The Amazing Things I Get In Email. Thanks JackieSue

Pretty amazing works of art! (How do you step back and make those final touches?) Stunning crop art has sprung up across rice fields in Japan . But this is no alien creation . The designs have been cleverly planted. Farmers creating the huge displays use no ink or dye. Instead, different colours of rice plants have been precisely and strategically arranged and grown in the paddy fields. As summer progresses and the plants sh oot up, the detailed artwork begins to emerge. A Sengoku warrior on horseback has been created from hundreds of thousands of rice plants, the colours created by using different varieties, in Inakadate in Japan . The largest and finest work is grown in the Aomori village of Inakadate , 600 miles north of Toyko, where the tradition began in 1993. The village has now earned a reputation for its agricultural artistry and this year the enormous pictures of Napoleon and a Sengoku-period warrior, both on horseback, are visible in a pair of fields adjacent to the town hall. More than 150,000 vistors come to Inakadate, where just 8,700 people live, every summer to see the extraordinary murals. Each year hundreds of volunteers and villagers plant four different varieties of rice in late May across huge swathes of paddy fields. Napolean on horseback can be seen from the skies, created by precision planting and months of planning between villagers and farmers in Inkadate Fictional warrior Naoe Kanetsugu and his wife Osen appear in fields in the town of Yonezawa , Japan . And over the past few years, other villages have joined in with the plant designs. Another famous rice paddy art venue is in the town of Yonezawa in the Yamagata prefecture. This year ' s design shows the fictional 16th-century samurai warrior Naoe Kanetsugu and his wife, Osen, whose lives feature in television series Tenchijin. Various artwork has popped up in other rice-farming areas of Japan this year, including designs of deer dancers. Smaller works of crop art can be seen in other rice-farming areas of Japan such as this image of Doraemon and deer dancers . The farmers create the murals by planting little purple and yellow-leafed kodaimai rice along with their local green-leafed tsugaru roman variety to create the coloured patterns between planting and harvesting in September. The murals in Inakadate cover 15,000 square metres of paddy fields. From ground level, the designs are invisible, and viewers have to climb the mock castle tower of the village office to get a glimpse of the work. Rice-paddy art was started there in 1993 as a local revitalization project, an idea that grew out of meetings of the village committee. Closer to the image, the careful placement of thousands of rice plants in the paddy fields can be seen The different varieties of rice plant grow alongside each other to create the masterpieces . In the first nine years, the village office workers and local farmers grew a simple design of Mount Iwaki every year. But their ideas grew more complicated and attracted more attention. In 2005 agreements between landowners allowed the creation of enormous rice paddy art. A year later, organizers used computers to precisely plot planting of the four differently colored rice varieties that bring the images to life.

Friends and Time

I have a friend coming to town I haven't seen in over thirty years. She was, along with Z (a mere girl, like me) my first grown-up female friend. I met her in the Huddle Room at the University of Utah. She has been a Professor/Tutor at St Johns University, Santa Fe campus, and is now retired. She's coming to town for a high school reunion and I get to spend Friday afternoon with her. So I'll be cleaning house and cooking up a storm.

I have raided the large garden next door; I gathered loads of fresh organic eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, parsley, and basil. The bag of purloined vegetables had to weight at least fifteen pounds. Yesterday, after my doctor appointment (I am still clotted just right) I stopped at a fruit stand and bought a Utah watermelon, two cantaloupes and five peaches. I have enough food for a small army, but I just want to feed these two very important women a lovely lunch. I'll fix a very fresh eggplant parmigiana, a fresh chilled melon plate, and fresh peach cobbler for dessert. My bar is well stocked and there is beer in the fridge. I have soft drinks and two varieties of iced tea. I could fix a great iced coffee. And last but not least, I have a HUGE bouquet of late summer flowers. I think I've got all the bases covered.

It cooled off for a few days last week, but it's very hot again now. Our days are in the 90s; our nights in the high 60s. It's too hot to do a lot of cooking in the middle of the day, so I'll probably get up very early Friday morning to cook the peach cobbler. I will make the tomato sauce this evening. Then while the cobbler is in the over Friday morning, I'll cook the eggplant and assemble the eggplant parmigiana. Once the cobbler comes out of the oven, I'll slip the eggplant dish in the oven for about a half hour--long enough to melt and lightly brown the cheeses. Then a quick shower for me, and I'll be ready. Even if neither of them feels like eating, it won't be wasted effort. My friend Tracy and I shared the last fresh eggplant parmigiana I made. She's ready for another such treat, and her husband, who didn't even get a taste of it last time, is planning on leftovers this time.

I am frantic to get my house clean, but things just keep popping up that can't be ignored. Am I making excuses? Probably. I used to go to group therapy where one of the women in the group always talked about getting up and vacuuming and mopping all the rooms in her house, cleaning all the bathrooms and doing laundry EVERY DAY! I thought she was especially crazy.

I'm a once a week sort of cleaning lady. I change the bed, clean the bathroom, vacuum and dust and call it good. Then another day I do laundry and think I've done a good days work. I try to keep things neat, but I hate vacuuming and mopping floors. I just don't ever plan on eating off my floor. I would like to get all the windows clean, but that's optionaly given time constraints.

For some odd reason I seem to be very popular the last little while. Phillip is coming back for another pit stop on his way back to San Francisco, and Larry, my boyfriend when I was twelve, is also coming to town for the reunion. It's a hive of activity here, and drastically cutting into my blog reading time. I've become an addicted tweeter too. I need a little cooling off time there.

Z is having a very rough time of it right now. She has radiation burns on her chest and back. She's allergic to sulfa drugs and when they treated her burns they didn't check her chart and put sulfa/antibiotics in a salve on the burns. She had a very bad reaction: high fever, chills and shaking, and extreme pain. All of this makes her dislike of western medicine more intense. She hates them all. It was a nurse who dressed her burns with the sulfa drug and didn't check her chart for allergies. Every interaction with a medical professional turns into another trauma. She is going to take a radiation break this week. She still has two weeks to go on radiation, but just can't take it anymore. I'm not sure she's going to feel well enough to get together. I'll just have to clean house with my fingers crossed.

I'm Getting Ready for the Ladies Who Lunch

Query Fear

I have written longish short stories in less time than I've been working on an almost two page query letter. There are so many things the tiny query letter must do. It needs to make me sound interesting, smart, talented, and marketable. Not just my book needs to be marketable; I must be marketable, too. Everything but the writing and the story depends on marketing. Well, I take that back--the story needs to be marketable too. Once written the handling of a book is all about the marketing. I have very little confidence that I am capable of marketing myself in a two page letter. In a couple of paragraphs I need to say an awful lot. I have to pack into as few words as possible why I chose to write about a crazy family, and why that might be a good thing to read.

