New York, New York

Sometimes the regional news is the sickest. What the hell was going on with this family? Double murder-suicide? Did the mother kill the baby and the man kill the mother, then himself? Was it actually a triple homicide? Is Queens directly to blame?

You think 911 is a joke in your town? Check out our fabulous operators! Kids go out on a boat in freezing weather. Kids get in trouble. Kids call 911 and nothing happens. What's the problem? "Long Island Sound" isn't in the computer. Oh well! Guess it doesn't exist! Guess nobody's really drowning! Who wants a doughnut?

[On a side note, who the hell cares if Pete Rose is still gambling on sports? He's an adult, it's legal, and he's been banned from baseball. What was he supposed to do, become a priest? Besides, everyone knows that even if Pete bet on baseball, he never bet on the Reds to lose, which would be the only truly unethical bet he could have made. Give our boy a break. He deserves to be in the Hall of Fame. Let me see Bud Selig try for 4192 hits!]

It's absolutely disgusting that New York State allows rapists to be prison guards rather than forcing them to be prison inmates. What the hell kind of message does this send to the female inmates? How can someone who is being abused by their captors ever be rehabilitated? These guys should be sent to Rikers, where they can find out what it's like to be trapped in a cell and sexually violated.

And finally, if you're trying to intimidate through vandalism, at least learn how to draw your chosen symbol of hate. Neither the newspaper nor the TV news mentions this, but I've seen pictures of these spray painted swastikas, and they're backwards. If I have a sick and twisted pet peeve, it's that vandals are constantly drawing the Fascist swastika wrong. And how do they know whose car they're spraying? Sloppy work. This says to me "ignorant teenagers" rather than "hate-filled terrorists." (It's still bad, though.)

More Vindication for Me

I've been saying for years that people who walk down the street talking on their cell phones don't look where they're going -- in fact it would be difficult to carry on a conversation while doing so. My friend disagrees, saying it's the same as talking to a person next to you. Now some fine scientists from Utah are finding that drivers who use cell phones, get a kind of "tunnel vision" while talking. This totally jibes with my observations of pedestrians on cell phones. Often, they are looking down at the sidewalk, and not looking around or taking notice of other pedestrians or vehicle traffic. Of course, this is true of most of the self-absorbed nincompoops wandering around the city streets, but I have much more trouble with the talk-and-walkers. When, oh when, will people just accept that I am always right?

High Risk of Everything

First, I've got eight kinds of cancer in my immediate family, now I'm a candiate for heart disease! I regularly sleep for more than eight hours (even though I schedule myself for less). Maybe I need to hire a maid to wake me up and carry me into the shower. Couldn't I get my health insurance to cover it as prevention?

Speaking of illness, I've been blowing my nose so much that my philtrum is chapped. And I'm still too cheap to buy some cold medicine.

My Hands Felt Like Two Balloons

You know that kind of sick where your head is all stuffed up and you feel like you're on medication but you haven't taken any? Dude, maybe it's the fact that I have to breathe through my mouth, but I think this cold has shaved off IQ points. At least it seems to have warmed up a bit. That could be the coffee, of course.

Somebody Call OSHA!

The boiler in my office building went kaput on Sunday, and it's colder than a witch's tit in here. Add to that my newly developed head cold, and you've got Tissuepalooza on my desk. These are unacceptable working conditions. And the radio station keeps playing 80s Chicago and Michael McDonald. How much torture am I expected to take?

Speaking of torture, Alias was amazing last night. [Note: If you've never watched Alias, this is going to make no sense to you, so skip to the next paragraph.] Sydney Bristow may be a physical bad-ass (shooting out a plane window then crawling to the parachutes to escape the crashing plane), but she's no mental match for Arvin Sloane. What an evil guy. Oh sure, we all thought Sloane was rattled, what with the being forced to kill his own wife because she knew too much. We thought he was a fool for trusting Jack and not realizing that the Bristows were double agents (and could Jack be a triple agent? who knows?). But no, he played us the whole time. He played the Alliance, Sydney, the CIA, everyone. And he used Sark to do it. Now, Anna Espinoza has assumed Francie's identity, just when Francie got a little happiness. Too bad she ended up witha bullet in her head on the floor of her very own restaurant. Sloane knows everything. But what's his agenda? Does he have it in for the Bristows or just the Alliance? Does he want the Rambaldi artifacts or does he want Irina Derevco? And what about Dixon? Will he ever forgive Sydney for letting him believe he was working for the good guys? Will the unwitting soldiers of SD-6 be folded into the CIA or arrested? And where will sodium pentathol come ito the mix? Sydney and Vaughn kissed! And it was good! Way to go, JJ Abrams.

Enough of the spy ranting. My nose is leaking and my fingers are little typing icicles.

Good Morning, World

Well, Salon has gotten all uppity about free information, so I'm switching to Google for my news. If I had a nickel for every action I took based on "the principle of the thing," I'd have a nice pocketful of change. Today's most compelling (to me) headlines?

In vitro fertilization is being linked to cancer. Sure, it's just a preliminary finding, but I'll bet we hear more about this.

Nell Carter died yesterday. Gimme a break! I loved her!

OK, somebody help me out here. The United Nations isn't just around to rubber stamp its members' declarations of war, is it? Isn't the idea to come to diplomatic resolutions to conflict? Wouldn't you assume there might be some disagreement on what the resolution should be? Why is everyone so shocked that Germany and France aren't kissing Secretary Powell's ass? I'm starting to really believe that things would run a lot more smoothly if all politicians and world leaders were either women or eunuchs. That's right, you heard me. I'm proposing political castration across the board. Maybe without all that testosterone fuzzing up their brains, these guys could accomplish logical thought.

Sheesh.

I Can't Breathe

I can't breathe because of the infection in my lungs. I can't breathe because people keep trying to take away my alone time. I can't breathe because the air is so cold it freezes my sinuses. I can't breathe because I'm being converged upon by earnest suitors. I can't breathe because my e-mail is choked with spam and party announcements and my phone won't stop ringing.

I just want to run away from it all. No wonder the bears hibernate in the winter.

Dear Mr. President: You Suck

I can't believe that son-of-a-bitch used MLK, Jr.'s Birthday (observed) to promote his faith-based agenda. Also, I hate him. I'm so mad, I can barely think of what to write about how much he bites it. What is he thinking with these mixed messages about affirmative action? How is increasing spending to Historically Black Colleges any more fair than the University of Michigan's admission policies? Isn't it a conflict of interest for the executive branch to make suggestions to the Supreme Court? Doesn't he know that it's "discriminate against"? Besides, how the hell are we discriminating against faith in a way that injures the cause of race relations?

Please, please, please help get his opponent elected in 2004, for the sake of all thinking and even the oblivious Americans.

I Had a Really Weird Dream Last Night

In honor of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s Birthday (observed), and inspired by the Moslem tradition of reading the Koran throughout Ramadan, I read "Letter from a Birmingham Jail" and an article about King by James Baldwin yesterday. I also watched some television and was concerned by an ad promoting remembrance of Dr. King's legacy. It ended with the supertitle "Dream." I'm no civil rights expert, but I'm sure Dr. King wouldn't be one to say his message could be boiled down to the word "dream." Maybe "act." Or "perservere." But dreaming is a state of inaction. Everyone knows, dreamers aren't doers, and Dr. King was a doer. He scorned the inaction and silence of the white moderate more than the abuse of the Ku Klux Klan. He believed non-violent direct action was the way to negotiation and change. He may have had a dream, but it should not be his dream that defines who Dr. King was to the civil rights movement and to America. His actions should be that definition.

I invite you to actually read "Letter" or The Autobiography of Malcolm X or Anne Moody's great book Coming of Age in Mississippi so that you can get a less diluted picture of the movement and the real stuggle than the modern media paints today. I'm appalled that I was taught the mythologized story of Rosa Parks as a child. Why couldn't they just tell us the way it was: Parks worked with the NAACP and knew exactly what she was doing when she refused to give up her seat. I find that story much more inspiring, as the story of a politically motivated woman who knew that a boycott was close at hand and that she might just spark it. That's courageous. That's a woman who is working for change, not just accepting the status quo but being too darn tired to stand up.

I remember when I was in college, and Spike Lee's X came out. All sorts of black kids on campus were wearing the ball caps with "X" on them. Alex Haley was a trustee of my university, so our professors were always happy to make us familiar with his work. I read Autobiography when I was a frehman, and it stunned me how many kids in their "X" hats didn't know the first thing about the man except what Spike wanted to show them. Ignorance of our nation's history, especially the history of civil disobedience for the greater good, is nothing to be proud of. In the current political climate, it's dangerous to be so ignorant. Once again, apathy and acceptance of the status quo are our enemies. Who will start talking today?

Say it Ain't So, Joe!

Mock me if you will, but I've been watching this Joe Millionaire, and I've been enjoying it. Unlike The Bachelor(ette) or all the other "find a mate" shows, this one is intentionally funny. The real host is an hilarious Aussie named Paul Hogan (not that one) who plays (is?) a butler. They make the gold-digging contestants shovel manure and pick grapes. The fake millionaire is really big and stupid and hot. But the girls are even more stupid. Take Amanda, who felt that since another girl was dominating the conversation, Evan (the fake millionaire) will never get to find out how cool she is. That's just retarded. I can walk into a room, never talk to more than three people, and everyone there will know how cool I am (the answer: very). Plus, I wouldn't sit there and let some bitch-ass MoJo prattle on for the whole train ride. Sheesh.

