This Diebold/Ohio scandal is not new. We should have been all over O'Dell last year.
Published on Thursday, August 28, 2003 by the Cleveland Plain Dealer
Voting Machine Controversy
by Julie Carr Smyth
COLUMBUS - The head of a company vying to sell voting machines in Ohio told Republicans in a recent fund-raising letter that he is "committed to helping Ohio deliver its electoral votes to the president next year."
The Aug. 14 letter from Walden O'Dell, chief executive of Diebold Inc. - who has become active in the re-election effort of President Bush - prompted Democrats this week to question the propriety of allowing O'Dell's company to calculate votes in the 2004 presidential election.
O'Dell attended a strategy pow-wow with wealthy Bush benefactors - known as Rangers and Pioneers - at the president's Crawford, Texas, ranch earlier this month. The next week, he penned invitations to a $1,000-a-plate fund-raiser to benefit the Ohio Republican Party's federal campaign fund - partially benefiting Bush - at his mansion in the Columbus suburb of Upper Arlington.
The letter went out the day before Ohio Secretary of State Ken Blackwell, also a Republican, was set to qualify Diebold as one of three firms eligible to sell upgraded electronic voting machines to Ohio counties in time for the 2004 election.
Blackwell's announcement is still in limbo because of a court challenge over the fairness of the selection process by a disqualified bidder, Sequoia Voting Systems.
In his invitation letter, O'Dell asked guests to consider donating or raising up to $10,000 each for the federal account that the state GOP will use to help Bush and other federal candidates - money that legislative Democratic leaders charged could come back to benefit Blackwell.
They urged Blackwell to remove Diebold from the field of voting-machine companies eligible to sell to Ohio counties.
This is the second such request in as many months. State Sen. Jeff Jacobson, a Dayton-area Republican, asked Blackwell in July to disqualify Diebold after security concerns arose over its equipment.
"Ordinary Ohioans may infer that Blackwell's office is looking past Diebold's security issues because its CEO is seeking $10,000 donations for Blackwell's party - donations that could be made with statewide elected officials right there in the same room," said Senate Democratic Leader Greg DiDonato.
Diebold spokeswoman Michelle Griggy said O'Dell - who was unavailable to comment personally - has held fund-raisers in his home for many causes, including the Columbus Zoo, Op era Columbus, Catholic Social Services and Ohio State University.
Ohio GOP spokesman Jason Mauk said the party approached O'Dell about hosting the event at his home, the historic Cotswold Manor, and not the other way around. Mauk said that under federal campaign finance rules, the party cannot use any money from its federal account for state- level candidates.
"To think that Diebold is somehow tainted because they have a couple folks on their board who support the president is just unfair," Mauk said.
Griggy said in an e-mail statement that Diebold could not comment on the political contributions of individual company employees.
Blackwell said Diebold is not the only company with political connections - noting that lobbyists for voting-machine makers read like a who's who of Columbus' powerful and politically connected.
"Let me put it to you this way: If there was one person uniquely involved in the political process, that might be troubling," he said. "But there's no one that hasn't used every legitimate avenue and bit of leverage that they could legally use to get their product looked at. Believe me, if there is a political lever to be pulled, all of them have pulled it."
Blackwell said he stands by the process used for selecting voting machine vendors as fair, thorough and impartial.
As of yesterday, however, that determination lay with Ohio Court of Claims Judge Fred Shoemaker.
He heard closing arguments yesterday over whether Sequoia was unfairly eliminated by Blackwell midway through the final phase of negotiations.
Shoemaker extended a temporary restraining order in the case for 14 days, but said he hopes to issue his opinion sooner than that.
© 2003 The Plain Dealer
[[More on Rangers and Pioneers]]
November 05, 2004
November 04, 2004
A Wave of New Voices--GOOD!
As I surf through blogspot blogs tonight, I come upon several new blogs started in the last few days around this critical election. Not all are US blogs, but all I've seen have started writing based on the fear and disbelief around an America run by far right zealots. This is one, for example. Welcome to blogging. And good writing.
The best thing that could happen is that more and more intelligent voices emerge and grow strong between now and 2008. That they inform, move, resonate. And the new wave of the rule of Bush may inspire just that.
The best thing that could happen is that more and more intelligent voices emerge and grow strong between now and 2008. That they inform, move, resonate. And the new wave of the rule of Bush may inspire just that.
And for you dumbfounded folks overseas...
You think you're confounded? Not sure what to make of your American blog friends? Wondering if it's really true that we're lamebrained numskulls? Deciding whether you can tolerate hanging out with people who've been good friends because they are obviously "not your kind of people"?
Yah, well, imagine being you and living here. That's what it's like for the rest of us.
good day.
Yah, well, imagine being you and living here. That's what it's like for the rest of us.
good day.
Walkin' in a Wiki Wonderland.
Oh my gosh. I just made my first contribution to a WIKI. I added Phil's blog to the list of CEO blogs on the New PR WIKI. I was ever so tempted to delete Alan Meckler's blog. That blog is such a bad example of a CEO weblog. But I didn't delete him. That wouldn't have been right.
Hold on girl.
WIKI. I've been reluctant, worried that I'd slip into collaboration nirvana never to reappear. I thought'd be hard. But it wasn't.
mmmmm. it was sweet.
I feel compassionate all over.
Hold on girl.
WIKI. I've been reluctant, worried that I'd slip into collaboration nirvana never to reappear. I thought'd be hard. But it wasn't.
mmmmm. it was sweet.
I feel compassionate all over.
Naming Is Power
David had a great post about reclaiming and/or reframing language that has been adopted and frequently skewed by The Oposition. I added mine:
I'd also like to add GET OVER IT to my list. Get Over It is the most frequently employed post-election mantra on the part of the publicans. "Get Over It" was also their rhetorical weapon of choice after W. stole the 2000 election. I am reframing it to mean Get Over Yourselves, and directing it at the hypocritical members of the right like Rush It's-Vicodin-Time Limbaugh, and Bill I-Like-Your-Tits O'Reilly, and Alan Cheney-Raised-an-Abomination-But-Vote-For-Him-Anyway Keyes. All of you and all of yours, get over your pseudo-moralistic selves before I do it for you.
COMPASSION: The symantics of Compassionate Conservatism must be demystified and destroyed. I had a soccer-mom explain to me on the phone last week that she was voting for Bush because she considers herself a Compassionate Conservative--a term she thought she had just invented until I let her know that Bush and Pubes before him have been using the term -- along with many other phrases that make the simple minded feel important -- for years..
Publicans, please understand that I don't want your compassion; I don't need your compassion. To show me such, in your eyes, gives you power over me. So save it. Keep your pitty, your tolerance, and your motherfucking compassion. I'll do just fine without it.
HE CAN RUN BUT HE CAN'T HIDE: It was very easy for "W." toss this phrase about in the final four weeks of the election. He got a hard on simply from being able to remember it. He used it and saw that it jazzed up his base of elitests and idiots quite nicely on the final leg of the campaign trail. Well, I am claiming it now. Mr. Bush, you can run but you can't hide. Unlike your friend Bin Laden, who, it seems, can both run AND hide, thanks to you.
PRAYER: I talked with a woman checking me out at Walgreens this morning. I see her there frequently--she works lots of hours. When she asked how I was doing, I said tired and pissed about the election. She said, "You're tellin me." And we began talking. What do we do now. Can you believe it. There were no color lines between us. We talked about the war and her boys. And when I took my bag she reminded me--what we do now is pray. THAT'S RIGHT, WE PRAY TOO. Publicans, you do not have a monopoly on prayer or God. You do not have a monopoly on Christ. You do not have a monopoly on salvation or forgiveness.
Those are the three I'd like to add right now.
Thank you
I'd also like to add GET OVER IT to my list. Get Over It is the most frequently employed post-election mantra on the part of the publicans. "Get Over It" was also their rhetorical weapon of choice after W. stole the 2000 election. I am reframing it to mean Get Over Yourselves, and directing it at the hypocritical members of the right like Rush It's-Vicodin-Time Limbaugh, and Bill I-Like-Your-Tits O'Reilly, and Alan Cheney-Raised-an-Abomination-But-Vote-For-Him-Anyway Keyes. All of you and all of yours, get over your pseudo-moralistic selves before I do it for you.
Sudan Government Prayed for a Bush Victory
The conflict, which has left at least 70,000 people dead, has created what UN officials say is the worst humanitarian crisis in the world.
How does he sleep at night?
Guess they haven't seen him with his flight suit on.
How does he sleep at night?
...The ruling elite in Khartoum prefers a Republicans in the White House because it is seen as not as harsh as the Democrats.
Guess they haven't seen him with his flight suit on.
November 03, 2004
sick.
I don't know this country's mind any more, let alone its heart.
"They elected a polite David Duke in Louisiana, and someone who doesn't believe gay people should teach school in South Carolina, and a creep in Oklahoma, and somebody who's fairly obviously drifting into the fog in Kentucky. The pretty clearly indictable DeLay tactics in Texas worked like a charm. These are all victories won on grounds on which we cannot compete. When gay marriage trumps dead soldiers in Iraq, how do you run a race without dissolving into fantasy?"
"They elected a polite David Duke in Louisiana, and someone who doesn't believe gay people should teach school in South Carolina, and a creep in Oklahoma, and somebody who's fairly obviously drifting into the fog in Kentucky. The pretty clearly indictable DeLay tactics in Texas worked like a charm. These are all victories won on grounds on which we cannot compete. When gay marriage trumps dead soldiers in Iraq, how do you run a race without dissolving into fantasy?"
mad.
Fuck You, Bush. You Fucktard.
For the rest of us... some things to read.
Eliminate TV.
Live online where you will find communities of smart people.
David does language. Weinberger/AKMA in 2008.
democrat.com on the fascist motherfuckers in power.
The Rich, Dumb, and Faithful Re-elect Bush: "As Senator John F. Kerry prepared his concession speech Wednesday morning, it became clear that the rich got in bed with the dumb and the faithful to deliver power over every branch of the United States government to a corrupt Republican Party that will do anything, including steal votes and lie, to gain and hold political power."
InterimTom: "Part of the mystery of strongly divided elections is understanding how anyone can vote for the other guy. Part of the reality check USians will face is, how realistic is the rhetoric of healing and union that new-waveian solutions spout with such facility?"
Not. And thank God.
Resist the Borg.
And for every blog pundit online calling for cooperation and civil discourse, an end to disagreements, and a need for pledges among bloggers and citizens to unite us, I say:
BLOW ME!!!!!!
You want a mandate of unbiased blather, go get your journalism degree and write for print, kay?
And while you're at it, take your bastions of morality with you--Bill Adulterer O'Reilly and Rush Drug-Addict Limbaugh. Save a seat at media training camp for George DUI Bush. They could all use a refresher course.
Unite this, you sack of hypocrites.
For the rest of us... some things to read.
Eliminate TV.
Live online where you will find communities of smart people.
David does language. Weinberger/AKMA in 2008.
democrat.com on the fascist motherfuckers in power.
The Rich, Dumb, and Faithful Re-elect Bush: "As Senator John F. Kerry prepared his concession speech Wednesday morning, it became clear that the rich got in bed with the dumb and the faithful to deliver power over every branch of the United States government to a corrupt Republican Party that will do anything, including steal votes and lie, to gain and hold political power."
InterimTom: "Part of the mystery of strongly divided elections is understanding how anyone can vote for the other guy. Part of the reality check USians will face is, how realistic is the rhetoric of healing and union that new-waveian solutions spout with such facility?"
Not. And thank God.
Resist the Borg.
And for every blog pundit online calling for cooperation and civil discourse, an end to disagreements, and a need for pledges among bloggers and citizens to unite us, I say:
BLOW ME!!!!!!
You want a mandate of unbiased blather, go get your journalism degree and write for print, kay?
And while you're at it, take your bastions of morality with you--Bill Adulterer O'Reilly and Rush Drug-Addict Limbaugh. Save a seat at media training camp for George DUI Bush. They could all use a refresher course.
Unite this, you sack of hypocrites.
October 30, 2004
allied turns 3 years old on Friday.
Back Then I said:
"Okay, so blogs can get tiresome--I'll give you that. But that's because this blogging thing is part of an evolution. It's not the answer. The destination. It's not anything really except another platform for voice--a really no-cost-entry easy-to-use platform for anyone who knows how to open a browser. Does that mean the rifraf can get in? Oh yeh. There goes the neighborhood. Good."
Still believe it.
In all of this time, I have learned so so much about a few good friends whom I might not have come upon any other way. I've learned so so much about myself, whom I might not have come upon any other way.
For these things alone, I'm glad I took the joy ride.
Of course, I'm no richer for it.
Somebody owes me some doggone green.
"Okay, so blogs can get tiresome--I'll give you that. But that's because this blogging thing is part of an evolution. It's not the answer. The destination. It's not anything really except another platform for voice--a really no-cost-entry easy-to-use platform for anyone who knows how to open a browser. Does that mean the rifraf can get in? Oh yeh. There goes the neighborhood. Good."
Still believe it.
In all of this time, I have learned so so much about a few good friends whom I might not have come upon any other way. I've learned so so much about myself, whom I might not have come upon any other way.
For these things alone, I'm glad I took the joy ride.
Of course, I'm no richer for it.
Somebody owes me some doggone green.
I am grateful for the voices
Paul, simply beautiful:
"I said in comments to someone else's blog a few days ago, that some months ago, I'd taken in a young dog, and had become aware that if his life expectancy is normal for his species, there is a fair chance he will outlive me; in other words, I'm no longer the middle aged guy I've described myself as being for some time, I'm a guy on his last dog."
.....
"But in the pocket microscope, I caught a glimpse of that old scar, and found it had a complexity and strangeness I've long ignored. In a strong light, I examined it freshly through the little lens, and looked anew at its spidery, faint contours, memories carved in my flesh of my own various stupidities, but a record I didn't control in its making, that is its own map of that day. I became momentarily fascinated by the rest of my hand, marked all over with the bad outcomes of accidents, investigations, and procedures or equipment not well enough understood. My hands are ugly enough at the normal scale, but examined a millimeter at a time, they are each a living horror, tolerable only for being abstract in their grotesquery, under a twenty power lens. After more than fifty years of living, I realized that there is no part of my left hand that hasn't been, at some time or another, at least superficially injured. That hand is literally one big collection of small, forgotten scars, but continues to stubbornly embody a stoic power for its functions. And I thought that was a pretty good description of my larger self, as well. I am become, all over, scARboi, stubbornly plodding along."
.....
"For better or worse, I am the subject of all my pictures, even those in which I'm nowhere visible."
-------------------
And Jessamyn, simply beautiful:
"I drive past a beaver dam on my way to work. It's in a little lake area and looks quite lovely, set against the foliage backdrop, very rural, picturesque. Today when I drove by I could see that it had new sticks on it. Someone actually lived there. This wasn't stunt nature, this was the beavers living nearby, and doing their beaver things. It's one thing to have a little tree sticking out of a sidewalk that provides some shade and stands in for the forests that used to be where the newspaper boxes now are...."
......
