And You Thought You Knew Everything About Me

I think farts are hilarious. And the reaction of humans and their farting behavior is also hilarious. I have female friends who have been married serially and once for a real long time who claim to have never let one rip in front of the hubby. I think that's insane. But in doing an informal and not quite scientific study have found an alarming number of women who just don't get the humor of retaliatory farting.

I'm also a fan of the fart machine. Especially the fart machine with a remote control.


My longtime and recurring Ex and I used to take the fart machine to the Symphony. I would slip it in my elegant Armani pants pocket and he would use the remote control. You might think this sexist--giving him all the power, but I beg to disagree. The farter is always the one with the real power. The one with the remote just gives the farter the power at the moment of maximum discomfort for the people around the farter, thus bestowing great comedic power on the farter. Innocence feigned is best in situations like that. The elegantly dressed female farter going round the nosh table at intermission in the important peoples room, the big contributors room at intermission of the symphony is one of my favorite comedic moments. I lean in next to a women who is more than likeley wearing magic underwear and has her Temple Recommend in good order and Tom hits the button on the remote control and out comes a two or three tone blast of a sound that is none other than a fart. I slit my eyes at the matron in the gold lame and quickly look away and her face turns scarlet. My eyes are watering with suppressed laughter. I put two fingers to my nose and pinch it gently. I roll my watering eyes at the man behind me as I slit my eyes toward the unfortunate matron ahead of me. He smiles involuntarily. And I leave the table with a couple of cookies on a napkin to take to Tom.

We sit for a second and laugh decorously. A man sits next to me after we regain our composure and Tom gives the remote control two hits of the button. One long bleating fart and then a very loud single note blast. Tom and I move two seats away from the man and then we lean out to look at him. He turns his head away in shame. And so it goes. I do one trip completely around the table farting gayly every time I reach for something. I stuff my face and giggle as I fart my way around the table. I'm amazed no one ever had to do the Heimlich maneuver on me. Then the bell rings and intermission is over. I am doubled over with laughter as we take our seats for the second act.

I have so many heinous stories of farting this will have to become a series. Tom once smacked me for farting most foul in the bed. He started it, so my retaliation seemed quite reasonable to me. I did not cotton to the double standard. His smacking me hard on the ass for a particularly silent and stinky fart was such a grievous breaking of the rules of fair play that it resulted in my leaving him. Oh yes. There are rules of fair play when it comes to farting.

I Took A Little Nap

I worked very hard yesterday, don't ask me why. I cleaned the house, grocery shopped, cleaned myself up, did laundry, changed the bed linens, and cooked myself a delicious dinner.

Today I woke up just like usual about 10 AM. I had my two lattes. One of my girlfriends came over. I had a brief visit with the youngest daughter and at 3 PM I took a little nap. I just woke up at 8 PM. This could very well be me.


But I was lying down with this.
and this:

I had big plans to visit you all and make witty comments. But then I might be up all night, so the witty comment thing is still a possibility.

Orin Hatch, My Wingnut

Orin has been following Boehner's lead on the Mantan. He looks to be catching up with Boehner. By Summer they'll both be blacker than Obama. I've sent Orin a few hundred emails and he always answers with a letter telling me what he's doing that I don't like is what he's doing anyway. It's a form letter, I'm sure. I'd almost rather he just emailed me back with a cheery "Go Fuck Yourself!"

Orin used to be a pasty faced slight man with a lisping manner of speech. Now the lisping speech is just a bit manlier. Is this more of the Boehner influence? "Man Up!" Orin has even bulked up a bit.

I used to have fantasies that Orin would be discovered buggering a very underaged male page. A woman can dream, can't she. I'm almost certain that Orin is a very repressed and in the closet gay man, but we'll probably never know for sure.

I just watched Orin be interviewed by Andrea Mitchell about the budget. He was talking about how this taxing of "small" businesses would drive them overseas. Then he gave the example of one of his buddies with a pharmaceutical company getting ready to move to Switzerland. Did you say small businesses? Orin you are so full of shit. Everytime you open your mouth on TV you embarrass the whole state of Utah. Too bad the whole state of Utah doesn't know it.

The Five Browns

This is a family of kids from a Utah town called Alpine. They were all accepted to Juliard at the same time and they all play piano. Rhapsody in Blue is a sentimental favorite of my since An American in Paris is one of my all time favorite movies.

Donyale Luna

I did one photo shoot with this gorgeous woman in Milan in 1965. I was working on another shoot when Donyela and Veruschka were working with the same photographer. I watched them at the mirror, getting make-up touch-ups. They were living art. I admired them both merely for their beauty. I did not socialize with any other models. But I did think Donyela was extraordinary.


Thank You DK Read for finding her for me. And I did look at the moon tonight. These images of Donyale are exactly as I remember her. I had an erotic dream about her at the house in Zemi where a group of artists and I hung out on weekends. The house belonged to the sculptor Arnaldo Pomodoro. He was my best friend during my year in Italy. I knew his brother, Gio, too.

For Tengrain

Tengrain, you always thrill me and after you, who?

After The Marriage That Ends Badly

Thanks Amos, this is just the piece of music I needed to end the story of my middle daughter's marriage.

Your result for The Ultimate Shakespearean Romance Test...

Sentimental (47%) and Low Infatuation

"But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrows end."

Your romance quotient is 47% and you have a low propensity for infatuation. You're someone who can enjoy the finer points of a relationship, but you're also happy to spend quality time without romantic distraction. A quiet evening at home with someone you love is rewarding and fulfilling. Since you tend not to become infatuated, you make more sensible choices and are quite likely to appreciate a long-term, steady commitment.

Take The Ultimate Shakespearean Romance Test at HelloQuizzy

My Middle Daughter continued

I saw her twice the first year after the marriage. Once she was with him, and once I saw her alone. Both times at my house. The second time she invited me to go with them to Jordan over the holidays. I was depressed at the time, as is usual during the holidays, and declined her invitation. I also thought I had no business going on a trip with her and her husband. The almost mother-in-law on the almost honeymoon? No.

When she and I were alone, I asked her about the husband and heard things that worried me. I listened to her words and the tone of her voice as she denied being bothered by his spending days and nights and days and nights at his studio. He was experiencing a burst of creativity and had a deadline. Okay. I will not pry. If she's okay with it, why shouldn't I be? I'm that kind of mother. If you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen. But I will not pry.

The third time I saw them was a little more than a year ago. I was trying to find a way to have my daughters near and to get my teeth fixed. Both the youngest and the middle daughter have expressed interest in owning the front house. It would make it possible for me to live out my life in the little house while not having the burden of the main house to deal with--no more taxes, no more insurance, no more repairs. Plus a bit of income and security. I liked the idea, but in talking with the middle daughter with the husband present she seemed worried about my long term care. He brother was one of her partners. I had no problem with that, but I didn't know the husband that well, and I suspected that he would be a problem. I'm not sure why. It was then I asked him to install a programable thermostat in the main house. He took it, said he'd read the instructions and get back to me. I never heard from him again.

