Our dog--fit, spry, 8 year old, who just went to the vet last week and got a clean bill of health--woke up Saturday morning and was unable walk. No illness, no injury, no warning. On Friday night she was able to jump down from a bed three feet off the ground, run down two flights stairs for her midnight piddle and some frolicking in the snow; Saturday morning she could not lift her body without crashing face-first into the floor.
Every second since then has been brutal. Trying to get a 90 pound immobile dog to and from hospitals without a car, on the weekend, in Brooklyn, while we're all in shock. The fear, anxiety, and emotional torture of being totally helpless, having no idea how to comfort or adequately care for our best friend in the world, no way to explain why this is happening to her, why she can't get up, why she's being dragged to horrible places where they muzzle her and poke her and drug her and put her in cages. Two heartbreaking days of her continuing to try to get to her feet, because in the middle of all of this, she wants to protect and care for us.
She's alive, in a hospital in New Jersey awaiting an MRI with a veterinary neurosurgeon. The X-rays, blood tests and physical exams she's had thus far have ruled out virus, infection, and injury; leaving diseases of the spinal cord, or brain.
I will not be blogging for quite some time, if her prognosis is the worst possible, I may not ever. If you are of faith, and it is part of your ritual to pray, I beg you to do so for my family.
Take care.
Attention great burster of bubbles, you who seek to destroy untold years worth of edge-of-one's-seat anticipation, ye who refuse to remove your hungry maw from the teat of the corporate Hollywood sow, who hedge your bets, who apparently enjoy nothing more than ruining it for everyone (and you know who you are); I have but one thing to say: Keanu Reeves? Seriously? Keanu fucking Reeves? What, couldn't get Kevin Costner on the horn? Carrot Top under contract? Burned that Vin Diesel bridge? Sting too busy having tantric sex and making cheesy soft-jazz recordings? Why? WHY!?
I knew that when Johnny Carson passed away it would have a special importance to me, but not because of what he and the Tonight Show meant to the world; or maybe precisely because of it. Either way, I've been dreading this for twenty years; ever since Johnny Carson made me fully realize mortality.
I remember the night. I was about seventeen, laying in my apartment watching TV, Carson's head framed by the vee made by my outstretched feet. It was the 25th anniversary special, and they were showing clips of the most memorable moments and guests to date. When they cut to present-day, you could see how he and Ed had aged; more wrinkles, a lot more snow on the roof. One of the guests (I don't remember who) said something like, "Here's to the next 25 years!" It made me wonder how long they would continue to do the show before they retired. Ten more years? Twenty? Then I thought, what would the Tonight Show be like in twenty years? What would I be like in twenty years? I did the math; in twenty years I would be in my late-thirties, and Johnny Carson would be...Johnny would be...oh my God. He could be...
Dead.
No. Way. Of course I knew we are all going to die, intellectually. I'd lost beloved pets, I'd lost loved ones. But there was something about the chance that Johnny Carson would not be around in twenty years (was mortal) which made death, all death, a reality. In that second my previous notion of our ultimate end, that impossible futuristic abstraction of we're all going to die, someday became "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! SOME ACTUAL DAY!" I went into panic, a sharp pain came across my chest. I got up, ran to the bathroom, and cried to the mirror; for myself, for my friends and family--for the inescapable end of everything I had ever known, or will ever know. Why Johnny Carson? Because he was a living legend, an icon, seemingly immortal; and if larger-than-life figures can't elude the inevitable, nobody I knew had a fucking chance. I kid you not, it was the single most profound moment in my life.
I revisited the humanity of legends a few years ago when I ran into Mary Tyler Moore at the passport office. I couldn't believe she was standing there, not just because it was her, but that it was her, there--at the passport office. Not her assistant, not her minions, her. I wouldn't have batted an eye had it been the independent film flavor of the month, but it was Mary Tyler Moore. The legend. But legends it seems, in addition to death and taxes, are not pardoned from tedious ID procurement, and have to drag their behinds down to a municipal building and stand in line just like everyone else (but unlike everyone else, get ushered to a private waiting area until their passport is ready). I started to wonder why she'd need a passport at all. Where in the world could she travel, and not be recognized? Somewhere, I had to admit finally. Remote lands on far away distant continents, isolated little places where Mr. Grant and Ted and Phyllis and Georgette and Murray mean nothing, where "Oh Rob!" would register a cock-headed shrug. So I occupied the remainder of my six hours in the public waiting room trying to think of any person alive who is so famous, so known worldwide, so much a part of the collective consciousness and the fabric of humanity--they truly wouldn't need a passport. Former presidents, maybe. A few rock stars perhaps. In the end my list was short. And I was only certain about Johnny Carson and the Pope.
