Small Town Romance

I was driving to pick up a kid two days ago and saw the following: On the right, and after much contemplation, a small deer decided to crawl under the bottom rail of a wooden fence rather than try jumping over it; on the left, an old dude in a Panama hat was dragging a ten-foot-long gnarly tree branch down the sidewalk.

This, of course, makes perfect sense. (Unless he was "walking" the stick, then I'm wrong and he's obviously a philosopher.) He was foraging for materials for some project. After I'd overcome the chuckles and parked the car, my suspicion was confirmed: He checked the stand of trees in front of the school then, finding nothing, climbed back up to the sidewalk and drug his limb back in the opposite direction.

I took great joy and (can it be?) pride in this display. Sure, the limb might not been his to take in theory as it may well have been on city or private property, but sketchiness in the law is like a yellow light on the road--a mild suggestion at best. And in a small town with old-timers who knew this place before we all discovered it--and with new-comers like me who've been here a mere 20 years nearly adapting to that loose version of events--well, let's just say the Nanny State is not alive and well in these parts. The downside of that is if you take it too far, you might step on someone's rights. The upside is you remember how to take care of yourself.

I LOVED my years beachside in Cali, make no mistake about it. The people in NorCal are among some of the kindest,  most decent and open people you'll ever find. But you can run into instances where, because the state is so progressive and pro-active by nature, folks have lost the ability (or the right) to make their own decisions. And if you've ever dealt with the DMV in the Golden State you know of what I speak.

But there's something else that makes HERE different: Sure a ton of state expats make the dreamy journey to California every day, though perhaps not as much since the Great Recession became the new normal, seeking one last stop to birth their deepest wishes. Sometimes the genie-by-the-sea provides, sometimes not. It's the Land's End: Last chance to make IT happen. You thrive or you drown, but by gum you tried. But even with all those wide-eyed Californicators, Colorado has the edge: NOBODY'S from here.

Well, almost. But you can go years without meeting a native. And the first thing mentioned in the obits is how long the dearly departed lived here. It's a THANG for sure! And even though I'm only on my 17th year of Coloradoness, I'm starting to feel like a native--my stories are often from "the before times" whenever I strike up a conversation out and about. There's a certain cache in knowing that the Starbucks used to be a 7-11, that we once had a DMV outpost up here on the mountain, and that "that used to be a field (or forest) over there where they've built those houses". I've set my sights on attaining the title "sage" within ten years. (Talk about a five-year or ten-year plan!)

In short: Life's different in the woods and I love it. Just living another day is a bonus point toward greatness here. I'm reminded of my Colonial Days fantasy that every one was someone because there were so few people, and they all knew each other, that everyone counted, everyone was important, everyone could be KNOWN. Oh elusive understanding, truly the greatest treasure we could hope to possess. Not, as the prophet Sally Field Oscar-opined, "You love me, you really love me" but "You KNOW me, you really know me!"

So though more come every year, a great many of them brought here on the tickets of John Denver songs as was I, the cows still outnumber the humans. Thank goodness. Because as self-aware and nature-savvy as we transplants may become, we can always look to Bovinity for new knowings--like when there's about to come a big blow...

...or where the free compost lies.

Paging Mr. Aristotle! Call Manhattan-411

I have a big old hazardous-to-my-health-four-hour-boner to pick with a certain court official in New York, specifically Manhattan Criminal Court Judge Matthew A. Sciarrino, Jr. The most-honorable ruled Friday that Brooklyn Bridge Occupier Malcolm Harris cannot fight the subpoena of Twitter for his older tweets. The idea is that conflicting information--which may or may not have existed in the long ago timeline-overridden tweets--would prove whether or not the defendant knew that the occupiers were commanded by police to remain on the footpath, and not to march on the roadway of the bridge. (The NY Times has broader coverage and more information if you're interested in reading between my lines.)

I write an amateur detective-driven mystery series and understand the necessity of evidence-gathering. If I am accused of a crime and a judge issues a warrant to police officers whom she/he believes to have cause to search my effects, then I fully expect them to comb through my computer files for whatever information they might need to prove my guilt. Those on each side of Mr. Harris' harangue have made comparisons to previous rulings related to GPS-gathered public information and third-party bank subpoenas, and those finer litigious points might well need to be argued as they relate to the public-private domain of social networking. But I will leave that to others as this is not the nature of my complaint.

Seems "Here Come De Judge" ruled that Twitter OWNS tweets, and that's where we part ways, kick up the dust, stomp off to spin our spurs, and manifest a nervous tic accompanied by one throbbing eyeball protruding from a skull-full of pulsing blue veins. It's the old boy's club "reach around", if you will, of I will use your own addiction to capitalism to sink you! Mwaahhhhaahhh! (Corporations are people after all and you know how people talk. And the lobbyists all say, "Amen!")

If Twitter owns my tweets, does the:

*phone company own my conversations?
*word processing program own my writing?
*canvas manufacturer own my art?
*Pyrex company own my casserole?
*gas station own my car?
*lumber yard own my home?