Then I got an invitation to my middle daughter's graduation for getting her Masters Degree two days before the event. It came during a mild case of agoraphobia. I didn't go. But I did send her $50. in cash in a happy graduation card. It was the least I could do, and I knew it wasn't half good enough. I'd have liked to send her roundtrip first class tickets to anywhere she wanted with the partner of her choice. But I couldn't. And in my shame of not being able to do my best, I didn't do enough.

Friday she called me. She sounded good. She was at work. She asked if she could drop by afterwork. I said, "Of course." When I hung up I began to panic. The day before, one of my girlfriends had asked about her. When I told her how long it had been since I'd seen her, we speculated about the possible failure of her marriage. I also worried about her health and then her parent's health. So I went into a cleaning frenzy. I shopped. I tried to throw together a meal I thought she might like. When the youngest daughter came home I told her I was nervous. She said, "Don't be nervous. She knows how you live." I thought that was a little insulting, but recognized it as the truth and said nothing.

Four came and went, then five. The phone rang. It was my friend Z who is a real mother of grown children. I told her about my anxiety, and she said, "We're already on our way." "Who are you coming with?" "Queen Esther and Ms Miller." Two other friends who are real mothers of grown children. I was so relieved. Backup. And backup that was at least a couple of hours away since Queen Esther is always late.

When my middle daughter arrived I was alone. The youngest had removed the lock from the gate, had turned the outside lights on and taken Roscoe in her house. So my middle daughter could walk back here unmolested without having to call for help with the lock. See? I have very sweet children. She arrived carrying dinner. Pita sandwiches of ground lamb and greens and herbs. A huge order of fries. We hugged. She sat on the couch and started moving things off the coffee table so we could get to eating. It was delicious. But I had the feeling we were just getting something out of the way so we could get to the something important.

She has been living with a secret sneaky alcoholic who sleeps all day and stays at his studio all night. He has stolen a large bottle of the oxycontin she takes to manage the pain she lives with. Huge street value, so we speculate as to his reason for the theft. To sell or to take, that is the question. She says she talked to her father about the marriage and he said, "Go and get him and bring him home." I groan. I look her in the eyes and say, "Oh god no." She says, "I feel so guilty," and starts to cry. I take her in my arms and say, "You have nothing to feel guilty about. Your father is speaking from his cultural tradition. It's a knee jerk reaction. What did your mother say?"

This brings on more tears. "My mother had a heart attack. I had to fly home." Again I hug her and wait. "I left him with money to pay the bills before I left, I told him when to pay which bill. He didn't pay any of them. My mother's heart muscle was damaged. She will never be the same. You know she always smoked." Pregnant pause, arched eyebrow. "Yes, I know. She and I are alike in that." "They've moved into the new house. They finally got it built. And my Mom has to live in the garage because she can't live in her house." For a moment I'm confused. Which mom is she talking about and then I realize it's me. Then she tells me that the Palestinian women are so strong. When the women heard about her situation they said to divorce the bastard. And finally her father came around. But when she got back to Salt Lake she discovered that they are two months behind in the rent. He did not pay the bills. The prick she's married to has put her living space in jeopardy. The landlord is irate, but not crazy. She pays the back rent. She tries to get her fucked up husband to sit down and prepare taxes. It makes him anxious. But she does convince him to go to couples therapy. This surprises me.

The therapist tells him he must go to AA. He claims not to have a problem he can't control. He stole her fucking oxycontin. I'm thinking he should be prosecuted. He doesn't need help? So divorce him. Do it quickly. My middle daughter says, "I'm going to file the taxes and then I'm going to file for divorce." I think we're making progress here. She says he still comes and goes. I say, "Change the lock." "But his clothes are there." "Bag them and give him a call to tell him they will be in the entry." "I'm afraid he'll kill himself." "Has he threatened it?" "Not exactly, but he wrote me a poem and there was blood on it." "He's a blackmailing prick. It's a manipulation." He's a con. "He's self medicating, he works for days on end on an artistic endeavor. I'm thinking he might be bipolar." I always go there. If a child lived in the household I'd probably think he was a pedophile. I project male bad behavior to crazy, pathological men.

Then the "mothers" arrive. After the hugs and greetings, I give them the cliff's notes on middle daughter's marriage situation. And we settle in to examining this marriage. We want to give her the best advise possible. It is unanimous--the bastard must go. Then we talk about our own marital mistakes and how long it took us to admit the mistake we made in marrying at all. We call this time of staying, once you know you have no idea who the person you thought you'd married really is, the wasted years. My middle daughter has stayed with this man three years. She's done her best under the circumstances. Time to cut her losses.

Then we mothers entertain ourselves with stories of acid trips past. One story was told during this part of the evening that will turn itself into a short story soon. Someone was shot in Berlin at the Dead Goat. Trust me, it's hilarious.

The youngest and middle daughter made plans to get together, exchanged phone numbers and the middle daughter left around eleven. I think she's going to be fine. The next evening she called the youngest daughter to get together at a bar to meet a couple of male friends of middle daughter's. The daughters unite. There is work yet to do on getting disentangled from the bad husband. But she's now looking forward, not back at the mistake that started it all. I blame it all on the cultural notion that a woman must marry or she isn't complete. It is rooted in Religion and the universal suppression of the female that is at the heart of all religions, and that's political. Everything's political.

My Middle Daughter

I met my middle daughter at a party. Yes, darlings there was a time I was a sociable woman. It was summertime and the party was only a block away from my house in a neighbor's big back yard. One of my modeling friends and I walked over and within seconds of walking into the yard, I saw a young woman sitting at a table with a group of other lovely people, m0stly male. She and I made eye contact and I knew I liked her. I called out "Hello daughter, my Persian Princess." She answered, "Hi Mom." And that was it. We were instantly related. Later in the evening I went over to her table and met my new daughter who is not Persian, but Palestinian. I hugged her and have never smelled anyone who smelled better. We introduced ourselves and she introduced me to the crowd of gorgeous young men at her table. I gave her my phone number. She gave me hers.

I continued to see her at parties the rest of that summer. By the end of the sumer we had talked enough for me to know that she was a student with a job at the U. None of the rest of her family lived in Utah. I know I asked her "Why Utah?" but I can't remember the answer to that question. She has an older brother who lives in the Eastern US--maybe Michigan or Illinois, and two sisters in the Middle East. Her real mother and father live in Jordan.

She came to parties at my house, and always brought interesting men. She seemed to have a posse of great looking very fun gay men--mostly North African or Lebanese. All the people I met through her were multi-lingual, multi-cultural and charming. As I grew more and more reclusive over the years (bipolar disorder gets worse as you get older) she brought the party to me. And then I saw less and less of her.

One day the doorbell rang and when I answered the door, there stood a woman who looked familiar standing with two men I knew through my daughter. When the woman spoke I realized it was my daughter. The changes in her appearance were the result of Cushing's Disease. I knew nothing about Cushing's Disease, but over the years of her life with Cushing's Disease have come to know a great deal about it. She was getting ready for her first surgery at the Mayo Clinic at that time.

