trying

As anyone who's paid attention knows, this blog veers back and forth from total fluff to political commentary esp. re: feminism. Lately it's been fluff because I think I do some of my best patriarchy-blaming over on the IBTP Forum (follow the link to IBTP blog if you're interested). I'm more of a reactive writer than a pro-active one. Give me something to argue with, I'm on it. But if I try to come up with a blog post on something new, I'll get stuck. Why? There's too much out there to be righteously indignant about. Too much to be angry about. Misogyny, racism, age-ism, able-ism, and what do you call it when someone's anti-everyone-else's-religion? Religionism isn't right, is it? Anyway, that. So much fear and hatred that I wouldn't even begin to know where to start. So I guess I post happy-making videos of kitty-cats because a dose of teh cute provides a brief mental & emotional respite from the world.

I just finished a huge project at work, that almost went completely kablooey on me (as in, almost missed publication deadline for catalog of an exhibition). The day was saved by a cash infusion (amazing what money can buy) but it's been a stressful six or eight months. Now that the project is done, it's like the dam is broken and I am able to sit still and get small things done. Sure, I can spend fifteen minutes labeling and filing at work. I can finally, FINALLY, order those cute CD binders from West Elm and transfer my CDs from jewel cases to binders, thus freeing up space (both literal and visual) in my house. I can do them because I don't have Guilt - the guilt that I *should* be doing this Huge Project, so I can't even make myself embark on a Small Project.

The dam has broken & I'm using the Apartment Therapy eight-step home cure, but on my own schedule. It's supposed to be an eight-week process, but I skipped a week (too busy at work) and then Week Three tasks took two weeks, and now Week Four tasks are taking two weeks. Which is fine. I don't have a deadline, I just need to de-clutter and spring-clean my space. I've been in my house almost 7 years now and it needs attention. Having a tidy & serene & aesthetically pleasing home environment is SO essential to my sanity, I can't tell you.

And then I re-read those paragraphs and think: holy crap I am a bourgeois honky ASSHOLE. I should be sending my every extra penny to relief efforts or Planned Parenthood or my internet friend in Canada who's about to be homeless. GOD, I'm a privileged spoiled middle-class American white girl, and what the fuck do I do about it? How can I possibly justify spending $75 on cute CD binders to house my CD collection? How fucking ABSURD is that?

But wait, do I really even have extra money? Shouldn't I have spent that $75 on paying down my consumer credit? (Let us pass over in silence my six-figure student loans). Where are my priorities:

1. social justice/aid
2. financial solvency (getting out of debt)
3. self-care

What comes first? Where should that $75 go? I spin around and around these axes and no matter which one I choose, I feel that I have failed in my efforts with regard to the other two.

And then back to it: I'm SO privileged to be able to sit here in air conditioning in front of a computer having White Lady Angst about what to do with $75, which constitutes a week's salary for many, a month's salary for others.

And the privilege of money is only the beginning of it, isn't it? This is the problem I have when I talk to people about privilege: They think it means money, money ONLY. If I say "white people have privilege" they might say, "Well, plenty of black people are richer than me." Or, say, I point out male privilege by mentioning the daily indignities of sexism, both large & small. Mr. Male Privilege then denounces each of the daily indignities as minor at best, or pronounces me paranoid, or too sensitive. Mr. Male Privilege usually thinks he's NOT privileged because, say, he grew up poor. Or short. Or in an abusive family. But he's still got that Male Privilege, but he doesn't see it, because he does not speak my language. He does not understand how privilege DOES NOT EQUAL money. It's so much more than that. SO much more.

And I fear that my White Lady Privilege is blinding me all the time. It's like I have this inkling that it's there - I know it rationally - but do I *see* it, each and every day? I don't know how to see it. I don't know exactly which daily indignities I am spared. I almost said, "I should be thankful that I'm spared these things," but that's the Patriarchy talking. That's the P saying "Be glad you're at least doing better than those poor sods over there. You think YOU have it bad? Better be grateful that your crumbs are tastier than hers!" So, no: I will not be grateful. I will try to be aware, to look, to listen. I don't know what else I can do.

my first crush

I mean, First Crush. First grade, James Madison Elementary School, in the suburbs west of New Orleans. Mark Mullins was my first-grade crush. I changed schools after first grade and didn't lay eyes on him again until we were both at the same public junior high, where I was in 8th grade and he was in 7th, because I had skipped a grade. I haven't crossed paths with him since, but every so often I remember that he's out there, because he's had a really successful musical career based in NOLA.



Look how cute he is! Awww, little Mark Mullins! He's not 5 years old any more! Neither am I!

liveblogging Battlestar Galactica

So: Tigh and Tyrell want to feel their emotions, despite the pain, but Tory, she says she can just turn it all off. Interesting gender division.

Did Tyrell mean to get himself demoted or not? Did he forget to change out that tube doodad because he's exhausted & distracted, or because his Secret Cylon Programming made him? Boomer never remembered her acts of sabotage before she realized she was a Cylon.

Now that Tigh's using Cylon projection to see Caprica Six as his dead wife, it gives me another piece of evidence for the notion that Baltar IS a Cylon after all, since he is obviously using projection when he sees his own personal Six.

If I ever need chemo, I want Edward James Olmos to come read to me.

Is Baltar really being religious? Is he sincere or just playing the role? "You are perfect, just as you are?" Really? Has he been watching "Bridget Jones' Diary"?

[commercial aside: who the hell is Tony Stewart?]

I was wondering where Kara and Anders were this episode. Looks like we're getting lots of 'em next week.

Icon of 'Oughties Design

I've lately become obsessed with the Apartment Therapy website. They're running a design contest for "Small Cool" spaces that are lived in by actual people - not designed for photographic purposes only. I haven't counted *exactly* but it seems to me that almost half of the people own the Ikea PS cabinet, mainly in white but occasionally in red. And I confess, I kind of covet it, especially now that I've visited the website and see that it's only $99, AND it's made of metal, not particle board. I have vowed to never again buy particle board ANYTHING, so the majority of Ikea products are not coming into my house. The Ikea PS cabinet, though, it's pretty hot. Especially in red.

Unfortunately, I have a feeling the Ikea PS will become a diagnostic of 'Oughties design. So: buy something cheap that will be dated in a few years because it gives you the grins, or pass it by because, really, you don't *need* a new TV cabinet? I just can't decide.

stuff that bugs me

I do not like the new usage of the term "curating" to describe the activity of picking some stuff out and putting it together.

The artful arranging of a mod collection of vintage electric fans on your Ikea bookshelf is not a curatorial task. It's decorating, okay?

Selecting half a dozen bands to perform on a TV special? Also not curating.

A curator selects STUFF, not music. She has a point of view, a thesis, that is explored via the collection of stuff. There is research involved, and design, and a careful planning process. If you open up your iTunes and stick a dozen tracks in your folder, then re-arrange them for twenty minutes and burn a CD, you know what? You're NOT a fucking CURATOR!

Friday Lazy Blogging

I so need a theremin.

I'm sure this comes as no surprise.

I voted for Hillary in the primary. If by some miracle she gets the nomination, I'll be knocking on doors and having bake sales and doing whatever I can to get Hillary elected. I was on the fence for a long time because her politics are more moderate than mine, but then again, so are Obama's. What tipped me off the fence was the unbelievable misogyny, both subtle and outrageous, that got really ramped up over the last six or eight months. I know any number of men who just DO NOT SEE IT. They get their panties in a wad over something ever-so-vaguely possibly racist coming from anyone vaguely associated with Clinton, but the constant stream of misogynistic invective is, it's like it's INVISIBLE to most dudes. Fortunately, this Youtube video brings together many examples of smug be-penised journalists taking swipes at Hillary. Some are subtle, but once you see the smug smirks, hear the tone of voice as the dudes heh-heh-heh together, it's clear what's going on. In newsrooms across the nation, the penis trumps race. You can still make sexist jokes in the "mainstream media"; racist jokes of the same caliber would get you tarred and feathered and thrown out of the newsroom.

organizing my kitchen

New Rule for Kitchen Organization:

It's either Tupperware or Chaos.