The equivalencies I'm making are that Twitter is a platform through which we publish information. Likewise, the half-dozen nuggets above are examples of platforms or methods by which something comes into being. They serve their purpose and the relationship ends. (Much like an umbilical cord or The Starland Vocal Band.) Amazon is my publishing platform but they are not my publisher. I am my publisher. Amazon helps me bring my wares to market, as it were. (Successfully too, as I am now on the best seller list! See how I worked that in.) As such, Amazon does not own my books. Twitter's user agreement mentions the service's ability to publish and distribute content, royalty-free. They do not own the tweets, they just "market" them for me.

The precipice we're dancing on here is what constitutes speech and whether or not corporations are really people. If we've truly chosen to police ourselves by corporation, then we've also allowed our souls to be bartered with and our civil rights privatized.

At the risk of bombarding you with non-sequiturs or going all sophist on your ass, here are the logical false conclusions I came to, courtesy of the good Manhattan judge and the October Nine:

Twitter is a corporation,

Corporations are people,

Therefore Twitter is a person.

Money is speech,

Tweets are speech,

Therefore tweets are money.

This person, Twitter, owns my tweets,

So I've given Him 3,720 of something valuable,

What rate of interest should I charge for the loan?

I say screw Citizens United, we need to become Citizens Untied--or realize we already are. Oh, and not that I'm keeping score, but when I link this blog post to my followers in a second, that'll be 3,721 whosits you own me, Twitter. And if you OWN my MONEY (tweets), then why the hell aren't you paying the bills for me? Good Judge Matthew and the Supremes would want to know!

Change of Clothes

Later today I have to take the boy child out for dress clothes, which should be a hoot as well as a holler seeing as such articles are kryptonite to teenagers. But slay that dragon one button at a time we must; his band grade depends upon it. (They do call it trying on clothes for a reason.)

I don't blame the kid for growing, I'm told that's fairly common, especially if you water them regularly. The parade of changing sizes, while challenging, does not get me down. Quickly evolving likes and dislikes however drives me batty.

"You know I hate turkey," a child utters, casually. Since when?
"I'm allergic to bananas!" No one is allergic to bananas.
"I'll drink it but I don't like the raspberry flavor." I swore you asked for it specifically.


That was yesterday...or an hour ago. As quickly as the hormone fairy brings hair and attitude, the snark fairy gifts us with wondering who the hell these people are. Meanwhile, of course, they continue to develop a list of Things They Must Have Or They Will Die, which conveniently all come in one size: low quality and high price tag. The parent of such people is left wondering which ransom to pay in order to keep the peace.

Then, like the little mirror-hoisting Buddhas that they are, they made me realize that I too was guilty of the crime of changing my mind. I had become a shape-shifter, and a hypocritical one at that. In the words of the prophets Air Supply, "I'm all out of love" for MSNBC. No, really, it's not you, it's me. I promised something I couldn't give and then this shiny new thing came along and...

I blame Stephanie Miller...and Chris Lavoie...and Jim Ward (who for some reason I often refer to as "Don"). I blame their little radio-gone-TV show on Current. You can take credit for this one, Al: I'm hooked. "Morning Joe" has lost it's luster after coming in as the reigning champ in my daily political life for nearly four years now. I should've known our relationship was on the ropes when I deleted the DVR timer weeks ago...four weeks ago to be exact, which is when CurrentTV began airing "The Stephanie Miller Show". Coincidence? Hardly.

And now, when it's too late to do anything about it, I've come to the realization that Ms. Miller's enterprise is a gateway drug: I'm tuning in to Free Speech TV (locally grown), Link TV, and expose-style documentaries more often than ever and not by accident. Maybe it's my old Air America clothes coming out of the back of my psychic closet to be worn with pride during an election cycle. (Lots of "spin" and "drip-dry" in that cycle.)

Whatever the motivation, I have jilted one and run away with another. I should wear sack cloth and ashes for my betrayal, but somehow I keep pulling on bright colors. It's Springtime in my soul.

So no matter what the gods of teenaged angst throw at me this afternoon, I can smile on the inside at least knowing that styles change and one size doesn't fit all...forever.

I just hope no one's suddenly grown allergic to rayon.

What the 2012 Election Means To Me

I could make a longer list than anyone would care to read of all the reasons I love my President and work toward and hope for a second term for his Administration. There are union rights, women's health, the ACA, LGBT equality, middle class assistance (and by that I mean compassion in policy), and so many other issues including the intangible notion that we are doing the right things as a nation.

Perfection? No. But given the cards he was dealt and the people with whom he's had to deal, President Obama has make remarkable strides for us all. The messaging has let us down from time to time, and compromises we haven't always favored have been made, but there is no denying that our nation is in MUCH better shape fiscally and fundamentally than it was or would have been had the election of 2008 not gone our way.

I will never forget waking up that morning after OUR election. I was living in Santa Cruz at the time--where Democrats are the rightwing constituency--where I was fully able to relish in and enjoy those vibes. Everyone was smiling, and I saw not just the town, but the nation and the world with different eyes; in short, I had my faith in people restored.

