My Race Space

Brief Appearance

2006-07-05T20:56:00.000-05:00

Everything's in flux right now. Boss has resigned, an interim boss appointed, people who are scared that their jobs are in jeopardy are all running around being mean, stupid jackass assholes. Whew, that felt good to say that.

Transition; it's an amazing spectator sport in the quasi-political world.

Now, those of us not afraid of our jobs are cool as cucumbers, but we do find ourselves the victims of the stupid jackass assholes, and that pretty much sucks. But I intend to kill them all with kindness and be smoothe. I let one of them get to me last week and that will be the last time. He shall never rob me of another day of breathing and living.

Friend drlobojo told me something years ago that I've repeated over and over again to many who work with me and for me, and it's that some people get points by earning for themselves and other people get points by trying (and sometimes succeeding) to take them away from others. Guess which kind the stupid jackass assholes are?

I had a little tumble with me and my cane in the rain last night that has me off my feet yet again. I have been on and off depressed about that today, but if I look back, the good Lord has spared me many fits by the stupid jackass assholes at work over the past several months. The broken, but now healing, hip has been a blessing in many ways. So overall, I can't get too depressed (except for the fact that I will never have another danged day off for probably two years once I get back to work full time).

Another day or two perhaps, maybe I'll be okay.

An Open Letter to President Bush

2006-06-09T17:35:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. President:

In the immortal, if fictional, words of Dr. Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce, 4077th M*A*S*H, in a telegram sent to President Harry S. Truman (and copied to the Secretary General of the United Nations):

“Who’s responsible?”

I think you know the answer to that question, and it’s just two words, if you’re being honest – the answer, should you care to utter it, is:

“I am.”

Tell me if you plan to utter those words, as I want to book a skiing vacation waaaaaaay down under, if you get my drift.

It’s been a hell of a week for me, just thinking about life and people and war and politics and it’s given me food for thought.

I accidentally caught the documentary “Bush’s Brain” on the Sundance channel last Sunday morning. All throughout, my stomach churned, but particularly the whisper campaigns about Senator John McCain’s adopted daughter (she happens to be a child of color) and Max Cleland are subjects requiring the penance of many.

Who’s responsible? You are. Not Karl, not Karen, not any other suited youngster trying to be the perfect Alex P. Keaton in your campaigns -- YOU are responsible.

Our country is better than Abu Ghraib, better than what you forced Colin Powell to do at the U.N., better than the “sixteen words” and the close-to-assassination of Valerie Plaime. Who’s responsible? You are.

Our country is better than this war we’re in.

I’ve been watching hour upon hour of M*A*S*H while at home lately and the later seasons, in particular, are so good at making sure that the viewers understand the horrors of war. I get it. And Colonel Sherman T. Potter said to one young man in a very touching episode, “There’s probably been more stupidity completed in the name of manhood than for any other reason.” I think the good Colonel is right.

The Doctrine of pre-emption is one of those “stupidities” enacted in the name of manhood.

This morning, I read Newsweek. Cover to cover, something I rarely do.

Haditha.

The horror. The horror.

But of course, our Marines behaved as they did. Drugged, sensory-deprived. Hot, paranoid…are there no psychologists involved except for psy-ops in this nation’s military? Given the conditions, the behavior seen at Haditha is all but guaranteed.

The conditions we place our troops in right now in Iraq are indicative of man’s inhumanity to man.

And there’s only one man who’s responsible -- you. And even if you take the stage with a backdrop of repeated “buck stops here” messages, it won’t be enough. It's too late. Too many kids are dead.

Because you crossed the Rubicon; you crossed it when you used the word “crusade.” You added insult to multiple injuries when you declared "mission accomplished," and you can't take it back.

So, so sad.

With all due sincerity and respect for the Office,
A disenchanted subject.

And a big hello to the Domestic Spying folks who pick this up and read it, too, feel free to leave comments.

Mother's Day Away From Home

2006-05-14T12:00:00.000-05:00

A few years ago, I began Mother’s day in a hotel in Olive Branch, Mississippi. Olive Branch is just south of Memphis and is a good halfway point when you’re driving from Oklahoma to Georgia. You’re past the scary parts of Memphis (the scary parts include the area surrounding Graceland, by the way; at least, they’re scary to a woman traveling alone).

I was traveling to a meeting in Atlanta and I was still in my yearlong avoidance of flying post 9/11/2001. I drove everywhere that year, traveling for work. This particular weekend, though, I was driving to Atlanta in a bit of a mood, because some MAN had decided that Mother’s Day was a good day to start a meeting; a meeting that would begin that evening with dinner.

I was feeling a bit down, even though I love traveling, because I was used to being with Bird on Mother’s day. Add to that, it was raining the entire trip across northern Mississippi and into northern Alabama towards Birmingham. Some of the trip through northern Alabama is really pretty and it was a nice little ride through all the green trees, hugged by more kudzu than I’d ever seen before.

After Birmingham, it’s a straight shot across Interstate 20 to Atlanta. I’d left early that morning and had been making good time. About halfway between Atlanta and Birmingham is Talladega, Alabama, home to the super speedway track where two of the always-exciting restrictor plate NASCAR races are held each year. I'd already decided to stop and see if it was open; even woke up earlier than I'd planned that morning, hoping to have time to maybe pop in and see the place.

At the Talladega Superspeedway is also the International Motorsports Hall of fame. It’s open seven days a week and I pulled into the museum/hall of fame building right at opening time, around noon on Sundays.

Inside are some of the greatest cars driven at Talladega by some of the greatest drivers. One section holds the remains of cars after having gone through a wreck at Talladega, called at each race “the big one” both here at Talladega and at Daytona, the NASCAR circuit’s other restrictor plate track. The mangled cars are amazing to see, they’re the fossilized remains of physics and feats of engineering. But the cocoon where the driver sat was sound in each of the cars on display.

There’s another section of the hall of fame that pays tribute to motorsports journalists and, since I’ve got some friends and acquaintences in that journalism niche, it was nice to see the awards given to them, especially the likeness of my adopted "pappy" (a Carolinian term of endearment for "grandpa") etched in bronze.

There was also a whole room, recently created at the hall of fame, honoring Dale Earnhardt. It was a hard room to visit, but mandatory for any of us who loved and still love the man.

And as I returned to the front of the building, the docent asked if I wanted a tour of the track. It was raining here, too, in Talladega, but not as heavily as I’d encountered earlier in the day. I was the only person in the building who wanted to brave the elements and take the tour. So I hopped onto a little bus, driven by one sweetie of a man whose southern drawl immediately made me feel relaxed and as comfortable as if I was sipping sweet tea on a hammock on my front porch.

He allowed as to how, when the races were going on, it was his job to man one of the trucks that cleans debris off the tracks. I was jealous of such a cool job.

And since it was just me with him, he took longer to give me the tour of the place than her normally does. He took me to places he doesn’t normally take tourists. He let me get a sense of the banking in the corners and we took a good look at the stands from pit row.

And then we went to Victory lane, still in the red and white checkered décor for the “no bull” races that were still going on at the time (before Winston Cup became Nextel Cup) and he hopped out of the bus and offered to take my picture.

So I stood in Victory circle in the very footprint that Dale Earnhardt himself had stood, not long ago, when he’d won his final Winston Cup race. The Talladega race in which he moved from 19th place to win in five – count them – FIVE laps. Dale’s win that day, his last, little did we know it, was one of the greatest feats of drafting acumen and sheer ballsiness ever witnessed in modern NASCAR history.

Little Kenny Wallace helped push him to victory lane that day, and I can remember Dale thanking Kenny for his part. In and out of the pack, Dale, larger than life, slingshotted himself into the winner’s circle that fabulous November day.

At home during that race, I’d darn hear hyperventilated, jumping up and down in my living room as Dale move up, position by position, and almost collapsed in front of the TV as he took the checkered flag.

I love the pictures that the sweet Alabama man took of me that day, standing where Dale Earnhardt stood after his amazing feat, after his final win as a Winston Cup driver. Sorry, I can't post them because they'd give me away. But I did enlarge one of the best ones and give it to my Daddy later that year for Christmas :-)

The photos from that day are some of my treasures and, as the tour guide dropped me off in the parking lot, he handed me a couple of souvenirs that he is supposed to share only with VIPs and with an engaging grin, wished me a Happy Mother’s Day in his sweet, humble and honest way. It was like I had a son for the day, that day, sent to make my day a special one.

I can barely remember the meeting that ensued that evening; I was still mentally in the air above Talladega and, even though a stupid work meeting caused me to me away from my Bird on Mother’s day, the good Lord made it up to me, giving me one of the best Mother’s Days that a mom could have when forcibly separated from her child.

I stood where my hero stood. Rain be damned, this Mother was one happy Mother.

Bare Escentuals -- Happiness in the Mail Today

2006-05-11T18:11:00.000-05:00

This blog is going to mean more for girls than for guys, so just bear with me.

About a year ago, one of those nights when insomnia had me up flipping channels, I came across an infomercial for Bare Escentuals, a company that provides a truly revolutionary makeup for women that’s all natural. All natural, and that's not just a catch phrase. The makeup is called Bare Minerals. Not long after seeing the commercial, I decided to sign up and get the foundation makeup sent to me. You pick two shades that most closely match your skin tone and every 60 days, your supply gets replenished; also in your automatic shipment is always a special gift from Leslie Blodgett, President and CEO of Bare Escentuals. The gift is always something useful and wonderful.

I gave my sister some for Christmas. I gave some to Bird. We all love it. LOVE it! Last weekend, QVC had its 8th anniversary show – that’s eight years promoting Bare Escentuals. Leslie Blodgett always appears on the segments, too. You apply the foundations by blending the shades and buffing the products into your skin with soft brushes -- no messy foundations, no weird-smelling sponges, and your skin just automatically loves this stuff. They pitch it sometimes on QVC by saying it's so good for your skin, you can sleep in it. And that's true, believe me.

I never get really jazzed up about much, especially products that claim to make you prettier or younger or whatever, but this Bare Escentuals stuff, my goodness, there’s never been anything created that’s EVER been so FOR women than the products that Blodgett and her company create. It’s like you have a friend who created makeup just for you. I may even start sounding maudlin about it, but it's really heartfelt appreciation for the fact that the Bare Minerals makeup exists.

So last weekend, I watched two of the three segments that QVC had, with my laptop in my lap, set to the QVC page, and bought me a whole new summer wardrobe of makeup. Think about it – before long I’ll be getting to leave the house, back out in the world, and when I do, I’ll have all this pretty new makeup to use. I was having a ball, watching Leslie and the QVC hosts showing how to use the makeup on the lovely models…ER was, I think, amused, because all the new products were just making me so happy!

Now, those of you who know me know that I’m not at all what people would call “girly” but mostly it’s because all the stuff out there in the world of fashion isn’t really created to make our lives better or easier. High heeled shoes, yuk (though they do make your calves look great) – they actually harm you over the years of wearing them. Pantyhose? Surely the most horrid piece of female torture ever invented. Bras, girdles, you name it, stuff out there for women either hurts, confines you, binds you or wears you out by the end of the day at the office.

But the Bare Escentuals stuff is great for women and if I had the money, I’d figure out a way to own a franchise. It's something I can look forward to when this bum hip lets me go back out in the world!

But here’s why I’m even talking about this makeup today. Bad day, totally bad day. The pain from the broken hip particularly bad today; little problems at work crept up that people want fixed, but I can’t fix them from home. ER’d yelled a bit – not his fault, he was yelling at circumstance and not me – when he does that, he says, “I’m not yelling at you, I’m yelling NEAR you" :-) and that always cracks me up. I’ve been in this house for so long waiting for my hip to heal, gaining weight because I've been forced to be so sedentary (I swear, I look in the mirror and see the Pillsbury Dough Boy's red-headed sister), and feel nothing NEAR pretty (don’t get me wrong, I love my house and everything in it, even Ice-T, but I'm close to being ready to re-enter the world).

With all of that weighting me down, today, the mailman began to bring me my pretty new stuff from Bare Escentuals I’d bought last weekend. The QVC packages were stacked up in the mail box and I ripped them open like they were Christmas presents from Santa.

Pretty colors, soft brushes, ways to make my tired old face look fresher and healthier. Stuff that works, is pretty, girly, and it all just makes me happy to just look at it until such a time when I’m well again – really well – and can wear it all. The little containers of shadows and glimmers and colors, soft brushes and lip liners are all lined up beside me like little jewels, and I'm as tickled as a kid.

Check out their website or go to QVC’s site and look for their Bare Escentuals products. Leslie Blodgett probably has no idea that, at least for me, today, her products ended up making a bad day a much happier one for me.

So, so cool.

Photographic Memory

2006-04-26T11:32:00.000-05:00

Three days ago, the mailman brought a package to the door. Actually, the mailman is a woman, but mailwoman doesn’t sound right.

I knew what the package was; it was something Mama and my sister told me was coming. I didn’t open it right away, though. I watched the still box sitting close to me for most of the day.

Finally, it seemed the right time to break the seal. So I opened it.

Inside was a photo album, wrapped tightly in bubble wrap and more tape than was necessary (we all love using too much tape in my family). And as I pulled back the bubble wrap, a stylish, French-themed, pink and black photo album revealed itself.

The cover of the album is all about style, the word PARIS gilt and in all caps, words like “haute couture” and “Le Bottier de L’ Elegance.” In a word, I’d say the album was “girly,” appropriate for Mama to send to her girls; my sister got one, too.

Mama had already told me what would be in the album in a sort of general way. Photos I’ve never seen before, taken by my great Aunt Sissie. Sissie isn’t her real name, but everyone calls her “Sissie” – she’s my paternal grandmother’s baby sister. Sissie is in her 70’s now, and on her, the nickname, granted her affectionately by her many siblings, doesn’t sound at all inappropriate.

For me and for my own little sister, Sissie is her name.

Sissie, to us, always seemed somewhat exotic. She lived (still lives) all the way west in Midland, Texas and Midland sounded pretty exotic, too, and far away.

The most generous and beautiful soul that ever lived, Sissie was a pal to us kids, a friend, even before we were old enough to go to school. We almost thought of Sissie as a peer, so tuned in was she to little girls. Sissie is still as fabulous and generous and loving as ever; I only use past-tense because I want to talk about Sissie from my view as a little kid.

On Christmas and all major holidays, Sissie was the photographer-in-chief for the family and she had the best cameras you could have – she was always on the cutting edge. Sissie’s flash attachment used those cool, single, clear-blue bulbs. When Sissie took a picture, the clear bulbs would flash, explode on the inside, and once used, they no longer held their cylindrical, shape nor their sharp, blue color. They looked more like storm clouds after they flashed – white, blue, mottled. With flecks of dark blue embedded in the cloudy surface.

When the photo was taken, you could hear the bulb pop. Loudly.

After Sissie took a shot, she’d pop the bulbs out of the silver flash attachment and insert another. We loved these used bulbs; they were like really pretty rocks or jewels. Sissie would let us play with the old bulbs under her watchful eye, but we knew that they’d burn our fingers if we touched them too soon. So we’d wait for those bulbs to cool on the chenille bedspread in my great-grandmother’s front bedroom. Sometimes, we’d touch them too soon and yes, they burned our fingers. But we’d follow along and collect all of the spent bulbs from Sissie’s flash. And play with them.

Sissie always used slide film. Since most of the folks we encountered still used Brownie cameras and the old 110 film, Sissie’s slides were also what we thought of as amazing, cutting edge, etc. The family would gather on occasions and look at Sissie’s slides, all together, during family events when she was probably also taking new pictures as well.

I know we’d especially watch the slide show in the summer time. The one room with the window unit air conditioner would be cool, the folks all lined up to watch the slide show. The room would be dark, and it would feel like nap time. We’d forget the horrid hot sun of our Texas summers for a little while. Christmas was what we watched and remembered, mostly.

The photo album mama sent me was laden with photographs that mama had made from some of Sissie’s slides. Sissie gave my folks some of the slides she had taken that had pictures of me and my little sister in them. Sissie really is the keeper of all the memories from Daddy’s side of the family. She made sure we’d have these memories for a long, long time.

The photos in the album are all from about 1964 through 1969, and as I flipped through the pages, I realized that my view of all my relatives, many now gone, is set during this particular time frame. The way I think of all these people is just as they are in these photos. I sort of put them in permanent memory storage in my brain as they were when I was little; they never aged.

And strangely enough, when I see my own face from that period of time, I can also jump back in my brain instantly and remember what I was thinking, how I was thinking, and remember so darned much happiness that it almost hurts. What I wouldn't give...

A tomboy, enabled by my farm-born-and-bred grandmother, there are Easter pictures where my little sister’s prancing around in her pretty yellow dress and stiff, white baby shoes. Beside her, I’m in my one-piece coveralls, long-sleeved denim, resembling mattress ticking, my outfit of choice when I was at my grandmother’s farm. Not the easiest garb for going to the bathroom, but the best for being on the farm!

We’d go to the little farm in north Texas (almost to Oklahoma) on most Sundays after church and, though I’d be forced into a dress for church purposes, I always had a sack with my coveralls in them. The minute that the requirement for wearing a dress was past, I’d be hopping into my coveralls. It was always something of a joke in the family, my dislike for dresses. Shoot, I’m still that way. Oh, I can dress to the nines and do my job well, but the minute I walk in the door at home, there goes the dress.

There’s a Christmas shot of me opening a shoebox, filled with four jars of my grandmother’s homemade chow-chow. I can remember opening that gift so clearly. It was the heaviest present I’d gotten that whole Christmas, and I couldn’t imagine what it was as I tore open the paper.

My grandmother wrapped her gifts in floral foil, because her sister-in-law owned the town’s florist shop and my grandmother could get that foil from my great aunt Thelma’s shop. Florist foil almost feels like fabric, and the gifts my grandmother wrapped each Christmas earned the description of “beribboned.”

A whole box of chow-chow. Just for me. Yum. I would eat it straight from the jar, or, using it in the way my grandmother taught me, I’d put a big glob on top of my pinto beans.

Beans. A once-a-week meal, back then. Comfort food for southern girls and boys.

All of those Christmases during my early years, I can remember the houses being just packed, packed with people. Big, Catholic families, with three and four generations, all gathered in a single house. Cousins, first and second and third; uncles, regular and great; aunts, great and regular. Grandparents, great-grandparents. Children from all side. The photos in my album show that I wasn’t dreaming -- the house really was full of people.

And in the pictures, my sister and I are fitted in between various relatives. We were the oldest, the first, in our generation, so early on, we're THE center of attention, the center of the photos. My little sister with her curly red hair and red lips and cheeks on various laps and me, hanging with the men, mostly, it seems. Daddy and Uncle David, second cousins like Danny or Ricky or Larry or Thomas.

Bee-hive hairdos on cousins and aunts like Barbara and Thelma and Leona and their girls, Cindy and Janet and Sherry and Chris.

White, flocked Christmas trees. My great grandparents, looking spry and fun, the way I remember them when I conjure them up in my mind. They loved pinochle, and most Sunday nights, my sister and I would play in their living room while mama and daddy and my great grandparents would play pinochle. Or moon or forty-two or regular dominoes.

Another photo of me, pulling my darling grandma in my new red wagon in my own house, right next to the floor furnace – oh, and I so remember my Pa Pa Henry bringing that wagon into the house; it’s seared into my brain. I wore a red outfit that day; I matched my way cool wagon.

My little grandma holding a beer in her hand in a whole lot of shots. My grandma (“Monnie” is what I called her) could out-beer-drink her own sons!

Pictures of me and my daddy, out on the driveway, playing, before my sister ever came around.

Daddy, young and cute.

Mama, looking pretty in a red dress.

Daddy, in a snapped-up red and white western shirt, one not unlike a little shirt I had at the time. Daddy holding my baby sister on his knee.

My Monnie and her daddy, “Grandpa,” smiling together at the pretty face of my baby sister.

My great Uncle Johnny, who, my goodness, was one hot number at the time, so handsome.

Rare, rare photos of me and my baby sister on my paternal grandfather’s knees. He, looking sickly, not too long before his death. He died way too young, in his 50’s, and my Monnie lived on almost 40 more years.

All of us, gathered around the upright piano.

A snap of me, wearing only panties, about four years old, caught by Sissie, snooping in stuff I had no business snooping in.

Me, lifting my skirt up to my neck, the better to show off my new cowboy boots from my godparents, Margaret and Albert.

A sweet photo of me with my Monnie’s smoke-gray cat, Josephine. Another with me and Josephine and “Lady,” Monnie’s beagle. We had “Lady One” and “Lady Two,” I’m not sure which “Lady” is in the picture.

In the background, a picture of D.C. and Marie’s house, my Monnie’s neighbors. They were cool; they had glass candy dishes in their house, always with ribbon candy in them.

The whole album, full of memories and relatives who are now scattered across the nation, back when we’d all gather in one place at one time, at least once a year.

My sister and I’ve talked about these pictures this week, and this we agree – boy, they make us miss our “Monnie,” our grandmother who died not too long ago, well into her 80’s. My sister has had to put the pictures aside a time or two, the hurt of missing our Monnie is just more than she can take sometimes.

We miss her, the little five-foot-two live wire that she was. Tiny but strong, Monnie was, and I can remember finally becoming taller than her when I was in third grade. Becoming taller than Monnie was a major life event.

Monnie’s hair was so fine that the Texas wind could blow her hair straight with one blast. To counter the Texas wind, she wore surgeon’s scrub caps when outdoors. A grandmother in a scrubcap was a perfectly normal thing to us, growing up. And she was smart, those caps sure did keep her hairdo looking good – until she went to the beauty shop the next week.

The photo album is a blessing, it reinforces that, at one time, we were all young. There really was a time when my eyes sparkled and the freckles across my nose and cheeks were new. There really was a time when I had the world in front of me.

And it's true, the little farm house that my Pa Pa built for my Monnie was ever bit as festive as I remember on holidays. My memories have all gotten a lovely and unexpected "booster shot."

The people around me all really did love me and my sister, and we were very, very happy girls. My dear great aunt Sissie was beautiful, seen in one shot with her friend Mary, holding my sister when she was about 11 months old. So pretty; I even keep Sissie and Mary in my brain at this age.

Heck, in the sixties, we were all beautiful. The whole family was.

And now, I’ve got the album to prove it. Thanks to my dear great aunt Sissie. And thanks to Mama, knowing that my sister and I would want these photographs, we’d want to treasure them – all static shots in time, proof of the people we loved and who loved us, too.

Woo-Hoo!!!!!! Finally!!!!

2006-04-24T21:39:00.000-05:00

Yeah, baby -- live tornadoes; I could feel it coming all day.

ER laughed as I scheduled my late lunch in time for the sky to pop, and he teased me when I text'd him that an outflow boundary and later, the dryline, began to pop.

Jim, Chopper pilot from local TV station -- the most awesome weather stud ever! Thanks to his steady flying, ER got to see a live tornado being born. I've seen it several times and that's why I like to get the popcorn and drinks ready and settle down in front of the TV for some good old-fashioned tornado chasing. A little more of this seeing tornadoes being born, and I'll have ER as "into it" as I am. :-)

"RFD" -- ER learned that this has another meaning to the one he knew from his coverage of rural Texas. In weather lingo, that's "rear flank downdraft."

Rain-free-base. Gate-to-gate signatures on the doppler. Lower level lock. Shear.
Aren't the very WORDS great?

Spotting the wall cloud forming up real nice, I amused ER when I "called it" even before Mike, meteorologist from our NBC station, my personal weather guy I've stuck with since 1993 when I lived in Stillwater, did.

Chopper guy is good, too, but when he saw a scud cloud and wondered if there was a funnel spinning up, I told ER, "nah, that's inflow." The weather dude says, "that's some inflow." Score another "called it first" for Dr. ER.

I love the vocabulary, the rush, all of it, when it comes to weather chasing. I just wish this danged bone would heal so ER and I can go back out there, cameras in tow. Remember the shots I did from my 737 plane of storms over Kansas last year? I love shooting weather of all kinds. Well, and I'd link those photos, but I haven't bothered to learn the html biz.

And so here is all I need of y'all -- a patron to pay for me to become a temporary Sooner to get a late-in-life meteorology degree. I have all the common sense stuff down pat. Been directly in a big F4; had a near miss with the OKC tornadoes in 1999. Someone out there, I'm a good investment. I'd even be a Sooner to get that degree. All bids welcome.

Nowhere is weather coverage so good (nor so competitive) as right here in Oklahoma.
And we benefit from it -- whether that be for our safety or our watching for entertainment.

Big Valley Trumps Gunsmoke

2006-04-22T12:51:00.000-05:00

Saturday mornings, so ER can have his favorite background noises going on in the house, I usually wake up to find one of the western channels on the TV -- bad thing is, The Big Valley comes on at 10am and every danged week, I get sucked into the show.

When I was a kid, we loved The Big Valley and my cousing Jarrod is named for Jarrod Barkley, believe it or not.

This morning, ER sits for a minute and is surprised to learn that the town closest to the Barley's ranch is Stockton. Yes, in THE valley. ER says he never watched a whole episode.

Goodness. Barbara Stanwyck, the matriarch of the Barkleys, as Victoria, seemed very severe to me when I was a kid. One of her leather, be-fringed western outfits from The Big Valley sits in the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City. And it's TINY; Stanwyck always seemed larger than life in her roles and yet, she was a tiny slip of a thing.

My sister and I would "fight" over who we "got" for our boyfriends. I think most chicks probably fought over Heath (Lee Majors), but my sister and I fought over Nick (Peter Breck). Secretly, though, I had a soft spot for Jarrod (Richard Long; I know that he died, but can't remember when or how or why).

I told ER that I thought he'd have watched an episode if for no other reason than this -- Linda Evans was gorgeous when playing daughter Audra.

There's an episode in which a character played by Bruce Dern holds Victoria hostage....and he keeps referring to her as a "quality lady." Since then, my own family uses the phrase "quality lady" in our familial lexicon. We even refer to Dern as the "quality lady man."

My grandmother, mother, as well as me and my sister, watched Big Valley, with three generations of girls drooling over these Barkley brothers.

So I'm thinking ER gets a few E AND R points taken away because he's nenver seen Big Valley. And he scoffed when I declared that it's better-n-Gunsmoke.

Marshall Dillon wasn't hot. The Barkley boys were!

2006-04-21T17:43:00.000-05:00

Mix a metaphor

Dangle a participle

Talk like real people

A New Grandma, Among Other Things

2006-04-20T18:08:00.000-05:00

I can hardly begin to count the blessings of being felled by a broken bone for so long:

I've reaquainted myself with myself and really enjoy my own company.

I've spent whole days not uttering a word.

A sweet mom and her little boy next door brought me homemade cookies.

A sweet little ol' 84 year-old lady who just moved in with her kids two doors down has visited and told me to just call her "Grandma," reminding me of a time when neighbors actually knew neighbors. Like when I was a kid.

My nieces call regularly, with the youngest one attacking all of the "Little House" books, and I get to discuss the stories with her. Laura will live forever, her stories are so timeless.

I've received four big ol' bouquets of flowers and a big honkin' food basket of yummy stuff.

I've received a total of 97 greeting cards, learning much about people I know in the process.

I've had makeup on only twice since February 6th and one of those times was for a funeral.

I've been barefoot almost every day.

Mom also broke her hip about a month ago, so we get to talk on the phone and compare ailments (a sure sign that I'm growing older; my sister and I have been doing the same thing, but I'm jealous because she's lifting weights every day at the Y).

I've had the time and quiet requisite for some lovely periods of merely being contemplative.

I've not been too busy to talk to Bird when she calls.

Star Trek (Next. Gen. and DS-9)

Mister Rogers

Am gaining the wisdom to know the difference about things I can and cannot change.

Chopper 4 and great weather watching (though not as often as I woulda liked so far).

Friends who call and say they miss me.

Care packages from pals out of state.

A Sudoku book from a friend in Texas who'd just been home after a knee replacement.

I've saved a BUNCH of money on gas; that's for sure.

American Idol.

Riker and Bailey and watching them nap in the sun.

The Weather Channel.

Getting some really good sleep, for the first time in probably nine years.

Oooh, and shopping on the Internet. Totally rocks.

Getting to see Ice-T actually be cute and nice (read: asleep)

Pain pills.

The chance to think about things other than stuff that has to be solved "right now."

The chance to be here when ER comes home (it's usually the other way around).

Chandler, Joey, Ross, Rachel, Phoebe and Monica.

And my assistant from work, who is really a walking saint, the nicest person on the planet -- we've had time to spend a night here watching movies, she comes by every now and then and I have an even deeper appreciation for her than before, if that's possible. She's one of those "wind beneath my wings" kind of people who will have a high place in heaven. Usually, I'm so busy I barely have time to say hello to her, coming and going and often not even knowing where I'm going until she hands me a folder she's put together for my travels. It's been nice to just hang with her, here at my own house.

And ER's taken up my slack just real nice, with only a modicum of impatience, that's probably warranted because I've been down for so long.

And hey, like I said, I got me a new grandma...

Breaking Down Brokeback

2006-04-19T16:47:00.000-05:00

First, a very happy "Scott McClellan Resignation Day" to all (and lest you think I'm just speaking from a partisan perspective, let me assure you that I thought Ari Fleischer was a consummate professional; Scott, however, was not).

Finally, I've broken down Brokeback Mountain (and I'm feeling too lazy to italicize).

It's been an intensive, two-week-long study, too.

I've almost felt like I've had to "sneak" to watch it all these times over the past two weeks, 'cause ER keeps saying shit like, "your inner child must be a gay teenaged boy." Puh-leese.

No. This moving took hold of me on my first watching and since then, the combination of writer and scientist has made me obsessed with understanding all of it -- from the short story, to the screenplay, to the actual movie itself.

I've read the short story five times.
I've read the screenplay three times.
And I've watched all or part of the movie, oh, wow, I don't even know how many times.
I've read the post-production essays by Annie Proulx, Larry McMurty and Diana Ossana (and loved Larry's analogy to Ansel Adams' Moonrise Over Hernandez, New Mexico).
So, dude, I've STUDIED this movie from every angle.

The reason that I know I've finally finished my in-depth study of the movie is this: I no longer bawl at the end, nor at the part when Ennis tells Jack that he's standing up, sleeping like a horse. It's not that I've habituated the movie; I've just figured out how I feel about all parts of it. So, here goes:

My photographer's eye can scarcely come up with my favorite shot. The cinematography is sublime to the point of being inarticulable. I've studied the movie's many shots and think I've internalized what Ang Lee and Rodrigo Prieto (cinematographer) do in order to capture what I can only call emotional landscapes. I look forward to attempting emotional landscapes.

The soundtrack: The instrumentals composed by Gustavo Santaolalla are perfect. Perfect. The simplicity of the music is deceptive; you can feel the mountains, the emotion, the tragedies...a musical emotional landscape. The music undergirds the pastoral scenes, making the mere herding of sheep something lovely and relaxing.

Now, however, I get to characters:

Randy Quaid -- Perfect choice for Joe Aguirre.

Jake Gyllenhal -- OK, this guy is hot, no matter if he's doing gay or straight stuff. He's a perfect Jack Twist and many will argue with me, but with all my careful study, Jake actually embodied his character (as written in the screenplay) better than Heath Ledger did (more on Heath later). Jake said in an interview that he really wanted to work for authentic love scenes, and he did that, and more. The classic tragedy is at work in Jack Twist -- all great tragic figures in literature have a fatal flaw. Jack's fatal flaw is his naivete about how his life choices would be seen by others. Ang Lee calls the character "knowingly romantic" and "optimistic." True. ER said, and I agree with this, that Jack is actually the healthier of the two characters, psychologically, even though this expressison of "health" gets him killed (and it's not a killing because the homophobia of the west); Jack's killing takes place in Texas, Childress, Texas, and Texas is not the same as "the west." It's a whole different deal, Texas is. It doesn't fit neatly into west or south or midwest -- hey, maybe it's a whole other country.

Heath Ledger: As fabulous as Heath was in the character of Ennis Del Mar, I think he left us wanting something out of his character. And it's not the result of the screenplay that this took place. There are so many production directives for Ennis's character that Heath didn't make happen. A good example is that he's supposed to be so full of emotion on the trip bringing the sheep down that he couldn't stand it -- instead, Heath played Ennis as inscrutable on that trip down. He was great when, back in Signal, he broke down in the alley (also a lovely shot, the silhouette of his grief). In the heart-breaking scene between Ennis and Jack toward the end, when Ennis and Jack are seeing each other for the last time but don't know it, I've been angry time after time because we just CAN'T see or feel what Ennis is feeling or thinking when he tells Jack that he can't make it until November. Sure, he confronts Jack about Mexico quite forcefully, but Heath plays this scene really confusing, to me. It doesn't look as if he cares, or else he's working to actually achieve inscrutability. Frustrating. Heath is damned clear when he has Ennis watching out the window for Jack, getting ready to see him for the first time after four years. That was great.

Anne Hathaway, in an interview makes reference to Ennis being so taciturn that, when he speaks, it is as if the words are punching themselves out of him. Agreed. But danging, Heath Ledger, genius that he is, left me wanting just a little something more out of the Ennis character.

And speaking of Anne, Bird and I both have a hard time with the Princess Diaries girl as barrel racer from Childress. I guess she was okay in this role, but she didn't do the older Lureen near as well as she did the younger Lureen.

Michelle Williams -- absolutely perfect as Alma. No wonder she and Heath hooked up afterwards. She and Jake are, to me, the "best actors" in the movie.

And yet, when I say that, I feel guilty because Heath WAS pretty darned good. He was great, actually, but I really feel cheated out of.....something....that Ennis is/was in the story, in the screenplay. He got it 95% right, I think...

Am now reading Annie Proulx's other stories of Wyoming. Wyoming is where I shot one of my favorite photos of all time -- a storm rolling into Douglass, Wyoming -- Douglass being not much more than a gas station, convenience store combination and gates to large swaths of privately-owned land.