That is all.

shooting fish in a barrel

I was taking a detour back to work from lunch via the local "antique" mall which is more like an upscale flea market with maybe 20% actual antiques, and on my way down the stairs, I was stopped in my tracks by this:



Blamers, I ask you: What. The. Fuck? When do you think it was made? Is it a "cute" 70s production from that Bicentennial-related colonial revival phase - remember when everything was gingham and braided rugs and heavy dark "colonial" furniture, except it was covered in hideously itchy modern plaid fabrics? Maybe this revolting little tchotchke was meant to go in the "pub" section of the home, where the men hang out drinking beer and watching football and telling appalling sexist jokes. Like, apparently, this one: How do you get a woman to shut up? Har de har, you cut off her head. Man, that's a real knee-slapper there.

You know what I can't figure out? Who would buy this? Now, every time I go in there, I'm going to look for the damned thing, and one day, it will be gone. And I will have a permanent case of the heebie-jeebies thinking that someone - probably someone who lives here - bought it. And hung it in their house. Because nothing is as entertaining as a hot dead chick.

Another Musical Confession

Whenever I hear the name "Stevie Nicks," I think of Nancy Spungeon in the movie "Sid and Nancy," running down the street in her underwear and a long silky robe flapping in the wind. She stops suddenly, looks down at herself, and says, disgustedly, "I look like fucking Stevie Nicks," on account of the floaty silky robe thing.

And then, second memory: third or fourth grade. Every day after school Kelly and I would go to Paige's house and listen to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours on Paige's record player. We learned all the words. We made up dorky interpretive dances. We had no frackin idea what the hell any of those songs were about. But we loved Rumours. You could probably get me to sing the whole album (poorly, but accurately) if you hypnotized me.

Stevie Nicks is a little bit cheesy, and seems like kind of an airy-fairy lunatic. Which makes her exactly the kind of diva I have to dig. I mean, where does she get those platform boots any more? Who makes them for her? I want to know.

I also have a serious dilemma: should I spend $150 to go see her perform at the Hard Rock in Biloxi in June? Should I spend $200 so I can, you know, actually see her without binoculars at the Hard Rock in Biloxi in June? Do I even have that kind of money? Not really. Plus I'd need to stay overnight because, dude, I'm NOT going to that shit sober, so I'll need a hotel room, you betcha.



Look, I realize it's a nine-minute video, but it's got giant platform boot/legwarmer things and high kicks and what I'm pretty sure is a pyramid-power necklace and people giving her flowers and stuffed animals and paintings and A SHINY WHITE CAPE WITH FRINGE. You can't possibly be doing anything more important for the next nine minutes.

So: Who's in?

Friday Chicken Blogging

This chicken lives in my office:



I bought her at a trading post near Farmington, New Mexico two summers ago. Who can possibly resist a purple chicken, I ask you?

THIS chicken, on the other hand:



I had to leave him behind at an roadside flea market/antique store because I had flown to New Mexico and I'm pretty sure the airport people wouldn't let me carry him on the plane. He's probably happier in sunny and dry New Mexico, as he'd be even rustier and perhaps a tad mildewy if I'd put him in my yard in Mississippi.

ka ja goo goo

Look, I don't know. I just had an urge to look up a Kajagoogoo video on Youtube. It had something to do with an absurd 80s video posted on the Manolo for the Men blog. That film clip is, well, it's got that New Kids on the Block wanna-be thing going on, and it practically embodies the worst of the 80s.

THIS, on the other hand:



I loved this fucking song, and I tell you what: it makes no goddamned sense at all. The plot, the lyrics, the cater-waitress with Dallas hair who would never in a million years date a tiny barefoot boy with giant New Wave hair, the flashbacks to the 1940s. I mean, what the fuckity fuck, right?

I still know all the words, and I'm only slightly embarrassed to admit that.

balance

Apparently this is the year I get my personal shit in order and my professional life is a disaster.

Ooookay, then.

I've quit smoking and quit using credit cards.

I've started the Apartment Therapy "eight step home cure", which is problematic since I no longer use my credit and it's going to cost some money. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. I also don't have an apartment, but I have a 1200 sq.ft. house, so. This is the easy week: Week One, in which I make a list of all the repairs I haven't done (mainly because of cost), buy myself some flowers, do some reading, vacuum/mop, and give away something. I still need to vacuum & mop, which actually will be more like vacuum/swiff because I fracking HATE to mop. And I'm going by the Domestic Abuse Shelter's office tomorrow to drop off a pile of clothes along with a bag of toiletries I culled from my bathroom a few months ago.

Next up: food and exercise. I'm about ready to return to my yoga practice. I have some spankin' new walking shoes. And, thankfully, it's spring and produce is getting a little better. It's still absurdly expensive (and getting more so) but at least I can get some. There's spinach, strawberries, and tangerines in my kitchen right now. Nom nom. I had a lovely strawberry,tangerine, yogurt,and honey dessert tonight.

Ex Libris: Trinity University

I have a lot of fond memories of libraries and librarians, but for some reason I was thinking today about the library at Trinity University, my undergraduate alma mater.* It was intimate yet well-stocked, and I worked there for a number of years. I started out shelving, then switched to IMS, Instructional Media Services. We provided audio duping, slide production, and what I can only describe as "science fair project production". We'd put together the actual poster presentation for professors' poster sessions. I learned how to use a b/w darkroom, shoot copy slides, dupe audio and video (back then we used the fat videotapes, I think they were 2" wide instead of your more common 3/4" tapes, which I guess are growing less and less common, aren't they?).

***Yes, my youthful digital age readers, once upon a time, in the time before PowerPoint, there was film. And, yea, it would be exposed to light and transformed by a series of chemical processes into a negative. And lain unto the photosensitive paper and exposed to light briefly, and then treated with even more chemical processes, it would then produce a kind of photo without the use of a mechanical printer. No, there was no Adobe Photoshop. Yes, it's true, children. It was a time before cell phones. And, yes, we rode to school on mastodons and wore ragged fur robes in winter. ***

My boss there, Pat, was an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan. She owned a cassette copy of her vinyl collection of every published Webber musical EVER. Both the Broadway cast AND movie soundtracks, to be sure. Whenever she was in the darkroom with me, it was all Webber, all the time. You could probably hypnotize me and get me to sing (albeit terribly) all of the Webber musical tunes up to and including Phantom of the Opera.

I fucking HATE Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals. I'm not a big fan of musical theater, in general. So, yeah, that was fun.

What I actually was thinking about, though, was the reference librarian there. He could find *anything*. Seriously. Invent a term paper topic, with no resources whatsoever, show up at his desk, and he'd have a stack of books for you in no time. My friends and I called him Craig Likness, Reference Man of GOD. You have to say that with a deep movie-trailer voice.

8 Random Things About Me

I've been tagged.

1. I've lived in five cities in four states.

2. I used to have hot pink hair.

3. My first two cars were minty-green 1981 Honda Accords. The five-speed was way more fun to drive than the automatic I replaced it with.

4. My next tattoo will either be a fleur-de-lys or a Hello Kitty.

5. I never plan to get married again, but I like to read Manolo for the Brides anyway.

6. I have a weakness for men in kilts and firemen in turnout gear.

7. I rilly, rilly must never drink Jagermeister again. Rilly.

8. Pink and purple are my favorite colors.

Who shall I tag?

