Paul Krugman Is Worried, So Am I

By PAUL KRUGMAN
Published: December 28, 2008

...as Washington tries to rescue the economy, the nation will be reeling from the actions of 50 Herbert Hoovers — state governors who are slashing spending in a time of recession, often at the expense both of their most vulnerable constituents and of the nation’s economic future.

These state-level cutbacks range from small acts of cruelty to giant acts of panic — from cuts in South Carolina’s juvenile justice program, which will force young offenders out of group homes and into prison, to the decision by a committee that manages California state spending to halt all construction outlays for six months.

Now, state governors aren’t stupid (not all of them, anyway). They’re cutting back because they have to — because they’re caught in a fiscal trap. But let’s step back for a moment and contemplate just how crazy it is, from a national point of view, to be cutting public services and public investment right now.

Think about it: is America — not state governments, but the nation as a whole — less able to afford help to troubled teens, medical care for families, or repairs to decaying roads and bridges than it was one or two years ago? Of course not. Our capacity hasn’t been diminished; our workers haven’t lost their skills; our technological know-how is intact. Why can’t we keep doing good things?

It’s true that the economy is currently shrinking. But that’s the result of a slump in private spending. It makes no sense to add to the problem by cutting public spending, too.

In fact, the true cost of government programs, especially public investment, is much lower now than in more prosperous times. When the economy is booming, public investment competes with the private sector for scarce resources — for skilled construction workers, for capital. But right now many of the workers employed on infrastructure projects would otherwise be unemployed, and the money borrowed to pay for these projects would otherwise sit idle.

And shredding the social safety net at a moment when many more Americans need help isn’t just cruel. It adds to the sense of insecurity that is one important factor driving the economy down.

So why are we doing this to ourselves?

The answer, of course, is that state and local government revenues are plunging along with the economy — and unlike the federal government, lower-level governments can’t borrow their way through the crisis. Partly that’s because these governments, unlike the feds, are subject to balanced-budget rules. But even if they weren’t, running temporary deficits would be difficult. Investors, driven by fear, are refusing to buy anything except federal debt, and those states that can borrow at all are being forced to pay punitive interest rates.

Are governors responsible for their own predicament? To some extent. Arnold Schwarzenegger, in particular, deserves some jeers. He became governor in the first place because voters were outraged over his predecessor’s budget problems, but he did nothing to secure the state’s fiscal future — and he now faces a projected budget deficit bigger than the one that did in Gray Davis.

But even the best-run states are in deep trouble. Anyway, we shouldn’t punish our fellow citizens and our economy to spite a few local politicians.

What can be done? Ted Strickland, the governor of Ohio, is pushing for federal aid to the states on three fronts: help for the neediest, in the form of funding for food stamps and Medicaid; federal funding of state- and local-level infrastructure projects; and federal aid to education. That sounds right — and if the numbers Mr. Strickland proposes are huge, so is the crisis.

And once the crisis is behind us, we should rethink the way we pay for key public services.

As a nation, we don’t believe that our fellow citizens should go without essential health care. Why, then, does a large share of funding for Medicaid come from state governments, which are forced to cut the program precisely when it’s needed most?

An educated population is a national resource. Why, then, is basic education mainly paid for by local governments, which are forced to neglect the next generation every time the economy hits a rough patch?

And why should investments in infrastructure, which will serve the nation for decades, be at the mercy of short-run fluctuations in local budgets?

That’s for later. The priority right now is to fight off the attack of the 50 Herbert Hoovers, and make sure that the fiscal problems of the states don’t make the economic crisis even worse. »

Bush Finds New Ways to Ruin The Government on His Way Out the Door

Keep a close watch on the seemingly "small" things George "Wrecking-ball" Bush is doing as he gives us the finger on the way out the door. He's given our newly elected President Barack Obama and family the finger by refusing to let them move into Blair House during the transition, because some out of office jackass from Australia will be in town on the 15th go get one of Bush's medals of moral turpitude and stupidity or something. So the new President and his family are staying in a hotel. It's merely a slap in the face to the Obama's and we who elected him in overwhelming numbers, but take a listen to the other little goodies he's implementing on the way out of town. These are going to be difficult to undo. So listen and learn, because we'll need to be very smart to fix this cluster fuck.

I'm Sick, But Harry Reid is a Moron

I have an upper respiratory infection that seems better in the daytime and worse at night. Since I already had an appointment scheduled with my doctor to test my clotting factor, I called in Monday to let her know I might need a little more of her time. I'm having trouble sleeping--I wake up gasping for air with coughing fits. I needed a breathing treatment, plus a hefty dose of Prednisone for the next four days along with a Z-Pack. I should be better by Monday. If so, no more Prednisone; if not, I'll taper off the Prednisone gradually. My doctor says she's seeing so much of this infection in her older patients who wait too long to call in, and then end up in the hospital with pneumonia. So, caught early and treated, I should be fine, fast.


Harry Reid's problems are not so easily fixed. Reid is so annoyingly stupid we must find someone with a brain and a less annoying affect to be the Majority Leader of the Senate. Move over Harry, you're too dumb to lead anything. Yes, I know Blago offends us all, but he did one very smart thing in picking Roland Burris to fill Obama's vacant Senate seat.



Burris is qualified to fill the seat and he may be the only Chicago politician who could stand the scrutiny. He is not wealthy enough nor influential enough to buy the appointment, and he is a nice, charming, well spoken... Bla, bla, bla. Yes, Harry Reid has met with Burris and has pronounce him "a nice, charming, well spoken..." "Clean?" was clean the word you were looking for Harry? Yes, the photo ops abound today, more on that tomorrow. But really, Harry, when you put me to sleep while talking to David Gregory on Meet the Press, you're one very dull bit of Milk Toast. Milk-Toast Harry, the Mormon Male, it's time to move over.

I'm Sick, Can You Tell?

Blogging-- One Year and 601 Posts Later

Oh yes I did. Six hundred and one posts in one year. I moved into the little house as a way to simplify my life and live in a space I designed and felt was really mine. It's small, and if I were not so damn averse to the domestic arts, would be a breeze to keep spotless. I was trying to finish a novel I started thirty years ago. I wanted solitude and no distractions. So I moved in with my nineteen year old cat and my ten year old dog. It's very quiet back here. I have my own garden, the gazebo, a private driveway and it's gated. There's even a tennis court across the alley, and if I wanted to, I have permission to use it. My place is posted with "Beware of Dog" signs. No one comes back here uninvited, except Melea. The dogs are serious.

I have a friend in Portland, Larry, (actually he was my very first boyfriend) who said he'd help me do a final edit. When I got ready to send him chunks of the book, our computers were incompatible. I worked on a Dell PC in Word, he worked on a Mac and I didn't know how to convert what I worked on, into something he would be able to read, and he didn't know how either. That's where the charming, capable, and very talented Phillip, of Sitenoise, came into my life. I still have trouble with the lingo. I think it's possible that at least once a week I embarrass or irritate Phillip in one way or another, and yet he keeps talking to me. I could be paranoid, but then again, maybe not. Larry and Phillip were friends, and Phillip was the one who helped Larry (who is also a writer) when he needed technical help now and then. Larry had the nerve to ask Phillip to help me. I often wonder if he regrets the decision to help me out. Because here we are a year and a half later, and now we're linked, publicly.

I'm not sure I've ever met a more generous man than Phillip. If you're Phillip's friend, you're damn lucky. He's smart. He's funny. He can write really well, and does. And he's a patient and persistent teacher. The things I have learned in this short time amaze me every day. I would never have made the attempt to do this without his help. And one of the things he insisted would make a big difference in my writing experience was to get me on a Mac. I love my IMac. It was my last big splurge. Phillip picked the goodies I might need to make my writing life easier. He gave me music files and other goodies. I have the world at my finger tips thanks to Phillips guidance.

