Excavations

Today my mom and step dad were in Helena- they had anthropology students doing some work determining boundary lines for the potter's cemetary on some of their land. The land is being developed, and no one wants to dig up bodies. Fun for the students, interesting for everyone else. So today's subject is digging things up. For fun and profit.

Digging up the truth. Over time I've found out that the truth is in most cases subjective. The winners determine what it is. Ask anyone who lost a war- define a war criminal- mostly someone who followed orders. The crime? Being on the losing side while following those orders. So whose truth is the best? Ask the religious. They will claim theirs. But with so many conflicting opinions in that regard, it's easy to get confused.

Digging up the past. Dicey proposition at best. Distant past is pretty safe. History in particular- that's why many document collections have dates in the distant future for revealing the contents. All the people involved will be dead, buried and untouchable. Good for them. Wouldn't want to actually live with the consequences of what the secrets were. Keep that under wraps. On the down low, as it were.

Personal past? Hmmmmm. There again, question of perspectives. Take any occurance. Run it past the various people who were there. Betcha you'll get any number of takes on what really happened. Add time and shake real hard, and it'll get murkier. Only the really passionate emotions stay pure. Hatred in particular. The reasons for the hatred might be lost, or dissapate over time, but the hatred can stick around very easily. Especially if it's cultivated properly. I think that some people live just to do this. They are the gardeners of a specific crop. It's easier than letting something go.

Digging up reality. Another set of perceptions that not only change with the amount of tequila consumed, but change with age. Kids see things that adults try to ignore. They learn to conceal and not pay attention to those things. They learn about loyalty- to whom over all others. They learn the costs for being loved. What they're meant to do in return. There are always strings attached. Always. Anyone who denies this is either a liar or a fool. Avoid them- they want something.

Digging for clams. Lots of work. Clams are gross. I wouldn't recommend it.

Digging for treasure. Define treasure. I don't have a metal detector, and am not bored enough to go get one and develop a new and slightly creepy hobby. Give me a few more months of unemployment, and it might just happen, however...

Digging for gold. Specific treasure. Makes people crazy-like. Watch The Treasure of Sierra Madre if you don't believe me. In AZ, there was a show on local access cable called Gold Fever. It had a theme song that went "gold gold gold gold fever fever fever fever..." in kind of a mind-numbing drone. It was about how to find gold. It seemed to be a big thing in the Phoenix area. Something about lost treasure in the mountains near Apache Junction. Whatever. I just liked the low production values, and singing the song. Especially after consuming some tequila. Gold gold gold gold fever fever fever fever....

Newly minted obsession

This week it's the classic Western. I've steadfastly avoided the genre in the past- lived in the west, didn't see much to celebrate about it- hated seeing the blasted Charlie Russell exhibit in place of real art every year- hated the faux cowboys I went to school with- they were such narrow-minded little bigots.

But then I guilted myself into seeing High Noon. And my world went all haywire. Now I saw that the really skillful filmmakers in the genre were making all kinds of statements via the Western. Ahhhhh.....

So last night we watched The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence. Still not as satisfying as any of the vengeance instilled Clint Eastwood ones, but pretty fun nonetheless. I love watching Jimmy Stewart act with people who could hold their own with him. John Wayne isn't my favorite actor by a long shot, but he's well used in this one. And I liked the civil rights subtext.

So. I have The Ox Bow Incedent cued up on the tivo, and will likely get through that one today. Henry Fonda said it was his favorite of his movies, as I recall. He was kind of a jerk, so whatever, Henry. But it also stars Frank Morgan, and I liked him while growing up on MASH.

I'm trying to figure out what genre to attach to next if this unemployment thingy goes on too long- maybe the musical? (fucking shoot me if that happens- I really hate musicals...with the exceptions of Sound of Music and My Fair Lady. Oh and Fiddler on the Roof...damn...maybe I don't really really hate them after all...)

Why I hate Thanksgiving

It's such a crap holiday for me. At least it's time off of work. If I had work. But then, that's part of the issue, no?

Historically it was the worst of all holidays. It wasn't redeemed by the happy feelings of receiving presents. So this would happen- without fail.

Spend the day getting all of that food together. Under the pressure umbrella of mom wanting perfection in all things- food, emotional, and otherwise. Put up with younger sister and her bitchiness in its varied forms. Put up with cranky grandparents. Watch evil Grandpa drink. Know with the security of the inevitable what is coming.

Serve dinner very early in the day. (I never really figured that one out. Thanksgiving dinner is more akin to Thanksgiving late lunch.). Then sit back and watch the inedible mass congeal when Grandpa finally lets loose- he's been percolating all fucking day. The shitstorm issuing from his mouth is usually pretty impressive. Especially since I was the target 98% of the time after the divorce, and Dad absented himself from the picture. Make that 100%. I never saw him verbally attack anyone else. Only me. Inevitably I would lose my temper and tell him to go fuck himself. Then leave. And my mother would sigh, with the forebearance of the angels above, and clear the table. Grandpa would go back to simmering, no doubt waiting in anticipation for next year.

Once I hit college I played my only card for sanity. I refused to go home for Thanksgiving. Ever again. I only revoked this standing rule once- several years ago. Grandpa had just died, and I did it as a favor to my mom. I took Kenga along for the ride. And it was a ride, indeed. Grandma was just starting to lose her grip on reality. So it was kinda amusing to see her deal with the half non-white person I married so long ago. The official story is that she really likes him, and thinks he's great. The real story is that they have never forgiven or forgotten his Japaneseness. She usually has to tell me why they still hate the Japanese. The war, doncha know? And she does speak in the "we" tense- not Imperial "we", but Grandpa's still around "we". Creepy.

The good news- I won't be going home for the festivities. I'll be safe and sound with friends. I'll see the family at Christmas. They'll be settled into the holiday mood more securely, and it'll be fine. Any fireworks will be supplied by aforementioned bitchy sister, and easily contained. Mostly cuz ding dong the witch is dead, and he won't be coming back for any more rounds. So that's what I'm thankful for, I guess. Peace on earth, and no more ugliness in the name of family harmony. No more sick tummies afterwards, and reproachful looks from Grandma and Mom. And that's that.

Fact of the day

If this doesn't creep you out a tad, you're sterner stuff than I.

Did you know that Helen Keller had her eyes removed and replaced with glass ones because her real eyes were scary? And when she became a celebrity, it was an issue? EWWWWW!!!

Better than botox, baby!

Also- new book to check out one and all- if you like something interesting- just stayed up til 2:00AM finishing it- because I had to.

The Wilderness, by Karen Novak. I'll probably be inflicting it on choice people on my Christmas list this year. So if you do buy it, or read it before I go shopping, let me know, or you might get a duplicate copy!!!

I also finished The Codex, by Lev Grossman. Fun, but with one of those endings that makes you want to shake him- bit of a let down.

I watched, and highly recommend The Big Country yesterday. Gregory Peck, Burl Ives and of all things, a young and relatively hot Charleton Heston. It was gorgeous. Directed by William Wyler (who also did Ben Hur). I got totally sucked in. It's a western. Not my bag, for the most part (I grew up in the west, hated it, and wanted to leave for more populous parts as soon as I could- but then didn't, and decided that after all it wasn't too horrible- except for my home town- still hate it). But a lovely movie nevertheless. And there's a cool Cold War subtext to it- which is interesting when you consider the Heston inclusion.

Still jobless. Still working on Christmas presents. Still feeding the cats...they would kill me if I stopped...

Crimes and Felonies

Kenga got a book at the library- called Scenes of the Crime- with a foreword by James Ellroy (one of my true guilty pleasures- the man can invoke a time and place better than most- and has taught me more slang words for female genitalia than I thought possible). It's crime scene photos from the LAPD archives. Not all murders/death- some other stuff. It's interesting. They really edited carefully- nothing too horrible- all corpses have their faces, no children, basically pretty straight forward stuff.
Interesting though. Basically I am thinking that the photographers are an odd lot. These guys did some interesting things. While they had to provide a document of the crime that the investigators could use later (since a crime scene is by its nature temporary), they also had to keep some kind of emotional distance from it (probably to keep from cracking up- I met a crime scene photographer once who had cracked- not so good). So they focused on framing the photos in unique ways. There's one in particular of a glass door that had been shot though- and the photographer had taken care to include the reflection of children in the neighborhood gawking at the crime scene. Pretty cool shot.
It's kind of a moving book in a way. I am looking at people whose lives either changed or ended in such a sudden way. Most of the murdered ones were cut down in their prime. Looks like mostly middle to lower class. With the notable exception of Thelma Todd's death (look her up on IMDB- sad story). Creepy side note- I knew what I was looking at in several instances before reading the descriptions- I think I know too much about historic crime in LA for my own good.

The part that gets me though is the eyes. The expression on the faces. Just the abrupt ending of it all. No easing out by degrees. Just a sharp end. Some look surprised. Some just look sad. And they are all (with one exception) pretty young. Though since the crimes occurred mostly in the 20s and 30s, they would be very old or dead by now anyway. Just the permenance of it. Always dead at 25. Or 30. Funny how many of the crimes have to do with bootlegging. Makes prohibition seem silly on that level- it seems to have increased crime, rather than eliminated it. Go figure. But that could be a scewed editorial slant by the book's authors too. They obviously chose these images very carefully. With clear intent. Like I said before- it could've been far, far worse. Uglier. Stronger. More brutal.

I'm also haunted by the privacy that's being broken. Death seems like such a personal thing. That these people's deaths are in a book seems odd. I don't have any personal connection to them- if it was a book of my dead relatives, I would feel much differently. But it's strange to see this kind of invasion. I guess I would call it that- since I can't think of any better description.