"I read a book recently about how to co-exist with wild animals. The author starts from the position that at some level, we have moved into the homes of the wild animals, so we should not be surprised that they see our territory as theirs. All of this is just a roundabout way of saying that I like living here, where the beaver builds its home within viewing distance of the road, and where the bear eats the fish that we think we can just "grow" for ourselves."
"I said in comments to someone else's blog a few days ago, that some months ago, I'd taken in a young dog, and had become aware that if his life expectancy is normal for his species, there is a fair chance he will outlive me; in other words, I'm no longer the middle aged guy I've described myself as being for some time, I'm a guy on his last dog."
.....
"But in the pocket microscope, I caught a glimpse of that old scar, and found it had a complexity and strangeness I've long ignored. In a strong light, I examined it freshly through the little lens, and looked anew at its spidery, faint contours, memories carved in my flesh of my own various stupidities, but a record I didn't control in its making, that is its own map of that day. I became momentarily fascinated by the rest of my hand, marked all over with the bad outcomes of accidents, investigations, and procedures or equipment not well enough understood. My hands are ugly enough at the normal scale, but examined a millimeter at a time, they are each a living horror, tolerable only for being abstract in their grotesquery, under a twenty power lens. After more than fifty years of living, I realized that there is no part of my left hand that hasn't been, at some time or another, at least superficially injured. That hand is literally one big collection of small, forgotten scars, but continues to stubbornly embody a stoic power for its functions. And I thought that was a pretty good description of my larger self, as well. I am become, all over, scARboi, stubbornly plodding along."
.....
"For better or worse, I am the subject of all my pictures, even those in which I'm nowhere visible."
-------------------
And Jessamyn, simply beautiful:
"I drive past a beaver dam on my way to work. It's in a little lake area and looks quite lovely, set against the foliage backdrop, very rural, picturesque. Today when I drove by I could see that it had new sticks on it. Someone actually lived there. This wasn't stunt nature, this was the beavers living nearby, and doing their beaver things. It's one thing to have a little tree sticking out of a sidewalk that provides some shade and stands in for the forests that used to be where the newspaper boxes now are...."
......
"I read a book recently about how to co-exist with wild animals. The author starts from the position that at some level, we have moved into the homes of the wild animals, so we should not be surprised that they see our territory as theirs. All of this is just a roundabout way of saying that I like living here, where the beaver builds its home within viewing distance of the road, and where the bear eats the fish that we think we can just "grow" for ourselves."
I'm Not That Adam Levine
Hysterical things like this make me love the net anew.
How else would we ever be able to listen to the answering machine of some random x dude in Los Angeles who happens to have the same name as the lead singer of super popular band Maroon 5, which again would remain unapparent to you and I, if we weren't here, but turns out since we are here, this is so freaking funny because of all the idiots who call random Adam Levine thinking he's "that" Adam Levine.
Well he's not.
Thanks to Brad Sucks for the hoot.
How else would we ever be able to listen to the answering machine of some random x dude in Los Angeles who happens to have the same name as the lead singer of super popular band Maroon 5, which again would remain unapparent to you and I, if we weren't here, but turns out since we are here, this is so freaking funny because of all the idiots who call random Adam Levine thinking he's "that" Adam Levine.
Well he's not.
Thanks to Brad Sucks for the hoot.
October 29, 2004
Endorse This
VOTE YES FOR WEBLOG AMENDMENT #344
__ It shall be illegal to use the term "I endorse" on any weblog, political or other, unless the phrase is used in complete jest or to point out the stupdity of bloggers who think they are all that and therefore have the import to endorse anyone or anything.
This is also known as the "Get Over Yourself Already" amendment.
Vote Yes on November 2nd.
To make the blogosphere stronger at home and respected again in the world.
__ It shall be illegal to use the term "I endorse" on any weblog, political or other, unless the phrase is used in complete jest or to point out the stupdity of bloggers who think they are all that and therefore have the import to endorse anyone or anything.
This is also known as the "Get Over Yourself Already" amendment.
Vote Yes on November 2nd.
To make the blogosphere stronger at home and respected again in the world.
Chuck-e-Cheese Shoe Analysis: A Historic and Demographic Study
I'm always amazed by the way my baby thinks. She's seven now, and her mind is exploding in her new school, which is good. She's challenged. Some stuff is finally "too hard," she says. I say good. It's about time.
We were talking today about how we went to Chuck-E-Cheese last Halloween to avoid the neighborhood hubub and have relative fun at a relatively safe place. She admitted to having a good time, but remarked that there weren't enoug kids for her to play with that night.
I objected. "Jenna, you made a few friends that night if I remember right."
"Well there were a couple. I knew there would be because of the shoes."
A stumped mom stared at her. "The shoes?"
She then explained to me the very logical -- if previously secret -- process she uses to determine the likeliness of friend finding on any given evening at Chuck-E-Cheese.
"I just look at the shoes. You know, the shoes we take off before we climb up into the tunnel. I always sit there and look through the shoes while I'm taking mine off. I can tell how many boys are up in the tunnel and how many girls, and I can tell about how old they are--if they're big kids or little kids. That's how I tell if I want to climb up in the tunnel and if I'll probably make a friend or not."
I remain dumbfounded. Even as of 10:45 this evening.
She's data mining from the shoe bin.
We were talking today about how we went to Chuck-E-Cheese last Halloween to avoid the neighborhood hubub and have relative fun at a relatively safe place. She admitted to having a good time, but remarked that there weren't enoug kids for her to play with that night.
I objected. "Jenna, you made a few friends that night if I remember right."
"Well there were a couple. I knew there would be because of the shoes."
A stumped mom stared at her. "The shoes?"
She then explained to me the very logical -- if previously secret -- process she uses to determine the likeliness of friend finding on any given evening at Chuck-E-Cheese.
"I just look at the shoes. You know, the shoes we take off before we climb up into the tunnel. I always sit there and look through the shoes while I'm taking mine off. I can tell how many boys are up in the tunnel and how many girls, and I can tell about how old they are--if they're big kids or little kids. That's how I tell if I want to climb up in the tunnel and if I'll probably make a friend or not."
I remain dumbfounded. Even as of 10:45 this evening.
She's data mining from the shoe bin.
I'm not a pro, but I can cook.
I made dinner at Shelley's IT Kitchen tonight.
You should see all the gadgets she's got in her junk drawer. I mean the whi... Ooops. I promised I wouldn't tell. Shit. Sorry, Shelley.
Read/write more on the IT Kitchen WIKI.
Thank you to Shelley for ramping up these seemingly impossible projects that make me want to stick around and blog for a while longer.
Props, babe.
You should see all the gadgets she's got in her junk drawer. I mean the whi... Ooops. I promised I wouldn't tell. Shit. Sorry, Shelley.
Read/write more on the IT Kitchen WIKI.
Thank you to Shelley for ramping up these seemingly impossible projects that make me want to stick around and blog for a while longer.
Props, babe.
The Crone Says Vote
Elaine's getting her vote on with a lot of informative links over on Kalilily Time. I'm clicking through the funny ones. And some of the serious ones too.
I hate this time of year every four years. So please read Elaine if you want to know what to do in the voting booth.
I hate this time of year every four years. So please read Elaine if you want to know what to do in the voting booth.
October 24, 2004
Gonzo Engaged, the oldest team blog on blogspot
I missed Gonzo Engaged's birthday on October 14th! SHIT! I'll have to send it a card.
Okay maybe a video.
Going strong since 2001. Or, well, at least going.
This one's for Marek.
Okay maybe a video.
Going strong since 2001. Or, well, at least going.
This one's for Marek.
I can't wait til December...
Because then I get to write -- for like the fifteenhundredth time -- Jo Ho Ho, Merry Christmas!
Which is made even funnier because David's Jewish. Just in case you didn't know. You know, like if you're from Alabama or something.
I don't know what it is about JOHO's name, but I find myself giggling in public places (escalators mostly) from the funny JOHOisms that pass between my ears...
Like, she not yo ho, she's Jo ho.
And, Jo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
And, Jo, Ho, fetch my coat!
Stuff like that.
Which is made even funnier because David's Jewish. Just in case you didn't know. You know, like if you're from Alabama or something.
I don't know what it is about JOHO's name, but I find myself giggling in public places (escalators mostly) from the funny JOHOisms that pass between my ears...
Like, she not yo ho, she's Jo ho.
And, Jo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
And, Jo, Ho, fetch my coat!
Stuff like that.
Locke and the Spammers Sittin' in a Tree
K-i-s-s-i-n-g.
Only The Man could make a case for spam. He looks at it like a nicely wrapped box of virtual canvases from friends and fans around the world.
As we say here in Atlanta, He Crazy.
Only The Man could make a case for spam. He looks at it like a nicely wrapped box of virtual canvases from friends and fans around the world.
As we say here in Atlanta, He Crazy.
Don't Try This at Home
Never never never ever, and I mean never, accidentally unplug an uncharged laptop in the middle of a Microsoft Service Pack Update. Okay, never. Got it?
This I did on Friday.
It was not a good day.
With perfect timing, the install was riddling through .dll files at the time of power interuptus. Sweet Mother Mary, that's all she wrote.
When I rebooted to attempt to pick up where I left off, I found that I was left off a cliff. My desktop wouldn't load. No icons. No status bar or start menu. Just a really nice picture of a landscape like one of those relaxation waterfall deals.
I'll save you the trouble -- save me the remembering -- of the last day, which included having to restore XP. Although I came up with a quirky workaround for copying my most important files (only one at a time--no ctrl key) over to my D: drive (I'm partitioned) using a combintion of techniques (task manager/new task/browse/click/ctrl+c/dropdown/D:/ctrl+v), I lost my email file and all my applications.
So I've been rebuilding. A little at a time. And it's safe to say that if I've ever emailed you in the past--like over the last few years--I don't know how to write to you anymore.
So, Hey. Hope all is well. Things are peachy over here.
night.
This I did on Friday.
It was not a good day.
With perfect timing, the install was riddling through .dll files at the time of power interuptus. Sweet Mother Mary, that's all she wrote.
When I rebooted to attempt to pick up where I left off, I found that I was left off a cliff. My desktop wouldn't load. No icons. No status bar or start menu. Just a really nice picture of a landscape like one of those relaxation waterfall deals.
I'll save you the trouble -- save me the remembering -- of the last day, which included having to restore XP. Although I came up with a quirky workaround for copying my most important files (only one at a time--no ctrl key) over to my D: drive (I'm partitioned) using a combintion of techniques (task manager/new task/browse/click/ctrl+c/dropdown/D:/ctrl+v), I lost my email file and all my applications.
So I've been rebuilding. A little at a time. And it's safe to say that if I've ever emailed you in the past--like over the last few years--I don't know how to write to you anymore.
So, Hey. Hope all is well. Things are peachy over here.
night.
October 22, 2004
Anyone Can Blog -- Even Spammers.
I've noticed an interesting if disturbing trend lately while surfing through my referrer log. In the last week, three times I've clicked on links I was unfamiliar with and ended up on what essentially is a spam blog. Post after Post entertains the readers with names of drugs, new marketing schemes, and keywords strung together in ways that only a good spammer can manage.
I'm trying to figure out how much this bothers me. First, it's smart. Gosh they're smart. With Google's crush on blogs, what better a way to get eyeballs than to work your way up over time by hammering the same spamola over and over, day after day, post after post.
Do they have some kind of automated tool that lets them start a blog and publish posts? If so, does Blogger need to authenticate that we are indeed "people" that push-button publishing was meant for? And, who's to say they can't play too. It's not really spam if we don't "receive" it. It's not spam if we click ourselves to the page. Yet the messages are the same ones we receive in email spam. It's the same game with a pull instead of push.
One reason they'll have a hard time getting value out of their weblog post spam is that they won't participate in the link factor that blog success depends on. Surely no one will link to them. Except maybe their partners in crime. And wouldn't that be oddly interesting.
Anyway, if you've noticed an increase in post-spam, let me know. Surprised me.
I'm trying to figure out how much this bothers me. First, it's smart. Gosh they're smart. With Google's crush on blogs, what better a way to get eyeballs than to work your way up over time by hammering the same spamola over and over, day after day, post after post.
Do they have some kind of automated tool that lets them start a blog and publish posts? If so, does Blogger need to authenticate that we are indeed "people" that push-button publishing was meant for? And, who's to say they can't play too. It's not really spam if we don't "receive" it. It's not spam if we click ourselves to the page. Yet the messages are the same ones we receive in email spam. It's the same game with a pull instead of push.
One reason they'll have a hard time getting value out of their weblog post spam is that they won't participate in the link factor that blog success depends on. Surely no one will link to them. Except maybe their partners in crime. And wouldn't that be oddly interesting.
Anyway, if you've noticed an increase in post-spam, let me know. Surprised me.
Getting back to me
We transitioned Jenna to her new school this week. As luck would have it, they are on early dismissal all week and out at 12:20. As luck would also have it, they start at dark-thirty in the morning, and I'm only sort of getting used to leaving the house before birds are awake.
Oh. My. Head. You could say I'm complaining. You'd be right. Because what is this? What is this with school's starting at 7-something in the morning? Have they not figured out that we're not raising good little line workers anymore? Hello school systems: Stop the torture. Embrace the digital age.
Anyway, as I said, we're getting used to it. Slowly. Jenna's as much of a night owl as George and I. Yes, we are strict about bed time. She'll bed. But she won't wind down easy. Won't sleep. Too much to consider. She's comfortable with the night. Like us.
I wish that I had the schedule, patience, and drive to home school her. Once again I salute all parents who make this choice and have the stamina to make it work. I am really beginning to believe that these are the children who will be best prepared -- with the flexibility required -- to succeed in the businesses of the future.
Since I started to "home work," one of the most lucrative and rewarding decisions I've made in my long and sordid career, I've gained a new perspective on how much sense it makes to integrate learning, working, moming, teaching and other activities with the help of the net. Yes, it's different. Even a bit scary. But it's also fluid. It's flexible. It's dynamic. It's networked. And it becomes inherent. Less work. More just living. It just IS how it IS.
And I know that's not what Jenna will get with public school education--or even private if we go that route. That's because communities are still not effectively educating children for the technology age. Sure, they have the tools now. Computers in classrooms. An extended intranet for parents. But that's not getting them prepared culturally.
We are not teaching adaptation, flexibility, movement, choice. We aren't teaching them to integrate like activities, to sort and schedule, to enjoy off time. The rigidity of the 7:20-2:20-don't-be-tardy-line-up system crushes any incentive for children to think and choose and understand what it takes to navigate the day responsibly.
The two years Jenna spent at Montessori were so much closer to achieving this type of education. But those type of programs are few and far between here--AND expensive.
On the positive side, I like Jenna's new teacher a lot. That will make a huge difference. She's positive, upbeat, and hard. Jenna's already complaining about the amount of work. Good. It's about time.
Her health -- I'm reluctant to say it outloud -- has greatly improved since being out of the mold building. More to say about that eventually. One thing at a time.
And at this time the thing is four motrin and a big glass of water because my head is killin me.
Oh. My. Head. You could say I'm complaining. You'd be right. Because what is this? What is this with school's starting at 7-something in the morning? Have they not figured out that we're not raising good little line workers anymore? Hello school systems: Stop the torture. Embrace the digital age.
