No good deed goes unpunished

Jumping mother of pearl. Some advice: never advertise to give away an item for free on craigslist on the biggest moving day of the month. Say it's twenty bucks, or a barter, something. By nine am my email was so overloaded with freebee hunters, it shut down.

My reason for giving away instead of selling was pure at heart, do a good deed, recycle instead of waste, but primarily so I wouldn't have to deal with it. No haggling, no sales pitch, and most importantly--no helping people get the thing down the stairs and onto their car.

The price of my laziness-driven altruism? The first person to answer my ad was a cheerful young woman with cerebral palsy, who is confined to a wheelchair, who has just moved to an assisted-living apartment, is in desperate need of a bed, and who would like to know if I could help her also handicapped, but mobile sister get it down the stairs and onto their car.

Well yes I'm going to give her the bed, and help her get it downstairs. I'd strap it to my back and carry it to her house if she needed me to. Although I admit I'd be muttering, "be careful what you wish for..." the whole way.

The Presidential debate...rules!

The Republicans agreed to 3 debates even thought they wanted only 2. In return, George Bush will be allowed to straddle a cannon while Kerry will stand behind a Playskool workbench. See, this works out nicely for both opponents- it allows Bush to play up his Commander-in-Kickass image, while helping Kerry downplay his liberal elite label. Kerry is allowed to demonstrate his ablility to pound the round thing into the round hole.

Monk cliff-notes the Presidential debate rules for us, so we can go back to our religious zealotry or undecided apathy, or quiet weeping in the corner.

Lesson for the day: Everyone is not familiar with, or delighted by, the work of Peter Sellers.

(walking the dog, she stops at a curb-side tree to pee)

Grumpy old man: Hey! I don't want your dog pissing on that tree.
Me: Okay.
(dog squats)
GOM: Did you hear me?
Me: Yes, I did.
GOM: I told you not to let your dog piss there. (she starts peeing) Are you listening?!
Me: Yes, I am. Don't let my dog pee here.
GOM: Well?!
Me: (beat) It's not my dog.
GOM: WHAT!?
(hasty exit)

Use your God-complex for good.

Have you ever thought it would be cool if we could like, vote in the new messiah, and then he could use his power to expose all of Bush's lies and deceits, who could say with authority "I sure as shit never told him to do any of the crap he's up to...dude is wacked" thus proving to the world that Bush is the real 'evildoer' and must be stopped? And wouldn't it be cool if this new messiah played really groovy guitar and wrote theme music for the second coming and could promise all of us who hate George Bush a place in Heaven?

Behold: Johnny Asia, Pope About Town

Ask a busy person

G and I are adjusting to his new jobby-job. I've gotten over the suit thing. But I've warned him that one day, soon I'll bet, someone at our L train stop--a noticeably suit-free station--will say something shitty and mean to him because he's wearing one. They'll assume he's a cockroach real-estate broker, or INS, or the new wave of Wall Streeters who hang in Williamburg in the hopes they can bed a baggage-ridden emaciated super model (whose trust fund pays her rent on the loft, and whose Daddy's money needs a-managing). Or some other equally vile manifestation of The Man. Like a lawyer. So we're waiting for that.

But so far so good.

The week G started his job, my last freelance job ended. So as of late my days are spent doing housework, pretty much. Laundry, dishes, tub scrubbing. Shopping for food, picking up dry cleaning, walking the dog, cooking supper. The place has never been so clean and functional. A well-oiled machine, this. You'd think there'd be scads of time to rework that resume or begin some kind of fabulous new money-making arty hobby, but, um, no. By the time he returns home I'm just finishing my list of things to do, somehow. He's even had to walk the dog after getting home from work once or twice because I've been to busy, if you can believe that. This Protestant work ethic thing is a bitch let me tell you. I can't sit still. I have more free time when I'm pulling twelve hour production days.

So he gets home from work last night just before midnight. He peeped his head in the door and announced, "I love my new job" with a big, fake smile on his face. See, that's why he's the best boy ever. He could have bitched and moaned. But why? He had to work till midnight. He'll have to again. There's nothing he can do about it. Might as well laugh. So I got out of bed and made him a steak.

Like I said, so far so good.

Oh baby, baby it's a wild world...

The War On Terror has been arduous and has taken its toll on all of us, but I know I'll sleep better tonight...now that we've got our hands on the biggest potential threat to national security: Cat Stevens.

