All That And...

Dragonlady

2011-11-22T21:09:00.000-08:00

Anne McCaffrey died yesterday at her home in Ireland. She was a wonderful, wonderful person and a spellbinding storyteller. I read The White Dragon for the first time when I was ten years old, and have been an avid fan of Anne and Pern ever since. I used to stop in at her online chatroom, The Kitchen Table, years ago to visit and talk with fellow fans and writers, and often Anne herself would pop by. She was funny and earthy, engaging, and had a robust sense of humor. It really did feel as if we were all sitting gathered round a kitchen table in the Irish countryside, fire crackling nearby and teakettle whistling, while we talked the hours away.

I will miss her. But I have my beloved Dragonriders of Pern collection so I can visit whenever I find myself missing her most.

Sliante, Anne. Beannaithe.

Cover Art: All The Weyrs of Pern, by Anne McCaffrey

In Her Shoes

2011-06-10T09:13:00.000-07:00


Marilyn's Custom-Made Ferragamo shoes.

When I was working in L.A. in publicity, I lived on a compound in Pasadena that was originally built by a set designer back in the '30's. My landlords--who were lovely people--were also Hollywood vets from the 50's-60's era who had worked with the major studios, including Desilu and Fox. Between their own personal collections of memorabilia and things they had found in this amazing property they owned, they had a mind-blowing treasure trove of Hollywood History.

Anyway, one night we were sitting out on the veranda having a glass of wine (this was when I was still drinking), and landlady said, "I have something to show you." and she forthwith went into the house, returning a few minutes later with a small bag wrapped in plastic.

She knew of my interest in old Hollywood, and smiled at me knowingly as she placed this bundle in front of me on the table, indicating that I should unwrap it. I opened it carefully, knowing it was likely a rare set or costume piece. Inside were a pair of size nine, red sequined heels - about 3 inches.

"Try them on," she urged, and I didn't argue. I popped my own shoes off and began strapping on the heels. A chorus girl's? A Follies dancer?

I stood up and tottered carefully around our cobbled patio, surprised to find that the shoes fit me perfectly. My landlady smiled. "Those were Marilyn's," She said.

I stood, struck dumb, staring at her insensibly. "What?" I managed to stutter.

She nodded. "Yep. Those were her shoes from 'Some Like it Hot'."

I suddenly didn't dare move. I was wearing Hollywood gold on my feet and they were the same size as MARILYN MONROE'S?!?

"Take a look at the soles," my landlady suggested. So I walked--carefully--back to my seat and lifted my foot up to see the bottom.The soles had been scored several times with a razor blade--a trick dancers used back in the day to give them traction on slick floors.

My landlady was beaming at the utterly awestruck, gobsmacked look on my face. "I thought you would enjoy seeing them."

See them? I was literally standing in Marilyn's shoes. That's something not a lot of people will ever be able to say.

It was one of the most amazing moments in my L.A. career. I'll never forget it.

Irish

Some Like It Hot. She was pretty cool.

Beannaithe Bealtaine! Go n-éirí libh!

2011-05-01T11:37:00.000-07:00

Hi, everyone! Happy May Day!

I thought it would be interesting to tell you about Bealtaine, the traditional Irish celebration of the start of summer. A pagan tradition, it has deep roots in Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and the Isle of Man. Like Samhain, it has been misinterpreted as witchcraft or of Satanic origin, which of course is complete nonsense, and only goes to show that people make up stuff about the things they cannot understand or about which they haven’t bothered to ask.

In Irish Gaelic, the month of May is known as Mí Bhealtaine or Bealtain. The dawn festival is known as Lá Bealtaine (‘May Day'). In Scottish Gaelic, May is (An) Cèitean or a' Mhàigh, and the festival is known as Latha Bealltainn or simply Bealltainn. Beltane was formerly spelled 'Bealtuinn' in Scottish Gaelic; in Manx it is spelt 'Boaltinn' or 'Boaldyn'. In Modern Irish/Gaelic, Oidhche Bealtaine or Oíche Bealtaine is May Eve, and Lá Bealtaine is May Day. Mí na Bealtaine, or simply Bealtaine, is the name of the month of May.

Whew! I’ll wait a moment for those of you who tried pronouncing those to unsnarl your tongues.

Bealtaine Fire Festival on Calton Hill, Edinburgh.

In Neopaganism, Bealtaine is considered a “cross-quarter” day, which marks the midpoint of the sun’s journey between spring equinox and the summer solstice. The astronomical date for this midpoint is around May 5-7, but it varies from year to year. It’s a time when planting begins amid great celebration and a sense of hope for a good crop that will feed the village for the coming winter in the latter half of the year. Beltane was also the beginning of the pastoral summer season, when herds of livestock were driven out to summer pastures and mountain grazing lands.

In Irish mythology, the beginning of summer for the Tuatha De Danann and the Milesians began at Bealtaine. Huge bonfires marked a time of purification and transition and augured in the second half of the year in the hope of good harvest later. This was accompanied by ritual ceremonies that protected people from harm by the spirits, such as the Aos Si. The festival of Samhain, opposite Bealtainne on October 31—Halloween—was also a time when spirits were seen as particularly close at hand to the living world.

This is not a spirit. It is a reasonable facsimile.

As for Wiccans, they and Wiccan-inspired Neopagans celebrate a variation of Beltane as a Sabbat, one of the eight solar holidays. Although the holiday may use features of the Gaelic Bealtaine, such as the bonfire, it has more ties to the Germanic May Day festival, both in its significance (focusing on fertility) and its rituals (such as maypole dancing). Some Wiccans celebrate "High Beltaine" by enacting a ritual union of the May Lord and May Lady.

Bow-Chicka-Bow-Bow...

Now, I’ve said before that we Irish and of Irish extraction need little excuse for a party, but when we actually have an excuse, we go all-out. Today, all over Ireland, Scotland, the Isle of Man and parts of Wales, there will be massive fires, dancing, scantily clad men and women, and much body paint. There will also be singing, dancing, eating and drinking as the children of the Celts honor their ancestors with a shout of joy for the inauguration of a new season.

The long winter is over. Summer is begun. Slainte.

On the Sea

2011-04-14T21:57:00.000-07:00

Today is the 99th anniversary of the Titanic sinking. Rather than bore you by writing an essay on that tragic event, I instead offer you the essay I wrote one year ago, which I think is one of my better pieces.

Please take a moment and remember the 1500 souls who never made it back to warmth, family, comfort, and home.

The World that Woke

GI: Monsterball

2011-04-11T18:51:00.000-07:00

Hello, hello, helloooo, and welcome to Fantasy Island!

Not really, but you know what I mean. Today, our favorite genius idiots are battling demons, burning satanic doctrine, and subverting conversion to the Lord. These illuminati have taken up arms and entered into battle with the soul-killing wretches that are independent thought, contemplative philosophy, and mass-marketed chocolate. Remember this next time you take the little ones out trick-or-treating.

Andiamos!

**
“During this period demons are assigned against those who participate in the rituals and festivities. These demons are automatically drawn to the fetishes that open doors for them to come into the lives of human beings. For example, most of the candy sold during this season has been dedicated and prayed over by witches.

“I do not buy candy during the Halloween season. Curses are sent through the tricks and treats of the innocent whether they get it by going door to door or by purchasing it from the local grocery store. The demons cannot tell the difference.”

Banish the demons Nestle, Hershey, Kraft, and Mars! And why haven’t we seen a Tree House of Horrors episode about this yet?

Who, Me?

**
“In an unrelated note. I always carry a few nuts and bolts at amusement parks. after we get locked in the ride and start to move, I hold up a few of them and say to the person next to me look what just fell out of this thing. It is a great witnessing tool. Everytime I did that the person next to me started praying.”

So you lied and committed an act of terror? That’s the best witnessing tool you could come up with?

**
“Come to our Halloween book burning. We are burning Satan's bibles like the NIV, RSV, NKJV, TLB, NASB, NEV, NRSV, ASV, NWT, Good News for Modern Man, The Evidence Bible, The Message Bible, The Green Bible, ect. These are perversions of God's Word the King James Bible.

“We will also be burning Satan's music such as country , rap , rock , pop, heavy metal, western, soft and easy, southern gospel , contempory Christian , jazz, soul, oldies but goldies, etc.

“We will also be burning Satan's popular books written by heretics like Westcott & Hort , Bruce Metzger, Billy Graham , Rick Warren , Bill Hybels , John McArthur, James Dobson, Charles Swindoll , John Piper, Chuck Colson, Tony Evans, Oral Roberts, Jimmy Swagart, Mark Driskol, Franklin Graham , Bill Bright, Tim Lahaye, Paula White, T.D. Jakes, Benny Hinn , Joyce Myers, Brian McLaren, Robert Schuller, Mother Teresa , The Pope , Rob Bell, Erwin McManus, Donald Miller, Shane Claiborne, Brennan Manning, William Young, etc.

“We are not burning Bibles written in other languages that are based on the TR. We are not burning the Wycliffe, Tyndale, Geneva or other translations that are based on the TR.

“We will be serving Bar-b-Que Chicken, fried chicken, and all the sides.”

Well, they’ve burned everything. What else is there to do but eat? I’ll have a fried chicken plate with a side of The Judds and some CCR.

--Irish

GI: Persians and Proctologists

2011-03-30T17:20:00.000-07:00

Hello, my Wednesday Warriors. I hope the fight goes well for you. Me? Aw, well, you know me. Toss a bag of truffles in my direction and I really don't give a damn about much of anything else. Add a few jars of Nutella, and I'm downright nihilistic.

After a short hiatus (during which your humble researcher was scrambling to finish some rather overdue work at the Day Job), we resume our regularly scheduled programming with some lovely examples of infuriating human intransigence, stunning incomprehension of "tolerance", and an even further baffling understanding of just exactly what "gay" is and what "gay" does. In short, if people like this didn't have illustrated instructions as to how to put tab "A" into slot "B", we might have spared ourselves the headache of folks like Westboro Baptist Church.

Strap on the oxygen masks. This is really gonna stink.

**
(spelling and grammar unedited - Irish)

“Because of years and years of looking at and touching scores of women inappropriately, the male gynecologist no doubt has a seared conscience and a perverted mind (I will not go into detail of what goes on in the doctor’s office for decency’s sake, but any woman who has been there knows what I am referring to). His view of women and the marital bed has certainly been warped by his indecent involvement with countless women.

“May God help preachers in this generation to make the Bible their authority, not tradition, and call this ungodly practice what it really is – sin. Any doctor that looks upon and touches a woman’s private parts in his office ‘hath committed adultery with her already in his heart’. Sir, if you let your wife go to a male gynecologist, you need to get right with God.”

Okayyyy…so, if you go to a male proctologist, does that mean you’re both gay?

How YOU doin'?

**
(Uno Mas, spelling and grammar are woefully unedited -- Irish)

“All, I have a terrible problem. I just started a new church and now I'm confronted with a big problem. One of the small group leaders is a woman I know from my neighborhood. She has been a member of this church for a long time and heads up a couple ministries. She is apparently one of those that works hard all the time for the church and is well thought of. Unfortunantly I know that she is gay. She has a lover that stays over at her house often, and I've personally seen unacceptable and disgusting behavior. It's pretty common knowledge in the neighborhood that these two women are lovers. How it is that her church doesn't know I can't imagine. She must be very discreet. Anyway, what in the world should I do? I don't want to gossep and I certainly don't want to be responsible for decention in the church. Do I tell the pastor? Tell her that I know? Send and anonamous message to the pastor? Somehow I don't think I'd be very popular for disclosing this, it's a hard place for a new member. Should I just quietly find a new church? I really liked this place, the message was wonderful and the people so loving. What should I do?”

What do you mean, you’ve “personally seen” their “unacceptable” and “disgusting” behavior? You’ve been watching? You perv.

I'm curious; how, exactly, is this your "problem"? And as for a solution, how about this: Mind your own damn business.

**
(see above -- Irish)

“We have to be tolerant and inclusive. In the future all heterosexuals will have to submit to a night of gay sex to prove their loyalties to the ideals of tolerance and inclusiveness. The Democratic party will demand it. Joe Biden will demand it. Obama’s safe sex czar will demand it. If you don’t submit you will be fined and forced to buy an ornament of gay Jesus for the Christmas tree.”

What? No, really…what?

**
“I thought that Lincoln and Kennedy were the only ones to be assassinated. That's what I was taught in school anyway.

“Another reason to homeschool ones children...”

Yes, because otherwise they might find out about McKinley and Garfield and make you look really dumb.

President Garfield. Assassinated. Dead.

President McKinley. Assassinated. Also dead.

**
“As I said, the Persians never even had a world empire; so why should anyone take their plastic god (Zoroaster) seriously?”

Okay. Geez. Just an epic fail in World History. THE PERSIAN EMPIRE?!? Hello? It dominated what is now Iran and spanned over three continents from the border of China to Egypt and Greece. Even Rome wasn’t that big! Didn’t you see 300?

Also, Zoroaster wasn’t a god. He was a prophet and philosopher.

500 B.C. E.

The ruins of Persopolis, capitol of Persia, in modern-day Iran.

--Irish Girl

Elizabeth

2011-03-23T06:21:00.000-07:00

"And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest..."

--Hamlet, Act V

Elizabeth Taylor

Author, Actress, Activist, AmFAR Founder, Mother, Grandmother

February 27, 1932 - March 23, 2011

GI: Monkeybidness

2011-03-20T08:03:00.000-07:00

Hello, my peeps. Today you get a special treat: A rare Sunday edition of Genius Idiocy. Many of you are no doubt observing that the only reason there's a Sunday edition is because your humble researcher abstained from posting one on Friday. While true, this is irrelevant. It's still rare to get a GI post on the weekend, so just nod, smile pretty, and pat the gift horse gently on the hind flank.

I have culled, for your reading pleasure, some truly idiotic tidbits from my vast archives of human vapidity. From what I can tell, these people never read, crack open a history book--much less a Bible--have taken the time during homilies and sermons to catch a few z's, and generally belong in the vaunted annals of the Darwin Awards. The fact that they're still alive speaks to the truth that there is, indeed, evidence of miracles.

**
(emphasis mine -- Irish)

“...What about a law that says it’s a federal crime to attack somebody because of his religious beliefs? Not a chance!”

"The 1969 Federal Hate Crimes Law 18 U.S.C. § 245(b)(2), permits federal prosecution of anyone who 'willingly injures, intimidates or interferes with another person, or attempts to do so, by force because of the other person's race, color, religion or national origin’.”

Look it up on Wikipedia. And while I’m at it, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to attack anybody for any reason other than self-defense.

It's self-defense! They're taking my bananas!

**
(spelling and punctuation untouched -- Irish)

“You know what's so funny about Atheism? If the Christians are right (which we are) then all the atheists get a one-way ticket to hell, but if by some impossibility the atheists are right absolutely nothing happens to the christians or any other religion because that would mean there would be no higher being to punish us! So its a win-win for religion while atheists are playing a fifty-fifty. Good luck burning for eternity."

Okay, for one thing: Pascal’s Wager? Complete crap. Two: What if you’re both wrong and some other religion is right?

**
(Again, spelling and punctuation unspoiled, much to my chagrin - Irish)

“i think it's wrong for scientists to? define everything because they define humans as apes, and i don't want to be an ape because they are ugly and dumb.

“scientists can have their definitions, and we normal people can have our own.”

I don’t know about “ugly”, but you’re far too late on the second qualifier. Incidentally, we humans share at least 98% of our DNA with chimpanzees. They probably think we’re pretty screwed up, too.

Did you SEE her hair? I wouldn't wanna be a human; they're ugly and dumb.

**
“Can I help it if I have kept all the virtues I got from Christianity that make me so superior to the rest of you?”

Ooh. So close, but fails with a drop in the home stretch for “pride”.

**
“We agree upon truth, no disagreements allowed.”

Well. I think that one pretty much speaks for itself.

**
“Sort of strange how people say the Bible was fake, when the authors lived such a long time ago, fictional stories probably haven't been invented yet.”

The Parables of Jesus? Anyone?

**

Irish

Sliante o Dha Dhuit

2011-03-17T07:02:00.000-07:00

In Ireland, this is a day of religious observance and a celebration of St. Patrick's life as a Christian evangelist, preaching the gospel to the pagan tribes of Ireland. Irish folklore tells us that he used the Shamrock as a tool to teach the Christian idea of the holy Trinity to the Celts.

He worked tirelessly for thirty years spreadng the Word throughout the Emerald Isle and died on March 17, 461.

Originally the color for St. Patrick's Day was blue! It was only in the 1798 rebellion, when soldiers wore green in order to capture public attention in a political maneuver, that the phrase "wearing of the green" came about. Now, in the true American fashion of going all the way and then some, we dye entire rivers with it.

The feast day for St. Patrick was already celebrated by the Irish by the ninth and tenth centuries, and over the years, he sort of became the patron saint for all things Irish. The feast day, part of the Lenten tradition, was placed on the Catholic Liturgical calendar sometime in the 1600s, making it a holy day of obligation (ed.note: that was supposed to read "observation". Funny how my mind goes.) in Ireland. Well, for Roman Catholics, anyway. It became an official public holiday in 1903.

The Irish government petitioned to make the day a showcase for Ireland in the mid 1990's, campaigning far and wide to showcase their heritage in a festival, the first of which was held in 1996. I'm all for a good party--hell, I'm Irish--but what else do you need to showcase Ireland but Ireland?

This Is Ireland!

So, as you joyfully partake in the festivities, wear your green, and sate your thirst with a pint of emerald beer, remember dear old St. Patrick and his contributions. Remember the Irish, and remember the unfettered brightness and joy of their spirit, despite the many hardships and struggles they have endured over the centuries. You can't keep an Irishman or Irishwoman down for long, and isn't that a great thing? Because otherwise, this world would be sadly lacking in color, music, and smiles.

Erin Go Bragh!

Irish Girl

GI: Bonbons and Bollocks

2011-03-16T19:01:00.000-07:00

Hello and Konnichi Wa, sweethearts. Today's GI, while late, is a delightful collection of deliciously tasty nuggets. As you savor each bonbon, reflect and ruminate over the windmills of minds that came up with them...

“I never said atheists are the most violent people in the world. I said, atheists will cut your throat for believing in Jesus.”

Not that that’s violent or anything…actually, most atheists wouldn’t give a shit.

**
Then again...

(emphasis mine – Irish)

“I hope the government gets rid of you a*sholes. I seriously f*cking do. christians of all types need to die. Many people don't know this but religion is what started the government so people who formed a civilization (civilization you could say is like the government but benign and without forced taxes). People who support the state and democracy are no better than people who are religious (assholes)”

Yes, atheists are idiots, too. P.S. Does your mother know you’re up this late? Also, look up the Constitution, Article I. I’m tired of quoting it here.

**
“A true Christian would NEVER allow his son to be subjected to a primitive blood ritual like circumcision because it's clearly un-Christian.

“But a Judeo-Christian probably would allow it because Judeo-Christians are more Jewish than they are Christian.”

There are some very good arguments against circumcision. This one would fall in the “facepalm” category.

**
[After a Christian asked people to pray for his father]

“No.

“Because if your prayer is granted, who will you attribute it to? Where will you go to thank him? Probably not Jehovah or to a Kingdom hall.”

Because praying for someone out of true charity and generosity would be – well –wrong…

**
[On Jack Black's "prayer" to Satan at the VMA's]

“Oh my - it didn't even appear he was trying to be funny. That made me almost physically ill. Music was created by God and should be used for God's glory. How much more sick and twisted is this world going to get when things like this are no longer reserved for Satanists meetings. That was horrible.

"I pray that we "go home" - and soon. I've had enough of this world.”

You must be a hoot at parties.

Irish

And We All Shine On

2011-03-11T16:15:00.000-08:00

Hello, my lovelies, and Congratulations! You've made it to Friday again. I'm so proud that I could just about burst with the verklempt of it...but that would be messy and there's no one else around to clean it up.

In lieu of my usual rant against wanton stupidity, I'm gonna let someone else do it today. Yeah, I know...me passing up an opportunity to vent my spleen? A banner day indeed. Mark your calendars, because that only happens once every blue moon.

I did not ferret this gem out on my own; I owe the following masterpiece to Julian Lennon, who found it ... well, somewhere. We don't ask too many questions of him for fear of finding out the answers, n'est ce pas? It is yet one more example of our respective governments' abilities to confound, exasperate, and humiliate us while we are left insensate with rage, steaming and fantasizing about creative manners of torture and retribution. Americans aren't the only ones who would like to upend a bucket of fish guts on our leaders. Bureaucracy reigns supreme right across the pond as well.

Enjoy, and have a spectacular weekend if I don't see you before Monday.

**
From Julian Lennon:

This was actually taken from a UK passport application and a member of staff copied it, as it made her laugh all day.

Dear Minister,
I'm in the process of renewing my passport but I am a total loss to understand or believe the hoops I am being asked to jump through.