Anyway, as I said, we're getting used to it. Slowly. Jenna's as much of a night owl as George and I. Yes, we are strict about bed time. She'll bed. But she won't wind down easy. Won't sleep. Too much to consider. She's comfortable with the night. Like us.
I wish that I had the schedule, patience, and drive to home school her. Once again I salute all parents who make this choice and have the stamina to make it work. I am really beginning to believe that these are the children who will be best prepared -- with the flexibility required -- to succeed in the businesses of the future.
Since I started to "home work," one of the most lucrative and rewarding decisions I've made in my long and sordid career, I've gained a new perspective on how much sense it makes to integrate learning, working, moming, teaching and other activities with the help of the net. Yes, it's different. Even a bit scary. But it's also fluid. It's flexible. It's dynamic. It's networked. And it becomes inherent. Less work. More just living. It just IS how it IS.
And I know that's not what Jenna will get with public school education--or even private if we go that route. That's because communities are still not effectively educating children for the technology age. Sure, they have the tools now. Computers in classrooms. An extended intranet for parents. But that's not getting them prepared culturally.
We are not teaching adaptation, flexibility, movement, choice. We aren't teaching them to integrate like activities, to sort and schedule, to enjoy off time. The rigidity of the 7:20-2:20-don't-be-tardy-line-up system crushes any incentive for children to think and choose and understand what it takes to navigate the day responsibly.
The two years Jenna spent at Montessori were so much closer to achieving this type of education. But those type of programs are few and far between here--AND expensive.
On the positive side, I like Jenna's new teacher a lot. That will make a huge difference. She's positive, upbeat, and hard. Jenna's already complaining about the amount of work. Good. It's about time.
Her health -- I'm reluctant to say it outloud -- has greatly improved since being out of the mold building. More to say about that eventually. One thing at a time.
And at this time the thing is four motrin and a big glass of water because my head is killin me.
October 21, 2004
October 20, 2004
Seriously Americans...
He does not see the relevance of the deficit, the future of social security, ethical issues involved in rebuilding Iraq, nor any topic that requires thinking outward to the next 10-20 years.
There is one reason and one reason alone for this:
The President of the United States of America believes that this world, this system, will be destroyed before these minor matters of state come to pass.
If you knew that your credit card company was going to be wiped out within a year, would you hesitate to charge what you needed? Especially if you had the "Almighty's" word that you were doing His work as you were spending?
Well that's how it is how it is. Right now. Today. In your White House.
You ask George Bush if we are living in the End Times.
You tell me what he says.
Then you wonder why he spends like there's no tomorrow.
There is one reason and one reason alone for this:
The President of the United States of America believes that this world, this system, will be destroyed before these minor matters of state come to pass.
If you knew that your credit card company was going to be wiped out within a year, would you hesitate to charge what you needed? Especially if you had the "Almighty's" word that you were doing His work as you were spending?
Well that's how it is how it is. Right now. Today. In your White House.
You ask George Bush if we are living in the End Times.
You tell me what he says.
Then you wonder why he spends like there's no tomorrow.
Oh David. Don't You Get It?
I have decided to educate David on how fundamentalist-powered political thinking works. Poor David. He seems so clueless. He makes the mistake so many people make when they are analyzing what makes the neoconservatives tick: He assumes they think. No no, David. The end-game is pre-determined. There is no critical thinking. There is only following the correct path from here to there.
Here I offer some Sunday School Classes for others among my readers who might not be so savvy about the interdependencies of holy wars, deficit spending, and eternal life:
Here I offer some Sunday School Classes for others among my readers who might not be so savvy about the interdependencies of holy wars, deficit spending, and eternal life:
From CNN today:
The founder of the U.S. Christian Coalition [Pat Robertson] said Tuesday he told President George W. Bush before the invasion of Iraq that he should prepare Americans for the likelihood of casualties, but the president told him, "We're not going to have any casualties."
I hope Kerry goes big with this, along with Bush's statement that he's not too concerned about Bin Laden. Daddy Bush may not have known how much a quart of milk costs, but sonny-boy's fiction-based presidency is getting us killed.
Posted by D. Weinberger at October 20, 2004 12:05 PM | TrackBack
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Comments
What he may mean, given the messenger and his recipient, is that we will suffer no casualties because those who fall doing the will of the Almighty (i.e. spreading freedom to brown people who deserve a shot at ruling themselves after they pay big kickbacks to large American corporations and surrender their natural resources) in this holy war be granted eternal life.
See David? They don't die.
Axis of Evil ---> Hell
Nucleus of Good ---> Heaven
You must have missed evangelical christian sunday school last week.
Posted by: jeneane on October 20, 2004 02:14 PM
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Aha! Thanks, Jeneane.
Now can you explain the religious math behind his deficit spending? TIA!
Posted by: David Weinberger on October 20, 2004 04:29 PM
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I would be happy to:
Deficits don't matter when you're expecting the return of your Lord any day.
You can't take it with you, so you might as well spend it.
The post-Rapture deficit doesn't count. God sets it all back to zero.
This is neoconomics. I am trademarking it. Any other mysteries you'd like me to solve?
Come On Google!
For the first time since 2001 I am seriously thinking of leaving Blogger and Blogspot--tools and folks I've supported and come to respect over the years.
I have a good bit of blogequity over here, but my initial fears and complaints about the recent changes to the user interface have come to fruition. Blogger is now officially the slowest tool I use. And I use a lot of software tools. Five times in the last 48 hours I went to create a new post, and got so frustrated waiting for the stinking 'create' box to open I gave up. My ideas were gone. I was readily pissed.
What, are they sending every potential post through IR and Crisis Management before the hit the Web or something? Is this what it means to go public?
I don't like losing my ideas.
I'm old. They don't come so quick anymore.
You're on warning, guys.
I have a good bit of blogequity over here, but my initial fears and complaints about the recent changes to the user interface have come to fruition. Blogger is now officially the slowest tool I use. And I use a lot of software tools. Five times in the last 48 hours I went to create a new post, and got so frustrated waiting for the stinking 'create' box to open I gave up. My ideas were gone. I was readily pissed.
What, are they sending every potential post through IR and Crisis Management before the hit the Web or something? Is this what it means to go public?
I don't like losing my ideas.
I'm old. They don't come so quick anymore.
You're on warning, guys.
October 19, 2004
Outsource the Musak Too
My last three calls to Earthlink convinced me that they've followed the lead of so many corpo-losers and have outsourced their support operations overseas. Where overseas I'm not quite sure. The accent of my last three friendly-if-not-able-to-help-me representatives rings East Indian.
I think that corporations could do all of us a favor. If they're going to outsource the jobs to India, they should outsource the on-hold music too.
I don't want to hear weather channel smooth jazz while Reg talks to his "senior representative." I want to hear sitar, damnit.
The best business models are the ones that turn perceived defects into great assets. They deliver value where you don't expect any.
So instead of trying to hide the fact that Reg is really Raj, and that he's working in Bangalore not Atlanta, why not slap some Indian fusion on the other end of my receiver, tell me about great tourist spots and travelocity packages to Kolkata, and broaden my perspective as you get my website reactivated?
Or start a referral program. Have Raj tell me that his company is the best at what he does and offer me a referral fee if I refer one of my big clients to them and a deal takes place? Next thing you know, out of work IT guys become brokers -- a kind of sophisticated outsource pimp if you will (or e-marketplace as we once called it) -- hooking up good Indian support firms with low-to-no conscience American companies for an affordable transaction fee.
Want ideas? I got a million.
I think that corporations could do all of us a favor. If they're going to outsource the jobs to India, they should outsource the on-hold music too.
I don't want to hear weather channel smooth jazz while Reg talks to his "senior representative." I want to hear sitar, damnit.
The best business models are the ones that turn perceived defects into great assets. They deliver value where you don't expect any.
So instead of trying to hide the fact that Reg is really Raj, and that he's working in Bangalore not Atlanta, why not slap some Indian fusion on the other end of my receiver, tell me about great tourist spots and travelocity packages to Kolkata, and broaden my perspective as you get my website reactivated?
Or start a referral program. Have Raj tell me that his company is the best at what he does and offer me a referral fee if I refer one of my big clients to them and a deal takes place? Next thing you know, out of work IT guys become brokers -- a kind of sophisticated outsource pimp if you will (or e-marketplace as we once called it) -- hooking up good Indian support firms with low-to-no conscience American companies for an affordable transaction fee.
Want ideas? I got a million.
October 16, 2004
I Smell a Bush. I Smell a Cheney.
While George Bush rants about the Almighty's hopes for freedom around the world, you all can play the home game by following the oil money.
It's not a front-page story. They hardly ever are.
I stopped by Jenna's former school yesterday to pick up yet another copy of the microbiologist's report on the findings of the mold testing. I've added it to my copy of the summary report, and the interim report. All reports confirm dangerous levels of (name your type of) mold in the school. Although remediation work has been completed to the board's satisfaction, upon my visit yesterday I was stunned to see how little had been done considering the rampant mold infestation and damage throughout the school.
A ceiling tile here, a piece of carpet there, a portion of wall here, all topped with some fresh paint. Mostly, everything looked and smelled the same--two days before the kids were scheduled to arrive back at the school.
I explained to the Principal and to some mothers why were pulling Jenna out--that her doctors have advised us not to let her back into that building. That one of the more potent molds found, Stachybotrys , is difficult to effectively remediate. And yet these same mothers are oblivious as to why they should be concerned. Or why I'm concerned.
It's not the oblivion that bothers me--it's the blind obedience. It's the Bush era mentality. Be a good little American soldier, do your duty, and ask no questions.
Two days ago, a note was sent home asking parents to come by this weekend and help clean up the debris scattered around the school from the remediation work. The note said the school could save $2,000 by having the parents do this work. Understand, the testing results post-mediation have not come back yet. Essentially, parents have been asked to come into the building before it's certified by the microbiologist and 1) sand walls, 2) help tear up the remaining water/mold soaked carpet and 3) haul away shingles and molding and other assorted contaminated items so that the school can save a couple of thou.
The building is not even OSHA-certified for the staff who works there.
The building still smells acrid--I had to use my inhaler when I got home.
But there they were. I saw four mothers with sanding blocks and an electric sander one of them brought from home sanding walls in the hallway. No gloves, no masks, nothing. And they were complaining about the parents who weren't there helping.
Now that we know the seriousness of the issues with this decades-old leaky building, I wonder--why haven't the sanding mothers asked the questions of their children's doctors that I have? Why haven't they dared to question the administration? Why aren't they furious with the landlord? Why do they look at anyone who decides not to jump in stride with the "You're either for us or again' us" attitude as the "problem"?
This is a privatized public school. This school is ultimately run by a corporation. This school started the year $250,000 in debt before the building problems surfaced. Promises were made that have been broken.
And yet, to question why these things have happened -- in this day of bushian black-and-white thinking -- makes me an anomaly, a trouble maker, a non-contributor. Ultimately, I'm a terrorist.
Yet WE were the ones dealing with the stress and accusations about Jenna's health the last two years--why she was missing so many days from sinus infection and strep. The teacher and administration could tease and belittle. But when it turned out to be a situation affected at least in part--possibly in its entirety--by their laziness and inaptitude, WELL I'm just supposed to suck it up -- offer it up for the team. After all, there's nothing that can undo the situation now. Might as well look at the positive and move on.
And what about the incidence of cancer and other health problems among the staff? What about those? What side are you going to err on--chalking it up to bad genes, or wondering if mycotoxin exposure over time in large amounts might have/could have? Don't you want to KNOW? Aren't any of you fucking OUTRAGED?
No they don't. They want it simple. The draft doesn't need to be reinstated. We've already been drafted. All of us. And if you don't step in line, your dodging.
Put your suspicions away. Stuff your brain in your pocket. Really, you don't want to have to think at all.
Well, when it comes to my kid, I am not erring on the side of mind-numbing, blind obedience to any institution--especially a corporation in public education's clothing.
Once we lose our critical thinking ability -- our drive to question, to wonder, to know -- we lose everything.
You want black and white thinking? I'm choosing black.
You want for us or against us? I'm choosing against.
March on lambs of Bush.
But march without me.
It's not a front-page story. They hardly ever are.
I stopped by Jenna's former school yesterday to pick up yet another copy of the microbiologist's report on the findings of the mold testing. I've added it to my copy of the summary report, and the interim report. All reports confirm dangerous levels of (name your type of) mold in the school. Although remediation work has been completed to the board's satisfaction, upon my visit yesterday I was stunned to see how little had been done considering the rampant mold infestation and damage throughout the school.
A ceiling tile here, a piece of carpet there, a portion of wall here, all topped with some fresh paint. Mostly, everything looked and smelled the same--two days before the kids were scheduled to arrive back at the school.
I explained to the Principal and to some mothers why were pulling Jenna out--that her doctors have advised us not to let her back into that building. That one of the more potent molds found, Stachybotrys , is difficult to effectively remediate. And yet these same mothers are oblivious as to why they should be concerned. Or why I'm concerned.
It's not the oblivion that bothers me--it's the blind obedience. It's the Bush era mentality. Be a good little American soldier, do your duty, and ask no questions.
Two days ago, a note was sent home asking parents to come by this weekend and help clean up the debris scattered around the school from the remediation work. The note said the school could save $2,000 by having the parents do this work. Understand, the testing results post-mediation have not come back yet. Essentially, parents have been asked to come into the building before it's certified by the microbiologist and 1) sand walls, 2) help tear up the remaining water/mold soaked carpet and 3) haul away shingles and molding and other assorted contaminated items so that the school can save a couple of thou.
The building is not even OSHA-certified for the staff who works there.
The building still smells acrid--I had to use my inhaler when I got home.
But there they were. I saw four mothers with sanding blocks and an electric sander one of them brought from home sanding walls in the hallway. No gloves, no masks, nothing. And they were complaining about the parents who weren't there helping.
Now that we know the seriousness of the issues with this decades-old leaky building, I wonder--why haven't the sanding mothers asked the questions of their children's doctors that I have? Why haven't they dared to question the administration? Why aren't they furious with the landlord? Why do they look at anyone who decides not to jump in stride with the "You're either for us or again' us" attitude as the "problem"?
This is a privatized public school. This school is ultimately run by a corporation. This school started the year $250,000 in debt before the building problems surfaced. Promises were made that have been broken.
And yet, to question why these things have happened -- in this day of bushian black-and-white thinking -- makes me an anomaly, a trouble maker, a non-contributor. Ultimately, I'm a terrorist.
Yet WE were the ones dealing with the stress and accusations about Jenna's health the last two years--why she was missing so many days from sinus infection and strep. The teacher and administration could tease and belittle. But when it turned out to be a situation affected at least in part--possibly in its entirety--by their laziness and inaptitude, WELL I'm just supposed to suck it up -- offer it up for the team. After all, there's nothing that can undo the situation now. Might as well look at the positive and move on.
And what about the incidence of cancer and other health problems among the staff? What about those? What side are you going to err on--chalking it up to bad genes, or wondering if mycotoxin exposure over time in large amounts might have/could have? Don't you want to KNOW? Aren't any of you fucking OUTRAGED?
