My life as a topo map

I’ve just been visualizing a topographical map of my emotional life. Looking at the low country and the highlands. Seeing the valleys, the peaks, and the plateaus. Charting the wide, rolling plains and the towering mountain ranges. Throwing in some literary references, like my own personal Slough of Despond [John Bunyan, Pilgrim’s Progress], Cliffs of Insanity [William Goldman, The Princess Bride], and Mountains of Madness [H.P. Lovecraft]. Adding some movie titles so I can go from the Valley of Decision to the Valley of Gwangi…

How Green Was My Valley of Gwangi! she exclaimed.

Then it’s over the Angry Hills and through the Petrified Forest until I can Escape to Witch Mountain and – okay, okay, is this metaphorical nag dead yet?

The kids shout: Yep! He dead!

If I consider the lives of my family as pages in one big topo atlas-gazetteer, here’s how they look:
The hub has gotten some very gratifying strokes and acknowledgement lately for some work he’s done. He’s been doing a lot of biking and has lost at least 20 # in the past couple of months, so he’s pretty happy about himself these days, and rightly so. The hub’s topo map page is currently all high country: an ever-rising elevation dotted here and there with rocky outcrops [a hostile, sarcastic wife going through drug withdrawal, for one]. These harsh impediments to happiness can be overcome with some effort and actually provide a satisfying challenge. And nothing but boundless blue cloudless skies overhead.

Meanwhile my two boys, ages 16 and 14, have maps that clearly situate them on the slopes of Sugar Mountain:
Oh to live on Sugar Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons
You can’t be twenty on Sugar Mountain
Tho you’re thinking you’ll be leaving there too soon
You’re leaving there too soon

For my "16", the map of summer 2004 includes: getting ready to take his driver test. Shopping for a cheap, safe, good-running vehicle. Girls. Hanging out with his peeps, either online or at the local coffee joint. All-night LAN parties. Girls. Football practice beginning in August. And denouncing M. Night Shyama-lama-dingdong’s “The Village” as the “Worst… Film… Ever!”
As for my "14", it’s a world of: Battlefield 1942 , played constantly with ten buddies online. Dave Chapelle. The Daily Show. Band of Brothers. IM-ing forty or fifty people all day, every day. Theater Boot Camp at the high school. Yearning for an iPod. Backpacking in the Boundary Waters for a week, which is what he’s doing at this very moment.

Finally, there’s my map. Note the warning: “Here There Be Monsters”.

No shit, Sherlock! she shrieks, bitterly.

This week I’m completing my long slow goodbye to Paxil, which I’ve taken for the past 3 and a half years. Most of that time I’ve felt like a hostage to a medication which hasn’t done much for me apart from keeping me taking it in order to avoid the hellish withdrawals I go through when I try to go off it. Others' experiences with Paxil may vary, of course.

I am a soon to be 52 year old woman deep in the throes of my “change”, as I so euphemistically put it, complete with the hot flashes, night sweats, and other icky crap that goes with it. Now, if it were just the menopause stuff going on, there would be relatively little to complain about. It can be bad at times, but not that bad, and now I’m almost done anyway. Some friends who are of similiar age have expressed amazement that I've slogged through the process with a fairly minimal level of discomfort. Why on earth should that amaze them? I think it must be because they have all been on some form of HRT, and I never have been.

I made a vow 20 years ago, before I had kids even, that when I entered menopause I would forgo HRT. Just tough it out. Suck it up. Ride it out. [Insert one more hackneyed phrase denoting survival. How about “Bite the bullet”? Oooh, good one.]
I decided against HRT after watching my mom “cope” with her symptoms. When she went into perimenopause in her early 40s, her doctor prescribed Premarin, the same as millions of other women’s doctors did, and she took the stuff for nearly 20 years. Then she was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 64, and died six months later, not from the cancer but of a massive pulmonary embolism that brought death in less than five minutes. Studies have since shown that HRT can affect not only a woman’s likelihood of getting breast cancer, but also the likelihood of blood clots forming like the one that killed my mother.

And now when it’s my turn, I’m supposed to take HRT? I don’t think so.

I know now that doing menopause without hormone replacement therapy was definitely the right thing for me to do. For me. Each of us needs to make our own decisions, of course. Informed decisions, hopefully. Personally, I've always asked myself: Why medicate women for menopause?? Jebus H Christ, aren’t we medicated for everything under the sun already?? Luckily, the symptoms I’ve had to deal with have been managed by taking ibuprofen, avoiding alcohol, and sometimes setting my blowdryer on “Cool” and aiming it inside my shirt . Woo-hoo!
And I enjoy getting older. There’s a lot of advantages to having these wrinkles, these sags and bags, and this new spare tire. Plus, best of all, you get a license to be a crank and curmudgeon for the rest of your life, and that alone is SO worth it!

But, add Paxil withdrawal to the mix and on top of the menopause side effects I get more, even more delightful reactions. Paxil leaves the body in a very short time: within 20 hours. When it’s suddenly out of my bloodstream, I get chills and sweats. Nausea. Dizziness. It’s like the worst case of flu I’ve ever had. I start to see strobe flashes of light behind my eyelids, and get a brutal headache that won’t go away, and at some point I start to think longingly about how blissful being in a coma would be. Even weaning myself off it very slowly, over the course of a year and a half, has resulted in many, many episodes of feeling spectacularly lousy.

Welcome to my world

So, here you have my present coordinates on the big topo map of my life.

Where I’m at, the terrain is harsh, rock-strewn, and desolate. It’s kind of like the “Sun’s Anvil” stretch of the Nefud Desert that TE Lawrence and his band of 50 men had to cross in order to take the Turks by surprise and attack Akaba from the landward side.

Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about. I’m not the only Lawrence of Arabia fanatic out there. Someday I’m going to have to write about being a Jeopardy contestant back in 1993, and how I ended up chatting on-camera with Alex Trebek about LOA, and how he then performed 6 minutes of dialog from the film in front of the studio audience, because it’s also one of his all-time favorite movies.

I go through some days as the noble Sherif Ali [Omar Sharif], poised and in control, looming up out of the desert like a mirage, graceful and elegant. Other days, I swagger around hollering obnoxiously at everybody like Auda Abu Tayi [Anthony Quinn], which drives the hub and kids right out the door. Then, another day a word or a thought will start me crying uncontrollably, or I’ll throw up without warning –and this will happen repeatedly throughout the day. That’s when I’m like the hapless Gasim, staggering around lost in the furnace-heat of the desert, dropping my ammo belts, falling down and fixin’ to die. After suffering through that a while, I somehow buck up, turn into TEL and go back to rescue my Gasim-self, and then come trotting triumphantly out of the desert, wild-eyed, delirious, quixotic.

Oh, it’s fun being me these days, I tell ya. I could draw you a map.

This post also appears over here.

A True Hero

Today I saw a June 11 story on CBSNews.com that brought me to tears: The report concerned an eight-year-old girl, Alexandra Scott of Pennsylvania, who showed the world how to turn lemons into lemonade. Literally and figuratively.

Just shy of her first birthday, Alex was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, an aggressive childhood cancer that originates in certain nerve cells. The girl's cancer was of the high-risk variety, which has a survival rate of only 40 percent.

Young Alex did not let the tragic news dampen her spirit. As she grew, she set a lofty goal: She dedicated her life to raising $1 million for cancer research, even if she could do so only one dollar at a time.

Four years ago, the enterprising young girl -- while still battling her own cancer -- opened a lemonade stand whose proceeds went to fight the disease. On one day alone, she raised $2,000. And as time went on, others joined Alex's effort, opening up their own lemonade stands and giving the money made to cancer research. As of June, more than $200 thousand had been raised; $15 thousand of that total came from the Scott family stand.

The movement went nationwide via Alex's Lemonade Stand For Pediatric Cancer Research. Lemonade stands popped up throughout the US, Canada, and France to support the cause this June, and according to the campaign's web site, $700 thousand has been collected so far through sales and donations from around the world. The hospital treating Alex has received about $150 thousand, and hospitals in Connecticut, Michigan, Texas and California have benefitted from the crusade. And leading the effort was Alex, who generously shared her story and her cause via television programs such as "The Oprah Winfrey Show" and "The Today Show."

Remember that through it all, she was a very sick little girl. As CBS News reports,

"Alex would have died many years ago if it wasn't for newer experimental therapies, and I think that's something she and her parents recognize," said Dr. John Maris, who has directed Alex's care at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. Neuroblastoma is diagnosed in about 700 U.S. children every year.

Though excited about [the national effort], Alex has been drained by the chemotherapy and radiation being used to treat a new attack of tumors, her mother said. After seven years of treatment, her cancer is considered incurable.

"She's tired. She's exhausted," Liz Scott said. "Her future has always been uncertain, but I don't think any of us — me, my husband, her doctor — has felt this pessimistic before."

Because of her frail condition, her parents and doctor ... encouraged Alex to cut back on her fund-raising activities. But she insisted on appearing on a television morning show [in June] to publicize the fifth annual "Alex's Lemonade Stand" day. ...

Some days Alex feels good, like ... when she saw the new Harry Potter movie. Other days she doesn't. Every day she lives knowing many of her friends have died of neuroblastoma.
Her mom calls Alex "the bravest person I know," and she holds out hope her daughter can overcome her disease.

Sadly, that hope was not to be.

Alexandra Scott, of Wynnewood, Pa., whose battle with pediatric cancer captured hearts nationwide, "passed on peacefully with us holding her hands," her parents, Jay and Liz Scott, said in an e-mail, the Philadelphia Inquirer reported Monday.