Karen, Jenifer, and Gentaggard. I was totally going to tag Jo, but Cara beat me to it.

Thank a feminist!

Great essay for International Womens Day by Cat at StroppyBlog:

Thank a Feminist

A few of my favorites:

Remember, if you're a woman and...

* you can vote, thank a feminist.

* you went to college / university instead of being expected to quit after school so your brothers could go because "You'll just get married anyway", thank a feminist.

* you can apply for any job, not just "women's work", thank a feminist.

* you can get or give birth control information without going to prison, thank a feminist.

Spring Developments

My miniature Daffodils are thriving:




And, omg, all four cats on the bed:



Note that Bennet and Pippin are monitoring the front yard, while Ferris is monitoring the Nigel-Kitten. At least he's not hissing.

My fashion police deputy sez:

Porch Kitty No Longer

NigelKitty has made the transition from semi-feral porch kitty to Co-Ruler of the House pretty quickly. He still doesn't like it when I actually pick him up, but he does enjoy pettins, scritchins, and lap sittin. He and Pippin get along beautifully, Bennet tolerates him, and Ferris hisses at him if he gets too close. Pretty much standard operating procedure for all three of the older boys. Nigel's about ready for de-testiculation and a new set of shots, and he is the Loudest Cat I've Ever Had. He meows all the time, and enjoys very loud toys. He also likes knocking things off of shelves and counters. I have a cup filled with pens and pencils on a bookshelf in the living room, and he knocks it over every night and I hear writing utensils skittering all over the floor. I'm about to give up and find them a new home.

Nigel has gleefully abandoned the porch for the bed:



And has discovered that the recliner? Yes, indeed, it is rather more comfortable than deck furniture:

I Can Make You Thin!

Yes, yes I can. No need to watch the show of the same name. No boring diets, no tedious exercise, no equipment, no counting calories or carbs or points or fat grams. Follow my quick-and-easy program for Getting Thin and you'll have people complimenting you on your new, trim figure in just weeks.

1. Depending on your budget, go out and buy either crack, methamphetamine, heroin, or powder cocaine. If you like the downs, go heroin; if you like the ups, any of the other three will do.

2. Whenever you feel hungry, pop a needle, light a pipe, or snort a rail.

3. When that pesky hunger comes back, repeat step 2.

There you go! All done! You can be thin! Yes, you can do it!


[Disclaimer: Yo! Redux makes no claims for the health benefits of this reducing program, and declines all legal responsibility for side effects, which may include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, dizziness, dry mouth, meth mouth, collapsed veins, poverty, addiction, rehab, divorce, loss of child custody, and death.]

home again, home again, tickety boo

This is one of my favorite pictures from my trip to New York last summer. It's part of the oxidized surface of a Richard Serra sculpture. All of the pieces have these complex patinated, scratched and roughed-up surfaces, but the outdoor ones are particularly nice. I think they're Cor-Ten steel, which is meant to rust, but I think he must treat them so it's not a uniform patination.

on pleasure bent again, with never a thought for what my poor family might suffer

Tomorrow I head through darkness and forecast rain, eastward, for a job interview. On Friday I shall depart in my own modest equipage in the direction of the Poet, whose birthday it will be, arriving, dog willing, at 6 in the afternoon. I hope to dine peacefully at Lillo's Trattoria, thence to the Poet's abode. I shall return home at midday Saturday for a modest luncheon with a fellow curator and perhaps we shall take a turn about the galleries.

Japanese ukiyo-e prints...

I am ass-deep in them. Also ass-deep in: footnotes, budget requests, exhibition checklists, the Chicago Manual of Style, and BlowPops (instead of cigarettes).

Ah, William Fucking Shatner

ir/resistible

Completely irresistible:



This is Nigel when he was a porch kitty, begging at every window to be let in. No matter what room I was in, he was at the window, meowing. I resisted for two solid weeks. And then, the snow came, and I could resist no longer. He lives inside now.

Completely resistible:



The ugliest purse in the world. Spotted in the wild at TJ Maxx in Hattiesburg, MS. Dear god, what about teh kittenz? It looks like something Dolores Umbridge would keep her wicked quills in. I almost spent seven dollars on it simply to get it out of circulation.

unpack THIS!

Having solved all of our economic, racial, educational, and environmental problems here in the Magnolia State, three arrogant, deluded, fat-hating Mississippi politicians want to make it illegal to serve an obese person in a restaurant.

Warning: Fat People Hatred Inside

I quote:

"Any establishment to which this section applies shall not be allowed to serve food to anyone who is obese."

"This section" applies to all restaurants licensed by the state. In other words: all restaurants in the state.

Reps. Mayhall, Read, and Shows hate fat people. Oh, and get this: it's two Republicans and one Democrat. So nice to know our politicians can cross the aisle and agree on things that REALLY MATTER.

The Health Department is designated as the enforcer. What, will they put medical scales and calculators at each door? "Hm, let's see....weight, height, ooooh, too bad, you're just over the [almost entirely useless and ever-changing] BMI designation "obese." No food for you, fattie!"

And this, my internet friends, is Mississippi Dumbfuckistan at its finest.

ayiyi

The Chantix, it is nauseating. I am growing accustomed to the vivid dreams. I do not want to smoke, but mainly because I am too nauseated to think of it. I hope this passes because, yuck.

for anyone who misses home

A moving video about loss, home, and New Orleans:



HOME

oh, and one more thing

My statcounter deal says several searchers for "women who like to be raped" somehow found their way here.

SO, DIRTBAGS and RAPISTS, let me tell you this: there is NO SUCH THING as a woman who likes to be raped. Pull your head out of your ass and hear this now: Go, get a LOT of therapy, or cut your nuts off, or jump off a bridge, I don't care which, because if you are looking to rape a woman, you are a sick and evil waste of carbon.

Chantix dreams, nights one and two

They are NOT JOKING AROUND when they say you might have "vivid dreams" when you take Chantix.

Night one: I am roommates with Peyton Manning and several other people. He needs a ride downtown, but first I must find socks in the large communal closet. One dresser is six drawers of socks - three drawers mine, three his. I throw out several shirts in my quest for a clean shirt. We go downtown and hang out in his swanky hotel room. He changes into much-too-small denim shorts and I get him to wear normal pants. We hang out some more. Then he needs a ride to the game. The playoff game, which in this context is the Sunday before the SuperBowl. Peyton is charming and tall and funny, as one would expect him to be.

??

Night two: I have a dream that I am part of a group of photographers trying to get pics of Paul McCartney. He lets some of us in and I discover I have my lenses, but no camera body, in my bag. I take out a notebook and start writing down everything he says. There are several pools in the backyard, and a diving board. We walk around the back yard, and the pools, and through the house. I have been in the housed before, house-sitting, but he doesn't know it. Someone else hired me to do it while he was out of town. Pool/backyard morphs into a raggedy beach "resort" with a pier. At the end of the pier is sort of a surf hut/bar/hangout. Dominic Monaghan (of Lord of the Rings and Lost) is there, and he is dirty. Like, clearly, he has been sleeping rough, out there on the beach, and needs a shower. We keep taking walks out down a levee,then back again. There is much rooting in fridges for beverages. Sometimes beer, sometimes soda. The kitchen is filthy in the way an undergrad party house is filthy. But there's beer in multiple fridges. Dominic Monaghan is hitting on me, but he really needs a shower.

So, night three is tonight. I wonder which random celebrity will be featured in this one.

I HAZ A VEGGY BURGER

well, heavens to betsy...