I do believe that the novel I've written has something that almost everyone can relate to. We all have crazy families. Maybe not this crazy, but crazy enough that almost everyone can relate to a mother like Maggy, the mother in my book. Almost everyone has been through some aspect of divorce and the fracturing of a family. There has to be at least one narcissist in every family. Doesn't there? I'm betting on it.

The other kind of universal experience that I tell in excruciating detail is the care and feeding of a parent with dementia, on the long slow slide to brain dead; perhaps a parent who potty trained you and who now needs you to change her diapers for years, and is like any toddler, surly about giving up the shit. However, a toddler and a grown up the same size as you, are not the same to change. And if you are the least bit phobic about grownup's poop, it will turn your stomach and test your patience long past your patience's limit. Somehow a mean parent just gets meaner with dementia. Odd how that works. The very sweet seem to just grow sweeter. The marginally mean can turn into remorseless sadists, slowly, over a too short time that seems to never end, until you are changing the diapers of a person who has no idea who you are, but knows he doesn't like you, in fact hates you, and the struggle to keep his shit seems like a matter of life and death to him.

I won't say Maggy is a how-to-book on surviving taking care of crazy momma. But it is a book about a very dysfunctional family told from the point of view of the baby who is saddled with the worst jobs of all. I'm betting it doesn't hurt to know what's coming down the road as momma and daddy start going batty, giving the farm away to scam artists, and crapping their pants in public. And my generation, the baby boomers, are now going batty at an alarming rate. We are the most populous of generations. Think about that my darlings, while you ponder your future as you lie in bed worried about your children's education, their prospects for a job, your ability to keep your job as the economy goes to hell and the next generation is bringing its freshly minted graduate degrees to your boss, offering to work for less, and your daddy is now alone and not doing so well. Sleep well. Then tomorrow, tell me Maggy isn't a horror story.

Smile, Like I've Never Heard It Before

A Saturday Night Song for a Sunday Morning

The Odds and Ends of Today

We finally have a day that isn't going to fry my brain. We've had two months of 95-100 degree temperatures and not a drop of rain. It's all parched and crunchy, and I'm not just talking about my brain.

Today it will only reach 80 degrees and I'm actually going to be able to take Marley for a walk. Yes, I am going to get a little exercise. Shut up! No one likes a smart ass.

I'm also getting my head shrunk at 3:00 this afternoon. I'll come home and take a picture so you call tell me how my smaller head looks. There will be a few errands run on the way home from the therapist's.

Phillip of Sitenoise is stopping off here for a very short visit, so I'll be baking brownies and getting questions written so while he's here I can get a wee bit of help with my first submission to a Literary Agency.

It's a busier day than usual, so I'm off to take Marly on her walk.

Mike Snyder on Rachel Maddow

MoveOn: The Movie

This speaks for itself:


Thanks to The Vigil

Fat Cats In Mouseland

Please watch this clip. It was made just for you by the Canadian, Keefer Sutherland, grandson of Tommy Douglas (the man who brought universal healthcare to Canada) who has something to say about the current debate on healthcare. Watch it, it might just be the thing that flips that switch and wakes you up to actually vote the fat cats out so some smart mice can run the government for a change.

Dear TV Advertisers

I just had a Comcast Tech Support guy sent out because the volume on the advertising is driving me crazy. Don't say it. We all know I am already crazy, but why do advertisers not know that we hate the rising volume on all the ads? The Comcast guy says they get complaints about this problem all the time. It isn't them. Or so he says, and I have no reason to think he's lying to me. And the volume rises with each ad, so that the last ad is at scream level. I can't stand it.

The result you advertisers want (which I assume is to grab our attention so we will actually listen to what you're hawking) does exactly the opposite of what you intend. I do not listen to the screaming ads; I mute the screaming ads. Ill say it again. If your ad is louder than the program I'm watching, I mute your ads.

The worst offenders are local advertisers. The national ads start at programing volume, but each successive ad gets a little louder. By the fourth ad the volume is so high I have no choice but to mute them. So if you don't want us to listen to your ads or buy your products Advertisers, keep it up. If you do want us to listen to your ads, try whispering. I might even lean in a little to listen to your soft spoken spokesperson.

Canada Care, from Salt Lake Tribune, Public Forum Letter

Print Email Font Resize Canada care Public Forum Letter Updated: 07/31/2009 06:27:24 PM MDT As a Canadian visiting Salt Lake City, I have been watching with great interest President Barack Obama's attempt at health care reform. I have heard comments by politicians, people and TV ads attacking Canada's health care system. Many of the facts are distorted. Canada has one of the finest health care systems in the world. I have never had to go to the United States for medical treatment because Canada offers all of the same treatments. I get to choose who I want for my physician. When I go to him or the emergency room or have major surgery, I don't pay anything. And I get it done quickly. Canada's health care system is largely paid for by corporations, which pay an employer health tax. Everyone is covered, even homeless people. A few years ago in a television poll, Canadians were asked to name the greatest Canadian. Tommy Douglas, the father of Canada's universal health care, won the vote. I have known many people, Canadians and Americans, who have lived in both countries. All of them state that Canada's health care system is superior. Ken Sisler Newmarket, Ontario, Canada

My Experience with Private Insurance

There was a long period of time from my late thirties and into my mid to late fifties when I had to buy my own health insurance as a self employed individual working as contract labor. Sounds very glamorous doesn't it? If you're an actor or model or voice talent or make-up artist or stylist working in Utah with an agent you're contract labor. If you get a part in a movie or on a TV show that's a union production, for that brief time when you're on set, you're covered by the production company should you be injured or become ill while actually working. But really, the bottom line is you're responsible for your own health insurance.

When I first signed up for coverage in the '80s there was only one insurance company offering individual coverage in Utah, and that was United Healthcare. My premiums started in the $300 range. I thought that was high but it was the only game in town. As long as my internist proscribed my antidepressant, United Healthcare covered my treatment. It was when my depression wasn't responding to the antidepressant I was on, and my internist referred me to a psychiatrist, that United Healthcare began increasing my deductible and co-payments at an alarming rate. I began to see my insurance provider as my adversary. Every year my premium went up close to $100 a month. My copay went from $5 to $10 and then $20. I knew I was bipolar, but my primary symptom, or at least the one that made working impossible, was severe depression. Until I started seeing a psychiatrist I had been able to keep the word "bipolar" out of my medical records. Once that diagnosis started appearing in my records, my premium doubled. In one month it went from $500 a month to $1,000 a month. At that point I had to give up coverage.

It was just prior to that last doubling of my premium that my biggest client went out of business. This decreased my income 80%. So, I had to drop my insurance; I simply couldn't afford the premium anymore. Then I discovered that my mother had vascular dementia. As her only living relative I became her only caregiver, the one person responsible for her. So she became my full time job, a job that is depressing even for those not inclined to depression.

