowl of ice cream?'
'Sure.'
'Don't you think you should write it down so you can remember it?' she asks.
'No, I can remember it.'
'Well, I'd like some strawberries on top, too. Maybe you should write it down, so's not to forget it?'
He says, 'I can remember that. You want a bowl of ice cream with strawberries.'
'I'd also like whipped cream. I'm certain you'll forget that, write it down?' she asks.
Irritated, he says, 'I don't need to write it down, I can remember it! Ice cream with strawberries and whipped cream - I got it, for goodness sake!'

Then he toddles into the kitchen. After about 20 minutes, the old man returns from the kitchen and hands his wife a plate of bacon and eggs. She stares at the plate for a moment.

'Where's my toast?'

Sexism
One day in the Garden of Eden, God comes to Adam and Eve and tells them he has two gifts, one for each of them. The first, he says, is the ability to pee standing up. Adam starts jumping up and down excitedly and loudly declares that he wants it. Eve, listening to him jabbering on and on about it, rolls her eyes and asks God what he has left for her.
"Multiple orgasms."

Blondes
A blind guy walks into a bar. He says to the bartender, "I've got a great blonde joke for you!"
The bartender says, "Just a minute there, buddy. There's something you should know. I'm blonde. The guy sitting on your left is a Marine drill sergeant, and he's blonde. The guy on your right is a heavyweight boxer, and he's blonde. Now do you still want to tell that joke?"
And the blind guy says, "Well, no, not if I'm going to have to explain it three times!"
------
A young ventriloquist is touring the clubs and one night he's doing a show in a small town in Arkansas. With his dummy on his knee, he starts going through his usual dumb blond jokes when a blond woman in the 4th row stands on her chair and starts shouting: 'I've heard enough of your stupid blond jokes. What makes you think you can stereotype women that way? What does the color of a person's hair have to do with her worth as a human being? Its guys like you who keep women like me from being respected at work and in the community and from reaching our full potential as a person. Because you and your kind continue to perpetuate discrimination against not only blondes, but women in general...and all in the name of humor!'

The embarrassed ventriloquist begins to apologize, but the blonde yells, 'You stay out of this mister! I'm talking to that little bastard on your lap!'

Marriage
Mary, a good Scottish, woman lay dying. She begged her husband of many years,"Jock promise me when I die you'll sit with my sister at my funeral!" Jock answered, "Och, Mary...I hate your sister and your sister hates me!" Mary begged once more, "Promise me Jock that you'll sit with my sister at my funeral!" "Alright, Mary" sighed Jock, "I'll sit with your sister at your funeral. He paused. "But it'll spoil the whole day."

Simple Q&A
Q: What is "Perfect Pitch"?
A: It is the sound created by an accordion hitting a bagpipe in a dumpster.
------
Q: What did the Minnesotan say to the Pillsbury Dough Boy?
A: Nice tan.
------
Q: Why is the sand wet at the beach?
A: The seaweed.
------
Q: What did the fish say when he bumped into the wall?
A: Dam
------
Q: How do you get a sweet little old lady to say the F-word?
A: Get another sweet little old lady to yell "Bingo!"
------
Q: Why did the cannibal get sick after eating the missionary?
A: You can't keep a good man down.

[And, my favorite, I'm afraid:]

Critters
A State Trooper received an emergency call to respond to a highway crash. When he arrived he found that two turtles had collided and were lying unconscious on the roadway.
While investigating he noticed a snail sitting on a nearby fence.
"Excuse me," he said, "but did you witness this accident?"
"Yes officer," the snail replied, " but it all happened so fast..."

day 13 redux

I don't know whether I'm going to burst into tears or burst into flames.

(As if. When given a choice, my choice is combustion.)

day 13

This is not a catastrophe, it's just a huge inconvenience.

A huge, cranky-making inconvenience. Spent half the night in the truck last night. The trade-off is air conditioning and uncomfortable surfaces OR comfortable bed and sticky heat. Until 2 am, when we schlepped inside for a few hours of sleeping abed in reasonable temperatures.

A half-million Houstonians and I are fucking tired.

I'm not going to use sleep deprivation and temperature torture as license to be a raging lunatic. But, tranquility in the face of sleepiness is not my superpower.

I'm signing off now because I can't stand to hear myself talk about electricity, hurricanes or sleep for one more minute.

day 12

No.

day 10

Slipping over here between jobs to say that we are now in Day 10 of the electricity-free torpor. The cool front has dissipated, the nights are hot, humid and allergenful. A few thoughts...

I am exploring the idea of hurricane-induced alcoholism. I have met more neighbors and drunk more alcohol in the past week or so than in the previous six months.

Steven and his mom imported (from San Antonio) battery-driven fans. Since there is not an inverter to be had in Houston or surrounding counties (or extension cords or batteries...but you can buy a generator for $800. EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS. Shit, we'll just get a room.), he and his mom should be given a medal from the mayor. It's hot but a little fan goes a long way. Thank you, thank you.

Word is that we won't have power until Thursday or Friday. For those of you not suffering from heat-induced counting dementia: that would be Day 13 or Day 14...or as I like to call it: Day Two Weeks. By that time I will have stopped haunting the home improvement stores for electrical inverters and will be stocking up on pitchforks and torches.

One gets cranky after two weeks of no a/c in the subtropical sauna that is Houston. Even pioneer frontierswomen.

Finally, the saddest note:
The day Ike hit Houston was the day David Foster Wallace hung himself. I just learned of this yesterday and am profoundly saddened by his death. What an incredible writer. 46 years old. Goddammit. Goddammit.

losing the pioneer spirit

Okay. I'll continue with the recap in another post. My inner Sister Goodwife is about to get knocked over by a huge whine. It's Day 6 in the power outage. I've been sleeping in ragweed-sprinkled, mold spored "fresh" air for as many nights.

The across-the-street neighbors have power. The goddamn church next door has power. My sunshiny attitude is curdling like last week's dairy products. I want to slap the shit out of myself for being such a crumbly baby but I'm t-minus-2-days away from going commando and I'm sick of eating meals that remind me of warmed-up dog food.

Sorry. Will be back with better news. Soon.

YES, hurrICANe

Your intrepid frontierswoman reporting here.
We're fine. Thanks for asking. House lost some shingles, garage apartment had a window blown out but no gargantuan limbs attacked structures or vehicles. Here's the chronology.

Friday
Drop St. Barbara off at work. Find two gas stations open and fill up both vehicles without too much waiting in line.

Expected the storm winds to kick in after midnight but the power transformer in our neighborhood couldn't hold out until then. Believe a harsh BREEZE knocked it out at 7:30pm. Across the street neighbors had power until 3:00am. The Heights Sweat-a-thon begins.