How is it that Bert Smith of T.V. Rentals Basingstoke has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a satellite dish from them back in 1994, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date?

How come that nice West African immigrant chappy who comes round every Thursday night with his DVD rentals van can tell me every film or video I have had out since he started his business up eleven years ago, yet you still want me to remind you of my last three jobs, two of which were with contractors working for the government?

How come the T.V. detector van can tell if my T.V. is on, what channel I am watching and whether I have paid my licence or not, and yet if I win the government run Premium Bonds they have no idea I have won or where I am and will keep the bloody money to themselves if I fail to claim before I die. Do you people do this by hand?

You have my birth date on numerous files you hold on me, including the one with all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 30-odd years. It's on my NHS insurance card, my driver's licence, on the last four passports I've had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the planes and boats over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that are done every ten years and the electoral registration forms I have to complete, every time our lords and masters are up for re-election.

Would somebody please take note, once and for all, I was born in Maidenhead on the 4th of March 1957, my mother's name is Mary, her maiden name was Reynolds, my father's name is Robert, and I'd be absolutely astounded if that ever changed between now and the day I die!

I apologise Minister. I'm obviously not myself this morning. But between you and me, I have simply had enough! You mail the application to my house, then you ask me for my address. What is going on? Do you have a gang of Neanderthals working there? Look at my damn picture... Do I look like Bin Laden? I don't want to activate the Fifth Reich for God's sake! I just want to go and park my weary backside on a sunny, sandy beach for a couple of week's well-earned rest away from all this crap.

Well, I have to go now, because I have to go back to Salisbury and get another copy of my birth certificate because you lost the last one. AND to the tune of 60 quid! What a racket THAT is!! Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day? But nooooo, that'd be too damn easy and maybe make sense. You'd rather have us running all over the place like chickens with our heads cut off, then find some tosser to confirm that it's really me on the goddamn picture - you know... the one where we're not allowed to smile in case we look as if we are enjoying the process!

Hey, you know why we can't smile? 'Cause we're totally pissed off!

I served in the armed forces for more than 25 years including over ten years at the Ministry of Defence in London. I have had security clearances, which allowed me to sit in the Cabinet Office, five seats away from the Prime Minister while he was being briefed on the first Gulf War and I have been doing volunteer work for the British Red Cross ever since I left the Services. However, I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am - you know, someone like my doctor...who, before he got his medical degree 6 months ago WAS LIVING IN PAKISTAN...

Yours sincerely,
An Irate British Citizen.

Sliante,
Irish

GI: The Rainbow Connection

2011-03-10T16:19:00.000-08:00

I sometimes wonder if it could possibly be the same two or three people who come up with these effluvial gems, but then realize it's not possible. So few people of this ilk wouldn't survive very long; it has to be a mass population that supports and encourages each other. Sort of like an ant colony does.

Isaac Newton, Ben Franklin, and Galileo are, somewhere, clutching their midsections in paroxysms of nausea. Cotton Mather may be firing up the barbecue in anticipation of having company.

Bansai...!

**
What ‘establishment clause’? There is no such clause in our Constitution! It does not exist. That statement just shows the ignorance of ‘some’ of the American people."

Once again. "Congress shall make no law regarding the establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof."

Might wanna give that mirror of yours a spit and polish, chickapee.

**
(Spelling and punctuation original. Emphasis mine – Irish)

“Some things can not be explained by science. Take for example, rainbows. Rainbows are a mystery and you can not touch them, just like god. Despite this fact, they are still there even though there is no scientific explanation for them. So next time you find yourself doubting your faith, think of god as a rainbow. I know that this can be a difficult concept for some of you to grasp. It is just like air you can't see it but you know its there”

Rainbows are an optical illusion, caused by light diffraction through water droplets creating the prism effect…Oh. Erm, the prism effect is the bending of light – aw, fuck it. Never mind.

Irish

GI: Happy Horseshit

2011-03-08T18:41:00.001-08:00

Hello, my darlings, and thank you for stopping by. I took a week off to attend to some life priorities, but am back with my trove of GI gems full to the brim with farcical foolishness.

Take a deep breath, gird your midsections, and brace for impact. A la vie!

**
"I can tell I am growing closer to Christ because this world just makes me sick. I really can't tolerate it anymore.

“A thought did cross my mind today though. Since God is Holy and cannot fellowship with us when we sin and Jesus is God, how did he hang out with sinners?"

First off, that queasy, sick feeling you have? I doubt it’s holy divinity—or if it is, I have to wonder just how much of a paradise Heaven really is. You probably just have indigestion from swallowing so much horseshit whole.

As to your second question: I believe Jesus was asked that very question by his disciples and the Pharisees at varying times. He pointed out that “preaching to the choir” was kind of redundant. It was the so-called “sinners” who needed ministry, and therefore with whom his time was well spent.

Plus, sinners have the best parties.

**
“First of all, I'm not very convinced that Leonardo Da Vinci was a very intelligent person. He invented a couple of things and made a few paintings. So what??? I'm not very impressed with anything he has done. Not to mention he was a liar. Jesus never married, or had children. So, I think Leonardo Da Retardo's code is just a bunch of lies coming from a mouth of a human with low intellect.”

It would be a reaaallly good idea for you to at least read the front cover of the book, because it plainly says, in big gold letters, “By Dan Brown”. It is a work of fiction, not history, although it does incorporate historic elements with known facts, sprinkled with conjecture to make a pretty decent yarn. The fact that it was a ginormous bestseller makes me wonder how on earth you could get the writer’s name wrong.

Having said that, Leonardo DaVinci was a painter, sculptor, inventor, writer, engineer, mathematician, botanist, architect, musician, and prankster. Many of his paintings, interestingly, were religiously iconographic--Virgin of the Rocks, The Last Supper, St. John the Baptist, Annunciation, The Baptism of Christ--and The Last Supper, which incidentally loomed large as a key clue in The DaVinci Code. Interestingly, he rather mucked that one up, painting it on a dry surface rather than as a fresco, resulting in its almost instantaneous deterioration.

He also made several portraits, the most famous of which is inarguably La Giocanda/The Mona Lisa. His sketch, The Vitruvian Man, is regarded as a cultural icon, recognizable instantly almost everywhere in the world. His was a formidable intellect, and he had an insatiable curiosity that exemplified the Renaissance era.

Finally, with regard to the idea of DaVinci leaving codes in his works, or of Jesus being married, who knows? That’s not the point here. The point here is: When you start bashing people about and calling them names, make sure you’ve got the right names attached to the right people and the right issue. Otherwise you just look stupid.

AD

GI: Reading Rainbow

2011-02-24T05:52:00.001-08:00

I am beginning to wonder if the people who so forcefully pound the Bible and hold it up as the avatar of their authority actually have ever READ the thing.

Today's edition of GI examines the sublime assertions of two individuals whose expertise in the art of looking at sentences and parsing meaning out of them is, unfortunately, sadly lacking. As is their historical and liturgical knowledge. I don't like to generalize, but it's thinkers like this who want to tell everyone else how to use their brains. That would be like giving a baby a machete and asking him to carve the turkey at Thanksgiving. Take notes, kids -- there will be a pop quiz and the winner gets a free Kazoo. Onward...

(punctuation original – AD)

“personally, I find the common atheist assertion that "these books were written by man" completely irrational and ahistorical. Who exactly is their author? There's no historical documentation that suggests it, and in many cases, it would require widespread conspiracy to perpetuate the fraud - which also lacks evidence. Yet atheists continue to insist, utterly without any evidence, that there was some phantom author.

“please explain the existence of religious texts and the religious experience of the first generations that experienced those texts”

I am not disputing that spiritual and religious texts may have been inspired by a deity; however…

I presume you know of some fellas named Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Paul the Apostle—he wrote a bunch of letters (epistles) to the Corinthians? Even Jewish scholars acknowledge that the Torah (read: Old Testament to the Gentiles) was written by men, albeit unknown and unnamed. Solomon? Song of? I got a million of ‘em.

**

[re Obama: "We Do Not Consider Ourselves A Christian Nation". Emphasis mine. Here we go again…AD]

“He needs to go back and read the Constitution, and other historical documents that this country was based on.”

Sigh. "And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? "– Matthew, Chapter Seven, Sermon on the Mount—Greatest Hits

The United States Constitution, Article I: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Treaty of Tripoli, 1797, Article 11: As the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion; as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion, or tranquility, of Mussulmen; and, as the said States never entered into any war, or act of hostility against any Mahometan nation, it is declared by the parties, that no pretext arising from religious opinions, shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries.[3]

Declaration of Independence: When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. (No mention of Christ here or anywhere in the document.)

You may not like Obama, and you have that right. However, he was a Professor of United States Constitutional Law at the University of Chicago. Whether he’s Christian, Muslim, Wiccan, Hindu, Buddhist, or a worshiper of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, he’s got a better grasp on the wording and content of our founders’ documents than you do.

Then again, so does the average fifth grader who does a simple search on the internet and actually READS them.

--Irish

Toomer's Corner: The Memory of Trees

2011-02-20T07:19:00.000-08:00

I have never been to Toomer's Corner in Auburn, and I know next to nothing about football. More to the point, I couldn't care less about football, which to the wonderful fans of Auburn and Alabama is heresy; sorry. I just never saw much of interest in watching a bunch of men in padded suits chasing after a proportionately teeny tiny piece of pigskin. However, I do realize the impact that the sport has on our national culture, and that it engenders fierce passion and loyalty in people, so much so that it consumes Sunday afternoons and Monday morning coffee. In Alabama, you cannot be neutral between the two great teams of that state; sides must be picked, and the battle lines distinctly drawn in this rivalry for generations.

That's fine; it gives people a sense of cameraderie and fellowship to collectively root for their team, to gather and celebrate a win--or to commiserate over a loss. It is our modern equivalent of war, but a safer war, where the objective is to simply score a touchdown rather than murder the opponent and take their goods and chattels away. Everybody walks away at the end—well, some stagger, whether due to injury or inebriation—and leave the fight for another day.

At least, that’s the way it should be.

Fisticuffs have ensued in Alabama over a declaration of nonalignment to either team, but at least a person can defend himself in the scuffle. A tree can’t. Have you ever seen a branch ball itself up in a fist and swing a mean right hook? Aside from JK Rowling’s Whomping Willow, I’ve never heard of a tree that fights back against an intrusion. So a vicious attack against one is hardly the epitome of decency, let alone sportsmanship.

Harvey Updyke Jr. has been charged with injecting a poisonous herbicide into the two 130-year old trees at Toomer’s Corner—a place where Auburn fans come to celebrate and commiserate, and have for decades. It’s bad enough that this man evidently allowed his zeal and misguided sense of loyalty to take the rivalry to such lengths. It’s reprehensible that, in his mind, a tree was simply a tool, a method by which he could achieve his objective. Which, to this non-football fan, was as ridiculous as it was malicious and cruel.

I’m sure there are people out there saying, “What’s the big deal? It’s only a tree.” Yeah, tell me that when you’ve been around for nearly a century and a half. That tree was part of the Toomer’s Corner history. It was part of the town’s identity. And it was a living thing.

People, it’s a game. No world issues have ever been solved by a football game, no famines ended by baseball. We haven’t gone to Mars on the morale of the Lakers, and we won’t fix the oil spill by cheering on Manchester United.

Trees don’t play football. They don’t play baseball or basketball or cricket or soccer, or even bloody golf, for God’s sake. Trees don’t argue, don’t yell obscenities, and don’t start fistfights. All they do is grow and bear witness to the passages of time while we humans barely register it. They give us shade, sometimes shelter from the elements, and often food to sate our hunger. In a world where neutrality is frowned—even sneered—upon, trees are the only true arbiters of impartiality and objectivity.

Whether you’re a hugger or not, it has to be admitted that trees have been around a hell of a lot longer than we have. They have been there through our ups and downs, our triumphs and failures, have seen things we will never see. They are our constants in a world that changes so rapidly that we’re running faster to keep pace.

The trees, on the other hand, know how to be still.

Irish

GI: Jesus Loves Me

2011-02-17T17:55:00.001-08:00

Gooooood evening, my darlings. I hope everyone had a great day and that you are all steaming ahead over the crest of the hill, headlong towards Friday. I, evidently, have managed to catch some kind of stomach bug, and therefore cannot eat my beloved truffles. Which, as I'm sure you're aware, does not bode well for my evening.

Today's GI is a double-header of Rapturist delight. Bear in mind that nowhere in either the Bible or the New Testament is there any mention of such an event. The closest the NT ever came to it was in I Thessalonians, when Paul talks about Jesus returning to Earth to gather his saints:

'...and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air."

The actual concept of the Rapture, as it is known today in mainstream Western culture, was the idea of one Cotton Mather and his son, the ingeniously named Increase. The term 'Rapture' was created by Philip Doddridge and John Gill in 1738 and 1748, respectively, in their New Testament commentaries. That's where it all started, and other theologians, ministers, and writers developed on the idea.

What was once a rather lovely idea has become, in my opinion, slightly skeevy when viewed through the perspective of the following:

**

“I am sitting here right now thinking of the rapture...and just thinking about it makes me cry. My spirit groans within me...my heart aches with wanting to see his face. All I can think about is going home...I hate this world and the thought of living a full 70 years saddens me deeply. I want to go home so bad! I am so tired and weary of this world. Jesus..I only want you. Come soon Jesus....your bride is calling.”

Sometimes these people just creep me out. What about ‘life is a gift, and meant to be lived’? I have a hard time believing that God (Allah, Jehovah, Elohim, et al) would be very happy about people wasting time and twiddling their thumbs, moaning about how awful life is and not doing crap to make something meaningful from it.

And as for the “bride” thing…you get up in arms about the hypothesis that Jesus could have been married while he was alive, but it’s perfectly okay if you claim the title after his death/resurrection/ascension? Plus, are you the only "bride"? Is Jesus some kind of polygamous Don Juan?

If God gives you 70 years to live on this planet, I would do my damndest to learn something from the experience if I were you. Otherwise, if you ask me, that’s like throwing the gift He gave you smack in his face and telling him it’s not good enough.

Damn, if I still drank alcohol....

**

[In a thread about "If we can eat in heaven, can we also have sex?" Good to know where the priorities lie.]

1. Jesus ate after receiving His Resurrection body.

2. Marriage "Supper" of the Lamb (Kinda hints at food, doesn't it?)

3. Trees along the River of Life with 12 crops of fruit for us to eat.

We will be able to eat - if we need to is another issue.

1. Sex is for Marriage

2. The only Marriage in Heaven will be Christ and His Bride - now, not to be crass, if we were to have "relations" with each other, wouldn't that be considered adultery if "we" are married to Christ?

There will be no sex for those who have Resurrection bodies. For those still on earth during the Millennium, yes, they will have sex and repopulate the earth.

I don’t know about y’all, but I’m thinking that staying down here is going to be a lot more fun. -Irish

GI: Rogues and Peasant Slaves

2011-02-16T17:11:00.001-08:00

Happy hump day, friends and neighbors. Sorry I've been rather lax with the GI missives this week, but things have been busy at work. I just do this for fun, you know. In today's episode: Forget Philip Marlowe. Evidently, Shakespeare had bigger fish to fry, according to this stellar example of research and reasoning --

“You're thinking about the NKJV. This is the one that was commissioned by the king that wanted a divorce I believe. I think it was one of the King Henry's. Crazy kook either got the divorces he wanted or arranged the death and/or imprisonment of his wives so he could re-marry at will. The KJV is the original copy written and translated by Shakespeare, from the ancient greek and hebrew manuscripts. If not this, he may have translated it from an even earlier english translation (which was then translated from the original greek and hebrew) when english barely resembled what it is today. It's one of these two events. This is why it's considered the most accurate, a direct english translation from the originals and the standard for today despite being a relic from the 1300-1500's where fancy poetic language was the common english of those times.”

No. Just no. This is wrong on so many levels I can barely sputter out a response.

Shakespeare? Really? William Shakespeare? There is no evidence to suggest that the Bard had anything to do with the translation of the KJV, which was actually drafted from 1604 to 1611, commissioned by King James I (hence the name—geddit?). King Henry did indeed want a divorce from Katharine of Aragon so he could marry Anne Boleyn, but that was waaay before King James. (James did give Shakespeare a royal patent after Queen Elizabeth I’s death.) James wanted to have a new translation written simply to correct perceived errors in earlier translations. The KJV was the third official translation of the Christian bible into English. Which, incidentally, begins with a capital “E”.

I’m not even getting into the “fancy poetic language” bit. No, wait--yes I will: It's called iambic pentameter, you miscreant, and no, people did not talk that way.

Would it kill people to look this stuff up? --Irish

GI: The Log In Your Eye

2011-02-10T16:43:00.000-08:00

...AAAAnnnnd How was everybody's Thursday? Good? Good. Rest yourselves a bit, prop your feet up, and feast your eyes on the day's Genius Idiocy hors d'oeuvre. If awards were given out for hypocrisy--or obliviousness, this individual would surely take at least one of the top prizes. Deep breath, everyone, and into the breech...

**

“I have a Catholic neighbor that is stubborn like a mule. He is a good man as far as sinners go, (That’s big of you) but he is religious without truth. I have witnessed to him on numerous occasions, but he prides himself in sticking to the teachings that his grandparents and parents taught him.” (Shiny Mirror Alert!)

“He is idolatrous and smiles with arrogance when he tells me that he follows the Catholic Church over the Bible.” (Shiny Mirror Alert! My eyes! It burns!!)

“He's about 50-years old. One day he will split Hell wide open and find out that God's Word is true and the Catholic Church lied to him. He is going to die in his sins without Christ. He adamantly believes that he is going to Heaven because of his faith AND GOOD WORKS. Adding anything to faith alone in Jesus is a false gospel and a guaranteed road to hellfire (Ephesians 2:8-9)." (GASP! How DARE he? Incidentally, James 2:17: "Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone.")

I am saddened that he is going to Hell. He rejoices and drinks beer like water.” (Errr, to be fair, back in the day, Jesus and the disciples probably drank beer the same way; water wasn’t as safe back then as it is now, given the lack of filtration in large cities. They also drank wine. Granted, it was fermented grape juice, so not exactly fancy stuff, but still.)

“He is living it up, like he's never going to die.” (Sounds like a guy who lives life rather than waiting to die, but that’s just me.)

“I am praying for his salvation and won't give up on him, but he has given up on himself. He's a key figure in his parish, St. Jude.” (Oh, well, there you go. The patron saint of lost causes. You were outmatched from the start.)

“I love Catholics as people; but I hate the cult of Catholicism!”

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? -Irish

GI: Than Are Dreamt of in Your Philosophy

2011-02-08T16:16:00.005-08:00

Gooooooood Evening, y'all. Welcome once again to your daily nugget of mental nourishment that is Genius Idiocy. In this edition, we explore the concept of thinking and using one's brain. And thinking before opening one's mouth.

Or not...
**

Thinking for ourselves is quite dangerous..Would it not, rather, be prudent to seek the Lord and Live?”

In this case I agree with you. Someone like you thinking for yourself could get us all killed.

**

“Newly-wed Roman Catholic couples are being encouraged to say a special prayer together before having sex.

The specially-composed Prayer Before Making Love is aimed at 'purifying their intentions' so the act is not about selfishness or hedonism.”

You’re right. God must have made a mistake by designing sex between consenting adults to be actually enjoyable. Good thing the Vatican came along to clear up the erratum.

**

[From a pro-abstinence blog]

“When you play with fire, there is a 50/50 chance something will go wrong, and nine times out of ten it does.”

And I thought I was bad at math.

**

[Pope releases album for Christmas, litanies and chants in honor of the Virgin Mary.]

“What, pray tell, does MARY have to do with CHRISTmas??? They may as well just change the name to ‘MARYMAS’.”

Well, come on. You know the story. She had something to do with it.

**

Bonus Round!

“But to be fair, I think that in Atheism, you always have to rule out intelligent design and Creator. So, if you are an atheist looking at Mt. Rushmore, you must presume that the Presidents faces appeared as a result of purely natural causes.

While I think there are indeed very tough questions that we as Christians cannot answer, I think Atheism too has it's questions.”

Okay, gimme a minute here to pick myself up off the floor and catch my breath. I want to try and say this with a straight face.

First of all, yes: I completely agree with you that there are indeed tough questions that Christianity, Atheism, and many other religions cannot answer right now. If you had said that at the beginning and simply shut up, you’d have been ahead of the game.

Alas.

Sigh. Gutzon Borglum, American artist and sculptor. Created Mount Rushmore by taking dynamite and blasting the hell out of the Black Hills over the course of fourteen years and inciting the ire of the Lakota Sioux in the process, to whom the government had originally ceded the land in perpetuity. He was neither a God nor imaginary.

And just FYI, none of the heads on Mount Rushmore can talk, either. --Irish

GI: Wuv and Mawiage

2011-02-04T17:05:00.000-08:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Friday edition of Genius Idiocy, where your humble hostess (that's me) takes a big Ibuprofen and a cup of double espresso and heaves a ginormous sigh of relief.

