Friday, May 31, 2002

Series Tied at 3-3

I hate the Lakers. They cheat and the refs give them freebies.
Tonight Kobe Bryant planted an elbow in the middle of Mike Bibby's nose.
Mike got the foul and Kobe got the free throws.
Screw the Lakers. Screw the refs. Screw Kobe. And screw Shreck O'Neal.
Big Score on a Date Long Ago

Several years ago I was involved with a classical musician, a percussionist from Western Massachusetts. I'd never visited New England before, but one autumn I was there with her and she took me with her to a symphony rehearsal.
I've always loved classical music, but I always wondered why the conductor was such a big shot, since all he did was wave a baton in front of professional musicians who already knew what to do.
So, there we went for the rehearsal, on a snowy night to an ancient church hall in Northwestern Massachusetts. My beloved hummed for me the score on the way, so I'd know what to expect.
I got to sit behind the five percussionists, facing a conductor for the first time.
The piece they were rehearing was, "Appalachian Spring," by Aaron Copland, who was famous for "Rodeo," the song the beef industry lifted for their "Beef: It's what's for dinner" TV campaign.
The conductor led them through the first movement, and it frankly sucked. It sounded like junior high kids playing, all wobbly and screechy.
I was worried that my beloved was part of an orchestra that stunk, and it took a lot of the romantic appeal from her. I was eyeing her suspiciously.
The conductor tinkered with the violin section, told the cellos to do something else and made a few comments to the percussionists, particularly the mousy little female timpani player.
They tried again, and it sounded amazingly better. The conductor tinkered a bit more, telling the musicians to add this and subtract that. He told the drummers to hit one part harder, and another much softer.
By the fourth try, they sounded fantastic. They were tight and brilliant. I got chills.
So that's what a conductor does, I thought.
I am not a musician. I don't read music, I can't play music.
But that night I was able to peer into that private world and see what it takes to make seemingly random notes on a score come to life.
And that night I rode home with a great musician whom I found could play everything that can be hit with a mallet, a stick or even a fly swatter (The fly swatter part was actually written into the score).
She didn't understand my increased ardor for her that night. To her it was just another gig rehearsal. To me it was like experiencing magic.
Now she's working full time as a psych nurse. She toys with music only on occasion.
We've both moved on to other loves, but I'll always remember that one cool date.

Thursday, May 30, 2002

Back From the Hospital

Seeing a strapping young man all trussed up and hooked to a ventilator, dialysis machine, with a blood transfusion pumping and about five IVs poked into him is quite sobering.
Turns out Robert had dual heart valve surgery, not a bypass, but I was right about the liver and kidney conditions.
He's in critical condition, in the transplant unit's ICU with 24 hour nursing, but he's not dead yet and he's even gotten slightly better since his surgery on Monday. He may pull out of it. Hard to say. He looked like hell, but who wouldn't in his shoes?
Mexican families are incredible in emergencies. His wife, mother, two sisters, a niece and an aunt were there. They maintain a vigil from morning 'till late at night. They had coolers, insulated bags, baked goods, sodas and all sorts of junk food snacks on hand.
I tried to make them laugh by doing astrological reports on all of them and their kids, then I started telling stories about Robert's and my adventures over the last 20 years.
Turns out macho man watches "Passions" so he can see that creepy little doll/kid Timmy doing evil things to people. Ha.
After everyone was tired from laughing and swapping stories, I got the hell out of there.
I found a cheap silver watch in the parking lot and turned it into the butchest old parking lot attendant I've ever seen. I bet she'd have kept it if it was a man's watch.
Handwashing after a visit to the ICU becomes ritualistic in its intensity. I shucked off all the clothes I wore and washed my hands up to elbows with anti bacterial soap, followed by some germ killing gel. I hate hospitals, but I bet Robert hates them more.
Damn it, Robert.

I first met Robert 20 years ago when he was 13, mowing my Mom's lawn. I lived down the street and had him start doing my lawn, too.
He was a smart kid but lacked confidence, I suppose because he was dirt poor, wasn't a particularly handsome kid and didn't do very well in school.
As the years went by, Robert met Sylvia and together they had three sons. They never married, but they have been together 16 years. Their firstborn Paul is now 13.
Robert dropped out of high school at 16, but he spent his idle time wisely, learning about plumbing and electrical work by helping out old pros on their rounds.
Turns out Robert was like McGyver, he could fix anything with a screwdriver, a bit of sandpaper or wire and maybe some duct tape.
Robert's only huge flaw was he was entirely unreliable with regard to time. He came when he wanted, sometimes he didn't want to, and calling to cancel was beyond the scope of his reality. Keeping an ordinary job was never something Robert could wrap his mind around.
But he was a loving, patient father and faithful husband, so Sylvia supported him all these years.
I'd been waiting a month for him to come by and do some yard work, patch a hole in my roof and do a few other chores around my house. I knew he'd be here eventually.
So, last week he called me, saying he was in the hospital with back pain.
I was busy with Zed and didn't get back to him right away.
His Mom called me last week, and in her own gibberish Tex Mex way, told me Robert was going in for open heart surgery. I thought she must be confused, but I asked her to call me and let me know what had happened. She didn't.
Last night his wife Sylvia called me to say he'd had a double bypass, has advanced cirrhosis of the liver and is in end-stage renal failure.
Seems Robert had heroin, cocaine and alcohol problems he'd hidden from me for the last five years. Basically he's destroyed his heart, liver and kidneys by hanging out with his homies and getting loaded. All I'd ever seen him do was drink a beer or two after he'd finished working at my house.
Now he's on a ventilator doctors say he'd die without. I am heading to the hospital to see him today, probably for the last time.
I feel horrible, knowing I am about to lose a friend who hid his horrendous addictions from me. Say a little prayer for him, will you?

