Beelzebabe

2006-11-16T00:06:00.000-05:00

Al Jazeera English Launches!

I want my AJTV

2006-11-15T22:56:00.000-05:00

If you want to watch Al Jazeera TV, fuggedaboudit. The Great And Powerful Media Gods are not amused and besides, why would you want to when you've got FOX and a.m. radio?

Funny stuff. I can look at any bloody picture of Iraq on the net, arms & legs flyin all over the goddam place, sex 24 hrs a day in ANY deviancy I want, I can buy my DRUGS on the internet but Al Jazeera is tabboo? That's rich.

I've had AJ in my sad little link section forever. I don't know if anyone's ever ventured to go there, but it's no worse than any American network. The refusal to even consider making Al Jazeera TV widely accessable so that we can all educate ourselves as to what other perspectives & reports of shared events are out there is pretty fucking MYOPIC.

eh, well. Typical.

Buh-bye Rummy

2006-11-10T07:38:00.000-05:00

Finally, Rumsfeld's legacy of terror is Over. What you see before you is a mad little man, hellbent on keeping the United States a major war machine. Rather he was....
And he still would be, if the Republicans hadn't lost their asses in this election. He and his boss knew that losing the house and the senate would only cause a nasty investigation and a demand for his removal. Instead of standing up to his foes (which are legion) and answering to the blue team, he cut and run.
Typical. After all the accusations against the Democratic party for doing the very same thing, the Republicans have successfully adopted this course of action as their very own. It's avoidance and lack of integrity at it's finest. If Donald Rumsfeld really believed he was doing the right thing all along for his president and his country (in that order) he would have kept a death grip on his job. He would have stood up to the nay-sayers and taken the blows befitting a true Patriot. After all, if our soldiers are willing to put themselves in the line of fire for principal why not the Secretary of Defense? Such a Patriot would be willing to face the firing squad and die for his principals, no? I mean, isn't that what we ask of our troops in Iraq? More importantly, isn't that what he had demanded of our troops?
Rumsfeld's resignation has left me with mixed feelings on the issue. I never liked the man, I never subscribed to his bloody philosophy and elitist agenda, yet I somehow also feel betrayed by his resignation. Did our fallen heroes die in vain? Do their lives and deaths mean so little? He leaves the Bush administration with a trail of blood staining the Whitehouse lawn. A pathetic old curmudgeon who would rather go awol than deal with the Democrats. A man of honor and real principal would have stayed the course and did what he had to do in order to get the results promised to the American people, regardless of his own comfort level in doing so. By resigning in the most turbulent time of the Iraq war yet, he betrays his country and his countrymen and shows us all what a true coward he is.
His resignation, like the election results, has been met with joyful exuberance to not only many Americans, but to people all over the world. I too am happy he is gone, I would have preferred he never had the job in the first place. But he did, leaving the bodies of our soldiers in his wake. And now he doesn't have to answer for it.
To me, that is the real tragedy.

the new symbol for the GOP

2006-10-24T11:19:00.000-04:00

John Spencer's sexist remarks against my gal Hillary are laughable. My first gut reaction of course was this is just another crooked republican with a repressed sexual urge. But after reading Spencer's blog (just click on that handy-dandy link on the title) I have to clarify that Spencer represses nothing. He's a buffoon. An assclown. All you have to do is read his blahg and learn about the man behind the neurosis.

Really, I went there in search of beauty tips. He being an Adonis for our times, ya know.......

Here's a few Oinkers from John Spencer's beauty page:

“She had flowers in her hair, and I had a rifle in my hand,” he said in an interview. “I was being shot at and she was doing whatever she did, I don’t know. Looking for Bill. But I guess to find Bill she would have to go to Moscow.” In reference to Hillary. He doesn't know what she "did", but he knows what she was wearing. The Moscow remark is....well....just stupid.

Mr. Spencer married his first wife, Eileen Looney, in 1971, and they had two children, John Jr. and Jennifer. But he began drinking heavily, was arrested twice in drunken brawls with police officers and now admits that he was an “irresponsible father.”
“I partied hard, and I blacked out when I drank,” he said. Alcohol kills brain cells. I rest my case.

For years as mayor, Mr. Spencer carried on an affair that was an open secret with his chief of staff, Kathy Spring. He eventually divorced his wife, and in 2003, he married Ms. Spring, with whom he had already had two children. They later had a third child. Open secret? Heh. That's a new one. Here's a shmuck talkin smack about Hillary's lack of integrity and blahblahblah but he's screwin' round on the Mrs.!!! At least Bill didn't leave his wife & family to get a blowjob. What a miserable pile of shit you are, John Spencer. YOU are the one who's ugly, inside and out.

Are we to believe this idiot is really more honest and reliable than Hillary Clinton? If you want to find honesty, don't look for it in Spencer's blahg. It's mostly about her, anyway, since he has nothing new or remotely important to say. In truth, his obsession with Hillary is what you will find there, nipping at her heels because she won't let him hump her leg.

score a point for the red team

2006-10-17T00:54:00.000-04:00

It had to happen. Somebody in the blue team had to be sacrificed to the election gods, and if the allegations are true; hey. Buh bye, dumbass! YeerrrrrOutttt!!!

2006-10-15T10:40:00.000-04:00

running with scissors

2006-10-15T08:00:00.000-04:00

A week or so ago I posted a link to a story about the Gestapo tactics used by Bush's Secret Service men to harass a father who dared make a comment to VP Dead-Eye Dick Cheney while on his visit to Denver, Colorado. (see "intermission") Today I bring you yet another link to the Secret Service's attempt to quell the voice of another American, this time an eighth grader who had the silly misfortune of thinking she lived in a "free country" and expressed her dislike of our adorable president on her MySpace page.
What horrific hijinx urged the SS into action? Why, it was a photo-shopped picture of our esteemed King George, a dagger stabbing his benevolent, outstretched hand and the words "Kill Bush" scrawled atop this terrifying portrayal of our Blessed & Most Holy Leader!!! Oh, the humanity!!!

Julia Wilson is a fourteen year old eighth grade student at McClatchy High School in Sacramento, California.
Let me repeat that for the idiots who missed out on the vital point of that last sentence. Wilson is a 14 year old 8th grade student.

The SS went to this child's school and first of all lied to the administration there and said it was "ok" that they were there to question Wilson, her mommy knew they were coming. They then took it upon themselves to interrogate and threaten this 14 year old child without the presence or consent of her mother, Kirstie Wilson. You will be put in Juvenile Detention they warned, away from your parents, your home, your goldfish and your little dog too!

You see, her silly little "Kill Bush" picture is considered a FEDERAL OFFENSE. And terrorism like this against our Savior & Super Hero is not tolerated here in the U.S.S.A. (the new! United States of Soviet America)

THANK GOD we only have to put up with this shit until 2008. It only goes to show the extremism and ignorance that runs rampant from the Whitehouse and trickles it's way down the ranks.

This shit really needs to stop. When we have the Secret Service terrorizing our children and pulling them out of class to do so, we have a bigger problem than whatever alleged offense her unfortunate choice of expression presents to the country. If this had been my daughter and I found out that Bush sent his henchmen to threaten---threaten my child, you better believe I'd end up owning the Whitehouse through the most unprecedented lawsuit in American history. HOW DARE THEY??? STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM OUR CHILDREN YOU LOW LIFE SONSABITCHES!!!!!

A note to all Americans; Watch Your Back. What you say can and will be used against you. And just like in the great witch hunts of long ago, they will come and seize your children and submit them to torture (that favorite Bush administration pastime) and burn them at the stake of Patriotism while you watch as your last little bit of freedom twists and writhes in agony before it is finally consumed by the flames of government control and reduced to ash.

Julia's sentiments are not new, nor are they necessarily anti-American or unpatriotic, believe it or not. All one has to do is take a glimpse back to the 1700's, before the American Revolution when the country was under the authority of King George of England. The hatred for the Crown and the desire to escape the clutches of England caused many Americans to rise up and voice their hatred of the King. (who like our own present day George, was not well liked) Those people were called Patriots among other labeled values we claim to admire in our country. And these insurgents are the reason we have the "freedoms" we soooooo "enjoy" today.

Wilson's preferred mode of expression may have been "tasteless" to some, but let us not fail to see the forest for the trees here. This is a 14 yr old child who was forced to endure the interrogation of the Secret Service without the presence and representation of her legal guardian/parents. This is totally unacceptable and is reminiscent of the Dark Ages. What kind of bully administration goes after our children?! Regardless of one's political affiliation, this kind of disregard for our children and parental authority, let alone freedom of speech, is a direct insult to Americans everywhere. Republican, Democrat, Independent this means You.

How many adults would not be shaken and frightened by a suprise visit from the Secret Service? What does this kind of misuse of governmental control do to a child? What sort of message is this to those kids who will one day inherit our country? Let's all put down our flags and think for a moment.

And let me leave you with this, Dear Reader, a quote from the past that should singe it's way into the heart of every American who cherishes freedom of speech....

"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." ~Benjamin Franklin, Historical Review of Pennsylvania, 1759

'Nuff said.

full moon

2006-10-08T14:49:00.000-04:00

It was a full moon over the weekend. And as you can see, incredibly beautiful. I took this picture friday evening as it was just rising over the trees.
According to moon lore passed down through the ages, the first full moon after the autumn equinox is known as the "harvest" moon, or "blood" moon. It's time to bring in the last crops of summer and hunt for game in the forests and fields. It was believed that gathering the crops during the waxing (increasing) phase made for a better yield. The fruit of the trees and certain crops bruised less easily when reaped nearest to or at the full moon. The cooler weather and closer proximity of the full moon to the earth at this time of year benefitted hunters too, as it was easier to see one's prey at night and wild game would be more active as the lethargy of summer passed.

Some bits of Moon lore.......

cut your hair as the moon waxes and it will grow faster
cut your hair as the moon wanes and it will grow slower
lovers that meet for the first time during a full moon last a lifetime
lovers that quarrel during a full moon reap sorrow for many moons after
gazing into a cup of wine that contains the moon's reflection brings good luck
staring at the moon too long will make you crazy
crimes done at the full moon will fail
children born at the full moon will be healthy and strong
buying a house during a full moon is lucky
business contracts & negotiations during a waning moon---unlucky
sleeping with a full moon shining on you will drive you insane
washing your hands in water containing moonlight cures warts
a full moon with a ring around it predicts rain
make a wish as a cloud passes over the full moon and it will come true

This particular full moon was quite eventful for me. One such "reaping" was witnessing 5 of my friends bickering and bitching at each other incessantly (the word 'lunacy' fits here) and me becoming the new owner of a new cat.
She's a beautiful white cat with gorgeous green eyes and she's deaf as a stone. She came to me with a lizard squirming in her mouth, which she dropped at my feet as "gift" and then made herself quite comfy on the couch. How could I say no? She's as sweet and mysterious as the moon itself, curling around my heart like she belongs there, and I'm beginning to think she does. I could have named her something "moony" like Luna or something, but instead I call her Pearl, after her preference for a certain bit of fabric that I have that has mermaids and mermen intertwined on it. It's her favorite place to lay after a hard day of snacking. She's my little moonbeam, turning me into a big ball of mush and babytalk. She has a way of softening my hard edges, gently tapping me with a white paw when she wants to be held, usually while I'm busy doing something else. Getting on the computer is an exercise in futility, she tromps across the keyboard and sticks her nose in my coffee, scatters papers and knocks over the pencil holder for a quick game of pick-up. This mysterious little creature with wide eyes has taken over my house and my world, reminding me of what's important. Naps. Playtime. And unconditional love.

safety dance

2006-10-06T00:24:00.000-04:00

We can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind
'Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance
Well they're no friends of mine
I say, we can go where we want to
A place where they will never find
And we can act like we come from out of this world
Leave the real one far behind

We can go when we want to, the night is young and so am I
And we can dress real neat from our hats to our feet
And surprise 'em with the victory cry
Say,
we can act if want to, if we don't nobody will
And you can act real rude and totally removed
And I can act like an imbecile

[Refrain]I say, we can dance, we can dance
Everything out of control
We can dance, we can dance
We're doing it from wall to wall
We can dance, we can dance
Everybody look at your hands
We can dance, we can dance
Everybody takin' the cha-a-a-ance
Safety dance

Is it safe to dance? Is it safe to dance?
S-s-s-s A-a-a-a F-f-f-f E-e-e-e T-t-t-t Y-y-y-y dance!

rocky mountain way

2006-10-04T20:36:00.000-04:00

I'll take this brief moment between climaxes in the Foley sex series for an intermission. Those of you who will not be exiting the theatre for a smoke can read the latest First Amendment violation courtesy of Dick Cheney's guard dog.
Scooby snacks all around, everybody!

2006-10-04T12:33:00.000-04:00

the Foley Report, a real page turner

2006-10-04T09:16:00.000-04:00

Like just about everyone else, I've been following the Mark Foley scandal with some interest and amusement, heavily seasoned with disgust. After reading the transcripts of his instant messages I wanted to vomit. Regardless of any 16 yr old's sexual maturity (ha) the fact is this is a minor child under the Law. Yeah, I too was a bit frisky at that age but I was still a child and quite naive in the ways of the world and the manipulations of adults. I must say the same for these pages. For all their "worldly" perceptions, they are still kids. Mark Foley knew this when he went tad poling. His conduct is criminal and cruel, especially if we are to believe his recent nuggets of defense; being molested by a member of the clergy in the Roman Catholic church as a young boy and having a so-called "drinking problem".

Driving home yesterday I had the radio on and at the top of the hour the announcer came on with BREAKING NEWS. I turned up the volume to hear a deep male voice say " MARK FOLEY IS GAY. MARK. FOLEY. IS. GAY!!!!" just like that. The announcer's excitement over reporting this worthy tidbit was much like announcing we just invaded Iran or a UFO landed on the U.N. building. Then I listened to Foley's attorney, David Roth, announce how Foley wanted us all to know he was a "gay man" and had been molested by an unnamed member of the clergy when he was a boy. Thank you. That is all.
That's it?! That's all you have to say, Mr. Foley? Apparently, yes.
And now he will hide beneath the wings of the great Rehab bird for at least 90 days, when the elections are over, untouchable by the press, the FBI or any investigation concerning his criminal activities, until he hatches.
His running immediately to rehab and screaming "alcoholism" was a transparent ploy to avoid prosecution and public humiliation. And as any republican congressman knows, it's best to get the kids out of the House when you are trying to clean up. Company's a comin'. And it's probably those damn dems!
Also curiously absent are any statements from the people who knew Mark Foley that he was indeed an alcoholic. Those who knew him seem rather surprised.

Enter Dennis Hastert, who openly admits he knew of certain "questionable" emails between Foley and an underage page back in 2005. "Overly friendly" but not criminal, was his defense for letting this scandal slip through the cracks. Makes me wonder what Hastert does consider inappropriate content regarding minors. Hastert is guilty by association as well as aiding and abetting a crime. He had the power to blow the whistle, but didn't. It was too important to keep a republican seat, nothing else seems to have mattered. In his defense he said he didn't want to appear "homophobic". Well Hastert, you fat old curmudgeon, homophobia and pedophilia are two completely different beasts. Is anyone calling him to the mat on that fact? So far, no. And why IS that?

The gay community at large is denouncing Foley's coming-out statement. Even they are not holding out their arms to welcome their new brother. The only ones who are, I suppose, are members of NAMBLA, who should all be lined up and shot anyway. (they aren't real men though, just scum with penises) Even the gay community understands what's wrong with this picture. 16 is not 18, no matter how you do the math.

Don't expect G. Duhbya to do much or say much about the whole debacle. As always his words are "full investigation" which simply means "don't bother me". We all see how he called "those who are responsible" for leaking info into the Valerie Plame case were handled. Nary a word on that lately, nor do I see any heads rolling as he promised. The same will happen here, unfortunately. Not surprising, as it is extremely difficult to roll one's head if it is firmly planted up one's ass. His commitment to Dennis Hastert just another rendition of the love song he sings for Dick Cheney "the man who can do no wrong".

According to some reports, the page who came out with this information tried unsuccessfully to make the emails and instant messages known to the press. He went to several news networks and major newspapers and was turned down immediately. (the names FOX and the St. Petersburg Times come immediately to mind) Only did ABC take any interest, over a year later. While the republicans scream "foul" over the timing, being only weeks away from the elections, what they are refusing to acknowledge is that this page had been trying for the past year and a half to get the media to address the issue, seeing as the republicans would not. There had been complaints against Foley in the past, all swept neatly under the proverbial rug. The republican powers that be may be blaming the democrats for the ugly publicity, but the democrats had nothing to do with it. If they had, I wager Foley would still have a job and would be gathering his troops to support him against unfounded allegations. But that's not the way it worked out, did it?

Mark Foley is currently reclining in a comfy rehabilitation facility in West Palm Beach, untouchable and cozy in the knowledge that all one has to do is pull a Mel Gibson and all will be well. Well, Mr. Foley, all will not be well for long. You will have to get out of the jaquzzi eventually and face federal charges. Nobody is crying for you, nobody is going to pat you on the head and say "there, there, you poor misguided drunk" and lead you into salvation. You were sober when you had internet sex during the House vote in 2003, you were sober when you typed your eloquently worded masturbation techniques, you were sober when you requested a picture from the page in Louisiana.
And you will be sober when you go to jail and watch as your party loses the House.

Wow, must suck to be you. And not in a good way, either.

a Karr ride through Sonoma

2006-09-26T21:42:00.000-04:00

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

They lost their evidence against him.

How does that happen?

They can find a traffic ticket on you from 1983, but for some reason, they can't find a computer containing Karr's evidence of child pornography.

Eh, don't worry about it, bub. With a killer lawyer, you'll be drinking champagne and eating lobster again thanks to the fine work of Sonoma County & a big book deal.

You might even get your wish and have Johnny Depp play you in the movie.

It's the American Dream. Get famous, get rich, get immortalized.

California, can you make this boy's dream come true?

Yeah, I knew you could.

please don't feed the fundies

2006-09-24T10:43:00.000-04:00

Jerry Falwell thinks Lucifer would be afraid to run for president against Hillary Clinton in '08. I guess he hasn't been reading the papers, or else he's just an ignorant fat bastard who doesn't know that George Bush can't run again.

Never one to miss a free meal, Fedwell---oops! Falwell spread his southern crackers with a hefty dollop of more "devil talk", currently *all the rage* among rightwing Republican crazies and foreign leaders, while addressing the "Value Voters Summit" breakfast thingamajig over the weekend. Follow the link to read more.

Value Voters. Even the name sounds cheap.

I pulled up a few of Jerry Falwell's many memorable quotes. Lets have a look at just a few of them, so we can remember that muslims don't corner the market on religious prejudice or just plain bumfuck stupidity.

"I hope I live to see the day when, as in the early days of our country, we won't have any public schools. The church will have taken them over again and Christians will be running them. What a happy day that will be!" 1979, pp52-53 "America Can Be Saved"

"Grown men should not be having sex with prostitutes unless they are married to them."
on CNN's "Crossfire", 5/17/97

“...You’ve got to kill the terrorists before the killing stops and I am for the President—chase them all over the world, if it takes ten years, blow them all away in the name of the Lord.” – CNN Debate with Jesse Jackson (October 24, 2004)

"You know when I see somebody burning the flag, I’m a Baptist preacher I’m not a Mennonite, I feel it’s my obligation to whip him. In the name of the Lord, of course. I feel it’s my obligation to whip him, and if I can’t do it then I look up some of my athletes to help me. … But, as long as at 72 I can handle most of the jobs I do it myself, and I don’t think it’s un-spiritual. When I, when I, when I hear somebody talking about our military and ridiculing and saying terrible things about our President, I’m thinking you know just a little bit of that and I believe the Lord would forgive me if I popped him."
— during a September 25, 2005, sermon to his Thomas Road Baptist Church congregation.

Halla-fuckin-lujah!!!!

Venezuelans of Mass Destruction

2006-09-21T18:13:00.000-04:00

ha. he called him Satan. that's too funny.

However, Meester Wenisswaylia is giving Georgie boy way too much credit.

If Duhbya were the devil, I fancy he would be a bit smarter.

Even Chuck Rangle knows this.

All this bitchslapping is making me hot.

Ok, so it's not like Hewie said something "new". Everybody who's anybody these days has had a go at it. But as Charles Rangle puts it, it's our job. Hell, it's one of the few jobs that hasn't been shipped overseas.

Not only that, but Hugo Chavez needs to stop quoting me. His obsession with me and my blog is a bit worrisome. I'm sorry Hewie, but our love could never be.......please, understand. I know it will take some time but someday you will look back on this with a comfortable sense of.......nostalgia. But now it's time for you to fly, fly! Fly! Be free!
And as Chuck said...take some of that and give it to your own country. She needs you...much more than I do.

saloon politics

2006-09-20T08:34:00.000-04:00

I've been contemplating my navel alot lately. Not much else to do when you are forced to lay around "recovering".

I thought I had fillet'd Bush enough but I have found yet another bone to pick with him. He spoke to the U.N. tuesday, doing his cowboy shtick about the Evils of Iran and their intent of creating nucular weapons. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Iran a sovereign nation that has the same right as the U.S. to tell the world to fuck off? Isn't their leader a democratically elected president as well who has been chosen by it's people to represent their best interests, whatever those interests may be?

Ah, I see....only American presidents get the "real" stamp of democratic approval. Y'all are just playin'. Iran can pretend to be all "democracy" and stuff but when it comes down to it, all governments that claim to be a democratic government are under the authority of the King of Democracy, George Dubya, and whatever is in the best interests of Americans.

Something stinks.

What Bush is doing is totally in line with his character. Pretend you are Iran and Bush is the drunk asshole at the bar who should have been kicked out for causing a ruckus a long time ago. You're sitting there with your first beer of the evening, attempting to enjoy a little refreshment before going home to the Mrs. & the kids. Here comes Bush, swaggering and slurring his words, talking too loud and sloshing his drink all over the floor on his way to your table.
Your first thought might be to ignore this buffoon. You might even hope he gets distracted or at least pulled aside by the management before he makes it across the room. But he's a big guy that casts a long shadow and his spurs are jingling all the way as he approaches you with blood in his eye. You pretend not to notice. It doesn't work. He hovers over you and slams his fist on the table, causing your bottle of beer to jump and tip over, which you must now rescue before it foams onto the floor.
"Get the fuck outta here, ya camel jockey!" he spits at you. "We don't like your kind 'round these parts."
Everyone in the bar is now looking your way and someone's turned off the juke box. The barkeep is ignoring everything, he's too busy polishing up the wine glasses. A slinky siren in a red dress poses on the dance floor, blowing smoke rings in your direction.
"Did ya hear what I said you towel headed muthafucker?" he growls and backhands your beer, crashing it against the wall.

Now what? Do you run out of the bar like the wuss he thinks you are? Do you stand up and punch him in the face and hope his pals don't jump you from behind? Obviously talking to him will do you no good. His cowboy hat has ear flaps.

You might feel a bit insulted. Yeah, an eensy bit....all you want to do is enjoy a beer after a day's work. Not like one beer is going to hurt anybody. This bar is currently the only place that keeps their bottles icy cold. They have enough electricity for refrigeration. You can't really afford that at your house yet, but there's been rumors that the electric company just might be passing through and setting up utility poles sometime soon. You and the Mrs. have been getting excited over that possibility. Just imagine, cold beer in your own refrigerator! And the Mrs. wouldn't have to keep feeding that generator flags, furniture and other burnable items in order to turn the light on. Wow.
Welcome to Technology and the 21st century. Please keep your hands and feet inside the velvet ropes at all times and do not pick up anything to take home as a "souvenir". We have some lovely postcards and fuzzy pencils available in our gift shop at the end of the tour. And don't forget to visit the snack bar.

See, this is what Bush vs Iran is about. It's not about Dubya's concern for America's Safety by keeping drunk Iranians off the road, like he'd have you believe. Bush's own blood alcohol level is beyond legal limits and it doesn't keep him from driving erratically and running into mailboxes.

So, Iran, what will you do? Is this six-gun totin' pony ridin' beer swillin' bully going to keep you from drinking beer? Probably not. Your boss yelled at you today, you went over your minutes on the cell phone and you got a parking ticket. All you need is an excuse to whip out your box cutter and slice this mofo like a birthday cake. And all you wanted was a beer?

Some people from your neighborhood are carefully observing your next move. Will you be a man and stand up to this ass clown that nobody really likes but is afraid of?

Ya know, Russia has offered to set up a liquor store or two in your yard but you'd really rather not have to answer to this schizophrenic mistress. You know how mistresses are, after awhile they think they own you. Tell you to leave your wife and stuff. You've got enough trouble at home though, thank you very much. The last thing you want is a divorce.

Maybe you even try to talk to this madcow boy and assure him it's only one beer and you'll be going home afterwards. Shouldn't we all be allowed to kick back after a hard day with a cold one if we want to? Naturally, he doesn't believe you. He thinks you're going to get so drunk on beer that you might want a tequila next.

What's a guy gotta do to get a drink in this place?

Sam, I think I'll have a Standard. Make it a double.