To story:

Producer Peter Schamus said that everybody has someone at some time in their lives who takes us completely outside of ourselves. You bet. Ennis and Jack do this for each other. They seem as natural to me as a "couple" as anyone I know in person, straight or gay.

The tears, for all the times I've cried about this danged movie, are for what they never have in their lives. The homophobia in the west didn't kill Jack directly. It killed Ennis. It killed Ennis because it never allowed him to be who he would have liked to be. And since Ennis couldn't be who he wanted, Jack gets killed in Texas. Dangit. I think I somehow blame Ennis for Jack's death.

And finally, the shirts are the most moving metaphor I've seen in a movie or story in a long, long time. Jack's shirt on the outside when the shirts lived in his modest little closet at home. And Ennis putting his shirt on the outside when he brought the shirts home to his little trailer.

There's only one thing, still, that leaves me confused. And it's this line:

"Jack, I swear..." Ennis's last words.

The short story attempts an explanation. But I don't think I understand what Ennis means when he says it. All it says in the story is that Ennis wasn't one to swear and that Jack had never asked him to swear to anything. I guess I don't know what the meaning of "swear" is.

So, OK, ER, I probably won't be watching it or pieces of it almost every day now. But I still would like to understand that last part better. And a final note -- Heath really was a great, great Ennis Del Mar. I am putting off seeing Casanova because I'm not ready to see him as anyone else other than Ennis just yet. But boy, with a few little facial expressions in the right place...Ennis would have been perfect.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2006-04-14T12:35:00.000-05:00

I noticed earlier this week when I went to the chiropractor's that a whole season has passed while I've been laid up in the house. It was pretty mild before Christmas, all told, and I missed almost all of this year's coat-wearing weather. I sat patiently, waiting for my favorite time of year, though -- severe weather season and for the most part, still wait for a good outbreak to occur close enough for me to enjoy it. But I'm not physically ready to chase; ER and I like to get at least one weekend of chasing (or rather, "following") severe weather in each spring.

I thought, early on in this process of being "still" for 10-12 weeks that I'd get bored. Not even for one minute have I been bored. I've been dragged around by the hair, spat on, and metaphorically crucified at work for so long that this time to take care of myself has been a blessing. It's been a good time to step back and see your regular surroundings through more objective eyes. I've loved being in my house; I've never had the chance to be here for more than a few hours here and there. Too many weekends spent traveling; too many nights in hotels...but all of that traveling so much more preferable than spending time locked up inside a building where the most creative people I know have moved on, retired, and even died.

Leaving me with very little to get up in the morninng for, unfortunately. Still, there are a few points of light there for whom I will return, slowly, once I'm really ready, and do my damnedest to not react at all when people are ugly and mean and, really, out for blood. They won't get any of mine.

So, spring sprang while I was in my house. Cool. If I could only stay here; I'd forgotten how much I like my own company and the very small circle of friends I keep.

Old Thoughts through New Eyes

2006-04-10T19:28:00.000-05:00

Though I've done a lot of different kinds of writing over the years, I will always love the poem as the best and most succinct form of expression. The poems here are some I thought lost long ago -- but my mother recently found a bunch of hard copies that I'd done on a typewriter in the late 80's. All of these were done in 1988 and 1989 and though ER didn't want me to, I changed 'em a little -- not much. They're not in any particular order:

Adaptation (1989)

every time you resculpt
my wet clay visage
you’re pleased enough

until you look at
what time or words
or having babies
has done
to your work

get your hands wet
and try again
or pound me flat
and create a new face

one worth firing

how to photograph a poem (1989; rev 2006)

poems without punctuation
are black and white stills

periods are denotations
we derive more meaning
from their absence

subject matter
breathes free
in an unfettered mind
unlimited by capitalizations
multitudes of meaning
shades of gray
individually derived
by you who later
experience the scream
of the colorless scene

I will not color
this poem
with my own
experience

nor force you
into my own
private language

interpret godmade
subjects caught
mutely
light and dark
in your mind
without the cloud
of mine

Momentary kind light (1989)

This mirror
mirror
before my face
said look
at that!
beautiful

floodingreen
eyes
I never saw
color
before

this mirror
mirror
you dropped

this shattering
shattering
my face
thin &sharp

fragments
mere mirrors
cannot
piece
together

mocking me

mortally

ordinary

Natural selection (1989)

My icelimbs crack
gangrenous
since you usurped
my chlorophyll

and I wither
without the benefit
the rain could bring

while you drink
the sun, dew-green
in the nurturance

I once fed you.

Testa Rosa (1989; rev 2006)

He watched her
whipping
red mane
blend below
with the maroon
maple leaf
held to her face

a tactile duel
of withering
burgundy against
a doughsoft blush

fresh caressed
then freed
to speed
the currents

motion slowing
his window view
of her
and sighs
in auburn
awe.

Variation on the Word “Breath” (1988)
(Based on Margaret Atwood’s Variation on the Word Sleep)

I would like to succor you
after the day’s sun ebbs,
flowing into twilight sighs,
when wisps of wind
lap the eaves

And breathe lullabies
against your neck
while my ivory combs
soothe your feathers
flown home to me.

I would like to be the
steaming cup that warms
your fingers on October mornings,
the last night’s embers
that resurrect when blown upon,

The mouth-honey of warm bread
you eat on your balcony
while clothed in dew-dripped wool
the sad song that touches
your future with tears.

I would like to be the orchestra,
the winds and strings
that ignite God within you.
I would like to be within you
with God.

Canon (1988)

You play my ivory
with firmsure fingers
honed bones
of expertise
dancing
on impromptu whims
of composition

Which are
variations
all on a
theme solid
ground.

In like a lion (1989; rev 2006)

The blackest of trains
makes unscheduled stops
at night when the city
is dreaming

Sounding its mating call;
bright flashes and
the rumble
of sky bombs beneath
tumultuous vapor
curtains.

From the southwest
its jesters arrive
howling and screaming
their witch laughter
that slams shutters

The city sleeps, unaware
that it is an unwitting
passenger, riding a
jolting track of hell

Waking to an aftermath
of rain.

Monday afternoon (1989; rev. 2006)

You often say,
embodying Salieri,
that I am your
Mozart, your
motive for
perfect fire
for the sublime.

My mirror sees
only me, a face
mortal, pink and
simple flesh,
the light shows
every line.

Mirrored in you
and you alone
I am a composer
of our joined life
brushed on the cheek
through you
by the Divine.

On growing old alone (1989; rev 2006)

contemplate, then
your own decay
when the leaves
turn their backs
when you rub
your ruddied
face against
their crackling
and whispering
never sure which
is which.

contemplate, then
this mirror stranger
you know
the name of
and can’t
recall the face
from a transient
meeting of now
and then

fear then,
this darkness
that sucks
at your
willing blood
to embalm you
with air
with no self
with no soul
sleeping
in the solstice
shivering.

The Cry (1988; rev 2006)

Well-oiled suited men
puppet promises to us in rhythm;
our leaders, falsely foretelling
something that hasn’t existed since Eden.

Peace – an elusive, yet imaginable
ecstasy; scapegoat of macro earth,
suffering under the reign of the
human element.

SIMPLIFY
Simplify

Avoid jealous speakeasies
in white houses – stop the
gout of wealth and the
cancer of imminent
annihilation.
Divide your half.

Simplify
Simplify

Earth moves closer
to simplicity
when peace breathes
through babies’
sleep.

Growing up old (1989; rev 2006)

We built a raft once –
bobby, jay and me
musketeers since we
were wee

Twined a raft
a downed tree
(no girls allowed!)
we were we
loud and proud

jay’s fingers
aged soon
breath sucked astray
painful bloom
we kissed away

raft serene
floating in the bay
set afire
a Viking pyre
for jay

we
less wee
less we today.

Meditation on an opened self (1988)

When at the sea
I gathered pearls
in humble rarity

Saved in a jar
imperfect as they are

Hewn by nature
opaque jewels –
orbs of immortality

When at the sea
I gathered prayers
in humble clarity

Saved in a jar
imperfect as they are

On opening the lid
I release a prayer

A pearl returns to sea

Mourning sounds (1988; rev 2006)

I hear

sunrise sirens
and fading foghorns
the nightlong creek
of the bed next door

dogs and cats crashing
trash can lids
moms and dads crashing
at breakfast time

sunrise sirens
and fading foghorns
morning sounds
of poverty.

Revisitation (1988; rev 2006)

Memories of rag rug
Races on the black
Polished hardwood

And the swirling echoes
of unfiltered camels
evaporated into
his emphysema ozone

the paint-layered
broken slatted swing
is still
in the gone wind

and whiffs can’t
detect her
cheap aerosol spring

butts remain winter chilled
without the red-
tiled flame to stand by

and dry summer faces can’t
find the musty dew of the
humming swamp cooler

flea market knick knacks
marigold welcomes

a wide front porch.

Twice shy (1989; rev. 2006)

You spat me,
halved,

like you would
a worm

in a once-bitten
apple

leaving me split
bleeding

halves in panic
feeding

on a fruit
left to rot.

Lifeless apple
smothering

two halves
of me.

Where I've been

2006-03-04T16:00:00.000-06:00

Advice, please

2006-02-10T13:43:00.000-06:00

Here's what I have...

Lost income already because I was misdiagnosed for six weeks by a doc who wouldn't do the appropriate diagnostic tests. And who knows how much larger my hip fracture became because of his really bad diagnosis. Added expenses over the last month for traveling for work because of his bad diagnosis.

I also have a university whose grounds I fell on.

I'm feeling angry right now and don't want to pull in some fly by night personal injury lawyer, but I have a case here to hammer a doc and/or the university in Texas.

Advice needed on -- case or not? And if so, who is a good atty? And remember, I'm poor, so I'd need a contingency case, but not someone who would take 75% of the settlement, if there were one.

And I might do nothing. Open to any and all comments. Thanks

A brief drop-in

2006-02-03T14:00:00.000-06:00

I rarely write unless I have something to say. Even now, I really don't have much to say other than an organ recital, so here goes:

Pneumonia in December, followed by a few days of relative calm and then I took a fall on Christmas Eve that's had me down and out since then. My own doc, a nice man, was content, for some reason, to let me hurt for a whole month before I understood that he wasn't going to do anything else for me other than "reassure me" as his medical notes stated. I didn't need reassurance, I needed a solution.

So, went to another doc, a doc unafraid of referring me for an MRI and I've got a smal hip fracture. Now I'm just waiting to find out which ortho doc I'll go see and how we'll go about fixing it.

In the meantime, oh, no biggie, it only hurts when I walk.

And really, who needs to actually WALK in this day and age?

Gad. Pain pills are my friend, at least until we can get this fixed. Me and the couch are quite intimate, along with my other companion, the heating pad.

So, real fun life going on here. And that's why I have so little to say.

Ornamental Travelogue and Family Tree

2005-12-06T13:19:00.000-06:00

Over the past nine years, I’ve traveled far and wide, mostly for work and sometimes we get the chance to actually take a vacation. When traveling, I’ve made a habit of purchasing Christmas ornaments from all the places I go. On work trips, I rarely have the chance to actually “shop,” so often, picking up a Christmas ornament is about all I have time for.

My Christmas tree has become a sort of testament to many of the places I’ve been. Imagine how full it would be if I’d consistently picked up an ornament or two in ALL the places I’ve been!

There have been times and places where I haven’t had time to get Christmas ornaments – like L.A., San Diego, Sacramento, San Francisco or Oxnard in California; Bal Harbor, Florida; Iowa City, IA (I simply MUST get an ornament from there someday; I go there several times a year!); nothing from Kansas City or Milwaukee, nothing from Minnesota; nothing from the Clinton Library opening in Little Rock, dangit; and what was I thinking by not getting an ornament in Providence, R.I.?

I have nothing from Chapel Hill or Rahleigh or Durham in NC; nothing from all the places I’ve been in Tennessee; nothing from Lexington, Louisville or Frankfort, KY; and can you believe it? I have nothing from Santa Fe, even! Nothing from Phoenix or Scottsdale or even Sedona. Nothing from Atlanta or the visit to the Talladega Superspeedway in Alabama.

I didn’t pick up any ornaments in New Orleans all the many times I’ve been (though I think one could put up shiny Mardi Gras beads and they would be a pretty addition to a Christmas tree) – now that New Orleans isn’t the same, I wish all the more that I had a remembrance to put on my tree, doggone it. I also don’t have anything from my one trip to Biloxi, MS; another regret.

But it’s fun to take stock of the cool ornaments I’ve collected over the years that, at a single glance, can remind me of good times with colleagues all over the nation, or the few times I’ve had to take vacations.

Here are some ornaments from some of the places I've gone:

Washington, DC: I’ve gone here more than any other city for work; the place is replete with Christmas ornaments all year…

For ER’s benefit, a wooden cow painted in the design of the American flag;

Pewter versions of the White House and the U.S. Capitol;

Lovely, painted plaster versions of the White House and U.S. Capitol, the spaces beneath the buildings draped in patriotic bunting;

A wooden Democrat donkey, painted red, white and blue with a white star where his eyes would be.

From San Antonio: One of my favorite cities, I often get to attend meetings here.

A horseshoe, hung on the tree with a leather strap; in the center of the horseshoe is a red depiction of the state of Texas. Overlaid in the middle of the state is The Alamo;

A little Mexican senorita angel draped in a colorful blanket, complete with wings and halo.

From Yosemite – two plaster ornaments; one depicting Yosemite Falls and the other depicting the oft-photographed Half Dome (Half Dome is the name granted to the look and feel of a mountain top rising above the Yosemite valley; Ansel Adams took lovely photographs of Half Dome).

A sparkling, round, faceted ornament of the Chigago skyline depicted in gold; and from one of Bird’s trips, a brass ornament showing the Chicago museum of art.

A wood cutout of Devil’s Tower in Wyoming.

Several items from mine and Bird’s mother-daughter trip to Mooresville and Kannapolis, North Carolina (the NASCAR vacation of all NASCAR vacations), including:

A Dale Earnhardt, Jr. painted plaster snowman;

A pewter depiction of a steering wheel with the Dale Earnhardt, Inc. logo engraved in the center;

Car hood with the JR Motorsports brand (Dale Jr’s own racing outfit) painted onit;

Two more ornaments with the number 8 on them purchased at the Garage Mahal’s gift shop. (Garage Mahal = Dale Earnhardt, Inc. headquarters).

A Santa’s workshop ornament from North Pole City in Colorado – a little place sitting at the base of the climb to Pike’s Peak.

A Pike’s Peak Moose and a separate plaster ornament showing the peak of the 14,000+ foot elevation of Pike’s Peak.

A pewter depiction of Independence Hall, from Philadelphia.

A papier mache snowman head from Lebanon, Ohio

An Elvis ornament from his boyhood home in Tupelo, MS.

Two Seattle ornaments – one depicting the city skyline and another of the Space Needle, bedecked in Christmas lights.

A wooden moose, wearing a red had and green sweater, purchased in a small craft place near Killington, Vermont.

Three colorful carolers, from Lake Tahoe (California side).

An oxidized copper depiction of an old mission, purchased in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

A miniaturized version of the Manitou Cliff dwellings in Manitou Springs, Colorado.

And a bright yellow and blue ball-shaped ornament from our trip to the Brickyard 400 race in Indianapolis, IN.

There may be others I’m forgetting, but taking inventory like this makes me wish I had more ornaments from places I’ve been. The collection is incomplete. So I make a new resolution to get more ornaments, as this year’s travel schedule promises to be just as full as in previous years.

One ornament, one we cannot forget – is the salt snowflake, made from salt from the Great Salt Lake in Salt Lake City. Yes, this is the ornament at the center of the annual familial licking of the Christmas ornament. ER and I licked it on our own this year; no Bird around at tree decorating time.

It’s fun to look up at the tree and see how very personal it’s become over the years with the mix or these travel ornaments with those that have personal meaning – like the Styrofoam bell ornament (that has seen better days) that I hang each year from its pipe cleaner; Bird made it for me when she was very very little.

The ornament my sister made in third grade – one that she wishes would just go away because it has her third grade school picture in it.

A felt stocking I got from Mrs. Britton, my sixth grade teacher.

The first ornament that ER bought for his very own apartment his first Christmas there.

Bird’s “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament from 1986….and more.

My Christmas tree, and trees in many families are little family histories.

A “family tree” that few think about but once a year.

My Spoonful of Sugar

2005-11-12T21:51:00.000-06:00

Two weeks of travel and work and falling through this abyss that is what surrounds me and fills me at the present time, a body can only turn to eye candy and pulp fiction and tv shows with good puzzles to tickle the brain -- to remind the brain what it's like to feel alive and thinking and all of those sensations of life.

What escapes are there from the bureaucratic hell and the political brainsucking that's left me with memories only for company?

Well...all the girl can do is present a few more pieces of VDO -- during the depths of grad school despair, it was Star Trek TNG that got me through the bad times. Now, it's up to Bobby Goren. Whatever it takes. Jean Luc Picard, Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes and now V D'O as Bobby Goren. All characters who share...something among all of them. Not just that they are hot (probably could get a daylong conversation going about whether or not Jeremy Brett was actually "hot") but they all have....oh, I know, they're all brilliant!

Can't take too many Lortabs, but a LOCI marathon can accomplish the same. Off the SNRI and back on the Prozac, I can at least appreciate now the look of the man. Lovely.

Back again when something approaching sanity returns. In the meantime, look at the pretty man.....

A BRIEF BUT BIG OL' YUM....

2005-10-31T20:23:00.000-06:00

Been on the work trail, traveling, then getting sick, of course, which seems to follow suit....

I'm breaking in a new computer at work and during a meeting this morning, was searching for just the right background for my desktop and came up with the picture you see here.

Crystal Diggory, yep, Alan Rickman is hot, but he's getting on up there in years....

It don't get much better than Vincent D'Onofrio....

And now, I'm off into the friendly skies again tomorrow.
Y'all enjoy the eye candy while I'm gone....

Speech! Speech!

2005-10-11T11:27:00.000-05:00

The following is a speech I will deliver later this week. Names have been changed or removed to protect the innocent (with the potential added bonus of confusing the guilty).

I am going to preach to the choir today about the importance of networking and partnering with other women in higher education, and I mean all women -- no matter if our work is as a faculty member or an administrator, a researcher or a policy wonk.

I rarely actually prepare a speech, preferring instead to speak off the cuff more often than not.

But those speeches are generally about data, or persuading an audience to take a public policy stand on a particular issue. This – what we are talking about today – is much more personal, almost sacred. These lessons are so important to me, and so important for you, I think, that I actually wrote this particular presentation out…

I hope as you listen that you will think about your own experiences as I share mine -- think how your experiences have helped you grow and become leaders in higher education, and how you can continue to grow and share what you know with women who work with you
or for you,
or with women you teach
or women with whom you collaborate...
or even the ones you haven’t met yet.

Twenty years ago this very month, I learned my first hard-learned lesson as an adult female in a higher education setting. An undergraduate in an honors program chemistry class, I was also six month’s pregnant with my daughter, Bird.

I was the only female student in this class of twelve. The professor was an older man who wore government-issued black-rimmed glasses; he was almost an archetype.

By this time, of course, we were almost at midterms and I noticed that the desks were getting smaller every day – it was just Bird, of course, growing by leaps and bounds within me.

As the desks grew smaller, one day I decided to begin sitting sideways in class, and would cock my desk off to the side, so I could still face forward in class.

After a week went by, with me sitting sideways, the professor asked to see me after class. I followed him to his office, young and guileless. He shut the door and asked me to sit down.

And then he peered at me through the thick lenses of his black glasses and said: “There is no room in my class for a pregnant woman.”

He went on to suggest that more appropriate behavior for a young lady such as myself would be to stay at home and take good care of the child growing inside me. It was clear, as he continued lecturing me, that he was asking me to drop his class, or he would drop me himself.

My heart broke that day.

I wasn’t the wiser, older and more experienced me that I am today, or I would have fought him and his antiquated, mean-spirited and discriminatory behavior. Instead I dropped the class, just as he wanted me to do.

Thank goodness, he didn’t sour me on college altogether…I had a wonderful undergraduate advisor who never let that happen.

Having had delightful and supportive teachers my entire life, starting with the nuns who taught me in early elementary school, this professor’s assertion that I was not adequately fulfilling HIS idea of my “appropriate” gender role was a shock.

It was the first time I’d encountered someone who talked to me that way, and the unfortunate thing was, my first encounter like that was actually on a college campus. The campus was supposed to be the place where we were all created and treated equally -- or so my naive young self believed. Today, I look back on this chemistry professor’s behavior as a learning experience.
Since that learning experience, though, I have had many occasions in which I’ve learned the precious value of having supportive female colleagues in higher education.

Truly, this business of higher education remains a business dominated by white males.

In fact, I just returned from a conference sponsored by the American Council on Education in which there were several sessions on how to make it in this field as a woman of color.

How sad, I thought, that even today, we still have to have sessions like this.

But we do.

Still, all around us are dynamite, smart, assertive women, bent on punching through the glass ceiling in academe, making strides year after year, in eliminating that ceiling altogether.

Incredible women have come before us, making the first cracks in the ceiling, opening the way for the rest of us.

It remains our collective job to make the openings in that ceiling larger, easier to navigate, and to continue to fight for equity in remuneration and in other areas of our work. But we can only do so by being supportive of one another and working together.

Think back for a minute to our days on the playground...

Girls played with girls, boys played with boys. We formed little clubs, we girls did, clubs that were exclusively for girls only.

Mostly, of course, we talked about boys in these clubs, giggling and just acting silly more often than not. In the winter, my little club of girls would gather and use our winter coats, all together, to create a warm little tent in which to have our special club meetings at recess.

I can even remember that we discussed politics – and one girl asserting that her parents were going to vote for Nixon because McGovern was going to make kids go to school on Saturdays. Shocked, we all believed her, and among our little cadre, “McGovern” became a bad word.

Politically astute, we weren’t -- not in third grade, anyway.

These playground clubs, the separation of boys and girls in play, was actually a natural progression for most of us. When I taught courses in psychology, I found that many of my students – male and female alike – would express surprise during my lectures on how families begin teaching gender roles to their children from the day their children are born. Though they expressed surprise, the students had to admit that they had all – all engaged in the very behaviors I articulated -- behaviors that promoted different gender roles for boys and for girls.

We can’t help ourselves…girl babies and toddlers are given gifts that represent female gender roles -- often associated with housekeeping. And those of us who got those toys as little girls, well -- we loved those toys, and our daughters loved them, and our grand daughters probably will, too.

No toy was quite so sexy for us to play with than the pretend iron and ironing board, or the plastic toy kitchen with the plastic food. The Easy Bake oven. The Fisher Price vacuum cleaner with colored balls representing dirt.

All toys that taught us to identify with our mothers – and we WANTED to identify with our mothers, so we loved these toys.

Girl babies are even held more gingerly than boy babies by adults and are taught to engage in passive play.

Boy babies, however, are tossed up in the air, given cars and loud toys, bounced around on knees harder than girl babies are and are taught early on to play more aggressive games.

Even today, with more androgynous toys available, we still buy boys the official Red Ryder carbine action 200-shot range model air rifles and big cars or trucks, while we buy girls dolls and housekeeping-type toys, on average.

Now, of course, I was quite “allergic” to dresses, preferring blue and white-striped denim coveralls.

And I always wanted a toy toolbox for Christmas – a toolbox like my Daddy had -- the one with the REAL saw in it that would cut stuff – but the best I ever got was a toolbox with a rubber saw.

What good is that, I ask you…a rubber saw???

Ah, but the other present I always wanted but never got was really very girly – the red and white gingham-checked cowgirl outfit with the white naugahyde boots with fringe down the sides -- complete with the red felt had that tied under your chin – as pictured on the well-worn page in the Sears Christmas catalogue.

Hey, I was a balanced kid. Not unlike my love today for both Beethoven and NASCAR, for poetry and literate fiction versus my tattered copies of Calvin and Hobbes.

Balance – keep that in mind.

One reason we buy these different toys and treat boy and girl babies differently is because girls are, indeed, different from boys. We’re different, and naturally, we have different experiences growing up -- but all that really means is that we bring different sets of experiences to our COMMON work in higher education.

My favorite author and poet, Canadian Margaret Atwood, characterized this “being a girl” kind difference many times over in her novel “Cat’s Eye.”

Her protagonist, Elaine, is encountering the culture of girls for the first time…Elaine, just starting elementary school, had spent her early years sheltered with her family in the wilds of Canada, with only her older brother to play with, because her father was a field scientist.

Upon going to a formal school for the first time, Elaine says,

“I begin to want things I’ve never wanted before: braids, a dressing gown, a purse of my own. Something is unfolding, being revealed to me. I see that there’s a whole world of girls and their doings that has been unknown to me, and that I can be a part of it without making any effort at all. I don’t have to keep up with anyone, run as fast, aim as well, make loud explosive noises, decode messages, die on cue. I don’t have to think about whether I’ve done these things well, as well as a boy…this is a relief.”

Through the child Elaine, Atwood does a great job of characterizing the special relationship that girls have with each other. And if we take that sense of relief, that sense of belonging into our adult lives, in a career still dominated by “boys,” what we’re really talking about is a special collegiality that exists among women – a set of relationships that and comes easy to us…especially in higher education.

I learned first hand about this special collegiality among women in higher education when I was in graduate school.

One of a few single mothers in my very traditional Ph.D. program, we helped each other. We watched each others’ children so we could do our research. Most of us barely eking out an existence on our teaching assistantships, when one of us had food, we shared with the others.

But it was from the female faculty that I learned how precious the relationship among women in higher education is. My male major professor and I “divorced” each other just as my final year in graduate school began – oh, and it was an ugly divorce, too, just full of those irreconcilable differences.

As we “divorced,” he took “custody” of all the data I had collected over the summer before my final year in grad school.

So there I was, in September of the academic year, finding myself back at the drawing board, and so unfairly placed there.

Instead of feeling great because I was three-months ahead of schedule for completing my dissertation research and work, I was facing having to:
re-form my entire dissertation committee,
lose all of my data and begin collecting it again,
and potentially having to spend an additional year in graduate school.

My EX – my ex-advisor, that is -- was the only faculty member at the entire university with the same scientific expertise as mine, so I didn’t even know the first place I would start – how on earth would I be able to begin again? I began to feel lost.

And then, my phone began to ring...

A good girlfriend who had done the same kind of research that I was doing called to say that she was going to take all of her vacation time from her job in the private sector and travel to stay with me and help collect data.

All she wanted in return was my good cooking and a place to sleep at night. She believed in me and in the research. Having her expertise beside me was a godsend.

A female faculty member in a completely different department on campus called to say that her very well-stocked laboratory was mine for the taking. All of her equipment, her chemicals, her safety equipment, everything….she gave to me, along with a key to her lab. No strings attached.

And do you know…this wonderful, kind, female faculty member was not granted tenure? No, she was told that her research focused too much on helping Indian children advance in their educational pursuits and not enough on pure, published research.

Two other female faculty members in my own department called me in to see them. They declared their desire to serve on my dissertation committee, even though they did not have any expertise in my research area. I had never even had these women as teachers for any classes, so different was our work from each other’s. But they were there for me.

Don’t get me wrong, these women didn’t go easy on me. No, these were tough faculty members, they knew well what good research design looked like, they were expert statisticians, and they did me the honor of trusting my own knowledge in my field.

And if that wasn’t enough…

Another female faculty member in a completely different state who was familiar with my work mailed me a check to purchase anything I needed in order to complete my research. I am not sure to this day how she heard about my “divorce.”

Truly, I was humbled, moved, and honored by the support, kindness, collegiality, and caring that these women showed to me. On their shoulders, and with their help, I was able to begin my data collection again,
complete the research,
defend my dissertation,
and complete my Ph.D. on time.

I think of all of them often and have, since then, worked very hard to emulate their heart-felt support and collegiality among other women I’ve met through the years.

A week after defending, I went to work at [PLACE THAT I WORK]. Early on, it was my research and statistical expertise that got put to work. Gradually, though, I’ve held many positions and claimed many different titles…and have had the chance to meet some of the brightest women in the United States and call them my friends and my colleagues.

With all of my colleagues who work in the public policy arena, it is an unspoken thing, this quiet knowledge that we work well together because we ARE women, we are friends, colleagues, partners in crime. We help each other -- a lot.

We help each other be successful at what we do. The additive nature of our work and life experiences come together often to create real change in higher education law and policy – not just in [my home state], but in working on federal legislation, or helping each other with student-focused legislation in each others’ states.

Oddly enough, with everything I have said before now, I didn’t learn the tangible lessons about the importance of networking from a woman. I learned them at the feet of our dear [esteemed former boss, aka, Dr. X].

Dr. X showed me that it was important to be AT the table or IN the heart of public policy actions. Dr. X and I were alike in many ways – we came into higher education as “outsiders.”

He came from the position of immigrant to the U.S. – I came from the wrong side of town.

We both lived hard lives and had the shared experiences of sometimes not knowing where your next meal was coming from. I know, as he knew, that these experiences always keep us grounded – so grounded that neither of us forget where we came from.

I always, always, keep it real, much to the chagrin of people who are quite attached to their jargon, or the chagrin of beltway insiders who have never seen a real school or a real college campus, or who know not what it means to live in rural America.

Dr. X was right, so remember this, if nothing else:

If you are AT the table, you will have a say-so in decisions that are made. The same holds true for research, for innovative teaching, for administrating programs or departments.

Being AT the table requires time, effort, blood, sweat and tears. But the efforts are made much easier when you are seated at the table with women (and men, too) with whom you’ve developed a healthy working relationship. When you know that the skills that each of you bring to the table complement each other – when you know that what you will accomplish together is much greater than what you can accomplish on your own.

This is why, oddly enough, most of the women I consider my “best” friends and colleagues don’t live near me – they live in Washington, D.C., in Austin, Texas, in North Carolina and California, in Iowa and in Colorado. In Chicago or South Carolina.

Together, the cadre of women who work together regularly have accomplished a great deal.

You don’t read our names in the papers every day, but that’s fine. The collective light of this cadre of women is so bright; it is best hid under a bushel, out of the limelight. It is less threatening to others that way – and unfortunately, that is still how many women have to work (even when working together) to create positive change, even in the highest levels of government.

There are so many similar opportunities for you to work together and do great things – and many of you do so already, so you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Others here may be searching for ways to build partnerships, to learn networking skills, to conduct research together, or to share teaching strategies.

I want to tell you about one opportunity to do that very thing that we bring to you through [my work place]. We are providing grantsmanship expertise through mentorships, through grant searches and information services, through grant partnership opportunities. We can and will match you with other researchers who can mentor you, if you are a novice grant writer.

Or, we can match you with other researchers in [home state] whose work might complement your own. And we will help you work toward raising external funding to put forth your great idea, your great research question, or your great program.

All we ask is that you take us up on the offer to help.

I was very fortunate in graduate school to have had a course on grant writing – yes, a very practical course, created by a fabulously bright female entomology professor.

So many of us go through graduate school without having had anyone to really teach us the “ropes” of what skills we need to hone in order to be an entry-level faculty member.

But I had a semester-long course through which we took our dissertations and turned them into grant proposals – for NSF, NIH, the Department of Agriculture, you name it. We created mock panels; we each served as grant panel chairs. And we all exited that course with some very important skills – the ability to write grants, to turn a good idea in to a fundable proposal. Very critical skills for surviving in academe, for gaining tenure and/or promotion.

This kind of help is available to you through my shop at the [place I work]. Together with [important quasi-federal research program], we are committed to helping ALL institutions raise more external funding – regional and community colleges especially. And I have helping me with this effort an incredibly talented right-hand, Dr. Cool Chick.

While our support isn’t, of course, limited to women, we love helping women get together to help each other be successful. I hope you will call on me or on Dr. Cool Chick to help. That’s our job, but more than that, we love doing it.

Much has been made in recent years in the public policy literature about the “feminization of higher education.” The overarching concern in all of these articles is the proportionally higher rate of college attendance by women. Policy leaders are positing ways to reach out to males, to get more males into college.

There really ARE very serious policy researchers who have worked themselves all up over this statistical shift.

But, ya know -- every time I read these articles, I think how interesting it is to be calling this particular policy issue a “problem.”

Not so long ago, women were fairly limited to teaching or nursing as a career. Or, women could dabble in the liberal arts.

But women weren’t seen much, then, in the halls of academe. Today, we are in the halls, lining the halls, and in some cases, even building the halls. Not a public policy problem, this is just another step in a public policy victory…

Ours really is a brave new world, but we will still hear people question us about our priorities.

On one side will be those old-school types who ask if we put our work before our children.

On the other side will be the strict academic or administrative constructionists who ask if we put our children before our work.

We all know perfectly well that we can do both – we can love our children and love our work and excel at both – especially when we’re getting by with a little help from our girlfriends.

Finally, this summer I had the chance to visit the Georgia O’Keeffe museum in Santa Fe. In the first part of the museum is a series of the gorgeous photography of O’Keeffe taken by Alfred Steiglitz. We see O’ Keeffe’s hands, her long, thoughty face, her jaunty hat. The photographs alone are enough to bring you to your knees, Steiglitz’ work is so compelling.

And then…you round the corner to the second gallery – the first gallery, though, with Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings on the walls.

When I found myself in front of one of her amazing calla lilies, I was surprised to find tears rolling down my cheeks…and as I stood before her poppies, more tears. I couldn’t stop the tears, hard though I tried – they were involuntary, in every sense of the word.

Even O’Keeffe’s cityscapes of New York moved me. I couldn’t figure out what it was about her work that day – so much of it I had encountered before in books or galleries with similar pieces – what was itthat was pulling this unwated eotion out of me?

It really was puzzling, ‘cause I just don’t cry – well, I don’t cry much, anyway.