Wednesday, May 29, 2002

Glory Be, the Funk's Still On Me!

I am thrilled that funk music is making a comeback.
I just love Bootsy Collins, George Clinton, Parliament and the rest of those big Afro wearing funkmasters.
When I am doing a particularly snakebit assignment I know I underbid, I put on "Car Wash" and just bear down and get it done.
When I was trying to find just the right song to serenade Zed with, one that perfectly described her considerable physical attributes, "Brick House" was the only song that fit.
Funk is the ultimate dance music, great sex music, wonderful household chore music and my favorite, the absolute opposite of country music.

Some classic funkadelic songs include:

Flashlight-by Parliament
Shining Star-by Earth, Wind and Fire
Jungle Boogie-by Kool and the Gang
Lady Marmalade-by Labelle
Kung Fu Fighting-by Carl Douglas
Mr. Big Stuff-by Jean Knight
Tell Me Something Good-by Chaka Khan
Shaft-by Isaac Hayes
Fire-by the Ohio Players
Word Up-by Cameo
Super Freak-by Rick James
Put Your Body in it-by Stephanie Mills

Don't tell me funk isn't good. I'll kick your no-funk ass.
Mmmm A New Blogsite

I just added Echoes in a Shallow Bay, Dasha's very lovely blogsite to my ring.
It's like a cool breeze wafting over crisp linen. Check it out.


After a recent firestorm about gender and lesbian separatism, I have decided to join my lesbian systyrs and start an all wymyn ISP called WOL.

Wymyn Online.

No e-mail can be sent or received from males. No sites can be viewed unless they are done by and for wymyn.
E-mail will now be called Shemail. Yahoo will now be called Yonihoo. E-Bay will now be called She-Bay. Amazon is a good name but it's run by a man so out it goes.
Blogs will be called Bra-logs.

Some features of WOL will be:
The Wymyn's Health Cyrcle with Dr. Kerry Weaver
The Cramps Corner for pre-crones
The Menstrual Hut
Clitty City Chat Rooms
Cooking with Lentils
Sensible Shoe Review
Gynosaur's Science Chat
The Vagina Dialogues
The Wymynopause Forum for crones
Xena and Gabrielle's Corner
All about Ellen

In order to join, please step up to your scanners and scan your nude wymyn breasts and send jpgs of them to me, along with a check for $14, since we wymyn get paid less for more wyrk.

In systyrhood and solidaryty,

Tuesday, May 28, 2002

Silent Lambs?

20/20 ran a segment tonight on child sexual abuse in the Jehovah's Witness church.
Seems the JW's have their share of adult men who screw and fondle kids, and it seems they often throw out the victim (and her family) and keep the perp.
I went to a JW discussion board online and they call children who've been molested "silent lambs." There seem to be hundred and hundreds of them.
I was expecting the JW boards to be condemning 20/20, but they didn't seem to be doing that at all.
My neighbors are JW's, and though their church counsels them to consider non-JW's Satan's flock who are hellbound, they are pretty nice to me. They even helped me paint my house last year.
So now we know that some of those bike riding, Watchtower distributors and door to door Jesus peddlers are looking for a little side action.
I guess just looking at Michael Jackson's nasty old daddy should have told us that much.
All right, all right, already.

I added Hoopty Loops to my bloglist today.
First of all, I expect reciprocity because like Tracy said, he's popular and I need the hits.
Second of all, it's better to keep the insane ones near you so if they flip out they don't have a lot of room to kick or punch.
Third of all, he's another man so that makes three now on my bloglist, making me an official open-minded dyke and exempt from PC police investigations.
Jeeze, I can smell the testosterone. It smells kinda like beef grilling over a wood fire, mixed with a little river bilge and some warm beer spilled on a soiled T-shirt.
The one thing I like better about men is, when you have them over for a home cooked dinner, you don't have to wonder if they'll want sex afterwards. Only trouble is they aren't women, so it's a moot point.
Anyway, welcome Hoopty, now link me up to your world o' chicks.
The Chandra Levy Case

