Thwarted

I wanted to sit down and write my annual holiday letter/essay, but I have found myself feeling rather pissy. I got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn't get my regular cuppa joe, was late bringing Sullivan to school, found myself in the middle of a heated discussion regarding the school's administration, found that the coffee I had left in the pot had been drunk by the time I returned home, responded to an email that I should probably have just let slide, fielded phone calls about another controversy at school, wanted to go back to bed but had a script meeting to attend, prepared for the meeting, then the meeting got cancelled, now it is 10:30 in the morning and I've written the worst run-on sentence in recent history and I'm starving and there is nothing to eat in the house but some tortillas and fig newtons. I'm not feeling particularly Christmassy this morning. I want someone to take care of me. Someone should come over and sit in my hotter than hell apartment (I think I've sweated off a few pounds in the last week) pick up a bit for me then stroke my hair and tell me stupid jokes until I feel ready to go out for a little hot cider and Christmas shopping.

Maybe I'll just sit in front of Crabby McCrabcrab's tank for a little while and stare at him until he moves. He has molted again and it is kind of weird fun to watch him come out to eat his old exoskeleton.

You Say You Want a Revolution, Well, You Know...

I do. I'd like a little change around here, a little something to get the blood pumping, get people engaged. To get me engaged, specifically. I'm rather bored with the isolation. It's getting old.

It doesn't take much to start a revolution. It doesn't take any wild 180 degree turns or whole new modes of thought or expression. Those things evolve in time but begin with something tiny. Little things mean a lot. A crazy vagabond preacher who does not carry a staff or a begging bowl coming to a market place to tell people to turn the other cheek (that's one of my favorite and most complex teachings- but that's a whole other post) and to treat people as they would like to be treated is a pretty small thing. It was just a couple of ideas about how to live in this world and all he did was talk about it. People changed.

A woman who does not give up her seat on the bus, a man who looks at the world around him and imagines an invisible force that draws objects toward the ground, a pair of half brothers beholden to the circumstances of their birth spawn a sibling rivalry that is now, thousands of years later, a conflict between nations. Not all revolutions are for the better, but we can make something wrong into something right. If we're paying attention.

It seems that circumstances conspire to come together at a specific place and time to meet one specific person who will make a tiny observation. It takes time, patience, and openness to allow for that awareness. Such a simple thing, yet very hard to do when we are clouded with cell phones, computers, Christmas shopping, holiday obligations, obligations to the capitalist machine (Oiled with the blood of the workers! Mmmm! Yummy workers!), and basic managing of daily life on this planet. It's funny how we can be so involved, so busy, so entrenched in our dealings with other people and as much as we are on the phone, online, in line, and in touch we are often so terribly alone and without contact.

I'm going to try sitting still for a little while and hope a revolution comes to me. If not for the world (I don't know if I'm that person) but at least for myself. I could use a tiny shift in perception.

Sad Friends

I must be doing pretty well because a lot of my friends are going through some pretty rough stuff and I am not taking it on myself to feel it for them. So, that's good. Although I am listening to Bob Dylan's "Desire" album a little more than I should. Sure, "Mozambique" is a nice little diddy but "Sara" is melancholy and thick with loss and "Hurricane" just makes me sad and angry while "Joey" has the rather heavy-handed lyric "...what made them come and blow you away?". Sort of shocking in its brutality. But, I don't want to make this into another Bob Dylan Love Fest- although I easily could.

The point is (or, more acurately, the SEARCH for the point is...) that I wish I could wave a magic wand and take away some of the pain I see happening all around me. It's like an emotional apocolypse over here. I feel like I'm in the eye of the storm. Things have calmed down for me, personally, even though my social and political dander has been standing in self-righteous attention for quite some time. For me, that is considerable improvement from the wallowing I had been indulging in for some time. At least now I feel motivated.

I think I will be doing my annual Christmas address early this year. Not today, though. I will post it here as well as email it to everyone I know. It's percolating in ye ol' noodle.

The construction guys working downstairs are listening to David Bowie. Funny. I never would have expected that from these guys, they certainly don't look the type. But hey- I know better than anyone else that things are not always what they seem. It's kind of nice to see that in action.

Sad as it may be sometimes, the world really is a beautiful place and people really can be something marvelous. If Anne Frank can think so, then I think I can stretch myself just that far.

No Thanks

I actually had a lovely Thanksgiving with some friends this year. Prov and I fixed a really lovely meal while our kids played relatively quietly with one another. This became suspect after dinner when the quiet in the back bedroom resulted in an incident involving a bottle of sunblock being smeared all over the bedroom while they screamed "Bird Poop! Bird Poop!" with intoxicating delight. They weren't laughing so hard when the old folks made them clean it up, though! The four adults in the house did their best to not find this incident amusing and we took turns chuckling in the corner while another parent took over the discussion of respect for another person's property. All in all, it was a good tag team effort and I enjoyed my day.

