The Subversive Librarian

Lazy-Ass Librarian Thursday: The Gay Rights Movement in Six Minutes

2012-01-18T20:59:00.000-05:00

I think you'll find that this video is worth your time.

That said, it's probably not the video to send to your dear Aunt Frieda who's never seen a gay person, much less studied up on LGBT history. It's more pep rally than substance; more inspiration than introduction. The story isn't told in chronological order and it leaves out some pretty important stuff (I watched it three times and didn't see anything about the Stonewall riots, for example).

Still, it is full of stirring images. In fact, I hate to admit it, but cynical and jaded as I am, I did feel a definite shiver once or twice.

Oh! And is that Vandy Beth Glenn behind Barney Frank? I do believe it is!

Hat tip to Good.Is. And hell, a hat tip to us, too.

George: Best. Cat. Ever.

2012-01-15T08:59:00.000-05:00

George, from Window Rock, Navajo Nation, Arizona.

I will miss you so very much, my wonderful little Navajo cat. Enjoy your new adventure, and I'll see you on the other side.

On rain, bad luggage, and why it matters how you wear your pants.

2012-01-11T20:33:00.000-05:00

So this morning, my commute to work was very interesting. First, it was raining, which sucked, but I had already resigned myself to that. So I put on my headphones, because music makes bearable even the most miserable journey. But I heard only an echo of what should have been music. The headphones were kaput. They had a long, full life but that didn't make me feel any better. A soggy trek without headphones really sucks. But you know, I'm no hothouse flower. I can take it!

I got about a block and a half and then a wheel suddenly busted on my very heavy pull-along bag, which I just bought about a month ago. (In-line skate wheels, my ass.)

Well, that slowed things down considerably. Even though the pull-along did the best it could with its one remaining wheel, I wasn't exactly walking anymore. It was more like step-drag-step-drag. And me, headed toward the Capitol! It's pretty hard to impress a state senator when you're walking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I figured I'd better head first to my office and unload.

Did I mention that it was raining?

Finally I made it to the bus stop. There are actually three bus stops within a half-block of each other, with three perfectly good buses that come in quick succeession. I never worry about missing a bus, because if I do, I can just proceed a half-block to the next stop. No problemo.

Alas, I missed the first two buses, although I was within seconds each time. Then I saw the third bus coming and decided this was the one. I rushed on, leaving a trail of sparks behind me as I dragged that stupid bag along the cement. Yes! I made it, just barely!

And then the driver sped right past me, the insensitive prick, and there wasn't going to be another bus for at least a half an hour.

It was raining, you know.

So that's when I said, fuck this bullshit. I went to the Starbucks across the street (sorry, Caribou, you're just too far) and got myself a venti skinny caramel latte. This helped, especially since it was served up by somebody in the rooms. So fortified, I looked up when the next bus was coming, and caught it with no problem. And I even made it to the office on time. How about that!

Anyway, here's the point. A few hours later I went to the bathroom and made an important discovery: I had my pants on backwards. I'd been wearing them bass-ackwards all day long. This explained everything! It explained why my pants were suddenly too short. And why the pockets kept trying to point backwards. And why they felt tight in the ass.

And you know what? I think those backwards pants explain the whole damn morning. Because once I put them on right, the day just smoothed itself right out.

I'm just sayin'.

One Step Forward, One Hundred Years Back.

2012-01-10T19:38:00.015-05:00

Yesterday the Seattle Times reported that Washington State Senator Steve Litzow, a Republican, has announced that he will be the first Republican in that chamber to stand up for gay marriage. Whatever his other views (and I confess I don't know what they are), it took courage and integrity to stand up to the Republican establishment, especially in the current toxic political environment. I have no doubt that other Republicans will follow his lead. Okay, so I'd be even more impressed if he put it on his website. Still, Senator Litzow, I salute you. Hang tough!

That's the state of Washington. But this is Georgia.

Here, we're a little less evolved. Here, we're still kind of working on the whole slavery thing.

You see, a Gwinnett county elementary school has been called on the carpet after several third-grade teachers attempted to combine Social Studies and Math lessons. Sounds good, no?

No. No, it went awry. Wrong. South. Deep South.

The kids were studying Frederick Douglass, and of course that's a good thing. Things were going along just fine until the teachers had to start writing math questions to fit with the theme. Hmmm. How to combine Frederick Douglass and math? Let me see....

He's not laughing.

Oh, of course! Story problems! Those things are easy to write.

So the teachers wrote story problems for several classrooms of third-graders. They wrote story problems about slaves picking cotton and oranges. Oh, and they wrote one about Frederick Douglass himself. Here it is:
If Frederick got two beatings a day, how many beatings did he get in 1 week? 2 weeks?

Holy fucking mother of god!

And "Frederick"? Frederick Douglass? That Frederick, the celebrated abolitionist and statesman? Referred to only by his first name?

Gwinnett County is not some little backwater hole, either. It's suburban to Atlanta, with a large minority population. Their school system is the largest in the state, with 161,000 students enrolled this year.

My head is exploding in all kinda sideways. I have to lay down.

Jesus Christ.

--------------------------
Bias disclosure: When I was in the third grade, I hated story problems.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Monday, New Year's Edition

2012-01-02T10:25:00.000-05:00

I'd like to tell you that I spent last week in Key West soaking in sunshine and salt air, and that's why I didn't post. Yeah. I'd like to tell you that. Fact is, I just couldn't think of anything to write about.

Wait, that's not really true. I thought of lots of things to write about. And then I didn't write about them.

At any rate, my fabulous daughter is back from college, and for the next week I'll have two house guests (my kid and her new boyfriend). Between that and the holidays, I'm pretty much spent -- including in the monetary sense. I had forgotten how expensive children are, especially when they anticipate eating.

The boyfriend (who seems very nice) will be heading back up to Chicago in a few days, but my daughter will be hanging out here for a semester. Her plan is to get a job and save money until summer, when she will return to Chicago, hopefully with money for a deposit on an apartment.

Now, this post was going to be my 2011 list of my ten favorite dead people, one of them being Jon Huntsman, who isn't really dead but is pretty much off the radar for the Republican presidential nomination, ha ha ha.

But then I saw this headline:

TWELVE FAMOUS PEOPLE SARAH PALIN DOESN'T LIKE.

Well, golly, how could I resist?

And it wouldn't be a real post unless I offered you witty and astute commentary, so here it is: I was sort of appalled to find I agree with numbers 1 and 2. And with number 7, but for different reasons. And even though I like number 10, I have to admit Mama Bear has a point. Oh, and I don't know who the fuck number 11 is.

So welcome to 2012. May it bring you all you wish for, or at least all you need, and may you know that you're loved.

The 2011 Gay Picture of the Year

2011-12-23T20:00:00.000-05:00

Congratulations to Navy Petty Officer 2nd Class Marissa Gaeta, serving on the USS Oak Hill, and her partner, Petty Officer 3rd Class Citlalic Snell. The ship has just returned to Virginia following an 80-day deployment, and Gaeta won the raffle to give the first homecoming kiss. Snell is stationed on the USS Bainbridge. They met shortly after boot camp, and they've been together for two years. This is the first time a same-sex couple has had the honor of the first kiss.

Bilerico has named this image its 2011 Gay Picture of the Year.

I love, love, love this picture!

In search of "Reel Injun"

2011-12-23T10:13:00.001-05:00

So anyway, I was looking for something to pass some time, and while I was nosing around Netflix I happened upon "Reel Injun," a documentary exploring the depiction of Native Americans in film. The movie is the work of Neil Diamond (no, not that Neil Diamond), a Canadian member of the Cree Nation.

Right off the bat, Diamond won me over when he said he would need a "rez car" for his cross-country quest in search of Indians on film. I couldn't help but remember my time working on the Navajo Nation where many houses, cars, fences, and pretty much everything else were held together with baling wire and duct tape. You make do with what you've got.

(The mother in me does say, though, that it's damn crazy to trust a rez car to take you thousands of miles. We had a rez car for short time, and ours couldn't even get us from Window Rock to Gallup. Just saying.)

Filmmaker Neil Diamond and his rez car

At any rate, Reel Injun is a study of Native Americans on film, beginning at the turn of the 20th century when movie technology was brand new. Diamond weaves a rich tapestry through liberal use of movie clips and interviews with prominent actors, writers, and activists.

Although the film is thick with dialogue, Diamond does occasionally use silence (or, more accurately, the strategic lack of narration) to make a point. For instance, one scene involves a boys' summer camp that claims to be based on Native American culture. Once the context is explained, Diamond turns the camera on the boys for several minutes but provides no commentary, so we're left to reach our own conclusions. Here's mine: the boys and the staff did an excellent job mimicking obnoxious, unruly football fans, and I felt like I should be doing something about it.

Diamond's strategic silence, however, almost lost me in one particularly disturbing scene. He visits a rez classroom of second or third graders and has the teacher show them a massacre scene from either Dances with Wolves. or Little Big Man (sorry, I don't remember which). His point: many Indian kids nowadays have never been exposed to these brutal images. As we hear the audio from the scene in the background, Diamond focuses, without commentary, on close-ups of the children's faces as they watch. While none of the kids seemed visibly shocked, all looked troubled and transfixed. I understand what Diamond was after, but the idea of purposely traumatizing small children is nearly as horrifying as the footage they were watching. I sure hope those kids got some help processing what they saw.

Other than that, the film's flaws are minor. For example, he could have made clearer the route he took on his cross-country journey. In addition, I would have liked to hear more about his story, rather than the heavy emphasis on the interviewees. That, of course, is simply a matter of personal taste, but a greater blending of his quest with the subject matter might have provided more depth and color.

Since I love a happy ending, I was gratified that Diamond showcased films made by indigenous people for indigenous people. Diamond focused on two films: Smoke Signals and Fast Runner. I've seen the former and enjoyed it; I look forward to seeing the latter.

Oh, but above all, there was that golden moment when I just about melted: For a couple seconds, a little house appeared onscreen accompanied by the caption, "Navajo, New Mexico." Navajo is a town of less than 3,000 people, close to where we lived. My kid attend daycare in Navajo for about three years, beginning when she was just a year old. We still treasure the Pendleton blankets the staff gave us when we moved away -- one for me, one for her dad, and one kid-sized blanket for my daughter. Fond memories, indeed.

Anyway, I recommend Reel Injun, which you can view via Netflix's instant queue. In the meantime, I will contemplate the exquisite landscape of the Navajo Nation, which tugs at me still.

Lazy Ass Librarian Friday

2011-12-09T11:48:00.000-05:00

See the cool banner in the corner? You can have it, too!

Go to the Occupy Movement Banner Project for instructions and code.

Hat tip to Tennessee Guerilla Women.

Sweet dreams, Harry Morgan.

2011-12-08T08:33:00.001-05:00

The venerable Harry Morgan, 96, passed away at his home yesterday morning. If you watched television ~~any time between 1960 and 1983~~ ever, you saw his work. He was best known for his parts in Dragnet and M*A*S*H, but he was pretty much everywhere. This clip from The Jack Benny Show demonstrates his ability to make any line funny.

Lucky us, that he was in our midst for nearly a century.

I want Hillary Clinton for Chanukah.

2011-12-07T23:14:00.000-05:00

If you haven't heard Hillary Clinton's historic United Nations speech on LGBT rights, I hope you'll take the time to listen. I felt moved and empowered as I watched Clinton speak out for equal rights in her official capacity as Secretary of State. Thirty minutes, very well spent.

It's

Oh, yes. Time marches forward.

2011-12-07T00:10:00.000-05:00

I'm very pleased to report that the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals has ruled unanimously in favor of Vandy Beth Glenn, the woman who was fired from the Georgia legislature after she announced her intention to transition from male to female. Here's the opinion.

Ms. Glenn worked as an attorney/editor for the Georgia General Assembly's Office of Legal Counsel ("OLC").When she was hired in 2005, she still lived as a man, but that year she began transitioning; and she began living as a woman outside of work. In 2006, she informed her supervisor of her intention to transition fully, and in 2007, she informed her supervisor that she would now be living full time as a woman.

Sewell Brumby, head of the OLC, was not pleased by this news, and he fired Ms. Glenn, stating that

her "intended gender transition was inappropriate, that it would be disruptive, that some people would view it as a moral issue, and that it would make Glenn’s coworkers uncomfortable." (slip op. at 4).

Ms. Glenn sued in federal court, alleging that Brumby discriminated against her because of her sex (specifically, for her failure to conform to male stereotypes concerning clothing) in violation of the equal protection clause of the 14th amendment to the U.S. Constitution. The district (trial) court granted Ms. Glenn summary judgment on the sex-discrimination cause of action (Ms. Glenn had also alleged she was denied equal protection because of her medical diagnosis of Gender Identity Disorder, but the court ruled against her with regard to that issue).

On appeal, the circuit court found that "discrimination against a transgender individual because of her gender non-conformity is sex discrimination," noting a split among circuits. (id. at 9). The court went on:

discrimination on this basis is a form of sex-based discrimination that is subject to heightened scrutiny under the Equal Protection Clause. Ever since the Supreme Court began to apply heightened scrutiny to sex-based classifications, its consistent purpose has been to eliminate discrimination on the basis of gender stereotypes.

And then, just in case there is still any doubt: "We conclude that a government agent violates the Equal Protection Clause’s prohibition of sex-based discrimination when he or she fires a transgender or transsexual employee because of his or her gender non-conformity." (slip op. at 16).

Applying the "heightened scrutiny" standard for determining liability for such discrimination, the court then concluded that Brumby's termination of Ms. Glenn was not substantially related to any sufficiently important governmental interest. On the contrary, her termination was based on Brumby's assertion that transitioning was "unnatural" and "unsettling." In the end, then, the court found that Ms. Glenn was entitled to "all the relief that she seeks."

So kudos to Ms. Glenn, and the other folks on the front lines. It's because of her courageous actions, and the actions of others like her, that the LGBTQ community is making steady legal headway, one small step -- and one precedent -- at a time

Confession time: My Favorite Deadly Sin

2011-11-29T21:25:00.000-05:00

So when my kid was around four or five, one of our favorite games was "Zoo." Each of us would pretend to be a different animal, providing appropriate actions and habits and sound effects. As I recall, plastic food was often involved. Or maybe I'm thinking of a different game.

Anyway, my kid often chose to be either a wolf or an owl, since those were her two favorite animals. I started out being an otter, because I love otters. But being an otter was a lot of work because, you know, they're pretty much always moving. Swim, play, swim, play. And I was pretty much always tired.