CNN is feasting on the remains of Chandra Levy today, covering her memorial service in Modesto and interviewing DC detectives and other assorted meat puppets in a tapestry of news mixed with sorrow, sensationalism and speculation.
There's a Salvadorian creep called Ingmar Guandique in a DC jail right now, serving a 10 year sentence for assaulting two women in same the park where Levy's remains were discovered.
Had it not been for the scummy, disgraced former Congressman Gary Condit's connection to Levy, we'd have never heard of her disappearance or the discovery of her remains.
Did Condit have a connection to her death by ridding his life of an inconvenient woman,
or did the Salvadorian guy do it?
My guess is the Salvadorian guy killed a woman who happened to have connections in high places, and he'll get life in prison after being convicted.
Watch, then Condit will slither out of disgrace and run again for his seat in Congress, saying his connection to the unfortunate victim was the reason justice was served.
Regardless of the outcome, I feel sorry for the Levy family and hope someone ends up paying dearly for her death. Then I hope the story dies out and lets the Levy family return to some semblance of closure and normalcy.
No Boyz Alowed

Jesus Christ!
Tracy's dykewrite blogweb ring (or whatever you call it) had a mini firestorm recently over admitting Hoopty the straight man as a member.
Okay, it wasn't a firestorm per se, all I saw was one post from one separatist dyke who thought we "silly women" were being sucked in by a straight dude.
I am a mainstream businesswoman/dyke with ties to the gay professional community.
I have attended ritzy mixers where gay women-haters refused to even speak to the lesbians in attendance.
It is positively retro to see some of these old queens acting like our vaginas were going to snatch them up and suffocate them.
I have a few dyke acquaintances who can't tolerate males (straight or gay) unless they absolutely have to deal with them in business situations. Their fear and loathing is uncomfortable to be around.
I was raised by queens.
My high school pals were drama and art boys, and they taught me rudimentary girl things like applying make-up, which wine went with what, how to cook, how to draw, what colors looked best on me, and all that faggoty stuff. It has served me well in business, when I have to play the mainstream game.
Gender haters need psychiatric help. Hating half the population because of gender is just plain nuts.
Anyway, I am pleased to announce my second male bloglink, Spacemonk, hosted by Mike Zellers. He's very bright and funny. Check his blog out.

Monday, May 27, 2002

What's Better?

I have that kind of headache that fits like a tight ring of hot scouring pad, spanning my forehead to my temples to the back of my head. It's a crying/not eating/pouting kind of headache.
I feel like I am trapped in a bad country western song, you know the kind: my baby done left and I don't know if she's hankerin' to come back.
Any situation one finds herself in that requires the use of the word hankerin' is a bad situation indeed.
I sprayed her neck and wrists with my cologne before she left–a sort of primitive, doglike thing to do I suppose, but hey, it was by Cartier so it's not like I am a total geek.
I meant to douse one of my T-shirts in cologne and stash it in her luggage, but it was packed so full I couldn't pull it off. And I forgot to write something on the napkin inside the little lunch I packed for her. Damn it.
Another bad thing is that last kiss. It's never quite right in retrospect. Too short, too long, too wet, not wet enough, whatever.
Shari over at venti mocha latte no soy skim low foam whatever was talking about good depression music. Fuck music. I am too depressed to listen to music.
I think I am in one of those same shirt for three days wearing, isolating, chocolate eating funks that just about nothing will cure except for a phone call saying ooops I left too soon and can I come back for three months.
My only salvation has been visiting whatsbetter?.com where I get to choose which of two random items, people, etc. are better. I chose Sally Struthers over communism and was in the minority. I chose Toronto over Euro-Political graffiti and was in the majority.
It's mindless, but then so am I today.

Zeddy Haiku

Well, you had to expect this...

Five foot seven inch
Hair silver, prematurely
Whoa, what a body!

Hey, let's get tacos!
Morning, noon and night we ate
Tacos of all ilk

She said she didn't
Drink much beer for a Canuck
She lied like a dog

James my young kitten
Loved Zed, but she said of him:
Cute but not THAT cute

Like me, James seemed to
Gravitate toward Zed's bosom
He's no fool, that James

Please: all women hear
Ice skating makes for such firm,
Shapely derrieres!

Now what do I do?
Zed's gone and left me with ten
Gallons of salsa

Damn you, Canada
You have claimed her for your own
Salsa-less bastards!
She's Gone.

I took Zed to the airport an hour ago.
She was everything I'd hoped she'd be and we had a sensational time together.
But it ended complicated.
It may be over, it may be just beginning, it may be that we were meant to meet and have a wonderful honeymoon, then part as friends. I just don't know.
Hard to say what two soft hearts and two strong minds will do, given some time to reflect. All I know is it hurt like hell to see her go.
I got to see my city through wonderfully different eyes.
She was amazed by palm trees, of all things. We visited the botanical gardens and they have a glassed in arboretum, specializing in palm species. She was in a daze amidst all those exotic palms and most of her trip pics are her with some kind of palm tree in the picture. Go figure. I never even noticed them before.
She also picked up on cheese. Seems this is a heavy cheese town and they put some kind of cheese on every possible dish. She liked the white Mexican cheeses and learned to cook some simple Tex-Mex things with them. I think she'll be haunted by the flavors of my city. She's queer for spicy things.
She's very fucking Canadian. When the weather climbed to 80º, she began to come undone like an orchid left inside a closed car. All the locals were remarking on the beautiful weather and she was fearing a heatstroke. August in Texas would kill her.
Last night we watched the 9/11 special on HBO. I was so happy to be with her watching it so she'd see again what those miserable bastards did to us. It hit her like a ton of bricks because it was like she finally understood it wasn't an attack on America per se, it was an attack on the free world.
We had so many interesting conversations, so many beers and so many incredible, peeing in our pants laughs.
But Canada is safe to her and I am not leaving Texas. And that's where we left it.