Young friends who live in New York were visiting in Salt Lake a year ago and insisted, after reading a small inflammatory opinion piece of mine, that I blog. That's where the 'splaining came into it. Web log eh? So in seconds, David had set up a blogger account for me and we'd given me a name. I was in business. And politics was getting interesting. So here I am, one year later. And though I write about a lot of things, politics is at the heart of it all. Because I believe that everything is political. Everything.

And I'm ready to step it up a notch. I will, of course, need Phillips help. But there's no need to rush into anything. I'm seeing things here and there at your places and I want them too. Oh yes, now I want it all. I want to win a writing contest again. I want to publish at least a story. I'd love nothing more on earth than to publish the novel. And yet, I still haven't made those last few changes, those copy edit niceties like spelling things right. Many of you have helped me there. Thanks. Keep it coming. I owe thanks to so many of you. You are a very generous and kind bunch of people. Diverse, far flung and engaging. My virtual family.

Maybe, like Lisa, the blogger formerly known as Dcup, I'll have a coming out party. Oh, not that kind. I mean write as Peggy and not hide behind the savage exterior. I can hang onto Savage--it is a family name.

Barack Obama, The Most Elegant Man In America (My first post with an enthusiastic one word comment)

The first time I saw him deliver a speech he moved across the stage with a grace and elegance I haven’t seen on stage since Fred Astaire. If you’re under the age of sixty you probably won’t get this reference at all, but the man was it. His career spanned sixty something years. He danced, he sang, he moved with such effortless grace. He was the most influential dancer/choreographer of the twentieth century according to George Balanchine and Rudolph Nureyev . Look him up on Wiki or rent some old Musicals and watch the man move. Forget the funny clothes. I know black and white film is a distraction, but take a look. Fred Astaire could be an ancestor of Barack Obama. Neither man is really pretty, but they both have that long-wristed, lean body that seems to always be slow dancing. And clothes hang on him so beautifully. No politician has ever had his slightly slouchy, dancers way of moving across a stage. So just the visual of him is fantastic. But I’m not talking about just the visual.

Barack Obama is an elegant man in every way we experience him—his voice is pleasing to the ear, and his use of language and phrasing makes the most mundane topic sound meaningful. But no matter how serious or important the topic, his voice and delivery are uplifting, soaring. It’s the reason Will I Am from the Black eyed Peas can make a beautiful song out of a victory speech. He is the man with a Dream for this generation. Every speech he gives is an “I had a dream” speech. His name is musical—a little percussion, a lot alliteration. It is exotic to us, so used to names like George, John, Bill—names so blunt and truncated. He does not need to use words like a cudgel to scare us like our current President—so stupid sounding. George Bush has the most tenuous grasp of his native tongue, making almost all words sound ugly. He couldn’t possibly be as stupid and boorish as he sounds, could he? But it is not just the almost eight years of being embarrassed by the speech of our leader that makes the elegance of Barack Obama’s words feel like a drink of cool, fresh water to the thirsty and tired, waiting to be uplifted and inspired, not just scared by threats from the boogieman Bush who uses words so ineptly that his very dumbness scares us.

Barack Obama has a smile that fills our hearts with hope. It light’s up his face, it lifts our spirits. We have been smirked at by a fake cowboy and his truly scary side-kick Darth Vadar glowering in the background. We haven’t pushed for impeachment for the high crimes of George Bush because we don’t want Dick Chenney as our president, not even for a few months. He really could finish the job Bush started and suspend the Constitution along with the rest of the Bill of Rights. He has his own personal private army of mercenary thugs called Blackwater.

The world is ready to see us right the ship of state, to elect someone who will not only inspire us, but make us proud of who we are. We will all be made more elegant, more eloquent if the leaders of our government set the tone, lead the way. We will again be seen around the world as a beacon of hope, where there is real Liberty and Justice for All. Not just big donors and rich friends. With a little luck and a lot of hard work, we might even get our civil rights back.

The More I See You, The More I Want You

Somehow this feeling just grows and grows.

In all honesty, I don't know how I ever got along without you. So forgive me if I indulge myself in a little more Oscar Peterson playing another great jazz standard. It's written by Harry Warren, lyrics by Mack Gordon and written in 1945, a year after I was born. This is the kind of music I grew up listening to. So it did leave its imprint on me. But since it's my preparation for my blogaversary, you'll just have to indulge me or ignore me, but I'm having fun.

As I Contemplate My First Year of Blogging

While I try to sum up what this past year has meant to me, my first year as a blogger, I went looking through the archived posts, and saw an unfinished draft here and there. But the one that caught my eye and wouldn't let go, was the one titled Lush Life. It has been lush in a Spartan sort of way. I didn't know what a blog was when I began this a year ago tomorrow. I had no computer skills--I used my computer as a Word Processor and storage space for the novel I was working on. I was often at war with my computer. I thought I hated computers in general. I saw it as a temperamental machine. It pissed me off mightily when it didn't do what I asked or needed it to do. So as I think about this change in my attitude and the change in my life that the blogging experience has been for me, I give you one more of my favorite Jazz performers playing one of my favorite Jazz pieces.

Poetry Monday

Apologies to All the People in Lebanon
by June Jordan

Dedicated to the 60,000 Palestinian men, women, and children who lived in Lebanon from 1948-1983.

I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?

They said you shot the London Ambassador
and when that wasn’t true
they said so
what
They said you shelled their northern villages
and when U.N. forces reported that was not true
because your side of the cease-fire was holding
since more than a year before
they said so
what
They said they wanted simply to carve
a 25 mile buffer zone and then
they ravaged your
water supplies your electricity your
hospitals your schools your highways and byways all
the way north to Beirut because they said this
was their quest for peace
They blew up your homes and demolished the grocery
stores and blocked the Red Cross and took away doctors
to jail and they cluster-bombed girls and boys
whose bodies
swelled purple and black into twice the original size
and tore the buttocks from a four month old baby
and then
they said this was brilliant
military accomplishment and this was done
they said in the name of self-defense they said
that is the noblest concept
of mankind isn’t that obvious?
They said something about never again and then
they made close to one million human beings homeless
in less than three weeks and they killed or maimed
40,000 of your men and your women and your children

But I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?

They said they were victims. They said you were
Arabs.
They called your apartments and gardens guerrilla
strongholds.
They called the screaming devastation
that they created the rubble.
Then they told you to leave, didn’t they?

Didn’t you read the leaflets that they dropped
from their hotshot fighter jets?
They told you to go.
One hundred and thirty-five thousand
Palestinians in Beirut and why
didn’t you take the hint?
Go!
There was the Mediterranean: You
could walk into the water and stay
there.
What was the problem?

I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?

Yes, I did know it was the money I earned as a poet that
paid
for the bombs and the planes and the tanks
that they used to massacre your family

But I am not an evil person
The people of my country aren't so bad

You can expect but so much
from those of us who have to pay taxes and watch
American TV

You see my point;

I’m sorry.
I really am sorry.




Thank you Liberality for posting this so I could "borrow" it.

Suzanne Horne, The Woman Known as Liquid Illusion

This is Suzanne Horne
I did not know Suzanne, but she gave me two awards. I didn't deserve them. She was so beautiful. Her site, Liquid Illusion, was stunningly gorgeous. It was sumptuous. Languid. Lovely. I could have been kinder, more generous, encouraging, but I did not know... And I think I should have.

I have been visiting her vacant, abandoned site obsessively this evening. I go back to look at her loveliness over and over. She was a poet, but I didn't comment often. I admired her, but I did not tell her enough. I know I couldn't have saved her, but I could have been kinder. I could have been generous with my words. She was a very talented photographer. She deserved more of life than this. She killed herself on Christmas Eve. A woman in her prime. Only forty two.