So somewhere along the line I took the low road. It's a road I'm not very proud of taking.

I became the sloth.

Because, you see, pretending to be a sloth (complete with appropriate actions and habits and sound effects) meant, well, it meant lying on the couch. On my back, doing nothing except maybe curling my fingers like sloth toes. And I think plastic food may have been involved. Or maybe that was a different game.

So that's my favorite deadly sin: sloth. And should you doubt the absolute coolfulness of the sloth, then I dare you to watch this, forwarded to me today by my fabulous, talented, and incredibly forgiving daughter.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the sloth:

Meet the sloths from Lucy Cooke on Vimeo.

This is not a test.

2011-11-17T23:31:00.000-05:00

Excuse me for a little bit while I try to manage the unmanageable. I'll be back momentarily.

Wow. What a feeling.

2011-11-11T11:24:00.000-05:00

Oh. My. God.

Ohmygod! I just made the last tuition payment on my kid's fall semester! My share: a little over five grand, which I rustled up over a period of four months. A year ago I wasn't sure I could even keep the lights on.

Okay, so I'm still digging change out of the bottom of my purse. But talk about progress!

Yeah. This feels good. Damn good.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Saturday: Herman Cain on Foreign Policy. Epic Fail.

2011-11-05T10:02:00.003-04:00

I've got a lot going on today, but I did want to pass on this must-read article about Herman Cain's "seven biggest foreign policy blunders," compliments of PBS's Need to Know.

This guy makes W. and Palin sound like foreign policy brainiacs. Even if you give him a pass on the sexual harrassment thing (which I most definitely do not), the idea of Cain being our head honcho is, well, a really bad one.

Here is the list itself, but be sure to read the details, too.

1. Cain worries that China is developing nuclear weapons – 40 years after China’s first nuclear test

2. Cain says he would negotiate with terrorists (then immediately takes it back)

3. Cain says a missile defense system would have stopped Iranian assassination plot

4. Cain questions the existence of the Palestinian people

5. Cain doesn’t know what the Palestinian “right of return” is

6. Cain doesn’t know that the government targeted a U.S. citizen for assassination (then flip flops on whether it’s okay)

7. Cain doesn’t care who the president of Uzbekistan is.

And this guy wants to be our president.

UPDATED: Occupy Wall Street Library. Wow!

2011-11-03T19:37:00.001-04:00

Oops! I totally screwed up the last post about Occupy Wall Street Library. So, let's try this again.

Just in case you were wondering why we should care about public libraries, visit Occupy Wall Street Library here. And watch YouTube clip from the library at Occupy Portland, below.

Gosh, it makes me proud to be a subversive librarian. Librarians really are seriously cool, if I do say so myself..

2011-11-02T20:50:00.001-04:00

Today happens to be day two of National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. The basic idea is this: a whole bunch of crazy masochists create an online community and spend the whole month of November slaving over individual manuscripts with the goal of writing 50,000 words by the end of the month. It's all about quantity, not quality, which can be pretty liberating.

I actually gave this a shot a few years ago. It probably wasn't the best timing, considering I had a full-time job that required a four-hour daily commute, and I came home each night to a pack of five dogs, five cats, six horses, and a shitload of chaos. Still, I did whip out 11,500 words, which gave me a respectable start on a young-adult novel. Several years later, my little manuscript is now at... uhh... about 11,525 words. Which goes to show you the advantage of doing the whole frantic NaNoWriMo thing.

Anyway, the nonprofit parent company of NaNoWriMo also does some other cool projects. Most notably for my purposes, they have a Script Frenzy event every April. The goal there: write 100 pages of script in 30 days.

I mention all of this because I get to write a show -- a script -- for our local 2012 LGBT recovery roundup. Since I can't affrord to wait until April to pound out a first draft, I'm cheating. For me, November will be Script Frenzy. My goal is to write a draft script of 45-60 pages, plus three original songs.

In any event, my posts in November might be a little spotty. Which is to say, it'll be just like always, but with a few more Lazy-Ass Librarian posts to keep things moving along. Meanwhile,I'll do my best to keep watching your blogs, though, and interact with some of my readers there.

Let the frenzy begin!

Lazy-Ass Librarian Saturday: Beware the homosexual agenda!

2011-10-29T10:02:00.000-04:00

Wow! God is so pissed off at us over the marriage thing that He smote this nice couple's wedding. Very impressive! I can't wait until the annual World Homosexual Agendakeepers Awards to see who will receive the prestigious Platinum Toasteroven for this epic feat.

I went through a couple of storms like this when I was growing up in Phoenix. Watching the coming dust storm approach is an awesome sight indeed. Now, alas, these storms come way more often.

Equal marriage rights? Special rights? How about NO rights?

2011-10-25T19:05:00.001-04:00

A few days ago over at Bilerico, Alex Blaze reported on three Marines who received bad-conduct discharges for committing fraud against the United States.

Here are the facts according to the LA Times, which first reported this development: Corporal Ashley Vice, Cpl. Jeremiah Griffin and Cpl. Joseph Garner served at Camp Pendleton, California in the 3rd Marine Aircraft Wing. Corporal Vice is a lesbian; her partner, Jaime Murphy, is a civilian.

Unmarried couples, whether gay or straight, are not allowed to live together on base. Married couples can live on or off the base. If they elect to live off the base, they are eligible for a $1,200 housing allowance.

Naturally, Vice and Murphy wanted to live together, and they needed the married-housing allowance to make it happen. But the federal Defense of Marriage Act limits marriage -- and its accompanying benefits -- to heterosexual couples only. Therefore, even after the demise of don't ask/don't tell, Vice and Murphy could not claim the housing allowance.

Knowing this, Vice and Murphy found two male Marines -- Corporals Griffin and Garner -- who were willing to marry them. The women would then both be in opposite-sex marriages and could receive the married-housing allowance.

The military determined that the three Marines had committed fraud by representing themselves as married to get the housing benefit, and all three were discharged for bad conduct. In addition, the men were fined $5,000 apiece and got three to six months in the slammer. Murphy, a civilian, was not subject to military authority and was not sanctioned.

Now, here's a bit of a twist: The Associated Press version of the story, which is being used by just about everybody, contains a critical ambiguity:

Three San Diego Marine corporals have been discharged for bad conduct after admitting they faked their marriages to receive housing allowances. . . . Vice has previously said in media coverage that she and her partner were forced to enter sham marriages because they couldn't afford to live off base without the extra money. (emphasis provided)

So which is it? Did the Marines actually get married, or did they just say they did? Did they forge documents and lie under oath in order to get the allowance? Or did they enter into legal marriages for reasons of convenience? The distinction matters. People who lie about whether they're married should get penalized, even if the law they are trying to circumvent is unjust.

(By the way, I also have a problem with AP's headline, duplicated over and over again by news outlets:: "Three California Marines discharged after faking marriages." Assuming that the Marines did legally marry, they didn't fake anything. Indeed, the marriages are probably still valid, even if they were a sham.* Saying the marriages were "faked" strikes me as unfairly biased. And unfortunately, even HuffPo repeated the language.)

Assuming the couples actually married -- and that seems to be true here -- the case has intriguing implications for gay-marriage jurisprudence if a similar fact pattern lands in an appellate court.

Think, for a minute, about the oft-heard, right-wing sound bite: "Gays can already marry. They just have to marry a person of the opposite sex. Gays shouldn't ask for special rights." (I know, I know, I don't buy it either.)

But do we have the right to marry someone of the opposite sex? For those of us in the military, maybe not. An "out" lesbian or gay man who weds someone of the opposite sex would be in a sham marriage, almost by definition. Such a marriage subjects the participants to bad-conduct discharge, fines, and even jail.

So if you're gay and you're in the military, here is your full panoply of marriage options:
(a) Don't get married, or
(b) Marry someone of the opposite sex and land in the pokey.

Some choice, huh?

----------------------------------
*Wikipedia says so. Wikipedia is not worthy of citation if you're writing a brief. But it's okie dokey on this blog.

It's not always about the politics.

2011-10-21T23:21:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I was reading a discussion thread on Townhall.com about the "war on Christianity." (yes, it's just about that time of year again). But that's not the subject of my post today. Within the thread I was delighted to find this little bit of dialog. By the way, I am not questioning the sincerity of any of the participants, or their good intentions.

ROBERT: What non-evangelical Christians disapprove of is the appalling ignorance,narrow-mindedness,intolerance and self-righteousness of so many Christians. Their terrible hostility to gay people and blindly irrational fear of the entirely imaginary "sinister gay agenda" to "recruit" children in schools and "corrupt their morality and morality in general.
And the appalling hypocrisy of the anti-choice movement ,which is determined to force poor women to give birth to children they would never be able to support or give birth even if a pregnancy would kill them or ruin their health, or a pregnancy was the result of rape or incest. And the movement's total lack of concern for children who HAVE been born.

ANN: I feel sorry for you with the fullness of my Christian heart. You live in the narrow confines of your groins and see me through the filth, stench and darkness of your groins.
Believe me I could never hate you but pray for you to come out of the hell you insist to dwell in, breathe in some fresh air; see the glory of God's light He created for you too to enjoy. Give yourself the chance to be healthy and joyous as God intended you to be.

DEAN: I'm pretty sure Robert only has one groin.

I've been debating whether to post this -- I try not to make fun of anyone except myself, but this is so sweetly funny in its own twisted way that I couldn't resist. If you think I'm over the line, I hope you'll tell me.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Thursday: William Shatner does Bohemian Rhapsody

2011-10-20T23:06:00.001-04:00

Holy shit. My brain is burning.

Time to get your purple on!

2011-10-19T22:33:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow is Spirit Day -- a spin-off of the It Gets Better Project in support of LGBT youth who are being bullied because of their sexual orientation or identity. The Project, as I'm sure readers know, started in response to a tragic series of suicides by LGBT kids after being tormented at school.

Naive as I am, I hoped the bullying and the suicides would stop once the Project gained legs and took off. Alas, I was wrong. It's still happening.

Someday, maybe Spirit Day will just be a fun, gay day to wear purple. For now, though, I pray that when our kids leave the house for school tomorrow, they look around and see support wherever they turn.

Wear purple. Please.

Death, Relapse and Triggers.

2011-10-15T20:31:00.000-04:00

I paced slowly behind my students, all focused on the computer screens in front of them, intent on the legal research problems I had assigned. One of my students -- I wasn't sure of her name -- was unusually quiet. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'm just not feeling well," she said quietly. I told her to take care of herself and I think I touched her shoulder before I moved on to the next student.

That night, Melissa -- it turns out her name was Melissa -- committed suicide. I went to the funeral, partly out of duty and partly out of grief because I should have at least known her name. As I settled into the pew, I heard the first notes of the song her family had chosen -- "Angel," by Sarah McLachlan -- and I lost it.

Several family members and close friends spoke; every word was steeped in grief and anger and frustration. It was clear that Melissa was surrounded by good people who loved her, and that she had reached out many times before. This time around, though, she had reached out to no one, to ensure her success. I cried through the entire service, so sorry that I hadn't known her better and so moved by her community. Yet in the following days, I discovered that I wanted to join Melissa, and that feeling lasted for months.

Sometime after that -- I really don't know how long -- I left my partner, and we moved into a place of our own. My sponsor, a brilliant physician, soon joined me in the condo; he had very little money after suffering through some tough medical issues. He was great with my kid and my dog, and it felt good to have recovery in the house. I was glad he was there, because at the time I was crippled by depression and dark thoughts.

One night I heard a crash in the living room. I found my dear sponsor naked, on the floor and unable to speak or walk. It looked like a stroke and I called 911.

Only, it wasn't a stroke. It was a hydrocodone overdose.

Of course, I had to ask him to leave. For months afterwards, just like with Melissa, I wanted to climb into the abyss with him, to follow him to this liberating place of no accountability. And I was angry. Why the hell should he get to take this irresponsible, selfish path while I was stuck, sober, with the misery of the present?

A few weeks later, he texted me a suicide note. I did what I could, which wasn't much, and fortunately he didn't act on it. As far as I know, he's still out there somewhere, using, and there's nothing I can do now except await the final phone call.

I do miss my sponsor something fierce. I still rely heavily on the last suggestion he gave me when he saw how I interacted with my partner: He said, "Lynne, save yourself."

In the years since then, I've seen other deaths and other relapses. They've brought me sadness and gratitude and a myriad of other emotions, but none has affected me viscerally like Melissa's death, or my sponsor's relapse.

None, that is, until yesterday when I heard about Gary. Gary chose Melissa's path. It's the fourth pointless death in as many weeks in my little recovery community. I knew Gary, although we weren't close. I had watched him grow in sobriety over the years. I was angry and sad and confused, and again, part of me wanted to join him. Not like before, thank goodness. But it was there.

Ironic, isn't it? Just yesterday I blogged about the jagged beauty of watching someone move through hard times in sobriety, and how I add their experience to my store of faith for when I'm in trouble. But I was in trouble now, and I never gave that store of faith a single thought. To tell you the truth, not much crossed my mind at all. I was just pissed off, and terribly sad.

But I took action by rote. I went to a meeting and shared. I answered my phone when it rang. And I made a phone call of my own. although it probably wasn't the one I really needed to make.

I did the next right thing, and now I have another day.

Gary, you had a smile that could light up Yankee Stadium. I love you, my friend, and I'm going to miss you.

I know only one way to do your life justice. So in your memory, and Melissa's and Kevin's and Tom's and Dowman's, I'm going to save myself.

The Subversive Librarian, Whining.

2011-10-15T19:37:00.000-04:00

Now, leaving a comment is easier than ever!

Here's the thing: I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing. I know you're reading my modest little blog and I adore you for it!

But gosh, it would be nice to get more comments. Without them, I get all insecure, and it's not pretty. Not pretty at all.

So, I tried to leave myself a comment the other day and guess what I discovered: it was a big pain in the ass. Maybe that's why, I thought to myself. So I've changed the settings to make things easier. Hopefully that was problem, and hopefully I've fixed it.

Of course, it could also be because I don't leave many comments for other bloggers, either. Like, you know, karma, man.

If that's not it, well, I'll just cry. Just cry, and cry, and cry.

So please, think about just leaving a little comment now and then, so I don't cry myself to sleep every night and end up with gooey snot all over my pillow and stuck in my hair.

Oh. And God bless us, everyone.

Faith that works in every situation.

