There's a parallel here. But at what cost?

From H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds:

In another moment I had scrambled up the earthen rampart and stood upon its crest, and the interior of the redoubt was below me. A mighty space it was, with gigantic machines here and there within it, huge mounds of material and strange shelter places. And scattered about it, some in their overturned war-machines, some in the now rigid handling-machines, and a dozen of them stark and silent and laid in a row, were the Martians—dead!—slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their systems were unprepared; slain as the red weed was being slain; slain, after all man’s devices had failed, by the humblest things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth.

What patriotism looks like

It looks like Mayor Pete, who cares more about saving the nation than getting to be the president. Aware that too many moderate candidates are skewing the polls, he withdrew before Super Tuesday, rather than waiting to see how he does.

Buttigieg was my original choice, and I hope we haven't seen the last of him. We could sure use him in the Senate.

I'm not that wild about Biden or Sanders - Warren is my candidate now - but I'll gladly vote for either of them if that's what it takes to get that lunatic out of office. The nation can survive business as usual. And it can survive a socialist president. What it can't survive is fascism.

Vote blue no matter who.

That time when Elizabeth Warren stabbed Stephen Colbert with a fork.

Notwithstanding everyone's horrible behavior at the last Democratic debate, I've decided I'm sold on Elizabeth Warren. I've always agreed with most of her policies (although I still doubt whether any Democrat can get them through), but the vibe I got was, like, she's shushing me in the library for talking too loud.

This video has me completely charmed, and has erased every one of my reservations. This woman will make a wonderful president.

Watch the whole thing. It's totally worth your time.

I fell asleep during the Guns of Navarone.

It's a reference to The Dick Van Dyke Show, season 5, episode 12, December 15, 1965. Rob has to defend himself against accusations that he beat up an old lady. Nobody is buying his alibi because he says he was at a drive through movie -- The Guns of Navarone. When asked the plot of the movie, he can't remember because he slept through the whole thing. So there's this running gag throughout the episode as he's grilled by the police: "You slept through The Guns of Navarone??"

Well, yes, yes, I did. Last night I slept through The Guns of Navarone.

I tried to watch, I really did. It was hard to make out what anyone was saying because it was so chaotic and loud. It was downright traumatic. Yet somehow, I fell fast asleep, and that was that.

But I stayed awake long enough to see one thing very clearly: Warren, Buttigieg, Sanders, Biden, Klobuchar, Bloomberg, and Steyer -- the whole miserable bunch of them -- need to get their shit together. Or we're looking at four more years and the end of the American Dream.

I am fighting off despair.

Nerd heaven

I've got, like, six half written blog.posts, and I'm about halfway done with a video for work. So baby, I'm creating, albeit in a chaotic, haphazard and possibly unproductive way.

But nothing I'm doing can possibly compete with this video. Light, filmed at various speeds up to 10 trillion frames per second. My mind is blown. It's like seeing God.

https://youtu.be/7Ys_yKGNFRQ

In support of Michael Bloomberg.

Wait! Please don't leave!

Yes, I know Bloomberg is trying to buy the election. I know he's a capitalist boor with a sketchy history. I'm also quite aware that he's not the best choice for president. 

Unless it turns out he is, at least for this one moment in time.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Michael Bloomberg knows how to get inside Trump's head. He's the only one with whom Trump has a history, and I believe he's the only one that Trump really fears. He's willing to exchange insults at Trump's level. He knows what insiders are saying behind Trump's back and, more importantly, Trump knows he knows it. And it's going to be very hard to call the guy a socialist, which screws up about 50 percent of Trump's campaign strategy.

Apparently Bloomberg's campaign has hired an expert in narcissism and a comedy writer. I mean, how delicious is that? 

No, I don't particularly want him as my president. But the republic can survive Michael Bloomberg, and I don't think it can withstand another four years of the Orange Menace, or the Republicans' one-branch vision of government.

I'm not endorsing Bloomberg, and I doubt I'll vote for him in the primary. His values don't match mine. But maybe in this time, in this place, he's the guy who can save the nation.  

The good itch.

I imagine you've noticed things have been a little rough lately. My brain has been going to some pretty dark places, even more than usual, and I haven't hesitated to dump it here. Sorry for that.

When I was raising my daughter, I would hear experts -- the ones I trusted -- say that when your kid seems impossible all of a sudden, it's because they're in the process of growth. Something big is in the works, like starting to walk, and they're working through it.

