Hiding Out

A rainy Saturday afternoon that fits my mood and I couldn't be more pleased. The rain has also given me a stellar excuse to skip all the 'gardening' I had planned for today...'gardening' in single quotes because it's really more 'excavating' the six generations of garbage that obscures the few square feet of dirt behind our apartment. (Insert "Village Ghetto Land" by Stevie Wonder....hear it?...welcome to my world.)

Rain or not, my intention was to stay at home today (all day) anyway, having had more bad run-in's with my fellow Americans this past week than I can process, and out of fear of what might happen to my mental state and arrest record if I don't have a break from them.

The two (but not the worst, just somehow the worst to ME) outstanding exchanges:

1) Elderly man in The Village, walking with a cane, wearing the most, no shit, most amazing shoes I have ever seen...cobalt and light blue patchwork, black trim and sole, in the now-popular bowling-shoe stylie, but not brand new retro shoes... original. God they were just gorgeous. So I paused as I passed him, turned and said "Beautiful shoes" to which he replied, "Fuck you."
Of course he thought I was being insincere, and with good reason. I guess I was getting the 'fuck you' for all the rest of the clever, snide mf'ers who use sarcasm on strangers as a means of masking their inner inferiority complexes. I just loved the shoes, alright? Thought he'd like to know someone out there appreciated his astounding attention to detail. "Fuck you" has a way of stifling one's shoe-joy...and appetite for future human contact.

2) Walking the Boo'da (my dog). A guy approaches and says "What a beautiful dog! Can I pet him? (She's a her, but I never correct people: the whole dog=boy, cat=girl sex specificity thing...)" I say "Sure, she's friendly." So he's petting her and she's jumping around and loving it. He says, "Yeah, I really love dogs." I say "Me too. Especially my girl" and the Boo'da turned to give my face a big lick of appreciation. A nice scene emerged, beautiful Spring light falling all around us, the commonality of man reinforced via scritches and shared dog love, all was right with the world.
Then the guy stands up, meets my eyes, and goes, "Yeah, I sure love dogs... almost as much as I love Pussy"... and winks.

Never enough Kiss, either.

From the Monk:

"I share your fascination with the tribute band phenomenon. Years ago
I decided that I wanted to make a documentary about them, and call it
"Tribute". As usual, Monk snoozes, Monk loses- somebody did it. They
showed it at the Dryden, but I was out of town or something."

Behold... "Tribute".

...I had no idea.

Never Enough Rush

Can someone explain the “tribute band” concept to me? Are the long months in between Dave Matthews shows that unbearable? Are "Tramps Like Us" really necessary when it’s literally impossible to have five Springsteen-free minutes anywhere in the tri-state area?

Here's a BRIEF list (less than half) of the Tribute Bands you can catch in the NYC metro area on a regular basis.

Big Shot (Billy Joel)
Bad Medicine, (Bon Jovi)
In The Flesh (Pink Floyd)
2112 (Rush)
Evolution (Journey)
Bad Animals (Heart)
Badfish (Sublime)
Bank Shot (Operation Ivy, whoever they are)
Tragic Kingdom (No Doubt)
Evenflow (Pearl Jam)
SuperUnknown (Soundgarden)
Draw the Line (Aerosmith)
Sticky Fingers (Rolling Stones)
Who's Next (Who)

I know you are waiting for some snarky comment, but I have no malice for the 'tribute band', I swear I just don't get it. Is the appeal the same as going to see someone do Judy at a drag show?

Star magnet

What the hell is going on here? I go out for a coffee and who do I run into? Matthew Modine. Now Matt and I didn't speak, per se, but he gave me a look that said "Hey, aren't you that chick who's all tight with Prince Paul?" and I shot back a look that said, "Damn right I am. And I'm not going to introduce you... B-list loser."

Was that catty?

Yeah...we're tight

So I get on the elevator and it's just me and Prince Paul, and real cazh-like I'm all "Is it still raining out?" and he's all "Nah, it was, but not anymore" and I go "Cuz your umbrella is really wet" and he's like "Yeah, from earlier" and the door opens and he's like "Peace" and I'm like "Peace out..." no, wait, I was like "Later".

As you can tell the chemestry was really overpowering between us. So I'm going to have to decline all those invatations to parties and shit because I'm gonna be too busy hangin' with my new best friend Prince Paul.

Oh the sads.