2011-10-14T07:28:00.000-04:00

It's a bittersweet truth of sobriety: When the worst happens, and I can no longer turn to my drug of choice, I must find some other way to survive the relentless pain. At those times when the darkness has threatened to consume me, I have relied, clung to, the experience of others who have gone through similar situations and somehow stayed clean.

The thing is, there is divine artistry in a person's ability to endure with gratitude and grace. It teaches me how to survive, yes; but it's more than that. To watch someone transcend tragedy and disappointment is to see god at work.

Once again, my good friend Mark King:

Playing the Last Scene of a Marriage

Say it Ain't So! The Subversive Librarian Becomes a Corporate Shill

2011-10-10T11:20:00.001-04:00

Okay, so I've made it a practice to avoid product endorsement in my blog, especially when I'm not getting paid to do it. But here I am, endorsing an online app for personal finance.

Let me give you some background. In the past, I have had a little trouble managing my money. Okay, fine. I've had a lot of trouble.

Now, I'm not talking about problems like this:

"Oh, Clark Howard, I love your show! Here's my question: I've saved up $250,000 over eight years while I worked my way through Harvard Medical School doing double shifts at McDonald's and cleaning houses on the side. Now that I've graduated, should I put that money into a self-directed individual retirement account or put it into a charitable split-interest trust?"

That there is what you call a Cadillac problem.

No, I'm afraid my money problems (all of my own making) are more of the Yugo variety. In other words, more like this:

"Hello, Georgia Power? Yeah, I just found this disconnect notice in my backpack from two weeks ago, and the deadline for payment was yesterday. I don't get paid for a week and a half. I have $16 in checking and there's probably a couple dollars of change in the car.... No, I really don't have $325. I get paid in a week and a half.... A check by phone? Now? Ummm..... Sure, okay." [Sigh. It may bounce, but at least it will buy me some time and keep the fridge running.]

I wish I was exaggerating. I just fished out my bank statements and tallied up all my overdraft charges for last year. It was bad, really bad. Someday I might tell you just how bad, but not today.

Anyway, I've been trying to get a handle on my finances for, well, pretty much forever. It's been an integral part of my struggle to recover from depression and the "ism" of addiction, and I haven't had much success.

After years of trying to wrap my head around the financial stuff, I heard about Mint.com, which is basically a budgeting app that you can hook up to your bank account. It's free, and has great reviews. But it's not the product I'm endorsing. Mint.com is a terrific product, but it doesn't partner with my bank. So the hell with them.

But I had to find a solution. My kid had gotten accepted into a really good, and really expensive, private college and I wasn't in a position to be much help. As has happened so often, I found strength to do things for her that I couldn't seem to do for myself. So I got rid of my car, pared down my expenses, and looked for a way to manage this monster.

In some moment of clarity (which, at the time, just seemed like pointless footwork), I found EEBA, which stands for Easy Envelope Budgeting Aid. Which, by the way, it isn't. Easy, I mean. But then, I'm pretty much on the short bus when it comes to money management.

EEBA is an online version of a low-tech gimmick: cashing your paycheck and putting all your money into budget envelopes. In EEBA, every time money comes in, the user allocates each dollar to a particular envelope: Housing, food, electric, entertainment, or whatever. This must be done in order to add money, so each paycheck is allocated immediately. Then, every time the user spends money, she records it, thus taking it out of the appropriate envelope. When that envelope is empty, the amount budgeted for that item is gone.

The basic version of EEBA is free, but with only ten envelopes, I found it pretty useless. For five bucks a month, though, I get all the bells and whistles I need..

EEBA is a pain in the ass to learn, and it's probably pretty clunky as these things go. It took me hours and hours to set up, and at first every transaction took forever. Now, it hums along pretty good, although I do still lose track of cash if I'm not careful about entering transactions.

The results have been beyond dramatic. For one thing, I haven't had a single overdraft charges since I started using EEBA in May. That alone is amazing, for me. But there's more: Before I started using this system, I was hundreds of dollars in the hole every time I got paid. Now, I can comfortably pay my share of college costs each month -- $1,300 -- and tackle small unexpected expenses. And as I slowly clean up my financial wreckage of the past, I even have an occasional latte, guilt free.

That, my friends, is a miracle.

So call me a capitalist tool if you like. Perhaps I am. But I'm also within sighting distance of solvency for the first time in, well, ever.

First. Time Ever.

Oh, God, I can't resist: Lily's Disneyland Surprise!

2011-10-07T23:31:00.000-04:00

All right, I know I shouldn't do a Lazy Ass Librarian post so soon -- especially since I've been pretty unproductive lately, blog-wise. And -- as much as I love kids -- some cute-kid videos make me sort of queasy. But this one... honestly, this one is really quite special.

Please watch it all the way through. Seriously.

Enjoy!

The topic is fear.

2011-10-03T00:31:00.000-04:00

I do wish this was a post on right-wing extremism. Heaven knows, the title would fit.

But no; today the fear is of the personal, non-political variety. Fear, in dribs and drabs and occasional dollops, has returned to my life.

When I was drinking, fear enveloped me like a thick fog, or sometimes -- when nothing else seemed familiar -- like a warm, comfortable old blanket. I wrapped my days, my nights, my existence in it. At the end of my drinking fear became a straitjacket, and I was in solitary confinement.

Nothing in my life was exempt: Fear of driving. Fear of tornadoes. Fear of disease. Of nightmares, and of intruders. Fear of ghosts and nuclear war. Fear of fetal alcohol syndrome. Fear of dying. Fear of being frightened to death. Fear that I was insane. Fear of god and of satan, even though I didn't really believe in either one. And most of all, fear of being alone if any of these horrors came to pass.

When I heard thunder in the distance, I'd wonder if this was the storm that would finally bury me in rubble. When I tried to drive, I knew any car on the road might be aiming for me. When I heard a jet engine overhead, I'd hold my breath until I was sure it wasn't a Soviet fighter plane. Sometimes I slept with lights or music on. Anything, anything to subdue all the terrifying thoughts that came with the darkness.

Just a few months before I quit drinking, my mother came to visit us in Schoolcraft, Michigan and she gave me a driving lesson on the surrounding rural roads. There was almost no traffic, but I was pretty sure that each car we encountered was a threat. Slightly exasperated, my mom finally said to me, "Lynne, honey, you've got to have a little faith!"

Back then it never occurred to me that my fear was connected to drinking, but when I began to work the steps, the fear began to dissipate. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being afraid of the things that used to immobilize me. Not only can I drive, I can drive on the expressway, during rush hour, in Atlanta. That really, truly is a miracle.

Lately, though, fear has returned with surprising strength. This time, it's fear of the consequences of my actions, of the wreckage of my past and what that wreckage might do to my daughter.

I've just been sued for twelve grand.

The details are still fuzzy, but it appears to be from an old debt. I've got an attorney and I'm gathering information. Whether or not it's legitimate,I don't know, but it escalated to a lawsuit because I didn't do some pretty damn simple things. Added to that are some soft rumblings that my new and perfect apartment may not be as permanent as I'd hoped. When blended with a healthy shot of self-loathing for every mistake I've ever made, the brew packs quite a punch.

At a conscious level, I know it'll all be fine, but that hasn't kept my mind from meandering down the path of disaster. The consequences are serious: Inability to pay my kid's tuition. Homelessness. Unemployment. Starvation. Whichever route the fear takes, its destination is the same: I'm never going to be a competent adult, not ever. I am failing Life.

Except now there's a difference: I've got a little of that faith my mother wanted for me. Whatever disasters befall me, I'll be all right, and so will my kid.. And as long as I do the next right thing now, that's true even if I did everything wrong yesterday.

Today, I can sleep with the lights and the radio off. When life gets scary, like now, I don't have to run or hide from reality. I can pause and listen long enough to uncover the next right thing, and then take action. I have learned there is great power even in the tiniest of steps. And for that, I am very grateful.

But still kinda scared.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Thursday: Light show on planet earth

2011-09-22T21:43:00.000-04:00

A view of Earth from the Space Station, ending at sunrise. Watch for lightning starting at around 0:20.

DADT and other good news...

2011-09-20T23:30:00.000-04:00

No doubt you've heard about the end of DADT, the military's policy on LGBTs in the service. You can read about its demise here and here. That's one campaign promise kept. Huzzah!

But with all the celebratory hoopla about DADT, you might have missed another gem -- this one dealing with property tax exemptions for married couples in Alaska.

Alaskan seniors above age 65 are allowed to exclude the value of their homes, up to $150,000, from property tax liability. However, the provision provides that the benefit is calculated more generously for married couples. For other co-residents -- brothers, sisters, cohabiting couples, and same-sex couples, to name a few -- are not eligible for this more generous calculation. The result is that same-sex couples pay hundreds of dollars a year more in property taxes than married couples with similar holdings.

The ACLU brought suit against the state of Alaska on behalf of three gay couples who would have been eligible for the tax break if they could marry.

On Friday, an Alaska trial court granted the couples summary judgment, finding that the tax provision violated the state's equal protection clause. The case is Schmidt v. State of Alaska, and you can read the opinion here. The court found that the tax code "violates Alaska's equal protection clause because it disparately burdens similarly situated taxpayers."

The court based its ruling on Alaska Supreme Court's holding in ACLU v. State, 122 P.3d 781 (Alaska 2005) (read the opinion here), in which the Court found that benefits reserved only for married state employees violated the state's equal protection clause.

What makes this interesting (at least to me) is that the court found in favor of the same-sex couples even though Alaska has a constitutional provision that defines marriage as being between one man and one woman. And it did so even though Alaska also has a statute that prohibits gay couples from reaping the benefits of marriage. "[T]he Marriage Amendment speaks only to the definition of marriage and does not mention the associated benefits of marriage." Schmidt, Slip op at 10 (emphasis in original).

In other words, the statute's anti-benefit provision cannot "trump" a constitutional amendment that has no such prohibition. To put it bluntly: "In Alaska, a marital classification facially discriminates based on an individual's sexual orientation." Id. at 15.

A couple of caveats. First, this was just a trial court ruling, and it may or may not survive an appeal. As the court noted, the ACLU case dealt with state employee benefits and not property taxes.

Second, the court specifically acknowledged that Alaska's equal protection clause provides broader safeguards than the federal version. This case has no applicability to the equal protection clause in the U.S. Constitution.

Third, the analysis will be different in states where a constitutional provision not only defines marriage in heterosexual terms, but specifically limits marital benefits to those couples.

Still, it's an awfully good sign: Judges are evolving on the issue of equal marriage rights along with the rest of us.

Even state constitutional amendments may not be enough to stop the momentum.

You mean it really is hip to be square?

2011-09-15T00:35:00.001-04:00

Okay, so once upon a time, about a hundred years ago, I wanted to be cool. And I tried. I really did, but it just wasn't me. In kindergarten I ate the paste. In the fourth grade, I somehow managed to staple myself. In junior high, my dog really did eat my homework. I failed driver's ed, for god's sake.

But there was this lovely two-year period where cool didn't matter. Those were the years I spent as a freshman and sophomore at New Trier West High School in Northfield, Illinois.

Now, New Trier is a seriously cool place. Ferris Bueller's Day Off was filmed there. Ann-Margret went there. And Rock Hudson. And Christie Hefner. And Father Mulcahy from M*A*S*H. As a matter of fact, there's a whole Wikipedia page devoted to cool people who went to New Trier.**

New Trier High School, west campus

New Trier was a great place for me. I tested into the highest academic level and I was surrounded by smart, interesting kids. My best friend and I translated Latin story books into English, just for fun. I totally coveted her short-wave radio. Nobody ever went to the pep rallies, and everyone went to the musicals. It was heaven.

My best friend also turned me on to Chicago's folk music scene. Most notably, I heard Bryan Bowers play the autoharp at the Old Town School of Folk Music. I fell in love with the sound, managed to get a used autoharp of my own, and learned to play. I got to be pretty good at it, too.

Then we moved to the Detroit area, where I continued to play and sing. My first public appearance there was also the first night I ever got drunk. God, between the rush of the applause and the warmth of the wine, I existed!

Anyway, from there I built a little following by doing open mics and such. But as my alcoholism progressed, my singing regressed. I couldn't remember lyrics and my voice was soon shot from smoking.

I stopped playing sometime around 1977. Well, no. I didn't just quit; I disassociated from the autoharp completely. The fact that I could play became a guarded secret, a source of embarrassment. The autoharp was not the stuff of serious music. It was a lame, stupid novelty that revealed my failure as a musician. From 1977 on, I can probably count on my fingers and toes the number of times I played. Occasionally, it was for my kid.

Here's the thing: Recently my kid -- the very coolest person I know -- said she wishes I still played the autoharp. I didn't think she even remembered.

It seemed prudent to listen to her. So this past month, I played autoharp and sang before sizable audiences at two recovery-related events. I was terrified. I was embarrassed, too. But through all the white noise I could hear that long-ago voice I thought was gone for good. And I liked it.

It was pretty damn cool.
___________________________________________________________________________

** Charlton Heston and Donald Rumsfeld went to New Trier, too, but they're even less cool than I am.

We Must Never Forget

2011-09-11T09:19:00.001-04:00

This is a republication of my blog post from September 11, 2009.

Today on Facebook, many of my friends wrote: “Never forget.” They were, of course, referring to the devastating attacks we all experienced eight years ago. Flags flew at half mast today. Memorial candles burned in churches, office lobbies, and even hotels. Lists of the victims’ names -- so many of them! – re-revealed the tragedy’s scope not only through statistics (3,000+ deaths and 6,200+ injuries), but by reminding us of each individual light that was extinguished on that day.

Once again, we are in mourning. That is just as it should be.

However, along with these gentle and somber reminders, I have also received more than the usual amount of anti-Muslim propaganda: an expose of how Muslim law treats women… the old (and false) story about how Budweiser refused to sell to a convenience store after the owner cheered the victory of Al-Qaeda. The emails I have received tend to color all Muslims in the same shade of hatred, as if this diverse group is significantly more homogenous than Christians or Jews or Buddhists or women or homosexuals or African Americans.

The fact is, hate and bigotry can be found on the fringes of every religion, ethnicity, and cultural identity. Orthodox Jewish services separate men from women. Fundamentalist Christians believe non-Christians (as they define that term) are doomed to suffer an eternity in hell. If you think that Muslims have a monopoly on radicalism and hatred, you might want to check out the Southern Poverty Law Center’s hate group site. Or, if you have a really strong stomach, you can look here or here. or here I could go on, but you get the idea.