No they don't. They want it simple. The draft doesn't need to be reinstated. We've already been drafted. All of us. And if you don't step in line, your dodging.
Put your suspicions away. Stuff your brain in your pocket. Really, you don't want to have to think at all.
Well, when it comes to my kid, I am not erring on the side of mind-numbing, blind obedience to any institution--especially a corporation in public education's clothing.
Once we lose our critical thinking ability -- our drive to question, to wonder, to know -- we lose everything.
You want black and white thinking? I'm choosing black.
You want for us or against us? I'm choosing against.
March on lambs of Bush.
But march without me.
October 15, 2004
Shelleypedia and Hell's Kitchen, Or Something
While I was away last week, Shelley came up with one of her very cool ideas for a project called IT Kitchen, the genesis of which was good thinking like this:
Shelley has germinated and grown the idea into a really really really good idea -- one in which the nucleus of defining blogging in a living way -- of keeping good blogging alive by putting historic threads or posts somewhere where we can REFERENCE them as we all write into the future, age and die off (sorry, no time for tact) -- and to keep this ongoing discussion in a Wikipedia setting -- well that's just really smart.
I'm so excited that I'm afraid to think straight.
But I have a confession to make:
I have never written on a WIKI. I don't know how.
I know. That's hard to believe.
I have stayed away from them on purpose because I knew that the minute I jumped into the wonderful world of WIKI, I would never come out.
Gonzo Engaged, way back in 2001, would have been born on a WIKI if WIKI had been WIKI back then. We barely had team blogging, so we did our best.
But the idea of a hierarchically flat, fluid, idea-evolving tablet for our good thinking and writing blew my mind when I first heard about WIKIs.
I ran far away fearing I'd disappear inside of them for a year.
But it appears I will be learning because I want to help with IT Kitchen, and because it's time to step through the door to WIKI.
If you don't see me for a week, send a search party.
The purpose behind the IT Kitchen was to provide an overview of weblogging, the nuances and the ins and outs and that sort of thing. Sort of like many of the handbooks about weblogging that have been published online by various people (see Rebecca Blood’s). However, instead of just providing static content, there’s an interactive element to it, a community participation, which allows people to ask questions as the material is published, or even provide their own material in support of a topic.
Shelley has germinated and grown the idea into a really really really good idea -- one in which the nucleus of defining blogging in a living way -- of keeping good blogging alive by putting historic threads or posts somewhere where we can REFERENCE them as we all write into the future, age and die off (sorry, no time for tact) -- and to keep this ongoing discussion in a Wikipedia setting -- well that's just really smart.
I'm so excited that I'm afraid to think straight.
But I have a confession to make:
I have never written on a WIKI. I don't know how.
I know. That's hard to believe.
I have stayed away from them on purpose because I knew that the minute I jumped into the wonderful world of WIKI, I would never come out.
Gonzo Engaged, way back in 2001, would have been born on a WIKI if WIKI had been WIKI back then. We barely had team blogging, so we did our best.
But the idea of a hierarchically flat, fluid, idea-evolving tablet for our good thinking and writing blew my mind when I first heard about WIKIs.
I ran far away fearing I'd disappear inside of them for a year.
But it appears I will be learning because I want to help with IT Kitchen, and because it's time to step through the door to WIKI.
If you don't see me for a week, send a search party.
Da Momma Blog...
Da Momma Blog - Already worth the price of admission for Blog Explosion.
The sun is setting the wind is chilling. The grey is spreading. It's getting harder to see the road. Zaman hits a small bump that puts air between my butt and the seat. I ride sidesaddle in true Pakistani fashion for women, so it's a bit of a jolt. I ride watching the traffic till my mind starts blogging again.
The sun is setting the wind is chilling. The grey is spreading. It's getting harder to see the road. Zaman hits a small bump that puts air between my butt and the seat. I ride sidesaddle in true Pakistani fashion for women, so it's a bit of a jolt. I ride watching the traffic till my mind starts blogging again.
Dysentery Blogsmosis
So, you've heard about this "Blog Explosion" thing? What I don't like: Blathering on abotu "traffic" and the categorization of blogs which by their very nature are often many things at once. Thank goodness.
What I do like: Since categorization is inevitible, I do like being able to pick my own classification. Add more please.
If anyone knows what category I should be in, please let me know. I picked "Internet".
What the heck. Reminds me of something RB was talking about like four years ago.
What I do like: Since categorization is inevitible, I do like being able to pick my own classification. Add more please.
If anyone knows what category I should be in, please let me know. I picked "Internet".
What the heck. Reminds me of something RB was talking about like four years ago.
Why I Had to Wait to Post Until the Debates Were Over
Because if I started to write about them in detail, I was quite certain my head would explode.
I came close to seizing when I could find no one, not even Kerry, questioning Bush's take on his faith when he roped the Almighty into his plot to take over the world (ooops--I mean "spread freedom").
The leader of the free world admited in a public forum that he truly believes the Almighty wants him to bring democracy to all the world (through war when that's the most expedient way) and no one is outraged?
AKMA? Anyone?
Well, I shouldn't say no one. The Christian Science Monitor did. They touched on it saying:
Might make "some" Americans uncomfortable?
and
I thought another good moment?
Might make every human outside of the U.S. uncomfortable, how about.
Look, I consider myself a Christian and I nearly fell off the bed.
Okay, that's the end of my debate blogging.
My favorite candidate is Elizabeth Edwards.
I lose.
I came close to seizing when I could find no one, not even Kerry, questioning Bush's take on his faith when he roped the Almighty into his plot to take over the world (ooops--I mean "spread freedom").
The leader of the free world admited in a public forum that he truly believes the Almighty wants him to bring democracy to all the world (through war when that's the most expedient way) and no one is outraged?
AKMA? Anyone?
Well, I shouldn't say no one. The Christian Science Monitor did. They touched on it saying:
"One very interesting moment was the question about religion. Bush is often quite eloquent on this subject - and he was again Wednesday night, talking in simple language about how he prays. But he also edged into territory that might make some Americans uncomfortable - linking his religion explicitly to his foreign policy, saying he believes God wants everyone to be free. I thought another good moment was the question at the end..."
Might make "some" Americans uncomfortable?
and
I thought another good moment?
Might make every human outside of the U.S. uncomfortable, how about.
Look, I consider myself a Christian and I nearly fell off the bed.
Okay, that's the end of my debate blogging.
My favorite candidate is Elizabeth Edwards.
I lose.
The Three Javelinas
Ironic, isn't it, that my next post comes a half hour before we go watch Jenna's performance as the narrator in her class play, the Three Little Javelinas? In case you didn't know, like me, javelina is the name of some fairly unattractive desert pig. In this case, he his one of three little heros in the javelina adaptation of The Three Little Pigs.
Pigs. Can't live with 'em, Can't shoo... Oh wait. You can live with em if you're my backyard neighbor!
He's fashioned a leanto for pig, I guess for the coming winter months. I know I have to call code enforcement. But it's been so darn busy around here.
Allow me to update you.
First, the toxic mold school Jenna has attended will be returning to their half-assedly remediated building next week, but Jenna won't. We're switching schools on the advice of her doctors. Here health has been much much better these last three weeks.
Except, of course, for her broken arm. Yes. There's that. She broke her radius jumping on a trampoline at her little friend's house. I got the call about 6 last thursday. "They had a great time. One thing though--she seems okay but she hurt her wrist on the trampoline..."
When I picked her up, she didn't seem that bad off. I still hear my words: "Jenna, you're fine. Really. We don't break bones in this family."
Neither George nor I ever broke a bone so I figured she was immune to such nonsense. How many horses had I fallen off? How many bikes up trees?
So didn't I feel like Bad Mom when I took her to the doctor 24 hours later because it was still bothering her.
Good news, not bad at all. A buckle fracture. She has a beautiful pink cast that all her friends are signing. Now she'll have two schools worth of signatures.
Our poor little sweetie. Turning 7's been rough.
There's more to update you on--but we're off to watch that age-old classic, the Three Little Javelinas now.
Be well.
Pigs. Can't live with 'em, Can't shoo... Oh wait. You can live with em if you're my backyard neighbor!
He's fashioned a leanto for pig, I guess for the coming winter months. I know I have to call code enforcement. But it's been so darn busy around here.
Allow me to update you.
First, the toxic mold school Jenna has attended will be returning to their half-assedly remediated building next week, but Jenna won't. We're switching schools on the advice of her doctors. Here health has been much much better these last three weeks.
Except, of course, for her broken arm. Yes. There's that. She broke her radius jumping on a trampoline at her little friend's house. I got the call about 6 last thursday. "They had a great time. One thing though--she seems okay but she hurt her wrist on the trampoline..."
When I picked her up, she didn't seem that bad off. I still hear my words: "Jenna, you're fine. Really. We don't break bones in this family."
Neither George nor I ever broke a bone so I figured she was immune to such nonsense. How many horses had I fallen off? How many bikes up trees?
So didn't I feel like Bad Mom when I took her to the doctor 24 hours later because it was still bothering her.
Good news, not bad at all. A buckle fracture. She has a beautiful pink cast that all her friends are signing. Now she'll have two schools worth of signatures.
Our poor little sweetie. Turning 7's been rough.
There's more to update you on--but we're off to watch that age-old classic, the Three Little Javelinas now.
Be well.
October 06, 2004
Hog Wash
Our dogs smell worse than ever.
I have my suspicions.
That pig.
I haven't posted about the pig in a while because, well, til this week he'd been keeping to himself. I hadn't seen him since Ivan and Charlie and Francis and Ivan and Jeanne, or something like that. I half wondered if they'd sent him to a safehouse (or not-so-safehouse--get it, like a slaughterhouse, get it!?) due to all the flooding and the growing disrepair of their fence.
But no. He's still hanging in. Or out as the case may be.
But he's not putting up with much anymore. In fact, I have a feeling that Stupid Boxer, the error of a dog who shares a yard with Pig, is on borrowed time.
Pig doesn't wait anymore for Stupid Boxer to leap and bark and leap and bark at Pig's loins. No, now Pig chases Stupid Boxer around the yard, and I mean CHASES.
If you've never been around pigs, well, say, like me, and if you've had the good fortune not to have a neighbor harboring a pig against code regulations, well, say, like I do, then you can't imagine how fast these suckers move.
Pig runs like a jaguar. What's up with that. He leaps forward. He covers the length of his body in one leap. And, unfortunately, Stupid Boxer is wiley enough to out maneuver him.
So far.
I find myself rooting (ha!) for pig these days. I want him to catch Stupid Boxer. I want him to shake that idiot dog and toss her over the fence, preferably not our fence, and then I want pig to bash through the stockade fence, preferably not into our yard, and have a good old fashioned rampage through the neighborhood, preferably the street behind ours.
Go pig, Go! Yes!
But so far, it's not like that. It's just another day of dog harassing pig and pig harassing dog, and with all of the flooding, it seems that pig's "pig stuff" has washed into our yard, and I think that's why our dogs smell worse than ever.
Can a girl catch a break?
I have my suspicions.
That pig.
I haven't posted about the pig in a while because, well, til this week he'd been keeping to himself. I hadn't seen him since Ivan and Charlie and Francis and Ivan and Jeanne, or something like that. I half wondered if they'd sent him to a safehouse (or not-so-safehouse--get it, like a slaughterhouse, get it!?) due to all the flooding and the growing disrepair of their fence.
But no. He's still hanging in. Or out as the case may be.
But he's not putting up with much anymore. In fact, I have a feeling that Stupid Boxer, the error of a dog who shares a yard with Pig, is on borrowed time.
Pig doesn't wait anymore for Stupid Boxer to leap and bark and leap and bark at Pig's loins. No, now Pig chases Stupid Boxer around the yard, and I mean CHASES.
If you've never been around pigs, well, say, like me, and if you've had the good fortune not to have a neighbor harboring a pig against code regulations, well, say, like I do, then you can't imagine how fast these suckers move.
Pig runs like a jaguar. What's up with that. He leaps forward. He covers the length of his body in one leap. And, unfortunately, Stupid Boxer is wiley enough to out maneuver him.
So far.
I find myself rooting (ha!) for pig these days. I want him to catch Stupid Boxer. I want him to shake that idiot dog and toss her over the fence, preferably not our fence, and then I want pig to bash through the stockade fence, preferably not into our yard, and have a good old fashioned rampage through the neighborhood, preferably the street behind ours.
Go pig, Go! Yes!
But so far, it's not like that. It's just another day of dog harassing pig and pig harassing dog, and with all of the flooding, it seems that pig's "pig stuff" has washed into our yard, and I think that's why our dogs smell worse than ever.
Can a girl catch a break?
Brokaw and the Blaargrrrrs
No one can slur the word bloggers like Tom Brokaw.
I watched him after the debate last night as he checked in on the pulse of America by talking to two bloggers: some Cox woman I guess I should know, and some dude who also pretended to have this pulse thing going on. They needed no credentials. Apparently for mainstream media now, that you say you are a blogger is good enough.
Apparently these two folks are popluar political bloggers that I should be ashamed never to have heard of. Since I have little respect for political bloggers -- nothing personal you mob of matt drudge wannabe opportunists -- I watched Brokaw's discussion with them out of idle curiosity.
The way "blarrgrrrs" were represented was fascinating to me. The woman (she looked 19) blaagrrr was on my left, the guy (he looked 22) blaagrrr on my right. Each of them was stationed behind what I now understand is the blogger uniform of the political season: The backside of an open laptop screen.
If you don't have one, GET ONE. It is now required. Especially if you have eyes to be a poliblogger on TV one day. If you opt to sit behind a PC -- a desktop model?! -- you have no right to call yourself a blogger. Do not pass go. Do not post.
Since the lid of an open laptop is your only credential, I advise you to choose wisely. Something in stylistic aluminum or flight-case silver is the way to go. The female poliblogger had silver. I think the guy had slate grey.
His mistake. She ate him for lunch. Her stylish laptop lid made her seem bold and opinionated. Everyone likes that in a poliblogger.
My fellow bloggers, for three minutes last night, and frightning minutes they were, as I watched the 20-something polipundits of blaggrrring take center stage with Tom Brokaw, I wished I were a politician instead.
I think I need a vacation.
You send me, I'll blog it.
I watched him after the debate last night as he checked in on the pulse of America by talking to two bloggers: some Cox woman I guess I should know, and some dude who also pretended to have this pulse thing going on. They needed no credentials. Apparently for mainstream media now, that you say you are a blogger is good enough.
Apparently these two folks are popluar political bloggers that I should be ashamed never to have heard of. Since I have little respect for political bloggers -- nothing personal you mob of matt drudge wannabe opportunists -- I watched Brokaw's discussion with them out of idle curiosity.
The way "blarrgrrrs" were represented was fascinating to me. The woman (she looked 19) blaagrrr was on my left, the guy (he looked 22) blaagrrr on my right. Each of them was stationed behind what I now understand is the blogger uniform of the political season: The backside of an open laptop screen.