[Update: I just discovered monk was all over this shit hours ago. And, as usual, made a better joke of it. Bastard.]

A long story with no payoff. Sorry.

Back in my early twenties, when I returned to Central* New York, I moved into an apartment with my boyfriend at that time. When we'd settled in, my grandmother brought us a housewarming gift: a hideous--by way of folksy--candle shaped like a loaf of bread...the whole, long loaf. It had a single wick in the center, and was made of that gross wax substitute stuff, like expand-o-foam with a hard candy shell overtop. Thankfully my grandma admitted "It's no great shakes, I got it from my store" (her code for the Salvation Army--grandma was a thrifting maniac) and that it'd cost her a quarter; so we didn't have to work up any faux gratitude or pretend to like it or anything. She suggested we save it for when the electricity goes out, which happens every other day during winters in central New York. So we stuck it up on the fridge where it sat collecting dust and kitsch value.

A few months later a friend of ours moved to a new place. We decided--since she had seen and commented upon our stunning loaf-of-bread candle--it would be really funny to wrap it up and give it to her as a housewarming gift, which we did. The joke worked well. She opened the box, "Oh...goody. The, um, loaf of bread candle. From your house. How...thoughtful." I explained, "Well, you'd always admired it so much." Our bit went on for awhile, fully utilizing all of the sarcasm and eye rolling and clever obscure references those in their early twenties with college degrees find wildly amusing. She plopped it down in its place of honor, the fridge, and a slight look of horror overtook her face; she realized a tradition had been born, and she was to be saddled with the goddamn thing until it could be re-gifted again. After a few moments of silence and absent dusting of the loaf, she said, "Hasn't Harry been looking to get out of his place?"

Sure enough, someone in our circle of friends moved shortly thereafter. They were given the candle. Then the next friend, then the next. After a year or two, several new romances and break-ups (and the move-ins/move-outs that followed), people leaving town and returning, the candle had made it's way around the group a few times--I know I got it back at least twice. And even though you knew it was coming, it was always a surprise. Not a pleasant surprise necessarily, but not altogether unpleasant. It was like winning a low prestige award from an organization few had heard of. It meant you moved. It didn't matter if it was an upward, downward, or lateral move, just a move-- for which you received a hugely ugly commemorative candle. It had turned from a golden brown to a furry, sticky, battleship grey over time, but it got shoved up on the fridge just the same, as was the tradition. Maybe it's because my friends are arty-fart types who have a penchant for anthropomorphizing things, but no one ever considered tossing it out. I tried while packing up once, but it looked back at me from the trash like the lamp in rain in the Ikea ad. (Yes, I felt sorry for za leetle laamp.)

Like I said in the title of this post, there's no payoff. I have no idea what happened to the loaf-of-bread candle. My guess is it was given to an acquaintance of whomever had it last-- someone out of the loop, who didn't know its history, wasn't aware of the tradition or able to see it had grown a soul-- and was thrown in the garbage the second that person pulled out of the driveway.

*I have to say central instead of upstate now, because people who live in NYC call anything north of the island upstate, like Poughkeepsie; a town that would be considered downstate when I lived upstate which I've learned to call central so whomever I'm speaking to knows I mean the other part of New York...where there are lakes and farms and bridges to Canada.

You know you're a drunk when...

...if you're being honest with yourself, you know the real reason you'll miss him is because of how positively Puritanical your drinking habits seemed by comparison.

(tip-off via Maud)

We are the goon squad and we're coming to town. Beep beep.

Fashion serves only to confuse and/or disgust me anymore. It's probably because I'm getting older, becoming the woman who mutters Her mother let her leave the house like that? whenever I pass a teenage girl on the street. I don't know. I can pinpoint when my confusion started though: the mid-nineties, when guys were wearing their pants at their knees. I understood the look's predecessor, the low-slung baggy jeans with boxers peeking out...it was relaxed, cheeky. But when it devolved into cinching a pair of pants at your knees with a belt? That lost me. How counter productive. It seems like having three yards of fabric bunched around your ankles--and your ass hanging out--kinda negates any 'I'm a criminal, a gangster... fear me' vibe you might be trying to work. Grown men with sour-pusses waddling around like ducklings. I'm sorry, but there's absolutely nothing intimidating about a duckling.

Anyway, that trend was when I officially lost touch with fashion.

