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August 24, 2004

Going, going, gone

As you probably know, tomorrow is my birthday. As a much needed birthday present to myself, I am shutting down ASV until October, maybe November. Maybe forever. Why? Because it's time. If you're still interested, I'll be writing one daily piece that has nothing to do with politics or current events, over here. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

Story Time

I'm seeing the kids off as they embark on their nearly week-long vacation with Grandma (and other assorted relatives) to the glorious vacation hot spot of Syracuse, NY. Indulge me while I regale you with a short story previously printed on a long forgotten comic blog I had once upon a time: Revenge of the Women of Kleenex!* The lady says to her: “So, let’s get this profile of yours started. What exactly are you looking for in a man? “A cape and a sword." “Come again?” “A cape and a sword. And he should look good in tights.” The lady nods her head politely, but her eyes are saying “this one’s out of her fucking mind.” “Right. Cape. Sword. Tights.” She puckers her lips tightly. “Seems like you’re looking for a superhero.” She chuckles as she says this. “Yes. I am.” “Aren’t we all, sweetie? Except mine would be wearing a silk robe and boxers.” Anna nods absently. “Anyhow,” puckered-lip lady continues, “Any specific traits you’re looking for?” “Some kind of superpower. But not stretching. Been there, done that.” “Superpower? You mean like breathe underwater or something of the sorts?” Anna throws back her head and laughs, loud and hearty. “Has he been by here? You would think after all this time he would just come clean and hit the gay circuit on the internet.” Lip lady drums her pen on the desk. She puckers again. Anna thinks it could be a nervous habit.. “I’m not sure I’m following you here,” she says. “Are you some kind of reporter for a satire magazine?” Anna exhales loudly. “I am,” she says slowly just in case lip lady is not quite the bright light she makes herself out to be. “Looking for a man.” “Right. Man with cape, sword, tights, and flying ability.” “Did I say flying? No, I didn’t.” “So, you’re open to other umm...superpowers?” Her lips get even tighter and they form a small, red-stained “o” and Anna thinks that lip lady looks like a balloon that’s about to pop. “I’m open to anything that’s not stretching or flying.” “You’re serious, aren't you.” “Yes.” “You know what the odds are, lady?” “I’m quite aware.” “Tell you what. Let’s skip over this part for now and get to you.” The lips unpucker and Anna can see red lipstick on the lady’s otherwise gleaming teeth. She says nothing. The lady stifles a yawn and continues. “Do you have any hobbies?” “I like scaling walls in my spare time.” “Mmmhmm. So....you’re an athlete?” “You could say that.” “I will.” Lip lady taps, taps, taps the pen. She puckers and unpuckers and Anna thinks of fish. “Would you prefer an athletic man?” “If you mean leaping tall buildings athletic, yes.” “Lady, every woman who comes in here is looking for Superman in one way or another.” “What? You think Superman is the only one who can leap tall buildings? I’ll have you know that he does not own a patent on that superpower.” Lip lady is getting frustrated. She’s doing the fish thing with her mouth constantly now and tapping her pen on the desk. “Can you not be so obtuse, miss? I’ve got a bunch of other women out there who will most likely cut the chase and ask for a SM/NS/DF and be done with it.” “Well then, they will just be settling. There are million SM/NS/DFs in this city. And I bet hardly a one of them has a sword and a cape.” “Let me guess, you’re looking for that specific one that does.” Anna smiles. “Obviously.” Lip lady thumbs through the papers on her desk, looking harried and impatient the whole time. “I’ve got a D&D player uptown.” “No.” “I’ve got a stage actor on Long Island. He does Shakespeare so there’s sure to be tights and a sword involved.” “No.” Lip lady is puckering fast and furious now and is just about to give up when a yellowed, wrinkled paper falls out from the pile she is holding. “Hmm..what’s this?” Anna leans forward and tries to read along with Lip lady. “If you are looking for a super man with super power, that’s me. Don’t be afraid of a man in a cape, ladies. You never know what’s underneath that cape until you try.”Anna notices a big “C” marked in red ink across the top of the paper. “C?” “Crazy.” Anna smiles. “We keep the Cs around just for shits and giggles.” “Well that shit and giggle is mine.” Lip lady rolls here eyes. “This paper has been around here since 1991. I don’t even know if he’s still at this number or is even still looking for a woman. For all I know, he’s at a science-fiction convention right now dressed as Luke Skywalker.” “You know so little, ma’am, it’s scary.” Lip lady looks like she’s about to say something but instead tucks the paper into Anna’s file and makes the fishy face. “I’ll try to get in touch with him and give him your fact sheet. You can take it from there.” Anna stands up and walks out. Not a handshake or thank you. Just walks on out the door, and doesn’t see Lip lady taking out a red marker and scrawling a big “C” across Anna’s paper. Anna’s phone rings two days later. “Hello, is this Single Girl looking for Superhero?” “Indeed.” “Coffee at 5 today?” “Sure.” “Meet me in front of the candy shop by Penn. I’ll be the one wearing...” “A cape,” Anna finishes. “Right.” 5pm, right on time, Anna sees him standing in front of the candy shop. His cape is black, lined with purple silk. He sword is hidden under the cape, but she knows it’s there. His hair is slicked back in that obnoxious, macho way. She looks for the scar above his eyebrow, just to make sure. It’s there, bright and ugly. She gets a flash of anger when she sees the scar and remembers how he got away the last time. She will not disappoint her crew again. Cape guy stands there, waiting, expecting a beautiful single women who will fall madly in love with him upon first sight, and he doesn’t even give a thought to explaining to a mere mortal why he lives underground and why he can crush a two ton SUV with his bare hands. He just wants a warm body in bed next to him when he comes home from a hard day trying to save the world. Anna approaches him, her finger steady on the laser gun in the deep pocket of her fur coat. She can tell by the smarmy look on Captain Crusher’s face that he is still the shallow, egocentric man she once worked for, still the guy who thinks he can get by on just his looks and his bone-crushing abilities. She gets within two feet of Crusher, slips her hand out of her pocket and aims the laser gun at him. In an instant it’s over. The invisible laser has struck Crusher in his groin, the one place he doesn’t shield with laser-resistant lead. He always had this fear that the lead would make him impotent. Some super beings have an Achille’s heel. Crusher had an Achille’s dick. As the rush-hour crowd hovers over Crusher, assuming that the crazy guy with the cape had some sort of stroke, Anna makes her way back down the stairs, into the deep of Penn Station. Her crew will be pleased, indeed. But not as pleased as she. ---------------- *title reference

August 23, 2004

fate and fairs

Had a post here but didn't save as I was going along and Firefox crashed on me, taking my post with it. Long story short: Something inane kept me at work three more minutes than I had intended to stay. On the way home, I came upon a flipped over van and a rather smashed up Toyota. And I wondered: if not for that inane (and unecessary) three minute project I stayed to take care of I might have been where that Toyota was. See, you never know what fate does - or doesn't - have in store for you. My deep, if overly dramatic, thought for the day. We are now off to the parents' for an early birthday celebration, as my kids leave for their annual trip to the state fair tomorrow. There's nothing like a good steak and a chocolate cake to effectively stick your tongue out at fate. I see that once again, the state fair people have come up with a bizarre poster. Not as bad as last year's, which made me think my kids were being carted off to the netherworld. But, still....flying cheese cows and bunnies humping flashlights are not exactly the things I think about when I hear the words state fair. And is that Bigfoot riding the coaster? Maybe they'll photoshop it a Fark again.