In today's story, an individual of questionable rhetoric and execrable knowledge of history postulates on both the meanings of "marriage" and "tolerance". Maybe the Amazons had the right idea.

“I'm sorry, but the words marriage belong to the Christian religions, as do the words husband (a male) and a wife (a woman), and gay marriage is an infringement of the 1st Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.

“Need more info on how the words marriage, husband and wife belong to the Christian religions, just send me an IM and I'll be happy to answer you.

“I stand for freedom of speech, and tolerance is a two-way street.”

Right. Okay. The Constitution, First Amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."

Secondly, I do not think the word “word” means what you think it means.

Marriage: From the Latin Maritatus, in common use centuries before the Christian era. Also see Princess Bride,”mawaige”—just ‘cause it’s a fun movie.

Husband: from the Norse "hus bondi" meaning head of the household. Chauvanistic, maybe. Etymologically sound, yes.

Wife: from the old High German "wib" or possibly Norse "vif". Found in various forms in pagan Europe (ie, before Christianity)

That's it for this week, kids. I'm gonna get an ice pack and lie down. I'm out. --Irish

GI: Tidbits of Terror

2011-02-03T16:53:00.000-08:00

Hello, hello, hello! Welcome to today's edition of Genius Idiocy, where there are no points and no one gets a prize. First up, a debate. On one side, an idiot. On the other, someone with more than two brain cells in his or her cranial cavity:

“Joaquin, ‘Allahu’ has to mean ‘Allah’, not God. The Muslim chant, which is what this is from, is to Allah, not God. “

["Andy, the word "Allahu" means in Arab "God". It comes from: Al-lâh. "Al" means "the" and "ilah" means "god""]

“Joaquin, I have an open mind about this, but Muslims chant to ‘Allahu’ and they're not chanting to ‘God’, but to ‘Allah’.”

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Next:

“Given that atheistic evolutionary thinking has engendered social Darwinism and given that the proponents of atheism have no rational basis for morality in their ideology, the immoral views that atheists often hold and the low per capita giving of American atheists is not unpredictable.”

I’ll take ‘incomprehensible’ for 1000, Alex.

And finally,

“It is very clever the way Twilight is sneeking into our children. Like the HP books where the parents sacrificed their children to the god of education (importance of reading).”

Yeah. It’d be a shame if they learned how to spell words like “sneaking”.

--Irish

GI: King of the Hill

2011-02-01T16:58:00.001-08:00

Hi, everyone. Happy Tuesday, and welcome back to a fun-filled four days of Genius Idiocy. Glad to have you along for the ride.

Re: the Islam On Capitol Hill prayer event. Enjoy.

“This makes me sick to my stomach that this will be happening. I wish thousands of Christians would come out that day and surround them. That would be awesome if that would happen. We need people to go there and pray to the real God! “

Well, it’s the same God, you know. Yawheh, Allah, God…it’s the same guy. Or girl.

“Even though America allows freedom of worship, this event should not be happening in this country! “

…Even though America allows freedom of worship. Right. Continue.

“This event is a desecration of our founding forefathers ideals and beliefs about America. God is not going to be pleased with this!”

See, there’s that thing again. Our founding fathers did not jumpstart America with the power cables of deism. As for God, well…I’d guess He’s probably happy people talk to Him, wherever they may be.

“To those who think we should allow this because of religious freedom...do you really think God would want us to appease them just because it's their right? “

Eh?

“I say NO! God would not want us to compromise our faith! God was at the center of the creation of our country. This is an abomination to America. “

Once again: No. Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. The Constitution. Article I.

“Let the Islamics worship in their own mosques...not at the Capitol!!!”

Islamics?! They’re Muslims. If you’re going to insult someone, at least get the denomination right. And as for the rest of it, if someone said the same thing about banning your religion from a prayer event at the Capitol, you’d be screeching “discrimination”.

But I will concede: such services should be held in an actual house of worship, not in a government building.

That way, everyone can get pissed off about it. --Irish

GI: Thanks to All the Little People

2011-01-28T16:54:00.001-08:00

Happy Friday, everyone! To end your week (or start your weekend) with a wee chortle, I happily present the last GI of the week. Don't worry. We will resume our festivities on Monday.

[Re: movie being made about Mohammad. Emphasis mine -- AD]

“What better way to get your belief out there than to make a high quality (money wise) movie and have it done by someone who has made millions from making movies! It's too bad that these big movie makers aren't as interested in doing a big money movie on the life and death of Christ and it's purpose!”

(Ahem): The Greatest Story Ever Told, Jesus: The Man You Thought You Knew, King of Kings, In Search of Historic Jesus, The Last Temptation of Christ, The Messiah, The Robe, Jesus of Nazareth, or The Passion of the Christ. And let’s not forget that Christ trod the boards with Godspell and Jesus Christ Superstar.

Yeah. It's also a crying shame Jesus never got an Oscar, either. Damn that Academy...

GI: Welch's Into Wine

2011-01-27T16:46:00.001-08:00

Hi, everyone! It's that time of day I just know you've been waiting for, breath bated, and on the edge of your keyboards: Today's installment of GI. Spelling and punctuation have been left pristine and original, as always.

“Hey Just Sayn. There are 2 types of wine mentioned in the Bible. Fermented wine which contained alcohol and non-fermented wine which was plain grape juice. Jesus never drank fermented wine. His miracle at the wedding feast turned water into grape juice. If you read and understand the Bible you will find out that Jesus forbids drinking alcohol.”

Uhhhh…I think you might be referring to the Koran. In the New Testament, it says in Matthew 11.18:

“The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Behold a man gluttonous, and a winebibber, a friend of publicans and sinners’.”

He drank. He partied. He even told jokes and danced. Who would have wanted to traipse around Judea for three years with a Gloomy Gus, anyway? --Irish

GI: Pomp and Circumstance

2011-01-26T17:13:00.001-08:00

[On Obama's winning the Nobel Peace Prize. No corrections except quotation marks – Irish]

“I agree with Bobbi Sanchez If I'm reading and understanding it correctly, it's against the Constitution for him to accept it. Not that he cares about the Constitution.

“ ‘No title of nobility shall be granted by the United States: and no person holding any office of profit or trust under them, shall, without the consent of the Congress,... accept of any present, emolument, office, or title, of any kind whatever, from any king, prince, or foreign state’. United States Constitution, Article I, Section 9.

“He should have declined it until his Presidency is over and then accept it, like Roosevelt

“Not that I believe he deserves it”

It’s a Nobel prize, not a “noble” title, you nitwit. Also, punctuation is your friend. -- Irish

GI: Just a Piece of Paper

2011-01-25T16:58:00.001-08:00

I don't know how many times y'all have heard this, but it's become a tired and rather feeble argument--if it ever had any vigor at all; that America was founded as a Christian nation:

“This country was founded by men and women who left England so that they could have the freedom to practice CHRISTIANITY apart from the Church of England. It was NOT founded so that everyone could have the freedom to worship the ‘god’ they choose.”

**
Um, well – no. The Puritans left the old country to escape religious persecution and establish a home where they could practice as they saw fit, yes (and were a pretty uptight bunch, to say the least). But the country itself was not founded on Christianity; most of the founding fathers (all male, by the way) were born in the Colonies, and were actually intellectuals advocating the Enlightenment. In fact, Thomas Paine (“Common Sense”) was an atheist, Benjamin Franklin was an agnostic, and even Thomas Jefferson said, “Say nothing of my religion. It is known to God and myself alone...It does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods or no God. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg." Jefferson didn’t care who you worshiped; he just didn’t want it forced on him.

And besides that, each of the men involved in the drafting and ratification of a certain document put aside whatever religious beliefs they may or may not have held, definitively and firmly drawing a line between--you guessed it--Church and State. As far as they were concerned, the two should never commingle.

Ye Olde Constitution states: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

American History. Good stuff.

GI: Book Signings in Canaan

2011-01-23T15:29:00.001-08:00

[Why are there no contemporary records of Jesus?]

“because the bible was the official book, like how some celebrities today give sole rights for an official biography to one person.”

And you just know Moses and Elijah were pissed they weren’t consulted first or even asked to read the galleys.

Genius Idiocy - That Voodoo You Do

2011-01-22T15:18:00.001-08:00

"That's the beauty of Heaven... we can leave our brains behind."

I know, that one’s too easy. Here’s another one:

**
“Is there a possibility that Criss Angel, David Copperfield, et.al., have real magical powers? I know they said the tricks they do are just illusions and sleigh of hands... but there are some tricks they did that are just impossible for humans to do. Could they have made a pact with the Devil in exchange for great wealth, fame, and glory?

“In the Bible we read there were sorcerers and magicians in the court of the Pharaoh who duplicated the miraculous feats performed by Moses... such as turning his staff into a live snake. That gives us something to think about. You can go to the Library and find many fictional novels regarding people who sold their souls to the Devil by making a pact with him for worldly fame and glory...hmmm... Could there may be some truth to it?”

No, it’s not the devil. They’re doing the old Jedi Mind Trick.

Seriously. Magicians and illusionists simply use diversion and sleight of hand, and practice, practice, practice until they are very good at it. They focus our attention on one thing while they’re manifesting the illusion somewhere else. They have to be able to command an audience’s attention absolutely and hold it, which takes some badass understanding of psychology, by the way.

Incidentally, a good friend of mine is a Christian illusionist, and I’m fairly sure he’s not in league with Satan. That would kind of go against…well….everything he stands for. If he thought for a moment his job was Satanic in any way, I feel safe in saying he’d stop doing it and apply at the local Taco Bell.

Pantsless in Galilee

2011-01-21T15:06:00.001-08:00

Okay, first Genius Idiocy post! Spelling errors are original.

**
Yves Saint Laurent invented the godless women's pantsuit in 1966. He spent time in psychiatric institutions and was a drug addict. The fact is Saint was no "saint" but a wicked vile sinner who committed an "abomination." Who did more to hurt the women in this world than most. He liberated no one, but instead help to enslave them under the bondage of Satan and his devices. He hlep to tare down the walls of modesty, equal rights, women's lib, and feminity. Pants are a man's clothing and should not be worn by a lady. Pants goes against the Word of God, modesty, virture, womenhood, decency, and God given feminity.
**

--All right, Scotland! "Tare" off those kilts, ‘cause you’re stealing our "feminity", "virture", and symbols of "womenhood". Also, I’m almost absolutely positive that Jesus and his Posse didn’t roam around the Galilee in Wranglers.

Genius in Idiocy

2011-01-21T10:20:00.000-08:00

I have a daily tradition on my FB, Twitter, and blog pages where I post a quote from a favorite writer, philosopher, character, actor, etc. It's a fun way to begin the day. I am now going to add to that a quote at the END of the day, but it requires a disclaimer/explanation. The theme will be, basically, Stupid Things Said by Religious Fanatics. A lot of them are Christian in origin, although many spring from the font of other religious doctrines. I think the reason so many are Christian is because out of all of them, Christian fundamentalists are the least tolerant of all of them, and work themselves into a bigger lather than the Scrubbing Bubbles on a sugar high.

I myself am not a churchgoer, and follow no specific dogma; my belief is that there are many roads to God, whoever or whatever He/She/It might be. My thinking is that all religions and doctrines have valid points and valuable lessons, and often cock an eyebrow when I see two opposing philosophies advocating the same thing, wondering if they know how much they''re in agreement.

I'm an agnostic; I think that there is very possibly something out there that is greater than us, but I also think I'm not omniscient enough to know what that might be. I'm also a student of history and philosophy, of gnosticism and theology; I question, I ruminate, I debate. I have no problem at all with others choosing to follow a particular faith, creed, doctrine, or secular religion; in fact, I enjoy discussing it with them--as adults, in a mature, non-judgmental and intelligent manner.

What I have a problem with is stupidity and hypocrisy. So, please don't take offense to upcoming posts; or, if you do, understand I'm not attacking your religion. I'm pointing a finger at the individual quoted as a prime candidate for Idiot of the Year award--those people who take a religion and give it a bad name for everyone else associated with it.

Danke. You may now resume your regularly scheduled programming.

Because It's There

2011-01-01T18:03:00.000-08:00

Along with Stephen Fry, Brian Blessed is one of the best things Britain ever invented. In May of 2008 he guest-hosted an episode of the satirical program "Have I Got News For You", and in the inevitable Blessed MO, completely upended the format, defenestrated the script, and left the rest of the panel disintegrating in either helpless laughter or hapless confusion.

Poor Paul Merton had no idea what hit him, and conservative MP Alan Duncan was left gasping for breath after hearing what has to be one of the most inglorious stories of an Everest climb. Whenever you need a giggle, stop on over here and press "Play".

(From the BBC's "Have I Got News For You")

Wait for it...Waiiiit for it....

2010-11-19T05:02:00.000-08:00

I have friends who are reporters and anchors with various affiliates. It's often funny when things screw up, but it can be absolutely hysterical when they literally implode. WGN never disappoints.

(From WGN News)

Running on Empty...But at Least I'm Not This Guy

2010-10-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

I am SO sorry not to have posted in awhile; my jobs have been keeping me very busy burning candles at every end. Currently I'm learning of this concept called "Weekends", during which I hear people actually relax and don't work. It's a strange custom, but I've tried it a few times and think I could learn to like it.

Not much to say today, so I will instead let the great Stephen Fry do the honors. He hosts a wonderful quiz show on BBC called "QI", and it's more than your average game show. The people who grace the panel each night are actually smart folk who know a thing or two about the world. But even these enlightened and erudite luminaries get stumped every once in a while. And everyone who either watches or guests on the show runs the risk of learning something new. Have fun watching this. It'll boggle your mind, appall you, and at the same time make you laugh.

(From BBC's "QI")

We're All Born Ignorant, But One Must Work Hard to Remain Stupid (B. Franklin)

2010-09-01T08:15:00.000-07:00

...However, I somehow think that these folks came by it naturally. I can't imagine maintaining this level of idiocy and actually putting effort into it.

Ladies and Gentlemen: These are the people in charge of running the country. Remember when Jay Leno was likeable and he had that little skit on his show--"Jaywalking"? I used to almost fall over in disbelief when I heard the utterly inane and brain-dead responses to basic questions from average Americans.   Wait, scratch that. If they'd been average, they might have actually gotten the answer right to: "What are the words to the 'Star-Spangled Banner'?"

Oh, but this is much worse. These are people who, by some twist of universal anarchy, got elected to office. They're in charge of who gets money, when they get it, whether or not school and social programs will continue or not, and vote themselves raises. I'm completely in the wrong line of work.

You may need a face mask to protect yourself from the odiferousness. This kind of shit just seems to spread without quarter. I don't know who compiled these gems -- it wasn't me--but if they would like credit, I will joyfully give it to them.

A DC airport ticket agent offers some examples of why our country is
in trouble!
1. I had a New Hampshire Congresswoman (Carol Shea-Porter) ask for an aisle seat so that her hair wouldn't get messed up by being near the window. (On an airplane!)

2. I got a call from a Kansas Congressman's (Moore) staffer (Howard Bauleke), who wanted to go to Capetown. I started to explain the length of the flight and the passport information, and then he interrupted me with, ''I'm not trying to make you look stupid, but Capetown is in Massachusetts.''

Without trying to make him look stupid, I calmly explained, ''Cape Cod is in Massachusetts, Capetown is in Africa .''

His response -- click.

3. A senior Vermont Congressman (Bernie Sanders) called, furious about a Florida package we did. I asked what was wrong with the vacation in Orlando . He said he was expecting an ocean-view room. I tried to explain that's not possible, since Orlando is in the middle of the
state..

He replied, 'Don't lie to me, I looked on the map and Florida is a
very thin state!'' (OMG)

4. I got a call from a lawmaker's wife (Landra Reid) who asked, ''Is
it possible to see England from Canada ?''

I said, ''No.''

She said, ''But they look so close on the map.'' (OMG, again!)

5. An aide for a cabinet member (Janet Napolitano) once called and asked if he could rent a car in   Dallas. I pulled up the reservation and noticed he had only a 1-hour layover in Dallas. When I asked him why he wanted to rent a car, he said, ''I heard   Dallas was a big airport, and we will need a car to drive between gates to save time.'' (Aghhhh)

6. An Illinois Congresswoman (Jan Schakowsky) called last week. She needed to know how it was possible that her flight from Detroit left at 8:30 a.m., and got to   Chicago at 8:33 a.m.

I explained that   Michigan was an hour ahead of   Illinois , but she couldn't understand the concept of time zones. Finally, I told her the plane went fast, and she bought that.

7. A   New York lawmaker, (Jerrold Nadler) called and asked, ''Do airlines put your physical description on your bag so they know whose luggage belongs to whom?'' I said, 'No, why do you ask?'

He replied, ''Well, when I checked in with the airline, they put a tag on my luggage that said 'FAT', and I'm overweight. I think that's very rude!''

After putting him on hold for a minute, I looked into it. (I was dying laughing.) I came back and explained the city code for   Fresno, Ca. Is (FAT - Fresno Air Terminal), and the airline was just putting a destination tag on his luggage.

8. An aide for Senator John Kerry (Lindsay Ross) called to inquire about a trip package to Hawaii. After going over all the cost info, she asked, ''Would it be cheaper to fly to California and then take the train to Hawaii ?''

9. I just got off the phone with a freshman Congressman, Bobby Bright (D) from AL who asked, ''How do I know which plane to get on?'' I asked him what exactly he meant, to which he replied, ''I was told my flight number is 823, but none of these planes have numbers on
them.''

10. Senator Dianne Feinstein (D) called and said, ''I need to fly to Pepsi-Cola, Florida . Do I have to get on one of those little computer planes?''

I asked if she meant fly to Pensacola, FL on a commuter plane. She said, ''Yeah, whatever, smarty!''

11. Mary Landrieu (D) LA Senator called and had a question about the documents she needed in order to fly to China. After a lengthy discussion about passports, I reminded her that she needed a visa. 'Oh, no I don't. I've been to China many times and never had to have
one of those.''

I double checked and sure enough, her stay required a visa. When I told her this she said, ''Look, I've been to China four times and every time they have accepted my American Express!''

12. A New Jersey Congressman (John Adler) called to make reservations, ''I want to go from Chicago to Rhino, New York .''

I was at a loss for words. Finally, I said, ''Are you sure that's the name of the town?''

'Yes, what flights do you have?'' replied the man.

After some searching, I came back with, ''I'm sorry, sir, I've looked up every airport code in the country and can't find a 'Rhino' anywhere."

''The man retorted, ''Oh, don't be silly! Everyone knows where it is. Check your map!''

So I scoured a map of the State of New York and finally offered, ''You don't mean Buffalo, do you?''

The reply? ''Whatever! I knew it was a big animal.''

They are among us. They have offspring. They have driver's licenses. I'm going to go dig a hole, jump in, and take some Gatorade with me.

Irish

Lost Without LOST

2010-08-21T08:53:00.000-07:00

I loved LOST. I miss LOST. But it's nice to know that I'm not the only geek out there who revels in the geekdom. We don't wanna let go. Which is good, you see, because the stuff geeks come up with is way better than most of the crap that's on television these days. I miss Hurley and Sawyer. I miss Michael Giacchino's epic music. I even miss the Smoke Monster.

This is hilarious.

(From Newsweek and ABC Television's LOST; Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, producers)

It's Got Juice

2010-07-27T17:57:00.000-07:00

My Mom sent this to me. Only in New York, folks.

(Update: Since the original post, I've learned that this is a group of actors/performers who routinely invade public places and joyfully flummox their fellow citizens with displays of song, dance, and general buffoonery on a level not seen since television's Fame. Love it!)

Maybe I Should Emigrate to New Zealand

2010-06-24T18:39:00.001-07:00

It just hurts less to laugh than to cry. Read on, and brace yourselves. I did not research or compile the following examples of The Next Generation's utter and complete hopelessness, but I wish I had. If and when I find the person responsible for raising the alarm, I will most readily give credit.

The following questions were set in last year's GED examination. These are genuine answers (from 16 year olds)............and they WILL breed.

Q. Name the four seasons
A. Salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar

Q. Explain one of the processes by which water can be made safe to drink
A. Flirtation makes water safe to drink because it removes large pollutants like grit, sand, dead sheep and canoeists

Q. How is dew formed
A. The sun shines down on the leaves and makes them perspire

Q. What causes the tides in the oceans
A. The tides are a fight between the earth and the moon. All water tends to flow towards the moon, because there is no water on the moon, and nature abhors a vacuum. I forget where the sun joins the fight

Q. What guarantees may a mortgage company insist on
A. If you are buying a house they will insist that you are well endowed

Q. In a democratic society, how important are elections
A. Very important. Sex can only happen when a male gets an election

Q. What are steroids
A. Things for keeping carpets still on the stairs (Shoot yourself now , there is little hope)

Q.. What happens to your body as you age
A. When you get old, so do your bowels and you get intercontinental

Q. What happens to a boy when he reaches puberty
A. He says goodbye to his boyhood and looks forward to his adultery (So true)

Q. Name a major disease associated with cigarettes
A. Premature death

Q. What is artificial insemination
A. When the farmer does it to the bull instead of the cow

Q. How can you delay milk turning sour
A. Keep it in the cow (Simple, but brilliant)

Q. How are the main 20 parts of the body categorised (e.g. The abdomen)
A. The body is consisted into 3 parts - the brainium, the borax and the abdominal cavity. The brainium contains the brain, the borax contains the heart and lungs and the abdominal cavity contains the five bowels: A, E, I,O,U..

