Best Referral Yet
I like to check periodically to see where my readers are from and figure out how they got here. This morning I noticed a search engine name new to me called the After Hours Zone. It's an adult porno site, near as I can tell. Someone searched for "small tits nude gallery" and my webpage was #45 on their list. As proud as I am for the hit, I have no idea why my blog came up. Dear reader from the After Hours Zone, were you surprised by what you found on my blog?
[UPDATE: The link to my blog was deleted from the search results. I didn't think they could do that, but they did. It's just as well. There is no small tits nude gallery on this blog.]
Addendum to Saturday. I promised this cute little dykling from Scotland that I would put on me kilt and take a picture and put it up on my blog. She's real curious to see what a Scottish cowboy looks like. I convinced her that Houston was a Scottish name and to prove it, I had my own kilt. I stretched the tale a little, but heck, that's just my nature. Someone asked me which tartan I wear, since Bridges isn't an obvious Scottish name, y'know? I replied that I wore the royal Stuart tartan because a queen is a queen is a queen! My new friend's name was King and she's from the west coast of Scotland, near Glasgow. "What kind of a Scottish name is King," I asked. She was so cute. In her sweet brogue she replied, "Well, we used to be MacGregor's, but at one time in Scottish history, twas legal to kill a MacGregor on sight." Good point. Twas a pleasure meeting you, Aileen. Her second middle name was Fiona which is as popular in Scotland as Ashley is here.
Did you know that in Germany you have to choose your child's name from an approved list? It's true. I remember reading that in a story once where a couple wanted to name their child Che. The authorities would have nothing of it. This subject came up again last night at wine tasting. Jeff, Scott's friend from h is college days (who lives here bytheway), was about to leave for L.A. where his wife hospitalized wife was about to deliver their first child, a boy. We asked if he and his wife had named the little feller yet, and he said no, then asked for suggestions. Although Wolfgang was suggested, it was quickly discarded despite the fact that its one of the more popular names in Germany and Austria. (I don't know about Switzerland.) Andres thought it might mean something like "Wolf path" since wolf is wolf in German, and gang is like a passageway. Anyone know otherwise, let me know in the Comments. Our group decided the baby should be named Cardinal. This is in part because Jeff's last name is Sims. Get it, cardinal sims? I didn't at first, either. Maybe it was the wine, but last night it seemed funny.
Aileen, the picture's coming. I promise.
Sunday, May 02, 2004
Week-ends
I went to a couple of parties Saturday in San Francisco. The first was a backyard picnic which was billed a celebration of Spring. The real reason was for Brian's friends to say goodbye to Angie, Brian's girlfriend for the past several months. Angie's moving to Boston. Brian's heartsick in his own affable way. I adore Brian. He's smart, incredibly goodlooking, sensitive, great sense of humor and has a collection of friends who are just like him. Like most parties in San Francisco, there were at least five nationalities at the party, three different racial groups, all variations of sexuality, with conversations in English, French and German.
I arrived with a small British flag in observance of Loyalist Day that everyone in the blogosphere was talking about on Friday. My grandmother's people, the Ashworths, were notorious loyalists in South Carolina during the American Revolution. Oddly enough no one had ever heard of Loyalist Day. I'm sure I read it correctly to be Saturday, May 1. Oh well. Oh, and it was also Derby Day so we had plenty of mint juleps.
Later, my friend Katie had a zinfandel tasting at her house. Our regular group consists of Katie, her cousin Scott and his wife Laura, Gil and Amy, and Terry and Yolanda. Last night, we were joined by Jeff, a classmate of Scott's at Columbia, Monica, a law school chum of Katie's, and Andres, a quiet young man from Berlin. Lovely evening.
I'm not a true connoiseur of wine, although I have a nice collection in my cellar. That's real easy to do in California when you live next to the wine country. Wine tasting is a favorite pasttime out here. It usually involves a nice drive in the country, visits to half a dozen tasting rooms, and a nice picnic lunch at one of the wineries.
Today I'm reading and doing some writing. I also intend to have a nice long nap. Tonight a group of us are going to see Josh Kornbluth's Red Diaper Baby.
I love week-ends.
I went to a couple of parties Saturday in San Francisco. The first was a backyard picnic which was billed a celebration of Spring. The real reason was for Brian's friends to say goodbye to Angie, Brian's girlfriend for the past several months. Angie's moving to Boston. Brian's heartsick in his own affable way. I adore Brian. He's smart, incredibly goodlooking, sensitive, great sense of humor and has a collection of friends who are just like him. Like most parties in San Francisco, there were at least five nationalities at the party, three different racial groups, all variations of sexuality, with conversations in English, French and German.
I arrived with a small British flag in observance of Loyalist Day that everyone in the blogosphere was talking about on Friday. My grandmother's people, the Ashworths, were notorious loyalists in South Carolina during the American Revolution. Oddly enough no one had ever heard of Loyalist Day. I'm sure I read it correctly to be Saturday, May 1. Oh well. Oh, and it was also Derby Day so we had plenty of mint juleps.
Later, my friend Katie had a zinfandel tasting at her house. Our regular group consists of Katie, her cousin Scott and his wife Laura, Gil and Amy, and Terry and Yolanda. Last night, we were joined by Jeff, a classmate of Scott's at Columbia, Monica, a law school chum of Katie's, and Andres, a quiet young man from Berlin. Lovely evening.
I'm not a true connoiseur of wine, although I have a nice collection in my cellar. That's real easy to do in California when you live next to the wine country. Wine tasting is a favorite pasttime out here. It usually involves a nice drive in the country, visits to half a dozen tasting rooms, and a nice picnic lunch at one of the wineries.
Today I'm reading and doing some writing. I also intend to have a nice long nap. Tonight a group of us are going to see Josh Kornbluth's Red Diaper Baby.
I love week-ends.
Friday, April 30, 2004
Quick Question
So, at 23, John Kerry, fresh back from a nasty war where he was wounded and decorated for bravery, was so angry that he threw away medals that he had come to regard as a whore's payment. Mistake? What, being angry or throwing away momentos of a bad vacation? Kerry's owned up to all that. Has Bush ever acknowledged his specific acts of misbehavior, such as his DUI? Bush is allowed a free pass for everything he did before he quit drinking?
When I got out of the army, I was mad. It took me two or three years to get over my anger, and I didn't even go to Vietnam! I knew bunches of boys who did go, though. Bunches. Most of the regular soldiers I served with my two years in Alaska were fresh from tours of duty in Vietnam. There were a lot of angry young men, many of them broken in spirit and body. Our anger stemmed from the same source, and that was the devaluation of our lives, our ambitions, for the pursuit of a failed war and a failed idea.
Let's set the record straight. Vietnam was a mistake from the gitgo. Waging it a long time did not make it a righteous cause. 58,000 dead did not make it a righteous cause. George W. Bush sure didn't think it was worth anything. I am as proud of my years as a draft resister as I am my years in the army. I have absolute admiration for men like John Kerry who put their lives on the line for their country, even when they knew or suspected that their country was wrong. I have the same equal respect for those young men who quietly moved to Canada. It takes great courage to face an enemy shooting at you, but the choices are simple in that situation. It takes a more sublime form of courage to leave your family and your friends and go and live in a strange land. (No offense, Canada, for the "strange land" remark, eh?)
I'm digressing again. My point is this: why are Kerry's actions at 23 more significant than Bush's actions at 23. Both of them acted like young men of 23. I think we'd all be better served if we talked about the issues: unemployment, runaway health care costs, pollution, stewardship of our environment.
I'm just saying, that's all.
So, at 23, John Kerry, fresh back from a nasty war where he was wounded and decorated for bravery, was so angry that he threw away medals that he had come to regard as a whore's payment. Mistake? What, being angry or throwing away momentos of a bad vacation? Kerry's owned up to all that. Has Bush ever acknowledged his specific acts of misbehavior, such as his DUI? Bush is allowed a free pass for everything he did before he quit drinking?