The next time I saw her she showed me her scars and she looked like someone who'd had open heart surgery and a hysterectomy or appendectomy or a C Section. The scars started at the base of her neck and ended at her pelvic girdle. I have never seen scars like that. But she was beginning to look like herself again. The physical beauty was returning. She was now taking all the drugs her missing endocrine system was supposed to produce if working properly.

I was still modeling throughout this time. Tom and I were still friendly, though he was living in Costa Rica. I was living alone in the big house and was renting the cottage to a female friend. One day I got a call from my daughter asking me if she could rent my spare room. I said, "Of course." She insisted on paying rent, and for almost a year we lived together. She has always been more sociable than I, so we had a few parties, but I would often hang out in my rooms reading. It was one of the times in the cycles of my illness that I was teetering on the brink of a big depression. So when not actually working, I read. My daughter comes from a culture where family members have roles that they perform seamlessly as is their duty. I lived with a daughter dealing with a life-threatening illness who went to school, worked, had a social life, cooked and cleaned, while I worked once or twice a week and read. I like it cool in the house and she was always cold. I lived with a dog and a cat in the house and she comes from a culture where animals are not invited into the house and especially not to sleep with you on your bed. One day she came home especially tired and hungry and I was lying in bed reading. The house was not spotless and nothing was in the oven. It is possible to leave ones culture behind, to liberate oneself from the strictures of a lifetime of one's families expectations. Like I said, I'm a mother who neither expects nor responds to strictures of duty or obligation. If asked, I will probably say yes, and I will probably haul my ass out of bed and comply. But without the request, I will not realize that I'm not living up to your expectations. I'm not the world's best mother, but I will never invade your life. If you ask for something and it is within my power to give it to you, I will. It's wasn't long before she moved into an apartment.

Over the years I have met her real parents many times. I adore them. I feel related to them. The call me her American Mom. She calls me Mom. Sometimes we go years and do not talk, but if she calls me and wants anything I'm capable of providing, I comply, happily. One day she called and told me she was getting married, and wanted to have her wedding at my house. I asked when, and she said in a date not far off in February. That is the ugliest time of the year here and I have a lovely big yard. I suggested May. She said, "No, the date is set, and everyone is coming for February." Fine. Done.

By this time my youngest daughter, Ms M is living with me. So we grew excited about having a traditional Palestinian wedding in my house. My middle daughter's best friend was taking care of the planning. All I had to do was provide the location. Middle daughter had family coming from all over. It was very exciting. But I had not met the groom. I met him once before the wedding, briefly, and was very surprised by her choice. He was a man from a Mormon background who had left the Mormon Church when he was in his late twenties. His parents were assisting with the preparation. This is all I knew of the groom: His late rejection of his religious heritage, his interest in the Middle East, his travels there, his leaning of Arabic, and last, but not least he was an artist--he does metal sculpture and has a studio. I asked my daughter if he made a living as an artist and was told he supplemented his income by doing construction work. If she loved him, who am I to tell her I have misgivings? I'm her American Mom. Maybe I should have told her, but the wedding preparations were in full swing. It's too late to throw cold water on her happiness. Her real parents have met him and haven't objected, so who am I to object?

We had live music. We had a Palestinian religious leader called a Sheikh. We had much ululation and dancing. The food was great. The bride was gorgeous in a traditional Western style wedding dress. The groom wore a kilt and played bagpipes. It was gorgeous and very moving.

Everyone smokes in Palestinian culture, so the men stood outside into the night in the middle of my Slat Lake neighborhood and smoked, laughed, and gossiped in Arabic. The women smoked in the house. One of the striking things about Palestinian women is their style and beauty. They go all out--hair, make-up, jewelry and gorgeous clothes. The men wear suits and ties and nice shoes. They all have lovely manners and are charming. They know how to party.

To be continued...

Please Take This Short Trip

I just started my blog reading time with this. Thomas Freidman: The Great Disruption.

This blog post by Mauigirl is one of the best I've read in quite awhile on the economy and the ecological disaster we are creating. I'm so impressed I've linked it thrice. I only do that when I'm trying to order you to do something because it's good for you. Say, "Yes, Mother."

I Have Three Full Grown Informally Adopted Daughters

Oh yes I have. One of them is living in the suburbs but I don't travel that far. She does indeed have another mother and a mother-in-law. Once she started having children, I figured she was on her way. I met both children, saw them reach toddlerhood, and my job was done. Her name is Dao. She was a boat child from Vietnam. Adopted by a couple of doctors.

She wanted to model, but wasn't tall enough to do runway. I helped her as much as I could until she she chose having babies over having an acting/modeling career. When her husband got transferred to the Pacific Northwest, and she had her infant son with her, living in an apartment, while it rained incessantly, she called me in early November and asked me to come fix Thanksgiving dinner for them. I did. She also asked me to talk her husband out of taking her away from her breast feeding infant son for a ten day trip to Paris. It was her wish not to go. I would have cared for her son, but she didn't want to leave him for a second. I completely understood her need and finally was able to explain it to her husband who was firmly convinced they needed the trip to Paris without the baby to reconnect again. I calmly explained that they would never connect exactly that way again and to decide if he wanted to be a father and a husband to this fabulous woman. He said yes. My work was done. I left. I'm that kind of mother.

I stay out of the lives of my daughters unless they initiate. I do not remember dates like their birthdays unless they are connected to some other event that makes it instantly memorable to me. I mean that in the way I remember my birthday--like Tom's daughter's birthday is the 8th of June, four days before mine (but this does not guarantee that I will send her a card or call her). I can never remember Nick's birthday because I can't orient it go some other event or memorable thing near his birthday. Same with my girlfriends. I had to remember my mother's birthday; it was two days before the baby Jesus's. But I have never remembered one of my wedding anniversaries or my husbands birthdays. I remember Tom's because for two months and two days I'm older and so very much wiser than he, but I often don't know where he is to wish him happy birthday--I'm that kind of friend.

I remember my youngest daughter's birthday because she shares it with her biological mother. And when I heard that I thought, "Poor darling, she will have to spend the rest of her life celebrating her birthday with her mother. It sits neatly between Thanksgiving and Christmas so the fact that they live near one another means she will grow old with that yoke around her neck. I hope someday she moves far away at least for awhile. No daughter should be so duty bound to her mother. At some point duty is a very heavy burden.