Maybe that's what this is.

Because I've had this itch lately. It seems to be irresistible and I'm not sure where it came from. It's always been there, but now it seems that no combination of fear and self loathing will relieve it.

This is harder to share with you than all the bile I've been spewing lately. Until now, I've only told my therapist.

It's about being creative, and it's really weird. I just want to create in every way I can. I'm writing again, that's good. But then I think, Acting! Singing! Photography! Podcast! YouTube! 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Is it a second childhood? Or my first? Maybe I'm becoming aware that time is going to run out. Or maybe it's just winter in upstate New York and I'm bored.

Whatever it is, it's outrageous, and I'm deeply, profoundly embarrassed to share it. 

And yet, the Universe is swirling and opportunities are falling in my lap. My playwriting class this semester is in a dance studio and involves acting and improv. The library's only podcast and video expert has moved to DC and somebody needs to learn and teach the technology. And the college recently gave me free access to some pretty fancy media software.

The wind is blowing in every direction. I'm told I should follow it.

Lesson in three parts.

One.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of watching a production I co-wrote for a recovery roundup. It was awesome, but I had some trouble watching myself. That’s an understatement. I went home and wrote a blog post in which I attacked myself pretty viciously. I posted it, but then quickly took it down. I know at least one person saw it. 

Two.

A few weeks later on Instagram I saw that someone had posted a meme saying, hey, you’re not perfect, but you’re better than you were, so acknowledge your progress. It was a really lovely post.

Here was one of the responses:

Just_more_shit This makes me so sad and ashamed. If past me knew I would become this worthless disgusting filthy parasitic trash she would have done everything to stop it, she would have killed herself rather than let this monster free.

And there it was. I was looking in the mirror, face to face with myself. Because what I wrote in my post was, well, close.

It's almost seductive.  I lay out a gleaming set of serrated verbal knives and cut myself over and over and over again with words, watching -- feeling -- myself bleed out. A slice for how I look. Then my finances. A few cuts comparing myself to others. Then my singing, my acting, my weight, how I dress, how I walk. Nothing is off limits. Then several deep, long cuts for my failings as a parent. There are never enough cuts for that one. The deeper the cut, the truer it feels, and I don't quit until nothing is left but shredded meat.

Do I believe the stuff I'm saying? Yes, at least when I'm saying it. Does it serve any purpose other than creating more hurt? No. But maybe the pain is the point.

And when I post this stuff, I am asking you to witness the carnage too. In that sense, I'm treating you as badly as I treat myself.

But then there’s this woman’s post, and I see its effect. It’s all very tidy, isn’t it? I hurt for her, I see myself, and I learn my lesson.

Or maybe I don’t.

Three.

I was looking at old emails a few nights ago and found something unsettling. Ten years ago, I was in another show -- the first in which I acted.  It was fun, it was life-changing, it turned out great overall, and we watched it at the cast party. But watching myself was nearly unbearable. So ten years ago, I went right home and wrote the very same invective I wrote just a few weeks ago. Some of it was even word for word.

Ten years and not a bit of progress. What the fuck is wrong with me?  

I feel great compassion for that other woman. I know I should feel it for myself, but I don’t know how. Needless to say, my therapist and I are getting lots of mileage out of this set of facts.

There is no promise in this post. I’m not even sure there’s a prayer. I just know that the other woman’s post broke my heart, and she is me.

Shooting in raw.

Oh boy oh boy oh boy! Tax refund! I paid some bills and still had enough to do something I've wanted to do for many years: get a decent camera (in other words, something other than my phone or a cheap point-and-shoot). And boy, am I having a good time with it!

After a shitload of research, I decided on a Canon M50, which is basically an entry-level mirrorless camera. It's smaller than a DSLR but otherwise does pretty much the same stuff. So I've been voraciously consuming YouTube videos on all things photographic (as well as videographic). And I've made a wonderful, wonderful discovery: Shooting in raw.

Oh. My. God.

I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but I guess raw files contain a lot more information than jpeg files (which I guess you can think of as regular digital pictures), so you can do a lot more in post production. In fact, you can pretty much work miracles. Plus, you get to use words like "post production," which makes you sound cooler than maybe you actually are.

Here's the picture I took (Yes, yes, I know it's just my bathroom ceiling. Whatever.):

I took the raw file, worked with it in Lightbook, and I turned it into this, which is actually what my eyes were seeing at the time I took the shot:

I mean, it's just fucking awesome, is all, and now I'm hooked.