I think I loved everyone as I hadn't perhaps...ever. The overwhelming sense of pride, pure strong pride was so great it was like that heart chakra-cracking awareness of empathy of which the prophet Nancy Goldberg so eloquently writes. The long dark days of the Bush-Cheney world were over, in a sense, and the light Ronald Reagan lied about had finally come to pass. I was even able--though they cost us tens of thousands of dollars, our sanity, and years off our lives from stress--to look to those awful eight years as the necessary step for our Revolution to happen so quickly. I doubt those who lost loved ones and the entire culture of their nations would be able to grant such forgiveness and I wouldn't expect them to. Their loss was so much more tragic than was mine.

Suddenly I didn't see the Birch Society everywhere I looked. I saw people who thought and weighed the issues, people who didn't blindly go along with what some fool in a pulpit told them to do. I saw citizens from every state and across the generations vote for a good man who also happened to be black.

Of course it was a historical accomplishment to be celebrated, but it was so much more. It was as if we had come out of a long sleep and found we all could speak the same language. We wouldn't get fooled again.

Now we face another election cycle and the fear-mongering, the hate-messaging has returned. But with our online social communities, we are reaching out to each other as we haven't before, even during the magic that was 2008. Each time we share and retweet and forward and post we are letting our voices and our hearts be heard. We can read in glowing screen light that we still share a dialectic--Obama2012.

Sure, my life will be better with a re-election, and I would think that most of yours will as well. But I want more than that. I want to have one of those mornings again this November. One of those days of moving about the town in staunch amazement at the wonder of our democracy. Now that I'm back home in Colorado, I'd love to feel that way again, here.

There are particular causes and concerns, there are things I'd like to change and things I hope to help implement, but what I really want is that pride of knowing that we're doing the right thing as a people. I like having that American flag in my yard again. I don't want it or any other symbols co-opted by hate, greed, nor fear of the unknown.

Am I a cockeyed optimist? Perhaps. Am I aware of the built-in defects of our political system? Of course. But the real question is: Do I think anyone whether Republican, Green, Independent, or otherwise will be able to or choose to do anything about that? No way.

There's only one answer: OBAMA 2012. Yes we did, and yes me must...one more time.

What Can I Say? No, really...I'm asking!

I've always understood the power of words, not because I'm a writer, but because as a kid I was the target of merciless verbal abuse for a decade. Name your stereotypical attack scenario--picked last for the team, name-calling, pranks, being laughed at, shunning--I was privy to them all.

Those years were tough but those school kids taught me a valuable lesson: Choose your words carefully. In fact, I think they (and others) taught that too well as I have been known to weigh the words for so long at times that they lose their impact. Much like the prophet Mark Twain said of the cat and the hot oven burner, "Yes, but she won't sit on a cold one again, either", I can be too careful.

There is something to be said for "political correctness" in that if we practice empathy and understanding, if we take the measure of our words, we stand a far lesser chance of being offensive and that's a terrific thing. But we also run the risk of muting ourselves altogether.

This past week a few mute buttons were pressed which caught my attention. In a less egregious category, I give you the salacious commentary of such programs as "Fox & Friends", particularly when they analyze a Presidential speech. Likely you can access a tape in your head for reference, I will not subject you to shrillness here. This type of "offense" is in bad taste, and lacks the respect and decorum that is usually afforded the office, if not the individual occupying that office. But when a caller to "The Stephanie Miller Show" voiced his belief that the Confederate Flag was just dandy because it honored men of color who fought for the South, my red flag shot up its virtual flagpole faster than you can say "I Wish I Was In Dixie". The gentlemen, we'll say, might have been well-intended. He might not have been overlooking the fact that forced civil servitude was just one more aspect of the stain on our collective consciousness that is slavery, he might simply have been operating on information that was pre-loaded by a generation long past. Perhaps he truly believed what he said and wanted to correct the rest of us and the record. But he really should know that those folks had no say in the decision and, worse yet, had no weapons with which to defend themselves. They were old-school suicide bombers, more-or-less. This "offense" falls into the category of "I know it when I hear it". Code-talking.

But what about Hillary Rosen? "She's never worked a day in her life" is code to some people for "unless you have gainful employment, you don't count". Did Ms. Rosen mean to say this? I choose to think not, but then again I'm one of those slugs who just suck the life out of society by choosing not to "work". Yet I'm not offended by Rosen's statement because I realize it was made in the context of a discussion of our economy. (Ironically it well might have been an economy of words that caused the "problem".) Even without context I'm not offended and don't understand why anyone is. I'm actually sure on this one that I'd feel the same way no matter which "side" of politics the words were hurled from. I'm just aggravated that this flap has vaulted Ann Romney to the height of "heroine".