"She just slipped away," Liz Scott told the paper Sunday. "You could see when she was ready. She let off a big sigh, and went off to sleep. She was very calm. For that, we're grateful. You're always fearful it's going to be scary."

The girl who turned lemons into lemonade is gone from Earth, but her work will continue. Before her death, Volvo of North America promised to hold a fall fund-raising event to assure that the $1 million goal is reached. And you can still help the cause: Visit Alex's Lemonade Stand and do all you can to help. No doubt, Alex, now sitting among the angels, will be pleased.
"I'm obviously very proud of her, but it's more than that," Liz Scott told CBS News. "I feel privileged to be her mom. I admire her."

Same here. Thank you, Alex, for showing the world that anyone can make a difference. In only eight short years, you did a lifetime of good.

from all facts and opinions

Your Own Private Mt. Everest

The guy who draws those Gaping Void cartoons on the back of business cards gives a useful rumination on the creative process . And I'm not just interested because I'm currently searching for ways to jump-start my writing, either. An excerpt that hit me like being pole-axed right between the eyes:

9. Everybody has their own private Mount Everest they were put on this earth to climb.

You may never reach the summit; for that you will be forgiven. But if you don't make at least one serious attempt to get above the snow-line, years later you will find yourself lying on your deathbed, and all you will feel is emptiness.

This metaphorical Mount Everest doesn't have to manifest itself as "Art". For some people, yes, it might be a novel or a painting. But Art is just one path up the mountain, one of many. With others the path may be something more prosaic. Making a million dollars, raising a family, owning the most Burger King franchises in the Tri-State area, building some crazy oversized model airplane, the list has no end.

Whatever. Let's talk about you now. Your mountain. Your private Mount Everest. Yes, that one. Exactly.

Let's say you never climb it. Do you have a problem witb that? Can you just say to yourself, "Never mind, I never really wanted it anyway" and take up stamp collecting instead?

Well, you could try. But I wouldn't believe you. I think it's not OK for you never to try to climb it. And I think you agree with me. Otherwise you wouldn't have read this far.

So it looks like you're going to have to climb the frickin' mountain. Deal with it.

My advice? You don't need my advice. You really don't. The biggest piece of advice I could give anyone would be this:

"Admit that your own private Mount Everest exists. That is half the battle."

And you've already done that. You really have. Otherwise, again, you wouldn't have read this far.

Rock on.

Thanks to Cory at Boing Boing for the link. Cross-posted over here.

Blog Sisters get e-press

An article in Women's E-News by Karen Trimbath about women and blogging features Jeneane Sessum, Shelley Powers, and... me. Of course, the article mentions Blog Sisters, so now -- as registrar -- I'm getting overwhelmed with requests to join. So, if you're a potential Sister who sent me an email, hang in there. I'm dancing as fast as I can.

Do You Believe in Angels?

Do You Believe in Angels?
I do. Here's why. (It's a creepy story, so be prepared.)

When I was about 13, we lived in a trailer on the property of my mother's boyfriend's job-- which was a big trucking company. One of the employees (we found out later) was an ex-con, who had been in prison for rape. I remember once in my youthful enthusiasm, I had happily hugged him (again, we didn't know he was a rapist). But even then, right as I hugged him, my nascent instincts about creepy men kicked in and I saw a funny look on his face and avoided him from then on.

We had this beautiful Doberman Pinscher named (can you guess?) Angel. She was one of the red Doberman's, and she was my sweet best friend. She had been abused by her former owner, and because we were kind and loving, she adored us. She would spin and leap happily whenever I came home from school. If you've ever seen a Doberman run flat out at top speed, you know how gorgeous an animal happy with life can be-- they look like speed personified. (They are bred partly from Greyhounds and you give them room and they will sprint like there's no tomorrow).

Angel liked to sleep in the doorway of my bedroom. One night, I was awoken by the sound of her yelping slightly to see her standing firmly in the door, with the look of permanent unbudging determination that said "Okay, buddy, you've got about ten seconds to live if you even think about trying it." The guy, I'll call him Zeke (since that actually was his name-- hey, I'm not protecting the bastard here!) was standing in front of her, hand out in that supplicating "please don't eat me" way that people tend to respond to Dobermans with their temper up. Angel didn't bark, she didn't rip his throat out, but there was the distinct impression that she would be glad to at any time. I realize in retrospect that my response to the situation was problematic-- Zeke said "sshhhhh" and "go back to sleep" and I did. Nothing untoward happened to me. Angel prevented him from entering my room, but she was a shy dog, and not trained to chase him off (he was, after all, a normal person to be on the property, so not exactly a stranger to her.)

My sister, who is seven years older than me and was sleeping on the couch, woke to find Zeke hovering on top of her. She told him if he didn't get off, she would kill him. Now, you have to realize that if my sister told you that, you would (and should) believe her. She is not at all shy, and would definitely carry out her threat (make that promise). He did-- he left, and was not seen again. (I don't know if he quit his job, or was fired, or what, but I never did see him again). My sister is kind of a heavy sleeper, though, and when she finally got up the next morning, she found that her underwear was gone. Nothing happened to her other than that "attempt" and we sort of wrote it off as a weird event that was fairly harmless. (Again, now, in retrospect, I would be calling the cops if it were my daughters telling this story to me the next morning, if only to keep my husband from going after the bastard with his well-polished Glock, but I think that's the issue with a lot of these cases-- people don't always realize how they should respond).

Angel was hit by a car and killed not very long after this incident. It was a heart-breaking moment and I saw it happen and cried for a very long time.

But here's the point. I am quite certain that if I had been the one to wake up with Zeke actually in my bedroom, given that I was young and used to minding adults, I'm not sure what would have happened. Angel firmly kept him out of my room, and my sister could handle herself. There are other things that would have been nice if they had happened, like Angel actually ripping his throat out. But that's what Angels do, right, they protect, but they don't actually inflict harm. Then, after saving me from a painful terrible event, she was sent back to wherever Angels hang out when they aren't in bodily mortal form.

I like to think that she's my guardian still today. I have a particular fondness for red Doberman's. It's possible I may get one myself one day, especially if I have a daughter who might need some firm protection. Of course, I plan to teach a future daughter's Angel to not be so gentle when assholes who don't belong somewhere show up. In the future, any man who doesn't belong in my home will be finding his balls as a new form of Alpo.

Originally posted at Kim Procrastinates

That time of innocence

After more than 40 years, a group of my college sorority sisters got together around a dinner table.  Many of the young women who read this weblog are the ages of our children and grandchildren.  We were the girls in college around the time of the setting of "Mona Lisa Smile."

I'm writing on my weblog about the memories we all shared about that time --  that time of innocence, that time of boundless energies. A time when we were all learning together how to figure out who we wanted to be. A time when draft beer was 10 cents and girls would be confined to their dorms at night for a week if they stayed out later than 1 a.m. (midnight if you were a freshman).
 
I'm writing about the girls we were and the women we've become -- those golden girls who, I think, glow more compellingly now -- and for some it's 44 years later -- than they even did in what we all remember as our sweet golden glory days.

If you're interested, c'mon over.

ten stories that are not about Iraq

 
To shine a spotlight on some of the important international issues and developments that often do not get sufficient media attention, the United Nations Department of Public Information has created  "Ten Stories the World Should Hear More About."
 
The stories are not ones that have never been reported, but are often second-rung issues that need more thorough, balanced and regular attention. The list itself is a snapshot of the most compelling stories that includes the plight of child soldiers in Uganda, who are emerging as central figures amid deadly violence and a growing humanitarian emergency; the crisis of children orphaned by AIDS in sub-Saharan Africa; and overfishing as a threat to marine biodiversity.  

Under the Covers

I worry about terrorists. I don't obsess, and it's not on my mind every minute. But I think the Bush administration has set up a self-fulfilling prophesy.

So when I read Ann Jacobsen's article in the Women's Wall Street Journal last week, it made me nervous. Because, given the tenor of the times, I probably would have been seeing and feeling what she was seeing and feeling:

After seeing 14 Middle Eastern men board separately (six together, eight individually) and then act as a group, watching their unusual glances, observing their bizarre bathroom activities, watching them congregate in small groups, knowing that the flight attendants and the pilots were seriously concerned, and now knowing that federal air marshals were on board, I was officially terrified.

Jacobsen's tale is long but compelling and worth reading.

Even more worth reading (and a lot shorter) is lawyer and Stanford Ph.D. candidate Clinton Taylor's research and analysis of the happening.

It used to be easy to tell books by their covers. Sometimes you still can. You just know that this one is sure to be a bodice-ripper.  This one is too, in it's own way, but it's harder to tell. (This new "romance" category with strong, brave kick-ass females and strong, brave, tender males is one I plan on writing more about.)

I've had doors held open for me by Goth-garbed kids and have been given the finger by guys in suits driving SUVs. You can't tell the good guys from the bad guys any more. Or gals either for that matter.

Who knows what wickedness lurks behind the pleasant facade of a little ol' granny.

Teddy Pendergrass is worthy of fantasy

Toni and Foxxy, cold Crystile in wine glasses.

Flashing.

We macking -- Brown and Braxton.

Toni Braxton and Foxxy Brown
"You're Making Me High"

Rich people are different. So, it would be presumptuous of me to declare much commonality with Ms. Jackson. I had my wisdom teeth removed at 18. Janet Jackson had a CD, a starring role on a television series and a Rolls Royce at 18. 'Nuff said. So, it is with some amusement that I admit to sharing an experience with a Jackson family scion. In a recent interview in Blender magazine, Jackson describes certain prurient aspects of her early adolescence. The Vancouver Sun summarizes the article.