...you use alcohol as the reward for the completion of tasks which deserve no reward. A lite beer for taking out the trash. Two-fingers of scotch for opening the mail. A crisp mojito for successfully extricating oneself from beneath the behemoth that is ones bed linens before noon. That you drink. Before noon. Shave AND a haircut? House whiskey and raw feed corn, for all my friends.* Or in some cases, a half-bottle of Pino Gras for updating a few links on your blog.
More on that later.
* a quote from the movie Barfly, which--to give you the full picture of the tree from which this lil' apple fell--is my family's all-time favorite film, an anthem of sorts, viewed so frequently it has been committed to memory. But we don't hate people, we just like it better when they're not around.
It is our duty to stop world leaders who practice tyranny, who do not promote a fair and just society, and worst of all, who do not allow their citizenry to enjoy the civil and human rights, and personal freedoms each human being is granted by God. Furthermore, it is also our mandate to take up arms against any world leader who endeavors to halt freedom's progress; they who suppress attempts to create and sustain a free society, who manipulate the voting process, or attack other nations when unprovoked.
So what are you waiting for? Let's get the sonofabitch. I mean, the man himself said it's our job.
If you can't get to D.C. today, Vidiot has linked to a few sites suggesting an internet Blackout in protest of Bush's inauguration. If I had my way, I'd be in the Bayou attending a funeral.
News sources say thousands plan to protest in Washington today, although the figures would have been much, much higher had 'the President's safety' not trumped the whole freedom of expression thing (as it is wont to do) causing the majority of those who applied for permits to be denied. Due to the sheer volume of people who murderously loathe this president, the federal government and the District of Columbia saw fit to (borrow? allocate? steal?) tens of millions of tax dollars from those denied the right to speak or assemble, so they may turn what was a parade route into a "steel cocoon".
Perhaps I can get to you 51 per-centers through your pocketbooks. If you haven't already, forget about human and civil rights and those darn gays and the environment and all the little dead fetui and such for a second, and consider this: Having an abomination for a president--a man so despised worldwide, that a city must be converted into a maximum security prison in order to protect him--is not only bad for America, but is darn costly. If it had been Kerry's inauguration day, you know what the price tag would've been to keep those Swift-boat for Justice dudes behind some yellow tape? Like twenty bucks. Tens of millions, twenty bucks, tens of millions, twenty bucks. You feel me?
Just in case you're wondering--you who've come to New York from more temperate climes, from sunny southern states or tropical or desert lands abroad--you do not have an overly delicate constitution. It's colder than Cheney's patchwork heart outside; and damn near as black.
However I entreat you to focus on the positive. Like, for instance, a bottle of wine purchased at a liquor store not a half-block away will be perfectly chilled during the short walk home. So perfectly in fact that (even though it's just now two in the afternoon) one may find it impossible to wait until evening to pop the cork on that mo'fo.
The little retro clothing shop on my block has closed down; not that I'll miss it. I stepped foot in there exactly once, and promptly stepped right back on out--partly because of the "You are soooo NOT cool enough to shop here" hairy eyeball the sales girl shot my way, but mostly because of their inventory. 80's stuff, which, well...is useless to me. I know a neon striped t-shirt with a zipper on it is fresh and fun for someone born in 1985, but not for someone who was in high school in 1985--by then slouch boots and loud geometric prints were worn by people we called "posers" who bought their "new wave" gear at the Merry Go Round chain in the mall. THE MALL. You totally look like Pat Benatar might be a compliment today, but twenty years ago it was the pre-curser to a catfight.
So I'm not going to miss the 80's store, which, according to the flyers in the window, is soon to become a pirate supplies shop. Yeah, you read right. A pirate supplies shop. I know, I know...what took so long, right? I've been pretty excited about all the sundry pirate supplies soon to be at my disposal, as the neighborhood has been lacking such. Not to mention the influx of pirates the store will undoubtedly bring.