Not much to say

Kenga took several days off- so I've actually had someone to spend time with during the day! And since we don't fight incessantly- it's been fun.

Yesterday we had an adventure. I took him on the bus to downtown- it was his first time. We visited the museum, the library and a newsstand that I like. He saw my neighborhood for the first time. It was good.

Now we prepare for house guests. So I can't spend lots of time online. There are things to do- people to see- I get to feel important for a while!

Hey guess what!

It's raining. And cold. And I'm still unemployed.

But now the focus of my life (besides getting a job- I haven't given up- I have not yet begun to fight- I regret that I have only one life to give...whatever) is on Christmas presents for the many varied family members. This year I've decided to try and make stuff for them. And not using cat fur and dryer lint held together with assorted kitchen ingredients (cream of tartar, anyone?). Nope. I know that certain peoples on my Santa's good list read this, so I won't detail. But it will keep me busy, and be happy.

And unless there's a big blizzard that prevents it, we will be going home for the holidays. We lack snow tires, or tyres, so shouldn't be all reckless. Despite what Kenga wants. Kenga doesn't get everything he wants- he's not Lola. At least not today. Maybe tomorrow I'll let him be Lola. But not Lola Lola. She was a bitch. (I'll perhaps give anyone who gets the second allusion a bright shiny dollar! I'm being all esoteric and obtuse- because it's raining, and I'm bored.)

Time to watch the rest of the Joan Crawford movie on the tivo. Then maybe finish up with a delightful Carole Lombard confection. Yummy.

Vanity thy name is me

Part of the ongoing maintenance is the hair. Now we are red again. (such the newsflash- it's fake... real is a nondescript blond, with I suspect by now, tons of white- I am really curious in a morbid way as to how much white- I haven't checked in a very long time.) Funny thing though. For some reason, guys- usually older- insist on calling me "red" Like it's some kind of film noir hell that we've stepped into all of a sudden. And they're Sam Spade. It's goofy. I know that they're being nice, but it's very strange to refer to some stranger by the color of their hair. If I see a nice looking guy, should I say- "Hi brown?" What if he's African American? Then what do we have? An incident, I would guess.

Just gotta thank mom for the white hair genes, though. Shout out mom! Kinda wish I could trade that one for the 20/20 vision, or amazing metabolism that you have that keeps you the same weight you were in college...

Literary snobbism

I read a book recently by an old friend. She is a wonderful short story writer- but I've been consistently disappointed by her novels. She just can't sustain story lines in a convincing fashion. And turns out that she is a literary snob. Standards- yes, important to maintain. But snobbishness is not cool in my book.

Her book was rather autobiographical- which kind of disturbed me to begin with, as it was jarring- there was no logical reason for the bits of herself that she trotted out. I know what she was trying to attempt, but it was surprisingly poorly done.

Then there was the story itself. Part of it was about being a romance novelist. And how horrible that is for anyone who can really write. That's where I got pissed off. Now for a very deep, and dark secret- I have read the occasional romance novel. Was avidly into them when I was around 12. Snuck them home from the library, and was off in another place. Not really good for me at the time- it did probably set me up for some reality checks later- but there were hours of fun involved anyway.

I see romance novels as interesting. They are so easy to decode, and have such a clearly defined formula. And I don't think that's a bad thing. I think of all types of fiction that I've encountered, the romance novel comes the closest to illustrating a certain kind of zeitgeist. These books really pull on archetypes in a clear and meaningful way- for lots and lots of people. I don't feel like it's fair to condemn them for reading them. Not fair at all. Maybe they aren't Balzac, Trollope or even Elliott, but they give the reader something to enjoy. And given how many women probably are one romance novel away from going batshit on any given day, I say, read on, sisters.

The other thing about her book that was rather nasty had to do with a Native American character. I remember a painting that Kenga and I saw at the Heard Museum in Phoenix. For those not familiar- wonderful museum of Native American art, culture and history. The katchina room is as creepy as it gets- chock full o hoodoo that made the back of my neck crawl. Back to the painting. It was modeled on Ingres's Jupiter and Thetis, with a Native American guy enthroned, and a white woman beneath him, with a hand crawling up his neck. She was wearing her obligatory bead earrings, and looking at him with naked adoration. It was one of the most underhanded artistic jabs that I've seen (short of a Diego Rivera portrait that I saw once- about busted a gut laughing at how he portrayed the sitters...nasty...). She was a poser. He was not real to her. He was an image of her rebellion, romantic longing, etc.

So back to the book- the character in it was basically ditto the painting. It was unpleasant. I don't enjoy stereotypes unless there's a way to break them. She didn't pull that one off. The stereotype was full on intact by the end, and the slam on romance authors/readers also intact. I saw this as dishonest. And I'm too much of a wuss to ever tell her to her face...

Somthing to do

Besides babysitting cats, I mean. I watched Kagemusha yesterday. Kurosawa is a passion of mine. Even with the silly scenes, he was breathtaking. Interesting trivia note- Kagemusha was produced for foreign distribution by Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas. Whoda thunk?!

Also on the Tivo were The Bachelor and the Bobby Soxer, with Myrna Loy and Cary Grant. I liked watching the two of them play together.

And the other good one from this week- that ought to be required viewing- The Haunting. From 1963. Lovely movie- taken from a creepy story by Shirley Jackson. It's one of those that stuck with me for quite a while afterwards.

And now back to the kitty babysitting thing- I have to go give Buddy a time out. He's being naughty. (bet you think I'm kidding!)

Bitter Betty's homemaker tips

When you install something with a sticker on it- fucking remove the sticker after it's installed. Immediately. Do not let it stay on the window/toilet/whatever for a lenghthy stay- it will get icky and difficult. That's just lazy and slipshod.

When you have a stainless steel sink, it needs to be scoured out once in a blue moon, or it will get stained by water/soap spots, and need weeks of scouring regularly to get it nice and shiny again. And don't put grout in there, or rusted objects. Stainless doesn't mean bulletproof.

Anything used for cooking food, particularly for human consumption, needs to be cleaned occasionally. This includes stoves and especially ovens. This is not a joke. This is not a suggestion. This is a rule.

Installing black granite shiny counters in a house with perpetual cats is a stupid idea. Always.

White/light beige carpets are never a good idea when cats and children are present. Avoid them.

When you have a cat that likes to urinate to mark territory, please shut her/him out of the bedroom that offends her/him- the smell will outlast her/his stay in the house. And nothing is worse on a humid, rainy day than the smell of kitty behavioral problems past. (luckily our cats haven't decided to follow suit- I don't think I could handle it). And once said kitty has marked, for fuck's sake, clean the crap/urine up!!! Don't be a fucking pig.

And finally, when cleaning the toilet (yes, you knew we would come to this), always scrub under the rim. No one wants to find your hardened, dried, scummy poop on the toilet years after you no longer live there. It is unsavory, unsanitary, and just vile.

(can you tell we're cleaning house today???)

How not to go batty ...

I've made a concerted effort not to go batshit crazy. Why, you ask? Well, it would be a tad inconvenient, and Kenga wouldn't like it much. I don't really relish the role of Bertha Rochester (read Jane Eyre, if you dare- she's in the attic.). Batshit isn't becoming- unless there's a pile of money involved. And in our case, there just isn't.

So. Keepin busy. Scheduling all of the stuff that should be done over the course of a week, so the pressure to get it all done at once doesn't paralyze me. So that the guilt of not getting it done doesn't keep me awake at night. So the self-loathing of feeling inadequate and stupid doesn't eat me alive. All in good time.

And knitting again. Just like Madame Defarge. Sitting at the foot of the guillotine, knitting while the heads hit the basket. Just being careful to keep the blood off of the wool.

It's all good. Really.

Anthropology report

I got this as part of an email, and thought that it was interesting.

Pallu, or the portion of the sari that falls over the left
shoulder, is usually its most decorated region, often picking up
and elaborating on the small motifs on the border or main body of
the drape. Much of the beauty of the garment thus lies in the
pallu, and it is the part that designers agonize over and which
shopkeepers use to clinch the sale.

Further, touching of the pallu by another is no small act, but a
most personal piece of interaction. It signifies an intimacy
which has been described thus: "as if by caressing a leaf one is
able to touch the tree." If someone gets too attached to a
person, they are likely to be teased by having it said that they
have 'attached themselves to the others pallu' (as a television
presenter of a live show said to a fan who kept phoning her
during the performance). In fact, signifying the eternal nature
of their union, the Indian groom during the wedding needs to tie
one end of his attire to the pallu of his bride. Thus yoked, they
then proceed to circumambulate the sacred fire seven times.

Thus the importance placed in Indian cinema on kissing becomes a little clearer.
Intimacy in such a crowded place seems quite prescribed.

You'd think

That since I've got nuthin else to do, I would be blogging my ass off. Well you would be wrong.

Kenga and I have come up with an elaborate calendar that gives me things to do during my long, long, long days. And it helps. The house is finally getting fully unpacked, and very clean. And I'm applying all over tarnation (still in Tennessee Williams land a bit).

But I did spare an afternoon for creepy Halloween crappy 70s movie fest, Year 1. I watched an assortment of Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing confections. Some very, very bad. Some kind of ok. But all very fun. Not scary at all. I don't handle scary very well. So this was a must.

I also watched Wicker Man- allegedly a cult classic about burning some dude up to make the apples grow. Christopher was in it- he had a very poncy hair do. It was funny. Lots of banging in it- and it got an X rating back in the day.

I finished it all off by watching the 40's version of Cat People, which was wonderful. Gotta love the old stuff. Like fine wine.

And today, miracle of miracles, the sun is shining. I'll be outside some. Soon.

