Victim of a home invasion.

G has finished his finals (All A's. That's MISTER Smarty-Pants to you) and will have his official graduation ceremony next week. Several of his family members are coming to town for the event, some a soon as tomorrow, others over the weekend, so we will have a cast of rotating dinner and overnight guests at our place for the next week and a half.

God I'm dreading this. Not his family --I have yet to meet a single person in G's family that I don't like, that's not the problem. It's that they're Texans; from the land of sprawling rancharific hugeness. And some of them --most importantly, those staying with us-- have never been to New York City. Ever. Oh the BIG surprise they'll receive when they cross our threshold. We tried to warn them, we kept saying, "You're welcome to stay with us, but our place is really small," but they kept assuring us, "Oh, that's just fine!" in their ever-cheerful, go-with-the-flow Texan way; a way that screams they have no idea that really small means a bit more than not having a full-bath off the guest room. That it means no guest room. It means you convert the couch into a bed, and once you've done that, there's no room, room. I've been imagining his auntng and reng closet doors upon her arrival; convinced one of them has to be a porthole to the rest of the apartment. You know, like all those extra rooms the kids on Friends have.

So anyway, I'll be taking my leave of the web for awhile. Please visit all the nifty people to your right, and play nice while I'm gone.

"Everyone's gay on their wedding day..."*

Thought I'd post a few photos of yesterday's Wedding March across the Brooklyn Bridge since, unsurprisingly, there wasn't much press about the event. I must make apologies for the quality of the photos, it was a hazy, humid, smoggy day, and my camera came free with a box of Coco Puffs.

*said my Mom's boyfriend on the phone last night. He then finished the sentence with: "...only some people are gay the next day too." I honestly couldn't tell if he was making an enlightened, accepting comment about the universality of love and marriage, or a really, really, bigoted remark. He's known for both.

Some days the bear eats you.

G and I finally fell asleep last night despite the screaming and yelling and radio blaring and endless two-way pager conversations coming from the group of teenagers who congregate outside our bedroom each night, and were awakened barely four hours later by a construction vehicle --I don't know which kind; the Bash-Bang 3000-- pummeling holes into our brain pan via the asphalt. I wouldn't be complaining if this were the first night of its kind, however this is the fourth night in a row we've enjoyed the kids-till-two-construction-at-six cycle; so needless to say I'm fecking knackered and in a piss-poor mood. As my friend/neighbor Shelia used to say, "I could carry groceries home in these eye bags." I could haul off the road work debris in these bags. So since I'm useless until either the kids or the teamsters move along, I'm packing it in for the weekend.

Weekend suggestions:

If you're a fan of human rights and live in NYC, you should get your booty out to The Wedding March this Sunday. You don't have to be gay, or even sympathetic to the cause; just a stickler for things like expecting the US Supreme Court to keep its word when it has ruled that "marriage is a fundamental civil right."

Try to cope with stress (cuz it's baaad).
But don't get high, get Metaphysical.
And don't be an asshole.

Have a good weekend.

But they saved a bundle on the catering.

I am in no way making light of the horrific US attack on an Iraqi village that killed 40 innocents, women and children primarily. No. I simply wish to point out that the LA Times, whose staff gathered no less than five Pulitzer's last Monday, chose the headline, "Residents say the dead were celebrating a wedding."

The dead. Were celebrating. Not the 'victims were attending', no, The Dead were actively celebrating. Since those LA Times folks seem to know what there doing in the journalistic word-smithery game, I'd say that's a pretty big story.

I bet you're feeling pretty stupid right now.

Goddamn cockgnobber, who stole her fucking ho bag.

My porn of choice? Extreme Home Makeover.

When the going gets tough, the tough break out the power tools. Well, if you're me you do. I suppose shopping, or eating, or doing yoga works for others, but nothing will snap me out of a blue funk like ripping a hole in the wall. Tearing out a sink. Whipping up a set of built-in bookshelves. Laying down ceramic tile. Mmmmmm...caulking and painting. Mmmmmmm, custom storage units. Oh *ahem* sorry.