It's a simple analogy and much closer to the truth than the crap you've been eating lately. Obviously, there are some sub-plots and last minute script changes, but the story remains the same. And what is the moral to this story? When beer is outlawed, only outlaws will drink beer.

2006-09-18T18:09:00.000-04:00

Hospital-ity

2006-09-18T13:55:00.000-04:00

It stood like a jagged mountain against the blackened sky, thunder crashing and flashes of lightning that lit up the stone gargoyles guarding the entrance to Hell. There I was, an innocent waif in the storm, staring up at this bleak monolith in my pink raincoat and rubber galoshes, shivering with fright in the looming shadow of the Hospital. What horrors lie within these cold, stone walls......what unspeakable crimes of humanity hid behind those dark doors? I would soon find out... and live to tell the gruesome tale.

I really shouldn't have bitched about the pre-op paperwork and proceeeeedures. I had yet to swim the depths of the bowels of human suffering.

I should have sensed something amiss when upon my arrival, my overnight bag was seized by a demon in blue who then sprinted with it down the corridor in malignant glee. Another blue demon then took me by force down another long hallway without any doors (modes of escape?) and ordered me to strip nekkid and put on one of those ritual garments apparently used for their bloodthirsty Bacchanalias. A legion of demonic forces then descended upon me, each one of them intent on harvesting my bodily fluids and vital signs until I was wrapped up in a twisted ball of wires and tubes. Seeing that their fiendish work was done, the blue demons scurried away in a cloud of chatter and left me alone to contemplate my fate, which would soon be interrupted by Satan himself, my doctor.
Doc Satan peered down at me from an incredible height, only his eyes visible behind a menacing mask. "How are we doing today? Are we ready to get this done and over with?" came a bubble of noise where his mouth should be. Apparently "we" were, for soon those double doors swung open and the legion returned to take their places like pall bearers escorting a body to the funeral. One of them, while trying to afix a shower cap to my head, asked me a question but before I could answer I found myself shrouded in a black sleep.....a merciful emptiness of space that I hung suspended in for the duration of the two hour surgery. Had I known what wakefulness would bring, I would have stepped further out of this realm and not returned without proper backup.
Pain. Intense, excruciating, unspeakable pain. I awoke in instant agony. And I let everyone in the hospital know it. It's aliiiive!
Another demon, this time in a loud floral print that necessitated protective lenses, strolled nonchalantly to my aid, spearing me with a hypodermic that left a nasty bruise on the tender white flesh of my hip.
As I floated in a drug induced stupor, I watched the devil's little helpers as they wheeled then banged my new roomie's bed into first the doorframe and then the wall, ejecting my new roomie into a straight up position and begging to be allowed to walk to her own bed, thank you. They of course would have none of that and one of the attendants pushed her back to a horizontal position until they could navigate their way around my own slab and plop her with a thud onto her new luxurious accomodations. Her own story of horror is of course for her to tell, but let it be known that she too has sought the advice of legal counsel.

I was deprived of water, which had nothing whatsoever to do with my condition, medication, or the surgical proceeeeeedure. No, the nurses were far too busy gossiping at the nurses station to put in a "days work". As my tongue hung to the floor and my throat began to close, I heard all about the last episode of "House" and how many hours Amy had put in so far that week (14). At long last, my mother appeared, and seeing me parched and perishing from neglect, went in search of water for me, and promptly got yelled at for "being nosey" by one of the nurses when she tried to find a spigot. She would not have had to go water-dowsing had one of the nurses she spoke to; Pardon me, could you tell me where I can get some water for my daughter? scorched her with "I'm not your daughter's nurse." And turned her back on her.

I was then denied prompt 'round the clock pain medication, like the good Doc Satan had so generously prescribed, and when I dared ask my so-called "nurse" why it was an hour and five minutes late in arriving (and by this time the last dosage had long worn off and I was again shredding the sheets) I was told quite matter-of-factly that IT WASN'T HER PROBLEM.

Excuse moi?

It's not your----problem?

Why my hot blinding rage did not set off the sprinkler system at that moment can only be attributed to a technical glitch. Like a dear caught in the headlights, her face drained of color when I parted my usually compliant lips and screamed IT'S NOT YOUR PROBLEM? BITCH, I AM THE BIGGEST PROBLEM YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE FROM THIS MOMENT ON. I AM DEFINATELY YOUR PROBLEM. THE OTHER 40 PATIENTS ON THIS FLOOR ARE YOUR PROBLEM. YOU GET PAID TO HAVE ME AS YOUR PROBLEM AND I AM GOING TO MAKE DAMN SURE YOU GET YOUR MONEY'S WORTH.

and that's exactly what I said.

Oh she and I had a walloping good time after that. Even my mother, who's mantra to me has ever been, "please be a good girl and just be quiet" was rallying in my corner and waving the banner of liberation. This particular Florence Nightenmare had awakened the beast in Mommy Dearest as well--- who DARED anyone to talk to HER daughter like that!!! Who is your superior? How do I spell your last name? I will have you cleaning kennels you insensitive cunt!

hee hee hee

It was probably the most fun I've ever had with Mom since pulling her head out of the toilet after a house-warming party in 1975.

Nurse Nancy, or whatever her name was, did begin to apologize---profusely---at her poor choice of words--- and jobs as well, I assume. It did not matter. What was said was said, and sometimes in haste the greatest truths are known. I delighted in the scent of fear that emanated off of her as she crept slowly to my bedside to listen to my heart, the stethoscope trembling as it apologetically travelled over the folds of my robe, my doting mother learing over her shoulder and rattling off a list of injustices done to her cherished offspring ever since setting foot in this asylum.
Only then, did the level of "health care" rise in my hospital room. Doc Satan came in and the list was again brought out, along with a two page report of my blood pressure numbers that Mom took upon herself to regulate. He filled out a report of his own, apologized, scolded the nurse then upped all of my dosages so the rest of my stay would be a pleasant, fuzzy one.

Except for the hospital's chaplain...who threw a scare into me by waking me up to see if I wanted to pray. Do I look THAT BAD for chrissakes? Go to hell! I'm trying to sleep! As if "sleep" was more than an abstract concept in this hospital. I was rudely awakened every 30 minutes by the automatic blood pressure torture device strapped to my arm.

By the time I left, Nurse Gitmo was relieved of her duties on the surgical floor and a huge sigh of relief could be heard at the nurses station as I was wheeled away to be discharged. A day early.

If I never have to go back, it will still be too soon.

At home again, with all my stuff and friends that stop by to see how I'm doing....I'm happy to say I survived. They tried to kill me but failed miserably. Another testiment to the monumental failure of the American health care system to care. Proving to yours truly yet again, I am right in that it's all about the money and not about the people.
From now on, I'll get my "health care" on the street, like the rest of 'em. The drugs are cheaper anyway.

No food or drink after midnight

2006-09-12T20:43:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow I go in for surgery. Could my life get more interesting?

Since I'll be all doped up and in the hospital, I probably wont be online for a few days.

The hospital has a whole bunch of "new" policies, too. Like, not even my mother can inquire about my condition during my stay unless she has a passcode. Gone are the days of making a simple phone call, asking a simple question and getting a simple answer. Now you must memorize yet another series of numbers and instead of speaking with a real live operator one must enter the special passcode numbers on a touch-tone phone. You will then be directed to yet another recording that will give you further instructions on how to proceed. In the unfortunate event that the patient has expired, you will be redirected to another automated service that will give you a 1-800 number for more information, followed by the pound sign. However, you may return to the main menu by pressing STAR at any time.
I was told by one of the employees there that the hospital's new regulations were now in compliance with Homeland Security standards. Huh? of course, Bush is behind this....

Pre-admission really was a rollicking good time. I had to take in every piece of paper I owned that had my name on it. We have to make sure you are who you say you are. I sat around with one of those buzzers they give you at Outback Steakhouse to let you know your table is ready. Imagine a screeching black box blinking it's lights to alert everyone on the first floor that I was "next". Could they have simply called my name over the intercom in the 30x40 waiting room? Or simply whispered to me, since I was sitting an entire seven feet away from the reception desk? Of course. Instead the other patients and I are all sitting there in our stiff vinyl chairs, holding flashing disco rubik's cubes in a bad 80's video.
I then visited 11 various "rooms", "kiosks" and "windows" before getting everything signed, entered into their computer system and being duly tagged with a stack of ID bracelets. They itch, they make my skin sweat. I'm firmly warned that if they get wet and the numbers blur, I'll have to go through the entire pre-op procedure again.

Medical personnel love moving you around from waiting room to waiting room so you think you're actually "going somewhere" and "making progress". Why I can't sign all forms in one area is beyond my sense of reason. Instead, I go see Marge to initial this paper and Barb to sign that one, now go on down the hall to your right and sign those papers down there, etc etc.

After being treated for writer's cramp, I'm assisted towards the lab. Nurse Ratchett squeezes my arm blue with a rubber hose and slaps the crook of it with her fingers "bad vein! bad! bad!" and before I begin to bruise begins poking the needle into it with great enthusiasm. She can't find my vein! Where is it? Why is the needle not hitting it? NASA's space shuttle could have zero'd in on it easier, I'm thinking. That, and she has managed to frighten my blood into hiding. I know where it's at though, it's curdling in the lowest part of my hand as far from her as it can get. I tell her if she doesn't get it soon I'm probably going to pass out. With a sudden stroke of competency, she gets the amazing idea to let loose the rubber hose so there might be some blood flow. As she tries to position her body to block mine from falling to the floor in the event I do faint, she manages to fill up her 6 empty vials. The possibility of picking me up off the floor has become a huge incentive to succeed.

I am then passed off to another series of rooms and asked a bunch of other questions, like; what religion are you? Do you use recreational drugs? When was your last drink? Stuff I would rather keep to myself. I answer "pagan, yes, Sunday". Then I have to explain those answers, and I feel like I'm talking to my Mom.

I am finally "tagged and released on my own recognizance" until tomorrow, when I show up for the main event and get tattoo'd by a black Sharpie with words that point to a dotted line----->"Cut Here."

The worst part of the hospital "experience" though is actually dealing with the insurance company.
Please explain to me how recording my height and weight is covered by insurance but my pre-op blood work to screen for type, anemia, infection and hepatitis is not???? Does this make any sense whatsoever?????

And I have no doubt whatsoever that when all is said and done and I'm at home recovering, I'll get a bill in the mail telling me that the seventh stitch was an unnecessary procedure and will not be covered. Please enclose $1467.50 within 30 days or we will transfer your account info to our Collections Department.

I wonder who runs the medical profession, the doctors and the hospitals or the insurance companies? Silly me, I already know the answer to that one.

inner beauty wont get you laid

2006-09-09T08:21:00.000-04:00

I'm on a diet.

My girlpal Kelly pokes me in the ribs and says "No, it's a lifestyle change."

meh. Whatever. I guess if that makes it easier for some to call it that instead of what it is----a masochistic excursion of starvation and physical torture, go for it. Not something I particularly want as a "lifestyle".
Even the word Lifestyle sounds absurd. It's overly used for everything from sexual proclivity to furniture. My life style not being what it used to be (or my waistline for that matter) I have embarked full throttle on recreating my outward appearance. And here you thought perfection could not be improved upon! Yeah, neither did I. But I guess it was just time to DO something since my sex life has taken a bit of a nose dive. Um, scratch that. More like it couldn't get off the runway. All tanked up and nowhere to go.

I made the mistake of casually mentioning in polite conversation that I was thinking about getting a bike. Next thing I know, I'm over at Kelly's house and she's ordering her husband to load this new bike into the back of my truck.
Nice bike, too. 15 speed with chunky tires, perfect for riding off-road, and in a lovely dark metallic green. And once you accept such a gift, you are somewhat obligated to do more than get on it once to adjust the seat.

It has become somewhat of a conspiracy amongst my friends lately to get me motivated, moving and possibly laid. And here I had pretty much forgotten all about sex---oh I knew it existed, it's on every channel, in every commercial. I might even have a few homemade videos tucked away somewhere that forever remain as secret evidence of my past prowess. But it's truly been awhile since I even entertained the thought of indulging in it again. I'm so burnt out on the whole dating/mating/relating thing I hadn't given it much thought. Why bother? It's not just sex that's messy (if done correctly) but relationships as well. Being in the de-clutter phase of my life, all that drama and mayhem was too big to stash in the closet.

A strange thing occurred. I stopped seeing men as merely sexual objects, placed upon this earth for my pleasure. Crazy, I know! My usual M.O. is to use them until they are nothing but dry little nubs that roll onto the floor and end up in the sweeper bag. Somewhere along the line I lost all interest, other than casual interaction and a passing glance perhaps. Have I known too many men, understood them too well? Are there no surprises left?

Seems it's only after you haven't had Boston cream pie in what seems like forever do you start thinking about Boston cream pie. You remember the taste, the anticipation of slicing into it and pulling out a sticky sweet wedge of yummy goodness all for yourself, that you begin to actually miss Boston cream pie. Where is it? Where can I get some? Such is sex. Ah, yes. I remember I liked it. It was quite filling and there's nothing like it after a hard day at life.

So yeah, back on track. Dieting. Working out. Crap like that.

I took the bike out last night and rode a few easy miles all up and down a road that curves around the beach. The sun was setting and there was hardly any traffic, the air warm and purple, like it gets before the moon rises.
At the end of the road lies the jetty and a parking lot where lots of people go to see the sunset, observe the boats going in and out of the channel, and make out. Above me is a helicopter, circling like a vulture. Suddenly five police cars whiz by me as I approach the parking lot, bouncing over the rutted surface on my way to see what the action is.
Some guy has been found in his van with a needle in his arm. He's now sitting on the ground in front of his van, humiliated and embarrassed perhaps, as a crowd gathers to see what a junkie looks like. The cops are talking on their radios, writing stuff on clipboards and pretty much ignoring him other than to make sure he doesn't move. The guy is around my age, not bad to look at if he had a shave and some clean clothes. He has kind eyes. Or maybe he's just stoned. He looks up at me as I slowly cruise by and hangs his head back down. I wonder if he's thought about changing his lifestyle lately.
I've seen this movie before, where the homeless, the drunks, the junkies, the forgotten ones journey to the edge of the world (the beach) and wait for salvation to happen. It's not an uncommon occurrance as any seaside cop will tell you.
I get my fill of this misery and make my way back towards the bridge that connects to the mainland. I finally roll into the driveway, exhausted and a little out of breath.

After a shower and a tall glass of tea I click on the tv and The Bridges of Madison County is on. Old people sex! I'm just in time to see Clint Eastwood sucking face with Meryl Streep. Look how skinny he is! And his nose is bright red too, the nose of a lush or Santa's reindeer. Was he drunk when he made that scene? I'm thinking he was, and that his breath smelled like shit. Meryl is blinking uncomfortably and she's placing her hand lightly over his mouth. As he zooms in for the kiss in this scene, she deflects it by embracing him instead, putting her chin on his shoulder. Oh wow, did she just roll her eyes? I wonder what she's really thinking while trying to be all professional and stuff. I'm with you sistah. I know that's nasty.

Kelly calls to tell me the psychiatrist friend she's been wanting to fix me up with is going to be around this weekend. Oh joy, Oh elation. (I'm kidding.) There's nothing worse a friend can do than try to fix you up. 9 times out of 10 it's a total mismatch. Well intentioned but wrong on so many levels. This time is no different.
I've already met him, discussed world politics and philosophy with him. He seems nice enough, but there's no chemistry, no spark. I MUST have spark. No spark, no fire! Besides, as "papered" as he is, I have a sneaking suspicion that I am smarter than he is. Normally, this is not a deal breaker for me as long as the brain is housed in a pleasing package and he can tie his own shoes. Not like I'm going to fuck his brain, ya know? heh.

But it is his physical appearance that is the real dealbreaker. Am I shallow? Mmmm....no, just honest. He's way too skinny, he has the physique of a starving vegetarian, which is what he is. And vegetarians aren't on my new lifestyle plan. They barely qualify as a snack.
I look at his thin arms and the slight tinge of darkness beneath his eyes. A little animal protein and some iron would do wonders. There's very little muscle mass, nothing strong and beefy to grab onto. His arms are spaghetti. Who feels sexy and protected in a bowl of pasta?
I guess I just like my men to look like men. Not waify girls who squeal when you order steak. It's embarrassing.

On the other end of the spectrum is the Guy Who Doesn't Care. His philosophy is "I am what I am and me and the couch are One." He's at the bar, bellied up to a bottle of Guiness and watching the game on tv. He glances my way, grins in that grizzly way that bears do, forcing me to flee for my very life and seek porridge elsewhere. Other than stopping by for a brew, his physical activities include getting in and out of his truck, opening the refrigerator door, and sitting. He usually has man boobs too, and sometimes they are bigger than mine. (and that's sayin something) This creature couldn't find his way to my bedroom with a compass tied to his prick. And that's a good thing. I wouldn't want him in there, belching & shlepping all over my clean sheets, just laying there, grunting, waiting for me to do all the work because he might have a heartattack or something.

So what's left? Between the two extremes is the boytoy. All the cool older women are doing it.... And I see why. It's practically effortless. Just exhale a pheromone in their direction and they'll last for hours, without Viagra or the vague promise that you will make them cookies or pick up their shirts at the cleaners. Young men are perfectly capable of opening a Chips Ahoy bag themselves and they delight in running around shirtless, those naughty little satyrs! These two qualities by themselves are like catnip to this sex starved kitten of carnal depravity. Give me young, dumb, and full of----well, you get my drift.

Mark it all down to biology. Even if recreation is the motive for sex and not re-creation, we are wired to seek out the physical characteristics that insure strong, healthy offspring and make all of our friends jealous. It doesn't matter how truly beautiful you are on the inside, nobody's going to want to find out if they have to drill through 9 inches of ugly to get to it. I think how you take care of yourself for yourself is a strong indicator of how you'll take care of your relationship with another person. If we don't pay much attention to ourselves, why should anyone else? Maybe I was beginning to sail comfortably away on that boat myself, but real friends dont let friends get frumpy. I'm lucky in that I have horridly honest friends with absolutely no tact whatsoever. I get away with nothing.

While I nibble away on crap I wouldn't feed a rabbit and twist my shape into amazing geometric proportions, I focus on the longterm effects of healthy eating and exercise, like any conciencious person would do. Hours and hours of hot, passionate animal lust with swarthy young swashbucklers ready to sail my high C's!!! A healthier heart & all that is a secondary benefit. I must be totally honest. My new lifestyle plan is based completely on selfish reasons.
But I can live with that.

2006-09-08T10:56:00.000-04:00

2006-09-08T08:36:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning with cat ass in my face. Instead of the earthy aroma of freshly brewed coffee, I am roused awake by the unmistakable stink of Pye's blind eye and a fluffy tail batting my nose. Get up, bitch and go get a job.
Ah, yes. Unemployment. It reeks of possibilities.

My past "employer", and I use that term loosely...because in essence I taught him the bidniz and without me he wouldn't know what end of the vase to put the flowers in....has been the busy little bee trying to keep me from gaining employment in the field to which I am qualified, telling prospective employers I am difficult (moi?) a bit of a Diva (like it's a bad thing) and generally a pain in the ass. (he should know)

Working for queens when you are a straight female is difficult enough, but to be fired by one with an attitude can be extremely---- frustrating. I've worked for tyrants, clowns, idiots and ballbusters, but none can ever compare to the daily drama of working for a pissy gay male with a huge rhinestone chip on his shoulder. How dare you, with your vagina and size 6 shoes be better than me at this sort of thing? After all, aren't gay men the experts on style and color? You wimins, you breeders only think you know what you are doing. It takes a gay man to bring color! and pinache! to this dismal world, or so he would have had me think it.

But the truth is, he really had no clue. Just wanted to own a trendy shop, with trendy customers, and make billions. He got what he wanted, sans the billions. When we opened the doors for business, I taught him everything except for how to work the cash register. I put in extreme overtime hours, came in on days off to catch up on paperwork, supplier issues, afforded him the luxury of weeks and weeks of vacations while I held down the fort, etc, at no extra cost to him. How am I repaid? How am I compensated for creating a pleasant and productive atmosphere for customers and employees? I go in one day to get "the speech". Yes, without you we would be nothing. Yes, you have put in your blood, sweat and tears to get this business on it's feet and create a strong client base. Yes, you put your life on hold several times to do the last minute wedding or event, or come in when someone was sick and it was your day off. Thanks, bye! And that's pretty much how it was. Buh-bye now! Buh-bye!

I could have done just fine without being reminded of how much I put into the business before being stabbed in the heart like that. Really. And it's not like I had even asked for a raise or anything...I hadn't. Nothing.
I really think I might have been fired because I was straight. And worse, female. And even worse than that, an acid tongued bitch who refuses to take smart allecky remarks without an equally snappy comeback.

Why do I think this? Maybe because I've known enough gay men in my lifetime to know when they harbor this sort of twisted jealousy and prejudice. They do, ya know. Not all, of course, but the majority do seem to have some sort of vendetta against us girls. It's a strange rivalry.
If I had a dollar for everytime he said "the difference between a straight man and a gay man is a six back of Budweiser" I would be able to open my own bar. He really thought this way too and loved reminding me of it any time I had my eye on someone or some customer would brazenly flirt with me. It was his little monkey wrench to toss into the works, hoping against hope that it would make me feel inferior as a woman compared to the sexual "expertise" of gay men. Oh WHATEVER.

In the clarity of hindsight, I see how hostile the working environment really was when he was around and not on one of his MANY vacations. I knew it then on some level, but chose to ignore it and instead focused on my work. I would meet his barbs and jabs with a few of my own to shut him up and it worked, for the most part. But all things have an end, and in the end, he had to "show me" who wore the tiara around here.

Well honey, you may wear the tiara but I'm the one with the vagina. Bite me.

The industry is chock full of misogynist males who secretly or not so secretly hate women. I've known that for a long time now. Most of them keep their resentment to themselves, or else they become your best girlfriends and help you shop. And then there are those power hungry queens who hate you for what You are and then bitch and moan about how misunderstood and discriminated THEY are because of What they are. Confusing? Not really. Apply a double standard and add water. Instant hypocrite.

But Beelzie always gets the last laugh. Always.

I work within the natural laws of the universe. What goes around, etc etc. As his business loses business (and I'm hearing from various grapevines that it has) because his Star Designer has left the building and taken her clippers with her, his customers are thinning almost as fast as his hair.
But what's really cool is that I have been offered a job with his biggest competitor. Actually, it's every shop's biggest competitior. They are that damn good. And they want me. The news got out that Ms Thang let me go and I'm available. The phone rings and it's my future boss wanting to know when I can start working for him, if I'm interested. If I'm interested. Oh happy day.

Living well is the best revenge.

tune in/tune out?

2006-09-07T17:19:00.000-04:00

Click on the link if so inclined....

Now of course I have to watch this 5 hr docu-drama on ABC since the Clinton administration peeps are crying foul over it's content. "The Path to 9/11" or something. Wanna know what's ugly? The fact that I have to watch it so I can get pissed off is One, but not only that---it's chic and hip and trendy to cash in on this fairly recent American tragedy. Pretty disgusting, actually. Everybody's doing it. What started off as tacky ribbon car magnets has gone full blown Hollywood yet again. Me, I'm waiting on the musical.

And ABC is sooo willing to take a bite in the ass by not showing commericals the whole time so you can stay glued to their rhetoric and anti-Clinton propaganda for the duration.

Why blame the Clinton administration? Because it's pretty toasty in the Whitehouse right now and Bush and/or his henchmen want to "save" a broken right wing of the Republican party.... and someday even the blind will see how all this crap is just spin spin spin by whoever has the most $ to play the game.
Look, the Republicans would do anything to keep another Clinton out of the Whitehouse. What lovely timing, just before any of the Clinton clan can toss thier hat in the presidential arena? What a coinky-dink. Not that "anyone" is...but just incase.
Could ABC be sleeping in Bush's bed? Geewillikers. Does FOX know? And who would dare think that the networks could ever be "bought"? That right after these important messages...

It's all a conspiracy. And that's all I really have to say about it.

hide n seek

2006-09-05T01:08:00.000-04:00

The internets are lacking in up to the minute news coverage on the things I want to see. Case in point; yesterday Hillary Clinton marched in the West Indian parade in Brooklyn and nobody has any footage of it. Beelze's babette was there, and I know she got her little mug on camera...but alas, this poor mother shall never know, because once again, the Media has failed me.
So I implore anyone out there who has video or photos of Ms. Clinton in the parade, or you know of a site that does, please be so kind as to pass the info.... C'mon, there's got to be somebody, somewhere....
Ya know, if there were a 24 hr Hillary Channel (like there should be) I wouldn't have to endure this travesty of American journalism. Instead, I am forced to read this. "The problem is we get oil from some parts of the world and they simply don't like us. And so the more dependent we are on that type of energy, the less likely it will be that we are able to compete, as so people have good, high-paying jobs." ---King George W, The Decider and Expert on Foreign Policy & Global Economics---09/04/06
Blahblahblahblah----your days are numbered, Einstein.