Without my medications, caring for my mother drove me over the edge into psychosis. I was hospitalized at the University of Utah adult psych ward for two weeks. This was the beginning of the precipitous plunge into bankruptcy. I couldn't afford the drugs I was on. At this point my drug bill was almost $1,000 a month. I couldn't afford to pay my medical bills. So next came the slow process of applying for disability. Within one year I was bankrupt and disabled. And then I started getting the help I needed to stay somewhere close to the balance point of the seesaw I was living on.

Once I started getting a monthly check from Social Security Disability and getting 80% of my medical bills paid, I was able to hang on by my fingernails. Without that public option I don't think I would have survived that terrible time in my life. It is one thing to have an illness that is expensive, incurable, and tricky to treat; it is another thing to be treated like a deadbeat who can't pay her medical bills and doesn't deserve to live.

Even with the public option of Medicare, I have to make difficult choices regarding the allocation of scarce dollars. My illness is still expensive, but as long as I make a good faith effort to pay my bills, I am treated like a person with value and dignity. I'm never refused treatment. I choose my own doctors. My drugs are now affordable because of Medicare part D and the extra help I get with drug costs because of my low income--no donut-hole for me, thank god.

I can't work anymore. But I can tell my story. And it's a common story. I am not alone. Anyone who has lost benefits when they lost a job, knows what I'm talking about. If you have children, insurance is an absolute necessity. Children cannot go without some kind of health insurance. And we should never have to choose whether we get the medicine we need or buy food. It's that basic for a lot of our citizens. We have reached the bottom line. We need single payer healthcare. But if that's off the table, we must have a public option for those of us most at risk. Healthcare shouldn't be a choice, it should be a human right.

Taking A Day Off

Well, I'm sort of taking a day off. I woke up limp as a dishrag. I can't quite get my brain working, so editing is out of the question. I miss visiting you all and if my brain comes back online today that's what I'll be doing. Until then I'm just going to lie in my bed and drift in and out of sleep.

I have an appointment with my doctor Monday at 10:00. I've got a feeling the heart rhythm drugs aren't working as well as they did to control the a-fib. If I had money to wager with, I'd wager that I have an ablation in my future.

PS, if you're bored and came here looking for a little entertainment, might I direct you to the novel, Maggy, or the short stories, or maybe a bit of poetry? Don't forget to leave a comment. They are every so helpful to the creative writer.

According to the Mayan Astrological Calendar

Crystal Moon day 14
Year of the White Electric Wizard

kin 155: Blue Crystal Eagle
I Dedicate in order to Create
Universalizing Mind
I seal the Output of Vision
With the Crystal tone of Cooperation
I am guided by the power of Accomplishment
I am a galactic activation portal enter me.

Day Out of Time
Blue Electric Night
25.7.2009

This is my Mayan astrological sign or description. In the West there are two of me, twinned. In the East I am a monkey. Yes, I am mischievous, hopefully in a good way. And in the humdrum world of psychiatry I am a fine specimen of a woman with bipolar disorder.

It was the crow that led me on this search. And I do admit to wanting to live in the day out of time until it becomes Blue Electric Night in the Universal Mind with an Output of Vision Guided by the Power of Accomplishment toward the inner Galactic Activation Portal. But I'm a bit uncomfortable with the idea of being entered. This could be my fatal flaw.

Sculpt Your Arms While You Improve Your Handjob Skills

I found the link to this on twitter. See? Twitter isn't just a waste of time.

If the Birthers Don't Get You The Deathers Will Try

ConnecticutMan1 has written this about the Deathers. Wednesday night was the first I'd heard of the Deathers. Oh those crazy wingnuts! If they can't get you with one lie they'll try to scare you with another. There is no way to stop them, but they are quite entertaining. My suggestion is to do your best to humiliate them on twitter.

Why? You ask why?

Thanks PZ, I didn't know I wanted this, but now that I have it, I have to post it.
Randal, can you do this? Why do I pick on you? Because all the girls know you? Because I can? To steal a phrase, that's why.

I Woke Up This Morning...

Well, waking up at all could be considered a good start. I let the dogs out and went to the bathroom to pee. As I sat down I felt my legs disconect (in my brain) from my hips. I swear it felt neurological. My legs were useless, like long dangling flipper things, completely useless. When I got over the shock and after I finished peeing, I had to use my arms to get my feet under me. Then I had to use my arms to work my way hand over hand from piece of furniture to piece of furniture to get back to bed. Fuck! Dead legs are a real drag. And I mean that literally.

I was concerned, but it was too early to do anything about it, like call my doctor's office. So I grabbed my sleep mask and tried to still the screaming going on in my mind, and eventually went back to sleep for a second or two. Usually the dogs leave me alone until I open the door and let them back in, but not this morning. Roscoe the big yellow lab positioned himself under the window closest to my bed, and Marley positioned herself under the kitchen window . Roscoe whined like a baby and Marley barked nonstop. I gave up after half an hour of trying to ignore them and found that my legs were working again. Whew! I was so scared for a second I had goosebumps.

There were a lot of things going through my mind during the hour or so I lay there with my eyes closed, blacked-out by my sleep mask. I have a friend with MS, so MS was on my mind. I also considered that it was just a reaction to stress, just a momentary blip on the radar screen of my addled mind. I checked gingerly to see if my legs would propel me to the door to let the dogs in. They did. So now I will need to call my doctor's office and check out this new symptom that is the collection of symptoms that could just be a transient hysterical paralysis, or some other non-serious momentary psychosomatic bit of flotsam from the weird constellation of my many little health issues.

Meet The Birthers in Congress

Reuters, AP, Handout photos

Clockwise from top left, Sen. Jim Inhofe, R-Okla.; Rep. Bill Posey, R-Fla.; Rep. Mary Bono Mack, R-Calif.; Rep. John Culberson, R-Texas; Rep. Marsha Blackburn, R-Tenn.; Rep. John Campbell, R-Calif.

Are they kidding? I wonder how many of these idiots are members of the very special, secret family at the C Street "Church?" Let me check. I'll get back to you on that.

Please Sign This

We Want the Public Option dot Com

Add Your Voice, Make Your Choice

Exiled to Canada Because of Healthcare Needs

Stolen from Sherry.

Catching Up

I've been missing in action again. You may not even have noticed, but if you have, I apologize. I'm posting the last two chapters of the novel, Maggy. Then I need to practice writing a query letter. One of the good things about twitter is that there are a bunch of literary agents on twitter; I'm following several of them. And it seems the big hurdle for most writers seeking an agent is learning the art of the query letter. So I'll soon start practicing my query letter writing. Seems to be part pitch, part bio, part appeal to the ego of the agent. I can write a novel, a short story, a poem, but a pitch? We'll see.

