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.
Friday, May 31, 2002
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
WOL!
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,
Karen
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,
Karen
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.
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.
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.
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.
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