These Are a Few Of My Favorite Men

I have probably embarrassed a few of you with my shameless crushes. In some cases I'm probably lucky you didn't take out a restraining order against me. I love funny men and some of your are very funny. I love smart and serious men too, just because you're funny doesn't mean you aren't smart and serious too. Some of you have stopped visiting me. I understand. If I were you, I'd probably stop visiting me too. I know I'm not everybody's cup of tea. But you are mine. So here goes. Your placement on this list does not indicate how much I love/like/admire/fear you. (You all thrill me in one way or another.) It's just the workings of a disordered mind. If you know I love you and you're not on this list--speak up. I can't remember every man I ever had sex with, let alone every man I've ever had a crush on.
Phillip
Tengrain
Randal
Unconventional Conventionist
MrMacrum
Jon Swift
Vigilante
MadMike
Beach
Steve Emery
Kulkuri
James
Okjimm
Bubs
DCap
Dr Zaius
Bob
Kevin
Ghost
Pidomon
Wee Mousie
The White House Plumber
Mathman
Boukman
Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstern
thepoetryman
Paul Krugman
DrugMonkey
Andrew Malcolm
The Cunning Runt
Dadda
Darkblack
Jazzlog
IlliterateElectorate
Simestone
Gary
SnuffDoggyDog
Nihil Obstat
DaveDubya
The Station Agent

Sisterhood Appreciation Day

Rather than list and link you all inside this post I will list and link you all in a line. I know some of you have already received and passed this award on. See? I have one thanks to Susan. La Belette Rouge sent one to Susan and to Lisa, or Lisa got hers from Susan. Who knows? This award does not require that you do any more than post it and be happy that you are part of the Sisterhood. If however you too want to pass it on--please do. Freida and Scarlet wish to remain incognito, but their out there. My not linking them is to protect their privacy.

If you don't see your name here, please keep in mind I'm both crazy and a little bit senile. Help me out, scream at me--I'm hard of hearing too. I'll correct the omission. Because I love you all and you're all pretty to me.
Lib
Linda Sama
Susan
Stella
Lisa
Suzi
Dusty
Anita
Naj
Non, Je Ne Regrette Rienne
Scarlet
Freida
Katie
Blue Gal
TheMom
Border Explorer
Nan
Kathleen
Soairse
DK
Enigma
Pagan
Linda's Vulture Peak Muse
Gail
Sunshine
Sherry
Madame Z
Giggles
The Crow
Ingred
LeAnn
E, The StarSpangledHaggis
FranIAm
PENolan
La Belette Rouge
Diva Jood
Mauigirl

Hello Quizzy, Death Takes Us All

Your result for The 'Untimely' Death Test...

Asleep...

28% Heroic, 61% Alone, 85% Asleep, 36% Immortal, 39% Embarrassed and 48% Loved!

Some say its a cowards way out of the world, others say its the most peaceful and thus the most ideal.

Hopefully you agree with the second view rather than the first, because that is the path you are headed down. Sweet Dreams little one.. Sweet dreams.

Take The 'Untimely' Death Test at HelloQuizzy

It Was A Lackluster Day

I hate days where I have to roll out of bed before 10:00 and have to hit the shower. I like starting my day with my mug of coffee and a handful of pills, and at least one smoke and then I take the dog out. I took Cyrus out at 9:00. He peed and ran back in the house. I fixed his breakfast, got my coffee and watched maybe a half an hours worth of news. Not nearly enough.

Well, that's not exactly true, but not much and it wasn't all that interesting.

I had to go out into the world today and the wind was especially strong and buffeting. It set my teeth on edge, blew grit into my eyes, and pissed me off. I had to stop at Office Max for a legal form and they were out of that precise form. I had a doctor appointment to test my clotting factor. I wasn't wheezing or coughing until I went out into the wind. It was a too long wait at the doctors office so I stole their new Time. I did get permission to start taking my allergy meds again. I must be better.

At 2;00 in the parking lot of Staples I realized I was starving. I went to Chillies across the lot from Staples. It was awful. Except for the gorgeous black guy with a great smile. He was spectacular, but not spectacular enough to make up for the wait and the crappy food. Not half cheap enough and awful. I took my order home to eat it and discovered that great enormous Cryus had taken a very large, very large crap in the middle of the room. Cleaning crap off the floor is not a great prelude to a meal. Maybe that had something to do with my lack of enthusiasm for the crap from Chillies.

My friends from New York have been here for over a month working on a little house they have not all that far from me, and I have yet to visit them. They leave tonight at midnight for a month in New York and then back here again. They've made such changes in the house I didn't recognize it. I drove into the drive way and backed out, thinking I was at the wrong address. But now, just time and hard work. They have transformed a falling down piece of crap house into a treasure. I'm amazed and they seem to be just getting started. I can't wait to see them again, but I felt so crappy this visit I nearly missed them this time.

And when I got home our new tenant, a very nice woman with a good job, a cool car and a young yellow lab. She was over to sign a rental agreement and to introduce her dog to ours. She works down Cal's way, but prefers to live in Salt Lake because we're such a cosmopolitan place compared to Orem. DK, if you read this feel free to comment. Cal, you too. She, the new tenant, teaches at a college. Has for nine years. Her boss had lovely things to say about her. She seems very nice in that cosmopolitan, slightly edgy Utah native kind of way. DK, care to comment? No actually I like her. It's not her, it's me. It's been that kind of day. I sound so bitchy. Does that make me a bitch? Cal?

Cyrus is upset by the wind. Cyrus hates anything that makes a loud noise in the outside world. And someone in the neighborhood is using a nail gun on a construction job. I too hate the sound, but I barely notice it. Cyrus notices it when he's outside peeing, so he runs for the door as fast as he can. Poor Cyrus. Shell shocked Cryus. I can't get a shot gun as long as I have Cyrus. But I'll keep my straight edge razor on the bed side table. Cyrus likes the TV or music on at all times. When I read he whines softly.

Mr Stupid still has not picked up his money from Western Union. On Friday it's mine until he sues me.

Two and a Half Men

I think it was on The Daily show that I saw that title. Jon Stewart gave us a little Rush, and a little Colter, and a little of this guy.


Ghost delivered that clip along with this one. I have readers who make it look like I have a thought in my head.

Thank you Susan for the previous post and thank you for the lovely Sisterhood Award which I will get about passing on soon. It will be a pleasure. I'll start with a few of my women writers of the deadly sort. You know who you are.

Rush The Ruler of the Gopers

Rush grows ever more grotesque. He has always been repulsive to me, but now he's turning into an enourmous boar, sweating and grunting, begging for adulation, claiming to be the new face of the Republican Party. I'm wondering how Mitch, "turtle man" McConnell feels about this? Is that a peace sign Mitch?



If you didn't watch DL Hughley's new news show on CNN Saturday night, you missed Steele calling Rush an "entertainer and inflammatory and ugly." Even Steele had to apologize to the bloated, sweating, hideous face of the Goopers, but so far there isn't a Republican with the balls to say, "Rush doesn't speak for me."


And from Susan via Alter Net we have:

Boehner Turns Black Before Our Very Eyes

It seems to be a new tactic of the Republican Party to get their inner other on. I'd even posit that Karl Rove and Rush Limbaugh are getting their Porky Pig on. Rove is more Porky and Rush is a gigantic giggling sweaty bristly porker, but a pigs a pig. But the "other" I'm refering to is their inner "other color." So far they have Bobby Jindal and Michael Steele, but the one that really amazes me is John Boehner. Here he appears to be closely examining the exact level of spray on tan he'll need to equal President Obama.