2006-08-31T07:27:00.000-04:00

a day at the beach

2006-08-30T22:18:00.000-04:00

There are times when It speaks to you. "It" is sometimes called God, the Universe, The Cosmic Divine, Spirit, etc. Whatever it is you particularly call It, if you acknowledge It's existence then somehow It will make Itself known. This I know is true.
It spoke to me today.

Seeing that we had escaped a potential hurricane, I cheerfully skipped my happy ass to the beach to check out the wave action. The beach after a storm is one of my favorite places to be. The gulf is usually quite sedate, we don't get the large waves that the other side of the state gets on a regular basis. Only during and after storms are there waves of any impressionable size, and the shoreline reacts by collapsing on itself and revealing layers of old shells and fossils left millions of years ago. The fossil hunting here is just one of the reasons I like the gulf coast. I have gathered quite a collection of petrified wood, bone, and prehistoric shark teeth over the years. Also, some rather odd items. You just never know what you'll find when aimlessly wandering about, like I tend to do.

Armed with my trusty Vivitar camera and a ripe peach safely enclosed in a ziplock baggie, I headed out for adventure in hopes of getting a groovy picture or two to play with on my computer. When I arrived the skies were still hopelessly gray and the shoreline was deserted for miles. Just me and my peach on the beach. Fabulous!
Eerily quiet except for the sound of the waves rolling and pounding towards the shore, the stench of red tide had disappeared and so had the sickly brown look of the water. The waves curled in greens and white, an indication that the algae bloom that creates such havoc to our coastline had been finally pushed out to sea. A few shore birds had returned to dive for fish in the shallows and the bodies of the dead had either been swept away by a cleansing wave or crumbled into white dust. I had my beach back, and we again were spared a destructive storm.
I started walking north, flanked only by the water and the rising sand dunes. Perfect solitude. On this beach there are no houses or condos or towering hotels, only miles of sand. It's the best place to gather one's thoughts or spend the day without the intrusion of the usual tourist crowd. Us locals know all the best places...

So on I walked, my face turned towards the wind, snapping a picture or two as the waves crashed, rolled and crashed again as seabirds flew overhead. I stopped after awhile at one particular group of terra cotta colored rocks, stretching and zigzagging from the sand dunes to disappear somewhere beneath the dark water. I sat down, opened up the ziplock bag and took out the peach.
In these surroundings the peach seemed more vibrant than it had sitting on my kitchen table. Against a pallet of blues, grays and greens, it's yellow and red flesh was a bright, alien thing in my hand. It seemed out of place in this dismal setting. I bit into it and allowed the sweet juice to run down my chin, droplets falling onto the front of my shirt and the sand below. It tasted wonderful in the salty air.
As I sat there enjoying my peach on the deserted beach, I thought of how lucky I truly was, and grateful too that as much as I like hurricane parties, I didn't have to have one or worry about the roof blowing away this week. I thought of my daughter, my son, and those things that I do have, as opposed to all I have lost during a very emotionally challenging summer.
Midway through the peach, I was overcome with a feeling to give back, to say thank you to Whatever It was that was watching over me. Looking out over the waves, they seemed to be reaching for me with foamy tendrils....and my peach!
I looked at the half eaten fruit in my hand. I looked at the sea, reaching, reaching.
I looked at the rock that stood like a short, fat table in the sand.

I don't pray in the conventional way. I don't kneel and fold my hands or make a steeple with my fingers. I don't utter memorized psalms or verses or rub rosary beads. Those things are fine, but they aren't me. I stand when I pray, and speak face-to-invisible-face. I light a candle. Or, I leave an Offering. Something that has some meaning, an element of sacrifice. Something that will feed, literally or figuratively, the deity I envision listening to me.
So I walked up to the rock and laid my half eaten peach upon it.

I spoke out loud to the wind and the waves, feeling a deep sense of calm that usually eludes me. I didn't ask for anything, no pleas to the Cosmic Santa Claus to fix my career, my body, my bank account or my love life. I didn't curse the Forces that took away my beloved pet, my job, my friend, my health or my particular lot in life. Just a few words of thanks.
Logically, I thought a bird would come down and peck at the fruit before the tide ever came in far enough to take it away. But that's not what happened.
No, like I said, It spoke to me today.

Instead, a rogue wave, tall and green and crested white stretched forth and slammed right down on my little peach and swept it away! I stood there in what was just a moment ago high & dry sand as warm water now curled around my calves and tickled my toes with little shells and travelling sand. I watched as the peach, red side up, bobbed up and down like a ball and swirled away, disappearing in the fast flowing dark water. I almost felt sad to watch it go like that so quick and so sudden. But in a way I was a little delighted too, the wave had been such a surprise. I interpreted the hungry wave to mean I had been heard and my Offering had been accepted.

I stood there in that spot for a few minutes more. The tide had receded back to it's previous level so I spent some time pushing the sand around with my hand looking for sharks teeth. And that's when it happened.
There on the tide, floating towards me on my right, was something white. My first thought was "dead fish". But when it washed up to my feet I saw it wasn't a dead fish at all.
It was a white rose.

I laughed out loud, mostly in surprise and shock.
Where in the hell did a white rose come from on so many miles of deserted beach????
I instinctively looked around as I picked it up, to see if I really was alone. I was.
Looking at the rose, it was even more alien than the peach. Roses don't grow on beaches. And they usually dont just pop up at your feet in the same exact spot where you have just made an Offering. It just doesn't happen!!! And yet it did. And, I whipped out my trusty pal Viv and took a picture of it for you to see.

IT speaks to us in many ways. It speaks to us all the time, if only we would shut up and listen. And sometimes, it speaks so clear that you don't have to strain to hear a divine answer. You just have to Be.

And It always know just what "words" to use that will resonate within our own individual spirit. Because.......
Ever since Ever, white roses have always been my very favorite flower.

SURE someone somewhere miles away could have dropped it over the side of a pier, or stood and tossed it into the water. All sorts of reasonable explanations went through my mind...but one thing stood out more than any other. It came to Me. On six miles of deserted beach. It came to Me. That means something.

What it means can't be put into words. What it makes me feel, can. Heard. Loved. Protected. I'm not alone.

No matter where I am, in a crowd or on a lonely gray beach far far away from the sight or sound of another human being, I am not alone.

And everything's ok.

I don't expect anyone to believe me. But in a world where so much bad goes on, and so much suffering, I know that there is still a spark of magic to be found. There is still a surprise to be had. There is still a message for us all to hear.

2006-08-28T18:06:00.000-04:00

O my. Two---no, THREE posts in so many days.

Ehh, "Ernie" is really blowing it. And not in a good way. I was just getting excited, too, the bastard. Standin' me up for a coupla big hills in Cuba......typical! What, he doesn't like perky? ok, flat. The majority of land mass in Florida is unbelievably flat. Except for endless miles of speed bumps, affectionately known as "retirees".
Miami being a big ho and all, she'll be puttin' it out there, first in line for disaster aid, as per u-su-al. Don't matter if she gets hit, just being within a 1000 mile radius of a rogue storm will be some kind of relationship that she will suck dry like the fi' dolla date she is.
Uh, no. I don't care for Miami. I've driven there. And it's Shrub territory. Need I say more?

I'm adding some new links, some spankin' brand new shiny super-deluxe HILLARY links. ahem. For those who are not privvy to my political taste, I am a huge Hillary Rodham Clinton supporter. Yes, I realize I do not live in NY. Duh. But that's the beauty of it, the divine madness of politics....you can support anyone you want. And I adore this woman. I hope she runs for president so I can step up and annoy every single republican in Florida. I will put her signs in my yard, make my truck a virtual campaign float. I'll slap HILLARY stickers on the backs of every redneck cracker Bush whacker that passes me by. I'll hold "Hillary circles" on the beach with menopausal women wearing mumus & fat, ugly necklaces. Hillary car washes that will support a CLEAN administration. I will soooo be her bitch. Besides, who can pass up the chance to see Bill become----

---hmm. What would he become? First Gentleman? Guy? Daddy? Mate?
I love the irony. America needs more irony. We are too sure of ourselves.

see ya wednesday, Ernie?

2006-08-27T23:13:00.000-04:00

always sensitive, always politically correct....

2006-08-27T08:36:00.000-04:00

Poking my head in here, seeing if anyone is still around....

Sunday morning. Coffee & Poptarts. Strawberry, with icing and sprinkles. I usually don't go for the sprinkles, but since breakfast is the most important meal of the day.....

SO much has gone on. Where to begin?
J moved away, FAR away, and he MIGHT even be getting married. I dunno. Everything happens so fast with him he could already be divorced by now. Best of Luck, J.

...and J, remember this as you soon become one of those married guys. You will never have the "last word" in any argument. Never. You may think you have, but let's make this clear. Your "last word" is actually the beginning of a new argument.
Remember, marriage is all about compromise. Mostly yours.
And that is the secret to a happy marriage.
You're welcome.

On a sad note, I am still grieving the loss of my Misty. Brain tumor. I blame George W. Bush.

Oh, and I moved. Much happier where I am now. Close to the beach, where we are currently enjoying red tide. Since 2000, the occurance of red tide has increased, decreasing any chance of enjoying the white sand and (what used to be) crystal blue waters of our area beaches. Hmm. Wonder why that is. (in my best Church Lady voice) Could it be......George W. Bush????
Anyway, the beaches are littered with the stinking, rotting corpses of fish and other marine life. The water is brown and murky. You can't breathe on the beach without an oxygen mask. Red tide taints the air to where it's like breathing in battery acid with just a hint of decomposition.
I actually pity the poor tourists standing there with their brightly colored rafts and swim fins, staring out into the black abyss, disappointment replacing enthusiastic smiles. "Jimmy, put down the blowfish! Honey, have you seen my keys? Lift up that dead carp and see if I put them there...Suzie, what's wrong, why are you crying? Oh, you're not crying...it's irritation. Aw, your nose and throat hurt? Try breathing only every other minute. We're on vacation! What say we all go out for seafood tonight? All these fish are making me hungry."

Lost my job too. Yep, I looked around one day and it was gone. Just like that. Rumor has it that it was found by an illegal immigrant who promised to take care of it for $6. an hour.

Lets see.....what else??? Oh yeah. I'm going in for surgery next month. Fuckers better give me some good drugs, is all I can say.....

AND I'm writing a book. No, really. Hell, I figure if this guy (who can't write himself out of a paper bag) can do it, I sure as hell can. Ever read his stuff? Makes me want to smack his English teacher. He never should have been allowed access to anything bigger than a crayon.

Now SHADDUP ALREADY. I really do know how to "write". I choose though to scribble and sprinkle my musings with misspellings and bad grammar. People think you're all uppity and shit if you don't use the proper wordage like "axe" for "ask" when you conversate. Since it's important to establish an intimate connection with one's reader, one must use the current vernacular in order to forge that important bond. Word up. I ain't no holla back gurl.
The book I'm working on is based on a true story. No, I wont go into it here because I'll jinx the hell out of it if I do. Then the world will be forced to read crap like the Duh Vinsee Cold instead of my forthcoming literary masterpiece.
Yes, I'm really quite full of myself.

And in the News...... "Ernesto" is dog paddling up towards the gulf and reminding us in the gulf states that Yes Virginia, there IS still a hurricane season. I have a hard time remembering this particular hurricane's name, for whatever reason. It's not a name you hear every day, like say Jose or Juan, if you live in Florida or anywhere else that employs slave labor.
Ernesto. Ernesto.
MY PREDICTION and yes I do have one, is that "Ernie" will hit Naples. A Grand Slam. You heard it here first, kids. My Super Psychic Senses Say that Naples will suffer a direct hit.
I think we should all place our bets on potential landfalls. See who comes in the closest.

Of course Nah'lins is already (according to our Fair & Balanced Media) freaking out about it. One thing that is really bothering me (ok, there's more than one, but whatevah) is that New Orleans acts like it was the only area of that suffered tragedy on account of Katrina. Uhm, excuse me---but Katrina didn't really "hit" New Orleans. Nope. Sure didn't. However, the levees did break and flood the city. That's not exactly a "direct hit" though. I think the good folks in Mississippi and Alabama might have something to say about that. However, it's New Orleans that's jumping up and down and saying "look at me! look at me!" to the detriment of all true hurricane sufferers. Y'all need to SHADDUP over there.

Now, on to this Jon Benet Ramsey thang. Geebus H. Christ, who IS this nut job they just pulled off a plane? And why do I have to hear about it 24/7? This guy is a joke. And who does his makeup??? I want to poke his pathetic little Cover Girl eyes out with flaming toothpicks. BUTCH UP FER CHRISSAKES. Sniveling little piss-ant wimp piece of shit. Do us and Este Lauder a favor and DIE. You pathetic waste of space.
Yeah, yeah I know....his mom was a nutjob who was eventually committed to the looney bin after telling her two sons (one being John Karr) to lay down on a blanket in the living room with a bible and a gee-tar whilst she set the thing on fire. If anything, it only goes to show the rest of us that abortion should be legal and idiots sterilized before they pollute the gene pool with these turds they keep popping out, usually at tax payers expense. Karr had no destiny but one in which he would be fucked up, therefore fucking up everyone else who's lives he unfortunately touched.

And speaking on the whole "life" issue.....that crazy Vatican! STILL they refuse to acknowledge the benefits of stem cell research and the whole human embryo thingie. The head of the Vatican's PONTIFICAL ACADEMY FOR LIFE Bishop Elio Sgreccia (bless you! here's a tissue) says experiments with embryos is "reprehensible" as is the use of "unnatural" in-vitro embryos created in fertility clinics and that new methods by Advanced Cell Technology Inc. fails to live up to the Church's "many moral concerns".
Then he pulled up his pants.

I just don't get these whack jobs. And I really don't get why anybody listens to these "pontifications" or whatnot. Actually, I don't understand why anybody in this day and age with a stellar grade A publik educashun wants to be Catholic. I mean, c'mon. Does God really need old homosexuals or pedophiles in evening gowns to tell you what to do? Is He that busy creating wildfires, hurricanes & earthquakes that he can't take a simple phone call and needs the Poperator to take down a message? ARE PEOPLE THAT STUPID?
why, yes. apparently.
By the way, if you're Catholic and dutifully offended, then good for you. Think how offended I am that your Dark Ages mentality keeps sticking it's big clubbed foot in the path of Progress. But don't worry, I don't care for your cousins the FUNDAMENTALIST Christians, either.
My mother told me she heard something on Good Morning America (so it must be true!) last week that there's some guy in Miami claiming to be Jesus Christ and he's got followers out the kazoo giving him their life's savings and all that shit to support him. So, I asked my mom, who is as close to a Fundamentalist Christianity as you can get without falling in, "wouldn't the real Jesus be truly offended that everybody was paying him?" to which she thoughtfully paused and then answered "Yes, I suppose so."
Considering that every sixth or seventh man in Miami is named "Jesus" (usually followed by Garcia or Lopez) Miami is a hotbed of religious fanaticism closely paralleled by skinny gay men in pink shorts on rollerblades. I would love to meet this "Jesus" fella. I'd introduce myself as his mother, who had astral sex on the ninth plane with God and did that whole "sex without guilt" thing, therefore he owes me. What good Jewish boy in Miami doesn't take care of his poor mutha? Oy vay!

2006-04-26T18:47:00.000-04:00

Well, my darlings, looks as if the phone company is about to shut off my phone. SO WHAT if I'm a little late....don't I always pay? Eventually?

Times are tough for Beelze these days. Can't afford to buy gas, and the price of everything is going up because it's costing those who get Products from point A to point B more in transportation costs. We've had to raise prices too in my industry, much to our customers' chagrin. Hey, it costs us more, so now it costs You more. That's the bottom line, I tell them. Right before I ask them who they voted for in 04, of course. Then when they say "George W. Bush" I shake my head at them and heave a heavy sigh. Well... there ya go, sweetie! This usually pisses them off but I refuse to care. Get back in your SUV and shut the fuck up.

Apathy. Just another service we offer.

So yeah, the Evil Phone People want to shut off my service, which also means no internet access. Which loosely translated means another hiatus from bloggin and other harmless forms of self entertainment. Bastards.

It's all George W. Bush's fault. Really, it is. But not to worry, he's going to investigate the high gasoline prices and punish those who are price gouging. Sort of like how he was going to find out who was leaking precious CIA info and punish them too. Lets all hold our breath, shall we? Ok, you go first.

Dumbya is an Oil Man. Greasey, even. He wasn't a particularly savvy oil man in Texas, as anyone who's looked into his past gig will tell you. But there's one thing that Dumbya is, and that is Loyal to His Oil. He will be sure to give his grease buddies enough time to doctor the books, scapegoat, and in essence keep their profits while it appears he's "doing" something. You can take that to the bank. Besides, the reality of this little economic snafu is simply this; when demand goes up, so do profits. It's the backbone of doing bidniz. However, the oil industry is one of the most heavily subsidized industries that exists. If Bush and member of Congress were to remove those cash blankets, a small part of the so-called "problem" would be removed. I'm baffled that we subsidize this industry in the first place. $20 billion in profits aren't enough? Here, have some more of our tax payers money. Now, go forth and multiply those prices, thus sayeth the Lord Bush. Need a free refinery? How about a tax cut? Fear not, for Bush is thy shepard and you shall not want.

Here's a thought I've been thinking; if Creationists don't believe that the dinosaurs existed, then where does their gasoline come from? I try not to hang around stupid people, so I've yet to find a Creationist that can answer that question.

But back to my communications problem...

Hopefully, the phone company will ease up the dogs and give me a week to play catch up. I've got so much kvetching to do yet....and I will not be silenced.

I too need a subsidy to call my very own.

2006-04-20T19:14:00.000-04:00

In honor of 420 Day, the day when millions of stoners everywhere smoke out in observance of their favorite illegal pasttime, I dedicate this post to the children who's parents were either high, or just plain dopey when they named their little darlings at birth.
All of my present and future condolences to said offspring as they grow up and realize that the rest of the world is a cruel and stupid place as they defend themselves and try to ignore the teasing and nastiness they will someday encounter as a result of their parents' so-called expression of creative enlightenment.

First, we have smelly names. Such as:

Peaches Honeyblossom. (daughter of Bob Geldof) Perhaps meant to evoke a feeling of being in Georgia in the summah tahme, wiff dem bees a buzzin an da cotton up ta heyah. Or a spring-time fresh feminine product. And So this is the label he chooses to represent as the fruit of his loins.

Daisy Boo & Poppy Honey. (daughters of Jamie & Jools Oliver) I shudder, remembering my old dog Daisy. Sweet bitch, she was. Beautiful, affectionate, but ran away to the next door neighbor's because the new house scared her. She thought it was haunted. True story! I felt horribly betrayed that a little spook could come between us like that. Neighbor Guy seemed downright apologetic that Daisy (Boo!) had chosen to live there instead of here but said she was a great dog and actually no problem. And, I was always free to visit, or try to convince her to come home (that wussy bitch) any time I wanted to! Ha! Me beg a dog to come back and break my heart all over again? Like she was a cat or something? (which, by the way, deserve to be worshipped).

Apple. (daughter of Gywneth Paltrow) Oh whatever. This one is just too ridiculous for words. Why not Nectarine or Seedless Grapes? A name deserves a little more thought than merely reflecting on what you had for lunch at the House Of Pies.
Moses. (son of above mentioned airhead) Can't wait for the jokes to fly once he learns to walk. "Look honey, there's Gywneth following Moses!" Will he part the red sea or part his strained peas? The list is endless.

The Jacksons, taking the usual royal pains to be odd, have brought forth Prince Michael II (son of Michael and brother of Prince Michael, who I assume is I)
And even Jermaine Jackson's got his sense of entitlement as well. He's the father of a son he named Jermajesty. And I had no idea that Gary, Indiana was such a hotbed of bluebloods.

Others take a more "modern" approach.

Audio Science. (daughter of Shannyn Sossamon) First, I dont know who the hell Shannyn Sossamon is. Nor do I care. And when her daughter's old enough, she'll run away from home. And hock the electronics to buy crack for her football player boyfriend. And she won't care, either.

Pilot Inspektor. (son of Jason Lee) It reeks of alcohol and a whole lot more.

Moxie Crimefighter. ( child of Penn Jillette) I dont know if Moxie's a boy or a girl or a jewish superhero. It IS 4:20 somewhere in the world.... and obviously in some worlds more than others.

Jett. (son of John Travolta) John flies planes, so this probably makes some kind of pseudo sense to this particular Scientologist. It also makes sense that he and Jason Lee are soul mates.

If planes arent your prefered mode of transportation, there's always Speck Wildhorse. (son of John Cougar Mellencamp) but if you prefer to walk, try;
Scout (daughter of Demi Moore & Bruce Willis) but her sister Rumer has it that she's still out searching for parents who arent so fucked up.

Kyd. (Tea Leoni & David Duchovney) Still not quite normal, but at least it won't sound like an insult on the playground. "Hey Kyd" ain't so bad....

And so I leave you with Banjo. (daughter of Rachel Griffiths) And Suri (daughter of Tom Shmooze and Katie Holmes) Other victims of the tragically hip. There are many more names I could add, but it is a holiday and there is much celebrating to be done. I leave it to you to carry on and during this holiday season, please, smoke responsibly.

2006-04-18T20:56:00.000-04:00

Since I'm too bored to blog about anything important, here's a few pics I've taken in the last few months. Yeah, they're kind of boring too.

I found this trash angel while walking along a street in Manhattan. I found it to be a telling commentary on the state of the Arts. And a very cool thing to have in my living room, if only I could have picked it up.
Lemon Bay at sunset. The Calusa Indian mounds are just a few feet away. I walked up on some jerk pissing on them. I asked him where his grandmother was buried, just incase I'm in the neighborhood and need to relieve myself. He didn't think that was funny. I didn't mean for it to be. Some people are just idiots.
This is the Great And Powerful Sky Dog. I saw him sitting up on the clouds one day and just couldn't help myself.

More pics to come, unless I get inspired for greater things......

2006-04-11T21:58:00.001-04:00

And while I've got my big yap open, HOW THE HELL DOES G.DUB GET TO DECLASSIFY ANYTHING HE WANTS???

seriously. I'm like, too f'in tired to look through all that chap.563 pg.1609 sec.7 para.44 line12bushit. Just gimmie some answers. Dammit.

2006-04-11T18:57:00.000-04:00

good fences make good neighbors

2006-04-11T07:01:00.000-04:00

Dear Illegal Immigrants,
You are Illegal. This means that you are breaking the law in our country by being here without permission. Contrary to what you might think, this is not a "free country" in that anyone and everyone can do what they want here. We are only free to complain and pay taxes. Those "rights" come with citizenship. Period.
Yes, I know you are having a difficult time in Mexico and other countries south of our so-called border. I know exactly how difficult it is to get a decent paying job. I have been passed over countless times for someone who will work for half of what I need to live. However, you have a perfectly nice country of your own and I think it would be in your and your family's best interest to fix what's wrong in your own homeland, just as we do in ours. (or attempt to do)

If you dont like how your country is run, then change it. Running away from the problem is not the answer. I dont comprende how you don't know this.
I see you're starting to carry the American flag now since we all got rather pissy that you came here to wave your own. That's a nice gesture, to be sure, but that's really all it is. Very few of you truly understand what principals and ideals our flag stands for. Even fewer of you can recite the Pledge of Allegiance or tell me who was the first president. Even fewer still can speak English, our national language (inspite of your efforts to Latinize it), and here you are demanding "rights" with signs written in Spanish. If you want to be heard, perhaps you should communicate in the language of this country.
Contrary to what some Americans or illegals think, this whole deal is not about your "rights". Truthfully, you have none here. And to assume we should all welcome you with open arms as if you have gone through the system legally is a bit of a stretch. And also unfair to those immigrants who are waiting patiently in line in front of you for legal status.

One thing I really wish you would or could understand is that you are being exploited as a people. American companies are not your friends. Your willingness to work for low wages so that American companies can fatten up their profit margins does nothing but keep you, and us, poor.

If the argument holds true that Americans will not do the jobs you do for the low wage, there is indeed a reason for it, and it's not because we are too "good" to do the "bad" jobs. Many Americans understand that to accept a wage that is too low, considering the cost of living, is not beneficial to themselves or their families. Many companies couldn't care less how far below the poverty level their workers live as long as the CEO's can live wealthy lifestyles. The average American understands this and demands to be paid fairly. When you come in to do our jobs for less pay, only the CEO's can afford to live here. You've set yourself up to be the enemy of the lower and middle class working American. That is why we get angry with you. It's not that we dont want to cut grass or clean motel rooms, we do and will....but everyone, regardless of country of origin, should be paid a decent wage to do so. By doing these jobs for less, you only contribute further to the problem.

In the "new" Immigration Bill, there are some ridiculous freebies that unfortunately few Americans understand as well. For example, you want a free ride to college just for being here. (illegally) I'm sorry but that just won't do. Our own kids have enough problems getting into college. The average American family has a difficult, if not impossible time getting their own children into college. It's expensive! We work all of our lives to give our kids an opportunity to do better, scraping and scrimping by only to have you walk in and get it for free? Talk about a slap in the face! As a parent, I'm angry enough that the system makes it so difficult for our own children and here you want me to step aside for your own kid. This just will not do.