My problem is that we moved into an apartment that's in fairly good repair, for never having been gut renovated, for being a hundred years old; which leaves me precious little to tinker with in my hours of home improvement need. Problem two is that we made a pact to not repeat the mistake of renovating a rental property. We spent countless days and hundreds of dollars trying to make our last place more livable, a quixotic endeavor at best, since things like a new tub surround and kitchen cabinets didn't do shit to make up for the cancer that was our landlord and neighbors. We said 'never again' in a rental. So the deal in the new place is no replacing fixtures, no flooring, and no built-ins; the result of any project must be able to be moved or sold when we go --with a twenty dollar exception. I can replace, repair or create anything I want, as long as it cost less than twenty dollars. An amount we agreed would allow for things like getting rid of the last tenants nasty toilet seat, or buying a single piece of wood to make a shelf in the closet. All good, necessary things, and nothing we'll cry ourselves to sleep over when we leave them behind.

But you have no idea the degree to which this "pact" wreaks havoc on my ability to manage depression. When the sads come, the tools call to me. They call. And they say things like, Wouldn't that wall look great with recessed CD shelving? Doesn't this kitchen need a custom wrap-around butcher block counter with space-saving tilt-out storage bins for the recycling? Have you considered an imported tile backsplash? But the twenty dollar rule has really put the kibosh my stress control regimen. I mean, sticking a piece of quarter-round over the gap between the bathroom threshold and the floor just isn't cutting it for me. Ooohh, I had to use my miter box. And stain the wood. Whoop-fucking-ee. It's not what I need, G's noticed the strain to my psyche, those kinds of tasks just don't add up to good mental health. Not like knocking a hole in a wall.

So yeah. I knocked a hole in the wall, okay? More like a window. To let light into the bathroom. But c'mon. The war, the economy, illness and death, everyday with the President Bush...putting some WD40 on squeaky hinges was NOT going to solve my inner turmoil.

And for you nay-sayers out there, I feel great. And your second question? $17.50.

No Child with rich parents who pay lots of property taxes will be Left Behind.

Today marks the 50th anniversary of Brown vs. Board of Education, and to commemorate the occasion, both Kerry and Bush are slated to give speeches in Topeka, Kansas. Kerry plans to discuss how the current educational system continues to be separate and unequal, and then suggest changes that would bring about equal education for all.

Across town, Bush will point out how vouchers and privatizing are the salvation of any failing endeavor (point to his war plan as evidence), and then blame 'evildoers' for the fact that his No Child Left Behind legislation is 9.4 billion dollars short of funding --this year alone.

You know you're a drunk when...(part 3)

...you've tackled 35 of the "40 Things Every Drunkard Should Do Before He Dies."

All in the past week.

Johnny came home.

In case you, like me, have actually stopped clicking on his link to avoid the daily disappointment; Dong's back. And don't think I didn't hear you squeal when you read that. The pant-wetting however...Okay, we all love the guy, but there's this little thing called 'a life' you might want to look into. Not that I'd know where to look, mind you. She of the squeals and soiled jammies.

Rebuttal to G. W. Bush "Mission Accomplished" 

1st Lt. PAUL RIECKHOFF / AP 1may04

"Good morning. My name is Paul Rieckhoff. I am addressing you this morning as a US citizen and veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom. I served with the US Army in Iraq for 10 months, concluding in February, 2004.

I’m giving this address because I have an agenda, and my agenda is this: I want my fellow soldiers to come home safely, and I want a better future for the people of Iraq. I also want people to know the truth.

War is never easy. But I went to Iraq because I made a commitment to my country. When I volunteered for duty, I knew I would end up in Baghdad. I knew that’s where the action would be, and I was ready for it.

But when we got to Baghdad, we soon found out that the people who planned this war were not ready for us. There were not enough vehicles, not enough ammunition, not enough medical supplies, not enough water. Many days, we patrolled the streets of Baghdad in 120 degree heat with only one bottle of water per soldier. There was not enough body armor, leaving my men to dodge bullets with Vietnam-era flak vests. We had to write home and ask for batteries to be included in our care packages. Our soldiers deserved better.

When Baghdad fell, we soon found out that the people who planned this war were not ready for that day either. Adamiyah, the area in Baghdad we had been assigned to, was certainly not stable. The Iraqi people continued to suffer. And we dealt with shootings, killings, kidnappings, and robberies for most of the spring.

We waited for troops to fill the city and military police to line the streets. We waited for foreign aid to start streaming in by the truckload. We waited for interpreters to show up and supply lines to get fixed. We waited for more water. We waited and we waited and the attacks on my men continued…and increased.