Copycat

I'm taking the theme of this post from a blogfriend (thanks Polly) who wrote today about the crazy chick in the press phenomena (Jess, Brit, et. al.). I have a spin on that that I'll share. Just cuz I feels like it!

Well. Shall I say right now that Tennessee Williams had it dead on? "Ah have always depended upon the kindness of strangers." Anyone with a passing acquaintance with Streetcar, knows whereof I speak. Especially the Viviene Leigh version. She was a total nutcase to start with (I love that kind of olde tyme Hollywoode shit), and that role drove her around the bend. Her English belfry was chock full o bats by the time the movie wrapped. Poor Viv. And Poor Larry (Olivier, for those without IMDB on the bookmarks).

Anyhew- I think that there is a certain kind of woman- usually raised with a very overbearing father- who snaps at a certain time, and gets all Blanche Dubois on us. And the ones who do it in the public eye are the most fascinating of all. The non-famous ones just scare the crap out of their families. And make scenes at Thanksgiving (God, I HATE Thanksgiving...sorry...another post there....).

So, let's watch the show unfold, and give Tennessee a tip of the glass for being about as accurate as possible, given that he's dead and all.

And if there were a male version of Blanche Dubois, who would that be? I nominate Jack White. Just cuz I think he's got creepy scary covered pretty well. And I love him despite myself.

Another thing to be pissy about

I was at the new Barnes and Noble. On the bestseller shelf is a stupid book. It's all about the government's plot to make you sick, and keep you sick, and hide the "truth" that will change your life.

Right. So I decided to give it a look see to get an idea of what kernels of wisdom they offer. Right. All was ok until I saw the part about wearing the magnetic ring. Then I expected the tinfoil hats to start getting face time. Because we're seeing some silliness now.

Then there was a claim that really got to me. According to the author, skin cancer is caused by sun block. He backs this up with the solipsim that people who wear the most sun block suffer from skin cancer the most. Damn. Little did I know! Stupid me. Thought that my skin cancer was caused by all of the non-sunblock exposure that I had as a child. But really....

Pissed me off big time. I wanted to call someone and yell at them. But then I decided that if people are stupid enough to a) buy the dumb book, and b) follow the instructions, then there will be fewer people. Because they will die young. With their magnetic rings and lack of sunblock. Then there will be more parking spots and chocolate cake for me! Yay!

Well- that was ... interesting

The interview didn't go as well as planned. I think it deserves fiasco of the year award. Why? Well, not my fault exactly.

I was doing the song n dance. Answering the questions. Making the connections. Communicating my ass off, if you will. Then one of the interviewers- who had been in and out of the room the entire time- decided to score some points off of me. Had it been a normal meeting, not an interview, I wouldn't have put up with her shit. Not for a moment. But since it's an interview, and I must play nice, I had to deal with her very obnoxious comment.

I was discussing my job back in the day when we were determining how it would fit within the company. I said that I refused to do the books, and wanted to focus on the Project Management side of things. She wanted details of how I had "refused" to do something that my boss had requested. Fuck. Let's discuss context, shall we? I was in the middle of discussing how I had been instrumental in developing the project management protocol for the business. It hadn't happened prior to my assuming the position because the woman who I replaced had been saddled with the books, etc. And I am not an accountant. So I was on the defensive, and had to defend myself to this little nasty woman. If she had been in the room while I had been there - the ENTIRE time- she would've gotten the background. Instead, she had the "refused" thingy to hang up on.

I sidled a bit and told her that it was more of a discussion of priorities, and capabilities. That I wasn't capable of doing the books. That we needed an admin person anyway (and boy did we ever get one- another story- I digress). It sucked. The other people in the room were very nice, and seemed embarrassed by her- they were even nicer after her little nastiness. But I think that it's safe to assume that I tanked. From that point onward. Even though one of the people walked me to the elevator, and kept up the small talk. She probably has the power to squash any hopes I had. So perhaps, I am lucky. Perhaps she is one of the nasties that I try to avoid in jobs and life. The soul suckers who reside in companies with the sole role of making others miserable. Fuck her if that's what she is.

Or she is very proud of herself for discovering what a bad seed I really am. How very unworthy I am. How horrible I am as an employee. I told her to feel free to call my boss and discuss the situation with him. After all, I was only there for 3 years after "refusing" to do something that he requested. And I only left to move to Seattle. Hmmmm. Tempting to hit the vodka. Very tempting...

Uh huh.

So W withdrew poor Harriet's nomination. And then he blamed the Senate. How very disingenous of him. Now for my rant- you know you were waiting for it!

The lack of personal accountability of this administration is probably the most maddening aspects of the whole debacle. They consistently lie, cheat and leave their allies hanging in the breeze, and then it's always someone else's fault. In this particular case, W has no one to blame but himself for nominating someone with such minimal obvious credentials. And rather than provide information about what she has done for him since he's been in the white house, he pulls her- citing executive privelege. Love it. Such lese majesty. Such arrogance. She has done not much else with her career. What the fuck does he think the Senate is going to base their decision on? His good word? Right. Especially since right about now, members of his administration have to be sweating the whole possible indictment thingy.

I saw this coming years ago. I was in the Fray on Slate and said that his running the country as a business really bothers me. I don't think that the rules that govern a good (or in his case, indifferent to poor) CEO really apply to the Presidency. The person I was debating went for the jugular and derided me as an idiot. Yeah. Well I still stand behind my words. And think that history has proven a little somethin somethin. I hate that the most corrupt administration since the Teapot Dome scandal (check it out on Wikipedia) is probably this one. Sickening. And before you slam me for being a hypocrite and drag up the Clinton Presidency, halt. Show some restraint, for cryin out loud. I NEVER said that the Clinton's were some kind of miraculous antidote to corruption. Yeah, I liked them better, not gonna lie. But they did the same kind of ethically winky shit. And that's NOT ok.

I'm enough of a realist to know that without sketchy ethics, you probably won't make the kinds of deals with the people who will get your ass elected. I guess I just expected it to be a little less overt. And I'll tell you what- I would prefer a sad little sex scandal any day to a war of dubious lineage, Haliburton running the show, and secret agents getting exposed by members of the administration. It's ugly. And I really do wonder if it has to be this way- isn't there a Frank Capra out there to produce movies that get people questioning things again? No- do not suggest that Michael Moore is the newest version. I will not listen to that cant. Stuff and nonsense. Moore is a hack, with an axe to grind. He does some good, and plenty of bad. It's never smart to tell people how stupid they are and expect them to like your message enough to vote as you tell them. That's essentially patronizing. I can't blame people for getting ticked off at that kind of crap. He's a heavy-handed dunderhead.

There. I feel much better now. I've done my part to churn up the waters some more. And why not. I have such a readership...

I do, however, feel a little sorry for Harriet- some friend. Letting you get savaged by the conservative right for weeks...and then not really apologizing for putting your shit on the line in the first place. W does NOT rock.

It's just a phase

I must've been around 8 or so. I had a fascination with witches. I was reading every book about them that I could find. I loved the idea of magic. I wanted a little of it in my life.

So one day- probably a Saturday when I was bored- I decided that my mom was a witch. I decided this, and determined that it wasn't a good thing. That she would be pulled over to the darker side if I didn't practice some preventative measures.

Now how exactly does one keep one's mother from going to the evil magic? Well, one takes a kitchen chair, pulls it over to the coat closet, and removes all of the gold colored metal hangers. Yup. She was going to use the gold colored wire hangers in her evil magic. So I put them in my closet and replaced them with black ones. Thus defusing the potential problem. With the gold ones safely in my room, she wouldn't have any power to play with, and would keep on the straight and narrow. Not that she would ever notice all of the gold ones in my closet...or the ones in her closet...or my sister's closet...

No- only the ones in the coat closet counted.

I don't get it. Still. But it was important to me once. Seriously important. I stayed awake worrying about it. Probably the silliest and safest thing that's ever kept me awake at night worrying. I think I already told you I was a little odd and bookish.

Gettin stuff done

Got a job interview on Friday. And thus and so. It begins. Have been working at getting everything done. Personal statement. Paying bills. Job applications. Resume.

The list seems to asexually reproduce.

Last night at the Latona pub, there was music. Live music. Swear to god in Himmel that the upright bass player was the bass player for Moonpenny Opera. Without the scary clown makeup. Swear it on Grandma's bible. Swear it on the little fontenelle of someone's precious baby. Swear it on Kenga's socks.

And the beer was delicious.

No chocolate cake for us, though. We had enough of that methamphetamine concoction last week. We just said no. And had quesidillas instead.

Learning to take one's lumps

Yesterday was the big LSAT score day. Reckoning, if you will. And I'm not jubilant. Not crying too hard, but not jubilant. Let's discuss the bell curve, shall we? Fucking bell curve. This particular one was brutal. I did exactly how I expected. Exactly. However, the curve was lower this time than it has been on past tests. If the curve had been what it was in December 2004, or February 2005, I would be a very happy girl. No such luck. Crap. I cannot throw more resources at that test. I couldn't do better. No way. Just don't have it in me. So now I just hope that it was good enough to get me into school.

And yes, I did substantially better than last time, but not stellar. Just not stellar. Crap. Now I'm gonna go and do my best not to think about it for a while. Kenga took me out for nachos and beer last night to help assuage the pain. Good Kenga.

Crazy crap I live with

Update-

These cats in the house are insane. Not like that's a news flash or anything.

The one on Prozac has a thing where he gets all cuddly. Then he has to start licking his nipples. Only the bottom two. They are kind of bald. It's a little disturbing.

The white one- who is a BOY, dammit- has a thing where when the little one is on the bed with me, he has to mount Buddy, grab his neck with his teeth and assert domination. Accompanied by Buddy's vocal protests. It's disturbing.