Q. What is the fibula?
A. A small lie

Q. What does 'varicose' mean?
A. Nearby

Q. What is the most common form of birth control
A. Most people prevent contraception by wearing a condominium (That would work)

Q. Give the meaning of the term 'Caesarean section'
A. The caesarean section is a district in Rome

Q. What is a seizure?
A. A Roman Emperor. (Julius Seizure, I came, I saw, I had a fit)

Q. What is a terminal illness
A. When you are sick at the airport. (Irrefutable)

Q. Give an example of a fungus. What is a characteristic feature?
A. Mushrooms. They always grow in damp places and they look like umbrellas

Q. Use the word 'judicious' in a sentence to show you understand its meaning
A. Hands that judicious can be soft as your face. (OMG)

Q. What does the word 'benign' mean?
A. Benign is what you be after you be eight (brilliant)

Q. What is a turbine?
A. Something an Arab or Shreik wears on his head.

Friday Frivolity

2010-06-18T11:50:00.000-07:00

I was originally going to write a spleen-venting post about the do-si-do Congress is playing with HR 4312, but you know, I'm just too tired to get that pissed off. Besides, I'd rather start the weekend with a smile than a growl. So, for your viewing pleasure, may I introduce Maru. He's a happy cat living in Japan, and his owner somehow captures the most darling video of him. Whenever I need a smile or a good belly laugh, he always comes through. Enjoy.

(Credit for the preceding video belongs to the Amazing Maru and his Person.)

All Dogs Go to Heaven...

2010-06-04T11:41:00.000-07:00

...Where, in some future time and place, they'll be waiting to see us again.

(Photo by Jorge Garcia)

Jorge's beloved Nunu died on Monday after having been hit by a car. She was a happy, loved, and loving companion to him and Beth, and they doted on their little morsel. Who wouldn't, with that face?

One day, I believe they'll see her again. After all, there is no "now" there...

Namaste, Nunu. We love you.

All the News That's Fit to Print

2010-04-24T12:31:00.000-07:00

Jorge Garcia had a rather scandalous picture on his blog yesterday...so I joked that if the tabloids got hold of it, he was in trouble with Nunu. Me being who I am, I figured I'd get the jump on them. After all, I am a writer. And I was a publicist. And I'm Irish with a seasoning of Spanish, which means I have a warped sense of humor. But thank God I never had to stoop to actually working for a real tabloid.

(Canine and Garcia photos belong to Jorge Garcia, except for drunk Chihuahua, which is from an unknown source. Cowboy photo is also from Unknown Source, but your friendly Irish Girl will be pleased to offer credit to the authentic owners of these images, if they really want them.)

Something to Smile About

2010-04-14T15:55:00.000-07:00

I just love this video. Dunno why. It just makes me smile.

(All credit and deference to DreamWorks, Puss, and Antonio Banderas. Some credit to Nancy Sinatra.)

The World That Woke

2010-04-14T13:23:00.000-07:00

Ninety-Eight years ago on this date, the Titanic sank.

The RMS Titanic departing from Southampton, England for the first--and last--time, April 10, 1912.

In 1912, steamship was the mode of overseas travel, and the Atlantic shipping lines were veritable freeways of steel hulls and massive engines traversing the divide between Europe and America. These were the last days of the Golden Age, the Age of Innocence--when men dressed in silk hats and fine cravats and ladies wore corsets and gloves as a matter of course. Immigration from the Old Country to the New World was in a boom; hundreds of thousands made the long journey with little more than what they could carry on their backs, brimming with optimism at the promise of starting anew in a prosperous land that welcomed everyone. To do it on the most famous, the most beautiful, and the largest liner ever built was something of a coup, even for the third-class passengers. It was a marvel of human ingenuity: miles of deck and cabins and luxurious recreational facilities, restaurants, even a Turkish bath. You could walk the length and breadth of it and still not cover the same ground each time. Even Charles Lightoller, the Second Officer, said that it took him nearly two weeks to navigate its layout with any confidence, and he was a veteran of many voyages and many ships. Such was the immensity of Titanic that it seemed nothing could ever hurt it.

"The history of the R.M.S. Titanic of the White Star Line, is one of the most tragically short it is possible to conceive. The world had waited expectantly for its launching and again for it's sailing; had read accounts of its tremendous size and its unexampled completeness and luxury; had felt it a matter of the greatest satisfaction that such a comfortable and above all such a safe boat had been designed and built- the "unsinkable lifeboat"- and then in a moment to hear that it had gone to the bottom as if it had been the veriest tramp steamer of a few hundred tons; and with it fifteen hundred passengers, some of them known all the world over! The improbability of such a thing ever happening was what staggered humanity."
-Lawrence Beesley, Titanic Survivor

The whole period was full of optimism, full of supreme confidence in the domination of man over any and all obstacles, including nature. Looking back in hindsight, we might judge society then as being almost naively arrogant, almost asking for a good ass-whooping. Hubris is something we usually only see after the fact, while we're picking up the pieces of the latest disaster. It was no different on that night, when over 1500 people died in the cold water of the Atlantic, and a world was paralyzed by shock, disbelief, and grief.

"There was peace, and the world had an even tenor to it's way. Nothing was revealed in the morning the trend of which was not known the night before. It seems to me that the disaster about to occur was the event that not only made the world rub it's eyes and awake, but woke it with a start, keeping it moving at a rapidly accelerating pace ever since with less and less peace, satisfaction and happiness. To my mind the world of today awoke April 15th, 1912."
-Jack B. Thayer, Titanic Survivor

I don't need to go into the specifics of the sinking--unless you've been wrapped in cotton wadding and sealed inside a hyperbaric chamber all your life, you know how it all happened. How there were so many "ifs". If the crew hadn't misplaced the binoculars. If the captain hadn't gone to bed early that night. If the radio operators had relayed the iceberg warnings more quickly to the bridge. If the Californian hadn't turned their radio off. If J. Bruce Ismay hadn't insisted on increasing speed across an ice-infested course. If the Titanic had changed course. If Frederick Fleet had seen the iceberg just an instant sooner; if the bridge had hit the berg head-on instead of sideways. If Thomas Anderson had won the fight to have more lifeboats on deck. If, if, if.

"I still think about the 'might have beens' about the Titanic; that's what stirs me more then anything else. Things that happened that wouldn't have happened if only one thing had gone better for her. If only, so many if onlys. If only she had enough lifeboats. If only the watertight compartments had been higher. If only she had paid attention to the ice that night. If only the Californian did come. The 'if only' kept coming up again and again and that makes the ship more then the experience of studying a disaster. It becomes a haunting experience to me, it's the haunting experience of 'if only'." -Walter Lord, Titanic historian and author

None of that mattered, of course, to those who followed Titanic to the bottom, two miles below the surface. Or to the survivors, who struggled with grief and guilt for the rest of their lives. Some endured international and unforgiving censure--most particularly J. Bruce Ismay, Chairman and Managing Director of the White Star Line, who climbed aboard one of the last lifeboats at the very end and paid for it until he died a quarter-century later. He defended himself at the inquest, insistent that he had done nothing wrong.

"What do you think I am? Do you believe that I'm the sort that would have left that ship as long as there were any women and children on board? That's the thing that hurts, and it hurts all the more because it is so false and baseless. I have searched my mind with deepest care, I have thought long over each single incident that I could recall of that wreck. I'm sure that nothing wrong was done; that I did nothing that I should not have done. My conscience is clear and I have not been a lenient judge of my own acts." -- J. Bruce Ismay

Certainly Stanley Lord, captain of the Californian, whom the world blamed for retiring early and leaving the Titanic's increasingly desperate calls for help unheeded, was regarded as a pariah and, if not heartless, a bumbling goon. It didn't matter, in the aftermath, that he had rushed to join the Carpathia the next morning, as soon as he heard of the sinking. He never recovered from the debacle of blame and recrimination and retired, in disgrace, never to sail again.

The morning of April 15, 1912 marked the beginning of a harsher, more hardened outlook on life by a society that had suffered a devastating blow. It was hard not to be cynical; a goddess had been toppled on her maiden voyage--a goddess that had been built over four years by the love and mastery of Irish shipbuilders, conceived by the demigods of the time, and borne into solid reality with the finest minds in construction, innovation, and engineering. No wonder people had so much confidence in her; she was a stunning, sleek, luxurious behemoth who carried such luminaries of the day that it seemed ludicrous that anything could possibly go awry.

"I thought her unsinkable and I based my opinion on the best expert advice."
-Phillip Franklin, White Star Line Vice President

"You weren’t there at my first meeting with Ismay. To see the little red marks all over the blueprints. First thing I thought was: ‘Now here’s a man who wants me to build him a ship that’s gonna be sunk.’ We’re sending gilded egg shells out to sea."
-Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland and Wolff Shipyards

Control your Irish passions, Thomas. Your uncle here tells me you proposed 64 lifeboats and he had to pull your arm to get you down to 32. Now, I will remind you just as I reminded him these are my ships. And, according to our contract, I have final say on the design. I’ll not have so many little boats, as you call them, cluttering up my decks and putting fear into my passengers."
-J. Bruce Ismay, Director of the White Star Line

"The press is calling these ships unsinkable and Ismay’s leadin’ the chorus. It’s just not true."
-Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland and Wolff Shipyards

To his credit, poor Thomas Anderson tried. He really did. He was an excellent design engineer who would constantly carry around a little notebook, marking down improvements and correcting flaws right up to the day of sailing. He was onboard the Titanic, and was jotting stuff down even then, when most engineers would have sat back and basked in the glory of their accomplishment. He lamented the fact that he had been overruled on his proposition to carry more lifeboats--a decision he regretted not fighting harder, even as the ship was sinking underneath him--and one that the White Star Line never lived down. It was also the decision that prompted a maritime law stating exactly that--each ship had to carry enough lifeboats for ever single soul on board. No exceptions. Andrews would have applauded that, if he had lived, though I think he would have been bitter at the fact that over a thousand people had to die to make it so.

Even now, most people think that those who perished on Titanic drowned. Not so. The majority of them died of hypothermia. The waters of the North Atlantic are paralyzingly frigid, and in April, the bergs are thawing after a long winter's sleep, breaking free and sliding in to drift along the massive currents. It's like dropping an ice cube into a drink, only on such a leviathan scale that it's almost incomprehensible to imagine being submerged in it. But the passengers, desperate to escape the groaning tonnage of iron in its final death throes, found out very quickly just how devastating it was to the human body. At the end, when the ship rose out of the water at a terrifyingly steep angle, it was impossible to hold on any more.

"Just then the ship took a slight but definite plunge - probably a bulkhead went - and the sea came rolling along up in a wave, over the steel fronted bridge, along the deck below us, washing the people back in a dreadful huddled mass. Those that didn't disappear under the water right away, instinctively started to clamber up that part of the deck still out of water, and work their way towards the stern, which was rising steadily out of the water as the bow went down. It was a sight that doesn't bear dwelling on - to stand there, above the wheelhouse, and on our quarters, watching the frantic struggles to climb up the sloping deck, utterly unable to even hold out a helping hand."
-Charles Lightoller, Second Officer aboard Titanic

"Striking the water was like a thousand knives being driven into one's body. The temperature was 28 degrees, four degrees below freezing."
-Charles Lightoller, Second Officer aboard Titanic

That's the kind of temperature that will kill you in minutes, and they didn't have survival suits back in the day. Most people didn't even know how to swim. Those passengers fortunate enough to find floating debris or a remaining capsized lifeboat clung on for dear life, hoping that help would arrive before they succumbed. Those passengers even more fortunate to have boarded lifeboats two hours earlier floated a distance off, unwilling to return and help those in the water, screaming for someone to return and pull them out. It was a sound that haunted survivors ever after.

The agonizing cries of death from over a thousand throats, the wails and groans of the suffering, the shrieks of the terror-tricken and the awful gaspings for breath of those in the last throes of drowning, none of us will ever forget to our dying day."
-Colonel Archibald Gracie, Titanic Survivor

"The sounds of people drowning are something that I can not describe to you, and neither can anyone else. Its the most dreadful sound and there is a terrible silence that follows it."
-Eva Hart, Titanic Survivor

"The partly filled lifeboat standing by about 100 yards away never came back. Why on Earth they never came back is a mystery. How could any human being fail to heed those cries."
-Jack B. Thayer, Titanic Survivor

The Cunard Line Carpathia charged steaming through the early morning hours towards Titanic's last known position, 58 miles away. His was the only ship in the vicinity besides the long-suspected Californian, and even then he was nearly four hours away. Captain Arthur Rostron had ordered an immediate change of course as soon as he heard of the disaster and, mindful of what had befallen the Titanic, put extra lookouts on the bow of the ship, scanning anxiously for more icebergs even as he rushed at a then-breakneck speed towards the survivors.

"Icebergs loomed up and fell astern and we never slackened. It was an anxious time with the Titanic's fateful experience very close in our minds. There were 700 souls on Carpathia and those lives as well as the survivors of the Titanic herself depended on the sudden turn of the wheel."
-Captain Arthur H. Rostron, Commander of Carpathia

It was only at daybreak, in the light of the morning sun, that Rostron saw the ocean was littered with bergs--small and large--through which he had steamed over the previous hours. "I shuddered," he said, "and could only think that some other hand than mine was on the helm that night."

The arrival of the Carpathia was almost too good to be true for the survivors who had endured the cold, shock, and uncertainty of the night. Passengers aboard the rescue liners gave up their own cabins in order to house the refugees, and when the last was rescued, Rostron turned for New York, leaving the now-aware Californian to keep looking for more survivors, if any.

By the time the Carpathia arrived in New York Harbor, the entire world of course had heard of the disaster, but hoped against hope that it was only a rumor, or at least that most had survived. But instead of a triumphant liner completing her maiden voyage and docking in her designated sloop, only the lifeboats were lowered in tribute to the water--the last remains, as it were. Then it was real.

The sixteen lifeboats at Titanic's empty dock in New York Harbor.

Let the Truth be known, no ship is unsinkable. The bigger the ship, the easier it is to sink her. I learned long ago that if you design how a ship’ll sink, you can keep her afloat. I proposed all the watertight compartments and the double hull to slow these ships from sinking. In that way, you get everyone off. There’s time for help to arrive, and the ship’s less likely to break apart and kill someone while she’s going down." -Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland and Wolff Shipyards

The infamous bow of the Titanic, where it has rested for 98 years, two miles below the Atlantic surface.

You Say Potato

2010-03-06T09:45:00.000-08:00

I got the same chain email from a few people this week; it was a photo of President Obama carrying a book entitled "The Post-American World" by Fareed Zakaria.

In the email, the original sender (whoever he or she is) urged friends to forward the image on to their email lists, intending to "bring the bugger down through the internet". The email went on to say:

THIS WILL CURDLE YOUR BLOOD AND CURL YOUR HAIR
"Post" America means the world After America! Please forward this picture to everyone you know, conservative or liberal. We must expose Obama's radical ideas and his intent to bring down our beloved America!

Sheesh.

Now, I'm a fervent believer in expressing one's opinion--even if I disagree with that opinion. These individuals have a perfect right to say what they wish about Zakaria's book or the fact that Obama was reading it--back in the summer of '08, by the way--before he was even president. They even have the right to point out that Zakaria is Muslim, although I find that distinction rather unnecessary and churlish and smacking of bigotry. However, what I do have a problem with is people expressing opinions based on erroneous assumptions or misinterpretation.

"The Post-American World" is NOT about the world after America has been "brought down". It is a treatise/thesis on the impact of the United States' in fostering global democracy, and how other countries have taken up the US model in economics, industry, and cultural development as a free society. It also talks about how America has been the foremost world power for over a century, and how other countries such as China have risen to become powers in their own right in a post-industrialized and more global society. One day, the United States may be neck-and neck with China in terms of world influence and power; Western civilization, and to a great extent, America, has had a huge impact on that development. What I understood from reading Zakaria's work is that this book is not about the fall of the United States. It's about the progress and growth of--well, everyone else, and what the US role in a world of equals or near-equals may be. A quote from the book:

The world is moving from anger to indifference, from anti-Americanism to post-Americanism. The fact that new powers are more strongly asserting their interests is the reality of the post-American world. It also raises the political conundrum of how to achieve international objectives in a world of many actors, state and nonstate.

Far from being a book calling for US annihilation, it holds the US as being a primary force for development and stability in the modern era that is being emulated by other countries and societies. Ultimately, with such growth, it would be optimal for those developing and increasingly influential societies to act in concert to achieve common goals that affect the entire planet.

Zakaria, a Muslim, is a naturalized US citizen of Indian descent. Growing up in India, he had an extremely open and secular upbringing, singing Christian hymns at school as well as celebrating both Hindu and Muslim holidays. (Frankly, it doesn't matter to me if he sang Irish Shanty songs and worshipped the Greek pantheon.) He is a graduate of Yale University with a Ph.D. in political science from Harvard University. He was also editor of Newsweek International and wrote a famous cover essay for the publication after the 9/11 attacks entitled, "Why They Hate Us". His argument was that Islamic extremism's roots lay in dysfunction and stagnation of the Arab world--people clinging ferociously to the old ways of doing things and smothering their own growth with anger and rage.

In that article, he defended the US and called for more inter-generational efforts in the Muslim world to create more open, dynamic, and fluid Arab societies--insisting that Islam should be brought into the modern world, and not remain stuck in the fugue of fundamentalist violence begat by antiquated laws, fear of change, and archaic, literal interpretation of the Koran.

If you would like to read that article, try this link: The Politics of Rage

Other books by Zakaria include: From Wealth to Power: the Unusual Origins of America's World Role, and The Future of Freedom. He was co-editor of The American Encounter: The United States and the Making of the Modern World. He is a prolific and respected commentator and writer on international relations, trade relations, and American foreign policy.

The day we become anti-American for reading a book, we're in deep trouble. And the old adage applies here...don't judge the book by its cover. Let's at least find out what's between the pages before condemning it.

Sucked (heh) In

2009-12-08T11:21:00.000-08:00

I am mortified at myself. Truly aghast. Shamed. I can no longer hold my head up and face my friends and family.

I started reading the Twilight saga.

My background as an English major and a reader of erudition has taken a nosedive into the morass of popular culture, and for that I am chagrined. But you know, I have to admit--grudgingly--that it's a pretty darn good story. Not the best written novel I've ever come across, but the story...surprisingly compelling. I've been avoiding the whole Twilight-Edward Cullen-Robert Pattinson frenzy ever since the books came out, and then when the film debuted--Well, I sniffed, I just don't see the point. Wasn't it some kind of teen/tween-oriented bullshit anyway?

Silly me. Never turn your nose up at anything, chilluns. You might find yourself eating your words with a side salad and a glass of wine.

Off to read now. And yeah, I've already seen the first movie. Waiting for the second one to come out on DVD.....

Sigh.

Irish

Coyote Uglies

2009-09-23T09:37:00.000-07:00

Poor Jessica Simpson. Her adorable little Malti-Poo was snatched by a coyote and likely made the entree for that night's dinner. She put out flyers, offered a reward, even hired a petfinding agency in the slim hope that maybe little Daisy might have survived and was trying to find her way home. A lot of people evidently made fun of Simpson for that, which I think is cruel. Vain though the hope was that her dog lived, I can understand it. If anything like that ever happened to Billy, I'd be out of my mind with grief. We all deal with it in different ways. My hope is that at least Daisy's death was a quick one.

Coyotes are a big problem here in the southwest. Just the other day, one of my own neighbors lost her cat to one. The beast came right into her backyard. Poor Deb tried to fight the coyote even as it had the cat in its teeth, and got her arms scratched all to hell and back during the struggle. The coyote won, unfortunately.

Although they're primarily nocturnal hunters--like javelina--I'm very careful about letting Billy out on his lead line. Nowadays we get up early enough that the sun is just rising, and there's still a risk of predators trying to get a last meal in before they tuck in for the day. I've taken to going outside with Billy, coffee in one hand and my big, heavy walking stick in the other. I'll bash the hell out of any coyote or javelina that tries to go after him.

I'll have another post going up--hopefully later today--about another topic. There's a little movie a couple of friends of mine made, and yours truly is the publicist. So I'm using my blog, Facebook, and Twitter pages as extra ammunition, along with my arsenal of Rolodex numbers and emails to various editors and media managers. I spent part of last week sending the usual press releases and calls out to promote the film's nomination at Chicago Horror Fest. It's called "From a Place of Darkness", and it's an excellent film. Not your usual slasher-masher-bloody-gorefest.

