I have to admit, I never thought much of Martha Stewart until she went to jail. What could a WASPy baby boomer from the posh area of Connecticut have to offer besides a backhanded compliment about the lack of designer fabrics in my living room and the fact that the paint lines on my walls weren’t perfect? Martha was someone who existed outside of my world until she became the poster child for white collar crime.
When I picked up my first copy of Martha Stewart Living, I wanted to see how this spoiled, devious woman who obstructed justice made her fortune. I was curious to know what kind of uppity schwag she was hocking, and what scoundrel-like messages she was giving to women. I wanted to see, first hand, what made Martha evil.
Two hours later, after reading the magazine from cover to cover, I was ready to send her commissary money and cigarettes. Who knew there were so many uses for pinecones! If you had a question about the proper temperature for cooling pies, Martha could tell you. If you were curious about the real ingredients behind those fantastic Thai dishes, Martha had the inside scoop. If you had a barren wall, Martha had an inexpensive way to create a work of art using a glue gun, leaves from the yard, and shellac. There was nothing in the homemaking universe that Martha didn’t know.
In a way, you want to hate Martha, because everything she does seems to come out so damned perfect, but you can’t hate her, because she celebrates homemaking, and homemaking is something that our society has basically shit on for the past 40 years. When a woman ends up residing in a dwelling she has an urge to make it a comfortable place that people like to visit. She may not be the best cook, or even know she has a kitchen, and maybe her ability to keep up with the laundry and dishes is lacking, but every woman has the desire to make her living space a nice place to be. Martha recognized this, and built an empire on getting back to basics and celebrating the art of creating a livable home.
Of course she was rewarded with a stint in prison, which most women, including my conservative grandmother, will acknowledge is bullshit. Not that Grandma Alice would ever utter the word “bullshit” although she did seem like she was biting her tongue when she saw the verdict on CNN.
Martha made an illegal stock trade and lied about it, that was bad, and not in compliance with the law. However, what pissed most American women off is that we know that most of those male bastards on Wall Street do what Martha was convicted of on a daily basis and nothing happens to them. Martha was a powerful, successful woman who celebrated a woman’s ability to make a beautiful home, and that upset the status quo. If women were obsessed with creating lampshades out of leftover pieces of wallpaper, then they wouldn’t be stressing about their age or weight. If women were spending money on scrapbook materials, then they wouldn’t have any dollars left to fuel the plastic surgery industry. If women felt a renewed confidence that their lives and work had meaning, then they would have the inner power to look at their world and demand a better standard, which in turn presented a challenge to the second class citizen status quo that women have been relegated to in this country. The male power structure recognized this, so it was simple: Martha had to be hung out to dry.
Fortunately, her stay in Slammerland was short, and she was still able to dispense valuable advice from her jail cell, such as the easiest way to remove jam stains from white shirts without compromising the integrity of the fabric. Martha emerged from the big house more popular than ever and ready to continue her role as America’s favorite, white bread hostess.
I now subscribe to Martha Stewart Living, not because I actually do the projects in the magazine or seriously believe I will ever take the time to make all of my friends an attractive set of refrigerator magnets, I simply like the security of knowing it’s there. Having copies of Martha Stewart Living in the kitchen is like having that filled prescription of Plan B in your medicine chest; you might look at it once in awhile, and may never need to use it, but it’s nice knowing it’s sitting in the cabinet in case something goes wrong.
Martha is an icon, and years from now, when her biography appears on The Learning Channel, the whole felony/time in prison thing will be spun as a way she "renewed her faith in her homemaking mission." Martha may have lost five months of productive time, but she won the hearts of all of the “less than perfect” women out there who hated her for being, well, too perfect. We may never use spray adhesive and glitter to decorate seasonal melons for an attractive summer centerpiece, but we will respectfully acknowledge the process, and to Martha, that’s all that matters.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Sunday, June 25, 2006
To Ann or Not to Ann, That is the Question
“Why haven’t you written a commentary on Ann Coulter?” seems to be the question I’m getting lately, and it’s a doozy. I have plenty to say about that crazy bitch, but herein lies the issue that brings me a great deal of grief.
Ann Coulter will do and say anything to get press. Her latest bout of vocal diarrhea happened on the Today Show when she told Matt Lauer that “she’s never seen a group of women enjoy their husbands’ deaths so much”. She was referring to the ladies who lost their spouses in the Towers and planes on September 11th. Even repeating it, I still find it hard to believe anyone would say something that hateful about such a terrible situation, but it doesn’t surprise me that it was Ann.
Ann will do and say anything to sell her books. She is an attention whore at heart, and provides no real social commentary or solutions. Basically, Ann wants to say things that get you talking about her, which is why I was reluctant to comment. My mother gave me great advice once when I was dealing with an elementary school bully; she told me to ignore him, and he’d just go away. Mom was right, I ignored him, and once he saw that there was no way to get a rise out of me, he moved on to another grade-schooler to torture. My temptation is to do the same with Ann.
Her book titles are meant to insight anger and contempt, because in her world the population is divided up very black and white; you are either a liberal (which to her is the verbal equivalent of motherfucking asshole) or you are “on her side”. A liberal, as I understand it, is someone who is liberated in thought from mainstream thinking, a liberal doesn’t like to be given an ideological regimen to spew out verbatim just to be accepted by the greater populace. A liberal, essentially, is someone with a liberated mind. This is not Miss Ann.
Ann is a dittohead; a wonderful nickname given to the latest crop of spin doctors working on behalf of the neo-conservative regime that have taken over this country. She shares company with people such as Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Alan Colmes (who is not and never has been a liberal), and the rest of the entire Fox News family. I’ve never seen a dittohead add anything to an intelligent conversation, or talk about ideas for improving the democracy that this country is supposed to have in place. Ann and her cronies just repeat what they are told to repeat, and say it in the most inflammatory manner in order to sell their latest book and capture as many headlines as possible.
In the liberal and progressive circles, when someone very left-wing crazy comes along and makes outrageous statements, like that college professor who referred to the people who worked for the financial companies in the Twin Towers and died on 9/11 as “little Eichmanns”, we recognize them as whackos, and ignore them. Liberal and progressive thinkers are never given as much press as their right-wing counterparts, because their objective isn’t for inciting a highly publicized verbal talk show war, but to come up with ideas for improving the system.
Maybe Ann had more of a reason for berating the 9/11 widows than selling a few copies of her latest book, but if that’s the case, then her motives were definitely about defending the regime at all costs. A segment of the 9/11 widows were very active in making sure that there was a commission established to investigate what went wrong leading up to the attacks. They pushed for answers, and the Bush Regime doesn’t like people questioning them, so perhaps this is the reasoning behind Ann’s targeting of a group of women who get to spend the rest of their lives watching their children make accomplishments without their fathers present to congratulate them. If Ann’s attacks go beyond publicity, then they are mean-spirited at best, and at worst, defend the lack of action by the Bush Regime at the expense of real families and children who will never know their fathers. You don’t club baby seals, kick puppies, or tell widows that they enjoy their husbands’ deaths (unless the widow is Anna Nicole, of course).
It pisses me off to no end that I have to waste my time commenting on assholes like Ann Coulter, yet it took me less than ten minutes to write this up. Like Britney Spears, Ann is a fucked up media whore, which makes her an easy target for criticism. The world isn’t better, because she’s in it, but at least we can have the satisfaction of knowing that, again like Britney Spears, her time in the social arena will probably be short.