When I got out of the army, I was mad. It took me two or three years to get over my anger, and I didn't even go to Vietnam! I knew bunches of boys who did go, though. Bunches. Most of the regular soldiers I served with my two years in Alaska were fresh from tours of duty in Vietnam. There were a lot of angry young men, many of them broken in spirit and body. Our anger stemmed from the same source, and that was the devaluation of our lives, our ambitions, for the pursuit of a failed war and a failed idea.
Let's set the record straight. Vietnam was a mistake from the gitgo. Waging it a long time did not make it a righteous cause. 58,000 dead did not make it a righteous cause. George W. Bush sure didn't think it was worth anything. I am as proud of my years as a draft resister as I am my years in the army. I have absolute admiration for men like John Kerry who put their lives on the line for their country, even when they knew or suspected that their country was wrong. I have the same equal respect for those young men who quietly moved to Canada. It takes great courage to face an enemy shooting at you, but the choices are simple in that situation. It takes a more sublime form of courage to leave your family and your friends and go and live in a strange land. (No offense, Canada, for the "strange land" remark, eh?)
I'm digressing again. My point is this: why are Kerry's actions at 23 more significant than Bush's actions at 23. Both of them acted like young men of 23. I think we'd all be better served if we talked about the issues: unemployment, runaway health care costs, pollution, stewardship of our environment.
I'm just saying, that's all.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Poetry on Fridays
There are many who will not understand Charles Butowski's poetry. This is what he had to say about it:
"My contribution", he wrote in 1974, "was to loosen and simplify poetry, to make it more human... I taught them that you can write a poem the same way you can write a letter, that a poem can even be entertaining, and that there need not be anything necessarily holy about it."
fire station
(for Jane, with love)
we came out of the bar
because we were out of money
but we had a couple of wine bottles
in the room.
it was about 4 in the afternoon
and we passed a fire station
and she started to go
crazy:
"a FIRE STATION! oh, I just love
FIRE engines, they're so red and
all! let's go in!"
I followed her on
in. "FIRE ENGINES!" she screamed
wobbling her big
ass.
she was already trying to climb into
one, pulling her skirt up to her
waist, trying to jacknife up into the
seat.
"here, here, lemme help ya!" a fireman ran up.
amother fireman walked up to
me: "our citizens are always welcome,"
he told me.
the other guy was up in the seat with
her. "you got one of those big THINGS?"
she asked him. "oh, hahaha!, I mean one of
those big HELMETS!"
"I've got a big helmet, too" he told
her.
"oh, hahaha!"
"you play cards?" I asked my
fireman. I had 43 cents and nothing but
time.
"come in back," he
said. "of course, we don't gamble.
it's against the
rules."
"I understand," I told
him.
I had run my 43 cents up to a
dollar ninety
when I saw her going upstairs with
her fireman.
"he's gonna show me their sleeping
quarters," she told
me.
"I understand," I told
her.
when her fireman slid down the pole
ten minutes later
I nodded him
over.
"that'll be 5
dollars."
"5 dollars for
that?"
"we wouldn't want a scandal, would
we? we both might lose our
jobs. of course, I'm not
working."
he gave me the
5.
"sit down, you might get it
back."
whatcha playing?"
"blackjack."
"gambling's against the
law."
"anything interesting is, besides,
you see any money on the
table?"
he sat down.
that made 5 of
us.
"how was it Harry?" somebody asked
him.
"not bad, not
bad"
the other guy went on
upstairs.
they were bad players really.
they didn't bother to memorize the
deck. they didn't know whether the
high numbers or low numbers were left. and basically they hit too high,
didn't hold low
enough.
when the other guy came down
he gave me a
five.
"how was it, Marty?"
"not bad. she's got . . . some fine
movements."
"hit me!" I said. "nice clean girl, I
ride it myself."
nobody said
anything.
"any big fires lately?" I
asked.
"naw. nothin'
much."
"you guys need
exercise. hit me
again!"
a big red-headed kid who had been shining an
engine
threw down his rag and
went upstairs.
when he came down he threw me a
five.
when the 4th guy came down I gave him
3 fives for a
twenty.
I don't know how many firemen
were in the building or where they
were. I figured a few had slipped by me
but I was a good
sport.
it was getting dark outside
when the alarm
rang.
they started running around.
guys came sliding down the
pole.
then she came sliding down the
pole. she was good with the
pole. a real woman. nothing but guts
and
ass.
"let's go," I told
her.
she stood there waving goodbye to the
firemen but they didn't seem
much interested
any more.
"let's go back to the
bar," I told
her.
"ooh, you got
money?"
"I found some I didn't know I
had. . ."
we sat at the end of the bar
with whiskey and beer
chaser.
"I sure got a good
sleep."
"sure, baby, you need your
sleep."
"look at that sailor looking at me!
he must think I'm a ...a ..."
"naw, he don't think that. relax, you've got
class. real class. sometimes you remind me of an
opera singer. you know, one of those prima d's.
your class shows all over
you. drink
up."
I ordered 2
more.
"you know, daddy, you're the only man I
LOVE! I mean, really...LOVE! ya
know?"
"sure I know. sometimes I think I am a king
in spite of myself."
"yeah. yeah. that's what I mean, somethin' like
that."
I had to go to the urinal. when I came back
the sailor was sitting in my
seat. she had her leg up against his and
he was talking.
I walked over and got in a dart game with
Harry the Horse and the corner
newsboy.
Charles Bukowski
Poetry takes many forms to many people. To me it's about putting power in the words. Salute, Charles. Special thanks to my friend Mark who has been showering me with Bukowski poems this past week. Would you like one more? Go on, you know you do. Okay, just a short one.
when you're young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting
alone
in the closet
can fire your
bones;
when you're old
it's just
a pair of shoes
without
anybody
in them
and
just as
well.
Charles Bukowski
Oh, yeah. Cats. Say hi, Beau.
Be at peace, dear friends, be at peace.
There are many who will not understand Charles Butowski's poetry. This is what he had to say about it:
"My contribution", he wrote in 1974, "was to loosen and simplify poetry, to make it more human... I taught them that you can write a poem the same way you can write a letter, that a poem can even be entertaining, and that there need not be anything necessarily holy about it."
fire station
(for Jane, with love)
we came out of the bar
because we were out of money
but we had a couple of wine bottles
in the room.
it was about 4 in the afternoon
and we passed a fire station
and she started to go
crazy:
"a FIRE STATION! oh, I just love
FIRE engines, they're so red and
all! let's go in!"
I followed her on
in. "FIRE ENGINES!" she screamed
wobbling her big
ass.
she was already trying to climb into
one, pulling her skirt up to her
waist, trying to jacknife up into the
seat.
"here, here, lemme help ya!" a fireman ran up.
amother fireman walked up to
me: "our citizens are always welcome,"
he told me.
the other guy was up in the seat with
her. "you got one of those big THINGS?"
she asked him. "oh, hahaha!, I mean one of
those big HELMETS!"
"I've got a big helmet, too" he told
her.
"oh, hahaha!"
"you play cards?" I asked my
fireman. I had 43 cents and nothing but
time.
"come in back," he
said. "of course, we don't gamble.
it's against the
rules."
"I understand," I told
him.
I had run my 43 cents up to a
dollar ninety
when I saw her going upstairs with
her fireman.
"he's gonna show me their sleeping
quarters," she told
me.
"I understand," I told
her.
when her fireman slid down the pole
ten minutes later
I nodded him
over.
"that'll be 5
dollars."
"5 dollars for
that?"
"we wouldn't want a scandal, would
we? we both might lose our
jobs. of course, I'm not
working."
he gave me the
5.
"sit down, you might get it
back."
whatcha playing?"
"blackjack."