Strengthen the Good (Hurricane Charley) Update

Alan has announced the chosen charity for Hurricane Charley relief: The Gulf Coast Community Foundation Of Venice Hurricane Charley Disaster Relief Fund. The GCCF of Venice has offered to match all contributions up to $100,000. Details here.

zoning out on the election

I first noticed it at my daughter's third birthday party. A hyperactive, shrilly woman in an oversized Mickey Mouse costume led the ten or so kids at the party in a flurry of activities. In the space of thirty minutes, they danced the hokey pokey, squealed over Disney-themed balloon creatures, chased bubbles, recited an ode to John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt and played Pin the Tail on Pluto. The party volume was on high; the low murmer of chatter from the adults, layered with the high-pitched laughter of Nat's friends, plus the tinny tape player emitting the Disney songs, all of which was no match for the constant, nasal drone of Mickey Mouse him, err, herself. I watched Nat the whole time with a twinge of worry. She didn't seem to be joining in any of the yelling or singing or chasing. Instead, she appeared to me to be behaving classic zombie traits. Stiff motioned, blank stare, seemed to be just following the herd on autopilot. I tried to remember what happened the night before the party. Sure, we had a huge snowstorm that dumped about fourteen inches of the white stuff on the ground (and still, everyone showed up for the party), but as far as I could remember, there was no zombie invasion. Finally, I turned to my sister and said, "Does Nat look sort of catatonic to you?" My sister, too, noticed the glazed eyes and zombie-like behavior. We chalked it up to being overtired, but I had this nagging feeling that Natalie did not have the best time at her own birthday party. Later, I watched the video with a friend, who happened to be a pre-school teacher. She cued in on Nat's behavior right away, without a hint from me. She said it was a defense mechanism. Nat was obviously overwhelmed by the cacophony of noise and movement and sort of put herself in a trance, blocking out certain sounds and motions. It explains why she was able to recall all the good parts of the party in great, breathless detail (leaving out the cousins fighting over a glass of spilled fruit punch), yet looked for all the world like she was on another planet entirely. This also explained why she was able to fall dead asleep at the Tom Chapin concert a few weeks prior to that third birthday party, even though every child around her was singing at a decibel level known to pierce eardrums. When the signal to noise ratio became so saturated with noise that the signal was lost, Nat would just shut down before her little head exploded. Later, we would discover this was just part and parcel of some other issues, but that's another story. So, why do I bring this up now? What could Natalie's zoning out at a birthday party eleven years ago have to do with the election (as per the title)? Well, it seems I have adapted my daughter's favored method of coping. I've zoned out, gone into a Swift Boat coma, had my brain eaten by blogs, etc. Choose your phrase. The noise coming from both sides has reached a level that should only be heard by dogs. To these ears, it's all turned into such a horrid screeching sound that I can no longer focus on all the myriad individuals making the noises - be they in newspapers, on radio or tv, whether they be official spokespeople or bloggers or the candidates themselves. Aurally, it's perhaps the sound of thousands of children blowing whistles at once. Visually, it's 1950's era tv, going static after the national anthem. I've tried to focus on single issues, but there's no one issue that can get through all the crap being hurled against the fan these days. Do you realize that, as of right now, this presidential election is about Vietnam? It's about a war fought thirty freaking years ago. Granted, Kerry was the one who decided to make Vietnam an issue but who knew that meant that just 71 days before November 2nd, it would be just about the only issue? And now everyone is micromanaging this issue down to little, bitty pieces, to the point where the campaign ads are about campaign ads about Vietnam. So while everyone - that includes both campaigns and most of their supporters - are flinging so much Vietnam-flavored feces at each other, I'm sitting here truly shocked that his election is about a thirty year old war. I had to stop reading blogs this weekend because it was all Swift Boat/Cambodia all the time. The major papers were no better, the chat at an online game I play was inundated with Swift Boat cat fights, I'm sick of the negative ads from the Bush campaign (Kerry is mentioned four times - all with graphics or pictures - on the front page of the GWB website, a tactic that irritates me). So when I overheard two women in the bagel store going back and forth about shrapnel wounds (You can really judge a person by this, you know. Oh, I know, but he does have the Purple Heart. No, he has three. Yea, but what about what the veterans are saying? Well, he's not Bush, he's got that going for him. Yea, he does.), I had it. I walked out of the bagel store in full zombie mode and lumbered towards my car sporting a catatonic stare. I wanted brains. BRAINS! Really juicy, meaty brains that were fused with nutrients like the war on terror, taxes, Iraq, health care, education, homeland security. I drove home in a daze. My brain is just going to refuse to acknowledge that this presidential election is about something so far removed from the American psyche that the most relevant voters have no frame of reference for it. While most bloggers are cheering that this issue is finally making it to big media, I'm cringing. Neither side will benefit from bringing the Christmas in Cambodia story mainstream. Neither side will benefit from behaving like monkeys in a zoo in regards to the Swift Boat vets. So now, my defense mechanism has gone into full effect. It's effectively tuning out the noise and letting in all the signal. While it may appear that I'm not paying attention, I certainly am. I'm just filtering out those things that don't need to get in and people may think I look dazed and confused but, like my daughter before me, I'm taking in only what's necessary. I want to talk about the Mickey Mouse lady and the funny balloons, not the spilled fruit punch. I'm going to slink away before this mixed bag of metaphors gets out of hand [yea, too late, I know]. If anyone needs me, I'll be sitting in front of the tv, looking for signs in the static.

August 22, 2004

We interrupt this blogging break to bring you... Cooking with Candidates Just keep scrolling.

August 21, 2004

all filler, no killer

A wise blogger once told me that if I have nothing to say, then don't say anything. In other words, don't post crap just because you feel like you have to fill the space. And no, this has nothing to do with politics. I just despise summer and by late August I'm always consumed by apathy. In lieu of some crappy posts I've deleted and because I have nothing new to say (and won't until at least Monday), here's some stuff I wrote. Back when I writed really good. And don't forget: Voices Project 2004 Strengthen the Good.

August 20, 2004

Voices 2004

First, I’d like to thank everyone for their input regarding the Voices project. Of all the comments and the hefty load of email I got on the subject, only two people thought I shouldn’t continue with it. So, I am forging on, full steam ahead. There will be a shift in the focus of the project this year. This will be the third year of Voices and I'd like to try something different. I’m going to pose a few questions and perhaps you can use them as a starting to point to write something, if you are inclined to participate this year. It’s been nearly three years since 9/11. Where you do stand right now as far as emotional recovery goes? Have you moved on? Healed? How does your emotional view of 9/11 differ now from it did three years ago? Do you find yourself more hopeful than you were then? Has your world view or your ideals changed drastically because of the events of that day or do you think you’re still the same? What lessons have you, personally, learned from 9/11 or the days after? Has the way you live to day to day change, or has it affected the way you deal with your family and/or community? If you could say something to the victims of 9/11 on this third anniversary of their death, what would you say? Those are just some ideas. Again, as with the first two years, you are free to write whatever you want. I will publish everything received. I’m going to get started putting the past two years’ stories at the new home of the Voices Project and then I’ll begin posting your stories or answers to the above questions. My goal is to have everything finished by the second week in September (around the 8th) so I can just do some tweaking to the site and have it ready to go on the 11th. With that in mind, I would ask that your submissions be mailed to me no later than September 6th. My contact info is over to the left, please use only that email address. If you want to help out by publicizing the project, that would be great. I just ask that you do it sooner rather than later so I don’t end up with a last minute crush of emails like last year, when I nearly didn’t get the project finished in time. Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to do this again, and thanks to all who have already shared their Voices. And that’s that. Another year’s journey will be recorded and hopefully, the positive light will begin to shine through. [I would ask that those of you who feel negatively about this project not comment on this post at all. Thank you for understanding.]