Henry Rollins recently wrote a fantastic "love letter" to Ann Coulter that is worth checking out. Thanks Natalia! http://worshiptheglitch.com/2006/06/henry-rollins-love-letter-to-ann.html
Ann Coulter will do and say anything to get press. Her latest bout of vocal diarrhea happened on the Today Show when she told Matt Lauer that “she’s never seen a group of women enjoy their husbands’ deaths so much”. She was referring to the ladies who lost their spouses in the Towers and planes on September 11th. Even repeating it, I still find it hard to believe anyone would say something that hateful about such a terrible situation, but it doesn’t surprise me that it was Ann.
Ann will do and say anything to sell her books. She is an attention whore at heart, and provides no real social commentary or solutions. Basically, Ann wants to say things that get you talking about her, which is why I was reluctant to comment. My mother gave me great advice once when I was dealing with an elementary school bully; she told me to ignore him, and he’d just go away. Mom was right, I ignored him, and once he saw that there was no way to get a rise out of me, he moved on to another grade-schooler to torture. My temptation is to do the same with Ann.
Her book titles are meant to insight anger and contempt, because in her world the population is divided up very black and white; you are either a liberal (which to her is the verbal equivalent of motherfucking asshole) or you are “on her side”. A liberal, as I understand it, is someone who is liberated in thought from mainstream thinking, a liberal doesn’t like to be given an ideological regimen to spew out verbatim just to be accepted by the greater populace. A liberal, essentially, is someone with a liberated mind. This is not Miss Ann.
Ann is a dittohead; a wonderful nickname given to the latest crop of spin doctors working on behalf of the neo-conservative regime that have taken over this country. She shares company with people such as Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Alan Colmes (who is not and never has been a liberal), and the rest of the entire Fox News family. I’ve never seen a dittohead add anything to an intelligent conversation, or talk about ideas for improving the democracy that this country is supposed to have in place. Ann and her cronies just repeat what they are told to repeat, and say it in the most inflammatory manner in order to sell their latest book and capture as many headlines as possible.
In the liberal and progressive circles, when someone very left-wing crazy comes along and makes outrageous statements, like that college professor who referred to the people who worked for the financial companies in the Twin Towers and died on 9/11 as “little Eichmanns”, we recognize them as whackos, and ignore them. Liberal and progressive thinkers are never given as much press as their right-wing counterparts, because their objective isn’t for inciting a highly publicized verbal talk show war, but to come up with ideas for improving the system.
Maybe Ann had more of a reason for berating the 9/11 widows than selling a few copies of her latest book, but if that’s the case, then her motives were definitely about defending the regime at all costs. A segment of the 9/11 widows were very active in making sure that there was a commission established to investigate what went wrong leading up to the attacks. They pushed for answers, and the Bush Regime doesn’t like people questioning them, so perhaps this is the reasoning behind Ann’s targeting of a group of women who get to spend the rest of their lives watching their children make accomplishments without their fathers present to congratulate them. If Ann’s attacks go beyond publicity, then they are mean-spirited at best, and at worst, defend the lack of action by the Bush Regime at the expense of real families and children who will never know their fathers. You don’t club baby seals, kick puppies, or tell widows that they enjoy their husbands’ deaths (unless the widow is Anna Nicole, of course).
It pisses me off to no end that I have to waste my time commenting on assholes like Ann Coulter, yet it took me less than ten minutes to write this up. Like Britney Spears, Ann is a fucked up media whore, which makes her an easy target for criticism. The world isn’t better, because she’s in it, but at least we can have the satisfaction of knowing that, again like Britney Spears, her time in the social arena will probably be short.
Henry Rollins recently wrote a fantastic "love letter" to Ann Coulter that is worth checking out. Thanks Natalia! http://worshiptheglitch.com/2006/06/henry-rollins-love-letter-to-ann.html
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Please Send a Picture
Two months ago I decided to enter the yearly literary contest conducted by the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. The appeal was less for glory and more for the critical evaluations they promised to give every work that was submitted. I’ve been trying to finish my first fiction novel for the past year and a half, but since it’s my first, I need to know if it’s readable or a boring piece of shit, so I entered it.
Just for kicks, at the last minute, I gathered a few of my blog writings together and entered those as well. The letter came a couple of weeks ago letting me know that I was a finalist in the Memoirs/Non-Fiction category for my blog writings. Not one peep about the book, so I suspect I have quite a long road of polishing ahead on that piece of shit.
Of course they give the award out at the big dinner that serves as the cornerstone event for their annual writers conference, which I’m not attending this year due to obligations at my pesky day job. No problem making the dinner; I will be able to get a babysitter, and my excited husband is delusional thinking I have a chance in hell at winning this. The glitch is that upon sending a short bio, the payment for the event tickets, and my basic information, they also want a picture of me.
I seem to flinch whenever someone wants my picture, and I’m not really sure why. I’ve always been very okay with the look of my face. The only time I hated it was when I was going through puberty at 13, and my face looked like the landscape of Zit Valley. I hated everything at 13, so the distain over my profile shouldn’t really count.
I have one of those faces that tends to give everything away. If I feel angry, sad, happy, or worried, you can see it on my face right away. Some have complimented me on how expressive my face is, but having an informative face can have its negatives. For example, if I gain just a few pounds, it shows in my face first, or if I really hate someone, yet have to seem interested in something they say, my fake sincerity never works.
Aside from a decent face, I’ve been blessed with good hair despite the number of times over the course of my life that I’ve tried to fuck it up with frizzy perms, acidic dyes, and curling iron burn (man, the ‘80s sucked). Since I’m generally pleased with my overall appearance from the neck up, I guess the hesitation I’m having over sending a photo all has to do with perception.
When you say “punk” people automatically get images of Mohawks, tattoos, piercings, 18-eyelet Doc Martins, and some sneering, male delinquent. Why not, it’s the image that Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood worked so hard to create and market to disgruntled British youth in the late ‘70s/early ‘80s. I’ve always maintained that “punk” has nothing to do with fashion whatsoever; it’s about individuality, questioning everything, and living your truth as a free thinker. Anybody can dress up in a costume and call themselves a “punk.” Blink 182 and Good Charlotte have been doing it for years.
I’ve been a punk since the middle of my junior year of high school, but I’ve never looked the pop culturally accepted part. Well, maybe for a little while during the whole Riotgrrl movement, but for the most part I wear what I like to refer to as, my “normal person disguise.” If you were standing beside me in the grocery store checkout line watching me look at the cover of the tabloids, you’d never know that I was wishing a future of painful obscurity on those airbrushed motherfuckers that pollute the covers. I look like your average, friendly, approachable mom, which is how I avoid being arrested at political protests. “Nope, Officer Suckass, she can’t possibly be part of this mess. She probably got lost on her way to Nordstrom.”
My hair is a normal shade of dark brown, because I vowed not to screw with the color ever again after the lousy Cruella DeVille number that the Woodinville salon did on my mane. I don’t have tattoos, not because I don’t think they are beautiful and cool, I’m Jewish and there are religious restrictions about marking your body, plus the last time a bunch of Jews got tattooed, it wasn’t a good thing. My ears are pierced, and I didn’t like the feeling of the whole puncturing skin thing, so other piercings never crossed my mind. I dress plainly on the weekends, and business casual on the weekdays, so the only punk thing about me is my attitude.