These are her words

Because:
If I have been a bad girl..........
It may well have depended on the situation at hand.
If I have acted out in a bad way......
I'm sure you know the conditions I was forced to act under.
If I was sneaky........
You'll know I had no choice in the matter.
(No rules in love and war, right?)
If I had bad thoughts dancing in my head.........
like really bad thoughts.....
you'll notice I didn't act upon those.
I just allowed them to dance for awhile.
If I was naughty.............
I was good at it.
No complaints.
Just requests for more.
If I seemed cruel and heartless...........
I just evened the score!
If you see me dressed somewhat like you on Christmas Eve.......
Please take no personal offense.
Consider it a "treat" for someone who has been REALLY good.
Oh, and if you saw me dip the cat's feet in red paint and toss her onto the trampoline.....
Well, you've got me there!
Love,
Liquid

These are the words of Suzanne Horne, Liquid Illusion

I'm In a Real Bad Mood

Disorder and freezing rain with a heavy dusting of snow have turned me into one very pissed off woman today. I've put off getting the radiator flushed and refilled with the appropriate antifreeze for my Dodge, which came here from Tucson, where it didn't need antifreeze that covered temperatures below -5, so now I'm fucked. Can't start the car for fear of cracking the block. I only wanted to start the car so I could run the defroster a while and try to soften the sheet of ice in which the whole vehicle is incased. Oh well, I'll be fine for a few days. But damn it's cold, and it's the kind of cold that sets my teeth on edge. All the walkways and driveways are thick with ice and must be salted. This sets the dogs teeth on edge and makes me feel guilty. But I don't want to break my hip, nor have the mail person break his/her hip and sue me, so salt it is.

I know I should eat, but I don't feel like it. I'm not exactly hungry, just running on empty, so eat I must. One bowl of chili later and I'm still pissed off. I have furiously vacuumed the main room, but now the real test is, will I actually go all the way and vacuum the greenhouse/bathroom, and clean everything like my life depended on it? And who knows, maybe it does.

I have stories half finished and languishing here and there all undone. What an untidy life I lead. I have tiny editorial corrections noted and ready to be made on the novel, but for some reason I keep putting it off. Is this my subtle way of sabotaging myself? Because I have very nearly made a career of sabotaging myself. I did it with every relationship I've ever had. Well with men, anyway. This is not to say the men had no part in the sabotaging.

Tom, refusing to read my writing was a big mistake, just in case you were wondering. Pat, sending me an email telling me you read my blog and like my writing, but can't read the novel, just made me hate you more than I already did. If you "can't read (my) novel" best you tell me why, rather than just leave it hanging there. Of course my question would be "why?" Is it the writing? Is it the content? Are you a pussy? A coward? A stupid asshole? Why bother sending me an email at all, if you're just going to insult me one more time? What is it with certain men? And why do I know so many of this certain type of man? Is it the age of these men? Is it generational? Are all the men my generation assholes? Nick seems to be a very nice man, he's smart, kind, generous. But even Nick refuses to read my fiction. This may end up being my bottom line. Can you read my fiction and tell me how you feel about it? If you don't like it, can you tell me why? I know all these men are readers of fiction. Both Tom and Nick have great taste in books. As for Pat, I have no idea about his reading taste.

I know I'm a difficult woman. How could I not be? If you read my fiction, you would know the answer to this question.

Let the Healing Begin

Jib Jab New Year

Presidential Portraits

Paul Krugman Turns Me On Again

Paul Krugman piece in the NY Times just makes me love him more. Sweet talking, Nobel Prize winning, Krugman is hot. And he's a blogger. I know he's too young for me, but still, smart talking men who seem sweet as well as smart, really get to me. Mummm, I love it when you talk smart to me Krugman.

Remember This

Please remember this, this land does not belong to the oil industry, the coal industry, the Bush family, the Chenney family, or any state government. This land is our land. And we have a responsibility to protect it from those who would destroy it for a last minute money grab. There is no clean coal, no clean oil, no drilling that doesn't drastically impact the environment, no mining that doesn't destroy the land and kill the miners. Lest we forget in the waning days of BushCo, This Land is Our Land.

Quackitude

And not just because it's Rachel Maddow, with Robert Redford talking about Utah, but because it MATTERS. We're talking about things, which once done, cannot be undone. Bush is sticking it to us everyday, quietly, in ways we won't feel for decades because we're too busy trying to survive. The thing I hate most about the prolonged "holiday season" is the absence of news. I'm not even getting my daily email updates. No news awaits me in my inbox. God it's boring. But lest we forget, Rachel Maddow will be back and on the job with the Lame Duck Watch.

And When I Die

Just so you know, when I die, you will be the only ones to notice my absence since I seem unable to shut up. Oh, yes there are a few here in the "real" world who might miss me for a moment, but it is you who have paid the most attention to my thoughts, and that means more to me than almost anything. It's you who have given me the confidence to believe, and maybe even know, that I can write. None of the men I have loved and lived with, sadly in some cases even married, have ever read a word I wrote unless it was a letter. Tom's comments on my impassioned letters were, "Nice penmanship." How insulting is that?

But many of you have taken me seriously as a writer. Fancy that. You have allowed me to help start blogs here and there for all of us solitary, unknown writers to write, and receive editorial help, to encourage, and make suggestions. And most importantly to grow and gain confidence.

So you have become a family for me, a woman with no living blood relatives of her own.

Yesterday I posted my blog roll to wish you a Happy New Year. And many of you came to say thanks and Happy New Year, and even offer words of appreciation. What surprised me most was the appreciation of a couple of men I didn't know were paying any attention at all. Dada of Dada's Daily was so lavish in his kind words. I do appreciate it.

But the words of one, thepoetryman, say best exactly what I'd hope I might wish to be, to become. This is the kind of immortality to which I aspire. And were anyone to ever read or speak a eulogy for me, these would be lovely words. So thank you Poetryman. Now I am going to publish on my blog your words without your permission. I hope you'll forgive me. But I want someone to know and remember. To be able to find this archived back at least twenty years and say...
That a Poetry Man said, "Utah,

When the wind has your breath within its throat
And the moon reaches you down within our grasp,
You enter a flame, a glimmering ember, a guide, and
We know you by your friends, whispering who you are.

When the rain drops your laughter upon our gardens
And the snow perches your spirit upon a window sill
Like a songbird warbling of our sloping lives-
We sense you; savage, tender, candid, thoughtful, loved… "

Twenty Days and Counting Down

I don't ever remember looking forward to anything as much as the Inauguration of President Barack Obama. Oh yeah, I have volunteered for other presidential nominees, but this is the first time in my long voting life I've given money on a regular basis, written a letter to my local newspaper (and had it published), walked my neighborhood offering lawn signs and made phone calls throughout the primary. By the time Barack Obama had clinched the nomination my block in Salt Lake City was called Block Obama--a sea of Obama lawn signs on both sides of the street.

My next door neighbor went to the convention. I'm afraid to ask her if she's going to the Inauguration, as I'll turn green with envy, but green is now going to be the fashionable color to wear so...

I've never longed for anything more that I have for this change in our zeitgeist. If we can elect a black president, we can do a great deal more than any of us ever imagined. Even in this time of the worst economy in our history, even in this time of war on two fronts and others threatening, we can reexamine our alliances and reorder our military priorities. And just maybe we can broker peace in the Middle East.

It will take a mighty effort on all our parts to make this happen. Young people will need to really get involved in a big way to make the change possible, but their participation in this past election is a very good sign that they know much will be expected of them. But young and old will need to pull together to turn this ship of state around. And there are obstructionist forces aligned against us in this effort. Nothing short of conversion is going to be needed to convince the right wing religious fundamentalists to join forces with us to make this a country that respects the rights of all.

