Left of the dial

Air America Radio debuts its programming this morning on WLIB (AM 1190am) in New York, WNTD (AM 950) in Chicago and KBLA (AM 1580) in Los Angeles.

Chuck D and Lizz Winstead (creator of "The Daily Show") hit the airwaves here in New York at nine. Yes, you read right. Chuck D. His hosting a political radio show has been a fantasy of mine since the 80's. I've been sitting in front of my radio all morning like a kid waiting for everyone to get out of bed on Christmas. I know I shouldn't have my hopes up (there was never much under the tree anyway), but at the least we are finally being offered a little lefty Yin to shove up Bush's Yang.

I strongly suggest you turn Air America on at work, and watch your Rush-lovin' coworkers die, just a little.

Nothing much

An explanation for the young woman on the train who asked me, "What the FUCK are YOU looking at?": I was looking at you. I was looking at you and thinking how lovely you were; how your skin is so flawless, and the most perfect, enviable shade of brown. I was admiring how tall you stood, the light in your eyes, your keen fashion sense. In fact, in the two or three seconds I glanced in your direction, I had come to the conclusion that you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Yep. Right up until you yelled "What the FUCK are YOU looking at?" like a vulgar, ugly bitch, and cleared up THAT little misconception for me.

So thank you so much "What the FUCK are YOU looking at?" lady! Thanks to you, I'm feeling pret-ty damned attractive right about now. Have a great day!

How many reasons do you need?

Every few weeks I receive an email opposing Bush's plan to appoint Dr. David Hager to the FDA Advisory Committee, with a petition attached to sign and forward the President. And although I'm delighted so many people are opposed to Dr. Hager's placement, I feel it necessary to point out: he's already there. He got the job. (Not the chair position, however, thank his God.) For anyone who is unfamiliar with Dr. Hager, this excerpt of a statement made by Kim Gandy, president of NOW, may help to explain their (and my) outrage:

Dr. Hager is vehemently anti-abortion rights. He is on record against emergency contraception. In a Time magazine article, sources familiar with Dr. Hager's private practice say he refuses to prescribe contraceptives to unwed women. He has spoken out against the use of birth control pills and condoms outside of marriage. Hager is a member of the Physicians Resource Council, part of the radical right group Focus on the Family*. And he has written books and articles encouraging women to turn to prayer and scripture to help heal ailments such as premenstrual syndrome, postpartum depression and eating disorders.

Whether or not the above statement is completely accurate, the truth remains he is on record in support of a biblical, Christian approach to women's health (as he outlines in his book As Jesus Cared for Women), is unabashed about having a Christian agenda, and is therefore clearly incapable of making an unbiased decision as to which drugs and treatments should be made available to the public. The man is a threat women in the extreme.

The issue of his appointment may be moot, however the reality of who appointed him and why is not. Outrage is in order here.

I'm not the biggest Hillary fan, but something she said on the news a few nights ago has been stuck in my head ever since. When asked who she supported in the upcoming election, she answered that she was sorry to have this position, but she fell into the Anyone But Bush camp. When asked why, she answered, "Because I'm afraid we wouldn't be able to recognize our own country after four more years of George Bush."

*Focus on the Family is also quite vocal in their opposition to homosexuals, and most recently, gay marriage. Their position --a diabolically brilliant catch 22-- is that gays and lesbians should not be allowed to marry because it is against God and would bring about "the utter destruction of the family"... all the while claiming their only Biblical argument against homosexuals is that gays and lesbians engage in pre-marital sex. Read this article if you'd like to understand their position in full, and then marvel in your strange impulse to go chew glass. [ed note: Maud, if you're reading this DO NOT click on that link. I'm not kidding.]

Having this Sufjan Stevens song on replay isn't helping either.

Everyone agrees that denial is unhealthy. But when I have a day like yesterday, a day when I pace around having bitter arguments with family members in my head, during which I drudge up twenty, neigh, thirty year old hurt feelings and disappointments and emotional scars, and then get a headache and stomach ache and decide to drown it all with booze and fried food; it makes you wonder if denial, at a certain point, isn't actually the healthier alternative.

It all started because yesterday was my grandma's birthday, which I would have been celebrating with her had she not woke up feeling a bit 'wonky' (her words) two summers ago, and died of an inoperable brain tumor four months later.