The good news is that attitude is everything, so I submitted a picture taken by my husband. Maybe the people attending the event will be disappointed when it flashes on the PowerPoint next to the photos of the other writers in the Non-Fiction Book/Memoir category. Who cares, I am who I am and if they are disappointed, then they shouldn’t have been stupid enough to stereotype us punks in the first place.
Just for kicks, at the last minute, I gathered a few of my blog writings together and entered those as well. The letter came a couple of weeks ago letting me know that I was a finalist in the Memoirs/Non-Fiction category for my blog writings. Not one peep about the book, so I suspect I have quite a long road of polishing ahead on that piece of shit.
Of course they give the award out at the big dinner that serves as the cornerstone event for their annual writers conference, which I’m not attending this year due to obligations at my pesky day job. No problem making the dinner; I will be able to get a babysitter, and my excited husband is delusional thinking I have a chance in hell at winning this. The glitch is that upon sending a short bio, the payment for the event tickets, and my basic information, they also want a picture of me.
I seem to flinch whenever someone wants my picture, and I’m not really sure why. I’ve always been very okay with the look of my face. The only time I hated it was when I was going through puberty at 13, and my face looked like the landscape of Zit Valley. I hated everything at 13, so the distain over my profile shouldn’t really count.
I have one of those faces that tends to give everything away. If I feel angry, sad, happy, or worried, you can see it on my face right away. Some have complimented me on how expressive my face is, but having an informative face can have its negatives. For example, if I gain just a few pounds, it shows in my face first, or if I really hate someone, yet have to seem interested in something they say, my fake sincerity never works.
Aside from a decent face, I’ve been blessed with good hair despite the number of times over the course of my life that I’ve tried to fuck it up with frizzy perms, acidic dyes, and curling iron burn (man, the ‘80s sucked). Since I’m generally pleased with my overall appearance from the neck up, I guess the hesitation I’m having over sending a photo all has to do with perception.
When you say “punk” people automatically get images of Mohawks, tattoos, piercings, 18-eyelet Doc Martins, and some sneering, male delinquent. Why not, it’s the image that Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood worked so hard to create and market to disgruntled British youth in the late ‘70s/early ‘80s. I’ve always maintained that “punk” has nothing to do with fashion whatsoever; it’s about individuality, questioning everything, and living your truth as a free thinker. Anybody can dress up in a costume and call themselves a “punk.” Blink 182 and Good Charlotte have been doing it for years.
I’ve been a punk since the middle of my junior year of high school, but I’ve never looked the pop culturally accepted part. Well, maybe for a little while during the whole Riotgrrl movement, but for the most part I wear what I like to refer to as, my “normal person disguise.” If you were standing beside me in the grocery store checkout line watching me look at the cover of the tabloids, you’d never know that I was wishing a future of painful obscurity on those airbrushed motherfuckers that pollute the covers. I look like your average, friendly, approachable mom, which is how I avoid being arrested at political protests. “Nope, Officer Suckass, she can’t possibly be part of this mess. She probably got lost on her way to Nordstrom.”
My hair is a normal shade of dark brown, because I vowed not to screw with the color ever again after the lousy Cruella DeVille number that the Woodinville salon did on my mane. I don’t have tattoos, not because I don’t think they are beautiful and cool, I’m Jewish and there are religious restrictions about marking your body, plus the last time a bunch of Jews got tattooed, it wasn’t a good thing. My ears are pierced, and I didn’t like the feeling of the whole puncturing skin thing, so other piercings never crossed my mind. I dress plainly on the weekends, and business casual on the weekdays, so the only punk thing about me is my attitude.
The good news is that attitude is everything, so I submitted a picture taken by my husband. Maybe the people attending the event will be disappointed when it flashes on the PowerPoint next to the photos of the other writers in the Non-Fiction Book/Memoir category. Who cares, I am who I am and if they are disappointed, then they shouldn’t have been stupid enough to stereotype us punks in the first place.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Not In My Neighborhood
On the last day of my vacation, I got three emails from a member of the neighborhood homeowners’ association informing me that the King County Council had given a developer the thumbs up to build a strip mall next to the elementary school about three blocks down the street. I guess the enormous strip mall located seven blocks down the street didn’t provide enough hairstyling services, shitty restaurants, and mediocre trinket shops, so the KC Council felt it was necessary to grace us with another.
I’m not against a suburb mom fulfilling her dream and opening up a craft boutique, nor would I speak out against a coffee shop that would provide an alternative to Starbuck’s, what I don’t like is the fact that those greedy fucks on the KC Council want a retail/commercial facility next to a school. Let’s see; busy shopper with car + impulsive first graders = young parents mourning over their child’s headstone. Lest you think I’m one morbid bitch, let me tell you that I’ve seen it happen too many times before, and it’s never a good idea to put a heavily trafficked establishment next to an elementary school. Someone with a basic set of brains should know this, and unfortunately that means that local politicians just like their national counterparts, don’t have a basic set of brains!
My neighborhood was established in 1997, and around that time, there were only two other neighborhoods in the area. In the past three years, one small neighborhood and one monster, huge neighborhood has gone in, and we all use the same two-lane road. Along with the elementary school, we have a private, Christian, elementary school, and a junior high school that also use that same puny-assed, two-lane road. To make matters worse, as if they could get worse, the school district cancelled bus service in my neighborhood, so on a cold, rainy day the traffic for the first four blocks of my commute borders me on homicidal.
The addition of a strip mall would make traffic more of a hell than it is now, which pisses me off because it means that I have become one of those single-issue voter assholes. Courtney Love could run for office in King County and as long as she had a good plan for relieving traffic congestion in my neighborhood, I’d actually vote for her. This makes me absolutely hate myself! However, I have no desire to waste anymore of my precious life sitting in my car fumbling for a halfway decent song on the radio while contemplating the excuse I’m going use to pitch the idea of takeout to a hungry (and irritated) husband and toddler.
Last year, the big talk in this area was that we were going to be incorporated into our own city, which would have had a minor impact on taxes and given us better control over our social services. Since we are usually ignored, most neighborhoods up here have had to hire additional police services to patrol. All of the other issues such as ambulance service, fire fighters, waste collection are all private contract, so there really wouldn’t be any burden in that regard. All we would have had to do was pony up funds for a City Hall, but then my suspicion is that someone got smart and did some math.
I pay over $5,000 per year in property taxes, and I’m one of about 187 houses in this neighborhood. My neighborhood, alone, generates a pretty nice sum of tax cash, and the houses that fill the monster neighborhood down the street are worth more than the ones in my neighborhood. Someone got wise and figured out that by losing our five neighborhoods they were kissing a heaping shitload of money ‘good-bye’. However, we are still being shortchanged when it comes to our needs as a community.
The latest word is that we may still be the City of Fairwood, but no one is sure when the official vote will be or if it will really even happen. All I know is that I’m sick of sitting in traffic, and we already have three crappy Chinese food places here, we don’t need another one. We’ve got the nail salon, two movie rental stores (like anyone does that anymore), three grocery stores, three pizza places, a Mexican restaurant, and the lawyer who claims he can get you out of a DUI. As much as I would like a restaurant where the food actually tastes good, I can’t even imagine what life would be like with another shopping area.