The one thing I was really thankful for is that I was with a group of adults who did not insist on going around the table and formally giving thanks. I find these little displays to be too competitive for my taste. It's kind of like that unwritten Oscar speech in which you forget to thank your spouse. (Oh fuck, I'm never going to get laid again!) Then you have to go through that whole rigamarole where you feel you need to thank everyone for being there, so and so for inviting you, such and such for the tasty bird, whosywhatsits for just being alive, and then the next fucker down the line proves themselves to be far more gracious than you are by admitting that he/she is "...thankful for sadness because it reminds me that I have, at one time, experienced joy..." or is thankful for "...the sound of squeaky swing set chains and the laughter of little children...". Then you are forced to spend the rest of the night downing glasses of some half assed pinot that was brought by your cheap ass cousin Karl and praying for the turkey coma to take you quickly so you don't have to be conscious for the bitter silence from your mate on the car ride home. Why do you have to chew with your mouth open? Why do YOU insist on discussing politics with Aunt Helga?!

Nope. None of that at my Thanksgiving this year. Just a lot of really good food and some quiet company with good friends with no real agenda. I'd say I was thankful for it, but I don't really want to rub it in.

A Rosy Reminder

I've been reading Cornel West's book "Democracy Matters" and 68 pages into it I read something lovely that I would like to share with you.

"Democracy is always a movement of an energized public to make elites responsible- it is at its core and most basic foundation the taking back of one's powers in the face of the misuse of elite power. In this sense, democracy is more a verb than a noun- it is more a dynamic striving and collective movement than a static order or stationary status quo."

You heard the man, now get moving.

Sleeper Cell

Just a few blocks away from my house there is a billboard touting a new series on Showtime called "Sleeper Cell". Presumably, the show is meant to play on our fears of terrorists living among us, ready and willing to destroy us. Now, that may be so. I won't, necessarily, argue that point as I know there are many frustrated people out there who would like to see this arrogant, imperialistic power dealt another humiliating and crushing blow. I won't deny that. Even so, there are some serious things that bother me about what this billboard promises.

First, there are several men's faces on the billboard. None of which are remotely Arab looking. Let's face it, if someone has a beef with this nation at the moment, it isn't a bonny faced Irish lad. Sure, there are lots of different types of terrorists. Our home grown type have all read The Turner Diaries and have memories of Waco and Ruby Ridge. Just about every culture has nurtured some type of terrorist movement, be they environmental terrorists, political terrorists, religious extremists, or just bored and plain old angry. But this particular billboard promises to scare the pants off of us by suggesting that our neighbors, employers/ employees, or people on the bus are out to kill us. Yes, that is productive. Just as productive as the "all men are rapists" mode of thought. (You can see that I am being sarcastic, right?)

Now I am not suggesting that all Arabs are potential terrorists. Just like I would not dream of suggesting that all Italians are in the mob. It just isn't true. By and large, however, the political environment in the world would suggest that an Arab would be more likely to blow up an American building than an Italian. That doesn't mean the reverse can't be true, but if we don't use common sense we end up being afraid of absolutlely everyone and everything. This is not productive either.

What I AM suggesting is that if you are going to make a television program suggesting that terrorists are in our midst, don't pussy out and go the PC route. Figure it out. Dig deep and use this as a platform to understand why Arabs are so angry. Give us an opportunity to see them as humans with beliefs and weaknesses like the rest of us, and make it as authentic as possible. Though I am certain the odds are good there is an angry and disenfranchised white boy sitting in a shanty somewhere in Michigan plotting a violent revolution against the United States government, he is not the one we need to concern ourselves with just now. When he gets organized, then we'll talk. Until then, we should understand what the fuck went wrong and how a group of people could be so angry with us that they aspire to indiscriminately destroy us.

Here's the problem as I see it. This kind of "entertainment" is masquerading as "information" and it encourages us to fear everything that surrounds us. A wise leader would stand up and deliver a strong and clear message to the American people that we have nothing to fear but fear itself. Hmmmm, sounds familiar. It is sage advice. It is fear that sends us into isolation. It is fear that takes away reason, common sense, and compassion. It is fear that devours our sense of right and wrong and ultimately leads us into a stinking spiral of self-destruction. What is the first thing that they teach you to do in any emergency situation? DON'T PANIC. Fear clouds your judgement, dulls your senses, and those who freak out die untimely deaths.

Don't panic. Keep a clear head. Breathe. Assess the situation and move forward.

I Vant to be Ah-lone

Any woman out there who is currently childless and is considering motherhood, know this...your time is not your own. Ever. Sure, I know you knew that but I don't know if you KNOW that. This motherhood deal can seriously blow sometimes.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I had not been suffering under the feminist delusion of "having it all". You see, feminism made a few serious miscalculations.

#1: That society at large would actually LIKE to have women free to contribute beyond wiping poopy bottoms and making sure Skippy does his homework.

#2: That our significant others would be secure enough to handle it.

#3: That other women would really want to band together for the good of all women. Well, if ALL women make it, then that would make my achievements small in comparison, so...screw them!

Okay, I'm taking things a bit far here, but I am one bitter, resentful chippy and I hate being this way. If things keep going this way in 10 (2) years time you will see me at the end of the bar, overly made up with my hair on crooked and muttering curses into my low-rent vodka. What I need is a cleaning lady, an intern, an aupair who speaks English, French and Spanish and Japanese would be nice, a bigger home to help house the au pair so I don't feel like a giant freak, a back yard, and a husband who is fulfilled and will occassionally give me a spontaneous hug or kiss and who will make arrangements for dates instead of relying on me to mangage our relationship. Come to think of it, I would like to have a little help just taking care of their lives so I can take care of my own. I'm tired of managing Sullivan's social life, his school needs, his emotional life, and his health while making sure my husband has clean underwear, has the appropriate groceries available, facilitating his father/son time in which he never seems to know what to do, nudging him toward an exercise routine and encouraging him to care for his own health, and being his professional cheerleader. Who the hell is doing those things for me? Me. Guess who's stuff is constantly left by the wayside? Mine.