It will be complicated and challenging to restore our civil rights. But if all of us work together, even when we don't agree on every little detail of what needs changing, maybe we can right the wrongs of the past eight years.

So I am starting the new year in optimism. Call me crazy. You won't be the first. But I am still hopeful.

Utah Savage is Remodeling

If you visit today, you will find that I'm missing some rather big pieces, some things have been moved or lost altogether--shit happens in a remodel. To make matters worse, I woke up sick today. Somehow this first upper-respiratory infection in three years has sucked my brains out. So fixing this may be slow going. I may be down a bit, but I'm far from out. I was planning a party for the new year, but parties are fun even if they don't happen when planned. And especially fun if I don't have to leave home to attend.

The big thing that went missing in the remodel is my blog roll. Without that, I can't come visiting today. So please forgive my absence, I will return. And just in case this is slower going than I'd hoped (isn't it always with a remodel) HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL OF YOU!

Blago's Fucking Chess Club

I've been making an effort to clean up my potty mouth this past six or eight months. My friend, blog-mate, and administrator, Phillip at Sitenoise, has inspired me to try and speak my mind without resorting to the gratuitous F-bomb just because I like the F-bomb. I'm still as foul mouthed as ever in my everyday, solitary, screaming at the TV kind of life. But linguistically speaking, I probably have more in common with Rod Blagojevich, than I'd like to admit. At least we do use the same swear words way too much.

But today Blogo showed us all that he's not only a nasty, swearing prick with bad hair, he is also a master of the down and dirty political chess game. I can imagine Rod, across the table from Fitzgerald. Rod's blowing cigar smoke in Patrick's face, and using fuckity fuck fuck fucks in every sentence, banging the timer at the last second, timing his moves for maximum impact, and in a moment of incredible strategic genius, pulling that wise old shining black knight out of thin air and saying, "Checkmate." And fuck you too Obama, while he's at it.

There are reasons to allow Burris to hold the place, quietly, graciously, while the trial we all know is coming gets in full swing. So far, other than a rather large but seemingly legal campaign contribution to Blago, there doesn't seem to be much to disqualify Burris, and as Burris pointed out in an interview this evening, Blagojevich hasn't been convicted of anything yet (except maybe the gratuitous use of the F-bomb, bad hair and a real hunger for the graft).

But Burris is qualified, and he is black in Obama's state, a state with a large and attentive black population. Burris would fill the Senate seat of the one black Senator now moved on to a much tougher job. I think it's a scandal in itself that there are so few minorities in the Congress.

Harry Reed has said the Senate will not seat a Blagojevich appointment. Since Blagojevich hasn't been convicted of a crime yet, he does have a legal right and responsibility to fill the vacant Senate seat. And he correctly understands that we only have so much time to fuck around with complicated legal wrangling over the Senate's refusal to seat a legally appointed Senator. It's a smooth move from a very slimy operator. What a fuckface!

MOTORHEAD, WHOREHOUSE BLUES

Ghost Dansing almost always picks the song that says something essential about my reasons for avoiding or liking certain things. The minute I followed Ghost's link and heard the first few chords to this song, I said, "yes, that's why I'm staying home."

"

Matinee Movie Tuesday

Well it's that time again. Nick is back in town and we are going to see Slum Dog Millionaire.


And just in case you're reading from your RSS Feed, here is the link

I'll be busy in the morning getting presentable, and then there's the movie, and then I'll need to eat, and then, I read a blog or two, but I will get to you later in the day, so don't think I'm not paying attention, or skipping you. I swear before the year is over I will be by.

Thanks for the suggestion Linda Sama, we're taking your advise.

Thank You Stella for Introducing Me to Carmen Tafolla

How Shall I Tell You?
by Carmen Tafolla


after listening to the world news, the U.S. attack,
on Libya, the Soviet accident at Chernobyl, the
firing in the Persian gulf, and wondering... if...

When no soul walks the softened green
and no foot beats the pulse on crumbling brown
and no one lives to sing to rain
or soak to sun the spirit of its golden gown
to weave the many colors of the after-arch
from sky to human skin to wooded wealth
in fiber fabric beads and tusks and seeds
all leading up in rows of beauty drumbeat to black
neck, like venison in stealth

When no one lulls the child to sleep
or takes the wrinkled story's hand
or listens to the news - a wired sound
of tribe on tribe - stet now - man on man
how shall I tell you that I love you then?
how shall I touch your fingers tip to tip
and say that we were blood and human voice and friend?

Statue of

Statue of
Teeming hordes of hungry
Always wanting just a
Time of rest not waiting
Under suffocated souls
Even scared to breathe too loud

Or ask
Freedom from the

MIGRA who will hunt them down
***

Part Two: I'm Now Going to Talk About the Big O After I (Finally) Got Rid of My Uterus

So, I was at war with my uterus. But life goes on even if you do spend two weeks every month PMSing like crazy and then spending one full week doubled over in agony, bleeding your guts out and hating everybody, cause they look at you sideways at just the wrong moment. Headaches, backaches, teeth grinding, nerves on edge all the damn time. Break through bleeding. I can't blame everthing on my uterus, I was after all married three times, and before and after and even during I had lovers, or so they they'd think they were.

But after the third ex-husband, I ended up, at thirty nine with the man I have referred to as first-love/last-love which I will shorten to FL/LL. He and I had the best of times and the worst of times, but most of the time he was a terrific lover. He was a bit of a show off in the love making department. Which sometimes annoyed me--a virtuoso performance is not always what you want. So the O's were big even when I still had my uterus. I prefer clitoral stimulation to bring me to orgasm without a lot of other stimulation to distract me from that singular pleasure. And it's also true that oral sex is not my favorite thing. Too much stimulation and I can't concentrate, can't turn off my mind. I have been able to orgasm with only two men in my entire life by just plain fucking. Old fashioned fucking. FL/LL was one of them, and the other's name I can't recall. It was a brief relationship shall we say. I sort of gave myself the best going away present when I left Santa Monica in late 1970. I had earlier that year terminated my one and only pregnancy for complicated reasons that will be apparent if you read my novel, Maggy. Suffice it to say, I had my reasons. Bad timing (it was one year pre Roe v Wade), wrong man, false positive VDRL, conceived on LSD--it was a pity fuck (I was on my way out the door) gone wrong. I never regretted the abortion. And so once healed, I gave myself the gift of the sexiest man around for a few days. There is such a thing as good chemistry, and the just right anatomical fit to bring forth a thundering liquefaction of a shuddering melting rippling sensation that starts deep and at the very end leaves the thighs wobbly. Uterine or vaginal? I can't tell. I don't know. Full body, yes. Anything other than old fashioned fucking not needed if everything else is going on for me. Did the man in question know what he was good at? Oh yeah. But that's out of, oh I don't know, maybe thirty men give or take... I have had men work so hard to bring me to orgasm, but I knew fairly early on, it wasn't going to happen. You can just tell these things. I could give all the instruction in the world and it wasn't going to happen. I might have loved the man for a day or two or a year or two, still, not so great the sex even with plenty of guidance.

So I'm living with FL/LL and start bleeding all the time. Once I passed day thirty in the long red flood, I went begging to my gynecologist to please, please remove the damed uterus. I was never ever ever going to have a baby. I heard no ticking of my biological clock. But I did have a breaking point with the bleeding problems and the PMS and the expense and mess, and after the last D&C which didn't stop the bleeding for more than a week, and the tests for hormone levels, which were inconclusive, I finally got the go ahead to take the damned uterus out.