With too little support and too little planning, Iraq had become our problem to fix. We had nineteen-year-old kids from the heartland interpreting foreign policy, in Arabic. This is not what we were designed to do. Infantrymen are designed to close with and kill the enemy.

But as infantrymen, and also as Americans, we made do, and we did the job we were sent there for—and much more.

One year ago today, our President had declared that major combat operations in Iraq were over. We heard of a “Mission Accomplished” banner, and we heard him say that “Americans, following a battle, want nothing more than to return home.”

Well, we were told that we would return home by July 4th. Parades were waiting for us. Summer was waiting for us. I wrote my brother in New York and told him to get tickets for the Yankees-Red Sox series in the Bronx. Baseball was waiting for us. Our families were waiting for us.

But three days before we were supposed to leave, we were told that our stay in Iraq would be extended, indefinitely. The violence intensified, the danger persisted, and the instability grew. And despite what George Bush said, our mission was not accomplished.

Our platoon had been away from their families for seven months. Two babies had been born. Three wives had filed for divorce and a fiancée sent a ring back to a kid in Baghdad. 39 men missed their homes. And they wouldn’t see their homes for another eight months.

But we pulled together – we took care of each other and we continued our mission. The mission kept us going. The mission was to secure Iraq and help the Iraqi people. We saw first-hand the terrible suffering that they had endured. We protected a hospital and kept a school safe from sniper fire. We saw hope in the faces of Iraqi children who may have the chance to grow up as free as our own.

And still, we waited for help. And still, the people who planned this war watched Iraq fall into chaos and refused to change course.

Some men with me were wounded. One of my squad leaders lost both legs in combat. But our platoon was lucky--all 39 of us came home alive.

Too many of our friends and fellow soldiers did not share that same fate. Since President Bush declared major combat operations over, more than 590 American soldiers have been killed. Over 590 men and women who were waiting for parades. Who were waiting for summer. Who were waiting for help.

Since I’ve returned, there are two images that continue to replay themselves in my mind. One is the scrolling list of American casualties shown daily on the news – a list reminding me that this April has become the bloodiest month of combat so far, with more than 130 soldiers killed.

The other image is of President Bush at his press conference 2 weeks ago. After all the waiting, after all the mistakes we had experienced first hand over in Iraq, after another year of a policy that was not making the situation any better for our friends who are still there, he told us we were staying the course. He told us we were making progress. And he told us that, “We're carrying out a decision that has already been made and will not change.”

Our troops are still waiting for more body armor. They are still waiting for better equipment. They are still waiting for a policy that brings in the rest of the world and relieves their burden. Our troops are still waiting for help.

I am not angry with our President, but I am disappointed.

I don’t expect an easy solution to the situation in Iraq, I do expect an admission that there are serious problems that need serious solutions.

I don’t expect our leaders to be free of mistakes, I expect our leaders to own up to them.

In Iraq, I was responsible for the lives of 38 other Americans. We laughed together, we cried together, we won together, and we fought together. And when we failed, it was my job as their leader to take responsibility for the decisions I made--no matter what the outcome.

 
My question for President Bush – who led the planning of this war so long ago – is this: When will you take responsibility for the decisions you’ve made in Iraq and realize that something is wrong with the way things are going?

Mr. President, our mission is not accomplished.

Our troops can accomplish it. We can build a stable Iraq, but we need some help. The soldiers I served with are men and women of extraordinary courage and incredible capability. But it’s time we had leadership in Washington to match that courage and match that capability.

I worry for the future of Iraq and for my Iraqi friends. I worry for my fellow soldiers still fighting this battle. I worry for their families, and I worry for those families who will not be able to share another summer or another baseball game with the loved ones they’ve lost. And I pledge that I will do everything I can to make sure they have not died in vain and that the truth is heard.

Thank you for listening."

Aw, Nero. No one'll figure out you set the damn fire. Keep playing!*

If you don't have access to a TV this morning, MSNBC promises to run a live feed of Rumsfeld (lying to) apologizing to Congress at 11:45am today. Or, if that link is broken, you can find follow the dots in the corresponding article.