The problem with self-awareness.

I'm 62 years old. Almost 63. That’s a really big deal. It means I can retire right now and get some Social Security, although not nearly as much as if I wait a few more years. How wonderful to know that I no longer have to work! If something happens where I can't work anymore, or the job goes away, I’ll be okay. Not great, but marginally okay enough.

Some people insist that retirement is bad for you. They say you start to decline once you don’t have something useful to do. You need a Purpose, with a capital P. They also point out that if I wait until I'm 70 I’ll get the biggest possible monthly benefit.

Yeah, that's not happening, at least not voluntarily. Work has never provided a purpose for me. It’s a means to an end, period, and if I can be lucky enough to like what I’m doing (which is currently the case), that’s a gift, but work doesn’t feed my soul, and it never really has.

I don’t know how we got on the topic, but my therapist asked me last week how I would feel if I stopped working. I told her it would be a huge relief, which seemed to surprise her. So I explained that I’ve never been able to build up vacation or sick time because some days I just can’t function, and I’ve often wondered if I’m really even capable of sustaining full-time work for extended periods of time.

Her response really surprised me: “Maybe you’re not.”

And she’s right, I’m not. I’m exhausted. I’ve spent decades swimming against a disability I didn’t know I had, and I’m fucking exhausted.

So my therapist has given me some homework:  figure out a way to take at least one or two planned days off every month. I’ve got April and May worked out. February and March, not so much.

The problem with facing facts is that now it’s harder than ever to show up, but show up I must. And show up I will, at least for today.

But yeah. Self-awareness is not all it’s cracked up to be.

On Thirteenth Stepping.

If you already know what thirteenth stepping is, then I suspect I've got your attention.

But for those who don’t:  in twelve-step recovery, “thirteenth stepping” is basically slang for sleeping with newcomers. Although it’s not official, this is considered harmful because newcomers are generally encouraged to avoid new relationships during the first year of recovery.

Now, I don’t consider myself a recovery fundamentalist by any means. I don’t get my panties in a wad if someone talks about drug addiction in an AA meeting. I don’t smile condescendingly at people who don’t believe in God, telling them that sooner or later they’ll come to believe. I don’t believe for a minute that all of life’s answers are in the Big Book. I believe that sometimes the best sponsor is someone of the opposite sex. And although I don’t rule it out for myself, there’s no way I’m telling someone else to get on their knees to pray.

But the thirteenth stepping thing? I’m hard core on that one, and I include “just sex” as well as relationships.

The reason we’re advised not to sleep with newcomers is because when you’re first getting clean you’re not generally thinking straight, and a relationship can distract you from the hard work of early recovery. Assuming you’ve decided to go the twelve-step route, it’s a lot of work, and it’s a full-time gig.

The one-year rule isn’t official, but it’s nearly universal. And that means anyone who’s been around a while knows it. So they know perfectly well that their newcomer target has probably been advised not to do the relationship thing just yet.

So what does it say if I decide to pursue a newcomer?

I’ll tell you what it says. It says that I don’t care whether or not they stay sober.

I had a sponsee once, barely yet sober, who was being seduced by someone with many years of sobriety – someone whose recovery I had previously respected. That person actually told the sponsee not to tell me about it. That’s predatory. There’s no other word for it.

But what if a newcomer and an oldtimer really do have something worth pursuing before that first year is up? What then?

Well, then you each talk to your sponsors. You’re up front, you’re honest, and you remain open to the idea that maybe it’s not such a good idea. You are willing to go to any lengths to stay sober, and you want the other person to do the same, and so maybe you just don’t do it.

Here’s the bottom line: If you are a newcomer, and you are being pursued by anyone in the rooms who has some time, that person doesn’t give a shit about you. And that’s true no matter how often they tell you that sobriety comes first, that they’ll help you stay clean, that blah blah blah... Talk to your sponsor, and don’t engage until they’ve talked to their own sponsor as well.

Because chances are, this person is a predator who cares more about their own desires than about whether you stay sober. Drape them in red flags and move on.

#WeAreHere

Indeed we are.

Old pics

I'm cleaning up an old SD card and found these pictures I've taken along the way. I'm otherwise not inspired today, so I'm posting them.

The writer speaks.

I used to teach writing. I’ve also written lots of, you know, stuff.  So I am hereby declaring myself a writing expert, which qualifies me to tell you what’s what.