Sunday, May 26, 2002


Turns out Zed loves hot, spicy Tex Mex food and is now requesting return trips to her favorite restaurants.
After eight days of being here, she leaves tomorrow and I am sure it'll be hard getting back to life without her.
Today we are going out for breakfast tacos, then I am driving her out to East Bumfuck to a Mexican flea market.
It rained like hell last night and the skies are clear blue, so it should be hot and humid today. She already has a deep tan, so it'll only get better today.
Man, she's fine.

Monday, May 20, 2002


She's here, she's great, we are having a whole lot of fun...
Gotta go now!
P.S. ice skater butt mmmmm

Friday, May 17, 2002

Holy Toledo!

In 18 hours I am going to be standing in the airport, cotton-mouthed and feeling totally at the mercy of the fates.
There she'll be, stepping into the gate area, Zed, in all her Canadian glory.
We haven't even discussed whether we'll kiss, or hug or what when we meet.
I read on some dyke list about this couple who met online and got deeply involved from a distance. At the airport, the big butch who was waiting for her love to arrive stood ready with red roses (wed woses- how womantic), then got down on bended knee and proffered an engagement ring.
Now, that may be fine for some, but like a mullet haircut, it's just not my style to propose to someone I just laid eyes on moments earlier. It's a bit too Darva Conger are-you-out-of-your-fucking-codependent-mind creepy to me.
Besides, that sort of thing should be done privately, or at least in an out-of-the-way spot and not amidst travelers, eager to get to Omaha or someplace. And it helps if you've actually met the person in 3D.
Anyway, I may not be there tomorrow to greet Zed with wed woses and a rock, but I will have a heart filled with joy and great hopes that we connect as nicely as we have from afar. Make that 17.5 hours to go.

Survivor: The Plot Thickens

Well, last week we had the alliances between old Paschal and young neleH and between Vecepia and Sean, leaving fifth wheel Kathy's 47-year-old butt hanging out for the kicking.
But this week Kathy got immunity and managed to swing her vote to Sean, getting his yakky ass booted off the show. Hey, at least he won a car last night, some sort of red Saturn SUV with a lot of high tech shit on it.
Sean blew it when he denied an alliance with Vecepia. He said just because they were both African Americans didn't mean they automatically stuck together. Horseshit. How many times did we watch them bzz bzz buzzing off to one side, and him mentioning their color as some kind of factor?
Race was more important to him than it was to anyone else on the show, so for him to deny his partiality for Vee was insulting to anyone with half a brain.
Sean's gonna be cool when he's around 40, but he needs to lose that victim mentality and play to his strengths.
So that leaves Paschal, Vecepia, Helen ooops I mean neleH, and Kathy as the final four.
I think Kathy and Vee will gang up and get rid of Paschal, then neleH, leaving Vee and Kathy as the two finalists.
And I think the jury will hand it to Kathy because Vecepia is too aligned with Sean and people resented his duplicity at the end.
I think I heard the season finale was this Sunday. That means I may actually get to watch it with Zed! She's not a Survivor watcher, but I traded her my watching the season finale of X Files with her, and I think we have a deal.

Thursday, May 16, 2002

Two Days and Counting

I am nearer to my goals and just about ready to welcome Zed to Texas.
Tonight I will have time for Survivor and will crash early so I can be perky for my morning meeting tomorrow.
Then it's time for a little last minute grocery shopping, some serious vacuuming, and I am done.
Well, there are hors d'oeuvres to consider for her noonish arrival, but hey, they are no big thing.
I have taught my cats to bow like little gentlemen and say, "Accueillez à San Antonio, soyez agréable maintenant à la prise notre mère pour enfoncer."
That roughly translates to, "Welcome to San Antonio, now please take our mother to bed."
I thought the French was a nice touch, since Zed thinks Texans are a bunch of mangy, low class roughnecks.
Boy, is she in for a surprise.
First off, my trailer's vinyl siding got a real good scrubbing. So it looks like new. Then I put a throw over the car seat on the front porch so the holes wouldn't show.
I got some Mason jars so the beer can be decanted properly, and the deer sausage is seasoned real mild, so she can get used to it faster.
I got some sheets and put them on the mattress and you can't even tell I got them at the Goodwill. I used bleach on the chocolate stains (or whatever that was).
I shook out and dusted the silk floral displays real good, outside, so the mites would fall out.
I also got me some dandruff/lice shampoo and also some salve for whatever this rash is on my arms and legs.
I bought me a pretty new duster from the Dollar Store so I'd have something nice to lounge around the house in. It's white with pink roses. I got some rose scented candles at the dollar store too, so we'd match.
For hors d'oeuvres I got some of those deluxe Ritz crackers and some fancy white cheddar aerosol cheese food. I am also serving celery stuffed with peanut butter, catfish nuggets, a gorgeous Jell-O mold a la fruit cocktail and some sliced up Hot Pockets. And of course Hershey kisses, so she gets the hint.
I couldn't decide on champagne or beer, so I got some pink Champale.
I also hand lettered a cute little sign: "If this trailer's a rockin' don't come a knockin."
I know this may sound like heaven, but sorry gals, I am taken. ;)

Wednesday, May 15, 2002

New Product Review!

