Messages, Day 24: Anything but crack.

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

An interesting use of airbrushing.

Messages, Day 22. Lee Ho TV

Messages, Day 21: Repent.

 

Messages, Day 20: The pool hall

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

Messages, Day 19

Messages, Day 18

Messages, Day 17

Messages, Day 16: Sign by Trent

 

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

Messages, Day 15: Heterosexual car-thievin' assholes

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

Messages, Day 13

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

Messages, Day 12

"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

Welcome to the park.

Messages, Day 10

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

Messages, Day 9

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

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

Messages, Day Seven

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

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

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

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

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.

 

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

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.

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...

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.

---

Copyright © 2011 by Candace L. Van Auken. All rights reserved.

Let's hear it for the kids!

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

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"

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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...

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.)