We Can't Have It Both Ways, Can We?

The opinion on Christmas from B.S., former speech-writer for President N., [I'll just let both of those hang and make of it what you will] is making the rounds of the e-mail in-boxes again, although it's several years old. It seems to work in nicely with a previous post of mine, so I'll complain about it here. Mr. S., although Jewish to the bone, doesn't mind being wished a Merry Christmas because it makes him feel all warm and cozy about his fellow Judeo-Christian [Where's the Islam there? Shouldn't it be Judeo-Christ-Islamist?] believers and that's what I was talking about earlier. That's very broad-minded of him to accept the greeting as kindly meant and good taste of him to enjoy those over-decorated trees.
Where he crosses the line, though, is to expect everyone to feel that way, especially atheists. He describes how Christians probably feel pushed around about showing their religion and equates it to how he doesn't like being pushed around for being Jewish. It seems, though, that he is completely unaware that non-religionists have been pushed around. Atheists are supposed to take it. Sitting in his "beach house" (to separate that from some other house he might have) he feels sorry for Christians, a vast majority, and not for the little people who are starting to push back. I don't like being pushed around for being an atheist, and so for years I just didn't mention it. Even as a child brought up Christian I had trouble with public displays of my religion because I was only too aware that there were people who didn't subscribe and I could see myself in their shoes. Mr. S. seems to think looking at it from his shoes alone is good enough.
I'll grant you that some of our number could stand to shut up, even some intelligent high-profile ones. And Christians are free to complain about political correctivity swinging the wrong way on them, but they've had their day in the sun and their chance to run things better. And there were still hurricanes, floods, famines, and pogroms.
We worry about current events precisely because they are current and we base past experience on our childhood memories of being totally clueless. The 1950s were not the halcyon days of nuclear families and religious devotion. They were years of Cold War and witch hunts, peoples' lives ruined by rumor mongering. Do I remember any of that? Of course not, I was sent to bed before Huntley and Brinkley came on! The 1960s were years of political upheaval over the Vietnam War and Civil Rights. I do remember that, because I was sickened by images of war during the dinner hour. Fortunately, our area of Kentucky was not torn apart by riots ... like those of the white Bostonians rejecting school integration. This means, however, that I put out of my mind what wasn't happening in my happy little galaxy. I remember my home and family.
What is happening, contrary to what Mr. S. believes, is that there is a whole lotta demagoguery going on. People are being whipped up on both sides by individuals who enjoy power. These people scaremonger, but not with anything so blatantly ridiculous as the destruction of Christianity, because only the mentally ill would believe that could possibly happen (and on the other side, only the mentally ill atheists could believe Christianity in particular or religion in general can be toppled), but they start with little things, like the alleged War on that Holiday celebrating the birth of You Know Who. Everybody can get behind Christmas! Christmas is harmless! Why, even that Jewish guy with the beach house likes Christmas! If you can get people to believe the little lies, then the big ones becomes that much easier to swallow. If you believe the atheists are out to ban That Holiday, you can be easily led to believe that all religious holidays are up for the chop. And then you can believe these people are un-American. Then you think your elected officials should take a stand on the issue, and their seasonal greetings should say a certain phrase. And then you start scrutinizing what these officials do about their greeting cards, totally missing what they're up to on matters that do fall within their purview, like fixing the economy, or at least making sure that greed will not be given free rein to create "exotic financial speculations" again.
So what are atheists up to? Hell's bells, even if we were organized it would be impossible to say. There are as many kinds of atheists as there are religions. They all become atheists different ways: some are born into atheist families, some wake up one day and ask themselves whether they really believe all that, some wrestle with their beliefs ... and win, and some have had bad experiences. Some drop their faith suddenly, sometimes faith fades slowly away. Mostly I think these people want the right not to be marginalized. We're all hopping on that civil rights bandwagon that seems to be so handy. You wouldn't fault black people for having been marginalized all those centuries, would you? You wouldn't say, "Look, there are just more white people, so just go with the flow and keep your mouth shut. We're tired of hearing about all we've done wrong or are doing wrong and we aren't going to change anything just to make you happy. 'Majority,' ever hear of it? So stop making us feel bad."
Okay, maybe some of you would say that.

Oops, forgot to post this ages ago!

Just a Quick Kvetch

I was buying a large jar of catnip (I can mention this now that the presents have been handed out) at K-Mart (where I go first before braving the insanity that is Wal-Mart) and was actually being checked out in a timely fashion (!!!) when the clerk asked me what catnip did to cats. "Oh, it gets them all excited and then they go all relaxed," I said, because I don't think anyone has successfully written a government grant to study this. I added, "My grandmother used to drink a cup of catnip tea when she wasn't feeling well."
The woman behind me said, "You know what catnip really is?"
And right there I was glad that I didn't add my grandmother used to meow after taking a sip to tease my mom.
"A phamacist told me," she announced smugly, "that catnip is the bad stuff left over from the marijuana. I used to let my son make tea with it, but I don't anymore. Not after hearing that." [As if there's a "bad" part to marijuana that's thrown away.]
I humphed. "No, it's not. Catnip is a plant from the mint family. I've grown it. It's nothing like marijuana."
"Well that's what the pharmacist told me."

I let that go. I'm still wondering how that information got garbled.
Did she make it up out of whole cloth?
Was the pharmacist pulling her leg thinking she'd be much to intelligent to really fall for that?
Was he suspecting that her son only called the stuff catnip because she'd found some substance in his room and gave it to said pharmacist to check it out?
Did the pharmacist actually mean "It's the equivalent of 'marijuana' for cats"?

For the rest of y'all, be assured that catnip is an herb from the mint family with the familiar square stem of the rest of the mints. You can buy it anywhere, including economically large jars of it at K-Mart. You can grow it in your yard without experiencing any awkward visits from Drug Enforcement (unlike those who grow the harmless and useful hemp plants that look like marijuana, have absolutely no drug effects, but are still illegal because of the resemblance).

Decades ago when the anti-drug programs were being foisted (and, I thought, wasted) on me, I wondered why I needed to know what uppers, downers, LSD, and marijuana looked like. Even as a teen I thought this would only make it easier to make a drug transaction (not falling for the oregano ... OR CATNIP in the baggie). I was a sanctimonious little horror for whom pressing her eyeballs until she saw colors was interesting enough. But now I see it would have been important so that when I became a mother and I chanced upon a ziploc of dried herb while nosing through my child's room I would not fall for the old, "It's just catnip to make tea!" And then, when that child wanted to know how I got so I could tell the difference, I could say, "When I was your age, they showed us what it looked like in special drug-identification classes." And I'd go mix me a margarita and put my feet up.

Yeah, lady, I was a child of the 60s! Don't try to tell me about catnip!

See if you can tell the difference!

Wrestling with Christmas

Kathy contemplates the Meaning of Sensitivity

In Re: Snarky comments from friends.
Comment #1: "For an atheist, you sure know a lot of Christmas songs."
Comment #2: "Funny how many atheists celebrate Christmas."

Snappy (okay, not so snappy, more dilatory) retort to #1: It wasn't my idea to sing Christmas songs all the way back from Spartanburg.
Snappy (ditto) retort to #2: Funny how many Christians are actually celebrating Solstice with a Jesus veneer.

As an atheist, I feel perfectly entitled to put up an evergreen tree in the manner of my Germanic ancestors and celebrate the return of the sun in a dark and gloomy time of year. If I still call this holiday "Christmas," it's out of habit. Without the tree, the decorations, the twinkly lights, the dark would be unbearable.

I was, however, cheered to hear Nina Totenberg singing a Christmas song on NPR this Saturday morning. I remember thinking, Gosh, I thought she was Jewish! And she is, but her mother liked Christmas songs and Christmas trees. And there is much to like about them. When I was growing up, we had a Christmas songbook in the house and although I was unable to read music, I could read the words and had a good memory for a tune. I spent many a December singing Christmas songs. I loved to sing and I prefer old songs to new ones.

So, anyway, if Nina Totenberg can put up a tree or sing Christmas songs, then I can too. But that doesn't mean I think everyone should. I wouldn't call an isolated instance of a Jewish family with a tree and a few songs reason for all Jewish people to start putting up trees and singing "Adeste Fideles." That's up to them. I can only govern my own behavior.


The New Madrigal Voyces Edition of the Blonde Shikseh
The above photo was taken during my madrigal group's Christmas concert in Beaufort, SC in the early 1980s. Didn't have a problem singing the Gaudete then, don't have it now.

As a civilized being, if someone wishes me a Merry Christmas, I will return the greeting, the same as if they wished me Happy Hanukkah or Eid or Kwanzaa or July 4th. I might even thank them. I will not, however, wear the "It's okay to say Merry Christmas" button, because it's okay to say it to some people and not to others, others who perhaps recall a history of persecution by misguided Christians. You wouldn't wish someone a Happy Mother's Day if they'd just lost a child, would you? It pays to know something about the person you're laying a loaded greeting on. I've seen bad reactions from Jewish friends to Christmas songs ("Please don't start singing them until December!" - well, I agree with that) and cards ("Why are you sending me a Christmas card when you know I'm Jewish?" - Did that card say "Christmas" on it anywhere? Don't be such a touchy butthole!).