I have chronic Achilles tendonitis in both ankles. I have no idea what triggers it but it makes me walk with great pain sometimes and it certainly breeds sedimentarianism, which is a leading cause of acute but wide-butt syndrome.
I have acupuncture when the pain gets ridiculous, but my sister (the doctor of Oriental medicine) recently gave me a new product that shouldn't work because it's so weird, but it does.
It's called P.R.E.M., or Pain Relief Electro-Membrane and it's a soft, cottony membrane you just tape to a sore muscle or sprain or strain or arthritic spot and somehow the pain just goes away immediately. It's got some electromagnetic thing in it you can't see, smell or feel, and I can't explain, so you'll have to trust me on this.
Zed has back troubles at times, so I ordered 10 of them just in case. They cost $25 for 10, and shipping can be slow, medium or fast, depending on how impatient you are.
You can't use them if you are pregnant, have cancer, on open wounds or if you wear a pacemaker.
They are made by Helio Medical Supplies, Inc. out of Santa Clara, CA and they can be reached at 1-800-672-2726. Ask for Janet from Another Planet. Tell her Karen from Texas sent you.
Three Days to Go

I found out you can hang curtains without rods by stuffing the fabric between the window sill and tacking it to the wood, so that was a good thing.
I also got new tires today. You never know what the foreign visitor will notice.
I had to waste an hour browsing in Sears while waiting for the tires to be installed.
Egads, if someone gave me a $100 Sears gift certificate, I'd be hard pressed to spend it.
I already have all their tools and don't need paint. And I am not buying anything from the Barbara Bush women's wear or the Tuffskin jewelry departments.
Sears used to have popcorn and sell cashews and candy behind a really cool counter. Now it's like an old fart's department store. Smells like rubber hose and dust in there.
I am just about ready for her arrival. Still too tired to be nervous, but I'll make up for it at the airport.

Tuesday, May 14, 2002

Four Days till She Gets Here

I have four days to heal the lawncare blisters on my hands, treat the mosquito bites and unidentified outdoor rashy things, rake up the hedge trimmings on my lawn, Miracle Grow the plants, detail my car, wash the birdshit off my driveway, wash seven more loads of clothes, mop and wax the kitchen floor, clean the bathroom grout, bleach the kitchen counters, groom the kitties, clean their horrid room, dust, vacuum, bug bomb (this is Texas, after all), then turn to myself and pluck, tweeze, exfoliate, shave, pumice, lather, rinse, repeat, peel, moisturize...and iron a few pairs of pants.
Not only that, I have a business meeting on Friday morning way across town, and those guys will expect me to pay attention!
Zed is nervous, and she asks if I am nervous. Right now I am too tired to be nervous.
I'll be nervous at the airport when I see her cute little Canuck face for the first time.
I wish someone would invent an instrument that you could aim at people and get a true picture of if and how much they like you on first sight.
I'd want settings for business and pleasure, and then a special button to discern sexual attraction. May as well throw in a bullshit detector too, but that could be a small, flashing yellow light on the side of it.
I suppose I could ask her to take a polygraph test when she gets here, but somehow that lacks a certain savoir faire.
When Al Gore invented the Internet, he sure as hell didn't plan for this type of scenario.

Monday, May 13, 2002


I am too busy to do much blogging lately.
In five days Zed will be here and I am going crazy getting ready.
Looks like my NBA obsession will soon end for another season. My Spurs handed themselves over to the the Lakers this weekend like a bunch of wimps.

Saturday, May 11, 2002

A Tribute to NBA Basketball, from Zed

Three basketball fans were on their way to a game in San Antonio when
one noticed a foot sticking out of the bushes by the side of the road.
They stopped and discovered a nude female, drunk and passed out.

Out of respect and propriety, the Spurs fan took off his Spurs cap and
placed it over her right breast. The Utah fan took of his Jazz cap and
placed it over her left breast. Following their lead, the Lakers fan
took off his Lakers cap and placed it over her crotch.

911 was called and, when the fire officer arrived, he conducted his
assessment. First, he lifted up the San Antonio Spurs cap, replaced it,
and wrote down some notes. Next, he lifted the Utah Jazz cap, replaced
it, and wrote down some more notes. The officer then lifted the Los
Angles Lakers cap, replaced it, then lifted it again, replaced it,
lifted it a third time, and replaced it one last time.

