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January 31, 2004

The devil on her shoulder

While Michele is busy swooning, stumbling, snoozing, and puking her guts up, I figured I'd take a moment to do what she so rarely, if at all, does. Over there on the right margin you'll find a few ways to brighten up her otherwise bleary and dreary ill weekend:
  • The ASV Laptop Fund so she can blog from the GOP Convention in 2004.
  • Order an Advertisement on this site. Let people know that you support this kind of tomfollery, wistfulness, and woolgathering not only in spirit, but financially.
  • And then there's the Command Post thongs...
What? No Command Post thongs? Then what the Hell am I wearing right now? Maybe instead of a laptop, she could start small. Maybe some chicke soup. If you're voerly generous, she might be able to afford some noodles or matzoh balls in there. And if you're extremely generous, she could afford the whole matzoh and not the balls. Imagine, if you will, a swimming pool of chicken soup. I figure if you swam in that, you'd stay young and healthy like those old geezers in Cocoon did. Well, except that you'd smell like greasy chicken fat and salt. Sorta like the old geezers, I believe. (Get well soon, Michele. Your absence leaves some daunting shoes and cups to fill.)

station break

closed.gif [i'll be back when i can keep awake for more than ten minutes a time]

and a little musical interlude

Zorak's Blues. If you make your own, leave the link here.

Open Discussion: love/hate relationships

Ok, so this mono thing is worse than I thought it would be. I should have listened to all the advice. As such, I will be on the couch for most of the day and will not be blogging. However, you know I just wouldn't leave this place blank for the day. No, no open mic right now. I don't feel like monitoring the posts. So let's just do an open discussion, inspired by this thread at Stacy's, where she admits to hating Jimmy Buffet. Discuss: What do you hate that (you believe) everyone else loves? What do you love that (you believe) everyone else hates? For instance, I hated Forrest Gump, a movie that supposedly anyone with a heart loves. I don't think Friends is a good tv show. I think Hemingway was incredibly boring. And am I really the only one who thinks Rob Zombie is hot? Have at it. I may be back later.

January 30, 2004

Bushwhacked

I'm risking the wrath of my blog doctor, to whom I made a promise to rest and not blog, but I've been on the couch so damn long I had to get up and do something. So I moved the two feet from the couch to the computer chair. Don't worry, I'll make this short and then it's back to bed. If you notice, I have taken down the "Blogs for Bush" button I had on the sidebar for a few weeks. I'm wavering. He's really pissing me off lately. But what's the alternative? I don't like any of the Dem candidates, and I'm not going to once again waste my vote on a fringe third party candidate. Yea, it's still Bush, but it's not with any kind of passion or total allegiance that he'll get my vote. It comes down to the main issue of who will protect me. It's just a shame that I have to choose everything that comes with the choice of security when I pull that lever.

Squeezed Out

[If you were under the impression that I would stop blogging just because I have mono, you're crazy. Blogging is the only thing between me and an imprint of the couch on my ass]

cfc.gifYes, I am addicted to VH1's Bands Reunited, thank you for asking.

It was great to see The Alarm again, even if Mike Peters sort of flattened out his hair, which was what attracted me to the band in the first place.

Today was Squeeze's turn. Surely you remember Squeeze? A band that is never given enough credit for their talents, Squeeze tends to get thrown into the slush pile of funny looking 80's bands that had a hit or two.

Unlike some other bands of that era that got famous because of their style or gimmick or just because they hit the right place at the righ time, Squeeze was oozing with talent.

Difford, Tilbrook, Holland and all those other guys who didn't matter as much as those three combined to make some of the greatest songs to come out of an era when great songs were not nearly as numerous as their overstyled, synth pop counterparts. Not that there's anything wrong with that; I loved the whole synth pop-new wave thing. I was just able to recognize that while most of the music of that genre was filled with fun beats that you could bop your head in time to after a few shots of tequila in a grungy-on-purpose club, Squeeze was different.

While a lot of people joined the Squeez fan-wagon when East Side Story (1981) came out (and some, not until Squeeze Singles in 1982), I had a head start on the band due to my employment at a radio station in 1980. Ok, I wasn't an employee so much as a phone volunteer, one of those people who answered the 24-7 request line and handled the contests and listened to a lot of heavy breathing and requests for sexual favors that were unheard of in my little, naive corner of the world.

Volunteering had its perks. Lots of free albums, meeting semi-stars, going on the air once in a while (I even made a few commercials) and getting a heads up on the up and coming bands, which proved to be a constant source of jealousy on the part of my friends when a band I predicted would become famous actually did and I could smugly say "I called that one!" Like I did with U2. But that's another story.

This one is about Squeeze and about a copy of Cool for Cats that made it into my hands in early 1980. The record had actually been released in '79, but New York radio was slow to pick up on it. The station I was working at, WLIR, went by the slogan "Dare to be Different," and they held true to that motto by daring to play the title song of Cool for Cats.

It was love at first listen. It was different, so far apart from anything I was hearing at the time. I grabbed a copy of the album and spent that night listening to it for hours, flipping the disc at least ten times. The lyrics to Up the Junction were simple, the rythmn almost monotonous. But somehow those two parts together formed a riveting song. Even Cool for Cats, with its machine-gun presentation of the lyrics (I give a little muscle, and I spend a little cash, but all I get is bitter and a nasty little rash) was just so out there that I couldn't help but love it. If I Didn't Love You (I'd Hate You). was the ultimate in relationship songs:

Singles remind me of kisses, albums remind me of plans .

Well, I thought that was pretty damn deep back then. In fact, I still do. And I still quote it.

I found a copy of U.K. Squeeze. - their first album and the original name of the band- in some dirty record story in the city. While it seemed to be made by almost a different band, it was still some good shit, as we used to say in the 'hood. Take Me, I'm Yours inspired many a late songwriting session on my part, trying to recreate that staccato delivery of passionate-in-an-odd-way lyrics.

