She Would Have Dined Here After

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
And my husband's gentle ranting became too loud to be ignored,
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
He was talking to a Raven perched above the bedroom door.
Pangs of hunger did entreat me to leave my bed and search the floor
Found my socks, nothing more


Clumsy on the rug I treaded, cursing softly as I headed
Into the rainy night I dreaded, to a place I've been before.
While hubby and the Raven chattered, I was searching through the skattered
Lights to find the one that mattered, my beloved late-night store.
“Wendy's” with its menu full of tasty treats galore.
Burgers, fries and so much more


Through the drive-thru in a flash, a little time and not much cash;
Finished up my midnight dash, in time to hear the Raven speaking:
“Nevermore”


My husband, with a drunken snicker, charming when he's had his liquor,
Leaped into bed just one step quicker, hoping to get some sweet amour.
But barely had we begun to play when, slumped and limp, he began to snore.
Only that and nothing more.


Tummy full of “Wendy's” treasure, wide awake and craving pleasure
Bored, frustrated beyond measure, I saw the Raven on the floor.
Ugly bird, but I took pity, warned him “Watch out for the kitty.”
And together we watched “Spin City”, (Michael J. I do adore)
Until our cat, Dandelion, awoke and chased him through the door.
We found his feathers, nothing more.

Click it or Ticket

Amazing how fast this year went by, huh? Another turn of the wheel, doubly significant because the anniversary of my birth happens this month as well.

It tickles me that I got certain Fundie members of my family referring to the Holiday as Yule instead of Christmas this year. But only out of ignorance, unfortunately. They think it's just an old-fashioned word for Christmas, just as they truly seem to believe that Jesus is the “Reason for the Season” and would caution everyone to remember that.

This season, I have been blessed with a number of things to rejoice in as well as a thing or two to grumble about. And since it's more fun to grumble than to rejoice, I'll do my grumbling here, and remember to rejoice with my kids later.

First of all, um, I won't say why exactly, but I found it necessary to do some research this week on what to do when you have a RAGING YEAST INFECTION of monumental proportions. One good thing about a forced lifestyle of abstinence is that you can diagnose your own yeast infections and not worry that it's a STD instead.

But the thing I most want to grumble about today is that bit of disguised fascism known as the Seatbelt Law. Yes, I got a ticket. Actually, I got two this year, and I am really ticked off.

In Texas, they repealed the helmet law because the Bikers got together and collectively raised Holy Hell about it. I guess that particular collective is one whose wrath even the most arrogant politicians are prudent enough to steer clear of. Bikers are not known for tolerating restrictions on their personal freedoms.

The rest of us, however—our willingness to be led like sheep, our tendency to impose our own moral standards onto others, our self-righteous contentment any time we can force other people to behave in ways that we agree with, all are legendary. So it's no surprise that “mainstream” people have failed to join forces and oppose this law.

Most people probably think the seatbelt law was passed to save lives. The truth is, seatbelt laws were put in place as a result of lobby pressure by auto manufacturers who did not want the expense of federally mandated airbag requirements in their vehicles. The federal government said “Okay, you don't want the airbag requirements? Then get to work pressuring the state governments to pass seatbelt laws. If all 50 states pass such a law, we won't enact the airbag legislation.” So the auto makers did a wonderful job of stirring up lots of seatbelt propaganda, which is why we're all so familiar with the crash test dummies, and they succeeded in getting the states to pass these laws. Then the federal government reneged and passed the airbag legislation anyway. Politics is a lovely business in our country, isn't it?

Is it safer to wear a seatbelt? Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I've seen some contradictory research on that matter. As you know, statistics can be made to tell whatever tale the teller wants told. But if you believe wearing a seatbelt is safer, by all means do so! And if you believe eating a low fat diet is healthier, then go right ahead! But don't pass a law that says the government can write me a ticket if I choose to accept the risk of a heart attack and eat Big Macs. It's probably safer not to jump out of airplanes, but I don't see the government making it illegal to go skydiving!