The Spurs fan was getting upset and finally asked, "What’s the deal,
are all fire fighters perverts or something? Why do you keep lifting and
looking, lifting and looking?"

"Well," said the fire fighter, "I'm simply surprised. Normally, when I
look under a Lakers cap, I find an asshole."

Friday, May 10, 2002

Dan, Just Be Quiet, Will Ya?

From the Associated Press:

>>Dan Quayle is singing the praises of MTV's "The Osbournes."
"You have to get beyond the sort of dysfunctional aspect," Quayle told the news service on Thursday about the reality sitcom starring heavy metal rocker Ozzy Osbourne and his family, in which a lot of the dialogue is bleeped out by censors.
However, Quayle, 55, applauding the show's "loving parents," said, "I think there are some very good lessons there that are being transmitted, of not doing drugs, of not doing alcohol . . .
"In a weird way, Ozzy is a great anti-drug promotion. Look at him and how fried his brains are from taking drugs all those years and everyone will say, 'I don't want to be like that.'" >>

The Fundamental Things Apply

My girlfriend and I had a phone conversation last night about Archie and his Gang.
She'd read my blog and wanted to discuss the homoerotic aspects of Reggie and Moose.
I couldn't remember the name of the principal (Mr. Quimby) or the teacher (Miss Grundy, as I recall) but Zed came up with them immediately.
I love that about Zed, she's a fountain of information on virtually any topic, and she treats all topics with the same reverence for detail and accuracy.
Turns out she and I have a basic difference of opinion about which Archie girl we'd like to lay.
She likes Veronica because of her shiny blue hair and I like Betty because she seems emotionally more available, not to mention pretty damn hot.
Zed asked why I didn't consider Ethel and I said because she was a total horseface.
Then for a few minutes she tried to imply I was being shallow, but then she admitted she didn't get much of a charge from Ethel, either. In fact, she also admitted having a taste for Midge, who does nothing for me.
I think it's the name Midge. Is it short for midget, or what?
I try to be open to all creatures, but damn it, midgets make me nervous.
But I digress.
What I wanted to say was that I found a Canadian site:
Check out Archie's ties to the evil NRA. Bwahahaha!

Thursday, May 09, 2002

Damn, My Eyes are Red

Between Survivor and ER tonight, I cried so much my eyes feel like one of Zed's Canadian cobras has been spitting in them.
Survivor was down to six contestants, and the producers staged a challenge where each contestant was greeted by a significant other, who had to traverse a giant game board to get to their survivor.
• Neleh, the 'sweet' little Mormon gal ("oh my heck!") had her Mom show up. The Mom was pretty hot for a 40's Mormon mom.
• Rob, the dumb chauffeur, had his sister show up. That was a mite weird to me.
• Sean, the not-so-angry-anymore black guy had a Harlem homey of his show up. They were friends from their Pampers days, looked like. Sean cried. Homey cried. So did I.
• Vecepia's husband showed up, and she was slinging tears. So was I.
• Paschal's wife showed up and she turned out to be kind of an older babe.
He cried, she cried, so did I.
• Kathy's chunky young adult son showed up and she was babbling like a baby. So was I.
Kathy's kid won the contest and "got to" spend the night with the Soliantu tribe, eating taro root and coconut stew and hating it.
The immunity challenge was a slingshot thing and Vecepia won immunity.
Rob got voted off. No tears were shed by anyone, including me.
Now with Vecepia and Sean thicker than a Black Panther's Organization and Paschal and Neleh with their peculiar but apparently chaste love affair, that leaves Kathy's ass hanging out like a full moon over Miami.
On ER, Mark died in Hawaii. Now that Elizabeth is a widow, she's free of that dippy Rachel, Mark's delinquent daughter.
Rachel was eating her daddy's Vicodin on the sly in Hawaii, the little bitch.
The Hawaii segment was kind of sad, but the real sadness was at the funeral where all the ER people looked so good in black. Kerry Weaver looked great. Elizabeth looked even better. I love those bitchy ER babes.
Now Noah Wiley has to be The Man. That's good, I like him.
Techfluid's Memories

That damn Chari over at TECHFLUID wrote an hilarious blog about a faggy teacher she had in elementary school who had a Brady Bunch wardrobe and helmet hair.
In reading it, I was reminded how nice it is to read funny blogs, and I chastised myself for being not funny enough lately in my own blog.
Between quitting smoking, having my kitten James de-nutted, being pissed off about priests, getting a new assignment that will eat into my precious leisure time, baby-sitting my old Mom for a weekend, and being nervous about meeting Zed in only nine days, I've been so tense you couldn't pull fishing line out of my butt with a pair of pliers.
I once had a girlfriend who was the biggest bitch on Earth. She referred to herself as "easily annoyed." To a lesser extent, I too am easily annoyed, especially when I think too much.
Seems to me, when people are able to focus on life's most mundane subjects and tiniest details, easy annoyance becomes a part of the territory.
One night last year I was having dinner with a straight male friend who is a standup comedian.
He and I got into a serious conversation about Archie, Jughead, Betty, Veronica and their pals.
I told him I thought Reggie was a latent homosexual and so was Moose, and they subjugated their homoerotic yearnings with snippiness and brutality, respectively.
My companion pondered it a while and agreed. Had he disagreed, I'd have been annoyed.
Some might consider this a most mundane topic, much less a topic with potential for debate.
They are not nitpicking old curmudgeons. They are not expected to understand.

