Wednesday, August 01, 2012

Decade In Review: One of My First Parasol Stories From LABN


About an hour before sunset in room 118 of the Best Western on I-40-W (right before the I-25-S turnoff), Parasol woke up famished. She knew what she was going to do. She didn’t particularly like it, but the drive in her was not going to be quelled by good intentions.
She threw back the covers from her body. Of course, they didn’t keep her warm. There was no heat to trap. It was more of a habit with her, and she liked the feel of the sheets.
Parasol went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, tempering it to just above scalding. It would heat up her flesh and give her, for a few moments, the feeling of life.
Stepping out of the shower, she took a towel from the rack over the john and caught the sight of the towel hanging in a triangle in mid-air in the large mirror behind the sink. The humor of the sight distracted her for a moment from her hunger and she giggled. She looked down at her body. Yep. She was there as she always was. Then she frowned. The reflection thing was tricky. She never liked it. Absenting her from the world.
Okay, now she was pissed and in a better frame of mind to do what she had to do.
Parasol dried off and walked to the bedroom and sat down on the bed. She rummaged around in her suitcase and pulled out her moisturizer, which she put on her face and body – H2O Plus Smoothing Body Complex with AHA – best brand on the market. Parasol turned the tube over to read the back. “A naturally fragranced, pH-balanced complex that helps remove dead surface skin cells while moisturizing.”
Parasol snorted. Ludicrous, really, but she imagined her skin was softer. Then again, she died relatively young while all that youthful moisture was in her cells. Her body was held in stasis, stuck in its time.
Perched naked on the edge of the bed with the ceiling fan above her turning, Parasol looked down at her painted toes against the haphazard pattern of the carpet and got lost in reverie. She considered the sight of watching her daughter, Chinaka, growing up and growing old. She watched as Chinaka’s body blossomed, strong boned like Loxum’s, held in amazing posture on that African frame as she moved into womanhood, and shifted and sank as she grew old, her face and skin never wrinkling but sagging into a receptacle for those African bones. Parasol squeezed her eyes shut hard and shook her head to evaporate the memory.
All the while, Parasol stayed the same, caught in that moment in time when she died. She often felt the adrenaline pumping through her at the moment of her death still in her system. She felt it last night as she was driving through the desert. That’s what made her feel so alive, while her daughter and her daughter’s daughter were dust in the ground.
*All right, Camille,* she told herself. *I’m hungry. Stop thinking about that.*
Parasol sighed and stood up, still naked. She walked over to the telephone on the nightstand and placed the call to the front desk.
“Front desk.”
Good. It was that backwoods jerk that checked her in, the one who looked her up and down and asked her a million questions and implied that Parasol was in the hotel to conduct business of the nasty sort.
“Hello, front desk. This is Parasol Smyth in room 118. Listen, I have a bit of a problem here.”
Parasol’s conscience was dissolving.
“Yes, well, I wanted to take a shower and well, there’s no water coming out of the faucet.” Parasol thought a shy giggle was in order.
Long pause.
“That’s impossible. You turn the knobs all the way?” he condescended.
Parasol thought, *It’s “that’s impossible, MISS,” you moron.*
Parasol did her best breathy “Why, yes, both are turned all the way and, *another giggle* no water.”
She hated the damsel-in-distress route, but it always, but always, worked.
Long sigh from the other end of the phone. “Well, I can send a handyman around in about an hour.”
“Well, see, that’s going to be kinda too late. I have to get on the road,” Parasol intoned sweetly.
More silence.
*Right. Time to bring out the big guns, even though it's gonna prove the jerk’s insinuation correct.*
“I have to meet my girlfriends at this club up I-40 by the airport by…” Parasol took a quick look at the clock, “nine o’clock, so, you understand, I have to be on the road in an hour.”
More silence.
“We’re dancing.”
Ten-hut. “Ohhhhh!”
"Well, Miss. Tell you what. Give me a minute to find one of my staff…”
*Like he has a staff other than the obvious.*
“…to cover the front desk and I’ll take a look at it myself.”
“Thank you, Mr.?”
“Call me Richard.”
“Thank you Richard” Parasol all but cooed and hung up the phone, disgusted. She really didn’t know which was worse: what she was about to do, or what she just did.
*Chivalry is just…dead. Phht. Stripper-in-distress.*
Parasol was mad. And she was very, very hungry.