It’s sad when quality of life boils down to money and traffic. In order for my life to be better (i.e. less traffic), I’m going to have to get involved and remind the decision makers that those of us who pay the money have the right to tell them what decisions to make.
I’m not against a suburb mom fulfilling her dream and opening up a craft boutique, nor would I speak out against a coffee shop that would provide an alternative to Starbuck’s, what I don’t like is the fact that those greedy fucks on the KC Council want a retail/commercial facility next to a school. Let’s see; busy shopper with car + impulsive first graders = young parents mourning over their child’s headstone. Lest you think I’m one morbid bitch, let me tell you that I’ve seen it happen too many times before, and it’s never a good idea to put a heavily trafficked establishment next to an elementary school. Someone with a basic set of brains should know this, and unfortunately that means that local politicians just like their national counterparts, don’t have a basic set of brains!
My neighborhood was established in 1997, and around that time, there were only two other neighborhoods in the area. In the past three years, one small neighborhood and one monster, huge neighborhood has gone in, and we all use the same two-lane road. Along with the elementary school, we have a private, Christian, elementary school, and a junior high school that also use that same puny-assed, two-lane road. To make matters worse, as if they could get worse, the school district cancelled bus service in my neighborhood, so on a cold, rainy day the traffic for the first four blocks of my commute borders me on homicidal.
The addition of a strip mall would make traffic more of a hell than it is now, which pisses me off because it means that I have become one of those single-issue voter assholes. Courtney Love could run for office in King County and as long as she had a good plan for relieving traffic congestion in my neighborhood, I’d actually vote for her. This makes me absolutely hate myself! However, I have no desire to waste anymore of my precious life sitting in my car fumbling for a halfway decent song on the radio while contemplating the excuse I’m going use to pitch the idea of takeout to a hungry (and irritated) husband and toddler.
Last year, the big talk in this area was that we were going to be incorporated into our own city, which would have had a minor impact on taxes and given us better control over our social services. Since we are usually ignored, most neighborhoods up here have had to hire additional police services to patrol. All of the other issues such as ambulance service, fire fighters, waste collection are all private contract, so there really wouldn’t be any burden in that regard. All we would have had to do was pony up funds for a City Hall, but then my suspicion is that someone got smart and did some math.
I pay over $5,000 per year in property taxes, and I’m one of about 187 houses in this neighborhood. My neighborhood, alone, generates a pretty nice sum of tax cash, and the houses that fill the monster neighborhood down the street are worth more than the ones in my neighborhood. Someone got wise and figured out that by losing our five neighborhoods they were kissing a heaping shitload of money ‘good-bye’. However, we are still being shortchanged when it comes to our needs as a community.
The latest word is that we may still be the City of Fairwood, but no one is sure when the official vote will be or if it will really even happen. All I know is that I’m sick of sitting in traffic, and we already have three crappy Chinese food places here, we don’t need another one. We’ve got the nail salon, two movie rental stores (like anyone does that anymore), three grocery stores, three pizza places, a Mexican restaurant, and the lawyer who claims he can get you out of a DUI. As much as I would like a restaurant where the food actually tastes good, I can’t even imagine what life would be like with another shopping area.
It’s sad when quality of life boils down to money and traffic. In order for my life to be better (i.e. less traffic), I’m going to have to get involved and remind the decision makers that those of us who pay the money have the right to tell them what decisions to make.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
King of the World & Queen of Despair
I spent three glorious days in San Diego recapturing the romance with my significant other avoiding the news and time restrictions, but bliss can't last forever. Re-entry into reality is always harsh, particularly on the Thursday night after my return from the quaint, costal city. I flipped on the news and in the same five minute block managed to see two people that I particularly loathed; Karl Rove and Britney Spears.
Karl Rove is the King of the World these days beating the rap after ratting out a CIA agent. From time to time, I have wondered what it would be like to be untouchable, to be able to do anything like kill and get away with it or ruin the lives of others and have no repercussions whatsoever. How much of your soul do you have to sacrifice to be a god on Earth? I guess Karl could tell you first hand, since he is one of the new American aristocracy. Can you see me spitting venom yet?
This bastard is single-handedly responsible for most of the bad shit that has taken place in this country these past six years, yet for what basically amounts to treason, he gets off slicker than shit. He gave up Valerie Plame-Wilson, because her husband wouldn't go along with his WMDs in Iraq lie, and what happens to Karl...NOTHING!
At the very least, this is a matter of national security. I wonder how many people have died already, because of Karl's grade school revenge tactic. How many missions were compromised? How many people will have to walk around for the rest of their lives wondering if a bullet from out of nowhere is going to end it all? The worst part is that Karl was and is able to do anything he wants, and nobody is going after him.
Valerie, if you happen to read this, please consider filing the mother of all civil lawsuits against this guy. The only thing Karl and the other members of the American aristocracy could hate more than not having complete power is poverty, or having to live on an average American income. Go for it, Val! Sue the fuck out of him, then go for another big suit against Cheney.
On the other end of the spectrum is the Queen of Despair, Britney Spears. Everyone seems to be going after her, as she told Matt Lauer during the tear-filled interview. Not to be a complete asshole, Ms. Britney did have some legitimate complaints like the stalker photographers trying to pounce on her while she's holding her kid, and everyone calling into question her mothering skills like none of us have ever had an oops while holding baby. However, the one glaring thing that has always pissed me off about Spears is that she continues to play this "I'm such an innocent, sweet, country girl" shtick.
First off, Tootsie, do you really want the photographers to go away? You pretty much hit your expiration date around the time that shit movie of yours came out. When bubblegum pop tarts make movies, that's like pulling the trigger on a loaded gun to the head, lest we forget Vanilla Ice's big screen debut. When Matt asked Ms. Britney about what kind of music she was going to do now, she said she didn't know. Of course she doesn't. This chick can't hold a candle of creativity to Madonna, she doesn't have a tenth of the vocal range of Mariah Carey, and she only wishes she had the dance finesse of Janet Jackson. Basically, she is completely up the creek without a paddle.
Britney's audience is all grown up, graduating from college and working their first, real world jobs. They are not going to pay $75 per ticket to watch her lip sync a concert, so bubblegum pop music is not an option, and the girl doesn't have much talent beyond that. Basically, Britney's option is to invest well, make as many guest appearances as possible, write a "tell all" book about how shitty stardom was, and if she is a bit savvy, become a goodwill ambassador to some foreign, cheeky country like Lichtenstein.
I don't want to hear her bitching or crying anymore about getting questioned harshly by the ER doctors when she took her kid in after he fell from a high chair. She said the doctor was very unreasonable, and that famous people weren't always treated fairly in certain situations. However, what she wanted was preferential treatment, particularly in this case. The problem was that the ER doctor didn't worship her starlet status, and questioned her the same way the doc would have questioned any other parent who walked in with a potentially concussed infant. The doc sent DSHS out for a visit to her home, which was probably routine as well, but Ms. Spears couldn't get over the audacity. Sucks being treated like a normal person, eh?