Nother People's Blogs: None of You're Bidness

I see my rant regarding ignorance of grammar and spelling struck a nerve or two around the blog world. Too fucking bad.
Some maintain that spelling and grammar make no difference in communication, so they blather on about their lives and opinions with careless disregard for the reader's ease of comprehension.
With spell check and even grammar check on some programs, lazy spellers and bad grammarians are just that, lazy. Chances are if people are lax about presentation, what they are presenting is usually crap anyway.
Imagine Mark Twain or Steven King submitting a manuscript to a publisher and saying, "I know your gonna read it fer spellin an such so I didnt bother to."
Same goes for people who try to camouflage their insecurity on a subject by using excessively technical terms and acronyms so specialized nobody knows what the fuck they are trying to say.
I don't know, maybe because I am an editor and journalist it makes me especially twitchy to read ignorant or constipated prose.
I don't seek it out, but when someone points it out to me with an LOL attached to the link, I take a perverse pleasure in reading it. Same with bad art, I like to see what people can come up with to horrify the senses.
Try this site for laughs (sorry, I can't hyperlink with a Mac)
Oh, and for the lazy asses? Git over you'reselfs and use you're scratch-off winnins to git you a dictionerry or a stile manuel.

Wednesday, May 08, 2002

A Lovely Day!

I think the homicidal and felonious parts of my tobacco withdrawal have finally eased up, eight days later.
I awakened this morning with a pleasantly sanguine attitude.
My coffee tastes better this morning and I can sense my lungs already are more elastic.
Somehow in this weirdness, I have misplaced 3 pounds in 8 days. Seems the Chinese herbs I am taking to cease addiction stimulate the metabolism and have a diuretic effect. They also pep me up in a nice way, not in a black molly way.
I have an editorial meeting at 2pm today with two really nice guys. I am not even dreading it, even though it requires a brief case, ironed clothes and a little make-up.
My smoking friends are starting to distance themselves, knowing they can no longer drop by and sully my now-hidden ashtrays with their assorted butts.
Yesterday I washed curtains and slip covers and cleaned some smoky residue off the woodwork. It's really amazingly gross to see what smoke does to walls, fabrics and shelves.
I hate it when people stop addictions and start to preach (just like I am doing now).
Okay, I'll stop.
Besides, I have so much energy I am going out to mow the lawn.

Tuesday, May 07, 2002

It's "You're," Damn it!

I just read a blog whose writer doesn't seem to have grasped basic contractions.
"Your" and "you're" are two different words.
Here's a handy guide for when to use which word:

It is "your" problem.
"You're" is a contraction for "you are."

Being absent that day in third grade is no excuse.
Sometimes a person fucks up and uses the wrong word. That's allowed.
When a person uses "your" in place of "you're" five or six times in one blog, that's just plain fucking annoying.
There should be junior blogs for people who can't be bothered to get it right.
Either that or we need some apostrophe police who confiscate the apostrophe keys off these slackers' computers.

Who's in Charge Here?

Blogger won't let me post the long blog I wrote this morning.
It's like some little Wizard of Oz is behind the curtain, throwing me offline when he doesn't like the content of my blog.

Monday, May 06, 2002

Tobacco: the Devil's Weed

Never, ever start smoking.
This weekend I have gone through agony trying to quit.
I am chewing Nicorette, I have eight little acupuncture balls in my ears that I press when I start to go insane, I am taking special stop-smoking Chinese herbs that make me pee every 45 minutes, and I am still jonesing for a cig.
If you do try to quit, DO NOT schedule it on a weekend that involves having custody of a cute but highly nutty night owl of an 89-year-old mother.
Okay, let me be honest. Now that she's gone home and I've had a chance to sleep uninterrupted for a few hours, I am not exactly jonesing for a cig.
That happened last night around 10, when Mama emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed and wanting me to call her a taxi for an 85 mile return trip to Austin.
That was right after she reported to me that my wealthy sister (who cares for her like a fine porcelain doll) was filching money from her little coin purse.
I was so exasperated by then, I actually got in my car and headed for a convenience store, where I had intended to buy a pack of cigs and smoke them two at a time, all night, until it was time for her to go home. But I simmered down and ended up buying gas instead.
I won't start again, I don't think.
Perhaps quitting during the most trying of times is the best approach.
If I didn't light up during this weekend, I can think of practically nothing that would make me start up again.

Friday, May 03, 2002

Attn: Queer Poet

Occasionally Suze from Queer Poets Society (see link) and I Instant Message and discuss blogging rights.
She put dibs on Ozzy Osbourne a while ago, so I have pretty much laid off the topic of Ozzy, his show, his wife and kids, etc.
I don't recall her using her dibs to do anything substantial on Ozzy, so I am issuing this public challenge to her now.
Let's get your impressions on this crazy OO cat, QP.
I want to see if we are on the same Ozzy page.
Blog Interrupted

Work and an impending visit from my mother are dragging me away from my blogging.
Forgive me my brevity, I am sure I'll have plenty to say after a weekend with an active 89-year-old.
Pray for me.