"gambling's against the
law."
"anything interesting is, besides,
you see any money on the
table?"
he sat down.
that made 5 of
us.
"how was it Harry?" somebody asked
him.
"not bad, not
bad"
the other guy went on
upstairs.
they were bad players really.
they didn't bother to memorize the
deck. they didn't know whether the
high numbers or low numbers were left. and basically they hit too high,
didn't hold low
enough.
when the other guy came down
he gave me a
five.
"how was it, Marty?"
"not bad. she's got . . . some fine
movements."
"hit me!" I said. "nice clean girl, I
ride it myself."
nobody said
anything.
"any big fires lately?" I
asked.
"naw. nothin'
much."
"you guys need
exercise. hit me
again!"
a big red-headed kid who had been shining an
engine
threw down his rag and
went upstairs.
when he came down he threw me a
five.
when the 4th guy came down I gave him
3 fives for a
twenty.
I don't know how many firemen
were in the building or where they
were. I figured a few had slipped by me
but I was a good
sport.
it was getting dark outside
when the alarm
rang.
they started running around.
guys came sliding down the
pole.
then she came sliding down the
pole. she was good with the
pole. a real woman. nothing but guts
and
ass.
"let's go," I told
her.
she stood there waving goodbye to the
firemen but they didn't seem
much interested
any more.
"let's go back to the
bar," I told
her.
"ooh, you got
money?"
"I found some I didn't know I
had. . ."
we sat at the end of the bar
with whiskey and beer
chaser.
"I sure got a good
sleep."
"sure, baby, you need your
sleep."
"look at that sailor looking at me!
he must think I'm a ...a ..."
"naw, he don't think that. relax, you've got
class. real class. sometimes you remind me of an
opera singer. you know, one of those prima d's.
your class shows all over
you. drink
up."
I ordered 2
more.
"you know, daddy, you're the only man I
LOVE! I mean, really...LOVE! ya
know?"
"sure I know. sometimes I think I am a king
in spite of myself."
"yeah. yeah. that's what I mean, somethin' like
that."
I had to go to the urinal. when I came back
the sailor was sitting in my
seat. she had her leg up against his and
he was talking.
I walked over and got in a dart game with
Harry the Horse and the corner
newsboy.
Charles Bukowski
Poetry takes many forms to many people. To me it's about putting power in the words. Salute, Charles. Special thanks to my friend Mark who has been showering me with Bukowski poems this past week. Would you like one more? Go on, you know you do. Okay, just a short one.
when you're young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting
alone
in the closet
can fire your
bones;
when you're old
it's just
a pair of shoes
without
anybody
in them
and
just as
well.
Charles Bukowski
Oh, yeah. Cats. Say hi, Beau.
Be at peace, dear friends, be at peace.
Buy me, mommy, buy me!
Sara, my West Virginia blogroll cousin, over at Hillbilly Sophisticate warns us about curio shops that spell it "shoppe" instead of "shop." They might be selling some of these:
Picture courtesy of Jerry of the WVTS Morning Show. By the way, Jerry's looking for a co-host, a female with a sense of humor, which is more than Jerry has. This is what Jerry's worried about:
Do you think that society feels that sex and plush penises are so cute and funny that even children should also enjoy in on the fun? If not, do you think that stores like this should have very visible warnings at the entrance that it contains adult material? Should the store manager inform the employees to ask children to leave the store? Do YOU allow your children to patronize these adult stores? There is a "Record Store" in Kanawah City that sells more adult porn items than anyplace in town. Do your kids buy their "music" there? Should they have an indication at the door that they're "More than just a music store?"
Again, I have NO problem with the store selling whatever trash they want.... but let's at least keep the kids out ok? They'll have enough problems dealing with sexually transmitted diseases down the road.
Lighten up, for chrissaka Jerry. It's a stuffed toy in an adult curio shop, er, I mean shoppe. It's not going to cause a kid to get syphillis just from seeing it and wanting one.
Sara, my West Virginia blogroll cousin, over at Hillbilly Sophisticate warns us about curio shops that spell it "shoppe" instead of "shop." They might be selling some of these:
Picture courtesy of Jerry of the WVTS Morning Show. By the way, Jerry's looking for a co-host, a female with a sense of humor, which is more than Jerry has. This is what Jerry's worried about:
Do you think that society feels that sex and plush penises are so cute and funny that even children should also enjoy in on the fun? If not, do you think that stores like this should have very visible warnings at the entrance that it contains adult material? Should the store manager inform the employees to ask children to leave the store? Do YOU allow your children to patronize these adult stores? There is a "Record Store" in Kanawah City that sells more adult porn items than anyplace in town. Do your kids buy their "music" there? Should they have an indication at the door that they're "More than just a music store?"
Again, I have NO problem with the store selling whatever trash they want.... but let's at least keep the kids out ok? They'll have enough problems dealing with sexually transmitted diseases down the road.
Lighten up, for chrissaka Jerry. It's a stuffed toy in an adult curio shop, er, I mean shoppe. It's not going to cause a kid to get syphillis just from seeing it and wanting one.
Reading the Right
I don't recommend it, but I just did some blogsurfing on the Right hand side of the dial. This is what I've learned. All newspapers are bad and do everything in their power to discredit Bush. Here's what one guy said:
"In my view, the press, especially the Seattle press, would eat up [pictures of the flag-draped coffins] as an opportunity to stir up anti-war sentiment. Some of us have short memories it seems. It was in Vietnam that anti-war elements in the media used the pictures of war dead to incite resistance to the war effort. Unfortunately, there are many here in America who like the Spanish, have no stomach for the sacrifice required to secure peace and freedom." How many things are wrong with this short paragraph?
His next sentence is equally chilling. "As I've said earlier, it's time to take the gloves off. It's time to recognize that we have enemies both foreign and domestic. Hit them hard, hit them fast, and get our boys home."
Then, our old buddy Misha calls Kofi Annan "kaffir anus." Hairy Fish Nuts informs us that kaffir is the Afrikaaner equivalent of the word "nigger." Way to go, Misha. I wonder if Republican wingnut Mulatto Boy likes it when his right-wing pals call anyone a "nigger asshole"?
In response to what someone over at Indymedia said about the death of Pvt. Pat Tillman, this guy had this to say: "The writer of this vile hatred deserves a claw hammer in the head. Seriously, I hope someone beats him to death and sets his corpse on fire." I read some of the Comments but you all know what they're like when they go into a feeding frenzy.
Had enough? You know they're just joshing us, don't you? Dont you?
I don't recommend it, but I just did some blogsurfing on the Right hand side of the dial. This is what I've learned. All newspapers are bad and do everything in their power to discredit Bush. Here's what one guy said:
"In my view, the press, especially the Seattle press, would eat up [pictures of the flag-draped coffins] as an opportunity to stir up anti-war sentiment. Some of us have short memories it seems. It was in Vietnam that anti-war elements in the media used the pictures of war dead to incite resistance to the war effort. Unfortunately, there are many here in America who like the Spanish, have no stomach for the sacrifice required to secure peace and freedom." How many things are wrong with this short paragraph?
His next sentence is equally chilling. "As I've said earlier, it's time to take the gloves off. It's time to recognize that we have enemies both foreign and domestic. Hit them hard, hit them fast, and get our boys home."
Then, our old buddy Misha calls Kofi Annan "kaffir anus." Hairy Fish Nuts informs us that kaffir is the Afrikaaner equivalent of the word "nigger." Way to go, Misha. I wonder if Republican wingnut Mulatto Boy likes it when his right-wing pals call anyone a "nigger asshole"?
In response to what someone over at Indymedia said about the death of Pvt. Pat Tillman, this guy had this to say: "The writer of this vile hatred deserves a claw hammer in the head. Seriously, I hope someone beats him to death and sets his corpse on fire." I read some of the Comments but you all know what they're like when they go into a feeding frenzy.