(And that is another very important lesson, one that I don’t have a lot of time left to go into, but never, EVER, EVER, cry in front of men at work. Enough said, you know exactly what I mean).

Still with the question of my tears unanswered, I later bought a book of poetry in Santa Fe – poetry written by a woman named C.S. Merrill, who served as Georgia O’Keeffe’s companion during Ms. O’Keeffe’s later years in New Mexico.

Through this book, I fully, finally understood Ms. O’Keeffe's empathy with less-than-well-behaved women. I understood that she was a maverick in thumbing her nose at the art establishment, and that, as a pioneering female painter in the modern art world, she’d been through a lot…and had taken it in stride...

And this understanding, I think, is what made me weep.

I saw ME in her calla lilies. ME in her poppies.

A word person, it was odd that I experienced this incredibly meaningful sensation through a painting, a wordless art form. And I believe that my tears happened involuntarily that day because there WERE no words adequate to that very deep, almost primal, understanding.

And even though I’ve said a lot of words here today, when it comes to women, there really are no adequate words to describe what it means to be one of us, and especially no words to express the synergistic dynamism of "us working together."

However, Merril’s Poem Number 27, penned in 1974, made me smile about Georgia O’Keeffe’s saucy strategies for handling her life as a female pioneer:

27
Last Saturday at lunch
O’Keefe said she read
Good many articles about women
Accomplishing much in sports
Beating records
Going faster and longer.
She thought it was a mistake
For women to tip their hand,
“We can act weak and sick
and female – all the while
knowing secretly
we are very strong.”

Pretty smart, Ms. O’Keeffe was, for her time. For any time, really…

In our time, we must be skilled at both strategies – knowing when to keep our strength to ourselves and knowing when to wear it on our sleeves.

Even more important, though, we must know when to link our strengths and skills with the strength and expertise of our female friends and colleagues.

And then, do something AMAZING together.

Thank you….

Ponderances

2005-10-10T22:22:00.000-05:00

OK.

Well, back again for one of my periodic appearances.

A rough day; one that was designed to be a day of rest but one that, instead, was filled with anger at my boss.

While he has committed a number of venial sins against me, and I'm always stupid enough to be guilelessly taken aback when he does so, he's now committed the second cardinal sin (that's for you fellow Catholics) -- for you non-Catholics, it means he's committed another big sin.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Or, fool me once, shame on you -- fool me twice, shame on me.

So, shall I shame myself?

A good friend always tells me to forgive and REMEMBER...

I did do an honorable thing this morning in keeping ER from marching down there and opening up a can on said boss's ass. He probably wouldn't really have marched down there, but a part of me thinks he might have, and a part of me wishes that he would have. It would mean that, finally, someone was taking care of ME.

I am just not sure how much more pompous insufferable-ness I can take or am expected to take. I guess that, as long as Bird is in college, I'm supposed to take whatever is sent my way.

When do I get me, myself back? I'm an idiot for even getting into the business I'm in. This ain't the first time a pompous asshole of a man was a jerk to me. But no, it's not gender specific, there are plenty of cutthroats out there of both genders. And hell, this behavior isn't even specific to the ivory tower.

If I were a man and stood up to him, I'd be called manly or assertive. I'm not a man, so if I stood up, I would be called shrill or manic or paranoid some other derogatory term that the ivory tower has called me and those like me so many times before. Apparently always a threat to ivory tower insiders, especially those who don't shave their armpits, I get very sick of being beat up. I get sick of having to literally work twice as hard to make half as much and all that shit.

If my Daddy knew it all, he'd be up here in his pickup, or sitting alongside ER, ready to take care of his girl. Daddy once showed up at a work place, ready to kick the ass of a man who was hasslin' me. I was 18 then. And I stopped Daddy from kicking his ass.

I just don't know how to take care of myself. I wish I could just earn a paycheck and not give a shit, but I'm not built that way, I wasn't mentored that way, I actually HAVE a heart. I DO give a shit, and for that, I am merely miserable. Miserable. I worry that one day I will wake up soul-less because some "Dementor" in the workplace has sucked the joy from me. I'm quite close to being joyless, in fact.

And ya know...I took this particular job before I ever married ER so I could remain close to where he lived. And then we got married and then we finally ended up living in the same place, all because I actually LIKED the work I was doing. And, if left alone, I still like it. It's the incessant being-fucked-with I can't stand much anymore.

I know that my boss has his back up against a wall -- I didn't trap him there, it was other forces. However, I seem to be the pincushion into which he likes to stab his little pins.

When I started this job, I was healthy. I was happy. I've had a lot of happy moments and I, truly, have been successful in what I do. But they are working me to death and then pretend that I CHOOSE to be worked to death because I DO as I'm asked to do.

Choose? As if I have some say?

So the work place has done the following (1) Injured me physically beyond immediate repair (for which I take a lot of damned drugs); (2) Told me that, because I'm an exempt employee that, under the law, "we're allowed to work you to death [and they just might]; (3) Screwed me out of about 5 grand a year in unreimbursed business expenses over the past two years; (4) well, hell, if I keep adding to this laundry list (and it's a long one), I might just go to bed so mad, I'll have a damned heart attack and then they will all celebrate up there.

ER thinks sometimes that I'm paranoid. The friend who tells me to forgive and remember knows that I'm not. And ER really knows that I'm not paranoid, either...it's just that the stories, when told, seem so outlandish to an outsider like ER, they don't seem real.

Oh, they're real. My god, they're real.
And were it not for the saving grace of a blog, I might die holding it all inside.

Because there are bills to pay.
And Birds to educate.
And cats to neuter.
And dogs to take care of.
And bills...always, there are bills.

I would say that, "well at least I can sleep at night, and he (they) can't."
But it's not true.
Sociopaths tend to sleep quite well.

It's those of us with a conscience who see the demons all night.
Because they are real.

And it's not paranoia if it's true.

GULF COAST: THE FINAL FRONTIER...

2005-09-28T16:18:00.000-05:00

While home sick, instead of being in Vegas for a meeting where I was supposed to be this week, I’ve been able to curl up on the couch and watch episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Sometimes I half sleep through the episodes, but that’s okay because I know most of them so well that I don’t miss anything.

Next Gen. was, in my mind, the best of the Star Trek series. With apologies to all you who adore James Tiberias Kirk (the man was a menace when it came to the prime directive), I much prefer the leadership style of Jean Luc Picard. The fact that he is also WAY hotter than Kirk is just lagniappe! :-)

I once bought a book on leadership styles that allowed you to compare your own leadership style and personality profile with that of one of the officers on the Enterprise-D. Basically, you took a modified Myers-Briggs Type Indicator assessment, Star Trek style. It took the various MBTI profiles and assigned a Star Trek character to them.

Pretty easy to do, if you think about it -- It is also no mistake that Star Trek has oft been called a morality play. Social, political and life lessons play out on the series – sometimes overt, sometimes subtle.

So I’ve been thinking about this:
Let’s assume that Hurricane Katrina had been handled Star Trek style.
WWJLD…What Would Jean Luc Do?

Here’s what I think:

1. Picard would have ordered Dr. Crusher to immediately establish a medical away team. She, highly competent, would have done so and amassed her team to respond immediately. Ignore for a moment her ability to beam her team down to the surface – the analogous comparison would be something akin to doctors without borders, prepositioned in Atlanta and loaded on a 747, landing on an immediately cleared runway at the New Orleans airport.

2. Picard would have directed Worf to immediately secure the hurricane area, prevent looting, and make certain that human beings behaved within the rule of law. Again, the analogous situation would be if huge cargo planes were deployed immediately to the area, or even if Guard and Reservists parachuted down, as they did in the early days of Iraq, to secure the area. Don’t even need the active duty military, just those weekend warriors from several states, ready to deploy.

3. Riker would have headed an away team to rapidly identify all of the people who remained trapped in the region and he would have directed a multifaceted task force who stopped at nothing to get the people out, feed them, and provide them all the comforts the United Federation of Planets had at its disposal. Rather than beaming the people out, we could have had cruise ships positioned behind the hurricane to move in immediately. While Riker would have replicators to assist with food, he could also airdrop MREs, not have them sitting in 18-wheelers in a variety of cities.

4. Jean Luc would have directed all this, while also garnering the assistance of other starships in the region. Most would have come at maximum warp, and a comprehensive plan to maintain security, shore up the levies, and a rebuilding plan would emanate.

5. Counselor Troi would lead the Federation’s humanity team – counseling those who needed an ear or a shoulder to cry on, comforting the afflicted, wiping the tears of children’s eyes and helping create schools for children, even if it meant that a group of parents got their minds off the destruction by teaching rudimentary lessons to their children.

6. And Wesley Crusher – well, much as I loathe Wesley, he would be the one who devises a levee system designed to replace the old system -- and the new one would survive a 5 on the Saffir-Simpson scale.

And at the end, Q would arrive (instead of Congress)…and see humanity on trial yet again, and say “Well done, mon Capitan” to Picard.

If Q arrived today, he would consider the human race, and its leadership in particular, a colossal failure, unsuitable to exist in this galaxy or any other.

The Charleston Bell Twins

2005-09-28T10:38:00.000-05:00

Although my last two days at the Francis Marion Hotel in Charleston, S.C. this past weekend were a bit marred by my getting sick, I loved the town. I loved it all except for the humidity, but I suppose with a short haircut, a body could get used to the humidity as well. So much history, so many beautiful places...and beaches! A landlubber, I'm fascinated by beaches and have photographed beaches from Laguna Beach to La Jolla to Bal Harbor, Florida, to the Charleston Harbor....

But what I really enjoyed were how the bellmen were dressed at the hotel. They had very formal while bellman type tops on -- short sleeved, white, with khaki trip...very sharp. Now, of course, they wore these formal tops over very baggy khaki shorts and tennis shoes, and the contrast was really cute. There was this one bell boy, absolutely adorable, and I kept running into him while I was there...he was a big help to me and the friendliest little critter you can imagine.

On the last day, as I was preparing to head to the airport, he came and got my bags, as, being sick, I had to pay for people to carry my bags all day. On the way down, he made reference to his brother being a fan of the Atlanta Braves, as I'd said I was flying home through Atlanta.

When we got downstairs, where I picked up my ride to the airport, I saw him and one other bellman loading my bags in the trunk.

These boys were TWINS!!!! I said, "oh, wow, is this your brother you were talking about?" And he grinned, "yeah, we're twins." I said something about how they could cover each other's shift and no one would know...but I laughed at myself because all that time, I thought I'd been seeing the same guy every day...and it wasn't, it was a set of twins. Cute as bugs, these boys were.

They epitomized Charleston's reputation as being America's most polite city.

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

2005-09-27T15:39:00.000-05:00

EDITOR'S NOTE: THIS IS A FAIRLY LONG STORY. It is fine with me if you don't want to read the whole thing, but I hope it can be used to help other people as they go through their own mental quests...

I’ve been thinking about how to write this post since June. There’s nothing magical about June except that June was when I finally figured a few things out – a “eureka” of sorts. But what I figured out was so groundbreaking for me that I’ve had to take a lot of time to think about it. I’m going to bury the lede because it requires some set-up.

Much like the esteemed William Jefferson Clinton, I compartmentalize things, people, events – I do so quite well, actually. It is a very high-order thinking task, compartmentalization. It allows you to remember names or small personal things about people. It makes you personable, actually. But it also helps you hide things, too, from yourself.

This past weekend, a friend told me that I had an uncanny ability to quickly size up a situation, interpret it, devise a course of action, and then make that course of action happen. Another talent I hadn’t thought much about.

But his declaration that I had such a talent makes sense in the context of what I’ve been thinking about since June.

Hypervigilance: A Talent or an Illness?
Some might call that particular talent my friend asserted that I have this: “hypervigilance.”

There are a number of good reasons that someone might develop hypervigilance – military training, training as a trauma room physician, any field in which one has to quickly react in order to save their lives or the lives of others.

And there are also endogenous reasons that hypervigilance manifests itself in an individual – such as paranoia stemming from brain trauma or what laymen would call “a chemical imbalance” -- a phrase commonly used by the masses to describe the need for medication to ameliorate symptoms of various neurological or endocrine disorders.

And then, of course, hypervigilance can occur from experiential – or environmental causes. Hypervigilance is a characteristic experienced by people with Post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), for one. Most know of this problem from the perspective of a combat veteran’s reaction to the horrors of war. The process of developing PTSD is a simple one – it’s just a matter of conditioning. Go read your old general psychology textbook (I know you all saved your book from your freshman year in college!). Read the chapter on learning or conditioning, or whatever your chapter on “Learning Theory” looks like.

In combat situations, hypervigilance promotes survival. In less threatening situations, hypervigilance can be counter-productive, unless you channel that ability into more productive outcomes (such as the ability to size up situations and act, for example).

Think, for example, about a combat veteran working in the private sector who freaks out because of a loud noise and reacts as he or she might have on the field of combat. The social “rules” in the private sector don’t much allow for such behavior. With PTSD, psychologically, the person can’t discriminate the “loud noise in the office” from the “loud noise on the combat field.” Physiologically, the pulse rate increases, blood pressure increases and sometimes, people engage in counter-productive behavior.

Outside of the combat arena, PSTD rears its ugly head for other reasons, in the context of other traumas…think of the people who had to move to their attics in hurricane Katrina. Some will handle that event just fine; others will shake from head to toe, hyperventilate, and panic when they hear thunder or feel the wind blowing. I don’t know why some can handle trauma better than others. But there are, indeed, differential reactions to trauma.

Attribution Styles and Cognitive Dissonance
This is another area that you can read up on in your old general psychology textbook.

Attribution of others’ behavior (and even of one's own behavior) by an individual is a function of a complex series of generally quickly-made decisions, situation-dependent, and can also be a function of previous experience.

For example, if you saw someone you knew well do something horrible, like seeing a previously meek and godly pastor murder his wife, you find some way of attributing his behavior to SOME reason. It could be that he had a whole lot to drink and couldn’t control himself – it could be that he has an undiagnosed brain tumor in the cerebral cortex that caused a disinhibition of maladaptive behaviors.

Another situation – you hear something good being said about yourself, but the people talking about you don’t know that you’re within earshot. You might attribute their words as being more genuine, more truthful, than if they had said the same thing to your face. The motives differ.

Attribution style can also be a function of the individual and is much more complicated than I present it here. And I’m not trying to force big words or big concepts down your throat.

Cognitive dissonance is a situation in which you can’t match what you SEE with that you BELIEVE. Dissonance reduction is the goal for every human being. You HAVE to come up with some reason that something took place, so you may “re-label” what you see or “change” your beliefs, or both.

Could you, say, MATCH what you saw in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina with your belief that the Bush Administration is compassionately conservative? Or, if you are a member of the other party, could you MATCH what you saw after Katrina with your belief that the government exists to do good? [There was a LOT of dissonance reduction going on after Katrina, by individuals and government officials alike].

Your attribution style is how you might normally approach situations that cause you cognitive dissonance...and you use that style to reduce dissonance...it's an internal conversation you have with yourself.

What Any of This Has to do with Me
Well, so here comes to the part I’ve been thinking about for so long. It’s this:

I have come to realize that a person (not related to me) was someone who actually – wow, this is difficult to say – was someone who sexually abused me when I was young. I hate using those terms for a lot of reasons. First, I think the terms are over-used. Second, the person didn’t do any of the kind of things that the sickos on Law and Order: Special Victims Unit do. I’ve even struggled with whether or not I should call it, in my mind, rape or sexual abuse. I’ve had to settle on the latter. It fits better in the legal and emotional sense because rape is a discrete act based on violence, and sexual abuse connotes a series of actions that have physical, emotional, and other dimensions. Sexual abuse is subtler, I think, but heinous nevertheless.

What it took for me to come to this realization was to see the person (perp?) in a wholly different light from when I was young. I don’t know if the change was a physical or geographical change, or the change in ME that has taken place as a result of growing older. It could be all of the above. And I’m not saying if it was a male or female or teenager or adult or what. THAT part doesn’t matter here.

Now this is where it comes to talking about PTSD, attribution style, cognitive dissonance and dissonance reduction…coping mechanisms…compartmentalization.

I can look back and see the employment of many really illogical (though logical to me at the time) coping mechanisms over the years, using rationalization, compartmentalization, variations in attribution style and even denial (never forget that denial IS a coping mechanism) -- all designed to reduce cognitive dissonance -- just a few:

1. This person is a good person and I loved the person and the person loved me, I know – such a good person would never do anything bad, therefore what happened must have been a good thing.

2. I must always keep this secret because it is a sign that I know the person is a good person and therefore, if I never tell anyone, people will still focus on the good part of the person.

3. Some of it must have been my fault. It had to be, because I grew up thinking that I was loathsome because of a variety of reasons. This would just be one more loathsome thing I did. Therefore, it’s my fault and not the person’s fault.

4. Well, it’s not really abuse because when it nearly got really bad, I kept it from going further.

5. Power differential is a false concept. The person really didn’t have any power over me.

6. The person loved me, and loved me in a different way than the person loved other people. Therefore, it’s not abuse.

7. As long as I keep the secret and focus on the good parts of the person, then I never have to think about what it all meant.

8. The good about the person far outweighs the bad. Therefore, it’s okay.

And on and on and on…oh, I had a number of these kinds of sentences playing in my head. And they’d change sometimes. And I’d re-evaluate how I “compartmentalized” the events and how I “compartmentalized” the person I’m talking about here.

The thing is this: I only recently realized that any objective observer would call it sexual abuse. Perhaps I finally developed the best coping skill possible -- I can now call it what it was.

But since I’ve been able to really call it what it was, it’s requiring me to re-evaluate decades worth of thinking – about me, about the person, about relationships I’ve had throughout my life and wondering how those events impacted my relationships. You know, even when I was growing up, these weren’t the kind of things that people talked about, even with one's closest friends.

There are impacts I haven’t even thought of until recently:

Did these events impact the men I loved throughout the years? (I know this is a yes)

Did these events impact my behavior in relationships (The short answer to this is yes, of course…but no details are necessary here).

Did these events impact my behavior in work and career? (Another short answer is yes, particularly when it comes to my incessant ass-busting to always please the big boss, no matter who the big boss happens to be).

And finally…what do I do [or think about] now?
How do I talk to myself about these events?

Timing: Pure Accident
It’s not like I waited for some Deep Throat to die, like Woodward and Bernstein, where Deep Throat reared its ugly head before death took place (Yes, I’m aware that the deep throat analogy has some unfortunate double entendres here). The timing? It just happened.

In the early 1990s I had a little bit of outpatient therapy. I told the therapist the wrong name when it came to talking about sexual abuse. I did it on purpose even though I knew that her files were secret. So I made up a name, while mentally thinking of this person as we would talk. The therapy was so uncomfortable, I stopped, and I returned to the comfort zone of my own self-talk about the events. Now how is THAT for maladaptive?

But really, as I look back on it, fooling her WAS adaptive. Because I wasn’t ready.

My reaction in the recent past (within the past year) has been anger. Anger at me, anger at the person. But I also have not confronted the person with the words “sexual abuse” either. I think doing so at this point would be counter-productive. The anger I feel is, however, not anger out of control. It's appropriate anger. As it should be. For the person, what I feel is more like...pity. And deep down, I still would argue that the good outweighed the bad. I think that is still an objective analysis.

Too many lives would be screwed up to confront the person. So I gain a little bit of release by writing about it. I can’t see that it would serve anyone to confront the person with the phrase "sexual abuse." It might diffuse some anger on my part, which might feel good in the short term, but it might not feel good in the long-term. I can’t see me being a part of ruining innocent bystanders' lives.

And maybe I was able, being a fairly strong person, to channel hypervigilance and all of my coping mechanisms developed over the years into my “ability to read a room” or to “size up a situation.” Maybe because I know intellectually what it is all about, I can compartmentalize it in a more appropriate way – a way different than the young girl compartmentalized it (and I held on to those maladaptive compartmentalizations for a very very long time).

Maybe this experience, though it aided in causing me some bad times through the years has, in the end, helped me to have greater empathy for others in low-power situations that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. And believe you me, I'm a CHAMPION deluxe for people in low-power situations.

Being able to say that is a very big step.
And writing about it is a second big step.
And these might be all the steps I need.

I am, indeed, cool, funny, visionary in ways that only God could be helping me, and for all of my idiosyncrasies and faults, I’ve turned out okay, I think.

Despite that person.
Or partially because of that person? [as odd as that sounds...]
Experience is part of who I am.
So for me to deny that positive outcomes can emanate from bad experiences
would almost be to deny my faith.

My hope by sticking this out into the blogosphere is that someone might learn from my metacognitive exercises. And possibly do their own exercises. Or, even help someone in a low-power situation out...

Give it a shot.

ER Is a COW -- His Dream Come True (or) My Sleepless Night

2005-09-19T22:39:00.000-05:00

Okay, one of you out there is going to have to talk ER into going to the doc and getting a sleep study done. I've done it; it's not a big deal, though you do end up with a bunch of yucky crap in your hair -- crap they use to attach electrodes to your hair.

I'm up, late again, insomniac once more, because ER moos in his sleep.

Yes, you heard me right, he moos. Like a cow.

This is more than just a snore, it's an all-out cattle call, and I'm no heifer, so it's not doing anything for me.

I try to coax myself to sleep, fighting the stress of not-sleeping, and his answer is to always face me from his side of the bed and snore and moo at me.

If I try to make him move, he either doesn't move at all, or he has a cow. Not the moo-ing kind of cow, but the carrying-on kind of cow. Totally not a pretty sight or sound, trust me.

Sometimes he stops breathing, so I'm pretty sure he has some form of apnea, like his brother.

When I push him to make him breathe again (and I've always got mixed feelings -- hey, when he's not breathing, he's not moo-ing, but oh, yeah, the guy has got to breathe, so I push him and, yep, he starts moo-ing again).

So, so many nights I try desperately to go to sleep only to have the cows coming home right next to me. I am gonna stick a dagger through my ears if I can't get some release from the moo-ing. It's almost as bad as the tinnitus I had about three years ago when I figured out why Van Gogh cut his ear off -- his was Meuniere's disease, with accompanying tinnitus, as the culprit -- whereas mine was just a rhythmic buzz in my ears. The moo is close as far as making me nearly climb the walls.

Hell, I snore, too -- I know I do; I had the sleep study, remember? They put a nice microphone on your chin -- the "snore mike" as the guys at the sleep clinic called it. God only knows what it sounds like.

But I'm not keeping ER up when I snore...and I don't sound like some four-legged bovine wanting a new salt lick, either.

Please, someone talk the man into getting the study done. I've tried.

Because I'm functioning on months worth of sleep deprivation already, and the moo, or even the horse sound of flapping lips that happens sometimes when he's pushing breath out his mouth -phb-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b! oh, man, what a sound...both of these push the sleep deprivation envelope farther and farther for me.

Do I prefer the horse sound or the cow sound? Well, I would have to choose the horse over the cow, but I'd rather have no barnyard animals in my bed.

I HATE BEAN COUNTERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2005-09-19T21:31:00.000-05:00

Go ahead and try to tell me that there is a place for bean counters in the world.

Not in my world, there isn't.

Bean counters are playing with money that ISN'T their's, but they pretend that it is. Sometimes bean counters forget the line between what is their money and what is the money of the company or agency for which they work.

Bean counters KEEP progress from happening, CAUSE ulcers among people who aren't as anal retentive as they are and often just really don' t know what the hell they are talking about -- but, since they hold the ledger in their hands, people think that they DO know what they're talking about.

Dear Bean Counters -- I see through you. I know that you are insecure about your station in life and that's why you chose to hide your life in numbers in the first place. I know that you think you hold power in your hands by attempting to ruin the lives of people you owe money to. But guess what? You are NOT in charge.

You are nothing but a glorified clerk who balances large checkbooks. Ooooh, wish I was smart enough to do THAT. (Not).

You think you know the law, and you don't. So quit pretending.

I would prefer that you actually counted real beans and stayed out of the way of progress and innovation. Get over yourselves, please.

THE IRONY IS...

2005-09-18T22:15:00.000-05:00

I picked up the book beside my bed that I've been reading on before going to bed...and it suddenly struck my how ironic the book title is: Learn to Relax: A Practical Guide to Easing Tension & Conquering Stress.

Man, this means, I need a book in order to do what most human beings are innately able to do: Relax. Rest.

I picked up the nice-looking paperback for three bucks at Half Price Books in Dallas the last time I went down for a treatment. It's actually a good book with nice, one-paged thought pieces, or lessons, printed on top of pretty little pieces of art, and each thought piece is followed by a relaxation exercise that's relevant to the topic of the lesson.

OK, but here's what I do:

I read the excercise and think to myself, "Yeah, that sounds relaxing."

But -- hmm -- I never actually do any of the exercises...because, well, and it's because they all take friggin' time!

The book says things like, "Take a walk in a pretty park and think about...X...Y....or Z."

The Type-A voice over my right shoulder then begins to holler: (I don't have the typical angel and devil cartoon characters sitting on each of my shoulders -- I have the Type-A voice over one shoulder and the Catholic guilt voice over the other shoulder and neither one of those voices ever tell me to slow down)....so, again, the Type-A voice yells:

What? Take a walk? In a park?
Who the hell has time to take a walk?
And go to a park?
I don't even eat lunch at work, I'm so overloaded!
Walk? When would I walk?
Walk up and down the airplane?
Walk back and forth behind the podium when I speak?
Put on the speaker phone and pace around my little office at work while I do a conference call?
That ain't no walk in the park!!!!!!

Yep, so that's how I got to the point where I bought a bargain basement book on how to relax. Because I don't and can't and don't have time and...and...

Still, the pictures are pretty and I can at least imagine what it's like to relax by reading about relaxing before I go to sleep. So it's a nice book. But I am not sure I'm going to learn to "conquer" anything...especially those voices on my shoulders.

Anticipating Death

2005-09-16T00:20:00.000-05:00

My former boss is nearing the end of his days...an end brought on by a brain tumor -- a glioblastoma -- that was diagnosed only nine months after he retired.

Last week, a journalist asked me to outline some personal thoughts about him because, though it may sound morbid, all people of various levels of fame have obituaries sitting "in the can" waiting to be immediately published. How else could MSNBC have instant stories on Chief Justice Rehnquist's life and work within about 30 seconds of the AP flash announcing his death?

So, it's not morbid, really, just practical...and I did write some things. But every night since then, I have dreamed about him. Sometimes, it's a "short film" where he and I are just talking about things of mutual interest. Other times, he is giving me one of his many pep speeches, patting me on the back, calling me "a true performer!" as he liked to do. One that was awful was a more intricate dream wherein I was traveling for work and no one told me that he died and when I returned, his funeral had already taken place. Oh, wow, I was livid in that dream... Because I've made it known to everyone that, no matter where I am for work, whether it be Miami or Portland, Maine -- San Diego or Seattle...I will be dropping whatever meeting or conference I am at and heading back home.

A friend and I went to see him about three days after his initial diagnosis. His wife handed me the MRI films to look at. I gulped...accustomed to reading MRIs and/or CT scans, I was astonished at the size of the mass that was taking up roughly one quarter of this dear man's brain. He'd always seemed such a powerful man to me, albeit a jolly one -- full of strum und drang as well, so he could also be very mad at times. On that day, though, he was so vulnerable; it was the first time I'd ever seen him like that and I could barely cope with my emotions...and his dear wife seemed even more vulnerable, but wearing the veneer of hope and determination, her body and mind probably already preparing herself for a long caretaker role.

And the irony of the day was taking place in the background, as work men were installing a new deck around his pool in the back yard.

When Bird came home from college early this summer, she wanted to see him. So I tried to make it happen, but by then he wasn't able to talk and only sometimes could he recognize people, so no more visits....

And now, I just wait. It's not the coping skill that denial is, but what I feel now is more like Scarlett O'Hara's "I'll think about that tomorrow..."

Because once the tears begin, I fear -- no, I know, I will be a basketcase. So I will cry tomorrow.

SO DARK THE CON OF MAN

2005-09-12T00:07:00.000-05:00

Women, once celebrated as an essential half of spiritual enlightenment had been banished from the temples of the world...Not even the feminine association with the left-hand side could escape the Church's defamation. In France and Italy, the words for "left" -- gauche and sinistra -- came to have deeply negative overtones, while their right-hand counterparts rang of righteousness, dexterity and correctness. To this day, radical thought was considered left wing, irrational thought was left brain, and anything evil, sinister.

The days of the goddess were over. The pendulum had swung. Mother Earth had become a man's world, and the gods of desctruction and war were taking its toll. The male ego had spent two millennia running unchedked by its female counterpart. The Priory of Sion believed that it was this obliteration of the sacred feminine in modern life that had caused what the Hopi Native Americans called koyanishquatsi -- "life out of balance" -- an unstable situation marked by testosterone-fueled wars, a plethora of misogynistic societies, and a growing disrespect for Mother Earth. (from Chapter 28 of what book?)

And from me....

So dark the con of man, sayeth Babylon today...
Roving unwillingly, rightward.

So dark the con of man sayeth Mary the Mother...
Properly in her place, askew, on the rocks.

So dark the con of man, sayeth Katrina
Whose vengeance is the last word...left.

An Odd and Unexpected Experience with Evacuees in Texas

2005-09-08T21:06:00.000-05:00

Early this week, I went to Dallas for my two days worth of neuromuscular treatment. I fly down on Southwest, go to St. Paul's hospital physician's building for three hours worth of beneficial torture, stay in a hotel overnight while my body adjusts, and then do an additional three hours the next morning, catch a Southwest flight back home.

This time, I had to stay in a Candlewood Suites, as when I made my reservation long before the hurricane, my regular place to stay was already full with people extending their Labor Day weekend, I suppose.

So Tuesday, I arrived to check in at Candlewood. There were very few cars in the parking lot and those that were in the lot had mostly Louisiana plates...but once I got inside, I realized that the place was packed, and I mean crawling, with Katrina evacuees.

Candlewood Suites has a "pantry" that has chips and cokes and candy and other little necessities that normally works on an honor system. You pick what you want and you pay. The sign in the pantry said "Under Current Circumstances, You Must Pay for Your Selections at the Front Desk."

I took my coke to the desk and asked about the sign. The harried gal at the front desk said that the evacuees were writing cuss words on the little slips of paper you put in the box with your money and then were stealing the food and drinks.

Wow.

As I made my way to the room, dozens of kids were hanging out in the halls -- shouting, messing with each other, hollering, carrying-on, you name it. They were shooting basketballs in the hall, hitting the walls.

Later in the evening I had occasion to go to the front desk for something and there were injured people there, needing more towels (one lady said she had six people in her room and needed more towels). Given the chaotic situation of the hotel, the hotel folks were being VERY accommodating...they were very nice.

But at first I thought....why on earth are these people acting SO BAD??? They're acting like they're still in New Orleans! They're acting like they have to have turf and steal and fight each other for stuff.

The psychologist in me said, "Well, of COURSE, they're acting out...they don't have a home, they're in, for all practical purposes, a whole other country, they mostly have been dropped off here [evident by the lack of cars] and they literally have nothing to do!"

At the front desk were FEMA papers to pay for their stay. One man was on the computer in the hall, hoping to see that his parish was safe to return to.

The hotel was just full of wild people. And I mean wild as in WILD...undomesticated, it seemed. Like they'd never been anywhere...and maybe they hadn't, actually.

Oh, I understood full well why they were all acting out...they were helpless, cordoned off in a Texas hotel by the government with a voucher for a two-week stay...and they had no idea if or when they'd go "home" or if they'd be needing a different home, a different home state, a different job, or what....

But I wish I'd braced myself for it...it was unexpected. And definitely hard to sleep in such a place. But...at least I wasn't sleeping in the Superdome, where most of them probably HAD slept...or tried.

Letter from Pass Christian from a friend in the NASCAR World

2005-09-05T14:39:00.000-05:00

Just a note to tell you I am working in Pass Christian, Mississippi. It's west of Biloxi, six miles east of the eye. There are absolutely no words written to describe the destruction. When three story pre-Civil War homes are crumbled and gone--completely GONE except for where the foundation is detected and yet fragile pieces of china are intact. They keep pulling out bodies and even some live people were found yesterday in the rubble here.
There are 57 towns that FEMA considers completely destroyed. This is one. The businesses, the churches, the schools are mostly all gone along with a majority of the homes. And the main highway, Highway 90, four lanes, is gone all through the state.
I have been fortunate to have a couple of policemen who are leading me through the rubble to locate where the houses stood, to take photos, and then I have to break the news to the owners who have not been allowed to come back. The fear now is disease, and of course we have a Dupont plant nearby that is leaking chemicals along with the Tyson plant in the next bayou whose entire production has washed up along the beach.
Above all this, the people are kind and have opened their arms to me as if I am a family member, but we are driving in almost 200 miles every day because there's no gas to be found and of course no rooms. These folks need your prayers and please donate money to the causes that support them. New Orleans may be getting the attention, but the main destruction is right here--honestly. The eye went over Bay St. Louis, and at last count yesterday they have pulled out over 800 bodies. That's five miles from where I am working. The bayou I was in yesterday had over fifty bodies that had been taken from it. No one thought it would hit them like this.
Have to run. There's so much to do.....there's too much to do.
Nada

Apologies in Advance

2005-09-05T14:07:00.000-05:00

I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but with all the spam comments, I've had to turn on word verification for comment posting on my blog. Not that too many comment...and that's okay. For me, this is a venue to say what I want to say or show what I want to show and hope that it sticks for someone...no comments are necessary. Now, ER goes into a depressive slump if his comment numbers don't exceed his personal record :-) Sorry, y'all will have to take an extra step.

New Orleans at Night

2005-09-05T13:19:00.000-05:00

Since it's daytime, I'll post just a couple of my night views of New Orleans. I am trying to remember where I was staying, but all I can remember is that it was a very nice hotel and my window overlooked Canal...maybe the Renaissance?