Then along came East Side Story and Squeeze became a sensation. Tempted pushed them onto the charts and out of the dark, dingy clubs I had seen them in into Madison Square Garden. Elvis Costello worked wonders with the band, polishing their genius and creating a bigger, more diverse sound. Unfortunately, it was one I didn't love. I liked it, but I didn't love it the way I did Argy Bargy. I gave Sweets from a Stranger, their next album, a chance but was turned off when I found my mother singing Black Coffee in Bed.

Regardless of whether I liked them anymore or not, they were still damn talented. Jools Holland's piano playing always amazed me. Difford and Tilbrook wrote some amazing songs. And those other guys did...other talented-like things. In between the breakup of Squeeze and the reunion of Squeeze, Difford and Tilbrook released an album together, the highlight of which was a wonderful tune called Love's Crashing Wave's.

At one point, I pined for the days when Cool for Cats was considered exciting and new. When new wave finally crashed and burned, that was the one album I went to (ok, that and the 12 inch single of Stephen "Tin Tin" Duffy's Kiss Me) when I wanted to sulk in my room and relive the glory days of night clubs, spiked hair and torn, black stockings.

So it was with trepidation today that I watched VH1 take their turn with Squeeze. And I was mostly relieved when the plans fell through and the band did not go through with the reunion. They probably would have played one of their later songs, anyhow. You know it wouldn't have been Cool for Cats or Up the Junction, and that's how I want to remember them.

The 80's nostalgia crap is getting to me. Someone stop me before I hunt down all the members of Aztec Camera and force them to play the entire track listing of High Land, Hard Rain. In my living room.

And if you are tempted to use the comments to say what band you would want VH1 to reunite, don't. That's for tomorrow's open mic night. Save it.

Update: This is the station I worked for. They officially went off the air this month after many, many years of providing great music to Long Islanders. This makes me incredibly sad. How sad? You'll have to wait until tomorrow's eulogy to a radio station.

More like this in: Essential Media

life's the same, I'm moving in stereo mono

So, the doc takes one look at me, says "Man, you look like shit," and when I get to the second symptom he stops me and says "Holy Mononucleosis, Batman!" And then he takes one look at Nat, all curled up in the corner of the office and says "Jesus, girl. What did you do to her?" Ok, didn't happen exactly like that, but the results are the same. Both Nat and I faced the needle and had the blood drained from our veins today, even both the doctors already gave us each the dreaded diagnosis. Plus, I have swollen glands and strep throat, which I think are part of the mono virus, anyhow. No idea what the next week holds. I really don't have that much sick time. I may have to ask my sister, whom I love more than life itself and who is the greatest person to ever exist, to donate some sick time to me. I'll just take it day by day. Right now, I need a ten hour nap. My ass has been thoroughly kicked.

debatable

Did you watch the debate last night? What the hell crawled up Tom Brokaw's ass last night? He was snippy, feisty and reminded me of an argumentive drunk who challenges the whole bar to a fist fight. Except Kerry and crew evaded his punches. Does anyone actually answer a question in a debate, or do they just try to suck up their alloted time by cheerleading for themselves and throwing insults at their opponents? I think it would go a lot better - and produce a clearer picture of the candidates - if they were all tied to metal chairs with bright lights shining in their eyes and a devious looking man with a blunt instrument standing by. And the chairs were placed on electric currents which gave them a shock every time they avoided asnwering a question. People would pay to see that.

Hmmm..

Daughter has mono. Mom wakes up this morning feeling like she was hit by a truck. She has a headache that will not be quelled, even with a handful of Excedrin Migraine. Her throat is closing up. She should go to the doctor, eh? Oh, but she's afraid of needles and does not want to undergo a blood test. Hmmm....does sit here feeling like death warmed over or suffer the pains of a large, sharp syringe sucking blood from her arm? And why is she talking in third person? She does not know.

11 years ago today...

If you ask DJ what his greatest accomplishment in his eleven short years on this planet thus far, he will tell you that when he was just 2 1/2, he beat the Sonic the Hedgehog game in two days. Apple, tree, etc. My own greatest accomplishment in the past eleven years is that I can truly say that I am proud DJ is my son. Really, what more could a parent ask? Happy Birthday, kid. May the future bring you the means to live your dream of being a guitar playing-third baseman-astronaut. djbd.jpg

January 29, 2004

Disney: Dead on Arrival

Who didn't see this coming? Pixar has dumped Disney. TO INFINITY...AND BEYOND!"After ten months of trying to strike a deal with Disney, we're moving on," Pixar CEO Steve Jobs said in a statement. "We've had a great run together -- one of the most successful in Hollywood history -- and it's a shame that Disney won't be participating in Pixar's future successes." To repeat what I said on December 1st:
Pixar could still renew their contract with Disney, but I wouldn't bet on it. The success of Finding Nemo alone should give Pixar the balls to venture out and find another studio to work with. Sure, they may end up staying with Disney but, if they don't, Disney will be left with nothing but a lot of memories and a pile of straight-to-video sequels that just won't hold a candle to what other studios (i.e., DreamWorks) are doing.
And to quite un-humbly quote myself even further: Eisner has shaped Disney into his own image and, in the process, has cut the animation giant off at the knees. I restate my declaration from this morning: If Eisner stays on, Disney will sink with him. Two days ago, there was this:
Roy Disney, a former Walt Disney Co. board member who resigned amid his opposition to Chief Executive Michael Eisner, Tuesday urged shareholders to vote against Eisner and three other directors standing for re-election to the company's board. "Now is the time for all Disney shareholders to take the first step to bring needed change to The Walt Disney Company," said Roy Disney and Stanley Gold, who also resigned from the board in protest, in a letter to shareholders sent ahead of the March 3 annual meeting.
The glory days of Disney are long gone. They will continue to release - and then withdraw from the shelves - remastered versions of old classics in the hopes of keeping the Disney animation cash flow from drying up. They've come a long, long way since the days when movies like The Little Mermaid made Disney all the rage again. A long, long way down, that is. All hail Pixar, our new animation overlords. Endnote: Pixar (PIXR: Research, Estimates) stock jumped in after-hours trading, according to Reuters, while Disney (DIS: Research, Estimates) stock sank more than 4 percent.

predicting dean

Sitting in a doctor's waiting room for an hour or so gives you a great opportunity to catch up on magazine reading. I read two back issues of Time and one back issue of Newsweek and all three of them - written well before the primaries started - predicted the meltdown of Howard Dean. The guy is absolutely unelectable. [This is one of the articles. Unfortunately, you have to pay to read the whole thing. Maybe when I go back to the doctor's office tomorrow, I'll "borrow" it.] Uh...Dean seems to have a scatalogical fetish.