NEW YORK -- Long before her right breast was exposed to the world during the Super Bowl halftime show, Janet Jackson says she had thoughts about sex.
"As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that I had a very active sexual mind at a very young age. I hope that doesn't sound bad," Jackson tells Blender magazine for its June-July issue.


"My first crush was on Barry Manilow. He performed on television, and I remember taping it. When no one was around, I used to kiss the screen."


Jackson also recalls having a "major crush" on Teddy Pendergrass when she was 12.


"I thought he was singing to me," says the singer, now 38.


"When you're a kid, you have little fantasies, but I saw myself being with him as an adult, not as a kid."

Make that a double.

Wait a minute. I do not mean Barry Manilow. Scratch him and the donkey he rode in on.

But, Teddy Pendergrass? TP? Teddy Bear? For Ms. Jackson's fantasy to come true, she would have had to knock me down to get to him. The gift of a TP CD has reminded me how enthralled I was with the sensuous singer back in the day. He may be the last of the soul men and deserves more attention than he gets. The late Barry White pales in comparison, despite his reputation for being the man to get down to. For more than a decade Teddy ruled that roost. That voice -- always 'reasonable,' yet sensual and commanding. From smooth baritone to gruff growl. That face -- soulful eyes that seem to look right into yours, luscious lips that beg to be kissed, and possibly the only beard I've ever wanted to run my fingers through. That body -- long and lean, deep chocolate, and always clothed, though somehow it seemed not to be.

Teddy Pendergrass' genius was to transcend the material he was singing, to endow it with a soulfulness that it lacked in the voices of less magnetic singers. From his early 20s on, he had the ability to convey both sexuality and spirituality in a manner that mesmerized. The songs, some sensual ("Close the Door," "Love TKO," "Do Me") and some evangelistic ("Somebody Told Me to Deliver this Message," "Wake Up Everybody") made him the first African-American male vocalist to have five albums in a row go platinum. His erotic appeal, acomplished without ever removing clothing or sexually explicit dancing, took American girls and women by storm. Millions must have fantasized about 'their' Teddy Bear.

That one Teddy CD was not enough. I bought Life is a Song Worth Singing and Joy this week. Couldn't stop there. I have TP's autobiography, Truly Blessed, and hope to finish reading it soon. Watch for the review.

It is difficult to describe how convincing Teddy's songs can be in print. Suffice it to say that when he wheedles, "Let me do what I want to do. All I want to do is make love to you. Let me do. . .do. . .do" on "Close the Door," even a nun might be not just willing, but eager. Ms. Jackson's judgment might be questionable sometimes, but she couldn't have chosen a man more worthy of erotic fantasy than Teddy Pendergrass.

Whats's the art?

Teddy Pendergrass' smile.

Reasonably related

•Read the article in which Ms. Jackson gets nasty at Blender.

•Read a capsule history of Teddy Pendergrass' career at MP3.com.

Note: This entry also appeared at Mac-a-ro-nies.

Dick's The Ticket

It's time for me to put an end to all the "will Bush dump Cheney from the GOP ticket" speculation:

Dick's The Ticket
By Madeleine Begun Kane

Dick Cheney's Halliburton teamed
With evil axis, mad regimes,
To make big bucks while Dick was CEO.

Now Cheney lies and feigns and schemes,
With haughty self-regard extreme.
His pompous air and bluster's quite the pose.

The rest of    Dick's The Ticket is here.  

All bozos on this bus: A 1980 science fiction memoir

Cory Doctorow notes with amusement that in the span of a few short months in this year of 2004, both the Democratic Party National Convention and the World Science Fiction Convention will be held in Boston. He links to a handy guide for telling these 2 sets of conventioneers apart.

More info about the Dems in Boston.

More info about Noreascon Four. Also in Boston.

All of this takes me back to the end of August 1980. I was 27. The guy I’d been living with since 1974 had just come out to me, and I was spending the summer reeling from the shock. I mean, how could I have not known? How did I not see this? I could understand being rejected for another woman, but for another gender? Confusion. Self-hate. Pain. Pain. Pain. I lived on quarts of Haagen Dazs dulce de leche ice cream; I smoked -- a lot, nearly two whole packs each day; and I did not sleep at all.

Sometime earlier I'd seen an ad in the local alternative weekly from somebody who was organizing a trip to the World SF Convention over the long Labor Day weekend. I don’t remember why that item got me up and out of my Summer of Suffering funk, but it did. I decided to take some vacation days, go to Boston with a dozen people I’d never met before, and celebrate my 28th birthday at Noreascon Two, aka WorldCon 1980.

I was always one of those “SF readers are born, not made" people, who was hooked by the time I reached 3rd grade. The first SF book I remember reading was Lucky Starr and the Pirates of the Asteroids , and that was it: I was lost. Then came the rest of the Lucky Starr series...(I wanted to be Bigman Jones and have those cool boots.) Then Eleanor Cameron's Mushroom Planet books... After that it was Heinlein’s Time For the Stars, then the Otis Adelbert Kline Prince of Peril series…
That was it. No turning back.

None of my friends read SF or Fantasy. Although I went to three or four Minicons during the 70s, I wasn't much of a joiner and just kind of hovered around on the fringes of the Minneapolis fandom scene, which was perfectly alright with me. Sometimes being among fans was the most blissful thing imaginable, and at other times those could be the loneliest hours you'd ever spend.

At the time, WorldCon sounded like the perfect prescription for everything that was ailing me. The biggest SF con on Earth! Not some sleepy little mellow relaxacon of 750 people in Minneapolis, but 3, 5, 6,000 people from all over the world. Five days of programming: panel discussions… the dealer room --sorry, the huckster room… the costume masquerade… the Hugo Awards banquet… movies all night long… four concurrent TV/Video/Anime tracks…I could stay up for four nights in a row watching episodes of Kimba the White Lion! And the bid parties for future WorldCons – the “Minneapolis in ’73" bid party had been so great that even after they lost out on hosting the ’73 WorldCon, the con committee still held a “Minneapolis in ‘73" party every year. Those parties have become the stuff of legend. I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they're still having them 31 years later. If any Minn-stfers are reading this , you can verify if that grand old tradition continues.

Best of all, it was very likely that I’d meet some of my favorite authors. WorldCons have always been chockablock with writers famous and obscure. Many of the biggest names in SF/Fantasy would be there. Who knows? I might get stuck in an elevator with Isaac Asimov. I might sing a filksong or two with Anne McCaffrey. I might see for myself just how short Harlan Ellison really is. I might get drunk and throw up on Bob Silverberg. The possibilities were spine-tingling.

There was discouraging news from a couple of people I knew who were WorldCon veterans. They said I shouldn’t expect to see the author who was my favorite at that time, R. A. Lafferty. He was never a big name. I discovered him when I read his story Land of the Great Horses in the landmark anthology Dangerous Visions, and quickly snapped up everything of his I could find, which was not a whole lot; a few novels, most notably Past Master and Arrive at Easterwine, and some short story collections such as Nine Hundred Grandmothers (my single favorite Lafferty volume.) He had a stock company of recurring characters, all members of the Institute For Impure Science, which was forever testing some crackpot metaphysical theory or other, or summoning ghosts from out of our collective species-memory … you know, impure science stuff. He used wordplay that was truly strange and surreal. Frequently the things he wrote were laugh out loud hilarious.

Raphael Aloysius Lafferty was a retired electrical engineer who lived in Oklahoma. He hadn’t started writing SF until he was well into his 40s. In 1980 he was in his 60s. A bachelor, a devout Catholic and an alcoholic, he’d also been the caregiver for an invalid brother for several years. Ray had been at some WorldCons and other regional cons in the past, but if he wasn’t on the wagon there would be incidents. He’d have a dozen Cuba Libres and wind up in a shouting match with some unfortunate shnook in the bar. Or, more often, when he was feeling no pain he would start sitting in women’s laps, whether they’d invited him to or not. After several of these episodes, he had stopped coming to the cons altogether. I resigned myself to the fact that I would not be meeting the divine Lafferty now, nor anytime soon. I wouldn’t be giving him a huge hug and telling him how much I loved his work. Oh well. Maybe throwing up on Bob Silverberg would make up for that.

Looking back, I’m ashamed to say I don’t remember much about my fellow travellers on that fabled expedition to the East coast. We were 13 in all; nine men and four women. A few had met before, but most of us were strangers to each other. There was room for seven in a VW Microbus which was instantly christened “The Bozo Bus" (a Firesign Theatre reference.) The remaining six rode in "The Slan Van" thanks to an A.E. Van Vogt fan in our midst. During our 48 hour trek from Minnesota to Massachusetts, people switched vehicles each time we stopped for fast food or bathroom breaks. It helped whoever was driving stay awake if they had fresh conversation partners every couple of hours.

I remember being very thankful that we had a fairly good mix of personalities and philosophies. Most people could chat civilly and intelligently all day and all night about this topic or that, and nobody was blatantly obnoxious or argumentative, altho you could tell some people were prepared for that eventuality. One of the guys had brought an aerosol can of air freshener labelled in big red letters “SMOF-B-GON". (Ten points to the fan who knows what “SMOF" stands for. Or is that too easy? Answer at the end of the post.*) He never used it once on the trip out, altho a week later on the way back to Minnesota with all of us hellishly hungover and close to catatonic, he would periodically spray it in the driver’s ear to jolt him or her awake.

