Saturday, June 13, 2009

Torture and the American Civil Liberties Union

Restore the Rule of Law


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Why does accountability matter?
What can I do to demand it?
See the evidence of torture

We are finally beginning to learn the full scope of the Bush administration's torture program. Government documents show that hundreds of prisoners were tortured in the custody of the CIA and Department of Defense, some of them killed in the course of interrogations. Justice Department memos show that the torture policies were devised and developed at the highest levels of the Bush administration.


The ACLU is committed to restoring the rule of law. We will fight for the disclosure of the torture files that are still secret. We will advocate for the victims of the Bush administration's unlawful policies. We will press Congress to appoint a select committee that can investigate the roots of the torture program and recommend legislative changes to ensure that the abuses of the last eight years are not repeated. And we will advocate for the appointment of an independent prosecutor to examine issues of criminal responsibility.


We can't sweep the abuses of the last eight years under the rug. Accountability for torture is a legal, political, and moral imperative.


Torture Photo Release Decision Should Be Left To Courts, Says ACLU >>

MORE TORTURE NEWS >>


Submit evidence of torture to the Department of Justice >>
Tools to help you fight for accountability for torture >>

torture foia Freedom of Information Act litigation that has yielded over 100,000 pages of government documents concerning the treatment of prisoners in U.S. custody overseas. Documents obtained by the ACLU include the infamous "torture memos" which provided the legal justification for the CIA's torture program. MORE >>
Ali v. Rumsfeld et al A civil lawsuit seeking damages on behalf of nine men who were tortured in U.S. custody in Iraq and Afghanistan. MORE >>
Mohammed et al. v. Jeppesen A civil lawsuit that seeks to hold Boeing subsidiary Jeppesen DataPlan Inc. liable for its knowing participation in the "extraordinary rendition" of five men. MORE >>

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Thursday, June 11, 2009

Fear and Loathing in Salt Lake

My tolerance level has reached rock bottom. Tomorrow is my 65th birthday, a birthday I consider something of a milestone. But I have never felt less like celebrating anything. Ba Humbug! Birthdays are for children. A month or so ago I thought I wanted to have a party and made the mistake of saying so in front of a couple of friends. They got all excited about it. And as they wanted to start planning a party, I started to want to ignore it. I started remembering myself last time I had a birthday party, locked in my upstairs office overlooking the backyard and pissed off. Yes, you heard it, pissed off big time. Oh I had my reasons, but still, it was my party even if one of my guests brought a very bad "Crossover CW" band. The only band member I really knew besides her was her first ex husband, the one she married when she was in her late teens. I'd gone to high school with the prick and he'd never changed, only gotten a bit more preachy and more pompous. And for a boy who'd called himself a "musician" as a teenager, he'd only gotten worse. I do not like music that calls for a "YEEHAW!" after every tune. And if an instrument requires an electrical chord to be played, my feeling is it ought not be played in a residential neighborhood or anywhere in my earshot for that matter. I prefer the acoustic instruments. They can be played quietly. The minute people I didn't know started showing up at my party, I left the back yard and retired to my little suite of rooms upstairs in the big house, overlooking the patio. Not only could they not see me, I didn't want them to see me. I was seething. If I'd had anyplace else to go, I'd have left home entirely. I don't like half the people I know. I sure as hell have no desire to feed and entertain strangers even if I might like them under other circumstances.

Only now the only person I've always loved, even when I was mad at her, is right in the middle of a medical catastrophe. And no one can do much more than run an errand now and then. It's bad for her throat to talk. But she can email me. She saw the pulmonary oncologist at Huntsman yesterday. Today they're doing a brain scan. Then next week a PET scan. She'd just as soon forego all the tests because she feels she's being tortured, and she doesn't believe in Western Medicine at all. And since her daughter was here I've been paralyzed.

The past month has rained almost everyday off and on and most nights all night. As the thunder storms roll down from the mountains it's cold at night. This time of year I'm usually starting to fuss over the high temperatures. Our current day time highs would usually be our night time temperatures. It's been in the very low 50s at night. Yea, I'm glad I don't have to fix the swamp cooler yet, but once it first warmed up I put away the blankets. Now I'm having to get them out again. It feels like Portland. I wouldn't be complaining about this weather if it were Portland. At least I haven't had to spend a fortune on water to keep the trees alive yet.

And the dogs aren't liking going out in the rain. Especially Mawley. She will shit on the front porch rather than have a drop of rain land on her. So I have had to clean wet shit off the navy rag rug on the front porch. Today Mawley got picked up at 8:10 by the House-call Vet. She gets her hysterectomy done today along with her nails, her teeth, her anal glands, and an i d chip implanted. Yesterday I discovered a spot in the greenhouse room where Mawley has been ducking out for a quick pee just out of my sight. When I found the pool of pee, it was under the greenhouse glass, which made me think I had a leak. So I spent half an hour trying to find the place the water was getting in only to discover that it was a pool of Mawley pee. Oh she may be cute, but she's not that cute.

And throughout the past month I haven't got my whole place really clean. Not once. Oh I've cleaned the bathroom and had good intentions to tackle the rest, but... Other things got in the way. I change my bed on a regular schedule and do the laundry, but I hate vacuuming worse than even floor scrubbing on my hands and knees. Which I must do today. And here I am still writing nothing much of interest unless you just like hearing old women bitch and moan.

I may skip tomorrow altogether. I know I haven't been very consistent about visiting as it is, but I'm now telling you I won't be visiting at all until I put my house in order.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Nightmare at KMart


There are a number of places I won't go and going to a bigbox store is high on my list of places to avoid at all cost. I have never been inside a Wal-Mart, I have only been to Target once and that was because I'd heard an old friend was working there and I wanted to see her--she'd disappeared for all her friends, and I'd bet her working at Target was one of the reasons she wasn't answering her phone. But yesterday I got a call from my friend who has cancer and she wanted me to run an errand for her.