That’s why I, too, will never forget. Not just about the plane crashes and the burning Twin Towers. Those images aren’t going anywhere. They’ll be with me forever.

But there are other things – very important things – I’m all too likely to forget when I wrap myself in the comforting cloak of our collective grief and anger. These are the things I must fight to remember:

I must never forget that in our fear and anger, we allowed our President and Vice President to highjack our national principles, freedoms, and rights.

I must never forget that our leaders took the unprecedented step of invading a foreign country that was not an immediate threat.

I must never forget that our creation of an immoral war has led to the deaths of over 4,300 American soldiers and more than 100,000 civilians so far (with credible estimates well in excess of 655,000 as of 2006), as well as scores of people from other nations.

I must never forget that 9/11 led to the remarkable conclusion, at the highest levels of government, that torture is a valid investigative strategy.

Finally, I must never forget that we have lived this nightmare before, in a thousand different forms both large and small: in the near-complete genocide of indigenous peoples around the world; in the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II; in the killing fields of the Khmer Rouge; in the Holocaust; in attempts to “cure” homosexuals; in our ostracizing people with HIV/AIDS… I must never forget that our species has an almost pathological need to destroy those who frighten or anger us.

Most importantly, I must never forget that I am just as prone to this pathology as everyone else on the planet. For that reason, I must be forever vigilant, and I must be willing to protect our principles even when my own judgment lapses. In short, I must remain teachable.

Please, God, let me never forget. Please, let me remain teachable.

Babar, now 80, shows no remorse for causing global warming.

2011-09-08T21:50:00.000-04:00

Hooray, hooray!! King Babar is 80 years old!

Babar, of course, is the star of the classic series of children's books. But Babar, who is really just a colonial imperialist dictator, has a darker side...


The rainforest, before.

The rainforest, after King Babar got done with it

Babar, of course, is now a vocal a climate-change denier. During my investigation, a member of Babar's cabinet (who wishes to remain anonymous, surprise, surprise), confirmed that the dictator's financial portfolio is closely linked to entities owned by the Koch brothers.

Shame, shame, bad elephant!

A room with a view.

2011-08-28T07:46:00.000-04:00

Oh. My. Fucking.God. Where to begin?

We're in Chicago, having delivered our kid to college yesterday. College. We left first thing Friday morning, driving north with my kid's dad -- my ex of 24 years -- and arrived about 12 hours later.

That would be a lot right there. But there's so much more.

I was lucky enough to get into an incredible law school, and while I knew it wouldn't be cost-efficient from a monetary standpoint, the experience of being a part of that community -- the professors, the resources, the students themselves -- was worth more than money could buy. That's why, when my kid got into the Harvard of art schools, affiliated with the second largest museum in the nation, I was loathe to say no despite the truly frightening financial commitment it will require.

The school did not disappoint.

Okay. I am trying to draw out the drama here, using my fabulously fantabulous surgical-precision skills as a wordsmith to create a scene, to paint a mood, before I pop out with just how freaking cool this is.

Well, fuck it. So: here is the view from my daughter's dorm room:

Yep. The Chicago Theatre, the famous one, built in 1921. And do you see the gray building to the right of it? That, dear readers, is the Joffrey Ballet. With huge windows. So she can watch them dance.

I mean, is that oh-my-fucking-god cool, or what?

And so far, every bit of this experience has been similarly amazing. Including Chicago itself, which is even more wonderful than I remembered.

My kid is in seventh heaven, and so am I. If ever I doubted whether this was the right decision -- you know, sending her to a private-and-incredibly expensive school of choice rather than the practical-but-pedestrian state college -- it is gone, gone, gone. Sure, she'd survive Kennesaw State or GSU. But here in Chicago, she will soar.

Today we're going to parent orientation, held in the modern wing of the school's museum. If it's anything like yesterday, I imagine I will be positively breathless by the end of the day.

Tonight, we will say goodbye. In the meantime, I am reveling in the now, watching my kid spread her wings for the first time -- so engaged, so joyous! I am too excited for her to feel sadness. At least, not yet.

One day at a time.

2011-08-21T23:55:00.002-04:00

So a couple weeks ago, I celebrated thirty (count 'em!) years of sobriety.

I sobered up the year Ronald Reagan was sworn in as President. The year IBM rolled out its first personal computer with a price tag of $5,000. The year MTV debuted as the first around-the-clock music video station.

I took my last drink just 32 days after the New York Times reported on a rare cancer that had been diagnosed in 41 gay men.

In short, it was lifetimes ago.

I drank for just seven years, but I drank daily from the beginning. Mostly, I drank wine. Lots and lots and lots of it, mostly Gallo and Carlo Rossi, my subsistence ration for the times when I was broke, which - surprise! - was most of the time. But when I could, I liked the harder stuff. Serially monogamous, I would order the same thing night after night until I was seduced by some new concoction. Stingers. Kahlua and cream. 151 Rum and Tab.

I can still feel the warmth of the first drink, that delicious bloom, that surge through my arms and down into my fingers as the alcohol hits. I can still taste the stuff, still feel what it did for me.

Throughout my sobriety, I have struggled with the first step -- accepting that I'm powerless over alcohol. Some people say it's the one step you have to work perfectly. Not me! Truth is, part of me still doesn't believe I'm an alcoholic. It's one of the hazards of having a "high bottom." It's also one more thing I don't need to drink over today. And I'm guessing that social drinkers don't wax all nostalgic about the buzz they copped 30 years ago.

Besides, there are those other memories: Pawning the ten-dollar gold coin my mom gave me so I could buy alcohol. Getting drunk nearly every day, even while I was trying to get pregnant; and then spending interminable nights anguishing about fetal alcohol syndrome. Pulling the covers over my face at night, leaving just one small breathing hole, so I wouldn't see or feel something in the dark that shouldn't be there. Sleeping countless nights with one foot on the floor in a vain attempt to make the room stop spinning. My last drunk, throwing up in front of a bowling alley and riding home miserable, my long hair wet and still dripping with vomit.

I quit drinking about the time I started getting the shakes in the morning. I've had them, occasionally, ever since.

It's small stuff compared to what others went through. I know this. But I hold fast to one of the first things I heard in the rooms: "I'd rather spend the rest of my life sober, thinking I'm an alcoholic, than to spend the rest of my life drunk, thinking I'm not."

Which seems like reason enough to stay away from the first drink for another day. At least until I get this all figured out.

Semi-final Post-Game Parenting Wrap-Up,

2011-07-24T00:53:00.000-04:00

Oh, boy! I've been dying to do this for eighteen years. No, no, even longer than that!

See, there are two things that most people think they do really well: Driving and parenting. (For the child-free, substitute dog training for either one).

Even with all my self-doubt, I've got some pretty definite ideas on parenting. So ever since I first wanted to be a mom, which was a hell of a long time ago, I've been reading and forming my own ideas about the whole thing. I learned to value, if not always agree with, some wonderful experts like William Sears, Penelope Leach, and T. Berry Brazelton.

But other "experts" struck me as mean-spirited and narrow. Take John Rosemond, for example: He tells people to forget all this crap about self-esteem. No coddling allowed, for God's sake! Spare the rod and spoil the child! Yeah!! Yeah!!

I decided a long time ago that John Rosemond is ~~an asshole~~ ~~a douchebag~~ ~~a major dickhead~~ woefully misguided. Until now, I've kept my mouth shut. I mean, I'd feel a little silly if I made a big fuss and then my kid's portrait wound up in the U.S. Post Office for all to see.

Well, so far, my kid is doing just fine, thank you very much. Now that she's all grown up and hasn't murdered anybody yet, I'm feeling somewhat vindicated. So behold, for whatever it's worth, here's my take on being a mom:

Her dad and I decided before she was born that our job as her parents was simple: love her, let her be who she is, and enjoy her. That was our mantra, our anchor throughout her childhood, and it proved to be steadfast indeed.

We purposely had just one kid. You see, my mom once told me that the only good reason to have a kid is because you believe you have something special to offer her. For us, that meant having just one. Which, as it turned out, suited her just fine.

We practiced "attachment parenting." We didn't let our kid "cry it out," and in fact, she slept with us part-time for the first year or so.

I decided from the first that I would never, ever spank or slap my kid, and I never did -- not even if she did something dangerous. I just took it out of my toolbox. I also was pretty successful at avoiding verbal abuse. I never called my kid a spoiled brat, or dummy, or a little monster, or fat, or skinny, or any other potentially hurtful name. And I never threatened to leave her behind if she didn't hurry up. Not even kiddingly. Because, you know, to a three-year-old, that's just not terribly funny.

I avoided ever saying to my daughter, "What will people think?" Any worries I had about other people's opinions were my problem, not hers. Hence, creatively mismatched clothing.

I learned to distinguish between her stuff and my stuff. Making sure she buckles up? My stuff. Cleaning her plate? Her stuff. Making her go to her room and stay there after at 9 p.m.? My stuff. But actually falling asleep before midnight? Her stuff. Making sure she pees before we get on the road? Ha! I thought that was my stuff but I was wrong!

Oh, and while we're on the subject of toilet training, I didn't sweat it. I figured she was bound to be toilet trained by the time she left for college.

And so she is.

Jesus Christ, will somebody please LEAD, already?

2011-07-11T00:15:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I wrote about politics. I mean, you know, it's depressing. Plus I've been moving and stuff. Besides, I am steeped in politics all day at work, and some nights I just don't want to think about it anymore.

But friends, I am becoming alarmed about the debt-ceiling crisis. It's sheer insanity for Congress to hold hostage the economy of the United States for political purposes, just as it is for Obama to let conservatives get away with it. Yes, the deficit has to be dealt with. But the deficit and the debt ceiling are not directly related, so we can take care of the deficit later. Right now we need to raise the damn debt ceiling already, just like we've done routinely throughout both Republican and Democratic administrations. Failing to do so may well be catastrophic, posing an immediate, tangible threat to the United States. Think I'm being dramatic? Well, I do have that tendency, but no, this is the real deal.

Economic theory is complicated, sometimes dull and mostly horseshit. I can say that because I was an econ major. Still, economics can provide limited information about how the world works . I used to understand all those fancy charts, but I let most of that know-how drain out of my brain post-college. So these days, a lot of economic discussions just go right over my head. And since I don't have the patience to re-learn all that crap, I find other economists who make sense to me -- and let them explain what the hell is going on in the world.

Paul Krugman is my favorite economist. Yep, he's a liberal. But what do you know: a study found him to be the most accurate prognosticator of the whole slew of political pundits reviewed. So I'm pretty sure my trust in his analyses is well-founded.

Well, Krugman is worried about the debt ceiling thing. Consequently, so am I.

And it appears that there is more at stake than just dollars. In a grim post on Balkinization, Frank Pasquale -- a law professor at Seton Hall -- compellingly makes the point:

Herd behavior in markets ... creates chaotic and unpredictable outcomes. Suspicions of a government’s insolvency can quickly become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Indebted and politically gridlocked, the US is increasingly vulnerable to speculative attacks on the value of its currency, debt, and manufacturing and service sectors. Once these attacks reach a certain level, they threaten to disrupt supplies of basic resources, and the nation’s ability to support (and thus maintain the loyalty of) its own military and law enforcement personnel. (links in original).

Moreover, America's current fetish for Privatization of All Things Government adds an unnerving dimension:

[T]he "revolution in military affairs" in the US has featured increasing "contracting out" of core military capacities. ... Blackwater recently was in the news for "creat[ing] a web of more than 30 shell companies or subsidiaries in part to obtain millions of dollars in American government contracts after the security company came under intense criticism for reckless conduct in Iraq." The trend toward "private security" ultimately portends a market-based outsourcing of sovereignty. If a foreign government (or even coalition of very wealthy persons) were to outbid the increasingly strapped US government for the best technology, its military advantages could fade.(links and citations in original)

I don't know about you, but I've got all kinds of seriously creepy post-apocalyptic bad-corporation visions dancing through my head these days in place of fairies and sugarplums.

This could end badly. Very badly, indeed.

The Crazy Nastyass Honey Badger, with narration by Randall

2011-07-07T07:45:00.000-04:00

Lazy-Ass Librarian Saturday: Cars are still easy.

2011-06-25T22:20:00.000-04:00

I'm in the middle of moving. I'm worn out, excited, overwhelmed, scared, and relieved. Mostly, right now, worn out. So I'm re-posting an excerpt from a post I did waaaay back in 2005. You read. I'll pack. Later we'll talk.

*******************.
Cars are easy.

I’ve been noticing lately how rarely I get to share my wisdom with others, and I do have so much to share. Since I could get hit by a truck tomorrow, I think I had better gift it to you here and now. I’ll begin with cars, since – as you will see – I have a lot of experience, strength and hope on the subject.

1. Contrary to popular belief, it is possible to put diesel gas in a regular-gas automobile. You just have to try inserting the nozzle from a few different angles, and push and push on it until it finally goes in. Then, you have to hang on tight so it doesn't pop itself back out.

Huh... Sounds a lot like my first marriage.

2. If you suddenly pull the gas nozzle out of your car (say, because you realize you shouldn't be putting diesel in your tank), it’s really best to shut the nozzle off first.

3. It’s important to maintain your car on a regular basis, but for God's sake, don't go to extremes. Take brakes, for example: The dealership would like you to think the brakes should be replaced as soon as they start to squeal. Cow muffins! Here's what you do instead: Wait for the brakes to make a horrible grinding noise. That's when you're getting close. Now, start watching for a big round hunk of metal to fall off of your car. That’s when you’ll know it’s time to replace the brakes.*

Oh, there are plenty more tips I could give you, but sharing these pearls has left me drained. I must rest now while I await further inspiration.

----------------------
* Uh, don't try this at home.

The universe, conspiring...

2011-06-18T22:50:00.005-04:00

So I was having a conversation with myself a couple of weeks ago about my living situation. “Lynne,” I said -- that’s what I call myself -- “This neighborhood sucks. We need to get out of here.”

I hedged defensively. “Whatever do you mean?”

I gave myself a blank stare. “Seriously? All right. For starters, your house was robbed in October. They got two TVs, a computer, a camera...”

“Oh, pshaw,” I said. “That could've happened anywhere.”

“Yeah,” I countered, “anywhere in this neighborhood. Need I remind you that the house across the street has been hit three times so far this year?”

“Hey! Times are tough. People need stuff.”

“All right, then, how about when your car was stolen?” I demanded.