Until I post the entry, go check out this link: From A Place of Darkness
Ta, everyone! See ya later...

The Week that Was

2009-09-05T09:51:00.000-07:00

You know how it's said that everything happens in threes? Well, the universe sure kicked my ass this week. Horrible seven days for me. I really thought at one point I was going to have some sort of meltdown, dive under the covers in a foetal position and just stay there until...well, ever.

Monday morning I wake up to the cheery revelation that my refrigerator had broken down. My freezer had defrosted itself, and water was dripping into my crisper drawer at an alarming rate. I tried everything; checked the outlet, checked the fuse box, switched the breakers on and off--no go. The fridge light works, so I know it's getting power, but the motor wasn't running. So that morning consisted of running round frantically, dumping my freezer food into a neighbor's unit next door, cleaning up the mess in the fridge, and loading my cooler with ice so that I could salvage what was left. You know how much RV refrigerators cost retail? It's astronomical--$1500 or so. And they're hard to find secondhand. I just about cried.

Then on Tuesday I find that my stinkin' bank overdrafted me because I was four cents short on a purchase. Yeah, you read that right. Four lousy pennies. And so I got nailed with several $35 NSF fees, because of course everything else that posted after the first overdraft...was short. I'm dumping them this time. I've had enough of that crap from them. Being charged that much money for such a small error is ridiculous, and the banks are legally executing robbery. I'm just done. And I had to hoard what money I had left this week after paying bills.

So after about a day or two of panic and another day of sulking, I set about attempting to find ways of resolving these issues. Shot off a letter to the CEO of my bank, just to make myself feel better, though I don't know if it'll do me any good. Figured out a budget so that I can pay back the overdrafts, and started working on getting new jobs so that maybe I can either fix my fridge or buy a new/used one. A friend of mine in a neighboring town said he has an RV unit I can have; he's going to see if it still works, and if it does, he'll bring it over. Cross your fingers for me.

Then number three hit this morning. I woke up and found that my cooler had started leaking during the night--not too bad, but there was a definitive damp spot spreading underneath my rug. Sigh. Outside I hauled the cooler, next to the door, and began plopping old towels onto my floor and stomping on them to try and absorb as much of the moisture as I could before mildew could set in. (I can't yank the carpet up because there's too much furniture and whatnot holding it down.) Since it was only really damp and not wet--I lifted one corner to check underneath for pooling puddles and there weren't any--I think it should be all right. Problem may be that it's a really damp, overcast morning, so it may take a while. If the weather improves, however, I should have it dried by evening.

All in all, not a great week for me. But now that my three catastrophes have hit, I am projecting that things will get better from here on out. Only good things now. These things will not defeat me.

If y'all have a minute, send a positive thought my way. I could use it. :)

Between Heaven and Earth...

2009-08-30T13:06:00.000-07:00

"Lakewood"

This is the only photo I have in my collection of our other summer camp; my much loved cousin Bren has told me she has many more she can send me when she unpacks her new home, so she'll send some to me in a few weeks. Anticipation!

I can't remember the actual name of the lake; we called it "Lakewood" because directly across the water was Lakewood Theater, a beautiful summer stock program that featured some rather fantastic actors. Some were famous, some not--but they were always wonderful. I believe I saw my first production of "Godspell" there--one of my favorite plays. Years later, I played The Prostitute at another program and had the time of my life. Always wondered what it would have been like, though, to play it at Lakewood.

This camp was near Skowhegan, Maine, near Madison, and the lake was ringed with cute little cottages, clapboard homes, boats, canoes, docks, and splashing children. Unlike Guagas, it was heavily popular and populated; there was no sense of isolation here. As much as I liked our more remote retreat, Lakewood was my favorite place to go every summer, and I looked forward eagerly to the day when we'd pack our car and start the journey north. For a girl like myself, who wasn't all that outdoorsy, Lakewood was my idea of a summer camp. We had hot and cold running water, a real bathroom, a fully equipped kitchen (small though it was), and electricity. If memory serves, we didn't have a telephone, but neighbors to the right and left did, so we were always able to contact someone if necessary.

There is a beautiful, expansive backyard that spreads down about five hundred feet to the somewhat rocky shoreline. Dad built a gorgeous dock that jutted out into the lake, and we'd have loads of fun having contests to see who could run and jump the furthest. My grandfather was a pilot and owned a Cessna...110, I think--a two-seat floater plane, and would literally park it out on the lake in front of the dock. This served as the marker point for swimming races. The water was clear and cool; you could see everything when you went under and opened your eyes. We'd swim out and drape our arms over the Cessna's floats, just dangling in the water, while tiny little fish would curiously nibble at our toes.

We had several boats; nothing fancy, but there was a small Sunfish-type sailboat, a motorboat, rowboat, and I think at least two canoes. My entire family tried so hard to teach me how to water ski, but I was a wuss. Having a deaf ear meant that my balance was just crappy, and for a preadolescent, there is nothing worse than feeling inadequately dorky in front of your conversely athletic and poised sister and cousins. Amy took to skiing like...well, like a duck to water, and Bren and her sister Cap were equally proficient, as were my father and grandparents. I was perfectly content to sit in the back of the boat and operate as lookout, shouting to the driver when a skier wiped out in the water. I loved being on the boats, but I was terrified of trying to get up on those skis. Now, I realize I was completely capable of doing it, but it was the potential humiliation that stymied me and prevented it from happening. I've still never managed to get past that particular childhood obstacle.

Canoe fights, however, were fun for me; me, Amy, my cousins, and the two girls next door with whom we hung out and played with nearly every day would pile into the boats and proceed to go to war with our oars and any other weaponry we could invent or pilfer, trying to knock our opponents out of their canoes or, better yet, sinking them in it. There were really no rules, and we were diabolical in our pursuit of championship, ending up either drenched to the bone or submerged in ignominy along with the fish. I would usually bail as soon as it looked like our canoe was about to go under, leaping gleefully clear of the doomed vessel, not caring if I was fully clothed or not. Then I'd swim over and try to tip the other team's canoe.

Mom was pretty happy when I was outdoors, being active and playing with the other kids, but I also loved reading for hours on end. Sometimes I'd find a quiet spot somewhere on the grounds and tuck into a good book--okay, I was hiding--or I'd sit on the dock while the others cavorted with waterskis and sailed. But my favorite spot was the sunporch. It was a beautiful, rustic room in the back of our small cottage, surrounded on three sides by windows that let the sun drench the walls with warmth and light. A porch swing hung invitingly at one end, and tucked into the wall was a massive collection of comic books. Good ones. Archie, Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, The Justice League--even a couple of Superboy and Supergirls. I would lie back on that swing for literally hours, a stack of comics on the table next to me, a cool drink in my hand, and my nose buried avidly in the stories. It was a source of consternation to my mother--she just couldn't understand why in the world I would prefer to stay on that porch and read instead of being out in the sun and the wind and the water. My perception was; there's gonna be another sunny day tomorrow. Today I want to read for awhile; is that so wrong? It got to the point where my parents would let me read only during certain hours or if it was raining. For a while that worked, but now that I'm forty, I can reveal that I managed to sneak books and comics into secret locations and disappear to read them. One ideal spot was the graveyard across the lane; I'd tuck myself up behind a tree or one of the monuments, and they'd never find me there.

I was a rather bookish, isolated girl, mostly because of my own insecuriaties. I was a skinny, pale-skinned, awkward black-haired little girl with buck teeth. My sister and cousins, however, were athletic, tanned, poised, active, and absolutely gorgeous creatures who looked amazing with their hair wet and who could get up on waterskis. No thanks, I thought. I'll stick with James Clavell's Shogun.

Heh.

They're still gorgeous and graceful, and I'm still awkward and I weigh too much, but that's another blog entry...

However, I wasn't a total recluse. I'd get up early in the morning and go fishing with my dad. Despite the fact that I was no more of a morning person then than I am now, I loved that time with him, and would willingly forego my warm bed or tent to load up the boat with fishing poles, tackle, and bait, and go out on the water with him in the predawn hours. I wrote an article about it once:

Once we were in the boat, out in the middle of the lake, my grumbling stopped, and by the time Dad and I started back towards shore, answering my mother's breakfast bell, I was always happy I had come, whether or not I had caught anything...Flashes of memory come back to me; the blue rowboat Daddy and I would sit in for hours, our lines in the water, no sound over the lake except a few early-rising loons. I remember it was peaceful--so much so that it was tempting to just go back to sleep. but then my line might give a little tug, and my energy was suddenly renewed, like an electric shock through my body. All fatigue was forgotten as I carefully reeled the line as my father gently encouraged and instructed me.

Although it has been many years since I've picked up a fishing rod and tackle, I remember the elation of catching a good-sized trout and knowing I'd be eating it for breakfast that morning. It didn't matter if Dad caught more fish than I did, or if we got none at all, really. It was the effort and the work athat went into it that mattered--and the time I got to spend with my father that was just ours.

Dad taught me how to gut and clean my own fish, and we'd have our fresh catch at breakfast that day. It's one of my fondest memories; being out on the lake watching the sun come up with him, and hearing my grandmother ring that bell to call us in to eat, the sound of it unmistakeably clear across the quiet water...and we'd haul in anchor and head home, ready to begin another idyllic day at Lakewood.

Gone Fishin'....

The Girl in the Picture

2009-08-20T08:25:00.000-07:00

The photo that you now see adorning my blog was taken when I was about 8 years old. We had two lake houses in Maine where we vacationed each year. When this photo was snapped, we were in a remote area near Ellsworth, where our family maintained a little, rustic, one-room cabin in the woods. It had no running water, no electricity, and a privy for which to answer the call of nature. The lake itself was more of a marsh, with snapping turtles and multitudes of frogs, and I remember myself, my sister Amy, and my cousins would spend half the day catching and releasing the little critters just for fun. There was a huge sawdust pile about a thousand feet or so from the cabin, and it was ideal for use as a slide into the water below. Or as a diving platform from which to launch yourself. Nearby, there were vast fields of wild Maine blueberries, and we'd make a day of going out with big buckets to harvest the juicy morsels. Fresh muffins and blueberry pancakes were a staple food each morning, and because we'd literally pick bushels of berries, we'd freeze boatloads of them and have them throughout the year.

It was all very Huck-Finnish, and I doubt back then we realized how lucky we were to have a place like that, something that was constant and fun and which we looked forward to every year. We were lucky, and I feel very fortunate to have had such a great childhood experience.

It was such a remote location that we couldn't drive in to get there - we had to hike for about three hours on a very rough, unmaintained road instead. We would travel there by car or truck to a designated stopping point--if I remember correctly, it was some kind of radio tower--get out, and start gearing up for the onerous foot journey. We'd change our clothes -- something that protected us from the ubiquitous mosquitoes and other bug life. Usually it was white turtlenecks, hats with pull-down netting, much bug spray, and good sturdy boots. After that, we'd haul our individual backpacks up and begin the trek.

I remember hating that walk; mostly because I am and was a fundamentally lazy girl. If I could have had a sampan and a couple of strapping boys to lift me up and carry me in, I would have been perfectly happy to make the journey, but alas, it was not to be. And even when we got to the cabin, we couldn't quite relax, because there was a good hour or more of setting up camp. Mom would have to get after me time and again to get off my butt and help out; I was always trying to tuck myself in a corner and hope like hell I wouldn't be noticed until everything was done. Heh.

But once camp was set up, the cabin opened, canoe perched happily at the edge of the shore, we had so much fun. Today I think I'd be pretty squeamish about swimming in that lake, with it slimy, soggy bottom and the various lifeforms that resided therein. But when you're a kid, things like that don't faze you in the least. When I wasn't burying my nose in a book (which was quite often--another thing Mom got after me about), I was joyfully playing in the water with my sister--and my cousins, if we were all there at the same time.

We haven't been there in many years, and I miss it every now and again. Recently my Mom lent me her computer, and there were some great photos of us back then. As I sifted through them, I was suffused with nostalgia, wondering if the sawdust pile was still there, or if it had eroded to a mere memory. Our camp log, which every member of the family had faithfully written in during each visit, had been stolen in one of many thefts and raids over the years, so a lot of our memories had been lost along with it. Whoever the bastards are that raided that place and took our stuff, may God visit that karma back on you tenfold. What we had there wasn't much, but it was important to us, and you just came in and took it because you felt like it. Assholes.

At any rate, my cousins and I just got back in touch through the magic of Facebook, and it's really wonderful to be able to send them messages and stay in contact again. I've missed them a lot, and am so happy to hear that they're all doing so well. Hopefully we'll all be able to get together one day and have some fun again as a group. That would be the coolest thing.

Tomorrow I'll write about our other lake house and post some more images, but for now, I'll leave you with some previews. Ain't we adorable?

Me and Sis and the Sawdust Pile. My hair has not improved or tamed in the intervening decades.

Getting geared up for the hike to camp. Check out Amy's rockin' pants!

Morning coffee and cocoa with Mom.

BANZAI! Amy takes the leap.

Oink

2009-08-18T14:10:00.000-07:00

For those of you who were asking and wondering, here is a visual aid to accompany yesterday's post:

This is a Javelina. Nasty lookin' little shitter, innit?

By the Seat of My Pants

2009-08-18T07:50:00.000-07:00

Yay! I got paid! This is a nice thing, even though I'll only have a brief, shining moment to admire my own largesse before pretty much all of it goes back out again to the billz. Ah, well. At least I'll have insurance and contact lenses - two very important things for driving. I may even splurge and buy propane a week early. Wheee!

This week I am determined to ferret out and query some new magazines for whom to dazzle with my writing prowess. Maybe I can even con them into buying and reprinting some previously published work - that's always really cool. You get paid for doing virtually nothing except getting the proper permissions and perhaps a quick edit. So basically, I get paid twice for a piece I may have written two years ago. Sweet.

I had a busy day today. A friend of mine had outpatient eye surgery this morning, so I drove her in to the next town over, dropped her off, and then went gallivanting off in search of a grooming mitt for Billy. Ya know, those rubber things that look like potholders, only with bristles on either side. You can brush your dog--or cat--and give them a little cuddle at the same time. I borrowed one from a friend, and Billy loved it so much that I resolved to find one for him. Alas, no joy. I evidently went to every shop in town except those that have the mitts in stock. I'll try again in a couple of weeks when I go food shopping. There are a few more places I can hit.

After this fruitless search, I drove over to the Visitor's Center to see a friend who works there--hung out for an hour or so catching up. Then it was off to pick up my vision-challenged pal for the drive home. By the time I got back, it was nearly 1pm, so I wanted to finish this blog entry before I have to go into Tombstone to get some stuff out of storage. Wouldn't you know, the damn Blogger service somehow lost my login information again--insisting vehemently that "that account doesn't exist". AAARRGH! Took me several refreshes, a bootdown of the computer, a maniacal call to Google (who was no help at all, thank you very much), and a few primal screams before I managed to get back in. And I just KNOW it'll happen again. I'm Irish. That's what happens to us.

So anyway, I was planning to write something interesting and perhaps profound in this entry, but find that my nerves and my patience are both worn too thin to attempt such erudition. Maybe I'll manage it later in 140 characters or less on Twitter. I suppose anything is possible.
For now, I'm going to get a quick shower and buzz up to the storage unit before it's time to feed Billy and myself. Toodles, everyone. I'll try and be more bedazzling tomorrow.

This Little Piggy Went to Market

2009-08-17T07:10:00.000-07:00

It is 7:15 AM, and I've been up for forty-five minutes. Being the veritable antithesis of a morning person, this shocks me as much as it would anyone who has known me for a couple of hours. I do not LIKE getting up early, and never have, but ever since moving out to Arizona, a strange phenomena has manifested itself. You see, Arizona doesn't observe Daylight Savings Time--which I love, because we never have to deal with the nonsense of changing clocks and circadian rhythms--so, consequently, around late spring, the sun comes up earlier and the days are longer. Back in New England, even in summer, it was still blue-pink dark at 7am; who wanted to get up? It was difficult for me to do, especially when I was working a regular job, but not much easier even when I worked at home. I'd have to set my alarm for three different times just to make sure I didn't stay in bed most of the morning.

Anyway, now--not so much. And it's kinda nice. One benefit is that it's so much cooler in the early to midmorning here, and I can get a lot of stuff done around the house and yard before the temperature becomes too much for me. My appetite is better; I actually eat a healthy breakfast sometimes BEFORE having coffee (another detail which should shock my friends and family). Around 9-10AM it'll start getting hotter, and about 11am I start kicking on either the fan or the AC and try to stay as cool as possible until evening comes. But the mornings are nice, and I'm glad I'm able to enjoy them.

This morning I got up before Billy did--also unusual, but evidently he was too comfortable snuggled in his little blanket, nose tucked between his paws. He waited while I washed my face, flossed, and started the coffee before rising on all fours in a luxurious, spine-popping stretch, his tiny bum pointed skyward in a canine display of laziness. When he saw me observing him from the doorway, he immediately flopped over in one motion to beg for a belly scratch, grinning at me as only your dog can do. Of course this is irresistible, so for the next five minutes he managed to fleece me into a full body massage before finally getting up, giving himself a shake, and trotting to the door for his morning constitutional.

We live in a small valley-like depression on the outskirts of Tombstone with a fantastic view of the Dragoon Mountain Range and the Chiracahuas to the East. I took a moment after putting Billy on his line to appreciate the beauty of a Southern desert sunrise before shuffling back into the kitchen to pour my coffee and turn the computer on. After a few moments, as I always do, I went to check on him as a safety precaution.

Good thing I did. He was on point, just outside of the door, staring off to the south. Following his eyeline, I was greeted with the sight of an impressively-sized Javelina just 100 feet away. Aforementioned Javelina was gazing at Billy with equal and unbridled interest.

Now, if you've never seen or heard of a Javelina, go look on Wikipedia. They're the ugliest creatures that God ever made. With high shoulders that slope down into a stubby rear end, they kind of look like a cross between a pig, a hyena, and a really big rat. Beady little eyes, coarse fur, and a snout festooned with little tusklike teeth complete this unholy vision. They're just hideous; there's no way around the fact. These little ferkers are indigenous to the Southwest, and are found throughout Mexico and Central America.

I could deal with their general unattractiveness if they didn't have temperaments to match. Their ugliness is compounded by the fact that they're plain nasty, mean, aggressive and sneaky little sons of bitches. Woe betide anyone who is unfortunate enough to get between a female and her pups (which are actually kind of cute), and God help you if you run afoul of a pack. They have no fear of humans, and they like the occasional free snack.

Which brings me back to Billy and his throwdown challenge to the little bastard across the way. Billy is, as I've said, a Miniature Pinscher. He is teeny, although if you asked him, he'd say he was as big and tough as a Rottweiler. At fourteen pounds, he'd barely make an hors d'oeurve for the piggy that was sizing him up, although I'm sure Piggy wouldn't have complained. Whatever he was rooting for at my neighbor's house paled in comparison to the juicy morsel Billy presented, judging by the look of intense concentration he displayed.

Both animals were stock-still, Billy straining the tension on his line, while Piggy lowered his head a few inches as if to get a better look. Here I broke a cardinal desert rule--it's not a good idea to go outside barefoot. Critters, cacti, stickers, and other flotsam and jetsam can end up in your skin, and are more often than not extremely difficult and painful to get out. Thinking only of getting Billy out of harm's way, I barreled out the door and snatched him up, giving Piggy the dirtiest, most menacing look I could muster. Unfazed, Piggy continued to stare as I carried Billy back inside. Piggy continued to stare for a few minutes until, with a porcine shrug, he went back to his foraging.

Folks, if you've never been to or lived in the desert, there are things you should remember to do as a rule: Have lots of water on hand, because you can drop from heat exhaustion before you even start to sweat. Keep an eye out at all times for snakes, because they can hide literally in plain sight. Shake your shoes out before donning them, because scorpions love to crawl into the toes and hide there, and those stingers HURT. And always, always, always check your environment in the early morning and early evening for cougar, coyote, and the annoying, peckish, and frighteningly implacable javelina.

Emerging From the Ether

2009-08-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay...yeah, it's been three YEARS since I last blogged. So sue me. It's been an eventful three years. I've been writing some stuff I actually got paid for, which was great, got a job and then got laid off--which wasn't so great. In all the melee, the blog kinda got lost in the shuffle. You know how that can go.

Anyway, I'm still in Arizona, and loving it. I don't think I'll ever go back to living in New England again, although I'll visit. My sister is there, and my niece and nephew, so of course I'll want to see them regularly. But I can live happily without ever seeing snow and sleet again, not to mention subzero temperatures. Not my idea of fun.