It would be presumptive of me to think everyone should be open to this ... and a little presumptive of the other side to think I would mean ill by it, but the onus is still on my side of the net because I started it. Because I started it, I get defensive. And that is what I think is happening now. Having gone for decades of their lives wishing people a "Merry Christmas" willy-nilly, people are mystified to discover that occasionally this gesture was unwelcome for one reason or another. In typical human behavior (see my reaction to the holiday card above), we don't apologise. Instead, we blame the victim for being overly-sensitive when it is our own insensitivity that has caused the irritation. By God, they should accept that greeting! We hadn't meant any offense! Besides, they should believe in Jesus anyway! Do 'em some good! Lighten up, infidels! Because the President of a patchwork nation of different peoples puts "Happy Holidays" or "Season's Greetings" on the intensely impersonal bulk greeting card, some Christians are up in arms and start blaming ... the atheists. It's the atheists' fault that honest, well-intentioned Christians cannot go around wishing anyone they damn well please a Merry Christmas. And that is because the atheists have declared a War on Christmas. (Gosh! I missed that meeting!) There was an actual abolition of Christmas; it was by the Puritan parliamentarians in 1640, a bunch of Christian kill-joys if ever there were. They claimed (rightly) that Christmas wasn't a holiday mentioned in or commanded by the Bible and felt people were having too much food, drink, shenanigans, and goings-on. Instead, people should fast and think about their past sins. (Thinks about past sins and a dirty little smile sneaks across face.)

So what is my problem? You know what? I don't think I'm the one with the problem. What business is it of anyone else what holidays I celebrate and how? I'm not sacrificing chickens (nothing intrinsically wrong with that, it's just, well, yuck!) or dancing naked (okay, maybe I am, but you don't have to look). You mind your bidness and I'll mind mine. And let's try to live in harmony, which does not mean "all on the same note."

Shhh! Don't Tell the Middle Schoolers!

On my other blog, the Staff Developomendo one, I have been reviewing books. I was required to start reading and reviewing YA/teen books and actually found some that were good, some that were really good, and some that were really good but I just couldn't bear to read them. My latest post there reviews a book about a Muslim girl who makes the choice to wear the headscarf (note I'm avoiding the use of terminology in case the darlings are searching on that term). I'm not putting the title in here because the little dickens hunt the internet for pre-fab book reports. In fact, according to Lijit.com, my book reviews are the most popular posts in any of my blogs.
The books I seem to enjoy the most are the ones that pat me on the back for my own world view and, consequently, wedge nicely into this blog.

The lead character's mother points out that some "people are paralyzed by their traditions and customs. It's all they know, so you can't judge them for following and believing what they know." She refers to Leila's mother discouraging school and wanting Leila to pick a husband and marry ... at age 16. But this is a lesson for all of us, especially me. Many of the people I see every day are like village people (not THE Village People, of course) who have only known this town, their friends and family, their religion. I should try harder to not judge them.
Also, the author makes an important point (one that I make, so you know it has to be important!) when Amal is asked to give a presentation explaining how Islam justifies the bombing in Bali. She retorts that she will do that if the Christian will give a speech on the Ku Klux Klan and then goes on to mention Israeli soldiers and the IRA. She left out the Jew who shot up the Mosque, and the Spanish Inquisition, and ... but you get the picture. I am grateful to her for the KKK reference, because although they were more recent I'd completely forgotten them and I just read Freakonomics which gave a detailed report of how many lynchings of blacks occurred per decade. Granted, they fell off as KKK membership increased, but only because the previous decades of violence had cowed the population. Not happy to terrorize just the black population, the KKK moved on to Jews and Catholics, because white and Protestant was considered "superior." Then there was the church bombing in Birmingham. Don't try to tell me Muslims arranged that! I can hear people crying out, "But they weren't real Christians; real Christians wouldn't do that!" Bingo. My point exactly. It takes all kinds to make up a world or a religion (or a non-religion). And you can't ... I mean, I can't go around blaming a whole religion for what a few did.
A few years back the annoying owner of an electronics store who likes to put annoying political messages on his sign put up something to the effect that while not all Muslims are terrorists, all terrorists ... well, you can see where that's going. My husband and I were outraged. My husband went in and revoked his custom, as it were. He'd had equipment in for repair. The reaction was, "But you aren't Muslim." Even someone, a nice person, said, "But it's true."
You just want to bang your head on the counter. How soon we forget! And how completely.

Stupidy, Stupidy, Stupidy

I have this hanging over my desk at home, over my computer, as a reminder. I made it myself on Publisher, so the Greek isn't perfect - it ain't got the diacritical marks, or whatever they is. One day I saw this yardstick frame at Wal-Mart (back when I used to frequent Wal-Mart, before it became Wally-World, bigger than Alaska, requiring huskies and a GPS to navigate, and left an enormous empty shopping center on the other side of town) and thought it was perfect. I had also read an interview of Yehudi Menuhin in BBC Music Magazine and this quote jumped right out at me. So this is a primitive, real life mash-up.

The Greek means: Of all things the measure is man. I took Ancient Greek a coupla decades ago to see if Aristophanes was as funny in the original as in translation. (He is.) There's more to translation than just changing one word after another into another language, as those of us who use Babelfish or Google Translate or some other automatic device have come to understand. For one thing, there is interpretation. Protagoras does not mean that Man is the example from which all other things are judged. He means pretty much what Yehudi Menuhin is saying: that a person cannot judge anything except by his/her own experience. Menuhin takes a little longer to say that this experience colors that person's perception. Because Menuhin's interviewers had unhappy childhoods, they assume that his must have been unhappy as well.

I have taken this to heart, as you can tell by these framed quotes I keep in a prominent place (I spend hours in front of them). I use them as a yardstick for my own opinions and I have caught myself many times being guilty of this sort of prejudice. My main weakness is stupidity. I absolutely hate it when I am stupid, which is fairly often, really. This self-loathing can be debilitating, so instead of being more careful or more reflective, I project my anger on what I perceive as the stupidity of others. I try to stop myself doing this, take a breath, and remind little me that I make stupid assumptions also or act without thinking.
But ...
I can remain silent no longer.

Of all the stupid, stupid, stupid things I've heard lately is that this election of Barrack Obama is a signal of the End Times. I hear this at work (okay, not that strange, living in the Bible belt), read urban legend debunkings of Nostradamus spams, and I've even heard it on Second Life-of-all-places. In my memory, they've been presaging the End of the World since that idiotic The Late Great Planet Earth book came out in the 1970s and all the Christian-types in college were going on and on about it. Well, Hal Lindsey's deadline has done come and went, chilluns. I didn't give it much of a thought at the time because apparently the brand of Christianity espoused by my family was more of a Say Your Prayers, Behave Yourself and Be Considerate of Others flavor. I don't remember anyone making any kind of a fuss over the End Times, probably because they were like death - something you have no control over, so why worry about it?
I was asked at one point, "What would you think if 20% of the population suddenly disappeared one day?" Ummm, Good Riddance?

So naturally I'm greeting reports of people running out and buying up guns since the election results came out with my characteristic eye-rolling. It's all good for the economy, I suppose. In the midst of the Millennial Panic the most I did was buy a small, disposable alcohol stove which could come in handy in the event of another ice storm which we're prone to in this neck of the woods.

So what do I worry about? Oh, my retirement. I keep telling myself that economic thingummies are cyclical and this too shall pass. With any luck, I'll be able to retire during an upswing. Then again, maybe I'll drop dead before that. My mom said "You always worry about the wrong thing!" - meaning "you" in the sense of "a person." Me, I assiduously worry about everything hoping they will all turn out to be wrong.

And the rest of y'all? Use your heads, people! In the Middle Ages the Black Death killed off a minimum of 30% of the European population, a mini-ice age brought on starvation and was followed by global warming, the ruling classes plied their profession with rampant brutality, in the name of Faith torture and murder by Christians on their fellow Christians as well as non-believers were by-words, and if that didn't bring on the End of the World, I don't think we have anything to worry about now. It's All About You, innit? Well, it's time to look outside your house, your neighborhood, your church, your religion, your city, your state, your country, your landmass, your century ... and look at the Whole Picture. This world is going to end, and no one can know the time or the how. It might be one of them asteroidy things. So just shut up about it, mind your own p's and q's, help your fellow man whether here or somewhere you've never even heard of, and pray if you got 'em.

Yeah, or she'll scratch your eyes out!

I Stand Corrected

It has been pointed out to me that the loony Anti-Hallowienies are in a minority, even in this area, and that I'm not making anyone happier by complaining about them. The world is full of nice people, who are Christians, who enjoyed the make-believe of childhood and think the current crop of children deserve to have the same fun. Hurray for them and an eclair for both of us (yum)! They just don't come up to me after the Halloween storytime and say, "That was so much fun! Thank you for doing that."
No, wait. They do. In fact, they did that today.
Ummmmmmm ... nevermind. I take it all back.

But as happens everywhere, in all times, the retraction gets no recognition. The debunking of satanic abuse stories mined by Recovered Memory Therapy (now discredited as a technique because the therapist has ways of suggesting possible memories which the subject obligingly produces) squeaks away unheeded in the darkness.