Now, this is not all Tom and Sullivan's fault. I trained them to depend on me and weening them from it is harder than you could imagine. I had a Super Mom, so I thought that was what I needed to do. I'm surrounded by other Super Moms, but why is it that I feel like I am the only one drwoning in the job?

Everyone always puts on such a great game face. Who knows, maybe they DO love it and I am just a horrible freak for being so angry and resentful. I know that sometimes I can be a flipping bummer at the playground because if you ask me how I am doing I'll tell you. But that's my version of feminism. I refuse to sugar coat the mommy truth. As rewarding as it is, and as much as I love my son, this job is harder than I ever imagined. Not because of the kid stuff, necessarily, but because of the grown up stuff, because of the getting lost stuff. It is so easy to get lost in the overwhelming needs and demands of this little creature and then it is easy to fall into the trap of caring for the husband as well. I know many families where the father suddenly cannot do anything for himself and begs for attention- competing in neediness with his own offspring. Balance is incredibly difficult to attain and if you're the only one looking for it you are in an uphill battle. Hello, Sysiphus!

Right now I just want to be alone in my own home, but in order to be alone, I need to leave the house. Why? Because I can't get them out the door. Tom stays up all hours and sleeps whenever he wants. Granted, his job does not help his sleep patterns, so that is not entirely his fault, but it still pisses me off. Of course, Sullivan wakes up at the crack of freaking dawn screaming for breakfast and for me to make a million different things out of paper for him and I spend the rest of the morning defending my quiet territory and my cup of coffee from the ravages of time. (Sip it fast or you won't get to drink it!) I just want to carve out a little something for myself that has nothing to do with managing their lives, but, of course, that means I need to get those things squared away first or I will return to a mess that was even bigger than before I left. And guess who will have to clean it up?

Root of All Evil

I have to stop thinking about money. It is a paralyzing roadblock for me. My activities are so tightly controlled by cash flow that I am not taking the risks I need to take in order to create a career for myself.

So, I suppose a career as a Professional Poker Player just isn't in the cards for me.

(I know...GROAN!...but rarely do I succomb to such childish wordplay so just bare with me, will ya?)

I complain about this a lot. You'd think, since I am a smart gal that is aware of these issues, that I would just tackle them and get over it. Well, I need some support.

Clap if you believe in fairies! Don't die Tink! Come on you cynical fuckers, clap!

Eager Dick Puppets

I've been reading a lot of "post-feminist deconstruction" lately. Many writers and literate thinkers have been wondering about the current trends in feminine cultural images. It seems that now, as opposed to the height of the feminist movement, women are not only accepting of female objectification but have a desire to actually become objects. Once it was unacceptable to flaunt your boobs instead of your brains, now a woman uses her brain to figure out how to better flaunt her boobs.

Well, here's my non-boob contribution to this discussion. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this with the belief that I am not the only woman who feels this way.

Sadly, I would rather be a muse than a creator. I'd rather be Helen of Troy than Marie Curie. I'm pretty ambitious and am fairly insecure with a gigantic chip on my shoulder, so I will probably opt the Marie Curie track (not specifically, but you know what I mean) rather than the lusty busty babe on the cover of Maxim route. Even so, I do hope that, someday, there will be poems about my joie de vivre, oil paintings of my ample figure, and novels in which I am portrayed as a strong and noble woman with an hypnotic allure. How many fucking poets, short story writers, musicians, and visual artists did I try to seduce so that I could be immortalized and passed on to future generations as a model of femininity? Too many and hardly worth the cheap rhyming couplets I received on the backs of napkins. Most of them with not so clever images all rhyming with the word "Nantucket".

In some way, we all want to grab our little piece of immortality. I cannot say if this intense need to be proclaimed a great beauty is genetic or if it is a part of my socialization. All I know is that the need is there. Some women have achieved this great goal and you can see them hanging in the Louvre or the Metropolitan Museum of Art or on the shelves of your local bookstore. You may not know their names, but you know that, at some critical point in their lives, someone was fascinated by them. Someone was interested enough in them to study them, observe their mannerisms, capture their ever changing essence and this exercise feels like love. It is the closest thing to immortality we can give one another.

So why all the cheapness?

Right now, cheap is all we got. Now, more than ever, the Paris Hiltons, Jessica Simpsons, and Pamela Andersons of the world can get as much attention as they want because the inner thigh is a completely public place now, so what's the problem? Ladies have allowed the boys to become "Laddies". Laddies are easily amused, beer swilling, illiterate pigs who love fart jokes and corn chips and there are a lot of them. It's cyclical, since we do not really demand more from them they are more than happy to let these things slide. The more they slide the less "artistic" attention there is to go around so we'll settle for letting it all hang out. Then the laddies get the message that their behavior is just fine with us so it just goes on and on. We either take what we can get or we give up on our dreams of being exalted, honored, and desired for the closest thing to eternity we can find.