I've been trying to get Z to let me do something for her, so this call to run an errand was just what I wanted. That is, until she told me where she wanted me to go. She assured me that she'd called ahead and asked them if they had the panties she wanted in the size and color she wanted. Yes, they told her yes they did. They are lying bastards but I'll get back to that later.

Ms M was here when Z called and told me to tell her that the KMart was closed. But no, sadly they are still open. Z's call to check on the panties she says she always buys there confirmed that they were open since they answered the phone as KMart and informed her that they had the items in stock. So after chain smoking for twenty minutes and getting stoned, I headed out to KMart. The road Z told me to take was closed so I had to detour to another route. I found it and parked in their huge and nearly empty parking lot. When I walked in the door, I had a dizzy spell and felt like I was going to faint. First sign of a panic attack.

I tried to spot a human being who worked there and finally located one woman. She pointed me in the direction of "Intimate Apparel." It was only half a mile away. Once there I spotted the wall with the packages of panties. They were supposed to have Jockey briefs in four-packs, size 5. Jesus! Size 5? I don't think I've ever worn a size 5 women's panty. The last panties I bought were a size 7 and they're a bit snug now, so I graduate to a bigger size next time I go hunting for panties on sale. Anyway, there were no packs of any kind in the Jockey brand. They had Fruit of the Loom, Pink, and various other brands of panties in the style called "briefs." This is "old woman's panties" for you children. Once the wall of bagged panties had been searched over and over to my growing annoyance, I started in on the standing fixtures. No Jockey brand anything. I think of checking out the men's underwear, but finally decide that's pointless since even if they have the Jockey brand they won't have old ladies panties in the men's department.

I search the adjoining departments looking for someone who works in the store. Nada. Zip. Zero humans of any kind working or shopping. It is an almost empty big box store. I can feel myself growing angrier by the second. I'm starting to shake with rage. I want to stand there and just scream. But I get a grip and start the long march back to the checkout lines. In the middle of the check out lines there is one lone guy doing nothing. There are no customers to check out. He just stands there kind of loitering. As I get closer it looks to me like he is mentally handicapped. Since I am mentally handicapped I have some compassion. None of this is his fault and I can't be mad at him. I ask him to page someone to meet me in women's panties. He just looks confused, so I launch myself into the story of my errand. Finally he nods, and picks up the phone. I hear his voice go sailing out into the empty space. It seems to echo back at us. I head back to what he called "ladies panties." "Could someone please meet a customer in ladies panties?"

I wait what seems like five minutes or so shuffling from foot to foot, now loitering alone in ladies panties. Finally a very short, round, Hispanic woman approaches me. I tell her what I'm looking for and she does exactly what I did. She goes through the entire wall of panties and then says, "We must not carry them." I tell her about Z's call to confirm that they, KMart, not only carried them but had the four packs in the style and two colors she wanted and they had them in her size. She just looks at me and shrugs. I say, "Would you call my friend and tell her that you, a KMart employee, have told me, after a careful search, that no, you do not have the panties she called about and was told KMart carries and had in stock in her size?"

We head back to the front of the store where customer service is hidden in a cubby. She picks up a phone and asks me for Z's number. She calls. Z's son takes the call and the passes the phone to Z. The Hispanic clerk tells Z they don't have the panties she wants. Z tells her that she called and was told that they do to have her panties and tells her what they are. The clerk is nodding her head through all of this and then says, "Oh yes, we have those." I am gob stopped. I am standing there with my mouth hanging open. WTF? We both searched the place. No they don't have them. But now we trudge back across the store to the "intimate appearal department. We do the whole thing again. I find a pack of brand "Pink" old ladies white panties. They are 100% cotton. It's a six pack, not a four pack and there are no black "Pink" panties at all. So back we go, and this time I'm packing the six pack of brand Pink panties. Again the call. Again the discussion. Then I just reach over and take the phone. I tell Z exactly what's happened. She says, "But I don't understand it. I called. They said they had them. In my size." I tell her about the "Pink" panties and get her permission to buy them. It only takes ten minutes to ring them up.

When I leave the store with a bag clutched to my chest, I'm gasping for air and shaking with rage. It's taken over an hour to run an unsuccessful errand. I get lost looking for Z's street coming from a different direction. I'm lost in BFE.

When I get to Z's I've used a quarter of a tank of gas and my patience. I have no reserves. I must get myself under control so I don't bring bad energy into her house. I know how deadly my bad energy can be. So I do a little deep breathing on the front porch before I let myself in. I find her on the back porch surrounded by the three most competent men in her life. They are calm and sweet. By the time I leave, I feel almost normal again.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Medicare Explained By One Who Knows

You may not realize this but fashion models are considered contract labor. We have agents to promote us and manage our bookings for a hefty 15% of our earnings. But all the rest is up to us. And in order to get the best possible tax help a model needs a tax accountant who specializes in Entertainment Industry tax rules. Then we have to provide for our own insurance.

While I was healthy and working I bought my medical insurance from United Healthcare, the only large insurance company providing coverage for individuals in Utah at the time. In the beginning my monthly premium was $325 a month. I thought that was pretty high, but it was the only option. Then I started getting hefty premium raises every six months or so. It was not that I was sick, it was just "a little adjustment for the rate of inflation" according to the billings person at United Health Care.

I ran into a rough patch. In a six months check-up with my internist, where urinalysis and blood work were done, I seemed to be having a "sugar spill" in my urine. This required further tests and a visit with an endocrinologist. More tests were done. And in the end, it turned out to be one of the many strange permutations of stress and depression. Then I got a notice that my insurance had gone up to $500 a month. But the drugs for depression were very expensive, so I kept the insurance. But I also kept getting more and more depressed. I was referred to a good psychiatrist who diagnosed me with bipolar disorder and put me on a good mood stabilizer (another very expensive drug) which made it possible for me to keep working so I could afford my insurance. I was chasing my tail.