The surgery was hardly a surgery at all. No scar as it was removed vaginally, and they took the cervix as well. I was told that cervical cancer is pretty risky, so why leave it if you don't need it. They did leave my ovaries in case they were still able to produce estrogen. They weren't, so I started having hot flashes fairly soon after the operation. I was put on low dose hormone replacement therapy. It immediately cured the hot flashes and has allowed me to miss almost all the worst of menopause, though I am now very post menopausal in terms of years.

The doctors orders post surgery was six weeks of no sex and taking it easy. I healed perfectly, scarless. And when next FL/LL and I had sex it was maybe the best we ever had, slow, gentle, languid. Abstinence had something to do with it. But also I felt happier more of the time, and no PMS. None. Fewer headaches, and better everything. Might have been all in my head, but I don't think so. I bloomed. I was freer in my sexual skin, more at home in my body. It not only worked as well as before, but somehow better. We had more fun in bed.

I have been asked the question if I felt uterine contractions during orgasm, and the honest to god answer is not really. I have felt pain from pounding penetration that was too deep and pushing on my uterus. I think the physiology of the orgasm for me involves my clitoris, vaginal walls, legs, and the full engagement of my mind. If I'm preoccupied, or overly tired, or worried about any little thing, it won't happen. So for this reason, I loved lazy morning sex best. Before the stress of the day had a chance to fill my head. I liked to take advantage of a morning hard-on.

I have had a three-some that involved a female friend of mine who had the hots for me. It made for great sex, but had terrible consequences for all three of us emotionally. I wanted to see if I was bisexual. Sadly, I'm not, really. But it was a thoughtless, careless way to find that out.

I have found that once you have sex with anyone it changes your relationship in a way that means you can't go back and pretend it didn't happen or that it meant nothing. I do believe that almost all sex has emotional consequences for at least one or the other of you if not both or all three.

I have never for an instant regretted the removal of my uterus, and see? No scar.

But I have had a friend or two who have had a hysterectomy because of some dire medical reason and once it was gone, they have claimed to feel less womanly, less feminine. That was not my experience. Quite the contrary. So you cannot generalize from my experience. Nor can you claim to know for sure how you would feel without a uterus if you still have a uterus. Any questions?

I'm Surprised I Did So Well

-19 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Part One: I'm Now Going to Talk About My Missing Uterus

If this idea is horrifying to you, then now is the time to cover your eyes or run screaming from the room. But a friend of mine, Freida of the Bees, asked me a question in her comments on a recent post of hers, and a hell of a post it is by the way, about the quality of orgasm with a uterus and without a uterus. I'm in one very good position to speak about this, since there has been a before and an after. I have heard women for whom there is not an after or at least not yet, claim some expertise in this area, and I question the claimants credentials here. How can you compare something you have yet to experience from the now you know of? This is, I do believe, the very essence of existentialism.

Anyway, my uterus was always difficult. I started menstruating on the very young side of the young norm for my day and age. I was just barely eleven. And the whole thing was traumatic for a number of reasons not the least of which was that I was not expecting it. If you are curious about my menses inauspicious beginning and the big public deal made of it, and the loss I suffered as a consequence, I will refer you to the Chapter called Too Old in the novel, Maggy, linked for your convenience on my side bar But the upshot of the whole thing was years and years of pain so severe it made me throw up, and have horrible headaches, sensitivity to noise and light, and hemorrhage-like flow. So I did ask for a hysterectomy for my sixteenth birthday. Cheapskates gave me clothes that I hated, of course. I was sixteen after all. What sixteen year old girl in her right mind and rebellious stage ever likes the clothes her parents buy for her? But no way on the hysterectomy. Then my gynecologist prescribed hormones. They helped with the pain, but were not a good thing to have done in the long run. Very high dose of Premarin which cause me to have what the doctors called "break through bleeding." In other words, I bled fifteen days instead of the usual seven. And it was always a hemorrhage that left me with a great deal of embarrassment, ruined clothes, and lost days of work and school.

The dysmenorrhea and heavy bleeding led to D&C after D&C. No known cause. But everyone who treated me assumed, despite my protestations to the contrary, that I would need to keep my uterus as I would one day want children. Oh Yeah? Fat fucking chance!

So with menorrhagia and dysmenorrhea my uterus was making my hellish life worse.

To be continued...

So This Is The Real Me?

The link to this test is in the title

I did read the Ring Trilogy eons ago and loved the books, but hated the movies. Really really hated them. I'm neither a big fan of fantasy or Science Fiction. I think Ray Bradbury was the last SiFi writer I really liked. I read him when I was a kid. I have no real idea who this "me" is, but I'm assuming it/he is the "real me" even if I don't know how. I just take certain things at face value. Not like the falling dollar. I have no idea what that poor devalued currency is worth these days. It sure doesn't buy much anymore.

A naturally skilled companion to those around you, you earnestly use your prowess out of concern to those you care about.

This forest is old. Very old. Full of memory... and anger.

Legolas is a character from the Middle-Earth universe. A biography is available at Aliases: Greenleaf
Date of Birth: ?
Race: Sindarin Elf
Height: around 6 feet or more
Date of Death: N/A
Alignment: Good
Parents: Thranduil - Father, ???-Mother
Spouse: None
Date of Marriage: N/A
Children: N/A

Physical description: Tall and fair, bright eyes, hair color is debated, some say dark, others say blonde, sufficient evidence as to either is not available. He wore the attire of the Silvan elves of Mirkwood, chiefly green and brown.

Biography: Sindarin elf of the woodland realm, in the year 3019, Legolas journeyed to Rivendell to sit on the Council of Elrond, and was chosen to represent the Elves in the Fellowship. In Lorien, Legolas and Gimli became close friends, a friendship that lasted the rest of their lives. Legolas' keen sight and archery skills were his greatest asset to the Fellowship. After the Breaking of the Fellowship, Legolas went with Gimli and Aragorn in search of Merry and Pippin, and fought in the battle of Hornburg. He eventually went to Gondor, and fought in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields; while in Gondor, he had his first glimpse of the sea, and was overcome by a deep desire to sail from that moment on. After the War of the Ring, he journeyed with Gimli to visit the Glittering Caves and Fangorn Forest. In the Year 120 FO, after the death of Aragorn, Legolas sailed over the sea, taking Gimli the dwarf with him, the last of the Fellowship.


Legolas
MOvie Notes

• Cast in this role is Orlando Bloom
Orlando Bloom as Legolas


Favorite Quotes

• He stands not alone " ... "...you would be dead before your stroke fell," to Eomer about Gimli

Thank You Liberality

Daddy
by: Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.



From "Ariel", 1966

Happy Holidays Tom Wherever You Are

And as you may have guessed, my feet are freezing. Hope the water pipes don't.

Time Traveling

This is why a dream life is so important. I go back to places I've been before and loved. It is like time traveling. I am the young woman I was and the old woman I've become. I'm the best of both women in my dreams.

But when I was twenty one I drove down the Dalmatian Coast of Yugoslavia. Yes children, there was once a Yugoslavia. Those where the days of Tito, and every home had a framed photograph of the glorious leader near the front door. The Dalmatian Coast has now been divvied up into bits and pieces, but when I was there it was all Yugoslavia. In my real young life I traveled with two young Italian men from Rome to Trieste, the northern gulf port city on the Adriatic sea, and then followed the Yugoslavian coastline down to a small town south of Debrovnik called Split.

Dubrovnik

All the way down the coast we stayed in homes, not hotels. It was a wonderful way to get to know the people of Yugoslavia, and they were lovely, kind, generous and incredibly beautiful. The homes we stayed in were probably fairly prosperous, but still a bit primitive. I don't remember a single home with real indoor plumbing. Bedrooms had chamber pots, and showers were taken in the outdoors standing in an enclosure with a hose providing the soft cold water that I came to believe was the reason every Yugoslavian I met had shiny hair and beautiful skin and healthy, lovely teeth and smiles. And every home had at least three generations of a family living together. And still they shared what they had with us, giving up one room with several beds.