Well, what else is new? I got a dog....a little MinPin named Billy, who has now been with me for...well, three years now. I got him almost literally my first week out here. He's a rescue dog. I didn't go to the shelter with the intention of adopting--I was just going to check out a dog-walking job. But there he was, peering up at me from his cage, looking so tiny. Then they let him out to run and visit with me, and he was a little ball of energy rocketing across the yard. The next thing I knew, I had written a check for $25, had a carrying kennel, toys, and dog dishes in my Jeep, along with a very excited and happy little runt of a dog. Go figure. I'll post pictures of him as soon as I remember how one does that, but for now, you can go to my twitter pic page and check him out at http://www.twitpic.com/photos/Rowaenthe . He's a little love, but boy, he runs me ragged.

Not much to write at the moment--I had an epic struggle trying to recover my username and password to reclaim this blog, and that in and of itself was frustrating enough. My brain isn't on creative mode at the moment, but give it time. It'll kick back in.

Hope to see some comments soon--when I write something worth commenting on. Have a great Sunday, everybody!

A Long Way Since Tipperary

2007-11-05T18:50:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm back!

I know, it's been over six months since my last post, but hey, I've been busy moving cross-country and getting settled--plus a lot of stuff happened that snowballed to mammoth proportions. So much so that I felt like a candle in the middle of an avalanche.

Anyway, just wanted to let everyone know I'm alive and well and finally able to begin writing here again, and with more frequency than half-year intervals. Sorry if anyone worried about me. Got a post coming up for this weekend, so stay tuned. Hope everyone is well!

Irish

The Turkey Has Landed

2007-05-19T08:35:00.000-07:00

Helloooooooooo!!!

I really, really, REALLY am so very sorry that it's been so long since my last post. As most of my readers (all five of you) know, I up and packed my Jeep and moved 3000 miles west, in an extremely short span of time. Every time I thought of writing an entry, something else came up and I never did get round to it. Plus, it's time consuming setting up house and getting a job. Who knew?

All right, so...details.

Back in late February, I was reminiscing to a friend of mine about when I lived in Arizona. We got to talking about it in depth, and I found myself feeling quite homesick for the desert--as I often did on occasion when I thought of the time I lived here. I'd been missing it for a few years, and always figured, well, one day we'll look at going back.

Anyway, on impulse, I pulled out my laptop and logged on to check airline prices--just for shits and giggles. Whaddaya know, there was a rock-bottom, once-in-a-blue-moon round trip ticket available for $300. I don't know what came over me, but I forthwith pulled my virgin Visa card out and booked the ticket right then and there. Something told me that it was the right thing to do. Didn't understand it then. Still don't quite understand it now, but as it turned out, I'm glad I listened.

Flash forward to March 3, and I'm on the airplane, zooming at 30,000 feet in a pressurized tube with 145 other passengers and praying to God I don't get someone's cold before touching down in Tucson. The food is bad enough; getting sick would just have been kicking me when I was down.

To make a long story short, I loved every minute of my two weeks in Arizona, which I labeled a vacation/job scout to justify my gleeful cavorting in the Southern Desert. Almost immediately I knew I didn't want to live in Tucson again; it's gotten waaayyy too big for my taste--they hit a population of 1.4 million about two years ago, and the city is enormous. Much more so than when I lived there before. Too much crime, too many people, too many traffic accidents where people die. Uh-uh.

I've been visiting Tombstone since I was ten and first came out here to visit my grandfather during summers. You may have heard of Tombstone. It was 125 years ago that eight or nine guys went at each other with guns and rifles behind a corral, and thus immortalized the town as the epitome of the "Wild West". Earps and Clantons...some such fellows. Three men died in the shootout and found their eternal rest over in Boothill Cemetery, while the others went on to achieve either ignominious deaths or an insane level of fame. I'll tell y'all about that stuff later.

But yes, I live less than a block from the famous OK Corral, and work right across the street from it.

I'm getting ahead of myself. That's what happens when you don't post in a while; all your darks and colors get thrown in the wash together. Forget separating. Anyway, I chose to come back and live here. I had no firm job offer, really--unless you count the fact that my friend Sherri said I could work at her restaurant when I got back. Which at least was money coming in while I looked for full-time employment. But again, somehow I knew it would work out. So I flew back home to New Hampshire and began packing immediately.

Whatever I could squeeze into my Jeep I kept. Everything else got sold or given away in one weekend during my moving out sale. We all say it, but it's still astounding to realize how much we accumulate in a relatively short time. I couldn't believe how much stuff I had. I mean, I'm only one woman. When I first came to New Hampshire from West Virginia (via Los Angeles), I had nothing but my clothes, a television set, and my computer. That was about it. Now, five or so years later, I was divesting myself of possessions that could have supported a small Puerto Rican family.

After packing the Jeep and closing up my apartment, I spent a few days with my sister before finally heading out in the early morning of April 6. I won't bore everyone with the travelogue; suffice it to say that I have seen the heartland, and it was beautiful, but there was too much of it.

Ohio, the state in which I was actually born, was cold and unpredictably snowy, what with the Lake Effect. One minute I could see perfectly where I was going, then the next, a complete white-out. Indiana and Illinios had a lot of corn. Miles of corn. So much corn that I literally got on my cell phone to friends and family and begged them to chat with me for a few minutes to save me from the boredom.

I saw more cows than I hope ever to see again in my lifetime. They're all in Oklahoma. If the cows decided to band together and have a rebellion, they'd win that state in no time flat. Mind-boggling. Hereford, Texas, was the only place that may have had more cows, but it was hard to tell, since the Herefords were packed like sardines into huge pens. I thought it was wood before I got a closer look. I was so appalled at the conditions the poor things had to live in that I averted my eyes for the rest of the trip through that town.

Missouri was cool. I got to see the famous St. Louis arch, and even got pictures of it on my cell phone--at great peril and risk to life and limb. I haven't figured out how to transfer them to my computer, or I'd show them to you. Maybe one day soon that'll happen. My spirits lifted when I saw it, though--knowing I was officially at "The Gateway to the West" did wonders for my morale.

Roswell, New Mexico was bigger than I thought it would be. Also more normal. I didn't see a single alien, unless you count the ones that slid across the border of Mexico illegally. Very disappointing, actually. Maybe the outer space aliens have a condo community just outside of town, complete with enclosures and a gate guard.

White Sands, New Mexico was annoying. It went on forever and was populated with brainy NASA employees who have better Wal-Marts than the rest of us. Johnson Space Center's parking lot is bigger than Yankee Stadium. Too many people with too many expensive cars. But the sand was pretty.

When I crossed the state line into Arizona, I let out a triumphant, exultant whoop. If anyone had been able to see or hear me, I'm sure they'd have pegged me as a lunatic. But three days of driving will do that to you. The moment I saw my beloved Dragoon Mountains in the distance, my entire body relaxed, and I knew I was twenty minutes from home.

I pulled into the carport of my "new" house at 11:34 am on April 9. Three and a half days and 2,675 miles after I had started out. And my Jeep was still in fine form. The first thing I did was go and get something to eat, since I was starving. Called everyone and let them know I had arrived safely. Then I collapsed onto the little twin bed a friend had set up for me and was unconscious within minutes. Unpacking could wait another day.

More later!

Irish

Ya Learn Something New

2007-03-24T14:00:00.000-07:00

You just never know what interesting things you might learn when you visit and comment on your friends' blogspots. Have a look at the following, and make sure you read the comments section, and click on the link provided in one of the replies. That's the most important part.

I give you Torquemada Unleashed. Courtesy of the incomparable Jean.

Outta Dodge

2007-03-19T11:45:00.000-07:00

I just returned from Arizona after a 10-day visit, and am now in the full throes of organizing and packing up my life. I swore when I moved into this place that I'd never move again, because I loathe moving. They say it's one of the top three things that is most stressful. I think the other two are divorce and taxes. I can feel my anxiety and blood pressure rising exponentially with each new day.

Anyway, I wanted to drop a quick post to let everyone know that I am indeed moving to Arizona, and am on the fast track to get out of here and on the road by the end of the month. Hence, I may not be able to write for a couple of weeks. Once I get settled in my beloved Tombstone, I'll be back online and writing all about my new home. It's a pretty famous town, even though it only has 2000 residents. I've missed it there. Can't wait till this is all over and I'm settled. Did I mention I hate moving?

Irish

History Repeating

2007-02-21T11:02:00.000-08:00

The other day I ranted at Britney Spears' mother in this blog, asking where the hell has she been while her daughter was falling apart in front of our eyes. Well, I want to retract that rant and in its place issue an apology.

From what I've been able to find out, Mama Spears did try--several times--to intervene, even to the point of near-bullying her daughter to get help. So did her father. It appears that Britney is the only one who doesn't want to take action. As of 1pm today, it has been learned that she has again checked herself out of rehab at Promises in Malibu--again, after less than 24 hours in the facility.

I don't know if anyone is going to be able to help her. Things are falling apart, and the center is not holding. We may be looking at another Anna Nicole situation, and God bless her family for trying to stop it.

Blackjack Jesus

2007-02-18T10:31:00.000-08:00

I have to say, I was a bit enamoured of my glib turn of phrase the other day. I even congratulated myself on my literary wit. However, Jean, in her generosity and brilliance, actually caught it by the tail and turned it into a catchphrase that I now love even more. She's just better at that than I am. Plus, her writing is just wonderful, and I always enjoy reading anything she has to say.

It got me thinking. I've been catching up on my blog as well as other friends' blogs, emails, and the like. Brock had sent me a lovely email a while back, and I read some of his always gentle and optimistic posts, despite some hardships he's having at the moment. His wife Auny had some interesting entries on her website about faith, too. Now, I'm not by any means a devoutly religious person, as I've said before. I consider myself a questioning Christian, if indeed I can call myself a Christian at all. As I've also said before--maybe not here on this blog, but I think I said it on Brock's--I believe that everyone probably has a piece of the God puzzle, and I also think that sometimes people get too bolluxed up in scripture, squabble too much over doctrine, and miss the big picture. Everything gets blown out of proportion so much that they forget what their original fight was really all about. And all I can think is, God is either up there shaking his head in defeat, or laughing his ass off at the silliness of the human race.

God and Jesus are gamblers and gamesmen. And their prophets? So was Bhudda, and so was Mohammed. Moses was a rather compulsive crapshooter, and Abraham was the most consummate poker player of all the prophets; the man looked God in the eye and bluffed Him down on Sodom and Gomorrah. The Earth is a giant casino, and world history as we know it is full of improbable gambles--not the least of which was the creation of homo sapiens.

I realize that people may look askance and aghast at me for what appears to be blatant blasphemy. If a hardcore fundamentalist got near me, I'm sure he'd be in fear for my soul and try to save it from the fiery pits of Hell. However, irreverence is not disrespect, and I maintain that a dose of humor to go along with theology is a healthy thing. It keeps you from getting into that bolluxed-up state I was talking about. Laughter is a universal leveler and it keeps things in perspective.

Jesus had a sense of humor, you know. What group of young men would drop everything they had--their families, friends, and livelihoods--and follow a guy who was somber, gloomy, and portentious all day and all night for three years? Galloping around the Galilee, depending on the kindness of strangers for food and shelter? I don't know about you, but I have a hard time believing the disciples would have stuck with Jesus as long as they did if he wasn't a fun guy to be around. The hordes of people who came from all over to hear him preach must have seen a dynamic and entertaining speaker--who wants to traipse out of town for a day to hear someone drone on with maddening brevity or hurling invective? Yuck. If I want that kind of crap, I'll watch American Idol.

Then there were the children; the New Testament tells the story that when the disciples tried to keep the kids from bothering the Rabbi, Jesus chastised them, saying, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me and forbid them not; for such is the Kingdom of God." Kids freakin' loved him--and anyone who has ever been around children for any appreciable length of time knows that they don't suffer fools gladly. If you scare them, talk down to them, or if they find you utterly boring and without any redeeming playtime value, they won't bother with you. That the village urchins were said to excitedly run to him whenever he came around says a lot for his charisma.

If you read between the lines of Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John, you'll also find other examples of Jesus' humor. Man, it was sharp. Now, it wasn't the kind of humor we might recognize today; as far as we know, they didn't tell "knock-knock" jokes or have an ancient version of "Jackass" back in the day. Jesus' humor was contemporary and subtle; it was used in such a way as to illustrate a point to his flock, rather than jamming it down their throats. He loved allegory, metaphor, was a master of sarcasm and a lover of puns. Sometimes when I read the Gospels, I can all but see the deadpan delivery when Jesus confronts a situation so ridiculous, the only way to respond is with humor.

Take Luke, chapter 19. Zacchaeus was a short little man, and a tax collector--one of the most reviled--if not the most reviled--of men in that day. No one ever wanted to mix with tax collectors, because to do so was to soil oneself with a man in cahoots with Rome. Sort of like any member of Congress in today's world.

Anyway, Zacchaeus was really short. One day Jesus came to town and a huge crowd gathered round him as he walked through the streets. Zacchaeus had heard so much about the Rabbi and wanted to get a good look at him. So he tucked his pride in his pocket, skirted the edge of the horde, and climbed as far up a tree as he could go in order to get a birds-eye view.

Now, the idea of a tax collector debasing himself in such a way is funny enough. But when Jesus saw this short little man dangling precariously atop the branches, he stunned both Zachheus and the crowd by saying, in what I imagine to be a completely droll and straight-faced manner, "Zacchaeus, come down. I'm going to stay at your house tonight."

I mean, what would you say to a man peering through tree branches at you? You might smile and wave, or maybe nudge your buddies and point the guy out. Jesus went one better, shocking the assembled crowd by not only inviting himself to the sinner's house, but actually deigning to speak to the man. It turned everyone on their ears. And Jesus knew it. It's hysterical. Better yet, he won a convert with humor rather than force. That's an effective speaker.

Here's another example: Jesus came across a man possessed by evil spirits, and conversed with the demon, asking, "What's your name?"

And they said, "My name is Legion, for we are many."

Well, Jesus was about to drive the demons out of the poor man, but they begged him not to cast them back into hell again. So what does Jesus do? It's pretty cheeky. He says, OK, fine, I won't send you to hell. No problem. Instead, he knocks them into a herd of pigs, all of whom promptly went insane and careened into the Galilee like a flock of insensate lemmings--and drowned.

I mean, come on! That's funny. Jesus got the last word and the last joke, and thoroughly enjoyed showing Legion the folly of their request. You don't want hell? All right, but I won't guarantee what I give you will be any better. It's your funeral.

Blackjack Jesus. If you ask him a question or make a request of him, you better mean it, because he won't necessarily give you what you want or what you want to hear. What he will give you is what you ask for. He won't cheat; he's just better at the game. You say "hit me", and he will. Just don't complain when he knows the cards better than you. You take your lumps and suck it up like a grownup. Don't worry; he'll let you play again. That goes for God, too, by the way. Or Allah, or Jehovah, or Uncle Bob--whatever you want to call him.

One of my favorite examples of Jesus' humor--aside from some of the wonderful brilliance when he's talking to Peter (who, we must admit, was a little thickheaded and hot under the collar)--is this one, and I'm paraphrasing the first part:

There was a rich man who came to Jesus and asked him, "What do I need to do to be your disciple? What must I do to follow you?"

And again, ever the consummate Blackjack player, Jesus deals out the hand. "Oh, come on," he says. "You know the commandments. Don't cheat; don't steal. Don't kill, don't lie. Honor your father and mother."

The rich man says, "I've done all of these all my life."

Jesus was impressed and saw that the guy was genuine. So he calls the final bet. "There's only one more thing you need to do, then. Sell everything you have, give your money to the poor, and come along with us."

It's the only thing the man wasn't expecting. His face fell, and he walked away without a word.

Jesus watched him go, and then looked round at his disciples, saying, "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God."

Contemplate that imagery. A camel trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle. It's one of the trippiest, most evocative, and hilarious analogies Jesus ever used. Even through his disappointment, Jesus was able to use humor as illustration, and people got it.

Take a look at the world's most sought after speakers. I don't care who they are; politicians, philosophers, preachers, or prophets. You'll find that every single one of them used humor to keep people interested and thinking. Now go look at your Bible, your Koran, the I Ching. See it?

Whether you believe that Jesus was the Son of God, or that he was a brilliant and insightful prophet, one thing is incontrovertible: He was human. As God's son, he was sent down to experience being a man. As a prophet, he was flesh and blood from day one. Men--human beings--get angry, get tired, get scared, get hungry and thirsty and sleepy. They cry, and they laugh. To say Jesus never joked or laughed or couldn't poke fun at himself is, for me, highly illogical and unbelievable. The guy possessed a rapier wit and intelligence even the Pharisees couldn't match. To me, that truly makes him the Son of Man.

Bald Truths

2007-02-18T06:33:00.000-08:00

Boy howdy, I knew Britney was on that bobsled, but apparently it's careening downhill even faster than I thought. The very day after I posted the "Tapeworm" blog, she went and did this.

I hear her mother hopped a plane from Louisiana to Los Angeles, rushing to do damage control. Which is good; someone obviously needs to take the wheel.

My question is, what in the hell took the woman so damn long? Her daughter's been imploding for months, if not years, before now.

Irish

Mea Culpa

2007-02-13T13:49:00.000-08:00

Hi, everyone! Guess what! New post coming later on--either tonight or tomorrow morning. I promise. Really and for true. I just gotta finish it.

See you then!

The Tapeworm

2007-02-13T06:23:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine from back in Hollyweird called me last week. She was trying to find out who's designing and distributing the infamous "Gift Baskets" for the Oscars this year. Now, bear in mind, I got out of Los Angeles about eight years ago. I still keep in touch with a few old pals, just to kind of keep my finger on the pulse of things, and I still get a bit nostalgic about Hell-Ay. But by and large, I'm really, really glad I left when I did--otherwise I doubt I'd like myself very much at this point. That town has a way of sucking every bit of your own soul out and putting something else in. It lacks in substance and harbors an excess of ickiness. I call it the Tapeworm.

Anyway, my friend needed me to call a few contacts and find out this kernel of information for her. It brought me back to thinking about Celebrutality again...remember, one of my earlier posts during which I railed vituperously at the entitled attitude of Hollywood bourgeoisie? Well, guess what? The Academy, in their infinite wisdom and ball-shriveled fear, have completely washed their hands of the heretofore traditional gift baskets. No more freebees for people who make enough money to afford the actual items in the basket. No more getting away with receiving said freebies without giving some of the largesse back to the government. They'll have to make do with designers giving them gowns to wear in exchange for publicity, and Harry Winston loaning jewels for same.

As you may surmise, Hollywood's Babylonians are decidedly not happy about this unlucky change in events; their world is tilting on its axis. Half the reason they go out to these soirees is to bilk and shill for goodies. You just know Paris Hilton is moaning into her Grey Goose at the injustice of not getting a bonus Treo for her trouble; forget the fact that no one, including Paris, really knows why she got an invitation to the event at all. The day Paris Hilton is nominated for an Oscar is the day the Seventh Seal will be opened and a great silence will be heard in Heaven for half an hour. Because even the angels and cherubim will be stunned into unholy speechlessness. Jesus will start dealing Blackjack in Vegas, and God will go to Turks and Caicos for a well-earned vacation.

But I digress. My point is (I think) about the fact that the more money people seem to have, the less they want to spend it and the greedier they get. The Academy may not be putting up gift baskets this year, but I'm willing to lay odds that the after-party hosts will take up the slack; the uproar otherwise would simply be too deafening, and besides, no one would go to the parties if there were no goodies to heist for free.

"FREE" being the operative word.

Vanity Fair has the best party of the night--as a rule, they usually host it at Morton's after the awards ceremony, and it is by far the most coveted invitation out of all the parties on Oscar night. Everyone who wants to be seen must go. Even if you're George Clooney, unless you've gotten that golden ticket of an invite, you're relegated to the B list for the evening. You're crap, and no one wants to photograph you. And VF has the best food, the best place settings, and the biggest open bar this side of the Mississippi. It's a great party that simply smells of money. However, none of the guests will spend any.

It's amazing to me, actually. There are people in that industry that make more money in one week than most of us see in five years, and yet, they never seem to have to open their wallets for anything. I don't know how that happens, really. They get free dresses, free jewelry, free food at restaurants...free tickets and free hotel rooms, you name it.

Take Anna Nicole Smith, for instance. God bless her, she was a train wreck of the first water. Not even really a C list celebrity. Okay, yeah, she had a couple of pithy endorsements for questionable diet remedies, and a now-defunct reality show--but at the rate at which she appears to have consumed drugs and alcohol, her paycheck couldn't have lasted that long. She had yet to receive a penny from the Marshall estate. Where did she get the money for all her traveling? The hotel rooms and airfares? Vacationing in the Bahamas isn't cheap, let alone living there. And the phalanx of attorneys she had working on various lawsuits is mind-boggling, and I'm sure they were keeping meticulous records and invoices for their billable hours. I'm sure they still are.

Where the hell was the money coming from?! How can someone who had no obvious marketable skills (besides her boobs, a sad and tragic life that translated into a media spectacle), and no apparent source of income that supported her lifestyle--how could she live the way she did?