Recently G and I saw a woman on the train who was deliberately advertising her contraceptive patch...the only thing we could surmise, since was wearing pants that would have concealed the square just fine, had she not intentionally rolled down the waistband several inches so the patch, placed just above the pubic line, would be in plain view. Explain that one to me. Hi, I'm willing to have unprotected sex with you. We were stumped. Now I know Lisa 'Left Eye' Lopez used to work the whole condom monocle thing back in the day, but even a fan like me has to admit she was a seriously crazy bitch who, if fucked with, would burn down your house. God rest her soul.

The super-stumper, the top of my you've-got-to-be-kidding-me list, was found at one of the craptiques* in my neighborhood. A pair of jeans that had a swath of fabric sewn into the back of the (ever-so-low) waistband, to give the appearance of one's thong underpants peeking through. So you can get the sexy look of having your thong peeking out of your pants, without the discomfort of actually having to wear one. A dickie for your jeans. This is how far we've come. What's worse is the jeans only came in children's and pre-teen sizes. Ass dickies for eight year olds.

*a boutique that sells sub-standard ready-to-wear and cheap knock-offs while blaring loud techo or Spanish pop music.

Desperately seeking Cheney

The vice president travels on Air Force Two, a tech-packed wide-body with private areas in the front, a Secret Service buffer in the middle and a media cabin in the back. A crew of about 10 reporters flies with him, representing all the networks, the wire services and two or three newspapers. There are snacks, cable television and camaraderie.

But there is not a seat for me.

How does a New York Times reporter gain access to Cheney on the campaign trail? By stalking him.

(Link courtesy of my Sunday morning reading session with G)

The definition of chivalry

During a drive out to meet a boyfriend's parents for the first time, I shit my pants.

I'd had a sick feeling in my stomach all day, accompanied by a great deal of flatulence. I knew why: the night before we'd closed down the bar, had a wee-hours greasy-spoon breakfast afterward, no proper sleep, and a looming dinner invitation with his folks--all known causes of intestinal turmoil. So when we were driving along and I felt a bit of familiar pressure, you know, down there, I decided to release some of it--discreetly--and hopefully gain some relief. I opened the window, raised one cheek, and let her rip. And then shit my pants.

I wasn't sure at first. I hoped it was just the heat making my ass feel wet. I scooted forward and looked at the seat. I was sitting in a puddle of liquified crap. "What's up?" asked boyfriend. Sadly, sitting in a puddle of crap isn't one of those things you can hide or pretend didn't happen, like blaming a killer fart on the stagnant bog you're driving past (which was my original plan), so I was forced to answer, "Um...I totally shit my pants."

Amazingly, he didn't flinch. He said Nawww! and I said Yep and he said Honestly? and I said I have never been more honest about anything in my life.

"What am I going to do?" I asked.

We discussed our options. First, the drive to his parent's house was just under an hour and we were nearly there, and running late, so turning around and going home was not an option. Secondly home--where I lived-- was in civilization. The destination we were nearing, was not. Therefore finding a chain store or somewhere I could both clean up and buy a change of clothes was also out of the question. Our only hope was a gas station on the corner of the main road and his parent's street.

He ran in, came out, mouthed the words no bathroom, then ran back in, and reappeared shortly thereafter with a liter of Dr. Pepper. Neither one of us drank Dr. Pepper, and as far as I knew Dr. Pepper isn't like seltzer in the arena of stain removal, so I was confused. I'd heard of people having Pepsi enemas (the only appropriate use for that drink in my opinion), but I had obviously emptied my bowls quite nicely already. "What's that for?" I asked. "Trust me" he said. I didn't press it. Normally I'd be more of a control freak. I'd demand to know how a bottle of sugar-syrup has fuck-all to do with solving my pants-shitting problem, but he was being such a good sport about soiling myself in his car...and anyway, whatever he'd come up with could not, in a million years, make the situation worse.

We pulled up to his parent's house, and parked. He opened the bottle, took a sip, and poured the rest of the container out onto my lap. Before I could react to, or process the addition of a new sticky wetness saturating my underwear, he exited the car, ran into his parents house, and re-emerged with his mother; who was carrying a bottle of orange cleaner and a roll of paper towels.