Within a month of getting that Bipolar diagnosis Untied Health Care doubled my monthly premium. At $1,000 a month for just me, I had to drop private coverage. Then I couldn't afford to pay for my therapist, get my drugs filled, or pay for follow-up care. No psychiatrist will prescribe without follow-up care.

As I grew more stressed by the depression and the rising bills, I was able to work less and less. Finally I was bankrupt. Fortunately I filed before the rules were changed for individuals filing for bankruptcy. So medical bills and the cost of private health insurance ruined me economically. Not having insurance made it impossible for me to pay for my drugs and this led to a lengthy hospitalization for psychosis. Which was the result of untreated bipolar disorder.

I was advised to apply for disability. I applied with all the documentation they required and they turned me down after a three month wait while they decided my fate. A friend of mine who's a social worker told me that all first-time applications for disability are turned down, no matter what. Proforma. I reapplied and was turned down again. After further conversation with my friend I discovered that there were attorneys whose specialty was disability law. So I got a disability attorney. They assess your case and if they're pretty sure they can prevail they take your case for a percentage of the lump sum award. If you finally get on disability they reimburse you for the time from your first rejection to a successful outcome. This whole process took over two years, so even though my monthly disability stipend is the minimum possible, three years worth is a tidy sum. The payout is based on your earnings at the time of your award and for the three previous years. These are the lowest earning years for most people who end up on disability. So I got roughly $700 a month to live on and Medicare. It is Medicare that saved my life. And that is not hyperbole. Once I was on Social Security Disability and Medicare parts A, B, and D (the only good thing G W Bush did in his entire presidency) have saved my life. Once on Medicare I was eligible for the fabulous care by Valley Mental Health and the Master's Program for bipolar patients over 50. They saved my life, and that is not hyperbole.

Medicare is far better coverage than my $1,000 a month private insurance. Every referral from my internist had to be okayed by some bean counter at United Health Care. Under Medicare I have never had to wait while a bureaucrat has weighed whether or not my well being was worth the cost. And if I needed help finding the part D private piece of the pie that Bush gave the private sector, a "bureaucrat" at Medicare patiently helped me find the one that would cover all my drugs at the lowest cost. In my case that's Etna. Since my income is so low, I get extra help with drug costs, so there is no "doughnut hole" for me. If the public sector were picking up the cost of the part D coverage it would be simpler and therefore less expensive for taxpayers. It was giving part D to the private sector including the drug companies, that has made part D a problem for so many. It is the drug companies and the private insurance companies who lobbied so hard for their hand out from the Bush Administration that has driven up the cost of that program and made it a bureaucratic nightmare for so many senior citizens and their families to negotiate.

I have the experience of both options--private and public. I'll take the simplicity of the public option over the bean counters in the private sector any day.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Blues Legend Koko Taylor Died

Koko Taylor used to make regular stops in Salt Lake City on her way from somehwere to somewhere else. She sang in a small downtown club where almost every seat was a front row seat. It was called the Zephyr. There was a dance floor. And in those days I danced. Koko always packed the place and usually on a Thursday night. I heard her sing this song. Saw sweat drop from her face to her chest and glisten there. She was one of the great Blues legends. I'm sad she will no longer be belting out the great Blues songs of her lifetime. We will miss you Koko.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

A Green Ash Tree for La Belette Rouge




This is the largest green ash tree in the Salt Lake Valley according to the experts at Arbor Care. It grows in my backyard. When I was a child I had the world's best rope and wood slat swing that hung from an enormous branch that is now a phantom limb. Green ash trees fell prey to a borer and few survived. We aggressively treated this tree. It survived and still grows at an almost alarming rate. It is a very heavy wood and in a big wind storm it self prunes. Several years ago a smallish branch came down breaking several of the tiles on the roof of the main house. There is no way to really give you an idea how large this tree is, but the tall two storied house is a toy beneath it.

Chris Will You Please Stop Booking This Racist Pig

Lifted from yesterday's Salon Opinion Piece by Joe Conason
This has been a screaming point for me for a long time. I do not understand why Chris Matthews or any News Show host on MSNBC would book this racist prick.

In Washington media circles, Pat Buchanan is a well-liked and avuncular figure, presumably owing to his personal qualities rather than his crank politics, but for him to be encouraged to pontificate endlessly on the subject of race on television is worse than ludicrous. The late William F. Buckley Jr. expelled Buchanan from the pages of the National Review many years ago for his crudely anti-Semitic rants, which included a very unattractive tinge of admiration for Hitler. (Prejudice against Jews, unlike some other forms of bigotry, is anathema to most conservatives.) So obnoxious was Pat's blustering bully-boy attitude that he became intolerable even to the intolerant.

As for racism, where to begin with him? Discussing Sotomayor on MSNBC, Buchanan accused her of adopting the same attitudes that had kept blacks down in old Dixie. "Her entire career is based on advancing people of color, which is done at the expense of white people," he cried in that familiar high-pitched whine. "That was what was done in the South. They're doing it now to white males now…"

Except that Pat didn't mind so much when "they" were doing it to black folks in the South. He explicitly supported the race-based "Southern strategy" of his old boss Richard Nixon, whom he advised to avoid meeting with Coretta King one year after the murder of her husband, Martin Luther King Jr. In April 1969, he warned Nixon in a White House memo that visiting Mrs. King would "outrage many, many people who believe Dr. King was a fraud and a demagogue and perhaps worse ... Others consider him the Devil incarnate. Dr. King is one of the most divisive men in contemporary history."

Did Pat's views toward blacks and other minorities mellow over the decades? More than 20 years later, he was still supporting the apartheid regime in South Africa, noting that there was nothing in our own Constitution that would preclude a white minority ruling a black majority. (Such is the color-blind jurisprudence that he would no doubt like to see on the high court. Of course, he also told Nixon to burn the Watergate tapes, a key indication of his deep respect for law and justice.)