The night was long, people. I mean crazy-ass winds but enough rain so that the doors couldn't be left open. Since the storm was so huge, it seemed to take forever to pass over us. I kept watching the pecan trees in the backyard...willing them to keep it together. The house was so hot and humid that I lay down in a back room next to the a/c window unit. The gusts outside were so strong that periodically a little air was forced backwards through the unit and I got a wisp of breeze. Ahhhh.

But seriously, I wasn't afraid. It's not that I mean to imply that the rest of you are whiny pussies or anything (well, some of you actually are...but none of you read my blog, right?) but what is there to get hysterical about? If a tree falls on your house you can't stop it...just find a dry interior room and try and get some sleep. You'll just figure it out when the sun comes out. And if you can't sleep because it's so goddamn hot and humid, organize the linens. Or something.

Saturday
I got up every hour through the night, so I slept on and off until 7:00am. Continued to be rainy and windy until noon or so. I assessed the damage outside and was relieved. The church next door (that's right, campers, Fate has a firm grip on irony putting me next door to a church) had a huge pecan tree that could have easily fallen over onto the small office we rent out. But fell instead into the church parking lot. Proving once again that God doesn't give a shit. I suppose, one might say that He did, because it didn't land on the church, but I don't buy that. If the righteous are rewarded and the wicked are punished that tree would have been uprooted and replanted in my living room. Suck on that, you self-righteous Christian-types. (Of course, I'm not talking to you nice, Unitarianesque Christian-types.)

From 9am until 2pm I did what any good pioneer woman would do, I cooked all the perishables in the fridge. Goddammit, there'll be no wasted food in this house. I made potato/kielbasa hash; arroz con pollo, cooked the frozen flounder and hamburger. Hell, I even baked banana bread from the frozen ripe bananas. All I needed was a gingham bonnet.

Happy to have Eric & Steven stop by for a visit. Lori & Mary brought ice. True friends who see you when you look like you've been using Ol' Bacon Grease Hair Gel are friends forever.

I got to go pick up my St. Barbara early from her job, so I wouldn't have to travel crosstown in the dark. 15 miles and not a single traffic light working. So happy to have her home. We set up a pallet for sleeping, on the floor as close to the screened front door as possible. It's hard. It's hot. And totally not in a good way. 3:30am, I snap. We're heading for the car. Don't care how uncomfortable it is to sleep in a Honda Accord. Like magic, black magic, the skies open up...a thunder & lightning tropical storm. Amazing. No matter, we grab the umbrella, pillows and sheets and trudge out by 4am. Just a few hours of cool, dearbabyjesus. So we put the seats back and sleep off and on for a couple of hours. Around 6am I shine the flashlight on the dash. I ask St. B, so what kind of mileage are we getting? I'm such a kidder.

7am, we climb out of the car into our river-runs-through-it-driveway. Our street often floods but the water seems to be rising a bit too much for comfort this time. Soon it's over the curb, over the sidewalk and creeping up our lawn. Pioneer Women Engage! (Okay. So that's a completely lame reference to a completely lame superhero cartoon. I'm tired, please forgive.) The storm drains are crammed full of flotsam and jetsam (how long have I waited to use that phrase...almost correctly) so we arm ourselves with metal rakes and begin mucking out the drain grates. At times, we're more than knee deep in water. An hour-and-a-half later, the water begins to recede. Don't fuck with women holding rakes, people.

To be continued...

ooooohhhhh

The wind is picking up and the decent weatherman said that the storm stretches out 500 miles from the eye...which is 65 miles wide.

My what a huge eye you have, Ike.
You big ol' Cyclops.

you are so much tougher than i am

So here we are. Rather, here I am. The hurricane is about 9 hours away. I can tell, because of the interactive graphic the Chronicle has called Storm...Pulse...Tracker (Each ellipsis represents dramatic notes punching home every serious syllable. In my head.) and all is well. I mean, I'm not seeing anything but light wind and rain.

I don't watch television. Seriously, I turn it on so rarely that I forget which network is on which channel. It's because I'm not as tough as you are. Really. I don't have the stamina. On every local channel, of course, is hurricane coverage. Each newscaster trying to outdo the others in breaking news. Only it's not. So they take the skimpiest facts and wring them out for every useless iota of information. 24/7. I watch for 10 minutes at a time and I have to walk away. They are saying nothing new and using up all the dramatic adjectives so that when there is really something to report, we're all deaf and dumb to the importance.

The last straw: Geraldo Rivera. I've run out of epithets. Couldn't have imagined getting to this point. I can't find a word filthy enough to describe what a repulsive douchebag (see? it just glances off the side of my loathing) he is. Just now, he allowed himself to be tossed by the waves into the water. So he could cut right to the core of the reporter on location, cameras a'rollin'. His microphone is an electrical device, right?
IF
THERE
WERE
A
GOD.
But no. He doesn't get electrocuted. He isn't flicked out to the sea by the colossal hand of the Almighty. Flicked. He should be flicked right into Ike's gigantic swirling crotch and get fucked up but good. Wow, I got a little closer that time.

You see? I'm not tough enough for prime time news. My Bliss runs screaming out of the house and my Disgust hands me a pepperoni pizza and says, sit down honey, you're going to enjoy this.

Goddammit.

ay! ike

If it isn't one thing, it's a hurricane. We are 12 hours away from a significant hit on Galveston/Houston. It looks like Ike will remain a category 2 hurricane. Which is no reason to panic nor reason to plan an afternoon on the beach.

I'm not all that worried. Like most Houstonians my biggest concern is losing electrical power (read: air conditioning) for the hot, muggy aftermath. Next is flooding...but I do have, you know, that big, wonderful Tundra, just in case. Of course, I have no intention of getting out in all that if I can help it. (Traffic exiting Houston has been predictably insane.) Our streets flood but Tropical Storm Allison was the acid test for flooding (Houston was inundated) and our little house came within 6 inches of being flooded, so I'm pretty sure we're okay.

Last night we went to Target (for printer ink–I know, but you have your emergencies and I have mine) and drove past a half-dozen gas stations: all of them had bags over the pump handles. There is no gas to be had in this area.

Barbara had volunteered to help out at Menninger, so she'll be there from this (Friday) morning until tomorrow (Saturday) night. It's a psychiatric treatment facility so when they say they'll be in "lock-down," they damn well mean it. It's a little creepy to be anywhere using that phrase. She's a saint, I've said it before, and I'm glad she'll be able to help them out. But, of course, I would rather she'd be huddling in the interior bathroom with me, candles and a stack of books. Maybe some wine.

Okay, I'm signing off. Will update you on the thing before or after.

cybulimia

Monday through Friday. No internet access.

Today is the second day back…will get to the backstory. Suffice it to say that I’ve been gorging on the internets all weekend.

Should have paced myself, but such restraint is sometimes out of our control. Consider this my “sicking-up” after the binge.