You'll note that the close-up of the tower is the same as the tower on the right hand side of this shot. Funny, the first thing I do in any city when I get checked into a hotel and it's nighttime, is to throw open the windows and see what I can see. I darken the entire room, find some way to stabilize the camera (who can carry a tripod? Although I do have a baby tripod that sometimes works - it's about four inches tall and fits in the camera bag). And then I shoot what I see. Every city, I've got a roll like this. All except for San Francisco, when the dorks put me in a room that overlooked a danged pool. I was hacked. One of my favorite shots of Chicago, I took this way. It's like doing redneck jungle photography, when you don't have all the equipment you really need. I like that.

About my hotel in N.O., all I know is, it was a nice, short walk to the Harrah's :-) I've stayed in too many places in the Big Easy over the years...at any rate, take a look at a couple of more serence, pre-looting images of Canal Street and Downtown....ya gotta love that old-fashioned, neon-lit Walgreens!

The Human(e) Solution for Future Disasters

2005-09-04T10:35:00.000-05:00

After having watched Director of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff on NBC's "Meet the Press" dodge questions about the lack of disaster preparedness, I finally came to a conclusion about the best way to save our souls and those of our friends and neighbors.

The solution is this...it's up to us.

But first, a word about Chertoff's rhetoric. It is cookie cutter Administration. That they didn't predict the "second" diaster of the broken levees in New Orleans. Why yes, FEMA did -- an agency falling under Chertoff's authority, well over a year ago. As did the New Orleans Times Picayune in 2002. As did numerous other meterological and environmental impact studies.

Chertoff first appeared to blame those left behind for not leaving. When pressed about the fact that those left behind were the poor, without transportation, etc., Chertoff moved that blame to state and local officials. Fine.

If we are going to pay a great deal of money in taxes for municipal, state, and federal support, we have to imagine that we are merely setting fire to that money and kiss it good-bye. I mean, in my very own home town, the police officials won't let the public have access to police scanner frequencies...can we realy realy on rapid deployment disaster assistance in such a secretive environment?

I don't care how we do it, whether it is through our respective churches, through non-profit organizations, or what. But all of us who can afford to react quickly to a disaster must sponsor one or more families who cannot. Just as Tom Ridge, when serving as the Director of Homeland Security urged us to have a plan for all family members to have a communications plan in the event of disaster, we must also extend our family to include one or more families who don't have the means to take flight, or to react, or to get out of town, or to clean up debris, or whatever disaster befalls us.

Let every church begin this effort NOW. Let every family take one or more families under their wings. It is clear that, though I believe the purpose of government is a good one, in this particular scenario, the "homeland" is only viewed through geopolitical lenses, not through the lenses of stewardship.

Families who know, today, that they cannot afford to react to a disaster of any kind must put aside any prideful tendencies that might prevent them from coming forward and asking to be matched with another family. They must do so in order to save their lives and the lives of their children and grandchildren. What they will gain in doing so, other than a means to take care of themselves is an extended family!

I've been there. In graduate school as a single mother, I had to rely on an extended family -- my fellow students and friends. When one of us had food, we called each other and shared the food. If one of us couldn't afford to buy gas, we gave rides to each other. We did what we had to do in order to go to school and take care of our families. Honestly, those are some of my fondest memories, feeling like part of a community, an extended family, taking care of each other.

Yes, our tax dollars are supposed to help them; in the absence of that, we must therefore tax our hearts and souls to assist them as well. To families who might not like being "sponsored" as some of our Vietnamese friends were when they came to this country -- please, let some other families take you in. In the 21st century, the term "family" doesn't just mean those who share our bloodlines. It's much broader than that, and everyone can benefit from having more "family" members.

This kind of humane people-taking-care-of-people is a real focus on the family...the "Family of Man."

New Orleans Doors and Windows, Of Course

2005-09-04T00:48:00.000-05:00

New Orleans is famous for its doors and windows. This is the first of three blogs I'll use today to stick in some photos that I like. I still hate the resolution on blogger, but what can I do...they're too pixely for me. Anyway, first, you'll get a look at some doors and windows -- on some windows I used my polarizer (which can eliminate the reflections) and some I didn't -- the reflections made the shot cooler. After this is a series of black and whites in the next blog, then a few buildings and street scenes. THIS is what I hope to go back and see one day soon. I'll do more tomorrow...three blogs today on N.O. -- two color and one black and white. Later...

New Orleans in Black and White

2005-09-04T00:10:00.000-05:00

I'll do several of these New Orleans shots over the next couple of days. The ones I'll post are mostly from my most recent trip. This particular group of black and whites was shot with Plus-X 125 film, which is very contrasty, as you'll see.

New Orleans: Buildings and Streets

2005-09-03T23:29:00.000-05:00

Kanye West on NBC's Fundraiser Last Night

2005-09-03T11:12:00.000-05:00

Well, dang, I started watching the NBC fundraiser last night, but quit around Faith Hill's singing because I wanted to see some live news instead....friend of mine sent me the following, from the Washington Post...I'm sorry I didn't stick around for it and see the fireworks...live TV, gotta love it!

from:
washingtonpost.com

Kanye West's Torrent of Criticism, Live on NBC
By Lisa de Moraes
Saturday, September 3, 2005; C01

Why We Love Live Television, Reason No. 137:

NBC's levee broke and Kanye West flooded through with a tear about the federal response in New Orleans during the network's live concert fundraiser for victims of Hurricane Katrina last night.

The rapper was among the celebs and singers participating in the one-hour special, produced by NBC News and run on the NBC broadcast network, as well as MSNBC and CNBC, because, hey, the numbers couldn't be any worse than usual on a Friday night and hopefully they'd raise a chunk of change for a good cause, the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund.

Among the performers, Faith Hill sang "There Will Come a Time," which included the lyrics, "The darkness will be gone, the weak shall be strong. Hold on to your faith." Aaron Neville performed Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927" with its chorus: "They're trying to wash us away, they're trying to wash us away.

"West was not scheduled to perform; he was one of the blah, blah, blahers, who would read from scripts prepared by the network about the impact of Katrina on southern Louisiana and Mississippi.

West and Mike Myers had been paired up to appear about halfway through the show. Their assignment: Take turns reading a script describing the breach in the levees around New Orleans.

Myers: The landscape of the city has changed dramatically, tragically and perhaps irreversibly. There is now over 25 feet of water where there was once city streets and thriving neighborhoods.

(Myers throws to West, who looked extremely nervous in his super-preppy designer rugby shirt and white pants, which is not like the arrogant West and which, in retrospect, should have been a tip-off.)

West: I hate the way they portray us in the media. You see a black family, it says, "They're looting." You see a white family, it says, "They're looking for food." And, you know, it's been five days [waiting for federal help] because most of the people are black. And even for me to complain about it, I would be a hypocrite because I've tried to turn away from the TV because it's too hard to watch. I've even been shopping before even giving a donation, so now I'm calling my business manager right now to see what is the biggest amount I can give, and just to imagine if I was down there, and those are my people down there. So anybody out there that wants to do anything that we can help -- with the way America is set up to help the poor, the black people, the less well-off, as slow as possible. I mean, the Red Cross is doing everything they can. We already realize a lot of people that could help are at war right now, fighting another way -- and they've given them permission to go down and shoot us!

(West throws back to Myers, who is looking like a guy who stopped on the tarmac to tie his shoe and got hit in the back with the 8:30 to La Guardia.)

Myers: And subtle, but in many ways even more profoundly devastating, is the lasting damage to the survivors' will to rebuild and remain in the area. The destruction of the spirit of the people of southern Louisiana and Mississippi may end up being the most tragic loss of all.

(And, because Myers is apparently as dumb as his Alfalfa hair, he throws it back to West.)

West: George Bush doesn't care about black people!

(Back to Myers, now looking like the 8:30 to La Guardia turned around and caught him square between the eyes.)

Myers: Please call . . .

At which point someone at NBC News finally regained control of the joystick and cut over to Chris Tucker, who started right in with more scripted blah, blah, blah."

Tonight's telecast was a live television event wrought with emotion," parent company NBC Universal said in a statement issued to the Reporters Who Cover Television after the broadcast."

Kanye West departed from the scripted comments that were prepared for him, and his opinions in no way represent the views of the networks. It would be most unfortunate if the efforts of the artists who participated tonight and the generosity of millions of Americans who are helping those in need are overshadowed by one person's opinion."

West's comments would be cut from the West Coast feed, an NBC spokeswoman told The TV Column. (The Associated Press later reported that only his comment about the president was edited out.) The show was live on the East Coast with a several-second delay; someone with his finger on a button was keeping an ear peeled in case someone uttered an obscenity but did not realize that West had gone off-script, the spokeswoman said.

© 2005 The Washington Post Company

Thanks, Shep

2005-09-02T19:12:00.000-05:00

Perhaps in my previous post, I shoulda said, "Auf Wiedersehen, Vieux Carre" -- but that would be blending languages and wouldn't have sounded as cool.

But FINALLY, a reporter took us on a tour of the Quarter. Sheppard Smith made a point of doing so in his Fox Report tonight. The first two blocks off Canal have water in them. There's damage, of course -- the Rick's Cabaret sign is hanging from a wire. There are some awnings ripped and cosmetic structural damage.

But the Hotel Sonesta -- fine.
Brennan's -- some water, but structurally okay.

The shops, and the people who live down the side streets like Bienville or Toulouse, fine.

Jackson Square (thank you, Shep, for taking us there) has trees up, and limbs down, but Shep says that not a single window broke in the Cafe du Monde.

The statue in the square stands still.

The Quarter, sitting higher than other parts of New Orleans weathered a bad storm. But the old, old buildings, more solid than what we'd even think of building today, stood firm.

Shep also said that, from the get-go, the place was guarded like a fortress. Now, I did see looting at the Walgreens that's one block off Canal on Bourbon. But, maybe it got no further than that.

Today, I saw people sitting on the steps outside the Harrah's (a place I hold some fondness for because I've always come out of it ahead). The boards are still up on the building, but I couldn't see anything major.

So, whew, thanks Shep, it's the exact travelogue I needed

Aux Revoir, Vieux Carre

2005-09-02T14:32:00.000-05:00

I’m not well today and am at home instead of work, channel-hopping the news channels, laying around kinda woozy and I can’t help thinking of my first trip to New Orleans…and since my laptop lays near....

It was the week before Christmas in 1992.
The week before Christmas is a magical time to be in New Orleans.
At least, it was.

The city, the Vieux Carre in particular, is already ablaze with lights year-round. Imagine the added lights of Christmas on top of that.

I went with (well, I don’t know what to call him; we were really too old for me to call him a boyfriend, but you get the drift) …um, I’ll call him Blitzen, since it was Christmas time. And it was actually the second time in my life I had flown in a plane. Which, considering how often I fly now, is pretty amusing. Wait, now, how old was I then? Hmm...I guess I was 25. Whoa, so that made Blitzen 42 at the time, a year older than I am now. Bizarre.

We flew out of Tulsa, OK and got a rental car. You don’t get a sense of the marshiness of the area between the airport and the Quarter, though. I didn't see that until I made my first road trip to New Orleans about three or four years ago, on my own, in my cool Chrysler :-)

As we traveled toward the French Quarter, I got my first glimpse of the graveyards and the first I learned why bodies are buried above ground (I was really very naïve still at the time).

I can’t remember the name of the hotel, but we stayed in a way-cool, smallish hotel toward the back of the quarter. On Decatur of Chartres, I can’t remember which. I think Chartres. Someone famous had stayed in the room we had and my memory is fuzzy, but I'm thinking it was Paul and Linda McCartney.

Blitzen had done grad school at Tulane, so he knew the place like the back of his hand. We stayed mostly in the Quarter, but ventured out so I could see where Tulane was, where he and his first wife had lived, and a few other spots outside the Quarter.

But I was enthralled with the French Quarter immediately.

Chickory coffee…café au lait…and the first time I ever sank my teeth into the powder-sugar covered Beignets, still so hot they burned your mouth. Heaven. Pigeons would strut around the Café du Monde, eating the Beignet crumbs (and I find myself gratuitously capitalizing Beignet because my first corgi was named Beignet – because his fur was the gold-red color of these wonderful pastries).

The Café du Monde is open 24-7. Not now.

I remember the outfit I wore when we strolled down the street to eat at Galatoire's…snootiest place on the planet, and Blitzen always loved snooty places. They don't take reservations, so you have to get there early and wait in line. In your finery, of course, Galatoire's has a dress code. Of course, it had a right to be snooty, it was high class and amazing food. Crab ravigote – oh my god…it’s pretty much fresh crab, butter and cream. The most amazing, rich thing I’d ever eaten. Shrimp remoulade…yum (although I make a pretty darned good remoulade now, myself). I laugh, though, when I think back to that outfit….

I was a bit…insecure, perhaps, for lack of a better word. Things with Blitzen would go up and down and up and down…for this trip, we were “up.” But I’d already begun the behavior that I privately used to “rebel” against my perception that Blitzen wanted me to be perfect physically. Don’t laugh, I really used to believe that.

I had what people now would call exercise bulimia….I exercised every night (at least 500-600 situps), lift weights, had washboard abs, would ride my bike, run it up three flights of stairs and then run back down and run a good three to five miles. I was at the point once when I could pass the Marine fitness test. But I was doing it for all the wrong reasons…for someone else, not for myself.

As the “down” times began to exceed the number of “up” times, I would leave early for work and get a sausage biscuit at McDonalds every morning on the way to work. Just adding this indulgence to my day felt like I could have a minute of being “imperfect” and it was already adding some pounds to me. The outfit is memorable to me because it fit too tight on that trip —because of my private little “rebellion.”

The funny thing is, I’d give my ass to be able to wear that outfit now!

Back to the Quarter – I had my first brunch at Brennan’s and thought I’d died and gone to heaven when I ate eggs sardoux – poached eggs on English muffins, covered in hollandaise, on a bed of creamed spinach. Absolutely to die for. Then, bananas foster for dessert. A total food-gasm.

I watched Blitzen eat raw oysters at the place where Lee Harvey Oswald had been a dishwasher at one time (Blitzen is something of an expert on the JFK assassination and New Orleans was a backdrop for the suspected conspiracy). I won’t eat raw oysters, myself. In New Orleans, you make your own cocktail sauce -- you get the Tabasco, the horseradish, the ketchup separately so you can make your own.

I had a taste of a sazerac at yet another dark little dive. Yuk, it tasted like licorice. So, though I love the name of the drink, I won’t drink it. Blitzen allows as to how he saw the words "Marat Lives" at that dive that night and thought it was cool. I'm afraid I don't remember that part.

On Decatur street, I had my first real muffaletta at Central Grocery. The olive oil drips down your arm from the olive salad on the sandwich.

And Blitzen bought me for Christmas this fabulous Sherlock-Holmes-type cloak with a hood at a place that only sold cloaks of all kinds. I wish I still had it – it was great, but the sad little house that Bird and I had to live in when in grad school (because we were dirt-assed poor and I hadn't actually planned for the eventuality of being a single mom in grad school) had moths…they ruined that lovely cloak. It makes me sick, thinking of the day I was going to wear that cloak, only to find big holes in it.

In Jackson Square, I had my tarot read. Hoping to go to grad school the following fall, the card reader told me to ask a question of the cards, so I asked if I’d get accepted into grad school. She told me that I would, but only if I moved. I was puzzled and dismissed what she said because I hadn’t applied to any grad school that would require a move.

Later, her words were prescient because I moved from Blitzen’s house one week before grad school started, for good. The “down” became permanent, unfortunately.

But things were still periodically idyllic when we went to New Orleans. The most idyllic moment for me was when there was an organized caroling in Jackson Square. People from all over the world gathered into a crowd and sang Christmas carols in the damp, musky, slightly coolish air…We all had sheets with the words to the carols.

A little Japanese girl, who obviously wasn’t English proficient, was excited when “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” came up, telling Blitzen, “Oh, I know this one!” Cracked me up…of all the carols she might know, Rudolph was the one.

Since that first trip, I had the pleasure of showing ER around the place on his first trip. And I’ve had many meetings there since as well. I always make a beeline for the Café du Monde the instant I enter my hotel room because I can’t wait to have another Beignet. It's the moment I pop a Beignet into my mouth that I sink into the chair and know, "I'm back."

Chateau Sonesta, Royal Sonesta, you name the nice place in the Quarter, I’ve stayed there. I’ve watched and photographed little kids dancing to the street musicians in Jackson Square. I’ve been in and out of the antique stores and art and photography galleries on Royal Street. I've even run into people I knew from out of state who were drunk as dogs on Bourbon Street (only to have them call me later and plead with me to not tell their bosses; what a hoot!).

I’ve looked longingly at the Blue Dog gallery every time I've gone to New Orleans and wanted all of the paintings so bad (because the Blue Dog looks like my corgi). I’ve paid a balloon man to make me a giraffe…watched the man covered in silver paint stand stock still like a statue for money thrown into his bucket.

And the place always retains that magic it had for me on the first visit I ever made to the place. My mourning for the place is as real as my grief and empathy for the people.

I’m sure y’all feel the same way – with stories of your own.

Stories and photos are what I have now. Who knows when any of us will ever go there again? Or what it will be or be like. I hope that the magic hasn’t drowned.

City of New Orleans -- The Song (Sort of...)

2005-09-01T21:16:00.000-05:00

I've been humming this tune in my head all day -- it's a song that's on my "southern travel CD" that my pal from South Carolina/now DC made for me that I mentioned in the "soundtrack" post earlier in the week. On my cd, Willie sings it...since I've been humming it, I decided to rewrite it. So....

With apologies to original songwriter by Steve GoodmanAnd apologies to Hank Snow, Willie Nelson and anyone else who recorded the original song “City of New Orleans:”

Waitin’ in the City of New Orleans
Superdome’s central, every morning hell
Buses pass by lines of hopeful riders
Babies starving & old folks growing pale

All along the west-bound highway lanes
Dead men line the shoulder lines
And strangers cover sightless vacant eyes

Trying not to think too hard
‘Bout dozens of dying old black men
And undug graves to place the bodies in

Hey there, all America, where are you
Please come feed me -- put away your guns
I’m a victim in the City of New Orleans
Trying not to die alone before the day is done

Keeping faith despite the government’s blind eyes
My family had to finally loot the store
For water and bread and a crust to keep us going
Seems I’ll do things now that I’ve never done before

We’re the sons of former slaves and men
Who broke their backs working land and then
Provided for the rest of us to be

Mothers with their babies sleep
Wantin’ something small to eat
And waitin’ for someone good to set them free

Hey there, all America, where are you
Please come feed me -- put away your guns
I’m a victim in the City of New Orleans
Trying not to die alone before the day is done

Night time in the City of New Orleans
Sleeping on my mama’s old-framed photograph
It’s one of two things that I brought here with me
With a sense of humor that will someday help me laugh

But until then I try to think
At least I lived and didn’t sink
Into a lonesome dark & watery grave

And when I dream I like to dream
My city’s not the hell it seems
And I’m not helpless waiting to be saved

Hey there, all America, where are you
Please come feed me -- put away your guns
I’m a victim in the City of New Orleans
Trying not to die alone before the day is done

It's a bad time to be poor and/or Black in America

2005-09-01T16:53:00.000-05:00

I have had it. I have had it with the lies and half-truths that this Administration is telling about its readiness.

Today, the Director of Homeland Security lauded the President for having declared the states of Louisiana and Mississippi as disaster areas in advance of the hurricane's landfall. The DHS said that this meant they could mobilize assistance in advance and have it poised to enter the cities of New Orleans, Biloxi, etc.

If that is true, then why is it that the ships in Norfolk only set sail yesterday? Why is it that the USNS Comfort, the floating hospital, only left its port in Baltimore yesterday?

I'm not going to rant about appropriations decisions now. I plan to rant about what is true and what is not true and the differences in how this administration is approaching September 11th and the tragedy in New Orleans.

A photojournalist from MSNBC was just on, describing the conditions in the convention center in New Orleans. There are dead people lined up against the walls, covered up. No one is coming to pick them up. They are, literally, rotting in amongst the barely-living that remain in the convention center. These are people, he said, who followed the government's directions to gather at the convention center so someone would pick them up and take them somewhere...no one has showed up at the door. No one. They are desperate. Where the hell is the so-called help and "assets" for disaster recovery that were supposedly positioned in advance of the hurricane. Where is the promised "ride out of hell?"

Don't tell me about downed power lines preventing you from getting in. An entire building collapsed in New York and the government was there, post haste. Don't tell me about the water being icky or that there are bad people looting. So what? I would loot, too, food, water, whatever it took for Bird and ER and me to survive...when the government is NOT there, people do what they have to do.

Sheppard Smith (Fox News), during his 2pm central time Studio B show, watched a man at the Superdome have a seizure and die before him. He was angry, asking where on earth FEMA was. Sheppard has done a wonderful job of showing the truth about what is taking place in New Orleans.

I heard a former Congressman from Louisiana say this morning that the people who remain there are "criminals" and referred to them as being almost subhuman (my paraphrase for his words). OK, so, the people who remained are too poor and, what? Too Black to help? What on earth could he have possibly meant? Does he believe that they are worth 2/3 of a human being?

The heroes here are the media. The heroes are Jean Meserve from CNN, who wept over her inability to help screaming people and yelping animals. The media is our only hope of having some truth told. Even the media are becoming desperate, pleading for someone to help the people they see. I imagine they will have nightmares for years on end, not to mention the nightmares that the refugees are living...and the ones that will also haunt them for years as well.

If they live, that is.

I saw the press conferences by the federal government. They're patting themselves on the back for all the assets in place or supposedly coming...when folks are just dying right and left. They've asked people to be patient. Hard to be patient when you've been told to do X and you'll get help, only to find yourself rotting away and dying while you're waiting on that help.

The people out there feeding folks first, as far as I could tell, were the men of the Southern Baptist Convention. FEMA? Latest reports say that they feel N.O. is too dangerous to go into.

The "huddled masses" in New Orleans deserve a hell of a lot better than this. The full force of the federal governmetn respondedo n 9-11. Of course they did, the government itself was being attacked.

And the government knew it was coming, too (the hurricane). The National Weather Service warning on the day of Katrina said the following:

HURRICANE KATRINA MOST POWERFUL HURRICANE WITH UNPRECEDENTED STRENGTH ... RIVALING THE INTENSITY OF HURRICANE CAMILLE OF 1969. MOST OF THE AREA WILL BE UNINHABITABLE FOR WEEKS ... PERHAPS LONGER. AT LEAST ONE HALF OF WELL CONSTRUCTED HOMES WILL HAVE ROOF AND WALL FAILURE. ALL GABLED ROOFS WILL FAIL ... LEAVING THOSE HOMES SEVERELY DAMAGED OR DESTROYED. THE MAJORITY OF INDUSTRIAL BUILDINGS WILL BECOME NON FUNCTIONAL. PARTIAL TO COMPLETE WALL AND ROOF FAILURE IS EXPECTED. ALL WOOD FRAMED LOW RISING APARTMENT BUILDINGS WILL BE DESTROYED.

CONCRETE BLOCK LOW RISE APARTMENTS WILL SUSTAIN MAJOR DAMAGE ... INCLUDING SOME WALL AND ROOF FAILURE. HIGH RISE OFFICE AND APARTMENT BUILDINGS WILL SWAY DANGEROUSLY ... A FEW TO THE POINT OF TOTAL COLLAPSE. ALL WINDOWS WILL BLOW OUT. AIRBORNE DEBRIS WILL BE WIDESPREAD ... AND MAY INCLUDE HEAVY ITEMS SUCH AS HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES AND EVEN LIGHT VEHICLES. SPORT UTILITY VEHICLES AND LIGHT TRUCKS WILL BE MOVED. THE BLOWN DEBRIS WILL CREATE ADDITIONAL DESTRUCTION.

PERSONS ... PETS ... AND LIVESTOCK EXPOSED TO THE WINDS WILL FACE CERTAIN DEATH IF STRUCK. POWER OUTAGES WILL LAST FOR WEEKS ... AS MOST POWER POLES WILL BE DOWN AND TRANSFORMERS DESTROYED. WATER SHORTAGES WILL MAKE HUMAN SUFFERING INCREDIBLE BY MODERN STANDARDS. THE VAST MAJORITY OF NATIVE TREES WILL BE SNAPPED OR UPROOTED. ONLY THE HEARTIEST WILL REMAIN STANDING ... BUT BE TOTALLY DEFOLIATED. FEWCROPS WILL REMAIN. LIVESTOCK LEFT EXPOSED TO THE WINDS WILL BE KILLED. ... ONCE ... HURRICANE FORCE WINDS ONSET ... DO NOT VENTURE OUTSIDE! (I added the boldface type).

Now, you tell ME that the Navy ships or the USNS Comfort should have only gone out yesterday. You tell ME that the government couldn't have predicted this. B.S.

The faces of the huddled masses in New Orleans are the faces of the poor. I had better not hear radio right wingers or anyone else criticize the poor for being place bound.

I had better not hear anyone ever say that they deserved this horrendous treatment from their government.

I can just hear some quietly whispering here and there that, somehow, they deserved it. I know you're out there, you who say stuff like that.

What they have going against them is poverty, the fact that they're in the south (truly, this is a criterion), the fact that the majority of them are Black, and the fact that some believe that people shouldn't be living in a city like New Orleans, since it lies below sea level.

Blame history for that part.

Don't blame the descendants of slaves for living where they live. Blame history for that as well.

And save their lives, for God's sake. If this isn't a WWJD moment in history, I don't know what is. And the Administration's belief in prayer and in faith (often worn on their collective sleeves) is neither present in word nor action. Half-assed at best.

ER is correct in believing that a certain amount of time should pass before policy decisions are discussed. Policy is something to be studied in leisure.

But the action behind saving lives is omnipresent. And I'm tired of seeing bodies covered up on the side of the road. I'm torn to shreds by people who are hungry, thirsty, and passing out in front of the TV cameras.

By god, if the journalists aren't afraid of being inside New Orleans, then FEMA should be right there beside them.

God save their souls. All of them.

Baby Steps

2005-08-27T22:43:00.000-05:00

When my living space doesn't have the requisite feng shui, then I'm discombobulated. And that means I've been discombobulated for a very long time.

Just running the vacuum cleaner through the house can put me in bed for a day. What a drag.

I realized, though, when I woke up the morning, how very sleep deprived I've been and that, if I DO get sufficient sleep, I don't hurt as much when I wake up AND there is a chance that I can do something akin to manual labor. For today, I have a sense of accomplishment because I was, indeed, able to do that.

It took me sleeping, though, until 11:30am, which makes up, I guess, for my week's worth of insomnia -- it was 2 or 3am before I could sleep all week long and I got anywhere from 1.5 to 4 hours of sleep each night this week. I went down, down, down hill all week long, because I was living out the research I'd read many times before -- that sleep deprivation is cumulative in its impact on the body.

So...I made up four large garbage bags of clothes to give away.

I've culled my books (and am not done) toward taking the discards to work and letting people go through them -- and they can take them home with them if they make a donation to my office's "benevolent fund," a peer-to-peer fund through which we take care of each other's needs if a financial crisis arises -- it is my very favorite thing to give money to, save for a little choir in Texas...

I reorganized my photography from its storage place in three rubbermaid plastic shelving units with drawers into a wooden six-drawer chest of drawers (thinking I'd have room to grow; but to my chagrin, my photography fills all but one drawer!). Still, it's a better place for the work to be. And I now have a place to store my many pieces of luggage -- where the photography used to be, nice and out of sight.

Tangent:
(I continue my search for the "perfect" piece of luggage, but have almost concluded that a piece of luggage is only perfect for a specific time away from home. I have the "off to Dallas for two days" piece that holds just the right amount of clothes AND a laptop and will fit in the overhead even on a regional jet. I have another small bag that, like this one, is perfect for a carry-on for a longer trip. And then, there are pieces that fit three to seven days away from home. I have gotten so good, I can hold a piece of luggage and tell by FEEL if I'm over the 50 lb limit. Maybe that's more sad than good...)

I cleaned out my closet (I can see the floor now, no lie, it had gotten that bad...though I'm paying for it now 'cause I'm sore as hell from doing so).

I moved a little chest of drawers that mom and dad gave me into the bedroom, transferring the contents from the other one (that now holds the photography) into the new, shorter but wider one.

I have a fabulous collage frame that is difficult to describe, but it has inset and outset openings for any number of 4X6 and 2X3 photos -- it's solid black and I filled it tonight with abstracts -- abstracts I shot of the Dale Chihuly exhibit with fast film in its museum-light. Wow, it looks great, and I plan to put that in my bedroom. Not sure if I've ever posted those Chihuly shots; I might do so soon, they mesmerize me, and there's no color in the world like the color in his glass.

I moved into the bedroom a little piece of furniture that now holds the TV and digital cable box and stored some keeper books in the bottom of it, behind doors that close.

I moved everything on the side of my bed out, swept floor and baseboards, dusted everything and now have a peaceful sleeping area. And I burned two more cds of favorite music that, I hope, will help me sleep when I put the headphones on each night.

And I did all that between noon and 6pm with lots of little rest stops in between. Oh, and a nice 500mg hydrocodone about 7pm...the fact that I hurt even with that inside me tells me I probably did too much.

But I'm going to do it again tomorrow. I need the feng shui, and I like to "fall clean" instead of "spring clean," because September through December is my very favorite time of year. Not wanting to decorate for all the fab fall holidays in a house that isn't "just right," this is a good start.

Giving away books is such a key to this. I don't think ER has ever ever given away a book. You should see this office where his computer is. Stacks and stacks and stacks of books -- against the wall and in stacks on the floor. It looks like many professors' offices. Which ER will, I know, take as a compliment.

Some have meaning to me -- books, that is -- either because of the words they hold or who might have given it to me (and one of you out there has my Andrew Wyeth Helga Pictures coffee table book and I so, so want it back!). But for the most part, as long as libraries exist, I can get any book I want, any time.

So the books go. The clothes go. I'd like to get rid of even more stuff, and I might just do that, because what I value most next to cleanliness is really and truly, simplicity.

And if I can get this house simpler, and my surroundings simpler, I bet it will help me sleep.

Memorial Memory

2005-08-26T20:42:00.000-05:00

I now realize that I talked about my pal who'd gone to the University of the South 'cause he called yesterday and I didn't get a chance to return his call until today....such a cool guy. We talked forEVER...and I reminded him that one of my very finest moments of my life happened in his presence, bless him.

I was in DC for some danged thing, can't remember now, and he and I had dinner at Olive's (yum, and I've eaten there several times since and love the tapenade and the beef carpaccio!)...

We hopped into his car and by then it was late, late, heck it could have even been the next day for all I know....he heads toward the tidal basin and then asks if I've ever seen the FDR memorial. I hadn't.

So he parked his car along the road and we hiked over to the beginning of the memorial -- he said today, it's definitely a memorial that one should see at night. He's so right. It follows FDR's actions and words and culminates with what was at one time a controversial statue of him in his wheelchair. It's quite a long memorial walk, but it's also very experiential. On a later trip I took a nice picture of ER alongside a statue of Fala, FRD's pup.

The quotes from FDR all along the way are so moving, so American, so what we are SUPPOSED to be in this country, I wept when I went through the memorial for the first time, it was that moving...you must see it, but see it at night. I'm not sure if it would have had such an impact on me had I seen it first in the daylight. Fountains, fascinating copper art, depictions of Mr. Roosevelt in various stages...a line of the "mass of men leading lives of quiet desperation" waiting for food...or work...or whatever there was too little of.

With emotional and patriotic overload in my head, we then just sat on a bench near the water and I stared at the reflection of the Washington Monument in the water directly in front of me and if I turned to my right, the reflection of Mr. Jefferson's memorial in the water there.

I have no idea how long we sat there, but it was a memorial memory so full of the sense of being American, with quiet conversation to follow that it remains, to this day, one of my finest moments ever...

Mr. Roosevelt knew what "compassion" was.

WHAT'S YOUR SOUNDTRACK?

2005-08-25T19:37:00.000-05:00

This is a question I've often asked good friends...some immediately answer, others give me a look like I'm a nut (which means that we aren't totally copacetic pals, once I find this out) but I told a friend earlier today that if you don't have music in your heart, you're not really living.

I'm not talking about so-called "ear-worms" here, those songs that get in your head for days and you can't quit humming them or thinking about them (ER had an earworm last for a full three years, I think, and it was the theme to "My Three Sons" -- you can STILL get him going now if you start humming that theme).

No, I'm talking about the music you take with you in your head, the music you hear when certain events occur, the music you take to work, the music on the way home...that's what I mean....here is an abbreviated list of my soundtrack, with a few of the cuts I play.

Going to Work

I listen to a mix cd a friend gave me that has some of my favorite pieces on it, as well as a few others -- most of my favorites are a bit dark and somber, but I find minor keys peaceful.

The drive usually gets me through about five or six cuts...but faves are:

1. Barber's Adagio
(this begins as soon as I leave my driveway; better known to more movie types as the music in "Platoon").

2. Then, I flip to another cd, a mix cd that I made of my favorite tunes and listen to the Barber Agnus Dei an AMAZING choral version of #1 -- most people don't even know there is a choral version of Barber's Adagio (I first heard this on a car trip alone back from Denver -- I heard it on a Sunday morning classical show just north of Amarillo). This particular Agnus Dei was sung at FDR's funeral, according to the DJ I heard that morning.

3. Then, I flip back to the mix CD from my friend -- and listen to the second cut (by now I have bought my Venti nonfat one-Splenda latte at Starbucks and have headed toward the capital area) and listen to this amazing instrumental called Tutankhammen's Burial. Since it's on a mix cd, I don't know who did this piece, but I love it.

4. Some mornings, my next choice is Thomaso Albinoni's Adagio -- an organ piece, largely, one you'd probably know if you heard it...there are days I'm in the mood for this and days I'm not...it all depends on what music I want to linger in my head as my soundtrack for the work morning.

