In the land of the blind, the loudest sound is king.

There's a reason why I've been silent about the Shaivo case, however in light of her death (and the self-interested horse-shit that continues to spew out of Washington--as we knew it would) I have to say: Shame on you, Democratic leaders. Shame on you progressives, liberals, moderates. Shame on you Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi. Shame on you Howard Dean. Shame on all of you who have been elected or appointed to uphold the law, to disseminate the truth, to protect our Constitution from people who seek to usurp it. Shame on all of you who continue to let spin and lies obscure facts (and criminal actions), who--in the same way you remained silent while 70% of America thought that Saddam Hussein caused 9/11--do not fight the charge that "activist judges" and murderous Godless Democrats want nothing more in life than a chance to see a woman starve to death.

Stop focusing on countering a slanted religious viewpoint and focus instead on the real issue: We need laws that equally address one's right to die, as well as one's right to live. Stop playing catch-up, stop being victim to their slight of hand, and make use of this chance for dialogue. Address the issue, not the spin. Do what you were elected to do.

And then he turned and said, "Stop knowing me."

For reasons I cannot explain (or perhaps it's simply that I don't want to know) I am completely transfixed and awed by the photographs of Chantal Michel. She's inexplicable. She's the creator of bizarro travelogues for a nether-world where it's eternally 1963. She's the art director of my nightmares.

I find her photos pornographic, however there is no nudity (that I recall). Her use of women is shocking, but not offensive. As I said, inexplicable. Each series gives you the feeling you are looking at something you are not supposed to see--like you happened upon a crime in progress, or an open diary, or a satanic ritual, or someone else's private holiday snapshots --which is why you keep looking. They make me feel implicated. And glad I don't speak German.

Feel safe knowing there's a crack team of professionals protecting our bridges, trains and tunnels.

I'm not feeling well today. I shuffled along so slowly after I got off the train, by the time I reached the stairs they were empty. Until I reached a landing where the stairs turned left and saw a man in a dark uniform out of the corner of my eye. I didn't think anything of him, didn't see what kind of uniform. Could be a cop. Could be a MTA employee. A security guard standing out of the rain to use his phone. As I passed he called, "Hey, can I walk with you awhile?" Without turning around I said "No" and continued upward.

"You sure?" he said, climbing behind. "I got an umbrella. You don't have an umbrella. Let me walk you."

"I'm in a hurry." I said, picking up the pace.

"C'mon baby. You don't want to get all that beautiful hair wet..." at this point I had reached topside, and people, and relative safety; so I turned around to confront him. As I did he reached out and grabbed my arm. "...just let me walk you awhile. Keep you dry. I don't bite."

I yanked my arm away and took a step back. He turned around and descended the stairs hurriedly. As he turned the corner on that same landing I saw his badge, jacket, hat, and shirt were emblazoned with the words "Department of Homeland Security."

Yes. I've made a few calls.

This from a woman who thinks "Paper or plastic?" is a trick question

So you think you've come to know me pret-ty well over the past two years, have ya? Let's just see about that. First person to get a hundred gets a prize.

(quiz via my other G out in Portland. Dude, I can't believe I fucked up the superhero question.)

Choice real estate trumps baby joy

My neighbor on the first floor is pregnant. The neighbor who lives in the rear apartment, the one with no teenagers screaming outside your window all night and sole access to the lush, puppy friendly fenced-in backyard. The apartment that is exactly, 100% the same as ours (which we love) except like a zillion times better.

She shared her news after she spied me staring at her belly with that whole hmmm is she?...or is she having trouble dropping the holiday weight look on my face. "Yes, I'm pregnant. Five months." she announced finally, letting me off the hook.

"Wow." I said. I thought to congratulate her, say a few kind words appropriate for such an announcement, and I wanted to. I really wanted to. I fully intended to. How wonderful, a baby! I smiled wide, heart full of pure joy at the promise of new life and said, "So, you guys'll be moving then, huh?"

Looking for love in all the wrong places

While reading a par-TIC-ular "editorial" in the most recent issue of Block Magazine, I was reminded how a creative writing course and a willingness to work for free are--without question--the cause of the most inane, disastrous prose imaginable. Then I ate a banana to get that 'bitter irony' taste out of my mouth. Banana's are good for that, I find.

Our $3535.00 trip to The Cloisters (or: I heart used cars)

G and I bought a used car Friday. By Sunday it had shit the bed--the won't run, won't start, flatbed towed to a garage kind of shit the bed.

But we got to take the dog to Ft. Tryon park Saturday. That was nice.

Facts my grandfather would like you to know.

NO. I am not Irish. Oh sure I look it, with the red hair and freckled skin the sickly hue of skim milk, but I'm not Irish. Yes I know my first and surname name originate from (and are the same as) counties in Ireland, but it's a mere coincidence. And even though my family tree can only be traced back to England for two generations (the point where my ancestors arrived from some other British Isle) I'm sure they didn't come from Ireland. Nope. I'm English alright. A bit Scot and Welsh too perhaps. But no Irish.

St. Patrick was a Brit you know.

If you don't forward this to ten of your friends your piss will turn to glass shards.