THIS is hilarious:

http://scienceblogs.com/pharyngula/2008/01/inappropriate_iconography.php#more

pang

I have a fondness for mid-century modern design. It's sleek and beautifully designed, but made of homely industrial materials. My house is by no means sleek & efficient enough to really come close to the mid-century modern aesthetic, but sometimes, I see a thing that I want, and it gives me a pang. I want it, because it's beautiful and red and rich, and the curves are perfect, the form and function are in perfect sync, and the pang, well: I can't afford it. I can't see ever having so much disposable income that I can buy this, this perfect, beautiful, red chair, for eight HUNDRED dollars:



Here's an alternate view, in plain wood, so you can see how delicious and perfect and loungy the bent plywood is:



Really, if I think about it too much, I might just cry. Wah.

Cat Update

It's been an all-vinyl day here at Casa Jezebella. Laundry, homemade veggie/potato soup, hot tea, and, right now, Adam & the Ants "Kings of the Wild Frontier" is on the turntable.

Having finally downloaded pictures to the laptop, it's time for a kitty update.

Ferris is very serious about inhabiting the slow-cooker box. Alas, someone peed on it, and it had to go in the trash shortly after this photo shoot. Also, I can't get Picasa to rotate the damned picture for some reason.




Bennet is very serious about everything, all the time. He looks worried a lot. He's currently concerned about the presence of a fourth cat. Said fourth cat will be the topic of another post, because between downloading pics on Saturday and this afternoon, the camera cable has stopped working.



And Pippin loves human food. Here he's enjoying some organic baby spring greens, which he prefers without dressing. Always concerned about his girlish figure, that one.

Well, that's unexpected.

I got a call at 8:30 this morning. On a Saturday. Everyone knows I'm in bed at that hour on a weekend. Hell, I'm usually still in bed at that hour on a weekday. It's the Poet: "Look out your window." Me: "Huhwhat?" Poet: "Look out your window." Me: "Well, that's unexpected."

It was snowing. In Buttcrack, Mississippi. I've been here over five years and it's only snowed once before. Tragically (ahem) I was in Paris at the time, so I missed it. No big deal, as a few winters in the Midwest cured me of any fascination I might have had with snow. So, I went back to sleep, during which time the power went off. It got a bit chilly, I drank a lot of hot tea, and fortunately, the power came back on just after noon. I headed out late this afternoon to shoots some pictures just to prove that, yes, Virginia, sometimes it really DOES snow in the Deep South. By late afternoon it was turning slushy, and now it's about to drop into the 20s so I expect it'll be a charming lot of ice by midnight. I hope the rednecks who successfully navigated the snow in their pick-em-up trucks realize that ice? It's nothing like snow. You simply cannot drive on ice, no matter how big & manly your truck is. Anyway, I'm staying off the roads. I'm thinking of baking a cake, but first I'd have to clean the oven, and, ick, who wants to do THAT on a Saturday night? But, mmmmm....cake! It's a tough decision to make. I'm also anticipating another power outage as soon as the branches start freezing & cracking, so I've got the central heat cranked up a few extra degrees. This will not prevent the cats from sleeping in a pile on top of me. Yay! Cat blanket!

So, herewith, evidence:

nail in the coffin

I liked Dennis Kucinich, I really did. But I'm done with him. He's progressive, but not progressive on women's rights. Apparently the "workers," "people" and "human rights" he promotes are for men only.

First, I found out he hosted a fundraiser with notorious misogynist & pornographer Larry Flynt at Hustler Headquarters. Flynt, let's be clear, isn't just a pornographer. He's a purveyor of sexism and racism. To wit:


"Rape and domestic violence jokes are a recurring theme in Hustler cartoons. One cartoon depicts a billboard where the text reads: "If you have been raped or would like to be raped, call RAPE LINE 555-7675." Another shows a middle-aged white man wearing bright red boxing gloves. He is punching a naked woman's breasts. She is screaming, with her hands tied up behind her head. The caption reads: "Every good fighter started out slappin' one of these around."

This is Kucinich's pal?


THEN, I find out he's got a no-holds-barred anti-choice voting record. I'm not talking just anti-abortion - he's anti-contraception. Here's his comment on it:

"I haven't been a leader on this," Kucinich said. "These are issues I would not have chosen to bring up."

Oh, okay then. We'll just talk about what YOU want to talk about? Uh uh. I don't think so. As Pollitt notes, "That a solidly anti-choice politician could become a standard- bearer for progressivism, the subject of hagiographic profiles in The Nation and elsewhere, speaks volumes about the low priority of women's rights to the self-described economic left, forever chasing the white male working-class vote."

So, Dennis Kucinich: You are a grave disappointment to me. You proved to me that the left is still as misogynist as the right. That even lefty men don't think women are human. That "human rights" don't include "women's rights." I will no longer be voting for you in the primary.

*Props to Blamers gentaggard & Bird for the links.

d000000d.

I'm going to cancel Scientology from my area.

Tom Cruise

Ever noticed how much Mitt Romney looks like Max Headroom?

HAAHAAHAHHAHAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAHHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!

Courtesy the Mad Feminist Genius Practical Culture-Jamming Lab.

Feel free to distribute this image, but please credit the Lab, or the Mad Feminist Geniuses will have to bust some heads.

squeeee

If anyone wants to know where I was in the mid-80s, read this:

THE KIDS WERE ALRIGHT

Whatever happened to the seminal figures of SA punk? You might be surprised

Marching Plague! The Raging Woodies! Fearless Iranians from Hell!! Lung Overcoat!!

My ex-brother-in-law was at the notorious Sex Pistols show at Randy's Rodeo, the one that made the cover of the San Antonio paper.

the politics of crying

Something's been bothering me for a while now. Men crying on television. Athletes, actors, politicians, reporters: all men, all crying, all the time. Why does this bother me? I'm a feminist. I should be fine with men expressing their emotions. The problem, I've realized, is women don't have the same freedom. Sure, the boundaries of male behavior are expanding, but a woman who cries is still seen as irrational, emotional, "feminine".

Here are two descriptions related to political candidates crying in public:

"Crying can humanize a candidate, express empathy and help the person connect with voters."

"... tearful television interviews aren't helping [the candidate's] case for leadership."

Guess whose tears are "humanizing"? Guess whose tears are torpedoing their campaign?























A. Mitt Romney, penis owner
B. Hillary Rodham Clinton, uterus owner

When Mitt Romney cries, it's spun as positive. When Hillary Clinton is "tearful" - she didn't even actually CRY, people! - she is admitting defeat, looking like a loser, and being de-humanized.

How is that crying humanizes men and de-humanizes women (makes them ineligible for responsible jobs, for example)? It doesn't. It can't. There is no logic in this.

This is why I'm sick of looking at men cry. Because there are always, always negative consequences when a woman cries in public, and now there are positive consequences when a man cries in public.

How often did Bill Clinton weep while campaigning or in office? All. The. Time. Hillary "tears up" and the doom-and-gloomers predict the end of her campaign, her career, her very believability as a candidate.

do yourself a favor

Next time you pop by the Stop-n-Rob for a tasty, sugary Gas-o-cchino, and then decide to opt for wintry hot cocoa goodness, stick with the 12-oz. cup. Because, trust me, no one needs 16 ounces of hot chocolate at once.

Why I heart Kim Gandy

People sometimes think I'm a Debbie Downer for not being a cheerful, Fun Feminist. They think feminists "go looking" for things to be angry about. They're wrong. All you have to do is open your damn eyes, look past your front door, and you'll SEE all the things there are to be angry about, to be sad about, to be righteously indignant about. Kim Gandy ties it all up in a neat package for you here.

A Maddening Reminder

Below the Belt: A Biweekly Column by NOW President Kim Gandy

January 4, 2008

Sadly, the year 2007 ended with a maddening reminder that violence is a popular tool of oppression. From the most powerful leaders in the world, to the tyrant next door, those who aim to exploit, control and silence others predictably turn to aggression and brutality.

