Perhaps to prepare me for the excess of emotions I'm bound to face in my goodbye week, the boys have taken to telling me they don't "yike" me. Previously, they had been saying this to Cheryl. I tried mightily not to be amused, or overly impressed with my own Mama-ness. Now that my little worms have turned, I get to experience the humbling side of the equation.
Thanks, fellas.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Chaos abounding
Right now is a quiet moment. The sun is shining, the breeze is breezing, the boys are playing and the wife is napping. It's a moment that contrasts sharply with most other moments in my experience of late.
Last week I quit a job I loved. Or maybe it's more accurate to say that I loved the people I worked with, the opportunity to make a difference ..... But I have a chance to do a job that I can see myself loving in the future. And the people seem cool.
--------------------------
The quiet moment ended hours ago. Now I'm in the bathroom with the boys, who are in the bath. Tomorrow I must face the P-I for the first of my last few days there. It was emotional last week when I first broke the news. I think it will be emotional again, as I move closer to my true farewell.
Last week I quit a job I loved. Or maybe it's more accurate to say that I loved the people I worked with, the opportunity to make a difference ..... But I have a chance to do a job that I can see myself loving in the future. And the people seem cool.
--------------------------
The quiet moment ended hours ago. Now I'm in the bathroom with the boys, who are in the bath. Tomorrow I must face the P-I for the first of my last few days there. It was emotional last week when I first broke the news. I think it will be emotional again, as I move closer to my true farewell.
Grays and Granny
I pretty much only remember my grandmother with gray hair. She went gray at a fairly young age, and never (as far as I know) felt the need to do the dye thing. And as far as I'm concerned, she rocked the gray hair.
So my gray-covering maneuver -- my first hair dye experience that has been about something more than exploring life as a quasi-redhead -- is in no way meant to as a diss on her and others who wore their grays with pride. It should instead be seen as a sign of my own personal vanity as 40 approaches and I must cope with no longer being "the young one." The greatest compliment I could receive would be that no one notices this particular dye job. I want no one to notice the absence of grays, which were not really that present to begin with. (But present enough.)
It's funny, though -- the picture of me with my hair wet with dye looks so much like her. Or so much as I imagine her to have looked as a young woman in the late '30s and early '40s. I have just a few pictures, most of them formal and most black and white. In them, and in this picture of me, I see something familiar in the point of our square jawlines and something about the eyes. I will probably see this more and more as I age and draw closer to the older woman imprinted on my memory (not the young woman in blurry pictures). I do plan to embrace the gray as grannyhood approaches. I think it will be kind of fun. But I'm not there yet. I think Granny would understand.
So my gray-covering maneuver -- my first hair dye experience that has been about something more than exploring life as a quasi-redhead -- is in no way meant to as a diss on her and others who wore their grays with pride. It should instead be seen as a sign of my own personal vanity as 40 approaches and I must cope with no longer being "the young one." The greatest compliment I could receive would be that no one notices this particular dye job. I want no one to notice the absence of grays, which were not really that present to begin with. (But present enough.)
It's funny, though -- the picture of me with my hair wet with dye looks so much like her. Or so much as I imagine her to have looked as a young woman in the late '30s and early '40s. I have just a few pictures, most of them formal and most black and white. In them, and in this picture of me, I see something familiar in the point of our square jawlines and something about the eyes. I will probably see this more and more as I age and draw closer to the older woman imprinted on my memory (not the young woman in blurry pictures). I do plan to embrace the gray as grannyhood approaches. I think it will be kind of fun. But I'm not there yet. I think Granny would understand.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
9/11 HOAX? ... Cont'd.
So for days now I've been driving past a construction dumpster that says, well, you can see in the picture. Which is amazing to me. And yet, in some ways, not surprising. I mean, people who don't believe in the moon landing live among us, and "The X-Files" remains a potent pop cultural touchstone.
The gist, from 911Hoax.com:
Historical Fact: No planes struck the World Trade Center.
Restated: The TV networks aired fake video of animated "planes" striking the WTC.
Uh, what? Now, that's got to be one of the least likely scenarios I've come across in my admittedly brief Web searching. Having spent the past 15-years-plus in newsrooms, I find it highly unlikely that a blabby bunch of journalists could be part of any conspiracy in any way.
The somewhat more interesting, if not believable take is that the attacks really did take place, but have different motivations than what we have been led to believe: http://www.whatreallyhappened.com/hoax.html
I'd sum it up, but it's just tiresome.
And finally, this site has the ring of, well, stuff that seems like facts:
http://www.rense.com/general36/hoax.htm
"The attacks of 9/11 COULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED without the willful failure of the American defense system. In Washington, Air Force pilots demanded to fly but were ordered to stand down. Yet instead of prosecuting the president and military leaders for this unprecedented dereliction of duty, military leaders were promoted and the president was praised for presiding over a defense system that suspiciously failed the most crucial test in its history. None of the deaths would have happened without the deliberate unplugging of America's air defenses.
Planes that lose contact with control towers are usually intercepted by fighter jets inside of ten minutes, as the incident with the golfer's plane a few months earlier so clearly demonstrated. Yet on 9/11, the jetliners that struck New York were allowed to proceed unmolested for more than a half-hour, and the plane that supposedly crashed in Washington was not intercepted for more than an hour and forty minutes after it was widely known that four planes had been hijacked.
The twin towers could not have collapsed as a result of burning jet fuel. Most of that fuel was consumed on impact. In the south tower, most of the fuel was spilled outside the building. Heat caused by burning jet fuel does not reach temperatures needed to melt steel. What does stand out as particularly suspicious and still unexplained is that fires raged out of control beneath THREE of the collapsed towers for ONE HUNDRED DAYS, clearly indicating the presence of some kind of substance utilized in the demolition of the structures.
The Twin Towers did not fall because of plane impacts or fires. Most likely explosives were placed on structural supports in the towers (as was done in Oklahoma City), and these controlled implosions snuffed out the lives of three thousand people.
FBI Director Robert Mueller insisted officials had no idea this kind of attack could happen when in fact the FBI had been investigating the possibility of EXACTLY this kind of attack for almost TEN YEARS. Numerous previous attempts at using planes as weapons, intimate knowledge of terror plans called Project Bojinka, and knowledge of suspicious characters attending flight schools who were being monitored by the FBI make his utterance a clear lie on its face."
I'm willing to give the dumpster defacer a few moments of research and interest. But any interest I may have had in this is severely undercut by the fact that Charlie Sheen is the best known proponent of the hoax notion.
The gist, from 911Hoax.com:
Historical Fact: No planes struck the World Trade Center.
Restated: The TV networks aired fake video of animated "planes" striking the WTC.
Uh, what? Now, that's got to be one of the least likely scenarios I've come across in my admittedly brief Web searching. Having spent the past 15-years-plus in newsrooms, I find it highly unlikely that a blabby bunch of journalists could be part of any conspiracy in any way.
The somewhat more interesting, if not believable take is that the attacks really did take place, but have different motivations than what we have been led to believe: http://www.whatreallyhappened.com/hoax.html
I'd sum it up, but it's just tiresome.
And finally, this site has the ring of, well, stuff that seems like facts:
http://www.rense.com/general36/hoax.htm
"The attacks of 9/11 COULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED without the willful failure of the American defense system. In Washington, Air Force pilots demanded to fly but were ordered to stand down. Yet instead of prosecuting the president and military leaders for this unprecedented dereliction of duty, military leaders were promoted and the president was praised for presiding over a defense system that suspiciously failed the most crucial test in its history. None of the deaths would have happened without the deliberate unplugging of America's air defenses.