Then I had brunch with the deliciously-tall-and-delightful Zeebah over the weekend, who informed me that there's another pirate supply shop in California, owned by Dave Eggers, which is actually a front for some writing workshop for kids. She wondered if it was not a coincidence, if Mr. Eggers was opening another workshop here in Williamsburg.
Man, I hope not. What a fucking disappointment. I mean, I'm all for the kiddies getting their writerly goodness on, but what about the needs of pirates? How will they feel when they find out their only supply store on the East Coast is actually a sarcastic statement? A Staggering Heartbreaking Sham? Clever goes a long way in the McSweeney circles, but you can't use clever for a peg-leg.
Will the irony never end, people?
When I read this, for some reason my brain gave young Harry the voice of Winston Churchill. "Ted-ably sorry about the Naaathi costume, old man. T'won't happen again I can assure you, a joke is a very serious thing..." And then I laughed and laughed and laughed.
Because I'm an only child who finds my internal dialogues (particularly those involving Winston Churchill) quite amusing, you see.
(via Titivil)
Hey, CVS Drug store people? I was wondering...would you consider switching to better quality bags? By that I mean, opaque? Because even though I'm a grown woman well into my thirties who is normally immune to feelings of embarrassment about my body and its many functions and needs, I have to admit that when one is carrying two boxes of super Tampax, extra long overnight maxi-pads (with wings), panty liners, acne cream and Motrin--in A CLEAR BAG down a busy thoroughfare; well...the looks one receives, ranging from horror to sympathy, can make a person feel, let's say, a smidge uncomfortable. And as you and each passerby can clearly deduce from my purchases, I'm experiencing my share of discomfort already.
Just a suggestion. Thank you.
On the train platform this morning, two young, hipster-ish men were discussing the BIG NEWS about WMD's in Iraq--specifically, that the official word from On-High is (suprise, suprise!) there weren't any. Guy number one's voice had the tonal quality many of the sensible, the intelligent, the sick of being forced to eat a steady diet of bullshit have developed over the past four years; indignation, disbelief and horror squelched by an alarming amount of apathy. "We knew they weren't there." He said. "But nobody cared. They won't care now. They lied about the war, the reason for the war..."
"You're looking at it the wrong way." Guy number two said. "It's true that it won't matter, because it's not a lie...we had to go to Iraq. When intelligence got word the WMD's might be there, we had to find out. So no, it doesn't matter that they weren't there. It's good that they weren't there." And then he went into a completely irrelevant analogy, brilliant in it's distance from the mark (I know as I am reigning Queen of shitty analogies) about a bomb threat. It went: if the bomb squad gets a call saying someone has placed a bomb in a shopping mall, they have to go and investigate; even if they have good reason to believe it's a hoax or a prank. They have to go check it out just in case it isn't.
When he finished, guy number one's face had grown something also familiar nowadays: The shock that any human being could be so fucking stupid look you see whenever a righty and a lefty attempt to talk politics. "So you're saying the best and most effective way for a bomb squad to make certain there isn't a bomb in a mall--is to BLOW UP THE MALL?"
Guy two was quiet for a second, then rolled his eyes so dramatically it involved swirling his entire head around, "Dude...No! Weren't you listening? You are so looking at this the wrong way."
I just had my fifth run-in with the old woman who owns the next building over. If things continue as they have, a bail bondsmen might be in order.
She starting screaming complaints in my face even before we moved here, back when we were at the old place and this street was where we came to do our shopping. Then it was about the dog: Don't tie your dog up there, don't let your dog pee there, you damn kids and your damn big dogs, I hate dogs, there should be a law, you'd better pick up after that dog, what's wrong with you people and your dogs...all for simply walking past her on a public sidewalk. Now that I live next door she's added garbage to the list of things to yell at me about. She's stopped me--I mean walked in front of me hand splayed out like a traffic cop stopped me--four times to date; and then launched into a long tirade about how I, and my ilk, have destroyed the neighborhood. How our building used to be one of the nicest on the street, and is now a garbage dump. Why don't I care? Why don't I DO something about it? Was I raised in a barn? Why don't I clean that UP? It's disgusting...you kids. Each time adding the threat of her intent to call the police and our landlord.