5. Now, some mornings, I know I need to be right ready to kick ass and take names and there is no better piece than the theme music to "Pulp Fiction" by Dick Dale & the DelTones, which starts out with some lively cuss words outta Uma Thurman's mouth...whew! Still, after you hear that piece, then bang your head a bit, and get all jazzed up, you're ready to roll when you throw open the doors of your work place.

6. On mornings when I don't need to kick some butt, I can just ease into the day with one of several sombre pieces -- from the soundtrack to "The Mission" or "Gladiator" or a little love ditty sung by Oliver James from the soundtrack to the Gaylord Productions movie called "What a Girl Wants" which is not only an awesome movie, the music is great.

During the work day

All of the music I carry in my car is also ripped to my computer, so if I'm not already humming some of this in my head all day (sometimes after lunch you need a refresher, I'm likely to replay some of my morning tunes or, I always find solace in this piece sung by a girl I went to high school with who recorded a CD -- "Rocked in the Arms" (of God). There is nothing like closing your office door and listening to what's really important out there. This is really one of my favorite pieces I have ever heard -- and to think, it's sung by a girl who I remember as having a mouthful of braces and always being up to something :-) And now, she's a real-live grownup!

Going Home

1. Sometimes I like to listen to the fourth movement of Beethoven's 9th Symphony, "Freude schone gotterfunken, tocher aus elysium..." yep, I can sing all the German words. I typically save this for when I feel like I've had a very successful day. I have the traditional version and also the version performed at the Berlin Wall where the word Freude is substitued with Freiheit, which means "freedom." I remember well watching with mouth open when that wall came down....1989, I belive, a very good, good year. For me and for the world in general.

2. Green Day's "Good Riddance" is a great piece to listen to as you leave work. You know the piece, "I hope you have the time of your life....."

3. As I get closer to home and want to relax, though, I like to listen to Tchaikovsky's Hymn of the Cherubim, a Russian Orthodox litugical choral piece.

4. When I am pissed off at men, in general, I listen to Alanis Morrissette's Jagged Little Pill cd --different songs depending on how mad I am..."Hello mister man...you didn't think I'd come back..." (love that one). If I'm more mellow, I need to hear Hand in My Pocket (love the advice to walk around naked in your living room...) I have her original AND the unplugged version (sold only at Starbucks through September, I believe). [Note: this being "mad at men" tends to only happen at work in such a way that requires Alanis's assistance in getting it out of my system before going home).

On a Road Trip

I have a special mix cd for traveling that friend of mine in DC gave me...it has everything from "Man of Constant Sorrow" on it (from "O'Brother Where Art Thou) to a song my Charlene Darlin' from "the Andy Griffith Show" to "Midnight Special" and other fabulously southern travel pieces...the guy who gave it to me was an appointee in the Clinton administration, hailing from South Carolina and went to the school of ER's dreams, The University of the South. This CD must be played on any and all road trips...and even when you're being silent on the road, these songs continue to play in your head.

Those are just special pieces....for special times of the day and occassions.
Things that roll around in my head all the time include stuff like:

Joe Cocker's Bye Bye Blackbird
Lee Ann Womack's I Hope You Dance (this song can become an earworm if you aren't careful in how you handle it in your head)
Big band notable Harlem Nocturne (which was also the theme to the Stacey Keach TV private dick show, "ike Hammer")
Die Mit Traenen Saen and Kol Nidre, two pieces from my high school choir album
"The Andy Griffith Show" theme when I feel like whistling
Nat King Cole's Stardust
Duncan Sheik's Half Life
Pie Jesu (Andrew Lloyd Webber's version)
Eric Satie's Gymnopediae

And that's just a few.

Every once in a while, a little Roy D. Mercer enters my head or a little Larry the Cable Guy or Ron White, so....with a list like this, don't say I'm not well-rounded. And don't say I'm crazy because music plays in my head...

BECAUSE

If you don't have a soundtrack, then you don't have heart, I really believe that. Music is as important to the soul as oxygen is to the lungs and heart and brain. In me, it's on all the time, whether others can hear it or not.

So, what's your soundtrack?

On the Wall

2005-08-24T20:38:00.000-05:00

ER hates that I will "filch" certain souvenirs from places we travel -- but when they're cool enough, an when they're considered "consumables" by most learned folks, I don't mind taking a souvenir from a place or two.

Now, not long ago, Bird took a cast iron skillet from a restaurant because the service sucked. ER told me about it when I was out of town and instead of my being incensed, I threw my head back and laughed my butt off. I thought it was hilarious.

ER made her take it back, and Bird, having once been in food service, has that empathetic food service guilt feeding her taking it back, too.

I took a steak knife once from a restaurant in San Antonio where my friend Kat and I had once eaten and been consumed with gluttony over the special "meat juice" they had for the steak. I wrapped it up and gave it to her for "St. Nicholaas," the Dutch holiday just before Christmas that we celebrated all during graduate school for reasons I won't go into here...she loved it.

Tangent: We sort of made up our own version of St. Nicholaas, in that we celebrated with limericks and poems written about the others around us, we made hand-made gifts that were jokes only for the receiver and those of us on the "inside" and we ate lots of food and pretended to be able to pronounce Dutch names. Ah yes, you can have a ball even when no alcohol is present (except for the one year when Kat taught me to put peppermint schnapps into hot chocolate -- yuuuum!).

So, up on the office wall here in ER's home office are tacked two of these "souvenirs" I took -- for him, of course, so that made it all okay.

Both souvenirs come from the area in DC referred to as "Capitol Hill" because, duh, it's right near Capitol Hill. There's a menu from the greasy dive called the "Tune Inn" of Capitol Hill. At the Tune Inn, you can get greasy sunny side up eggs at 11pm and watch loose-tied young and broke pages and interns smoke and act cool, Hill rat wannabes. I think I mighta snuck that menu out under my coat, as this was the evening when ER went with me to do night photography of the US Capitol...it was November and he froze his butt off. I was intent on setting up my shots right, so I was all jazzed up and warm.

Yet another souvenir came, I think, either from our visit to DC in July of 2000, when we got to watch fireworks on the mall and hang out with Ray Charles' band at our hotel...or else it was a couple of summers ago when Bird joined ER and I in the nation's capital....but it's a real live menu from the Hawk 'n' Dove -- the place where Mary Matalin and James Carville had their first real live date. A place where, man if the walls could talk.....

These two menus are certainly two of the coolest "prizes" I've ever scored for ER -- he always has to have some sort of prize when I travel and return -- even if that "travel" is to the Wal Mart and back.

There's nothing like looking up and seeing the line item for a cup of homemade chili with cheese and onion from the Tune In for two bucks and fifty cents to immediately take you to the formica tables, the cheesy booths and the foggy windows on a cold night.

Real souvenirs, the kind you have to buy, can't get you near as close to the memory as a good filched souvenir, for sure.

Set Love Free (or) No More Driving to Dallas

2005-08-23T22:44:00.000-05:00

Just went to see my new neuromuscular therapist for the past two days -- he's in Dallas, and I found him when mom was having her open heart surgery. Well, actually, Daddy found him and told me about his office in the medical building at St. Paul's. I saw him once during mom's surgery and then scheduled two days with him again -- yesterday and the day before.

St. Paul's is only two miles from Love Field, so of course, I booked a "fun fare" on Southwest to go -- 90 bucks, people...90 bucks from here to Dallas Love Field.

The pilot, on the way down, urged us all to go to http://www.setlovefree.com and to make our views known against the Wright amendment -- which restricts our ability to get cheap fares; new actions in congress are using this amendment to squeeze Southwest out of the north Texas flying market. These actions would totally put the squeeze on Southwest in order to clear the air (pun intended) for American Airlines -- its main hub being DFW.

To hell with American and to hell with DFW airport! I fly on it when I have to, for work, but give me a nice Southwest flight on a 737 any old day. Have you ever noticed how much FASTER Southwest gets their people on and off flights? American says the trip from DFW to here is too short to even give us a drink; on Southwest, the attendants know what you want to drink before you even leave the ground.

And as far as making connections -- I don't care that the new monorail at DFW is pretty fast -- at Love Field, it's just a short walk down a simple, little concourse. No long waits, no unending layovers. And if you print off your boarding pass the early morning of the flight and get there early you can get in the first group of people to board -- and don't you KNOW I'm up there early, and have never been farther back than fourth in line. And that's because I want MY seat -- the "window" seat in the two-seater exit row that sits on the left of the plane as you look toward the cockpit. It's the best seat in any 737, period.

The people who work for the airlines are friendly and I think I know why -- they get to wear comfortable clothes - khaki shorts or pants and polo shirts. None of this airline pretense just in order to give hot rags to first class.

Everyone is on first class in Southwest -- at least, that's how I view it. So please, go to the website. Let especially Sen. Inhofe of OK or any of the Senators from Texas know -- or House members from north Texas that you'd like to see Southwest be able to compete in this north Texas hub market. It's ridiculous that we bailed American out after 911, along with others, and still, they need help. Delta, same situation. United, too, though they get an extra point with me because you get to listen to the tower...which I love to do.

But Southwest...those of use who live where I do need it. And, I'm going to keep needing these cheap fun fares to Dallas if I'm going to get the treatment I need -- so I'm going to be front and center demanding that Southwest get to keep all of its flights just as they are.

You can send an e-mail to the office of your House member or Senator.

www.house.gov will get you to the House of Representatives and you can locate your member's name and send an e-mail that way. If you don't know you representative (and some don't) you can find it usually by zip code.

www.senate.gov (that was intuitive, wasn't it?). You can do the same thing -- although, Senators serve the entire state, so let both of them know how you feel about Southwest, especially if you live in Texas or OK.

But go to the website the pilot mentioned as well...get up on what the amendment will do -- you even have a link through which you can contact your congressman or senator throug the set love free site as well. Further, you can sign up to be on an action list as well. Well, of course, I did.

And do it if for no other reason than that I need to keep getting cheap tickets to Dallas -- Southwest to Love Field, it's the best way to go to Dallas and I'm planning no more driving to Dallas as long as this is an option for me (and besides, with gas prices like they are, I swear, it's easier to take the fun fare than to drive). Southwest is holding firm that Love Field will continue to be its home, even though it's being pressured to move its flights to DFW. Gad...part of the lure of Southwest is Love Field...I always think about President Kennedy when I'm there...I bet almost everybody does....

Mucho thanks, do take care of Southwest, will ya?

Above the Surly Bonds and Seattle

2005-08-20T20:56:00.000-05:00

I haven't loaded up all the digital versions of the shots I did in Seattle this past week, but I have done a few -- plus two rolls I did on the way home. The thing that I like about the shots on the way home is that no one, ever, at any time, will have or will ever, take the same shots...

Yep. No one can ever see the same two storms, no one else will be in the same place over Kansas -- at least, I think I was over Kansas, who knows? Hard to tell from the air...

The seatbelt sign went off at just the right time and I scooted the old bitty next to me (nearly 80, they let her sit on an exit row and she assured them that she could get the exit door open...sigh, well, I knew I was on my own) outta the way, grabbed my dear camera and just had fun out the window.

The only reason I include this one, because it's not my favorite one, is because of the meteorological stuff going on...the darker grey clouds are clouds that were being sheared off the companion storm you saw in the first picture (the one with the full anvil top).

They made a fairly interesting foreground for the real storm in the background, just a tad farther north than the other storm.

I am not very happy with the resolution that this new photo uploading system on blogger has...grr. Anyway, the shot to the left shows the storm in the distance, over the wing and through the plane's window right behind me. I'd changed lenses and went "whoa" when I saw the light -- I still had my circular polarizer on the 28:80 lens and since the plane's window is polarized, you get doubly polarized light -- and you see a rainbow. I chose to leave the filter on, 'cause I thought it looked cool.

Okay, enough of the fun I had on the plane...here are a few from Seattle...more later; I had seven rolls, so I can't do them all...oh, and later, I'll show ya the house from Sleepless in Seattle

Very Big Day, Very Big Deal: We Needed Good News

2005-08-11T22:02:00.000-05:00

Yay!

Without going into too many details, I have been waiting for weeks now to find out if a grant I'd written (with the help of my wonderful team of staff at work) would be funded....and today, we got the nod from one of our members of Congress that our $20.6 million project is indeed being funded and we start to work on it September 1.

What is interesting about this particular grant is that, when the program was first created by Congress in 1998, we wouldn't have had the opportunity to apply again...our first project, funded in 1999, provided us with $20-plus million as well. But good government relations work, good members of Congress on the Hill who listened to the rationale allowed for the law to be changed with amendments to appropriations legislation.

So, my staff, who would have been pretty much without a job because this is "soft money" stuck with me...I had a very strong feeling that we would get this grant for a lot of reasons. I am reminded of the final episode of Star Trek: TNG when Captain Picard asks his crew (in the past) to have a leap of faith and steer the Enterprise into the center of an anomaly to create a static warp shell with two other Enterprises from two other time zones in order to patch a rift in the space-time continuum.

I had to ask them for a leap of faith and to believe, along with me, that it would happen. And you know? They didn't bail....I know of colleagues across the nation who will be starting their second round of this program almost from scratch when it comes to personnel...but my darling "peeps" made that leap, they believed, they stayed. Bless them.

So it's been a good day. $20 million plus to do cool things for kids to help them get ready to go to college, STAY there and get a degree so they can earn a good living...yeah, that's good stuff, it's the reason I do what I do, and I get to continue to work on this personal "mission" of mine.

More Than a Thousand Words...Much More, In Fact

2005-08-10T23:33:00.000-05:00

Today's going to be about photography mostly, I suppose...

Oh, and fyi, you remember Big A. and Little A. from their black and white debut in the "Sugar and Spice" blog from a short while ago...here, in color, I've got them in two places -- the pink Chinese dresses they're wearing I bought in Chinatown for them in San Francisco the week before they visited in Texas.

In their pink dresses, they're pictured in the Myriad Gardens.

In their green summer outfits, they're at a small garden waterfall and surrounding park in Texas. Little A., by the way, wears glasses, and I've done some with and without glasses...she looks so much older with them on, it's almost scary.

Re: The Mundane
Today was my first day back to work after mom's survery and after hauling ER to the ER (this makes twice now that it's been HIM having to go to the ER instead of me, and for that I'm actually personally grateful, because there's always something going wrong on my end -- it is SO his turn!).

However, my reasons for going to the ER were always endogenous -- with ER, it's exogenous -- a critter eating his toe off or him not being able to tell a branch on a tree from his finger.

But I digress -- the trip back to work today was just so full -- I now do the work that three people used to do when I first entered my agency. Sigh.

So I spent my evening working on my color photos of the girls, plus some black and whites I took in Texas earlier this summer that I only now got developed.

I was using Ilford 3200 speed film in a dank hole in the wall where a big band group in Texas practices each Monday and a Dixieland group rehearses each Thursday. I don't know who the youngster of the group is, but that night, I'm guessing the youngest person was in his 60s...no, I take that back, a rather taciturn piano player with the group is younger than that. Ah well, to me, it's only the saxophones that matter...

So I'm just going to be lazy and post some of my girls and some of the black and whites and maybe a couple of pieces I shot here in downtown -- since I always tend to write about a thousand or more word when I do blog, anyway.....

Well, okay, a real reason I have time to upload photos is that I'm in the middle of sending a 15 MB power point file, loaded with .jpg files and it's taking forever.

So what else am I going to do but load more photos in shameless promotion of not only my nieces, but also of the places and things that I love? Yeah, I'm forcing my family, my friends, and my likes and dislikes on you as well!

How about some Little A. with her glasses on? Such a doll....

Okay, that's enough girls for today.

Now, you'll see a couple of the pieces I am in the middle of uploading -- the black and whites of the little dive where the big band and dixieland groups play.

Wow, and they're good, too...one thing I worry is that there are so few young band members who dedicate as much time to this kind of music as our "elders" do -- I don't want the music to die!

As I stick that black and white in here, I'm flipping out mentally because I'd really like for blogger to put a white border around it and I bet that it wont!

Wow, I just realized I gave you two trumpets when I really love the sax best...well, the guy on the right is a doctor and a hell of a trumpet player. I'm a little dismayed that it looks darker here than on my photoshop. Darnit.

Enough, let's go back to some color! I have a gorgeous series of photos that just explode with color. A friend of mine's wife loves Chihuly glass, and, much like I mentioned a couple of blogs ago, I like to give people things they like.

Well, there ws no way I was going to be able to afford a piece of Chihuly, so one Saturday, ER and I went to the museum and, using 800 and 1600 speed film, I did a whole series of Chihuly that day using, again, available light.

Well, I finally figured out that, well-meaning though I was, that giving such a gift to this person probably wouldn't be received well, so I was left with this whole series that I just love, so all is not lost!

A lot of it is in my office and I've also used it for making greeting cards -- which I do for my friends on power point! Seriously, that's so much more personal than going to a greeting card site. These are a couple of them...

Those of you who live in my town will recognize the second Chihuly photo as part of an entire ceiling, down a long hall in our museum that has the Chihuly glass above our heads.

This isn't my best one of the ceiling, but I laid flat on my back, on that hard wood floor, to shoot the ceiling. That's another nice thing about a camera; when the lens is in front of my face, I completely forget what hurts on me at any given moment. Lovely distraction, that is.

Well, my 15 MB file just finished, thank goodness, so thanks for bearing iwth the photography.

Bless You, Adrian Monk

2005-08-09T11:11:00.000-05:00

Three weeks ago, I had the chance to address 1800-2000 people in San Franciso...it was one of those huge hotel ballrooms where, in the middle of the room, your face is projected on huge screens because the room is SO big, it's the only way people from the middle-back can even see who is speaking. Add a couple of big screens on the side, and I don't even want to THINK how enormous I looked.

But I began my remarks this way, "I am so happy to be in the city of my favorite, neurotic TV detective Adrian Monk."

Sure, the opening line got laughs throughout the room, as I expected. And then I went on to my more serious comments.

But I also wasn't kidding about being happy to be in San Francisco because of Monk.

In San Francisco, I memorized every potential locale I could so that, when I watch "Monk" (new episodes each Friday night on USA network at 9pm central time) I can "see" where he is and/or know what his environment is like. This is not unlike the game I liked to play when I watched "The West Wing" with some regularity. Know DC like the back of my hand. But I wanted to be able to "be behind Monk's eyes" on his show, too.

The series "Monk" is now in its fourth season and I came to it late in the game -- in the third season. Not unlike how I came into Star Trek: The Next Generation -- a couple of kiddos I know, Nat and Rat, as I used to call them, got me to watching it when it was on Fox on Saturday nights in Tulsa.

Instantly, I fell in love and became such a Next Gen. Trekker that I've been to conventions (don't call me a geek, now) and seen Brent Spiner and Marina Sirtis and a few others (though hotties Will Riker, or rather, Jonathan Frakes and the hottiest of all, Jean Luc Picard, or Patrick Stewart, still elude my person-to-person contact).

I won a way cool satin Star Trek: TNG black satin jacked with the Enterprise-D on the back when the first TNG movie "Star Trek: Generations" first came out. There was a trivia contest before the movie, and when asked what the name of Data's daughter was, I made a complete fool of myself, stepping up into my seat, waving my hands, and got picked! (I never win anything). "LAL!" I screamed -- and this jacket now sits in my collection of jackets that are never worn, just appreciated, like my Dale Earnhardt jacked I bought the Christmas before he died.

Yes, when I find something on TV that I love, I love it wholly. No halfway for me. Ask ER. He LOATHES "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" because I love it, love to watch it as much as possible, and he can't bear the fact that they're always talking about bodily fluids and rape kits while he's trying to eat supper. We named our cat (kitten) who recently adopted us "Ice-T" because we love him and his character on SVU -- our kitten is also one baaaaaaaad dude, too, just like Ice-T

But, if I play my cards right on this one and don't completely overdo it, ER and I are both, in fact, in love with Tony Shaloub's Adrian Monk character.

The psychologist in me loves his obsessive-compulsive way of dealing with his wife's untimely death by car bomb. The stories and plot lines are interesting and often surprising mysteries. The mystery reader in me loves that part -- the me who has read every Agatha Christie novel -- both Poirot's and Miss Marple's mysteries; the me who has read every P.D. James mystery novel, every Dorothy Gilman "Mrs. Pollifax" story. A good story is critical to a good TV show.

In the middle of "Monk's" third season, the show saw a change of Monk's "nurse" move to the title of "assistant" and I wasn't sure how they would be able to replace the character of Sharona. Brilliantly, they didn't "replace" her with another "her." They replaced her with an "assistant," a sweet single mom named Natalie who had lost her spouse in military combat in Kosovo.

In this vein, Monk and Natalie share something in common -- they are widow and widower. And they periodically have very sweet and poignant moments together because of it.

Monk desires above all to be a cop again, but because of his psychological issues, it's not likely...he's always called in as a consultant by his former partner and friend, Captain Leiland Stottlemeyer.

Now, I LOVE Stottlemeyer's character. Wry, always with a toothpick in his mouth, he's also infinitely patient with Monk's idiosyncracies because he knows his friend is, indeed, an investigative genius. He explodes into brief moments of impatience, at times, but then remembers who he's dealing with and settles down again right quick.

Monk calls, and Stottlemeyer comes running -- without even thinking first. Stottlemeyer, I confessed to ER, is a bit "hot" to me, as well, though I can't put my finger on why. ER supposes it's because he's tough, but human. Hard as nails, but compassionate. A great character.

Stottlemeyer's Lieutenant and partner, Randy, plays a sort of Barney Fife-ish second fiddle to Stottlemeyer. Randy screws up a lot, but his eagerness and guilessness make him an endearing character. When his Captain was shot in a recent episode, though, Randy stepped up and kicked ass and took names to find the shooter.

It's lovely to find a highly intelligent show on TV any more. ER hates that, when I find something intelligent like "Monk" and "SVU" that I will watch it and watch it and watch it. I dissect the plots, I learn all about the characters, I can vicariously experience the events when I do so.

Like "Star Trek: TNG" (in my mind, the only REAL Star Trek -- noooo! Please, Kirk fans don't beat me!), like "The West Wing" when it first aired, like "SVU" and "Law and Order: Criminal Intent" I'm so happy when there's something on TV that works a part of my brain that has fun...that is so different from what I do during the day. I get to be the "scientist" in me when I watch these shows.

So...

I adore Adrian Monk.
And if you haven't watched it, do so.

It's a lovely, low-key but high drama, punctuated wth poignant emotions and events kind of show that makes me glad that there are creative people working out there on shows like this just to entertain me.

Bless you for taking the role, Tony Shaloub.
And Bless the fictional but dear Adrian Monk.

Don't Mess with My NASCAR: Killing the Gnat With a Hammer

2005-08-09T09:13:00.000-05:00

ER suggested I post this. It's my response to an idiotic columnist in Indiana; ER sent it to me yesterday, it was a link on Jayski's, which is an all-things-NASCAR site. A colleague of ER's said I'd killed a gnat with a hammer...but you know, when a gnat is really annoying, it's never much fun to simply whack it and let it fall to its death. When it's REALLY annoying, you just gotta bang its guts out. And besides, he deserved it merely for the incorrect use of the word "populous" when he meant "populace."

I have edited some typos from when I first sent it, as I was typing fast and with adrenaline. I've also changed the wording in one place in order to protect my anonymity, as well as ER's and a good friend of ours as well.

Please, do feel free to write to the journalist yourself; I've kept his e-mail in here. More than one hammer hit him; he shouldn't then make such a heinous cultural mistake again.

His August 8 column is posted first, and then my response.

Don't mess with a mama's babies.....

NASCAR would be a lot cooler if it weren’t for the fans
Aug. 8, 2005
By Justin Breen / Post-Tribune staff writer

INDIANAPOLIS
Near Georgetown Road, next to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, it appeared as if the South had won the war.

With Confederate flags everywhere, white folks strolled around, speaking in a foreign twang — this is what NASCAR’s Allstate 400 at the Brickyard is really all about.

NASCAR: white America’s last bastion of glory.

Forget golf. That’s Tiger’s and Vijay’s game.

Forget hockey. Jarome Iginla is that sport’s top goal-scorer.

And who really cares about traditionally white sports such as swimming, sailing, rowing and horseback riding, anyway?

The South gave us cotton, which led to slavery. The South gave us tobacco, which led to cancer.
And the South has given us NASCAR, which has led to NASCAR fans, sport’s greatest lemmings.
These people would buy fake poop if their favorite driver sponsored it.

Walking around the IMS grounds gave me a new perspective of our country, and who forms a significant base of the population.

A populous that consider it their duty to flaunt their bellies, don mullets and goatees, drink Milwaukee’s Best (ugh!), bring their homes to races and stay for a week at a time, let their FTL white briefs come out of their jean shorts, smoke in the stands and vote Red. Simpletons.
In the press box, a reporter wore a “wife-beater” undershirt, while another openly chewed some dip. One looked like Willie Nelson, and it may have actually been Willie Nelson. Another could have been the comedian Gallagher. These are not good signs.

NASCAR released a survey in 2004 that said more than 82 percent of its fans are white and 38 percent are from the South. In the same year, Simmons Market Research Bureau Inc. and Performance Research concluded that 62 percent are males, 88 percent graduated from high school and 27 percent are either professionals or managers. The rest are unemployed, retired, craftsman, technicians, salesman, unskilled labor or “other.”

The “other” could be the few normal-looking people I saw on Saturday and Sunday while touring what resembled a science project gone horribly wrong.

And NASCAR knows it. Last year, it removed the sponsor Redneckjunk.com from the No. 50 Dodge racecar. Many of its drivers now are from non-traditional states, including Washington’s Kasey Kahne and New York’s Boris Said. Grand Marshall Dennis Haysbert of Pedro Cerrano fame waved the green flag.

Sunday, former Notre Dame Heisman Trophy winner Tim Brown announced he would form a NASCAR team — Tim Brown Racing — the only African-American majority-owned squad in the circuit.

Good luck, Timmy.

Brown understands the force of fans he will battle to create a legitimate team, plus bringing the sport to the minority population, which hasn’t seen one of its own win a major stock-car race since Wendell Scott did in 1964.

“There was an opportunity for me to come in, take the NASCAR beast and hopefully in some kind of way put it together with the urban community,” Brown said. “You know it’s not too cool to wear a Dale Earnhardt jacket in the neighborhood. You know, you just can’t be cool and wear that jacket. But what we want to do is we want to make that cool.”

NASCAR’s speed and sophisticated rides define cool. Any driver who takes his life in his hands every race deserves respect.

But the sport would be a lot cooler if it had cooler fans.
Contact Justin Breen at 648-3122 or jbreen@post-trib.com

Dr. ER's response:

Dear Justin:

I wanted to comment on your column from today, which I've included in my response for the benefit of some friends I'm cc'ing.

I have a Ph.D., I'm a state government official, I work with the Congress and in Washington D.C. on a regular basis. I love classical music, am a singer, writer, avid reader and former cellist...and I'm a NASCAR fan.

I raise money for kids, help kids go to college so they can have a good life and in rural parts of my state, a good statement like, "Now Ryan Newman has a degree in engineering" or "Dale Earnhardt, Jr. finished high school because his Daddy made him -- and look at him now!" can go a long way in helping rural and even inner city urban kids think about college....hell, yes, I'm a NASCAR fan.

Brian Williams, host of NBC Nightly News, wrote one of the most moving tributes to Dale Earnhardt after Dale died that appeared in Newsweek...Brian is a NASCAR fan.

Do you think Brian Williams is some lesser human being? Or is he one of those few "normal" people you refer to? Brian knew the real Dale Earnhardt -- the man who quietly and without a lot of fanfare made kids one of his biggest priorities. It's also one of the reasons that I love Brian Williams, too.

And you are missing all of the diversity in the "NASCAR community" (there's always got to be some kind of "community" talked about in the media). You don't understand the variety you are seeing, so you can't actually "see" it. You would look at me at a race and instantly judge me as some redneck chick who eats too much fried food and you'd probably think less of me because of the driver-based paraphernalia I was wearing.

But, let's take a Mensa test together and see who wins, eh?

Regardless of what you think of the South, it is full of people who are genuinely nice, kind, and people who will stop on the highway to help you if you have car trouble. And most of them are like my Daddy -- good people who were raised right, simply, and don't pass a lot of judgments on other people. Southerners have an identity, something that I sometimes think a lot of Middle America is missing.

I don't vote red, but I don't hate people who do (ok, there are a few who I don't like out there). I don't think that people who vote red are "Simpletons." In fact, many who vote red run the largest corporations in America simply because the platform of the party that equals red takes good care of corporate America.

Yes, those of us who vote blue are those who like social reforms and like to spend money on education and on those less fortunate. But I also don't know a NASCAR driver out there who doesn't do the same, even if he or she does vote red.

I have a lovely gift in my living room, given to me by an ex-boyfriend of my daughter's. It is a Goodyear Eagle tire, used by the #29 Kevin Harvick car (formerly Dale Earnhardt's #3 GM Goodwrench Chevrolet owned by Richard Childress), one of Harvicks right rear tires from Daytona 2002. It is in my living room. It is part of the furniture. Come into my living room and diagnose me by looking at my NASCAR tire -- you can't, you can't apply your imagined stereotypes and come out with the right answer.

Last year, before my daughter went to college, I booked a mother-daughter trip to Mooresville, North Carolina. It was the most marvelous time EVER!

We "accidentally" met Dale Earnhardt, Jr., a moment that my daughter will never forget. We got to do a "ride along" in a car that went 175 mph at the Lowe's Motor Speedway in Concord, NC. One of the finest moments of MY life -- and now I want to go to the driving school and drive the car myself

We visited Richard Childress' museum, a building lined with cars that the late Dale Earnhardt drove. And a good friend of ours helped us meet Chocolate Myers, formerly Dale Earnhardt's gas can man, who was in charge of the Childress museum in Welcome, NC.

For our memories, we have pictures of ourselves with the smiling, sweet Chocolate Myers, the very man who was one of the first to the winning car with Dale Jr. and Michael Waltrip on top when Dale Jr. won the Pepsi 400 in July 2001, months after Dale Sr. died.

Chocolate Myers, the same man who wept copiously on TV that same night. We all wept, in fact. A kind, patriotic, and gentle giant, Chocolate Myers is.

We had the opportunity to give a big hug to racing great Junior Johnson, a kinder man you'll never meet. He's an archetypal man of the South. A simple white t-shirt, hard-working even though he doesn't have to, and politically astute. Funny and engaging, like the typical Southerner, I know he'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.

Everyone in North Carolina associated with racing that we met were the most genuine, kind, sweet, giving people you will ever run into. My daughter and I went to DEI (The Garage Mahal) three separate times when we were there; the ladies working in the store joked with us each time we went. But we just wanted to be there, and they knew it.

NASCAR brings a great deal of money to your town. When I came to the Brickyard two years ago, never was there a ruder bunch than the hotel people, the restaurant people -- everyone who could potentially have put a good face on your city was surly and didn't seem to want us there.

We were so happy to be there, at Indy, to be in the midst of so much racing history -- and me and my highly educated little family were treated like trash. There was one exception -- a nice waitress at the Denny's treated us well, harried though she was -- and I left her a $20 dollar tip. See, when people are kind to us Southerners, we are kind back. Kindness and consideration are our defaults.

Sure, it's made me a little mad lately, with NASCAR trying politically correct-ify all that is NASCAR with the TV delay now that was caused when Dale Jr. said "shit" on the air -- when he was merely trying to say that he was nowhere near what his Daddy had accomplished.

And now, NASCAR is trying to cut out "foul language" on the radios. Give me a break. It's kind of like cable TV -- don't listen to the radios if you don't want to hear real people saying REAL things.

If NASCAR keeps going down this track (pun intended) it is going to lose its base and then my husband's idea of SASCAR (pun also intended), the Southern Association of Stock Car Auto Racing, might just take hold.

NASCAR would be cooler if NASCAR were MORE like its fans and paid less attention to people like you who think that there is something wrong with Willie Nelson, or with people who treat race car drivers as their heroes.

Look at NASCAR's history and you'll see Black drivers even way back. No one minds women drivers; we'd all welcome more Black drivers and the only time a woman driver was thought of as less than human was when Shauna Robinson wrecked Dale Earnhardt Jr. at the Texas Motor Speedway when her car was a pitiful excuse of a thing and she should have been staying out of Jr.'s way.

I was there, I know. We loathed her that day. But we would have loathed Rusty Wallace or Sterling Marlin or Tony Stewart had they been the one to take out "our driver."

America needs heroes and not everyone will have the same hero. I cried for 11 days straight when Dale Earnhardt died. No matter how stressful my week was, I knew that I had something to look forward to on Sunday. I would see someone who pushed the envelope, who wasn't afraid. He was one of my heroes. Don't try to understand it; I am not sure you can.

Foreign twang? Dude, do you have any idea how well that foreign twang helps me politically and socially? I have been in New York state before with people stopping me in the store, saying, "talk for me." What a great asset a southern accent is!

Too bad you can't share in it.

Dallas Medical Care and The Contrast Effect -- Two Blogs in One

2005-08-08T10:14:00.000-05:00

Two good things happened about mom's open heart surgery performed in Dallas. First, mom got a really kickass cardio surgeon who knew what he was doing -- and who patiently answered all of my very pointed questions of him when he came out, post-op to talk to Daddy and me. For a brief moment, I saw a look of annoyance cross his face, as you know surgeons, nobody questions them. But I've been through this heart surgery with mom before and last time, the docs said she wouldn't need it again. Well, those were Wichita Falls doctors, and I was fool enough to believe them. This time, more questions. And she is doing so well, I'm amazed.

The first couple of days were emotionally and physically exhausting, though -- mom was sometimes confused (well, on morphine, wouldn't we all be?) and mean to the nurses and you name it, it was a challenge. By the third and fourth days, she became more herself. Still, I'm so tired I can hardly stand up. Poor mom told my sister that she was glad that Dr. ER got some time to "rest" while she was having surgery. Rest? What? Oh my, poor mom doesn't understand how stressful all of that is.