Who Killed the Electric Car

This link was sent to my by my fierce and fiery Persian blogger friend and fellow writer, Naj of NeoResistance. I saw the documentary when it first came out and remember how furious it made me. What is curious to me is that we're hearing nothing about it now. So for those of you who haven't seen Who Killed the Electric Car, here it is. Thanks Naj.

From My Favorite Twittering Blogger, Top of the Ticket at LA Times

Loyal Ticket reader Lydia, one of thousands of newcomers now receiving Ticket alerts via Twitter, sends this brilliant Direct Message suggestion about the nation's looming financial obligations:

"Can we leave the federal deficit just to the generation that wears their pants so low in the mall?"

Additionally, there's a new bumper sticker being sold by the Tennessee Republican Party "to protest the bailout-mad Congress's rush into fiscal madness." We'll add it on the jump (scroll down or click on the "Read more" line below).

And thank you, Lydia. You made our weekend. Anyone else have any recession/depression humor to share?

-- Andrew Malcolm

Bring It On

I've just evicted a male renter for claiming having a penis exempted him from certain chores entailed in sharing a house with a female. He claimed there were male chores and female chores and even the chores he claimed he was good at, he was too lazy or too busy watching sports to do. My notice of this fact and the irate letter I left him really pissed him off and thus, the unfortunate reference to his royal penis. I've been married to guys like him. I have no patience for the "I've got a penis" defense.

Ms. M is now in need of someone to share the house with since I evicted her roommate. She does the usual things in this sort of situation and posts ads on the usual sites. One of the people who responded was a U of Utah med student getting ready to go on rotations. Ms. M works at a hospital. She is also a student. She knows what this means and thinks it's a good sign--this person will be too busy to be a problem. He sounds like someone with ambition and drive. So she agrees to meet him. He seems nice enough and she brings him over to look at the house and to meet me. He likes the house, but in the walk from a local coffee house, he says things that contradict his ad. He was 34 in the ad. He's 32 in person. This doesn't alarm her terribly. She asks for references. He says he'll get them together. She asks him if he wants to leave a deposit. He does. He pays it in cash.

She comes to me and gets the receipt book. I go out to meet him and within three questions, I get three terrible answers. I ask him if I can contact his last landlord. He says, she won't give him a good reference since his roommate's cousin was smoking weed in the basement, got so stoned he set the house on fire, plus he still owes her back rent. Not his fault? My inner umpire calls out "Strike One."

I ask him where he works, and he goes into a long explanation of how he's not sure if he has his jobs right now because he's living with his sister and her family and there are seven of them in a small one bathroom house and how he can't get bathroom time to get ready for work. (The address he gives on the reciept say Apt. C--not a house at all). I asked him where he worked and he said, McDonalds and so and so's nursery school. He'll have to call and find out if he still has his jobs. But he has plenty of money since he's got five grand on his tax refund. Five grand! I owned a nursery school for a year and the very best of them pay help crap. And I know he isn't making much at McDonalds. So how does he have a five grand tax refund? These thoughts run through my mind but I don't say them aloud. I think, "Strike Two!"

I say, "So are you a full time med student?" He's not sure at the moment because of the problems where he's living. "Strike Three!" But here is really where my shallow self comes in to play and fucks me up one more time. This guy is a very nice looking well built young man. Instead of saying "Here's your deposit back," I say, "Get back to me with the references and I'll think about it."

Big mistake! I should have said right then, "Here is your deposit back. I'm sure you're very nice, but this won't work for me. And there are other people interested." But I didn't.

When Ms. M gets home Sunday evening from her long day at the E R, the first thing I say to her is "NO on the renter. He just won't work. Too many red flags." Then she tells me about the six text messages he sent during her work day. So she calls him and he hangs up on her. Then he proceeds to call her five times to tell her how angry he is and then hangs up on her each time. Charming. There is no doubt that this guy is not roommate material. Now she's in tears and the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. This guy is not only not roommate material but he may also be a little bit crazy. She just wants to give him his money back and he's threatening court action. I try to call him and he picks up, then hangs up. This is a technique that does not endear him to me. He calls her back and tells her she talked me into turning against him. Quite the contrary, he has done this very nicely all by himself.

On Monday, two days after his visit with us, and after all the harassing text messages and phone calls Sunday that end up in his hanging up on her, he calls me. I tell him the decision not to rent to him was mine, not hers and that nothing she said to me influenced my decision. It was his answers to my questions that made me decide not to rent to him. But his harassing her with calls that end in hang ups has only made me more sure that my decision not to rent to him was a good decision. I ask him how he'd like to get his deposit back? He tells me he's going to sue me and hangs up on me.

I call a male friend of mine who used to be the Director of Legal Services. I tell him the little saga and he says, "Call the police a let them know this guy is harassing you. He's trying to bully and scare you. Don't let him get away with it. This is all bullshit! Call the police now."

So I do. The female police person I talk to says, "So far he isn't really harassing you. You're tenant has a better case than you, but I'll give him a call and tell him to stop calling you." She gives me a case number.

And throughout the early part of the week he continues to text and call Ms M. His phone calls consist of his telling her how angry he is and that he won't talk to her when he's angry and then he hangs up on her. Finally he agrees to meet her to get his deposit back. She gets a male friend to go with her as a witness and as protection. Mr. Scary calls her the morning of the meeting and says he can't make it. She changes her phone number. So he calls me.

He starts by saying, "You're a really nice, angelic lady." Now for starters this really pisses me off. I'm not that nice and though I might be angelic, I'm definitely no lady. In fact I find the word "lady" particularly offensive. We live in a democracy with no monarchy and thus no lords and ladies. But I say nothing about how offensive this reference to royalty is to me. Then he launches into a rant about Ms M and how unfair she's been to him. I say, "When you call her over and over to tell her how angry you are with her and then hang up, she finds this frightening and not only does not want you to share a living space with her she wants to stop your calls." I don't mention that his calling me is grounds for me to call the cops and report him based on the police case number I have. I do tell him we want to get his deposit back to him. I say we will send his money to him via Western Union. He hangs up on me. When the women at Western Union calls him to tell him his money is there he hangs up on her. She thinks this is funny since in all her years at Western Union no one has ever been irate that their money is waiting for them. Usually people are either relieved or thrilled that money is waiting for them.

The last call I got from him was to tell me he's found another place to rent in the neighborhood and will be walking by my place every day and he drove by the house last night to get the address for his law suite against me.

Ms. M has every call and text message saved on her phone. And every call that comes into my house is logged onto my computer. So we're pretty well set with evidence that he has been harassing us. The Western Union woman isn't likely to forget his reaction to her call. I'm thinking, "Bring it on, asshole." But since we know he's driven by at night, we're leaving the house lit up like a Christmas tree--front motion sensor lights are on as well as the front porch light. The lights at the back of the house are left on all night. My outside lights are aimed at the back gate and front porch and I'm leaving them on all night. The gates are locked and if the prick calls me one more time, I'm calling the cops again.

