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.]
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
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.
TBogg Nails It
..."There was, you know, kind of departments that at times didn't communicate.." -Biff Bush
He's just three "like" 's and one "so I'm all..." away from being a 14-year-old girl at the mall.
This is the clown the Right sees as a strong war president? Is inarticulateness a sign of strength? I didn't get the memo.
..."There was, you know, kind of departments that at times didn't communicate.." -Biff Bush
He's just three "like" 's and one "so I'm all..." away from being a 14-year-old girl at the mall.
This is the clown the Right sees as a strong war president? Is inarticulateness a sign of strength? I didn't get the memo.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Squawk, squawk, squawk!
Have you made any mistakes? Him, haw, him, haw, him haw.
Have you failed in any way? Him, haw, him, haw, him, haw.
Have you failed to communicate the importance of the war against terror? Him, haw, him, haw, him, haw.
Shorter, simpler Bush: No. It's not my fault. This is very difficult. I don't speak very well. These are tough questions. No, I communicate well, it's that some people hear stupidly. It's not my fault.
Shorter, simpler Ashcroft: It's Clinton's fault.
Back to shorter, simpler Houston. That man was so inarticulate that I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He has absolutely no right in the world to claim victimhood because it's such a tough job and he has to read all the time. I'm pretty damn sure if he read half the shit that comes at him from day to day, he'd be more articulate that what we heard tonight. He'd at least know a few more words to use.
Kerry's op ed piece in the Washington Post today annoyed me to no end. It reminded me that Kerry was not my first choice.
Buckle up, folks, we're in for a bumpy ride. Hold on to one another. The election in November is not the great battle between the forces or darkness and evil on one side, and Justice and Liberty on the other. It's still important though. I have only one issue and that is the composition of the Supreme Court. I see that as the crucial issue. Kerry at his worst will do better than Bush at his best. Nothing else matters. What matters if Iraq is free and we aren't?
Have you made any mistakes? Him, haw, him, haw, him haw.
Have you failed in any way? Him, haw, him, haw, him, haw.
Have you failed to communicate the importance of the war against terror? Him, haw, him, haw, him, haw.
Shorter, simpler Bush: No. It's not my fault. This is very difficult. I don't speak very well. These are tough questions. No, I communicate well, it's that some people hear stupidly. It's not my fault.
Shorter, simpler Ashcroft: It's Clinton's fault.
Back to shorter, simpler Houston. That man was so inarticulate that I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He has absolutely no right in the world to claim victimhood because it's such a tough job and he has to read all the time. I'm pretty damn sure if he read half the shit that comes at him from day to day, he'd be more articulate that what we heard tonight. He'd at least know a few more words to use.
Kerry's op ed piece in the Washington Post today annoyed me to no end. It reminded me that Kerry was not my first choice.
Buckle up, folks, we're in for a bumpy ride. Hold on to one another. The election in November is not the great battle between the forces or darkness and evil on one side, and Justice and Liberty on the other. It's still important though. I have only one issue and that is the composition of the Supreme Court. I see that as the crucial issue. Kerry at his worst will do better than Bush at his best. Nothing else matters. What matters if Iraq is free and we aren't?
France, a Report
I am an unabashed francophile. When I was a kid growing up in East Texas, I used to imagine that I was French, even to the point of pretending to speak French. I studied French as soon as it was offered in school. To this day, I still drink red wine, eat several varieties of cheese, and love hanging out at cafes along the Boulevard St. Germaine. I'm only saying this because I'm about to make fun of France.
Wanda needs some light hearted distraction. This was sent to me last year when everyone was making fun of France.
Travel Advisory for France
Travel advisory for Americans heading for France The following advisory for American travelers heading for France was compiled from information provided by the U.S. State Department, the Central Intelligence Agency, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, the Food and Drug Administration, the Center for Disease Control and some very expensive spy satellites that the French don't know about. It is intended as a guide for American travelers only and no guarantee of accuracy is ensured or intended.
General Overview
France is a medium-sized foreign country situated on the continent of Europe, and is, for all intents and purposes, fucking useless. It is an important member of the world community, although not nearly as important as it thinks. It is bounded by Germany, Spain, Switzerland, and some smaller nations of no particular consequence or shopping opportunities. France is a very old country with many treasures such as the Louvre and EuroDisney. Among its contributions to Western civilization are champagne, Camembert cheese, the guillotine, and body odor. Although France likes to think of itself as a modern nation, air conditioning is little used and it is next to impossible to get decent Mexican food. One continuing exasperation for American visitors is that the people willfully persist in speaking French, although many will speak English if shouted at repeatedly.