Don't Listen to This Man

He just doesn't understand candy! Candy corn is one of my favorites (but ONLY this time of year) and make awesome vampire teeth, hillbilly teeth, nose plugs, etc.
The particular hard candies pictured used to be my favorites, but I can't eat them now because anything that requires sucking on rubs holes in my mouth. I can eat one hard candy per day maximum.
I'd eat Necco wafers all year long, and as for the fun-size candies - fun-size must refer to his ... brain.
We give out atomic fireballs at our house because we just love 'em and we hate greedy bastard children. Kids with a sense of humor will love the atomic fireballs either for a palette cleanser after all the cheap chocolate or to bring tears to the eyes of their friends.
I remember Hallowe'en as some of the happiest times of my life, even with apples, raisins, and those horrible popcorn balls. Categorizing the candy and rating it was part of the fun! And you ate the icky stuff first and put the Mars candy bars in the freezer because they were awesome frozen and shattered with a hammer.
So, don't listen to this Ed Levine idiot! Kids like quantity of candy and as long as they can have a few goodies they'll be happy.

What in the Samhain?!

I don't even like zombie movies, but I dress up for Halloween in Second Life.

There was a slight problem with storytime recently. I had a family walk out on my "If you're scary and you know it" song because they "don't celebrate Halloween." I know these people are out there. Usually they don't come to storytimes during October. Five minutes later a grandmother showed up with a child who was allowed to "make a face, show his fangs, etc." so I got to do it after all. I don't suppose it would have bothered me to the point of lashing out at the mother if she hadn't kept repeating that she didn't "want to be disrespectful." That "but I will" hangs in the air, doesn't it? She said it over and over and all I was hearing was "disrespect" - although I'm not sure whose actions it described.
This is like when my dad was telling me I was a good girl. "You're a good kid, you are. You are awfully good! Awfully, awfully, awfully good." I heard the "awfully" part and I heard it as "awful." So what I was hearing from this mom was "disrespect." I told her it was all right, but that she didn't need to repeat it.
No, she could make her apologies and just leave quietly. I have nothing to say to someone from some bizarre cult that abjures innocuous celebrations because of ignorance and hearsay and thereby engenders unnatural fears in her children that this holiday silliness is real, lending it much more power than wearing masks and making believe ever could.
But I could be wrong.

Being an honest person, I feel compelled to investigate my knee-jerk reactions and hold them up to scrutiny. In the opinion of this town (if they were aware of it), I too belong to a cult. I am a non-Christian in the holes of the strap of the Bible-belt. I've been to meetings that start with Christian prayers. I'm hounded by proselytizers. I'm asked stupid questions ("Are Catholics Christian? My preacher says they worship Mary."). There's a fragmentary church on every corner, exhibiting the definition of paranoia, blaming everything outside yourself: Those people are wrong and are going to hell; we are the only ones who know the right way (and I'm not too sure about you). The churches get smaller and smaller. They believe slavishly what they are told. They don't want to think for themselves, either because they don't trust their abilities to reason or they're just plain lazy. Again, that's just my opinion.

Most of these people have not ventured far from home and don't realize that there are other valid ways of life. I'm not saying that going begging from house to house and accumulating more candy than someone should reasonably consume in six months and scarfing it down in a matter of days is a good idea. It was, however, a cherished memory of childhood. Children enjoy being scared under safe circumstances. Having some sort of major holiday each month to mark the passage of time or to use as a teaching point is a good idea. Ancient traditions must have something important that they bring to our lives if they have been kept up this long and, as long as they aren't hurting anyone (other than making us enormously fat), are nice to keep.

I do believe in gorging oneself before winter, putting up lights and decorations to cheer the darkest part of the year, and celebrating new life in the spring. Therefore, I decorate for Christmas, I return the greeting when people wish me happy Christmas, I can sing carols, go to Christmas parties, send out cards (carefully not mentioning Christmas), do Christmas storytimes, and get all teary over the Christmas Story. Just don't make me do any praying or show up at your worship service. I will wait respectfully while you pray, but leave me out of it. So, when someone takes their holier-than-thou stand with me, I will get a bit huffy. I think, I've put up with you [insert rude plural noun here] down here for eighteen years and I'm getting fed up with it. You're only doing it to get attention.

Let me ask myself an honest question: Would I tell Christmas stories to little Jewish kids (despite the unlikeliness of this happening in my current location)? Hmmm, I've got me there. No, I would not do that and would not rail against it if their mom got up and said, "We don't do Christmas." Of course, I do give Alex a hard time for giving me a hard time over the "Christmas card." "Why did you send me a Christmas card when you know I'm Jewish?!" I didn't send you a Christmas card, Alex, I sent a Season's Greetings card with a Hanukkah stamp to let you know that I am well and I'm thinking about you although I wonder why if you're going to be such a butthole about it and next time it might be the Eid stamp, so watch it.

Anyway, are these examples actual equivalents? Let's look at this again.
Halloween: an American holiday that up until a short time ago was celebrated almost universally with happy, over-sugared children in schools, neighborhoods, and even churches. Currently linked to Satanism through spurious so-called histories and urban legends, but more likely a conspiracy of the candy manufacturers, dentists, and the weight-loss industry.
Christmas: an almost world-wide holiday celebrated only by Christians who have been historically documented less than 400 years ago to burn at the stake people who would not adhere to the exact dogma espoused by the local authorities (and let's remember that Protestants did their fair share of torture and murder as well, so don't get all "Those were Catholics, not us!" on me).
I don't see a real comparison, do you?

But it's time to put myself under the microscope and find my own prejudices. Ah, and there it is looking me right in the eye: July Fourth. I've written about this in another blog. Patriotism is right up there with religion as far as dangerous hobbies go. Red, white, and blue is a terrible color combination and love of country has unfortunately turned into a litmus test. Do I have pride in my country? Of a sort. It might not be like yours, waving the flag and talking about how wonderful it all is and cheering on the politicians of choice. Again, it takes into account that there are other ways of living that are just as valid. I don't want to praise my country to the detriment of another. What about the American people? I feel a kinship with them that I don't feel for those of my forebears. Germans are scary and talk funny. Americans share a common culture with me (except those non-Halloweenie people), but I do not say that this culture we share is better than anyone else's. It's just one that we share. Our government? It's messy, but it works well enough and doesn't seem to be any better or worse than anyone else's.
Would I go to a Fourth of July party? Well, it's a party, isn't it? You betcha! Would I wave a flag? Maybe, but flag-waving makes me uncomfortable. I'd sing the few patriotic songs I know because I learned them in school, although the national anthem is starting to get out of my range. It would help if I could feel good about my country again, if it didn't invade other countries or bomb other countries (perhaps I should be grateful we don't bomb ourselves but maybe that's next), or continually bully other countries into doing something (not that we're the only ones who do this) they'd rather not, even if they're being really naughty. I don't think I'd be described as patriotic by most people and that wouldn't really bother me.
The salient point, though, is that I would not show up at a friend's picnic in early July and then walk out on it because it was a July Fourth Party. "Sorry, I just don't do patriotism. I don't mean to be disrespectful ..."


I'm embarrassed to be caught at a Fourth of July Party in Second Life. OMG! I'm even waving a sparkler!