The large one- who is BIG BONED, dammit- basically lays in one spot all bloody day. Until he gets hungry. Then he paces around and squeaks. It's not a sound you would expect from such a large cat. It's disturbing.

The foster child is very good, but has a tendency to drool when petted. And he likes to get under the covers. The other day I was in bed in my jammies in the morning. He got under the covers and was kneading my tummy. Then he bit me. Really hard. On the stomach. Like he expected milk flow. It was disturbing.

I need a job. I have to get away from these strange little creatures. They're actually kind of creepy, when you get down to it...like the gremlins were creepy. Cute as hell, but if you let them eat after midnight.....

Tales from the front

There was a boy. A very screwed up boy. He tried to get me fired. Lost his job. Was so sad. (I'm thinking in the tune of one of the songs from Moulin Rouge right now. Sorry- slight digression into sappiness. Couldn't be helped)

He was a mess. I spotted it at 20 paces. Knew he'd be trouble the minute the soft-hearted (headed?) boss hired him. Within days I saw the signs. Smelled like pot after lunch. Had the shakes in the morning, after coming in very late. The sleek veneer wore off within a week. Not a good sign. Started to wear tattered clothes to client meetings. In Montana, that's not done. They still like their bankers to dress up. They like to feel like they are trusting their money to professionals. Artists are one thing, but they have expectations of the people who draw up the papers.

Then he decided to take me out. He was nasty. I knew what he was doing. He wasn't subtle about it. I handled it. I had allies. They knew what I was capable of doing for them. They knew that he was a sinking ship. The boss was still clueless. It was an ugly, painful time. Lots of nasty snipes in my direction. Lots of little tantrums.

Then someone quit. I took on her job. And really owned it. It was such a good fit. Better than anything else. The only bad part was that he was still around poisoning the water supply. But he didn't matter- every day the cracks were showing more clearly than before. The boss couldn't ignore the complaints from clients. He couldn't ignore the missed meetings, and the really poorly executed contracts. And he couldn't ignore that the broken boy was taking the intern out to smoke at lunch. And the boy got cocky. He told me to my face, with a witness present that he had tried to get me fired. He couched it in what he probably saw as complimentary terms- to say that I was doing a good job, and deserved it now. Whatever, dude.

Of course the end was ugly- the boss couldn't handle it, and totally choked. It was drawn out, and we all got involved at his insistence. I told him to never, never put me in a situation like that again. It was probably the most uncomfortable thing I've witnessed- the gutting of a coworker, in front of everyone, with everyone's participation required. As much as I hated the boy then, I didn't have the stomach for watching an eviceration like that. Much less taking part. Finally, after an hour or so of discomfort, I asked the question. "Why are you still here? What are you doing? You don't seem to want the job anymore, what the hell are you trying to accomplish?" I told him that he needed to examine these questions, and decide what was best for himself. Seriously- it's just a fucking job. And if it was that bloody painful, wasn't it time to get the hell out? Especially since he wasn't doing it well at all?

One of the other people there criticized me later for being so blunt. But you know, I stand behind my actions. I was the only one who dared to express it directly. This wasn't the kind of guy who picked up on hints. He just didn't have those receptors. It was fucking sad as hell. I hated to see him self-destruct. It made me sick inside. And no, I didn't have an impulse to save his sorry ass- I've seen that move backfire enough to know better. Besides, I did have a touch of a grudge, and wanted him to leave no matter what. I wanted him somewhere else, and not on my back anymore.

He got out- got a better job making more money (the little fucker) and is still there. I can hope that he's gotten a little straightened out. But I don't really care so much as long as he doesn't kill anyone while driving in the state we saw him in on occasion.

And all of the participants of that meeting, with the exception of the boss are gone now. No one is there to remind him not to hire that kind of guy. No one is there to tell him that those kinds of problems are his sole responsibility to solve. Sigh...

Moving along now...

Magic Mirror

I'm wondering how many people who stumble across the blog remember Romper Room. I sure do. It was the mainstay of my day as a small child. I believe that my particular version of it originated in Salt Lake City- it was on that cable channel. I remember seeing other versions of it on road trips, and being very confused.

I always wanted one of those magic mirrors. I wanted to be able to see my friends and family that way- even though I didn't have many friends as a child. Not a pity play, just reality- not very well socialized. Not at all. Kind of a bookish little freak, I'm afraid. Add artistic, and you might see the dilemna. Downright awkward physically- yes always the last one chosen for teams, and rightfully so. I would've chosen me last too. Very, very clumsy. Broke my arm falling off of the parallel bars in gym in 6th grade. I did score a Star Wars Tshirt out of the incedent, though- light blue with my name on the back in iron-on rainbow letters!

There was a point here...ahhh...that's right. Anyway, I was very dramatic at a young age. I would dress up in my mom's old bridesmaid's dresses (lots of tulle) and wear a towel on my head that represented a veil of some kind, and prance around the house putting on plays, and imagining many adventures. When Charlie's Angels came along, my friend Connie and I would trade off being a particular angel for the day, and we would fight imaginary crime. Neither of us ever wanted to be Sabrina. Poor Kate Jackson.

Once I hit High School, I decided to try out for the drama team. I competed for 3 years, and decided to quit in my senior year. By that time I had figured out that the coaches were a touch politically inclined, and that the public didn't properly appreciate my art. I always competed in either serious solo of serious duo, with my likewise ever so serious best friend. I was going to be an actor. An ACTOR. Capital A. Not actress. Never. That's just not a serious moniker.

A friend of mine in college was also inclined to be an ACTOR. She was funny, very talented (better than me- I can admit it now) and was chock full o aspirations of grandeur. She quit college and went to LA. She is in IMDB. As are the other two real standouts from my drama team. (I get to see one of them in movies from time to time, and am very proud of her) She hasn't done anything in quite a while, though. She never took the world by storm and became a star. Sad, actually. I never took the gamble. I just kind of knew that I didn't have the staying power. I didn't have the total faith in my own abilities. Not at that age. I was so full of self-loathing and mistrust that it would've probably yielded very bad consequences. And I didn't really want to work very hard at it. I also thought that the actors who I knew who were all full of "the craft" and "method approaches", etc. were silly. I am very glad that there aren't any tapes in existence of my performances- betcha they were horribly cringeworthy.

Anyhew, I would love to see if they are still involved. I hope so. They were good at it, and despite some of them being heartily annoying in real life, I enjoyed watching them perform.

I did always want to play the part of Portia in Merchant of Venice though...

Damned chocolate cake

Chocolate cake seems to have contained a large amount of Crystal meth. We didn't sleep. Maybe 1-2 hours tops. Fine for me, but Kenga's gonna suffer. Not even the magic sleep bullet provided by Sigur Ros did the trick.

Stoopid chocolate cake. A friend of ours from AZ wrote a song called, Gluttony is next to Godlessness. Guess he was right. We're both sleepy Godless Gluttons.

I'm gonna slouch over to the couch (hey, that rhymed- cool!) and sit and let CNN wash over me like a tepid, semi-stinky bath.

Then I have a ton of movies Tivoed to watch. I got halfway through On the Waterfront before having to go to the interview yesterday. It's one of those misty, coldish October days here, and I'm feeling distinctly jammy-ish. With slippers even. That oughta make the cats happy.

Someone upstairs is fond of me

Won't send me a job, but did save my ass today.

Interview went well. I felt really good. Will know in a day or two. Now for a tale of mystery and divine intervention. Also, let it be said, I am a dumbass on occasion. Like this one.

Am driving around downtown looking for cheap parking. Yeah. Didn't want to pay through the nose for any stupid garage parking, no not me. Too smart for that. So. I find a spot. Pay for my time and hoof it to the interview. Plenty of time. All is well. The interview ends around 4:45. I get to the car in about 5 minutes. And the tow truck is there, hooking up the car next to mine. They were getting ready to tow mine too. Seems like I was in a spot that needs to be vacated at 4. I got a ticket, but got out of there before they tagged my car. Like I said, the timing was very, very good.

Went to Latona Pub for dinner- I can recommend them highly. Especially their specials. Only downside is that every meal comes with a lavish helping of mixed greens salad. Now there is a saga to share. Mixed greens salads give me a distinctly adverse reaction. Violently so. From every direction. And no, I've never figured out exactly which specific green is responsible. It's just too damned disagreeable to be heaving and otherwise occupied for several days. No exaggerating, either. I discovered that this was more than one food poisoning incedent after an abrupt exit from a business lunch a couple of years ago. Since then, I leave most salads alone. Which is a pity, since I have a fondness for salad.

There. I have unburdened myself about the salad problem. Feel much better.

Now if I just get the job, all will be better in the world. And Friday I'm supposed to get the LSAT scores...

Make it quick

Like pulling off a bandaid- quick. Not painless, but quick.

Just heard. Didn't get the job I interviewed for 3 weeks ago. Nothing like making me wait a bit...seems that their needs changed in 3 weeks. Figures.

Got an interview this afternoon. Also at the bank. Gotta get dressed up. Crap. Feels better to pout in my jammies, with my Ferrari/Michael Schumacher shirt on. Michael and I, we got troubles, yes we do. He didn't do well in his last race of the season- the car pretty much sucked all year. Me, well, I'm unemployed. And getting to the state of boredom that only spells trouble. Gonna start sewing those Halloween costumes for the kitties pretty soon...

And news from home isn't the best. It seems to be a Fall of lowered expectations and sinking spirits. Best not to dwell on that thought for long- don't want it to rub off on my bright and shiny attitude.

Time to go get all prettied up. Crap. I think I'll even wear nylons. I hate nylons. I better get the damned job!