Our fearless leader, the guy who’d organized our little convoy, had reserved a room at the Copley Plaza Hotel, which was not the main con hotel, but conveniently located about two blocks away. He said the room would be plenty big for all 13 of us, which gave me some vague twinges of anxiety, until it turned out that the “room" was actually the Benjamin Franklin Suite, muy swanky indeed, with a bedroom, separate living room, kitchenette and bath. There really was plenty of space for all of us and all of our sleepingbags, if we had ever all been there at the same time. As it was, we spent very little time in the BF Suite. Most of every day and every night we were roaming the halls of the main con hotel, going from track to track; from panel to party; from restaurant to dealer room; crashing in the corner at some party, or in one of the movies shown in the big auditorium between midnight and dawn.




TO BE CONTINUED

In the next installment: After two nights we get kicked out of the Copley Plaza. Also, a discussion of the definition of the word blog. What is it? An online journal, or a party beverage?

* SMOF = Secret Master Of Fandom. A boor; a conversation-monopolizing creep; an obnoxious individual ; the self-appointed repository of all knowledge concerning everything fannish since the dawn of time; to be avoided at all costs.


This post may also be read here.

A shocking fact!

I was watching T.V. yesterday when a Commercial came on and said 1 out of 3 people in the U.S. has HIV and doesn't even know it! That Shocked me. I know I go every year or so and get tested. I don't do anything now that would warrant me to worry but like every other person in there teen years I had my fair share of unprotected sex. Well not every person I'm sure but most teens nowadays does have unprotected sex. Its a Startling fact, I'm sure my mom wouldn't have guessed in a million years I would do such things because I was always well behaved and my mother didn't have to tell me something twice. Sad fact though, my parents never did come to me and had the "bird and bees talk". Although, even if they did I don't think it would have stopped me from being sexually active. But I think its very important for people to find out there HIV status, even if they don't suspect any of there partners may have it or not. You can't be too careful nowadays.
 

In the balance

It hit me thirty years ago as a newly single mom. And it seems like it’s a challenge that each new generation of women faces all over again – how to take care of yourself first so that you have the energy and will to care for others.
 
It sure is a dilemma, and that’s why lots of us went into therapy 30 years ago; that’s why we formed consciousness raising groups to help us figure out how to survive in a world that expected much too much of us at the expense of our own hopes and dreams.
 
Adding pressure to that struggle for women of this generation is all of the ongoing fear of “codependency.”  Heaven forbid that we should worry about anyone else but ourselves! 
 
I'm remembering a little story that was part of Marlo Thomas'  “Free to Be You and Me” recording back in the 70s.  It was about a little girl who always insisted “Me first!  Me first!”   Now it’s “Self first!  Self first!”
 
I'm all for taking care of myself.  I read, I blog, I knit. I go out with my friends, I get my hair done. I give myself pedicures and long showers. I watch the tv programs I like and take long walks in the park. And I take on free-lance writing jobs.  But I also take care of my mom, help out my kids, drive my 91-year old neighbor grocery shopping, and try to be there for my friends when they’re having a hard time.  I don’t hesitate to give my opinion, but I also support them in their choices.  See, all that money and time I spent on therapy actually paid off!
 
It’s not always Self First.  It’s a constant balancing act.  Otherwise, you’re liable to wind up like the woman in this little satiric story who takes the Self First approach to an extreme
 
I’ve been thinking about my experiences with my married/committed women friends over the past thirty years, and I see a pattern that reflects why some women are still being pulled off-balance – and it usually has to do with the expectations of the male partner that he doesn’t have to share household and child-rearing responsibilities.  These women are comfortable with and enjoy caring for others.  What they don’t want is total and automatic responsibility for taking care of everyone around them.  That’s probably why I’m still unremarried.
 
It’s true that first you have to learn to take care of yourself.  But you do that, I think, so that you are then free and able  to extend that caring to others, to live by the Golden Rule.
 
Balance.    Balance.     Balance.    Balance.

 It’s what it means to be human.

Ode To John Edwards (The Trial Lawyers Song)

I've figured out why Republicans refused to condemn Dick Cheney's four-letter word Senate outburst. It's because Republicans view Democrats as so evil, that anything goes. Especially those Democrats who are liberal and/or trial lawyers, both of which condemnations must be said with curled lip and a disapproving hiss.

Note, however, that trial lawyers are perfectly fine and upstanding individuals, if they happen to be Republicans seeking a Senate seat, like Mel Martinez. Which brings me to my latest song parody, "Ode To John Edwards" a/k/a "The Trial Lawyers Song." I hope you enjoy singing it to "Moon River," by Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer, using this midi link.

Ode To John Edwards (The Trial Lawyers Song)
By Madeleine Begun Kane
Trial lawyers
Go that extra mile,
To see that all those vile
Guys pay.

They're risk takers
And rain makers.
They're able and knowing.
Wrongdoers they slay.

Corp grifters
Ripping off the poor.

The rest of my
Ode To John Edwards is here.

U.S. Senate- Where Dinosaurs go to die. Observations on the Debates about Gay Marriage

I've been watching today's Senate proceedings today and found myself very mindful of how this episode will play out in the history of our country. I Know now, definitively, how the activists in the Abolitionist Movement must have felt as the proponents of slavery roared and blustered in trying to justify their crimes against humanity. Like a dinosaur flailing as it sinks finally into the bog, Rick Santorum and his cohorts have made monkeys of us all today.

Marriage is a loving commitment between people who choose to build a life together. Whether they raise children or not has no bearing on the definition. We do not prevent barren individuals from marrying. We do not penalize those who choose not to procreate. Marriage is a bond of love, period.

Santorum brought charts and graphs and wailed about how "children need a mother and a father". His examples and descriptions of male and female roles were so old, so outmoded as to take on the appearance of satire. If only I could find this funny. The caveman scenario of "Me hunter, you gatherer" is not even born out in sociology, psychology or archaeology, but somehow I suspect he isn't up on the current research. He cannot see beyond his narrow vision of the "proper" roles in society for men and women. I agree that marriage is important, and that children are better off in loving stable homes with a loving parental relationship. I just don't happen to agree that the parents must be a male and a female. Children with two happy parents thrive, without regard to gender. Parenting is a skill, not an innate gift enhanced or limited by the presence of ovaries or testicles. You don't need one set of each to form a commitment. Wake up Senator- times have changed. As Ann Richards recently told Larry King "We need more loving families, not less." If a homosexual couples' marital bliss threatens your own union, that union must not have been so strong to begin with. The love of one couple does not diminish another. Frank Lautenberg (D- NJ) said it best - this is just gay bashing, and political posturing.

I'm also tired of hearing about the "5,000 year tradition of marriage". What you call tradition, I call 5.000 years of an unnatural social order, imposed by violence and maintained with draconian laws that have "traditionally" relegated women and children to the status of chattels. The same patriarchal, Old Testament laws these Christian Supremacists are so fond of are the source of the world's misery, women's poverty, children's undoing. Our American Taliban wants to keep women in America barefoot and pregnant with no control of their sexual destiny. This same Senate was informed this week that the slave trade is alive and well in America. Tens of thousands of human beings, mostly women and children, all poor, all desperate, are being smuggled into this country and sold on the blackest market ever conceived. They'd like you to believe that these subjects are unrelated, and will wail and moan at the implication that their cannon is of less than divine origin. Don't you believe it.

The same Old Testament that advocated violent imposition of strict laws of chastity and marriage also advocated slavery, the selling of daughters, the stoning of sinners, all calculated to achieve one goal : a patrilineal system of inheritance that would give men exclusive control of land and wealth. Mission accomplished. Now this body of old white men are in a panic because the old order - the one we as women never agreed to, the one that has and is enslaving us, keeping us in poverty, preventing us from having a voice or an equal chance to thrive today, or even the most basic rights to control our own bodies.- that order is over. We aren't going to be bound by ancient and avaricious doctrine anymore.

We are blessed to be born in a country where we are all considered equal. We claim our right to love as we choose, to live as we choose, to raise our children, to love our partners with Liberty and Justice for ALL. The Constitution was designed to protect us all equally, with a specific eye toward protecting the rights of minorities from the tyranny of the majority. The courts have always been the vanguard of social change when the majority dragged its heels and clung desperately to the status quo. The LGBT community is a minority whose time has come. To those who would stand in the way of America's social evolution - shame on you. As we walk into the 21st century, let us do so together, with love and hope for every American family of every stripe.

Now where the hell is Osama Bin Laden?

Tom Mauser's Petition to Renew the Assault Weapons Ban

Tom Mauser's Petition to Renew the Assault Weapons Ban
This man's son was Killed at Columbine High School. He's asking us to sign his petition to keep AK-47's off the streets.

Please sign. You don't need assault weapons to hunt deer.

Listen to the Wise Woman

If you don't read Molly Ivins, you should. If you don't ever read another column of hers, read:

To the ladies in the room
Warning: Frank Luntz arms Bush with 'framing' devices to court the womens' vote -- Bush's anti-woman record be damned.

Thirty Years Later

Several posts below, Blog Sister Brooke Biggs asks for input -- 200 words or less. Well, I couldn't do it in even twice that many. But here it is, anyway:

It was 1975 and the first Stepford Wives movie had just come out, Ms Magazine was three years old, the book Fascinating Womanhood was getting big play, and the Vietnam War had just ended. I was a vocal feminist, a disgruntled housewife, a struggling mother, a war-protestor, and I thought that Gloria Steinham should rule the world.