As they approached, I began calculating the number of years of therapy it was going to take to rid myself of the stranglehold this --the single most embarrassing moment in my life-- would have on my psyche. I was at nine, no eight, no, nine years, when his mother reached me, and the puddle of Dr. Pepper I had deposited on her driveway. "Oh! You poor thing! He's even clumsier than his father, if that's possible. Let's get you inside. I'll find you something to wear and we'll throw these things in the wash, hmmm? And you," she said to boyfriend, while handing him the orange cleaner and the paper towels, "clean up this car."

"I'm really sorry. I'm such a klutz." He said. And he winked.

Having someone open the door for you, or help you with your groceries, or bring you chicken soup when you're home sick in bed are all really, really great things. But purposely spilling a vile, sticky substance all over their own car so they could take the fall for being a clumsy idiot who (the story goes, put his soda on the dashboard before making a sharp left turn) potentially ruined a young woman's garments and her chance at an all-important good first impression, and in so doing create a frenzy of activity designed to focus attention on the clean up of the mess and getting the (victims) soiled garments swiftly into a washing machine before anyone is the wiser, all to cover up for the fact that she mistook the rumbling in her ass for a day-old beer fart and because of which shit herself en route to a dinner party, AND remain calm throughout, even knowing he had just brought a feeble-bowled drunkard home to meet his parents...

Well that's just about the nicest thing ever.

From today's Times: Memo's on Bush Are Fake but Accurate

Don't worry Georgey, this too shall pass. We Americans are big on fake but accurate.

That joke isn't funny anymore. It's too close to home, and too near the bone.

While doing a bit of channel surfing, G and I caught a few minutes of the movie Head Of State the other day. A comedy I'd put in the 'Made-for-Plane' category (only good if you're on a long flight, halfway through your fourth watered-down scotch, unable to nap, and you've already finished the book you brought). But it costarred Bernie Mac, who I have a totally inexplicable attraction to, so that gave it points.

In it Chris Rock plays Mays Gilliam, a presidential candidate. As the race becomes heated and it seems like Gilliam might actually have a chance of winning, Gilliam's opponent resorts to running negative campaign ads on manufactured issues. Things like: Mays Gilliam has never attended the yearly meeting of the Center For Cancer Research. If Mays isn't against cancer, he must be FOR cancer. Do you want a President that's FOR cancer? Vote for the ANTI-cancer President.

Yeah, I didn't laugh either. No wonder.

Freedom: The new white meat.

List of things to do today:

1. Walk the dog
2. Read the paper
3. Order a Colt AR-15 for my Go Bag
4. Feel...ahhh, safe. (Thank you Mister President!)
5. Cry self to sleep.

You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

Like Dana's experience, I also had a stranger make an unsolicited 9/11 comment to me earlier in the week. He said, "Remember the last clear, September day like this?" However my stranger added, "Those bastards...you can't even enjoy a beautiful day anymore." I thought, well not now, thanks.

For the last three years we've been told unless we keep shopping, using mass-transit, watching sit-coms, taking vacations and buying large automobiles--it means a terrorist victory. And that it's our civic duty to keep up the appearance of business as usual, pretend that everyone hasn't been irreversibly changed, that the world hasn't been irreversibly changed. Bullshit, all of it. You'd have to be pretty soulless in my opinion to successfully sublimate and deny the hideous events of three years ago. But if you look up at a clear sky, feel the perfect 76 degree air brush your skin, and find yourself totally unable to enjoy it, haven't--to use the language--the terrorists won? Oahu was enjoying a picture-perfect day the morning the Japanese kamikazes bombed Pearl Harbor, yet generations of Americans and Hawaiians somehow escaped being paralyzed by puffy, cotton-ball clouds and low humidity. Hell, we've even stopped being scared of the Japanese. It's the date which will live in infamy. The date.

So...the anniversary. And it just so happens to be a gorgeous day, the kind which would normally make you want to get outside, be with friends, laugh, and be grateful you are alive. Which is what I plan to do.

(Once again it's) You know you're a drunk when...

...you calculate when to begin drinking based on the number of hours you've been awake, not a fixed time of day. For instance today, thanks to a gas-main fire that dragged my ass out of bed at five thirty this morning, cocktails shall begin promptly at 1:30pm.

However one may always choose begin at noon, or when the sun has safely passed the yardarm, or anytime you can state with assuredness that it is in fact night-time somewhere.

You keel my bro-ther... prepare to die.