I shifted uncomfortably. “Cars get stolen all the time.”

I took a deep, slow breath to diffuse my irritation. “True. But how often do cars just appear out of thin air?“

“That was a little strange,” I admitted, puzzling once more over the wrecked minivan somebody abandoned in my carport for no apparent reason. "Still and all…”

“And then there was the shooting in the park around the corner,” I recalled. “Remember? One of the bullets ricocheted off the house next door? Oh, and don’t forget about the sinkhole in front of your house. And the fact that your daughter won’t go outside because of the catcalls.”

Well, I had me there. “Fine. Fine! But please tell me: Where in the hell am I going to find a place in a decent neighborhood, close to town, and as cheap as this place? One that'll let me have the animals and has no credit check or deposit?" I saw myself blink, and I knew I'd won. "Yeah! Good luck conjuring up one of those, missy!”

I dropped the subject.

About a week later I got a voicemail from my good friend, Jim: “Hey, I’ve got a friend who has a basement apartment for rent. Sounds like the price is right, and he's fine with the animals.”

Now, I've gotten friendly leads before, about a lot of things. They never, ever, ever work out. But I do like to follow up anyway, because I’m an old-timer and I know how important it is to lead by example...

Oh, all right. The truth is, my friends won't let me complain about stuff until I've at least tried doing the footwork.

Whatever. I did the footwork. I called the landlord who, as it turns out, is an acquaintance.

So, welcome to my new home. It’s a basement apartment, a cozy girl-cave in a great area. Two blocks away from my home group, and just two miles from work. The rent is a little less than I’m paying now.

Pets are fine. No deposit, no credit check.

No kidding.

FOUND: One poor, lost, pitiful minivan.

2011-06-01T22:11:00.000-04:00

Dark green. With a seriously shredded right rear tire. Oh, and impaled by a fire hydrant -- a hunk of which is still stuck in it.

In. My. CARPORT.

The police won't remove it because it's on private property and it hasn't been reported stolen.

God. What a weird neighborhood.

Sheesh.

Okay,so, about this hundred-day "Message" project thing...

2011-05-30T22:59:00.000-04:00

By the time I got sober, I was pretty convinced I couldn't finish a single thing I started. Ironically, that's one of the things that helped me get, and stay, clean: At my first meeting someone said, "We're three-inning people." It was the first time I had considered that my lack of follow-through might be alcohol-related. That's when I knew that the people around that table were like me.

Since I came into the rooms, I've finished a lot of things I've started, and I've not finished a lot of others. This is one of the things I'm not going to finish. My life is a little crazy right now. My daughter is leaving for college, I'm moving, and gosh darn it, I've got other things I'd rather write about.

But I do like taking pictures of signs, so I'll keep posting them from time to time.

So there.

Messages, Day 33: Take the inserts.

2011-05-23T07:15:00.000-04:00

These should look familiar to my local readers.

Messages, Day 32: The Sock Man Cometh

2011-05-22T05:17:00.001-04:00

Best sight of the day! The Sock Man generously allowed me to photograph him, as well as his truck. If you see him, stop. There's no better place to buy this stuff.

in the end, forgiveness

2011-05-15T18:02:00.001-04:00

My wonderful kid graduates from high school on Friday. That's in less than a week! I'm excited for her and for me, and I'm completely wrapped up in the flashy, full-time extravaganza that is Commencement. But I've also had deep feelings of sadness, apprehension, and loneliness.

I've dreaded my kid's high school graduation for at least a year, and maybe ever since she was born. For one thing, I'm going to lose the best roommate I could ever hope to have.

But mostly I've dreaded graduation because this is it.

This. Is. It.

No more time to get it right, to correct mistakes, to make amends. All the angst in the world won't make any difference now. My kid is permanently branded with all my parental screw-ups and misadventures. There's no more time for me to get more involved in the PTA, to check her homework, to chaparone field trips, to teach her about God. Sure, I did some of this, but not enough, and especially not lately. I've been too busy trying to dig my way out of some serious wreckage, both past and present. I've been horribly distracted, and now it's too late.

The bottom line is this: I was not the parent I wanted to be, and I can never, ever change that fact.

Except that I can. I can, and I have.

It happened last Wednesday night in the school's west hallway. Traditionally, the seniors' parents decorate their kids' lockers in secret, just as graduation activities are heating up. I knew about this in advance, but felt dejected and uninspired. Last week I carelessly bought a couple crafty supplies that I saw on clearance; I figured I'd come up with something. Whatever.

On Wednesday, though, I forgot to bring the supplies. So I spent about two hours shopping. And thinking. And then shopping and thinking some more. I went back and forth between the party and school-supply aisles at least half a dozen times, and in the end I found inspiration. By the time I arrived at school, I knew just what I wanted to do, and I spent the next two hours lost in decorating that 12 x 36 blue steel canvas. In the end, it was bliss, just diving head-first into that simple, joyful act of little-kid parenting.

But that was later. First, it was pretty miserable.

The hallway was packed with parents -- people I didn't know very well. If I had volunteered as much as I was supposed to, I'd know most of these people by name. I felt alone, realizing that I had squandered this incredible opportunity to be 100% engaged for my daughter during her five years at this amazing performing-arts school. And now, it was too late. God, what a terrible waste!

But somewhere in there as I was sinking into the quicksand of regret -- somewhere between cutting out bubble wrap, and trying to work with impossible blueberry-flavored edible basket-grass, and wrestling with a fat yellow balloon -- a long-buried and important truth finally broke through my misery into the moonlight:

It really doesn't matter whether I had the experience I wanted or not. What matters is that my kid got the experience she needed.

Well, damn. That's really what mattered all along.

And with that epiphany came the recognition that I'm largely responsible for making sure it happened that way. For all my false starts and blatant idiocies, for all the broken boulevards I tried to pave over with great intentions, I kept my eyes on the road. I did it despite considerable pressure from others to take a shorter, grassier route. When others were saying, "she'll do fine wherever she is," I knew place mattered. The school, the teachers, the surroundings, the curriculum, it all mattered. And because I stuck to my guns on this, she had what she needed when her family fell apart. She landed in a sturdy safety net woven by gifted, loving teachers, dedicated, empathic advisers, and stalwart friends. They pointed her toward her art, which led her, finally, out of harm's way.

As I came to this realization -- sitting on the floor surrounded by bubble wrap and balloons and scotch tape and candy -- I experienced overwhelming relief. Then immediately, pride and delight: Delight in the amazing person my daughter has become, and pride in knowing I had a part.

And now, at long last, I feel joy in a job sloppily executed, but very well done.

Reward: Eternal gratitude for the return of my brain matter.

2011-05-15T07:58:00.000-04:00

Okay, let me just say this: I sure as hell wish there was a book called What to expect when your kid graduates from high school. You know, like What to expect when you're expecting. I haven't lost this many brain cells since my daughter was born. The other day I spent about 20 minutes in the Family Dollar and then discovered I had accidentally left the car running (yes, that car, the one that barely runs and shouldn't be driven at all, much less left running in a hot parking lot.). And then yesterday, I couldn't figure out why my photo of the dog hadn't come out until my level-headed daughter gently pointed out ("Uh, mom...") that I had been aiming the camera at myself. And then, there are the missed appointments.

Well, Mommy isn't making any more plans or commitments until all the confetti is cleaned up and the grads have gone home.

Derf.

Messages, Day 31. Hard years.

2011-05-15T07:32:00.000-04:00

Messages.Experiencing some logistical and technical difficulties at the moment.

2011-05-14T11:14:00.000-04:00

But I'll be back.

Messages, Day 29: Midtown Station, Atlanta.

2011-05-11T23:59:00.000-04:00

Kinda creepy, if you ask me.

Messages, Day 28: Happy Mother's Day.

2011-05-08T00:17:00.000-04:00

Messages, Day 27. Fresh fruit.

2011-05-07T23:32:00.000-04:00

Messages, Day 26: Uncle Berry, at rest.

2011-05-06T07:36:00.000-04:00

For some reason, Uncle Berry set off my gaydar.

Messages, Day 25. Employees only.

2011-05-04T23:17:00.000-04:00

in celebration of what?

2011-05-03T21:58:00.001-04:00

So. Osama bin Laden is dead. I suppose it was necessary and I confess, I'm very
glad. I'm glad for Obama, for myself, and for my country.

Still, I am troubled by my feelings of elation, and not just because I worry
about reprisals from the other side. Each time I celebrate someone's demise as
an act of war, it seems to me, I am diminished. I become a little bit more like
"them," whoever that happens to be at any particular moment. Yes, I think my
feelings are human; but that doesn't mean I should be proud of them.

In high school, as I searched for my spiritual path, I was drawn to Judaism for
its compassion (in theory, if not always in practice). For example, I was struck
by the Passover seder tradition of purposely spilling wine during the ceremony.
There are a variety of explanations, but I liked this one best: we spill wine as
a reminder of the bloodshed on the other side. We do it as a reminder that we
ought not take joy in the death of our enemies. They are, after all, children of
god.

Bin Laden is dead, and I'm glad. I watch report after report of crowds rejoicing
and I feel like cheering, too.

But after 9/11, I remember watching other crowds, far away, cheering the death
of Americans. I tell myself there's a difference. But deep down, I suspect we
exaggerate the distinction between Us and Them at our peril.

Messages, Day 24: Anything but crack.

2011-05-03T21:24:00.000-04:00

This shop really, really wants a mechanic.

And on the road is another sign:

By the way, this work is by Trent, like the signs I posted the other day. I guess I'd better quit depending on him.

Messages, Day 23: $5 Kids Cuts

2011-05-01T21:49:00.000-04:00

An interesting use of airbrushing.

Messages, Day 22. Lee Ho TV

2011-04-30T19:43:00.000-04:00

Messages, Day 21: Repent.

2011-04-29T07:24:00.001-04:00

Messages, Day 20: The pool hall

2011-04-28T22:33:00.001-04:00

From a burned-out pool hall not far from home.

Messages, Day 19

2011-04-27T07:45:00.000-04:00

Messages, Day 18

2011-04-27T07:42:00.000-04:00

Messages, Day 17

2011-04-27T07:41:00.000-04:00

Messages, Day 16: Sign by Trent

2011-04-25T21:53:00.002-04:00

In an era of graphic perfection, there's something really satisfying about a hand-painted sign.

Messages, Day 15: Heterosexual car-thievin' assholes

2011-04-22T17:45:00.000-04:00

Clarence the car has returned, somewhat the worse for wear. The Newton County police spotted him because his tag expired a couple days after he was stolen. So he's been languishing in an impound yard, waiting for me to bail him out. Today, $375 later, as I prepared to drive old Clarence back home, we discovered that the delinquents had unceremoniously ripped out his ignition.

(The impound-yard guy got Clarence started after a battery jump, and helpfully instructed me to keep a screwdriver with me to turn the car on and off. I declined, and had poor Clarence towed to the nearest dealership).

In addition to the ignition, the little creeps broke the lock on the trunk, poked a bunch of holes in the back seat, sliced off some of the vinyl and padding on a rear door panel, pried off the fancy "INTREPID" letters on the back, and just generally insulted Clarence's pride in a hundred other little ways.

By far the most interesting bit of vandalism, though, has to do with my bumper-stickers. I have two. One says, "Happy Naked Pagan Dance." The thieves were apparently fine with that one because they left it alone.

The other, though, is a rainbow smiley face, and that one didn't fare so well. It seems being a hoodlum, even a dancing, earth-worshipping-in-your-birthday-suit kind of hoodlum, is considered socially acceptable. But being gay? God forbid!

Hence, the following message fail:

I AM NOT GAY.

Messages, Day 14

2011-04-22T08:19:00.000-04:00

Messages, Day 13

2011-04-20T21:11:00.000-04:00

I'll leave the interpretation to you on this one.

Messages, Day 12

2011-04-20T20:59:00.001-04:00

"Nancy Almand, Died 1876"

At least, I think that's what it says. I came upon the Almand family cemetery a couple of years ago when I was looking for Crazy Patty's, a discount place in Conyers, Georgia. The Almand family appears to have been reasonably well-off; most of the markers were professionally made.

Yet in the middle of the cemetery is one large, crooked stone for Nancy Almand. The stone itself appears to have been hand hewn, as is the inscription. This is curious, because Nancy was the matriarch of the family -- a "lady of note." What's more, while the gravestone says she died in 1876, genealogical information on the 'Net shows her as having died in 1875. So this gravestone raises some intriguing questions.

More than anything, though, I have never been able to get out of my mind the image of that lone person -- a lover? A son or daughter? -- carving those letters one by one, bit by bit, hour after hour after hour. In the end, he must have had enough, because he only scratched the year of death into the stone.

Messages, Day 11

2011-04-19T22:37:00.001-04:00

Welcome to the park.

Messages, Day 10

2011-04-18T01:43:00.000-04:00

I don't quite know what to make of this. The driver didn't look like a weeny at all.

Messages, Day 9

2011-04-16T23:24:00.000-04:00

I love this charming attempt to reinvent ugly strip-mall signs. I have to admit, though, that the first time I saw it I really wanted to try one of those express tattoo cupcakes.

Messages, Day 8

2011-04-16T07:22:00.002-04:00

Translation: For eight bucks an hour, I really shouldn't have to deal with stupid people all day.

Messages, Day Seven

2011-04-15T10:25:00.002-04:00

Last night:

It's after 1 a.m. and I just got settled in at home. Today was the last day of the legislative session in my fair state, and as usual they took it almost to the wire. "Sine die"* was declared at around 11:35 p.m.

Considering they started at 10 this morning, and I started earlier than that, it's been a really, really long day - but exciting and fun as well. I'm actually about to nod off, and I have been known to type in my sleep, with some pretty interesting results. So this will have to be quick.

On the third floor of the state capitol, hordes of lobbyists make their rounds each day. Hundreds of them, every single day of the session. On first sight, it's beyond madness. But in fact, there's a rhythm underlying the chaos if you just stick around long enough to catch on.

At one corner of lobbyist row, there's a rectangular patch of worn-down carpet that's duct-taped to the gleaming marble floor. I have heard -- and I consider the source reliable -- that on this carpet square, the real deals are made. Now, why you would need carpet for this, I can't say. But sure enough, every day the same two or three power-brokers hang out on that rug.

