Is Sarah Palin an Endangered Species?

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 bears. 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

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

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 computers. 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!

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!

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!

... 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.

It really, really does get better.

Following the tragic death of Tyler Clementi and too many others, I'm proud to plug the It Gets Better Project, a grass-roots effort to support GLBTQ kids victimized by bullying and bigotry. The videos produced as part of this project can reassure struggling teens that they really can survive high school and go on to have wonderful, amazing lives, if they'll just stick it out a while longer. These videos have been made by people just like you. I hope you'll consider making one of your own -- it's as easy as telling your story. Your unique voice may be just the one a kid needs to hear to make it through the day.

Here's a great example from Mark King and his brother Dick.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Friday: The Sinister and the Sublime

Today, I'm kinda torn between happy and evil. Or maybe children and machines. Or maybe old and new. Or maybe, oh, just whatever. Fact is, I love both of these and I'm posting them together even though they have nothing to do with one another. Compliments of the fabulous Good.is. 

First, the sinister, and you really have to watch a video or two to get the full effect: Seven Creepy Robots with Useful Applications

And now, the sublime:  The Nine Best Sesame Street Guest Appearances

Ah, the world is a splendid and remarkable place. Happy Friday, everyone!

 

The Subversive Librarian's Rules of Civil Engagement

Gee whiz, people. The level of discourse on some blogs has gotten alarmingly low. It's mean, nasty, and very often devoid of logic or relevance.

But hooray, help has arrived! I present to you my four (so far) rules of civil engagement, complete with links to examples. You'll see that most examples are from Cynthia Tucker's blog at the Atlanta Journal Constitution. Tucker is a Pulitzer Prize-winning  journalist who, for some reason, seems to bring out the worst in people. It's a goldmine if you're looking for obnoxious responses.

Here are my rules (so far): 

1. Making up names for people ("Obozo"), organizations ("Rethuglicans"), and philosophies ("Libtards") doesn't show that you're clever. On the contrary, it tells us your debate skills are severely limited, and name-calling is the best you could do. Exceptions: "The Bush" and "wingnut" are okay because, well, I happen to like them. And anyway, it's my blog. So there.

2. Sweeping generalizations, often accompanied by words such as "never" and "everybody knows," are a pretty good indication that the writer doesn't know what the hell he's talking about.

3. If you are constantly accusing someone of race-baiting, chances are excellent that it's YOU.

4. Making judgments about a person's looks, or about someone's masculinity or femininity, doesn't make you smart. It just makes you an asshole. Even if you're making fun of Ann Coulter.

Got a rule of your own? Feel free to add it below. 

Lazy-Ass Librarian Thursday: Way Trippy Old Band-Aid Commercial (1959)

 

In which the Subversive Librarian inches toward armistice...

It's been a long one, this lonely, futile little war against my body. Fifty years, and then some.

I’ve been at odds with it since I was a baby. When I was two, and I sucked on my thumb, I would rub the top of my nose with my index finger until I bled; so in my toddler pictures I've got a bright-colored bandage stretched across my nose. One day it might be navy blue with white stars; the next, perhaps, a red one instead.

But that was just the opening skirmish. As I grew up and grew older, the battles got fiercer and the stakes got higher. I never allowed myself to contemplate surrender, not for a second. My body was my adversary, my tormentor. My body was, I thought, the perfect mirror image of my soul, advertising to the world everything I couldn’t bear to face in myself. It betrayed me again and again, revealing what I thought was my true essence: ugly and useless, fat and incompetent and hopelessly clumsy.

And truly, some of this is grounded in fact. I am unathletic in the extreme. No matter how long or how hard I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to do a single chin-up, or get on a horse by myself, or climb gracefully onto a stool, or look even marginally decent when I dance. No matter what my weight, nothing physical comes naturally to me.

Sometimes, when I watch a dancer lose himself in his art, or I see a skier traversing in the crisp sunshine, or I watch a kid run down a soccer field, I try to imagine what it must be like to be one with my body, to take joy in it, to just let it fly. That freedom has always eluded me, except in my imagination and the rare fleeting moment.

So I've spent more than half a century trying to figure out what to do with this foreign body. I've ignored it, neglected it, stuffed it, and starved it. I've binged on food, alcohol, tobacco, drugs, spending, television, and most of all, an endless stream of self-loathing. I’ve denied it baths and clean clothes and routine hygiene. I’ve picked at my face like a crystal meth addict. Hell, I haven’t flossed since I left my kid’s father. At some level of my subconscious, it must seem a fitting punishment for breaking up our family.

The physical scars from these quiet campaigns are now permanent and disfiguring. The human body can take a lot, but there comes a time when it just can't bounce back any more. Skin stops unstretching, scars stop disappearing, and you realize – too late – that you probably should have taken better care of this creaky old vessel when you had the chance.

Now there are consequences. The kind of consequences you have to explain to new lovers. The kind that make you wonder if there's any point in trying to salvage this sorry-ass wreck.

"We have ceased fighting anything or anyone." Yes, yes, I know. Acceptance is the answer. It’s been drummed into me by my mother, my sponsors, my friends, even by a voice coach: I need to embrace my body, just as it is. Then, and only then, can we make progress together.

Well, okay. After all, we’re going to be roommates for a while longer, this alien and I. So it might behoove us to try to reach some sort of peace accord.