I am the grandchild of immigrants myself. Most of us are here because our families immigrated from other countries. My grandfather came over on a boat from Europe and had to do certain things to attain citizenship. These included speaking English, understanding American principals and history, the ability and dedication to improving one's adopted country. I haven't seen any of this from you. Instead, I see a separatist type of 'group think'. You separate yourselves by refusing to learn English and speak it, you separate yourselves from Americans and continue a pack mentality. You alienate yourselves by refusing to obey our laws and insist on being "exceptions".

Oh but let us get back on to the Exploitation Factor. Honestly, American politicians really don't give 2 shits about you. You don't vote. You can't. Therefore, they do not represent you. They are using Immigration as a platform to sway the American opinion to their favor. You see them up there on the podium praising immigrants? It's all blah blah blah. It means nothing. Nada. It's exposure, a chance to get on camera and get a name in the newspaper. Our senators, representives etc are not saints or messiahs up there trying to save the world, they are politicians and it's their jobs to get Votes. From Americans. And they will, and do, step on your backs to get it.

Look, I understand there are few jobs in Mexico and other Latin American countries that you can afford to raise your families on. I'm not entirely heartless to your plight. However, if you were really all that concerned about it, you'd do something in your own homeland to change it. CREATE a newer, better Mexico or wherever you are from. INSIST that your leaders lead. Fight for livable wages there. Fight to stop the legacy of corruption and poverty for the generations to come. These are your people. Why do you abandon them?

Stop cannonizing the pope and other religious leaders, practice responsible birth control and get your own house in check before you have kids you can't afford to feed. You are a people rich in history and culture and you should be proud of where you come from, not eager to leave it. Why do you allow your leaders to run you out of your own homeland? If they are corrupt (as many of them are) then TAKE CONTROL and kick the bums out. As a collective front, there's nothing you cannot accomplish. Take a page from our own history books. Start a freakin Revolution, fer chrissakes.

Sincerely,
Beelzebabe

hoopla

2006-04-09T22:18:00.000-04:00

Sunday morning. I watch the neighbors come home from being out all night, cars quietly creeping through the foggy parking lot one by one. It feels good to be home, even though I'm nursing a hangover myself, curled around my coffee cup on the sofa as I watch the usual sunday morning return from the living room window.
I made it home this morning around 1:30, sand in my hair and clothes, reeking of GodKnowsWhat, falling into bed only to sleep for a restless five hours before waking up with a pounding headache. I love gin but it doesn't love me. I seduce it alright, and it surrenders it's earthly delights without protest until I try to get up and go home, then it becomes a nasty, possessive prick that suddenly thinks we're a couple. This is why I don't drink. I hate the commitment the morning after demands. That, and also because alcohol brings out not only my effervescent personality, but also the Bitch within.
It only takes a moment to gaze upon last night's "trophy" to remember which side of the gin my personality woke up on. Leaning against the end table is a bright red hula hoop dusted with sand. Only hours before, I had some Doctor literally jumping through it.
Since I'm not a republican or a president, I won't reveal his identity. It could embarrass him if one of his patients were to read what sort of shenannigans he was involved in. I will say though, that he was quite limber and smitten. Which are attractive qualities in themselves, but not enough to win this heart or tame this particular beast.

So, there I am, having a perfectly wonderful time doing shots with some friends on the beach at sunset. There's a drum circle banging out a beat nearby, and the scent of incense and Coppertone is drifting through the air. The tourists are crammed together like an audience watching the spectacle of neo-hippie types with drums and gyrating belly dancers. The beach is full of eye candy, from the colors of the fading sunset to the sexy man-beasts roaming the area, barechested and glistening. Yummy. I'm feeling good, looking good, and the night is getting off to a rousing start.
Then it happened. One hapless admirer has edged his way to the throne. His awkward grin and twinkling eyes give him away. He thinks he can rule the kingdom with me. He thinks...poor guy...that he has what it takes to take my attention off of the party and plant it firmly on him. Ehh...whatever.
He pleads with one of my subjects to introduce us. We are introduced. He's a Doctor. Nice to meet you. Now, as we were saying....
Doc politely smiles and stares, offering up some witticisms and perspectives and doing his best first impression. I note that he's OK, not repulsive or anything, sort of cute in that geeky way doctors have. I give him a few minutes of personal attention to let him convince me he's the most fascinating thing going on, because I've had enough gin to find everything else around me just as equally fascinating. Especially him over there...who is that?

I've got to admit though that for a moment or so I did find his civilized social graces to be charming, and when he eagerly chased off the other males that he found threatening (he even carried one man's belongings to his car for him to get him quickly out of the picture) well, I was becoming amused and curious. The gin spoke to me. What else will he do for a piece of you? It whispered. I was soon to be reminded of the ridiculous lengths men will go to if they even suspect that there's a chance they might get laid.

For whatever cosmic, universey enlightened reason, a Big Red Flashing Thought crossed my mind. We were talking alone together at the time, me instinctively keeping a good, physical distance as my womanly wiles picked up those subtle cues that my gin goggles weren't focusing on. I found myself blurting out "you're married, aren't you."
It was evident that he was by the way he suddenly froze in his tracks. Ah HA! Message received! The control room in the back of my subconcious was hootin' & hollerin' as the deep space between the forces of alcohol and reason were bridged at last. Just as quickly, the control room sent communication to the tower. Destroy the invading forces. All systems GO.

There's really never a good reason for torture, unless there's a good reason for torture. (just ask George) Being persued by a married man with children though, is this woman's exception. Call it principal, but really it's just annoyance and a huge waste of my time. Do Not come on to me if you're a married man. Happily, unhappily, I really dont give a shit. NEXT!

And because I've wasted a good half hour of my buzz allowing this wanker to impress me while a hundred single studboys trotted by...well, game on.

The colder I got, the more interested he became. I ignored him and turned my back while talking to a group of friends. It was then that the hula hoop made it's appearance. He discovered it in the sand whilst being ignored and abandoned and I found it suddenly around me as he came up from behind to "reel me back in". As I was forcefully dragged backwards, I amost spilled my drink!!! DAMN THIS MARRIED FUCKER ALL TO HELL!

Now, I could have laughed it off, brushed him away like the married little mosquito he was, or twisted it around his neck and spat "fuck off" to his face. I did none of those things. Instead, I lifted the hoop off of me like it was some dead thing and sweetly said "you really like me, don't you?"
"Oh, yes. I like you alot." he jabbered.
Fool. Pick up your tongue and be gone, already.

I handed my drink to Kelly, who was grinning because she thought this little display was darling or something, then held the hoop out to my side. The two other guys that we were talking to had stopped the conversation between them to watch what knucklehead was doing now to get my attention.
"How much do you 'like' me?" I asked him.
"Very much. I really like you alot. I think I'd do anything you asked me to do. That's how much I like you."

Now, does anyone else besides me think that his behavior and eagerness in the face of blatant rejection is, well...odd? He tells me he's married with children, I tell him to go home, and here he is throwing himself at me anyway. It's disturbing. He's got to be some dark, twisted, insomekindofcloset deeply warped individual to beg for this kind of rejection and enjoy it. Why do these nutjobs always seek me out? The beach was positively littered with willing females, some I'm sure who wouldn't mind a discreet tryst with a married man if you asked them. I'm not one of them. I begin to think this guy is one of those pervs that like being humiliated. He probably owns a ball-gag and latex diapers. But I don't want to know these things, really. I like men who are men. Wussy freaks are not men.

I won't go into the sad dialog that followed. Suffice it to say, Dr. Desperate was willing to do my bidding. And gin being the elixir of evil and all....

To the shock, horror and sadistic amusement of all involved, Doc played into my hands.
"Jump through this hoop." I told him while holding it out, expecting him to to tell me in no uncertain terms what uncomfortable activities I could do with that hoop. Afterall, that's what I would do if some uppity biotch said that to me. Poodles jump through hoops, right?

Instead, he jumped. Not just jumped, but dived through the hula hoop to thud heavily onto the soft sand and roll a few feet.
Nice trick.
I pointed to the ground. Now, drop and give me 20.
To my surprise ( at this point I expected him to get up, brush himself off, promptly pick up his dignity and leave) he quickly assumed the position and "gave" me twenty well done pushups. The doctor is buff. Did the 'clap' thing between them and everything. Nervous laughter as Kelly poured more refreshments. Nobody wanted to watch this but they felt compelled to. An audience began to form. Everyone cranes their neck at accidents.
And the guy was sober. He was one of these Dont Drink, Dont Smoke kind of doctors. The kind they breed nowadays. Remember when "doctors" did cigarette commercials? No? Well trust me, they did. He was not one of them.
"What other tricks do you do?" I asked.
Again, the same answer. "Anything you want me to do."
Hmmm. What other elements of torture could I dole out, I wondered.
"Can you dance?"
He said he could and so began by doing these stripper moves that just looked goofy considering the situation. He was bouncing from side to side, licking his bottom lip as he slowly began to unbutton his shirt. "No" I said, "how about a little soft-shoe....and a song?"
Without argument, he kicked up his heels (and alot of sand) and did a little Sammy Davis jig while belting out a few lyrics. His attitude became infectious, maybe because he had gained the attention of everyone within fifty yards who probably thought he was drunk, and suddenly I was transported into a badly choreographed musical. Everyone started dancing. Softshoe. It was a fucking riot.

After what seemed like light-years and more parlor tricks, I demanded he go home to Trixie, Trudy, whatever her name was, and the kids. Just go away. The moment of mob hysteria over, others were impressed with his persistence and clownish antics but I had grown incredibly bored. Besides, that cutie over there just winked at me.

The moon climbed high into the sky and although the drummers and dancers had all gone home, another party began. The doctor bid me a goodnight with a wry smile, picking up the hula hoop and handing it to me as he was leaving. "Here," he said, peering over my shoulder. "You'll probably need this." He happily waved goodbye, his need to be humiliated and utterly rejected completed. He probably went home and asked his wifey for a good spanking.

As it turned out, I didn't need anyone else to jump through hoops for me.
But it's still nice to know there are some men who will.

I think I'm feeling it....are you feeling it?

2006-03-30T17:59:00.000-05:00

Name: Mr. Misty

Birthday: March 30th (where's my pwezents?)

Age: 14

Sex: too much for you to handle, baby.

Breed: Tamese (part Siamese, part feral Tabby slut)

Weight: 16lbs of MUSCLE BABY YEAH

Occupation: on the bed

Hobbies: rewiring stereo equipment, Cheech & Chong Movies, sticking my wet nose inside a nice, dry ear and Aromatherapy.

Turn Ons: licking plastic bags, seeing how many areas of white carpet I can produce a perfect hairball on, waste baskets, chicks who can't say no, long walks on the beach, bubble baths.

Turn Offs: veterinarians, piercings, empty bowls, cop shows

Favorite Food: Anything you're eating. Are you going to finish that?

Favorite Sexual Fantasy: getting my balls back.

Favorite Movie: Old Yeller. The dog dies in it, right?

Favorite TV Show: The Sopranos

Who I'd Like To Meet: Someone with chicken.

Happy Birthday Misty~ who loves ya, baby?

K T "the green eyed" McFarland

2006-03-25T17:06:00.000-05:00

I was working on a post about the new immigration games when some headlines caught my eye. Specifically, the always hilarious KT McFarceland and her paranoid ramblings against Hillary.

KT is easy to spot in a crowd. She's the one in the aluminum hat saying:

"Hillary Clinton is worried about me, and is so worried, in fact, she had helicopters flying over my house in Southhampton today taking pictures."

Amazing, really, that she got this far.

Hillary's advisor, Howard "The Big Bad" Wolfson, said of KT's stalking fantasy; "We at the Hillary campaign wish Ms. McFarland the best and hope she gets the rest she needs."

heh heh.

Those wishing to contribute fruit baskets may do so, I believe her info is available at her web site, and while you're there, be sure to check out her ringing endorsements. I'm sure you'll find it as interesting as I did.

2006-03-21T21:31:00.000-05:00

Last night I dreamed I was talking to a doctor. I asked him why I was here. He said "we're running some tests."
"Tests for WHAT exactly?" I asked him.
He curled his bottom lip and looked at me sideways. "We'll see," he said, like he didn't really know, but maybe he did...and I remember feeling confused and a little miffed, then I woke up.

So I spent the day wondering what was wrong with me instead of the usual 'everybody else'.

Like kismet, a new song with my name in it was playing on the radio. (and you thought Beelzebabe wasn't a popular name. HA!) Ah-hem. Anyways, after that goofy dream I thought it was rather fortuitous or at least ominous, and when that happens you just have to sorta get out of the way of the Universe and it's Universey antics, otherwise you'll either miss the light show or worse, get burned by the pyrotechnics.
I proceeded to have a rather crappy day, full of fuckityfucks and hijinx galore. Here are just a few fun examples.

She, who has successfully avoided all nasty collector types on the phone, received not one but THREE "courtesy" calls reminding me what a lousy customer I am because I'm late on my payments or whatever. I love that whole "courtesy" concept...what the fuck is that? I'm going to smile while I break your kneecaps. That's what it is.

Anyway, back to what's wrong with the rest of the world. I already know what's wrong with me. I'm BROKE. I'm po' whye trash, honey. I've earned the crass to say 'fuck' endlessly, with a rabid hiss, fuuuuucccckkkk or big ol stupid FEEUUHHHK or even the unadorned, clueless Well, fuck. I could fill a page with the word. I could get all "The Shining" on you. I could put it in every sentence. I could make it the sentence. All Fuck and No Fuck Makes Beelze a Fuckity-Fuck. And then perhaps, it would finally lose it's fuckin meaning.

I would hate to be a bill collector. What a horrible job that would be. We are urged to go in debt then harrassed for it. Am I not doing what they wanted? Aren't they secretly hoping I'll fold so they can collect their winnings? Like, I'm paying on my truck, right? Ok, so I've got one more year to pay on the loan after I've already paid $840,027 for the past ninety-seven years. Wow, just one more year to go and this AMC PACER can be all mine! In the meantime they've collected all of that ching. You know they can't wait to reposses my wheels so they can resell it and overcharge some other stupid shmuck another quarter million before it rusts into the ground. And they will...they can. They are evil. They're probably republicans.

And the electric company...christ, what the hell is up their ass? I'm one month behind, yeah, actually I forgot, sorta, right after I paid the damn PHONE COMPANY their past due charges. So, yes, it got lost in the shuffle. It happens. oops. So what do they do, Grand Monopoly that they are, but call me from near my home saying "we are preparing to shut off your power unless you pay the full amount IMMEDIATELY." Well, gee. Guess I better bend my ass over and plop out some cash, aye? I was saving up for a new kidney, but golly...'here, take it. I wont need electric anyways once I'm on the run in my defaulted hotwheels.

It could have stopped there, the lousy fucks of my crappy day...but it didn't.

Now the landlord wants another "pet deposit" after I've been here a year already. "We only have a deposit for one cat. Please enclose another $200 for the other cat or we will have to request you get rid of one of them." Both my "boys" are now eyeing each other up contemptuously, eager to see the other hauled off in the vomit taxi aka cat-carrier. For them, this is their "lucky day". Someone gets ALL the tuna and half of the bed. For me, it's one more fucking pain in the ass as I search for my lease and the number to a real estate attorney.

Maybe a diagnosis by last night's Dr. isn't necessary. I have an acute case of Life, and yes, it's terminal.

Fuck.

Beelzebabe's Bitch Of The Week

2006-03-16T21:38:00.000-05:00

And the award goes to...Katherine Harris! Florida's Favorite Cracker, Katherine Harris, who accepted $50,000 in illegal contributions in the 2004 campaign, and the recent inheritor of millions of moola from her dead daddy has vowed to put everything she has into the senate race. Look upon the True Face of Greed, ladies and gentlemen. Her comments are as rich and colorful as her passion for cosmetics, which are considerable (it takes a lot of money to hide ugly). Harris has said she would "put everything on the line." She's in it to win dammit.

"When I lost him, I said I would win this for my father."

Now, such a statement might work in the movies. It tugs on your heartstrings, makes you wanna call dad and just be a better person. But when it comes from Kate, it's a threat. She says she's willing to give up Everything to win her place in the senate. And for those of you in Florida who think she wants to be a senator for you and for the greater good of the state, think again. This is not about public service. This is not about doing a good job for us. It's about Katherine and her bizarre quest for power.
Not even the republicans in Washington are considering her senate race as a good thing. Why? Because her reputation regarding the election debacle of 2000 (she denied a recount when Bush beat Al Gore by less than 600 votes) not to mention illegal campaign contributions, will anger the state's democrats enough to get them to the polls to vote against her. And once those cranky dems get to the voting booth, they'll probably stand there and vote for other democrats too.

2 of her top ra--I mean advisors have already jumped ship. Her advisors have been doing so steadily since 2004 and now only one original remains. But that doesn't daunt this Leona Helmsley wanna-be. With her money, she can buy people. With her recent 10 million dollar inheritance, it's not a difficult task. And there's more where that came from.

Another "user-friendly" example of her antics will be evident March 18th when she is the featured presenter at this year's "Reclaim America For Christ" conference at the Manatee County Courthouse in Bradenton.
Yes, you read that correctly. RECLAIM AMERICA FOR CHRIST.
Part of Harris' agenda is to seek the loyalties (read; moneymoneymoney) of the religious fanatics who seek to make the U.S. a theocracy, not a democracy. The only thing I find more disgusting than her evil political tactics is the fact that a government building is hosting this religious event. Separation of church and state? Not in this part of the deep, dark south.

Harris is just another example of what is wrong with our system. When only the rich can afford to run, they get richer and the regular guy just gets poorer. And Harris is quite positive she will win. She has said so in no uncertain terms. If her passion was to fight injustice and to represent her people in Florida, I wouldn't care how much she spent on her campaign. But the truth is, Katherine Harris doesn't care. It's about how she sees herself and her desperate need to validate her self worth at the expense of Florida. Therefore I am passionate about seeing her lose and lose big. Say....maybe by at least 600 votes.
Now that's the ticket!

hey sistahs yo sistahs go sistahs soul sistahs

2006-03-13T21:21:00.000-05:00

It's an interesting time to be a girl in the good ol U.S. of A.
Not only can we vote now, but we can lead as well. How f'in cool is that?

Does anyone else hear a new heartbeat? An undercurrent of rippling energy as all of a sudden we realize that WE as a nation of Americans, of Super Duper World Power, the "progressive" culture, the "democratic leader" has YET to produce a woman PRESIDENT?
Wait, here's a better one for ya. Nod along with me if you know what I'm talkin' about. Anyone recall the ERA?
Shit, we can't get male politicians out of our bedrooms or off our bodies yet. How will we ever vote in a woman president if we can't get the politicians to quit humpin our leg? And would we pay her what a male president makes or 40% less on the dollar?
Hmmm. Things to ponder....

The republicans are making a game of it...if you listen hard enough you can hear Madison Square Gardens on fight night. Kathleen Troia McFarland of NY (K.T. to her cutesy pals) challenged Mrs. Clinton to a showdown in the elections. I feel for Hillary though, I've had a drunken wench or two with a broken bottle come at me from across the room, too. When you're that much competition, EVERYBODY wants to kick yer ass.

Oh yeah and don't forget Condi, our other Girl Wonder. I've searched all over the net for One good picture of Condileeza Rice standing/sitting/kneeling obediantly besides the likes of Evo Morales and Hugo Chavez at Michelle Bachelet's PRESIDENTIAL inaugeration in Chile, which she attended. Amusing and slightly ironic that she went to watch a socialist woman become president, alongside a drug lord and a communist sympathizer. What a photo op that was. And what ever became of her cocaine laden guitar that she received as a gift from Evo? Did it clear customs or did she have an illegal immigrant walk it across the border? I have so many questions.

Today's women have some tough challenges ahead of them. The future is for the fearless. The rest of ya are going to get eaten.

A woman president? Close your eyes now Sweetie, maybe someday...

Aftermath

2005-12-23T21:19:00.000-05:00

I threw the roses away this morning.

Pink petals sagging, they looked obscene in the bluish light . I thought of Dave when I tossed them into the plastic bag, a wistful kind of thought that slips behind you and waves on it's way to somewhere else.

The last time I saw Dave....I got a phone call early in the morning from a mutual friend of ours. "He's on his way out, hon. I just spoke to his sister. He's been given 12-24 hours to live. Anyone who wants to say goodbye should do it now."

"I'm on my way."

Within minutes I was out the door and in my truck, on my way to see Dave for what would be the last time. It's too soon. I thought. He's too young, he's too needed on this planet. Life isn't fair. Blah blah blah.

I wasn't sure what I'd say. What do you say to a dying friend?
The sun was bright and traffic was smooth, I could be going anywhere...it was like any other day, except it was unlike any other day, for obvious reasons. Everything around me seemed surrealistic, like walking around in someone else's dream.
I need some 'divine inspiration' I thought, and turned on the radio.

It's easy to dismiss the "What's it all about" crowd
there's no doubt...it's this, here, now
and you close your eyes
he's not coming back...
Now you've worked it out
and you see it all
and you've worked it out
and you see it all
and you want to shout
how you see it all...
Now the universe left you for a runners lap
it feels like home when it comes crashing back
and it makes you laugh
and it makes you cry
when London falls
and you're still alive...

REM played on, for me.

I would embrace him later, deeply saddened by the appearance of his wasted body and deeply happy as well just to see him smile painfully at me....alive still. I felt the bones beneath his skin, the heat of his body against me, yes, still here...still struggling to function...to be. I kissed his cheek and whispered "I love you" into his ear. A bead of sweat from his cheek brushed against my chin and I would make no effort to wipe it away.

Today I went to work, caught up in the rush of the holidays and too distracted with details to think about life or death or Dave. As the day wore on in a blur, the phone rang as it had done a hundred times already when The call came, the one I expected yet did not expect. The one that would tell me he is gone. He died this morning.

An artist, a poet, a beautiful spirit and creator of beauty. A friend to many and a foe to none. A peacemaker, a gentle but restless soul was and is, David Landry.

Bonne nuit, mon ami.

Tripping the Light Fantastic

2005-11-01T19:54:00.000-05:00

I'm back from my little excursion to New York to see my darling daughter. Now, what can I possibly say about this town that hasn't been said before? It's bright, it's busy, it's diverse, it has almost everything one could want....wait, I thought of something it doesn't have....
Coffee Cream.
Not just any old coffee creamer product, but precisely International Delight French Vanilla. I had better luck coppin green in the village than obtaining a single drop of the magical elixir that "celebrates the moments of my life" and mellows my coffee. I kid thee not.

In a town that boasts of it's ability to provide every legal and illegal desire with a product, this product was glaringly absent in Manhattan's stores and restaurants. Let it be known that Beelzebabe did indeed debunk this myth of "you can find anything in New York" and has the blister on her pinky toe to show for it.
Now, this might not seem like such a dilema, but I found it ironic that such an "international city" didn't have my International Delight...

Other than that and a nasty bathtub accident, my trip to New York was a lot of fun and I fell in love with the city. Darling Daughter did a fabulous job shlepping me around and giving me a true NY experience for the short time I was there. Equipped with her instructions on How To Act While In New York & Not Embarrass The Offspring By Behaving Like A Goofy Southern Cracker, we set out early my first morning in Manhattan.

Rule #1: Dont stare up at the buildings. It's a dead giveaway that you are a tourist and you will be the source of great annoyance to the delicate sensibilities of true New Yorkers. The real experience is down here, nearer to the ground. Respond accordingly.
Rule #2. When hailing a cab, do not accept rides from renegade cabbies, those unmarked "taxis" that prey upon unsuspecting tourists and either charge them ten times the normal amount of cab fare if they don't hijack you onto a side street and roll you for your wallet. For a yellow cab, be prepared to step out daringly in traffic and hold up the Peace sign and hope that one of them stops in front of you instead of the thirty other people doing the very same thing on both sides of the street on the very same block. Be prepared to hurl obscenities and lower one digit at a moment's notice when the ass next to you pushes you out of the way to take your ride, after he's sprinted over several parked cars just to piss you off.
Rule #3 New Yorkers are horny people. They cacophony of horns from trucks and cars is merely the way the natives express themselves. Their aggressions are frequent but not long lasting. The same guy who just machine gunned his horn at your stupid driving is the same guy who will then roll down his window and politely tell you that your left rear tire is nearly flat. Just accept the noise as the music of the city.

I rode the subway. I saw a Broadway play. Went to Times Square, ate at numerous eateries and went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Went shopping. Walked through Central Park. Observed the city and it's people, striving to keep my head down all the while so I didn't appear to be another awe-struck tourist gazing up at all the tall buildings and getting hit by one of the Sacred Taxis.
Riding in one of NY's yellow cabs was an experience in itself. Weaving in and out of traffic on Park Avenue at 95 mph on Friday night proved to me that the cab drivers are not only crazy dare-devils, but also immune to the natural laws of physics. I gripped the "oh shit" handle above the window until my knuckles turned white and struggled with gravity to keep dinner down. We dipped, we took flight, we plowed through a sea of red brake lights beneath stars of green and yellow, swerving to and fro in a race against time. When we finally got to 80th street, I was ready to kiss the ground and vow to be a "good person" from now on. That, of course, would be quickly nipped in the bud as the Universe would try to correct my silly sweetness with a mishap later.