Now the second Very Good Thing that happened was that daddy showed me a card he picked up on the first floor of the hospital where there was a massage therapist. I could scarcely move that day, so I was down there, booking an afternoon session in between CCU visiting hours.

Finally, finally, after searching all across Oklahoma, I have met someone who can do trigger point release as per Travell and Simons' trigger point area identifications (I have read so much on all of this, I could be a director of therapy, I am so desperate to feel good and I have a doctor here who just wants to give me pills) and knows how to do real myofascial release. I have searched forever. I was amazed at what he was able to do in the nearly two hours we spent (I only booked an hour, but of course, I'm an interesting (read: pitiful) case, and he was challenged, so he kept working.

I've booked Southwest flights already to make the Dallas trip to see him again later this month. I don't have a clue if insurance will help, and in fact, I'm pretty sure they won't. Drugs, they'll cover, but real body work, they won't most of the time unless it's straight, orthopedically-based physical therapy. I am so thrilled to have met this guy, and it was pure accident because mom just happened to have her surgery in this hospital and Daddy just happened to pick up his card for me.

This, of course, when I'm broker than broke...but if I get so bad I can't work, we'll be in one hell of a pickle, so I eschew and will continue to eschew, nice things for the sake of feeling better. I guess I'll have to drive down there sometimes and other times I'll fly. This time, I got major cheap Southwest tickets and a free hotel night because I travel so much, I have enough points for a free hotel stay.

But, you know, I am at the point where I hate doctors. They don't really listen (at least mine doesn't), they think they're f-ing god, and they're not. The only great doc I had was a female neurologist who abandoned me and her entire practice to literally buy the family farm and move to Arkansas.

Sigh.

Now, totally new subject -- and it's something that just riles both me AND ER. And it's a problem that arises, I think, because we have very good friends who just happen to be the opposite gender. ER has friends from way back, from high school, that are friends of his and friends of his family and they just happen to be girls. I have ALWAYS had more "dude" friends than "chick" friends simply because I find men to be easier to be friends with -- they are more real, predictable, and in truth, men friends are actually more genuine (you women out there know exactly what I mean -- and it's one of the reasons so many of us have gay friends -- talk about being genuine AND safe!).

He and I each have friends who have spouses (or in one case, a live-in person) who are so damned controlling, it's awful and it impacts our friends negatively, and, in turn, it impact ER and me negatively.

ER's friend is a sweet person, now in a lot of "trouble" because she dared to go visit ER's family not too long ago. Makes me nuts, and I feel for her and I know ER wishes he could help -- but when you are viewed as part of the problem by the controlling spouse, you can't be of much help. Oh, I tell you, I feel for her, too, because there are children involved and I have twice left places in my life to go a different direction -- and Bird will tell you that she thinks I am amazing for having done so. Bird loved just her and mommy time. So I hope ER's friend will learn from Bird that kids love being in a happy place. Happy is more important than a traditional two parent family, espcecially if it is not a happy place for kids.

Now, I have also the same situation -- or at least a similar one. ER and I have discussed this often, and I, for one, am just befuddled by it because, hellooooooooooo....I'm not the pretty girl I used to be. Steroids and the utter stress of my work have me where I am no one's idea of a catch.

Now, I care for my friends so, so much...but their "wives" won't let them near me. I don't get it, ER doesn't get it. I even have one friend whose wife reads his e-mail. Now, it would never occur to me to read ER's e-mail -- hell, he puts himself out there for all the world to see on his blog. Nor would it occur to ER to read mine. I recently suggested some good restaurants to one of my friends in a city I frequent and that he hasn't been in 20 years. Apparently, with glee, his "person" managed to not hit any of my suggested restaurants.

Now, what kind of bull is that? I am an "expert" on this city, I know the good places to eat, and I brought up places I thought they'd like. I shouldn't have bothered.

I miss my friends. I miss them a lot -- and their absence from my life causes me even more stress, which I sorely don't need. I could just dismiss them, were I some machiavellian chick, but I'm not. I can't "not care" about friends. The bad thing is, they're both older people, perhaps from different generations than ER and I, for example, but they're still people I care about. I don't know how to just forget that my friends exist...while they have to either sneak to send me an e-mail every now and then, or else not communicate with me at all.

Ya know, I'm just me. I AM funny, I AM entertaining, and I make a pretty good correspondent on the e-mail. I type fast, I send amusing and funny anecdotes to my friends I keep up with. I like to write things and share them with my friends, as I've done periodically on the blog. I like to give my friends things I find that I think they will like, it's my way of saying, "hey, I was thinking about you" or "I understand you and this token shows you that I do understand and know you" -- my assistant at work will attest to this (she's a HUGE Elvis fan and I find things for her all the time). Or this guy at work who has moved to my floor -- I know he loves penguins and I recently found a pretty crystal penguin as a sort of "welcome to the floor" present. He was genuinely surprised. And I like doing that. Surprising people.

All I am is NICE to my good friends, and I don't get why wives or squeezes would be threatened. I want to say sometimes, "Have you SEEN me? I am GROSS! I am not a f-ing threat!" But then I come to understand that this "problem," just like with ER's friend, isn't about ME (but the desire to fix it is strong, strong), nor is it about ER. It's about the people in our friends' homes who are "laying down the law" or treating our friends, in our minds, badly, it's their problem.

But what I hate, what WE hate, is that our friends suffer.

Sometimes, especially in my case, my friends suffer just because they are my friend. That hurts, that's awful, and I can't do a damned thing about it. I think I have some special trigger points in my body, some special places of stress, that I can attribute to this very issue.

Is the ultimate act of friendship, then, to stop being their friend so they can live in peace? [which reminds me of the 1970's-80's poster about loving something and letting it go, trite piece, that...]

ER's situation is a little easier -- his friend is in a situation where the perceived threat is more global than just ER -- her husband wants to control almost everything.

And maybe in mine, all I can see is the threats to my two friends in the context of me -- perhaps it IS more global than just me. But I have a harder time pulling back to see it in any other context.

A meaner ME would ditch my friends.

I can't, I just can't.

Sigh, this angst will just cause me to need my newfound bodyworker in Dallas more, I guess, so at least he has some security in his job.

Little A Said it Best

2005-08-04T21:33:00.000-05:00

Mom had open heart surgery today in Dallas. She went in at 8:30am and they didn't close until nearly 3:30pm. She's got now a pig's valve instead of her own. ER allowed today as how a friend of his who had a pig's valve replace his own would celebrate the event annually by buying pork rinds for everyone. Daddy mentioned this to the very stern cardio-surgeon and he might have cracked a small smile, but since he'd already admitted to me that he'd grown up in the northeast, I believe that the humor might have been lost on him.

What surprised me most, as this is round 2 for heart surgery for mom, is that she looked, even in recovery and still on a vent, so much better than she did on her first surgery -- and she might have even looked better than when we all visited last week in Texas.

I've got loads of photos of Big A. and Little A. to show her when she gets good and awake, which won't be until tomorrow...she tried to talk tonight with tubes still in her throat, but of course, she couldn't so Daddy and I skedaddled outta there so she wouldn't be tempted to.

Daddy's located a massage therapist IN the hospital itself and I hope to partake of that tomorrow, in between the very restrictive visiting hours in the hospital. Cause lordy me, I got a lot of parts hurting.

Now, off to the hotel bed with a Monk DVD and my beloved laptop.

Sunday Sunday

2005-07-31T17:40:00.000-05:00

No one ever sang a cool song about Sunday like the Mamas and Papas did about Monday.

When I was a kid, Sunday was depressing because it meant going to mass and also knowing that, when mass was over, it was your very last half-day of freedom for the week before school began again.

Now, I'd give anything for tomorrow to be a school day.

Instead, we all know that Sundays are our last day of semi-freedom until work begins. Well, most weeks it works that way; I'm sick of all the Saturdays and Sundays of my time and ER's time with me and Bird's time with me that I have had to f-in' DONATE to the taxpayers of this state. And I do mean donate. As the HR director once said to me, "Girl, once you're an exempt employee, we're allowed to work your ass off and not pay you for it." Sigh. Sad, but true.

I've been on vacation this week and perhaps I feel the old-fashioned day-before-school-starts dread more deeply than I normally do.

I know we all have to work, but I'd prefer to have the means to be a philanthropist for a living. I have a philanthropist's heart on a public servant's salary -- and the two just don't go together. Add Bird's college, house, car, all those danged bills that all FORCE work to take place and I just want to go crawl in a hole and watch for the mythical ship to come my way (which isn't likely since I live in a land-locked state and I doubt that very many people's ship has come in via the Port of Catoosa!).

Gerard Manly Hopkins, one of my favorite poets, wrote in The Windhover, which I believe I've posted here before, that the simplest work is the Godliest work..."sheer plod makes plough down sillion shine." We don't do simple work anymore, so who among us can even claim to be doing Godly work?

The generational farmer, perhaps...

And I ealier was writing to a friend who is planning to go to D. C. tomorrow about the changes he's likely to see, not having been there in 20 years...and it made me think of a "West Wing" rerun that ER and I watched earlier this week -- it was about the majesty of the American frontier spirit and imagination that created NASA and how the population doesn't have that imaginative sense of exploration anymore...couple of days later, the entire future of the shuttle program was shut down because of a piece of foam. Eerie how prescient that was. No imagination, no creativity, all we have going down is a national sense of "get the terrorists before they get you first." Gad. Fear, yes, that's how we should live. But a wise mind DID say that it's the only thing we have to fear -- fear itself. And yet, it's our national pasttime. Fear.

Where is the simple work?
Where is the simple joy?

Where is the great feeling of accomplishment I used to have when I made an "A" on a paper, or my musical choir or orchestra pulled off a really great concert? Where are the high-fives?

Where is the child-like imagination?
Why does everything have to be complicated and therfore, suck?

Yep, it just pisses me off. Sunday Sunday.

The Anti-Thought

2005-07-31T00:01:00.000-05:00

The worst thing for a "word person" is to have nothing to say.

ER often quotes Mencken's assertion that people can't write because they can't think.

So, with nothing to say, and therefore the inability to write, I give you the only thing left -- the anti-thought.

And that's all I have to say.

Sugar and Spice: Big A. & Little A.

2005-07-29T22:04:00.000-05:00

Big A. and Little A. are my nieces. This year, I was lucky, and work trips took me up north to see them twice! Generally, I only get to see them once a year, in the summer. I love these two girls as much as I love Bird -- it is as if they belonged to me as well. Similarly, Bird loves my sister so much....they were very close when Bird was a wee one and my sister was a single girl. They've always stayed close, too. I shot seven rolls of them this week when they were down here in southern parts...just a few black and whites here, since I haven't posted photos in a while...and a little tribute to my sweet girls. About 95% of the shots were great; that's awfully good, 'cause ER and I burn a lot of film in order to get great shots. But I think there is a reason that the photos of the girls are so good...in part, it's because they are both dancers and therefore follow "choreographic" instructions from their photographer well; but mostly, I think it's just love...I love them and they love me (and Bird always stands just outside camera range) and they love Bird and would do anything she asked of them. This is a great photographic relationship!

Every summer I take photos of my girls. Normally, I don't much like taking photos of people (I prefer places and things) and only seem to be able to do a decent job if I'm shooting people I love...like my girls here, or Bird or ER...but there's something about these two...I feel as if I know them so well, and love them so much, the camera operates almost without my intervention. This photo reminds me of some 1960's album cover. They are the definitive Sugar (Big A.) and Spice (Little A.).

This is Little A., or the Spice girl. She comes up with amazing things to say -- sometimes they embarrass her mother, and I have to hide my face when I'm laughing my tail off.

She really IS like I was as a kid...mother used to say that she had no real way to punish me -- that the punishment was just something I knew I needed tolerate in order to do what I wanted to do. My Little A. does the same thing. Love her, love her.

This is Big A., the Sugar girl of Sugar and Spice lore. She's in between being a girl and being a teenager. Lithe and graceful, Big A. is an amazing dancer, just like her sister (they are both formal dancers). Big A. is the ballerina type, while Little A. is the "power dancer" with jazz and tap. Big A. bears her little sister's antics with patience and allows her to go just so far before bringing the hammer down. Big A. reserves her anger for things that really are worth of it. She quietly waits her turn to speak, and often serves as the wind beneath the wings of her little sister.

One day, Little A. will realize this. In the meantime, Big A. is a very brave girl. She's smaller than her peers and Bird and I talked only this evening about how she feels a bit awkward about that sometimes...all she has to do is patiently wait until high school. Those big old football boys will love her petite little self. She's small like my dear grandmother Agnes was. Not a bad trait for Big A. to share...

Look at Little A. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but the little imp is definitely planning something...her sweet face keeps her mother from going insane, sometimes, as this one is pretty wild at times. But she also crawls up in your lap and gives you a full body hug and loves blindly and deeply. She is entepreneurial, too, offering anyone and everyone this week "back massages, 15 minutes for 50 cents!" I definitely bought her product; she's good at it, and my regular rate for massage I pay is 15 bucks for 15 minutes!

See what I mean about Big A.? She's lithe and sweet, and has gorgeous blonde hair, bleached to gold by the sun this summer. So, so many freckles, like her mother, my own baby sister. It's odd that I'm more like the younger girl, as first borns are generally similar. Still, Big A. and I have nice talks about what it's like to have a little sister...and I've given her a few ideas for handling her sister with some tricks that only big sisters know!

One final photo -- this one definitely shows their personalities just as they are...sweet and nurturing Big A. with Little A. hamming it for the camera lens. I haven't posted photos in a while and I'll try to resist posting something from all seven rolls of my girls. But I miss them very much; the older they get, the more fun they are. Sometimes I volunteer to take later flights and end up in all sorts of uncomfortble flying situations because I might end up with a flight voucher that will help me go see them. In the meantime, I have wonderful memories of this week and hope to see them again soon. Much love to Big A. and Little A. with all my heart......

More Georgia

2005-07-26T21:41:00.000-05:00

Home again.

Good. No travel again until mid-August.

Good again.

I bought a card on my next-to-last trip, which was to Santa Fe. The card is a small, post-card sized card, with text in two different fonts and two colors of brown, all right justified.

It's a quote from Georgia O'Keeffe that also hangs in her museum. It says:

NOTHING

IS LESS REAL

THAN REALISM

Details are are confusing. It is only by selection,

by elimination, by emphasis

that we get at the real meaning of things.

Georgia O'Keeffe

Just posting it today for a thought piece.
Georgia knew things about the universe that we didn't know.
So I tend to listen to her words and her art.

NO MORE WAR ZONES!!!!!!

2005-07-26T00:36:00.000-05:00

We're not even save on the National Geographic channel....safe, that is, from people who can't resist saying, "It looked like a war zone."

Puh-leeeeeese! I'm just trying to watch a cool documentary on earthquakes and some danged firefighter from Los Angeles has to say that a quake-ravaged LA looked like a war zone.

Few of us have ever seen a war zone, but those of us who live in tornado alley can't get through a single year without the dreaded "war zone" reference.

Jeff Foxworthy knows who these very people are, as he notes that we can't seem to keep the least amongst us off the TEEvee...

"It was pandelirium..." says Foxworthy. "I thought we was gonna be killed, or even worse..."

And he's right, the TEEvee folks DO always seem to hone in on the woman in the mumu and the pink sponge rollers.

The most embarrassing tornado TV moment for me, as a now-Okie, was a show on The Learning Channel all about May 3, 1999. They were talking to a poor simple soul from the Bridge Creek area. He said that he'd always heard that tornados sounded like a train, but that he "didn't hear no woo-woo."

Holy friggin' cow. It isn't the train WHISTLE a tornado sounds like, it's the sound of the danged thing on the track, passing you by!

Sigh.

I'd like to get through a single year without someone talking about something looking like a war zone. Only folks who have BEEN in war zones, to me, have the moral authority to make such a statement.

So, I offer a few alternatives:

It looked like a...

teenager's bedroom zone
dog vomit zone
tornado zone -- 'cause it WAS
school cafeteria after a food fight zone
girl's bathroom on prom night zone
moldy refrigerator detritus zone
time zone
booger zone
place Detective Monk would never go zone
college town trailer park zone

ANYTHING but a war zone....PLEASE!!!!!

Hometown Stuff

2005-07-25T22:10:00.000-05:00

My sister and I have been toolin' around our hometown for a couple of days, now. Now that both of us haven't lived here for awhile, we have that sort of "come hither, go away" feeling about the place. It reminds me a little of that Cross Canadian Ragweed Song about always being seventeen in your hometown.

Now, I was older than 17 when I left, but I always remember myself as being that age; probably because that was the year of my best memories. My sister is the same way. She's here for a class reunion, in fact; I'm just here to see her and her girls.

Yesterday we drove by our old high school. They've added a few things since we left in 1982 and 1985. But the bulk of the place really does look the same to us. We drove up from where the athletes used to practice, then went through the parking lot outside our band hall, where both of us used to park our cars. Then, across the front of the school, where the semi-circle drive sits (for freshmen whose parents still drop them off). Then we rounded the corner and looked up at the second floor where we both had choir and we could still see the ghost of the pale green car our choir director always parked in the very same spot, each and every day. Then, the place for the FFA crowd to gather...and then, it was in our rear view mirror again -- we're not 17; we just like to go places that help us be or relive being 17 in our minds every now and then.

This evening, returning from taking my nieces' photos, we stopped at the Sonic on 9th street to get a drink (because it is always so DAMNED hot in our home town) and I looked across 9th street to a church parking lot and thought to myself, "dang, I actually did an awful lot of smoochin' and neckin' in various church parking lots;" the one on 9th street being one of three. I was, however, not particular about the religion -- one of the parking lots was at a Catholic church; one at a Methodist church; and one at an Episcopalian church. Very bizarre. But as I think back, that was actually probably a pretty safe place for smoochin' and such. Surely these parking lots were safers places than some of the other places me and various boyfriends went.

My sister and I began to talk of various necking places in town. I can't get her to admit to any church parking lots, but there were always new subdivisions going up that had cul-de-sacs in them that were always the last places in the subdivision to fill up. Of course, now those places from our youth have houses sitting on them.

There was the place where one of my boyfriends (who, no lie, had a periwinkle-colored Gremlin and was the first of our class to have "Pong") and I would go -- out near a lake, back behind a park. [This guy is also the reason why I can't hear Boston's "More than a Feeling" without becoming nauseated. I HATE that song!]

This place near the lake was the same place where, one night, as we're doing our youthful bizness, a bright light shone into the car. Holy crap! We were either being abducted by aliens, or it was a cop! Yeah, it was a cop.

We struggled to quickly get our Izods back on (wow, I just used the word "Izod" in a sentence!) but the cop didn't let us, and the dirty old creep made me get out of the car, spread me eagle up against it, and then the cop frisked me -- I could hear his partner giggling. He and his partner were obviously just enjoying messing with some kids...

Now, of course, I wasn't the sage woman then that I was now -- now, I would have his badge on the next day. Then, I was just embarrassed.

About our Izods -- there was one difference. His alligator was dark green. My alligator was navy blue. When I got home that night and walked in the door, I looked down and realized that I had accidentally put on his shirt; my alligator was green. Oh, I prayed that mama wouldn't notice. She didn't. So now, that whole incident is just a funny little story I tell.

This particular boyfriend, however, was also the boyfriend who used nunchuks on me -- he was actually quite skilled with them, was close to having his black belt as well, and he would just terrorize me by flipping his danged nunchuks all around me while I stood stock still in mortal fear that he was going to hit me. He'd just laugh. He also had a bunch of danged ninja stars, too, and he would use them to scratch my skin until it bled. I'd say how much of an idiot he was, but the "now" me just thinks that I was an idiot for letting him; but he'd shown me often enough how strong and powerful he was, I was afraid of him. Stupid dork; he's done NOTHING with his life...and I also thought his dad was just a litle "too friendly with me" if you know what I mean...

I did have the last laugh with this guy, though....I had a white, 1970 Opel Kadett that had four on the floor, no air conditioning, and we had to roll the passenger side window down using a pair of pliers because the handle was missing. But oh, such a great car, really.

One early evening, I was driving as said boyfriend sat in the passenger seat. And we were feuding but good because I wanted to break up so I could meet my solemn vow to have NO boyfriend during my senior year...I wanted to ENJOY my senior year and I knew I couldn't do so with some dude trying to possess my every move. We were about five miles outside the edge of town, on a county road, and I'd stopped on the shoulder under a shade tree to tell him my sayonaras (he had no weapons on him, thank goodness).

So he decides to play power guy, jumps out of the car and says, "I'm not getting BACK in this car until you TAKE ME BACK!!!" I looked out at him, reached over, grabbed the handle of the passenger door and shut it as I drove off, leaving him in the dusty wake of my little white car. It was my first triumph over a mean old, possessive boyfriend. Hey, this was before cell phones; to this day, I have no clue how he got home.

See, when I'm in my Okie town, I don't think about this kind of stuff. But I relive a lot of things, over and over and over again when I'm here in my hometown. So does my sister. ER loves to return to his old homestead, and looks on his development years with much fondness -- I've even visited the drive-in movie theater in Arkansas where he...um, you know...for the first time.

I did have my senior year fully unencumbered by boyfriends, though. And it was GREAT!!!! That's not to say that I didn't have "fun" with guys my senior year, I just didn't have anyone to whom I was attached. SUCH freedom! My pals my senior year were my rocker Baptist pal and my newly-out gay friend. Those two guys and I had a blast together.

And after that one boyfriend, the one I left in the red dirt of Texas, I spent nearly 15 years only -- and I mean ONLY -- with older guys. Married a guy 11 years older than me; then lived for four years with a dude 16 years older than me. And various older ones interspersed along in there.

And then...here came ER and I'm actually OLDER than he is!
(which, of course, means that I'm the boss of him).

Hometown trips are both fun and sad. I am sad that I am old. I am sad that people I love are old or older than I really want them to be. But the song is true. This, my hometown, is the ONLY place where I can close my eyes and always, always be 17 years old.

FOUND: Old Poem on New Normal

2005-07-23T19:09:00.000-05:00

We're in the midst of a fruit-basket-turnover, technology-wise in the ER/Dr. ER household because Bird got a new laptop today for college. ER gets her nearly new HP desktop, so I'm playing the "geek" of the family today, consolidating files that are mine or ER's or Bird's from ER's struggling old Gateway. It's been rather fun, as I've found a number of hilarious photos and little columns that ER's written. I've found public policy speeches and papers I wrote in the past. And I've found old blogs and poetry to transfer to my new laptop I bought for the purposes of writing a couple of books. But I'm going to paste in here a poem that I don't think I've ever blogged. I wrote it in Spring, 2002, following the Friends of the Library booksale (always the last weekend in February), a booksale that is, in my town, a Very Big Deal annually. So, here you go:

Upon Discovering Maya Angelou’s 1993
Inaugural Poem at a Used Book Sale

Thin blue booklets lay in a pile on a table
Quiet and small and ignored by most
A pinpoint stack of silence
Among mothers and fathers and children
Digging through words and stories

Looking for and
Finding an imagination inside

A frantic browse for new words for now
For something additional to today
A search for cheap but necessary escapes
For some more meaningful or tangible thing
To hold in a hand for a few hours

Or a moment
To dive into completely

For a journey into long and short pages
Of print and language small, foreign, or local
A magazine picture of a pretty girl
Or a ride inside a nearly old travel guide
A diagram in a science text

Pictures and words
We need now to conjure

Images preferred at the moment to live at five
Ugly & scary monday through sunday
Talk and talk and fear and loss
And yellow and orange and wonder
If school done today will matter later

If anything done today
Will matter to anyone later

A stack of tiny blue books - fifty cents each
With gilded letters, an (in)signficant imprint of our
Country and people, complete with a map
And directions on not repeating history
And recognizing our friends and selves

All of them (& us)
Of varied size, shape, color

And who we really are outside & inside
Today’s bargain rate diversions
Who still seek our old peace and prosperity
That today’s ordinary story hunters
And leaders and children alike

May buy and read an old book of new-dawn words &
Look out upon all we are and have and then say to each other, again

“Good morning.”

Note: To read the actual inaugural poem penned by Ms. Angelou, simply Google the title: "On The Pulse of Morning." It's an amazing charge to humanity, full of history and hope.

Sprechen Sie NovemberAlphaTangoOscar Phonetic Alphabet??

2005-07-22T23:00:00.000-05:00

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:-)

LimaOscarVictoEcho TangoOscar AlphaLimaLima WhiskeyHotelOscar TangoRomeoYankee TangoOscar RomeoEchoAlphaDelta AlphaLimaLima TangoHotelIndiaSierra. YankeeOscarUniform'RomeoEcho AlphaSierra GolfOscarOscarFoxtrotYankee AlphaSierra India AlphaMike!!!!!!!

To Fly or Not to Fly

2005-07-21T23:13:00.000-05:00

I decided today that I want to learn how to fly.

Yep, fly a plane.

ER believes that I'm nuts, and when I asked him if his nephew was an instructor, he said "no" just a tad too fast -- so Bird and I believe that his nephew, Pillsbury Dough Dude, is, indeed, an instructor. Former Air Force; does corporate jet piloting, etc.

Now I can't say what triggered this today, but when my mind gets made up...look out. Bird picked me up at the airport today after a nice trip to San Francisco for work. And I told her I wanted to fly...she said nothing and then answered her ever-ringing cell phone. As we get closer to home, I note to Bird that she's said nothing about my assertion that I want to fly.

Bird declares (not unlike Rachel's dismissive reaction on "Friends" when Monica told her that Chandler was going to move in with her) that it's not going to happen, "you'll totally wig out, mom."

No.

I reminded Bird that I used to be so scared of heights that the escalators at Dupont Circle and Adams Morgan in DC had my palms so sweaty, I almost slid down the escalators, while hanging on for dear life. As recent as three years ago, pal Stacey and I would actually SIT DOWN on the Dupont Circle escalator as we went down, we so wanted our center of gravity to be low, low.

Couple of summers ago, with Bird and ER in tow, we were going up the Adams Morgan escalator. Adams Morgan is, I believe, even steeper in slope, and higher, than the Dupont Circle escalator.

Like a flash, I made a decision, and left Bird and ER with mouths open behind me as I released the handrail and ran, RAN FAST, in the center of the steps, all the way up to the top of the escalator. I conquered that sonofabitch, is what I did. They were amazed. Or shocked. Or thought I'd flipped clean out. Yeah, one of those...

Since then, I break nary a sweat on escalators. I can even walk/run down and up those in the DC metro stops like those young pups who work there and run our country behind the scenes.

Heights in general don't give me much pause anymore, either, and ER has, more than once, flipped out while I scaled along the edges of steep cliffs, camera in hand, trying to get a great shot.

So wig out while learning to fly? I think not.

I'm already back to the point where I love it (not the airport experience, of course, that's always a danged nightmare; and don't be giving me any middle seats back in coach) again -- the flying, seeing the weather from above, you name it.

It might not happen this year because, of course, the danged IRS wants everything we own and then some, but I'm going to do it. Old lady or not.

First, though, I might do the NASCAR racing school and drive the race car myself, solo. After doing the 175 mph around Lowe's Motor Speedway last August in a ride along, I've wanted to actually DRIVE that puppy. Get that under my belt, and then I'm going flying.

I made some sort of weird peace that didn't happen obviously, it was more subtle and crept up on me until one day I realized that it was there in my heart and soul -- and it is this: I am not afraid to die anymore. I used to be afraid of HOW I might die, but even that isn't something I'm going to waste time worrying about.

So the rest of this stuff is just...stuff.

Time to Carpe the hell outta this diem!

Slipping the Surly Bonds Tomorrow

2005-07-16T15:32:00.000-05:00

Ah, tomorrow, I'll be in the air, looking down upon all of you.

I dreamed of flying last night; and I was happy doing it. Many of my flying dreams have to do with the hassle of changing flights and not making it in time to my connection...the kind of things that happen on the A&E show about people's experiences with flying (a show I won't watch because it's the ultimate reality TV -- why would I want to watch something that causes me stress?).

But the airport stress disappears once we push back from the gate, make the fast chase down the runway, rise up and then hear the thud of the landing gear withdrawing. Seeing the earth from above is so exquisite.

One reason I'm pumped is because I'm going west and when I go west, I like to fly United because United lets you listen in to the tower on larger planes. I love to listen in on the tower. I have no clue why. That's a pilot's perogative, however, and I did have one pilot who wouldn't release the tower to those of us in the cabin. Made me wonder what he didn't want us to hear.

The city by the bay. Yay. And my body loves west coast time so much.
Surely, this will be a good trip.

And I'll be having my "church" up in the air, taking the sabbath day as close to the heavens as I'm able to get.

Finally, Finally, I am Me Again

2005-07-16T00:55:00.000-05:00

I think the pity parties are all done, now. Now that doc and me have decided that prednisone should now go on my "allergy" list -- it's taken me a week to get past the bad reaction I had to it and I'm still swollen up like a beached whale.

But I feel better, so yay! And I delayed it by two days, but I AM going to San Francisco on Sunday, so yay to that as well. Get to see people I ADORE from nearly all fifty states. Oddly enough, most of my best friends do not live in my home state, but live elsewhere.

I am lonesome for New Mexico, though. With ER and I just having gone, I have something akin to homesickness for it.

I would love to open up a crap shop or book shop or whatever in Red River --- get the skiing customers in the winter and the slower summer vacation crowd. My midlife crisis is all about simplying my existence, and yet everything I seem to get involved in actually complicates, not simplifies it.

And speaking of simplification and feeling better, over the long haul...

I am DYING to go to this one treatment clinic. I think I can eventually get insurance to pay for part of it, but only AFTER the fact and so I have to front the money myself first. It's John Barnes' Therapy on the Rocks in Sedona, AZ. Myofascial release. I have my doc looking at it as a treatment modality, but the truth is, it is pricey pricey. I've had traditional myofascial release before and know, know it is what I need.

I have been thinking, now what on earth could I put on e-bay to try and raise about 15 grand for myself? Bad thing is, my only liquid asset is my brain. And it's not like I can pack that up and ship it somewhere.

So I don't know. I'd need about 10,000 bake sales to make it. Or, hey, anybody wanna give me 15 grand for an aging dork of a dachshund?

It's not quite time to put my soul on e-bay (I doubt that the devil uses pay pal anyway) but I want this treatment so bad, there are no words.

There's just no one trained in my home state to do it -- and it lasts from 2-4 weeks; it's intensive outpatient, but you also have to have a hotel and such to live in. Wouldn't you know, my ONE good friend in AZ recently sold their home there and moved to Texas! Otherwise, the living there wouldn't be a big deal.

Actually, if I had to, I might be able to swing their Pennsylvania clinic easier than the AZ one. I just love AZ and NM and the entire southwest and to me, that's the most fitting setting to really become well. The clinic in PA is outside of Philly (I know people love Philly, but it's a dirty city to me; I know it's old, but yuk)...and I can find friends around there easier to impose myself upon.

Y'all call if you want the weenie dog.

On pseudonyms

2005-07-10T22:12:00.000-05:00

Unexpectedly, outta the blue, I got kinda yanked (or at least I think I got yanked) by one of my regular readers on the pseudonyms I use here.

Now, one of ER's faves, Bitch Ph.D. has, I think, the best pseudonym of all, in referring to her kid -- Pseudonymous Kid. Doesn't get more pseudo than that! Love the name, love it!

ER, Bird, Schmirdly, Baby Sister, Nick Toper, Dr. E.R. or 3&8 as I'm known to call myself, are all important in retaining our anonymity.

Of course, Bird comes from her affinity for eating. ER, well, that's pretty clear to all of us as well.

A few of us know who each other are; but the majority have no clue whatsoever. I find that fun. Actually, for some of you who have pseudonyms on here, I sometimes forget what your real name is and think of you by that name (for example, Trixie has no other name than "Trixie" to me, oddly enough, even though I know that she does have a real name; she's Trixie to me!).

Gentle readers, some of you have enjoyed multiple pseudonyms on here. I do that so that, even if I refer to you more than once, you have multiple layers of pseudonymity on here. I aim to protect the innocent. Me and Jack Webb, peas in a pod.

Love and other indoor sports, 3&8

Book MEME Wished on me by ER: More than you ever wanted to know

2005-07-10T15:43:00.000-05:00

Disclaimers and Caveats: ER shouldn’t have sent this to me because books have been important to me since the day I could open them and look at the pretty pictures. My books tell about times I lived, how I felt, who gave them to me, who suggested them to me; they are a shortcut description for who I am. So, apologies in advance.

How many books have I owned?

Over the course of my life, I’ve probably owned about 3,000 books. I don’t, however, feel the need to keep them all; I keep the ones that are the most important and share other books with other people. Some books are disposable; others are permanent fixtures. Probably 500 or so remain permanent fixtures.

Last book bought:

Rarely do I buy one book at a time. I’ve bought several in the past week or so.

Canyon Suite – a collection of watercolors painted by Georgia O’Keeffe when she taught in what was once West Texas Normal College in Canyon, Texas. These watercolors capture the grandness of the west Texas terrain, big sky, and immense gratitude the artist felt for the land. All of these are pre-New Mexico time for O’Keeffe.

Stieglitz and O’Keeffe: An American Romance – Because of the visceral and emotional reaction I had to the Stieglitz photography of O’Keeffe in her museum in Santa Fe, as well as the tears I shed over her gorgeous paintings, I bought this to better feel the bond between the two people; the bond that led to so much sublime art and photography.

Coping With Prednisone – Found this book by accident and needed it since I’m taking prednisone at the moment to get rid of some horrid physical symptoms.

Last Book You Read:

I am in the middle of reading a number of books right now:

F. Melius Christiansen – This book is about the one man who brought to the United States the lovely Scandinavian-Lutheran choral form in the very early 1900s. He brought this technique to the state of Minnesota, to St. Olaf college, and his influence eventually got brought to Texas by a man who taught me how to sing.