(link from Maud)

Buttery Goodness

Monday's are a drag. Trite, but true. So the Antigeist thought a little Monday afternoon Art's-n-Crafts Porn project might liven things up a bit.

You'll need:

1 Carton Land O'Lakes Butter
Scissors (or better, an Exacto knife)
Tape

Remove butter from carton. Cut the carton along the folds into four panels, keep the two, identical panels of the Land O' Lakes maiden, toss the other two. Take one of the panels and cut out the one inch area around the maiden's knees, toss the rest (hint: for a realistic effect, take a red pen and put a dot in the center of each knee.). On the other panel, cut the box of butter she's holding into a "window"(a cut along the top and bottom of the box, and another down the middle). Center her knee-square behind the "window", tape in place.

Now open the windows and Voila!

Enjoy your day, and your home-made porn!

The Bunny Lives!

It seems the news of his death was greatly exaggerated. Video confirmation courtesy of Mr. Xavier.

Public Service Announcement

Sweet Home Alabama is the worst movie ever made. Now you might be saying, "But what about Gymkata, or Cool as Ice, or all those Look Who's Talking nightmares?" And you'd be wrong. Sweet Home Alabama is the worst movie ever made. It is not worth the price they paid for the celluloid. It is an insult to the film industry, to the not-usually-awful stars who participated in the project, one's intelligence, taste, and humanity, and therefore every living thing. Let me repeat: it is the worst movie ever made.

The next logical question would be what the hell was I thinking when I rented the damn thing in the first place, and to that I'd like to say... I HAD to.

See...we watch a lot of movies around here. Tons. We fall into that category of New Yorkers who (since they LIVE in New York) can't afford to DO anything in New York, well, anything that involves a waiter, a cover, or a two drink minimum. It cost fifty dollars to leave the freaking house in NYC, so we try to limit all that 'leaving the house' stuff to $3 trips to video store.

And not only do we watch a lot of movies, but we always have, independently of one another. Which makes it so -- no matter the rental place-- we can immediately write off 95% of their inventory right off the bat, inevitably leaving us with the picked-over remains of the 'new releases' to choose from. Which brings me to the last problem.

The only video store within walking distance is terrible. Any film that doesn't star Martin Lawrence or Vin Diesel is considered an "art film", which, according to the Italian olde-world proprietors, are for "queers" and "hipsters", and although I've never seen them be rude or disrespectful to a person they assumed was "queer" or appeared to be a "hipster" I get the feeling Uncle Vinchenzo doesn't want to cater to that particular demographic. So there's that.

Which leaves me staring at a 'new release' rack last night with the choice of only one, literally, one film left on the shelf that we haven't seen, a boyfriend at home who just threw his back out and can't get off the couch, and ice cream melting in my ghetto cart outside. See, I HAD to.

Just trust me on this one; if you find yourself standing at the video place in front of the comely visage of Reese Witherspoon, and it's late, and your tired, and you've got a sick sweetie at home, and your ice cream is melting, and your glassy-eyed from indecision, and quiet little voice inside your head pipes up with "How bad could it be?" I'm here to tell you... Sweet Home Alabama is the worst movie ever made. Grab that Vin Diesel movie instead. Really.

Easter sadness

This just in... the Easter Bunny will NOT be delivering baskets of candy tomorrow. Then again, who knows? He might come bouncing out of a cave in three days and scare the shit out of all of us.

Help a Monk find a Little Man

My friend Monk is having a crisis of mind. Apparently during a rare moment when he was NOT under the influence of drugs or alcohol, he witnessed a broadcasting event that has plagued his thoughts ever since. And even though he chose to beseech the masses in a REALLY LONG ENTRY IN MY COMMENTS, the story is nonetheless quite compelling and worthy of further investigation. Do you know anything about his "Six-Inch-Tall Little Man"?...

"Years ago I experienced something truly bizarre, and I want someone out there to confirm that they experienced it too:
Jay Leno was on the Tonight Show, but I think it may have been before he took over hosting because I think he was a guest. Anyway, he told this story about when he was a kid and you used to be able to order exotic pets through the mail- they had ads in the back of comic books and stuff- so I think he said he ordered some kind of monkey type creature. Then 6-8 weeks later, a package arrived, and when he opened it a LITTLE MAN jumped out. Now, remember this is Jay Leno who is way too boring to make something like this up. A little man, about six inches tall and naked, jumped out and made this fucked-up noise- Leno did the noise a couple of times- and then ran out his back door and into a field. They never saw it again.
Leno was very specific that this was not a monkey, that it had all the features of a grown human being BUT SIX INCHES TALL.
I've asked several people over the years if they ever saw this interview and they all told me I probably dreamed it. Does anybody know of a comprehensive guide to Tonight Show interviews?
Or does anybody remember seeing this interview? I really don't think I dreamed it!"