On saturday we walked (because thats what you do) through the Village for more sight seeing and shopping. I adored the Village, it's colorful people, quaint shops and various smells. The sidewalks & streets merchant's booths stocked with all kinds of fun, interesting things. As Darling Daughter and I were walking and minding our own business, I was approached by a Rasta woman who was probably as old as my mother.
"A little help here, ma'am?" her voice was dripping with a heavy Jamaican accent. She held out a cup with some change in it.
"Sure," I said and threw in a couple of quarters I had in my jacket pocket.
"Ah, child. Bless you. You smoke da weed?"
"What?"
Her brilliantly white smile seemed all the brighter against her dark skin. "Ahhh yes," she nodded and walked beside me as I crossed the street. "Da weed, child. I show you!" An orange mitten held out a small teddy bear for me to take. It was dressed in a shabby little sweatshirt and matching pants that once covered some other doll. I was trying to get across the street and she was going with me! "Take it" she said, and by sheer reflex I did, not knowing why I was having a conversation with this stranger other than my morbid sense of curiosity. Darling Daughter was giving me the evil eye. Mom, what the hell are you doing??
I shrugged and grinned at her. I'm experiencing New York, Darling.
The Rasta woman shuffled along beside me until we reached the other side of the street, the teddy bear now in my hand. I noticed it's ragged ears, the dirty smudges on it's powder blue fabric.
"Stick your finger up d'ere" she advised. Up where? Up it's ass? What?
"In da shirt, m'lady. You find it!" She seemed awfully happy to be showing what she had. So, I was in a good mood and being a good sport and all......I slid a cautious finger up the elastic hem of the teddy bear's sweatshirt and a handful of various sized plastic packets of leafy green tumbled into my hand. Jackpot! I laughed out loud, amused. The Rasta woman laughed with me.
"You like? I got what you need. Ten dollars."
I shook my head. "Uh, no thanks."
"Ok, ok. For you nice lady, five dollars."
I stuffed the little packets back into the shirt and shook my head. I handed back the teddy bear and her smile disappeared. People were passing by, unfazed. I thought that was kind of amusing, to be standing here in the midst of all these people with this woman and her dope, kind of surreal and touristy.

I reached into my pocket once again and gave her a little bit extra for her trouble. As the coins clanked into the cup she smiled once again.
Those brown eyes gazed into mine. They were gentle eyes, clear and deep and crackling with gold flecks of light. Eyes like your kind old granny.
"You nice lady" she told me.
I nodded 'thanks' and started to walk away when she grabbed my elbow and turned me around. She bent her head into mine, locking my gaze into hers. "Next time I see you, I give you. No charge for you. You understand?"
I smiled and nodded.
"I mean dis." she waved a mitten at me. "You look for me. I remember you. You get free."
"uhm, ok."
"God bless, child."
At that moment Darling Daughter grabbed my arm and dragged me away for a warm cafe where we could rest and get something to drink. Later I thought back to the Rasta woman. If she had some International Delight French Vanilla in that teddy bear, she would have had a sale.
We wandered into a shop on MacDougal and there I fell madly in love with a large silver cuff adorned with a giant moonstone flanked with amber stones. The price was surprisingly reasonable but still too pricey for my budget. I did buy a beautiful garnet pendant though for Darling Daughter, and if I ever have the opportunity to shop there again, I'll bring more money. I loved that shop and the guys there were wonderful to deal with.

Actually, everyone I met in New York was pretty damn wonderful. Forget what you heard about nasty New Yorkers, I found the people there charming and very pleasant to talk to.
I found also that New Yorkers do not avert their eyes, as I had been told by others who had visited NY. "They are cold, unfriendly people" I had been told. "They dont even look at you."
Well, my experience didn't support that. From the very beginning, from the time I first set foot off of the plane until I returned to JFK, I noticed that New Yorkers did indeed look directly into your eyes, even when just passing by. They also appear to enjoy conversation, as long as it is interesting. Maybe it's like they 'have' to, since just about everywhere the Threat Of Terrorism is slapped onto the signs and over the PA systems to report 'suspicious' activity, things and people. Or maybe they catch your eye alot because they are curious, or they want to see if you're noticing them, or they're just happy people glad they aren't living in Jersey. Me, I'd like to think it's all of the above in differing degrees.

After my first three days, my body was sore from the Manhattan Trot and still without my cream, I put a shot of Kahlua in my morning java. We were getting ready to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, just a short block or two away, and G-Man (DD's sweet honey baby) was going along. I had just finished getting ready and they were out in the living room waiting when....
KA-THUNK.
There I went, tumbling backwards from a full standing position into the bathtub behind me, the back of my head slamming the tiled wall and my ass hitting the bottom of the tub. It fuckin hurt like all bloody fucking hell.
I slumped somewhere towards the drain in agony as Darling Daughter and G-Man rushed to my aide. Darling Daughter, having been absent that day in class when they warned you not to move an accident victim until you know or suspect the injuries to be serious, yanked my wrist and tried to hoist me up out of the tub with her superhuman strength. Ouch, goddammit.
"I don't think you should move her." G-Man suggested.
I told them to just let me lay there. I was still stunned, trying to take inventory of what was hurting. My head and ass were vying for attention.
"Mom, I think you should go to a hospital."
Bullshit.
"C'mon, Mom. You're hurt."
Yeah, I know. But I'm not spending the next 36 hours in a New York ER for a bruised ass. If I wake up paralyzed tomorrow, please feel free to seek medical attention.
"you could have a concussion." G offered.
Naw...
"MOM!"
No, I'm fine. See? I got up and my body screamed. I was going to lay down for a few minutes, take some tylenol, and then we'd hit the Met. REALLY I was OK. I'll just be a little slower today is all.
And indeed I was, for the rest of my trip. Slammed back into my usual southern stroll, I would be taking the rest of New York at my pace, not New York's.
But what the hell. I was there to see Darling Daughter, it could have been Cincinnatti for all I cared.

But I really did like New York.
Someday I hope to go back again and breathe in the energy, the lights, the life of this very special place that holds a charm unlike any other. And I will, naturally, pack my own French Vanilla.

New York, New York!

2005-10-27T16:09:00.000-04:00

Time to go! I'll be away for a few days so I wont be blogging. I'm really excited, it's my first trip to NY and I'm about to head out to the airport. Ohmygod I hear it's cold there. I will die. I don't do "cold" well at all. But leaving is a great excuse not to show up at work (and have them appreciate me all the more). So, til next week, c-ya!

A Love Story

2005-10-26T08:15:00.000-04:00

George closed the door. In a stolen moment the two lovers clutched at each other breathlessly, fingers fumbled against buttons and zippers, mouths searched hungrily to consume the passion between them. His rough hands, calloused and worn from the cowboy life, traveled with desire through her boyishly short brown hair and down the lacey white collar of her blouse. "Harriet," he moaned, "Oh my God....Harriet..."

"George, my darling..." she breathed into him, pressing her heaving bossom into his Brooks Brothers suit, feeling the hard, pointy ballpoint pen in his breast pocket. It was driving her to hysteria. "Give it to me, Georgie Boy....give it to me...."

Oh! The madness of it all, this precious moment of desire coupled with ambition. He gazed into her black eyeliner, his Cleopatra of the Capitol, and wished to say those words she longed to hear. He would give her anything, anything to please her. A country was not enough, the world was not enough, the universe was not enough, the---what was after the universe? He'd have to ask Dick. Anyways, the whatever it is was not enough....not for this goddess of lust and pleasure...

"It's in your power, my love" she whispered into his ear before biting it gently. "You are the most brilliant man I have ever known." The sharp sensation of teeth on his leathery lobe sent shivers down his spine and into his naughty parts.
He could well believe that...he was the most brilliant man he had ever known. Well, not carnally speaking, but close....

His hand reached up under her wool skirt, discovering her hidden agenda safely tucked away beneath clean white cotton panties. He knew they were white cotton panties. After all, she was a republican. Harriet moaned in pleasure, throwing her head back to reveal her vulnerable throat. "Yes George, yes...yes..."

"you want it, don't you biotch."
"oh God YES George, I want it"
"you want to rule with me."
"Yes my darling. Please, before I explode, take out your pen, take it OUT!"

George felt for the smooth, hard pen in his pocket. He studied it softly, lovingly. It had been against some of the most important documents in the world, it's ink spent exhaustedly beneath his manly grip. Should he, could he? Well of course he could....and who would dare challenge him now? He thought about that for a moment. Hmm.

"George?" Harriet looked at him.
"wha---huh?"
She had to have it. Didn't she do everything he had ever asked? Picked up his clothes at the cleaners, shopped for anniversary gifts for that trollop wife of his, took his phone calls from God? Why, she had sacrificed her life for him, waiting for this day to come when he would whip out his trusty instrument and consumate their love.

As if reading her mind, he cupped her upturned chin in his hand and teasingly traced her lips with the fine ball point. She trembled like a bird, opening her mouth and licking it with a moist red tongue. God, Laura never did that! The power he wielded in his hand was intoxicating. Harriet's minty fresh breath was intoxicating. He wished he could have a beer.

"What am I to you, George? What am I to you?" She was ripping at his shirt, edging him closer to the bench by the window. She wanted the whole world to see him take her at the bench, bent over like a lusty wench. Again she mouthed the words, seeing in his eyes that he was truly hers now. "What am I to you?"

"You, my little Texas polecat, are Supreme."

To be continued..............

Names and places are purely coincidental and the author reserves the right to write this crap.

All is well

2005-10-25T07:58:00.000-04:00

Not the best picture, but hey, who said I was a photographer? This is yesterday's view of interstate 75 southbound. Almost every vehicle in the long line of cars is from Collier county, on their way home after Wilma forced them out. Collier county being a wealthy hotbed of republican money, most of the vehicles are SUV's and motorhomes that are still shiney and new. It's a grand parade of the haves passing by the have-nots. And here I am, trailing behind them in my clunky pickemup truck, looking for the nearest exit.
All in all, we fared well through Wilma. Lots of wind, very minor damage. A BIG THANK YOU and 72 virgins to all you wonderful friends who sent their well wishes in my previous post. All of your comments touched me deeply. I think I love you.

Anywhoodles, NOW I can get back to focusing on my trip to New York! Yay!

Riveting Wilma update

2005-10-24T07:51:00.000-04:00

Wilma woke me up from a deep sleep around 6 am this morning to the sound of wind hammering the windows and bullets of rain. The TV satellite is out but we still have power so I'm able to look at the radar occasionally on the net. I spoke with J on the phone to see how he's faring and he's lost electricity. The metal shutters are clattering and I've heard at least one of our complex's shutters fly off and go crashing somewhere into the darkness. It's driving me crazy not to go outside, my only view of the storm comes from a tiny peephole in one of the shutters on the living room window.
Marco Island seems to be taking the brunt of it from what I can gather from the radio. Power outages are widespread. The back end of the storm is now approaching the shore, bringing with it more powerful wind, rain and storm surge. A strange, heavy rumble is rolling across the building, broken by the slamming sound of debris hitting the building. Going to post this now before we lose electricity. The gusts are really picking up and up to 82 mph. I'm really tired but there's no way I can sleep now. I've put on the coffee and I'm dressed so that as soon as it calms down I can go out and assess the damage. More later.

Exciting play-by-play Wilma Action!

2005-10-23T20:39:00.000-04:00

Wilma's outter bands have arrived. Thought I'd put some pictures up of the event, if she becomes one. I'm 90 miles north of Naples so I'm right at the edge of her predicted "hurricane force" winds. Oddly enough, the weather where J is (further north) is more severe than my own. He's already lost satellite reception and had a power surge that fried his modem. That means we can talk about him since he cant see my blog now. heh heh heh.

My windows are shuttered so to see anything I have to step outside. Except for a little squall earlier, it's rather calm where I am. Only some light rain and a gentle breeze...Sam is sprawled out and watching Superman. The boys, Pye & M, are plump with tuna bellies, napping on the bed. And me at the blog, bringing you all the latest news on Wilma.
No doubt that our position between the squalls will change throughout the night and we could lose power at some point. So if that happens it may take a day or two to post again. But I'll be taking pictures at first light if we experience any storm damage once I have internet again.
I dont think much will happen, but ya never know. As long as the roof hangs on and I've got books to read and something to drink, I'm chill.

The first picture is of the beach today taken around 2 pm. As you can see, the sky is thickening and everything looks dreary. The water was surprisingly cool, I expected it to be much warmer, like it's usual 'bathwater' temperature. Winds out of the southwest at 10 mph. Tide rising and at it's highest point at 2:35 pm. Beach erosion likely. Blahhhhh......

Wilma creeps in.

Florida window fashions.

The sky is falling.

Sam shuttering up the windows. Goodbye, day light.

random acts of insanity

2005-10-20T21:14:00.000-04:00

So, I'm wondering why people who hear "voices" in their head aren't driven to do nice things. Like, go have icecream or pet a kitten. No, they do stupid, senseless things, like throw their own children into the bay. It's a good thing I wasn't there to witness it. I would have thrown her in after them.

Meanwhile, in Bedrock

2005-10-19T22:12:00.000-04:00

As hurricane Wilma zigzags her way up to the gulf coast, I can't help but feel a sense of foreboding. Maybe it's because I live on the top floor of my building. Maybe it's because my great-grandmother's name was Wilma. (and she couldn't drive, either)

I am not ready for Wilma. I can't find my flashlights. I can't afford to fill up my gas tank at $3 a gallon to high-tail it out of here. And even if I could, both back tires on my truck are as bald as Paris Hilton's shiney twat. So as far as I'm concerned, Wilma needs to back the hell off. Slam it in neutral, woman!

When these hurricanes hit, they do more than just pose an inconvenience, what with no electricity, water & all. They destroy your life, if you have one. I sort of have one. It's not the ideal existence, mind you, but it's my existence and I've gotten quite fond of it. As I look around, I am surrounded by huge old memorials of lives gone by. As the eldest and only daughter (rumors of my devouring any new offspring having been greatly exagerated) I've inherited a vast collection of heirlooms, memorabilia and antiques. With this ostentatious display of nostalgia comes responsibility. Like, what the hell to do about all this stuff if Wilma's wandering eye catches sight of the babe.

Now, the time to look for a movingvan is not right before a hurricane. Forget it.

I think about finding a movingvan or a trailor and run the idea by Sam. "I've got to have help moving my stuff." He gives me one of those looks I have recently become annoyed with. Why?

Why, indeed. BECAUSE I'M NOT GOING TO SIT BY AND WATCH ANY OF MY SHIT GET BLOWN AWAY. I screamed it as gently as I possibly could.

Now is his opportunity to say something helpful, like "I'll help". He's thinking about hurricane parties.

Sam says I'm overreacting. No, he hasn't stopped to wait in line to buy gas yet, or peanut butter. I tell him that's the problem. He obviously doesn't know what's going on out there. People are starting to freak again. He's not been around for the past few rendesvous, he doesn't know what it's like. He didn't see it, or hear it or feel it when the storm ripples through you and shakes the plywood. I have been lucky so far, and plan to remain that way. And now that I have grown fond of all these heavy objects gathered, dusted and lugged about all of these years...well...

And ya know, I'm tired. Storm-weary, they call it. Yeah, there's a term for this. (there's a term for everything) I really dont want to talk about it, yet I do. I want to know what She's doing right now. I want to know if I'm going to have to pack it up or bring home more candles after work tomorrow.

Darling Daughter calls from NY in a panic. "Get out now! Do you hear me?! GET OUUUTTT!!!"

I try to explain that there's nothing to worry about. I'm paying attention. I'm doing all I can do at the moment. I calm her down to a whimper and assure her it's too damn soon to get rid of me just yet. I'll be fine. Checking my email, I find a note from my mother. "GET OUT! GET OUT NOW, DO YOU HEAR ME?!" Jesus H. Christ. Yes, I hear you. Everybody does. So is anybody going to come help me move this stuff?

Sam gets a flicker of conscience. He asks me what I Positively Must Take. An arguement ensues. "You're not taking that old couch are you?" He says. Well, of course I am. It's 102 years old. As if I am not quite understanding the concept of "old", he repeats it. "It's OLD. It's an OLD couch."

Yes, I KNOW. And so are those two china cabinets, the steamer trunk, the writing desk, the bedroom furniture, the cedar chest, my collection of pottery, prehistoric bones and fossils, all of my beloved books....

He makes a flippant promise to help me move the stuff if I have to evacuate. He'll probably be conveniently detained if/when that time comes, but for now I have convinced him that everything I own is right here and it means something to me. All of my years of existence (and the lifetimes of my family) are all right here in this tiny apartment. These walls contain more than just stuff. Of course I could live without them, but why should I have to?

Beside my computer, beneath a lithograph of a Victorian beauty holding a rosebud, sits an old wooden chair that no one is allowed to sit on. It's small, as chairs go, with a rigid backrest and stocky legs connected with squared off stretchers. It was my great-grandmother Wilma's chair, handed down to me many years ago when my grandfather died. No one knows how old the chair is, my grandfather said it had always been there, he sat in it as a boy. It was old even then. When you turn it upside down you can still see phantom fingerprints underneath it from being pulled up to the table for hundreds of meals and holidays long past. A thousand oily fingers have made round impressions in the patina. This was Wilma's chair, the one she nursed her babies in. The one she sat in while waiting for someone to come home. The one that endured the gymnastics of seven children and countless grandchildren and greatgrandchildren. You get the idea. If nothing else, I'll leave with this chair.

And this portrait of the Thames. And this bottle opener from 1954. And this stained glass floor lamp....

what the hell you staring at?

2005-10-17T08:31:00.000-04:00

Ok now, I am not (as much as some would like to think) your personal freak show. It's becoming apparent that I am becoming quite aware of the stares and the quizical looks of strangers. Yes, I am a goddess. Yes, it just happens to be Medusa. Fool, fuck with me and I'll turn you to stone.

I used to love the attention. Really, I did. Now I wish the population at large would just look at something else. Am I paranoid? You betcha. I think anyone who isn't a little paranoid these days is either as stupid as G. Dumblya Bush or comatose. (same thing, yeah I know)

Can I go pick up milk and tampons without some lamebrain craning his neck to check out moi's uniqueness? Alas, no. And it's really beginning to irritate me. Do people think I dont notice the frozen stares I receive? If I weren't so damn sensitive to the suffering and ignorance of others I'd bop them all upside the head. Freak show my ass. Buy a ticket elsewhere, bub.

Anywhoodles, it's monday. God save the poor asshole that dares cross my path and forgets to be polite. Lord, I know not what I do. Well, actually, I do....but it's always easier to beg forgiveness than get permission.

I fuckin hate Mondays.
The only thing that gets me through the day is remembering that tomorrow is Stud Day. On tuesdays Stud Man picks up a luv-er-lee bouqet for his bitch whore wife. I get to spend ten whole blissfull minutes gazing upon his coc--er, I mean cute face. Yeah.
All the good ones are married. Dammit.

it's a bird, it's a plane, it's----

2005-10-14T23:10:00.000-04:00

A plane. More likely, moi on a plane. More "likely" because I'm catching one. Well, not at this very moment...but soon. Like, about 2 weeks. Yep. That's what I'm gonna do.
So while I'm sitting at home on a leisurely, solitary Friday night, I'm thinking about my upcoming trip to visit Darling Daughter...and what I'll wear.
"Make sure you bring good shoes to walk in," she says to me on the phone.
Something in a strappy sandal to show off a shapely ankle?
"No, Mom. To walk in. "
I think about the mountains of various shaped wedges & stillettos that have poured forth from her closet and were cast about like pieces from an avalanche all over her room at home. Never once did I see what remotely resembled a walking shoe. In The Big City, she assures me, they are the rule, not the exception. Unless of course, one takes the subway or has the $ for perpetual cab fare. That is, if you have time to think about it. Life is fast there, you hit the ground running.
It's a stark contrast to the southern pace of living, where life is something you get around to...eventually.
I ask her who will pick me up at the airport. She tells me she will, and that we'll take the subway to Manhattan.

?

"you're putting your mother on a subway? I say. Everybody rides the subway, she says. GOD Mom, it's not that bad, fer chrissakes. Dont wig out on me. I'm just kidding. But you WILL ride the subway while you're here.
She talks like I'm eighty and senile. Of COURSE I will ride the stinkin' subway. I've been on the tram at DisneyWorld with REAL eighty year olds. I've jumped into mosh pits. I've made wrong turns on dark, unfamiliar roads. I've split my insides to give birth to ungrateful children. I think I can handle public transportation.

I'm reaaaaallly looking forward to my little trip. I've busted my ass & the asses of others for the past year and I need a change of scenery. A hug from my babygirl. A little cultural quickie. Lights. Prowling after dark. What better time, too, than Halloween to bob the Big Apple?

Halloween. Ahhh.....my favorite time of the entire year. Always has been, from my first costume (I was a kitty cat, imagine that!) to my latest......Halloween is a sacred time for my inner beast. I do love me a good adventure this time of the year and always mark it by celebrating, heathen-style. A little debauchery is good for the soul. It keeps you humble and makes interesting memories. New Yawk, here I come. Show me what ya got.

Darling Daughter has got a swanky new address in upper Manhattan. Still in college, she wraps the New York life around her like a sparkley blanket while she persues her dreams. She too, seeks world domination. What better place than there? She fits in perfectly. Brilliant and beautiful, the future so bright in her Channel shades. While she studies the works of the great philosophers and political thinkers past and present, the next step is law school. I sit back with a curious wonder. Damn, I did good.
When DD was but a wee tot with her two front teeth missing and scabby knees, her biggest dream was to become a teacher. But like all dreams, they morph and evolve into other things. Our small town was too small to hold her or those dreams. Hanging upside down from the tree in the front yard and throwing sticks at passing bicyclists no longer held the same appeal for my little angel.

I have a picture of her standing somewhere near Times Square. Her long dark hair is braided like a crown and pulled back from her cherubic face. Her grandmother's large green eyes sparkle brighter than the sea of lights flashing in the background. Her Clara Bow mouth curled at the corners as if she has just taken a bite out of the canary and found it delicious. Standing amidst an enormous amount of activity in her navy peacoat, she is the picture of virtue and control against the blurred images of passersby. One delicate hand holding a bottle of water, she looks like a modern day tarot card.

SPEAKING of darling daughters, this one here ::ahem:: never heard from the old man again. As expected, he slipped back into his natural zombie state and oblivious habitat never to be heard from again. I fear the elusive Father Creature shall become extinct in my lifetime. However, the species learns to adapt and evolution thusly takes place. Which is the lesson in all surprises.

I'm going to need new shoes.

daddy's home...

2005-09-21T19:32:00.000-04:00

"There's a phone call for you on line one..."

Like a child chasing a ball across the street, like a fish following the sparkling trail of the lure, like a quarterback stretching towards the goal line....I reached for the receiver. I pushed the button for line one, grabbing a pen in the event I'd have to make a note of something and said hello.

"Hello," answered a male voice. "It's your father."

"My what?"

"It's me, your Dad."

Silence.

"Who is this?" I demanded. Was this a joke? Ok, so not funny.

"Your Dad." The voice sounded weak, unfamiliar. Which naturally it would, since it had been twenty years since I had heard this voice.

"You're kidding." It was all I could manage to say to the man on the other end of the line. I'm still suspecting a joke and someone's tremendous ass kickin' a comin'. I turn and look around at my coworkers and they are oblivious to my confusion and glaring eye. Busy little bees, paying me no mind at all. I summon up my stern, no-bullshit tone and turn back to my caller. "Oh really?"
And he convinces me that he is who he is by telling me his name, which few people know. Why should they? Not like I can say "oh yeah, me and Dad were talking the other day" or anything with the term "my Dad" in it. Just hasnt been part of my vocabulary for most of my life. And such is life. So what the fuck?!
The next few minutes were jerky exchanges back and forth. How are you. Where are you living now. Are you married. Kids?

Huh?

I answered his questions like one would if sitting beneath a swinging light fixture with a gun to the head. Fear. Shock. Disbelief. Why are you looking for me now. Why do you even fucking care.

That's probably what I should have said. Instead I mumbled and rubbed my forehead alot. He told me how he found me, about my grandparents dying two years ago.
Around me the phones were ringing. Someone waved paper at me across the room for me to look at and sign. He heard the commotion and apologized for the timing (?!) and asked if he could call me back some time. I said "uh, yeah, sure". Talk to ya in another twenty!

He said "I love you" and hung up. I replaced the receiver and signed the delivery man's form. I took the roses out of the cooler and briefed the designer on her next project. I answered a quick business call then finally stepped outside where nobody could see me finally inhale.
Outside, the last fringes of Hurricane Rita's outter rain bands were skimming the sky overhead. The air was gray and thick as I tried to breathe. Who the hell just called me? What the hell just happened?