Richard had spoken to her on the phone for a few minutes before he remembered her. He nearly dropped his britches. Well, that’s when he nicened up. He’s never nice on the phone. Usually, it’s some old hag that says she needs help. And they cry and they whine. And they want an extra soap. Or they want an extra towel. Or they can’t get their tv to work, probably to watch the XXX channel with their henpecked husbands doin’ don’t-want-to-imagine-what in that creepy tv light. The women that end up staying here are just like his razor-mouthed hag of a wife. Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take a mile, is what he always says. He just sends Jualito to “help.”
But once she let slip that she had to meet her friends at the club by the airport, well, he knew it had to be to strip. The only one in the whole godforsaken hole of a Best Western that could even think about doing something like that was that pretty colored girl with that figure. You don’t see many like her around these parts. Hell, you don’t see none. He knew she was up to something like that, even though she had tried to act all hoity-toity when she checked in. He could smell a workin’ girl a mile off. The ones around town acted the same way to him, like he wasn’t good enough for them.
He wasn’t gonna let an opportunity like this just sail by. Not with one that didn’t know him. Not while Little Richard was still workin’. God, he hoped Little Richard still worked.
Oh, yeah. He’d turn her faucet on, all right. And he’d still make her pay for the room. After all, he was a business man -- Night Manager at the I-40 Best Western, right there at the I-25 turnoff.
Parasol was so focused on her hunger that she barely heard the knock at the door. Her muscles felt dry. She was blinking over sandpaper. She could feel the bones rubbing against each other in her joints. There was grit in her mouth. And then, of course, there was the good old-fashion stomach rumbling.
She stood up from the bed and went into the bathroom, pressing herself face first to the wall to the left of the doorway across from the mirror and said as sweetly as she could manage, “It’s open. Come in Richard. I’m in the bathroom.” She leaned her forehead against the tile and turned her head to look at the emptiness of the mirror.
Parasol didn’t hear the words that Richard was saying, but she could tell they were smarmy. Something about pretty colored girl (*Colored girl!? What is this – Utah?*) and fix your pipes, heh-heh-heh. Parasol felt her face wrinkle into hills and valleys. She could smell his sour sweat. She heard the thunk-thunk of his pulse. She saw his body outlined by its heat right through the shoddy workmanship of the plaster wall.
*Happy meals with legs. Who said that?*
He was still talking. Parasol felt that adrenaline rush through her body. She’d drain him bone dry.
*Yap. Yap. Yap, moron.*
Richard’s heard that sweet voice and imagined it yelping his name. He went on in the room like he was told and looked around. Her suitcase was open on the caddy. Good Godamighty, her underwear was sittin’ right on top. Well, she was a stripper for sure if she had that kind of underwear. He nearly fainted but instead thought the thing to do, especially since he was fingering those lacy pinnings, was to compliment her. That’s what he read once in this man's magazine the vice president of some software company had left in the lobby of the hotel. The article was called something like “What Women Want” and he read it over and over, his sweaty hands bleeding the ink right off the page.
“You know, I knew right off that a pretty colored girl like you might have some business over by the airport. Too bad the shower broke. But don’t you worry. I’m here to fix your pipes.”
And Richard chuckled. He was having mind movies. All that brown skin against his pasty white skin, except, of course, for his left arm; the one he hung out the window of his Taurus. Old habit.
Richard heard her in the bathroom. It sounded like she was breathing real hard. Hell, maybe he wouldn’t have to talk her into this after all. Maybe she was thinking about him, too. Maybe.
“Sounds like you’re having a hard time in there. Maybe I can help. I brought my wrench, here, so’s we can get your pipes fixed in no time flat.”
He crossed the doorway of the bathroom but didn’t see her. He looked in the mirror to the right and the room was empty. Well, hell, where was she? He still heard her breathing, hard.
Richard ran one more mind-movie through his head involving the both of them in the shower and the water running over that smooth skin and afterwards going home to his wife with a mile-wide grin on his face and then doing it to her too. He started to turn to his left to see the rest of the bathroom and heard a growl. Did she have a dog in here? Because he didn’t know if he told her, but pets weren’t allowed at Best Westerns.