I suppose, then, a hat tip to my body is in order: My body may not be elegant, but generally speaking, it’s gotten me where I needed to go. When I’ve taken care of it, it’s taken pretty good care of me. It has responded to proper care. It helped me figure out that I’m gay. And most of all, it granted me my greatest, sweetest wish: to become a mother. It did that very well indeed, and because of it, I believe in miracles. These are not things to take for granted.

So I will begrudgingly act as if I am grateful for every one of my physical attributes. I will act as if I view my body not an adversary but as an important part of this experience called life.

Someday, maybe I’ll really believe that my body is of god, and I’ll be able to love it just as it is. I’m not there yet. But because I am flat-out exhausted from waging this loser of a war, it’s time for me to surrender.

So today, I will floss. Tomorrow, too. And perhaps the day after that, I will dance.

Pam's House Blend:: Tennessee lesbian couple burned out of home in suspected hate crime needs help

Just in case you were getting complacent, Pam's House Blend has this disturbing news. Looks like the story is for real; there's nothing on Snopes to the contrary, and here's the link to the news item.

Pam's House Blend:: Tennessee lesbian couple burned out of home in suspected hate crime needs help

Where the Hell is my Country?

I am lost, and I am searching for my beloved United States of America. You know,
the one that believes in freedom of, and from, religion. The one where
traditional family values include compassion and charity. The one with the big
harbor, and Lady Liberty, and the inspirational words of Emma Lazarus.

We have lost our way as a people. That much seems clear. What is not at all
clear is whether we will find our way back to our core values without great
social upheaval or, perhaps, something much worse.

From history we know that silence in the face of bigotry and injustice equals
complicity. Therefore, I believe that as an American patriot it is my obligation
to speak out now. I realize I have only a few readers, but that doesn't diminish
my responsibility.

So, to anyone who may be listening (and I sincerely hope someone is), I make the
following declaration:

I, Lynne Rhys, for whatever it may be worth, condemn the planned burning of the
Koran. I would similarly condemn the burning of Christian Bibles, Torahs, or any
other sacred writings.

I support the construction of an Islamic community center two blocks from Ground
Zero, whether or not it includes accommodations for other faiths. I respect
Islam just as I try to respect other faiths, because I believe that there are
many paths to Truth.

I am proud to call Barack Hussein Obama my President. I believe him to be a good
Christian, but it would make no difference to me if he were a good Muslim. Or,
for that matter, an atheist.

I am Jewish, and I believe both Israelis and Palestinians have frequently
engaged in human rights violations. I support a two-state solution in the Middle
East.

I condemn the use of violence for political ends, whether by (or against) Jews,
Muslims, Christians, Israelis, Palestinians, Americans, or Keebler elves.

I am not afraid of immigrants or foreigners. Although I believe we need to
secure our borders, I support compassionate treatment of people who are
currently in the U.S. illegally.

As a white American, I do not fear people of color. I am not frightened of the
prospect of being in the minority. Regardless of our demographic makeup, we will
still be people first, and Americans second.

I am not afraid of Republicans, Democrats, socialists, communists, Libertarians,
or Marxists per se. I am not afraid of gays, lesbians, or the transgendered. I
am not afraid of pagans or witches or Catholics or Southern Baptists.

In fact, about the only people I fear are those who believe there is an "us" and
a "them." Even they only have the power that we, as a society, give them.
Unfortunately, we have given them a great deal.

I hope people who agree with me will leave comments to that effect. I also hope
people will feel free to pass this post on to someone else.

But in any event, I stand by these words even if I must stand alone.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Thursday: I wish I'd written that.

Well, not so much lazy as frantically busy. At any rate, I wanted to share this very clever comment posted on Jim Galloway's Political Insider a few days back. Here's the link to it, but I can't resist posting it here as well. The comment, by the way, is a response to news that the population is no longer growing all that fast in our fair state.

DannyX

August 26th, 2010
6:39 pm

No one wants to come here anymore because the agenda the republicans have put forth is incomplete. People will be flocking here once Republicans finish the job.

1. We have the microchip implant ban, but it does not go far enough. We need a strong bill that rids us of the Georgia Power Smart Meters that are secretly sending all our internet habits off to Washington. These Smart Meters are also transmitting our phone calls to Nancy Pelosi. Obamacare knows if you look up analwarts. These new meters must be banned.

2. Who would want to move here if you can’t bring a gun to church? Legislative action is needed now to bring this much needed security into our sanctuaries of worship.

3. Abortion Billboard Act must be enacted now. Any woman that wants an abortion should be forced to rent a billboard with a picture of the fetus prominently displayed on a major highway or freeway before being allowed to go through with the procedure.

4. We need to schedule anti gay votes for the next 10 years. Anti gay propaganda should not be limited to the Republican governor primary season every four years. This is a family values state.

5. Lets get rid of the Mexicans. And Muslims too. We’ll show our tolerance by letting the Catholics stay. (However, caution must be used with the Episcopalians.)

If we stay on track we will be welcoming thousands of new residents yearly. God Bless.

"This is our lives we're talking about..."

I think the emotion that surprised me the most tonight was anger, but it was just one of many I felt concurrently. Combined, all those feelings seemed seductively familiar, like climbing into bed under a deliciously warm electric blanket on a cold night. Why I find comfort in this weird mix of sadness, anger, and envy, I'm not sure. But comforting it is, even if I'm at a loss to understand it.

So. Just what is the "proper" mood, I wonder, when you hear about the death of an ex-sponsee from a drug overdose at the same meeting where you're celebrating a sponsee's one-year birthday?