Still, I dont know why. Is he dying? Buying a ticket to heaven by cleaning up his nasty karma? Did he just get a wild itch to call the daughter he walked away from and happily forgot all these fucking years? All of these long motherfucking fatherless years? Where was he when I needed him? Huh? Where was he when I was dating and marrying abusive men that liked to talk with their fist? Where was he when I was having my stomach pumped after taking too many pills? Where was he as I walked down the aisle after I found someone who wouldn't beat me? Where was he when I was sick and my mother couldn't afford insurance? Where was he when I was hungry, alone, scared?
Not here, not with me.

I spent my childhood thinking I wasn't important enough, good enough for this man's love. He spent the rest of his life proving it. And then one happy day, when there's nothing on TV and he's finished off the cheesedoodles he decides to call me.
Will he really call again? Do I care, am I supposed to, am I not supposed to? And if he doesn't call again, or attempt to connect, what damage will it cause to the little girl inside, the one he left before? Did he just come back to "finish the job" of abandoning me again? Didn't he do it right the first time?
I am still in the initial shock stage. I don't know how to digest this. I don't know how to feel.

Til then, I just keep breathing. Not really feeling but feeling intensely all the same.

All in all, it's been an interesting day.

George W. Bush. Man Of Action.

2005-09-13T18:28:00.000-04:00

Brown resigns. Bush "takes responsibility".
It's the end of the world. Well, maybe not. The times though, they are interesting.

Ok so I had to watch Bush's little speech thing. And not one to disappoint, Dubya actually "bellied" up to the podium with a little twist, casually lifted his right leg as if to hook a bootheel on an imaginary footrail. Another round for me'n the boys, Condi. I got a little story for ya.

So, knowing that there is even more exciting hurricane action out in the Atlantic, One must Ask. Do you think FEMA and Bush & the rest of 'is posse are paying close attention to Ophelia?

There's no question as to "if" the storm will hit, now the question is "where". And as New Orleans & Mississippi taught us (I hope) there are always areas that take a hit differently and knowing the strengths & weaknesses of these areas could do a lot in saving lives and property. Did we learn anything from this? Will our leaders lead by being strong, intelligent and aware? hmph. I guess we'll see.

oops? the September 22, 2004 issue

2005-09-09T22:02:00.000-04:00

Snap

2005-09-09T20:04:00.000-04:00

Only Randy Newman whining on every fucking channel could force me out of my hiatus. The Katrina tragedy, debacle, disaster, nightmare from the tender vulva of the gulf telethon is, literally, on a good 750% of the networks right now. America just suffered a tremendous blow to it's vanity and humanity so...lets put on a show!
Sad.
And look, there's Bono. Imagine him thirty years from now, when he's like, 90, after being shoved onstage for every world disaster/protest/etc from now until forever, croaking out One in shnazzy shades and leaning on a walker. U2 could practically put out a "Collection of the World's Greatest Reliefs" cd. Not to bash Bo & the Boys, loved Achtung, Baby. So don't go there. I'm just sayin'.
No I'd rather bash (in my best Jerry Seinfeld voice) NEWMAN, because he's a little fucking tard I've never liked since that short people song and if I were from one of the states that were affected by the hurricane, I'd be pissed that he had anything to do with my misery.
But really, I didn't return to my blog just to rant.
Well, ok yeah I did.
Let's rant, shall we? What ever shall we rant about? FEMA? Michael D. Brown King George's clown? Exxon's 10 billion dollar profit from the recent gas hike? The GALL of the entire Bush administration and the federal government to ignore the fact that they have mishandled the disaster and blame local governments for doing the best they can do considering all of the CUTS in federal disaster relief since the onset of Big Bro--er, I mean homeland security and 9-11? Can you really mishandle a disaster? uh...guess so.
And dont you really feel safe now, knowing that in times of trouble, your government is there, well, eventually....to help?
Of course we all know that Michael Brown, FEMA's headmaster, who by the way is neither a professor nor an expert on anything, well, except other than finance, how fitting-----doesnt own a TV, because as he himself said, didn't know what had happened until days after Katrina had hit but as soon as they all "woke up" from their magical trance, FEMA was on it.
Of course while the 'boys' were out on the 16th hole, people were dying, but hey, don't interrupt this putt unless it's Exxon calling, ok?
Bastards. Rotten, filthy, scummy, bastards.
Here's a debit card. Thanks for playing.
muthafuckers.

My heart goes OUT to everyone, EVERYONE, who has been a victim of Katrina and/or the red tape of our failure. To those who bravely and diligently and for days on end have worked to rescue those who survived, you rock.
And that's what "rockin" is all about, Newwwmaaaann.

Oh, and didn't I hear the Amerikan terrorist, Pat Robertson, who not THAT long ago (wake up children!!!) condoned assasination of democratically elected foreign leaders (cough) now has "Operation Blessing" for the hurricane victims and people are STILL sending him money? Isn't that hilarious? I'd love to see the books on that one. "Five million to meeee, $24.98 cents to youuu..." And, I betcha he's not "blessing" any of those Voodoo Hoodoo's in the bayou, either. Nope, just them good ol' white churches that bomb women's clinics. I betcha.

Anybody had enough of G. Dubya Diddy and his gangsta government yet?

Just LOOK at the faces of these children, the corpses of the elderly still strapped in wheelchairs, the dead and the dying, the orphaned and the destitute and tell me you have faith in our government's ability to protect and care for it's people and I'll call you delusional. Well, not you, in particular....dearest reader darling....I'm just venting. (sigh)
And very very sad. And ashamed. And angry.
And....well....for now,
outta here. I gotta go hug a tree or something.

To all the blogs I've loved before....

2005-08-20T09:29:00.000-04:00

I've been blogging for almost a year now. Gee, time flies when you're having fun! So....I'm going to take a break for a little while. Why, you ask? Well....

There are some things I need to do. The past year has been an incredible learning experience for me, which is no easy feat for the universe, I tell ya. I do catch on quickly and trick questions are few and far between. This is largely due to my cynical nature and general distaste for bullshit. So when a few months go by and I am practically assaulted by the quirks of fate I figure it's time to pay attention. Here are some highlights though of my past year, some blogged, some not blogged or blogged but never posted, or posted but not quite understood, or understood but not quite elaborated upon or elaborated but.....oh well, you get the idea....

The Year In Review; Beelzebabe 2004-2005

Survived Hurricane Charley. This was the closest I've been to a natural disaster, other than a few bad relationships.

Survived unemployment. I started blogging during the end of this period, feeling very angry with not only my situation but myself for being worthless in the job market. I had no skills to sell, which lead to a very low opinion of myself.

Gained 15 pounds (not on purpose).

Watched my only daughter leave for college 1800 miles away. Spent 18 years raising a daughter to be independent, and what does she do to repay me? She leaves and lives her own life! The nerve! What the hell am I supposed to do now, take up knitting???

Watched certain members of my family's lives fall apart. This has been the most painful. I've realized, though, that we cant force others to take our advice, no matter how "wise" it is. We also cant change the effects of disease in others, just our relation to it. In the past year I've watched my family suffer the effects of drug abuse, alcoholism, illness, incarceration and stroke. Yeah, we've been busy.

Found a career (hopefully). I had no idea that I would be doing what I'm now doing.

Left a relationship of 3 years. Relationships are like security blankets. You grow accustomed to them and tend to drag them around with you, their edges frayed and worn, holes from getting snagged on things, still we try to use them to keep us warm not realizing it's really a false sense of security and the wind just rips right through those worn patches anyway. Although he would not agree probably, I think the relationship was a way for us to not accept ourselves for who we are really, and to work through our own personal issues. Not having that "security" has forced us both to really look at ourselves separately and deal with our own stinky stuff. Well, it has for me, anyway.

Moved into a place of my own. BIG STEP for me. Hell, just saving the $ to get to that point was a huge accomplishment. Living alone affords me the privacy to think things out without interruption and to learn to depend on myself again.

Reconnected with old friends. I really missed them. They are a strange and eccentric bunch and things were just too damn normal without them.

Saw the Chippendales (LAME LAME LAME). I've seen male strippers before. REAL strippers. Not just a bunch of pretty boys who think giving you a peek at their ass before running offstage is a big turn on. The worst show ever. I would have had more action going down to the corner bar. Not only would I have had to not pay the $25, but I could have seen alot more and even taken it home if I wanted to.

Reached Midlife. Yeah, it happened. Dont get smug, if it hasnt happened to you yet, it will. And then you too will find out what it's like to be INVISIBLE. See, they dont tell you that part about midlife, but I will. You become virtually invisible in this youth obsessed culture. Shop clerks stop approaching you. The opposite sex only seems to notice you if you are dragging toilet paper on your shoe. When you go to buy music you are assumed to be buying for your teenager at home, you couldn't POSSIBLY like listening to White Stripes yourself....

Did NOT get pulled over for speeding (you have no idea how rare this is). I have averaged throughout my driving 'career' one speeding "incident" per year. I'm amazed I'm still insurable. I used to be able to talk, wink, flirt my way out of a speeding ticket. Due to reasons stated in the previous paragraph, this no longer works to my advantage. I just come off like some dirty minded old broad (which I am, but hey.) and no, I did not go to school with your mother, I dont care who you think I look like.

Became politically active. I started to really care about the terminal condition this country suffers from. Although I was never apathetic, I was uninvolved and didn't think what I said or did mattered. I realize this is only true if I believe it.

Became very poor (more so than usual). Our economy is not designed to afford single person households a livable wage or manageable bills in any shape or style. It's almost necessary to have a roommate just to meet the demands of daily financial obligations. Most people I know who exude the aura of stability are up to their ass in debt. I know a few truly wealthy people, one I can actually call a good friend. She was born to it though and never had to eat Ramen six days a week. But me, I prefer the chicken flavor. The beef is ok, if you spice it up with a dash of paprika. Next week I'm going to see how many ways I can fix toast. If I buy the cheap white bread I'll have dinner all week!

Rode a jetski for the first time. Never had the opportunity until this past year, could not pass it up. And yes, it was an absolute blast.

Became an instant success in my chosen field (still poor though, go figure). I am a testiment to the fact that hidden talents can indeed rise from out of the abyss and take you somewhere. I was surprised to find I had an artistic leaning after all, I wasn't just a critic. And as an added bonus, I found out I have a good sense for business and future trends. I've used my skills at pop psychology to push and sell white elephants in my industry, knowing what the customer wants before they want it. I've also used my intuitive side to my advantage in business, allowing my sixth sense to guide me and open up that creative side that has brought repeat business. I'm rather proud of my accomplishments, except for the "still poor" aspect of it. But, I figure that will change eventually if I stay on track and keep my focus. If not I'll die a starving artist, but at least I will have made my mark upon the world.

Took some risks. With my job, relationships....with life in general. A life without some element of risk is rather stagnant and dull, no?

Came to terms with my fading youth and questionable beauty. No matter how old I get or how far south my equator sags, I am STILL a goddess. Invisible, yes, but dammit I'm still a lucky catch for any man. Unfortunately they will never know my charms, my skills, the generosity of my spirit, my spontaneous wit and the grace of my presence. It's entirely too good for them, anyway.

Lost a friend I had known for 16 years. Although I knew it was coming, it was still an ache. She and I had shared some interesting times....some good, some bad. She didn't come out of it the same person and neither did I. She ended up betraying our friendship in a way that I couldn't overlook. (we all know you have to overlook some crap once in awhile, dont we?) I have forgiven her without her request for me to do so. But we can no longer be friends. Sad, but that's what happens sometimes.

Stopped dancing. Too tired, too busy, too everything. I need to fix that.

Stopped having sex (this was not my idea, by the way). I need to fix that as well. Switching hands and finding new uses for inanimate objects tends to lose it's appeal after awhile.

Dropped the people and things in my life that were no longer beneficial to me or my peace of mind. Life's too short no matter how much time you have. Those things that no longer enhance my experience of living have gotta go. I want to have some serious fun now. dammit.

These things may not seem like much to some, but for me they have been enough to keep me busy. And I need to take a few weeks to tend to some of them that still bother me or need my attention. I'm going to lose the 15 lbs. I'm going to pick up some new interests. I'm going to take some more risks. I'm going to dance again, even if it's only in my living room. Hopefully some of you will still be around when I return....a few of you have worked your way into my heart through your own blogs or your comments here. I dont always tell people what they mean to me, but if you've read this far then you are probably one of those that I will miss connecting with. But I'll be back. As a confirmed commitment-phobe, I can't stay committed to staying away.

Just a few weeks.....and we'll see what happens.....

XOXOXOXO

Beelze

wake the hell up, people. It IS a war about oil.

2005-08-16T18:13:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday to Meeeeeeee

2005-08-12T09:05:00.000-04:00

Today's my birthday. Shortly after the stroke of midnight many years ago, a shrill scream broke the silence, announcing my arrival to the world. The Perseid meteor showers rained like party confetti above the hospital that night I am told, the air sticky and dark beneath a half moon.

My mother had made a deal with God. No, really. She had suffered a miscarriage and was told she would never conceive again due to the damage her body had suffered from it's own botched abortions. My mother was and still is, a devout Christian. She had "given over" her past pregnancies to God, in hope for a holy child who would walk the path of Righteousness and follow her Christ. With each pregnancy she gave the promise to raise the child in a Christian manner, to love God and serve Him in all ways. Yet each pregancy resulted in blood and pain, her body rejecting the life that grew inside her despite her pleas to God, despite her tearful promises. God would have none of it, it seemed. Her faith shaken for all it was worth, she found herself once again pregnant, once again faced with the inevitable probability of losing yet another life when she decided to take a different approach to God.

She promised Him, this time, if He would allow her to carry this child to term, she would not force this child to hold the same beliefs. She would allow this child to find, or not find, God. She would not take this child to her church in the dutiful manner she had previously designed. She would not force the prayers, the creeds, the rituals of her own faith. She would leave this child's spirit alone, if only He would allow it to be.

"I promise to never interfere with my child's soul," she told Him, clutching her swollen belly and gazing up at the white ceiling that blocked her view of God. "I will let him or her find their own way, to think and feel what they wish. I will allow this child complete spiritual independence if only You will allow them to be born to me."

It must have worked, for the pregnancy stayed. She grew huge and read her Bible every day, remembering her promise. No Biblical names for this son or daughter. She told my father to pick a name and she would agree to it. He chose a heathen name, one that was old and ripe with ancient occult mystery. A name that had been uttered throughout the ages, floating towards the heavens in clouds of smokey offerings. Did he sense who I was, even then? It would be the only thing he would ever give me.

And then on the evening of August 11th, when the night was hot and still, the first pangs of labor began. Remembering the promise, she clutched at her swollen belly and whimpered in that way that women do when they first feel the grip of childbirth, anxious dread. At midnight the watery bubble burst and I began to emerge from my safe cocoon, a slippery moth seeking the light. And then there I was. The heathen born in the midnight hour, the girl child with a soul unclaimed, the promise fulfilled at last. I would be my mother's first and only full term pregnancy. There would be none to come after. The blood pact with her and God complete.

As my cousins and playmates were forced into their starched sunday-best, I was allowed to remain crosslegged in front of the TV to watch cartoons. My soul would find many gods, some with names and some nameless. My church was the sky and the earth. My hymns were sung in the rustling leaves of the trees. My offerings were pieces of cookie tossed on the ground for the birds. My prayers were nursery rhymes. I was adored and spoiled, resented and hoped for. A product of my mother's faith and her God's irony.

Throughout my life, she has told me of her pact with God and used it as a means to explain my own unorthodox beliefs and how I view my place within the universe. "everything happens for a reason" she would say. "You were not meant to follow my path, but your own. Perhaps you tried to be born many times, but my stubborn beliefs would not allow you to Be. Only when I allowed you your own destiny did you agree to arrive."

Destiny. I arrived on my own terms and live my life accordingly, paying careful attention to the divine essence that brought me here, teaching me of it's true identity every day. Although I am grown with children of my own, I am still the child that is amazed that I am here at all. I am amazed that I survived this far. I hope I will always remain childlike in the ways that matter, until the day I leave this world and once again become stardust searching for a distant place to land, a distant glimmer of light and life to call my own.

Today I honor my Mother, for her bravery in the face of her god to bargain with Him for a life. In her quest to be a mother, she selflessly surrendered her own plan for my soul. She allowed me to manifest in my own way, in the way her god intended. She relinquished control and learned the value of love.

Thanks, Mom. And thanks, Divine Essence, Whoever you are.

ready for Monday

2005-08-07T07:09:00.000-04:00

Finally, some therapy I can understand.

even working girls get the blues

2005-08-06T05:22:00.000-04:00

The great & powerful Beelzebabe is depressed. (awwwww!) Chalk it up to a tremendously busy work week followed by the incredible let down of the weekend. As I dragged my tired (yet voluptuous) ass home last night, I found myself with a startling thought. What am I going to do now?! Shock settled in somewhere between unlocking the door to my apartment and slipping off my shoes. I looked around at my humble abode, both cats happily weaving between my legs (Mummy's home! We're going to eat!) and suddenly wished I had never left the safe, chaotic embrace of the workplace. Suddenly, the thought of unloading the dishwasher and loading the washing machine was daunting. I couldn't switch gears from Boss Bitch to Happy Homemaker. I stood there in my sweaty (yet incredibly dainty) socks and beheld my fate.

Why is it that during the week I crave the peace and relaxation of the weekend, yet when the weekend arrives I'm anxiously awaiting the return of chaos? Perhaps I'm identifying myself too closely with what I do, rather than who I am. I forget I am not a machine, but a human being with human needs. I bring home my paperwork and ignore the inner voice that tells me to go out and play. When did work become my play? What the hell is wrong with me?

I flipped on the television mindlessly, unable to stand the deafening silence, then turned it off again because I couldn't stand the loud, sappy garbage it offered. I nuked some old coffee left over from the morning then sat down at the coffee table and spread my paperwork out before me. Both cats were blissfully chomping down at some tuna, affording me a few moments before the grateful petting session began. I took out my highlighter pens, my calculator, my notebook of indicipherable scribblings and then it happened. I froze.

Paralyzed, I was. From my seat on the couch I could see the canal outside, flowing gently towards the river. A school of fish were having a feeding frenzy at the surface, creating frantic ripples and bubbles as they splashed around. I watched them for awhile as their tight group drifted this way and that way in the current until they were out of sight. I thought it would relax me, as it usually does, to peer out my window and gaze at the canal. It didn't. Still holding my pen I then watched as my various neighbors came home, probably to welcoming hugs and the aroma of dinner waiting. I sipped at my bitter coffee and tried to do some work while in a state of paralysis. That didn't work either.

After nibbling on a very uninteresting cheese & tomato sammich, I went back to my paperwork. Out of nowhere tears of fatigue began to run down my face. What the fuck?! No, no, no....don't start your goddam blubbering now! What the hell is wrong with you? WHY are you crying like a goddam baby? Stop it! Stop it now! Stop it before I give you something to cry about!
I put down the pen, defeated by girlish sobs of nothingness. Shifted all the papers together into one pile and put them back into their clean manilla folders so they wouldn't have to see me this way. God, I am so pathetic.

Moments like these make me wish I were an alcoholic or something. Well, sort of. I mean I can't drink out of emotion, as much as I've tried. Doesn't work for me. Only when I'm in a good mood do I drink any form of alcohol. I can't "escape" into a bottle like some people can and do. I find myself bored and wasting good liquor that way.

Putting my face in my hands I relented and let the tears come. Images of better days flooded my mind and I found myself falling into them. My old house. My old loves. My daughter's room with it's funky girly smell and her floor carpeted with discarded clothes. Careening around corners in my brand new car before some asshole drunk rear ended me without buying me dinner first. (the effects of which I will now suffer for the rest of my life, goddam you very much!) Walking in snow. Riding in the back seat of my mother's car because I've been "bad" and pressing my nose against the cool window as the scenery blurred past.
I must have sat that way for an hour before realizing how much time had gone by. The sun had not yet sunk behind the horizon and the living room was bathed in orange light. I got up and tried to shake off the feeling, splashing cold water on my puffy face and staring at my reflection in the mirror. Ugh. This is exactly why I hate to cry. I become misshapen and frightening looking even to myself. Quasimodo has nothing on Beelze after a good crying jag.

So what's a poor workaholic to do when the rug of productivity has been rudely yanked from beneath? Sleep. Before the last of the sun's rays were extinguished, I was undressed and safely cocooned in bed, the weight of the down comforter holding me lovingly as I finally relaxed and waited for the sleeping pills to kick in. They did, and I spent the night in dreamland where I danced to a tribal rhythm and made love to a stranger.
I awoke early, as expected, to the gentle tapping of a soft paw on my face. Mummy, why are you sleeping? It's time to get up and play. I reached out for the familar touch of soft fur and was promptly licked on the nose with a sandpaper tongue. Unconditional love and acceptance for breakfast. I suppose it could be worse.

Flash them pearly whites

2005-08-02T06:27:00.000-04:00

While most dentists will tell you to spit, Dr. John "Needle Dick" Hall of Charlotte, North Carolina prefers you swallow.

As if going to the dentist isn't unpleasant enough, the mad doctor of Charlotte has improved upon the experience by squirting semen into the mouths of patients. Still want to go have that tooth filled? Hey how about a root canal, sexy?
While being helplessly trapped in The Chair, Dr. Hall administered life saving sperm via hypodermic needle into the gaping mouths of his patients. While he called the charges "bizzare", police were testing the syringes and finding....yep.....Dr. Hall's own little tadpoles. Ewww.

It begs the question "why". WHY are people so fucked in the head? (no pun intended) As expected, Hall's license to commit deviant dentistry has been jerked off the wall and criminal charges are pending. Click on the header to read the full story.

because a real friend wouldn't lie, right?

2005-07-24T11:32:00.000-04:00

And now, boys & girls, a little fable for your sunday afternoon.

The story goes there was a scorpion and a turtle at the edge of a swiftly moving stream. Both needed to cross to the other side, but only the turtle had the capability of doing so, he could swim under water and hold his breath quite well. The scorpion, however, was not so advantaged. He too had to cross the stream but couldn't do it on his own so he implored the turtle to carry him across on his back.
"I cant do that" replied the turtle. "you're a scorpion and you'll sting me"
The scorpion waved his lethal tail in dismissal. "dont be silly, turtle! I won't sting you, I just need a ride to the other side of the stream. You could carry me on your back and I'll be ever so grateful to you for your assistance. I promise not to sting you, I really do!"
Turtle thought about it for a moment. He felt bad for the little guy, the water was too deep for him to cross without drowning. But could he trust the scorpion not to sting?
Scorpion flashed him his biggest smile. "you can trust me" he said "I'm not like all the other scorpions. I just need a lift then I'll be on my way."
"uhmm, OK" said turtle and stretched out his neck a little. "hop up onto the highest part of my shell and sit tight."
"thankyou! thankyou!" Scorpion exclaimed, happily climbing the turtle's large shell until he reached the very top.
"ready?" said turtle
"ready!" said scorpion.
With his passenger safely perched on the back of his shell, turtle slowly ventured towards the edge of the stream. The water was swift and turbulent, deep towards the middle where turtle's feet failed to touch the bottom. The strong current threatened to carry both turtle and scorpion away but turtle was fortunately a stronger swimmer. Scorpion held on fast as they navigated around the rocks and floating debris until finally after much effort and patience, turtle's feet once again touched the slippery rocks of the opposite shore. Exhausted but once again on dry land, turtle lowered himself so his passenger could easily reach the ground.
"here we are!" turtle announced, thinking the worst was over.
Suddenly, he felt a tremendous pain in the delicate webbing behind his front leg. He screamed in pain and in shock looked down at the smiling scorpion.
"What the hell did you do that for?!" he demanded, rubbing the sore spot against the cool wet ground. "you stung me! you promised you wouldn't! how could you do that?!"
Scorpion shrugged and waved his upright tail. "just as it's in your nature to be kind & helpful, it's my nature to sting. And we are always true to our nature."
And with that, the scorpion shuffled away. (later to be flattened under the wheel of a passing eighteen wheeler.)

Now, what did we learn here, boys and girls? That turtles are good swimmers? nooooo That scorpions can talk? noooooo What we learned, if we were truly paying attention, is that....EXCUSE ME Miss Beelze? Miss Beelzebabe, turn around please and stay in your seat. Were you paying attention or do we have to go through this again?

Well, I guess I had to go through it again.

They say that one way to define insanity is to keep repeating the same action and expecting a different result at the end. There might be something to that.

Anyways, the turtle crossed the stream this weekend and the scorpion stung. No good deed will go unpunished, as per usual. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as per usual. Those who lied to you in the past will lie to you in the future. History always repeats itself.
I should have learned my lesson long ago. I owned the book and the movie.

When others disappoint us, when they fail to be honest when asked a simple question, when they fail to grant us the same consideration & understanding that we have given them, then it's time to walk, nurse the sting away and cherish the scar it leaves behind. And next time you're crossing the stream with a scorpion on your back, dive and drown the bastard.

Voices

2005-07-20T17:39:00.000-04:00

"If you could change one thing, what would it be?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Yep."

"Hmmm."

silence.

"You mean like just the bad parts, don't you?"

"Everything."

"Everything. And the good parts?"

"Those too."

"Those too? But why? Why not just the bad?"

"You can't have good without bad. And good has disappointed me lately."