Yesterday I had atrial fibrillation and hinky blood pressure. In the past I didn't feel the atrial fibrillation, but yesterday it put me down like an old dog. I was ashen and exhausted, and completely uninspired. It was one more day in a month of extremely high temperatures, so as well as sick, I was limp from the heat. I promised my neighbor that if I woke up today with hinky blood pressure and the stuttering pulse, I'd call my doctor. Well, I seem fine today, but still called my doctor's office to let her know about yesterday's episode. I see her in a couple of weeks anyway. I think the stress of having three girlfriends who are so seriously ill has stressed me to the limit. It's as if I can't bear the fact that I am going to be left alone, alive and very old. Some would say this is better than the alternative, but I'm not so sure. It was always my plan to exit early. Yet here I am older than I ever imagined I'd be.

I'm going to be following the healthcare debate very carefully. I wish to god I were very very rich so I could contribute several million to anyone who could defeat Orin Hatch. That old prissy prick needs to retire. He is as right-wing as one gets, and completely in the pocket of the insurance industry. Harry Reid needs to go too. Harry is about as spineless as they come. I think Harry's problem is that he's a Mormon, and as a Mormon he ought to be a republican. He reminds me of Joey Leiberman. He's straddling the fence of his religious values and his political affiliation and it's giving him a wedgie. So I'd pump some money into bringing down Harry as well. Then there are the "blue dog democrats." I'd start going after them with my discretionary millions. Boy is it fun to dream those kind of dreams. How nice it would be to have the money to influence the outcome of political races. United Healthcare is going to be going full-out to fight the possibility of a public option. Do not let those criminals change the debate. United Healthcare and it's "think tank" the Lewin Group is still rich enough to pour hundreds of millions into fighting a public option. Do not let them influence you. Please write and call your elected representatives to let them know where you stand on the healthcare debate. Sorry if that sounds like a lecture, but this is important. I have medicare, you should too. It's the best medical coverage I ever had, and I used to pay $1,000 a month to United Healthcare for shitty coverage.

My Daily Twitterscope

Others may be quite certain that you are lost in space today -- and they might be right. But it's probably more correct to say that you are detoured, for you really do know where you are and where you are going. You're not, however, aware of how you're going to get there. Don't pay too much heed of anyone who judges you too harshly now. Let your wounds heal on their own schedule. You'll still have time to reach your destination. Get your complete Cosmic Profile

I'm fairly sure there are those who KNOW that I am lost in space everyday, but compared to many of my "sane" friends I am incredibly grounded. Yes, it's probably true that dingbats attract dingbats, but I swear I know some of the nuttiest people who are thought to be completely normal, whereas I am known, especially by myself, to be nuts. I do avoid relationships with other mental patients. I have enough problems with my sane friends. But at least one of my sane friends (Z) has eight, yes, that's 8 friends who are bipolar. That qualifies her for the loony bin to my way of thinking. I have met a couple of her other bipolar friends, and I wouldn't let them in my house if they knocked on my door and asked for a drink of water. Heartless? Maybe. But what is it that would make a fragile woman surround herself with so many people who obviously need help? Yes, some of us can be quite charming for minutes on end, but her other bipolar friends, with the exception of me, are non-compliant bipolar patients who refuse to take their meds and who engage in shrink-shopping--looking for a therapist who will give them a kinder, gentler diagnosis.

Respect For Authority

I don't have it. The first authorities are always parents. The worse they are, the less likely their spawn will be able to respect authority.

I live as lawlessly as I dare, given that I live in a paternalistic, authoritarian, theocratic state. I live at odds with the culture around me and have learned, usually, to live quietly and as invisibly as possible, and to find the other rebels in my neck of the woods. Amazing how many of us there are. Repressive theocracy breeds quiet but passionate rebels.

I do believe we have a great set of rights and obligations set forth in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. But we have a bunch of stupid state and federal laws and statutes that are unconstitutional. Drug laws, for instance. We tolerate a homegrown terrorist organization that escalates from intimidation to murders in the name of protecting a zygote. Potential life trumps the living person. The right-to-lifers are always pro death penalty. And they always claim to be driven by some religious zeal. I've known a lot of people who claim to be christian, but I have known very few who truly lived up to the dogma. Judge not, is a big one. Covetousness is another difficult test for christians. Love thy (strange) neighbor is another problem. There is something in there about the poor, the disabled, the elderly too, I'm sure.

I've done my time searching for a religious fit for myself. Couldn't be done. It started when I was in my teens and ended in my fifties. The best I did was find a congregation and a pastor who spoke to me in many ways that satisfied something in my heart that was mostly about having a sense of community. They were welcoming and kind, generous and accepting. And the pastor was smart. He was an intellectual, an academician, an author, an activist. And yet, a kind and modest man. He walked the walk. It was a predominantly black Baptist church.

The first draw for me was walking past the open front doors on a warm spring day and hearing the sound of a great band and a swinging gospel choir. Hot damn. I'm coming back. Great entertainment for a $5 contribution every sunday at a civilized hour? You can't beat that. Women wearing nice dresses and hats. Oh yes, I could do that. I loved it. It had nothing at all to do with faith or belief. It had everything to do with the collective spirit of those people, the personality of the preacher, the humor in his sermons, the great music, all that kept me coming back. And then I hooked up with one of the nicer looking older bachelors of the congregation.

We became a couple. And then it seemed as if I had an obligation to believe in the dogma. I wrestled with that. The man was a catch. He looked like Morgan Freeman. He was a retired homicide detective. First black homicide detective in Salt Lake. But even retired, he was still a man who represented The Law. He followed The Rules. (Didn't mean I had to) He believed The Dogma. And in order to keep going out with this sexy man I eventually had to choose or admit how damn shallow was my faith in anything or anyone.

I did get baptized. But in my interview with the pastor, I said I believed anything was possible and that no religion was THE ONE TRUE religion. He let me skate on that, but talked obliquely about the foolish belief that Christ is not the One True Savior in next Sunday's sermon. Even so, even with the disclaimer, they dunked me. It didn't change a thing in me. I was still the same old skeptic. Still the same old pot smoking sinner. Still the passionate supporter of a woman's right to chose, an opponent of the death penalty, the same woman who just couldn't learn to honor her father and her mother.

When the bachelor asked me to marry him and move to Mesquite, Nevada, I bailed. No more church either. It felt like a package deal.