The discussion leader and chairperson mentioned John's death. When I shared, I mentioned that I had once sponsored someone named John and I'd check after the meeting to see if it was him. But they told me then and there, during my share, that yes, it's the same guy. It made for an interesting moment, I suppose. I don't remember much about the rest of the meeting.

Afterwards, I had to leave right away to pick up my kid so I was unable to get the details. For all I know, John could have died today or five years ago. I hadn't seen him in years.

I was John's first sponsor, way back when, and he made it to nine months. Then, about the time I started to fuck up my life, he started slipping away from the rooms. John had an impressive resume and was eager to be somebody once again now that he had his shit together. I had no luck whatsoever convincing him to be "just John" for a while instead. Eventually he got another sponsor (by then I was in no shape to sponsor anyone). I saw him maybe three times after that. And then no more.

My kid and I called him "Sailor John" because of a shirt he wore when we all went to a movie one time. She still remembers him fondly, even though she was only about eight or nine years old when she saw him last. A politician and activist at one time, he was friendly and easy to talk to.

They say the program isn't for people who need it, it's for people who want it. But I've seen lots of people who want it desperately and still can't stay sober. John was one of them.

Recently I heard someone say that this program is not for people who need it or for people who want it. It's for people who do it.  That, it seems to me, is more accurate.

But this post isn't about John. It's about me, and those old familiar feelings. I felt the same thing when one of my students committed suicide. I felt it again when my sponsor went back out. Both times it lasted for weeks. Sadness. Anger. Envy. All combining into a morbidly alchemical desire to jump in there with them.

In other words, triggered. 

I recognize the trigger now, and hopefully that will lessen its power. In the meantime, though, my disease is "doing pushups" in the back room, and it's working on concocting a new trigger that I won't recognize.

The fact is, I haven't been doing the program lately. Plenty of service work, yes, but not a lot of recovery. I haven't been calling anybody. I've been too busy to get to enough meetings. I stayed safely in the middle of the bed for a long time, but lately I've been wandering over to the edge now and then to peek over.

So with news of John's death, I see that now it's time to make a choice: do I keep loitering near the edge of the bed?  Or do I scramble back into the middle where it's safe, where my sponsee and I can properly, joyously celebrate an entire year of continuous sobriety?

This is, after all, our lives we're talking about.

New Way of Living, Meet the Wreckage of My Past.

They say the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. With that in mind, it was a completely rational, utterly sound decision. It was probably even compassionate. Surely it left everyone, even me, feeling some relief after the fact. Still, it was hard to hear the words: We don’t want you. Not now. Not later.

I am thriving in my new life, but that doesn’t make me any less possessive of the old one. I have kept it carefully wrapped in tissue paper and tucked away like I might keep a lacy blouse that no longer fits. I don’t want it back - not really. I keep it "just in case," so I'll have the illusion of control. Every once in a while, I’ll take it out of the drawer and try it on, as I did this week. And every time, it fits worse and itches more than the time before. Still, I ignore the obvious.

But it turns out that the wreckage of my past has a very long shelf life. So just about the time I think, “Gee, I’ve really left all that meshugas behind me; maybe I can get some of that old stuff back,” I’m reminded – rather abruptly -- that many people still only know me as a crazy, undependable mess with a graduate degree in self-sabotage. I can protest all I want that I'm not like that anymore, and most of the time I'm not, but here’s the real truth: Given the wrong set of circumstances, I’m still capable of being exactly like that. And it’s obvious even to me that this would have been the wrong set of circumstances. 

So here’s what I know, and I suppose I should give myself some credit: I prepared thoroughly. I did the footwork, and then some. I returned telephone calls. I was ready to show up, even though I knew this particular effort was probably doomed. I behaved with a modicum of grace. I prayed. In short, I acted like the person I strive to be. Only, it didn’t work out the way I wanted.

Today God did for me what I couldn’t do for myself.  Apparently there's a surprise in store.

Busy-Ass Librarian Thursday: Hooray for California!

Well, by now you've heard the good news: a federal district court in California ruled that Proposition 8, which prevented gay couples from marrying, was struck down yesterday.

I was going to give you a fabulously cogent layman's analysis of the decision itself, but the damn thing is 136 pages long and I just don't have the time to read it right now. So instead, here's a link to a good article that will provide you with the lay of the land, brought to you by Scott Graham at The Recorder, a California legal newspaper.And here's the court's website for the case, with links to the evidence, opinions, and a lot of other nifty stuff. And the Wikipedia article.

It appears that the judge went much further (farther?) than he needed to go, which is great news for the gay community. It looks like the judge made extensive findings of fact that will, if accepted by other courts (a big if), will help us a great deal as we move forward in pursuit of equal rights.

As you celebrate, though, keep in mind the following: First, although it is a federal opinion, it is not binding anywhere except in the Northern District of California. It does not mean you can now get married in a red state! 

Second, it's gonna be awhile. This case will surely be appealed, preliminary injunctions will be sought, blah blah blah. It's what lawyers do. Plus it's gotta wind its way through the court system: first, the flurry of motions, then on to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, which may send it back down for some reason or another. And so on, and so on. It could well be years before the Supreme Court gets its hands on it.

So celebrate! And then, let's all get back to work.


 

So, I'm an attention whore...

Today I am celebrating 29 years clean and sober. I've posted it on Facebook, I'm posting it here, and I'm gonna pick up chips at every meeting I go to this week. So there!