A growl escaped from Parasol before she could edit it. She grabbed Richard just as he was turning to her. Her left arm went over his and held his torso against her. His right arm flailed, grabbing at the bathroom counter for anything he could reach. She grabbed it and pinned it against his body, the hand firmly clapped over his mouth. They were in the middle of the bathroom and she could see the incredulity in the man’s eyes as he watched himself twisted abnormally alone in the mirror.
Parasol whispered into his ear, “Oh Richard, were you dreaming of us being this close? All of our limbs wrapped around each other like this. You can’t see me, but I’m naked behind you.”
The mirror showed his eyes weeping with fear.
“You thought you were gonna come up here and get you some, dincha?”
She licked his neck tasting salt and the tang of fear. She almost hated herself for how good it tasted, like caviar on little toast rounds with a dollop of sour cream. She knew this was what she did, how she continued to be. All thoughts of God and Chinaka and her grandchildren retreated to the cellar of this existence. She looked at Richard one last time in the mirror and his eyes were peaceful.
Parasol closed her eyes and savored the moment before she would feel the oxygen from his blood in hers and she wanted to say a prayer.
Richard was still mad about the dog when something stronger than his big-ass goldbricking WWF wannabe brother-in-law Jimmy grabbed him under his left arm and he couldn’t move. She must’ve had a man in here, and they were trying to cold-cock him for his wallet. Too bad for them, though, ‘cause all he had was maybe twenty dollars and about three maxed out credit cards. If it came to this, hell, he’d let her have the goddam dog. She didn’t need to have her man do this. It was probably her pimp. He heard about this kind of shakedown. He read about it in that man's magazine that software fella left. The article was called “Fear the Inner City” or something like that.
He saw the hair dryer on the bathroom counter and went to grab for it when another arm grabbed his arm and glued it to his body, clamping the hand over his mouth. Well this was just great. He couldn’t even holler for Jualito, though it’s doubtful he’d do much good. Jualito was about 5’2”. Jualito’s claim to fame, from hear tell from the whores who wouldn’t touch Richard, was Jualito’s parts down there. Come to think of it, Jualito was at his house right now. Richard had hired him to do some work building that fence his razor-mouthed nag of a wife wanted between their property and those stuck-up neighbors his wife hated. Jualito could only do it after his shift at the Best Western which, lately, was when Richard was at work. Wait a minute. Well, goddamn. Jualito was doing his wife. His pretty wife. His delicate wife. Boy, could she cook. The idea of the two of them together scared the bejesus out of him. Richard looked in the mirror and only saw himself twisted up like an “S” and he began to cry despite himself.
And then he heard her voice in his ear. Little Richard sprang to attention. Not so much to her words, but that breath in his ear always did get him going. His sweet wife used to do that when they used to make out in his car. ‘Cept, this breath was cold. Which could be good. That magazine said women sometimes like ice. It was an articled called “How Women Like Ice” or something like that. He bet he’d like ice.
Her voice said she was naked!! Naked! Lord-a-mighty, this was some game. There wasn’t no pimp; just a turned on invisible Amazon behind him, trussing him up to have her way with him. Damn, wait until Jimmy heard about this.
The woman’s voice said something else but he didn’t right hear it. All he could think about was that magazine that fella left in the lobby. He had read it cover to cover. Had cheesecake pictures in it, too. Talked about all kinds of sex games. Richard had a feeling he was in the middle of one right now. So what if his wife was screwing Jualito. That was small potatoes. He was playing Sexopoly with an invisible colored stripper who seemed to know what she was doing. Richard damn near unhinged his left shoulder reaching around to get a big ol’ handful of that sweet round colored…
Parasol finished what a vampire might approximate a prayer to God, and started feeling guilty.
*Damn,* she hated this part. Why couldn’t she just be more like Darla? No regrets, no guilt. She was a demon, dammit, and she was so hungry she could barely breathe – not air, mind you – because she didn’t need it, but it’s the point of the thing.
Parasol was in the middle of this Calvinistic train of thought when she felt Richard’s left arm move and…
He grabbed her ass. He grabbed her ass. He grabbed her ass.
Parasol threw her suitcase in the trunk of her car and slammed it shut. She got in her baby, shuffled through her CDs for one to reflect her mood.
“Ahh, this calls for Metallica,” she said out loud, fired up her ridiculously muscled car and merged onto I-40 West.