One of the things I learned during that period of time was that white men, even those not in a uniform of authority, find the sight of a black man with a white woman an affront to the laws of nature. And some white men are so insecure that a badge gives them license to commit all kinds of legal and moral offenses just because they wear a badge and carry a gun. So respect for authority does not come easily to those of us who have been abused by authority young and then observed authority break laws every day of our lives. But I'd love to live in a culture where we were all treated equally under the law, and our differences respected. Until then, I'll keep my skepticism and do my smoking at home with the windows closed. And I've given up dating.

I do think it's nice that our first black president has invited his friend the academic, and the cop who arrested this small, elderly black man on the porch of his own home to the White House for a beer. And I'm glad he called the behavior of the policeman who arrested his friend "stupid." It has started the conversation going again. Racism is still an issue in this country. Racial profiling is tolerated in every police force in the country. We are a nation of bigots even if unconscious of that bigotry. You probably learned it early at home or in church. Just saying. I guess if you respect the authority that taught you your bigotry and claimed it was your birthright, you just fall in line. And if the Jesus in your picture books is blond and blue eyed, I guess you think he's yours alone.

But if you know that authority isn't right about everything, then you just might turn into a questioning rebel.

It Don't Mean A Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing

"Doo wah doo wah doo wah doo wah doo wah. Makes no difference if it's cool or hot." This song is featured in chapter 20 of the novel, Maggy. It's called "Dancing at the Club."

One More Friend Hits The Wall

One of my informally adopted daughters is terribly ill. In the past week she has been admitted twice to the emergency room at the University Hospital. Neither time did she tell me that she was in trouble. Now that she's home and starting to recover, she called to let me know that there was a problem, but now it's fixed. For the time being. She has Cushing's Disease. It isn't really curable, but it can be treated. Unfortunately, the treatments are drastic and require constant monitoring. She's had so many serious surgeries, that scar tissue is now a problem. Stress is a factor in Cushing's and she has been going through a difficult divorce. I am sick with grief and worry. But there is nothing I can do. She won't let me do anything. I feel so helpless and useless.

Z is having problems with her daughter in law. Z's youngest son, his "wife" and her toddler and their infant had moved into Z's house to take care of her. But the daughter in law does not help. Yesterday when I called Z, she was doing laundry and cleaning the refrigerator. I asked her why she was out of bed and doing these things. She said she couldn't take the mess any longer. The fridge was stinking and she was in need of clean clothes. She also said the kitchen floor was so dirty she couldn't stand it. Today she tells me they are moving out soon. That was not the commitment they made with her. This is a drastic change of plans.

I feel useless and furious, and terribly scared. There are so few people I'm really close to, and these are two of the most important to me. I can't go to Z's house and muscle my way in to clean and do laundry. So to deal with my fear and worry I'll clean my own house.

Saturday Song

The Novel Is Back Online

There are forty nine chapters in the novel Maggy. I now have thirty eight posted and will finish the rest of them today. I'm not sure why it's taken so long to repost them. Probably has something to do with the disappointment that Amazon didn't pick it as one of the finalist is their Breakthrough Novel Contest. I really need to toughen up when it comes to rejection. Otherwise I'll stop trying. I believe that this book is well written and worth reading. I know some of you have read it and left comments. And it's your comments that lead me to the conclusion that this book has several universal themes running through it. Most pointedly, it's the difficult relationship between mother and daughter that seems to strike a chord with a lot of you.

If you are new to my blog since I took it off the site, last January, the book will be new to you. I hope you will read it and leave comments. They are the bread crumbs that lead a writer to the final edit. It was the comments from MrMacrum, who left such sensitive and honest notes on every chapter he read, that made him the prefect editor for me. He was kind enough to do a very close edit on the first three chapters, which made up the bulk of my submission package. Thank you again, MrMacrum. I used every suggestion you made.

So now I will take the time to post the last twelve chapters. Sorry for my absence at your place lately. I have been pulled away from the blog this summer. At some point I will return to it as if it were my full time job. And then you'll wish I'd find something to do besides bug you with impertinent, cheeky comments.

Thursday Matinee Movie

Public Enemies is the movies today. I'm amazed how long it's been since Nick and I've had a Matinee Movie date. Z's situation has so completely taken over the time I would have spent with anyone else. So Nick and I missed my birthday. We were going to do lunch and a movie. There are several new restaurants in my neighborhood. A couple of them are getting rave reviews. Soon that will be on the agenda. But today it's just a matinee. The thing I'm looking forward to more than anything is conversation with Nick and the air conditioned theater. It's really hot in Salt Lake. It's going to get up to 100 today. On my porch it'll be 125.

Let This Be A Warning To You

My friend Z is doing amazingly well, considering. She is complying with her oncologists. But now that the radiation is burning her throat, and the chemo is making her queazy, the doctors are prescribing drugs that will alleaviate these problems. But Z doesn't believe in Western medicine and when it came time to sign up for Medicare she assumed that she would never get sick enough to ever need the part A, B and D of Medicare coverage. Now she needs them all and the enrollment period won't come around again until November. It is part D that would have paid for her drugs. It is part D that would make a drug that costs $150 at most $3.50. I audibly gasped when she told me that she didn't have part D. I couldn't help myself. I said, "But you need part D." She was furious and shouted, "Don't tell me what I should have done. That doesn't help me now." And of course she's right. Now that it's too late, it doesn't help to tell her what she should have done.

If you're healthy, you never think you're going to need insurance and prescription drug coverage. And if you're young you never think your going to get ill. But everyone needs insurance. That is why the healthcare debate is so terribly important. We need a public option. Please call your Congressional Representative and lobby for a public option for healthcare. We need you healthy. We need you paying attention to the issues that will make a difference in all our lives.

We are not allowed to drive a car without insurance and we don't think twice about that. But we are so careless when it comes to insurance for our own health. It should be mandatory that everyone is covered with health insurance.

Procrastination

I've quit procrastinating. Yes, you heard that right. I didn't put off quitting procrastinating until tomorrow though I could have. Technically I did finish on time if you live in the mountain time zone like I do. I actually posted the first three chapters of the novel, Maggy. The rest of the chapters are ready to go up, but I'll put them up later.

I Cut My Hair All By Myself

Yesterday when I got home from picking Z up, I wet my head and cut my hair. It took fifteen minutes to go from shoulder length to short. It's going to take a little snip here and snip there, but for the most part I'm happy with it, and I saved myself at least $40.00. So now all I have to do in the morning (11:00 AM for me) is wet my head and finger comb it.

I have to grocery shop and do laundry today. Then I swear I'm going to edit two chapters of the novel and start posting it again. I know you've heard that before, but this time I mean it.

Healing in the Time of Z

Z is chipper and upbeat. I picked her up at 12:30 at Huntsman. She'd just had two hours of chemo and she's chipper. She likes my Pucci top and asked me to take her shopping soon. I'm almost dumb struck. This is something I would never have predicted, but she has nothing but good things to say about her new internist, and the lovely people who are taking her through this Western medicine miracle. Maybe it's all the good vibes you send her way, but whatever it is, it's working.