Jonathan Miller Is Dead Wrong

Well, let's just say, "That's his opinion."
I have always (well, at least since the 1970s) thought of Miller as a genius and a hero. Who else could make John Cleese, at the height of his cranky goofiness, into a sex symbol by casting him as Petruchio and then having him play it dead straight (save the chicken clucking instance)? Cor, that would take godlike powers! I was on tenterhooks as the crew rushed to tear off the mask and bring him back after an apparently deadly demonstration on the effects of removing the carbon dioxide feedback from the body's emergency response. I had memorized the skits in "Beyond the Fringe" and even performed in one in a college theatre class.
So when my friend Alison said they could still get tickets to "An Evening with Jonathan Miller" at Regent's College if I was still interested (it was a week after my father had died while I was in London), I said "Hell yes!"
I had pictured a large, darkened lecture hall and a tiny figure on a stage with a podium he would probably ignore. Instead, it was a small conference room in full lighting with a comfy chair and a bar at the back. Fortunately, orange juice was available because I'd tied one on the night before with Lorraine and I don't really need to do that two nights in a row.
We met Alison at the Baker Street station, because we had no idea where we were going. She led us through Regent's Park to the entrance to the college where her other friend Jonathan (no relation, or at least not one he mentioned) awaited us. The man with the reservations, Alex, showed up a bit later. Alex had apparently caused quite a stir trying to get tickets, having to call successive numbers and wheedle information out of people. The lecture was probably London's best kept secret. Then he had to call again on the day of the lecture to squeeze out two more tickets. This must have caused the organizer to come to the utterly false conclusion that this was on the behalf of two important but incognito foreign dignitaries.
Dr. Miller came in early to scout out the venue and sample the oj and I fancied he gave me a Special Smile. Later, he was dragged to our group by the organizer who introduced him to Alex and then he inquired as to who had come from the farthest away. For one awful moment I thought of Alison, who is Australian, but she's been living in London for eight years now. I believe I jumped up and down and squealed, "That's meeeeeee!" totally forgetting my long-suffering husband and channeling Dr. Dick Hertz. We had an absolutely exquisite chat where I swooned all over him and expressed my concern about the demonstration in "The Body in Question" and he allowed that four people since he did that demonstration had died as a result. About this time I totally lost consciousness and started speaking to him in an uncharacteristic southern US accent. It was one of the happiest moments of my life (that did not involve Indian food ... or my husband).
His lecture began perhaps a little far back, with his father's history and career in groundbreaking psychology. Then he decided he'd talked about himself enough and entertained questions from the small but adulatory audience. Oh, and one crank case who reminded me of the late Greenwoodlian, Dr. Marvin Chipley, only slightly more together. My husband and I sat nodding happily through Dr. Miller's views on just about everything: education is now complete bosh (hear hear!), there is no god and what a silly notion that is (amen, brother!), "concepts" are ruining theatre (oh, oh, oh! that gives me an idea!), the only things that are worth learning are the things that are difficult (took that one right to heart and planned a rant all around it). Then he expressed, cheerfully, his utter regret at having given up on his medical career and that is right where he lost me. Theatre was just too easy, and, as we heard, the easy things aren't the worthwhile ones.
I suppose he has a right to his own regrets. Far be it from me to dictate his emotions. What he is not taking into account is two-fold.
Number one: Theatre is easy for him because he did all the difficult research on it in his medical career. He studied human behavior in all its minuteness and made the lateral leap with that hard-earned background into its use in theatre thereby improving productions such as "The Taming of the Shrew" with John Cleese beyond all knowing. He managed to take an English translation of Cosi fan tutte (anathema! anathema!) and make it palatable to me who believes that any opera translation is an abomination and a true lover of opera will take the time to learn the bloody language it's in so no time will be wasted on the supertitles and the beauty of the mixture of music and the language it was written for will blaze through. Where was I? Oh.
Oh, yes, it might be easy ... for him ... now. On top of this is his ability to communicate it to the performers and amaze them with the simplicity of something that is, in fact, not simple at all. It is not even simple to be yourself when you are confronted by a group of people who are focused on everything you say or do and, if it doesn't interest them, will lose that interest in you. Much more difficult is being someone else, or one of your many other yous. Suddenly you have to think about how you are moving, the subtleties of speech, and what your next line is. After you've done this for years then, yes, it's easy.
But no, it's not trivial. And therein lies my second point.
As a neurologist or any other sort of doctor, you are limited by the number of people you can actually see as patients in your lifetime. In a much shorter spate of time, Dr. Miller has brought joy, laughter, and a vastly improved "The Taming of the Shrew" to millions. I suppose if he continued in medicine and developed some treatment, some cure, some insight into disease he could possibly reach the same amount of people. That, I think, is what we in the US call a "crapshoot."
Perhaps what he means is that theatre isn't serious. It just doesn't carry the gravitas of medicine. I take issue with that as well. I believe we are much the poorer as humans without good theatre or any of the other arts. The body keeps the mind alive, the mind keeps the body in good order, but the arts are what make us human, civilized beings who think beyond where their next curry is coming from (although I have to admit that is pretty crucial). They instruct and elevate. They are not trivial.
I've been to doctors and I've had therapy and it's all been very helpful. I, however, would just as soon have a good laugh, get totally engrossed in a good book, or somehow be taken out of myself for a short time. All this makes my life bearable. I hug the memories of his "easy" work to me and they make me smile. So all in all I'm glad Dr. Miller made the greatest mistake in his life.
That being said, Dr. M, any chance of a bunk-up?

In Memoriam

Mmmm, That's Bass

Here I am in Manhattan, where I lived for 3 years. Okay, can't really prove it. You'll just have to take my word for it. I do my best to tell the truth.

It's a shame I don't have any photos from New York. There is no proof that I lived in Manhattan and no pretty pictures to make this story less wordy. Besides, it starts back in South Carolina with the Wicked Step-Ex-Boyfriend, or WSEB as he shall hitherto be known. Before I go on with this story, in the interest of fairness I will point out that the WSEB has actually apologised to me, in writing, for the whole shebang. In his defense, he pointed out that he was going through some turmoil at the time. In his defense, I point out that I can be a rather substantially-sized pain in the patootie.

Our main problem had been an inability to break up. I blame him for this. He directed the relationship and if he said we were broken up, then, by Om, we were bloody well broken up. He had, however, made some plans to attend a professional conference and for me to meet him there before breaking up our relationship. It seemed a shame not to have me around. He was planning to do some networking and he was hoping I could help. Probably a large part of our breaking-up problem was that we were so damned civilized about it. "Sure," I said. "Happy to help." Besides, it was in South Carolina and not too terribly far away from where I lived. It wouldn't actually put me out.

I had recently been outlet shopping with my sister and had purchased (on the strength of being a single woman again) a wonderful dress that was strapless and backless and held up solely by the power of molecular attraction. It was mostly white with tiny stripes of color running through it diagonally. The bodice clung and the skirt fanned out alla Donna Reed. I was on an Amalfi binge in those days and had some white heeled sandals with teensy straps. Yeah, okay - not Jimmy Chu or whatever, but I really liked the style Amalfi put out and they were all leather, so they would be good for dancing. (My feet now shudder at the memory of dancing in such things.) I brought this outfit along.

I actually attended at least one session at this conference, which was not in my field, and argued with the WSEB later about it. My main job, though, came up at the wine and cheese (Free booze? I'm there!) reception. My former beau explained that he would be chatting up future interviewers and my job was to line up the next one for him. He gave me a list of people he wanted cornered and the order he wanted them in. We all wore those adhesive, "Hello, My Name Is" labels. This is just the sort of thing I am utterly unable to do for myself. However, doing it for someone else is something radically different and seemed like fun. They were all men, so I would hold his drink for him and point my strapless bodice at the next victim. You'd think that what with all of them being professional psychologists that they would not fall for this. You'd think they'd say to themselves, "Look at that brazen and not-that-attractive hussy thinking she can point her highbeams at me and lure me to her!" No, men seem to be men. They were front and center in less than two minutes and I would charm their professional socks off of them until the WSEB was done with the previous employment candidate. To this day I wonder if they got together later and compared notes. "Did you see how that one guy brought a babe with him to line up interviews? How much you think he paid her? Ya think she was a pro?"

It wasn't a long evening, just one of those six-to-eighters where people drift off when the wine runs out. The WSEB didn't have many people he wanted to chat up and soon I was left holding his plastic cup and plastic hors d'oeurves plate with nothing to do. I noticed that there was another young person who was at loose ends and I leaned forward to check his nametag. It said "David Wechsler Revised." Ahhh, an alias! I recognized the Wechsler Revised as one of the intelligence tests the WSEB had studied. He had studied them by testing his friends, me being one of them at the time. (His conclusion was that I was an "underachiever.") I turned the same machinegun turrets on David Wechsler Revised I used on the others and beamed. "I know enough to know that can't be your name," I said cheekily.

He invited me to some radio station wingding that was going on in another part of the hotel. I had to admit that I was "sort of" with someone, but that it wasn't anything serious. I picked up the WSEB's reaction on my radar. He was disturbed. But David Wechsler Revised and I had a nice chat, exchanged numbers, and it was a long time before we met up again, but we did get together.

The next day, the WSEB apologised for his reaction. He admitted that he had said that our relationship was over and I certainly was free to find someone else and that perhaps he was having trouble letting go. And he had been drunk. And so was I. He had managed to score some interviews and it looked like he would be able to move to an area even closer to where I was living. Shortly after he moved within 100 miles of me, I moved to New York. That relationship was just not getting the chance to die the death.

Now, I told you that whole story, as Bill Cosby says, to tell you this one.

It was in New York that I ran into David Wechsler Revised. He was from Manhattan and had gotten a job as a liaison between a corporation and a group that supplied the less mentally abled into the workforce. His job was to keep tabs on, among other people, the mailroom guy who came to the office where I was holding a temporary job and hung around me, nominally creeping me out.

David Wechsler Revised and I met for drinks one night. Thrifty person that I am (or is that "cheap date"?), it was my intention to order a beer and nurse it for a while. I asked the waitress what they had on tap and stopped her litany at the Bass Ale. "Oooo, I'll have a Bass!" I said, thinking it would be smooth and filling. David Wechsler Revised, who had been bingeing with friends the night before, ordered an Amaretto and soda, hoping it would not reopen any wounds. This meant nothing to me. I had a good friend (also male) who regularly ordered Amaretto Sours because he wasn't much of a drinker and they were tasty. At least, he claims they were. Amaretto is something I use in baking, not drinking. But what other people opt to imbibe is up to them. The waitress, however, said, "Oh, Role Reversal tonight?" I thought that was pretty funny, but David Wechsler Revised took it in the gonads. "Geez!" he said. "Geez!" This went on for quite a while. Another trained psychologist allowing himself to be manipulated by chance comments (or wanton mammaries)! He never got over this and claimed that she was not getting a tip from him. (I actually sympathize. I've been the target of a humorous waitress myself. It was a Girls' Night Out and as the orders went around the table they were all for a "White wine." When it came to me I ordered a pitcher of beer, figuring I'd order once and not have to keep calling her back for another leg like the others were bound to do. Besides, it's more economical in a pitcher. Said the waitress, "You wanna straw with that?" Nope, she wasn't getting a tip from me.)