If you don't have one, GET ONE. It is now required. Especially if you have eyes to be a poliblogger on TV one day. If you opt to sit behind a PC -- a desktop model?! -- you have no right to call yourself a blogger. Do not pass go. Do not post.
Since the lid of an open laptop is your only credential, I advise you to choose wisely. Something in stylistic aluminum or flight-case silver is the way to go. The female poliblogger had silver. I think the guy had slate grey.
His mistake. She ate him for lunch. Her stylish laptop lid made her seem bold and opinionated. Everyone likes that in a poliblogger.
My fellow bloggers, for three minutes last night, and frightning minutes they were, as I watched the 20-something polipundits of blaggrrring take center stage with Tom Brokaw, I wished I were a politician instead.
I think I need a vacation.
You send me, I'll blog it.
Debate Thought 2
I read somewhere that the debate was like watching Dennis the Menace and Mr. Wilson. I liked that. We need a little Dennis around here.
Why's blogger so damn slow?
See, you get shareholders and all of a sudden your tool's as slow as molassas.
debate thought 1
Media Training folks, please tell John Edwards not to do the "emphasis with the clutched hand, thumb on top" move. Bill Clinton trademarked it in the Lewinsky days: I Did Not Have Sexual Relations with That Woman(TM).
September 29, 2004
September 28, 2004
If I Could Smoke, I Would
This is a post in which I tell you that I want a cigarette so freaking bad.
October 4th is coming up. Some three months later, and if I didn't know smoking one could cause an immediate and dire consequence to my immediate and dire health, I would light one up in a nanosecond. That's right all you fine friends who cheered me on, I am here to tell you that I spent today tossing truths and dares bewtween my two ears, and in the end, the very end, which was approximately 30 seconds ago, I came down on the side of: I sure would smoke if I could. I sure would light one up and love it and smoke it and love it all over its fine tobbaco self.
You just don't understand. I miss it so much.
I noticed the other day that I now smell cigarette smoke when its coming from the lady inside the sedan THREE CARS AHEAD OF ME! What's with that? I'm minding my own business, and my sniffer says--hey, I smell smoke! And I look all around. Then I see her tan arm, so cool, thin, freckled, hanging out the window, tapping the ashes off her cigarette.
I'm embarrassed. I've wandered so far from my beloved habit that it now assaults me from three car lengths.
I need to be glad about this.
I can't be.
I believe I've gained approximately 850 pounds from the combination of starting hormones for a little issue I'm dealing with at the same time as stopping smoking.
The fuck with all of it! I'm thinking of tossing the dice on the table--stopping all medicines EXCEPT cigarettes, and let the cards fall where they may.
Well, you know.
I'm all blustery.
I won't do it.
Except in pixels.
It feels so good to toy with it.
I really wish I could.
I still miss it every day.
That's just wrong.
October 4th is coming up. Some three months later, and if I didn't know smoking one could cause an immediate and dire consequence to my immediate and dire health, I would light one up in a nanosecond. That's right all you fine friends who cheered me on, I am here to tell you that I spent today tossing truths and dares bewtween my two ears, and in the end, the very end, which was approximately 30 seconds ago, I came down on the side of: I sure would smoke if I could. I sure would light one up and love it and smoke it and love it all over its fine tobbaco self.
You just don't understand. I miss it so much.
I noticed the other day that I now smell cigarette smoke when its coming from the lady inside the sedan THREE CARS AHEAD OF ME! What's with that? I'm minding my own business, and my sniffer says--hey, I smell smoke! And I look all around. Then I see her tan arm, so cool, thin, freckled, hanging out the window, tapping the ashes off her cigarette.
I'm embarrassed. I've wandered so far from my beloved habit that it now assaults me from three car lengths.
I need to be glad about this.
I can't be.
I believe I've gained approximately 850 pounds from the combination of starting hormones for a little issue I'm dealing with at the same time as stopping smoking.
The fuck with all of it! I'm thinking of tossing the dice on the table--stopping all medicines EXCEPT cigarettes, and let the cards fall where they may.
Well, you know.
I'm all blustery.
I won't do it.
Except in pixels.
It feels so good to toy with it.
I really wish I could.
I still miss it every day.
That's just wrong.
September 27, 2004
Heya Jeb!
Sorry ya'll hadta tho away yo niggalist.
It's not like God's not trying down there in Florida. Jeb just won't get under the right tree.
The decision [to scrap the purge list] means that 28,000 Democrats who might have been banned from voting can cast their vote in November. By comparison, the list contained only 9,500 registered Republicans.
It's not like God's not trying down there in Florida. Jeb just won't get under the right tree.
Get Your IM On
Karsh is killin' me again.
Cartoonist needed. I'll by a shirt--first one gets it done.
Karsh: Damn, I almost got mowed down in the hall
Karsh: They bought pizza for the department
Karsh: and i was coming back from the vending machine
Karsh: swarm of folks
Kia: damn
Kia: did you get some?
Karsh: nope
Kia: why?
Kia: oh you can't eat cheese
Karsh: they gave us lunch in the financial planning meeting
Kia: so!
Karsh: i got like six sammiches
Kia: it's still free
Kia: *dead*
Kia: you nigga
Karsh: shit, my tupperware only hold so much
Karsh: shit
Karsh: LMAO
Karsh: you know i bought some tupperware FOR work yesterday?
Karsh: ain't that some shit?
Kia: you aint shit
Kia: nan.bit.
Cartoonist needed. I'll by a shirt--first one gets it done.
Not so small, not so tall
"Hey Jenna, are you the tallest girl in your class or are there some taller?"
"I'm medium. I'm actually the mediumest one in my class."
"I'm medium. I'm actually the mediumest one in my class."
Ivana new school
A quick update from the hurricane backwash city of Atlanta, Georgia.
It appears that Ivan (and perhaps the 20 years of mismanagement and poor maintanence of the facility) have combined to make our child's school uninhabitable.
Imagine, if you will, driving happily to carpool Friday afternoon to pick up your little cherub only to discover, from a note stuffed in her backpack, that the school has been having some "water intrusion" (terror alert orange!) and "air quality" problems from the hurricane we borrowed, and the Powers Who Be (plus the guys in hazmet suits) decided to close the school today so the children would not be vaporized as we all wait with baited breath for lab results.
Okay. I can do that. No school Monday. That's cool. Don't want to send her into a poison factory. Wondering now. What the hell is really going on? Thinking. Thinking about how sick she's been these last two years. Starting to watch my blood pressure rise. Trying to keep it cool.
Pick up the phone yesterday (that would be Sunday) and there's a message from "calling post", which apparently lets you leave voice mails for a group of people you REALLY don't want to speak to in person because they'd chew your ass off.
The message was from the Principal who had met with the board (this is a privatized public school, if you remember), and possibly the landlord (the building's leased), and decided to close the school all of this week, and, well, possibly forever.
Wow. Okay. How 'bout that. Huh.
As they "aggressively seek" an alternate location for the school, I decided to drive by there today. I saw the cafeteria windows had been sealed up with terrorist-proof plastic sheeting, each sheet with a big billowing hole in the middle, puffing air to the outside. No one was inside. No one was working on it. It was deserted.
WHAT THE FUCK IS INSIDE THAT SCHOOL?!?!
All the crap they've given me for her sick days and asthma last year and already this year--and you mean to tell me there's something toxic enough inside those walls to have scared all human activity away?
Okay. Not going postal. Not yet.
Wait and see. Could be a simple explanation.
Waiting.
Seeing.
Seething.
Anyone who's been through something remotely similar or has ideas, please share.
Thanks.
It appears that Ivan (and perhaps the 20 years of mismanagement and poor maintanence of the facility) have combined to make our child's school uninhabitable.
Imagine, if you will, driving happily to carpool Friday afternoon to pick up your little cherub only to discover, from a note stuffed in her backpack, that the school has been having some "water intrusion" (terror alert orange!) and "air quality" problems from the hurricane we borrowed, and the Powers Who Be (plus the guys in hazmet suits) decided to close the school today so the children would not be vaporized as we all wait with baited breath for lab results.
Okay. I can do that. No school Monday. That's cool. Don't want to send her into a poison factory. Wondering now. What the hell is really going on? Thinking. Thinking about how sick she's been these last two years. Starting to watch my blood pressure rise. Trying to keep it cool.
Pick up the phone yesterday (that would be Sunday) and there's a message from "calling post", which apparently lets you leave voice mails for a group of people you REALLY don't want to speak to in person because they'd chew your ass off.
The message was from the Principal who had met with the board (this is a privatized public school, if you remember), and possibly the landlord (the building's leased), and decided to close the school all of this week, and, well, possibly forever.
Wow. Okay. How 'bout that. Huh.
As they "aggressively seek" an alternate location for the school, I decided to drive by there today. I saw the cafeteria windows had been sealed up with terrorist-proof plastic sheeting, each sheet with a big billowing hole in the middle, puffing air to the outside. No one was inside. No one was working on it. It was deserted.
WHAT THE FUCK IS INSIDE THAT SCHOOL?!?!
All the crap they've given me for her sick days and asthma last year and already this year--and you mean to tell me there's something toxic enough inside those walls to have scared all human activity away?
Okay. Not going postal. Not yet.
Wait and see. Could be a simple explanation.
Waiting.
Seeing.
Seething.
Anyone who's been through something remotely similar or has ideas, please share.
Thanks.
Do you really think your vote counts?
Carter fears Florida vote trouble
[[my subtitle: This election will turn bloody.]]
Full text of article:
Voting arrangements in Florida do not meet "basic international requirements" and could undermine the US election, former US President Jimmy Carter says. He said a repeat of the irregularities of the much-disputed 2000 election - which gave President George W Bush the narrowest of wins - "seems likely".
Mr Carter, a veteran observer of polls worldwide, also accused Florida's top election official of "bias".
His remarks come ahead of the first TV debate between Mr Bush and John Kerry.
They are expected to discuss the war on Iraq and homeland security during the programme on Thursday.
Both men have cut back on their campaign touring to go behind closed doors and rehearse the arguments and techniques they will need during a series of three debates to be held over two weeks.
Each has held mock debates with aides standing in for their opponent.
Tens of millions of television viewers are expected to watch Thursday's head-to-head.
Mr Kerry, a debating champion at high school and college, will hope it can help him claw back a deficit in the polls variously put between 3% and 9%.
Florida vote
In an article in the Washington Post newspaper, Mr Carter, a Democrat, said that he and ex-President Gerald Ford, a Republican, had been asked to draw up recommendations for changes after the last vote in Florida was marred by arguments over the counting of ballots.
Mr Carter said the reforms they came up with had still not been implemented.
He accused Florida Secretary of State Glenda Hood, a Republican, of trying to get the name of independent presidential candidate Ralph Nader included on the state ballot, knowing he might divert Democrat votes.
He also said: "A fumbling attempt has been made recently to disqualify 22,000 African Americans (likely Democrats), but only 61 Hispanics (likely Republicans), as alleged felons."
Mr Carter said Florida Governor Jeb Bush - brother of the president - had "taken no steps to correct these departures from principles of fair and equal treatment or to prevent them in the future".
"It is unconscionable to perpetuate fraudulent or biased electoral practices in any nation," he added.
"With reforms unlikely at this late stage of the election, perhaps the only recourse will be to focus maximum public scrutiny on the suspicious process in Florida."
[[my subtitle: This election will turn bloody.]]
Full text of article:
Voting arrangements in Florida do not meet "basic international requirements" and could undermine the US election, former US President Jimmy Carter says. He said a repeat of the irregularities of the much-disputed 2000 election - which gave President George W Bush the narrowest of wins - "seems likely".
Mr Carter, a veteran observer of polls worldwide, also accused Florida's top election official of "bias".
His remarks come ahead of the first TV debate between Mr Bush and John Kerry.
They are expected to discuss the war on Iraq and homeland security during the programme on Thursday.
Both men have cut back on their campaign touring to go behind closed doors and rehearse the arguments and techniques they will need during a series of three debates to be held over two weeks.
Each has held mock debates with aides standing in for their opponent.
Tens of millions of television viewers are expected to watch Thursday's head-to-head.
Mr Kerry, a debating champion at high school and college, will hope it can help him claw back a deficit in the polls variously put between 3% and 9%.
Florida vote
In an article in the Washington Post newspaper, Mr Carter, a Democrat, said that he and ex-President Gerald Ford, a Republican, had been asked to draw up recommendations for changes after the last vote in Florida was marred by arguments over the counting of ballots.
Mr Carter said the reforms they came up with had still not been implemented.
He accused Florida Secretary of State Glenda Hood, a Republican, of trying to get the name of independent presidential candidate Ralph Nader included on the state ballot, knowing he might divert Democrat votes.
He also said: "A fumbling attempt has been made recently to disqualify 22,000 African Americans (likely Democrats), but only 61 Hispanics (likely Republicans), as alleged felons."
Mr Carter said Florida Governor Jeb Bush - brother of the president - had "taken no steps to correct these departures from principles of fair and equal treatment or to prevent them in the future".
"It is unconscionable to perpetuate fraudulent or biased electoral practices in any nation," he added.
"With reforms unlikely at this late stage of the election, perhaps the only recourse will be to focus maximum public scrutiny on the suspicious process in Florida."
September 24, 2004
Show me those baby browns
The single, solitary, and I mean ONLY, beauty of carpool in the morning (and I mean in the MORNING) is listening to Jenna yammer away about this and that in the back seat as I guzzle coffee off the dashboard.
This morning she was telling me about a baby rabbit her class saw outside this week.
"He was hopping around and he was so coool! We all decided that we are going to bring carrots in, tie them to a stick, and then he'll follow us back to our classroom so he can be our classroom pet!"
"Wow, baby, he sounds cute. You might want to leave him in the woods--he probably has family there."
"No, we didn't see any family. We want a classroom pet. And he's sooo cuuuuttte. He's baby brown--you know baby brown?"
"Baby brown?"
"Yes, like when babies first come out and they're brown and soft--baby brown. That's what color the bunny is, with teeny tiny white teardrops on by his tail. Ooooh I just want to pet his baby brown fur."
"Mmmmm. Me too. I sure would like to pet him with you."
Baby brown. She's so cool.
This morning she was telling me about a baby rabbit her class saw outside this week.
"He was hopping around and he was so coool! We all decided that we are going to bring carrots in, tie them to a stick, and then he'll follow us back to our classroom so he can be our classroom pet!"
"Wow, baby, he sounds cute. You might want to leave him in the woods--he probably has family there."
"No, we didn't see any family. We want a classroom pet. And he's sooo cuuuuttte. He's baby brown--you know baby brown?"
"Baby brown?"
"Yes, like when babies first come out and they're brown and soft--baby brown. That's what color the bunny is, with teeny tiny white teardrops on by his tail. Ooooh I just want to pet his baby brown fur."
"Mmmmm. Me too. I sure would like to pet him with you."
Baby brown. She's so cool.
Cross-Selling Coup
From Broken Type, a magnificent if not jarring marketing triumph. A local video store (cough) targets (tempts, tantalizes) the leather crowd with Handsome Mel Gibson's The Passion DVD. A trick from the up-sell playbook, said store also stocks a variety of fine leather toys of "passion" with the display.
Someone's got to be going to hell for this.