On the other hand, I'm also celebrating a whopping 19 DAYS of abstinence from destructive eating. Truth is, that's been just as hard. Actually, it's been harder.

I'm really glad I get to be a newcomer in one recovery program while I'm an old-timer in the other. It's a little harder (though by no means impossible) to be a "bleeding deacon" when I'm struggling hard just to get a 30-day chip - for the first time ever - in the other room.

(a few weeks ago, I was on the phone with a very nice but slightly condescending woman who was trying to teach me about the traditions. After I hung up, I found myself saying, out loud, "So how long have YOU been sober, you bitch?" Not exactly elder statesman material!)

My addiction to food - which has taken me pretty much all the way to the bottom - also reminds me of what awaits me if I decide that drinking or using is a good idea. and conversely, my sobriety gives me hope that long-term abstinence is possible.

The fact is, no matter what the addiction, I only get a daily reprieve at best. So what if yesterday I single-handedly saved 56 drunks and jumped over 103 treatment centers in a single bound? It's what I do today that will decide whether I'm still clean and sober when I wake up tomorrow morning.

The bottom line for me is this: Whether I'm working on 30 days abstinent or 30 years clean and sober, the prescription is the same: I must put my recovery first, not just when it's convenient, but all the time, every day. And I must also remember that in both cases, the odds are definitely against me, So I must never take for granted even small bits of relief I receive.

(This inspirational message is available on CD for use at churches, synagogues, mosques, wiccan rituals. and tupperware parties for the low low cost of $500 per use.. All rights reserved.)

Lazy-Ass Librarian Tuesday: For All You New Lawyers!

And you thought this day would never arrive!

Happy First-Day-of-the-Bar-Exam Day! In honor of your brand-new career, here's a video of what happens when practicing attorneys dine together. Be sure to watch it full screen. It's lots more fun that way.

Better you than me, Bub.

AIDS2010 in Vienna, with Puppets and Everything!

I'm happy to link to Day Two coverage of the AIDS2010 international conference in Vienna, where my friend Mark King is a correspondent for TheBody.com. In this video, Mark explores HIV/AIDS and youth programs. A particular delight is his interview with teenage activists from around the world. If these kids are any indication, our future is in very good hands.

Food. An Encore.

Waaaaaay back in October, I posted about where food addiction has taken me. It was a little on the graphic side, so I won't put you through it again. Suffice it to say that, for me, losing weight isn't just about trying to cross my legs gracefully, or finding a lower-fat recipe for bean dip. It's about full-blown, low-bottom, chronic-relapsing, life-threatening addiction in the most serious sense of the word.
I'm not trying to be terminally unique here; I'm stating a fact. At my heaviest I was five-feet-nothing and 245 pounds. So I'm not your average gosh-she-could-stand-to-lose-maybe-twenty-pounds kind of girl.

I'm 55 pounds down from that awful place, but I've been losing and gaining the same five pounds for months now, because I haven't been able to stop eating destructively.

I suppose super-sized addictions call for the big artillery (Wow. Talk about a mixed metaphor. Or simile. Or something). So here's what I'm doing:

Sigh...

I was just about to tell you about how now I'm willing to go to any lengths, and how I'm taking all this fabulous action, and how this time it's gonna be different, really it is!, and how the next time you see me you won't even recognize me because I'm never going to eat a trigger food ever, ever, ever again.

But let's face it: The chances of that are, oh, I don't know, some infinitessimally small number barely above zero, out of maybe a bazillion.

Personally, I'm sick of the whole stupid thing. And I'm fairly sure my inner circle is pretty sick of hearing about it too. As, perhaps, are you.


But considering the grim alternative, I'm gonna have to bank on those odds, deal with it one more time. and hope for deliverance. Just for today.

You and Your FUD: Ladies, Submit No More!

In the late 60's and early 70's, I thought feminists were a bunch of bra-burning nut jobs. Then I became one myself... Well, okay, except for the braless part.

(It's all my cousin Jeanne's fault. That godless heathen taught me that her sons were perfectly capable of making their own dinner. And then she told me that sex is fun. That's just the kind of subversive shit that still undermines American family values today.)

I've heard the usual theories about how Western culture got to be so patriarchal. You know, like, because women get pregnant, and we have less upper body strength so we're vulnerable to physical threats from men. And, well, you know, because God said so. Or so they say.

Well, those theories are all just a lot of crap. We live in a patriarchal society for one reason, and one reason alone: Men can pee standing up.

Think about it, gentlemen: you're so much more mobile. Whip it out, do your thing, shake it off a little, shove it back in, and you're good to go. You're out there skinning your second woolly mammoth while we're still pulling down our pantyhose.

I became particularly sensitive to this disadvantage when I was down on the farm, with nothing but mud for plumbing (that is, until we built a sawdust toilet out of a five-gallon paint can and a toilet seat, but that's a tale for another day).

Well, squatting in a field of mud at 3 a.m. in the middle of a thunderstorm gets really tiresome after a while. I began to get penis envy.

So one day I Googled "women" and "pee standing up." And what did I find? Just the end of patriarchy, that's all! Directions on how to pee standing up if you're of the female persuasion. And even a little gadget you can buy if you're not so good at following directions.

(That was also the summer I tried to learn how to juggle. I still can't do that, either.)