[In my frolicking about the web, post-famine, I caught up on blog reading and then some. And, it tasted great. However, I was reminded by the black-out of how much time I spend in front of this machine. Perhaps some time should be web-free. I know, it sounds like heresy…like hating chocolate…but we ate dinner together without the sound of a keyboard clicking. We did crossword puzzles together…using freakin' paper and pencil, even. I’m just saying that it wasn’t all gnashing teeth and cursing the dark this past week. Still, I'm glad to be back.]

support hosed

Racism and xenophobia are so repugnant. And yet it’s naïve to imagine we’re all free and clear on this one. Especially those of us who are cultural minorities and think ourselves politically sensitive. There is a thin, blurry line that separates racism from the acknowledgment of cultural differences. We often avoid mentioning the issue in order to never step over that line. I am going to attempt to navigate this morass.

Tech Support and Outsourcing. It’s a problem. I spent the better part of the week talking to, what felt like, most of the Indian Subcontinent and half of Southeast Asia. I had a problem that wasn’t on the list. A weird DSL configuration that I could. not. make. clear. Swear to god, I must have talked to 30 people. 40, maybe. I was escalated up to the next level. I was transferred. Double-transferred. Call back in 4 hours. We’ll call you back. Talk to the installation department (in Myanmar? Thailand? What does it mean that the tech support is mostly in India but the Installation and Customer Service is in Singapore? Why?) With each call my irritation mounted.

Years ago when I was in school, I worked at the public university library. I am a total research, book, info-junkie nerd. I LOVED working in the library. I went through months of training to work at the reference information desk. Helping students and professors find the answers for their research. Back when there was (jesussaveme) NO internet. We were phasing out the card catalog, starting to use some very clumsy databases…and the dinosaurs had just stopped roaming the earth. Anyway, the information desk was a source of great anecdote. A public library is just that—any crazy-ass fool can walk through the door and come up to you and ask a question. We were all about information, even though we couldn’t always help the ones with the tinfoil hats. We actually helped tons of people find sources for their research or papers. But we were taught that one of the more important aspects of that job is diffusing.

When people feel frustrated or dismissed or just stupid about a thing, they tend to get defensive. And angry at the person embodying their real or imagined ignorance. My daughter pointed this critical skill out to me when I was talking to her about tech support. When I worked the gay-lesbo-bi-trannie switchboard, I also tapped into this training. You need to be able to listen to a person, empathize, help them let off steam and assure them you will truly try and help them solve their problem.

That is, no shit, all most people need. Listen, empathize, convince them you’ll do your best (and of course, back that up by TRYING to do your fucking best).

However. This is hard to do. (Some of our crusty librarians were scathing. Their disdain for the requester's ignorance threw gasoline on the insecurity fire. It was, I’m afraid, quite funny in anecdote…but rare enough.) And this was basically within a culture and face-to-face. Cross-culturally and over-the-phone it is very hard to do. Not impossible, but quite hard. When you deal with a society weaned on leftover British Empire language/manner skill set, you end up with very polite and at times, overly formal responses to anger. This, I feel safe to say, drives most United Statesians completely bonkers.

And that’s just the social niceties part of the challenge.

So, people, outsourcing tech support may be here to stay but I’m pretty sure that this problem will come to a head someday. I’m afraid when presented with two comparable services, the one with the local help line is going to get my vote. And you bigots out there, can not count me in your club. This is all about expediency. We certainly don’t speak the best English in the world and our slang is prolific but we probably understand each other a little better than not.

One last note. When I was trying to get the brand name and model of the DSL modem that my ISP supported, the customer service person said what sounded and spelled out like SpeedCREAM. I said SpeedCREAM? No, SpeedPREAM? No, SpeedSCREAM? How weird. She kept spelling it out but I could not distinguish her t as in thomas from her p as in pomade? pumice? Swear, I couldn’t. She got fairly impatient (couldn’t blame her) and I finally understood that she was spelling out SpeedSTREAM. Oh. Well, that makes sense. She’s probably blogging right now about the illiterate, idiotic American woman she spoke to this week.

a doll named chernobyl

Proof, once again, that while little is new under the sun, there are still brilliant, fresh ways of communicating creatively:

Jaime Pitarch. Chernobyl (2007). Lime tree wood, aniline, oil, varnish
via wemakemoneynotart.com

This is stunning.

sticky fly paper tomfoolery

The weather is beautiful–if you like hot sunny days and blue skies–belying the danger of Hurricane Gustav, bearing down on New Orleans like an arrogant burglar returning for the stuff he left behind.

We just got back from grocery shopping and paying for the Honda registration sticker. I imagined putting the sticker on in the storm and decided to just get it done now. Sitting in the front seat I scrape off the old sticker and begin removing the adhesive. I wonder if I'm getting high from the Goo Gone (one of the greatest solvents ever concocted) and if the combination of citrusy petrochemicals and Windex are destroying brain cells?

Meanwhile, there are love bugs (plecia neartica) everywhere:
For those of you unfamiliar with them, look here.

I am, as always, impressed by their aerial copulation and convinced that the name Love Bug is nothing but a silly Victorian throwback. These are Fuck Bugs, my modern friends. There is no tiny bouquet of flowers clutched in her foreleg or hint of wine on his coy fly mouth. They are simply following their biological mandate with a mid-flight twist. Makes you wonder, in a Darwinian sense, if being a member of the Mile High Club isn't the natural response to a primitive, vestigial urge? Perhaps certain members of our species find themselves strapped in and enjoying a complimentary packet of peanuts when overcome by inexplicable horniness...

Anyway, I finish the clean up and head back in to get the sticker. You used to have to mail away for the registration but now Kroger (among others) has a neat little machine and special paper that spits out the self-adhesive sticker. The only difference is that the old stickers were transparent–you could see through them and be reminded of the expiration date. I'm not sure why they discontinued that...it seems like transparent adhesive paper is certainly within our current technological grasp, eh?

Holyshitonmelbatoast, I fucked up. Shit, shit, shit. I removed the inspection sticker. REMOVED, as in shredded beyond recognition. Jesuschrist. The car was inspected exactly six months ago and I've cut the proof down half-way through its bureacratic little life. I go back in, confess to the kindest woman ever (it's the car she drives and the inspection errand she'll have to rerun), who gives me absolution for my boneheadery before I've gotten through the preamble. Damn, she is sweet to me.

I load up the solvent and cleaner and return to the car to remove the sticker that had actually expired. Then, I fish the mangled inspection sticker out of the trash, assemble its bits like an anthropologist and hope that the reconstruction will suffice for the inspection guy not to charge us full price for a replacement.

And I thought I was being so efficient.

oiht (overheard in houston tunnels)

My favorite statement heard (again) in the tunnels today:

I'll have to call you later, I can't get a decent signal below ground.