On Dec. 27, the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, former prime minister of Pakistan, robbed the world of a charismatic and dedicated advocate for democracy in the Middle East. The news was horrific, but hardly surprising given the numerous death threats Bhutto had received over the years.

In 1988 Prime Minister Bhutto became the first woman democratically elected to lead a modern Muslim nation, and repeatedly put her life on the line to advance democracy in a volatile country. Bhutto knew the risk that came with returning to Pakistan to run for a third term, but she refused to let that threat stand in her way. She was prepared to pay the ultimate price for freedom, and she did.

Bhutto's murder dominated the news for days, but millions of women across the globe are killed, raped, beaten and mutilated every year without any public pause.

According to Amnesty International, more than 15,000 women are sold into sexual slavery in China annually. Six thousand women are genitally mutilated each day in North Africa. In Bangladesh, hundreds of women are horribly disfigured when spurned husbands or suitors burn them with acid. More than 7,000 women in India are murdered by their families and in-laws in disputes over dowries per year. Even here in the U.S., an average of three women are murdered every day by husbands or boyfriends, and an estimated one million to three million women are abused by them.

In the conflict-ravaged region of Darfur, in western Sudan, as many as 400,000 innocent people have been killed and more than 2.5 million driven from their homes. Rape and sexual violence have been used to terrorize and displace rural communities. Even after fleeing Darfur, women and girls in refugee camps continue to be raped and assaulted by civilians or militia members.

The brutalization of women in war zones and the appropriation of their bodies as "spoils of war" are common practices that have persisted for centuries. The United States condemns the use of these tactics, but at the same time our female service members fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq are being raped by the same commanders and comrades they trusted to fight beside them. They are reluctant or afraid to report these crimes, and the added trauma is taking its toll, as reported in USA Today this week.

This report comes on the heels of a story of gender-based crime and punishment that sparked considerable media interest. In 2006, a 19-year-old woman in Saudi Arabia brought charges against seven men for gang-rape. In addition to the punishments handed down to the perpetrators, the judge sentenced the young woman herself to 90 lashes for being alone in a car with a man who was not a relative of hers just before the attack.

Even a country like Saudi Arabia, a strong ally of the Bush administration, treats women residents like second-class citizens. Justice in Saudi Arabia is administered by a system of religious courts following a strict interpretation of Islamic Shari'a law. Women in Saudi Arabia are not allowed to drive and must get a male relative's permission before having surgery, going to college, seeking a job or accepting a marriage proposal.

The case of "the Girl from Qatif" (as she came to be known) attracted worldwide attention for its outrageous injustice. Last year, a Saudi court more than doubled the young woman's penalty to 200 lashes and six months in jail. According to Arab News, the court said the woman's punishment was increased because of "her attempt to aggravate and influence the judiciary through the media."

After even greater condemnation from the world community, King Abdullah eventually granted the woman a pardon in December. However, this incident served as a reminder that patriarchy continues to exist in its most extreme forms, sanction by governments that are not accustomed to being challenged.

Some conservatives argue that discrimination and violence against women in the Middle East should be reason enough for feminists to support the U.S. right-wing's agenda of invading Islamic countries and installing Bush-style "democracy" as in Iraq.

But the Bush administration is not on a mission to do the women of the world any favors. Just look at how women have suffered in Iraq, and at the deteriorating conditions for women in Afghanistan, where the Taliban is making a comeback.

Obviously the reliance on brute force to keep women from overstepping proscribed boundaries is not limited to convenient interpretations of Islam. Violence and misogyny transcend territory, language, ethnicity, culture, politics, religion -- you name it. The desire to dominate, combined with sexism, fuels violence against women in every corner of the world.

In 2006, the United Nations released a report officially classifying violence against women as a human rights violation, increasing pressure on nation-states in the UN to intensify and improve systems in place for handling violence against women. Calling violence against women "unacceptable," the report goals included: surveying the pervasiveness of violence against women around the world; reminding UN states of the importance of this issue; finding better, more effective ways to combat violence against women; and increasing accountability of UN states for violations of women's human rights.

Responding to and preventing violence will be most effective when the U.S. and all societies across the globe are willing to acknowledge and address its root causes. Our current president lacks credibility on this issue because he is a bully himself, someone who resorts to violence to get his way, a man who laughed at the impending execution of a woman in the state he governed. Let's face it, Bush just doesn't get it.

This nation needs a leader who can speak with authority on this subject. Someone who can influence other countries to join us in eradicating violence, hatred and discrimination of all kinds. Someone who will shine a light on this issue and set a bold example for the world. Someone who believes that women's rights are human rights. I hope that we will end 2008 with a newly elected president who can do just that.

Nellie McKay, Mother of Pearl

My new favorite song.

Wish there were better videos out there, but these'll do for now.

This one is from far away, lousy audio, but it's the whole song:




Dance Break!

This one is better video & audio, but starts mid-song, and is for some reason turned sideways:



And here are the lyrics:

"Mother Of Pearl"

Feminists don't have a sense of humor
Feminists just want to be alone (boo-hoo)
Feminists spread vicious lies and rumor
They have a tumor on their funny bone

They say child molestation isn't funny
Rape and degradation's just a crime (lighten up, ladies)
Rampant prostitution, sex for money (what's wrong with that)
Can't these chicks do anything but whine

Dance break
Woo-hoo
(Take it off)

They say cheap objectification isn't witty, it's hot
Equal work and wages worth the fight (sing us a new one)
On demand abortion, every city (okay, but no gun control)
Won't these women ever get a life

Feminists don't have a sense of humor (poor Hilary)
Feminists and vegetarians
Feminists spread vicious lies and rumor
They're far too sensitive to ever be a ham
That's why these feminists just need to find a man

I'm Dennis Kucinich, and I approve this message

(c)

You have to imagine a male chorus singing the responses in parentheses, as in the CD version.

on second thought...

I apologize to dog-kind. I should never have said such a terrible thing.

Dogs are loyal, kind, and honest. They do not troll the internet for a new girlfriend when they already have one. They do not lie or cheat, and when they steal (usually food) they have the decency to feel guilty about it. They are open with their feelings, and make every effort to pay attention to those of their humans. Dogs know when you need a hug, or a laugh, or to be left alone. Dogs are affectionate with no ulterior motives (well, except they might want scritches or a treat).

In conclusion, men are nothing like dogs.

two observations

1. I hate my stupid life.

2. Men are dogs.

on humor

If this does not make you laugh until you cry, your heart is tiny, withered, and black, and you're probably dead. Go to the hospital, stat.

on feminist anger

At first your anger runs hot like lava, but then it cools and solidifies like obsidian, sharper than steel and cool to the touch. You will learn to wield it when you want to, instead of letting the anger rule you. There will be new lava eruptions periodically, but you will find you know how to respond to them, even though the impact may come all unexpected. You will have episodes of righteous flaming indignation and table pounding, and you will have episodes of zen-like meta-blaming filled with sympathy (and empathy) for your fellow victims of the P.

It helps to remember that your friends are also oppressed by the patriarchy. It helps to remember that you, too, were once oblivious to the P. You can destroy your friends' illusions about the P with a thousand tiny cuts instead of a stick of dynamite. Have patience. Choose which relationships are beneficial to your mental and emotional health. Better to have a few allies than to drown in an ocean of acquaintances.

o m g

Walmart, 1:11 am. Slightly less horrific than daytime walmart, but it takes a lot longer to check out. They don't have self-checkout fired up. The two NON-express registers are being operated by the s l o w e s t c a s h i e r s o n eeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrrttttthhhhhh.

my alma mater was never known for its football team

but this year, our football team made big sports news with a last-ditch multi-lateral-pass touchdown play against Millsaps.

check out the Mississippi Miracle.

crazy cat lady

Have I mentioned that I'm now officially a Crazy Cat Lady? A porch kitty convinced me to feed her one day. Shortly thereafter, she brought a friend. After that, two kittens. I think it's a mama-older sister-two kitties family unit, but anyway: I'm feeding them all. They present themselves at the back door - which is glass - and look alternately pathetic and pissed off at the empty state of their bowls. So now I'm feeding seven cats - three inside, four out - and I'm a crazy cat lady.