Getting too close to a power source can be dangerous, and I've been advised to steer clear, for my own good. But I still sneak a peek when I pass by, because that carpet speaks volumes about privilege and influence. I mean, really: how many Joe Citizens do you know who can just walk into a state capitol building, stake out a claim to a 3 x 5 corner, stick some carpet on it with duct tape -- and nobody dares to remove it?

So that's my image today, that rug. The picture isn't what I hoped for, but I was trying very hard not to be noticed. Or arrested by the vice squad.

Ladies and gentlemen, the lobbyists have left the building.

________________

* Sine die is Latin for, well, something-or-other. Here in Georgia it's pronounced in a very un-Latin-like way, so that it rhymes with "tiny pie." That's just wrong. But to my horror, it turns out to be awfully close to one of the acceptable pronunciations. http://www.oxfordadvancedlearnersdictionary.com/dictionary/sine-die And here I thought it was a Southern thing.

Messages, Day Six

2011-04-14T00:47:00.000-04:00

Nothing says "Buy me!" like a big old warning sign in front of a house. I wanted to get the house in the picture. Unfortunately, I was sort of afraid to get out of the car, so this is the best shot I could get.

By the way, this house is not in my neighborhood. And no, I'm not buying it. And no, the picture is not photoshopped.

Although neither sign is handmade, I still see elements of a human touch; somebody had to be pretty frustrated to design and professionally print warning signs that are sure to scare away buyers. The person who planted these signs must have felt both resignation and defiance.

Messages, Day Five

2011-04-13T00:41:00.000-04:00

Sometimes the beauty is in the detail.

Oh - and just because I don't understand the message doesn't mean there isn't one.

Messages Day Four

2011-04-12T01:18:00.000-04:00

I'm guessing that this started out as graffiti; it looks like it's been scrubbed out. Whatever this message originally said, it looks more like a painting by RC Gorman now.

Messages, Day Three

2011-04-10T23:47:00.003-04:00

This place is still in business. Every day when I pass it, I see it as it must have been when it first opened, freshly painted and brand new, bustling with mid-century American optimism and surrounded by cars with names like Rambler and Maverick and Fury.

As the years went by, the optimism must have faded...

little by little.

And yet this garage still thrives - a witness to hope and sweat and maybe just a little bit of luck.

Messages, Day Two.

2011-04-09T21:18:00.000-04:00

Saw this at the bus stop. It didn't occur to me until later that I've been missing my friend Bobby Miller.

(I've moved the other project to my FB page)

My 100-day project: Introduction and Day One

2011-04-09T00:57:00.000-04:00

So, recently I blogged about 100-day projects completed by graduate students of Yale art professor Michael Beirut, and said I wanted to play, too. So I've been thinking, thinking, thinking...

I wanted something that would be fast (like 10 minutes), easy, and fun. And if it produced some sort of result or a body of work, so much the better.

But what to do?

I thought about 100 days of shoes, but I wasn't so crazy about having to approach perfect strangers to take pictures of their feet. Kinda creepy.

100 days of trash (too depressing).

100 limericks (too hard), or 100 haikus (too easy).

Well, it finally came down to two projects.

First: 100 little bitty acts of sobriety. Because, you see, today I'm exactly 100 days away from getting my 1-year chip for abstinence from compulsive overeating. A lot can happen in 100 days, so I'd like to take out some insurance. And how great would it be to have 100 esteemable acts under my belt on my birthday? Trying new meetings, mopping up little bits of wreckage... Productive? Oh, yes, fabulously! But not much fun. Not so interesting, either, to anyone but me. Plus, it's likely to be embarrassing because you'll see all the stuff I haven't been taking care of.

So, screw that, right?

On to my second idea: 100 hand-wrought messages. Messages in all forms: hand-painted onto storefronts, scratched onto walls, scrawled on signs stuck in the ground, carved on a gravestone. Messages with some sort of human touch, or feel, or presence. A hundred of them.

But wait... it would be nice to have gotten all that work done....

I can't pick. I'm doing both. So let the games begin.

Day 1: 100 little bitty acts of sobriety.

I got paid today. I sat down and paid bills. I paid one of them early. This is new.

Day 1: Hand-wrought messages.

Best laid plans...

For the second time, the Subversive Librarian gets to know her neighbors a little better.

2011-03-31T00:32:00.002-04:00

They say that God never gives you more than you can handle. That, dear readers, is a crock. As a crusty old-timer used to say in meetings, the asylums and prisons are full of people who got more than they could handle. And he's right. But I do believe this: the universe won't give me more than I can handle for one day without a drink or a drug.

Some time between 7 p.m. last night and 8 a.m. this morning, my car disappeared.

At first it was more of a curiosity than an event, like losing my phone. We went outside to leave for the day, my kid and I, and she asked me, "where's the car?" And we looked on the street and in the carport and there was no car. So then I said, "where's the car?" We walked to the end of the driveway and looked up and down the street. Maybe it rolled away.

And then I started trying to think of all the places we could have left the car. I mean, I do lose stuff, you know? Often the last five minutes before I leave for work are spent pacing from room to room and back again, trying to find my keys. Maybe the car is in my other coat.

It didn't take long to consider all the other places we could have left the car (there being none) so I called the police.

All day long, it seemed like the car must be right there and we just weren't seeing it. Maybe it popped into a parallel universe for a holiday. It'll be back.

But no, the bottom line is this: some fucking asshole stole my car.

The cop told me it was probably the work of a professional, since I still had the only key and there was no broken glass or signs of a break-in. I have this sinking feeling that Clarence the Car, who was born way back in 2003, is by now just a little bigger than a breadbox, all squished and scrunched into a dandy hunk of scrap metal.

There was some stuff in the car, although nothing of great value: clothes for the dry cleaner, a wedding dress from the thrift shop (for a costume), probably a book or two. But what really pisses me off is the five big bags of cat food I had in the trunk. It was my regular brand, and Kroger had marked them down to less than half the regular price so I bought 'em up. I stored them in the trunk because my house doesn't have enough closet space. And now they're gone. And I'm almost out of cat food.

I might wish bad things upon the thief tomorrow; the numbness is starting to wear off. But tonight I'm just gonna go to bed.

Fucking, fucking assholes.

Yeah, well, some of us "latte liberals" are pretty damn tired, too...

2011-03-20T17:38:00.000-04:00

Thanks to Cuppa with Candace, who recently posted a response to a fairly typical right-hawk kind of essay entitled "I'm 63 and I'm Tired," about how terrible it is that conservatives have to pay their fair share in taxes while we lefties undermine the American way of life and Completely Ruin Things For All Future Generations. In this particular case, the poster is one Robert Hall, a Marine veteran who served in the Massachusetts legislature for five terms. I certainly appreciate his dedicated service, both in the military and for his home state. But that doesn't make him right. I'm reprinting Candace's response below; I would add the following points:

I'm tired of being told that when corporations with near-perfect information and superior bargaining power join forces to lower wages, eliminate regulations, reduce benefits, and send jobs overseas, that's patriotic, free-market capitalism; but when employees respond by negotiating wages and work conditions collectively through unions, it's Marxism.
I'm tired of being told that when a public employee accepts a lower wage than she could earn in the private sector, in exchange for job security and retirement benefits, and then does that job for 30 years even if it sucks, she's a lazy good-for-nothing bureaucrat who has a lot of nerve expecting the state to fulfill its contract.
I'm tired of being told that government can't do a single thing right, and that only the private sector will provide quality products and service, by people who have apparently never had to deal with Comcast or AT&T customer service.
And I'm tired of hearing the chant of "WHAT PART OF ILLEGAL DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" to justify splitting up families and denying basic human rights to children.

Well, I could go on, but you get the idea. No doubt everyone's list would be different. Feel free to add your own points in the comments.

Here is Candace's post, with permission:

“I’m 57, and I’m Tired, Too”

By Candace Van Auken

     I’m 57. Until I became disabled in 2001, I worked hard at different jobs, routinely putting in 50 to 70-hour weeks. I did call in sick some days as my inflammatory arthritis worsened, but my employers just patched me through to meetings via telephone — there being no rest for the weary white-collar employee. For years, I made a very good salary, and I didn’t inherit my job or my income. In fact I had to work twice as hard to make 3/4 the salary of the average male employee. Now, given the economy and my disability, I’m probably going to end up living under a bridge, and that thought makes me feel both scared and tired. Very tired.

     I’m tired of being told that I’m a parasite when I spent many years paying taxes and Social Security. (I noticed, one year, that according to a newspaper article, I was paying three times the amount in taxes as a politician who earned twice what I did. Unlike him, I paid my fair share.) I was told by the government that I had worked for my Disability insurance, but according to people lucky enough to have never been seriously ill, I’m a drain on society. I’m tired of being told that conservative congressmen will take the money I paid in, and give it to the most obscenely profitable industry in the world — the oil companies — as “subsidies” necessary for “the creation of new jobs.” (It’s a fact: As oil companies profits have risen, the number of people they employ has decreased, a reality that apparently doesn’t trouble conservatives.)

     I’m tired of being told that Christianity is a “Religion of Love,” when frequently I can read dozens of stories about members of the Westboro Baptist Church calling Catholic priests “vampires” and the daughters of our current president “satanic spawn…of a murderous bastard.” The Supreme Court just upheld the group’s right to stand outside the funerals of military heroes holding signs that say, “Thank God for Dead Soldiers.” The group launched a Web site called “Priests Rape Boys,” and they don’t just save their venom for Roman Catholics. They have claimed that Orthodox Christians are indistinguishable from Catholics, and they also criticize Methodists, Presbyterians, Lutherans, and other Baptists. After a 2008 earthquake in Sichuan Chine, the group issued a press release thanking God for the number of people who had lost their lives, and in 1996 they protested at the US Holocaust Memorial Museum in D.C. saying, “Whatever righteous cause the Jewish victims of the 1930s–40s Nazi Holocaust had…has been drowned in sodomite semen.” And in case you haven’t figured it out, yet: They are just as “typical” of Christianity as Al-Qaida is of Islam.

     I’m tired of being told that out of “Tolerance for Free Speech and Freedom of Religion” we must look the other way when conservative politicians encourage the murder of gay people in Uganda or aggressively proselytizing American Christian missionaries offer to rebuild areas of Sri Lanka devastated by a tsunami only if the homeless and destitute residents abandon their faith and convert to Christianity. (And when Sri Lanka’s government complained, the Bush administration threatened to cut off aid and credit to the country.)

     I’m tired of hearing that American workers must lower their standard of living and give up the right to bargain collectively as union members in order to slow the number of jobs being shipped overseas. Ending up with a living standard comparable to Bangladesh has never been part of the “American Dream.”

     I’m tired of being told that that we can “Win the War on Drugs,” when it is obvious that the millions we pour into it are working just as well as Prohibition did in abolishing the sale and consumption of alcohol. And I am tired of being treated like a criminal whenever I go to buy OTC Sudafed at my local drug store. Are middle-aged, chronically ill women with stuffy noses the leading edge of a new crime wave?

     I, too, am tired of hearing wealthy athletes, entertainers and politicians talking about innocent mistakes, stupid mistakes or youthful mistakes, when we all know they think their only mistake was getting caught. I’m tired of people with a bloated sense of entitlement, rich or poor.

     I’m really tired of people who don’t take responsibility for their lives and actions. I’m tired of hearing conservatives blame “big government” or “reverse discrimination,” for all their problems.

     Yes, I’m sick and I’m tired. But I’m also glad to be 57. Because, maybe, I’ll live long enough to see people catch onto the many ways that conservative Republicans pretend to serve US citizens while actually doing the bidding of the large international corporations and interests that fund them. I sure hope so.

Candace Van Auken is a middle-aged woman disabled by autoimmune diseases, who was mightily ticked off by Robert A. Hall’s essay — now going the e-mail rounds — “I’m 63 and I’m tired.”
There is no way this will be widely publicized, unless each of us sends it on! This is your chance to make a difference.

Photo credit:

David Shankbone: Westboro Baptist Church in New York. Wikimedia Commons.

Let's hear it for the kids!

2011-03-15T12:53:00.001-04:00

For a long time I've been troubled by the way we educate children in this country - so much so that I pulled my own kid out of school for kindergarten and sixth grade. I've never regretted either of those decisions, even though my attempts at homeschooling were profoundly flawed at best. My kid never spent a single day in public middle school, and that, to me, is worth everything.

Our educational system -- and here, I mean to include both private and public schools as a whole -- has, for the most part, devolved into a means of warehousing children and training them to take tests inexpensively and with a minimum of fuss. Don't get me wrong -- I think teachers are grossly underpaid considering the importance of the work they do, and they need a whole lot more support from parents, school administrators, and, well, everybody. But most teachers, like most Americans, have bought into an outdated educational model that is better suited for training a productive, well-conditioned, compliant workforce than actually raising up an innovative, inspired citizenry that can solve this gargantuan mess we're so busy making for them to clean up.

Which is why I'm happy to recommend Susan Engel's wonderful editorial appearing in today's New York Times. Engel looks at a project that allowed high school kids to develop their own curriculum, with a minimum of guidance. The results are encouraging, to say the least.

Kids aren't fungible, one-size-fits-all workers-in-training. They're creative, inspiring, thoroughly exasperating little boogers that do their best when they're given boundaries instead of rules; guidance instead of instructions; discipline instead of punishment; and above all, unconditional love. Inconvenient? Yup. But who said this stuff was supposed to be easy?

Give children permission and support to fly, and fly they will; usually in quite the opposite direction of where we pointed them. But then, that's where the best new ideas are usually found.

On doing something about Libya

2011-03-13T09:01:00.001-04:00

Okay, I confess. I know very little about the situation in Libya, having been steeped in state politics, where our intrepid representatives are taking care of really important things like debating the value of daylight saving time and making sure future presidential candidates were really born in the United States.

So I haven't kept up with the intricacies of Middle East policy and current events. About all I know is that people are fighting for self-governance, and many are dying for their cause at the hands of a brutal dictator.

Through it all, I've heard a pretty constant undercurrent of noise from the media aimed at the Obama administration: "For God's sake, do something! Establish a no-fly zone. Send soldiers to help the rebels. But don't just sit there!" They're compelling sound bites, to be sure, and I was about ready to get on the bandwagon myself.

It's never a good idea to make big decisions without hearing all sides. This morning, Maureen Dowd lays out some excellent arguments for proceeding cautiously in Libya -- accompanied by some really satisfying jabs at Paul Wolfowitz, who was Bush II's Deputy Secretary of Defense from 2001 to 2005.

So I'm turning in my I-Know-What's-Best hat for now, and leaving the hard stuff to President Obama and his capable administration.