At any rate, for some unknown reason, I repeated the Google search today. And boy, have we come a long way, baby! Now there's a wiki article on how to pee standing up. And lots and lots of gizmos to try, if you're luckless au natural. There's even a name for them: FUDs, or Female Urination Devices. The minute I saw all those products I knew I had my blog post for the day. I'm pleased to present them to you now.

First, there's the P-Mate. This handy little thingamajig is covered with a four-leaf clover design because it's "good luck to have one with you when you are in need." For your convenience, they come in packs of five.

Next up is the GoGirl. Billed as "the way to stand up to crowded, disgusting, distant or non-existent bathrooms," the GoGirl is a little funnel made out of silicone. Please note: There is a right way and a wrong way to hold your GoGirl.

Then there's the Whizzy. I can't tell much from the picture. Fortunately, there is a section on "How to use your Whizzy." I bet their sales rep can't say that with a straight face.

Next, we have the Shewee. Cute, huh? Frankly, it looks a lot like the GoGirl to me. But it comes in different colors and there's all kinds of ways to accessorize. Note, however, that the Shewee hand model is holding it wrong!

 

But I think the prize (for size, if not for originality) has to go to the Shenis.

Um......

I can't even think of anything to say about the Shenis. Except to note that it also comes in black, and that one is even bigger. Ha ha ha.

To complete your ensemble they also sell She-Nutz. Perfect as a keychain. Or earrings. 

And I'm pretty sure my head just exploded.

In defense of (most) government bureaucrats

God, I'm soooo tired of hearing about how government can't do anything right, and how private enterprise can't do anything wrong. And I'm especially tired of hearing that every single government worker in the entire U. S. of A. is a lazy dolt. Hence, this vent.

Based on my experience, "government efficiency" is not an oxymoron. I've worked in or around all three branches of government, in both state and federal venues, as well as in the private sector. Trust me: people in the executive and judicial branches of government work plenty hard. As a group, they're about as efficient as private-sector employees. Indeed, many are more efficient, because they don't enjoy the luxury of adequate staffing.

As for the legislative branch of government, the front-line workers -- clerical and support personnel, security, legislative aides, librarians, lawyers, et cetera, et cetera -- work really hard, too. I know, because I have to keep up with them during the legislative session.

So, who's left? Where are all those surly, inefficient government bureaucrats I keep hearing about?

Well, all I can tell you is this: the government folks I haven't yet mentioned just happen to be the same ones who love to perpetuate the stereotype.

Hey. Just saying.

100 Best Movie Lines in 200 Seconds

Just for fun. Enjoy!

Be Visible. But Vigilant.

It's been an eventful week for the LGBT community here in Georgia . First, the good news: Vandy Beth Glenn won an important victory in her lawsuit against Georgia state officials. The District Court for the Northern District of Georgia (a federal court) granted her motion for summary judgment against the one remaining defendant. As you may recall, Ms. Glenn was fired from her job as legislative aide for the Georgia state legislature after she informed her boss that she was Transgender and would be transitioning from male to female on the job. The district court found that in firing her, the state had violated Ms. Glenn's equal protection rights under the 14th amendment. Relying on solid precedent, the court found as a matter of law that Ms. Glenn was fired because she refused to behave and dress like a man. This, the court ruled, constituted impermissible sex discrimination. I've read the 50 -page opinion and it's a good read. (since I'm writing this on
my phone, I can't provide a link to the opinion and can't give nearly as much detail as I'd like). All that's left is to determine the remedy - Ms. Glenn wants her job back - and that will be addressed at a hearing scheduled for next week. Of course, an appeal is likely.

As encouraging as this development is, my enthusiasm is tempered by more sobering news: a few days ago a gay couple was attacked and beaten in Piedmont Park (again, I can't provide links or much detail). Judging from the news reports, it appears to have been a hate crime.

It's still dangerous out there, folks, even in our own neighborhoods. I'm reminded of that bumper sticker: 'Freedom is not free." Those of us who enjoy greater acceptance in society do so on the shoulders of others who - whether voluntarily or not - have found themselves on the front lines. And because these sacrifices aren't just in the past, we never know when we might be called into the fight ourselves.

Notes on a Move

1. I am here, and so is my stuff. Finally.

2. Among the things I can't find: Deoderant. Pillow Talk. Silverware. The cat.

3. There's a used condom and a couple of rolled-up used paper towels in the carport. I'm pretty sure they're not mine.

4. Rocket-the-Dog immediately made herself right at home by peeing on my bed.

5. Forrest, on the other hand. won't pee or poop at all.

6. Kitchens are not designed for short people.

7. I don't think they make HVAC air filters in that size or shape.

8. This time I'm buying a garbage can with wheels.

7. Thank God for 24/7 grocery stores.

8. My life is good today. Disorganized, but good.

UC Men's Octet - Bohemian Rhapsody

Okay, okay. I should have been cleaning. But instead I sat listening to these guys with a big goofy smile on my face. Now it's your turn. It's well worth your time.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Tuesday: 10 Toys That Made You Gay

I'm still moving. Two days left to get the whole thing done, and I'm a little frantic.

So in the meantime, dear reader, I'm plopping you in front of the television set.



Wow. Who knew?

Moving. The Drama.

 Chapter One:

I need a new place to live, and I need it fast. Okay, well, I can do this. One foot. Then the other. Let’s see what happens. It could be great!