The History of Wichita Falls – God help me, you can tell I’ve been ill this week; this book was sitting in ER’s computer desk and I picked it up one day during a long file download. I find that I can’t put it down.

I just finished a book of poetry written by a good friend, secretary, cook, and good friend of Georgia O’Keeffe’s. I bought the book in Santa Fe; it seemed important for me to buy this particular book there, and it’s filled with deceptively simple poems about the everyday spareness in O’Keeffe’s life that found its way into her later art.

Five or More Books that Meant a Lot to You:

All of these books have meant a lot; many have shaped me; many continue to be my favorites –

Little House in the Big Woods (Laura Ingalls Wilder) – All of the Little House book series are important to me. My sister and I read them still – different books are appropriate for different moods. When it’s hot outside, it is wonderful to read The Long Winter and imagine that blizzard after blizzard is outside. These books are great for what I call “regressive reading” because, when you read them, the only cares you have are those that you share with the characters or those that you had when you first read the books.

Beyond Freedom and Dignity (B.F. Skinner) – After failing my first test in my honors psychology class during my freshman year of college, I chose this book for my book report for the class. My teacher warned me at the time how difficult a book it was, but I was so intent on impressing the teacher and trying to truly understand psychology, that I was determined to read this and get it. And, in my novice freshman way, I did get it, got a good grade, and made an A in the class. This book and my experience with it led me to change my major.

Theories of Learning (W. Sahakian) – Later in my undergraduate and graduate school, this book on complex theories of learning and models of learning helped me to know that I was capable of understanding the theoretical bases of learning from many learning theorists.

The Awakening (Kate Chopin) – Along with Henrik Ibsen’s “A Doll’s House,” this book, one of the first to show the female as a strong person during the waning days of the Victorian era, was a turning point for me in an undergraduate literature class.

Selected Poems II: Selected Poems Old and New (by Canadian poet Margaret Atwood). I first read this collection in 1988; Atwood soon became my favorite poet. Often known for her “Handmaid’s Tale,” which isn’t my favorite of hers, and it SO unlike most of her other books, Atwood is less known for her poetry, which I adore. My favorite in this collection is “Variation on the Word Sleep.” Type that title into Google and read it. You’ll love it.

Preface to the Lyrical Ballads (William Wordsworth) – In the preface, Wordsworth defines, for the Romantic era, what makes for good poetry and also describes what a true poet is – one who can write with “emotion recollected in tranquility.” A great introspection on what it means to be a poet.

ALL of the Georges Simenon “Inspector Maigret” mysteries – Not nearly as well known as the Agatha Christie formulaic mysteries, the Simenon mysteries, translated into English, are marvelously voluptuous in their language – you can taste the calvados and the beer. You can smell his pipe smoke, and see, with your mouth watering, the piles of sandwiches brought into Maigret and his crew as they work all night through a case. Wonderful stuff.

The Complete Sherlock Holmes (Arthur Conan Doyle). Now, these stories have all influenced my ability to use inductive reasoning and I have to say that part of my love for the stories also overlays how much I loved Jeremy Brett as Homes in the PBS series. When I read Holmes stories now, over and over of course, I see Brett in my head. So sad that Brett no longer walks the face of the earth.

Harry Potter Books – all of them – (J. K. Rowling). I avoided reading the Potter books originally because I thought that, if the general public at large loved them SO much, then surely they couldn’t be of any interest to me. However, when my mother had open heart surgery and I spent many hours in the Intensive Care unit, these books – I read the first three one right after the other – not only helped me through that time, it was the first time in SO long that language, beautiful language, simply made my imagination EXPLODE! After the first three, however, the Goblet of Fire book is my favorite. At the end of Goblet of Fire, which I finished just prior to September 11, 2001, it occurred to me that the Harry Potter world had completely changed. As ours did after September 11th.

The DaVinci Code (D. Brown) – Another fabulous story that had my Catholic self then researching the “Last Supper” painting as well as studying up on the role that the Council of Nicea played in determining Catholic doctrine.

Roses for Christmas (by Betty Neels). Now, don’t laugh about this one, but when I was 12 years old, I read this book. It was one of those thin, chaste, Harlequin romance books. After that, I began collecting Betty’s books. They all follow a certain formula or story line – maybe a Dutch doctor, who loves a mousy English nurse. Sometimes the Dutch doctor is already engaged to someone else and he throws her over for the more homely English nurse. There’s always a crisis, generally involving a joint saving of some poor animal. It’s nuts, but me, my sister, and now my mother, read and re-read all of these “Bettys” – which is what we just call them now. I lost my entire collection of these books once and have recently replaced them -- they're so chaste, that the English nurse always blushed when the nursery is discussed. A swoop and a kiss and marriage…that’s how they all end. Recently, I got on Amazon and bought back the entire collection I had to destroy. I now own over a 100 of them.

The two-volume complete collection of “The Far Side.” ER got me this for Christmas; it’s like the OED of Far Side cartoons. Love them, love them, genius.

The Basic School (by Ernest Boyer, Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching; now deceased). This is simply THE best book on what a school is and should be. I am convinced that every democrat and republican member of congress, of the state houses, of general assemblies everywhere should read this book – because if they did, all decisions about schools would be made in the spirit of this book, decisions for children would all be made in a non-partisan manner, and children would be the ultimate winners.

Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. I own this book in both English and German. I may even have one in the original Chinese as well, not sure. I went through a period in the early 1990’s when I considered myself a “closet sinologist” and read everything I could about the Cultural Revolution. I learned much about how not to repeat history.

Series of books read for class in High School: Alas Babylon (Pat Frank); Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World; George Orwell’s 1984. I was fascinated by all negative utopia novels.

A Time to Keep (Tasha Tudor). Tasha Tudor is simply one of the most brilliant illustrators of children’s picture books. She loves corgis, and it the only artist in the world who has been able to capture the magical, sweet nature of these fabulous dogs. This book chronicles all of the holidays in the year – and the corgis are front and center. A magical book to read and magical to mentally enter into the scenery she so beautifully created.

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever (Barbara Robinson). Funniest book for people of any age to read. Sweet and poignant.

Animal Dreams (Barbara Kingsolver). Voluptuous language, again. Southwestern setting; amazing story.

Darkness Visible (William Styron). The novelist’s account of his own experience with major depression. He nails it. A slim book, doesn’t take a long time to read, but explosive in generating understanding of the dark moments in the mind of someone depressed.

84 Charing Cross Road (Helene Hanff). I love the book and I love the movie equally.

Must return to the Mind Movies

2005-07-10T12:25:00.000-05:00

I presented a list of mind movies earlier this spring that I hoped to complete by the end of summer...I got quite a few done, but realize that I'm going to have to whip it up warp speed in order to complete them, so watch for some of the mind movies to reappear.

They're on my mind for this reason -- this next Wednesday night, my work's band (yes, we really DO have a band) was supposed to play for a group of people -- we do parodies, mostly, rewriting lyrics and covering well-known tunes with them. But everyone in the band is gone on vacation or to a conference and I'm left with either a karaoke night (which doesn't seem likely) or, doing standup.

Now, I figure I can do standup pretty well. Last year, at a major conference in Washington, DC, I was given about an hour's notice to come up with something to say to about 1200 people, something light and fun and I hastily wrote up a version of Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a ....." where I inserted a different word for "redneck." Give my southern accent, which is pronounced when I really relax (or when I'm with my daddy), I can pull it off.

All I have to do is relax, and I can storytell to beat the dickens. I can't quite decide if I want to do the Jill Conner Brown Sweet Potato Queen gig (which requires a little bit bigger hair and some majorette boots, which I don't have -- and a tiara, which I do have, thanks to fellow Sweet Potato Queen, my Baby Sister).

It ends up being a mixture of Suzanne Sugarbaker of "Designing Women" mixed with the snarly and sassy and slightly wicked Ron White of Fritch, Texas, the scotch drinker of Blue Collar Comedy game. But I've never sat nekkid on a beanbag chair eating cheetos.

The only risk that one runs when going outside the normal character that you present to the work world is that you confuse people sometimes -- which one is the real HER, they might wonder.... the answer is very easy. The answer is YES. All of the me's people see ARE me....

Me at the Whitehouse
Me convincing people to vote a certain way
Me telling tales about my nieces
Me telling daddy's stories about being a Wal Mart greeter (where, this past week, he wore a pedometer for the first time and logged in 10.2 miles during his shift)
Me giving a formal data presentation
Me writing a book
Me loving people verbally with quite dramatic language
Me telling people to bite me (though this is usually done only in my head)
Me fighting the bulwark of bureaucracy in the name of children
And especially, me telling funny stories

Which is why I need to get back to writing my mind movies. It's the part of me that hasn't gotten as much exercise as needed lately.

But first, ER apparently wants me to do this book MEME...and books are so important to me, I'm going to have to actually think about it.

Peace, love and jelly doughnuts, 3&8

Homeostatic States: In People, States, and Systems

2005-07-08T23:05:00.000-05:00

Next Chapter in the Prednisone Saga:

Oddly enough, I’ve found a silver lining to prednisone in a book I happened to come across this evening in an cheapy book sale – it was a book about how prednisone is this miracle drug and how to cope with the side effects.

So, re: the moonface phenom., one woman mentioned that when you get the moonface, your plumper face removes lines and wrinkles.

Okay, I’ll take that – younger looking but fat.

I HATE that it works so well. Because the side effects, despite that bit about losing wrinkles, do pretty much suck.

I blame two things for my exacerbation – the aforementioned bad chair that killed me while at work and also a traumatic event. Traumatic events can be linked to many of my exacerbations. The first exacerbation happened right after September 11th, oddly enough.

So am looking into John Barne’s myofascial release techniques. www.myofascialrelease.com

There’s no treatment provider here in my state who has been trained by John Barnes or his staff, but am going to look elsewhere. The technique is particularly for people who hold in traumatic events; it begins to sound a little psychological, I suppose, but given my belief in state-dependent learning, it makes some sense to me. Doc is going to help me get some approval from insurance for me. I’ll have to find a way to pay for it first and then submit my own insurance forms and I haven’t quite figured that part out yet. I really want to go to one of THE Barnes treatment facilities, but need about eight grand a week for two week's worth of treatment. If any of you see that kind of loot falling from the sky, do let me know.

Now, if I could just keep people like my biography man from putting me into trauma, I could handle this stuff better. It’s one of the reasons that chronic myofascial pain syndrome is more common in women; we’re socialized to internalize. Hey, the body suffers when one does that. It’s pretty simple. If I would violently kick more ass than I do, this probably wouldn't be happening. But then I probably wouldn't be employed or sane. Internalization is really my only coping skill. It just kicks my OWN ass, instead.

Lessons in Humility and Relativity of Suffering:

Now, if London’s events gave me some perspective yesterday, I had another sobering lesson in humility and the relative severity of problem states today. Good friend’s son died. He was mid-30’s and had a malignant melanoma, but they never saw a skin lesion. That’s enough to make us redheads and fair skinned types gulp. By the time his was diagnosed, he already had large tumors under his arms, in the lymph system. Apparently the skin lesion that is oft the first sign can be very small, and can even fall off and never be seen, according to his mother.

I gulp again.

This, a day after the funeral of a very good and decent man who died far too early from pancreatic cancer. A man who was in top physical condition, a runner and bicyclist who loved to look at the stars and taught many young people how to appreciate the heavens as well.

There are so many other people who should really go first, ya know? Simple, good people, minding their own business in life, who don’t harm a flea…why are these the ones dying?

And an Upcoming Murder to Watch For (Metaphorically Speaking):

And I’m in the midst of watching before my very own eyes a political murder take place. No, no one is going to literally die, but I’m watching from afar a pretty decent man about to be taken down via politics. There won’t have to be a reason when he goes down, it will just be about numbers. That’s how politics works. If there are sufficient numbers to make someone go away, a good reason can be fabricated. Hell, if there are sufficient numbers, no reason need be fabricated at all. If the right party has enough votes, then it’s all said and done.

I hope it won’t happen in the way things have happened politically in my state before. I hope that I won’t have to see good people emasculated in public. I hope not. This, however, is just another traumatic event, a glimpse at the power of social Darwinism that I will be forced to merely watch, an actually enjoyable spectator sport to some, and see how it ends up. I won’t be able to DO anything about it, though I might wish I could. All I can do is the right thing, all the time, and know I can sleep at night. But I’ll internalize the trauma and probably find myself needing some more prednisone before it’s all said and done.

What troubles me a little is that the ones who wield the swords of social Darwinism also sleep well at night. Conscience is merely a bother to them or not even on their radar screens. But power corrupts. We’ve seen it over and over again. Sociopathy occurs in government, too. Sociopaths are often very charming, engaging, and people love to be around them. So you can’t easily spot one in a crowd. They’re all over the place in government at all levels. In fact, not sure government can function without it. It is as if our systems of government rely on a certain degree of sociopathic behavior to be in a homeostatic state.

And homeostasis in the biological sense equals appropriate checks and balances in the political sense.

It’s time for me to read Kuhn’s Structure of Scientific Revolution again.

The patterns of revolution are the same, whether in politics, geopolitics, governance, or any other human system.

In the meantime, bring on the Xanax and the Predisone and throw in a few painkillers along the way. It will dull the impact of the murder, the trauma, and the powerlessness. When you accept the things you cannot change, and you have the wisdom to know the difference in what you can and can't change, it doesn't mean that all is wonderful. That powerlessness expresses itself in different ways. Bring on the drugs, people.

Word of Mouth

2005-07-08T15:56:00.000-05:00

People have been so good to me this week. Actually people, particularly my staff, are so good to me all the time that I love to send little unexpected "thank you's" or something to help boost their spirits when they might need it. So this is a word of mouth advertisement because I've been so happy with their service. http://www.1800flowers.com

There, I can't believe how great they are to use, it's so easy and particularly, this week, when I can only sit in front of the computer for a few minutes at a time, this great website has allowed me to send thank you's and other niceties to people I care about. Not just flowers, but baby gifts, gourmet foods, plants, gift items, you name it.

It's my favorite gifting place. And I know how much people like to be surprised. I first used them when I needed to send Bird something because I was traveling for work on her 13th birthday. I sent a birthday cake made completely out of flowers. As nice as that was, I will never, ever be traveling on Bird's birthday again. That, clearly, was work taking over my life and I've changed my ways since then. But it was lovely -- since we know that Bird is now 19, you know how much I've used this service.

Try the site, send someone something nice this way. It really is very customer friendly.

Steroid du jour

2005-07-06T23:35:00.000-05:00

ER remarked tonight on the roundness and redness of my face.

Of course it is red and round...after three years of swearing, swearing that I'd never take prednisone again, I found the pain finally so bad, that I had to acquiesce. I hate the stuff. I hate that I get the "Cushingoid features" to my face (named for Cushing's syndrome; aka "moon face," for some people, and especially me, prednisone causes a distinct rounding of the face -- I have no idea why, I haven't researched it, I just know it happens).

Just call me Jerry Lewis, the poor man also has the same reaction to steroids -- and he's had to take plenty. Love the man dearly, but don't want to end up looking like him!

I tried to quell this latest bout with lower back pain with the methylprednisolone (wussier steroids), aka a Medrol Dose Pack, and historically, after the first day's load of 24 mg (6 X 4mg tablets that you load up on the first day, no matter what time of day you get the Rx), usually I could tell there was instant improvement.

Didn't happen this time.

Over the past four days, I've moaned. I've groaned. I've laid on the floor with my knees to my chest. I've used heat. Ice. Tylenol #3 with codeine, Lortabs (though doc said today I wasn't taking enough pain drugs; chalk that up to my tremendous respect for narcotics and how easily that people can become dependent on them); so I'm taking more now.

I have an AMAZING tolerance for pain; probably comes from practice. But this go-round, I'd be in so much pain that my entire head would be wet with sweat. I was tolerating it mentally, but not physically. (And some of my colleagues would get me for that reference to mind/body dualism, I know...)

But crap. Prednisone is just evil. And here I'm so danged needy that I'm willing to take it again. I'm not all that happy about it. But I know that it got exacerbated when I had to sit on a hideous chair for about three hours, all proper last week, so as not to draw attention to myself, while at an important meeting at work.

What's a body to do? It's pretty humiliating already that folks at work call my special chair in my office my "Christopher Reeve" chair... asking for special accommodations where I work is just ASKING for people to seize upon your weakness and make hay out of it. That's politics, baby.

The fact that I work for the government is even more problematic, as, when I've tried to bring up the fact that people seize upon my weakness here with the boss, he/she always says that people are just concerned about me. No, they are not. One old bitty even went to the HR director and asked the HR director just what my physical issues were. Smart HR director wouldn't tell her. People are so stupid.

There's no real ADA going on where I work...especially not for people who want to work but just need a few extra things to help them...I was lucky, I got my special chair pretty quickly, but another girl I know had to wait a long, long time while people had to hem and haw over the cost and did she really need it, even though she had the recommendation from a doctor and yadda yadda...

Sad thing is, I got mine so quick because I'm just higher up on the food chain than she is. So, when I get wind that people lower on the food chain need something and are not getting it, I turn into instant advocate. HR director has often said to me, "You can't save everyone, dear."

Oh yes, I can.

But about me, I like to keep this kind of thing to myself at work; my pain issues, that is. It pays to keep your mouth shut and just bear it...

But on my blog, I can complain and gripe about having to deal with crap like this at all...prednisone...well, I can assure you, that's probably going to put another 20 lbs. on me. Joy. But, in the meantime, prednisone is also my savior, and I'll know by this time tomorrow if it's going to do the trick. So far, just so-so.

And now, a round of applause for such a great organ recital, my friends!

Baby Boy Doe

2005-07-06T23:25:00.000-05:00

I wrote the following recently in reaction to a lovely baby picture of an old friend...born in the 1930's; certainly much older than me. I need to know if you can "see" the baby in your head...

A still life photo of the baby Doe comes alive from 1930’s South Dakota. Any photograph of a child is a still life, of course, since babies and toddlers are all little bundles of action. This photo, however, shot during a decade in which photography first became an integral part of family memories, seems to go beyond the mere snapshot.

In this hand-tinted photo, it seems that, if you would only take the time to look at the baby long enough, you wouldn’t be seeing a snapshot at all, but a single frame captured from a movie reel. A cell, if you will. It is easy to find yourself inside this photo along with the baby; stare at it long enough, and the next few frames of action will slowly begin to move; you can see what comes next, even in the stillness.

Doe’s two baby hands hold a toy elephant; his right hand has the elephant by the tail and the tip of his left index finger barely brushes the trunk of the animal. It’s hard to tell if the elephant is wooden or plastic and the absence of detail in the picture makes the elephant at first look like a small puppy. His left thumb points upward and it’s clear that the baby's investigation of the elephant is tenuous or at least quietly studious.

The thick, wool sweater on the baby Doe is folded over above his tummy and creased at the elbows; the cuffs are stretched a little. He isn’t a chunky baby, but well-fed. His hair is parted on the left side, with big curls rolled over the right side of his forehead. One single blond curl drops over his forehead to frame the introspective look on his face. The curls over his left ear are tight, a little wild, and they evoke a motherly instinct to brush them with a soft-bristled baby brush. He already bears the high forehead as an infant that he will have later on as the man.

His eyes, long lashed, look downward in shadow; this baby doesn’t appear to know that he’s on the other side of a camera lens. Doe’s baby nose, the nose that in his adult life sports a mustache more often than not, already shows the shape he will grow into. And his baby mouth is quiet, for this moment. His skin is perfect, like all babies, and you can almost smell the scent of powder, of clean, of cotton.

So...can you see the photo in your head? If not, tell me what you need, other than the photo itself...

Independence Day (not)

2005-07-04T23:01:00.000-05:00

For the first time since I can remember, I'm not watching any fireworks tonight. I was supposed to be watching them from a party on a pier along New York's East River, Statue of Liberty in sight. Instead, I watched "Monk" reruns on USA Network and didn't leave the house -- not yesterday, not today. My bags sit still packed for New York.

Stupid pain. Stupid back. Sigh, I had to call off the trip, didn't even go to my usual UCO spot to watch. I could hear them, booming in the distance. In 2000, ER and I watched fireworks on the mall in DC. I thought this year I was going to add New York to my list of places I'd watched fireworks, but that wasn't in the cards.

Ironic enough, the most magical fireworks display wasn't in DC. It wasn't at the air force base where I'd watch them with my family growing up. It was in Tulsa, in 1989, Labor Day weekend. I'd just moved to Tulsa and we'd set up house in an apartment near the river; we had no clue that any town did fireworks for Labor Day -- so we went outside, in our new city, in our new lives, and saw an amazing fireworks display over the Arkansas River. At the end, the 21st street bridge became a waterfall of fireworks, too.

For me, it was a magical show -- unexpected, and lovely and it signaled a welcome to Tulsa to me; a welcome to a new life, a nice short period of being very happy.

Which beats the heck out of today, stove up indoors with a bad back and wishing like heck that I could be the 25 year old bambino I was then -- the me who saw the magic in the fireworks and felt the rockets red glare in my veins.

Fire maybe, or: Last words, maybe

2005-07-03T21:35:00.000-05:00

Crap, Bird and I are alone tonight with ER at his mom's. I clearly smelled and called Bird in from outside, electrical fire smell -- you know the smell, I'm sure. It was coming from the vent in our kitchen. Fire smell makes me panic; I had a kid once set fire to a toybox when I was babysitting him and his younger brother and baby sister. Thing weighed well over 100 pounds with all its toys in it, and with the toys ablaze, it smelled awful. Somehow, I picked the thing up, on fire, carried it from the back bedroom to the front yard and put the hose on it to put the fire out.

Then, I realized what I had done and called my daddy, shedding my first tears while I held the phone receiver, shaking and asking daddy to come over.

I was 12.

Now, fire freaks me out like nothing else and ER and bird often find me, nose in air, following the smell of fire or smoke until I can locate its source. And I usually do locate the source and, as soon as I do, the "fight or flight" response quells and I'm fine.

But tonight, there was no specific reason for the smell of fire to stop. I never did locate the source and so, I'm a wreck about it. ER is going to have to get an electrician over here to check everything out or I'm not going to be willing to sleep here. It's not the first electrical problem in the house, but it never seems to bother anyone but me.

So, maybe there's fire here. Maybe it's just a matter of time, and LOL, maybe these are my last words to y'all -- because I can't seem to locate the source.

If so, well, its been a nice life and nanny nanny boo boo, I don't have to pay off my student loans!

Finally, It Breaks and Georgia O'Keeffe

2005-07-02T13:18:00.000-05:00

Well, the hinkiness finally came to a head; my subject has decided that he doesn't have a bio written about him. Would have been nice to know this abuout four months ago, but instead, he waits until now. He gave me a reason, which I don't believe, and yet I'm going to let him go ahead and use that reason, as I suspect he's really answering to "the boss," and I'm not saying who that is, but I have no desire to make his life more difficult than it already is -- and really, it already is. Not sure why, but then, it's been over two decades since I interacted with him on a regular basis, so a lot of things could have happened since then.

So, in terms of time and effort and equipment and copying and you name it, I've got a lot of money sunk into this, but as ER and I discussed it, we realized that I AM going to write something based on the work and research I've already done. As I've worked on it, it kept having a more literary feel to it, rather than a biography. Probably because I tend to err on the side of the literary.

Now, another topic -- I was very surprised at my reaction to when ER and I went to the Georgia O'Keeffe museum in Santa Fe last weekend. I last went to a show of hers in Dallas, at the Dallas Museum of art in, oh, probably in 1988 or 1989. Amazing that I haven't seen "her" in person much, as much as I've been in the National Gallery and other museums. But this was her, close to her hometown and the six galleries featured her florals as well as those of Andy Warhol. Warhol, yeah, whatever...I like his pop art better than his flowers.

The first gallery, though, had nothing but photos of O'Keeffe, and most of them were done by Alfed Stieglitz. Stieglitz, Weston, Steichen, you name it, I learned about the greats from and old flame...I learned mostly to appreciate what I saw, I didn't learn the mechanics of photography that way; that's been a more recent thing for me. But the vintage gelatin silver prints brought goosebumps to my skin and a lump to my throat, especially the way that Stieglitz portrayed her hands. I've seen his nudes of her before, but they weren't part of the show. And then I rounded the corner into the second gallery. Calla lillies, canna leaves, floral abstractions that are so compelling, they swallow you into the painting like some artistic wormhole -- and when you come out on the other side of the wormhole, it is as if you understand something new and magnificent about the universe. ER stood there, looking, and noticed that I was more than crying, I was absolutely weeping, there in front of god and everybody, in front of her work.

I kept saying that I didn't understand why I was crying -- it was so spontaneous and not controllable. ER posited that I was absolutely starved for beauty and it so presented itself to me in such a powerful way, I reacted with tears.

And on the wall, a quote from O'Keeffe, that told me that she still felt her medium inadequate of the ultimate expression: "Singing has always seemed to me the perfect means of expression. It is so spontaneous. Since I cannot sing, I paint." In her early letters to her friend Anita Pollitzer (the woman who actually first introduced her work to Stieglitz), O'Keeffe referred to her paintings as "her music."

So gorgeous. Georgia knew something about the world that we don't.

The Struggle to Tell the Life of a Greased Pig

2005-06-27T22:53:00.000-05:00

Struggling.

That’s the primary reason I’ve had little to write here lately – I’ve been struggling for time, and struggling through one particular book I’m trying to get written. And then there’s another book – yay, at least I’m in conversation stage with a senior editor in New York, but I don’t have a “deal” yet. Add to that a lot of travel for work and the lime left isn’t much.

But the struggling that just sucks the breath out of me is the biography I’m working on, or at least trying to work on. The idea began out of the blue, actually, through a reconnection with an old friend. It struck me that my old friend was now just that – growing older and that it was past time to have the incredible story told. This, I told myself at the time, would be a labor of love, something to be able to give back to my old friend.

Early on, it seemed to all go so smoothly. I had to work like hell to gain some trust. And just when I think I’m gaining it – poof, it seems to go away or he insults me (often not knowing it). But we’re also dealing with someone from a different generation who, though I think he would like to trust his biographer, also holds back and, if he doesn’t hold back, isn’t always clear what is a good story and what is not. I am the eventual storyteller, it seems to me, and what I am doing is working to make sense of and create the story line – not the story itself, but the story line.

I have to create and portray the characters, the plot, if you will, if one can apply such a literary term to a life – a life well lived, in fact.

I’m barraged at the moment with research and artifacts that he has kept over the years…a nice genealogy done by a distant cousin, going through old letters, photos, awards, you name it. It takes a lot of my time…indeed, I really do fill every possible moment with working on it, researching portions of the history involved, reading to understand the ancestry and background.

And was all set up to start working in person…and then, it was as if he freaked. Now up to this point, I say it went smoothly early, but there were times when he’d tell me that there were certain things that I just didn’t need to know. No sir, if you won’t trust me, I can’t do this, I’d say. And then he’d back down and see how ludicrous his position was. And then that ugly fearfulness – for lack of a better word – would creep up again and once again, I’d have to do what I could to generate some danged trust.

I try to tell myself to be patient with this seventy-something man who grew up in a different time than mine. I even allow him to act toward me or even say things to me that, in my work world, no one would DARE say to me. They wouldn’t survive.

I struggle with this topic so much and yet it’s a book more important to me to write than the one I’ve actually gained some traction on. May seem odd to you, but it’s true.

I wish to hell I knew how to keep him consistent. How to keep his fears down – and even giving him a lot of leeway, such as editorial veto power, doesn’t seem to have helped much.

And yet, there are days when he’s fine, easy to work with, the new discoveries that I gain just so wonderful, I can hardly wait to write about them. There is just one thing missing in this equation – him, dammit.

And HE is the one character I can’t do without when it’s all said and done. I don’t know what to do with him, frankly. Tomorrow is another day, though, and maybe he’ll be fine. Another day, he may not be fine.

It’s dizzying. It’s hard to deal with because of my work ethic, and he’s got a work ethic stronger than mine. It’s the struggle to crack that Midwestern, self-conservative, SELF that keeps me awake nights.

All advice accepted. All crossed fingers welcome.

Help My Friend If You Can

2005-06-16T18:45:00.000-05:00

I have a friend at work who needs a kidney -- he has a genetic disease that killed his father, but my friend is much younger than his dad was when the disease hit.

My friend is smart and funny and he's loyal to a fault. And I've watched him feel worse and worse, and go through surgery, and be so tired he can hardly hold his head up....he is dying before my eyes, it seems, and I can't bear it.

He has had one kidney removed because it got so enlarged, neither kidney could function. His remaining kidney is functioning at 18 percent capacity. It is also enlarged, but by removing the other one, this one can expand a little and not be so painful for him.

He's on the national transplant registry and they tell him he's looking at 4-5 years for a wait.

My friend will die before that happens.

I am getting myself tested because I am at least the right blood type -- he needs a donor with Type O blood (it doesn't matter if it is positive or negative). But I also know that it is hard to come up with just the right match. I am smart enough to know that. I'm girlie enough to hope I match just perfect because all will be solved, then. And poor ER is nice enough to bear with me, but also silently (and not so silently sometimes) hope that I'm not a match. But I hope I am...maybe I'm nuts.

But in case I'm not...and that IS the likely case....

Y'all think about this yourself, or maybe a friend, or whatever....

Type O blood.

His insurance pays for any testing.

And you or someone you know could help two people be alive at the same time....thanks much.

And if you do know of something, most of y'all know how to find me or ER...for those who don't, if you have any interest at all, let me help put you together with my friend who needs help.

Dr. ER is eternally grateful.

I'm back.....for how long, who knows?

2005-05-30T22:21:00.000-05:00

Hi, world.

I’m back from another hiatus (which we can blame on the Governor…’nuff said) and also because I’ve been busy working on a book, which takes up the remaining tiny bits of time I have after serving the STATE so darned well with all my blood, sweat, and many many tears….especially of late.

However, I just had to say that this past week, for the first time, I felt old.

I wondered when it would happen and even all of my stupid physical ailments haven’t really made me feel old (because I’m still a girl who misbehaves with her sister in church inside my head).

ER brings this dude over for dinner. Nice looking guy. Dresses nicely – much nicer than we were, with me in my post-work summer capris and such…Bird dressed down, ER in his steak cooking regalia, complete with apron.

Smart, smart this dude is, and he isn’t just a nice looking guy, he’s eloquent, he's smart. He used words that make me get all gooey inside, like “didactic” – you know, words that the average bear rarely uses in casual conversation.

Kind of like you, Nick Toper, similar deal…nice dresser, well-spoken…when you wanna be :-)

Finally, after he’s been at the house about three hours, in the midst of a nice conversation with ER and me, we’re all sitting around the living room and I say, “So, um, how old are you.”

He looks at me and says “32.”

ZING!!!!!

This guy is thirty-friggin’ two!!??!!

Say it ain’t so, Joe!

Nope, he is, indeed, 32.

Instantly, for the first time, I felt oooooooooooooooooooold.

That might sound funny, because I’m around Bird’s pals all the time and they don’t make me feel old. I’m around these kiddos who work on the Hill and they never make me feel old, but this guy, heck, I thought he was my age or older….just because of the way he carried himself. That might say more about how younger people typically carry themselves than it says for him, in that he’s a standout.

But I knew, then, ohmagod, I was nine years old when this dude was born. Gad.

Perhaps this is why all of my friends are mostly older than I am – might be because of the biz I’m in, or I just like what I can learn from people who are older than me.

But now, it appears that there might be people younger than me that I can learn a thing or two from; I now have an example of a damned bright friggin’ YOUNGSTER who can keep up, word for word, with me and ER in a conversation (and that’s scary).

Sigh. What next?

They Did Gunther Wrong!!!

2005-05-09T21:45:00.000-05:00

Bird and I together own all of the “Friends” episodes through season seven on DVD.

We always laugh, even when we have the upcoming lines memorized.

By the time you go through all the seasons or pick up an episode in syndication, you always still find something fresh and funny to laugh about.

But, ya know, they did Gunther wrong -- for years.

Since the beginning, Gunther loved Rachel. He employed her as a waitress at the Central Perk coffee shop, the second home for the six friends. He employed her when should could barely pour a cup of coffee. She didn’t know caf from decaf, and still he went unrequited, he just had her in his sights more often.

He bought her stupid, ugly, hairless Mrs. Whiskerson cat for $1500 bucks, a cool $500 profit to Rachel for a cat that she couldn’t even give away on the street.

He refused service to and kicked a guy out of the coffee shop after the guy had asked Rachel out for a date.

He is THE person responsible for the breakup of Ross and Rachel – he revealed that Ross had “done” the copy shop girl… (You know, when Ross believed that he and Rachel “were on a break”).

No, wait a minute, is was ROSS who was responsible for the breakup… (I take Rachel’s side on the whole “on a break” issue).

Gunther just made sure Rachel knew about it.

Even Ross and Rachel broke up, still Gunther remained Rachel-less.

At Ross's bachelor party for his upcoming and eventually botched wedding to Emily the Brit, none of the guys could even say what Gunther's last name was.

So, you’d think, after Ross gets to get Rachel pregnant and they have a baby together, that somewhere, sometime, even on the last episode -- and even if it turned out to be just a dream that one of the characters had -- Gunther could at least have gotten one single, solitary love moment with his Rachel.

Bird and I feel sorry for Gunther – he's in every episode we can think of, hanging in the background, a few one-liners per episode, his hair grown white over time.

Probably because he never got to even kiss Rachel.

An Affair to Remember

2005-05-08T21:32:00.000-05:00

Ah yes, I am having an affair!

I’m having an affair with my memories.

I like to remind you all constantly, it seems, about what Mister Rogers said about thinking – and that is, no one can see inside your head.

Lucky for most of us, that's for sure.