Ahhhhh.

therapeutic recycling

Stop making that face. This is not a lecture on recycling.

Okay, I'm a liar. This IS absolutely a lecture on recycling.

First, forget all the small print: yes, it is better to reduce and reuse and yes, energy is used to recycle and yes, it's inconvenient and yes, we don't know exactly how much really ends up being used, blah-bah-blah...because we're throwing away tons of shit that we don't need to throw away. It is wrong on every level. It fucks up our planet, it leaves poison for our children to deal with, hurts our economy and I'm even considering that it destroys our collective soul in an atheistic sort of way. Hell, MacGyver would take all this crap and build another planet with it–all I'm suggesting is that we crunch it up and make something else from it. Like welcome mats or tote bags or something.

Houston is not what you might call an environmentally conscious kind of city. What with the redness of it all and that frontier logic: if god didn't want me to fill up dumpsites, he wouldn't have put 'em there and given me this big honkin' sweet pickup truck.

However, even in Houston recycling is not hard. There are places to take this stuff. There are lots of neighborhoods (like mine, ptl) that have curbside pickup. CURBSIDE PICKUP, for christsake. It gives you no excuse and would only be easier if Mayor White actually walked into your house and carried out your green recycle bin for you. And yet, there are tons of cretins who don't recycle. Jesus Christ on a flapjack, that ticks me off.

Anyhow. We had a party for our dear friend and playwright, Eric, some weeks ago. I may have mentioned it. It was a great fun affair. Much wine and beer was consumed. Now, while my neighborhood does have curbside pickup, they no longer pick up glass. So, we stacked up all the bottles and toted them to the recycling drop-off this past weekend. Here is an aspect of recycling that should appeal to most people (even you earth abusers): we had to throw each kind of glass (clear, green, amber) into separate, enormous containers. They look like industrial barges or rail cars or something.

What
a
fucking
blast.

Go ahead, throw the first one. It has to go pretty far. It crashes and breaks with THE MOST SATISFYING SOUND. I mean, this was (no offense, dear Dr. Ding) better than therapy. Throw, crash, repeat. I was thoroughly exorcised by the time we reached the end of my pile. I only wish I had more bottles in my bin.

Whack-a-mole, step aside. I've discovered breaking glass.

To recap: RECYCLE.

PS. I know there's a Democratic convention going on, by the way. I'm just pacing myself. Besides you can just go here for great convention coverage.

coming out of the crafts closet

I don't know why I feel sheepish about this stuff. Perhaps because it's not, you know, fine art. Whatever. I'm working on it. As I've said before, knitting is to carpentry joints as sewing is to welding. I am enamored of all things beautifully made by hand.

Apple hat with leaf mitts (3-6 months)

This is a gift for a friend. He and his wife are expecting their first in November. Infant stuff is unavoidably, deafeningly cute. Cute is my least favorite adjective but I make an exception for all things baby. Goddammit, this is ADORABLE.

I learned to knit when I was 10 years old. Save for a scarf for each of my children, I've never really finished any knitting project. Knitting is all about soothing process for me. My friends shake their collective heads. It IS. Anyway, my Puerto Rican aunt taught my Japanese aunt who taught me. I'm relatively sure my technique is a little off.

There you have it. This has been my free time activity for a couple of weeks. Granted, I had to redo quite a bit because I purchased my needles and yarn in Spain years ago and I had no idea of gauge or weight. I got my original inspiration here, but cobbled together three or four recipes to make it the way I wanted it.

You know that old adage, "if you haven't used it in three years, throw it out"? That would never, ever work with me. I have ideas simmering over shit I picked up a decade ago. It's a treasure hunt to rummage through my materials and find just the thing I need...

wrapping up summer

It's been a busy summer. Lots of company and socializing. Which, while a bit tiring, has been very satisfying. But blog-sucking. I find myself full of ideas and sans time and energy.

I'm working on a few little projects that I'm going to post soon. I'm also beginning my things to see and do in France research. I love researching once-in-a-lifetime trip activities. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to make this trip. Dad says that this is the worst time to go to Europe because the dollar is getting the shit beaten out of it by the euro (okay, that's not exactly how he put it). I told him, yes, turning fifty is not an event that fits conveniently into one's schedule.

That silly nod to tired humor about aging aside...people, I am not unhappy about turning 50. Swear to god, I'm just getting started. I've never been so excited about what's ahead. So many things to do, mountains to climb (she said figuratively) and adventures to have.

public transportation calls me grasshopper

I'm back to riding the bus. I won't test your patience with mathematical computations (fun as they were). Suffice it to say, public transportation is now an economically significant savings over driving, for a cheapskate money-wise woman like myself. (Damn you W, for forcing out my reluctant hippie.*)

*stolen shamelessly, but with warning, from my son.

Aside from the savings are the health aspects of walking an extra 15-20 minutes a day. I walk most of that via the downtown tunnel system as the sun has been cuddling right up to Houston of late. And if all that weren't enough, I'm surrounded daily by rich anecdotal material. Which coordinates nicely with the rich aroma. Ramped up by the cuddly sun.

I have long loved a rant. The world is never at a loss for providing crazy-ass things on which to comment. For laughing and catharsis. I have also learned to treasure the ability to rage. Stay with me, you peace-loving, non-confrontational readers (both of you). There's a good ending.

Rage, if you haven't enjoyed it, is powerful. It is especially powerful for women, who while maligned as shrews have also suffered as doormats. I'm not trying to be reductionist here, there are certainly examples all over the spectrum but I think it's fair to say that traditional women have been taught to curb expressions of anger to their detriment. They haven't, to be fair, been taught not to compress that suppression into flinty shards of passive-aggression (so poetical I am today) which is dangerous, to say the least.

Okay, to get personal: I was a cowering, frightened girl-child. I was obedient and self-sacrificing for god and survival. I was afraid of my anger. Of anyone's anger. This hamstrung me on more than one occasion. So, when I found my ovaries, I expressed my rage. It was good. Really good. I wanted to beat the shit out of anyone who threatened me or mine. Empowering.

But you can't stay there. You simply can't. It eats you alive and exhausts you and sends your loved ones running.

No surprise then, my social tolerance has not been...zen-like. I find inane phone, loud restaurant and boring office conversations Mad-Den-Ing. I'm actually not proud of this because I haven't been very successful at filtering that shit out.

Enter my yogi: Metro. Since I have grown quite fond of the remaining, unscarred sections of my stomach lining and am loathe unwilling to donate these to the idiocy surrounding me, I have decided to calm the fuck down. It's ridiculous to go apeshit about behaviors over which I have zero control.