She is wanting outings. She is looking ahead, toward winter and travel. She talks about the lovely view from the Huntsman rotunda, the cool breeze coming down the canyon on another hot day. I savor every second I spend with her, but today was one of the best. She wanted to stop at a little Mexican drive-through and pick up a cheese enchilada, a side of beans, and a flan. Wow! I got take-out too. Yes, I love cheap Mexican food. I take her home to eat her lunch and off I go to run some errands. Everything is nice today. It's all good. Is this me talking?

This Always Reminds Me of My First Love, My Last Love

He used to play this as an exercise, a practice piece, and it was always gorgeous. Watch the fingering. It's quite erotic to me.

Sundays were often spent doing nothing but practice for Tom and slow domesticity for me.
I think he has a new love. I hope so. He's happiest with an audience of one.

Yes, You Heard It Here; It's All About Me

Two of my very close girlfriends are dying. One fast, one slow. Yes, I know, we're all dying slowly, but MS isn't the usual slow kind of death the rest of us are experiencing, it's a slow agonizing loss of everything but the clear thinking functioning brain that notices all the rest of the profound loss that's taking place quite rapidly. Her diagnosis was the first blow. I was able to help her in small ways in the beginning, since I had gone through the disability hoops and knew the ropes. Trust me, it gave me no pleasure to be this particular kind of help to her. Yes, I'm glad there was something I could do for her, but her diagnosis was an agonizing death sentence with a long time locked up and waiting. It wasn't long after this diagnosis, her loss of the ability to work anymore, that her only child, her son, was stabbed to death in a downtown park. He was going to be her rock, her caregiver. He and his lovely wife were going to make her final long demise less painful. His death was not the first nail in her coffin, it was close to a stake in her heart. I don't know how she survived that loss, but she has always been one very tough cookie.

She was Salt Lake's own version of "The Devil Wears Prada." She was the fashion coordinator at Nordstrom when we were Salt Lake's version of the Fashion Police. It was her great taste and exacting standards that scared us all half to death and kept us always on our toes. I was her assistant. It was her direction and fabulous taste the determined my choices. She did the decision making on all the really big fashion shows. She hired temporary help to pull the clothes and accessories for those gigantic shows and extra help with the fittings. And then there were the terrifying rehearsals at 5 AM. And because of her, my modeling career took off in my late forties and into my mid fifties. Who would have ever imagined that there would be a market for old models? But it was a time of enormous change in the fashion industry. We hired plus-sized models, we hired petite models. It had never been done before. We were trail blazers, pioneers in the fashion industry. And she was our leader. This probably bores you silly if you aren't a fashionista, but it was our lives. Even if what you do is essentially silly, if you do it really well, it can be quite spectacular.

I called her today. It's been a couple of years since her diagnosis of MS, maybe more. And when she got the diagnosis, she'd been ill for a long time. So how long does it take for MS to kill you? When we talked today, she said she was no longer able to walk without a walker. She takes handfuls of drugs to keep her from having spasms and cramping and uncontrolled twitching. Not fun drugs. Not like the good old days, when we partied at the New Yorker. Not like the time she visited Tom and me in Santa Barbara. We were the only two women working at Nordstrom who didn't hide our cigarette smoking. We wore red lipstick and ran in high heels as effortlessly as breathing. Now breathing isn't effortless for her and it has nothing at all to do with smoking.

Z on the other hand never was a cigarette smoker. She didn't care about fashion. She lived for her children and lived the clean and very wholesome life of a woman with a real spiritual belief. I can hear you thinking "What did she ever see in you?" I realize I have made light of her need to believe in homeopathy and Chinese Herbs and acupuncture and a very pure vegetarianism to treat her symptoms for years. But I was desperate for her to fight fiercely to live. So now she's finally given in and like a very good patient is going for her radiation treatments and chemo therapy. But her odds are not good. If I had her cancer, I'd be putting notes on the very good jewelry and nice pieces of furniture so there'd be no bickering about who gets what when I'm gone.

The bottom line for me is that I never was a girl to surround myself with lots of close friends. I could hardly stand anybody. But I grew to love these two women who seem to have nothing in common. Without them I'll be lost. I cannot even imagine a life without them. We had all taken it for granted that I'd die first. Be careful what you take for granted. You may not get what you expected. But what you do get will test you. It will hurt so much you'll think it just might kill you. But it won't. That's the problem. You might end up the last one standing.

Man Walks On Moon (Deadwood Style)

Oh, if only the story had been reported this way: Deadwood Style.

Thanks Sitenoise, thanks. I need all the laughs I can get.

Simple Gifts in Honor Of Walter Cronkite

Walter Cronkite Dies Today

This may be the last serious broadcast journalist. It was at the end of his on air career that networks started demanding that the news had to make money. No longer would we get the news we needed to know, now we would get the news we wanted to know.

It's Too Damn Hot

An hour ago it was 123 degrees in the sun on my porch. The temperature in the house is holding at 83, but to me that's starting to feel hot. There isn't a bit of moisture in the air. So the swamp-cooler is doing it's job, but barely. I've just resorted to turning on the outside water, waiting the couple of minutes it takes to flush out the hot water from the hose and soaking the swamp-cooler pads to get a little extra cool moist air in the house. But damn, it's hot. 99 in the shade at 4 PM. It will be this way for weeks at least. Could be this way a month or more. I guess this is payback for that long, cool, wet Spring.

But now, it's just to damn hot for anything.

Morning's Not For Me

I wake up like a person who needs to know how to do everything again for the first time. Like walk. I stagger and weave in the morning as I make my way to the crapper. My brain doesn't work and usually actually hurts. My eyes won't focus. I've tried to write a brief answer to a comment on the blog before I've been up at least an hour and my fingers just do not work. Like little clubs with no memory of the keyboard. I hate mornings. I always have.

My mother claimed I was born a night person. She was always a morning person, so this was just one more way in which I was defective. But her assertion that fresh out of the womb I wanted to sleep in and stay up all night rings very true. I've had jobs that required 5 AM call times. The best thing for me to do was sleep most of the prior day, then just wake up in the late evening and then my call time would be at a reasonable hour, still part of the night.

I was an assistant to the fashion coordinator at Nordstrom in Salt Lake and Nordstrom likes to have very early morning meetings for management. I can remember driving down Emigration canyon road at 6 AM and not gaining consciousness until pulling into the parking garage. I call this sleep driving. I was completely on autopilot during all those early morning drives down that narrow, steep, winding canyon road. I know I drove the road asleep and speeding.