I was reminded of this story tonight when we met friends for dinner at Orde's of London. Our cat sitter had made a date with a customer at her place of business a couple of weeks ago and had met at this restaurant for a drink where she would then try to talk him out of a first date dinner at Captain D's. To my mind, the suggestion of Captain D's for any meal was a permanent deal breaker, but my friend ... has no man-sense apparently. She ordered herself a Chardonnay and waited. When her date arrived, he asked for a beer and then became incensed at the price Orde's was charging: $4.00. He couldn't let it go and eventually he had to leave to go drink somewhere cheaper. Abandoning her is a deal breaker for my friend, but she likes having a good story to tell. Last week we were at Disney World staying in the Sheraton Mouse Prison (don't get me staaated), The Dolphin, where a beer or glass of wine was $8 and a soda was $5 at the conference reception. I had to text her to tell her to tell her "friend" that the beer was $8 out here.

I'm really no better than her date. I went on and on about the price of a drink and the price of everything else there, totally ruining my own vacation. The killer was the $10 per exit charge for self-parking that, in the end, didn't even turn up on our bill. But each time we left the park my mind went "ka-ching!" and I added the cost to our dinner bill or the run to the drug store or my bead store trips. My only excuse is that I am not a professional psychologist. It should be easy to manipulate me and make me unhappy. Well, not really "easy." And not "should." In fact, I think I'll go work on that. My own shrink says I need to have a good, long talk with that person in the mirror.

Well, if I have time ...

The Day I Threw a Table at My Sister

Cartoon that pretty much sums up my relationship with my sister.

For the record, I did go through a period of time when I was about 15 that I lifted weights. I think that lasted 10 minutes. I am built like my dad, large muscles over a sturdy frame. My sister was built like my dad ... on grow pills. She was at least three inches taller than he was. I was visiting her home in Greensboro and was about to sit down in a recliner when I saw the little table next to it had a broken strut. "Oh, when did that happen?" I asked, thinking it had something to do with the even better developed children she had. "Don't you remember?" she said, settling into the other recliner. "You threw it at me and broke it."
Like many baby-boomers, I lived through the sixties and seventies and I know it's possible to lose track of every little thing that happened to one in those colorful days. I may joke around with my friends and claim to be having " LSD flashbacks," but it's all talk. My sister, nine years older, made a big deal over my putative forays into counterculture. I say "putative" because I was a Young Republican during a time when it was not very popular, making me a pariah in my day. Not many drugs actually came my way, but neither did I escape their siren song. I did, however, roll my eyes as my sister sniffed and proclaimed she never did drugs, as she held a frozen daiquiri in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Doubtless you are imagining me in some rollicking (if infrequent) drug-induced fit throwing furniture at my defenseless and sober sibling. I didn't imagine that for one red second. My mind, still pretty sharp in those days, hurtled back to an incident in the early 1960s when we lived in Cincinnati. My sister had pushed me to my limit. As a child, I was pretty laid-back, albeit whiny. You could mess with my head all day long and just get your name strung out in several extra syllables and a penetrating nasal whinge. "Aaaaaeeeeeeeyyunnnnn!" Or, I might perhaps have recourse to our mother, whom I refered to as "my mother," much to my sister's consternation (but let's face it, when you have kids nine years apart, you're a different person by the time the second one comes along): "Maaaaaoooummmmm! Aaaeeyun isn't staying on her side of the caawaaar!" This, of course, cut no ice with our mother. One time she even got out of the car and walked home because she couldn't stand listening to us bicker in the back seat.
But in this case it was 1963 I was no more than nine years old, making my sister twice my age and twice my size. She was frequently left to babysit me and used that time to torture me in various ways: making me wash and dry the dishes when instructions were clearly left for us to divide that chore; creating unfair guessing games to humiliate me for her amusement; calling me names. And one night she just pushed me too far. I shoved the table. I didn't even shove it at her. I just had to take out my frustrations on something. I shoved a small drop-leaf table. I do not recall it breaking, but that just might be all those slaughtered brain cells from my counterculture past. Years later I recall one more incident where I pushed everything off the top of my dresser and she immediately accused me of throwing things at her. "I'm telling Mom," she said. I wish I had thrown them at her.
She did love me, though. She bought me presents, took me to movies, took me to fencing lessons and paid for them. She honed her mom-ing skills on me. She made birthday cakes for me and threw birthday parties - and then stepped in and made herself the center of attention. Years later I had friends who did the same things. Cindy would throw surprise birthday parties for me (I lost my appetite for birthdays early on, necessitating the surprise factor) and invite men she wanted to date. I'd come home from work and find my mother looking shamefaced. "What is it?" I'd ask. She'd moan, and then finally admit she'd been talked into another surprise birthday party after I had made her promise not to fall for it again. And Cindy was late ... again. I had wondered what all the idling cars were doing down the street. To this day I don't mind people knowing how old I am, but I hate birthdays. I'm 54, by the way.
If my sister were alive today (she isn't always speaking to me in my memory), I'd ask her why, if I'd broken the strut on that tiny table around 1963, it was not repaired, nor even looked as if it had been repaired in 1978 when she brought it up. It had been through at least two moves, if not four, and never been at least glued?! Was it thus as a constant reminder of my alleged violent temper?
No, it's just Aaaeeeeyyuuunnn messin' with my head again. Amazing she can still do it, and that I let her do it, from beyond the grave.

Can you tell I've been reading David Sedaris again?

Notes I made about the story when I was in Florida:

Why It Took So Long for Me to Get Married

Serial Fiancee and Mother Superior, partners in crime

Had a nice chat with the chiropractor today (after killing myself doing die-cutting) after all his patients left. Mentioned how Christine Baranski (since "Cybill" and now in "Momma Mia") reminds me of my dear friend NamelessHussy. I'm not allowed to talk about certain aspects of our time together. If she wants to tell stories on herself, that's up to her (ask me to remind you, Dear). But in "Momma Mia" they actually call Baranski's character a "serial fiancee." I'm just sayin'.

NamelessHussy used to say she liked to go out with me, because when she went out with other women, they just used her to attract men. NH would tongue-lash them away, and the other women would provide these reprobates with a soft landing. I didn't operate that way. If we went out together and some creep tried to chat her up in some obnoxious fashion (and NH particularly disliked the braggarts who tossed out their resumes as if they meant something), we operated like a well-drilled volleyball duo: she set 'em up, and I spiked them - wham!

Example: Oxford cloth shirt and power tie started in on NH with a "Why won't you go out me?" barrage and she finallly wheeled on him. "I won't go out with you because you wear those Euro-fag tasseled loafers." He was now dead to her, but he's still hanging in mid-air. He turned to the fat girl with the pleasant but dull face and tried the sympathy angle. "I had to wear these. I fell out of bed and hurt my foot," said leeringly as though there was something more than sleeping going on. "If you were doing it right, you wouldn't have fallen out," I pointed out cheerfully. "Jeesh!" he said, "Jesus!" and left both of us alone the rest of the evening. High fives, teammate!

I didn't do this just when NH was around. I also had a running game going with a male friend who continually tried my patience with innuendo along that same line. "Why aren't we sleeping together?" "Is that why we don't sleep together?" We don't sleep together, dear one, because it ruins friendships, just see if it doesn't. "I'd like to test that theory." And I kept count. "That's 37." It was more a game than anything, and one that I wasn't really winning (but he wasn't getting laid, either, so maybe it was a tie). It did, however, hone my skills. That and several years of back-and-forth with gay men gave me a competitive mouth. I'd like to think that I didn't start anything. I only volleyed back when it came into my court and I only go for the joke, not really the kill.

Still, it does keep the gene pool at a distance, dunnit? In the end, I had to be approached by someone gently. I then gave back the same way. I'm just a parrot, repeating what I hear. Y'all keep that in mind when you go a-courtin'.