Everyone has heard the statistics about how much safer it is to wear a seatbelt and we've all seen the poor crash test dummies getting whacked around in those crash simulations. But we've never seen a simulation in which the car catches on fire and the crash test dummy is forced to burn to death because he is unable to escape the seatbelt. We've never seen a crash test dummy forced to watch her child burn, crying and screaming in terror, because she can't get to him to get the seatbelt off. We've never seen a crash test dummy seatbelted in, when the car is flipped over and submerged in water, disorienting the dummy and preventing him from releasing the seatbelt before he loses consciousness and drowns.

I believe each individual should have the right to choose which risk is acceptable. For me, having a wreck and depending on the airbag for protection is an acceptable risk, but being strapped to a burning or sinking car is not an acceptable risk. I don't understand why we have given the government the right to force me to take one risk in order to protect me from the other.

Did you know that drivers and passengers in emergency vehicles are exempt from the seatbelt law and for this reason, police officers are exempt? Did you know that 95% of police officers choose not to wear a seatbelt? (I'm quoting that statistic from memory, and I can't find the reference now. Please, if you have it, feel free to correct me.) The most common reasons given are 1) fear of being trapped in the vehicle, as described above; and 2) need for quick escape and ease of maneuverability. Interesting that these police officers can make those kinds of choices for themselves while giving the rest of us tickets when we try to make those same choices.

Primary enforcement means that police officers can pull you over and write you a ticket for no other reason than your failure to wear the Belt of Death and Terror. To me, at best, this hypocrisy is bad karma and at worst, harassment. It doesn't take a genius to figure out these seatbelt tickets are paying their salaries.

What if, all of a sudden, every driver on the road decided to start obeying all the traffic laws and there were no offenses for which the police could write tickets? Why, that would be a happy day for law enforcement, wouldn't it? After all, that is their goal, to get everyone to obey the laws, isn't it? It would mean a reduction in the police force by at least a third, and I'm sure those police officers would understand and consider it a worthwhile sacrifice, giving up their jobs, having safer roads and so many lives saved.

Right….what would happen is, among other things, the speed limits would then be reduced to artificially low numbers, as I'm sure you have found to be the case in neighborhoods you are familiar with, am I right? They will get citation revenue from us one way or another and it has nothing to do with safer roads or saving lives.

Let’s learn a lesson from the Bikers and repeal those seatbelt laws, folks! They are an outrageous infringement on our personal freedom and an insult to our intelligence. After all, if we all have good enough sense to make choices each day for our own health and safety, do we need the law to do it for us?

Smells Like Fish

..

"This is why many Japanese people's feet smell of vinegar."

I found the path of Enlightenment years ago, when first my friend Sissy and then my buddy Guy began hounding me to try sushi. Raw fish. Sliced up and balanced on a sticky wad of rice, and wrapped up with a strip of seaweed. Oh my, yum. Sounds delicious, doesn’t it? How did I resist for so long?

It is, in fact, a gradual addiction. The first time I tried it, with that adventurous spirit of “oh heck, how bad can it be?” I came away with a distinct “yeah, whatever” impression. I was not yet hooked. Even after subsequent sushi experiences, I still maintained a take-or-leave-it attitude toward the Sushi. It was not yet my Ultimate Satisfaction and Reason for Living on This Earth.

But gradually, the Sushi did take hold of me.

For some reason, sushi lovers do enjoy spreading their addiction around to all their friends. Sissy and Guy did it with me, and soon I had my frequent lunch companion Mr. Steve suggesting sushi for our lunch dates after I turned him onto the treat. I am in the process of introducing sweet Rosanna to the joys of raw fish as well, and she's a bit more of a challenge.

When Rosanna and I worked together, we would often go out for lunch so that I could grumble and groan with her about the Relentless Tease and she could mumble and moan about her own Lord Byron. No matter how much I wheedled and begged, she would not set foot in a sushi place. Finally my opportunity came when she took me to lunch on my birthday, giving me the right, of course, to choose where we’d go, and it should be no surprise that I chose Nagoya, a popular sushi/hibachi joint near our office. She was so freaked out at even being IN the place that she immediately called Lord Byron and told him, “You’ll never guess where I am right now…” She ate a delicious combination hibachi lunch while I gorged myself shamelessly on eel, white tuna, salmon and Philadelphia rolls. I could not get her to try even a nibble.