Planes that lose contact with control towers are usually intercepted by fighter jets inside of ten minutes, as the incident with the golfer's plane a few months earlier so clearly demonstrated. Yet on 9/11, the jetliners that struck New York were allowed to proceed unmolested for more than a half-hour, and the plane that supposedly crashed in Washington was not intercepted for more than an hour and forty minutes after it was widely known that four planes had been hijacked.
The twin towers could not have collapsed as a result of burning jet fuel. Most of that fuel was consumed on impact. In the south tower, most of the fuel was spilled outside the building. Heat caused by burning jet fuel does not reach temperatures needed to melt steel. What does stand out as particularly suspicious and still unexplained is that fires raged out of control beneath THREE of the collapsed towers for ONE HUNDRED DAYS, clearly indicating the presence of some kind of substance utilized in the demolition of the structures.
The Twin Towers did not fall because of plane impacts or fires. Most likely explosives were placed on structural supports in the towers (as was done in Oklahoma City), and these controlled implosions snuffed out the lives of three thousand people.
FBI Director Robert Mueller insisted officials had no idea this kind of attack could happen when in fact the FBI had been investigating the possibility of EXACTLY this kind of attack for almost TEN YEARS. Numerous previous attempts at using planes as weapons, intimate knowledge of terror plans called Project Bojinka, and knowledge of suspicious characters attending flight schools who were being monitored by the FBI make his utterance a clear lie on its face."
I'm willing to give the dumpster defacer a few moments of research and interest. But any interest I may have had in this is severely undercut by the fact that Charlie Sheen is the best known proponent of the hoax notion.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
One more item from the gay agenda ....
http://www.whitless.com/ is the Web site of Jeff Whitty. It's generally amusing, but takes a serious turn with this. And rightly so. All that follows is directly off the site, which is worth checking out:
I am annoyed by Jay Leno and decided to write him a letter.
April 20th, 2006
Dear Mr. Leno,
My name is Jeff Whitty. I live in New York City. I'm a playwright and the author of "Avenue Q", which is a musical currently running on Broadway.
I've been watching your show a bit, and I'd like to make an observation:
When you think of gay people, it's funny. They're funny folks. They wear leather. They like Judy Garland. They like disco music. They're sort of like Stepin Fetchit as channeled by Richard Simmons.
Gay people, to you, are great material.
Mr. Leno, let me share with you my view of gay people:
When I think of gay people, I think of the gay news anchor who took a tire iron to the head several times when he was vacationing in St. Maarten's. I think of my friend who was visiting Hamburger Mary's, a gay restaurant in Las Vegas, when a bigot threw a smoke bomb filled with toxic chemicals into the restaurant, leaving the staff and gay clientele coughing, puking, and running in terror. I think of visiting my gay friends at their house in the country, sitting outside for dinner, and hearing, within hundreds of feet of where we sat, taunting voices yelling "Faggots." I think of hugging my boyfriend goodbye for the day on 8th Avenue in Manhattan, and being mocked and taunted by passing high school students.
When I think of gay people, I think of suicide. I think of a countless list of people who took their own lives because the world was so toxically hostile to them. Because of the deathly climate of the closet, we will never be able to count them. You think gay people are great material. I think of a silent holocaust that continues to this day. I think of a silent holocaust that is perpetuated by people like you, who seek to minimize us and make fun of us and who I suspect really, fundamentally wish we would just go away.
When I think of gay people, I think of a brave group that has made tremendous contributions to society, in arts, letters, science, philosophy, and politics. I think of some of the most hilarious people I know. I think of a group that has served as a cultural guardian for an ungrateful and ignorant America.
I think of a group of people who have undergone a brave act of inventing themselves. Every single out-of-the-closet gay person has had to say, "I am not part of mainstream society." Mr. Leno, that takes bigger balls than stepping out in front of TV-watching America every night. I daresay I suspect it takes bigger balls to come out of the closet than any thing you have ever done in your life.
I know you know gay people, Mr. Leno. Are they just jokes to you, to be snickered at behind their backs? Despite the angry tenor of my letter, I suspect you're a better man than that. I don't bother writing letters to the "God Hates Fags" people, or Donald Wildmon, or the Pope. But I think you can do better. I know it's "The Tonight Show," not a White House press conference, but you reach a lot of people.
I caught your show when you had a tired mockery of "Brokeback Mountain," involving something about a horse done up in what you consider a "gay" way. Man, that's dated. I turned the television off and felt pretty fucking depressed. And now I understand your gay-baiting jokes have continued.
Mr. Leno, I have a sense of humor. It's my livelihood. And being gay has many hilarious aspects to it -- none of which, I suspect, you understand. I'm tired of people like you. When I think of gay people, I think of centuries of suffering. I think of really, really good people who've been gravely mistreated for a long time now.
You've got to cut it out, Jay.
Sincerely,
Jeff Whitty
New York, NY
I am annoyed by Jay Leno and decided to write him a letter.
April 20th, 2006
Dear Mr. Leno,
My name is Jeff Whitty. I live in New York City. I'm a playwright and the author of "Avenue Q", which is a musical currently running on Broadway.
I've been watching your show a bit, and I'd like to make an observation:
When you think of gay people, it's funny. They're funny folks. They wear leather. They like Judy Garland. They like disco music. They're sort of like Stepin Fetchit as channeled by Richard Simmons.
Gay people, to you, are great material.
Mr. Leno, let me share with you my view of gay people:
When I think of gay people, I think of the gay news anchor who took a tire iron to the head several times when he was vacationing in St. Maarten's. I think of my friend who was visiting Hamburger Mary's, a gay restaurant in Las Vegas, when a bigot threw a smoke bomb filled with toxic chemicals into the restaurant, leaving the staff and gay clientele coughing, puking, and running in terror. I think of visiting my gay friends at their house in the country, sitting outside for dinner, and hearing, within hundreds of feet of where we sat, taunting voices yelling "Faggots." I think of hugging my boyfriend goodbye for the day on 8th Avenue in Manhattan, and being mocked and taunted by passing high school students.
When I think of gay people, I think of suicide. I think of a countless list of people who took their own lives because the world was so toxically hostile to them. Because of the deathly climate of the closet, we will never be able to count them. You think gay people are great material. I think of a silent holocaust that continues to this day. I think of a silent holocaust that is perpetuated by people like you, who seek to minimize us and make fun of us and who I suspect really, fundamentally wish we would just go away.
When I think of gay people, I think of a brave group that has made tremendous contributions to society, in arts, letters, science, philosophy, and politics. I think of some of the most hilarious people I know. I think of a group that has served as a cultural guardian for an ungrateful and ignorant America.
I think of a group of people who have undergone a brave act of inventing themselves. Every single out-of-the-closet gay person has had to say, "I am not part of mainstream society." Mr. Leno, that takes bigger balls than stepping out in front of TV-watching America every night. I daresay I suspect it takes bigger balls to come out of the closet than any thing you have ever done in your life.
I know you know gay people, Mr. Leno. Are they just jokes to you, to be snickered at behind their backs? Despite the angry tenor of my letter, I suspect you're a better man than that. I don't bother writing letters to the "God Hates Fags" people, or Donald Wildmon, or the Pope. But I think you can do better. I know it's "The Tonight Show," not a White House press conference, but you reach a lot of people.
I caught your show when you had a tired mockery of "Brokeback Mountain," involving something about a horse done up in what you consider a "gay" way. Man, that's dated. I turned the television off and felt pretty fucking depressed. And now I understand your gay-baiting jokes have continued.