Case in point. Riding home today involved the conscious defusing of my reaction to Rash-Inducing-Cell-Phone-Lady. She spent 15 interminable minutes talking loudly to some other presumably straw-hatted crony about the bus system. The bus she missed. The bus that passed her without stopping. She was going to call Metro. Maybe. She was on the bus that didn't travel via the HOV lane against her wishes. The connection kept petering out, Janey, are you still there? Janey, you're cutting out. Then, we talked about bus stops and schedules. All this at a difficult-to-tune-out volume.

I only glared once. Then, I thought, look at the bright side: she didn't plop down next to you and drill that tedious noise into your tired head! I retracted my fangs and redirected focus towards a happy project or a plan...you could almost hear the stomach acid spigot slow to a drip.

When we hit one more cellphone dead zone, Sister Gabby finally gave up and scolded Janey (like she purposely picked a phone service that sucked on bus route 50), Look you keep cutting out and it's driving me nuts. I'll just call you later. Click.

And someone in the next row, in that under your breath/loud enough for everyone to hear says "Thank you Lord, thank you Jesus!"

And it wasn't me. Ooommm.

crabby movie review

I'm not much of a current movie kind of gal. Actually I'm not much of a gal, truth be told. But recently I saw two movies that deserve a crabby-ass review.

Bonneville
This should have been solid. Jessica Lange, Kathy Bates and Joan Allen. All three stand-up-and-applaud kind of actors. But, no. It was such a retread. Uninspired road trip search for self with your best friends and hack chance meetings of predictable strangers. I don't know. I am pretty tired of the sisterhood bonding schtick as substitute for story.

Teeth
You all know my affection for, fascination with and general squealing delight over all things Vagina Dentata. So, when friends lent us this movie for us to watch, I couldn't resist. They warned us that it wasn't very good but felt the concept was worth the perusal. They were right. Stupid movie but funny idea. It got me to thinking about related specialties. Vaginal Orthodontist (there are gynecological products called Ortho, too. I kid you not). Vaginal Periodontist (yes, Virginia, there's a period in your periodontist). Can you imagine having a cavity or overbite? Or showing off your new caps? Perhaps removable bridges for the wary guest?

I've seen some good movies too. But there are scads of reviews about them out there. Besides this is my blog, dear reader, not some fucking exercise in balanced critiquing.

are those tea stains on your form?

A dear friend of mine was applying for a job and needed to go pee in a cup. (You know, to make sure he wasn't computer programming under the influence.) He was faxing lab paperwork to the potential drug-free employer and I requested a copy because: a) he showed it to me and b) I have no shame.

The form was entitled URINE CHAIN OF CUSTODY FORM (caps are theirs and I swear I heard an industrial door slam shut at the end of it). So serious we are about our urine! The document was certified by, you guessed it, the Signature of Collector. Complete with Collector's Name. (What does your Daddy do for a living? He's a Collector. Of Urine. We beam with pride.)

Finally, at the top of Acme* Lab's officious trip-/quintup-/sextup-licate form was this:

COPY 2—COLLECTOR (yellow)

Please tell me there's someone snickering in the design department at Forms 'R Us.

This is as good as the brown colon cancer wristbands that so delighted me in Aught Six. Note: Oddly enough, Anti-Tobacco is also represented by brown wristbands. And Colon Cancer/Colorectal Cancer now have an alternate color (blue) for the shit-brown-squeamish among us.

*Name changed to protect the pee-stained reputation of the real lab.

grammatical tagging [happy sigh]

from the rut. via Dave

This may, in fact, be the best cartoon representation of my kind of social disobedience. As ever, Dave, you and your betrothed sparkle with well-mannered bad behavior. I am not barely so worthy (false modesty is just annoying).

taming the chaos

Sister coming to visit. Very busy. DIY mavens, we are. New ceiling fan installed. Check. New kitchen faucet (and sprayer, ptl) installed. Check. Yardwork. St. Barbara's check. Homemade enchiladas and lasagna in the freezer. Check and check. Lists with check boxes checked. Check.

new ceiling fan. cool.

new faucet. smooth.

We're going to have so much fun. And my domestic duties will include far less domestic duty. Will report back.

ptl and pass the pubic dye

GEM ONE of TWO
Happened upon two gems in my cyber travels recently.

The first is SlidellBaptistSeminary.org (I won't even link to it because I can't bear to increase their site traffic. Go there if you don't believe me but you'll only have yourself to blame for the retinal scarring.) A few golden snippets from their page on Doctrine:

3. We believe that man is totally depraved, a sinner in both nature and practice, therefore totally separated from God, totally lost...

There are few things that get me off faster than being called totally depraved. Where do I sign up?

9. We believe that the Bible is the Word of God and is the absolute authority in determining the faith and practice of God’s people. We affirm that the sixty-six books of the Bible are inerrant, divinely and uniquely inspired, and [yadda, yadda, virgin-v'jay-jay, yadda, yadda]...

Have these folks every played Telephone? (Or as the politically insensitive call it: Chinese Whispers or Russian Scandal.)

Inerrant? As in:

in·er·rant /ɪnˈɛrənt/ [in-er-uhnt]
–adjective
free from error; infallible.

Nothing new, this literal Bible thing. It just never ceases to amaze me how blithely Fundamentalism kicks Logic right off the cliff.

And here are some beauties under Course Descriptions:

SURVEY OF THE CULTS

An investigation of the Doctrine of Mormonism, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Armstrongism, Christian Science, Unity and others. Attention is also given to the founding fathers.

Yay!! Mormons, Jay-Dubs, Armstrongians (WTF? Lance has branched off into theology?), Christian Scientitians, Unityanites (are they talking about those fucking evil humanists, the Unitarians?) have made it into the Cult Club! With a nod to the evil tenets of the founding fathers. Deism and Theosophy, get thee hence!

PERSONAL EVANGELISM	This is an interesting course in personal soul winning. It is comprehensive in that it deals with the “how to” in soul winning.
ADVANCED EVANGELISM	This is an advanced course dealing with soul winning. This course, taught by Dr. Dabdoub deals with different scenarios that the soul winner will face during door to door soul winning...

Ooo, look, look! Basic, Advanced AND Door-to-Door Soul Winning. I am absolutely sure that Beelzebub Junior College has this exact same course in their catalog. Credits won't transfer, though. Devil take them.

APOLOGETICS 1

This is an advanced study, taught by Dr. Dan Botterbrodt, dealing with the subjects of Evolution and the Cults.

For those of you keeping track, there's also an Apologetics 2: More Evolution, Bigger Cults.

Look, obscure words used to sound more...academical...academicky:

HOMILETICS	This course, taught by Pastor Phillip Weaver, offers an introduction to homiletics, which is the art of preaching. Varied considerations for [blah, blah, blah-fuckity-blah] ...sermon delivery.
HERMENEUTICS	This course, taught by Phillip E. Weaver deals with the process of biblical interpretation.