But I did get her to go back there with me again, and she did try one small crab roll at the end of our lunch. She pronounced it, “not that bad.” The next time, I got her to eat a small piece of eel. She picked up her phone and immediately shared the news with her husband: “Oh my god, baby, I just ate EEL!!!”

Just wait. She’s coming over to the sushi side, I can feel it. Soon she will be as addicted as I, then we shall spend many happy hours rolling around in raw fish, ginger, rice and wasabi, pouring soy sauce decadently upon our naked flesh with wild abandon.

My sister is coming next week to stay with me while I go through all my household possessions and decide what to let her keep for me. It’s funny, I immediately wondered if I’d have the opportunity to drag her out to eat sushi with me, see if I can get the beginnings of her addiction well underway too.

I'd Like to Buy the World a Coke

Advertising provides the colorful strands of yarn that hold the fabric of our economy together. It is essential, it is a necessary evil. And in the case of the Budweiser frogs, advertising may not necessarily be evil.

When we think of advertising, most of us think of television commercials. Entertaining little pockets of manipulation that bring us the shows we like to watch on TV. Some would argue that television advertising is insidious and evil in the way that it attempts to control the minds of the public, particularly the weak and the ignorant (like children).

I think it’s interesting that the only persons who can afford to buy television advertising are those who are already rich. Their goal in doing so is to become even richer, why else would they bother?

Surprisingly, I have little problem with rich people paying for my television shows so they can slip me a message designed to get me to give my money to them. I find them pretty easy to ignore, especially since I rarely watch TV. Television advertising aimed at my children is a little more sensitive because it preys on our weaknesses: my children’s weakness in not having a mature BS filter with which to ignore advertising and not having learned the value of delayed gratification; and my own weakness in feeling guilty if I don’t give my children every blessed thing they see on TV.

Even so, I can live with commercials. I can take comfort in the fact that each ad has cost some rich person more money than I make in six months and that it will fail in its goal to convince me to buy what that rich person is selling. And that they will have to pay another seventy-five grand to run another ad next month to try again. Sometimes I even like commercials, they’re funny or nostalgic or creative. When I don’t like them, I can turn my attention to something else or change the channel.

The same is true for radio ads, although they are a lot less likely to have any redeeming entertainment value. But if hearing an obnoxious radio ad is the price I pay for listening to music I like or my favorite morning DJ while I work or drive, it’s a small sacrifice. Once again, quite easy to tune it out or turn it off.

Print ads, they’re okay too. They often provide useful consumer information, or they present interesting images for my eye to appreciate. They can certainly be ignored or avoided by a simple turning of the page.

But the rules are different for the most insidious and intrusive kinds of marketing. These are the ads that cost the advertiser next to nothing to circulate--telemarketing, email spam and fax marketing. Because it’s cheap, there’s no incentive to make the ad entertaining nor even any reason to believe the product or service is worth any more than the cost to market it in this way. This kind of marketing is nearly impossible to fight from a consumer point of view because even if only ONE person responds to it (out of a billion or so potential customers reached), it’s a pay-off.

Last year my home telephone number somehow found its way onto a fax marketing list. For months I dealt with beeep-beeeep-beeep calls at all hours of the day, and usually in the middle of the night. I spoke to the phone company and learned the only thing they could do about it was to change my number. I should change my home phone number so that I can avoid being blasted with beep-beep-beep electronic advertising in a language I can’t even understand.

I thought perhaps it was just one misguided person or company who had my number. I pictured some poor secretary growing more and more frantic as the days go by, wondering why she can’t get the darn fax to go through, even when she’s tried it at all hours of the day!

So I picked up a cheap fax machine at a pawn shop and plugged it in, anxious to see who had been trying so urgently to fax me. Must be a very important message.

Affordable interest rates, get a second mortgage on your house! Get Cheap Prescription Drugs! Enlarge your penis! (okay, not really that one, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see that one come rolling off the ol’ fax machine any day.)