Along with thousands of other women, I marched and argued for women’s rights – to choose, to earn salaries equal to men for equal jobs, to be treated with respect and collegiality, to share family chores with our spouses so that we could also pursue our career dreams. We were the ones who read Ms Magazine and stopped wearing bras. Some of us even burned them. We gathered together in what became known as "consciousness raising groups" as a way to explore ways to help ourselves and each other.

We couldn't understand why so many of our "sisters" were against our vision, our values. But plenty were. Not exactly Stepford Wives, but almost.

It's just about thirty years later. A new version of the Stepford Wives is out, with the villain, this time, a woman. Women against women.

Women are still trying to get equal pay for equal work, still fighting for the right to choose. Code Pink is out there marching and arguing and exploring ways to help ourselves and each other. But there’s also the strong media-enforced "Fascinating Womanhood" message of The Swan and all the women who watch and wanna be. Because that’s what they’re told men want. And the message we keep getting is that we can’t have a man and our true selves at the same time. It's an old message. It hasn't changed in generations.

What we still have not done right yet is convince enough women to turn away from buying into the values that historically have enabled male leaders to get and hold power. There are still too many women against women. What we have not done right yet is convince enough men that there are other and better ways to govern and relate and succeed. There are still too many men happy with their Stepford Wives. Too many women afraid to step off the pedestal, no matter how damaged and precarious they know it is. They are the ones who vote conservative.

I think we need to find a really good public relations firm to market our cause. Maybe we need to co-opt the tool of our successful antagonists and use it against them. And maybe we need a whole lot more Gloria Steinhem types.

Finally, some great Steinhem one-liners that, sadly enough, are still true thirty years later:

• I have yet to hear a man ask for advice on how to combine marriage and a career.
• We've begun to raise daughters more like sons... but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.
• Some of us are becoming the men we wanted to marry.
• Most women are one man away from welfare.
• A liberated woman is one who has sex before marriage and a job after.
• I don't breed well in captivity.
• A pedestal is as much a prison as any small, confined space.
• If the shoe doesn't fit, must we change the foot?
• The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.
• Women may be the one group that grows more radical with age.

Certainly the last is true of me.

(cross posted on kalilily.net)

Take Action: Tell your Senators to Oppose the Discriminatory Federal Marriage Amendment

Take Action: Tell your Senators to Oppose the Discriminatory Federal Marriage Amendment

Also please visit my blog to read about why the religious movement behind the FMA is not to be taken lightly.

How to Stop the Next War Now

I'm working on a book for CodePink about how to keep the momentum of the peace movement going, despite some major losses in the last two years. We've mobilized millions worldwide, but we still didn't stop the war. What did we do wrong? what could we do better next time? What is the unique role of women? Environmentalists? Direct-action? I'm soliciting personal thoughts and stories from women all over, and this includes you, BlogWomen. Keep it under 200 words and we could include it in the book.

Go over to my site to submit (easier for me to keep track) here.

Bush Birthday Haiku

With all the Kerry VEEP pick hoopla, Dubya's birthday was overlooked by many. But not by the DCCC and thousands of poetic Dubya fans.

Stepford Anybody?

I haven't seen the new remake of the Stepford Wives yet. I want to; I've been "saving" it to see with a friend of mine. I did see the original, long ago.

I've been a feminist probably as long as I've been a female. I've never questioned the idea that I have the right (not mere privilege) to have my own career, my own opinions, my own life. I married a man who agrees with me, and in fact, is almost more driven than I am in pursuing my career. I believe that my children, when I am ready to have them, will be enriched and strengthened by my independence and strength. If, for some reason of fate and destiny, I am unable to have my own biological children because I have waited a little longer than some women then I will adopt-- or go without. It probably goes without saying that I don't believe we have a biological imperative to reproduce-- I want children, very much, but am NOT willing to sacrifice my own life and my own happiness to have them.

"So what's your point?" you may be asking. "This is all obvious, and we figured this stuff out a long time ago about you."

About a week ago, one of my "relatives by marriage"-- a young man, not the typical old guy who pesters me every time I see him-- lectured me on the problem with "you career women." This lecture came suddenly, in the middle of another conversation, and I really had a hard time with the rudeness and ridiculousness of finding myself having the discussion. At first I thought he was joking; when I realized he was serious, I felt sick to my stomach.

Why he felt, based on a casual family relationship with me, that he had the right to lecture me when my husband and I have BOTH made the choices we made is infuriating. (I have had maybe one other serious conversation with the guy in the years I've known him so it's not like this was something that had precedent).

I did want to tell him to get stuffed, but for family peace, held my tongue. But he felt that it was perfectly alright to butt into my personal business and literally lecture me. He eventually said "Oh, it's just my opinion" but also said things like "That's the trouble with YOU". This was not a rhetorical discussion, and I did not invite his opinions, nor did I feel comfortable debating it with him.

Can you believe that there are still people who believe that merely because of their maleness they have a right to tell others what is right for their lives? And without any knowledge of my situation would feel justified in lecturing me? It makes the Stepford Wives feel much less like a science fiction speculation and much MUCH more scary.

originally published at Kim Procrastinates

---

*an interesting editorial about this is available at Women's E-News

Zoe Trope

Who is Zoe Trope? She's like friends with Dave Eggers and Jonathan Safran Foer.

My Uterus, Myself.

I haven't smoked in five days. I am quitting. Really trying to. I'm going insane. I'm on hormones. No nicotine, a sweet child (whom I see as a ball of knotted hair and razors for a voice right now) on summer break, estrogen, and bloody bleeding.

Maybe I should go back a week or so.

Or a lifetime or so.

I've had fibroid trouble since puberty. I almsot died after having Jenna via c-section when I had to return for emergency surgery 8 weeks later due to the massive degeneration of my fibroids and hemmoraging. 6 hour surgery. Transfusion. 10 days in the hospital.

So, I'm still a little traumatized seven years later.

The bleeding has been back in full force the last couple of months. This month was so bad I'll spare you the details. The doctor is trying the pill again, along with some other tricks, but the trick is I'm 42, and I cannot, absolutely not, smoke on the pill. My last obgyn wouldn't even try the pill until I had quit for three months. This time, we didn't have that kind of time. So I quit five days ago when I started the hormones.

So, I've abandoned nicotine and started this hormone thing all in five days time. My head is spinning. My house is spinning. I walk around a lot. In a daze. Anything not to smoke. I really do have to quit. For more reasons than this.

I'm heading toward surgery--sooner or later (I'm hoping later)--since I'm getting more anemic from all of this bleeding. I went through hell to keep my uterus, but I'm beginning to accept that maybe it's time. Getting close to time.

But shit. Why am I so tied up with what my reproductive organs mean to me as a woman. I wept at the doctor's yesterday, and the sweet blood-taking lady aske what I was most afraid of. I said, surgery. And besides that, if hysterectomy becomes the ultimate answer, I feel like I will lose my womanhood, my woman-ness, my motherness, my tie to my child, the tug I feel RIGHT there when she's hurting or happy, I feel like I'll lose all of that.

And I know that's silly, but I know I'm hormonal, and I feel like a mess, and that's what it's like sometimes being a woman in your 40s.

sigh.

God, I want a cigarette.

A Glorious Fourth

Kim Ode, one of the Minneapolis Strib's op-ed columnists, asks what flying the flag means to us. Turns out that the act of flying the American flag is these days interpreted by many as signifying the flag-flier's support of the war in Iraq and of the Bush administration. What th'...? Of that particular spin I had never heard, but it doesn't surprise me one bit. Read the Kim Ode column, including many responses to the question of Why Do You Fly The Flag?

Link

Know what? Gonna fly the flag anyway. Dumbya and his cretinous gangsters don't own the American flag. I do. And you do. We all do.

Also today, symbolically thumbing my nose at that #ucking nitwit, I made a flag cake, or flag pudding, or flag ...layered dessert ...thingy. OK, so I just checked, and I guess its official name is Wave Your Flag Cheesecake. Yeah, it calls for a tub o Cool Whip topping. And for lots of red Jello. Deal with it, my all-natural purist pals -- the picture just looked too damn good. This recipe called out to me; nay, more than called out, it verily demanded to be made! I salute you, Red Jello Cool Whip Layered Dessert Flag Thingy!

In other news concerning the food we ate today: Slaves to consumerism that we are, we partially recreated Slate's hot dog taste test. As there is no way I would touch one of the tofu franken-franks the Slate testers had to endure, the only two brands we used were our current fave rave, Hebrew National Beef Franks, which came in second in Slate's test, and the Slate winner, Nathan's Skinless Beef Franks. The results: Couldn't choose one over the other. Both are juicy-greasy -- but in a good way!-- with great mouth-feel, and just the right amount of garlicky, spicy, salty flavor. Yum. Best. Hotdogs. Ever.

So, in the evening the boys biked down to the local celebration at Round Lake and hung out with their respective peeps, mostly at the Democratic Party booth. The hub and I stayed home and offered comfort and protection to Bandit, our 80#, 11-year old, dynamic and heroic dog who is afraid of only one thing in this world, and that one thing is fireworks. Poor pup; he was trembling so violently that petting him was like putting your hands on a vibrating Happy Fingers massage mattress (you know, those coin-fed conveniences in cheap motel rooms of yore.)

After the kids returned home at about 11pm, we ate the fabulous flag cake/dessert/thingy, and it was indeed fabulous. Then we all watched THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE, and I had the great enjoyment and satisfaction of seeing my kids discover for themselves one of my alltime favorite films. They were just blown away by it. Talk about the perfect movie to watch on July 4, 2004!! .. No wonder the remake is going to be opening in theaters in a couple weeks. Just in time for the national conventions!