Does he think money grows on trees?

[To quote my mother] Bush's plan to give 18 million dollars to the NEA is, in a word, preposterous.

Word to the Wise

If your teenage child complains day in and day out of various aches, pains, headaches and tiredness, don't always blow them off and assume they just don't want to go to school. After kicking Nat out the door every morning and telling her to stop being a hypochondriac and get to school, I finally took her to the doctor, if just to prove to her that there was nothing wrong with her except laziness and her penchant for staying awake way past her bedtime. Oops. She has mono. Bad mommy. Guilt ensues.

A Small Victory: Three Years and Still Blowing Smoke Up Your Ass

Three years. I don't think I've ever stuck with an idea this long. I was always the type to join a club or sign up for a sport or come up with a grand plan and throw in the towel a week or two later. I have unfinished stories and half-done projects cluttering my closets. Hell, I left St. John's University (for good reasons) with just 15 credits needed to graduate with a degree in English. Well, it's not like an English degree would have paid off anyhow. You may as well major in Sitting at Home Twiddling Your Thumbs. So here we are, three years after I started blogging, and I'm still at it. Go figure, I finally found something to do that kept my interest for more than 30 seconds. Today is the actual date of the anniversary, though the proof of that is long, long gone. I started my first weblog - after reading an article about blogs on Plastic - at Tripod. I don't even remember the name or URL. But I do remember the date because I still have the Notepad file. 1/29 So, this is a weblog. Does anyone read these things? Ok, I do remember the URL. But it's too embarassing. I gave up on Triopd and moved to Freeservers that May, where my posts were a bit longer and dealt mainly with sports and news. Then Freeservers screwed me and I finally broke down and bought my own domain and went from Blogger to Greymatter to Moveable Type and here I am. Three years. Have I accomplished anything? Have I learned anything? Sure have, sure did. Three years ago I was marginally aware of the world around me. I could talk current events and politics, but I had no particular passion for for doing so. I read the paper, watched a few talking heads, but didn't stay riveted to the tv except for times of breaking news. Unless the Weather Channel counts. Man, I love that channel. Then I started reading other blogs. Obsessively. I had a links list that took up two pages. And then a strange thing happened. Just a few months into blogging, I realized my discussions about news and politics were fueled by passion. I took more of an interest in news not just from the U.S., but from all over. I began commenting on other blogs - I didn't realize I had such strong opinions about everything from brands of tuna to the Middle East. It was just what I needed. Being a very opinionated and strong-willed person, blogging was a perfect hobby for me. Finally, a place to vent and rant and rave and tell the people of the world how incredibly correct my opinions are and how very wrong they are. It's easy to be righteous in your beliefs when your blog doesn't have a commenting system. People rarely emailed me to refute my opinions. I was so smug, so sure of myself that I was excited to start using Blogger so I could have commenting capabilities. My first day on Blogger was September 10, 2001. Check it out. [click for bigger image] I think you know what happened after that. And this is the great thing about having a blog - I do know what happened after that. I have every emotion and event recorded, forever and ever, amen. Don't worry, I'm not going to rehash the whole 9/11 series of events and blog posts. Been there, done that. But I will tell you that it was not just having a blog, but having a blog with comments, is what buoyed me through those days and nights. Ah, but there always is a flipside to things. Enabling comments ended up to be a very humbling experience. Spouting off my opinions, bitching at the world and acting as if I were absolutely right on all counts tended to piss my readers off. And they let me know. My ideas and beliefs were refuted, disputed, diluted and called stupid. I was countered, disagreed with, proved wrong, shouted down and whatever the virtual version of being punched in the mouth is. It's so easy to think you're right when you don't give people the chance to prove you wrong. Lesson Number One of blogging: People with strong opinions, who are often feisty, accusatory and belligerent and don't have comments enabled are cowards. I braved the storm and kept the comments open and I think I'm a better person for that. I have learned, I have been schooled - in short, I got served. It's a good thing to be humbled once in a while. It keeps you honest. At least, it should. And I've been nothing if not honest with you all these years. A Small Victory: WYSIWYG. So, in three years I have honed my writing skills, made somewhat of a name for myself, started about 20 different projects and saw most of them to completion, made a ton of friends and several enemies, learned a great deal about the world and myself, was quoted in several national magazines and newspapers, received a community award from something I started right here, learned some coding skills, received support in times of crisis, was able to give support to others, became an activist, a political junkie, a newshound and a published author. It's been three years of constant schooling with bloggers as my teachers: Glenn Reynolds, Bill Quick, Joanne Jacobs, Stacy Tabb, Toren Smith, Rachel Lucas, Robyn Pollman, Arthur Sibler, Dirk Deppey, James Lileks, Noah Grey, Reid Stott, Eric Olsen, Jim Treacher and Mike Hendrix as my unwitting mentors and teachers. Whether they taught me coding or how to laugh at myself or how to take myself seriously, or the nuances of war, religion, politics and peace, or how to write a fluid sentence or stand up for what I believe in or how to buy a good camera or spot a great comic book, or gave me a much needed lesson in humility, they all knowingly or not taught me more in the past three years than I learned in all the time I spent in various colleges. Friends, I've made a few. Unlike Frank Sinatra, there are way too many to mention. You know who you are, you know what you mean to me and I'll never stop telling you. Readers. I've come a long way from my 10 hit days on Tripod. I'm not going to look up the numbers, but let's just say I'm overwhelmed by the amount of people that read my drivel every single day. It still boggles the mind. And I would like thank every single one of you. Personally. You, and you and you and you....(nevermind, I saw a comedian do that once. He pulled it off much better than I just did). Enemies. Oh, yes. It's been almost fun to make them. My buddy Vince. The goons at Indymedia. Bloggers who shall remain unnamed. But truth be told, I learned just as much from them as I have from my friends and I truly thank them for the lessons they have given me, intentional or not. So, three years in a nutshell: I've lived, I've loved, I've learned. Just like anyone else in this world. I just happen to put it all down in writing every day. Saved for posterity in the bowels of Google so my kids will one day plot to murder me in my sleep when they realize all I've written about them. Ah, but it will be worth it, just for that twinge of smugness I feel when my daughter treats me like the stupidest person on the face of the earth and I'm thinking to myself, well, 10,000 have seen that picture of you dressed like Christina Aguilera! HAH! Three years of crap dispensed for free at this virtual vending machine of tirades. And I have loved every minute of it. I'd like to stick around another three years, if this blogging thing ever takes off. Thanks for all the fish time you've given me. I hope it's been worth it.