Britney yammered on about how she loved being a mom and that it was all 100% rosy and wonderful, which means that in addition to not having talent, she is also a lying bitch. Then again, when you don't have to change your own kid's 5-alarm diapers or attend playgroups with extreme sleep deprivation, I guess motherhood could be all glorious. She talked about how she was a housewife at heart, and loved to do the cooking, cleaning and laundry. Perhaps when you only have to deal with it occasionally, it can be an amusing novelty, and of course, in classic Britney Spears style with her tits hanging out of her shirt the entire interview, she told a fairly whipped, Mr. Lauer, that the reason people take pot shots at her is because she is a sweet, Southern girl who has a good heart and just wants to love everyone. Can you see me vomiting yet?
Between Karl and Britney, I needed another vacation from reality. I also need to spend a lot of time reading Jewish philosophy to figure out how come those fucks, who appear to be a waste of skin, are on top of the world, while good folks who cement their lives in a reality void of extreme ego, are left at the sidelines. However, I take solace in knowing that it will only be a matter of time before Karl and Britney are insignificant. She will age and max out her guest appearances, maybe have a slight resurgence after the Playboy pictorial, he will get sidelined after someone more politically slimy comes along, and then the magical day will come when he will be relegated to a pre-commercial trivia question on MSNBC, and she will be featured on VH-1's Where Are They Now. Can you see me smiling yet?
Karl Rove is the King of the World these days beating the rap after ratting out a CIA agent. From time to time, I have wondered what it would be like to be untouchable, to be able to do anything like kill and get away with it or ruin the lives of others and have no repercussions whatsoever. How much of your soul do you have to sacrifice to be a god on Earth? I guess Karl could tell you first hand, since he is one of the new American aristocracy. Can you see me spitting venom yet?
This bastard is single-handedly responsible for most of the bad shit that has taken place in this country these past six years, yet for what basically amounts to treason, he gets off slicker than shit. He gave up Valerie Plame-Wilson, because her husband wouldn't go along with his WMDs in Iraq lie, and what happens to Karl...NOTHING!
At the very least, this is a matter of national security. I wonder how many people have died already, because of Karl's grade school revenge tactic. How many missions were compromised? How many people will have to walk around for the rest of their lives wondering if a bullet from out of nowhere is going to end it all? The worst part is that Karl was and is able to do anything he wants, and nobody is going after him.
Valerie, if you happen to read this, please consider filing the mother of all civil lawsuits against this guy. The only thing Karl and the other members of the American aristocracy could hate more than not having complete power is poverty, or having to live on an average American income. Go for it, Val! Sue the fuck out of him, then go for another big suit against Cheney.
On the other end of the spectrum is the Queen of Despair, Britney Spears. Everyone seems to be going after her, as she told Matt Lauer during the tear-filled interview. Not to be a complete asshole, Ms. Britney did have some legitimate complaints like the stalker photographers trying to pounce on her while she's holding her kid, and everyone calling into question her mothering skills like none of us have ever had an oops while holding baby. However, the one glaring thing that has always pissed me off about Spears is that she continues to play this "I'm such an innocent, sweet, country girl" shtick.
First off, Tootsie, do you really want the photographers to go away? You pretty much hit your expiration date around the time that shit movie of yours came out. When bubblegum pop tarts make movies, that's like pulling the trigger on a loaded gun to the head, lest we forget Vanilla Ice's big screen debut. When Matt asked Ms. Britney about what kind of music she was going to do now, she said she didn't know. Of course she doesn't. This chick can't hold a candle of creativity to Madonna, she doesn't have a tenth of the vocal range of Mariah Carey, and she only wishes she had the dance finesse of Janet Jackson. Basically, she is completely up the creek without a paddle.
Britney's audience is all grown up, graduating from college and working their first, real world jobs. They are not going to pay $75 per ticket to watch her lip sync a concert, so bubblegum pop music is not an option, and the girl doesn't have much talent beyond that. Basically, Britney's option is to invest well, make as many guest appearances as possible, write a "tell all" book about how shitty stardom was, and if she is a bit savvy, become a goodwill ambassador to some foreign, cheeky country like Lichtenstein.
I don't want to hear her bitching or crying anymore about getting questioned harshly by the ER doctors when she took her kid in after he fell from a high chair. She said the doctor was very unreasonable, and that famous people weren't always treated fairly in certain situations. However, what she wanted was preferential treatment, particularly in this case. The problem was that the ER doctor didn't worship her starlet status, and questioned her the same way the doc would have questioned any other parent who walked in with a potentially concussed infant. The doc sent DSHS out for a visit to her home, which was probably routine as well, but Ms. Spears couldn't get over the audacity. Sucks being treated like a normal person, eh?
Britney yammered on about how she loved being a mom and that it was all 100% rosy and wonderful, which means that in addition to not having talent, she is also a lying bitch. Then again, when you don't have to change your own kid's 5-alarm diapers or attend playgroups with extreme sleep deprivation, I guess motherhood could be all glorious. She talked about how she was a housewife at heart, and loved to do the cooking, cleaning and laundry. Perhaps when you only have to deal with it occasionally, it can be an amusing novelty, and of course, in classic Britney Spears style with her tits hanging out of her shirt the entire interview, she told a fairly whipped, Mr. Lauer, that the reason people take pot shots at her is because she is a sweet, Southern girl who has a good heart and just wants to love everyone. Can you see me vomiting yet?
Between Karl and Britney, I needed another vacation from reality. I also need to spend a lot of time reading Jewish philosophy to figure out how come those fucks, who appear to be a waste of skin, are on top of the world, while good folks who cement their lives in a reality void of extreme ego, are left at the sidelines. However, I take solace in knowing that it will only be a matter of time before Karl and Britney are insignificant. She will age and max out her guest appearances, maybe have a slight resurgence after the Playboy pictorial, he will get sidelined after someone more politically slimy comes along, and then the magical day will come when he will be relegated to a pre-commercial trivia question on MSNBC, and she will be featured on VH-1's Where Are They Now. Can you see me smiling yet?
Monday, June 12, 2006
The Happiest Place on Earth
Disneyland; the place where you can see Cinderella’s castle up close and personal, the place where you can reach out and give Mickey Mouse a hug, the place where you can pay $6.59 for a single hot dog (not including beverage), oh what a magical place it is.
I spent the entire day in “The Happiest Place on Earth” and found myself leaving the park a mere 12 hours later exhausted, sunburned, and less chipper than when I walked through the crowded doors to start my mousey journey. The trouble begins not before you hit the entrance, but two weeks prior when the hype over going to “The Happiest Place on Earth” kicks into overdrive.
You’re going to fucking Disneyland! Forget your troubles, responsibilities, and the grown up world you are forced to exist in, you’re going to a place that eternally exists to celebrate cartoons, toys, candy, and everything else a manufactured childhood is made of. You’re going to fucking Disneyland where everyone is going to be happy, and you’ll be able to take your kids on fun ride and share the common joyful experience of nearly throwing up in unison.
We began pumping Rachael up for the Disneyland experience about a week prior to arriving in California. The funny thing is that she doesn’t really watch anything Disney, but has picked up recognition of Mickey Mouse, most likely from a classmate in daycare. She echoed our excitement, but her two and a half year old brain had no clue what it was in for. Jeff was jumping out of his skin at the thought of finally walking into Mouseland with his offspring; a yearning he’s had since she was a fetus.