On October 9, 1997, after being examined educationally, ethically, and spiritually, SBS qualified for accreditation by the American Accrediting Association of Theological Institutions, Inc. of Rocky Mount, North Carolina.

According to the satanic wizards over at Wikipedia:

American Accrediting Association of Theological Institutions (AAATI) is a Christian nonprofit organization offering educational accreditation, based in Rocky Mount, North Carolina. It was formed in 1983. The composition of the board is unknown. According to Steve Levicoff, it is an accreditation mill operated by Dr. Cecil Johnson, president of Christian Bible College, a distance education Bible college based in Rocky Mount that Levicoff identifies as a diploma mill.

AAATI is not recognized as an accreditor by either the United States Department of Education and Council for Higher Education Accreditation.

(ugly tables, theirs; inconsistent italicizing/bolding for emphasis, all mine.)

I have to stop. It's like shooting fish in a barrel. A tiny barrel and a howitzer.

GEM TWO of TWO
This second site is proof that the righteous surfer shall be rewarded.

I am delighted to present these two sites in one entry. Pastor ("Dr.") Dabdoub can now share his fame with technicolor pubes.

This site is ridiculous and wonderful for so many reasons:

• Provides a darling, Mrs. Rubblesque nickname for your lady parts: Betty
• Gives wordsmiths a plethora of tagline fun:
  Betty Color; Not just for merkins anymore!
  Betty Color; Paint your pudenda!
  Betty Color; Color for your cooch!
  
• Creates endless opportunity for coining new phrases about making your hairs all matchy-matchy:
  

Coordinate your collar to your cuff.
(gobless your betty-free heart, Giuseppe,
for sending me this link.)

Order carpet to match the drapes.

Sync up your 'do and hoo-hoo.

Match your mullet and muff.

And of course,

Get your bob and beaver on the same page.

I cannot get enough. There are dyes (for brides: something blue?) and godsaveme, STENCILS! I am flummoxed, vahklempt...colorize amongst yourselves. Let me give you a topic: snatch is to swatch as religion is to fucktardery. Discuss.

this just in

A perfect blend of catch and skiff here. Enjoy Moby Dick via the interpretive genius of one Aaron Francis, D.V.D., one of my four adopted sons (AQ, JA, PR, you know who you are). The degree letters are for AF to decipher. [Hats off to my virago daughter (definition 2, por supuesto) for the link.]

Dave, Dave, Dave. You bait me with this:
Now I am plagued by unclean thoughts.

• Is the photo dirty or has she been rolling around with the zebras?
• I thought zebras were herbivores. Looks like this one ATE HER BOOBS.
• What could one do with an octopus? (sweater-wise, I mean, you pervs.)
• How long would it take to knit the matching leggings?

Christ on a flap jack, so many questions. So much zoo crafting envy.

Went to the Bayou City Farmers Market this morning. Nice produce but astrorganically priced. (I'm copyrighting this word.) Okay, it's possible that my love of word coinage leads to hyperbole. Stuff is probably no more overpriced than Whole Foods or Central Market. But I won't pay for that kind of wholesomeness every week. Just won't do it.

Will you look at the time? I've got to get back to the shit on my list...

mnemonics, your ass

callipygian

PRONUNCIATION:
(kal-uh-PIJ-ee-uhn)

MEANING:
adjective: Having well-shaped buttocks.

ETYMOLOGY:
From Greek calli- (beautiful) + pyge (buttocks).

How I try to remember new words:

Callie called to her pigeon while leaning over the balcony, her callipygian form silhouetted in the fading light.

Have I mentioned how much I love A.Word.A.Day?

a note about design

To clarify my previous post...I think that design can actually change the world.

Well-designed items or processes can beautify, enable success and, well, reduce suffering. Furniture, web, fashion, information, tool, interior, architectural and auto design (etc., etc.) can all add to or subtract from our everyday experience. Both aesthetically and practically good design is vital.

I also think it's important to poke fun at the collective snobbery that often accompanies design. So, you know, don't be a pretentious fuck.

thank you, o foul-mouthed guru

via we make money not art.

Six of one

I submitted this entry to Six Sentences and they accepted and posted it here.
Which makes me happy, but that niggling voice in my head mocks me with yeah, but how many entries do they turn away?
I don't know.
But writing succinctly is a great exercise.
Thanks to Veronica for pointing me to 6S.
Well, just look at this, another six sentences.

gay day and blog lint

I have so many things in my head to share. Real thinking things. Ideas and shit. But random and fluffy things have been accumulating in my virtual navel and I must clear them out:

Gay Pride Parade
Best t-shirt spotted (black letters on white shirt, gay man with straw cowboy hat):
Cowfag
Message to trannies:
Girlfriends, buy some decent wigs. I've seen Barbies with more natural coifs.
My queer epiphenita:
I'm the Bacon in the Great Bacon Lettuce Tomato sandwich. I love bacon.
 
Irony
Is anyone else pissed off at Fate's little joke of taking out two ground-breaking comedians within one month of each other (May 29 and June 22)? Korman, Carlin: I hope you two are doing that foul-mouthed voodoo that you do, soooo well.

Visitors
The Finns were here. Our Finnish host daughter (from 10 years ago) and her boyfriend were spending their vacation in the US and sandwiched 5 days in Houston between New York and San Francisco. They were completely delightful and we had great fun. I've been cooking like my mother (meaning I've been cooking well and in ridiculous quantities. And making menu lists.) for over a week and I am a bit tuckered.

Note: Between Finland's corner on the vowel market and the Czech Republic's capture of most of the consonants, it's amazing that we have enough letters left to cobble together a language.

Hypocrisy
Hello, Liberals/Progressives? Stop doing the McCain is so old schtick. It is, in essence, no less of a bullshit prejudice than racism or sexism and he has provided ample fodder for you on the real issues. Really, enough. You lose your integrity with each comment.

[One exception to the ageism slam: The Rude Pundit. A man whose commitment to the egalitarian smear is so wide-ranging and profound, it borders on the holy edge of the profane. When you look up the definition of "nothing is sacred," it links to his site. O Rude One, carry on.]
 
Dusty Mecca?
How the hell did I miss this?

Rampant Lesbianism
Republican candidate for senator from Oklahoma, Tom Coburn
You know, Josh Burkeen is our rep down here in the southeast area. He lives in Colgate and travels out of Atoka. He was telling me lesbianism is so rampant in some of the schools in southeast Oklahoma that they’ll only let one girl go to the bathroom. Now think about it. Think about that issue. How is it that that’s happened to us?"

–Tom Coburn, 8/31/04

–Atrios (via dailykos.com)

All the lesbians I know are going to be pulling up stakes and heading north to Ponca City or OK City or DustyPoonanny City as soon as they close this window.