I hear the remake shifts the locale and time to the first Gulf War. Hmmm.... actually I don't know how they're going to get by with calling it the Manchurian Candidate this time. From the locale shift, I'm surmising that they might want to call it the ...uhhh .......How about the SaddamHusseinian Candidate? the BinLadenian Candidate? Whatever; the word "Manchurian" would seem to make the whole thing a bit dicey 42 years after the original was made. Wonder how much the remakers will adhere to Richard Condon's novel? We'll see how they handle those pesky little details. Casting sounds pretty darn good to me, with Denzel taking the Sinatra part, Liev Schreiber playing Raymond, and Meryl Streep playing Raymond's mom. Yikes!! You just know La Streep is gonna rip up the screen, but even she will have a hard time topping Angela Lansbury's performance. Definitely the mother of all monster-mothers, that part.

Hope everyone's had a happy and glorious Fourth. Remember: we are not playing a game of Capture the Flag, folks. Don't let Bush/Cheney and the rest of that gang of jackbooted thugs hijack the Stars and Stripes. FLY THE FLAG.



Cross-posted at Tild~

One Girl's Take on Fahrenheit 9/11 (spoiler)

I put this on my blog for my readers, but I thought the masses might find it interesting:

Last night, I saw Fahrenheit 9/11 at the AFI with the FABULOUS ladies of Code Pink DC. Afterwards, we discussed politics over Ethiopian platters at Addis Abbaba.

About the flick: The footage of Dubya putting his foot in his mouth was hysterical. Moore conducted a solid investigation of the issues--enough for the average American to learn something and form an opinion. The film could've probed deeper in spots, but we would've been in the theater all night. (Ya'll remember Malcolm X.) Moore did an excellent job of connecting the dots for those folks who don't notice how news stories get buried, or those who believe that there's no relationship whatsoever between a string of suspicious events.

My boy Keso said it best: "It's crazy how they buried the (Abu Ghraib) prison scandal with Reagan's death. How'd they do that? He's probably been dead for, like, two years." Well, that's a little insensitive to Nancy, but I get his point. The timing was a tad sketchy, and the outcry over the prison abuse was all but silenced by the Reagan PR machine. Heck, they almost made me cry for the man and I grew up knowing that he didn't give a crap about little Black me on the West side of Detroit. And, now for my own insensitive comment: I never fully believed that he had Alzheimer's. I wasn't really old enough to grasp the situation in the 80s, but it always sounded like a fabrication to me, to stay consistent with his "I can't recall" Iran Contra defense. Some things just sound fishy to me as soon as Tom Brokaw utters them. I guess I was a born conspiracy theorist.

Anyhoo, Moore revisits the 2000 election debacle, which is a sore spot for many people, and a REALLY sore spot for Black people. *Deep breath* I often ask myself the same thing Moore asks: "Did the last four years really happen?"

Coalition of the Willing: "Japan's Sending Playstations"
It's funny how concisely accurate Dave Chappelle's Black Bush was. He said in 4 minutes what took Moore 116. Mars, Bitches.

My favorite part of Farenheit? ( Fool me once, shame on...shame on you. Ifoolmuh can't get fooled again." Guess which fool said that.
(Via give love:get love)

What to Do:
1. Go see the movie

2. Take friends

3. Host a discussion about it (and about politics in general)

4. Register to vote

5. Make sure everyone you know is registered to vote

6. PAY ATTENTION TO THE CONGRESSIONAL RACES, not just the presidential one. Remember those Senators (all of them) who sat there with blank stares while the Reps pleaded for just one of them to lend a signature, so they could bring their objections of the 2000 presidential election results to the floor. Get educated about your Congresspeople.

6a. FYI, Maryland's Democratic incumbent, Senator Barbara Mikulski, is being challenged by a Republican. There's no Senate race in Virginia this go 'round. And DC, well, what can I say? No taxation...you know the rest. If you vote absentee in your home state, you can go here to see if your Senators are up for reelection and where they stand on the issues.

6b. There are no Black Senators. You knew that, right? Zero. Zilch. None. No Latinos either. This year, there's a Black Democrat (Obama) challenging the Republican incumbent in Illinois, and there's a Black Republican (Cain), yes, a Black Republican, vying with a bunch of other folks for the retiring Senator's seat in Georgia.

6c. In other Peachtree news, former Rep. and 9/11 whistleblower Cynthia McKinney, who was ousted by Republican-turned-Democrat Denise Majette (also a Black woman)in the 2002 Democratic primary, is trying to win her House seat back. Remember when all those Republican voters in Georgia (43,000 of them)crossed over to vote Democrat, just to get McKinney out? Interestingly enough, Denise Majette quit the House to run as a long-shot for the Georgia Senate. It's just like The Young & the Restless, ain't it?

7. Give money to somebody that you support, if you can.

8. Check out Democracy for America (formerly Dean for America,) Redefeat Bush, Billionaires for Bush (Check out their CD, especially the song "Voting Machine," which I'm gonna put on a mixtape), Move On and of course, Too Stupid to be President.com.

9. If you've got more activist groups or funny Bush links, send 'em to me. Post them on your sites, too.

10. Walk, carpool, bike, or take the train when possible. Support organizations that support alternative energy sources. And stop buying Escalades to drive down East Jefferson (Detroit), 7 Mile, U Street, Flatbush, Peachtree, the Plat, the 'Shaw, etc. You are NOT on rough terrain. Every gasoline fill-up supports this farce of a war.

Celeste

Ray Bradbury vs. Michael Moore

So Ray Bradbury is pissed off that Michael Moore named his latest film "Fahrenheit 9/11" .

"It's not a nice thing he has done," Bradbury said in an interview with
AFP. "My book is known all over the world and that title is my title. He just
took it without my permission and changed the number."
"I'd like him to give my title back, just hand it back to me and apologise.
The film should be called Michael Moore 9/11 -- it's his film not mine," he said.

As if you'd never heard of him, Ray Bradbury is a guy who wrote some memorable fiction in
his day, including "Fahrenheit 451", "The Martian Chronicles", "The Illustrated Man", and "Something Wicked This Way Comes".
That last title is a direct quote from Shakespeare, by the way:

"By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes."
--From Macbeth (IV, i, 44-45)

Bradbury is now 83 years old and a little shaky since suffering a stroke in 1999, but he's still quite capable of chewing up the scenery and thrashing all comers as a guest speaker/lecturer.

I saw him at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference in 1999 and again in 2001. He has been the keynote speaker for the conference since it was founded 30 odd years ago. The 2004 SBWC is actually going on now, as I post this; it's always held during the last week in June.

Many SBWC students are repeat attendees; some have been going to the SBWC every year for 15, 20 years or more, and a lot of people in the audience for Bradbury's keynote address the years I was there had heard this same speech so often, they knew large chunks of it by heart. At times Bradbury would lose his place in his notes, and ask the audience what came next.
People shouted out:

"The living-your-dreams stuff!" or "Now comes the part about never taking crap from editors!"

Bursts of affectionate laughter filled the room. Bradbury truly relishes his current role as Living Legend and Elder Crankpot, and he plays it to the hilt 24/7. And good for him, I say.

The joys of being curmudgeonly aside, why is he so angry about Michael Moore naming his film "Fahrenheit 9/11"? Apparently it's not about Moore's
political stance. Rather, it's that Bradbury believes he owns the arrangement of the name "Fahrenheit" followed by three numbers, and because he owns it, everyone else needs to ask his permission to use it. Opinions, please?
Some say Bradbury's got a weak argument.

Others say pretty much the same thing.
Still others, this time from amongst the fen ranks [of whom you'd expect hardcore sycophancy] are saying that Ray is just being an old fart about this.

In fact, I'm not finding any sources anywhere that are taking Bradbury's side, except for those who feel outraged by a perceived slight to their object of worship, the Divine Ray. These are the commenters that usually start out:
Why, that lousy stinking 400 lb. pile of steaming poop! He isn't worthy to kiss even the hangnail on Bradbury's littlest toe!. Blah blah rant rage apoplectic fit.

Now, really. Should author Bill Flanagan have begged permission from James Fenimore Cooper before he titled his most excellent book about the Three Stooges Last Of The Moe Haircuts?

No! Of course not. Not even if Cooper hasn't been dead for the past 150 years.

Finally, isn't it convenient that a new edition of "Fahrenheit 451" comes out in a few short weeks?

Bradbury's book was made into a 1966 movie directed by Francois Truffaut. A new edition of the book is scheduled for release in eight weeks, Bradbury said, and plans are in the works for a new film version, to be directed by Frank Darabont.

The most palpable outcome of this little snit fit is bound to be renewed interest in Bradbury's classic novel, and that's bound to make the old fart happy.

Rave on, Ray. Long may you rant. Now tell us the living-your-dreams part again!

Cross posted at Tild~

And the Winner is...

Last week, in order to help President Bush with his Rename the Food Stamps Program project, I held a contest. The results are here.

Rename The Food Stamps Program Contest

I was amused to learn about a new Bush administration goal: It wants to change the name of the Food Stamps Program (since it no longer uses stamps) and is soliciting suggestions from the public. I've taken a personal interest in this. Why? Because many years ago, in order to subsidize my symphony orchestra oboist habit, I worked for the Nassau County, New York Food Stamps Department.

Needless to say, I couldn't resist the challenge, and the new name I've come up with is "Leave No Stomach Behind."

But I think it's important to give Dubya a wide selection of creative names. So, as a public service, I challenge my readers to come up with some good names and post them in my comments. If I get suggestions from ten or more people, I'll even award a prize -- $10 in PayPal cash.