After all, Obama was born in the United States and everything.

A Shout-Out to "My Fabulous Disease"

2011-03-01T16:50:00.001-05:00

Just wanted to acknowledge an important milestone for My Fabulous Disease. This terrific blog, written by activist Mark King, is one year old! Full of wisdom and humor, Mark's blog gets more hits in one day than mine has gotten in the five years it's been going. But as long as he lets me go postal on him every now and then, I'm willing to acknowledge - albeit grudgingly - that he deserves every single bit of his success.

Happy first birthday!

Lazy-Ass Librarian Thursday: In Search of a 100-Day Project

2011-02-24T17:38:00.000-05:00

Over at OBlog, Yale Art School professor Michael Beirut posted recently about the 100-day project workshop he offers to graduate-level graphic arts students each spring. In his post, he offers links to several of the projects his students have completed.

Here's the link:

OBlog: Five Years of 100 Days: Observers Room: Design Observer

The project links serve as fabulous diversions, to be sure. But more than that. I want to play, too! So I'm on the hunt for a 100-day project I can do. If you've got suggestions, I'd sure like to hear them.

Of course, it remains to be seen whether I can actually stick with anything (other than sobriety and motherhood) for a hundred days in a row.

On Integrity. Part Three: Taking rides with strangers.

2011-02-19T17:50:00.002-05:00

Eight a.m., and it was already a gaping black hole of a day. Up at five to go to the laundromat in a shitload of rain. Now, running late to catch the bus.

I quickly checked email before I packed up the computer. Huh. "Fergilicious4u" was back. She showed up last week on the dating site. No picture; just "Hey, Sexxxy!" and three more messages in quick succession. At the time I was in a hurry (when am I not?), so I had just fired back a quick, "My, you're persistent, Fergie. Love your profile. Thanks for writing." Turned out she didn't have a profile. She was just sort of hanging out there like a specter, an echo of nothing. Now she was back. Curious, I opened the email:

ohhhh, that's great! hahaha! ur an ugly shitbag! ur profile is bad and really boring. just saying. you sound depressed.

Imagine that, asshole. I gathered up my stuff, left the house and trudged to the bus stop through the rain, dragging my ridiculous rolling bag behind me. I missed a puddle, and then I didn't. Nothing would be dry by the time I got to work. How are you supposed to look like a fancy-ass lobbyist when you get all wet and weatherized waiting for MARTA?

I passed the dead orange cat, which had been there for two weeks now. Every day he looked a little bit less feline. Usually, I felt compassion for this little cat who had looked so much like my own. Today, though, I was just pissed off that he was still there. His face was gone now.

There were two people at the bus stop: a young African-American man dressed for school, and a middle-aged white guy in a grubby hooded jacket. In my neighborhood, white guys stand out. I had never seen him before.

As I ducked into the shelter, the white guy approached me. Too fast, and too close.

"You missed the bus. It already came down this way-hay. But another one will be here soon. Ten minutes." The guy smiled pleasantly and paused, waiting for my response. He looked a lot like that guy in Snow Day. "The bus will come again soon, so don't go away-hay."

I nodded to him and mumbled "Yeah? That's good." Who gives a shit?

"Well, yeah. There's the seven-forty and the eight o'clock. And then an eight-twenty. They come the same time every day-hay." Fuck. Why do I always get the crazy people?

"I just got my paycheck today-hay. I'm gonna go out and spend it."

For the next ten minutes, the guy talked to me pretty much nonstop. It was clear he had some kind of developmental disability. I sure as hell didn't feel like babysitting, but then a thought hit me with startling clarity and force:

He could be God.

Right. I softened my stance, but I still wished he'd go away.

Once we were on the bus, I pretended I was trying to sleep. He promised not to wake me up; then he told the college student next to him she was a beautiful angel. Sweet, but probably kind of creepy to her. I sat up and opened my eyes; I supposed it was better that he talked to me. Clearly this conversation would happen whether I liked it or not.

"So what are you going to do with all that money?" I asked. I regretted it at once; I didn't want him to get mugged.

"Out for breakfast. At McDonald's. And then I'm buying a book I've been saving for." I wanted to tell him to keep his money safe, to be careful of strangers.

We chatted for a few more minutes, and then he began talking with the driver, who didn't seem to mind a bit. I was relieved, but I was a little jealous, too. Finally, my friend pulled the cable to stop the bus. I bet he won't even say goodbye, I thought glumly.

But as he got off the bus, he looked at me and smiled. "'Bye, Mom."

Flattered and touched, and a little ashamed, I was instantly glad that I had kept some of my darkness inside that day. Some days, integrity, like my penpal Fergie, is just a shadowy pretension.

On Integrity. Part Two: I pledge allegiance to the flag... er, flags

2011-02-13T11:50:00.003-05:00

I love my job when the legislature is in session. I especially love the part at the beginning of each day when we all pledge allegiance and pray. Really, I do.

Every day, it's pretty much the same. First, the Lieutenant Governor will say it's time for our morning devotion, and he'll tell the doorkeepers to lock the doors no nobody can leave. Then he'll introduce a senator, who will lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance and introduce the pastor of the day. The pastor will give a little mini-sermon about how tough it is to be a senator these days, but never fear, because God is there to help. He (it's usually a "he") will lead us all in a prayer for wisdom and strength, so the legislators can righteously do the people's business. We all say "amen," and they unlock the doors. Then there's a 10-minute wait while all of the senators stand in line to shake the preacher's hand. That's when I get back to work on my computer.

Sometimes the prayers are inspiring and sometimes they're not; mostly, at the very least, they reflect sincerity and earnestness on the part of the chosen speaker. And I suspect the majority of the senators are sincere in their faith and intentions as well, even though the majority are Republicans.

But the daily prayer isn't what's giving me trouble these days. My problem is with the Pledge of Allegiance. I don't have a problem with saying it (although I confess the first couple times I had a little trouble remembering it). I really do pledge allegiance. I'm an American, and I'm proud of it.

Beginning this year, though, both the House and Senate now also pledge allegiance to the Georgia flag. That, I have a problem with. Because, you see, I feel no such allegiance. My Georgia residency is just not on the same plane as my American citizenship. If I'm ever required to choose between between Georgia and the United States, I'm floating my boat northward to Yankee territory right quick.

Still, it's a harmless enough little pledge:

I pledge allegiance to the Georgia Flag and to the principles for which it stands: Wisdom, Justice, and Moderation.

Honestly, there's not much to object to, is there? Okay, so I'm a complete fail when it comes to the moderation thing, but the thought is nice, right? And it doesn't even actually say I'm pledging my allegiance to Georgia; just its flag.

So logic tells me I should remain standing, put my hand over my heart, turn to face the Georgia flag, and say the Pledge along with everybody else. And as a lobbyist, whose job it is to build relationships with various Important People, this makes sense. I want to keep the focus on the issues, and it helps a lot if people like me.

And yet, I don't say the Georgia pledge. I just can't.

I can't, because the Georgia pledge was resurrected amidst virulent opposition to federal authority over issues like taxes and immigration and health care. I can't, because two years ago a resolution setting the stage for secession and constitutional nullification passed the Georgia Senate by an astounding vote of 43 to 1. I can't, because there are people today who believe allegiance to State and Country are becoming mutually exclusive; and some of those people are in my state legislature.

Pledges are not just words. They are statements of faith. They are promises of action. They are, in a way, IOUs. They are so important, so significant, that people have been willing to go all the way to the Supreme Court to exercise the right not to say them. In fact, they've done it twice, because they lost the first time they tried. From Wikipedia:

In 1940 the Supreme Court, in Minersville School District v. Gobitis, ruled that students in public schools, including the defendants in that case who were Jehovah's Witnesses, could be compelled to swear the Pledge. A rash of mob violence and intimidation against Jehovah's Witnesses followed the ruling. In 1943 the Supreme Court reversed its decision, ruling in West Virginia State Board of Education v. Barnette that public school students are not required to say the Pledge, concluding that "compulsory unification of opinion" violates the First Amendment.^[10] In a later opinion, the Court held that students are also not required to stand for the Pledge.^[11]

The easy thing to do, the convenient thing, the people-pleasing thing, would be to just say the damned pledge. Blend in. Play along. That's what the senators are doing, after all.

But if I pledge allegiance to the Georgia flag when, in fact, I bear no such allegiance, then my pledge to the American flag means absolutely nothing. If a pledge is something more than mere words, as I believe it is, then I cannot say a pledge I do not mean.

So, no, I do not pledge allegiance to the Georgia flag. I remain standing and I turn to face the Georgia flag out of respect for the people who are pledging. But my arm is at my side, and I remain silent.

Is it a stupid battle to pick? Probably. Do I feel weird not joining in with everyone else? Damn right I do. But for me, it's the right thing if I want to develop that elusive thing called integrity. Because for me, integrity has to be an action word.

On Integrity: A post in three parts, with apologies to Ira Glass.

2011-02-12T11:48:00.002-05:00

Around 1999 or so, when I was in the beginning of my first "single" phase (a phase which would stretch for, gosh, an entire four months), I remember people describing me as having integrity. It happened often enough that I started to believe it. I don't think I understood what it meant -- I'm not sure I know even now -- but it felt good, solid. Sober.

By the time I bottomed out in 2007, no one would have listed "integrity" as one of my descriptors. I had tossed that attribute to the side and left it behind, right along with indoor plumbing. I knew what I needed to do: Leave a destructive relationship, gather up my daughter, and realign my priorities -- but I was so immobilized I found myself completely incapable of moving even a millimeter in that direction. That inability to budge filled me with despair, hopelessness, and shame in a way I hope I never feel again.

About a month ago, a friend told me I have integrity. That caught my attention, and served as a happy little progress report. Since then, I've been thinking about the concept of integrity -- what it is, how I lost it, and how I can get it back.

I have a feeling that integrity is like humility -- if you're sure you have it, you probably don't really have it. But for now, I'll settle for a working definition. The dictionary isn't much help, here, frankly. So how about this: I have integrity if my insides match my outsides; if my thoughts match my actions.

Sounds good, anyway.

What follows is the first of three posts that examine the concept of integrity from different, but uniformly personal, angles.

On integrity. Part One: Juliet, oh Juliet, how do I judge thee?

I have a good friend who has very specific ideas about who's beautiful and who's not. Indeed, there are certain physical features about which my friend is very, very picky. Anything short of the classic, perfect Greco-Roman ideal, she feels, is just plain unsightly. It’s kind of like how judges look at show dogs: Tail carried a little too high, nose too narrow, cowhocked, with a bit of an overbite... Such a poor creature is lovable in its way, but beautiful? No, certainly not beautiful.

I'm really glad I don't often think that way; at least, I don’t think I do. It’s one of the things I like about myself: I’m able to see beauty where a lot of people don’t. I realize it's not a unique, or even rare, gift. But a gift it is, and I’m grateful for it. Long nose, tiny eyes, a speech impediment, overweight, back hair, one leg longer than the other, bald.... I really don’t care. Or to be more accurate, my better self doesn’t care. As cliched as it sounds, for me beauty really does come from the inside, through the eyes and hands and smile and, well, you get the idea. However that beauty manifests itself physically is pretty much okie dokey with me.

But the rest of me, the darker me, is all too aware that a lot of other people do care about things like weight and eyes and hair. And that really bites, because I care way too much about what other people think. So, much to my dismay, I sometimes find myself judging people, especially potential mates, through the eyes of those others.

Which brings me to online dating. For a shopper like me, online dating is almost as good as EBay. Hundreds of women to choose from, and most of them really are beautiful. But with each set of photos I view, the light shines a little brighter on my character defects.

Last time around, I had a list of 18 “must-have” characteristics for potential partners. It was a pretty good list, too. (I thought my ex-partner fulfilled every single requirement. That, dear readers, is called denial.)

I haven’t made a list this time. No need to, because my character defects are making it for me. There’s this little toxic spot in my brain that subjects each woman to exacting criteria that are even more superficial than those of my friend.

So. Who am I willing to date? Someone much younger than me? How about someone much older? A woman who is very heavy? Tragically thin? What about a transgender woman? Or someone androgynous? For that matter, what about a guy? I'm pretty sure I've narrowed it down to women, but some are pretty butch, and... God, what if I'm not gay after all?

And as all this is roiling, I’m getting mighty uncomfortable. Because by now, two thoughts have started to sprout through the mush in my brain:

Wow, she sounds really terrific! But.... but what would people think?

Now, when my daughter was growing up, I never allowed myself to use that phrase, "What will people think?" If she picked out loud plaid pants to wear with a wild flowered shirt, I just gulped and kept my mouth shut. (Well, okay... I would enthusiastically pronounce to the day care that she had picked out her own clothes that day, and wasn’t it fabulous.). If my kid picked out two different colors of socks, I wore different-colored socks, too.

But still, there it is: What will people think if I go out with someone who’s that young/old/small/large/masculine/feminine/loud/soft? Will they think I believe she’s the best I can do?

And then, an even worse thought sprouts: But she IS the best I can do.

Which, you know, kind of takes the thunder out of my being all open-minded and spiritual and everything. It's an insult not only to myself but also to the woman whose profile I'm viewing. Worse, it keeps me from seeing the true red flags, things that really should give me pause. Really, it's just despicable on all kinds of levels.
Fuck.

To the extent that I let somebody else define who I'll date and who I won't, my ability to see beauty is meaningless and bankrupt. Being unwilling to see is worse, I am sure, than being incapable of it. That goes for the "good" characteristics and for the not-so-good.

For me to regain integrity, I have to do the near-impossible: Develop my own set of criteria, ignore everybody else's superficial standards, yet still be open to the wisdom of others so I don't make any really stupid-ass mistakes. If I can do all that, I may or may not get the girl, but at least my insides will match my outsides. It's a tall order. I hope I'm up for it.

Shit. Where the hell is that list?

Next in part two: I pledge allegiance to the flag... er, flags.

The Subversive Librarian goes on an exploratory muff hunt.

2011-01-19T06:29:00.003-05:00

My sponsor tells me it's time to date. And join one of those Internet sites.
With a profile. And a picture. Jesus H. Mother of God Christ.