I had a dream last night that I was in a large house with a foyer. In the foyer hung an enormous potrait of Alan Keyes. Every time I walked out of the room and back in again, the potrait would change. Sometimes Alan would smile, sometimes he would frown. One time, he was wearing a Red Sox cap. Another time, he gave me the finger. I amused myself for what seemed like hours by walking in and out of the foyer, until Alan Colmes told me to stop because I was disturbing the people who had come to view Elvis. Shrug. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I paid a shiva call last night. Or maybe it was the pepperoni pizza.

42

[ed note: kind of long, very self indulgent. if you make it to the end, you're more intrepid than i give you credit for] There have been few birthdays in my semi-long life that bothered me to the point of angst. imag from http://www.indianhillpress.com/cardbd5r.htmlThere was my eighth birthday. We had a party the day before. Well, my aunts threw a party for me because my parents had to be out of town. At one point during the festivities (which basically came down to a bunch of cousins running wild through the yard, which was no different than any other day except this time we were wearing birthday hats. At least I was) my older cousins informed me that I couldn't play any birthday games because it wouldn't be fair for me to win. The odds of me winning were rather slim, though. I was a clumsy, uncoordinated kid and I wouldn't have been able to pin the tail on the donkey if he shoved his ass right in my face. When I cried to one of my aunts about this birthday game injustice, she told me to stop acting like a little kid. Huh? Stop acting like a kid? But...but I am a kid! Then the light bulb came on. I would be turning eight the next day. What if eight meant you weren't a kid anymore? Did they give more chores at eight? More homework? Would I suddenly have to worry about taxes and war instead of spending my time watching cartoons and playing with my Easy Bake Oven? I spent a very restless night imagining that I would wake up old and crippled. Never mind that I had eight year old cousins who were still as youthful and worry-free as ever. Once an idea like that entered my mind, there wasn't a reasonable fact you could throw at me that would get me to stop worrying. Of course, the next day dawned and I was still a kid. My skin was still smooth, my pajamas still had teddy bears on them. Just to test things out, I watched some cartoons and was relieved to hear myself laughing. Well, at eight I assumed that only kids laughed at cartoons. 34 years later, I'm still laughing. At the same cartoons. So that was my first bout with birthday angst. I was relatively birthday-worry free for the next 17 years. Then came the big 2-5 and crisis of major proportions. All my friends were following the proper life time line set forth by generations before them. Some say there are four stages to life, but in between the Birth, School, Work, Death phases was Get Married, Have Kids. It's what us suburbanites did. Or maybe it was just an Italian thing. I find it laughable now that at 25 I was having what essentially boiled down to a mid-life crisis. Where was I going? What had I done with my life? I was going to be A QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD! For weeks leading up to my birthday, I refused to entertain any ideas of a party, not even the traditional bar crawl. To make matters worse, my cousin got engaged the day before my birthday. If I knew then what I know now.....eh, you know how that one goes. That was the last birthday crisis I had. The milestones of 30, 35 and 40 came and went without a care. It was easy enough to combat the creeping-of-age poltergeists that were threatening to possess me at 40. I got married that day. Yes, it was my bright idea to combat another life crisis by hijacking my birthday with my own wedding. It worked, oh yes, it worked. But now I'm doomed to a lifetime of combined anniversary/wedding presents, which always translates to "something for the house." So here I am two years later and already I'm faced with another birthday crisis. I thought I was off the hook until 50. I mean, who has nightmares over a 42nd birthday? 42? I should be thrilled to be celebrating the age that represents the answer to life, the universe and everything. Let's take stock of things here, to give this questionable fear of 42 some context: I love my life. I really like my job and all the people I work with. The thought that I'll be there the rest of my working days does not depress me at all. We just became first time homeowners. In short time, I will be a business owner. My marriage is great. My kids are wonderful. My entire immediate family is healthy. Sure, money is tight, but I've already accepted that will always be the case. I already have everything I need and most things I want. I have wonderful friends. I'm satisfied with what I have done with my life and what I'm doing now. The future looks good. So, what gives? If I'm so damn happy with life, why would 42 pose such a challenge? In a word: time. See, now that I'm fully enjoying life and all it has to offer, it occurs to me that I already reached that half-way mark. I waited too long to become self-satisfied! And honestly, I wouldn't really notice the passage of time if it weren't for those two daily reminders that the clock is ticking. That is, my children. You know that Bugs Bunny episode where he's on a desert island with those two guys who keep eyeing each other as hamburgers and hot dogs? It's kind of like that. Every time DJ says something about starting middle school next month or Natalie say something about starting high school next month, my children disappear and are replaced by images of Father Time. And he's laughing at me. I have a kid in high school? How the hell did that happen? Wasn't I in high school just a few years ago? Sure, if you can call 24 years a few. What doesn't help is this "everything old is new again" culture. I took the kids to Kohl's the other day for some back to school shopping. And lo and behold, the demon ponchos I've been writing about were front and center in the junior department. Every mannequin looked like it stepped out of my junior high school yearbook. It's as if a time machine exploded in space and puked the 1970's all over America. How soon before I'm sitting in a high school auditorium wringing my hands over the rebellious youth taking over the town? Yea, went off on a tangent there. But it's all related, somehow. The prevalence of 70's nostalgia here in 2004 has opened some kind of age wound. Seeing all these fringed skirts and ringer tees (with ironic 70's era logos on them) is making me face the fact that I'm old enough to have the accouterments of my childhood worshiped by the kids of today. I'm a dinosaur, a fossilized relic of a time when Earth Shoes were fashionable and 8-tracks were cool. So how do I combat the onset of 42? How do I counter attack the feeling that time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future, that I'm shorter of breath and one day closer to death? I buy myself a lava lamp, listen to some Led Zeppelin and play a game of Pong. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. But I draw the line at ponchos. Ok, 42. I'm ready for you. [Update: In light of the email I'm getting, I really should note that my birthday is not today, it's next week. I like to agonize in advance. But, thanks for the pre-birthday wishes!]

August 19, 2004

Oh, the shark bites

Can a blog jump the shark? Some would say this blog jumped the shark shortly after 9/11. I prefer to think of it as jumping Springfield Gorge. And making it over. Though, lately, the sharks have certainly been circling. I can smell them.

A PSA From Spidey

Everyone needs to have one of these.