And all four times I begged her to do both. We have serious garbage problems in this building brought on by our landlord's refusal to provide us with any garbage bins, and every single tenant in the building has called and complained about it. However he still flat out refuses to provide us with containers for our garbage and recycling. We've been instructed to let our refuse pile up in our apartments until garbage day. Recycling likewise. Which (in addition to being illegal, a violation of city code, a major health risk, and invitation for a nice rat and roach infestation) is totally impossible in a tiny NYC apartment. G and I have to restructure our whole set-up if we bring home a four-pack of toilet paper for Christsakes, our neighbors likewise. So garbage piles up out front at the curb, where it gets picked through and added to, until the sanitation department won't touch it--thus compounding the problem. All of which I have explained in the past to Miss 'You should be ashamed of yourself' and why I strongly agreed she should call the city and our landlord as it would help to back up our own complaints. But no. Oh no. She doesn't have any interest in working together to solve the problem. She just wants to stop me periodically, shove her forty pounds of garish make-up in my face, and assassinate my character.
There's a precedent for that in my life, being singled out for abuse. Something about the way I look. Female, redhead, freckles, pasty white skin. No matter what I'm wearing or how my hair is done I just can't help but look tame, meek; exactly the qualities a bully seeks in a target. Even with my more daring looks of youth (piercings, jack boots, ripped fishnets, dyed black hair) I still looked like Opey's sister, all folksy and wholesome--about as punk rock as a Holly Hobby doll in a leather jacket. Trust me, if there's a disgruntled employee or pissed off neighbor or angry teenager or crabby waitress or plain old crazy fucker with a beef to pick, and they're looking for someone to pick it with, they pick me. That fragile looking chick with the fine bones. Someone they assume will not retaliate, who will just take their abuse, who will burst into tears. I'm a magnet.
The upside of such assumptions based on my appearance? The look on the face of my antagonist when they realize the extent to which appearances can be, as they say, misleading.
So sorry about opening up that can of whoop-ass, mean old lady next door. Must suck to feel like the victim of a bait and switch.
The closet turned desk nook, she is done. New walls erected, skim coated, painted, shelving installed. Finis.
I think the severity and depth of my disease--this overwhelming need to be constantly fixing/painting/building something--has finally become apparent to G. When he saw the finished project he agreed it was an improvement and congratulated me on a job well done, but then added "We really have to find a way to buy a place."
Newsflash: TMFTML returns; bloggers worldwide suffer chin injuries when their dropping jaws make contact with the newly raised bar.
While at a party ringing in the New Year, a group of us were discussing how--even though we're halfway through the decade--a consensus has yet to be reached on to what to call these-here single digit years. One fellow--who was so impossibly, unsettlingly handsome you knew there had to be some freaky black magic or genetic manipulation involved (My guess? He was brought to life from the cover of a Calvin Klein underwear package a la 'Weird Science' by some crafty gay teens)--noted that the solution thus far seems to be saying the whole year, as in: "The winner of the two thousand and two award for..." or "I'll graduate in two thousand and six." Another fellow (who I guessed was his lovah, or, if my Frankenstein theory is correct, his "father") said that was usually how he handled the problem, by reciting the whole year, and that even thought it felt clumsy it wasn't as difficult as trying to work 'aught' into a sentence. Because let's be frank--only characters in a Jane Austin novels, or somebody named "Scoop" who reports for "The Gotham Examiner", or Abraham Lincoln can work 'aught'.
But we agreed this decade deserves a jazzy title. We need to be able to look upon these years, the prime of our lives, and say, "Why, back in (what? O five? aught six? ten minus three?)..." We bandied about a few suggestions, all of which were met with a lukewarm reception.
Finally G said, "How about the Double-O's?"
"The Double-O's? Like Double-O five?" Mister 'I was just created from spare doll parts and cardboard' asked. "Yeah." G answered.
We all thought on it. Test drove it a bit by inserting it in random sentences (Did he just say "fashizzle? How Double-O two!). All in all, we agreed it had potential. I mean sure, it kinda sounds like a breakfast cereal, and is dangerously close to being a nod to "dubble-ya", but who cares. It has spunk. Moxi. Still doubtful? Two years from now it'll be double-O seven. I know, stop it. It's too sexy.
So there you go. My gift to you via G...Happy Double-O Five! A brand new year with a new name and a whole new outlook, and much to great dismay of my beloved partner, many, many home improvements! One of which will entail my taking apart my desk and relocating my computer, which means you won't hear a peep round here for quite some time. Already this year brings a cornucopia of blessings, yes?