The reason the Italians were traveling to Split was to work at a Club Mediterranean on a small island off the coast. The only way to get to the island was by ferry boat that traveled between the island and Split twice a day. I stayed in town rooming in a small home close to the ferry landing. And I often spent the day on the island playing with the other world travelers while being catered to by my Italian friends and meeting travelers from all over the world. It was like a very good dream. The waters of the Adriatic sea were warm and salty soft. Every kind of water sport was available. The meals were great and the parties in the evening were fun with live music, lots of dancing and good wine and beer. And the only passport I needed there was my lovely face and form. Sad but true, the pretty can lead charmed lives. At meals I was invited to Isreal by a beautiful fierce Sabra, to Spain by a lovely Spaniard, to France by a handsome Frenchman, and so on. In the end, I decided to continue traveling with my Italian friends to Greece.

When we got to the Albanian border I was refused admittance because of my American passport. So we drove back to Dubrovnik and I took a ferry from Dubrovnik to Bari Italy. I could tell you more of this adventure, but I'll save that for another day.

The reason for this trip down memory lane was the lovely, very sexy dream I had last night. I believe I was either in Dubrovnik or Split. I was helping out in a restaurant and fell in lust with the eldest son of the owner. We were about to leave the restaurant to go to his home, but first I needed to do something that took me into one of the old streets, medieval architecture, winding passages, and then I found my way back to find this lovely man still waiting patiently. As we were about to leave, I awoke. I wanted to go back to sleep to continue this dream but my dog was standing beside the bed, waiting patiently for me to take him outside, into the frigid, snowy back yard to... Well you know.

Even now two hours later my nipples are still erect and I still feel the power of the attraction to this particularly gorgeous Yugoslavian man, waiting patiently.

Yesterday I was a Monk, Today I'm a Druid, But I'll Always Be a Gemini

The link is in the title
And that's not my best picture.
The Druid

Druids are filled with a dramatic sense of wonder, viewing the world through rose-colored glasses as they watch everything come to life, from flora and fauna to mundane objects. They see the good in almost everyone and everything, yet struggle with the idea of ethical perfection (or lack thereof). They tend to turn away from the world and toward essence and ideal, and while they are concerned with all people and creatures, those things are valued only in that they are part of a greater whole; in this, they often struggle to find their place in things, and need to feel a part of whatever they are involved with. Fluent with language, they are keen to pick out patterns in people and things, although their somewhat otherworldly focus on the larger picture can lead them to seem somewhat absentminded. Nevertheless, they have a knack for explaining complex things quite simply.

Druids are often beset by Histrionic behavior, craving attention, reassurance and praise in everything they do. Emotionally exaggerated and often sexually charged, they become concerned with physical appearance, and grow uncomfortable when they are not the center of attention. Their emotions are subject to rapid shifts, and their actions are entirely self-centered, with no tolerance for delay in getting what they want. Their speech often lacks detail as their shallow emotions carry across into their dealings with others.

Oh my this does make me seem a perfect asshole, but the company is good.

Famous druid types include Homer, Shakespeare, Dick Clark, Jackie Onasis and Julia Roberts.

Hell Has Now Officially Frozen Over

Oh yeah, it looks all picture postcard pretty and everything, but it's no picnic. Ten inches of heavy white stuff that looks like cotton and weights thirty pounds a shovel full on top of rain that froze minutes after it fell and was preceded by a loud crack of thunder and a blinding flash of lightening on Christmas evening... Well it's just hell.

I tried to sleep most of the morning, but it was a challenge what with the whine of snowblowers and all. You'd think my snowblowing neighbors would be kind enough to help the Old One out with a little snowblowing help, but it seems that the only neighbors with the infernal machines are of the Mormon persuasion, and word travels fast in the cult. Once you scare the crazy old ones in group "therapy" with the two most fearsome words in Utah--Atheist and Gay, they cut you off and shun you. Oh yes they do. Charity thy name is not Mormon.

So I have just about broken my back today. And all the children of hiring age are off to the movies or hiding out pretending to be off to the movies, so I couldn't even bribe one of them to shovel this heavy load.

I bet next time "therapy" comes around the only group available to me will be a group of therapists armed with tranquilizer guns and fully ready to take me down. Oh yes. Nothing worse than a "gay atheist" on the 23 of December in a group of old Mormon's with bipolar disorder all loaded with the blessings of Jesus and Joseph Smith and thinking themselves among "friends" to find the devil in their midst and not all compliant like a good Mormon woman should be to shake their faith just a tiny bit, just enough to get out the word that no snowblowing help shall be given. Amen.

Clean Coal Snow Job

Tennessee Valley Coal Ash Spill Buries 400 Acres, Damages Homes
KNOXVILLE, Tennessee, December 23, 2008 (ENS) - A retaining wall at the Tennessee Valley Authority's Kingston coal-fired power plant collapsed early Monday morning, causing 2.6 million cubic yards of fly ash to be spilled across hundreds of acres.

The Kingston Steam Plant in Harriman, about 50 miles west of Knoxville, at the confluence of the Emory and Clinch Rivers is owned and operated by the nation's largest public utility.

The wet gray sludge buried about 400 acres six feet deep. One house was torn from its foundations, and 11 other homes were damaged and evacuated. No injuries or fatalities have been reported.

TVA estimates that the cleanup could take weeks to complete and says long-term plans are being developed. Environmentalists warn that fly ash contains toxins - mercury, arsenic, and lead among others - that could seep into the ground and flow downriver.
The wet fly ash engulfed this house, one of 12 damaged in the spill. (Photo courtesy Tennessee Valley Authority)

TVA President and CEO Tom Kilgore said today, "Protecting the public, our employees, and the environment is TVA's primary concern as we supply electric power for the people of Tennessee Valley region."

"We deeply regret that a retention wall for ash containment at our Kingston Fossil Plant failed, resulting in an ash slide and damage to nearby homes," said Kilgore. "We are grateful no injuries have been reported, and we will take all appropriate actions to assist those affected by this situation."

TVA provided hotel rooms, meals, transportation and other immediate needs for affected residents who were not able to occupy their homes Monday night. Additional assistance is being provided by TVA as needed by affected residents. Electricity, gas and water have been restored to all homes in the area that are habitable, the TVA said.

The Swan Pond Road past the Kingston plant remains closed except for residents who live in the area whose homes are habitable. There is no estimated timeline for when the road will be reopened.

TVA Police are assisting local law enforcement with maintaining security for the homes in the affected area.

Heavy equipment including bulldozers, dump trucks, and backhoes have been brought to the site and some clearing of debris has started.

Kingston is one of TVA's larger fossil plants. It generates 10 billion kilowatt-hours of electricity a year, enough to supply the needs of about 670,000 homes in the Tennessee Valley. An adequate supply of coal is available and all nine units at Kingston continue to operate.

"This holiday disaster shows that there really isn't such a thing as a clean coal plant," said Chandra Taylor, staff attorney for the Southern Environmental Law Center.

"From mountaintop removal mining to smokestacks spewing soot and smog to ash ponds full of toxins, coal power is dirty - plain and simple. Nobody wants to find coal in their Christmas stocking, let alone coming through their home and polluting their river," she said.

TVA says sampling of water downstream of the plant will continue to assess the possible effects on water quality. TVA continues to manage river flows on the Clinch and Tennessee Rivers to minimize downstream movement of the ash. There are no expected impacts to any other TVA facilities downstream.

Staff at TVA's other 10 coal-fired power plants have made visual inspections of the ash retention dikes to note any changes in conditions. The ash containment areas at all TVA's plants undergo a formal inspection annually and other inspections on a quarterly and daily basis, said the government company.