God help Lowe's

I just got back from a shopping foray. Not my favorite thing to do, mind you, but with endless seeming time stretching out in front of me, what else was I to do?

I went to Lowe's. And looked at bargain plants. For those of you who don't already know, I am a total plant freak. I have literally hundreds of orchids. Most of them were carted from Montana to Seattle when we moved. Love them all.

The bargain plants have bloomed, and are relatively healthy. And priced well. Home Depot sucks- they must just throw the bloomed out ones away. The bastards.

I found a couple. Priced well, pest free, and joy of joys, starting new blooms (no one must've noticed).

I go to check out and pay. The old lady at the register rang up the old man in front of me. His ant killer rang up incorrectly. Rather than deal with it, she got defensive that he didn't want to spend $78 on ant killer. She fixed it, but had to make a production of blaming the register. I should've known then...

It was my turn. Seems that Lowe's can't empower the cashiers with the ablility to enter sale prices on their own. They need manager overrides. If a Lowe's supervisor sees this, mark my words- THIS IS RETARDED!!!

Plant #1 rings up ok. Plant #2 rings up $10 more than marked. She seemed surprised when I protested, and stated categorically that I wasn't paying $10 more than the price listed. Then she said, "It rang up that way, I didn't do it." Like I was blaming her or something. I wanted to reply, "What, are you fucking 16 years old, lady?" But didn't. She got confused, tried to call the manager for another override, said, "the phone's busy."

I said, "I'll go to the main registers, there ought to be a manager there." It was just too bloody pitiful. I left her to her confusion.

Damn.

As Kenga's coworker Ryan said, you can expect this kind of thing at McDonalds. There it's a crapshoot whether or not you'll get what you order. You're lucky at the drive through to get kind of what you want. If it's in the meat family, and you ordered a chicken sandwich, it's a successful trip. And if you ordered a soda and fries, and actually got both, well, you're one hell of a lucky one!

I'll just know for future reference that this particular woman isn't very gifted at cashiering. Her gifts must just lie elsewhere.

Stories I wish I could tell

I wish I knew the stories behind the following- only the principals are either dead or so dotty that the answers are gone.

What did Grandma think of California during the war, when Grandpa moved them there from East Helena? Did she miss her family? Did she make a lot of friends there? Was it an adventure, or was it just lonely?

What was her favorite color? Song? Food?

Why aren't there any photos of my other Grandparents' wedding? Or of Grandma pregnant?

Why was Grandpa so angry at life? What happened to him to turn him into such a bitter, mean man? And why did he hate my father and me so ardently?

Then there are the silly little incedentals- how tall was my Grandmother? What color were her eyes? I just don't remember.

These might seem trivial, and probably are, but I would love the chance to get the answers. Barring psychic intervention, I'll probably have to make up the answers myself, and be satisfied.

The Syrian

Back in the 80s, when the world and I was young, I was in the Bay Area for a summer. Call it the summer of love- I was there for that purpose alone. The boyfriend at the time was the scion of a wealthy doctor and his scary, crazy wife.

One night, doctor dad brought an intern home for dinner. Dinners were quite the event. Expensive food, expensive wine, and plenty of pretentions. I wasn't in my element, and felt like I was an exhibit at the zoo.

Intern brought current girlfriend. He also bought gifts for the hostess. These were a very large box filled with tins of black Russian caviar. And an exquisite fillagree silver box in a larger velvet box. Expensive, expensive.

Intern was pretty nice, girlfriend was cute, and a magician to boot. It was one of the more relaxed dinners with the parents.

Afterwards, I found out that intern was the son of the head of the Syrian military. And then I found out what that entailed. Scary, scary. That was the summer I got to meet drug dealers (coke, not the usual MT stuff) for the first time. Also scary. Boogie Nights brings back some not too pleasant memories. Fucking Night Ranger...

So which was scarier? The son of the scariest guy in town, or the dealers? It was a draw at the time, but with hindsight, the intern by several miles.

Notes from the battlefield

It's going well. The enemy is on the run. We might have them vanquished. That's not a bad thing. But rather than bask in perceived glory, I'll just express cautious optimism. It's never let me down before.

Basically the struggle has been one of primarily control. Who exercised it, who was inappropriate, and who ultimately bears responsibility for what happened when the whole bloody scheme collapsed on the kitchen floor. And even though I get to play the movie over and over again in my head, I am ultimately NOT the one to blame. That's it in a nutshell. I wasn't the adult in charge. Nope. Might've been pretending to be, but wasn't. So, I need to wrap my head around letting the adults own the blame, letting myself give it up and release control. And that might defuse some of the endless percolating font of anger in my belly. Then my quest for justice for past wrongs (never, never to be fulfilled, btw- very Sisphean) might just abate.

And wouldn't that be a pip? It has driven me for longer than I care to remember. I wouldn't be who I am today without it. But it no longer serves a totally good purpose, and has turned on the mistress, so to speak.

I keep remembering with regret. But I am thinking on this. If I were truly the monster of my despair, I wouldn't care about any of this. I would be remorseless and righteous. I wouldn't cringe when I remember these things. It wouldn't phase me for an instant. So, I can be pleased that I have humanity, compassion and love. That my gentleness was impaired at the time, and wouldn't be so today. That still is hard to say out loud. It's hard to give up on a game where I consistently lose, and can depend on that losing.

Now to tackle the anger...and all that entails- which in this case is a big ball o' stuff. Ugly, ugly. Scary, scary. Without that armor to gird me, what will I do? How will I keep the world at a distance? How will I approach situations that would ordinarily demand a reaction? We're entering uncharted territory, and I'm afraid that the scouts were picked off by the enemy a while back.

Into the breach, brave hearts! (Ok- belaboring the battle metaphor a touch? Should I switch to pirates? ARRRRGGGGG!)

Apologies, and reqest for indulgence are in order.

Shuddering in my shoes

I'm sitting here listening to Matt Lauer lob softballs (soft, soft- made of rolled up socks) to the President and First Lady. Pretty little photo-op, Matt. Nothing rough or tough. Civilized and sweet.

Not that I expect anything else.

Certain thoughts have been milling around in my head for a couple of days. These aren't happy thoughts. These are things that I have had in there and boxed away, taped up, catalogued under unmentionable for a very long time. Dammit. And now, some spring cleaning appears to have been done, and the boxes are out of storage. Open even. Ready to be accounted for. Dammit. I would rather lick the cat's ass than deal with all of this. But licking the cat's ass wouldn't make all of it go away. So, I won't subject myself to that particular horror.

I keep reliving a very bad day. Very, very bad. I did something pretty much unforgivable in my book. And I've never gotten to the point where I could cooly appraise my actions and deal with the guilt. Better to wrap it in bubble wrap and put it in the box. So much tidier. If I get into it fully, will it ever end?

This is an evil thing. Memory. Maybe my Grandmother is the lucky one- as she loses hers, she has plenty of the good ones left. And she seems to have forgotten lots of the bad. I have lots of the good ones, but the bad ones appear in a flash once in a while. And I have to deal with them. It's pretty rough going, and I would do anything to get out of my own head. Guess that's not really an option. Neither is a week-long drunk. Because once I sober up, it's all still in there. I'm OCD enough (really, I am) that fixating on this kind of shit is part of the chemistry.

So, I'm putting on my helmet, flack jacket and picking up my trusty AK 47 and gonna wade into the breach. Fuckin A. Maybe after the battle, I'll get a tattoo. Betty Grable or Rita Hayworth? Or in my case, Gable or Grant? Hmmmmm.

And then there's the debate- do I bare my soul to the world, and achieve the absolution gained when making a confession? I think not. Gotta keep some secrets closely held. Just gotta. Besides, I can't think of any good that would come of exposing some of this stuff- it's just my own hard-earned personal little hell. Probably wouldn't phase another person.

Enough. I'm putting off the inevitable. Gotta go think.

Story to share

A friend told us this one.

Three year old son of a friend. We'll call him Jimmy. Friend thought it would be funny to tell Jimmy the following.

"Leave the apple butter alone, son." "Why?" "It makes your meat grow."

Mom starts to notice the apple butter disappearing from the fridge.

One day, she notices Jimmy with the apple butter jar in his hands, and his pants undone. "What are you doing with the apple butter, Jimmy?"

"Putting it on my meat. It makes it grow."

Now, I'm only hoping that since this was over 10 years ago, Jimmy isn't still putting his pecker in the apple butter. Or if he is, he keeps a separate, non-consumed jar.

Coasting to a stop

It's day one of my time off. No job. Some very promising prospects, but at least a week before anything tangible gets me out of the house.

I'm up at a relatively normal hour. No sense falling into bad habits- they will only make getting up and going to work difficult, nay, painful.

Swilling my tea at the computer...almost poetic.

I have long lists of things to accomplish this week. And a long list of Tivoed movies to watch, including Double Indemnity, and some stuff from the 30s.

There are books to be read, and I plan to keep up the writing for a few hours every day. I am wondering if the writing will flow as well when I'm not stealing the hours from da man. I'm hoping. It'll say a lot if not.

Funny- it's been exactly one year, 9 days since I quit my job in Bozeman. And in that time I've had a job for only 3 months. Not exactly the gamble I had anticipated when we made the plunge.

Saddest of all is that there will probably be less for me to write about here now that I'm not exposed to the world and all of its silly people on a daily basis. I'll have to get inventive. I can totally DO this. I just know it.

Anyway, I think I'll run along and start by actually getting dressed before noon. All in the retention of good habits and all- no need to slouch around in a bathrobe all day. That's no way to attract the UPS guy! Nor is it a good way to keep the husband from straying. There are plenty of lovely young things in the big city just hankering for a piece of him! (Actually, he works in an office with one other guy, and doesn't seem to notice any other females with the sole exception of Kirsten Dunst. And I don't think she's in play here. If she was, I would respect her power and step aside. It would be the only sporting thing to do.)