Bitchslap Ted Rall Day: Protest Edition

Ted Rall's new column at Common Dreams -NYC to GOP: Drop Dead. Ah, Ted. Even his titles are controversial. Before I take this on from the beginning, I need to wade into the middle of this dirt to clear something up right off the bat. bq. Anti-Republican sentiment is rising to a fever pitch here as the dog days tick down to the dreaded affair. A poll cited by the local ABC affiliate shows 83 percent of New Yorkers don't want their city to host the RNC. And many of them are planning to do something about it. I had to go searching for this poll because Ted doesn't link to it. There's a reason Ted doesn't link to it. His entire paragraph is dishonest. By throwing the words anti-Republican and fever pitch in there, Rall wants you to believe that 83% of New Yorkers are foaming at the mouth because the damn dirty Republicans are coming. Except, for most, politics doesn't even play into it. From the NY ABC affiliate, where the poll originally appeared: bq. A recent survey by a Manhattan public relations firm found 83 percent of those polled do not want the Republican convention in town. When asked why, more than half, 53 percent, were worried about traffic, street closures, and security hassles. That's right. 53% of 83% of the people polled were worried about being inconvenienced. You do the math. It doesn't quite add up to the anti-Republican fever that Rall thinks the entire city has come down with. It's not about Bush or Cheney or the war in Iraq. It's about parking. Let's go back to the beginning now. bq. The Republican delegates here to coronate George W. Bush are unwelcome members of a hostile invading army. Like the hapless saps whose blood they sent to be spilled into Middle Eastern sands, they will be given intentionally incorrect directions to nonexistent places. Objects will be thrown in their direction. Children will call them obscene names. They will not be greeted as liberators. From this we infer that Ted believes are soldiers are hapless saps. But we knew that already. What Ted does in the above paragraph is standard Ted Rall Operating Procedure. I've called Ted a four-trick pony before and he manages to squeeze all of his tricks into that one sentence. So Rall is admitting that some sort of violence (objects thrown at people) will be taking place. And he admits that the Do it For the Children® crowd will be using their children to serve their own purposes (trying to find the link for that particular protest action). As for the liberators thing, well, that's just Ted trying to work in a clever turn of phrase. I think he's used that "not greeted as liberators" thing so often it just automatically spills out of his pen now. Moving on. bq. ...White House strategist Karl Rove sees the continued exploitation of 9/11 for partisan political gain as Bush's key to victory in November. That means bringing the big bash three miles north of the hole where the Twin Towers used to stand, where most of the victims of 9/11 were burned, suffocated, impaled and pulverized. New York has tried to get the convention to grace its streets before, to no avail. When the RNC chose New York City, it was a time when city officials were begging for people to help New York's shattered economy. They saw hosting the convention as a way to bring much needed monetary relief to the city, and the RNC rightfully saw holding their gala in New York as a way of saying "New York is alive and well and safe." It's interesting that so many liberals claim the GOP is running a race based on fear and that the White House constantly bombards us with fear-mongering announcements designed to make us cower under our beds. Yet the GOP steps up and comes to New York City, bringing the president and his crew to one of the most targeted places on the terrorist map. With that, I see an administration telling us they are not afraid. Somehow, to these liberal-soaked minds, giving back to the city that lost so much is a form of exploitation. Go figure. bq. Making hay of the dead is also the point of this confab's timing. The 2004 Necropublican National Convention is being held a full month later than normal, from August 30 to September 2. The original plan was to have Bush shuttle between Madison Square Garden and Ground Zero for photo ops to coincide with the third anniversary of the September 11th attacks. Bush's visits to the Trade Center site were quietly canceled a few months back after 9/11 survivors expressed revulsion at the idea. But it was too late to change the date. Heh, Necropublican. Ted made a funny. Well, if the White House did have those plans and deferred to the wishes of the 9/11 survivors, you would think Ted and friends would say "thank you for understanding, Mr. President" and move on. But no, Rall prefers to rant about his disgust for something that's not even going to take place. Also, this isn't the first time they are holding their convention in late August. And you know, making hay of the dead is a strange phrase for Ted to use. Considering all the "hay" Ted has made of Pat Tillman. bq. Rejecting ex-mayor Ed Koch's call to "make nice" with the party that used the deaths of 2,801 New Yorkers--most of them Democrats--for everything from tax cuts for the rich to building concentration camps at Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib to invading Iraq to enrich Dick Cheney and his fellow Haliburton execs, some groups are encouraging liberal-minded New Yorkers to volunteer for the city's squad of official greeters. Firs of all, not all of the 2,801 people who died in the World Trade Center were New Yorkers. Second, has there every been a study done to determine the political affiliation of each and every victim of 9/11? How does Ted know that most of them were Democrats? Or is that based on his fallacy that every one of the 2,081 dead were New Yorkers? And yea, Abu Ghraib. Can't get through one of these arguments with mentioning that "concentration camp." bq. Creatively altered maps of streets and subways will be handed out to button-clad stupid white men. Other saboteurs wearing fake RNC T-shirts will direct them to parts of town where Bush's policies have hit hardest. Rumor has it that prostitutes suffering from sexually transmitted diseases will discourage the use of condoms with Republican customers. So, the 53% of the 83% of New Yorkers who don't want the convention here are worried about disruptions and what do the protesters aim to do? Cause further chaos and disruptions. As for the part about the hookers, isn't purposefully giving someone a disease considered a criminal act? bq. Adding to the already combustible Chicago '68 vibe is a possible wildcat strike by city cops and firefighters. And now, as if everyone concerned wasn't already tweaky, FBI agents are traveling around the United States, to harass members of leftist groups planning to protest the New York RNC. What Ted fails to mention, and I'm sure he does this for a reason, is that the cops and firefighters are not protesting the Republicans. They are protesting Mayor Bloomberg's misguided reluctance to give them a worthy pay raise. I've talked to several NYC firemen in the past few days, all of them Republican and all of them voting for Bush. They all say their potential protest is one to give publicity to the fact that their mayor won't pay them what they are worth. Basically, they are exploiting the publicity given to the convention to air their concerns. And if the FBI is honing in on protesters, it's because of people like Rall who are shouting to the world that the protest tactics will include actions like throwing things at Republicans. bq. Strikebreaking policemen and private security personnel may be able to keep the protesters away from the convention hall. But Republicans who venture outside the Garden deserve the abuse ordinary New Yorkers will likely inflict upon them. A couple of things here: protesters are coming from all over the country. It's safe to say that a good portion of those standing outside the garden won't be "ordinary" New Yorkers. And can you imagine if some right-wing group said that Democrats "deserve" abuse inflicted upon them? The Hitler references would pile up like a Broadway traffic jam. Also, how will the protesters be able to tell the Republicans from the reporters? Is everyone who walks out of MSG fair game for object throwing? bq. Even viler than Bush's urban neglect is his failure to avenge the World Trade Center victims as he pledged to do on 9/14, dusty firefighter helpfully posing under his arm on The Pile. After 9/11, Al Qaeda and Osama bin Laden were in Pakistan....blahblahblahblahThe War in Afghanistan was a lie blahblahblah. Here, Ted is still harping on his raison d'etre, that the war in Afghanistan was unjust. Ted doesn't believe that the Taliban was ever in that country. It's all about the oiiiiiiiiilll. See, Ted went to Afghanistan and he spoke to a few people who told him it was about the oil. His entire rant against the Bush administration is based on what a few Afghanistan locals told him. Rall believes the war on terrorism is a loss. Rall suffers from an infliction that plagues most lefties: willful blindness. They don't see all the terror-related arrests. They don't see all the thwarted attacks. They don't see that New York, DC, Chicago and all our other major cities are still standing. They don't see that, almost three years later, we have not suffered another terrorists attack on our nation. But, bin Laden hasn't been brought forth in cuffs, so the war on terror is a wash. Never mind that OBL is probably nothing more than bones and dust at this point. Just as here Rall doesn't see that the convention being held in New York is sort of an in your face to terrorists. NYC to GOP: Drop Dead. That's a nice sentiment from Ted. Do you think he means that? Do you think that Ted is speaking for all New Yorkers or is he once again engaging in a bit of projection, assuming that because he wants the GOP to drop dead, everyone does? We are talking about a guy who believes that nearly everyone who died in the World Trade Center was a New York Democrat. Ted's bout with delusions is getting the best of him, I suppose. Gotta love the closing line: bq. Republicans are neofascists now, and that's why New Yorkers good and true will be yelling at them to go back home. I knew it! I knew he couldn't get through a whole article without saying the F word. Everyone take a drink! Anyhow, the only reason most New Yorkers will be yelling at the GOP to go back home is because New Yorkers do not like to be inconvenienced. It's unlikely that the guy stuck in a mile long traffic jam by the Garden is going to be shouting out slogans about Abu Ghraib. No, it's more likely he'll be cursing the cabs and buses blocking his way. But, wait for it. Rall and his protesting buddies will claim that the driver's underlying anger is a manifestation of his angst over the war in Iraq and that the yellow cab represents the cowardice of our president. So when he's yelling at the cab, that traffic-blocked driver is really protesting the Republicans. 53% of 83% of New Yorkers polled, Ted. Figure it out. Then write another column based on facts. [previous Ted Rall bitchslaps here]