Then there's the case of Ozzie Guillen. Sure, it's the Miami Marlins and there are Cuban players and folks in the Little Havana neighborhood where the new baseball park was built who have definite opinions and/or oppressions to point to when it comes to Fidel Castro. But "the worst mistake of my life", as Guillen said in an interview? We all say things we'd like to re-phrase or take back altogether. If Ozzie thinks "that f-er", as he referred to Castro, is admirable in his ability to stay alive though many have sought to kill him, then that's what he thinks. He's making a joke and Castro is the butt of that joke. Comedians make such jokes all the time. The difference here is not that Guillen isn't a comedian, it's that part of the reason he was hired to manage the new Marlins was to bring more HIspanic fans to the franchise. Ooops!

Back in the seventies, Archie Bunker said a lot of things that would never get on TV today. Was that the "good old days" before PC-ness when idiots could be idiotic or were those awful words that should never have been aired? You'll have to decide that for yourself, but as a kid who grew up in the 1970s, I can attest to the fact that we certainly TALKED about stuff back then...in a small town, in the South, with a Republican President, and an upstart movement called "The Christian Coalition". Not exactly fertile ground for seeds of change.

We all say stupid stuff. I've likely said some really stupid stuff in this post. But we forgive each other when we understand the intent behind the words. In each of these and other instances, you have to look at the person, the thought process that likely led to those words being chosen. The Fox "anchors" suck at the teat of Roger Ailes and must keep the crank turning on the propaganda machine. That's their job. The Confederate Flag dude has probably heard that nonsense his whole life as a means of excusing guilt and we all know what happens when a lie is repeated enough. Hillary Rosen is paid to make points by tying the strings of political conversation together into a tapestry suited to eliciting a response in the consumer. She's an operative. Ozzie's just trying to get more than ten people to a ballpark in Florida and wanted to get off a joke. It didn't land.

So which of our players are the villains and which are the heroes? You'll have to bring your own background and understanding to that one. All I know for sure is that, even in The Smithsonian today, nobody but nobody can sit in Archie's chair. That means YOUS!

Friday the 14th

(REMEMBER THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT, KIDDOS: IF YOU DO NOT LIKE THE BLASPHEMY, COME NO FURTHER...FOR THERE ARE MEAN, NASTY THINGS WHICH ARE SHARP AND THEY WILL HARM YOU BUT GOOD!)

Good, good, good, "Good Vibrations".

Today is "Good Friday", a day when Christians observe the "passion", or suffering, of Jesus on the Cross at Calvary. (An aside: It absolutely drives me batty whenever I hear someone ask for the "Calvary to come in', 'cuz I don't think that's really what they want. But I digress...) And while we all know I have my own special problems with religion, I do have to take exception with the nomenclature of "good" and "passion". Yes, I know they're going for pious here, but I prefer the less traditional "Black Friday" whenever one is referring to crucifixion, though I often get that handle confused with that 1970s Super Bowl terrorism movie.

For me, the passion part is much more personal. And even though some of the collateral damage of turning 50 a few weeks back seems to be a thinning of my filter, I still cannot bring myself to divulge this little tidbit. Maybe when I'm 60 you can remind me to spill it. Until then, I'll give you another funny to enjoy.

I started with a quote from the prophets, The Beach Boys. While I am not technically a fan, I do feel their pain at being so eclipsed by those other B-prophets, The Beatles. Stream-of-conciousness theory demands that I now co-opt and include the jaundiced parody version of one of their hits as it applies to today:

"Well he was just, 33...When they nailed him to the tree..."


Whether or not you "believe", you might have an interesting 33 story of your own. By nurture or nature, I certainly managed to manifest a doozy for myself. You see at my own...personal...Je-(ahem: sorry, took to singing in my head again). Part of my own personal 33rd year was spent in a hospital room, having suffered a stomach ulcer. Once I realized that my Dad had been visited by the same infirmity in his 33rd year--the man was terribly over-worked--I decided something had to change. I was a worry wort who often suffered the mantle of "paranoid" leveled at me by "friends". I brought work home in my head. I was sure that difficult customers were sent on the day before my days off just to ruin my down time. I travelled to work at least once in the middle of the night to jiggle the door handle and check the lock. (Okay, I guess "paranoid" was fair.)

So I had a religious experience: An epiphany. One day while I was out for a walk with Husband, I decided my life needed to get up off its ass, whip out its jugs, and do a midnight dance in the rain. (For the record, WAY better use of the night-time than busting into a decrepit old mall to feel up the glass.) Within months I had left the working, sold my house, and finalized my plans to go West, young woman. And the rest is history; a pretty damned sweet one, too.

If I could give you a Spring Message it would be this: Next time you see one of those fucking "Bloom Where You're Planted" signs, tell it to push up bulbs and shove itself where the sun don't shine. I mean it. Right there in the half-metaphysical/half-religious store with lots of oversized purple shifts, singing bowls, and rocks covered in inspirational "epithets", you just tell that sign what the be-Jesus you think of it, telling you what you should be doing and making you feel all inadequate like you don't know yourself, like you don't have what it takes, like you took the easy path. Cause it's looking at you all splinter-eyed and mocking. You tell that sorry-assed...Uhm, let's see. Ah, huh-huh, you get the point. (Just REALLY glad I beat that paranoid rap!)