"The United States Environmental Protection Agency should immediately establish national safeguards for the disposal of coal wastes and enforceable regulations," said Taylor. "At a minimum, these safeguards should include siting restrictions, structural requirements and long-term financial assurance to clean up any resulting pollution."

Copyright Environment News Service (ENS) 2008. All rights reserved.

Nobel Prize Winning Playwright Harold Pinter Dies

Harold Pinter, prospector of 24-karat drama in the tension-racked spaces between words, died in London on Wednesday, at age 78. With his death, the pool of contemporary playwrights of international literary stature has been all but drained dry.

Although he expressed the views of a pacifist, Pinter wrote as if he held his finger on the pin of a grenade. In modernist classics such as "The Homecoming," "Old Times" and "No Man's Land," he devised characters who spoke in elliptical asides and enigmatic bursts. Violence of some nature was never out of the realm of possibility, even in his quietest plays. For Pinter was a connoisseur of subtext, of letting a story unfold on a living room set while a more savage one simmered in the crawl spaces of the mind. His characters routinely rattle each other with what never gains utterance.

His stark black-comic sensibility and economical use of language owed much to Samuel Beckett, the father of existential 20th-century drama. It was a debt that Pinter, who got his start as an actor in postwar Britain, readily acknowledged. When the Nobel Academy gave him the prize for literature in 2005, the act affirmed his link to Beckett, who had won it 36 years earlier. That they are among the few English-speaking dramatists to have received the award speaks to the nonpareil influence they both wielded over the style and force of the modern theater.

Power and turf are always at issue in Pinter. You get to see in his plays how much the anatomy of our emotional entanglements is built on ever-shifting questions of who's up and who's down.
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Whether the conflict is over primacy in a Darwinian family struggle ("The Homecoming"), control of the memories of long-ago events ("Old Times") or the psychological upper hand in a metamorphosing love triangle ("Betrayal"), his works are taut battlefields. Unlike Beckett, though, whose seminal plays such as "Waiting for Godot" are placed in barren, metaphysical landscapes, Pinter's tend toward cozier, bourgeois surroundings. In his hands these spaces seem as raw and terrifying as any heath.

Audiences do, at times, engage in head-scratching over Pinter's peculiar rhythms. As noted by Peter Hall, a friend who directed many of his 30 works for the stage, the playwright's eccentric cadences were challenging for actors, too: the long silences, shorter pauses and brief hesitations were ubiquitous features of his scripts. "The actors had to understand why there were these differences," Hall explained in his 1993 autobiography. "They chafed a little, but finally accepted that what was not said often spoke as forcefully as the words themselves."

Over time, Pinter's work became more overtly political, and his vehemence drew controversy. (As a young man, he claimed status as a conscientious objector.) He was outspoken in his outrage at the invasion of Iraq, and described in a speech in 2005 his reaction to the policies of the Bush and Blair administrations as arousing nausea.

Pinter saved his subtlety for his dramatic voice. His blink-of-an-eye 1988 play "Mountain Language" painted in four short scenes the terrors of a regime that stripped a minority population of its freedom, its dignity and finally, in banning the speaking of its language, even its words. To one who used them to such captivating effect, this truly would have seemed a crime against humanity.

The Young Turks Talk About Ethics in Journalism

That Rachel, she's got class.

I'm a Monk, Who Knew?

Your result for The Pop Culture Archetype Personality Test...

The Monk

Ninja, Monkey, Zombie, Cowboy

Quizzy tests are fun for the shut ins.

Eartha Mea Kitt Dies Today

Thank you Eartha for all the good times, the earthy voice, the sassy style. We loved you, babe.



Born January 17, 1927
Died December 25, 2008

Kelso's Nuts Have Asked Me To Out Myself

I'm only too happy to comply, only I thought I did that yesterday or the day before--I'll have to look. I certainly outed myself for the entertainment of the old folks at Group Therapy on the 23rd, but Christmas seems like as good a day as any, and I never plan to get any hot male action again, so why not? I'm out.

Kelso's Nuts suggest that we all out ourselves in protest over Rev(sic) Rick Warren's appearance at the Inauguration. Fine with me. I'm not thrilled about Rick Warren getting so much free press, because I don't like what he stands for--the homophobia, the suppression of women with his anti choice (wide) stance, he's just like all the rest of them, and I'm thinking he might be a little gay himself. So, yea, I'm gay. Gay all the way.

Come out, come out, where ever you are. Speak up. Let's have a day or several of solidarity. Doesn't matter whether you're married or not. Think of yourselves as two gay people making the best of it. What'll the kids think? I don't know. They'll probably hate it. But you can explain it's for a good cause. It's in support of all our gay friends and neighbors, our gay relatives though closeted they too may be. There's a little gay in all of us, as well as a little woman living inside all you men. Yes there is. So, come out!

A Present From My Friend Stella of Swiftspeech

Stella, my first reader willing to comment, has compared my writing to that of the inimitable Dorothy Parker. I hadn't read Parker, an omission I cannot account for. But last birthday I asked for and received from my friend, Nick, The Collected Stories of Dorothy Parker. And now, this Christmas, Stella has given me the Poetry of Dorothy Parker. And I will dole them out when I'm ready. But for today, I give you the one that included a very important link, and the poem that might make Stella think of me.

Neither Bloody Nor Bowed
Dorothy Parker

They say of me, and so they should,
It's doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
Accumulating dividends,
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice,
And though to good I never come-
Inseparable my nose and thumb!

While Visiting The Ageless Hippie Chick, I "Borrowed" This

We could pretend she gave it to me, but I really stole it. Shhhh!

A Real Christmas Present from The lovely Unconventional Conventionist

An Unusual Christmas Song

Have a Very Blago Christmas

Utah Savage is Bad in a Group

I believe almost every little thing is political. And in group therapy with a bunch of other people my age in Utah I am a badass.

I do not fit into a group here because I am the only atheist in any given group in Utah. And it really does inform my world view. I am probably the only person in any group of ten my age in Utah who knows what Prop 8 is, and I am certainly the only one in any given group who is pissed off about it. Because of my age and my mental illness, I am put in a group of other older people, and at least 75% of them are Mormon and they are in favor of Prop 8, once it's been explained to them. This just pisses me off more, so when someone asks me why does this effect me, I say, "Let's say, for instance, that I'm gay, and I'm in love with my partner, and she lives in California, and we want to get married. Why is it okay for the Mormon Church to pump $500 million into passing a constitutional amendment in California that says I can't marry the person I love, because I'm gay? Why does my being gay make me less a citizen then anyone else?" And I'm ready to take the room on in a theoretical argument about civil rights. They are baffled about my anger. They do not get it at all. I haven't completely lied, but I have misled them. I have shocked the old folks into near silence. I'm not really very nice. I just hate most people. I'm ready for a debate and we don't have time for that, and it's not our purpose here. And I know it. So yes, I am a badass.

There were two lovely black women in the group, and I liked them immediately. How racist is that. Surprise, surprise. Of course I would like them. I assume, and correctly, that they will be looking forward to the Inauguration of President Obama. So at least for as long as it takes to establish what I'm looking forward too, we have a bond, and it sets us apart from the rest of the group a bit for a few seconds at least, and I feel I have found the only two other people in the room who get me just a little tiny bit. But like most people, these women are big believers that Christ is their savior and redeemer and when push comes to shove, prayer is the answer. Yawn.

The group "leader" tries to sum things up for this group trying to cope with all kinds of loss and alienation by saying, "Well, as you all know, man is the only creature on this earth who needs others..." and I call bullshit. I say, "We are not the creatures with the biggest brains, nor are we the only animals on the planet with a sophisticated social and family structure." And then it gets a little bit interesting for a minute as one of the black women says "Yeah.. "

I'm a rebel with too many causes. Oh where to begin. The group leader looks at his watch and says, "Well we have to wrap this up..."