But I'm not a crazy cat lady with a piano, which is too bad, because then maybe I could make some money selling cat-playing-the-piano videos on the internet. Maybe I should get a videocamera. I wonder if people would like "cat snatching food off of mama's fork" videos?

and by the way, Britney Spears:

bless her heart.

teh crud returns

Everybody's been sick at the office, and now it's my turn. Came down on me like a ton of bricks last Friday at about 3:30, and have been hacking up a lung since then. Miserable, coughing, congestion, crud, yuck. Hence, my lack of posting as I am witless for the time being.

Must get well soon. Need to make fruitcake, bourbon balls, holiday mix CDs, wrap xmas presents, plan family xmas party, etc. etc.

headed to the eastern frontier

I head off today into easterly portions of dumbfuckistan. Alabama, that is. Auburn. Home of the Crimson Tide. Oh, wait. University of Alabama is the Crimson Tide. Auburn are TIGERS. Glad I sorted THAT out before my job interview.

After a marathon job interview, I head to Pensacola for R&R with the Poet, my own personal tech support specialist, who I hope can figure out how to sync music files onto my new Treo phone. Which, by the way, have I mentioned that I'm in LOVE with my PHONE? It's a phone, web browser, PDA, camera, mp3 player, alarm clock, calculator, with a teeny keyboard for easier text messaging!! I can even use google maps while I'm traveling. It only lacks one thing: a GPS. If it included a GPS, it would be ideal. It's really the best new toy ever.

Now, if anybody has a suggestion for a man christmas present that is neither alcohol, clothing, nor books, I'd appreciate hearing about it. The poet doesn't drink and is par-ticular about his clothes and books, so I'm not even gonna TRY one of those.

formal dressing for the tight-fisted

I have to wear formal attire once a year, to a work event. No-one is looking at me, because it's a social event for the hoity toity, and I'm, you know, WORKING. I refuse to spend a gazillion dollars on a new formal dress every year, for reasons of both frugality and tiny closets.

I have found the perfect solution. You need:

1. A floor-length black silk sleeveless sheath like this one:

















2. A knee-length 3/4 sleeve black velvet dress similar to this one:





















OR

2 simple dresses, black, that feel good and look good.

Either of these dresses can be worn alone or with a second layer or a wrap or shawl.

Wear alternate dresses (one year velvet, next year silk), and change the over-shirt/jacket. I promise, NO ONE WILL NOTICE.

Then, as you are bargain-shopping at the Maxx or Marshall's or Hudson's Salvage, find jacket-y things that you can wear over these.
Top layers are often far less expensive - especially if they've been separated from their other half on the way to the discount rack.

A sampling of top layers I have in my closet:

- a floor-length "coat" - cut kind of like a duster - in sheer, shimmery green/blue taffeta
($12, discounted from $250, at Hudson's Dirt Cheap)

- a red & black burnout-velvet jacket with flowy sleeves
($10, discounted from a $200 2-piece outfit, at Hudson's Salvage)

- a floor-length sheer black over-dress with beaded decorations and frog closures down the front (this was the original partner to the black sheath, the set about $125, but I've worn the sheath dress over and over)

I also purchased a pair of black, beaded satin flats that go with all of these outfits for $30, and I wear them with black tights. Again: no one is looking at me, I'm working and therefore on my feet all night, and I do not get paid enough to buy a new outfit every year. I'm pretty much set for the next 5 years, at least, but I am always on the lookout for another top layer at a bargain price.

I also have a long black tulip skirt and a beaded top (TJ Maxx, $25), but have yet to locate other good tops to go with the skirt. Actual formal tops have proved to be a lot harder to find than formal top layers.

And that, dear readers, is your sartorial advice for the day.

* Despite having developed this collection of interchangeable formal wear, I still have a yen for a tuxedo, which I could then wear to EVERYTHING for years, like men do.

restruction of the destruction

Apparently I am in the mood for giant robots today:



My first thought upon opening the video was: "Don't these fools know they shouldn't stand so close to a Survival Research Laboratories show?" My second thought was, "I told you so!" Damn, of COURSE shit is going to get set on fire and go sailing into the crowd. That's why they don't announce or get licenses for their shows. They CAN'T. I've loved SRL for many a year and I love that Mark Pauline is still pursuing his nutsy destructo-robot performance art vision. I just wish I could find footage of his hamster-driven robot on youtube.

You can see more pics from this event at the Laughing Squid.

more xmas advice

If you, like me, are a damned heathen, you probably hate being forced to go to holiday church by parental units and the like. Mom says, pathetically, "All I want for christmas is my family to go to church with me, just this one time of year."* And so we troop off to godbag central, which is admittedly, not as godbaggy as a lot of churches, being a mainstream WASPy version of Presbyterian. Nonetheless: I am not down with the sky god and his heavenly concierge, Jesu.

So, I roll my eyes, gird my loins, have a cocktail or three before departure, and do my daughterly duty. Just this once! For mEEEE!!! I go. And I sit in the pew and read the Bible, but only the naughty bits. I'm fond of Song of Solomon (for the sexy bits) and the Book of Revelation (if you want horrorshow trippy bits). In this way I can tune out the terrible xmas tunes and the droning of the minister, and yet I cannot be faulted for reading the bible in church. I mean, it's the HOLY Bible! And I'm in CHURCH!

* Y'know, it's what she SAYS, but I'd be damned with the hairy stinkeye of maternal disapproval if that was, indeed, her only christmas present.

xmas stuff

I'm just not feeling the xmas vibe this year. Just about everyone I know has Too Much Stuff. I include myself in this category. Best to give consumable items, I think. Champagne, baked goods, & calendars may be in order.

December 6, 1989

a message from my fellow radfem, howlingmonkey, a message I felt needed reposting:

On December 6, 1989 14 women were killed by a lone gunman at l'École Polytechnique in Montreal. He separated the women from the men, and then he shot them down. Because they were women.

(more info here: http://archives.cbc.ca/IDD-1-70-398/disasters_tragedies/montreal_massacre/)

The incident was a wake up call for many of us in Canada as we realized that the incident at École Polytechnique was a symptom of the larger problem of a vehemently misogynist society where violence against women is endemic and indeed encouraged. The day stands in my mind as one of the pivotal moments in my life. It was on December 7 at the age of 12 upon learning of the murders that I first called myself a feminist. I didn't understand much, but I understood enough to know that what happened to them could happen to any of us.

In Canada December 6 is day of remembrance (sort of like a November 11 or memorial day for women). I'd like to take a moment to honour and remember those women who have fallen. École Polytechnique. Vancouver Eastside. Eastern Congo. Afghanistan. The whole world.

Let's take a moment today, wherever we may be, to remember and honour women everywhere who are impacted by men's violence.

Let's remember today, so we can wake up tomorrow and keep fighting.

uh huh

feral celery

drive-by body pierce

get crazy with the cheez whiz

ka-sheep-ity

1 week late, or 51 weeks early

Whichever the case, William S. Burroughs is genius. I miss that guy. I saw him speak at The Nova Convention Revisited in Lawrence, KS, back in the late 90s. He could've read a phone book and I'd have been on the edge of my seat. Of course he didn't. He talked about art and using his fame as a writer to get a museum exhibition and I don't know what all any more, but it was mesmerizing. I was on the fourth row, center. Debbie Harry performed, and Laurie Anderson, and Patti Smith (who scared the crap out of me by stalking back and forth the front of the stage and sneering at us), and Gregory Corso talking about fooling around with Andy Warhol, something about shoes and ejaculation. That whole night was a high point in my cultural life.

i'm gonna dance one leg off in the rain

The Butthole Surfers perform Movin to Florida at the original Tipitina's in New Orleans.