[Dude, Netscape Radio Awesome80s has played three Prince songs in less than three hours. I love them.]

Then there's the asshole who already has a boyfriend and can't speak French to save her life. If the other women had any self-respect, they would have served her up to the producers on a silver platter, or at least short-sheeted her bed. I wish I had known about this show. I can do all those outdoorsy things, plus teach Evan how to read. Did I mention that he's hot? Sure, he's got a lot of eyebrow, but that's okay.

Seriously, there's nothing else on TV on Monday night; check out this show. The best part is the epilogue, where Paul sits in his wing chair, snifter of brandy in his hand, a la Masterpiece Theatre and makes fun of the whole thing. This is refreshing reality TV!

Ooh La La, Chanel

A water main broke in my neighborhood today, so I had to take a different route to work. There I was, walking down 57th Street, checking out the windows of the fancy stores, most with names I've never heard, then Burberry, Jil Sander, then, ohmigod, look at that dress! I stopped in my tracks to stare in the window. The dress had a white, gauzy off-the-shoulder bodice, a underbust-corset-style waistline and a brown patterned skirt with a handkerchief hemline. It was so pretty. Then I focused in on the belt and the little logo I'd seen before. I backed up and realized I was looking in the window of Chanel. I know that to some people, that's not a big deal. But to me, Chanel has always signified the best in fashion. The classiest, the fanciest, and the most French. It also reminds me that I live in New York, you know, because you get used to it after a while. Sometimes you have to walk two blocks in a different direction to appreciate it. Wow. Chanel. I could never afford to walk in there. I'm so glad I wore my good hat and my cute boots today.

More Notes to Self

1) I never do this, but I found myself using my super-big sunglasses to surreptitiously read the paper over my neighbor's shoulder on the train this morning. Leona Helmsley is a homophobic bitch. Her attorney is also a moron. He actually tried to get the plaintiff to define "fetish" as the "sexual compulsion to dress up in leather." Well, that may be a fetish, but it sure ain't the definition of "fetish." If it were me, I would have said, "A fetish? Isn't that a small object used in tribal religions?" Or, "You know, counselor, it's like when you go home and try on your wife's underwear!" Idiots. The Daily News coverage was better, but their site is offline at the moment. It was so biased in favor of the plaintiff. In that paper, I read that Helmsley's attorney actually described the plaintiff's goatee as a "satyr" and that he grew it as a part of the leather thing. The paper said the plaintiff looked at the lawyer "with incredulity." I thought that was pretty funny. Considering how much leather, staying in New York and tickets to the Black Party cost, I'm sure having some of the attendees as guests didn't hurt the hotel too much, especially since they don't have any testimony that other guests complained. It also cracks me up that The Queen of Mean would be afraid of a leather man. That's just strange.

2) "Bloomingdales says that mini-skrts are back. What, are they kidding me?" Dude, you do not do a four window display of super-short black mini-skirts when it's 20 degrees (Fahrenheit, even) outside. I can't imagine ever leaving the house with bare legs again, so I'm really not in the mood to buy a mini-skirt. Plus, I don't think I really have the legs for a straight mini-skirt. An A-line or circle skirt is a different story, but you have to have very skinny thighs to pull off one of those straight micro-minis, and that sure isn't me. How did they do it in the 60s?

3) Walking down Christopher Street this afternoon, I pass two guys carrying a boom box that's playing some relatively inoffensive dance music. They're talking about La Escuelita and I'm wishing I was them. Then I pass a guy who's talking into his hands-free cell phone (creepy!), and he says "Why would anyone still carry around a boom box?" Now I can see why this guy, who is obviously a slave to gadgetry, sees a boom box as an unwieldy music source with less than ideal sound quality, but the act of carrying around a pumpin' boom box isn't one of personal listening enjoyment. If it was, kids would have given them up as soon as the Walkman came out. Carrying a boom box is an act of defiance and power. I can't believe that guy didn't understand that at all.

I wanna live in the Village, dammit! I can't believe I'm totally priced out of the area in which I really belong. Bollocks.

Note to Self

I just found the voice memo feature on my cell phone, and I love it. It's like having a mini-recorder for my random thoughts. Now, when I'm sitting on the couch, expounding to my television set, I can record a reminder to address the subject in the blog! Who needs a home computer? Let's see, what special things did I think of last night...?

1) "Dragnet's back, and Harry Morgan never looked so good!" Hmm, I guess you'd have to have watched the original to get that, but I do, and that's what counts.

2) Ok, you may or may not have heard about this case, in which a woman, who was caring for her cousin's children while the cousin was in jail, hid the dead body of one of the children and locked the other two in the basement. A lot of people are blaming DYFS, the New Jersey Department of Youth and Family Services, for not following up on the children. Last night on the news, case workers from DYFS held a conference wherein they complained how difficult it was to do their jobs properly with few cars, cell phones, or computers and such heavy caseloads. One case worker ended her comments by asking any of the attending if they would please sign up to be foster parents, which would also help them. I have a lot of sympathy for these case workers. Being a social worker isn't a glamorous or often rewarding job. They need these things to help them do their jobs. One case worker, a man, was on the verge of tears describing how futile it is to try to watch out for these children without the proper tools. I was glad to see them defend themselves so well. It's unfair to pin so much blame on a watchdog agency. The ultimate blame goes with the perpertrator.

OK, more later, I've got a tasting to go to. I love this part of my job!

It's Just Too Easy

I love a slow news day.

Just because he didn't have an affair with a porn star, that doesn't mean he's straight!

With Janeane Garofalo and a recycled ad from 1964, how can the peace movement lose?

Have you seen my watch?

Come on, how hard is it to get into the University of Michigan Law School?

Go Alexia! It's Your Birthday!

The Onion commemorates the year of my birth. Oh yeah!

30th Anniversary Of 1973 Commemorated
WASHINGTON, DC—Across the U.S., ceremonies have already begun to commemorate the 30th anniversary of 1973. "No one who lived through 1973 can ever forget it," said singer Tony Orlando, unveiling a plaque Monday on the National Mall reading "1973: 1973-2003." "From Richard Nixon's second inauguration to Billie Jean King's defeat of Bobby Riggs, 1973 was a special year that will be celebrated all year long." The U.S. Postal Service announced plans Tuesday to observe the milestone with a paisley stamp trumpeting "30 Years Of 1973."

Holy Crap!

Oh, nuts. The Pope and I agree on something. Thankfully, it's just the one thing.

Won't Get Fooled Again

My question is why the hell are they invading people's homes and computers rather than tracking down the people responsible for the websites and the source material? People who are innocent of ill intentions or any crime are stigmatized by this kind of arrest. You don't shake the mantle of "suspected pedophile." Just ask Michael Jackson. Pedophilia is also a tricky thing. Age, background of source material, intentions -- these things blur the line between actions that can be prosecuted by the law and what can only be prosecuted by the Thought Police. What do you do when a copy of the Sears Catalogue or family photos can be used the same way as nefariously conceived pictures of children? Can you arrest someone for looking at a picture and becoming sexually aroused? Should you?

What about those "Barely Legal" stroke books with 18-year old girls who look barely 15? That's not considered pedophilia, is it? That's a "teenage girl" fetish, right? I sure don't know. Unlike the wise-as-Solomon judges of this fair land, I don't know obscenity when I see it. I know what's obscene to me, but I sure as hell can't answer for other people. You know, all those other people with their different brains, value systems, backgrounds, intentions, and experiences.

How come people who use cigarettes are getting reparations from the cigarette manufacturers, but people who look at child porn are being arrested while the makers go largely free? Maybe not the best analogy, but what can you do?

P.S. If you think I'm advocating child pornography, you may want to try learning how to read.

All The Best People Have an X in Their Names

I like this Hans Blix fellow. It's astounding; he speaks rationally and intelligently. I actually understand what he's talking about. The only thing I'm not clear on is how you give evidence of something that doesn't exist. Like, I could say, "well, I had an apple last month, but I ate it and threw the core in the compost heap." How can you prove that? I suppose that weapons of mass destruction (WOMD), leave a little more behind when they're destroyed, but danged if I know what it is. Still, it's heartening to hear someone (besides Sheryl Crow) advocating a peaceful resolution to this situation. Too bad nobody's advocating the old "Disarm the US" codicil.

That's Sort of Personal, Dontcha Think?

I posted a personal ad on the internerd. I did it once before, in 2001, but I didn't get many responses, and I scared off the one boy I actually made a date with. For some reason, I'm getting more responses now, and the people want to print my ad in one of their crazy papers. So they gave me five free credits. I have no idea what I want to do with them. I also don't know what the etiquette is for responding to someone's note. I mean, is it completely rude to just ignore someone if you check out their profile and you're not interested? I would think writing "thanks, but I'm not interested" would be more disheartening.

I don't even know why I'm doing this in the first place. I guess I just want to branch out. If anything interesting happens, I'll let you know (although I know some of you don't care. "Get to the ideology!" you say. Hmph.)

Speak of the, erm, Devil

Good old Scalia. I understand what he's saying about democratically changing the Pledge of Allegiance (even though democratically electing the president wasn't a big deal to him), but when he starts in on "God" being part of the American tradition, and that being a good reason to keep it that way and not misinterpret the Constitution, he irks me.