Mr. Leno, I have a sense of humor. It's my livelihood. And being gay has many hilarious aspects to it -- none of which, I suspect, you understand. I'm tired of people like you. When I think of gay people, I think of centuries of suffering. I think of really, really good people who've been gravely mistreated for a long time now.
You've got to cut it out, Jay.
Sincerely,
Jeff Whitty
New York, NY
Sunday, April 23, 2006
"Bittersweet" love that dare not ....
I don't read a lot of "lesbian fiction." That's cause a lot of it doesn't speak to me. I mean, I've read the pillars -- "Desert of the Heart," "Patience and Sarah" and a bunch of mysteries (lesbians apparently love mysteries).
But a lot of lesbian books aren't that great. "Clair of the Moon," for example, I'd call terrible. And the movie was worse, which I didn't think was possible. Other stuff is earnest and well intentioned and and of its time (just about anything from Naiad Press comes to mind). But that stuff doesn't speak to Ellen/Rosie lesbians like me.
So it was with some trepidation that I began reading "Bittersweet" by Nevada Barr. In fact, I put it off for weeks after I first discovered and checked out the book. (I found it via netlibrary.com search for the word "lesbian" which didn't turn up much, sad to say.) Here's the description:
"Best-selling author Nevada Barr delights contemporary mystery fans with novels like Deep South (RB# 96111) and Blood Lure (RB# 96471). In Bittersweet, she departs the mystery genre for a touching story of hardship, perseverance, and love in the old West. When strong-willed schoolteacher Imogene Grelznik is forced from Philadelphia by scandal, the only position she can find is in rural Pennsylvania. There she meets Sarah, a beautiful young student whose bright light of potential is on the verge of being extinguished by her father’s arrangement to marry her off to an abusive, unfeeling man. Branded as lovers, Imogene and Sarah must flee to Nevada amidst suspicion and accusation. In a place of utter desolation, the two women struggle to love and care for each other as they seek freedom from prejudice and intolerance. Bittersweet showcases Nevada Barr’s powerful storytelling and strong, compassionate characters. Linda Stephens’ heartfelt narration captures all the emotional depth of a story featuring life at its harshest—and at its most beautiful."
I'm not quite halfway through, and I'm ready for some "sweet." The main character, a 30-something "spinster" named Imogene, was fired before our story even began. She had to leave her hometown in shame, returning to see her first lover died in childbirth after marrying a guy she didn't love, then got "outed" (via a lie), fired again and shunned. She is now in Reno with Sarah, the woman she was accused of being "unnatural" with, without even having the pleasure of actually DOING SO. I think. It's being handled in that coy, plausibly deniable "Fried Green Tomatoes" the movie way.
All I can say is that the bitter better be winding up pretty soon here. At least Imogene hasn't been whipped nearly to death or had her baby taken away, like Sarah.
Now that it's baseball season, I may need to re-read "The Dreyfus Affair," a bittersweet but ultimately joyful tale of a pro shortstop and second baseman who fall in love despite the second baseman's allegedly perfectly straight life. I discovered that book at a time when I was wrestling with my own "love that dare not ..." and I found my own happy ending, so even though it's about boys, it will always be special to me.
But a lot of lesbian books aren't that great. "Clair of the Moon," for example, I'd call terrible. And the movie was worse, which I didn't think was possible. Other stuff is earnest and well intentioned and and of its time (just about anything from Naiad Press comes to mind). But that stuff doesn't speak to Ellen/Rosie lesbians like me.
So it was with some trepidation that I began reading "Bittersweet" by Nevada Barr. In fact, I put it off for weeks after I first discovered and checked out the book. (I found it via netlibrary.com search for the word "lesbian" which didn't turn up much, sad to say.) Here's the description:
"Best-selling author Nevada Barr delights contemporary mystery fans with novels like Deep South (RB# 96111) and Blood Lure (RB# 96471). In Bittersweet, she departs the mystery genre for a touching story of hardship, perseverance, and love in the old West. When strong-willed schoolteacher Imogene Grelznik is forced from Philadelphia by scandal, the only position she can find is in rural Pennsylvania. There she meets Sarah, a beautiful young student whose bright light of potential is on the verge of being extinguished by her father’s arrangement to marry her off to an abusive, unfeeling man. Branded as lovers, Imogene and Sarah must flee to Nevada amidst suspicion and accusation. In a place of utter desolation, the two women struggle to love and care for each other as they seek freedom from prejudice and intolerance. Bittersweet showcases Nevada Barr’s powerful storytelling and strong, compassionate characters. Linda Stephens’ heartfelt narration captures all the emotional depth of a story featuring life at its harshest—and at its most beautiful."
I'm not quite halfway through, and I'm ready for some "sweet." The main character, a 30-something "spinster" named Imogene, was fired before our story even began. She had to leave her hometown in shame, returning to see her first lover died in childbirth after marrying a guy she didn't love, then got "outed" (via a lie), fired again and shunned. She is now in Reno with Sarah, the woman she was accused of being "unnatural" with, without even having the pleasure of actually DOING SO. I think. It's being handled in that coy, plausibly deniable "Fried Green Tomatoes" the movie way.
All I can say is that the bitter better be winding up pretty soon here. At least Imogene hasn't been whipped nearly to death or had her baby taken away, like Sarah.
Now that it's baseball season, I may need to re-read "The Dreyfus Affair," a bittersweet but ultimately joyful tale of a pro shortstop and second baseman who fall in love despite the second baseman's allegedly perfectly straight life. I discovered that book at a time when I was wrestling with my own "love that dare not ..." and I found my own happy ending, so even though it's about boys, it will always be special to me.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
"Goin' banango!"
So, Chas sat on the potty chair. No poops, but that's OK. He tried. He came in to tell me he wanted a new diaper. I told him to just pull up his pjs and go tell him Mommy Cheryl that he's going commando.
Hence, "goin' banango!"
For Eddie, "goin' banango" means jumping on Mommy with a poop-filled diaper. We didn't get him on the potty chair in time.
Hence, "goin' banango!"
For Eddie, "goin' banango" means jumping on Mommy with a poop-filled diaper. We didn't get him on the potty chair in time.
Wonder Pets! Wonder Pets!
What's gonna work?
If you know the correct answer to that question, then you've been watching "The Wonder Pets." It's described as "the first mini-operetta for preschoolers." But what it really is, is a "cartoon" show featuring a helpful duckling, turtle and guinea pig (who spend most of their lives living secretly as the pets for a preschool). The kids leave and the adventure begins, with the animals singing all the way, usually to classical music, though for the show we're currently watching ("Save the Tree!"), it's got an almost hip-hop feel because they're in the city saving a poor little tree. And the tree just bloomed. All because the Wonder Pets asked for help.
I've grown to like this show, which scares the crap out of me. I find myself singing the little songs.
"The phone! The phone is ringing! ... There's an animal in trouble. There's an animal IN TROUBLE! There's an animal in trouble somewhere."
It's a very exclamation-point centric show. It's also done in that very hip, photo-based animation. Kinda realistic, which accentuates the whimsy of their costume changes, singing, etc.
"We're not too big and we're not too tough but when we work together we've got the right stuff."
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Easter miracles
What a day. Up early (for us, on a Sunday). It helped that there were Easter baskets awaiting them. Eddie smiled that half-smile. Chas laughed out loud. The baskets contained mostly toys, since we knew that they'd be seeing plenty of candy later in the day.