I politely called each company and informed them that they were faxing to a residential number and asked them to help me fix it by tracking down the source of the marketing list. I was assured by one and all, my number would be removed. I would never receive another fax from them.

Sometimes the ads come with an automatic "remove me" line, an 800 number you call and put in your fax number and it’s automatically removed. I called about a dozen of those--and the frequency of the faxes doubled, then tripled.

You see, when you call that number that appears on the fax you just received, and you enter in your fax number, you’ve just informed them that it’s a working fax and that a real live person is on the other end receiving the messages. Bonanza! That’s a good fax number to keep selling on that marketing list!

Unlike paid ads in other media, fax ads and telemarketing can not be ignored. Nor do you "get" anything back from your participation--no music, no tv show, no entertainment. It’s like a date with a man who takes you directly to his house and points to the bed and says "I’d like some sex now, please. How bout a blowjob?" without even bothering to offer dinner or conversation as an incentive.

It’s insulting and it’s rude. I hope to see some laws put in place to curb this terrible trend. Maybe now that the election’s over, our glorious president can make this his top priority, right after he finishes taking care of those filthy terrorists.

On Spam

"The problem’s all inside your head," she said to me.
It’s not the flavor so much as the consistency.
She turned her back and then I dropped it in my tea;
There must be fifty ways to hide your Spam.

You see, it’s really not my habit to be rude.
I hope my purpose won’t be lost or misconstrued,
But this meat tastes like it has been already chewed.
There must be fifty ways to hide your Spam.

Just open up your pants, Lance
Drop it down the back, Jack
Or put it in your shirt, Burt
Just listen to me

Don’t make a big fuss, Russ
You don’t have to discuss much
Pretend you have to go pee, Lee
And flush it hastily

She said, "It grieves me so to see you looking thin."
My stomach lurched, oh god she’s serving Spam again.
I tried to smile, but then my head began to spin
Thinkin’ about the fifty ways…

Feed it to the cat, Matt
Hide it in the plant, Grant
Stick it in your shoe, Lou
And set yourself free

Put it under the pan, Stan
Slip it in the crease, Reese
I don’t eat Spiced Ham, Sam
Don’t take it personally

This is lovingly dedicated to my mother, whose affection for "Spiced Ham" in the 1970’s caused me to develop these and other Spam-avoidance techniques. Of course it was always better if I could hide the cans whenever I found them in the pantry and pray that she would forget that she had bought any Spam at all. I was creative and resourceful, and I found excellent Spam-hiding-places all over the house. My brother, less creative and more courageous, preferred to just chunk it in the trash.

I have enjoyed now a blessedly Spam-free existence for more than twenty years.

San Antonio

San Antonio is an amazing city. It has a flavor, a texture, that resonates with my soul. I think my experiences and impressions of Texas might have been more positive if we'd come to San Antonio or Austin or Corpus Christi instead of Dallas.

I tend to find deep meaning in the mundane serendipities of daily life. For instance, I left my Cavalli sunglasses in a Texaco restroom somewhere outside of Waco. By the time I realized it, we'd gone too far down the road to turn back for them. I was certain they were gone, and I mentally blessed whoever found them, a gift from me to her--very expensive Italian shades. Enjoy.

But then we stopped at that Texaco on the way back the next day--and they were there! This had meaning for me. There is magick around me now.

When we stopped again for another potty break, all but one bathroom was out of order. There were three carloads of people ahead of me, and I resigned myself to standing in line doing the pee-pee dance in front of a dozen strangers. I really really needed to go. If a woman could gracefully go pee outside like a man without looking and feeling trashy, I'd have gone out behind the gas station and given my bladder sweet release. Instead, someone was kind enough to let me cut in line, and I was able to avoid an embarrassing accident.

I tried to sketch the riverwalk, but I wasn't pleased with the result. There was just so much detail, so much depth. I tried to let it talk to me, but people kept interrupting and talking to me as I drew, making it hard to concentrate on what the place was telling me. They were all so nice though; I showed everyone my sketches. A young couple sat across from me and I took their picture. They're in love, it's very sweet. I said, give me your email address and I'll send it to you.