Someone's got to be going to hell for this.
Maximum Efficiency
Loft offices. I got dibs on the bottom!!!
"well, they're going to start doubling people up in offices."
"that sucks."
"yes, it does suck. but we all just have to make due for a while."
"a while being a year."
"more or less."
we're chattering around the table, discussing various office configurations, and trying to decide which would be the least onerous.
"i don't want to face someone all day long, man, that is weird."
"well, how about sitting there with your back to someone else all day? it's like you're pretending that there isn't someone right behind you. that's even more weird."
"okay, well, what if your back was to them, but they were facing you?! they'd be, like, staring at your back all day long. that has to be the creepiest."
murmurs of agreement begin to ripple around the table.
September 23, 2004
September 22, 2004
New Peeps
A funny thing happened to me on the way to blogrolling.com.
I first signed George up for the service a year or two ago, but I avoided signing up for it myself. You see, back in "the day" I was a blogroll purist. I had this crazy idea that we should all be pruning our blogrolls by hand, tending to them lovingly like tiny gardens of herbs and roses, with the care and kindness all living things deserve.
Kumbaya--was that was soooo 2002 or what? Yah, I know.
Nonetheless, while George clicked and updated his blogroll like a pro, I painstakingly added new voices, one a-href code at a time, feeling somehow cleansed by the extra effort I made.
I can be so annoying.
Anyway, a few months back, I finally caved into automation, re-engineered my critical blog processes, and signed up for blogrolling.com. Why fight progress? I've been clicking-and-adding bloggers to my blogroll ever since.
Or so I thought.
You see, when I signed George up, I used my ewriter email address so that I could verify and set up everything he needed. Well that'd be just dandy as long as I had remembered that.
But noooooo.
In fact, until yesterday, when I figured it out, I'd been signing in to MY blogrolling.com account with GEORGE's username and password and adding people to HIS blogroll instead of mine!
Does that not beat all? Here I think I'm rolling with progress, and in fact I'm breaking shit.
I made up for the mistake yesterday and today by scouring the web for great blog voices that I want to read more of--folks whose aquaintances I'm happy to make. If you see a stranger listed over there on the right, go read them.
Let's all get neighborly now. Plant a flower. Kiss a bug.
I first signed George up for the service a year or two ago, but I avoided signing up for it myself. You see, back in "the day" I was a blogroll purist. I had this crazy idea that we should all be pruning our blogrolls by hand, tending to them lovingly like tiny gardens of herbs and roses, with the care and kindness all living things deserve.
Kumbaya--was that was soooo 2002 or what? Yah, I know.
Nonetheless, while George clicked and updated his blogroll like a pro, I painstakingly added new voices, one a-href code at a time, feeling somehow cleansed by the extra effort I made.
I can be so annoying.
Anyway, a few months back, I finally caved into automation, re-engineered my critical blog processes, and signed up for blogrolling.com. Why fight progress? I've been clicking-and-adding bloggers to my blogroll ever since.
Or so I thought.
You see, when I signed George up, I used my ewriter email address so that I could verify and set up everything he needed. Well that'd be just dandy as long as I had remembered that.
But noooooo.
In fact, until yesterday, when I figured it out, I'd been signing in to MY blogrolling.com account with GEORGE's username and password and adding people to HIS blogroll instead of mine!
Does that not beat all? Here I think I'm rolling with progress, and in fact I'm breaking shit.
I made up for the mistake yesterday and today by scouring the web for great blog voices that I want to read more of--folks whose aquaintances I'm happy to make. If you see a stranger listed over there on the right, go read them.
Let's all get neighborly now. Plant a flower. Kiss a bug.
Paralysmosis Yellow
I didn't know the sun could be this bright. The outside is actually yellow today. It's the color of the sun as artists paint it--that yellow orb contrasting blue.
The tree leaves, still moist and deep green from so much rain, are yellow-coated with sun. The sky is unending.
It's the kind of day that scares me.
I have never been a fan of the beautiful day. Good people don't get buried on beautiful days. They get buried on rainy messy muddy days, with tents over open graves as the sky weeps without shame.
I used to say I was a bat.
I liked it grey and drizzly. If I could have hung upside down from a bedpost, I would have slept that way. Fortunately, I never tried. That's the kind of thing you get committed for. Ah well.
So, today, in its very shocking yellow brightness, has me paralyzed. I have a mound and a half of work to begin. I have, in fact, four brochures and a web site that need a smart brain and fast hands to write them.
Me? I'm staring at all that yellow out the window.
I consider the advice my husband gave me a week ago: "Go outside. Just go outside and walk."
Easy for him to say. He's not so scared of all that yellow.
The pressure of pretty days wears on me. The pressure to feel happy and light, to want to go sailing or hiking, to want to do anything really, is more than I can stand. Especially when I have perseverating about work to do.
Tick. Tock.
Sure is yellow out.
I have so much work to do.
I don't know how I'm going to get it all done.
Maybe I'll just put my head back on the couch for five minutes.
Besides, it's an "early release" day for Jenna.
Have to go get her in an hour.
Might as well cover up with the comforter for 45 minutes.
Better remember my sunglasses.
Sure is yellow out.
The tree leaves, still moist and deep green from so much rain, are yellow-coated with sun. The sky is unending.
It's the kind of day that scares me.
I have never been a fan of the beautiful day. Good people don't get buried on beautiful days. They get buried on rainy messy muddy days, with tents over open graves as the sky weeps without shame.
I used to say I was a bat.
I liked it grey and drizzly. If I could have hung upside down from a bedpost, I would have slept that way. Fortunately, I never tried. That's the kind of thing you get committed for. Ah well.
So, today, in its very shocking yellow brightness, has me paralyzed. I have a mound and a half of work to begin. I have, in fact, four brochures and a web site that need a smart brain and fast hands to write them.
Me? I'm staring at all that yellow out the window.
I consider the advice my husband gave me a week ago: "Go outside. Just go outside and walk."
Easy for him to say. He's not so scared of all that yellow.
The pressure of pretty days wears on me. The pressure to feel happy and light, to want to go sailing or hiking, to want to do anything really, is more than I can stand. Especially when I have perseverating about work to do.
Tick. Tock.
Sure is yellow out.
I have so much work to do.
I don't know how I'm going to get it all done.
Maybe I'll just put my head back on the couch for five minutes.
Besides, it's an "early release" day for Jenna.
Have to go get her in an hour.
Might as well cover up with the comforter for 45 minutes.
Better remember my sunglasses.
Sure is yellow out.
Hurricane Ivan-a whup your ass.
Karsh's life has become a virtual sit-com with the latest barrage of hurricanes responsible for chasing his family up I-75 to his doorstep. Holy fucking funny!
"Ma'dea, whom I love dearly, is about as short-sighted as a Christian can get. Anything she doesn't (or won't) understand is "the devil". Including my kiwis and artichokes which she maliciously cut up and threw away because "the thorns scared her". The only food she'll eat nowadays are McDonald's hamburgers. "Good All-American food" is what she calls it.
Smokedawg smokes a lot. I tell him not to smoke in my apartment and he wants to fight me. It's really not that serious...two ass whuppings later, that is.
Yes Man sits about two inches away from the television when watching it. No comment.
Estranged Aunt wants to go out and party. "Where the clubs at? I'm tryin' to go get my jiggy on!" she says while shaking her fat ass to an imaginary beat. Keep in mind she's 45 and don't need to be in anyone's club getting anything on.
The few moments of peace I've been able to gather this weekend have been from them going on their McDonald's excursions. There's also a Moe's nearby me, but they won't eat any Mexican food unless it's from an Ortega box or Taco Bell. And there's the grocery store, but Ma'dea doesn't trust East Indians. The last time I went to dinner with her, she called our East Indian busboy a "terrorist". The Blacks, I tell ya."
I'm not worthy...
Albo Jeavons rocks.
Don't miss the Corporacist page or his portfolio.
Bastard son of rageboy, come forth.
"Like many people, I'm trying to make popular culture that offers a critique of the Big Culture that is forced upon us at every turn by the weird semi-random collection of people, powers, and influences who make so many of the decisions that determine so much of how things happen in the world. Here's a graphic I came up with to express how I feel about the way the world is run:"
Don't miss the Corporacist page or his portfolio.
Bastard son of rageboy, come forth.
September 21, 2004
September 20, 2004
Tornado Trauma
I told you a month or so ago about Jenna's storm phobia. Tornados specifically. Well, as you can imagine, she's been going through some forced behavior modification - exposure therapy real-time - courtesy of Frances and Ivan the last couple of weeks.
Although we're one state up from poor Florida, we get the afterglow, so to speak. Mostly, in Georgia, that's spelled t-o-r-n-a-d-o.
I was careful not to scare jenna into a frenzy last week by mentioning too much about the bad weather that was headed our way. I made sure she knew about hurricanes--just enough. And that it would get windy around here and rainy too. But not bad. We're safe. Blah blah. I left out the "T" word on purpose for fear of sending her under her bed for the duration.
That worked pretty well until they had a tornado drill in school.
A WTF?
Yes, a tornado drill.
I had the distinct pleasure of being at the school for the tornado drill, since I was making a volunteer appearance in Jenna's class helping stick glue all over myself and sixteeen children. That wasn't the end goal of the craft project, but I was good at it.
Peeling tissue off glued finger tips, I heard: BING BING RING RING BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
The teacher announced the tornado drill--it was obvious she knew it was coming and that she'd mentioned it to the class as well, because they jumped only half way up the walls.
We all filed out, and the children took their places against the walls of the hallway, heads kissing asses goodbye. I remembered that particular useless pose from the air-raid drills when I was a kid. At least when we were that little, they let us get under our desks.
I'm standing in the hall looking at these poor kids who were squeezing their heads until they tipped over, when I hear a teacher actually tell the kids: "Cover your brains with your hands, now."
Cover your brains? HOLY! Are you insane lady? Do you know how many nights of explaining to my kid that little phrase is going to cost me?
Instead I turned to the maintenance guy who I enjoy cracking up and said:
"They look like sitting ducks to me, Jim." He cracked up.
My poor kid.
She didn't move a muscle during the entire 9-minute drill.
Her head was burried so far into that carpet that when she finally got up she had fiber indentations on her forehead and knees for an hour. If there were a blue ribbon--or a promise of tornado survival--for the kid with the best duck and tuck position, she would have won hands down.
Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way.
Suck.
At the grocery store today, jenna said: "You know mom, I was doing fine in school that day you were there for the art project. I was minding my own business, feeling so much joy, just relaxing and liking what I was doing, and then the teacher had to say the words 'tornado drill' and I felt all throw-uppy."
So young to feel yanked from the joy of a quiet moment--from "joy" to "throw-uppy"--so quickly.
And so young to be able to tell me about it.
She turns seven on the 30th.
My goodness.
Although we're one state up from poor Florida, we get the afterglow, so to speak. Mostly, in Georgia, that's spelled t-o-r-n-a-d-o.
I was careful not to scare jenna into a frenzy last week by mentioning too much about the bad weather that was headed our way. I made sure she knew about hurricanes--just enough. And that it would get windy around here and rainy too. But not bad. We're safe. Blah blah. I left out the "T" word on purpose for fear of sending her under her bed for the duration.
That worked pretty well until they had a tornado drill in school.
A WTF?
Yes, a tornado drill.
I had the distinct pleasure of being at the school for the tornado drill, since I was making a volunteer appearance in Jenna's class helping stick glue all over myself and sixteeen children. That wasn't the end goal of the craft project, but I was good at it.
Peeling tissue off glued finger tips, I heard: BING BING RING RING BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
The teacher announced the tornado drill--it was obvious she knew it was coming and that she'd mentioned it to the class as well, because they jumped only half way up the walls.
We all filed out, and the children took their places against the walls of the hallway, heads kissing asses goodbye. I remembered that particular useless pose from the air-raid drills when I was a kid. At least when we were that little, they let us get under our desks.
I'm standing in the hall looking at these poor kids who were squeezing their heads until they tipped over, when I hear a teacher actually tell the kids: "Cover your brains with your hands, now."
Cover your brains? HOLY! Are you insane lady? Do you know how many nights of explaining to my kid that little phrase is going to cost me?
Instead I turned to the maintenance guy who I enjoy cracking up and said:
"They look like sitting ducks to me, Jim." He cracked up.
My poor kid.
She didn't move a muscle during the entire 9-minute drill.
Her head was burried so far into that carpet that when she finally got up she had fiber indentations on her forehead and knees for an hour. If there were a blue ribbon--or a promise of tornado survival--for the kid with the best duck and tuck position, she would have won hands down.
Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way.
Suck.
At the grocery store today, jenna said: "You know mom, I was doing fine in school that day you were there for the art project. I was minding my own business, feeling so much joy, just relaxing and liking what I was doing, and then the teacher had to say the words 'tornado drill' and I felt all throw-uppy."
So young to feel yanked from the joy of a quiet moment--from "joy" to "throw-uppy"--so quickly.
And so young to be able to tell me about it.
She turns seven on the 30th.
My goodness.
How To Shit Out a Blog Post
All of you newbies out there are probably wondering how to get noticed like the big-blog-wizes, huh? OH comeon now, we know you are. Well, it's a good thing you happened upon Jeneane's tutorial: How To Shit Out a Blog Post in Six Easy Steps.
First, the urge. Now, the urge isn't something you go looking for. The urge comes looking for you. That's right. Just like your writing--don't go looking for a "story" or the latest "news" by searching technorati. Instead, wait until nature tugs at your intestines, tickles your anus, and then simply answer the urge.
Second, the bowl. Don't make the mistake of calling a post a "blog". No, a blog is this big area here where you type your letters and make word-pooh. A post is simply one of the pieces of pooh within the larger bowl. Please, if you want to seem like a real weblogger--the kind who gets noticed--don't call a post a blog, and don't call a blog a post. They are as different as the flush handle and the bowl, as Charmin and Northern.
Third, the bowel. Some say blog posts should be short. Short bursts of nicely shaped predictable shit. Others say, bull crap! Blog posts should be long and strong. Me? I say, what the fuck are we talking about this for? I have to take a dump. I say that unless you are writing from your bowels outward, it really doesn't matter if you post in little spurts or long logs. It's the bowels that make the difference. It's nature's urge and what you do with it.
Fourth, the push. Look, if you want to get noticed, you have to hone your pushing technique. When blogger first got going, their tagline was "Push Button Publishing for the People." Even back then I liked it. So I say to you seeking blog notoriety--it's about pushing! It's about the effort, the toil, the sweat, the patience, the holding on, the letting go. Push goddammit. And if you want that extra traffic, try AudBlogging as you go.
Fifth, the ripple. Nothing matters in blogging more than the attention your post gets, the noise it causes, the notoriety it elicits for YOU, the blogger. This is what I call the ripple effect. One good post shat out correctly will ripple across your blog career in ways you can't imagine. One time Dave Winer linked to me because I called him psychotic, then slashdot got in on it, and low and behold, I got 20K hits in a day, all because I got down in the shit, kicked somebody's can, and rode the ripple effect for as long as it lasted. Look, this place isn't about conversation. It's about getting noticed. Let's face it. If we wanted conversation, we'd actually be listening to each other. HA HA!