Wednesday, October 05, 2011

Bent But Not Broken... A Message To The Horde

Well, Horde...I'm putting this here for a coupla reasons.  First, it's self-obsessed and sad.  Second, I'm sure TNC indulges me because I've been around forever, but really...he can't possibly enjoy his comment section befouled by my Miss Lonelyhearts musings.  I can feel him roll his eyes whenever I post.   But honestly, I waxed so breathlessly during August that I want to finish the overshare to y'all.

Anyway, for anyone who paid attention, I thought I found a great guy here in the mid to late afternoon of my life.  "Found" is incorrect.  Brother chased me for 18 months.  He was my age (fifties).  Had a career and a car and our politics aligned well enough. Great dates (food, dancing, convo).  Great, errrr, other stuff.  I was clear about my intentions for a relationship (as opposed to a quick hit which actually has its place and an option I actually offered) and he agreed his focus was on the relationship aspect.  I kept myself open because I didn't want my unlucky in love cynicism to jaundice the possibilities.  (I know big words too.)  I was beginning to be hopeful.  We had a date where I went over to his house, went out for sushi, laughed really hard during dinner, came back and listened to the amazing music on my iPod (on a real sound system).  I kissed him goodbye because he was going out of town for a family birthday.  Great kiss, too.

And then nothing.

In the interest of not jumping to conclusions, I texted (jeez, R.I.P. Mr. Jobs) an "are you okay or have you disappeared from me" snippet.  A succinct response of "Am okay. Haven't disappeared. Will be back next week" was received.

And then, he disappeared.  Fell off the planet.

Finally, after a couple of weeks, I texted (seriously, Mr. Jobs, your genius is astonishing) 'Why, dude?  Did you win a bet because if so, I want my cut.  You enjoyed my A-Game (of food, dancing, convo, and ummmm, other stuff) and that warrants at the very least a 'hey girl, whatsup?'  I'm low maintenance, not no maintenance."  Response?  "Apologies.  Traveling, sick, work, family in town.  My bad."

"My bad."

I waited a couple more days.

Then being the general smart ass that no doubt is part of the reason for my singledom, "What? No alien abduction?"  And expressing that consideration is important to me and I'm not a chore.  More back and forth via text but upshot was my excusing myself from the affair.

And here's the thing.  My feelings were monumentally hurt during those three weeks of silence.  But I'm reasonably okay, if not the worse for wear.  I'm actually rather glad that, (1) I stepped up and relayed my feelings rather than let them fester and let my boundaries be broached and (2) after all this time and all the awful relationships I've had, I still have feelings to be hurt.  I'm haven't turned into the kind of woman I wouldn't like myself to be.

And honestly, there's something shifty, hinky, shady in all of it that I am sure were I to know what the fuck it is (married, girlfriend, even though I asked and asked), I would be glad it is something in which I am not involved.

I don't want to feel across the board that men lie, and play at stuff, and it's rather disheartening that a 52 year old man thinks it's perfectly fine to behave so poorly, but that's not on me.

I suppose that's something.

Seriously, Steve Jobs is all over this situation and post.  Big fan of text.  I'm not confident I'd have been able to express the same over the phone.  In person, maybe, but then that wasn't available.  My, what the world has lost.

Also, just to be completely vain and self-affirming...  That's me on the right.   I'm still kind of a dish at 55.  

Sunday, September 11, 2011

That Day and Ten Years After...

On September 10, 2001, I fell asleep with the television on.  Nothing new.  I sleep alone and the noise in the house helps me feel not so alone.

Constrained strife slowly woke me up.  Opening one eye, I wondered what movie I was watching.  I know just about every disaster movie and this wasn't a scene I remember.  So I rolled over to pinpoint what movie I was watching.  And then the commentator came on...I think it was Katie Couric...and fitfully stated in that newscaster fashion, that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center.

And I sat up in bed to watch a movie that had never been made.

I got out my bed to watch mayhem.  And helicopters.  And people waving white believing, perhaps, that an impossible rescue would be mounted.  And people falling.  And fire.  And people I knew for a fact were dying in front of my eyes.  On the living room television because I have to have the noise in the house to help me feel not so alone.

I could not leave the television for weeks.  I watched the skies for weeks.  I cried for weeks.  I could not sleep for weeks.  The people, I sobbed to my mommy late one night.  All those people, Mommy.