Puppy Pulls Trigger on Owner Ready to Kill Him, Cops Say

The enemy within

So what the f*ck hit the pentagon on 9/11, anyway?

(link via much-missed pals Mr. Xavier and Splody Girl. Call me already, jeeze.)

The return of the man

Today is G's first day at the new jobby-job. No more school, no more tests; a full-time, real-live job --where you have a desk, and stuff. I woke up this morning in time to witness the return of the short-haired guy in a suit that made his first appearance during last summer's internship. Yep, The Suit. It doesn't hold the fascination and horror it did last year. I think for a suit to work--not work as in, "Work those Culottes, girl!" Work like, make one look professional and competent and slightly imposing--you can't know the person. If it's someone you know, it's just them...in a suit. If you've seen them splashing around in the bathtub singing Rubber Ducky at full voice, and making big, luscious soap breasts, and trying to fart for the fun of the jacuzzi effect; a simple garment like a suit doesn't have a chance in hell of creating an aura of respectability or power. (For clarification: I'm not saying G does any of those things in the bathtub. They were just examples I, um, made up.)

Sadly we spent his last night of freedom watching a horrible little horror film called Godsend. I don't know why I keep having to remind myself that there is no end to how bad something can be. Particularly when you've picked whatever based solely on the logic of "How bad can it be?" As if the previous How bad could it be's like Sweet Home Alabama and Bringing Down the House weren't enough to teach us a lesson.

The stars at night, are big and bright...

So...Texas.

We started out our journey in Central Texas; Fort Hood area. Nothing like being near a southern military base to remind you of the bubble we live in here in New York --how spoiled are we liberals, or non-Christians, or those left-of-center. I'm used to being able to make a disparaging remark about the President to a perfect stranger, and know with near certainty I'll get a sympathetic, equally outraged response. Not so in Central Texas. If you don't support the man and his war, you shut the hell up --or suffer the consequences.

The war is palpable there. Fort Hood is nearly devoid of men. Well, few between eighteen and sixty. You see women pushing baby carriages mostly, all wearing "Proud [wife, mother, sister, daughter] of a Soldier" T-shirts. When they travel in groups you overhear talk of the end of missions and tours of duty. They discuss the last time they heard from their loved one(s). Many have already lost a son or husband. It's absolutely heart-breaking. And beyond frustrating --the complicated business of combining sympathy and outrage in the presence of people who believe, or have to believe, this war is worth losing your life. My frustration became tears in a shopping mall as I walked past two soldiers (a fresh-faced young couple no more than twenty) picking out engagement rings --in full combat fatigues.

And so the bulk of our trip was spent not saying much about politics. G and I spent one evening listening to his grand-dame Texan Grandmother (who I absolutely adore despite her political beliefs) go on about the wonderful things Bush is doing, how hopeful she is for his re-election. The hole I bit in my lip that night is healing nicely, thanks.

Several years ago I accompanied my Mom on a work-related trip to Vale, Colorado. I couldn't stand Vale. I felt like an accomplice to something just by being there --like I had gone to the park to attend a fundraising picnic, and found out it was hosted by The Klan. However we had the last few days of the trip to ourselves, so we drove to Boulder. As we rounded the corner into town a kid with a green mohawk passed on a skateboard, two women walked by holding hands, and a mixed-race couple gave us directions to our hotel. Waving goodbye to them Mom turned to me and said, "There. Feel better now?" to which I replied, "Immeasurably."

I experienced equal relief as we arrived in Austin. Bush/Cheney placards all but disappeared, urban landscape emerged, along with the broad-spectrum of people that usually inhabit a large college town. And I encountered a strange new (for me) phenomenon: The Liberal Redneck. Being a half urban/half redneck girlie myself, I cannot describe the sheer joy, the total delight, the shock and awe that was pulling up on a Ford F-250, good-as-a-good-ol-boy-gets at the wheel, that is covered with pro-abortion, anti-Bush, anti-war, anti-religious-conservative bumper stickers. I felt like an adopted child who spied someone with a matching birthmark and found out it was my birth mother. All I can say is: Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings? I get you now.

My lasting impression of Texas is a strange one though. If you're going to Texas, bring a sweater. No, really. It may be a hundred outside, but they keep it a frigid sixty or so indoors. I spent a week shivering, in some cases too cold to sit still without periodic trips out into the heat, which, of course, landed me a nasty sunburn. A land of extremes, that one.