Why does this matter so much to us? Because we're freaking vain, that's why! Duh! Vain and insecure. Love me, validate me, paint me, write me, capture me, hold me, keep me, secure me, make sure I don't float into oblivion, need me, desire me, touch me, free me, make me sacred, flatter me, be a part of me!

In my particular case, I want the PR. Something that can unleash my greatness to the world or, more importantly, help me see the greatness in myself. No more. No less.

I Keep Forgetting Lunch

I should probably go eat lunch. But I have a million things to do (all of which I am avoiding by blogging at the moment) and I keep telling myself I will eat after I finish just one more thing. I don't know why I am doing that. I would scream bloody murder if one of my friends was neglecting herself this way. Yet here I go.

Chances are, I won't be eating lunch today.

Angry Sigh

I have nothing against higher education.

I think people who go to college have a pretty good idea. I like school. I like classes. I like learning. I like talking about the things I've learned.

But I don't want to spend $60,000 (lowball) and another 4 to 6 years to be considered for a job I already know how to do NOW.

I want to work and use my brain, but I don't want to go further into debt for the opportunity. There must be another way for a brilliant chippy like myself to catch a break.

I Have Limits

Yes, it's true. My limit is usually 2 or 3. Sometimes it's 6, but rarely. I need to have worked out rigorously the day before to make that possible. Occassionally, I can do 4 without any serious consequences but then there is the odd day in which 1 will set me back futher than I could have reasonably expected. I suppose the best thing to do would be to not get started at all.

But where would be the fun in that?

Good Night and Good Luck

I really wanted to be able to give this a good review. Many of you know I am not a big Clooney fan- as a cinematic personality I feel he is pretty much all hair. But I was rooting for him on this one, becuase on a knee jerk level I agree with him. McCarthyism and the black list happen to be serious interests of mine. Granted, I'm not involved in any historical reinactments of the McCarthy hearings or anything like that, but I do have a deep and abiding constitutional interest in the time period. However, I am becoming increasingly dissatisfied in the "liberal intellectual elite" complaining how there is no longer any public discourse and then refusing to actively engage in the debate beyond screaming "YOU SUCK!" Not very intellectual at all.

The fact that we are revisiting these issues in our political debate (I use the term "debate" rather loosely here) should be a big, flashing neon sign that we have yet to resolve this issue in our culture. If the issue is NOT resolved, then it behooves us to actually examine that which we find distateful. If it IS resolved, there is absolutely nothing gained by even bringing up the subject to begin with. Now, allow me to be specific in regard to my structural and philosophical gripes with this picture and then I will pick away at its artistry.

I know this will make me unpopular. Good.

It is my artistic philosophy that all great works begin with a question. Not with an answer. "Good Night and Good Luck" is all answer. The answer is Senator Joe McCarthy was a mad jackass who was way out of line and he deserves to be burned in effigy throughout the annals of American history from here to eternity. This provides no real conflict or urgency. If the path is clear and there is no questioning or doubt then what can we learn from this exercise? (I know those of you that have seen it will question me about the suicide of Don Hollinbeck -please excuse the phonetic spelling- but I will cover that in the artistic phase of this review) If we do not present McCarthy's viewpoint we can scarcely walk away from this picture with any idea how to proceed with our daily lives. What the hell do you want me to DO with this information?

McCarthy and the black lists have actually been done to death. We've examined the dilemma of whether to name names or not with an interesting and emotional dialogue of sorts between estranged friends Arthur Miller and Elia Kazan. A few of us (very few for the first in this list) have seen two seperate vilifications of Roy Cohn in HBO's "Citizen Cohn" and portrayed by Al Pacino in Tony Kushner's "Angels in America". We've seen the tragedy of the black list with Robert DeNiro in "Guilty by Suspicion", but I have yet to see anyone honestly, and without malice, explore Joseph McCarthy. It is just assumed that he was a crazy ass and therefor we don't need to even begin to look at the reasons for his positions. We assume there are no reasons. We are very comfortable believing that he was a power mad wacko and so we do not have to examine ourselves. We do not have to answer for our own supplication and willingness to hand over our freedoms and civil rights to some guy who is such a true believer that he can paint us into a corner with "either you are with us or against us." What this picture misses is the fact that WE create and hand over power to Joseph McCarthy (Dick Cheney, W, Karl Rove...) and we will do it again and again and again, unless we have the courage to drop our assumptions about his positions and his actions and actually ask the question, "was he right?".

In order for a work of art to have any real value it should challenge us to see the world in a new way. Yes, this applies to comedy, too. Sometimes even more so! No more preaching to the choir. That should be off the table. Challenge yourself, damn it! Have the guts to ask yourself what you truly believe and then be brave enough to admit when you are wrong. Breathe a sigh of relief when you are right. This is called growth. If there is no growth, there is no art, perhaps a little craft, but no art.

Now for the craft.

The script is poorly structured with bad pacing and absolutely no character development. I can't really complain too much about the actors because there was, literally, nothing to see. Clooney quipped on The Daily Show (yeah Jon Stewart!) that people were asking who that guy playing Joe McCarthy was, as if this blurring between historical fiction and real history was a compliment to the picture. It was, in my humble opinion, just the opposite. It points out just how bland the characters that populated the screen really were. Textually this was merely a chronology of events with little to no illumination of the people who took part in those events.