Had enough? You know they're just joshing us, don't you? Dont you?
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
State of Hate
The Virginia House of Delegates passed overwhelmingly the following bit of bigotry:
“A civil union, partnership contract or other arrangement between persons of the same sex purporting to bestow the privileges or obligations of marriage is prohibited. Any such civil union, partnership contract or other arrangement entered into by persons of the same sex in another state or jurisdiction shall be void in all respects in Virginia and any contractual rights created thereby shall be void and unenforceable.”
Nice place, huh? You Virginians must be very proud of yourselves and your Legislature. (Via The Washington Blade.)
[I changed the heading. It begged it of me.]
The Virginia House of Delegates passed overwhelmingly the following bit of bigotry:
“A civil union, partnership contract or other arrangement between persons of the same sex purporting to bestow the privileges or obligations of marriage is prohibited. Any such civil union, partnership contract or other arrangement entered into by persons of the same sex in another state or jurisdiction shall be void in all respects in Virginia and any contractual rights created thereby shall be void and unenforceable.”
Nice place, huh? You Virginians must be very proud of yourselves and your Legislature. (Via The Washington Blade.)
[I changed the heading. It begged it of me.]
Remember this one?
That Boudreaux, he sure is a card, ain't he?
[Update: My bad, I thought everyone had seen the original picture of Boudreaux. I'm looking for it, but you can have your very own fun with Boudreaux here. (Hat tip to Hairy Fish Nuts.)
That Boudreaux, he sure is a card, ain't he?
[Update: My bad, I thought everyone had seen the original picture of Boudreaux. I'm looking for it, but you can have your very own fun with Boudreaux here. (Hat tip to Hairy Fish Nuts.)
Monday, April 26, 2004
Finding Time for Myself
Right now my life is more interesting to me than the campaign between Kerry and Bush. Kerry's fight is similar to mine, but it is not mine. My opposition to Bush does not make for a warm embrace of Kerry. I'm not sure why Kerry wants to be President other than his incredibly high opinion of himself. That's not going to be enough on November 2. As I've said many times before: Kerry is very smart, much smarter than I. He has a lot of friends who are smart. They are going to have a lot of money to wage this campaign. It is their business. I have given them my money and I pledge them my vote because I see the Republican Party as an evil mix of Christian bigots and capitalist opportunistic exploiters who control all three branches of government and about 98 percent of the wealth in this country that is not controlled by the government.
I wish I knew more about what Kerry is all about, but so far he just sounds like corporate Republicanism without the christian fundamentalists. As near as I can tell, his credibility to early primary voters was his hero-veteran status, and the nomination was decided before it got to California. That pisses me off. California and African-Americans find themselves in the same boat; we are taken for granted. It's probably going to take Barney Frank himself out here giving me a blowjob before I get enthusiastic for Kerry, and it's going to be Kerry--if and when I do, not JFK deux.
I think I'm burnt out on politics. Kerry can run his campaign without my opinion and probably do pretty good. California will probably go 60-40 for Kerry in November. Nothing I can do here will influence anything. I think if I can draw my focus back to the here and now of my life, I think my writing will be more interesting. I am not in the same league as some of you in my ability to focus, analyze and write. I'm not denigrating myself, I'm complimenting you. Who'd have thought this good ol' boy from East Texas would hang out with such swells?
I had one unsolicited comment from a nasty old queen who said she read my blog and thought I was bitter. I am only bitter when I talk about politics. I need to work my way past that. I'd like to take my blog in the direction of Winding Road in an Urban Area. Jaye shares intimacy with observation and experience. That's what I would like to do. I want to write more about popular culture and my interaction with it. I have no doubt as to her political persuasion, but that itself is not her focus. I do not want to be thought of as a bitter old queen, even to casual observers just passing through.
Meanwhile, I may have a date. A second date. The first one went real well. If a perfect world, I wouldn't have time to blog for at least a couple of days.
Right now my life is more interesting to me than the campaign between Kerry and Bush. Kerry's fight is similar to mine, but it is not mine. My opposition to Bush does not make for a warm embrace of Kerry. I'm not sure why Kerry wants to be President other than his incredibly high opinion of himself. That's not going to be enough on November 2. As I've said many times before: Kerry is very smart, much smarter than I. He has a lot of friends who are smart. They are going to have a lot of money to wage this campaign. It is their business. I have given them my money and I pledge them my vote because I see the Republican Party as an evil mix of Christian bigots and capitalist opportunistic exploiters who control all three branches of government and about 98 percent of the wealth in this country that is not controlled by the government.
I wish I knew more about what Kerry is all about, but so far he just sounds like corporate Republicanism without the christian fundamentalists. As near as I can tell, his credibility to early primary voters was his hero-veteran status, and the nomination was decided before it got to California. That pisses me off. California and African-Americans find themselves in the same boat; we are taken for granted. It's probably going to take Barney Frank himself out here giving me a blowjob before I get enthusiastic for Kerry, and it's going to be Kerry--if and when I do, not JFK deux.
I think I'm burnt out on politics. Kerry can run his campaign without my opinion and probably do pretty good. California will probably go 60-40 for Kerry in November. Nothing I can do here will influence anything. I think if I can draw my focus back to the here and now of my life, I think my writing will be more interesting. I am not in the same league as some of you in my ability to focus, analyze and write. I'm not denigrating myself, I'm complimenting you. Who'd have thought this good ol' boy from East Texas would hang out with such swells?
I had one unsolicited comment from a nasty old queen who said she read my blog and thought I was bitter. I am only bitter when I talk about politics. I need to work my way past that. I'd like to take my blog in the direction of Winding Road in an Urban Area. Jaye shares intimacy with observation and experience. That's what I would like to do. I want to write more about popular culture and my interaction with it. I have no doubt as to her political persuasion, but that itself is not her focus. I do not want to be thought of as a bitter old queen, even to casual observers just passing through.
Meanwhile, I may have a date. A second date. The first one went real well. If a perfect world, I wouldn't have time to blog for at least a couple of days.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Remembering the 60s and 70s
I just finished reading Beach Music by Pat Conroy. In my previous post, I sort of hung him out to dry. I've given some additional thought to the subject, and I have some disclosures to make.
I moved to San Jose, California with my mother and two sisters in 1963. We drove from Texas to San Jose in a 1959 Ford. I can't remember if it was a Galaxie or a Fairlane, but it was a standard shift and didn't have air conditioning. We looked like the tv version of the Beverly Hillbillies with our belongings piled high onto the car. We looked like Okies who didn't get the memo about the depression being over.
I hit California like a dry sponge hits water. I soaked it up. Ever see American Grafitti? That's exactly what I was thrown into. What a high. The Californians loved me. I was smart, had a cute accent, obviously liked them. The next year of my life was probably my best. Then my mother tricked me into returning to Texas to graduate from high school at the same school at which I started in 1953. So lucky me, I get to graduate with the kids with whom I started school.
I started at Vidor Elementary School in September 1953. I was living with my grandmother, my brother, and my grandmother's oldest daughter, Elsie, who had a severe learning disability. We lived in a 4-room house built by my grandfather out of left over lumber back in the late 1940s. We had a front porch, a living room, a kitchen where we ate meals, and two bedrooms.
This is me after the second grade. I had just turned 8.
There was a back porch and behind that, a chicken yard through which one had to navigate to get to the outhouse. The greatest fear I had growing up was having to go to the bathroom in the outhouse at night. Two reasons, darkness and chicken shit. In the South, darkness is a force of its own. There's shit out there when it's black and you can't see the hand in front of your face. And those fucking chickens didn't respect the fact that it's not nice to shit on the path between the house and the outhouse. (Creative exercise 1. Imagine you're five years old running through terrifying darkness to the outhouse, barefoot, and stepping in chicken shit. Now, do you feel sorry for me?)