January 28, 2004

is it spring yet?

Again, I apologize for the lack of posting. I am very tired and very...blah. Whoever is in charge of the seasons, you may end winter now. Thank you.

Great Expectations: The Valentine's Day Letdown Syndrome

I've received quite a bit of email about my vagina post yesterday. Apparently, many of you are under the assumption that I am pissed specifically because the vagina warriors are trying to take Valentine's Day away. You seem to be under the impression that I love Valentine's Day. Hah. You assume way too much. So it is with delight that I present, for the third year running, my Valentine's Day screed. And once again, I await your refutation of my bitterness and angst. Not that you need a reminder, what with all the storefronts decorated with sickening pink and red hearts and little cherubs with pointy weapons, but V Day approaches. I hate this holiday. People who do not have significant others do not corner the market on hating Valentine's Day. It comes down to this: the greeting card and chocolate and floral industries have gotten together and formed this great conspiracy called Valentine's Day. Sure, this day existed a long time ago, set aside to honor a saint. Not a day to buy your wife a black teddy and a garter belt. And certainly not a day to make people who are not in a relationship feel shitty about themselves. And most certainly not a day to make all the people who don't think of being romantic or spontaneous or thoughtful all year long think there is one specific day where they can do these things and then be off the hook for the rest of the year. Valentine's Day is not a day of amnesty. It is not a day where a guy or girl can say "Well, I've been shitty to my partner all year long, but if I buy them a huge boquet of flowers on February 14th, I'm off the hook!" It doesn't work that way. Me, I'm lucky to have someone who is a romantic fool all year round. But it wasn't always that way. I was once married to a guy who thought that if he took out the garbage instead of making me do it, it was a romantic gesture. Valentine's Day would come around and I would get a box of chocolate ($3.99 at CVS) and it would have at least two pieces with the dreaded coconut, which means I got a cheap box of chocolate of which I could only really enjoy about 4 pieces. Chocolate is not a good gift. Chocolate says "I would like you to gain a few pounds so then I can say to you in a week or so that you look like you could lose a few pounds." Flowers are not good. Flowers say "Here are some beautiful works of nature that will wilt or dry out and lose their beauty in a relatively short time. Like you. Which is when I will leave you for a younger woman." Sexy lingerie is not good, because that just says "I really hate the way you look naked. Do you think you could dress like a stripper when we have sex so I can pretend that you are Shana from The Raven's Nest?" Valentine's Day is a crock of falsehoods. It does more harm than good. Have you ever been that kid in class who got three valentines while everyone else got 20? Have you ever sat home crying in your beer and eating a pint of chocoalte chip mint ice cream while burning pictures of your ex? Then you know. You know how Valentine's Day only causes pain. Even for the guys who have a girlfriend because they feel they can't live up to the expectations that the media has set for them as far as presents go. Diamonds are a man's best friend apparently, especially if he wants sex, some free time or the right to do anything you please any way you please because women are shallow like that. For the girls who have a special someone, it sucks if they have been watching some woman-centered morning television show where some guy pops out of the audience in a tuxedo on Valentine's Day and gets down on his knee and begs his girlfriend, who is a grip or stagehand or something, to marry him. And then Katie Couric sends them on a trip around Manhattan in a horse drawn carraige and the snow falls gently on their heads as he puts a diamond ring on her finger and....well that's not reality for everyone, folks. So don't think it's yours. Valentine's Day only serves to get your hopes up and then have them crashed down on top of you by the end of the night when all you got was a kiss and an offer to let you watch while he plays Grand Theft Auto. Any other day of the year that would have been good enough for you. I've digressed again. I'm just saying. To hell with Valentine's Day. No flowers, no candy, no crotchless panties. If you love someone, tell them. That's all. And really, that should be every day. ______________________ This year, I add: I don't profess to speak for all women on this issue. I am speaking for me, and that is not something that men who are looking to find out women's feelings about Valentine's Day should take to the bank, so to speak. My idea of a perfect date is drinking beer and playing video games and watching Space Ghost and Aqua Teen DVDs. Which is what I will be doing on the evening of February 14th with my husband, who is damn lucky to have me.