August 18, 2004

A Survey of Sorts

1. I'm debating whether or not to bring the Voices Project back for another year. I'm thinking everyone has said what they wanted to say already. Thing is, doing the project is what got me through the late days of August and early September the past two years. Concentrating on the project, reading all your stories and being able to give others a place to share their voices was very therapeutic. I tried to think of a new way to approach it, but I'm drawing a blank. I'm all ears if anyone has an idea on how to keep the project fresh. Or do any of you think I should just let it go this year?

Taking a Link Dump

Well, I was going to get all theme-like and do this the old Church of the Blogosphere Bulletin way, but we just picked up the special edition of Lost Boys and it looks like family night with vampires is taking precedent. So this will be quick and dirty. Good links all around, folks. Click them all. * The Smarter Cop offers up a plate of waffles. * Jim enjoys his fifteen minutes of Atlanta fame. * Stupid is as stupid does, as the princess can attest to. * Laurence wants us to know that Tom Snyder Lives! You might want to turn your speakers down. * Ith creates the Question the Timing Drinking Game. * Sissy Willis on Lynndie England and turkey shooting. * Hurbis discovers a new way to deal with teen angst. * Veruka - who has quickly become one of my favorite bloggers - talks about flying torsos. Sort of. I also suggest you do a lot of scrolling. Veruka is fairly new to the blogging scene and she blames it all on me. But, she's good! * Chris is keeping an Olympic tally on how the members of the coalition of the willing are doing. * Stephen says Kerry has a border patrol problem. * For the stats lovers among us, Crank has a great post on the Montreal Expos and what they could have been. * David and the Purpose Driven Sex Life, Part I. Sounds like the start of a good musical. * Tom Bridge has a must read about justice being served. * I think this quiz at Begging to Differ wins my favorite link of the night: Alt Rock Lyrics or Spam? * A reminder to join Alan's wonderful project, Strengthen the Good. Al Franken has. * Marty Dodge's band is ready for fame and fortune! * Skillzy has a fair and balanced look at Doom 3. As opposed to his unbalanced love for the Red Sox. * And, my blog o' the day: Heidi McDonald's Beat. [comic geek alert] Some games for you game addicts: * Lightning Pool * Sure, it's just hangman, but it's got some fun categories. Ah, that was a good dump.

Wednesday is Link Day

I'm headed to a funeral service in a bit and after that I'm taking the kids back to school shopping. Damn those kids, they won't stop growing. Now they need whole new wardrobes. Suffice it to say I won't be buying any ponchos or big striped shirts for them. Anyhow, I've got a huge, massive, giant link dump coming up this evening. That sounds gross, I know. But I promise, it won't be. In addition to the usual links to other blogger's stellar writing, I've got a few good games to play (in case you haven't tired of Weboggle yet) and other assorted goodies. Meanwhile, dump your links below in usual fashion. If you've got a blog post, I've got a place to put it. That place depends on what your post is about, of course. I think I may bring back the church bulletin theme. Kidding. Go ahead, it's an official link whore Wednesday. P.S. I'm blog sitting for The Mighty Geek while he's offline for two weeks. I'll be digging into my archives for the Geek, who likes my old stuff. I've already posted the tale of That Actress With the Big Boobs Who Crashed My Grandfather-in-Law's Funeral.

The Decade That Wouldn't Die (Part II)