We arrived at 10:00 AM just in time to see a dozen school busses off-loading junior high and high school kids for their end-of-the-year field trips. I knew the day might be a little more complicated when various family members, who happened to be season pass holders, all remarked that it was busier than they had ever seen it. After an hour of standing in the sun, we had managed to send Rachael galloping on the carousel horses and flying through the air on the Dumbo ride. That’s right, a single, two-minute ride, a half hour wait. Now it was time to face the most dreaded ride of all…Small World.
When the military wants to put their soldiers through a mental endurance challenge to see how well they’ll hold up under extreme torture, they needlessly spend millions of dollars on state-of-the-art equipment, when all they have to do is keep sending their young recruits through the Small World ride and clock how many times the troops can make it through before they run screaming with ears bleeding from the park. The only thing that rivals Small World in annoyance is Tiki Room. Maybe it’s just me, perhaps I have an unusually bitter distain for animatronics, or an extreme hatred of peppy show tunes, but I can’t be the only one.
After spending seven hours mainly standing in various lines waiting in the blaring sun at “The Happiest Place on Earth”, I found myself feeling rather unhappy. I wanted to pack it up, but unfortunately, I was with a group of native Southern Californians, who couldn’t understand why I wasn’t enjoying the multiple hours on my feet and the 80 degree temperature. They had all forgotten that I was a Seattle girl, and seven hours of direct sunlight in one day was more sunlight exposure than I usually get in one year in the great Northwest. I was hot, tired, and my skin had turned from its usual pale olive tone to a deep, lobster red.
After the sun set, Rachael and I spun around Main Street for one last stroll before the big fireworks finale that ended the picture perfect day at “The Happiest Place on Earth.” We had nearly cleared all the shops when my munchkin spotted the balloon salespeople. I walked over grabbing a $5 bill from my wallet, but at “The Happiest Place on Earth” happiness doesn’t come cheap, and I walked away paying more for that balloon than I did for the hot dog previously mentioned.
Thankfully, I managed to leave spending less than $100, because my tickets were free, and any merchandise I saw that I really wanted could be purchased at one of the many knock-off stores in the Asian market back home. I will say one thing about the marketing that is 100 percent true; I will never forget the memories of today; all 12 long hours spent at “The Happiest Place on Earth.”
I spent the entire day in “The Happiest Place on Earth” and found myself leaving the park a mere 12 hours later exhausted, sunburned, and less chipper than when I walked through the crowded doors to start my mousey journey. The trouble begins not before you hit the entrance, but two weeks prior when the hype over going to “The Happiest Place on Earth” kicks into overdrive.
You’re going to fucking Disneyland! Forget your troubles, responsibilities, and the grown up world you are forced to exist in, you’re going to a place that eternally exists to celebrate cartoons, toys, candy, and everything else a manufactured childhood is made of. You’re going to fucking Disneyland where everyone is going to be happy, and you’ll be able to take your kids on fun ride and share the common joyful experience of nearly throwing up in unison.
We began pumping Rachael up for the Disneyland experience about a week prior to arriving in California. The funny thing is that she doesn’t really watch anything Disney, but has picked up recognition of Mickey Mouse, most likely from a classmate in daycare. She echoed our excitement, but her two and a half year old brain had no clue what it was in for. Jeff was jumping out of his skin at the thought of finally walking into Mouseland with his offspring; a yearning he’s had since she was a fetus.
We arrived at 10:00 AM just in time to see a dozen school busses off-loading junior high and high school kids for their end-of-the-year field trips. I knew the day might be a little more complicated when various family members, who happened to be season pass holders, all remarked that it was busier than they had ever seen it. After an hour of standing in the sun, we had managed to send Rachael galloping on the carousel horses and flying through the air on the Dumbo ride. That’s right, a single, two-minute ride, a half hour wait. Now it was time to face the most dreaded ride of all…Small World.
When the military wants to put their soldiers through a mental endurance challenge to see how well they’ll hold up under extreme torture, they needlessly spend millions of dollars on state-of-the-art equipment, when all they have to do is keep sending their young recruits through the Small World ride and clock how many times the troops can make it through before they run screaming with ears bleeding from the park. The only thing that rivals Small World in annoyance is Tiki Room. Maybe it’s just me, perhaps I have an unusually bitter distain for animatronics, or an extreme hatred of peppy show tunes, but I can’t be the only one.
After spending seven hours mainly standing in various lines waiting in the blaring sun at “The Happiest Place on Earth”, I found myself feeling rather unhappy. I wanted to pack it up, but unfortunately, I was with a group of native Southern Californians, who couldn’t understand why I wasn’t enjoying the multiple hours on my feet and the 80 degree temperature. They had all forgotten that I was a Seattle girl, and seven hours of direct sunlight in one day was more sunlight exposure than I usually get in one year in the great Northwest. I was hot, tired, and my skin had turned from its usual pale olive tone to a deep, lobster red.
After the sun set, Rachael and I spun around Main Street for one last stroll before the big fireworks finale that ended the picture perfect day at “The Happiest Place on Earth.” We had nearly cleared all the shops when my munchkin spotted the balloon salespeople. I walked over grabbing a $5 bill from my wallet, but at “The Happiest Place on Earth” happiness doesn’t come cheap, and I walked away paying more for that balloon than I did for the hot dog previously mentioned.
Thankfully, I managed to leave spending less than $100, because my tickets were free, and any merchandise I saw that I really wanted could be purchased at one of the many knock-off stores in the Asian market back home. I will say one thing about the marketing that is 100 percent true; I will never forget the memories of today; all 12 long hours spent at “The Happiest Place on Earth.”
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Not The Gay Thing Again!
I don’t mind that my government has been hijacked; it was taken away decades ago by robber barons who were only interested in profit despite the great amount of human suffering it took to make the money. Our democracy is a joke anyways. This past election, we had two candidates who were both members of the uber-Upper Crust society, Skull & Bones, and would have probably hung out in college together drinking expensive, single malt scotch or snorting cocaine had they known each other. My main bitch now is that my government has been hijacked by neo-conservatives, and they are really fucking annoying!
A couple of months ago when this whole immigration issue was heating up to be the neo-con Hail Mary, I remember telling Jeff that it would be funny if this whole thing failed miserably and the GOP had to pull the gay marriage issue out of their ass (excuse the pun, but I couldn’t resist) in order to have a chance in hell of keeping themselves alive in November.
After watching the news these past few days, I feel like I should put a crystal ball in the center of the kitchen table and hang the gypsy fortuneteller sign outside my front door. Can you fucking believe these idiots are attempting to bring up gay marriage again to try and con votes in November!
Thankfully, our bigot-ridden Senate decided to defeat the measure to prevent the issue of gay people getting married from becoming a Constitutional amendment, and kicked the whole moral right to discriminate back to the individual states. Now the usual offenders: Idaho, Utah, Texas, most of the South, part of the Northeast, the bulk of the Midwest, and possibly the Southwest (if there are gays there) will probably pass some sort of law banning boys and girls from kissing boys and girls.
My opinion about gay marriage is this; anyone who wants to spend the rest of their lives picking up someone else’s dirty socks and yelling at that someone else to ‘put the dishes in the dishwasher instead of slamming them in the sink’, then go for it. The neo-con argument about banning gay marriage because it’s an attack on “traditional marriage” is a load of steamy horse shit. We have something around a 51 percent divorce rate in this country, so all us regular heterosexuals have done a fantastic job of fucking up marriage on our own. I’ve known enough gay couples in my life to know that the majority tend to be monogamous, so letting them get married, and adding them into the percentage may make our numbers look better. It worked for Regan when unemployment was really high, and instead of adding new jobs, he counted the military as employed, and then told everyone that unemployment was on the downspin and his administration was doing a stellar job. Regan really knew how to mindfuck.