there will always be more

I thought I knew everything. I understood how it happened, the sequence of events, the aftermath, the death and destruction. I thought I knew every detail, every story, every rumor, implication and theory. Of course, I was wrong. Could it be that it took me over two years to realize that I - we - will never know everything about September 11, 2001? I don't mean the mechanations of the plan, or the years leading up to the actions of al Qeada; I don't expect to know that. Perhaps what I thought happened is what I wanted to believe; that the people on the planes that hit the buildings never knew what was happening. I wanted to believe that one minute they were reading or sleeping or watching a movie and then, they were dead. There was no fear, no panic. Just sudden, painless death. Listening to this tape today, I can see how wrong and naive I have been. Can you imagine being in that situation? You are on a plane, crew members have been stabbed. You can't breathe because of chemicals sprayed in the air. You know without being told that your life is over. You're with your spouse, your child, your best friend. What do you say? Do you tell your small child that she's about to die and mommy loves her very much? Do you kiss your husband good-bye or do you just sit and stare out the window, frozen by fear? For two years I thought only of the people in the buildings that were hit and the rescuers who ran into those buildings as they were crumbling down. I imagined their horror, felt their pain, lived their nightmares. I cried for them and was angry for them and vowed to never forget them. Oh, I cried for the victims on the planes as well, but I never gave as much thought to their last moments as I did to the WTC victims' last breaths. I'm reading yet another book about 9/11. It's a book of personal stories, much like the Voices project. There are passages about the victims I never thought about; the people who were sitting in nearby stores or just walking past the building as the planes crashed and pieces of steel and concrete fell to the ground. People just sitting in a cafe, eating breakfast and then a crash and sudden death. I listened to the tape against my better judgment. I knew what I would start feeling. I knew all the old familiar anger and sadness would surface all over again. But I am also aware that there are still so many stories I don't know and may never hear. Now I am thinking of Betty Ong's family - would you want to hear the last words of your loved one? Would you want to know what her last minutes were like? Would you want the whole world to listen to them? Is it weird for me to worry about people I don't know? I wonder how the families are getting along. I wonder if they relive the whole thing every time another article is written, another memorial is erected, another story is told. I worry about people I know - Jeff and Faith and people who were there, who lived through it and probably relive it all the time. I do think I'm getting better.. All those emotions are still there and there is new sadness today to add to the buildup that already festers deep inside. But I am no longer consumed by it. I can react with passion and not let that passion give way to irrational tirades. I can write about it without launching into an attack on conspiracy theorists and certain people who practice a certain extremist version of a certian religion. See? I'm calm. I'm upset, but calm. I think being angered by hearing the voices of 9/11 has been replaced by being haunted by those voices. And those voices are the reason I want to elect a leader who will make sure that a day like 9/11 never happens again. It's taken me over two years to even begin to let some of it go. I can't imagine how long it will take for Betty Ong's family, or people like Rod Boyd or Dan. Point to this post? None. Just another written-on-the-fly thought process made public.

January 27, 2004

Gnome Chomsky?

Where have I been, you ask? You know damn well where I was the whole night. But, because I am a good hearted person who would never let one of my friends come to harm just because I knew about a terror alert and was too busy to tell them, I will let you in on a little secret: Terrorist are now disguising themselves as garden gnomes. Please, when you go out tomorrow take precaution. I suggest carrying a hammer and smashing ever garden gnome you see. Hopefully, they will quickly enact a law against owning these hideous, terrorist-harboring stone creatures and then only the outlaws will have garden gnomes. Be careful out there, kids. The life you save by destroying a gnome may be your own.

He's a Rainbow in the Dark

counterafd.gifCan I get a HELL YEAH? A fellow New Yorker, Ronnie James Dio is my choice for President of the United States. He is the only one who can take us into the next four years with confidence and righteousness. He has worked in several cabinets, doing time with Ritchie Blackmore and Ozzy Osbourne before striking out on his own to win the hearts and minds of American voters. Dio on Homeland Security: So, fortune shine your light on me and my clothes Cause we need some security. What he means is that he doesn't want to have to wear radioactive suits, so he is going to be big on securing the U.S. against terror attacks. Dio on Crime: Cry out to legions of the brave, time again to save us from the jackals of the street. RJD would send the National Guard out wipe out street crime. Every day, in every state. Dio on the War on Terror: Ride the tiger/You can see his stripes but you know he's clean/Oh don't you see what I mean/Gotta get away/Holy Diver. Basically, you go all religious jihad on us, we'll go vendetta jihad on your ass. Dio on legalizing marijuana: And now you can fly/So take your magic carpet ride. Enough said. Dio on Gay Rights: I was feelin' rather good/Should've touched some wood. Yea, he's on your side, guys. As it says on Dio's election blog:
In fantasy tales, peasants had to worry about dragons coming to take their children away, hoping that their feudal lords would protect them from the marauding dragons with their strength or magic. But those times are long gone, and today's leaders have lost all their magic. Fortunately, the only thing that regular people need to protect themselves today is the vote — and you've got it!
His name is Dio and he dances on the sand. Ronnie James Dio. Get out the vote.