That was the first grade. I also went to school there for the 2nd grade, 6th grade, 9th grade, and 12th grade. My family settled this county 200 years ago. For 200 years, White people have been calling us "niggers" behind our back. We have fought them, tooth and nail, the entire distance. They have never gotten away with it. We are not Black. We have never been Black. We were never slaves. We always believed we were not Black more strongly than those who called us Black. From 1800 to 1820, we were called Free Men of Color in the U.S. Census. From 1820 through 1900, we were called Mulatto. None of these things were we called to our face. We believed ourselves to be White and never agreed to anyone else's terminology. After 1900, they finally gave up and agreed with us.
I mention this because it backgrounds my interaction with my high school classmates in 1964-65. In my year and a half in California, I had blossomed. I was exposed to so much more information that I exploded. I became someone new. In my junior year, a woman by the name of Edith Finkelstein taught me American history. Edith had a batchelor's from Cornell and a masters's from Yale. She taught me history instead of myth. It revolutionized me. I debated, learned to speak French (finally!), visited my first world class city, San Francisco. I was a member of the honor society. I had a set of buddies who enjoyed me and helped me to have the appropriate adventures one has at 16. God bless Herman Osorio, my speech teacher who so generously helped me overcome the intellectual handicaps of being a Southerner.
And then my mother tricked me into returning to Texas. I recognized that I was being tricked just as my mother was returning to California. I begged her not to leave me there. She left. I turned my attention to the reality of my situation. If you think the character Jordan Elliott in Beach Music had attitude, you should have known me the Fall of 1964. Of all my teachers, only one had enough empathy to be supportive and not defensive. His name was Bill Stafford, what a hunk. Hairy chested, empathetic, played the guitar, ... God, did I have a hard on for him. We stayed friends for 20 years after that year, but I've since lost him to the universe. Good luck, you sensitive hunk you.
I drew a group of misfits around me. David Lewis, Guy Berger, Billy Stanley, Margie Hollenbach, and others. I had others, Errol Marioneaux, Jim Brown. I gave that bunch of super bright nerds and social rejects a community of each other. We finished high school together, went off to college with each other and lived the same time frame as Beach Music. Conroy made up the case against Jordan Elliott, but I was charged with 8 counts of draft evasion in Judge Joe Fisher's court in Beaumont, Texas in 1971.
Conroy did cause me to remember the sights and smells of growing up country in the last century. We Southerners like to think we have a special connection to the land. I grew up with open windows and no air conditioning. I do remember the sounds of the night. I can remember laying in bed with my grandmother listening to the sounds of panther in the swamp and woods behind her house. I remember the smells of the southern night. I remember the smell of gardenia in my grandmother's bedroom. I remember the smell of honeysuckles on the back porch. I remember a musky smell my grandmother said was a snake. I remember the smell of chicken shit when I stepped in it.
By 1964, my grandmother had indoor plumbing, a smaller porch and a tv. I liked her old house better, although I did not miss the outhouse.
This is a digression story, but I've got to tell it anyway. In the summer of '55, my mother brought her new husband to meet her mother and her two children. He brought with him two boys, Michael age 7, and Ronnie, age 5. I was showing them around my grandmother's farm, checking them out, so to speak, when Michael disappeared. He must have been missing an hour or more when my grandmother asked out loud where he might be. We called him. He didn't answer. We started searching. A city boy can come to harm getting lost on a farm. After searching for an hour or more, as I walked past the outhouse, I heard someone whimpering. "Michael?" I ask. "What's wrong?" "I can't figure out how to flush it." And that's a true story.
I can't tell anymore of this right now. It's an exhausting memory. I have never focused my life on where I've been. Jaye teases me about writing my memoires. I don't know how to begin telling the story when I think the best part is yet to come. I think if my life is interesting enough to be told, it'll be a biography and not an autobiography.
[This is a ghost version that I deleted. Imagine my surprise when I saw it published. I have made a few changes for the purpose of spelling and grammar. It is incomplete, but I still find it hard to write about certain periods of my life. The best I can do now is to hint about those periods when I remember others with whom I interacted.}
I just finished reading Beach Music by Pat Conroy. In my previous post, I sort of hung him out to dry. I've given some additional thought to the subject, and I have some disclosures to make.
I moved to San Jose, California with my mother and two sisters in 1963. We drove from Texas to San Jose in a 1959 Ford. I can't remember if it was a Galaxie or a Fairlane, but it was a standard shift and didn't have air conditioning. We looked like the tv version of the Beverly Hillbillies with our belongings piled high onto the car. We looked like Okies who didn't get the memo about the depression being over.
I hit California like a dry sponge hits water. I soaked it up. Ever see American Grafitti? That's exactly what I was thrown into. What a high. The Californians loved me. I was smart, had a cute accent, obviously liked them. The next year of my life was probably my best. Then my mother tricked me into returning to Texas to graduate from high school at the same school at which I started in 1953. So lucky me, I get to graduate with the kids with whom I started school.
I started at Vidor Elementary School in September 1953. I was living with my grandmother, my brother, and my grandmother's oldest daughter, Elsie, who had a severe learning disability. We lived in a 4-room house built by my grandfather out of left over lumber back in the late 1940s. We had a front porch, a living room, a kitchen where we ate meals, and two bedrooms.
This is me after the second grade. I had just turned 8.
There was a back porch and behind that, a chicken yard through which one had to navigate to get to the outhouse. The greatest fear I had growing up was having to go to the bathroom in the outhouse at night. Two reasons, darkness and chicken shit. In the South, darkness is a force of its own. There's shit out there when it's black and you can't see the hand in front of your face. And those fucking chickens didn't respect the fact that it's not nice to shit on the path between the house and the outhouse. (Creative exercise 1. Imagine you're five years old running through terrifying darkness to the outhouse, barefoot, and stepping in chicken shit. Now, do you feel sorry for me?)
That was the first grade. I also went to school there for the 2nd grade, 6th grade, 9th grade, and 12th grade. My family settled this county 200 years ago. For 200 years, White people have been calling us "niggers" behind our back. We have fought them, tooth and nail, the entire distance. They have never gotten away with it. We are not Black. We have never been Black. We were never slaves. We always believed we were not Black more strongly than those who called us Black. From 1800 to 1820, we were called Free Men of Color in the U.S. Census. From 1820 through 1900, we were called Mulatto. None of these things were we called to our face. We believed ourselves to be White and never agreed to anyone else's terminology. After 1900, they finally gave up and agreed with us.
I mention this because it backgrounds my interaction with my high school classmates in 1964-65. In my year and a half in California, I had blossomed. I was exposed to so much more information that I exploded. I became someone new. In my junior year, a woman by the name of Edith Finkelstein taught me American history. Edith had a batchelor's from Cornell and a masters's from Yale. She taught me history instead of myth. It revolutionized me. I debated, learned to speak French (finally!), visited my first world class city, San Francisco. I was a member of the honor society. I had a set of buddies who enjoyed me and helped me to have the appropriate adventures one has at 16. God bless Herman Osorio, my speech teacher who so generously helped me overcome the intellectual handicaps of being a Southerner.
And then my mother tricked me into returning to Texas. I recognized that I was being tricked just as my mother was returning to California. I begged her not to leave me there. She left. I turned my attention to the reality of my situation. If you think the character Jordan Elliott in Beach Music had attitude, you should have known me the Fall of 1964. Of all my teachers, only one had enough empathy to be supportive and not defensive. His name was Bill Stafford, what a hunk. Hairy chested, empathetic, played the guitar, ... God, did I have a hard on for him. We stayed friends for 20 years after that year, but I've since lost him to the universe. Good luck, you sensitive hunk you.