For the Record

Okay...did ya ever tell a really big lie, not a malicious lie, just a story you made up to be funny or dramatic...a lie you fully intended to reveal as soon as the drama played itself out and the timing was to your most comedic advantage... but right as you were about to say "Nah!" or "Gotcha!" or "As if!" something happens -- a phone call, a doorbell, a helpful wag inserts a non-sequiturial remark -- and before you know it the whole conversation spins off into another direction, a whole new 'thing' evolves, and in a flash the "As if!" moment is irreversibly behind you leaving your "Gotcha!" to hang there in a screwed up purgatorial state in your mouth, and then you panic when you realize that since you didn't get to "Gotcha!" the person your STUPID JOKE was transformed into a BIG FAT LIE you will inevitably have to explain when it resurfaces ever-so inopportunely at a point in the future, like at a party ("Yes, we've met, aren't you that girl who has seven toes?"), or job interview ("A triple doctorate! Impressive!") , or blind date ("So Chris tells me you used to go out with Kevin Bacon")...

Well, just for the record:

I do not, nor have ever had seven toes.
Triple doctorate? I drove by a college once.
I've never slept with, or even laid eyes on Kevin Bacon.
I am younger than I said I was.
Those friends I told you about do not host a web-cam sex-site to raise money for anti-pornography lobbyists.
I was never the charismatic leader of a cult who worshipped cheese.
I am older than I said I was.
I was never in a breast-expunging incident while hang-gliding, I'm just flat-chested.
I am not related to Steve McQueen.
I don't even know where the freaking Matterhorn is.
Although not out of the realm of possibility, Mother did not sell Elvis that bad batch of uppers that landed him face-down in the hopper.
I actually got that scar from dropping a roller skate on my face.
I was not asked to replace Jam Master J by Run DMC.
I wasn't really "just in the neighborhood".

85° to 45° in 24 hrs

A sensation I've never felt until today: My wool sweater and scarf are making my sunburn itch.

Hurts So Good!

There's a been a bit of a surge in Angstfest entries, which will get posted in fits and starts this morning...so check 'em out! The deadline is one week from today.

(And even though my hand nearly atrophied from hovering over the 'publish' button... I mustered the strength to push it. Yes Virginia, one of new entries is (yipes) mine.)

Gardening in Brooklyn

Crow: Squawk, squawk, squaaaaawk!
Me: Hey, Crow.
Crow: Squawk, Squawk, Squawwwwk, Squawk, Squawk!
Me: Hmmmm... you don't say...
Crow: Squawk. Squawk Squawk!
Me: Well, you showed HIM, huh Crow.
Crow: Squawk. Squawk Squawk.
Me: Okay, see you later.

(Crow takes flight)

Kid in third floor window: No you WEREN'T just talking to that bird!
Me: What?
Kid: That bird...you was talkin' to it.
Me: Oh no! You're confused; he was talking to me.
Kid: Oh. (looks up at the sky)

(beat)

Kid: You think he'd talk to me too?

If I Ruled the World (an ongoing list)

{ed note: This list was originally called "If I were Queen of America", but my friend HR already holds the crown...far be it from me to go stealing it from him. Don't know about you, but I don't depose friends, even metaphorically, and if I Ruled the World my first rule would be that nobody could.}

Rule Number One, oh, wait, I already made the "No Deposing Metaphorical Queens" rule...

Rule Number Two:
If I were Ruler of the World I'd get rid of the Puritanical "no sale of booze on Sunday" law the second I was sworn in -- maybe during, if my inauguration was on a Sunday. As far as I know it's the only Blue Law left, the last vestige of the Natural Law based morality doctrines that, in addition to drinking, made it illegal to dance, fiddle, or gamble on Sunday as well. Since the other Blue Laws have been repealed, and in theory The State cannot let The Church tell you when and where to get your groove on, I say bring on the cocktails. It's a natural fit! What goes better with a Sunday night of bettin' and dancin' and fiddlin' anyway? Hooch, my friend. A smokey scotch. A perky yet bashful Chardonnay.