My grandfather is honoring her birthday by hopping a plane to England with his girlfriend, who he plans to introduce to the extended family --my grandmother's relatives mostly-- and have accompany him on a visit to the place where my grandmother's ashes were scattered. The whole thing is rather sordid, in my opinion. Granted, I'm not elderly, I haven't experienced the loss of a life partner of fifty years; so what do I know about appropriate behavior for the modern widower? Looked at from the right perspective the whole 'taking your girlfriend to visit your dead wife's grave' thing is quite progressive, really. I suppose I should be happy for my granddad, that he's not alone, has a friend to share his remaining years with. But c'mon! "Happy Birthday, Luv! I miss you terribly, but as you can see...you were very quickly and easily replaced. Well, Ta-ra Duck! We're off to the pub."

I know, I know. It's not like that. But isn't it?

Anyway, I have a guest coming today, so I will either be on hiatus or posting sporadic, ill-conceived bullshit during the next week. In other words, same old.

After the break: Dennis yawns his way out of a sticky discussion about abortion.

Watch Dennis Miller embarrass himself in this interview with Eric Alterman. I would suggest to Mr. Miller that his usual fare of snark, feigned boredom and the dramatic dismissal of anything with which he does not agree not only exposes him as an overblown hack unable to engage in unscripted dialogue, but that it makes for some really, really bad TV. May I suggest a career change before your hard-hitting interview style devolves into holding your hands over your ears while repeating "I can't hear you! I can't hear you!" over and over? Switch from the sound-stage to the boards. I think the lead role in this play would be perfect for you.

My biological clock has an allonge.

The only thing visible through my office window is the main entrance to a kindergarden, and a portion of the building itself. So with the exception of random passersby, my daily people-watching diet is restricted to the kids being dropped off in the morning, and later, around 1pm, getting picked up again.

A lot of screaming happens during these transactions. A lot. And although I've heard their caterwauls coming from below for over a year now (at such predictable intervals you could set your watch by them), it still startles and terrifies me. I can't help myself. When a kid lets out one of those ear-piercing wails, instinct draws my attention to the source, totally convinced such a sound could only be caused by the loss of a limb, or the emptying of an eye socket; impalement. To my great relief that's never been the case. The screaming in the morning --according to what I've gleaned from their newly-verbal protestations-- has to do with them not wanting to go to school. The afternoon screaming is because they've found they enjoyed being at school, and don't want to go home. I can identify with that. I experience the same cycle whenever I'm invited out to a bar.

A good number of Dads do the dropping off and picking up. I love the Dads, my heart swells when I see the Dads, because I'm selfish and their presence feeds into my 'the only way in hell I'll ever have children' parenthood fantasy.

In my fantasy I have a fabulous job I must disappear to for several hours a day, and a partner with an equally fabulous job he can do from home while raising the kid(s). Each night when I return, the dishes, vacuuming, laundry, doctor visits, after-school activities, etc., have all been taken care of while I was at work, and a hot meal has been prepared for us to eat together --leaving me only the fun stuff to do with our wee progeny: Talking about our day. Making faces. Trying to figure out why that lady in 2B is so mean (and creating rude names for her we agree can never, ever be uttered outside of the house, until one of us inevitably slips up and calls her Farty McCrapsalot to her face). Bath time, molding our shampoo-filled hair into mohawks and dancing around naked to God Save the Queen. Ruining our appetites with in-between-meal snacks. Purposely scaring ourselves to death --with like, sock puppets or something-- and then having to agree that pad-locking the sock drawer and sleeping with the lights on is NOT "baby-ass". And since I'm never around for all the disciplining, the don't touch that and because I said so and no, you can't take the cat to school and stop jumping on the bed and we leave in FIVE MINUTES! --I am adored. Completely.

I love watching the Daddies everyday. They give me hope. I could do without all the screaming, though.

Shhhhh

Sure has been quiet around here lately... favorite daily reads deciding to up and quit, a rash of extended hiati (I don't care if that's not the plural of hiatus, it should be). Dong is MIA, TMFTML is off on one of his drinking binges recharging his batteries, and I can only guess poor Emma is still at the mercy of Verizon. And Monk?...who knows where the hell he's gone to. Probably fell into a pit of depression, or in love. Same thing.