In his memoir, "Right From the Start," he suggested that the segregated District of Columbia of his boyhood had worked just fine:

"There were no politics to polarize us then, to magnify every slight. The "negroes" of Washington had their public schools, restaurants, bars, movie houses, playgrounds and churches; and we had ours."

Friday, June 5, 2009

Feeling Good

This Little Piggy Went....

Oh my fucking god, I've just torn my toenail off. I have turned into my own torturer. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.....

Thursday, June 4, 2009

We Have The Beginnings of a Plan

I never thought I'd say this to you, John Huntsman, but thanks for the great Huntsman Cancer Institute. And thanks to you, Manal, for being there working at the Huntsman Cancer Institute and checking that doctor out. I sure know how to pick the great daughters to informally adopt. And thanks to you, Ms M, for bringing that movie a week ago I didn't know I'd need to watch today. Seven Pounds. It helped to cry those tears. And thanks to you, Susu, for sending me a copy of your book of poetry. It takes me back through all the time we knew each other, and before, and after all those years. It has been a comfort to read your gorgeous words and remember how close we all once were, when we were young, you, Z, and I. We were something weren't we? Someday I'll write about us all. I left us out of the novel Maggy, because we were too big for her story. We deserve our own book. Sleep well, Z. Tomorrow we have work to do.

And thanks to all of you and your good energy and kind words and the warm wishes. Thanks to you, I'm as centered as I've ever been.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Small Cell Squamous Lung Cancer

It is very bad news. The healthy one, the thin one, the vegetarian, the one who quit smoking very young (she dabbled for a couple of years as a rebellion, but never really took to it) the one with children and grandchildren, the one with a million reasons to live--she's the one with lung cancer. The crazy one with not a single living relative and damn few friends, the one who will not quit smoking for anyone or anything, the one who's overweight, who eats whatever she wants, stays up all night, sleeps late, the one who isn't careful about anything, the one who takes at least thirteen pills a day and chases them with espresso, the one who forgets to put anything on her stomach until four in the afternoon and sucks down ice cream and potato chips after midnight--she's the one in the pink, who seems destined to keep hanging on, even when she doesn't want to.

And some would tell me that god would have a plan in all of this.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

The Z of Time and Illness

The passage of time is a mystery to me
Like the days that pass when I do nothing
And the tasks go undone, the weeds take over
The tree, though topped stands like a hulking monster
It presses on the fence, tangled round it's gorgeous trunk
The upper limbs rank with the scent of early decay and last night's
Rain so rare this time of year I will remember it as April not late
May, early June, my birthday always comes too soon

The sister of my soul, my whole life long, the level headed one
Now puts her fate in the hands of anyone with a crackpot theory
Or so I think, other than the doctor who says, it's there where the
Trachea branches into the primary bronchi just before it reaches the
Fertile soil of the lungs in and out of hardly any oxygen there rests the mass
Growing like the weeds, the vines, the knot of trunk that pushes on the fence.

No air flows and a vocal chord is paralyzed making the voice a high tight complaint
The lack of options narrows down to doing almost nothing, or getting up and fighting
As if all life depended on it. Her blood depleted of breath's oxygen one lung closed
She wants to think it over. Odd that she, the child of a mathematician who was the
Perfect parent, has rejected hard science, medicine, the certainty of numbers, pulse ox
Sed rate in favor of intuition, the spirituality of mysticism, the soul's belief in the souls truth

I can do nothing but await her fate as if my own life depended on this one decision still unmade.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

The Unthinkable

I won't be visiting much over the next little while. My closest friend, Z, the one who has power of attorney over my estate and medical care has either a treatable cancer, or lymphoma that has gone on too long, undiagnosed and untreated, to be anything but a death sentence. She has had polymyalgia rheumatica and so has ignored the dry hacking cough for so long I can't remember when it started. I remember asking her about it as long as 6 or 8 months ago. She thought it was one thing and another. Finally she began to have trouble breathing. It was nothing in her lungs; they were clear. She worries about money. Worries about unnecessary medical expenses and doesn't want to worry her kids or burden them. She has been a vegetarian for 40 years but for the last year or more has been very careless about eating well. Prefers to manage it all homeopathically. But her sed rate is alarmingly high. The prednisone to treat the polymyalgia rheumatica might have been the cause of her lack of apatite, lack of interest in food, fatigue, weakness, depression, the low grade fever, night sweats. She has lost so much weight, but blamed it on the prednisone. She thinks she can treat this illness with fresh juices. She worries about the fact that she hasn't the strength to mow the lawn. And it goes on like this for so long. Now they have found a mass in the primary bronchi which, thus, far appears to be lymphatic tissue. Friday she was told that it is either bad news but treatable, or bad news and untreatable. A biopsy is scheduled for Monday. She is convinced it is lymphoma that has spread throughout her body. Too late to treat. I argue with her. We don't know yet. She has all the symptoms and has for so long, thinking it was the prednisone that caused the night sweats, the fatigue and all the rest. She has finally told her children. Her daughter flew in last night. Z asked me to come over yesterday and help her get ready for her kids. God forbid they should now how hard it's been for her. Her back lawn is a meadow. The two dogs matted and shaggy. All I can do is sit on the back porch with her and listen.

She has been the patient friend, the rock of Gibraltar, my sane and steady friend since we were both 17 and early admissions students at the University of Utah. We were the only girls with the first group of students ever admitted to the U in their brand new Early Admissions program. We could not have been less alike. She has always said hers was the perfect loving and supportive family. Her father was Chairman of the Math Department.

My father was getting his PhD in psychology and I couldn't have had a worse family life. My reasons for skipping my senior year were complicated-- mostly I just wanted to get out of my parents house. My home life had always been difficult, so living in the dorms at the U sounded like paradise to me. Z continued living at home with her family.