Marriage shouldn’t be defined as one man and one woman, but one person who has decided to spend the rest of their days committed to another person. Today, I’m celebrating my four-year wedding anniversary. I met my husband 5 ½ years ago through a Jewish dating website, because I was living in Idaho at the time and it was impossible to find a single, Jewish guy above the age of 13 and under the age of 45. When he stepped off the plane for our first face-to-face meeting, I thought he was cute. After we were dating, I was smitten. We lived together for awhile, bought a house, and then got married.
A gay couple could tell the same story, only their marriage wouldn’t be legally recognized, because a group of neo-cons in Washington D.C. want to use the issue of “gay marriage” to overshadow more important things like the fact that they have used the federal budget like a college student on a drunken Spring Break vacation uses their parents’ credit card. Soldiers are still being killed and gravely injured in Iraq and our healthcare system sucks, but hey, those lesbians want to register for gifts at Pottery Barn, so we may need to alter the Constitution in order to “protect” the close-minded.
I’m glad I live in Washington State. It may not be the best place, and there are definitely problems here, but I have faith that my Blue State will see the light, let two people who care about each other go down the aisle, and spend the next however many years yelling, “No! I don’t know where you put your keys!” at each other in marital bliss.
A couple of months ago when this whole immigration issue was heating up to be the neo-con Hail Mary, I remember telling Jeff that it would be funny if this whole thing failed miserably and the GOP had to pull the gay marriage issue out of their ass (excuse the pun, but I couldn’t resist) in order to have a chance in hell of keeping themselves alive in November.
After watching the news these past few days, I feel like I should put a crystal ball in the center of the kitchen table and hang the gypsy fortuneteller sign outside my front door. Can you fucking believe these idiots are attempting to bring up gay marriage again to try and con votes in November!
Thankfully, our bigot-ridden Senate decided to defeat the measure to prevent the issue of gay people getting married from becoming a Constitutional amendment, and kicked the whole moral right to discriminate back to the individual states. Now the usual offenders: Idaho, Utah, Texas, most of the South, part of the Northeast, the bulk of the Midwest, and possibly the Southwest (if there are gays there) will probably pass some sort of law banning boys and girls from kissing boys and girls.
My opinion about gay marriage is this; anyone who wants to spend the rest of their lives picking up someone else’s dirty socks and yelling at that someone else to ‘put the dishes in the dishwasher instead of slamming them in the sink’, then go for it. The neo-con argument about banning gay marriage because it’s an attack on “traditional marriage” is a load of steamy horse shit. We have something around a 51 percent divorce rate in this country, so all us regular heterosexuals have done a fantastic job of fucking up marriage on our own. I’ve known enough gay couples in my life to know that the majority tend to be monogamous, so letting them get married, and adding them into the percentage may make our numbers look better. It worked for Regan when unemployment was really high, and instead of adding new jobs, he counted the military as employed, and then told everyone that unemployment was on the downspin and his administration was doing a stellar job. Regan really knew how to mindfuck.
Marriage shouldn’t be defined as one man and one woman, but one person who has decided to spend the rest of their days committed to another person. Today, I’m celebrating my four-year wedding anniversary. I met my husband 5 ½ years ago through a Jewish dating website, because I was living in Idaho at the time and it was impossible to find a single, Jewish guy above the age of 13 and under the age of 45. When he stepped off the plane for our first face-to-face meeting, I thought he was cute. After we were dating, I was smitten. We lived together for awhile, bought a house, and then got married.
A gay couple could tell the same story, only their marriage wouldn’t be legally recognized, because a group of neo-cons in Washington D.C. want to use the issue of “gay marriage” to overshadow more important things like the fact that they have used the federal budget like a college student on a drunken Spring Break vacation uses their parents’ credit card. Soldiers are still being killed and gravely injured in Iraq and our healthcare system sucks, but hey, those lesbians want to register for gifts at Pottery Barn, so we may need to alter the Constitution in order to “protect” the close-minded.
I’m glad I live in Washington State. It may not be the best place, and there are definitely problems here, but I have faith that my Blue State will see the light, let two people who care about each other go down the aisle, and spend the next however many years yelling, “No! I don’t know where you put your keys!” at each other in marital bliss.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Happy Evil Day!
I didn't realize this was supposed to be the most evil day of the year until I turned my radio on this morning while driving to work. For a while when the misogynist morning crew on the cock rock station was blathering on and on about this being Evil Day, I was puzzled. The weather was gorgeous and sunny, traffic was manageable, and the Jet City seemed to be doing well at the moment. Then, I got it. It is June 6 of 2006 or 666.
Since I'm not a Christian, and observe a much older calendar, this date really doesn't affect me. However, in my efforts to be supportive of other religions, people, and cultures, I will take part in the celebrating of Evil Day.
Tonight, whatever I eat for dinner, I'll make sure to cook it over an open flame. If there's one thing I've learned about the mythical place called Hell, it's that there is a lot of fire going on down there. Charbroiling my family's evening meal over a pit is quite appropriate, as is adding my favorite spicy sauce to whatever I choose to eat, since the bottle does boast that the sauce in question is "hot as Hell."
During my workout, I will choose the correct Evil Day music to sweat to. Sorry Rancid, The Stooges, and any of my other punk ear candy, tonight it's all about the metal. I'll begin with a tapestry of Iron Maiden, add a touch of Slayer, and end it with at least a half hour of straight up Danzig. One thing I love about the whole evil movement is the kick ass music it seems to inspire.
Finally, I'll finish the holiday by doing the most evil thing I can possibly imagine...I'll watch the entire entertainment news special about the birth of Brad and Angelina's love child. They sold their baby's first pictures to tabloids for charity, and now Entertainment Tonight, E! News Live, or some other worthless form of shit media wants to take mindless celebrity worshippers from the start of the affair on the set of Mr. & Mrs. Smith to the cutting of the umbilical chord in a tiny African village. Come to think about it, maybe it would be less painful to sacrifice a goat or some other small farm animal.
To all my pagan, devil worshipping, and lost soul friends, Happy Evil Day!
By the way, if the world is supposed to end tonight, should I wait until tomorrow to mail off my Visa payment?
Since I'm not a Christian, and observe a much older calendar, this date really doesn't affect me. However, in my efforts to be supportive of other religions, people, and cultures, I will take part in the celebrating of Evil Day.
Tonight, whatever I eat for dinner, I'll make sure to cook it over an open flame. If there's one thing I've learned about the mythical place called Hell, it's that there is a lot of fire going on down there. Charbroiling my family's evening meal over a pit is quite appropriate, as is adding my favorite spicy sauce to whatever I choose to eat, since the bottle does boast that the sauce in question is "hot as Hell."
During my workout, I will choose the correct Evil Day music to sweat to. Sorry Rancid, The Stooges, and any of my other punk ear candy, tonight it's all about the metal. I'll begin with a tapestry of Iron Maiden, add a touch of Slayer, and end it with at least a half hour of straight up Danzig. One thing I love about the whole evil movement is the kick ass music it seems to inspire.