Now, for the suicide. See, even if you knew nothing about these people and the chain of events in their lives you would know from his first moment on screen that Don was going to kill himself. This moment is supposed to provide us with a moment of doubt. This moment lasts through a musical interlude and an on air obituary. Then it is back to business as usual. Hardly a blip in the text. To put it in perspective, that's maybe a page of script. If a person's life and is worth a page of written text in a script of (roughly) 120 pages, that does not make for a dramatic dilemma.

My problem with this film is that it brings nothing new to the table. I did not learn anything new. I did not make any new connections between that time period and our current woes. I did not walk away being wowed by its' artistic bravery or its rock solid craft. It left me completely empty. I would be impressed if this film project challenged its participants to question their own political positions and by doing so challenged its audience. That would be brave. That would be revolutionary. Instead, it was just more of the same bullshit of smartypants liberals pointing at conservatives and saying "take that!" just before that big ass conservative comes over and sits on the little weasel. Truly, if you want intelligent discussion in this country, you have to start by asking a question and actually waiting for the answer and listening to it instead of just waiting for your turn to scream.

Judgement

I just figured out a little something that has been like a pointy stone stuck between my toes in triple knotted shoes. Some of my friends actually judge me! No wonder I get my feathers ruffled when I hear certain talking heads say something ignorant and judgemental about my lifestyle (which is anything BUT alternative) or my parenting style. It isn't so much that what these jerkoffs say (except for Pat Robertson- he pissed me off on a completely different level) is that important to me. It's just easier for me to get angry at them than it is for me to admit that some of my closest friends make very ignorant judgments about me and how I live my life, raise my child and run my household.

Last night I went out with a friend (single, no kids, but very much wanting them) and I could feel her judgment. I felt her look down her nose at my unruly child - who, in all honesty, was just so excited to see her and it was right after dinner when he is already so taxed from his day that he could get super happy and hyper or he could get sullen and weepy just because it's after 5:00. Of course, she doesn't realize this because...SHE HAS NO CHILDREN! I can see her choking back advice on how to raise my kid so that he doesn't do that and as much as I absolutely love her, I want to smack her right in the mouth for thinking it.

And she's not the only one. Funny thing is, the people who are actually in the trenches of child rearing have their opinions but, for the most part, they stay opnions. They understand that there are a million plus ways of dealing with any issue you may have with your child and, the cool ones, don't rip you apart with their stares just because you have made a choice that they wouldn't have made themselves. A lot of single, childless people I know do. What I find REALLY hysterical (and so fucking frustrating I could scream and rip my fucking hair out and shove it in bloody fistfuls down someone's throat) is that these same single, childless people will preach to me about raising children who are smart, question authority, and are free and creative thinkers as adults are the very same who insist that I use dictatorial methods and intimidation to keep my child "in line". Well, how can he learn to question the world around him if I am constantly saying "Because I said so!"?(Which I do say from time to time, but I try to pick my battles.)

I'm not saying I'm the world's greatest parent- that moniker belongs to a pair of super parents I know named Margaret and Jonathan- but I'm pretty good. Sullivan adores me and I adore him. We spend a lot of time together and a good portion of it is quality interaction. Does he make me nuts? Hell yeah. But he is bright, kind, happy, inquisitive and sensitive and that SHOULD be enough to allow me to brush off criticism, either outright or implied, from my friends.

But... they're my friends. Man, that smarts.

Someone Put a Ball Gag on Pat Robertson

So, the good people of Dover, PA voted out the school board members who wanted to put Intelligent Design in schools. So Pat Robertson said that they shouldn't be surprised if God smites them. If this guy is truly the mouthpiece of God- Satan help us!

A side note about Intelligent Design: I have no problem in people believing in it. No skin off my ass. I don't even mind it being taught in schools, just not within a science class. It would be valuable in the context of social studies- because our children should learn about other belief systems and how they play a role in politics and foreign relations. But it does not belong in a science classroom because it is NOT science. I'm kind of a stickler about that. Science is science. Religion is religion. Fish is fish. Intelligent Design is NOT science, it does not stand up to scientific methods - and science class should be about the PROCESS of analysis. So there. I've solved the problem. Your welcome.

Now back to what a dick Pat Robertson is.

Here's one that really sticks in my craw. Pat Robertson has said that feminism leads women to "...kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians." Well, I have no problem with 3 out of 4 of those things. Witchcraft is just another religion and someone else's religious practice - as long as they aren't ramming it down my throat or using it as an excuse to harm others- is not of my business. I've never known any practitioners of Witchcraft to be even half as annoying as some of the fundamentalist "Christians" I have met. (NOTE: Not all Christians are annoying. Some are actually pretty nice, but like anything one bad apple spoils the whole bunch.) So let's tick Witchcraft off our list. Destroy capitalism? HOORAY! Let's think outside the box, people. Capitalism hasn't done me any fucking favors so let's put another check in the "Robertson's Rules of Feminism" column, shall we? Okay, then comes the lesbians. Really, they're not hurting anybody. Most people kind of like the idea of lesbians- whether they'll admit it or not. I'm sure even Pat Robertson has had some filthy, filthy thoughts about some hot girl on girl action. I think what he really objects to is that they would like it. We all know women aren't supposed to enjoy sex. That is supposed to be the sole domain of the penis. Let's face it, most of these uber Christian Alpha Males are afraid of women and want to do their best to keep us from comparing notes and wiping their intolerant asses out of existance. So, without further ado, let's put another check down for chicks.