"So...everything. Get rid of both."

"Yep."

"Hmm. Like starting fresh..."

"Like it never happened."

Overheard in conversation today. Found it profound somehow, weary and deeply pathetic. Then I got my change and went home.

maybe it's Maybelline?

2005-07-18T19:51:00.000-04:00

This bitch is trying to get off on an insanity plea. Fry, bitch. Fry.

I've followed this story for awhile, since it takes the Florida courts so damn long to actually do anything. Her attorney, John Fitzgibbons of Tampa, is already appealing before the mercy of the media to take a look at this pretty thing. Why, it's like throwing raw meat to the lions if she's sent to prison!

Wait, what was that? Only ugly people should serve hard time? Excuse me, Mr. Fitzgibbons, is that your defense?

Obviously, Justice isn't blind at all, is it?
But isn't it supposed to be? If not, then why are all of those statues wearing blindfolds? What are those scales for, guessing your weight? I think attorneys should all be under some sort of gag order. Appealing to the public's sentiment and preference for shiney things might work for the client, as well as the attorney who stuffs another 'win' under his belt, but does it work for the law and for society? When you think about it, it's not just a harmless comment. It says volumes on what we value in society and how we express those values. Would we be less merciful is she were a two ton toothless old hag?
Or a young black male?

There are truly some insane people out there. (no! I will not mention T-t-tom) What she did wasn't the act of a crazy person. It was just what she herself has said it was; fun to do something that was taboo. Besides, her husband was a big meanie.

somebody smack dat bitch up.

2005-07-15T19:50:00.000-04:00

Just not feeling it today.

Very nasty mood.

People could get hurt.

Instead, I will blog. I will purge myself and emerge from my maudlin mutterings a clean, shiny soul.

yeah.

Hmm. Let's see. I could blog politics. That ever redheaded stepchild.
Ever heard that old idiom? "Beat__ you/her/him/me__like a redheaded stepchild"? It's gotta suck to be one.
Like idioms though, politics is tedious. We all know it's a big conspiracy, an evil empire ruled by jokers and anti-Christ/Buddha/Allah/Yahweh/Zeus/Elvis assclowns. Right? It's not? Ok, so show me your holyman and make me take it back. Money, power, greed.... And we love it. It sells books, movies, music ---- whatever form it takes. C'mon. If we had an honest government that we couldn't bitch about, how bored and boring would we be? We'd all have enough money to take groovy vacations, shop, and pay bills before the shut-off notice. We'd have 'superior' attitudes. We'd be French.

Speaking of French & assclowns, respectively, the mayor of Paris got downright piss-ay because Paris didn't get one of those Olympic game thingies. Thinks London was underhanded in the way it "won" ::cough:: the vote. Something about not being invited to all the after-hours soirees like other representatives were before the decision was made. Somebody hit this pinata with a clue-by-four.
Yeah, politics is boring.

sigh

And WHY is Tom Cruise some sort of freak sideshow event that people can't seem to get enough of? If you've mistakenly Googled your way to this page in search of Tom Cruise information, because I'm about to mention TOM CRUISE fifty million times and watch my hit meter go up, I've got a clue for ya. GET A LIFE. Like you've never ever met fucked up people before, right? I bet you know a few if you aren't one yourself. (one in four people have a mental illness, according to some statistics I read recently. Imagine you--- and three of your friends. Hmmmm.) Why is this Tom Shmooze entertaining? Who cares what he does? Nobody more than The Tomald himself and a few thousand psychiatrists that would probably like to introduce him to lithium. GET OUT OF THE WAY. By being an 'audience' for this nutjob you are blocking him from getting proper medical treatment he so desperately needs. Geezus H.

What to blog about...what to blog about...

Here's an opinion. There's actually a reality show worth watching. Yay for Thursday night television and Hooking Up. It was this bunch of chicks in New York who placed ads on online dating sites and met some of these guys. Now face it, if you've been single or have a tendency to stray/be curious/whatever, you've checked out these dating sites. You can't lie to me...I'm on to every one of you...) Watching these women reminded me why I don't like online dating, yet find it interesting. No matter who you think that person is, 80% of time (it could be higher, I dunno) the face doesn't match the pic or there is just no chemistry. Just repulsion. And boredom. And perhaps a morbid sense of futility.
Every great once in awhile you meet somebody very cool and it becomes something good.
The show shows how it is, sometimes. I watch one particularly bad meeting and remember some of my own. The Wasabi Man, who had this most annoying whistle and a nose for coke and who ate like I was buyin'. (which, by the way, didn't happen.) Or the cowboy who showed up with a toilet strapped down on the back end of his flatbed pickup. Really. It wasn't in a box, it wasn't amidst an array of tools and hunky guy stuff, it sat upright facing the traffic behind. It was the shortest date I ever had, lasting fifty-three seconds. Or the Antonio Banderas look-a-like, who immediately lost my adoration by saying "I'll go down on you right here right now if you want me to" while standing on a busy sidewalk at St. Armand's. It was our first and last date, 2.5 hours. Looking back, I should have told him yeah go for it... just to see if he would be stupid enough to really try.
Um, so yeah I sort of like the show. I'll give it one more go, since Stripsearch is over. dammit, dammit all to hell!
Women will like it, and men should watch it.

no..... I really cant think of much to blog about. It's all been done.

sigh

But on a good note! It's Friday. Warm, fuzzy, wonderful Friday.

Oh, and about that pic at the top of this post. It doesn't tie in to anything I've written, even my reference to Tom Cruise. (fruit loop) I just saw it and thought it was an interesting serving suggestion.

Have a freakin awesome weekend, y'all.

As Dennis passes by.....

2005-07-10T15:34:00.000-04:00

Clouds overhead are moving fast. This was taken about an hour before Dennis hit near Pensacola. The size of this hurricane is huge, as these are just the outter bands moving swiftly across the sky. I am probably 200 miles south of the eye of Dennis. The wind on the beach was still pretty strong, enough to catch me off balance a few times. Standing in the surf, the current was so strong it threatened to carry me out to sea, it was a struggle to stand in less than nine inches of water.
Seafoam. The waves were about 6-8 ft high and seafoam was blowing everywhere.
Debris being carried onshore from Dennis. I couldn't tell exactly what it was, other than being a large piece of something, perhaps from a boat. When I got closer I could see that whatever it was it had snapped into at least two pieces. Lots of things get carried in and left on the beach after our hurricanes. Last summer I found a child's swing and a sign from a parking lot that is at least 20 miles away from the spot it landed. More debris will wash ashore within the next few days.

Casperson Beach, looking south. I found a few sharks teeth standing here while checking out the beach conditions. Winds were strong and I got a good sandblasting. Quite a few people came out to the beach today to experience the strong winds and newly deposited sharks teeth and prehistoric bone fragments. This is perhaps one of the best beaches in Florida for the fossil hunter. Not too far south of here is supposedly where Jose Gaspar, the famous pirate, buried his booty. Not too much booty on this beach today, trust me, I was lookin'.

2005-07-09T23:31:00.000-04:00

why should all hurricanes be named after women? because when they arrive they're wet and wild and when they leave they take your house and car.

A little hurricane humor. Har.

Destin, watch out. Dennis is coming.

After spending a windy, rainy day shlepping around in pajamas and drinking all of my hurricane supplies, I once again feel cheated out of some saturday night action. Let's reflect. LAST saturday found Beelzebabe with the ever exciting J and his "sleeping buddy" S sound asleep on the floor until midnight. The 9 saturdays before that were spent working. So yeah I feel I'm due a little excitement here. I know I shouldn't bitch & moan, but I will anyway. It makes me feel better.

Anyways, good luck to you folks in the panhandle. I really wish you all the best. If you think Dennis is tough bastard, just wait til you meet with FEMA.

And now, back to those supplies. I swear, next saturday I'll have some fun if it kills me.

Hurricane Dennis

2005-07-08T18:14:00.000-04:00

Right now I'm somewhere underneath this mess. That blob at the bottom of the picture is the top half of Dennis spinning over Cuba. We don't know where he'll end up once he gets into the warm waters of the gulf, but one thing is for sure, he'll probably get stronger once he hits those open waters.
Catagory 4 and already stronger than Charley was as he traces Charley's old track, the residents of Charlotte county and southern Sarasota county are in the beginning stages of panic. Not surprising if you were here and survived Charley last summer. The devastation I saw once the storm passed and you could venture outside again was more than I could ever describe. There are still hundreds of homes still wearing blue tarp where their roofs used to be. There's simply not enough man-power or materials to rebuild or clean up from our last hurricane season.

Today as people came into the shop every single one of them asked me my opinion on Dennis. I found this kind of funny, considering I'm a designer, not the weather channel. "Well now, by the looks of this here Leucanthemum Vulgare I'd say that the effect of a strong northern air flow running concurrent with a push of warm air mass from the south means we're in for a spot of nasty weather!"
At one o'clock I took the delivery van to get gas and noticed all the gas stations had lines of cars at the pump already, waiting to fill up in the event we have to evacuate. I haven't done my usual friday evening grocery shopping yet, putting that off for the last minute when I can really enjoy the crowds. And like last year, the stores will have a "party" atmosphere as everyone piles bags of chips and canned tuna into their carts, and you'll have to wrestle some eighty year old for that last gallon of water off the shelf. At the check out lines everyone talks about who lost what last year and who bought a generator and for a brief moment Floridians will actually bond as they stock up on crap that's probably going to get blown to smithereens anyway if we do get hit. As for me, I'm stocking up on insect repellant. To hell with food. Why get all fattened up to be a happy meal for the mosquitos? (which is our state bird, by the way)
Well I better get to the liquor store before all the rednecks confiscate all the necessary hurricane supplies one needs in these situations. If anything interesting happens I'll take some pics and post them here. Til then.........

nothing personal

2005-07-07T18:00:00.000-04:00

Yep, that's it. I deleted the other post too regarding the 'friend situation'. I appreciate your comments and I'm sorry that they too got deleted, but those are Blogger's rules, not mine. I don't like it that the comments got deleted. I dont want anyone to not comment because of what has just happened.

J and I are still close friends, and yes, he has read my post. I have to add in here that it was not an effort to put him in a bad light. It was only an explanation of my past deletion. And, because it was of a personal nature, I deleted that one too out of respect for J. He didn't mind it being up, but after I thought about it, I did. Some things are better left unsaid....and unwritten. Obviously I'm a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but eventually I do learn.

2005-07-07T16:56:00.000-04:00

Sorry. I do tend to ramble when trying to explain.
For the edited version:

Because of the problems this has caused (having these people as friends) I deleted the post in question. J reads my blog occasionally. We are still very good friends and I didn't want the post to dredge up an old argument.

And that's the explanation.

2005-07-03T01:10:00.000-04:00

yawn.

2005-07-02T22:44:00.000-04:00

Woo Hoooo! Parrrrrtay! So today is J's birthday and you know where he's at? Sound asleep on my floor. Big party here, y'all. To my left, crashed in front of the TV, is J. To my right is S. on the dining room floor. No, I did not lace thier food with sleeping powder. I swear to god, all I did was fix a nice dinner and they've been asleep now for seven and a half hours. Unbelievable.
I even vaccumed around these party animals. No response. I clanged the dishes and silverware around while loading up the dishwasher. I chatted with a girlfriend on the phone for an hour. At one point some kids were setting off firecrackers outside. No response. If it weren't for their snoring, I'd be worried.
So MY saturday night is shot. Yay me.
I dunno, maybe I should only cook for insomniacs. I definately shouldn't cook except on holidays, when a puppy belly and nap is expected, preferably right after the game and pie.

Anyways, tomorrow it's hotdogs on the grill. Pre-cooked and packaged for freshness, the world will once again be safe from my culinary voodoo.

Happy 4th of July weekend everybody. Have some fun & be safe.

2005-07-01T21:13:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday, J!

2005-06-28T21:15:00.000-04:00

art critic or patriot?

THOU SHALT NOT

2005-06-27T19:05:00.000-04:00

Erect religious propaganda inside a state building and pretend you're living in a theocracy. It doesn't work, hasn't worked, and will never work.

What is fundamentally wrong with the people (some of whom are elected officials or running for office) who are crying out "anti-Christianity!" because they fail to see the separation of church and state? Why don't they get it? I hear thier 'arguments', which usually go like this;

This country was founded on God.
A Godless country is a morally corrupt country. (and therefore a breeder of corruption)
A country that doesn't focus it's identity with God separates itself from God, thereby mocking God. (and you know what happens when you mock God!)

which leads to:

There's something wrong (and probably evil) with anyone who doesn't worship the same way I do.
Those who don't think like I do are probably against me.
Those who are against me are against God, which means they are For Satan and tools Of Satan, who, coincidentally, wants me to suffer and wants to own my soul.

Being in such an unfortunate conversation is like talking to celophane. There's nothing there. Sticky sheets of nothingness clinging to thought forms. What's worse is entire groups of them. I am convinced that the more people you put together, the less collective intelligence they have, especially in regards to religion. You can practically see the brain cells go POP like soap bubbles.

The Supreme court decided yesterday that blatant referrals to Christian doctrine cannot be displayed inside certain places, like courthouses and public schools. However, it's perfectly OK to display monuments such as the 10 Commandments outside of these buildings for the sole reason that Christianity is "a part" of our national heritage and these are so-called 'neutral' public grounds.
With that in mind, I'd like to see a more balanced view of our "national heritage" represented. If the 10 C's can be erected in stone in these places that tax payers of all religious and non religious persuasions pay for, then why not monuments of equal size representing other religions or opinions? Why not a totem pole for the Native Americans we displaced? Or a menorah? Surely it wasnt just the Christians who had a hand in creating this country.

Speaking of national heritage... slavery and denying the vote to women are also a part of that "heritage". The "witch" burnings in Salem...the Trail of Tears...
But hey, these were just good Christians building a nation, no?

I'm not completely sure of the date (I think it was around the early 50's) that the words In God We Trust were first put on American currency. Personally, I dont think those words belong there. If someone wants to believe in a god, a goddess or superior alien species, so be it. Why put it on dollar bills? What purpose does it serve? I'd rather see something like "Land Of The Free" on there or something else that reflects American values. If we are a land of the free, then we are free to not worship our neighbor's god. The Christians should embrace this. It keeps them free to believe as they do and not be under government pressure to believe what I do.

The struggle to keep the fanatics out of our lives and judicial system continues on. And probably will for quite a long time.

Anyhoo, I'm rambling. Something to do between shark attacks.

something new to chew on

2005-06-25T08:54:00.000-04:00

ARGGGHHHH (sorry. I just woke up.)

I did an incredibly wild thing last night. I added some more blogs to my list of tasty bits. Yeah, I know, I'm out of control.
And so, without further a-do, I present to you;

Dying To Preserve The Lies. Here's a blog dedicated to the war on Iraq from a family who has 2 veterans "over there". It's a more personal view, which I like. If you are one to follow this insane war, you may find it interesting.

Idiots and a Journal of The Disgusting Girl At Work. The title is what drew me in. His humor and daily suffering from working with a certain female has kept me there. Anyone who has the balls to reply to an RSVP with "my hemmoroids will be acting up that day" has my sincerest admiration.

100 reasons why I hate my husband. Funny. I like funny. Plus, she's also a Floridian and fellow survivor of last year's hurricane festival. Start from the beginning and by the last post you'll feel a deep and abiding fondness for this saint who's sacrificed her life and sanity to keep her husband out of the dating pool. All of us single women owe her a debt of gratitude and our utmost respect. She rocks.

What A Long Strange Trip It's Been. Psychedelic drugs, anyone? How about a vaginal massage? It's here along with some trippy, interesting artwork. Hey ya Rob, I got yer Yoni right here. I encourage all heterosexual men and muff gurls to run, not walk, to his post on Tantric massage. You'll thank me later, if you have any energy left. Oh, and did I mention the art? Very nice.

Check them out if you are so inclined. I'm on a roll, so more will be forthcoming soon. Who else would sacrifice a lovely saturday for thier readers? Who loves ya, baby?

2005-06-23T20:57:00.000-04:00

Hey, I didn't start it. I was just checkin out LiveWire's blog when....

A Lifetime

2005-06-23T18:49:00.000-04:00

Yikes! I've been tagged! (thanks to Mr. Ten Miles) Soooooooo.......I'll play along and provide more information about me than most people should ever know. Or want to.

10 years ago: I was happily married with a beautiful home and beautiful family. I thought nothing would ever change. (bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!)

5 years ago: dressed up in a tux and mini skirt, I sold roses in upscale beach restaurants and night clubs. I bought my very first brand new car ever. I hooked up with a guy 16 years younger than myself and had sex 3 times a day for the next 9 months.

1 year ago: Had a short stint as a home companion health care aide for the elderly. It was rewarding and extremely depressing at the same time. (go call your grandma NOW!) I was also living with J and wondering what to do with my life. My daughter was leaving for her first year of college in NYC and it was ripping my heart out. Spent every saturday night on the beach jamming with my friends and getting tanked.

Yesterday: Watched the sunset. Had a sausage muffin for dinner. Did some laundry.

Tomorrow: Doing the flowers for the last wedding I have booked for June (yay!). J Paying the electric bill. Cleaning out the litter box.

5 snacks I enjoy: Snickers. Hershey's with almonds. Butterfinger. Ethel M's chocolate covered raspberry truffles. Younger men. (which technically speaking, could be considered a meal)

5 songs I know all the words to: Anarchy in the UK (Sex Pistols) Cinnamon Girl (I prefer the Type O Negative version) Lucretia (Sisters Of Mercy) We Are Building A Religion (Cake) Last Train To Clarksville (the Monkees)

5 things I would do with $100,000,000. : Pay off all of my debts. Give a couple mill to all the members of my family. Buy new friends. Hire a private masseuse to be on call 24/7.

5 locations I'd like to run away to: A deserted beach. Stonehenge. The canyons in southwestern Utah. My imagination. Argentina.

5 bad habits I have: (???) This is a toughie. Hmm. Well, I guess clove cigarettes would be one...being reclusive....not drinking enough water....driving too fast....and that attraction to the wrong men kinda thing.

5 things I like doing: I could just say "read my bad habits" but other than those; playing drums, reading political satire, treasure/relic hunting, belly dancing, & of course, sex.

5 things I would never wear: purple socks. plaid with stripes. Tommy Helfucker. real fur. clothes at a nudist resort.

5 TV shows I like: Seinfeld. The Daily Show. stripsearch. South Park. Bewitched.

5 movies I like: Sid & Nancy, Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?, Like Water For Chocolate, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Benny & Joon

5 famous people I'd like to meet: Hillary Rodham Clinton. Einstein. Timothy Leary. Billie Holiday. Cleopatra.

5 biggest joys at the moment: my family. my work. my cats. my friends. the warm jammies I'm wearing.

5 favorite toys : my truck, my drums, my POS computer, my metal detector & my telescope. I'm such a freak. Ok, not.

5 people to tag: all 5 of my readers. lol (that means YOU)

2005-06-22T22:20:00.000-04:00

a crappy picture of tonight's magnificent sky.

2005-06-22T20:11:00.000-04:00

Tonight the sunset is incredibly beautiful. The entire sky is streaked with golds, purples, orange & pink. I'm sitting in my living room, staring out the window in awe.
I've been lax in blogging lately. Blame it on the weather. June has it's own rhythm, luring me into hot sunny days and nightly thunderstorms. The arrival of Summer has once again awakened the primal spirit that stirs within, the one that wants to dance nekkid beneath the moon, ravage firm man-flesh in the fields, drink gallons of mead and jump the fire to the sound of beating drums.
I just can't think of anything else right now....

Summer.
Ahhhh.......

2005-06-18T07:57:00.000-04:00

2005-06-17T22:31:00.000-04:00

Must have been late afternoon
on our way the sun broke free of the clouds
we count only blue cars
skip the cracks, in the street
and ask many questions
like children often do
We said
Tell me all your thoughts on God?
'cause I'd really like to meet her
and ask her why we're who we are
tell me all your thoughts on God,
'cause I'm on my way to see her
So tell me am I very far?
Am I very far now?

.....Dishwalla

For the child who's funeral I did not attend.
In my line of work each and every piece has a meaning, a story, a reason to be.
I didn't know her, this child who had just started her summer vacation and was looking forward to a trip to Disney with her family. All I know of her is what she has revealed to me as I stand at the easel with a fistful of white flowers in my hand.
I knew it was coming.

It's only been a few days since I was telling someone about a dream that I had had the night before. In the dream I was arranging a casket spray of white lilies and lush greenery. One of the lilies broke off in my hand. In the dream this "accident" disturbed me. There was an overwhelming sense of sadness that remained with me throughout the rest of my dreaming. I went to work the next day and told them I was expecting a funeral. For an innocent.

And she came.

I didn't expect her so quickly. I didn't expect such innocence and beauty. And on the day she came, the white lilies on my workstand opened. I glanced at them and let them be, pretending not to notice but quite aware of the new feeling in the room.
People would think I'm crazy if I say the dead stand over my shoulder when I design for them, and I wouldn't blame them, really. But it seems to happen more often than not. This child is not the first, or even the fourth or fifth....she is just the latest (no pun intended) spirit to make her presence known. But she is the first child I've ever designed for that didn't involve a happy occasion. Maybe that's why it's touched me so. This was a child. She hadn't even begun to live yet. It was all before her and then it just... vanished.

For the past two days she's strolled across the floor, pointed out the flowers she likes and wisped in and out like a breeze. She's also hidden certain rolls of ribbon and purple silk butterflies. I think I would have liked her. She has such a lively spirit. I sense her energy like a jolt of yellow/pink lightning.

As the last piece was loaded in the van and on it's way to the funeral home, I felt alone again. She was gone. She wanted to sit in the back with all the flowers.
Now I just want to touch my own daughter again and hold her and tell her how beautiful she is. I want to feel her soft cheek against mine and smell her shampoo and tell her how much I love her. She knows I do but on days like these you somehow can never say it enough.

So tell me all your thoughts on God.

2005-06-14T08:01:00.000-04:00

you can take the boy outta the man but ya can't take the man...

2005-06-13T21:37:00.000-04:00

Ah well, whatever.

Jackson has been found not guilty. This isn't to say he isn't or is, or will be. Just that a jury of his peers found him not guilty.
I'm happy not to hear about it anymore, and since I whined during my last post of the coverage of the Jackson trial, I can only assume that the jury read my blog and were forced to action.

In honor of Michael Jackson Day, I recommend the flick "Puppetry of the Penis". This little gem fell into my supple hands over the weekend, compliments of Tigger, who promised I would laugh my ass off. Although my ass is still firmly attached, it was an interesting 50 minutes nonetheless. In case you have never heard of p.o.t.p., it's these two well hung Australian cockstars, (Simon Morley & David Friend) the kings of the circle jerk, able to manipulate thier genitals in a myriad of fun, wacky, entertaining ways. Dick tricks!

Behold the pelican, the wristwatch, the hamburger and the loch ness monster. The ones high in gross factor were definately the boomerang and the windsufer, and like most women, I've met the mollusk and stared down the incredible, all seeing Eye. The audience is almost as interesting to watch. Composed heavily of middle aged white women and curious men, thier reactions range from grossed out to mild titillation. One also gets a peek at the interior of Melbourne's Forum Theatre as well. I admit theatre interiors are one of my favorite things. They're plush, opulent and gloriously tacky. I just wanted to see more theatre shots. A limp, twisted penis is only interesting for about 5 minutes. After that I take it personally.

The show tours internationally, and there's 2 movies produced by this duo of derring-do's as well as a how-to book. Impress the ladies. Amaze your friends. The movie came out in 2001, but this was the first I had ever heard of it. I guess I live a sheltered life. And as Jackson would say, just beat it!

Anyways, it's a great date movie. Heh.

Other exciting events of the past 48 hours include a lovely little pink nail polish for my toes. A pearlized, glossy, cotton candy sweetness. The sheet shredders look fabulous. I keep staring at them, pointing my tootsies in thier own interesting poses. Behold the Barbie, the swandive, the picket fence....ha.

Anyways, other than watching middle aged men obsessed with thier penises (peni?) I also did 2 weddings and a funeral, which gave me lots of room for creative expression as well a tasty commission. I absolutely love my job. Life is good and getting better. I like it when it does that.

2005-06-09T22:00:00.000-04:00

sitting at home on a thursday night

2005-06-09T20:35:00.000-04:00

I've been watching alot of TV lately. It's not a good thing. Except for The Daily Show. I think I'd like to run away with Jon Stewart (of course his wife would have to be paid off and shipped out) just so I could watch him all day. (I wonder what he'd be like in the sack?) What can I say...his charm has won me over and evoked my inner slut. Come to me, Jon. You know you want to....

Last night Colin Powell was on, and Jon was ever so galant to his guest. Like his politics or not, Powell came across as a nice guy.
And all the talking heads are still yappin about Jackson. I can't help but think how nice it would be to NOT hear about him all the time.
At this writing! The jury is still out. O' the anticipation, eh CNN? MSNBC is not much better, well, they don't have Nancy Grace, yay. That's a point in their favor, I guess. Watching her is like watching a televangelist on the brink of tears. Shuuuuut uuuuuuup!!!! My cats enjoy it when she's on though, if by accident I see she's invaded my living room I throw thier toys (little wads of paper) at the screen and they attack her face. It's so cute.
She could be the nicest person in the world and I'd never know because I can't get past the deer-in-the-headlights look as she fights back those tears that she shedsforallofmankind and that debutante drawl. Blech.