I've also gotta think of better nomenclature for Spouse. that kind of has always grated on me. I have just tried so hard to retain his privacy, and his privates. So, I'll work on that too. The privacy thing- I'll not be sharing racy tales here, my friends.

So, mes amies, I'll be back later, no doubt, with fanciful tales of talking squirrels and neighborhood quarrels. We'll see what I can dredge up.

Realizations-

I am not good at sitting in an office all day doing nothing and communicating with no one. That's all. Counting the hours left...

The women's restroom on this floor smells like a fucking cat box. And it's NOT my fault! It was like that when I went in there.

I think I'm going to let my subscription to Vanity Fair lapse. It bores me. Seriously. I've really gotten over the preoccupation with the rich and fabulous. It kind of grates on my nerves now. I'm SO much above all of that...smirk...

Throwing away my favorite red shoes last night was liberating. I will not wear shoes that make my feet hurt any more. Too old for that shit. And I don't want bent toes like my Grandma. They hurt.

Kitties who tread on the stove while it's hot learn difficult lessons very quickly. But thier little pink paws stink afterwards. And they're a little jumpy.

I can recommend The Dawn Patrol, 1938. Interesting anti-war movie with a surprisingly nuanced performance by Errol Flynn. And a lovely young David Niven (makes Jude Law seem like such the rip off artist).

I am memorizing the names of the shipping container companies at the docks. Scary. I can recite them if I want. Does that make me an official Seattleite? Or a wanna-be teamster?

I am officially a Yenta. What can I say- it's all done with love.

Wikipedia is really cool. Someday I might even try to write an entry. If you haven't gone there yet, check it out.

Corporate silliness

Yeah. So my job ends on Friday. I'll be re-assigned in a week or so, so I'm not panicking about a return to the summer of my discontent. But it's kind of goofy the way this all turned out.

I'm also waiting to hear back from the group I interviewed with almost 2 weeks ago. I am pretty solid about feeling that I am in the running- I just think that since they travel a lot, and the department is very shor-handed, the new hire got pushed into the background. I just get to chill about it for a while. I have left the appropriate messages, and don't think it's cool to pester at this point. And I'm getting a downright que sera sera attitude about the whole thing.

So I did really like this job. The manager I had has left the company- he was pretty cool- but not a great manager on some levels. He threw me into some really stressful situations without any background. Luckily I am like cat- land on feet. He is an ardent member of the "managment under duress" school. Like it or not. And it ate him up. He was always under the gun. No calm center. I wish him well at his next job. It sounds like a very different baliwick.

According to the internal website, I report to a guy who has yet to speak to me. Oh- I take that back- he has said, "excuse me" when he almost bumped into me. Twice. And I said hello to him a couple of days ago, and he responded in kind. I just find it ironic that I'm supposed (on paper at least) to be a direct reportee. Silly.

For the rest of the week I sit in an office (with walls!), my usual cubicle has been re-allocated. I wait for the 2 women who I am supposed to train to get the chance to come and see me about stuff. So far it's been pretty sparse. I don't think it's a priority for them. I dunno. But their clock of having me as a resource is ticking. I'll expound further sometime about the personalities. Not yet, my little dumplings. I'm not out the door yet, so it's not the smartest thing to do.

Anyway, I'm trying really hard not to surf the web too much, not to spend any money on the web while surfing, and not to seem too obviously detached from actual work. Lookin busy!

Questions du jour-

Why does my cat have poodle/brown tears? It's icky.

Has the scary lady at the bus stop who bitches about the lateness of every bus, every fucking day, know that I am avoiding her? (I can only have that discussion once. Then I want to tell her to shut the hell up and drive, already. I don't fucking give a damn if her boss dislikes her being late because of the bus. Deal with it! It's fucking mass transit!)

Will I ever have time to watch the HBO Rome miniseries? Sure would be nice...sigh...

How long will it take me to get in proper shape if I start today?

Does Kombucha tea make you stay awake at night?

Why must all 4 kitties sleep on top of me? Is this the "stealing your breath" plot?

Would they remember and hate me for life if I dress them up for Halloween? I do have perfect costume ideas...it would be cute...and maybe only a little disturbed...

And why did that man follow me home from the bus stop today? Should I pack heat?

Just getting by.

There was a discussion last week about evil. The nature of evil people, specifically. And whether or not redemption is possible. One of the people in the discussion was a self-proclaimed misanthrope. She claims to hate people. Just all of them. I personally think it's kind of sad for a 19 year old to have that kind of jaundiced view, but don't know her experiences, life story, nor do I want to spend much time analyzing it. I have my own issues to contend with, thanks anyway.

It made me think a bit. The most evil person I've ever met was a relative. I hated him. Honestly. I'm not exaggerating. And believe me, he really earned it. He tried his best to be nasty, brutish, and very unpleasant on numerous occasions. Yes, demon rum played a distinct role, but it was still a contentious relationship. I dreaded seeing him. I avoided holidays with him when I could. It was all difficult.

When he died, I felt a palpable sense of relief. I demanded to see his body at the funeral home, mostly to confirm that he was dead. He wouldn't be mean to me ever again. He would keep his racist crap to himself, and not insult Spouse. He wouldn't insult my Dad. He wouldn't verbally attack me. It was over.

Then I watched the decline of his wife. I have always loved her very much. I am the closest to her in my generation. She was wonderful. She is becoming lost. We have basically discovered that she was losing herself before he died. It is horrible to watch.

Now for the redemption. I'm not the person to rattle off about forgiveness. I can hold the world's longest grudge, given the proper motivation. Just ask me about my 20 year high school reunion and the bitterness that runneth over, still. But now I re-evaluate my position on this most difficult man. Seems that he was operating at the end of his life on 20% blood flow to his brain. He was suffering, sick and old. He did all of the cleaning, cooking and laundry for them both. We didn't know. His logic synapses weren't functioning, or he might've said something to one of us about needing help. But he cared for her. We didn't know. It hurts me inside to think of how frightened he must've been for her. To think of how hard it was for him. And for her. But to see her mind disintegrate by degree. I cannot go there for very long.

Do I love him? Hell no. He lost that long ago. Around my 12^th year, to be precise. But he did teach me how to fish. He did show me how to build a house. He did take care of her as best as he could. Redemption? Let's call it a softening of attitude. An active adoption of forgiveness for many faults. A recognition that evil can change, given the proper motivation. In the meantime, I'll keep sending her postcards to remind her that I exist. Until she can't read them anymore. Which seems like the inevitable. Which kills something inside me.

Funny how these things happen.

While I was focused on the stupid test last week, I had one of those creative epiphanies that I have always loved, and enjoyed too infrequently.

I have been working on a novel for a very long time. And been stuck in a couple of places for a couple of years. Total logic blocks. Things that didn't make sense. Couldn't think my way out of.

Then Wednesday night, after the concert (earthshaking one, that), I was laying in bed getting to sleep, and the answers to those problems with the plot just appeared. They were there. They were good. I ran them past Spouse in the morning, and he approved. Now we're back in play. I might get this thing written after all! It does mean totally re-structuring it from the ground up, but I'm fine with that.

Whoda thunk. That's all I'm saying.

Summation of the last week:

Study for LSATs. Stress over not being ready for Saturday's test.

Study some more. Listen to pep talk from one of the many members of my team (life, not work).

Go to class. Get some individual coaching- btw- if you are in the Seattle area and getting ready for the LSATs, check out Steven Klein Co- they are wonderful!

Go to Sigur Ros on Wednesday night. Do nothing related to LSAT all day. Lovely. Breathe. Remember what life was like pre-LSAT, and hope for a future post-LSAT.

Take Thursday off and finish studying. Scope out campus, parking and all physical issues related to the test (bathroom location is of utmost importance).

Friday have a normal work day. Do a few problems that evening. Get to bed early.

Saturday, get up a little early, have a somewhat leisurely morning- do some warm up exercises- then drive north.

Get there- feel the nerves a bit…remember to breathe. Fall in hate with the desk assigned (it had too much pitch- not level- too distracting) and get another one. Then settle in and take the test of my life. I owned it. Now whether or not the grade will reflect this, I dunno. But it felt good. I was ready on game day. Like the 2 ^nd time I took Russian (after flunking it the first time). I was pissed. Some stupid language that Russian babies can speak wasn't going to beat me. So I prepared. I played the same game. I had 100% on every test all quarter. Then the second quarter. Then the third. Fuck Russian. I owned the bitch that year. Ditto the LSATs on Saturday. Betcha I did pretty well. I know that I improved over the last time I took it. That was the point.

Moving on…I get my life back!!!!

It's a marathon, baby... and you're on mile 22

Final days. 5 left before the LSAT. Then I get my life back. It will still be full, stressful, etc. But this very long stint in LSAT hell will be over. I can say with full honesty that I have given it everything that I have to give. It has been quite an experience. I'll probably weigh in with more detail later- suffice it to say that right now I feel like I've been through a meat grinder. And not in a good way. I was in class from 3:30-10:15 PM yesterday- either with a tutor or in actual class. I really just hope that it all pays off.

I'm not going into the whole anxiety profile- that wouldn't be good right about now.

I'll perhaps post more this week- but if not, I'm thinking you will all understand.