It's important to note, though, that conservative Christians, the people who want America to be a Christian country, vote. I hope that the rest of us are voting, too, otherwise, we get what we deserve. Often I think that maybe I truly am part of a very small minority of people who don't want to live in a country that plays by the rules of the New Testament. Look at our government; it doesn't exactly reflect the image of a group of progressive thinkers. I'm not very politically savvy myself, but I know that I have to vote, to educate myself on the candidates and the issues at least enough to make an informed decision. So many people think their vote doesn't matter, they give up on being a part of the democratic process. That stinks, because voting on a local level does help to change what happens at the top. Even those folks who just vote for president are missing the boat. Your vote for Senator or Representative informs the presidential election and thus the appointments of the Supreme Court. So we get Scalia and the upcoming scary conservatives Dubya is sure to appoint. Then where will our separation of church be?

Oy, What a Lost Cause

I'm sure Joe Lieberman really wants to be president and maybe even believes it could happen. But I highly doubt it. He didn't really endear himself during the Gore campaign, and he's Jewish. Sure, he'll win New York and Florida, but it's as likely a candicacy as Jesse Jackson's and Elizabeth Dole's. This country isn't going to have it. In fact, if the next president isn't a Southerner, I'll be surprised. It's been white men from the South (and Texas) since 1988. I'd much rather have a president who doesn't identify religiously, like Clinton (c'mon, you think that wasn't all just for the cameras?). I know people keep forgetting about that old separation of church and state, but you know, it's in there. And if we do elect a Jewish president in my lifetime, I would prefer it not be Lieberman, because he scares me. He makes sounds of censorship and is strongly pro-Israel, which America really doesn't need right now. I'm not afraid to say that I think we shouldn't be taking sides in that freaking powderkeg. Hey, my foreign policy is a little shaky, though, so don't ask me what the right move is. I just know I'm not thrilled with the status quo.

Bring on the hate mail.

Pepe Le Pew

So the fancy pants government in Bend, Oregon (Bend, heh heh) wants to kick people off the public bus for being smelly. I don't like that one bit. I think it allows for discrimination based on cultural background. Anyone who's ridden in a New York City taxi can tell you that folks from some other countries don't have the same Puritan bathing rituals that Americans have, thus, their aromatic nature is perceived negatively by us Yankees. In other words, some Middle Eastern people don't smell very good. This is also true of some Europeans I've gotten inadvertently chummy with on the subway. Thems are the breaks when you ride public transport, sweetie. Besides, the concept that the government can deny a public service to someone because they smell is nuts, and must be unconstitutional. I want to see the ACLU jump in on this one. First I can't drink outside or smoke inside, now I can't be smelly? It makes me want to take a Greyhound Bus to Oregon, without showering, then hit the gym for a few hours, hang out in the monkey house at the zoo for a few hours, hole up in a pot den for a day, then hop the public bus back to the Greyhound station. Think they'd let me on? Gah, you'd think Eisenhower was back in office. I hope this doesn't give Bloomberg (the man who initially didn't seem concerned with "quality of life" issues) any ideas.

Live, From New York, It's a Real Saturday Night!

I was just thinking, I'm so glad I've only seen like, two episodes of Saturday Night Live in the past two years. If I spent enough Saturday nights at home to actually know the names of the cast members, I'd just give it up, get a cat and take up needlepoint. I don't pay $900 a month in rent to sit around in my apartment, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Run For the Hills!

Retina scanning in the schools? It's madness! I can appreciate the desire to have a cashless system at school, but what about ID cards? When I was in college, my school ID doubled as a debit card, while moonlighting as a library card. The claim that this is being done to destigmatize free-lunchers (heh, I first typed that as "free-munchers") is a little dubious. Kids have been getting free-lunch for decades. Their peers are pretty perceptive; your average fourth-grader can tell who has money and who doesn't without knowing how much they pay for lunch! The concept of having your "eye-print" on file at such a young age frightens me, it really does. I'm trying to recall if I was ever fingerprinted as a child in one of those so-called safety fairs. I'd never get voluntarily printed now. Forget it. It's bad enough that I have to have a Social Security number. Orwell may have been off on the date, but I'm just getting creeped out by all this retina-scanning, gene-mapping, surveillance-happy hoo-hah. Between insidious government intrusion and twelve-year olds in midi tops and belly rings, our society is going to Cleveland in a handbasket. For real, yo.

Dream a Little Dream of Fran

I dreamed I was watching a stage performance of Hawaiian music, and the announcer was saying that Gloria Estefan would be singing. Several large, unattractive people preceded her to the stage, and I thought, hmm, maybe she wants to look better in comparison. She came out, sure enough, skinny and glamorous, in a white fur coat and sparkly strech pants with flared legs. For some reason, my view zoomed in on her tummy, which was poochy and old-lady-ish. I looked over at Fran Drescher, who was, of course, standing next to me. She was also wearing sparkly stretch pants and checking herself out in comparison to Gloria, and I said, "Don't worry, Fran, you look much better than she does." She said something to the effect that her body was one thing she could always count on being good.

Later, I was Buffy in a huge battle, had sex with Stephen Baldwin (gross!), had to shoo four hairless cats out of my hotel bathroom because I'd left the door open, and helped Camille (my psychotic ex-roommate) round up the rest of the wandering kitties. All this happened between 6:30 and 7:49 this morning. I think sometimes I stay in bed just for the dreams.

Gah, Who Cares?

In what kind of messed up world do we live wherein the cancellation of a television show becomes a news story? Who cares? You don't see AP stories about the imminent cancellation of Buffy (please God, please let this be the last season). The question of SMG renewing her contract is still up in the air, so it's an even more interesting story than the Sex in the City one, but the stigma of being on a netlet has kept Buffy down for years. Speaking of my favorite TV show, I need to invest in a DVD player. The third season is out on DVD now, and it would make me so very happy to have my three favorite seasons crystal clear, with Joss commentary. *sigh* Of course, it would be wise of me to get a larger television first. I think DVD is wasted on a 13" screen, don't you?

Sign Your Name Across My Heart

It's important to prepare for the future. I like to tie that in with my everyday responsibilities (looks like too many i's, hmmm). For instance, today I am preparing for my future signing autographs by signing my name to 230 promotional letters, for that personalized touch. When you sign your name that often, you begin to wonder how anyone could notice a forgery.

I crafted my current signature when I was in high school. I added the middle initial sometime near the end of my senior year, when I decided every important business person (which I intended to be) used their middle initials. I changed my capital A from the round cursive style to a large ponity letter that swooped around like half a star into a tall L, beginning the repeated humps and loops that make up the E, X, and I, until abruptly changing direction and circling into the small A that looks like the old capital once did. From the end of the A, the line swoops around once again, stopping briefly over the I, then slashing down through the unfinished X, sometimes making a light curl at the bottom, one smooth line for all five letters and all the necessary dots and tiddles. Sometimes my pen gets stuck in the bumps and I can't discern the X from the I, or there is no I, or I dot the X and slash the I. Sometimes the capital A looks normal-sized, sometimes imposing and wobbly.

The C. is sometimes small, as inconsequential as the lowercases, sometimes as big as the capitals. Sometimes it just floats there in the middle, perfectly poised between "Alexia" and "Henke," being the perfect median, the sixth letter, the link in the chain. I can't sign my name without the C. Without the C., I'd rather just be Alexia on paper. Or Ms. Henke. I never say, "Hello, this is Alexia C. Henke." That would just be odd. But it has to be written.

The H is two parallel lines joined by a another swoop that starts an extremely volatile mix of letters. The E is not so bad (although it sometimes comes out more like an "i"). but the N has a tendency to become M, and the K wants to be H. Sometimes there's nothing I can do. I try to be careful, but the more I think about it, the worse it gets. The last E is a desperate attempt to just get out before something bad happens. It barely exists. No grand flourish at the end like the first name, just a small, sad, little E that looks like it's trying to run away, right off the page.

Other than these things, all my signatures come out differently. My letters know how they're supposed to behave, but my hand won't help them. I squeeze the pen so tight I can only get out two or three at a time. After signing 50 I have a red mark on my middle finger. My hands sweat and I have to stop and wait before I go on. Take a break. It feels like I don't know how to sign my own name anymore. It looks strange, alien. Is this my name? Why does it look that way? Why don't I have pretty, flowing script, like my mother, or a mad, doctor's scrawl, like my father (who is not a doctor)? I become so used to typing everything that writing in script is a hardship, but the only way I know how to write (except for envelopes and to-do lists, of course). I even wrote all my college notes (lo, these many years gone by) in cursive. I don't think anyone was meant to sign their own name this many times in a row. That's what they make the rubber stamps for.

My Bloody Valentine

So, the American Red Cross is experiencing a blood shortage are they? Hmm, maybe if they allowed people to give blood, they'd have some. I wonder if efficiency in testing is really so important when there's no blood in the banks.

What am I talking about, you ask? Well, a couple of years ago, I was a captain for my office's blood drive and I learned a few things about the rules behind giving blood. Done cocaine (through the nose) in the last twelve months? Forget it. They assume you may have used a straw someone else used and you could have HIV or hepatitis. Got a tattoo or piercing (this varies with blood banks) in the last 12 months? Too bad, because again, you may have been exposed to HIV/hep. Jail or mental institution in the last 12 months? Same. Also, if you've had sex with someone who meets these conditions, you need to wait to donate. Have you ever, even once, even with a sterile needle, injected anything not prescribed by a doctor? You will never be able to donate blood, even if you test HIV negative from here to eternity. Anyone who has ever taken drugs or money in exchange for sex is ineligible. And my very favorite, any man who has had sex with another man since 1977, even once, even with a condom, even if he's tested HIV negative for years, will never be able to donate.