In law school, they tell you there is one right way to write a brief. College placement offices tell you there is only one right way to write a resume. Professors ding you if you indent – or don’t indent – the first paragraph of an essay.

What bullshit! For one thing, everybody’s “one right way” is different. So what’s a girl to do?

Yeah, of course you need to comply with whatever moronic requirements your venue has placed on you. Courts and college placement offices can be annoyingly anal, with significant consequences for insurgents.

But otherwise, there’s really only one rule: whatever you’re writing, write it in the way that best achieves your goal. If your issue statement is more effective in two sentences than in one, use two sentences. If your resume is better at three pages, make it three pages, for god’s sake.

And here’s the corollary: Whatever you’re reading, read it for the message, not the grammar. The world won’t end if the writer uses “its” instead of “it’s,” or if they put two spaces after the period instead of one, or if they say “should of” instead of “should have.” If this sort of thing bugs you so much that you can’t hear the underlying message, you need a life, or therapy, or something.

Seriously, you do. 

Unless, of course, it happened in my writing class, in which case there were significant consequences.

Damn, I missed it. But yay! for freedom of religion.

Yesterday was Religious Freedom Day. I thought it was today, and I'm bummed out that I missed it. I was going to post something snarky, yet respectful. Cynical, yet wholesome.

I got nothin'.

Wait... I might have something. ...

I was going to write about the Flying Spaghetti Monster because it's pretty awesome, but they like to think there's a stripper factory in heaven, and I find that a little problematic. That did not, however, stop me from ordering a sticker for my car, especially since the only Pastafarian dogma is that there's no dogma.

Snarky -- check.
Cynical -- check.

Now, contrary to what you might think, I do pray sometimes. I have a lot in common with religious people on the progressive left. I believe that there could be a god. I believe that the  universe is sacred, and I believe if there is a conscious god, it doesn't give a shit whether you believe in it or not, as long as you do some good in the world. And by the way, I am an ordained minister with the Universal Life Church. Legal and everything. That's actually true. I can marry your sorry ass.

Respectful -- check, sort of.
Wholesome -- well, I think so.

So... whether or not you've been touched by his noodly appendage, I wish you all a belated Religious Freedom Day.

Why are autistics pissed off?

Karen McCarron was desperate, or so she said, when she put her three-year-old autistic daughter in the car for a ride. After a while she parked, put a plastic bag over her daughter's head, and suffocated her. That was the day before Mother's Day, 2006.

Four days earlier, Autism Speaks had released a short film, Autism Every Day. The documentary, full of unmanageable children and hopeless mothers, portrayed devastating images of families living with autism. Alison Tepper Singer, one of the mothers interviewed (and the executive vice president of Autism Speaks at the time) said the following:

“I remember that was a very scary moment for me when I realized I had sat in the car for about 15 minutes and actually contemplated putting Jodie in the car and driving off the George Washington Bridge. ... It’s only because of Lauren, because I have another child that I probably didn’t do it.”

She was speaking, by the way, in front of her autistic daughter. (6:10 minute mark)

Ali Elmezayen, on the other hand, wasn't desperate; just greedy. So, after purchasing six million dollars worth of life insurance, he rolled down his car window, drove his two autistic sons and his domestic partner off a Los Angeles pier, and then swam to safety himself. The boys didn't survive. A third son, not autistic, was away at camp. That was in July, 2019.

According to the Autism Self Advocacy Network (ASAN), 600 people with disabilities have been murdered by their parents or caregivers in the past five years. The problem is pressing enough that ASAN has published an anti-filicide toolkit. 

Murder of the disabled is unspeakable and unfortunately, it is timeless. But in the case of autistics, special credit for encouraging filicide goes to the one organization that was supposed to advocate for them: Autism Speaks. 

Yes, that Autism Speaks, the one with the puzzle pieces and the happy-go-lucky fundraising walks and the "Light it Up Blue" campaign every April.

Autism Speaks has ingrained American society with the stereotypical image of the autistic child: unresponsive, screaming, unmanageable, and not even really there. 

AS was formed in 2005 by Suzanne and Bob Wright (Bob Wright was an executive at NBC) after their grandson was diagnosed with autism. After an infusion of $25 million by Bernie Marcus -- the founder of Home Depot -- AS quickly became the organization purportedly advocating for the autism community.

Dollars that had previously gone to local organizations for family services were quickly siphoned off by AS and diverted to research, lobbying, and "education."