I feel like I should be delighted by the ever so slight chance Rumsfeld could go down. Or, at least, how the exposure of these war crimes have proven so many of us right. We who not only questioned Bush's motives for war in the first place, but also his war machine's ability to effectively carry out what we've been told is a humanitarian effort. But today we can all go "SEE? We've destroyed the nation of the 'liberated', killed tens of thousands in the process, and created a worldwide climate of anti-Americanism and hatred that will outlive us all." But for whatever reason 'I told you so' ain't working for me. 'Na na na na na', likewise.

Rumsfeld will, undoubtedly, say something about how he felt it necessary to keep the torture of the prisoners quiet. How it would have recharged an already unstable situation between Americans and insurgents, and put our soldiers in grave danger. Which it has. Proving, you fuckwad, it's generally a BAD IDEA when one is attempting to LIBERATE a people from being TORTURED by an OPPRESSOR, to round up said LIBERATED and TORTURE them! Because yeah, it looks real bad when you do that. Bush and Rummy forgot one important part of the equation; before you begin a crusade to make the world safe for (their) God and Democracy, you better make fucking sure God and Democracy are safe for the world.

* Nero, in addition to being one hell-ova fiddler, was (according to some) a brilliant city planner. Right before Rome burned, Nero had put forth a huge urban renewal plan that would entail the demolishing and rebuilding 3/4 of the city. The plan met with great opposition by the residents and businesses owners who resented his condemnation proceedings. Before the people could have their say, the city burned to the ground. It was never proven that Nero set the fire, but it has been discovered he ordered his soldiers to let the fire rage on, and redirect it where necessary to the areas of the city that would be most beneficial if leveled.

Sound familiar?

First rule of advertising: Create a need.

(via TMFTML)

Pssst. You gonna finish that?

No one has ever accused me of being classy, or refined, but I get by. I know which fork to use. I write thank-you notes in a timely fashion. I only scratch my butt and belch the National Anthem in the privacy of my own home. I have impeccable phone manners. I bathe, frequently, and use deodorant. I can pass, usually.

But occasionally some little remnant of my trailer-trash/urban poverty upbringing (I experienced both) will give me away. Someone will notice --at a black-tie function, invariably-- the half-inch of crud I neglected to clean out from under my fingernails, or that I'm wearing work boots. I've embarrassed more than one date with my habit of screaming advice to the protagonist on the movie screen, or even worse; on the stage at the opera (but c'mon, she should have stabbed him with that sword --two-timing baby-abandoning user-- right in front of his ugly American bitch). There's been the occasion when I've brought up inappropriate subject matter to people I barely know; Mother's cocaine addiction, how I'm having a painful, heavy period, my love of vintage porn, politics.

Or like the other night, at a five-star restaurant, a guest of G's Aunt in town on business, when I bit into what I thought was a complimentary piece of, I don't know...toast with some kind of Cracker Barrel meat spread on it (like I know from fois gras) and was so overwhelmed by how much it tasted like ass, I screeched "EEEeeeeewwwwwww!" into the packed room; loud enough to make every head in the place turn in my direction just as I was demurely spitting the foul duck-guts back onto the serving platter.

I tried to cover, of course. But the best thing I could come up with was to turn to his Aunt, mid-spew, and ask, "EEEEeeeeewwwww...enjoying your stay in New York so far?"

Yeah. Nobody bought it. But hey, I used the right fork.

You know you're a drunk when...(part 2)

...you go to your neighborhood liquor store, the helpful sales clerk says "Hey, we had another wine tasting last night, you missed it." you smile, politely, say something about not knowing about it, she produces three bottles from beneath the counter with about a spit of wine in the bottom of each one and says, "Here's what's left. There's not much but...maybe you want 'em" and you bristle, internally combat the urge to ring the girls neck for insinuating you could 'use' the dregs of yesterdays tasting (that weren't even properly re-corked you might add), I mean, how dare she?

Well yeah, you take the wine, but boy do you fume about it on the walk home, let me tell you.

This just in.

Zeebah has a brand new address all her own, and a new look to boot. Change, she is good.

Love is natural and real. But not for you, my love.

Salon offers a six page exerpt from Mark Simpson's Saint Morrissey in which he poses the now-timeless questions, "Is he gay? Bisexual? Or really just celibate as he claimed?" and then, as per Morrissey's design, neglects to find an answer.