I understand that the reasoning is that if you weed out the higher-risk donors, there will be less waste of unusable donations. But all donations are tested! Would someone who was knowingly HIV or hepatitis positive attempt to donate blood? While many of the above cited guidelines are minor and understandable, I am appalled that all gay men are precluded from donating, no matter what their HIV status. Where is the guideline about promiscuous women who don't require their partners to use condoms? What about "If your partner refuses to use condoms and you suspect that he is having sex with other people, you may not donate"? I used to give blood all the time, but the last time, according to the rules, I was ineligible for a very minor reason. Now, I could have lied. I could have donated blood anyway. Anyone could lie. They don't have your medical records, only what you tell them. Thank goodness they test every donation, right? Oh, yeah, THEY TEST EVERY DONATION. But it's a good thing they keep the gays from donating, because surely they've all got the AIDS, you know. Jesus Christ!

I refuse to donate blood anymore, except for my own use. Until the federal government takes a look at their discriminatory donation guidelines and makes a change. I know it's important to screen blood donations and to make sure no one is given infected blood. I know that gay men are a high risk group for HIV. But I also know that if you're facing a shortage of blood, maybe it's not because no one wants to give, but because no one is allowed to give.

[On the "Alexia is crazy" front, I also think about whether this whole blood transfusion thing is such a good idea in the first place. I can't quite put it in the same category as organ transplants, but I get closer all the time.]

Almost Famous

Who the hell is Erik Van Detten, and what qualifies him as a celebrity? Since when is Michael Boatman -- an actor I like, but who is hardly a household name -- a celebrity? ABC's Celebrity Mole Hawaii has just gone too far. I mean, if you're playing Pyramid, okay, I'll let you get away with "celebrity." But this is prime time. If the average person can't place your name with your face, you ain't no celebrity. I'll accept Frederique, because Victoria's Secret models always win. Maybe people even know who host Ahmad Rashad is, and Corbin Bersen and Kim Coles have just made themselves ubiquitous in the "celebrity game show" genre. Sure, I know Stephen Baldwin, but he is a Baldwin, and he was on Young Riders (drool), so that's a given.

Speaking of Young Riders (because I can't waste any more of my brain power on The Mole), Josh Brolin (an erstwhile Pony Express rider) has a new show coming out, where he's the kind of Congressman we wish we had. I guess the popularity of President Bartlett is catching on.

God, I hate this. Last night and this morning I had a bunch of things I wanted to bitch about, but they've gone, poof! I need a computer at home, or perhaps I could be a normal person and just keep a journal. All right, I do keep a journal, but it's more like a memoir, so it's very steamy. Rants wouldn't fit in. Okay, you got me, it's not steamy, more like "true confessions," in the "what the hell was I thinking?" category.

Mahalo, I'm Sure

Once again, I'm embarking on the admittedly pathological need to isolate myself by looking into a solo trip to Hawaii. It would be nice to go with someone else, but then I'd have to coordinate with their schedules, confer on hotels, and compromise on activities. Pros include someone else to drive, a cheaper hotel fee, and a friend to hang out with. I don't know. I thought it might be a nice thing to do for my thirtieth birthday, but it might not be as pleasant in Oahu in October as it is in April. I'm pretty sure I can't go in April this year, which bites, but hey, what can you do? Maybe I'll just go to a day spa or jump off the Empire State Building. Scratch that last part. Thirty's not so bad. It doesn't make any sense to me, aesthetically, but I accept it chronologically.

Besides, I can't see bringing three people to Hawaii with me, and if I ask one person, at least one other person will feel slighted. Hey, I know, what if I can russle up a boyfriend by October? That would be pretty good. But still, compromises, conferences and agreements. Yuck. I'll just go by myself and pick up an army boy at a nightclub like I did last year.

Charmed, I'm Sure

I took a test today.

[Let me just note that this test is probably all over the world of blogs and livejournals right now. Give me a break.]

It was actually interesting, and different from most of the other "personality type" tests out there. I'm not sure if it's best to go with your first instincts or to think about your answer, but I was pleased with my result. I would have thought I was "charismatic" or even a "star," but I'm okay with "charmer."

I am the Charmer. Charm is seduction without sex. Charmers are consummate manipulators, masking their cleverness by creating a mood of pleasure and comfort. Their method is simple; they deflect attention from themselves and focus it on their target. They understand your spirit, feel your pain, adapt to your moods. In the presence of a Charmer you feel better about yourself. Learn to cast the Charmer's spell by aiming at people's primary weaknesses: vanity and self-esteem

Symbol: The Mirror. Your spirit holds a mirror up to others. When they see you they see themselves: their values, their tastes, even their flaws. Their lifelong love affair with their own image is comfortable and hypnotic; so feed it. No one ever sees what is behind the mirror.

See, and you all thought (okay, I thought) I bring all the attention on myself. But it is true, I make people feel better about themselves. They're so happy they're not the decrepit drunk that I am, they perk right up!

Sounds Like...

I just noticed that part of Julian Lennon's "Valotte" sounds like "I'm Under Your Spell" from the Buffy musical. Or vice versa. You know what I mean.

It's really eerie how much Julian sounds like his father. It's probably a good thing that he gave up recording. Lots of sick people (like me) out there trying to hold on to a dead man.

New York Seven, Here I Come

I'm so excited. The Republicans are coming! The Republicans are coming! Just think how good it will be, economically, for New York. Just think of all the visitors and press and, you guessed it, protests! I'd just love to be part of something nutty. I never have been arrested. I'm not saying that lightly, either. I know what it means to be arrested, to have that on your record. I just don't feel as civily disobedient as I should be. I have until next year to pick a cause. Should it be reproductive rights? Gay marriage? Oil drilling? Constitutional liberties? General anti-Bush sentiment? There's just so much to choose from. I want to pick something middle-of-the-road, though. Nothing so fluffy that it goes unnoticed, but nothing so militant that it results in a walloping with a nightstick. I'm open to suggestions.

Beam Me Up, Rael

Dude, that's no clone. If it were really a clone, they'd freely offer up the DNA tests. These people think the mothership is on its way. Do we really believe they're cloning people? It's probably not even a baby. Some Dutch lesbian (not in Holland) is running around clutching a package of Quaker Oats to her bosom, convinced the aliens will make it a real baby. These folks are coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs, you know? Oh! Yes, I have an exception for my opposition to cloning legislation. As in my proposed parent licensing, cloning can only be performed by people who have taken an extensive psychological exam to prove they aren't nut-jobs who believe aliens inhabited Earth.

Recommended Daily Allowance of Irony

More reasons why I don't fit in with the other Gen Xers: I don't see what so cool about ironic detachment. Sure, I can be sarcastic and mocking, but that's only about things I genuinely dislike and would spend no significant time on. Like Ann Coulter. What I mean is the tendency for some people to take part in an activity -- like bowling or singing at a piano bar -- because they find it amusing that people still do that sort of thing. They listen to New Wave because the synthesizers sound "so old fashioned." They wear shirts they think are ugly because it makes them cool. See, I'm not like that. I really enjoy bowling and I don't think there's anything pathetic about a bunch of people enjoying themselves singing showtunes. I honestly think "Oklahoma!" is a great song. I think all electronic music sounds hopelessly modern. I've been known to wear ugly shirts, but they're not the kind anyone likes but me. And I couldn't care less.

I'm sure it's much more exciting and cool to take some Ecstacy and visit the local piano bar for the express purpose of laughing at the patrons*, but I just don't get it. Call me uncool, call me mundane, but I like like things other people happen to think are corny, rather than like things because they're corny. Does that make sense? My interest in kitsch is not an actual interest in kitsch, but the simple fact that a lot of my interests are considered kitschy. Still, for some reason, that makes me the object of some ridicule among some of the less secure people I've encountered. Not that I care; if I did, I wouldn't loudly proclaim my love for karaoke and playing with Barbies. Speaking of playing, I found something that makes me happy every time. If I feel down, or just not giggly, I just push the stomach of my Tickle Me Cookie Monster and watch him laugh and shake all over. It's like a magic elixir! You can't help but be cheered by that little guy! I keep him on my couch for accessibility. Yay, Cookie Monster!


* Full disclosure: I met someone in a bar this weekend who said he loved Marie's Crisis, but his reason was that it was so hideous to see all of the "washed-up ex-actor old homos" singing their hearts out, and he found that funny. Isn't he the pathetic one?

Move Over, Gary Wright!

I got my brand-spanking-new SunRise alarm clock this weekend. I still overslept this morning, but I guess I just need to get used to it. I definitely felt less surly. I just didn't want to get out of bed. During my post alarm naps, I dreamed some weird stuff, of course.

I dreamed I was in my parents' cabin in Tennessee, but it was a little different of course. I couldn't keep the lights turned off, because they kept going on and off by themselves. Then I saw my Christmas tree was on (and with blinking lights), but I knew I had taken it down. I saw it in three pieces (it's artificial), then when I went to the closet where I was sure I had stored it, it wasn't on the floor anymore. I chalked it all up to ghosts, which, even in the dream seemed a little odd. I dreamed it was 10:22 and I was going to have to call in late to work. Earlier, I dreamed that I was in college, and I was looking at my Palm Pilot. For some reason I had scheduled exercise at 8 am, like that was ever going to happen, so I deleted it. I said to the kids nearby that I was so glad it was my last year because my classes were spaced out and I didn't have to rush off right after class. Danny Masterson was in my class, and he told me he liked my leather jacket, but I scoffed because it's just the regular kind, nothing special. I dreamed I jumped some chick because she bothered me. For the first time ever, I prevailed in a fight in my dreams. This is, of course, something I would never do in real life. But it was satisfying in the dream. I also dreamed about all three of my most recent jobs, as if they were one. I think my brain was just trying to get my ass out of bed. Lights are connected to the alarm clock and the fight is connected to karate, which I have tonight. Everything else is pretty obvious. I wish I could remember my first dream of the night. That one gets lost in the ether.