Anyways, it's a boring night here at Maison Beelze. So boring in fact, here's a list of what's in my fridge.

a half bottle of cherry juice
a bottle of water
a diet pepsi
butter
extra sharp cheddar cheese
half dozen eggs
sealed bag of catnip
Heinz 57
mayo
2 of what I think used to be tomatoes
salad dressing (store brand, it was awful)
bag of croutons
hot sauce

I'd list what's in my medicine cabinet but that will have to wait for another day. Sorry to disappoint but it's time to change channels....

2005-06-07T21:17:00.000-04:00

Anne Bancroft is dead.
WHEN WILL THE MADNESS EVER END???

2005-06-07T20:20:00.000-04:00

Medical Marijuana Outlawed?

2005-06-06T20:04:00.000-04:00

In observance of the CRAP I'm reading and hearing about, I'm writing this while smoking a fat blunt of the finest domestic.

Again, the Bush administration pokes it's over sized, coke snorting proboscis into an area of which it has no expertise (which is pretty much everything), the benefits of medically prescribed marijuana and marijuana research.
This is no surprise since he also rejects stem cell research.(this, from a guy who has no problem eating eggs?) Seemingly, anything science or medicine does to help humanity is frowned upon by the Bush administration. Funny that an ex-cocaine user and alcoholic has the balls to tell anyone with a diagnosed medical condition what is or is not good for their health and wellbeing. Dr. Dubya is in the house!

So anyways, G.W. wants the sick and the dying to be prosecuted by law for using the very drug a medical doctor has prescribed. If that's not downright hateful and apathetic I don't know what is. Ok, yeah I know it's illegal, federally speaking, ok? Maybe we should look at that issue and just why it is illegal, especially if cannabis has the potential to be of good use. As far as I know, Jack Daniels has no medicinal value unless applied directly to the wound. (bad days and heartaches don't count) Doctors don't "prescibe" Captain Morgan. No one bellies up to the bar with a presciption. Alcohol is a recreational drug and causes more harm than good to the body and spirit. It is the most highly abused drug on the market. But it's a great source of tax revenue and well, pot is not.

The "War On Drugs" is a joke. It's really a war on American civil rights and liberties as well as individual states' rights. It's really a war against science and progress. Why marijuana is illegal in this country is a very long story and far too involved for me to get into here. For some basic beginning information, I recommend first reading about The Harrison Act of 1948, and visiting some sites such as NORML, for starters. Did you know that growing marijuana was required by all farmers in our not so distant history? Did you know that the United States Pharmacopeia listed marijuana as a common pain reliever from 1850 to 1942? Did you know that certain people, such as William Randolph Hearst, who was losing money to the hemp industry, was a major player in getting it criminalized? There's a ton of information out there for anyone who wishes to educate themself and form an opinion based on fact, not hysterical dogma.

The active ingredient in cannibis, THC, has been scientifically proven to not be physically addictive when it is used for controlling pain as opposed to the many opiate based pain relievers used in Medicine, like oxycontin and morphine. It's also useful in helping HIV and cancer patients to retain weight, relieve nausea, lower blood pressure and new studies are showing that even stroke victims benefit from this drug as well, protecting the brain cells from irreversable damage. How unfortunate for all of us that this drug is not being allowed to benefit mankind. Those who would forbid it based on "moral issues" need to think about what that really means. Is it morally correct to allow the ill to suffer? Is it morally correct to prosecute the dying, who's only crime is to seek relief and follow a doctor's prescription? Is it morally correct to demand that the sufferer spend ridiculous sums of money on drugs that are addictive when marijuana has been proven to not be?

If we are to judge this drug on outdated perceptions, then we must also use those same standards to judge alcohol. There are more traffic fatalities and cases of physical abuse upon others that are related to drinking than to smoking pot. Alcoholism destroys lives. The facts are there, they are in our face, and yet the majority of people ignore them. Instead we label pot as a 'gateway' drug so that we can justify ignoring it's medical potential. Shame, really. The same argument can be used to say that cigarette smoking and drinking beer leads to drug abuse, since most drug users usually smoke and drink as well.

But hypocrasy is not just a traditional republican value. Ignorance crosses party lines on this issue. Only science is on the side of the patient, not the president or the majority of Congress. And it is ignorance that must be abolished, not the evil weed itself. I believe that all things present upon the earth have a distinct (and sometimes undiscovered) role to play. Everything that exists on Earth has a positive and negative side to it and a purpose for being here. By disregarding what we dont fully understand out of fear or stubborn ignorance, we shortchange ourselves and often do more damage than not. We have the intelligence to do fantastic things and progress as a species yet we blindly follow political and religious rhetoric that does not always have our best interest at heart. Politics and religion were created to control the masses. Science is an attempt to understand. How obvious does it have to be in order for the naysayers to "get it"?

Other countries have been, and are, doing alot of research into the very things WE as a nation should have been doing a long time ago. We are no longer the "leader" of the world, as Bush and his lapdogs would have us believe. We lost that advantage a long time ago. We stopped pumping money into programs and research that would keep us there. Instead of developing new technologies and making advances in medicine, we spend our money and energy on foreign wars and "global" policies that do nothing other than line corporate pockets and keep the American worker at a level that forces them to rely on social programs. We cut education spending, insult our teachers with low wages, and make it difficult for anyone but the wealthiest to attend college. It's no wonder we are where we are at today.

It seems to me that the whole country would rather stay in the dark ages than go forward. If pot helps those with terminal conditions, why are we so against it? To treat them as criminals in this country is appalling. Where is our compassion? Are we so fucking righteous? If we are, then we must also ban cigarettes and beer as well. And while we are being so goddam brilliant, let's get rid of other drugs as well, like caffeine. Refined sugar causes a lot of problems too, so maybe we should outlaw candy and anything containing sugar because fat people are obviously addicted and cant control themselves. We are obviously all too freakin STUPID to live without government intervention into everything we do. And dont forget to wear your HELMET when you leave the house today.

I know I went off on a tangent, but the real issue here is personal responsibility and the responsibility of government to keep it's filthy mits off of our bodies. If you're against abortion, DONT HAVE ONE. If you're against pot, DONT SMOKE IT. If you're against homosexuality, DONT HAVE SEX WITH YOUR OWN GENDER. And if someone is dying or suffering from an illness, ALLOW THE MEDICAL PROFESSION TO DO IT'S JOB.

Unfortunately, until we put pressure on our representatives to listen to US the people, and not the idiot in the Whitehouse, we will not only get more of the same, but worse. And by keeping silent, we deserve it.

Legalizing the use of marijuana across the board will not cause elementary school children to smoke dope and become heroin addicts. What it will do is allow science to further explore it's beneficial uses and free up our courts and jails for the real criminals, those who steal, murder, rape, etc. If pot was legal, the dealers would go out of business. If pot was legal, you would see a surge in funds available to perhaps rehabilitate the real addicts, which this country would rather forget about. But this country would rather remain asleep and apathetic to those it has a responsibility towards.

Tirade OFF.

Hmm. Wonder where I put those Cheese Doodles????

2005-06-05T12:21:00.000-04:00

blah blah blah.

2005-06-05T11:00:00.000-04:00

Oh and it's raining again
loud on your car like
bullets on tin...
~Moby~

Welcome to Hurricane Season 2005. It's the tag team of Wind & Water vs. Everything Else. I know Hurricane Season officially started June 1st and announcing it is a bit late in the game, but I'm not the goddam Weather Channel.
It has been raining for SEVEN DAYS STRAIGHT. For some reason, Florida has become The highway for immigrant storm systems from Cuba and all points south. So, we start off the season with some rollicking good thunderstorms that promise us a summer of plywood, flashlights and Dinty. I did buy some batteries while shopping the other day, but when I got them home I realized that I really didn't have a need for an 8 pack of 9 volts. Hell, even my vibrator's a manual. So if anybody needs 9V's, I think I can hook ya up with some.

Its occured to me that I began this blog right around the highpoint of hurricane season last August or September. (memo to self; check archives) That was probably the most nervous I've been in......years. Not about the blog, about Charlie I mean. I was blessedly spared by a mere 15 miles of the eye of that hurricane. Those final moments of realization that this thing is barreling down on you with a pissy attitude and its too late to evacuate anyway, well... it has a way of putting things into perspective. Quickly.
I watched Charlie, along with 99% of other Floridians, as it groped it's way around the western coastline, like a hand up a skirt until it found the warm, gentle, deep waters of Port Charlotte, where it rammed itself like a drunken sailor then staggered through the rest of the ravaged state. It was a shame to watch. What's worse is it never hit Jeb's house. Goddam republicans.

Anyways, after Charlie raped his feminine diminutive, which I find slightly ironic, we ventured out to assess the damage. There's something about seeing cars on thier backs like dead insects, every tree snapped in two by the force of the wind, huge sides of buildings taken out, gutted....I had to cry. It was as if someone had bombed us. You had to wonder if anyone could have survived this.
Well, we did. And I watched Frances wiz by just north of me, doing enough to knock down the signs and tear up some trees as her feeder bands circled us. If it's not the weird and disturbing headlines, the politicos, the sex offenders, it's the damn hurricanes. If a Bush wasnt in the Gubner's mansion, I bet we wouldn't be reaping the wrath of the gods. I'm tellin' ya, the Earth Hates Bush.

"I am the Earth Mother, and you are all flops!"---Martha, Who's Afraid Of Viginia Woolf?

So anyways, the rain.
My hair hasn't looked good in a week. Last weekend's base tan is beginning to fade. The laundry's done, the apt is clean, and I'm stuck.
I dont drive in the rain if I don't have to. Especially since my back end is light and likes to play sassy! and swing her hips when the breaks are applied. Cheeky bitch. Not fun on rain slick roads full of blind eighty year olds. Therefore, rain= no play. Blech.

Speaking of flops, I'm anxiously awaiting the jury's verdict in the Michelle Jackson case. Not. There's no car chase. Only an anorexic white woman who will literally wither away in a plea for pity. Sorry Michael. I'm not buying your Cammille act. Whether you are or not, you act guilty. If you are, I hope you rot. If you're not, well, you're still fucked up and I dont think I like you. I dont think you'd like me either. Matter of fact, I think we'd probably get into a cat fight. And I know I'd kick yer ass.
Oh WHY can't men be men? What's with the eyeliner and lipstick? If I was a man, other than playing with myself all day, I'd throw Jackson out of the Man club. What an embarrassment.

(putting on my Astrologer's pointy hat) I think a lot of Jackson's problem is that he is a male Leo. Vain, self-absorbed, delusional, overly concerned with appearances, such are the common traits of the Leo man. Leo men truly do think they rule the jungle. The King of Pop? Who else but a Leo. Think Howard Hughes and Napoleon, for starters.

Think I'll go do some shopping once the downpour lets up a little bit. Maybe take a walk along the beach in the rain. Then I'll take myself out for a hot mocha latte, look for Gerald Posner's new book, and then come home and have my way with myself. All I know is I'm bored and prone to rambling. Playing with font colors is great fun & all but I need to see a real rainbow and breathe some air. I think I'm growing gills. Ciao.

2005-06-02T23:43:00.000-04:00

my spell check is in the mail.

Hit Me Baby #1 More Time

2005-06-02T21:35:00.000-04:00

Ya know, I forgot what a pain in the ass it is to live in an apartment complex. And this one, for all of it's lovely amenities and friendly staff, has begun to resemble an asylum. The manager assures me, between pleading apologies, that the Naughty Neighbors will be, are being and have been dealt with and certain legal procedures are underway to rectify the situation.

Aside from picking off these Bubbas with a loaded shotgun from my bedroom window, what's a girl to do? How do you deal with neighbors from hell, who dont CARE how loud, how trashy, how ANNOYING they are to the rest of us?
There's a small, yet equally annoying to the management bunch of us who live in my building who are anxiously awaiting this family's swift kick to the curb. We share knowing glances as we pass in the halls or the parking lot. Yes. We are as One. I am like You. We Shall Rise. We belong to the same I Hate Apartment 511 Club.

Every night the 511's come out and invade the entire commonways and surrounding 90 acres for their personal party spot. Hey, I like parties. I look smashing in a lampshade. I speak fluent Drunkenese. But I do it in designated dive bars. Not beneath the windows and on the clipped, pruned, paved and overly malathion'd grounds for all to see, hear and know how truly unmensa-like I am under the influence.
Because of where my swingin bachlorette pad is sitch'ated, I can pretty much see, hear, and smell everything that goes on below and around me. I have THE best view, if I look straight ahead and UP, but if I look down I can see what everyone is is doing, like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. Ye gods....have I become Jimmy Stewart?

And I own a telescope.

Not that I ever point it towards anything other than the moon. Not me, no no no...
And I won't. Unless, of course and naturally, some toasty-hot-lick-me-studboy starts keeping the blinds open.
I wish.

My bud & boss, Tigger, says I really need to get a life. "You're becoming Gladys Kravitz!" he said to me today. "You need to come over tonight and get drunk."
"Fuck that."
"What else will you do? Eat at the sink and surf porn?"
"Thats what you do." (great 'save', eh?)
"What YOU need, is something or somebody to do."
Before one thinketh that good ol' Tig is blatantly wooing me, be it known that Tigs is gay. Queer. Flaming like a Nellie Queen with gasoline at Mardi Gras. I just luuuuve hahr! Think Jack on "Will & Grace" Gay.

I have enough life, thankyouverymuch, I tell him. Besides, getting a life is a huge responsibility. You have to feed it, clothe it, take it out for exercise, wake up in the middle of the night for it, organize every day around it, let it have Karma once in awhile. It's too freaking complicated. Just let me be the mushroom. Keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit, what do I care? Just dont wave a heaping dish of drama under my nose. I've so far successfully curbed those sweet, painful cravings.

Mostly.

Now I'm seemingly caught up in the drama of the lives around me as we join in solidarity against the evil 511's and their horrid minions. Alcohol does not make you fascinating. Or funny. Or really really cool. It just makes you look like an asshole to all of the (mostly) sober people who live around you.
Hmm. When did I get old & boring...? Am I? Chronologically and biologically, no. But somewhere, sometime, the polar magnetic fields shifted. True North dipped westward. I pointed in a different direction. (some areas of life have possibly gone south.)

At least I'm not a rock star. How humiliating to not prove to be a god but a mere mortal with bad sinuses and fallen arches. Like one of tonight's excruciating new "shows" that I accidentally watched. Hit Me Baby 1 More Time. Ten minutes into the show, I certainly felt abused. Please dont 'hit' me anymore, NBC! It's just that American Idol is gone...and I was weak. And...and...too damn lazy to look for the remote.

Thank the Supreme Forces Of Good that kept me from fame and fortune. heh.

I had to watch after the promo promised Flock Of Seagulls. I was a total fan back in the 80's. Sometimes, you really cant go back. The lead singer, whatshisname, (and at this point, who cares?) has obviously spent the last twenty years chain smoking, eating porkrinds and chugging huge kegs of Bud. He wore a baseball cap with I swear, a ponytail attachment. Dressed "casually"in a changed-the-oil-yesterday jeans and drab tee shirt, I dont think he's missed a beer run in 18 years. What's worse, is he cant sing. This couldn't be the same guy with the gargantuan cow lick and suaaavvy lounge attire. This had to be a joke. I envision a network exec playing some sort of Little Lord Fauntleroy game and grabbing some guy off a barstool near the interstate because the real guy is smoking crack in a Texas Whorehouse. The days of Flock Of Seagulls is gone. Some things... are better left alone.

Loverboy played, too. 'Member them? Everybody's Working For The Weekend? These guys never left the 9-5. Sad, really. And such a great album cover. Another FAT disappointment.

See? I do have a life, Tigger. It's just so small, you can barely see it.

2005-05-31T21:49:00.000-04:00

stylin'

2005-05-31T18:55:00.000-04:00

Now, I could tell you what I've been doing lately that has kept me from the blogosphere, but it wouldn't be nearly as interesting or exciting as anything you could come up with yourself, so please feel free to insert your choice of words in the following explanation.

Beelzebabe hasnt _______since______ because she _______and that caused her to ______which led to ________, thus she was unable to blog.

There has been so much going on in the news that I've decided to take a different approach to my blog today. I'm going to talk about something that has bothered me for a long time. Comb-overs.

I refuse to have sex with middle-aged balding men who refuse to embrace thier folicular diversity. The sheer denial of aging gracefully is done by wetting a tuft of hair and sliding it over the top of the head with a comb and then spraying it with industrial strength hairspray, such as AquaNet, so that it forms a 'natural' looking wave of carefree, youthful hair.

In the 70's this "style" was "worn" with more frequency than today, but I'm still seeing it being done by men who really should put better use of thier time in the bathroom doing other things, like putting the seat down or spritzing the air with some Renuzit.
My first husband's brother had one of these notorious comb-overs before he finally invested in hair plugs. (which is a whole other post) In the morning before going to work he would carefully, strand by skinny strand, pull the hair over the top of his head, spray, pat down, spray, and comb again. It took him fifteen minutes to achieve his "look", which never fooled anybody. He used to bitch and moan about women not liking bald men, but it never occured to him that women didn't like him because he was an asshole. And I personally never trusted men with comb-overs. It's like they are already trying to deceive you. (see? I've still got a full head of hair! Really!)
A man that will lie about his hair will lie about anything. Really.

Windy days make it sort of fun to watch Comb-over Guy. He's impeccably dressed, smooth shaven, smelling good, the morning paper tucked under the arm and ready to take on the day when WHOOOOSH comes a big ol' nasty gust of wind from seemingly nowhere. UP comes the flap of hair as his head waves hello, sticking straight up & proud. Hello world! I'm Jim's hair flap! Flap flap flap! Wooo Hooo! Hey how tall do you think I am?! Look, I'm THIS TALL NOW! Watch me surf this breeze, ha ha! Cant catch me! Wooo Hooo!
And poor "Jim," or whoever, frantically slaps his hand over his head as if he's slamming down the hood of a car. But Hair Flap will not take such abuse 'lying down'. It refuses to return to it's molded shape, bending and twisting like wire into a new shape all it's own. All of the AquaNet in the world is no match for a mischievous wind, Jim. Try a stapler, maybe.

Why doesnt Comb-over Guy just come to terms with the fact that his beloved folicles have bailed on him, and deal with it? Besides, when it gets wet it flops back to the side it was born to rule and the guy has long hair on only one side of his head. It's ridiculous. And I resent the fact that I'm not supposed to notice, point a finger and roll on the ground in a fit of laughter until I piss myself.

I actually like men, but there's still that faction of them that I don't understand. I want to take them by the arm, explain to them what their problem is and how to fix it. I'm just naturally very sensitive that way.

Look, if you are balding, there's no harm in accepting it. It's healthy to accept yourself as you are, for who you are. A balding man without a comb-over will get twice as many hot chicks as the shmuck who thinks his hair flap is sexy. If a "hair halo" that rests around the ears is not your thing, then shave the shit off. I mean it. Shave it ALL the fuck off. You will look younger, cleaner, and more attractive. News Flash: Men are shaving thier heads these days and it's kind of sexy. I like running my hands through a man's hair, but if he's a total cue ball, that's ok too. There are lots of fun things a girl can do with a bald head, maple syrup, and a little imagination....there is absolutely NOTHING you can do with a comb-over. Well, except laugh and point a finger.

Here are some very unsexy guys with Comb-Overs that I wouldn't fuck on a bet;

George Dubya Bush
Rudy Giuliani (he got rid of it, but it's forever branded in my mind anyway)
Prince Charles
Sam Donaldson
George Pataki
Jack Nicholson

And to be fair:

Bald guys I *would* fuck;

Yule Brynner
Mr. Clean
Mark Messier (the word "yum" comes to mind)
Montel Williams
Kelly Slater (I got a wave you can ride, surfer boy!)

And here you thought I was going to post something relevant to "Today's Issues". Ha.

PS) I just learned that there is a woman living in Tampa with the first name of Aquanetta. Coincidence? I think not!

2005-05-16T19:48:00.000-04:00

Look who's been sleeping in MY bed!

2005-05-16T08:06:00.000-04:00

Thus sayeth the Bush, rather proud to give his full blessing to bearish Tom DeLay, who is presently dining on porridge compliments of one Jack Abramoff. I'm not sure why the story of The 3 Bears (or any other fairy tale) comes to mind when I think of the illicit goings-on in Washington, since most fairy tales have a moral to the story and it's clear that morals have no place in Republican politics. Oh sure, they tout themselves as being the "moral majority", but when one takes the time and effort to really read the story and not the title, the ethical poverty of the Republican Congress becomes quickly apparent.
If there is any irony, it's in a comment made by DeLay recently about a sweatshop island, a U.S. territory in the Northern Mariana Islands. He fully endorses and supports the deplorable conditions present there where immigrants from mostly South America live and work seven days a week for less than half of the U.S. minimum wage behind barbed wire luxury accomodations JUST so corporations can put the MADE IN THE USA label on thier bloody wares. In his comment, he said this island was his own "Galapagos". Well Tommy, guess what just happened on the real Galapagos?
According to recently released American Express records, Abramoff has been supplying DeLay with numerous trips to the island, where he's enjoyed "golf and snorkeling" on the lobbyist's tab. And incase you didn't know, that sort of thing is a teensy weensy bit illegal. Not that it matters to this Congress, who seem to think they are above the law, above ethics, and if it's not broke, smash the hell out of it til it is.

Anyone who thinks Dubya is unaware of this conflict of interest and illegal shmoozing is obviously on crack. George knows EXACTLY who's on the payroll, and as long as the American people either dont care or are oblivious because they're busy watching Survivor, he can sit back with that ugly little "fuck you" smirk on his face and get away with it. He IS the President, he KNOWS what's going on, even if he doesn't read the papers. He doesn't have to, anyway. He's the architect of this derelict administration.

I have a creepy feeling that DeLay, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Bolton and Bush are all gay and just fucking the hell out of each other. I mean, these "oversights" of thiers are the kinds that only lovers forgive, no?

I can imagine the five of them; wrinkled, dumpy, smelling of scotch, crack cocaine and Ben-Gay writhing in some sort of who's-your-daddy sexual ecstasy that would make the ancient Greeks blush in comparison. Then, when they are spent and laying together in a sweaty heap in the oral---I mean oval office, they hit us American peasants with that stiff & nasty towel they lovingly share.

All filibusters and orgies aside, Congress needs to give Tom DeLay a swift kick out of Washington. If they don't, then the American people, and the Republican party in particular, need to take a good look at themselves and the corrupt ideals that they stand for.
Reform Iraq? Reform the United Nations? How about some SELF reform, O' Ye Mighty Members Of Congress? After all, doesnt charity begin at home?

2005-05-14T15:55:00.000-04:00

hey DeLay! (from one of those "classless" Democrats)

friday the 13th

2005-05-13T06:57:00.000-04:00

Friday the 13th! Oh joy, oh elation. This day typically is a good one for me. For whatever reason, be it my first class ticket to hell or whatever, all fridays that fall on the 13th of the month are usually days where everything just seems to go my way.

Last night I had the wierdest dream. I had stubbed my foot and there was a huge hole in my toe, one you could actually see through. Strange. So, I did a search on dream symbolism and found the obvious, that I'm unsure of "where to go" or how to proceed at this stage of my life. This is something I was actually thinking about last night before I fell asleep. I've reached most of my personal goals and I'm sort of at a crossroads as to what to do next. The hole represents a missing part in my movement towards the future. Exactly what that missing part is, only my subconcious knows for sure.
I wanted my independence, to live alone and learn some things about myself. I have accomplished that. I wanted a job that would afford me an outlet for my creativity and allow me to surround myself with beauty, and I've done that too. I wanted to help my loved ones achieve some of thier dreams and goals, and I've accomplished as much as I can there. (the rest being up to them) I wanted to create and maintain lasting friendships with those who I feel a strong kinship with, and I have some of the best friends that could ever be found, anywhere. I wanted to see, touch, feel, taste, smell the Essence that is The Source Of All Things, and I do that conciously now on a daily basis. I wanted to know and accept myself for who I am, and appreciate my own difference. I do that now, too. So, what is left? Death? Senility? What fits into that hole? Is it a hole that only a person can fill? (insert your own dirty pun here) Is it a challenge that I crave and havent found? A social cause? Deification? (hmmm...)
Whatever it is, I'd like to just get on with it.

Did you see the moon last night? I took a peek out my window before finally retiring, staring at it for awhile. It resembled a yellow canoe floating in a black sea. There were no stars to keep it company or to guide it towards a safe harbor. It just floated there, unmanned, guided only by the cosmic winds.

Anyways, I'm bored and will probably just post a few pictures here & there until I can think of something to say without my head exploding. I've grown incredibly impatient with the status quo of our gub'ment. Sometimes I wish I didn't care. It would be so much easier that way.