Chapter Two

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t do this. I can’t do it. I am not strong enough. If I can’t fucking move my finger to dial the phone, how the hell am I going to move a family? Fuck it. It’s over. We’ll have to live under a bridge, And I’ll keep everything I own in a shopping cart – no, wait, I’ll need two. One for my kid. One for me. I hope we can find a bridge in her school district. FUCK.

Chapter Three:

Okay. I’ve got two weeks. As my mother used to say, pick up the bobby pin, wash the dish. Just keep moving. Just keep calling. Just keep doing the next right thing, and when I can’t figure out what the hell that is, do the next thing right. Call the phone numbers in the ads. Talk to strangers. Tell them the truth. Ask the hard questions. Do you take pets? Do you care that I have bad credit? Be willing to hear the hard truth; better to know right now. Visit the houses that survive the inquisition. Let the Universe do its thing. Keep an open mind. Keep an open mind. Keep an open mind.

Chapter Four:

I’ve made a decision. It feels right. I hope it’s right. What if it’s not? Shut up and pack. Just keep packing. Change over the utilities. Forward the mail. Reserve a truck. All these fucking details. I wish I could do this more gracefully.

Chapter Five:

I am in moving hell, I think to myself. But that’s just for effect. The truth is, I’m really in moving heaven: I have some stuff worth moving. I have lots of help. I have a truck. I even have someone who knows how to drive a truck, thank God. I am in charge of this project. For better or worse, it is proceeding, and I am moving forward. 

I am moving forward. Oh, my God. I am moving forward.

Of all my fears – and there have been many – my greatest, my most intractable, has been the fear of moving forward. And here I am. I’m doing it.

Kind of makes me look forward to Chapter Six. It just might be wonderful.

What can I say...

Okay, so life happened and I disappeared. I could give you all the gory details, but let's just say it was kind of expensive and took a whole lot of time. Best laid plans, and all that garbage.  So, let's just see if I can get back on track.

And while I'm working on that, you can plan your vacation. Here are the ten crappiest vacation spots on earth, compliments of toptenz.net. Enjoy.

Hark! The sound of my own ego!

I had this great post all written out, full of wise insight. Took me two days to finish.

But this morning, I edited out sentence after sentence until there was nothing left, because it turned out to be a boatload of self-serving crap.

So I got nothin'.

The end of DADT?

Representative Patrick Murphy (D-Pa) is reportedly introducing a proposal that would repeal DADT while still allowing the military to continue its study of how to implement the repeal.

According to the report in the AJC, a recent Gallup poll found that 70% of Americans polled were in favor of the repeal. Between 1998 and 2008, more than 10,000 soldiers were discharged under DADT. And a bunch of them were Arabic interpreters.

Republicans plan to fight the compromise proposal. (Now, there's a huge surprise!)

I would love to write more and give you better sources, but hey, I'm in the middle of moving.So I'm outta here.

How did this one slip under the radar?

Bilerico reports this evening that the State of Nevada will now allow transgender people to change the gender designation on their driver's licenses based just on a doctor's say-so. Previously, the state required documentation of gender assignment surgery. This is quite a step forward, given that many people elect not to have reassignment surgery even if they can afford it.

At any rate, that reminded me of a small treasure I discovered last week tucked neatly away in the Administrative Code of Georgia:

 375-3-1-.17 Changing Gender on License

(1) A person may have the gender designation on their driver’s license changed after a gender reassignment operation upon the presentation to a driver examiner of either a court order reflecting such change, or a physician's letter certifying such change. The letter or court order shall state the person's name and date of birth, and the date of gender reassignment operation, as well as other identifying information.
(2) A person applying under Section (1) shall surrender all licenses in their possession and shall be required to pay either the renewal license fee or a duplicate license fee, whichever is applicable. No rebate will be given for any licenses surrendered.
(3) In all cases the decision to change the gender designation on the license is at the discretion of the Department.

For Georgia, this is downright progressive. How the heck did this little regulation manage to get on the books? Probably very quietly. Some state employee deep in the bowels of the DMV decided to make a difference, and got the ball rolling.  I love that!  And then somehow, got it past public review. It wasn't completely without controversy though, at least internally at DMV: Subsection (3), which gives the agency absolute discretion, was, no doubt, a requirement for getting the regulation through. 
 

Perhaps at some point Georgia will follow Nevada's lead and no longer require evidence of actual reassignment surgery. 


Hope springs eternal, even here in the Deep South.

The Transition Begins.

Today my daughter becomes a rising senior, and tonight she is watching many of her friends graduate. As I wait in the car for her, I hear cheer after cheer from inside as the Class of 2010 crosses the church stage. The next time I hear those voices, mine will be among them.

I want to cry.

But I don't, because when I see her across the yard, she's already in tears herself. It's not easy navigating adolescence under the best of circumstances, much less with a mentally ill mother. Some of these seniors are close friends, both boys and girls. They have supported her and nurtured her and loved her when I was too sick to know how. They gave her the stability I couldn't provide. And now she is saying goodbye.

Later my daughter will collapse from excitement and exhaustion and an empty stomach. Her boyfriend will gently scoop her up and place her on the couch, and I'll take him home. No time to cry then, either.

For now, though, I watch the river of people pouring out of the church. The graduates first, dressed in purple, each with a single rose. Their families following, dressed in their finest. I want to write about it, but I'm drawn instead to experience this. I realize I must stay in this moment, here, now, for as long as I can. I see my daughter approach Asher, a close friend. As she breaks into sobs, Asher envelopes her in his purple robe and holds her tight. She is safe right now, right there in those strong, loving arms, but that doesn't make it any easier. My heart breaks for hers.