Just as an aside, The New York Sun should just give up. They're still giving away free papers to drum up interest. I didn't take one because I don't have time to read it, and also, their crossword is annoying (read: too hard for me).

So Very Dirrty

I was just thinking about how much Christina Aguilera has changed over the past couple of years (don't ask me why, I'm not really sure), so I went to her official website to look at some recent pictures of her. She actually looked nice at this year's Grammy Awards. After reading an interview with her in Jann Wenner's birdcage liner, I started to think that I have said mean things about this person that I've never met without actually listening to her music or to anything she has to say. I can say I'm not down with her fashion sense, on the whole, but that's about it. Also, she doesn't seem to have a face so much as a face created by makeup. If I didn't know what I was looking at, I might guess they were pictures of CA, but she's not exactly always recognizable. I can easily confuse her with Shakira, which is not something you could have ever said about Madonna, who was (is) always instantly recognizable because of her strong features. CA has some kind of mush face where she is most recognizable looking upward. Maybe that's why she wears so much eyeshadow.

Sad Day

I just heard that the best friend of a very good friend of mine died last month. I didn't see him much, because he spent a lot of time in Puerto Rico with his mother. Luis was a great cook, and very sweet. I remember one summer when I scratched my hand on his rose bushes, he came out with antiseptic and band-aids and fixed me right up. I feel very sad for my friend, as he and Luis has been best friends and roommates for many years. One of the reasons I walk in the AIDS Walk every year is because Luis told me he got a lot of assistance from GMHC. I know some people don't feel they do a good job, but Luis' endorsement was good enough for me.

Aargh

I just wrote this great rant about sex editors who don't seem to like sex but I lost it. I don't have it in me to recreate it, although I probably could. Sigh.

What's Snoo With You?

Happy 2003, kids. Never one to let me down, our illustrous president has given me the quote of the day.

"You said we're headed to war in Iraq. I don't know why you say that," Bush told reporters. "I'm the person who gets to decide, not you. And I hope this can be done peacefully."

I'm so glad he's the person who gets to decide. Good thing we're not worried about all those pesky checks and balances any more. Whew!

You know, I keep having this feeling that Saddam Hussein has never had any intention of attacking America. It seems like he prefers to wreak havoc in his own country, where he feels very powerful. I mean, you'd have to be a total dumbass to want be the leader of a sovereign nation and think about attacking America. Terrorists, I understand. They're not beholden to any government, nor do they have any power of their own. Nothing to lose. But Saddam has a lot to lose.

So, what did you do for New Year's Eve? I got pretty terrifically drunk, but I was at the home of friends and I was able to pass out on their futon. I still hold the title of Last Woman Standing, thank you very much. The next day was painful and miserable, but after a nap, some Coke and an Iron Chef marathon, I felt up to trudging home. I'm sure this isn't the best way to spend the first day of the year, but again, the calendar is completely arbitrary as to the "beginning" of a year. I mean, it happens in the first few weeks of a season, for goodness' sake. Anyway, according to the news last night, I'm a binge drinker. They define it as having five or more drinks at one time. On the weekends, I definitely fit that category, and I don't really go out during the week anymore. I'm too old to be doing this to my body, but I'm going to have to train myself to drink slower and less. It's not good when you're hungover from your hangover.

Forget That Acquaintance, Willya?

Last post before 2003!

Reflection. Worked at the BID, arranged my mom's funeral, went to Hawaii, threw a few events, almost fell in love, saw my friend Betsy get married, got a new niece, went to the best lake ever, saw a few movies and a few plays, caught The Who and Robert Plant in concert, slept around, drank too much, smoked too much, tried a new illegal substance, didn't like it, changed jobs, lost my good perks, took up karate, found a great piano bar, boycotted Pieces, made new friends, started blogging, got sunburned, went to two parades, used the public library, decorated for the holidays, stopped going clubbing (for lack of clubs), bought one new pair of boots, hung out in Ithaca, drove to Cincinnati with Larue and actually drove, gave up red meat, started eating it again, started drinking more caffeine, stopping again, quit smoking, started again, ate far too much food from McDonald's, overslept, went to IKEA, got a couch and a shelf and a bookcase, made my apartment more homey, became a member of PBS, did my fifth AIDSWalk, and generally did the living thing.

Resolutions. To be more positive. To make myself happy. To get to work on time. To be tolerant of stupid people. To get to karate twice a week and voice lessons once a week. To spend less money on cigarettes and booze. To take a vacation somewhere warm and sandy. To sing as much as possible. To visit with my friends more. To see more movies and plays and watch less bad television. To be a nice person. To be nicer to my father.

Hopes for the new year. No war with Iraq or anyone else, for that matter. Improved economy, especially my personal economy. To meet a nice man. Development of some kind of singing project for me. Repeal of the smoking ban. Capture of Osama bin Laden, already. More people voting and becoming politically active. Fewer teenagers wearing thongs and giant pants (too much to ask, I know). A new album from The Who. Happiness and safety and comfort and love.

Have a happy New Year, and a safe New Year's Eve. They don't call it "Amateur Night" for nothing.

Hair Today, Clone Tomorrow

I know all of my readers are waiting with baited breath to find out what I think of cloning.

I caught a little round table discussion on PBS last night and was disappointed to find that that Viera woman from "The View" was on it. I've never understood what she has to offer, but hey, the opinion of regular people is good to hear, too. Seemed that everyone agreed that cloning wouldn't be offered to the average joe who loses a child or can't get pregnant in the near future, but it would someday be a possibility. When the scenario was given to Viera that her child had died and the doctor made the offer of cloning, she responded with the reasonable "Why couldn't we just adopt?" to which some lunkhead said, "But why should you have to?" Aaargh! What a dork.

My take is this: cloning, like in vitro fertilization before it, is unnatural. If you can't get pregnant the old-fashioned way, that's nature's way of balancing. Nature's trying to tell you to adopt, take care of the excess offspring that the overly fertile can't care for. It seems basic to me. Too bad if you can't find a sweet little blond haired, blue eyed baby who looks like your husband. If the only reason you want to have a baby is to continue your bloodline, and you can't do it naturally, nature doesn't want your bloodline. I would think that in an age where bloodline is actually less important that it's ever been, people would be more prone to adopt. If you must have a little baby, get a doll. Raising children shouldn't be a selfish endeavor. Unless you need farmhands, of course. That's a completely different story. Maybe it's my total lack of a maternal instinct working here, but I just don't get why people are so het up about having babies. Yes, it's important to populate (to some extent), but if you can't do it, there are plenty of children who need to be cared for and saved from a life of sociopathic behavior.

Clones are just twins who aren't born at the same time. I think we can all agree that twins are in themselves an aberration, but one that usually turns out okay (except in the case of conjoined twins, which I think proves the aberration theory). Now, an aberration is not necessarily negative, but it's not the optimal result. With fertility drugs and treatments, women are having litters, and not even through cell division, but through multiple embryos. That's just twisted. Of course, I'm also squicked out by organ transplants, so maybe my view is skewed.

To sum up, I'm against human cloning (as I am against in vitro fertilization and other fertility treatments), but I'm also against legislation against it, because I can't see how it could hurt anyone except for the parents and the clone. These kinds of medical issues (read: reproductive issues) shouldn't be legislated as they have less impact on society than they do on personal family dynamics. Genetic selection is a different story, and that just freaks me out. If people start creating more babies that are "perfect," those who aren't will be unjustly persecuted. That's a societal issue and it should be addressed by the government in some way, though I'm not quite sure how at this point. Make sense?

It's That Time of Year Again

The end, that is. Time for retrospectives and soft-focus follow-up reports on the "news" stories of 2002. I think I'll avoid the television just to maintain my good cheer.

Television was very nice to me Buffy-wise this weekend, though. At 2 am on Sunday, I caught one of my all time favorite episodes, "Hush," from Season Four. Fairy tale monsters called The Gentlemen steal the voices of the people of Sunnydale, then visit them at night to cut out their hearts. Sounds basic, but the cast does an amazing job of expressing being speechless. In the beginning of the episode, you (in hindsight) see how talking has been burdensome for our Scooby gang. After the voices are stolen, Riley and Buffy finally kiss because talking isn't in the way, Xander shows his love for Anya, which he can't express verbally, Willow bonds with the stutter-prone Tara through silent magic, and Giles gets a much needed rest from the yammering of the Scoobies( + Spike). My favorite scene has Giles explaining The Gentlemen with an overhead projector and hand-drawn transparencies. He plays Saint-Saens' "Danse Macabre" in the background, which is one of my favorite classical pieces and perfectly fitting for the "presentation." Some of the misunderstandings of non-verbal communication are hilarious. Plus, Giles' drawings are too cute. The final battle scene, wherein Buffy gets her voice back and screams to kill The Gentlemen is intense. This was Emmy-worthy stuff, but did anyone care?