Keep in mind, she was a celebrity of a lower order, and she was able, somehow to enjoy (if indeed she "enjoyed" anything, poor thing) a level of comfort and luxury not many of us do. Now, consider the A and B list people. They get even more than that. None of them ever seem to end up having to pay for anything, or if they do, they get huge discounts and are shitty tippers.

So much gets wrapped up in their sense of entitlement that it's like a tapeworm; they can't stop feeding it, and it never fills them up. Remember what I said about Hollywood eating your soul? That's the tapeworm. It always wants more, and more is never enough. Meanwhile, the things they really and truly so desperately need, they never get. Like a wake-up call.

Anna Nicole was a woman who so desperately wanted to be famous. Everything she did was to that end, but you know, I really think she would have been so much better off had she remained "undiscovered". If she had stayed in Texas the rest of her life working in a greasy spoon, raising her son and marrying a mechanic, I seriously think she'd be alive today. Yes, she got famous, just like she always wanted, but her fame also enabled her addictions. She needed help, not Methadone. She needed someone to care enough about her to take her by the elbow and steer her towards a reputable doctor and treatment facility. Instead, what she got was a gaggle of lawyers, lovers, and general sycophants who only hung around her so that they could feed on the fallout of her largesse. They didn't give a crap if she was high or drunk or messed up beyond belief; as long as the cow kept farting cash, they were content with the status quo. Why change it? If she were, God forbid, to straighten up and sober up, she probably would have realized just who these people were and forthwith booted them out on their asses. Their insurance was her addiction and her insecurity.

She's not the only one. Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears aren't far behind Anna, if you ask me. Both are riding on an out-of-control bobsled straight into the hell of ignominy, and no one seems to care enough to try and stop them. Nobody. Where are their parents? Where are their friends? Do they have any? They have people around them all the time who are more than happy to ride on the bandwagon, get into exclusive clubs, and suck down free booze. Both starlets are in their early twenties and look forty. That's just pathetic, and terrifying. One day, we're going to have another headline on the news that tells us one of them is dead, killed by an overdose, or alcohol poisoning, or a DUI.

In large part, it happens because these people do get too much free stuff, too much unwarranted license to behave with excess, too many excuses. The tapeworm inside them keeps clamoring for more and more and more until finally, as Yeats said, Things fall apart. The Center cannot hold. They are eaten up from the inside, like a rotting corpse with a beautiful makeup job, until it all simply falls in on itself. That's what tapeworms do: lets you live on just enough to keep you alive, but takes the bulk of everything for itself and demands more. Finally, it just takes everything.

It's ironic to me that two of the women I've just named--Lindsey and Anna--worship Marilyn Monroe. Anna wanted to be Marilyn; Lindsey wants to emulate her, too. Hell, Linds just bought Marilyn's old apartment. This woman was the blueprint, really. Marilyn was beautiful, she was idolized. She was actually an exceptionally talented actress, which makes her story even more tragic, because what she might have become will forever be speculation. But she was also insecure, vulnerable, helpless in many ways, and she was enabled, coddled, addicted, and mishandled. And she died. Even her rivals felt bad for her.

Joan Crawford was nobody's fool. She was tough, ambitious, hard-working, some would say cold. But no one could ever call her stupid. She didn't like Marilyn and made no bones about it; Marilyn offended her, threatened her ego, and represented a debauchery in the business that Crawford abhorred. But despite those feelings, Crawford pegged Marilyn's problem with a precision a surgeon would appreciate.

Right after Marilyn died, Joan became very upset when she heard about it. She was having dinner at director George Cukor's house and talking about Marilyn when he called bullshit. "What is this?" he wanted to know. "You never liked Marilyn."

As always, she was bitingly honest. "Yes, you're right," she admitted. "She was cheap, and an exhibitionist. She was never professional, and that irritated the hell out of people. But for God's sake, she needed help. She had all these people on her payroll. Where the hell were they when she needed them? Why in the hell did she have to die alone?"

There will always be stars, and twice as many tapeworms looking for hosts.

You Talkin' to ME?

2007-01-21T08:07:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know, the mighty horde of my readership is ready to lynch me for not posting in exactly a month, but hey, I've been busy. I'm by no stretch the most consistent blogger on the net, but the way I figure it, I'm not getting paid for this, so what's the rush? At least, that's the justification. I aspire to be like my pal Jean over at "You Are Here"--she posts regularly and without fail, sometimes two entries in a day--but I think it's going to be some time before I even stagger towards one tenth of her prodigiousness. You should go and check out her site whenever you're waiting for me to get my ass in gear--she's hysterical and always has something interesting to say. I, on the other hand, have plenty to say; it's just that I'm fundamentally lazy.

Merry Mayhem

2006-12-21T06:30:00.000-08:00

Good God Gurdy, as Mom used to say. In less than forty-eight hours, my schedule for the next four days is crammed so full of stuff to do that I'm beginning to wonder if I'll actually have time to sleep. Ah....Christmas.

As I noted in my last post, I'm doing all my gift shopping in one go over the next two days or so. I am doing this not because I'm certifiably insane, or because I procrastinated. I have to do it because with the new job and all, I just haven't had time, or frankly, the money until just now. I've been making lists upon lists of the things I need to have done by Sunday afternoon, and my desk is beginning to look like Broadway after the Macy's parade.

I was only informed of my new job's office party yesterday--"An all-day extravaganza," as our receptionist described it to me. So I have to order up a veggie plate, because I don't have time to make it up myself, and I have to run downtown and pick up something for the Yankee Swap. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this time-honored New England tradition, it's kind of like your regular Secret Santa swap, but with a twist. What happens is, you draw names, that person goes up and gets a gift and unwraps it in front of everyone. Then the next person who goes, unwraps their gift and decides whether they like it or not. If they don't, they can swap it with anyone who has already opened their gift, and the preceding giftee can't refuse or argue about it. That happened to me last year. I opened a beautiful crystal vase for my gift, and don't you just know, the next person down the line didn't want her present, and promptly told me to hand the vase over. I, in turn, was the chagrined swappee of a really cheesy Sno Globe.

Anyway, so I have to find something for the Yankee Swap, and I have to go to the grocery and pick up some provisions and my veggie plate. Then I have to run out and do some actual Christmas shopping. And more of that tomorrow. Then back to the grocery store. Why? Because I need baking stuff.

If I could, I'd give gifts to everyone that I love and care about, but as of yet, I'm not rich enough to do that. Besides, if I did, I'd be shopping until past New Year's. But I want to give friends and colleagues something. So I bake.

I go out and get a bunch of those tins--you know, the kind that are used for fruitcakes. And I take an entire day and bake cookies, pastries, and confectionary until I've filled about fifteen to twenty tins with chocolate chip cookies, macaroons, fudge, wonder bars, and almond drops. It's a lot of effort, and takes time to do, but it's so gratifying. My house always smells so wonderful, and the look on people's faces when they lift the lid off that tin is worth every minute I spend mixing, whipping, and baking.

So tomorrow, in addition to Christmas shopping, I need to take the list labeled "Cookie Tins" and get all the ingredients for three dozen of four kinds of cookie. The checkout girl is going to think I'm some kind of sugar junkie, but whatever. I can think of worse things to be labeled. Then Saturday and Sunday, I'll be making like a Keebler Elf. Hee!

What else? Oh, yeah, wrap presents Sunday afternoon and go to Sis' house for dinner. Then back to her house again Christmas morning to do the deal with the kids. Then (I know, are you tired yet?) it's back to my house to get ready for a Christmas party I'm hosting for those friends of mine who don't have plans or family around and just want to hang out.

Sometime in all this, I gotta clean my house so that my Christmas party guests don't think I'm a total sloth--and I promised to go out with some friends during the weekend, too. By next Tuesday, I'm pretty sure I'll be comatose, but hey, at least I'll have had a good time.

More later. Gotta run out and buy the Yankee Swap thing. I'm thinking a Sno Globe....

Moon Sand and Monetary Misadventure

2006-12-17T15:38:00.000-08:00

Okay, I know...It's been over two weeks, and I just know the three of you who read this blog are wondering just what the bloody hell happened to me. Sorry. I kept meaning to post, but as it happened, by the time I'd come home at the end of the day, all I could seem to muster the energy to do was cobble some kind of edible nourishment in the kitchen and collapse into my bed. Getting up at 5:30 ain't easy when you're not used to it. Especially when it's still dark outside when you get up...(shudder).

Anywhoo....here I be. The job is going very well, thank you, and I'm knee-deep in catching up on the Christmasy goodness. That's the other thing that's been corrupting my blog time. It gets harder and harder to shop for my family each year. I try to be creative with gifts and get something that maybe they had never thought of having, but realized they wanted or needed once they opened it. I get kicks out of that. But jeepers, it's difficult. I have no idea what to get my niece and nephew--I mean yeah, they're kids, and kids should be relatively easy to buy for, right? Well, not these little munchkins. I have the blessing and curse of having two very smart, very creative, and frighteningly discerning young whippersnappers for whom Barbies and Tonka toys just won't cut it.

My niece--I'll call her C--is nine years old. Bubbly, full of laughter, terrifying in her erudition and intelligence, and every inch a budding pre-teen. She's artistic, likes music and good books, loves gymnastics and group activities. Loves her sleepovers with her contemporary Scary Preteens, and still gets a little scared when there's a big thunderstorm in the middle of the night. She likes dressing up and putting the pretty on, but she also has equal enthusiasm for getting down and dirty with Daddy when he's mucking out the yard or gutting this year's deer. She's that heartbreaking combination of delicate flower and unstoppable tomboy. In other words, one day her boyfriends are going to have their hands full, and her parents and I are going to be downing Alka-Seltzer in bulk.

My nephew--I mentally refer to him as Animal, because he reminds me of that wild, uninhibited Muppet drummer--just turned five. He's an Imp. I swear, in the classical sense. He's always got this glint in his eye that lets you know that there's something going on in his brain that will completely flummox you once he lets on what it is. And he gets a real buzz off of confounding those of us who are a few decades older. He likes anything that has to do with dinosaurs. Doesn't matter what. Puzzles, erector sets, card games, action figures, DVDs, whatever. He doesn't care, as long as it has scales and teeth and is, for the most part, representative of an extinct species. Animal also loves the usual boy stuff--cars, trucks, his little motocross bike, baseballs and basketballs--you get the picture. Ironically, he's also a tomboy to an extent, although he's gotten past the stage where he liked to dress up and play Princess with big sister C. But he still retains his sensitive side.

Anyway, my sister called me in triumph this morning, having discovered the Holy Grail of the progeny's desires. "Moon Sand!" she crowed.

Moon Sand? MOON SAND? What the hell is Moon Sand? I hadn't a clue. Unfortunately, Sis didn't either, really--she just knows that's what it's called. Apparently, that's as far as she went in her research--the rest is up to me. Having used the great oracle Google, I've discovered that it's apparently some kind of water-resistant, shape-shifting kind of sand that holds together so well you can build sand castles with it. And even more remarkable, the sand has such fortitude that whatever castle you build could conceivably last longer than Buckingham Palace. Jeez, we've come a long way from Play-Doh and Silly Putty.

So, later this week, after payday, I am braving the wanton insanity of the department stores to do all my shopping in one go, and will gird myself for the relevant battles therein. Toys R Us alone is going to take body armor for the Moon Sand and dinosaurs.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Mom is Proud and Heaving a Huge Sigh of Relief...

2006-11-30T13:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, Momma, I got a new job today!

It's always fun to get a job offer. It's new and fresh and exciting--kind of like a new boyfriend or a new car. You're all atwitter with anticipation at the outset, and then ya sorta get used to it after awhile, and it's not such a big deal anymore. But hopefully, you're happy enough with the situation that you enjoy staying with it.

My mom, God bless her soul, always worries about me. Now, I know--all mothers worry and want the best for their children, no matter how old we get. But Mom's got a different animal of daughter in me. Because I'm constantly going between freelance and contract work, I never really know from one month to the next how much I'm going to make, let alone save back for a rainy day. That makes her nervous, and I don't really blame her. There have been plenty of times when I've been literally down to the last five dollars in my bank account, when fortunately I got a phone call offering me a gig. Somehow I always land on my feet--knock wood--and claw my way back to solvency, at least for a little while.

Thing is, I'm just really lousy at keeping "normal" jobs. The ones where you sit behind a desk and stay there all day. Now, I don't mind doing that now and again--I'm a writer, for Pete's sake, so yeah, there are days when I sit down and crunch the keyboard for hours on end. But that's different. If I had to sit and answer phones or enter data into a computer 9 to 5, forty hours a week, without ever going anywhere, I'd die. Or I'd kill somebody. I simply suck at that sort of thing. That's why I'm in marketing and public relations; you never do the same thing every day, and you're always meeting new people. The hours are irregular and weird, but I like that. You have room to be creative and innovative--you have to be, in order to keep up. You have to be energetic and out in front of people on a consistent basis, and you have to manage your time extremely well.

I don't know if it's New England or it's me...maybe it's a little of both, but the problem with me is that it's very hard to find an employer who understands how the job really works, and how I need to do it in order to produce effective results. Some people have the idea that I'm out there just having one big ball of fun, and I get paid to do it. Well, that's not exactly how it works. Yes, I have fun at what I do--I'd be an utter dingbat to work in this field if I didn't enjoy it. But it's not an easy job, and it's not a free ride to weekly lunches and business functions. It's work. Some days, I don't feel particularly charming or energetic or personable, but tough noogies. That's what I get paid for, so whether or not I'm having a bad day, I have to pull out the smile and act like I'm the happiest girl on the planet. Doesn't matter how tired I am, or that my feet hurt, or that I have a cold and really want to be in bed with a hot toddy. I am there to represent my client and/or employer, and lots of times my day doesn't end at five o'clock. That's part of the deal.

I've had employers who genuinely didn't understand the necessity of going out of the office to do what I do--and I think that they have it in their heads that I'm on the beach somewhere working on my tan. It boggles my mind that there are still people out there who honestly hold to the belief that if you're not in the office, you're not working. Hello?

We are now a global society that requires us to be mobile. That's why we have those stupid Blackberries and cell phones and PDA's and laptops--so we can work outside of our cages. If you can go to the golf course and call that a "business meeting", then why isn't my committee membership given equal credence??

Anyway, I suck at the cage. I don't like it, I don't want to do it, and therefore it's hard for me to find a "normal" job with the kind of employer who really gets it. That's why I went into doing contract and freelance. I didn't always make as much money, but at least I could do the job the way I wanted.

Which brings me back to my mother.

She's relieved because I accepted an offer today from a "normal" employer. I've been interviewing with them for a bit, figuring out if I'll fit in with them. It looks good, and I'm happy about it. They're a nice bunch of people who seem to agree with my marketing philosophy, which makes me feel optimistic. I figure I'll ease into the job over the next few weeks, tone down a little on my personality so as not to frighten anyone, and then dig in after we've all gotten used to each other. I may even last longer than six months. And if they're just as nutty and off-center as I am, this could go on for years.

Gluttony, Stuffing, and Giving Thanks

2006-11-27T15:48:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving.

I'm still kinda recovering, which I think is what the majority of my friends and acquaintances are doing. You know, I like Thanksgiving...sort of. At least, I like the food, which anyone who knows me will tell you is enough incentive for me to do just about anything. But I suppose I've gotten cranky as I've gotten older. Or maybe I'm just more cynical. Or lazy.

Does anyone else ever feel like Thanksgiving is the obligatory holiday? The one where we look forward to it with a mix of anticipation and resignation? I don't know how many people I talked to right before Thursday who said stuff like, "Yeah, I was invited down to my uncle's house, but it's such a long drive..." and "I'm supposed to go to my cousin's house, but God, it's gonna be a nightmare,because someone always starts an argument," or, "I volunteered to cook this year, and now I wish someone had stopped me before I opened my big mouth."

It's a weird holiday. I went up to see my sister and her family for the Big Day. And I enjoyed it--don't get me wrong. Sis is a fabulous cook, and she makes a stuffing that I could eat for a solid month. She and I can find anything--and I mean anything--to laugh at, and laugh at long and loud, until tears are streaming down our cheeks. My niece and nephew are lively, energetic, and engaging kids, and I absolutely adore them, no matter how much they can exhaust me in an alarmingly short span of time. I love going to visit my sister; that's not the problem for me at all.

The problem is that it's kind of a letdown once you actually get to sit down and eat. It's anticlimactic; after all the cooking and waiting and drooling...and starving all damn day so that you have room for the turkey and fixin's...well, all I can say is, I've never been able to eat and enjoy as much of the food as I thought I would at the start of Thanksgiving day. And that really bums me out. I live for food, and Thanksgiving is the one day I can freely and uninhibitedly indulge in my love (or gluttony) for carbohydrates. To not be able to have second helpings of stuffing, mashed potatoes, biscuit, and green bean casserole is just criminal to me.

Not so bad, in the entire scheme of things, I'll grant you. But I couldn't help thinking of some of those friends of mine who truly could have been just as happy staying home and ordering Chinese. Thanksgiving can be a real chore, let's face it. It doesn't mean we don't love our families, or want to be around them. It doesn't even mean we really mind the cooking. It's just that it's the one day we're all pretty much expected to demonstrate these sentiments, or otherwise be thought of as bad progeny. And that's really not fair.

I remember last year we had a snowstorm Thanksgiving Eve. It wasn't really a very bad one; we've certainly had worse in this neck of the woods. But by morning the roads were still pretty treacherous and icy, and the drive to Sis' house is a good half hour on a really bad highway. I just didn't want to take the chance of ending up as part of New England scenery. So I stayed home. I think my sister was actually a little bit relieved, because the snow meant she only had to cook up a turkey breast and some side dishes for her, her husband, and the kids. She didn't have to spend the entire day waiting for an entire bird to roast, imprisoned in the kitchen. It didn't mean I didn't love her, or that she didn't love me, or that we didn't want to see each other, but I think both of us were pretty satisfied with the arrangement.

Me? I crept to the little market down the street, got myself some provisions, and happily spent Thanksgiving cuddled up watching movies and the parade in New York while the snow fell desultorily past my window. I was warm, full, safe, and comfortable. I was thankful for it, and so was my sister.

*Incidentally, do you know what was actually eaten at the first Thanksgiving? Nope, not turkey and cranberries and stuffing. The surviving settlers feasted on clams, seaweed, nuts, corn, and berries.

I suppose that's another thing to be thankful for. I'd boycott if there wasn't stuffing.

Falling Down and Getting Up

2006-11-20T08:23:00.000-08:00

I gotta tell ya, the last three weeks have been difficult. There is nothing in the world that drives me crazier than my sleep rhythm getting f*cked up. With the change in weather, the daylight savings time thing, and stress, I couldn't get to sleep at a decent hour for love or money. Which consequently resulted in me getting up later and later. Which transformed me into a lethargic, numb, and brain-cramped lump with absolutely no energy or motivation do do anything.

Mornings have never been good for me. I am not now, nor will I ever be, one of those creatures who bounce out of bed with the sun, ready to greet the day with a kiss and a smile. I'm lucky if I'm revved and awake by 10am. I will never be a voluntary early riser, much less a "morning person". I really do my best creative thinking and industry in the late afternoon and evenings. Having said that, however, I don't fancy wasting the day by sleeping till noon, either. It makes me feel depressed and ticked off and isolated, and nothing really gets done in my life.

My sleeping rhythm is extremely sensitive. If I'm off by one or two hours getting to bed at night, it wrecks everything for a good two weeks--if I'm lucky. And it takes a long time for me to adjust myself and get back to normal again--which, God willing, I've finally managed to do. This morning I got up, and it was still morning. Did it yesterday, too. It felt like Christmas. The sun has literally returned to the skies of New England, which helps, and I don't feel like I'm in a dark cocoon anymore. I even folded up my afghans and put them back in their basket.

So anyway, now I should be back to writing regularly on this blog, and working on things that pay my rent. I have an essay I've been meaning to finish for a later post--one that a good friend of mine has been waiting to read and keeps asking me about. I wrote two proposals over the weekend and am delivering them today for review. Things are getting back to normal--well, as normal as they get in my life. Heh.

It is still 2006, isn't it?

Back From Hiatus

2006-11-13T16:41:00.000-08:00

Sorry I've not been writing the last couple of weeks--I've had a few meetings and have been working on a couple of proposals, so I was somewhat scarce. New blogs coming up this week, I promise. For those of you who are still reading, thanks for sticking with me, and sorry for the delay!

Samhain

2006-10-31T09:06:00.000-08:00

Samhain, in Irish Gaelic, is actually the word for "November". Kinda makes sense, doesn't it?

It was also the word used for the month of the Celtic calendar--there was a festival that marked the end of summer and celebrated the harvest. It also marked one of the sabbat feasts in the Wiccan wheel of the year (the opposite on the wheel is Beltane, which is the Wiccan celebration of life). The modernized version of this celebration is what we now call All Souls Day, or "Halloween".