Some are currently trying to get the law changed, for the same reason as mine; that it's a bold-faced breach of the separation of church and state, outmoded, and frankly ineffective. Many such as myself agree that the law arguably infringes on at least two amendment rights (the 1st, the 14th) and was just another bit-O-grease on the slippery slope that led us up to bullshit like the Patriot Act, but I digress. Or was about to.

I know people can stock up for Sunday on Saturday, or go to a bar or restaurant and drink, or buy as many 40's of Crazy Horse* as they like, there are options. All of which are exactly why the law is STUPID. It's not stopping anyone from getting drunk. What it does is stop me from bringing a nice Cabernet over to my friend Maud's house when we decide to have a spur-of-the-moment Sunday dinner party. I mean c'mon...Zima does NOT compliment her Marinara sauce.

(*a totally unreliable source, a bartender friend, told me that grocers were initially allowed to carry malt beverages because they have a nutritional value, that they could be considered 'food', whereas wine and liquor have no nutritional value, and cannot. Granted, beer wouldn't be a really nutritious food, but probably more so than Twinkies or Mustard. If his story is true, and you consider that beer is made of essentially the same ingredients as bread, it makes a kind of sense.)

Mystery of the Universe #177

Why, oh Dear God why do people insist on emailing me stupid pictures? For example, yesterday I received a series of rock formations that all appear to be shaped like penises. Don't get me wrong, I'm as big a fan of the penis as the next person (Okay, beside freshman year feminist studies students; although one might wonder since they seem to see them everywhere...) so I understand the appeal. But didn't we get over giggling at body parts somewhere in the fifth grade? This is the kind of thing that convinces me I'm an alien. I open the mail, I see a rock shaped like a penis, I think, "Hey, that rock looks like a big penis" and I continue on to the next letter. Nothing. I don't laugh, nor do I blush. I don't cringe, or chuckle, or get titillated in any way. What am I missing? There are sixty forwarding addresses on this email people! SIXTY people found the picture sooooooo delightful they felt compelled to pass it on.

Outerspace Case

I was just entering a few new entries into Angstfest (if you haven't read the latest, it's just fab, fab) and it occurred to me the one thing that remains from my teenage years is the feeling of being a misfit. Actually, more like an alien from another galaxy, one where, evidently, they think it's just hysterical to watch some poor schlub fumble through life confused and bewildered.

For instance, this morning it was announced that American tanks are now plowing through the streets of Baghdad. People are happy about this. Men in suits stand behind podiums and talk about 'victory' and 'liberation'. I'm missing something for sure. As far as I can figure it, when one leader who was not democratically elected (Bush) overthrows the government of another leader who was not democratically elected (Saddam) it is a 'victory', and the people who are now left without a leader, a functional infrastructure, several family members, a means of commerce, and basic goods and services are 'liberated'? I know leader #1 has promised to replace all the stuff they lost (except the dead relatives, of course) which I can only guess is for entertainment purposes, so the 'liberated' can look on with delight when it's all sucked up into the power vacuum we just installed in the most fragile and volatile part of the world. Forgive me, but isn't that more like a cruel 'joke'?

Perhaps my feelings are best described by the great Buddy Cole while lamenting the existence of a few of his peers: ..."I still refuse to believe that Liberace's a fag...him and Ray Cohn! I just don't want them to be. It's like finding out Satan's a fag."

I intended to rant about Miller's "Ten Point" explanation of the war floating around the net, the one that's imputed to make all of us anti-war, Gen-x, pacifist loser types cringe with ignominy; but 'ranting' would be too much like an homage, and therefore, unthinkable. Anyway, it probably wasn't written by him to begin with. Not that it couldn't have been, or that it matters.

Either way it makes me sad. I liked the guy, okay? I really liked him. Admitting someone I once admired is actually a capitalistic scum-sucking conservative butt-wad is like the feeling you have when you find out your lover has been having an affair...for the past two years. You feel so stupid for not knowing, and then realize you did; you just didn't want to.

The thing that really burns my buns? Since outing himself as a conservative, the conservative media is more interested than ever as positing him as a LIBERAL, he's now suddenly a poster boy for the right's little "Na, na, na na, na" fests directed at the stinking unwashed liberal masses. We are supposed to be ashamed that we think the way we do when even the BRILLIANT LIBERALS OF OUR TIME have seen the light and switched sides. Can't he see he's being used more than the only port-a-potty at a light beer festival? (Sorry, had to throw one in there, ya know, for told time's sake.)