Sunday afternoon UPN ran the final episode of Season Five ("The Gift"), the last season on the WB, what I think of as the last season of the "real" Buffy. It opens with the best "previously" segment ever. Every time I see it, I just stare, mouth agape. Giles' voice says, "Previously, on Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and they show scenes from the beginning of the show, faster and faster, until it's a flickering stream of images, everything, Oz, Riley, Angel, Spike, Dru, the Master, Adam, the Mayor, Faith, Giles in a sombrero, Buffy kicking butt, Willow and magic, Miss Calendar, just everything. It's so cool. I know I have it on tape somewhere. The rest of the episode is actually pretty good, too, for Season Five. The return of Joel Grey; Giles kills Ben after Buffy stomps Glory using the Dagon sphere and the troll hammer (suggested by Anya) and a wrecking ball wielded by Xander ("And the glorified bricklayer picks up a spare."); the Buffybot gives an encore performance; Willow retrieves Tara's mind from Glory and they combine magic to repel the flunkies from the tower; Spike does his best to protect Dawn; and Buffy sacrifices herself to save both Dawn and the world, because she realizes that this is what the spirit guide meant when she said, "Death is your gift." Sure, it makes no sense to you, but to a long time watcher, all of these pieces are important. I'm just happy I got to see two Joss directed episodes within 15 hours. I may be ready to start back on the first season now, since Season Seven is bringing me just slightly more enjoyment than Season Six (aka "The Season of Suckiness"). I think I could even watch Seasons Four and Five with pleasure after the last season and a half of mucking around on UPN. Poor SMG.

Puttin' on the Ritts

Herb Ritts has died. I don't know what to say about him, but I always admired his work. Few photographers could do what he did.

Hooray for Today

I have great hopes for 2003. That's an odd sounding year, 2003. Speaking of the way years sound, it's "two thousand three," not "two thousand and three." I can't believe it when supposedly educated people -- people who are paid to speak, for goodness' sake -- say "two thousand and two" or "two thousand and one." Numbers aren't said that way. The word "and" implies that a fraction is forthcoming, like "twelve and one half." How do these people write checks, "one thousand and twenty-five and 50/100?" I'm sure the argument is that it's different when it's a year, but I'm not buying it. If it were so, we'd be saying "twenty oh-two" (like "nineteen oh-two"). I guess I'll just have to file these folks with the people who say the current millennium started in 2000 and think it's acceptable to wear white shoes after Labor Day. Even those folks can't bother me right now.

Happiness of happiness, the Showtunes channel has played 1776, "More" from Dick Tracy, Godspell, and Tommy. I can tell I'll like this DJ.

Time moves so quickly. Yesterday's tragedies fade into the past before they can be properly understood. Processed into our popular culture or personal lexicon, things like 9/11, the dot-com bubble burst, and the 2000 election debacle become less real, less tangible. History is important, we must know what has come before and learn from our mistakes, but some things you can't fix. Sometimes, you have to forget the past and move forward, living in the present. It's horrible to live in the past and foolish to live for the future. What's left but the now? Sure, keep your eye out for the consequences, but what's the point of all this agonizing?

I'm going to make myself happy. I'm the only one who can do it, and I hardly ever try! I can't believe that for so many years (even back in high school), I denied what I really want to do because it wasn't sensible, wasn't a sure way to pay the rent. I'm tired of being sensible. I might as well be dead, or worse, living in Knoxville. Consider, I could be married right now; I had the chance. Living in some hick town, slaving away at a sixth-rate ad agency, breeding and baking and driving a minivan. Ew, gag me with a spoon, please. The real hilarity is that I'm here in New York City doing basically the same thing, without the husband. How stupid. How boring! It's taken a few years for me to regain my courage, but maybe it's that old saying, you have to hit rock-bottom first. Well, kids, watch out, because I'm shooting up through the water fast. I'll be sticking around the Big Apple for a few more years, because this is really the only place for me to do what I want.

Speaking of accomplishments, I got my second stripe on my white belt at karate last night. The last ten classes took forever because I was a slacker, but I should get my next stripe before the end of January. I've got tons of excuses for why I didn't go very much in the last two months, but none of them are any good, because they're just excuses. I was sick, I had cramps, I missed the bus, I was depressed. Oh, please. Those are about as good as my excuses for being late to work. The plain truth was I chose not to go, or if I had been less of a lazy bum, I would have made it. So, let's not dissemble.

I just watched Love! Valour! Compassion! again this week. I love that movie, although it does make me cry a lot. Just like Philadelphia, although the latter doesn't have the funny moments that make it worth a second watching. It also doesn't have the fabulous John Glover. I also watched Little Voice, finally. Jane Horrocks was phenomenal. Bubble is one of the best BritCom characters of the 90s, but this is a truly impressive performance. I would have loved to have seen both movies in their stage versions. Last night, the feature presentation was Carmen Jones, Oscar Hammerstein II's all-black musical set to the music of Bizet's Carmen. It was great, although I wasn't clear why Hammerstein emphasized the Amos n Andy style dialect: "dat" instead of "that," "dere" instead of "there," "I's," "You is," etc. It seemed far too old-fashioned for a movie set in the late forties. I also didn't understand why Harry Belafonte and Dorothy Dandridge didn't sing. I guess opera was just a bit out of their ranges. (At least it wasn't Marni Nixon playing Carmen, as she sang for Natalie Wood, Audrey Hepburn and Deborah Kerr!) Dandridge was nominated for an Oscar for that part, and I can see why. I doubt there had been such a strong black female character on screen ever before, much less in a leading lady role. If you haven't seen any of these movies before, go out to your public library and borrow them!

Ho, Ho, Ho... Oh, Forget It

I'm not recovering well from the weekend. Thankfully, nothing is going on at the office today. I have to bake cookies tonight for the two dinners I'm going to this week. Little green butter cookies in adorable holiday shapes. They're so easy, even I can make them. Actually, holiday snacks are my best dishes. I made the family cheese ball for my company party on Friday, and it was a big hit. Cream cheese, crushed and well-drained pineapple, chopped green bell pepper and a little seasoned salt, mixed well and sprinkled with chopped walnuts. Or, if you don't have a nut chopper, you can always put the walnuts in a Baggie and hit them with a hammer, like I did.

It's nice of my friends to invite me to their homes for Christmas dinner. In some way, though, it makes me even more aware of being alone. This is the second Christmas in a row that I've been boyfriend-free for the holidays, not to mention the other thing. Who's going to wake me up with hot chocolate on Christmas morning or stuff my stocking with little candy bars and tangerines? I just realized that this is really the first year I'll be waking up alone on Christmas morning. There's always been someone, at least my Mom. Wow, that's nice and depressing.

I think the song "Boogie Fever" is really underrated. I love a song that includes some reference to heat and dancing, like "Disco Inferno" or "Hot, Hot, Hot." That's good stuff.

It's Too Easy!

Get ready for some AP links...

Erstwhile human being Paul McCartney proves his status as "World's Biggest Git" once again by switching the credits on 19 Beatles songs. This isn't the first time he's tried to weasel out of the "Lennon-McCartney" credit. Yes, Paul, it's very sad that when you made the initial agreement to use that credit that your name came second. Maybe some foresight would have helped there. Also, if it doesn't matter what the credit says, why change it? I like many, many of the Beatles' "Paul" songs, but I think Paul McCartney is a right bastard.

The movie version of Chicago has been nominated for eight Golden Globes. I hear it's supposed to be pretty good, and I'm happy to see musical hitting the big screen, but Renee Zellweger and Catherine Zeta-Jones? I'm appalled that Bebe Neuwirth wasn't cast in the film. She has screen experience and is the Broadway favorite. It reminds me of when Michelle Pfeiffer was cast in the movie Frankie and Johnny after Kathy Bates won a Tony for her work in the role. Speaking of Frankie and Johnny and the Claire de Lune, Rosie Perez is taking over for Edie Falco on Broadway. These are good choices. I know Pfeiffer used to be a smack addict, but I still can't see her playing "run down" very well.

Another celebrity thinks his opinions on world politics are worth as much as his box office returns. Sean Penn took a little trip to Iraq to tag along on the fact-finding mission and was apparently misquoted by the Iraqi News Agency. This one is so weird, it could be reprinted word for word in The Onion and not look out of place.


Anti-Choice Is Not Pro-Life

So, at the UN population conference, Assistant Secretary of State Arthur E. Dewey says, "The United States supports the sanctity of life from conception to natural death," and "There has been a concerted effort to create a gulf by pushing the United States to violate its principles and accept language that promotes abortion." I am so tired of people saying these things in the name of the United States. There is nothing in our Constitution or our laws to agree with the first statement. Our Supreme Court upholds a woman's right to have an abortion, and it's not right for the US delegation to block responsible international reproductive policy. This is scary. How soon will the administration turn within and attack its own citizenry? The reactionary nature of this administration would be laughable if it weren't so frightening.


One Ring to Rule Them All

I saw The Two Towers last night. During a particularly climactic scene, I thought to myself that Lord of the Rings would be our generation's The Ten Commandments. It's truly epic and awe-inspiring. You really have to see the film on the big screen, with the good sound system. Peter Jackson's use of extreme close-ups and unthinkably long longshots just wouldn't play as well on a 13-inch TV. It's a very stimulating series. So far, I've cried at both films, for different reasons. I don't want to give anything away, but I do have to say, "Go, Ents!" I want to put Elijah Wood in my pocket and take him home. I definitely want to go for a second viewing. I can't believe I have to wait another year for the final installment. Incredible casting, awesome directing, impressive special and computer effects, a better than expected adaptation (from what I understand), and beneath it all, heart. These movies were obviously made with everything the contributors had in them to give. Anyone who dismisses them as geek fodder doesn't understand. And the geeks who complain about the minor discrepancies need to get some perspective and maybe a clue a to how movies are made.