Finally, I'll finish the holiday by doing the most evil thing I can possibly imagine...I'll watch the entire entertainment news special about the birth of Brad and Angelina's love child. They sold their baby's first pictures to tabloids for charity, and now Entertainment Tonight, E! News Live, or some other worthless form of shit media wants to take mindless celebrity worshippers from the start of the affair on the set of Mr. & Mrs. Smith to the cutting of the umbilical chord in a tiny African village. Come to think about it, maybe it would be less painful to sacrifice a goat or some other small farm animal.
To all my pagan, devil worshipping, and lost soul friends, Happy Evil Day!
By the way, if the world is supposed to end tonight, should I wait until tomorrow to mail off my Visa payment?
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Do as I Say, Because the Law is on My Side
Recently, the Washington State Board of Pharmacy ruled that pharmacists who practice in the Evergreen State can refuse to fill a woman's prescription for Plan B (the morning after pill) if it doesn't jive with their religious beliefs.
Some people see this as a bad thing, but in my effort to turn that frown upside down, I will don my glittery wings, play the Happiness Fairy, and point out all of the good that can come from projecting your own views, no matter how myopic, onto others. Just think of all the changes we could see in this state if we uphold the standards set by the Board of Pharmacy for other types of jobs.
“Not so quick, Fat Ass!” you can scream from behind the counter of your fast food establishment employer. The 400 lb. guy wearing the ‘No Fat Chicks’ t-shirt may want to clog his arteries and blow his cholesterol to the moon with your greasy fare, but you don’t want to violate the Ten Commandments by letting him Double Whopper with Cheese himself to death, so using the standards set by the Board of Pharmacy, you can refuse to sell the double bacon cheeseburger with extra mayo to anyone over 250 lbs.
With a divorce rate nearing 50% in the U.S., you can be on the front lines while working the front desk. Your posh or sleazy hotel, depending on how south of Seattle you happen to work, welcomes people of all backgrounds, but for any couples who want to enjoy the thinness of your walls and the schmutziness of your ugly print bedspread, they will need to produce a marriage license for your approval. If some fuck around tom and his slut du jour think they are going to get in a one-nighter, then as a minimum wage worker who upholds the church's ban on adultery, you will have the opportunity to put a kibosh on their evening of ecstasy. Sure, they may be two people who have been together for years, traveled for miles and just want to sleep, but they are beholden to your rules if you apply the reasoning of the Board of Pharmacy.
You’re not just that chick working at Macy’s anymore! You are now in a position to tell women what they can and can't wear. Since you are a steward of the modesty standards imposed on women by more radical religious factions, then despite your employment status as part-timer in the Juniors department, you have the ability to deny the sale of a slightly low-cut blouse to a busy lady shopping in the spare few minutes of her lunch break. We can't have Washington women dressing like whores, and with the Board of Pharmacy's blessing, more righteous and judgmental women can show their slutty sisters the light.
See how ridiculous it is when you apply the same standards in similar situations! In a country that boasts the separation of church and state, no woman should ever have to be sent packing to G-d knows how many pharmacies to fill a prescription for medication given to her after consulting with an educated medical doctor.
I also find it ironic that a Board of Pharmacy would object to access to Plan B, yet was fine with letting shit drugs like Vioxx and Celebrex kill people off in droves. They have also been leery of pulling Viagra off the market despite increasing evidence that it causes heart problems and, in extreme cases, blindness. Women can’t rescue themselves from a potential unwanted pregnancy, but old guys can still get their dicks hard, and the members of the Board of Pharmacy can look at themselves in the mirror every morning?
Why is this issue of letting women make their own choices in life of any concern to a so-called "Christian" pharmacist when the bigger issue they should be getting behind is more affordable prescription pricing for the elderly. When my grandmother is worried about getting arrested for purchasing her prescriptions from Canada in order to make her retirement pension stretch, yet some bible-banger can get legal right to discriminate then something is really fucked up with the system. I moved to Washington State from Idaho, because I wanted to reside in an area where the majority of the population were progressive thinkers. This action is extremely disappointing, and makes me wonder if we are losing our wonderful Blue State status. Regime change anyone?
Some people see this as a bad thing, but in my effort to turn that frown upside down, I will don my glittery wings, play the Happiness Fairy, and point out all of the good that can come from projecting your own views, no matter how myopic, onto others. Just think of all the changes we could see in this state if we uphold the standards set by the Board of Pharmacy for other types of jobs.
“Not so quick, Fat Ass!” you can scream from behind the counter of your fast food establishment employer. The 400 lb. guy wearing the ‘No Fat Chicks’ t-shirt may want to clog his arteries and blow his cholesterol to the moon with your greasy fare, but you don’t want to violate the Ten Commandments by letting him Double Whopper with Cheese himself to death, so using the standards set by the Board of Pharmacy, you can refuse to sell the double bacon cheeseburger with extra mayo to anyone over 250 lbs.
With a divorce rate nearing 50% in the U.S., you can be on the front lines while working the front desk. Your posh or sleazy hotel, depending on how south of Seattle you happen to work, welcomes people of all backgrounds, but for any couples who want to enjoy the thinness of your walls and the schmutziness of your ugly print bedspread, they will need to produce a marriage license for your approval. If some fuck around tom and his slut du jour think they are going to get in a one-nighter, then as a minimum wage worker who upholds the church's ban on adultery, you will have the opportunity to put a kibosh on their evening of ecstasy. Sure, they may be two people who have been together for years, traveled for miles and just want to sleep, but they are beholden to your rules if you apply the reasoning of the Board of Pharmacy.
You’re not just that chick working at Macy’s anymore! You are now in a position to tell women what they can and can't wear. Since you are a steward of the modesty standards imposed on women by more radical religious factions, then despite your employment status as part-timer in the Juniors department, you have the ability to deny the sale of a slightly low-cut blouse to a busy lady shopping in the spare few minutes of her lunch break. We can't have Washington women dressing like whores, and with the Board of Pharmacy's blessing, more righteous and judgmental women can show their slutty sisters the light.
See how ridiculous it is when you apply the same standards in similar situations! In a country that boasts the separation of church and state, no woman should ever have to be sent packing to G-d knows how many pharmacies to fill a prescription for medication given to her after consulting with an educated medical doctor.
I also find it ironic that a Board of Pharmacy would object to access to Plan B, yet was fine with letting shit drugs like Vioxx and Celebrex kill people off in droves. They have also been leery of pulling Viagra off the market despite increasing evidence that it causes heart problems and, in extreme cases, blindness. Women can’t rescue themselves from a potential unwanted pregnancy, but old guys can still get their dicks hard, and the members of the Board of Pharmacy can look at themselves in the mirror every morning?
Why is this issue of letting women make their own choices in life of any concern to a so-called "Christian" pharmacist when the bigger issue they should be getting behind is more affordable prescription pricing for the elderly. When my grandmother is worried about getting arrested for purchasing her prescriptions from Canada in order to make her retirement pension stretch, yet some bible-banger can get legal right to discriminate then something is really fucked up with the system. I moved to Washington State from Idaho, because I wanted to reside in an area where the majority of the population were progressive thinkers. This action is extremely disappointing, and makes me wonder if we are losing our wonderful Blue State status. Regime change anyone?
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