[Second in a day long series on the 1970's. I'm a bit busy today and original content will be limited. But really, can you resist another story of that bizarre decade? Oh. Well, move on then, because that's all you're getting today] she's a pinball wizard capb.jpgI was about 13 years old when I first entered the Palace. I was a tag-a-long to an older friend who was going there just to score a nickel bag. Pinball Palace was a small, almost hidden place, tucked between the Jerry Lewis Movie theater and a specialty bra shop. From the outside, it looked forbidden and dangerous, two things that combined to point a beckoning finger at me. Gina opened the door and I followed, knowing that this was exactly the kind of place my parents warned me about. As soon as we stepped inside my brain went into sensory overload. The smell hit me first; cigarettes and pot and teenage sweat swirling together in the dank heat of the Palace. The noises. The clacking of pool bools as someone yelled break!; the dings and and whistles of the twenty or so pinball machines that lined the walls; the cursing of the bikers at the pool table; the jangling of quarters in the pockets of Levis; the fist banging on the glass as a machine cried out TILT! It was all underscored by Led Zeppelin's Trampled Under Foot shouting from the jukebox, and the combination of those sounds became my own Pied Piper, begging me to follow. I was hesitant that first day and just hung in back of Gina while she made a deal with guy at the change counter. When she was done, we went behind the movie theater, smoked a joint, and then snuck in the back door of the theater. They were showing Shampoo. We watched Warren Beatty, naked on the floor and humping the daylights out the poor girl underneath him and all I remember is a person was watching them through a window and said something like "Now that's what I call fucking!" Gina sat gaping at the screen, taking in every word, every movement, probably taking notes in her head, and all I could think about was going back to Pinball Palace. The next Saturday, Gina took me with her for another buy. This time, I brought quarters. While Gina flirted with her dealer, I made the walk towards the machine in the far corner. The Bally Wizard. I slowly put the quarter in, knowing full well that I would become addicted to the flashing lights and turning numbers. The quarter dropped. I hit the reset button. The silver ball popped into place and I slowly pulled back the lever, feeling the resistance of the coiled spring. I let go. The tip of the lever and the metal ball connected and as that ball went around the curve on its journey towards the playing field, it took with it my grades, my social life, my allowance. From the first loud ding when the ball rang up my first score, I was obsessed. My fingers worked the flippers as deftly as the lady in the school office worked the typewriter. I moved this way and that, swinging my hips and nudging the machine a little to the left, a little to the right, careful not to piss it off enough to make it tilt. My eyes darted between the ball and the scoreboard and my heart skipped a beat as I saw the paper taped to the top of the glass with the high scores for the week listed. My name would be up there one day. Yes, it would. Gina had to drag me out of the Palace. Even when my quarters ran out, I wanted to stay and watch the masters play, the guys who turned over the numbers on the scoreboard, the guys who could smoke and drink and play at the same time. And then it wasn't just Saturdays anymore. I started walking there after school. If Gina wouldn't go there was always someone else willing to hang out and watch me play pinball with me instead of going home. We would throw a few quarters into the jukebox (three plays for twenty five cents!), and play the same line up each time. Led Zeppelin. Todd Rundgren. Deep Purple. Sometimes I would ask my mother for a ride to the library and when she pulled away after dropping me off, I would run across Front Street and duck into the Pinball Palace. I rationalized my lying. I wasn't out doing drugs - no respectable 13 year old considered pot a real drug, not when the bad kids were doing angel dust - and I wasn't out getting pregnant like Mrs. Winslow's daughter. I was just playing pinball. The frequency of my trips to the Palace waned when winter dug its heels in and no one wanted to walk that far. Occasionally, we would get a ride to the movie theater and slip inside the Palace instead. Each time I walked through those doors was like the first; the smell, the sounds, the pumping of my adrenaline would all be new again. They closed Pinball Palace before the good walking weather came back. Neighbors were complaining. Community action groups were picketing. Churches were praying for the souls of the kids caught up in the glare of those flashing lights. They claimed Pinball Palace was a haven for dirty, unkempt teenagers who cursed and drank and smoked. It was stealing the life and soul of the community's young adults. And then, it was gone. I cried, I mourned, I laid in bed at night, my fingers twitching to imaginary flippers, the game playing out in my mind. We had to find another place. That summer, my parents sprung the news on me that they were taking me out of the "terrible" public school system. They didn't like my friends. They didn't like my attitude. Catholic high school would surely lead me on the path to a righteous life. I would make new friends, they said, friends that wouldn't drag me to those filthy pinball places, friends who wore skirts and ties and gave their quarters to the collection basket instead of machines. By the end of the second week at the new school, I had made a few new friends just like my parents wanted me to. Momlet me stay after school each day and take the late bus home, assured that I was sitting quietly in the cafeteria with my new virtuous friends studying and doing homework. Not quite. See, the 7-11 across the street from school held a deep dark secret in its back corner. A Bally Wizard pinball machine. My new friends, who hated ties and skirts and hoarded their quarters like gold, would watch me play for hours each day, taking bets on whether I would break the high score or not. I had a following. I was the Pinball Wizard. Catholic school was working out just fine. Sure, 7-11 wasn't quite the same as the smoke-filled palace. But Kevin did bring along a portable cassette player each day and we listened to Genesis and Todd Rundgren while I swished and swayed and occassionally tilted. Pinball eventually gave way to other video games; Asteroids and Galaga and Space Invaders. Arcades started popping up everywhere. My pinball skills were no longer celebrated, I was a has-been, a thing of the ancient past. I never regret all those hours and quarters spent feeding my pinball frenzy. I never regret the time spent learning the exact angles of each machine, or feeling the excitement when my name went up on the high score chart. My mother always told me that I was wasting away my life playing those games, that I would never get anything useful out of it. Hah. What does she know? If it wasn't for those quick relfexes and incredible hand-eye coordination I developed at Pinball Palace, I would have never kicked my son's ass at House of Dead 2 the other day.

Worst. Idea. Ever.

Mayor Bloomberg to potential RNC protesters: "Now play nice and mommy will give a big lollipop!" They must be rolling on the floor in laughter over at protester central. Can't say I blame them. Update: this idea is just ripe for Photoshopping. citybutton.jpg

The Decade That Wouldn't Die (Part I)

All this talk of the 70's has obviously woken a sleeping giant within.

Today I'll be offering a series of my older pieces on that wonderful, horrible decade. First up:

The Summer of '76:

Summer memory: On my 14th birthday I received Frampton Comes Alive. I sat with my friends behind 7-11, drinking beer hidden in Slurpee cups and smoking cigarettes. I had the album with me, in all it's vinyl glory, and my eyes glazed over in that 14 year-old girl way whenever I looked at the picture of Frampton on the cover. That hair! Those eyes! Swoon!

I never confessed that I didn't really like Frampton's music. I liked his hair. Ok, I went crazy over three songs on the album but the rest was crap. But I was cool for having it, and we went back to my house and listened to the stupid wah-wah pedal thing and when you are 14 and you just smoked some pot and the record player is emitting sounds of "do you feel like we do" played through some voice synthesizer, all you think about is some Charlie Brown special where the teachers are doing that wah-wah-wah voice and maybe playing some air guitar to Show Me The Way.

Holy shit! I was smoking pot at 14? You mean I only have about two years before my daughter comes home reeking of resin and bong water?

Anyhow. As much as Frampton's hair and synthersizer amused me, I had other musical avenues to explore. 1976 was the year the Ramones debuted. Kiss's Destroyer came out that year. Blue Oyster Cult's Agents of Fortune. Thin Lizzy's Jailbreak. And even though I had all that metal running through my brain, there was no way to avoid the musical vomit that came out of the tinny AM receiver that summer.

How many times could you hear Rick Dees singing Disco Duck before you wanted to go deaf? The song that defined my summer of 1976 in the worst way possible was Starland Vocal Band's Afternoon Delight. Sure, I was too naive to know the song was about catching a little noontime nookie but it annoyed the piss out of me anyhow. On one end of the radio dial you had Gordon Lightfoot mourning his Edmund Fitzgerald and on the other end was a constant barrage of More, More, More and Fly, Robin, Fly. I would always hope that somewhere in between I would catch Play That Funky Music, White Boy and I would close my bedroom door and do some spastic dance while pretending to be ultra cool.

I wore my Disco Sucks button with pride. And I spent hours in my air-conditioned bedroom dreaming up ways to change the music industry. I wrote my own lyrics, 4-chord save-the-world type lyrics that would show those white suit wearing disco freaks that there was more to life than dancing.

Save the whales, Save the whales
Send your money through the mail.

Later on, I would form a band called Pond Scum with my little sister and we would have revolutionized the music industry if we only knew how to play an instrument. Even though Lisa could bang out the Theme from M*A*S*H* on the recorder, we didn't think that was quite enough.

I would lay in bed that summer listening to the radio and Nazareth's Love Hurts would come on and I would cry. At 14, I knew nothing of love or hurt, but I knew that the voice coming out of my speakers did and his hoarse cry of sadness always made me feel as if love were nothing to look forward to.