The People
France has a population of 54 million people, most of whom drink and smoke a great deal, drive like lunatics, are dangerously over-sexed and have no concept of standing patiently in a line. The French people are generally gloomy, temperamental, proud, arrogant, aloof and undisciplined; those are their good points. Most French citizens are Roman Catholic, although you'd hardly guess it from their behavior. Many people are Communists and topless sunbathing is common. Men sometimes have girls' names like Marie and they kiss each other when they hand out medals.. American travelers are advised to travel in groups and to wear baseball caps and colorful pants for easier mutual recognition. All French women have small tits, and don't shave their armpits or their legs.
Safety
In general, France is a safe destination, although travelers are advised that France is occasionally invaded by Germany. By tradition, the French surrender more or less at once and, apart from a temporary shortage of Scotch whisky and increased difficulty in getting baseball scores and stock market prices, life for the visitors generally goes on much as before. A tunnel connecting France to Britain beneath the English Channel has been opened in recent years to make it easier for the French government to flee to London.
History
France was discovered by Charlemagne in the Dark Ages. Other important historical figures are Louis XIV, the Huguenots, Joan of Arc, Jacques Cousteau and Charles de Gaulle, who was President for many years and is now an airport. The French armies of the past have had their asses kicked by just about every other country in the world.
Government
The French form of government is democratic but noisy. Elections are held more or less continuously and always result in a runoff. For administrative purposes, the country is divided into regions, departments, districts, municipalities, cantons, communes, villages, cafes, booths and floor tiles. Parliament consists of two chambers, the Upper and Lower (although, confusingly, they are both on the ground floor), whose members are either Gaullists or communists, neither of whom can be trusted. Parliament's principal preoccupations are setting off atomic bombs in the South Pacific and acting indignant when anyone complains. According to the most current State Department intelligence, the current President is someone named Jacques. Further information is not available at this time.
Culture
The French pride themselves on their culture, although it is not easy to see why. All of their songs sound the same and they have hardly ever made a movie that you want to watch for anything except the nude scenes. Nothing, of course, is more boring than a French novel (except perhaps an evening with a French family.)
Cuisine
Let's face it, no matter how much garlic you put on it, a snail is just a slug with a shell on its back. Croissants, on the other hand, are excellent although it is impossible for most Americans to pronounce this word. American travelers are therefore advised to stick to cheeseburgers at McDonald's or the restaurants at the leading hotels such as Sheraton or Holiday Inn. Bring your own beer, as the domestic varieties are nothing but a poor excuse for such.
Economy
France has a large and diversified economy, second only to Germany's economy in Europe, which is surprising since people hardly ever work at all. If they are not spending four hours dawdling over lunch, they are on strike and blocking the roads with their trucks and tractors. France's principal exports, in order of importance to the economy, are wine, nuclear weapons, perfume, guided missiles, champagne, high-caliber weaponry, grenade launchers, land mines, tanks, attack aircraft, miscellaneous armaments and cheese.
Conclusion
France enjoys a rich history, a picturesque and varied landscape and a temperate climate. In short, it would be a very nice country if French people didn't inhabit it, and it weren't still radioactive from all the nuclear tests they run. The best thing that can be said for it is that it is not Spain. Remember no one ordered you to go abroad. Personally, we always take our vacation in Oklahoma City and you are advised to do the same. -finis
I'll be back later tonight with some thoughts on Ashcroft's testimony and Bush's press conference.
I am an unabashed francophile. When I was a kid growing up in East Texas, I used to imagine that I was French, even to the point of pretending to speak French. I studied French as soon as it was offered in school. To this day, I still drink red wine, eat several varieties of cheese, and love hanging out at cafes along the Boulevard St. Germaine. I'm only saying this because I'm about to make fun of France.
Wanda needs some light hearted distraction. This was sent to me last year when everyone was making fun of France.
Travel Advisory for France
Travel advisory for Americans heading for France The following advisory for American travelers heading for France was compiled from information provided by the U.S. State Department, the Central Intelligence Agency, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, the Food and Drug Administration, the Center for Disease Control and some very expensive spy satellites that the French don't know about. It is intended as a guide for American travelers only and no guarantee of accuracy is ensured or intended.
General Overview
France is a medium-sized foreign country situated on the continent of Europe, and is, for all intents and purposes, fucking useless. It is an important member of the world community, although not nearly as important as it thinks. It is bounded by Germany, Spain, Switzerland, and some smaller nations of no particular consequence or shopping opportunities. France is a very old country with many treasures such as the Louvre and EuroDisney. Among its contributions to Western civilization are champagne, Camembert cheese, the guillotine, and body odor. Although France likes to think of itself as a modern nation, air conditioning is little used and it is next to impossible to get decent Mexican food. One continuing exasperation for American visitors is that the people willfully persist in speaking French, although many will speak English if shouted at repeatedly.