Now some jackass is calling me every morning at 8:01. This would be great if I really needed a wake-up call, but it's torture since I stayed up till 3 Am the night before. That is my normal bedtime. I know it's wrong to the rest of you that I have the luxury of living my life according to my own biorhythms, but that's the only good thing about being disabled--that and Medicare coverage.

So today I plan to make some phone calls. I will reregister with the Do Not Call Registry. That won't stop this asshole, but it's a start. I'm getting too many solicitations everyday and it isn't all that much fun fucking with the poor schmucks who need that work. The Diabetes Association has stopped calling me, but the person who is calling me is, I'm pretty sure the person who first called me for the Diabetes Association and got the angry bear that is me in the morning and decided it was fun to wake me up. Now I'll start disconnecting my phone at night.

A Poem For JoJo and Scarlet

We are sisters under the skin
We are not just invisible women
We are members of a tribe of knife wielding women
Fierce in our understanding of trust and what it doesn't mean
Betrayal becomes the thing we do to keep from ever being left again
Or vulnerable or lost or used again and tossed away like a used condom
Like the scalpel, like the stirrups, like the old man looking who says
"Mind if I give it a go?"

Responding to a Tisking

Darkblack darling, I didn't buy rum at the Utah State Liquor store today because I'm well stocked in rum. I also have odd things like a fifth of Pernod, a couple of inches left in a bottle of Wild Turkey Liqueur regifted to me by a man who obviously didn't think much of me because he obviously hated it. I offered him a glass every time I saw him. (I had a girlfriend in my modeling group of friends who was an alcoholic. She is probably the one who consumed the better part of this vile concoction when I ran out of everything else.) The only use I've ever found for it is in a barbeque sauce. I have things like vermouth for Martinis and Schnapps for hot chocolate. I have Sweet n Sour for Whiskey Sours. I have cocktail onions for Gibsons. I have olives for Martinis. I make a great Dirty Martini or a great Dry Martini. I can make a very fine Old Fashioned. I even have the right glasses for most things. But in the olden days when I drank, I liked my George Dickle neat. I liked my Laphroaig neat. I liked my Bombay Saphire Martinis straight up with two olives. And the best Old Fashioned I ever had was served to me in the bar of the Miramir hotel on the ocean side as you're driving into Santa Barbara from LA just before you get to Montecito.

I was trained by a mixologist named Bill Bailey. I was replacing him. He was retiring as head bartender at a little French restaurant and great piano bar in, of all places, Springfield, Mo. He was an exacting teacher. I could free pour a jigger of anything without measuring it. And I memorized his recipes. I still have my jigger, though I still don't need to use it. I have a shaker, a pourer, a waiter's pal, I can open a bottle of wine the old fashioned way. So when you come to visit me, know that I'll mix you a very nice cocktail or share a very good smoke. One could say I'm an enabler. I like to think of myself as hospitable. So when are you coming?

My Girlfriend Knows How To Do Lunch My Way

First we got the little dogs together for some exhausting sex. I keep trying to take pictures of this fun, but they are so athletic in their amore that all I get is a brown and black blur. They are now developing a new language of love--songs that are increasingly multi-tonal. I need to find out how to use the video camera part of my big fancy digital camera. One of the very funny things they do is whirl in a circle attached to one another's ears. Then Marley grabs one of her many bedraggled Mr Doodies and cuddles him as Segundo humps her from behind. Their special threesome. Then Marley chases him around the yard at breakneck speed until he gives up and hides in the vinca for a minute. When he reappears she runs at him full speed and tackles him. You can actually hear it when she knocks the wind out of him. If he seems to be slowing down, she throws herself down, spreads her legs and rolls her eyes at him. This never fails to work. I'm taking notes.

My friend T. brings the hubby's really good weed and we get very blasted before we leave on our appointed rounds. She tosses back a couple of beers and we're on our way. First stop is The Grove Market where we are looking for Roland's Pineapple chili sauce. No luck, but they're willing to order it for us. Then we hit the Utah State Liquor Store where I buy bourbon, gin and vodka. I don't drink, but I am a very good hostess. Then we head for the Utah State Wine Store where I buy a bottle of Rainwater Madeira, and a bottle of Sandman medium dry sherry. I am now stocked for the rest of the year. Probably several years in the Sherry department. I keep beer in my fridge for her, as her husband is a controlling prick (my words not hers) and counts her empties. I tell her to start counting the pipes he sucks away of the real expensive smoke, but she thinks it's all so petty, she won't tell him to go fuck himself with the beer counting. She may drink a lot of beer, but she always looks and sounds quite sober, but exceptionally fun and funny. So I keep beer here for her, and she brings Segundo over for sex with Marley. Works for me.

Our last stop before the restaurant was the smoke shop by the American Legion Hall. I buy the occasional carton of Carlton Menthol 100s there. Only good smoke shops carry them. They are expensive but very satisfying. While she sits in the car and has another beer, I stand in front of the smoke shop and smoke. Then we're off to La Macarena Cafe in Ivy Place shopping mall. It's the only Mexican restaurant I ever want to go to. The food is great and inexpensive. There is never another gringo in the place. Everyone in the place is speaking Spanish. The TV is on a Mexican soap opera. I feel like I'm on vacation. Oh there are some very well reviewed Mexican restaurants in town, but they're full of white people eating very expensive Americanized Mexican food. Fuck that! I want the food Mexicans love. So it's always La Macarena for us. So far we have kept La Macarena a secret, but if I have Salt Lake readers I've blown that now. We eat a leisurely late lunch. I always have the combo with two Chiles Riellenos, beans, rice, and guacamole. We pound back their chips and salsa. The chips are made there and taste like no other. The salsa is fresh and hot. Ummm. T. drinks a beer, I drink ice cold water. We eat until we're about to bust and then we come home about 5:00, and I plop down on my bed for some serious news watching. I taped CSpan's coverage of the Sotomayor hearings. First Pat, then Keith, then Rachel, then a peaceful evening of CSpan and the remote in my hand. I think I'm turning into a guy. Oh, I forgot. I'd be watching porno this evening if I were a guy living alone, doing what I rally want to do.

Sorry, no photos. I forgot to take my camera. Next time. I promise.

I'm Going Out for a Fun Time

I have a lunch date with a girlfriend. I'm thrilled to be leaving my house for an afternoon of fun. I'm taking my camera so there will be photos later. I get to choose the restaurant. We're also hitting the smoke shop and the liquor store. No, Randal, not a stick up. Just shopping. I'll be back later and I'll fill you in on what I consider a real good time.

Z Is Feeling Better

Z had her first chemo treatment Monday. I was scheduled to pick her up at 2:30 but she called at 2:00 to tell me to pick her up at 4:30. Just as I was looking for my keys, she called again to tell me she wouldn't be finished until 5:30 and her youngest son would be off work and able to pick her up. She sounded very tired and very impatient.