Cue Grandpa Harold, who arrived at 8:50 a.m. He kindly read to the boys while Cheryl and I got ready. Then we put the boys in their finery, overcome some complaints (aka screaming) and we were on the road. We made it to church on time, and it was as powerful a service as ever. Our church does up Easter in a big way. You walk in, and all is dark and dismal. The first time we experienced this (three years ago), we had no idea what the heck was going on. Then all joy broke loose. The music started, the colorful decorations arose and the sanctuary became a place of celebration. Same deal this year, though I will say that everything seemed a little more white-knuckle than in the past, like it could go off the rails at any time.
Our rendition of "The Hallelujah Chorus" -- an Easter tradition, in which people like me get to step up to front of the sanctuary and sing -- did go off the rails in the middle. God love music director Megan, who kept her cool. "At least it was loud," she said at the end.
The second floor was Easter egg central, and the kids tore the place up after the service. And then we had brunch, and then we went home, and then, while we were getting ready to go to the family Easter egg hunt at
Delsa's gym ... DISASTER.
Cheryl and I were in the kitchen, and Chas came running in with chocolate running out of his mouth. Chocolate ... and peanut butter. Chas is allergic to peanut butter, and it must have set something off in his mouth. We'd heard that was often the case, that kids tended not to like eating things they're allergic to. He rinsed and spit and rinsed and spit and brushed his teeth and rinsed and spit some more. And we prepared ourselves to unleash the Epi-Pen. But Chas did not have a reaction. Like I said. Easter miracles.
And then it was on to family go round, which involved much frolicking in a pit full of foam squares, and other gymnastic pursuits. And we ate ham. And we found more eggs.
Best Easter ever.
(Now if only I didn't have to go to work tomorrow.)
Cue Grandpa Harold, who arrived at 8:50 a.m. He kindly read to the boys while Cheryl and I got ready. Then we put the boys in their finery, overcome some complaints (aka screaming) and we were on the road. We made it to church on time, and it was as powerful a service as ever. Our church does up Easter in a big way. You walk in, and all is dark and dismal. The first time we experienced this (three years ago), we had no idea what the heck was going on. Then all joy broke loose. The music started, the colorful decorations arose and the sanctuary became a place of celebration. Same deal this year, though I will say that everything seemed a little more white-knuckle than in the past, like it could go off the rails at any time.
Our rendition of "The Hallelujah Chorus" -- an Easter tradition, in which people like me get to step up to front of the sanctuary and sing -- did go off the rails in the middle. God love music director Megan, who kept her cool. "At least it was loud," she said at the end.
The second floor was Easter egg central, and the kids tore the place up after the service. And then we had brunch, and then we went home, and then, while we were getting ready to go to the family Easter egg hunt at
Delsa's gym ... DISASTER.
Cheryl and I were in the kitchen, and Chas came running in with chocolate running out of his mouth. Chocolate ... and peanut butter. Chas is allergic to peanut butter, and it must have set something off in his mouth. We'd heard that was often the case, that kids tended not to like eating things they're allergic to. He rinsed and spit and rinsed and spit and brushed his teeth and rinsed and spit some more. And we prepared ourselves to unleash the Epi-Pen. But Chas did not have a reaction. Like I said. Easter miracles.
And then it was on to family go round, which involved much frolicking in a pit full of foam squares, and other gymnastic pursuits. And we ate ham. And we found more eggs.
Best Easter ever.
(Now if only I didn't have to go to work tomorrow.)
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Unplug those iPods
There are the plugged-in people, and then there are people like me. Don't get me wrong: If you've been reading this blog at all, you know I have a profound affection for my Zen Micro, which is like an iPod, but not proprietarily too cool for school.
Anyway, I heard (via the Seattle P-I) about a group of people called the Poet Babies, who are encouraging others to do lots of things aimed at life enhancement (be less selfish, label-obsessed, etc.). And one of the things they're suggesting is an unplugging of the iPod. And they also mean the Zen Micro and all other MP3 players, as the problem they've identified comes from closing yourself off in your own little word with your own little soundtrack or, for that matter, your own little episode of "Lost" or "The Office."
Here's more info: http://www.poetbabies.com/baby-tucker.php
Some of what you'll see: "Sure it’s obvious that I should have talked to and really gotten to know my own family, or felt the quiet and peace of a nature trail. But it’s the lost things that aren’t obvious that haunt me, those unexpected moments that could have opened up a new world to me, that could have introduced me to a person or place I never saw in my routine. I wonder if some stranger walking next to me fell down and I kept walking away because I didn’t hear. I know you want a good story to learn from, like how I could’ve met my soul mate, but I just don’t know one. Because even now I don’t know what I missed, and that’s the real lesson. So I’m not saying trash your iPod – Poet Babies love music – but you can’t keep plugging up your ears with those headphones. You need to expose your self to the random stuff of life so that you can grow beyond who you are. You need to listen for when others need help so you can help them. You need to unplug, and hear the world."
There are three Poet Babies, and Baby Tucker represents the overconnected yet disconnected couch potatoes. Baby Megan worships celebrity and Baby Jack worships money, to break it down simply. They talk in the past tense about their lives because they're dead. Or they represent people who died, then became these "babies" and began spreading the word about what they missed and messed up in life. Oh, and they sell stuff:
"Scott Landsbaum created Poet Babies to promote the universal values that we all share but too often forget in the rush of our modern, commercial world. With everyone feeling that we live in a divided society, Scott, the company’s Poet in Chief, wanted a reminder of the core beliefs that cross all religious and political lines. Unfortunately, all he saw in stores were sarcastic messages and corporate brands. Now, Poet Babies delivers a positive message that inspires all people to live more meaningful lives."
You can find these messages on T-shirts, with more items due by, of course, Christmas. They're actually kind of cool. "Unplug and hear the world," "Helping takes more than wearing a bracelet," "Wealth is your opportunity to help," "Fake purse. Genuine soul. I have both."
Anyway, I heard (via the Seattle P-I) about a group of people called the Poet Babies, who are encouraging others to do lots of things aimed at life enhancement (be less selfish, label-obsessed, etc.). And one of the things they're suggesting is an unplugging of the iPod. And they also mean the Zen Micro and all other MP3 players, as the problem they've identified comes from closing yourself off in your own little word with your own little soundtrack or, for that matter, your own little episode of "Lost" or "The Office."
Here's more info: http://www.poetbabies.com/baby-tucker.php
Some of what you'll see: "Sure it’s obvious that I should have talked to and really gotten to know my own family, or felt the quiet and peace of a nature trail. But it’s the lost things that aren’t obvious that haunt me, those unexpected moments that could have opened up a new world to me, that could have introduced me to a person or place I never saw in my routine. I wonder if some stranger walking next to me fell down and I kept walking away because I didn’t hear. I know you want a good story to learn from, like how I could’ve met my soul mate, but I just don’t know one. Because even now I don’t know what I missed, and that’s the real lesson. So I’m not saying trash your iPod – Poet Babies love music – but you can’t keep plugging up your ears with those headphones. You need to expose your self to the random stuff of life so that you can grow beyond who you are. You need to listen for when others need help so you can help them. You need to unplug, and hear the world."
There are three Poet Babies, and Baby Tucker represents the overconnected yet disconnected couch potatoes. Baby Megan worships celebrity and Baby Jack worships money, to break it down simply. They talk in the past tense about their lives because they're dead. Or they represent people who died, then became these "babies" and began spreading the word about what they missed and messed up in life. Oh, and they sell stuff:
"Scott Landsbaum created Poet Babies to promote the universal values that we all share but too often forget in the rush of our modern, commercial world. With everyone feeling that we live in a divided society, Scott, the company’s Poet in Chief, wanted a reminder of the core beliefs that cross all religious and political lines. Unfortunately, all he saw in stores were sarcastic messages and corporate brands. Now, Poet Babies delivers a positive message that inspires all people to live more meaningful lives."