So please post your name suggestions in the comments section of this Rename The Food Stamps Program Contest post.

Nose in the Air (Or Rather, T-Shirt)

A recent paper in Behavioral Ecology suggests that human males do not solely use visual cues to determine if a female within their radar is "sexy." Okay, so this may fall into the range of "Well, duh!" but then again, the implied question of whether or not particular deviances (i.e. panty sniffing) are learned or just an exaggeration of something innate should cause certain people pause--because what exactly is normal?

Instead of going into philosophical discussions of normality that I am neither qualified nor particularly interested in rambling about, I will say a little more about the study. Kuukasjarvi et al. wanted to challenge the assumption that men are absolutely clueless about when a woman is fertile during her mentrual cycle. In many primate species, females advertise their stage in ovulation by visual cues. For humans, this is concealed, leading to the hypothesis that if this was an adaptation in the female, then perhaps males counter-adapted by evolving ways to detect olfactory cues. In other words, ancient man developed the ability to sniff out the women who were at their peak fertility phase.

In the experiment, the researchers had women in varying phases of their menstrual cycle as well as about half that were on oral contraceptives and half that were not, wear a T-shirt for two consecutive nights. Then the researchers had both men and women rate the T-shirts' odors for attractiveness. After putting the data through the statistical wringer, the study indicated that male raters preferred the odors of women near ovulatory phase in their mentrual cycles. This only applied to the T-shirts where the women were not on contraceptives. Apparently the pill affects hormone levels and eliminates the "attractive odors."

So what are these odors and what exactly do they do? This study doesn't address that question specifically, but there are several possibilities. Odors from the human body can be affected by hormone levels. Steroid hormones are secreted through sweat glands. When these steroid hormones come in contact with bacteria on the skin, the bacteria convert them into odorous compounds. Another possibility is that the T-shirt sniffers weren't rating the odors per se, instead they could have been detecting pheromones via the vomeronasal organ (VNO). (Then, there are other people who argue that the VNO is vestigial and probably as useless as a sixth finger.) A third possibility is that body odor is affected by a person's major histocompatibility complex (MHC) type. MHC is involved in immunity and some hypothesize that people seek out mates with a different MHC type to prevent inbreeding.

Of course, this doesn't say anything about some women's penchant for overwhelming amounts of perfume.

Other Smelly T-shirt Studies:
Singh and Bronstad, 2001. (ABCNEWS summary)
Wedekind et al., 1995; Wedekind and Furi, 1997. (New Scientist overview)

(Cross-posted at Syaffolee.)

It's a man's afterlife in Senegal

Attention all wives! Better keep your husband happy or you won't go to heaven.

In the Casamance region of southern Senegal this concept is part of the people's religious life. Do you need more proof that religion is not given to humans by a deity of any kind, but rather cobbled up by humans themselves? In many cases, by male humans --- more specifically, by male humans who need to control female humans. Why else would the subordination of females be so often a part of immutable "sacred doctrine"?

To which the holy men respond:
Oh, we don't make the religious laws. No, no, those laws have been given to us. Those laws have been handed down to us by God Himself!

Uh huh.

Crossposted at Tild~

Organizing for Political Change?

League of Pissed Off Voters
It's not enough to be pissed off - if we want to make a difference, we need to be informed, in touch, and empowered. No one is going to do it for us.

How to Get Stupid White Men Out Of Office

A book (Softskull Press; March 2004;) that documents 20 success stories from the past five years of young people who have swung or won elections –from city council to the US Senate- in 16 states, South Korea, and on the Internet. With an 80+ city tour focused on key swing states, the 12 co-authors and The League of Pissed Off Voters have built online and offline political tools designed to capture the imagination of young non-voters just in time for the November 2004 elections.

Call or write Naina Khanna, Program Director, League of Pissed Off Voters with any questions.

League of PISSED OFF Voters
226 W. 135th St, 4th floor
New York, NY 10030
naina@indyvoter.org 212.283.8879

My mother...

My mother passed away 10 days ago... It was sudden, but yet expected, if that makes sense. I'd like to know if there's anyone out there who has a group that I could join, possibly, or people to talk to, who have lost a parent. She was only 54... we had an incredible bond.

I'd appreciate any help with this... truly.

Heather

When should you get a Mammogram?

Thanks for the question Vikki. The first mammogram should be done in your mid to late 30's. Once you hit 40 at least every other year, however I prefer every year. When you turn 50 the mammograms need to be done at least once a year. The key to beating breast cancer is early detection. The earlier we catch breast cancer the better the chances of your recovery.

Anybody feel free to ask questions or comment.

Why is everyone blaming President Bush?

All President Bush had done is clean up the messes left by the last two Presidents. If Daddy Bush had finished what he started in late 1990, we might not be in Iraq now. If Clinton had been paying attention to his security advisors instead of getting a blow job in the Oval office the terrorists attacks on 9-11 may not have happened. Clinton's administration knew it was Osama Bin Laden that was responsible for the suicide attack on one of our Navy ships in 2000 and they didn't do anything.

Speaking of 9-11; does anybody remember how it felt to be attacked? Does anybody remember the images as they unfolded on the television? Does anyone remember the towers collapsing? Does anyone remember the 3000 plus lives that we lost? How about the families that lost loved ones and how their lives have been torn apart. Some families didn't even get remains to bury because there was nothing left of the victims. Where's the closure for them?

What did we do to provoke the attack on 9-11? NOTHING! Are innocent Iraqi citizens getting hurt and killed? Yes. Were the victims of 9-11 any less innocent? NO! I fully believe that Sadam Hussein had a part in planning the attack. Are there Weapons of Mass destruction? They are actually starting to find some. Even if there weren't, I still believe and stand behind President Bush.

Being a former member of the Army, let me say this for our soldiers; We are proud to be Americans. Nobody forced us to sign on the dotted line. None of our soldiers were drafted.

What to wear for a Mammogram

Ladies, please wear a two piece outfit to a mammogram appointment. At my clinic I have mammo capes that I have my patients change into. These capes are truly one size fits all, and I get some pretty big women. When my patients wear a one piece outfit such as a dress I have to have them change into the gown. Are any of you familiar with hospital gowns? They don't cover much.

Another pet peeve of mine is when a patient changes in front of me. I know I'm going to see her breasts anyway, but I just prefer that my patients not strip in front of me.

Generation Double-X'ers

Check out the new blog XX - always great to see more kick-ass group blogs by women! Gals, don't forget to let Ms. Musings know about you!

And speaking of Ms. Musings, via Christine I note that Y: The Last Man (art by Pia Guerra, writing by Brian Vaughan) is getting lots of mainstream publicity of late. If you're a member of Friends of Lulu, you should know that Pia is nominated for a Kim Yale Award for Best New Female Talent; don't forget to vote!

Dubya Seeks Some Help From His Pope

As Pen-Elayne points out, religion's been in the news lately. Not only do you have your basic Baptist secession, but you have Bush seeking political favors from the Vatican. The latter inspired this poem:

Dubya's Plea
By Madeleine Begun Kane
Our Bishops need to do much more
To safeguard all that's good,
Said Dubya to the Pope when Dub
Was in the neighborhood.

The rest of Dubya's Plea is here and here.

Back off, copper! I’ve got a volume of Dostoevsky here and I know how to read it!

This just in, via email from my friend Jackie:

A couple goes on vacation to a fishing resort in northern Minnesota. The husband likes to fish at the crack of dawn. The wife likes to read. One morning, the husband returns after several hours of fishing and decides to take a nap. Although not familiar with the lake, the wife decides to take the boat out. She motors out a short distance, anchors, and continues to read her book. Along comes a game warden in his boat.
He pulls up alongside the woman and says,
"Good morning Ma'am. What are you doing?"
"Reading a book," she replies, (thinking, "Isn't that obvious?")
"You're in a restricted fishing area," he informs her.
"I'm sorry officer, but I'm not fishing, I'm reading."
"Yes, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could start at any moment. I'll have to take you in and write you up."
"If you do that, I'll have to charge you with sexual assault," says the woman.
"But I haven't even touched you," says the game warden.
"That's true, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could start at any moment."
"Have a nice day ma'am," he says, and leaves.

MORAL: Never argue with a woman who reads. It's likely she can also think.

Crossposted at Tild~.

Urgh. Many thing and many non-things have happened, and it’s time to start documenting them. Yeah, I’ve been lame at updating – again – sorry about that. :)

Let’s see, what’s been going on? Well, I took Thena to get spayed on Friday morning. I caught a cab out to the pet hospital, dropped her off, then slowly wandered back towards my apartment, alternately not thinking about everything and feeling somewhat teary about the whole event. Logically, I knew she’d be fine, I knew it was a routine procedure, I knew I knew I knew... but she’s the first warm, demanding little body that I’ve had that’s utterly dependent on no one but me, and I couldn’t help but think that something would go wrong as a result.

So I wandered back slowly, not in any big rush and enjoying the morning. I stopped in at a diner for some breakfast, then kept wandering back towards Chapters. I spent a bit of time in there, trying to find *something* that I really wanted (I picked up a few books, but nothing I was dying to buy), before heading over for my hair appointment. Got my hair all dyed crazy-like, then it was time to grab some lunch.

This whole time I was trying to avoid going to my apartment, partly because I felt like if I was there I should be cleaning it or something. However, in my travels, while I was thinking of what I wanted to be next doing, I kept thinking, ‘I could go back to my apartment and hang out with my kitten!’ before realizing that I couldn’t do that, my kitten was presently having her little girl parts removed and being microchipped.