Sixth, the stench. Simply put: Don't be afraid to stink. Stink at what you say, stink at how you say it, act stinky to other bloggers, and most of all, be careful not to link to women too frequently in your posts because they stink too. They have cooties. You get lumped with them, Sullivan and Reynolds won't touch you. You either be ready smell like a man, from the anus outward, or don't bother playing in the blog leagues.
These are my six tips for shitting out blog posts like a pro. If you want to know what real bloggers think of this, go read Shelley who talks about some recent posts by the bloggerati on how to get noticed.
But remember, she's a girl. So be careful. Don't get her stank on you.
First, the urge. Now, the urge isn't something you go looking for. The urge comes looking for you. That's right. Just like your writing--don't go looking for a "story" or the latest "news" by searching technorati. Instead, wait until nature tugs at your intestines, tickles your anus, and then simply answer the urge.
Second, the bowl. Don't make the mistake of calling a post a "blog". No, a blog is this big area here where you type your letters and make word-pooh. A post is simply one of the pieces of pooh within the larger bowl. Please, if you want to seem like a real weblogger--the kind who gets noticed--don't call a post a blog, and don't call a blog a post. They are as different as the flush handle and the bowl, as Charmin and Northern.
Third, the bowel. Some say blog posts should be short. Short bursts of nicely shaped predictable shit. Others say, bull crap! Blog posts should be long and strong. Me? I say, what the fuck are we talking about this for? I have to take a dump. I say that unless you are writing from your bowels outward, it really doesn't matter if you post in little spurts or long logs. It's the bowels that make the difference. It's nature's urge and what you do with it.
Fourth, the push. Look, if you want to get noticed, you have to hone your pushing technique. When blogger first got going, their tagline was "Push Button Publishing for the People." Even back then I liked it. So I say to you seeking blog notoriety--it's about pushing! It's about the effort, the toil, the sweat, the patience, the holding on, the letting go. Push goddammit. And if you want that extra traffic, try AudBlogging as you go.
Fifth, the ripple. Nothing matters in blogging more than the attention your post gets, the noise it causes, the notoriety it elicits for YOU, the blogger. This is what I call the ripple effect. One good post shat out correctly will ripple across your blog career in ways you can't imagine. One time Dave Winer linked to me because I called him psychotic, then slashdot got in on it, and low and behold, I got 20K hits in a day, all because I got down in the shit, kicked somebody's can, and rode the ripple effect for as long as it lasted. Look, this place isn't about conversation. It's about getting noticed. Let's face it. If we wanted conversation, we'd actually be listening to each other. HA HA!
Sixth, the stench. Simply put: Don't be afraid to stink. Stink at what you say, stink at how you say it, act stinky to other bloggers, and most of all, be careful not to link to women too frequently in your posts because they stink too. They have cooties. You get lumped with them, Sullivan and Reynolds won't touch you. You either be ready smell like a man, from the anus outward, or don't bother playing in the blog leagues.
These are my six tips for shitting out blog posts like a pro. If you want to know what real bloggers think of this, go read Shelley who talks about some recent posts by the bloggerati on how to get noticed.
But remember, she's a girl. So be careful. Don't get her stank on you.
five-four-three-two-one: Contact!
I'm reading this novel called The Coffin Dancer, and one of the things I like best about it is that our villian, The Coffin Dancer, aka Stephen, uses words that don't exist to describe his rat-tat-tattered emotional state.
Words like "cringey" and "wormy". The Coffin Dancer uses this language in conversation with himself (aka his introject military commander abuser step-father).
Cringey and wormy are wickedly cool words. I didn't need anyone to define cringey for me. I HAVE FELT CRINGEY and have shuddered from it.
I know from wormy--feeling like ten thousand earthworms and a dozen pale white grubs are inching their way up my ankles from between my toes.
This is why this blog-her post called "Contacts Make Me Stupid" fits so perfectly with this afternoon's discussion.
When I was five, my cool Aunt Penny was the only person in the whole of my universe who used contact lenses. I spent the weekend with her often in those days, and the two of us could make fun out of a rain soaked gray day.
But when she had to take her contacts out at night, I disappeared under the bed. To me, the whole process was a horror show--one I never could bring myself to watch. Because the mere thought of it made me feel---all together now---CRINGEY!!!
Back to the post at hand, and how it (if tenuously) relates...
You see, our heroine, in dire need of Lasik surgery, attempts to remove her contact lens only to discover--much to her embarassment and eventual horror--that SHE ALREADY HAD ALREADY TAKEN IT OUT, and that she has instead spent a good ten seconds digging at her own now-quuite-rare cornea!
CRINGEY!!! WORMY!!!
I love the net.
Words like "cringey" and "wormy". The Coffin Dancer uses this language in conversation with himself (aka his introject military commander abuser step-father).
Cringey and wormy are wickedly cool words. I didn't need anyone to define cringey for me. I HAVE FELT CRINGEY and have shuddered from it.
I know from wormy--feeling like ten thousand earthworms and a dozen pale white grubs are inching their way up my ankles from between my toes.
This is why this blog-her post called "Contacts Make Me Stupid" fits so perfectly with this afternoon's discussion.
When I was five, my cool Aunt Penny was the only person in the whole of my universe who used contact lenses. I spent the weekend with her often in those days, and the two of us could make fun out of a rain soaked gray day.
But when she had to take her contacts out at night, I disappeared under the bed. To me, the whole process was a horror show--one I never could bring myself to watch. Because the mere thought of it made me feel---all together now---CRINGEY!!!
Back to the post at hand, and how it (if tenuously) relates...
You see, our heroine, in dire need of Lasik surgery, attempts to remove her contact lens only to discover--much to her embarassment and eventual horror--that SHE ALREADY HAD ALREADY TAKEN IT OUT, and that she has instead spent a good ten seconds digging at her own now-quuite-rare cornea!
I leaned back over to the mirror and began poking at my right eyeball again to remove the contact. Well, I spent a good ten seconds trying to pull it out when I realized that I had already taken it out.
CRINGEY!!! WORMY!!!
I love the net.
Obsessive what?
Peter Merholz has an interesting post on the many and varied types of paper towel dispensers.
You know, it's this kind of post that makes me glad I came back.
I don't know why bathrooms still have dispensers that require manipulation -- touching them defeats the hygienic purpose. --Peter Merholz
You know, it's this kind of post that makes me glad I came back.
Appreciating Purple
I've been so busy in the real world I've not had the time to be around here. It's a good thing and a bad thing all at once. There are times when I don't feel completely balanced unless I'm here. There are times I don't feel completely balanced unless I'm away from here.
One thing I'm no good at is updating. That's why I've never been a good or faithful letter writer. If it's not real-time, or near real-time, I don't want to relate it to you--or re-relate it to myself. I can't stand to watch a movie more than once. I never understood the idea of video-taping a TV show and watching it later. If it already happened, why would I want to watch it? The world already ticked it by.
So, updating is hard for me.
Which is why once I go a day, or two, or three, without writing here, it'd be easy to just never come back. Easy and hard at the same time.
But here I am. With at least one update that I think is cool enough to relive.
I had the chance to attend the world premiere of Broadway bound The Color Purple musical here in atlanta a couple of nights ago. George is playing bass(es), so Jenna and I got complimentary tickets to opening night.
Had I known that this would be the huge deal it was, I would have at least taken a camera--never mind bought a new dress--so that I could come back and blog about it, and look somewhat chic while attending.
I could have been a real-time event blogger, for once in my wretched bloglife, like the folks who attend conferences and blog them from the scene. I COULD have remembered to take a camera, but I didn't. What's an unprepared blogger to do?
Rely on the work of the paparazzi, of course.
The show was tremendous, and temendously moving. It was made more moving by Alice Walker's presence at the pre-show gathering, and on stage at the end of the show, and what she had to say:
"I thank you so much," she started, gesturing to the cast, "because I know what you are doing tonight is healing us of our hurt and our woundedness. We are going to recover. We were never supposed to be sick forever. We are going to be well, and we are going to be shining, and we are going to be the people were meant to be."
The acting was superb, the music too. Jenna was transfixed, and so was I.
And, because you know it's not like me to get too gushy about a musical, especially one I've waited too long to tell you about, let me tell you my REAL favorite moments:
1) Looking at the back of Jenna's head as she squeezed her face next to Gloria Steinem's left butt cheek to get a glimpse of the red carpet. The sight of my daughter pressed up against Gloria's ass tickled me silly.
2) Looking across the table wondering why the guy in the expensive suit and purple shirt looked so familiar before realizing it was Pee Wee Herman, much to Jenna's joy and dismay. Forget Gloria Steinem--we're talking Pee Wee's Playhouse!
3) Saying hello to Andrew Young, and realizing that this man I always assumed was was tall and dashing is dashing, but not so tall at all.
And man, if that wasn't enough, HONEY THE FOOD WAS TO DIE FOR.
We're talking free drinks. We're talking salmon the size of the elevator. We're talking fresh cooked pasta, we're talking cheeses aged for 3000 years, roasted peppers and pitted olives, we're talking a WHITE CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN and Jenna with a stick of marshmallows and rice-crispie squares, fresh strawberries and pound cake, sliding her skewer from heaven in and out of the chocolate fountain with a look on her face as close to pure mania as I've ever seen.
Applause to all of the Purple cast, the orchestra, 'specially my sweet bassist husband for withstanding the amazingly long hours and unending pressure (while sounding so good) to make it to opening night, and most especially, respect and thank you to Alice Malsenior Walker, one of my favorite modern American writers.
One thing I'm no good at is updating. That's why I've never been a good or faithful letter writer. If it's not real-time, or near real-time, I don't want to relate it to you--or re-relate it to myself. I can't stand to watch a movie more than once. I never understood the idea of video-taping a TV show and watching it later. If it already happened, why would I want to watch it? The world already ticked it by.
So, updating is hard for me.
Which is why once I go a day, or two, or three, without writing here, it'd be easy to just never come back. Easy and hard at the same time.
But here I am. With at least one update that I think is cool enough to relive.
I had the chance to attend the world premiere of Broadway bound The Color Purple musical here in atlanta a couple of nights ago. George is playing bass(es), so Jenna and I got complimentary tickets to opening night.
Had I known that this would be the huge deal it was, I would have at least taken a camera--never mind bought a new dress--so that I could come back and blog about it, and look somewhat chic while attending.
I could have been a real-time event blogger, for once in my wretched bloglife, like the folks who attend conferences and blog them from the scene. I COULD have remembered to take a camera, but I didn't. What's an unprepared blogger to do?
Rely on the work of the paparazzi, of course.
The show was tremendous, and temendously moving. It was made more moving by Alice Walker's presence at the pre-show gathering, and on stage at the end of the show, and what she had to say:
"I thank you so much," she started, gesturing to the cast, "because I know what you are doing tonight is healing us of our hurt and our woundedness. We are going to recover. We were never supposed to be sick forever. We are going to be well, and we are going to be shining, and we are going to be the people were meant to be."
The acting was superb, the music too. Jenna was transfixed, and so was I.
And, because you know it's not like me to get too gushy about a musical, especially one I've waited too long to tell you about, let me tell you my REAL favorite moments:
1) Looking at the back of Jenna's head as she squeezed her face next to Gloria Steinem's left butt cheek to get a glimpse of the red carpet. The sight of my daughter pressed up against Gloria's ass tickled me silly.
2) Looking across the table wondering why the guy in the expensive suit and purple shirt looked so familiar before realizing it was Pee Wee Herman, much to Jenna's joy and dismay. Forget Gloria Steinem--we're talking Pee Wee's Playhouse!
3) Saying hello to Andrew Young, and realizing that this man I always assumed was was tall and dashing is dashing, but not so tall at all.
And man, if that wasn't enough, HONEY THE FOOD WAS TO DIE FOR.
We're talking free drinks. We're talking salmon the size of the elevator. We're talking fresh cooked pasta, we're talking cheeses aged for 3000 years, roasted peppers and pitted olives, we're talking a WHITE CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN and Jenna with a stick of marshmallows and rice-crispie squares, fresh strawberries and pound cake, sliding her skewer from heaven in and out of the chocolate fountain with a look on her face as close to pure mania as I've ever seen.
Applause to all of the Purple cast, the orchestra, 'specially my sweet bassist husband for withstanding the amazingly long hours and unending pressure (while sounding so good) to make it to opening night, and most especially, respect and thank you to Alice Malsenior Walker, one of my favorite modern American writers.
September 15, 2004
Editorial Assistant
Jenna wanted to help me with a press release I had to write for the financial services industry. She asked what it was about. I said, "banks." She said, well then, just tell them this:
“A bank is where you get money. At the bank, when your credit card runs out of money, you send it to the bank and they put the money inside the card.
Then, when they’re done, they send it back. Sometimes, if you have a cracker box or a cookie box you can save it and you can put nickels, dimes, and dollars inside.
And when it gets full, you can send it to the bank and they can put it in your bank account.
The end.”
HIRED!
“A bank is where you get money. At the bank, when your credit card runs out of money, you send it to the bank and they put the money inside the card.
Then, when they’re done, they send it back. Sometimes, if you have a cracker box or a cookie box you can save it and you can put nickels, dimes, and dollars inside.
And when it gets full, you can send it to the bank and they can put it in your bank account.
The end.”
HIRED!
September 12, 2004
September 10, 2004
And goodbye to Aaron
No easy way to say that Aaron Hawkins, better known around these parts as The Uppity Negro, is dead.
His is a voice we can little afford to lose in the blogworld, but that doesn't compare to the loss his family and close friends must be wrestling with.
Sympathies and sadness seem to be all I can muster. Damn.
Read George Kelly and Trancejen.
And Sour Bob: "Suicide is what happens when the pain someone feels outweighs his or her ability to deal with pain."
His is a voice we can little afford to lose in the blogworld, but that doesn't compare to the loss his family and close friends must be wrestling with.
Sympathies and sadness seem to be all I can muster. Damn.
Read George Kelly and Trancejen.
And Sour Bob: "Suicide is what happens when the pain someone feels outweighs his or her ability to deal with pain."
Remembering
Some of my posts that have referenced Jamaica over the last couple of years follow. When I think of what is happening there, I can't really think at all. I love that country, that sea, the people, the cadence.
Love Locked
A Certain Longing, June 2002
This is the time of year we usually visit Jamaica, a place and people I've come to love, a music I understood only once I set it to the rhythm of the waves. But this year, we couldn't go, and it's left a longing in me that I wrote about yesterday. Figured I'd post it here:
Jamaica
Runaway Bay, my toes hit the water, I am home, cool Jamaican sea, salt smells comfort, a place I never want to leave. Quiet waves, I sink in, drifting, green-blue carries me far from shore. Sky sea horizon cools ancient fires, drifting still, on my back, bobbing, unnoticed, I do not exist: this is peace.
What brushes against my thigh? Bringing me back, it is slow and gentle, not a creature. I tread water, bring myself upright, as you emerge from under me. Splashes smiles welcoming arms, let's float together. I wrap around you, arms and legs, you hold me there, so you can swim us further out.