And a quick note- yesterday it was hell on the bus. They closed a downtown tunnel, and all buses were re-routed to surface streets. My usually 15 minute commute was 45 minutes. I was standing the entire time. It was ok, though- I wasn't too worried.
I made eye contact and smiled at a small homless-looking man. He didn't look well. Very sickly. I felt him touch my hand- I looked at him and he stood and tried to give me his seat. It really slayed me. What a gesture- the first of its kind in my experience. I smiled, thanked him and declined- I couldn't live with myself if I had taken a sick man's seat. It made my day, though. Happy mojo to him.

On Saturday, around 8:30 Pacific time, please send me happy mojo!!!

Questions du jour

Why does the bus smell like piss? Even in the morning?

Why does our living room smell like poop? There isn't any there. We checked.

Do ghosts smell like poop? Are we haunted?

Will my toenail grow back? Or will I have a super freaky ugly big toe that rejects all forms of polish and prettification?

That's all for today.

What are ya gonna do?

Figures- just when you let your guard down, and think everything is ok, you get hit with one of those long dark winters of the soul in the middle of the night. Mine occurred the night before last. Bleak as hell. Bleak as the house that Dickens built.
Full of self doubt. Full of fury. Full of sound- from the steel mill down the hill. Round and round we go- following obsessively the same fucking stupid sequence of thoughts down the rabbit hole. And be damned if you can pull out of it. Just enjoy the ride, sunshine, cuz short of getting up and making a pot o tea, nothing is gonna save you.

I learned something though- and I hardly have the ego to suggest that it's a universal. What shut my head the fuck up was finally just letting it go. Saying to myself, "self- whatcha gonna do about it right now?" Duly noted, but what can occur at 3AM?

I have a touch of the OCD in my makeup (Spouse snorts, "a touch???"), and have struggled with obsessive thoughts almost as long as I can remember. I have done the therapy track a couple of times, with some real success. I just tackled one of my largest and most difficult demons recently. And basically won. Now I'm trying to apply the technique to other areas.

I tend to fixate on an object. Usually for sale. Usually expensive. That object (in this case a ring) will save my life. It will make everything all right. It becomes a talisman for my reality. It makes the stress lesser. But not really. The stress of desire makes it the one sole thing that I fixate on. It's bigger than the ring itself. So, rather than pony up for the overpriced bauble that I've successfully lived without for over 35+ years (if you think I'm gonna disclose the actual date, you're high!), I stopped. I will probably live another 30+ years without the fucking thing. So just stop. Breathe. Realize that the ring is a panacea for what really ails you. It distracts from functioning and working through the actual stress stimulus. It doesn't really matter. It doesn't own you- and you don't need it. So. I will choose to buy it or not buy it. It won't make me do anything. I don't give it power over my bank account.

And somewhere, a couple of therapists (very nice, capable, lovely people) are cheering!

Whatcha doin?

Spouse used to ask, "Where ya goin piece of wood?" Makes me laugh out loud every time.

Been busy as hell this last week. Sorry not to write, but by the time it occurred to me, I was either in a time crunch or too damned tired. LSATs are a week out, and I'm trying to finalize some strategy stuff.

I had a job interview today for a really, really cool job. I told the guys that I want the job, and that I'm their girl. I hope that I convinced them of this. I really do think I can do one hell of a job for them. We'll see. I'm supposed to know in about a week. Which is good, since the job I currently have ends on October 7th. We're swamped at work, which is also why I'm so damned tired. We had a huge deadline today, so it should get better.

Today on the bus we had anger management man at the first stop before my house. He was totally profane about getting off the bus using the front door. He came unglued rather easily. I was kind of hoping that the driver would argue with him some more, but it didn't go there. I wanted to see the little fucknugget get his comeuppance. It would've capped off a grueling day very nicely.

Am now watching the news to see what has washed away in the last hour or so. It's rough to watch. Guess I'll dust off the credit card and donate some more...

Oh- another thing that happened in the last week- we had to put the kitten, Buddy on the prozac. Seriously. It is kitty prozac- tuna flavored. No shit. Seriously. For real. He has been peeing on the bed. While we're in it. When he gets upset. This makes me very unhappy. So rather than kill him or harm him or get rid of his cute little ass, we are trying this. The vet assures us that there's a good chance that it will enable him to forget his former behaviors. I would put good money on it that he did this before we got him, and that the woman who was fostering him lied about his training habits. He had been fostered once before. Two foster homes in a 4 month life span seems a tad suspicious in retrospect. I just didn't even think about it at the time. Guess I should've. But I was in love. Still am. Just more nervous at bedtime than I was before.

Get this- they did a background check on me for my current job. Seems that the agency is claiming that they had to run checks on 12-15 city/counties that I have resided in. What bullshit. I have only lived in 7 city/counties in my entire life. This is a ripoff. So sayeth I.

Anyway- time to go eat, mes amigos.

Lunchtime conversation

Bot and I went to lunch at a cafe about 2 blocks from the house. Lovely day. We really like the place. Local feel.

Whilst dining, we had a fun conversation. Yesterday I went to Microsoft for a usability research thingy. I was the user. It was fun. It really made me think about the problem at hand that the designers had with the product.

And as a corollary to that thought, in class today we discussed a question that had to do with keyboard design. One of the guys in class said that when he was working on the IBM Selectric, they kept in mind that the keyboard should be designed to slow typists down a bit. Just to help with accuracy in the pre-computer era, when it was a bigger deal to correct errors. I remember it well. And not always with fondness.

What was interesting was that we were talking about how the generations before ours are the last ones that won't be predominately computer literate. When they die off, there will be no one (unless they are from a country without computer access, or kept in some kind of Luddite hole in the ground) who doesn't have computer acumen on some level. And yes, some of my generation probably have missed the trend- but I would be willing to bet that they are a tiny minority.

My Mom came to mind while I was talking about computer literacy, because even though she has one, and fires it up for several hours a week, she's deathly afraid of doing something to break it (with good cause, actually). She isn't comfortable with it. She doesn't really like it. And from what the research engineer said yesterday, it's a common reaction amongst women of a certain age. Since my Step-dad is even more computer-hostile, I don't think it's a function of sex. My Dad, on the other hand is amazingly tecchie. He would've been a Microsoftie in another incarnation. Like a fish to water.

So it's an interesting proposition- think about it- what other kind of technological revolution has or will keep a generation of people out of the loop? The car came to mind- I know that plenty of people back in the day didn't embrace it, never learned how to drive, and probably died never driving. But modes of transportation now are basically variations on a theme. Ditto communication. Better, stronger, faster, cheaper- but same old, same old. Maybe we'll see drastic changes in more obscure fields like medicine, etc. But I don't know how it would shake out in the more overt areas.

And older people are on occasion, embracing the tecchie thing. My Grandfather (see the last post) was on the net and writing emails at the age of 91. I'm not sure, however, that my Grandmother knows what a computer is exactly. She doesn't understand what the hell I do for a living. Not a clue. Nope. The TV remote is a stretch for her. And I'm not trying to be mean. Just accurate.

So, unless science and medicine erase death- or prolong life in a huge way, I don't see much coming that will be as drastic as what has already happened. Despite what SF writers have been throwing at us for decades. I'll certainly be happy to be surprised though.

Of dogs and their men

I have watched a neighbor walking his dog for a few days now. It's easy to see him going down the street below the kitchen window. He looks like an old, retired pirate. He walks a small brown french poodle. He loves the dog.

There's something about him that makes me cry inside. Conjures up my Grandfather's ghost.

My Grandmother died when I was 6, leaving an enormous gap in our lives that has never been filled. It was just that bad. Always will be. It changed my Grandfather for the next 30+ years of his life. He was a good man, but he lost his joy. He found bits of it much later, but it took a lot of work, and I didn't see most of it- he reserved it for others. I'm pretty sure I reminded him of a happier time- it was hard on him. Or he just hated me. But I refuse to go there- I don't think it's the case at all. He was just sad. And after decades of not talking much to me, it became habit. I just didn't draw him out the way others did. I'm glad they did, but sad that I didn't.

Grandma had a chihuahua named Tiger that she left behind. One of the most amazing things I've witnessed was how Grandpa became Tiger's daddy. He worked crushing hours at the gas station/shop that he owned- even after they tore down the motel (which was even more of a burden- I'll miss it forever too). He had to have several operations on back injuries- and never fully recovered from them. He lost over 6" in height from them- his spine was S shaped- I saw the x rays. He slept with a board on the matress for a firmer support.

When I was in high school, and Tiger was a very old dog, I spent a couple of nights at Grandpa's while my Dad was out of town. I hadn't slept there since I was very young. That evening, Grandpa gave Tiger a bath. He was in his navy work clothes, still. His hands- for those of you who remember- were large, and very gnarled. The tips of his fingers were askew and his knuckles were misshapen. At the time, since he was working in the station, they were stained with motor oil and grease. Clean, but stained.

He gently lifted the shivering little dog into the pink tub. His large, gnarled- tree-root hands tenderly doused the dog in warm water and scrubbed his little beige body. I hadn't seen that side of the man. I had to leave the room- it was just too much to bear. He also baked my sister and I a cheese tort for dessert. These things just slayed me inside. They still do. Part of me will always be crying for Grandpa. I'll always associate the combined smells of Ivory soap and Prell shampoo with his bathroom, and Tiger's bath.

Vignette

We took my Mom and Step Dad to the Ballard Locks yesterday. It's one of my favorite places in the whole world. I had a hard time explaining why- but they got it after a while.

It's like driving through a small town at night. You look into the windows of the houses and see the lives being lived- unconscious of you in the dark. Self-sufficient. Are they happy? What do they do? Is their house nice inside?

It's kinda like that at the Locks. For a few minutes, you see the boats, you watch the people on the boats living their lives. You share their conversations with people on other boats. You read the names of their boats and draw conclusions about their lives- what they do, where they live. It's wonderful.