Autism Speaks wasn't interested in providing services. Its mission was to find the cause of autism and eradicate it. Among its highest priorities was research exploring the link between vaccines and autism. 

From the beginning, AS used fear to vilify what it saw as the scourge and tragedy of autism. The image we have of autism today is a direct result of this very effective campaign. 

AS's message was clear and consistent: Your child is gone now. And the burden of caring for what remains of them will inevitably lead to divorce, poverty, and constant shame. 

Consider this excerpt from AS's very dark 2009 video, "I am Autism." The mood is grim: The foreboding sound of a haunting wind. A relentless parade of lost-looking autistic kids. And, from a menacing narrator: 

I am autism. I’m visible in your children, but if I can help it, I am invisible to you until it’s too late. I know where you live. And guess what? I live there too. I hover around all of you. I know no color barrier, no religion, no morality, no currency. I speak your language fluently. And with every voice I take away, I acquire yet another language.

I work very quickly. I work faster than pediatric AIDS, cancer, and diabetes combined.  

And if you’re happily married, I will make sure that your marriage fails.Your money will fall into my hands, and I will bankrupt you for my own self-gain. I don’t sleep, so I make sure you don’t either. I will make it virtually impossible for your family to easily attend a temple, birthday party, or public park without a struggle, without embarrassment, without pain. ....

I am autism.... I derive great pleasure out of your loneliness. I will fight to take away your hope. I will plot to rob you of your children and your dreams. I will make sure that every day you wake up you will cry, wondering who will take care of my child after I die?  

In 2013, AS issued a "call to action" written by Suzanne Wright:

If three million children in America one day went missing -- what would we as a country do? .... These families are not living. They are existing. Breathing -- yes. Sleeping -- maybe. Working -- most definitely -- 24/7.  This is autism. Life is lived moment-to-moment. In anticipation of the child's next move. In despair. In fear of the future. This is autism.

Following Wright's statement (later removed from the website), the sole autistic in AS's leadership resigned in disgust. 

Autism Speaks has significantly cleaned up its act, and has actually done some good, but only under heavy pressure from the autistic community. The organization has yet to take responsibility for its dark history. And while AS finally conceded that there is no link between autism and vaccines, its priority is still research, lobbying, and education. A whopping 2% of its budget goes toward direct services for families. Far more goes for bloated executive salaries. 

AS buoyantly notes that it took the word "cure" out of its mission statement in 2016, and indeed autistics had been pressing for this because they don't see autism as a defect to be cured. However, AS doesn't acknowledge this perspective. They only say that they've stopped looking for a cure because they don't think they'll find one.

Meanwhile, AS has never allowed more than token representation by autistics on its board. There have never been more than 2 autistics on a board of 28, and currently there's just one. Imagine if the Ms. Foundation had only one woman on its board!

It's also troubling that some of the original board members still serve, and Suzanne Wright continues to be glorified as a hero on the website. So it's no wonder that autistic self advocates continue to condemn the organization. 

All in all, Autism Speaks has a long way to go before I light it up blue in April. 

Prepare to be counted and analyzed. The Donald has found a workaround.

Remember that pesky Census 2020 question about citizenship that Trump wanted to put on the census? And the courts stopped him?

Well, he found a workaround via executive order. And so, on December 20, the Department of Homeland Security quietly released a privacy assessment about an agreement to exchange information with the Census people.

Now, I figured there was something up Trump's sleeve, but I didn't expect it to be this pernicious. This isn't about gathering numbers anymore. It's about Donald Trump's executive agencies specifically matching names, addresses, social security numbers, visa applications, race, etc. etc. to decide whether you -- yes, you personally -- are a citizen of the US. 

Here's some of the language DHS buried in the middle of the report:

     The Census Bureau plans to use several administrative data sources of citizenship and immigration status in a statistical model that will produce a probability of being a U.S. citizen, a lawfully present non-citizen, or an unauthorized immigrant on April 1, 2020, for each person in the 2020 Census. The citizenship and immigration status probabilities will be used together with age, race, ethnicity, and location information from the 2020 Census . . . . 

     ... Person records in each administrative and survey data source, including the 2020 Census, will be validated and assigned a unique person identifier, called a PIK. The PIKs will be used to link each person’s citizenship information to his/her 2020 Census record. The validation process ... involves comparing records received by the Census Bureau to reference files using fields such as SSN or ITIN, name, date of birth, gender, and residential address.  