There have been times in our long history together when one or the other of us was living half a world away from the other. Years at a time when we were not in touch. But whenever we saw each other, it was as if no time at all had passed and we would again take up the conversation as if it had been paused for the length of time it would take to make a cup of tea. I can't imagine life without her. I never thought for a second that I would outlive her. It is unthinkable. I am numb and furious.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

My Best Friend Needs Me

My best friend is having a life threatening medical crisis. She needs me. I'll write when I can, but please don't leave me.

Friday, May 29, 2009

One Good Thing To Do This Weekend Is Sign This Petition

VoteVets sent me this petition this morning. I signed it. Now I'm asking you to sign it. I'm told it might be a touchy link.

This is a YouTube clip and hopefully guidance to the petition. If all else fails, google VoteVets.org. That should get you there. Sign up. It's free. Get their email updates. It's a really good organization. And if you still aren't convinced that the Bush/Cheney Administration needs prosecuting, read this:

**Please circulate widely to friends and on social-networking sites*

Torture Photos Show Rapes of Detainees, Former Officer Confirms
The real reason Dick Cheney has become so loud: he's afraid

Each week brings shocking new revelations. The U.S. mass media is not reporting on the most explosive story of the week.

The world now knows why President Obama reversed his earlier decision to release the 2,000 photos of prisoners barbarically tortured, abused, and humiliated under the direction of the Bush/Cheney gang.

Some of the photos of the prisoners show U.S. personnel torturing, sexual assaulting and raping male and female detainees, including children. The existence of these photos was confirmed by former Major General Antonio Taguba. Taguba had earlier been in charge of the inquiry into the Abu Ghraib jail in Iraq.

On May 21, Cheney went on national television to defend torture and sickeningly attacked Obama for sacrificing "innocent lives to spare a captured terrorist from unpleasant things." We'd like to hear him explain how rape and sexual assault are just "unpleasant things" that have spared innocent lives. The last few months has proven that the abuses, the sexual assault, and the most barbaric violations of human rights cannot be attributed to a few bad apples. Such tactics were commonplace, officially sanctioned and elevated to the level of government policy.

The torture methods, like the war itself, have never been about saving lives. A recent column in the Nation echoed what IndictBushNow reported last week: "The Bush administration, hellbent on justifying its forthcoming invasion of Iraq, was ransacking the intelligence bureaucracy to find or produce two things that, it turns out, did not exist: weapons of mass destruction programs in Iraq and cooperation between Al Qaeda and the regime of Saddam Hussein."

The Iraqi people have never waged war on the United States and no Iraqis took part in the attacks of 9/11. Bush & co. wanted to go to war, and were just looking for an excuse.

So why, given the recent revelations, has Dick Cheney responded so publicly in defense of the Bush administration's war crimes? He's afraid! He's not just concerned about preserving the administration's "legacy" -- he's concerned about preserving his own neck.

Don't believe us? Take it from Cheney's daughter, Liz, who recently explained her father's outspokenness on CNN: "He certainly did not plan when he left office to be doing this... Then when [Obama] suggested in the Oval Office itself that he would be open to the prosecution of former Bush administration officials including many who weren't political appointees potentially, you know really, I think, made my dad realize this was just fundamentally wrong. We had to speak out."

Our argument for prosecution is becoming irresistible. The fact is that every revelation lays bare a whole new level of criminality. The more details come about the Bush administration's heinous acts and deliberate deception of the American people, the more people are starting to talk about justice. Already, many people who once said, "we need to move forward" are beginning to reconsider: no one can move forward until we have come to terms with the country's past. That means accountability: the indictment of the criminals.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Big Pick-up Sticks

Cherry Picker Takes On Tree and Wins! Well, Mostly


You cannot imagine the noise of this tree massacre. I know it's horrible to kill a huge tree but this tree was on its last legs and was planted too close to the wooden fence and the little house. So gird your loins. These photos are rather graphic.


And the search for the perfect stick is on. Good dogs, now would you just haul this mess out of the driveway and hide it somewhere. I suggest a big hole, so start digging.

Temporary Difficultiles

What with a tree coming down like bombs around my house, and what with having my Administrator visiting, and what with having an old dog who hates loud noises and any change at all, it's been a loud and trying morning. I'll be back with pictures and more details. Until then, keep your hardhat on. Step carefully.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Mysterious Gift


Someone sent me a laptop. It's a HP Mini-note PC. I'm thrilled, surprised, and curious. Who is this generous gift giver? I've been thinking that the main impediment to my doing any traveling these days is the umbilical cord that keeps me sitting at my chair at my desk tied to my fabulous Imac. I learned a whole world of new tricks here at my desk learning to blog, be a better writer, make new friends, have a life. But this? This is a gift that calls for a THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

I used the tracking info from UPS and it led me to eCOST.com who shipped it. But that's as close as I've been able to get to the humanitarian who sent this to me. Speak up oh generous one. This calls for a hug at the very least.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Supreme Court Nominee Justice Sonia Sotomayor


Circuit Judge of the United States Court of Appeals for the 2nd Circuit
Incumbent
Assumed office
October 7, 1998
Nominated by Bill Clinton
Preceded by J. Daniel Mahoney
Born June 25, 1954 (1954-06-25) (age 54)
The Bronx, New York
Nationality United States
Alma mater Yale Law School (J.D.)
Princeton University (A.B.)
Religion Roman Catholic

She is of Porto Rican descent, and grew up in a tenement in the Bronx. She was born into a very humble background, yet managed to get a very good eduction. She is everything I want in a Supreme Court Judge. And when I first saw her name mentioned I let out a cheer. I have been hoping she would be President Obama's pick. This is the first news story I woke up to--her acceptance of the nomination. Next come the hearings. The Right Wingers will be going crazy trying to smear her in some way, but I don't think she'd have made it this far if she were smearable. She has everything that would make her a target for the White Men's Club that the justice system has always been. Now comes the swift-boating. Hang on Sonia is going to be a bumpy ride.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Art Find


After my last visit to my neighborhood thrift store I told you about my art find. Well this is it. I hope you like it as much as I do. A photo can never do justice to blown glass, nor does it give you an idea of the heft of the piece. When I used to live in Santa Barbara there was an art gallery across from one of our favorite restaurants. I used to drool over this kind of thing but could never afford to buy one of those pieces since they were priced in the hundreds of dollars range. I paid $8 for this beauty.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Cold and Rainy Memorial Day


This is a sight I've never seen on Memorial Day in Salt Lake unless someone went to a party and left the water on outside. It's 53 degrees outside mid-day and I'm trying to keep the house warm because it's supposed to get really cold tonight. A week ago it was early Summer, now it's mid-Spring. This photo is the concrete floor of the gazebo mid day.