I drew a group of misfits around me. David Lewis, Guy Berger, Billy Stanley, Margie Hollenbach, and others. I had others, Errol Marioneaux, Jim Brown. I gave that bunch of super bright nerds and social rejects a community of each other. We finished high school together, went off to college with each other and lived the same time frame as Beach Music. Conroy made up the case against Jordan Elliott, but I was charged with 8 counts of draft evasion in Judge Joe Fisher's court in Beaumont, Texas in 1971.
Conroy did cause me to remember the sights and smells of growing up country in the last century. We Southerners like to think we have a special connection to the land. I grew up with open windows and no air conditioning. I do remember the sounds of the night. I can remember laying in bed with my grandmother listening to the sounds of panther in the swamp and woods behind her house. I remember the smells of the southern night. I remember the smell of gardenia in my grandmother's bedroom. I remember the smell of honeysuckles on the back porch. I remember a musky smell my grandmother said was a snake. I remember the smell of chicken shit when I stepped in it.
By 1964, my grandmother had indoor plumbing, a smaller porch and a tv. I liked her old house better, although I did not miss the outhouse.
This is a digression story, but I've got to tell it anyway. In the summer of '55, my mother brought her new husband to meet her mother and her two children. He brought with him two boys, Michael age 7, and Ronnie, age 5. I was showing them around my grandmother's farm, checking them out, so to speak, when Michael disappeared. He must have been missing an hour or more when my grandmother asked out loud where he might be. We called him. He didn't answer. We started searching. A city boy can come to harm getting lost on a farm. After searching for an hour or more, as I walked past the outhouse, I heard someone whimpering. "Michael?" I ask. "What's wrong?" "I can't figure out how to flush it." And that's a true story.
I can't tell anymore of this right now. It's an exhausting memory. I have never focused my life on where I've been. Jaye teases me about writing my memoires. I don't know how to begin telling the story when I think the best part is yet to come. I think if my life is interesting enough to be told, it'll be a biography and not an autobiography.
[This is a ghost version that I deleted. Imagine my surprise when I saw it published. I have made a few changes for the purpose of spelling and grammar. It is incomplete, but I still find it hard to write about certain periods of my life. The best I can do now is to hint about those periods when I remember others with whom I interacted.}
Saturday, April 24, 2004
Time for Air!
I finished Beach Music by Pat Conroy. It sucked me in like a cheap harlequin romance, which it pretty much was. I hope all of you Pat Conroy fans don't start hating me, but frankly, I thought the book overly maudlin and sentimental. His characters became caricatures. How remarkable was growing up in the 60s when the most outside person was a military brat who could skateboard? Dude! How cool is that. Okay, I was there, too. The sixties and seventies, not Bumfucknowhere in South Carolina where the cotton is dry and the living is easy, if you're white. It didn't even matter if you were Jewish. Lord, towards the end of the book I got so cynical as to say to myself that he was imagining this one to get him an Academy Award, and just to make sure, he threw in the Holocaust. Holocaust films always get the award. I'm so cynical that I imagine Pat saying to himself, "Let's see how that Streisand bitch turns this into a movie about herself!"
On the other hand, I found it a fun read. I grew up with all those characters. Hell, I was one of those characters. Place me a few hundred miles away and have me growing up with families that also had known each other for a couple of hundred years. They knew us; we knew them.
I grew up in a peripheral family. We weren't White and we weren't Black. Each generation of my family had new scars as we fought from being marginalized by the dominant White society. We have never been good enough to be White, and we never suffered enough to be Black. Maybe that makes me more sensitive to that kind of slight. Pat Conroy, and writers like him, seem to have grown up in a South devoid of humanity outside his own social circle. Am I unkind here? You know every family in that book had a Black maid, a Black yardman, knew at least one person from the other side of town, yet there are no characters in his life of any class other than his own. What were the rest of the people in that town, chopped liver?
I thought Prince of Tides a great book in the finest of traditions of Southern writers. I'm not nearly as sure now. Maybe it was schlock, too. Don't get me wrong. I read a lot of mysteries, and even an occasional romance novel. A book does not have to be great to be entertaining. Pat Conroy entertained me greatly today. He did not, however, impress me.
I'm just saying, that's all.
I finished Beach Music by Pat Conroy. It sucked me in like a cheap harlequin romance, which it pretty much was. I hope all of you Pat Conroy fans don't start hating me, but frankly, I thought the book overly maudlin and sentimental. His characters became caricatures. How remarkable was growing up in the 60s when the most outside person was a military brat who could skateboard? Dude! How cool is that. Okay, I was there, too. The sixties and seventies, not Bumfucknowhere in South Carolina where the cotton is dry and the living is easy, if you're white. It didn't even matter if you were Jewish. Lord, towards the end of the book I got so cynical as to say to myself that he was imagining this one to get him an Academy Award, and just to make sure, he threw in the Holocaust. Holocaust films always get the award. I'm so cynical that I imagine Pat saying to himself, "Let's see how that Streisand bitch turns this into a movie about herself!"
On the other hand, I found it a fun read. I grew up with all those characters. Hell, I was one of those characters. Place me a few hundred miles away and have me growing up with families that also had known each other for a couple of hundred years. They knew us; we knew them.
I grew up in a peripheral family. We weren't White and we weren't Black. Each generation of my family had new scars as we fought from being marginalized by the dominant White society. We have never been good enough to be White, and we never suffered enough to be Black. Maybe that makes me more sensitive to that kind of slight. Pat Conroy, and writers like him, seem to have grown up in a South devoid of humanity outside his own social circle. Am I unkind here? You know every family in that book had a Black maid, a Black yardman, knew at least one person from the other side of town, yet there are no characters in his life of any class other than his own. What were the rest of the people in that town, chopped liver?
I thought Prince of Tides a great book in the finest of traditions of Southern writers. I'm not nearly as sure now. Maybe it was schlock, too. Don't get me wrong. I read a lot of mysteries, and even an occasional romance novel. A book does not have to be great to be entertaining. Pat Conroy entertained me greatly today. He did not, however, impress me.
I'm just saying, that's all.
Escaping for the Week-end
And it's Wanda's Fault
Last week in a comment, Wanda referenced Pat Conroy's Beach Music. Curious, I picked it up and started reading. Now I can't stop. I started reading it Wednesday on my commute. Thursday I read on the commute and for about an hour before going to bed. Friday, on the commute, through lunch, and last night for about three hours. Already this morning I've read two of the three hours I've been up. Ain't it great when a book captures you like that? I'm off now to Waterford, South Carolina with Pat Conroy and a fascinating cast of characters. We'll be there all week-end. Ciao bella, sugahs. I'm outta here.
And it's Wanda's Fault
Last week in a comment, Wanda referenced Pat Conroy's Beach Music. Curious, I picked it up and started reading. Now I can't stop. I started reading it Wednesday on my commute. Thursday I read on the commute and for about an hour before going to bed. Friday, on the commute, through lunch, and last night for about three hours. Already this morning I've read two of the three hours I've been up. Ain't it great when a book captures you like that? I'm off now to Waterford, South Carolina with Pat Conroy and a fascinating cast of characters. We'll be there all week-end. Ciao bella, sugahs. I'm outta here.
Friday, April 23, 2004
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Poetry Fridays and Cat Blogging if Beauregard Wakes Up in Time
e.e. cummings. #54 of 100 selected poems.
you shall above all things be glad and young.
For if you're young, whatever life you wear
it will become you; and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become,
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
I can entirely her only love
whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on; and his mind take off time
that you should ever think, may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies, the foetal grave
called progress, and negation's dead undoom.
I'd rather I learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
e.e. cummings. #54 of 100 selected poems.
you shall above all things be glad and young.
For if you're young, whatever life you wear
it will become you; and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become,
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
I can entirely her only love
whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on; and his mind take off time
that you should ever think, may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies, the foetal grave
called progress, and negation's dead undoom.
I'd rather I learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Polls? I don't need no stinkin' polls!