You can find these messages on T-shirts, with more items due by, of course, Christmas. They're actually kind of cool. "Unplug and hear the world," "Helping takes more than wearing a bracelet," "Wealth is your opportunity to help," "Fake purse. Genuine soul. I have both."
Be strong, TiVo, and know I love you!
Some exciting news for fans of TiVo, the invention that's been as unprofitable as it is wonderful (i.e., VERY).
'Life or death' decision: TiVo awarded $73 million
By AP
MARSHALL, Texas -- A federal jury awarded TiVo Inc. more than $73 million in damages Thursday in a patent infringement lawsuit against EchoStar Communications Inc.
TiVo had sought $87 million in damages from the Dish satellite-TV network in a patent dispute that TiVo lawyers said could be "life or death" for the company that sold the first box for pausing and rewinding live television. . . .
Toward the bottom of the story came the interesting news that TiVo has apparently struck a deal with Comcast, aka my cable provider. Right now, I have TiVo, but not digital cable. That will eventually change, once I make the leap into high-def, etc. But not for a while. I just want to know that TiVo's going to be there for me. That's partly because I bought not one but two of those "lifetime" commitments for $350 upfront. But it's mostly because I just love TiVo.
For TiVo-related amusement, see this video (The "Real" TiVo):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvo4XcMKaLU
'Life or death' decision: TiVo awarded $73 million
By AP
MARSHALL, Texas -- A federal jury awarded TiVo Inc. more than $73 million in damages Thursday in a patent infringement lawsuit against EchoStar Communications Inc.
TiVo had sought $87 million in damages from the Dish satellite-TV network in a patent dispute that TiVo lawyers said could be "life or death" for the company that sold the first box for pausing and rewinding live television. . . .
Toward the bottom of the story came the interesting news that TiVo has apparently struck a deal with Comcast, aka my cable provider. Right now, I have TiVo, but not digital cable. That will eventually change, once I make the leap into high-def, etc. But not for a while. I just want to know that TiVo's going to be there for me. That's partly because I bought not one but two of those "lifetime" commitments for $350 upfront. But it's mostly because I just love TiVo.
For TiVo-related amusement, see this video (The "Real" TiVo):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvo4XcMKaLU
Friday, April 14, 2006
Now, Rosie's a committed blogger
Rosie O'Donnell is something of a stranger to me now. And it's funny that I say "now," since it's not like I ever met her. But back when she had her show, I thought I knew her. Like a lot of people, I think. Then she quit TV, tried to mount an odd show on Broadway ("Taboo"), and put her shiny, happy persona aside. Oh, and she came out. Though to a lot of people that was something of a formality.
I'm gonna be taking a cruise with Rosie this summer. Well, that's me and a couple thousand other folks. It's the third R Family cruise, a big ship filled with gay people, their families and the people who love them. I love cruises. I love gay people (well, most of the ones I've met, anyway). Should be a good time. I'm sure I'll see Rosie, at least from the audience while she's onstage. If I get the chance, I'll thank her for being an inspiration.
Meanwhile, I'll read her blog: http://www.rosie.com/
It's occasionally makes me uncomfortable. Perhaps because Rosie is all about "her truth" and all of that raw and laid-out-in-the-open crap. That's not so much me. But I'm glad it's someone.
I'm gonna be taking a cruise with Rosie this summer. Well, that's me and a couple thousand other folks. It's the third R Family cruise, a big ship filled with gay people, their families and the people who love them. I love cruises. I love gay people (well, most of the ones I've met, anyway). Should be a good time. I'm sure I'll see Rosie, at least from the audience while she's onstage. If I get the chance, I'll thank her for being an inspiration.
Meanwhile, I'll read her blog: http://www.rosie.com/
It's occasionally makes me uncomfortable. Perhaps because Rosie is all about "her truth" and all of that raw and laid-out-in-the-open crap. That's not so much me. But I'm glad it's someone.
We came, we saw, we Wiggled
My camera phone does not do the saturated glories of the Wiggles justice. Neither does it capture the rollercoaster thrills of an afternoon with the greatest band in the world (if you're under 5). Yes, we took the boys to see the Wiggles this afternoon. They were a touch overwhelmed, but not too overwhelmed to request $15 Wiggles light-up things. The T-shirts, on the other hand, we insisted upon because it's a rite of passage: Their first concert Ts. Actually, they saw the Wiggles the year before last. But they weren't quite old enough to fully appreciate the splendor. This year, they were. Well, for the first 45 minutes at least. This is a band that does an hour-long show at its peril.
I mostly watched the boys, who at times sang and danced along (Chas) and at times fought back a look of sheer all-consuming joy (Ed). They were tired, but they still had a rockin' time, with classics like "Big Red Car" and "Hot Potato" providing the soundtrack.
The dark cloud over the proceedings was my imminent return to work. The boys and I have really enjoyed spending this time together. And I've enjoyed the time with Cheryl too, but it's easier for her and I to keep connected via email, cell phones, and yes, our blogs. We've been accused of communicating with each other through these things and I can't deny it.
Neither can I deny that the Wiggles rock.
For a spectacular story on the band, by my favorite writer, look here: http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/lifestyle/266585_fam14.html
I mostly watched the boys, who at times sang and danced along (Chas) and at times fought back a look of sheer all-consuming joy (Ed). They were tired, but they still had a rockin' time, with classics like "Big Red Car" and "Hot Potato" providing the soundtrack.
The dark cloud over the proceedings was my imminent return to work. The boys and I have really enjoyed spending this time together. And I've enjoyed the time with Cheryl too, but it's easier for her and I to keep connected via email, cell phones, and yes, our blogs. We've been accused of communicating with each other through these things and I can't deny it.
Neither can I deny that the Wiggles rock.
For a spectacular story on the band, by my favorite writer, look here: http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/lifestyle/266585_fam14.html
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Most favored mama ... least favored wife?
So, I've been on vacation this week. Which means I've been with my boys virtually 24/7. And let me tell you: With these guys, it's not absence that makes the heart grow fonder. It's apparently presence. 'Cause they are digging me like a ditch. Chas keeps saying to Cheryl, "I don't yike you, I yike mama." And though she and I keep reminding him that it is possible to like more than one person (not to mention more than one mom) at a time, he's sticking to this. And because it gets something of a rise out of mommy Cheryl, Eddie is jumping on board as well, laughing all the way.
Last night, I had a meeting at church and Eddie was positively bereft when he found out he'd be going to dinner without me. Even though I tried to tell him that pizza is way cooler than I am. And tonight, both boys insisted on me reading to them, me snuggling them, me doing all the stuff that is usually Cheryl's domain. Now that I'm not disappearing for most of their waking hours, I guess they're more willing to bond like that.
This has two effects on me: 1, obviously, it's kinda fun to get the adoration. But 2, and more insidiously, it makes me feel bad for the 48 weeks of the year that I'm not with them constantly. Do they withdraw from me a little, consciously or unconsciously, because they know I'm not going to be around so much? Probably. And that really bums me out.
Of course, before I know it, they won't give a crap. But right now, that seems so far away. And I'm good with that. Though it would be good for all concerned if they come around on the concept of "yiking" more than one mom at a time.
Last night, I had a meeting at church and Eddie was positively bereft when he found out he'd be going to dinner without me. Even though I tried to tell him that pizza is way cooler than I am. And tonight, both boys insisted on me reading to them, me snuggling them, me doing all the stuff that is usually Cheryl's domain. Now that I'm not disappearing for most of their waking hours, I guess they're more willing to bond like that.