I know that the real reason I got sent to group was because I called the office one day last week in tears. I couldn't stop crying. I was sad, real sad. But now I feel pretty perky and smart like the badass I know I am at heart. Oh my. My bad. Naughty, Naughty.

Okay "F", I'll call soon and make an appointment for a one on one. In the meantime you can read how I'm doing on a daily basis if you have the stomach for it.

PS I know the reason I'm sad is more about my associations with Xmas because of my family "dynamic", than it does with Prop 8. I'm not that damn dumb. I also know I'm not that smart either, or I'd be nicer.

Thank You Baby Jesus

My mother was always the center of attention, even at Christmas, which she hated.

She was a stunning good looker, vivid and dark. But her eyes were an icy, striking, pale blue, and her hair (when she was younger) was almost black. She had a widow's peak, full lips, the broad high cheekbones of her Native American ancestry, and yet, the cold blue eyes of General Custer. And in much that same way she was at war within her own twisted internal world. She was born on December 23rd in 1921. She was a young child at the height of the Great Depression. It was a time when her family was trying to get away from the Oklahoma Indian Territories, and a past that shamed her and made her hate her family. She was scarred by the experience. Add to that the fact that the 25th of December belonged to the baby Jesus, well it always pissed her off. And woe to the "loved one" who didn't make more of Maggy's birthday than that of that damned baby's. And she made no secret of hating her mother and father. So much for the ten commandments. Oh yes, she did take the Lord's name in vane. Um hum.

For a woman who claimed to have no maternal instinct, she married a man with three sons in tow, which never made any sense to me, her only biological child. But when I was born it was immediately apparent to her that she had no maternal instinct. And that I was merely an attention suck. Babies are like that. Time, energy, attention. They are so needy. And talk about cry-baby. That was always the last thing she said to me as she left me sobbing. To say that my life as her only child was traumatic is mere understatement. That she left no visible evidence of my injury was shear art.

It has been pointed out to me recently that I would not be the person I am today were it not for her. Had she given me to my Aunt and Uncle Savage, I'd have been a very different woman. I might have been Pickles, or someone like her, for all we know. Cheerleader, Prom Queen, married to a Texas banker's son and popping out babies, then collecting grand babies, and normal as all get out. If a Pickles-like woman is normal. A good, God fearing Baptist woman, racist to my core, homophobic, probably fat, no doubt blonde, by now. A good upstanding cracker, like my Aunts. No offense meant to any good God fearing cracker women.

That she died on the baby Jesus' birthday is also art. She upstaged him once again, and for the first time in my life she gave me a really good gift. A gift I had been praying for for decades by then. It was the only time she ever give me what I wanted, what I asked for. Thank you Maggy. And thank you Santa, and Baby Jesus.

So why am I always sad this time of year?

Bush Gets Ready To Pardon Chenney et al

Will Bush Pardon Cheney on Christmas Eve?

On Christmas Eve 1992, defeated President George H.W. Bush pardoned Caspar Weinberger, Elliott Abrams, Duane Clarridge, Alan Fiers, Clair George, and Robert McFarlane for their Iran-Contra crimes. Not one served a single day in jail; Weinberger was about to go on trial and would have tied Bush himself to the scandal.

Will George W. Bush follow his father's precedent and pardon Dick Cheney and his other criminal co-conspirators this Wednesday on Christmas Eve?

Last week, Cheney was all over TV setting the stage for pardons. He admitted he personally approved torture, but insisted it destroyed Al Qaeda and saved American lives.

According to a powerful article by David Rose in Vanity Fair, the Bush-Cheney torture regime accomplished exactly the opposite. The torture photos from Abu Ghraib helped Al Qaeda's recruitment soar. U.S. officers in Iraq say torture-inspired attacks on U.S. soldiers were the #1 and #2 cause of soldiers' deaths. CIA analysts say the "intelligence" produced by torture was worthless.

On November 20, Rep. Jerrold Nadler introduced H.Res. 1531 to urge Bush not to pardon his criminal co-conspirators. Nadler's bill has 9 co-sponsors but we need every Representative (and Senator) to speak out against corrupt self-pardons.

If you haven't signed our petition to Congress, please join over 48,000 who have:
http://democrats.com/nadler-pardons

Discuss this here:
http://www.democrats.com/will-bush-pardon-cheney-on-christmas-eve

_______________________
Urge Eric Holder to Appoint a Special Prosecutor for Bush War Crimes

Last week three important Democrats - Rep. Jerrold Nadler, Sen. Carl Levin, and VP-elect Joe Biden - independently urged the Attorney General to investigate Dick Cheney's torture confession. A growing chorus of newspapers (NY Times) and legal scholars (John Dean, Glenn Greenwald) agrees.

Prosecution of those responsible for torture is not optional - it is required by our obligations under the Geneva Conventions.

So we've joined forces with buhdydharma and the Docudharma community to petition Obama's AG nominee, Eric Holder, to appoint a Special Prosecutor.

Holder replied after receiving a few hundred emails: "Enough folks. I hear you." That's a start, but we've asked for a formal statement. And we're collecting additional signatures to deliver when Holder goes before the Senate for confirmation hearings in January.

Please sign and spread the word!
http://democrats.com/special-prosecutor-for-bush-war-crimes

So This Is Why Christmas Makes Me Blue

Great little piece about the Christmas blues from Salon today.

Time for a Little Quackitude

Another delightful episode of Lame Duck Watch from Rachel Maddow:

Happy Hanukkah, or Chanukah

For the best ever Hanukkah song, Karen Zipdrive has it one post down right now. Take the trip, it's worth it. It is also the first day of Winter as well as Hanukkah, and the day we have a second or two more daylight. Or maybe it's just the pause that refreshes, but for all of us it's one more day to celebrate one more day when the weather outside is frightful and the furnace is so delightful (unless the power is out--then you're screwed). But do please find a way to celebrate for at least a second or two just because.

And start thinking about January 6th. That's the day I'll be celebrating my first day of blogging. The word "blog" had to be explained to me. I had no computing skills, but I'd been writing for thirty years. I had a few pieces my friends from New York, Rachel and David, insisted I publish, and a blog was a good place to start, they said. So here we are, almost one year later. I have to stock the bar, and find a good party hat. Warn the children there might be salty language. I have cleaned up my swearing act considerably thanks to my wonderful Administrator and co-blogger, Phillip of Sitenoise. Check him out. He's a terrific friend, but only Phillip has the power to really scare me. I'm not exactly sure why. I'll have to think about that. Maybe I just need a thrill now and then, so I piss him off, and his reaction scares me. I'm probably afraid he'll eventually think I'm just too damn dumb to associate with. Strange how close you can feel to someone you've never met. He has come into my house with his voice to tinker on my side of the screen, and it's real enough to scare Roscoe, who goes searching for the man he hears. I miss you Phillip. I've been out of sorts lately. I had a bad case of the Christmas Blues. I'm afraid it's contagious.

I go a little crazy now and then. I'm doing the holiday yo yo right now. Happy one minute, sad the next, and then throw in a flash of temper and you have a savage cocktail.

(Two bloggy things I'd like to learn this year are the blog roll shout out like other smart, savvy bloggers do, like, for instance, Mock Paper Scissors. The other is the art of posting photos. Dcup does it right. Oh how I'd love to have control of where the photos are placed within my piece. Blogger has three options so far as I can see, so you get a poor presentation here. That needs to change.)

Green Trapped Within The Ice

Another Morning Of Ice On The Ceiling

This is my first glimpse light this "morning." Ice on the greenhouse glass roof. Lovely if only I could stay inside all day. Wait, maybe I can. Smokes, Check. Coffee, check. So far so good.

Winter Again

It is here for the duration now.