I know nothing about dating, you know. I've dated just four people in my whole
life. Five, if you count the professional gambler I met on the Greyhound bus in
1975 during a six-hour layover in Las Vegas (He took me to a raunchy floor show
and a movie. The movie was two minutes long... in the back of a porn shop... in
a booth... )

Four dates (or five). Which is also the number of people who have ever asked me
out. And I married two of them. (hint: the professional gambler wasn't one of
them)

I have lots and lots of angst about the whole thing, but I'll save that for
another post. In the meantime, I did what my sponsor told me to do: I joined the
free site he suggested. And then, in a fit of addictive enthusiasm, I joined a
couple other sites as well (sigh...is there no end to my willingness?).

It's been an education:

1. If you're bisexual, and you're open to either men or women, it's kind of a
turn-off if your profile begins with, "Hello, gentlemen."

2. Curiously, many women who call themselves "fun loving" don't look like
they're having any fun at all. In fact, they look like they have hemorrhoids. In
all seven pictures.

3. Some of the women are men. I don't mean transgender - those ladies are the
real thing. Nope. I mean men. With beards and stuff. Guess they figure we
lezbeens are just waiting for the right fella to come along. I know I am!

4. If the idea of Internet dating is to save time, it's probably
counterproductive to check for messages every four minutes.

5. On the paid sites, only winks are free. And winks just lead to infinite
loops, because everybody else is as broke as I am.

6. I'm gonna have to google "Lesbian Separatist."

I'm all aflutter.

AntEye Movement

2011-01-09T23:33:00.000-05:00

Congratulations to my good friend Bubba Carr, who placed second in the High Museum SuREEL video contest with this wonderfully edgy short. You can see all the submissions at the link.

God, how I love having all these incredibly talented people in my life!

Here's Bubba's submission...

Sitting on my laurels...

2011-01-01T09:16:00.000-05:00

Well, whaddya know! My modest little blog is five years old! So I’m patting myself on the back with links to some of my favorite posts. Yeah, I know, it’s self-serving and pretty darned lazy. But hey, it’s my blog and there is some stuff on here that I’m proud of. More posts, even, than the ones I’ve listed. So there.

Feel free to comment either here or at the original posts. Please. I love comments. I crave comments. Oh, let's face it: I NEED comments to confirm my worth as a human being!

Anyway, I enjoyed writing these posts and hope you enjoy reading them. Again.

(Oh. Did I mention I like comments?)

Is this Postal Enough for you, Mark? Huh? Is It?
Mark King pisses me off.

“Bless It or Block It”
On seeking guidance from the Universe.

You and Your FUD: Ladies, Submit No More!
Strike a blow against patriarchy: Pee standing up!

The Transition Begins.
Parenting meets the end of childhood.

Regrets 'R' Us
Maybe there's a parallel universe where I got it right.

There are other things I must never forget.
Reflections on the anniversary of 9/11.

The Subversive Librarian is back: Older, a bit more ragged, and hopefully a little wiser
Fucking up and coming back.

Back from the Dead to Yell at ... Us?
Standing up for Ann Coulter. Sigh.

More on Doc Meyers, and on Abstinence
On abstinence-only sex education.

Oh, PABBIS, I am Librarian, Hear Me Roar!
Bad, bad librarians!

Part of the Gig
My kid takes an unexpected turn, and I try to adjust.

The Subversive Librarian
Subversive equals cool. (This is how the blog got its name.)

Santa Gets a Makeover

2010-12-22T00:20:00.001-05:00

Santa is being rebranded, thanks to the very clever folks at Quietroom, a consulting firm in the UK. Here's the brand book that lays it out (look for the link after the jump). Worth the read. Seriously. Well, okay, not so serious. h/t to Good .is.

Read the whole Santa Brand Book

one pink feather

2010-12-15T21:46:00.001-05:00

It was all that remained from Friday's celebration: a small feather, shed from a long, pink boa. I watched the feather lift and lilt as people walked by. It was there yesterday, too, in the same place, in the middle of the circle. I had forgotten to pick it up then, but I would remember today. The feather was important.

The boa had been part of a kitschy ensemble given to the birthday girl, along with a jeweled, silver plastic tiara and a pink battery-operated magic wand - the stuff of childhood pageantry. A friend had presented it to the celebrant, who wore it proudly throughout the meeting. Every now and then, she would solemnly point the wand at someone in approval, and the wand would obediently blink and flash and make proper magical sounds.

The birthday girl: One year clean and sober, at last. It had taken much longer than a year, as it often does. I admired her grit but I confess I had wondered if she would pull it off. Fortunately she had her own higher power on which to rely, so my opinion was irrelevant.

She was a star. No, that's not quite right. She was a Star, capitalized, and well-deserved, too. Bigger than life, brash and brilliant, with a quick wit and a delicious sense of humor. And although she had surrendered an illustrious, high-profile career to drugs and alcohol, she carried herself elegantly, dressed always in the extravagant designer clothes she hadn't yet had to sell in order to survive.

Some of us felt that she needed to dial it down. Way, way down. We told her she should stop wearing the fancy jewelry, and trade in the patent leather spike heels for sensible bus-riding shoes more suitable to her current social station. She tried to conform, and then she didn't.

Finally, she found a sponsor who understood what we hadn't: Yes, she needed to get humble. But true humility means making peace with every part of yourself, even the parts that are most glorious. We had missed the point entirely: we thought she needed to learn that she wasn’t “all that.” Instead, she needed to learn that she's all that and more. And the lesson would come only after forgiving herself for all the missed opportunities. Once she could forgive, she would be able to tap the vast wealth of talent and experience that was still safe and sound within her, albeit a little roughed up.

The meeting discussion ended, and I watched as the celebrant and her sponsor stood up. Beaming, he presented her with the one-year chip. As she sat down to wild applause, I thought of Marianne Williamson’s oft-quoted words:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure… We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. … We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

We circled up to say the Serenity Prayer at the end of the meeting, and then we all broke into a lusty chorus of “Happy Birthday.” I sang, and I watched that single pink feather float to the floor.

On Domestic Violence

2010-11-29T23:33:00.000-05:00

Thursday wasn’t just Thanksgiving. It also marked the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women. It’s fitting that the two should coincide, given the stress often associated with the holiday season. In many homes, this is the most dangerous time of the year.

The topic is hitting a little too close to home for me today: A close friend just confided that the man he has been dating for three months threatened his life and appears to be stalking him. Sadly, perhaps tragically, my friend doesn’t see the danger. The battered spouse syndrome is alive and well.

(An aside: I understand why the international community has focused its attention on women. But of course, domestic violence is perpetrated by, and against, both men and women).

I used to wonder whether my partner was abusive. That, as it turns out, was a red flag in itself. Fortunately, good therapists helped me sort it out, and with their help I gathered up the courage to leave those destructive relationships. Later, as an academic librarian, I periodically selected domestic abuse as my topic for the week’s website recommendations. Those sites were among the most popular I showcased.

So, let’s talk. Is your relationship abusive? Thank goodness we don’t have to figure it out in isolation. Here are some of the resources that I found most useful:

Signs of Abuse and Abusive Relationships. Great information with lots of links about both physical and emotional abuse.

Personalized Safety Plan. How to protect yourself if you are in an abusive relationship.

Too Good to Leave, Too Bad to Stay: A Step-by-Step Guide to Help You Decide Whether to Stay In or Get Out of Your Relationship. This book isn’t specifically about abuse, but it really helped me gain some clarity.

By looking at these resources, I discovered that I wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t crazy. And for me, that was the first step in healing the hurt.

I wish the same for you.

Happy Thanksgiving Day, Everyone!

2010-11-25T10:43:00.001-05:00

After a fit of loneliness, irritation, embarrassment and self-loathing, which led in turn to a tangible desire to drink and use food, after which I grudgingly got my ass to a meeting and shared, followed by a long conversation with a close friend in recovery and then two episodes of Pioneers of Television, I am happy to announce that I awoke this morning clean and sober, with no regrets.

I love making up on-purpose run-on sentences.

Anyway, the problems that led up to all that misery and mishugas are still here, and I still have no idea how to fix them. But I'm clean and sober, which gives me one more day to figure the damned thing out. Is the desire gone? Mostly, yes. Maybe a little bit no. But my plans include a meeting at our recovery club, a pot luck, an open house, and a movie-slash-sugar-free ice cream with my fabulous kid, so I am cautiously optimistic that I will get through the day still abstinent and sober.

So that's my good news.

Now for trivia.

1. Can you name the cars in this picture?

2. Which of these Parker Posey movies takes place around Thanksgiving?
Broken English
Clockwatchers
Party Girl
The House of Yes

3. In Trains, Planes and Automobiles, Neal just wants to get home for Thanksgiving. On the bus to St. Louis, his traveling "companion" Del leads the other passengers in a sing-a-long of what TV show theme song?
The Addams Family
Green Acres
The Flintstones
The Brady Bunch

I suppose I should mention that I've never seen any of these movies and have no idea what the answers are. It's completely lifted from Buzz Trivia, where you'll find more questions and perhaps even some answers.

The turkey puzzle came from Ivan Katz at the Sports Car Examiner.

Here's to another year sober. And, I hope, to my first abstinent Thanksgiving in a long, long time.

Is Sarah Palin an Endangered Species?

2010-11-10T15:03:00.000-05:00

You wouldn’t think so, after the grim election results of last week. But I hear that fundamentalists of all stripes have been known to eat their young.

Enter Bryan Fischer. Fisher is Director of Issue Analysis for Government and Policy at the American Family Association. He’s somewhere right of, uh… uh… Who’s the furthest-right person I can think of? Phyllis Schlafly? Sadie Fields? How about Fred Phelps? Anyway, Fischer is way, waaaaay on the right end of the spectrum.

Well, Fischer wants to get rid of grizzly be ars. You know, the really big, fuzzy kind. As in, “I did not steal that pick-a-nick basket, Mr. Ranger, sir!” Fischer is ready to do away with all grizzly bears because they have been known to attack people. Let’s get ‘em all, he says. Indeed, he sees something sinister in the attacks:

God makes it clear in Scripture that deaths of people and livestock at the hands of savage beasts is a sign that the land is under a curse. The tragic thing here is that we are bringing this curse upon ourselves.

Well, yeah, we are. That’s what happens when you insist on building suburbs near grizzly habitats.

Now, if Yogi makes a run for my kid, I’ll be the first in line to nuke him. Yogi, that is. Not the kid. Attacks from large omnivores lead to tragic results. I totally get that, and my heart goes out to the victims' families. I’m right there with Fischer when he says we should choose an individual human life above the individual life of another species when a choice is absolutely unavoidable.

But contempt for an entire god-created species? Isn't that a little unchristian?

Of course it is. But when you come right down to it, Fischer’s diatribe isn’t really about religion anyway. Fischer is really just pissed off that grizzlies are back on the endangered list. And while he's at it, he's pissed off at climate change activists and federal judges, too.

Whatever his motives, Sarah and her Mamma Grizzlies had better watch their Ps and Qs, or their honeypots, or something.

Lazy-Ass Librarian: Everything New is Old, Eventually

2010-10-31T02:36:00.001-04:00

If you're really ancient like me, you may remember some of this vintage computer stuff. Here's a fun collection of old computer ads, compliments of Uneasy Silence via Good.Is.

To the fucking assholes who broke into our house and stole a bunch of shit

2010-10-27T22:04:00.001-04:00

Dear Fucking Assholes:

Thanks a whole bunch for stealing our stuff. And for breaking our window. We will certainly miss our televisions and computers. I know we were lucky to have them as long as we did. And it is just stuff, after all. And no animals were hurt.

I do wonder why you stripped the bed and took the sheets and mattress pad. Not to mention the sheet on the couch. It all needed to be washed anyway. Perhaps you're allergic to pet hair. I'd like to think so.

Anyway, I hope that you both got big~ass hernias from carrying the big tv and the desktop cpmputers. Yeah. One of those really bad hernias. And I hope you dropped all our shit on your toes.

Oh, and by the way, you know my kid, whose art and college admission essays were on the computer you stole? And whose Nintendo you took? She hopes you both get crabs.

So anyway, thanks for just totally making our day, you stupid fucks.

Happy Birthday, Kiddo!

2010-10-15T08:04:00.004-04:00

Today is my kid's eighteenth birthday, and my thoughts are racing. What have I forgotten to teach her? What haven’t I said that I need to say?

It's like leaving for a year-long vacation and wondering if you left the coffee pot on.

(Sigh… Okay, for you younger readers, there was a time when coffee pots didn't have an automatic shut-off)

For the moment, the most important thing to say comes straight from the movies: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. I saw this movie with my parents when they were still married.

No doubt you already know the theme – interracial marriage – and it was pretty darned controversial in 1967.

At one point, Mr. Prentice (played by Roy Glenn) and his son John (Sidney Poitier) argue. Mr. Prentice, who is a mail carrier, angrily talks about his sacrifices for his son, but John sets him straight:

MR. PRENTICE: … I worked my ass off to get the money to buy you all the chances you had! You know how far I carried that bag in (all those) years?
JOHN PRENTICE: You tell me what rights I've got or haven't got, and what I owe to you for what you've done for me. Let me tell you something. I owe you nothing! If you carried that bag a million miles, you did what you're supposed to do! Because you brought me into this world. And from that day you owed me everything you could ever do for me like I will owe my son if I ever have another. But you don't own me!

My mother wasn't one to talk over movies, but at that point I clearly heard her say, “Amen!”

I took it to heart, and I tried to raise my daughter accordingly (with some major fails, I'm afraid). Last week I remembered to pass the message on to her expressly. So I can mark that one off the list.

But I'm still pretty sure I left the coffee pot on. And the iron. And did anybody get the cat out of the closet? God, I think I left the door unlocked ... Jesus, I need to make a list.

Happy birthday, sweet pea. I am so very, very grateful to be your mom.

In Praise of HIV Negative Gay Men!

2010-10-14T22:44:00.000-04:00

Mark King (myfabulousdisease.com) posted a lovely video giving kudos to gay men who have managed to stay HIV-negative. He wants people to share the video, and I'm happy to do so here. I would like to extend the praise to any sexually active person who has remained negative.

Mark's timing is pretty much perfect, because it ties in nicely to something else I want to share: Graphic Intervention: 25 Years of International AIDS Awareness Posters. It's a nice exhibit -- 153 posters, most with translation and commentary.

I Take One Everywhere I Take My Penis / USA 1993

Arrrrgggghhhh!! No time to write!

2010-10-13T06:34:00.000-04:00

... and people are starting to complain (talk about a high-quality problem!).

For the moment, I'll just have to serve up Maureen Dowd's latest column. She's one of my favorites, and today she's got a movie review along with scary politics.