I admit it, I liked the guy, and I'm sad that he's crossed over to the Dark Side. But I'm more disgusted at the way someone whose banter could have been written by Pat Robertson is still being associated with the liberal agenda. And like the lover scorned, I'm just now beginning to feel the hurt and anger... God Dammit Dennis... can't you see we had a good thing, baby? Why'd ya have to go and throw it all away? And don't think I'm taking you back when Ashcroft dumps you! Oh no sucker, you're on your own!

Waste time here

Whatever it says about my character... weebls stuff makes me so stupid happy I could cry. There I said it. So, please enjoy this heartwarming family tale courtesy of weebls-stuff. And poke around while you're there, don't miss "Mr. Stabby" and "Love Story". And if you, like me, are a die-hard Wesley Willis fan, "Merry Christmas" is sure to please, even if it is April.

The Creeps.

Looking at my stats I see someone was directed to my blog by putting the phrase "daddy fucks his teenage daughter really hard" into Google.

Now I know how search engines work, and I know that all of those words appear independently of one another somewhere on this site, so I know how he/she got here... But, yuck already. I don't want that person here. Away with you, you pedophiliac freaky-freak monkey!

In the future I'm going to try and watch my potty mouth, even though I know it's fruitless. In the meantime I think I have to take a shower. Bleeeech.

{sidenote:} If you just arrived here by typing "freaky-freak fucks teenage daughter in the potty shower" you are in the wrong place. If you hit your 'back' button I'm sure you'll find something more to your liking.

This is the view of my Mother's driveway and front yard as of ten this morning. The branches that litter the frame are not supposed to be there. The car, however, would have been in the picture had it not been moved to a neighbor's open field to keep it from harm, an event that took place shortly after T's car wound up with a nice, deep dent in the roof.

The photograph was accompanied by this letter:
Here are some pics of the ice storm     Cayuga and Wayne county are in a state of emergency   we have a generator for the fridge and of course the wood stove  I simply love this stuff    and I was worried about being bored and missing all the fun       ...
  I have the laptop hooked up to the generator   better go   Love   Mom

News of the storm and extent of damage it has caused (power lines down for miles, trees littering the streets, no hope of passable roadways or regaining power for days) has me beside myself with sadness. I can't believe there's a perfectly good natural disaster happening and I'm missing it.

Future Memory

The city has just installed a brand-new wrought iron fence around a triangle of grass where three streets intersect in my neighborhood. Perhaps I'm easily delighted, having gotten used to all the garbage and decay that is the norm this far out in the ghetto, but that stupid fence brings me no end of joy. It's all tall and pristine and stately. Sexy in that Victorian you-can't-touch-this kind of way. I don't know why I like it so much, it just classes-up the joint.

As I was admiring the fence this evening I was struck with a future memory. I saw myself much older, elderly, arm and arm with a friend. As we walked by the deteriorating fence I pointed to it and said, "Why... I remember when they put this fence in... back in 2003, or was it four? The year that nimrod Bush started the war that led to the 'Great War of 2005'...oh you remember Dear, before we were Koreamerica."

Mystery of the Universe #47, Revealed

(a semi-truck screeches to a halt at a red light a few feet from where I'm walking)

Truck driver: *whistle* Hey mommieeeeee! *sucking noise*

Me: (glance toward the driver, glare, turn away)

TD: Awwww Mommie, you don't gotta be like that...

Me: (sharp turn around, hands on hips) I'm curious, does that ever work?

TD: What?

Me: Honestly, I really want to know, does it ever work?... the whistling, the yelling, SUCKING your teeth...

TD: ...wha d'ya mean?

Me: (voice raising)...of the THOUSANDS of women you randomly insult and degrade everyday, has a single one of them EVER asked for your phone number,
or asked you out, or begged you to fuck them right there on the sidewalk!!??

TD: No...

Me: So why...

TD: ...but a chick in Jersey flashed me her tits once.

Me: (genuinely surprised, long pause)
No shit?

TD: (smiles) Yep. (light turns green, he pulls away)

Me: (shrugs) humph.