This Spring you have my permission to bloom in whatever way and wherever you choose. Circumstances, if favorable, need not be adjusted. However...never close a door. (Unless Jesus opens a window. And if it's raining, just look at him askant and say, "Dude?!")

Finally, there's one more seasonal character with which we must dispatch: The Easter Bunny. This is truly an evil minion sent by repo-men to collect god-knows-what from your soul. (Just check out his clips on YouTube--"Evil Easter Bunny"--and you'll know what he's capable of. The common defense-mechanism reaction to this chicanery is raucous, panty-wetting laughter. He's insidious! (I prefer the Springy Chicken character from the old "Rollie Pollie Ollie" cartoon.) No doubt this heinous creature is an "off-Spring" of the "harmless little bunny" of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" fame. LOOK AT THE BONES! He'll do you a turn, mate! (Now you'll wet your armor.)

So use today to observe passion and goodness in the methods of your choosing. Plant a flower, blow a kiss, say a prayer if that's your wont. But don't go 'round bleeding internally from worry, nor should you needlessly shove plate glass. As the "Saturday Night Live" prophet, Chico Escuela taught us long ago, "glass breaks". (He added that rubber breaks too, but don't talk to Republicans about that one.)

Know something else that breaks? The Constitution. So if you happen to live in one of the 14 US states where Good Friday is an official holiday, be careful not to get any falling Constitution on you. I wonder if they make one of those handy-dandy separators for church and state like they do with yolk and whites. (Did I just invoke food segregation or chicken fetal assault? I hope not!)

I know how I can make Amendments! The tank's low; I'll just visit one of those 14 gas stations of the cross to pay homage to the fossil fuel industry AND those 14 states.

...and I'll be sure to pencil in #14 and #33 on my lottery sheet while I'm there! For GOOD luck.

Worldly Wednesday

(REMEMBER: IF YOU DO NOT POSSESS THE MASSIVE FUNNYBONE--LIKE JESUS DID--YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO READ ANY FURTHER. YOU WILL UPSET YOURSELF GREATLY AND LIKELY DISRUPT A CONNECTION WITH SOME BODY PART THAT YOU DESPERATELY NEED. I'M NOT SHITTING YOU HERE, YOU MUST TURN BACK NOW. NO COMPLAINING--YOU WERE WARNED!!)

I have nothing against religious people, mainly because they are shifty and keep moving. But here we are on the heels of another "holy-day" where they rail and rant about the commercialism, the candy, and the character. Seems you cannot be a fan of the Son of God AND Sonny, the hollow milk-chocolate rabbit at the same time.

Wait, that's the War on Christmas. Why is there no War on Easter? Why are the believers not miffed at marshmallow Peeps nor convulsed by colored eggs? Why do they not hold the Easter Bunny in the same disdain as Santa Claus? (He lost his job when Jesus was born and has been trying to get it back ever since. Kind of a Newt Gingrich character study, if you will.) After all, Easter is the paganist pageant of them all: Spring/rebirth, Sex/eggs, Planned Parenthood/pregnancy. It's enough to make you really wanna stay inside your shell...or cave.

But I think I've figured out why the Christians seem to have put all their holiday loathing into one basket (or at least how they've come to compensate for this holiday). You see I was just flipping through the Oriental Trading catalogue where they are "celebrating 80 years of fun", "high-flying values", and more waxed lips than you can spit a raspberry at...unless you're settling up at the ticket redemption booth of your local arcade. They've co-opted Jesus' trying week into a marketing scheme! Cross-marketing, I like to call it. You can almost see OLASJC in a call center recommending the following to all the Sunday School teachers and homeschoolers:

• "TESTAMINTS"*TM -- cross-hatched and mint-flavored confections wrapped in Bible verses
• "TANGY TARTS"*TM"SCRIPTURE CANDY"*TM -- assorted-flavored candy discs wrapped in Bible verses
• "'LEAP FOR THE LORD' Potato Sack" -- for all your backyard fun
• "Mini 'HE LIVES!' Magic Springs" -- Slinky*TM goes savior!
• "Plush Long Arm RELIGIOUS GORILLAS" -- well, duh!
• "Mini 'JESUS IS THE LIGHT' Flashlight Key Chain -- so you won't be lost without Him!

But we've only just scratched the surface--like say a splinter would--of the 'offerings'! Did you realize there is an entire sub-category of Easter-->Inspirational-->COLOR-->Novelties?? There's the Colors of the Bear, What the Colors of the Jellybeans Mean (ooh, pass me some death and original sin, please!), the Colors of the Dyed Eggs--and even amongst them, there is disagreement. (Can you imagine splintering dissent within a faction or sect of a religion? Blasphemy!) White can stand for God's grace, the cleansing of our sins, or purity. Black--well hells playas--black is always bad! And they sure do agree on the meaning of Red, but then they can be a blood-thirsty lot.