All those people.  But what got me, what still gets me, is that I could have been any one of those people hanging out of  windows waving futile flags, surrendering my life, had a different target been chosen.

Today, as I listen to the names of those who died that day read, I know these surnames.  I've known people with these surnames.  They haven't gotten to the Rs yet, but I'm sure the FDNY lost some Ryans that day.  My high school friend, Peach Ryan, is a flight attendant.  Grounded on that day but if the fates would have had it, she could have been one of those who died.

So the people.  All those people.  People I could have known.  People who could have been me.

Saturday, August 06, 2011

Racist Dick Brought Low

UPDATE:  This was originally published on 2/11/10!!!  Good lord.  I'm bringing this to the top because it amuses me and I linked to here at FB, so why not stuff I like up front.  Thanks.
So Playboy interviewed John Mayer and the internet and its contributors have gone all Heathers, picked out some admittedly awful quotes and deemed him pariah. I'm sad to say that I contributed. I'm also loathe to link to TMZ but here's why he's not eating with the popular kids in the cafeteria.

But it's worth it to read the interview, header and all. Something I should have done before mouthing off. Blogs and politics are seductive that way. You read a snippet of something outrageous, have an immediate outraged reaction, and comment about your outrage. And other outraged commenters note your outrage by adding to it. And we're all outraged.

Here's my theory. This interview is irrefutable proof that he is a cocky 32 year old white talented male rock star who got to hang out in the studio with equally talented black folks. Let's say Jay Z and Kanye (himself no stranger to outrage) and maybe Common. Probably Jay Z, while counting his money, offhandedly told Mayer he was a badass guitar playing motherfucker. And then Mayer was just there being Jay's guitar playing motherfucker while Jay Z, Common and Kanye had some "we just talking bullshit" conversation about white-girl crazy. Mayer, stoked beyond the telling of it that Jay Z called him "motherfucker" got into the spirit of things, dropped some yammer about exacly how big Jessica's tits are and what it's like to fuck an almost virgin, everyone laughed (he made them laugh!!!!), got comfortable and nobody was self-censoring. John, imagining that it would be that way in the world for him because after all, his touring band is mostly black and they do the same thing with him and he's, well...John Mayer...and incorporated what he thought to be the truth of him hanging out with black folks for a minute and ran his mouth.

Now see, I blame Jay. And while I'm at it, I'll pull Common and Kanye's and John's band's coattails too. You know you should have told your bad ass guitar playing motherfucker that that bullshit you talk - is just that...bullshit. Don't REPEAT IT.

Yeah, AND. John should have never racialized his dick because if his dick is racist, then he is racist. Much as men like to refer to their peens as something other than they, it is not. It's attached to you, it is, therefore...yours. So, if you think it's just your dick that wants to screw Jessica Simpson*, it is not. It is you. Own it.

And if your dick doesn't open itself up to the concept of sex with black women, then you don't either. And that's hard for me, at least, to hear. It plays into too many insulting concepts about standards of beauty in America.

So, upshot? John was just talking out his neck.

Here's John apologizing. And I still like "Gravity" and he is a badass guitar playing motherfucker. Jack White's better though.

*It seems like I'm bagging on Jessica Simpson but I'm not. I think she's had a hard row to hoe - a row she doesn't understand.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011


Posted without comment...other than "Um...Wow."

Saturday, April 09, 2011

Open Letter to Dodai Stewart at Jezebel

Hi, Dodai:

I'm a Jezebel lurker from way back. Jez Old School. Watched all the slap fights with Sinister Rouge and I GOT Moe.

So, I'm growing my hair out long one last time before I get too old for it to be appropriate. Yeah, I subscribe to the if you're eighty your hair shouldn't hit your butt; you're not going to prom club. Anyway, I'm growing it out. I've worn it short for almost 6 years now. Short. Really short. Amber Rose stole my haircut short. So now it's growing. And gray. It's gray, Dodai. Nearly all of it. **sigh** But it's a pretty gray, so I'm thinking when it's long, I'll have that Emmylou Harris/Helen Mirren thing going on and all will be right with the world.