This has two effects on me: 1, obviously, it's kinda fun to get the adoration. But 2, and more insidiously, it makes me feel bad for the 48 weeks of the year that I'm not with them constantly. Do they withdraw from me a little, consciously or unconsciously, because they know I'm not going to be around so much? Probably. And that really bums me out.
Of course, before I know it, they won't give a crap. But right now, that seems so far away. And I'm good with that. Though it would be good for all concerned if they come around on the concept of "yiking" more than one mom at a time.
Monday, April 10, 2006
What kind of preacher calls Jesus a smart aleck?
Yeah, that would be me. I was asked to take part in a "group sermon" of sorts at church yesterday. The topic was Christ's journey to the cross, essentially. That stuff that's called the passion, for reasons that still elude me.
Anyway, you can hear my exciting sermonette online. You can hear me confess that I don't read the Bible very much. You can hear me talk about how I didn't like Pilate's tone. And you can hear me expound about the folly of a corrupt judiciary (yeah, I'm not all silly).
http://www.fumctacoma.org/sermon.html
Anyway, you can hear my exciting sermonette online. You can hear me confess that I don't read the Bible very much. You can hear me talk about how I didn't like Pilate's tone. And you can hear me expound about the folly of a corrupt judiciary (yeah, I'm not all silly).
http://www.fumctacoma.org/sermon.html
Friday, April 07, 2006
A toast to Coke Light
I've become a "semi-regular" at a nice Seattle restaurant up the street from my work. By semi-regular, I mean that I've eaten there about a half-dozen times and after one particularly loquacious lunch, I'm now on a first-name basis with the two main servers. It is a vaguely continental and entirely charming place called Boat Street Cafe. It has things like crustless quiche and flourless cake, dishes that I'm sure are are all the better for the things they do not have. My favorite entree is egg, spinach, ham and buttery crumbs. It's the only one I've had. My taste, while being dragged toward the realm of sophistication by my partner and coworkers, is for the familiar. For a girl who, left to her own devices, gravitates toward Taco Del Mar, Boat Street is different - but delicious. I feel like a grownup when I eat there. (In the interest of full disclosure, and to the surprise of anyone who knows me, Boat Street is the kind of restaurant I only go to when I can "expense" it, i.e., dine there for business reasons.)
I wash my ham, eggs, spinach and buttery crumbs with Coke Light. Which is like Diet Coke, but cooler since it comes in a bottle and it's not American. I usually drink my soda in plastic cups, so this is a pleasant change of pace. It also tastes different. Because it is different, I learned via my friend Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diet_Coke): it's sweetened with a blend containing cyclamates, aspartame, and acesulfame potassium. Mmmm.
One other thing: I prefer fountain Diet Coke to canned. And now I know why: fountain DC is sweetened with saccharin, and I'm a saccharin girl. Now I just need to figure out how to get a fountain in my home. I bet it's not that hard. I see that the Costco Business Center, just down the hill, sells DC syrup.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Art Buchwald, going out like my mom
Diabetes.
Ravaged kidneys.
Dialysis.
An amputated leg.
Depression.
Day after day that begins with the surprise of waking up.
That is the Art Buchwald story, unfolding now in a Washington, D.C., hospice. That was also my mother's story, which ended six years ago in Olympia. Unlike Buchwald, who is 80 as he faces down death with a smile, my mother was only 56 when she died.
She had just had her leg amputated, and after undergoing years of dialysis, which is, at best, exhausting, she decided she'd had enough. She quit getting the treatments, which involve the painful placement of long and thick needles in blood vessels or a "port," usually in the arm. And then she kept on not dying. For weeks. It was odd and in its way wonderful. She, like Buchwald in his last days, was able to break the rules placed on her by dialysis and eat things like pizza and cheesecake and thick, salty, meaty sandwiches from Schlotsky's. She could drink all the fluid she wanted. At times I could almost forget that she was dying. She was like one of those cartoon characters who ran off a cliff, but stayed airborne for a while, on force of will as much as rapidly pumping legs.
But you can only defy gravity for so long. And soon, gravity will come for Buchwald. But how wonderful that he gets to go out his way. As death approached (as in life), Mom had her ups and downs. But ultimately, I think she got some sort of final gratification in making her decision her way.
from the Associated Press:
"I just decided 'To hell with it,'" said Buchwald, seemingly at peace with his imminent fate. . . .
Getting to that point wasn't easy by any means.
"Your loved ones don't like the idea," he said. "Your friends don't like the idea. No one likes the idea, but once I made it, everyone knew it was my choice. They've gone along with it.
"It was purely a decision about 'Did I want to stay around or did I want to go?'" Buchwald said. "It's one of the few things where you have choice."
Ravaged kidneys.
Dialysis.
An amputated leg.
Depression.
Day after day that begins with the surprise of waking up.
That is the Art Buchwald story, unfolding now in a Washington, D.C., hospice. That was also my mother's story, which ended six years ago in Olympia. Unlike Buchwald, who is 80 as he faces down death with a smile, my mother was only 56 when she died.
She had just had her leg amputated, and after undergoing years of dialysis, which is, at best, exhausting, she decided she'd had enough. She quit getting the treatments, which involve the painful placement of long and thick needles in blood vessels or a "port," usually in the arm. And then she kept on not dying. For weeks. It was odd and in its way wonderful. She, like Buchwald in his last days, was able to break the rules placed on her by dialysis and eat things like pizza and cheesecake and thick, salty, meaty sandwiches from Schlotsky's. She could drink all the fluid she wanted. At times I could almost forget that she was dying. She was like one of those cartoon characters who ran off a cliff, but stayed airborne for a while, on force of will as much as rapidly pumping legs.
But you can only defy gravity for so long. And soon, gravity will come for Buchwald. But how wonderful that he gets to go out his way. As death approached (as in life), Mom had her ups and downs. But ultimately, I think she got some sort of final gratification in making her decision her way.
from the Associated Press:
"I just decided 'To hell with it,'" said Buchwald, seemingly at peace with his imminent fate. . . .
Getting to that point wasn't easy by any means.
"Your loved ones don't like the idea," he said. "Your friends don't like the idea. No one likes the idea, but once I made it, everyone knew it was my choice. They've gone along with it.
"It was purely a decision about 'Did I want to stay around or did I want to go?'" Buchwald said. "It's one of the few things where you have choice."
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Yes, I will have another Double Gulp today
I remain more of a Sweet N Low fan than an Equal gal, but considering my diet pop consumption levels (just 1 -- gallon -- a day) this is still great news:
No cancer risk found in diet soda's aspartame
By MARILYNN MARCHIONE
THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
WASHINGTON -- A huge federal study in people -- not rats -- takes the fizz out of arguments that the diet soda sweetener aspartame might raise the risk of cancer.
No increased risk was seen even among people who gulped down many artificially sweetened drinks a day, said researchers who studied the diets of more than half a million older Americans.
A consumer group praised the study, done by reputable researchers independent of any funding or ties to industry groups.
"It goes a fair way toward allaying concerns about aspartame," said Michael Jacobson, head of the Center for Science in the Public Interest, which had urged the government to review the sweetener's safety after a troubling rat study last year.
Findings were reported Tuesday at a meeting of the American Association for Cancer Research.
Aspartame came on the market 25 years ago and is found in thousands of products -- sodas, chewing gum, dairy products and even many medicines. NutraSweet and Equal are popular brands.