Can I buy my tickets for the last film yet?


And Another Thing...

The New York City Council passed the ban on smoking in workplaces. That means bars, restaurants, bowling alleys, etc. It won't take effect until next spring. I'll tell you one thing, in the next few months, I better not hear anyone complaining about how smoky a bar is while I'm around. They'll have their little pristine bars soon enough. Anyone waving their hands, "subtly" coughing, or making that wrinkled-up-nose face will get a face full of Newport smoke from yours truly. That's kind of my guarantee.

Maybe I'll have a party the day after the ban takes effect. It'll be an all smoking, all the time party, with the exception of stinky cigars. Clove and pipe smokers will be positioned strategically to enhance the general aroma. Oxygen masks will be available for those who overdo it.

Or maybe I can organize a rowdy group of smokers to stand outside of a residential bar, then call the police and pretend to be a resident complaining about the decay of their quality of life.

Maybe I could become a gangster, like Al Capone. But I would be smart and pay my taxes.

Most likely, I'll just bitch about it in my blog.

The Laughs Keep on Coming...

Just as I predicted, people are up in arms over the use of the word "lynch" in Lott-related comments. Last night on the news, some group was blaming a state senator from New York for "marginalizing" blacks by using the term, but in fact, he was referring to the statement made by Senator Shelby. I laughed and laughed. I kind of feel sorry for Lott, because Bush is leaving him hanging out to dry, but hey, if you're going to be a politician, learn to watch your mouth. He has to step down as majority leader, but he won't lose his Senate seat, so I don't feel too sorry for him.

One thing's for sure, PC is alive and well.

In other news, New York finally has a gay rights law. Sadly, it does not include transgendered people. I think transgendered people need as much or more protection from discrimination than your average gay person, so this doesn't make sense to me. Also, it's usually a more obvious issue, making discrimination more likely. Well, next go round, I guess.

Snatched Away

So, Guy Ritchie's new movie (The 49th Gate) is a London gangster film (like his first two), but it's based on Moses' attempt to get from the 49th to the 50th level of holiness, as described in the Kabbalah? Poor Guy. He should just resign himself to being Mr. Ciccone. When I heard the tinny strains of "Lucky Star" pasted onto an inappropriate scene in Snatch, I knew he'd never recover from being married to Madonna.

Fa, La, La, La, La

Got the Christmas trees and all the other holiday decorations up. My living room (blue room) tree is white with blue and silver ornaments and blue lights. My kitchen (green room) tree is made out of green and gold tinsel and decorated with just white lights. I love the smell of tinsel! That's the real smell of Christmas. It pleases me.

After a brief hiatus, I'm going back to karate tonight. I should be getting the second stripe on my belt after this class. I'm also going to attempt to make it to more than two classes a week for a while, to catch up. Plus, it's cookie season.

Speaking of cookies, I'll soon be making my traditional buttery spritz cookies with my fancy cookie press. OK, it's not fancy, but it is made of plastic and can press cookies in a variety of shapes. I prefer to dye the dough green and make mini-evergreen trees with sugar sprinkles. I know it's lame to make only one kind of cookie, but they're easy, and who do I really have to give cookies to, anyway? By New Year's I'm pushing them on my co-workers. But no, nobody wants to eats sweets. What a bunch of wimps.

By the way, this section is my subtle way of saying I feel better. Of course I'd feel much better with trip to a tropical isle, but who wouldn't?

Dance, GOP Monkey, Dance!

This whole Trent Lott thing is cracking me up. Now his own party is undermining him. The funniest part is how Lott was only seven years old when Thurmond ran for president, making the offending comments even more obviously grandiose and hyperbolic. I personally believe it was just a poorly thought out statement, but, since I already disliked Lott, I find the whole thing very amusing. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Oh, and here's another speech impaired Republican: "I have a lot of confidence in [Lott] as the leader and as a senator. And I think we should not lynch him, we should give him an opportunity,” Sen. Richard Shelby, R-Ala., said on CNN's “Late Edition.” Oh my. I'm sure the use of the word "lynch" in that comment won't come back to bite him in the ass. Stop, guys, you're killing me!


Non Sequitur

While walking in Times Square last night I got to see the headline in ten foot lighted letters: Al Gore isn't running in 2004. Hey, that's ok. I'm an Al fan from way back in his Tennessee senator, environmental book-writing, ignoring Tipper days, but he's really too smart to be the President. I'd like to see him do something more important. And possibly more comedy. He was pretty funny on SNL with Stuart Smalley.

Heard through the grapevine that a certain Latina pop diva from the Bronx who is engaged to a white-bread Boston boy of ambiguous sexuality (guessed who I'm talking about yet?) is actually a lesbian. More than idle rumour, two separate sources, one a gossip columnist and one a drag queen hairdresser, are cited in the story, which was passed to me by two separate people in a bar. I ask you, can it get any more concrete than that? Personally, I'm withholding judgement until I find out if she's received any mysterious toasters.

I have no idea what the original story for Flower Drum Song was like, but the new libretto doesn't seemed forced in the Broadway revival, starring a transcendent Lea Salonga. Playbill used the term "shoehorned," but to the inexperienced viewer, the story and music fit together snugly. The dance numbers were to die for, and the simple solos on the spartan stage were inspiring. Great seats at The Virginia Theater didn't hurt, either. The costume designer should be in line for a Tony. What with the traditional Chinese opera robes, 1950s dresses and handbags, and showstopping showgirl costumes, I felt like I do when I see a wall full of Barbies: "I want those clothes!" One leaves the show humming "One Hundred Million Miracles" and "I Enjoy Being a Girl," two of the shows most well-known and catchy numbers. I think Mssrs. R & H would have approved of this production. I sure did.

I Will Survive

I just don't understand why Jan and Helen didn't join forces with Ted to get rid of Clay. I hate that guy. Of course, that's also good strategy, keep the least likable person around the longest so the jury is forced to vote for you. I would be so bad on Survivor. I'd mess up all the challenges and get voted off before you could say "Barramundi."

I do get really sucked into that show, though. By the end of the program, I have a clear favorite and I'm always disappointed to see them voted off. I shout at the TV, "Don't let Brian win immunity!" during challenges. It's sad.

The nice part is, when I'm watching Survivor, I'm not thinking about how miserable I am. So, thank you, Jeff Probst, for delaying the deep sighing and wallowing.

Also, CSI makes me happy. The guts aren't as gross on a black and white TV, either. It continues to be a really impressive show, with clever mysteries and enjoyable character interaction. Plus, The Who.

I really need a sunlamp so I don't have to rely on TV to combat depression! Darn winter.

Bad Modifiers

I found this story on a random blog, and of course, one thing struck me immediately. Why did they have to describe a murderer and his victims as homosexual? I never see "A Brooklyn man has confessed to killing and eating a fellow heterosexual," or "An Ohio man has confessed to killing and eating a fellow redhead." In this case, perhaps a more accurate sentence would have read, "A man has confessed to murdering and eating a fellow insane person who volunteered to be killed." I can't see why it's relevant that both men were gay. I hate the press.

Welcome to New York Francisco

Well, Bloomberg is getting his wish. Even though the City Council is having a hearing on the mayor's proposed smoking ban next week, it looks like a done deal, with the mayor agreeing to certain changes. Who is exempt? Owner-operated bars with no employees (yeah, I can think of, let's see, NONE of those); seven existing cigar bars (why? hmm, could it be that the clientele is filthy rich?); fraternal organizations, like the American Legion (because they complained loudly and have influence); a small percentage of the space of outdoor cafes (because you can really set up non-smoking areas outside, right?); and bars that set up super-ventilated smoking rooms that employees don't enter. Bloomberg says we can smoke in the privacy of our own homes, and outside. But hey, not all outdoor areas allow smoking either, like ballparks and, now, 75% of outdoor cafe space. This takes effect in late March or April. There's no way I'm going to sit in a bar and not smoke. What's the point? All or nothing, I say.

I'm hoping that out of this comes some interesting parties, actually. "Smoke-easys," maybe. Flagrant violation of the law by large groups of puffers. Halloween parade marchers dressed like Adolph Bloomberg. Coalitions to buy cigarettes out of state and make lists of the all smoke-friendly establishments in the city. One rule I learned as a teenager that I will never forget: That which is forbidden is most desirable. To quote Catherine Martell in Basic Instinct, "What are you going to do, arrest me for smoking?" No, they'll just fine me $200. How ridiculous is that?

I'm going to open myself a little nightclub with no cabaret license where people can drink and dance and smoke all they want. Too bad it won't be in New York. Maybe France.


Fear of a Black Box

In other anti-government New York news, an "incident" at the Union Square subway station (14th Street, 4th Avenue) shut down the station for a few hours yesterday. It seems some clever-trousers found a way to leave 37 black boxes with the word "FEAR" printed on them (in white) throughout the station. The Post is for some reason trying to tie the "hoax" to the upcoming transit strike, but I don't think so. So-called suspicious packages -- which are actually just the baggage of absent minded people -- have been the cause of many recent shut-downs at transportation centers all over the country. I figure, considering the way the boxes looked (I saw a picture of one on the news last night), that this was actually a guerilla art project. A ballsy move, but so far, there aren't any suspects named.