1976 was the bicentennial of our nation, and while I remember the fireworks and the ships in the harbor what I remember most is the local theater only charging 76 cents to see a movie for the rest of the summer. Maybe we saw the Bad News Bears or maybe it was Blood Sucking Freaks, all I know is that at some point in 1976 I saw Burnt Offerings in a movie theater and complained that there wasn't enough gore or scares and that Oliver Reed gave me the creeps. And that year there was Carrie, which made me vow to never go to a prom or date John Travolta, and Taxi Driver, which made me leery of cab drivers and Robert DeNiro and Logan's Run, which made me think of plot holes and bad acting.

1976 was the year that there was all that hoopla about Red Dye #2 and I had to stop eating maraschino cherries by the dozen.

1976 was the last summer I remember feeling so innoncent, so oblivious to the world around me. 1977 brought the Son of Sam and loot-filled blackouts and the feeling that the world wasn't about some pop song and summer would never mean quite the same to me. At least not until 1978. But that's another story.

(And just for the record, Summer of Sam was one of the worst movies I have ever seen in my life)

August 17, 2004

70's Fashion Warning

Regarding this and this: Is this what you fashion industry people want to bring back? Please, for the love of go-go boots, NO. No one should have to live through that again. Ever. Look. Look at these dresses: [click for bigger image]Wait. Wait until I get home. I have pictures of me in ponchos! I will sacrifice my dignity and post all the 70's era photos of myself and my sisters that I can find if it saves just one child from having to face this fashion again. We must fight the industry and tell them NO. No ponchos, no, handkerchief dresses, no enormous stripes or plaid pants or corked shoes. It's wrong and you know it. What's next? Eight tracks? Tuna casseroles? Pea green living room decor? Dorothy Hamill haircuts? I swear to you, if my father starts wearing his beige and brown leisure suit again, I will make the fashion mavens responsible for this pay. I've got to find those poncho pictures.

Terror Charges in Britian

[These charges are against the eight arrested two weeks ago. What's news is that the target was not the UK, but the U.S. - very specific targets]
Dhiren Bharot, from Willesden, north-west London, is charged with possession of plans for the stock exchange and Citigroup bank building in New York, IMF headquarters in Washington DC. Along with Nadeem Tarmohammed, again from Willesden, he was also accused of owning documents relating to an alleged attack on the Prudential Building in New Jersey.
Eight men were arrested, including a major Al Qaeda figure. ...authorities report the men planned to use radioactive, chemical, toxic, and explosive substances, and that their target was not the UK … rather, it was the United States... News and updates at Command Post. Another blow to the war on terrorism. It's working.

Sometimes

In the effort to quell my bad mood, I'll rip myself off with something non controversial. sometimes i....... Sometimes when a really annoying person is talking to me, I tune them out and chant "i hate you" over and over again in my head until they are done. Sometimes, when I am driving through an underground parking garage, I duck my head. Sometimes I imagine I work in a jigsaw puzzle factory, and I throw away one piece from each puzzle just to mess with people. Sometimes, if I have to speak in front of a group of people, instead of imagining them in their underwear like most people do to keep from being nervous, I imagine that they are all dead. Sometimes, when someone says that the Magnolia is the best movie they ever saw, I want to kick them in their shins. Sometimes Belle and Sebastian will come on the winamp right after Rammstein and I feel like I want to kick my own ass. Sometimes I wish life was a musical and that music would come out of nowhere and we would all break into songs that we know all the words to and dance in total synchronization. In an Oklahoma! sort of way, not a Cop Rock sort of way. Sometimes I fall asleep with the remote in my hand, and I change the channels in my sleep and I start dreaming that I am on C-Span. Sometimes I take the covers off the Sharpies just to sniff them. Sometimes I hear the call of Cthulhu. Sometimes I think if I try hard enough, I really could make The Force work. Yes, yes, you may add your own.

Forget AvP

Freddy v. Jason v. Ash. Ash wins.

Laptop Scandal!

I really did myself a disservice by not taking my mother's old advice and counting to ten before I unload my fury on someone. Vinny has since removed the offending post. I don't know why, nor do I suspect I will hear from him as to why he took it down. Nor do I care. (Update: looks like Vin is also closing up his blog today. Awww.) I've taken down the parts of this post where I quote what Vinny had to say. However, I'm leaving up the parts below because they still stand. And we'll leave it at that. If you got here late and don't know what the hell I'm talking about, don't worry. It was just me battling it out with someone very insignificant. I knew as soon as I decided not to go to the convention that I was going to owe some people both apologies and money. If Vinny thinks this was some kind of scam on my part, well, he doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does. Late last night I sent out a few emails to those who donated specifically to the laptop fund (most people who donated included messages about buying myself a beer or a DVD or going out to dinner with the money - only about 5% of the donations I've received in the past year were convention related). If you are one of those people who put money in my PayPal account with the intent of that money going towards my convention blogging and you haven't heard from me yet, please email me and not only will I gladly refund your donation, but I'll send a matching amount to your favorite charity. Thank you for all your support.

with cheese

So, Lileks be damned, I was going to write about being a 70's fashion victim anyhow. But one thing led to another and I ended up loading the dishwasher and putting away laundry and it was suddenly time to get ready to leave for work. However, in my pre-post research, I found that I did - quite a few times - write about those hideous clothes I was made to wear in my youth. So yes, you get a repeat. You're going to get a lot of repeats in the coming days because I am going through old posts in preparation for something and I'm putting them out here as sort of litmus test for what it is I'm working on. Anyhow, this post isn't so much about fashion as it is about what that fashion did to me, but it does link to another older post about awful clothing from my past. ------- I am the cheese Did you ever come across a memory you didn't know you had? Memories are funny that way; they will just sneak up on you out of nowhere, as if they escaped from some cell inside your brain. I had one of those moments today and it clarified the whole meaning of my life for me. It was first grade. We were playing Farmer in the Dell in music class and everything was moving along just fine. Until the end, that is, when Ray Cicco picked me to be the cheese. So there I was, in my puffy dress and itchy tights and shiny black shoes, standing in the middle of this huge circle while the rest of the class chanted and the cheese stands alone. I wasn't an outgoing kid to begin with. My mother's penchant for making me wear frilly dresses and shiny shoes to school had already pegged me as an outcast. The fact that I rarely spoke above a whisper, added to the horror of being the smallest in the class, meant I was ripe for the picking. So I stood there. The music teacher, Mrs. Kaplan, either was enjoying the singing so much or wanted to torture me, because she had the class repeat the and the cheese stands alone refrain several times. Finally, the game ended and everyone went back to their seats. And then it started. Cheese! The first time it was whispered softly. Then again, a different voice. Cheese! Then someone more brazen than the whisperers pointed right at me and declared It's the cheese! The rest of the day they referred to me as The Cheese or Cheesy and would walk past me singing and the cheese stands alone. The teasing lingered for the rest of the week and then died out. It didn't matter. The damage to my six year old psyche had already been done. Is it any wonder that years later, I Am The Cheese would become my favorite book? So what does this have to do with the rest of my life? Simple. I was the cheese standing alone for many, many years. I still am, in a way. I may be more outgoing than I was 34 years ago. I probably have more friends now than I did in my entire grade school years combined. But I am still uncomfortable around large groups of people. I still feel vulnerable and small in any setting that may put me at the center of attention. Maybe it's why I wear black clothes all the time; to not be noticed. I still don't like overly competitive games. I hate musical chairs and dodge ball and any game that may single out one little kid for losing. I don't think they play things like Farmer in the Dell in school anymore. DJ came home from school Friday with his jeans torn and grass stains all over him. Me: What were you playing? DJ: Suicide. Me: Suicide. DJ: Yea, it's a really cool game. He then said something about a ball and a wall and throwing as hard as you can at someone. Me: That's interesting. How do you win? DJ: Duh. You don't die. Me: That seems sort of violent. DJ: What? You want us to play duck duck goose? Me: Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. DJ: How about kill the goose? Me: Sigh. The cheese episode must have affected me more than I realized if it was still rattling around in my brain this whole time. I was thinking that this was a whole new set of people to blame for my reluctance to speak up or make friends. And what does it say about me that cheese is my absolute favorite kind of food? Is it a subconcious way of saying I love myself? I want to eat myself? And you know, I'm slightly lactose intolerant, so maybe that's my body's way of saying "hey, even you can't stomach you!" Could this be why I am a Packers fan? (cheeshead...get it?) You would think the incident would have caused an aversion to cheese, not an obsession with it. Or maybe the cheese incident had nothing at all to do with my life and the way I turned out. Maybe it was the drugs. Nah. It was my mother and the damn frilly dresses, or the infamous dress with a clock on it. I've forgiven her for it, but I get even by sending my kids to her house dressed like slobs. It absolutely kills her. I get a slight thrill by watching my mom cringe when Natalie and DJ bounce into her house wearing faded jeans and t-shirts. She once tried to buy a dress for Natalie (who has worn a dress about twice in her entire life) and I stopped mom in her tracks. "You are not buying her a dress," I told her. "You make her wear one of those frilly dresses and before you know it she'll be sitting in a corner writing dark poetry and drawing pictures of her classmates with knives sticking out of their eyes." "You are a really strange person," my mother says. "Dress. Clock." I say in defiance. She knows what it means. "Oh for god's sake, get over that crap already." I pout and walk away and as mom starts making fun of me by mocking my "and you bought me off-brand sneakers instead of Keds" routine, I stick my fingers in my ears and say lalalalallala I can't hear you! I am the cheese.