It was pouring when I made the dogs go out this morning and Marley never left the covered porch. I had to go out and sit on the bench under the pine trees and wait for Marley to pee. So Marley peed at my feet. Good enough. We came in and Marley disappeared for a minute. Then Cyrus got up and gave me a look like, "What have you done?" I looked over the side of the bed and there was a Marley turd right at the back of Cyrus's bed just where his bum would have been had he been asleep. Marley had tried to trick me into believing that Cyrus was the bad dog, not Marley. Marley got dumped outside along with her turd and left to wait it out while I cleaned Cyrus's bed. It's been one of those days.

Yesterday's Barbeque

I was invited to a barbeque across the street yesterday afternoon. I thought it would be nice to take a little nap before I went. Read for about ten minutes and then drifted off into a deep slumber. The phone rang. I reached around for it and couldn't find it. Then dashed across the room to pick it up off it's base and even with the dash for the phone, I was still asleep, dreaming the whole dash for the phone for all I knew. My friend T. who lives three houses up the street said "Peg, are you awake?" I answered, "Yesh, for all I know I'm ashleep." She said, "Are you going to come to the party?" "Sure, I'm planning on it." She said, "Hurry, it's almost 6:30, and there's still some food left, but it's going fast. And sound like you're drunk." "I feel like I'm drunk."

It took me ten minutes to wash my face, comb my hair, brush my teeth, and change into a new top (from the thrift store) and new shorts (from the thrift store). I let Cyrus and Mawley go out to pee, then headed across the street with Mawley close on my heels. There were about ten grown-ups sitting around yacking, and about eight kids from 18 to 2 in various stages from boredom to candy-high milling around the picnic table or in and out of the kids playhouse. T handed me a paper plate and gave me instructions about what to eat and what to avoid. In her estimation the ribs were better than the bratwurst, and the cole slaw was better than the potato salad. I put a little bit of everything on my plate and joined the kids at the picnic table.

I sat next to Courtney who is 18 and was the oldest child at the party. If Courtney weren't a Downs child I'd be calling her an adult, but she still retains some of the completely uncensored innocence of the child. Her little brother Boris who is Russian and was adopted when he was a baby and also has Downs syndrome, came running at me full tilt and hurled himself into my arms. He straddled my lap and snuggled his face into my neck and gave me a sloppy kiss on my face. He's four now, still not talking exactly, but still quite capable of expressing his needs and wants, likes and dislikes. Courtney said with a chortle, "Boris loves you, Peggy." Well that made it all worth while. The waking up, getting dressed, the facing of other people, the jocularity of half crocked adults, the Mormon grandmother we all adore and need to protect from the knowledge that most of us are either stoned or half drunk or both. That enthusiastic greeting from Boris made it all worth while. The meat was dry, the slaw was soggy, the potato salad was... eh. But the kids and the potato chips were divine.

Since I arrived at the party half an hour before it was scheduled to break up at 7:00, I felt my timing was perfect. There was just enough socializing and dry, over-cooked meat to make me feel half normal, and a part of my little community of neighbors. I'm older than all the neighbors with kids and younger than the great grandmother we were trying to protect from the knowledge that we were not the clean-living grown up children she needs to believe we are. Good party all around.

Mawley was chased by a two year old and a four year old round and round the picnic table till the kids fell down exhausted. Marwley wins again.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Sleepy Saturday


I woke up being kissed on the lips. Prince Charming? No, just Marley. I looked at the clock to see if I should be mad or not and it was 9:30. That's a reasonable hour no matter what my body says, so I got up took the dogs out and had my coffee. I made a list of the things I'd like to accomplish today, but so far (its about 3:45) I have had three visitors. And I've been invited to a neighborhood barbeque this evening. This calls for a nap.

Friday, May 22, 2009

It's a Good and Lazy Dawgs Life Friday





Well for one thing, Marly slept through the night. I woke up with Marley snugged into the bend of my knees. When I woke Marley up she acted groggy. Nothing like a good night's sleep. Outside Marley and Cyrus did their business, and the kids next door were out getting ready for a camping trip to the desert. They heard me talking to the dogs and came over to the tall wooden fence between our yards. Three little voices said, "Peggy, open the window in the fence??? They are four year old twins, Franny and Ruben, and six year old Alvin. The window in the fence was made by the woman who used to own their house. She had Yorkies that were the worst behaved dogs I've every had the displeasure to meet, but my good old dog Lucy, a black Chowbradore, loved the Yorkies, so my neighbor hired someone to make a tiny gate with a lock on my side so Lucy could come visiting. It was too high for the Yorkies to get to my side but perfect for Lucy to jump through. I open the window in the fence and the three kids next door met Marley. They called her Mawley which I like even better than Marley. So now I'm calling her Mawley. Sounds very Bostonian. Mawley gave Ruben a kiss on the mouth and barked at the other two. Now Ruben feels very special.