And then I think about quantum physics. String theory, I've heard, posits eleven dimensions instead of the three we can see. The fourth dimension, I know, is time. I drink in the colors and the crying and the balloons and the hugging all around me. Life is happening. It's exploding. I feel invisible, but pleasantly so. Perhaps "now" -- that infinitely small point where time and space intersect -- is another of the dimensions. "Now" is different, special, apart from all else. My daughter's friends can protect and comfort her in the now. In the now, I can work to regain my health and make better choices. We can love only in the now.

I grasp, just for a second, the profound power of something so indefinable and minute. Whatever it is, this "now" thing, I see only its shadow, if even that. I inhale its essence, and time stops.

My daughter opens the passenger door, cueing time to move forward once again. And as I start the car, I realize there is much to do.

Yeah. Funny.

About this house thing. I’m scheduled to close a week from today. I continue my prayer of “bless it or block it” and so far, the transaction has flowed almost effortlessly. Indeed, the experience has been full of little miracles. Little, but striking.

Last Friday I needed to fax eighteen pages of contracts and paperwork to my attorney, but I didn’t have a fax machine. I was tempted to fax it from work for free, but that’s forbidden and I’m trying to follow the rules these days. Well, at work anyway.

 I’m a Craigslist junkie, and at least once a day I check the “free” category. (Okay, fine, so I’m outing myself as a dumpster diver. What of it?) Amazingly, on Friday, the day I wanted to send the fax, a fax machine showed up on Craigslist for free! I mean, it’s uncanny!

I whipped off an email to the gentleman and waited. Nothing. Clearly someone had gotten to it before me. Good free stuff goes fast like that.

When Monday morning rolled around, I realized I was just going to have to cough up the money to pay for a fax. At lunchtime, I headed over to Kinko’s and sent off the fax.

Later that afternoon, I checked my personal email. And there it was: an email from the Craigslist guy saying the fax machine was mine if I still wanted it. Time sent: 8:30 a.m.

If I had I checked my email before I left for Kinko’s, I wouldn’t have had to pay for the fax. Damn!

No doubt there will be other faxes to send before this house purchase is completed, though, so I told the guy I wanted it.

On my way to work the next morning, I stopped to pick up the fax machine. As I carried it back to the car, I reflected on how grateful and amazed I was at how things work out. And, I admit, I congratulated myself a on how fucking spiritual I’ve gotten lately. I mean, really, I should get a special chip or something for how well I’m aligning my will with God’s.

I stuffed the fax machine into my trunk and got in the car to head for work. And that’s when it hit me. You need a land line to run a fax machine. I don’t have a land line. I haven’t had one in years. The fax machine wouldn’t have done me a bit of good.

But I still got the message: Great rewards will come to me if I just have faith. If I’m properly aligned with the Universe, it’ll work out almost like magic.

That, and God likes to laugh at me.

So, um… Anyone need a fax machine?

It's all about perspective.

Sometimes when I'm feeling particularly broke (which is pretty much, oh, always), it helps to remember that as human beings go, I've really got it pretty damn good.

The Global Rich List has found a way to quantify just how good I've got it. You enter your annual income, and it tells you where you rank financially among the entire world population. I don't know what their methodology is, so I can't attest to its accuracy, but even if the exact numbers aren't precisely correct, the point is hard to ignore: it's all about perspective, and I have a lot to be grateful for.

How rich are you? >> I'm loaded. It's official. I'm the 49,322,169 richest person on earth!

Mother’s Day, in which I give Nancy Rae Rhys the Floor.

Yes, I'm back, and I'm lazy, too, 'cuz this is a post from 2010. It's old, but it's apt. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For Mother’s Day, I thought I’d tell you all about my mom. Instead, I’m posting this letter she wrote to me about a month before I got sober. It says more about her than I ever could.

A little background: She had just visited my husband and me in Kalamazoo, Michigan. A lung cancer survivor, she drove all by herself from Albuquerque and back in her little red Datsun.

Just a few months later, she would learn that she had several malignant, and inoperable, brain tumors.  That’s when we moved to Albuquerque.

Mom died a month and a half after she saw me pick up my one-year chip. She was 52, and had nearly 11 years sober herself.

Until today, I've never shown this letter to anyone except my current sponsor and my daughter. I haven’t changed a word, although I have shortened it.  I would have preferred to leave out some other parts, but I believe she would have insisted that I leave them in. So, I did.  Sadly, I’m just now learning the lessons she was trying to teach me back then. Even so, her letter has helped me through countless difficult times.

Mom, thank you. I love you always.

June 29, 1981

Dear Lynne,

I think we haven’t had much chance over the past ten years or so to have mother-daughter – or woman-to-woman talks. I hope Donald will understand if, because of this feeling, I sometimes write to you separately. I don’t mean to exclude him at all. But he has had a mother all his life and you haven’t had your fair share of mothering.

I got the feeling when I was with you that there are some things you don’t know about Lynne. I am your mother and allowed to be prejudiced in your favor. But I am also a mother in the unique position of having seen you so seldom as you changed from a child to a woman, that I am quite objective about you in many ways.

You have heard it so often you don’t hear it – If I could have any daughter in the whole world, I would choose you. I have told Bob the same about a son. These are not just words to me. It is a prayer of thanksgiving. I am twice blessed and my gratitude is boundless.