of vaginas and valentines

pussy.jpgFirst they came for our Christmas season and turned it into an anti-consumer holiday. I just laughed. Next, they came for Columbus Day and turned it into a day to feel picked on and left out. I just laughed. Then they came for Thanksgiving and Easter and made them into animal activist events. And yes, I just laughed. Now they are coming for Valentine’s Day and with that, they are coming for your vagina. I am not laughing.
V-Day is a global movement to stop violence against women and girls. V-Day is a palpable energy, a fierce catalyst that promotes creative events to increase awareness, raise money, and revitalize the spirit of existing anti-violence organizations. V-Day generates broader attention for the fight to stop worldwide violence against women and girls including rape, battery, incest, female genital mutilation (FGM), and sexual slavery. V-Day provides funding to create and nurture innovative programs to stop the violence.
The sentiments are altruistic and thoughtful. But they are co-opting yet another holiday to get their word out. Valentine’s Day is now Violence Day. Sure, the “event” is meant to take place all year long, which is all well and good, but the bulk of the campaigns and actions are scheduled to coincide with Valentine’s Day. The “Vagina Warriors” will be out in full force, trampling on your candy, flowers and paper hearts to make sure you know that your vagina belongs to you. Part of the V-Day campaign involves a traveling show of The Vagina Monologues, coming to a high school near you. Yes, a high school. I’m all about sex education and information, but I don’t think it’s necessary to have some kind of female empowerment festival where women dress up as vaginas and talk to teenagers. That’s not sex education, that’s feminist brainwashing. One scene - The Little Coochi Snorcher That Could - involves a description of a teen-aged girl having sex with an older woman, with the ultimate message being that it’s a good, nice thing. The 16 year old girl actually says - in one adaptation -, “if it was rape, it was a good rape.” If that was an older man having sex with a teen aged girl, there would be an uproar. So why is it ok to show young girls that having sex with an adult woman while you are under the age of consent is a beautiful thing? Apparently, the The 'V' in V-Day stands for Victory, Valentine and Vagina. Victory over violence is great. But using The Vagina Monologues as the basis for your activism is turning the idea of being in charge of one’s one body into a beat down on men. Why can’t one be a strong feminist without hating males? Just as not all women are victims of violence and abuse, not all men are violent abusers. Why does everything have to be black and white? Good or bad? Man v. woman? Why can’t I share my vagina and not feel like I’m going to be an affront to all good women if I do? Call me silly, but I thought Valentine’s Day is a day to, you know....put your vagina to use with your loving, non-abusive male companion. While it’s nice that these women want to honor people who have done so much for the world struggle with violence against women, being hailed as a Vagina Warrior probably takes a little pride out of being the reciepient. I can see the entry a high school reunion booklet: Mary Williams: Married, mother of four, CEO of Williams Marketing and a Vagina Warrior. Hey, that’s funny. Mary was such a prude in high school. I had no idea she was out crusading with her vagina! Heh. Vagina is a funny word if you say it a lot. Right, Beavis.? I’m not a big sucker for all the frills and lace trappings of Valentine’s Day, but I certainly don’t want to see it turned into a day when we eschew the cards and flowers for group sessions dealing with violence and vaginas. There are 365 days in a year. Why do these activists always insist on taking an already existing holiday and turning it into a crusade? Not for nothing, but there are no holidays in August, you know. Maybe we could make August the Official Month of Activism. You can have all your black dot sneaker days and kill your television days and wear your vagina on your sleeve and take back your penis days in one month. Want to celebrate the anniversary of the day Mumia was jailed? Got an idea for a festival honoring Che and Marx? August is your month. Just keep your vagina warriors away from my Valentine’s Day.

treacher's pet/primary goodness/jumping on james/ice, ice baby/

Before I get down to the business of my morning ramblings, I'd like to make a few announcements: * The "crush" poll will stay up a while longer because I screwed up Treacher's link and he failed to capitalize from the poll with hits to his site, which saddens me. So, everyone go to the poll and click on Treacher's name. And look around his site, because it's funny and because he's winning the poll. * Today is primary day in New Hampshire. The Command Post is on it like white on rice. And, as delicious icing on the cake of political news, we have Real Live Bloggers on the ground in New Hampshire getting all the news, badgering voters and reporting on the general goings-on. Don't forget that the chat room will be open tonight; head to the 2004 section after 6pm (EST). * James Lileks has some nerve. He is going to actually blog like a real blogger on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Actual multiple posts. I may as well give up my efforts to overtake him in the Ecosystem. Not that I'm competitive or anything, but I take whatever small joys I can get out of life and squeeze the the last bit of juice out of them. What does that mean? It means I would take great - if ridiculous - pleasure in surpassing Mr. Lileks in something, even if it is only a blog ranking. Ah, the hell with it. I would read him over me, too. But we're excepting a lot out of you, James! And we'll see how long it takes before you run out of things to write and you're doing stupid online polls. HAH! * We've got two major storms coming in today. Snow is great. Ice is not. Ice means loss of cable modem and/or power. Which means no computer, no tv and no heat. Ice storms sure are pretty, but they mostly suck. And, like Tanya already stated, four wheel drive does not work on ice. Don't think that just because you are driving a huge ass Expedition, you can go out and about when the road is five inches thick with the frozen stuff. If you insist on tailgating me and going a steady 45 when we are slipping and sliding all over the place, I will laugh and give you the finger as I pass you by when you skid into a telephone poll and your car bursts into flames and you are screaming for help. Ok, I'll help. But if your car is not aflame and just damaged and you are not turning into ash but just have a slightly bruised ego, then I will pass you by and laugh.

January 26, 2004

the more you know, the more you know

Two things that should never be allowed to happen: * Remaking The Longest Yard * Reuniting Extreme One thing that shouldn't have happened, but did, and now I'm really pissed off: * Aaron Boone breaks contract and knee One thing you didn't know about: * Saddam was obviously working for Dr. Weird. One thing that I'm glad to know being that I'll be spending a lot of time in Ikea between now and the move and life is one giant graphic adventure anyhow: * Ikea Walkthrough

bloggers that make you go mmmmm......

You guys amaze me. You don't have the nerve to ask me outright in the comments who I was talking about when I referred to a blog crush, but you send me all kinds of secretive emails saying tell me, tell me! I can keep a secret! I think you are confusing crush with lust. See, I have no idea what any of these bloggers look like, save one or two. Maybe three, and then just from really small pictures. It has nothing to do with looks or sex. It's about words and the way they are used. It's a sense of humor, intelligence, attitude and the overall personality that comes through from their blog. That's not to say that if/they weren't married and we happened to meet in the back of a dark bar somewhere and we were both drunk and....well, I'd be happy to meet them, shake their hand and buy them a beer. They are just guys that I imagine would be great to hang out with. And maybe, just maybe, make a shrine in honor of. Just a few candles. Some pictures. A lock of hair.... Anyhow, poll below, where you can guess the male blogger(s) that I might stalk if I did not already have a husband tied up in the closet. Ok, I've used another poll host because freepolls sucks. This one doesn't allow you to fill in votes, so feel free to use the comments if you want to add a write-in vote.
Which blogger(s) does Michele have a teenage-like crush on?
Dr. Grosz
Oliver Willis
Joshua Marshall
Jim Treacher
Andy
Mikey
Mickey Kaus
Howard Dean
I thought she had a crush on me
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

this is not the virus you are looking for

As with Kevin, I am not sending you infected emails. I am dumping my Outlook address book to save anyone else grief. Remember, if the email doesn't have eye-gouging stationery, it's not from me.