National
Gallup 3/26-28
Bush: 51 (+7)
Kerry: 47 (-5)
Pew 3/22-28
Bush: 44 (+2)
Kerry: 43 (-6)
Newsweek 3/25-26
Bush: 47 (-1)
Kerry: 48 (-)
Fox 3/23-24
Bush: 44 (-)
Kerry: 44 (-)
Count me among the mystified. How can rational people still be for Bush? Maybe it's Kerry. Hey, maybe Kerry's just a decoy candidate. You know, get Bush to spend his gazillions trashing the wrong guy, and at the Democrat convention, out will pop a knight in shining armor who will lead us to victory.
I wish I liked Kerry more. It's hard to have faith in someone you don't feel warm towards. When I hear Kerry sound more hawkish than Bush, I'm distressed. It suggests to me a campaign strategy is already in place. Maybe it's a good strategy. Who am I to say? My instincts tell me that the Kerry campaign is not getting a coherent message out. Kerry has not convinced me to vote for him despite my being for anybody but Bush. Of course, I'm voting for him, but it's not because of anything he's said or done.
I know, breathe deeply. There's six months to go in this campaign. Anything can happen.
National
Gallup 3/26-28
Bush: 51 (+7)
Kerry: 47 (-5)
Pew 3/22-28
Bush: 44 (+2)
Kerry: 43 (-6)
Newsweek 3/25-26
Bush: 47 (-1)
Kerry: 48 (-)
Fox 3/23-24
Bush: 44 (-)
Kerry: 44 (-)
Count me among the mystified. How can rational people still be for Bush? Maybe it's Kerry. Hey, maybe Kerry's just a decoy candidate. You know, get Bush to spend his gazillions trashing the wrong guy, and at the Democrat convention, out will pop a knight in shining armor who will lead us to victory.
I wish I liked Kerry more. It's hard to have faith in someone you don't feel warm towards. When I hear Kerry sound more hawkish than Bush, I'm distressed. It suggests to me a campaign strategy is already in place. Maybe it's a good strategy. Who am I to say? My instincts tell me that the Kerry campaign is not getting a coherent message out. Kerry has not convinced me to vote for him despite my being for anybody but Bush. Of course, I'm voting for him, but it's not because of anything he's said or done.
I know, breathe deeply. There's six months to go in this campaign. Anything can happen.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Sundays
Wanted: a burly intellectual with a keen sense of humor who likes to read on Sunday mornings. Apply within.
I slept in this morning. A hour or so before I woke up, I dreamed about the morning. It was cool. It was a bright, sun-filled morning with birds singing, flowers in bloom. I imagined myself getting up and taking a five-mile walk around Lake Merritt, stopping at a small cottage to admire an incredible hill of irises and to chat with the two handsome men who live there. Back home, the coffee's made, fresh orange juice is on the table, and the Sunday morning paper. There was another character in my dream. He never had a face or a voice, just a presence, and it felt good.
I woke up to a gray morning that wasn't inviting. My back hurt from house cleaning on Saturday, so I didn't feel like a walk. My head hurt from my sinuses stuffing up during the night. I had to make the coffee myself, and there was no orange juice. No Sunday paper either. That presence? Probably that damn cat snuggling up under my arm early in the morning. Sigh. Make it an exasperated sigh.
My mother is due tomorrow for a short visit. She's 77 and in good health. Hell she's still working fulltime. She says she's going to continue working until she gets her social security payment up to $1,000 a month. She started late in that department. Her husband of 20 years divorced her when just before she turned 62. Having been a housewife most of the previous years, she wasn't well prepared for retirement alone. She chose to be contentious and petty in divorcing her husband, and between the two of them, they let the legal cost of the divorce consume about half of what the communal estate was worth. I told my mother she was paying a hefty "stupid tax." However, she didn't ask quarter and she didn't give quarter. The son of a bitch wronged her, and sons of bitches need to pay when they wrong a lady. And ladies have to pay when they spend their retirement money making those sons of bitches pay. So she works full time. She's a tax preparer for the leading name company of that industry.
We have not always been close. One of the characters in YaYa Sisterhood says that all Southern women model themselves after one of the women in Gone with the Wind. I sure as hell understood that. My mother was Scarlett O'Fucking Hara herself. This is my mother the year before I was born.
Dorothy Ruth Droddy English
My siblings and I were always supporting characters in her play, never the other way around. She was married 4 times, had 2 significant affairs, and one significant other that was with her for over five years in her late sixties. My mother comes from a line of such women that stretches back into the late 1700s. My mother is a Redbone woman, although she considers the word vulgar and demeaning. She was a beautiful woman, and she used her beauty as a tool with which she manipulated men. She retired from men around the age of 70. Frankly, none of her children believed her at the time, but she didn't say it for our benefit, she was just announcing a new phase.
I have not always given Dorothy high grades as a mother, but all four of her kids turned out pretty good. What other criteria does one use to judge a parent? We weren't always happy, but we were always fed and clothed. We weren't given a silver spoon, but we were taught that if we were going to have a silver spoon, we'd have to work hard for it ourselves, no one was going to give it to you. I resented her several times as a child, and I was only with her parttime. She shared my upbringing with her mother.
The most generous thing my mother ever did for me and my two sisters was to bring us to California in 1963. She had been married to the World's Greatest Asshole for about 10 years at this time. He had recently returned from Saudi Arabia and had taken a job in California. By now she despised him almost as much as I did, so when asked why was she going back to him, she calmly answered that women did better in divorce in California than they did in Texas. A year later she divorced him.
Then she tricked me into returning to my grandmother's in Texas to finish high school. I figured out that I was tricked and barely spoke to my mother for the next ten years. Jane Kazmarek who plays Malcolm's mother in Malcolm in the Middle says to Malcolm in one episode that she doesn't worry about him because she knows he's going to do alright. That was my mother's attitude towards me. She was right, but I think it was a lucky guess. So when I was finishing high school in Texas so I could afford to go the University of Texas as a state resident, she was in California with my two sisters, a good job, her looks, and a red Impala super sport with a white leather interior. She always had a certain style. I was real mad during those ten years I was mad at her.
I'm old enough now to appreciate my mother as a character. She was and continues to be the star of her own life. She and I are now close friends. I have no fan more loyal, nor friend more dependable. She is still the star, though, and retains the ability to relegate others to a supporting role. Last year I had a dinner party for her, and I was recounting a childhood memory, my mother corrects me in front of my guests and says, "That never happened." If it happened when she was off stage, to her it never happened.
Since 65, she has been around the world, missing only Africa and India. She loves New York and has been there twice, once alone. Five years ago, she went to China with a cultural exchange group. She went to Paris and Normandy with me. In Paris, she got to go on stage at the Folies Bergere and jitterbug to the music of World War II. Another year, we did a pilgrimage with one of her granddaughters to Ireland where she imagines her family is from.
She fell and broke her hip last year. That scared the bejeezus out of us. She's had a full recovery, but no longer do we have the luxury of thinking her invincible. Now when she takes off in her car to see my sisters 500 miles away, I worry a little bit more than I might have before last year. She has not turned over the job of worrying about her to me yet. I hope it doesn't become mine by default anytime soon, either.
Oh, and she despises Bush and Republicans everywhere. Say hi, Dorothy.
Wanted: a burly intellectual with a keen sense of humor who likes to read on Sunday mornings. Apply within.
I slept in this morning. A hour or so before I woke up, I dreamed about the morning. It was cool. It was a bright, sun-filled morning with birds singing, flowers in bloom. I imagined myself getting up and taking a five-mile walk around Lake Merritt, stopping at a small cottage to admire an incredible hill of irises and to chat with the two handsome men who live there. Back home, the coffee's made, fresh orange juice is on the table, and the Sunday morning paper. There was another character in my dream. He never had a face or a voice, just a presence, and it felt good.