If I weren't on one of MY drinking binges so busy with other life-stuff right now, I might be suspicious of a conspiracy. I might worry.

Rorschach -- sha'mon.

Quick! What do you see!





Yep. Me too. Well if your boss is peering over your shoulder, tell him/her that you're not a perv; you're just admiring the splash page of the official website of one.

Verizon: Pooping on your party since June, 2000.

She'd be back. If she were posting.

And speaking of throwing poop at a party...check out Vidiot's Bush/Cheney campaign posters. I strongly recommend you print one out (with his permission, of course) and display it with pride.

We put the "boozh" in bourgeois.

G and I chose a walk down a dark, dark path last night. See, we got our hands on a copy of the season premiere of The Sopranos, and then watched it. This season. The current one. The one that began last Sunday. Now what the hell are we going to do?

Our Sopranos thing kind of snuck up on us, not unlike how, oh... crack does. I had seen the first one or two episodes when I had cable, right before I moved to NYC. But it wasn't enough exposure to get hooked, I haven't had cable since anyway. G had never watched a single episode (never 'tried it', if I'm going to keep going with this cheesy metaphor). So when the previous seasons started to come out on dvd and we kept passing them at the video store, our curiosity was piqued. Why was this show so popular (still)? And not just with the hoi polloi, but with our groovy well-educated super intellectual friends. The folks who actually read (and understood) that copy of Critique of Pure Reason on their bookshelf. I mean, everyone was doing it. 50 million Elvis fans can't be wrong. We brought home a few episodes.

Four hours later we were back at the video store for the next three. The next night? The next three. Within the span of a week we had burned through a whole season (not an uncommon phenomenon, others have confessed). In a few weeks we were at the end of season three, nothing left to rent, and season four was still in production, being aired, not to hit the shelves for another seven months or so.

You'd think someone had died. Long faces, shuffling feet. Loss of appetite. We, of course, went running to our cable provider right away, but when this freelancer and he the student took a look at what it would cost us for essentially ONE program, we couldn't justify the expense. We were going to have to wait.

Finally, at the end of last summer G came home grinning, hands behind his back. Flowers? I thought. Ice Cream? I wondered. He said, "Now, I have a paper due and I'm really behind on my reading, so I need you to know that we're going to have to pace this th..."

"Season four?! You brought home season four!!!!!" I guessed, screaming, grabbing at his fists. Pace, schmace. We burned through those babies in about a day and a half.

The withdrawal was a little better that time. I suppose it's easier to bounce back from a binge than a resumption of habit. We called the cable company again though, in expectation of and preparation for season five, using what logic I'm not sure. That the price would have dropped in a year? Again, too cost prohibitive, even when we factored in Six Feet Under. We would just have to put it out of our minds.

And we did, successfully. We put The Sopranos in the category of 'one of the things in life you just can't have', like when you find out that person you've always had the hots for has gotten married. No longer an option. So you tell yourself it wasn't meant to be, that you are now free to pursue your real destiny, or some other shit. You move on.

Two days ago G was telling a friend at school about our Sopranos obsession. How we prefer (a lie) to wait until the whole season comes out on dvd so we can consume it all at once, like a Thanksgiving dinner. How it's better (a lie) to watch them in rapid succession, for flow of story-line, for the instant gratification of not having to wait a week to see what happens next. "Really?" his friend asked. "Because I've got the season five premiere on tape right here, you know, if you'd like to see it."

Dude. A hook-up. And as is the tradition, the first one's free. But G knew the can of worms that would bed if he were to bring the tape home. He even called to ask me if he should. "So...." he paused, letting the consequences hang around in the air a bit "...what do you think? What should I do?"
"You know what you should do." I said.
"I should get in a cab, right?"
"Yep."
"Fuck the train."
"Yep."
"See you in ten minutes."

Waxing nostalgic for the days of being easily amused. Day 4 of the flu, hallucinating, and wanting myself and everyone I know to legally change their name. Warning: only makes sense if you are high on wine and Thera-flu.