psa

This is just a friendly reminder that today is Get Out The Link Day. I'm home from work now. My Outlook Express is at the ready. Evil stationery is at hand. Link now or forever be scarred by the sight of Arafat's ass dancing to a Willie Nelson midi.

cesaro summability

Ok, I admit it. I've got nothing today. It's one of those days when every sentence becomes a fight-to-the-death struggle with letters and punctuation and ideas. In the end, the white space is hailed as conqueror. I start something - a post I'm supposed to be writing on runaway Mormons for Lis. Two sentences in and it's already a failed piece. Ok, put that in the drawer marked "Brain Hurts. Try Again Later." Next: A long piece I started writing about self esteem in schools. Do a bit of research, track down a couple of links and as soon as my fingers hit the keys, a magnetic force field takes over and I am unable to type a single word. That unfinished piece gets put in the file marked "Unable to Conclude. Come Back Again When You've Had More Sleep." Let's try this: Follow up on the crush on Scott Baio post from last night. Easy to write, doesn't take much thinking, a quick filler until you can get your brain working later on. Except it's not easy to write. I'm stuck in first gear in the fast lane. A thousand other ideas are honking and tailgating, telling the Baio idea to get the hell out of the lane if it's not going to move forward. So I rush the piece, drive like a maniac over the keyboards through places I know where I should stop, crossing white lines and driving the wrong way down one way roads. Screech. Stop. Ride over. Ok, so the car is banged up a bit, but at least the Baio thing didn't go in the unfinished files like the other ones. Frustration sets in. I have plans! I have ideas! I have phrases that would kick Mark Steyn's ass. I just can't put them all together. It's the level of hell known as Writer's Block, the level that Dante himself probably never knew. All he had to do was keep adding levels. He would never run out of ideas as long as numbers still went to infinity. 1,248,474th Circle of Hell: Furries. Ok, switch gears. There's always Command Post. I've got a hundred links here that need to be reviewed, read and put into separate piles: Junk News and Real News. I read through the real news and come across at least five different stories I could write about. An idea for an editorial comes out of nowhere, the proverbial lightbulb going on over my head. Ok, write. Type. Think. Bang head on keyboard as the editorial idea escapes out of brain in the form of a baseball bat, which then smashes the light bulb to pieces. Forget any drawers or files. Throw this idea in the garbage pail. Gone, dead, done. Wonder how other people can not only come up with clever ideas day after day, but illustrate them as well. Drink coffee. Take pills. Drum fingers on desk. Turn off indie station because you cannot live through another Dashboard Confessional song. Load up mp3s. Listen to Tool and suddenly feel all dark and morose. What else is on here? Oh, Type O Negative. There's a mood lifter. Not. Turn off music. Wait by mailbox for Corvids CD. Hey, here's an idea. Went to a wake yesterday where I had to meet and greet my ex-husband's family. Write about the awkwardness, the....nah. Nothing there. It really wasn't awkward at all. I could write about A-Rod being named Captain of the Texas Rangers, but I already talked to Allah about it in email and I couldn't even muster up any snarkiness then. Sigh a few times. Type random words. Just call the day a waste, admit I have writer's block and move on. Watch the Weather Channel, wait for the ice storm and make a mental note to tell the kids to turn their pjs inside out if they want a snow day tomorrow. Wonder why no one is even trying to guess the bloggers I have a crush on. Check stats. Make sure my site hasn't disappeared. Look for self-validation in the form of Sitemeter numbers. Realize how pathetic that is, have pretzels and orange juice for lunch and vow to come up with something better by tonight. And then, just before you're ready to hit "save," do a quick word count and become mortified to learn that you just spent 712 words telling everyone that you have writer's block.

Dreaming of Michael Moore

Remember last week I had a dream about Ghandi? Well last night it was Michael Moore. My parents had invited him to a spaghetti dinner and he let me interview him. At the end of the interview he hugged me and told me to seek peace. And then he went into my bedroom, laid down on the bed and proceeded to read several children's books.I tried to kick Moore out of my bed but he wouldn't leave. He told me I needed more "Moore Hugs." The dream faded away with me plugging in an archaic computer and starting a blog post with the title I Was Hugged By Michael Moore. I hope this does not become one of those recurring nightmares. Moore smelled bad and hadn't shaved in months.