Inspiration
Sapphobless my dear friend Giuseppe for this holy-fucking gem:

Click on the image (careful!) to enlarge. Click here to go to fldsdress.com to peruse the homespun frocks. FLDS stands for Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Über Mormons. Guardians of female hymenity, pastel full-body armor, cheap casseroles and all things caucasian. These are the placenta-makers, my people. Reproducing at a rate that causes great papal shame. And while we're talking about conspiracy, don't think it's a coincidence that FLDS reads exactly like "fluids." That is right. Every sperm is sacred.

 

And not that I don't think those Monty Python guys are anything less than total fucking geniuses, but they're wrong about the Mormon's spilling their seed.

I swear on the life of my unborn triplets, Chastity, Modesty and Frigidity, I will make me a pastel full-length dress. And I will unlock the secret of extensions and give myself a Christian updo. Amen.

building little bully billy bigots one panel at a time

Look at little Billy's face in panel two. Is it even possible that there's a child out there who gets this torqued-out about wearing clothes made in other countries? (Any child not poisoned by xenophobic parents, that is.) Or even grasps that clothes are not made by the clothing elves living in the department store basement?

Aside from the fact that this comic strip is inane and the very definition of saccharine, what kind of message does this send?

Free market exchange for us but not all you brown fuckers (Now, Billy, you're still not allowed to say the brown word), I mean, brown kids. Or: We can dress up like you on world cultures day at elementary school, learn your folk dances and the bleached version of your history but we're not buying your shit...unless, of course, it's made in our goddamn sweatshops.

With a sweet little nod to knittin' grandma.

Family Circus sucks.

now that was a nap

That was a nap that makes the other naps whistle a low, "da-a-a-mn."

That was a nap of stygian oblivion. A state of perfect matte blackness from which you awaken unsure whether tomorrow has eclipsed today.

That was a nap that bulleted past with all but its wingtips tucked and obliterated your little sparrow of consciousness in such a blinding explosion of feathers and talons that you didn't have time to whimper.

That, my friends, was a nap.

Damn.


[update: I submitted this entry to Six Sentences and they accepted and posted it here.]

artemia salina is way too fancy a name

Just read a great post about school fair goldfish at The QC Report.

It reminded me of another watery pet story filed under: Unwanted Pets That Wouldn't Die. My son had sea monkeys. I can't remember who bought them for him, probably someone with a score to settle with me. And obviously, whoever marketed brine shrimp as pets was a certifiable mad genius.

I, however, found it difficult to distinguish sea monkeys from flotsam in murky water and was not impressed. And they lasted forever...even when my son stopped feeding them and I, um, forgot to remind him. For a month. Jesus, they cannibalized their young or ate their dead or something.

But I didn't kill them all on purpose, no matter what my family thinks. I was cleaning off the countertop while my children were at their dad's house and the cloudy little shrimp tower fell over. Generations of sea monkeys rode a scum tidal wave over the kitchen floor, racing beneath appliances to die and decompose.

While I mopped up the carcasses of innumerable smelly shrimp, Barbara scoured a half-dozen toy stores and found another batch of dried monkey powder that we reconstituted and encouraged to speed grow (they didn't) so our son wouldn't know that all of his adult sea pals had been replaced (he didn't).

For years after this mishap I felt the weight of massacred sea monkeys on my soul. Every time I swerved to avoid a squirrel in the road, I imagined a few dead sea monkey black marks erased from the tally. Years later, when I felt that my pet-related crimes had been atoned for in full, I was finally free to annihilate all those animals too unevolved to factor automobiles into their genetic code.

Oh, calm down. I hate washing dead critter bits off my car.

not often

Not ofet6n often do I blog drunk.

Because I can't speel spell...or rather, I can't type fir for shit.

But goddammit, am I relaxed.

Hey–did I mention that for my 50th birthday (FIFTIETH, you heard me) I had a choice? Yes, I did. (First, I puled about not spending money and Barbara said, Let me remind you about how this works: you suggest, I decide. I love it when she goes all unexpectedly butch on me.) I really wanted a new computer. One of those MacBook Pro things. You can navigate the Space Station with those fuckers. And oh my god, do we need countertops. I also had my heart set on a stand-alone mixer. Like those gorgeous Kitchen Aid professional mixers. They come in red and will whip chunks of mesquite into a fine paste. BUT, our friends in Germany said, Come visit...stay with us, we're 1 hour from the border of France.

It's a no brainer, people (At this point in time, I am more than qualified to discuss decisions made while using very little of one's brain), new countertops and computers be damned, I'm going to celebrate my 50th in France. Paris, if possible.

I'm goign going to bed now.

Good fight, and good fuck.

congratulations (again) to phyllis & del

Cheers for California queers! Particularly this lovely old couple, Del Martin and Phyllis Lyons, who tied the knot in California yesterday:

Phyllis & Del, then. | Del & Phyllis, now.

Together for over 50 years these two San Francisco activists were pivotal in the fight for lesbian visibility and GLBT rights. The word hero has been handed out like elementary school honorable mentions and I wish I had a better word. But in every cliché-free sense, these brave women are heroes.

story via dailykos

five years

I overheard my coworkers begin their morning chatter and reached for my headphones just as one of them exclaimed, I haven't read a book in ages. The other responded, It's been five years since I read a book!

A moment of brain-recoiling horror. I can't imagine not reading books. All the time. Sometimes several at a time. And real books, fucking snob that I am. Books that have vocabulary and plot. Books that challenge my viewpoint and pull me into another world.

But, I thought (trying to regain my equilibrium) there are things that I haven't done in five years that might horrify someone else. Let me think. Five years since my last manicure? Okay. Maybe something more substantial...five years since I went to a concert?...since I've worn heels and pantyhose? Okay, that isn't really substantial. Five years since I danced? That actually is a tragedy...except I can't dance. Five years since I've bought a car...since I've gone hiking or camping (I'm stifling my applause). Five years since I've ridden a bicycle. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Five years since I've flown a kite or gone skiing or used differential calculus.

Now I'm exhausted. But none of these things seems as critical, or mutually exclusive to giving your brain regular stimulation. Of course, we always see as most important the things we like and are good at...

Aw, bullshit: people, your brains are going to mush and you need to feed them something decent. Not the Weekly World News. Not romance novels. Or not just the Weekly World News and romance novels.

post postmortem post

I'd been peeling back the layers of accumulati adorning my desk when I rediscovered my "notes" from the recent funeral I attended. Approaching any ceremony or meeting without a writing implement and paper sends me into a wild-eyed panic. Swaths of exposed skin have been penned upon in emergencies. Praise Zeus funerals provide programs...

One of the peculiarities of religion is the need to speculate about god's motives. You know, god took the baby because she was too good for this world. Gramps died because The Lord decided to ended his suffering. (Presumably The Lord thought 10 years of exponential dementia and 3 years of grueling chemotherapy were just about right.) ANYWAY, at my aunt's funeral there were several references to the Virgin Mother taking her on Mother's Day. As if that was the best way to honor her. At her party. On the other side. I'm so perplexed by all this. I find myself daydreaming that the priest dies and arrives at deathland only to realize, "Shit. I was totally talking outta my ass."