Tomorrow I'm going home for a few days to see what kind of trouble my sisters can get me into. I stand firm in my conviction--no more tattoos! But who knows, maybe we'll all dye our hair black or shave our heads or something.

There is magick around me now, I can feel it, and I dreamed it last night. All is beautiful, and all manner of things will be beautiful. Just watch, you'll see.

Just a couple of random memories...

My parents were into rodeo in a big way when my brothers and sisters were young. My brother Bobby was a bull rider and his girlfriend was a barrel racer. She made a dress for me once, out of the same material that she wore when she rode. I wanted to be like her, so my first ambition was to ride horses in the rodeo.

We had to move to town when I was about six so my folks could take care of my grandmother, but we kept my horse (Peppy) and I continued to ride sometimes whenever I could talk someone into taking me out there and waiting around for me. It wasn't very often, especially after my dad died.

I was about 14 when my mom and my sister Alice and her kids all went out to the farm together. My boyfriend lived out there too, his name was Mike. He was nowhere around so I just saddled up Peppy and rode around the pasture for a while. At dusk we headed back up the gravel road toward the stables. My favorite thing to do at that time of evening was to gallop along the road in the quiet of the country, so I worked her up into a trot. That's the last thing I remember clearly. I don't know what happened, I don't remember getting thrown off, but the next thing I remember (vaguely) is walking along that country road in pain and seeing Peppy running far and fast up ahead away from me.

I was scraped bloody from chin to eyebrow on one side with bits of gravel embedded in my skin, so I know my face must have interacted quite harshly with the road. By the time our neighbor Mr. B drove by in his pick-up truck, I was starting to be hysterical. I kept saying "I don't know! I don't know where I'm going! I don't know what happened!"

He took me back down to our farmhouse where Mom and Alice were waiting for me. I don't remember much of that. Next thing, I remember being in the car and still freaking out. I kept saying, "Mom, I don't know! I don't know what happened! What happened?" I kept asking her what happened over and over again, until it started to freak her out too, and she said "I guess you got thrown off the horse! Shut up!"

I don't remember much about the hospital. Next thing I remember is being at home later talking to Mike on the phone. He must have been there at the house when Mr. B brought me back because he said, "You seemed alright. You were calm, just standing there." I kept asking him, "Is today Tuesday?" Funny, that's a very clear memory, asking over and over, "Is today Tuesday?" I don't recall now whether it was actually Tuesday or not.

The doctors at the hospital must have advised my mom to wake me up several times in the night to make sure I wasn't dead or in a coma or something because she came in more than once with a flashlight and shined it in my face. She asked me goofy questions like, "What school do you go to?" and "What's your middle name?"

And that's my traumatic horseback/amnesia story. I did try to ride a couple times after that, but I'll admit I was freaked out. Plus, I was way more into boys than horses at that point.

Speaking of boys, one of them took me to the county fair the next year, when I was 15. He was a goober and I didn't want to go but my mom made me. She liked him a lot. Since my friends were going to be there, I let him take me.

You know that ride with the big wheel that spins round and round, and hanging down from it are these long chains with seats attached? You sit in the seat and it spins you round and round up in the air. Really fast and really high.

Well usually, there's a little chain that you fasten up between your legs but this ride had only the chain that fastened across in front.

My friend Anita and I were messing around, leaning over to try and push against each other while the ride was in full swing. I was leaning waaay over, trying to grab her hand...when I came forward out of the chair. The "cross the front" chain caught me up under my tits and held me for a second as the chair slid up my back behind me. Anita started screaming at the ride operator dude to stop the ride, but he was chatting up some women and paying no attention. She yelled at me, "Hold on!" Instinctively, I tried to find something to grab with my hands but the only place to reach was up above my head. I grabbed the chains above me and tried to pull myself up, but you can imagine the G-force opposing me as I'm swinging around in a full horizontal arc. In fact, when I reached up to grab the chain, I slenderized myself to the point that I slipped right past the "cross the front" chain and flew through the air with the greatest of ease.