We have had a succession of visitors including a Chihuahua named Segman, a golden Spanial named Bumper (we call him Boompere) and the dogs from the front house, Roscoe and Tassman--the two very big male yellow Labs. So for a couple of hours there were six dogs visiting. Mawley acted just like a calm, normal, happy, big dog who knows this is her house and yard and I am her mama. I was so proud. The Chihuahua had his nose out of joint because, until now, he was the special one in the crowd over here, but today, Mawley was the special one. Poor Seggy.

I had my breakfast of cantaloupe and cornbread around noon with my second bowl sized cup of espresso and organic milk with a tablespoon of sugar. Oh yes, I'm still hooked. And then I went grocery shopping. Had lovely interactions with everyone I saw. How nice it was not to hate everyone in the store. I found everything I wanted and more. Good buys on good healthy food. I am stocked except for the olive oil I forgot. I took a list but never looked at it. Mawley and I will walk to the store tomorrow. It will be good for us.

My groceries are almost put away and Cyrus is curled up on the dog bed beside my chair. Mawley is chewing on one of those giant rawhide bones Cyrus nurses for a couple of days and then discards. There is a small collection of half eaten giant rawhide bones tucked between his big round bed and the old dog bed that he uses as a pillow and hiding place for treats he's hoarding. Cyrus watches Mawley and all but shrugs. He could care less. We're all so relaxed and happy. It's a very good Friday.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

La Belette Rouge, This Tree's For You




La Belette Rouge has been sad about the absence of real trees in LA. I'm a big fan of the Palm tree, but La Belette Rouge is not. So since I'm surrounded by big real trees, I'm sharing them with you.

Today's tree is one of the row of Chestnut Trees that line the bit of land between two neighboring driveways, mine and my neighbors. Technically the trees belong to them. But the biggest branches of this ancient behemoth arc over my driveway and the top of my house. It's in bloom right now--big tall cones of fragrant blossoms. It will be dropping sticky pollen by the bucket full for days. Then the almost flesh colored blossoms will start falling in the slightest breeze and stick to the sticky pollen that is stuck to the top of the cars, and the length of the driveway, the sidewalk, the lawn, and roof of the house. It's both lovely and a nuisance. However, if I were driving by on a strange street and saw this amazing tree, I'd think it was magnificant.

The Dog Rescuer Is Suckered Again



Oh yes, I'm a sucker for a sob story. Marley needs a home and I have a home. Marley's family circumstances have changed every couple of months of her fist year. They got her to breed her, so she needs a hysterectomy. And her ex parents have agreed to take care of the neutering. She also needs a microchip and her nails trimmed and her anal glands cleared and her teeth cleaned and her nails trimmed. All this is in her near future, but for now she's getting acquainted with Cyrus (he likes her) and Roscoe (he'll tolerate her) and Tassman (who will probably want to play with her). Marley needs training and I'm a good trainer. Marley is pretty damn cute and I've never had a little dog, nor a pure breed dog. I've always believed that a mixed breed is a less neurotic dog and less prone to breed problems. Marley will be one year old in August, so hopefully, Marley will be very trainable. But so far in her first night at my house, she woke me up every two hours. I was a good sport and took Marley outside to do her business, but Marley just wanted to explore the area around the house, or my feet or the deck, but Marley refused to pee or poop. So back to bed. First thing out of bed this morning I took Marley and Cyrus to pee. Then when I came in to pee, Marley squatted on the bathroom rug and peed right in front of me. I have a girlfriend who is very ill and is having a surgical procedure done today. So the plan was that she would come to my house at 10:30 this morning and I would take her to the hospital. This morning just as my friend sat down in a chair, Marley took a crap on the floor right in front of her.

So now the work of training begins. One of my friends lives three houses up the street. She is a Chihuahua mama. And like many little dog owners, she claims training a little dog is different than training a big dog. I don't believe that, mainly because I've had such a variety of big dogs. But also because there are all the aspects of dog evolution and genetics breeding to tell us that no matter what size or breed they are pack animals and need a pack leader to feel secure. I am the pack leader and I expect all the dogs in my pack to behave well. So Marley and I are going to have some serious potty training sessions over the next few days. I think one of the things that makes little dogs neurotic is that so many little dog owners treat their pint sized pups like tiny human babies who will be little babies forever. Well, Marley is going to be a smart, happy, secure, healthy dog member of the pack at Chez Savage.

And I start doing research on little Dachshunds now.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

I'm Clotted Just Right So I Went Shopping


This is my new hat. I love it. I paid $4 for it at my nearest thrift store. I went shopping for summer shorts large enough to accommodate my fat ass and my gut, which looks to me like I might be, oh maybe, 7 months pregnant. And I did find comfortable shorts, but I also found three pairs of summer shoes, a great dress-up dress (Isaac Mizrahi) with original tags, so never worn. It's gorgeous. Found shoes to wear with it too. I found summer tops galore. And best of all I found a hand blown glass vase that I'm positive is a one of a kind piece of gorgeous Art, deserving of that capital A, at $8. Be sure you pronounce the word "vase" with the reverence it deserves. God I love days like this

And as for the clotting factor--perfect! I don't have to go back to the doctor for a whole month. Now I need to give myself the pedicure I deserve.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Oh God My Aching Back, And Aren't Those Republicans Funny

A friend who lives in San Francisco came through Salt Lake on his way east. We stayed up late and talked, and then once he'd gone to bed in the guest room of the big house, I stayed up late too revved up to sleep. Then this morning he came out to the little house at 7:15. I never get up that early. So I rolled out of bed to have coffee with him and then once he'd hit the road, I was wired on coffee and ready to work.

I use muscle when brain would be easier. I've worked today on much less sleep than usual, but I've been thinking while I was working, so maybe tomorrow my fingers might not feel like clubs and I can type a post without wincing. Then maybe I can finally talk about Michael Steele's stupid speech today without falling off my chair laughing. Republican's "navel gazing?" Jesus, they don't even know what empathy means, how could they navel gaze? When have they ever been up for introspection? I bet a term like "navel gazing" makes most republican's cringe. And "The Honeymoon's Over!" They're going to take on Obama, that celebrity!