I now have a whole new process for screening prospective tenants. And I've taken it out of Ms. Ms hands. I'll be the dragon bitch from now on.

In the meantime I'm thinking about getting surveillance cameras for the front and back of the property.

Synecdoche, New York

I've finally seen Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, and jeezus. I thought his Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was trippy. How this film didn't sweep the Oscars I don't understand. Wait, yes I do. It's relentlessly bleak—in that Woody Allen 'obsessed-with-death' way—but it's also belly crunch hilarious. I had to stop and rewind a dozen times because I missed things, overcome by a wheezing laughter. There is not a feel good moment in the film and yet it left me strangely uplifted.

Charlie Kaufman is a contortionist of the mind. Again, like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, he stretches and reshapes time (and space, to a degree) until you just have to let go, and yet, a firm narrative structure is always present, never abandoned. It's an amazing feat of screenplay-ism.

The film is remarkably cast. Philip Seymour Hoffman is, well, he's one of the best actors working today and he is perfect for the role of representing, on film, the introverted, insecure because he's seen the abyss genius of Charlie Kaufman. His performance is better, ten times better, and funnier, than anything he's done before. Imagine that! Catherine Keener? Has any one ever had a bad word to say about her? The pièce de résistance, however, in a creepy as if it were meant to be but will never happen again but seems like it may have, or should have, been done before kind of way is, Emily Watson playing Samantha Morton. You'll have to see it to understand. If a fifth wall existed, this film would shatter it.

Casual movie-goers will find Synecdoche, New York difficult, dark, pretentious and hopeless, but if you like film, if you like writing, if you like artistic commitment, if you like mind-fuck hilarity, don't miss it.

A Night Out With My Friend Samantha

Samantha (not her real name) and I have been having excellent adventures for decades. If I told you how many decades, Sam would have to kill me. She's still working in the fashion/entertainment industry where how you look really really matters. I don't, thank god.

Late yesterday afternoon, Sam called and asked me if she could drop by around 7:30 for a glass of wine. A friend of hers, Missy Goldberg, had produced a documentary that was premiering last night at the Tower Theater the old art house theater that figures prominently in my strange adolescence.

Hell yes, I said. I seldom get to see Sam because she is now working harder than ever juggling as many production jobs at a time as possible. This keeps her buried in work and traveling a lot. She worked four jobs during the Sundance Film Festival. And that's where she heard about the documentary film, A Snowmobile for George.


Sam knows I don't like to go out, so it's unusual for her to invite me anywhere. But the Tower is three blocks from my house. So we spent an hour and a half catching up and laughing our asses off, losing track of time. We ended up sprinting to the Tower. The film had just begun when we got there so we entered a darkened theater. But it soon became clear that there were only two other people in the theater and they were two men in the row in front of us.

The film is every bit as good as Michael Moore's best documentaries. It's written and directed by Todd Darling and takes the deregulation of the BushCo years from the monumental fuck-ups of deregulating everything, especially everything in the Environmental Protection Agency to the dismantling and neutering of the EPA by filling it with Bush toadies. And Todd's symbol of this is the snowmobile. It's a very effective symbol. It's a very smart way to show us just how awful an idea it is to put lobbyists from the industries the EPA is supposed to regulate and oversee, in charge of the agency.

Todd begins the film with the purchase of a snowmobile and then takes us from California to New York. From the snowmobile and it's enthusiasts and dealers and industry advocates to New York and the environmental catastrophe of 9/11 where the EPA's Big Lie that the air and dust was safe for first responders and office workers to breathe. Thanks Christie Todd Whitman! The film starts light heartedly and builds effectively toward the absolute horror of what the Bush years have done to us in the name of corporate profit at the expense of the public health and welfare.

The two guys in the theater with us were Todd Darling, the writer/director of A Snowmobile for George, and Tim DeChristopher, the man known as bidder #70 who single handedly stopped the Bush administrations plan to quietly sell off cheap drilling rights on public lands set aside as part of the Canyon Lands, Arches, and other national parks lands in southern Utah for oil exploration. Bidder # 70 outbid every single bidder on those drilling leases. He's now being sued by some very heavy hitters who are feeling like chumps. Bidder # 70 was not a well financed or wealthy environmentalist. He was an outraged citizen betting on President Obama to stop the last minute national parks lands for huge profits for the oil industry at the expense of the rest of us. It was a good bet. And he's got great lawyers representing him and willing to hang in there no matter where it goes. It was wonderful getting to talk to these two talented, passionate, interesting men

If you get a chance to see A Snowmobile for George, see it. You will discover another layer to the dark underbelly of the BushCo years that you never saw or even imagined.

A Snowmobile for George

Two Women Who Say It Best For Me

Barbara Boxer, when asked by Keith Oblermann what she thought about President Obama's Address tongiht, said, "It was a home run, a touchdown and a three pointer."

Rachel Maddow's comment on her own reaction to Bobby Jindal's rebuttal, was to say that it left her, "slack jawed and babbling like a Benadrilled infant."

The Credit Crisis Made Visual

Thanks to Tengrain for posting this at Mock Paper Scissors.

It's Awards Season

I have been given the Love Ya award from the oh so chic and talented La Belette Rouge. I'm grateful and honored, and hope I can live up to the paragraph below. So these are the type of bloggers who haven't already received this award I need find, quick, before Lisa gets there first.

"These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award.”

I choose:
Comrade Kevin
StarSpangledHaggis
Steve Emery
Liberality
FranIAm
Naj
TheMom
PENolan
SaoirseDaily2

Now it's your turn to pass this love award to eight other bloggers. Enjoy!

I Was Once A Small Time Voice Talent

Small time, it's true, but a voice talent none the less. I had, maybe still have, a very good agent and though I was lazy talent, I was talent none the less. I modeled. I acted. I did production work. And the occasional voice job. The thing I had going for me as a voice talent in this market is a deep female voice, a little bit smoky. It's a strong voice, trained early in theatre classes and parts in plays to carry even in a whisper. The challenge for me was been to bring it down, soften it, sweeten it, warm it up. And oddly, smiling as you speak, does much to warm it up.

I liked voice work the most of all the work I did. Voice auditions were always well scheduled--no waiting like cattle. My agent has a small sound room fully equipped for auditions, so there was no complicated direction to find the location nor miles of freeway travel to be one of a hundred to read for one spot. You don't need to dress up for either an audition or a job. And usually for me it was three read-throughs and the job was done. The pay for voice work is terrific compared to the pay for the rest of my many talents.


Yes, modeling pays well, but there is so much more time invested and it's more work than you'd think. Remember all the famous clips you've seen of models toppling off their platform shoes, slipping on runways and falling down? I have been in shows where the lights hit you directly in the eye and you can't see your feet or the end of the runway, which, if you miss, will land you six feet down to either concrete or the laps of the unfortunates in front row. Three times I have seen models step off like a well dressed Willy Coyote and plunge down to suffer a broken ankle and abject humiliation. And the show does not stop for a second. On we stride toward an uncertain pause and turn, just short of catastrophe. These big shows require fittings, rehearsals and ungodly call times. They require hours in hair and make-up and a lot of standing around and waiting. Then the rush that makes your heart thud with adrenaline.