Yes, reader, I was a projectile. I clearly remember that moment--the adrenalin, the noises, the sight of the carnival lights against the black sky, and I clearly saw the grill of the carnival truck as I fast approached it, feet first.

I made contact in the fender area, right around the front tire.

Again, acting purely on instinct, I jumped up and took several steps before I realized my leg was broken. I stood there trying to decide whether to sit back down in the dirt or continue trying to walk over toward something I could sit down on. In a minute or two, Anita and my goober boy hero came running up and helped me over to the side. The ride operator came up and said, "You kids can't play around on these rides like that!"

In those days, the trend was tight tight jeans. I usually had to lie down to get mine zipped up. Yuck, I know, but we thought we were the shit back then. I had on my favorite pair of painted-on Sergio Valente jeans. When I stood up to head back to Goober's car, Anita said, "Oh my god, your jeans are ripped."

I felt my backside and discovered what an understatement she'd just uttered. My jeans were more than ripped, the whole ass was shredded right out of them and I was offering my sweet cheeks up for the whole world to see. Apparently, though they may look very hot, tight Valente jeans are not terribly durable when you smash them up against heavy machinery at high speeds.

Well Goober drove me home and carried me from the car into the house. It was the first time I was ever carried by a man. I discovered I kind of liked it. It's a shame I'm not petite, then I might have been carried more often since then.

And then I got to wear a cast for a while, and that was pretty cool. Especially since it got me out of 7am marching band practice.

So that's my traumatic carnival ride story. To this day, I'm not a fan of roller coasters or other whippity fast, fling-my-body-around-through-the-air kind of rides.

Cupid's Trick

Really love this song.

The vid made me curious about him. Guess what happened to him. He committed suicide in 2003--stabbed himself in the chest. Can you imagine? Reminds me of that scene in "Elizabethtown" when Orlando Bloom tries to rig the exercise bike to stab himself. Seems to me, if you wanna die, and death by stabbing is an acceptable way to go, it would be easy enough to get someone else to do it--you shouldn't have to do it yourself.

Once, when I was in college, I picked up a book from a table in the library and started to read it. It was a forensics book, specifically about how to examine wounds to determine if they're self-inflicted. Did you know that the way to tell if hatchet wounds to the head are self-inflicted is to measure the depth of the wounds. The first whack that you give yourself in the head with a hatchet will go pretty deep, but subsequent wounds will be more shallow--no doubt because that first one hurt a little bit!

Just baffles me that this happens often enough to lend itself to study. Who is out there whacking themselves in the head with hatchets? Is it the same tortured geniuses who are out there stabbing themselves in the chest like Elliott Smith, or overdosing on heroin like Bradley Nowell,

or shooting themselves with shotguns like Kurt Cobain?

Why do female geniuses not do this kind of shit? And then I recalled...Sylvia Plath with her head in the oven...Virginia Woolf walking into the swelling sea with rocks in her pockets...Sarah Kane hanging on the end of a rope.

I think the burden of artistic genius is its intensity. One can endure it only so long before finding some way to end it.

Hmm...deep thoughts today. I'm not really as morbid as I sound--I'm actually quite cheerful at the moment. Hope you are as well.

Our Father who art in heaven
Stay there
And we'll stay here on earth
Which is sometimes so pretty
With its mysteries of New York
And its mysteries of Paris
At least as good as that of the Trinity
With its little canal at Ourcq
Its great wall of China
Its river at Morlaix
Its candy canes
With its Pacific Ocean
And its two basins in the Tuileries
With its good children and bad people
With all the wonders of the world
Which are here
Simply on the earth
Offered to everyone
Strewn about
Wondering at the wonder of themselves
And daring not avow it
As a naked pretty girl dares not show herself
With the world's outrageous misfortunes
Which are legion
With legionaries
With torturers
With the masters of this world
The masters with their priests their traitors and their troops
With the seasons
With the years
With the pretty girls and with the old bastards
With the straw of misery rotting in the steel
of cannons.

--Jacques Prévert, tr. Lawrence Ferlinghetti