Pinhead Rant About Pinheads

I was sitting in a waiting room today while some pinheads complained about waiting in waiting rooms. One had waited for almost 90 minutes to see a doctor for 10. Yeah? Try doing that while escorting a patient with Alzheimer's who asks you every five minutes why we're there! Tell me, who doesn't spend far too much time waiting for a doctor to only have 5 to 10 minutes actual consultation. At least he had a book with him. I always take a book when I go to the doctor or the dentist because everyone is forced to wait forever.
Then he complains that some Mexican family got 30 minutes with the doctor. Hmm, "family." That would be at least three people? Even if it comprises only three people, it would be 10 minutes per person, right? And taking into account the possible language difficulties, there would be even less actual facetime for each patient.
"Ah was bohn heyah! Lived heyah mah whole lahf! And they can be illegal and get the same kir!" Really? How do you know they're illegal? Not every foreigner in this country is here illegally. If you were a visitor in a strange land, would you want the receptionist yelling at you in the Official Language (in case you're deaf as well as stupid) that you will just have to wait until the doctor has seen all the valid citizens before you get worked in?
"Ah have insurance!" Well, if they don't, they pay a lot more than you and your insurance does. And they have to pay cash. That's at a doctor's office. In the hospital emergency room it might be another story. Something about a Hippocratic Oath.
I have a friend who is at the mercy of another country's healthcare system. They put cash machines in the hospital because non-citizens pay cash up front. Is that how we want to be?
And this conversation goes off on another tangeant about how few senators voted to make English the Official Language of the United States. Why should they? We've gone for over 200 years without needing to establish an Official Language. And what really scorches my plums is that these are the same people who got their panties in a twist when France started cracking down on all the English being used in signage. "We saved their asses in World War II," they crow (although I haven't heard anyone who actually served in the armed forces in that time period make that statement), "and this is how they treat us!" La chaussure is on l'autre pie now, eh?*
"The clerk gave me a form in Spanish!" Maybe they were all out of the ones in English. By the way, do you go on like this in front of your Spanish-speaking customers?
I hope, I really hope, that after all these centuries of back and forth that the Spanish-speakers get the upper hand and force this whole lazy lot to learn some Spanish. I want to see Spanish everywhere, and why not German? BMW has saved the upstate's ass by putting one of their plants here. And let's show that we're "better" than the Froggies and translate everything into Frog as well. What about Chinese? I've always wanted to learn Chinese.
Petty little pinheads who need something to complain about! There's food on their table, clothes on their back, a roof over their heads, all the bad tv anyone could possibly watch, and very few bombs dropping about their ears. They have no justification in complaining about anything a-tall.
* Junior senator from Georgia says, "We have a saying: 'E Pluribus Unum' -- and the Unum, unity, oneness of America should be officially the English language. It's what's going to bind us together, ... and it's, I believe, critical both economically as well as societally (sic) to have English as the official language in America." Ummm, I believe "E Pluribus Unum" is actually in Latin, thankewverymuch. It is to larf! Moi, I wish they'd translate all that crap into plain English, don't you?

I Was a Female Impersonator

Sorry, no photos. I don't even know if any were taken. Halloween was coming up, and, after the release of "Victor/Victoria" I had the idea of dressing as a female impersonator. I was living with Fred-the-make-up-artist at the time and he asked me what I wanted to do. If I was going to be seen with him, it had better be good. I told him. His expression was blank for a few seconds and then the idea grew on him. He liked it. He liked it a lot.
My job was to find a dress. I was hoping to find something cheap and slutty on E. 86th Street where, Fred claimed, prostitutes hung out. They were utterly invisible to me. What I really needed was a Salvation Army store, but I didn't know of anything like that in the upper east 80s. Apparently, "cheap" was not an E. 86th Street description. I found instead a grey silk dress that had long sleeves (the better to hide arm hair), a scarf, and a sash that one could throw together in interesting ways, if one isn't me. I have no ability there, but I figgered Fred did.
Fred acquired a red wig that would do Danny LaRue proud. He explained what he would be doing to make me look more like a guy trying to look like a woman. "I'll cover your eyebrows and draw in new ones above them," he told me - which explains the perpetually surprised look of some FIs.
For my part, I took my bra and stuffed it, clumsily. I wanted it to look stuffed, so I balled some tissues and put them on top of my breasts and maybe a few to the side.
Fred was initially excited about his own costume idea, which reminded me of those spinning paint things you do at carnivals, but he really got into doing me up: gold over the brows, exaggerated lips, etc. It wasn't his first FI job, but this was a new twist.
Our first stop was a party on the Upper West with some of Fred's friends. One of them was a young guy who had a part-time job as a clown, so he had a ready-made costume for all occasions. I don't recall his name (sorry! waited too long to write my memoirs, didn't I?), so I'll just call him Bubo the Clown. On the Upper West, I was crossing my legs ankle to knee, in keeping with someone less-familiar with transvestitism. Bubo started lecturing me on the proper way for ladies to cross their legs. I listened studiously, agog. Really? How fascinating. Fred eventually stepped in to set him ... straight. "Marf," he explained, "as in Martha. This is my roommate." Bubo actually gasped. "Oh, nooooooo!" he wailed. He was horrified that he'd made some sort of gaff, but I was quite chuffed to have actually fooled someone.
It was then decided we should test the costume on a tougher audience. We were going to go to the Christopher Street Parade, the Gay Halloween Mecca. I already was regretting my heels, spiky and pointy-toed.
At the parade, I had Fred and Bubo as heralds, proclaiming the arrival of this Beautiful Woman. I got whistles and leers. It put me in mind of Pres's experience on Christopher Street when he was walking with me. He'd become frustrated because he wasn't being "cruised." Then he remembered that I was with him. Duh! He had expected that he would still be looked at, eye-contact would be made, but a woman at his side disconnected him from a familiar world. Now I had the reverse on them. The laugh was on them, the men who mistook me for another man ... dressed as a woman. At one point, someone grabbed my ass and then shrieked, "Omigawd! It's a real woman!" The three of us burst out laughing. I waved airily at my admirers. I didn't have many in my drab, everyday existence. It was fun to steal some attention from gay men, to be cruised, whistled at, fondled, and to horrify. After all, it was Halloween.
Halloween is Everyday in Second Life. Anyone can be disguised. People can be fooled. This is something that I avoid doing, probably because it is outside of Halloween or April Fool's Day when license is granted. I don't consider the multitude of avatars I keep "on hangers" in my inventory to be fooling anyone. They still carry the label "Lludmila." I may act slightly differently with each of them on (wearing a male av I resist some of my squealing noises: Ewwww! OoooOOoooo!), but it's still me back there behind the mask behaving in what I hope is a reasonably normal fashion. It's much easier to pad the bra ... or even squish it down with the sliders. I can be fatter, thinner, prettier, younger, older than I am in RL. It might be my lack of imagination, but I can't bring myself to stray too far from my real self.
A strikingly beautiful older woman was in the library today and because we were short-handed, I was at the front desk doing her library card. She had written her birthdate down and I realised ... she was five years younger than I was. Aw, sh111111t! I was thinking 60s! SH1111111T!!!! She's not even 50!!!! How old must I look? Whatever age it is, it's nowhere as good as she looks!I used to have an imagination. What the hell happened to it? Right now I just seem to imagine myself too old. arrrrgh!

More Cross-Pollination

Cartoons I did in the 1980s of Fritz and his then wife. Calling him a Nazi is a little unfair - but doesn't really stop me. Always go for the joke.

What a horror to discover that one of your dad's favorite relatives is an unrepentant Nazi, replete with German accent. That he was a decorated (Danish Modern, perhaps) Navy veteran of the Pacific Theater seems incongruous, but true. This is Cousin Fritz. He was to my dad all that was manly and admirable: he got into knife fights, he traveled the world, and probably killed some people. It seems to be one of my dad's greatest regrets that he didn't stick with the Army so he'd been able to fight in WWII.
When I met cousin Fritz, he was a fat, disgusting old man with unpopular (with me) views on Jews and Blacks. They were in collusion, of course. And that was what was wrong with this country. "Don't worry," my mother told me later, "we'll be dead soon and our ideas with us." But she was wrong. The ideas are still floating about, literally, in my wateraerobics class, Omblastit! It was cousin Fritz who provided us with the (what appeared to me to be sanitized) Ruhe family tree. Dad used to say that there were some possible Jews in there, especially with names like Ruhe and Seele, beautiful names that mean "peace" and "soul" in German. You wouldn't hear anything like that from cousin Fritz! There was quite a bit of family tree trimming in Germany, to make your background more palatable, and to save your sorry white ass.
Before WWI, our family received letters from the Fatherland begging that no one join the army and end up fighting their own family. I don't know of anyone the right age in that family to do so. Dad says it was awkward at school having a German name and accent. He also mentions getting in a fight with another boy, but doesn't link it to this.
Fritz fighting was another thing. Fritz had a touchy sense of pride. He was the farm manager for a nearby farm, after working on my grandparents' farm in upstate New York. He was a chaparone (or what my dad calls a "chaparoon") for the two daughters at a dance. When one young swain told the girls to get rid of the "guard dog," the girls made the mistake of telling Fritz about it, as though it were a great joke. "Dog, eh?" he said, and pulled a knife on the guy and suggested they take it outside.
At the same time that Fritz came to America and stayed with my dad's family, another cousin from a different branch came. Dad had nothing good to say about this dandy who arrived with a suit of formal clothes and seemed unfamiliar with farmwork. I think Adolph later had an illustrious career in the laundry/dry cleaning business.
My money is on Adolph, actually. I wish Dad had more stories about him and fewer about Fritz. In the end, Fritz lived in a house packed with newspapers he didn't throw out. His wife had left him (they had not been married long and she told my mother to never marry someone without first checking the state of their bathroom) and he ended his years without indoor plumbing or hygiene of any kind. I think my dad admires that.

The cartoon above comes from a collection I put together while working at the law firm. I can't publish much of it because it's a.) 99% in-jokes 2.) contains material relevant to on-going litigation and lastly, it would be a total bitch to scan and cut and paste, something I did with family pictures, but am not doing for this. I do go back over the cartoons and think some are funny and some show just how painful my life was at the time. sigh.