This morning I called her when I got up to find out if there was a schedule for today that I needed to be ready for. She sounded strong and bright. She said she was feeling much better today. I am amazed and ask her a couple of questions about the chemo. She says, she loves her assigned nurse. Aside from being boring, it wasn't that bad. She says their old family friend J will take her to all her radiation treatments. And all she'll need me for is to pick her up from chemo, one day a week. I'm amazed and relieved and so happy to hear her feeling alive again.

Now I have a crashing stress release headache. I know, it doesn't sound fair, but I'm so relieved I've been giddy all day. I tweeted throughout the Sotomayer testimony today on CSpan. I have eaten sensibly so far, but there is still a bit of cake and plenty ice cream.

Dear Diabetes Association

You are now trying to raise money for your very fine association by calling people on the phone. I'm sure the Diabetes Association does great things with the money you raise, but you have some stupid little pissant who, after waking me up at 8:01 AM on last Thrusday morning, much to my displeasure, has decided to wake me up every morning at 8:01 AM. The number this immature cretin is calling from is 703-398-0004. I'm sure this kind of behavior from your telephone solicitors is not what you encourage nor condone. But since you've had the poor judgement to hire someone who is stupid enough to engage in this behavior, I will cease to contribute to the National Diabetes Association.

I have called the number back to have my number removed from your call list but have been informed that it may take up to a 30 days for my number to actually be removed from your call list. So every morning I get another wake-up call will be one more year I stop giving my $25 contribution to your organization. If it takes 30 days that's $750 you will not receive from me. If this childish asshole is doing this to anyone else besides me, you may be losing a great deal more than my $750.

I'm on the National Do Not Call Registry. I have never responded well to telephone solicitations. I respond especially poorly to ones that wake me up when I could sleep in just 30 minutes more. So stop calling me. I don't know the cost benefit ratio on phone calls versus mailings. But if a respected and worthy cause such as finding a cure for diabetes sends me a mailing with an envelope in which to send back my contribution, I am far more likely to respond with a contribution than I am if I'm awakened by some immature crank like the one calling me first thing every morning. I'm sure it's gratifying to know your call staff is getting to work right on time, but not everyone is thrilled to get an early call. And though I do not reach thousands of people every day, twitter does. I will be tweeting this message. It has not been a pleasure doing business with you. I will now start searching for a better charity to send my $750 to. Have a nice day.

Fuck You Very Much, Republicans

Thanks Ghost! I needed this! I've been taping news shows and rewatching them. Twittering and watching CSpan. My rage is mounting as my diet deteriorates. It's a stress thing. I've missed you. I guess when I start wallowing in the very personal as I distract myself with obsessive news watching, you chose to take a vacation. Well, I'm still keeping an eye on Congress and it's making me crazy. That and other things. But I missed this song in my little messy world. I'm glad you're back. I haven't been getting out much.

The Miracle Stress Diet

I'm experiencing an amazing amount of stress for reasons you probably know better than you'd ever want to know and for that I apologize. But for some reason unknown to me my usual good eating habits have gone the way of my once good figure. But now, when I'm forgetting to eat anything before 4 PM, when I'm on my way home from Z's or am running errands, desperately trying to get them done and return home as fast as possible, I crave cake and ice cream. Yes, Doctor Zaius, I'm on the cake and ice cream diet and losing weight. Last night I made carrot cake and when I woke up this morning discovered that I had not just dreamed I ate half a quart of vanilla ice cream and half a warm carrot cake. Now I'll take a vitamin pill, a couple of fish oil capsules and finish off that cake while it's still fresh. The ice cream layered between slices of carrot cake makes the whole thing a healthy treat and not just debauchery. I've lost five pounds in three weeks on this diet. I do vary the type of cake and the flavor of ice cream. I highly recommend this diet. When I fall asleep it's like slipping into a nice warm coma on a cool night.

Watching The Sotomayor Hearings

I will be glued to CSpan today and for the next few days watching the Sotomayor confirmation hearings. I can remember all the past hearings of my adult life. There is very little is more compelling than these hearings. If you doubt this, find a way to go back in time to the hearings dominated by Anita Rice's testemony. I always have a hard time remembering Clarence Thomas's name because he was so over shadowed by Rice's testimony. I hated Arlin Spector . He was the chairman of that hearing. My hatred of Spector has cooled a bit over the years but not enough to forget how dismissive he was of Anita Rice, a woman who would have been a much better nominee than Thomas.

These hearings will be punctuated by my trips to Z's to take and pick her up from chemo. Yes, she has agreed to chemo. I would not have put money on the bet that she would go with the advise of Dr Ackerly. She hates him and thinks he's an arrogant asshole who doesn't care about her, the very individual, special, delicate her. No he cares about curing her cancer. That's what matters to me. I'm very happy that she has finally realized her life is on the line, and she is willing to really fight for it.

Annie Lennox

I can't embed this clip so I'll just have to give you this link, precious.

TheMom Gives Prizes Again

I hardly think of myself as a real blogger right now. I've been terrible about visiting other bloggers since I've been a bit preoccupied. I apologize to all of you. I hope things will get better for my friend soon, but I'm afraid it may be awhile yet. So please bear with me while I provide transportation and fattening food and other little things to the woman who got me through my last psychosis. It's the least I can do.

When I started blogging I wrote mostly about politics. I'd still like to be writing about politics but my friend's battle with cancer is consuming all my attention and energy. I have been paying attention to the one issue that matters most to me, and that's the healthcare debate. If you haven't called your elected representatives, please do. If we'd had a public option for health care my friends cancer would have been caught much earlier giving her a must better chance at survival. Her doctor kept ordering tests several years ago when the doctor first suspected cancer, but the tests were so expensive, and my friend didn't have insurance. She worked for a small law firm that provided no health insurance and she didn't make enough money to buy private insurance, so now it may be too late. Please sign the petition that you see posted on my sideboard. And thank you for keeping me on your radar while I'm absent from your place. One of these days I'll be back to pestering you in your comments thread. Till then, put a little white light around my friend Z.

Thank you TheMom, also know as the Attentive Aphorist. You're a great friend yourself.

Candide, The Overture

A Little Something To Think About Sunday Morning

And I've always loved Liv Ullmann.

Whistling While We Work To The Old Folks Boogie

Cleaning at Z's

I'm off to carry my lovely little French canister vacuum cleaner to Z's to do some sprucing up of her small room. We'll clean the last closet, and reorganize her desk beside her bed. Children with children of their own can't seem get to these personal tasks.

I'll be back later and will either collapse onto my bed and drift into a dreamless sleep or write something or come visiting at your place. I will not be bringing my French vacuum cleaner to your place, so don't ask.