But now I have to actually care for my hair. Or actually, I'll have to pay attention to it for it to have a style while it's growing. You can have short hair that's easy. You can have long hair that's easy. Hair in the middle is just work. I'm always looking for stuff that helps me not to have to spend time on my hair.

This young woman, Lauren Mechelle, has her own website and quite a few videos up on YouTube that really explain the care and feeding of thick "ethnic" hair. I don't know if Jezebel has already discovered her (since I can't lurk every day because I luckily have a job), but I thought 1) You should know about her and maybe if some of the women commenters get a load of just how much work it takes, they'd shut the frak up with "it's just hair" and 2) her videos are so explanatory that I want her to get some press so I thought I'd point you in her direction. Note particularly that there is a great instruction video on Curlformers - my new easy hair obsession.

Still love all your stuff, Dodai. Miss the old Jez terribly but hopefully, with the next election upcoming (has it already been 4 years??!), Jez'll kick up.

Sherlynn Hicks
aka Parasol (back in the day)
AnonymousSecs (now and still starless)

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

But Does It Show Pudge Fisk's Home Run?

Ken Burns' "Baseball" is available via Amazon streaming. It's free if you're an Amazon Prime member.

Math is Haard

A truer title never given. I've never had a knack for math. I always could arrive at a somewhat correct number (which I understand is not really math because numbers are by nature definitive), but couldn't really show or know how I got there.

So this is an informative post. As opposed to analytical, that is. With a question at the end. And maybe some in the middle.

Ranking Republican on the House Budget Committee, Representative Paul Ryan, released a budget proposal. This I'm pleased about. I seem to remember the "Roadmap for America" idea put forward before with something much less serious than what Rep. Ryan has put together, even though I may not agree with the Republican ideology.

The Congressional Budget Office has also released its analysis (pdf). It's over my head. It's all pretzel logistics and incestuous fiscal reasoning and future decade hopeful projections to me. I do believe that the system as it is is not sustainable and something has to be done. What? I dunno, but at least there are choices greater math minds than mine have to consider.

I'd love to be able to read the CBO's report, much like, say, fine-ass Ezra Klein does and give a non-partisan distillation, but seriously, Ezra has liberal ways. I'd love to read a Conservative or even a Libertarian distillation that I don't end up yelling something like "Are we just going to let our seniors die, or only well-to-do ones get to live"or "Dammit, we aren't each an island" at. But that's just my own liberal bent being reactionary. Plus, if I'm being totally honest, I'm knocking on the "senior" door - softly - am single and frankly don't want to die sitting at the nurses station in diapers in some sub-standard old folks' home because I have more time than life and that's all my vouchers will allow me. Megan McArdle seems to resent my baby boomer entitlement.

You know what I do? I pay my taxes. I pay my credit card bills. I let the government have that tax free loan I give them every year just so I can have extra bucks in my pocket every May.

So, questions.

1. How can a budget, any budget, be sustainable? Aren't there, by nature of the Republic, going to be changes? And isn't each change a ripple that will effect the projected outcome many fold?

2. Really, are we just going to let seniors receive only the care they can afford? Is a comprehensive and caring health entitlement for the aged not something we as a nation can extend?

3. Is it me, or is Megan McArdle's snotty asides infuriating? I just remember that if she's lucky, she's gonna get old too.

Saturday, April 02, 2011

Is the Price Too High?

I watched Jeremiah Johnson again today. I really love that movie, not the least of which is for Robert Redford. Yes, I have a weakness for the towheads and if ever there were a prototype towhead, it's Bob...well, I call him my mind, y'see.

If you haven't seen it, it's about a man who, sick of war, turns his back on civilization and goes into the mountains to trap, sell pelts and exist in near solitude. He's meager at it at first, but is taken under the wing of an experienced mountain man, taught to be successful in the ways of hunting in lone existence and is then sent on his way. Through both tragic and humorous happenstance, he has a wife and a young boy to care for. He's alone no longer and fitfully comes to enjoy it.

When he seems to be most happy with this family he never wanted but now treasures, he is pressed into guide service by a group, including a soldier and a preacher, looking to rescue cohorts trapped in the mountains. He leaves his wife and boy

On their way to the rescue, he is made to desecrate an Crow burial ground. I say "made to" because his initially tells them that they have to go the 20 miles out of their way around. The preacher, full of pomp and righteousness with a handkerchief pressed to his nose so as not to smell dead Indians, asks why should he honor the Crow burial ground. The rescue party is not Crow. Those they are looking to rescue, who he says are freezing and starving, are not Crow. They must go through. Johnson reluctantly agrees.