This brings us to the one thing on Robertson's list that I don't like so much. Killing kids. Here's the funny thing. None of the child killing moms that have been in the news the last few years have been feminists- that I can think of. In fact, many of them have been women that were doing their best to live as fine Christian women. I could make the argument that it is fundamentalist Christian beliefs that drove them to murder their children and the LACK of feminism in their lives added to their desperation. Feminism brings women together and provides support so that we are NOT alone with scary thoughts about killing our irritating little brood while our he-man is out there beating his chest and pretending that he is an involved father just because he knows the names of all of his children! Andrea Yates home schooled her children, she left a satisfying career to rear her children and be a good Christian mommy. Isolated and without a strong support network and without a break to recharge herself, her natural brain chemistry started to tell her that she was not a good enough mother and that her children would be better off back in the loving arms of God than with her. Our charming medical system kept sending her back and giving her inadequate care, why? Well, because of insurance reasons. (I'd like to add that this health care system is propped up by crackpots like Robertson who don't want universal health care because it just isn't profitable enough. For people who aren't supposed to covet these capitalist, fundamentalist Christian Republicans sure do want a big fucking piece of the pie.) So, one day she just couldn't hold out any longer. In her mind, she was a terrible mother and she was incapable of teaching her children and raising them in the light of God and they would be better off with Him than in her care. How do you get to God? You die.

As a mother who adores her son, I will come out and say that I get it. I've been isolated and terribly alone, which is bad enough. But to be without real contact or support and to have this very real and very heavy responsibility for another human creature is a lot of pressure. It hurts sometimes. I get really pissed off at these fucking high and mighty men who will never understand what it feels like to have your body and soul split in two by the creation of this other living being, to give up fucking EVERYTHING to care for it and then getting no real support for your efforts. So many men just think we sit back and watch tv all day. As rewarding as it is, mothering is soul sucking work. Then you get these dyed in the wool patriarchs dictating (or should I say "dick-tating"?) to us how we should raise our children and insisting that we give up the very things that keep us going. Fuck you. It's amazing the human race has lasted this long. The fact that we gestate, give birth and then raise them while we still try to maintain our identities should let the world know that we women are the toughest fuckers on the planet.

So Pat, you can't pin the baby killing on feminism. Stick that one right to your forehead, baby, because this one is YOUR fault. Not the fault of women who do their best to get together and provide for one another where YOU cannot.

Usually, I TRY not to be so venomous, but Pat's just said so much stupid shit lately (lately meaning for the last few decades) that I don't mind saying this: Fuck off Robertson, you ignorant son of a bitch. It's not even possible to sit down and have an intelligent discussion with the likes of someone like you, because you're too thick headed and have shit for brains.

Note to God- If you want this guy to speak for you, you and I must part company. The heart and the brain YOU gave me just can't handle this clown.

Heart Warming Tale

TEACHER: All right Suzy. What is 9 + 2?

SUZY: 12?

(TEACHER smacks SUZY across the cheek. SUZY screams.)

TEACHER: No. Tell me, Suzy, what is 9 + 3?

SUZY: 11?

(TEACHER smacks SUZY again. SUZY screams again and tears start streaming from her face. She decides that getting hit is not a good thing so she starts to move away from TEACHER. TEACHER holds her down. SUZY struggles, crying and screaming.)

TEACHER: I don't understand it, Suzy. You are such a smart girl (smack) I don't know why you can't get this. (Smack) Try again. What is 9 + 2?

(SUZY is crying so hard she can't answer the question.)

TEACHER: (Smack) 9 + 2! You aren't leaving this room until you (smack) give me the right answer! What is 9 + 2?

SUZY: (sobbing uncontrollably)...10?

(Smack)

SUZY: 14?

(TEACHER smacks her again. SUZY flails madly to get away from the TEACHER, screams and cries.)

TEACHER: I don't know why you never learn anything!


We all know this is no way to teach Suzy how to add. So why do we think it will teach her to put on her shoes, stop squirming in a restaurant or to stop hitting her little brother?

Ain't That Lovin' Ya Baby?

A friend of mine confessed to me that he once told his four year old daughter (who was, at the time, throwing a fit over something or other as most four year olds have a tendancy to do) the following:

Look, because I love you I feel it is my duty to tell you that you are acting like a moron.

Now that's a good daddy. Maybe I wouldn't exactly have the balls to express it that way, but I like the sentiment. Hard to hear, but also really, really important. I want that in my life.