Research in the 1970s linked a different sweetener, saccharin, to bladder cancer in lab rats. Although the mechanism by which this occurred does not apply to people and no human risk was ever documented, worries about sugar substitutes in general have persisted.
No cancer risk found in diet soda's aspartame
By MARILYNN MARCHIONE
THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
WASHINGTON -- A huge federal study in people -- not rats -- takes the fizz out of arguments that the diet soda sweetener aspartame might raise the risk of cancer.
No increased risk was seen even among people who gulped down many artificially sweetened drinks a day, said researchers who studied the diets of more than half a million older Americans.
A consumer group praised the study, done by reputable researchers independent of any funding or ties to industry groups.
"It goes a fair way toward allaying concerns about aspartame," said Michael Jacobson, head of the Center for Science in the Public Interest, which had urged the government to review the sweetener's safety after a troubling rat study last year.
Findings were reported Tuesday at a meeting of the American Association for Cancer Research.
Aspartame came on the market 25 years ago and is found in thousands of products -- sodas, chewing gum, dairy products and even many medicines. NutraSweet and Equal are popular brands.
Research in the 1970s linked a different sweetener, saccharin, to bladder cancer in lab rats. Although the mechanism by which this occurred does not apply to people and no human risk was ever documented, worries about sugar substitutes in general have persisted.
Monday, April 03, 2006
The Day After Generation
I've been thinking a lot lately about death, doom and destruction. The topic came up at a memorial service, but that death wasn't so much the inspiration. Instead, it's probably the books I've been reading: Stephen King's "Cell" and H.G. Wells' "War of the Worlds." Both are about the destruction of society (if not humanity) as we know it. Both end with a degree of hope, yet both rather thoroughly chronicle the fragile nature of the thing we call civilization.
Whether it's Britain of the late 1800s or the Northeast U.S. in the early 2000s, whether it's a Martian invasion or a cell phone pulse that turns callers into crazies, the effects are amazingly simple. The familiar comforts gradually fade and certain things that seemed ubiquitous and unending become vital and increasingly rare.
It was at the memorial service that I and some fellow thirtysomethings discussed "The Day After," that early '80s TV movie about nuclear holocaust. It has never fully faded from my consciousness, though I'm sure my memories of it are far richer and more frightening than the actual show. I mean, the production values on that kind of thing just never hold up, even if Jason Robards can out-act just about anyone. That TV movie forever changed my life, I thought. Then I talked to Mike Urban, a multitalented photographer I work with. I think the conversation at the service began with talk of hunting. He was dressed colorfully (a tribute to the deceased), including some bright orange, which is why it came up. Mike talked about being a hunter, which amazed all of us soft city folk who buy our meat wrapped in plastic if we eat meat at all. And he talked about how he has been known to cry when he kills a doe. And he talked about how he uses all parts of each animal he kills.
Usually this kind of conversation causes me to think of how the other person is, you know, odd or something. But this time, perhaps inspired by my journeys through apocalyptic fiction, I realized that if civilization goes south, Mike is just the kind of guy I want to be around. He knows how to do the kind of useful things that many of us are detached from -- not just killing food, but using tools in practical (and artistic) ways.
We talked about off-the-grid living, which for me is very much a high concept but for him is within reach. We talked about peak oil, for in addition to my apocalyptic fiction, I got a little wigged out by this article:
http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2006/03/22/peakoil/
A taste:
Matt Savinar has become a full-time prophet of "peak oil," spreading the word about how the world's oil production will soon peak and global demand will outstrip supply.
When that happens, he imagines that all the ways Americans now depend on oil will become rudely apparent, as the price of everything from filling up at the pump to fruits and vegetables in the supermarket shoots up. Cities and towns will start to struggle to provide basic services like police, firefighting, school buses, water and road repair. Office workers will lose jobs because they can't afford to commute to work from their suburban homes. Even if they could get to the office, there'll be fewer white-collar jobs, as businesses flounder under the strain of a flailing global economy. Yet suburbanites will be grateful for those big backyards to support vegetable gardens, if they can just keep their hungry neighbors from sneaking in at night and stealing their harvest. All that is before we even consider the possibility of an oil war with the likes of China, where, incidentally, so many of those cheap goods that we've come to depend on are manufactured. ...
From his modest apartment, about 60 miles north of San Francisco, he parses the latest energy news and fulminates on his Web site, Life After the Oil Crash. "Dear Reader," he welcomes visitors to his site, "Civilization as we know it is coming to an end soon. This is not the wacky proclamation of a doomsday cult, apocalypse bible prophecy sect, or conspiracy theory society. Rather, it is the scientific conclusion of the best paid, most widely-respected geologists, physicists and investment bankers in the world. These are rational, professional, conservative individuals who are absolutely terrified by a phenomenon known as global 'Peak Oil.'"
Far from being ignored or dismissed as the hyperbolic rantings of an underemployed twentysomething California attorney, his Web site (which has about 6,000 visitors a day, and which sells books, DVDs and soon solar-powered ovens) has been quoted in the U.S. House of Representatives by members of the Congressional Peak Oil Caucus, like Republican Rep. Roscoe Bartlett from Maryland. He's been name-checked in Fortune magazine in a recent profile of one of Bush's billionaire buddies, who claims to have read Savinar's site every day since last September, and is keeping $500 million of his fortune in cash just in case Savinar and other peak oil doomsayers, like James Howard Kunstler, are right. ...
Critics debate the degree of doom to attach to peak oil, but Savinar is right: Scientists don't deny it's coming. The only question is when. Some geologists say we're already on the downslope while others put the peak at around mid-century. Regardless, thousands of people of various professions aren't waiting for the exact date of the bad news to be pinned down. They've seen the polemical documentary "The End of Suburbia: Oil Depletion and the Collapse of the American Dream," shown at countless house parties, community centers and city halls across the country. Or, maybe they've been frightened by truly alarmist Web sites, such as Die Off, that predict billions -- yes, that's right, billions -- of deaths globally because of peak oil. Or they've read the Hirsch report, a paper commissioned by the U.S. Department of Energy, in which professional energy analysts found that it would take at least a decade to prepare for peak oil, yet they don't see their government exactly leaping into action.
The peak oilers believe that by the time we know for sure that peak oil has come and gone it will be much too late to prepare to live without the 21 million barrels of oil a day that the U.S. is now accustomed to consuming.
The term "The Day After Generation" comes from Mike. And whatever day after we face (and here's hoping it's not to apocalyptic), he will be ready. It's enough to make me want to learn a useful skill. This wordsmithery is just so ephemeral.
Whether it's Britain of the late 1800s or the Northeast U.S. in the early 2000s, whether it's a Martian invasion or a cell phone pulse that turns callers into crazies, the effects are amazingly simple. The familiar comforts gradually fade and certain things that seemed ubiquitous and unending become vital and increasingly rare.
It was at the memorial service that I and some fellow thirtysomethings discussed "The Day After," that early '80s TV movie about nuclear holocaust. It has never fully faded from my consciousness, though I'm sure my memories of it are far richer and more frightening than the actual show. I mean, the production values on that kind of thing just never hold up, even if Jason Robards can out-act just about anyone. That TV movie forever changed my life, I thought. Then I talked to Mike Urban, a multitalented photographer I work with. I think the conversation at the service began with talk of hunting. He was dressed colorfully (a tribute to the deceased), including some bright orange, which is why it came up. Mike talked about being a hunter, which amazed all of us soft city folk who buy our meat wrapped in plastic if we eat meat at all. And he talked about how he has been known to cry when he kills a doe. And he talked about how he uses all parts of each animal he kills.