Here's another million dollar freebie for you; will someone please write a new book about email etiquette? Use The Rules as a guide, since I have a pretty good idea the (moronic, pedestrian) people who bought and read The Rules are the same people who insist upon sending me pictures of penis-shaped rock formations and Stupid Blonde Jokes, and a follow-up email three days later pointedly demanding to know why I never responded to the pics of cock-rocks they went to great lengths to FWD:FWD:fwd:fwd: to everyone in their address book. It could be a leaflet really; bullet points of easy-to-digest information like, using the scenario above, how response is to effect what a question is to cause. No, wait, I forgot about the audience...how you actually have to ask someone something before you can expect them to answer you.

And could you include a few tips on how to "break up" an email relationship? How to get off of your ex-boyfriend's aunt's daily prayer and Jell-O™recipe-of-the-month mailing list? Because I've tried everything with this bi'atch.

Don't ever ask me where I go.

If you happen to be in Brooklyn today and see a redhead in braids and a big Russian hat like the Cossack Pipi Longstocking, and you notice she is slightly swaying to and fro a'la the insane or drug addicted, with a hundred yard stare and a crooked smile--the kind that usually indicates the person is insane, or drug addicted--and you have concern, and you stop to ask if she's all right... and she doesn't answer? It's because concealed in the hat are headphones, and she has this song playing really loud. Just ignore her and go about your business. It's for your own good.

On freezing temperatures and its ability to economize language.

Windy street, walking the dog.

Passerby: Damn!!

Me: Right?

Passerby: Ye-ah.

Minutes later, me getting smacked in the face with a gust of ice-wind.

Me: Jesus Christ!

Lady at bus stop: S'wat I'm saying.

At home, doorbell rings, it's Con Ed. I open the door.

He: (shivering) It's like...

Me: No shit, it's like...

(he disappears into the basement)

You've come a long baby way.

I spent the morning reading about International Women's Day in the various world news outlets, about UN supported international women's rights standards, and about the strides for equality being made in traditionally oppressive nations such as China and Afghanistan. The stories are horrifying, of course. Women stoned to death for having been raped, women who are enslaved, infanticide of female newborns, women who die of upper respiratory failure because their covered faces never get to breathe fresh air. Even here in America where women enjoy legal equality, we are still having to fight for equal pay, maternity leave rights, against discrimination, and our right to decide when and if we will reproduce. However it is heartening to see the world demand a dialogue, and that the necessary steps are being made to ensure the rights of women. And in all I still feel lucky I am an American; even with the struggles American women face --particularly so under this administration. By my second cup of tea I was almost feeling hopeful, like progress is being made, like the end of inequality is near and attainable. Our sons and daughters could grow up in a world where women are whole human beings; as capable, powerful, and respected as any man has ever been or will be.

Then the little light went off on my browser indicating I had an email. It was from my sister and brother-in-law. They'd sent pictures of my nephew's tenth birthday party yesterday. At Hooters.

I know. What was I thinking.

50% off

Standing in line at the usual home store in front of a man, late thirties, handsome-ish, who had a cart filled to overflowing with every basic household necessity--a shower curtain, a few towels, a bath mat, sheets, mini-blinds, a box of dishes and another of glasses, coffee maker, dish drainer, a towel rack. Strange, I thought. Those purchases. He looked a little too old and well established (his Brook's Brothers suit suggested) to need everything--like he was moving out of Mom's for the first time. And he was certainly too young to be sending the first born off to college. I gazed down to the shelf underneath the cart where he had stuffed an area rug, and saw two garbage cans. Ah.

"She even took the garbage cans?" I asked.

"She took the garbage bags." He answered.

I give extra points to anyone who can work Susan B. Anthony into a rap song.

Monk discovered a ditty about his and my hometown. Later we will explain the rivalry between the 5-8-5 and the 3-1-5, which makes the Crips and Bloods seem like a bunch of pantywaists who are still in therapy because they never got a pony. I kid my Crip and Blood brothers and sisters!

Quit'chur bitchun.

I don't usually suffer from the winter SAD's. Even when I lived upstate--where the bleakness of March causes even the normally cheery to contemplate hanging the rigging from the rafters. But not me. I was usually more saddened by the heating bill than the dark skies and piles of snow outside. But man do people hate snow. Yesterday, right as the first flakes were falling, I ran into the (super excellent, most friendly) pizza shop owner downstairs when he stepped out for a smoke. "Here it comes." he said, face upturned. "We're supposed to get a foot or something. The storm of the season."

"I know, " I beamed. "Isn't it great?"
"Great? You don't own your house do you?" he asked.
"No."
"Or a business." He added.
"No."
"That you have to get up three hours early to shovel down to the pavement, AFTER you finish the mother-in-law's place next door."
"Um...damn. Sorry."
He smiled, warmly. "Well YOU enjoy your snow storm anyway."
"You t...I mean, sorry about the, um...I will."

It goes that way for me often. The snow, the rain. I'm all delighted when the weather is active in some way, at its movement, while everyone else is in a blue funk. The pup and I took a nice long walk in the fluff this morning and had each passerby and sour-pussed shoveler scowl at our felicity. But I've owned a house, and I've owned a car, and I've had to get up early to begin the archeological dig necessary to even FIND your car underneath five feet of Lake Ontario snow. Yeah, it's a pain in the ass. But it's not the snow's fault. Jeeze. Bunch'a dirty snow haters.