I don't know what to think about it. On the one hand, it's pretty stupid to mess with the cops this way, considering the stiff penalties for faking terrorism threats, and it's not very nice to shut down a train station, you know, to your fellow New Yorkers with the big giant asses. On the other hand, if they aren't caught, it's a pretty brilliant execution of guerilla art. Considering that the first box reported was actually opened by a civilian, it begs the question of where our fear of terrorism really lies, and how great it is.


I Dream of Alexia With Long Brown Hair

This morning I dreamed I had long hair, past my shoulders, and I was brushing it. I couldn't decide whether to put it up or leave it down. It was very pretty. I also dreamed that I was in a beauty contest and made it to the semi-finals, and that I was swimming with dolphins but it made my lips curl back violently. I carried one of the dolphins on shore and it turned into a husk and some guy broke it. There was also something about towels and stairs and doors.

Yesterday I dreamed that I was watching the end of Stonewall and it became a documentary about parks where bad things happened. Then I was in it, and I was walking through a park in Detroit (where I've never been) and all around me were these big, different colored plastic bags, and I knew that this was a park where people dumped bodies. I started freaking out, because they were everywhere. I tried to find my way out of the park and I spied a little bridge with a small tunnel. A guy who was pushing a kind of sled (like a football sled) with a body bag on it told me I could go that way. For some reason I took his sled and went down the slope to the tunnel, but it tipped over and I had a dead person in a bag on top of me. I pushed it off, and looked through the tunnel. There was a slope down, covered with small, dusty gravel, and a kind of granola-y guy looking at me suspiciously. He and I walked away from the tunnel and we were in a big dormitory-like building, and it seems that we were behind all the guys clearing out the bodies, because it was safe. Then his girlfriend walked up to us and I left the building. That was a weird dream.

Whole Lott o' Love

Last night, after I returned home from the theater, I watched Introducing Dorothy Dandridge (Thank you, New York Oublic Library, for all the free movies!). In one scene, Dorothy dips her toes into the pool at a resort in Las Vegas, and the management has the pool drained and cleaned for "health reasons." Disgusting and ignorant, no? Well, not if you ask our new Senate majority leader, Trent Lott, who, at our good buddy Strom Thurmond's 100th birthday party, proclaimed that had Thurmond won the presidential election in 1948, we wouldn't have "all these problems" we have now. What a moron. Doesn't he know that any time he speaks, even if it's just to the paperboy, it will be in the news and people will be deconstructing it? True, at this point, only Al Gore and black leaders seem to care that Trent Lott fucked up and openly (perhaps accidentally) praised segregationist ideals, but that's something.

What I love is that people are still saying, "oh, that's how Strom used to be! He's changed!" Bullshit. Seriously. A man who will run for president at age 46 on a segregation platform does not change. He may not speak the same way, because it's unpopular and could get him bounced out of office, but this isn't some sappy after-school special where the racist realizes through some life-affirming event that blacks are people, too. Supporting Jim Crow on a national level isn't like your old grandaddy using the word "nigger" or not approving of your interracial marriage. Strom Thurmond is a relic, and never should have been in office this long. Yes, his ideas are those of the past, and they have no place in today's government. It's just too bad the American people had to wait until poor health forced him out of it. And I am through.

There's Always Room for Infanticide!

Last night I was lucky enough to attend the opening night of Medea on Broadway. It was riveting. Fiona Shaw was incredible as Medea, the betrayed and scorned wife of Jason (of the Argonauts fame). I don't have my Playbill in front of me, so I'll just use character names for everyone else. Jason was passable, very passionate and visually stimulating, but few of the other actors looked like much next to Shaw. Aegeus came close, offering a brief appearance as a foreign ruler who would shelter her from the wrath of Corinth. The Greek Chorus was somewhat weakly played by four overzealous young ladies, although I was impressed by the girl who vomited on stage. Stunning set design, great blood work, and two lovely moppets who played dead and bloody remarkably well also added to the overall excellence of the production. If you're afraid of Greek tragedy or don't think you'll be able to understand Euripides, don't worry. Shaw's delivery of a dense text smoothly translates the story for modern ears while revealing Medea's wretched pain, cleverness and, ultimately, her madness. The show is only here for a 12-week run, so I recommend getting tickets now before they sell out.

Past Perfect

I watched two period pieces last night, but they sure weren't of the Merchant-Ivory variety. Dick, set from 1972-1974 and offering a fantasy story about Watergate and "Deep Throat," and Stonewall, set in the late sixties and giving us a story that might have happened in New York leading up to the Stonewall riot of 1969. I've seen Dick before, and I think it's super cute. Kirsten Dunst and Michelle Williams do amazing jobs as complete airheads. I felt like I could see the little wheels turning in their tiny minds. Plus, the costumes are great, and the White House cast is perfect.

Stonewall was just fantastic. I recommend this film to anyone who doesn't understand what the gay civil rights movement is about or to anyone who just wants to learn more about it or the scene in New York in 1969. Yes, I know, I have a thing about drag queens, but this flick is no Priscilla. It's real. It's heartbreaking, and it also gives you hope. Why is it that only independent films that don't get seen by the people who need to see them offer this kind of look at the subject matter? Well, I'm not into the politics of film, so whatever. I saw it and I give it ten thumbs up.

Now, I Hate New York

What the hell is going on with this transit strike? A few points, if you'll bear with me.

Mayor Bloomberg says he will jump on his bike and ride to work in the morning. Plus, he said his old bike was in poor shape, so he was going to go out and buy another one. OK, even if I weren't deathly afraid to ride a bicycle in New York, and even if I could afford to buy one, I live in Bensonhurst, which would get me into work sometime around lunch, and dead. So glad that our Mayor can afford to live in Manhattan and bike to work, but some of us aren't so stinking ri-- I mean, lucky.

I simply have no way to get to any express buses or ferries or trains. The walk would be so far, I'd have to get up at 4 am. Park and ride facilities are great... IF YOU HAVE A CAR. What, am I supposed to ask my friend in Bay Ridge to come east to pick me up then drive west back to the city? Where's he supposed to park when he gets there, anyway? There's no parking in this city on a regular basis, much less when everyone is driving in, 4 people per car or not.

And speaking of that, Mayor Mike thinks it would be a good idea for you to pick up strangers on the street who may need a ride. He assures you that since traffic will be moving slowly, it won't be dangerous. I -- Whu -- The hell?

This is just insanity. I know the city needs to act like it can live without the transit workers so it doesn't have to cave to their demands, but it can't! We need the public transportation system! I can't work from home, and I can't get into the city in a halfway timely manner. Let's all cross our fingers that they settle this thing by Sunday!

By the way, I'm so sick and tired of all the crap going on in this city (largely because Rudy screwed up and left Mike holding the bag), that I'm looking into getting a job on a cruise ship. Something, anything, I can't stand it anymore!

I Hate Christmas

Well, I like the music. I found a place to go caroling this Friday, which is nice.

My office is too hot, and I can't stand it. Last Monday it was a bloody icebox. Oh right, I have a desk fan. That's better.

Why, oh, why are the Holiday Barbies so pretty? So enticing, velvety and glittering? Year after year I gaze through toy store windows, longing for the days when I could always look forward to a Barbie or two under the Christmas tree. Now I'm reduced to buying them for myself, and I just can't justify the expense. Even the $12 ones at CVS; it just seems wrong for me to buy toys for myself, especially since I don't play with them nearly as much as I should.

Can I fast-forward to the less confusing and irrational part of my life, please? I'm bored with this part.

Make Love, Not War

I wish I knew someone like Phillip Berrigan. A person with a true conviction that war is unnatural and should be anathema to humans. Someone who wouldn't derisively call me a peacenik, someone who could teach me how to be an activist for peace and inspire me to take that action. People like Berrigan devote their lives to causes, at the expense of leading a "normal" life, but these people are true heroes to humanity. It's a shame, that in a time when worldwide bloodshed is the norm and the US is on the verge of creating more, anti-nuclear and peace movements are weak, characterized as "liberal nuttiness," and sparsely attended. Recently, I read that the new version of the draft ("Conscription 5.0"), if the Selective Service Act is reinstated, may include women. I'm probably too old, but hell, I wouldn't be any good in a war! I'd probably accidentally shoot myself in basic training. There are times when I am honestly bewildered that people don't see war as so much madness, especially in this global era of advanced technology, widespread education, and immigration. Personally, I don't trust anyone who can't (or won't) see that war and murder are the same things. Here's to you, Phillip Berrigan, for not giving up on humanity.

The Internerd

Sometimes I can't stand the fact that other people with whom I seemingly have nothing in common with read the same things that I do, specifically rabbit blog and The Onion. I mean, how can a guy who enjoys writing a blog about appellate legislation enjoy this stuff? I need more obscure interests. Actually, I need to stop reading other people's blogs ('cept rabbit's), because it makes me crazy. I'm not ready for the world to be this small/big yet. This is why I don't belong to fan clubs or message boards for Buffy or Prince; I get creeped out by lots of other people being really into the same things I'm really into. Especially when they're superfans, because that's just scary. I could never collect anything because that's just a decent into madness waiting to happen. I have some stuff that's the same as other stuff I have, but I'm not nearly a completionist on anything. I haven't even read Stephen King's latest book yet, and that's my big one, though I'm sure there are people out there who have eight copies of each book, signed, and weird eBay stuff like Stevie's used Kleenex. Yikes. Still, at least those people are passionate about something.