Florida Street housing projects in San Antonio were the place to buy acid back in the early-to-mid-80s, so going down to Florida isn't a reference to a beach vacation. Or so I've, uh, been told. By people whose names I don't remember. Who also happened to mention that the Florida dealers switched to the crack product in the late 80s as it was more profitable. And that Gibby Haynes was accounting student of the year at Trinity University, his (and my) alma mater. His dad's a Dallas celebrity: Mr. Peppermint



And that, faithful readers, is your random indie rock trivia for the day.

new TV addiction

I am completely addicted to Ninja Warrior on the G4 network. Gah.

the band I love the most

When I was in high school, I loved The Cold. All the cool kids loved The Cold, and all the not-cool kids loved The Cold. All the girls wanted to BE Barbara Menendez. I still love the Cold. Just the other day I was karaoke-ing to The Cold's CD. About five years ago, I went to see a reunion gig at Howlin' Wolf and saw like a zillion people I hadn't seen since the 80s.

Random factoids for those of you NOT from New Orleans: Bassist Vance DeGeneres is Ellen DeGeneres' brother. He also was one of the creator's of SNL's Mr. Bill, and was a correspondent on the Daily Show for a while. He is also likely the origin of my string of crushes on dark-haired bassists. Lead singer Barbara Menendez, I hear, shows up on the Ellen Show periodically. She has a different last name now, but she'll always be Barbara Menendez to me and her legion fans.

okay, it's a little tired, I know...

but it's still kind of funny. I particularly like the ADD one.



1. Schizophrenia --- Do You Hear What I Hear?

2. Multiple Personality Disorder --- We Three Kings Disoriented Are

3. Dementia --- I Think I'll be Home for Christmas

4. Narcissistic --- Hark the Herald Angels Sing About Me

5. Manic --- Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Streets and
Stores and Office and Town and Cars and Buses and Trucks and Trees and.....

6. Paranoid --- Santa Claus is Coming to Town to Get Me

7. Borderline Personality Disorder --- Thoughts of Roasting on an Open Fire

8. Personality Disorder --- You Better Watch Out, I'm Gonna Cry, I'm Gonna
Pout, Maybe I'll Tell You Why

9. Attention Deficit Disorder --- Silent night, Holy oooh look at the
froggy - can I have a chocolate, why is France so far away?

10. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder --- Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle
Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle

Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle

Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle

Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle

Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells

Yankees, take note:

Thanks to my pal Dick Ford, you can see what Real Southern Cooking and Eating looks like.

Check it:

southern eating

(Yo, Dick: if I'm farking your bandwidth, let me know and I'll cut it out.)

Note that the giant pan of fried chicken is the first to fall.

While you're there, go look at his video art: Dick Ford

Yoga as a practical skill

Say you wake up one morning to find that your toilet seat has a crack in it. No idea how it got there, but these things happen. The crack, however, pinches the back of your thigh. You go off to Lowe's and buy a mid-range white wood toilet seat. You pass up the twice-as-expensive ANTIMICROBIAL toilet seat in fancy space-age plastic, despite your inner germophobe's best efforts at getting you to spend the extra fifteen bucks.

You figure, well, if they sell them at Lowe's, and the box says "easy installation," all you need is a Phillips screwdriver, it can't be all that hard. Right? In theory, yes. You unscrew the bolts holding the old seat down, lift, drop a new seat on, attach bolts & nuts, tighten, bada-boom.

But wait. The old toilet seat does not appear to have bolt tops visible. No, no indeed. You must unscrew the nuts from *beneath* the toilet bowl rim in order to get the bolts off. Your bathroom is very, very small. You cannot find your socket set (socket wrench? check. Sockets? Who the hell knows?). You try to unscrew the nuts by feel instead of sight. It takes a while to figure out that the righty-tighty-lefty-loosey rule is in fact REVERSED when unscrewing the nut. It's impossible to grip a nut with pliers if you can't actually see it. It's wedged up under the rim, at an angle. Onto the floor with you.

For the bolt to the left, you must lie on your side, bend to the left (like an L) and tilt your head up about 45 degrees while unscrewing the bolt that has been stuck there for at least 6 1/2 years. Fortunately it's not stuck or rusty, but it's awkward as hell. Okay. Broke a sweat there. Now for the other side. No way can you lie down due to tiny, tiny bathroom space. Lo and behold, yoga comes in handy! You stand up, perform a deep waist bend, hang your head to your right, lower than the rim of the toilet seat, turn your head to the left, use your right hand to unscrew the bolt, and after a great deal of non-yogic cursing, that nut comes off.

NOW it's easy-peasy. Lift seat, put down other one, plastic nut, plastic bolt, yadda yadda, nice new non-cracked toilet seat. I hope the fifteen dollar seat lasts a while, because I really, really, do not want to do this again.

I also hope the damned thing wasn't made in China. I forgot to look before I bought it. Hell.

dementia

When my grandmother was living with my parents after my grandfather's death, I lived in their garage apartment. Somewhere on the road to full Alzheimer's dementia, Grandmother forgot she had grandchildren. Hence, she believed that I was some poor homeless orphan that my mother, out of the kindness of her heart, had taken in, since I had no proper family.

Whenever I called her "Grandmother," she would smirk a little and get this look on her face like she was humoring me by answering to that.

extreme lounging

Well, hell. My Saints finally get a big win and where am I? Sleeping through the whole damn game. Sumbitch.

should've named him Martha

Apparently Bennet, the middle cat, does not approve of lackadaisical housekeeping. He has taken to peeing on clothes left on the floor. One item is fine. Two items? Constitute an impromptu litterbox.

forty

Ayiyi. The champagne in the Kir Royale, it makes the Jezebella sleepy.

parades

Tonight' t-day party was less chaotic than usual because the Designated Drunk is in NYC. She went for the Macy's Parade. None of us New Orleanians understand why one would want to attend a parade where they don't throw stuff at you. Furthermore, you can't drink and it's frackin cold.

This is not a parade protocol I can get behind.

OMG

I will have to poke myself in the ears with giant, er, poking sticks, if I see or hear one more "news" story about "cutting calories at the holidays". Is there really and truly so very little happening in the world that there's time for "Weight Loss Wednesday" in a 30-minute newscast EVERY SINGLE WEEK?
Somehow, I think not.

CNN debates

I sure like that Dennis Kucinich. I'd like to live in a country where he is electable.

do you blame?

election time in Mississippi

Yesterday, I voted for a dude named "Popcorn" because his opponent was the Douchebaggy McGee who wanted to know about my John Kerry bumper sticker a few weeks ago. Well, McGee's also a pro-life, anti-gay, pro-business godbag. I have no idea what Popcorn stands for, but he ran as a Democrat* and he wasn't the other guy.

Also, when I got to the voting precinct, some godbag had taped flyers for a church revival on the front door and on either side of it. I told the election workers that I felt a revival flyer was inappropriate in this venue, and to their credit, they agreed promptly and went and took them down right away. I was kind of ready for an argument, and was also ready to take them down myself. Fortunately I did not have to stamp my feet and make a scene.

*Alas, running as a Democrat in Mississippi is a nearly meaningless exercise. I only saw one third-party candidate, from the "Constitution Party," which I hear is even farther right than the R's.

Saints are coming back! Woot.

They tromped all over the 49ers yesterday, to the point where I kind of felt a little sorry for San Francisco, losing so badly at home. Not bad enough to wish they'd won, obviously.