For the last four years I have really been acting like a moron and nobody told me. I realized this while watching "The Incredibles", of all things. You know the scene where Edna Mode slaps the shit out of Helen telling her to snap out of it and that she is Elastigirl and she should stop whining and do what she needs to do. I am paraphrasing, of course, but man, where was Edna Mode when I needed her? Having kids can honestly turn you into a giant pussy. I've been scared of my own flipping shadow for the last four years and not exactly without cause. Now I actually have something to lose. But that shouldn't stop me from being who I am. I'm fucking Elastigirl, damn it. I've pushed an entire human being through my vagina, if that's not tough I don't know what is. I just wish someone could have pointed that out to me while I was falling apart. I probably wouldn't have listened, but that's when the slapping needs to happen.

I can be a pretty tough bird. Given the opportunity to snap back, I will. However, I will curl up into the fetal position and wail about the injustice of it all if someone gives me the go ahead. Occassionally a person has got to lick their wounds, but I don't want time to wallow. If I'm being an idiot I want to know.

Right now, I'm being a huge idiot. I'm fussing about being fat and unemployable in my field when that just isn't true. The fact is, I'm just fishing for compliments because my self-esteem is for shit. In this situation a good back handed compliment would be my just desserts. For example, "Oh, shut up, Bree. I'd still do ya if you weren't married and you should be a one woman acting/writing/directing machine. You're just one lazy bitch with a ton of excuses. That's all."

Now that's what I need to hear! Love me enough to tell me when I am being a dumb schmuck.

@*%#!

I am getting so sick and tired of how people complicate things. Life is actually pretty simple. (Note I said "simple" not "easy") As soon as you figure out what your core beliefs are, it is pretty simple to see which path you need to choose. It is also pretty easy to live with other humans if you treat them with respect and listen to what they have to say. I know, a lot of people like to point their fingers and scream "BUT HE DOESN'T LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY!" Well, in my experience, it is amazing how people will reciprocate that respect when it is given to them.

But, Bree, that is just too simple minded an answer to actually work. Our world is too diverse, blah blah fucking blah. I get that. Do you know why I get that? Because I fucking listen! But different does not necessarily need to equal insurmountable! Slow the fuck down. Quit flying off the handle like spoiled three year olds and pay attention. Do what you have to do just don't tread on me.

Ya know what I mean?

Old Dreams Die the Hardest

When I grow up, I want to be a target.

My mouth should open and truth should fall from my tongue like 12 ton obscenities. Obscenities that are undeniable, because they are evident in every kitchen, alleyway, supermarket and school. Truth could make me dangerous.

It is not my desire to offend or cause pain for the joy of doing so. But, daily I search for that one thing that I could say for the rest of my life that could paint the bullseye on my forehead. In the deepest and darkest corners of my heart there lies a something that I do not fully understand. Yet I recognize that this thing which I cannot verbalize could be either my glory or my demise. In my most romantic meanderings, I fantasize that it could be both.

Ah! But this is purely ego talking! The old dreams die the hardest and since I was small I have dreamed of being an empty handed warrior. Armed only with language I could change the world. If only I had something to say. More than anything, I wish I knew what this thing was, this unutterable scream and joyous laughter that sits in my solar plexus waiting for the proper stream of words to ride out on.

So I write, I speak, I read and listen. Maybe I will find that thing to say that will give me enough power to share with those around me who will, in turn, pass it on.

Come Back George! Come Back!

So, last night I watched George Carlin's latest on HBO. I am also in the middle of reading "When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops". I am disappointed.

Another one of these guys that I thought was smarter than the rest has proved himself to have flimsy logic piecing together misguided theories in order to maintain a victim status. Look, I'm not saying that the picture he paints of an elite ownership society that stomps on the rest of us is wrong. I'm just saying that the manner in which he poses his arguments has big, gaping, ignorant holes in it.

One of his bits is based around the assumption that the human species is the only species that kills it's own kind for personal gain. Well, that's just not true. Chimps have been known to do that. I'm sure if that example exists, there are others to disprove his theory. Which, knowing that, makes his whole argument fall apart. Should I just let that overstatement slide? Maybe, but I hold George to a higher standard. His bits used to be air tight, but over the last few years his general distastes have overshadowed any real exploration of a subject. I don't mind him picking on me and "my kind" if he has a viewpoint that takes all factors into consideration and he STILL finds an issue- THAT is what I want to hear. That's what made him smarter than the rest. Now he's just older, crazier and darker than the rest.

I also don't mind dark. He did a few minutes on suicide- which is a subject I have a dark fascination with myself. Most of the bit was just...sad. The part that was actually funny was when he detailed the writing of a suicide note (territory that is not exactly uncharted, but fertile none the less) that got to the meat of what suicide really is. Suicide is a self destructive (obviously) and aggressive act really meant to be a giant "FUCK YOU" to the world or those who have driven you to this act. George got this part right, but only for a brief moment in a 10 minute bit.

For the most part, his crazy, angry, cynical old man routine is, dare I say, tired. He rails that only stupid people vote and that one person cannot make a difference. So he actively encourages smart people NOT to vote. But if he doesn't believe that a person speaking out can change anything, how does he reconcile a 50 year career of soical and political material? Material that has changed the way I've thought about language and the status quo! Hypocrite! Jackass! How dare you feed me a steady diet of obscene comic wisdom and then slap me down for listening.

Sad Moment

I am actually finding myself bored and irritated with people I once believed were my intellectual superiors. I'm seeing the chinks in the armor and starting to see some of them as frauds, just as stupid and confused as the rest of us.