So indeed, Samhain, or Halloween, did begin as a pagan holiday of sorts. I'd celebrate, too, when the village turned out a good crop and was able to ensure everyone would be fed through the winter. They had every reason in the world to party; the harvest was literally a triumph of life over death. This was the time to take stock of herds, grain supplies, decide which animals were to be slaughtered so that both the people and the rest of the livestock could survive the winter. It's still a custom observed by farmers and professionals in husbandry today.

Samhain Eve in Scots and Irish Gaelic takes place on October 31, during the final harvest. This is the Oidhche Shamnha, the name still used for the modern day version of Halloween.

I mention this in dissertation because, as a descendant of those hardy folk, it rankles when people refer to Samhain as a Satanic holiday, or a holiday celebrated by witches, ie, "devil worshipers". It's not at all accurate, and it certainly isn't fair. Anyone who characterizes it as such is woefully uninformed, and anyone who practices Samhain in that vein is abominably blasphemous about the true meaning of the holiday--and of "witches" in general. True Witches are not devil-worshipers, by the way. If they are committed, honest devotees of the craft, they celebrate the earth and its bounty, its power and its beauty, and revere and hold in high esteem the Creator who made it all.

Some of my ancestors were hung or stoned when they moved to the New World for "speaking in tongues" or for using "questionable" herbs in medicinal practice. Well, most of them were midwives who learned herbal lore from their mothers and grandmothers, and most of them spoke Gaelic. It's a strange-sounding language, I'll grant, and is virtually unlearnable to anyone who didn't grow up speaking it. Ignorance bred fear in the hearts of those who didn't bother asking questions. So people were killed for honoring their heritage. Incidentally, so were the Native Americans, but that's another post.

That ignorance and fear still exists, and I can't help but be astounded at the level of vilification and judgment people hurl at what they don't understand. You build a bonfire at Samhain and some of these nutjobs will say you're enacting a Satanic ritual and are sacrificing black cats to the Dark Prince. Look, Satan doesn't want black cats, trust me. He could care less about that shit; on the scale of his ambitions, cats don't really cause a blip on his radar. He's got bigger things on his mind.

The word Bonfire derives its etymology from Bonefire. Villagers were said to have cast the bones of the slaughtered cattle upon the flames--cattle having a prominent place in the relationship between man and the Creator. In your Judeo-Christian lore, as well as the Gaelic, people were constantly sacrificing livestock as a gesture of thanksgiving and prayer. Moses did it. So did Joshua and Jacob and Abraham. I defy anyone to label them Devil Worshipers.

With the bonfire ablaze, the villagers would put out all the other fires. Then each family, in a solemn ceremony, lit their hearths from the common flame of the huge bonfire--kind of like we do today with the Olympic Flame. This bonded each family in the village together as a whole, uniting in the common struggle of survival and celebrating their prosperity. It was community relations, in short; an act of solidarity.

After the Roman adoption of the holiday (usually celebrated in May) and the advent of Christianization, the November festival of Samhain eventually became All Hallows Day on November 1st, and All Souls Day followed on November 2nd. Both evolved into All Hallows Eve on October 31, and finally reached its present incarnation as the secular "Halloween" that we know today.

Samhain is still observed in Celtic culture today, and it is a wonderful affirmation of life, nature, and the cycle of life and death. It is not a bloodthirsty ritual of Darkness; nor is it blasphemous or even slightly profane.

I consider myself to be a bit of a polytheist, I suppose. I respect and often agree with the beliefs expressed in Christianity, Bhuddism, Islam, and Judaism, among others, and admire those who have the conviction of deep faith in those beliefs. However, I think that there are quite likely many roads to God, Jehovah, Allah, the Creator--or Big Daddy--whatever we call him (or her, or it). I'm not sure I believe that there is just one religion or belief is the "One Way". Frankly, I think it might be just a wee bit arrogant to assert such a thing; how can any human being know the Mind of God? How can I condemn someone for believing something I don't, or vilify them for the same thing? Who died and made me God? If you read your Old Testament, you find out that people got smacked down big time by Big Daddy when they started thinking that way. All I know is that I don't know everything, and I'm not going to. I'll still be asking questions on the day I die.

Sliante o dha dhuit--Happy Samhain, and Happy Halloween. This is the beginning of Winter. Harvest that which you have planted, celebrate it, and share it. May we all emerge together a brighter, stronger, and happier community in the Spring!

Sweat and Sweets

2006-10-30T15:25:00.000-08:00

Sorry I haven't posted the last couple of days; I'm working on a particular post that I really want to get right. A pal of mine and I were having a discussion about the subject over the weekend, and it got me thinking. So bear with me; eventually I'll get into the swing of this blogging thing.

In other news, my sister went down South to our hometown and is visiting friends and relatives. I wish I could have gone with them, but right now it's just impossible. I'm in-between clients at the moment, and am looking round and pitching new ones, so I can't afford to be away. Winter is the toughest--and therefore--the most important time for me working-wise.

I hope I get a couple of good contracts before too long. One of the things I love most about the holidays is having the money to buy gifts and bake a bunch of goodies. I bake cookies, brownies, make fudge, and generally turn my kitchen into a haven the Keebler elves would love. Then I package them up into gift tins and give them out to friends. If I could afford to, I'd buy everyone I know and love a Christmas or Hanukkah gift, but of course I can't. Baking is my way of showing I care, and they really seem to like getting the sweet stuff. And boy, does my house smell wonderful when I do that. Any chocoholic would go into paroxysms of ecstasy just by stepping through the door.

Speaking of friends and family--I know some of you have stopped by the blog. See that line down below that says "Comments"? Click on the sucker and leave me a note once in awhile, you goobers!

Elections in about a week. There is weepage in the GOP. GO VOTE!

Irish

Blogging Breakdowns

2006-10-27T12:21:00.000-07:00

Aha! AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!! I did it! The Technical Trolls did not defeat me. I managed to put a Link List up! Woohoo!

Okay, my uncle helped me through what was truly a hair-pulling, profanity-laden hour of angst while I tried to figure out just what the hell I was doing wrong. You know, I'm a fairly educated, well-read, well-spoken woman, but nothing in this world makes me feel more infantile than HTML code. During moments such as these, Forrest Gump is my soul brother. And he's the smarter one.

At any rate, once Unca shepherded me patiently through the briar patch of writing links, I set gleefully to building my list (thanks, Unca!). It doesn't take all that much to entertain me these days, and writing the links was truly a pleasure once I could see I was doing it correctly. I also had to change the template of my blog, as you see. I kinda like this a little better. It suits my personality more than the previous one. Then again, I'm sure I'll change it every so often, just to keep things interesting.

He also taught me how to link text--at least, I hope he did. This is my first attempt. Keith Olbermann is my hero. (You might want to use Internet Explorer in order to access the link.) One of the few people who is ballsy enough to say what most of us are thinking, and who has the venue for gloriously venting his spleen with scathingly erudite, cogent, and brilliant finesse. What I'd give to see him corner Shrub in a small room with no teleprompters.

Archaeology and Inventory

2006-10-25T12:39:00.000-07:00

Well, today looked promising--for a brief space of time. It was sunny this morning for about an hour, and then WHAM--dark, foreboding, moody grey mounds of clouds came rolling in. What is this? Oh, yeah...that's right...winter's coming.

I need to find a sugar daddy who gives me an allowance to go to Italy every year between October and April. I'd be a much nicer person to be around. Mostly because I'd be eating better food and drinking a heck of a lot more wine.

Haven't posted the last couple of days because I've been trying to get my household in order. I do this twice a year: a full, top-to-bottom, inside-out overhaul and cleaning of my house. This means that each room is minutely examined, cleaned, disinfected, mopped, swept, and vacuumed. I go through all of my clothing, bathroom items, food, and papers, and decide what to keep and what to give or throw away. It's an arduous, tedious, frustrating project, but if I didn't do it, I think I'd be buried under the flotsam of my life within six months, and no one would ever find me again.

For instance, my closet and bureaus. It's appalling how many clothes I have and never wear. I have two full bureaus, plus a good-sized walk -in closet, chockerblock full of garments that will never touch my body again. I've gained fifteen pounds in the last year and can't get most of the slacks further than mid-thigh. So I inventory all of my clothing and force myself to get rid of anything I haven't worn in the last six months to a year. Which is difficult, because being female, I will delude myself into thinking that I just might be able to fit back into those cute Ralph Laurens again, if I really try. And this is a complete lie. I'll never fit into those things again; that boat has sailed. If I tried to get back on it again, it would sink. Talk about Titanic.

It took a couple of hours, but at the end of it all, I had quite an impressive pile of defunct slacks, jeans, shirts, pullovers, and shoes, which I then separated into "trade" and "donate" piles. I felt like I was on a dig in Egypt--finding things I didn't even remember having or thought I'd lost forever. If Zahi Hawass ever needs a volunteer to scrape away at an underground tomb, I'm his girl. I've honed some skills. Donations went to Goodwill, I gave some cute outfits to a couple of girlfriends, and I traded the others with a secondhand clothing store I patronize frequently. At least I got some jeans and a pair of boots out of that, and didn't spend any money. This is what my mother would call "thrift". I'm in my mid-thirties, and I'm only now grasping the concept.

Now you have an idea of just how exacting this "overhaul" project of mine is. If you think the clothing inventory was intense, ponder for a moment doing that over an entire house. Hence, no posts for the last three days. I thrifted. I divested. I cleaned and scrubbed and inhaled so many cleaning fumes that I think I now know how the denizens of Studio 54 must have felt when they stumbled out into the cold, grey, New York dawn. It'll take me days to get the smell of Formula 409 and Bartender's Friend out of my socks.

Angels and Devils, Afghans and Books

2006-10-20T12:34:00.000-07:00

It's a gloomy, rainy, overcast day here in the East--the kind of day that, no matter what time it is, it always feels like early morning. Days like this make me feel incredibly sluggish and sleepy. I'm completely uninterested in doing anything but curling up under one of my sister's hand-knitted afghans with a good book and a cup of tea, reading and dozing at my leisure.

An activity I must admit, I did indulge, but not before getting some work out of the way so I wouldn't feel like a total dilettante. Being an independent has its ups and downs: you work for yourself, so you get to pretty much dictate what hours you work and what your schedule will be. That's nice. I can work in my pyjamas if I want to and no one is the wiser.

The down side is, I'm my own boss.

I also have to make sure I stay disciplined enough not to bog down in a slovenly, self-gratifying morass of laziness. Which is hard for me, because I really am fundamentally incredibly lazy. But since I'm on my own, no one else is going to set times for me and tell me when I have to work--that's my responsibility. If I don't do it and stick with it, I don't get paid. Simple as that.

But Ohhhh, it was so tempting when I woke up this morning, to give in to the urge to get a ginormous mug of fresh, steaming coffee, tuck up under that afghan, and dive into the stack of books I just got from the library. Had the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. Devil was whingeing, But it's Friday! You don't have any appointments, and no deadlines. What's one morning going to hurt? You can make it up over the weekend---knowing damn good and well that I probably won't make it up over the weekend at all--I've got too much housework to do, and besides that, weekends are the only time I can legitimately lay claim to my indulgences without guilt. The Angel was, ironically, the one who had to be the bad guy--cracking the whip and telling me to get off my ass and get to work.

Both of them annoy me.

Celebrutality

2006-10-17T09:35:00.000-07:00

When is it that celebrities and entertainers first get it in their heads that they're breathing a more rarified brand of oxygen than the rest of us No-Name paeons? I really would like to know when that particular gear in their brain kicks in and they start shouting the weary "Don't You Know Who I Am?" Do they experience some sort of cerebral chemistry change where a selective amnesia kicks in and they simply forget that at one time, they were also one of us No Names?

Madonna's adopting babies from Malawi, Angelina's adopting babies from every country, apparently, she seems to set foot in. Now, don't get me wrong; I'm all for giving an orphaned child a home. But you know, if I wanted to adopt a child, I'd have at least a two year wait on a list before I even got a chance to find a child to adopt. Not to mention the reams of paperwork, the endless background checks, psychological reviews, state reviews, and financial assessments. Granted, people like Madonna and Angelina don't have to worry about the money, but apparently they don't have to worry about waiting, either. Want a kid, Madge? Sure! Come over to Orphans R Us and we'll display a bunch of them for your viewing pleasure. Pick one. We don't mind. We'll even give you a discount.

While I state again that I'm a staunch supporter of adoption, I have a couple of questions: What's wrong with American children? Or even British children, seeing as Madonna is now an expat from Yankee country. There are millions of homeless, parentless, hungry children right here in these here United States that need a home and an education. Yet Madge and Ange seem to keep jetting off (their environmental rants notwithstanding, but that's another post) to third - world countries to load up on the latest specials.

My other question is: if you're adopting children to be philanthropic, fine. But why send out press releases about it? And don't tell me you're not. I lived and worked in the questionable army of Celebrityville for years, and I know that NOTHING of the I'm-just-trying-to-help variety is even contemplated before a well-worded announcement has been drafted. So shut up. If you want to be a benefactor, fine. What's the problem with doing it quietly, without accolades, and without ten thousand photographs and headlines being shoved in the rest of the world's collective face about how wonderful you are? That's not charity; that's vanity.

Lest you think that my outrage is directed solely at the Spotlight Adoption Club, here's another example: Wesley Snipes. News is today that he has been indicted for eight counts of tax fraud and faces up to thirty years in prison. Apparently he hadn't paid taxes in about six years and claimed bogus refunds. Cheeky! Maybe he was taking a stand agains the oppressiveness of government and his right to keep the money he worked his hands to the bone to earn.

That last part, in case you were wondering, was sarcasm.

Wesley Snipes makes ginormous millions of dollars for each sorry-ass film he puts out there--as do the myriad other kindred A-Listers in the biz. To be fair, I've worked on film shoots, and they can indeed be grueling, hard, and tedious work. They're not picnics in the park. So in principle, I don't blame entertainers for their resentment about having to give 40% of it back to the IRS--Hell, I don't like it either. I growl every time I get a paycheck or file my 1099's and have to write my own check and send it on its way. But get a grip, people.

I make considerably less money than Snipes. Most of us paeons do. I'd love to just conveniently "decline" to file or pay my taxes. Personally, I'm not at all happy with the way the bigwigs in Washington spend my money, and I sure as shit know that by the time I reach retirement age, the dough I've "contributed" to Social Security is gonna be goooone. But you know what? I pay it. Know why? Because if I don't, the IRS will do the exact same thing to me as what's now happening to Snipes. I'll be indicted and thrown into prison, because I don't have another ten million lying around to write the restitution check and pay for attorney fees. Of course Snipes won't be thrown in jail--he's an Olympian of a minor order, but an Olympian nonetheless.

There was so much bitching in Hollyweird when it was decreed that celebs had to pay taxes on the gift baskets they get at awards shows that it sounded for all the world like a bunch of whining six-year-olds. Those gift baskets are obscene; I've seen them. They can range in value anywhere from five thousand to thirty thousand dollars, packed full of prime booty such as cell phones, diamond earrings, Sidekicks, designer accessories, and high-end gift certificates. Most of us know that when we get a prize or gift of a certain value, we have to pay tax--even the lottery winners. Yet one actor had the gall to actually say that they'd been screwed on the gift basket tax. Look, sister, I wish I had your weekly net, because that alone would pay my annual expenses. You think you've been screwed???

Pile on top of all the above the crazy idiots who get on planes and gripe about their seats, accost hardworking flight attendants and call them names. Then add in for good measure Useless Personalities who drive drunk and never even lose their licenses. Stir in hissy fits when another Useless Personality can't go shopping in an exclusive boutique because they're closed for the day and won't reopen Just for Her. Presto, your Just Desserts have been served.

It's ridiculous. And yet it keeps happening, because people like that keep getting enabled--whether by the authorities, by the fans, or by their handlers. There's often such a blatant exhibition of entitlement from people that it's absolutely mind-boggling. If I had done any of the things in the above paragraph, I'd have been arrested. If' I had accosted a flight attendant, the Air Marshals would have hauled me in for questioning, and my family might not have seen me for a couple of weeks while Homeland Security went on a rampage checking to see if I was some kind of insurgent.

I've met actors--some famous, some not so much--who are actually generous, down-to-earth, approachable people. Those are the ones who haven't forgotten what it was like to be told "No". They're the people who remember scraping by for rent while they studied for their next audition, who went without cable so they could pay for the electric bill. Who can recall their first limousine, first comped hotel room, and First Class ticket with a sense of excitement and glee. They remember they're just lucky, that it could stop at any time, and that they aren't Anointed ones who simply deserve it.

Rant over. I'm now off to read People magazine.

By the Way: Happy Birthday, John Mayer!!

Miracles, Television, and Missing Links

2006-10-16T11:09:00.000-07:00

So I go to bed last night, after watching the truly engrossing History Channel presentation of "Building an Empire: Egypt", and then lay me down to sleep. Only I can't sleep. Every molecule of my epidermis is itching like crazy--although not all at once. One itch would start say, on my arm, and then after it goes away, another starts on my foot, and then after I give that a little scratch, yet ANOTHER starts on my shoulder. And on and on, and on it goes. I was twitching like a beached fish within ten minutes and cursing like a sailor. And I'm thinking, "What the hell?"

Well, I know what it is. Happens to me every year during a seasonal change--the barometric pressure, the dropping temperature--the moisture in my skin is drying out faster than a puddle in the Sahara. I've got to drink more water and quit sucking down so much coffee, or I won't get a decent night's sleep until May 2007. At least the History Channel special was fun.

I don't watch much network stuff--most of it seems to be that reality crap, and I couldn't give a flying fig newton about those. If I want to watch reality train wrecks, all I have to do is go down to the local bar. Any network stuff I watch consists mostly of the Today show in the mornings, MSNBC in the afternoons, and "House" and "Boston Legal" (James Spader! Heh.) My other television fare is mostly Discovery, Discovery Times, History Channel, Animal Planet, and National Geographic. Yeah, I know. I'm a nerd. At least you learn something interesting and useful on those shows, instead of watching people swap wives, eat bugs, or descend into utter depravity for the sake of the almighty buck. Again, all I have to do is go to the bar to see that stuff.

There was a great show that Discovery Times ran over the weekend as a rerun--I guess the original air was back in December. It was called "The Miracles of Jesus", and was hosted by a guy named Brock Gill. He's a Christian evangelist and a magician/illusionist. Sounds like a weird combination, I know, but actually, once you think about it, it's got logic. Rather than fire-and-brimstone preachifying to the masses, he entertains people while at the same time building allegory of the gospels into his show. I was impressed; that's creative. The other thing I liked is that he doesn't run all over the stage telling everyone they're all doomed to Hell or force his beliefs on them. Nor did he do that on the Discovery show. He put his beliefs on the shelf so that he could objectively investigate whether or not Jesus' miracles could have been real, or illusions. Cool. I like people who think, rather than just spout what they've been told.

If you happen to find the show on your TV lineup, it's worth a watch. Gill also has a great blog at http://blog.brockgill.com (I don't know how to put links in text yet), and you can buy the DVD of "Miracles" on his website, too.

Some of the other blogs I like and read regularly:

http://thesinkingfeeling.blogspot.com/ - the You Are Here blog, written by the inimitable Jean. Intelligent, excellently written with consistent dry wit, and often hysterical. She's had me almost spitting my coffee out on my keyboard in spasms of laughter.

www.reallivepreacher.com - I love this site. He's such a good writer, and a great storyteller.

http://slacktivist.typepad.com/slacktivist - Another funny one. Incredibly wry, sometimes to the point of farce. Check out his evisceration of the truly execrable "Left Behind" series of books. If there's one thing I dislike more than pushy evangelism, it's BAD evangelism and worse writing, and he lays it out better than anyone.

www.perezhilton.com - The world's best gossip blog. I can't start my day without Perez.

www.wikipedia.com - Want to learn something? Go here. You'll edumacate yourself.

www.johnmayer.com - Because he's just that good.

Maybe one day I'll actually figure out how to link blogs instead of typing the URL out. Man, I'm really behind on this technology crap. I don't even own a Blackberry...

No Excuses

2006-10-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

Welcome to All That and...I'm new to the blogosphere and don't really have a clue what I'm doing, but I realized I've missed keeping a journal, and this is a new way of having one. As a writer, it's shameful that I don't write more, and thus this is a method by which I will have no excuses for slackery. Or if I come up with excuses, they'll sound less viable.

I'm a thirtysomething woman trying to make a living and keep ahead of the curve, and most days I manage to squeak by. Other days I think maybe it would have been a better idea to stay in bed and try again tomorrow. Some days I've actually done that, but not very often. You tend to miss things if you remove yourself for too long.

Anyway, this post won't be very long, as I'm thoroughly flummoxed about what to say. I'm sure that as time goes by, it'll be all but impossible to shut me up. I'll try to post at least three or four times a week, and I'll try to be interesting and amusing. However, if I've not had any chocolate, that might be a stretch.

Thanks for reading. Wish me luck.