Because I’ve been thinking about the past, I’ve picked up the phone and called old friends I haven’t talked to in ages. It’s great.

I’ve been motivated to read things I haven’t thought of in a long time and to reflect and remember.

I’m doing, I think, what William Wordsworth meant in the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads – I’m recalling strong emotion in tranquility.

By tranquility, I mean the tranquility of distance and time.

The tranquility, frankly, of being a grownup.

I have been pretty happy with this newly-formed relationship with my brain.

I think it’s a good thing for me.

I recommend it.

Inventory Time Again

2005-05-07T11:15:00.000-05:00

There are new "things and supplies" (see Star Trek VI movie for reference to "things and supplies") on ER's desk-al area that warrant description. Today's inventory:

Microfilm reader with his mortar board on top, the tassle hanging down over the screen
Picture of me doing a presentation in Texas propped up on the microfilm reader
Bottle of ER's cholesterol medicine
Box of Crayola brand magic markers
Hereford head coffee cup (on display)
George Bush Jack in the Box (With shrub popped open and out)
Save R Hides Eat Chikin stuffed cow ala Chik-fil-a
Stuffed Pistol Pete sitting next to empty Prince Albert in a Can
Small camera pouch with a film canister full of Miami Beach sand and small shells
A boot-shaped drinking glass from The Cattlemen's restaurant
Manuscript guidelines to a history journal
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass
A Tribble
Picture of Nat Fleming's store in Wichita Falls Texas -- The Cow Lot
Brickyard 400 shot glass
Several stuffed Donkeys
A lug nut from Dale Earnhardt Incorporated, Mooresville, North Carolina
A #3 koozie
A UCO pom pom (must be from his days in the pep squad)
Small brass spitoon
Bobb-o, his stuffed bear from childhood, very much the worse for wear
San Diego shot glasss
UCO sticker
Magnifying glass
Christmas in the Old West CD
Trail of Tears postcard
Washington Monument cheezy snow globe
A plastic pig that poops brown jelly beans

And that's only SOME of the stuff on his desk.

Dontcha Kinda Miss the Cold War?

2005-05-04T22:57:00.000-05:00

The Hunt for Red October is on tonight. I always stop channel flipping when I find that movie. Sad to say, but I almost get nostalgic for the Cold War, and that movie is one of the best. It's got all the romantic things about the Cold War: Intrigue, deception, good spying, tension and elements of mutually assured destruction, and most importantly, our romantic favorite, the defection of a major Soviet general to the freedoms of the west in general, and the United States in particular.

It was a comforting time because we knew who the enemy was...it's not just me who feels that way. I heard Colin Powell speak, in between his gig with the Clinton Administration and his eventually being forced by the current administration to be the "patsy" for the Iraq war. (Poor Powell, good soldier...you weren't playing with people who play clean...)

He said that one time, when he met with Gorbachev after the Cold War was pretty much over, Gorbachev told him, "Ah, General, you will have to find a new enemy now." Powell admitted that exiting the Cold War was, indeed, a sea change for him.

What people never talk about is this -- When the Cold War died, it was also the day that good spy fiction died.

So here are some big differences between the Cold War and now. I think you’ll feel nostalgic for the old days here in a minute:

So, which is better?

COLD WAR -- VERSUS -- THE WAR ON TERROR

Mutually Assured Destruction -- Asynchronous Uncertain Everything

Supreme Soviet -- Territorial warlords

The Kremlin -- Sand and tents

Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles -- Improvised Explosive Devices

Fallout Shelters -- Plastic sheeting and duct tape

Snapily-Dressed Dictators -- Dictators hiding in dirt holes

KGB -- Abu-Ghraib

CIA -- IAEA

Structure -- Free for all hell

Us versus Them -- Us versus Who the Hell Knows

Miss those days at all? My Tillman County friend out there, wouldn't you rather hear the hum of a loaded ICBM that you KNOW is there than to wonder if the boogey man is around the corner?

Go ahead, think I'm a sick puppy. I'm not. There aren't only literal and semantic differences in the two wars, there are, quite frankly, some literary differences between the two "wars," too.

The Cold War also lent itself to fiction much better than this war on terror. Just like with traditional mystery novels, there was a sort of formula to the writing of "spy" novels. Intelligence/Counterintelligence. Double agents. Secret plans. Swarthy heroes.

Try writing a whole novel about a gang of Iraqi neighborhood ruffs in the sand who make bombs out of American coke bottles and, well, pretty much some meth (that this week's news says they got the recipe for from our own government).

The story doesn't have the same "allure" as the tidy, Cold War spy novel.

We can't even identify a really sexy way to fight this new "enemy." See, asynchronous threats just aren't as pretty, as neat, as easy to fight -- or as easy to write about or as easy to create characters for.

Not that this "war on terror" is any less troublesome for us. It's just that this war, well, as it began, was a hell of a lot clearer in terms of who the damned enemy was than it is now. Your guys killed a bunch of our people and now we're going to kick your ass.

Now, we're just going to hit whatever is standing next to us. At least, that's how it seems.

Nothing literary in the least about that. Nothing very real about that, either, to me.

But then, this isn't the most literate time in our country. Diplomacy is too big a word for today.

Trust me, full and meaningful words will return. Fiction will be written again sometime. In the meantime, load up on the duct tape.

Today ain't the day the music died.

Ah, My Dear Fall...

2005-05-02T18:59:00.000-05:00

Topic One: I had occasion to share The Windhover, by Gerard Manley Hopkins today with a friend. I remember studying this poem for the first time in college and how moved I was with it's staccato beginning, how the poem then moves like the falcon it shines light upon, and how simple people doing simple work of every day life have within them what is divine.

The divine is not necessarily haloed in gold or loud or garish; it is the soft, the simple, the plain.
(The actual poem is at the end here).

Topic Two: I got to talk to an old friend today; the kind of friend I always have felt like I could pick up the phone and talk to as if I had seen him yesterday. And it is, indeed, always that way. I think the last time we saw each other in person might have been six years ago.

He had been diagnosed with MS and when I saw him then, my heart broke because I knew what he had in store for him. If you have never read any of Nancy Mairs work, do -- an amazing writer who has MS; my favorite of hers is a book called Remembering the Bone House: An Erotics of Place and Space. A fascinating memoir; but she's better known for her essays.

It wasn't long after I saw him -- probably within a year -- that I happened by a photo of him, on display in our former college coliseum (he did all kinds of intermurals)....Bird and ER were with me. The photo, sitting in the window of him was the "boy" I knew before, when we were younger, buddies like brother and sister, well before he got ill. ER and Bird just stood there, as I sobbed.

Darlin' friend, if you read this, I'm sorry, I have to write about it. It's how I live through my day.

But he was also good for me in this way today....pain is a fairly new "occupant" of my body. I resist it every day, I am angered by it, I spend most of my days trying to figure out how to make it go away. But my friend, he says that his pain reminds him that he is alive...and he also goes to work when he probably shouldn't, he says, because he wants to while he can; there will come a day when he can't. Until then, he'll be there.

He also was someone I could talk to about the fact that, unless you have some outward sign of pain (something in a cast or maybe a sling or at the very least a band-aid, somewhere!), people dismiss you. I've always declared that I would write a book called, "But you LOOK just fine." He was very good to talk to about this particularly hard part to deal with. Thank you, bud.

Thank you for humbling me, my friend. Thank you for giving me some perspective on illness and pain. I used to think you a goof-off, ya know; now I think you might just be ahead of me on the maturity plane...but academically, darlin' friend, we are STILL neck and neck (and I might be still a bit ahead of YOU on that!).

Finally, after all of that self-indulgent business, I give you Gerard Manley Hopkins:

THE WINDHOVER
By Gerard Manley Hopkins

To Christ our Lord:

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn
Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Doug, I Miss You

2005-05-01T22:36:00.000-05:00

Oh, I got to sobbing tonight over several things, but one of them was about my old pal Doug from high school. Doug joined our school when we were all Sophomores, he was from a bigger city, didn't look much like the rest of us. He was overweight, had the normal skin problems that most kids that age have. And I was his first friend. We had back-to-back accelerated classes in Algebra II together, followed by Geometry. He was always just fun to be with. Just friends.

In our Junior year, he started a diet and one day, I declared that he needed a makeover, he was looking so good. So me, Doug, and another pal named Benny all hopped in my car, went to the mall to the Regis hair salon and got him a new, spiky haircut. The transformation was just awesome. Then, we went and helped him pick out new clothes. Doug looked darned sharp.

In our Senior year, Doug and I were in choir together and, together with our friend Ken, we made up the "three musketeers." I intended this story to be a mind movie, but am writing it this way instead because I'm just thinking about him tonight. Doug was, in our Senior year, the "nouveau gay," and I was the only one who knew in our school. I was his secret keeper. Ken was our "baptist rocker" pal, he was also in choir with us, and he played the violin -- I played cello.

We had such a great time, the three of us making music together and just messing around. Ken didn't know about Doug, but that was okay, we were just three friends who all had a blast together. Only I knew that Doug had a secret in his life. Now, I was also feeling free as a bird that year because I had already made a pact with myself that I wouldn't be attaching myself to any old stupid boyfriends in my Senior year because I wanted to have some fun (and had learned early on through two other boyfriends that you just couldn't have any fun when someone was possessive about you).

The way that Doug actually told me about being gay was pretty hilarious. I had always worried just a bit that Doug liked me more than just a friend, and hoped like hell that the moment would never come when I had to face telling him that I didn't feel that way. He kept telling me about dating some chick named Allison and I was pressing him to meet her. He pulled the car to the side of the road one day when I was bugging him about meeting her.

He said, "Dr. ER, I have something to tell you, 'Allison' is really someone else, and his name is....." Well, I won't give the name, but at the time he told me I was SO relieved -- yay, Doug was gay, I had nothing to worry about anymore! And he made such a great "girlfriend." We were each other's secret keepers in our Senior year.

We graduated and went our separate ways. Ken to Memphis. Doug first to Okla. State University and then to Washington, DC. In late 1991, I think, I got a call from Doug. He had AIDS.

You see, Doug "came out" with me and a select few others right before AIDS was even identified. It was before the "safe sex" mantra was a mantra at all. And, he suffered from that lack of knowledge.

I felt guilty, remembering the day when I felt so glad that he was gay.

But, on the day he called, I could hear in his voice that he needed me -- he needed a connection to happy days and much more carefree times in our lives. So we began to talk on the phone often; we shared letters. And in Doug's letters, he chronicled the course that AIDS takes on a body. This was a time also before the better anti-virals that are now available were available to him.

You don't need the details, but let me say that it has to be one of the most horrible and debilitating and slow ways to die. Doug accepted his fate; he was really one of the bravest people I have ever known.

He died in May -- maybe that is one of the reasons I'm thinking about him, aside from all this other high school stuff that's been on my mind. He is buried in Stillwater, where he grew up.

When I got word that Doug had died, I searched high and low and was able to locate our friend Ken, still in Memphis. It was on this day, and not a day before, that Ken even knew that Doug was gay; yes, I was that good of a secret keeper. And my own little high school secrets died along with Doug.

Ken, a staunch Baptist, was just tad judgmental on the day I called him about Doug. I could tell he was sorry, but he also had a slight tone of "well, Doug made his bed..." in his words.

I remember hanging the phone up after talking to Ken, thinking that Doug left the world in much the same way as the manner in which he came to my school. He had his gay friends in DC, yes, but he died with me as his only old friend.

It humbled me a lot, following him side-by-side on his path toward his sure death. I learned much about acceptance, about humility and about humanity.

He has been gone a long time, now. But there are times when I miss my old friend, my secret-keeper, my pal Doug. I am missing one "Musketeer" in my life. I will be doing well to ever be half as brave as he was.

Racial Harmony Still Eludes Stupid People

2005-05-01T11:51:00.000-05:00

Coming home over the weekend, another observation occurred to me. I went off the beaten path to Rentiesville, one of the state's "historically Black towns." It was small, though the blues hall of fame building brings many over the labor day weekend, I know.

I went to the Honey Springs memorial for the first time and was unhappy to see the memorial to the "colored" soldiers there. Someone had taken black spray paint and painted, in black, in big letters, "KKK."

Disgusting.

I decided to take a photo; all I had was black and white film loaded, ironically.

Just like when you hear people say that folks are still fighting the Civil War, it's also true that folks are still fighting the late 1960's' Civil Rights War as well. On both sides. State and federal, the fight still takes place. How to intepret the Civil Rights Act, how to interpret the decrees of the Office of Civil Rights, how to interpret preferences in contracting, quotas vs. non-quotas, protections for minorities or no protections, all of it seems to still contine, even today.

And I'm sickened by how under our skin, just beneath the spoken surface it always seems to be. My Bird has grown up color-blind. Maybe in a couple of generations, it will heal itself. But I also know that old wounds take a long, long time to heal, especially if others open those wounds, like the idiot with the spray paint can did.

They're still fighting the Tulsa Race Riots as well -- and I think know why...it just never got resolved, really. One pal of mine who is a closet historian says that there are still bodies buried under Tulsa and that the count of those who died isn't anywhere near true. Secrets still shroud this story and, again, I can't understand why. I think there must me some "there" there, or people wouldn't still, to this day, guard secrets so closely. And guard them, they do. Closely. You can't even say the word "Tulsa" in the context of race relations without people closing ranks. Truth -- I wonder if, in this case, it would really set people free. My historian friend says that what remains there is so heinous, probably people today couldn't handle the truth, to invoke Jack Nicholson there for a minute.

And all that is metaphor for Tulsa. My favorite place I have ever lived...with secrets perhaps beneath its soil. The very soil my great grandfather tread upon in the early 20th century. I wish I could ask him about it now. He, who told of being in charge of one of the ballot boxes near Tulsa (somewhere near Lake Keystone) during the election to make IT and OT a state. He said, in an oral history he gave to my great aunt, that he had voted to take make OK a state -- when he gave this oral history, in 1957, he said, "I voted to take the land away from the Indians and, even 50 years later, I'm not sure I did the right thing." But this story isn't really about the Indians in my state -- that is a whole other blog. And I'll write that one someday, maybe even give some of Great Grandpa's oral history in it.

This is about race. Race relations. Tulsa. Secrets still surrounding Tulsa, and how we react today. It's about the stupid person with the spray paint can, purposefully opening up the wounds and ills of our country's history.

It all makes me very sad -- the remaining ugliness, the secretive nature of all things that have racial connotations. President Clinton tried like heck to address this. He just didn't have enough time. And apparently nearly 40 years (since the Civil Rights Act of 1967 was passed) still isn't enough time either...

Bird, it's up to you and yours to keep the dream of MLK alive. Because, even though things are better, it's still a dream, and a dream alone, to a lot of people.

Breaking Through a Foggy Sense of Self

2005-04-30T21:29:00.000-05:00

Driving home from Muskogee today in the beautiful sunshine, with the blue skies cleaned out with our last cold front, I had some good thinking time in the car. Been thinking a lot about high school lately because of a project I'm working on. And I remembered a very important moment that happened during my senior year.

I worked for a living starting at the age of 15. No, actually, I threw shoppers in 6th grade and kept my money in one of those little blue bank books via the school banking program that was in place at the time -- not sure where that money eventually went, now that I think about it.

Each year in high school, I'd work some form of retail after school and on weekends. During my senior year, I was working at a clothing store in the mall. Since Saturday was a big day, retail-wise, I always had to work on Saturdays and generally drew the 1pm-10pm shift.

One weekend, hundreds of us were trying out for district choir competition. The competition was at a different high school from mine, as I remember it, and I had no idea that there would be so, so many kids there. I was feeling daunted. Feeling very small amidst that group of kids who quite obviously seemed to have their act together far better than I.

Our choir director had provided us with tapes he'd dubbed that gave us our songs and our parts to practice. Super flumina babylonis...that's one of the songs I remember; and a different version of Go Lovely Rose than the one I have on my choir's album.

The odd thing about how I prepared for "district" was this -- we didn't have a tape player at home. None. Nada. And there wasn't much chance of getting one. So, in order to practice for district, I'd have to go out after work in the evenings, get in my mom's car, and practice. Her car was my only access to anything that could play a cassette tape.

You know, the acoustics in a car are pretty good; I figure that's why we all sing when we drive.

Night after night, I'd sing along with the first alto on the tape. Hell, I didn't know what I was doing, really, so I'd work hard to capture the singer's every inflection, every subtlety. It was the best I knew to do, having not been in a choir before.

So after this rather nontraditional form of practice, I lined up with all of the other kids who were trying out. I began to get nervous, and then more nervous, as it drew closer to the time I was supposed to be at work. I finally got to sing -- I remember that there was a screen between me and the judges. They played the same tape I'd learned to sing on, except without the singer on the tape singing along with me...so, I did my thing, best I knew how.

I was close to the end of the line, but not so close that any decisions were made quickly. Finally, I just couldn't stay and wait any longer.

I turned to my pal Suzy and told her that I just HAD to go to work, or I'd get in trouble, and would she please call me and tell me if I made it. Sweet thing that she was, she agreed to call me.

I went on to work.

I was straightening clothes at the back of the store I worked in when, about two hours into my shift, I look up to see this HUGE crowd of kids coming in the store -- they were all shouting and hollering, and moved in toward me sort of like what huge flocks of birds look like when they're all hovering over a field of corn, waving in and out of the corn rows. The kids were waving in and out of the clothes racks.

Suzy was with them, in front. I stopped working on the clothes and came toward them.

"Did I make it?" I asked.

Suzy said, "Well, what do you think?" I looked around at the boys and girls who had all come to my store and figured, well, I must have made it. So I said so.

"Oh, that's not all," Suzy said, "there's more."

Befuddled, I said, "What?" I mean, what else could there be other than I made it.

Then, this group of 25-30 kids shouted at me, "YOU GOT FIRST CHAIR!"

I just couldn't believe it. Me? After practicing in a danged car? With no voice lessons? All of my friends had been paying (or their parents had) for voice lessons, so I thought I must be at least at the bottom of the barrel if I'd made it at all.

But first chair. Wow. Now, no, I didn't make state. But, what a great moment, a moment pulling me out of the drudgery of a stupid retail job, with supportive, fabulous friends, piling in cars, coming to the mall to tell me all about it.

I began to think that maybe I was better than I'd been told or thought. It was a small first step toward the self confidence I have today. Wow.

A nice thing to remember. But then again, it was a very nice time in my life, my senior year.

ER's Honors and Benefits

2005-04-29T22:06:00.000-05:00

So, since I'm going to invoke language from the movie “A Christmas Story,” the one we simply call in our house, “The Shoot-Your-Eye-Out Movie,” I can’t decide if today’s celebration of ER’s scholarship was more of an “honors and benefits, already at the age of 40” event (e.g., Ralphie’s honors and benefits that come with his membership in the Little Orphan Annie Society) or if ER has just won, in the discipline of history, his first “major award,” something akin to Ralphie’s dad’s "frah-gee-lay" leg lamp.

We'll see...

The day started out interesting, at least -- from a "me and ER are equally weird people" kind of way.

No, actually, it began last night, here in the hotel in Muskogee, as ER tossed and turned and talked in his sleep. Two words I heard were “marsh” and “two.” Then, he flopped his lips LOUD like a hoosie (um, I mean, a horse -- "hoosie" is our family name for horse, thanks to my toddler niece who couldn't say the word "horse.").

Shortly after the horse routine, he became a water-based mammal. He flopped over and over in the bed like a humpback flying high above the wate re-immersing himself into the ocean, with the tail fluke flailing the water with one final splash.

Yes, the man was way more restless than usual; something to be expected given what faced him today, but not something comfortable for the other sleeper in the bed unless we're home on our fabulomundo Select Comfort bed.

Then, this morning, it was my turn to get loony.

I asked him, right after waking up…."so, wasn’t that funny?"

ER says, “Was what funny?”

"That dream I just told you about," I answer, sleepily indignant.

"You didn’t tell me about any dream, " huffs ER.

Yep, I’d been dreaming that I was telling him about my dream.

Holy cow.

Shortly after that, ER proudly declares that he had found a new use for a sock -- his traditional white crew socks, gray heels and toes. He holds up a VERY scholarly book and, in the middle, holding his place, a big ol', stretched out sock is marking his place. A sock bookmark.

Bizarre start to the day, though maybe not so bizarre considering this: We're talking about me and ER here. "Weird" dominates, with "humor/funny" a close second.

Then, the poor man realized that he had forgotten his deodorant, and, after some agonizing internal conflicts, which I imagine as being the following in ER's head: ("Okay, what is worse...taking a chance on stinkin' or wearing this girly girl deodorant?") He decided, finally, and ended up having to suffer the ignominity of borrowning mine – the pink-lidded Lady Speed Stick. Fresh powder scent, I believe. The man is definitely in touch with his inner female.

But the questions remained: Would this girly deodorant mess his day up? Would ER’s mojo suffer a disturbance in the force because of this?

Naw, he did fine…nice presentation that impressed many and, my favorite part was this – right before ER’s presentation we heard from a native Choctaw woman who is now a faculty member in another state. Instead of questions coming from the audience only, at the end they (ER and the other presenter) began to ask each other questions, engaging in an impressive scholarly dialogue. It was very cool from the audience’s perspective.

And may I say, the man had a stunning power point, but since it was his first time to use one in a speech, he has yet to figure out the timing of talking vs. when you should forward a slide. That’s okay, though, because even now, after nearly 9 years using power point, I’ll find myself making a point in my talk that is, like, three slides away and, when I get to that slide, I just have to “slide” over it into the next one.

Funny, we always design power points in a way that we believe we will present the material; then, some stream of consciousness bandit inhabits our brain, and we get out of perfect sync.

Either way, his visuals were impressive, and loads of folks came to get copies of his paper after the session.

Tonight, though, ER was honored with the best thesis of the year award and he had the chance to be praised for his work by Bob Blackburn and also got to say a few words before the crowd of scholarly and grass-roots historians. And people like me, too. He did a really good job here, in a less formal setting, where he could just lean into the podium and speak words of thanks – to his teachers and others who helped him get there.

Now, I have a bit (a pretty big bit, actually) of Bill Clinton in me -- I can talk to a room, reach deep into people's hearts and make them want to take action.

ER is more like George W. Bush -- when he speaks, he makes sure he speaks so that the scholars and the regular folks in the room both hear their own messages, aimed at them. ER is humble in his accomplishments, a characteristic that will serve him well as his academic pursuits move forward.

But there is also a balance to that humility, too -- I was in Atlanta last week, and one presenter there quoted Dizzy Dean as saying that you have to toot your own horn or people are going to think that you don't have one!

ER strikes a very good balance between his genuine humility and appropriate horn tooting. :-)

So I’m thinking, all told, that this has been BOTH and honors and benefits day AND a major award day for ER. He gets into the Little Orphan Annie Society, now also owning secret decoder pen AND gets a nice leg lamp to go in the living room (probably next to our NASCAR tire).

Good for ER!!!!

SURF in the TURF

2005-04-28T23:57:00.000-05:00

Today I sat around a table with people from competing organizations/agencies and we found ourselves in this situation because we are being forced together by money. That simple, money. A public policy organization is willing to give lots of money if all of the aforementioned folks can really and truly come together and do something good.

The first 10-15 minutes were just fascinating. Each person who spoke metaphorically lifted their legs on their fire hydrant. Each person was guarding his or her turf. Each person would bristle a bit when other turf was discussed.

It took a good half an hour before ALL of that stuff finally settled down and we could actually get to business. I mention that because it all boils down to this -- competition for scarce resources. This behavior is primal; to expect anything different would be to deny our membership in the animal kingdom.

A colleague of mine once said that a friend of hers had done some field research on chimpanzees who were in close proximity and had the problem of competing for scarce resources -- in this case, the resources weren't money, of course, but food, shelter, the basics.

Now my colleague's friend likened the behavior to what is often seen in the ghettos of our country -- the same competition for scarce resources, survival of the fittest (or smartest, or the most wily or whatever).

Truth did not win out, however, as this person's research was immediately attacked as racist or classist, and all he had done was report his findings and identify an analogous situation.

People, guess what? We are animals. We are mammals. Nothing reminds you more that you are a mammal than when you are pregnant, for sure.

And so many people believe that we are so superior to the animal kingdom with our highly developed cerebral cortex, that we are far, far beyond the stereotypical behaviors seen in the "animal" kingdom.

We're not. And I saw it first hand today, and see it often in my line of work. The difference is, I am not surprised by it. And I do hate it when it keeps things from getting done.

But I LOVE it as a spectator sport.
Animals. Yep, that's me. And you, too, whether you like it or not!

My GOD, I'm Having a Great Time

2005-04-26T23:18:00.000-05:00

But it has nothing at all to do with work.

I had a little tiff not too long ago with a buddy and I was forced to really keep my mind busy and keep myself busy. And that's an easy thing for me. One morning I woke up and I knew one thing I wanted to do. And that was to find a way to honor the life and career of one of the best teachers that the State of Texas has ever had. I humbly asked him if I could have the authority to do his biography. He said yes.

In my spare time, I've been having a ball, outlining the project, deciding how to proceed. The only bad thing is that so much of our correspondence is written at this point, the details, the velvet details of life and love and happiness and sadness just can't take place until we can spend some hours together while I talk to him and tape our conversations.

Already I have found out that things I thought I knew about him were misperceptions on my part. I mean, I was an 18 year-old kid when I was in his class; that's a damned long time ago. Some things I remember VERY vividly, but some of the details have slipped through the years.
Never mind that I don't have a publisher at this point; I know that I will have one.

I know I will because I truly believe that I can tell this particular story like no one else can. Someone else might turn this life into facts and figures and honors and awards and such. But I want it to be about the human being and his elevation of others around him. Might sound a bit mawkish as I write it here, but it won't be. There is adventure there -- and love and heartbreak, and disaster. Everything that makes a good read.

In the meantime, I am also hoping like crazy that a book topic that I pitched to another publisher will be accepted -- it's a topic that I have longed to write about, to get into the popular press, instead of the policy or university press, where it doesn't do the average bear a lick of good. I have some unique perspective on the topic, too. So cross your fingers on both of these.

I'm doing the first one no matter what...the second one, I'll either have accepted as an idea and get to work on it or shop the idea around if they aren't interested.

Either way, I'm in the midst of research and doing background work on THE teacher in K-12 who made the biggest impact on me. Maybe my next book will be on the teacher in college who made the biggest impact on me, who knows? I just know I've totally gotten the writing bug, and you've probably figured that out by my very long mind movies. Hey, those mind movies have to be told for myself.

Things are good, people. As long as there are words to be written, things are good.

Mind Movie #5: The Boneless Chicken Ranch

2005-04-24T13:23:00.000-05:00

(Author’s note: The Boneless Chicken Ranch is a cartoon, drawn by the retired comic strip genius, Gary Larson. Even though I now own Larson’s unabridged collection of comics, I miss him still).

This story begins during the 1987-88 academic year when I was in college.

No.

The story begins much earlier than that, actually. Bear with me as I think of time and its passage in “semesters,” as I was in college then, and that’s how one thinks of time when in school.

PRE-CHICKEN RANCH CONTEXT
The early elements to this story are, to wit: In 1983, I was preparing to get married in November. I was marrying a man much older than I was; I was 19 and he would turn 30 within a month of our wedding day. He had been married before, in New York, a place and reality that seemed far away, almost in a different dimension. His being married before me rarely came up. I will call him Alan, husband #1 and Bird’s birth father.

About two months before the wedding, my daddy showed up at my workplace one night, shortly before closing. “Dr. ER,” Daddy said, “Bucky died tonight.” I was stunned; this was Alan’s father, a shock to us all, and so close to our impending wedding. Superstitious as always, I never again wore the dress I had on when Daddy imparted that news to me.

Even with that unexpected tragedy, we continued on with wedding plans. I was to marry near Thanksgiving, and my flowers, created by my great aunt who had a floral shop in Electra, all had a Thanksgiving theme – Indian corn adorned the ends of the church pews and a large cornucopia, overspilling with winter gourds and pumpkins sat in front of the altar. My attendants, all redheads, wore forest green velvet tea-length dresses with scooped necks, puffed short sleeves, empire waists and full a-line skirts. They each wore pumps that had been died to match their dresses exactly. Just lovely, all around.

THE GIFT
As the wedding drew near, people would stop by Mama and Daddy’s house and drop off gifts. One night, after I returned from the library where I’d been doing research for school, I came home to find a gift waiting for me. Mama told me, “A very nice red-headed man dropped this by for you.”

In this man’s wife’s handwriting was a nice card for me and the gift was a four-cup tiny coffee pot, then a novelty. Now, however, I see them in hotel rooms everywhere. It was a very sweet gift, I thought, from my advisor in college and his wife. He, originally someone I thought my enemy (a mind movie I have not yet written) was now a friend, a confidante, someone who challenged me academically and helped me throughout my college years. I will call him here DoctorB. He was, in fact, special to me, although I had no clue at the time just how special.

Even on my wedding day, with Daddy taking me down the aisle, my eyes darted around everywhere, not satisfied until I found this man in the audience. I found him, I was pleased. And so the wedding proceeded.

BIRD COMES AND I RETURN TO COLLEGE
During my marriage, I left college during the semester in which I was to give birth to Bird, and stayed out from Spring of 1986 until the Spring semester of 1987, when I took a single class, at DoctorB's urging, to get my foot back in the water of college. DoctorB and I corresponded often by letter – no e-mail around yet. We kept in contact.

When Bird was two weeks old, after I had her first picture made, I took her to see DoctorB, who had already sent me a very kind letter about Bird in answer to her birth announcement. In his letter, he sent congratulations that I had brought another redhead into the world. When Bird visited with him that day, in her little purple dotted swiss baby dress, I believe she might have spit up on him.

After that first class back in college, I then took a summer course from DoctorB, and in the fall semester, took a full load once again. Through this time, after learning so much from him, after so much contact over the years, DoctorB came to be my refuge, the smartest person I knew, the one human safe haven who understood me and my brain.

It was Spring of 1988 that I got wind that DoctorB was applying for professorships elsewhere. I was dejected, I felt socked in the gut, I felt lost. I wasn’t clear exactly why I felt this way, but the sense of emptiness was overwhelming.

He got a job offer in, I think, April of that year. It was an offer in a liberal arts college in the northeast. The word on the college streets was that he was going to take it. Now, as much as I liked and respected him, I rarely went to his office unless I had some official business, as there was just something…..not intimidating, exactly, more like I didn’t want him to be able to see through my eyes, and he seemed to have such a talent.

TAKING ACTION
In this case, though, when I heard that he was going to take the job, I went upstairs in the building in which he had his office, knocked on the door, and was beckoned in. I asked him to confirm or deny what I had been hearing about his job offer. He handed me the letter of offer from the college and I read it.

I managed to escape his office soon afterwards, after exchanging pleasantries; I was on my way to show a house, as I was a part time Realtor while I was finishing my college work.

I stopped first at the Hallmark store in the mall, not really knowing what I was hunting for or why. Gary Larson’s Boneless Chicken Ranch card jumped out at me as being exactly what I wanted.

While I waited for my clients to show up and see the house, I hastily wrote him a note. It was in the writing of this note that what I really felt escaped my brain for the first time. I remember telling him that I didn’t want him to go to the new college, I wanted him to stay. I remember telling him that I loved him and had loved him ever since 1982 – denying it to myself and to him for a whole six years by that time. I think I even told him about how I’d watched for him as I went down the aisle of my own darned wedding in 1983.

I can’t really remember what else I said. I wasn’t even sure why I was saying it or even if it would matter that I had done so. I could have been shamed beyond belief; it was such a risk for me to open up those years of feeling on that one white space in the Larson card.

I showed the house, and, as I prepared to leave, saw a streetside mailbox in the neighborhood. I licked the stamp, affixed it to the card, and sent it to his office address. Since it was a neighborhood mailbox, I had no clue how long it might take to get to him at the college.

So I waited.

HOW IT ENDED UP AND ALSO STARTED THE NEXT CHAPTER
I was in a class of his that semester, possibly it was statistics. I went to class on the first day after mailing the card, my eyes kept on my notebook, my head low. He always would come in and hand an envelope to students with whom he needed to communicate something written – for him to walk into the classroom with an envelope was quite common.

He entered the room for class. I kept my eyes down, my face burning with the shame and embarrassment of having made myself so vulnerable. Then, a hand appeared in my line of sight, slipping an envelope under my notebook. The envelope was thick; this was more than one notebook paper’s worth of communication. I can remember looking up slowly and he smiled at me, in a frozen moment that helped me to know that I could relax.

I didn’t read the note until after class. I went outside and opened the envelope, pulling out the sheets of notebook paper on which his tiny handwriting (almost always in pencil) was written. With each line he wrote, my heart grew fuller. Oh, what a waste! He had also loved me since meeting me in 1982 and had, like me, merely kept it to himself all those years. I don’t remember the entire letter; I just recall the joy in reading it.

Maybe it was that same day, or maybe it was later. I know I went up to his office, slowly climbing the stairs, still a little embarrassed. He was kindness itself. He sat on the other side of the desk, looking out the window a little. We’d smile at each other, not talking much.

And then he said that he had made the decision not to go to the offered new job at the college in the northeast. He said something like, “I now know that there are things I need to do here, things that aren’t finished.”

I knew that, in part, he was referring to me. Damn the complications that would eventually ensue; at this one moment, joy and relief and a flood of love enveloped me all over. I might have shed a tear, I can’t remember – certainly, I did after I left him that day.

And right before I left, after he had told me that he wasn’t going to leave the town, the college, and most important to me, that he wasn’t going to leave me, he said, almost to himself, reflectively: “I’ve…told you...before I’ve even told my wife.” And his face looked a bit puzzled after he said that. Again, he looked out the window. So I quietly left; I thought he wanted to be alone.

I don’t know to this day if it was purely me who helped DoctorB make that decision not to leave; I just know that it made me happy.

Maybe it was just the right selection of a card – The Boneless Chicken Ranch.