So I got to the mall and gave Ben a call, but he’d already had lunch (since it was 1:30 at this point, I wasn’t terribly surprised). Instead, I ran into Gord and his friend Eric, and I persuaded them to hit up a nearby Chinese food place that had always struck me as sketchy, but had received the Ben seal of approval. We chatted while I ate, then it was time to drop in on Ben and give him my leftovers. :) The bunch of us wound up at a nearby Starbucks, and I booked it to go and get my kitten from the pet hospital – they’d called while my hair was getting finished up and told me she’d been a darling for them and was recovering nicely. Damn cat, being selectively well-behaved.

When the tech told me about after-care and so on, she said that Thena was feeling the effects of the various painkillers and so on and was “a little upset with them trying to take the IV out.” Now, having worked at an animal hospital myself and briefed many an owner on taking their post-surgery/post-procedure pets home, I knew how to parse this sentence. It translates to something as, “Thena’s tried to chew someone’s face off while we were trying to perform (action).” It made me giggle a little bit, I must confess.

Anyhow, I got to pick up my drug-eyed kitten, and back to my apartment I went. I was impressed at how quickly she’d shaken off the effects of the anaesthetics. About an hour after I’d gotten her home, her eyes were clear and while her back end was still a little wobbly, she was trying to play and she was jumping up into the window constantly, trying to see what’s going on outside. When I’m home, I open the window for her, and she likes it.

I laid down on the couch and was trying to convince her to nap with me, but I guess she’d spent the day napping and was done with it. I passed out in two- to five-minute increments, waking up every time I heard her do something new. D called around 5, saying he’d be over shortly, which wound up being about a half-hour later. After some negotiation with Gord, Shawn, and Ben, we were going to go see Harry Potter 3 (my and D’s second time), but that fell through. Instead, D and I wound up going over to see Stepford Wives.

Now... my thoughts on that movie are going to have to wait, ‘cause I’m not sure how to really categorize what I thought of it. Overall, I thought it was decent, there were a few twists in there that kept it interesting, but in the end, the message in it was somewhat unsettling. It led to a good hour-long discussion between D and I on the subject, on gender roles, on sociological roles of men and women and so on, and that was kinda cool. I don’t know if Frank Oz’s goal was to have people thinking when they left it (which sounds bad, but it’s the best way I can think of to phrase it at the moment), but I did appreciate it for that.

After D left I mucked about on the computer for awhile, chatting with a few people, before going to bed around 12:30. I was pretty zonked from two early mornings in a row (I’ll rant about my work retreat another time). At some point in the morning I had felt Thena crawl under the covers to curl up by my outer thigh, and when I woke up that morning, she crawled up me in increments, purring furiously and staring at me the whole time. It’s times like those that I really appreciate her – black button eyes fixated on my face while she rumbles and cuddles against me. She might lick me or put her nose against mine for a kiss, but mostly she just looks content and I feel good about how I care for her.

I checked the time and was a little surprised to find that it was 10 in the morning – typically weekends involve Thena bouncing on me and maybe biting me anywhere between 7 and 8:30 – but either she’d taken pity on me (doubtful) or she was pretty exhausted herself and needed the extra rest. Once she got a bit nippy, I got up and started getting ready for the day.

My Saturday was quiet in a sense... I had coffee with someone and we wandered around a fair bit (another gorgeous day) before I headed off to my parents’ place for a big dinner. We had a few guests over, including most of our friends from Dartmouth and a neighbour, and Dad made a full turkey spread and so on. Good food. The night stretched semi-late, and Dad drove us all back downtown, stopping in for another minute to give Thena a little pat. Dad’s seen her twice since I’ve had her now, Mom’s only seen her the day I got her. Weird to think that.

Sunday I got up a bit early and got my groceries, then just hung around the apartment with the kitten. She spent a fair bit of time just sleeping places, and slept on my bed while I used the computer. I actually got up and curled up near her on the bed and dozed lightly for a little bit myself, before going off to work.

Since then... not too much this week. My legs are dead once more, but such appears to be my lot in life now – to always be in pain. :) Tonight my trainer asked if we could reschedule to Saturday, so I have my evening free to go have Pho with Ben, Mark and whoever else is going to be along. Yup, Mark’s in town for about a week and a half before he heads back out, so it’ll be nice to see him again and see if he’s changed drastically. :)

So, before I forget (and to reward those of you who’ve made it this far), I’ve managed to bully my photos into working. It’s not a perfect system, but it works, and you can find the gallery of photos with some brief explanations up. This includes photos of the water damage in my apartment (though not truly conveying the grossness of the squishy carpet I had to live with for so long), the day Thena unravelled a near-full roll of toilet paper on me (okay, one of the times it happened), and the new hair (minus the colour). Enjoy. :)

Dump Bush Song Parody

Here's my Dump Bush Song Parody, to be sung to "Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush," It's perfect for Bush's next appearance in an elementary school classroom, don't you think?

Dump Bush Song
By Madeleine Begun Kane

We must defeat George W. Bush,
George W. Bush, George W. Bush.
We must defeat George W. Bush.
Vote Kerry this November.

Cheney and Bush are our nation's foes,
Our nation's foes, our nation's foes.
Cheney and Bush are our nation's foes.
Vote Kerry this November. ...

The rest of my Dump Bush Song Parody is here and also here.

Salon.com Arts & Entertainment | Singer Ray Charles dies

Singer Ray Charles dies.

One Reason Red is my Favorite Color

When I was a little girl, my mother dated a man from Alabama who was a mean man. And I mean "mean" in almost all the ways the word can denote.

Selfish in a petty way; unkind.
Cruel, spiteful, or malicious.
Ignoble; base: a mean motive.
Miserly; stingy.
Low in quality or grade; inferior.
Low in value or amount; paltry: paid no mean amount for the new shoes.
Common or poor in appearance; shabby: "The rowhouses had been darkened by the rain and looked meaner and grimmer than ever" (Anne Tyler).
Low in social status; of humble origins.
Humiliated or ashamed.
In poor physical condition; sick or debilitated.
Extremely unpleasant or disagreeable: The meanest storm in years.
Informal. Ill-tempered. from dictionary.com

What he liked best of all was to keep my mother (and therefore, me) in his control. He would get petulantly angry and throw a mean assed fit which often included things being thrown down the stairs (a Thanksgiving turkey once, my sister's wedding cake another time). Things that especially made him mad were when my mother had control over herSELF-- if she got a job, for instance, he would start tons of fights until she quit from the sheer weariness over the battle. In fact, he is part of the reason I am a staunch feminist in life-- I know how vitally important it is for women to have control of their own destinies, because nasty little men like him exist in droves, and if women cannot choose their own way in life, their own education, their own jobs, their reproductive freedoms, they will be stuck with mean men like him.

But wait, what does this have to do with red?

I'm glad you asked. B. (I'll call him that just to be nice, which I am) used to say that women who wore "whore red" nail polish were, well, whores. And that, my friend, was the worst thing you could be in B's book. A woman who had the audacity to like red fingernails clearly must have been sexually promiscuous and nasty. No matter what other traits she might have. Heck, she might be saving orphans from a fire but if she had red fingernails while doing it, she was a whore and deserved to be smacked around.

Well. I love red. I have whore red fingernails RIGHT NOW and I adore the way my nails look, with slightly squared tips and this deep OPI "I'm Not Really a Waitress - NLH08 red" richness that screams "I AM IN CONTROL OF MY OWN DESTINY. MY OWN BODY. AND YOU, MEAN LITTLE MAN, ARE POINTLESS." (Also published at Kim Procrastinates)

"Blonde Goes to Jail for Pictures of Moon" -- Film at 11

A couple of nights ago, I walked out my front door, telling my husband “I’m going to run down the road and take a few shots of the moon.” I got into my Cruiser, drove down Route 111, turned onto an access rode next to a subdivision, and began looking for the ‘perfect’ place to pull over for a picture of the moon. Unfortunately, one did not exist right off the bat, as I’d hoped.

A couple of blocks farther, one of the major refineries in this area, began. I promptly looked for any signs that might suggest my presence was unwelcome, yet none existed. Instead, the only sign I read said something to the effect of “Caution: Remote Control Locomotives cross here.” This is about the time I started seeing the golden hue of the moon poking through a few sparsely placed trees. My excitement grew, and I drove on. Suddenly a sign for a Dead End… Damn! I thought… but that is when I noticed a tiny clump of trees, and in between nestled the moon. Large, golden-reddish in hue, and absolutely BRILLIANT.

Maybe I should explain something, first. I’m on a quest for the perfect picture of the moon. Not one that other people take, but one that I take. I have NO idea what’s caused this need, but it’s there, thus I must quench my thirst for it by trying.

Anyway… I stop the car, listening to Hot Chocolate’s “Sexy Thing”, or whatever the title, and jump out with camera in hand. After only a few snaps of the camera, a white truck pulled up behind me flashing its bright lights. I waved the truck around, yet it just sat there, finally allowing the brights to stay fixed on me. Needless to say, I was scared shitless for I had no idea who this was, due to the person’s lack of introduction, jumped back into my car and turned around.

At this point, the person tried to block me from leaving. I assumed ‘it’ were a mugger or rapist. I shot around the truck through the grass even, and left. The truck then proceeded to turn around and speed up to me, of which, I hit the gas and took off like a bat out of hell. I called my girlfriend, told her what had happened, then pulled into my driveway… only to find two police officers standing on my sidewalk.

For more on this, go here.