From the shore, children giggle and play, call "party wave!" and ride sea to sand. They are echos, distant songs, their cheering and laughter remembers us. I reach between my legs, slip my swimsuit to the side, dip under water long enough to pull your trunks down, take your sweetness out, you floating now, reaching for me as I re-emerge, wrap my arms around your neck, greet you eye to eye, tongue to tongue, we kiss long and slow.
Finally a place out of time to be just us, away from home, away from shore, weightless, no past/future, you probe for me, guide me onto you, bringing the cool sea water with you as I slide you deeper in.
Can we stay this way forever? Love locked. Even now. Still, floating, you inside me, me holding you with legs that wrap tight, breasts riding the water's surface, I feel your heat warm me, my wetness caress you, float with it, drink it in, this love sea.
This is the time of year we usually visit Jamaica, a place and people I've come to love, a music I understood only once I set it to the rhythm of the waves. But this year, we couldn't go, and it's left a longing in me that I wrote about yesterday. Figured I'd post it here:
Jamaica
Runaway Bay, my toes hit the water, I am home, cool Jamaican sea, salt smells comfort, a place I never want to leave. Quiet waves, I sink in, drifting, green-blue carries me far from shore. Sky sea horizon cools ancient fires, drifting still, on my back, bobbing, unnoticed, I do not exist: this is peace.
What brushes against my thigh? Bringing me back, it is slow and gentle, not a creature. I tread water, bring myself upright, as you emerge from under me. Splashes smiles welcoming arms, let's float together. I wrap around you, arms and legs, you hold me there, so you can swim us further out.
From the shore, children giggle and play, call "party wave!" and ride sea to sand. They are echos, distant songs, their cheering and laughter remembers us. I reach between my legs, slip my swimsuit to the side, dip under water long enough to pull your trunks down, take your sweetness out, you floating now, reaching for me as I re-emerge, wrap my arms around your neck, greet you eye to eye, tongue to tongue, we kiss long and slow.
Finally a place out of time to be just us, away from home, away from shore, weightless, no past/future, you probe for me, guide me onto you, bringing the cool sea water with you as I slide you deeper in.
Can we stay this way forever? Love locked. Even now. Still, floating, you inside me, me holding you with legs that wrap tight, breasts riding the water's surface, I feel your heat warm me, my wetness caress you, float with it, drink it in, this love sea.
Like a seam, zipping the world closed
Sea Dream Interpretation, January 2003
I managed to live the first 38 years of my life without ever having a recurring dream. Not so anymore. Over the last year or two there's one dream I have again and again.
First, some history.
We've visited Jamaica twice over the last three years. Jamaica represents the sea to me. I know this. More than the daunting poverty, the imbalance of riches in the country, more than jerk chicken or reggae, I associate Runaway Bay with the sea. For me, nothing compares to standing at the edge of the sea, fixing my eyes on the the fine line of the horizon, a seam zipping the world closed.
More about me and water. Water and I go way back.
I grew up never more than a few miles from Lake Ontario. Not the sea, by any means, but an expansive Great Lake and a force nonetheless. I had a love hate relationship with the lake. I did my dreaming there. I rode my horse across Lakeshore Boulevard in the summer and swam him in the lake. Nothing in my life--still--compares to the feeling of that lake, of swimming my horse. Muscle meets water, floating, snorting. Riding across the sand on this soily beach. Looking for driftwood. The stench of seaweed and dead fish. The summer air lit with beating waves, hot sun, shade trees. These are memories of the lake I treasure. I can snap them front and center in my mind with one mental click.
Then there was my stepfather's sailboat. Our family recreation in the summer consisted of my step-sister and I being dragged for weekends out on the lake in my step-father's 28-foot sailboat. We'd sail to Sodus Bay or spend the weekend in Fairhaven.
You might think I'd remember these times fondly, but for a twelve-year-old held captive in a dysfunctional family, 48 solid hours sharing a 28x10 with space our parents, no sight of land--just an expanse of water--was not joyous. It's hard to escape family wounding when you're sharing the small confines of a sailboat for hours or days on end. Mostly, it brought out the worst in us all, if you don't count the bonus that my step-sister and I got nicely tanned, and that somehow the ancient waters empathized with us.
Ripe with reason, I have always loved, have never blamed, the water. When I couldn't get to the lake, I sought out swimming pools as a kid--never deterred by cold water or 60-degree evenings. I cleansed in rivers and dug clay with my hands from the bottoms of streams.
That is some history of me and water.
Back to my recurring dream. We are on vacation in Jamaica (George, Jenna, and me). Sometimes it looks like the resort we visit, sometimes it doesn't. The crux of the dream is this: I never make it into the sea before we leave. There is always something keeping me from the sea. We're having drinks, I'm getting food for Jenna, we're talking with our friends who meet us there, we're taking island tours that we've never taken. And all of a sudden the bus is coming to take us to the airport when I, in a panic, realize I forgot to get into the sea. I never made it--it's further away and less obvious in my dream, and I forget to make my way to the water.
Did some digging on Google for dream interpretations. Found this about water:
Water symbols i.e. sea, rivers, lakes, canals, etc. reflect the spiritual or cultural life of the dreamer. How water appears or is organized indicates the dreamer's philosophy of life. A river indicates the dreamer needs a more free spiritual flow. A canal or swimming pool, both man made structures, indicates man-made or conventional ideals are restricting the dreamer's Spiritual flow. A lake or pool indicates that the dreamer does not have a spiritual outlet. The sea or ocean indicates the dreamer's spirituality / life is the subject matter. Diving into the any body of water is a request for the dreamer to get into life. The state of the water can also indicate the condition of the dreamer's blood. Polluted water indicates a need to cleanse the blood by a change of diet and/or improved elimination. - avcweb
A ring of truth to that--needing to redefine, to find, to unwrap and nurture my spiritual self. She isn't sure what's out there, which way to go, and at the same time sees the expanse of what's out there. Finding my place. Remembering to find my self. I think that's the reminder within this water dream of mine.
I managed to live the first 38 years of my life without ever having a recurring dream. Not so anymore. Over the last year or two there's one dream I have again and again.
First, some history.
We've visited Jamaica twice over the last three years. Jamaica represents the sea to me. I know this. More than the daunting poverty, the imbalance of riches in the country, more than jerk chicken or reggae, I associate Runaway Bay with the sea. For me, nothing compares to standing at the edge of the sea, fixing my eyes on the the fine line of the horizon, a seam zipping the world closed.
More about me and water. Water and I go way back.
I grew up never more than a few miles from Lake Ontario. Not the sea, by any means, but an expansive Great Lake and a force nonetheless. I had a love hate relationship with the lake. I did my dreaming there. I rode my horse across Lakeshore Boulevard in the summer and swam him in the lake. Nothing in my life--still--compares to the feeling of that lake, of swimming my horse. Muscle meets water, floating, snorting. Riding across the sand on this soily beach. Looking for driftwood. The stench of seaweed and dead fish. The summer air lit with beating waves, hot sun, shade trees. These are memories of the lake I treasure. I can snap them front and center in my mind with one mental click.
Then there was my stepfather's sailboat. Our family recreation in the summer consisted of my step-sister and I being dragged for weekends out on the lake in my step-father's 28-foot sailboat. We'd sail to Sodus Bay or spend the weekend in Fairhaven.
You might think I'd remember these times fondly, but for a twelve-year-old held captive in a dysfunctional family, 48 solid hours sharing a 28x10 with space our parents, no sight of land--just an expanse of water--was not joyous. It's hard to escape family wounding when you're sharing the small confines of a sailboat for hours or days on end. Mostly, it brought out the worst in us all, if you don't count the bonus that my step-sister and I got nicely tanned, and that somehow the ancient waters empathized with us.
Ripe with reason, I have always loved, have never blamed, the water. When I couldn't get to the lake, I sought out swimming pools as a kid--never deterred by cold water or 60-degree evenings. I cleansed in rivers and dug clay with my hands from the bottoms of streams.
That is some history of me and water.
Back to my recurring dream. We are on vacation in Jamaica (George, Jenna, and me). Sometimes it looks like the resort we visit, sometimes it doesn't. The crux of the dream is this: I never make it into the sea before we leave. There is always something keeping me from the sea. We're having drinks, I'm getting food for Jenna, we're talking with our friends who meet us there, we're taking island tours that we've never taken. And all of a sudden the bus is coming to take us to the airport when I, in a panic, realize I forgot to get into the sea. I never made it--it's further away and less obvious in my dream, and I forget to make my way to the water.
Did some digging on Google for dream interpretations. Found this about water:
Water symbols i.e. sea, rivers, lakes, canals, etc. reflect the spiritual or cultural life of the dreamer. How water appears or is organized indicates the dreamer's philosophy of life. A river indicates the dreamer needs a more free spiritual flow. A canal or swimming pool, both man made structures, indicates man-made or conventional ideals are restricting the dreamer's Spiritual flow. A lake or pool indicates that the dreamer does not have a spiritual outlet. The sea or ocean indicates the dreamer's spirituality / life is the subject matter. Diving into the any body of water is a request for the dreamer to get into life. The state of the water can also indicate the condition of the dreamer's blood. Polluted water indicates a need to cleanse the blood by a change of diet and/or improved elimination. - avcweb
A ring of truth to that--needing to redefine, to find, to unwrap and nurture my spiritual self. She isn't sure what's out there, which way to go, and at the same time sees the expanse of what's out there. Finding my place. Remembering to find my self. I think that's the reminder within this water dream of mine.
Once you've been
Reggae Sea, June 2002.
Right now, this very minute, I wish I were in Jamaica, 2 a.m. Nights there on the beach at runaway bay, the heat lifting just enough, and all-day swimming with a still-wet suit on, a welcoming cool breeze, open bar, smoking and talking and just listening to the waves crash. The Piano Bar's the only thing left open, and stays open until the last indulgent visitor is done indulging in the last drink of the night. Purple Rain anyone? It goes down smooth.
I never understood Reggae, never got into it before seeing for myself the enthralling beauty, the endless sky against the despair and poverty that is Jamaica. I would say to my husband, "It all sounds so much the same." Him telling me, "Listen closer."
This isn't one of those, "I go to Nashville and now I 'get' country music" things. It's much more primal, internal--has to do with waves, tide, moon.
It's the cadence of the waves; the sea is the context for reggae. Every break of every wave comes at just the right instant in every song, embellishing, making it so much more. I can still hear it; it goes like this, as I invoke Bob Marley (play the song in your head--not just the words):
Get up, stand up
(wave crash)
stand up for your right
(wave crash)
Get up stand up
(wave crash)
Don't give up the fight
(wave crash)
Preacher man don't tell me (wave crash) heaven is under the earth (wave crash)
I know you don't know (wave crash) what life is really worth
(wave crash)
Is not all that glitters in go--(wave crash)--ld and
Half the story has never been to--(wave crash)--ld
So now you see the light, (wave crash) aay
Stand up for your right. (wave crash) Come on.
The sea is missing in the recordings. But once you've been, you play it for yourself, bring yourself to the song, bring the sea with you.
Right now, this very minute, I wish I were in Jamaica, 2 a.m. Nights there on the beach at runaway bay, the heat lifting just enough, and all-day swimming with a still-wet suit on, a welcoming cool breeze, open bar, smoking and talking and just listening to the waves crash. The Piano Bar's the only thing left open, and stays open until the last indulgent visitor is done indulging in the last drink of the night. Purple Rain anyone? It goes down smooth.
I never understood Reggae, never got into it before seeing for myself the enthralling beauty, the endless sky against the despair and poverty that is Jamaica. I would say to my husband, "It all sounds so much the same." Him telling me, "Listen closer."
This isn't one of those, "I go to Nashville and now I 'get' country music" things. It's much more primal, internal--has to do with waves, tide, moon.
It's the cadence of the waves; the sea is the context for reggae. Every break of every wave comes at just the right instant in every song, embellishing, making it so much more. I can still hear it; it goes like this, as I invoke Bob Marley (play the song in your head--not just the words):
Get up, stand up
(wave crash)
stand up for your right
(wave crash)
Get up stand up
(wave crash)
Don't give up the fight
(wave crash)
Preacher man don't tell me (wave crash) heaven is under the earth (wave crash)
I know you don't know (wave crash) what life is really worth
(wave crash)
Is not all that glitters in go--(wave crash)--ld and
Half the story has never been to--(wave crash)--ld
So now you see the light, (wave crash) aay
Stand up for your right. (wave crash) Come on.
The sea is missing in the recordings. But once you've been, you play it for yourself, bring yourself to the song, bring the sea with you.
September 09, 2004
So much trouble in the world
God bless Jamaica.
The clouds move in this evening.
They talk about Ivan.
The night is as still as they get, the sea is calm, the stars are out - but we heard hammers pounding until after dark. The neighborhood is getting ready.
The eye is projected to hit within .07 mile of Kingston.
Oh no.
Date: 09-10-04 21:29people on strom2k.org were connected to Power106 FM until the server became too busythey posted these comments they heard on the air:Woman calling in now looking for transportation to a shelter. They're telling her the winds are probably too strong for any public transportation to pick her up, so she has to find her own way there.Yorktown person talking ....... most windows gone, some people in shelters. The wind is taking down houses, trees and light poles.people are now starting to flock to the shelters.some are filling up and some of the shelters are prone to flooding and people are being directed elsewhere.gangs of men are looting, armed and dangerous..Roads are void of traffic and full of debri.. Trees and parts of roofs....A woman just called in to report that her house is coming apart and the roof is coming off, relating the information as calmly as if she was reciting a recipe to the commentators.Zinc roofs flying left and right, sounds of flapping roof to be heard in the background in Manchester and St. Andrew.Heavy looting in Montego Bay, warehouses and cars are broken into.school serving as a shelter for 600 people lost it's roof..so they are moving the people...In St. Mary various buildings have been flattened.
And it hasn't even made landfall yet.
The clouds move in this evening.
They talk about Ivan.
The night is as still as they get, the sea is calm, the stars are out - but we heard hammers pounding until after dark. The neighborhood is getting ready.
The eye is projected to hit within .07 mile of Kingston.
Oh no.
Date: 09-10-04 21:29people on strom2k.org were connected to Power106 FM until the server became too busythey posted these comments they heard on the air:Woman calling in now looking for transportation to a shelter. They're telling her the winds are probably too strong for any public transportation to pick her up, so she has to find her own way there.Yorktown person talking ....... most windows gone, some people in shelters. The wind is taking down houses, trees and light poles.people are now starting to flock to the shelters.some are filling up and some of the shelters are prone to flooding and people are being directed elsewhere.gangs of men are looting, armed and dangerous..Roads are void of traffic and full of debri.. Trees and parts of roofs....A woman just called in to report that her house is coming apart and the roof is coming off, relating the information as calmly as if she was reciting a recipe to the commentators.Zinc roofs flying left and right, sounds of flapping roof to be heard in the background in Manchester and St. Andrew.Heavy looting in Montego Bay, warehouses and cars are broken into.school serving as a shelter for 600 people lost it's roof..so they are moving the people...In St. Mary various buildings have been flattened.
And it hasn't even made landfall yet.
September 05, 2004
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