You can also have the kids re-inact (and what kid wouldn't want to) the Holy Week Horrors with a "Resurrection Set" made of resin and complete with the man of the hour, six witnesses (making this holiday twice as important as the one with the three wise dudes), and a tomb. That, folks, is a party waiting to happen. Can I be the stone this time, Isaiah? If $25 is too much of a commitment, perhaps you should consider the "'He Lives!' Make-a-Sticker Scenes" where you can move around Halo Guy, angels, palm branches, and doves to your heart's desire. Only $3 for a dozen sheets with 14 stickers per sheet. Score one for the Prince of Price!

I kid the folks at Oriental Trading, but they do offer a good value next time you're having a party, a carnival, or just wanna stock up on 120 personalized pencils so the teacher KNOWS who sent them in during the mid-year supply slump. (Maybe that's just my cross to bear. Well, mine and George Costanza's--the tip jar fiasco...) I've happily bought from them in the past and have no doubts that I will do so again in the future. I am a very satisfied customer. And this isn't THEIR doing: They are simply responding to what a certain segment of their customer base wants. And that's their right; probably a darned good way to stay in business for 80 years, too! But I'm still gonna poke a little more fun...

Perusing the "Inspirational" pages of the catalogue, which are kept cloistered near the end of the mailing, separated by dozens of pages and an order form from such atrocities as "Prehistoric Rubber Duckies" and "Chomping Bunny Teeth" (it's the bunny paratroopers and camouflage plastic eggs that get me in the hunting mood), I did find some real fun-and-games, not just a series of serious downers meant to tell kids (THOSE OF YOU WHO DID YOUR HOMEWORK AND READ LAST YEAR'S BLOCKBUSTER POST, "THE EASTER CURSE", SAY IT WITH ME): "YOU KILLED JESUS, AGAIN!!" Because that is what Easter means to me. Nope, there's some really good-natured humor in the form of: The "'Jesus Lights The Way' Flashing Bouncing Balls", the "'He Lives' Finger Puppets", the "Cross Pencil Sharpeners" (ouch), the "Plush Woolly Lambs (I'm having Carly Fiorina flashbacks), the (I kid you not) "Frosted Lamb of God Suckers" (you'd be frosted too if you were one), and my personal favorite the "'He Lives!' Pop-Ups". Now THAT'S realism for you! "Push it down on the tabletop there, son. Now lookie, wait for it, wheee yonder he goes, straight up into Heaven." Man pulls out hankie. "Dangit, that gets me ever time." And just to drive the point home and keep the heretics at bay, they've even "re-purposed" Runes into "Faith Stones" and "Worry Stones". Cast-away all!

So I guess we've just about nailed down all the GUILTY PLEASURES for your Easter enjoyment. And in case I have yet to offend someone out there, lemme tell you a little story from my own Holy Week. The kids and I drove past a church (not too hard to do) on Monday which had it's three crosses adorned with white sheets. (No, I am NOT going THERE. See, I'm not so entirely predictable. Nah-nah.) Now put aside the fact that I told my kids long ago that crosses, I mean "plus signs", marked the residences of Math teachers and that the Westside cross-topped hill down in Colorado Springs is known to them as "Math Mountain", and just consider the innocence of youth uncluttered by dogma.

"Do you think that's Jesus' panty there or a scarf?" I asked the small child, the fashionista.

"Well it's still really Winter so I'd say it's a scarf."

She'll be so pleased to see the swaths turn purple...I just gotta come up with some awful magic lie to tell her to explain it. You know, like religion would. And maybe come up with some phrase so she remembers it: "Don't eat the yellow snow. Don't take the brown acid. Don't eat the purple jellybeans."

And why not? Because everyone knows that the Fairy Godfather of Conservatism, Ronald Reagan, told us that purple was for his "Hour of Sorrow", but pink is for our "New Tomorrow"!! 

...and the slips to be handed out to air-traffic controllers, and the way the sky blushes when you shove a strategic missile defense shield into it, and what Ollie North was in shortly after the Iran-Contra affair.

Not THAT guilty. He is Risen! Oh, MEN!

Maundy Monday: Or Thursday Eve-Eve-Eve

The prophets, The Mamas and the Papas, say that you can't trust "that day". They tell us that when Monday finally rolls around "you can find me cryin' all of the time"' whereas the prophet Jimmy Buffett maintains that "Come Monday, it'll be alright." Perhaps we should look to one more prophesy, that of The Bangles, to settle the question: "It's just another Manic Monday...I wish it was Sunday...Cause that's my fun day...My I don't have to run day...". Seems the prophets vote for sucky.

Now I'm not sure what OLASJC was doing on that Monday of his final week on Earth because most traditions skip over Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday altogether when it comes to special Holy Week observances. But you know dude had to be up to something between healings and speeches. And speaking of speeches--and here's a real lark for you--do you know what "Maundy" means? It's from the word for mandate and is most often translated as "commandment". Yup! So does that mean POTUS' ACA contains not just a "new Commandment" but a personalized, Individual Commandment?! Sweet. No way the Republicans could argue against that though before they were against it back when it was their idea before they were informed that a black guy liked the idea too so they had to be against it they decided to be against it. (My head hurts.)