Most religions are power-sucks–even if it is the comfort being sought–because they hammer home the concept that you can't do things without god's help. You can't overcome your weakness, you can't accomplish your goals, you can't face death, you can't get to heaven, etc. ad nauseum without following some prescribed behavior. Without faith. Without obedience. Without baptism and tithing. Which seems counterintuitive, if you buy this divine spiritual goal of attaining perfection. Shouldn't we be taught that we have incredible innate powers? Not reaching inward to tap into these fallow abilities should be a sin. On that note, epiphenita's latest set of commandments:

1. Thou shalt use thy common sense.
2. Thou shalt stop whining or I shall cast out all thy big white teeth.
3. Thou shalt stop pestering me (god) about high school sports.
4. Thou shalt figure it out. Make thine list and use thy holy gray matter.
5. Thou shalt think about tomorrow before using all thy silver pieces for new togas and sandals today.
6. Thou shalt use thy signal or suffer the wrath of my vengeful high priestess of traffic flow.

10-schmen. Get these six right and then maybe, you get the next four. Back to the service...

The sweet little incense-swinging priest was likable enough. He told the congregation that it was okay to mourn. He referenced Jesus' sorrow at the death of his good friend Lazarus as proof that grief was an approved response to death. I don't remember the details of this part of the bible story–but the priest should know, right? So I guess JC was pretty sad.

But not so sad that he resisted RAISING LAZARUS FROM THE DEAD. He responded to death by using his superpowers. Come on! That's cheating and absolutely no comfort to us resurrection-challenged mortals.

Okay. Those are all my notes. That I can share. Suffice it to say that as a religious service/tribute to my aunt, it didn't suck. These people knew her and her family. That's good. But as a religious service addressing the mysteries of death...pretty much what I expected. Lots of assurance about things of which nobody is sure. Nice stained glass, though.

i agree but i'll do it anyway

This public diary thing is, you know, pretty fucking self-centered. I was reminded of this last week when the Writer's Almanac profiled one of my favorite authors, Michael Chabon. I skipped over to his bio in Wikipedia and read this:

In a 2002 essay, Chabon decried the state of modern short fiction (including his own), saying that, with rare exceptions, it consisted solely of "the contemporary, quotidian, plotless, moment-of-truth revelatory story." In an apparent reaction against these "plotless [stories] sparkling with epiphanic dew," Chabon's post-2000 work has been marked by an increased interest in genre fiction and plot.

Now I'm not a fiction writer. I'm an essayist of blog-common proportions. But I appreciate a periodic reminder that this private/public exercise is often no more than shameless masturbatory musings.

Another bit about Chabon from Wikipedia:

Chabon's first novel, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, was written as his UC-Irvine master's thesis. Without telling Chabon, his professor...sent it to a literary agent, who got the author an impressive $155,000 advance on the novel (most first-time novelists receive advances ranging from $5,000 to $7,500.) The Mysteries of Pittsburgh appeared in 1988 and became a bestseller, instantly catapulting Chabon to the status of literary celebrity.

Chabon was ambivalent about his newfound fame. He turned down offers to appear in a Gap ad and to be featured as one of People's "50 Most Beautiful People." (He later said, of the People offer, "I don't give a shit [about it]....I only take pride in things I've actually done myself. To be praised for something like that is just weird. It just felt like somebody calling and saying, 'We want to put you in a magazine because the weather's so nice where you live.'")

It just makes me happy to know that someone, whose work I respect, doesn't confuse credibility with popularity.

Now back to "sparkling with epiph[enit]anic dew."

two weeks

It's been two weeks since my last confession entry and I've got a bit of a backup. I can't [because I care] disgorge all the minutiae of the past couple of weeks but I can't seem to move forward until I unload some of it.

While I was watching my friends' ravenous pet corn snake devour a dead mouse this past weekend–'twas three times the width of its head, I swear–a word kept running through my head. As if on cue my smart, nature-loving friend M spoke the word:

per·i·stal·sis (pr-stôlss, -stl-)
n. pl. per·i·stal·ses (-sz)
The wavelike muscular contractions of the alimentary canal or other tubular structures by which contents are forced onward toward the opening.

What a fabulous adaptation, that unhinging jaw and muscle-rippling that moves such a proportionately gigantic lump from mouth into body, until there's nothing but a tongue-like tail left hanging from its reptilian lips.

So writer's peristalsis is kicking in. I'll catch up soon, albeit in more manageable, bite-sized pieces...

long island

I think homeland security is in cahoots with the manufacturers of travel size containers.

My aunt died. On Mother's Day of all days. Nature is not a kitten, my friends. My parents and three of the four sisters will meet on Long Island tomorrow. The missing sister represented at my cousin's funeral a few weeks ago, so we are representing for her this week.

Things have not gotten off to an auspicious start. However, the liquor up north tastes exactly like the booze we swill down here in Texas, so I'm sure it will all work out.

Hope our presence, in some way, honors our dear aunt. Hope our family time is incident-free. Anecdote-rich but incident-free...

ah, to be isabella rossellini's snail sub!

Isabella Rossellini defines gorgeous and sensual. I have sometimes joked that I would watch a movie of her folding linens (as if she folds her own linens). I wish I would have said: I would watch a movie of her dressed as a drone mounting a cardboard bee. That would have been prophetic.

Watch these shorts Isabella Rossellini created, called Green Porno. She is phenomenal.

(Thanks to L&M for sending me this link. It made my day.)

measure this, motherfuckers

When people (the real ones and the others knocking about the cluttered anteroom of my brain) talk about success and income and metrics, I often have to pause. I am clearly a part of middle America: becubed and belawned. But what measure do I use for these status-stained ideals? Most of what is batted around as a gauge for success is deeply unsatisfying.

Often these references are about my children. And what they are doing. In terms of the capitalist fast-track, they are not doing. In terms of everything that matters, they are so fucking engaged in life it's breathtaking. I admit to worrying about health insurance and financial stability while I marvel at their consciousness. An excerpt from my son's recent post:

it's been a good week, though long. my feet howl at their abuse and my heart scratches at my ribcage. the summer is almost here, bringing more changes than the season. it's after three in the morning and i just got home from work. the show tonight was simply awesome; the music, the people and the night itself. i scored 106 points on a scrabble word and it made me giddy. all i had to eat today was two cups of tomato basil soup and two stout helpings of whisky. i am erratic and unhinged and i don't feel the need to be otherwise. when this life is done i will consider myself lucky beyond measure.

If that's not rich with satisfaction, jesus, I don't know what is.