Cross Pollination from the Work Blog

I grew up in a small town at the furthest reaches of the commuter train to Manhattan in the house of lesser-known comedians. My mother, whose other abilities at oil painting, flower arranging and decorating I did not inherit, married a man with truncheon-like wit and they both consumed cocktails with like-minded neighbors for inspiration. They led inebriates in sing-alongs from the IBM songbook. They named their dogs after the IBM president, in the event that there was a bonus for that as well as for naming children after Tom Watson.
Then there was an annual New Year's progressive dinner party in the neighborhood that included most of the families on the street and ended in a colossal binge at our house. My sister told what I considered to be exaggerated stories that likened these middle-class suburban gatherings to Roman orgies but the most I ever saw was the traditional stroke of midnight kiss, admittedly pretty sloppy one by that time. Having drunk and eaten their way all up and down Vassar View, the celebrants would then pick up our "Twelve Days of Christmas" placemats (which Mom only used for decoration ... and caroling) and tramp through the snow to the only house in the neighborhood whose occupants were never invited to this event and treat them to a sort of cheerfully loutish shivaree.
These nice people who were so rudely awakened each year were the Bradys. They were dignified people that the other neighbors were too chicken to invite to such brawling festivities. It's not as though they were aloof. My mother went over there fairly frequently to have coffee with the elegant Catherine Brady. She liked her coffee served very, very hot - but then wouldn't drink it until it was almost tepid. Her husband was a very quiet and reserved gentleman with a dry wit who worked as a stockbroker on Wall Street, and their son P. T. (or "Petey," an adult in college when I knew them) a cheerful character who teased me about the plural of "moose" and took his bride on a camping honeymoon that featured sleeping bags that zipped together.
The family was alternately worshiped and razzed because they seemed so sober and upright. Catherine Brady was a cousin of Joel Chandler Harris of Uncle Remus fame. I was told this in awed tones although at the time I had no clue who this Uncle Remus guy was.
As if the annual shivaree wasn't enough, my mother once sent me over to Paul Brady with a sponge sandwich to see if he would eat it. Never mind that we'd never taken a sandwich to him before or that he'd just been outside spraying the ornamentals with insecticide. Mom carefully made a sandwich out of a thin, dry yellow sponge, two slices of white bread, and mustard. She wrapped it in wax paper (as was done in those days before little plastic baggies) and, giggling, sent me across the street with the unlikely comestible.
It says volumes about me that I undertook this delicate mission for her. This was the same woman who sent me out in the yard with a salt shaker to catch birds (the same wheeze her mother used when she wanted some peace in the house). At last I would be in control of the joke! I could barely contain myself, but knew that a straight face would be necessary. In the end, Mr. Brady had the good grace to at least attempt to take a bite because he could see how crushed I was that he was suspicious of a highly unlikely sandwich. I took great pleasure in admitting it was a sponge after his teeth were in it.
Older than most of the people on the street even then (and most of the others were in their forties and fifties), the Bradys senior must be long gone. Om alone knows what they made of the antics of their silly neighbors.

A Little Sophocles

Sold American!

At long last I have finished this book, Sold American: Consumption and Citizenship, 1890 - 1945 by Charles F. McGovern. I need to preface my remarks on it by admitting that I do not recall ever discussing anything concerning this topic with Charlie in the time I spent living in the half-a-house he and a friend of mine rented. Therefore, this is not a "why the hell didn't he mention me in his acknowledgements when there were six pages of them and he mentioned everyone else who walked by" essay ... regardless of how it sounds.

We talked of plenty of other stuff, mostly his roommate and my friend who is a pretty colorful character. And of course we would talk about me, or, rather, I would talk about me and he would listen. Charlie is an Olympic Champion at Active Listening. "Talk to me," he would say and then nod audibly through the whole shebang. He did this for me the first time we talked, which was actually when I had called from New York and was trying to reach his roommate. "You sound upset," he said. "Talk to me." Why his bed did not "groan from the weight of grateful women" is beyond me (or maybe it did and I just wasn't around). He listened, he played guitar, and he was immensely entertaining as an armchair commentator on the World Series. "Hal Laneah [aka: Lanier]? Hal Laneah?! Where do they dredge up these third base coaches?!" I can't watch sports unless I'm with someone who takes it personally. Then it's fun. Well, fun to watch the paroxysms.

But, to The Tome. I'm not through with the footnotes yet, but I did slog through the text. And I mean "slog" in the nicest way. This is the meaty prose of the dissertation, lightened hither and yon by Charlie's inimitable wryness. Example: subheading in chapter 7: "Slaughter on Madison Avenue" - great balls o' fire, he even worked in a musical reference! Further on, he remarks that "in the early 1930s the Buy-ological Urge [as expressed by Better Homes and Gardens] seemed less frequent than cicadas." This topic is actually one of my pet bugbears. I am a fan of Consumer Reports, which I refer to before all major purchases (using the library copy - tee hee!) I was crushed when the kids' version, Zillions, went on-line where I couldn't read it. There was a time that I wandered around ranting that our economy was based solely on the exchange of cash for crap, yards of crap, endless steaming juggernauts of crap. And what was worse, there seemed to be no way away from it. I truly hoped that this book would tell me where this happened (which might lead to a way away from it). Not wishing to provide any "spoilers" to my posse of reader, the book does not do this. You can start reading again, Bob. Anyway, it's never one defining moment. This is a process beginning in the 1890s and on-going to our day and beyond. By "beyond," I mean more than in time, but also geographically. Consumerism seems to be the Ice Nine that will doom our civilization.

If Charlie's book does anything, it confirms my fears (not really immediate fears, but deep ones) about business and advertising. In the three years before I moved in with Charlie and Our Mutual Friend, I lived in Manhattan and took the occasional job in an advertising and/or public relations firm. These jobs might last a day or a week. In one case, it lasted about half a week until I became disgusted by the practices of one agency and started to feign illness so I would not have to go back and be a part of it the next day. I knew admen and PR people were soulless bastards who callously labeled the public in denigrating terms (even before I saw the Goodies "String" episode). That wouldn't surprise or bother me to see it confirmed. The work this particular agency was doing on behalf of a pharmaceutical company wouldn't have seemed half as bad if they hadn't been so covert about it. Why was I not given the job of typing up a particular letter, that was then put in an envelope and the copy and the mag-card (remember mag-cards?) put in a locked cabinet? Hmmmm.

I really do not remember how I got my hands on the letter. No, I really don't. It didn't take long, though. They were hiring a writer to create a "professional newsletter" about a particular therapy that would push a medication that hadn't fared too well in testing (not being particularly effective and causing problems to the user). Okay, that's not so bad. They had, however, developed a similar medication for the same condition that was more effective and had fewer side effects, but they were planning on releasing that later and getting their money out of the development of the inferior treatment first. The free newsletter only had to go on for two or three issues before disappearing. It would be provided to doctors who specialized in treating this ailment. This is all you need to explain my opinion of pharmaceutical companies and the whores they hire to represent them.

In another all-about-me anecdote, after I moved across town, Our Mutual Friend came to visit and after hours of playful banter, excused himself and used the bathroom. When he came out, he commented that he'd looked at the personal care products that were in the shower (interesting - they wouldn't be readily viewable). "Are those yours?" he asked. I allowed as they were mine. "I didn't recognize a single brand," was his comment. I said I didn't buy by brand. I look at the ingredients and then I smell it. If it's body lotion, I might taste it as well (just in case I got lucky, really really lucky). He had visited once when I was braising some root vegetables and beef bones to make soup stock. "Boy, it sure smells good in here. What are you making?" I told him and he looked at me curiously. "Why do you do that?" And then he answered his own question, perhaps with a touch of sarcasm. "So you know what's in it?" Bingo.

So, I have a lot of weird stuff in my bathroom. So what? There are plenty of people who will run out and buy ... whatever the expensive shampoo stuff is. Can't even remember the name of the brand. Admen would be appalled. I buy the store brands and the off-brands because I was raised that way. My dad pontificated about the cost of the corn that went into a package of cornflakes versus the price and how the national advertising drove up that price ... at the breakfast table. Over his cornflakes. A kid can go one way or the other because of that. I went that-a-way.

So now, thanks to Charlie, I want to read Veblen and bust the stranglehold business has on our society ... excepting, of course, my husband's business which should thrive and everyone should have a lovely Harmonic Capo whether they have a guitar or not. Get out there and buy, y'all!

The only thing worse than the crushing realization that we cannot get off this tiger of relentless consumption of crap, is the knowledge that we're infecting the rest of the world. We rape the natural resources of other continents, we allow their people to be enslaved to make our crap that we just throw away, and, on top of it, they want a piece of the crap-cycle themselves. But despite the major depression this brings on (well, on me, anyway), imagine the fun of researching this by poring over old magazines! Look at the cover of the book! And there's more inside the book - some absolutely appalling ads supporting business interests, not just promoting products. During the Second World War, production of consumer goods was curtailed for the war effort, but the producers didn't want people to forget their products or for the dreaded consumerists to get the upper hand, so they promoted themselves. American GIs were out there being killed for Kelvinator. They were dying so that the folks at home could some day enjoy the benefits of modern appliances again. Never mind that Hitler guy and his crazy ideas about non-Aryans. Advertising didn't care about anyone who wasn't white and middle-class. The freedom we fight for now is the freedom to choose Maytag over GE!