The People
France has a population of 54 million people, most of whom drink and smoke a great deal, drive like lunatics, are dangerously over-sexed and have no concept of standing patiently in a line. The French people are generally gloomy, temperamental, proud, arrogant, aloof and undisciplined; those are their good points. Most French citizens are Roman Catholic, although you'd hardly guess it from their behavior. Many people are Communists and topless sunbathing is common. Men sometimes have girls' names like Marie and they kiss each other when they hand out medals.. American travelers are advised to travel in groups and to wear baseball caps and colorful pants for easier mutual recognition. All French women have small tits, and don't shave their armpits or their legs.
Safety
In general, France is a safe destination, although travelers are advised that France is occasionally invaded by Germany. By tradition, the French surrender more or less at once and, apart from a temporary shortage of Scotch whisky and increased difficulty in getting baseball scores and stock market prices, life for the visitors generally goes on much as before. A tunnel connecting France to Britain beneath the English Channel has been opened in recent years to make it easier for the French government to flee to London.
History
France was discovered by Charlemagne in the Dark Ages. Other important historical figures are Louis XIV, the Huguenots, Joan of Arc, Jacques Cousteau and Charles de Gaulle, who was President for many years and is now an airport. The French armies of the past have had their asses kicked by just about every other country in the world.
Government
The French form of government is democratic but noisy. Elections are held more or less continuously and always result in a runoff. For administrative purposes, the country is divided into regions, departments, districts, municipalities, cantons, communes, villages, cafes, booths and floor tiles. Parliament consists of two chambers, the Upper and Lower (although, confusingly, they are both on the ground floor), whose members are either Gaullists or communists, neither of whom can be trusted. Parliament's principal preoccupations are setting off atomic bombs in the South Pacific and acting indignant when anyone complains. According to the most current State Department intelligence, the current President is someone named Jacques. Further information is not available at this time.
Culture
The French pride themselves on their culture, although it is not easy to see why. All of their songs sound the same and they have hardly ever made a movie that you want to watch for anything except the nude scenes. Nothing, of course, is more boring than a French novel (except perhaps an evening with a French family.)
Cuisine
Let's face it, no matter how much garlic you put on it, a snail is just a slug with a shell on its back. Croissants, on the other hand, are excellent although it is impossible for most Americans to pronounce this word. American travelers are therefore advised to stick to cheeseburgers at McDonald's or the restaurants at the leading hotels such as Sheraton or Holiday Inn. Bring your own beer, as the domestic varieties are nothing but a poor excuse for such.
Economy
France has a large and diversified economy, second only to Germany's economy in Europe, which is surprising since people hardly ever work at all. If they are not spending four hours dawdling over lunch, they are on strike and blocking the roads with their trucks and tractors. France's principal exports, in order of importance to the economy, are wine, nuclear weapons, perfume, guided missiles, champagne, high-caliber weaponry, grenade launchers, land mines, tanks, attack aircraft, miscellaneous armaments and cheese.
Conclusion
France enjoys a rich history, a picturesque and varied landscape and a temperate climate. In short, it would be a very nice country if French people didn't inhabit it, and it weren't still radioactive from all the nuclear tests they run. The best thing that can be said for it is that it is not Spain. Remember no one ordered you to go abroad. Personally, we always take our vacation in Oklahoma City and you are advised to do the same. -finis
I'll be back later tonight with some thoughts on Ashcroft's testimony and Bush's press conference.
Monday, April 12, 2004
Sunday, April 11, 2004
Snapshots of Ourselves
1: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says:
"day. In one sense we can all relax, because" (Lazy Man's Guide to Enlightenment by Thaddeus Golas)
2: Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?
A bookshelf
3: What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Jim Lehrer's Newshour on PBS Friday night
4: WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is:
10:15
5: Now look at the clock; what is the actual time?
9:18
6: With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Cafe Music by Paul Schoenfeld being played on From the Top, a classical music program for young people.
7: When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
A few minutes ago. Playing with plants on my deck.
8: Before you came to this website, what did you look at?
David's motorcycle on BlogAmy
9: What are you wearing?
Boxers
10: Did you dream last night?
No
11: When did you last laugh?
At dinner last night
12: What is on the walls of the room you are in?
From Right to left: a thermostat; an abstract painting; another abstract painting; a flying pig; a mirror; a moosehead made of paper mache; a candleabra; and a collection of stars of all sizes, and a bearskin rug. (It's a big room!)