the big crush

I received this email today from a person who shall remain anonymous due to the embarassing nature of the content:
Scott Baio? Please. Everyone knows that the ultimate teenage crush of those years was Ralph Macchio. He had star power. He had white teeth and the cutest smile. And he was so sincere! Ralph Macchio STILL rules!
My, my. Ralph Macchio. Fellow Long Islander, cute as a button, Mr. Wholesome. Dear, I never had a crush on Ralphie. Maybe your heart melted when Dally said Do it for Johnny!, but Johnny wasn't doing it for me. Wax on, wax off my ass. So who did I crush on besides Scott Baio? I thought you'd never ask. Let's take a little trip, shall we? First crush: Robin. As in Batman and Robin. Maybe I had a thing for men in tights because I also like Batman. But not as much as Robin. That was the late 60's. I was still a mere child who thought that Disney movies were real, which would explain the swooning I did over the prince in Sleeping Beauty. Princes, superheroes, a few cartoon characters. Typical grade school dreams. Somewhere around ten my idea of heartthrob changed from clean-cut, world saving, wide-smiled charmers to bad boys in leather jackets. Enter Conrad Birdie, dreamboat. Ok, it wasn't a leather jacket. It was gold lamé . But it was still a thrill to see him shake those hips and make that sneer. My mother said he was a rip-off of Elvis, but Elvis was for old people. Conrad was for me. From there I went through a steady succession of crushes, all of them grown men too old to pay any attention to little old me. Unless, of course, they were that kind of guy. In which case, my mom would never let me date them. But could you imagine if I brought home my poster boy, Joe Namath? He'd give everyone autographs. He'd teach my dad how to play football. He'd be 32 years old to my 12 but I could wear a lot of makeup and fake it! 79038.jpeMoving on. There were the usual suspects. Leif Garrett. John Travolta (only as Vinnie Barbarino, though). Maybe a fleeting moment when Bobby Sherman rocked my boat. Barnabas Colllins. Danny Bonaduce. Steve McQueen. Matt Dillon. Steve Austin. Spiderman. Erik Estrada. Then came the drug days. My brain and libido became heavily influenced by dime bags of Panama Red and sundry other illegal things and I realized that Matt Dillon was not cool (not until Drugstore Cowboy, at least). Jim Morrison was cool. Robert Plant was to die for. I had a thing for Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead. I was way past the point of writing fan letters, but I was certainly not past the point of drunkenly waving my panties in the air at a concert. Wait, I never did that. At least not that I remember. I think. Eventually I straightened out and perpetually stoned rock stars who think they are poets became passe. I wanted a real man. A big, hunky man with broad shoulders, a nice ass and possibly no teeth. That's right, enter the hockey groupie stage. I stalked Billy Carroll of the Islanders. I composed racy romance novels starring me and Rick Vaive of the Maple Leafs. But we all have to grow up sometime. Sooner or later we realize that our crushes are just that; foolish fantasies of famous people falling for us. Dreams. Wishes. We end up settling for the nerd with the braces and oily hair and squeaky voice because his sister's boyfriend's uncle lives next door to Joey Ramone. Four degrees of separation, baby! It's as close as you'll ever get. So you stop getting stars in your eyes over guys too far out of reach for you and the hormone labeled "Teenage Crush" melts away and is replaced by one labeled "Marry a nice guy with a good job." I stop swooning over Henry Rollins. I no longer get a slighty moist feeling in my pants when I see Chris Cornell. And I stopped harboring thoughts of switching teams for Gwen Stefani. I'm a grown up now. I'm married, I'm terribly in love with my husband. So the days of lusting after people I don't know have passed. Right? RIGHT? Wrong. I guess that teenage hormone made a raging comeback, because I have several serious blog crushes that make me swoon and sigh and lose all concentration at work as I drift into a world where it's just me and.... .... I'll just leave you hanging, there. You'll never know.

link terrorism

[It's Monday morning, stayed up too late watching Adult Swim, regular blogging resumes some time after 8:30 when I'm cozied up in my office and perked up by a dozen cups of coffee. Meanwhile, a favor.]
Many readers have supported The Command Post with donations, which we appreciate. But the best way to support The Post is with traffic. So with the final push in New Hampshire to get out the vote, we ask that you help us "Get Out The Link." Support Command Post this Monday by sending the www.command-post.org URL to everyone in your contact list who you think might enjoy the site. We're not picky: we just want to introduce people to The Command Post, and think the day before the primary is a great day to do so. So "Get Out The Link" on Monday the 25th, and thanks for reading The Post!
If you love me (and you know you do) and you love TCP (how could you not?) and you don't want to receive a personalized letter on some eye-gouging Outlook stationery threatening you to linklinklink or face the wrath of animated kitties and Barbra Streisand midis, you will do as I say. Seriously, we'd really appreciate it. Happy Monday! That's Command Post. www.command-post.org

January 25, 2004

Mighty Septopus

Home Movies: Fenton has to go. He's ruining the show. I want to kill him. Coach's boobs made my skin crawl. That song sure was catchy. Fenton has to go. They should kill him off. Space Ghost is a repeat. Waiting on my Meatwad. That sounds dirtier than it is.

note to my dear husband

We are not getting decorating ideas for the new house by watching MTV Cribs.

Let's Talk About: Scott Baio

scotty.gifThe reaction to my snipe at Scott Baio in this post surprised me. I didn't realize the guy still had so many fans! Now, please understand that I adore Scott Baio as much as the next guy or gal, but it doesn't bother you at all that the man hasn't done a decent thing since Charles in Charge circa 1984 and he's still got his mojo? How many of you could live on the things you did twenty years ago? Perhaps Scott does have something special. After all, it's kind of hard to pick up hot chicks when your newest claim to fame is that you're going to star in Baby Geniuses 2- a sequel to one of the worst movies ever made. And when the girl in questions says "Well, what else have you done lately that I would have seen?" and you can only answer oh, Disneyland Circus of the Stars, oh and I played a pig in the tv adaptation of Alice in Wonderland, wouldn't it only seem right if the girl - who obviously is looking for a star to hitch on to if she's hanging in the trendiest of trendy places - asked what Willie Aames has been doing lately and do you have his number? Ok, nevermind about Willie Aames. He's off being Bibleman. I don't think sleeping with loose women is in his repitoire these days. The thing is, I can almost see myself fawning over Scott if I ever met him. But it's more of a retro-crush kind of thing. Go back farther than Zapped, farther than Joanie Loves Chachi, farther than Happy Days. Go back to Bugsy Malone. Look at him! He was adorable! And he had the gangster look down pat for a kid. He just oozed Al Capone-ness. Maybe he took the script to Bugsy Malone, studied it, and figured out how he can make it work at 42 years old. He still has that gansta thing going on, he still struts like Capone and has the sinister air of John Dillinger. Chicks dig that. Then he flashes his $40,000 watch that he bought with the residual checks from Joanie Loves Chachi airing on Nick at Night, maybe buys the girl a fancy drink with an umbrella in it, and he's good to go. Ok, ok. I admit it. I wanted him when he was on Charles in Charge. That's right, I wanted Charles in charge of my days and nights. Punish me, Charles! I was a bad girl! Oh..... oh. Is this thing on? Sorry about that. I guess Scott's still got it. Well, I just realized he's directing now. Which explains all the hot chicks hanging on his arm. And scottbaio.com is available. If anyone wanted to start a fan site or anything. Just saying.

how to annoy alan in one easy lesson

I spent a good portion of my morning finding the ugliest Outlook Express stationery out there, and then tormenting Alan by sending him random emails.