Lileks Ate My Brain

You know what really sucks? When you go to bed secure in the knowledge that you have your morning blog post all sewn up because you saw this article on how the fashions of the 70's were coming back - including ponchos - and you thought to yourself, oh, that's what I'm going to blog about in the morning because that subject is just ripe for picking, and then you form some wonderful sentences and snarky insults in your mind about ponchos and then, you wake up in the morning, pull up The Bleat and see that while you were sleeping, James Lileks was sucking the 70's idea out of your head with a magical bendy straw.

Curse you, James Lileks.

Back to the drawing board.

August 16, 2004

Retro Blogging

So as not to keep the navel gazing post below up top, a blast from the past in honor of the anniversary of Elvis' Presley's death. elvis.jpgIt was one of those moments when you say something you know you shouldn't. But I couldn't help myself. I was fourteen and still in the throes of teenage-girl-smart-ass disease. 25 years ago tomorrow, I was sitting in the backyard listening to the radio when I heard the news. I went inside and found my mother in her room, making her bed. "Hey, mom. Guess you won't be going to that Elvis concert next week." "What?" "He's dead."

I may have snickered, I don't know. Mom ran into the bathroom and turned on the little radio she kept in there. I remember the voice. I remember the exact sound of the tinny, staticy voice that relayed the news to my mother in a much softer way than I did. Elvis was dead. My mother's eyes filled with tears and despair while her face registered only that small "o" one's mouth makes when they hear shocking news. That "o" stayed there for a while, but the despair in her eyes had become hard and angry. She was pissed at me. How could I have told her like that, knowing that she idolized Elvis in a pure, passionate way? How could I do that? What kind of daughter was i? Well, I was fourteen. That's my only excuse. I was a fourteen year old whose mother made fun of her own idolization of another self-obsessed, overly dramatic singer who similarly became a bloated replica of himself. And later, dead and bloated. Maybe it was my way of evening up the score. My mother had this friend Noreen. Noreen was the largest woman I ever knew. Not just heavy large, but tall and wide and her hair was piled up on her head so she looked even taller. Her voice roared even when she whispered and her sneezes were legend in the neighborhood, said to be heard from at least three blocks away. She wore mumus and housecoats and tons of hairspray and sometimes she wore an ugly fur coat that made her look like a small woodland creature was nesting on her shouler. Noreen and my mom were the Elvis duo. They worshiped him. They loved him. They knew everything about him and owned everything to do with him including Elvis commemorative plates and I think one of them had an Elvis wristwatch. I grew up with Elvis's hips grinding in my face and his voice grinding in my ears and I have to admit that at some point, I realized what the attraction was. When I would lay in bed on summer nights, trying to sleep while my mother and Noreen and the rest of their crew played Pinochle in the kitchen and had Elvis on the stereo, I knew. His voice would come drifting into my room and I could feel the sensuality, the danger, the passion that lied within his words. I would never tell anyone this, of course. I went about my daily business of bowing before Jim Morrison and Robert Plant and never let on that I thought Elvis was cool. Especially to my mother. That would just ruin the taut, tenous relationship that we both thrived on. Who was I to break the rite of passage of mother-teenage daughter bitterness and anger? Noreen and my mother were going to see Elvis in August, 1977 at the Nassau Coliseum. They had seen him many times before but this one was special. They had a feeling this would be his last tour ever. They were like little giddy school girls in the weeks leading up to the show. Sometimes my mother would take out her ticket and look at it. As I write this I realize that my mother was 39 at the time. The same age I am now. When I was fourteen, 39 was old and withered and wrinkled. 39 was too old to be getting worked up over a hip-shaking idol. Yet, here I am at 39 and I'm not old or withered or wrinkled and I would certainly get worked up over my hip-gyrating idol. She was so happy. And I crushed her world. It would have been a much softer blow if it came from Cousin Brucie or Uncle somebody on whichever oldies station she was listening to. It would have been a bit easier to take if her teenage bag of hormones didn't make some smarmy remark about dying like a fat, beached whale. When Noreen found out we heard her from two blocks away, bellowing and carrying on. Her booming voice sounded through the neighborhood like a siren, a mourning call for all Elvis fans in East Meadow to gather on her lawn and weep. Not really. But it was something like that. I don't think my mother ever told Noreen the way in which she found out about the death of their hero. I probably wouldn't have lived to tell this tale if she knew. She would have kicked my ass all over town. When Noreen died, my first thought was that she would finally get to see Elvis again. My second was that I was now safe from my mother ever spilling the beans to Noreen about my youthful indiscretion. 25 years later,my mother still has not forgiven me. Maybe that's what drives every argument we have, every nit-picky little fight we endure. Maybe she's still mad at me. I know she still resents it, still thinks about because yesterday she told my daughter that I laughed at her when Elvis died. I didn't laugh. I may have snickered a little. Maybe. I sent an email to my mother this morning:

I'm sorry, mom. I'm sorry I told you like that. But in a way it's your fault for making me sit through Viva Las Vegas and Jailhouse Rock, for forcing that horrid "In the Ghetto" on my ears, for making me tried fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. It's been 25 years, mom. I promise to play Elvis at my wedding next week if you promise to get over it already. Deal?
Maybe I should reword that.