I woke up to a gray morning that wasn't inviting. My back hurt from house cleaning on Saturday, so I didn't feel like a walk. My head hurt from my sinuses stuffing up during the night. I had to make the coffee myself, and there was no orange juice. No Sunday paper either. That presence? Probably that damn cat snuggling up under my arm early in the morning. Sigh. Make it an exasperated sigh.
My mother is due tomorrow for a short visit. She's 77 and in good health. Hell she's still working fulltime. She says she's going to continue working until she gets her social security payment up to $1,000 a month. She started late in that department. Her husband of 20 years divorced her when just before she turned 62. Having been a housewife most of the previous years, she wasn't well prepared for retirement alone. She chose to be contentious and petty in divorcing her husband, and between the two of them, they let the legal cost of the divorce consume about half of what the communal estate was worth. I told my mother she was paying a hefty "stupid tax." However, she didn't ask quarter and she didn't give quarter. The son of a bitch wronged her, and sons of bitches need to pay when they wrong a lady. And ladies have to pay when they spend their retirement money making those sons of bitches pay. So she works full time. She's a tax preparer for the leading name company of that industry.
We have not always been close. One of the characters in YaYa Sisterhood says that all Southern women model themselves after one of the women in Gone with the Wind. I sure as hell understood that. My mother was Scarlett O'Fucking Hara herself. This is my mother the year before I was born.
Dorothy Ruth Droddy English
My siblings and I were always supporting characters in her play, never the other way around. She was married 4 times, had 2 significant affairs, and one significant other that was with her for over five years in her late sixties. My mother comes from a line of such women that stretches back into the late 1700s. My mother is a Redbone woman, although she considers the word vulgar and demeaning. She was a beautiful woman, and she used her beauty as a tool with which she manipulated men. She retired from men around the age of 70. Frankly, none of her children believed her at the time, but she didn't say it for our benefit, she was just announcing a new phase.
I have not always given Dorothy high grades as a mother, but all four of her kids turned out pretty good. What other criteria does one use to judge a parent? We weren't always happy, but we were always fed and clothed. We weren't given a silver spoon, but we were taught that if we were going to have a silver spoon, we'd have to work hard for it ourselves, no one was going to give it to you. I resented her several times as a child, and I was only with her parttime. She shared my upbringing with her mother.
The most generous thing my mother ever did for me and my two sisters was to bring us to California in 1963. She had been married to the World's Greatest Asshole for about 10 years at this time. He had recently returned from Saudi Arabia and had taken a job in California. By now she despised him almost as much as I did, so when asked why was she going back to him, she calmly answered that women did better in divorce in California than they did in Texas. A year later she divorced him.
Then she tricked me into returning to my grandmother's in Texas to finish high school. I figured out that I was tricked and barely spoke to my mother for the next ten years. Jane Kazmarek who plays Malcolm's mother in Malcolm in the Middle says to Malcolm in one episode that she doesn't worry about him because she knows he's going to do alright. That was my mother's attitude towards me. She was right, but I think it was a lucky guess. So when I was finishing high school in Texas so I could afford to go the University of Texas as a state resident, she was in California with my two sisters, a good job, her looks, and a red Impala super sport with a white leather interior. She always had a certain style. I was real mad during those ten years I was mad at her.
I'm old enough now to appreciate my mother as a character. She was and continues to be the star of her own life. She and I are now close friends. I have no fan more loyal, nor friend more dependable. She is still the star, though, and retains the ability to relegate others to a supporting role. Last year I had a dinner party for her, and I was recounting a childhood memory, my mother corrects me in front of my guests and says, "That never happened." If it happened when she was off stage, to her it never happened.
Since 65, she has been around the world, missing only Africa and India. She loves New York and has been there twice, once alone. Five years ago, she went to China with a cultural exchange group. She went to Paris and Normandy with me. In Paris, she got to go on stage at the Folies Bergere and jitterbug to the music of World War II. Another year, we did a pilgrimage with one of her granddaughters to Ireland where she imagines her family is from.
She fell and broke her hip last year. That scared the bejeezus out of us. She's had a full recovery, but no longer do we have the luxury of thinking her invincible. Now when she takes off in her car to see my sisters 500 miles away, I worry a little bit more than I might have before last year. She has not turned over the job of worrying about her to me yet. I hope it doesn't become mine by default anytime soon, either.
Oh, and she despises Bush and Republicans everywhere. Say hi, Dorothy.
Friday, April 16, 2004
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Giving President Bush Some Help
The pressure of speaking to the press got the better of President Bush Wednesday evening, and as a result he was unable to remember any of the mistakes he has made, much less the most serious mistake. The Center for American Progress is conducting an online poll to help the President by allowing people to vote for the worst mistake. I'm sure they'll send a nice note to the Prez and inform him of the final vote.
I'm still ranting about the press conference Tuesday night. I can't quite put it down. I was and continue to be shocked by his articulateness. He also excused himself for lying by saying he can only say what he has been told. To prove his point, he proceeded to lie about the amount of mustard gas that was "found on a turkey farm." We also know that "people hide things because they have something to hide." The man is truly clueless. It's almost enough to make you wish it were Jeb there instead of George. Almost.
The pressure of speaking to the press got the better of President Bush Wednesday evening, and as a result he was unable to remember any of the mistakes he has made, much less the most serious mistake. The Center for American Progress is conducting an online poll to help the President by allowing people to vote for the worst mistake. I'm sure they'll send a nice note to the Prez and inform him of the final vote.
I'm still ranting about the press conference Tuesday night. I can't quite put it down. I was and continue to be shocked by his articulateness. He also excused himself for lying by saying he can only say what he has been told. To prove his point, he proceeded to lie about the amount of mustard gas that was "found on a turkey farm." We also know that "people hide things because they have something to hide." The man is truly clueless. It's almost enough to make you wish it were Jeb there instead of George. Almost.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Attention, Texans
Lisa over at Kamikaze Kumquat has uncovered a gem. You gotta go visit Juanita's, the World's Most Dangerous Beauty Shop. First, Juanita's takes on Gov. Hairdo and his Special Session of the Legislature to raise sin taxes in order to pay for everything. That is so very Texan. In a previous article, Juanita tells us about a recent Tom DeLay visit in Rosenburg (which I believe is in his district near Sugarland) where he rudely told a bunch of teachers they were living in an alternate universe. He's right about that, but not in the way he intended. Go visit Juanita.
Remember when we used to send these little fun links around to each other on email? I just got one from a friend. It was fun. Alcohol and Ammo.
Lisa over at Kamikaze Kumquat has uncovered a gem. You gotta go visit Juanita's, the World's Most Dangerous Beauty Shop. First, Juanita's takes on Gov. Hairdo and his Special Session of the Legislature to raise sin taxes in order to pay for everything. That is so very Texan. In a previous article, Juanita tells us about a recent Tom DeLay visit in Rosenburg (which I believe is in his district near Sugarland) where he rudely told a bunch of teachers they were living in an alternate universe. He's right about that, but not in the way he intended. Go visit Juanita.
Remember when we used to send these little fun links around to each other on email? I just got one from a friend. It was fun. Alcohol and Ammo.
Where Did That Body Go?
Some Christian sects actually go looking for the body on Easter Sunday. Only when they don't find it do they proclaim, "Hallelujah, He's Risen!" It's a little late to call off the celebration for this year, but it looks as though they found it. (Via Lisa, at Kamikaze Kumquat)
I saw Jesus in a tortilla once, but I was more hungry than I was curious, so I ate him.
Some Christian sects actually go looking for the body on Easter Sunday. Only when they don't find it do they proclaim, "Hallelujah, He's Risen!" It's a little late to call off the celebration for this year, but it looks as though they found it. (Via Lisa, at Kamikaze Kumquat)
I saw Jesus in a tortilla once, but I was more hungry than I was curious, so I ate him.