I display endless curiosity about all of this. I love watching lives unfold around me. I don't want to interact, necessarily- just watch. Not for long- just long enough to get a taste. Then I'll move on. Nothing to see here, folks.

I'm beginning to see the light

And quoting Lou Reed while I'm at it.

Slowly, she turns, step by step and realizes that, indeed, she is human after all. Not just a mass of achy phlegmy breaky heart. (phlegm is one of my most hated words in any language. Up there with polyp. There- I've said them both. Ick. I better go shower now.)

I'm getting better. So this version of flu isn't as bad as the one I had in May. It ain't a fucking cakewalk, but I'll get by. I'm skipping my class, watching Spouse do all of the rest of the moving while reclining on the couch watching 30s movies on the Tivo, and drinking my obligitory fluids.

Recommendations- I have a few. Mannequin with Joan Crawford (an acquired taste for me) and a young (and shockingly cute) Spenser Tracy was very good. Also good was Today We Live- also Joan, with Gary Cooper (has my birthday, born in the same town, allegedly hung like a fucking horse), Franchot Tone, and a very young and also suprising cute Robert Young. Whoda known?

Anyway, lest you think that I'm enjoying my illness, let me tells ya- nope. Since it has sunk to the lung region, we've entered the coughing phase of the flu. So, it's back to the couch for me, and I'll surface at a later date and confess all. Or at least some. You probably wouldn't be remotely interested in all. Just the highlights.

Things I saw on the walk to work

Before being uncerimoniously sent home (via the bus, dammit), I did see something funny on the way to work.

There was a man looking at his reflection in a plate glass window. He was fluffing and brushing his very pretty long, brownish, wavy hair. Then I noticed...it was a MULLET!!! The longest, prettiest, and most proudly displayed mullet that I have ever seen (at least since 1990). Beautiful, man. Party in back, business in the front. I always wonder if anyone has ever told him that mullets aren't de rigeur anymore. He'd probably snort, and then cold cock anyone stupid enough to mention it.

On the way to work yesterday, the bus got hit. By a truck. The driver didn't stop. So we proceeded on in crippled state. It was kinda funny how nonchalant our driver was about it. Didn't blink.

The woman who ran our meeting yesterday- I will describe her. You will see her in your mind's eye perfectly. She was a Tonya Hardingesque hardened blond. Only shorter. And with more current earning potential. I thought she was kinda bitchy. I'm just saying. Or it could be the virus channelling through me.

And I'm spent. Time to go sit in front of the tv and watch a Norma Shearer movie. Followed by a Jean Harlow movie. Then, if I'm still awake, I have a Greta Garbo silent to watch. Or I might just say fuck it and watch whatever crap is on Comedy Central all night. Like it matters. I'm feverish and delirious.

Take it up a notch

So yesterday we had a day-long meeting. Then I stayed and helped my boss enter the data we accumulated into the computer. It was a 14 hour day. Then I went home and promptly got the flu. I was sent home today with a fever. I haven't been sent home since I was in gradeschool. And then it was for having a 3 day intermittent bloody nose. I remember that it was the only time (non serious evening event emergency) when my dad came and walked me home. It was such an event that I remember it very well.

Anyway, I also had a job interview that I seem to have bolluxed up over the phone. I learned within hours that I didn't get the job. And I told him that I was sick and all. Fuck. I didn't want his stupid job with its $50K/year income. Stupid man with his stupid phone voice. A pox or a flu virus on his home.

Who gets the bloody flu twice in 3 months, anyway??? I want my mommy to come here and make me some pudding. I want to collapse and watch reruns of The Avengers for hours. And have a good cry (lucky Spouse- he'll be in for a really fun night tonight!). But Mom is on a boat in Alaska and will be here on Sunday. Hope I'm better by then so I don't contaminate her and my Step-father. I think that falls under the honor thy father and mother clause in the 10 commandments. Contamination = mortal sin. I'm pretty sure.

Things I learned this weekend

Lucky me- my mother and step-father came to town for a few days. Then they went on a cruise to Alaska. While they were here, I learned the following:

-the sausages from the sausage store in Pike Street Market give me a migraine. Bastards.

-the Air Force Academy has a bunch of birds of prey that they use as mascots for their football games. They carry them around. The birds do have a useful function- they are used to clear the flight deck on carriers of other birds.

-I have too many fucking plants. They moved upstairs today. I will love them again after I cease having a headache.

-just because someone claims to have 20+ years of experience doing their job doesn't make them particularly good at it. The guy who transported the cases to California is a disorganized, completely unprofessional tool. We hate him.

-The kitties are trying very hard to get my attention by jumping on the keyboard. This makes writing difficult. As does the headache. Just wanted to say something possibly interesting today.

So today isn't the cheeriest of days

I can't quit paying attention to the news coverage. It's like on 9/11 when I was glued to the tv and the web. I am so torn up inside- it's the most helpless feeling. Yes, we've donated money. More than I can really affort since my job is ending soon. But I have to. I still feel horrible. Like there's something else that I should be doing. I'm frustrated by the inaction of the authorities. I am in full-on rant mode. And there's no real outlet that matters. I want to blame someone for the breakdown of services, etc. But really- my reasonable voice says- there's no one to blame. This wasn't intentional. This wasn't planned. It was something that they just didn't predict. And now many, many people are dead. Many, many are homeless. I just can't think about it anymore. It makes me start to cry.I feel guilty for not being part of it...which sucks. And is stupid.

Also from the Seattle Times- this made me cry. Really.

Suddenly, incongruously, the first notes of Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G Minor, the Adagio, pierced the desperation.

Samuel Thompson, 34, is trying to make it as a professional violinist. He had grabbed his instrument — made in 1996 by a Boston woman — as he fled the youth hostel Sunday where he had been staying in New Orleans for the past two months.

"It's the most important thing I own," he said.

He had guarded it carefully and hadn't taken it out until yesterday afternoon, when he was able to move from the Superdome into the New Orleans Arena, far safer accommodations. He rested the black case on a table next to a man with no legs in a wheelchair and a pile of trash and boxes, and gingerly popped open the two locks. He lifted the violin out of the red velvet encasement and held it to his neck.

Thompson closed his eyes and leaned into each stretch of the bow as he played mournfully. A woman eating crackers and sitting where a vendor typically sells pizza watched him intently. A National Guard soldier applauded quietly when the song ended, and Thompson nodded his head and began another piece, the Andante from Bach's Sonata in A Minor.

Like most in the shelter, Thompson's family in Charleston, S.C., has no idea where he is and whether he is alive. Thompson figures he is safe for now and will get in touch when he can. Meanwhile, he will play, and, once in a while, someone at the sports complex will manage a smile.

"These people have nothing," he said. "I have a violin. And I should play for them. They should have something."

And furthermore

From the Seattle Times comes the following commentary on the looting:

"That is the behavior people take under the pressure of survival," said Benigno Aguirre, professor in the department of sociology and criminal justice and the Disaster Research Center at the University of Delaware in Newark. "This is misconstrued as looting, as thievery."

In disaster, social norms shift, sociologists say. What may be considered criminal or unacceptable under ordinary circumstances becomes reasonable.

"Expectations and social agreements can be suspended ... because the situation is so dire," said Barbara Feldman, associate sociology professor at Seton Hall University in South Orange, N.J.

Yes, I took it from a longer article. But the main, unanswered question that I see above is whether or not they are referring only to food. In which case, yes, I agree. But if they're referring to the looting of luxury items, then I have an issue with their argument. I don't see that behavior under any circumstances, regardless of social position as being resonable. I think it's ugly and wrong. Period. Food and necessities- sure. Dvd players and tvs, nope. Human nature totally blows on occasion. Sadly, I don't have an answer, a cure or even a good suggestion on how to fix the problem. Nothing. nada.

The world is a vampire

The coverage of New Orleans is just killing me. Sapping away at my defenses. It's so up and down. The best of humanity, and the very, very worst.

I heard a story on NPR this morning about a 20 year old guy who commandeered a school bus and drove a bunch of people he picked up along the way to Houston. They're at the Astrodome. Good for him. Give him a well-paying job- he shows initiative and spirit under very bad circumstances. I'm impressed.

The looters who are menacing not only the Walmarts in the area have hit the hospitals. Fuck them. Start shooting those fuckers. They have no excuse to live. It's one thing to steal food. I would do that under the circumstances. It's another to steal from a hospital that is trying to care for people in far worse shape than yourself. Looks like greed on the prowl to me. And I heard a man on tv justifying it by saying that they were "opressed" to begin with. That makes me very angry. There is no excuse for acting like a predatory beast. None. Leave the hospitals and the doctors alone, chump- they would take care of your sorry ass if you were in need.

And then there's the ineptitude of the response in general. I don't think it's hard to imagine how quickly social structure breaks down when the basic necessities of life are taken away. Without food, water, sanitation and general personal comfort, people are going to get crazy. I'm thinking of the problems faced at the Convention Center and the stadium. Put that many people in those places, and it's going to be rough going if the logistics aren't fully thought out in advance. That appears to be what happened here. I just can't fathom why there wasn't a better response. I would imagine that a city of that size and topography would have a very well-developed disaster relief team. It would make sense, no? Evidently not.

And what about the people who are stuck there? They seem to be majority poor. The sick, old and infirm, I can understand. The poor, I can also understand. Without your own vehicle, there doesn't seem to have been much of an alternative to staying. So why weren't planners on top of this? I would think that disaster professionals in New Orleans would know the demographics they were dealing with. I don't think that they're seeing residents of the Garden District in the Convention Center right now. I hope to God that they don't find out in later years that the response was poorly planned because no one cared about the poor people. I hope it's just human incompetence rather than corruption.