Acting is much the same in a small market. Auditions are cattle calls even if they've asked for you specifically. Every other actor your age and type will be there. And with acting there are call backs. You get paid for none of this. This is the audition. You can get two or three call backs and still not get the part, so no paycheck.

But with voice work it's one audition and you either get the job or you don't. If you get the job, you have a call time and location. As I said before, the way you look matters not. You show up. You go into the studio. You sit and put the headphones on. Someone checks sound levels. You read your portion of the script. Once this way, once that way, and one for good measure. Thank you. And then you get a big fat check.

All this to say, my voice is still a croak, and I got an email this morning from a man (big time voice talent who now teaches) who might have been a good man for me had he not been a Republican, a chauvinist, and a man who once said his role model was John Wayne. I wrote a chapter about him in the novel. Then it ended up on the cutting room floor. But now it could be a short story.

Sick and Tried

I've been sick for a couple of months or more. Not sick enough to go to the hospital, but sick enough to go to the doctor five times and still I'm sick. For a few moments I forgot how sick I was and spent my time cleaning and shopping and preparing to cook for Cal. I spent one entire day sprucing myself up for the imagined romantic seduction. Now I think part of this illness might be mere mortification at my own foolishness. And yet, I'm sick, there is no getting around it, I'm sick. My symptoms include fatigue, a terrible cough, wheezing on every breath, in and out, and the loss of my voice. Without my voice I have nothing to say. Really. Maybe without my voice I can't think.

Yes, I know there has been a lot of interesting news. Yes, I could write about any of it and have a post ready for you to read and comment on as if I really did have an original thought. Yes, I could pretend to be cruising along happy as a clam, but I'm sick. And once I bang out something on this keyboard, I won't have enough energy to visit you, to comment on your smart, witty, thoughtful, brilliant posts. I'm too sick.

I'm on my second round of antibiotics. Along with the first round (a Zpack) I was on a weeks worth of prednisone which made me feel great. No wonder athletes like the steroids. I felt invincible. So I wheezed. I felt great. Then, when the steroids ran out, I didn't feel better at all. But romance was just around the corner, so I plowed on through the cleaning, and hair coloring, the shopping and laundry. Endorphins and hope kept me going.

Then after the debacle that was my imaginary romance, I realized just how sick I felt. There is no real depression in this illness. Just wheezing, coughing, and no voice. I have had four "breathing treatments" two rounds of steroids and bed rest. I'm now on a different antibiotic, two types of inhalers, my second round of antibiotics, plus Mucinex, and Delsym cough medicine. And still I croak and wheeze.

It is the ugly season here--that time between real winter and the promise of spring. I know it will be Spring again and then I will be full of energy and enthusiasm for one project or another that will keep me outside. I'm hoping by then I'll feel well and full of energy. But for now, I'm sick and oddly tired.

AC/DC's Big Balls

I Am Not A Movie Reviewer

The Reader

This is not a film full of fabulous shots of Kate Winslet's glorious backside. We never see her completely naked, or if we do, it is so unimportant that I can't remember it. It is not an erotic film. It is not a film about the Holocaust. But is it one of the most interestingly complex films about the things we will do rather than expose that one small thing we are most ashamed of. It feels like a dream.

I can't remember the character's names, but I will never forget the truth told in this film. And of course I can't tell you the secret at the heart of this film since that would ruin it for you. I've seen movies this year that left me sobbing. Revolutionary Road (another Winslet masterpiece) was one of those films, and another Winslet performance worthy of a Best Actress award. I staggered out of Revolutionary Road sobbing. But I came home from The Reader mulling it over, knowing the interior truth of this film in a way that feels buried in the bone.

There is no glamour in this film. There are so many small moments of perfection that I think I would need to see it over and over to catch them all. There is not one false detail. But there are many small mysteries and one overarching truth--that we each might have a secret shame to keep no matter what the cost.

Thrusday Matinee Movie

Blogger Appreciation Day One Blog At A Time

I'd like to introduce you to one of my favorite bloggers. If you are lucky she might pay you a visit. She is smart and funny and personal and political. She is married and raising a young daughter, while she's dealing with the aftermath of an illness that was life threatening. She's never ever maudlin or self pitying. She is fierce and ferocious about the well being of her daughter, and she is politically astute. Vigilante is one of her fans. Visit her. You'll be richly rewarded. She calls herself StarSpangledHaggis. If she visits you, she calls herself e--see the witty juxtaposition of that big fireworks and peat bog blog name and that tiny e? Her personality is anything but tiny. And wit is her great strength.

Bob's Meme Ends Up All About Balls. Who'd Have Ever Guessed It?

I'm not doing well. I have no inspiration. I'm a total blank. So what do I do? I go to visit Lisa. And what do I find? I find a meme from Bob. And even though I haven't been tagged, by god I'm playing, because what else do I have to do besides laundry and vacuuming and grocery shopping. So instead of doing all those hideous chores I'm going to play this game.

So the book I'm working on is on my bedside table. I grab it. It's Naomi Klein's Shock Doctrine. Just a little light reading before going to sleep. Only it scares the bejezzus out of me every time I pick it up since it is detailing exactly what is happening to our economy right now (thank you, you neocon bastards) and hints at what the possibilities are for us if we don't get a grip and fast.

Anyway, I go to the 25th page, to the 10th word and of all the possible words in this terrifying book what do I find? "Purity." Purity? Holy hell! Then I go to google search and find these images of purity.

Research and Musings

Research and learning on a variety of topics, from health to computers, parenting to cooking, brewing to politics.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

"Purity Balls", AKA "Chasity Balls"

Abstinence only Sex Education increases teen pregnancy rates. This is according to the American Academy of Paediatrics (AAP). Providing contraception information results in reduced teen pregnancy rates. Despite the research proving this, many Conservatives insist in believing the opposite, and insisting upon fear mongering abstinence only sex education.

Now, conservatives have created "Chastity Balls" also known as "Purity Balls." The general idea is to have the father vow to protect his daughter's chastity in a wedding like ceremony, where the daughter similarly vows to remain a virgin until her marriage. They dress up, he wears a tux, there's a ring exchange, he feeds her wedding cake and the ceremony goes on to make the whole event resemble "Marrying your father" as much as possible.

Even nine year olds are participating.

There's even an Oedipal version for sons and mothers called an "Integrity Ball" that involves "telling boys to abstain from sex is so they won't defile someone's "future wife.""

The pledge read by the fathers:

I, [daughter's name]'s father, choose before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity. I will be pure in my own life as a man, husband and father. I will be a man of integrity and accountability as I lead, guide and pray over my daughter and as the high priest in my home. This covering will be used by God to influence generations to come.

I guess seeing women as property is perfectly natural to many even in this day and age.