They make it to the starving, freezing wagons in the mountains, and Jeremiah turns toward home. When he gets back to the burial ground, he sees his wife's trinkets strewn among the bones of the burial ground. He beats ass for home, only to find his wife and the boy slaughtered.

And here is where I recognized something.

Terry Jones, the Florida Koran burner, has the same bigotry and disdain for other religions, doesn't he? What arrogance it takes to publicly abuse the beliefs of others. Without apology. With full felt righteousness he pulled his church in league with his bigotry. And they brought the lighter fluid. Now, instead of a wife and child found murdered, we have UN workers dead.

The preacher in Jeremiah Johnson rode away to rescue and his life. Terry Jones will preach another day.


Yeah, I get the "It's his right as an American to express himself" reasoning. But just because you can it doesn't mean you should. The Good Pastor Jones isn't the one paying for his expression, is he. It would seem he would consider the price too high.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

She's No Anonymous Sec...

Mad Men is back soon. Here's Joanie in all her Bam!Pow! glory. She's a secretary, you know. Just like ME! More on that later. Maybe.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Never What You Think It Is

For about 18 months during half of my 7th and all of my 8th grade, I lived and went to school in NYC. It was the best year and a half of school. I was challenged with great classes like Latin and Medieval History. I had friends or at least people who meant something to me. Living with my grandmother and Aunt Marie, I wasn't surrounded by chaos and fights and alcohol and cruelty at home, only to have to play it off with my approximation of normalcy at school.

Those 18 months meant a lot to me.

I went back for this school's reunion this past weekend. Fairly few remembered me. Or if they did remember me, remembered that they didn't like me or really a less self-pitying point of view, remembered that I didn't matter to them in the same way they mattered to me.

That was hard. Harder still to ignore which I have been mightily trying to do for the past 48 hours. I'm good at denial and ignoring but I'm not having much success right now. I've cried during this time...not real tears because that would mean showing how I feel. I'm crying on the proverbial inside.

This is a constant in my life.

During the after party of her fifth grade classmates that they were kind enough to invite me, the unremembered one, I embarrassed my sister by being loud, demanding and obnoxious. Not of her but of the people around her. I apologized to her, but she didn't ask me why. She said "No worries," but didn't ask me why. If she had I would have told her that I was tired of people taking advantage of her. Long story, but she has been organizing and taking charge groups of uncooperative, privileged people and I saw that happening at this get together of her classmates. I spoke up loudly which I probably would not have done if I hadn't had that second half beer. **sigh** This is why I don't drink - it's cute when you're young and obnoxious when you're old. I'm old.

It wasn't because of whatever reason people who don't know me think. I suspect my sister has a reason why I was all obnoxious also. She, of course, has a bit more insight but I don't know. I don't know because she didn't ask and I didn't volunteer the info.

Nobody asks.

Nobody asks how the hysterectomy has affected me.

Nobody asks how afraid I am of dying alone.

Nobody asks how sitting next to an unaware bigot brings my life down.

Nobody asks how never being able to be excellent in my job depresses me.

Nobody asks how my self-loathing affects me.

Nobody asks why it's there.

Nobody asks why I don't cry.

I now have to take my uterusless self to a job I'm failing at while listening to the mildly bigoted ditz drone on next to me while I do the bidding of grown lawyers who think of me as the same ilk as a xerox machine.

Though I've ignored this space into internet oblivion, still too many people know this blog is here, so this is about all the pathetic blues crying that's barely appropriate.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida...and the 64 Crayola Box

Speaking of advertising. I was directed to this from Andrew's. Man oh man. Heh. This ain't your grandpa's stoner trip. Big deal you scoff. Naw. CLICK THIS. Oooh. All the pretty colors.

“And Then There Was Salsa” from Frito Lay Dips on Vimeo.

The page takeover is what seals it. Here's another example for the Honda Insight. I don't watch broadcast much anymore getting pretty much all my content on the internet. I'm an advertiser's dream for this stuff. That page takeover. Wow.