Usually this kind of conversation causes me to think of how the other person is, you know, odd or something. But this time, perhaps inspired by my journeys through apocalyptic fiction, I realized that if civilization goes south, Mike is just the kind of guy I want to be around. He knows how to do the kind of useful things that many of us are detached from -- not just killing food, but using tools in practical (and artistic) ways.
We talked about off-the-grid living, which for me is very much a high concept but for him is within reach. We talked about peak oil, for in addition to my apocalyptic fiction, I got a little wigged out by this article:
http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2006/03/22/peakoil/
A taste:
Matt Savinar has become a full-time prophet of "peak oil," spreading the word about how the world's oil production will soon peak and global demand will outstrip supply.
When that happens, he imagines that all the ways Americans now depend on oil will become rudely apparent, as the price of everything from filling up at the pump to fruits and vegetables in the supermarket shoots up. Cities and towns will start to struggle to provide basic services like police, firefighting, school buses, water and road repair. Office workers will lose jobs because they can't afford to commute to work from their suburban homes. Even if they could get to the office, there'll be fewer white-collar jobs, as businesses flounder under the strain of a flailing global economy. Yet suburbanites will be grateful for those big backyards to support vegetable gardens, if they can just keep their hungry neighbors from sneaking in at night and stealing their harvest. All that is before we even consider the possibility of an oil war with the likes of China, where, incidentally, so many of those cheap goods that we've come to depend on are manufactured. ...
From his modest apartment, about 60 miles north of San Francisco, he parses the latest energy news and fulminates on his Web site, Life After the Oil Crash. "Dear Reader," he welcomes visitors to his site, "Civilization as we know it is coming to an end soon. This is not the wacky proclamation of a doomsday cult, apocalypse bible prophecy sect, or conspiracy theory society. Rather, it is the scientific conclusion of the best paid, most widely-respected geologists, physicists and investment bankers in the world. These are rational, professional, conservative individuals who are absolutely terrified by a phenomenon known as global 'Peak Oil.'"
Far from being ignored or dismissed as the hyperbolic rantings of an underemployed twentysomething California attorney, his Web site (which has about 6,000 visitors a day, and which sells books, DVDs and soon solar-powered ovens) has been quoted in the U.S. House of Representatives by members of the Congressional Peak Oil Caucus, like Republican Rep. Roscoe Bartlett from Maryland. He's been name-checked in Fortune magazine in a recent profile of one of Bush's billionaire buddies, who claims to have read Savinar's site every day since last September, and is keeping $500 million of his fortune in cash just in case Savinar and other peak oil doomsayers, like James Howard Kunstler, are right. ...
Critics debate the degree of doom to attach to peak oil, but Savinar is right: Scientists don't deny it's coming. The only question is when. Some geologists say we're already on the downslope while others put the peak at around mid-century. Regardless, thousands of people of various professions aren't waiting for the exact date of the bad news to be pinned down. They've seen the polemical documentary "The End of Suburbia: Oil Depletion and the Collapse of the American Dream," shown at countless house parties, community centers and city halls across the country. Or, maybe they've been frightened by truly alarmist Web sites, such as Die Off, that predict billions -- yes, that's right, billions -- of deaths globally because of peak oil. Or they've read the Hirsch report, a paper commissioned by the U.S. Department of Energy, in which professional energy analysts found that it would take at least a decade to prepare for peak oil, yet they don't see their government exactly leaping into action.
The peak oilers believe that by the time we know for sure that peak oil has come and gone it will be much too late to prepare to live without the 21 million barrels of oil a day that the U.S. is now accustomed to consuming.
The term "The Day After Generation" comes from Mike. And whatever day after we face (and here's hoping it's not to apocalyptic), he will be ready. It's enough to make me want to learn a useful skill. This wordsmithery is just so ephemeral.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Thanks for nothing, MSN Music
Just to be clear: I REALLY WANT to not be a slave to iTunes. But you're not giving me much choice, when they have songs you don't, not to mention better podcast access, etc.
Come on!
P.S. Todd Bishop, no gloating!
Come on!
P.S. Todd Bishop, no gloating!
Sheryl, all is forgiven ... if this works.
All right. Just spent some time searching for Sheryl/Sting when I probably should be job-hunting, but no matter.
AOL: selling their own streaming service, or connecting me to iTunes.
MP3.com: streaming.
Illegal sites: didn't work.
Then, after a lot of googling, found this tidbit:
Sheryl Crow and Sting "Always On Your Side"
Sheryl Crow has recorded a beautiful new version of “Always On Your Side” with Sting. For those of you who have already purchased Wildflower, you can automatically get this track for free by visiting http://bonus.sherylcrow.com
Unless you see an angry and bitter followup post to this one, assume all is well.
AOL: selling their own streaming service, or connecting me to iTunes.
MP3.com: streaming.
Illegal sites: didn't work.
Then, after a lot of googling, found this tidbit:
Sheryl Crow and Sting "Always On Your Side"
Sheryl Crow has recorded a beautiful new version of “Always On Your Side” with Sting. For those of you who have already purchased Wildflower, you can automatically get this track for free by visiting http://bonus.sherylcrow.com
Unless you see an angry and bitter followup post to this one, assume all is well.
Downloading a song without benefit of iTunes or iMusic ... or not
Remember that Sheryl Crow song I heard on the radio the other day? Well, it turns out it wasn't on the "Wildflower" album -- at least not on the version of it I bought last year. There's a new version out, with the Sting duet ("Always on Your Side") and some other songs.
And since I haven't been able to get that duet out of my mind since I first heard it, I've decided I need to own it. And hey! I can download it, for only 99 cents -- from something other than iTunes. I can get it from MSN Music.
OK, pretty easy so far. Click on her name. Get a list of songs. Sort them by title, 'cause that's what I feel like doing, but I can also sort by sales, album, etc. Some stuff is available only with the download of an entire album. And "Always on Your Side" -- the Sting version -- IS ONE OF THOSE SONGS.
DAMMIT!
What makes this worse, is that i was going to use this as a moment to gloat. But so far, I am not able to do so. 'Cause I'm not about to buy an album I've already frickin' bought!
And since I haven't been able to get that duet out of my mind since I first heard it, I've decided I need to own it. And hey! I can download it, for only 99 cents -- from something other than iTunes. I can get it from MSN Music.
OK, pretty easy so far. Click on her name. Get a list of songs. Sort them by title, 'cause that's what I feel like doing, but I can also sort by sales, album, etc. Some stuff is available only with the download of an entire album. And "Always on Your Side" -- the Sting version -- IS ONE OF THOSE SONGS.
DAMMIT!
What makes this worse, is that i was going to use this as a moment to gloat. But so far, I am not able to do so. 'Cause I'm not about to buy an album I've already frickin' bought!
... and Fox didn't think she was sexy enough ...
Was at a record store the other night, just browsing around and enjoying that brick-and-mortar, we-stock-vinyl (even if you don't want buy it) vibe when I saw this poster. And literally did a double take.
Yes, that's former "X-Files" star Gillian Anderson. The one who always wore those smart, buttoned down suits and spouted brilliant brainy stuff. Talk about Dr. McDreamy! I couldn't help but think with some amusement about Chris Carter, and the big-ass I Told You So he got to lay on Fox execs. Apparently he had to fight to cast Gillian, not so much because she was a relative unknown, but because she wasn't viewed as smokin' hot. You know, no implants. Un-blonde hair. The ability to say doctor stuff without seeming like she'd learned her lines phonetically.
I guess those Fox execs never saw this poster!
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