Thursday, May 02, 2002

No Nuts, No Eggs, No Babies: No Problem

James is home from the hospital, with two red welts where his nuts used to be.
He hates me now. He won't let me pet him. He runs when I come near.
I knew he would be like this. He's a Leo, his pride is hurt and I have stolen his little man sac. He looks at me like I am a snarling German Shepherd.
But wait, what's his problem?
Bart, my other cat, is neutered. I had a hysterectomy, so I am neutered. Nobody in this house can reproduce, so what's the big deal?
James has it made.
He doesn't have to hunt for food, he lives in a temperature controlled house, he doesn't have to brave harsh elements, escape predators, dodge cars or eat dead birds.
He gets his nails clipped, I clean him with a warm, damp washcloth when he's dusty, he eats the most nutritionally balanced kitty food available, and drinks spring water.
He sleeps in a bed, he has more toys than any kitten I know and even has his own little photo album. In his bedroom, I have a seascape and some framed paintings of little cats hung about a foot off the floor for his aesthetic enjoyment.
That spoiled little bastard.
I am going to go buy some generic kitty litter, serve him Alley Cat brand cat food and tap water and see how he likes roughing it.
And he can just forget about ice cubes in his water dish until he starts being nice to me again.

Why Me?

I don't visit porn sites on the web.
Oh, I looked at a few out of curiosity when I first got online years ago, but they don't interest me and their nasty little hidden cookies invite too much porn spam mail.
So why do I still get so much porn garbage in my e-mail?
Today's was about "naked chearleaders" (sic). Then there's the "girls with barnyard animals." Then there's the penis extending spam. The underage sex spam. Ugh, the list goes on.
It's sickening to witness the online array of not just porn, but pervert porn.
I'm just an ordinary, monogamous lesbian, trying to lead an uncomplicated life.
It never occurred to me to want to see pics of women getting freaky with chickens or goats, or whatever barnyard animals they use.
On HBO's "Real Sex" the other night, they had these two guys who do a sort of penis puppet show. They go on stage and actually do things with their penises and testicles to make them look like hamburgers, baby birds crying for worms, ad nauseam. How do you figure these two guys discovered their act? I shudder to think.
You'd think by now spam would have branched out to include websites we might actually want to see. If they'd come up with something like, "see really nice cheeseburger photos" or "check out my baby kitten pics," I might click them open and take a look.
But I am not clicking on "chicks with dicks," so I wish they'd stop bothering.

Wednesday, May 01, 2002

The Miracle of the Breakfast Taco

In South Texas, we have a custom that cannot be denied for its restorative and healing properties.
The breakfast taco.
In a warm, soft flour tortilla, ingredients like eggs, potatoes, bacon, chorizo, sausage, guacamole, beans and cheese are mixed and matched to create fabulous gastronomic treats.
For about three and a half bucks, one can find solace in a couple of tacos and a cup of coffee.
After I dropped off my beloved kitten at the vet this morning, the only thing that could fill the void in my soul was a trip to the simple, ramshackle Blanco Cafe, where I ordered coffee, a potato and egg taco and a bacon and egg taco.
No bagel can take the place of a warm breakfast taco.
No biscuits, müeslix, protein shake, energy bar or Grand Slam breakfast can top the breakfast taco for soul cleansing, mind clearing, emotion soothing goodness.
Yankees do not know the breakfast taco.
Canadians certainly do not know the breakfast taco.
Californians call them burritos, but they are all wrong, bastardized versions of the true breakfast taco.
I will live in South Texas forever because of the breakfast taco, for only in South Texas do they truly understand the sanctity of this wondrous epicurean gift.
If I were on death row and my last meal was a breakfast, can guess the rest.
No Food or Water after 10 p.m.

My two cats have never faced a morning without food or water.
Bart, the older one, is a little on the chunky side and James, the baby, is a growing boy.
James has a neutering appointment today at 8 a.m. and the vet said no food or water, so I can't put any out for either kitty.
They are standing nearby, glaring at me as if I've lost my mind.
I can't make coffee or open the fridge, they would swarm and attack.
Bart got into bed with me this morning, something he hasn't done since he was a toddler the early 90's.
James has learned seven different new meows this morning, trying to demand food.
He will not be pleased when I try to stuff him into his cat carrier, even though it contains some of his baby toys, a soft little fleecy rug and a T-shirt that smells like me.
This must be what a parent feels like when she takes her small child to the hospital for a tonsillectomy. I don't think the vet will let me stay there overnight with James, so this is even worse in some ways.
Bart has now velcro-ed himself to my shin. James is staring into his empty food dish and whining. I feel like the ASPCA will be here soon to report me for kitty neglect.
Maybe I was Jewish mother in a past life.
Oy, I am kvelling.