At work the other day the new intern and I got to talking about bizarre websites we've wound up visiting over the years. I say "wound up" specifically; I mean all the sites you had to connect the dots to get to, or happened upon while searching for something more meaningful, or stumbled into by punching random words into a search engine. We brought up all the back-log, sites that are, by now, pre-requisite reference material, linked via email and weblog ad nauseam a million times over by each new 'discoverer'. Because I'm a few (**cough** fifteen) years older than she, some of the sites I mentioned pre-date her a bit, probably came and went before she ever graduated middle school (for example, she'd never heard of Burt Is Evil. A site I'd link to had its creator not removed it from his server eons ago after extreme pressure to do so --which, lucky for him, happened to correspond with the over-saturation of [and public boredom with] the whole idea. I mean, how 1995, right? Wait. [doing math in head] Yep. Just about the time miss NYU intern was entering High School).

But ultimately, we found the meme defies age gaps. Nearly all of the sites we mentioned had been seen by the other, the old favorites brining exclamations of Oh my God!: we were bonding.

"Remember Pixie Guy? OH MY GOD!! [both googling at our desks] what ever happened to Pixie Peter Pan Guy? Was he for real? Did he ever find a Tinkerbell?"

And then the 'for real' part became the focus of the conversation. We agreed that the most disturbing (and therefore --admit it-- fun) kind of website in general, are the ones you just can't figure. The content might be brilliant satire way beyond our feeble ability to comprehend; it might be the maniacal ravings of some dude who is, as we speak, deep-frying a squirrel in his trailer. (Or who knows, both.) We discounted the most blatantly disturbing; the mega-violent, racist, murderous, pedophiliac. Sites glorifying non-concentual torture or sex, or cruelty to animals (like the German B&D import hobby 'crushing' where you get all three). None of that. No. Just the things that make you go, hmmm? The Peter Pan guy.

"Have you ever seen any of those sites for people with, I don't know how to explain it, a Godzilla foot fetish?" she asked.

I laughed. "You're kidding."

"No! Its like, pictures of lizard feet, about to stomp you. Or cartoon humans licking big lizard feet."

"Licking lizard feet. So it's like, a sexual thing?" I asked, innocent.

"I don't know. You never know. I mean, you'd just have to see it."

I googled along until I found the one of the sites she had described. There they were. Whole websites dedicated either the licking of, or the being stomped by, Godzilla-like feet. We clicked through the images. (sfw)

"I don't get it." I said. "Is it kid fantasy? Hentai submission? Just drawings?"

"I can't figure it out."

"A whole website of drawings from the perspective of... what? the soon to be smushed?"

"I know."

"Not that my brain immediately goes to the gutter, but... why do I assume someone is jerking off to this?"

"Me too. I don't know."

"But, why?"

"Right?"

So, if viewing those images made you sexually aroused, please explain it to me. I will not judge you or mock you...get your rocks off to cartoon lizard feet at will, my friend. Just help me understand.

Anyway, the intern and I exchanged a few more gems. Oldies and goodies. Some new I had not heard of, some she had not. All in all it got me waxing nostalgic (like I said in the title had you been paying attention dammit **achoo**) for some simple tomfoolery. Below: a sampling of such. Hope this carries you through the weekend since I plan to get back into bed and stay there until Kerry and Edwards announce they are joining forces. Or I stem the phlem tide. Either or.

The Abuse-a-Tron. For those days you just can't get up the energy to self-deprecate.

Toiletnet. Hey, it takes all kinds.

Location Earth Dog Tags. In case you're abducted and forgot where you live.

The Twinkies Project. No. Not that kind of twinkie. The snack cake. No, NOT that kind of snack cake.

Rectal Foreign Bodies, dedicated to exposing fact from fiction, the real-deal from the urban myth, in cases of people who, you know, get stuff stuck up in their butt.

The First Church of Jesus Christ, Elvis. Love him, tender.

The Mystical Smoking Head of Bob. Like a magic 8 Ball, with a cardigan and a pipe.

oo. Keep clicking. You'll get it after awhile.

The end of the internet.

Living dead dolls. I don't know. Some people have a lot of free time.

Live. Forever.

The Mother of All Excuses. Don't know how to call in sick? This is your place to learn. Piss people off a lot? Then you need the apology note generator.

Kicking ass can be tough. But not with the world's only ass kicking machine.

Fat is only ugly...til you put a nipple on it.

The institute of official cheer. Go for the graphics. Stay for the deconstruction.

And before I pass out, if you've never followed any of my links to weebls stuff, do it now.

In closing: everybody to the limit, everybody to the limit, everybody fhqwhgads. Yes.