13: Seen anything weird lately?
No.
14: What do you think of this quiz?
Interesting.
15: What is the last film you saw?
At home, on DVD, Sordid Lives
16: If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?
A ticket out of here.
17: Tell me something about you that I don't know.
I'm a recovering Republican. Sober now for 36 years.
18: If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
Distribute wealth among nations a little more equitably.
19: Do you like to dance?
More than my body does.
20: George Bush: is he a power-crazy nutcase or some one who is finally doing something that has needed to be done for years?
Neither
21: Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Keziah
22: Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?
Alexander
23: Would you ever consider living abroad?
I'm moving to Paris as soon as I retire which will be between now and six years.
Okay, that's someone else's 23 questions. I think I'm going to come up with my own quiz of questions. Can't right now, I'm heading off to the 25th anniversary party of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence at Dolores Park in San Francisco. My best friend, Huntly, is their pope, Dementia I. He likes for me to drive him to their events because I have a black cadillac with lots of gold on it. I used to be afraid of going to their events. You know, lightening and all that. Why take chances. What if god doesn't have a sense of humor? Lord knows his followers don't. Then god spoke to me and told me it was alright, and that She would be there too. I'll take some pictures and report back tomorrow.
Last night Katie had her first seder. Not bad, all things considered. It's not exactly traditional to do a fifth night seder, but she's a working girl. The food was good, the Haggadah was awful. I think it was written by a friend of hers. The haggadah is the roadmap for the service. The biggest problem was too much of the writing was too small for these old eyes to see. The next problem was it was too "new agey." Since God is a Black lesbian, I don't think She matters if we occasionally slip and call her "He."
Happy Easter to all. I worked for two weeks on a "what do I believe as a Gay Christian" essay that I decided wasn't written well, despite my earnest desire to share my innermost feelings. Oh, well. I'm off to play.
1: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says:
"day. In one sense we can all relax, because" (Lazy Man's Guide to Enlightenment by Thaddeus Golas)
2: Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?
A bookshelf
3: What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Jim Lehrer's Newshour on PBS Friday night
4: WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is:
10:15
5: Now look at the clock; what is the actual time?
9:18
6: With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Cafe Music by Paul Schoenfeld being played on From the Top, a classical music program for young people.
7: When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
A few minutes ago. Playing with plants on my deck.
8: Before you came to this website, what did you look at?
David's motorcycle on BlogAmy
9: What are you wearing?
Boxers
10: Did you dream last night?
No
11: When did you last laugh?
At dinner last night
12: What is on the walls of the room you are in?
From Right to left: a thermostat; an abstract painting; another abstract painting; a flying pig; a mirror; a moosehead made of paper mache; a candleabra; and a collection of stars of all sizes, and a bearskin rug. (It's a big room!)
13: Seen anything weird lately?
No.
14: What do you think of this quiz?
Interesting.
15: What is the last film you saw?
At home, on DVD, Sordid Lives
16: If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?
A ticket out of here.
17: Tell me something about you that I don't know.
I'm a recovering Republican. Sober now for 36 years.
18: If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
Distribute wealth among nations a little more equitably.
19: Do you like to dance?
More than my body does.
20: George Bush: is he a power-crazy nutcase or some one who is finally doing something that has needed to be done for years?
Neither
21: Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Keziah
22: Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?
Alexander
23: Would you ever consider living abroad?
I'm moving to Paris as soon as I retire which will be between now and six years.
Okay, that's someone else's 23 questions. I think I'm going to come up with my own quiz of questions. Can't right now, I'm heading off to the 25th anniversary party of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence at Dolores Park in San Francisco. My best friend, Huntly, is their pope, Dementia I. He likes for me to drive him to their events because I have a black cadillac with lots of gold on it. I used to be afraid of going to their events. You know, lightening and all that. Why take chances. What if god doesn't have a sense of humor? Lord knows his followers don't. Then god spoke to me and told me it was alright, and that She would be there too. I'll take some pictures and report back tomorrow.
Last night Katie had her first seder. Not bad, all things considered. It's not exactly traditional to do a fifth night seder, but she's a working girl. The food was good, the Haggadah was awful. I think it was written by a friend of hers. The haggadah is the roadmap for the service. The biggest problem was too much of the writing was too small for these old eyes to see. The next problem was it was too "new agey." Since God is a Black lesbian, I don't think She matters if we occasionally slip and call her "He."
Happy Easter to all. I worked for two weeks on a "what do I believe as a Gay Christian" essay that I decided wasn't written well, despite my earnest desire to share my innermost feelings. Oh, well. I'm off to play.