And speaking of "Republicans", we gotta take a page from the good 'ol BOCM (Book of Christian Mythology as my pal Karen used to say), the Bible, and go for the old eye-for-an-eye. You see it seems that even members of the SCOTUS--I'm looking at you, Scalia--cannot even bring themselves/himself to call the donkey party by their proper name: A.S. (sure, add another S. to his initials) referred to them as the Democrat Party. That said, those of us in the Democrat Party will now be forced to call our less-loving counterparts the Republic Party. (They'll be HUGE in China!) But that whole -IC-less version of the Dems is common parlance for the Reps. (A lot like Rebs, huh? BIG in the slave states too, eh?)

And speaking of race, I suppose there is another bit of lingo that I've never heard myself that has made the rounds in the square circles for some time. Some even seem to think that Rick Santorum nearly uttered the phrase over the weekend, campaigning in his Wisconsin waterloo. I choose not to type the entire phrase at this time, but I'll give you what you need to figure it out: Take the word "government" then add after it a country in Africa, we'll pick Niger, and double it's centrally-located consonant. Really, Rick? Is it that close to the surface for you? (I listened to the blurb several times and have to admit that I assumed it was BS on "our" parts to jump on something so obviously impossible, but I'll be damned if that's not EXACTLY what it sounds like he's saying.) How utterly sad.

But back to Monday and mandates. I just got a call a short time ago from my youngest child, the math genius (really) fashionista that her pants were "inappropriate". I had to take a pair of jeans--I made sure they had holes at the knees--to replace her thin cotton, plaid pants which were perceived--magically on this sixth occasion of her wearing them--to be pajamas. I was pissed and I let that be known in a peaceful and modest, although passive-aggressive, fashion. (You'll pardon the pun, goddamn you!!) She was upset--first day back after Spring Break is tough enough without foolish judgments--and I told her to try not to hold it against the school which normally does a bang-up job. I let her know that they had disappointed me and that she'd done nothing wrong. I helped her with a little ritual "throwing away of the bad energy" and gave her lots of hugs. I had time to decide, as I waited for her in the lobby of the school, whether to suck it up or to show my feelings, and I decided that whether I liked it later or not, I would show how I felt in that moment...and I did...and I'm glad. I was a Mama today.

I hope Jesus had that kind of Mama in Mary when people gave him shit about his clothes, his words, and the sluts and druggies with which he chose to hang--literally and metaphorically. He was born to an unwed mom with no Baby Daddy to show for her bump: Do you think he'd ever be able to step foot into one of his own churches today? Hells no, he wouldn't. And I have a story about that to prove it. My dear friend (she knows who she is and she may well be reading this so I'll share this hoping it's with her blessing) is a single mother and back when her kiddo was a baby, her mom--Grandma--wanted to pay for the weekly flowers at the front of the church to honor his birth. The preacher declined, saying that would be inappropriate given the circumstances of the precious child's lineage. My friend's mom, to her unending credit, said she supposed Jesus Christ himself wouldn't be an appropriate person to honor with church flowers...and oh, aren't they all supposed to be for Him anyway?

Inappropriate: Pants, babies, Jesus' pals. What about robbing the poor, baiting the races, and hating the "different"? I don't know the dude personally, but I'm thinking the Son 'O God would land firmly in the 99%. I can see him clearly washing feet in Zuccotti Park, the modern-day throwback to Gethsemane where that last mandate/commandment came down. It was a simple one, too. LOVE ONE ANOTHER. Bleeding-heart-communist-longhaired-freak! King of kings, host of hosts, and Icon of Irony! Huzzah!

So my Maundy/mandate for you today is "Watch out, it's Monday!" And while it can't be Maundy Monday--'cuz it's really Maundy Thursday which is when Jesus had the garden picnic with his crew and gave 'em the LOVE ONE ANOTHER edict--it never hurts to be cautious...

unless you're taking up for your kids or showing others love.

Holy Week: Pine Straw Sunday

(CAVEAT: IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED, WHY ARE YOU READING MY CRAP ANYWAY?? IF NOT, READ ON MCDUFF!)

Those of you who've been following along with me since the beginning know: Easter and I do not get along. (If you haven't read last year's "The Easter Curse", scroll down to the Blog Archive and do so now. It's a prerequisite.) Easter and Mother's Day as a matter of fact. There's a very untidy history there making this my "troubled time of the year": A time of wearing garlic, rubbing rabbits' feet (still attached), and listening to Joan Armatrading's "I'm Lucky" non-stop.