Open Letter To The Woman Who Flamed Me:

My Grandmother used to warn me about "dignifying someone with a response", and "lowering myself to someone's level", but honestly? Grandma was a hypocrite. She loved the excitement of a boxing match as much as Smokin' Joe Frasier, and was damn good at it too. She also made a kick-ass quince jam. Unrelated, I know, I just got to thinking about how multi-talented and totally amazing my grandma was.

Anyhow, I would like to respond to your comments about my writing, and I hope this does not burst your bubble as you obviously went to great lengths to try to hurt my feelings, but I have to let you know your criticism was totally correct. I am, in fact, a horrible writer. No contest there, sister.

What I do not understand is where you got the cockamamy notion that I endeavor to be, or consider myself, a writer at all. It's true that I write things, I have ever since I learned how to manipulate these random glyphs into sentences, however there are important differences between myself and a professional. For instance, I don't seek to be published. I don't submit works to literary mags, online or otherwise. I've never pretended to have the training, patience, or proclivity for the craft. I just have to write things down, it's an attempt to understand and better connect with the world around me, and a bit due to the fact that I'm an only child who enjoys hearing herself talk. Whatever the reason, my life-long habit of putting thoughts to paper no more makes me a 'writer' than my life-long love for cooking makes me a chef. I also sing and play the guitar once in awhile, and I have no illusions about 'quitting the day job'. Where I sit these things are called hobbies.

Perhaps you are confused and simply unfamiliar with the medium; this here thingy is called a BLOG. It's an online diary no different than the little lock-and-key, pocket variety you had hidden under your mattress next to your tear-stained pictures of Leif Garrett. And like those ramblings of youth, it is imperfect, it may contain bad tenses, misspellings, poor punctuation. It might ramble, include cliche references, or have a distinct lack of flow. You see, if I were a 'writer' I would submit my work to an 'editor' who would correct such matters before it went off to my 'publisher'. As it stands, I'm just a chick with a dot com and a penchant for babbling. A dot com address quite easily avoided if one chooses to.

This is where Grandma's 'lowering one's self' advice comes in...I am going to squelch the urge to pick apart your letter, which, I might add, was RIDDLED with errors, overly-dramatic, infantile and utterly boring. Nor will I publish it on my website in an effort to embarrass you or draw you out. What I would like to do is suggest you start up a little website of your own. You could use the space to critique the writing of others, include links to the worst offenders, use your (self-proclaimed) superior knowledge of content, execution, and the whole of the English Language to show the rest of us exactly how it should be done. Because I, unlike you, have lived a life in pursuit of the free speech of all people (as my arrest record would attest), and would fight tirelessly for your right to speak your mind however you wish, whether I agree with it or not... even if your 'speech' consisted solely of criticism directed at others.

Best of luck to you Madam! I look forward to your tutelage!

Sincerely,
Anti

avoidance

I've become disgusted with the extent to which I can avoid this war. Lately anything (I mean anything) is preferable to actually dealing with this nightmare..."What's that honey? You want me to come and watch the news with you? Okay, I'll be right there, as soon as I'm done re-arranging the books according to spine-width...have you seen the tape measure?" Tedious errands, sinks-full of dishes, even unsolicited phone calls from tele-marketers have become a cause of something resembling joy; at least they postpone the buzzing in my head and sickness in my stomach for a few minutes. However it just occurred to me that the buzzing and sickness might be due to the mass quantities of alcohol I've been consuming daily, which suddenly explains the shit-eating grin on the puss of my wine-store clerk whenever I arrive, and how he has recently acquired the mega-ching for a new luxury SUV.

And it's not that I don't care about the war. Of course I care about the war. How could you NOT care about the war? I'm terrified for the people of Iraq. I'm petrified for our soldiers sent off on this fool's errand. I have real fear for the innocents who will die, and when it is over, a growing fear of the innocents who will have survived over ten years of brutal terrorist attacks by the hands of a far-away aggressor known as "America". (No matter where you fall in the debate over Iraq's [supposed] connection to terror groups like Al Queda, you can bet your ass they're going to make some new friends now.)

But what can I do about it? I've voted my conscience throughout life, I've participated in protests, I've written congress people and legislators. I've signed petitions, preached to the choir, sat in the choir while other's preached. I've read and continue to read the opinion of The Right in an attempt to not only "know thy enemy" but with the hope of finding some common ground upon which we can agree. I pace. I pray.

And I do dishes and reorganize things and write two page blog entries about going to the refrigerator. Because that's about all I can do right now.