     ... The model will produce a citizenship and immigration status probabilities for each person, which will then be combined with age, race, ethnicity, and location information from the 2020 Census to produce the CVAP statistics.

In other words, the United States government is going to combine all the information it has about you (which is considerable), and then take a guess as to whether you're here illegally.

What could possibly go wrong?

DHS says that the purpose of this project is "to determine the number of citizens, lawfully present non-citizens, and unauthorized immigrants in the country."

Just the number? Just statistics?

Then why the need to create an identification profile for every single person at every single address?  Just so they can count us?

Or is it so they can go door to door and round up the people they think don't belong here?

It just keeps getting better and better.

AA as patriarchy?

Recently the New York Times ran an opinion piece by Holly Whitaker, a recovering alcoholic, titled "The Patriarchy of AA." Whitaker has been sober since 2013, but she didn't get sober through AA. As a woman in a male-dominated society, she already lacked power and had always been expected to accept things unquestioningly. A 12-step program, then, was the last thing she needed, and so she found sobriety another way.

Her thesis is that the twelve steps, formed within a patriarchical culture, are best designed to break down white male privilege, but can be destructive for women.

Whitaker is careful to point out that AA does work for many people, including many women. But she challenges the assumption that there is only one way to get sober.

And on that point she is absolutely right.

Earlier in my sobriety I felt really threatened by criticism of 12-step programs. For me, it was Stanton Peele's insistence that alcoholism is not a disease and that moderate drinking is an appropriate goal for alcoholics.

Peele's assertions scared me. What if he was right? What if this miraculous new life was an illusion, a mirage, and it would come crashing down because it never really worked to begin with?

Old timers assured me that any alcoholic who tried moderate drinking would fail.

But... what?

Many times I've heard people smugly predict that someone is going to drink again because they're not working the program the "right" way. I've done it myself. Even the founders were guilty of it, bemoaning the fact that an atheist was staying sober month after month.  "When, oh when is that guy going to get drunk?"

It's like we want them to fail. But do we, really? Would we rather the person die of alcoholism than demonstrate that there are other roads to recovery? I certainly hope not.

I no longer freak out if I read something heavily critical of 12-step recovery. I just remind myself that it's right for me. For all I know, it may be the only thing that works for me, so I'm disinclined to experiment. But AA as an organization has never claimed to have a monopoly on sobriety.

Criticism is nothing to be afraid of. It doesn't diminish my recovery in any way, as long as I keep doing what works for me. Recovery is not a zero sum game.

And if someone else finds a different road to recovery?

It means they get a second shot at life, too. And that's worth celebrating.

Kryptonite redux

Well, now. That was self-indulgent, wasn't it? For those who saw my last post (it made it all the way to 7 before I took it down), not to worry.  I'll be talking to the shrink about changing up my meds. And thank you for reining me in.

For those who didn't see it, here are the takeaways: First, our local roundup did a recovery show a few years ago that turned out being pretty magical, and I'm really proud of it because I wrote the original script. And second, Anita Mann is beautiful.

So there ya go. I love you all.

Is that a She-wee in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

And I thought it would bring down the patriarchy.

Remember oh, so long ago, when I did that post about female urinary devices, or FUDs? Of course you don't, so here it is.

I thought I would do an update - you know, see how the feminist uprising is coming along. Once women can pee standing up there's just no stopping us, right?

First, the bad news. The patriarchy is alive and well. You may have noticed that yourself along the way.

In other sad news: the Shenis appears to have gone to that great big ladies' lounge in the sky. A few artifacts have survived, though, including a Facebook page and an entry in the Urban Dictionary. Oh, and this rather disturbing YouTube commercial that demonstrates the reason for its demise better than I ever could.

Now for the good news: the uprising continues.  Time was, the only people who knew about female urinary devices were obscure bloggers desperate for a topic and, well, other pioneers like myself.

No more! The GoGirl, in particular, has flourished. She is readily available on Amazon. And at Walmart. And at Bed Bath and Beyond, for christ sake.

About the only person not hawking these things is the ShamWow guy.

Even Wish has a knockoff for two bucks plus shipping. (I'm tempted to do a YouTube review to see how it stacks up against the Shewee (10 colors!), the GoGirl (comes in khaki!), the P-Mate (disposable!), and the Tinkle Belle (ridiculously expensive!))

Meanwhile, the Equal Rights Amendment is coming back, and women are running for president. Coincidence? I think not.

The FUD is working. Hear us roar.