While I'm not walking under ladders--nor palm branches for that matter--I'll tell you about my morning so far. On the first day of holy week my breakfast consisted of: Four small apples, three turkey bacon strips, two dry packs of oatmeal, and a glass of herbal iced tea. That might seem odd or extreme--I assure you, sadly it is neither--you should also know that someone (whom I will later persecute) left the light on in the hallway bathroom. Now this light shines down said hallway, looks at the closet then turns, with a smirk and a grin to fly golden rays of Wake-The-Fuck-Up under my bedroom door. This usually takes only a few hours. I was up at 2:45 a.m.

To my...let's say "delight", CSPAN was just set to re-air the Wisconsin Faith and Freedom Conference, giving me the opportunity to hear our old pals Newt Gingrich, Paul Ryan, Mitt Romney, Alberto Gonzalez, Ralph Reed, and Rick Santorum. (It's a wonder I could eat breakfast at all.) These little "peeps" brought out some internal vitriol which I assume fueled my hunger. To my credit, my inner editor also came out; not the one that says "yes everyone in this room IS an empath and they all have siblings in the media", rather the actual editor. In a past life (for money) and in a recurring role on my life's sitcom, I am a consummate editor. Well, not HERE nor on Twitter, but when I cannot let my guard down and be myself. You see I wanted to compare Newt to Hitler as he spoke out of both sides of his mouth, rallying the sold on his poison. And I wanted to tell him that Lech Walesa, whom he referred to as a friend with whom Raygun and Pope saved the world--"superfriends, really"--would have a thing or two to say about Governor Scott Walker's attack on unions. I wanted to tell Paul "Get My Widow's Peak" Ryan and Mitt Romney that President Obama is not dead set on taking away all that is precious about America. And when Romney related The Tales of People Along the Campaign Trail, I resisted the urge to paint our modern-day Chaucer as an anthropologist studying our quaint little tribe of the unwealthy.

I didn't tell Alberto (I can still hear W pronouncing it) that Hispanics don't need to be put at odds with other people of color for the price of a vote--look under the waving palms of Sanford, Florida for the real price of that one. (Here the editor told me not to wander into the crucible concerning men of color and unjustified homicides--cruci-facts and cruci-fictions.) And as for Ralph Reed, he wants us to actually believe that religious persecution is our national nightmare. Can you say "Jet Blue"? (Joan sez: "Drop the Pilot.") Pick your own low-hanging fruit here; it just isn't sport for me to shoot fishes in a Darwin...I mean, barrel. So spent was I from self-editing at this point that I drifted off during Santo's bit--I'll let you know what subliminal hell that will bring later. But when I came back to consciousness, CSPAN was teasing a documentary called "The Armed Campus" where essay winning-kids were reading their position papers on why they should be armed at school. Middle school, even. How cute. I remember Ralph Reed saying there was a lot "we" could do about judges, that "we" should demand that teachers teach "the truth". That sort of wove itself into Wayne LaPierre's confusing of the First and Second Amendments, at which point I decided my time and attention were better spent in the kitchen.

For those of you who profess/believe/practice religion without judging others/trying to convert others/forcing your beliefs on others...I'm happy for you. Move along on the path of loving your fellow creatures with my blessing. It's the "other kind of 'religious person'" I'm on about. The ones who are so fragile in their faith that they cannot coexist with those of other traditions or no tradition at all. No, Newt: No one is attempting to impose Sharia Law on America. (Except maybe the Republican Party when it comes to the rights of women.) And no, "Fox & Friends", even I wouldn't segue from April Fool's Day to Rome. (Oh, and their prank is attempting to spread the internet rumor that Oprah Winfrey, and possibly even Keith Olbermann, are going to join the show. Meanwhile I'm trying to start the rumor that anyone among the show's fan base even has the interwebs.) The fact that we're having the conversation is proof that religion is not now nor will it ever be marginalized in this country...no matter how many of us may wish it to step out of the political arena, at least.

But let me not leave you with the tail-end of a tired woman's rant, rather let me give you the signs of hope, the seeds of holy harmony as they have been visited upon me this fine day. Let's call these the Holy Week Miracles!

Miracle #1: Fully cooked turkey bacon, as imagined by the prophet Oscar Mayer, fits seven slices to a standard sheet of paper towels (for microwaving). There were 21 slices in the 12 ounce package, fitting perfectly on three sheets of doubled over paper towels. Oh, the power and the glory: Divine!

Miracle #2: The impromptu sauce of packaged sundried tomato-flavored powder plus the remnants of McCormick's "Mexican Fiesta" powder to which I added some olive oil and water exactly covered two salmon filets for baking. Heavenly hosts of hostesses with the mostesses!

Miracle #3: A silk palm tree (really) fell over in the living room and missed all four dogs. Potted Pious Pontius Pilate!

I readied myself for this week by raking pine straw for two days. I have another half of my yard to go, but I will get it done in time for, something. As I raked, I uncovered a large patch of wild strawberry plants and a Kansas quarter. I hope to be picking strawberries in a couple of months. But if you want to act on the Pine Straw Sunday signs before then, bet on the Jayhawks in the NCAA Men's Final.

After all, wouldn't "You Know Who" go with the underdog?