Lynne is beautiful, intelligent and she has a good heart. That is the way it is. Perhaps a mother could want more in a daughter, but I can’t imagine what it would be. Perhaps a human being could want more in another human being – but what?

I am going to assume you know you are intelligent. If you question that, let me know and I’ll address the question. I have answers that have nothing to do with my opinions or observations. If you don’t give Lynne credit for outstanding intelligence, it’s time you do that.

You are beautiful – physically beautiful. I don’t use the words often because I believe it is seldom appropriate. But you are a beautiful young woman. I know you are not aware of your beauty. I think that’s a terrible waste. It is nothing to gloat over or take credit for. But it should surely be appreciated and cared for.

You quit hiding that beauty, and I guarantee you, Lynne will be one helluva beautiful woman. 

It has taken me 50 years to accept my attractiveness. And the Nancy I finally accepted as attractive has outrageous scars and a face that aged from the illness.

You don’t have to do that to Lynne. I want desperately for you to begin to allow Lynne to live now.

Okay – as for the good heart. You have tried to be good all your life. I’m not saying you’ve been good every minute or that there aren’t times when you just say, “The hell with it, I’ll just be bad.” No one is good every minute. (But) you’ve never been able to avoid trying to be good for very long. You have sought approval from other people – so you have tried to be good as you thought they wanted. But we can’t read the other guy’s mind.

The only “good” we can rely on is our own instinct to be good. I am human – not bad. I’m quite practical, loving, try to be honest and fair with others, mean no harm to other people, and believe everyone has a right to share my world. I think these are good instincts. I believe I have a good heart. I’ve a long way to go, of course. But I am working my life in the direction of acceptance of this one of God’s children.

I am obligated to know your instincts as best I can. You have a good heart, in my opinion.

If you could have any daughter in the whole, wide world, wouldn’t you choose one who is intelligent, beautiful and has a good heart? And wouldn’t you want for her to accept herself as she is?

I want you to learn to accept my daughter as she is – intelligent, beautiful and good-hearted. That’s worth fighting for. And, honey, I’m gonna fight for it.

If we were closer I could tell you all these things in bits and pieces as we go along. I would keep reminding you that you are intelligent, beautiful and have a good heart. We don’t have that luxury. But we do have cheap paper and pens. We do have 18 cents for a stamp. We do both express ourselves in writing when we choose to.

So – whatever –

I love you right where you are right this minute – and this minute – and this minute. That is a given. So you might as well stick it in your personality computer system’s memory and push the memory button a hundred times a day. You won’t figure in enough love – but you’d be on the right equation.

The message is acceptance and love.

Shalom,

Mom

Did Peter Gunn Need Alanon?

I just watched "Fill the Cup," an interesting episode from the old Peter Gunn TV series that ran from 1958 to 1961. If, like me, you're too young to remember the series (I was a year old when it debuted), it was a hip private-eye show starring Craig Stevens. Classic noir. With music by Henry Mancini and cool jazz and everything. 

The few episodes I've seen before have been scripted with some humor, which is not surprising considering that the show was created (and sometimes written and directed) by Blake Edwards.

But "Fill the Cup?" Not lighthearted at all. This one is about alcoholism, and it's grim.  Right here, I'm impressed, because it would have been so easy to make the episode a comedy. Who knows, maybe it was originally written as one.

Here's the plot: William Getty (played by character actor John McIntire) plays an alcoholic who desperately wants to keep from drinking until his daughter arrives by plane the following day. He tells Gunn he can't do it alone, and wants Gunn to keep him sober for the next 12 hours.  Getty warns Gunn that even though he doesn't want to drink right now, he'll be desperate for a drink later on.  Gunn takes the job, takes Getty's keys and money, and settles in to Getty's apartment for the night.

Of course, it's not long before Getty has second thoughts about this whole arrangement, especially after Gunn pours the mouthwash down the drain when he catches Getty about to drink it. Getty tries everything he can think of to escape or convince Gunn he can drink. And Gunn does the stuff all families of alcoholics do to prevent him from drinking. At one point, he ties Getty to the bed with a necktie. Getty, by now somewhere beyond desperate, eventually manages to chew his way out of it. Then he knocks Gunn out, and leaves.

Once Getty leaves his apartment, drinking seems inevitable, but every time he's close to a drink something gets in the way. He manages to get a quarter from someone so he can buy a shot; but the drunk next to him swipes the quarter while he's not looking. After several attempts, Getty finally busts out a liquor store window and steals a bottle -- but then he drops the bottle and breaks it.

Gunn finally catches up to him, and they finish out the night. Getty is sober when he meets his daughter at the airport the next day. Obviously pleased to see Getty, she suggests that they go into the airport bar and have a drink. Getty agrees, following her straight into the airport bar, with Gunn looking on.

And that's how the episode ends.

I'll admit the episode was a tad melodramatic in a couple places. But it did a great job conveying the desperation of addiction, that "incomprehensible demoralization" we've experienced. And it does so compassionately and without judgment. Throughout the episode, Gunn refers to his client as Mr. Getty. I haven't watched enough episodes to know if that's Gunn's usual demeanor, but here it demonstrated respect. At all times, Getty was portrayed as a sick man, not just a worthless drunk.

I especially appreciated the ending, which was understated and chilling. No big speech about how Getty doesn't drink anymore. No debate about whether or not he should go into the bar. He just walks in because his daughter suggested it.

Somebody involved in that episode knew what they were doing.