Damn. Just when I could use some heroes I am finding that they are completely out of stock.

Festive Screw You

I know it isn't exactly the season, but with Thanksgiving coming up and all I can't help but wonder about how we celebrate all of our holidays. It got me thinking...

I don't know how it was in YOUR family, but it MY family the accepted practice was as follows: Thanksgiving = Turkey, Christmas = Game bird of some sort, pheasant, goose or duck, Easter = Ham. Now, do you think the Easter ham is a subtle screw you to the Jews? See that? I can eat delicious pork because Jesus is my Lord and Savior! Mmmmmm! Unclean meat! Smell that bacon! You can't ha-ave po-ork cuz you don't have your Mes-ssiah!

Do you think that's why that is?

Miles

I haven't thought about Miles in a long time.

Miles was a guy I worked with at a small theater in Minneapolis. Miles and I did the most thankless jobs. We scrubbed toilets and mopped floors, sold concessions, ushered, and ran off to get the actors their Saturday night dinners at the Green Mill across the street. Damn, he was a smart guy. He was a smart guy that was goin' nowhere. I was only 19. I had an excuse. I was 19 and stupid.

I totally dug Miles. After I got over the initial weirdness that a guy that smart shouldn't be scrubbing toilets for minimum wage and no respect, Miles and I became good work pals. We talked a lot. We talked about politics, social issues, personal issues, sex, sex, sex, and the usual workplace bitching about the boss. I don't remember what it was we were talking about that particular day, but I do remember his reaction. I remember it vividly.

I was being a bit of a smart ass while I was tallying some ticket information in the box office and he was mopping the floor just outside the ticket window. I tossed off some flip remark and he stopped dead in his tracks like I had shot him with a deer rifle. His eyes glazed over and his shoulders fell. Then he said,

"You are just too young to be that cynical."

He walked away from me shaking his head.

I replay that scene in my head from time to time. Funny how some things come back to you in bits and pieces and stick like leftover chunks of adhesive after some ancient scotch tape has been yanked off the wall. Miles was probably right. I feel that I am too cynical about people and the way things work. I try to hold on to my optimism and faith in humanity, but sometimes I can be so wretchedly disappointed. I don't rebound well. But what bothers me most about that little moment in time is that I disappointed Miles.

In Appreciation of Bob

The first time I ventured to listen to Bob Dylan (aside from hearing "Like a Rolling Stone" on the radio) was through a mixed tape. Ahhh, the mixed tape- the favored code of adolescent desire safely cloaked in the vagueries of sharing pop! Well, I have a young man named Brian to thank for handing me over, body and soul, to a poet who has no idea that I even exist. Yet, the fantasies persist.

Bob is yet another name in a curious list of men that could have me without even asking. Not that it would ever come to that. The truth is, in a way, he has already had me. From the moment I first heard "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" I had found a dusty beauty to cling to for the rest of my life. No amount of polishing will shine him up. You can't make Bob "pretty", but he as honest as he is complex. After all, what could be more true than "...money does not talk it swears..." or "...he that is not busy being born is busy dying..."? I could list snippets of his lyrics all day. There are images and phrases in his lyrics that cut straight through muscle and bone to lacerate my insides and I beg him to do it again and again. Hit replay! Oh God! More! More!

And it is not just sadness or cynicism, but humor- sharp, pointed, absurd humor. "...they asked me for collateral and I pulled down my pants...", "...I said 'you know they refused Jesus too!' and he said 'you're not him'" Words, words, words! I loves me a man who loves his words. I loves me a man who is his own creation and not the product of advertising or focus groups. His fans hated him for going electric and he did it anyway because he was compelled to. This brought us the aforementioned "Like a Rolling Stone" which is so much a part of our rock and roll vernacular that its brilliance is often, sadly, overlooked. I dare you to listen to it and not find yourself somewhere in there, searching for some answers. Although he is just as befuddled as the rest, his command of the language will tease you into thinking he has the key. If you just listen to "Highway 61 Revistited" one more time, you might enter the kingdom of heaven.

"God said to Abraham, 'Kill me a son' Abe said 'Man you must be puttin' me on' God said 'No' Abe said 'What?' God said, 'You can do what you want Abe, but, next time you see me comin' you better run!' Well, Abe said 'God where do you want this killin' done?' God said 'Out on Highway 61!'"

So today, my soundtrack is all Bob all the time. Ooooh, baby!

Consumer Suggestion

Next time you find yourself sitting for hours on end, wasting another vacation or sick day from work, waiting for the cable, telephone, or any other utility installation or repair call your local news channel. Tell them that you are being held hostage by said company. Sit down and write an op-ed piece (you'll have time) about how the subcontracted installation/repair guy couldn't actually fix the problem because, even though he knows what the problem is, he isn't authorized to do the job and this is the fifth time someone has been out to look at the problem. All the while YOUR available vacation/ sick days at work are going down the toilet. Which will inevitably mean more time away from work while you wait for the plumber to fix your toilet. Don't get your hopes up, though. Once your days have been retrieved from the loo, you probably won't want them back.

Hmmmm, I think this is yet another situation where deregulation and the free market has NOT served the greater interests of the consumer. Funny how that works, or rather DOESN'T work. Eh?