Glamor Magazine has an exhaustive article on Purity Balls.

Bill Maher on the practice:



As pointed out in the Glamor Magazine article, kids who take "purity pledges" are more likely to have unprotected sex and get pregnant out of wedlock. Sadly, Conservatives choose to pretend this can't be the case.

Below is a promotional video advertising one of the firms who put on Purity Balls. Watch it, and decide for yourself.

DiggIt! Del.icio.us

Too bad Bristol didn't have a chance to go to a Purity Ball with her dad and Levi. It might have made all the difference.

I'm supposed to tag some of you, but you may be actually living a real important life with better things to do than play games. Not me. I got nothing to do now that I've put off cleaning for another day. I might read a little Naomi Klein and have nightmares in the middle of the day. But that's something, right?

Oh Yeah??!!!

Here's my latest test from Quizzy. This one is about romance. I thought the time was right since I have just suffered a mysterious romantic meltdown. I'm still trying to process my mistakes: the missed clues, the outright self-deception, the over the top hope and fantasy of a future with someone who would understand me and leave me alone when I need to be alone and be there to support my needs when I have needs for company. Pretty selfish and egocentric, no?

I'm a gemini born in the year of the monkey and bipolar. That pretty much makes me six people residing in this one falling apart body. I can barely manage them all. And they are all air signs. I'm a woman who has always lived in her head. My feet do not touch the ground. It's easy to say, pull your head out of the clouds, but my head is unable to heed that advise. I'm an Air sign. There is nothing in my astrological chart that touches the earth. All air all the time. I can hear a bit of water far down below, but my feet are never firmly planted on the ground. And yet, Quizzy says:

Your result for The Elemental Beauty Test...

Etheral Beauty

42% Water, 17% Earth, 25% Air, and 17% Fire!

You scored 42% Water! Superb!

You have the etheral beauty of a god or goddess. You love things that shine and shimmer, are soft and flowy, and have a dreamy quality about them. You gravitate toward natural fabrics such as cotton, linen, silk, or hemp. You love the colors of the sea like the deep blues and sea-greens. You love the see-through sheer fabrics that you can layer, or perhaps loose shirts and pants when you seek the comfy side.

You inner beauty shows a sentimental side. You have keepsakes and heirlooms and love things that have emotional attachments or a history.

With water emotions run deep. It is a feeling sign. (Astrologically signs for this include Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces.) Your emotions can be like a hidden treasure hidden below the surface in the subconcious. This may cause you to have some mood swings. But the beauty of what you are is that you will, in spite of fears, look inside yourself.

You also scored:

17% Earth: Earth is the natural beauty. They tend to stick to classic styles and colors. They tend to be more grounded. 0% Earth may indicate that plain old common sense is not your strong suit. Even percentages between Earth and Water indicate someone that is a hard worker that requires security and an attachment to possessions.

25% Air: Air is the fearless beauty. They are offbeat and funny. The mix old fashions with new and love to make new trends. They aren't afraid to be new or crazy. 0% Air could indicate that you have trouble looking at things objectively. Even percentages between Water and Air usually indicate a dreamer-typer person who tend to be fantasy prone.

17% Fire: Fire is the alluring beauty. They like to wear bright colors and show some skin. They are sexually minded and spicy. They use a lot of charm to get what they want. 0% Fire can often be seen in someone that pushes and tries to force self-expression. Equal percentages of Water and Fire show a person that is rather impulsive and shows a great deal of emotion.

Take The Elemental Beauty Test at HelloQuizzy

I'll take this test again later so see if this was just some morning aberration--not enough coffee on board or something like that.

From the Pen, Please Take Action

If you'd like to take this viral be my guest. But I keep signing and writing letters and it's mainly because I get email alerts from so many good sources.

Real Prosecutors Don't Let War Criminals Walk For The Price Of A
Confession

One of the most sappy ideas we've heard in a long time was the
suggestion of a certain Democratic Senate leader last week that the
worst criminals at the top of the Bush administration should be
effectively granted blanket immunity in exchange for "fessing up". We
can only hope Leahy's actual strategic intent was to have the
proposal get shot down, as it quickly was by others, for being pretty
much totally toothless. We need to make sure that message was not
missed. Indeed, we need to put an exclamation point on it.

The fact is that without prosecution, the top war criminals in
American political office of the future will presume that they can
always get off the hook by the so-called "truth" commission route.
And yet the people who are in the media calling for non-enforcement
of the laws against torture and illegal wiretapping are the SAME ones
who are "zero tolerance" fanatics when little people get in trouble.

Prosecution Commission Action Page:
http://www.peaceteam.net/action/pnum936.php

One of Leahy's non-arguments was that prosecuting all the criminals
in the Bush administration would take 10-15 years. Oh, really? Did
they commit THAT many hideous crimes? That's all the more reason to
get moving on it as soon as possible. As a former prosecutor himself
he should know that immunity is granted to GET testimony against the
criminal kingpins, not to let them skate themselves entirely.

Thankfully at least John Conyers on the House side, and other
senators like Whitehouse and Reed, have come forward to stand up for
the principle that ONLY prosecution is any deterrent in cases like
these. Did the pardon of Nixon send a message for the future? Of
course it did? It led Cheney and Rumsfeld, who were IN that
administration, to believe that they would have their own chance to
get away with mass murder.

Need YOUR Submission For New T-Shirt Design

To go along with "Convict Dick & W" caps we are already mass
shipping, we had the idea of doing a t-shirt as well. The idea would
be a graphic of the faces of Bush and Cheney wearing unhappy
expressions, either behind bars or perhaps in striped prison outfits,
as a way of visualizing that reality.

We want to throw this out to our most creative participants. In our
mind's eye we are looking for something with an imaginative design,
perhaps in the realm of caricature. If you would like to submit a
design, please email back a reply.

By the way, all the cap requests from the last week are being shipped
tomorrow, but if you have not requested your "Convict Dick & W" cap
yet, here is the page for that.

Convict Dick & W Caps: http://www.peaceteam.net/convict_cap.php

And of course on that same page you can also find the new local
county prosecutor lookup, which we are using to call, write and email
local district attorneys, asking them to bring murder charges against
George Bush and Dick Cheney as urged by Vince Bugliosi. At the top of
all these pages, there is a link to a terrific YouTube video you can
watch on this of Bugliosi's House testimony. After watching that
video, the words will come to you that you will need to say.

The local prosecutor initiative is an important long term back up
action, intended to keep the heat on at the same time for a special
prosecutor at the federal level.

IMPORTANT NOTE: We are not asking anyone to file a "formal" criminal
complaint yourself. Common sense tells us that a state prosecutor
will only act, in the exercise of their OWN discretion, if they
believe there is a non-frivolous case to bring. But by speaking out,
we can let them know there is community support for them to do so.

Please take action NOW, so we can win all victories that are supposed
to be ours, and forward this alert as widely as possible.

If you would like to get alerts like these, you can do so at
http://www.peaceteam.net/in.htm