Fun, huh? And speaking of colors. I am a big fan of OK Go's synchronized treadmill video. Here they play on kinetic motion to make something really interesting and fun. Trying to keep up with what's moving things forward is a challenge.

h/t Alyssa Rosenberg

Thursday, February 18, 2010

The Catch? Old Spice...

Bunch of caveats to the enjoyment of this brilliant piece of advertisement. One? It's Old Spice. Not my favorite. Two? Don't have a man to compare him to. Sad, but no worries. I think I'll just incorporate THIS man into my daily ablutions. (Geddit? Geddit?) Three? It's OLD SPICE!!! Four? No man is this mack, not even this man who they cast. Frankly, all that perfection would get on my fucking nerves. Five? Perhaps my fussiness is why I don't have a man. (Yeah, and nobody who used to be my man better pipe up with "yathink?")

The dominoes do fall, don't they?

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Resolutions: Broken.

I haven't quit smoking. I haven't written here twice a week. But I am getting out of the house. This weekend, I have a lunch date with silentbeep, a frequent commenter on my daily hangout blog, Ta-Nehisi Coates. I'm really looking forward to that. silentbeep (I'll have to ask her about that nom de blog) has a blog that I spent several hours on Saturday perusing.

Part of my problem with updating my blog frequently is that I write very slowly...and I'm a constant editor. I'll work a sentence 'til the comma cries. Also, a focus would be good. A focus other than politics, I think. And Pop culture is saturated with bloggers turning over its influence on life and I don't particularly have anything new and interesting to say about it.

I'm not given to writing about my job. First, I could get caught in a trick bag whining about the first year who threw me under the bus. Also, it's not fair to bag on folks who aren't able to defend themselves. But I do know my job and it might be interesting to talk about how I get it done. But then, when I come home from work, which is the only time I have to write, why would I want to rehash issues I leave behind.

I know music...but only most kinds. I have absolutely no affinity for hip-hop or rap. I don't understand a word that is said. Except for Tupac. I understand Tupac's every word. And The Roots. Some time ago, TNC posted a video of three rappers, Eminem being one and two other apparently famous and talented ones (see-what do I know) and the only words I understood were "Phyllis Hyman."

Television has been my constant companion since Playhouse 90 days. But I don't watch broadcast any more. And I don't go to theaters much. Everything can be gotten online - Hulu for tv and Netflix for movies. I'm a hell of a lot more selective than I used to be. Avatar, however, I've seen 6 times. Supernatural I download weekly. LOVE those boys. And Dean is mine so hands off.

So, anyone out there who knows me - do you think you might have some suggestions for a focus for me?

In the meantime, I post here the video to Sade's new single "Soldier of Love" that I have been playing nonstop since I downloaded it on Monday. Man, if there weren't ever truer words for me than "I've lost the use of my heart, but I am still alive" and "I'm at the borderline of my faith, I'm at the hinterland of my devotion" and "Still waiting for love to come, turn it all around" and "I am love's soldier." Those words give me such hope living in the absence of the ability to feel. Gah! Big ass gong going off inside me. Clang clang clang.

Note: for some reason links aren't working right now. Go forth and Google.

Thursday, December 31, 2009

31 New Year's Resolutions

1. Quit smoking for realz.
2. Write on this blog at least twice a week.
3. Write that book I have a great idea for.
4. Get out of the house more even though it scares the bejesus out of me.
5. Do yoga every day.
6. Get my bike serviced and ride on the weekends.
7. Lose 10 pounds.
8. Pay off at least one credit card.
9. Volunteer somewhere.
10. Quit being so sensitive.
11. Quit being so insensitive.
12. Comment at TNC more.
13. Write more quickly.
14. Think more critically.
15. Don't lose the mornings to the internet.
16. Don't lose the weekends to the internet.
17. Don't be afraid of making new friends.
18. Quit waiting for the other shoe to drop.
19. Visit Ray more.
20. Write Ray more.
21. Find a church.
22. Be nicer to my bosses.
23. Stay abreast of my finances.
24. Give myself a weekly facial, manicure and pedicure.
25. Learn how to wax myself.
26. Cook weekly and take my lunch to work.
27. Really practice on my guitar.
28. Stop being a misanthrope.
29. Throw away all the accumulated junk around my house.
30. Visit my mom at least 3 times a year...during the warmer months.
31. Live on cash only.