America has some bizarre potlatch society (this was another one of my rants from back in the day) where we have to have more than anyone else or better or newer and we just throw things away when we get bored with them. I include myself in this group. My boombox eats the cassette tapes? It won't pick up NPR anymore? Time to buy a new one! (Actually, if I tried to take my boombox to the local repair shop, I'd get eyes rolled at me by that arsehole ... again, and my husband would probably disown me because he hasn't forgiven that arsehole for the "Not all moslems are terrorists but all terrorists are moslem" on his marquee, which I have to admit is pretty unforgivable - how soon we forget, eh?) I saw a cd-player in a catalog once that held 100 cds and I was waxing all rabid about "Who would have that many cds?!" when I stopped and thought a moment and went to count mine. I had over 150. Key-rist, I'd need two of those players! Just because I don't buy ... hmmm, brand name still escapes me - blah-blah shampoo doesn't mean I'm not a die-hard consumer! Just look at the desk in front of me: big-ass monitor, printer/scanner/copier, digital camera, headset with microphone, speakers and a sub-woofer, and a little brush for getting the cathair out of the keyboard.

A little brush ... for getting cathair ... out of a keyboard.


I am currently engaged in a great experiment (no caps) in which society can be re-created in better ways. Thrilled at the outset, I plunged into Second Life (registered trademark lalala) to see what people were making of this virtual world. I found the library ... I heard about the sex clubs (big deal - all new genres and formats will first be used to titillate and finally frustrate the dateless) ... but mostly it seems to be about shopping. Making things and selling them. Huge malls spring up:

Lludmila overwhelmed by glittery crap.

And, of course, I'm there. I don't have any money, because I didn't think I needed any. You don't need to eat or sleep there, so what do you need the money for? You can create your own clothing out of nothing. What am I doing there? Pursuing the freebie. The size of my inventory is something outrageous. Do I ever throw anything away? Even the ugly clothes? Apparently not! If I actually had money here, I can't imagine what depths of consumer depravity I'd resort to. Today I saw for sale a gynecologist's table, with a "fist animation" - for only $99L! This is less than half a penny. And I don't even need a house to put it in! I can store it in my inventory, "just in case!" And I have not spent one dime in this place. I can earn money just by "camping" (usually just sitting in a chair to plump up the location's usage statistics) or by getting an actual job (a virtual friend recently had an opening for a hostess in her cafe). I usually win my Lindens at trivia quizzes. Most of this virtual money goes to tips at locations where I hang out. Occasionally I will purchase an item, but most of the things I've gotten have been free. I subscribe to a blog that will tell me exactly where to find free things and what they look like. When I'm poor, I resent other avatars that have "homes" they've furnished and fancier clothing and accessories than I have. This has made me all the more acquisitive ... in-world. Money seems to be piling up in my real life bank account because I don't have time to go out shopping for my real self. I wonder how many other residents feel the same.

Below are some March 2008 spending statistics from the SL website. Apparently, there are a lot of us out there handing over virtual money. The great thing about this virtual world business for economists is that every niggly little transaction is recorded. Raw numbers are posted on the website along with astounding graphs. Don't you just love graphs?




Monthly Spending by Amount (2008 March)
Transaction Size - Residents


1 - 500 L$ - 119,205
501 - 2,000 L$ - 63,940
2001 - 5,000 L$ - 48,453
5,001 - 10,000 L$ - 34,651
10,001 - 50,000 L$ - 59,092
50,001 - 100,000 L$ - 12,818
100,001 - 500,000 L$ - 9,338
500,001 - 1,000,000 L$ - 769
Over 1,000,000 L$ - 506
Total Customers Spending Money In-World - 348,772


The net result of this, is the exchange (between residents) of Linden dollars that are the equivalent of over US$25,000,000. Yes, I put the proper amount of zeros there, but I'll spell it out for you. Avatars spent over twenty-five million US dollars in the month of March. On what? On Things That Don't Even Exist. Charlie, put that in your Kelvinator and smoke it.

I Take It All Back

Former Post: This weekend I got a message on my Facebook account from someone who thought he remembered me from many years ago. I replied, jovially, that if he was the one who had us over for dinner and got all stressed out by it, then we did know each other. I was sincerely glad he looked me up. No, really. I haven't heard from him since. He didn't friend me or reply. So I think it's only fair that I post these records of the event mentioned above, which was a lot of fun ... for the guests anyway. I have our version and his version. The truth, if such a thing exists, is somewhere in between. You figure it out.
New Post: He was just really busy, in and out of town. Claims to have found one of my cartoons. Hmmm, I wonder which one, eh? eh?
Moral: Friend me. Friend me right away, or else!
New Moral: Maybe not everyone checks their Facebook account 20 times a day.

My Penance for Warm Winters

This is just a little present I found attached to my dad's mailbox. I certainly will "keep this flyer for future reference." Now I know exactly whom to not contact if I need pressure washing or cosmetics. I wonder if Avon allows the inclusion of religious tracts in their reps' advertising.
This whole thing has sooo much wrong with it I don't even know where to start. Okay, here's a good place. This tract is equating AIDS with sin. Sure, it says we are all sinners because we are all born that way, but who really reads these things carefully?

And is advertising for your business really the best way to proselytize? It's one thing to put the "Smile God Loves You" on your flyer, but including a tract?

I suppose the "Smile God Loves You" is meant to brighten your day. The believers can look at it and be reminded (if they feel that way) to be happy in their lives because even though their marriage is breaking up, their kids are in trouble, they've lost their job, and their mother has some painful, terminal illness, at least God loves them. Even if no one else does. Even if He sends them these trials while the neighbors don't go to church and seem to be enjoying prosperity and laughing a lot.

The unbelievers can feel a stab in the eyeball and have a nervous tic the rest of the day ... or perhaps they scan the document, redact any personal info, and post it on a blog thinking they are making it look ridiculous. That would only work, I suppose, if anyone actually read the blog.

It seems long ago and far away that things religious did not annoy me. I laughed at alleged "Buddhists" in Massachusetts who hailed me on the street and tried to tell me that if I chanted "Ohmanipadmahummm" over and over that I would get what I desired. The thought of using religion to get material goods was repugnant to me, but one nut on the street did not make me want to not say "Happy Dhamma Day!" and spin a wheel for Buddhist friends (okay, friend singular). I put up a Christmas tree, wished people "Happy Christmas!" (Where appropriate), and got all teary over the story of the Passion. It's a good story.

Then I moved back to the south and things changed. My elderly mother was harassed by other old ladies who told her she would burn in hell. Everywhere I go, gatherings are begun with Christian prayers. For years I bowed politely out of respect, but now it's starting to get on my nerves. I've started asking for the "Eid" stamps at the post office to put on my greeting cards. I put Hanukkah stamps on the "Season's Greetings" cards I send to Jewish friends and still get "Why are you sending me a Christmas card when you know perfectly well I'm Jewish?" messages back. I'm beginning to understand that. (Not totally, Alex - since there was no reference to Christmas, Christ, or even Santa on that card!) I feel like a minority here and each reminder of it raises my hackles.

I think everyone should live for a while as a minority. We should send southerners to California, maybe, and make them listen to that New Age piffle for a year or so and then debrief them. "So, Mrs. Knotwattle, how did that make you feel? Are you any more inclined to use crystals and prayer wheels in your life?"
Extreme beliefs beget opposite extreme beliefs.

And I haven't even gotten started on that tract. It never ceases to amaze me how Christians can side-step what Jesus actually said and go back to the Old Testament and pull verses out of context. Love the Lord with all your heart ... and give away all your riches, that's the baseline. Don't go mining another religion's ancient texts for juicy bits and making up arcane rigmarole to keep the sheep in line or scare up more converts.

This tract is intentionally inflammatory. Comparing sin to AIDS is not clever. It obliquely demonizes homosexuals (the group most often associated with AIDS). It endorses intolerance and breeds hatred. A stupid person reads this and thinks, It's okay to hate queers (black people, muslims, insert long-suffering minority of your choice), sin is in their blood. And don't try to tell me that people are not that stupid. No one (not even yours truly) reads something to change their minds. They pick out only the parts they want to see and use them to bolster their (my) own cherished opinions.

Sin is everything that is wrong ... with someone else. Even though this tract directs you to look inside yourself, people so rarely do this. Vast herds of Stupid People are convinced that AIDS is God's punishment visited on sinners. This is, by the way, the same God who loves you so much that you should be smiling! Never mind those hemophiliacs that became HIV positive through transfusions before they were able to screen the blood and the donors for that. They, no doubt, were just being "tested." There's no need to look to God for punishment when we so effectively bring it upon ourselves. We start wars. By "we" I mean people, not just the United States, although we seem to start more than our fair share. We pollute our environment and poison our own bodies. There is plenty that is not our fault as well, but as it rains, my father says, "on the yust and the un-yust yust the same," let's not blame God for any of it. Bad things happen to all kinds of people for no particular reason as well as happen through their own doing. It's not our job to assign blame, we need to deal with the aftermath.

I'd like to see tracts that say "Love thy neighbor" or "Whatsoever you do to the least of these my brothers, you do to me." Go do some good things for someone else, regardless of who they are. Visit them if they are ill. Feed them if they are hungry. Find jobs for them if they are willing to work. Show others a good way to live instead of shaking your fingers at them. In sooth, though, 'twill never happen. Religion seems to be about us versus them. We're right and you're wrong, so you: are going to hell/don't deserve help/need a whole new government.
How did we get it so wrong?

"I realize there are people out there who don't love their fellow man," Tom Lehrer said, "and I hate people like that."