So, we're 3-4, woohoo. We looked great, and the 49ers fell apart. We do best when Brees mixes it up, passes the ball to a different person every time, like to people who I never knew existed. It's a good strategy, and one I've never seen the Saints use before the Peyton/Brees era.

I'm noticing that a lot of my favorite Saints have moved on: Sammy Knight, Joe Horn, Michael Lewis (who's with the 49ers now; I had wondered where he'd gone), Ricky Williams (in spite of, or perhaps because of, his complete eccentricity), and Morten Anderson.

I'm growing rather fond of Scott Fujita & Mike McKenzie. They've got style and panache with their bone-crunching tackling skills. They kinda look like they're having a good time, ya know? Well, and there's Reggie and Deuce. Ya gotta love them, but it's too obvious. I hate that Deuce McAllister is out for the season. The man is reliable like a tank and seems like a nice guy to boot.

For some reason I'm never all het up about the quarterback; I guess it seems too obvious. Kinda like in fourth grade, when I refused to admit a fondness for Shaun Cassidy. I preferred the brunette Hardy Boy, Parker Stephenson, because it was the contrary thing to do. Likewise: sure, Drew Brees is doing a great job out there and seems like an all-round good guy, but he's got all the fans he needs. So do Reggie and Deuce. Give me a scrappy eccentric with less visibility any day of the week. I'm leaning towards Fujita as my main man this year.

In slightly related news, I'm still looking for the perfect fleur-de-lys tattoo. I can't get a Saints tattoo for fear that Tom Benson moves the team. I sure don't want to be marked as a "Peoria Saints" fan down the road, right? So I need a good NOLA fleur-de-lys that translates to the ink-on-flesh medium. It'll invoke the Saints without being an actual Saints logo.

More Mississippi Idioms

Not only does one "cut off", say, the air conditioning, one can also "cut it on".

Furthermore, and I may have mentioned this before but I'm too lazy to check: hereabouts, one uses a "buggy" to shop for groceries, not a grocery cart.

And if you're going anywhere, in any direction, you are going "down to" wherever. Someone from Mississippi could very well tell you he'd gone "down to Alaska" last week.
[I'm kind of afraid to parse this one.]

what happens at my house every morning

where I live

Alas, I cannot find anywhere the Robert Smigel "Blue Christmas" TV Funhouse that calls the giant red state I inhabit "Dumbfuckistan." The giant red state that is all the red states squished together, the ones between the enclaves of un-affordable blue states.

Mississippi isn't nearly as bad as everybody thinks it is. Whenever you see Mississippi in TV shows and movies, it's usually a version of 1965 Mississippi. People do not get lynched here anymore. Old white men do not stand around gas stations chewing on straws and squinting at yankees who are about to uncover the civil rights murder no southerner was smart enough to solve. People do have running water and electricity, and hardly anyone wears overalls. We do all own shoes. We have movie theatres and sushi and health food stores and spas and museums.

But it does suck. A lot of people are poor here. Really poor. Public education? It sucks. So poor people aren't very well-educated. They smoke when they're pregnant. They leave their kids in front of Cartoon Network 24/7. They give babies sweet tea in their bottles. Not from meanness or stupidity, but sheer ignorance. Just don't know no better. Most educated people give lip service to equal rights, but the level of ignorant racial bigotry just beneath the surface is sometimes mind-boggling. The misogyny is even less hidden. Homophobia? It's what's for breakfast.

On top of poverty and ignorance, slather on a layer of evangelical christianity of varying stripes: southern baptist, pentecostal, church of christ, megachurch, you name it. Whatever it is, it don't like no homos, no jews, no evolution, and it sure as shit don't like no democrats. Not the yankee kind anyway. Because Mississippi Democrats are nearly indistinguishable from Mississippi Republicans.

To wit: we have a gubernatorial election coming up. Our incumbent, Haley Barbour, is a former lobbyist for big tobacco and big oil. He is anti-gay rights, anti-abortion, pro-development, pro-business, and a Republican. His opponent, John Arthur Eaves, carries a bible around in his ads. He is anti-gay rights, anti-abortion, pro-prayer in schools, pro "family values," a personal injury lawyer and a... Democrat?? Huhwhat? As far as I can tell the DNC is having nothing to do with Eaves. I have no idea why he's even registered as a Dem, except that it allowed him to get on the ballot, because Barbour would've knocked him out in a Republican primary. So basically, we have one godbaggy republican, or the other.

I live here, and there are things about it that don't suck. The landscape is nice. The food's pretty good. People are generally courteous to one another, and the cost of living is low. There's a lot of music and literature to be had.

On the whole, I tend to blame evangelical christianity and its bedfellow, red-state republican brainwashing, for most of what is still wrong with Mississippi. If anybody in charge gave a shit about anybody but rich, white, heterosexual christians, the public school system would work. Welfare and Medicaid/Medicare would be fully funded. Everyone would have access to reproductive health services, day care, and post-secondary education. But that's not the case. The poor keep on getting poorer and more ignorant; and the rich? They get richer and build bigger walls around their gated communities.

And those gated communities don't look a damned thing like Mississippi. They look like Phoenix, and Houston, and Atlanta, and every other boring cookie-cutter McMansion gated community in America. It's their loss, but it's also our loss. If I were anything but white and hetero, I would've never moved here. There is an as-yet undocumented brain drain (I'm willing to bet) of talented and brilliant African-American and homosexual Mississippians who just had to get the hell out. It's not about violence, or structured bigotry, though. There just aren't many opportunities for people who don't meet the honky heteronormative model.

so get this

Local state senatorial candidate rolls up behind my place of employment last week, and asks a co-worker who's standing out back:

"Whose white car is that with the JOHN KERRY sticker!?"

Asks it, I might add, in a state of RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION that someone in this godforsaken shithole of a godbaggy small town should DARE, DARE to sport a Democratic bumpersticker.

Now, I know that election is long gone, and I am a lazy-ass mofo who should've taken the sticker off long ago, but you know what? NOW it's staying on until I decide which presidential candidate I'll be supporting.

Ass-hat, godbaggy asshole. I dare him to come have a chat with me about my freedom of speech. I don't give a rat's ass if he works with my boss's wife or has a stupid rush-limbaugh-wanna-be radio show: I will fucking well rip off his head and shit down his neck if he steps on my freedom of speech. Ass.

Why you should read Jane Austen novels

I heart Jane Austen with an irrational passion. You will find yourself wondering, "Why do I even give a crap about these bourgeois assholes and whether they marry well or not?" But you WILL give a crap. You will find yourself cheering women who find ways to survive in a culture that, even more so than ours, limits women's lives in brutal fashion. Marry, or die. Or: marry, get pregnant, die young. Or: marry a complete arse just to have a roof over your head. You get the drift. Her world is circumscribed but within it, there is great depth.

Austen's wit is often subtle. It is pointed. She is a great inventor of Characters. Nobody is immune, from either criticism or praise. Rich, poor, smart, stupid, beautiful, plain, male, female: it doesn't matter, the character may be reprehensible or entirely laudable.

I re-read the whole Austen oeuvre every few years, and always find something new. She grows on you; you identify with different characters at different times in your life. You might find a novel sad on one reading, hilarious on the next.

Go forth and read.

why I need to leave Mississippi

Editorials with statements like this:

"Here's what I believe: Someone else's beliefs - even the backward, despicable ones - don't really hurt anyone."

AAAAAAAHHHGGGGGGGGFISDJGldkfjfuckityfuckfuckodsufojusputter....

there's so much wrong with that statement I hardly know where to begin.

I've GOT TO get out of this place.

onslaught

Here's the thing: isn't this sort of like the tobacco industry making anti-smoking ads?