I've got to learn to wear work gloves when I work. I've treated my hands like they were wire brushes trying to get mineral buildup off the inside of the three sides of the swamp cooler, removed the old pads and replaced them. It's a dirty job and takes some muscle to get the grills that hold the pads in place out of the holes that hold the grills in place. Oh crap, I can't explain the way a swamp cooler works.

Now I have to go bandage my hands.

What Kind of Blog Am I

Dear La Belette Rouge,

I'm having exactly that same problem with my blog. Am I a bipolar blog? Is it all about my craziness--my reclusivety, my lack of interest in the outside world, always about the navel gazing? I occasionally write a poem or post a bit of political outrage, and then there is a small palate cleansing of a bit of jazz. But even I know that I grow stale, old, dull on certain days. Mondays seem to be the worst for me. Now that you have me thinking about it, I realize that I will probably post this email to my blog, since I woke up with nothing to say. Nothing. I have nothing to add to what's been said. The conversation has come to an uncomfortable silence for me. Where do I go from here? Do I have too many things in the air juggling like mad and is it all about to come crashing down on my head in a loud clatter and then a deafening silence?

There are so many days I wake up and face the keyboard with nothing at all to say. I will have listened to the news, but neglected the newspapers, or big news blogs to find later in the day that had I done the slightest bit of reading I would have found something of substance to shout about. But today I'm a tabula rasa. So I'll probably take this letter to you and try to make it into something.

And for me, the reader of your blog, your therapy sessions are my favorite days. I worry about you when you go shopping, having been the sort of woman who used shopping as a substitute for whatever my life lacked. What my life did not lack was new designer clothes, fifty pairs of shoes, jewelry I never wore, the latest handbags, new sheets, new towels, the latest kitchen gadget, a vase, scented candles in new fragrances, and on and on. So I see shopping as a substitute for meaning. I see shopping as a way to fill the hole my mother left in my soul. And yes, at my age with my mother safely dead almost three and a half years, she still haunts me now and then and even as I say that I realize how silly it sounds that a dead woman still has the power to scare me, take whatever pleasure I have in a moment and turn it into pain. I know it is me giving her ghost power. I also know my hiding out like a woman living in a self imposed prison is a pathetic attempt to have a little control over what has been a chaotic life.

Why is it that in moments like these, I hear lines from The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock running through my mind? It's a poem that was written by a very young man. Why does it now hold such power for me? Why has it always? From the moment I first read it, sometime in my teens, it has held my attention and made me feel as if at least TS Eliot would have understood me. More than likely had TS Eliot the slightest relationship to me, he'd have thrown me in some moderately priced looney bin and been done with me. I'm amazed my family didn't. I suppose knowing that they might made me pretend with all my might that I was peachy. And there it is again, another echo from the long dead Eliot.

Well, now I have a post I think. I hope you won't mind if I post this letter to you or at least portions of it. Thanks for the inspiration. Were it not for you, I'd have nothing to say today.

Love,
Peggy

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Almost Blue Again

I know there are probably some of you (Tengrain) who drop by my place now and then have heard this at least once every couple of months or so, and would rather I didn't, but it's a favorite of mine. It's not the blues, but it's Almost Blue, by Diana Krall written by hubby Elvis Costello. I'm exploring the hues of blues and finding it more calming than sad. A bit dramatic now and then, but laid back and floating with it.

I told You I Was Blue

I found this at Sherry's place AfterTheBridge. I didn't even stop to ask if I could take it. And I was wearing a very dark hue of very dark blue, rendering me virtually invisible in the dark of night. And that last bit about me putting on a strong front. I call BS on that. But this part is true. Maggy sure as hell was an orange. Surface brilliance but not very deep.



You Are a Blue Crayon



Your world is colored in calm, understated, deep colors.

You are a loyal person, and the truest friend anyone could hope to find.

On the inside, you tend to be emotional and even a bit moody.

However, you know that people depend on you. So you put on a strong front.



Your color wheel opposite is orange. Orange people may be opinionated, but you feel they lack the depth to truly understand what they're saying.

Death By Intent

If I have died and you missed the moment
Know that I went peacefully in my sleep
Of my own accord and timing, by my own
Hand which could no longer pound the keys
Pull the ropes, the weeds, the rabbit out of the hat

Let it be said that "she was a woman who had great timing"
Take what you want and we'll say I gave it to you long ago
It will not matter to me now, and who's to say it wasn't my
Intention all along

Peggy Pendleton
5/10/09

And She Does It In High Heels

No one covers ground like this dancing couple. They were incomparable and had the best composers and lyricists for the musicals they did together. They made ten films together. And though she was not the world's best dancer, so it's said, together they were magic. The footwork in this little number is worth paying attention to. This is the way I wanted to dance and this man is the man I wanted to dance with. I spent many productive hours as a child dancing around the house pretending to be Ginger Rogers and pretending that Fred Astaire was my permanent dance partner. I eventually gave up dancing for lack of a partner who danced. Never married a man who danced. Tom would dance at weddings and such, and he wasn't half bad, but I never did get that feeling of dancing the light fantastic that I dreamed of when I was a kid when these were the movies of my early childhood.


These are the great lyrics (by Dorothy Fields) to this song by Jerome Kern composed and written in 1936

Nothing's impossible I have found,
For when my chin is on the ground,
I pick myself up,
Dust myself off,
Start All over again.

Don't lose your confidence if you slip,
Be grateful for a pleasant trip,
And pick yourself up,
Dust yourself off,
Start all over again.

Work like a soul inspired,
Till the battle of the day is won.
You may be sick and tired,
But you'll be a man, my son!

Will you remember the famous men,
Who had to fall to rise again?
So take a deep breath,
Pick yourself up,
Dust yourself off,
Start all over again.